I’ve never used Skype. I’ve been asked to a couple of times, but haven’t.
But the thing really makes me wonder. Wonder about how much different things may have been had I had it.
Long distance relationships live and die due to communication. I’ve been through two of them. Both of the died.
Both of them came before I had a cell phone. I can’t say they came before cell phones, because they didn’t But they came before I had one.
So what did that mean? I meant lots of big-ass phone bills. Ones that I couldn’t afford to pay. So what did I do? I used my credit cards. To make phone calls. If you thought using long distance was expensive, try using your credit card.
The most difficult time was when I was living on a couch of two friends of mine. I couldn’t use their phone, b/c I couldn’t afford to pay them for using it. What a fucking awful time that was.
Then came the calling cards of the other relationship. The dreaded “you have one minute remaining” voice that always seemed to come at the wrong time.
Of course, I never communicated how awful it was for me financially. I was a “man” and had to do things on my “own.” What a fucking joke that is now as I sit here waiting for a hurricane named Earl to come and wash away all the scum and villainy. Ha.
Communicating is hard. I remember the first time I told my parents I loved them. I was in my 20s. Yeah, I wrote it down in cards and letters and such. But out loud? Not until then. One of those girlfriends, the exes, gets credit for teaching me how to do that.
I also remember the last time I saw my grandfather. He was in a hospital bed. Dying. He was barely there, but he was a fighter, and I knew he’d be around for a long while yet.
As I was leaving the hospital, I turned back around and looked him in the eyes. He looked at me. I told him “Hey, Oompa. I love you.” He squeezed my hand and looked at me with a look I’d never seen before. He couldn’t talk, but his eyes did.
I knew I’d see him again at that time.
Eventually, he left the hospital and tried to get better. From what I heard, he actually did for a bit.
But then, he quit. Got tired. Whatever.
I was supposed to go see him one weekend with my sister. She went. I didn’t. Why? I had to work. Don’t even remember what stupid freaking game or whatever I stayed for. It may have just been because I was scared to leave two green reporters alone. Control freak.
He died soon after.
At least I told him I loved him.
That, I owe to another of my exes. She taught me to go back and say things when they pop into your mind.
That’s why I drove oh so far to say something to her after. She wouldn’t listen, though. I guess it was for the better.
Touching that warm car engine that day, I knew she was there. I didn’t make a scene. Maybe I should have. Take my fist and pound on the door. Cry my eyes out.
Instead, I sat in my car -- the one she gave me just a couple months earlier to make it easier for me to drive down to see her -- and cried. I an only imagine her watching me sitting there, confused. A complete wreck.
The more I think about it, the more I realize she didn’t care for me enough to want to help me. She just wanted to abandon me. But I didn’t come to this epiphany while sitting there. I didn’t come to it while in therapy two years later. Or while another girl smashed my heart and got me to throw away all the things that really were important to me -- my writings.
No, I realized it while I was typing this. While looking at how quiet, how calm it is outside. The crickets aren’t very noisy. They know what’s up. A storm’s a comin’. And it may just be a good cleansing thing. Like writing shit down in a notepad, typing it on a computer or scribbling it on a napkin or receipt. You never really know it’s coming, even with the weather channel.
See ya.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sanity is, most certainly, overrated.
“It looks like it’s not going to be that bad.”
The opening to an awful disaster movie? Or my life. In the next few days, we’ll find out.
Went today to get a “hurricane pass”, or what you have to have to get back on the island after an evacuation has been called, but they haven’t declared it 100 percent safe yet. All the folks I asked said all I would have to do is show my lease and get it.
I did and didn’t.
It seems the town here has changed its policy of giving out passes every year to folk. Instead, they issue permanent ones to the residence itself, not to who actually is living there. Which means renters are screwed if their property management company doesn’t care or the owner of the property just wants to keep it for themselves.
Well, fine. I was probably going to ride the fucker out anyway, and now I guess my ass is going to.
Of course, I’ll leave for work on Thursday and they’ll close the bridges while I’m there. Keeping me from my own home. Yeah, safety and all that. I understand. But I’d like to be able to come back once the freaking storm is gone. I’m smart enough to not mess with downed power lines and such.
Of course, they may close the bridge Thursday night after I get home from work. Then, I’ll get to see a hurricane up close.
Unless it just skirts on by like the weather forecasters say it’s going to.
Ahhh, the ol’ cliffhanger again. Will it actually hit, or will it not. Will our hero go to sleep with lots of wind and rain, only to wake up floating in his own house? Stay tuned after these messages.
***
The last time I was around a hurricane here in NC, was Ophelia. I ended up leaving my apartment when the water started lapping at the doorway. It was interesting watching the waves in the river reach 7-8 feet tall.
That one missed us, and ended up doing more damage in Hopewell and Richmond than it did here. Flooded all of downtown Richmond pretty badly.
I saw Rita in Florida while with Emily. It was a category 1 at the time. We went and saw “The March of the Penguins” while it was blowing around. Ended up driving the Red Shark in it. Kind of cool. Kind of weird to sit here and be reminded of it. We had discussions about our future while I was there. Should have seen it coming I guess. I always said “Love will be enough” and she said “No, it won’t be.” That was the ultimate sign, really. Wasn’t too much longer before she dumped my ass.
***
Otherwise, I’ve pretty much dodged hurricanes. Well, they’ve dodged me. They seem to go where I have people I love, however. I think Florida had five or six that year.
***
Oh yeah, did see a tropical depression in Key West when Josh and I were there. We were supposed to go fishing in a skiff, but the guy canceled on us due to Erika (I think, but am not really sure).
That was a bummer of a trip. It was also Em and I’s 3rd anniversary. Something she really looked at as a huge landmark in our relationship at the time. Why? Because.
***
Not having the weather channel kind of makes this more exciting. Well, not having any television. If I didn’t work for a newspaper, I’d probably not even know about it. That, of course, makes me seek it out on the intrawebs, but I don’t think I’d really care otherwise.
The tropical updates don’t have the same impact on a computer screen. Especially after watching the same lame-ass William Shatner Priceline commercial every, single, fucking time. They seriously can’t put a different add on there. No wonder no one wants to watch sponsored videos on line.
I’ve got canned foods up the ass, along with a gaggle of water and lots of charcoal. Of course, I have nothing to really cook with the charcoal, and if I did have a freezer full of meats and fish and such, it would all go bad anyway if the thing hits and there is no power for a good while.
Candles, check. Flash light. Check. Batteries, check. Gas in car, no, but I’ll fill ‘er up tomorrow on the way to work. Hopefully, I have enough money to do that. I paid rent today and I’m a bit worried about my cash flows. It truly sucks being so stupid as a youngster, and never being paid enough to make a dent in it.
But, fuck the whining. I did it. And seriously, many things I did with that credit and such are my best memories and the ones that inspire me to sit here and type. Sit here and type. Sit here and type.
Sanity is, most certainly, overrated.
The opening to an awful disaster movie? Or my life. In the next few days, we’ll find out.
Went today to get a “hurricane pass”, or what you have to have to get back on the island after an evacuation has been called, but they haven’t declared it 100 percent safe yet. All the folks I asked said all I would have to do is show my lease and get it.
I did and didn’t.
