Sitting on the couch, a documentary on Howard Hughes came on. I watched, somewhat interested, but not really.
My grandmother was with me. She started to squirm a little bit at what was going on on the television screen. This drew my interest more than anything that the voice over guy was trying to tell me about this man.
The early years didn’t elicit much of a reaction. But when it got to the 1950s and 1960s, she started to wince a bit and even cry a little.
“Ooms, what’s the matter?” I asked.
She looked at me, touching my hand ever-so-lightly before saying “I never liked that man.”
Whoah. This was kind of a revelation. My grandmother knew Howard Hughes? Could it be possible? Or did she just not like the celebrity Hughes. The guy who may or may not have gotten away with manslaughter. Or the crazed 90-pound guy that died back in 1976.
“Why’s that?” I asked slyly.
“He was so mean to everyone. Especially your grandfather.”
At that very moment, a shot of Hughes appeared on the television. I was astounded by how much he looked like my grandpa. The eyes, the chin, eerily similar.
The voice over started talking about Hughes’ doubles. How they became the public face of the billionaire as he further sank into his mentally ill world, but still tried to keep his empire going strong.
“You mean…”
“Yep, he was one of those guys. Used to pretend to be Mr. Hughes.”
“That’s amazing!”
“I thought so too. At first.”
Of course this response only piqued my curiosity up another notch on my brain’s amplifier.
“But he was so much older than Grandpa,” I said with a stern “It’s hard for me to believe this” voice.
“Yes, but remember he had a huge hold on Hollywood. The makeup people could do amazing things. Even back then.”
Made sense.
“So, Ooms, tell me more. Please.”
I’d never really asked much about my grandparents. And now that three of the four of them are gone, I regretted it. I knew only bits and pieces. My grandpa was in the Navy. Saw a lot of ugly stuff, and didn’t talk much about it. I’d found out since he passed that he smoked a bit of marijuana from time to time. Was a bit of a racist from birth, but worked hard to not be. And he had a very confrontational relationship with god.
That was more than I’d ever known growing up. Heck, I knew even less about my dad’s parents. He worked for the railroads and was a drunk. She was a librarian. That’s about it. Sad to think. So, I pressed on with my mom’s mom.
“This could be a very interesting movie,” I continued.
“No. No. No. We are not allowed to talk about it. Had to sign a contract that said as much. Hell, boy, I shouldn’t be telling you.”
We stopped talking for a little bit. She took a few sips on her Bloody Mary, I on my Sam Adams. The program continued. It got to the Vegas years. My grandmother smiled.
“Ok. Now you’ve done it. I need to know why that makes you happy?”
“Because that’s when he stopped needing doubles. Everyone knew he was nuts, so the act didn’t work anymore. My Paul was free.”
That line made me smile too.
“So, how much money did they pay for this?”
“Well, let’s just say that the money we had when he retired was a hell of a lot more than you’d make working for Firestone for 40 years.”
I always wondered how much money they had. And if my grandfather had really been such a stock market wiz like my mom always said he was. This, obviously, swept that assessment out the door. Or at least opened it and got out the broom.
“You have any pictures?”
“What? Of him as Howard Hughes? Of course. You just saw a couple of them in that show.”
“Really? That’s neat. How about any proof?”
“Still have the contract we signed. Was told to hold on to it forever.”
She got up from the couch and went into her bedroom. A couple minutes later, she came out with an old yellowed envelope. She handed it to me.
Inside were three sheets of paper. Typed from an old typewriter, complete with a couple of white out marks. I read it. It was very straight forward. It was fascinating.
In short it said my grandpa would be on call 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. He could never say why he was leaving if he had to leave. He would be paid, in cash, every time he was needed. And he could never say a word about it, or would have to “face the consequences.”
It was signed by my grandpa, a lawyer Jonah Jones Jr., and Howard Hughes himself.
“Wow,” was all I could muster after reading the contract.
“Indeed,” Ooms said. “Now, you know, you can’t talk about this. At least until I’m gone.”
“OK,” I nodded in a Ralphie on Santa’s lap kind of way.
She patted me on the hand again, then went back to her bedroom to put the envelope away.
I woke from my daze and blurted out “Ooms, can I have that envelope….One day?”
“Maybe, darlin’. Maybe.”
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
good david vs. bad david
You know, these things shouldn’t come as a surprise anymore. All one has to do is look in the mirror to get a clue, yet, the way things have always worked in the past gives one hope. I guess.
Out and about, getting a crappy sub from Subway because I’m much to lazy/uninspired/not willing to deal with gaggles of jarheads to go to a local indie shop for my sandwich fix. Coming back, there is a pretty ugly accident at the local hangout, aka the BP station with a McDonald’s inside. A motorcycle vs. SUV as I have so named them after seeing so many of the damn things going all the way back to my Arizona days when I lived with three cyclists -- one of which seemed to make a living at getting hit by motorists and living off the settlements, because, “the car is always at fault” he said.
Anyway, I’d noticed before leaving the office that the cute reporter named for an emotional state of being -- Hope -- was the reporter for the weekend. I still shudder at the thought of one reporter working in an office on weekends. Even I remember the days when a reporter never really had a “day off.” Instead, they’d work from home when the news happened.
“Hell, we publish 365 days a year,” a man I respect a little more every day told me when I was a young cub reporter. Hell, I wasn’t even a reporter, I was a skinny, long-haired, wide-eyed lost person who stumbled into a weeklong tag-along with a couple of real reporters. I was 21 at the time. They were in their late-20s or early-30s. The man, he was in his sixties. Last I heard, he was still writing his clunky, but always correct prose. Most likely scaring the crap out of what passes for journalists today, and hopefully inspiring some other young fool to follow in his footsteps.
“And that means we work 365 days a year.”
He also drank a lot. And was divorced twice.
I drink a lot. Haven’t been lucky enough to be divorced twice. Let alone married once.
Hope, she’s a cute lass, as the old guy would’ve called her. She wasn’t a very good reporter. I’d read her copy. Heard her weak excuses for not having things in them. I think she wants to be a good journalist, but if you don’t have any mentoring you, there is really little hope. (Ugh.)
Anyway, again. My time at the paper has been kind of strange. Pushed aside from the beginning, I just carved out a niche as the broody, quiet guy over in the corner. However, in the last few weeks I’ve kind of come out of that shell. It’s my usual pattern. I make a couple of friends, become kind of a dominant part of the discussions in the newsroom while we’re in the place, but not really branch out. Then, one day, the branching begins and before you know it, you’re talking to everyone all of the sudden. Usually, this leads to going out and drinking with, etc. It has not this time. It’s led to curious looks and smiles, mostly.
After doing a bit of manuevering to take a look at the crash, it looked somewhat awful. The motorcyclist was being attended to by three medics and there were two ambulances there, a fire truck there and a couple of cops. As I drove down the road, a third ambulance was en route.
I got to the office, walked over toward the cute reporter. Her cubicle was a bit of a maze to get to. Just as I enter, my boss yells out my name. Awkwardness. She sees me right behind her, holding food and looking dumb. I look at her, then at my boss. I start to walk towards him.
“Huh?”
“Can you take that story again?”
“Um. Yeah. Sure.”
“Sorry, bro.”
“Not a problem.” I had suggested taking a story on a kid who got paralyzed in a football game from him to put on the sports pages due to lack of space. He agreed. We set it up. Then he took it back.
“Unless the obits run long,” he said.
And now, two hours before deadline, two hours after obit deadline, he has decided obits ran long.
Eh, whatever.
I turn back to the reporter. She’s back at looking on the internet. A favorite pastime of journalists now. Especially those under the age of 30.
“Hope,” I meekly say.
She turns and smiles, then says “Yes sir?”
Taken aback a little by this, I stutter out “I saw something…might make a story.”
I then explain the wreck, clumsily. I’m still thinking about being called “sir.”
She asks me how bad it was.
“Looked not that awful,” I reply. “There were three ambulances.”
“Ok,” she said, turning back to the internet.
I walk away. Feeling sorry for myself.
I am old, I guess. At least to a girl who graduated from college in 2008.
I think about asking her about David Bowie, since I'd been jamming to what the old folks would have poo-pooed on the ride to work "China Girl" and on the way home "Suffragette City."
I think better of it rather quickly.
Me and my boss start talking about “remember the days when…”, further solidifying our own demise.
Out and about, getting a crappy sub from Subway because I’m much to lazy/uninspired/not willing to deal with gaggles of jarheads to go to a local indie shop for my sandwich fix. Coming back, there is a pretty ugly accident at the local hangout, aka the BP station with a McDonald’s inside. A motorcycle vs. SUV as I have so named them after seeing so many of the damn things going all the way back to my Arizona days when I lived with three cyclists -- one of which seemed to make a living at getting hit by motorists and living off the settlements, because, “the car is always at fault” he said.
Anyway, I’d noticed before leaving the office that the cute reporter named for an emotional state of being -- Hope -- was the reporter for the weekend. I still shudder at the thought of one reporter working in an office on weekends. Even I remember the days when a reporter never really had a “day off.” Instead, they’d work from home when the news happened.
“Hell, we publish 365 days a year,” a man I respect a little more every day told me when I was a young cub reporter. Hell, I wasn’t even a reporter, I was a skinny, long-haired, wide-eyed lost person who stumbled into a weeklong tag-along with a couple of real reporters. I was 21 at the time. They were in their late-20s or early-30s. The man, he was in his sixties. Last I heard, he was still writing his clunky, but always correct prose. Most likely scaring the crap out of what passes for journalists today, and hopefully inspiring some other young fool to follow in his footsteps.
“And that means we work 365 days a year.”
He also drank a lot. And was divorced twice.
I drink a lot. Haven’t been lucky enough to be divorced twice. Let alone married once.
Hope, she’s a cute lass, as the old guy would’ve called her. She wasn’t a very good reporter. I’d read her copy. Heard her weak excuses for not having things in them. I think she wants to be a good journalist, but if you don’t have any mentoring you, there is really little hope. (Ugh.)
Anyway, again. My time at the paper has been kind of strange. Pushed aside from the beginning, I just carved out a niche as the broody, quiet guy over in the corner. However, in the last few weeks I’ve kind of come out of that shell. It’s my usual pattern. I make a couple of friends, become kind of a dominant part of the discussions in the newsroom while we’re in the place, but not really branch out. Then, one day, the branching begins and before you know it, you’re talking to everyone all of the sudden. Usually, this leads to going out and drinking with, etc. It has not this time. It’s led to curious looks and smiles, mostly.
After doing a bit of manuevering to take a look at the crash, it looked somewhat awful. The motorcyclist was being attended to by three medics and there were two ambulances there, a fire truck there and a couple of cops. As I drove down the road, a third ambulance was en route.
I got to the office, walked over toward the cute reporter. Her cubicle was a bit of a maze to get to. Just as I enter, my boss yells out my name. Awkwardness. She sees me right behind her, holding food and looking dumb. I look at her, then at my boss. I start to walk towards him.
“Huh?”
“Can you take that story again?”
“Um. Yeah. Sure.”
“Sorry, bro.”
“Not a problem.” I had suggested taking a story on a kid who got paralyzed in a football game from him to put on the sports pages due to lack of space. He agreed. We set it up. Then he took it back.
“Unless the obits run long,” he said.
And now, two hours before deadline, two hours after obit deadline, he has decided obits ran long.
Eh, whatever.
I turn back to the reporter. She’s back at looking on the internet. A favorite pastime of journalists now. Especially those under the age of 30.
“Hope,” I meekly say.
She turns and smiles, then says “Yes sir?”
Taken aback a little by this, I stutter out “I saw something…might make a story.”
I then explain the wreck, clumsily. I’m still thinking about being called “sir.”
She asks me how bad it was.
“Looked not that awful,” I reply. “There were three ambulances.”
“Ok,” she said, turning back to the internet.
I walk away. Feeling sorry for myself.
I am old, I guess. At least to a girl who graduated from college in 2008.
I think about asking her about David Bowie, since I'd been jamming to what the old folks would have poo-pooed on the ride to work "China Girl" and on the way home "Suffragette City."
I think better of it rather quickly.
Me and my boss start talking about “remember the days when…”, further solidifying our own demise.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
goblocker
Larry sits on his old footlocker. It’s been with him longer than the memories of her have. That, he takes solace in. It’s covered with stickers. He’s made a point of always grabbing a sticker when possible, adding it to the wallpaper of his life, as he calls it.
He once had another footlocker. But his Celica was too small that day he loaded as much of his stuff into it when he left her behind. It was the first thing he threw into the car, completely loaded down with stuff. But it just took up too much precious space. He knew he’d not make it back to get anything he left behind. It would be much too painful. He sighed when he had to leave it behind. It wasn’t the only thing he sighed about that day.
He was freezing cold sitting on the second footlocker of life. He wondered how many, if any of the old stickers still were visible on the old one. If the Moosehead Beer cutout was still on it. That was his favorite thing on it. That and the Luckenbach, Texas, sticker. He replaced the Texas one when he visited that town again. The Moosehead one? Not so much.
As he sat there, remembering things, Bono screamed out “We’re stealing it back!” from the shitty speakers he had jerry-rigged to his amplifier. He’d had those speakers since he was about 10 or 11 years old. They’d seen a lot, for sure. From his days of pretending to be Morris Day and dancing the “Oak Tree” in his old room in Virginia, to his fits of crying when the love of his life deemed him not important.
He knew that he’d done that to one person for sure, and probably two. So, he still had much to atone for. The shitty deeds always stuck with him. Way more than the average soul. Or at least it seemed that way.
The space heater was all that was keeping the frigid air at bay. He’d holed himself up in one room in his three bedroom “cottage” at the beach. His last paycheck paid his rent, with $30 to spare for the next two weeks.
He gobbed on it.
Spit…Tsssssssss.
Spit…Tsssssssss.
His reflection in the old cracked mirror above his dresser showed just how old he was getting. He looked a little like Paul Simonon now. Hair receding in a cool way, shaved way down. Crow’s feet slowly inching out from his eyes, more so from the left than the right. The gap between his front teeth solidified the look. If only he could afford a leather jacket and a cool fedora. Then, he’d be his own version of the coolest bass player in the world.
Spit…Tssssssssss.
Spit…Tssssssssss.
It amused him. It was gross, he admitted as much. But the sound of it was soothing for some reason.
It was noted by his lady friend of the moment that people tended to spit a lot more in New Orleans than they did in Biloxi. Or even Slidell.
“I had not noticed that,” Larry said when she mentioned that. It started him on a spitting kick. He used to spit a lot growing up in the Southern part of Virginia. A small down called Hopewell. Mostly redneck kids back then. Kids of factory workers for the most part. When his parents decided to move there, it had yet to achieve it’s moniker of “The Chemical Capital of the South.” But it wasn’t too many years after when it did.
Kepone was the talk of the town one summer. Dan Rather made an appearance, proclaiming to the huddle masses in front of the television that “People are dying in the streets of Hopewell!”
It wasn’t really true. Although, the people dying now due to those chemicals sure would make a nice story. But, those days are mostly gone for journalism. “It might make for a good book,” Larry thought, debating in his head if he could spend a couple of years in his old hometown again to work on this book. One that would probably be made into a movie one day, but not ever make him any money until some Hollywood player noticed it. Too bad his classmate who had a walk by part in “Evan Almighty” hadn’t made it bigger, he’d probably have a connection to get it made. He certainly was no Dick Ritchie. He decided that if his latest scheme to run off back to New Orleans and try to make a go of it in the town he never should have left in the first place didn’t pan out, he would do that. Hell, he knows the mayor now, she could get him a job.
Spit…Tssssssssss.
Spit…Tssssssssss.
He looked at his mini-fridge. He’d gotten so bad that he had that thing sitting outside, cooling his beer. It’s amazing that no one has either stolen it, or even worse, taken his beer. It’s right outside his window, on a stool beside his window. He opens the window. The 25-degree night air flows inside. He shivers. Grabs a couple of beers and closes the window.
“It’s been a long day, now I need to relax,” he says out loud like he has a habit of doing now.
Opening the beer with a nail in the wall, he smiles at his accomplishment of not spilling any of it.
“My brother-in-law would be proud,” he says, thinking of his sister’s husband. An almost famous keyboardist who could have been a lot bigger, but decided to be a family man instead. Larry used to think that his brother-in-law was bitter about it. The decision to give up the music to be a dad in Hopewell. Instead, now he knew better. As Ronnie Lane wrote, “I wish that, I knew what I know now. When I was younger.” Because my life would have gone in a lot of different directions if I’d just taken the time to look around and see that things in some places, really weren’t all that bad. Or, if I’d stepped out of a funk and met me, 20 years later, like Richard Hell described to me when I was 21 years old. If I’d met the me that was to be, I may have slapped myself. I certainly would not have had my way with myself, as Dickie Hell did, but I couldn’t be completely sure.
Fittingly, the gospel singers of “Rattle and Hum” belt out “but I still, haven’t found, what I’m looking for.”
Life is full of those moments. At least if you constantly look for them. Analyze them. And fuck your brain up with them.
Spit…Tssssssssss.
Spit…Tssssssssss.
He once had another footlocker. But his Celica was too small that day he loaded as much of his stuff into it when he left her behind. It was the first thing he threw into the car, completely loaded down with stuff. But it just took up too much precious space. He knew he’d not make it back to get anything he left behind. It would be much too painful. He sighed when he had to leave it behind. It wasn’t the only thing he sighed about that day.
He was freezing cold sitting on the second footlocker of life. He wondered how many, if any of the old stickers still were visible on the old one. If the Moosehead Beer cutout was still on it. That was his favorite thing on it. That and the Luckenbach, Texas, sticker. He replaced the Texas one when he visited that town again. The Moosehead one? Not so much.
As he sat there, remembering things, Bono screamed out “We’re stealing it back!” from the shitty speakers he had jerry-rigged to his amplifier. He’d had those speakers since he was about 10 or 11 years old. They’d seen a lot, for sure. From his days of pretending to be Morris Day and dancing the “Oak Tree” in his old room in Virginia, to his fits of crying when the love of his life deemed him not important.
He knew that he’d done that to one person for sure, and probably two. So, he still had much to atone for. The shitty deeds always stuck with him. Way more than the average soul. Or at least it seemed that way.
The space heater was all that was keeping the frigid air at bay. He’d holed himself up in one room in his three bedroom “cottage” at the beach. His last paycheck paid his rent, with $30 to spare for the next two weeks.
He gobbed on it.
Spit…Tsssssssss.
Spit…Tsssssssss.
His reflection in the old cracked mirror above his dresser showed just how old he was getting. He looked a little like Paul Simonon now. Hair receding in a cool way, shaved way down. Crow’s feet slowly inching out from his eyes, more so from the left than the right. The gap between his front teeth solidified the look. If only he could afford a leather jacket and a cool fedora. Then, he’d be his own version of the coolest bass player in the world.
Spit…Tssssssssss.
Spit…Tssssssssss.
It amused him. It was gross, he admitted as much. But the sound of it was soothing for some reason.
It was noted by his lady friend of the moment that people tended to spit a lot more in New Orleans than they did in Biloxi. Or even Slidell.
“I had not noticed that,” Larry said when she mentioned that. It started him on a spitting kick. He used to spit a lot growing up in the Southern part of Virginia. A small down called Hopewell. Mostly redneck kids back then. Kids of factory workers for the most part. When his parents decided to move there, it had yet to achieve it’s moniker of “The Chemical Capital of the South.” But it wasn’t too many years after when it did.
Kepone was the talk of the town one summer. Dan Rather made an appearance, proclaiming to the huddle masses in front of the television that “People are dying in the streets of Hopewell!”
It wasn’t really true. Although, the people dying now due to those chemicals sure would make a nice story. But, those days are mostly gone for journalism. “It might make for a good book,” Larry thought, debating in his head if he could spend a couple of years in his old hometown again to work on this book. One that would probably be made into a movie one day, but not ever make him any money until some Hollywood player noticed it. Too bad his classmate who had a walk by part in “Evan Almighty” hadn’t made it bigger, he’d probably have a connection to get it made. He certainly was no Dick Ritchie. He decided that if his latest scheme to run off back to New Orleans and try to make a go of it in the town he never should have left in the first place didn’t pan out, he would do that. Hell, he knows the mayor now, she could get him a job.
Spit…Tssssssssss.
Spit…Tssssssssss.
He looked at his mini-fridge. He’d gotten so bad that he had that thing sitting outside, cooling his beer. It’s amazing that no one has either stolen it, or even worse, taken his beer. It’s right outside his window, on a stool beside his window. He opens the window. The 25-degree night air flows inside. He shivers. Grabs a couple of beers and closes the window.
“It’s been a long day, now I need to relax,” he says out loud like he has a habit of doing now.
Opening the beer with a nail in the wall, he smiles at his accomplishment of not spilling any of it.
