The first awesome day of the not quite spring was in full force. Slobberbone was pouring out of the speakers at higher than recommended volume and beers were chilling in a cooler.
The lawn chair was rusted, but still all in one piece. Perfectly positioned in the driveway where one could see things coming and/or going. Yes, it was going to be a damn good day.
Then she drove by. Her dark blue Ford Tempo glistening in the sun. Well, glistening as much as a car can when it’s shrouded by the layer of salt that cars tend to become permanently attached to here.
Like always, she slows down in front of my house. I have no idea if it’s due to the impending stop sign at the intersection ahead, or if she only does it when I’m outside. I watch her car approach, slow and drive by. During which she smiles and waves at me.
I smile and wave back.
This happened a lot last summer and fall. Then, it stopped. I guess because I was never outside. The ass-bitingly cold winter sapped that out of me. A definite sign of my impending doom. Cold used to not bother me. But now, my teeth hurt. My muscles shake. My will disappears. It’s sad, really. I’m the guy that used to pride myself on wearing Umbro shorts 365 days a year. Snow? Hell, I’ll put on a sweatshirt. That kind of behavior was normal.
Now, I go outside and shiver. In jeans and long johns. Brr has replaced the whir in my life. I chalk it up to being really out of shape. I’m not fat, just don’t exercise much anymore. No more 30-mile bike rides to a thrift store in the deserts of Arizona to try and find an Atari cartridge that I didn’t have yet. Oh, the stupidity of youth. I still have credit card balances due to my endless “searching” for crap. Or later in life, riding into the projects of New Orleans en route to just taking in the town that I love so much. I still think I can get around on a bike there much better than in a car. When I moved to Virginia, the bike rides stopped. I lived in suburban sprawl, and I hated it. It became normal behavior. So much so, when I moved to the sticks of North Carolina, I didn’t start riding again. Of course, the couple of times I did there, I almost got killed, so maybe that has something to do with it? But fuck (ha!) I was hit by a Mercedes in Tempe once. Flew over the hood, landed and was fine. The Mercedes? Not so much. “You OK?” the guy driving exclaimed as I got back on my bike like an illegal running from the border patrol. He must’ve thought something was up with this pony-tailed skinny fucker. Meth maybe? “I’m fine, man,” I said. “But your car isn’t!” and I pedaled away.
As I sit in my lawn chair, pondering these thoughts I watch that Ford Tempo pull away. From what I can see through the muddied windshield, she’s cute. Probably in her early 30s. I wonder if we’ll ever actually speak. If I have anything to do with it, no. If she does, yes. Such is life. I take a swig of beer. My throat is sore. Been battling some kind of sickness for a week now. Last night I had a fever and chills. Today, I’m sitting outside drinking a beer and pondering strangers driving past and whether or not they’d date me. Pretty normal afternoon.
The wind kicks up something violent. Another thing about the beach that I haven’t quite got a grasp on. The wind. Right now, it’s 70 degrees out, but the wind blowing off the ocean drops the relative temp by 15 degrees when it gusts like this. 30, 40 mile per hour gusts. With the ocean still struggling to reach 50 degrees, it’s no wonder I feel sickly. That and my assorted ailments that not having health insurance will end up costing me a hell of a lot more down the road ass is filled with -- kidney stones, heart issues, diabetes, anemia, liver, etc…..It’s enough to drive one to drink. Yet, I usually stop after two beers now.
Getting old Jones. Getting old.
“Crow Pot Pie” is coming to an end. Much like this beautiful day. Thunderstorms will be raging soon. I’m hopeful for a real rager and not just some small thing. The old Weather Channel says it’s not severe here. I want to flog Jim Cantori for that.
I put in another CD. “Everything You Thought Was Right Was Wrong Today.” And I pop open a second beer. I’m going to wait for her to come home. Nothing else to do on a Monday afternoon.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
hot beer and memories
The beer in my backseat was starting to get hot. I knew it. Having stopped at the grocery store 20 miles from home turned out to not be the best of decisions. But it’s a sunk cost, as my econ professors used to say. Well, just that one guy, who I found out was jailed for shady practices many years later.
When I pulled in front of my house, I got angrier, and it wasn’t because Faster Pussycat was playing on my radio. That actually put me in a better mood for a few seconds.
It’s apparently hall of fame shagging night at the “shag bar” that I live across from. I tolerate their presence, and they mine. I laugh at them. They mock me.
It’s a healthy relationship.
Until tonight.
I pulled up to my house and a fucking brand new Lexus is parked in my driveway. I just got off work, want to cook some food, drink some beers and I can't even pull up to my house. I park in the yard and go straight over. I hear "The Ballad of The Hurricane" by Bob Dylan playing as I push the doors open (like in “Dazed and Confused” when Waterson does the same).
Instantly, the awful stench of White Shoulders -- the old-lady perfume -- overwhelms me. I’m unshaven, in dirty jeans and my old ass ASU hat. I’m full of stink and bile. They must love me. I poke a guy on the shoulder then a woman, saying excuse me, I need to go in.
"Wait in line.' one person says.
"The nerve," another does as I keep going forward. I’ve got a purpose, and it ain’t a special one. I got up to another old lady, writing names on badges. I guess, correctly, that she’s got some pull in this joint.
"I need you to make an announcement to move a car."
"Huh?"
"Someone's Lexus is in my driveway across the street. It must be moved. If not, it's going bye-bye. It’s getting towed."
She looks at me horrified. A kind of, who the hell does this guy think he is look comes across her face. It vaporizes when I don’t change the expression on mine. She then finds a guy in the background.
"Help this young man," she says with a point of the finger and a roll of the eyes.
It’s the best look a woman has given me in weeks. I’ll take it.
"What do you need?" he asks.
"I need someone in here, to move their car out of my driveway across the street. It's a grey Lexus."
"Uh, um."
My disdain felt towards the people I’m surrounded by must be showing in spades by now. This guy might even see devil horns growing out of my head. I don’t know. And I don’t care.
"Get the DJ to announce it. You've got 10 minutes."
"Till what," he asks.
"Till the car is on the back of a tow truck."
I leave. hearing Hurricane once again.
Don't think I made any friends. Been living here almost a year, finally went inside this place, and now I have to think I’ve made at least three anti-friends.
Five minutes later, the car is started up and moved.
Mission, as they say, accomplished.
I then realize that I didn’t take in the atmosphere of the club. I have no idea what goes on in there. Well, a vague picture of old folks shagging like it’s 1956, but that’s from public access television. I could have taken notes. Hell, I just crashed their biggest party of the year. And I don’t remember anything but a little waiting area and the sad smoking area -- outside with plastic wrap around it. Hell, I didn’t even notice what awful song was playing. Maybe I shouldn’t have my own private soundtrack going on? Nah. Fuck all that.
These are the times that I wonder about myself. When the mind starts to race and I become very one-dimensional in thought and action. Almost Hulkesque, if something can be Hulkesque.
When I pulled in front of my house, I got angrier, and it wasn’t because Faster Pussycat was playing on my radio. That actually put me in a better mood for a few seconds.
It’s apparently hall of fame shagging night at the “shag bar” that I live across from. I tolerate their presence, and they mine. I laugh at them. They mock me.
It’s a healthy relationship.
Until tonight.
I pulled up to my house and a fucking brand new Lexus is parked in my driveway. I just got off work, want to cook some food, drink some beers and I can't even pull up to my house. I park in the yard and go straight over. I hear "The Ballad of The Hurricane" by Bob Dylan playing as I push the doors open (like in “Dazed and Confused” when Waterson does the same).
Instantly, the awful stench of White Shoulders -- the old-lady perfume -- overwhelms me. I’m unshaven, in dirty jeans and my old ass ASU hat. I’m full of stink and bile. They must love me. I poke a guy on the shoulder then a woman, saying excuse me, I need to go in.
"Wait in line.' one person says.
"The nerve," another does as I keep going forward. I’ve got a purpose, and it ain’t a special one. I got up to another old lady, writing names on badges. I guess, correctly, that she’s got some pull in this joint.
"I need you to make an announcement to move a car."
"Huh?"
"Someone's Lexus is in my driveway across the street. It must be moved. If not, it's going bye-bye. It’s getting towed."
She looks at me horrified. A kind of, who the hell does this guy think he is look comes across her face. It vaporizes when I don’t change the expression on mine. She then finds a guy in the background.
"Help this young man," she says with a point of the finger and a roll of the eyes.
It’s the best look a woman has given me in weeks. I’ll take it.
"What do you need?" he asks.
"I need someone in here, to move their car out of my driveway across the street. It's a grey Lexus."
"Uh, um."
My disdain felt towards the people I’m surrounded by must be showing in spades by now. This guy might even see devil horns growing out of my head. I don’t know. And I don’t care.
"Get the DJ to announce it. You've got 10 minutes."
"Till what," he asks.
"Till the car is on the back of a tow truck."
I leave. hearing Hurricane once again.
Don't think I made any friends. Been living here almost a year, finally went inside this place, and now I have to think I’ve made at least three anti-friends.
Five minutes later, the car is started up and moved.
Mission, as they say, accomplished.
I then realize that I didn’t take in the atmosphere of the club. I have no idea what goes on in there. Well, a vague picture of old folks shagging like it’s 1956, but that’s from public access television. I could have taken notes. Hell, I just crashed their biggest party of the year. And I don’t remember anything but a little waiting area and the sad smoking area -- outside with plastic wrap around it. Hell, I didn’t even notice what awful song was playing. Maybe I shouldn’t have my own private soundtrack going on? Nah. Fuck all that.
These are the times that I wonder about myself. When the mind starts to race and I become very one-dimensional in thought and action. Almost Hulkesque, if something can be Hulkesque.
Friday, February 25, 2011
sad flaccidity
People are cruel.
All of us.
There isn’t a one of us that can say they aren’t. At least for a moment at some point in their life we’ve all done it. Crushed someone’s hopes. Broke another’s heart. Taken someone for granted. Stolen a possession.
I don’t care who you are. It happens.
Most of us don’t admit that about ourselves. We only see the victimization part of it. “There’s no way I’d ever do that to someone,” we say. Then we turn around and do it.
Life’s funny like that.
It’s why sad songs sell a hell of a lot better than happy ones. Disco, notwithstanding, and even some of those damn songs are hella depressing.
My thoughts drifted to this feeling while I was driving back to Florida. The second time in two weeks I’d done the nearly 1,000-mile trip to Gainesville. The couple of times I’ve been back to Florida since, I can’t help but think about this same feeling. It’s an empty feeling. As empty as it can get, I think.
She dumped me on the phone one night after work. I was ready to tell her I was ready to follow her. Instead, she told me not to bother. I felt the walls close in on me. The cliché became my world. I stammered into the phone for what seemed like days, but when I got the phone bill a few weeks later, found out it was 51 minutes. That was what six years was worth to her now, not even another hour.
I cried for days after that. Trying to talk to her each night, each call having less and less said. The second call was 33 minutes. The third was 11. The next time, she didn’t answer, so it went down as 1 minute.
“How could someone be this cruel,” I howled into the air. “I’d never do something like this to her,” I cursed into my pint glass at the local hole.
Yet all along, I knew that wasn’t true. I’d done the same to someone else. I killed someone’s ability to function, just like mine was now dead. This revelation didn’t come quickly. It was tapping me on the shoulder over and over, but I didn’t look back.
I wasn’t ready to admit that about myself. That I too was just as self-centered as everyone else. That the only time you truly can find “it” whatever “it” is, you have to give up on that. Maybe that’s why I’m still alone. Still scared to ask a girl for her phone number. Go up and say hello. Or even tell the girl that I like that I actually do like her.
Sitting alone some nights, I think about her. The girl that took my heart. And I try to wonder what she’s doing. If she ever thinks about me. If she has even an inch of regret. Then it dawns on me that she most likely doesn’t give a shit.
That, I guess, is what I don’t understand. I still give a shit. About them all. Even the girl who was my first kiss. At the ripe old age of 19. Her name, I have no idea. I just know she was wearing an N.C. State sweatshirt and jeans. She had brown hair. Was short. And went to Midlothian High School outside of Richmond.
We kissed in front of a fraternity house. I was in Charlottesville last year and I walked around. At one point I flashed back to that night. I was drunk. Very drunk. But I remembered that moment when we saw each other. I got her a beer and we started talking. Soon, we were outside. Holding hands. We kissed. I have no idea if I made the first move. But I doubt it. We made out in the streets, friends saw me, giving me the thumbs up.
I don’t remember how we got back to my dorm room, but we did. Made a beeline for the bedroom. Soon we were naked. I was quite nervous.
I tried, unsuccessfully to put my dick in her. It was soft, so it wasn’t going to happen. She pulled it away.
“You have a condom?” she asked.
My roommate walked in as I was grabbing her tits, she was sitting on top of me. I remember she had large nipples and a bit of a belly.
I started laughing. Riotously.
She got up and left.
That was my first attempt, and failure, at sex.
But you see, even in my failure, I was the asshole. I was rude.
Then I found out she propositioned one of my other suitemates on the way out.
Ha.
I wasn’t such a bad guy after all.
Or at least I could tell myself that.
All of us.
There isn’t a one of us that can say they aren’t. At least for a moment at some point in their life we’ve all done it. Crushed someone’s hopes. Broke another’s heart. Taken someone for granted. Stolen a possession.
I don’t care who you are. It happens.
Most of us don’t admit that about ourselves. We only see the victimization part of it. “There’s no way I’d ever do that to someone,” we say. Then we turn around and do it.
Life’s funny like that.
It’s why sad songs sell a hell of a lot better than happy ones. Disco, notwithstanding, and even some of those damn songs are hella depressing.
My thoughts drifted to this feeling while I was driving back to Florida. The second time in two weeks I’d done the nearly 1,000-mile trip to Gainesville. The couple of times I’ve been back to Florida since, I can’t help but think about this same feeling. It’s an empty feeling. As empty as it can get, I think.
She dumped me on the phone one night after work. I was ready to tell her I was ready to follow her. Instead, she told me not to bother. I felt the walls close in on me. The cliché became my world. I stammered into the phone for what seemed like days, but when I got the phone bill a few weeks later, found out it was 51 minutes. That was what six years was worth to her now, not even another hour.
I cried for days after that. Trying to talk to her each night, each call having less and less said. The second call was 33 minutes. The third was 11. The next time, she didn’t answer, so it went down as 1 minute.
“How could someone be this cruel,” I howled into the air. “I’d never do something like this to her,” I cursed into my pint glass at the local hole.
Yet all along, I knew that wasn’t true. I’d done the same to someone else. I killed someone’s ability to function, just like mine was now dead. This revelation didn’t come quickly. It was tapping me on the shoulder over and over, but I didn’t look back.
I wasn’t ready to admit that about myself. That I too was just as self-centered as everyone else. That the only time you truly can find “it” whatever “it” is, you have to give up on that. Maybe that’s why I’m still alone. Still scared to ask a girl for her phone number. Go up and say hello. Or even tell the girl that I like that I actually do like her.
Sitting alone some nights, I think about her. The girl that took my heart. And I try to wonder what she’s doing. If she ever thinks about me. If she has even an inch of regret. Then it dawns on me that she most likely doesn’t give a shit.
That, I guess, is what I don’t understand. I still give a shit. About them all. Even the girl who was my first kiss. At the ripe old age of 19. Her name, I have no idea. I just know she was wearing an N.C. State sweatshirt and jeans. She had brown hair. Was short. And went to Midlothian High School outside of Richmond.
We kissed in front of a fraternity house. I was in Charlottesville last year and I walked around. At one point I flashed back to that night. I was drunk. Very drunk. But I remembered that moment when we saw each other. I got her a beer and we started talking. Soon, we were outside. Holding hands. We kissed. I have no idea if I made the first move. But I doubt it. We made out in the streets, friends saw me, giving me the thumbs up.
