The madness of monotony makes me itchy.
It also makes for bad things. My mind doesn’t work the same when the body is unoccupied with something. Even as little a something as watching television or washing the dishes or picking my toes. It’s why winter is the least favorite month. I stay indoors. I sit under a blanket on my couch, staring at things. Thinking about the past, not enough about the present, and certainly not the future.
Plans aren’t my strong suit. I once had a plan. It worked out well. Until the bottom fell out.
Sitting here in my underwear, hoping that my tooth stops hurting enough to make it through the day, I wonder why I had to look.
Maybe it all stems from that wandering thought that popped into my head for no reason the other day. Over six years later, standing in a lukewarm shower on a frigid November morning, it dawned on me. She didn’t cry.
Every breakup that I think of ended with both parties crying. Well, except for the first one. But she was a toad.
But the one that “matters” to me. The obsession one. The one that friends are even too scared to say “get the fuck over it” about, she didn’t cry.
And that all of the sudden matters. For days I’ve been mulling over that fact. Something glossed over in the depression immediate, and the depression that followed. The depression is over, but some of the thoughts stay. It’s like I’m Jim Carrey from the Truman Show. Hopelessly wondering about some part of my past. Unrequited love and all. But it’s a sign of mental illness, no?
This latest thought revelation has helped me. I know that my way of looking at life is strange to most. You fall in love with someone, you don’t fall out of love with them. Either you change or they change. The person you were in love with, or the person you were, no longer exists. So, one or the other or both move on.
I think this thought has let me move on. It’s been a lingering thought, that’s been trying to bust out for quite a while now. I didn’t let it until that morning in the shower. A calm came over me when that idea was there.
There’s other things important now too. It always helps. This one is different. I feel it. And I know it. That’ll reveal itself soon enough.
So, what do I do to drive away the monotony? And with it, the evil that is my warped brain? No idea, really. But I’m working on it.
Drinking alone is no longer an option. I do it when I watch a game or cook out. But not when I’m just sitting. I’ve not learned how to open the floodgates of my head without the lubricant quite yet. It’ll happen. Or it won’t. That’s when I’ll finally realize that writing isn’t my thing. It’s been too long since I tried to write something other than a journal entry anyway.
Those cats on my stoop. They howl at night. I’d let them in, but they don’t like me. They just stare in disbelief or jealousy. Not sure which. Not that it matters to me. Or them.
Two glasses – Abita pint glasses – sit on my coffee table. They both are dirty. They both have apple juice in them. Apple juice used to be my friend. Now I’m told it has arsenic in it. Guess I’m full of arsenic. So don’t try to kill me that way.
My boss is a homophobe. He’s also a terrible boss. I’m going to close off the work world starting today. I want to leave. Need to leave. And the excuses for still being there are about as sturdy as dollar store paper towels.
I’m out of Pop Tarts. That makes me angry.
I haven’t shaved in two weeks. And while the sight of me is quite awful, even to mine own eyes, I don’t do anything about it. It just seems not worth it at the moment.
I don’t like being a passenger in my car. I freak out. It has to only be the fact that I don’t own it yet. And won’t for quite a few more years. I wonder what that says about me? I trust someone to drive it, yet I don’t like it when they do? Control freak? Nah. Just an idiot whose values are a bit warped.
Can you tell I struggled to make it to the end? This story had no meaning. And the rambles at the end were just that, blank rambles. Getting back on the horse. It’ll take some time. Maybe it’ll take a shot of whiskey or three. I just know it feels better this way.
A story? That’s the next step. Gotta involve the road, bars and redheaded women.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Warren Oates > Warren Buffet
My man crush developed late on him.
I’d known of his existence from at least the first time I saw the movie “Stripes.” So, that would make it sometime in the early 1980s.
He was dead by then, most likely.
However, these last few weeks, Mr. Warren Oates has become my new favorite. The go-to guy when I’m having a bad night. Or day. Or life.
His characters seem to always be on the other side of luck. Yeah, sometime he got the pretty girl. But it seemed she always did something to screw it up. See “Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia” or “China 9, Liberty 37”.
When he was the tough guy, it went wrong.
When we was in the race, he wrecked.
I’m in awe of him right now. Will it pass? Maybe. I used to think Robert DeNiro could do no wrong. And Jack Nicholson. But they certainly went down wrong paths.
So far, Oatesy hasn’t.
Maybe I’ll dig into something one day and it won’t be quite right. I am trying to get a hold of “92 in the Shade” right now. Only on VHS they say. So I bid a buck for one on ebay. Maybe I’ll win. And it’ll be life changing.
Of course, that may be my problem, always searching for some sign, some life-changing fact or journey from a movie. Or a book. Or a song. Instead of looking inside.
Maybe my father is right. There isn’t much in there to begin with. All the brains and no desire to do anything with them, he always implies but never out-right says.
Last conversation I had with the old drunk, he told me I needed to “figure out what the fuck you’re doing with your life.”
I laughed, like I usually do. First it was kind of funny. Second, it’s a defense mechanism.
He’s right. I know. But then he uses his life as some kind of shining example of what “success” is. He started rambling on about civic organizations, things he’d done with his life, being proud, raising three college-educated kids, and so on.
Yes, he’s done a lot of things. But do you need to sit there and list them in a drunken stupor to prove it? Or to prove to your son that he’s a failure when measured up to that?
“Dad, me and you, we have different definitions of success,” I said. “Maybe it’s that simple.”
He stared at me blankly when I said it. I didn’t regret it for a moment. Those times when the truth slip out of my mouth when I’m talking to him get rarer and rarer. They used to come freely. And they always ended in fights. Yelling. Temper tantrums. From both of us. This one wasn’t going to end that way. He knew it. I knew it. It was just going to end.
“If you are happy doing what you do, then so be it,” he slurred. “I just don’t get ….” he trailed off into babble.
That night, after driving home I sat in bed. I started to say things out loud. Cursing my ex-girlfriend for “still taking up space in my thoughts” and the like. It dawned on me how much me and my dad are alike at that moment. Bitter shells of what we once thought we were.
It don’t do much good sulking about it anymore. A lot of folks make choices that hurt people. Hurt them real bad. I’ve done it at least twice in my life. Probably a lot more. Fuck you if you think your hurt is worse than anyone else’s. Everyone has pain. Some are lucky and it doesn’t hit for a long, long time. Some get hit early and never seem to dodge it again. But eventually, it gets everyone. How you respond goes a long way in determining what happens next. Boy, that thought came out stupid. But that’s why I (used to) sit here and just type and type and type. Something good comes out every so often.
Back to Mr. Oates. Not the guy with Hall, but the one with a big toe named bill murray.
He could replace Harry Dean one day as the top dog. Steve Buscemi threatened, but never quite reached the pinnacle. Mickey Rourke went nuts, which didn’t disqualify him, but his surgery did. Hell, I understand what happened, my man, women can drive you to the verge and over the verge of stupidity. You went berserk, I got drunk and apathetic. You probably won that round. Except for the hitting part. If it’s true?
Anyways, I’d rather be Warren Oates than Warren Buffet any day. Pride is greater than money. Except when you need a good suit.
I’d known of his existence from at least the first time I saw the movie “Stripes.” So, that would make it sometime in the early 1980s.
He was dead by then, most likely.
However, these last few weeks, Mr. Warren Oates has become my new favorite. The go-to guy when I’m having a bad night. Or day. Or life.
His characters seem to always be on the other side of luck. Yeah, sometime he got the pretty girl. But it seemed she always did something to screw it up. See “Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia” or “China 9, Liberty 37”.
When he was the tough guy, it went wrong.
When we was in the race, he wrecked.
I’m in awe of him right now. Will it pass? Maybe. I used to think Robert DeNiro could do no wrong. And Jack Nicholson. But they certainly went down wrong paths.
So far, Oatesy hasn’t.
Maybe I’ll dig into something one day and it won’t be quite right. I am trying to get a hold of “92 in the Shade” right now. Only on VHS they say. So I bid a buck for one on ebay. Maybe I’ll win. And it’ll be life changing.
Of course, that may be my problem, always searching for some sign, some life-changing fact or journey from a movie. Or a book. Or a song. Instead of looking inside.
Maybe my father is right. There isn’t much in there to begin with. All the brains and no desire to do anything with them, he always implies but never out-right says.
Last conversation I had with the old drunk, he told me I needed to “figure out what the fuck you’re doing with your life.”
I laughed, like I usually do. First it was kind of funny. Second, it’s a defense mechanism.
He’s right. I know. But then he uses his life as some kind of shining example of what “success” is. He started rambling on about civic organizations, things he’d done with his life, being proud, raising three college-educated kids, and so on.
Yes, he’s done a lot of things. But do you need to sit there and list them in a drunken stupor to prove it? Or to prove to your son that he’s a failure when measured up to that?
“Dad, me and you, we have different definitions of success,” I said. “Maybe it’s that simple.”
He stared at me blankly when I said it. I didn’t regret it for a moment. Those times when the truth slip out of my mouth when I’m talking to him get rarer and rarer. They used to come freely. And they always ended in fights. Yelling. Temper tantrums. From both of us. This one wasn’t going to end that way. He knew it. I knew it. It was just going to end.
“If you are happy doing what you do, then so be it,” he slurred. “I just don’t get ….” he trailed off into babble.
That night, after driving home I sat in bed. I started to say things out loud. Cursing my ex-girlfriend for “still taking up space in my thoughts” and the like. It dawned on me how much me and my dad are alike at that moment. Bitter shells of what we once thought we were.
It don’t do much good sulking about it anymore. A lot of folks make choices that hurt people. Hurt them real bad. I’ve done it at least twice in my life. Probably a lot more. Fuck you if you think your hurt is worse than anyone else’s. Everyone has pain. Some are lucky and it doesn’t hit for a long, long time. Some get hit early and never seem to dodge it again. But eventually, it gets everyone. How you respond goes a long way in determining what happens next. Boy, that thought came out stupid. But that’s why I (used to) sit here and just type and type and type. Something good comes out every so often.
Back to Mr. Oates. Not the guy with Hall, but the one with a big toe named bill murray.
He could replace Harry Dean one day as the top dog. Steve Buscemi threatened, but never quite reached the pinnacle. Mickey Rourke went nuts, which didn’t disqualify him, but his surgery did. Hell, I understand what happened, my man, women can drive you to the verge and over the verge of stupidity. You went berserk, I got drunk and apathetic. You probably won that round. Except for the hitting part. If it’s true?
Anyways, I’d rather be Warren Oates than Warren Buffet any day. Pride is greater than money. Except when you need a good suit.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
dick and other shit
I always wondered what that moment was like. The one where you find a lump. Knowing that more likely than not, death would soon be knocking.
The moment was disappointing. For me. Not for her.
She'd always expected to die. She talked about it all the time. How she'd never see 25. Then 30. Now it's 40.
Me, I'm 40. Guess I know now that I won't see 50. Probably not 42. Maybe even 41.
The lump showed up the night after a disappointing night of sex. Well, mostly sex.
When the dick isn't cooperative, the sex tends to disappoint. And this time, the dick certainly didn't disappoint. At being uncooperative.
She said all the right things, the girl underneath. But hiding true feelings in those moments doesn't happen. A shrug becomes a smirk. A sigh becomes a curse.
It had all happened before.
This time, however, was a little different.
In the morning, while taking a pee, I noticed that my less than huge dick was less than its normal self. Stretching the complete package out, a lump showed up.
Not the STD kind. Not the bug bite kind. Instead, just a raised portion. It didn't hurt. But the groin always sort of hurt. Ever since the first of now dozens of kidney stones. Including one the sized of an unshelled peanut.
***
I'm the Cubs fan of love.
I liked taking pictures of dead things, I remember that part of my childhood.
If it makes no sense, it’s better than what I’m used to.
I kind of wish I’d kind of done it differently. Maybe.
***
She walked into the room, and dust kicked up.
“Who are you?” she asked with a smile.
“I’m no one.”
“Ok,” she said, walking away.
I watched her walk. She had a nice walk. One leg was a little longer than the other. Her brown shoes didn’t match her plaid skirt.
“Better that way,” I thought to myself.
***
I watched from a far. I used to watch from up close. But one day I thought she saw me. So I had to stop getting so close. If she saw me, she’d never come back. Why? Because she didn’t want me there.
The paint was peeling off the sign that read “Memories.” Faded memories. A cliché. How appropriate.
A patch of sand had started to turn into a hill of sand. I wondered if this was how a dune would slowly build. From run off and one man’s laziness?
I grabbed a shirt off the ground, I was about to cum and I didn’t want to make a mess. Three days later, I found that shirt – it was my favorite old tour shirt. Now, forever stained by my five minutes of needless pleasure. I’d had that shirt since my first show. How could I ever wear it again? Knowing that these new stains came from that?
I bumped into the pool table on my way to the bar. Luckily, no one noticed as the six ball edged closer to the middle of the felt. I grabbed my composure from out of my ass and went to order my beer.
“You dodged one there, sweetie,” a voice came from over my shoulder.
Instead of turning to look back, I gazed into the cloudy mirror behind the bar. A brunette stood behind me. At least I thought she had brown hair. You never really know in bar light.
I smiled at the reflection. It smiled back.
Yesterday, I wished it hadn’t.
I promised I wouldn’t think about her today. I failed. I said I wouldn’t listen to their music. I did. The only thing I followed through on was buying a lottery ticket. Same six numbers as always. I figure the number seven has got to come up as the mega-power-terrific ball someday. All the numbers represent birthdays. Not mine, but theirs. And since so many of them are Cancers, I figured seven was my unlucky lucky number. So far, it’s still that’s held true.
“Have you ever been there?” she asked.
“No. I didn’t know it was even there until you told me two hours ago.”
We had been driving for almost an hour now. Headed west towards “Pete’s Pizza and Beer”, what she told me was the “best damn pizza and beer joint in New Mexico.” Of course, we were in Tallahassee when she told me that.
Waylon was right. You do look in the mirror one day and see how old you’ve gotten. My chest hair is almost completely white now. As is my beard. Guess I’ll never be the new kid anymore.
Scurvy kills.
You know you’re in trouble when you wake up and your car keys are in her hands.
Still haven’t figured out why I left her. Although I know why I wanted to.
The moment was disappointing. For me. Not for her.
She'd always expected to die. She talked about it all the time. How she'd never see 25. Then 30. Now it's 40.
Me, I'm 40. Guess I know now that I won't see 50. Probably not 42. Maybe even 41.
The lump showed up the night after a disappointing night of sex. Well, mostly sex.
When the dick isn't cooperative, the sex tends to disappoint. And this time, the dick certainly didn't disappoint. At being uncooperative.
She said all the right things, the girl underneath. But hiding true feelings in those moments doesn't happen. A shrug becomes a smirk. A sigh becomes a curse.
It had all happened before.
This time, however, was a little different.
In the morning, while taking a pee, I noticed that my less than huge dick was less than its normal self. Stretching the complete package out, a lump showed up.
Not the STD kind. Not the bug bite kind. Instead, just a raised portion. It didn't hurt. But the groin always sort of hurt. Ever since the first of now dozens of kidney stones. Including one the sized of an unshelled peanut.
***
I'm the Cubs fan of love.
I liked taking pictures of dead things, I remember that part of my childhood.
If it makes no sense, it’s better than what I’m used to.
I kind of wish I’d kind of done it differently. Maybe.
***
She walked into the room, and dust kicked up.
“Who are you?” she asked with a smile.
“I’m no one.”
“Ok,” she said, walking away.
I watched her walk. She had a nice walk. One leg was a little longer than the other. Her brown shoes didn’t match her plaid skirt.
“Better that way,” I thought to myself.
***
I watched from a far. I used to watch from up close. But one day I thought she saw me. So I had to stop getting so close. If she saw me, she’d never come back. Why? Because she didn’t want me there.
The paint was peeling off the sign that read “Memories.” Faded memories. A cliché. How appropriate.
A patch of sand had started to turn into a hill of sand. I wondered if this was how a dune would slowly build. From run off and one man’s laziness?
I grabbed a shirt off the ground, I was about to cum and I didn’t want to make a mess. Three days later, I found that shirt – it was my favorite old tour shirt. Now, forever stained by my five minutes of needless pleasure. I’d had that shirt since my first show. How could I ever wear it again? Knowing that these new stains came from that?
I bumped into the pool table on my way to the bar. Luckily, no one noticed as the six ball edged closer to the middle of the felt. I grabbed my composure from out of my ass and went to order my beer.
“You dodged one there, sweetie,” a voice came from over my shoulder.
Instead of turning to look back, I gazed into the cloudy mirror behind the bar. A brunette stood behind me. At least I thought she had brown hair. You never really know in bar light.
I smiled at the reflection. It smiled back.
Yesterday, I wished it hadn’t.
I promised I wouldn’t think about her today. I failed. I said I wouldn’t listen to their music. I did. The only thing I followed through on was buying a lottery ticket. Same six numbers as always. I figure the number seven has got to come up as the mega-power-terrific ball someday. All the numbers represent birthdays. Not mine, but theirs. And since so many of them are Cancers, I figured seven was my unlucky lucky number. So far, it’s still that’s held true.
“Have you ever been there?” she asked.
“No. I didn’t know it was even there until you told me two hours ago.”
We had been driving for almost an hour now. Headed west towards “Pete’s Pizza and Beer”, what she told me was the “best damn pizza and beer joint in New Mexico.” Of course, we were in Tallahassee when she told me that.
Waylon was right. You do look in the mirror one day and see how old you’ve gotten. My chest hair is almost completely white now. As is my beard. Guess I’ll never be the new kid anymore.
Scurvy kills.
You know you’re in trouble when you wake up and your car keys are in her hands.
Still haven’t figured out why I left her. Although I know why I wanted to.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Michael Jordan wouldn't do that...
When I woke up, the only thing I noticed was the stickiness. All around my feet. My arms. My chest. My fingers. Everything.
It was dark in my room. I fumbled for the switch on the lamp beside my bed. I’d kept that lamp for over a decade now. It had no shade anymore, long ago that was crushed in a move and thrown away. But the little unicorn sticker still sat there on its side. Put there by her niece one day. It reminded me that one time I was happy.
When I clicked the switch, I saw what I had done. Was I surprised? No. Not at all.
I was pissed off, however. I’d fallen asleep after doing it. After slitting her throat with my dad’s old pocket knife. I’d not have much time to clean this all up before the day got started.
Naked, I stumbled into my bathroom and turned on the shower. I felt the cold water with my right hand, turning the knob to make it a little warmer with my left. I didn’t wait for the change to take hold before stepping into the water. Soon, I was clean.
“Much better,” I thought to myself. Now I’d have to clean up my room.
She bled an awful lot. She didn’t put up a fight, but she dropped a lot of red on my carpet. This was going to be tedious.
I grabbed some old t-shirts, just plain black ones and started mopping up the mess. Squishing around, I made slow progress. These Hanes tees really did the job. If I was to start a business, I’d make Sham-Wows out of Hanes tees. Maybe Michael Jordan would be a proud spokesman in his older age. The William Shatner is to Priceline of my empire.
I smiled at the sheer absurdity of that image in my head.
“You know, Michael Jordan would never do that,” she said to me.
“What do you know? You’re just a fucking dead whore?” I pleaded with the girl I’d killed last night.
“I know a lot more than you think,” she smirked. “I know you don’t know how to love. It’s why you kill.”
“Yeah, I guess you do know more than most,” I said. “But, what did it get you?”
“Fucking filleted on your bed, that’s what.”
She didn’t talk anymore after that. Probably a good thing. I might have killed her again.
After finishing up the cleaning job, I pulled my Hyundai up to the back door and plopped all the bags of waste into the back. I drove the three miles to my boat and hauled all that stuff into it. The sun was just beginning to show signs of rising when I finished. Luckily, no fishermen had cast their lines here today so far. It always makes me nervous when they see me on mornings like this.
“Hey there!” a scruffy fisherman wearing and old El Zarape Mexican Cantina shirt yelled. “You sure do take a lot of bags out with you.”
“I just don’t want my gear to be seen,” I’d say coyly. “Then everyone would know what I’m fishing for…”
I had pretty good luck with the fish. But I didn’t really want anyone to know my bait was human. Female, to be exact.