It seems the town here has changed its policy of giving out passes every year to folk. Instead, they issue permanent ones to the residence itself, not to who actually is living there. Which means renters are screwed if their property management company doesn’t care or the owner of the property just wants to keep it for themselves.
Well, fine. I was probably going to ride the fucker out anyway, and now I guess my ass is going to.
Of course, I’ll leave for work on Thursday and they’ll close the bridges while I’m there. Keeping me from my own home. Yeah, safety and all that. I understand. But I’d like to be able to come back once the freaking storm is gone. I’m smart enough to not mess with downed power lines and such.
Of course, they may close the bridge Thursday night after I get home from work. Then, I’ll get to see a hurricane up close.
Unless it just skirts on by like the weather forecasters say it’s going to.
Ahhh, the ol’ cliffhanger again. Will it actually hit, or will it not. Will our hero go to sleep with lots of wind and rain, only to wake up floating in his own house? Stay tuned after these messages.
***
The last time I was around a hurricane here in NC, was Ophelia. I ended up leaving my apartment when the water started lapping at the doorway. It was interesting watching the waves in the river reach 7-8 feet tall.
That one missed us, and ended up doing more damage in Hopewell and Richmond than it did here. Flooded all of downtown Richmond pretty badly.
I saw Rita in Florida while with Emily. It was a category 1 at the time. We went and saw “The March of the Penguins” while it was blowing around. Ended up driving the Red Shark in it. Kind of cool. Kind of weird to sit here and be reminded of it. We had discussions about our future while I was there. Should have seen it coming I guess. I always said “Love will be enough” and she said “No, it won’t be.” That was the ultimate sign, really. Wasn’t too much longer before she dumped my ass.
***
Otherwise, I’ve pretty much dodged hurricanes. Well, they’ve dodged me. They seem to go where I have people I love, however. I think Florida had five or six that year.
***
Oh yeah, did see a tropical depression in Key West when Josh and I were there. We were supposed to go fishing in a skiff, but the guy canceled on us due to Erika (I think, but am not really sure).
That was a bummer of a trip. It was also Em and I’s 3rd anniversary. Something she really looked at as a huge landmark in our relationship at the time. Why? Because.
***
Not having the weather channel kind of makes this more exciting. Well, not having any television. If I didn’t work for a newspaper, I’d probably not even know about it. That, of course, makes me seek it out on the intrawebs, but I don’t think I’d really care otherwise.
The tropical updates don’t have the same impact on a computer screen. Especially after watching the same lame-ass William Shatner Priceline commercial every, single, fucking time. They seriously can’t put a different add on there. No wonder no one wants to watch sponsored videos on line.
I’ve got canned foods up the ass, along with a gaggle of water and lots of charcoal. Of course, I have nothing to really cook with the charcoal, and if I did have a freezer full of meats and fish and such, it would all go bad anyway if the thing hits and there is no power for a good while.
Candles, check. Flash light. Check. Batteries, check. Gas in car, no, but I’ll fill ‘er up tomorrow on the way to work. Hopefully, I have enough money to do that. I paid rent today and I’m a bit worried about my cash flows. It truly sucks being so stupid as a youngster, and never being paid enough to make a dent in it.
But, fuck the whining. I did it. And seriously, many things I did with that credit and such are my best memories and the ones that inspire me to sit here and type. Sit here and type. Sit here and type.
Sanity is, most certainly, overrated.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
maybe
The lady in the purple dress was looking at me. It was painfully obvious. But to me, Mr. Oblivious, it meant nothing.
She had extremely blonde hair. The kind that either was bleached to the point of falling out, or she spent every waking moment not at work or at home on the beach. I’d most likely go for the latter given her tan.
She was walking along the beach about 100 yards in front of me before. Now she was perched on a park bench. You can’t really watch the sun set here, since we’re facing south pretty much. But it still is pretty at this time of the day. The time right before night wins out. When the birds are still out, however, they’re in a hurry to get wherever they go for the night. A nest, a hole in a wall, or just a tall branch out of reach of the predators that come out here. And by that I mean feral cats. They’re everywhere. I don’t feed them, but someone does.
The three-legged one is my favorite. He/she just kind of limps around, with the ‘what the fuck do you care about it?” look. Never once has it even stopped for more than a quick glance at me. And I guess that’s OK.
I’d pet it if it came up to my house. No food, however.
The girl on the bench keeps looking at me as I settle on to a wall nearby. I just want to lean back against the ropes and relax. Watch all the rich tourists in their BMWs and Audis and such drive by. Without fail every car does the same thing … the passenger looks at me sitting there, then looks away when I make eye contact. Soon after, they look back. I guess to see if I’m still looking.
It amuses me. Simple things like that usually do.
Kind of like this girl on the bench. I guess girl isn’t the right term. She’s a woman. Probably my age, maybe a little older. I’m guessing she smokes Camels and drinks Budweiser. Definitely not a MicUltra kind o’ gal.
I keep glancing over at her and she at me. I know I’m not going to go over and say anything, because I don’t do that. I’m shy. Painfully so. Kind of ironic that I used to get paid to talk to strangers and ask them pretty intimate questions. It’s that whole distance thing, though, that made it ok.
One time in a bar, a friend said to go up to a girl as if she was just an interview subject. Then it would be easier.
It was easier. To interview her. But then the thought process go in the way and I made an ass of myself. It’s a charming thing to watch, I’m sure. But very painful.
Finally, the girl in purple gets up from the bench and starts walking to me. I’m listening to Lucero in my L-pod (yeah, lucero-pod, I’m witty, like Edward Norton in Fight Club), and I turn the volume down just in case she talks to me on the way by. I’m deaf enough as it is, so having headphones on at the beach certainly doesn’t make idle chit chat easy.
She gets near me and crosses the street with a little glance over her shoulder. Yeah, she did that.
I watch her until she disappears into the fading daylight a couple blocks away.
“Oh well,” I think to myself. I do that a lot.
After watching a few more cars worth more than two years salary, a cop pulls up. He slows and looks at me. Glaring would be the better word. I look like a bum. My bathing suit is old and faded, I once wore it every day on a trip that my ex and I took -- 10 days in a row. But that was when it was brand new and I liked the way it fit. Now? It’s old, faded and the pockets have holes in them. Those annoying mesh pockets.
I finally started wearing the bathing suit without underwear here. Funny, it takes me living at the beach to under stand the concept.
My eyes meet up with the cops’ eyes again. I want to say “fuck you, I’m drunk as a sailor!” but I don’t. I just lift my flip flops from off the corner of the ledge I’m on and flap them at him.
He accelerates off.
I get up and start walking, barefoot, the ½ mile or so to my house. I think of turning up one street, but decide against it. Instead, I got to the street with motels on it.
After passing the first one, I see the girl in purple, sitting on her porch at the first house after the hotel. I swallow hard. Why do I still get so nervous about such innocuous stuff?
As I get to her house, I look over.
“Hi!” she says.
“I smile and say “Hello!” back at her. Never missing a beat as I keep walking away.
Of course, I think a few seconds later that a normal person would have stopped to chat. But I figure I’m a resident here now, she’ll be there the next time I walk by.
Maybe.
She had extremely blonde hair. The kind that either was bleached to the point of falling out, or she spent every waking moment not at work or at home on the beach. I’d most likely go for the latter given her tan.