“My brother-in-law would be proud,” he says, thinking of his sister’s husband. An almost famous keyboardist who could have been a lot bigger, but decided to be a family man instead. Larry used to think that his brother-in-law was bitter about it. The decision to give up the music to be a dad in Hopewell. Instead, now he knew better. As Ronnie Lane wrote, “I wish that, I knew what I know now. When I was younger.” Because my life would have gone in a lot of different directions if I’d just taken the time to look around and see that things in some places, really weren’t all that bad. Or, if I’d stepped out of a funk and met me, 20 years later, like Richard Hell described to me when I was 21 years old. If I’d met the me that was to be, I may have slapped myself. I certainly would not have had my way with myself, as Dickie Hell did, but I couldn’t be completely sure.
Fittingly, the gospel singers of “Rattle and Hum” belt out “but I still, haven’t found, what I’m looking for.”
Life is full of those moments. At least if you constantly look for them. Analyze them. And fuck your brain up with them.
Spit…Tssssssssss.
Spit…Tssssssssss.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
random reflectors
Driving down the highway, it’s easy to be hypnotized by things.
One moment, it’s the guardrails just flying by. Especially when you can make out the rivets that join them all together.
Still another, it’s the lines in the road. Whether they are double yellow, dashed white or a mixture of whatever, they’re the time-honored part of a beginning of any road movie.
Yet in North Carolina and parts of South Carolina, it was noticed recently by a traveling companion that the reflectors on the sides of the road have no discernable pattern. I tried to be combative, as always and try to figure out a pattern, but failed miserably. In the end, I just summed it up as being done by someone with Josh’s perspective on order -- the Punk Rock Filing system.
Today, while driving home from work, I caught myself staring at the guardrails on the way. Then, I caught a glimpse of one of those damn reflectors. There it was, then another, then another. But no same mileage was in between them. A third of a mile here. A tenth there. A full mile on another.
Randomness is good, I believe. So, I let the randomness of it be my soothing sight as Johnny Ace’s smooth voice was my soothing sound for the drive home from work. I’ve become somewhat fond of finding new distractions every time.
It makes the stressful drives -- such as the one a few nights ago, when there was seven inches of slush, frozen rail and snow all mixed up and not even touched by a plow.
The gerbil has made itself quite the road worthy car in my estimation. It’s been through two ice storms -- one in Atlanta, one here. And it survived the flood of 2010 when I found myself foolishly in the middle of Podunk Eastern North Carolina swimming through roads.
I won’t soon forget those moments. And I’m glad my Gerbil car got me through them. Much better than the Red Shark probably would have.
I honestly have nothing to write tonight. I’m just typing words now. Hoping that it gets to my magical marker before they stop. Cooking some red beans and rice and sipping on a generic ginger ale is definitely better than the night before of three-day old pizza, reheated in the oven. Although the extra heat that the oven gives off when left open helps heat up the house a bit.
The winter has hit a lull for the moment. The 18-degree nights with 35 mile per hour wind gusts have disappeared -- for now. In their place is a nice 43 degree night with a slight breeze. It’s supposed to be in the 50s the next couple days too. So, hopefully, this is a sign of the death of winter. But it never is. Not this early, at least. It came so damn early, though, so I will hold out hope.
The job search has decidedly taken a twisted turn. Applying for two jobs -- one in southern Georgia, the other outside of Houston. Don’t know what I’d do if I got either of them, but I figured it’s time to start trying the market again. See what works resume-wise, and what doesn’t. I have a lot of practice at each of those, with journalism jobs taking up almost all of the positives. Maybe paying someone to write my resume differently is not such a bad idea. It just seems like such a waste, especially if I want to believe that I’m some kind of a writer. Well, I am a writer. Been paid -- poorly -- for more than 15 years now to do it. Or is that for over 15 years? Ha, copy editing trivia.
Another thing that really hit me today was how easy my job is. I hate it being that way. I can do the job I’m supposed to do in 8 hours in about 3. The stir craziness of it all hit me today as I hit 6:40 p.m. and I needed to be there until 9:19 to get 8 hours. I left early. I just can’t sit there staring at nothing. If they’d let me report, write, opine, hell take some photos, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Yet, I’m told I can’t. I know why. If I do extra, they’ll expect it from everyone. Or, if I show that my job can be done while writing 4-5 stories a week as well, then what the hell do they need that empty spot to be filled for?
Ah, corporate stupidity and specialization. I learned how to do all the things that I now supposedly get paid to do so I’d be more marketable as a writer. A newspaper writer that is. And in the end, it seems to have screwed me. Or, maybe my telling the truth to the big man upstairs did that.
I hear the Beatles in my head now.
One moment, it’s the guardrails just flying by. Especially when you can make out the rivets that join them all together.
Still another, it’s the lines in the road. Whether they are double yellow, dashed white or a mixture of whatever, they’re the time-honored part of a beginning of any road movie.
Yet in North Carolina and parts of South Carolina, it was noticed recently by a traveling companion that the reflectors on the sides of the road have no discernable pattern. I tried to be combative, as always and try to figure out a pattern, but failed miserably. In the end, I just summed it up as being done by someone with Josh’s perspective on order -- the Punk Rock Filing system.
Today, while driving home from work, I caught myself staring at the guardrails on the way. Then, I caught a glimpse of one of those damn reflectors. There it was, then another, then another. But no same mileage was in between them. A third of a mile here. A tenth there. A full mile on another.
Randomness is good, I believe. So, I let the randomness of it be my soothing sight as Johnny Ace’s smooth voice was my soothing sound for the drive home from work. I’ve become somewhat fond of finding new distractions every time.
It makes the stressful drives -- such as the one a few nights ago, when there was seven inches of slush, frozen rail and snow all mixed up and not even touched by a plow.
The gerbil has made itself quite the road worthy car in my estimation. It’s been through two ice storms -- one in Atlanta, one here. And it survived the flood of 2010 when I found myself foolishly in the middle of Podunk Eastern North Carolina swimming through roads.
I won’t soon forget those moments. And I’m glad my Gerbil car got me through them. Much better than the Red Shark probably would have.
I honestly have nothing to write tonight. I’m just typing words now. Hoping that it gets to my magical marker before they stop. Cooking some red beans and rice and sipping on a generic ginger ale is definitely better than the night before of three-day old pizza, reheated in the oven. Although the extra heat that the oven gives off when left open helps heat up the house a bit.
The winter has hit a lull for the moment. The 18-degree nights with 35 mile per hour wind gusts have disappeared -- for now. In their place is a nice 43 degree night with a slight breeze. It’s supposed to be in the 50s the next couple days too. So, hopefully, this is a sign of the death of winter. But it never is. Not this early, at least. It came so damn early, though, so I will hold out hope.
The job search has decidedly taken a twisted turn. Applying for two jobs -- one in southern Georgia, the other outside of Houston. Don’t know what I’d do if I got either of them, but I figured it’s time to start trying the market again. See what works resume-wise, and what doesn’t. I have a lot of practice at each of those, with journalism jobs taking up almost all of the positives. Maybe paying someone to write my resume differently is not such a bad idea. It just seems like such a waste, especially if I want to believe that I’m some kind of a writer. Well, I am a writer. Been paid -- poorly -- for more than 15 years now to do it. Or is that for over 15 years? Ha, copy editing trivia.
Another thing that really hit me today was how easy my job is. I hate it being that way. I can do the job I’m supposed to do in 8 hours in about 3. The stir craziness of it all hit me today as I hit 6:40 p.m. and I needed to be there until 9:19 to get 8 hours. I left early. I just can’t sit there staring at nothing. If they’d let me report, write, opine, hell take some photos, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Yet, I’m told I can’t. I know why. If I do extra, they’ll expect it from everyone. Or, if I show that my job can be done while writing 4-5 stories a week as well, then what the hell do they need that empty spot to be filled for?
Ah, corporate stupidity and specialization. I learned how to do all the things that I now supposedly get paid to do so I’d be more marketable as a writer. A newspaper writer that is. And in the end, it seems to have screwed me. Or, maybe my telling the truth to the big man upstairs did that.
I hear the Beatles in my head now.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
a decent idea, ruined.
Thank God for Cherry.
If she didn’t bring me the leftover pizza and never picked up orders from over at Sammy’s joint, I’d starve to death.
Well, that’s probably an exaggeration. I’d get by, eating my Dollar Store feasts of almost past its prime Spaghettios and Bite Size! Caco Chocolate cookies. Tonight, I got some spinach and pepperoni pizza and an order of very cold chicken wings. I sit here enjoying the hell out of them on my porch, Shooter Jennings’ “Lonesome Blues” wails from my speakers. Life could be much, much worse, for sure.
I don’t understand, really, why she still takes care of me. I don’t know if she looks at it the same way I do. I’m guessing there’s a small part of her that hates me for what I did. For what I’ve said. For what I didn’t say. Yet she still comes around to check up on me. “Seeing how you’re doin’!” she exclaims sometimes when she catches me sitting ‘round my place in my underwear. Which, sadly, is more often than it isn’t.
She won’t bring me anything to drink. She knows I already have that taken care of. I still get royalty checks and a couple of residual ones from my “productive years.” That was when I wrote a novel, two short story collections and a screenplay. All of them were pretty decent sellers, and all got made into movies in some sort of way. The darling, a producer called me once. It didn’t stick when the booze took over. It wasn’t women. It wasn’t drugs. It was just the booze. A lot of it.
People asked me why I kept drinking. They knew my stories were all about it.
“But you don’t have to be like that anymore,” one woman exclaimed while trying to give me a blow job in the back row of a screening of “Bottles and Pigs” probably the worst of my short stories to be made into something. Hell, it had that kid from “Two and a Half Men” as the star. It had to be bad. About the only thing good about the movie was the entire soundtrack was by The Replacements. I required that from the get-go. I think Paul Westerberg hated me for it, but he got paid. I told him as much after too many Gin and tonics one night when I was in an airport and he happened to be there too.
I answered that woman with “have to? What the fuck do you know about having to do anything?” She finished the blow job. I felt bad for her. But not too bad.
However, after that night, the writing stopped. The drinking increased and soon, he was back in New Orleans, living in a small shotgun cashing checks and hanging out. I guess that’s what was always going to happen, luckily, it happened after a spate of actual productivity that allows for the lack of it now.
“Get off of your ass and do something,” she say when he was on the couch, eating Captain Crunch at 4 in the afternoon with nothing on but a blanket. “It’s such a waste.”
“Not really. It’s research.”
She’d walk out every time. But not before leaving something in the fridge or on the kitchen table.
He’d regret it one day. He knew. Death would come, the funeral wouldn’t be much, if anything at all. And then he’d be gone.
But really, isn’t that how it ends for everyone? Some just leave a better looking corpse or have people show up and cry.
His last girlfriend told him that Cherry was an enabler. Didn’t try to stop him from his destructive tendencies. “I think she wants you to die!” she’d cry when she found out Cherry and him had been hanging out at the pub.
“Nah, she just knows I have to do it myself,” he’d reply.
That relationship lasted a few months longer than he expected it to. Which, wasn’t a good or bad thing really. She did steal most of his Dean Martin Lps however. That pissed him off.
He’d had his eye on a girl at the bar for a long while after that. They’d drink together. Talk about how shitty their lives were and then go home and drink some more when things shut down or got too full of college folk. They never fell into bed together. She hinted at it a few times, but he was adamant about not doing anything.
Her friends asked why they weren’t dating, and he’d say he just wasn’t ready for it. Or he needed to get things in order first. All excuses that sounded great the first time, but the 8th time they didn’t hold much weight.
She finally left town one night. Left a four-word note : “See you in Duluth.”
“Go figure?” he exclaimed while opening up a Rolling Rock. They sucked, but it was cheap. All one had to do was guzzle down three and everything else was smooth.
If she didn’t bring me the leftover pizza and never picked up orders from over at Sammy’s joint, I’d starve to death.
Well, that’s probably an exaggeration. I’d get by, eating my Dollar Store feasts of almost past its prime Spaghettios and Bite Size! Caco Chocolate cookies. Tonight, I got some spinach and pepperoni pizza and an order of very cold chicken wings. I sit here enjoying the hell out of them on my porch, Shooter Jennings’ “Lonesome Blues” wails from my speakers. Life could be much, much worse, for sure.
I don’t understand, really, why she still takes care of me. I don’t know if she looks at it the same way I do. I’m guessing there’s a small part of her that hates me for what I did. For what I’ve said. For what I didn’t say. Yet she still comes around to check up on me. “Seeing how you’re doin’!” she exclaims sometimes when she catches me sitting ‘round my place in my underwear. Which, sadly, is more often than it isn’t.
She won’t bring me anything to drink. She knows I already have that taken care of. I still get royalty checks and a couple of residual ones from my “productive years.” That was when I wrote a novel, two short story collections and a screenplay. All of them were pretty decent sellers, and all got made into movies in some sort of way. The darling, a producer called me once. It didn’t stick when the booze took over. It wasn’t women. It wasn’t drugs. It was just the booze. A lot of it.
People asked me why I kept drinking. They knew my stories were all about it.
“But you don’t have to be like that anymore,” one woman exclaimed while trying to give me a blow job in the back row of a screening of “Bottles and Pigs” probably the worst of my short stories to be made into something. Hell, it had that kid from “Two and a Half Men” as the star. It had to be bad. About the only thing good about the movie was the entire soundtrack was by The Replacements. I required that from the get-go. I think Paul Westerberg hated me for it, but he got paid. I told him as much after too many Gin and tonics one night when I was in an airport and he happened to be there too.
I answered that woman with “have to? What the fuck do you know about having to do anything?” She finished the blow job. I felt bad for her. But not too bad.
However, after that night, the writing stopped. The drinking increased and soon, he was back in New Orleans, living in a small shotgun cashing checks and hanging out. I guess that’s what was always going to happen, luckily, it happened after a spate of actual productivity that allows for the lack of it now.
“Get off of your ass and do something,” she say when he was on the couch, eating Captain Crunch at 4 in the afternoon with nothing on but a blanket. “It’s such a waste.”
“Not really. It’s research.”
She’d walk out every time. But not before leaving something in the fridge or on the kitchen table.
He’d regret it one day. He knew. Death would come, the funeral wouldn’t be much, if anything at all. And then he’d be gone.
But really, isn’t that how it ends for everyone? Some just leave a better looking corpse or have people show up and cry.
His last girlfriend told him that Cherry was an enabler. Didn’t try to stop him from his destructive tendencies. “I think she wants you to die!” she’d cry when she found out Cherry and him had been hanging out at the pub.
“Nah, she just knows I have to do it myself,” he’d reply.
That relationship lasted a few months longer than he expected it to. Which, wasn’t a good or bad thing really. She did steal most of his Dean Martin Lps however. That pissed him off.
He’d had his eye on a girl at the bar for a long while after that. They’d drink together. Talk about how shitty their lives were and then go home and drink some more when things shut down or got too full of college folk. They never fell into bed together. She hinted at it a few times, but he was adamant about not doing anything.
Her friends asked why they weren’t dating, and he’d say he just wasn’t ready for it. Or he needed to get things in order first. All excuses that sounded great the first time, but the 8th time they didn’t hold much weight.
She finally left town one night. Left a four-word note : “See you in Duluth.”
“Go figure?” he exclaimed while opening up a Rolling Rock. They sucked, but it was cheap. All one had to do was guzzle down three and everything else was smooth.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Hard on. Apply directly to the penis.
It’s a moment etched in the brain. It’s not wanted in there anymore, yet it insists to exist there.
Drinking till stupid didn’t get rid of it. Yelling and screaming at it doesn’t work much either. Writing about it endlessly doesn’t help much, but the pain seems to subside a bit. Talking to others about it just gets perplexed looks and uncomfortably bad advice.
Why this memory is so much more vivid than, say, that great night in Texas or the first time I kissed someone, I have no idea.
Instead, this one stays there. It’s just a short memory, but it’s awful -- me, driving my sister’s SUV. The smell of her dog everywhere. Her, standing there with no emotion on her face at all. Tears running out of me like ants attacking a dropped Push Up. Everything so bright as the late Spring sun is high in the air on Memorial Day in Florida.
I watch her stand there, making sure I’m not going to stop and come back. I watch the entire length of the driveway, finally reaching the road. I put the SUV in drive and go. Soon, the house is gone from view. So is she. The next 12 hours are nothing. I have one vague memory of the drive back to North Carolina. I remember making a phone call or getting one, I don’t remember which it was. My best friend who is an ex-girlfriend calling me or me calling her. I didn’t kill myself that day/night because of that phone call. Although I definitely thought about it.
Funny how that sticks. Two endings meeting up, but not allowing for another end.
Why fucking Dokken brings that one flooding back, I’ll never know. I guess the line “I told you I had to leave, I had my reasons. I said that it’d hurt to stay, the way I’m feeling.”
Eh. Whatever.
I could go grab a beer. Like I did so often when this memory flooded up my mind. Clogged it may be the better descriptor. Other things just don’t exist when that memory is there. Damn, has it really been four and a half years? What the fuck am I still haunted by that ghost for? Normal people don’t do that, do they?
Enough bad writing (including my own) has been dedicated to the longing that won’t leave. The longing that you think is gone when you find someone else, but when that person goes away, it comes right back. I guess I just need to find someone that’ll stay. Is that the key? Is that the solution? Is it really that fucking simple?
Probably.
***
“You fucking listen to this shit?” she said after my jukebox selection of “Dream Warriors” by Dokken started playing.
“I saw them live once,” I replied. “Still the loudest show I’ve ever been too. I couldn’t hear right for three days after. It was even on the local news just how loud the show was.”
“Still, this song. It sucks.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t remind me of anything.”
“Well, that’s as good a reason as any. My name is Michelle.”
“Michelle, pleasure to meet ya. My name is Randy. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Nah, I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”
“Figures.”
“Why?”
“You’re the first woman to speak to me in three months that I didn’t work with or who wasn’t at a cash register.”
“It’s no wonder.”
“Huh?”
“Shave once in a while.”
“Cheers!”
***
Lights flickered in his eyes. Bright colors all of them. He felt a little heavy on the left side. Every bit of picked up medical knowledge told him he was either having a stroke or a heart attack.
But he had more important things to worry about. Mostly, the 14 hours left in his drive to New Orleans. He was depending on this trip to end some melancholy. She was depending on him to get her there. Basically, it was do or die, and maybe even do and die.
The lights stopped flickering after a couple of hours. The numbness in the arm about an hour after that.
“Survived another one,” he thought to himself as he guzzled some Dr. Pepper and ate a Slim Jim. Yeah, there was no reason to think, at 40, he’d be having those kinds of troubles. Just the mind playing tricks on him.
“Sure. But when the dick stops getting hard, that’s when you might want to get it checked out,” the sensible voice inside his head said.
“Not like I’d know,” he chuckled. Was that out loud, the definitely thought as he looked at her sitting in the seat next to him.
“You say something?” she muttered, digging around in the bag of cds he’d brought.
“Just thinking about my not having sex in a long time,” he thought.
“Nah. Just mumbling to myself.”
“You do that a lot. You know that?”
“Yeah, you live by yourself as long as I have, and you tend to not notice,” he said.
“I’ve lived by myself for most of the last 10 years. I don’t do that.”
“Well, I guess I’m insane. And you’re going to be a car with me for the next 15 hours. Buckle up!”
“Joy.”
I looked at her. Got a hard on.
“Ha. Guess, I don’t have to worry about that yet.”
***
Drinking till stupid didn’t get rid of it. Yelling and screaming at it doesn’t work much either. Writing about it endlessly doesn’t help much, but the pain seems to subside a bit. Talking to others about it just gets perplexed looks and uncomfortably bad advice.
Why this memory is so much more vivid than, say, that great night in Texas or the first time I kissed someone, I have no idea.
Instead, this one stays there. It’s just a short memory, but it’s awful -- me, driving my sister’s SUV. The smell of her dog everywhere. Her, standing there with no emotion on her face at all. Tears running out of me like ants attacking a dropped Push Up. Everything so bright as the late Spring sun is high in the air on Memorial Day in Florida.
I watch her stand there, making sure I’m not going to stop and come back. I watch the entire length of the driveway, finally reaching the road. I put the SUV in drive and go. Soon, the house is gone from view. So is she. The next 12 hours are nothing. I have one vague memory of the drive back to North Carolina. I remember making a phone call or getting one, I don’t remember which it was. My best friend who is an ex-girlfriend calling me or me calling her. I didn’t kill myself that day/night because of that phone call. Although I definitely thought about it.
Funny how that sticks. Two endings meeting up, but not allowing for another end.
Why fucking Dokken brings that one flooding back, I’ll never know. I guess the line “I told you I had to leave, I had my reasons. I said that it’d hurt to stay, the way I’m feeling.”
Eh. Whatever.
I could go grab a beer. Like I did so often when this memory flooded up my mind. Clogged it may be the better descriptor. Other things just don’t exist when that memory is there. Damn, has it really been four and a half years? What the fuck am I still haunted by that ghost for? Normal people don’t do that, do they?
Enough bad writing (including my own) has been dedicated to the longing that won’t leave. The longing that you think is gone when you find someone else, but when that person goes away, it comes right back. I guess I just need to find someone that’ll stay. Is that the key? Is that the solution? Is it really that fucking simple?