“Well, one day we’ll figure you out, kid,” scruffy man would always say.
“When you do, I’ll buy you and your daughter a beer.”
“You leave her out of this. She’s much too smart to hang out with the likes of us!”
“You got that right, old-timer,” I said as I started my boat. “Catch you in a few!”
He stared at me as I backed out my boat. Always very slowly as I didn’t want to raise his ire about creating too much wake. He forgave a lot of bad behaviors at his docks. Even let a group of NFL players shoot up a rival coach’s boat with their 9mm’s one night. But creating too much wake, that was unforgivable.
I waved at the old man. I think he knew I was up to no good. But since I paid my dock fees in advance and always made sure to leave a few extra beers on his porch at night when I was done, he didn’t question it. Plus, I think he really wanted me to date his daughter. She was pretty. But she always wore than damn University of Florida t-shirt that said “Rowdy Reptile” on it. That, simply, was a deal-breaker for me.
It was dark in my room. I fumbled for the switch on the lamp beside my bed. I’d kept that lamp for over a decade now. It had no shade anymore, long ago that was crushed in a move and thrown away. But the little unicorn sticker still sat there on its side. Put there by her niece one day. It reminded me that one time I was happy.
When I clicked the switch, I saw what I had done. Was I surprised? No. Not at all.
I was pissed off, however. I’d fallen asleep after doing it. After slitting her throat with my dad’s old pocket knife. I’d not have much time to clean this all up before the day got started.
Naked, I stumbled into my bathroom and turned on the shower. I felt the cold water with my right hand, turning the knob to make it a little warmer with my left. I didn’t wait for the change to take hold before stepping into the water. Soon, I was clean.
“Much better,” I thought to myself. Now I’d have to clean up my room.
She bled an awful lot. She didn’t put up a fight, but she dropped a lot of red on my carpet. This was going to be tedious.
I grabbed some old t-shirts, just plain black ones and started mopping up the mess. Squishing around, I made slow progress. These Hanes tees really did the job. If I was to start a business, I’d make Sham-Wows out of Hanes tees. Maybe Michael Jordan would be a proud spokesman in his older age. The William Shatner is to Priceline of my empire.
I smiled at the sheer absurdity of that image in my head.
“You know, Michael Jordan would never do that,” she said to me.
“What do you know? You’re just a fucking dead whore?” I pleaded with the girl I’d killed last night.
“I know a lot more than you think,” she smirked. “I know you don’t know how to love. It’s why you kill.”
“Yeah, I guess you do know more than most,” I said. “But, what did it get you?”
“Fucking filleted on your bed, that’s what.”
She didn’t talk anymore after that. Probably a good thing. I might have killed her again.
After finishing up the cleaning job, I pulled my Hyundai up to the back door and plopped all the bags of waste into the back. I drove the three miles to my boat and hauled all that stuff into it. The sun was just beginning to show signs of rising when I finished. Luckily, no fishermen had cast their lines here today so far. It always makes me nervous when they see me on mornings like this.
“Hey there!” a scruffy fisherman wearing and old El Zarape Mexican Cantina shirt yelled. “You sure do take a lot of bags out with you.”
“I just don’t want my gear to be seen,” I’d say coyly. “Then everyone would know what I’m fishing for…”
I had pretty good luck with the fish. But I didn’t really want anyone to know my bait was human. Female, to be exact.
“Well, one day we’ll figure you out, kid,” scruffy man would always say.
“When you do, I’ll buy you and your daughter a beer.”
“You leave her out of this. She’s much too smart to hang out with the likes of us!”
“You got that right, old-timer,” I said as I started my boat. “Catch you in a few!”
He stared at me as I backed out my boat. Always very slowly as I didn’t want to raise his ire about creating too much wake. He forgave a lot of bad behaviors at his docks. Even let a group of NFL players shoot up a rival coach’s boat with their 9mm’s one night. But creating too much wake, that was unforgivable.
I waved at the old man. I think he knew I was up to no good. But since I paid my dock fees in advance and always made sure to leave a few extra beers on his porch at night when I was done, he didn’t question it. Plus, I think he really wanted me to date his daughter. She was pretty. But she always wore than damn University of Florida t-shirt that said “Rowdy Reptile” on it. That, simply, was a deal-breaker for me.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
homemade tattoo
Being poor isn’t romantic. It isn’t some kind of soul building exercise.
It’s just horrid.
I feel this way pretty often. Tonight, it hit while I was jerking off in my room. I had to turn the fan on loud and put headphones on while doing it. Soon after, I found myself listening to The Plimsouls and wondering where did I steer off in this direction?
She was crying yesterday. It made me feel sad. And it made me just feel. I told her things I’d not told anyone else. At least not face to face. I didn’t feel quite as lonely that night. Until later, when I got nauseous and felt as if I was going to either die, pass out or throw up everywhere. Thankfully, I did none of those things. Instead, I just felt really terrible and moaned a lot.
The ability to cover up the way I feel sometimes eludes me. I have no poker face. But I’ve known that for years.
Today, the boss pissed me off. So I snapped at him. Like a little bitch, I’m sure he thought. Hell, it’s what I thought. Soon after it was forgotten. But it bothered me that I let it come out like that. I’d done so well getting out of that mode. I know what it means. I need to leave. I need to run. I need to find something new to sink my life into.
Yet, all I can think about is scrounging up the cash to buy four tickets to a concert in Nashville in a little over a month. Take the girlfriend and have some fun. Get drunk. Do stupid things. Maybe even get a homemade tattoo.
I want to take myself serious, but I don’t seem to have the ability to. It drives me somewhat crazy. And that’s the problem. It should make me mad. Insane. Fucking nuts. Instead, it causes bother.
Lately I’ve been wondering why I don’t remember my dad being around. Except when we went places. I don’t remember him even being at my high school graduation. But I know he was there. I just blacked him out. Put a little black bar over his eyes in my memory so I wouldn’t remember him? Of course, I don’t remember anyone else being there either. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t? It’s just another layer of lost.
I wish I could afford to get my teeth fixed. I don’t know how much longer they’ll be in my head. They don’t hurt much. But I stopped taking the supplements that seemed to hasten their demise. Of course, that has hastened other demises. Fuck, getting old sucks. Especially when you haven’t taken care of yourself.
Only me to blame, though. Jack Lelane is laughing at me.
And so are you.
The sky was a burnt orange color when she came outside. I was sitting in my usual place on the front stoop. It was light blue with pieces of the shitty concrete falling off into the lawn of mostly weeds. I loved dandelion flowers. Almost as much as daisies. They both grew everywhere. I know my neighbors hated me for that. But they only lived there for three weeks a year, so fuck ‘em.
She grabbed one of my busted up beach chairs. This one had dolphins on it at one point. Every day I used to comb the beach, looking for the discards of tourists. Koozies and beach chairs. The occasional umbrella or cooler. The stuff people buy for a day then toss on the ground next to a trash can is remarkable. I would take pictures and publish a book on it if I thought it would sell. But who really wants to see 100 pages of pictures of plastic shit? One day some hipster kid would find a copy in a thrift store and it would be popular for a moment. He’d blog about it (or whatever form of on-line communication exists at this point) and it would become a phenomenon. They’d seek me out on the internet, only to find me on my stoop. Wishing their parents had bought the book in the first place so I wouldn’t be living in a shitty, wood-paneled renter in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina, drinking Shiner Bock’s out of a beat up old pint glass that I got at the Chevron station next to the General George Patton Museum in California.
We looked at each other and smiled.
“When we leaving for Nashville?”
“In the morning, honey. In the morning.”
It’s just horrid.
I feel this way pretty often. Tonight, it hit while I was jerking off in my room. I had to turn the fan on loud and put headphones on while doing it. Soon after, I found myself listening to The Plimsouls and wondering where did I steer off in this direction?
She was crying yesterday. It made me feel sad. And it made me just feel. I told her things I’d not told anyone else. At least not face to face. I didn’t feel quite as lonely that night. Until later, when I got nauseous and felt as if I was going to either die, pass out or throw up everywhere. Thankfully, I did none of those things. Instead, I just felt really terrible and moaned a lot.
The ability to cover up the way I feel sometimes eludes me. I have no poker face. But I’ve known that for years.
Today, the boss pissed me off. So I snapped at him. Like a little bitch, I’m sure he thought. Hell, it’s what I thought. Soon after it was forgotten. But it bothered me that I let it come out like that. I’d done so well getting out of that mode. I know what it means. I need to leave. I need to run. I need to find something new to sink my life into.
Yet, all I can think about is scrounging up the cash to buy four tickets to a concert in Nashville in a little over a month. Take the girlfriend and have some fun. Get drunk. Do stupid things. Maybe even get a homemade tattoo.
I want to take myself serious, but I don’t seem to have the ability to. It drives me somewhat crazy. And that’s the problem. It should make me mad. Insane. Fucking nuts. Instead, it causes bother.
Lately I’ve been wondering why I don’t remember my dad being around. Except when we went places. I don’t remember him even being at my high school graduation. But I know he was there. I just blacked him out. Put a little black bar over his eyes in my memory so I wouldn’t remember him? Of course, I don’t remember anyone else being there either. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t? It’s just another layer of lost.
I wish I could afford to get my teeth fixed. I don’t know how much longer they’ll be in my head. They don’t hurt much. But I stopped taking the supplements that seemed to hasten their demise. Of course, that has hastened other demises. Fuck, getting old sucks. Especially when you haven’t taken care of yourself.
Only me to blame, though. Jack Lelane is laughing at me.
And so are you.
The sky was a burnt orange color when she came outside. I was sitting in my usual place on the front stoop. It was light blue with pieces of the shitty concrete falling off into the lawn of mostly weeds. I loved dandelion flowers. Almost as much as daisies. They both grew everywhere. I know my neighbors hated me for that. But they only lived there for three weeks a year, so fuck ‘em.
She grabbed one of my busted up beach chairs. This one had dolphins on it at one point. Every day I used to comb the beach, looking for the discards of tourists. Koozies and beach chairs. The occasional umbrella or cooler. The stuff people buy for a day then toss on the ground next to a trash can is remarkable. I would take pictures and publish a book on it if I thought it would sell. But who really wants to see 100 pages of pictures of plastic shit? One day some hipster kid would find a copy in a thrift store and it would be popular for a moment. He’d blog about it (or whatever form of on-line communication exists at this point) and it would become a phenomenon. They’d seek me out on the internet, only to find me on my stoop. Wishing their parents had bought the book in the first place so I wouldn’t be living in a shitty, wood-paneled renter in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina, drinking Shiner Bock’s out of a beat up old pint glass that I got at the Chevron station next to the General George Patton Museum in California.
We looked at each other and smiled.
“When we leaving for Nashville?”
“In the morning, honey. In the morning.”
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
empty can of miller
An empty can of Miller beer sat on the porch step. I looked at it as the hazy fog of a morning dew slowly moved about the yard. A cricket chirped and a lone seagull whined.
At that moment I knew it was over.
I kicked the can into the yard, putting a dent in the side. I didn’t get any kind of satisfaction in the act. Just the opposite. The rattling of the can in the dirt and rocks of my yard echoed against the bar across the street. The sound bouncing off the wall and back to me.
I sighed. Resigned to the knowledge of what that can meant – she was cheating on me.
Inside, the glow of a far off sunrise was beginning to peak in. The old rotted white blinds – some stuck half open with frayed strings and cracked plastic pieces, others just leaning half opened, half closed due to a fit of anger or spontaneous fun – each allowed a different amount of light in.
I walked into our room. It had heavy Wal-Mart curtains that kept most of the light out and wood paneling that sucked up whatever got through the brownish monstrosities like a dirty, mildewed sponge. Looking at the bed I looked at her sleeping. She had this smile on her face, even in her dreams, that I just didn’t understand. I’m never happy, so her ability to always be happy – even in sleep – made me a bit batty.
A loud thud filled the room when I dropped a can of peanuts. It was the only heavy thing I saw in my living room on the way to the bedroom. It had to do.
“Wha?” she moaned as the noise broke sleep’s grasp. “Honey, what are you doing?”
“Kicking you out,” I said, matter of factly. “You need to get your stuff and leave.”
Of course “getting your stuff” was a little more complicated than just grabbing the dirty underwear on the floor and a toothbrush. We’d been living together now for two years. Her stuff was all over. My stuff was in many ways her stuff. Her stuff, well, it was mostly still her stuff.
“Stop joking honey, come back to bed,” she mumbled, pulling the covers over her head.
“I mean it Jane,” I bellowed. My anger wasn’t increasing, but my lack of patience was.
Rarely did I use her name. I always was like that. When I dated someone, I hated using their name. Didn’t really like hearing my own. Weird? Probably. But it was what I did. So this time, she knew I was serious about what I was saying.
“What is this about, Randy,” she said, emphasizing my name. Almost like a battle cry kind of thing.
“You’re fucking Scott. Aren’t you?”
Scott was the guy who came over to fix our fridge when it stopped working. He also came to fix a window. A gutter. The leaky porch door and many other things that I never knew were broken. Scott even got a Christmas card two weeks ago. He thanked me for it. I had no idea we’d sent him one, but he showed it to me, signed by me and all. Of course, I signed dozens of cards without knowing who was getting them. It was a ritual that was now two years old. Jane liked sending cards. So did I. But I liked sending them to people I gave a shit about. She sent them to everyone. She started buying them on Dec. 26 and just filled a shoebox with them. Then another. Come November, I was given two piles of cards to sign. One not so big – holding the cards I would want to personalize. The other – not so big and full of ones to people I didn’t know, or had met in passing. It turns out, the dick going inside my girlfriend got one as well.
“Stop being so damn paranoid.”
That was her response. And that let me know I was on to something.
“Fuck you,” I said. Get your stuff out of here before I do.
“What is wrong with you? Are you mad that we haven’t had sex in three months? I told you I was having pain.”
I thought about that. Between the booze and the concerts and the opening of my bar, I hadn’t even noticed that we hadn’t fucked. Maybe that’s why I didn’t really care about what was occurring. I bent over and pulled the covers off. Damn, she had great fucking tits. B cup. Nice large nipples. I’ll miss those.
What she didn’t have, however, was the right to stay here. That can of beer told the tale.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, pulling on her jeans without underwear. I always cringe at that act. Why? Because I imagine the zipper grabbing at things you really don’t want it to grab at. Reason No. 1 that I don’t use the little flap in the underwear to pee through the zipper hole. Just don’t want to get grabbed one night.
“Because you don’t love me,” I said.
“You didn’t want me to love you,” she replied. “It’s written all over your face. And in your own handwriting.”
She was right. And I stopped being even mildly mad.
Bending over, I kissed her on the forehead. We proceeded to have sex. Not great sex, just good sex. Lasted about 11 minutes. I know this because I looked at the Kit Kat Clock on the wall. It’s eyes going left to right, left to right the entire time.
After I rolled off, I looked at her. She was beautiful, even if she couldn’t be true.
“I never asked you to be mine,” I said.
She looked at me. I looked at her. She smiled. I sighed.
At that moment I knew it was over.
I kicked the can into the yard, putting a dent in the side. I didn’t get any kind of satisfaction in the act. Just the opposite. The rattling of the can in the dirt and rocks of my yard echoed against the bar across the street. The sound bouncing off the wall and back to me.
I sighed. Resigned to the knowledge of what that can meant – she was cheating on me.
Inside, the glow of a far off sunrise was beginning to peak in. The old rotted white blinds – some stuck half open with frayed strings and cracked plastic pieces, others just leaning half opened, half closed due to a fit of anger or spontaneous fun – each allowed a different amount of light in.
I walked into our room. It had heavy Wal-Mart curtains that kept most of the light out and wood paneling that sucked up whatever got through the brownish monstrosities like a dirty, mildewed sponge. Looking at the bed I looked at her sleeping. She had this smile on her face, even in her dreams, that I just didn’t understand. I’m never happy, so her ability to always be happy – even in sleep – made me a bit batty.
A loud thud filled the room when I dropped a can of peanuts. It was the only heavy thing I saw in my living room on the way to the bedroom. It had to do.
“Wha?” she moaned as the noise broke sleep’s grasp. “Honey, what are you doing?”
“Kicking you out,” I said, matter of factly. “You need to get your stuff and leave.”
Of course “getting your stuff” was a little more complicated than just grabbing the dirty underwear on the floor and a toothbrush. We’d been living together now for two years. Her stuff was all over. My stuff was in many ways her stuff. Her stuff, well, it was mostly still her stuff.
“Stop joking honey, come back to bed,” she mumbled, pulling the covers over her head.
“I mean it Jane,” I bellowed. My anger wasn’t increasing, but my lack of patience was.
Rarely did I use her name. I always was like that. When I dated someone, I hated using their name. Didn’t really like hearing my own. Weird? Probably. But it was what I did. So this time, she knew I was serious about what I was saying.
“What is this about, Randy,” she said, emphasizing my name. Almost like a battle cry kind of thing.
“You’re fucking Scott. Aren’t you?”
Scott was the guy who came over to fix our fridge when it stopped working. He also came to fix a window. A gutter. The leaky porch door and many other things that I never knew were broken. Scott even got a Christmas card two weeks ago. He thanked me for it. I had no idea we’d sent him one, but he showed it to me, signed by me and all. Of course, I signed dozens of cards without knowing who was getting them. It was a ritual that was now two years old. Jane liked sending cards. So did I. But I liked sending them to people I gave a shit about. She sent them to everyone. She started buying them on Dec. 26 and just filled a shoebox with them. Then another. Come November, I was given two piles of cards to sign. One not so big – holding the cards I would want to personalize. The other – not so big and full of ones to people I didn’t know, or had met in passing. It turns out, the dick going inside my girlfriend got one as well.
“Stop being so damn paranoid.”
That was her response. And that let me know I was on to something.
“Fuck you,” I said. Get your stuff out of here before I do.
“What is wrong with you? Are you mad that we haven’t had sex in three months? I told you I was having pain.”
I thought about that. Between the booze and the concerts and the opening of my bar, I hadn’t even noticed that we hadn’t fucked. Maybe that’s why I didn’t really care about what was occurring. I bent over and pulled the covers off. Damn, she had great fucking tits. B cup. Nice large nipples. I’ll miss those.
What she didn’t have, however, was the right to stay here. That can of beer told the tale.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, pulling on her jeans without underwear. I always cringe at that act. Why? Because I imagine the zipper grabbing at things you really don’t want it to grab at. Reason No. 1 that I don’t use the little flap in the underwear to pee through the zipper hole. Just don’t want to get grabbed one night.
“Because you don’t love me,” I said.
“You didn’t want me to love you,” she replied. “It’s written all over your face. And in your own handwriting.”
She was right. And I stopped being even mildly mad.
Bending over, I kissed her on the forehead. We proceeded to have sex. Not great sex, just good sex. Lasted about 11 minutes. I know this because I looked at the Kit Kat Clock on the wall. It’s eyes going left to right, left to right the entire time.
After I rolled off, I looked at her. She was beautiful, even if she couldn’t be true.
“I never asked you to be mine,” I said.
She looked at me. I looked at her. She smiled. I sighed.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
whiskey talk
I woke up this morning and my teeth and gums were throbbing.
I brushed them and they felt better. So I grabbed my bottle of Jameson, a small glass and a bucket of ice and headed to the porch. It was raining outside, just like it had been raining when I went to bed 11 hours ago. Pouring the whiskey into the glass, I admired the color. I didn’t bother with the ice, this time, as I just finished it off quickly. The day was starting off better than the one before.
A beautiful girl strolled by on her way to the beach. Yellow bikini on, towel draped across her shoulders. She couldn’t be more than 22 years old. I smiled my broken teeth grin as she moseyed on by. She awkwardly looked away when she saw me. Not at all a surprising reaction. As she continued her saunter to the beach, I continued to admire her. Not so much leering at her as appreciating her beauty. I knew I’d never see her again, so I had to remember the moment. Her black flip flops made a soothing sound that quickly was drowned out by the ocean waves.