She was walking along the beach about 100 yards in front of me before. Now she was perched on a park bench. You can’t really watch the sun set here, since we’re facing south pretty much. But it still is pretty at this time of the day. The time right before night wins out. When the birds are still out, however, they’re in a hurry to get wherever they go for the night. A nest, a hole in a wall, or just a tall branch out of reach of the predators that come out here. And by that I mean feral cats. They’re everywhere. I don’t feed them, but someone does.
The three-legged one is my favorite. He/she just kind of limps around, with the ‘what the fuck do you care about it?” look. Never once has it even stopped for more than a quick glance at me. And I guess that’s OK.
I’d pet it if it came up to my house. No food, however.
The girl on the bench keeps looking at me as I settle on to a wall nearby. I just want to lean back against the ropes and relax. Watch all the rich tourists in their BMWs and Audis and such drive by. Without fail every car does the same thing … the passenger looks at me sitting there, then looks away when I make eye contact. Soon after, they look back. I guess to see if I’m still looking.
It amuses me. Simple things like that usually do.
Kind of like this girl on the bench. I guess girl isn’t the right term. She’s a woman. Probably my age, maybe a little older. I’m guessing she smokes Camels and drinks Budweiser. Definitely not a MicUltra kind o’ gal.
I keep glancing over at her and she at me. I know I’m not going to go over and say anything, because I don’t do that. I’m shy. Painfully so. Kind of ironic that I used to get paid to talk to strangers and ask them pretty intimate questions. It’s that whole distance thing, though, that made it ok.
One time in a bar, a friend said to go up to a girl as if she was just an interview subject. Then it would be easier.
It was easier. To interview her. But then the thought process go in the way and I made an ass of myself. It’s a charming thing to watch, I’m sure. But very painful.
Finally, the girl in purple gets up from the bench and starts walking to me. I’m listening to Lucero in my L-pod (yeah, lucero-pod, I’m witty, like Edward Norton in Fight Club), and I turn the volume down just in case she talks to me on the way by. I’m deaf enough as it is, so having headphones on at the beach certainly doesn’t make idle chit chat easy.
She gets near me and crosses the street with a little glance over her shoulder. Yeah, she did that.
I watch her until she disappears into the fading daylight a couple blocks away.
“Oh well,” I think to myself. I do that a lot.
After watching a few more cars worth more than two years salary, a cop pulls up. He slows and looks at me. Glaring would be the better word. I look like a bum. My bathing suit is old and faded, I once wore it every day on a trip that my ex and I took -- 10 days in a row. But that was when it was brand new and I liked the way it fit. Now? It’s old, faded and the pockets have holes in them. Those annoying mesh pockets.
I finally started wearing the bathing suit without underwear here. Funny, it takes me living at the beach to under stand the concept.
My eyes meet up with the cops’ eyes again. I want to say “fuck you, I’m drunk as a sailor!” but I don’t. I just lift my flip flops from off the corner of the ledge I’m on and flap them at him.
He accelerates off.
I get up and start walking, barefoot, the ½ mile or so to my house. I think of turning up one street, but decide against it. Instead, I got to the street with motels on it.
After passing the first one, I see the girl in purple, sitting on her porch at the first house after the hotel. I swallow hard. Why do I still get so nervous about such innocuous stuff?
As I get to her house, I look over.
“Hi!” she says.
“I smile and say “Hello!” back at her. Never missing a beat as I keep walking away.
Of course, I think a few seconds later that a normal person would have stopped to chat. But I figure I’m a resident here now, she’ll be there the next time I walk by.
Maybe.
bad haiku
It had to happen.
But only what, four, five nights in?
Yep. Here I sit not wanting to type anything. Had a couple of friends stop by tonight. Drank a couple of beers. Turned on the air conditioning, and then it got to be almost 3 a.m. and they left.
So, here I sit, wondering what to type about. Work was boring. After work looked to be uninteresting as I came home and watched the UFC fights. And now, instead of being creative, I’m doing another blog entry as writing. And Word doesn’t recognize blog as a word. It must not exist.
Like ass-hattery. Or half-assery.
Thoughts of hurricanes tossed around today. How to get a ‘hurricane pass’ that allows me to come back to my house after an evacuation. That’ll be interesting. I mean, I do live on a sand bar. However, I don’t think I’ll evacuate if one happens. I’ll drive my car across the bridge before the “state of emergency” and leave it on the mainland and walk or bike back. And then watch the waves crash up against my house until the time comes when you realize you should have left and it’s too late. Maybe, that’ll be the reason that I haven’t been able to sell the red shark. She’ll be my savior that day/night of the hurricane?
At leas then she’ll remind me of things other than redheads that fucked my life up.
Ha. It still bothers me.
Why am I so tortured by something that happened in 2006? It’s 2010, closer to 2011 at this point and I’m still haunted by that shit. Fuck. I don’t want to be such a sensitive, stupid, naïve, dumb, fucked up person. Yet, I don’t see to be able to stop it.
I don’t write songs about it. I only write the beginnings of short stories about it. Over and over again. I threw away notebooks full of this shit. Some of it quite well written. There was at least a screenplay in there somewhere…
But anyways…
I’d like to think that it won’t bother me one day. But I don’t have much confidence in that. Experience sort of points in that direction. And no matter what anyone tells me, says to me, lies to me, it always clings. There’s a reason Truman was so attached to that God damn footlocker.
Ahhh….footlockers. They tell the tale don’t they? I have a new one now. Even though I’ve had it for years now, it’s still the “new” one. It never held my “bar” back in the old college dorm room days. It doesn’t have a cut out from a Moosehead sixer on it. It does, however, have chicken scratch from a kid on it. A kid that called me dad for a little while. A kid, that in our last conversation, told me he wanted me to be his dad.
Fuck. That depressed the shit out of me. I hope I’m at 750 words. But I know I’m not.
So, any ideas?
Oh. Today I signed up for a new “discount” card at Lowe’s Foods. Yeah, that’s not exactly breaking news, but it was the first time I’ve signed up for one of those things in a loooooooooong time. It was to replace the one that was in Emily’s name. It had to happen. I had to do it. Just another step toward whatever the next place is … but as I’m filling out the computerized form (no paper anymore) I find myself doing what I used to always do. I filled it out as Henry Chinaski. Is that a sad thing? Or is it just inspired? I don’t know really… It’s been a few years now since I’ve last received a piece of e-mail for Henry C. And a lot longer since I got a letter.
Boo.
This is the first time in a long time that I have writer’s block while drunk. Well, I’ve had seven or eight beers, which in the new employed but still verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry broke life of Randy is a lot. Maybe it’s the actual pressure of trying to come up with a minimum of 750 words EVERY day. But, it has to happen. I has to happen.
And it will happen.
Fuck you doubting assholes, aka, my brain.
This is certainly no better than all work and no play makes jack a dull boy, but it may regress into that…there’s always hope.
(Bad) Haiku
I miss you misses
Every single fucking day
Why did you leave? Huh?
But only what, four, five nights in?
Yep. Here I sit not wanting to type anything. Had a couple of friends stop by tonight. Drank a couple of beers. Turned on the air conditioning, and then it got to be almost 3 a.m. and they left.
So, here I sit, wondering what to type about. Work was boring. After work looked to be uninteresting as I came home and watched the UFC fights. And now, instead of being creative, I’m doing another blog entry as writing. And Word doesn’t recognize blog as a word. It must not exist.