I don’t remember how we got back to my dorm room, but we did. Made a beeline for the bedroom. Soon we were naked. I was quite nervous.
I tried, unsuccessfully to put my dick in her. It was soft, so it wasn’t going to happen. She pulled it away.
“You have a condom?” she asked.
My roommate walked in as I was grabbing her tits, she was sitting on top of me. I remember she had large nipples and a bit of a belly.
I started laughing. Riotously.
She got up and left.
That was my first attempt, and failure, at sex.
But you see, even in my failure, I was the asshole. I was rude.
Then I found out she propositioned one of my other suitemates on the way out.
Ha.
I wasn’t such a bad guy after all.
Or at least I could tell myself that.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
memphis in may
The half empty/half full debacle. I’ve always tried my damnedest to be optimistic about things, yet I seem to fall into pessimism pretty fast.
Take my upcoming birthday, for example. I’d planted the seeds for it back in 2007. Sitting in a bar one night with a bunch of my best friends. We all agreed to be there. I figured a couple would actually make it. I then spread the word to other friends, and it took on some kind of epic status.
Now, as the date is just a little over a month away, it appears all but two of my friends that aren’t already in New Orleans are going to bail on me.
Promises just ain’t what they used to be. I mean, I get it that shit happens and life changes and all that. But damn, this was something I thought could get some far off friends back together. Now, all I hear is excuses. Only one of which flies.
Oh well, the couple of people that show up will have a good time at least. And I hope I can find a way to as well. Shit, I’ve been disappointed by life for so long now I kind of expect it. I don’t want to expect it, but I do sometimes. This time, I had faith in people. So much so I spent over $700 bucks already to make it happen.
Shitty.
Maybe I’ll just find a hooker.
I’ll stop now. You don’t want to read this drivel.
***
Memphis in May.
I started writing a nice story here. Then my fucking computer just shut down. It does that now. It’s quite aggravating. Another obstacle to sanity.
Luckily for me, unluckily for you, it saved the top part. And the title of what I was beginning to write. I guess I’ll try again…
We agreed to meet in Memphis in May.
It seemed like such a grand idea. Especially mired in what had to be the worst winter that I’ll ever have to live through. Cold all the time. Snowing and icing every other fucking week. The freezing wind that blows off the ocean every, single night and day. And the loneliness of being somewhere fantastic by yourself.
The question was spur of the moment. The way it always was with her. I just blurted it out in a Facebook post. She responded, like she always did, in the positive. This is how it’s always been. First it was MySpace. Now it’s Facebook. It’s hard to remember what she sounds like, since almost all communication comes via these fucking social network sites.
I made a reservation. Flying in at noon. She said she did, too, but never gave a time.
I got a hotel room. With a view of the Mississippi flowing.
I showed up on time.
She never bothered.
I called. She didn’t answer.
I sent an unanswered text.
E-mail and postings didn’t bring a response.
So, instead of moping round, I went out to Beale Street. Checked into a small club. It was dark, smoky and not crowded at all. I slipped into a chair, left side of the stage and ordered a beer.
The waitress was tall, thin and black haired. I wondered her age in the dark. I guessed 23. When she stepped into the light, I could tell it was more like 35. A tattoo adorned her right arm, from top to bottom. The lowcut green shirt she wore showed off another on her right breast. I thought about fucking her for about 10 seconds, then the lights went out and a small lady appeared on stage.
She plopped down on a stool, holding an upright bass. She began strumming it softly, picking up the pace with every finger pluck.
Her hair was dark and curly, her eyes were big and blue -- the mesmerizing kind.
I listened to the notes. I heard her voice sing. Before I knew it, three hours had passed away.
As the lady left the stage, she stopped by my table with a smile.
“The bar’s closing, darling,” she cooed in a Southern way. “Would you like to get a drink?”
I couldn’t say much to this woman out of my class. I’d been stood up, I told her, and just had to get outside.
She smiled and took my hand, writing with her pen. She drew a heart with arrows piercing through my skin. Next she took out a piece of paper, writing something down.
“Don’t look at it till tomorrow. Only then will it mean something.”
Take my upcoming birthday, for example. I’d planted the seeds for it back in 2007. Sitting in a bar one night with a bunch of my best friends. We all agreed to be there. I figured a couple would actually make it. I then spread the word to other friends, and it took on some kind of epic status.
Now, as the date is just a little over a month away, it appears all but two of my friends that aren’t already in New Orleans are going to bail on me.
Promises just ain’t what they used to be. I mean, I get it that shit happens and life changes and all that. But damn, this was something I thought could get some far off friends back together. Now, all I hear is excuses. Only one of which flies.
Oh well, the couple of people that show up will have a good time at least. And I hope I can find a way to as well. Shit, I’ve been disappointed by life for so long now I kind of expect it. I don’t want to expect it, but I do sometimes. This time, I had faith in people. So much so I spent over $700 bucks already to make it happen.
Shitty.
Maybe I’ll just find a hooker.
I’ll stop now. You don’t want to read this drivel.
***
Memphis in May.
I started writing a nice story here. Then my fucking computer just shut down. It does that now. It’s quite aggravating. Another obstacle to sanity.
Luckily for me, unluckily for you, it saved the top part. And the title of what I was beginning to write. I guess I’ll try again…
We agreed to meet in Memphis in May.
It seemed like such a grand idea. Especially mired in what had to be the worst winter that I’ll ever have to live through. Cold all the time. Snowing and icing every other fucking week. The freezing wind that blows off the ocean every, single night and day. And the loneliness of being somewhere fantastic by yourself.
The question was spur of the moment. The way it always was with her. I just blurted it out in a Facebook post. She responded, like she always did, in the positive. This is how it’s always been. First it was MySpace. Now it’s Facebook. It’s hard to remember what she sounds like, since almost all communication comes via these fucking social network sites.
I made a reservation. Flying in at noon. She said she did, too, but never gave a time.
I got a hotel room. With a view of the Mississippi flowing.
I showed up on time.
She never bothered.
I called. She didn’t answer.
I sent an unanswered text.
E-mail and postings didn’t bring a response.
So, instead of moping round, I went out to Beale Street. Checked into a small club. It was dark, smoky and not crowded at all. I slipped into a chair, left side of the stage and ordered a beer.
The waitress was tall, thin and black haired. I wondered her age in the dark. I guessed 23. When she stepped into the light, I could tell it was more like 35. A tattoo adorned her right arm, from top to bottom. The lowcut green shirt she wore showed off another on her right breast. I thought about fucking her for about 10 seconds, then the lights went out and a small lady appeared on stage.
She plopped down on a stool, holding an upright bass. She began strumming it softly, picking up the pace with every finger pluck.
Her hair was dark and curly, her eyes were big and blue -- the mesmerizing kind.
I listened to the notes. I heard her voice sing. Before I knew it, three hours had passed away.
As the lady left the stage, she stopped by my table with a smile.
“The bar’s closing, darling,” she cooed in a Southern way. “Would you like to get a drink?”
I couldn’t say much to this woman out of my class. I’d been stood up, I told her, and just had to get outside.
She smiled and took my hand, writing with her pen. She drew a heart with arrows piercing through my skin. Next she took out a piece of paper, writing something down.
“Don’t look at it till tomorrow. Only then will it mean something.”
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
cold
They busted in with large guns blazing. There wasn’t anytime to think. It was reaction only.
“Blam!” one shot rang out. A groan. A scream. Then all hell broke loose.
Bullets started flying throughout the apartment. It used to be a warehouse, so it was just one big room. Glass shattered. Pillows exploded. It was chaos.
But it was also fun.
I pushed a new clip into my gun. Took aim and shot. Two more fell. By the shots, I figured there were three more out there. I was behind the big-ass kitchen table. Made out of some kind of stone that kept the bullets from reaching their target. My heart was beating fast. But not that fast. I took a moment to think about that. I wasn’t nervous, just on edge.
I saw her in the reflection of a pan hanging from the ceiling. She was crying. And bloody. I had to do something. Fast. Or she was going to die.
I sprung from my hiding place. No guns blazing like out of some John Woo movie. Instead, with a steady eye into the darkness. I knew one was in the right corner. I heard some whimpering, obviously he’d been hit somewhere low. Most likely the dick. He wasn’t going to do anything. The other two were together. Cursing the fact they fucked all this up. My goal was to get within 10 feet and just spray them. They didn’t let me.
Both of them jumped out, firing. Much like the Arquette in “Pulp Fiction” they missed everything. I simply shot four times -- two into each of them -- and they fell. Dead.
I went up to the whimpering guy. He was pale. Dying for sure. He was crying. He didn’t have a gun anymore. I looked at him. “Who sent you?” I asked. He didn’t answer. I shot him in the shoulder. “Who sent you?”
“Freedie,” he stuttered out. “Free, Free, Freedie, man. He sent us.”
“Figures,” I said, lowering the gun to his face. I didn’t shoot. I kicked. Out cold. He’ll be dead before he wakes up. Bled out via the hole where his dick used to be. My gun couldn’t have done that. One of his buddies did it.
I scurried over to her. She was shivering. I checked for any wounds. There weren’t any. I couldn’t figure out why she was covered in blood. Then I saw it. Her dog, Chevon, had no head. She must’ve been holding him. Yuck. Poor dog.
Scooping her into my arms, I went to the bathroom. Turned on the shower. Since I’m in the middle of nowhere in the Louisiana swamps, no cops are going to come calling. If anyone heard the ruckus, they went the other way. But, this place is compromised. I’ve got to leave. Fast. These guys would have needed to call in. Tell Freedie I was dead. They weren’t making that call now. So, a new batch would be coming. Maybe even that fat bastard himself. The water was warm now, I took her clothes off. She just sort of looked at me. She was scared, for sure. And now the man she’d been with for two years just killed six guys. There’s no explaining that. But, she’s in preservation mode now. Shock. She won’t protest.
I put her in the shower. “Get clean, baby,” I say. She just stands there. Watching the dog’s blood and pieces of fur trickle down the drain. I hand her a bar of soap. “Now!” She starts to scrub.
I go to my room. Change my clothes. Throw some in a bag. The safe is in there. I open it. It’s never locked. I take a few stacks of bills. Road money.
A phone rings. It’s not mine. Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz. One of these idiots had his phone on. Amateurs.
I find it. One missed call. Freedie. He’ll call one more time. Then he’ll be on the way. The room smells of smoke and piss. I’m sure every one of these guys has soiled himself in death. Maybe even in life. I do have a reputation.
I look at the wall. I see a picture. It’s from 15 years ago. Me and my ex. Her red hair glistening in the sun. She left me 5 years ago today. That’s certainly not a coincidence.
She stumbles out of the bathroom. Still naked. God damn she’s beautiful. I instantly wish I’d never met her. She’s got Cajun in her, but her family moved out years ago. She came back to help clean up after the BP spill. Met me while bartending in a local dive. I think she fell in love the second night we went out. I never did. And it hurt me to think so. She deserved better than some guy still in love with the past. Still in love with a woman who left for a job. Left for herself. Left to be alone. Leaving me alone.
“Hey,” she said. It startled me a little. “You’re not taking her picture?”
I grabbed it off the wall. She frowned. I hoped she’d not hate me. But after this, there’s no chance.
“Put on some clothes, we’ve got to get the fuck out of here.”
“Who were these guys?”
“If I tell you, they’ll kill you.”
“Sounds like I’m fucked either way.”
Fucked. So magical the way she says that. I think that’s why I let her into my life. The way she said fucked. I still remember the first time I heard it. The Eagles’ “Desperado” was just ending on the jukebox. I said “fuck the Eagles, man.” And she said “consider yourself fucked,” and then played “Hotel California” with a smile. She bought me an Abita and gave me a smile. I gave her nothing in return. Yet she stuck around.
We got into my car, a beat up old 1991 Toyota Celica with a rusted moon roof. She always laughed at my car. I told her it was the best damn car in the world.
Thankfully, Freedie didn’t know of my love for Celica’s of the 1991 vintage. He and his boys wouldn’t think twice if we passed him by on the road in one. I stared the engine. It purred. I put on Lucero’s “That Much Further West” and pointed her directly in that direction.
The sun was coming up. It felt cold. I looked at her. She was going to sleep. Good. It’s going to be a long drive.
“Blam!” one shot rang out. A groan. A scream. Then all hell broke loose.
Bullets started flying throughout the apartment. It used to be a warehouse, so it was just one big room. Glass shattered. Pillows exploded. It was chaos.
But it was also fun.
I pushed a new clip into my gun. Took aim and shot. Two more fell. By the shots, I figured there were three more out there. I was behind the big-ass kitchen table. Made out of some kind of stone that kept the bullets from reaching their target. My heart was beating fast. But not that fast. I took a moment to think about that. I wasn’t nervous, just on edge.
I saw her in the reflection of a pan hanging from the ceiling. She was crying. And bloody. I had to do something. Fast. Or she was going to die.
I sprung from my hiding place. No guns blazing like out of some John Woo movie. Instead, with a steady eye into the darkness. I knew one was in the right corner. I heard some whimpering, obviously he’d been hit somewhere low. Most likely the dick. He wasn’t going to do anything. The other two were together. Cursing the fact they fucked all this up. My goal was to get within 10 feet and just spray them. They didn’t let me.
Both of them jumped out, firing. Much like the Arquette in “Pulp Fiction” they missed everything. I simply shot four times -- two into each of them -- and they fell. Dead.
I went up to the whimpering guy. He was pale. Dying for sure. He was crying. He didn’t have a gun anymore. I looked at him. “Who sent you?” I asked. He didn’t answer. I shot him in the shoulder. “Who sent you?”
“Freedie,” he stuttered out. “Free, Free, Freedie, man. He sent us.”
“Figures,” I said, lowering the gun to his face. I didn’t shoot. I kicked. Out cold. He’ll be dead before he wakes up. Bled out via the hole where his dick used to be. My gun couldn’t have done that. One of his buddies did it.
I scurried over to her. She was shivering. I checked for any wounds. There weren’t any. I couldn’t figure out why she was covered in blood. Then I saw it. Her dog, Chevon, had no head. She must’ve been holding him. Yuck. Poor dog.
Scooping her into my arms, I went to the bathroom. Turned on the shower. Since I’m in the middle of nowhere in the Louisiana swamps, no cops are going to come calling. If anyone heard the ruckus, they went the other way. But, this place is compromised. I’ve got to leave. Fast. These guys would have needed to call in. Tell Freedie I was dead. They weren’t making that call now. So, a new batch would be coming. Maybe even that fat bastard himself. The water was warm now, I took her clothes off. She just sort of looked at me. She was scared, for sure. And now the man she’d been with for two years just killed six guys. There’s no explaining that. But, she’s in preservation mode now. Shock. She won’t protest.
I put her in the shower. “Get clean, baby,” I say. She just stands there. Watching the dog’s blood and pieces of fur trickle down the drain. I hand her a bar of soap. “Now!” She starts to scrub.
I go to my room. Change my clothes. Throw some in a bag. The safe is in there. I open it. It’s never locked. I take a few stacks of bills. Road money.
A phone rings. It’s not mine. Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz. One of these idiots had his phone on. Amateurs.
I find it. One missed call. Freedie. He’ll call one more time. Then he’ll be on the way. The room smells of smoke and piss. I’m sure every one of these guys has soiled himself in death. Maybe even in life. I do have a reputation.
I look at the wall. I see a picture. It’s from 15 years ago. Me and my ex. Her red hair glistening in the sun. She left me 5 years ago today. That’s certainly not a coincidence.
