The first bombs didn’t even wake me up. Years later, I’d think back on that and laugh. Right now, however, it was kind of disconcerting. It has been two months now since they started. Always at night. Always three bombs. No pattern found yet by the police. Except the night part. This is exactly what the police spokeswoman said to me when I asked about a pattern. “Nothing, except the night part.”
It’s strange to be a reporter again. Especially covering the biggest story to hit this place, most likely ever. How the powers that be saw me as the most qualified, I’ll never understand. But, it’s given me a voice, an audience, and a chance that I had not had in quite some time. Plus, when this is over, I’ll be able to write my ticket out of here. Finally.
I kid myself when I say I don’t know why I got this story. I was in the office over Christmas vacation when it happened. The news reporter there was at a parade 30 miles away. The editor, a 25 year old with little to no ability to make a decision, didn’t know what to do. I stepped up and said, “I’ll go.” The office was awful that day, and I figured it was fireworks. The initial little leaks were of “light explosions” in a warehouse.
Jumping into my car, I felt a little bit of nothing. I had a name of a police officer at the scene - “Veronica Stephens” - and that was it.
When I arrived at the warehouse, there were the remains of a car, smoldering after the fire department had put it out. The local television stations had already packed up their cars and were leaving. I trudged over to the woman, about 5 foot 8, 130 pounds with red hair. Of course she was a redhead, I remember thinking. Thank god she was a redhead, I think now.
We exchange pleasantries and I explain my lack of formal knowledge of news in general in the area. She gives me the lowdown of the “explosion.” Someone set a car on fire. It had a gas can in the back. It blew up. I asked who the car was registered to. This brought an eyebrow wrinkle from Miss (I found this out later) Stephens.
“It belongs to a Mr. John Franco,” she said matter-of-factly.
“The relief pitcher for the Mets?” I said with a chuckle.
“Exactly,” she said, not laughing.
“Really? Now that’s a story!” My sports instincts kicked right in. Veronica smiled when she saw me open up my notepad again.
“I thought so too,” she said. “The TV reporters didn’t even bat an eyelash when I said his name.”
“Have you contacted him yet?”
“It seems that Mr. Franco disappeared from his house in New York four days ago,” Veronica said. I noticed myself glancing at her lips and then her eyes. Not really paying attention to the story she was gift-wrapping for me. She had hazel eyes. The kind that can make the stars turn to stone. I had yet to figure out if she knew it or not. “And records indicate he’s been here in North Carolina the last two.”
“Records indicate?”
“Credit card receipts and such,” she said.
“And such?”
“Well, he bought this car at the Stephenson Toyota lot yesterday. We talked to a car salesman, Mr. Whittaker, and he was just excited to see the former Met here in North Carolina.”
“So, he definitely knew it was him.”
“Yep. He even got a Poloroid taken with him,” she showed me the picture. It definitely was John Franco. I thought about the 1987 Fleer baseball card set I had that I was attempting to get every card autographed. Did I have a John Franco? Probably not.
“This is awesome.”
“It is isn’t it?” she replied. “My dad was a huge Mets fan, which made me a huge Mets fan. Used to go see games at Shea all the time.”
“You from New York?”
“Is that going to be in the story?”
“Just for my own personal file.”
“Ha. Well, let’s just save that for another time,” she said handing me her business card. “You’ve got a story to write. See you soon, I hope.”
“Well, sure.”
“You have a card?”
“Well, like I told you before. I’m not even a reporter. So, no. You have a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“A personal one?”
“Yep,” and she pulled it out of her pocket.
“You don’t keep that in that utility belt somewhere?” What an awful joke. Batman belts. Policewomen. Fuck.
“I usually store it in my invisible jet.”
That made me smile. She’s a dork too.
“Can I hold your phone?”
“What is this grade school?”
“Just hand it over, officer.” That may have crossed the line. But no one else was here to hear it. And she did.
“Here’s my number.” I punched in the digits with my name. “Call me sometime.”
“About the story?”
“Eh. If that’s all you want to talk about.”
She smiled, got in her car and left.
I went back to the office. Wrote up the story. Called a few people I used to know in the sports writing business. Got John Franco’s agent. A brief comment on his “missing status” and plopped the story in the queue.
The next day, I got a call from Veronica.
“Randy, let’s meet up.”
“So soon? I hardly know ya.”
“This is business. Not pleasure.”
Such is life, I thought. Or did I think it. I often worry that I say things out loud when I shouldn’t. Never really knowing if I did or didn’t.
“I heard that,” she said.
“What?”
“You do mumble out loud. Noticed it last night. Something about my eyes.”
“Oops.”
“Meet me at the Waffle Hut in 10 minutes.”
I said OK and quickly got dressed. I ran back inside when I realized I hadn’t brushed my teeth. Was I actually chasing a story again? Was I actually falling for a cop? This could be fun.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
blood
Man. I need to piss. This isn’t the normal, everyday wake up at 8 in the morning and the bladder needs to be emptied kind of pee either. This is the you’ve been driving for six hours straight needing to relieve yourself but you don’t want to stop the momentum of a great drive kind of piss.
But you can feel just how cold it is on the other side of your blankets. Five piled high. The thought of turning on the heat at night makes your cringe. So you just add more blankets the deeper winter gets.
This conversation has been had many times. Folks don’t understand what it’s like to not be able to turn on the heat. “What do you mean it’s 44 degrees inside your house?” They always say, with the degree mark fluctuating between 44 and 55. Well, you say usually with a long sigh, much like Homer Simpson’s brain trying to explain the correlation between a $20 bill and having peanuts to eat, when one is poor, one has to make decisions like this. Should one keep eating and paying debt down or should one be comfortable when waking up in the morning. Because let’s be serious, that’s the only time it really matters.
And right now, it matters. The pee isn’t going to wait much longer. So, throw the blankets aside and run to the bathroom, which is always five degrees cooler since it has tiled floors and gets absolutely none of the morning sun.
Sweet relief as the urine flows into the bowl. Fingers so cold that shrinkage makes it take just a little bit less time.
Done. Flush. Jump back in bed. Shiver. Try to get back to sleep. Some days, it’s easy. Others not so much.
A few hours later, sleep or no sleep, it becomes necessary to get out of bed. Either due to work commitments or just the overall want to not be so God damn lazy today. Rise and shine, ya bastard.
Put on some dirty clothes. Ones that may have been worn the past two days, depending on what time of the week it is. Brush the teeth. Trying to stop the eventual death of the smile is important. Stumble into the hallway, look at the thermostat, it usually will be rising by this time of the day. Walk to the windows and open up the blinds. Let the sun light in. Good thing about the beach, the sun beats down on you, even in the winter. Heating up the house. Even on cold days it gets to 70 inside naturally.
Turn on the computer. Decide whether to even attempt to write in the morning. If so, sit down, type. Usually aimlessly. Words just appearing with little or no thought involved. It’s therapeutic and anguishing at the same time. There’s a story in there somewhere. It’s about heartbreak and redemption. Or heartbreak and death. Or heartbreak and things. Yeah, it’s about that.
On a day off, spend a lot of time convincing one’s self not to drink. Lately, it’s been easier than it used to be. Mostly because of the balance in my bank account. Hopefully that’s not the real reason, but optimism is not a strong suit.
If that victory is won, outside usually beckons. Some kind of new adventure must be had. Every single day. If not, the soul starts to itch. The mind starts to gelatinize.
If that victory is not won, inside rules. The stereo gets turned on. Shitty speakers don’t let the music live correctly, but there isn’t any way to replace them. Beers go down like hookers used to on 42nd Street before Rudy Guiliani cleaned up the big city. The words flow a bit easier onto the written page now. Journals get entries. The past sometimes makes an appearance. She usually goes away now when I ask her to. It’s a nice compromise we have. I don’t let go of her, and she goes away when asked. What else could one ask?
When the words are forced, it just becomes a countdown to the pre-set limit. That’s a cop out. There are times when the wall needs to be smashed into. Ignored. The forehead needs to be bloodied. That’s the goal, right there. To never stop until the time is right. And to be there, I have to figure out what it means to know the time is right. And to know that, I have to write. More. Even when it sucks. And it usually does suck. Beat myself up about it until it no longer hurts. Show other people and watch them wince. Heck, take a class and watch uneducated fuckers rip it apart for not having structure or a proper flow.
Then go to the bar and try to meet someone. Even though you never do.
But you can feel just how cold it is on the other side of your blankets. Five piled high. The thought of turning on the heat at night makes your cringe. So you just add more blankets the deeper winter gets.
This conversation has been had many times. Folks don’t understand what it’s like to not be able to turn on the heat. “What do you mean it’s 44 degrees inside your house?” They always say, with the degree mark fluctuating between 44 and 55. Well, you say usually with a long sigh, much like Homer Simpson’s brain trying to explain the correlation between a $20 bill and having peanuts to eat, when one is poor, one has to make decisions like this. Should one keep eating and paying debt down or should one be comfortable when waking up in the morning. Because let’s be serious, that’s the only time it really matters.
And right now, it matters. The pee isn’t going to wait much longer. So, throw the blankets aside and run to the bathroom, which is always five degrees cooler since it has tiled floors and gets absolutely none of the morning sun.
Sweet relief as the urine flows into the bowl. Fingers so cold that shrinkage makes it take just a little bit less time.
Done. Flush. Jump back in bed. Shiver. Try to get back to sleep. Some days, it’s easy. Others not so much.
A few hours later, sleep or no sleep, it becomes necessary to get out of bed. Either due to work commitments or just the overall want to not be so God damn lazy today. Rise and shine, ya bastard.
Put on some dirty clothes. Ones that may have been worn the past two days, depending on what time of the week it is. Brush the teeth. Trying to stop the eventual death of the smile is important. Stumble into the hallway, look at the thermostat, it usually will be rising by this time of the day. Walk to the windows and open up the blinds. Let the sun light in. Good thing about the beach, the sun beats down on you, even in the winter. Heating up the house. Even on cold days it gets to 70 inside naturally.
Turn on the computer. Decide whether to even attempt to write in the morning. If so, sit down, type. Usually aimlessly. Words just appearing with little or no thought involved. It’s therapeutic and anguishing at the same time. There’s a story in there somewhere. It’s about heartbreak and redemption. Or heartbreak and death. Or heartbreak and things. Yeah, it’s about that.
On a day off, spend a lot of time convincing one’s self not to drink. Lately, it’s been easier than it used to be. Mostly because of the balance in my bank account. Hopefully that’s not the real reason, but optimism is not a strong suit.
If that victory is won, outside usually beckons. Some kind of new adventure must be had. Every single day. If not, the soul starts to itch. The mind starts to gelatinize.
If that victory is not won, inside rules. The stereo gets turned on. Shitty speakers don’t let the music live correctly, but there isn’t any way to replace them. Beers go down like hookers used to on 42nd Street before Rudy Guiliani cleaned up the big city. The words flow a bit easier onto the written page now. Journals get entries. The past sometimes makes an appearance. She usually goes away now when I ask her to. It’s a nice compromise we have. I don’t let go of her, and she goes away when asked. What else could one ask?
When the words are forced, it just becomes a countdown to the pre-set limit. That’s a cop out. There are times when the wall needs to be smashed into. Ignored. The forehead needs to be bloodied. That’s the goal, right there. To never stop until the time is right. And to be there, I have to figure out what it means to know the time is right. And to know that, I have to write. More. Even when it sucks. And it usually does suck. Beat myself up about it until it no longer hurts. Show other people and watch them wince. Heck, take a class and watch uneducated fuckers rip it apart for not having structure or a proper flow.
Then go to the bar and try to meet someone. Even though you never do.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
wrong turns
Unexpectedly, I found myself in my old college town today. I took a wrong turn in Richmond, ended up on a road I’d never been on. It took me really close to my alma mater. So, I just kept on going. Driving around aimlessly has never been a problem for me. Sometimes, you end up in a cool new place. Most of the time, you pretty much end up back where you started. And I figure this time I did again.
Parking my car, I got out and started wandering around the campus. Many things have changed in the almost two decades since I left. New buildings. Trees bigger. Trees gone. Grass and weeds growing in places I used to sit with my bike watching folks saunter on by. It was, and still is, a habit of mine. I’ll get on my bicycle, ride around for a bit, then park it and myself on a corner and watch. Observation has been a pal of mine for as long as I can remember. If I’d ever taken a notepad with me in the early days, I could have had some interesting stuff. There is one constant in this part of my journeys, even way back then, the Dean Martin song “Standing on the Corner” echoes in my mind. I always wanted it to be like some movie where a band actually was there, behind me, playing the song while I just stood there in my tuxedo with a martini glass in my hand. Never happened though. Probably for the best.
As I wandered the streets of my old haunt, I got nostalgic. I do that. And when I do, the fucking Buzzcocks always pop into my head. At least the soundtrack to my mental illnesses would be interesting and maybe even sell well. Kind of like episodes of “Scrubs.” Great soundtrack. Same fucking story over and over.
After about an hour, I ventured into the neighborhood I spent my first year off campus. A lot of fun was had that year. So, of course, I took the steps necessary to go to my old apartment complex. It’s still there. Rickety as ever, but still standing. Figure it’s got a few more years before progress deems it too much of an eyesore. Then it will be gone. The place I lost my virginity. That was an interesting night. Bonfires of furniture, Milwaukee’s Best and public displays of affection. “Oh What a Night…” as Frankie Valli would have been proud.
Which is why it’s funny what happened just a few minutes later.
I turned left to go back towards campus. Hitting the main drag of stores, bars, etc. And there she was. The girl I lost my virginity to. Nineteen years later, there she was. Walking down the same damn street she walked down that night. I was told months after it happened that she had proclaimed to her friends that she was going to “take me down”. And she did.
I don’t regret it happening. I mean, I was 20 years old and really wanted to have it happen. Just would have liked it to be more memorable than six hours of heavy petting followed by me putting on the Black Crowes’ debut album and having sex for all of 11 seconds before passing out on top of her. Somehow, I remember that. Guess it was a memorable experience.
We dated for a bit. She was too fast and too much too soon for me. She ended up cheating on me in Jacksonville, Florida. Met up with a dude in a Hooters that I couldn’t get into because I had no false ID. Got in a cab to go back to the hotel, told the cabbie “Holiday Inn.” He said “Which one, buddy. There are dozens of them.” A $150 cab fare later, I finally got dropped off at the wrong one. But I had no money, so I said “that’s it.” Luckily, inside were the cheerleaders from my school. One of the dudes knew me from a year before, when I was chasing another woman, a women’s basketball player named Fran. He got my drunk ass to the front desk, they figured out which hotel I was really at, and got me in the right direction.
A few hours later, the girl who will always be the first came stumbling into our room. I was sleeping on the floor. She cuddled up next to me. I turned my back. She started fondling me. I pushed her hand away. I don’t remember the next day. It involved a drive from Jacksonville to Hopewell. The three sorority sisters dropped me off at my house. I think we hugged and kissed. She never talked to me again.
Now, here I am. Walking the old streets. I guess when you chase down the past, sometimes you actually find it.
I look at her. She looks the same. Just older. Hair is no longer red. It’s dyed black. I hear her voice. Her shrill laugh. I never liked her laugh. She’s on a cell phone. Walking closer and closer to me.
We meet at the crosswalk. I say “Hi, Katie.”
She’s no longer on the phone. Looking up, she stares at me. I know instantly, she has no idea who I am. It’s not that surprising. I had no impact on her life. Just bad sex and a dozen roses.
“Hello?” she musters.
I kind of feel the world speeding up now. The Sam Raimi-moment coming on. I fight it off, however.
“Long time no see. What’s it been, 18, 19 years?” I say with a shit-eating grin.
“Yeah, must have been.”
This isn’t an actual truth. I saw her one other time. At a football game. I was with another redhead that ended up throwing me in the heap. Katie was wearing a mink coat on a 65-degree day. Laughing that shrill laugh and holding hands with someone. Probably the guy she dumped me for. I heard she married him.
I pointed her out to my girlfriend. “Hey, that’s the girl I lost my virginity to.” I think I said it too loudly, as my girlfriend smacked my shoulder with a right-hand punch. Or, it was just not the kind of thing you point out to your current girlfriend. Although the kind of girl I like would find humor in it. So things do work out for the best.
“You want to grab a drink?” I sheepishly say. There’s no way on earth she’s going to say yes. I’m dressed like I work in a record store. Dirty jeans and a 14-year old band T-shirt. My teeth are crooked and my head shaved.
“Sure, let’s go to Coups!” she says a little too excitedly. Then it dawns on me, she needs to figure out who the hell I am. There’s a nagging feeling she does know me, somehow, and now she has to have the answer. I remember her personality. That fits.
We go to Coups. On the way, I ask how her husband is. Great she replies. I ask about her kids. Great she replies, this time with a quizzical look. “How does he know so much about me?” she must be wondering. I notice she doesn’t return the question and answer portion of our re-acquaintance.
In Coups, I go up to the bar. I order a whiskey and ginger for me, a Singapore sling for her. She looks dumbfounded when I bring it to our table.
“How did you remember that I loved drinking their slings?”
“That’s the kind of thing I do remember,” I said. “How ‘bout you? What do you remember the most?”
“Not names, that’s for sure,” she replies.
“Yeah, I figured you didn’t have a clue who I was. But that’s OK.”
“Not fair, sir. You’re supposed to tell me now.”
“Sounds too easy. For you.”
“Damn straight.”
Oh yeah, she was a cussing machine. I’d forgotten that. I love it when ladies cuss. A good cussing lady is hard to find. So many try to keep that from popping out. Politeness and all. But there is a fine line. You don’t want her to sound like a Quinten Tarantino flick.
“Well, take a guess at least.”
“I don’t have a clue. You went to school with me, right?”
“Yep.”
“What fraternity were you in?”
“Wasn’t”
“Did you go to the Comm school?”
“Nope. Tried, didn’t get in.”
“Give me a clue.”
“Waffle House. Hooters. Black Crowes.”
“Is this some kind of redneck quiz? ‘Cause darlin’ you know I’ve got that in me.”
“Yes. I. Do.”
We chatted idly for another five minutes. Finishing out drinks. She asked me to tell me who I was, I refused.
“If I do that, somehow, this moment won’t last as long. Now, you get to think about me for awhile at least.”
“Well, that’s weird. But, whatever floats the boat.”
“You still say that, huh?” I hated it when she said floats the boat. Not floats your boat. I never corrected her then.
“Yep. I love that saying. Well, I’ve got to be going. Thanks for the drink and maybe we’ll see each other in 2030?”
“Maybe so. Maybe so.”
We hugged an awkward hug. She smelled the same. Perfume. Expensive perfume. Never liked perfume.
I watched her leave the bar. She wasn’t very attractive. Wasn’t really then either. I turned back to the bar.
“Let me have another,” I said to the rock-jawed barkeep. He certainly wasn’t looking to have a conversation with me.
As I took a sip of my drink, a redhead sat down next to me, turned my way and smiled.
“You look happy,” she said.
“Yeah, I just saw the woman I lost my virginity to. She didn’t know who I was.”
“That would make me fucking happy, too,” she said with a smile.
“What’re you drinking?” I asked clumsily.
“Whiskey and ginger, if you don’t mind.”
I thought for a second about wrong turns and right turns. Which one’s are better? Then I realized wrong turns are right half the time.
Parking my car, I got out and started wandering around the campus. Many things have changed in the almost two decades since I left. New buildings. Trees bigger. Trees gone. Grass and weeds growing in places I used to sit with my bike watching folks saunter on by. It was, and still is, a habit of mine. I’ll get on my bicycle, ride around for a bit, then park it and myself on a corner and watch. Observation has been a pal of mine for as long as I can remember. If I’d ever taken a notepad with me in the early days, I could have had some interesting stuff. There is one constant in this part of my journeys, even way back then, the Dean Martin song “Standing on the Corner” echoes in my mind. I always wanted it to be like some movie where a band actually was there, behind me, playing the song while I just stood there in my tuxedo with a martini glass in my hand. Never happened though. Probably for the best.