Like ass-hattery. Or half-assery.
Thoughts of hurricanes tossed around today. How to get a ‘hurricane pass’ that allows me to come back to my house after an evacuation. That’ll be interesting. I mean, I do live on a sand bar. However, I don’t think I’ll evacuate if one happens. I’ll drive my car across the bridge before the “state of emergency” and leave it on the mainland and walk or bike back. And then watch the waves crash up against my house until the time comes when you realize you should have left and it’s too late. Maybe, that’ll be the reason that I haven’t been able to sell the red shark. She’ll be my savior that day/night of the hurricane?
At leas then she’ll remind me of things other than redheads that fucked my life up.
Ha. It still bothers me.
Why am I so tortured by something that happened in 2006? It’s 2010, closer to 2011 at this point and I’m still haunted by that shit. Fuck. I don’t want to be such a sensitive, stupid, naïve, dumb, fucked up person. Yet, I don’t see to be able to stop it.
I don’t write songs about it. I only write the beginnings of short stories about it. Over and over again. I threw away notebooks full of this shit. Some of it quite well written. There was at least a screenplay in there somewhere…
But anyways…
I’d like to think that it won’t bother me one day. But I don’t have much confidence in that. Experience sort of points in that direction. And no matter what anyone tells me, says to me, lies to me, it always clings. There’s a reason Truman was so attached to that God damn footlocker.
Ahhh….footlockers. They tell the tale don’t they? I have a new one now. Even though I’ve had it for years now, it’s still the “new” one. It never held my “bar” back in the old college dorm room days. It doesn’t have a cut out from a Moosehead sixer on it. It does, however, have chicken scratch from a kid on it. A kid that called me dad for a little while. A kid, that in our last conversation, told me he wanted me to be his dad.
Fuck. That depressed the shit out of me. I hope I’m at 750 words. But I know I’m not.
So, any ideas?
Oh. Today I signed up for a new “discount” card at Lowe’s Foods. Yeah, that’s not exactly breaking news, but it was the first time I’ve signed up for one of those things in a loooooooooong time. It was to replace the one that was in Emily’s name. It had to happen. I had to do it. Just another step toward whatever the next place is … but as I’m filling out the computerized form (no paper anymore) I find myself doing what I used to always do. I filled it out as Henry Chinaski. Is that a sad thing? Or is it just inspired? I don’t know really… It’s been a few years now since I’ve last received a piece of e-mail for Henry C. And a lot longer since I got a letter.
Boo.
This is the first time in a long time that I have writer’s block while drunk. Well, I’ve had seven or eight beers, which in the new employed but still verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry broke life of Randy is a lot. Maybe it’s the actual pressure of trying to come up with a minimum of 750 words EVERY day. But, it has to happen. I has to happen.
And it will happen.
Fuck you doubting assholes, aka, my brain.
This is certainly no better than all work and no play makes jack a dull boy, but it may regress into that…there’s always hope.
(Bad) Haiku
I miss you misses
Every single fucking day
Why did you leave? Huh?
Friday, August 27, 2010
Becca, Chapter 1
Her plane arrives at 4:30 this afternoon. I’m not really sure how I feel about her flying 2,400 miles to come see me.
I met Rebecca at work. She was a cashier up in the front of the store. I never knew how old she was, but I always thought she was younger than me. Until I thought back on it many years later. That’s when it dawned on me that she probably was a year or two older than me.
That makes her 40 right now. Yet, I can only picture her as the young and quite beautiful girl that I knew for a couple of years.
The first girl who’s heart I broke.
We’ve been in touch only by writing letters since I moved from Virginia to Arizona. The best decision I ever made in my life, I guess, was getting in that old ‘84 Firebird and driving west. I wanted to be a journalist, I think. All that was for sure was the need to get out, to move, to breathe … and to grow up.
Those letters helped keep my sanity.
We never dated while we were friends at work. At least I never saw it that way. My thoughts were consumed by a girl who dumped me months before. A trend that I would repeat over and over, during the next 20 years, hence why it’s a trend.
This girl was different that any before. She didn’t go to college. She worked retail, and was darn happy to be doing it. And I liked that. Especially while I was working retail. Pulling in a huge $4.25 an hour with my degree in economics from one the best schools in the country. “A real shame,” I was told often during that period of my life.
However, it was good to go see a movie with someone. Have a home cooked meal made when my foot got severely sprained after playing basketball. Or even going up in a hot air balloon.
The thought of us being a “couple” never crossed my mind. We were just friends, hanging out and doing things that friends do. There was no kiss. Certainly no sex.
But that was what I was thinking about as I stood in Sky Harbor Airport. Did I want to try and have sex with her? Was this what this trip was about for me? Having sex with a girl who sent me photos of how flexible she was. A girl that I’d been playing truth or dare Madonna-style, in letter form for almost a year now.
I stared at the plane as it taxied into its final parking space. What do you call it? I guess parking space isn’t right, but I’ve never heard it called anything really.
It’s funny. You can’t do that anymore. Go right to the gate to meet someone. Fake terror spoiled all of that.
Anyways, after about 100 people, I finally see her. Her glasses a little too far down her nose as she struggled with her bag and a book. Her fashion choice of a sweater not exactly a good choice for early summer in Phoenix, but that’s ok.
“Man, she really is beautiful,” I think.
“Hey, Randy!” she exclaims and runs up to me.
“Hi! Great to see you.” is my answer.
We don’t hug.
We don’t kiss.
We just awkwardly look at each other smiling.
“You check any bags?” I ask stupidly. Back in the 1990s everyone checked bags. It was free and there was no limit on anything. Of course she checked bags.
“Uh-huh,” she says. “But I gotta peeeeeee.”
We scurry to a bathroom. She hands me her bag and her book. It’s a crossword puzzle book. One of the kind you get in a grocery store or a drug store. It’s very, um, colorful.
After getting her bags, we walk to my Firebird. It’s on it’s last legs by this time. Worn down tires, kind of begging to be changed, but it’s my first car and I didn’t do such things. I honestly hated getting the oil changed, but back then, it only cost 8.95 if you had a coupon, so…
We drive to my house. I live with an eclectic bunch. First there’s Kermit. He used to work for the government dismantling bombs. Was a dropout from Stanford. One day, one of those bombs blew up and left him with bad eyesight and shrapnel in his foot. Now? He works for MasterCard and smokes a lot of pot.
In another room is Ying-Chi. She doesn’t hang about much. Usually goes to her boyfriend’s pad. He sells pot. Lots of it. I’ve never seen so much GD pot in my life. Bags of it. Bags of bricks of it. Everywhere.
In the final room is Matthew. He’s a Mormon. Smokes a lot of weed too. So, I guess he’s got issues with John Smith.
None of them are home when I get there. Probably a good thing. The place does reek of resin, however.
“Do you smoke now?” Rebecca asks. “It smells like an ashtray here.”
“Nah, I don’t smoke,” I reply, thinking “And it’s really more of a bong water smell.”
We go to my room. I have a mattress on the ground, my stereo and a gaggle of 100s of dubbed VHS tapes. One of my roomies has a cable descrambler, so I’ve spent most of my weekends watching them smoke dope, drinking gin and dubbing movies. Movies that I would carry around for 15 years before finally getting rid of…
I have a problem with baggage.