She stumbles out of the bathroom. Still naked. God damn she’s beautiful. I instantly wish I’d never met her. She’s got Cajun in her, but her family moved out years ago. She came back to help clean up after the BP spill. Met me while bartending in a local dive. I think she fell in love the second night we went out. I never did. And it hurt me to think so. She deserved better than some guy still in love with the past. Still in love with a woman who left for a job. Left for herself. Left to be alone. Leaving me alone.
“Hey,” she said. It startled me a little. “You’re not taking her picture?”
I grabbed it off the wall. She frowned. I hoped she’d not hate me. But after this, there’s no chance.
“Put on some clothes, we’ve got to get the fuck out of here.”
“Who were these guys?”
“If I tell you, they’ll kill you.”
“Sounds like I’m fucked either way.”
Fucked. So magical the way she says that. I think that’s why I let her into my life. The way she said fucked. I still remember the first time I heard it. The Eagles’ “Desperado” was just ending on the jukebox. I said “fuck the Eagles, man.” And she said “consider yourself fucked,” and then played “Hotel California” with a smile. She bought me an Abita and gave me a smile. I gave her nothing in return. Yet she stuck around.
We got into my car, a beat up old 1991 Toyota Celica with a rusted moon roof. She always laughed at my car. I told her it was the best damn car in the world.
Thankfully, Freedie didn’t know of my love for Celica’s of the 1991 vintage. He and his boys wouldn’t think twice if we passed him by on the road in one. I stared the engine. It purred. I put on Lucero’s “That Much Further West” and pointed her directly in that direction.
The sun was coming up. It felt cold. I looked at her. She was going to sleep. Good. It’s going to be a long drive.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
hello sadness
He came home. It was dark, cold and silent. That was the hardest part to get used to. The silence. His house used to be full of noise. Full of action. Now, it was just a shell. A place to lay his head at night. Alone.
Thoughts tend to betray when sadness dominates. He knows this. Yet he keeps a room in the dingy hotel where loneliness resides. In some ways, it’s comforting the emptiness. It’s been with him most of his life. He remembers feeling this way as early as 8. Just apart from everyone else. It used to be easier to fight off. To lock away with a smile, a laugh or even a game of hoops with friends. But as the years multiplied, so did the power of that dark force. He’d be at a gathering -- a party, a concert, a sporting event, anything -- and sadness would show up and butt into a conversation. Rendering him silent.
Dogs seemed to know. When he was in places where dogs were roaming around, they would migrate towards him.
“That dog sure likes you!” or “Too bad you’re not a dog too!” were the kinds of comments he’d get sometimes. Many times, he’d just say “well, the dogs and me, we just get along better than people and me.”
His first girlfriend, at the age of 20, took away a lot of the power of loneliness. He remembered bits and pieces of feeling like this. Like when he walked home with the girl he had a crush on in high school. They talked, laughed and simply talked like people are supposed to. Not like the insanely shy person he was inside the walls of the school. He knew where she lived. Had rode his bike past her house many, many times over the years. Yet, when it came time to take the turn to her house, she hesitated. Said “see you at school tomorrow,” and walked down a different road. He took the cue. And the sadness tapped him on the shoulder. She moved away soon after.
That first girlfriend treated him like shit. He really didn’t mind. At least she was treating him to something. Eventually, she cheated on him and dumped him. Married that guy. Started a trend of girls coming, then going away with their eventual beau. It made him cringe when they made a movie much like that, except that guy was a happy-go-lucky dude, who seemed to enjoy the curse. Which, really, is what it is. Hell, even the lesbian he dated “married” the first girl she was with.
Now, he thinks back on all of it. Every day when he comes home to an empty house. Friends tell him to get over it. To go out. Yet, they don’t go out with him. They’re married. Most with kids. He’s just the old single guy now. Attractive women call him “sir” now.
He used to hang out with loneliness and his pals bottles of beer. Luckily, that’s a thing of the past. For the liver and for the wallet. Still, he can’t help but think that those bottles actually contributed to his state. His lot in life. Along with this own insecurities that he can’t figure out from whence they came. He’s tried. Even in therapy. To figure out where these awful thoughts came from. A few months ago, a breakthrough of sorts. His dad admitted he was depressed. Had been for decades. And he “understood” his son’s feelings and failures more than he had before.
Hearing that made him feel better. Since then, he hasn’t dredged the bottom too often.
A line he wrote down, he thinks it’s somewhat original in thought summed it up.
“I knew I was over you when those songs didn’t remind me of you anymore.”
Even though he knows he’ll never be over it, it’s just not possible, and people who say they are, they are just better at covering it with dirt than he is. Because the deeper you bury it, the less likely it is to come back and grab your ankles.
So now, he opens up the blinds every day. At least when it’s warm -- bad insulation and all. Lets the sun shine in. Brighten up the house, brighten up the day, brighten up your mood. That would make a good greeting card or cheesy Target “room art” piece.
Mick Jagger belts out a tune and Keef a riff. Friends are visiting this weekend. And loneliness can stay in his room alone for awhile. He likes it better that way anyways…
Thoughts tend to betray when sadness dominates. He knows this. Yet he keeps a room in the dingy hotel where loneliness resides. In some ways, it’s comforting the emptiness. It’s been with him most of his life. He remembers feeling this way as early as 8. Just apart from everyone else. It used to be easier to fight off. To lock away with a smile, a laugh or even a game of hoops with friends. But as the years multiplied, so did the power of that dark force. He’d be at a gathering -- a party, a concert, a sporting event, anything -- and sadness would show up and butt into a conversation. Rendering him silent.
Dogs seemed to know. When he was in places where dogs were roaming around, they would migrate towards him.
“That dog sure likes you!” or “Too bad you’re not a dog too!” were the kinds of comments he’d get sometimes. Many times, he’d just say “well, the dogs and me, we just get along better than people and me.”
His first girlfriend, at the age of 20, took away a lot of the power of loneliness. He remembered bits and pieces of feeling like this. Like when he walked home with the girl he had a crush on in high school. They talked, laughed and simply talked like people are supposed to. Not like the insanely shy person he was inside the walls of the school. He knew where she lived. Had rode his bike past her house many, many times over the years. Yet, when it came time to take the turn to her house, she hesitated. Said “see you at school tomorrow,” and walked down a different road. He took the cue. And the sadness tapped him on the shoulder. She moved away soon after.
That first girlfriend treated him like shit. He really didn’t mind. At least she was treating him to something. Eventually, she cheated on him and dumped him. Married that guy. Started a trend of girls coming, then going away with their eventual beau. It made him cringe when they made a movie much like that, except that guy was a happy-go-lucky dude, who seemed to enjoy the curse. Which, really, is what it is. Hell, even the lesbian he dated “married” the first girl she was with.
Now, he thinks back on all of it. Every day when he comes home to an empty house. Friends tell him to get over it. To go out. Yet, they don’t go out with him. They’re married. Most with kids. He’s just the old single guy now. Attractive women call him “sir” now.
He used to hang out with loneliness and his pals bottles of beer. Luckily, that’s a thing of the past. For the liver and for the wallet. Still, he can’t help but think that those bottles actually contributed to his state. His lot in life. Along with this own insecurities that he can’t figure out from whence they came. He’s tried. Even in therapy. To figure out where these awful thoughts came from. A few months ago, a breakthrough of sorts. His dad admitted he was depressed. Had been for decades. And he “understood” his son’s feelings and failures more than he had before.
Hearing that made him feel better. Since then, he hasn’t dredged the bottom too often.
A line he wrote down, he thinks it’s somewhat original in thought summed it up.
“I knew I was over you when those songs didn’t remind me of you anymore.”
Even though he knows he’ll never be over it, it’s just not possible, and people who say they are, they are just better at covering it with dirt than he is. Because the deeper you bury it, the less likely it is to come back and grab your ankles.
So now, he opens up the blinds every day. At least when it’s warm -- bad insulation and all. Lets the sun shine in. Brighten up the house, brighten up the day, brighten up your mood. That would make a good greeting card or cheesy Target “room art” piece.
Mick Jagger belts out a tune and Keef a riff. Friends are visiting this weekend. And loneliness can stay in his room alone for awhile. He likes it better that way anyways…
Thursday, February 17, 2011
holiday in cambodia
First the car died. That was in May of last year.
Then my favorite shirts started to fall apart.
Next, the only buddy I have here, stopped really hanging out.
Signs?
I thought for a moment. The last time my car died was in late 2005. I also bought a lot of new clothes that year. And, my girlfriend of six years dumped my ass early in 2006.
Yeah, I should take these things more seriously.
***
“When did you get so old?” she said, very matter-of-factly. “The last time I saw you, you looked no different than in college. Except your hair was short. Now? Damn, you look like a different person.”
“Hey! Nice to see you too!” I replied. Yeah, I was hurt by that. I know my hair is gone. My teeth are crooked and yellow. But I’m still the same little kid inside whose heart you crushed back in 1992.
She’d been married. Divorced. Then married again since then.
Me? I’d been in three relationships. So, I guess I was keeping up. In some way.
She looked older. But she was actually sexier than she was at 22. Her curves were more defined. I guess you’d say she resembled a Jewish Courteney Cox now. Hell, is Courteney Cox Jewish anyway? Making that a really silly way to describe her.
“What are you doing with your life now?” she asked.
I loathed this about seeing old friends. Ones that I’ve stayed in touch with, but who haven’t really stayed in touch with me. Every so often they’ll remember to send me a card on Christmas. Maybe my birthday. But only after I’ve sent them one. Which I always do. But really, she’s got kids. She’s got a successful career. I’m just a guy she made out with a few times. A guy who fell for her, but she didn’t fall for me. I’ve always wanted to ask why. But I’ve always kind of had an idea of why. She was always very success driven. I wasn’t. She saw me becoming exactly what I’ve become -- just an average guy. Smarter than most, but not looking to get anywhere except to tomorrow.
I guess she was right. Either that, or I have low self-esteem. Well, I know I have that. So I still don’t know.
“You know, the usual,” I said.
She stared off into the distance. Her kids were playing on a swing there. I knew right then, I’d probably never see her again.
And here I am, three years later and I haven’t.
***
I walked in. She was blasting Aerosmith’s “Rocks” way too loudly for the dog. He was sitting in a corner, hiding from Steven Tyler’s dragging out of the word “Yooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooouuuunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng.” I didn’t blame the mutt for doing so.
Walking straight to the stereo, I turned knob to the left. The digital readout of volume went from 55 to 34.
“What’d you do that for?” she asked me.
“Sidney’s in a state over there in the corner,” I said. “I think he’s still mad about the whole American Idol thing.”
“Huh? You’ve never even seen that show,” she said derisively, knowing full well that I left every time she turned that God-awful abomination on on my 32-inch Toshiba tele. The non-high def kind as well. I refused to buy into the notion of “having” to buy a new, more expensive and more importantly -- cheaply made -- tele just so I could watch broadcast TV. It really seemed to fly against the whole “free airwaves” concept that supposedly the broadcast channels, including “public TV”, were given to us Americans.
Now, I hear the voices of the over-educated masses telling me that nowhere in the Constitution does it guarantee the right to watch “The Simpsons”. And yes, you are correct in this proclamation. But it also doesn’t say you can get amour piercing bullets for your guns that you only have for “family protection.”
Fuck. I need a beer. Another mindless day at work will do that to a person. I want to have sex, but I can tell by the look on her face, that she doesn’t. I figure I can just go in the bathroom, jerk off into the toilet and be done with it. Hope she won’t want me to move any furniture for a few hours, since my legs will be out from under me for a bit.
The kitchen is its usual mess. No dish has been washed for about two weeks. I can tell because even the old 1970s Hardee’s plastic cups I bought one day in a thrift store are dirty. She’s really a mess. But damn she’s cute. I’m a sucker, my dad would tell me if he was here. “Probably rank this one a 5, just because she’s so damn cute, otherwise, she’s a 2.”
I go to the back room. There, my hidden fridge is waiting for me. And by hidden fridge, I mean my cooler outside by the trash can. It’s in the 40s still at night, so the beers stay nice and cool. And I don’t need my mountains to turn blue to be able to tell.
I grab a Shiner Blonde, pop the top and take a long, deserved swig.
“Life’s good now,” I say, bastardizing the corporate slogan that my father has taken to saying way too much. I wonder for a moment if he’s in therapy? And if he’s seeing the same doctor that one of my Facebook “friends” is so obviously seeing. No one says “Life is Good!” that many times. I don’t fucking care if your life is peachy. You just don’t rub it in everyone else’s face on a daily basis unless you’re told to do so. Like being a prisoner of war in Cambodia.
Then my favorite shirts started to fall apart.
Next, the only buddy I have here, stopped really hanging out.
Signs?
I thought for a moment. The last time my car died was in late 2005. I also bought a lot of new clothes that year. And, my girlfriend of six years dumped my ass early in 2006.
Yeah, I should take these things more seriously.
***
“When did you get so old?” she said, very matter-of-factly. “The last time I saw you, you looked no different than in college. Except your hair was short. Now? Damn, you look like a different person.”
“Hey! Nice to see you too!” I replied. Yeah, I was hurt by that. I know my hair is gone. My teeth are crooked and yellow. But I’m still the same little kid inside whose heart you crushed back in 1992.
She’d been married. Divorced. Then married again since then.
Me? I’d been in three relationships. So, I guess I was keeping up. In some way.
She looked older. But she was actually sexier than she was at 22. Her curves were more defined. I guess you’d say she resembled a Jewish Courteney Cox now. Hell, is Courteney Cox Jewish anyway? Making that a really silly way to describe her.
“What are you doing with your life now?” she asked.
I loathed this about seeing old friends. Ones that I’ve stayed in touch with, but who haven’t really stayed in touch with me. Every so often they’ll remember to send me a card on Christmas. Maybe my birthday. But only after I’ve sent them one. Which I always do. But really, she’s got kids. She’s got a successful career. I’m just a guy she made out with a few times. A guy who fell for her, but she didn’t fall for me. I’ve always wanted to ask why. But I’ve always kind of had an idea of why. She was always very success driven. I wasn’t. She saw me becoming exactly what I’ve become -- just an average guy. Smarter than most, but not looking to get anywhere except to tomorrow.
I guess she was right. Either that, or I have low self-esteem. Well, I know I have that. So I still don’t know.
“You know, the usual,” I said.
She stared off into the distance. Her kids were playing on a swing there. I knew right then, I’d probably never see her again.
And here I am, three years later and I haven’t.
***
I walked in. She was blasting Aerosmith’s “Rocks” way too loudly for the dog. He was sitting in a corner, hiding from Steven Tyler’s dragging out of the word “Yooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooouuuunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng.” I didn’t blame the mutt for doing so.
Walking straight to the stereo, I turned knob to the left. The digital readout of volume went from 55 to 34.
“What’d you do that for?” she asked me.
“Sidney’s in a state over there in the corner,” I said. “I think he’s still mad about the whole American Idol thing.”
“Huh? You’ve never even seen that show,” she said derisively, knowing full well that I left every time she turned that God-awful abomination on on my 32-inch Toshiba tele. The non-high def kind as well. I refused to buy into the notion of “having” to buy a new, more expensive and more importantly -- cheaply made -- tele just so I could watch broadcast TV. It really seemed to fly against the whole “free airwaves” concept that supposedly the broadcast channels, including “public TV”, were given to us Americans.
Now, I hear the voices of the over-educated masses telling me that nowhere in the Constitution does it guarantee the right to watch “The Simpsons”. And yes, you are correct in this proclamation. But it also doesn’t say you can get amour piercing bullets for your guns that you only have for “family protection.”
Fuck. I need a beer. Another mindless day at work will do that to a person. I want to have sex, but I can tell by the look on her face, that she doesn’t. I figure I can just go in the bathroom, jerk off into the toilet and be done with it. Hope she won’t want me to move any furniture for a few hours, since my legs will be out from under me for a bit.