As I wandered the streets of my old haunt, I got nostalgic. I do that. And when I do, the fucking Buzzcocks always pop into my head. At least the soundtrack to my mental illnesses would be interesting and maybe even sell well. Kind of like episodes of “Scrubs.” Great soundtrack. Same fucking story over and over.
After about an hour, I ventured into the neighborhood I spent my first year off campus. A lot of fun was had that year. So, of course, I took the steps necessary to go to my old apartment complex. It’s still there. Rickety as ever, but still standing. Figure it’s got a few more years before progress deems it too much of an eyesore. Then it will be gone. The place I lost my virginity. That was an interesting night. Bonfires of furniture, Milwaukee’s Best and public displays of affection. “Oh What a Night…” as Frankie Valli would have been proud.
Which is why it’s funny what happened just a few minutes later.
I turned left to go back towards campus. Hitting the main drag of stores, bars, etc. And there she was. The girl I lost my virginity to. Nineteen years later, there she was. Walking down the same damn street she walked down that night. I was told months after it happened that she had proclaimed to her friends that she was going to “take me down”. And she did.
I don’t regret it happening. I mean, I was 20 years old and really wanted to have it happen. Just would have liked it to be more memorable than six hours of heavy petting followed by me putting on the Black Crowes’ debut album and having sex for all of 11 seconds before passing out on top of her. Somehow, I remember that. Guess it was a memorable experience.
We dated for a bit. She was too fast and too much too soon for me. She ended up cheating on me in Jacksonville, Florida. Met up with a dude in a Hooters that I couldn’t get into because I had no false ID. Got in a cab to go back to the hotel, told the cabbie “Holiday Inn.” He said “Which one, buddy. There are dozens of them.” A $150 cab fare later, I finally got dropped off at the wrong one. But I had no money, so I said “that’s it.” Luckily, inside were the cheerleaders from my school. One of the dudes knew me from a year before, when I was chasing another woman, a women’s basketball player named Fran. He got my drunk ass to the front desk, they figured out which hotel I was really at, and got me in the right direction.
A few hours later, the girl who will always be the first came stumbling into our room. I was sleeping on the floor. She cuddled up next to me. I turned my back. She started fondling me. I pushed her hand away. I don’t remember the next day. It involved a drive from Jacksonville to Hopewell. The three sorority sisters dropped me off at my house. I think we hugged and kissed. She never talked to me again.
Now, here I am. Walking the old streets. I guess when you chase down the past, sometimes you actually find it.
I look at her. She looks the same. Just older. Hair is no longer red. It’s dyed black. I hear her voice. Her shrill laugh. I never liked her laugh. She’s on a cell phone. Walking closer and closer to me.
We meet at the crosswalk. I say “Hi, Katie.”
She’s no longer on the phone. Looking up, she stares at me. I know instantly, she has no idea who I am. It’s not that surprising. I had no impact on her life. Just bad sex and a dozen roses.
“Hello?” she musters.
I kind of feel the world speeding up now. The Sam Raimi-moment coming on. I fight it off, however.
“Long time no see. What’s it been, 18, 19 years?” I say with a shit-eating grin.
“Yeah, must have been.”
This isn’t an actual truth. I saw her one other time. At a football game. I was with another redhead that ended up throwing me in the heap. Katie was wearing a mink coat on a 65-degree day. Laughing that shrill laugh and holding hands with someone. Probably the guy she dumped me for. I heard she married him.
I pointed her out to my girlfriend. “Hey, that’s the girl I lost my virginity to.” I think I said it too loudly, as my girlfriend smacked my shoulder with a right-hand punch. Or, it was just not the kind of thing you point out to your current girlfriend. Although the kind of girl I like would find humor in it. So things do work out for the best.
“You want to grab a drink?” I sheepishly say. There’s no way on earth she’s going to say yes. I’m dressed like I work in a record store. Dirty jeans and a 14-year old band T-shirt. My teeth are crooked and my head shaved.
“Sure, let’s go to Coups!” she says a little too excitedly. Then it dawns on me, she needs to figure out who the hell I am. There’s a nagging feeling she does know me, somehow, and now she has to have the answer. I remember her personality. That fits.
We go to Coups. On the way, I ask how her husband is. Great she replies. I ask about her kids. Great she replies, this time with a quizzical look. “How does he know so much about me?” she must be wondering. I notice she doesn’t return the question and answer portion of our re-acquaintance.
In Coups, I go up to the bar. I order a whiskey and ginger for me, a Singapore sling for her. She looks dumbfounded when I bring it to our table.
“How did you remember that I loved drinking their slings?”
“That’s the kind of thing I do remember,” I said. “How ‘bout you? What do you remember the most?”
“Not names, that’s for sure,” she replies.
“Yeah, I figured you didn’t have a clue who I was. But that’s OK.”
“Not fair, sir. You’re supposed to tell me now.”
“Sounds too easy. For you.”
“Damn straight.”
Oh yeah, she was a cussing machine. I’d forgotten that. I love it when ladies cuss. A good cussing lady is hard to find. So many try to keep that from popping out. Politeness and all. But there is a fine line. You don’t want her to sound like a Quinten Tarantino flick.
“Well, take a guess at least.”
“I don’t have a clue. You went to school with me, right?”
“Yep.”
“What fraternity were you in?”
“Wasn’t”
“Did you go to the Comm school?”
“Nope. Tried, didn’t get in.”
“Give me a clue.”
“Waffle House. Hooters. Black Crowes.”
“Is this some kind of redneck quiz? ‘Cause darlin’ you know I’ve got that in me.”
“Yes. I. Do.”
We chatted idly for another five minutes. Finishing out drinks. She asked me to tell me who I was, I refused.
“If I do that, somehow, this moment won’t last as long. Now, you get to think about me for awhile at least.”
“Well, that’s weird. But, whatever floats the boat.”
“You still say that, huh?” I hated it when she said floats the boat. Not floats your boat. I never corrected her then.
“Yep. I love that saying. Well, I’ve got to be going. Thanks for the drink and maybe we’ll see each other in 2030?”
“Maybe so. Maybe so.”
We hugged an awkward hug. She smelled the same. Perfume. Expensive perfume. Never liked perfume.
I watched her leave the bar. She wasn’t very attractive. Wasn’t really then either. I turned back to the bar.
“Let me have another,” I said to the rock-jawed barkeep. He certainly wasn’t looking to have a conversation with me.
As I took a sip of my drink, a redhead sat down next to me, turned my way and smiled.
“You look happy,” she said.
“Yeah, I just saw the woman I lost my virginity to. She didn’t know who I was.”
“That would make me fucking happy, too,” she said with a smile.
“What’re you drinking?” I asked clumsily.
“Whiskey and ginger, if you don’t mind.”
I thought for a second about wrong turns and right turns. Which one’s are better? Then I realized wrong turns are right half the time.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
The Creeps
Muswell Hillbillies plays in the background. The bar is pretty empty this time of the morning. I guess it really should be that way. The windows shine brightly inside. The dust stirred up from the barkeep’s ever-moving broom looks like the milky way galaxy for a moment.
All is good in my world.
“Have a cup o’ teaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” Ray Davies bellows. I take a slow, but long swig of my Abita.
“What the hell is this shit, Rodney,” a stranger cackles from the door. He’s about 6-foot-6. Blonde hair, cut to a buzz, like Chet from “Weird Science.” I can only hope he gets turned into a pile of shit by Kelly LeBroc any moment.
I wait. I wait. I wait.
It doesn’t happen. Maybe I should have put a bra on top of my head.
Slap. A giant, meaty hand hits my back. I lurch a bit forward. Instantly, my body stiffens. I hate it when strangers touch me. Especially at 10 a.m. in a bar.
“You like this shit?” Chet-a-like says, staring directly at me. I’m glad, for once, that I’m wearing sunglasses inside.
“The Kinks are quite possibly the most underrated band of all time,” I say. Echoing the words of my best friend. But, I have long-ago taken these words as my own. I’m sure he won’t mind.
“The Kinks? Who the fuck are the Kinks?”
“The band playing on the jukebox right now,” Rodney jumps in to try and save my morning. He’s a decent guy. We’ve spent too much time together, and really don’t know anything about each other’s lives outside of the bar. Of course, maybe neither of us has a life outside. Honestly, I don’t feel like getting into another debate about how the Kinks really should be considered in the same breath as the Beatles, the Stones and the Who. It’s one that most folks can’t comprehend. They’re either Beatles or Stones people, the old cliché. But every once in a while you get a guy who can’t get enough of Pete and Roger. “Fuck the Beatles and the Stones,” they’ll say. But, they are in the minority.
“Put on something else, man,” Chet says to Rodney.
“Can’t man. He paid for this. Always does. Every morning.”
“Fuck, dude. You’re a pain in my ass. I need to hear me some AC/DC.”
“Bon Scott or Brian Johnson?” I ask.
“Who?”
Never saw that one coming. I turn back to my beer. I look up at Rodney. “Life is so complicated,” I belt out in my best Ray Davies accent. I fail, much like my awful Sean Connery, but it doesn’t matter. At least not right now.
“Yes it is,” Chet says. “Let me tell you about my fucking girlfriend. She’s a damn whore. I don’t understand women at all.”
“You don’t say!” I yell. I think better of it immediately, yet I’m oddly satisfied in it. “Let me buy you a beer.”
“Hell yeah man,” Chet says, the dull look of vacancy disappears for a moment. “Give me a Bud, will ya Rodney?”
I cringe. I don’t understand it. This bar has so many better choices.
“So, are you a Beatles or Stones fan?” I ask. Rodney tilts his head a little bit. He can’t believe I’m actually going to try this conversation. I usually try it on the hookers that hang out here. I stumbled into this bar one day after a job interview fail. It was for a copy editing job with a book publisher. I got all the way to the final interview stage. The lady in charge of what would be my department if I got hired asked me one question: “Have you ever written anything that got published?” I answered truthfully that, yes, I had been published 1,000s of times. She was taken aback by this answer. “How so?” she asked. “I’ve never heard of you.”
“Well, ma’am I was a newspaperman. Used to crank out the copy every day of my life. Even when I wasn’t working, I was working.”
“Oh,” she said. Looking down at her papers. I knew right then I was doomed. “Well, we’ll be in touch.”
They never called me. I called twice.
On the way home from the interview, which I took a streetcar to instead of driving, I decided to walk. After about three miles I saw a neon sign “Cold B” it said. The eer had burned out or been broken off or something. This intrigued me. So did the sound of “David Watts” echoing into the alley.
I noticed a couple of hookers down the way from the place. One was white, one was Korean. “You don’t see a lot of Korean hookers here,” I remembered thinking as I pushed open the black doors, the bottoms of which were rotting away slowly. They reminded me of the door at Nick’s Bar. Sigh.
Inside, the place was dirty. It was hot. And there were about a dozen or so people inside. I sat at the bar, it was empty. Everyone else was in a booth.
“How’s it going suit and tie?” the barkeep said to me. I’d later find out his name was Rodney. He was from Texarkana. Had been tending bar for 11 years this summer. Six of them here at his bar. Aptly named “Rodney’s” However, there was no sign inside or outside bearing such a moniker. It was just “understood” I came to know.
“Been better, been worse,” I said. “What do ya have on draft?”
“Shit, really. But we got a fucking awesome selection of bottles,” he said pointing over his shoulder to the far left side of the bar. There sat a giant glass fridge. Filled with bottles. Clear ones. Dark brown ones. Not a green one in the place however.
“You got no green beers?” I said as sarcastically as I could attempt to sound.
“Fuck green beer. It’s all skunk,” Rodney replied.
“True dat,” I said. “Give me a Shiner Blonde.”
“Coming right up!”
I fell in love with the bar that moment. And she’s never let me down. Neither has Rodney.
“Beatles or Stones? Shit dude, you trying to pick me up?” Chet said.
“No. You’re not my type. I like ‘em cheap and platinum.”
“You’re weird, man.”
“I’ve been told so, yes.”
“Rodney, I’m out of here. This guy gives me the creeps.”
I stumble over to the jukebox. Fully knowing what I’m going to play for my quarter. I finger around in my pocket, finally discovering my George Washington -- a 1976 Bicentennial coin, that’s fantastic, I think to myself. Remembering the times when my dad used to horde quarters, to give to my nephew one day. And how excited he’d get when he found a ‘76. I rub it, then plop it into the jukebox. An it’s one of those Rowe/EMI ones that is a CD-only one. But damn if Rodney didn’t stock it well.
The young lady screams….the drums kick in….then the guitars….
“I’ll be vigilant
I’ll be silent
Yes, no one will know
You want something for nothing
A toast on your grave…
I just wanna give you the creeps.”
I love it when the music comes in at the right time. Even if I had to make it happen. Not forced like some of Quentin Tarantino’s latest efforts. Although the “Baby, It’s You” from Death Proof was fucking awesome…
“Rodney, man. That guy. He’s got problems.”
“Tell me about it,” I say with a wink and a smile.
Chet leaves, shaking his head.
“When you gonna learn, Randy?”
“Tomorrow. Not tonight.”
“It’s 10:17 in the morning.”
“Well, tomorrow. Not this morning, then!”
We smile, clink glasses and share a shot of Jameson. I don’t even remember him pouring them.
At that moment, when the burn hits you hard, she walked in. Jamie. The redhead hooker.
“It’s gonna be a good day,” I say to Rodney.
“You think?” he replies. “I heard it was going to rain.”
“Exactly, this place’ll be full up.”
“Yeah, with hookers.”
“Best conversations I’ve ever had.”
“Only you would see it that way. Only you.”
“Well, my favorite book is ‘The Sun Also Rises’”
“You want me to raise your baton,” a voice from behind purrs.
All is good in my world.
“Have a cup o’ teaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” Ray Davies bellows. I take a slow, but long swig of my Abita.
“What the hell is this shit, Rodney,” a stranger cackles from the door. He’s about 6-foot-6. Blonde hair, cut to a buzz, like Chet from “Weird Science.” I can only hope he gets turned into a pile of shit by Kelly LeBroc any moment.
I wait. I wait. I wait.
It doesn’t happen. Maybe I should have put a bra on top of my head.
Slap. A giant, meaty hand hits my back. I lurch a bit forward. Instantly, my body stiffens. I hate it when strangers touch me. Especially at 10 a.m. in a bar.
“You like this shit?” Chet-a-like says, staring directly at me. I’m glad, for once, that I’m wearing sunglasses inside.
“The Kinks are quite possibly the most underrated band of all time,” I say. Echoing the words of my best friend. But, I have long-ago taken these words as my own. I’m sure he won’t mind.
“The Kinks? Who the fuck are the Kinks?”
“The band playing on the jukebox right now,” Rodney jumps in to try and save my morning. He’s a decent guy. We’ve spent too much time together, and really don’t know anything about each other’s lives outside of the bar. Of course, maybe neither of us has a life outside. Honestly, I don’t feel like getting into another debate about how the Kinks really should be considered in the same breath as the Beatles, the Stones and the Who. It’s one that most folks can’t comprehend. They’re either Beatles or Stones people, the old cliché. But every once in a while you get a guy who can’t get enough of Pete and Roger. “Fuck the Beatles and the Stones,” they’ll say. But, they are in the minority.
“Put on something else, man,” Chet says to Rodney.
“Can’t man. He paid for this. Always does. Every morning.”
“Fuck, dude. You’re a pain in my ass. I need to hear me some AC/DC.”
“Bon Scott or Brian Johnson?” I ask.
“Who?”
Never saw that one coming. I turn back to my beer. I look up at Rodney. “Life is so complicated,” I belt out in my best Ray Davies accent. I fail, much like my awful Sean Connery, but it doesn’t matter. At least not right now.
“Yes it is,” Chet says. “Let me tell you about my fucking girlfriend. She’s a damn whore. I don’t understand women at all.”
“You don’t say!” I yell. I think better of it immediately, yet I’m oddly satisfied in it. “Let me buy you a beer.”
“Hell yeah man,” Chet says, the dull look of vacancy disappears for a moment. “Give me a Bud, will ya Rodney?”
I cringe. I don’t understand it. This bar has so many better choices.
“So, are you a Beatles or Stones fan?” I ask. Rodney tilts his head a little bit. He can’t believe I’m actually going to try this conversation. I usually try it on the hookers that hang out here. I stumbled into this bar one day after a job interview fail. It was for a copy editing job with a book publisher. I got all the way to the final interview stage. The lady in charge of what would be my department if I got hired asked me one question: “Have you ever written anything that got published?” I answered truthfully that, yes, I had been published 1,000s of times. She was taken aback by this answer. “How so?” she asked. “I’ve never heard of you.”
“Well, ma’am I was a newspaperman. Used to crank out the copy every day of my life. Even when I wasn’t working, I was working.”
“Oh,” she said. Looking down at her papers. I knew right then I was doomed. “Well, we’ll be in touch.”
They never called me. I called twice.
On the way home from the interview, which I took a streetcar to instead of driving, I decided to walk. After about three miles I saw a neon sign “Cold B” it said. The eer had burned out or been broken off or something. This intrigued me. So did the sound of “David Watts” echoing into the alley.
I noticed a couple of hookers down the way from the place. One was white, one was Korean. “You don’t see a lot of Korean hookers here,” I remembered thinking as I pushed open the black doors, the bottoms of which were rotting away slowly. They reminded me of the door at Nick’s Bar. Sigh.
Inside, the place was dirty. It was hot. And there were about a dozen or so people inside. I sat at the bar, it was empty. Everyone else was in a booth.
“How’s it going suit and tie?” the barkeep said to me. I’d later find out his name was Rodney. He was from Texarkana. Had been tending bar for 11 years this summer. Six of them here at his bar. Aptly named “Rodney’s” However, there was no sign inside or outside bearing such a moniker. It was just “understood” I came to know.
“Been better, been worse,” I said. “What do ya have on draft?”
“Shit, really. But we got a fucking awesome selection of bottles,” he said pointing over his shoulder to the far left side of the bar. There sat a giant glass fridge. Filled with bottles. Clear ones. Dark brown ones. Not a green one in the place however.
“You got no green beers?” I said as sarcastically as I could attempt to sound.
“Fuck green beer. It’s all skunk,” Rodney replied.
“True dat,” I said. “Give me a Shiner Blonde.”
“Coming right up!”
I fell in love with the bar that moment. And she’s never let me down. Neither has Rodney.
“Beatles or Stones? Shit dude, you trying to pick me up?” Chet said.
“No. You’re not my type. I like ‘em cheap and platinum.”
“You’re weird, man.”
“I’ve been told so, yes.”
“Rodney, I’m out of here. This guy gives me the creeps.”
I stumble over to the jukebox. Fully knowing what I’m going to play for my quarter. I finger around in my pocket, finally discovering my George Washington -- a 1976 Bicentennial coin, that’s fantastic, I think to myself. Remembering the times when my dad used to horde quarters, to give to my nephew one day. And how excited he’d get when he found a ‘76. I rub it, then plop it into the jukebox. An it’s one of those Rowe/EMI ones that is a CD-only one. But damn if Rodney didn’t stock it well.
The young lady screams….the drums kick in….then the guitars….
“I’ll be vigilant
I’ll be silent
Yes, no one will know
You want something for nothing
A toast on your grave…
I just wanna give you the creeps.”