I met Rebecca at work. She was a cashier up in the front of the store. I never knew how old she was, but I always thought she was younger than me. Until I thought back on it many years later. That’s when it dawned on me that she probably was a year or two older than me.
That makes her 40 right now. Yet, I can only picture her as the young and quite beautiful girl that I knew for a couple of years.
The first girl who’s heart I broke.
We’ve been in touch only by writing letters since I moved from Virginia to Arizona. The best decision I ever made in my life, I guess, was getting in that old ‘84 Firebird and driving west. I wanted to be a journalist, I think. All that was for sure was the need to get out, to move, to breathe … and to grow up.
Those letters helped keep my sanity.
We never dated while we were friends at work. At least I never saw it that way. My thoughts were consumed by a girl who dumped me months before. A trend that I would repeat over and over, during the next 20 years, hence why it’s a trend.
This girl was different that any before. She didn’t go to college. She worked retail, and was darn happy to be doing it. And I liked that. Especially while I was working retail. Pulling in a huge $4.25 an hour with my degree in economics from one the best schools in the country. “A real shame,” I was told often during that period of my life.
However, it was good to go see a movie with someone. Have a home cooked meal made when my foot got severely sprained after playing basketball. Or even going up in a hot air balloon.
The thought of us being a “couple” never crossed my mind. We were just friends, hanging out and doing things that friends do. There was no kiss. Certainly no sex.
But that was what I was thinking about as I stood in Sky Harbor Airport. Did I want to try and have sex with her? Was this what this trip was about for me? Having sex with a girl who sent me photos of how flexible she was. A girl that I’d been playing truth or dare Madonna-style, in letter form for almost a year now.
I stared at the plane as it taxied into its final parking space. What do you call it? I guess parking space isn’t right, but I’ve never heard it called anything really.
It’s funny. You can’t do that anymore. Go right to the gate to meet someone. Fake terror spoiled all of that.
Anyways, after about 100 people, I finally see her. Her glasses a little too far down her nose as she struggled with her bag and a book. Her fashion choice of a sweater not exactly a good choice for early summer in Phoenix, but that’s ok.
“Man, she really is beautiful,” I think.
“Hey, Randy!” she exclaims and runs up to me.
“Hi! Great to see you.” is my answer.
We don’t hug.
We don’t kiss.
We just awkwardly look at each other smiling.
“You check any bags?” I ask stupidly. Back in the 1990s everyone checked bags. It was free and there was no limit on anything. Of course she checked bags.
“Uh-huh,” she says. “But I gotta peeeeeee.”
We scurry to a bathroom. She hands me her bag and her book. It’s a crossword puzzle book. One of the kind you get in a grocery store or a drug store. It’s very, um, colorful.
After getting her bags, we walk to my Firebird. It’s on it’s last legs by this time. Worn down tires, kind of begging to be changed, but it’s my first car and I didn’t do such things. I honestly hated getting the oil changed, but back then, it only cost 8.95 if you had a coupon, so…
We drive to my house. I live with an eclectic bunch. First there’s Kermit. He used to work for the government dismantling bombs. Was a dropout from Stanford. One day, one of those bombs blew up and left him with bad eyesight and shrapnel in his foot. Now? He works for MasterCard and smokes a lot of pot.
In another room is Ying-Chi. She doesn’t hang about much. Usually goes to her boyfriend’s pad. He sells pot. Lots of it. I’ve never seen so much GD pot in my life. Bags of it. Bags of bricks of it. Everywhere.
In the final room is Matthew. He’s a Mormon. Smokes a lot of weed too. So, I guess he’s got issues with John Smith.
None of them are home when I get there. Probably a good thing. The place does reek of resin, however.
“Do you smoke now?” Rebecca asks. “It smells like an ashtray here.”
“Nah, I don’t smoke,” I reply, thinking “And it’s really more of a bong water smell.”
We go to my room. I have a mattress on the ground, my stereo and a gaggle of 100s of dubbed VHS tapes. One of my roomies has a cable descrambler, so I’ve spent most of my weekends watching them smoke dope, drinking gin and dubbing movies. Movies that I would carry around for 15 years before finally getting rid of…
I have a problem with baggage.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Five bucks
Empty vending machines…
The workplace is already pretty upsetting. Empty desks, moved away cubicles and dirty floors.
Over the past couple of weeks, a trend has developed in the employee’s lounge. In it are three food vending machines, four soda machines and a water cooler.
At first one vending machine was empty. Then a second one. Slowly, a big pile of empty water jugs started collecting under the table next to the water cooler. Then, a soda machine stopped working. The lights on it went out.
Then, the lights went out on the two empty vending machines.
Now, I don’t know who actually is reaping the benefits of these machines, but only one of the food ones works anymore, and it’s stock is almost depleted as of tonight. Are these filled by the company, meaning they pay someone to fill it and then get a cut? Or is it completely independent.
If the company is paying for it, this is a huge red flag.
In fact, this is the sign that it’s time to polish the resumes, folks, because if they don’t even fill the damn machine with powdered donuts and kit kat bars, we’re in seriously bad shape.
I laugh every time I see the old man janitor “clean” the place. He does a very good job for someone who can’t bend over or lift anything. I suppose he’s been there for a long, long time. I had my first sorta conversation with him today.
He was sitting down outside, admiring the sunset, when I went outside to just get out of the rat turd infested office. That’s for another time, the fact that you open your desk drawers and they are filled with rat droppings.
“How’s it going Mr. H?” I say.
“Pretty good for a Wednesday,” he replies. “I always feel better on Thursdays.”
I have no idea what this means, so I ask… “why’s that?”
“I can watch that show Bones in the break room,” he says, giving me a little smirk.
“So that’s where you disappear to?”
“Yessir…well, I best be getting back to my rounds. Nice chatting with ya.”
“You too, Mr. H.”
There’s something to be said for loyalty. And I guess that’s why Mr. H is still around. The bosses like the guy. He surely doesn’t clean up anything. Funny that’s happening at a newspaper. Loyalty. But then again, they are keeping someone who shouldn’t be there around. So, that is a newspaper for ya.
I’d gone most of the day without thinking about how shitty the job is. So, I stare at the sunset for a second. Then I see the feral cat. He’s big. Almost dog size, and I’m not talking little rat dogs, but middle of the road dogs. I’ve come close to him/her, but she/he always runs away.
No hissing or growling, just the wide-eyed stare and dash away at the last second. One white paw glistening in the fading light. Someone here must feed them, or they just feed on all the rats. Obviously not all of them, as the turd problem can attest.
I wonder if anyone in the office is sick because of all the filth. Sounds like a good lawsuit. Too bad I don’t think that way. Quick bucks were never my thing. Except for the occasional lottery ticket waste of cash.
I used to buy a ticket only when it got over $100 million. And it used to only happen a couple of times a year. Now? It seems like it’s always over $100 million. Maybe it’s some new tax on the U.S.? A fixed lottery. Raise the pot up, then don’t let anyone win for awhile. Pocket the cash, get good benefits and retire. Ahhh, to be a government worker. Especially an elected one. Or better yet, an appointed one.
Only job better is probably that of a professional coach. Be horrible, get fired, get paid. Then get hired by one of your buddies somewhere else. When he gets fired, you get fired again. And paid again. Spray, lather, rinse, repeat.
Or, maybe newspaper publisher.
