Johnny Rotten yelled in his ears.
“No fun!”
Over and over. The white ear buds were sticking out of his black hoodie. He swore the girl saw him looking at her – in complete disgust. But he couldn’t be sure. Didn’t really have time to think about it anyway. It would be the last time either of them saw each other, no matter what. The thought of that satisfied him in a way he hadn’t been in a while now. Surprisingly, he paused to bask in that feeling for just a moment. He’d promised himself no distractions. But this was too good to pass up. The warmth of the feeling washed over his entire body, almost like a sunrise on the beach in the winter.
But her voice ended the peace. Like an anvil falling on Wil E. Coyote. “Damn you,” he thought.
It was time.
He reached for the zipper on his hoodie. It stuck halfway down, like it always did. A slight pause to get the thread matched back up and whoosh, it came off. Both arms were now out, each holding a shotgun, sawed off hastily two nights before under the influence of half a bottle of Jameson and a few shots of tequila.
The only person who saw the guns before they started shooting was her. Her crooked grin that always was plastered on her face disappeared in an instant that stayed with him for the rest of his life, turning into a wide-agape mouth full of sheer terror.
“Blam!” Went the shotgun in his left hand. “Odd,” he thought, “I’m right-handed. Would have thought I would have pulled that trigger first.”
“Blam!” the second gun erupted a split second later.
The first shot had struck her in the arm, nearly taking it off from her shoulder. She looked at it, flapping there. The second shot hit the guy next to her. He was covered in blood before the buckshot hit him from her arm’s explosion. He didn’t have long to notice as his shot blew straight through his head.
Instant death. It’s what he always jokingly asked for, he thought to himself.
Clicking a new round into each gun’s chamber like he was in a John Woo movie, he spun around in time to see his boss ducking under a table, yelling “Shiiiiiiiiiiiit!” The next two shots were for her. Never liked that bitch.
Another round loaded, the last person left in the room was the custodian. He was an old Hispanic guy. Never said much to anyone. And did a horrible job cleaning anything. It baffled him why the old guy was still around. Some kid could be doing his job, for less money, and actually clean the dried up shit off of the toilet bowl. Except for the executive’s bathroom. It was cleaned daily. And the floors waxed every Saturday. It drove him nuts that this bathroom right next to his desk was always closed on Saturdays, forcing a long trek to the back bathrooms and their shit-covered seats.
“Don’t shoot me Jake,” the old man said.
“I ain’t shooting you, Alex,” he said back. “You’re already dead. I’d just be wasting my shots.”
“Mighty kind of you,” he said, ducking into that very bathroom. He heard the old man vomit. The only thing he’d ever seen the old guy eat was leftovers from corporate meetings, so there was no telling what was coming out with the stomach bile.
By now, the cops would be on the way. Johnny was still yelling in his ear about how little fun life was. “Boy was he ever right,” he said out loud.
Walking out the front door, a few people were outside, talking on cell phones.
“Calling the cops?” he asked them.
All froze in their tracks. He laughed manically. He felt good. For the first time in years. The pain in his back was gone. The cancer growing inside him, making his joints ache, his eyes yellow and his muscles atrophy was stopped for a minute. It too was admiring what he was doing, he thought to himself.
A man from the public relations department was pointing his phone oddly.
“Are you fucking filming me?” he screamed, almost channeling Mr. Rotten’s yarble.
“Um. Um. Um. No…” he said meekly.
The blast of the shotgun knocked him over. A direct hit to the chest. Still breathing, he whimpered “No…No…Please. Du…du…don’t do it…”
The second blast took off a leg. The third and fourth his arms.
Still alive, his eyes glazed over a bit. The phone was still in the ad executive’s severed hand.
Laughing, he picked it up, pushed stop on the camera and watched the video. It was from the beginning. This fucker had been watching the whole thing. Was probably going to sell it to ABC or Fox.
“Guess you won’t be getting rich, huh?” he said to the guy’s face.
The ad man spit out a gob of black blood.
“Pretty cool,” he said, walking away.
Before he knew it, he was in his car. Driving west. Always drive west a song had once told him. Or was it a friend? Anyway, if you aren’t driving west, you’re going back. You’re retreating. You’re giving up. So, always drive west.
He drove east to work every day. Well, he did until today. And west to go home. That allowed him to stay sane. For a while.
Now, he saw the sun, falling in front of him. A blood caked cell phone was on his dashboard. Johnny Rotten was yelling at him, too.
“This is not a love song…”
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
to be continued...
after aborted attempts, computer is bought, paid for and ready for use.
the blog will continue tomorrow.
thank you for your patience...
the blog will continue tomorrow.
thank you for your patience...
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Three memories
Chapter 1
Three memories haunt me like the vision of the man at the stairs in the movie poster for “The Exorcist”, meaning, they just stay there in my mind.