I love it when the music comes in at the right time. Even if I had to make it happen. Not forced like some of Quentin Tarantino’s latest efforts. Although the “Baby, It’s You” from Death Proof was fucking awesome…
“Rodney, man. That guy. He’s got problems.”
“Tell me about it,” I say with a wink and a smile.
Chet leaves, shaking his head.
“When you gonna learn, Randy?”
“Tomorrow. Not tonight.”
“It’s 10:17 in the morning.”
“Well, tomorrow. Not this morning, then!”
We smile, clink glasses and share a shot of Jameson. I don’t even remember him pouring them.
At that moment, when the burn hits you hard, she walked in. Jamie. The redhead hooker.
“It’s gonna be a good day,” I say to Rodney.
“You think?” he replies. “I heard it was going to rain.”
“Exactly, this place’ll be full up.”
“Yeah, with hookers.”
“Best conversations I’ve ever had.”
“Only you would see it that way. Only you.”
“Well, my favorite book is ‘The Sun Also Rises’”
“You want me to raise your baton,” a voice from behind purrs.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Alligator Jones meets Trees
“Hi! Would you like to know about becoming carbon neutral?”
“Blam!”
That may not have been the smartest way to avoid the little eco-friendly nerd, shooting off his face with a shotgun. But then again, maybe it was…
Looking down at my feet, a pool of blood was already soaking my brand new pair of Samba Classics. It’s the only shoe I wear, and pretty much the only one I want to wear. Although some vintage Ralph Sampson Puma black hi-tops would be rather stylin’.
“Shit, man. Why’d you go and do that?” a voice said from the left side. Near a booth marked “Free Vagina Maps.” Clearly, this sign had been tampered with, but it got my attention now.
“You sell Vagina maps?” I asked the person who had just spoken to me, without answering his question.
“Huh?” he said.
“Well, I guess since I didn’t answer your question, you don’t want to answer mine. Fair enough.”
Shhhh-click. I chambered another shell from the tube. This seemed to rattle my new-found friend. He was about 25 or so, wearing a “I <3 Lohan” T-shirt. For some reason, this did not strike me as creepy at all. Maybe it was the idea of a Vagina Map that made this possible.
“Sorry, bro,” Ted said. I found out his name was Ted, or at least that’s what he was telling the average consumer with his neon green plastic nametag attached just over where Lindsay’s left nipple would be. “I don’t have any more maps, and yes, they are Vagina Maps.”
“Well, you’ve interested me, Ted? Is that right?”
“What?”
“Is your name Ted?, Ted.” I said, matter-of-factly, not even keeping my finger on the trigger as I put the shotgun -- a Remington 887 -- over my right shoulder. My gun was plain brown. The guy at the gun show in Vanceboro, North Carolina, tried to get me to purchase a camouflage one. I told him to go fuck himself. Amazingly, he didn’t take offense and offered me a discount on shells. Nice fellow he was. He had better teeth than me as well. But, honestly, that’s not saying much, having not been in a dentists chair since I was 23 years old.
“No man, my name is Trees.”
“You serious? Like the Steve Buscemi movie?”
“Yep. My mom fucked Steve one night and fell in love. But she didn’t stick around.”
“You his kid?”
“Nah. This was over a decade before I was born. But when she saw that damn movie, she said she knew she’d name her first-born Trees. Fucking boy or girl.”
“Guess you’re lucky you’re a boy, huh? Trees would be a helluva name for a lady to live down.”
“Hmmm. Never thought of it that way, but you’re right!”
“About them maps. What the fuck is a Vagina Map, anyway? I’ve just got to know.”
“It’s a map of where they film pornos. New ones. Classic ones. Gang bangs and trannys as well. You want to know where any famous porno was shot, I’ve got a map to take you there.”
“Damn, that’s fucking fantastic! When are you going to get some more in?”
“You serious man? ‘Cause don’t you think this is the last place you’d want to be again? I mean, you’ve got brains on your shoes.”
“Fuck, I hate it when that happens. You know what I mean?”
“Not really, man. Not really.”
“Well, Trees, you wanna get out of the Vagina Map business? It can’t be that lucrative? I’ve got a proposition for ya. One that you can’t lose on.”
“Sure, man. Hey, what’s you name?”
“Alligator Jones, my friend. Alligator Jones.”
He squinted through the sunlight to get a look at my face when I said that. I figure he didn’t believe me when I said that. Hell, my teacher’s never believed it either. Especially when they looked at the name in the book and it said Henry. Damn, I hated that name so much as a kid.
In the distance, sirens started to approach. In the foreground, a crowd was starting to gather. So were flies.
“Kid, let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said.
“Let me grab my bag,” Trees said, lunging behind his little makeshift stand of old-ass milk crates.
I only had a second to make my decision. Was he going for a gun? Or was he really grabbing a bag. I guessed.
Correctly.
“I never go anywhere without my bag,” Trees said. “It’s got a copy of “A Confederacy of Dunces”, the movie “Elf” and a Chuck E. Cheese token.
“Sounds great, kid, let’s get moving. The cops’ll be here any moment.”
We mainlined it straight to my car -- a 1991 Toyota Celica. Moon roof, not a convertible. Stick, not automatic. She wasn’t exactly the car you’d expect to pull up on the day you were going to die. And that’s how I liked it.
“Blam!”
That may not have been the smartest way to avoid the little eco-friendly nerd, shooting off his face with a shotgun. But then again, maybe it was…
Looking down at my feet, a pool of blood was already soaking my brand new pair of Samba Classics. It’s the only shoe I wear, and pretty much the only one I want to wear. Although some vintage Ralph Sampson Puma black hi-tops would be rather stylin’.
“Shit, man. Why’d you go and do that?” a voice said from the left side. Near a booth marked “Free Vagina Maps.” Clearly, this sign had been tampered with, but it got my attention now.
“You sell Vagina maps?” I asked the person who had just spoken to me, without answering his question.
“Huh?” he said.
“Well, I guess since I didn’t answer your question, you don’t want to answer mine. Fair enough.”
Shhhh-click. I chambered another shell from the tube. This seemed to rattle my new-found friend. He was about 25 or so, wearing a “I <3 Lohan” T-shirt. For some reason, this did not strike me as creepy at all. Maybe it was the idea of a Vagina Map that made this possible.
“Sorry, bro,” Ted said. I found out his name was Ted, or at least that’s what he was telling the average consumer with his neon green plastic nametag attached just over where Lindsay’s left nipple would be. “I don’t have any more maps, and yes, they are Vagina Maps.”
“Well, you’ve interested me, Ted? Is that right?”
“What?”
“Is your name Ted?, Ted.” I said, matter-of-factly, not even keeping my finger on the trigger as I put the shotgun -- a Remington 887 -- over my right shoulder. My gun was plain brown. The guy at the gun show in Vanceboro, North Carolina, tried to get me to purchase a camouflage one. I told him to go fuck himself. Amazingly, he didn’t take offense and offered me a discount on shells. Nice fellow he was. He had better teeth than me as well. But, honestly, that’s not saying much, having not been in a dentists chair since I was 23 years old.
“No man, my name is Trees.”
“You serious? Like the Steve Buscemi movie?”
“Yep. My mom fucked Steve one night and fell in love. But she didn’t stick around.”
“You his kid?”
“Nah. This was over a decade before I was born. But when she saw that damn movie, she said she knew she’d name her first-born Trees. Fucking boy or girl.”
“Guess you’re lucky you’re a boy, huh? Trees would be a helluva name for a lady to live down.”
“Hmmm. Never thought of it that way, but you’re right!”
“About them maps. What the fuck is a Vagina Map, anyway? I’ve just got to know.”
“It’s a map of where they film pornos. New ones. Classic ones. Gang bangs and trannys as well. You want to know where any famous porno was shot, I’ve got a map to take you there.”
“Damn, that’s fucking fantastic! When are you going to get some more in?”
“You serious man? ‘Cause don’t you think this is the last place you’d want to be again? I mean, you’ve got brains on your shoes.”
“Fuck, I hate it when that happens. You know what I mean?”
“Not really, man. Not really.”
“Well, Trees, you wanna get out of the Vagina Map business? It can’t be that lucrative? I’ve got a proposition for ya. One that you can’t lose on.”
“Sure, man. Hey, what’s you name?”
“Alligator Jones, my friend. Alligator Jones.”
He squinted through the sunlight to get a look at my face when I said that. I figure he didn’t believe me when I said that. Hell, my teacher’s never believed it either. Especially when they looked at the name in the book and it said Henry. Damn, I hated that name so much as a kid.
In the distance, sirens started to approach. In the foreground, a crowd was starting to gather. So were flies.
“Kid, let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said.
“Let me grab my bag,” Trees said, lunging behind his little makeshift stand of old-ass milk crates.
I only had a second to make my decision. Was he going for a gun? Or was he really grabbing a bag. I guessed.
Correctly.
“I never go anywhere without my bag,” Trees said. “It’s got a copy of “A Confederacy of Dunces”, the movie “Elf” and a Chuck E. Cheese token.
“Sounds great, kid, let’s get moving. The cops’ll be here any moment.”
We mainlined it straight to my car -- a 1991 Toyota Celica. Moon roof, not a convertible. Stick, not automatic. She wasn’t exactly the car you’d expect to pull up on the day you were going to die. And that’s how I liked it.
Monday, November 22, 2010
be happy
“I’d rather be a peasant than a queen.”
I looked at my lady. That line just popped out of her mouth. Probably said by 1,000s of other poor folk over the centuries. A quick internet search would probably pop up even more references to it than that. Why she said it at that very moment, while we were lying in bed, covers on her and off of me, that I had no clue. I just knew that it made me happy.
She turned towards me and gave me a small kiss on the cheek. I could feel her breath on my head. These are the moments that keep me sane. And the moments that used to drive me insane when they were taken away. It’s hard to remember those times now. Like a glass of orange juice. You savor it while you have it, but afterwards, that acidy feeling sits in your throat. Yet every time you get breakfast, an orange juice isn’t far behind. Why? Because it’s good for you. Just like a woman.
Today was supposed to be my first day at a new job. But three weeks after accepting it, two weeks after giving my notice at my other job, the human resources lady - Linda - called me to tell me there had been an error in processing. My job was actually given to someone else. When she said those words, I waited for my turn in the conversation and asked simply “You said my job. What exactly does that mean?”
She was a bit flabbergasted by my tone, I have a feeling, and it was meant.
“I meant to say the job we offered you…” I didn’t allow her to finish her thought. “And I accepted.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jones,” but you were not supposed to be offered the position. Someone else was.”
“Well, tell Mr. or Mrs. Was to enjoy working for a you,” I said. “Good bye.”
At that moment, I felt nothing. I knew I had to tell her when she got home. I fucked up again. But this time, really, it wasn’t my fault. I wish that conversation with Linda had been recorded.
We had that conversation last night. There were heated words exchanged. What was going to happen to our nice rented apartment, which was a bit out of the price range of a zero-income family, which we now were. “I’ll figure something out,” I said. That usually meant charging stuff on my credit cards. I always swept in like Clint Eastwood in “Two Mules for Sister Sarah” and saved the day. However, in the end, I was more like Clyde from the “Every Which Way and Any Which Way” movies in the end.
After we figured out that our savings would last a couple of months, it got better. A bottle of wine for her and a six pack of Shiner for me helped the cause. We passed out naked, without a care, at least for the night. The record player played my favorite album, Side 1 of Tennessee, all night long. I didn’t even notice it was playing when she woke me with those words.
“Baby, you left the stereo on all night again,” she said next.
“Think of it as mood music,” was all that came out of me.
“I know what that album reminds you of, so I’d rather not have you in that mood,” she sort of snapped. But before I could get angry or sad or anything, she hopped up out of bed and skirted over to the window. I wondered if our neighbors -- a college professor and his mistress (what he called her) -- think about my gorgeous girlfriend standing in the open window naked every morning? I can say that I enjoy it quite a bit.
“Baby, there are a lot of birds out today.” I developed a kind of truce with the birds over the summer. For some reason, they congregate in our yard. Not anywhere else in the neighborhood. They were noisy. They ate everything in sight, which in our dirt, not grass, covered yard was saying something. And they never seemed to leave. Yes, you’d go outside and they’d flap, flap, flap on up to the wires above. Then sit there looking down, cackling the entire time. It made writing tough. Not that I was getting anywhere with it anyway. My story didn’t have an end. As much as I tried, it always seemed forced. Probably because I only believe you can write what you know. And I don’t know much. Especially an ending that isn’t heartbroken and callous. This story deserves better than that. My publisher even said so. “We all know you can write about a broken down man. How about a little redemption this time?” That’s what Pete, my man at the publisher said to me.
“Well, when it happens, I’ll write about it,” I said.
“Asshole, it has happened,” Pete yelled. “You’re living in your dream town. With your dream woman. You can’t hold down a job and you listen to LPs all day with a cold beer in your left hand and a pen in your right. What else have you ever wanted?”
“Fuck you.”
“Exactly. Be happy, dude. One day, you’re gonna wake up either dead or she’ll be gone.”
“Same thing.”
“Bye.”
I looked around the room. Saw my shorts on the floor and got out of bed. While walking across the hardwood floors I passed by the same window she looks out of every, single day. There was the professor, staring at me. My flaccid penis and my beer belly must have been a heavenly sight. He waved. I waved back.
Not the best way to start a day, but certainly better than most.
I looked at my lady. That line just popped out of her mouth. Probably said by 1,000s of other poor folk over the centuries. A quick internet search would probably pop up even more references to it than that. Why she said it at that very moment, while we were lying in bed, covers on her and off of me, that I had no clue. I just knew that it made me happy.
She turned towards me and gave me a small kiss on the cheek. I could feel her breath on my head. These are the moments that keep me sane. And the moments that used to drive me insane when they were taken away. It’s hard to remember those times now. Like a glass of orange juice. You savor it while you have it, but afterwards, that acidy feeling sits in your throat. Yet every time you get breakfast, an orange juice isn’t far behind. Why? Because it’s good for you. Just like a woman.
Today was supposed to be my first day at a new job. But three weeks after accepting it, two weeks after giving my notice at my other job, the human resources lady - Linda - called me to tell me there had been an error in processing. My job was actually given to someone else. When she said those words, I waited for my turn in the conversation and asked simply “You said my job. What exactly does that mean?”
She was a bit flabbergasted by my tone, I have a feeling, and it was meant.
“I meant to say the job we offered you…” I didn’t allow her to finish her thought. “And I accepted.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jones,” but you were not supposed to be offered the position. Someone else was.”
“Well, tell Mr. or Mrs. Was to enjoy working for a you,” I said. “Good bye.”
At that moment, I felt nothing. I knew I had to tell her when she got home. I fucked up again. But this time, really, it wasn’t my fault. I wish that conversation with Linda had been recorded.
We had that conversation last night. There were heated words exchanged. What was going to happen to our nice rented apartment, which was a bit out of the price range of a zero-income family, which we now were. “I’ll figure something out,” I said. That usually meant charging stuff on my credit cards. I always swept in like Clint Eastwood in “Two Mules for Sister Sarah” and saved the day. However, in the end, I was more like Clyde from the “Every Which Way and Any Which Way” movies in the end.
After we figured out that our savings would last a couple of months, it got better. A bottle of wine for her and a six pack of Shiner for me helped the cause. We passed out naked, without a care, at least for the night. The record player played my favorite album, Side 1 of Tennessee, all night long. I didn’t even notice it was playing when she woke me with those words.
“Baby, you left the stereo on all night again,” she said next.
“Think of it as mood music,” was all that came out of me.
“I know what that album reminds you of, so I’d rather not have you in that mood,” she sort of snapped. But before I could get angry or sad or anything, she hopped up out of bed and skirted over to the window. I wondered if our neighbors -- a college professor and his mistress (what he called her) -- think about my gorgeous girlfriend standing in the open window naked every morning? I can say that I enjoy it quite a bit.
“Baby, there are a lot of birds out today.” I developed a kind of truce with the birds over the summer. For some reason, they congregate in our yard. Not anywhere else in the neighborhood. They were noisy. They ate everything in sight, which in our dirt, not grass, covered yard was saying something. And they never seemed to leave. Yes, you’d go outside and they’d flap, flap, flap on up to the wires above. Then sit there looking down, cackling the entire time. It made writing tough. Not that I was getting anywhere with it anyway. My story didn’t have an end. As much as I tried, it always seemed forced. Probably because I only believe you can write what you know. And I don’t know much. Especially an ending that isn’t heartbroken and callous. This story deserves better than that. My publisher even said so. “We all know you can write about a broken down man. How about a little redemption this time?” That’s what Pete, my man at the publisher said to me.
“Well, when it happens, I’ll write about it,” I said.
“Asshole, it has happened,” Pete yelled. “You’re living in your dream town. With your dream woman. You can’t hold down a job and you listen to LPs all day with a cold beer in your left hand and a pen in your right. What else have you ever wanted?”
“Fuck you.”
“Exactly. Be happy, dude. One day, you’re gonna wake up either dead or she’ll be gone.”
“Same thing.”
“Bye.”
I looked around the room. Saw my shorts on the floor and got out of bed. While walking across the hardwood floors I passed by the same window she looks out of every, single day. There was the professor, staring at me. My flaccid penis and my beer belly must have been a heavenly sight. He waved. I waved back.
Not the best way to start a day, but certainly better than most.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
ring...ring
Echoes are the first thing you notice walking into this once-proud room. Even if moccasins are being worn, footsteps are impossible to hide.
Friends and enemies alike are gone. Debates are few. Arguments, non-existent.
When a phone rings now, the person at the desk cringes. Because the person at the other end could be a few rooms away. With a stack of papers for you to sign. Sign away your last ditch effort at wanting to do something good. Something important. Something that matters. Eventually, the numbers will fall the right way. It has nothing to do with luck. Not how good or bad you are. Those days don’t exist anymore. Instead, you’re an item on a spreadsheet. When your worth becomes less than your cost, the knife it falls.
Unions concede wages now and consider it a big victory. Pensions are gone. That 401k match? Ha. We promise we’ll get it going again by the end of the next fiscal year. All the while the bonuses at the top of the food chain continue. $1.3 million here. $2.2 million there.
I never wanted to be at the top. I figure other than great white sharks, grizzly bears and maybe piranhas, I was in a pretty good place, why did I ever want to be a CEO or Executive Editor? Seemed like too much awfulness.
Now, I’m in a newsroom with very little news people in it. If you dare rock the boat, you’re labeled a trouble maker, a malcontent, or maybe even just an asshole. I’ve been called all three by editors in the past. All those editors are out of the business now. None of them were bought out. None of them seemed to care. They were fired. Simply put, for being bad at their jobs.
As I sit at my cubicle, waiting for what’s coming next, I think of the day I made a mistake in my career. The only one, really. I quit one job before I should have. That led to bad choices for quite a while. Not mistakes, because I was trying to do the right thing, just bad choices as they turned out.
The last job I had, the phone rang on a warm January day. I had come in to work early to get some stuff done ahead of time. Interviews were complete, story half written when I saw a co-worker get a call. He went into the HR office. Ten minutes or so later, he came out, head hung low with a cardboard box in his hand. Soon, he was gone. The scene repeated for another co-worker. The day of reckoning had finally come to this little place.
Finally, my phone rang. Ever since my first days on the job, I kind of expected that call. I was paid well for the first time in my life. And I was happy doing my job. A relationship had sputtered, sending me into an emotional hell, which cost the company money. And, never being the ass-kissing type, I didn’t make the right friends.
Ring. I picked it up on the first ring. My boss looked a me in horror. He’d brought me into this. Now, he had to watch me leave.
“Well, it’s been fun,” I said as I got up to go to the HR woman’s office.
