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.