Anyway. I’m tired. So, I go back inside to finish my work. Somewhere, somebody is watching a Family Guy rerun. Lucky bastard.
I get to my desk. It’s covered with papers. Not newspapers, but just printed out budgets and AP digests and such. I print them out and use them, then pile them up. Fun stuff.
My framed 8X10 glossy from Barton Fink makes me smile. I’m glad I was able to rescue that from the garbage. I can’t believe the stupid lady threw all those old photos away. Given the right amount of time and energy (he, he, he) I could have put those on eBay and made a couple hundred bucks. And I need bucks right now. Like the guy from the old Hardee’s commericals.
I’ll give ya five bucks for that biscuit!
Ok.
Buck, buck, buck, buck, buck.
Now everyone is wondering why I’m clucking like a chicken and smiling at my computer screen. I think I’ll let them keep wondering…
The workplace is already pretty upsetting. Empty desks, moved away cubicles and dirty floors.
Over the past couple of weeks, a trend has developed in the employee’s lounge. In it are three food vending machines, four soda machines and a water cooler.
At first one vending machine was empty. Then a second one. Slowly, a big pile of empty water jugs started collecting under the table next to the water cooler. Then, a soda machine stopped working. The lights on it went out.
Then, the lights went out on the two empty vending machines.
Now, I don’t know who actually is reaping the benefits of these machines, but only one of the food ones works anymore, and it’s stock is almost depleted as of tonight. Are these filled by the company, meaning they pay someone to fill it and then get a cut? Or is it completely independent.
If the company is paying for it, this is a huge red flag.
In fact, this is the sign that it’s time to polish the resumes, folks, because if they don’t even fill the damn machine with powdered donuts and kit kat bars, we’re in seriously bad shape.
I laugh every time I see the old man janitor “clean” the place. He does a very good job for someone who can’t bend over or lift anything. I suppose he’s been there for a long, long time. I had my first sorta conversation with him today.
He was sitting down outside, admiring the sunset, when I went outside to just get out of the rat turd infested office. That’s for another time, the fact that you open your desk drawers and they are filled with rat droppings.
“How’s it going Mr. H?” I say.
“Pretty good for a Wednesday,” he replies. “I always feel better on Thursdays.”
I have no idea what this means, so I ask… “why’s that?”
“I can watch that show Bones in the break room,” he says, giving me a little smirk.
“So that’s where you disappear to?”
“Yessir…well, I best be getting back to my rounds. Nice chatting with ya.”
“You too, Mr. H.”
There’s something to be said for loyalty. And I guess that’s why Mr. H is still around. The bosses like the guy. He surely doesn’t clean up anything. Funny that’s happening at a newspaper. Loyalty. But then again, they are keeping someone who shouldn’t be there around. So, that is a newspaper for ya.
I’d gone most of the day without thinking about how shitty the job is. So, I stare at the sunset for a second. Then I see the feral cat. He’s big. Almost dog size, and I’m not talking little rat dogs, but middle of the road dogs. I’ve come close to him/her, but she/he always runs away.
No hissing or growling, just the wide-eyed stare and dash away at the last second. One white paw glistening in the fading light. Someone here must feed them, or they just feed on all the rats. Obviously not all of them, as the turd problem can attest.
I wonder if anyone in the office is sick because of all the filth. Sounds like a good lawsuit. Too bad I don’t think that way. Quick bucks were never my thing. Except for the occasional lottery ticket waste of cash.
I used to buy a ticket only when it got over $100 million. And it used to only happen a couple of times a year. Now? It seems like it’s always over $100 million. Maybe it’s some new tax on the U.S.? A fixed lottery. Raise the pot up, then don’t let anyone win for awhile. Pocket the cash, get good benefits and retire. Ahhh, to be a government worker. Especially an elected one. Or better yet, an appointed one.
Only job better is probably that of a professional coach. Be horrible, get fired, get paid. Then get hired by one of your buddies somewhere else. When he gets fired, you get fired again. And paid again. Spray, lather, rinse, repeat.
Or, maybe newspaper publisher.
Anyway. I’m tired. So, I go back inside to finish my work. Somewhere, somebody is watching a Family Guy rerun. Lucky bastard.
I get to my desk. It’s covered with papers. Not newspapers, but just printed out budgets and AP digests and such. I print them out and use them, then pile them up. Fun stuff.
My framed 8X10 glossy from Barton Fink makes me smile. I’m glad I was able to rescue that from the garbage. I can’t believe the stupid lady threw all those old photos away. Given the right amount of time and energy (he, he, he) I could have put those on eBay and made a couple hundred bucks. And I need bucks right now. Like the guy from the old Hardee’s commericals.
I’ll give ya five bucks for that biscuit!
Ok.
Buck, buck, buck, buck, buck.
Now everyone is wondering why I’m clucking like a chicken and smiling at my computer screen. I think I’ll let them keep wondering…
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Society makes me sad...
For the first time in months, it’s under 80 degrees inside my house. It rained all day on Tuesday, and because of that, the sun wasn’t able to turn my house into the sauna that it normally becomes. The only negative about the situation is the mosquitoes that will now roam quite freely everywhere. That was something brought up at work yesterday, while we were standing in line at Subway to get some eats. Not necessarily good eats, but eats. “I got fucked up by the mosquitoes yesterday,” my co-worker said. “Yeah, they’re out like a motherfucker,” I replied. Seriously, the little buggers haven’t been around until this week. It’s almost September, is that normal? The winter was brutally cold this year, followed by a summer to rival those of 1999 and 2005 -- two years of lots o’ hurricane action. Speaking of, Danielle is prowling out there. Not gonna do much here, it looks like, but behind her is another system. That’s always the story ‘round here. Two storms for the price of one. The second one always catches you while you’re trying to take a deep breath. If I was to guess, and this would be pure speculation on my part, if a Cat 2 or above hurricane hits this part, and I stay, the water will be pretty dang high. My plan is to take my car over the bridge and leave it on the mainland somewhere. Not close to trees. Figure it would be better than here. Then bike my ass back to the beach. Ride out the storm and get stuck here for days. Chances are, no storm will come. I’ve got a stash of water, canned goods, batteries and candles, yet I’m sure something would be forgotten. It is nice to wake up and not be sweating. One could get used to this. The only time I run the air conditioning is when I have visitors, which has been less often than expected. Oh well. Life is too short to get down about that too much, right?
The crickets outside the house are back, too. Wonder where they went? Do crickets leave? Or just die off? Leaving eggs behind to repopulate the cricket Dom. I wish this freaking free software wouldn’t keep trying to separate cricket and dom. I’ll leave it there, for emphasis.
The carpet in my place is disgusting. It’s one of those things you kind of ignore, well, I do, when moving in to a place. I was so in love with the fact I would be two blocks from the water, the fact the carpet is pretty disgusting didn’t matter. I haven’t made it any better by dropping pizza and Guinness on it. Yet, I don’t seem to have much of a problem with it. My couch is dirty from being a dog’s couch for years. Do people judge me for that? If they do, get out of my life. I’m poor. I didn’t want to be, it just kind of happened. Like the old guard said in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade … “choose wisely.” I didn’t. Chasing women around and leaving yourself behind? Not always the best plan in life. Unless you are Ashton Kutcher. I think that is the first time I’ve ever typed Aston Kutcher, and now I have twice. Hopefully, there will never be a No. 3.