“Sorry man,” my boss said. I didn’t believe him then, still don’t.
I walked in to the HR office. Where the HR head and the EE were sitting. I took off my ID badge and toss it on her desk.
“Where do I sign?” I asked with a smile.
“Thanks for making this easy,” the EE said.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” I replied. “It’s the way of the beast now.”
“Sadly, it is,” he said. Not looking at me.
I felt a wave of euphoria come over me when I exited the building. Honestly, other than a few first kisses and a slow dance I hadn’t felt this good, this relieved, this happy since pushing the accelerator to begin my first solo cross-country drive in 1994.
Everything was a blank slate. Well, everything but my debt, which I wasn’t too worried about at the moment. What was next? Anything was possible.
So, that begs the question: why are you back in Eastern North Carolina, sitting and waiting for a phone call? I guess I wasn’t ready for the unknown. The change. The exit.
This time, however, I am. Seven months of toil, with one major rejection later, I know it’s time to say goodbye. To a lot of things. One by one I’ve tried working through them. Some I tossed aside. Others I made a shaky peace with. Lastly, that telephone call needs to come.
And I know it will. It’s just a matter of patiently waiting.
…
Friends and enemies alike are gone. Debates are few. Arguments, non-existent.
When a phone rings now, the person at the desk cringes. Because the person at the other end could be a few rooms away. With a stack of papers for you to sign. Sign away your last ditch effort at wanting to do something good. Something important. Something that matters. Eventually, the numbers will fall the right way. It has nothing to do with luck. Not how good or bad you are. Those days don’t exist anymore. Instead, you’re an item on a spreadsheet. When your worth becomes less than your cost, the knife it falls.
Unions concede wages now and consider it a big victory. Pensions are gone. That 401k match? Ha. We promise we’ll get it going again by the end of the next fiscal year. All the while the bonuses at the top of the food chain continue. $1.3 million here. $2.2 million there.
I never wanted to be at the top. I figure other than great white sharks, grizzly bears and maybe piranhas, I was in a pretty good place, why did I ever want to be a CEO or Executive Editor? Seemed like too much awfulness.
Now, I’m in a newsroom with very little news people in it. If you dare rock the boat, you’re labeled a trouble maker, a malcontent, or maybe even just an asshole. I’ve been called all three by editors in the past. All those editors are out of the business now. None of them were bought out. None of them seemed to care. They were fired. Simply put, for being bad at their jobs.
As I sit at my cubicle, waiting for what’s coming next, I think of the day I made a mistake in my career. The only one, really. I quit one job before I should have. That led to bad choices for quite a while. Not mistakes, because I was trying to do the right thing, just bad choices as they turned out.
The last job I had, the phone rang on a warm January day. I had come in to work early to get some stuff done ahead of time. Interviews were complete, story half written when I saw a co-worker get a call. He went into the HR office. Ten minutes or so later, he came out, head hung low with a cardboard box in his hand. Soon, he was gone. The scene repeated for another co-worker. The day of reckoning had finally come to this little place.
Finally, my phone rang. Ever since my first days on the job, I kind of expected that call. I was paid well for the first time in my life. And I was happy doing my job. A relationship had sputtered, sending me into an emotional hell, which cost the company money. And, never being the ass-kissing type, I didn’t make the right friends.
Ring. I picked it up on the first ring. My boss looked a me in horror. He’d brought me into this. Now, he had to watch me leave.
“Well, it’s been fun,” I said as I got up to go to the HR woman’s office.
“Sorry man,” my boss said. I didn’t believe him then, still don’t.
I walked in to the HR office. Where the HR head and the EE were sitting. I took off my ID badge and toss it on her desk.
“Where do I sign?” I asked with a smile.
“Thanks for making this easy,” the EE said.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” I replied. “It’s the way of the beast now.”
“Sadly, it is,” he said. Not looking at me.
I felt a wave of euphoria come over me when I exited the building. Honestly, other than a few first kisses and a slow dance I hadn’t felt this good, this relieved, this happy since pushing the accelerator to begin my first solo cross-country drive in 1994.
Everything was a blank slate. Well, everything but my debt, which I wasn’t too worried about at the moment. What was next? Anything was possible.
So, that begs the question: why are you back in Eastern North Carolina, sitting and waiting for a phone call? I guess I wasn’t ready for the unknown. The change. The exit.
This time, however, I am. Seven months of toil, with one major rejection later, I know it’s time to say goodbye. To a lot of things. One by one I’ve tried working through them. Some I tossed aside. Others I made a shaky peace with. Lastly, that telephone call needs to come.
And I know it will. It’s just a matter of patiently waiting.
…
Saturday, November 20, 2010
news...
yeah. you'll come to expect me not to fulfill my promises. but, the last two days, found out news that may change things for me. not for the bad, really, even though it could be perceived that way.
writing is on pause tonight. maybe i'll hit this thing up after the fights tonight. but for now, i'm taking my mind off things with UFC, grilling and beer.
writing is on pause tonight. maybe i'll hit this thing up after the fights tonight. but for now, i'm taking my mind off things with UFC, grilling and beer.
Friday, November 19, 2010
repeat...(door slam)
had one of those days at work today. need to rest up for another one today. had an idea to go with "that question." i'll try to go with it tomorrow when i get out of work early. or maybe in the morn.
here's a repeat from my other blog. i kind of liked where this one was going...and hey, i actually finished this one, ha!
Door Slam
Chapter 1
as the miles roll by on the greyhound bus, my mind can't focus on anything but the abusively lound conversation going on behind me. there are two people, both who like the sound of their voice, going on and on about nothing. topics range from viagra and it's greatness to barack obama and why they voted for him. their conversation also veers into this kind of territory: getting him (i don't know who him is) "a man", the internet, smoking crack, driving a pick up truck, jacksonville (don't know if it's florida or NC, leaning towards fla...), and on and on...
it doesn't get any better than this, i start to think...
and of course that loud ass conversation -- the only one on the bus -- is directly behind me.
ugh. this in a jamaican accent...
and of course, the chair in front if me is leaned all the way back into my knees.
next door to me, a fat ladyd in a redskins starter jacket has just woken from her snore-filled snooze to pull a greasy breakfast biscuit from her pocket. yum. of course, after two bites and hopefully a swallow or two, she starts to fall asleep again, buscuit still in dirty, stubby hand.
then, a phone rings. loudly.
gasp, in a jamaican voice:
"you have the wrong number, because if you're not, you're playing with your life mother fucker."
it amazes me how much this guy sounds like peter tosh. now i've got 'steppin' razor' in my head. not a bad thing at all. thank you crazy bus riding, loud mouthed jamaican guy.
how else can one describe this scene? i've been on a greyhound before. actually many, many times. the last time being my eight hour trip from phoenix to las vegas...anyway, while texting mandy, she said 'you're dealing with livestock' and i think she hit it right on the head. are we headed towards some kind of slaughter?
sleeping beauty has dropped her buscuit on the floor twice now, her head bobbing up and down, then slowly the buscuit slips from her grip. eventually, she notices and stretches to the floor, very gingerly for some reason, scooping up the parts and putting them back in the wrapper. the first time, it was almost immediate the reaction. the second, not so fast.
now, here we go, a third time...and once again she struggles to stay awake, then falls asleep, then drops the buscuit. as the road goes by in the background, and my urge to chuckle out loud subsides, she reaches down and paws at the food again...looks around, then takes a bite.
all i can think is why bother as she juggles with the complexity of it all. pick up, drop. pick up, drop. now almost like somekind of comedy skit that just is too absurd to draw a laugh from anyone with a heart...
but damn it is funny. like a dripping faucet at night, however, it is enough to drive one mad.
hey, the conversation behind me has turned to weaves now. and how removing my hair and replacing it is good. and suddenly, switching to running out of gas while driving to buy some juice.
i feel bad, once again, for finding humor in the sadness of it all. of course, it's sad that i'm here, listening to this. somehow i got in this position...
#30#
Chapter 2
maybe i should have taken it as a sign when the bus driver closed the door in my face as i was trying to board this thing? i mean, the army guy cut right in front of me, guess i was too slow walking for him -- a guy that tried to get on the bus while it was still unloading and was scolded by the skinny, yet fat guy who would soon have my life in his hands at 60 mph...
anyway, my dad came home to pick me up from my parents' house at about 9 a.m. why he came early, i'll never know. i said i needed to be there at 10:15. it's about a 20 minute drive. about a 1/2 hour later, he's asking me 'you ready to go?' i know that means he needs to go, so i say 'yeah.'
we drive, chit chat about my car, his car, mom's car. not much else really. kind of funny, kind of typical.
about halfway out of hopewell -- my hometown -- i ask if we can stop at mcdonald's. i really have a craving for an egg mcmuffin. mcdonald's was the topic of conversation at work the other day. how no one goes there. personally, i don't believe anyone, but does it really matter? i want an egg mcmuffin, and i'm going to get it.
we pull up to the mcdonald's the line is about 15 cars deep, so i get out and go inside, where shockingly, there is no line, no wait. just a smiling 23 year old (or so) puerto rican girl. her name tag is covered by some kind of necklace thing, so i can't write it down. guess i could just make one up -- so puerto rican gal, you shall be named Celestina. anyways, Celestina smiles and says 'may i hep you' and i say hello, good morning, i'd like two egg mcmuffins.' we make eye contact, and there is nothing there. both ways. she says '4.66' so i hand over a five. she counts out my change and i wait.
there are no other customers in the place. kind of weird, but i guess no one wants to get cold. it's probably 35 or so degrees outside, cloudy and very dry. that wintry dry that leaves you all ashy. but i have dry skin, so maybe it doesn't have that same effect on you. who knows?
a minute or so later, i get my bag of mcfun and leave.
my dad still sitting in the suv, waiting for me. it's my sister's old SUV a toyota that leaks oil and skips in first gear sometimes. i drove that car to florida back in may of 2006. the last time i ever saw emily. packed that thing up with my stuff, six years worth plus a lot of the years before as well. we barely spoke that hot late spring day in gainesville. i cried. i tried not to cry. she and her (and my) friend tracy just tried to really stay out of my way. i had hoped to have a conversation, but it was obvious she wanted nothing to do with that. she and i said good bye. i said 'you know, i still want to be friends.' she said 'i know.'
that was the last conversation i had with emily. the woman i dated for six years.
it's kind of funny/tragic looking back at it.
anyway, back to the SUV...we drive by the fort lee base. it's growing. very fast. i wonder if the end of the bush wars in the middle east will slow the growth. the thing that everyone in the tri-cities (hopewell, petersburg and colonial heights) is counting on to save them...i have my doubts.
we drive into petersburg. it's a shit hole. there's the old nightclub that used to be a strip club, a discoteque and i think once again a strip club. for a little bit it was a restaurant, but that didn't last long. this strip looks a lot like what i think detroit looks like now. boarded up businesses and closed places with lots of memories and very little life.
there are three porno shops within a one mile stretch, however. so that industry appears to be booming. they even still have 25 cent peep shows. who would've thunk those would still be around? but i guess it still doesn't take too long to do what you have to do with a peep show.
i guess it really is true that some things never change.
we take a couple of turns to get to downtown, and dad misses the turn for the busstop. we circle back around, and he drops me off.
"keep me posted." he says.
"i will," i reply and shut the door.
it's 9:58 a.m. my bus leaves at 11:20.
i walk up to what i figure is the door to the station.
"that's not a door," a black guy with an orange hat that is way too big for him says.
clearly it IS a door, but i take him seriously, he looks like he knows what he's talking about.
"which one is it?" i ask. seeing clearly there is only one other choice.
"that one," he says, taking a drag from his cigarette and pointing at that door. which is glass, but you can't see through it. dirty. smudged nastiness.
i try to touch as little of it as possible as i enter the station.
it's now 9:59 a.m.
#30#
Chapter 3
after pushing the doors open, i look down at the floor. it's an old habit of mine, probably born out of my shyness during my 'formative' years. you know, the 'oh shit, she's walking right at me' thing when in high school and the cheerleader walks by in her short skirt.
this floor is old. it's been through a lot. it's black and white and it looks as if it was made out of pieces of marbles that were smashed with a hammer, then smoothed over and varnished. and then puked on by years of filth. years of the rank and file, the poor, and the folks stuck without a train ride or plan ride. you know, steve martin and john candy in planes, trains and automobiles.
i see the cashier and i pull out my printed out receipt from the internet. he's got a ski cap on. it's orange and blue. maybe somekind of chicago bears hat. but without any kind of identifying mark. he's chomping on some kind of fastfood, i'm assuming it's a breakfast kind of thing, but i really don't know. he takes a swig on his soda, with a straw of course, and chats with the lady in front of me.
i step up behind her, about five feet back or so.
'hey man,' he says. 'get behind the line!'
i look down, nothing. i look behind me, and there is a faint outline of a line. it's covered in dirt and dust and who knows. it's red, i think.
there's no sign telling you to stay behind the line. nothing.
but i step behind it.
the other 10 or so folks in the station look at me. a television, most likely made in 1980 or so, blares in the background.
'amateur' they must all be thinking.
all i can think about is my car. sitting at home, not working. the only reason i'm standing in this bus station in petersburg, virginia, which happens to be the town i was born in 37 or so years ago.
i look around some more. the bathrooms are to the right, near where i entered. they have locks on the doors. the ones that you have to put a quarter in to get them to open. i wonder how many dirty hands have touched those locks, hoping it would just open without an insertion.
and how long it's been since they've been cleaned.
'don't want to know,' the voice in my head says. damn that voice. sometimes i wonder if i'm mouthing those words, or even saying them outloud. judging by looks i sometimes receive, it must happen sometimes. hell, everyone i've ever become friends with, at some point in our relationship will have a 'huh?' moment and ask me what i said.
usually, it was something i didn't even know i said out loud.
towards the front of the building are big windows. the view of the city isn't very awe-inspiring. but really, what is at a greyhound station?
there's a doctor's office. a bank and a drive up teller. a car is sitting outside of it, grey smoke billowing out of the exhaust pipe. killing a few more leaves in the amazon.
on the other side of the view is a hotel. the kind of place i used to stay at when i was 22 and didn't know any better. the kind of place i stayed when i was 32 because i couldn't afford anything else. the kind of place at 37 that i'd consider staying in over my car on a cold night...
'next!' the guy behind the counter says loudly.
since i'm the only one in line now, i can only assume i'm next.
'need to get my tickets,' i say.
he looks at me. kind of giving me the once over.
'where you headed?' he asks.
'greenville, nc.'
'you pay already?'
'yep. here's my number.'
he looks at it. types into his computer, that i can't see, but only assume it's a computer. i kind of giggle inside, hoping that it's a wang computer from the 1980s. 'heh, heh. wang.' i think in my best beavis and butthead voiceover.
'here's your ticket'
i take it, put in my backpack and go walk away.
there's a vending machine. sodas cost $1.75. a 1 1/2 ounce bag of chips is a buck. no wonder poor people stay poor. but i've got experience at that.
i look at the seats. a lot of empty ones, but very few around the television. there is a group of blacks taking up one row. a mother and daughter, what i can only assume is a sister, cousin or whatever and a grandmother.
in another spot, two guys dressed in camoflauge -- desert camo -- are counting change to get a gatorade.
one of them gets up and puts it in the machine. gets a red.
second guy plops his money in. pushes the button.
nothing.
'shit man, this thing took my money,' he says.
the sign on the machine says 'no refunds,' but the guy, probably no older than 19 goes up to the ticket desk. the guy is gone, but in his place is the guy who had been standing outside when i arrived.
'hey, that thing too my money,' the army brat says.
'so.' the outside guy says.
'damn.'
'did you try kicking it?' outsider retorts.
'nope.' and he walks up and gives it a swift kick.
nothing.
for about a minute, he proceeds to kick, punch and shake the machine. nothing.
finally, the outside guy steps up and kicks it.
maybe he had the special spot, but soon the cla-clunking sound of a gatorade bottle falling down the shute emits from the machine. out plop two gatorade limes. outside guy leans down, picks them up and flips one to the army guy.
'here ya go, man' he says.
'thanks, you're a life-safer. that was my last bit of change.'
i turn around and eat my two english muffins. it makes me thirsty. but i don't get a drink. not really in the mood for kicking.
a lady in her early 30s walks in and sits near me. a few seconds later, a girl -- about 16 or so, sits next to her. i look at them and they look at me. no smiles, no nothing. just looks.
this is obviously a mother and daughter. they look too much alike not to be.
finally, the young girls speaks...'do you care if i turn it?'
my initial thought is turn what? but finally my slow mind drifts toward the noise beside me from the old TV. one of those morning talk shows is on.
'nah, do what you want' i say and smile.
no reaction. except she gets up and turns the channel. to the maury povich show.
'oh, i love this show,' the younger black girl screams.
it's about secret crushes. i go back to my place in my mind.
halfway through, i glance up. all 10 folks in the place are within five feet of the TV. riveted by maury povich's corny lines laced with bad sexual innuendo. so bad, i don't even think gene raburn or chuck woolery would have ever uttered them. maybe bob barker in an after the 'price is right' wrap party, but no one else.
for some reason, one of the people on the show is salsa dancing.
'i can dig me some salsa!' a woman, who i hadn't seen before, says. she has dreadlocks (sort of) and a david letterman/madonna gap between her teeth. she then proceeds to salsa dance.
it's actually good, too.
maury povich ends. and a bus pulls up. everyone but one army guy leave.
quiet envelops the building. except for the opening credits of the steve wilko show. amazing, i think. the bouncer from jerry springer got his own show. what a great country...
i pull out a book and read. fully expecting a bill hicks moment to occur at any time...but, like every other time i think maybe it will happen, it doesn't.
soon, i'm standing outside, getting ready to board my bus.
i wait at the right spot, but military guy doesn't. he tries to get on, but is told to get in line as the folks getting off in petersburg, get off.
he backs up behind me. then when the people stop getting off, he dashes in front of me and goes in.
the doors slam in my face.
#30#
Chapter 4
the slam of the door pops only one thought into my head...that of arizona.
i open up the door to my classic suburban home. it's probably 110 degrees outside, and all i can think about is 'why the fuck are we fighting?'
the last couple of days have been pretty bad. we hang out, we smile, we kiss, we fuck, and then usually sometime later, we fight. i've never been in a realtionship like this. it's oddly fun. and i don't like thinking about it that way. but of course, maybe that's just me thinking back upon it.
much like i know now why we fought so damn much. to quote ronnie lane via the voice of rod stewart 'i wish that, i knew what i know now....'
but it don't work that way...never fucking will.
sometimes a bright flash gives you perspective...but this time it doesn't. i see the sun, the dead grass all around. but who really waters their lawn in arizona in the middle of the summer? not a bunch of drug adled morons and me, the college student.
i don't even remember what we are fighting about. it's probably something i said, something i did, but i seriously don't remember.
maybe i didn't do something the right way.
all i know is she's saying this 'i don't want to be with you anymore.'
i plead all i can to keep her around. but it doesn't seem to matter. i'm not crying, because at this point, i really hadn't learned how to yet.
well, not true, exactly, but honestly, i think i'd only cried over things that i should never have cried over....mainly because really i'd never suffered real pain.
pain, yes. real pain? no.
after a few back and forth barbs, the fighting calms down. she's crying now, like she does a lot. i wish i knew how to keep her from crying. i wish i could fix it. yet, i have no idea.
obviously, i am not prepared for such things.
these emotions continued for years. the fights? they continued for years.
in between, there were a lot of miles, a lot of great times. a lot of strange times. a lot of fights.
through it all, i didn't waver.
until i left.
until she told me the truth.
not about us. well, yes, about us. and it changed me. i don't think it changed her. but it changed me. and the way i perceived us.
i wasn't emotionally strong enough of a person to deal with it. so i shrunk. i balled myself up.
and i got on a bus and got out of town. well, symbolically. metaphorically.
now, here i am, so many years later and the bus door just slammed into my face. and all of that popped into my head. i didn't think it all through immediately. but seconds later i did. and the words flowed from my hand to my pen to the paper. mostly random, but i knew what it all meant. i knew where it was headed.
i wish i could turn it off. turn it off like a faucet. just reach up and twist. and the flow stops. never to be heard from again until someone comes along and twists it again.
fuck. life isn't that orderly. at least not for me. maybe for the librarian here in town. maybe for the guy who stands on the side of the road in an uncle sam suit during tax time. maybe for the woman at big lots with the tribal tattoo on her neck for everyone to see who actually perked up when i asked how she was doing after she asked me and i answered in a way that wasn't just "good."
anyway.
the doors on the bus open up.