I guess haunted would be the wrong word to use to describe them. The three all represent failure of some sort, but they also represent hope. Why those three memories have stuck, I do not know. They are all of the same person. All from a time in my life when I have almost no memories. And they all bring smiles and melancholy when I think about them, even almost 30 years later.
The person in them is a girl. Her name is Heather. She was quite possibly the root of all my insanity. Not for anything she did, at least that I can remember. Instead, for the sheer magnitude of importance that I placed on her existence at a very young age.
I knew her, or knew of her at least, for three years. First grade. Second grade. And third grade. I don’t remember talking to her. Or hanging out with her. Nothing. But recent revelations about places I’d been and things I said would certainly not rule out that any of those things actually happened at some point. Maybe even in lots of detail. Probably not, however.
Those years of my life were kind of strange. Setting a tone, I believe, for the rest of them to follow.
I was labeled “smart” early on. And it turned out, I was much smarter than almost all my classmates at the large brick monstrosity of a school that I attended, old and full of rot, this thing was built right after World War I. It doesn’t exist anymore, but that’s ok.
My schooling started at a different school. Why? Because mom taught at the elementary school I was supposed to go to, and she did not want me to have the other kindergarten teacher because she sucked. So, I went to a school actually closer to my house, but not the one I was supposed to go to.
I have one memory of that school. Being in the field beside the school during recess. One guy had just bought Zips shoes. In the commercial, the kid who is wearing them can do all sorts of incredible things. One of them is to leap over a large bush. Well, the kid who got the shoes is bragging he can now do all of those things. Me, being the smartass I was, and still am, pointed at a bush in the yard. It was probably three foot tall, but I am remembering it from a kindergarteners perspective, so I could have been inches tall.
“Jump that, Derek!” I exclaimed.
The kid looked at me with shock. He ended up being the quarterback of the high school football team, but then, he was just a little kid.
“I, I, I, can’t do that,” he said.
“But you said you could do what the guy in the commercial does!” I yelled, puffing my chest in superiority. I had a problem with that as a kid.
“Um. Ok. I’ll try.” Derek finally said.
I was shocked. He’s actually going to do it?
Well, Derek ran right at the thing, leaped in the air and landed squarely in the bush. Got stuck even.
A teacher saw all of this. She rushed over.
“Why did you do that Derek?” she shrieked. Derek had ripped his pants a little and also had a little trickle of blood running down his arm from a branch or something cutting him.
“Randy told me to do it,” he whimpered pointing at me.
I was smiling. Looking around at all the kids. They were looking at me too. I wanted it to be awe. Well, whatever feeling a kindergartener would call it. Instead, they gave me looks of scorn.
“He did do that,” one girl said.
“It’s Randy’s fault!” a fat boy said with enthusiasm.
“Randy, did you tell Derek to do that?”
“Well, he said he could do it, because he’s got Zips on. I wanted to let him know that they really couldn’t give you powers like on TV.”
“Now Randy, you should know better than that. Derek was just proud of his new shoes.”
I looked at Derek. He was crying a little. He smiled at me when the teacher turned her back, sticking out his tongue. Round 1 went to me. Round 2 to Derek. I don’t remember if there was a Round 3. Unless being the school jock in high school was his victory dance. I played soccer. Not a lot of fans of soccer back then. Especially females. This was the South in the 1970s and 1980s, you’ll have to remember.
The next year, I was with a whole other batch of kids at the brick school.
That’s where I met Heather. I guess.
Three memories haunt me like the vision of the man at the stairs in the movie poster for “The Exorcist”, meaning, they just stay there in my mind.
I guess haunted would be the wrong word to use to describe them. The three all represent failure of some sort, but they also represent hope. Why those three memories have stuck, I do not know. They are all of the same person. All from a time in my life when I have almost no memories. And they all bring smiles and melancholy when I think about them, even almost 30 years later.
The person in them is a girl. Her name is Heather. She was quite possibly the root of all my insanity. Not for anything she did, at least that I can remember. Instead, for the sheer magnitude of importance that I placed on her existence at a very young age.
I knew her, or knew of her at least, for three years. First grade. Second grade. And third grade. I don’t remember talking to her. Or hanging out with her. Nothing. But recent revelations about places I’d been and things I said would certainly not rule out that any of those things actually happened at some point. Maybe even in lots of detail. Probably not, however.
Those years of my life were kind of strange. Setting a tone, I believe, for the rest of them to follow.
I was labeled “smart” early on. And it turned out, I was much smarter than almost all my classmates at the large brick monstrosity of a school that I attended, old and full of rot, this thing was built right after World War I. It doesn’t exist anymore, but that’s ok.