The kitchen is its usual mess. No dish has been washed for about two weeks. I can tell because even the old 1970s Hardee’s plastic cups I bought one day in a thrift store are dirty. She’s really a mess. But damn she’s cute. I’m a sucker, my dad would tell me if he was here. “Probably rank this one a 5, just because she’s so damn cute, otherwise, she’s a 2.”
I go to the back room. There, my hidden fridge is waiting for me. And by hidden fridge, I mean my cooler outside by the trash can. It’s in the 40s still at night, so the beers stay nice and cool. And I don’t need my mountains to turn blue to be able to tell.
I grab a Shiner Blonde, pop the top and take a long, deserved swig.
“Life’s good now,” I say, bastardizing the corporate slogan that my father has taken to saying way too much. I wonder for a moment if he’s in therapy? And if he’s seeing the same doctor that one of my Facebook “friends” is so obviously seeing. No one says “Life is Good!” that many times. I don’t fucking care if your life is peachy. You just don’t rub it in everyone else’s face on a daily basis unless you’re told to do so. Like being a prisoner of war in Cambodia.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
the mailbox
I wanted so much for the letter to be good news. It had been a long time since she last wrote me. It made me nervous with each passing day when nothing came in my mailbox.
We’d made the agreement to write each other as often as we could. At first, the words flowed like wine. Filling up pages and pages, front and back. Expressions of love, of misery, of happiness, of longing. Everything was possible and everything was certain about our love.
Slowly, the pace of the letters slowed. First it was her. She didn’t respond quite as often or as enthusiastically as before. I kept my pace up. Figuring her busy schedule didn’t allow for as much writing. But, I’d always been able to communicate with words on paper instead of words in the air.
It’s why she got so mad when we talked on the phone. I was completely happy listening to her breathe. It made me feel, if I closed my eyes tight enough and no one was slinging garbage into the bin located right outside of my apartment, that she was laying there with me on my broken down futon.
“Why do we just sit here in silence?” she’d ask annoyed at my lack of conversation.
“I like it,” sometimes I’d say. Other times I might just say “I don’t know?” And other times I’d just let out a sigh. That was never a good reaction, but it was a natural one. It wasn’t important to me to hear words. It never dawned on me that she did need it. My words on paper were great, but hearing them from my own voice meant so much more to her than it did to me. A look when we were eating dinner could last me for a month, just knowing she loved me.
I guess I should have tried harder. Or something. I felt I was trying. But you always think that when you’re in the moment.
Yet I never blamed her for the words she’d sometimes say to me. They were cruel sometimes. Harsh at other times. She was just lonely. Wasn’t used to being by herself like I was. I’d seriously been alone for most of my life. The time living with her was about the closest I’d ever been to a person except for my mother. And she used to read books when she was at my soccer games, and she tried to shake my hand when she handed me my diploma at my high school graduation. Me? I went in for the hug. She, the handshake. Awkward.
It’s why she helped me. She helped me learn how to be a person in many ways. Get out of the shell of terror.
Which is why I always go to the mailbox hoping for the best, never what it usually is -- empty.
As the days turned to months and then a year, my words kept trying to flow. Hers, they eventually dried up.
I didn’t have a cell phone. I still had dial up internet. So, I bought calling cards. A lot of them. And we would argue on the phone. Paying to be humiliated, I’d say to myself while looking at a photo of her.
Eventually, the phone calls stopped too.
Then one day, a letter came. It was from her. We’d seen each other just a couple weeks before, so it was a surprise. It contained a short letter. It ended with I love you, Fini, the pet name I gave her.
It also had a CD. I listened to it. It was full of songs I’d never heard, along with a few I loved. I called her and told her I liked it. She asked if I’d listened to it. I found that odd. She said to listen to it.
I did. Over and over. I loved it.
Less than two weeks later, she had her future set. The future we’d been trying to get to for years.
And she stopped talking to me.
A couple weeks later, she called me. It was over, she said. I cried. Asked why. She didn’t answer that.
I still think about that day. Too much really. And I write. To no one and everyone. I’d like to go to the mailbox again some day, and find another letter. One that got lost in time somehow and forwarded around and around, until it finally found me. Old. Tired. But still alive.
In it would be what I used to love. And for a moment, I could go back there. Not to stay, but just to remember.
We’d made the agreement to write each other as often as we could. At first, the words flowed like wine. Filling up pages and pages, front and back. Expressions of love, of misery, of happiness, of longing. Everything was possible and everything was certain about our love.
Slowly, the pace of the letters slowed. First it was her. She didn’t respond quite as often or as enthusiastically as before. I kept my pace up. Figuring her busy schedule didn’t allow for as much writing. But, I’d always been able to communicate with words on paper instead of words in the air.
It’s why she got so mad when we talked on the phone. I was completely happy listening to her breathe. It made me feel, if I closed my eyes tight enough and no one was slinging garbage into the bin located right outside of my apartment, that she was laying there with me on my broken down futon.
“Why do we just sit here in silence?” she’d ask annoyed at my lack of conversation.
“I like it,” sometimes I’d say. Other times I might just say “I don’t know?” And other times I’d just let out a sigh. That was never a good reaction, but it was a natural one. It wasn’t important to me to hear words. It never dawned on me that she did need it. My words on paper were great, but hearing them from my own voice meant so much more to her than it did to me. A look when we were eating dinner could last me for a month, just knowing she loved me.
I guess I should have tried harder. Or something. I felt I was trying. But you always think that when you’re in the moment.
Yet I never blamed her for the words she’d sometimes say to me. They were cruel sometimes. Harsh at other times. She was just lonely. Wasn’t used to being by herself like I was. I’d seriously been alone for most of my life. The time living with her was about the closest I’d ever been to a person except for my mother. And she used to read books when she was at my soccer games, and she tried to shake my hand when she handed me my diploma at my high school graduation. Me? I went in for the hug. She, the handshake. Awkward.
It’s why she helped me. She helped me learn how to be a person in many ways. Get out of the shell of terror.
Which is why I always go to the mailbox hoping for the best, never what it usually is -- empty.
As the days turned to months and then a year, my words kept trying to flow. Hers, they eventually dried up.
I didn’t have a cell phone. I still had dial up internet. So, I bought calling cards. A lot of them. And we would argue on the phone. Paying to be humiliated, I’d say to myself while looking at a photo of her.
Eventually, the phone calls stopped too.
Then one day, a letter came. It was from her. We’d seen each other just a couple weeks before, so it was a surprise. It contained a short letter. It ended with I love you, Fini, the pet name I gave her.
It also had a CD. I listened to it. It was full of songs I’d never heard, along with a few I loved. I called her and told her I liked it. She asked if I’d listened to it. I found that odd. She said to listen to it.
I did. Over and over. I loved it.
Less than two weeks later, she had her future set. The future we’d been trying to get to for years.
And she stopped talking to me.
A couple weeks later, she called me. It was over, she said. I cried. Asked why. She didn’t answer that.
I still think about that day. Too much really. And I write. To no one and everyone. I’d like to go to the mailbox again some day, and find another letter. One that got lost in time somehow and forwarded around and around, until it finally found me. Old. Tired. But still alive.
In it would be what I used to love. And for a moment, I could go back there. Not to stay, but just to remember.
Monday, February 14, 2011
twizzlers
She bent over to pick up the laundry that fell to the floor when she pulled a sheet out of the dryer. I watched. Was it wrong when I was disappointed when she bent at the knees instead of at a sharp angle?
“She’s no stripper,” I thought. Although her white pants, just a bit too tight, said otherwise. I stared at her. Mesmerized even. She saw me. Didn’t seem to care. After closer inspection, I’d guess she was pushing 45. Wonder if the kiddie socks are her kids’ or grandkids’? This made me lose interest.
I start to wonder if it is possible to meet someone at a Laundromat? I seriously doubt it. Maybe at 23. Not at 39.
I settle back into actually doing laundry. Put the whites with the whites and all that.
One of the dryers I’ve picked to put my clothes in has a faulty clock on it. I started it at the same time as the one next to it, yet it has 7 minutes left, the other has 5. I wonder if any one else notices such things? The last time I was here, one of the washing machines took almost double the amount of time to go through the cycle than it was supposed to. I guess that’s affecting profit margins. At least on one machine?
Today, my last day off before another fascinating five-day shift of boredom and trite conversations with people I don’t really like, I’ve decided to go to random places and see if I can meet someone. Anyone really.
The Laundromat lady didn’t seem like my cup of tea. I made eye contact and all that. Even brushed by her to get some water from the drinking fountain. I shudder to think what disease I may have caught from it…
But, I made no headway. Of course, I could have just say “Hello” and seen what happened next, but that seems too easy.
I finish my laundry and go home.
The wind is howling about 45 miles per hour and the smell is quite nice. Spring is definitely in the air, as well as lots of salt water. It’s quite an awesome thing to have the salty taste and smell just everywhere. It’s been gone for quite some time. I guess that’s normal for the beach. The winds and humidity and warmth go away for the winter and it seems all of the sudden it’s come back.
A woman is sitting in her SUV in the parking lot across from my house. I decide I’m going to watch her. She just sits there, staring into space, when all of the sudden…she answers her cell phone. Taking the initiative, I walk over to the parking lot and sit on the fence. This, most likely, will creep her out. Unless we are kindred spirits and she is intrigued. I watch to see what happens.
She notices me. Talks in the phone some more.
I stay put. Just idly watching.
She starts the car, still talking on the phone. And…she drives away. I see a little look at me when she drives by. Better than nothing I suppose.
Next, I go back on the road. To…the dollar store. Mundane as it gets, I guess.
Inside, the place is full of folk. Most are buying balloons and cards and candy. Sigh. It’s interesting. An old black woman is there, she’s looking at $1 Mardi Gras masks. I make eye contact. Say “Hello.” She smiles and says “Hello” back at me.
Conversation over. She goes back to her mask looking. I go back to looking for a tape measure. I figure I can measure my posters to get the right frames for once.
A fat guy with a beard is paying for his stuff. I look at him and see Newman. Well, Newman from “Jurassic Park.” I watch him. He seems happy. And a couple of seconds later, I understand why. “They have Twizzlers!” a perky, black-haired woman shrieks and comes up to him. She stops half an inch from his gut and gives him a big hug. She’s at the most 24 years old. He’s 35-40. Good for him. At least those Twizzlers will have some fun tonight too.
I leave the dollar store. Don’t really want to clash with humanity anymore.
Instead, I pull into my driveway and go inside my house. I put in “A Prayer for the Dying” and pull up my old quilt -- still has never been washed -- and fall into my stupid coma for an hour and a half or so.
“She’s no stripper,” I thought. Although her white pants, just a bit too tight, said otherwise. I stared at her. Mesmerized even. She saw me. Didn’t seem to care. After closer inspection, I’d guess she was pushing 45. Wonder if the kiddie socks are her kids’ or grandkids’? This made me lose interest.
I start to wonder if it is possible to meet someone at a Laundromat? I seriously doubt it. Maybe at 23. Not at 39.
I settle back into actually doing laundry. Put the whites with the whites and all that.
One of the dryers I’ve picked to put my clothes in has a faulty clock on it. I started it at the same time as the one next to it, yet it has 7 minutes left, the other has 5. I wonder if any one else notices such things? The last time I was here, one of the washing machines took almost double the amount of time to go through the cycle than it was supposed to. I guess that’s affecting profit margins. At least on one machine?
Today, my last day off before another fascinating five-day shift of boredom and trite conversations with people I don’t really like, I’ve decided to go to random places and see if I can meet someone. Anyone really.
The Laundromat lady didn’t seem like my cup of tea. I made eye contact and all that. Even brushed by her to get some water from the drinking fountain. I shudder to think what disease I may have caught from it…
But, I made no headway. Of course, I could have just say “Hello” and seen what happened next, but that seems too easy.
I finish my laundry and go home.
The wind is howling about 45 miles per hour and the smell is quite nice. Spring is definitely in the air, as well as lots of salt water. It’s quite an awesome thing to have the salty taste and smell just everywhere. It’s been gone for quite some time. I guess that’s normal for the beach. The winds and humidity and warmth go away for the winter and it seems all of the sudden it’s come back.
A woman is sitting in her SUV in the parking lot across from my house. I decide I’m going to watch her. She just sits there, staring into space, when all of the sudden…she answers her cell phone. Taking the initiative, I walk over to the parking lot and sit on the fence. This, most likely, will creep her out. Unless we are kindred spirits and she is intrigued. I watch to see what happens.
She notices me. Talks in the phone some more.
I stay put. Just idly watching.
She starts the car, still talking on the phone. And…she drives away. I see a little look at me when she drives by. Better than nothing I suppose.
Next, I go back on the road. To…the dollar store. Mundane as it gets, I guess.
Inside, the place is full of folk. Most are buying balloons and cards and candy. Sigh. It’s interesting. An old black woman is there, she’s looking at $1 Mardi Gras masks. I make eye contact. Say “Hello.” She smiles and says “Hello” back at me.
Conversation over. She goes back to her mask looking. I go back to looking for a tape measure. I figure I can measure my posters to get the right frames for once.
A fat guy with a beard is paying for his stuff. I look at him and see Newman. Well, Newman from “Jurassic Park.” I watch him. He seems happy. And a couple of seconds later, I understand why. “They have Twizzlers!” a perky, black-haired woman shrieks and comes up to him. She stops half an inch from his gut and gives him a big hug. She’s at the most 24 years old. He’s 35-40. Good for him. At least those Twizzlers will have some fun tonight too.
I leave the dollar store. Don’t really want to clash with humanity anymore.
Instead, I pull into my driveway and go inside my house. I put in “A Prayer for the Dying” and pull up my old quilt -- still has never been washed -- and fall into my stupid coma for an hour and a half or so.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
a strange thing happened at the food lion last night...
I walked outside to see if the warmth of the sun could somehow offset the coldness in my bones from being inside my house with no heat. Even the 50-degree weather outside felt better than the 59-degree awfulness in my lair.
How long had it been since I’d felt the touch of another? Any gap is too long, but this one is ridiculous. As my 40th birthday approaches, I wonder openly how easy it would be to get a hooker or some bar floozy to give me a blowjob in the alley while my friends think I’m in the bathroom?
It’s come to that.
The mirror screams back at me now. It’s been six days since I last shaved. No one at work seems to car anymore. But hell, when someone wears the same jeans for three weeks in a row and has holes in just about every shirt he owns, the stubble on his face might not be the thing one notices.
Buying a frozen pizza and some blueberries at the Food Lion last night, the girl at the cash register kept looking at me. She followed me around the store with her eyes. She’s unattractive and unkempt, much like myself. When I finally go to the cash register, she perks up and says “Hello!” just a little too enthusiastically. I chock it up to loneliness. Something that I can relate to and recognize. I respond with a “Hello” as well, continuing it with “how are you doing this evening.” I can honestly never remember me saying “this evening” to anyone at any other time in my life. I wonder if that’s what happens when you pass the threshold?
“I’m pretty good,” she says as she scans my frozen pizza, blueberries, grape soda and potato chips. I wonder if she thinks the blueberries are a bit of an oddity in this basket? The total comes out to $14.20. I chuckle.
“420?” she says lightly with a little giggle.
I see where this is going now. We’re on the same wavelength humor-wise, at least. I hand over three five-dollar bills. She counts out the change and puts it in my hand, taking just long enough to touch my hand a little longer than she probably should have.
I look up into her eyes. They’re blue. A very subtle shade of blue. Mixed with a lot of gray. Just like mine. Except hers have something else. Maybe it’s just me looking for something in them. A reason. An excuse?