'oh man, i didn't see you there too,' the bus driver says.
'not a problem,' i say.
i look up the aisle. a lot of eyes are upon me. i'm not uncomfortable about it, but they arent' friendly eyes. reminds me of some old movie where the innocent child somehow ends up in the forest and the eyes of the beasts of the forest are upon her.
so i look down at the ground, then up again, getting my bearings.
there is one place with two open seats.
i make a b-line for it. sit down and sigh.
'whew,' i think. 'only five, six hours to go!'
next to me is an overweight black woman in a redskins starter jacket. behind me, the beginnings of a conversation. a man and a woman.
one has sort of a southern mixed with new jersey accent. the other, quite obviously is jamaican.
'this should be interesting....."
The End.
here's a repeat from my other blog. i kind of liked where this one was going...and hey, i actually finished this one, ha!
Door Slam
Chapter 1
as the miles roll by on the greyhound bus, my mind can't focus on anything but the abusively lound conversation going on behind me. there are two people, both who like the sound of their voice, going on and on about nothing. topics range from viagra and it's greatness to barack obama and why they voted for him. their conversation also veers into this kind of territory: getting him (i don't know who him is) "a man", the internet, smoking crack, driving a pick up truck, jacksonville (don't know if it's florida or NC, leaning towards fla...), and on and on...
it doesn't get any better than this, i start to think...
and of course that loud ass conversation -- the only one on the bus -- is directly behind me.
ugh. this in a jamaican accent...
and of course, the chair in front if me is leaned all the way back into my knees.
next door to me, a fat ladyd in a redskins starter jacket has just woken from her snore-filled snooze to pull a greasy breakfast biscuit from her pocket. yum. of course, after two bites and hopefully a swallow or two, she starts to fall asleep again, buscuit still in dirty, stubby hand.
then, a phone rings. loudly.
gasp, in a jamaican voice:
"you have the wrong number, because if you're not, you're playing with your life mother fucker."
it amazes me how much this guy sounds like peter tosh. now i've got 'steppin' razor' in my head. not a bad thing at all. thank you crazy bus riding, loud mouthed jamaican guy.
how else can one describe this scene? i've been on a greyhound before. actually many, many times. the last time being my eight hour trip from phoenix to las vegas...anyway, while texting mandy, she said 'you're dealing with livestock' and i think she hit it right on the head. are we headed towards some kind of slaughter?
sleeping beauty has dropped her buscuit on the floor twice now, her head bobbing up and down, then slowly the buscuit slips from her grip. eventually, she notices and stretches to the floor, very gingerly for some reason, scooping up the parts and putting them back in the wrapper. the first time, it was almost immediate the reaction. the second, not so fast.
now, here we go, a third time...and once again she struggles to stay awake, then falls asleep, then drops the buscuit. as the road goes by in the background, and my urge to chuckle out loud subsides, she reaches down and paws at the food again...looks around, then takes a bite.
all i can think is why bother as she juggles with the complexity of it all. pick up, drop. pick up, drop. now almost like somekind of comedy skit that just is too absurd to draw a laugh from anyone with a heart...
but damn it is funny. like a dripping faucet at night, however, it is enough to drive one mad.
hey, the conversation behind me has turned to weaves now. and how removing my hair and replacing it is good. and suddenly, switching to running out of gas while driving to buy some juice.
i feel bad, once again, for finding humor in the sadness of it all. of course, it's sad that i'm here, listening to this. somehow i got in this position...
#30#
Chapter 2
maybe i should have taken it as a sign when the bus driver closed the door in my face as i was trying to board this thing? i mean, the army guy cut right in front of me, guess i was too slow walking for him -- a guy that tried to get on the bus while it was still unloading and was scolded by the skinny, yet fat guy who would soon have my life in his hands at 60 mph...
anyway, my dad came home to pick me up from my parents' house at about 9 a.m. why he came early, i'll never know. i said i needed to be there at 10:15. it's about a 20 minute drive. about a 1/2 hour later, he's asking me 'you ready to go?' i know that means he needs to go, so i say 'yeah.'
we drive, chit chat about my car, his car, mom's car. not much else really. kind of funny, kind of typical.
about halfway out of hopewell -- my hometown -- i ask if we can stop at mcdonald's. i really have a craving for an egg mcmuffin. mcdonald's was the topic of conversation at work the other day. how no one goes there. personally, i don't believe anyone, but does it really matter? i want an egg mcmuffin, and i'm going to get it.
we pull up to the mcdonald's the line is about 15 cars deep, so i get out and go inside, where shockingly, there is no line, no wait. just a smiling 23 year old (or so) puerto rican girl. her name tag is covered by some kind of necklace thing, so i can't write it down. guess i could just make one up -- so puerto rican gal, you shall be named Celestina. anyways, Celestina smiles and says 'may i hep you' and i say hello, good morning, i'd like two egg mcmuffins.' we make eye contact, and there is nothing there. both ways. she says '4.66' so i hand over a five. she counts out my change and i wait.
there are no other customers in the place. kind of weird, but i guess no one wants to get cold. it's probably 35 or so degrees outside, cloudy and very dry. that wintry dry that leaves you all ashy. but i have dry skin, so maybe it doesn't have that same effect on you. who knows?
a minute or so later, i get my bag of mcfun and leave.
my dad still sitting in the suv, waiting for me. it's my sister's old SUV a toyota that leaks oil and skips in first gear sometimes. i drove that car to florida back in may of 2006. the last time i ever saw emily. packed that thing up with my stuff, six years worth plus a lot of the years before as well. we barely spoke that hot late spring day in gainesville. i cried. i tried not to cry. she and her (and my) friend tracy just tried to really stay out of my way. i had hoped to have a conversation, but it was obvious she wanted nothing to do with that. she and i said good bye. i said 'you know, i still want to be friends.' she said 'i know.'
that was the last conversation i had with emily. the woman i dated for six years.
it's kind of funny/tragic looking back at it.
anyway, back to the SUV...we drive by the fort lee base. it's growing. very fast. i wonder if the end of the bush wars in the middle east will slow the growth. the thing that everyone in the tri-cities (hopewell, petersburg and colonial heights) is counting on to save them...i have my doubts.
we drive into petersburg. it's a shit hole. there's the old nightclub that used to be a strip club, a discoteque and i think once again a strip club. for a little bit it was a restaurant, but that didn't last long. this strip looks a lot like what i think detroit looks like now. boarded up businesses and closed places with lots of memories and very little life.
there are three porno shops within a one mile stretch, however. so that industry appears to be booming. they even still have 25 cent peep shows. who would've thunk those would still be around? but i guess it still doesn't take too long to do what you have to do with a peep show.
i guess it really is true that some things never change.
we take a couple of turns to get to downtown, and dad misses the turn for the busstop. we circle back around, and he drops me off.
"keep me posted." he says.
"i will," i reply and shut the door.
it's 9:58 a.m. my bus leaves at 11:20.
i walk up to what i figure is the door to the station.
"that's not a door," a black guy with an orange hat that is way too big for him says.
clearly it IS a door, but i take him seriously, he looks like he knows what he's talking about.
"which one is it?" i ask. seeing clearly there is only one other choice.
"that one," he says, taking a drag from his cigarette and pointing at that door. which is glass, but you can't see through it. dirty. smudged nastiness.
i try to touch as little of it as possible as i enter the station.
it's now 9:59 a.m.
#30#
Chapter 3
after pushing the doors open, i look down at the floor. it's an old habit of mine, probably born out of my shyness during my 'formative' years. you know, the 'oh shit, she's walking right at me' thing when in high school and the cheerleader walks by in her short skirt.
this floor is old. it's been through a lot. it's black and white and it looks as if it was made out of pieces of marbles that were smashed with a hammer, then smoothed over and varnished. and then puked on by years of filth. years of the rank and file, the poor, and the folks stuck without a train ride or plan ride. you know, steve martin and john candy in planes, trains and automobiles.
i see the cashier and i pull out my printed out receipt from the internet. he's got a ski cap on. it's orange and blue. maybe somekind of chicago bears hat. but without any kind of identifying mark. he's chomping on some kind of fastfood, i'm assuming it's a breakfast kind of thing, but i really don't know. he takes a swig on his soda, with a straw of course, and chats with the lady in front of me.
i step up behind her, about five feet back or so.
'hey man,' he says. 'get behind the line!'
i look down, nothing. i look behind me, and there is a faint outline of a line. it's covered in dirt and dust and who knows. it's red, i think.
there's no sign telling you to stay behind the line. nothing.
but i step behind it.
the other 10 or so folks in the station look at me. a television, most likely made in 1980 or so, blares in the background.
'amateur' they must all be thinking.
all i can think about is my car. sitting at home, not working. the only reason i'm standing in this bus station in petersburg, virginia, which happens to be the town i was born in 37 or so years ago.
i look around some more. the bathrooms are to the right, near where i entered. they have locks on the doors. the ones that you have to put a quarter in to get them to open. i wonder how many dirty hands have touched those locks, hoping it would just open without an insertion.
and how long it's been since they've been cleaned.
'don't want to know,' the voice in my head says. damn that voice. sometimes i wonder if i'm mouthing those words, or even saying them outloud. judging by looks i sometimes receive, it must happen sometimes. hell, everyone i've ever become friends with, at some point in our relationship will have a 'huh?' moment and ask me what i said.
usually, it was something i didn't even know i said out loud.
towards the front of the building are big windows. the view of the city isn't very awe-inspiring. but really, what is at a greyhound station?
there's a doctor's office. a bank and a drive up teller. a car is sitting outside of it, grey smoke billowing out of the exhaust pipe. killing a few more leaves in the amazon.
on the other side of the view is a hotel. the kind of place i used to stay at when i was 22 and didn't know any better. the kind of place i stayed when i was 32 because i couldn't afford anything else. the kind of place at 37 that i'd consider staying in over my car on a cold night...
'next!' the guy behind the counter says loudly.
since i'm the only one in line now, i can only assume i'm next.
'need to get my tickets,' i say.
he looks at me. kind of giving me the once over.
'where you headed?' he asks.
'greenville, nc.'
'you pay already?'
'yep. here's my number.'
he looks at it. types into his computer, that i can't see, but only assume it's a computer. i kind of giggle inside, hoping that it's a wang computer from the 1980s. 'heh, heh. wang.' i think in my best beavis and butthead voiceover.
'here's your ticket'
i take it, put in my backpack and go walk away.
there's a vending machine. sodas cost $1.75. a 1 1/2 ounce bag of chips is a buck. no wonder poor people stay poor. but i've got experience at that.
i look at the seats. a lot of empty ones, but very few around the television. there is a group of blacks taking up one row. a mother and daughter, what i can only assume is a sister, cousin or whatever and a grandmother.
in another spot, two guys dressed in camoflauge -- desert camo -- are counting change to get a gatorade.
one of them gets up and puts it in the machine. gets a red.
second guy plops his money in. pushes the button.
nothing.
'shit man, this thing took my money,' he says.
the sign on the machine says 'no refunds,' but the guy, probably no older than 19 goes up to the ticket desk. the guy is gone, but in his place is the guy who had been standing outside when i arrived.
'hey, that thing too my money,' the army brat says.
'so.' the outside guy says.
'damn.'
'did you try kicking it?' outsider retorts.
'nope.' and he walks up and gives it a swift kick.
nothing.
for about a minute, he proceeds to kick, punch and shake the machine. nothing.
finally, the outside guy steps up and kicks it.
maybe he had the special spot, but soon the cla-clunking sound of a gatorade bottle falling down the shute emits from the machine. out plop two gatorade limes. outside guy leans down, picks them up and flips one to the army guy.
'here ya go, man' he says.
'thanks, you're a life-safer. that was my last bit of change.'
i turn around and eat my two english muffins. it makes me thirsty. but i don't get a drink. not really in the mood for kicking.
a lady in her early 30s walks in and sits near me. a few seconds later, a girl -- about 16 or so, sits next to her. i look at them and they look at me. no smiles, no nothing. just looks.
this is obviously a mother and daughter. they look too much alike not to be.
finally, the young girls speaks...'do you care if i turn it?'
my initial thought is turn what? but finally my slow mind drifts toward the noise beside me from the old TV. one of those morning talk shows is on.
'nah, do what you want' i say and smile.
no reaction. except she gets up and turns the channel. to the maury povich show.
'oh, i love this show,' the younger black girl screams.
it's about secret crushes. i go back to my place in my mind.
halfway through, i glance up. all 10 folks in the place are within five feet of the TV. riveted by maury povich's corny lines laced with bad sexual innuendo. so bad, i don't even think gene raburn or chuck woolery would have ever uttered them. maybe bob barker in an after the 'price is right' wrap party, but no one else.
for some reason, one of the people on the show is salsa dancing.
'i can dig me some salsa!' a woman, who i hadn't seen before, says. she has dreadlocks (sort of) and a david letterman/madonna gap between her teeth. she then proceeds to salsa dance.
it's actually good, too.
maury povich ends. and a bus pulls up. everyone but one army guy leave.
quiet envelops the building. except for the opening credits of the steve wilko show. amazing, i think. the bouncer from jerry springer got his own show. what a great country...
i pull out a book and read. fully expecting a bill hicks moment to occur at any time...but, like every other time i think maybe it will happen, it doesn't.
soon, i'm standing outside, getting ready to board my bus.
i wait at the right spot, but military guy doesn't. he tries to get on, but is told to get in line as the folks getting off in petersburg, get off.
he backs up behind me. then when the people stop getting off, he dashes in front of me and goes in.
the doors slam in my face.
#30#
Chapter 4
the slam of the door pops only one thought into my head...that of arizona.
i open up the door to my classic suburban home. it's probably 110 degrees outside, and all i can think about is 'why the fuck are we fighting?'
the last couple of days have been pretty bad. we hang out, we smile, we kiss, we fuck, and then usually sometime later, we fight. i've never been in a realtionship like this. it's oddly fun. and i don't like thinking about it that way. but of course, maybe that's just me thinking back upon it.
much like i know now why we fought so damn much. to quote ronnie lane via the voice of rod stewart 'i wish that, i knew what i know now....'
but it don't work that way...never fucking will.
sometimes a bright flash gives you perspective...but this time it doesn't. i see the sun, the dead grass all around. but who really waters their lawn in arizona in the middle of the summer? not a bunch of drug adled morons and me, the college student.
i don't even remember what we are fighting about. it's probably something i said, something i did, but i seriously don't remember.
maybe i didn't do something the right way.
all i know is she's saying this 'i don't want to be with you anymore.'
i plead all i can to keep her around. but it doesn't seem to matter. i'm not crying, because at this point, i really hadn't learned how to yet.
well, not true, exactly, but honestly, i think i'd only cried over things that i should never have cried over....mainly because really i'd never suffered real pain.
pain, yes. real pain? no.
after a few back and forth barbs, the fighting calms down. she's crying now, like she does a lot. i wish i knew how to keep her from crying. i wish i could fix it. yet, i have no idea.
obviously, i am not prepared for such things.
these emotions continued for years. the fights? they continued for years.
in between, there were a lot of miles, a lot of great times. a lot of strange times. a lot of fights.
through it all, i didn't waver.
until i left.
until she told me the truth.
not about us. well, yes, about us. and it changed me. i don't think it changed her. but it changed me. and the way i perceived us.
i wasn't emotionally strong enough of a person to deal with it. so i shrunk. i balled myself up.
and i got on a bus and got out of town. well, symbolically. metaphorically.
now, here i am, so many years later and the bus door just slammed into my face. and all of that popped into my head. i didn't think it all through immediately. but seconds later i did. and the words flowed from my hand to my pen to the paper. mostly random, but i knew what it all meant. i knew where it was headed.
i wish i could turn it off. turn it off like a faucet. just reach up and twist. and the flow stops. never to be heard from again until someone comes along and twists it again.
fuck. life isn't that orderly. at least not for me. maybe for the librarian here in town. maybe for the guy who stands on the side of the road in an uncle sam suit during tax time. maybe for the woman at big lots with the tribal tattoo on her neck for everyone to see who actually perked up when i asked how she was doing after she asked me and i answered in a way that wasn't just "good."
anyway.
the doors on the bus open up.
'oh man, i didn't see you there too,' the bus driver says.
'not a problem,' i say.
i look up the aisle. a lot of eyes are upon me. i'm not uncomfortable about it, but they arent' friendly eyes. reminds me of some old movie where the innocent child somehow ends up in the forest and the eyes of the beasts of the forest are upon her.
so i look down at the ground, then up again, getting my bearings.
there is one place with two open seats.
i make a b-line for it. sit down and sigh.
'whew,' i think. 'only five, six hours to go!'
next to me is an overweight black woman in a redskins starter jacket. behind me, the beginnings of a conversation. a man and a woman.
one has sort of a southern mixed with new jersey accent. the other, quite obviously is jamaican.
'this should be interesting....."
The End.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
45 minutes
I shaved my head. Nothing unusual there. Well, other than the fact I’d never done such a thing before. But it had to be done. The balding Prince Valiant look just isn’t sexy. No chance of it. Even when Brad Pitt or some other caricature of a Hollywood heartthrob has it. Just ask Luke Perry. Well, he doesn’t have it, but have you seen the photos of the guy at some autograph session? It’s horrible.
However, pretty quickly I had a revelation. Nothing that will cure AIDS or get a man on Mars before I die, but it was pretty cool to have. And it made me realize that sometimes you really do have to do something different if you want to understand something else.
I put my baseball cap on. It seemed to fit differently.
I pulled it up a little. Like some of the silly looking fools do. And it stayed up. For the first time in my life, a baseball hat stayed pointing up on my head. Funny. All these years I’d wondered how rednecks and chew-spitting dunces kept their hats up like that. It always slumped down when I put mine up like that. Not that I ever wanted to do something like this, except in a jovial way.
The secret is the hair. A close up hairdo gives your head Velcro. Who woulda thunk it?
Ha. Score one for trying different things.
***
My car pushed its way through traffic. It’s four cylinders pushed to the limit. Almost whining in how much they had to work to keep up. But I needed to get there first. She’d be waiting for me. But only for another 45 minutes. And I’m 48 miles away.
This isn’t what I thought would happen when I first met her. I figured we would get married the old fashioned way. In a church. Families and friends all around. A stupid bachelor party. A lame attempt to get me to grab a redhead stripper’s ass. And then a honeymoon.
Instead, we dated for a pretty long while. We had a lot of fun. We also had a lot of shit. Mostly caused by our pasts. And our inabilities to deal with it. Such a shame really. I think it may have worked, had we met at a different time. A different place. But, that’s silly to think about. Why? Because that doesn’t happen. Except in a Twilight Zone episode. Or a Family Guy one. Science fiction for sure.
