The little shithead. He talks with one of those inbred sounding Southern accents. Not the cool ones like Rhett Butler (?) or my ex-girlfriend’s (see how I have to bring them into everything? See?). Just one that grates on you in its simplicity and complete lack of knowledge.
Yesterday (well, today if you count what day’s paper it’s in), he wrote about how he “misses being a fan.” Well, fucktard, quit your job and be a fan again. You aren’t worth a dog’s pre-cum anyway as a reporter, and you’ll never get any better because no one is telling you your shit actually is shit.
I should know. I had a good start in this business. I got grilled for shitty writing in college. Then again when I interned. Then? I quit my internship early. Kind of like Anakin Skywalker. I was thinking about the pussy instead of the payoff. Of course, those can, and are, the same most of the time.
Instead, I got a job at a decent little paper. I had a couple of good role models in front of me. They both quit within a month. And I was alone. I tried and did pretty well. Then they hired an asshat from Western North Carolina. He was my boss in title only. He left eight months later. I was the boss then.
Two years later, I was in North Carolina. I had an idiot as a boss again. He quit six months in. Three months later, I was the boss.
See a theme here? I never got any guidance. No mentoring. It was all me. And, honestly, I got decent. Every once in a while, the good popped out as great. It kept me motivated.
Then I left the job. Got another. Once again, no real coaching. Just “hey, you’re pretty good” from a boss that really, was about where I was as a writer/journalist. Just a meandering jerk-off.
Finally, I got laid off.
Now, I’m looking at copy of shitheads. All the time. Really bad copy by really awful writers. They couldn’t get any better if they tried. Why? They don’t care. It’s that simple. I cared enough to try. And gradually get better. How? I just keep typing. Keep typing.
This brings me back to the little shithead. He wrote “I love my job. I get paid to watch sports. Eat free food. AND talk to athletes.”
Wow. I told this to a colleague I thought would get it. He said “I understand how he feels.”
I just kept interrupting his drivel with words from the column. Yelled. Probably not the best way to have discourse, I will agree. But fuck, if you agree with this, and supposedly you were a sports editor for 10 years, you should be taken to a field and shot. In. The. Face. Twice.
Now, of course I would never do such a thing. That would get me in prison. Where I would be repeated ass-raped by men who have done much worse things than me.
But, I guess I’d get a good story out of it. And that’s all I’m ever looking for. Only problem is the last __ (insert the number you seem to believe fits) years, I’ve stopped looking. Well, not looking, but going out and finding.
I got nice stories out of bus rides to nowhere. To road trips to Texas. You meet people. You talk to them, or just imagine talking to them. You see things that aren’t the same things you see every day. The same ride to work, the same view from your house, the same face in the mirror.
It’s good for the soul. It keeps it alive. Well, at least mine. I never should have read when I was a kid. When I was a college student. If I hadn’t I’d be fine sitting about, watching Dancing With the Stars and wishing I was “The Situation”. Fuck. Banality has reached epidemic levels. And no one seems to care.
We hate the president. We hate our congress. We hate our school board. Yet we do nothing to get rid of them.
“What can we do, Randy?”
You can vote for Pee-Wee fucking Herman. If everyone voted for who they wanted to, no matter how stupid or unelectable or whatever excuse you give for voting for George Bush or John McCain or Barack Obama or Sarah Palin or whatever devil you choose, we’d have decent government.
But it’s easier to vote the party line or do what my daddy did.
I hate politics. I used to love it. But I think they all know they can’t do anything. Because they don’t run anything.
I’m going to enjoy my senior years (if I don’t die of a heart attack before then) in a third world country. In the streets. No teeth. Dirty clothes. Hoboism. But I’m sure I’ll still have an internet connection. Because that’s life.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
dancin' machine
“Eh, it’s not going to make much of a difference.”
Yep, there’s plenty of places in my life where that phrase fits in perfectly. A time when a decision must be made, and you’ve got to stick with the consequences. Love or hate the results. Enjoy the fabulous disaster that may occur.
Last night, it was a simple one.
I went to the freezer and pulled out one of those frozen, all in one meals. This one was only bought because I had a coupon. It was from the Macaroni Grill. I think they retail for something ridiculous like $7.98. The coupon was for half off. So what the heck. But that’s not the decision I had to make. No, this one ranks up there with LeBron’s.
I opened up the package. Well, I attempted to at first with just my hands. However, it appears I am too weak now to even open up a sealed plastic wrapper with frozen vegetables, chicken and pasta inside. So, I found a knife, almost cutting my finger in the process as I just stuck my hand into the drawer and grabbed, and I proceeded to cut that thing open with a flick of the wrist. Did that sound sexy at all? Or is it even possible to say ‘flick of the wrist’ and be sexy?
Looking at the contents as they trickled into the frying pan that I use as a sauce pan, it looked edible. Better than the cheese toast I had for dinner the night before, for sure. (Ha. Night before, for sure.)
I look at the directions (for the first time) and am stunned to see this “add ¼ cup milk.”
“Shit. I don’t have any milk.”
But wait, there is a jug in the fridge. Way in the back. Behind the Orange Juice. Behind the tap water filled jug. Even behind the month-old Budweisers I bought for a buddy that came down. I even drank some of them.
I reach in and pull it out. Expecting solid waste.
Instead, the jug is liquid. The expiration date is Oct. 11. It’s officially Oct. 30 when I’m doing this. I take the cap off and look inside. Just a few swirlies in the mix. No cottage cheese. It’s still white as well. Then, I do what has to be done, I take a sniff.
“Eh, it doesn’t smell bad.” Not that it smelled good, but these are important little details that I wasn’t really worried about at that moment. I’m hungry. It’s after midnight and the only open store is the BP down the street. And, I won’t ever shop at a BP again. Fuck the little man and watch the big man rebrand itself.
I get the measuring cup. This is when you know the decision has been made. You’re going to eat this. Damn the consequences. Much like not going to the dentist in 17 years. But not really.
I pour it out into the cup. Then I pour the cup into the pan. It sizzles on contact.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m eating. This isn’t that bad. I don’t know, but Alien on the television just shot out of the guy’s chest while he was chewing on his food. Fuck omens.
I got to bed a few hours later. I tried to watch ‘Million Dollar Baby’ but just couldn’t fight off the monster of sleep. I stumble to bed. Taking a pee along the way.
In bed now, I slowly try to drift off. Then my stomach decides to say something.
It’s angry. With me. I try to just sleep through it. Nope. You’re getting up.
I go to the potty. Sit down and relieve myself. Yep. I said it. You read it. That uncomfortable feeling stays after the purge. You know what it means. There’s more to come. Yet, you don’t want to sit on the toilet and have your feet and butt fall asleep in the process.
So, I go back to bed. Leaving the bathroom light on, because, I know I’ll be back.
Funny thing is. I don’t. Instead, I wake up at 9 a.m. Take a pee. Go back to bed, laughing at the light still being on.
Then the stomach says, “remember me?”
Now it’s 10:46 a.m. I’ve been on the toilet four times. Lots of toilet paper used.
It’s the decisions you make, my son. They determine your future, whether you want to believe it or not.
And no, my dad never sat me down and filled me with such wisdom. I’ve learned it all on my own. With a little help from some awesome and not so awesome women. Some who dance, most who don’t. Not that I’m a dancer, mind you. I just have danced before.
Yep, there’s plenty of places in my life where that phrase fits in perfectly. A time when a decision must be made, and you’ve got to stick with the consequences. Love or hate the results. Enjoy the fabulous disaster that may occur.
Last night, it was a simple one.
I went to the freezer and pulled out one of those frozen, all in one meals. This one was only bought because I had a coupon. It was from the Macaroni Grill. I think they retail for something ridiculous like $7.98. The coupon was for half off. So what the heck. But that’s not the decision I had to make. No, this one ranks up there with LeBron’s.
I opened up the package. Well, I attempted to at first with just my hands. However, it appears I am too weak now to even open up a sealed plastic wrapper with frozen vegetables, chicken and pasta inside. So, I found a knife, almost cutting my finger in the process as I just stuck my hand into the drawer and grabbed, and I proceeded to cut that thing open with a flick of the wrist. Did that sound sexy at all? Or is it even possible to say ‘flick of the wrist’ and be sexy?
Looking at the contents as they trickled into the frying pan that I use as a sauce pan, it looked edible. Better than the cheese toast I had for dinner the night before, for sure. (Ha. Night before, for sure.)
I look at the directions (for the first time) and am stunned to see this “add ¼ cup milk.”
“Shit. I don’t have any milk.”
But wait, there is a jug in the fridge. Way in the back. Behind the Orange Juice. Behind the tap water filled jug. Even behind the month-old Budweisers I bought for a buddy that came down. I even drank some of them.
I reach in and pull it out. Expecting solid waste.
Instead, the jug is liquid. The expiration date is Oct. 11. It’s officially Oct. 30 when I’m doing this. I take the cap off and look inside. Just a few swirlies in the mix. No cottage cheese. It’s still white as well. Then, I do what has to be done, I take a sniff.
“Eh, it doesn’t smell bad.” Not that it smelled good, but these are important little details that I wasn’t really worried about at that moment. I’m hungry. It’s after midnight and the only open store is the BP down the street. And, I won’t ever shop at a BP again. Fuck the little man and watch the big man rebrand itself.
I get the measuring cup. This is when you know the decision has been made. You’re going to eat this. Damn the consequences. Much like not going to the dentist in 17 years. But not really.
I pour it out into the cup. Then I pour the cup into the pan. It sizzles on contact.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m eating. This isn’t that bad. I don’t know, but Alien on the television just shot out of the guy’s chest while he was chewing on his food. Fuck omens.
I got to bed a few hours later. I tried to watch ‘Million Dollar Baby’ but just couldn’t fight off the monster of sleep. I stumble to bed. Taking a pee along the way.
In bed now, I slowly try to drift off. Then my stomach decides to say something.
It’s angry. With me. I try to just sleep through it. Nope. You’re getting up.
I go to the potty. Sit down and relieve myself. Yep. I said it. You read it. That uncomfortable feeling stays after the purge. You know what it means. There’s more to come. Yet, you don’t want to sit on the toilet and have your feet and butt fall asleep in the process.
So, I go back to bed. Leaving the bathroom light on, because, I know I’ll be back.
Funny thing is. I don’t. Instead, I wake up at 9 a.m. Take a pee. Go back to bed, laughing at the light still being on.
Then the stomach says, “remember me?”
Now it’s 10:46 a.m. I’ve been on the toilet four times. Lots of toilet paper used.
It’s the decisions you make, my son. They determine your future, whether you want to believe it or not.
And no, my dad never sat me down and filled me with such wisdom. I’ve learned it all on my own. With a little help from some awesome and not so awesome women. Some who dance, most who don’t. Not that I’m a dancer, mind you. I just have danced before.
my way
Pssssssssst. I turn the cap on the bottle of Miller High Life. I absentmindedly toss it into the garbage can.
“Damn, that’s one less for the lamp,” I think to myself, then shrug it off as completely unimportant. I’ve been stashing bottle caps for years now. Dating back to my days in Arizona. Geez, that’s been 15 years now. There are Red Dog bottle caps in there from that time.
I was lonely then. I’m lonely now.
I don’t take a swig from the bottle. Instead, I place it on the table. I start futzing around on the internet. I place the movie “Alien” in my DVD player and push play. I don’t like the silence this place has about it. And I’m tired of listening to music for the moment.
Twenty minutes later, the beer still sits there, untouched. I think about it for the first time. I don’t drink as much anymore. Drinking has been a constant companion of mine since I was 15 years old. A few times, it’s been my only companion, and very easily could be that way now. But, it isn’t right now. I do still love to get a good drunk on. To tie one on. To get shit-faced. Or maybe even just keep a buzz, but certainly not an inferior one.
Just a few days ago I was hanging with some friends and got good and toasty. Not drunk, just nicely buzzed.
Now, here I sit, with a beer and I’m not drinking. It’s been happening a lot lately. I open one up. Maybe drink it, maybe not. It’s almost like it is just a habit now. Something I’m used to doing, so I do it. Not because I want to, but because I’m used to doing it.
Replacing much of the idle time that used to be spend guzzling awful amounts of alcohol has been writing. The only problem is, the writer thinks the writing is crap. Which, I guess all writers think, even the good ones, and that’s what keeps them writing. I just know that my writing has mostly been worthless pap. Generated to keep me from going insane. It’s the way I’ve always worked my way through my tormented existence. Writing the things that I never can say.
I wrote in my early 20s, some would call those the “productive years.” I wouldn’t. I tried to dabble in screen play writing, just like every so-called, wanna-be writer does. I had a story about a cat. It was pretty good. I wrote about a gang (bad word) or group of 20-somethings who were all in debt for different reasons -- all as dumb as the other -- and they decided to rob a gangster of his money. It was bad. A good idea, I thought, and maybe even more relevant now, so if you steal the idea you will pay, but I just didn’t like it.
Those writings got tossed in an early purge. I just felt it necessary to rid myself of those writings when I actually started writing for a living at the student paper. Oh, heady times.
I didn’t write much for the next three years. Relationships seem to do that to me. But then it ended. And the writing started again.
It stopped again soon after. Once again, in a relationship.
Then it started again. While in a relationship. I dug that writing. It was fun. It had no meaning. Then the relationship ended. The writing continued. And got dark.
Then it stopped once again. Why? You guessed it. A relationship. That one tried to force me to write when I didn’t. And that was probably the best thing she did for me. She wanted me to write. Problem was, she only wanted me to write about her. And that wasn’t easy. It just didn’t flow.
Until she dumped me.
Then I wrote about her. And others.
And then I purged again. Because of her.
Dumb. I try not to have regrets. But as Paul Anka wrote, Frank Sinatra popularized and Sid Vicious put it in my head … “Regrets, I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention…”
But yeah, that’s one of them. I should make a list of regrets one day. I’d probably be surprised at how many of them there actually are. And how stupid I am for feeling that way about anything in my past. It’s me. I’m a bag full of mistakes and bad choices. Along the way, I made a couple of right ones, but then fucked it up. And usually not in a good way. But, I have been lucky to find a few who knew how to fuck things up the right way…sigh.
But anyway…
So, now I’m back to forcing myself to write. I like it. It’s better than waking up feeling shitty and having the shits.
“Damn, that’s one less for the lamp,” I think to myself, then shrug it off as completely unimportant. I’ve been stashing bottle caps for years now. Dating back to my days in Arizona. Geez, that’s been 15 years now. There are Red Dog bottle caps in there from that time.
I was lonely then. I’m lonely now.
I don’t take a swig from the bottle. Instead, I place it on the table. I start futzing around on the internet. I place the movie “Alien” in my DVD player and push play. I don’t like the silence this place has about it. And I’m tired of listening to music for the moment.
Twenty minutes later, the beer still sits there, untouched. I think about it for the first time. I don’t drink as much anymore. Drinking has been a constant companion of mine since I was 15 years old. A few times, it’s been my only companion, and very easily could be that way now. But, it isn’t right now. I do still love to get a good drunk on. To tie one on. To get shit-faced. Or maybe even just keep a buzz, but certainly not an inferior one.
Just a few days ago I was hanging with some friends and got good and toasty. Not drunk, just nicely buzzed.
Now, here I sit, with a beer and I’m not drinking. It’s been happening a lot lately. I open one up. Maybe drink it, maybe not. It’s almost like it is just a habit now. Something I’m used to doing, so I do it. Not because I want to, but because I’m used to doing it.
Replacing much of the idle time that used to be spend guzzling awful amounts of alcohol has been writing. The only problem is, the writer thinks the writing is crap. Which, I guess all writers think, even the good ones, and that’s what keeps them writing. I just know that my writing has mostly been worthless pap. Generated to keep me from going insane. It’s the way I’ve always worked my way through my tormented existence. Writing the things that I never can say.
I wrote in my early 20s, some would call those the “productive years.” I wouldn’t. I tried to dabble in screen play writing, just like every so-called, wanna-be writer does. I had a story about a cat. It was pretty good. I wrote about a gang (bad word) or group of 20-somethings who were all in debt for different reasons -- all as dumb as the other -- and they decided to rob a gangster of his money. It was bad. A good idea, I thought, and maybe even more relevant now, so if you steal the idea you will pay, but I just didn’t like it.
Those writings got tossed in an early purge. I just felt it necessary to rid myself of those writings when I actually started writing for a living at the student paper. Oh, heady times.
I didn’t write much for the next three years. Relationships seem to do that to me. But then it ended. And the writing started again.
It stopped again soon after. Once again, in a relationship.
Then it started again. While in a relationship. I dug that writing. It was fun. It had no meaning. Then the relationship ended. The writing continued. And got dark.
Then it stopped once again. Why? You guessed it. A relationship. That one tried to force me to write when I didn’t. And that was probably the best thing she did for me. She wanted me to write. Problem was, she only wanted me to write about her. And that wasn’t easy. It just didn’t flow.
Until she dumped me.
Then I wrote about her. And others.
And then I purged again. Because of her.
Dumb. I try not to have regrets. But as Paul Anka wrote, Frank Sinatra popularized and Sid Vicious put it in my head … “Regrets, I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention…”
But yeah, that’s one of them. I should make a list of regrets one day. I’d probably be surprised at how many of them there actually are. And how stupid I am for feeling that way about anything in my past. It’s me. I’m a bag full of mistakes and bad choices. Along the way, I made a couple of right ones, but then fucked it up. And usually not in a good way. But, I have been lucky to find a few who knew how to fuck things up the right way…sigh.
But anyway…
So, now I’m back to forcing myself to write. I like it. It’s better than waking up feeling shitty and having the shits.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
skid row
When was the last time you lived up to someone’s expectations?
(That just popped into my head right before I started writing what will be the rest of this. I had to type it, so to remember it).
***
“Randy, do you remember the first time you saw me?”
Now here’s a question you don’t mind answering. If you’ve had time to think about it. And that’s kind of a sad thing.
I do remember the first time I saw Crystal. It was in the lockerroom at the local high school. She was still a student. I didn’t know that then, I figured she was a nurse or a trainer or something like that.
She was wrapping up players’ feet and ankles and arms and such.
I saw her and really thought she was cute.
She smiled and said hello in a very Southern accent.
I remember the first time I saw Rannette. The crush I had for six and a half years. From elementary school till high school.
She was the first girl that I liked that I thought I had a chance with. Even though I know that’s not the truth. Sort of.
My mom warned me a day or so before. “Randy, you’re going to have a girl in your class with the same name as you.”
“Her name is Randy?” I asked.
“Yes. And Jones.”
“Wow, that sucks. For her.” Much giggling in fifth grade kind of way.
She showed up for class, if I remember correctly, somewhere in the middle of the year. Guess she moved. I have no idea.
She had a dress on. And makeup. Something most girls weren’t wearing much of at this point in the history of the United States. She sat in the chair beside me, but just a little bit behind me.
“Class, this is Rannette,” the teacher said.
“Wow. Not really the same name. I guess she was warned there was already a Randy around!” I thought to myself as I stared at her. I would stare at her a lot over the next six years. Then she moved away. We’re Facebook “friends” now. I wished her a happy birthday. That’s about it.
Now, then there’s Sharon.
That was a funny one. One of my roommates went out on a date with her. Brought her back to the apartment. They were very awkward and not at all at ease with each other. He introduced her to me.
“This is Sharon,” Chris said.
“Hey,” I said. Yep. That’s all I said to the first girl who really broke my heart. The fifth girl I ever kissed. That was supposed to be the lucky number.
“Hi!” she said, perking up. We spent the next few minutes talking about women’s basketball. Since I had a huge crush on one of the UVA women’s players.
“We’re going to go see them play this weekend,” she said. “You should come.”
Bingo. She liked me. Not him. Ha. It would take HER almost exactly two years to ask me out. I never did.
Speaking of the crush. I went to a women’s basketball game on a lark with my first-year roommate.