My schooling started at a different school. Why? Because mom taught at the elementary school I was supposed to go to, and she did not want me to have the other kindergarten teacher because she sucked. So, I went to a school actually closer to my house, but not the one I was supposed to go to.
I have one memory of that school. Being in the field beside the school during recess. One guy had just bought Zips shoes. In the commercial, the kid who is wearing them can do all sorts of incredible things. One of them is to leap over a large bush. Well, the kid who got the shoes is bragging he can now do all of those things. Me, being the smartass I was, and still am, pointed at a bush in the yard. It was probably three foot tall, but I am remembering it from a kindergarteners perspective, so I could have been inches tall.
“Jump that, Derek!” I exclaimed.
The kid looked at me with shock. He ended up being the quarterback of the high school football team, but then, he was just a little kid.
“I, I, I, can’t do that,” he said.
“But you said you could do what the guy in the commercial does!” I yelled, puffing my chest in superiority. I had a problem with that as a kid.
“Um. Ok. I’ll try.” Derek finally said.
I was shocked. He’s actually going to do it?
Well, Derek ran right at the thing, leaped in the air and landed squarely in the bush. Got stuck even.
A teacher saw all of this. She rushed over.
“Why did you do that Derek?” she shrieked. Derek had ripped his pants a little and also had a little trickle of blood running down his arm from a branch or something cutting him.
“Randy told me to do it,” he whimpered pointing at me.
I was smiling. Looking around at all the kids. They were looking at me too. I wanted it to be awe. Well, whatever feeling a kindergartener would call it. Instead, they gave me looks of scorn.
“He did do that,” one girl said.
“It’s Randy’s fault!” a fat boy said with enthusiasm.
“Randy, did you tell Derek to do that?”
“Well, he said he could do it, because he’s got Zips on. I wanted to let him know that they really couldn’t give you powers like on TV.”
“Now Randy, you should know better than that. Derek was just proud of his new shoes.”
I looked at Derek. He was crying a little. He smiled at me when the teacher turned her back, sticking out his tongue. Round 1 went to me. Round 2 to Derek. I don’t remember if there was a Round 3. Unless being the school jock in high school was his victory dance. I played soccer. Not a lot of fans of soccer back then. Especially females. This was the South in the 1970s and 1980s, you’ll have to remember.
The next year, I was with a whole other batch of kids at the brick school.
That’s where I met Heather. I guess.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
eyes.
“Why won’t you ever go to church with me?” she asked in her floral dress with her little kid all dolled up with a clip-on tie.
“I don’t believe in it all,” I replied groggily from under the beat up old comforter that I won’t throw away despite the stuffing all being at one end.
“You’re god is always a foot away from you,” she sighed then slammed the bedroom door behind her.
It took me a few minutes to realize she was talking about beer. And damn if she wasn’t right. I guess that’s why I loved her, despite the Jesus thing, as I’d come to refer to it. When we met, she didn’t talk about God. She didn’t go to church. Instead, she went to bars. Listened to offensive music. Got tattoos and drank an awful lot.
Now? She went to church. On Tuesdays for lessons. On Wednesdays for “Chicks Night.” On Saturday and Sundays for the big show. We weren’t together during the changeover. She’d dumped me for being too attached to my ex-girlfriend.
That sent me reeling. I drank more after that than I had in a while. But it only lasted a little while.
We met up again months later. She convinced me she was sorry, even though I knew better. I was her constant. She knew I’d take her back whenever she came calling. It wasn’t exactly desperation on my part, but it should has hell looked a lot like that to everyone I knew.
Her eyes just did it to me every single time. She knew this. She used it. God damn they were beautiful. Still the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever had the pleasure of looking into for a long period of time. They haunted me when we weren’t together. Which, I’m guessing will be forever soon.
The first time around, the sex was great. We fucked and fucked and fucked. I didn’t fuck like that when I was 20 years old. I can’t say as a teenager, because I never fucked anybody during those prime fucking years.
She brought something out of me that I guess was always there, but no one else had tapped into.
This time, however, she doesn’t believe in premarital sex. So, we don’t. Hell, she will only give me pecks on the cheek. It’s a strange sensation. Knowing this gorgeous woman is lying next to you in bed, a woman who you know fucks like a banshee, loves every little thing about it, yet you know it isn’t going to happen.
Just like me putting a ring on her finger isn’t going to happen. Which is why this is all doomed. Doomed to fail. Like all the rest of my relationships. Except this one is a known quantity. I or she just needs to make it happen. I’m betting on her doing it before me. She’s been engaged four times. She wants me to be No. 5. I wonder what she does with the rings? I’ve never asked. A sign of weakness, for sure.
She comes back in the room.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I don’t say anything.
“For slamming the door, baby. You know I just get angry when we talk about your drinking.”