I poured another glass of whiskey, this time plopping two ice cubes in. The fall heat wasn’t nearly as oppressive as the summer version, but the humidity was wicked today. A tropical wave was stuck on the coast and delivering constant rain and constant pain to my sinuses. Which helped the teeth to hurt a little bit more as well.
The best advice I ever got from a movie was from Wyatt Earp. Of course, it’s advice I never listened to. “Take care of them, they cannot be replaced.”
A chuckle comes up from my gullet and I let it come out, audibly. A pair of tourists are unloading their car across the street. They look at me, then quickly grab their bags and assorted beach wear. A full laugh comes out right before they hit the “beep, beep” of their car alarm.
Off in the distance a giant thundercloud is building. It’s going to be a short day at the beach for these folks today.
A short swig fills my throat with a nice burn. I look at my toes. They’re small and perfectly symmetrical. I was told that by the last girl who saw them. She admired them for that. Her feet weren’t anything special. An ant craws across my left foot. I stare at it. Hoping it will just continue on. But, it bites, so I squish it between my fingers. Another piece of God’s grand plan destroyed by man. The more I think about it, the more I think we’re not built in His image. Instead, it’s the squirrels or the birds. They just watch us with disdain. And laugh at us believing we are them.
Another swig of whiskey and glass No. 2 is done. I pour the third. One piece of ice will suffice. I put my finger in the glass and then dab it on my gums. I’m like a mother treating her baby. I laugh again.
My notepad is sitting on a milk crate beside me. I pick it up and try to write down some words:
“Agony isn’t ecstasy.”
“The girl with the yellow bikini. She walks so nicely. It makes me wonder what it would be like to be 22 again. Then I remember how my 22nd year was spent. In a one-room studio apartment. No car. Making $4.25 an hour as a cashier. Chasing after a lesbian who took pity on me and talked anyway. Meeting the first girl whose heart I would break. Starting to build my mountain of debt. Yeah, those were the days.”
“Slipping into drunk at noon. It’s not madness. It’s not greatness. It’s just drunkenness.”
“I won the lottery once. A three-dollar prize. I don’t play the lottery much anymore.”
“When you eat cheese, you poop cheese later.”
“Lost in all of this madness is the thought of one day being happy.”
“Scream for me Long Beach! Scream for me Long Beach!”
“Do you know why we love to play California? Do you know why? Because you people, you really know how to party!”
I know it’s time to stop when I’m just writing down the in between song banter of heavy metal singers. While those albums are vital pieces of my adolescence and teen years and beyond, the importance of writing them down is simply non-existent.
Don’t try. Try. Don’t give up. Give up. Sleep. Wake. Eat. Starve.
I finish off drink No. 3 and look at the bottle. It’s half full. Ha! There I go, being an optimist today. Must be the whiskey talking.
I brushed them and they felt better. So I grabbed my bottle of Jameson, a small glass and a bucket of ice and headed to the porch. It was raining outside, just like it had been raining when I went to bed 11 hours ago. Pouring the whiskey into the glass, I admired the color. I didn’t bother with the ice, this time, as I just finished it off quickly. The day was starting off better than the one before.
A beautiful girl strolled by on her way to the beach. Yellow bikini on, towel draped across her shoulders. She couldn’t be more than 22 years old. I smiled my broken teeth grin as she moseyed on by. She awkwardly looked away when she saw me. Not at all a surprising reaction. As she continued her saunter to the beach, I continued to admire her. Not so much leering at her as appreciating her beauty. I knew I’d never see her again, so I had to remember the moment. Her black flip flops made a soothing sound that quickly was drowned out by the ocean waves.
I poured another glass of whiskey, this time plopping two ice cubes in. The fall heat wasn’t nearly as oppressive as the summer version, but the humidity was wicked today. A tropical wave was stuck on the coast and delivering constant rain and constant pain to my sinuses. Which helped the teeth to hurt a little bit more as well.
The best advice I ever got from a movie was from Wyatt Earp. Of course, it’s advice I never listened to. “Take care of them, they cannot be replaced.”
A chuckle comes up from my gullet and I let it come out, audibly. A pair of tourists are unloading their car across the street. They look at me, then quickly grab their bags and assorted beach wear. A full laugh comes out right before they hit the “beep, beep” of their car alarm.
Off in the distance a giant thundercloud is building. It’s going to be a short day at the beach for these folks today.
A short swig fills my throat with a nice burn. I look at my toes. They’re small and perfectly symmetrical. I was told that by the last girl who saw them. She admired them for that. Her feet weren’t anything special. An ant craws across my left foot. I stare at it. Hoping it will just continue on. But, it bites, so I squish it between my fingers. Another piece of God’s grand plan destroyed by man. The more I think about it, the more I think we’re not built in His image. Instead, it’s the squirrels or the birds. They just watch us with disdain. And laugh at us believing we are them.
Another swig of whiskey and glass No. 2 is done. I pour the third. One piece of ice will suffice. I put my finger in the glass and then dab it on my gums. I’m like a mother treating her baby. I laugh again.
My notepad is sitting on a milk crate beside me. I pick it up and try to write down some words:
“Agony isn’t ecstasy.”
“The girl with the yellow bikini. She walks so nicely. It makes me wonder what it would be like to be 22 again. Then I remember how my 22nd year was spent. In a one-room studio apartment. No car. Making $4.25 an hour as a cashier. Chasing after a lesbian who took pity on me and talked anyway. Meeting the first girl whose heart I would break. Starting to build my mountain of debt. Yeah, those were the days.”
“Slipping into drunk at noon. It’s not madness. It’s not greatness. It’s just drunkenness.”
“I won the lottery once. A three-dollar prize. I don’t play the lottery much anymore.”
“When you eat cheese, you poop cheese later.”
“Lost in all of this madness is the thought of one day being happy.”
“Scream for me Long Beach! Scream for me Long Beach!”
“Do you know why we love to play California? Do you know why? Because you people, you really know how to party!”
I know it’s time to stop when I’m just writing down the in between song banter of heavy metal singers. While those albums are vital pieces of my adolescence and teen years and beyond, the importance of writing them down is simply non-existent.
Don’t try. Try. Don’t give up. Give up. Sleep. Wake. Eat. Starve.
I finish off drink No. 3 and look at the bottle. It’s half full. Ha! There I go, being an optimist today. Must be the whiskey talking.
Friday, September 23, 2011
sleeping, drinking, fucking
I stared at the mailbox for at least 20 minutes. It had graffiti on the sides that read “the U.S. is doomed” and “fuck the mailman, mom did.”
Chuckling, I finally put my envelope in the large metal bin. I sighed before letting go of the grey handle. Grey because the blue paint had long ago disintegrated from the thousands of hands touching it over the years.
Those twenty minutes were a whole lot longer I thought about whether or not I should apply for the job in the town of my dreams doing something I really wasn’t qualified to do, but I really wanted to get to that town, was a whole lot longer than the seconds that it took me to drop a letter in the same box three years earlier. That letter was to my ex-girlfriend. I’d dug up her address on the internet. One thing I’ve always been able to do is find people and their addresses. I’d done it for a buddy of mine. Found a former friend who became a federal prisoner. I’d found a Major League Baseball player’s address for my former ex. It was one of the reasons I think she agreed to start having drinks with me. Drinks that led to thoughts that led to actions that led to heartbreak. Twice.
But the day I sent her a letter. Over two years after she’d dumped me with the lines “I hate doing this because I still love you” and “Love is not enough.” I wrote the letter in a fit of self-pity and self-help book reading.
I didn’t think twice after pouring my heart out in page after page. Didn’t think twice about it at all. I just licked the envelope, went to the post office a few blocks from the tree that I wrote the letter under, a tree that me and her had spent time under, and mailed it. In this very same mailbox.
I hadn’t thought about it until the second I dropped the resume and such in the box.
“This is that box,” I thought.
Bad omen, for sure.
That original letter went to that address. She had since moved. But, in the great way the post office does things, it eventually found the right address. Months later.
So almost eight months after I mailed the letter. I got a response. Via e-mail.
“You violated us by sending me that,” said the letter in an e-mail sent by another friend so as I didn’t have her e-mail address, I’m sure. “Please don’t try to talk to me again. And I don’t think it’s a good idea that we meet.”
I felt numb reading it. I’d been excited and nervous for a second or two. Then deflated.
I drank a lot that night. I think. I really don’t remember.
I don’t remember a lot about my life in late 2008 and early 2009.
I got dumped right before all this. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. Better than getting laid for the first time. Better than my first kiss – which I’m not even sure of the where or when. It may have happened at Longwood College in 1990. It may have happened on frat row at UVA in 1990. I really can’t be sure anymore. I used to be very sure it was on frat row. But now? Not so much. I think maybe it happened at my friend D.J.’s house party. She made us kiss to get into the party. Me being a virginal kisser, I didn’t want to do it. And may not have. I don’t remember. Lots of grain alcohol that night. Acutally dumped the end of a trashcan full of the stuff. Almost got beat up.
But D.J. saved us.
Just like I saved him a year earlier when he started talking about “Niggers” in my dorm room. “Niggers are everywhere. Niggers are stupid. Niggers are dumb. Nigger, nigger, nigger.” Well, my roommate was black and I stood up and told him “leave. Now.”
He did. And I watched in horror as he stood outside waiting for me to come out. My roommate staring at me.
“Jimmy, he’s a dick,” I said.
“Yeah…and?” he replied.
“And you won’t see him again.”
I grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam and poured two double shots.
“Here you go, buddy,” I said, handing him the shot glass.
“Fuck you, Randy,” he said, taking the shot glass and downing the brown sludge. I returned the favor.
Three hours later we were hugging each other and drinking Mad Dog 20/20. He barfed it on the wall. I put a Motley Crue poster over it. Where it stayed until June when we moved out.
The moment I removed the poster we looked at each other and laughed.
“Been a long year, hasn’t it?” Jimmy said.
“Not at all, my man. Not at all.”
“That was a long night.”
“Yes. And a long time ago.”
I’m still friends with D.J. And Jimmy. Although neither of them has ever been in the same room at the same time again. As far as I know.
I only saw D.J. at my 20-year high school reunion. He married an extremely hot woman.
Jimmy is a big wig at a college now.
Me? I’m a copy editor for a dying newspaper in a shitty little town.
I guess we all got what we should have.
And I’m still wondering if I’ll ever talk to my ex again.
Once an idiot, always an idiot.
Sleep. Drink. Fuck.
One day, my teeth will fall out and I’ll just sleep and drink.
Chuckling, I finally put my envelope in the large metal bin. I sighed before letting go of the grey handle. Grey because the blue paint had long ago disintegrated from the thousands of hands touching it over the years.
Those twenty minutes were a whole lot longer I thought about whether or not I should apply for the job in the town of my dreams doing something I really wasn’t qualified to do, but I really wanted to get to that town, was a whole lot longer than the seconds that it took me to drop a letter in the same box three years earlier. That letter was to my ex-girlfriend. I’d dug up her address on the internet. One thing I’ve always been able to do is find people and their addresses. I’d done it for a buddy of mine. Found a former friend who became a federal prisoner. I’d found a Major League Baseball player’s address for my former ex. It was one of the reasons I think she agreed to start having drinks with me. Drinks that led to thoughts that led to actions that led to heartbreak. Twice.
But the day I sent her a letter. Over two years after she’d dumped me with the lines “I hate doing this because I still love you” and “Love is not enough.” I wrote the letter in a fit of self-pity and self-help book reading.
I didn’t think twice after pouring my heart out in page after page. Didn’t think twice about it at all. I just licked the envelope, went to the post office a few blocks from the tree that I wrote the letter under, a tree that me and her had spent time under, and mailed it. In this very same mailbox.
I hadn’t thought about it until the second I dropped the resume and such in the box.
“This is that box,” I thought.
Bad omen, for sure.
That original letter went to that address. She had since moved. But, in the great way the post office does things, it eventually found the right address. Months later.
So almost eight months after I mailed the letter. I got a response. Via e-mail.
“You violated us by sending me that,” said the letter in an e-mail sent by another friend so as I didn’t have her e-mail address, I’m sure. “Please don’t try to talk to me again. And I don’t think it’s a good idea that we meet.”
I felt numb reading it. I’d been excited and nervous for a second or two. Then deflated.
I drank a lot that night. I think. I really don’t remember.
I don’t remember a lot about my life in late 2008 and early 2009.
I got dumped right before all this. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. Better than getting laid for the first time. Better than my first kiss – which I’m not even sure of the where or when. It may have happened at Longwood College in 1990. It may have happened on frat row at UVA in 1990. I really can’t be sure anymore. I used to be very sure it was on frat row. But now? Not so much. I think maybe it happened at my friend D.J.’s house party. She made us kiss to get into the party. Me being a virginal kisser, I didn’t want to do it. And may not have. I don’t remember. Lots of grain alcohol that night. Acutally dumped the end of a trashcan full of the stuff. Almost got beat up.
But D.J. saved us.
Just like I saved him a year earlier when he started talking about “Niggers” in my dorm room. “Niggers are everywhere. Niggers are stupid. Niggers are dumb. Nigger, nigger, nigger.” Well, my roommate was black and I stood up and told him “leave. Now.”
He did. And I watched in horror as he stood outside waiting for me to come out. My roommate staring at me.
“Jimmy, he’s a dick,” I said.
“Yeah…and?” he replied.
“And you won’t see him again.”
I grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam and poured two double shots.
“Here you go, buddy,” I said, handing him the shot glass.
“Fuck you, Randy,” he said, taking the shot glass and downing the brown sludge. I returned the favor.
Three hours later we were hugging each other and drinking Mad Dog 20/20. He barfed it on the wall. I put a Motley Crue poster over it. Where it stayed until June when we moved out.
The moment I removed the poster we looked at each other and laughed.
“Been a long year, hasn’t it?” Jimmy said.
“Not at all, my man. Not at all.”
“That was a long night.”
“Yes. And a long time ago.”
I’m still friends with D.J. And Jimmy. Although neither of them has ever been in the same room at the same time again. As far as I know.
I only saw D.J. at my 20-year high school reunion. He married an extremely hot woman.
Jimmy is a big wig at a college now.
Me? I’m a copy editor for a dying newspaper in a shitty little town.
I guess we all got what we should have.
And I’m still wondering if I’ll ever talk to my ex again.
Once an idiot, always an idiot.
Sleep. Drink. Fuck.
One day, my teeth will fall out and I’ll just sleep and drink.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me
It’s 4 a.m. and I’m driving aimlessly towards the sun.
The road passes by, my bald left front tire going thunk, thunk, thunk every second or so. It was soothing at first, annoying for a while, then just part of the journey for the rest.
I wondered before I left if the tires would last. I decided not to care much since I didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t much care for where I was going. Wanted to see where I was going. And not really worried about whether or not a flat tire would keep me from getting there.
Six hours later, I’m still moving forward and the tire is still doing it’s job.
So, I guess I made the right decision.
For once.
I got tired of sitting in my too-small of a recliner. My dad bought it for me for Christmas one year. Strange gift, for sure, but one that I was pleasantly surprised to see when it arrived in a giant box that cold December morning.
After putting it together, I noticed how small it really was. But I figured it was better than what I had, which was nothing. In fact, I hadn’t owned a recliner since I was in college. I got my roommate to pay most of the cost for this sweet leather thing at a thrift. This was maybe six months into my time as a resident of Arizona. I loved that chair. I left it in the hands of my girlfriend’s brother when I moved to Alabama.
Never saw it again.
And never thought about owning another chair again. Until my dad sent me this one.
It’s the same color. But not nearly the same chair.
I think that’s why I rarely sat in it.
Until one day I found myself just sitting there in this brown, faux-leather thing. The sides sticking to my legs in the hot summer heat. I was just sitting there, sweating, and not doing anything else. Not writing. Not drinking. Not listening to music. Not jerking off. Not even thinking about her.
Instead, I was just staring at nothing.
That’s when I decided I had to go. Just get up and get out. I grabbed my hoodie, a toothbrush and toothpaste container and a stack of CDs and threw then in my 1997 Rose Bowl backpack. Then I grabbed six t-shirts off of their hangers in my closet, six pairs of underwear and a couple pairs of pants. Next, I took a bottle of Jameson and grabbed my car keys to leave.
“See ya when I see ya,” I said to my roommate, who was doing what he always did – playing Call of Duty in his room with the door closed.
“Where you going?” he asked after putting his game on pause.
“West,” I said.
A few awkward moments of silence for him later and he said: “Well, enjoy,” and turned his game back to playing mode.
He was a decent chap, I suppose. I didn’t know much about him. He was a friend of a friend who always seemed to be doing something to get somewhere else. Taking classes at a community college one year. Studying to be a manager for a car wash another. All I really knew was that he was able to pay the rent on time and didn’t seem to mind my penchant for not using the air conditioner or heat. He also was receiving food stamps.
I turned and walked out the door moments later. I’d already forgotten that conversation and was more thinking about where I was going to go.
“West, young man,” the voice in my head, strangely sounding like my buddy Josh’s voice combined with William Shatner. Had to be a good sign.
Anyways, I checked my wallet before I started the engine. Two hundred dollars in 20s and three ones.
“I can always burn my credit card for fuel,” I sang along with Neil Young.
Unlike that Canadian, I knew exactly how I lost my friends.
I started the engine and turned it west. The sun was high in the sky and would be my guide. I went over the bridge – a momentary northern turn – then got on U.S. 70 West. It would intersect with Interstate 40 eventually, which seemed like a good idea.
Raleigh, Memphis, Little Rock, Amarillo, Flagstaff and Bakersfield could be at my fingertips. It’s funny. I-40’s a road I’ve been on every inch of, but never all in one trip like I-10 or I-20. Someday I figured I’d take the Highway 61 trip, but I’ve talked about it so much that it’s become something of an epic quest that needs a Sam Wise along for the ride.
Of course, I could go way up north and hit I-90. It is summer, the right time to do that.
Hours later, I was still on I-40. Somewhere outside of Nashville, just wondering if I’d have a job in a week when I just showed back up.
I figure it doesn’t matter much. Just like she thought when she said those words to me.
“You’ll get over me.”
That was six years ago.
And I’m still driving around trying to outrun her. But she always catches me.
Just then, I see a sign for the “Pocahontas Hotel.” If there ever was a sign to stop, take a load off, that’s it.
I pull into the parking lot. It’s 4:34 a.m. A red-headed woman is sitting there at the front desk. She sees me pull in. I see her seeing me. I wonder if she’ll have an accent.
“Hi, honey,” she says, with an excellent Tennessee drawl. “You look tired. Needin’ a room?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say as politely as I think I can. “I’ve been driving for quite a while and I need a place to rest a bit.”
“Well, we got you a nice lil’ room that’ll fix ya right up!” she says. “And in the morning, we’ll make you a nice breakfast. Grits and all!”
“Thank you kindly,” I replied, handing her my credit card.
“You’re a Hank III? Well, I’ll be damned. You know he’s playing across the street tomorrow night?”
“No shit? Whoops, pardon my language.” I blush just a bit.
“Yep, no shit. And don’t worry ‘bout yer tongue. Mine’s a bit nastier.” She realized what she said and blushed as well.
I filled out the card and signed away $78.89 more of my life away.
“You going to that show tomorrow?” I asked.
“I was certainly planning on it,” she replied.
“Got anyone to go with?” I said slyly.
“Actually, no. My boyfriend just dumped me six nights ago.”
“Well, he must be crazy.”
She blushed again.
“And you know what? You can have his ticket. Me and Hank III going to see Hank III!!!”
“Ok. It’s a date. See you tomorrow, then…Heck, I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Angela. But everyone calls me Cari, with a C.”
“Ok, Cari with a C, I will see you tomorrow.”
“Sweet dreams Hank.”
“Same to ya, Cari.”
Sometimes, I thought to myself as I walked to my room, it pays to drive west trying to get away from your past. Because you’re also driving to your future. Like a bad country song, even.
The road passes by, my bald left front tire going thunk, thunk, thunk every second or so. It was soothing at first, annoying for a while, then just part of the journey for the rest.
I wondered before I left if the tires would last. I decided not to care much since I didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t much care for where I was going. Wanted to see where I was going. And not really worried about whether or not a flat tire would keep me from getting there.
Six hours later, I’m still moving forward and the tire is still doing it’s job.