I was watching the pre-game warmups and there she was. Dribbling a ball and wearing short shorts. It was crush at first sight. I spent the next two years going to basketball games, racking up debt to see them in the NCAA tournament (twice), including second trip to New Orleans. Which I think was Josh’s first trip.
I even played pick up hoops with her once. I was on the skins team. Took a charge from her. Only because it was her. Who takes charges in pick up games? Geez. She must have felt like Ben Stiller from “Along Came Polly” at least that’s what I thought then. Except for the whole movie reference part, since, it was almost two decades before it came out…
Let’s see…
Rebecca? The first time I saw her was at her cash register in the jewelry department at Roses. She just watched me walk by. I looked but didn’t say anything. Later in the break room, she said hello. And we just started talking.
Katie? The girl I lost my virginity to? Met her over a year earlier. At John and Josh’s apartment. I thought she was loud and boorish. Kind of pig faced too. Still, she could kiss. Ha.
Aydee? I have no idea what the first conversation we ever had was. It was most likely me being an asshole back in the weasel’s den. I do remember the first time I saw her, though. At the paper. Her wearing “interesting” clothes. Meaning, they were colorful and not anything I’d really seen before, in a good way. She laughed. I remember that.
Of course, this could just be the first time I noticed her. Which may or may not be the first time she noticed me.
And Emily. She was on the floor. Ha. Next to my desk. I actually made a remark about it. She laughed. And she was on the floor next to my desk each of the next two days. We talked those days too. I do think she’d been there for a few days before I noticed…
Have I left anyone out?
Katrina. She was just this hot thing at a party.
Lynn? That was in Paula’s dorm room at VCU, most likely.
Funny ain’t it? Memories that stick. One’s that don’t. And why they do or don’t. Time erases some quickly. Others not at all. Maybe for good. Maybe, just maybe the fuzzier, the happier. I tend to remember the bad more than the good. Sometimes.
(That just popped into my head right before I started writing what will be the rest of this. I had to type it, so to remember it).
***
“Randy, do you remember the first time you saw me?”
Now here’s a question you don’t mind answering. If you’ve had time to think about it. And that’s kind of a sad thing.
I do remember the first time I saw Crystal. It was in the lockerroom at the local high school. She was still a student. I didn’t know that then, I figured she was a nurse or a trainer or something like that.
She was wrapping up players’ feet and ankles and arms and such.
I saw her and really thought she was cute.
She smiled and said hello in a very Southern accent.
I remember the first time I saw Rannette. The crush I had for six and a half years. From elementary school till high school.
She was the first girl that I liked that I thought I had a chance with. Even though I know that’s not the truth. Sort of.
My mom warned me a day or so before. “Randy, you’re going to have a girl in your class with the same name as you.”
“Her name is Randy?” I asked.
“Yes. And Jones.”
“Wow, that sucks. For her.” Much giggling in fifth grade kind of way.
She showed up for class, if I remember correctly, somewhere in the middle of the year. Guess she moved. I have no idea.
She had a dress on. And makeup. Something most girls weren’t wearing much of at this point in the history of the United States. She sat in the chair beside me, but just a little bit behind me.
“Class, this is Rannette,” the teacher said.
“Wow. Not really the same name. I guess she was warned there was already a Randy around!” I thought to myself as I stared at her. I would stare at her a lot over the next six years. Then she moved away. We’re Facebook “friends” now. I wished her a happy birthday. That’s about it.
Now, then there’s Sharon.
That was a funny one. One of my roommates went out on a date with her. Brought her back to the apartment. They were very awkward and not at all at ease with each other. He introduced her to me.
“This is Sharon,” Chris said.
“Hey,” I said. Yep. That’s all I said to the first girl who really broke my heart. The fifth girl I ever kissed. That was supposed to be the lucky number.
“Hi!” she said, perking up. We spent the next few minutes talking about women’s basketball. Since I had a huge crush on one of the UVA women’s players.
“We’re going to go see them play this weekend,” she said. “You should come.”
Bingo. She liked me. Not him. Ha. It would take HER almost exactly two years to ask me out. I never did.
Speaking of the crush. I went to a women’s basketball game on a lark with my first-year roommate.
I was watching the pre-game warmups and there she was. Dribbling a ball and wearing short shorts. It was crush at first sight. I spent the next two years going to basketball games, racking up debt to see them in the NCAA tournament (twice), including second trip to New Orleans. Which I think was Josh’s first trip.
I even played pick up hoops with her once. I was on the skins team. Took a charge from her. Only because it was her. Who takes charges in pick up games? Geez. She must have felt like Ben Stiller from “Along Came Polly” at least that’s what I thought then. Except for the whole movie reference part, since, it was almost two decades before it came out…
Let’s see…
Rebecca? The first time I saw her was at her cash register in the jewelry department at Roses. She just watched me walk by. I looked but didn’t say anything. Later in the break room, she said hello. And we just started talking.
Katie? The girl I lost my virginity to? Met her over a year earlier. At John and Josh’s apartment. I thought she was loud and boorish. Kind of pig faced too. Still, she could kiss. Ha.
Aydee? I have no idea what the first conversation we ever had was. It was most likely me being an asshole back in the weasel’s den. I do remember the first time I saw her, though. At the paper. Her wearing “interesting” clothes. Meaning, they were colorful and not anything I’d really seen before, in a good way. She laughed. I remember that.
Of course, this could just be the first time I noticed her. Which may or may not be the first time she noticed me.
And Emily. She was on the floor. Ha. Next to my desk. I actually made a remark about it. She laughed. And she was on the floor next to my desk each of the next two days. We talked those days too. I do think she’d been there for a few days before I noticed…
Have I left anyone out?
Katrina. She was just this hot thing at a party.
Lynn? That was in Paula’s dorm room at VCU, most likely.
Funny ain’t it? Memories that stick. One’s that don’t. And why they do or don’t. Time erases some quickly. Others not at all. Maybe for good. Maybe, just maybe the fuzzier, the happier. I tend to remember the bad more than the good. Sometimes.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
22 percent
What kind of a person plays Russian Roulette?
I’m definitely of the opinion that at the wrong place and wrong time, I would play it. So, what kind of person am I?
Sad. Depressed. Lonely. Stupid. Dumb. Naïve. Stuck. Forgetful. Silly. Happy. Wonderfilled. Etc.
Devouring my soul, my work gets worse every day. I sit around and do nothing, almost literally, for 8 hours a day. I don’t understand how people do this for 40 years or more. Hating their jobs.
I have loathed parts of my job many times. But never hated it. I do now. It’s just so pointless. The crap that I put on the page is awful. And no one seems to care. Except for the folks paying for it. Every day I see people cancel their subscriptions. Most of the time it’s because someone in California (that’s what they tell them) charged the customer too much money for the paper.
Today, a guy brought in a print out of the web site. On it was the price of the paper’s subscription. It was less than what he was paying, so he, rightfully, “wanted that price.”
“We don’t do that price,” the lady at the desk says.
Finally, after a 5-minute argument, they get the circulation boss, who we have dubbed “Monte” for his ability to place the three card game on just about every customer with is dumbed down accent and folksy ways.
He shows Monte the print out of the Web page. Monte replies simply and succinctly.
“That’s the price for new subscribers sir, you’re already getting the paper. And, according to our records, you’ve been a reader for over 20 years. Congrad-u-lations.”
“Well, I want to pay that price. Not the one I’ve been paying. And nowhere does it say this is for new people.”
“Sir. Sir. Sir. I understand what you are saying. But I’ve got no control over this. It’s from the corporate headquarters in Cali-for-ni-a. They just do things strange there, you know?”
“I’m from Sacramento.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do…,” he stutters. “I can’ give you a rate of 76.20. That’s the best I can do.”
“Nope. I want this one. It says 66 dollars.”
“Geez, sir. I just can’t do that. How about 75 and I’ll throw in one of these,” he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a white plastic card. It’s one of the discount cards they give subscribers. They’re six months old.
“What is that?” the customer says, unconvinced.
“It’s a card we give out to the best customers. We only have a few to give. And you seem like a loyal one.”
“Well…”
“I won’t take no for an answer. Even if you don’t re-up your subscription!” Monte says with a loud chuckle and slap on the back.
“You got yourself a deal,” the customer says. “Thanks for being so understanding.”
“It’s my job.”
I turn back to my computer and with a long, drawn out breath, release a sigh.
“Step right up …” a co-worker says.
“Monte always wins,” I say, before I start laying out another page of the rag he’ll read in the morning. Smiling with his new discount card, and high priced newspaper.
***
Would an insane mailbox bite you when you get your mail? And will anyone understand that joke in 10 years? Kind of like wrapping fishes in a newspaper. One day, that won’t make sense.
Guess I’m getting old, thinking of such things?
***
It’s hot out again. Almost too hot. The rain was supposed to get here by now. Instead, we go wind. And humidity.
“It’s raining somewhere,” my old lady says, wiping her brow with an old rag. “Just never here.”
Never? That’s got to be an exaggeration. But I try to remember the last time it rained. I can’t.
“Baby, how ‘bout you and I just go somewheres tonight.” I don’t have any clue where, I just don’t want to stare at these same four walls at all tonight.
“Can we go to Wal-Mart?” she says as Southern as she can possibly manage, which is about Massachusetts by way of Arizona.
“Fuck you.”
“That’s better.”
***
Stepping outside, the first thing you notice is the fresh air. Staying inside that awful office building for too long makes one immune to the smell. It has to be illegal, the amount of chemical that is in the air. But no one says a thing. They all know if they do, they’ll be out a job. And with unemployment at 22 percent, walking out of a job is akin to suicide nowadays. Hell, suicide is a job now.
***
I’m definitely of the opinion that at the wrong place and wrong time, I would play it. So, what kind of person am I?
Sad. Depressed. Lonely. Stupid. Dumb. Naïve. Stuck. Forgetful. Silly. Happy. Wonderfilled. Etc.
Devouring my soul, my work gets worse every day. I sit around and do nothing, almost literally, for 8 hours a day. I don’t understand how people do this for 40 years or more. Hating their jobs.
I have loathed parts of my job many times. But never hated it. I do now. It’s just so pointless. The crap that I put on the page is awful. And no one seems to care. Except for the folks paying for it. Every day I see people cancel their subscriptions. Most of the time it’s because someone in California (that’s what they tell them) charged the customer too much money for the paper.
Today, a guy brought in a print out of the web site. On it was the price of the paper’s subscription. It was less than what he was paying, so he, rightfully, “wanted that price.”
“We don’t do that price,” the lady at the desk says.
Finally, after a 5-minute argument, they get the circulation boss, who we have dubbed “Monte” for his ability to place the three card game on just about every customer with is dumbed down accent and folksy ways.
He shows Monte the print out of the Web page. Monte replies simply and succinctly.
“That’s the price for new subscribers sir, you’re already getting the paper. And, according to our records, you’ve been a reader for over 20 years. Congrad-u-lations.”
“Well, I want to pay that price. Not the one I’ve been paying. And nowhere does it say this is for new people.”
“Sir. Sir. Sir. I understand what you are saying. But I’ve got no control over this. It’s from the corporate headquarters in Cali-for-ni-a. They just do things strange there, you know?”
“I’m from Sacramento.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do…,” he stutters. “I can’ give you a rate of 76.20. That’s the best I can do.”
“Nope. I want this one. It says 66 dollars.”
“Geez, sir. I just can’t do that. How about 75 and I’ll throw in one of these,” he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a white plastic card. It’s one of the discount cards they give subscribers. They’re six months old.
“What is that?” the customer says, unconvinced.
“It’s a card we give out to the best customers. We only have a few to give. And you seem like a loyal one.”
“Well…”
“I won’t take no for an answer. Even if you don’t re-up your subscription!” Monte says with a loud chuckle and slap on the back.
“You got yourself a deal,” the customer says. “Thanks for being so understanding.”
“It’s my job.”
I turn back to my computer and with a long, drawn out breath, release a sigh.
“Step right up …” a co-worker says.
“Monte always wins,” I say, before I start laying out another page of the rag he’ll read in the morning. Smiling with his new discount card, and high priced newspaper.
***
Would an insane mailbox bite you when you get your mail? And will anyone understand that joke in 10 years? Kind of like wrapping fishes in a newspaper. One day, that won’t make sense.
Guess I’m getting old, thinking of such things?
***
It’s hot out again. Almost too hot. The rain was supposed to get here by now. Instead, we go wind. And humidity.
“It’s raining somewhere,” my old lady says, wiping her brow with an old rag. “Just never here.”
Never? That’s got to be an exaggeration. But I try to remember the last time it rained. I can’t.
“Baby, how ‘bout you and I just go somewheres tonight.” I don’t have any clue where, I just don’t want to stare at these same four walls at all tonight.
“Can we go to Wal-Mart?” she says as Southern as she can possibly manage, which is about Massachusetts by way of Arizona.
“Fuck you.”
“That’s better.”
***
Stepping outside, the first thing you notice is the fresh air. Staying inside that awful office building for too long makes one immune to the smell. It has to be illegal, the amount of chemical that is in the air. But no one says a thing. They all know if they do, they’ll be out a job. And with unemployment at 22 percent, walking out of a job is akin to suicide nowadays. Hell, suicide is a job now.
***
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Yes Mam
We walk out of the apartment. It’s a warm day for October. A little humid.
“You think it’s going to rain?” I ask. I hate asking weather questions. It means you have nothing to talk about.
She sticks out her tongue. Takes a deep breath.
I don’t remember her exhaling.
“Yep.”
That was exactly how that conversation needed to go, I figure.
I look down at my “Life and Times of Tim” shirt. It’s the one that says “Don’t squeeze and old woman’s boobs.” I dig it.
“Maybe I shouldn’t wear this to a restaurant,” I say.
“No one’s gonna notice it, ya moron,” she replies.
Quick and to the point. Got’s to like that. We jump in her car. It’s old. There’s a cat cage in the backseat. A row of Homies line the dashboard. A window shield reflector thing is in passenger seat. I grab it and throw it in the back.
“Make yourself at home!”
“I did.”
We’re driving. I mention the shirt again. It’s the third time so far today.
“You certainly are proud of your shirt there young man,” she says. “Next time, you should wear it to show and tell. Cause right now, I don’t want to hear about it.”
Ha.
We cross the nickel bridge. It costs 35 cents.
At the restaurant, I get out, put on my flip flops and look at my mesh shorts. I think I bought these in 1998 or so. They don’t look so good anymore. I hold the door for the lady.
We go inside. An older lady is the hostess. She looks straight at my shirt and stares a bit long.
“Awkward,” I whisper. She snorts. Always a good sign.
At the table, we sit.
“Told ya,” I say with a smirk.
“Yeah, yeah. Blah. Blah. Blah. But that is funny.”
After eating, we head straight to the bar. It’s the same old crowd. Literally, an old one. This place is always full of old white men. At least in the afternoon.
“I’m glad I skipped work,” she says.
“Me too.” I didn’t skip work. But I’m glad she did.
We drink awhile. Make small talk. Make fun of people. Probably get made fun of.
Then a gaggle of women come in. One is in a wheelchair. She comes toward us with a couple of others.
“Excuse me. Excuse me,” she says over and over to other barstoolers.
One by one they stand, scoot their chairs in and let her pass. Then sit back down and resume drinking, talking or staring.
She gets to me and her. She gets up. Then I get up.
“Excuse me,” the lady says. Then she looks at me.
“Get out of my way,” she says to me.
All I can think is “huh? What the fuck did I do?”
We sit back down. In the back of the bar, now there are at least 50 blue hairs. A gathering.
Then it dawns on me. I turn to her and point at the shirt.
“Psychic about un-important things,” we both say in unison.
“Time to drink,” I continue.
We look at each other and laugh.
“One day, you should write all of this stuff down,” she says. “I’m not going to do it for you.”
I have to pee. The bathroom is behind the area where all the old ladies are. I decide to hold it. Better safe than sorry.
Of course, the chance to be accosted by 50 of the Greatest Generation seems to be something that could make for good fodder later on in life. After another beer and a half, I make my move. I scoot out my stool just loud enough to be noticed.
I sashay over to the back. It seems like a long walk after six beers and no peeing.
I reach the area where all the women are. The one in the wheelchair is right in front.
“Excuse me,” I say as I step by her.
No response. I keep walking. I get to the bathroom. I pee. I wash my hands. I look at my shirt in the mirror. And as always, when I hear the word mirror, even in my head, I start to say “mirror, father. Mirror, father.”, from Ghost World. I. Am. Idiot.
I walk out of the bathroom. Two ladies are standing there. I feel their glare.
“’Scuse me, ladies!” I say, a little too happily.
“You should try it sometime,” the older of the two says after I’ve passed.
I do a quick turn. I smile. And do my best gentlemanly bow.
“One day, ‘mam. One day.”
I get back to the bar.
“Whiskey please.”
“Make it a double,” she says.
I knew I liked this girl.
“You think it’s going to rain?” I ask. I hate asking weather questions. It means you have nothing to talk about.
She sticks out her tongue. Takes a deep breath.
I don’t remember her exhaling.
“Yep.”
That was exactly how that conversation needed to go, I figure.
I look down at my “Life and Times of Tim” shirt. It’s the one that says “Don’t squeeze and old woman’s boobs.” I dig it.
“Maybe I shouldn’t wear this to a restaurant,” I say.
“No one’s gonna notice it, ya moron,” she replies.
Quick and to the point. Got’s to like that. We jump in her car. It’s old. There’s a cat cage in the backseat. A row of Homies line the dashboard. A window shield reflector thing is in passenger seat. I grab it and throw it in the back.
“Make yourself at home!”
“I did.”
We’re driving. I mention the shirt again. It’s the third time so far today.
“You certainly are proud of your shirt there young man,” she says. “Next time, you should wear it to show and tell. Cause right now, I don’t want to hear about it.”
Ha.
We cross the nickel bridge. It costs 35 cents.
At the restaurant, I get out, put on my flip flops and look at my mesh shorts. I think I bought these in 1998 or so. They don’t look so good anymore. I hold the door for the lady.
We go inside. An older lady is the hostess. She looks straight at my shirt and stares a bit long.
“Awkward,” I whisper. She snorts. Always a good sign.
At the table, we sit.
“Told ya,” I say with a smirk.
“Yeah, yeah. Blah. Blah. Blah. But that is funny.”
After eating, we head straight to the bar. It’s the same old crowd. Literally, an old one. This place is always full of old white men. At least in the afternoon.
“I’m glad I skipped work,” she says.
“Me too.” I didn’t skip work. But I’m glad she did.
We drink awhile. Make small talk. Make fun of people. Probably get made fun of.
Then a gaggle of women come in. One is in a wheelchair. She comes toward us with a couple of others.
“Excuse me. Excuse me,” she says over and over to other barstoolers.
One by one they stand, scoot their chairs in and let her pass. Then sit back down and resume drinking, talking or staring.
She gets to me and her. She gets up. Then I get up.
“Excuse me,” the lady says. Then she looks at me.
“Get out of my way,” she says to me.
All I can think is “huh? What the fuck did I do?”
We sit back down. In the back of the bar, now there are at least 50 blue hairs. A gathering.
Then it dawns on me. I turn to her and point at the shirt.
“Psychic about un-important things,” we both say in unison.
“Time to drink,” I continue.
We look at each other and laugh.
“One day, you should write all of this stuff down,” she says. “I’m not going to do it for you.”
I have to pee. The bathroom is behind the area where all the old ladies are. I decide to hold it. Better safe than sorry.
Of course, the chance to be accosted by 50 of the Greatest Generation seems to be something that could make for good fodder later on in life. After another beer and a half, I make my move. I scoot out my stool just loud enough to be noticed.
I sashay over to the back. It seems like a long walk after six beers and no peeing.
I reach the area where all the women are. The one in the wheelchair is right in front.