Probably.
***
“You fucking listen to this shit?” she said after my jukebox selection of “Dream Warriors” by Dokken started playing.
“I saw them live once,” I replied. “Still the loudest show I’ve ever been too. I couldn’t hear right for three days after. It was even on the local news just how loud the show was.”
“Still, this song. It sucks.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t remind me of anything.”
“Well, that’s as good a reason as any. My name is Michelle.”
“Michelle, pleasure to meet ya. My name is Randy. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Nah, I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”
“Figures.”
“Why?”
“You’re the first woman to speak to me in three months that I didn’t work with or who wasn’t at a cash register.”
“It’s no wonder.”
“Huh?”
“Shave once in a while.”
“Cheers!”
***
Lights flickered in his eyes. Bright colors all of them. He felt a little heavy on the left side. Every bit of picked up medical knowledge told him he was either having a stroke or a heart attack.
But he had more important things to worry about. Mostly, the 14 hours left in his drive to New Orleans. He was depending on this trip to end some melancholy. She was depending on him to get her there. Basically, it was do or die, and maybe even do and die.
The lights stopped flickering after a couple of hours. The numbness in the arm about an hour after that.
“Survived another one,” he thought to himself as he guzzled some Dr. Pepper and ate a Slim Jim. Yeah, there was no reason to think, at 40, he’d be having those kinds of troubles. Just the mind playing tricks on him.
“Sure. But when the dick stops getting hard, that’s when you might want to get it checked out,” the sensible voice inside his head said.
“Not like I’d know,” he chuckled. Was that out loud, the definitely thought as he looked at her sitting in the seat next to him.
“You say something?” she muttered, digging around in the bag of cds he’d brought.
“Just thinking about my not having sex in a long time,” he thought.
“Nah. Just mumbling to myself.”
“You do that a lot. You know that?”
“Yeah, you live by yourself as long as I have, and you tend to not notice,” he said.
“I’ve lived by myself for most of the last 10 years. I don’t do that.”
“Well, I guess I’m insane. And you’re going to be a car with me for the next 15 hours. Buckle up!”
“Joy.”
I looked at her. Got a hard on.
“Ha. Guess, I don’t have to worry about that yet.”
***
Sunday, January 23, 2011
the drip, chapter 3
He slumped into his chair. The crickets were out early today. He listened in peace for a few minutes. A car drove past, Dean Martin’s “Memories are Made of This” came out of the speakers.
For just a second, life was perfect, he thought. And of course, by thinking it, it ended.
The blonde haired hooker from General Pershing strolled by just as the car disappeared around a corner. He waved at her. She waved back.
“We need to talk,” he said to her.
She tilted her head as to question why.
“Johnny’s in love with you,” he said.
She slumped just a little in the shoulders. “I know,” she replied, kicking a crushed water bottle around with her right foot. Almost like a cat playing with it, but not quite.
He’d known her when she was at Tulane. She played soccer there. A right fullback. Just like he played when he was young and didn’t fear getting kicked in the face and losing his teeth. They met while he was writing game stories and features on the team for a local web site. It started with the Picayune, but they didn’t want a lot on the women’s soccer team. There was a time in his life when covering smaller sports like that for a big paper was the dream. He’d met a guy in Phoenix who got to do it, and always wondered how he could do the same. It never happened. Supply and demand.
Back then, he just wrote stories for papers and web sites all over the country. Luckily, Tulane played in Conference USA, which was so spread out, no one traveled to games. Making it stringer friendly. And supported him for the most part when he first moved back to the city. He had sex with her three weeks after she blew her knee out during her senior season. He was there to write a feature on the 23 year olds attempted comeback. They ended up going out for drinks, jumped on a street car to her house and one thing led to another.
He told his editor the next morning. He wasn’t allowed to cover Tulane anymore. Things kind of dried up at the paper soon after. Go figure.
Three years and a pain-killer addiction later, she was a Craigslist hooker and stripper. Private parties only. Not in the Quarter. He found out one day and tried to stop her. Instead, he became a steady customer. Life is funny that way.
“He’s a douche,” she said.
“Agree,” he said. “But I told you that.”
“What should I do?”
“Keep them.”
“Them?”
“You’ll have twins. His is Johnny Two Kids, you know.”
“Shit.”
“And then get him to pay for everything.”
“That’s mean. And I don’t know if I want kids. Especially his kids.”
“No meaner than an abortion.”
“Johnny tell you that?”
“Yeah. I know you won’t do it, too. Your mom would kill you.”
“You tell him that?”
“No. He doesn’t deserve that. Yet.”
“Yeah.”
“So buck up and own it, babe.”
“I don’t know.”
“Plus, you won’t have to be on Craigs anymore.”
“That means none for you, too.”
“Poor Bono.”
She laughed. His sense of humor was a bit off. But she liked it. It’s why they’d been friends. Even though she charged him, it never seemed that way to her. In fact, he had insisted on it. Kind of weird, but it helped pay the bar tabs. If he were 15 years younger, she thought, we’d probably have made it. But he’s old. I’m not.
“Listen, Tara,” he said. “Come to Matty’s this afternoon. We can talk about it in a better setting.”
“A better setting?”
“They’ve got a great jukebox. I should know, it’s mine.”
“I can’t drink.”
“I know, babe. We’ll have ginger ales on ice. Just like during rehab.”
She smiled. He always had the right words for her. She wondered why he got her so well.
“Ok, George,” she leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheer. He blushed.
“You’re blushing!”
“Every time, sweetheart.”
“You’re going to have to explain that to me sometime.”
“Sometime.”
“Ta Ta. I’ve got to go to the market to get some veggies.”
She closed the gate with her left hand. Oh so gently. She understood how much he hated it when people just slammed the old iron fence. That clanky sound just shot through him like a knife through butter.
He looked at her face. She smiled and waved.
He smiled back, then slumped back into his chair. He grabbed a notepad. It was writing time.
“But first, another beer,” he said aloud to no one but the birds and crickets. He reached into his old metal Dixie 45 ice chest. One of his favorite possessions. Found it in an alley after a couple of warehouses were torn down to build a new parking garage a couple months ago. It was sturdy, with just a little bit of rust. He found a beer, a Shiner Black.
“She was beautiful, but crazy,” he wrote. The day was young still. And the drip had stopped.
For just a second, life was perfect, he thought. And of course, by thinking it, it ended.
The blonde haired hooker from General Pershing strolled by just as the car disappeared around a corner. He waved at her. She waved back.
“We need to talk,” he said to her.
She tilted her head as to question why.
“Johnny’s in love with you,” he said.
She slumped just a little in the shoulders. “I know,” she replied, kicking a crushed water bottle around with her right foot. Almost like a cat playing with it, but not quite.
He’d known her when she was at Tulane. She played soccer there. A right fullback. Just like he played when he was young and didn’t fear getting kicked in the face and losing his teeth. They met while he was writing game stories and features on the team for a local web site. It started with the Picayune, but they didn’t want a lot on the women’s soccer team. There was a time in his life when covering smaller sports like that for a big paper was the dream. He’d met a guy in Phoenix who got to do it, and always wondered how he could do the same. It never happened. Supply and demand.
Back then, he just wrote stories for papers and web sites all over the country. Luckily, Tulane played in Conference USA, which was so spread out, no one traveled to games. Making it stringer friendly. And supported him for the most part when he first moved back to the city. He had sex with her three weeks after she blew her knee out during her senior season. He was there to write a feature on the 23 year olds attempted comeback. They ended up going out for drinks, jumped on a street car to her house and one thing led to another.
He told his editor the next morning. He wasn’t allowed to cover Tulane anymore. Things kind of dried up at the paper soon after. Go figure.
Three years and a pain-killer addiction later, she was a Craigslist hooker and stripper. Private parties only. Not in the Quarter. He found out one day and tried to stop her. Instead, he became a steady customer. Life is funny that way.
“He’s a douche,” she said.
“Agree,” he said. “But I told you that.”
“What should I do?”
“Keep them.”
“Them?”
“You’ll have twins. His is Johnny Two Kids, you know.”
“Shit.”
“And then get him to pay for everything.”
“That’s mean. And I don’t know if I want kids. Especially his kids.”
“No meaner than an abortion.”
“Johnny tell you that?”
“Yeah. I know you won’t do it, too. Your mom would kill you.”
“You tell him that?”
“No. He doesn’t deserve that. Yet.”
“Yeah.”
“So buck up and own it, babe.”
“I don’t know.”
“Plus, you won’t have to be on Craigs anymore.”
“That means none for you, too.”
“Poor Bono.”
She laughed. His sense of humor was a bit off. But she liked it. It’s why they’d been friends. Even though she charged him, it never seemed that way to her. In fact, he had insisted on it. Kind of weird, but it helped pay the bar tabs. If he were 15 years younger, she thought, we’d probably have made it. But he’s old. I’m not.
“Listen, Tara,” he said. “Come to Matty’s this afternoon. We can talk about it in a better setting.”
“A better setting?”
“They’ve got a great jukebox. I should know, it’s mine.”
“I can’t drink.”
“I know, babe. We’ll have ginger ales on ice. Just like during rehab.”
She smiled. He always had the right words for her. She wondered why he got her so well.
“Ok, George,” she leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheer. He blushed.
“You’re blushing!”
“Every time, sweetheart.”
“You’re going to have to explain that to me sometime.”
“Sometime.”
“Ta Ta. I’ve got to go to the market to get some veggies.”
She closed the gate with her left hand. Oh so gently. She understood how much he hated it when people just slammed the old iron fence. That clanky sound just shot through him like a knife through butter.
He looked at her face. She smiled and waved.
He smiled back, then slumped back into his chair. He grabbed a notepad. It was writing time.
“But first, another beer,” he said aloud to no one but the birds and crickets. He reached into his old metal Dixie 45 ice chest. One of his favorite possessions. Found it in an alley after a couple of warehouses were torn down to build a new parking garage a couple months ago. It was sturdy, with just a little bit of rust. He found a beer, a Shiner Black.
“She was beautiful, but crazy,” he wrote. The day was young still. And the drip had stopped.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Drip, Chapter 2
Johnny pulled into his driveway. He sighed because he wasn’t really in the mood for this right now.
“See ya,” Alison said with a smile. She must not be mad, he thought.
“Burger tonight?”
“We’ll see,” she winked. They’d meet at Matty’s bar, he new that, and they’d not get that burger. That would be too much like an honest-to-goodness date. They weren’t there yet. Or at least he thought so.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Johnny said to Alison as she started off in the other direction. “Why you running away sweet thing?”
She turned, still jogging, and flipped him off.
“Why is your broad so mean to me?” Johnny asked, looking at her ass as she jogged away. His sunglasses were down on the edge of his nose. Not expensive ones, instead, more like the cheap one’s you get in a tourist trap surf shop in Myrtle Beach, complete with the neon sides. Johnny slapped him on the back and let out a hearty chuckle, definitely happy with himself at the moment.
“You’re a douche,” he replied.
“Man, it’s no wonder you have no friends.”
“I am what I am.”
“Fuck that Popeye shit, man,” Johnny said, reaching into his front shirt pocket. “You mind if I smoke up?”
“Nah,” he said, but Johnny had already struck a match and began a puff. He thought it would be nice to catch a little bit of a buzz before the day got a little more involved.
Johnny took a long drag on the joint, sat there for a long while, then finally exhaled the beautifully pungent smoke from his shit. Johnny always had good shit, he gave him that much credit. Johnny repeated this five times. Never offering once.
“Man, I need some advice,” Johnny said, bleary-eyed.
“I’m all ears, ya douche bag,” he said, leaning back into his recliner resigned to not getting any of the good shit. He took a sip on his Shiner that had been sitting out a little too long. It was warm. But, still tasted the same. Like soap water. From the first time he’d had one all those years ago because a girl said it was the only beer she’d drink. It eventually grew on him. She started drinking Michelob Ultras while away in Florida. It should have been a sign.
“I got another bitch pregnant,” Johnny said absent-mindedly, as if he really didn’t give a shit. However, he could tell Johnny was trying to sound that way. So it made it sound even more desperate.
He sighed. This wasn’t what he was expecting. He was hoping for a traffic ticket or something. Maybe an STD. This guy, he’s dumb as a bag of hammers, and he gets laid all the time. Everyone knows he’s got eight frigging kids already. But they also know he’s loaded. He never wears a rubber, and now is apparently about to have his ninth and tenth kids. Johnny’s 27 and has had kids with five different women now. He thought to himself about when he was 27. He’d had sex with four woman at that point. Total.
“Who’d ya go and knock up this time John Boy?” he said.
“That skinny blond at the corner of General Pershing, man. She is so cute.”
“Wear a fucking rubber, dude. Wear a fucking rubber.”
“That advise shoulda come last month, man,” JOhnny said. “But seriously, I need some advise about this one.”
Johnny sounded serious. A rarity.
“Have at it kid,” he said.
“I’m not a kid.”
He always called youngsters kids. Alison pointed this out to him one night at the bar. She thought it was funny that he called 15 year olds, 25 year olds and 35 year olds kids. It was a habit he picked up working at small newspapers. He always seemed to be one of the old guys. It’s why so many of his friends are all younger than he. Hell, he’d never had sex with anyone younger than 28 before he turned 40. Funny world.
“Anyway,” he said, pausing to hopefully elicit the continuing of this session. It didn’t work.
“Dude, what’s your fucking question?” he said, finally, too exasperated from watching him smoke up and not share, all the while trying to get advice out of him on a beautiful fucking day in paradise. Hell, he had some writing to do. Especially since Johnny chased Alison away.
“Let me finish this j, man,” Johnny said. He took one last hit off the tiny roach, looking at it, then at George. A look of horror came over him.
“Shit, I didn’t offer you any,” Johnny said.
“Never mind it,” he said.
“After a few seconds past, finally Johnny started to talking. Johnny explained to him that over the last month, Johnny’d stopped hitting on other women. Was always thinking about the Pershing blonde, as Johnny called her. But she never returned his phone calls anymore. Until she broke the news about being preggo.
“I think I love this one,” Johnny finally finished with. “But she wants an abortion, man. How can I stop her?”
Now, this he didn’t’ expect. If Johnny knew his history, he’d never as this question of him. But no one knew his history. Except for him.
“Why do you think you love her?” he finally asked.
“She’s so beautiful. So funny. So everything.”
“And you met her how?”
“Drunkenly at Matty’s, I was on fire at darts and she came up to me real strong.”
“Were you flashing bills?”
“Of course.”
“Did you tell her about your trust fund?”
“No.”
“You know, she’s a hooker.”
“Fuck you, man!”
“She is.”
“You don’t fucking mean that!”
“Yes, I do.”
“You don’t’ fucking know that!” he was getting mad. What I said next, made him madder.
“Yes, actually, I do know.”
The pupils in his eyes shank to nothing. Johnny got up, flicked his roach at him and stomped off.”
“Maybe you can change her? Like Christian Slater or Richard Gere?” He regretted saying that as soon as Christian came out of his mouth. But it kept coming no matter.
Johnny looked at him. An evil look, really. Chills raced up his spine.
“I’ll show you,” Johnny said, struggling to open the door of his El Camino. Finally, he slung it open and jumped in, gunning the engine before the door even closed. Robert Palmer’s sweet voice rang out as he pulled away in a puff of smoke and burnt rubber.
Ha. Rubber, he thought. Finishing the rest of his Shiner.
“See ya,” Alison said with a smile. She must not be mad, he thought.
“Burger tonight?”
“We’ll see,” she winked. They’d meet at Matty’s bar, he new that, and they’d not get that burger. That would be too much like an honest-to-goodness date. They weren’t there yet. Or at least he thought so.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Johnny said to Alison as she started off in the other direction. “Why you running away sweet thing?”
She turned, still jogging, and flipped him off.
“Why is your broad so mean to me?” Johnny asked, looking at her ass as she jogged away. His sunglasses were down on the edge of his nose. Not expensive ones, instead, more like the cheap one’s you get in a tourist trap surf shop in Myrtle Beach, complete with the neon sides. Johnny slapped him on the back and let out a hearty chuckle, definitely happy with himself at the moment.
“You’re a douche,” he replied.
“Man, it’s no wonder you have no friends.”
“I am what I am.”
“Fuck that Popeye shit, man,” Johnny said, reaching into his front shirt pocket. “You mind if I smoke up?”
“Nah,” he said, but Johnny had already struck a match and began a puff. He thought it would be nice to catch a little bit of a buzz before the day got a little more involved.
Johnny took a long drag on the joint, sat there for a long while, then finally exhaled the beautifully pungent smoke from his shit. Johnny always had good shit, he gave him that much credit. Johnny repeated this five times. Never offering once.
“Man, I need some advice,” Johnny said, bleary-eyed.
“I’m all ears, ya douche bag,” he said, leaning back into his recliner resigned to not getting any of the good shit. He took a sip on his Shiner that had been sitting out a little too long. It was warm. But, still tasted the same. Like soap water. From the first time he’d had one all those years ago because a girl said it was the only beer she’d drink. It eventually grew on him. She started drinking Michelob Ultras while away in Florida. It should have been a sign.
“I got another bitch pregnant,” Johnny said absent-mindedly, as if he really didn’t give a shit. However, he could tell Johnny was trying to sound that way. So it made it sound even more desperate.
He sighed. This wasn’t what he was expecting. He was hoping for a traffic ticket or something. Maybe an STD. This guy, he’s dumb as a bag of hammers, and he gets laid all the time. Everyone knows he’s got eight frigging kids already. But they also know he’s loaded. He never wears a rubber, and now is apparently about to have his ninth and tenth kids. Johnny’s 27 and has had kids with five different women now. He thought to himself about when he was 27. He’d had sex with four woman at that point. Total.
“Who’d ya go and knock up this time John Boy?” he said.
“That skinny blond at the corner of General Pershing, man. She is so cute.”
“Wear a fucking rubber, dude. Wear a fucking rubber.”
“That advise shoulda come last month, man,” JOhnny said. “But seriously, I need some advise about this one.”
Johnny sounded serious. A rarity.
“Have at it kid,” he said.
“I’m not a kid.”
He always called youngsters kids. Alison pointed this out to him one night at the bar. She thought it was funny that he called 15 year olds, 25 year olds and 35 year olds kids. It was a habit he picked up working at small newspapers. He always seemed to be one of the old guys. It’s why so many of his friends are all younger than he. Hell, he’d never had sex with anyone younger than 28 before he turned 40. Funny world.
“Anyway,” he said, pausing to hopefully elicit the continuing of this session. It didn’t work.
“Dude, what’s your fucking question?” he said, finally, too exasperated from watching him smoke up and not share, all the while trying to get advice out of him on a beautiful fucking day in paradise. Hell, he had some writing to do. Especially since Johnny chased Alison away.
“Let me finish this j, man,” Johnny said. He took one last hit off the tiny roach, looking at it, then at George. A look of horror came over him.
“Shit, I didn’t offer you any,” Johnny said.
“Never mind it,” he said.
“After a few seconds past, finally Johnny started to talking. Johnny explained to him that over the last month, Johnny’d stopped hitting on other women. Was always thinking about the Pershing blonde, as Johnny called her. But she never returned his phone calls anymore. Until she broke the news about being preggo.
“I think I love this one,” Johnny finally finished with. “But she wants an abortion, man. How can I stop her?”
Now, this he didn’t’ expect. If Johnny knew his history, he’d never as this question of him. But no one knew his history. Except for him.
“Why do you think you love her?” he finally asked.
“She’s so beautiful. So funny. So everything.”
“And you met her how?”
“Drunkenly at Matty’s, I was on fire at darts and she came up to me real strong.”
“Were you flashing bills?”
“Of course.”
“Did you tell her about your trust fund?”
“No.”
“You know, she’s a hooker.”
“Fuck you, man!”
“She is.”
“You don’t fucking mean that!”
“Yes, I do.”
“You don’t’ fucking know that!” he was getting mad. What I said next, made him madder.
“Yes, actually, I do know.”
The pupils in his eyes shank to nothing. Johnny got up, flicked his roach at him and stomped off.”
“Maybe you can change her? Like Christian Slater or Richard Gere?” He regretted saying that as soon as Christian came out of his mouth. But it kept coming no matter.
Johnny looked at him. An evil look, really. Chills raced up his spine.
“I’ll show you,” Johnny said, struggling to open the door of his El Camino. Finally, he slung it open and jumped in, gunning the engine before the door even closed. Robert Palmer’s sweet voice rang out as he pulled away in a puff of smoke and burnt rubber.
Ha. Rubber, he thought. Finishing the rest of his Shiner.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
the drip, chapter 1
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water trickles down from the roof. A grove in the concrete has formed where those drops have, for years, pounded down on the same spot. A constant of the world.
He sits in his chair watching this. He does this a lot. The thought pops into his head “how long has it been doing this?”
Sitting in his beat up recliner -- not a La Z Boy, but a thrift store purchased faux-leather knockoff -- he’s stared out at the world from this stoop for years now. And he can’t remember when the drip started.