So, I guess I made the right decision.
For once.
I got tired of sitting in my too-small of a recliner. My dad bought it for me for Christmas one year. Strange gift, for sure, but one that I was pleasantly surprised to see when it arrived in a giant box that cold December morning.
After putting it together, I noticed how small it really was. But I figured it was better than what I had, which was nothing. In fact, I hadn’t owned a recliner since I was in college. I got my roommate to pay most of the cost for this sweet leather thing at a thrift. This was maybe six months into my time as a resident of Arizona. I loved that chair. I left it in the hands of my girlfriend’s brother when I moved to Alabama.
Never saw it again.
And never thought about owning another chair again. Until my dad sent me this one.
It’s the same color. But not nearly the same chair.
I think that’s why I rarely sat in it.
Until one day I found myself just sitting there in this brown, faux-leather thing. The sides sticking to my legs in the hot summer heat. I was just sitting there, sweating, and not doing anything else. Not writing. Not drinking. Not listening to music. Not jerking off. Not even thinking about her.
Instead, I was just staring at nothing.
That’s when I decided I had to go. Just get up and get out. I grabbed my hoodie, a toothbrush and toothpaste container and a stack of CDs and threw then in my 1997 Rose Bowl backpack. Then I grabbed six t-shirts off of their hangers in my closet, six pairs of underwear and a couple pairs of pants. Next, I took a bottle of Jameson and grabbed my car keys to leave.
“See ya when I see ya,” I said to my roommate, who was doing what he always did – playing Call of Duty in his room with the door closed.
“Where you going?” he asked after putting his game on pause.
“West,” I said.
A few awkward moments of silence for him later and he said: “Well, enjoy,” and turned his game back to playing mode.
He was a decent chap, I suppose. I didn’t know much about him. He was a friend of a friend who always seemed to be doing something to get somewhere else. Taking classes at a community college one year. Studying to be a manager for a car wash another. All I really knew was that he was able to pay the rent on time and didn’t seem to mind my penchant for not using the air conditioner or heat. He also was receiving food stamps.
I turned and walked out the door moments later. I’d already forgotten that conversation and was more thinking about where I was going to go.
“West, young man,” the voice in my head, strangely sounding like my buddy Josh’s voice combined with William Shatner. Had to be a good sign.
Anyways, I checked my wallet before I started the engine. Two hundred dollars in 20s and three ones.
“I can always burn my credit card for fuel,” I sang along with Neil Young.
Unlike that Canadian, I knew exactly how I lost my friends.
I started the engine and turned it west. The sun was high in the sky and would be my guide. I went over the bridge – a momentary northern turn – then got on U.S. 70 West. It would intersect with Interstate 40 eventually, which seemed like a good idea.
Raleigh, Memphis, Little Rock, Amarillo, Flagstaff and Bakersfield could be at my fingertips. It’s funny. I-40’s a road I’ve been on every inch of, but never all in one trip like I-10 or I-20. Someday I figured I’d take the Highway 61 trip, but I’ve talked about it so much that it’s become something of an epic quest that needs a Sam Wise along for the ride.
Of course, I could go way up north and hit I-90. It is summer, the right time to do that.
Hours later, I was still on I-40. Somewhere outside of Nashville, just wondering if I’d have a job in a week when I just showed back up.
I figure it doesn’t matter much. Just like she thought when she said those words to me.
“You’ll get over me.”
That was six years ago.
And I’m still driving around trying to outrun her. But she always catches me.
Just then, I see a sign for the “Pocahontas Hotel.” If there ever was a sign to stop, take a load off, that’s it.
I pull into the parking lot. It’s 4:34 a.m. A red-headed woman is sitting there at the front desk. She sees me pull in. I see her seeing me. I wonder if she’ll have an accent.
“Hi, honey,” she says, with an excellent Tennessee drawl. “You look tired. Needin’ a room?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say as politely as I think I can. “I’ve been driving for quite a while and I need a place to rest a bit.”
“Well, we got you a nice lil’ room that’ll fix ya right up!” she says. “And in the morning, we’ll make you a nice breakfast. Grits and all!”
“Thank you kindly,” I replied, handing her my credit card.
“You’re a Hank III? Well, I’ll be damned. You know he’s playing across the street tomorrow night?”
“No shit? Whoops, pardon my language.” I blush just a bit.
“Yep, no shit. And don’t worry ‘bout yer tongue. Mine’s a bit nastier.” She realized what she said and blushed as well.
I filled out the card and signed away $78.89 more of my life away.
“You going to that show tomorrow?” I asked.
“I was certainly planning on it,” she replied.
“Got anyone to go with?” I said slyly.
“Actually, no. My boyfriend just dumped me six nights ago.”
“Well, he must be crazy.”
She blushed again.
“And you know what? You can have his ticket. Me and Hank III going to see Hank III!!!”
“Ok. It’s a date. See you tomorrow, then…Heck, I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Angela. But everyone calls me Cari, with a C.”
“Ok, Cari with a C, I will see you tomorrow.”
“Sweet dreams Hank.”
“Same to ya, Cari.”
Sometimes, I thought to myself as I walked to my room, it pays to drive west trying to get away from your past. Because you’re also driving to your future. Like a bad country song, even.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
again and again
“Have you ever tried to let yourself love again?”
It was a fair question, really. She’d known me now for three years. We’d started out just drinking away our misery together, like so many other women I’ve known over the years. But unlike all of them, I didn’t fall in love with them. Or at least fall into bed with her.
“I did. Once. And it ended worse than the time I really was in love,” I said, slowly tilting my half-empty bottle of “Distillery” Jameson. A bottle I got while on a trip to Ireland that someone else paid for.
I looked at the whiskey in the glass. A nice shade it was. I’d been carrying this bottle around with me, move after move, taking one shot at each stop. There was Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. Then there was Raleigh, North Carolina. By that time, I was ready to finally give up on North Carolina. The state that stole my heart, twice.
So I drove to Arkansas. Never planned on staying. Ended up being there two months. A little while in Fayetteville. Then a short stop in Little Rock. After that, Memphis called. I wanted to try and live in the Arcade Hotel for a month. But, I knew it was long, long gone. But still, I went. Sat under the train bridge that Joe Strummer filmed a scene with Steve Buscemi long, long ago.
I felt sad. So I left. Immediately.
Drove to Paris, Texas. Thought maybe I’d see Harry Dean walk by.
He didn’t.
Into Oklahoma I drifted. I saw a lady I’d met on the Internet. She liked that I liked Level 42. I always wondered why she actually added me. This was in the Myspace days. So I drove to her town -- Durant – knocked on her door, and just asked her.
“Because I was lonely one night,” she said, her red hair glistening in the hot, summer dust.
We’d stayed in touch over the years. I wondered many times if we’d try to spark some kind of relationship. But as time passed, it became obvious it wasn’t going to happen. When I showed up that afternoon, I knew she wasn’t lonely anymore. She had her daughter. Now 12. She had her organic garden. And her boyfriend.
“Not getting married again,” she said. “Just don’t see the point.”
I smiled when she said that. Gave her a hug and thanked her for being a friend. I tried not to hear those words in song form. But damn if “Golden Girls” hadn’t driven it into my head forever…
Next, I just drove. Three days and nights. Stopping in small towns as a drove closer and closer to the border. There was Medicine Lodge, Kanas. Next was Scottsbluff, Nebraska. Two days later, Custer, South Dakota. The next night it was Carrington, North Dakota . I only remember them because I took pictures of signs in each town I slept in.
I didn’t talk to a single person on those days and nights. I listened to the same albums, over and over. Of course it was Lucero. Of course every song reminded me of a woman I’d once known. I often wonder if I should have told each woman after the next about that certain part of me. The “can’t let go” piece of me that holds on to the remnants of the past like they’d kill me if they could get out of my grasp.
Even women I’d met and been dumped or dumped or just passed in the night – naked – got a song. Wasting all of that effort was nothing new.
I used to write down the names of girls who just spoke to me. I stopped one day when I was 24. Living in Arizona, trying to “find” myself in the way middle-class wimps like me do – in college.
Her name was Denise Ragu. I figure if I spell her name correctly, she’ll see this one day. Just like every other lady that put their real name down. We had geology class together. Or some kind of earth science.
She must have marked me as a smart guy – good mark – and started talking with me. We teamed up in lab and I really dug her. She laughed at my awful remarks and my long hair.
One day, near the end of the semester, we got to talking about social things. Yeah, I’m kind of slow like that. It was on a path. I was on my bike, she was walking. We said hello, and it turned to going out on the town stuff. Pretty soon, I started to work up the courage to ask her out. Right before I did, her demeanor changed. She was a smart lady, after all. She knew where I was going.
“Well, I’ve got to go meet my boyfriend,” she said.
“I froze for just a second. Stuttered something about cool, see you later.”
I watched her walk away. The sun was high in the sky and it was hot. Nothing remarkable about that.
I went home and got drunk. Drank 12 Red Dog beers. The beer with a Red Dog on the bottle and a different saying under the twist off cap.
We saw each other in class the next week. She smiled, but sat down on the other side of the room.
The next time I saw her, she didn’t smile.
Pretty soon, the semester ended and I never saw her again.
I stopped writing down names soon after.
I wonder if it was because of her, or because I started dating a girl – what would become three years and lots of booze and fights and fun and travel and angst.
“What the hell are you thinking about now?” she asked.
“All the reasons I don’t want to fall in love. And all the reasons I do over and over.
“Again and again.”
It was a fair question, really. She’d known me now for three years. We’d started out just drinking away our misery together, like so many other women I’ve known over the years. But unlike all of them, I didn’t fall in love with them. Or at least fall into bed with her.
“I did. Once. And it ended worse than the time I really was in love,” I said, slowly tilting my half-empty bottle of “Distillery” Jameson. A bottle I got while on a trip to Ireland that someone else paid for.
I looked at the whiskey in the glass. A nice shade it was. I’d been carrying this bottle around with me, move after move, taking one shot at each stop. There was Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. Then there was Raleigh, North Carolina. By that time, I was ready to finally give up on North Carolina. The state that stole my heart, twice.
So I drove to Arkansas. Never planned on staying. Ended up being there two months. A little while in Fayetteville. Then a short stop in Little Rock. After that, Memphis called. I wanted to try and live in the Arcade Hotel for a month. But, I knew it was long, long gone. But still, I went. Sat under the train bridge that Joe Strummer filmed a scene with Steve Buscemi long, long ago.
I felt sad. So I left. Immediately.
Drove to Paris, Texas. Thought maybe I’d see Harry Dean walk by.
He didn’t.
Into Oklahoma I drifted. I saw a lady I’d met on the Internet. She liked that I liked Level 42. I always wondered why she actually added me. This was in the Myspace days. So I drove to her town -- Durant – knocked on her door, and just asked her.
“Because I was lonely one night,” she said, her red hair glistening in the hot, summer dust.
We’d stayed in touch over the years. I wondered many times if we’d try to spark some kind of relationship. But as time passed, it became obvious it wasn’t going to happen. When I showed up that afternoon, I knew she wasn’t lonely anymore. She had her daughter. Now 12. She had her organic garden. And her boyfriend.
“Not getting married again,” she said. “Just don’t see the point.”
I smiled when she said that. Gave her a hug and thanked her for being a friend. I tried not to hear those words in song form. But damn if “Golden Girls” hadn’t driven it into my head forever…
Next, I just drove. Three days and nights. Stopping in small towns as a drove closer and closer to the border. There was Medicine Lodge, Kanas. Next was Scottsbluff, Nebraska. Two days later, Custer, South Dakota. The next night it was Carrington, North Dakota . I only remember them because I took pictures of signs in each town I slept in.
I didn’t talk to a single person on those days and nights. I listened to the same albums, over and over. Of course it was Lucero. Of course every song reminded me of a woman I’d once known. I often wonder if I should have told each woman after the next about that certain part of me. The “can’t let go” piece of me that holds on to the remnants of the past like they’d kill me if they could get out of my grasp.
Even women I’d met and been dumped or dumped or just passed in the night – naked – got a song. Wasting all of that effort was nothing new.
I used to write down the names of girls who just spoke to me. I stopped one day when I was 24. Living in Arizona, trying to “find” myself in the way middle-class wimps like me do – in college.
Her name was Denise Ragu. I figure if I spell her name correctly, she’ll see this one day. Just like every other lady that put their real name down. We had geology class together. Or some kind of earth science.
She must have marked me as a smart guy – good mark – and started talking with me. We teamed up in lab and I really dug her. She laughed at my awful remarks and my long hair.
One day, near the end of the semester, we got to talking about social things. Yeah, I’m kind of slow like that. It was on a path. I was on my bike, she was walking. We said hello, and it turned to going out on the town stuff. Pretty soon, I started to work up the courage to ask her out. Right before I did, her demeanor changed. She was a smart lady, after all. She knew where I was going.
“Well, I’ve got to go meet my boyfriend,” she said.
“I froze for just a second. Stuttered something about cool, see you later.”
I watched her walk away. The sun was high in the sky and it was hot. Nothing remarkable about that.
I went home and got drunk. Drank 12 Red Dog beers. The beer with a Red Dog on the bottle and a different saying under the twist off cap.
We saw each other in class the next week. She smiled, but sat down on the other side of the room.
The next time I saw her, she didn’t smile.
Pretty soon, the semester ended and I never saw her again.
I stopped writing down names soon after.
I wonder if it was because of her, or because I started dating a girl – what would become three years and lots of booze and fights and fun and travel and angst.
“What the hell are you thinking about now?” she asked.
“All the reasons I don’t want to fall in love. And all the reasons I do over and over.
“Again and again.”
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Hiatus...
as my two loyal readers have noticed, this blog is dormant.
well, i will be taking it off of hiatus soon. in fact, right after my trip to england and ireland coming up in two weeks.
i will try to write on the journey. i know i won't have the time or ability to conjure up something each day/night/morning/afternoon/what have ya. but i will take my pad and have at least a place to start from.
so, my plane lands back in the states on sept. 10. unless i don't come back.
and by the 12th, (err, 21st) i will begin posting here again.
it's a promise. and this promise will have more value than that $1 bill in your wallet will have next year about this time...
well, i will be taking it off of hiatus soon. in fact, right after my trip to england and ireland coming up in two weeks.
i will try to write on the journey. i know i won't have the time or ability to conjure up something each day/night/morning/afternoon/what have ya. but i will take my pad and have at least a place to start from.
so, my plane lands back in the states on sept. 10. unless i don't come back.
and by the 12th, (err, 21st) i will begin posting here again.
it's a promise. and this promise will have more value than that $1 bill in your wallet will have next year about this time...
Friday, June 3, 2011
the waiting...
I hate waiting. Lately, it’s all I do.
Sitting on my front stoop I notice a guy hanging out on the balcony of the hotel next door. He’s pretty much naked, even though I’d hazard a guess that if one took a survey of 1,000 people maybe 4 or 5 would say his dress was appropriate. His hairy beer belly hangs out like a starving kid in Africa’s would. Almost distended looking, but not quite. If he didn’t have a beard and enough hair to qualify for big foot status, I’d say he was pregnant.
He’s holding an ancient cell phone. Not even a flip phone, but older, in one hand. The other holds a bottle of Miller High Life. While this is not the best beer to choose, it is acceptable under certain circumstances. And, I have a feeling he meets those criteria in spades.
His cut-off jean shorts just complete his ensemble. I can’t help but stare. He sees me doing so.
“What the fuck you looking at pretty boy?” he yells from his perch.
“Just admiring the merchandise,” I reply. Not exactly the smartest response, but, I usually say what I’m thinking. Which explains a lot about my lot in life.
“What the fuck?” he says, throwing his beer bottle to the ground. I watch it fall to the ground, twirling in the air, spraying the contents of the clear glass into the atmosphere.
“What a terrible waste of a beer,” I think to myself. I don’t say it, because, really, he knows. In fact, judging by the look on his face right now, it’s dawned on him just how stupid that act of intimidation was. Of course, this revelation has no good points, at least where I’m concerned. Now he has two reasons to be mad at me.
“Boy, you better take that back,” he scowled. “I’ma gonna come over there and put a boot in your ass.”
Great, Toby Keith references. This guy is the complete package. I mull my options over in my mind for a brief second. Ha. I wonder if this guy wears tighty whiteys. Shit, back on point, Jones. You don’t want to get punched in the face. You see, this is why I hate waiting.
“Just a second bro,” I say, ducking into my house. It’s 95 degrees outside and 93 degrees inside. Being poor is not glamorous, no matter what the books and movies tell you. I go to my fridge. In it are many assorted beers. Some good, some bad. I spy a couple of PBRs that I have been hauling along with me since my days in Richmond. They’re over three years old. I grab one. And I grab myself a Shiner Blonde, popping the top as I come back outside and taking a swig. Just in case Mr. We Wear Short-Shorts wants to try and take the good stuff.
Much to my chagrin, he’s standing in my driveway, belly and all.
“Where’d yam run to Martha,” he says with a chuckle.
“Peace offering bro,” I say, extending my left hand with the PBR in it.
“Shit yeah!” he growls.
Looks like I’ve made another friend. He pops the beer open and takes a long swig. I wonder if it tastes as bad as I think it does.
“Ahhhhhhh. That hit the spot. Fucking stupid of me to waste my High Life.”
“Damn straight. Hold on a second brother,” I say, disappearing into my lair. I open the fridge, enjoying the cool air that comes out for just a second, then I grab the other PBRs.
“Here you go, man, enjoy!”
“Why you being so nice to me? You a fag or something?”
“Far from it, my man. Far from it.”
“You keep talking like that, I may not believe it.”
Just that moment she pulls up. I’ve been on three dates with this lady. Each one better than the one before. I wonder, like I always do, when they will start to decline in enjoyment. What a fucking stupid thing to think about, I know, but I can’t help myself.
“Woooah, pretty lady!” my new friend exclaims.
She looks out of the window of her 2002 VW Beetle and smiles. At that very moment, I wonder when we’ll have sex. I’m guessing this guy being around might prevent something like that from happening.
“Well, bro, gotta head out,” I say to my Sasquatch pal.
“Why don’t you and your lady friend come on over to the hotel later tonight? We can smoke up, if ya want.”
“Maybe, bro,” I say, sticking out my hand to shake. I cringe when I look down and see just how sweaty this monster is.
He grabs my hand and squeezes tight. It’s a wet, sloppy mess.
“See ya,” I say.
“Alright, man,” he replies and walks back to the hotel.
“Who was that?” she asks as I get in the car.
“You got a Handi-Wipe or something?” is my reply.
“Not gonna tell me, huh?”
“You really want to know?”
“Nah, let’s get a taco.”
Sometimes, the waiting pays off.
Sitting on my front stoop I notice a guy hanging out on the balcony of the hotel next door. He’s pretty much naked, even though I’d hazard a guess that if one took a survey of 1,000 people maybe 4 or 5 would say his dress was appropriate. His hairy beer belly hangs out like a starving kid in Africa’s would. Almost distended looking, but not quite. If he didn’t have a beard and enough hair to qualify for big foot status, I’d say he was pregnant.
He’s holding an ancient cell phone. Not even a flip phone, but older, in one hand. The other holds a bottle of Miller High Life. While this is not the best beer to choose, it is acceptable under certain circumstances. And, I have a feeling he meets those criteria in spades.
His cut-off jean shorts just complete his ensemble. I can’t help but stare. He sees me doing so.
“What the fuck you looking at pretty boy?” he yells from his perch.
“Just admiring the merchandise,” I reply. Not exactly the smartest response, but, I usually say what I’m thinking. Which explains a lot about my lot in life.
“What the fuck?” he says, throwing his beer bottle to the ground. I watch it fall to the ground, twirling in the air, spraying the contents of the clear glass into the atmosphere.
“What a terrible waste of a beer,” I think to myself. I don’t say it, because, really, he knows. In fact, judging by the look on his face right now, it’s dawned on him just how stupid that act of intimidation was. Of course, this revelation has no good points, at least where I’m concerned. Now he has two reasons to be mad at me.
“Boy, you better take that back,” he scowled. “I’ma gonna come over there and put a boot in your ass.”