“Excuse me,” I say as I step by her.
No response. I keep walking. I get to the bathroom. I pee. I wash my hands. I look at my shirt in the mirror. And as always, when I hear the word mirror, even in my head, I start to say “mirror, father. Mirror, father.”, from Ghost World. I. Am. Idiot.
I walk out of the bathroom. Two ladies are standing there. I feel their glare.
“’Scuse me, ladies!” I say, a little too happily.
“You should try it sometime,” the older of the two says after I’ve passed.
I do a quick turn. I smile. And do my best gentlemanly bow.
“One day, ‘mam. One day.”
I get back to the bar.
“Whiskey please.”
“Make it a double,” she says.
I knew I liked this girl.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
the worst one yet...
It’s in the 40s outside tonight. That makes me angry. The steam rising from ponds by the side of the road. That makes me angry, too.
Cold weather means winter is coming. There is no stopping it. I could run from it. Head South. However, at some point, I’d hit a snag.
Water in some places. Borders to cross in others. It’s a shame how much we can’t travel anymore. If this was 1401, the only thing I’d have to worry about would be falling off the edge of the Earth. No one would care if I got in my boat and sailed.
Born in the wrong time.
Hell, if it was 1957 I could hitch my way somewhere else. Someone would even pick me up. Well, maybe not me now. At 40 years old. Hoboism sounds so good.
Now? You get on the Internet and look at photos of some place you want to go. Chat with someone who actually lives there. Instantly. At your fingertips. Seems to me that takes some, if not all, of the adventure out of it.
But I’m cynical.
I watched a guy at work today really mistreat his dad. He has for two weeks now brought in his dad.
He sits there in a wheelchair, barely able to speak. The kid scoffs at his words and yells at him when he doesn’t do what he wants him to do. Two weeks I’ve had to watch this unfold. The kid gets meaner and meaner every day. It’s like he’s gaining confidence that we won’t say anything. Do anything.
He’s wrong.
The seeds were planted today. As he cussed him out and then wheeled him into the bathroom. I went a bit later, and there was pee all over the floor. I’m guessing son didn’t want to help father too much.
It’s sad.
Another guy at work and I, we decided if it continues, we’ll say something. Has to happen.
That was after the son asked the dad for money. “I paid for this dinner,” he said. “You owe me $5.”
Fuck. What a miserable existence.
There have been many times when I hated my dad. Or thought I did. But I never really did. I’ve stood up to him. He’s stood up to me. We will never be lovey-dovey to each other. But we respect each other now. A lot more than before. I get him a little more. I don’t think he gets me. It’s ok though.
I’ll see him tomorrow. Just for a bit. Going to be a long one. Work for 8 hours. Drive 90 minutes to watch the fights. Then drive 3.5 hours home. Sleep a few hours. Drive to Richmond. Go to festival. Drink some. Talk some. Then try to sleep. Get up. Do laundry. See parents. Go to sleep. Get up, drive to work. Five more days wasted. Then some days off. Two Lucero concerts. Good stuff all around. No money to do it with, but hey, has that ever stopped me before? Yes. A lot more lately, in fact. I guess I may finally be growing up. A bit, at least. I was hoping not. So, we’ll see.
I look at my wrist. There are two ugly bug bites there. They itch like hell. I scratch them. Immediately regretting doing so, because now they are itching and inflamed. I can’t remember a bug ever being on me in the last few minutes. How did these bites get there? Are they flea bites or mosquitoes? And who thinks about mosquito bites in October? I guess everyone. That was a stupid question. But you can’t ask one, a journalism professor once said to me. Well, he said it to everyone.
I disagree. I’ve asked plenty of dumb questions…Usually involving women. But not always.
Maybe I should learn to play the tuba?
Take a cooking course?
Fan the flames?
Take up smoking?
Shoot up heroin?
Fuck a transvestite?
Eat raw eggs like Rocky?
Stuff a sock in my pants before work?
Draw a line in the sand?
Jump out of a third floor window?
Sleep in the road?
Get a pet spider, name him Harry?
Put a personal ad on Craig’s List?
Only listen to the Dixieland cassette tape for 10 days straight?
Eat Strawberries?
Drink SoCo and Limes for lunch at work?
I did finally say something to the cute girl at work. She’s married, but I finally said something to her. She smiled. That always makes things better. Even chasing the unobtainable. Why stop now, right?
Cold weather means winter is coming. There is no stopping it. I could run from it. Head South. However, at some point, I’d hit a snag.
Water in some places. Borders to cross in others. It’s a shame how much we can’t travel anymore. If this was 1401, the only thing I’d have to worry about would be falling off the edge of the Earth. No one would care if I got in my boat and sailed.
Born in the wrong time.
Hell, if it was 1957 I could hitch my way somewhere else. Someone would even pick me up. Well, maybe not me now. At 40 years old. Hoboism sounds so good.
Now? You get on the Internet and look at photos of some place you want to go. Chat with someone who actually lives there. Instantly. At your fingertips. Seems to me that takes some, if not all, of the adventure out of it.
But I’m cynical.
I watched a guy at work today really mistreat his dad. He has for two weeks now brought in his dad.
He sits there in a wheelchair, barely able to speak. The kid scoffs at his words and yells at him when he doesn’t do what he wants him to do. Two weeks I’ve had to watch this unfold. The kid gets meaner and meaner every day. It’s like he’s gaining confidence that we won’t say anything. Do anything.
He’s wrong.
The seeds were planted today. As he cussed him out and then wheeled him into the bathroom. I went a bit later, and there was pee all over the floor. I’m guessing son didn’t want to help father too much.
It’s sad.
Another guy at work and I, we decided if it continues, we’ll say something. Has to happen.
That was after the son asked the dad for money. “I paid for this dinner,” he said. “You owe me $5.”
Fuck. What a miserable existence.
There have been many times when I hated my dad. Or thought I did. But I never really did. I’ve stood up to him. He’s stood up to me. We will never be lovey-dovey to each other. But we respect each other now. A lot more than before. I get him a little more. I don’t think he gets me. It’s ok though.
I’ll see him tomorrow. Just for a bit. Going to be a long one. Work for 8 hours. Drive 90 minutes to watch the fights. Then drive 3.5 hours home. Sleep a few hours. Drive to Richmond. Go to festival. Drink some. Talk some. Then try to sleep. Get up. Do laundry. See parents. Go to sleep. Get up, drive to work. Five more days wasted. Then some days off. Two Lucero concerts. Good stuff all around. No money to do it with, but hey, has that ever stopped me before? Yes. A lot more lately, in fact. I guess I may finally be growing up. A bit, at least. I was hoping not. So, we’ll see.
I look at my wrist. There are two ugly bug bites there. They itch like hell. I scratch them. Immediately regretting doing so, because now they are itching and inflamed. I can’t remember a bug ever being on me in the last few minutes. How did these bites get there? Are they flea bites or mosquitoes? And who thinks about mosquito bites in October? I guess everyone. That was a stupid question. But you can’t ask one, a journalism professor once said to me. Well, he said it to everyone.
I disagree. I’ve asked plenty of dumb questions…Usually involving women. But not always.
Maybe I should learn to play the tuba?
Take a cooking course?
Fan the flames?
Take up smoking?
Shoot up heroin?
Fuck a transvestite?
Eat raw eggs like Rocky?
Stuff a sock in my pants before work?
Draw a line in the sand?
Jump out of a third floor window?
Sleep in the road?
Get a pet spider, name him Harry?
Put a personal ad on Craig’s List?
Only listen to the Dixieland cassette tape for 10 days straight?
Eat Strawberries?
Drink SoCo and Limes for lunch at work?
I did finally say something to the cute girl at work. She’s married, but I finally said something to her. She smiled. That always makes things better. Even chasing the unobtainable. Why stop now, right?
Friday, October 22, 2010
inspirational sodomy
A couple more minutes.
That was the difference between right and wrong. Yes and no. Fucked and fucking.
It happens.
I’ll get over it. Always have, always will. Except for that one thing. The only thing I never get over.
Ah. Who cares? In the end, we all end up worm food and back into the food chain. For some, it just takes a little bit longer. I think that may be the best thing about being poor. I’ll be tossed into a pine box and the bugs will eat me fast. No sitting in a moldy, metal box for centuries. Then, being moved by some developer and most likely dumped into a trash heap or into an oven.
***
A light. A small red reflection of it, at least.
That’s all I saw.
Then came the thud.
Everyone knew what happened. No one wanted to say a word. Especially when Joe kept driving. The only thing he did was turn up the radio.
It haunts me to this day. I wonder how much different our lives would be if we had stopped. If we had cared.
***
Walking out of jail was almost as frightening as walking in. Five years is a long time to have taken away from you. To be isolated from humanity. Because what’s inside is nothing. And it certainly wasn’t humane.
I went in at the age of 40. Already having wasted most of my life.
Now, I’m 45. The economy is worse than it was when I was free. Now, I’m just an ex-con. That’ll make it easier to find a good job, I’m sure.
They gave me $75 and a the wallet I brought in with me. Plus the suit. My mom bought me this blue suit when I was interviewing for jobs for the first time. That was when I was 27 years old.
I feel in the pockets. They’re empty. Except for a business card of the lawyer my dad found for me. He was a shitty lawyer. I should have been on probation. Instead, I got 10 years. Served five, got five off for good behavior.
The sun hits my face as I leave the yard. I strain to see who is there. I can make out a silhouette only. I walk towards it. Figuring this person must be meeting me.
I told my family I’d be getting out this day. March 14, 2016. I sometimes wonder if God gets a good chuckle out of me and dates.
After a few paces, I see who is waiting for me. I’m kind of surprised.
It’s her. The only person not related to me who wrote me. Who visited me. Who gave a shit.
“Thanks for being here,” I say.
“Least I could do, I guess,” she says shyly.
“But I’ve got to ask,” I say looking deep into her eyes. “Why you? It can’t make certain people very happy.”
“Nope.”
“You avoided the question.”
“Yep.”
Always a wordsmith. She could say so much more than I could in one word than I could say writing a book. Something I actually did while I was in prison. But, for the life of me I can’t figure out if anyone wants to read about a skinny white guy who was falsely imprisoned and then fucked in the ass for five years.
“How’s your corn hole,” she says, almost sensing my thoughts. Just like always.
I look at her smile and give her a big hug.
“Still too tight for most of those fuckers. But not all of ‘em,” I laugh. “Now, why are you here? It’s driving me a bit nuts.”
“It’s your mom. She’s sick.”
“How bad?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
I’m taken aback by the we part of that reply. But I don’t bring it up. That can wait.
“Let’s go then. I gotta see my mom.”
My mom. The greatest woman on the earth. Just like most guys see their moms. Even the ones that beat you, cussed at you, or fucked the whole town. My mom never did any of those things. Really, all she did was read books.
Maybe that’s why I wanted to write one my whole life so badly. And killed myself over not being able to do so. I just wanted her to pick up my book one day and smile.
Now, I have a book that took my five years of being cannon fodder for murderers and rapists to finally inspire my ass, pun intended. And my mom is sick.
We get in my old car. Guess she drove it here, which makes sense since she would have had to fly in to come pick me up. I notice a sticker on my window. It’s one of the Who. The bulls-eye logo.
“Paul’s been driving your car the last few years,” she says.
“Well, that makes me smile. He take it anywhere interesting?”
“Open up the glove box.”
I push the button and out pops a rock. On it is some scribbling.
“From the “Dom Rock”, for uncle Randy” it reads.
“God damn. He got there before I did. Little shit.”
She starts the car and we’re off. It’s two hours to home. She puts in a CD. It’s Lucero.
“Thanks,” I say and look out the window. The road is so soothing. I missed it. The only thing I had in my cell was my torn copy of Kerouac. Which I read 458 times. I counted.
“You know, I haven’t heard a single note in five years. They still together?”
“Put out album No. 9 last week, actually.”
“Well, at least I can count on that.”
“You can count on a lot of things, Randy. You just never do.”
***
That was the difference between right and wrong. Yes and no. Fucked and fucking.
It happens.
I’ll get over it. Always have, always will. Except for that one thing. The only thing I never get over.
Ah. Who cares? In the end, we all end up worm food and back into the food chain. For some, it just takes a little bit longer. I think that may be the best thing about being poor. I’ll be tossed into a pine box and the bugs will eat me fast. No sitting in a moldy, metal box for centuries. Then, being moved by some developer and most likely dumped into a trash heap or into an oven.
***
A light. A small red reflection of it, at least.
That’s all I saw.
Then came the thud.
Everyone knew what happened. No one wanted to say a word. Especially when Joe kept driving. The only thing he did was turn up the radio.
It haunts me to this day. I wonder how much different our lives would be if we had stopped. If we had cared.
***
Walking out of jail was almost as frightening as walking in. Five years is a long time to have taken away from you. To be isolated from humanity. Because what’s inside is nothing. And it certainly wasn’t humane.
I went in at the age of 40. Already having wasted most of my life.
Now, I’m 45. The economy is worse than it was when I was free. Now, I’m just an ex-con. That’ll make it easier to find a good job, I’m sure.
They gave me $75 and a the wallet I brought in with me. Plus the suit. My mom bought me this blue suit when I was interviewing for jobs for the first time. That was when I was 27 years old.
I feel in the pockets. They’re empty. Except for a business card of the lawyer my dad found for me. He was a shitty lawyer. I should have been on probation. Instead, I got 10 years. Served five, got five off for good behavior.
The sun hits my face as I leave the yard. I strain to see who is there. I can make out a silhouette only. I walk towards it. Figuring this person must be meeting me.
I told my family I’d be getting out this day. March 14, 2016. I sometimes wonder if God gets a good chuckle out of me and dates.
After a few paces, I see who is waiting for me. I’m kind of surprised.
It’s her. The only person not related to me who wrote me. Who visited me. Who gave a shit.
“Thanks for being here,” I say.
“Least I could do, I guess,” she says shyly.
“But I’ve got to ask,” I say looking deep into her eyes. “Why you? It can’t make certain people very happy.”
“Nope.”
“You avoided the question.”
“Yep.”
Always a wordsmith. She could say so much more than I could in one word than I could say writing a book. Something I actually did while I was in prison. But, for the life of me I can’t figure out if anyone wants to read about a skinny white guy who was falsely imprisoned and then fucked in the ass for five years.
“How’s your corn hole,” she says, almost sensing my thoughts. Just like always.
I look at her smile and give her a big hug.
“Still too tight for most of those fuckers. But not all of ‘em,” I laugh. “Now, why are you here? It’s driving me a bit nuts.”
“It’s your mom. She’s sick.”
“How bad?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
I’m taken aback by the we part of that reply. But I don’t bring it up. That can wait.
“Let’s go then. I gotta see my mom.”
My mom. The greatest woman on the earth. Just like most guys see their moms. Even the ones that beat you, cussed at you, or fucked the whole town. My mom never did any of those things. Really, all she did was read books.
Maybe that’s why I wanted to write one my whole life so badly. And killed myself over not being able to do so. I just wanted her to pick up my book one day and smile.
Now, I have a book that took my five years of being cannon fodder for murderers and rapists to finally inspire my ass, pun intended. And my mom is sick.
We get in my old car. Guess she drove it here, which makes sense since she would have had to fly in to come pick me up. I notice a sticker on my window. It’s one of the Who. The bulls-eye logo.
“Paul’s been driving your car the last few years,” she says.
“Well, that makes me smile. He take it anywhere interesting?”
“Open up the glove box.”
I push the button and out pops a rock. On it is some scribbling.
“From the “Dom Rock”, for uncle Randy” it reads.
“God damn. He got there before I did. Little shit.”
She starts the car and we’re off. It’s two hours to home. She puts in a CD. It’s Lucero.
“Thanks,” I say and look out the window. The road is so soothing. I missed it. The only thing I had in my cell was my torn copy of Kerouac. Which I read 458 times. I counted.
“You know, I haven’t heard a single note in five years. They still together?”
“Put out album No. 9 last week, actually.”
“Well, at least I can count on that.”
“You can count on a lot of things, Randy. You just never do.”
***
Thursday, October 21, 2010
just a guide...and all that jazz
Maybe I should stop telling her about my favorite bands.
Once again, my friend Karly has thrown herself at one of my heroes. And once again, one of my heroes fucked her.
It’s stunning the frequency with which this keeps occurring. I generally find a way to fall in love with two or three new bands every year. Now, these might not be new bands, but new to me.
But anyway. It seems that every time it happens. It happens for her as well. And it always starts with me sending a silly message.
It used to be myspace. But that died. Now it’s facebook. Which is dying.
Maybe there won’t be a replacement for that one. We all know better than that, though. The collective nonsense that is trying to be a collective consciousness won’t allow such a thing, will it?
Or I could just stop telling her about bands I love.
Or stop thinking that maybe, one day she’ll get tired of star fucking and fall for me. I’ve seen the way she looks at me. She knows we’re very similar creatures at heart. It’s just that I have bad teeth and can’t get up on stage and sing.
And I know this. I’ve known it since less than four minutes after we finally met. After flirting via messages and phone calls for months. All it took was a few sips of beer, a smile and some very nervous in person conversation. We both came away disappointed.
By the end of the night, however, only one of us was.
That was the first time I saw her in action. She didn’t want to go up to the band. She was scared, even. It is pretty much the only time I’ve seen her vulnerable. Well, that and another time. Sitting on the couch in the house of a mutual friend’s parents.
But that night, she and I were getting ready to leave the club. Go hit up a drinking spot she knew of in the heart of New York City. This was really the first time I’d been out and about in the big city. I spent the entire day leading up to the show wandering around. I found the Joe Strummer wall in the East Village. And then I stumbled into a tourist bar inside the Empire State Building. Without even knowing I was inside of it.
Go figure.
But instead, I coaxed her, like I always seem to do. I’m a good coaxer. I help the one’s I dig become better in some way. It’s a gift and a curse. Encouraging those I love to chase their dreams while I put mine on hold or just forget about them. I once wanted to be a reporter at a decent metro paper. I gave up on that. I thought about being a writer. Short stories, mostly. I know I don’t have the kind of dedication that it takes to write novels, so why not? Fizzle. Not for lack of want. But for lack of sane mind.
Now, here I was with a chance to take Karly out for a night on the town. Just me and her, basking in the glow of the her concert virginity being busted. But, instead, I uttered these words: “Go ahead, they’re cool guys. They’ll talk to ya. Trust me.”
I knew this because after my first show, I said hi. Got to chat a little. I wasn’t cool. I wasn’t weird. I was just me, trying to shake the hand of my hero. The guys who wrote the songs that kept me from killing myself less than two years before.
What harm could it do?
Well, I went over to the bar and got a drink. Drank it while I watched her flirt with, first the lead singer, then the guitar player.
Eventually, she came back over with the keyboardist. “This is Rick,” she said, introducing me to someone I knew, but had never “met.”
“How ya doing?” I muttered, sticking out my hand. We shook and then he lost interest in both of us as another woman came over.
“I think we’re going to hang out with them tonight!” Karly said excitedly.
I looked at her eyes. Saw the brightness in them. The sheer joy in them. One thing I cannot resist is eyes. And when I see that much bliss, no matter what it means to me, I do what those eyes want. A curse? Nah. It's just me.
“Awesome,” I mustered from deep inside. “This should be interesting.”
She scampered off. Soon, I found myself walking the streets of New York City with a girl I had a thing for and the band I loved.
We went to one bar, then another. I kept drinking.
Finally, we stayed put. I was long past gone.
I sat at the table with my heroes. Just kind of staring at them. Listening to their conversations. I tried once to get in to it, but failed miserably. And just slumped into my chair. The keyboard player wasn’t drinking. He gave me the look of “kid, you need to wake up.”
I looked around. She was gone.
Here I was in the biggest city on the East Coast, drunk off my ass. Could be worse, I guess.
Then I saw her. She was making out with one of the guitar players.
