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.
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