Great, Toby Keith references. This guy is the complete package. I mull my options over in my mind for a brief second. Ha. I wonder if this guy wears tighty whiteys. Shit, back on point, Jones. You don’t want to get punched in the face. You see, this is why I hate waiting.
“Just a second bro,” I say, ducking into my house. It’s 95 degrees outside and 93 degrees inside. Being poor is not glamorous, no matter what the books and movies tell you. I go to my fridge. In it are many assorted beers. Some good, some bad. I spy a couple of PBRs that I have been hauling along with me since my days in Richmond. They’re over three years old. I grab one. And I grab myself a Shiner Blonde, popping the top as I come back outside and taking a swig. Just in case Mr. We Wear Short-Shorts wants to try and take the good stuff.
Much to my chagrin, he’s standing in my driveway, belly and all.
“Where’d yam run to Martha,” he says with a chuckle.
“Peace offering bro,” I say, extending my left hand with the PBR in it.
“Shit yeah!” he growls.
Looks like I’ve made another friend. He pops the beer open and takes a long swig. I wonder if it tastes as bad as I think it does.
“Ahhhhhhh. That hit the spot. Fucking stupid of me to waste my High Life.”
“Damn straight. Hold on a second brother,” I say, disappearing into my lair. I open the fridge, enjoying the cool air that comes out for just a second, then I grab the other PBRs.
“Here you go, man, enjoy!”
“Why you being so nice to me? You a fag or something?”
“Far from it, my man. Far from it.”
“You keep talking like that, I may not believe it.”
Just that moment she pulls up. I’ve been on three dates with this lady. Each one better than the one before. I wonder, like I always do, when they will start to decline in enjoyment. What a fucking stupid thing to think about, I know, but I can’t help myself.
“Woooah, pretty lady!” my new friend exclaims.
She looks out of the window of her 2002 VW Beetle and smiles. At that very moment, I wonder when we’ll have sex. I’m guessing this guy being around might prevent something like that from happening.
“Well, bro, gotta head out,” I say to my Sasquatch pal.
“Why don’t you and your lady friend come on over to the hotel later tonight? We can smoke up, if ya want.”
“Maybe, bro,” I say, sticking out my hand to shake. I cringe when I look down and see just how sweaty this monster is.
He grabs my hand and squeezes tight. It’s a wet, sloppy mess.
“See ya,” I say.
“Alright, man,” he replies and walks back to the hotel.
“Who was that?” she asks as I get in the car.
“You got a Handi-Wipe or something?” is my reply.
“Not gonna tell me, huh?”
“You really want to know?”
“Nah, let’s get a taco.”
Sometimes, the waiting pays off.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
the rules (aka, the post that used to stay on top)
i made a pact with myself on august 23, 2010 to write. and write every night. about anything and nothing. or everything.
(add edits today...)
i didn't achieve that goal. i did pretty well for a while, then got happy and quit. well, i'm still happy (for the most part, had a bad bit of shit) but i'm back. for lent, at least, hopefully longer...
(end edits)
i have a feeling most of the time it will be nonsense, but i've got to get back to actually typing again, and enjoying it. even if it has no reason for existing except for existing.
only rule, really, is it has to be 750 words. (a flexible rule, as well)
enjoy, or hate, i don't care. i need it.
any similarities between real life and these words is, mostly, uncoincidental. (and that is not a word).
(add edits today...)
i didn't achieve that goal. i did pretty well for a while, then got happy and quit. well, i'm still happy (for the most part, had a bad bit of shit) but i'm back. for lent, at least, hopefully longer...
(end edits)
i have a feeling most of the time it will be nonsense, but i've got to get back to actually typing again, and enjoying it. even if it has no reason for existing except for existing.
only rule, really, is it has to be 750 words. (a flexible rule, as well)
enjoy, or hate, i don't care. i need it.
any similarities between real life and these words is, mostly, uncoincidental. (and that is not a word).
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
excuses, part whatever...
you know. i thought when i started this blog i would have insane problems writing it from the get-go. instead, it went smoothly for months before hitting april and may.
i have no excuse for lagging in my posts. just that my mind has been elsewhere. i did some traveling. met a girl that may or may not end up being a girlfriend...taking it slow this time compared to my past...and i simply have not been inspired enough to sit at my desk and type.
i have scribbled some beginnings in notepads.
i have thought about it while driving home from my tedious job.
and i have felt bad for my two or so regular readers.
a blog, a career, a whatever dies when you don't live up to what you claim.
i said i'd write every day, knowing full well that it would be impossible, but i wanted to dare myself. it was nice for a bit.
but the faucet ran dry for a bit. i don't know if i just needed to get a lot of stuff out there in the form of semi-fiction and fiction, or if i just got bored/complacent or whatever.
i do know that i will come back to this. i have to. i need to. it's important to me to find out the answer to the question.
thank you for your support.
i have no excuse for lagging in my posts. just that my mind has been elsewhere. i did some traveling. met a girl that may or may not end up being a girlfriend...taking it slow this time compared to my past...and i simply have not been inspired enough to sit at my desk and type.
i have scribbled some beginnings in notepads.
i have thought about it while driving home from my tedious job.
and i have felt bad for my two or so regular readers.
a blog, a career, a whatever dies when you don't live up to what you claim.
i said i'd write every day, knowing full well that it would be impossible, but i wanted to dare myself. it was nice for a bit.
but the faucet ran dry for a bit. i don't know if i just needed to get a lot of stuff out there in the form of semi-fiction and fiction, or if i just got bored/complacent or whatever.
i do know that i will come back to this. i have to. i need to. it's important to me to find out the answer to the question.
thank you for your support.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
two eggs and bacon
“What are you thinking about?” the waitress asked me.
“I’m not really sure. I was trying real hard to remember the way something sounded. Something from a long time ago. But I can’t.” I said after putting down my laminated menu.
“Honey, don’t. If you can’t remember it, that’s the way God wants it to be.”
I’d never really thought of it that way. God wants me to remember something or not. I always figured it had something to do with my screwed up brain cells. Too many years of drinking beer, smoking pot and a few nitrous canisters, right?
“God, huh?” I finally said.
“Yes, honey. God,” she smiled. Her teeth were crooked and stained. Just like mine. She was skinny. Very skinny. I’d hazard to guess she’d dabbled in heroin at least once in her life. But now she’d found God. And serving waffles at 3 in the morning. Certainly, she was doing better at the whole “life” thing than me.
“Can I ask you a question?” I asked her.
“Certainly, honey.”
“Do you call everyone honey?”
“Can’t says that I do,” she said. “I can stop if you don’t like it.”
“No, no, no. I like it. A whole lot, actually. It’s been a long time since someone called me that.”
“Goes back to that trying to remember thing, don’t it?”
“Yep. I’m a sucker for a lost cause.”
“Honey, there’s no such thing as a lost cause.”
“You sure are an optimist.”
“No other way to live.”
I’ve known a couple of women like that. Ever believing in everything. Seeing the good all the time. Funny thing about them – they all left me too.
I looked at her nametag. It said “Wendy. Here to serve you.” She saw me looking at it.
“My name is Missy, by the way.”
“Lying to the customers, huh Missy?”
“It’s more to keep a safe distance.”
A first crack in the armor of good. This Missy could be worth taking a chance on, I started to think.
A couple of drunk rednecks came into the place. Loud and full of booze. Trouble for sure.
“You going to order?” she asked with a grimace. “If you don’t soon, I’m going to have to go take their order and Maurice will get them first.”
“Who’s Maurice?”
“The cook,” she said pointing at a fat, greasy guy behind the counter. He smiled at her pointing and grunted a little bit.
“I’ll wait. You should go tend to the drunks.”
“Those guys are trouble,” she said. “You might want to leave.”
“I’ll stay.”
She nervously tip-toed over to their table. Missy had great legs. Almost as pale as a polar bear’s fur. A bruise behind her left knee was old, but still pretty ugly. I wondered how it got there. I didn’t have to wonder very long.
“Wendy!” one of the drunks yelled. “I need my Wendy!”
My inner rage level jumped a few points. I watched the drunks closely. They were both huge. Definitely manual laborers. If I tried anything with either of them, my head would most likely be bashed against the front counters.
“Luther, John, you boys have been drinking tonight, haven’t you?” Missy said. I looked at her eyes, there was fear in them. Not a lot. Certainly not enough for Luther and John to notice. But, me, I noticed it.
John, a hulking pig of a man wearing a ripped Bon Jovi “Slippery When Wet” shirt, put his grimy meat hook of an arm around Missy. Pulling her to his lap. She slapped him.
“I love it when you get rough Wendy,” he said with a cackle.
Luther then proceeded to lunge for her too. He missed, falling to the floor as she deftly stepped out of the way. Even wearing way-too high heels for the gig, Missy was like a ballerina with her moves.
I chuckled just a little. Luther, on the ground, must have heard.
“You got a problem, buddy?” he yelled at me. My smile shrank a little, but stayed on my face. I’ve never been a good hider of facial expressions. It’s why I never could be a poker player. I’ve got too many tells.
“Nope,” I said. “Just enjoying the show.”
Missy winced at that. She knew it was a challenge. She knew Luther would take it as such.
“Fuck you, buddy!” he replied, scrambling to his feet. He started to walk over to my booth. I got a little nervous.
“Stop right there, Luther,” a voice, almost like what I would imagine Thor’s would sound like, rose from the background.
We both looked behind the countertop. It was Maurice.
“I ain’t having no trouble. Sit your dumbass back down and I’ll start cooking your chocolate chip waffle.”
“Uh, um, Maurice, that guy’s a prick.”
“How the hell do you know, Luther? He’s been real nice to your cousin.”
I felt a bit strange now. But, in a sort of way, it all made sense.
Missy looked at me with sad eyes. She knew what Maurice’s statement meant. I wouldn’t be pursuing our conversation any further than “I’ll take two eggs and bacon.”
I was sad too. But, her eyes were right.
“I’m not really sure. I was trying real hard to remember the way something sounded. Something from a long time ago. But I can’t.” I said after putting down my laminated menu.
“Honey, don’t. If you can’t remember it, that’s the way God wants it to be.”
I’d never really thought of it that way. God wants me to remember something or not. I always figured it had something to do with my screwed up brain cells. Too many years of drinking beer, smoking pot and a few nitrous canisters, right?
“God, huh?” I finally said.
“Yes, honey. God,” she smiled. Her teeth were crooked and stained. Just like mine. She was skinny. Very skinny. I’d hazard to guess she’d dabbled in heroin at least once in her life. But now she’d found God. And serving waffles at 3 in the morning. Certainly, she was doing better at the whole “life” thing than me.
“Can I ask you a question?” I asked her.
“Certainly, honey.”
“Do you call everyone honey?”
“Can’t says that I do,” she said. “I can stop if you don’t like it.”
“No, no, no. I like it. A whole lot, actually. It’s been a long time since someone called me that.”
“Goes back to that trying to remember thing, don’t it?”
“Yep. I’m a sucker for a lost cause.”
“Honey, there’s no such thing as a lost cause.”
“You sure are an optimist.”
“No other way to live.”
I’ve known a couple of women like that. Ever believing in everything. Seeing the good all the time. Funny thing about them – they all left me too.
I looked at her nametag. It said “Wendy. Here to serve you.” She saw me looking at it.
“My name is Missy, by the way.”
“Lying to the customers, huh Missy?”
“It’s more to keep a safe distance.”
A first crack in the armor of good. This Missy could be worth taking a chance on, I started to think.
A couple of drunk rednecks came into the place. Loud and full of booze. Trouble for sure.
“You going to order?” she asked with a grimace. “If you don’t soon, I’m going to have to go take their order and Maurice will get them first.”
“Who’s Maurice?”
“The cook,” she said pointing at a fat, greasy guy behind the counter. He smiled at her pointing and grunted a little bit.
“I’ll wait. You should go tend to the drunks.”
“Those guys are trouble,” she said. “You might want to leave.”
“I’ll stay.”
She nervously tip-toed over to their table. Missy had great legs. Almost as pale as a polar bear’s fur. A bruise behind her left knee was old, but still pretty ugly. I wondered how it got there. I didn’t have to wonder very long.
“Wendy!” one of the drunks yelled. “I need my Wendy!”
My inner rage level jumped a few points. I watched the drunks closely. They were both huge. Definitely manual laborers. If I tried anything with either of them, my head would most likely be bashed against the front counters.
“Luther, John, you boys have been drinking tonight, haven’t you?” Missy said. I looked at her eyes, there was fear in them. Not a lot. Certainly not enough for Luther and John to notice. But, me, I noticed it.
John, a hulking pig of a man wearing a ripped Bon Jovi “Slippery When Wet” shirt, put his grimy meat hook of an arm around Missy. Pulling her to his lap. She slapped him.
“I love it when you get rough Wendy,” he said with a cackle.
Luther then proceeded to lunge for her too. He missed, falling to the floor as she deftly stepped out of the way. Even wearing way-too high heels for the gig, Missy was like a ballerina with her moves.
I chuckled just a little. Luther, on the ground, must have heard.
“You got a problem, buddy?” he yelled at me. My smile shrank a little, but stayed on my face. I’ve never been a good hider of facial expressions. It’s why I never could be a poker player. I’ve got too many tells.
“Nope,” I said. “Just enjoying the show.”
Missy winced at that. She knew it was a challenge. She knew Luther would take it as such.
“Fuck you, buddy!” he replied, scrambling to his feet. He started to walk over to my booth. I got a little nervous.
“Stop right there, Luther,” a voice, almost like what I would imagine Thor’s would sound like, rose from the background.
We both looked behind the countertop. It was Maurice.
“I ain’t having no trouble. Sit your dumbass back down and I’ll start cooking your chocolate chip waffle.”
“Uh, um, Maurice, that guy’s a prick.”
“How the hell do you know, Luther? He’s been real nice to your cousin.”
I felt a bit strange now. But, in a sort of way, it all made sense.
Missy looked at me with sad eyes. She knew what Maurice’s statement meant. I wouldn’t be pursuing our conversation any further than “I’ll take two eggs and bacon.”
I was sad too. But, her eyes were right.
Monday, May 16, 2011
11 days ... aka no words...
When I was 17, my dad asked me what I wanted to do. I said “I don’t know.”
When I went to college a year later, I had one visit with my advisor. He asked me, “so, what do you want to do?”
I said the same thing.
I drove 4,000 miles a few years later with my best friend. We talked, he drove. We listened to music. We crossed the border. We drank beer. We watched the movie “Speed”. He never asked me what I wanted to do.
I met a girl and fell in love. At that point, I thought I knew what I wanted to do. Be a journalist. Be a happy person. I’ve learned the two weren’t compatible with me. Not that they aren’t for others. Just not for me.
I broke her heart one day on the telephone. It was going to happen sooner or later anyway. But that day she forced the words out of me.
A couple days later, a girl asked me “what do you want to do?”
I said “fall in love again.”
I was drunk. I was sad. I didn’t know anything.
A few months later, I fell in love again. It was slow. It was hard. It ended up being perfect.
Six years later, on the phone, she broke my heart. She asked me a variant of the same question. I said “be with you.”
I sat and stared and drank and cried and drove for the next two years. Had a girl for a little while. Then I sat and stared and drank and cried a little more.
One day at work, I got a phone call. I got fired.
I left North Carolina. Drove back home with my tail between my legs.
I met an old friend for drinks. We talked about what we wanted to do then, and what we could do now.
It’s been a constant conversation with us two ever since. She’s had job after job after job. I’ve turned down four jobs then got one. So I could live at the beach. I turned down on really good job. And I was asked why. I said “because I want to do something for me for a change.”
So I moved to the beach. Always wanted to do it.
Now, a year later, I finally had a party here. It was fun. I kissed a girl that night. First time in almost three years. It felt good. Nervous, but good. It was the second date. She wanted a kiss on the first date, but I didn’t. I needed to not.
The same band was playing in the background of the first date. The moment was there and I went for it. I never go for it. Well, I used to not ever go for it. The last four kisses have all been me first. Maybe that’s a sign of finally moving. Or maybe it’s just me overthinking things that don’t need to be analyzed. I’m good at that.
The record player is off right now. The birds are singing some sad song. Well, it sounds sad to me. I think about getting up, putting on a record and going back to wherever it is I was. But I don’t. Atrophy doesn’t look good on me. But my roots are starting to show.
The pen doesn’t run out of ink if it’s never used. The brain doesn’t breathe if you don’t feed it words.
I haven’t written in over a week. I haven’t read in over a month.
So I sat down and starting typing. Just words. Just thoughts. Just whatever needed to spill out of my head. Slow, steady and sad. Those three words just seemed to be all I had at that moment. That instant. So I typed them. Fast and slow.
I was asked again yesterday what I wanted to do. I still don’t know. It’ll come to me, though. I have faith that the last 40 years haven’t been wasted. They’ve just been practice. Experience. I’m good at longing for something. I’m also good at chasing things down. But when I get them, it seems I’m always disappointed. Either by them, or by me. Is it ever enough? Or have I just not found the right it?
Words. That’s all they are. Actions are better. Even when actions involve just words. Remember that, will you? It’s the most important thing to remember. At least right now. At this moment. It’s what you need. It’s what you are.
When I went to college a year later, I had one visit with my advisor. He asked me, “so, what do you want to do?”
I said the same thing.
I drove 4,000 miles a few years later with my best friend. We talked, he drove. We listened to music. We crossed the border. We drank beer. We watched the movie “Speed”. He never asked me what I wanted to do.
I met a girl and fell in love. At that point, I thought I knew what I wanted to do. Be a journalist. Be a happy person. I’ve learned the two weren’t compatible with me. Not that they aren’t for others. Just not for me.
I broke her heart one day on the telephone. It was going to happen sooner or later anyway. But that day she forced the words out of me.
A couple days later, a girl asked me “what do you want to do?”
I said “fall in love again.”
I was drunk. I was sad. I didn’t know anything.
A few months later, I fell in love again. It was slow. It was hard. It ended up being perfect.
Six years later, on the phone, she broke my heart. She asked me a variant of the same question. I said “be with you.”
I sat and stared and drank and cried and drove for the next two years. Had a girl for a little while. Then I sat and stared and drank and cried a little more.
One day at work, I got a phone call. I got fired.
I left North Carolina. Drove back home with my tail between my legs.
I met an old friend for drinks. We talked about what we wanted to do then, and what we could do now.
It’s been a constant conversation with us two ever since. She’s had job after job after job. I’ve turned down four jobs then got one. So I could live at the beach. I turned down on really good job. And I was asked why. I said “because I want to do something for me for a change.”
So I moved to the beach. Always wanted to do it.
Now, a year later, I finally had a party here. It was fun. I kissed a girl that night. First time in almost three years. It felt good. Nervous, but good. It was the second date. She wanted a kiss on the first date, but I didn’t. I needed to not.
The same band was playing in the background of the first date. The moment was there and I went for it. I never go for it. Well, I used to not ever go for it. The last four kisses have all been me first. Maybe that’s a sign of finally moving. Or maybe it’s just me overthinking things that don’t need to be analyzed. I’m good at that.
The record player is off right now. The birds are singing some sad song. Well, it sounds sad to me. I think about getting up, putting on a record and going back to wherever it is I was. But I don’t. Atrophy doesn’t look good on me. But my roots are starting to show.
The pen doesn’t run out of ink if it’s never used. The brain doesn’t breathe if you don’t feed it words.
I haven’t written in over a week. I haven’t read in over a month.
So I sat down and starting typing. Just words. Just thoughts. Just whatever needed to spill out of my head. Slow, steady and sad. Those three words just seemed to be all I had at that moment. That instant. So I typed them. Fast and slow.
I was asked again yesterday what I wanted to do. I still don’t know. It’ll come to me, though. I have faith that the last 40 years haven’t been wasted. They’ve just been practice. Experience. I’m good at longing for something. I’m also good at chasing things down. But when I get them, it seems I’m always disappointed. Either by them, or by me. Is it ever enough? Or have I just not found the right it?
Words. That’s all they are. Actions are better. Even when actions involve just words. Remember that, will you? It’s the most important thing to remember. At least right now. At this moment. It’s what you need. It’s what you are.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
fuck that guy...