“I see you’ve got some big plans tonight?” she says, rather desperately, but kind of cute. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
“Yeah, another rocking night at my place. Frozen pizza and downloaded movies…”
There’s a little bit of awkward silence before I hear myself say “You wanna join me?”
I feel a little repulsed by those words coming from me. I don’t want to be this kind of person. Yeah, I’m lonely. But I used to have some kind of standards. I catch myself feeling sorry for myself and being a cruel person all at once. I smile and look at her. She looks scared. Or horrified, even. Guess I overestimated even my lagging talents.
“Mary, you have another customer,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn my head slightly to see who it is that said this. There is the short, bald guy who usually rings me up on my late night trips to the Lion. He always comes up with stilted, awful conversations. I loathe them. It’s one of the few times I wish the automated lines existed here. I make it a habit of never using them. I look at it as 1/a job lost and 2/them having me do their job, and not paying me for it. So fuck the automatic lines!
“How are you tonight, sir?” he says in a derisive tone. Is he mad at me for talking to Mary and never talking to him? Or does he think I’m a creepy, poor, desperate to have companionship loser who is attempting to pick up his cashier. Rather poorly, I might say.
“Yes,” Mary finally says. It doesn’t register immediately that she’s talking to me. I hear beeps from items being scanned. I pick up my two plastic bags worth of junk that will lead to my eventually heart attack -- except for the blueberries -- and begin to leave.
“Yes I would!” she says a little louder this time. It registers finally that she’s speaking to me.
“Cool,” I say. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I go outside. The automated doors whoosh open and the cold air from outside hits me. Hard. “This is your chance to just go!” the little voice of reason inside me says. “But you shop here almost every day. You’ll have to see her and avoid her forever.” The another, more soft voice says. “Dude, you can finally get some” still another voice says. I have too many voices in my head, I think to myself in my own voice.
The key to my car is always a pain. Mainly because I never remember which pocket I have it in. I don’t keep it on my lanyard since the car is so small now that it bonks my knee when driving if I do. So, I put my hand in one pocket. Nothing but a cell phone. Switching the pocket awkwardly, I find the key. Push the unlock button and open the door. I put the bags in the seat and close the door. I think about just leaving, but I know that I won’t. I’m too much of a coward to do that. Or is it I’m too nice of a person? Anyway, I get a piece of paper from my driving journal and write down my name and phone number.
Taking a big breath, I go back inside.
Mary is standing by her register, smiling a big, wide-mouthed grin. I muster up a little bit of a smile, always a problem for me when I think about it due to my mangled teeth, and go up to her.
“Mary? Is that what I heard your name is?” I say meekly.
“Yes! Yes it is!” she exclaims eagerly. It’s kind of cute.
“My name’s Randy.”
“Nice to meet you. Well, name-wise at least. We’ve met dozens of times here.” She points at her register area. That feels very desperate. I feel a little better about my life.
I hand her my number. She grabs it and reads it fast.
“I get off at 1 a.m.,” she says. “I’ll call you then!”
“Sounds great,” I say, shuffling towards the door. I see a clock, it’s 11:23.
Right as I get around her bagging area, she skips over to me and hugs me. I stiffen, as I always do when strangers touch me that way. Then I relax and hug back. The kind with the little taps on the back. Yeah, you know the kind.
She steps back and smiles. I smile. I notice I have a boner. She noticed too.
“See you in a few!”
I go to the car. I’m nervous. A good nervous.
How long had it been since I’d felt the touch of another? Any gap is too long, but this one is ridiculous. As my 40th birthday approaches, I wonder openly how easy it would be to get a hooker or some bar floozy to give me a blowjob in the alley while my friends think I’m in the bathroom?
It’s come to that.
The mirror screams back at me now. It’s been six days since I last shaved. No one at work seems to car anymore. But hell, when someone wears the same jeans for three weeks in a row and has holes in just about every shirt he owns, the stubble on his face might not be the thing one notices.
Buying a frozen pizza and some blueberries at the Food Lion last night, the girl at the cash register kept looking at me. She followed me around the store with her eyes. She’s unattractive and unkempt, much like myself. When I finally go to the cash register, she perks up and says “Hello!” just a little too enthusiastically. I chock it up to loneliness. Something that I can relate to and recognize. I respond with a “Hello” as well, continuing it with “how are you doing this evening.” I can honestly never remember me saying “this evening” to anyone at any other time in my life. I wonder if that’s what happens when you pass the threshold?
“I’m pretty good,” she says as she scans my frozen pizza, blueberries, grape soda and potato chips. I wonder if she thinks the blueberries are a bit of an oddity in this basket? The total comes out to $14.20. I chuckle.
“420?” she says lightly with a little giggle.
I see where this is going now. We’re on the same wavelength humor-wise, at least. I hand over three five-dollar bills. She counts out the change and puts it in my hand, taking just long enough to touch my hand a little longer than she probably should have.
I look up into her eyes. They’re blue. A very subtle shade of blue. Mixed with a lot of gray. Just like mine. Except hers have something else. Maybe it’s just me looking for something in them. A reason. An excuse?
“I see you’ve got some big plans tonight?” she says, rather desperately, but kind of cute. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
“Yeah, another rocking night at my place. Frozen pizza and downloaded movies…”
There’s a little bit of awkward silence before I hear myself say “You wanna join me?”
I feel a little repulsed by those words coming from me. I don’t want to be this kind of person. Yeah, I’m lonely. But I used to have some kind of standards. I catch myself feeling sorry for myself and being a cruel person all at once. I smile and look at her. She looks scared. Or horrified, even. Guess I overestimated even my lagging talents.
“Mary, you have another customer,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn my head slightly to see who it is that said this. There is the short, bald guy who usually rings me up on my late night trips to the Lion. He always comes up with stilted, awful conversations. I loathe them. It’s one of the few times I wish the automated lines existed here. I make it a habit of never using them. I look at it as 1/a job lost and 2/them having me do their job, and not paying me for it. So fuck the automatic lines!
“How are you tonight, sir?” he says in a derisive tone. Is he mad at me for talking to Mary and never talking to him? Or does he think I’m a creepy, poor, desperate to have companionship loser who is attempting to pick up his cashier. Rather poorly, I might say.
“Yes,” Mary finally says. It doesn’t register immediately that she’s talking to me. I hear beeps from items being scanned. I pick up my two plastic bags worth of junk that will lead to my eventually heart attack -- except for the blueberries -- and begin to leave.
“Yes I would!” she says a little louder this time. It registers finally that she’s speaking to me.
“Cool,” I say. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I go outside. The automated doors whoosh open and the cold air from outside hits me. Hard. “This is your chance to just go!” the little voice of reason inside me says. “But you shop here almost every day. You’ll have to see her and avoid her forever.” The another, more soft voice says. “Dude, you can finally get some” still another voice says. I have too many voices in my head, I think to myself in my own voice.
The key to my car is always a pain. Mainly because I never remember which pocket I have it in. I don’t keep it on my lanyard since the car is so small now that it bonks my knee when driving if I do. So, I put my hand in one pocket. Nothing but a cell phone. Switching the pocket awkwardly, I find the key. Push the unlock button and open the door. I put the bags in the seat and close the door. I think about just leaving, but I know that I won’t. I’m too much of a coward to do that. Or is it I’m too nice of a person? Anyway, I get a piece of paper from my driving journal and write down my name and phone number.
Taking a big breath, I go back inside.
Mary is standing by her register, smiling a big, wide-mouthed grin. I muster up a little bit of a smile, always a problem for me when I think about it due to my mangled teeth, and go up to her.
“Mary? Is that what I heard your name is?” I say meekly.
“Yes! Yes it is!” she exclaims eagerly. It’s kind of cute.
“My name’s Randy.”
“Nice to meet you. Well, name-wise at least. We’ve met dozens of times here.” She points at her register area. That feels very desperate. I feel a little better about my life.
I hand her my number. She grabs it and reads it fast.
“I get off at 1 a.m.,” she says. “I’ll call you then!”
“Sounds great,” I say, shuffling towards the door. I see a clock, it’s 11:23.
Right as I get around her bagging area, she skips over to me and hugs me. I stiffen, as I always do when strangers touch me that way. Then I relax and hug back. The kind with the little taps on the back. Yeah, you know the kind.
She steps back and smiles. I smile. I notice I have a boner. She noticed too.
“See you in a few!”
I go to the car. I’m nervous. A good nervous.
Friday, February 11, 2011
stolen...
(i enjoyed this from my old blog. so, in light of my inability to write tonight due to laziness and block, here it is...)
Two conversations
Any similarities to those living or dead is purely coincidental...
Conversation No. 1
Employee and his boss
Employee: Can I get some help?
Boss:
Employee: Why are we doing this?
Boss:
Employee: Does anyone care?
Boss:
Employee: How does this serve our customer?
Boss:
Employee: Does anyone care?
Boss:
Employee: Do you care?
Boss:
End of conversation.
Conversation No. 2
Employee and his chair
Employee: Can i get some help?
Chair:
Employee: Why are we doing this?
Chair:
Employee: Does anyone care?
Chair:
Employee: How does this serve our customer?
Chair:
Employee: Does anyone care?
Chair:
Employee: Do you care?
Chair:
End of conversation.
Two conversations
Any similarities to those living or dead is purely coincidental...
Conversation No. 1
Employee and his boss
Employee: Can I get some help?
Boss:
Employee: Why are we doing this?
Boss:
Employee: Does anyone care?
Boss:
Employee: How does this serve our customer?
Boss:
Employee: Does anyone care?
Boss:
Employee: Do you care?
Boss:
End of conversation.
Conversation No. 2
Employee and his chair
Employee: Can i get some help?
Chair:
Employee: Why are we doing this?
Chair:
Employee: Does anyone care?
Chair:
Employee: How does this serve our customer?
Chair:
Employee: Does anyone care?
Chair:
Employee: Do you care?
Chair:
End of conversation.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
tomato can
The feeling of rejection. It comes all the time for me.
Most of the time, it’s my own mind rejecting something I’ve thought. Or done. Or thought about doing.
Sometimes, it comes from the outside.
A girl may reject me.
A job may turn me down.
A bird might shit on my shirt.
Who knows why rejection comes so often. But it does.
It’s how you react to it that makes something interesting. Or not.
Take my last job interview. I was trying to get a job back that I left years ago because I was horribly miserable. I associated so much evil with that job -- my breakup with the “love of my life”, the death of journalism, and the little twat that I hired that couldn’t write a fucking sentence without an error in it to save his life.
So why the hell did I even want to go back there?
Well, 14 months of unemployment makes one do and think really off the charts dumb.
I remember sitting in the main part of the interview, the moment isn’t exactly clear, but I just felt stupid. The questions shifted to things that they should never have, and at that moment I knew I wasn’t going to get the job. No matter. If fucking Jason Blair was my competition, he’d be there right now making shit up.
Yet I was bitter when I didn’t get it.
And I beat myself up about it. If only I’d been nicer years ago. If only I hadn’t hired that weasely little prick, who uses such gems as “yet alone” instead of “let alone” and invented the “man-to-man zone defense.”
He continues to do what I gave up so much to have a shot at doing.
But really, it doesn’t matter. I type more in a night that I erase or feel like wiping my ass with then he does in a week.
Then there are the times when I’m writing something. Anything.
There are times I am a complete hack. I know it. I read it and see it. Right in front of me. Then, someone will say “that was a pretty good story” and I don’t know what the hell they are thinking. Take this bit of prose right here. It’s meaningless, really. I can’t fathom why anyone would take a minute of their life and toss it into the garbage bin to finish it. But it happens.
And then I’ll write something utterly brilliant. And read it a day later and laugh at myself.
It’s all rather silly isn’t it? Searching for a story that actually is interesting is a folly. The only way to write is to write. It’s either good or it isn’t. And it doesn’t matter.
Or maybe I try to meet a girl. She’s younger than me. With kids. Is quirky. Things seem to be perfectly normal. We’re chatting via the intrawebs. Then, out of nowhere, she stops.
Why? I begin to wonder. Did I bore her to sleep? Did I offend her? Did I come off as a complete dolt?
More than likely, she’s single with kids for a reason. So run away.
But I still think about it.
Or a girl gives me her number. Tells me to call her the next time I’m in Raleigh. I know full well I won’t be in Raleigh for months. And if I am, my blackened teeth and empty Velcro wallet will go a long way.
Once again, defeated before taking a swing.
Tomato can they used to call people like me.
Now I’m mad because I’ve only written 595 words. Now it’s 604. Ooops, 609. This could go on all night.
My brain hurts. Not from thinking or reading or anything swell. No, I drank three beers and stopped. Cheap beers do that to a person.
Back to rejection. Or did I ever really leave that subject.
I avoid it, yet cultivate it. The idiocy of it amazes me. I know all of this, and sometimes rise above it very well.
Then I look at my giant pile of dirty clothes that I can’t afford to wash and start to wonder if I really ever do?
Such a dumb thought. It has no value.
Self loathing and self pity hang out with the one’s self. It’s not an interesting party. And I’m sure you’ll roll your eyes and stop reading soon. If you didn’t a while ago now. Or do you enjoy the train ride for the train wreck?
What?
And why are you so obsessed with your damn teeth? And that fucking redheaded bitch that decided you weren’t even worth an explanation? Issues, brother. Issues.
Most of the time, it’s my own mind rejecting something I’ve thought. Or done. Or thought about doing.
Sometimes, it comes from the outside.
A girl may reject me.
A job may turn me down.
A bird might shit on my shirt.
Who knows why rejection comes so often. But it does.
It’s how you react to it that makes something interesting. Or not.
Take my last job interview. I was trying to get a job back that I left years ago because I was horribly miserable. I associated so much evil with that job -- my breakup with the “love of my life”, the death of journalism, and the little twat that I hired that couldn’t write a fucking sentence without an error in it to save his life.
So why the hell did I even want to go back there?
Well, 14 months of unemployment makes one do and think really off the charts dumb.
I remember sitting in the main part of the interview, the moment isn’t exactly clear, but I just felt stupid. The questions shifted to things that they should never have, and at that moment I knew I wasn’t going to get the job. No matter. If fucking Jason Blair was my competition, he’d be there right now making shit up.
Yet I was bitter when I didn’t get it.
And I beat myself up about it. If only I’d been nicer years ago. If only I hadn’t hired that weasely little prick, who uses such gems as “yet alone” instead of “let alone” and invented the “man-to-man zone defense.”
He continues to do what I gave up so much to have a shot at doing.
But really, it doesn’t matter. I type more in a night that I erase or feel like wiping my ass with then he does in a week.
Then there are the times when I’m writing something. Anything.
There are times I am a complete hack. I know it. I read it and see it. Right in front of me. Then, someone will say “that was a pretty good story” and I don’t know what the hell they are thinking. Take this bit of prose right here. It’s meaningless, really. I can’t fathom why anyone would take a minute of their life and toss it into the garbage bin to finish it. But it happens.
And then I’ll write something utterly brilliant. And read it a day later and laugh at myself.
It’s all rather silly isn’t it? Searching for a story that actually is interesting is a folly. The only way to write is to write. It’s either good or it isn’t. And it doesn’t matter.
Or maybe I try to meet a girl. She’s younger than me. With kids. Is quirky. Things seem to be perfectly normal. We’re chatting via the intrawebs. Then, out of nowhere, she stops.
Why? I begin to wonder. Did I bore her to sleep? Did I offend her? Did I come off as a complete dolt?
More than likely, she’s single with kids for a reason. So run away.
But I still think about it.
Or a girl gives me her number. Tells me to call her the next time I’m in Raleigh. I know full well I won’t be in Raleigh for months. And if I am, my blackened teeth and empty Velcro wallet will go a long way.