But right now, she needs me. We haven’t seen each other in a while. Longer than I’d like, and longer than she’d like. She called one day last week. I don’t remember which day, I was drunk. I’m always drunk it seems. Someone was after her she said. Did something to her cat. I wondered if it was true. It had to be. We didn’t lie to each other. Anymore.
Her blonde hair used to drive me insane. It was blonde like my hair was when I was 6 years old. Bleach blonde. Except it was real still for her. My hair had turned greasy blonde a long, long time ago. If I got a lot of sun, it almost turned blonde again. At least when I had hair.
Now, I’m thinking about her hair. About the time I cleaned out my old car, and some of her hair was still there. Years after we’d decided it was better to not see each other anymore. Well, one of us decided that. The other? Well, the other died a little bit more that day.
That hair made me stare. It was sitting in the back seat of the car.
That car is long gone. Just like every trace of her. Except for a few things. Books. Photos. That kind of artifact.
But for now, I have to keep my mind focused. I nearly wrecked two miles back. And I wasn’t thinking then. Now I’m thinking. Need to stop.
I turn up the radio a little louder. It’s Stiff Little Fingers’ “Alternative Ulster.” That’ll do.
38 minutes to go. 33 miles.
I come up on two cars. Playing that awesome game that so many in this fucking state seem to want to play -- I’ll stay in this lane, you stay in that one. And we’ll go the same speed.
My car edges close to the brown Chevy Blazer in the left lane. This guy is a hunter. I can tell because he’s wearing an orange hat. The woman in the car on the right is about 65 years old. Grey-haired and balding. Not the best combo for sure. But she is driving a silver Jaguar. It can go faster than 53 miles per hour in a 55. I look behind me. Two cars are creeping up. I have to make a decision. I chose left. The blazer guy.
I flash my lights. The international sign for get out of my fucking way. He looks in his rearview. Then he taps his brakes.
“Fucker,” is all I can think. By now, the two cars have caught up. They are in the right lane.
I see a gap as the Jag has pulled ever so ahead of the Blazer. I gun it. All four cylinders put their gerbils to work. I get in the gap. She slows. But not before I swerve over in front of the blazer.
I floor it.
32 miles. 32 minutes. Damn. Falling behind again.
My mind wanders for a second. Her voice pops into my head. That southern drawl, just like Judy Davis from “Barton Fink” or Jane Alexander from “Brubaker”. No wonder I love those movies. The dames in them sounded so much like her.
Back in the road. Back on the road. Going 87 mph. The 35 mph zone is coming up.
27 miles. 30 minutes.
However, pretty quickly I had a revelation. Nothing that will cure AIDS or get a man on Mars before I die, but it was pretty cool to have. And it made me realize that sometimes you really do have to do something different if you want to understand something else.
I put my baseball cap on. It seemed to fit differently.
I pulled it up a little. Like some of the silly looking fools do. And it stayed up. For the first time in my life, a baseball hat stayed pointing up on my head. Funny. All these years I’d wondered how rednecks and chew-spitting dunces kept their hats up like that. It always slumped down when I put mine up like that. Not that I ever wanted to do something like this, except in a jovial way.
The secret is the hair. A close up hairdo gives your head Velcro. Who woulda thunk it?
Ha. Score one for trying different things.
***
My car pushed its way through traffic. It’s four cylinders pushed to the limit. Almost whining in how much they had to work to keep up. But I needed to get there first. She’d be waiting for me. But only for another 45 minutes. And I’m 48 miles away.
This isn’t what I thought would happen when I first met her. I figured we would get married the old fashioned way. In a church. Families and friends all around. A stupid bachelor party. A lame attempt to get me to grab a redhead stripper’s ass. And then a honeymoon.
Instead, we dated for a pretty long while. We had a lot of fun. We also had a lot of shit. Mostly caused by our pasts. And our inabilities to deal with it. Such a shame really. I think it may have worked, had we met at a different time. A different place. But, that’s silly to think about. Why? Because that doesn’t happen. Except in a Twilight Zone episode. Or a Family Guy one. Science fiction for sure.
But right now, she needs me. We haven’t seen each other in a while. Longer than I’d like, and longer than she’d like. She called one day last week. I don’t remember which day, I was drunk. I’m always drunk it seems. Someone was after her she said. Did something to her cat. I wondered if it was true. It had to be. We didn’t lie to each other. Anymore.
Her blonde hair used to drive me insane. It was blonde like my hair was when I was 6 years old. Bleach blonde. Except it was real still for her. My hair had turned greasy blonde a long, long time ago. If I got a lot of sun, it almost turned blonde again. At least when I had hair.
Now, I’m thinking about her hair. About the time I cleaned out my old car, and some of her hair was still there. Years after we’d decided it was better to not see each other anymore. Well, one of us decided that. The other? Well, the other died a little bit more that day.
That hair made me stare. It was sitting in the back seat of the car.
That car is long gone. Just like every trace of her. Except for a few things. Books. Photos. That kind of artifact.
But for now, I have to keep my mind focused. I nearly wrecked two miles back. And I wasn’t thinking then. Now I’m thinking. Need to stop.
I turn up the radio a little louder. It’s Stiff Little Fingers’ “Alternative Ulster.” That’ll do.
38 minutes to go. 33 miles.
I come up on two cars. Playing that awesome game that so many in this fucking state seem to want to play -- I’ll stay in this lane, you stay in that one. And we’ll go the same speed.
My car edges close to the brown Chevy Blazer in the left lane. This guy is a hunter. I can tell because he’s wearing an orange hat. The woman in the car on the right is about 65 years old. Grey-haired and balding. Not the best combo for sure. But she is driving a silver Jaguar. It can go faster than 53 miles per hour in a 55. I look behind me. Two cars are creeping up. I have to make a decision. I chose left. The blazer guy.
I flash my lights. The international sign for get out of my fucking way. He looks in his rearview. Then he taps his brakes.
“Fucker,” is all I can think. By now, the two cars have caught up. They are in the right lane.
I see a gap as the Jag has pulled ever so ahead of the Blazer. I gun it. All four cylinders put their gerbils to work. I get in the gap. She slows. But not before I swerve over in front of the blazer.
I floor it.
32 miles. 32 minutes. Damn. Falling behind again.
My mind wanders for a second. Her voice pops into my head. That southern drawl, just like Judy Davis from “Barton Fink” or Jane Alexander from “Brubaker”. No wonder I love those movies. The dames in them sounded so much like her.
Back in the road. Back on the road. Going 87 mph. The 35 mph zone is coming up.
27 miles. 30 minutes.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
bass solo, take 1
I walked out of work, apathetic as hell. Just moments before, I was sitting in my cubicle, surrounded by other cubicles. Listening to two people burp constantly, one guy imitate a fucking awful ring tone over and over and a third talk about his baby.
The one that bothered me the most was the baby guy. Not that I give a damn about people who constantly talk about their baby and how perfect he is. Never cries. Never shits. Never does anything but be a perfect baby. No, what bothers me is this guy, just months ago, was sitting in the very same cheap office chair with his damn name taped to the back of it to “prevent switchage”, saying he’d never be one of those parents that blathers on endlessly about his/her kid. “Those people are human sewage,” he said.
Yesterday, I mentioned human sewage while he was showing Facebook photos of his kid, and he gave me an evil glare. And this is one of the people in this place that I actually get along with. I’d even go so far as to say I like the kid.
Well, before I started to feel a lump in my back, I’ll name it Cito, I jumped up from my cubicle and dashed straight for the back door. This is always a gamble, since this is where the smoking section is, and to get out into the fresh air, one usually has to navigate a toxic cloud of cigarettes and cloves. Today, thankfully, only one Vietnamese lady is sitting outside on the picnic tables. Those tables that are the color of piss and dirt. But if they ever get wet, usually from someone spilling a Red Bull on them, they show the true color of white that they are. I take a breath before heading outside, holding it through the nicotine stained walls of the outside corridor and head to my car. When I get 10 feet away from the smoker’s bunker, I exhale. Then inhale. Sweet Jesus. The chemicals coming from the press room have seeped outside today, I see.
“Wah, wah, wah.” Yes, I do feel like the non-smoker parody from Bill Hicks’ smoking routine. Fuck off, right.
I get in my car. Turn on the engine and sit there. The radio is turned way up from my drive in. Metallica’s “Kill ‘em All” plays. Song two, side one. “The Four Horsemen.” It seems to fit nicely. I turn up the volume just a little bit more. This draws the attention of two guys hanging out by the loading dock. One points. The other chuckles. Such is the day…
I pull out of the parking lot. I really have no idea where I’m going, I just know I need to do something to get away from the office for a moment or two. Jacksonville, North Carolina at 4:46 p.m. is not the best place in the world to be driving aimlessly. The Marines are bustling about, but I figure I’m still beating the rush.
The first road is “Freedom Highway.” So awful. So predictable. But perfect. I turn right. On the right side of the road is a big-ass club. It’s been there as long as I have been in North Cacackalacka, and I’m assuming long before. It looks like the kind of place where someone like me would be so uncomfortable, but would not leave after paying to get in. If I wasn’t 40 years old, I’d most likely go inside one night. Just to do it. But, at this ripe old age, I see it as a path of no point. Yeah, I could sit there, drink a beer, watch guys muscle about in Ed Hardy shirts and crew cuts. All the while the ladies from this town would be scoping out who they thought were the easiest targets to get a military baby out of. Yeah, a little bit Officer and a Gentleman, but shit that stuff goes on all the time.
Speaking of which, I ended up pulling into the parking lot of a pretty crusty old strip mall. One of those big ones. Spread out all over the place. Almost like an outlet mall, but not quite. Thrift stores and tattoo parlors dominate this place. It’s also the only place I’ve seen a Peebles other than my hometown strip mall in Hopewell. This must just be another Hopewell? Reason No. 1 to leave. ASAP.
I go into the Big Lots. I need some blank DVDs and this is the source for cheap ones. I walk up to the door and there is an older man, lighting one cigarette with another -- unfiltered of course -- who appears to be holding the door for people. He’s got on orange pants, which match the décor of Big Lots. However, he doesn’t have one of those awesome smocks they make retail stooges wear. I had a blue one in my days as a Rose’s Department Store employee. $4.25 an hour straight out of college with a degree in economics. Oh, how proud my dad was of me in those days. Yet, I was chasing after a woman. An unobtainable one, at that.
The old guy looks at me approaching and lets go of the door just a few seconds before I get to it. Completely making sure I have to open it as it’s swinging forward. I look back at him, he’s now holding the door for a couple of teenage girls.
Good for him, I think.
I got back to the back of the store and grab my DVDs. I also stare at the DVDs for sale. A “Bullit and Papillion” double feature disc for $6 is almost enough to get me to spend some extra cash. But it’s not. Instead, I go to the food section, grab a $1.50 meal of past and cheese dust and Sprite. On the way back to the front, I see something that I won’t soon forget. (See, I told you I’d get back to the military baby stuff).
There in front of me is a thing of beauty. She’s no more than 5-foot-3, with dark hair, with bands cut out. She’s making a clicking sound with her tongue over and over and over again. In her orange Big Lots shopping cart is a little boy. Completely not paying attention to the clicking. But, her mom has no interest in the baby either. Just wandering around the store, pushing the cart, clicking her tongue and staring into space.
What amazes me is her beauty. She’s a completely perfect combination of Natalie Portman and Winona Ryder. Stunningly beautiful. With black eye makeup that is a little bit smudged. Still with just a little bit of fat left over from having the kid as well. All I can think is wow. This all takes five seconds.
I am amazed. She had on a marine wife shirt too. It was dirty and wrinkled. Wonder if the kid is a military baby? Or if she really fell in love with one? And does she regret it? I’d love to talk this over with her over drinks. It won’t happen. Not because it couldn’t, but because I’d never have the guts to ask.
My steps lead me to the cashier. I pay. Say hello and have a great one to the lady, who is obviously too old to be still working here, but, most likely can’t afford not to.
I get in my car. I think about that woman for a second or two. Then turn the key. I look in my rearview. A couple of 20-something black guys are jump starting an old Nissan. I’ve only heard bad things about Nissans. And only known one person who drove one. He stole a security deposit from me. Fuck Nissans.
Cliff Burton’s bass solo greets me. I turn it up again. Time to go back to work.
The one that bothered me the most was the baby guy. Not that I give a damn about people who constantly talk about their baby and how perfect he is. Never cries. Never shits. Never does anything but be a perfect baby. No, what bothers me is this guy, just months ago, was sitting in the very same cheap office chair with his damn name taped to the back of it to “prevent switchage”, saying he’d never be one of those parents that blathers on endlessly about his/her kid. “Those people are human sewage,” he said.
Yesterday, I mentioned human sewage while he was showing Facebook photos of his kid, and he gave me an evil glare. And this is one of the people in this place that I actually get along with. I’d even go so far as to say I like the kid.
Well, before I started to feel a lump in my back, I’ll name it Cito, I jumped up from my cubicle and dashed straight for the back door. This is always a gamble, since this is where the smoking section is, and to get out into the fresh air, one usually has to navigate a toxic cloud of cigarettes and cloves. Today, thankfully, only one Vietnamese lady is sitting outside on the picnic tables. Those tables that are the color of piss and dirt. But if they ever get wet, usually from someone spilling a Red Bull on them, they show the true color of white that they are. I take a breath before heading outside, holding it through the nicotine stained walls of the outside corridor and head to my car. When I get 10 feet away from the smoker’s bunker, I exhale. Then inhale. Sweet Jesus. The chemicals coming from the press room have seeped outside today, I see.
“Wah, wah, wah.” Yes, I do feel like the non-smoker parody from Bill Hicks’ smoking routine. Fuck off, right.
I get in my car. Turn on the engine and sit there. The radio is turned way up from my drive in. Metallica’s “Kill ‘em All” plays. Song two, side one. “The Four Horsemen.” It seems to fit nicely. I turn up the volume just a little bit more. This draws the attention of two guys hanging out by the loading dock. One points. The other chuckles. Such is the day…
I pull out of the parking lot. I really have no idea where I’m going, I just know I need to do something to get away from the office for a moment or two. Jacksonville, North Carolina at 4:46 p.m. is not the best place in the world to be driving aimlessly. The Marines are bustling about, but I figure I’m still beating the rush.
The first road is “Freedom Highway.” So awful. So predictable. But perfect. I turn right. On the right side of the road is a big-ass club. It’s been there as long as I have been in North Cacackalacka, and I’m assuming long before. It looks like the kind of place where someone like me would be so uncomfortable, but would not leave after paying to get in. If I wasn’t 40 years old, I’d most likely go inside one night. Just to do it. But, at this ripe old age, I see it as a path of no point. Yeah, I could sit there, drink a beer, watch guys muscle about in Ed Hardy shirts and crew cuts. All the while the ladies from this town would be scoping out who they thought were the easiest targets to get a military baby out of. Yeah, a little bit Officer and a Gentleman, but shit that stuff goes on all the time.
Speaking of which, I ended up pulling into the parking lot of a pretty crusty old strip mall. One of those big ones. Spread out all over the place. Almost like an outlet mall, but not quite. Thrift stores and tattoo parlors dominate this place. It’s also the only place I’ve seen a Peebles other than my hometown strip mall in Hopewell. This must just be another Hopewell? Reason No. 1 to leave. ASAP.
I go into the Big Lots. I need some blank DVDs and this is the source for cheap ones. I walk up to the door and there is an older man, lighting one cigarette with another -- unfiltered of course -- who appears to be holding the door for people. He’s got on orange pants, which match the décor of Big Lots. However, he doesn’t have one of those awesome smocks they make retail stooges wear. I had a blue one in my days as a Rose’s Department Store employee. $4.25 an hour straight out of college with a degree in economics. Oh, how proud my dad was of me in those days. Yet, I was chasing after a woman. An unobtainable one, at that.
The old guy looks at me approaching and lets go of the door just a few seconds before I get to it. Completely making sure I have to open it as it’s swinging forward. I look back at him, he’s now holding the door for a couple of teenage girls.
Good for him, I think.
I got back to the back of the store and grab my DVDs. I also stare at the DVDs for sale. A “Bullit and Papillion” double feature disc for $6 is almost enough to get me to spend some extra cash. But it’s not. Instead, I go to the food section, grab a $1.50 meal of past and cheese dust and Sprite. On the way back to the front, I see something that I won’t soon forget. (See, I told you I’d get back to the military baby stuff).
There in front of me is a thing of beauty. She’s no more than 5-foot-3, with dark hair, with bands cut out. She’s making a clicking sound with her tongue over and over and over again. In her orange Big Lots shopping cart is a little boy. Completely not paying attention to the clicking. But, her mom has no interest in the baby either. Just wandering around the store, pushing the cart, clicking her tongue and staring into space.
What amazes me is her beauty. She’s a completely perfect combination of Natalie Portman and Winona Ryder. Stunningly beautiful. With black eye makeup that is a little bit smudged. Still with just a little bit of fat left over from having the kid as well. All I can think is wow. This all takes five seconds.
I am amazed. She had on a marine wife shirt too. It was dirty and wrinkled. Wonder if the kid is a military baby? Or if she really fell in love with one? And does she regret it? I’d love to talk this over with her over drinks. It won’t happen. Not because it couldn’t, but because I’d never have the guts to ask.
My steps lead me to the cashier. I pay. Say hello and have a great one to the lady, who is obviously too old to be still working here, but, most likely can’t afford not to.
I get in my car. I think about that woman for a second or two. Then turn the key. I look in my rearview. A couple of 20-something black guys are jump starting an old Nissan. I’ve only heard bad things about Nissans. And only known one person who drove one. He stole a security deposit from me. Fuck Nissans.
Cliff Burton’s bass solo greets me. I turn it up again. Time to go back to work.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
a boy can dream
Wilford Brimley mocks me. Every single day.
Not just because an average meal for me lately has been pizza and crullers, but also because that’s what I think he was put on this earth to do. Mock. Not just me. But you. And him. And her. And that dog over there. And maybe even the fish swimming in the ocean.
Speaking of the ocean, the waves are blasting tonight. It’s almost like I have a microphone down there and it’s pumping the sound of crashing waves into my living room. It’s most magical. In fact, this may be the coolest night that I’ve experienced since being here. So much so, I get up from this typing machine and open my front door to listen in Doubly as Nigel so nicely put it.
I hung up a picture of the diabetes man in my cubicle a few months ago. It was a funny lark back then. But since I moved him to a more prominent position, above me and too the right, he has taken on a whole other meaning.
People stop and laugh at his picture. Some just look at him, then look at me. After which, they may shake their head in disbelief or shrug in that defeated way so many of us do every day.
I put him as the front wallpaper of my phone last week. It’s almost like he’s the alien from The Thing, taking over parts of my life one by one. I suppose if I ask for Cocoon on DVD for Christmas, I might be in trouble. I’ve already pondered making a Wilford Christmas decoration for my new tree. It’s a fake one, which is troubling in its own way. However, it is also the first tree I have ever purchased for myself.
Over the years I’ve bought a pink tree for a friend. A couple of fake ones for girlfriends and I think that is it. I’ve picked out the one for my family many times.
But, every year I’ve been alone, even when I was dating someone, I never bought a tree for myself. And I think that was dumb. Which is why I’m fixing it this year.
I think it’s been a gradual process. At first it was finding a copy of Santee in a thrift store in Petersburg about 8 years ago. Then the year after Emily, I bought a strand of lights to hang over my window. And now this, a four foot fake tree, with lights.
Next thing you know I’ll be carrolling the night away.
Not decorating without someone to help decorate was kind of my tradition. A constant so to speak. Like Wilford Brimley. He’ll always be around. At least that’s how one feels. But, like everything, Mr. Brimley will die one day. A lot more people will just say Di-ah-bee-tus that day than feel bad. Which, I guess isn’t completely unexpected in this day and age.