It wasn’t there at first, he thinks. He can definitely picture the view without the hole in the concrete. And without the pitter pattering of the drips against it. He’ll ask his buddy Fred the next time he visits. He usually visits on Thursdays. Hell, who is he kidding, he always visits on Thursdays. Today’s Wednesday.
“How’m I gonna remember to ask ‘im?” he wonders. Soon his thoughts wander to another spot in his stoop view.
A woman saunters by. She’s wearing an ugly visor on her head. One of those things you used to get for free at a casino, at least in the 1970s or early 80s. He can’t remember the last time he was in a casino. Well, one in Vegas or AC. He visit’s the Indian ones quite often now. Well, every time he’s got an extra buck or two and an itch for free, but shitty, well drinks delivered by slightly passed their prime waitresses. A great thing for someone also slightly beyond his prime. That damn visor has a reflective patch on the top of the front. And a view of some kind of wild west scene. Awful. Just awful. His gaze then moves downward to the butt. Always does. You have to stop staring at that damn visor. It aggravates. Her butt? It doesn’t. She’s wearing tight, light blue sweatpants.
He smiles as he watches her cheeks bounce up, then down. Her walk is still sexy, even with that damn visor.
“Hi, George!” she says. It startles him a little. He blushes. Busted again. “Looking at my butt again, huh?”
“You betcha, babe,” he says with a wink of his right eye. His daddy told him to always wink with the right eye when flirting. “Science backs me up on this, George,” he’d say with a guffaw. It hadn’t done him wrong in all these years, so why mess with what works.
She stops at his gate door. Unlatches the hook. Comes into his yard. She steps over an old croquet mallet and the red ball. There aren’t any wire wickets to be found. There is one stake still dug into the earth, albeit it’s a bit crooked now, and chewed upon a little by the squirrels that he feeds pizza in the afternoons sometimes.
“When are we going to get that cheeseburger?” she exclaimed, flashing her too-perfect teeth. It’s the only thing about her that he doesn’t like. Well, other than that damn visor. Those teeth. Dad also said never trust anyone with perfect teeth. “They have something to hide,” he’d say. It stuck, too. His teeth are weathered, chipped and ugly. Not that he wanted to have knarly teeth, it just happened that way. Too many Mountain Dews as a kid. Too many nights passing out without brushing them as an adult. The teeth of a meth addict, his dentist told him not too long ago when he finally went to see him after over 20 years avoiding it.
“Cheeseburger?” he asked with a wry smile.
“We made a bet. You lost. Pay up you cheap bastard.” She said that with her hands on her hips, pouting just the perfect amount. Damn she was beautiful. Even with that visor on.
He smiled. They were at the bar not too long ago. Him, Fred and Alison. After a few drinks, the subject of dollar bills came up. He was positive all dollar bills had presidents on them. She said no. This made him even more adamant about it. A true sign of weakness, his daddy told him, was not standing firm when you believe in something. It didn’t always work out, but confidence was alluring, he said. Fred, he just shook his head in amusement. The way he always did when him and Alison got going on one of their tangents. Sometimes they went on for hours. Fred was just along for the ride most of the times. And he usually got his beers paid for, so it wasn’t a problem. A bet was finally made -- the loser takes the winner out for a cheeseburger dinner at Bud’s Broiler. Well, at least a cheeseburger.
The bartender -- Matty -- was summoned. Matty once won $30,017 on Jeopardy. He was the definitive answer to any query in his bar that he bought with that cash. The bar’s Wiki page. Even if his answer was wrong, you believed him.
He had been listening to him and Alison’s banter. He did this most nights. They were regulars. Hell, they were friends. He walked over, spitting into the sink by their normal barstools.
“All the dollar bills have presidents on them, right Matty?” he slurred.
Matty went to his register. Clicked some keys on his turn of the century monstrosity with his free hand -- the other held a dirty mug -- and with a cha-ching, the money drawer popped out. He flicked some bills around, pulling out just one.
“Alexander Hamilton. Ten-dollar bill,” Matty said.
“You owe me one cheeseburger!” Alison roared.
“Grumble, grumble, grouse,” he replied, taking one long swig of beer, finishing off his bottle of Abita S.O.S.
“Hey, you want to go get it now,” he said to her as she stood there, sweaty and wearing that damn ugly visor. Which now was reflecting the mid-day sun directly into his face. “And why do you keep wearing that damn visor?”
She stared at him. Obviously, he’d hurt her feelings.
“Some other time, George,” she frowned.
At that moment, a brown El Camino drove up. Blasting from the speakers was “Some Guys Have All the Luck.” Not the shitty Rod Stewart version, but the slick Robert Palmer one. He knew who it was -- Johnny Two Kids. They called him that because every girl he got pregnant -- and there were four of them -- had twins. He drove around town in that pristine El Camino with that same song playing all the time. He was a trust fund baby, so he didn’t work. Didn’t do much, apparently. He’d heard that he tried his hand at betting the ponies and the hounds for a while, but his lawyer convinced him it wasn’t a good idea.
Water trickles down from the roof. A grove in the concrete has formed where those drops have, for years, pounded down on the same spot. A constant of the world.
He sits in his chair watching this. He does this a lot. The thought pops into his head “how long has it been doing this?”
Sitting in his beat up recliner -- not a La Z Boy, but a thrift store purchased faux-leather knockoff -- he’s stared out at the world from this stoop for years now. And he can’t remember when the drip started.
It wasn’t there at first, he thinks. He can definitely picture the view without the hole in the concrete. And without the pitter pattering of the drips against it. He’ll ask his buddy Fred the next time he visits. He usually visits on Thursdays. Hell, who is he kidding, he always visits on Thursdays. Today’s Wednesday.
“How’m I gonna remember to ask ‘im?” he wonders. Soon his thoughts wander to another spot in his stoop view.
A woman saunters by. She’s wearing an ugly visor on her head. One of those things you used to get for free at a casino, at least in the 1970s or early 80s. He can’t remember the last time he was in a casino. Well, one in Vegas or AC. He visit’s the Indian ones quite often now. Well, every time he’s got an extra buck or two and an itch for free, but shitty, well drinks delivered by slightly passed their prime waitresses. A great thing for someone also slightly beyond his prime. That damn visor has a reflective patch on the top of the front. And a view of some kind of wild west scene. Awful. Just awful. His gaze then moves downward to the butt. Always does. You have to stop staring at that damn visor. It aggravates. Her butt? It doesn’t. She’s wearing tight, light blue sweatpants.
He smiles as he watches her cheeks bounce up, then down. Her walk is still sexy, even with that damn visor.
“Hi, George!” she says. It startles him a little. He blushes. Busted again. “Looking at my butt again, huh?”
“You betcha, babe,” he says with a wink of his right eye. His daddy told him to always wink with the right eye when flirting. “Science backs me up on this, George,” he’d say with a guffaw. It hadn’t done him wrong in all these years, so why mess with what works.
She stops at his gate door. Unlatches the hook. Comes into his yard. She steps over an old croquet mallet and the red ball. There aren’t any wire wickets to be found. There is one stake still dug into the earth, albeit it’s a bit crooked now, and chewed upon a little by the squirrels that he feeds pizza in the afternoons sometimes.
“When are we going to get that cheeseburger?” she exclaimed, flashing her too-perfect teeth. It’s the only thing about her that he doesn’t like. Well, other than that damn visor. Those teeth. Dad also said never trust anyone with perfect teeth. “They have something to hide,” he’d say. It stuck, too. His teeth are weathered, chipped and ugly. Not that he wanted to have knarly teeth, it just happened that way. Too many Mountain Dews as a kid. Too many nights passing out without brushing them as an adult. The teeth of a meth addict, his dentist told him not too long ago when he finally went to see him after over 20 years avoiding it.
“Cheeseburger?” he asked with a wry smile.
“We made a bet. You lost. Pay up you cheap bastard.” She said that with her hands on her hips, pouting just the perfect amount. Damn she was beautiful. Even with that visor on.
He smiled. They were at the bar not too long ago. Him, Fred and Alison. After a few drinks, the subject of dollar bills came up. He was positive all dollar bills had presidents on them. She said no. This made him even more adamant about it. A true sign of weakness, his daddy told him, was not standing firm when you believe in something. It didn’t always work out, but confidence was alluring, he said. Fred, he just shook his head in amusement. The way he always did when him and Alison got going on one of their tangents. Sometimes they went on for hours. Fred was just along for the ride most of the times. And he usually got his beers paid for, so it wasn’t a problem. A bet was finally made -- the loser takes the winner out for a cheeseburger dinner at Bud’s Broiler. Well, at least a cheeseburger.
The bartender -- Matty -- was summoned. Matty once won $30,017 on Jeopardy. He was the definitive answer to any query in his bar that he bought with that cash. The bar’s Wiki page. Even if his answer was wrong, you believed him.
He had been listening to him and Alison’s banter. He did this most nights. They were regulars. Hell, they were friends. He walked over, spitting into the sink by their normal barstools.
“All the dollar bills have presidents on them, right Matty?” he slurred.
Matty went to his register. Clicked some keys on his turn of the century monstrosity with his free hand -- the other held a dirty mug -- and with a cha-ching, the money drawer popped out. He flicked some bills around, pulling out just one.
“Alexander Hamilton. Ten-dollar bill,” Matty said.
“You owe me one cheeseburger!” Alison roared.
“Grumble, grumble, grouse,” he replied, taking one long swig of beer, finishing off his bottle of Abita S.O.S.
“Hey, you want to go get it now,” he said to her as she stood there, sweaty and wearing that damn ugly visor. Which now was reflecting the mid-day sun directly into his face. “And why do you keep wearing that damn visor?”
She stared at him. Obviously, he’d hurt her feelings.
“Some other time, George,” she frowned.
At that moment, a brown El Camino drove up. Blasting from the speakers was “Some Guys Have All the Luck.” Not the shitty Rod Stewart version, but the slick Robert Palmer one. He knew who it was -- Johnny Two Kids. They called him that because every girl he got pregnant -- and there were four of them -- had twins. He drove around town in that pristine El Camino with that same song playing all the time. He was a trust fund baby, so he didn’t work. Didn’t do much, apparently. He’d heard that he tried his hand at betting the ponies and the hounds for a while, but his lawyer convinced him it wasn’t a good idea.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
i'm scared.
The opening of the novel, the memoir, the whatever, was supposed to be “I never should have left New Orleans.”
It fit. So perfectly. Those words spilled out of my lips one spring afternoon in Austin, Texas. I was there for my best friend’s bachelor party. I said them in some throwaway moment. But my friend, he understood the importance of the words, writing them down immediately. “That’s the opening to your book,” he said.
“My biography, written by you,” I responded.
And thus, “The Adventures of Alligator Jones” was born.
It never lived beyond that moment.
Fear has crept in. A little at first, but more so now.
I guess the old belief that you get more cautious with age has sort of come true. And I only have myself to blame for it. I dwell too much. I wonder what if too much. It’s silly really. I know this. I even pronounce the words of no regret a lot. Yet, I don’t live up to it.
Take now, for instance. Things should be going one direction. They aren’t. Or they are at a snail’s pace. Actually, something slower than a snail, but that’s what comes to mind. Why? Because it’s the cliché.
Inspiration also seems to have slipped a bit. I have ideas. Pretty good ones, too. But when I sit down to try and expound upon them, they fade. Or they turn into nothing. Or into Jello.
I look at my past and I see things that make me wonder about my ability to commit. At least when things are good, or looking good, or becoming good.
My journals are, and were a perfect example of this. When I am moody, depressed, unhappy, whatever -- the words flow like the Mississippi. When I’m happy, content, joyful, etc. -- they stop.
Maybe I just believe this myth. Maybe it’s true. I don’t know. I just know that when the tap turns off, I’m almost always enjoying myself. So I ignore what I want to do.
Discipline is the key, I think. I don’t have it. I need to get it.
Or maybe I just need to be miserable. Which, of course is a self-fulfilling kind of deal.
I remember the first time I seriously read my journals from cover to cover. All of them one night. It was 2000-something or other. I’d had my heart broken, and broken a heart. I didn’t understand what had happened to over a decade of my life, so I thought I’d read about it. It’s why you write it down, I told myself.
Much to my surprise, there were huge gaps in my journals. I knew I got lazy sometimes, but really this was ridiculous. In one of them, I went almost three years with about 15 entries. In another set of them, I went five years with very infrequent ones. In between those two periods, lots of writing. Before and after them. Lots of writing.
Then came the purge gal. The one I threw it all away for. I wrote a lot before, and a lot for the first few weeks. Then it became laborious. A chore. Almost a bother. One reason was the expectation. I have only myself to blame. I showed this one my writings. Something I’d never done before. She wanted them to be about her. Not about any one from the past. But I couldn’t do it. At least not knowing she was reading.
After she dumped me, I wrote more than I’d ever written. I almost killed myself. And I found a bit of a voice inside me.
Then, she came back for a moment. It stopped momentarily. But came back with a vengeance when she disappeared for good.
The period since has been full of peaks and valleys. I started a roadie with my dad, writing furiously. Slowly, it became fun. Something I didn’t expect. And the writing stopped.
Now, I’m in a place of change. A crossroad, I guess. I can chase something and see what happens. I can let it just play out. Or I can run away. I seriously sit here and think which would be better. Knowing which would be. Unless…
And this writing could have been better too. But I was scared to chase the idea that was there. Of girls, exes and twisted metal.
Maybe next time. If I remember.
All I know is there’s a killer line from a song written by Joey Kneiser. “I want to curse at the world, with my arms around you.” For years I searched for a perfect line to say to a woman that I loved. That one, I think, is it.
It fit. So perfectly. Those words spilled out of my lips one spring afternoon in Austin, Texas. I was there for my best friend’s bachelor party. I said them in some throwaway moment. But my friend, he understood the importance of the words, writing them down immediately. “That’s the opening to your book,” he said.
“My biography, written by you,” I responded.
And thus, “The Adventures of Alligator Jones” was born.
It never lived beyond that moment.
Fear has crept in. A little at first, but more so now.
I guess the old belief that you get more cautious with age has sort of come true. And I only have myself to blame for it. I dwell too much. I wonder what if too much. It’s silly really. I know this. I even pronounce the words of no regret a lot. Yet, I don’t live up to it.
Take now, for instance. Things should be going one direction. They aren’t. Or they are at a snail’s pace. Actually, something slower than a snail, but that’s what comes to mind. Why? Because it’s the cliché.
Inspiration also seems to have slipped a bit. I have ideas. Pretty good ones, too. But when I sit down to try and expound upon them, they fade. Or they turn into nothing. Or into Jello.
I look at my past and I see things that make me wonder about my ability to commit. At least when things are good, or looking good, or becoming good.
My journals are, and were a perfect example of this. When I am moody, depressed, unhappy, whatever -- the words flow like the Mississippi. When I’m happy, content, joyful, etc. -- they stop.
Maybe I just believe this myth. Maybe it’s true. I don’t know. I just know that when the tap turns off, I’m almost always enjoying myself. So I ignore what I want to do.
Discipline is the key, I think. I don’t have it. I need to get it.
Or maybe I just need to be miserable. Which, of course is a self-fulfilling kind of deal.
I remember the first time I seriously read my journals from cover to cover. All of them one night. It was 2000-something or other. I’d had my heart broken, and broken a heart. I didn’t understand what had happened to over a decade of my life, so I thought I’d read about it. It’s why you write it down, I told myself.
Much to my surprise, there were huge gaps in my journals. I knew I got lazy sometimes, but really this was ridiculous. In one of them, I went almost three years with about 15 entries. In another set of them, I went five years with very infrequent ones. In between those two periods, lots of writing. Before and after them. Lots of writing.
Then came the purge gal. The one I threw it all away for. I wrote a lot before, and a lot for the first few weeks. Then it became laborious. A chore. Almost a bother. One reason was the expectation. I have only myself to blame. I showed this one my writings. Something I’d never done before. She wanted them to be about her. Not about any one from the past. But I couldn’t do it. At least not knowing she was reading.
After she dumped me, I wrote more than I’d ever written. I almost killed myself. And I found a bit of a voice inside me.
Then, she came back for a moment. It stopped momentarily. But came back with a vengeance when she disappeared for good.
The period since has been full of peaks and valleys. I started a roadie with my dad, writing furiously. Slowly, it became fun. Something I didn’t expect. And the writing stopped.
Now, I’m in a place of change. A crossroad, I guess. I can chase something and see what happens. I can let it just play out. Or I can run away. I seriously sit here and think which would be better. Knowing which would be. Unless…
And this writing could have been better too. But I was scared to chase the idea that was there. Of girls, exes and twisted metal.
Maybe next time. If I remember.
All I know is there’s a killer line from a song written by Joey Kneiser. “I want to curse at the world, with my arms around you.” For years I searched for a perfect line to say to a woman that I loved. That one, I think, is it.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
excuses, excuses, excuses...
just got back from a six-day whirlwind of driving, drinking, talking, laughing, enjoying life and all that.
didn't write down a word of it.
oops.
be back tomorrow.
didn't write down a word of it.
oops.
be back tomorrow.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
if you will dare, i might dare
I know I’ve been to this place before. But 100s of shows, 1,000s of beers and bands and ever increasing hearing and memory loss later, I have no idea when.
The 9:30 Club in DC is one of those iconic venues. The bands that have played here are simply stunning. But this is the new one. Not the old one. Not the original, as they say. But still damn cool. I’d been to the original, as well. But at some point, I was here. Was it the 9:30 at that time? I have no clue.
I know sometime in my youthful part of life, not necessarily my youth, I ventured into this place.
A story by Josh ignites my memory of it. Being in this exact place on the floor. Really he just mentioned of the old fan above our heads jars it from the webs of cob. Damn, how could I forget this place? It was a while ago, over a decade for sure. But here in this spot, with that fan, dripping down water, I was. For sure.
The heat. The alcohol. The smoke. And P.J. Harvey on stage. She was in complete command over all of us. And by us, I mean mostly guys. Mostly fools. Music snobs and the like. She was in control. We had to obey her and all she did was strum a few chords and open those dark eyes. Eyes made even more alluring because of the black makeup dominating them -- almost. Yet P.J. had the kind of eyes that dominated that black.
I vaguely remember the show. But I still remember that presence. That feeling of awe. Of whatever it was. I’m sure I was way too drunk, which was most of my 20s and 30s, really.
But here I am tonight, staring at a singer from Memphis playing the standup bass. I’d seen her each of the previous two nights as well. In Virginia. Charlottesville and Richmond, to be exact. She commands the stage a different way. Not with power, but with coy. Her shimmying on stage elicits just enough -- from both the boys and the girls.
And that bass.
Where do you meet ladies like this? Memphis, I guess.
Two nights later, I’m back in DC. Back at the 9:30 Club. Who does this two times in a row at my age? Me. And Josh. And tonight, his wife.
There before another anonymous -- to me, but not to the capacity crowd -- band gets ready to take the stage. I do my normal perusal of the crowd, when a flash of green catches my eye in the balcony. There, in profile only, I see her. Curly hair, bent in just perfectly at her ear where she has obviously pushed it many times before, and as I find out during the show, many more times to come. Some sort of charm bracelet is on her right wrist. No ring on the left hand.
Soon, I find myself looking up instead of forward to the stage. The opening band sucks anyway. Screaming and loud is about all I get from it. That’s when eyes meet eyes. That terrifying moment when you either keep looking, or turn away fast. Heart racing, I don’t move. Neither does she.
Finally, I manage a weak, broken-toothed smile/smirk that has become me.
She turns.
I take a swig of my Yuengling. Then another.
With the bottle done, we stroll downstairs to the bar.
“Got to get out of here,” Josh and his wife say with hands and frowns.
I glance up, just to see the gal in green. This time, she smiles.
We go downstairs, Josh, me and his wifey. It’s mostly empty.
The bartender - a short African-American with a very Southern drawl -- saunters over to take our order.
“Three beers. Good beers,” Josh says.
She brings us three Budweisers.
Josh smiles.
His wife shrugs.
I drink.
My eyes scan this room. Lots of seats, not a lot of butts.
A black guy sits at the bar, looking up at the TV. On it is the menu of a Reservoir Dogs DVD. Over and over a cartooned over Harvey Keitel or Michael Madsen or Tim Roth does something.
Conversation here is sparse.
A bright light is directly above my head, making me feel spotlighted. Yet no one is anticipating my next word. At least not here.
Soon, the bar gets crowded as more folk with ears ringing dive into this foxhole to get away from the bad music above us.
“Why would they pick them to open?” a very tall and stick-like skinny yuppy says.
“Oh, they weren’t that bad,” her guy says.
The music down here becomes Method Man for a moment. Then is quickly shut off.
“Odd,” is about all I can muster.
Two beers later -- for me back to Yuengling -- the openers stop their racket.
“Shall we go up, captain?” I ask.
Grimances greet me, but we go.
Upon ascending the stairs I look to the right, for the bathroom. I go. I pee.
Some guy strikes up a conversation about football.
I’m wondering why me, when I remember I’ve got a UVA football shirt on.