Being poor does have it’s advantages … You don’t have to go to expensive parties, wearing expensive clothes, talking to expensive body parts, eating caviar, driving cars that cost more to fix than the value of the car you used to drive across country every so often. But, it does have at least one disadvantage, the tan teeth, white skin dilemma that Mr. Hicks so wisely cracked one night. You don’t see many of the rich without the white teeth, tan skin. But, they only wear trucker hats to be fashionably late.
The rise in humidity just blew in the window. Not a good sign. The ocean has smelled a bit too. Almost salty, but with something not quite right added in. At first, when the smell enveloped my house, the first thought was that the body odor was the cause. You sit around enough, sweating in 99 degree heat, you leave behind a bit of smell. Yet, when I did all the laundry, changed all the sheets and took a shower, the smell lingered. I went outside, and could smell it as well. That’s when it became obvious that the ocean water had changed somehow. Taken on another form. Something given to us by BP maybe? If you believe the media, the oil is mostly gone. But the media just reads press releases and calls the number on the press releases. Getting quotes about the press releases and then printing the press releases, but with “different words” now so they get a byline. Ha. Bylines. My last one was on January 24th, 2009. I wrote a story the day I got canned -- but Randy, according to the press release, you were part of a work-force reduction due to slumping revenues and declining circulation numbers. To quote Steve Buscemi “fuck all that.” I got fired. I think my choice was due to my taking full use of all the EAP at the office. I was fucked up mentally, and used it to get off the ledge. That and the words and thoughts from just a select few family and one friend that gave a shit about me enough to say something other than “jump.” I was a line item on a spread sheet. One that was costing too much money. Even though I was productive, award-winning and all that. Who gives a rat’s ass about such things? Rat’s ass. Ha. Rat turds in my desk at my new office should have been the revelation to get out. Should have. Instead, five months in almost, I stare at them every so often. I want to be reminded that they don’t give a shit about you. And they don’t. Because that’s awful. I do know that right before I leave, if they are still there, I will take a photo of them and send a complaint to OSHA. Swallow that. Of course, writing about it here just puts me in jeopardy. Not like Greg Kihn.
Some words from JT. Oh, I’ve really let my listening to you wane…
Do I feel guilty...about an imperfect life
It's time for me...to take what's mine
I don't want to...live in the present
I make myself ill, at times I'm happy
But society makes me sad
My past...involves my future
I have to manifest...my destiny
If I lose my self, I lose what's precious, and if there's
not something wrong with me... There should be
But society makes me sad
Your society makes me sad (2 times)
If invisibility...could be achieved
Life, could be so nice, I could
walk around be around and nobody
Nobody'd know I was around
(Repeat 1st verse)
(Repeat chorus)
Your society makes me sad…
The crickets outside the house are back, too. Wonder where they went? Do crickets leave? Or just die off? Leaving eggs behind to repopulate the cricket Dom. I wish this freaking free software wouldn’t keep trying to separate cricket and dom. I’ll leave it there, for emphasis.
The carpet in my place is disgusting. It’s one of those things you kind of ignore, well, I do, when moving in to a place. I was so in love with the fact I would be two blocks from the water, the fact the carpet is pretty disgusting didn’t matter. I haven’t made it any better by dropping pizza and Guinness on it. Yet, I don’t seem to have much of a problem with it. My couch is dirty from being a dog’s couch for years. Do people judge me for that? If they do, get out of my life. I’m poor. I didn’t want to be, it just kind of happened. Like the old guard said in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade … “choose wisely.” I didn’t. Chasing women around and leaving yourself behind? Not always the best plan in life. Unless you are Ashton Kutcher. I think that is the first time I’ve ever typed Aston Kutcher, and now I have twice. Hopefully, there will never be a No. 3.
Being poor does have it’s advantages … You don’t have to go to expensive parties, wearing expensive clothes, talking to expensive body parts, eating caviar, driving cars that cost more to fix than the value of the car you used to drive across country every so often. But, it does have at least one disadvantage, the tan teeth, white skin dilemma that Mr. Hicks so wisely cracked one night. You don’t see many of the rich without the white teeth, tan skin. But, they only wear trucker hats to be fashionably late.
The rise in humidity just blew in the window. Not a good sign. The ocean has smelled a bit too. Almost salty, but with something not quite right added in. At first, when the smell enveloped my house, the first thought was that the body odor was the cause. You sit around enough, sweating in 99 degree heat, you leave behind a bit of smell. Yet, when I did all the laundry, changed all the sheets and took a shower, the smell lingered. I went outside, and could smell it as well. That’s when it became obvious that the ocean water had changed somehow. Taken on another form. Something given to us by BP maybe? If you believe the media, the oil is mostly gone. But the media just reads press releases and calls the number on the press releases. Getting quotes about the press releases and then printing the press releases, but with “different words” now so they get a byline. Ha. Bylines. My last one was on January 24th, 2009. I wrote a story the day I got canned -- but Randy, according to the press release, you were part of a work-force reduction due to slumping revenues and declining circulation numbers. To quote Steve Buscemi “fuck all that.” I got fired. I think my choice was due to my taking full use of all the EAP at the office. I was fucked up mentally, and used it to get off the ledge. That and the words and thoughts from just a select few family and one friend that gave a shit about me enough to say something other than “jump.” I was a line item on a spread sheet. One that was costing too much money. Even though I was productive, award-winning and all that. Who gives a rat’s ass about such things? Rat’s ass. Ha. Rat turds in my desk at my new office should have been the revelation to get out. Should have. Instead, five months in almost, I stare at them every so often. I want to be reminded that they don’t give a shit about you. And they don’t. Because that’s awful. I do know that right before I leave, if they are still there, I will take a photo of them and send a complaint to OSHA. Swallow that. Of course, writing about it here just puts me in jeopardy. Not like Greg Kihn.
Some words from JT. Oh, I’ve really let my listening to you wane…
Do I feel guilty...about an imperfect life
It's time for me...to take what's mine
I don't want to...live in the present
I make myself ill, at times I'm happy
But society makes me sad
My past...involves my future
I have to manifest...my destiny
If I lose my self, I lose what's precious, and if there's
not something wrong with me... There should be
But society makes me sad
Your society makes me sad (2 times)
If invisibility...could be achieved
Life, could be so nice, I could
walk around be around and nobody
Nobody'd know I was around
(Repeat 1st verse)
(Repeat chorus)
Your society makes me sad…
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Chapter 1
“Hello my name is Ralph.”
I really have no idea why I said that when I met her. It just popped out of my mouth. One of those moments that you can’t get back. Even if you explained the lie in the next sentence, that moment. The first moment, was done. The opportunity was lost.
“Hi, Ralph,” she answered.
I sort of stared at her toes. She had black toenail polish on one foot. Green on the other. I’d find out later, that was what she did all the time. It never changed. No red. No blue. Not even purple, which was her favorite color. Always one foot black -- the right foot, and one foot green -- the left foot.
“Is that really your name?” she continued after my foot staring turned into eye staring.
“No. I just wanted to see if you would wince when I told you that. And you didn’t. Excellent thing, I must say.”
I noticed something else. She had a pendant around her neck. It was made of gold, but really oddly shaped. Not any kind of pattern or design. Just clumps of gold that seemed almost haphazardly melted together.
