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.”