“I haven’t drank a single drop in three weeks. There’s nothing in the fridge. I don’t even think about it.”
“But you want to.”
“If I’m not thinking about it, how can I want to?”
“I just know you do. Just like you wish she was here instead of me.”
That just isn’t fair. It’s also not true. It was true. But the one thing I’m going to take out of this relationship is that she doesn’t matter anymore. And by she, I mean the redhead that stole the best years of my life. The one who left me cold. The one who changed the locks because she thought I’d do something stupid. Funny. I never even yelled at her during our relationship. I was scared to death of fighting. A scar from another failed dance. Avoiding conflict does as much damage, if not more, than actual conflict does.
Anyway, the eyes knew they could say anything to me. As long as they looked me deeply. A master manipulator this gal was. I knew it. She knew it. And that was the worst part. When she knows she has the power, she uses it. Keeping her guessing was the right thing to do. And it was us until four months in. Then I told her. And I remember the smile that came across her face. She had me.
Just like she has me now.
Until she’s done.
“I don’t believe in it all,” I replied groggily from under the beat up old comforter that I won’t throw away despite the stuffing all being at one end.
“You’re god is always a foot away from you,” she sighed then slammed the bedroom door behind her.
It took me a few minutes to realize she was talking about beer. And damn if she wasn’t right. I guess that’s why I loved her, despite the Jesus thing, as I’d come to refer to it. When we met, she didn’t talk about God. She didn’t go to church. Instead, she went to bars. Listened to offensive music. Got tattoos and drank an awful lot.
Now? She went to church. On Tuesdays for lessons. On Wednesdays for “Chicks Night.” On Saturday and Sundays for the big show. We weren’t together during the changeover. She’d dumped me for being too attached to my ex-girlfriend.
That sent me reeling. I drank more after that than I had in a while. But it only lasted a little while.
We met up again months later. She convinced me she was sorry, even though I knew better. I was her constant. She knew I’d take her back whenever she came calling. It wasn’t exactly desperation on my part, but it should has hell looked a lot like that to everyone I knew.
Her eyes just did it to me every single time. She knew this. She used it. God damn they were beautiful. Still the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever had the pleasure of looking into for a long period of time. They haunted me when we weren’t together. Which, I’m guessing will be forever soon.
The first time around, the sex was great. We fucked and fucked and fucked. I didn’t fuck like that when I was 20 years old. I can’t say as a teenager, because I never fucked anybody during those prime fucking years.
She brought something out of me that I guess was always there, but no one else had tapped into.
This time, however, she doesn’t believe in premarital sex. So, we don’t. Hell, she will only give me pecks on the cheek. It’s a strange sensation. Knowing this gorgeous woman is lying next to you in bed, a woman who you know fucks like a banshee, loves every little thing about it, yet you know it isn’t going to happen.
Just like me putting a ring on her finger isn’t going to happen. Which is why this is all doomed. Doomed to fail. Like all the rest of my relationships. Except this one is a known quantity. I or she just needs to make it happen. I’m betting on her doing it before me. She’s been engaged four times. She wants me to be No. 5. I wonder what she does with the rings? I’ve never asked. A sign of weakness, for sure.
She comes back in the room.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I don’t say anything.
“For slamming the door, baby. You know I just get angry when we talk about your drinking.”
“I haven’t drank a single drop in three weeks. There’s nothing in the fridge. I don’t even think about it.”
“But you want to.”
“If I’m not thinking about it, how can I want to?”
“I just know you do. Just like you wish she was here instead of me.”
That just isn’t fair. It’s also not true. It was true. But the one thing I’m going to take out of this relationship is that she doesn’t matter anymore. And by she, I mean the redhead that stole the best years of my life. The one who left me cold. The one who changed the locks because she thought I’d do something stupid. Funny. I never even yelled at her during our relationship. I was scared to death of fighting. A scar from another failed dance. Avoiding conflict does as much damage, if not more, than actual conflict does.
Anyway, the eyes knew they could say anything to me. As long as they looked me deeply. A master manipulator this gal was. I knew it. She knew it. And that was the worst part. When she knows she has the power, she uses it. Keeping her guessing was the right thing to do. And it was us until four months in. Then I told her. And I remember the smile that came across her face. She had me.
Just like she has me now.
Until she’s done.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
unhappy anniversary
Five years ago, my life stopped being fun.
Now, I’ve had good times since. I’m not saying that. But it’s always been tempered by this feeling in the back of my brain. This nagging dripping faucet of a memory that won’t fade away fast enough.
I tried drinking it away. That didn’t work. So, I’ve mostly stopped drinking now. An occasional bender with friends is about all I do at this point.
I tried writing about it. A lot. In public forums and in private notepads.
I tried hating.
I tried forgiving.