“So, what is your name?” I asked.
“Tara,” she said.
“Cool. I dig that name, always have.”
“I’m still waiting for your real name,” she said with a little bit of anger. Not hard core jarheads seeing a middle easterner in the airport ahead of him in line at McDonald’s getting the last batch of chicken mcnuggets mad. Just playfully, but not completely playfully mad.
“It’s Randy.”
“That fits you.”
That never really made sense to me. It fits what? My nose? My feet? My too-long and shaggy goatee?
Right at that moment of pondering, someone walked up to us…
“Tara? Are you coming or not?” a guy with a North Face fleece pullover said. The kind of pullover without sleeves. Not the kind with zippered off sleeves. That would have been even worse.
“Ummm…I’ll be there in a second honey,” she said.
My heart sunk. Just a little bit. Usually my heartbreak will come weeks, months or years after I fall for a gal. This one took less than three minutes.
North Face turned an walked over to a very large flat screen television. He looked at the screen and it had a rerun of the Ultimate Fighter on. He started boxing with the image on the screen. An image on a television screen that was still five times stronger than he was.
Two girls from the bar started looking at him. One of them got up and came over to her. I tried to watch what happened, but a voice stopped me.
“Randy, I probably shouldn’t do this, after what you just saw and all …”
She must be talking about the whole “honey” stuff with North Face.
“Huh? Shouldn’t or should?” I said, not really understanding what she was talking about, but hoping for one thing, not another.
“I shouldn’t give you this,” she said with a slight but oh-so-beautiful smile.
She reached into her pocket and gave me her … business card. It read “Tara’s Balloons…For ANY occasion!!!”
“Three exclamation points?” I asked, and immediately thought better of it.
She frowned a bit.
I started to panic.
“Thanks,” I meekly said.
“You don’t even know what it is, do you?” she said.
“It’s your business card. You are some kind of balloon person? Guess you figured I needed balloons for every occasion…”
That was supposed to be funny. But it wasn’t.
“No, stupid. Look on the back,” she said, grabbing it back from me and flipping it over and then pushing it right into my eyes.”
Call me. 252-349-1190. And then she took it right back.
At that moment I caught in the corner of my eye, North Face boy doing almost the exact same thing to one of the girls from the bar. She grabbed the card back quickly and stuffed it in her bra.
“Classy,” I thought. Not putting any of this together.
Tara took my hand and placed the card in my now sweaty palm.
“I’ve got to go. I live in Uptown. Maybe I’ll see you around. Or …”
A delightful pause. One in which I noticed her dyed blonde hair with red streaks in it. And the smell of the homeless guy coming up to us with a Styrofoam cup in his hand.
“Got any change, buddy?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, taking out a couple of quarters, plunking them into the dirty cup.
“Thanks, bro,” he said, tipping his hat and standing up just a little straighter. I kind of reminded me of the scene from Barfly when the bum gets to light a cigarette for Henry and Wanda. My favorite movie is about a drunk who falls in love with the wrong woman.
“You’ll give me a call?” she finally continued.
“I will. If you answer one question for me.”
She looked me up and down, again with her little crinkled up frown that made her nose twitch just a little bit. She had a little freckle there too.
“Ok, shoot,” she said.
“What color is your hair, really?”
“Red.”
And then she walked away with North Face.
I really have no idea why I said that when I met her. It just popped out of my mouth. One of those moments that you can’t get back. Even if you explained the lie in the next sentence, that moment. The first moment, was done. The opportunity was lost.
“Hi, Ralph,” she answered.
I sort of stared at her toes. She had black toenail polish on one foot. Green on the other. I’d find out later, that was what she did all the time. It never changed. No red. No blue. Not even purple, which was her favorite color. Always one foot black -- the right foot, and one foot green -- the left foot.
“Is that really your name?” she continued after my foot staring turned into eye staring.
“No. I just wanted to see if you would wince when I told you that. And you didn’t. Excellent thing, I must say.”
I noticed something else. She had a pendant around her neck. It was made of gold, but really oddly shaped. Not any kind of pattern or design. Just clumps of gold that seemed almost haphazardly melted together.
“So, what is your name?” I asked.
“Tara,” she said.
“Cool. I dig that name, always have.”
“I’m still waiting for your real name,” she said with a little bit of anger. Not hard core jarheads seeing a middle easterner in the airport ahead of him in line at McDonald’s getting the last batch of chicken mcnuggets mad. Just playfully, but not completely playfully mad.
“It’s Randy.”
“That fits you.”
That never really made sense to me. It fits what? My nose? My feet? My too-long and shaggy goatee?
Right at that moment of pondering, someone walked up to us…
“Tara? Are you coming or not?” a guy with a North Face fleece pullover said. The kind of pullover without sleeves. Not the kind with zippered off sleeves. That would have been even worse.
“Ummm…I’ll be there in a second honey,” she said.
My heart sunk. Just a little bit. Usually my heartbreak will come weeks, months or years after I fall for a gal. This one took less than three minutes.
North Face turned an walked over to a very large flat screen television. He looked at the screen and it had a rerun of the Ultimate Fighter on. He started boxing with the image on the screen. An image on a television screen that was still five times stronger than he was.
Two girls from the bar started looking at him. One of them got up and came over to her. I tried to watch what happened, but a voice stopped me.
“Randy, I probably shouldn’t do this, after what you just saw and all …”
She must be talking about the whole “honey” stuff with North Face.
“Huh? Shouldn’t or should?” I said, not really understanding what she was talking about, but hoping for one thing, not another.
“I shouldn’t give you this,” she said with a slight but oh-so-beautiful smile.
She reached into her pocket and gave me her … business card. It read “Tara’s Balloons…For ANY occasion!!!”
“Three exclamation points?” I asked, and immediately thought better of it.
She frowned a bit.
I started to panic.
“Thanks,” I meekly said.
“You don’t even know what it is, do you?” she said.
“It’s your business card. You are some kind of balloon person? Guess you figured I needed balloons for every occasion…”
That was supposed to be funny. But it wasn’t.
“No, stupid. Look on the back,” she said, grabbing it back from me and flipping it over and then pushing it right into my eyes.”
Call me. 252-349-1190. And then she took it right back.
At that moment I caught in the corner of my eye, North Face boy doing almost the exact same thing to one of the girls from the bar. She grabbed the card back quickly and stuffed it in her bra.
“Classy,” I thought. Not putting any of this together.
Tara took my hand and placed the card in my now sweaty palm.
“I’ve got to go. I live in Uptown. Maybe I’ll see you around. Or …”
A delightful pause. One in which I noticed her dyed blonde hair with red streaks in it. And the smell of the homeless guy coming up to us with a Styrofoam cup in his hand.
“Got any change, buddy?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, taking out a couple of quarters, plunking them into the dirty cup.
“Thanks, bro,” he said, tipping his hat and standing up just a little straighter. I kind of reminded me of the scene from Barfly when the bum gets to light a cigarette for Henry and Wanda. My favorite movie is about a drunk who falls in love with the wrong woman.
“You’ll give me a call?” she finally continued.
“I will. If you answer one question for me.”
She looked me up and down, again with her little crinkled up frown that made her nose twitch just a little bit. She had a little freckle there too.
“Ok, shoot,” she said.
“What color is your hair, really?”
“Red.”
And then she walked away with North Face.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)