“Yeah, three in a row. But still, Groh must go!” I say in response to the most recent Cavalier win over Maryland.
“Really? I think he’s OK,” my bathroom buddy says, shaking his dick.
“Yep, fuck him,” I say and exit.
Out in the club, the crowd is excited. I don’t feel it. A couple days ago for Lucero, yes, I felt it. Now, for Built to Spill? Nothing.
Almost instinctively, I start looking up again as Josh and his wife chat.
There she is again. Same place. Sipping one some mixed drink -- it’s brown liquor -- through a straw.
She smiles again, then looks at the stage as the band comes on. Bad timing band.
Some song about birds is on the stage, but I’m looking up. Kind of mesmerized. She’s dancing, just a little. Singing too. She’s a fan. Her jeans are loose. Her shoes are of the tennis variety.
Then one last look down as the crowd cheers at the end of the song. How many have they played, I wonder, not really caring.
Then, she blows me a kiss.
“Not bad,” I think. And ponder going up the stairs.
This continues for a couple more songs. I notice the guy next to me. He’s wearing a ski cap and a leather jacket. A brown one. Not a black one. And he smells of a urine-soaked ashtray in the winter that a dog has chewed up for a bit, then spit back out.
I text a friend about this.
She replies “LOL.”
Boy that was a waste of time, I think, looking at the screen of my flip phone.
Soon, smell boy leaves and I’m relieved. So relieved I go to the bathroom again. This time, no conversations, just urination. Which of course, now has be singing that Elvis (Presley, not Costello) song “Little Less Conversation” with some substituted lyrics. I smile at my reflection in the condom vending machine. Some guy looks at me.
“Witty, I am not,” I think as I pee on a PBR can.
Taking my spot back on the floor, I look back upward and see something worse than noticing mold on your bread after you take that first bite of a sandwich -- leather guy and sweater girl are grinding away to the music on each other.
I watch in horror as the last few songs are played. Time goes extremely slow now. Not like before.
The band leaves the stage. Josh lets out a Woo. The crowd begins to disperse. I look up one last time.
She’s gone.
Outside it’s raining. It’s cold. And there are no cabs.
Across the way, Josh scampers to a different corner, where only a few are standing. Somehow he jumps in front in his turtle kind of way to snag a Red Top.
The three of us slide in the cab, much to the protest of a few others.
I look out the rain-splattered window and see green sweater. I smile, blow a kiss and look away.
“Somewhere, someone’s listening to The Replacements,” I say.
“Huh?” Josh says.
“Oh, nothing,” I reply.
The 9:30 Club in DC is one of those iconic venues. The bands that have played here are simply stunning. But this is the new one. Not the old one. Not the original, as they say. But still damn cool. I’d been to the original, as well. But at some point, I was here. Was it the 9:30 at that time? I have no clue.
I know sometime in my youthful part of life, not necessarily my youth, I ventured into this place.
A story by Josh ignites my memory of it. Being in this exact place on the floor. Really he just mentioned of the old fan above our heads jars it from the webs of cob. Damn, how could I forget this place? It was a while ago, over a decade for sure. But here in this spot, with that fan, dripping down water, I was. For sure.
The heat. The alcohol. The smoke. And P.J. Harvey on stage. She was in complete command over all of us. And by us, I mean mostly guys. Mostly fools. Music snobs and the like. She was in control. We had to obey her and all she did was strum a few chords and open those dark eyes. Eyes made even more alluring because of the black makeup dominating them -- almost. Yet P.J. had the kind of eyes that dominated that black.
I vaguely remember the show. But I still remember that presence. That feeling of awe. Of whatever it was. I’m sure I was way too drunk, which was most of my 20s and 30s, really.
But here I am tonight, staring at a singer from Memphis playing the standup bass. I’d seen her each of the previous two nights as well. In Virginia. Charlottesville and Richmond, to be exact. She commands the stage a different way. Not with power, but with coy. Her shimmying on stage elicits just enough -- from both the boys and the girls.
And that bass.
Where do you meet ladies like this? Memphis, I guess.
Two nights later, I’m back in DC. Back at the 9:30 Club. Who does this two times in a row at my age? Me. And Josh. And tonight, his wife.
There before another anonymous -- to me, but not to the capacity crowd -- band gets ready to take the stage. I do my normal perusal of the crowd, when a flash of green catches my eye in the balcony. There, in profile only, I see her. Curly hair, bent in just perfectly at her ear where she has obviously pushed it many times before, and as I find out during the show, many more times to come. Some sort of charm bracelet is on her right wrist. No ring on the left hand.
Soon, I find myself looking up instead of forward to the stage. The opening band sucks anyway. Screaming and loud is about all I get from it. That’s when eyes meet eyes. That terrifying moment when you either keep looking, or turn away fast. Heart racing, I don’t move. Neither does she.
Finally, I manage a weak, broken-toothed smile/smirk that has become me.
She turns.
I take a swig of my Yuengling. Then another.
With the bottle done, we stroll downstairs to the bar.
“Got to get out of here,” Josh and his wife say with hands and frowns.
I glance up, just to see the gal in green. This time, she smiles.
We go downstairs, Josh, me and his wifey. It’s mostly empty.
The bartender - a short African-American with a very Southern drawl -- saunters over to take our order.
“Three beers. Good beers,” Josh says.
She brings us three Budweisers.
Josh smiles.
His wife shrugs.
I drink.
My eyes scan this room. Lots of seats, not a lot of butts.
A black guy sits at the bar, looking up at the TV. On it is the menu of a Reservoir Dogs DVD. Over and over a cartooned over Harvey Keitel or Michael Madsen or Tim Roth does something.
Conversation here is sparse.
A bright light is directly above my head, making me feel spotlighted. Yet no one is anticipating my next word. At least not here.
Soon, the bar gets crowded as more folk with ears ringing dive into this foxhole to get away from the bad music above us.
“Why would they pick them to open?” a very tall and stick-like skinny yuppy says.
“Oh, they weren’t that bad,” her guy says.
The music down here becomes Method Man for a moment. Then is quickly shut off.
“Odd,” is about all I can muster.
Two beers later -- for me back to Yuengling -- the openers stop their racket.
“Shall we go up, captain?” I ask.
Grimances greet me, but we go.
Upon ascending the stairs I look to the right, for the bathroom. I go. I pee.
Some guy strikes up a conversation about football.
I’m wondering why me, when I remember I’ve got a UVA football shirt on.
“Yeah, three in a row. But still, Groh must go!” I say in response to the most recent Cavalier win over Maryland.
“Really? I think he’s OK,” my bathroom buddy says, shaking his dick.
“Yep, fuck him,” I say and exit.
Out in the club, the crowd is excited. I don’t feel it. A couple days ago for Lucero, yes, I felt it. Now, for Built to Spill? Nothing.
Almost instinctively, I start looking up again as Josh and his wife chat.
There she is again. Same place. Sipping one some mixed drink -- it’s brown liquor -- through a straw.
She smiles again, then looks at the stage as the band comes on. Bad timing band.
Some song about birds is on the stage, but I’m looking up. Kind of mesmerized. She’s dancing, just a little. Singing too. She’s a fan. Her jeans are loose. Her shoes are of the tennis variety.
Then one last look down as the crowd cheers at the end of the song. How many have they played, I wonder, not really caring.
Then, she blows me a kiss.
“Not bad,” I think. And ponder going up the stairs.
This continues for a couple more songs. I notice the guy next to me. He’s wearing a ski cap and a leather jacket. A brown one. Not a black one. And he smells of a urine-soaked ashtray in the winter that a dog has chewed up for a bit, then spit back out.
I text a friend about this.
She replies “LOL.”
Boy that was a waste of time, I think, looking at the screen of my flip phone.
Soon, smell boy leaves and I’m relieved. So relieved I go to the bathroom again. This time, no conversations, just urination. Which of course, now has be singing that Elvis (Presley, not Costello) song “Little Less Conversation” with some substituted lyrics. I smile at my reflection in the condom vending machine. Some guy looks at me.
“Witty, I am not,” I think as I pee on a PBR can.
Taking my spot back on the floor, I look back upward and see something worse than noticing mold on your bread after you take that first bite of a sandwich -- leather guy and sweater girl are grinding away to the music on each other.
I watch in horror as the last few songs are played. Time goes extremely slow now. Not like before.
The band leaves the stage. Josh lets out a Woo. The crowd begins to disperse. I look up one last time.
She’s gone.
Outside it’s raining. It’s cold. And there are no cabs.
Across the way, Josh scampers to a different corner, where only a few are standing. Somehow he jumps in front in his turtle kind of way to snag a Red Top.
The three of us slide in the cab, much to the protest of a few others.
I look out the rain-splattered window and see green sweater. I smile, blow a kiss and look away.
“Somewhere, someone’s listening to The Replacements,” I say.
“Huh?” Josh says.
“Oh, nothing,” I reply.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
dreams lay fallow
I’ve heard that the older you get, the less picky you get. At least when you’re still single. Always single, that is. Not divorced once, twice or three times even. Who told me this? I don’t really remember any one person telling me. Just that is story of came into being as a real thing.
Between my mother telling me I should sign up for an e-harmony account and friends telling me how great a catch I am, and that they “can’t believe” anyone hasn’t snapped me up yet, being single at 40 years old sucks more than I ever imagined it could. Not that I ever imagined being single at this age until I was 36 years old, but still even then I didn’t expect it to be quite like this.
I’ve had my run ins with misanthropy. I’ve been a hermit at times. I’ve been a drunk. A wanderer. A fool. A student. A teacher. A prick. A goof. A dork. An idiot. A lot of things, really.
My dating history isn’t very impressive. Compared to most. Except in my ability to commit. Which, in and of itself, may just be the problem. Or not.
The first girl I dated, she was a slut. She fucked me in bed, then fucked me in the head. Left me wondering what the fuck that was all about. But other than a short-lived obsession with the Buzzcocks and Tom Petty’s first three albums, I survived and actually thrived.
The second one was the first “love of my life.” I’d had a crush on her since the first time my eyes saw hers. And she admitted she felt the same way when we finally got around to dating. Only problem? She was a virgin. I was a dork. And eventually she was a lesbian. Although, technically, I suppose, she always was. At leas that’s what my buddy Matty V. told me one drunken night. Yep.
The third one was a year later. Just someone to occupy time, really. I felt bad for being that way the entire time. And ended up being cruel to her. I’ve always wanted to apologize, but she’s one person who seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
The fourth came during my “finding myself” faze of life. Stupid label, but it’s when I finally got the balls to get the fuck out of my mundane existence. I lived with drug dealers, but didn’t do drugs. I rode a motorcycle. I drank exotic things. And I fell in love. Definitely for the first time. Time and distance and way too much thinking about the past lets me know that.
We were passionate about each other. We were too stupid to talk about it. Instead, we played along with whatever life dealt us and didn’t really think about it enough. Then one day, distance and the wrong set of circumstances and choices put it to an end.
The next one was the so-called “love of my life” at least that’s the label I attached to it for way too long after it ended. There wasn’t a moment during the relationship that I doubted it. Not a single second. Even the day it ended. We were so different, I figured it would work. She was driven to succeed. I was driven to be in love. She worried a lot. I never worried at all. She thought of what if, I thought of what next. Eventually, she just stopped. I didn’t understand it then. Didn’t understand it for years. Now, I mostly do. Time and perspective and comparison and such.
The last one was simply crazy. She was 23. I was 36. She had a kid. I didn’t even have a pet. Not even a fish. She was a chameleon that became what the person she was after wanted the most. I was an open book that couldn’t change if I wanted to, no matter how hard I try. The sex was great. I had blinders on to the rest. In the end, she read something I wrote and couldn’t separate the me in that piece of my past and the me that was standing in front of her. That’s what I like to tell myself. To stay sane. I know she just got bored or whatever and moved on to the next. And eventually the next.
I’m cool with it now. All of them. I know where the mistakes were made. I hope they all still think of me in a good way at some time. I didn’t mean to hurt any of them. And I believe all but one of them didn’t try to hurt me either. But, we all hurt each other in some way.
I never thought any of them would end at the beginning. But they all did. A good friend of mine told me more than once “always expect the worst. Then you’ll never be disappointed.” My reaction to that was “man, I can’t live that way. I’d rather be completely disappointed by someone, something or myself, than to never try to find that perfection.”
And that brings me back around. Looking for perfection is impossible. Yet it’s all I do. Not in face. Not in looks. But in love. It’s got to be there. And if it is, it’s perfect. It’s been that way before. It can be that way again. Right?
But, as a man better than me wrote once, and sang a bunch of times… “always hated saying so long. But it always comes to that.”
It’s why one woman in particular stumps me. We get each other. We laugh all the time when we are together. Except when I get stupid drunk and she goes off chasing musicians. But, everyone has things they need to work on right? But anyway, despite these great signals of greatness, there’s no chance. And I’ve known it since the first conversation. There were many on line versions. We e-mailed, we texted, we just did that modern day romance thing that Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan did so well.
Then we met. And within five minutes the conversation somehow steered towards the “perfect” guy and gal. I said my piece, sort of describing her, you know, red hair, a great smile and eyes that tell the truth. Then she said the same kind of thing, except for the end.
“I only have two things that are a killer,” she said, taking a swig of her beer.
“And what are those?” I asked expectantly.
“He’s got to have good teeth and can’t be shy.”
I felt like Harvey Kietel in Bad Lieutenant after Darryl Strawberry doesn’t come up big for the Dodgers. My fate is sealed. I now just have to go through the motions before the gangsters shoot me in the face.
Yet, I keep going back. Because, you know, I can always get my teeth fixed.
Between my mother telling me I should sign up for an e-harmony account and friends telling me how great a catch I am, and that they “can’t believe” anyone hasn’t snapped me up yet, being single at 40 years old sucks more than I ever imagined it could. Not that I ever imagined being single at this age until I was 36 years old, but still even then I didn’t expect it to be quite like this.
I’ve had my run ins with misanthropy. I’ve been a hermit at times. I’ve been a drunk. A wanderer. A fool. A student. A teacher. A prick. A goof. A dork. An idiot. A lot of things, really.
My dating history isn’t very impressive. Compared to most. Except in my ability to commit. Which, in and of itself, may just be the problem. Or not.
The first girl I dated, she was a slut. She fucked me in bed, then fucked me in the head. Left me wondering what the fuck that was all about. But other than a short-lived obsession with the Buzzcocks and Tom Petty’s first three albums, I survived and actually thrived.
The second one was the first “love of my life.” I’d had a crush on her since the first time my eyes saw hers. And she admitted she felt the same way when we finally got around to dating. Only problem? She was a virgin. I was a dork. And eventually she was a lesbian. Although, technically, I suppose, she always was. At leas that’s what my buddy Matty V. told me one drunken night. Yep.
The third one was a year later. Just someone to occupy time, really. I felt bad for being that way the entire time. And ended up being cruel to her. I’ve always wanted to apologize, but she’s one person who seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
The fourth came during my “finding myself” faze of life. Stupid label, but it’s when I finally got the balls to get the fuck out of my mundane existence. I lived with drug dealers, but didn’t do drugs. I rode a motorcycle. I drank exotic things. And I fell in love. Definitely for the first time. Time and distance and way too much thinking about the past lets me know that.
We were passionate about each other. We were too stupid to talk about it. Instead, we played along with whatever life dealt us and didn’t really think about it enough. Then one day, distance and the wrong set of circumstances and choices put it to an end.
The next one was the so-called “love of my life” at least that’s the label I attached to it for way too long after it ended. There wasn’t a moment during the relationship that I doubted it. Not a single second. Even the day it ended. We were so different, I figured it would work. She was driven to succeed. I was driven to be in love. She worried a lot. I never worried at all. She thought of what if, I thought of what next. Eventually, she just stopped. I didn’t understand it then. Didn’t understand it for years. Now, I mostly do. Time and perspective and comparison and such.
The last one was simply crazy. She was 23. I was 36. She had a kid. I didn’t even have a pet. Not even a fish. She was a chameleon that became what the person she was after wanted the most. I was an open book that couldn’t change if I wanted to, no matter how hard I try. The sex was great. I had blinders on to the rest. In the end, she read something I wrote and couldn’t separate the me in that piece of my past and the me that was standing in front of her. That’s what I like to tell myself. To stay sane. I know she just got bored or whatever and moved on to the next. And eventually the next.
I’m cool with it now. All of them. I know where the mistakes were made. I hope they all still think of me in a good way at some time. I didn’t mean to hurt any of them. And I believe all but one of them didn’t try to hurt me either. But, we all hurt each other in some way.
I never thought any of them would end at the beginning. But they all did. A good friend of mine told me more than once “always expect the worst. Then you’ll never be disappointed.” My reaction to that was “man, I can’t live that way. I’d rather be completely disappointed by someone, something or myself, than to never try to find that perfection.”
And that brings me back around. Looking for perfection is impossible. Yet it’s all I do. Not in face. Not in looks. But in love. It’s got to be there. And if it is, it’s perfect. It’s been that way before. It can be that way again. Right?
But, as a man better than me wrote once, and sang a bunch of times… “always hated saying so long. But it always comes to that.”
It’s why one woman in particular stumps me. We get each other. We laugh all the time when we are together. Except when I get stupid drunk and she goes off chasing musicians. But, everyone has things they need to work on right? But anyway, despite these great signals of greatness, there’s no chance. And I’ve known it since the first conversation. There were many on line versions. We e-mailed, we texted, we just did that modern day romance thing that Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan did so well.
Then we met. And within five minutes the conversation somehow steered towards the “perfect” guy and gal. I said my piece, sort of describing her, you know, red hair, a great smile and eyes that tell the truth. Then she said the same kind of thing, except for the end.
“I only have two things that are a killer,” she said, taking a swig of her beer.
“And what are those?” I asked expectantly.
“He’s got to have good teeth and can’t be shy.”
I felt like Harvey Kietel in Bad Lieutenant after Darryl Strawberry doesn’t come up big for the Dodgers. My fate is sealed. I now just have to go through the motions before the gangsters shoot me in the face.
Yet, I keep going back. Because, you know, I can always get my teeth fixed.
Monday, January 10, 2011
pit beef
“Pit beef sandwiches for everyone!”
You certainly don’t hear that every day. So, I walk on over to the brick building where a guy was standing outside handing out fliers and telling everyone that there was free meat inside. He looked pretty content doing so, and I’ll give him all the props in the world for that. I’m doing what I thought I wanted to do growing up, and I’m miserable at work. This guy, I figure, didn’t grow up wanting to pass out fliers dressed in a dirty Colonel Sanders knockoff suit, but there he is, smile on face.
“Dude, what’s your secret?” I ask.
He looks at me, smiles and hands a lady walking by a pink flier. Then, turning his attention to me, he says “I do what I do and that’s what I do. You see, this is a stepping stone to …” he trails off as he hands another passerby a flier, this one lime green. “… one day finding out what it is we’re all meant to do.”
“Cool,” I said, taking a bright red flier from the guy. I walk inside. Figure I can’t pass up on a free pit beef sandwich.
Inside, those awful AC/DC wannabes Jet is on the radio. This sours my opinion of the potential of the free pit beef sandwich. Not enough, however, to keep me from getting in line with everyone else. I’m kind of surprised there are as many people in here. I guess free is a good way to get folks in the door. What I do notice is everyone is ordering other food. Me on the other hand, I just want my free sandwich.
A girl at the front of the line is wearing an Oregon t-shirt. I wonder if she went to the school or if she’s a bandwagon jumper. I mean Nike is funding the entire athletic department, so it’s no wonder that they’d be marketed well. She has blonde hair. It’s long, but not too long. Her eyes have a little too much makeup, but it’s a free sandwich.
Next in line is as German looking a person as I’ve seen in quite a while. He seems to not want to be in line with so many other people and soon I realize why. He places his order and he says “my usual for the office.” Seven sandwiches and 12 side orders. Whew. And all of us freeloaders are going to make him wait even longer. Of course, I could be mad having to wait for his order. Damn you German looking guy, why didn’t you call your order in!!! But, I don’t really care. I stumbled here and am enjoying the sights and sounds and actually the smells. Damn, those pit beef sandwiches smell awesome.
Behind German guy is a couple. They’re smitten with each other. Aww. The guy has on a rust colored corduroy jacket and jeans. Also Samba Classics on the feet. I like this dude. His woman? She’s a little fat with big boobs that are pressed way too tight inside a Bob Mould concert t-shirt from his solo tour in 1994. They kiss each other and order French fries with “extra, extra garlic” and two free sandwiches.
In front of me is a smelly dude. He’s been working out or he’s just a sweaty mess. His Co-ed naked lacrosse t-shirt is covered with Greek letters. So, I have to assume he’s in a fraternity. Which one, I have no clue as the shirt has many of them on it. He is wearing long tube socks that reach up to his knees. One of them is falling down, the other is not. His head is adorned with a Phoenix Suns baseball cap. Crooked to one side of his head. I hate it when people wear their hats like that. Of course, folks hated me wearing mine backwards. But, like I always told them, I wear it that way so it doesn’t blow off my head when I’m riding my bike. And I was doing it before Griffey Jr. made it cool.