“Shit,” I said.
Rick looked at me, grabbing my hand as I tried to stand up.
“Don’t do it.”
“I’m just getting another drink,” I slurred elegantly.
The table watched me walk in a perfect diagonal to the bar. My eyes must have spoke a million words as the bartender already had a bottle of Jameson in his hand pouring before I got to the wood.
“Here ya go buddy,” he said. “It’s on him.” He pointed at the guitar player. Holding up a glass. Karly was too. Smiling.
I picked up the glass, tilted it back and shot it down.
Next thing I remember I was in a cab. With Karly. Apologizing.
Something that has repeated itself with her three times now.
Tonight, I get a text.
“AA was awesome tonight. They kicked the headliner’s asses.”
This, a couple weeks after I took her to one of their shows here in North Carolina. Finally got her in my state, maybe that‘s some kind of progress, I told myself. All during the show, I was extolling their virtues like I do.
She was converted.
And she talked to the guitar player from my favorite band, who were the headliners.
“Wow, they’re in Texas now?” I thought to myself.
A few hours later, another text came.
“The guys from AA just showed up at my bar!”
I knew what would happen. The lead singer of AA writes songs about girls. That’s it. Good ones. Bad ones. And every kind in between.
The last text I got was simply…
“Thanks for telling me about AA. J.B. is awesome! XoXo.”
He’ll be writing a song about her next. And I’ll buy it, knowing it’s my fault.
Once again, my friend Karly has thrown herself at one of my heroes. And once again, one of my heroes fucked her.
It’s stunning the frequency with which this keeps occurring. I generally find a way to fall in love with two or three new bands every year. Now, these might not be new bands, but new to me.
But anyway. It seems that every time it happens. It happens for her as well. And it always starts with me sending a silly message.
It used to be myspace. But that died. Now it’s facebook. Which is dying.
Maybe there won’t be a replacement for that one. We all know better than that, though. The collective nonsense that is trying to be a collective consciousness won’t allow such a thing, will it?
Or I could just stop telling her about bands I love.
Or stop thinking that maybe, one day she’ll get tired of star fucking and fall for me. I’ve seen the way she looks at me. She knows we’re very similar creatures at heart. It’s just that I have bad teeth and can’t get up on stage and sing.
And I know this. I’ve known it since less than four minutes after we finally met. After flirting via messages and phone calls for months. All it took was a few sips of beer, a smile and some very nervous in person conversation. We both came away disappointed.
By the end of the night, however, only one of us was.
That was the first time I saw her in action. She didn’t want to go up to the band. She was scared, even. It is pretty much the only time I’ve seen her vulnerable. Well, that and another time. Sitting on the couch in the house of a mutual friend’s parents.
But that night, she and I were getting ready to leave the club. Go hit up a drinking spot she knew of in the heart of New York City. This was really the first time I’d been out and about in the big city. I spent the entire day leading up to the show wandering around. I found the Joe Strummer wall in the East Village. And then I stumbled into a tourist bar inside the Empire State Building. Without even knowing I was inside of it.
Go figure.
But instead, I coaxed her, like I always seem to do. I’m a good coaxer. I help the one’s I dig become better in some way. It’s a gift and a curse. Encouraging those I love to chase their dreams while I put mine on hold or just forget about them. I once wanted to be a reporter at a decent metro paper. I gave up on that. I thought about being a writer. Short stories, mostly. I know I don’t have the kind of dedication that it takes to write novels, so why not? Fizzle. Not for lack of want. But for lack of sane mind.
Now, here I was with a chance to take Karly out for a night on the town. Just me and her, basking in the glow of the her concert virginity being busted. But, instead, I uttered these words: “Go ahead, they’re cool guys. They’ll talk to ya. Trust me.”
I knew this because after my first show, I said hi. Got to chat a little. I wasn’t cool. I wasn’t weird. I was just me, trying to shake the hand of my hero. The guys who wrote the songs that kept me from killing myself less than two years before.
What harm could it do?
Well, I went over to the bar and got a drink. Drank it while I watched her flirt with, first the lead singer, then the guitar player.
Eventually, she came back over with the keyboardist. “This is Rick,” she said, introducing me to someone I knew, but had never “met.”
“How ya doing?” I muttered, sticking out my hand. We shook and then he lost interest in both of us as another woman came over.
“I think we’re going to hang out with them tonight!” Karly said excitedly.
I looked at her eyes. Saw the brightness in them. The sheer joy in them. One thing I cannot resist is eyes. And when I see that much bliss, no matter what it means to me, I do what those eyes want. A curse? Nah. It's just me.
“Awesome,” I mustered from deep inside. “This should be interesting.”
She scampered off. Soon, I found myself walking the streets of New York City with a girl I had a thing for and the band I loved.
We went to one bar, then another. I kept drinking.
Finally, we stayed put. I was long past gone.
I sat at the table with my heroes. Just kind of staring at them. Listening to their conversations. I tried once to get in to it, but failed miserably. And just slumped into my chair. The keyboard player wasn’t drinking. He gave me the look of “kid, you need to wake up.”
I looked around. She was gone.
Here I was in the biggest city on the East Coast, drunk off my ass. Could be worse, I guess.
Then I saw her. She was making out with one of the guitar players.
“Shit,” I said.
Rick looked at me, grabbing my hand as I tried to stand up.
“Don’t do it.”
“I’m just getting another drink,” I slurred elegantly.
The table watched me walk in a perfect diagonal to the bar. My eyes must have spoke a million words as the bartender already had a bottle of Jameson in his hand pouring before I got to the wood.
“Here ya go buddy,” he said. “It’s on him.” He pointed at the guitar player. Holding up a glass. Karly was too. Smiling.
I picked up the glass, tilted it back and shot it down.
Next thing I remember I was in a cab. With Karly. Apologizing.
Something that has repeated itself with her three times now.
Tonight, I get a text.
“AA was awesome tonight. They kicked the headliner’s asses.”
This, a couple weeks after I took her to one of their shows here in North Carolina. Finally got her in my state, maybe that‘s some kind of progress, I told myself. All during the show, I was extolling their virtues like I do.
She was converted.
And she talked to the guitar player from my favorite band, who were the headliners.
“Wow, they’re in Texas now?” I thought to myself.
A few hours later, another text came.
“The guys from AA just showed up at my bar!”
I knew what would happen. The lead singer of AA writes songs about girls. That’s it. Good ones. Bad ones. And every kind in between.
The last text I got was simply…
“Thanks for telling me about AA. J.B. is awesome! XoXo.”
He’ll be writing a song about her next. And I’ll buy it, knowing it’s my fault.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Harp
“Well, at least you’ve got some health benefits now,” my dad said, putting his fist out for me to pound it. I never really figured my dad as the fist-pound type. But for years now, he put out his fist for folks to pound.
Where that started, I don’t know. But every single time he does it, I try to remember when he did start doing it. And every single time, I have no clue.
To me, it’s strange. It’s also fitting. He has intimacy issues. I think I was 35 before I heard him tell me he loved me. That’s probably an exaggeration, but not much of one. The year I turned 35 was just one so full of emotion and angst that I guess it seems to fit.
I pounded my dad’s fist. It’s always an awkward kind of affair. But I do it. Because despite all the shit between me and my pops, he is my pops. He has stuck his neck out for me many times. And I love him endlessly for the sacrifices he made.
But he makes it hard.
And I don’t tell him that, yes, I took a job. Which will be my first job in 14 months. But, no, I do not have benefits.
A friend at the bar listens to me tell this story. She looks at me and says “what if you get sick?”
“Well, I had the swine flu when I was unemployed. I just stayed in bed, drank orange juice and about a month later, I was fine. A few pounds lighter even!”
I take a swig of Harp and glance at the television. Local news is on.
“I guess,” she says.
I get distracted by the beer again. Harp has become my beer of choice when I go out. I don’t really like it, but when in an Irish Pub, it always seems to be my pick. It’s better than Yuengling. Which got me through the break up. And if it wasn’t for my buddy Andrew, I never would’ve drank it. It gives me heartburn now. Which I think is a sign.
Alison and I have been hanging out at this bar for most of my unemployment. It’s funny, we met up one day, just to shoot the shit. This was while I was still chasing after my folly of a relationship, part 2, with Crystal.
The ex and I were just starting to talk again, and at first, it was great. Just like everything with Crystal. But, the inevitable fall would come. Later.
But my first meet up with Alison should have been a bright flashlight in my face. An awakening of sorts from a stupor. Much like when you pass out in the car on a cold night of too much to drink and a cop raps on the window. You, figuring out your predicament, hope that the gum you chewed hours ago will still cover up the stench of beer on your breath as you roll down the window.
That first time the two of us hung out, it was interesting. I came away really thinking we’d hang out sometime again, but who knows?
So I wrote about it. And Crystal read about it.
She, of course, twisted the words to fit her version of what I was about. And this time, she was completely wrong.
And soon after, she stopped talking to me again. Just as abruptly as the first time, though not nearly as painful. It still sucked. It still hurt. But I kind of expected it this time. I still trusted her. Much to the chagrin of anyone that knew me and knew of her.
I still have that e-mail somewhere in my old hotmail account. The account that I keep for two reasons. Both being stupid. 1. Because it’s the e-mail address that Emily knows of. 2. I sent one of those in 5 years e-mails to myself and used that address. I figure it was sent in late 2005 or early 2006, because it was before I was single. And I want to see if that e-mail ever comes.
Glutton.
Sitting on that barstool, it hits me that I’m very lucky to have become friends “again” with Alison. We’ve got a lot in common. And I think more so that I even know.
We order another drink. Finish it and decide to go somewhere else. “Where something interesting might happen,” we agree upon.
Outside, it’s still chilly. I’m glad winter is almost over. And I guess that I’m going to be employed soon.
Where that started, I don’t know. But every single time he does it, I try to remember when he did start doing it. And every single time, I have no clue.
To me, it’s strange. It’s also fitting. He has intimacy issues. I think I was 35 before I heard him tell me he loved me. That’s probably an exaggeration, but not much of one. The year I turned 35 was just one so full of emotion and angst that I guess it seems to fit.
I pounded my dad’s fist. It’s always an awkward kind of affair. But I do it. Because despite all the shit between me and my pops, he is my pops. He has stuck his neck out for me many times. And I love him endlessly for the sacrifices he made.
But he makes it hard.
And I don’t tell him that, yes, I took a job. Which will be my first job in 14 months. But, no, I do not have benefits.
A friend at the bar listens to me tell this story. She looks at me and says “what if you get sick?”
“Well, I had the swine flu when I was unemployed. I just stayed in bed, drank orange juice and about a month later, I was fine. A few pounds lighter even!”
I take a swig of Harp and glance at the television. Local news is on.
“I guess,” she says.
I get distracted by the beer again. Harp has become my beer of choice when I go out. I don’t really like it, but when in an Irish Pub, it always seems to be my pick. It’s better than Yuengling. Which got me through the break up. And if it wasn’t for my buddy Andrew, I never would’ve drank it. It gives me heartburn now. Which I think is a sign.
Alison and I have been hanging out at this bar for most of my unemployment. It’s funny, we met up one day, just to shoot the shit. This was while I was still chasing after my folly of a relationship, part 2, with Crystal.
The ex and I were just starting to talk again, and at first, it was great. Just like everything with Crystal. But, the inevitable fall would come. Later.
But my first meet up with Alison should have been a bright flashlight in my face. An awakening of sorts from a stupor. Much like when you pass out in the car on a cold night of too much to drink and a cop raps on the window. You, figuring out your predicament, hope that the gum you chewed hours ago will still cover up the stench of beer on your breath as you roll down the window.
That first time the two of us hung out, it was interesting. I came away really thinking we’d hang out sometime again, but who knows?
So I wrote about it. And Crystal read about it.
She, of course, twisted the words to fit her version of what I was about. And this time, she was completely wrong.
And soon after, she stopped talking to me again. Just as abruptly as the first time, though not nearly as painful. It still sucked. It still hurt. But I kind of expected it this time. I still trusted her. Much to the chagrin of anyone that knew me and knew of her.
I still have that e-mail somewhere in my old hotmail account. The account that I keep for two reasons. Both being stupid. 1. Because it’s the e-mail address that Emily knows of. 2. I sent one of those in 5 years e-mails to myself and used that address. I figure it was sent in late 2005 or early 2006, because it was before I was single. And I want to see if that e-mail ever comes.
Glutton.
Sitting on that barstool, it hits me that I’m very lucky to have become friends “again” with Alison. We’ve got a lot in common. And I think more so that I even know.
We order another drink. Finish it and decide to go somewhere else. “Where something interesting might happen,” we agree upon.
Outside, it’s still chilly. I’m glad winter is almost over. And I guess that I’m going to be employed soon.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
go outside, you might like what you find...
For all the days I’ve wasted, just sitting alone inside of my house/apartment/dorm room whatever, today should stand as a reminder that going outside is always the better option.
I woke up today determined to not waste it like I did the day before. While I had what I thought was a good story idea, I ended up burying it under half a bottle of Jameson and producing a turd. Bukowski once said that Hemingway was an alcoholic who got up early to write so he could get it out of the way so he could get drunk. That may be true. I just know that every writer thinks he writes better drunk. And while it is good to every now and then get blasted and type away, I’m finding that the creative juices are a bit more, how should I say it, diverse, when not drunk.
So, after tooling about a bit, I went for a walk. Decided to hit the beach and see if it was indeed as eroded as it looked last night in my drunken stupor. It was.
Only problem with it, really, was the people. Seems you’re allowed to drive on the beach this time of year. So, of course, to justify owning a four-wheel drive vehicle all these folks are on it. In their cars. Getting in my way as I’m just walking.
Then, out of nowhere I hear a voice, obviously saying something to me. I have headphones on, but keep them low enough on the odd chance someone wants to have a conversation with me. I try to say hello to everyone, but most people do everything they can to look away or not make eye contact. I used to be like that too, but found it to be more tiresome.
“Hey, honey. You from around here?” the redhead says.
“Umm. Yeah, I live over there,” I reply, pointing in the general direction of where my house is located. I look at this person and quickly come to the conclusion that she’s a he. He’s with another person, one of the many folks that I’ve noticed in my neighborhood, but never talked too much with. She is the skinny lady who lives across the main road. The one who I was five seconds from calling the cops for when her boyfriend/husband/whatever was cussing at her and hitting her. But then the cops showed up anyway.
“Well, you should invite us over,” he/she says.
“Yeah, maybe. But I’ve got things to do,” I manage to say as I turn up the volume on my I-pod. Lucero’s “When you decided to leave” begins, somewhat fittingly, I figure. By then I’m walking down the beach, hoping this conversation has ended.
“Catch you later, hon!” he/she yells at me, waving, just as I’m walking by an older couple tanning themselves in the 70-degree fall day. The give me a look, I say “Hi!” and keep on walking.
I walk along the beach for a good two miles before getting bored. I was going to try and make it all the way to the Sheraton, which is about five miles from my house, but it starts to become something I’m not interested in anymore. So, I turn right up the sand and head for a trashcan. Usually they’re around rentals and public beach access areas, I figure. This time, I figure wrong. It’s got the “Don’t you dare!” signage for tourists and riff-raff to be scared by. Since I’m just riff-raff and the house in question is still boarded up from the hurricane about a month ago, I figure I’m safe.
On the road, I put my shoes on and start walking. No one here is very friendly. I say hi to a guy out fixing up something on his porch. Nothing. A couple of eldery New York-types give me the eye from their “Private Beach Access” walkway. I smile and say good afternoon ladies!”, and get nothing but a look and some whispers between the two. Guess my unkempt appearance and tattered hat don’t suit their wants and or needs at the moment.
A garbage truck passes by with one of the most strikingly beautiful women I’ve seen in quite some time driving it. I look her way and she gives me the “yeah, I’m hot, get over it,” look. I just look away and keep walking.
Upon arriving at the boardwalk area, I am walking slowly towards an entrance to a local eatery. A mustang is there. He stops and waits for me. Kind of odd, since I’m a good half a block away. I don’t hurry up. This seems to bother the marine (guessing here). He gives me a look and starts waving his hand in a “speed it up” kind of motion. I get beside his car, finally, and he gives me the look again. I say “you’re the one who waited.” Which sets him off on a tirade of profanities and then the old rev up the engine and pull into the parking lot real fast move.
I can only feel sorry for his girlfriend/wife. She’s going to have to listen to him for the next hour cussing about that ragged beach bum who walked so darn slow.
Ha.
After getting past the boardwalk, I get near the water tower. A bunch of construction workers are laughing. I look around and see one other guy going towards the hotel across the street from them. He goes up some stairs to a bungalow. There, three woman are hanging around. Young women. I watch as I walk. He says something to one of them and they give him a hug and a peck on the cheek. The other construction workers let out a howl. Two of the ladies go in the room, the other hangs out on the deck.
She looks down at me, walking by, and gives me the wave for “come on up.” From behind, I hear the construction guys’ cat-calls. I look up, smile and shrug. As I walk on, I wonder if I’ve now found the local brothel location?
Trannies, marines and whores. Who needs the big city?
I woke up today determined to not waste it like I did the day before. While I had what I thought was a good story idea, I ended up burying it under half a bottle of Jameson and producing a turd. Bukowski once said that Hemingway was an alcoholic who got up early to write so he could get it out of the way so he could get drunk. That may be true. I just know that every writer thinks he writes better drunk. And while it is good to every now and then get blasted and type away, I’m finding that the creative juices are a bit more, how should I say it, diverse, when not drunk.
So, after tooling about a bit, I went for a walk. Decided to hit the beach and see if it was indeed as eroded as it looked last night in my drunken stupor. It was.
Only problem with it, really, was the people. Seems you’re allowed to drive on the beach this time of year. So, of course, to justify owning a four-wheel drive vehicle all these folks are on it. In their cars. Getting in my way as I’m just walking.
Then, out of nowhere I hear a voice, obviously saying something to me. I have headphones on, but keep them low enough on the odd chance someone wants to have a conversation with me. I try to say hello to everyone, but most people do everything they can to look away or not make eye contact. I used to be like that too, but found it to be more tiresome.
“Hey, honey. You from around here?” the redhead says.
“Umm. Yeah, I live over there,” I reply, pointing in the general direction of where my house is located. I look at this person and quickly come to the conclusion that she’s a he. He’s with another person, one of the many folks that I’ve noticed in my neighborhood, but never talked too much with. She is the skinny lady who lives across the main road. The one who I was five seconds from calling the cops for when her boyfriend/husband/whatever was cussing at her and hitting her. But then the cops showed up anyway.
“Well, you should invite us over,” he/she says.
“Yeah, maybe. But I’ve got things to do,” I manage to say as I turn up the volume on my I-pod. Lucero’s “When you decided to leave” begins, somewhat fittingly, I figure. By then I’m walking down the beach, hoping this conversation has ended.
“Catch you later, hon!” he/she yells at me, waving, just as I’m walking by an older couple tanning themselves in the 70-degree fall day. The give me a look, I say “Hi!” and keep on walking.
I walk along the beach for a good two miles before getting bored. I was going to try and make it all the way to the Sheraton, which is about five miles from my house, but it starts to become something I’m not interested in anymore. So, I turn right up the sand and head for a trashcan. Usually they’re around rentals and public beach access areas, I figure. This time, I figure wrong. It’s got the “Don’t you dare!” signage for tourists and riff-raff to be scared by. Since I’m just riff-raff and the house in question is still boarded up from the hurricane about a month ago, I figure I’m safe.
On the road, I put my shoes on and start walking. No one here is very friendly. I say hi to a guy out fixing up something on his porch. Nothing. A couple of eldery New York-types give me the eye from their “Private Beach Access” walkway. I smile and say good afternoon ladies!”, and get nothing but a look and some whispers between the two. Guess my unkempt appearance and tattered hat don’t suit their wants and or needs at the moment.