I tried killing myself.
I tried forgetting.
I tried crying.
I tried nothing.
I guess I’ve tried everything I can think of.
I lost my ability to have fun that day. I became serious. I became lame.
When I look in the mirror now, I see an old man. A guy who gave up for too long.
Why?
I wish I knew.
The days aren’t as long as they used to be.
The nights, well, they’re still lonely.
I’ve been with one other person since then. That’s it. I fell in love too fast for my own good. I adored that girl. But she faded fast. I don’t blame her. She didn’t know what she was getting into. And I didn’t know what I was getting into. I think we both got what we needed out of it.
Now, I’m thinking back on those five years. Not a lot accomplished. A few road trips. A few new friends. A lot of lost friends. And a couple of great friends.
Could be worse.
Could be dead.
Could be in a coma.
Could be married to a woman who doesn’t love me.
Still got my teeth, shockingly so.
Still got some of my health, although I think I wasted most of that, too.
I’ll be 40 in a few weeks.
That’s weird to say. Not because I’m old, because that’s a state of mind. But instead because it means I’ll probably never have a kid. If I had one now, he’d be born when I was almost 41. Graduate high school when I was almost 60. That’s weird.
If I married someone today, we’d hit milestones at milestones. 10 years at 50. 20 years at 60. That’s weird.
My grandparents each made it over 50 years married.
My parents will hit that mark soon. Me? I’d have to live to be 90. Weird.
I think too much about her. I think too much about stuff like what I just typed. It’s not fun. I wish I could stop. It just doesn’t happen. I tell myself every night to stop. I wake up and it pops right back in there and I say it again.
If I had a switch, I’d throw it. If I had a place to cut, I’d slice. If I could drive to that destination, I’d start the car right this mother fucking god damned minute.
Instead, I just live. Day by day. Moment to moment. Each one different than the one before, yet very similar. Too similar, really.
It’s better than it was 5 years ago. Better than it was 4 years ago. Better than it was 3 years ago (except for the sex part). Better than it was 2 years ago. Better than it was a year ago. It’ll be better in a year.
I can, however, still feel exactly how I felt the moment I heard those words. The despair hasn’t left. Not for a moment.
I hope I’m not just holding on to it, for fear of not having it anymore. That is just a scary way to live.
I just think I hold on to things and don’t know how to let go of them.
It just needs to be replaced by something else. Someone else.
All I know is it also has to stop. Every beginning has an end. Every end starts a new. All that clichéd pap…
The past belongs there. It doesn’t belong in the present. Or the future. Yet there it always is. My brain must have some bright spot in it. Or a dark spot. I’d love to see a CAT scan of it. See where that spot is in me, and isn’t in everyone else. Or most everyone else. Who else holds on and won’t let go. Like a scared kid on a roller coaster?
It all starts with something, right? A smile. A frown. A kiss. A touch. A tear. A smell. A glance. A chance.
Unhappy anniversary.
Now, I’ve had good times since. I’m not saying that. But it’s always been tempered by this feeling in the back of my brain. This nagging dripping faucet of a memory that won’t fade away fast enough.
I tried drinking it away. That didn’t work. So, I’ve mostly stopped drinking now. An occasional bender with friends is about all I do at this point.
I tried writing about it. A lot. In public forums and in private notepads.
I tried hating.
I tried forgiving.
I tried killing myself.
I tried forgetting.
I tried crying.
I tried nothing.
I guess I’ve tried everything I can think of.
I lost my ability to have fun that day. I became serious. I became lame.
When I look in the mirror now, I see an old man. A guy who gave up for too long.
Why?
I wish I knew.
The days aren’t as long as they used to be.
The nights, well, they’re still lonely.
I’ve been with one other person since then. That’s it. I fell in love too fast for my own good. I adored that girl. But she faded fast. I don’t blame her. She didn’t know what she was getting into. And I didn’t know what I was getting into. I think we both got what we needed out of it.
Now, I’m thinking back on those five years. Not a lot accomplished. A few road trips. A few new friends. A lot of lost friends. And a couple of great friends.
Could be worse.
Could be dead.
Could be in a coma.
Could be married to a woman who doesn’t love me.
Still got my teeth, shockingly so.
Still got some of my health, although I think I wasted most of that, too.
I’ll be 40 in a few weeks.
That’s weird to say. Not because I’m old, because that’s a state of mind. But instead because it means I’ll probably never have a kid. If I had one now, he’d be born when I was almost 41. Graduate high school when I was almost 60. That’s weird.
If I married someone today, we’d hit milestones at milestones. 10 years at 50. 20 years at 60. That’s weird.
My grandparents each made it over 50 years married.
My parents will hit that mark soon. Me? I’d have to live to be 90. Weird.