I rolled down my windows, not to hear what the redneck in the Toyota was yelling at me, but instead so he could see me giving him the international sign for jacking off as his tantrum continued. This only seemed to enrage him more, shockingly so, and I just put my foot on the pedal and kept driving. James Brown was yelling something about a payback and I needed to listen to this instead.
A minute of two later, I came to a light. My pal in the blue Toyota was still there. Still yelling too. And pointing now.
“Pull that fucking car over you faggot!” he screamed. “I’ll kick your ass.”
I laughed.
“Fuck you, you laughing faggot!” he yelled as the light turned green. A mini-van in front of me blocked any progress, as did a tow truck in the lane to my right. This kept the Toyota and the screaming head next to me.
“Pull over, shit head. I’m going to kick your ass.”
Finally, I’d had enough. I looked over and yelled back “No thanks. Got better things to do.”
I got ahead of him, but he floored his car – producing a nice puff of black smoke from his exhaust – to catch back up to me.
“I’m going to kill you,” he yelled.
I blew a kiss this time.
Enraged, he pointed at me. I was starting to feel a little nervous now. I haven’t actually been in a real, honest to goodness fight since high school. I broke one up at a concert in Brooklyn in 2008, but that was a Lucero show, and a redhead was involved, so I had to. She ended up making out with someone else all night, and me, I got drunk. So fights and me, they don’t mix.
“I’ll pass man,” I said as loud as I cold.
“Faggot!” he screamed as he turned right down some redneck byway.
Relieved, I turned James back up. I wondered why someone would want to even fight a complete stranger on the highway. Especially one that you had just cut off. I’d almost understand if I’d cut him off. But he cut me off at 55 mph. Fuck that guy.
For some reason, that phrase, uttered out loud in frustration and nervousness brought back a memory.
One of me sitting in a Motel 6 in Gainesville, Florida. Crying my eyes out. Wondering what the fuck I was doing there. Coming up with no reason for it to have come to this. Me, balling and throwing stuff at walls, just a couple of miles away from the girl of my dreams.
She’d dumped me a little over a week before. On the phone. Without warning. With no reason.
“Love isn’t enough,” she told me.
“Why?” I asked.
She had no answer to that either. To me, it was enough. But, I know it really isn’t now. At least in that instance. Maybe in all instances. I don’t fucking know.
Anyway, sitting on that dirty, cheap carpet in Room 117 in the Motel 6 in Gainesville, Florida, I was weeping. I’d been to our house. Ours in that I was paying half of the rent and paid all of the security deposit. Almost three years I’d been doing that. Never thinking I was just funding my demise.
She was there. Her car was under the carport. The hood was still warm. Yet she didn’t answer the door when I knocked. I tried over and over.
I know she heard me pull in. My muffler on my car died just as I got into town. It was loud. It was a perfect display of my emotions. Loud. Obnoxious. Sad. Broken.
Finally, after crying on the concrete for about an hour, I wrote a note and left. Driving straight to the Motel 6 and getting a room. The same hotel we stayed at when we stayed in when we visited three years ago to look at the school and to find a place to live.
Just like the first time we did this, we couldn’t find a place at all. Looked at lots of cockroaches and shitty apartments.
I stayed positive. She didn’t. Funny how that was our dynamic.
On the last day, she was fretting moving into an apartment. I found a house in the paper. It was the last place we looked at. Instantly, it was perfect. Just like last time. Almost on the way out of town, we found a great old house. She jumped and screamed at it. I smiled. Things were good then.
We made love in the Motel 6 before leaving. Then it was 700-some miles back home.
Now, here I was in the same hotel. No sex this time.
My phone rang. I was excited. Until I heard the voice on the other line.
“Randy?” it said.
“Yes,” I answered.
“This is Amy,” she said.
“Yeah, I know. Have you spoken to Emily?”
“Yes. She called me. She’s scared.”
“Oh what? Me?”
“Yes.”
“You know I’d never do anything stupid.”
“I know. But she’s emotional.”
“And I’m not?”
“I understand, but…”
“But what? I just want to talk to her. She won’t. Not even on the phone. It’s not fair. It’s not right.”
“Give her time.”
“But I’m here now.”
“It’s not the right time.”
“Well, tell her this. I need to get into the house. Get some of my things.” I was resigned to what was happening already. Maybe it was a mistake, but it happened. Right at that moment. Resignation.
Funny how it took me almost five years to finally decide to move on.
Fuck that guy.
And fuck that girl.
A minute of two later, I came to a light. My pal in the blue Toyota was still there. Still yelling too. And pointing now.
“Pull that fucking car over you faggot!” he screamed. “I’ll kick your ass.”
I laughed.
“Fuck you, you laughing faggot!” he yelled as the light turned green. A mini-van in front of me blocked any progress, as did a tow truck in the lane to my right. This kept the Toyota and the screaming head next to me.
“Pull over, shit head. I’m going to kick your ass.”
Finally, I’d had enough. I looked over and yelled back “No thanks. Got better things to do.”
I got ahead of him, but he floored his car – producing a nice puff of black smoke from his exhaust – to catch back up to me.
“I’m going to kill you,” he yelled.
I blew a kiss this time.
Enraged, he pointed at me. I was starting to feel a little nervous now. I haven’t actually been in a real, honest to goodness fight since high school. I broke one up at a concert in Brooklyn in 2008, but that was a Lucero show, and a redhead was involved, so I had to. She ended up making out with someone else all night, and me, I got drunk. So fights and me, they don’t mix.
“I’ll pass man,” I said as loud as I cold.
“Faggot!” he screamed as he turned right down some redneck byway.
Relieved, I turned James back up. I wondered why someone would want to even fight a complete stranger on the highway. Especially one that you had just cut off. I’d almost understand if I’d cut him off. But he cut me off at 55 mph. Fuck that guy.
For some reason, that phrase, uttered out loud in frustration and nervousness brought back a memory.
One of me sitting in a Motel 6 in Gainesville, Florida. Crying my eyes out. Wondering what the fuck I was doing there. Coming up with no reason for it to have come to this. Me, balling and throwing stuff at walls, just a couple of miles away from the girl of my dreams.
She’d dumped me a little over a week before. On the phone. Without warning. With no reason.
“Love isn’t enough,” she told me.
“Why?” I asked.
She had no answer to that either. To me, it was enough. But, I know it really isn’t now. At least in that instance. Maybe in all instances. I don’t fucking know.
Anyway, sitting on that dirty, cheap carpet in Room 117 in the Motel 6 in Gainesville, Florida, I was weeping. I’d been to our house. Ours in that I was paying half of the rent and paid all of the security deposit. Almost three years I’d been doing that. Never thinking I was just funding my demise.
She was there. Her car was under the carport. The hood was still warm. Yet she didn’t answer the door when I knocked. I tried over and over.
I know she heard me pull in. My muffler on my car died just as I got into town. It was loud. It was a perfect display of my emotions. Loud. Obnoxious. Sad. Broken.
Finally, after crying on the concrete for about an hour, I wrote a note and left. Driving straight to the Motel 6 and getting a room. The same hotel we stayed at when we stayed in when we visited three years ago to look at the school and to find a place to live.
Just like the first time we did this, we couldn’t find a place at all. Looked at lots of cockroaches and shitty apartments.
I stayed positive. She didn’t. Funny how that was our dynamic.
On the last day, she was fretting moving into an apartment. I found a house in the paper. It was the last place we looked at. Instantly, it was perfect. Just like last time. Almost on the way out of town, we found a great old house. She jumped and screamed at it. I smiled. Things were good then.
We made love in the Motel 6 before leaving. Then it was 700-some miles back home.
Now, here I was in the same hotel. No sex this time.
My phone rang. I was excited. Until I heard the voice on the other line.
“Randy?” it said.
“Yes,” I answered.
“This is Amy,” she said.
“Yeah, I know. Have you spoken to Emily?”
“Yes. She called me. She’s scared.”
“Oh what? Me?”
“Yes.”
“You know I’d never do anything stupid.”
“I know. But she’s emotional.”
“And I’m not?”
“I understand, but…”
“But what? I just want to talk to her. She won’t. Not even on the phone. It’s not fair. It’s not right.”
“Give her time.”
“But I’m here now.”
“It’s not the right time.”
“Well, tell her this. I need to get into the house. Get some of my things.” I was resigned to what was happening already. Maybe it was a mistake, but it happened. Right at that moment. Resignation.
Funny how it took me almost five years to finally decide to move on.
Fuck that guy.
And fuck that girl.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
bum
It’s two fucking o’clock in the morning. London Calling is blasting out of the shitty speakers that have been the lone source of my musical journey since 1980.
It seems to me that the night could be better than this. I’m 40 years old. My teeth are rotted and my gums are gone. My suit was bought in 1998. By my mom. When I had an interview. Since then, it’s been the suit I’ve worn for every interview. Every dance. Every wedding. The insides are frayed and worn. The label saying where it was bought – Marks and Jays – has bled into one big word that isn’t legible anymore.
There’s no wind outside tonight. The stale air in my house isn’t helped by the sea breeze. Instead, the smell of dead fish and stale beer fills my lungs. You get used to some things, and this is one of the things that I certainly have gotten used to. Same with the howling feral cats that prowl the alley between my house and the hotel next door. The hotel that no one ever stays in, yet somehow it stays in business – at least from the end of April until the end of September. I’ve also gotten used to being alone.
That used to scare me more than death, being alone. Somehow it seemed to be the worst possible thing that could happen to a person. Maybe growing up and being exposed only to relationships that lasted had something to do with this feeling. I didn’t understand divorce. When I’d find out a friend or colleague’s parents had divorced I had no emotion. It didn’t make sense. Why would anyone marry someone that they didn’t want to be with, forever?
I think that’s why I’m still alone. I will only settle for the lie that I think all of the examples from my youth displayed. Ha. My parents love each other. But they also enable each other, for good and for bad. My dad’s parents? I don’t know enough about them. I do know that my grandmother after my grandfather died ended up shacking up with the best man from their wedding. Then there’s my other grandparents. Together over 50 years.
What does all that mean? I don’t fucking know.
The new girl at work goes out of her way to not say hello to me. Every day, she walks in and if I’m the only one there, says nothing. If others are there, she says hello. It’s strange. It doesn’t particularly bother me, but I wonder why. So, I guess it does bother me. She probably figures that much. It’s enjoyable.
The inspiration to try something new has hit lately. Not enough so for me to write it down, but to think about it. This is progress. The winter months saw me atrophy in many ways. Mentally, physically and emotionally. I just kind of existed. The worst way to live is to just exist. You need a reason, otherwise it is pointless.
A friend of mine got turned down for a job, and he doesn’t even know it yet. I feel bad for the guy, some. He’s been out of work for over two and a half years. Yet, I know he isn’t looking very hard to find a new job. He’s got a wife and a great record collection. He can write circles around me, yet he only writes one story a week. A column that in many ways sucks more than my blog used to. It’s all about him. His hang ups. His worries. His flaws. His memories. It’s no way to live. In the mind. I guess that’s why we’re friends. Sort of. He’s a one-way friend for the most part. Likes it when it suits him. I keep coming back, like a bad girlfriend. You know she’s bad for you, yet the sex is great. Or she listens. Or she is just warm next to you in bed, much warmer than an empty spot.
The busted up wooden fence leans west. The drunken Cougars prop themselves against it every night. Some nights, the fence is kind, allowing the lady to sit or just bang up against it. Other times, a plank will snap, sending the mess to the ground with a thud and a scream. Those nights I like better than the others. I still wonder if any of them want to come over to my place and have sex. Probably not, seeing that I am just sitting in a broken down, rusted lawn chair every week when they come to dance the night away. “What a loser that guy is,” I imagine they say to each other. “What do you think he does?” another may ask. “He just looks like a smelly, farting beast.”
Yeah, I need a change. Before I start needing to ask for yours.
It seems to me that the night could be better than this. I’m 40 years old. My teeth are rotted and my gums are gone. My suit was bought in 1998. By my mom. When I had an interview. Since then, it’s been the suit I’ve worn for every interview. Every dance. Every wedding. The insides are frayed and worn. The label saying where it was bought – Marks and Jays – has bled into one big word that isn’t legible anymore.
There’s no wind outside tonight. The stale air in my house isn’t helped by the sea breeze. Instead, the smell of dead fish and stale beer fills my lungs. You get used to some things, and this is one of the things that I certainly have gotten used to. Same with the howling feral cats that prowl the alley between my house and the hotel next door. The hotel that no one ever stays in, yet somehow it stays in business – at least from the end of April until the end of September. I’ve also gotten used to being alone.
That used to scare me more than death, being alone. Somehow it seemed to be the worst possible thing that could happen to a person. Maybe growing up and being exposed only to relationships that lasted had something to do with this feeling. I didn’t understand divorce. When I’d find out a friend or colleague’s parents had divorced I had no emotion. It didn’t make sense. Why would anyone marry someone that they didn’t want to be with, forever?
I think that’s why I’m still alone. I will only settle for the lie that I think all of the examples from my youth displayed. Ha. My parents love each other. But they also enable each other, for good and for bad. My dad’s parents? I don’t know enough about them. I do know that my grandmother after my grandfather died ended up shacking up with the best man from their wedding. Then there’s my other grandparents. Together over 50 years.
What does all that mean? I don’t fucking know.
The new girl at work goes out of her way to not say hello to me. Every day, she walks in and if I’m the only one there, says nothing. If others are there, she says hello. It’s strange. It doesn’t particularly bother me, but I wonder why. So, I guess it does bother me. She probably figures that much. It’s enjoyable.
The inspiration to try something new has hit lately. Not enough so for me to write it down, but to think about it. This is progress. The winter months saw me atrophy in many ways. Mentally, physically and emotionally. I just kind of existed. The worst way to live is to just exist. You need a reason, otherwise it is pointless.
A friend of mine got turned down for a job, and he doesn’t even know it yet. I feel bad for the guy, some. He’s been out of work for over two and a half years. Yet, I know he isn’t looking very hard to find a new job. He’s got a wife and a great record collection. He can write circles around me, yet he only writes one story a week. A column that in many ways sucks more than my blog used to. It’s all about him. His hang ups. His worries. His flaws. His memories. It’s no way to live. In the mind. I guess that’s why we’re friends. Sort of. He’s a one-way friend for the most part. Likes it when it suits him. I keep coming back, like a bad girlfriend. You know she’s bad for you, yet the sex is great. Or she listens. Or she is just warm next to you in bed, much warmer than an empty spot.
The busted up wooden fence leans west. The drunken Cougars prop themselves against it every night. Some nights, the fence is kind, allowing the lady to sit or just bang up against it. Other times, a plank will snap, sending the mess to the ground with a thud and a scream. Those nights I like better than the others. I still wonder if any of them want to come over to my place and have sex. Probably not, seeing that I am just sitting in a broken down, rusted lawn chair every week when they come to dance the night away. “What a loser that guy is,” I imagine they say to each other. “What do you think he does?” another may ask. “He just looks like a smelly, farting beast.”
Yeah, I need a change. Before I start needing to ask for yours.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
experience...
well. i've let you down again, dear blog.
but, i'm out experiencing a little bit of life, instead of watching it go by. so you'll have to wait.
maybe tomorrow. as i'm doing nothing.
if not, sorry. and yes, i know i'm breaking the rules.
but, i'm out experiencing a little bit of life, instead of watching it go by. so you'll have to wait.
maybe tomorrow. as i'm doing nothing.
if not, sorry. and yes, i know i'm breaking the rules.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Aiken, Chapter 1
In horror, I watched the slow motion tumble of my half-empty bottle of beer fall from my hands onto the floor. It went straight down. The bottle shattering into hundreds of pieces when it hit the dirty stone floor. I knew exactly what was coming when it happened. My shoulders slumped in anticipation.
“Jones, you’re outta here,” the barkeep barked at me from across the room. John was a kind fellow, but he didn’t put up with bullshit either. His old, dirty and soaking wet towel was in one hand. A fist was made with the other.
I nodded my head in agreement and stumbled out into the afternoon air. It was hot, humid and windy. A perfect New Orleans day, I thought to myself. Only problem was, I was in Aiken, South Carolina.
How I ended up in a bar in Aiken would explain a lot about how bad my life had become. I quit my job exactly 16 days ago. Jumped in my car and drove south. I figured I’d be in Florida by the end of the day. Instead, I got a flat tire in Aiken. And I hadn’t left yet.
That day, I was towed from Interstate 95 to a repair shop. There, I met George Pepper. When he said it, at first I heard Peppard and got a little bit excited. Even though I knew the actor was dead, I figured that this mechanic being named the same thing had to be a sign of good.
“It’s Pepper, not Peppard,” he replied to my query on his last name. I felt bad after that.
“Where can a guy get a drink around here?” I asked.
“Soda pop machine’s out front,” George said with a smile.
“Something a bit stronger, I was thinking.”
“Oh,” he said. I could feel his disappointment in this stranger in his place of business.
“There’s a bar about six blocks from here. Turn on State Street. A left, I believe. Then a right on Main. You won’t be able to miss it.”
“Unless it’s a right on State?” I said with a chuckle.
George didn’t see the humor. I gave him my cell phone number to call me.
“This’ll be long distance,” he replied. “Just stop by in a couple hours. It’ll be fixed.”
I shook his hand and left. His grip was tight. Mine, not so much. My dad always told me to shake a man’s hand like you meant it. I really didn’t mean it that time. And it showed. The mechanic, according to my dad’s philosophy, now had the upper hand on me.
I trudged down the road for a few blocks. The sweat was already showing through my t-shirt. I looked up at the sky, a solitary blue jay few past me, landing on a stop sign. It shrieked. I stared at him. Wondering if the shriek was a warning to me. I chuckled when it stared back and seemed to nod a yes.
A black pickup truck slowly ambled down the road towards me. “Overnight Male” by George Straight was flying out the windows. I watched the truck go by. Inside the cab were two women. One blonde-haired. The other a redhead. They whistled at me and I tipped the brim of my baseball cap with my left hand. I heard giggles from the truck as it whisked away around the corner.
My steps were leaden. I’d only heard of Aiken from one other person in my life. A kid named Donnie. He was a tough kid. A lot tougher than me. He wasn’t very smart, but for some reason, we got along. Usually those types of guys wanted to beat the crap out of me in middle school. Not Donnie. In English class we’d sit in the back and try to come up with contests to prove that one or the other knew more about heavy metal music than the other. He looked the part, wearing leather studded arm bands and pentagram t-shirts. I usually wore a Joe Theisman jersey. But we both had bowl haircuts and had never even sniffed a kiss from a girl.
One day, after we’d spent the entire 45-minute long class writing the names of heavy metal bands – I had 146, he had 133, he told me that he was moving. All the way to South Carolina. We ate lunch together, talking about the band we wanted to form, the girls we wanted to “do” and the plans we had to stay in touch. We exchanged addresses that day. Mine in Virginia, his new one in South Carolina.
A handshake and a look was how it ended.
That summer, I wrote him. Told him how dull our hometown was. That the arcade was closing and the new Motley Crue album was “ok” but not as good as “Shout at the Devil.”
A few weeks later, I got a reply. He talked about how hot it was. How there was nothing but farms and niggers. I read that line over and over. The letter concluded with him saying how much he hated it there. Too many niggers. Again.
That was the last letter I got from Donnie. I never wrote again either.
Now, over 25 years later I’m in that town he hated so much. I wonder if he’s around?
Finally, I make it to the bar. An old brick building that most likely used to be something better. Now, it was a bar. Called “Sid’s Sitting Point.” I opened the big red door and went inside. Hank Williams was singing about being lonesome.
My eyes went from one side of the place to the other. There were four people in the place. Two old guys at the bar and a woman at the jukebox. The bartender was there too. I’d end up knowing his name – John Underwood – by the end of the afternoon.
“What do ya have in a bottle?” I asked.
“Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite and Coors,” he said.
I winced.
“Give me a Bud and a shot of Jameson,” I replied.
“You got it buddy,” he said. “My name’s John.”
“Nice to meet ya, man. I’m Randy.”
He poured my shot and plopped down the beer. I took a swig. It was awful, but cold, so it felt good going down. Soon, I’d had eight beers and a couple of shots. I was feeling good.