A garbage truck passes by with one of the most strikingly beautiful women I’ve seen in quite some time driving it. I look her way and she gives me the “yeah, I’m hot, get over it,” look. I just look away and keep walking.
Upon arriving at the boardwalk area, I am walking slowly towards an entrance to a local eatery. A mustang is there. He stops and waits for me. Kind of odd, since I’m a good half a block away. I don’t hurry up. This seems to bother the marine (guessing here). He gives me a look and starts waving his hand in a “speed it up” kind of motion. I get beside his car, finally, and he gives me the look again. I say “you’re the one who waited.” Which sets him off on a tirade of profanities and then the old rev up the engine and pull into the parking lot real fast move.
I can only feel sorry for his girlfriend/wife. She’s going to have to listen to him for the next hour cussing about that ragged beach bum who walked so darn slow.
Ha.
After getting past the boardwalk, I get near the water tower. A bunch of construction workers are laughing. I look around and see one other guy going towards the hotel across the street from them. He goes up some stairs to a bungalow. There, three woman are hanging around. Young women. I watch as I walk. He says something to one of them and they give him a hug and a peck on the cheek. The other construction workers let out a howl. Two of the ladies go in the room, the other hangs out on the deck.
She looks down at me, walking by, and gives me the wave for “come on up.” From behind, I hear the construction guys’ cat-calls. I look up, smile and shrug. As I walk on, I wonder if I’ve now found the local brothel location?
Trannies, marines and whores. Who needs the big city?
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Ineffable
There he was. Robin Zander.
For three years now I’d been trying to get a face-to-face with the lead singer of Cheap Trick. Never did I think it would be so hard. Or so rewarding.
The band itself was never one of my favorites. They kind of drifted in and out of my consciousness over the years. I mean, I was a little lad when Live at Budoken made them millionaires. So, of course I loved “I Want You to Want Me.”
But other than an odd reference in Fast Times at Ridgemont High and the awful ballad from the 80s “The Flame” they had really disappeared. At least as far as I was concerned.
Then, they covered Alex Chilton for “That 70s Show” and reappeared.
For a moment.
But Laura Prepon dyed her hair blonde, and the show jumped the ol’ shark in true Fonzi style.
So, why the hell have I been chasing Robin Zander around the world for the last three years?
I mean, my life was pretty meaningless before. I was a journalist for 16 years. Minus the time I spent in New Orleans and the unemployment period of 2009-10. That’s where I learned the true meaning of barstoolery. Yes, I’d been a frequent visitor to the barstool over the years. And enjoyed most of my times there. Especially those in New Orleans and Arizona.
But that year got me into it as a lifestyle. For good or bad.
Then one night, after toiling at a dying newspaper for 8 hours that day, I up and left. Got in my Hyundai Accent -- the true car of failed testosterone -- to find Robin Zander.
It seemed silly. To quit a paying occupation, which really, that’s all a job is nowadays anyway, to go find the lead singer of a pop rock band. Yet, at that moment, and still today, it makes complete sense.
My entire life, I’ve never been the type of person to remember my dreams. My family told me of times that I woke up in terror, sweating, screaming and all sorts of scary things. But, I never remembered any of it. I do remember faking it a couple of times. Including one night when I tossed myself out of the top bunk on to the floor five feet below.
For attention. Maybe that’s what my parents, strike that, my mom remembers. Me “dreaming” of the count from Seasame Street attacking me. Yep. That’s what I said that night.
Or maybe some other night. I don’t remember. Because I don’t remember my dreams.
Until one night. In it, I was with my ex-girlfriend. She was happy. I was happy. We were happy. So ironic considering where my current is. The past always seems better. Because you remember what you want to remember. You don’t want to include the fights. The yelling. The despair. The desperation. They were all a part of it too. It wasn’t just sitting on a barstool and laughing. It wasn’t all fucking. It wasn’t all cuddling during a cool night.
Nope.
But in this dream, apparently it was. We were happy. We had a kid. Maybe two. I only saw one, but heard two.
I was a happy-go-lucky Ray Romano. She was the same. Isn’t that the way it always is? She was perfect. You needed to change.
We were watching a movie. I don’t know what it was, remember, I don’t remember my dreams, so expecting that level of detail in this is bordering on ridiculous. Just be happy I could make out shapes and emotions. Not to say this was emoticons and Kinks’ music.
I glanced at her. She at me. We kissed. I opened my eyes. Always the stupid thing to do. In the background I saw him. Dressed in blue. Wearing one of those hats. Like a Canadian Mountie. Very out of place.
I closed my eyes. And woke up at the beach. In North Carolina. A lot older.
Wow. That was a dream I’ll never forget. I thought to myself.
Then I had similar dreams the next five nights. All ending with that guy at the end of it. And me waking up wondering how I got so old. So depressed. So…bald.
Going to work the morning of the sixth straight night with the dream, Robin Zander’s voice came on the radio. A rare moment for me, letting the radio take over. I’m a CD guy. All the way. Radio died for me a long, long time ago. About the time print should have, but I clung to it. Like a baby on it’s mommy’s tit.
“The dream police, they live inside of my head.
The dream police, they come to me in my bed.
The dream police, they're coming to arrest me, oh no.
You know that talk is cheap, and those rumors ain't nice.
And when I fall asleep I don't think I'll survive the night, the night.
'Cause they're waiting for me.
They're looking for me.
Every single night they're driving me insane.
Those men inside my brain.
The dream police, they live inside of my head.
(Live inside of my head.)
The dream police, they come to me in my bed.
(Come to me in my bed.)
The dream police, they're coming to arrest me, oh no.
Well, I can't tell lies, 'cause they're listening to me.
And when I fall asleep, bet they're spying on me tonight, tonight.
'Cause they're waiting for me.
They're looking for me.
Every single night they're driving me insane.
Those men inside my brain.
I try to sleep, they're wide awake, they won't let me alone.
They don't get paid or take vacations, or let me alone.
They spy on me, I try to hide, they won't let me alone.
They persecute me, they're the judge and jury all in one.
'Cause they're waiting for me.
They're looking for me.
Ev'ry single night they're driving me insane.
Those men inside my brain.
The dream police police police
The dream police,police police
The dream police,police police
And instead of continuing towards my cubicle, I turn west. I figure Robin Zander is in Los Angeles somewhere. So, that’s where I need to be.
Right now.
And now that I'm standing in front of him, he's only got one word for me.
"Kid, it's ineffable," with a pause. "I just can't talk about it."
For three years now I’d been trying to get a face-to-face with the lead singer of Cheap Trick. Never did I think it would be so hard. Or so rewarding.
The band itself was never one of my favorites. They kind of drifted in and out of my consciousness over the years. I mean, I was a little lad when Live at Budoken made them millionaires. So, of course I loved “I Want You to Want Me.”
But other than an odd reference in Fast Times at Ridgemont High and the awful ballad from the 80s “The Flame” they had really disappeared. At least as far as I was concerned.
Then, they covered Alex Chilton for “That 70s Show” and reappeared.
For a moment.
But Laura Prepon dyed her hair blonde, and the show jumped the ol’ shark in true Fonzi style.
So, why the hell have I been chasing Robin Zander around the world for the last three years?
I mean, my life was pretty meaningless before. I was a journalist for 16 years. Minus the time I spent in New Orleans and the unemployment period of 2009-10. That’s where I learned the true meaning of barstoolery. Yes, I’d been a frequent visitor to the barstool over the years. And enjoyed most of my times there. Especially those in New Orleans and Arizona.
But that year got me into it as a lifestyle. For good or bad.
Then one night, after toiling at a dying newspaper for 8 hours that day, I up and left. Got in my Hyundai Accent -- the true car of failed testosterone -- to find Robin Zander.
It seemed silly. To quit a paying occupation, which really, that’s all a job is nowadays anyway, to go find the lead singer of a pop rock band. Yet, at that moment, and still today, it makes complete sense.
My entire life, I’ve never been the type of person to remember my dreams. My family told me of times that I woke up in terror, sweating, screaming and all sorts of scary things. But, I never remembered any of it. I do remember faking it a couple of times. Including one night when I tossed myself out of the top bunk on to the floor five feet below.
For attention. Maybe that’s what my parents, strike that, my mom remembers. Me “dreaming” of the count from Seasame Street attacking me. Yep. That’s what I said that night.
Or maybe some other night. I don’t remember. Because I don’t remember my dreams.
Until one night. In it, I was with my ex-girlfriend. She was happy. I was happy. We were happy. So ironic considering where my current is. The past always seems better. Because you remember what you want to remember. You don’t want to include the fights. The yelling. The despair. The desperation. They were all a part of it too. It wasn’t just sitting on a barstool and laughing. It wasn’t all fucking. It wasn’t all cuddling during a cool night.
Nope.
But in this dream, apparently it was. We were happy. We had a kid. Maybe two. I only saw one, but heard two.
I was a happy-go-lucky Ray Romano. She was the same. Isn’t that the way it always is? She was perfect. You needed to change.
We were watching a movie. I don’t know what it was, remember, I don’t remember my dreams, so expecting that level of detail in this is bordering on ridiculous. Just be happy I could make out shapes and emotions. Not to say this was emoticons and Kinks’ music.
I glanced at her. She at me. We kissed. I opened my eyes. Always the stupid thing to do. In the background I saw him. Dressed in blue. Wearing one of those hats. Like a Canadian Mountie. Very out of place.
I closed my eyes. And woke up at the beach. In North Carolina. A lot older.
Wow. That was a dream I’ll never forget. I thought to myself.
Then I had similar dreams the next five nights. All ending with that guy at the end of it. And me waking up wondering how I got so old. So depressed. So…bald.
Going to work the morning of the sixth straight night with the dream, Robin Zander’s voice came on the radio. A rare moment for me, letting the radio take over. I’m a CD guy. All the way. Radio died for me a long, long time ago. About the time print should have, but I clung to it. Like a baby on it’s mommy’s tit.
“The dream police, they live inside of my head.
The dream police, they come to me in my bed.
The dream police, they're coming to arrest me, oh no.
You know that talk is cheap, and those rumors ain't nice.
And when I fall asleep I don't think I'll survive the night, the night.
'Cause they're waiting for me.
They're looking for me.
Every single night they're driving me insane.
Those men inside my brain.
The dream police, they live inside of my head.
(Live inside of my head.)
The dream police, they come to me in my bed.
(Come to me in my bed.)
The dream police, they're coming to arrest me, oh no.
Well, I can't tell lies, 'cause they're listening to me.
And when I fall asleep, bet they're spying on me tonight, tonight.
'Cause they're waiting for me.
They're looking for me.
Every single night they're driving me insane.
Those men inside my brain.
I try to sleep, they're wide awake, they won't let me alone.
They don't get paid or take vacations, or let me alone.
They spy on me, I try to hide, they won't let me alone.
They persecute me, they're the judge and jury all in one.
'Cause they're waiting for me.
They're looking for me.
Ev'ry single night they're driving me insane.
Those men inside my brain.
The dream police police police
The dream police,police police
The dream police,police police
And instead of continuing towards my cubicle, I turn west. I figure Robin Zander is in Los Angeles somewhere. So, that’s where I need to be.
Right now.
And now that I'm standing in front of him, he's only got one word for me.
"Kid, it's ineffable," with a pause. "I just can't talk about it."
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Story of my life...na, na, na, na, naaaaaaa
My hands are cold. To the touch. I shuddered when I placed my palm up against my cheek. Time for a doctor visit? Things definitely could be better health-wise.
Bad teeth. Fingers with little strength. Prostate pain.
Something is going to kill me. The suspects are starting to figure out their place on the lineup card.
I guess I’m supposed to care about that. To go rushing off to the doctor. But I’m not. And I’m not. Yeah, one day I’ll regret it. I’ll fall in love. Meet the woman of my dreams. Fall into the awesome-ist job on the planet. Finally break through and actually finish something that I started writing. Win the lottery, even.
Yet, I don’t feel bad about that.
The same way I don’t feel bad about eating shitty food. Well, shitty for you food. The same why I can watch really awful movies. The same way I can listen to the same song 43 times in a row and not get tired of it.
It’s just the way I’m wired.
That line just made me want to listen to The Clash. So, I’m going to get off my ass, stop tying stream of consciousness-ly and put it in the CD player….
The same line of insanity that has me listening to Rick James every morning/afternoon when I get up. No matter what. Yes, it would have made a lot more sense for me to pick Lucero, or the already mentioned Clash. Even The Faces or Johnny Thunders or The Kinks.
Instead, it’s Rick James. Street Songs. Every. Single. Morning. Without fail.
So far.
But I usually fail eventually. It’s a given. Death and taxes and all of that.
Same as falling off the wagon. Like tonight. It happens. It will always happen. I’m my dad’s son. Nothing I can do about it. I’m also my mom’s son. Which is why I’m shy.
Fuck that right?
Fuck you.
I was told today by the city editor that I needed to stop “dropping the F-bomb so much.” After a tirade of about 10 minutes where I “dropped” it, in the parlance of our times, probably 15 times.
Why?
Because I’m sick of hypocrites. I show up to work everyday and bust my ass. And I listen to my boss bitch about all the people who don’t bust their ass. And then I watch as he leaves early. Or sends pages with multiple errors on it. Or just doesn’t bother showing up at all.
Fuck it. Fuck You You Fucking Fucks.
Yep. Borrowing from blogs that are borrowing themselves. We’re all fucking plagiarists. Except those that cite. I cite. Do you?
I wish I had enough money to get in my car tomorrow morning and drive to Memphis. Why? No idea. Maybe I’ll meet a gal that plays stand-up bass. There has to be more than just three of them in the world, right?
Just wishful thinking.
I miss this feeling. The feeling of happy drunk. The before you’ve gone too far drunk. The life ain’t so fucking bad drunk.
I think maybe things are turning. I’m still a loser. That ain’t going to change. I’m fine with that. Really, always have been. Except in high school before I ever thought of that blonde as EXTREME (inside joke, don’t read into it.) Before I’d ever think that maybe, maybe I’d go out with a girl from my graduating class.
Stranger things have happened for sure.
If only I knew how to get my teeth fixed for nothing? Send in a tape to Extreme Makeovers? Hell, I’m sure that show has gone Queen by now. And if you don’t get that shitty reference, stop reading my shitty writing.
I’m feeling a bit of deadline pressure here. I love it. It’s 11:41 p.m., oops, 11:42 now. I’ve only got a few minutes left in this Saturday. Which means I’ve only got a few minutes left to get this posted on the old writing blog.
Does anyone really care? I saw that one of the members of my all-time favorite band read it the other day. Since I wrote about one of their songs. They’ve been on my other blog before. They must think I’m a silly fan. Or a pycho fan. Or just a fucked up fan. Or a good fan. The great fan.
It really doesn’t matter. I talked to them all once. And I don’t remember what I said. I was drunk. And mad at a redhead. Ha. Story of my life.
I guess so.
Bad teeth. Fingers with little strength. Prostate pain.
Something is going to kill me. The suspects are starting to figure out their place on the lineup card.
I guess I’m supposed to care about that. To go rushing off to the doctor. But I’m not. And I’m not. Yeah, one day I’ll regret it. I’ll fall in love. Meet the woman of my dreams. Fall into the awesome-ist job on the planet. Finally break through and actually finish something that I started writing. Win the lottery, even.
Yet, I don’t feel bad about that.
The same way I don’t feel bad about eating shitty food. Well, shitty for you food. The same why I can watch really awful movies. The same way I can listen to the same song 43 times in a row and not get tired of it.
It’s just the way I’m wired.
That line just made me want to listen to The Clash. So, I’m going to get off my ass, stop tying stream of consciousness-ly and put it in the CD player….
The same line of insanity that has me listening to Rick James every morning/afternoon when I get up. No matter what. Yes, it would have made a lot more sense for me to pick Lucero, or the already mentioned Clash. Even The Faces or Johnny Thunders or The Kinks.
Instead, it’s Rick James. Street Songs. Every. Single. Morning. Without fail.
So far.
But I usually fail eventually. It’s a given. Death and taxes and all of that.
Same as falling off the wagon. Like tonight. It happens. It will always happen. I’m my dad’s son. Nothing I can do about it. I’m also my mom’s son. Which is why I’m shy.
Fuck that right?
Fuck you.
I was told today by the city editor that I needed to stop “dropping the F-bomb so much.” After a tirade of about 10 minutes where I “dropped” it, in the parlance of our times, probably 15 times.
Why?
Because I’m sick of hypocrites. I show up to work everyday and bust my ass. And I listen to my boss bitch about all the people who don’t bust their ass. And then I watch as he leaves early. Or sends pages with multiple errors on it. Or just doesn’t bother showing up at all.
Fuck it. Fuck You You Fucking Fucks.
Yep. Borrowing from blogs that are borrowing themselves. We’re all fucking plagiarists. Except those that cite. I cite. Do you?
I wish I had enough money to get in my car tomorrow morning and drive to Memphis. Why? No idea. Maybe I’ll meet a gal that plays stand-up bass. There has to be more than just three of them in the world, right?
Just wishful thinking.
I miss this feeling. The feeling of happy drunk. The before you’ve gone too far drunk. The life ain’t so fucking bad drunk.
I think maybe things are turning. I’m still a loser. That ain’t going to change. I’m fine with that. Really, always have been. Except in high school before I ever thought of that blonde as EXTREME (inside joke, don’t read into it.) Before I’d ever think that maybe, maybe I’d go out with a girl from my graduating class.
Stranger things have happened for sure.
If only I knew how to get my teeth fixed for nothing? Send in a tape to Extreme Makeovers? Hell, I’m sure that show has gone Queen by now. And if you don’t get that shitty reference, stop reading my shitty writing.
I’m feeling a bit of deadline pressure here. I love it. It’s 11:41 p.m., oops, 11:42 now. I’ve only got a few minutes left in this Saturday. Which means I’ve only got a few minutes left to get this posted on the old writing blog.
Does anyone really care? I saw that one of the members of my all-time favorite band read it the other day. Since I wrote about one of their songs. They’ve been on my other blog before. They must think I’m a silly fan. Or a pycho fan. Or just a fucked up fan. Or a good fan. The great fan.
It really doesn’t matter. I talked to them all once. And I don’t remember what I said. I was drunk. And mad at a redhead. Ha. Story of my life.
I guess so.
Friday, October 15, 2010
me
The desire to drink is strong tonight. Sometimes, it’s there. Sometimes it’s not there.
That urge to just down 12 beers and feel sorry for myself. It’s quite sad, really. Yet, I don’t do much to stop it from creeping into my mind. It used to dominate it like a professional wrestler. Just toy with you all day at work. Make you think about it. Want it. It consumes you until you consume it.
A few years ago, the productive times some would say, although all evidence of said productivity is in a landfill in Pitt County, North Carolina, it was an every night occurrence. The drinking was. Not the productivity.
I guess I was more in tune with my thoughts then. They were clearer, for sure. Closer. Now, there’s perspective. And other moments dumped on top of it. Blurring the memories forever.
Time heals all wounds they tell you. I don’t believe it. Never really have. It dulls them, for sure. Maybe, I am wrong though. It does heal, if you live long enough. Yeah, there are some ugly-ass scars. And those scars can become wounds pretty easily again. Just ask any punchy boxer. That first punch will just open it right on up. But the pain isn’t the same the second time around. And by the 10th or so time, the pain really just doesn’t exist. Your tolerance by then has been built up. Much like drinking. What used to be a cheap, short-term endeavor, is now a long, drawn-out affair.
Drown the pain.
Looking at some old photos of that time, I noticed a glimmer of hope in my eyes. It could have been the company I was keeping. Or maybe the booze itself. But it’s there, nonetheless. Staring back at me. Mocking me. Or maybe telling me, hey, you can get there again.