I think too much about her. I think too much about stuff like what I just typed. It’s not fun. I wish I could stop. It just doesn’t happen. I tell myself every night to stop. I wake up and it pops right back in there and I say it again.
If I had a switch, I’d throw it. If I had a place to cut, I’d slice. If I could drive to that destination, I’d start the car right this mother fucking god damned minute.
Instead, I just live. Day by day. Moment to moment. Each one different than the one before, yet very similar. Too similar, really.
It’s better than it was 5 years ago. Better than it was 4 years ago. Better than it was 3 years ago (except for the sex part). Better than it was 2 years ago. Better than it was a year ago. It’ll be better in a year.
I can, however, still feel exactly how I felt the moment I heard those words. The despair hasn’t left. Not for a moment.
I hope I’m not just holding on to it, for fear of not having it anymore. That is just a scary way to live.
I just think I hold on to things and don’t know how to let go of them.
It just needs to be replaced by something else. Someone else.
All I know is it also has to stop. Every beginning has an end. Every end starts a new. All that clichéd pap…
The past belongs there. It doesn’t belong in the present. Or the future. Yet there it always is. My brain must have some bright spot in it. Or a dark spot. I’d love to see a CAT scan of it. See where that spot is in me, and isn’t in everyone else. Or most everyone else. Who else holds on and won’t let go. Like a scared kid on a roller coaster?
It all starts with something, right? A smile. A frown. A kiss. A touch. A tear. A smell. A glance. A chance.
Unhappy anniversary.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
yellowy eyes
Sitting on the same bar stool in the same bar on the same nights. That’s the life I’ve chosen for myself. It isn’t particularly exciting. Not too fulfilling. Certainly isn’t very productive in the eyes of society. Not really worried about it either.
My dad used to be proud of me. He’d brag about my exploits in the newspaper business. He doesn’t do that anymore. I sometimes wonder if he even knows how bad it’s gotten out there. It’s mostly been tough choices that I made that I figured would make me happier in the long run. The only part of my life that I’ve ever considered the long term was relationships. Always thinking about the future, forgoing every other thought.
They’ve never panned out.
Which is how I ended up on this bar stool. Most nights. I tend to not come in on weekends. The tourists are bothersome. Their looks of disdain are fueling, but their white teeth and North Face clothing is too much to handle.
On those nights, I sit in a lawn chair outside when it’s warm. On my dirty hand-me-down couch on the cold nights, smothered by my grandmother’s blanket.
You don’t have lofty expectations when you’ve sunk that low. It’s why when I saw her, I thought nothing of it.
She had yellow circles around her eyes. They should have been yield signs. But my mind processed that to mean they weren’t stop signs.
Her laugh was intoxicating. More than the cheap $1.75 drafts of whatever cheap American swill they decided to give folks this week. I asked the barkeep one night why the shitty beer was always different. She answered honestly. Whatever kegs the distributor is trying to peddle quickest. The one’s expiring.
I ordered one for me. One for her.
The barkeep, Kim was her name, was in her early 30s. She had been a bartender in many places over the years. But was now heading down the list. She still looked good in her bikini top and shorts, but time was starting to take its toll. Especially beach time. Too much sun, too much booze and too many late nights without sleep. Still, we enjoyed each other’s company when we could. She also knew I was done trying. At least until I found something worth trying for. And we both knew neither of us were worth trying for. In our own circumstances.
She smiled when the beer was handed off. So did the barkeep. She leaned in and whispered something into her ear. Both of them laughed a long laugh. I only watched the new lady’s laugh.
Eventually she finished the beer. Looked at me right after it was done.
“Another one for the lady,” I said to Kim.
“You got it, sexy. Looks like I’m going home alone tonight, huh?”
“You’re more confident than I.”
“If you ever figured out just how sexy you really are, you’d be unstoppable.”
“You think? Anyway, you and I both know that ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.”
“Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I returned with a clink of cheap bar mugs.
I sat there looking at my beer. Looking at her every so often. She wasn’t worried about me. Yet. The rerun of “Charlie’s Angels” was her focus right now. I had no problem with that. It gave me time to think.
Think about when I’m not so low. Not so shy.
It only happens when I’m happy. When I’m in tow, so to speak.
The first time I noticed it was the week after I got laid for the first time. I was seeing a gal, and I could feel my chest puffing out further than it ever had. My step had a pace to it that it had never had. My posture even improved.
Then I saw her. A really cute girl I’d had a crush on for months. She knew my “girlfriend.” Hell, she’d probably heard about my 11-second mess of a couple nights earlier.
“Hi,” she said with a smile.
“How are you Kami?” I said confidently. Probably for the first time ever.
Taken aback a little, I could tell, she pondered what to say next.
Before I knew it, we’d been talking 10 minutes. Both of us realized this at about the same time -- right after a long laugh.