Once again, defeated before taking a swing.
Tomato can they used to call people like me.
Now I’m mad because I’ve only written 595 words. Now it’s 604. Ooops, 609. This could go on all night.
My brain hurts. Not from thinking or reading or anything swell. No, I drank three beers and stopped. Cheap beers do that to a person.
Back to rejection. Or did I ever really leave that subject.
I avoid it, yet cultivate it. The idiocy of it amazes me. I know all of this, and sometimes rise above it very well.
Then I look at my giant pile of dirty clothes that I can’t afford to wash and start to wonder if I really ever do?
Such a dumb thought. It has no value.
Self loathing and self pity hang out with the one’s self. It’s not an interesting party. And I’m sure you’ll roll your eyes and stop reading soon. If you didn’t a while ago now. Or do you enjoy the train ride for the train wreck?
What?
And why are you so obsessed with your damn teeth? And that fucking redheaded bitch that decided you weren’t even worth an explanation? Issues, brother. Issues.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
impotence of the brain
Praying to a practice God can be a dangerous thing.
Not because of the obvious. Instead, because they tend to die. And this pretty much minimalizes their power as a God.
Or does it?
Lots of folk, including myself, viewed Joe Strummer as some sort of God. We worshipped his every word, even as he contradicted himself from one interview to the next. Then we watched as Clash songs became Levis’ jingles.
Then he keeled over.
Ditto with Johnny Thunders for many. Although he was a God of excess and simplicity.
I read a poem about Oprah being one. Personally, I’d rather go for someone like Sasha Grey if I’m going that direction.
Simply put, God and all that is already tough enough to figure out without putting someone who actually lived into the equation. Unless you believe the entire we’re all god thing, which makes the self-worship of our times pretty easy to justify. I guess.
Alcohol is another God to some. Easier to pray over a pint.
Now you can confess your sins with an I-phone app. Well, I guess it allows for immediacy with the Pope.
I once saw a great view outside of the Grand Canyon. Me and my girlfriend took the long way to Colorado. Those roads were scary, but they were beautiful. I kept having to remember that I was driving on these perilous roads instead of just site seeing. One wrong move and whammo, I guess we would have met whatever God there is.
But those views, what I remember of them between knarled fingers on the steering wheel, were heavenly. I miss those kinds of experiences.
I tried to go to church for a while a couple of years ago. It was educational. I learned more about religion than I had in 30-plus years of pretending I knew about it. I never made a connection. I felt like an outsider at every moment. Which is because, that’s exactly what I was.
Did I do it for a girl? I guess yes. Initially. But I kept up the attempt after the girl was out of the picture. Kept trying. Kept praying. Kept reading. It was interesting, I’ll admit that. Though I felt so little from it. Faith is a tough thing to figure out. I believe in something Devine. But I have yet to figure out what exactly it is. And I think that’s a good thing. It’ll keep me questioning and searching. Instead of just blindly following. Or I’m just going to go to Hell.
Last night I dreamed that I was a last fighter against some kind of evil force. It wasn’t vampires. It wasn’t demons. It was just some kind of people and soul-eating monster that took over people’s lives. I guess it was sort of like Invasion of the Body Snatchers without Donald Sutherland. Man, I dig Donald Sutherland. Not in a sexual kind of way. But in a damn, that fucker is cool way.
I kept waking up. It was nice to remember a dream. It doesn’t happen much. But usually they are fucked up like that. Maybe I have some kind of internal thing going on. I need to get rid of demons. Ha. No shit.
The snow is coming back tonight. I have to scurry on to work for the company that has no love for me -- or anyone, let’s not make this personal -- and then scurry back. Why the rat imagery? It’s a rat race, right? Fucked up clichéd nonsense.
My birthday is coming up soon. I’ll be old. I wonder if any of my friends will actually show up to hang out? I have my doubts. It’s a bad economy and all.
Pity party. Smitty ditty. Monkey bunky.
If I ever get back to Phoenix, I need to purchase a new hat. I’ve lost my new hat, and my old hat smells.
Have you ever wanted to go back in time, just to do it all exactly the same way you did it before. Just taking better notes so you remember things better? I do. There are entire years where I don’t remember a single event. And it just gets worse every year. I do like it when moments get jarred out of the black hole for some reason. That’s when I get inspired to scribble. Busting through years of regret and anger and beer must be tough.
Sit back and relax. Some things just come naturally. Others? They need a little bit of help. Kind of like impotence for the brain. Although I believe impotence is mostly a brain thing anyway.
Not because of the obvious. Instead, because they tend to die. And this pretty much minimalizes their power as a God.
Or does it?
Lots of folk, including myself, viewed Joe Strummer as some sort of God. We worshipped his every word, even as he contradicted himself from one interview to the next. Then we watched as Clash songs became Levis’ jingles.
Then he keeled over.
Ditto with Johnny Thunders for many. Although he was a God of excess and simplicity.
I read a poem about Oprah being one. Personally, I’d rather go for someone like Sasha Grey if I’m going that direction.
Simply put, God and all that is already tough enough to figure out without putting someone who actually lived into the equation. Unless you believe the entire we’re all god thing, which makes the self-worship of our times pretty easy to justify. I guess.
Alcohol is another God to some. Easier to pray over a pint.
Now you can confess your sins with an I-phone app. Well, I guess it allows for immediacy with the Pope.
I once saw a great view outside of the Grand Canyon. Me and my girlfriend took the long way to Colorado. Those roads were scary, but they were beautiful. I kept having to remember that I was driving on these perilous roads instead of just site seeing. One wrong move and whammo, I guess we would have met whatever God there is.
But those views, what I remember of them between knarled fingers on the steering wheel, were heavenly. I miss those kinds of experiences.
I tried to go to church for a while a couple of years ago. It was educational. I learned more about religion than I had in 30-plus years of pretending I knew about it. I never made a connection. I felt like an outsider at every moment. Which is because, that’s exactly what I was.
Did I do it for a girl? I guess yes. Initially. But I kept up the attempt after the girl was out of the picture. Kept trying. Kept praying. Kept reading. It was interesting, I’ll admit that. Though I felt so little from it. Faith is a tough thing to figure out. I believe in something Devine. But I have yet to figure out what exactly it is. And I think that’s a good thing. It’ll keep me questioning and searching. Instead of just blindly following. Or I’m just going to go to Hell.
Last night I dreamed that I was a last fighter against some kind of evil force. It wasn’t vampires. It wasn’t demons. It was just some kind of people and soul-eating monster that took over people’s lives. I guess it was sort of like Invasion of the Body Snatchers without Donald Sutherland. Man, I dig Donald Sutherland. Not in a sexual kind of way. But in a damn, that fucker is cool way.
I kept waking up. It was nice to remember a dream. It doesn’t happen much. But usually they are fucked up like that. Maybe I have some kind of internal thing going on. I need to get rid of demons. Ha. No shit.
The snow is coming back tonight. I have to scurry on to work for the company that has no love for me -- or anyone, let’s not make this personal -- and then scurry back. Why the rat imagery? It’s a rat race, right? Fucked up clichéd nonsense.
My birthday is coming up soon. I’ll be old. I wonder if any of my friends will actually show up to hang out? I have my doubts. It’s a bad economy and all.
Pity party. Smitty ditty. Monkey bunky.
If I ever get back to Phoenix, I need to purchase a new hat. I’ve lost my new hat, and my old hat smells.
Have you ever wanted to go back in time, just to do it all exactly the same way you did it before. Just taking better notes so you remember things better? I do. There are entire years where I don’t remember a single event. And it just gets worse every year. I do like it when moments get jarred out of the black hole for some reason. That’s when I get inspired to scribble. Busting through years of regret and anger and beer must be tough.
Sit back and relax. Some things just come naturally. Others? They need a little bit of help. Kind of like impotence for the brain. Although I believe impotence is mostly a brain thing anyway.
Monday, February 7, 2011
neil and johnny
I put on P.I.L.’s “First Issue”. I look at myself in the mirror. I’m not a geeky kid anymore. Why am I listening to an album that only geeky kids would listen too?
There’s a reason people get stuck where they are. It’s because they decide to stay there. It has nothing to do with circumstances or health problems or their fucking girlfriends. It’s just because you decided the status quo, no matter how good or bad it is, isn’t worth giving up for the unknown.
Take my speeding ticket. It’s going to cost $290 to make it go poof. Disappear as if it never happened. There is slightly over $700 in the savings account. But, instead of using that money to pay for it, the decision is made to put it on a credit card. More debt to pile on top of the old debt. And why? To have that money available when the bottom falls out. But really, what good is $700 going to do? It’ll pay a month’s rent. Or it will allow me to drive for a few weeks. Or make a few car payments. Depends on what the priority at that moment is.
Fucking stupid ain’t it?
I wonder if she listens to Johnny Rotten yell on top of bass beats? It seems like such a simple pleasure to have. Such an awesome thing to find out about too. Will it ever happen? Who fucking knows. Probably. Probably not. Depends.
Isolation also makes one wonder a bit. That is definitely what’s going on here. This was the fourth year now in a row that I haven’t been working on Super Bowl Sunday. The first one, I went to a friend’s house for a party with the newly minted GF. It was awkward and cool at the same time. The last three years, I haven’t done a thing. I can’t remember the other two, but last night I watched the game on the computer. Kept fading in and out. Kind of reminded me of the old days of the 9 inch black and white TV, stealing away late nights watching such things. Always having to adjust the antennae back and forth to get a picture, just substitute the F5 button for the antennae. I ate some good food. Enjoyed a few beers. Listened to the club across the street rock back and forth. Then, all of the sudden I started to feel ill. Could I finally be succumbing to the awful grunge sickness that everyone else has? I’ve done all I could to avoid it. Not shake hands. Wash them all the time. Use napkins on door knobs. Shit. I can’t get sick. I tell myself. I have no insurance. No money even if I did. So, I took some Nyquil and laid down on the couch. I don’t remember much after that. I woke up with a little over a minute left in the game. Saw the end. The rest? Didn’t see it. Wonder if I missed anything? Is this what happens to you when you get old? Or just lonely?
It really didn’t matter. No interest really. Kind of wish I’d been bowling or leaping over fences or dancing in the dark. All of those things seem so much more interesting than watching a collective advertisement for how great America is, when in reality, the country is in the shitter. And the shit is getting deeper every day. It’ll be an interesting day when the bill comes due. When there’s nothing but misery for everyone.
But that’s just depressing and awful. I’d rather think that in the future we’ll all be serenaded by Johnny Lydon and roll around in the periwinkle after he’s done.
It’s a future. Your future?
As I stare at myself in a reflection in a dirty window, Mr. Rotten/Lydon yells about religion. I tried to have religion. It just doesn’t settle into my head the right way. I want to believe in it. I do believe in something. Just can’t put my finger on it.
The reflection stares back at me. It’s an older version of the me that I picture being me. I suppose that’s what everyone sees when they think of themselves. Only to be startled by the real thing when the lighting changes.
I walk outside. Maybe she’ll be there? I’m an optimist about that one thing in my life. That one day, Neil Young will be right. Those words he once sang, he believed them, right? I hope so.
There’s a reason people get stuck where they are. It’s because they decide to stay there. It has nothing to do with circumstances or health problems or their fucking girlfriends. It’s just because you decided the status quo, no matter how good or bad it is, isn’t worth giving up for the unknown.
Take my speeding ticket. It’s going to cost $290 to make it go poof. Disappear as if it never happened. There is slightly over $700 in the savings account. But, instead of using that money to pay for it, the decision is made to put it on a credit card. More debt to pile on top of the old debt. And why? To have that money available when the bottom falls out. But really, what good is $700 going to do? It’ll pay a month’s rent. Or it will allow me to drive for a few weeks. Or make a few car payments. Depends on what the priority at that moment is.
Fucking stupid ain’t it?
I wonder if she listens to Johnny Rotten yell on top of bass beats? It seems like such a simple pleasure to have. Such an awesome thing to find out about too. Will it ever happen? Who fucking knows. Probably. Probably not. Depends.
Isolation also makes one wonder a bit. That is definitely what’s going on here. This was the fourth year now in a row that I haven’t been working on Super Bowl Sunday. The first one, I went to a friend’s house for a party with the newly minted GF. It was awkward and cool at the same time. The last three years, I haven’t done a thing. I can’t remember the other two, but last night I watched the game on the computer. Kept fading in and out. Kind of reminded me of the old days of the 9 inch black and white TV, stealing away late nights watching such things. Always having to adjust the antennae back and forth to get a picture, just substitute the F5 button for the antennae. I ate some good food. Enjoyed a few beers. Listened to the club across the street rock back and forth. Then, all of the sudden I started to feel ill. Could I finally be succumbing to the awful grunge sickness that everyone else has? I’ve done all I could to avoid it. Not shake hands. Wash them all the time. Use napkins on door knobs. Shit. I can’t get sick. I tell myself. I have no insurance. No money even if I did. So, I took some Nyquil and laid down on the couch. I don’t remember much after that. I woke up with a little over a minute left in the game. Saw the end. The rest? Didn’t see it. Wonder if I missed anything? Is this what happens to you when you get old? Or just lonely?
It really didn’t matter. No interest really. Kind of wish I’d been bowling or leaping over fences or dancing in the dark. All of those things seem so much more interesting than watching a collective advertisement for how great America is, when in reality, the country is in the shitter. And the shit is getting deeper every day. It’ll be an interesting day when the bill comes due. When there’s nothing but misery for everyone.
But that’s just depressing and awful. I’d rather think that in the future we’ll all be serenaded by Johnny Lydon and roll around in the periwinkle after he’s done.
It’s a future. Your future?
As I stare at myself in a reflection in a dirty window, Mr. Rotten/Lydon yells about religion. I tried to have religion. It just doesn’t settle into my head the right way. I want to believe in it. I do believe in something. Just can’t put my finger on it.
The reflection stares back at me. It’s an older version of the me that I picture being me. I suppose that’s what everyone sees when they think of themselves. Only to be startled by the real thing when the lighting changes.
I walk outside. Maybe she’ll be there? I’m an optimist about that one thing in my life. That one day, Neil Young will be right. Those words he once sang, he believed them, right? I hope so.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Las Cruces
“Can you show me a dream that’s better than mine?” she asked over a whiskey and ginger on a cold spring afternoon in Las Cruces.
This caught me by surprise. She and I had never bothered to talk about such things as hopes, dreams and aspirations. It has always been silly nonsense and making fun of people. I liked the way this could evolve, because honestly, I was growing tired of being nonsensical all the time.
I stared at her sitting there, staring out the window of this shitty bar in the middle of town. We’d never been to Las Cruces before, and judging by what we’re doing now, we probably won’t come back any time soon.
She’s got long brown hair. It used to be short. She cut it one day in a fit of rage. Not mad at me so much as mad with me. Her hands are big. Well, compared to mine they are, but I have small hands.
No makeup today. We got up from our hotel with 5 minutes to check out. So, no shower for me. No makeup for her. The maid was listening to Keith Urban when she knocked on our door at 12:01 p.m. We opened the door and danced out into the hallway.
“I look a mess,” she said.
“Not possible,” I replied with a bow and a kiss on the right hand.
We stumble into the front desk area, holding hands like school kids and skipping about. An elderly couple looks at us. The man frowns. The woman smiles.
“That’s us in 50 years,” I say.
“You think?” she replies, skipping out into the parking lot.
I pay the bill. Grab a copy of the local paper. It’s about 8 pages thick. Bad times even in Las Cruces.
She’s standing by my car now. It’s a beat up Dodge Colt that we picked up for $350 before leaving Phoenix. The object of the contest was to keep driving until it died. And that’s where we’d settle in for a while.