Ha.
I get to the front, order my sandwich.
The gal behind the counter, probably 19 years old and very cute to boot, asks me if I’d like anything else.
“Nope, just a sandwich,” I say.
“They go great with a soda.”
“You got Nu Grape?” I ask.
“Nope, but we have Nehi!” she says expectantly. I guess she gets grief for folks only getting the free food.
“Nah. I’m a Nu Grape guy, not a Nehi man.”
“Ok. You’re No. 238.”
“Denied,” I say in a murmur.
“Excuse me?” she asks.
“Oh nothing.”
I wait six minutes. I know this because I looked at the clock while I waited for my food. It was one of those Hamm’s clocks with the wilderness scene of a stream with the water flowing. I dig those. If I had a bar, it would have one.
“No. 238!” a voice yells.
I get my sandwich and leave. There were picnic tables outside, painted red. It’s a nice day, why not eat out there.
After finding a seat, I open the wrapper and see a mass of meat, bread and sauce. It’s crusty and burnt a little on the outside, but soft and moist on the inside. Heavenly.
No wonder they give it away, I think. Because I’ll be back for more. Thank you Baltimore. You’ve finally given me something to like about you.
You certainly don’t hear that every day. So, I walk on over to the brick building where a guy was standing outside handing out fliers and telling everyone that there was free meat inside. He looked pretty content doing so, and I’ll give him all the props in the world for that. I’m doing what I thought I wanted to do growing up, and I’m miserable at work. This guy, I figure, didn’t grow up wanting to pass out fliers dressed in a dirty Colonel Sanders knockoff suit, but there he is, smile on face.
“Dude, what’s your secret?” I ask.
He looks at me, smiles and hands a lady walking by a pink flier. Then, turning his attention to me, he says “I do what I do and that’s what I do. You see, this is a stepping stone to …” he trails off as he hands another passerby a flier, this one lime green. “… one day finding out what it is we’re all meant to do.”
“Cool,” I said, taking a bright red flier from the guy. I walk inside. Figure I can’t pass up on a free pit beef sandwich.
Inside, those awful AC/DC wannabes Jet is on the radio. This sours my opinion of the potential of the free pit beef sandwich. Not enough, however, to keep me from getting in line with everyone else. I’m kind of surprised there are as many people in here. I guess free is a good way to get folks in the door. What I do notice is everyone is ordering other food. Me on the other hand, I just want my free sandwich.
A girl at the front of the line is wearing an Oregon t-shirt. I wonder if she went to the school or if she’s a bandwagon jumper. I mean Nike is funding the entire athletic department, so it’s no wonder that they’d be marketed well. She has blonde hair. It’s long, but not too long. Her eyes have a little too much makeup, but it’s a free sandwich.
Next in line is as German looking a person as I’ve seen in quite a while. He seems to not want to be in line with so many other people and soon I realize why. He places his order and he says “my usual for the office.” Seven sandwiches and 12 side orders. Whew. And all of us freeloaders are going to make him wait even longer. Of course, I could be mad having to wait for his order. Damn you German looking guy, why didn’t you call your order in!!! But, I don’t really care. I stumbled here and am enjoying the sights and sounds and actually the smells. Damn, those pit beef sandwiches smell awesome.
Behind German guy is a couple. They’re smitten with each other. Aww. The guy has on a rust colored corduroy jacket and jeans. Also Samba Classics on the feet. I like this dude. His woman? She’s a little fat with big boobs that are pressed way too tight inside a Bob Mould concert t-shirt from his solo tour in 1994. They kiss each other and order French fries with “extra, extra garlic” and two free sandwiches.
In front of me is a smelly dude. He’s been working out or he’s just a sweaty mess. His Co-ed naked lacrosse t-shirt is covered with Greek letters. So, I have to assume he’s in a fraternity. Which one, I have no clue as the shirt has many of them on it. He is wearing long tube socks that reach up to his knees. One of them is falling down, the other is not. His head is adorned with a Phoenix Suns baseball cap. Crooked to one side of his head. I hate it when people wear their hats like that. Of course, folks hated me wearing mine backwards. But, like I always told them, I wear it that way so it doesn’t blow off my head when I’m riding my bike. And I was doing it before Griffey Jr. made it cool.
Ha.
I get to the front, order my sandwich.
The gal behind the counter, probably 19 years old and very cute to boot, asks me if I’d like anything else.
“Nope, just a sandwich,” I say.
“They go great with a soda.”
“You got Nu Grape?” I ask.
“Nope, but we have Nehi!” she says expectantly. I guess she gets grief for folks only getting the free food.
“Nah. I’m a Nu Grape guy, not a Nehi man.”
“Ok. You’re No. 238.”
“Denied,” I say in a murmur.
“Excuse me?” she asks.
“Oh nothing.”
I wait six minutes. I know this because I looked at the clock while I waited for my food. It was one of those Hamm’s clocks with the wilderness scene of a stream with the water flowing. I dig those. If I had a bar, it would have one.
“No. 238!” a voice yells.
I get my sandwich and leave. There were picnic tables outside, painted red. It’s a nice day, why not eat out there.
After finding a seat, I open the wrapper and see a mass of meat, bread and sauce. It’s crusty and burnt a little on the outside, but soft and moist on the inside. Heavenly.
No wonder they give it away, I think. Because I’ll be back for more. Thank you Baltimore. You’ve finally given me something to like about you.
mistakes and masturbation
I’m sitting alone in my shitty house with a not-so shitty location. At least during the summer. Right now, however, it’s winter. And cold. Snow will be on the ground by this time tomorrow. I won’t have anyone to cuddle with. To fuck. To even leer at. Unless someone happens upon the place while I’m outside tomorrow afternoon, because I’ll sleep in. Very late. I do that. Every day, usually. Even when I’m working. Some would say that’s lazy. Counter productive. I won’t disagree. Won’t agree either. But if a woman happens by and sees me in my soccer socks and short shorts, eating peanuts out of a can and thinks “damn, that’s hot,” then I’m in business.
Not counting my chickens.
Speaking of chickens, I wonder if chicken heads still think when they’re cut off. I mean, the body still runs around. Does the head still think?
Thinking is about all I do nowadays. I went to a buddy’s house yesterday. To get drunk, supposedly, and watch his six month old do six month old things. I drank four beers, ate some crappy frozen pizza and got a backache looking up at his giant television that’s hung in a terrible place on the wall for the person sitting on the left side of his giant leather couch -- me, on this night.
I could have done all those things -- minus the backache and giant television and baby and human contact other than me, most likely masturbating -- at home. I guess I made the right decision. I got a free haircut out of the deal. And a night’s sleep with actual heat. Although my sinuses get all fucked up when I sleep in heat. So now, my throat is itchy and my body is covered with static.
Maybe I’m never happy?
I spent a day at work. Did the late paper tonight out of choice. It was a good choice. There were more pages and that kept me occupied longer than the early two would have. I don’t understand why Grimace, which is the name I have applied the big, fat guy who works with me, stays in the office so long after he’s done. I have no life, and I’m assuming he has no life either. But I finish, I leave. I don’t want to be there, if anywhere. Oh well. I spent too many years of my life wanting to be in a newsroom. They’re sad places now. Empty cubicles and young people who don’t know the difference between their and there, let alone how to get a news story without a press release.
The Chicago paper put the wrong photo on their front page of a Hispanic baseball player that became a Cub. Some people tried to make it a race thing. If he’d been white and all that. Well, more than one paper fucked it up. And the source of the fuck up finally became known -- a bad cutline by the original photog with the AP. Gasp! A photog who fucks up a cutline? Anyways. Of course it shouldn’t have happened, and I believe up until about 2005 or so, there’s no way it would have happened. Now? All bets off.
One comment on a story about it I saw really made me want to puke. “That’s why newspapers are dead. All the Web sites just fixed it. You can’t just change a photo on 1,000s of newspapers.” Yeah, he/she is right (and wouldn’t it be funny if he/she was a ladyboy?), but … you’re also not held accountable for your fuckups. And the short attention span of he/she won’t remember that the web site always fucks shit up. But he/she will remember that one fuck up from the paper. Because it was on paper.
What the fuck is wrong with this country? The potential next president, put targets on congressional districts, and now months later is saying they weren’t crosshairs. Fuck you. They were. Own it. I’d actually have one once of respect for you if you admitted, that in fucking hindsight, it may have been crude. But instead, you lie. Fuck people.
I take responsibility for my fuck ups. I shit my career down the drain. I charged up my credit cards. I made really bad decisions about not wearing a rubber. I eat bad food. I drink too much. I didn’t brush my teeth enough in my 20s. I didn’t get the oil changed in my car for over 65,000 miles. Yeah, fuck it. I’m a pretty stupid guy sometimes. But, I keep trying.
I’m also going to New Orleans just for the hell of it. I’m starting to get my old itch back. Or, I’m finally allowing myself to fucking scratch it again. Just do it. See what the fuck comes of it. If I fail, fuck it. I took a class at UVA once. I was in over my head. Failing it. I didn’t study for the final. But, I still took it. Did well enough to get a D+ in the freaking class. Sometimes, the brain is a wonderful thing. Even when most of the time it isn’t.
It stinks in here. I’m done.
Not counting my chickens.
Speaking of chickens, I wonder if chicken heads still think when they’re cut off. I mean, the body still runs around. Does the head still think?
Thinking is about all I do nowadays. I went to a buddy’s house yesterday. To get drunk, supposedly, and watch his six month old do six month old things. I drank four beers, ate some crappy frozen pizza and got a backache looking up at his giant television that’s hung in a terrible place on the wall for the person sitting on the left side of his giant leather couch -- me, on this night.
I could have done all those things -- minus the backache and giant television and baby and human contact other than me, most likely masturbating -- at home. I guess I made the right decision. I got a free haircut out of the deal. And a night’s sleep with actual heat. Although my sinuses get all fucked up when I sleep in heat. So now, my throat is itchy and my body is covered with static.
Maybe I’m never happy?
I spent a day at work. Did the late paper tonight out of choice. It was a good choice. There were more pages and that kept me occupied longer than the early two would have. I don’t understand why Grimace, which is the name I have applied the big, fat guy who works with me, stays in the office so long after he’s done. I have no life, and I’m assuming he has no life either. But I finish, I leave. I don’t want to be there, if anywhere. Oh well. I spent too many years of my life wanting to be in a newsroom. They’re sad places now. Empty cubicles and young people who don’t know the difference between their and there, let alone how to get a news story without a press release.
The Chicago paper put the wrong photo on their front page of a Hispanic baseball player that became a Cub. Some people tried to make it a race thing. If he’d been white and all that. Well, more than one paper fucked it up. And the source of the fuck up finally became known -- a bad cutline by the original photog with the AP. Gasp! A photog who fucks up a cutline? Anyways. Of course it shouldn’t have happened, and I believe up until about 2005 or so, there’s no way it would have happened. Now? All bets off.
One comment on a story about it I saw really made me want to puke. “That’s why newspapers are dead. All the Web sites just fixed it. You can’t just change a photo on 1,000s of newspapers.” Yeah, he/she is right (and wouldn’t it be funny if he/she was a ladyboy?), but … you’re also not held accountable for your fuckups. And the short attention span of he/she won’t remember that the web site always fucks shit up. But he/she will remember that one fuck up from the paper. Because it was on paper.
What the fuck is wrong with this country? The potential next president, put targets on congressional districts, and now months later is saying they weren’t crosshairs. Fuck you. They were. Own it. I’d actually have one once of respect for you if you admitted, that in fucking hindsight, it may have been crude. But instead, you lie. Fuck people.
I take responsibility for my fuck ups. I shit my career down the drain. I charged up my credit cards. I made really bad decisions about not wearing a rubber. I eat bad food. I drink too much. I didn’t brush my teeth enough in my 20s. I didn’t get the oil changed in my car for over 65,000 miles. Yeah, fuck it. I’m a pretty stupid guy sometimes. But, I keep trying.
I’m also going to New Orleans just for the hell of it. I’m starting to get my old itch back. Or, I’m finally allowing myself to fucking scratch it again. Just do it. See what the fuck comes of it. If I fail, fuck it. I took a class at UVA once. I was in over my head. Failing it. I didn’t study for the final. But, I still took it. Did well enough to get a D+ in the freaking class. Sometimes, the brain is a wonderful thing. Even when most of the time it isn’t.
It stinks in here. I’m done.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
a january night in oakton
Panic sets in. I left the house in such a hurry, I have no recollection of locking the doors. Now, I’m 200 miles away. About to be 1,200 miles. There’s no turning back now. Of course, it could be worse. Much worse. I know. I’ve been there.
I was 21 years old. Stupid. Full of life, however. Happy almost every moment of it. Except when a girl decides I’m not worth her time. Which in college, had only happened twice so far, so not too bad. And neither of them seemed like love after a moment or two. Not like later in life. When it hurt. And continues to hurt.
My buddies and I were about to embark on an epic roadie. The plans of which had been planted months earlier when my best friend Josh’s buddy from high school, Nathan, said he had an epic place for us to stay. We all jumped in that night, six of us, with a rousing “Hells yeah!” We’d be in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. It was 1992 when the promise, the plans, they were made. We had a few months to sort it out.
Of course, we didn’t. Life for us geeky college guys went on. We kept playing spades late into the night. Drinking way too much alcohol and watching “Saved by the Bell” reruns instead of going to class. The future was so far away. The now, well, it was then.
One night, one of the dude’s said he was going to a party up in Northern Virginia. It was January now. Cold as balls. The prospect of some random party where I knew no one was a revelation. You get sort of tired of the same people in your fourth year of college. So, we packed ourselves into Josh’s CRV -- me in the back truck space, and headed up north on Route 29.
As always, we kept an eye out for the evil old man. An actual black man with a cane and a stepping hat. We used to see him all of the time. Never bothered him. Figured he was cursed to walk up and down this road by the devil himself. Or at least, that’s the story we made up. For all we knew, it was Robert Johnson, paying his debt for those 20-or so amazing songs.
The reason we fretted seeing him was simple. One time, a bunch of folk were piled up in another car. I don’t have details of the car, as I was not there. I have just second-hand recollections. However, they all said the same thing. A rarity for eyewitness testimony. Unless it’s been coached. And this, definitely needed no coaching.
The car was speeding up 29, music blasting and laughs being had. Then, someone pointed out the evil old man. Slowly making his way up the road. One of the girls in the car, not knowing the significance of the spectre on the road, decided to honk the car’s horn at him. In horror, all the guys watched as the old man slowly turned and shook his cane at the car.
While the ladies kept on laughing about it, the guys started to tell the story. No more than 10 seconds later, a shriek came from the back seat. “Oh my God! There’s a dead bird in here!” one of the girls screamed.
And there it was. A small mockingbird. Dead.
They pulled the car to the side of the road, flicking the bird out. No one talked, they said, for about 30 minutes. The evil old man had made his statement.
We never saw him again. But we always looked for him.
Upon arrival to the party -- located somewhere in Oakton, Virginia, at an apartment complex much like any other, except the buildings were all blue -- we parked the CRV and stumbled up to the door. There was snow on the ground, and we all had to pee. Drinking shitty beer while in route, always a good thought, never a good idea. We knocked at the door, some dude opened it up.
“Welcome, fellas,” he said, extending his hand to each of us.
The place was empty. Three people were there. Including one extremely good looking girl. We all kind of stopped for a moment. She had long black hair. A cooky green and red sweater and jeans was her outfit of choice.
Soon, drinks were had. Many drinks. And before I knew it we were playing drinking games. Soon, more people arrived. Yet I was fixated on this lady. As was my friend, Mark, who knew her from high school. But Mark didn’t have a chance. He was short. Fat. But damn he had a sharp personality. I was tall. Skinny. Long hair. But the personality of a bag of hammers. That is, until you know me. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Around 11 or so, me and this girl, her name was Katrina, I had managed to pry out. Went into the other room. There, we started talking. Dreams. Hopes. Life. College. Work. Etc. Soon, we were making out. I was floored. My hard-on told her everything I was thinking. But she was cool. She played it off. Teased it maybe? We exited back to the party.
A few minutes later, she was gone. Huh? I thought. But went back to drinking.
Mark waltzed over to me. I say waltzed because he had this shit-eating grin on his face and was light on his feet. Started whispering in my ear. He was going to hook up with Katrina he said. Ha. I thought. She’d been all over him. Huh? I thought. Drunkenly, I was mad. I didn’t show it, however, and kept drinking. About an hour or so later, Katrina called me over to the other side of the room. Behind a wall. She grabbed my crotch and started kissing me. I didn’t hesitate. Even though I knew what had happened with my buddy Mark.
We stopped after a few seconds as another girl walked in. She smiled at us. We separated again.
Around 4 in the morning, the party was washed out. Everyone was drunk that was still there. It really was just the original trio of us from Charlottesville, the dude who answered the door, and Katrina. Mark was passed out. As was Josh. The dude was doing a hit on a bong, and Katrina was rubbing my leg with her foot.
I got up to go to the bathroom. While peeing, she walked in. After I finished up, she started kissing me. Before too long I had her shirt off and her pants off. A few seconds later, we were fucking. A minute later, I was done.
“Did we just fuck?” she said.
Now that puts a guy in his place. One second, euphoria. The next, a Sam Raimi moment of the mind.
We looked at each other. Put our clothes back on. She grabbed my hand and we went to sleep together on the floor.
The next morning, everything seemed normal. We all went to eat at Denny’s. We talked. We laughed. She gave me her phone number, said she had a work-related event -- a formal of sorts -- and wanted to know if I wanted to go. Wow. I thought. This knockout of a woman is interested in me. Even after last night. We made plans to try and make it happen.
On the ride home, Mark asked about her. He said “man, she really digs you. What happened last night?” Me, being a 21 year old dude, told everything. He was flabbergasted. “Good for you, dude. You wear a rubber?”
I hadn’t of course. I was drunk. I was stupid.
A day later, she called me. We talked for hours. Then, I had to ask. “Katrina, do you remember the other night?”
She said, “not really. But I woke up in a great mood. And I was holding your hand.”
“Yeah, but do you remember what we did?”
“What do you mean?”
“We had sex in the bathroom.”
Silence. Oh shit.
“We did?” she finally spoke.
“Yeah.”
“Did you have a condom?”
“Uh, no.”
“Shit,” she said. “That was stupid.”
“I’m clean,” I tried to be cool about it.
“That’s good. But I’m not on the pill or anything.”
Whoops I thought. I hadn’t even thought about that. Typical dude way of thinking. Every girl I’d been with up to that point -- a whopping two -- had been on the pill. I guess I figured they all were. Especially drop dead gorgeous women in Northern Virginia.
“Well, I’ve got to go,” she said.
“Ok,” I meekly agreed.
I called her a few days later. We awkwardly talked about nothing much. Finally, I asked if we were still on for the formal. She said no. In fact, she added, we shouldn’t talk anymore. “I’ll only call if … you know.”
My head slumped down. Blew another great chance.
“Ok.” I said. We hung up, lingering just a moment. I could tell she was too. Eventually, she put the phone down. Dial tone.
Being the 21 year old fool that I was, I got on with life. No worried. No nothing.
The day came in February where we met to go to Mardi Gras. We all got together and waited for Nathan. And waited. We called. Left messages. No dice. Finally, it was getting late. We needed a plan.
“Let’s just go anyway,” I said.
“You’re nuts,” Gordon replied. “Mardi Gras. No hotel. No plans. You gotta be kidding.”
Josh piped in “sounds like a reasonable one to me!”
Finally, Nathan called. He wasn’t coming. He hadn’t made the housing arrangements. Sorry, was his only excuse. Twenty years later, he’d be in prison for drug trafficking. But that’s a whole other story.
The bunch of us finally rallied around my idea. We were all heading to the cars when the phone rang. Jim, one of my roomies answered it. We all said, “we’re not here.” Jim nodded. He said “Hello.” Then listened. Looked at me and mouthed “it’s Katrina?”
Sam Raimi moment No. 2 in the last few weeks.
Panicked, I told him to tell her we’d already left for New Orleans. “Take a message.”
I watched him say it. Well done actually. He hung up the phone.
“Any message?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“I’ll call her when I get back.”
We got on with the trip. The entire 18-hour ride down, she was all I thought of. When we got to town, the traffic was atrocious. We got into town and headed towards Tulane. Down there, we were stuck in traffic. We all got out of the cars, peed beside a church and watched beer cans trickle out of the cars. I brushed my teeth. Josh joined it.
Bourbon Street beckoned. We drank. We drank some more. I got a bit depressed. I was an ass for not taking that call. In a shitty bar with a fat lady on top of it giggling her exposed boobs, Josh asked me “what’s wrong chief?” I told him. He sat in silence. Finally, slapping me on the back before saying “well, enjoy this trip. Ain’t nothing you can do now.”
He was right. I’d man up when I got back.
Six days later, which featured sleeping in our car in various locations, sneaking into the dorms at Tulane to shower and even one night crashing, we were back on the road for home.