But I also know what happened most of those nights after the photos were taken. I’d stumble home, walking the mile to my one bedroom apartment. I’d get inside and go to my single mattress on a portable box spring. The thing taken from the house in Greenville that we shared. It was there when we moved in. I took it so I’d have a place to sleep when I moved out.
And I’d cry.
That’s what I did most nights. From March of 2006 until December of 2007. A little break from January of ‘08 until August the same year. Then the epic fall. The revelation. The purge. And the recovery. Sort of. I guess.
Now, here I am four and a half years later, still thinking about it every, single, God damn day.
And I want a drink.
Luckily? I can’t afford it anymore.
Numbing myself isn’t an option anymore. Heck, I could afford it better when I was unemployed and had a barstoolery partner. Now I have myself. My mind. My music and whatever nonsense I download from the intrawebs. And even there, my past mocks me. Laughs at me. The movie Red, for instance. First of all, the name of it. Has nothing to do with what I associate it with, but it does because my mind makes it so.
Then the hotel, The Capri, is there. Right next to Nick’s. Which isn’t really there anymore. Heck, the brick, sliver of window glass and piece of wood I have may be the only remnants of the place, the actual place. Yeah, they took signs and such from inside. But this is the actual core of it. The skeleton.
And it makes me want to imbibe. To kiss the bottle. Whiskey it up.
I won’t. The appeal is there. The desire is there. But the energy isn’t. The vigor. The impetus.
So, instead I try to write. Usually, I succeed only in word count. Most of it is drivel. I can’t focus on a story long enough to make it decent. The words are thrown up here to be laughed at. Or understood. Maybe internalized.
None of that is supposed to be the point.
It’s supposed to be about me. And that’s the problem. Always has been. I don’t empathize. I know when it should happen. Heck, I tell myself that. Yet, it seems to no happen. Or maybe it does, I just don’t recognize it.
Like the person I see in the mirror nowadays. He wants a drink. He wants me to sit in front of a pad, with my pen and scribble words. He knows I will do it some days, but not every day.
And until I’m that guy in the mirror, I’ll just be me.
That urge to just down 12 beers and feel sorry for myself. It’s quite sad, really. Yet, I don’t do much to stop it from creeping into my mind. It used to dominate it like a professional wrestler. Just toy with you all day at work. Make you think about it. Want it. It consumes you until you consume it.
A few years ago, the productive times some would say, although all evidence of said productivity is in a landfill in Pitt County, North Carolina, it was an every night occurrence. The drinking was. Not the productivity.
I guess I was more in tune with my thoughts then. They were clearer, for sure. Closer. Now, there’s perspective. And other moments dumped on top of it. Blurring the memories forever.
Time heals all wounds they tell you. I don’t believe it. Never really have. It dulls them, for sure. Maybe, I am wrong though. It does heal, if you live long enough. Yeah, there are some ugly-ass scars. And those scars can become wounds pretty easily again. Just ask any punchy boxer. That first punch will just open it right on up. But the pain isn’t the same the second time around. And by the 10th or so time, the pain really just doesn’t exist. Your tolerance by then has been built up. Much like drinking. What used to be a cheap, short-term endeavor, is now a long, drawn-out affair.
Drown the pain.
Looking at some old photos of that time, I noticed a glimmer of hope in my eyes. It could have been the company I was keeping. Or maybe the booze itself. But it’s there, nonetheless. Staring back at me. Mocking me. Or maybe telling me, hey, you can get there again.
But I also know what happened most of those nights after the photos were taken. I’d stumble home, walking the mile to my one bedroom apartment. I’d get inside and go to my single mattress on a portable box spring. The thing taken from the house in Greenville that we shared. It was there when we moved in. I took it so I’d have a place to sleep when I moved out.
And I’d cry.
That’s what I did most nights. From March of 2006 until December of 2007. A little break from January of ‘08 until August the same year. Then the epic fall. The revelation. The purge. And the recovery. Sort of. I guess.
Now, here I am four and a half years later, still thinking about it every, single, God damn day.
And I want a drink.
Luckily? I can’t afford it anymore.
Numbing myself isn’t an option anymore. Heck, I could afford it better when I was unemployed and had a barstoolery partner. Now I have myself. My mind. My music and whatever nonsense I download from the intrawebs. And even there, my past mocks me. Laughs at me. The movie Red, for instance. First of all, the name of it. Has nothing to do with what I associate it with, but it does because my mind makes it so.
Then the hotel, The Capri, is there. Right next to Nick’s. Which isn’t really there anymore. Heck, the brick, sliver of window glass and piece of wood I have may be the only remnants of the place, the actual place. Yeah, they took signs and such from inside. But this is the actual core of it. The skeleton.
And it makes me want to imbibe. To kiss the bottle. Whiskey it up.
I won’t. The appeal is there. The desire is there. But the energy isn’t. The vigor. The impetus.
So, instead I try to write. Usually, I succeed only in word count. Most of it is drivel. I can’t focus on a story long enough to make it decent. The words are thrown up here to be laughed at. Or understood. Maybe internalized.
None of that is supposed to be the point.
It’s supposed to be about me. And that’s the problem. Always has been. I don’t empathize. I know when it should happen. Heck, I tell myself that. Yet, it seems to no happen. Or maybe it does, I just don’t recognize it.
Like the person I see in the mirror nowadays. He wants a drink. He wants me to sit in front of a pad, with my pen and scribble words. He knows I will do it some days, but not every day.
And until I’m that guy in the mirror, I’ll just be me.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
the corpse, chapter 1/2
With a simple decision to shave my face, I went from looking like Jeff Bridges to Vince Neil.
Not the “Home Sweet Home” version at all. More the celebrity plastic surgery on VH1 version.
Anyway, just felt I had to type that. On to something else…
***
Well, that was a refreshing sleep. It seems like I’ve been in bed for days. That’s what I remember thinking that morning.
The feeling of euphoria didn’t last for long. Soon, it became apparent, super apparent that something was amiss.
My first clue was the inability to get out of bed. The desire was there, for sure. It wasn’t for the normal reasons however. Wasn’t hungry. Did not need to pee. In fact, my bladder felt uncommonly empty. As did my bowels. Why I would notice such a thing, I hadn’t clue.
Suddenly it dawned on me. I couldn’t close my eyes. I wasn’t blinking at all. There was not way to shut out the light. And it appeared to be a pretty sunny day outside, especially for early December.
Did I have a stroke in my sleep. That was my first assumption. That’s kind of been my go-to way of … Shit, now it makes some sense.
I’m dead.
Not being a very religious person, always holding on to the belief of “being a believer, but not really sure of what”, I always wondered if the soul just stays put. And how horrible that would be.
Does it slowly flicker out instead of bursting out -- hence all of the great white lights folks see in near-death experiences.
But I am obviously still inside this carcass at the moment. My view of the world is the wood paneling that this old house is completely covered with. And my dresser. Same dresser I’ve had since I was a kid. I finally moved it with me to this place. At the age of 39. Been all over the country, but never took anything but clothes, Cds and stereo equipment.
I can see my cell phone. I wonder when someone will try to call?
Most likely, it will be someone from work. Trying to figure out why the hell I didn’t show up. First day, it’ll be a simple question. Second day, an angry one. Probably by the third day, they’ll just figure I up and quit on them.
No real concern will come from there.
Next on that list? I’m supposed to go to Richmond in two weeks. When I don’t show up, I’ll get a text. I won’t answer. Which will lead to a call. Which I won’t answer.
It’ll die there. Ha.
Two weeks later, I’m supposed to see a concert in Baltimore.
The text will come the day before. No answer.
A call the next day.
That may spark some interest. May.
By then, my corpse will be nice and ripe. No air conditioning or heat in the place. If it’s a cold December, who knows, it may end up being like a fridge and keep me from spoiling everyone’s day.
My mailbox will be full of bills by now. Unpaid ones. Phone will start ringing as bill collection agencies start to troll.
The rent goes unpaid.
Landlord sends a letter. Then a phone call.
Finally, after it’s two months late, they show up to knock on the door.
Going inside, they see a rotting mass of Zatarain’s on the table.
Into my room, the landlord ventures. Seeing me, still in bed. A sheet drawn over my head.
If I’m still in there, I’ll be more worried about being seen naked.
He grabs at the sheet, pulling it back.
Gruesome huh?
How long do you think it would take until someone found your body?
But, I’ve only been here a little while now. Time to take stock of what’s going on here. Am I really dead? I guess I should figure that out.
And the only way to find that out is to wait. I can see myself. My hairy belly at least. My feet. My dick. I look up and I see my hair. Is this rational? Should I be wondering this.
Now, since I’m still inside this shell, can I start to wonder if I’ll feel anything when they cut me up for an autopsy. This guy’s too young to have died of natural causes, they’ll most likely say.
But I didn’t kill myself. Heck, last night, or the last night I remember was pretty good. I went out to the local pub, had a few solo drinks before the bartender started flirting with me. I’d always dreamed of a barkeep taking an interest in me. And this time, she actually did.
Now, I’m a realist and understand she flirts with every guy that buys a $2 Yuengling. It’s her way of getting paid. But I’m the only person in the bar by 2 a.m. and she’s still standing in front of me, talking. We’re talking about writing. Appears she wants to be one. I tell her I want to be a bartender.
By 4 a.m. she’s done cleaning, I’m done drinking. I ask her where she lives. She says down the street. Pointing west. I sigh and point east for me. The last thing I remember was her saying “well, looks like I’m heading east tonight…”
Not the “Home Sweet Home” version at all. More the celebrity plastic surgery on VH1 version.
Anyway, just felt I had to type that. On to something else…
***
Well, that was a refreshing sleep. It seems like I’ve been in bed for days. That’s what I remember thinking that morning.
The feeling of euphoria didn’t last for long. Soon, it became apparent, super apparent that something was amiss.
My first clue was the inability to get out of bed. The desire was there, for sure. It wasn’t for the normal reasons however. Wasn’t hungry. Did not need to pee. In fact, my bladder felt uncommonly empty. As did my bowels. Why I would notice such a thing, I hadn’t clue.
Suddenly it dawned on me. I couldn’t close my eyes. I wasn’t blinking at all. There was not way to shut out the light. And it appeared to be a pretty sunny day outside, especially for early December.
Did I have a stroke in my sleep. That was my first assumption. That’s kind of been my go-to way of … Shit, now it makes some sense.
I’m dead.
Not being a very religious person, always holding on to the belief of “being a believer, but not really sure of what”, I always wondered if the soul just stays put. And how horrible that would be.
Does it slowly flicker out instead of bursting out -- hence all of the great white lights folks see in near-death experiences.
But I am obviously still inside this carcass at the moment. My view of the world is the wood paneling that this old house is completely covered with. And my dresser. Same dresser I’ve had since I was a kid. I finally moved it with me to this place. At the age of 39. Been all over the country, but never took anything but clothes, Cds and stereo equipment.
I can see my cell phone. I wonder when someone will try to call?
Most likely, it will be someone from work. Trying to figure out why the hell I didn’t show up. First day, it’ll be a simple question. Second day, an angry one. Probably by the third day, they’ll just figure I up and quit on them.
No real concern will come from there.
Next on that list? I’m supposed to go to Richmond in two weeks. When I don’t show up, I’ll get a text. I won’t answer. Which will lead to a call. Which I won’t answer.
It’ll die there. Ha.
Two weeks later, I’m supposed to see a concert in Baltimore.
The text will come the day before. No answer.
A call the next day.
That may spark some interest. May.
By then, my corpse will be nice and ripe. No air conditioning or heat in the place. If it’s a cold December, who knows, it may end up being like a fridge and keep me from spoiling everyone’s day.
My mailbox will be full of bills by now. Unpaid ones. Phone will start ringing as bill collection agencies start to troll.
The rent goes unpaid.
Landlord sends a letter. Then a phone call.
Finally, after it’s two months late, they show up to knock on the door.
Going inside, they see a rotting mass of Zatarain’s on the table.
Into my room, the landlord ventures. Seeing me, still in bed. A sheet drawn over my head.
If I’m still in there, I’ll be more worried about being seen naked.
He grabs at the sheet, pulling it back.
Gruesome huh?
How long do you think it would take until someone found your body?
But, I’ve only been here a little while now. Time to take stock of what’s going on here. Am I really dead? I guess I should figure that out.
And the only way to find that out is to wait. I can see myself. My hairy belly at least. My feet. My dick. I look up and I see my hair. Is this rational? Should I be wondering this.
Now, since I’m still inside this shell, can I start to wonder if I’ll feel anything when they cut me up for an autopsy. This guy’s too young to have died of natural causes, they’ll most likely say.
But I didn’t kill myself. Heck, last night, or the last night I remember was pretty good. I went out to the local pub, had a few solo drinks before the bartender started flirting with me. I’d always dreamed of a barkeep taking an interest in me. And this time, she actually did.
Now, I’m a realist and understand she flirts with every guy that buys a $2 Yuengling. It’s her way of getting paid. But I’m the only person in the bar by 2 a.m. and she’s still standing in front of me, talking. We’re talking about writing. Appears she wants to be one. I tell her I want to be a bartender.
By 4 a.m. she’s done cleaning, I’m done drinking. I ask her where she lives. She says down the street. Pointing west. I sigh and point east for me. The last thing I remember was her saying “well, looks like I’m heading east tonight…”
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
a poor excuse
Get up. Shit. Shave. Shower. Eat. Read the newspaper. Get dressed. Drive to work. Work. Go home. Watch TV. Sleep.
Get up.
I’m not meant to do this.
You notice I didn’t even put in the “kiss the wife” or “pat the kids on the head” part of the cliché-ridden American Dream. Why? Well, those aren’t part of my reality.
And with my latest move, Watching TV has fallen off as well. Although I still watch programming on my computer, so that has to go to.
I do the other things, however. With the added bonus of jamming to Rick James’ “Street Songs” every morning. I decided to do that one morning, and every morning since has not been worse than the one before it. So, I take that as a positive.
The beard went today. Well, elongated “Lebowski” goatee, went.
Woke up too late today to get my hair cut. There I go, routine-ing myself again.
Ugh.
I read a quote last night, on a Facebook “friends’” page. I put this in quotes because I’ve met this person all of twice. Never had a conversation with her, yet for some reason she deemed me worthy of Facebook Friend status. Whatever that is.
Like most things that I don’t write down, I have no idea what the quote was. But the impression it made on my mind has lasted. I’ve got to get out of this rut and make what I want to happen happen.
Yeah, psycho-babble for the most part, but I need to take control of things again.
I’d kind of buried myself in this almost Unabomber code. Don’t shave the goatee until I find another job. Well, I’m not looking for a job, but the goatee grew. It was cool and all, don’t get me wrong. But, it pretty much did eliminate one other part of my quest at the moment -- finding a date.
There really aren’t many non-biker chicks that dig a long-ass goatee. Well, that’s not true, but I don’t run in the circles of Alt-Country musicians quite enough to find those women. Add the minor factor that I don’t play in one of those bands, and you get my point.
The image of Hal Holbrook from the movie “Into the Wild” constantly haunts me. He seemed kind of happy; living out in the desert by himself making leather belts. But he was tortured by his past. And that’s no way to live, trust me. The past made me who I am, but it can’t control who I’m going to be. Unless, that is, I let it. And I do.
It’s why every day I wake up and I know I have to go to work, I loathe it. I stay in bed too long. I linger by this computer a little too long. I play that extra CD -- right now it’s “Something Old, Something New” a mix given to me by the redhead of drunken blackout fame. And I think seriously about just not going -- Gibbonsing it. But I never do. Not yet. But there I go. Saying I’ll do it later.
The 23rd is looking like an excellent day to skip class. I’ve racked up an amazing 2.5 sick days so far. Isn’t that sad? The company only gives 5 sick days a year. Cheap bastards. But, that’s the way of the world now, isn’t it? At least that’s what folks with the stocks and bonds want me to think.
There I go with the crazy, old-guy conspiracy talk again. Who am I becoming? A sane man? I crippled man? Just a man?
Nope. I’m just Randy. A broken-hearted, naïve, silly wanderer who is stuck in place for the half-decade.
Time to Ride On, Bon Scott would tell me.
Excuses smell, ya know. Because they are assholes. Pity the fool that sits on his ass while the world keeps running. He ends up atrophied, insane and useless.
Set a goal. Achieve it. Sounds simple, doesn’t it?
It is.
I just want to own a bar. With a 45s jukebox. And a dog named Sydney.
Still.
I talked with a bar owner about it. He saved up money for 12 years to get to the point of being able to start his own place. That he rents. That’s encouraging and discouraging at the same time.
There won’t be any saving up plan here. I’ve got to come up with an investor. Or 12.
I’ll take care of the jukebox and the dog.
Get up.
I’m not meant to do this.
You notice I didn’t even put in the “kiss the wife” or “pat the kids on the head” part of the cliché-ridden American Dream. Why? Well, those aren’t part of my reality.
And with my latest move, Watching TV has fallen off as well. Although I still watch programming on my computer, so that has to go to.
I do the other things, however. With the added bonus of jamming to Rick James’ “Street Songs” every morning. I decided to do that one morning, and every morning since has not been worse than the one before it. So, I take that as a positive.
The beard went today. Well, elongated “Lebowski” goatee, went.
Woke up too late today to get my hair cut. There I go, routine-ing myself again.
Ugh.
I read a quote last night, on a Facebook “friends’” page. I put this in quotes because I’ve met this person all of twice. Never had a conversation with her, yet for some reason she deemed me worthy of Facebook Friend status. Whatever that is.
Like most things that I don’t write down, I have no idea what the quote was. But the impression it made on my mind has lasted. I’ve got to get out of this rut and make what I want to happen happen.
Yeah, psycho-babble for the most part, but I need to take control of things again.
I’d kind of buried myself in this almost Unabomber code. Don’t shave the goatee until I find another job. Well, I’m not looking for a job, but the goatee grew. It was cool and all, don’t get me wrong. But, it pretty much did eliminate one other part of my quest at the moment -- finding a date.
There really aren’t many non-biker chicks that dig a long-ass goatee. Well, that’s not true, but I don’t run in the circles of Alt-Country musicians quite enough to find those women. Add the minor factor that I don’t play in one of those bands, and you get my point.
The image of Hal Holbrook from the movie “Into the Wild” constantly haunts me. He seemed kind of happy; living out in the desert by himself making leather belts. But he was tortured by his past. And that’s no way to live, trust me. The past made me who I am, but it can’t control who I’m going to be. Unless, that is, I let it. And I do.
It’s why every day I wake up and I know I have to go to work, I loathe it. I stay in bed too long. I linger by this computer a little too long. I play that extra CD -- right now it’s “Something Old, Something New” a mix given to me by the redhead of drunken blackout fame. And I think seriously about just not going -- Gibbonsing it. But I never do. Not yet. But there I go. Saying I’ll do it later.
The 23rd is looking like an excellent day to skip class. I’ve racked up an amazing 2.5 sick days so far. Isn’t that sad? The company only gives 5 sick days a year. Cheap bastards. But, that’s the way of the world now, isn’t it? At least that’s what folks with the stocks and bonds want me to think.
There I go with the crazy, old-guy conspiracy talk again. Who am I becoming? A sane man? I crippled man? Just a man?
Nope. I’m just Randy. A broken-hearted, naïve, silly wanderer who is stuck in place for the half-decade.
Time to Ride On, Bon Scott would tell me.
Excuses smell, ya know. Because they are assholes. Pity the fool that sits on his ass while the world keeps running. He ends up atrophied, insane and useless.
Set a goal. Achieve it. Sounds simple, doesn’t it?
It is.
I just want to own a bar. With a 45s jukebox. And a dog named Sydney.
Still.
I talked with a bar owner about it. He saved up money for 12 years to get to the point of being able to start his own place. That he rents. That’s encouraging and discouraging at the same time.
There won’t be any saving up plan here. I’ve got to come up with an investor. Or 12.