I’ll say a little prayer for him when it comes. But hell, he may outlive me by a decade. Who knows? That freight train of diabetes could hit me tomorrow and take me out, no health insurance and all. Can I get a free glucose monitor without insurance Mr. Brimley? Mr. Obama? Mr. Cheney?
Oh, hell. I gave up on politics too long ago. It seems like another life when I used to debate such things with Sharon. Taking the side of Richard Nixon just to get under her skin. It worked. She liked me. I liked her. We dated. I was too chicken to try to take it somewhere further. Bad decision in the short term, not long term. How reversed is that one compared to the rest of this life?
Anyways, I wonder if Wilford Brimley would sit on my porch, eat leftover pizza from last night’s Monday Night Football game and listen to the ocean with me? Anyone got his phone number? Seems like a perfectly plausible thing. How about a movie, like Andy Kaufman’s “Breakfast with Blassie” but instead, it’s “Leftover pizza with Wilford.”
We could talk about the proper diet for us kinds. Maybe even discuss prostate issues.
I’m sure he’d love to chat about “The China Syndrome” or my all-time favorite of his “Brubaker”. He could remind me he was in “Remo Williams” and kicked ass in “The Natural” -- one of my favorite books and a book I actually own.
I wouldn’t want to shoot it in a Sambo’s, however, as that would be too redundant and plagiaristic. Instead, a Bojangles maybe? Or an In-and-Out burger. Maybe have Steve Buscemi stop by?
It gets a little bit more interesting, at least for me, with every added layer.
We could even get Wesley Snipes to come over and re-enact the “always bet on black,” scene -- with musical cues -- from “Passenger 57.”
Sounds plausible.
Not just because an average meal for me lately has been pizza and crullers, but also because that’s what I think he was put on this earth to do. Mock. Not just me. But you. And him. And her. And that dog over there. And maybe even the fish swimming in the ocean.
Speaking of the ocean, the waves are blasting tonight. It’s almost like I have a microphone down there and it’s pumping the sound of crashing waves into my living room. It’s most magical. In fact, this may be the coolest night that I’ve experienced since being here. So much so, I get up from this typing machine and open my front door to listen in Doubly as Nigel so nicely put it.
I hung up a picture of the diabetes man in my cubicle a few months ago. It was a funny lark back then. But since I moved him to a more prominent position, above me and too the right, he has taken on a whole other meaning.
People stop and laugh at his picture. Some just look at him, then look at me. After which, they may shake their head in disbelief or shrug in that defeated way so many of us do every day.
I put him as the front wallpaper of my phone last week. It’s almost like he’s the alien from The Thing, taking over parts of my life one by one. I suppose if I ask for Cocoon on DVD for Christmas, I might be in trouble. I’ve already pondered making a Wilford Christmas decoration for my new tree. It’s a fake one, which is troubling in its own way. However, it is also the first tree I have ever purchased for myself.
Over the years I’ve bought a pink tree for a friend. A couple of fake ones for girlfriends and I think that is it. I’ve picked out the one for my family many times.
But, every year I’ve been alone, even when I was dating someone, I never bought a tree for myself. And I think that was dumb. Which is why I’m fixing it this year.
I think it’s been a gradual process. At first it was finding a copy of Santee in a thrift store in Petersburg about 8 years ago. Then the year after Emily, I bought a strand of lights to hang over my window. And now this, a four foot fake tree, with lights.
Next thing you know I’ll be carrolling the night away.
Not decorating without someone to help decorate was kind of my tradition. A constant so to speak. Like Wilford Brimley. He’ll always be around. At least that’s how one feels. But, like everything, Mr. Brimley will die one day. A lot more people will just say Di-ah-bee-tus that day than feel bad. Which, I guess isn’t completely unexpected in this day and age.
I’ll say a little prayer for him when it comes. But hell, he may outlive me by a decade. Who knows? That freight train of diabetes could hit me tomorrow and take me out, no health insurance and all. Can I get a free glucose monitor without insurance Mr. Brimley? Mr. Obama? Mr. Cheney?
Oh, hell. I gave up on politics too long ago. It seems like another life when I used to debate such things with Sharon. Taking the side of Richard Nixon just to get under her skin. It worked. She liked me. I liked her. We dated. I was too chicken to try to take it somewhere further. Bad decision in the short term, not long term. How reversed is that one compared to the rest of this life?
Anyways, I wonder if Wilford Brimley would sit on my porch, eat leftover pizza from last night’s Monday Night Football game and listen to the ocean with me? Anyone got his phone number? Seems like a perfectly plausible thing. How about a movie, like Andy Kaufman’s “Breakfast with Blassie” but instead, it’s “Leftover pizza with Wilford.”
We could talk about the proper diet for us kinds. Maybe even discuss prostate issues.
I’m sure he’d love to chat about “The China Syndrome” or my all-time favorite of his “Brubaker”. He could remind me he was in “Remo Williams” and kicked ass in “The Natural” -- one of my favorite books and a book I actually own.
I wouldn’t want to shoot it in a Sambo’s, however, as that would be too redundant and plagiaristic. Instead, a Bojangles maybe? Or an In-and-Out burger. Maybe have Steve Buscemi stop by?
It gets a little bit more interesting, at least for me, with every added layer.
We could even get Wesley Snipes to come over and re-enact the “always bet on black,” scene -- with musical cues -- from “Passenger 57.”
Sounds plausible.
Monday, November 15, 2010
maps
“Whaddya mean you don’t have a freaking map?” I regretted the tone and the volume of my question almost immediately. Almost. But really, who goes on a road trip and doesn’t have a map in the car? Heck, I don’t go anywhere without a map in my car. You just never know when you’ll either actually need it, or just want to take a different turn on your way somewhere. Break up the monotony of life.
“You don’t have to yell,” she said. She was right. I didn’t have to yell. It’s a curse that I deal with. I get frustrated in the car, I yell. It’s really the only place that happens. “I thought my GPS on my phone would get us there.”
Ha. GPS. I read somewhere that they are making us dumber. I believe that.
“We are in the middle of nowhere, fifty miles past nothing and 10 years from no place. Did you really think that would work here? It doesn’t work in your parent’s house.”
Fuck, I’m a douche bag. Why she even gets in a car with me, I’ll never know.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Me too. It’s not like I put one in my bag.”
We kiss. Make up. And then look around. We really are in the middle of nowhere. Not that there is much of anywhere in Montana, but this, this is nowhere.
My mind slips into daydream mode. I try to figure out my wanderlust. And my love of maps. I have never liked those GPS things. When my sister got one, she used it to come visit me. Said “it only took me 4 and a half hours to get here.” I instantly said, well, I can get you home in four and some change. We turned on the GPS, and I gave her the turn-by-turn directions to beat it. Over and over again, that annoying Brit woman’s voice told us to turn around.
We got to my sister’s house in 4 hours and 17 minutes. Take that Brit bitch!
I remember as a kid, my dad having a drawer full of maps. He was a recruiter for Firestone. Used to go all over the country looking for the best and brightest who would take a job in a factory. I assume all of this because I have never had a conversation with my father about what he does for a living. He took me to his office once, I remember how awful it was. Wood paneling and brown carpet. A couple of plaques on the wall. Papers and filing cabinets all over the place. I vaguely remember my grandfather being there too.
So, he used to go to all these college towns. It’s why I grew up with an endless supply of shirts with college mascots on them. Florida Gators. Arizona State Sun Devils. Tulane Green Wave. University of Virginia Cavaliers. Texas A & M Aggies. Louisiana State Tigers. On and on it went. I was looking at photos at home not too long ago, and didn’t even remember having some of those shirts.
But other than T-shirts for me, he brought maps. From all over the place. And he’d stick them in that drawer. The top one, underneath the marble top. In the main entrance to the house. It’s still there today, all these years later. Most likely, still full of 1970s maps. Obsolete in their oldness, but awesome in their coolness. I’ll definitely take them when they move out, which seems to be something that may happen soon. It’ll be weird not having the old 108 Sherwood Drive to go home to anymore. But, unless you inherit and move in, I guess it happens to everyone.
Those maps used to put me in a trance. All these places out there that my dad’s been. Exotic pictures and advertisements covered them as well. Gator farms in the South. Big steaks in Texas. Snow drifts in Ohio. And these strange road signs. Route 66. Highway 61. The great America that I wasn’t getting to see. Sure, I did more traveling as a kid than most. We’d drive to Jersey and Philly all the time. Went to a bunch of Washington Redskins’ games. Even sat near George McGovern. Took a roadie to Texas at 12. But there was so much more out there. And I used to soak it up in these maps.
There was a cost, however. There always was when you messed with my dad’s stuff. Much like the giant pile of Playboys that precariously sat next to his bathroom, these maps were supposed to be off limits to me. Which, of course, made them all that more exotic and enticing.
I’d take one out when I got home from school. Run up the stairs and unfold it in my room with the door locked tight. My mom must have thought I’d found masturbation much too early. But, that wouldn’t happen until one night at the age of 13, so she had time to not worry about stained sheets and shirts and such.
On my floor I’d trace the lines of highways. Mapping out a course I’d take if I had the keys to my mom’s big brown station wagon. Faraway towns like Kansas City, Amarillo, San Francisco, Billings and New Orleans seemed as far away as Japan or the Soviet Union to this kid. But I wanted to see them all more than any foreign country. Guess that’s why, here at the age of 39, the only foreign land I’ve ever stepped on is Mexico. And if I wanted to go back now, I couldn’t. No passport and all.
Inevitably, I’d have to put the map away before going to bed. That meant a stealthy mission impossible. Folding the maps sometimes was a problem. In my haste, I’d do it incorrectly. But not notice. This is usually how I got caught, not in the act of slipping it back into the drawer, but later, when dad went to the drawer. He’d see a miss-folded map. And the scream of “Randy!” would boom throughout the house. Those were bad times.
“Have you been in my drawer?” he’d say. I knew it wasn’t a question, but an accusation. But there would be no trial. I was guilty and he knew it.
“Um, yes,” I’d stutter.
Whack! The belt upside my ass. Sometimes just once, if mom was around. But if not, it could be 10 times. I’d run back upstairs crying out loud and cursing under my breath. It would be years before I had the guts to cuss at my father.
Yet, it never stopped me from going back to the drawer. Staring at another map. Losing myself in other places that weren’t where I was. It’s why I read encyclopedias, too. And hung out at the library way too much for a kid.
When I interned in Alabama, I would drive from one end of the state to the other, sometimes in the same day. And when I got back to my little hovel of an apartment, I’d mark off the towns I’d visited. It kept me sane in that place. Still the only home that had a bed that folded up into the wall. Good times, for sure. That and a one-legged woman who always wanted me to drink with her. Thinking back, I should have taken her up on those. But I was scared. Of hurting my girlfriend’s feelings. And of what I might do.
That map ended up with 100s of Xs on it. I lost it a while ago. During a bad part of my life. I lost a lot of me then. Some of it good. Some of it bad. “One day, you’ll regret doing that,” my buddy Mike told me right after. He was right. But, it also pushed me forward in life. So, in some regards, I don’t. I wouldn’t be where I am right now if I hadn’t.
“Darling, we’ll find our way,” I said with a smile. “And now it’s more of an adventure.”
She smiled and looked at me, shaking her head. The fading sunlight hit her face just perfectly. It was that time of day. When everything looks beautiful, no matter what.
“And that’s just fine,” she said, leaning over and kissing me on the cheek.
**proving that inspiration comes from odd places, this is thanks to agg's facebook post**
“You don’t have to yell,” she said. She was right. I didn’t have to yell. It’s a curse that I deal with. I get frustrated in the car, I yell. It’s really the only place that happens. “I thought my GPS on my phone would get us there.”
Ha. GPS. I read somewhere that they are making us dumber. I believe that.
“We are in the middle of nowhere, fifty miles past nothing and 10 years from no place. Did you really think that would work here? It doesn’t work in your parent’s house.”
Fuck, I’m a douche bag. Why she even gets in a car with me, I’ll never know.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Me too. It’s not like I put one in my bag.”
We kiss. Make up. And then look around. We really are in the middle of nowhere. Not that there is much of anywhere in Montana, but this, this is nowhere.
My mind slips into daydream mode. I try to figure out my wanderlust. And my love of maps. I have never liked those GPS things. When my sister got one, she used it to come visit me. Said “it only took me 4 and a half hours to get here.” I instantly said, well, I can get you home in four and some change. We turned on the GPS, and I gave her the turn-by-turn directions to beat it. Over and over again, that annoying Brit woman’s voice told us to turn around.
We got to my sister’s house in 4 hours and 17 minutes. Take that Brit bitch!
I remember as a kid, my dad having a drawer full of maps. He was a recruiter for Firestone. Used to go all over the country looking for the best and brightest who would take a job in a factory. I assume all of this because I have never had a conversation with my father about what he does for a living. He took me to his office once, I remember how awful it was. Wood paneling and brown carpet. A couple of plaques on the wall. Papers and filing cabinets all over the place. I vaguely remember my grandfather being there too.
So, he used to go to all these college towns. It’s why I grew up with an endless supply of shirts with college mascots on them. Florida Gators. Arizona State Sun Devils. Tulane Green Wave. University of Virginia Cavaliers. Texas A & M Aggies. Louisiana State Tigers. On and on it went. I was looking at photos at home not too long ago, and didn’t even remember having some of those shirts.
But other than T-shirts for me, he brought maps. From all over the place. And he’d stick them in that drawer. The top one, underneath the marble top. In the main entrance to the house. It’s still there today, all these years later. Most likely, still full of 1970s maps. Obsolete in their oldness, but awesome in their coolness. I’ll definitely take them when they move out, which seems to be something that may happen soon. It’ll be weird not having the old 108 Sherwood Drive to go home to anymore. But, unless you inherit and move in, I guess it happens to everyone.
Those maps used to put me in a trance. All these places out there that my dad’s been. Exotic pictures and advertisements covered them as well. Gator farms in the South. Big steaks in Texas. Snow drifts in Ohio. And these strange road signs. Route 66. Highway 61. The great America that I wasn’t getting to see. Sure, I did more traveling as a kid than most. We’d drive to Jersey and Philly all the time. Went to a bunch of Washington Redskins’ games. Even sat near George McGovern. Took a roadie to Texas at 12. But there was so much more out there. And I used to soak it up in these maps.
There was a cost, however. There always was when you messed with my dad’s stuff. Much like the giant pile of Playboys that precariously sat next to his bathroom, these maps were supposed to be off limits to me. Which, of course, made them all that more exotic and enticing.
I’d take one out when I got home from school. Run up the stairs and unfold it in my room with the door locked tight. My mom must have thought I’d found masturbation much too early. But, that wouldn’t happen until one night at the age of 13, so she had time to not worry about stained sheets and shirts and such.
On my floor I’d trace the lines of highways. Mapping out a course I’d take if I had the keys to my mom’s big brown station wagon. Faraway towns like Kansas City, Amarillo, San Francisco, Billings and New Orleans seemed as far away as Japan or the Soviet Union to this kid. But I wanted to see them all more than any foreign country. Guess that’s why, here at the age of 39, the only foreign land I’ve ever stepped on is Mexico. And if I wanted to go back now, I couldn’t. No passport and all.
Inevitably, I’d have to put the map away before going to bed. That meant a stealthy mission impossible. Folding the maps sometimes was a problem. In my haste, I’d do it incorrectly. But not notice. This is usually how I got caught, not in the act of slipping it back into the drawer, but later, when dad went to the drawer. He’d see a miss-folded map. And the scream of “Randy!” would boom throughout the house. Those were bad times.
“Have you been in my drawer?” he’d say. I knew it wasn’t a question, but an accusation. But there would be no trial. I was guilty and he knew it.
“Um, yes,” I’d stutter.
Whack! The belt upside my ass. Sometimes just once, if mom was around. But if not, it could be 10 times. I’d run back upstairs crying out loud and cursing under my breath. It would be years before I had the guts to cuss at my father.
Yet, it never stopped me from going back to the drawer. Staring at another map. Losing myself in other places that weren’t where I was. It’s why I read encyclopedias, too. And hung out at the library way too much for a kid.
When I interned in Alabama, I would drive from one end of the state to the other, sometimes in the same day. And when I got back to my little hovel of an apartment, I’d mark off the towns I’d visited. It kept me sane in that place. Still the only home that had a bed that folded up into the wall. Good times, for sure. That and a one-legged woman who always wanted me to drink with her. Thinking back, I should have taken her up on those. But I was scared. Of hurting my girlfriend’s feelings. And of what I might do.
That map ended up with 100s of Xs on it. I lost it a while ago. During a bad part of my life. I lost a lot of me then. Some of it good. Some of it bad. “One day, you’ll regret doing that,” my buddy Mike told me right after. He was right. But, it also pushed me forward in life. So, in some regards, I don’t. I wouldn’t be where I am right now if I hadn’t.
“Darling, we’ll find our way,” I said with a smile. “And now it’s more of an adventure.”
She smiled and looked at me, shaking her head. The fading sunlight hit her face just perfectly. It was that time of day. When everything looks beautiful, no matter what.
“And that’s just fine,” she said, leaning over and kissing me on the cheek.
**proving that inspiration comes from odd places, this is thanks to agg's facebook post**
Sunday, November 14, 2010
love isn't enough < all you need is love
Nola was different that all the other women. And that scared me a little bit.
I watched her get up this morning. She tried her darnedest not to wake me up. Tip-toeing from the bed to the bathroom. Not flushing the toilet after peeing. Even putting on her slippers after she left the room, despite us not being able to afford heat and the floor in our bedroom being made of concrete.
She was so beautiful. She smelled of watermelon and dogwood flowers all the time. I never quite could wrap my mind around how on earth that was possible. We could have made love for two hours, then fallen asleep sweating from the 92-degree inside heat in the middle of summer. But when we woke up the next morning, I’d reek like a sack of onions but Nola, she always tasted sweet. Her secret, I guess, and probably one I don’t want to figure out.
It’s why I kick myself for not falling in love with her. Or maybe the better answer is not allowing myself to fall in love with her. I love her, there’s no doubt about it, but I haven’t taken the leap into the unknown that Yyves Klein so beautifully explained.
“Come with me into the void!”
Maybe my problem is that damn poem. The unrealistic expectations of what love should be. And what it really is.
Instead, I should take the Johnny Thunders approach. Simple and direct. When you’re in love, god damn it, you’re love.
“Oh baby I love you. I really do. There’s no one like you. Baby, I love yooooooooooooouuuuu.”
Looking out the window, I see the Spanish moss hanging from the limbs of the dying tree in our front yard. I’ve been meaning to get that cut down for a year now, “take care of it” my father would have told me. He married my mom while he was still in college. They made it over 50 years before he finally succumb to the half a pint of vodka a day he’d been ingesting for decades. I stopped drinking six years ago. Kind of funny. I feel like a Robert Duvall character in my own life. Playing a bartender that doesn’t drink. A cop that doesn’t go in the streets. Me, I’m a lover who can’t love.
Of course, the Duvall character was always a drunk before an AA member. A gung-ho crime buster before being shot. Me? I used to not be afraid of love. I used to dive in like I was a 14 year old Arkansas farm boy who just discovered a new swimming hole. Now? I skitter on the edge, hoping love finds me instead of me finding it. Knowing full well that if you wait too long, it’ll pass you by. The effort has to be there, I guess.
It’s why the words “Love isn’t enough” echo through my brain way more often than they need to. The supposed love of my life said those words to me. She never told me why it wasn’t. Just that it wasn’t. Up until that day, my only belief was the same as John Lennon’s, that love is all you need, the rest will just sort of happen the right way.
