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.