I’ll take care of the jukebox and the dog.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Insurance runs, part 1
Bunky’s enjoying his coffee and newspaper at the kitchen table when the alarm goes off. It’s 5:30 a.m. He still sets the alarm, every night when he goes to bed. Never fails to do so.
And every morning, Bunky wakes up at least 30 minutes before it every chimes. Yet he never turns it off before it blares out it’s cock-a-doodle-doos. He figures that clock only has one reason to exist, and that’s to make noise in the morning. So why take that away from it.
He remembers when he used to have a reason. It was throwing the ball 60 feet, 6 inches. Took him all the way to the show, that left arm of his. Never won a game there, but dang it, he made it.
Now? Bunky’s a greeter at Wal-Mart. It’s not nearly as exciting, that’s for sure. But neither was the 40 years of working in an office. Selling insurance to folk. Nice folks, usually. Until the end, when the big office started not filling claims the way it used to do.
“Times, Bunky, they’ve changed,” his bosses told him one day when he called about a denied claim from a family of four. Three children and a dad. Who just lost their mom in a car accident. But it was deemed the father’s fault. He had the window open, and his cigarette blew out of his hand. Into the car beside him. The driver of that car -- a 1987 Cadillac El Dorado driven by the son of the former sheriff -- swerved right into the Gorges’ family car, a Hyundai Accent, sending it into a ditch. Everything seemed fine, until Ryan looked at his wife. The mailbox he remembered hitting as he spun out of control had cut her left after popping through the window.
She was dying. And he knew it. The kids were crying. It was raining and the sheriff’s son was cussing up a storm outside his window. He told his wife, Rebecca, that he loved her. She smiled and closed her eyes.
Bunky got that story in court. He went to the trial. The sheriff’s son was found not guilty. The insurance company then didn’t pay the claim on the accident. Citing driver error. Bunky quit right after the trial.
That was 11 years ago. Bunky’s 74 years old now. A long time from his days with the Washington Senators. For what the announcers call “a cup of coffee.” Bunky started drinking coffee only after his ball playing days were done.
He thought about the day in 1959 when he knew he would no longer be a ball player. He was making $4,000 a year in the minors. Four years removed from the show, but still full of moxie. The managers all loved that about Bunky. He got guys out, most of the time. But he didn’t strike ‘em out. He did it with grounders and fly balls. Only problem was the last two seasons, the guys behind him weren’t fielders. The manager, Jack Jackson, he knew that. And because of it, he kept Bunky around. To teach the other pitchers how to pitch. How to keep their cool. Three years ago, a lanky kid, nick-named the Ripper by the local scribes, came into town. Throwing 100 miles per hour, but not knowing where it would land half of the time.
Bunky sat down with him after a particularly interesting day by the Ripper, real name Jessie Overton. Jessie struck out 17 batters. Walked 11 and hit six. He also gave up just one hit. A grand slam homer in the ninth that lost the game 4-3.
Jessie took a look at the wall in the dugout and reared back to punch it. Bunky stood up and took the punch instead. Jessie looked at him dumbfounded. The two were inseparable the rest of the season. Bunky told him about the bigs. About how he once struck out Mickey Mantle. One of just 34 strikeouts he had in his career.
The Ripper went 16-2 the rest of the season. Was in the bigs in September. Sent Bunky one of his baseball cards every year. The Ripper stayed in the show for 23 years. Won 342 games. Struck out 4,000. And he sent Bunky a card, every single year.
Why? Bunky only had one card. He played in the bigs for parts of four seasons. But only once did Topps deem him worthy of a card. After his second year.
And the photo wasn’t even him.
Bunky told the Ripper that story the night after the punch. That was when the Ripper started calling him Wally. Because of the wall, and because he reminded him of Wally from “Leave it to Beaver.”
A few years ago, the Ripper was inducted to the Baseball Hall of Fame. He asked Bunky to introduce him. Two weeks before the induction, the Ripper died. Killed in a car accident.
It was too much for Bunky. He didn’t go to Cooperstown. Everyone understood why.
The Ripper’s wife took the stage and told the story of the baseball card. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place. Even Barry Bonds cried, the scribes said.
Bunky cried too. At home, watching it while he looked at the album he put all those cards in. The Ripper was really his last “baseball” friend. Everyone else had died a while ago.
Now, his friends were the ladies of the meat department at Wal-Mart. Where he greeted shoppers every day. Always with a smile.
Some days, old-timers would ask to hear stories of his ball-playing days. Bunky never disappointed.
Kids didn’t know who he was. They sometimes took his chair and hid it. Bunky didn’t get mad. He just smiled and said “ya got me.” They’d always bring the chair back when he wasn’t looking. That made him smile some more.
Bunky takes the bus to work every morning. And to lunch at 2:25 every day. The same time his wife used to bring him his lunch at work in the insurance days.
And every morning, Bunky wakes up at least 30 minutes before it every chimes. Yet he never turns it off before it blares out it’s cock-a-doodle-doos. He figures that clock only has one reason to exist, and that’s to make noise in the morning. So why take that away from it.
He remembers when he used to have a reason. It was throwing the ball 60 feet, 6 inches. Took him all the way to the show, that left arm of his. Never won a game there, but dang it, he made it.
Now? Bunky’s a greeter at Wal-Mart. It’s not nearly as exciting, that’s for sure. But neither was the 40 years of working in an office. Selling insurance to folk. Nice folks, usually. Until the end, when the big office started not filling claims the way it used to do.
“Times, Bunky, they’ve changed,” his bosses told him one day when he called about a denied claim from a family of four. Three children and a dad. Who just lost their mom in a car accident. But it was deemed the father’s fault. He had the window open, and his cigarette blew out of his hand. Into the car beside him. The driver of that car -- a 1987 Cadillac El Dorado driven by the son of the former sheriff -- swerved right into the Gorges’ family car, a Hyundai Accent, sending it into a ditch. Everything seemed fine, until Ryan looked at his wife. The mailbox he remembered hitting as he spun out of control had cut her left after popping through the window.
She was dying. And he knew it. The kids were crying. It was raining and the sheriff’s son was cussing up a storm outside his window. He told his wife, Rebecca, that he loved her. She smiled and closed her eyes.
Bunky got that story in court. He went to the trial. The sheriff’s son was found not guilty. The insurance company then didn’t pay the claim on the accident. Citing driver error. Bunky quit right after the trial.
That was 11 years ago. Bunky’s 74 years old now. A long time from his days with the Washington Senators. For what the announcers call “a cup of coffee.” Bunky started drinking coffee only after his ball playing days were done.
He thought about the day in 1959 when he knew he would no longer be a ball player. He was making $4,000 a year in the minors. Four years removed from the show, but still full of moxie. The managers all loved that about Bunky. He got guys out, most of the time. But he didn’t strike ‘em out. He did it with grounders and fly balls. Only problem was the last two seasons, the guys behind him weren’t fielders. The manager, Jack Jackson, he knew that. And because of it, he kept Bunky around. To teach the other pitchers how to pitch. How to keep their cool. Three years ago, a lanky kid, nick-named the Ripper by the local scribes, came into town. Throwing 100 miles per hour, but not knowing where it would land half of the time.
Bunky sat down with him after a particularly interesting day by the Ripper, real name Jessie Overton. Jessie struck out 17 batters. Walked 11 and hit six. He also gave up just one hit. A grand slam homer in the ninth that lost the game 4-3.
Jessie took a look at the wall in the dugout and reared back to punch it. Bunky stood up and took the punch instead. Jessie looked at him dumbfounded. The two were inseparable the rest of the season. Bunky told him about the bigs. About how he once struck out Mickey Mantle. One of just 34 strikeouts he had in his career.
The Ripper went 16-2 the rest of the season. Was in the bigs in September. Sent Bunky one of his baseball cards every year. The Ripper stayed in the show for 23 years. Won 342 games. Struck out 4,000. And he sent Bunky a card, every single year.
Why? Bunky only had one card. He played in the bigs for parts of four seasons. But only once did Topps deem him worthy of a card. After his second year.
And the photo wasn’t even him.
Bunky told the Ripper that story the night after the punch. That was when the Ripper started calling him Wally. Because of the wall, and because he reminded him of Wally from “Leave it to Beaver.”
A few years ago, the Ripper was inducted to the Baseball Hall of Fame. He asked Bunky to introduce him. Two weeks before the induction, the Ripper died. Killed in a car accident.
It was too much for Bunky. He didn’t go to Cooperstown. Everyone understood why.
The Ripper’s wife took the stage and told the story of the baseball card. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place. Even Barry Bonds cried, the scribes said.
Bunky cried too. At home, watching it while he looked at the album he put all those cards in. The Ripper was really his last “baseball” friend. Everyone else had died a while ago.
Now, his friends were the ladies of the meat department at Wal-Mart. Where he greeted shoppers every day. Always with a smile.
Some days, old-timers would ask to hear stories of his ball-playing days. Bunky never disappointed.
Kids didn’t know who he was. They sometimes took his chair and hid it. Bunky didn’t get mad. He just smiled and said “ya got me.” They’d always bring the chair back when he wasn’t looking. That made him smile some more.
Bunky takes the bus to work every morning. And to lunch at 2:25 every day. The same time his wife used to bring him his lunch at work in the insurance days.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Constant Humanity
Went to bed last night thinking I’d hit the beach the next day. It was too nice of a day to do what I did -- staying inside most of the day, drinking Miller High Life and Budweiser while watching badly torrented and streamed football games.
Instead, I got up today and watched JFK conspiracy flicks all day. I think that it inevitably happens to all poor white guys when they get old and they stay in their apartments/houses by themselves too much. They start to look around and see what is going on around them. Which, leads them to think about conspiracies.
When really, you’re just a loser, who fucked up his chance at the “good life” or the “normal life” and instead is living by himself in a lonely old town.
Could be worse, however, you rationalize.
This is going to get awful, I can tell. So I’m stopping while I still can…
***
I have an old hat. I used to refer to it as my “Brett Favre” hat, because he was once known, and my still be known, for his old crusty hat that he wore all the time.
Well, I don’t wear this hat all the time anymore. It smells too badly now. So, wearing it to work, and to most social engagements would be kind of silly. Funny, but silly. I’d rather not folks want to stay away from me because of my stank-ass hat. Instead, they can stay away because of my overall demeanor. That’s just more suited to me.
Anyways, I’ve also worn this hat to every Lucero show I’ve been to. Minus two. Both times, the redhead was there. I figure I didn’t want her to smell it.
Why? Not a clue in the world. Good impression? Ha. Those days have long since past.
I’ve got two shows to go to next month. They will be the barometer of the old hat. If I wear them there, it is her. If I don’t it isn’t. Of course, knowing this now, I could influence the actual chance factor. But I really don’t care.
***
Decided to walk down to the boardwalk area. Good for the heart and soul. I figure to get some exercise and maybe some random human interaction. It’s been too long.
I get to the boardwalk and glance in the local pub. Bunch of old-timers and, much to my amazement, three women. Attractive ones at that. One of them even gives me the once over. I return the favor. She looks at me again and just stares. I look, then glance away and keep on going.
Maybe my Wanda moment could of happened, but I have doubts. Three against one isn’t the right set up for such things. The four dollars and change in my wallet usually keeps me away from even trying the single wings. It’s a viscous cycle and all. I know. Can’t win if you don’t play and all. I just like my odds to be better than that. I feel the hole in my pants pockets and know I was probably right, this time.
Net up is a couple, one looks the part of the marine. A pretty common role, it seems, in these parts. These parts. What the fuck is that?
They give me the glance as I walk by. My $2 flip flops doing what they do to make noise. I do look the part of vagrant right now. Then they just up and start faux humping on the bench in the covered picnic area. How oddly fascinating. I think about just watching the show. Imagine the possibilities…
However, I decide against it. I like having teeth in my mouth. As bad as the ones I have are, they are, inside of it still.
Next is the beach. I sit down, sigh and stare. All of the footprints in the sand depress me. Going here. Going there.
A few minutes later, the same couple is now jumping on swings. Pushing each other in a mad frenzy. Next up they start running and skipping, it would appear. Grabbing sign posts and lamp posts. Swinging on each and ever one of them. Some kind of mating ritual, I assume. It’s been so long since I’ve been on that prowl it doesn’t register quite correctly in my mind.
“Good for them,” I think. “I hope they make it.”
I doubt they will. Hope they don’t end up hating each other. It seems that’s the choice most make. Even when they stay together.
The thrill leaves me, so I decide to walk to the gas station. Not the BP close to my house. I have sworn that place off. Actually never been there. And, never going to. It’s amazing how many BP stations there are here. Must be a coastal thing. Because 40 miles inland, don’t see any.
I get there and there are two folks sitting outside. Smoking cigs and chatting. I turn my I-pod off so I can hear them. However, when I get close enough, they stop and go inside.
The beer selection here sucks. I was hoping maybe they’d have something I can’t get elsewhere, but it’s all Budweiser and Corona and the like. I get some generic funyons and a throwback Pepsi. How sad is it that real sugar is a “throwback” to anything.
My corpse will be well preserved.
I walk home, staring at my shadow. He’s my constant companion. It’s good to have a constant of some kind.
Instead, I got up today and watched JFK conspiracy flicks all day. I think that it inevitably happens to all poor white guys when they get old and they stay in their apartments/houses by themselves too much. They start to look around and see what is going on around them. Which, leads them to think about conspiracies.
When really, you’re just a loser, who fucked up his chance at the “good life” or the “normal life” and instead is living by himself in a lonely old town.
Could be worse, however, you rationalize.
This is going to get awful, I can tell. So I’m stopping while I still can…
***
I have an old hat. I used to refer to it as my “Brett Favre” hat, because he was once known, and my still be known, for his old crusty hat that he wore all the time.
Well, I don’t wear this hat all the time anymore. It smells too badly now. So, wearing it to work, and to most social engagements would be kind of silly. Funny, but silly. I’d rather not folks want to stay away from me because of my stank-ass hat. Instead, they can stay away because of my overall demeanor. That’s just more suited to me.
Anyways, I’ve also worn this hat to every Lucero show I’ve been to. Minus two. Both times, the redhead was there. I figure I didn’t want her to smell it.
Why? Not a clue in the world. Good impression? Ha. Those days have long since past.
I’ve got two shows to go to next month. They will be the barometer of the old hat. If I wear them there, it is her. If I don’t it isn’t. Of course, knowing this now, I could influence the actual chance factor. But I really don’t care.
***
Decided to walk down to the boardwalk area. Good for the heart and soul. I figure to get some exercise and maybe some random human interaction. It’s been too long.
I get to the boardwalk and glance in the local pub. Bunch of old-timers and, much to my amazement, three women. Attractive ones at that. One of them even gives me the once over. I return the favor. She looks at me again and just stares. I look, then glance away and keep on going.
Maybe my Wanda moment could of happened, but I have doubts. Three against one isn’t the right set up for such things. The four dollars and change in my wallet usually keeps me away from even trying the single wings. It’s a viscous cycle and all. I know. Can’t win if you don’t play and all. I just like my odds to be better than that. I feel the hole in my pants pockets and know I was probably right, this time.
Net up is a couple, one looks the part of the marine. A pretty common role, it seems, in these parts. These parts. What the fuck is that?
They give me the glance as I walk by. My $2 flip flops doing what they do to make noise. I do look the part of vagrant right now. Then they just up and start faux humping on the bench in the covered picnic area. How oddly fascinating. I think about just watching the show. Imagine the possibilities…
However, I decide against it. I like having teeth in my mouth. As bad as the ones I have are, they are, inside of it still.
Next is the beach. I sit down, sigh and stare. All of the footprints in the sand depress me. Going here. Going there.
A few minutes later, the same couple is now jumping on swings. Pushing each other in a mad frenzy. Next up they start running and skipping, it would appear. Grabbing sign posts and lamp posts. Swinging on each and ever one of them. Some kind of mating ritual, I assume. It’s been so long since I’ve been on that prowl it doesn’t register quite correctly in my mind.
“Good for them,” I think. “I hope they make it.”
I doubt they will. Hope they don’t end up hating each other. It seems that’s the choice most make. Even when they stay together.
The thrill leaves me, so I decide to walk to the gas station. Not the BP close to my house. I have sworn that place off. Actually never been there. And, never going to. It’s amazing how many BP stations there are here. Must be a coastal thing. Because 40 miles inland, don’t see any.
I get there and there are two folks sitting outside. Smoking cigs and chatting. I turn my I-pod off so I can hear them. However, when I get close enough, they stop and go inside.
The beer selection here sucks. I was hoping maybe they’d have something I can’t get elsewhere, but it’s all Budweiser and Corona and the like. I get some generic funyons and a throwback Pepsi. How sad is it that real sugar is a “throwback” to anything.
My corpse will be well preserved.
I walk home, staring at my shadow. He’s my constant companion. It’s good to have a constant of some kind.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Awake
I woke up this morning. Nothing was right. Normal was not going to be.
First was the smell. Cucumber scented something.
Then it was a voice. Southern as all hell.
Almost lost in this was the location. Sterile, small apartment.
The music being played is very familiar, yet it sounds like four songs all at once. Is that even possible? For four songs, all very distinct, playing at the same time, in the same place.
There’s a conversation. It’s just one side of it, like on a telephone. It’s all Spanish.
I hear a blow dryer. And a voice singing. Very high octaves and in key.
Finally, there was the laugh.
How the hell am I surrounded by all four of them at once?
The last thing I remember was passing out in my bed. At the beach. A cool ocean breeze blowing through the open window. The light from the motel next door flickering on and off. And a prayer I made.
“God, please let me stop. Help me stop. I can’t do this anymore.”
Then nothing. Did I fall asleep? Am I still asleep? I don’t remember my dreams, so maybe I’m stuck here in one. Maybe this is death. But why would they all be here? In life they haunted me. Not while they were in it, but when they left it. Always heard stories of needing to put your demons to bed. Is this just the literal appearance of this hokey thing that has been passed down from generation to generation.
I used to think that stuff was useless. Much like the bibles in hotel rooms.
This is too hard, I think. But that’s been an excuse too long. This is the zit coming to a head. Time to pop it and take the chance at another scar or just let it fester.
I start to get out of the bed I’m on. The sheets are clean, so I know I’m not at home. I pull back my covers to see that I’m completely naked. The clothes I was wearing yesterday, a pair of green mesh shorts, underwear and a Lucero t-shirt are laying on the floor. First the shirt, then the shorts and finally the underwear. Just like they should look as you are taking them off in a hurry while moving toward the bed with a lover.
But I have no lover. Just myself.
“He just doesn’t get it,” a voice says in the next room. I look towards it, seeing a gleam of light through the crack under the door.
“He never did,” another voice replies, laughing that same laugh from before.
“I think he does get it. But he’d rather not admit it,” a third voice bellows out. It’s louder than the others, more confident. Yet, it only sounds vaguely familiar.
The sound of beer bottles being opened. Psssst. Psssssst. Pssst. Psssst. Four of them alright.
Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.
“What do you think?” they trio says in unison. I guess to the fourth person that I heard earlier.
“Wait,” voice number 2 says quickly. “Let’s have a toast. To all things right and wrong.”
Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.
“And…to him.”
Laughter. Giggles. And a snort.
“It is all about him, isn’t it?” No. 1 says.
“Well, I’m sure that’s what he thinks. It’s what he does,” No. 3 points out.
“Yep.” No. 4 finally speaks again.
Silence. Drinks are most likely being drank.
Four bottles hit the table. One at a time. All but one of them are empty. I guess I’ve spent too much time with bottles, empty, full and half-full.
“Well?” the trio demands. “You still haven’t answered the question. A promise is a promise.”
“I’m not allowed to say,” she says.
That voice makes me smile for some reason. Was it the answer or the lack of one? Or maybe it simply was the soothing feeling I got hearing it.
“Damn, it’s been a long time,” I say out loud.