Nola knows this about me. It’s why I’m surprised she sticks around. We used to have drunken barstool conversations that began at noon and ended at closing time. Never at one bar. We’d move around a lot. We both had that wanderlust, even when it came to martinis for her and bottled beers for me. It may have had to do with our constant need for new entertainment too.
I never had any problem talking with her. Always a good sign. I remember one night we were going to see Lucero play in my old college town. On the highway driving up, there was a wreck, unbeknownst to us. This tractor trailer almost drove off of a bridge. The road was closed for five hours before we even got near it. But there were no signs. So we sat on that highway for nearly four hours. Just talking. About nothing and everything. Well, everything except for us. She did offer me a blow job. Thinking back on it, I wonder if it really was a joke? Or could I have had a nice BJ while sitting in traffic. Never had one while still driving before. Heavy petting for sure. I should ask her about it. But then again, maybe not.
I watched her get up this morning. She tried her darnedest not to wake me up. Tip-toeing from the bed to the bathroom. Not flushing the toilet after peeing. Even putting on her slippers after she left the room, despite us not being able to afford heat and the floor in our bedroom being made of concrete.
She was so beautiful. She smelled of watermelon and dogwood flowers all the time. I never quite could wrap my mind around how on earth that was possible. We could have made love for two hours, then fallen asleep sweating from the 92-degree inside heat in the middle of summer. But when we woke up the next morning, I’d reek like a sack of onions but Nola, she always tasted sweet. Her secret, I guess, and probably one I don’t want to figure out.
It’s why I kick myself for not falling in love with her. Or maybe the better answer is not allowing myself to fall in love with her. I love her, there’s no doubt about it, but I haven’t taken the leap into the unknown that Yyves Klein so beautifully explained.
“Come with me into the void!”
Maybe my problem is that damn poem. The unrealistic expectations of what love should be. And what it really is.
Instead, I should take the Johnny Thunders approach. Simple and direct. When you’re in love, god damn it, you’re love.
“Oh baby I love you. I really do. There’s no one like you. Baby, I love yooooooooooooouuuuu.”
Looking out the window, I see the Spanish moss hanging from the limbs of the dying tree in our front yard. I’ve been meaning to get that cut down for a year now, “take care of it” my father would have told me. He married my mom while he was still in college. They made it over 50 years before he finally succumb to the half a pint of vodka a day he’d been ingesting for decades. I stopped drinking six years ago. Kind of funny. I feel like a Robert Duvall character in my own life. Playing a bartender that doesn’t drink. A cop that doesn’t go in the streets. Me, I’m a lover who can’t love.
Of course, the Duvall character was always a drunk before an AA member. A gung-ho crime buster before being shot. Me? I used to not be afraid of love. I used to dive in like I was a 14 year old Arkansas farm boy who just discovered a new swimming hole. Now? I skitter on the edge, hoping love finds me instead of me finding it. Knowing full well that if you wait too long, it’ll pass you by. The effort has to be there, I guess.
It’s why the words “Love isn’t enough” echo through my brain way more often than they need to. The supposed love of my life said those words to me. She never told me why it wasn’t. Just that it wasn’t. Up until that day, my only belief was the same as John Lennon’s, that love is all you need, the rest will just sort of happen the right way.
Nola knows this about me. It’s why I’m surprised she sticks around. We used to have drunken barstool conversations that began at noon and ended at closing time. Never at one bar. We’d move around a lot. We both had that wanderlust, even when it came to martinis for her and bottled beers for me. It may have had to do with our constant need for new entertainment too.
I never had any problem talking with her. Always a good sign. I remember one night we were going to see Lucero play in my old college town. On the highway driving up, there was a wreck, unbeknownst to us. This tractor trailer almost drove off of a bridge. The road was closed for five hours before we even got near it. But there were no signs. So we sat on that highway for nearly four hours. Just talking. About nothing and everything. Well, everything except for us. She did offer me a blow job. Thinking back on it, I wonder if it really was a joke? Or could I have had a nice BJ while sitting in traffic. Never had one while still driving before. Heavy petting for sure. I should ask her about it. But then again, maybe not.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
exactly
Two and a quarter beers in, and I’m done. The beer doesn’t do what it used to do. Now, it’s just the depressant that it is. Making me feel bad. Taking the desire to live away.
So I stop drinking. I pace around for a while. Trying to find something to occupy my mind. It’s not easy when there’s nothing around.
Downloading an Elvis Costello concert diverts my attention for a moment or two. Finally, I dig into the boxes of VHS tapes that I cling to for just this reason. “We’re No Angels” grabs my attention. I plop it into the VCR. Push play. Start watching. It’s got to be better than the other options.
The quarter drunken beer sits on the coffee table. Staring at me. By now, it’s warm. Well, as warm as it can get when you don’t turn the heat on in the middle of November. But this is North Carolina. Not North Dakota. So, it’s not freezing cold. Inside. Yet.
The itch is here. To do something wrong. Something dumb. Stupid. Ignorant. Would it make Dennis Hopper proud? Hell no. I feel too sorry for myself. But maybe he felt sorry for himself sometimes to. Hell, who doesn’t? Assholes and cereal killers. But they smell and have bad teeth. Wait a second…
Just five minutes ago I was thinking about going to bed. Calling it quits at 11:45 p.m. Instead, I’m typing. Sitting in my mind, trying to come up with some way to get 750 words into this Microsoft Works Document. I looked at my old diary on disc while I was at home earlier this week. My mom threw away the old Brother Word Processor that I typed them on. Of course, I threw away my journals from the rest of my life up until 2008.
Still bitter about that one aren’t we? No remorse. No repent. We don’t care, what it meant…
My mind wanders back to the TV for a moment. The absolute awfulness of 1980s movies that took themselves seriously makes me chuckle. The music, straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. David Mamet. Ha. But he’s a writer. Of films and such and so much more. Me? I used to be a reporter. A decent one. Best thing I could do was write features and the like. My gamers tended to be too wordy. But my leads were usually spot on. I just need someone to tell me -- “write 10 inches dipshit, not 35.” All those years I wished for an editor. Which is why, I think, I went back to being just a reporter. But the editor was a friend. A friend who sometimes had a complex about being an editor. Just not a good thing.
Now, I’m just a squatter. My posture has gotten worse. My attitude better in some ways, a whole lot worse in others. I can feel my depression seeping away the more letters I type into words. No matter how silly what I type is. How banal. How insipid. Hey, fun with words without a thesaurus. It can happen. Not that you care.
I thought about my ex girlfriend today. Which one, you may be asking? But probably not. And really it doesn’t matter.
The phrase “love isn’t enough” echoed throughout my empty skull for most of the drive home tonight. I hate those words put together. They killed me once. And I try every day and night not to let them kill me anymore. It’s why I feel so god damned one-dimensional. I can only write about one thing. No matter what I’m writing about, it’s always about that. Hell, I remember a few times I’d see it seeping into my newspaper stories. I’d have to stop myself and consciously keep the words from steering that direction.
How stupid is that?
I got an e-mail earlier this week. Or late last week. It’s hard to keep that straight when I go on trips. And that’s a damn good thing. It was from forbes.net. It was the one I sent to myself five fucking years ago. However, it was addressed to her, not me.
I saw the message title. It made me happy for a second. Until I opened it up.
Guess it’s better than it being in an envelope. That would have meant effort involved in the matter. I did get a postcard this week. From another. It made me smile. I wish we tried harder with people. I like letters. Writing them and getting them. Yet, I don’t send them. So why should I think I should get them?
Exactly.
So I stop drinking. I pace around for a while. Trying to find something to occupy my mind. It’s not easy when there’s nothing around.
Downloading an Elvis Costello concert diverts my attention for a moment or two. Finally, I dig into the boxes of VHS tapes that I cling to for just this reason. “We’re No Angels” grabs my attention. I plop it into the VCR. Push play. Start watching. It’s got to be better than the other options.
The quarter drunken beer sits on the coffee table. Staring at me. By now, it’s warm. Well, as warm as it can get when you don’t turn the heat on in the middle of November. But this is North Carolina. Not North Dakota. So, it’s not freezing cold. Inside. Yet.
The itch is here. To do something wrong. Something dumb. Stupid. Ignorant. Would it make Dennis Hopper proud? Hell no. I feel too sorry for myself. But maybe he felt sorry for himself sometimes to. Hell, who doesn’t? Assholes and cereal killers. But they smell and have bad teeth. Wait a second…
Just five minutes ago I was thinking about going to bed. Calling it quits at 11:45 p.m. Instead, I’m typing. Sitting in my mind, trying to come up with some way to get 750 words into this Microsoft Works Document. I looked at my old diary on disc while I was at home earlier this week. My mom threw away the old Brother Word Processor that I typed them on. Of course, I threw away my journals from the rest of my life up until 2008.
Still bitter about that one aren’t we? No remorse. No repent. We don’t care, what it meant…
My mind wanders back to the TV for a moment. The absolute awfulness of 1980s movies that took themselves seriously makes me chuckle. The music, straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. David Mamet. Ha. But he’s a writer. Of films and such and so much more. Me? I used to be a reporter. A decent one. Best thing I could do was write features and the like. My gamers tended to be too wordy. But my leads were usually spot on. I just need someone to tell me -- “write 10 inches dipshit, not 35.” All those years I wished for an editor. Which is why, I think, I went back to being just a reporter. But the editor was a friend. A friend who sometimes had a complex about being an editor. Just not a good thing.
Now, I’m just a squatter. My posture has gotten worse. My attitude better in some ways, a whole lot worse in others. I can feel my depression seeping away the more letters I type into words. No matter how silly what I type is. How banal. How insipid. Hey, fun with words without a thesaurus. It can happen. Not that you care.
I thought about my ex girlfriend today. Which one, you may be asking? But probably not. And really it doesn’t matter.
The phrase “love isn’t enough” echoed throughout my empty skull for most of the drive home tonight. I hate those words put together. They killed me once. And I try every day and night not to let them kill me anymore. It’s why I feel so god damned one-dimensional. I can only write about one thing. No matter what I’m writing about, it’s always about that. Hell, I remember a few times I’d see it seeping into my newspaper stories. I’d have to stop myself and consciously keep the words from steering that direction.
How stupid is that?
I got an e-mail earlier this week. Or late last week. It’s hard to keep that straight when I go on trips. And that’s a damn good thing. It was from forbes.net. It was the one I sent to myself five fucking years ago. However, it was addressed to her, not me.
I saw the message title. It made me happy for a second. Until I opened it up.
Guess it’s better than it being in an envelope. That would have meant effort involved in the matter. I did get a postcard this week. From another. It made me smile. I wish we tried harder with people. I like letters. Writing them and getting them. Yet, I don’t send them. So why should I think I should get them?
Exactly.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Just a titty-fucker in a titless universe.
“You were late every Friday for the past two months.”
My boss said those words, but I could not believe they were springing forth from his mouth. I knew he was wrong. He knew what he was saying was bull shit. But there it was, nice and neat on a spreadsheet. Days and times of late editions in orange. And every single, god damn Friday night deadline, my name was beside a page in orange.
I’d fought for a little bit more time on Friday nights after three weeks of the football season and us -- a supposed newspaper -- having late next to 83 percent of the scores during that time.
“This is futile,” I made my case to the managing editor. “Why bother holding for the extra hour and a half if this is what we get? If you hold for 15 more minutes, we’ll get in almost every single game. It’s that simple.”
I laid out my case. Logically. Factually. Calmly.
Two days later, I was given the proverbial “thumps up” in an e-mail to go ahead and tack on 15 more minutes. But don’t “ever” push that any further.
So, for the past two months, I’d been sending pages after the original deadline, but never coming any later than 11 minutes past it. Which meant, to me, I was early by at least four minutes each day. Until today. When I was shown a piece of paper that pretty much said “you, Randy, have been late every fucking Friday and cost you and your co-workers lots of bonus money. … Muuah-ah-ah…”
The evil laughter really wasn’t on the piece of fucking paper, but it was there in my head. And certainly in the bosses’ heads as they crunched the numbers and pocketed the money ear-marked for our bonus into their evil billfolds. And yes, I believe they would call them that, just to piss me off.
“Is this fucking real?” I said to my boss, loud enough for his boss, just a pane of glass separating us, to head.
“Yes it is. Look at the numbers.”
“Well, I was given permission to exceed the deadline on Friday. I think if you look at every other night of the week, where I make deadline, they’d see this and know I’m doing a good job.”
“They don’t.”
“But the managing editor (I’ve not used his name, or a close approximation because he’ll cry about it in his dodge-ball loving girlfriend’s arms), said I had 15 extra minutes.”
“Well, Randy, my man, that was bull shit.”
“Well, you can tell them to take their spreadsheet and shove it up their mother fucking asses!” once again, loud enough for the office next to us to hear, and for the entire room to hear. “I’m sick and tired of being fucked over by people in this office. Especially talentless fucks and members of the lucky sperm club.”
Now, these tirades -- especially the out loud ones -- are the real reason I haven’t done too well with my career. Well, pretty well, until the layoff, but who’s counting other than me?
For no reason whatsoever, the Black Oak Arkansas song “Jim Dandy” popped into my head. And, I started singing it out fucking loud.
“Jim Dandy to the rescue … Jim Dandy to the rescue…Jim Dandy to the rescue…
But no one took up the hot-as-hell redhead’s part for me…
“Go Jim Dandy! Goooooooooooooo!”
So, I slumped back into my cubicle and stared at my computer screen, which 15 minutes after my arrival was still booting up its almost a decade old version of Windows. That, and the Adobe CS2 that we are still using -- two behind my fucking bootlegged copy -- just makes my fucking day. Every day.
“Hey man, you OK?” my co-worker Mitchell says with a laugh. He knows full well that if I even thought for a second that he was serious in asking me that, he’d be without a hand by now.
“Dude, this place, it’s not worth getting mad over. I try to tell you that every day, spare you the decade and a half of angst, but every now and again, it fucking tit-fucks me. And, seriously, I like tit-fucking, but I don’t like being titty-fucked.”
“Righteous, man. Righteous. You should fucking write that down.”
Little did he know, I was already thinking about doing exactly that.
The only woman in the place that I think is really attractive, and not just office-hot, walks by right after my titty-fuck tirade. I wonder if she heard it, then I realize how stupid it is to wonder that since I know damn well she heard it. But, she’s married anyway, so it doesn’t freaking matter.
Speaking of titty-fucking, I start to wonder why the fuck I’m still at this job. One that I hate a little more every day. Especially that weasely fuck that I hired my first time around. But, that’s for another time. I don’t want to waste thought seconds on him. You can never get them back, you know.
Why am I not in New Orleans? I should be freelancing my ass off down there, drinking booze when I’m not and enjoying the Mississippi River and streetcar rides. I almost did it twice. But my life is a whole serious of almosts. And that gets me down. So I stop thinking about it, and go back into daydreaming mode. Hell, I could probably titty-fuck someone in New Orleans without really trying. Just tell ‘em I’m a writer.
Ha. Writer. I haven’t written anything that got published since January 24th of 2009. That’s almost two fucking years. Well, except for some briefs and re-writes that I did early on in my current gig of employment. Then I stopped doing that. Why? No one cared to ever even just say “hey, thanks for doing that.” That’s if they even noticed.
My boss said those words, but I could not believe they were springing forth from his mouth. I knew he was wrong. He knew what he was saying was bull shit. But there it was, nice and neat on a spreadsheet. Days and times of late editions in orange. And every single, god damn Friday night deadline, my name was beside a page in orange.
I’d fought for a little bit more time on Friday nights after three weeks of the football season and us -- a supposed newspaper -- having late next to 83 percent of the scores during that time.
“This is futile,” I made my case to the managing editor. “Why bother holding for the extra hour and a half if this is what we get? If you hold for 15 more minutes, we’ll get in almost every single game. It’s that simple.”
I laid out my case. Logically. Factually. Calmly.
Two days later, I was given the proverbial “thumps up” in an e-mail to go ahead and tack on 15 more minutes. But don’t “ever” push that any further.
So, for the past two months, I’d been sending pages after the original deadline, but never coming any later than 11 minutes past it. Which meant, to me, I was early by at least four minutes each day. Until today. When I was shown a piece of paper that pretty much said “you, Randy, have been late every fucking Friday and cost you and your co-workers lots of bonus money. … Muuah-ah-ah…”
The evil laughter really wasn’t on the piece of fucking paper, but it was there in my head. And certainly in the bosses’ heads as they crunched the numbers and pocketed the money ear-marked for our bonus into their evil billfolds. And yes, I believe they would call them that, just to piss me off.
“Is this fucking real?” I said to my boss, loud enough for his boss, just a pane of glass separating us, to head.
“Yes it is. Look at the numbers.”
“Well, I was given permission to exceed the deadline on Friday. I think if you look at every other night of the week, where I make deadline, they’d see this and know I’m doing a good job.”
“They don’t.”
“But the managing editor (I’ve not used his name, or a close approximation because he’ll cry about it in his dodge-ball loving girlfriend’s arms), said I had 15 extra minutes.”
“Well, Randy, my man, that was bull shit.”
“Well, you can tell them to take their spreadsheet and shove it up their mother fucking asses!” once again, loud enough for the office next to us to hear, and for the entire room to hear. “I’m sick and tired of being fucked over by people in this office. Especially talentless fucks and members of the lucky sperm club.”
Now, these tirades -- especially the out loud ones -- are the real reason I haven’t done too well with my career. Well, pretty well, until the layoff, but who’s counting other than me?
For no reason whatsoever, the Black Oak Arkansas song “Jim Dandy” popped into my head. And, I started singing it out fucking loud.
“Jim Dandy to the rescue … Jim Dandy to the rescue…Jim Dandy to the rescue…
But no one took up the hot-as-hell redhead’s part for me…
“Go Jim Dandy! Goooooooooooooo!”
So, I slumped back into my cubicle and stared at my computer screen, which 15 minutes after my arrival was still booting up its almost a decade old version of Windows. That, and the Adobe CS2 that we are still using -- two behind my fucking bootlegged copy -- just makes my fucking day. Every day.
“Hey man, you OK?” my co-worker Mitchell says with a laugh. He knows full well that if I even thought for a second that he was serious in asking me that, he’d be without a hand by now.
“Dude, this place, it’s not worth getting mad over. I try to tell you that every day, spare you the decade and a half of angst, but every now and again, it fucking tit-fucks me. And, seriously, I like tit-fucking, but I don’t like being titty-fucked.”
“Righteous, man. Righteous. You should fucking write that down.”
Little did he know, I was already thinking about doing exactly that.
The only woman in the place that I think is really attractive, and not just office-hot, walks by right after my titty-fuck tirade. I wonder if she heard it, then I realize how stupid it is to wonder that since I know damn well she heard it. But, she’s married anyway, so it doesn’t freaking matter.
Speaking of titty-fucking, I start to wonder why the fuck I’m still at this job. One that I hate a little more every day. Especially that weasely fuck that I hired my first time around. But, that’s for another time. I don’t want to waste thought seconds on him. You can never get them back, you know.
Why am I not in New Orleans? I should be freelancing my ass off down there, drinking booze when I’m not and enjoying the Mississippi River and streetcar rides. I almost did it twice. But my life is a whole serious of almosts. And that gets me down. So I stop thinking about it, and go back into daydreaming mode. Hell, I could probably titty-fuck someone in New Orleans without really trying. Just tell ‘em I’m a writer.
Ha. Writer. I haven’t written anything that got published since January 24th of 2009. That’s almost two fucking years. Well, except for some briefs and re-writes that I did early on in my current gig of employment. Then I stopped doing that. Why? No one cared to ever even just say “hey, thanks for doing that.” That’s if they even noticed.
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