The doors opened with a crash. In came the two ladies I’d seen earlier. They saw me at the bar and plopped down next to me. John gave me a look. I knew what that look was about. It said “be careful, bro.” I nodded in appreciation, but also knew I wasn’t going to take his advice.
“Hello, stranger,” the redhead said to me.
“Howdy, ladies,” I replied in a southern drawl that always came over me when I was drunk or nervous. Right now, I was both.
“You’re cute,” said the blonde.
“Well, ma’am, you’re pretty,” I said, taking a long swig from the just delivered bottle of beer. It was the best sip I had all day.
“You wanna get out of here?” the redhead eventually asked me after the three of us had talked about their dogs, their cats and their shitty jobs for about 45 minutes.
“Sure, why the hell not?” I said.
Within two minutes I had paid my tab, gotten a stiff handshake and a stern look from John, taken a piss and jumped in the cab of that black pickup truck. This oughtta be fun, I thought to myself as I looked at the redhead, smiling and looking out the window. Her legs were pale and firm. I noticed no tattoos, always a good sign.
“You think she’s pretty?,” the blonde asked out of the blue.
“Always had a thing for redheads,” I replied. This redhead looked at me now. She smiled. Then turned back to the window.
“Where we going?” I asked no one in particular.
“Over to the shed,” the blonde said.
“Sounds like a plan,” I replied. “You got anything to drink?”
“Of course, darlin’,” the blonde said, pulling a flask from between her legs.
She handed it to me. It was warm from her body heat. I clicked open the top and took a swig. It was tequila. I nearly threw it up, but held back.
“Whoah, there Tiger,” she said. “Don’t want you puking on my man’s truck.”
That should have been a warning. But I ignored it. I handed the flask to the redhead. She took a swig and then another. That should have been a second warning. My drunk ass thought it was awesome. Me, two hot southern girls, at least 10 years younger than me, driving around in the sticks of South Carolina. What could possibly ever go wrong?
“Jones, you’re outta here,” the barkeep barked at me from across the room. John was a kind fellow, but he didn’t put up with bullshit either. His old, dirty and soaking wet towel was in one hand. A fist was made with the other.
I nodded my head in agreement and stumbled out into the afternoon air. It was hot, humid and windy. A perfect New Orleans day, I thought to myself. Only problem was, I was in Aiken, South Carolina.
How I ended up in a bar in Aiken would explain a lot about how bad my life had become. I quit my job exactly 16 days ago. Jumped in my car and drove south. I figured I’d be in Florida by the end of the day. Instead, I got a flat tire in Aiken. And I hadn’t left yet.
That day, I was towed from Interstate 95 to a repair shop. There, I met George Pepper. When he said it, at first I heard Peppard and got a little bit excited. Even though I knew the actor was dead, I figured that this mechanic being named the same thing had to be a sign of good.
“It’s Pepper, not Peppard,” he replied to my query on his last name. I felt bad after that.
“Where can a guy get a drink around here?” I asked.
“Soda pop machine’s out front,” George said with a smile.
“Something a bit stronger, I was thinking.”
“Oh,” he said. I could feel his disappointment in this stranger in his place of business.
“There’s a bar about six blocks from here. Turn on State Street. A left, I believe. Then a right on Main. You won’t be able to miss it.”
“Unless it’s a right on State?” I said with a chuckle.
George didn’t see the humor. I gave him my cell phone number to call me.
“This’ll be long distance,” he replied. “Just stop by in a couple hours. It’ll be fixed.”
I shook his hand and left. His grip was tight. Mine, not so much. My dad always told me to shake a man’s hand like you meant it. I really didn’t mean it that time. And it showed. The mechanic, according to my dad’s philosophy, now had the upper hand on me.
I trudged down the road for a few blocks. The sweat was already showing through my t-shirt. I looked up at the sky, a solitary blue jay few past me, landing on a stop sign. It shrieked. I stared at him. Wondering if the shriek was a warning to me. I chuckled when it stared back and seemed to nod a yes.
A black pickup truck slowly ambled down the road towards me. “Overnight Male” by George Straight was flying out the windows. I watched the truck go by. Inside the cab were two women. One blonde-haired. The other a redhead. They whistled at me and I tipped the brim of my baseball cap with my left hand. I heard giggles from the truck as it whisked away around the corner.
My steps were leaden. I’d only heard of Aiken from one other person in my life. A kid named Donnie. He was a tough kid. A lot tougher than me. He wasn’t very smart, but for some reason, we got along. Usually those types of guys wanted to beat the crap out of me in middle school. Not Donnie. In English class we’d sit in the back and try to come up with contests to prove that one or the other knew more about heavy metal music than the other. He looked the part, wearing leather studded arm bands and pentagram t-shirts. I usually wore a Joe Theisman jersey. But we both had bowl haircuts and had never even sniffed a kiss from a girl.
One day, after we’d spent the entire 45-minute long class writing the names of heavy metal bands – I had 146, he had 133, he told me that he was moving. All the way to South Carolina. We ate lunch together, talking about the band we wanted to form, the girls we wanted to “do” and the plans we had to stay in touch. We exchanged addresses that day. Mine in Virginia, his new one in South Carolina.
A handshake and a look was how it ended.
That summer, I wrote him. Told him how dull our hometown was. That the arcade was closing and the new Motley Crue album was “ok” but not as good as “Shout at the Devil.”
A few weeks later, I got a reply. He talked about how hot it was. How there was nothing but farms and niggers. I read that line over and over. The letter concluded with him saying how much he hated it there. Too many niggers. Again.
That was the last letter I got from Donnie. I never wrote again either.
Now, over 25 years later I’m in that town he hated so much. I wonder if he’s around?
Finally, I make it to the bar. An old brick building that most likely used to be something better. Now, it was a bar. Called “Sid’s Sitting Point.” I opened the big red door and went inside. Hank Williams was singing about being lonesome.
My eyes went from one side of the place to the other. There were four people in the place. Two old guys at the bar and a woman at the jukebox. The bartender was there too. I’d end up knowing his name – John Underwood – by the end of the afternoon.
“What do ya have in a bottle?” I asked.
“Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite and Coors,” he said.
I winced.
“Give me a Bud and a shot of Jameson,” I replied.
“You got it buddy,” he said. “My name’s John.”
“Nice to meet ya, man. I’m Randy.”
He poured my shot and plopped down the beer. I took a swig. It was awful, but cold, so it felt good going down. Soon, I’d had eight beers and a couple of shots. I was feeling good.
The doors opened with a crash. In came the two ladies I’d seen earlier. They saw me at the bar and plopped down next to me. John gave me a look. I knew what that look was about. It said “be careful, bro.” I nodded in appreciation, but also knew I wasn’t going to take his advice.
“Hello, stranger,” the redhead said to me.
“Howdy, ladies,” I replied in a southern drawl that always came over me when I was drunk or nervous. Right now, I was both.
“You’re cute,” said the blonde.
“Well, ma’am, you’re pretty,” I said, taking a long swig from the just delivered bottle of beer. It was the best sip I had all day.
“You wanna get out of here?” the redhead eventually asked me after the three of us had talked about their dogs, their cats and their shitty jobs for about 45 minutes.
“Sure, why the hell not?” I said.
Within two minutes I had paid my tab, gotten a stiff handshake and a stern look from John, taken a piss and jumped in the cab of that black pickup truck. This oughtta be fun, I thought to myself as I looked at the redhead, smiling and looking out the window. Her legs were pale and firm. I noticed no tattoos, always a good sign.
“You think she’s pretty?,” the blonde asked out of the blue.
“Always had a thing for redheads,” I replied. This redhead looked at me now. She smiled. Then turned back to the window.
“Where we going?” I asked no one in particular.
“Over to the shed,” the blonde said.
“Sounds like a plan,” I replied. “You got anything to drink?”
“Of course, darlin’,” the blonde said, pulling a flask from between her legs.
She handed it to me. It was warm from her body heat. I clicked open the top and took a swig. It was tequila. I nearly threw it up, but held back.
“Whoah, there Tiger,” she said. “Don’t want you puking on my man’s truck.”
That should have been a warning. But I ignored it. I handed the flask to the redhead. She took a swig and then another. That should have been a second warning. My drunk ass thought it was awesome. Me, two hot southern girls, at least 10 years younger than me, driving around in the sticks of South Carolina. What could possibly ever go wrong?
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
hey, hey, my, my
I drank myself into oblivion last night. Much like every other night. This one differed slightly. I woke up with my arms wrapped around some lady.
She was blonde. Kind of fat, but not old fat as there weren’t any stretch marks or weird discolored patches. I’d guess 24 or so. She smelled like cheap beer and so did I. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, seeing clearly that I’d brought her to my place, not me to hers.
My head hurt. Badly. Not a dull ache, but a full-on bizarre feeling of agony. For some reason, Neil Young’s “Hey, hey, my, my” echoes in my head. A random moment that will never be explained.
Feeling woozy, I get out of bed. Thankfully, I have my boxers on. Scurrying about trying to find underwear in a funk with some stranger laying on your bed is not something to take lightly.
Making my way to the bathroom, the puke comes. I didn’t think I was going to purge last night’s excesses, but apparently, the body had other thoughts. I see from what comes up that I must have had some kind of chili-based product. It’s never really “food” when you put chili on top of it. From Lucky Dogs to Sheetz fries, bad things come with chili on top.
I find a t-shirt strewn about on the floor. Not a hard thing to do in this place as I tend to just chuck them everywhere. Same with shorts. And socks. Have I mentioned I’m not a very clean person? I go outside into the sun. It feels nice on my face. A welcome relief from the horror that will unfold in a few minutes or hours, whenever the creature in my bed comes to life. I scan the driveway. No other cars. That means I have to give her a ride somewhere or pay for a cab. Disappointment swells. No chance of her sneaking out while I’m showering later.
I go back inside, open the fridge. A half-drank pint glass of beer sits on the shelf. I love it when I do something like that. I never drink them, but my drunken mind believes that it is something worth saving. I take out the glass and take a sip. It’s cold, but flat. I pour the rest out. The 20-year-old me sighs somewhere. But fuck that guy, he ain’t coming back to give me the power of strong erections and long, flowing locks of hair. I reach back into the fridge and pull out a bottle of Amber. I pop the top and take a long swig. It feels right – getting drunk before I go back into the bedroom. Soon, I’m six beers in. I feel good with a buzz now. The day’s getting better.
Instinctively, I climb back into bed. I take off all clothes right before doing so. I spoon with this overweight princess that I have no idea who she is. I get a hard on. It’s nice. I fall asleep.
A few hours later, I have this overwhelming feeling, so I open my eyes. She’s staring at me.
“Hi!” she says way too cheerily.
“Hello, darlin’,” I say. Don’t know why I said darlin’, it just seemed to fit.
“I had a great time last night,” she smiles while she says that. It’s that kind of smile, implying impure thoughts. She’s obviously a bit of a shy gal. Ha.
“Me too,” I lie. Not that I didn’t have a great time, because waking up next to a naked woman implies a good time. But I simply don’t remember. Never will. If I end up marrying this girl, which won’t happen, she’ll have fond memories of last night. Will ask me about it all the time. I, on the other hand, will remember getting up from said night and barfing in the toilet. The first time I’d barfed since the 1990s from drinking. Oh, and chili.
She nuzzles up to my chest. I put my arm around her. I get a hard on again. There’s a definite pattern here. I’m kind of hopeful that she notices, not that there’s a lot to notice.
“So, what do you do?” she finally asks after a couple minutes.
“I didn’t tell you last night?”
“Nope.”
“Well, darlin’, I’m a writer.”
“That’s neat. What do you write?”
“Nothing right now.”
“Huh?”
“Well, I write about life. My life. Your life. Everyone’s life.”
“You’re going to write about me?”
“Most definitely.”
“What if I don’t want you to?”
“Too late.”
“Don’t worry. I want you to write about me.”
My hard on went down immediately on those words. It’s like thinking of Angela Landsbury naked. Not the 1950s version, but the “Murder, She Wrote” one. Time is a terrible thing. Especially if you’re a barren branch, as the Chinese would call me. I can feel melancholy sweeping over my body and mind. A frown has appeared on my face.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
“Just…um…”
“What?”
“You just said something.”
“What? … I’m so sorry.”
She reached for my dick. I guess that’s her way of conflict resolution with a guy she just met. A guy who doesn’t even remember her name.
I rolled over to stop the inevitable. Not that I couldn’t use a nice blow job or fuck. I just knew it wasn’t going to be a good idea.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Not your fault, darlin’,” I said. “I’ve got issues you couldn’t imagine. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you about them.”
I didn’t have plans to tell her. It just seemed the right thing to say.
“Oh…OK.”
She pulled the sheet up over her body. It was nice to have a warm body in bed next to me. I put my arm around her, placing my hand on her belly. She took my hand. We went back to sleep. It was the best sleep I’d had in years. So good, I didn’t mind missing work that day. Although my boss felt slightly different about it, firing me the next day.
I never saw that girl again. But, before she left – in a cab – she told me her name. It was Rebecca.
She was blonde. Kind of fat, but not old fat as there weren’t any stretch marks or weird discolored patches. I’d guess 24 or so. She smelled like cheap beer and so did I. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, seeing clearly that I’d brought her to my place, not me to hers.
My head hurt. Badly. Not a dull ache, but a full-on bizarre feeling of agony. For some reason, Neil Young’s “Hey, hey, my, my” echoes in my head. A random moment that will never be explained.
Feeling woozy, I get out of bed. Thankfully, I have my boxers on. Scurrying about trying to find underwear in a funk with some stranger laying on your bed is not something to take lightly.
Making my way to the bathroom, the puke comes. I didn’t think I was going to purge last night’s excesses, but apparently, the body had other thoughts. I see from what comes up that I must have had some kind of chili-based product. It’s never really “food” when you put chili on top of it. From Lucky Dogs to Sheetz fries, bad things come with chili on top.
I find a t-shirt strewn about on the floor. Not a hard thing to do in this place as I tend to just chuck them everywhere. Same with shorts. And socks. Have I mentioned I’m not a very clean person? I go outside into the sun. It feels nice on my face. A welcome relief from the horror that will unfold in a few minutes or hours, whenever the creature in my bed comes to life. I scan the driveway. No other cars. That means I have to give her a ride somewhere or pay for a cab. Disappointment swells. No chance of her sneaking out while I’m showering later.
I go back inside, open the fridge. A half-drank pint glass of beer sits on the shelf. I love it when I do something like that. I never drink them, but my drunken mind believes that it is something worth saving. I take out the glass and take a sip. It’s cold, but flat. I pour the rest out. The 20-year-old me sighs somewhere. But fuck that guy, he ain’t coming back to give me the power of strong erections and long, flowing locks of hair. I reach back into the fridge and pull out a bottle of Amber. I pop the top and take a long swig. It feels right – getting drunk before I go back into the bedroom. Soon, I’m six beers in. I feel good with a buzz now. The day’s getting better.
Instinctively, I climb back into bed. I take off all clothes right before doing so. I spoon with this overweight princess that I have no idea who she is. I get a hard on. It’s nice. I fall asleep.
A few hours later, I have this overwhelming feeling, so I open my eyes. She’s staring at me.
“Hi!” she says way too cheerily.
“Hello, darlin’,” I say. Don’t know why I said darlin’, it just seemed to fit.
“I had a great time last night,” she smiles while she says that. It’s that kind of smile, implying impure thoughts. She’s obviously a bit of a shy gal. Ha.
“Me too,” I lie. Not that I didn’t have a great time, because waking up next to a naked woman implies a good time. But I simply don’t remember. Never will. If I end up marrying this girl, which won’t happen, she’ll have fond memories of last night. Will ask me about it all the time. I, on the other hand, will remember getting up from said night and barfing in the toilet. The first time I’d barfed since the 1990s from drinking. Oh, and chili.
She nuzzles up to my chest. I put my arm around her. I get a hard on again. There’s a definite pattern here. I’m kind of hopeful that she notices, not that there’s a lot to notice.
“So, what do you do?” she finally asks after a couple minutes.
“I didn’t tell you last night?”
“Nope.”
“Well, darlin’, I’m a writer.”
“That’s neat. What do you write?”
“Nothing right now.”
“Huh?”
“Well, I write about life. My life. Your life. Everyone’s life.”
“You’re going to write about me?”
“Most definitely.”
“What if I don’t want you to?”
“Too late.”
“Don’t worry. I want you to write about me.”
My hard on went down immediately on those words. It’s like thinking of Angela Landsbury naked. Not the 1950s version, but the “Murder, She Wrote” one. Time is a terrible thing. Especially if you’re a barren branch, as the Chinese would call me. I can feel melancholy sweeping over my body and mind. A frown has appeared on my face.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
“Just…um…”
“What?”
“You just said something.”
“What? … I’m so sorry.”
She reached for my dick. I guess that’s her way of conflict resolution with a guy she just met. A guy who doesn’t even remember her name.
I rolled over to stop the inevitable. Not that I couldn’t use a nice blow job or fuck. I just knew it wasn’t going to be a good idea.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Not your fault, darlin’,” I said. “I’ve got issues you couldn’t imagine. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you about them.”
I didn’t have plans to tell her. It just seemed the right thing to say.
“Oh…OK.”
She pulled the sheet up over her body. It was nice to have a warm body in bed next to me. I put my arm around her, placing my hand on her belly. She took my hand. We went back to sleep. It was the best sleep I’d had in years. So good, I didn’t mind missing work that day. Although my boss felt slightly different about it, firing me the next day.
I never saw that girl again. But, before she left – in a cab – she told me her name. It was Rebecca.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
fail.
I drank myself into oblivion last night. Much like every other night. This one differed slightly. I woke up with my arms wrapped around some lady.
She was blonde. Kind of fat, but not old fat as there weren’t any stretch marks or weird discolored patches. I’d guess 24 or so. She smelled like cheap beer and so did I. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, seeing clearly that I’d brought her to my place, not me to hers.
My head hurt. Badly. Not a dull ache, but a full-on bizarre feeling of agony.
She was blonde. Kind of fat, but not old fat as there weren’t any stretch marks or weird discolored patches. I’d guess 24 or so. She smelled like cheap beer and so did I. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, seeing clearly that I’d brought her to my place, not me to hers.
My head hurt. Badly. Not a dull ache, but a full-on bizarre feeling of agony.
excuses and assholes...
my computer, puchased exactly 5 weeks prior...died on sunday. it's back today. and so will i tonight.
yep.
yep.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
randall p. floyd
“Mustard on a Twinkie? That’s just wrong.”
I thought nothing of it. So, I dunked my Twinkie remnant in the yellow goop once again.
“Fuck, man, that’s disgusting.”
“It’s really not. Have you tried it?”
“No God damn it. I have not tried it. Why would anyone try that?”
“Why would someone get in a boat and sail to the west? That’s what folks used to say. If they hadn’t, you might be growing up in England right now, thinking the world was flat.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, intelligent conversation. That’s you.”
“Fuck you, again.”
“Buy me a fucking drink, you anti-intellectual, you.”
“Two beers, Danny! One for me. One for the fucking Einstein here.”
I smiled. Usually, I’m the one being berated for being a dumb-ass. Tonight? I’m back home in Hopewell, Virginia. Here, I’m still considered smart. I look in the corner of the bar. There’s my old government teacher. He was a cool guy when I was 17. Now? He’s just another drunk. Like me. Wishing he’d never come to this small, industrial town, I’m sure. The only things I remember about Mr. Harp are this: his roommate in college killed himself via hanging in the closet, thus making him the only person I know who can actually verify the “if your roommate in college kills himself, you get a 4.0” rumor. Oh, and he’s spent more time with my dad than me. If that counts as knowing something about him.
I very easily could have ended up in this very same place every night of my life. Instead of sitting alone in my living room, on a hand-me-down couch watching the same movies over and over and listening to the same songs over and over. Is one better than the other? Not really. Of course, if I’d stayed in Hopewell, most likely, I’d be married. Or at least getting laid. There’s something to be said for sticking your dick inside of a woman instead of your spit in hand. Just saying.