I got there, crashed out. But before I did, I saw that piece of paper with Katrina’s ugly scraw on it. Her name and number, written in light blue magic marker. I dreamed of her that restless night.
In the morning, I called. She was at work, her roommate said. I left a message, apologizing for taking so long to call back. But I was in New Orleans. Had no idea she’d called. Lie? Yes.
The day went on. No call. So did the night. And the next day and the next.
I tried one more time. Left a message.
She never called back.
I still have no idea why she called. I know she said she’d never call unless. So my mind always thinks that it was the unless. And I can only sit here, 18 years later, almost to the day, and wonder.
I was 21 years old. Stupid. Full of life, however. Happy almost every moment of it. Except when a girl decides I’m not worth her time. Which in college, had only happened twice so far, so not too bad. And neither of them seemed like love after a moment or two. Not like later in life. When it hurt. And continues to hurt.
My buddies and I were about to embark on an epic roadie. The plans of which had been planted months earlier when my best friend Josh’s buddy from high school, Nathan, said he had an epic place for us to stay. We all jumped in that night, six of us, with a rousing “Hells yeah!” We’d be in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. It was 1992 when the promise, the plans, they were made. We had a few months to sort it out.
Of course, we didn’t. Life for us geeky college guys went on. We kept playing spades late into the night. Drinking way too much alcohol and watching “Saved by the Bell” reruns instead of going to class. The future was so far away. The now, well, it was then.
One night, one of the dude’s said he was going to a party up in Northern Virginia. It was January now. Cold as balls. The prospect of some random party where I knew no one was a revelation. You get sort of tired of the same people in your fourth year of college. So, we packed ourselves into Josh’s CRV -- me in the back truck space, and headed up north on Route 29.
As always, we kept an eye out for the evil old man. An actual black man with a cane and a stepping hat. We used to see him all of the time. Never bothered him. Figured he was cursed to walk up and down this road by the devil himself. Or at least, that’s the story we made up. For all we knew, it was Robert Johnson, paying his debt for those 20-or so amazing songs.
The reason we fretted seeing him was simple. One time, a bunch of folk were piled up in another car. I don’t have details of the car, as I was not there. I have just second-hand recollections. However, they all said the same thing. A rarity for eyewitness testimony. Unless it’s been coached. And this, definitely needed no coaching.
The car was speeding up 29, music blasting and laughs being had. Then, someone pointed out the evil old man. Slowly making his way up the road. One of the girls in the car, not knowing the significance of the spectre on the road, decided to honk the car’s horn at him. In horror, all the guys watched as the old man slowly turned and shook his cane at the car.
While the ladies kept on laughing about it, the guys started to tell the story. No more than 10 seconds later, a shriek came from the back seat. “Oh my God! There’s a dead bird in here!” one of the girls screamed.
And there it was. A small mockingbird. Dead.
They pulled the car to the side of the road, flicking the bird out. No one talked, they said, for about 30 minutes. The evil old man had made his statement.
We never saw him again. But we always looked for him.
Upon arrival to the party -- located somewhere in Oakton, Virginia, at an apartment complex much like any other, except the buildings were all blue -- we parked the CRV and stumbled up to the door. There was snow on the ground, and we all had to pee. Drinking shitty beer while in route, always a good thought, never a good idea. We knocked at the door, some dude opened it up.
“Welcome, fellas,” he said, extending his hand to each of us.
The place was empty. Three people were there. Including one extremely good looking girl. We all kind of stopped for a moment. She had long black hair. A cooky green and red sweater and jeans was her outfit of choice.
Soon, drinks were had. Many drinks. And before I knew it we were playing drinking games. Soon, more people arrived. Yet I was fixated on this lady. As was my friend, Mark, who knew her from high school. But Mark didn’t have a chance. He was short. Fat. But damn he had a sharp personality. I was tall. Skinny. Long hair. But the personality of a bag of hammers. That is, until you know me. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Around 11 or so, me and this girl, her name was Katrina, I had managed to pry out. Went into the other room. There, we started talking. Dreams. Hopes. Life. College. Work. Etc. Soon, we were making out. I was floored. My hard-on told her everything I was thinking. But she was cool. She played it off. Teased it maybe? We exited back to the party.
A few minutes later, she was gone. Huh? I thought. But went back to drinking.
Mark waltzed over to me. I say waltzed because he had this shit-eating grin on his face and was light on his feet. Started whispering in my ear. He was going to hook up with Katrina he said. Ha. I thought. She’d been all over him. Huh? I thought. Drunkenly, I was mad. I didn’t show it, however, and kept drinking. About an hour or so later, Katrina called me over to the other side of the room. Behind a wall. She grabbed my crotch and started kissing me. I didn’t hesitate. Even though I knew what had happened with my buddy Mark.
We stopped after a few seconds as another girl walked in. She smiled at us. We separated again.
Around 4 in the morning, the party was washed out. Everyone was drunk that was still there. It really was just the original trio of us from Charlottesville, the dude who answered the door, and Katrina. Mark was passed out. As was Josh. The dude was doing a hit on a bong, and Katrina was rubbing my leg with her foot.
I got up to go to the bathroom. While peeing, she walked in. After I finished up, she started kissing me. Before too long I had her shirt off and her pants off. A few seconds later, we were fucking. A minute later, I was done.
“Did we just fuck?” she said.
Now that puts a guy in his place. One second, euphoria. The next, a Sam Raimi moment of the mind.
We looked at each other. Put our clothes back on. She grabbed my hand and we went to sleep together on the floor.
The next morning, everything seemed normal. We all went to eat at Denny’s. We talked. We laughed. She gave me her phone number, said she had a work-related event -- a formal of sorts -- and wanted to know if I wanted to go. Wow. I thought. This knockout of a woman is interested in me. Even after last night. We made plans to try and make it happen.
On the ride home, Mark asked about her. He said “man, she really digs you. What happened last night?” Me, being a 21 year old dude, told everything. He was flabbergasted. “Good for you, dude. You wear a rubber?”
I hadn’t of course. I was drunk. I was stupid.
A day later, she called me. We talked for hours. Then, I had to ask. “Katrina, do you remember the other night?”
She said, “not really. But I woke up in a great mood. And I was holding your hand.”
“Yeah, but do you remember what we did?”
“What do you mean?”
“We had sex in the bathroom.”
Silence. Oh shit.
“We did?” she finally spoke.
“Yeah.”
“Did you have a condom?”
“Uh, no.”
“Shit,” she said. “That was stupid.”
“I’m clean,” I tried to be cool about it.
“That’s good. But I’m not on the pill or anything.”
Whoops I thought. I hadn’t even thought about that. Typical dude way of thinking. Every girl I’d been with up to that point -- a whopping two -- had been on the pill. I guess I figured they all were. Especially drop dead gorgeous women in Northern Virginia.
“Well, I’ve got to go,” she said.
“Ok,” I meekly agreed.
I called her a few days later. We awkwardly talked about nothing much. Finally, I asked if we were still on for the formal. She said no. In fact, she added, we shouldn’t talk anymore. “I’ll only call if … you know.”
My head slumped down. Blew another great chance.
“Ok.” I said. We hung up, lingering just a moment. I could tell she was too. Eventually, she put the phone down. Dial tone.
Being the 21 year old fool that I was, I got on with life. No worried. No nothing.
The day came in February where we met to go to Mardi Gras. We all got together and waited for Nathan. And waited. We called. Left messages. No dice. Finally, it was getting late. We needed a plan.
“Let’s just go anyway,” I said.
“You’re nuts,” Gordon replied. “Mardi Gras. No hotel. No plans. You gotta be kidding.”
Josh piped in “sounds like a reasonable one to me!”
Finally, Nathan called. He wasn’t coming. He hadn’t made the housing arrangements. Sorry, was his only excuse. Twenty years later, he’d be in prison for drug trafficking. But that’s a whole other story.
The bunch of us finally rallied around my idea. We were all heading to the cars when the phone rang. Jim, one of my roomies answered it. We all said, “we’re not here.” Jim nodded. He said “Hello.” Then listened. Looked at me and mouthed “it’s Katrina?”
Sam Raimi moment No. 2 in the last few weeks.
Panicked, I told him to tell her we’d already left for New Orleans. “Take a message.”
I watched him say it. Well done actually. He hung up the phone.
“Any message?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“I’ll call her when I get back.”
We got on with the trip. The entire 18-hour ride down, she was all I thought of. When we got to town, the traffic was atrocious. We got into town and headed towards Tulane. Down there, we were stuck in traffic. We all got out of the cars, peed beside a church and watched beer cans trickle out of the cars. I brushed my teeth. Josh joined it.
Bourbon Street beckoned. We drank. We drank some more. I got a bit depressed. I was an ass for not taking that call. In a shitty bar with a fat lady on top of it giggling her exposed boobs, Josh asked me “what’s wrong chief?” I told him. He sat in silence. Finally, slapping me on the back before saying “well, enjoy this trip. Ain’t nothing you can do now.”
He was right. I’d man up when I got back.
Six days later, which featured sleeping in our car in various locations, sneaking into the dorms at Tulane to shower and even one night crashing, we were back on the road for home.
I got there, crashed out. But before I did, I saw that piece of paper with Katrina’s ugly scraw on it. Her name and number, written in light blue magic marker. I dreamed of her that restless night.
In the morning, I called. She was at work, her roommate said. I left a message, apologizing for taking so long to call back. But I was in New Orleans. Had no idea she’d called. Lie? Yes.
The day went on. No call. So did the night. And the next day and the next.
I tried one more time. Left a message.
She never called back.
I still have no idea why she called. I know she said she’d never call unless. So my mind always thinks that it was the unless. And I can only sit here, 18 years later, almost to the day, and wonder.
Friday, January 7, 2011
John Wayne vs. Jeff Bridges
Sometimes things happen for a reason. Sometimes they don’t.
She walked into the bar at 1:37 p.m. I was sitting in my usual spot, three stools down from the cash register. Right as the door opened, letting in all that brightness from outside, the record on the jukebox switched. Out went Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” in went Smith’s fine version of “Baby It’s You.”
Her legs were endless. Her hair was blonde in the bar light. But she was a redhead. The corduroy skirt she was wearing was green. And a little too short. Not that I was complaining about it. She gave the place a once over. Stopping for a moment on me, then moving on to Jerry, the barkeep. The next thing I noticed were her high heels. They were big. But not ugly, slutty, stiletto big. For some reason, they seemed to be a part of her. An extension of her foot. They made only a slight clack sound as she started walked toward the bar. My heart sped up. So far, she was a dream. I was doing all I could not to wake up or let my jaw hit the bar.
She sat two seats down from me. Ordered a scotch and water. Jerry brought it to her quicker than I’d ever seen him deliver a drink. Yeah, the place was empty, but that was fast. I called him over. Told him that. He laughed. Soon, a new song clicked into place on the juke. Rick James’ “Ghetto Life”.
Being me, I looked at this goddess who just stumbled upon my haunt in the reflection of the bar mirror. She smiled. Not at me. But definitely for me to see.
“Hey, Jerry,” I said. “Give the lady another of what she’s drinking.”
“You got it Mr. Jo-hones.”
He loved to say my name like that. It was my pen name. Spelled slightly different than my real name, Jones. That way, all the talk show hosts had to call me that. It made me laugh. I hoped the only other person who knew my silly obsession with it got a snicker out of it to. Despite the way our relationship ended many years ago.
She drank the drink. I watched her. Yet, I was pulled back to her heels. A better man than me once said “there ain’t enough girls wearing high heels in this crowd.” For me, the crowd just got good. Usually, Jerry and I take up these afternoons debating whether or not the original “True Grit” with John Wayne is better than the Coen Brother’s take on it with Jeff Bridges.
I decide that’s as good an icebreaker as any other. Especially since the old buying a drink for the gal didn’t work for anything but a good look at some legs with heels.
“Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?” I say. Not as meekly as usual, I notice.
She looks at me with a blank stare. Not a good sign. The jukebox clicks off. The scratchy sounds of needle hitting wax begins. I wonder what song will break this unbearable silence. Bette Midler’s “The Rose” begins.
I slump down a bit as the notes begin to play.
“I love this song,” she says, looking right at me.
“Really? I say. Why is that?” A bit brazen a response, but I figure I’ll show confidence that I am lacking.
She gives me another look. I can’t place it. Then she speaks again. I have not completely destroyed this conversation.
“It’s a bit cliché, I know, but this song got me through the nights many times. Me, a bottle of whiskey and my thoughts of someone else. And I’m not embarrassed to say so.”
“Fuck right. And you shouldn’t be. It’s the songs that make the pain feel a little less. They step up and take the bullet for you.”
“Exactly,” she says. Pausing for about 10 seconds. “And thanks for the drink. My name is Marla.”
“Randy,” I say.
“Oh my goodness. You’re Randy Jo-hones? The writer?”
“Sadly, yes,” I cringe.
“What do you mean, sadly?”
“I wrote Nick, Nack, Knock. Jabberwock. That’s what people will remember me for. A damn kid’s ditty that turned into a monster.”
“You’re right. You suck,” she said with a wink and a tip of the glass. I looked down at my glass. It was empty. I put on my faux sad face.
That song, which I just called the double N KJ now was what paid my bills. I was drunk one night, strumming on a guitar, listening to Bruce Springsteen bootlegs when one came to an end. I kept strumming and mumbling words. Before I knew it, I’d written a short song. I’d never written a song in my life. I couldn’t read music. But the lyrics just flew out. Probably helped by the eight beers -- Celbration Bocks, to be exact -- and two joints rolled by my ex-girlfriend just two days earlier, and 16 hours before she’d leave me for the tight end for the Denver Broncos at a Lucero show at the Bluebird Café. After finishing the song, I passed out. In the morning, I woke up and read the song. Laughed and put it in a shoebox.
Three years later, I was on deadline at the newspaper I was pretending to write a column for. It was a weekly rag. Filled with plenty of citizen journalism and fluff. I was the sarcastic voice of the middle-aged white man. At least that’s what my blog’s “About Me” section said. I pictured Michael Douglas in the early to mid-1990s when his trilogy of angry scared white man movies -- Basic Instinct, Falling Down and Disclosure. It made me shudder. But that day, I was on deadline, drunk, and I had no column. The presses were supposed to be rolling in 20 minutes, my editor told me. So, I pulled out double N KJ and came up with a back story. It became an instant hit. Generating millions of hits for our rag in just a couple of days. Then 10s of millions. Soon, 100s of millions.
Hollywood came calling. They asked about the song. The character. They wanted a book. They envisioned a movie, starring Johnny Depp. Soon, I had money. Soon I was asked to be on Oprah’s show on her network. Then Jay Leno.
I turned them both down. And went on Craig Ferguson instead. That made me more famous. The sheer audacity of this nobody to do such a thing. Book sales took off. The movie was not made. But a television series for kids was. Then came the merchandising. Which, I took my cue from George Lucas and made sure it was all mine. This was laughed at when the contract was drawn up. It probably was cried about three years after it was signed. As the double N KJ franchise grossed almost a billion dollars.
I sold the rights soon after. Made out like Bill Gates or Zuckerberg, that Facebook guy. And I stopped writing the stuff. I hadn’t written anything else in three years. It was time to stop. Soon, double N KJ died the fate of all kid’s franchises -- it was replaced by the next big thing. No staying power. Damn, that guy got out at the right time, the biz rags said. I just thought it died because I wasn’t writing it drunk and high on my falling apart laptop listening to Springsteen. So much of his adventures came straight out of New Jersey. Only one blogger caught on too. I met the Boss once. He knew my stuff. Said he loved what I did with Nebraska on season 2. I smiled and took a picture with him. It’s still on the dashboard of my car. Where it’s been since the Polaroid dried that night.
“Barkeep!” she piped up. “Jerry, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jerry nodded.
“Another round for me and my fella here.”
My heart skipped the clichéd beat. I was smitten. Three 45s in and she had me. If she asked me to move to Idaho with her tomorrow, I would. I decided to tell her that.
“You don’t live in Idaho, do you?” I said with a grin.
“No. Why would you ask something like that?”
“Because if you asked me to move to Idaho tomorrow, I would.”
“Good to know.”
We took swigs out of our glasses. The jukebox switched again. Bruce’s “Shut Out the Light” came on. I smiled. My favorite Boss song.
“What were you going to ask me earlier?” Marla asked.
“Huh? Oh, that. I was going to ask you if you thought True Grit 2010 was better or worse than True Grit 1968? I personally think John Wayne kicks Jeff Bridges’ ass. I expected greatness from the Coen Brothers, but I only got goodness.”
“I haven’t seen the new one,” she said. “I saw the original with my daddy one night on cable TV. He said it was his favorite movie. So, I’d like to keep that moment. In fact, I’ll steal your description if anyone ever asks me that question again. What do you think Jerry?”
“I think Randy’s full of shit. The new one kicks the old one’s hiney,” he said.
“I disagree,” Marla said. “Goodness, not greatness.”
“Kindreds man, kindreds,” Jerry said as he polished a shot glass with a somewhat clean rag.
The jukebox clicked again. Del Shannon’s “Runaway” begins.
“This song, right here, is the only song about heartbreak that ever really needed to be written,” I pop out. “And that’s saying a lot, considering how obsessed with sad songs I was. Well, am. If it hadn’t been for Lucero, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you right now.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“About being here?”
“No. About the song, silly.”
“Just listen,” I say as Del belts out “I wah-wah-wah-wah-wander…Why… Why, why, why, why, why. She ran away.”
We sit still and listen to the entire song.
“You’re right. From a guy’s point of view,” she says. “But there’s no happy ending.”
“Exactly. There isn’t a happy ending in heartbreak. Even if you become friends again. Why? Because there’s always that little bit of you that thinks “what if?” It’s just the way it is.”
“What are you going to do when I break up with you?” she said.
“I’ll listen to Del Shannon and wonder why.”
“And I’ll listen to Bette and dream of the happy ending.”
“Well, it’s good to know in advance what’s coming.”
“Shut up you fool. Let’s get out of here.”
“I can do that.”
“Which?”
She walked into the bar at 1:37 p.m. I was sitting in my usual spot, three stools down from the cash register. Right as the door opened, letting in all that brightness from outside, the record on the jukebox switched. Out went Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” in went Smith’s fine version of “Baby It’s You.”
Her legs were endless. Her hair was blonde in the bar light. But she was a redhead. The corduroy skirt she was wearing was green. And a little too short. Not that I was complaining about it. She gave the place a once over. Stopping for a moment on me, then moving on to Jerry, the barkeep. The next thing I noticed were her high heels. They were big. But not ugly, slutty, stiletto big. For some reason, they seemed to be a part of her. An extension of her foot. They made only a slight clack sound as she started walked toward the bar. My heart sped up. So far, she was a dream. I was doing all I could not to wake up or let my jaw hit the bar.
She sat two seats down from me. Ordered a scotch and water. Jerry brought it to her quicker than I’d ever seen him deliver a drink. Yeah, the place was empty, but that was fast. I called him over. Told him that. He laughed. Soon, a new song clicked into place on the juke. Rick James’ “Ghetto Life”.
Being me, I looked at this goddess who just stumbled upon my haunt in the reflection of the bar mirror. She smiled. Not at me. But definitely for me to see.
“Hey, Jerry,” I said. “Give the lady another of what she’s drinking.”
“You got it Mr. Jo-hones.”
He loved to say my name like that. It was my pen name. Spelled slightly different than my real name, Jones. That way, all the talk show hosts had to call me that. It made me laugh. I hoped the only other person who knew my silly obsession with it got a snicker out of it to. Despite the way our relationship ended many years ago.
She drank the drink. I watched her. Yet, I was pulled back to her heels. A better man than me once said “there ain’t enough girls wearing high heels in this crowd.” For me, the crowd just got good. Usually, Jerry and I take up these afternoons debating whether or not the original “True Grit” with John Wayne is better than the Coen Brother’s take on it with Jeff Bridges.
I decide that’s as good an icebreaker as any other. Especially since the old buying a drink for the gal didn’t work for anything but a good look at some legs with heels.
“Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?” I say. Not as meekly as usual, I notice.
She looks at me with a blank stare. Not a good sign. The jukebox clicks off. The scratchy sounds of needle hitting wax begins. I wonder what song will break this unbearable silence. Bette Midler’s “The Rose” begins.
I slump down a bit as the notes begin to play.
“I love this song,” she says, looking right at me.
“Really? I say. Why is that?” A bit brazen a response, but I figure I’ll show confidence that I am lacking.
She gives me another look. I can’t place it. Then she speaks again. I have not completely destroyed this conversation.
“It’s a bit cliché, I know, but this song got me through the nights many times. Me, a bottle of whiskey and my thoughts of someone else. And I’m not embarrassed to say so.”
“Fuck right. And you shouldn’t be. It’s the songs that make the pain feel a little less. They step up and take the bullet for you.”
“Exactly,” she says. Pausing for about 10 seconds. “And thanks for the drink. My name is Marla.”
“Randy,” I say.