“Crap, I’ve got to get to class. I’m already late.”
Me being me, suggested “let’s skip and go get a drink.”
“Can’t,” she said. “Gotta go to class.”
I couldn’t believe I just asked a hot number out for a drink. And turned down.
And it didn’t bother me at all.
A few months later, after the relationship ended at a Hooter’s in Jacksonville, Florida, when she hooked up with her husband-to-be I ran into Kami again.
I looked at her. She looked at me, smiled and waved. I nodded my head and kept walking, too scared to say a word.
My dad used to be proud of me. He’d brag about my exploits in the newspaper business. He doesn’t do that anymore. I sometimes wonder if he even knows how bad it’s gotten out there. It’s mostly been tough choices that I made that I figured would make me happier in the long run. The only part of my life that I’ve ever considered the long term was relationships. Always thinking about the future, forgoing every other thought.
They’ve never panned out.
Which is how I ended up on this bar stool. Most nights. I tend to not come in on weekends. The tourists are bothersome. Their looks of disdain are fueling, but their white teeth and North Face clothing is too much to handle.
On those nights, I sit in a lawn chair outside when it’s warm. On my dirty hand-me-down couch on the cold nights, smothered by my grandmother’s blanket.
You don’t have lofty expectations when you’ve sunk that low. It’s why when I saw her, I thought nothing of it.
She had yellow circles around her eyes. They should have been yield signs. But my mind processed that to mean they weren’t stop signs.
Her laugh was intoxicating. More than the cheap $1.75 drafts of whatever cheap American swill they decided to give folks this week. I asked the barkeep one night why the shitty beer was always different. She answered honestly. Whatever kegs the distributor is trying to peddle quickest. The one’s expiring.
I ordered one for me. One for her.
The barkeep, Kim was her name, was in her early 30s. She had been a bartender in many places over the years. But was now heading down the list. She still looked good in her bikini top and shorts, but time was starting to take its toll. Especially beach time. Too much sun, too much booze and too many late nights without sleep. Still, we enjoyed each other’s company when we could. She also knew I was done trying. At least until I found something worth trying for. And we both knew neither of us were worth trying for. In our own circumstances.
She smiled when the beer was handed off. So did the barkeep. She leaned in and whispered something into her ear. Both of them laughed a long laugh. I only watched the new lady’s laugh.
Eventually she finished the beer. Looked at me right after it was done.
“Another one for the lady,” I said to Kim.
“You got it, sexy. Looks like I’m going home alone tonight, huh?”
“You’re more confident than I.”
“If you ever figured out just how sexy you really are, you’d be unstoppable.”
“You think? Anyway, you and I both know that ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.”
“Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I returned with a clink of cheap bar mugs.
I sat there looking at my beer. Looking at her every so often. She wasn’t worried about me. Yet. The rerun of “Charlie’s Angels” was her focus right now. I had no problem with that. It gave me time to think.
Think about when I’m not so low. Not so shy.
It only happens when I’m happy. When I’m in tow, so to speak.
The first time I noticed it was the week after I got laid for the first time. I was seeing a gal, and I could feel my chest puffing out further than it ever had. My step had a pace to it that it had never had. My posture even improved.
Then I saw her. A really cute girl I’d had a crush on for months. She knew my “girlfriend.” Hell, she’d probably heard about my 11-second mess of a couple nights earlier.
“Hi,” she said with a smile.
“How are you Kami?” I said confidently. Probably for the first time ever.
Taken aback a little, I could tell, she pondered what to say next.
Before I knew it, we’d been talking 10 minutes. Both of us realized this at about the same time -- right after a long laugh.
“Crap, I’ve got to get to class. I’m already late.”
Me being me, suggested “let’s skip and go get a drink.”
“Can’t,” she said. “Gotta go to class.”
I couldn’t believe I just asked a hot number out for a drink. And turned down.
And it didn’t bother me at all.
A few months later, after the relationship ended at a Hooter’s in Jacksonville, Florida, when she hooked up with her husband-to-be I ran into Kami again.
I looked at her. She looked at me, smiled and waved. I nodded my head and kept walking, too scared to say a word.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
another song about the rain
“I’m going home,” she said as I sat in my lawn chair watching the storm brewing off the coast.
“Ok, babe. I’ll be fine by myself.”
I watched her get in the station wagon. I loved that old brown bomber. It reminded me of my mom’s old car. The one we piled way too many people into and broke every law in the book on the way to the country club back when I was young. The way we piled in would get you pulled over in a heartbeat today. Mom would be on television explaining why she was such a bad parent. A mom that hated her kids and others’ kids so much that she’d endanger them so much.
“But really, Oprah, all I was doing was taking the kids to the pool. To have some fun. We do it every day just about.”