That feeling I get comes upon me at that instant. That Sam Raimi-moment. Where the world is fine. Happy even. Then you say something. Do something. Don’t do something and the world begins to speed up. You feel the rush of air around you. The room, the field, the car, wherever it happens, begins to move. And I’m helpless to stop it. I just go along for the ride. It’s all you can do. Knowing there is a crash at the end.
It comes with words from the other room.
“I see our guest is awake,” the fourth voice says. “Let’s go.”
First was the smell. Cucumber scented something.
Then it was a voice. Southern as all hell.
Almost lost in this was the location. Sterile, small apartment.
The music being played is very familiar, yet it sounds like four songs all at once. Is that even possible? For four songs, all very distinct, playing at the same time, in the same place.
There’s a conversation. It’s just one side of it, like on a telephone. It’s all Spanish.
I hear a blow dryer. And a voice singing. Very high octaves and in key.
Finally, there was the laugh.
How the hell am I surrounded by all four of them at once?
The last thing I remember was passing out in my bed. At the beach. A cool ocean breeze blowing through the open window. The light from the motel next door flickering on and off. And a prayer I made.
“God, please let me stop. Help me stop. I can’t do this anymore.”
Then nothing. Did I fall asleep? Am I still asleep? I don’t remember my dreams, so maybe I’m stuck here in one. Maybe this is death. But why would they all be here? In life they haunted me. Not while they were in it, but when they left it. Always heard stories of needing to put your demons to bed. Is this just the literal appearance of this hokey thing that has been passed down from generation to generation.
I used to think that stuff was useless. Much like the bibles in hotel rooms.
This is too hard, I think. But that’s been an excuse too long. This is the zit coming to a head. Time to pop it and take the chance at another scar or just let it fester.
I start to get out of the bed I’m on. The sheets are clean, so I know I’m not at home. I pull back my covers to see that I’m completely naked. The clothes I was wearing yesterday, a pair of green mesh shorts, underwear and a Lucero t-shirt are laying on the floor. First the shirt, then the shorts and finally the underwear. Just like they should look as you are taking them off in a hurry while moving toward the bed with a lover.
But I have no lover. Just myself.
“He just doesn’t get it,” a voice says in the next room. I look towards it, seeing a gleam of light through the crack under the door.
“He never did,” another voice replies, laughing that same laugh from before.
“I think he does get it. But he’d rather not admit it,” a third voice bellows out. It’s louder than the others, more confident. Yet, it only sounds vaguely familiar.
The sound of beer bottles being opened. Psssst. Psssssst. Pssst. Psssst. Four of them alright.
Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.
“What do you think?” they trio says in unison. I guess to the fourth person that I heard earlier.
“Wait,” voice number 2 says quickly. “Let’s have a toast. To all things right and wrong.”
Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.
“And…to him.”
Laughter. Giggles. And a snort.
“It is all about him, isn’t it?” No. 1 says.
“Well, I’m sure that’s what he thinks. It’s what he does,” No. 3 points out.
“Yep.” No. 4 finally speaks again.
Silence. Drinks are most likely being drank.
Four bottles hit the table. One at a time. All but one of them are empty. I guess I’ve spent too much time with bottles, empty, full and half-full.
“Well?” the trio demands. “You still haven’t answered the question. A promise is a promise.”
“I’m not allowed to say,” she says.
That voice makes me smile for some reason. Was it the answer or the lack of one? Or maybe it simply was the soothing feeling I got hearing it.
“Damn, it’s been a long time,” I say out loud.
That feeling I get comes upon me at that instant. That Sam Raimi-moment. Where the world is fine. Happy even. Then you say something. Do something. Don’t do something and the world begins to speed up. You feel the rush of air around you. The room, the field, the car, wherever it happens, begins to move. And I’m helpless to stop it. I just go along for the ride. It’s all you can do. Knowing there is a crash at the end.
It comes with words from the other room.
“I see our guest is awake,” the fourth voice says. “Let’s go.”
Friday, October 8, 2010
you can't clean it up if it's broken inside
I remember being 27 years old, buried in debt that I had no control over. I had no job. I was living in the town I wanted to be in. I was with a lady I loved. And my life sucked.
So, I ran away to a job that paid peanuts, but it was a job. I honestly don’t know why I went for that job. There were at least two others, but in all honesty, this one was the best. The paper was awesome. The two guys I’d be working with were awesome.
And, hell, I got to live on a couch rent free. For six months. OK, that really wasn’t a positive, except for the rent-free part. Because otherwise, I would’ve drown in that shit.
When I finally got a paycheck, I remember thinking “well, by the time I’m 30, I’ll have my life under control, and by 33 all this debt will be gone.”
Ha. Life.
Here I am, almost 40 now, the debt has shrunk, sort of. I hit two walls during that time, walls that made me use credit again. Stupid walls.
Now, I’m hoping to pay them off by the time I’m 43. I send every cent I have available to them now. I used to try to do that, but now I’m doing it. It’s tough. It sucks. But it’s necessary. Biggest problem with the plan is I’m making less now than I have since 2001. That’s a hard pill to swallow. But it’s reality now, so, better get used to it.
By then, I’ll be most likely shaving my head because I’m bald. My front teeth might be gone. The job I’m at won’t exist, I think it’s safe to say.
I won’t be living in the same house, or same town. Unless I meet the woman of my dreams. Hey, as TP say “Even the losers…get lucky sometimes.”
Well, enough of the self-imposed pity party. I created this mess with horrible decisions, both financially and personally. My hole. My shovel. Now, my building a ladder. A little late in life, but I happens.
****
I did my best to bury a memory last night. Hopefully, it stays in that hole I dug over there. Not the one I’m in. Ha.
****
I think I got my opening to a book I may someday write. It was in my head for hours, and finally, right before I went to sleep last night, I wrote it down in my diary. I haven’t re-read it, so I may actually suck. The opening line I can give away, because I’ve said it before…
“I never should have left New Orleans…”
It’s a great opening line. I remember the day Josh and I were talking at his bachelor party weekend in Austin. At some cheesy bar by the lake. I was gushing about the damn town, like I always have and always will until I actually move back. And I said those words…
Josh instantly broke out his notepad and wrote them down, proclaiming that they were the opening lines to his “Adventures of Alligator Jones” story, aka, my biography.
Short. Too the point. Accurate. And true. That’s what a writer should strive for. It’s why I read Hemingway, although “For Whom the Bell Tolls” is a bit raggedy in my opinion.
***
I may try to write something at work tonight. Do it long hand. I so miss writing long hand. I stumbled upon an old notepad a few weeks ago that had someone else’s longhand writing on it. It was strange to see it again. I kept it for a reason I assume. And maybe that reason is just to remind me that it is possible. If you just keep trying.
Don’t quit.
***
Does listening to a band’s music that has such deep meaning to you during a different awful time help erase the deeper meaning? Make it less powerful, somehow? I’m attempting that by listening to Lucero constantly at work. I can’t tell if it’s changing anything at all.
***
Monkeys like rubber-soled shoes,
But not the Beatles.
Stiv Bators was killed by a bus,
Wonder how it felt?
***
Nonsensical stuff makes me happy.
Incense does not.
I wish I had a drug dealer,
‘cause I need some pot.
****
Yep, it gets bad sometimes. But you’ve got to keep typing. Keep typing. Keep typing. No matter how bad what comes out of your mind. Even if everyone laughs at it. Even if even you know it’s worthless pap. Why? Because eventually that one true sentence will come out. And you can add it to the other one. And the other one…
So, I ran away to a job that paid peanuts, but it was a job. I honestly don’t know why I went for that job. There were at least two others, but in all honesty, this one was the best. The paper was awesome. The two guys I’d be working with were awesome.
And, hell, I got to live on a couch rent free. For six months. OK, that really wasn’t a positive, except for the rent-free part. Because otherwise, I would’ve drown in that shit.
When I finally got a paycheck, I remember thinking “well, by the time I’m 30, I’ll have my life under control, and by 33 all this debt will be gone.”
Ha. Life.
Here I am, almost 40 now, the debt has shrunk, sort of. I hit two walls during that time, walls that made me use credit again. Stupid walls.
Now, I’m hoping to pay them off by the time I’m 43. I send every cent I have available to them now. I used to try to do that, but now I’m doing it. It’s tough. It sucks. But it’s necessary. Biggest problem with the plan is I’m making less now than I have since 2001. That’s a hard pill to swallow. But it’s reality now, so, better get used to it.
By then, I’ll be most likely shaving my head because I’m bald. My front teeth might be gone. The job I’m at won’t exist, I think it’s safe to say.
I won’t be living in the same house, or same town. Unless I meet the woman of my dreams. Hey, as TP say “Even the losers…get lucky sometimes.”
Well, enough of the self-imposed pity party. I created this mess with horrible decisions, both financially and personally. My hole. My shovel. Now, my building a ladder. A little late in life, but I happens.
****
I did my best to bury a memory last night. Hopefully, it stays in that hole I dug over there. Not the one I’m in. Ha.
****
I think I got my opening to a book I may someday write. It was in my head for hours, and finally, right before I went to sleep last night, I wrote it down in my diary. I haven’t re-read it, so I may actually suck. The opening line I can give away, because I’ve said it before…
“I never should have left New Orleans…”
It’s a great opening line. I remember the day Josh and I were talking at his bachelor party weekend in Austin. At some cheesy bar by the lake. I was gushing about the damn town, like I always have and always will until I actually move back. And I said those words…
Josh instantly broke out his notepad and wrote them down, proclaiming that they were the opening lines to his “Adventures of Alligator Jones” story, aka, my biography.
Short. Too the point. Accurate. And true. That’s what a writer should strive for. It’s why I read Hemingway, although “For Whom the Bell Tolls” is a bit raggedy in my opinion.
***
I may try to write something at work tonight. Do it long hand. I so miss writing long hand. I stumbled upon an old notepad a few weeks ago that had someone else’s longhand writing on it. It was strange to see it again. I kept it for a reason I assume. And maybe that reason is just to remind me that it is possible. If you just keep trying.
Don’t quit.
***
Does listening to a band’s music that has such deep meaning to you during a different awful time help erase the deeper meaning? Make it less powerful, somehow? I’m attempting that by listening to Lucero constantly at work. I can’t tell if it’s changing anything at all.
***
Monkeys like rubber-soled shoes,
But not the Beatles.
Stiv Bators was killed by a bus,
Wonder how it felt?
***
Nonsensical stuff makes me happy.
Incense does not.
I wish I had a drug dealer,
‘cause I need some pot.
****
Yep, it gets bad sometimes. But you’ve got to keep typing. Keep typing. Keep typing. No matter how bad what comes out of your mind. Even if everyone laughs at it. Even if even you know it’s worthless pap. Why? Because eventually that one true sentence will come out. And you can add it to the other one. And the other one…
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Slim's
Instead of caring about going to work, I just didn’t go today. The day started out the same as just about every one does. I woke up, turned on my computer and my stereo -- Rick James’ “Street Songs” begins every day now. It’s a ritual that seems to work. Keeps me focused I figure.
After a few minutes doing that, I struggled to write something. Failing that, I got in the shower. Cleaned off a day and night’s worth of filth and dirt.
Picking out a t-shirt to wear is about the toughest decision I have to make. There are too many of them in my closet. Especially ones that don’t quite fit right, but I don’t want to give up on because “one day” I may weigh less. Ha. One day.
That’s when it dawns on me that today is just a day to not go to work. I feel that way too often. The love of the game is no longer in me. Well, at least where I’m at. But really, I can’t remember when the love of the place was there? There are times when I used to get wrapped up in the moment of the chase of a great story, either by me or a staffer. And it was bliss. Those moments don’t come anymore. I don’t write at work anymore.
That stinks.
So does feeling that way, so today, I’m not going to feel that way I decide.
The moment I decide this comes after I get in my car to go to work. There is an exact moment where it becomes reality, but I don’t remember the moment it became a choice.
There’s a turn I have to make to get to work. I didn’t make it. Instead, I kept going straight.
Eventually, that road led to Interstate-40. I get on. Going west, of course. East is a sign of failure. A sign of the journey being over. Of going “home.” Whatever “home” is.
Once on the road, I don’t have a plan. That makes me feel good. Just like rolling down the windows does. It’s a perfectly sunny, 72-degree day. The asphalt zooms by me. There aren’t a lot of cars on the road. Just the way it should be.
This road goes to Memphis. That’s really all I’m thinking about. Could I actually drive all the way today? And then what? It’ll take me 12-15 hours to do that. It feels unlike any other feeling right now. That anticipation of the unknown. The wonder of it all. Where will I end up? Will there be something there at the end to fill the void.
After a couple of hours, I pull over on the side of the road, just outside of Raleigh. The hustle and bustle of a mid-sized to large southern town bores me. It’s all leave the suburbs, go to work in the city, leave the city, go to sleep in the suburbs. Repeat. My life has become that as well. Not that it doesn’t happen to everyone at some point in time. You become a zombie. You become a slave. But it’s the people that get out of it that are my heroes. My role models. Hopefully, I’ll join them one day.
I need gas. So I pull into a place called “Slim’s Slow Store.” It sounds perfectly invigorating.
The gas pumps are mostly broken. Or they just haven’t filled the tanks with gas in a while. The pumps have those yellow plastic bags over them. Except for one, it has a white plastic bag on it. I pull my car into the only spot with a useable pump. The Hyundai takes 9.2 gallons. I love it. Full tank, 10 gallons. My last car took 18. I filled it up just as often.
At this time I get the incredible urge for Funyons and Gatorade. It happens. No meat stick, however. So, I decide to venture inside. Heck, maybe I’ll meet Slim and we can talk of things convenient.
Upon entering Slim’s, it becomes quite obvious that there is no Slim. At least not anymore.
Yeah, the right things are in place for the most part. There are confederate flag shirts. Bass fish belt buckles. As well as Conway Twitty and Kenny Rogers cassette tapes, 3 for $9.99. But the first giveaway is the lady mopping up the floors. She’s Asian. She’s probably about 55. Her face is downtrodden, as you’d expect someone to be working here. But she also has a t-shirt that reads “Don’t fuck with Jesus.” And it ain’t Jesus Quintana we’re speaking of.
I get my orange Gatorade, noticing how it’s not quite cold like all convienence store drinks and my 99 cent bag of Funyons and head to the counter.
There, two Middle Eastern guys are standing, side by side. One is smiling. One is counting money from the register. I’ve noticed lately that there are always two Middle Eastern dudes, not one, behind the counter. It first dawned on my in New Bern, a couple years ago, heck five years ago now, that this happened. I used to hit the old converted BP station for snacks on the way home from late nights at work. It helped me avoid Wal-Mart or my boss’s wife at the Harris Teeter. Fucking bitch.
Those guys were from Iraq. They talked a lot. And knew a lot about me. Hell, it was usually 2 in the morning and I didn’t have anything better to do. And, you know, they didn’t either. But without fail, they’d open the conversation the same way… “Oh, Gatorade and Funyons. Someone has the munchies! Ha. Ha. Ha.”
I didn’t have any pot. If I did, my lethargy would have an excuse. Damn, five years of lethargy. That could be the title of my book…
Anyways, these stores, when it’s a redneck gal or dude, they work alone late at night. There’s no tag team action then. That’s starting to get to deep. I pay for my Funyons and Gatorade and leave. It reeks of incense anyway. I hate the way incense smells. It gives me a headache.
I get in my car, plop in a new CD, Neil Young’s “On the Beach”, and hit the road.
After a few minutes doing that, I struggled to write something. Failing that, I got in the shower. Cleaned off a day and night’s worth of filth and dirt.
Picking out a t-shirt to wear is about the toughest decision I have to make. There are too many of them in my closet. Especially ones that don’t quite fit right, but I don’t want to give up on because “one day” I may weigh less. Ha. One day.
That’s when it dawns on me that today is just a day to not go to work. I feel that way too often. The love of the game is no longer in me. Well, at least where I’m at. But really, I can’t remember when the love of the place was there? There are times when I used to get wrapped up in the moment of the chase of a great story, either by me or a staffer. And it was bliss. Those moments don’t come anymore. I don’t write at work anymore.
That stinks.
So does feeling that way, so today, I’m not going to feel that way I decide.
The moment I decide this comes after I get in my car to go to work. There is an exact moment where it becomes reality, but I don’t remember the moment it became a choice.
There’s a turn I have to make to get to work. I didn’t make it. Instead, I kept going straight.
Eventually, that road led to Interstate-40. I get on. Going west, of course. East is a sign of failure. A sign of the journey being over. Of going “home.” Whatever “home” is.
Once on the road, I don’t have a plan. That makes me feel good. Just like rolling down the windows does. It’s a perfectly sunny, 72-degree day. The asphalt zooms by me. There aren’t a lot of cars on the road. Just the way it should be.
This road goes to Memphis. That’s really all I’m thinking about. Could I actually drive all the way today? And then what? It’ll take me 12-15 hours to do that. It feels unlike any other feeling right now. That anticipation of the unknown. The wonder of it all. Where will I end up? Will there be something there at the end to fill the void.
After a couple of hours, I pull over on the side of the road, just outside of Raleigh. The hustle and bustle of a mid-sized to large southern town bores me. It’s all leave the suburbs, go to work in the city, leave the city, go to sleep in the suburbs. Repeat. My life has become that as well. Not that it doesn’t happen to everyone at some point in time. You become a zombie. You become a slave. But it’s the people that get out of it that are my heroes. My role models. Hopefully, I’ll join them one day.
I need gas. So I pull into a place called “Slim’s Slow Store.” It sounds perfectly invigorating.
The gas pumps are mostly broken. Or they just haven’t filled the tanks with gas in a while. The pumps have those yellow plastic bags over them. Except for one, it has a white plastic bag on it. I pull my car into the only spot with a useable pump. The Hyundai takes 9.2 gallons. I love it. Full tank, 10 gallons. My last car took 18. I filled it up just as often.
At this time I get the incredible urge for Funyons and Gatorade. It happens. No meat stick, however. So, I decide to venture inside. Heck, maybe I’ll meet Slim and we can talk of things convenient.
Upon entering Slim’s, it becomes quite obvious that there is no Slim. At least not anymore.
Yeah, the right things are in place for the most part. There are confederate flag shirts. Bass fish belt buckles. As well as Conway Twitty and Kenny Rogers cassette tapes, 3 for $9.99. But the first giveaway is the lady mopping up the floors. She’s Asian. She’s probably about 55. Her face is downtrodden, as you’d expect someone to be working here. But she also has a t-shirt that reads “Don’t fuck with Jesus.” And it ain’t Jesus Quintana we’re speaking of.
I get my orange Gatorade, noticing how it’s not quite cold like all convienence store drinks and my 99 cent bag of Funyons and head to the counter.
There, two Middle Eastern guys are standing, side by side. One is smiling. One is counting money from the register. I’ve noticed lately that there are always two Middle Eastern dudes, not one, behind the counter. It first dawned on my in New Bern, a couple years ago, heck five years ago now, that this happened. I used to hit the old converted BP station for snacks on the way home from late nights at work. It helped me avoid Wal-Mart or my boss’s wife at the Harris Teeter. Fucking bitch.
Those guys were from Iraq. They talked a lot. And knew a lot about me. Hell, it was usually 2 in the morning and I didn’t have anything better to do. And, you know, they didn’t either. But without fail, they’d open the conversation the same way… “Oh, Gatorade and Funyons. Someone has the munchies! Ha. Ha. Ha.”
I didn’t have any pot. If I did, my lethargy would have an excuse. Damn, five years of lethargy. That could be the title of my book…
Anyways, these stores, when it’s a redneck gal or dude, they work alone late at night. There’s no tag team action then. That’s starting to get to deep. I pay for my Funyons and Gatorade and leave. It reeks of incense anyway. I hate the way incense smells. It gives me a headache.
I get in my car, plop in a new CD, Neil Young’s “On the Beach”, and hit the road.
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