We get in. The engine grinds to life. The radio plays a Radiohead song. I groan. She squeals. The car goes into reverse, I peel out of the parking space, shift her into second -- “no first gear anymore” the guy selling the car told me -- and into traffic.
Before I knew it, she was telling me to pull into this little diner. “It’s got a great view!” she said excitedly.
I looked around. It did have a great view. Of a vacant lot where a building used to be. It was scarred and overgrown with dried up grass and weeds. Someone had left an old ice box in the middle of it. Old as in the big boxy ones with giant handles on them that you have to sling up and pull hard to get them to open. Bet it would still keep stuff cool.
We sit down, order and just stare. Me at her. Her at the view. This is heaven, I think. I wonder what she’s thinking.
“Honey, what is your dream?”
She looked at me with a slight grin. I’d asked the right question, I believed, but maybe at the wrong moment.
“Two kids, a house in the country and a dog,” she said.
“Name?”
“Whatever you like.”
Moments come, and moments go. This moment came and went. Not too long after it, we went as well. There was no moment of “it’s over!” We didn’t drift apart because of jobs or physical distance. Instead, one day we had sex, went to get some pancakes and looked at each other and knew it was over.
It was sad, yeah, but it was nice. I’d like to think that one day we might meet up again. Say hello. Then fall in love all over again. It’s possible I guess. But in this day and age, a lot less likely.
Why? We’re friends on the internet. We still know what’s going on in each other’s -- separate -- lives. Her more than me, since I know I’ve become a bit of an open book to people who shouldn’t have a card to my library. At least not the 24-hour one.
But we don’t talk. We don’t say “hey, how are you doing?” We wish each other happy birthday. Merry Christmas. Nothing else really. Well, when we move we say “hey, here’s my new address!” but we don’t write each other.
Nobody writes anymore. I wonder when the pencil and pen factories will go out of business? It’s got to come, right? Just like the end of the newspaper. Sure, there will still be one here or there, but not everywhere.
But the moment, you can’t take that away. Unless you forget about it. And I never will.
This caught me by surprise. She and I had never bothered to talk about such things as hopes, dreams and aspirations. It has always been silly nonsense and making fun of people. I liked the way this could evolve, because honestly, I was growing tired of being nonsensical all the time.
I stared at her sitting there, staring out the window of this shitty bar in the middle of town. We’d never been to Las Cruces before, and judging by what we’re doing now, we probably won’t come back any time soon.
She’s got long brown hair. It used to be short. She cut it one day in a fit of rage. Not mad at me so much as mad with me. Her hands are big. Well, compared to mine they are, but I have small hands.
No makeup today. We got up from our hotel with 5 minutes to check out. So, no shower for me. No makeup for her. The maid was listening to Keith Urban when she knocked on our door at 12:01 p.m. We opened the door and danced out into the hallway.
“I look a mess,” she said.
“Not possible,” I replied with a bow and a kiss on the right hand.
We stumble into the front desk area, holding hands like school kids and skipping about. An elderly couple looks at us. The man frowns. The woman smiles.
“That’s us in 50 years,” I say.
“You think?” she replies, skipping out into the parking lot.
I pay the bill. Grab a copy of the local paper. It’s about 8 pages thick. Bad times even in Las Cruces.
She’s standing by my car now. It’s a beat up Dodge Colt that we picked up for $350 before leaving Phoenix. The object of the contest was to keep driving until it died. And that’s where we’d settle in for a while.
We get in. The engine grinds to life. The radio plays a Radiohead song. I groan. She squeals. The car goes into reverse, I peel out of the parking space, shift her into second -- “no first gear anymore” the guy selling the car told me -- and into traffic.
Before I knew it, she was telling me to pull into this little diner. “It’s got a great view!” she said excitedly.
I looked around. It did have a great view. Of a vacant lot where a building used to be. It was scarred and overgrown with dried up grass and weeds. Someone had left an old ice box in the middle of it. Old as in the big boxy ones with giant handles on them that you have to sling up and pull hard to get them to open. Bet it would still keep stuff cool.
We sit down, order and just stare. Me at her. Her at the view. This is heaven, I think. I wonder what she’s thinking.
“Honey, what is your dream?”
She looked at me with a slight grin. I’d asked the right question, I believed, but maybe at the wrong moment.
“Two kids, a house in the country and a dog,” she said.
“Name?”
“Whatever you like.”
Moments come, and moments go. This moment came and went. Not too long after it, we went as well. There was no moment of “it’s over!” We didn’t drift apart because of jobs or physical distance. Instead, one day we had sex, went to get some pancakes and looked at each other and knew it was over.
It was sad, yeah, but it was nice. I’d like to think that one day we might meet up again. Say hello. Then fall in love all over again. It’s possible I guess. But in this day and age, a lot less likely.
Why? We’re friends on the internet. We still know what’s going on in each other’s -- separate -- lives. Her more than me, since I know I’ve become a bit of an open book to people who shouldn’t have a card to my library. At least not the 24-hour one.
But we don’t talk. We don’t say “hey, how are you doing?” We wish each other happy birthday. Merry Christmas. Nothing else really. Well, when we move we say “hey, here’s my new address!” but we don’t write each other.
Nobody writes anymore. I wonder when the pencil and pen factories will go out of business? It’s got to come, right? Just like the end of the newspaper. Sure, there will still be one here or there, but not everywhere.
But the moment, you can’t take that away. Unless you forget about it. And I never will.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
punchy
“Honey, you need to go to the doctor,” the dirty-blonde in a green nightie said to me.
I winced at the pain in my lower back. I knew what it was, and damn it, I did not want to go pay someone hundreds of dollars to say just that.
“Fucking kidney stones,” I said. “Joyous they are not.”
I struggled out of bed and made it to the bathroom. A trickle of pee came out, pain stayed in. I’d been having stones on and off since I was a spry 24 year old that was living in the desert. I’ve always kind of associated them with the desert, even though I haven’t lived there since I was 27.
Since, I’ve had some adventures with them. My first time was expensive. No insurance, and the stupidity to believe that my soon-to-be career in journalism would one day allow me to pay off my credit cards. So, I put all the doctor’s visits on them. Specialists charged a lot in 1995 too.
Next, my urologist in Virginia was the guy who re-attached John Wayne Bobbit’s penis after it was hacked off. He made a porno, beat up another girl and disappeared. I also knew the guy who found the damn thing. Small world. Ugh.
Also in Virginia, I passed on in the office one night. I was to save it to have it “tested” the doctors always say, so I scooped it out of the urinal with my boss’ spoon for his coffee. Didn’t wash it off.
Maybe it’s Karma for that?
Soon, I was used to them. Just passing them every so often. I changed my diet. I exercised. Hell, I even gave up soda for five years. Nothing worked.
Finally, I gave birth to the biggest thing I think has ever passed out of the urethra. I passed a small one. Then hours later, passed one bigger than a peanut -- still in the shell. I looked at it and was scared of it. Actually still have it.
A few hours later, I had the best sex I’d had in a decade. Go figure.
Now, I’m here standing in the shower, doing swats under the hot water to try and get some kind of ability to move going. Every day is like this now. But I’ve found a way of relief. It’s worked once before. Failed another. It’s time for a try at No. 3.
“I just want to be un cold,” she said as we walked toward another bar. We’d never been to this one. Heard it had a tough rep. That’s what we want.
After we go in, it lives up to the rep. A very Roadhouse vibe going on. Just on blind blues guitarists to break up the monotony.
The pain shoots up from my back. It does into the leg, into the groin, into my teeth even. They come out of nowhere, sucking your strength. They feel much better when you’re walking, if only you can stand up.
They sap your strength, mentally mostly, as my threshold for pain is pretty high.
And they really taunt you when you’re one of “those people” without insurance.
The object now is to get in a fight and guarding every inch of me except where the pain is, hopefully getting punched there and dislodging it from it’s current spot.
I spot a guy, perfect candidate. He’s about 5 foot 7, weighing about 200 pounds. Fat guy. But he looks like a mean bastard. And he only with a gal.
“That’s him,” I say, pointing him out.
“Don’t point, babe. You know I hate it.”
I point at her tits. She slaps my hand away. I smile.
The waitress comes over. We order Jamesons with beer chasers. Figure I need a good buzz to have this happen. The last time didn’t work. I ended up with a bruised kidney. Had one before. Fell out of a tree as a kid. Hell, maybe that’s why this happens to me all the time?
So many theories, not enough time to research it. At this point, I just want relief.
After a few more drinks, she looks me in the eye. We only had $40 bucks, so we can’t stay very long.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Now or never, babe,” she says.
Damn she’s sexy. Red hair and pale skin. Geeky glasses and a fucking attitude. I’m the luckiest son of a bitch that I said hi to her that night two years ago. She had blue hair and was watching some reality show on TV in a small restaurant in Galax. Why was I there? To meet her. We met on the internet and I followed. She also doesn’t beat me up like others have about this epidemic of stones. We tried different diets too. They keep coming back.
“Here’s hoping it works this time,” she says with a wink.
Damn, me too. The last time it worked, when some Vanceboro redneck popped me good in the gullet in a bar in New Bern, I peed blood for a day, then a stone came out. The next week, we didn’t leave the bedroom.
I take a last swig and walk up to the guy. He’s busy watching a Duke and North Carolina basketball game. He didn’t go to either school, I assume. This is a basic assumption in shitty dives in North Carolina. Usually, the guy rooting for either team, didn’t go to school there.
“Who you rooting for beau?” I say.
He looks at me. The says “no one, I hate basketball.”
“Ahh.”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“To fight your ass.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” I gulp, knowing what’s coming.
The guy swings, and I duck. He’s slow and stupid. This may be tough. I go into my weird stance, leaving my kidney area exposed. He goes for my head again.
I duck, and swing at him. I connect. He falls.
“Shit,” I sigh. He’s knocked out cold.
Soon, two bouncers are on me. They grab me, look down and laugh.
“You just punched Bobby?” one finally exclaims.
“I guess,” I say.
“He’s the sheriff’s daughter, er, son.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, had a sex change.”
“Shit.”
“I’ll say. He never pays his, her, whatever, tab. Thanks!”
“Drinks for this guy all night!” he says to the barkeep.
“One for the lady too?”
“Definitely,” he says.
After taking them back to the table, I go to my new friend.
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, anything man.”
“Hit me.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I was just trying to get hit.”
“Uh, not really looking to do something unnecessary, sorry bro.”
“Really, man. It would be a huge favor.”
“Where?”
“Right here,” I say, pointing at my kidney, left side.
“Dude, that’s gonna hurt. A lot.”
“That’s the point.”
“You one of those kinds?”
“Nah, I got rocks in my shit.”
“What?”
“Kidney stones. This gets ‘em moving.”
“Why don’t you go to a doctor?”
“Just do it, please.”
Punch.
I fall. In a heap. It hurts. I gasp for air. All of the sudden, I need to pee. Badly. I know I’m not getting to the bathroom. It comes quickly. And painfully. The sharpness of it tells me I’m getting cut.
I smile as my pants get wet.
“You’re a fucked up dude, man.”
“Life is fucked up. Life is fucked up.”
I get up and go over to my lady. She’s laughing at my wet pants.
“Laugh it up. Laugh it up. I’ll show ya later.”
“Hope so.”
I winced at the pain in my lower back. I knew what it was, and damn it, I did not want to go pay someone hundreds of dollars to say just that.
“Fucking kidney stones,” I said. “Joyous they are not.”
I struggled out of bed and made it to the bathroom. A trickle of pee came out, pain stayed in. I’d been having stones on and off since I was a spry 24 year old that was living in the desert. I’ve always kind of associated them with the desert, even though I haven’t lived there since I was 27.
Since, I’ve had some adventures with them. My first time was expensive. No insurance, and the stupidity to believe that my soon-to-be career in journalism would one day allow me to pay off my credit cards. So, I put all the doctor’s visits on them. Specialists charged a lot in 1995 too.
Next, my urologist in Virginia was the guy who re-attached John Wayne Bobbit’s penis after it was hacked off. He made a porno, beat up another girl and disappeared. I also knew the guy who found the damn thing. Small world. Ugh.
Also in Virginia, I passed on in the office one night. I was to save it to have it “tested” the doctors always say, so I scooped it out of the urinal with my boss’ spoon for his coffee. Didn’t wash it off.
Maybe it’s Karma for that?
Soon, I was used to them. Just passing them every so often. I changed my diet. I exercised. Hell, I even gave up soda for five years. Nothing worked.
Finally, I gave birth to the biggest thing I think has ever passed out of the urethra. I passed a small one. Then hours later, passed one bigger than a peanut -- still in the shell. I looked at it and was scared of it. Actually still have it.
A few hours later, I had the best sex I’d had in a decade. Go figure.
Now, I’m here standing in the shower, doing swats under the hot water to try and get some kind of ability to move going. Every day is like this now. But I’ve found a way of relief. It’s worked once before. Failed another. It’s time for a try at No. 3.
“I just want to be un cold,” she said as we walked toward another bar. We’d never been to this one. Heard it had a tough rep. That’s what we want.
After we go in, it lives up to the rep. A very Roadhouse vibe going on. Just on blind blues guitarists to break up the monotony.
The pain shoots up from my back. It does into the leg, into the groin, into my teeth even. They come out of nowhere, sucking your strength. They feel much better when you’re walking, if only you can stand up.
They sap your strength, mentally mostly, as my threshold for pain is pretty high.
And they really taunt you when you’re one of “those people” without insurance.
The object now is to get in a fight and guarding every inch of me except where the pain is, hopefully getting punched there and dislodging it from it’s current spot.
I spot a guy, perfect candidate. He’s about 5 foot 7, weighing about 200 pounds. Fat guy. But he looks like a mean bastard. And he only with a gal.
“That’s him,” I say, pointing him out.
“Don’t point, babe. You know I hate it.”
I point at her tits. She slaps my hand away. I smile.
The waitress comes over. We order Jamesons with beer chasers. Figure I need a good buzz to have this happen. The last time didn’t work. I ended up with a bruised kidney. Had one before. Fell out of a tree as a kid. Hell, maybe that’s why this happens to me all the time?
So many theories, not enough time to research it. At this point, I just want relief.
After a few more drinks, she looks me in the eye. We only had $40 bucks, so we can’t stay very long.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Now or never, babe,” she says.
Damn she’s sexy. Red hair and pale skin. Geeky glasses and a fucking attitude. I’m the luckiest son of a bitch that I said hi to her that night two years ago. She had blue hair and was watching some reality show on TV in a small restaurant in Galax. Why was I there? To meet her. We met on the internet and I followed. She also doesn’t beat me up like others have about this epidemic of stones. We tried different diets too. They keep coming back.
“Here’s hoping it works this time,” she says with a wink.
Damn, me too. The last time it worked, when some Vanceboro redneck popped me good in the gullet in a bar in New Bern, I peed blood for a day, then a stone came out. The next week, we didn’t leave the bedroom.
I take a last swig and walk up to the guy. He’s busy watching a Duke and North Carolina basketball game. He didn’t go to either school, I assume. This is a basic assumption in shitty dives in North Carolina. Usually, the guy rooting for either team, didn’t go to school there.
“Who you rooting for beau?” I say.
He looks at me. The says “no one, I hate basketball.”
“Ahh.”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“To fight your ass.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” I gulp, knowing what’s coming.
The guy swings, and I duck. He’s slow and stupid. This may be tough. I go into my weird stance, leaving my kidney area exposed. He goes for my head again.
I duck, and swing at him. I connect. He falls.
“Shit,” I sigh. He’s knocked out cold.
Soon, two bouncers are on me. They grab me, look down and laugh.
“You just punched Bobby?” one finally exclaims.
“I guess,” I say.
“He’s the sheriff’s daughter, er, son.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, had a sex change.”