“Oh my goodness. You’re Randy Jo-hones? The writer?”
“Sadly, yes,” I cringe.
“What do you mean, sadly?”
“I wrote Nick, Nack, Knock. Jabberwock. That’s what people will remember me for. A damn kid’s ditty that turned into a monster.”
“You’re right. You suck,” she said with a wink and a tip of the glass. I looked down at my glass. It was empty. I put on my faux sad face.
That song, which I just called the double N KJ now was what paid my bills. I was drunk one night, strumming on a guitar, listening to Bruce Springsteen bootlegs when one came to an end. I kept strumming and mumbling words. Before I knew it, I’d written a short song. I’d never written a song in my life. I couldn’t read music. But the lyrics just flew out. Probably helped by the eight beers -- Celbration Bocks, to be exact -- and two joints rolled by my ex-girlfriend just two days earlier, and 16 hours before she’d leave me for the tight end for the Denver Broncos at a Lucero show at the Bluebird Café. After finishing the song, I passed out. In the morning, I woke up and read the song. Laughed and put it in a shoebox.
Three years later, I was on deadline at the newspaper I was pretending to write a column for. It was a weekly rag. Filled with plenty of citizen journalism and fluff. I was the sarcastic voice of the middle-aged white man. At least that’s what my blog’s “About Me” section said. I pictured Michael Douglas in the early to mid-1990s when his trilogy of angry scared white man movies -- Basic Instinct, Falling Down and Disclosure. It made me shudder. But that day, I was on deadline, drunk, and I had no column. The presses were supposed to be rolling in 20 minutes, my editor told me. So, I pulled out double N KJ and came up with a back story. It became an instant hit. Generating millions of hits for our rag in just a couple of days. Then 10s of millions. Soon, 100s of millions.
Hollywood came calling. They asked about the song. The character. They wanted a book. They envisioned a movie, starring Johnny Depp. Soon, I had money. Soon I was asked to be on Oprah’s show on her network. Then Jay Leno.
I turned them both down. And went on Craig Ferguson instead. That made me more famous. The sheer audacity of this nobody to do such a thing. Book sales took off. The movie was not made. But a television series for kids was. Then came the merchandising. Which, I took my cue from George Lucas and made sure it was all mine. This was laughed at when the contract was drawn up. It probably was cried about three years after it was signed. As the double N KJ franchise grossed almost a billion dollars.
I sold the rights soon after. Made out like Bill Gates or Zuckerberg, that Facebook guy. And I stopped writing the stuff. I hadn’t written anything else in three years. It was time to stop. Soon, double N KJ died the fate of all kid’s franchises -- it was replaced by the next big thing. No staying power. Damn, that guy got out at the right time, the biz rags said. I just thought it died because I wasn’t writing it drunk and high on my falling apart laptop listening to Springsteen. So much of his adventures came straight out of New Jersey. Only one blogger caught on too. I met the Boss once. He knew my stuff. Said he loved what I did with Nebraska on season 2. I smiled and took a picture with him. It’s still on the dashboard of my car. Where it’s been since the Polaroid dried that night.
“Barkeep!” she piped up. “Jerry, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jerry nodded.
“Another round for me and my fella here.”
My heart skipped the clichéd beat. I was smitten. Three 45s in and she had me. If she asked me to move to Idaho with her tomorrow, I would. I decided to tell her that.
“You don’t live in Idaho, do you?” I said with a grin.
“No. Why would you ask something like that?”
“Because if you asked me to move to Idaho tomorrow, I would.”
“Good to know.”
We took swigs out of our glasses. The jukebox switched again. Bruce’s “Shut Out the Light” came on. I smiled. My favorite Boss song.
“What were you going to ask me earlier?” Marla asked.
“Huh? Oh, that. I was going to ask you if you thought True Grit 2010 was better or worse than True Grit 1968? I personally think John Wayne kicks Jeff Bridges’ ass. I expected greatness from the Coen Brothers, but I only got goodness.”
“I haven’t seen the new one,” she said. “I saw the original with my daddy one night on cable TV. He said it was his favorite movie. So, I’d like to keep that moment. In fact, I’ll steal your description if anyone ever asks me that question again. What do you think Jerry?”
“I think Randy’s full of shit. The new one kicks the old one’s hiney,” he said.
“I disagree,” Marla said. “Goodness, not greatness.”
“Kindreds man, kindreds,” Jerry said as he polished a shot glass with a somewhat clean rag.
The jukebox clicked again. Del Shannon’s “Runaway” begins.
“This song, right here, is the only song about heartbreak that ever really needed to be written,” I pop out. “And that’s saying a lot, considering how obsessed with sad songs I was. Well, am. If it hadn’t been for Lucero, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you right now.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“About being here?”
“No. About the song, silly.”
“Just listen,” I say as Del belts out “I wah-wah-wah-wah-wander…Why… Why, why, why, why, why. She ran away.”
We sit still and listen to the entire song.
“You’re right. From a guy’s point of view,” she says. “But there’s no happy ending.”
“Exactly. There isn’t a happy ending in heartbreak. Even if you become friends again. Why? Because there’s always that little bit of you that thinks “what if?” It’s just the way it is.”
“What are you going to do when I break up with you?” she said.
“I’ll listen to Del Shannon and wonder why.”
“And I’ll listen to Bette and dream of the happy ending.”
“Well, it’s good to know in advance what’s coming.”
“Shut up you fool. Let’s get out of here.”
“I can do that.”
“Which?”
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Hey Odell!
I came home after many years. The drifting, the loneliness, the pain, it all finally came to a festering head. For years I’d run. Always trying to stay a step ahead, knowing full well I was always one behind.
My bus pulled into the Greyhound station at 4 p.m. in Richmond, Virginia. Right across the street from The Diamond ballpark on Boulevard.
A lot of my youth was spent in those stands. More was spent in old Parker Field, the old ballpark that this ugly monstrosity replaced back in 1984 or so. I loved Parker Field and it’s ratty bleachers and rusted metal poles everywhere. It had some character. The Diamond? It had none then. And now, over 25 years after it was built, still has none. Even the giant Indian -- Connecticut -- is gone. He had some “it” factor to it at least. More the “what the hell is it doing here?” or “why the hell did they build it here?” kind of thing. I always wondered why they called it Connecticut as a kid. But I never asked. Just like now, I don’t just Google why. That destroys something. I just called him “Chief Knock-A Homa.” Because that was what the white guy, white Italian guy when I met him, was called. He’d go around the stadium with his Indian garb on, taking photos with kids. I even got his autograph once. His wife was “Queen Win-A-Lotta.” So wrong now, but so right then.
That’s one of the good memories for sure.
I think that place is where I started to learn how to hide. My dad always took me to games. It was his way of bonding with me I guess. Taking me to games, professional ones like the minor league baseball games there of the Richmond Braves, or maybe a Washington Redskins game, or a UVA basketball game. Those were the times we were supposed to be father and son. What it really meant was dad goes and drinks with his buddies while little Randy tries to find something to do to get away from that.
At the games at Parker Field and the Diamond, I’d try to get autographs before it, sit with dad for a while, maybe getting something to eat, until he started drinking. Then, I’d get up and go. Just wander around the stadium. By myself. The ushers got to know me. Let me sneak into better box seats sometimes. Except for that ugly old guy. They called him Ratty. Don’t know if it was his nickname or his name. Whichever, it fit. He’d chase me out of places I shouldn’t be. So much so you’d try to find him early, so you knew where to avoid. Sometimes I’d just go way up in the rafters of the stadium. Look out at the city in the distance, dreaming of something else. Never really have been a pin-pointer of what exactly, but always something else than what was in front of me.
Other times, I’d play cup ball in the area behind first base. It was kind of like The Sandlot, except the kids were always different. Or if they weren’t, I didn’t know the difference. I don’t remember ever asking a name or anything from the other kids. Guess I always loved the distance anonymity allowed.
Foul balls and home runs interrupted games. That was it. Everything else was focus. If a person walked on to the field, they may get hit by a hand batted cup ball or by a throw from one of the fielders. That meant only one base, and some of us got good at hitting the fans instead of trying to actually get the out. It would save a run or two every so often. And get a good glare from someone who dared enter our territory. Every so often, a player would venture into our realm. Either going to the locker rooms or even to grab some food. The game would stop, and we’d all stare at them in awe. These behemoths of baseball. Walking amongst us.
Our game would end and everyone would go back to where they came from when the real game got close to ending. Sometimes we’d actually set a score to reach, or a number of innings. But that was not the norm. It was just a game that ended when it was supposed to. I’d hang out in the empty area many times. Sweaty and covered with ballpark grime -- a mixture of spilt beer and soda, chewing tobacco and spit, peanut shells and hot dog buns. The black under fingernails comforted me somehow.
Dad, on the other hand, he’d see me covered in the scum and get angry. “Go to the bathroom! And get cleaned up dammit! Why are you always so damn dirty?” he’d slur to me.
One time, he told me I smelled of shit. Loudly. And being that I mastered public shitting around my 14th birthday, he could have been right a lot of times. This time, he was too. I used to do everything in my power not to shit in public restrooms. Holding it in until it forced it’s way out like toothpaste tubs in your carry on luggage. At that point, I’d sit on my foot and use it as a barracade against the impending poo missile or missiles. Holding. Holding. Holding. It was embarrassing. In the middle of things, taking a knee and grimacing. He’d see me doing it sometimes and he’d yell at me. “Dammit boy, go to the bathroom!” He’d cuss up a storm. Even as a little kid in diapers I vaguely remember it. He’d scoop me up, smell my ass and tell me to “take a shit. Right Now!” I’d go in the toilet, sit on the bowel and cry. Sometimes he’d come in with me, keeping the door open and staring at me. He’d cuss more when I didn’t go. He’d then go drink some more.
Eventually, when he’d leave, I’d go. Always embarrassed.
One time, before we even left, I’d been too excited to poop. In the meantime, my drawers got a little soiled. On the ride to the game, he smelled it. He pulled to the side of Interstate 95 and smacked me. “You went in your pants again, didn’t you?” he yelled. I hadn’t, but I was sure there was a streak of something in there that smelled. “No,” I’d say meekly. He flipped me over and smelled my ass. “You’re lying!” his rage increased. Back home we’d go. “Change your clothes and go to the bathroom!”
I’d go inside, change while trying not to cry. My mom would ask why we were back. I wouldn’t answer. She’d figure it out soon enough, I thought to myself. She must figure these things out, right?
That place of so many good memories blurred always by the bad.
One time, my buddy Chris tagged along. I no longer had bowel issues by then, we were teenagers. Both geeks. But happy geeks. Getting autographs and eating Cracker Jacks while trying to catch foul balls. Still haven’t caught one to this day.
My dad, he drank a lot that night. Even before we left for the park. My buddy thought it was all so funny, my happier than usual dad. His dad didn’t drink, that I knew of. At least not in public. So this was probably some kind of visceral experience for him. For me, it was an average Tuesday night in the summer.
We got to the park, went after some autographs. We had our eyes on a veteran on the other team -- pitcher Odell Jones. He was a tall, lanky right-hander who was once a Pittsburgh Pirate. That made him almost a god to both of us. I thought he looked a lot like Satchell Paige, not that I’d ever seen ol’ Satch in real life or anything. Just a baseball card that was a painting of him.
He came out of the bullpen and signed our cards. Smiling the entire time. Cool, I thought. Odell is an alright guy.
We got back to our seats. They’re good ones on this night. My dad must’ve known someone who gave him the tickets. We’re hoping he’ll buy us some food.
“Who’d ya get?” he slurs to us.
I cringe. Chris smiles.
“Odell Jones,” Chris finally says. I look at him, hoping he’ll stop. Wondering why he spoke up.
“Odell? He’s starting today!” my dad blurts out in that just a little too loud voice that drunks share.
The next six innings, my dad and his buddy who is at the game, taunt Odell Jones.
“Heeeeeeeeeeeey Odell! Odelllllllllllllllllllllll. Odell. Odell. Jooooooooooooooooooooooones!” he yells. In between large Dixie Cups of beer.
Odell tosses six shutout innings that night. He’s in rare form for a guy with over a decade in pro baseball but pitching in Triple A now. As he lets two get on in the seventh, he’s yanked.
My dad stands up and continues the taunts.
“Odellllllll. Can’t you finish anything? I guess we know why you’re not in the show anymore!”
Odell looks up to find the bane of his night in Richmond. He finds us. And tips his cap to my dad. This brings a loud series of guffaws from my dad. He elbows his buddy. “We got to him, didn’t we?” His buddy takes a long sip of beer. I don’t think he’s amused anymore either.
I don’t speak on the entire trip home. We drop off Chris at his house.
Then my dad says “Odell was inspired tonight. Wasn’t he?”
I say nothing.
It’s a nice summer night when we get home. He pulls into the driveway. Parking the car. I get out. He doesn’t. Instead, he starts the car back up, puts it in reverse and goes. Luckily, I’ve been a latchkey kid since I was nine, so I have a key. Back to the bar, I guess.
Two things ring out as I look at my Odell Jones autographed card here in my parents’ house decades later, me back with the world around me collapsing. 1/I did a best not to become the bad in my dad, succeeding and failing, but mostly succeeding, and 2/Potty training patience definitely was inspired by my awesome experiences as a wee lad. It was the one good thing I did while dating my last girlfriend -- potty training her kid for her.
My bus pulled into the Greyhound station at 4 p.m. in Richmond, Virginia. Right across the street from The Diamond ballpark on Boulevard.
A lot of my youth was spent in those stands. More was spent in old Parker Field, the old ballpark that this ugly monstrosity replaced back in 1984 or so. I loved Parker Field and it’s ratty bleachers and rusted metal poles everywhere. It had some character. The Diamond? It had none then. And now, over 25 years after it was built, still has none. Even the giant Indian -- Connecticut -- is gone. He had some “it” factor to it at least. More the “what the hell is it doing here?” or “why the hell did they build it here?” kind of thing. I always wondered why they called it Connecticut as a kid. But I never asked. Just like now, I don’t just Google why. That destroys something. I just called him “Chief Knock-A Homa.” Because that was what the white guy, white Italian guy when I met him, was called. He’d go around the stadium with his Indian garb on, taking photos with kids. I even got his autograph once. His wife was “Queen Win-A-Lotta.” So wrong now, but so right then.
That’s one of the good memories for sure.
I think that place is where I started to learn how to hide. My dad always took me to games. It was his way of bonding with me I guess. Taking me to games, professional ones like the minor league baseball games there of the Richmond Braves, or maybe a Washington Redskins game, or a UVA basketball game. Those were the times we were supposed to be father and son. What it really meant was dad goes and drinks with his buddies while little Randy tries to find something to do to get away from that.
At the games at Parker Field and the Diamond, I’d try to get autographs before it, sit with dad for a while, maybe getting something to eat, until he started drinking. Then, I’d get up and go. Just wander around the stadium. By myself. The ushers got to know me. Let me sneak into better box seats sometimes. Except for that ugly old guy. They called him Ratty. Don’t know if it was his nickname or his name. Whichever, it fit. He’d chase me out of places I shouldn’t be. So much so you’d try to find him early, so you knew where to avoid. Sometimes I’d just go way up in the rafters of the stadium. Look out at the city in the distance, dreaming of something else. Never really have been a pin-pointer of what exactly, but always something else than what was in front of me.
Other times, I’d play cup ball in the area behind first base. It was kind of like The Sandlot, except the kids were always different. Or if they weren’t, I didn’t know the difference. I don’t remember ever asking a name or anything from the other kids. Guess I always loved the distance anonymity allowed.
Foul balls and home runs interrupted games. That was it. Everything else was focus. If a person walked on to the field, they may get hit by a hand batted cup ball or by a throw from one of the fielders. That meant only one base, and some of us got good at hitting the fans instead of trying to actually get the out. It would save a run or two every so often. And get a good glare from someone who dared enter our territory. Every so often, a player would venture into our realm. Either going to the locker rooms or even to grab some food. The game would stop, and we’d all stare at them in awe. These behemoths of baseball. Walking amongst us.
Our game would end and everyone would go back to where they came from when the real game got close to ending. Sometimes we’d actually set a score to reach, or a number of innings. But that was not the norm. It was just a game that ended when it was supposed to. I’d hang out in the empty area many times. Sweaty and covered with ballpark grime -- a mixture of spilt beer and soda, chewing tobacco and spit, peanut shells and hot dog buns. The black under fingernails comforted me somehow.
Dad, on the other hand, he’d see me covered in the scum and get angry. “Go to the bathroom! And get cleaned up dammit! Why are you always so damn dirty?” he’d slur to me.
One time, he told me I smelled of shit. Loudly. And being that I mastered public shitting around my 14th birthday, he could have been right a lot of times. This time, he was too. I used to do everything in my power not to shit in public restrooms. Holding it in until it forced it’s way out like toothpaste tubs in your carry on luggage. At that point, I’d sit on my foot and use it as a barracade against the impending poo missile or missiles. Holding. Holding. Holding. It was embarrassing. In the middle of things, taking a knee and grimacing. He’d see me doing it sometimes and he’d yell at me. “Dammit boy, go to the bathroom!” He’d cuss up a storm. Even as a little kid in diapers I vaguely remember it. He’d scoop me up, smell my ass and tell me to “take a shit. Right Now!” I’d go in the toilet, sit on the bowel and cry. Sometimes he’d come in with me, keeping the door open and staring at me. He’d cuss more when I didn’t go. He’d then go drink some more.
Eventually, when he’d leave, I’d go. Always embarrassed.
One time, before we even left, I’d been too excited to poop. In the meantime, my drawers got a little soiled. On the ride to the game, he smelled it. He pulled to the side of Interstate 95 and smacked me. “You went in your pants again, didn’t you?” he yelled. I hadn’t, but I was sure there was a streak of something in there that smelled. “No,” I’d say meekly. He flipped me over and smelled my ass. “You’re lying!” his rage increased. Back home we’d go. “Change your clothes and go to the bathroom!”
I’d go inside, change while trying not to cry. My mom would ask why we were back. I wouldn’t answer. She’d figure it out soon enough, I thought to myself. She must figure these things out, right?
That place of so many good memories blurred always by the bad.
One time, my buddy Chris tagged along. I no longer had bowel issues by then, we were teenagers. Both geeks. But happy geeks. Getting autographs and eating Cracker Jacks while trying to catch foul balls. Still haven’t caught one to this day.
My dad, he drank a lot that night. Even before we left for the park. My buddy thought it was all so funny, my happier than usual dad. His dad didn’t drink, that I knew of. At least not in public. So this was probably some kind of visceral experience for him. For me, it was an average Tuesday night in the summer.
We got to the park, went after some autographs. We had our eyes on a veteran on the other team -- pitcher Odell Jones. He was a tall, lanky right-hander who was once a Pittsburgh Pirate. That made him almost a god to both of us. I thought he looked a lot like Satchell Paige, not that I’d ever seen ol’ Satch in real life or anything. Just a baseball card that was a painting of him.
He came out of the bullpen and signed our cards. Smiling the entire time. Cool, I thought. Odell is an alright guy.
We got back to our seats. They’re good ones on this night. My dad must’ve known someone who gave him the tickets. We’re hoping he’ll buy us some food.
“Who’d ya get?” he slurs to us.
I cringe. Chris smiles.
“Odell Jones,” Chris finally says. I look at him, hoping he’ll stop. Wondering why he spoke up.
“Odell? He’s starting today!” my dad blurts out in that just a little too loud voice that drunks share.
The next six innings, my dad and his buddy who is at the game, taunt Odell Jones.
“Heeeeeeeeeeeey Odell! Odelllllllllllllllllllllll. Odell. Odell. Jooooooooooooooooooooooones!” he yells. In between large Dixie Cups of beer.
Odell tosses six shutout innings that night. He’s in rare form for a guy with over a decade in pro baseball but pitching in Triple A now. As he lets two get on in the seventh, he’s yanked.
My dad stands up and continues the taunts.
“Odellllllll. Can’t you finish anything? I guess we know why you’re not in the show anymore!”
Odell looks up to find the bane of his night in Richmond. He finds us. And tips his cap to my dad. This brings a loud series of guffaws from my dad. He elbows his buddy. “We got to him, didn’t we?” His buddy takes a long sip of beer. I don’t think he’s amused anymore either.
I don’t speak on the entire trip home. We drop off Chris at his house.
Then my dad says “Odell was inspired tonight. Wasn’t he?”
I say nothing.
It’s a nice summer night when we get home. He pulls into the driveway. Parking the car. I get out. He doesn’t. Instead, he starts the car back up, puts it in reverse and goes. Luckily, I’ve been a latchkey kid since I was nine, so I have a key. Back to the bar, I guess.
Two things ring out as I look at my Odell Jones autographed card here in my parents’ house decades later, me back with the world around me collapsing. 1/I did a best not to become the bad in my dad, succeeding and failing, but mostly succeeding, and 2/Potty training patience definitely was inspired by my awesome experiences as a wee lad. It was the one good thing I did while dating my last girlfriend -- potty training her kid for her.
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