It’s funny. I still want a woman who doesn’t want me. She texted me for over an hour tonight. Mindless conversations about music, rock shows and the like. No flirting. At least, none returned. You try to slip in a line or two, hoping it’s a weak moment for her. Maybe she’s doing the same thing you are on a lonely Saturday night. Sitting at home, wondering where, for her the 20s went, for me, the 30s. However, she’s got three hours on you. It’s only 8:29 p.m. there. It’s 11:29 here. The night is starting for her. It’s been done for a while for you.
Still, you keep the conversation going. That is, until the messages stop coming. You know what that means. Someone found something more interesting to be distracted by. I’m sure it’s flattering to know that someone really digs you. Would do anything to have a moment with you. She knows this about me. And it doesn’t stop you from acting the fool. Chasing the tail like a dog. Or like a horny 40 year old. Whichever seems to be the more fitting description. I don’t know. I’ve never been to war. I’ve shot a gun. Twice. It sucked. I got a big bruise on my shoulder from the recoil. I think my dad knew right after that second shot that I wouldn’t be hunting with him anymore. It was pointless. And hell, I liked to run around in the cornfields and pretend I was somewhere else. I guess I could have made a good Labrador retriever? Wolf. Wolf! Go get the dead duck!
I sometimes wonder how I’d react in a combat situation. It’s one of those things you can never know about yourself until it happens. Same thing as if some drug addict pulls a gun on you. But I’ve had that happen to me. I joked with the guy until he started laughing and lowered it. Don’t think that would work with the Taliban. But one never knows? Maybe I could just put on Electric Six’s “Gay Bar” and we could all have a good laugh together. Looking at Tony Blair and George Bush.
Fuck YouTube.
Anyway, I wonder if the Anyways police are out today?
I need to stop trying to find a reason to keep going. If you need a reason and you don’t know what it is, then it’s already a lost cause. Right?
Who the fuck am I to ask such questions? Randall Pink Floyd?
I thought nothing of it. So, I dunked my Twinkie remnant in the yellow goop once again.
“Fuck, man, that’s disgusting.”
“It’s really not. Have you tried it?”
“No God damn it. I have not tried it. Why would anyone try that?”
“Why would someone get in a boat and sail to the west? That’s what folks used to say. If they hadn’t, you might be growing up in England right now, thinking the world was flat.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, intelligent conversation. That’s you.”
“Fuck you, again.”
“Buy me a fucking drink, you anti-intellectual, you.”
“Two beers, Danny! One for me. One for the fucking Einstein here.”
I smiled. Usually, I’m the one being berated for being a dumb-ass. Tonight? I’m back home in Hopewell, Virginia. Here, I’m still considered smart. I look in the corner of the bar. There’s my old government teacher. He was a cool guy when I was 17. Now? He’s just another drunk. Like me. Wishing he’d never come to this small, industrial town, I’m sure. The only things I remember about Mr. Harp are this: his roommate in college killed himself via hanging in the closet, thus making him the only person I know who can actually verify the “if your roommate in college kills himself, you get a 4.0” rumor. Oh, and he’s spent more time with my dad than me. If that counts as knowing something about him.
I very easily could have ended up in this very same place every night of my life. Instead of sitting alone in my living room, on a hand-me-down couch watching the same movies over and over and listening to the same songs over and over. Is one better than the other? Not really. Of course, if I’d stayed in Hopewell, most likely, I’d be married. Or at least getting laid. There’s something to be said for sticking your dick inside of a woman instead of your spit in hand. Just saying.
It’s funny. I still want a woman who doesn’t want me. She texted me for over an hour tonight. Mindless conversations about music, rock shows and the like. No flirting. At least, none returned. You try to slip in a line or two, hoping it’s a weak moment for her. Maybe she’s doing the same thing you are on a lonely Saturday night. Sitting at home, wondering where, for her the 20s went, for me, the 30s. However, she’s got three hours on you. It’s only 8:29 p.m. there. It’s 11:29 here. The night is starting for her. It’s been done for a while for you.
Still, you keep the conversation going. That is, until the messages stop coming. You know what that means. Someone found something more interesting to be distracted by. I’m sure it’s flattering to know that someone really digs you. Would do anything to have a moment with you. She knows this about me. And it doesn’t stop you from acting the fool. Chasing the tail like a dog. Or like a horny 40 year old. Whichever seems to be the more fitting description. I don’t know. I’ve never been to war. I’ve shot a gun. Twice. It sucked. I got a big bruise on my shoulder from the recoil. I think my dad knew right after that second shot that I wouldn’t be hunting with him anymore. It was pointless. And hell, I liked to run around in the cornfields and pretend I was somewhere else. I guess I could have made a good Labrador retriever? Wolf. Wolf! Go get the dead duck!
I sometimes wonder how I’d react in a combat situation. It’s one of those things you can never know about yourself until it happens. Same thing as if some drug addict pulls a gun on you. But I’ve had that happen to me. I joked with the guy until he started laughing and lowered it. Don’t think that would work with the Taliban. But one never knows? Maybe I could just put on Electric Six’s “Gay Bar” and we could all have a good laugh together. Looking at Tony Blair and George Bush.
Fuck YouTube.
Anyway, I wonder if the Anyways police are out today?
I need to stop trying to find a reason to keep going. If you need a reason and you don’t know what it is, then it’s already a lost cause. Right?
Who the fuck am I to ask such questions? Randall Pink Floyd?
Friday, April 22, 2011
fuck that shit
I walked through the old pink doors, Social Distortion’s “I Was Wrong” blared from some shitty bar speakers that had blown out a long time ago. I winced at a bright light from above. I hate lights in bars. They serve no purpose other than to expose the ugliness that you go into the bar to hide.
“Shiner and a Jameson,” I say to Luther, my favorite bartender of the moment.
“You got it Jonesy,” he replies with a finger point, he’s no longer my favorite bartender of the moment, but he does deliver the goods. Which I tip accordingly for.
“You ever going to replace those speakers?” I ask in a raspy, I just took a shot of Jameson voice.
“Nah, you’ll just blow them out again.”
True, one night a few months ago, I jumped behind the bar while American Aquarium’s “Redheads and Adderall” came on. Mostly, I did it to mute the gaggle of sorority girls belting out some Lady Gaga tune over at one of the booths. They had an I-phone with it playing. The worst part of this bar is its proximity to the university. However, it’s also one of its selling points on a cold, lonely night.
“Eh, that was justifiable homicide, Luther. I can’t stand it when I have to hear shrill sounds coming from shallow people.”
“How the fuck do you listen to your own thoughts?”
“Yeah, fuck you then,” I replied, finishing off my Shiner. “Another round, then.”
He took my empty bottle and the shot glass. The bottle shattered in the trash bin after he tossed it about 12 feet to the corner. It amazed me that he never fucking missed that shot. At least when I was around.
“You ever miss?”
“Of course I do. But I’m on my A-game just for you.”
“Fuck off and give me my drinks.”
He filled a shot glass. Then pounded a second on the bar, filling it to the point of overflow, but stopping just in time. “Damn, he is on his A-game tonight,” I thought.
We clinked glasses and downed the shots. It’s going to be another long night, I could tell. At 2:37 p.m. On a Tuesday.
“Where is everybody?” I asked with a grin.
“Guess they heard you’d be here, went over to Charlie’s. A lot less lecherous 40 year olds hanging out there. In fact, I think they don’t let you in anymore, right?”
“Fuck off, Luther.”
“You two bicker like a married couple,” a voice shot out from the darkness. Immediately, I was in love. No matter what she looked like.
“Nah, I’ve asked him at least 100 times. Including the first night I was in this damn bar,” I said. “Dick head always says “I’m not gay, man.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Sure you’re not,” she said. My heart skipped another beat. This lady’s got moxie. You don’t see too many in this place with moxie. Most of ‘em have money, yeah, that and pearly white teeth. Impossibly white. My golden teeth certainly don’t fit into mom and dad’s usual plans for their little darlings. Thankfully.
“I can hear you, but I can’t see you,” I say, looking toward the darkness that is the left side of the joint.
Slowly, a shadow creeps out of the dark. She hits the light for a second, then disappears, then reappears.
“Who are you? Antonio Banderas?”
“You think you’re really clever, don’t you?” she says as she sits down next to me. She smells of watermelon. Her hair is, of course, red. It couldn’t have been any other color. Now, whether or not it’s real, I’ll probably never know. At least that’s what I think at that moment of terror.
“Nah, I’m just an asshole who throws shit out and usually, it sticks.”
“My name’s Maddy,” she says, sticking out her hand for a shake.
“Randy,” I reply. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“You going to buy me a drink, or do I have to do it myself?”
“Get the lady a Jameson and Shine,” I say to Luther. He cocks his head a bit. I don’t usually order my usual for the ladies. And usually, they don’t order it either. He looks at her, she doesn’t take her gaze off of me. Luther finally gets a bottle and a shot. She reaches over for the shot, clutches it and swigs it back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Was that a test?” she asks.
“Nah, I figured if you didn’t want it, I’d just drink it and then order you a Singapore Sling or something.”
“Fuck that shit.”
I had no chance after that.
“Fuck that shit, indeed.”
“Shiner and a Jameson,” I say to Luther, my favorite bartender of the moment.
“You got it Jonesy,” he replies with a finger point, he’s no longer my favorite bartender of the moment, but he does deliver the goods. Which I tip accordingly for.
“You ever going to replace those speakers?” I ask in a raspy, I just took a shot of Jameson voice.
“Nah, you’ll just blow them out again.”
True, one night a few months ago, I jumped behind the bar while American Aquarium’s “Redheads and Adderall” came on. Mostly, I did it to mute the gaggle of sorority girls belting out some Lady Gaga tune over at one of the booths. They had an I-phone with it playing. The worst part of this bar is its proximity to the university. However, it’s also one of its selling points on a cold, lonely night.
“Eh, that was justifiable homicide, Luther. I can’t stand it when I have to hear shrill sounds coming from shallow people.”
“How the fuck do you listen to your own thoughts?”
“Yeah, fuck you then,” I replied, finishing off my Shiner. “Another round, then.”
He took my empty bottle and the shot glass. The bottle shattered in the trash bin after he tossed it about 12 feet to the corner. It amazed me that he never fucking missed that shot. At least when I was around.
“You ever miss?”
“Of course I do. But I’m on my A-game just for you.”
“Fuck off and give me my drinks.”
He filled a shot glass. Then pounded a second on the bar, filling it to the point of overflow, but stopping just in time. “Damn, he is on his A-game tonight,” I thought.
We clinked glasses and downed the shots. It’s going to be another long night, I could tell. At 2:37 p.m. On a Tuesday.
“Where is everybody?” I asked with a grin.
“Guess they heard you’d be here, went over to Charlie’s. A lot less lecherous 40 year olds hanging out there. In fact, I think they don’t let you in anymore, right?”
“Fuck off, Luther.”
“You two bicker like a married couple,” a voice shot out from the darkness. Immediately, I was in love. No matter what she looked like.
“Nah, I’ve asked him at least 100 times. Including the first night I was in this damn bar,” I said. “Dick head always says “I’m not gay, man.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Sure you’re not,” she said. My heart skipped another beat. This lady’s got moxie. You don’t see too many in this place with moxie. Most of ‘em have money, yeah, that and pearly white teeth. Impossibly white. My golden teeth certainly don’t fit into mom and dad’s usual plans for their little darlings. Thankfully.
“I can hear you, but I can’t see you,” I say, looking toward the darkness that is the left side of the joint.
Slowly, a shadow creeps out of the dark. She hits the light for a second, then disappears, then reappears.
“Who are you? Antonio Banderas?”
“You think you’re really clever, don’t you?” she says as she sits down next to me. She smells of watermelon. Her hair is, of course, red. It couldn’t have been any other color. Now, whether or not it’s real, I’ll probably never know. At least that’s what I think at that moment of terror.
“Nah, I’m just an asshole who throws shit out and usually, it sticks.”
“My name’s Maddy,” she says, sticking out her hand for a shake.
“Randy,” I reply. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“You going to buy me a drink, or do I have to do it myself?”
“Get the lady a Jameson and Shine,” I say to Luther. He cocks his head a bit. I don’t usually order my usual for the ladies. And usually, they don’t order it either. He looks at her, she doesn’t take her gaze off of me. Luther finally gets a bottle and a shot. She reaches over for the shot, clutches it and swigs it back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Was that a test?” she asks.
“Nah, I figured if you didn’t want it, I’d just drink it and then order you a Singapore Sling or something.”
“Fuck that shit.”
I had no chance after that.
“Fuck that shit, indeed.”
Thursday, April 21, 2011
nervous tension
A frantic Kinks’ drumbeat kicks in the background. My teeth throb. How long has it been since I went to the dentist? Will I ever go again? Fuck if I know. I’m just thinking about the day ahead.
Supposedly, I’m meeting a lady at a bar in Raleigh. I have to drive two hours from work to get there. And then I still don’t know if she’ll actually show up or if she’ll be worth the long drive. She’s a blonde too. Uses bad grammar.
She does like good music. And apparently the booze. This could be good. Could be bad. I’ve given up really trying to figure it out beforehand. It ruins the surprise. It takes away from the chase. And hell, the opportunities come up so infrequently that, honestly, I can’t overthink them when they do.
I’ve already done one thing against my insane mindset. I shave my playoff beard. The Capitals are entrenched in the Stanley Cup run. And instead of keeping it, I shaved it. First impressions and all. If she’s a great gal, she wouldn’t have cared, right? Wrong.
I get done with work early. Caring less and less about the finished product is not a good thing. However, getting a life is more important to me at the moment. It’s easy for colleagues to scoff at my lack of passion. “Get out,” they say. “You don’t love it anymore, you should be in it.” Well, I do love it. So much so that I get ulcers looking at the shitty copy I get every day. The kind of stuff that used to get you fired, but now gets you protected. Guess if you are nice now, you advance. If you kick ass and stay surly, you get buried. Unless you know someone. Yeah, I’m bitter. But those colleagues can all go fuck themselves. They have wives and husbands and kids and lives outside the walls of the newspaper. I still don’t. I’m still living the life I was as a 25 year old. As a 30 year old. As a 35 year old. Now at 40. And my bitter ass still wants to believe one day it will be better. That journalism will prevail, despite the polls that say people don’t care. The laws that censor us a little more each day. One day we’ll wake up? Right? It’s not all about having a stupid fucking App on my smart phone tell me what to do. What to watch. What to buy. Who to like. Who to fuck.
I get in my car. Crank the engine. I look at the odometer. It read 32,234 miles. I’ve had this car less than a year. I love the road. It loves me back. Well, as well as a road can. Lucero’s “Tears Don’t Matter Much” blasts out of the speakers. It’s gonna be a good night. It can’t help but be.
The landscape on this drive is dreary. The sun is beginning to slip behind the horizon. A bright orange hue fills up the sky. It’s quite amazing. In the distance, farmers are finishing up whatever they’re doing today. I see three giant tractors going the other direction. I’m happy for them. And happy for myself that they’re not going my way. I don’t feel nervous. I know I will when I actually get to the bar we’re meeting at. It’s the way I am. I don’t think about such things until they are right in front of me. It’s a defense mechanism that has developed over the years. It used to be that I’d fret over things so much that when the actual event happened, I’d clam up from the pressure I’d put on myself. That led to an awful lot of disappointment early on in life. Not that the later years haven’t been chock full of the same feeling, but at least the buildup and release isn’t so bad anymore.
At some point, the green fields and falling down shacks give way to new expressways. I think about the days when I first moved here, 10 years ago almost to the day, when none of these roads existed. All travel from the rural outskirts to the “big city” was by small two-lane blacktops. Now, four, six and eight-lane behemoths are everywhere. That saddens me a bit. But just for a moment.
I pull into Raleigh. It’s a cool town, I figure. I never spend much time here. I see hockey games. Been shopping a few times. Covered a couple of events when I was still a reporter. Now? I’m meeting a lady. Will she be cool? Will she be smart? Will she be frightened of my crooked teeth? The seal has been broken. The nerves begin to pile upon themselves. I’m 15 minutes early. I decide that’s a good thing. Maybe I can get a shot of whiskey before she arrives. Calm the nerves. Stop the voices.
I park my car. I still can’t parallel park. Not a skill I’ve ever needed. Luckily, my little Hyundai fits in a place with no need for real skill.
The bar’s up ahead. I’m sweating a bit. I stop at the door. Staring at it for a moment.
“Here’s goes nothing,” I say to myself as I grab the door, swing it open and go inside.
Supposedly, I’m meeting a lady at a bar in Raleigh. I have to drive two hours from work to get there. And then I still don’t know if she’ll actually show up or if she’ll be worth the long drive. She’s a blonde too. Uses bad grammar.
She does like good music. And apparently the booze. This could be good. Could be bad. I’ve given up really trying to figure it out beforehand. It ruins the surprise. It takes away from the chase. And hell, the opportunities come up so infrequently that, honestly, I can’t overthink them when they do.
I’ve already done one thing against my insane mindset. I shave my playoff beard. The Capitals are entrenched in the Stanley Cup run. And instead of keeping it, I shaved it. First impressions and all. If she’s a great gal, she wouldn’t have cared, right? Wrong.
I get done with work early. Caring less and less about the finished product is not a good thing. However, getting a life is more important to me at the moment. It’s easy for colleagues to scoff at my lack of passion. “Get out,” they say. “You don’t love it anymore, you should be in it.” Well, I do love it. So much so that I get ulcers looking at the shitty copy I get every day. The kind of stuff that used to get you fired, but now gets you protected. Guess if you are nice now, you advance. If you kick ass and stay surly, you get buried. Unless you know someone. Yeah, I’m bitter. But those colleagues can all go fuck themselves. They have wives and husbands and kids and lives outside the walls of the newspaper. I still don’t. I’m still living the life I was as a 25 year old. As a 30 year old. As a 35 year old. Now at 40. And my bitter ass still wants to believe one day it will be better. That journalism will prevail, despite the polls that say people don’t care. The laws that censor us a little more each day. One day we’ll wake up? Right? It’s not all about having a stupid fucking App on my smart phone tell me what to do. What to watch. What to buy. Who to like. Who to fuck.
I get in my car. Crank the engine. I look at the odometer. It read 32,234 miles. I’ve had this car less than a year. I love the road. It loves me back. Well, as well as a road can. Lucero’s “Tears Don’t Matter Much” blasts out of the speakers. It’s gonna be a good night. It can’t help but be.
The landscape on this drive is dreary. The sun is beginning to slip behind the horizon. A bright orange hue fills up the sky. It’s quite amazing. In the distance, farmers are finishing up whatever they’re doing today. I see three giant tractors going the other direction. I’m happy for them. And happy for myself that they’re not going my way. I don’t feel nervous. I know I will when I actually get to the bar we’re meeting at. It’s the way I am. I don’t think about such things until they are right in front of me. It’s a defense mechanism that has developed over the years. It used to be that I’d fret over things so much that when the actual event happened, I’d clam up from the pressure I’d put on myself. That led to an awful lot of disappointment early on in life. Not that the later years haven’t been chock full of the same feeling, but at least the buildup and release isn’t so bad anymore.
At some point, the green fields and falling down shacks give way to new expressways. I think about the days when I first moved here, 10 years ago almost to the day, when none of these roads existed. All travel from the rural outskirts to the “big city” was by small two-lane blacktops. Now, four, six and eight-lane behemoths are everywhere. That saddens me a bit. But just for a moment.
I pull into Raleigh. It’s a cool town, I figure. I never spend much time here. I see hockey games. Been shopping a few times. Covered a couple of events when I was still a reporter. Now? I’m meeting a lady. Will she be cool? Will she be smart? Will she be frightened of my crooked teeth? The seal has been broken. The nerves begin to pile upon themselves. I’m 15 minutes early. I decide that’s a good thing. Maybe I can get a shot of whiskey before she arrives. Calm the nerves. Stop the voices.
I park my car. I still can’t parallel park. Not a skill I’ve ever needed. Luckily, my little Hyundai fits in a place with no need for real skill.
The bar’s up ahead. I’m sweating a bit. I stop at the door. Staring at it for a moment.
“Here’s goes nothing,” I say to myself as I grab the door, swing it open and go inside.
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