“Shit.”
“I’ll say. He never pays his, her, whatever, tab. Thanks!”
“Drinks for this guy all night!” he says to the barkeep.
“One for the lady too?”
“Definitely,” he says.
After taking them back to the table, I go to my new friend.
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, anything man.”
“Hit me.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I was just trying to get hit.”
“Uh, not really looking to do something unnecessary, sorry bro.”
“Really, man. It would be a huge favor.”
“Where?”
“Right here,” I say, pointing at my kidney, left side.
“Dude, that’s gonna hurt. A lot.”
“That’s the point.”
“You one of those kinds?”
“Nah, I got rocks in my shit.”
“What?”
“Kidney stones. This gets ‘em moving.”
“Why don’t you go to a doctor?”
“Just do it, please.”
Punch.
I fall. In a heap. It hurts. I gasp for air. All of the sudden, I need to pee. Badly. I know I’m not getting to the bathroom. It comes quickly. And painfully. The sharpness of it tells me I’m getting cut.
I smile as my pants get wet.
“You’re a fucked up dude, man.”
“Life is fucked up. Life is fucked up.”
I get up and go over to my lady. She’s laughing at my wet pants.
“Laugh it up. Laugh it up. I’ll show ya later.”
“Hope so.”
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
a blog really
Sad songs, empty bottles and lonely nights. That would just about sum up five years of my life.
It takes a long time to realize just how self-destructive behavior is. Especially when you don’t want to listen. It also takes a long time when very few people do anything but enable. But there is no blame but upon oneself for these matters of the heart/soul/mind.
So easy it became to get off work, drive to the grocery and pick up a 12-pack of beer. Get home, open first beer and not stop until they were all gone. Many times, this was not enough, so loud music became part of the equation. Amazingly enough, only once were the cops called on me during that time of my life.
Sitting on the stoop, drinking in the middle of the early morning afternoons on Sunday was always fun too. The stares of folks who don’t know you and you don’t know them in a small southern town are amazing. They also don’t hurt as much as those who cast the stares seem to want them too. Maybe they were all just jealous. Me, sitting at home, reading, writing and drinking the day away. Meanwhile, they were off to church to listen to someone tell them they can’t be perfect, they have to try to be, however.
If I’d been a painter, I could have painted some great portraits and landscapes of those folks.
Going on little walks in my little town while a little besotted was another past time of that time in my life. Being in a tourist spot -- for the elderly and soon to be retired -- made for more stares and points.
I wasn’t so much drunk then, but peacefully buzzed. Blotto was saved for Tuesday nights when the gang got together. In all those years, I only remember one time when someone asked how I was doing after my dramatic fall. And that person wasn’t even a close friend, just someone who’d read something I wrote about it and felt kind of bad about it. Pretty close to an exact representation of the conversation there. At least for his side.
Drinking became my way of staying alive. There were plenty of days when I forgot to eat. But never forgot to get some beer on the way home. I know that many of my health problems today stem from those binges of sorrow. Some of my best, and worst, words flowed those days nights. I do miss it sometimes, the way the emotions filled up pages of stories. Pages of raw energy and passion. Short poems that actually said something about my state of mind.
I don’t drink much anymore, except when I go out with friends. There are some that I still get drunk with, but they are few and far between. I’d say most of them don’t drink much anymore either. Kids, jobs, real life has interrupted for them.
It can start to feel a bit like a gerbil in a cage, jumping up into the wheel and just running, running, running. But always ending up in the same fucking cage, just winded.
There are times I think that ending up a cliché isn’t so bad. Or that it was inevitable with the way I lived my life. The way I never thought things through before doing them. Spontaneity used to be a godsend. Now, it rarely shows it’s face. Yet, I face the consequences of it still. Another unintended but predictable situation.
Once, I was lucky enough to get eight sessions of free therapy. And while the lady didn’t get to even the edge, let alone the heart of what was fucking my life up until the last 15 minutes of the last session, it did me good. I wish I could go back to therapy, surely with a better therapist, but talking about it helps. Just like writing about it helps.
And just like it took eight hours of struggle to just scratch off the first layer of salt from the windshield around my heart with a therapist, it’s taking me 1,000s upon 1,000s of starts and stops of writing to get to whatever it is that haunts me.
I can say this, sometimes when you take a stand in your mind, and then go through with whatever it was that you took a stand on, it can be the wrong decision just as much as the right decision. Even if, so many years later, you still don’t know if it was the right one or the wrong one. Chances are, you won’t ever know. That would suck, of course. But would it suck anymore than dwelling on it? Year after fucking year? Lost opportunities and chances not taken?
Hell no.
And yet, I sit here and type endlessly about the same things. The same ghosts in my head that keep me from chasing the right things, even if it’s going to end wrong.
It takes a long time to realize just how self-destructive behavior is. Especially when you don’t want to listen. It also takes a long time when very few people do anything but enable. But there is no blame but upon oneself for these matters of the heart/soul/mind.
So easy it became to get off work, drive to the grocery and pick up a 12-pack of beer. Get home, open first beer and not stop until they were all gone. Many times, this was not enough, so loud music became part of the equation. Amazingly enough, only once were the cops called on me during that time of my life.
Sitting on the stoop, drinking in the middle of the early morning afternoons on Sunday was always fun too. The stares of folks who don’t know you and you don’t know them in a small southern town are amazing. They also don’t hurt as much as those who cast the stares seem to want them too. Maybe they were all just jealous. Me, sitting at home, reading, writing and drinking the day away. Meanwhile, they were off to church to listen to someone tell them they can’t be perfect, they have to try to be, however.
If I’d been a painter, I could have painted some great portraits and landscapes of those folks.
Going on little walks in my little town while a little besotted was another past time of that time in my life. Being in a tourist spot -- for the elderly and soon to be retired -- made for more stares and points.
I wasn’t so much drunk then, but peacefully buzzed. Blotto was saved for Tuesday nights when the gang got together. In all those years, I only remember one time when someone asked how I was doing after my dramatic fall. And that person wasn’t even a close friend, just someone who’d read something I wrote about it and felt kind of bad about it. Pretty close to an exact representation of the conversation there. At least for his side.
Drinking became my way of staying alive. There were plenty of days when I forgot to eat. But never forgot to get some beer on the way home. I know that many of my health problems today stem from those binges of sorrow. Some of my best, and worst, words flowed those days nights. I do miss it sometimes, the way the emotions filled up pages of stories. Pages of raw energy and passion. Short poems that actually said something about my state of mind.
I don’t drink much anymore, except when I go out with friends. There are some that I still get drunk with, but they are few and far between. I’d say most of them don’t drink much anymore either. Kids, jobs, real life has interrupted for them.
It can start to feel a bit like a gerbil in a cage, jumping up into the wheel and just running, running, running. But always ending up in the same fucking cage, just winded.
There are times I think that ending up a cliché isn’t so bad. Or that it was inevitable with the way I lived my life. The way I never thought things through before doing them. Spontaneity used to be a godsend. Now, it rarely shows it’s face. Yet, I face the consequences of it still. Another unintended but predictable situation.
Once, I was lucky enough to get eight sessions of free therapy. And while the lady didn’t get to even the edge, let alone the heart of what was fucking my life up until the last 15 minutes of the last session, it did me good. I wish I could go back to therapy, surely with a better therapist, but talking about it helps. Just like writing about it helps.
And just like it took eight hours of struggle to just scratch off the first layer of salt from the windshield around my heart with a therapist, it’s taking me 1,000s upon 1,000s of starts and stops of writing to get to whatever it is that haunts me.
I can say this, sometimes when you take a stand in your mind, and then go through with whatever it was that you took a stand on, it can be the wrong decision just as much as the right decision. Even if, so many years later, you still don’t know if it was the right one or the wrong one. Chances are, you won’t ever know. That would suck, of course. But would it suck anymore than dwelling on it? Year after fucking year? Lost opportunities and chances not taken?
Hell no.
And yet, I sit here and type endlessly about the same things. The same ghosts in my head that keep me from chasing the right things, even if it’s going to end wrong.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
TLTONBS
“It’s a nightmare!”
We all looked at each other as the yap machine started his usual yapping session. It was Friday night in the newsroom, and this way over-stressed 50-something year-old failure was taking out life’s frustrations on anything in his path.
“It certainly is,” Mike said a little louder than I think he wanted to.
We all looked at the yap machine. He didn’t hear it. Or if he did, it didn’t matter at all.
“Why the fuck does this system suck so much? All I’m trying to do is write my God damned story. But I can’t even fucking open a new document without it taking 5 minutes. Fuck!”
Smiles all around on the copy desk.
After a few seconds of silence, the phone rings.
He answers it. Conversation starts. Then the other phone rings. Aggravation rises.
“Hold on a second will you please?” he says, his voice starting to rise.
“Hello? Coach, can you call back in a couple minutes. I’m by myself here.” Click.
“Coach? Yes, uh-huh. Yes. I need all of that. Yes, all of it.” Click.
“God damn it. You’d think they’d know by now what we need. It’s not that fucking hard!”
Ring.
“Hello. You want what? No, we don’t have that score.” Click.
“God damn it! Get a fucking life people. No one fucking cares who won that game! Fuck. Fuck!”
I walk over. I look at his head. It’s turned a shade of watermelon. The guy from Scanners couldn’t have made his head look any more ready to burst.
Conrad, one of the older guys on the copy desk comes over to my desk. He looks at my desktop picture. It’s of the Winnebago Man. He stares at it. Wondering why we’re all laughing so hard at it.
“Show him, dude,” Mike says.
“You’re right, Conrad hasn’t seen it!” I reply.
“Seen what?” Conrad questions us.
“This,” I say while bringing up the Weber nets.
“Acutrama! Who writes this shit?”
Conrad does what everyone does. Laughs out loud. So hard his eyes start to water.
“Yep, that’s Rick,” he says, loudly.
We all look over our shoulders, towards him. He didn’t hear.
“One day, he’s going to come over here and explode,” Mike says.
“It’s inevitable,” I say.
“Hope you can duck,” Josh says.
We all look at Josh. Then shake our heads.
“Taquito!” I say.
Laughs all around. Except for Josh. He puts his head phones on and goes back to Facebook. It’s what he does.
Another fucking awful night on the copy desk comes to a close.
***
“She’s got blue hair?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “And she’s another young girl.
“When are you going to learn? Find someone your own fucking age!”
“But, she’s got blue hair. That’s got to count for something?”
“A lot of stained pillowcases.”
***
It’s funny. The Kit Cat Clock doesn’t know any better.
He keeps wagging his tail and eyes, even though he can’t keep time.
Go figure. Life imitating art.
***
Part of me wants to go home this weekend. Give me an excuse to be in Virginia.
Part of me wants to say what’s going on. What could be going on. What should be going on.
Part of me is happy.
Part of me is sad.
All of me is broke.
So, I’ll probably just sit on the couch.
***
The room started to feel a little smaller. His arms were tingling, the left side a whole lot more than the right. His breath started to be labored. Not painful, just hard to do. His heartbeat also sped up.
This happens three, four times a day now.
“Better than diarrhea,” he scoffed.
***
Playing Q*bert used to be fun
For about six games. But, if you didn’t get any better fast
It just became a chore.
***
I miss television about as much as I miss geometry.
Although my geometry teacher was pretty hot.
***
Have you ever sat down, with one goal in mind, knowing quite well that you will be stressed out, fucked up and downtrodden as you try, with much effort, to figure out how to succeed?
***
The end happens. It just does.
Always.
The beginning, however, can be manipulated.
Sometimes.
***
He’s not supposed to be here anymore. The cops took him away. But there he stands. In my doorway. Looking the same, just meaner. If I’d just not called the cops, this wouldn’t be happening. My blood wouldn’t be mixed with the rain drops on the porch. The knife wouldn’t be laying there, soaked in my lover’s blood. If only I’d not called the cops. I wouldn’t be dying.
TLTONBS
***
We all looked at each other as the yap machine started his usual yapping session. It was Friday night in the newsroom, and this way over-stressed 50-something year-old failure was taking out life’s frustrations on anything in his path.
“It certainly is,” Mike said a little louder than I think he wanted to.
We all looked at the yap machine. He didn’t hear it. Or if he did, it didn’t matter at all.
“Why the fuck does this system suck so much? All I’m trying to do is write my God damned story. But I can’t even fucking open a new document without it taking 5 minutes. Fuck!”
Smiles all around on the copy desk.
After a few seconds of silence, the phone rings.
He answers it. Conversation starts. Then the other phone rings. Aggravation rises.
“Hold on a second will you please?” he says, his voice starting to rise.
“Hello? Coach, can you call back in a couple minutes. I’m by myself here.” Click.
“Coach? Yes, uh-huh. Yes. I need all of that. Yes, all of it.” Click.
“God damn it. You’d think they’d know by now what we need. It’s not that fucking hard!”
Ring.
“Hello. You want what? No, we don’t have that score.” Click.
“God damn it! Get a fucking life people. No one fucking cares who won that game! Fuck. Fuck!”
I walk over. I look at his head. It’s turned a shade of watermelon. The guy from Scanners couldn’t have made his head look any more ready to burst.
Conrad, one of the older guys on the copy desk comes over to my desk. He looks at my desktop picture. It’s of the Winnebago Man. He stares at it. Wondering why we’re all laughing so hard at it.
“Show him, dude,” Mike says.
“You’re right, Conrad hasn’t seen it!” I reply.
“Seen what?” Conrad questions us.
“This,” I say while bringing up the Weber nets.
“Acutrama! Who writes this shit?”
Conrad does what everyone does. Laughs out loud. So hard his eyes start to water.
“Yep, that’s Rick,” he says, loudly.
We all look over our shoulders, towards him. He didn’t hear.
“One day, he’s going to come over here and explode,” Mike says.
“It’s inevitable,” I say.
“Hope you can duck,” Josh says.
We all look at Josh. Then shake our heads.
“Taquito!” I say.
Laughs all around. Except for Josh. He puts his head phones on and goes back to Facebook. It’s what he does.
Another fucking awful night on the copy desk comes to a close.
***
“She’s got blue hair?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “And she’s another young girl.
“When are you going to learn? Find someone your own fucking age!”
“But, she’s got blue hair. That’s got to count for something?”
“A lot of stained pillowcases.”
***
It’s funny. The Kit Cat Clock doesn’t know any better.
He keeps wagging his tail and eyes, even though he can’t keep time.
Go figure. Life imitating art.
***
Part of me wants to go home this weekend. Give me an excuse to be in Virginia.
Part of me wants to say what’s going on. What could be going on. What should be going on.
Part of me is happy.
Part of me is sad.
All of me is broke.
So, I’ll probably just sit on the couch.
***
The room started to feel a little smaller. His arms were tingling, the left side a whole lot more than the right. His breath started to be labored. Not painful, just hard to do. His heartbeat also sped up.
This happens three, four times a day now.
“Better than diarrhea,” he scoffed.
***
Playing Q*bert used to be fun
For about six games. But, if you didn’t get any better fast
It just became a chore.
***
I miss television about as much as I miss geometry.
Although my geometry teacher was pretty hot.
***
Have you ever sat down, with one goal in mind, knowing quite well that you will be stressed out, fucked up and downtrodden as you try, with much effort, to figure out how to succeed?
***
The end happens. It just does.
Always.
The beginning, however, can be manipulated.
Sometimes.
***
He’s not supposed to be here anymore. The cops took him away. But there he stands. In my doorway. Looking the same, just meaner. If I’d just not called the cops, this wouldn’t be happening. My blood wouldn’t be mixed with the rain drops on the porch. The knife wouldn’t be laying there, soaked in my lover’s blood. If only I’d not called the cops. I wouldn’t be dying.
TLTONBS
***
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