“But, Mrs. Jones, every time you did it, you might as well have been pointing a loaded gun at their pretty, innocent faces.”
The audience would most likely applaud that riveting bit of preaching by the old battleaxe.
This thought made me smile. The rare memories of childhood for me do that. They’re more like Polaroids than anything else. I think I’ve bashed my head too many times over the years. I was knocked out in the third grade and in college for sure. And all the head butting of friends in high school certainly never did any good. Top that off with at least 150,000 beers and whip-its and the brain, well, it gets a bit mushy.
The station wagon pulls out of the driveway. I stand up and wave with a big grin. She doesn’t wave back. This takes my good mood and throws it in the garbage bin. Sulking, I plop back into my lawn chair. I don’t see them, but in a few seconds the fire ants will make their presence perfectly noticeable by attacking like the Blitzkrieg my poor uncovered feet.
I curse the damn red bastards, smacking at them as I pull away from their lair. Summer is cool and all, but the ants are evil. But I don’t bomb them with chemicals like so many others do. I co-exist. You’d think that we could find some common ground, some kind of truce. But no. They bite me like they bite anyone. It’s annoying, yet reassuring.
Some drizzle finally starts to fall as thunder and lightening start to light up the cloudy sky. The giant anvil clouds tell me that it’s going to be a doozy. The weatherman said it would hit around 7. It’s 4:45 and I’m guessing in 10 minutes the rain will be flowing like Sprite out of a Bojangles’ spigot.
The smell is intoxicating. It’s 90 degrees and what little rain is making it to the ground is evaporating fast. Concrete and asphalt give off an odor that takes me back to better times. I sit and enjoy it, knowing that when the real rain comes, that smell will be chased away. A bolt of lightening strikes the rods on top of the water tower a few blocks away. Mother Nature’s way of telling me something, for sure.
It then dawns on me that “home” for her is 1,000 miles away. I didn’t notice her packing up the station wagon, and with gas hitting $5 a gallon right now, I just figured she was going for a ride. A lot of times I called the road home, and she sort of did too, just not as enthusiastically as me. I got worried. I grabbed my cell phone and pulled up her number. Dialed. I heard it ringing inside the house.
“Time for a beer,” I said, getting out of my rusty chair and going inside. The fridge, as always, was stocked with watermelon and Shiner Bock. My summer staples. I grabbed a hunk of melon and two beers, the door of the fridge and then the screen door on the porch both slammed at the same time as I went back to my favorite spot.
Thoughts started to betray me about 6:30 and eight beers in. A little while later, the rain came like a stampede. I looked at my clock. 7:02. Damn if the weatherman wasn’t right this time. Good for you ol’ Skippy.
Soon, beers 12 and 13 were gone. As was I. The rain was starting to flood the streets and my porch. Too weak to fight it, I passed out in the chair. A loud crack of thunder woke me up sometime later. It was dark out. The power gone. Another flash of lightening lit up the yard. In the driveway was the station wagon. I felt like an ass. Always assuming the worst, and eventually making it happen.
I stood up. The buzz from the beer had long ago faded. Just a dull ache in the left temple now.
I was soaking wet and shivering when I went in our bedroom. She was awake. She looked at me and shook her head.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You looked happy there, wet, cold, miserable.”
I started crying. She stood up.
“Take those wet things off.”
She undressed me as I whimpered. I was ashamed of my mind. Of my thoughts. I only hoped she didn’t know. But how could she not?
“You know, I almost kept driving tonight,” she said as she toweled off my back. I wondered if she was disgusted by the hair on my shoulders.
“But something about that storm told me I was making a mistake.”
“Thank God for rain,” I said, still struggling not to cry.
“Ok, babe. I’ll be fine by myself.”
I watched her get in the station wagon. I loved that old brown bomber. It reminded me of my mom’s old car. The one we piled way too many people into and broke every law in the book on the way to the country club back when I was young. The way we piled in would get you pulled over in a heartbeat today. Mom would be on television explaining why she was such a bad parent. A mom that hated her kids and others’ kids so much that she’d endanger them so much.
“But really, Oprah, all I was doing was taking the kids to the pool. To have some fun. We do it every day just about.”
“But, Mrs. Jones, every time you did it, you might as well have been pointing a loaded gun at their pretty, innocent faces.”
The audience would most likely applaud that riveting bit of preaching by the old battleaxe.
This thought made me smile. The rare memories of childhood for me do that. They’re more like Polaroids than anything else. I think I’ve bashed my head too many times over the years. I was knocked out in the third grade and in college for sure. And all the head butting of friends in high school certainly never did any good. Top that off with at least 150,000 beers and whip-its and the brain, well, it gets a bit mushy.
The station wagon pulls out of the driveway. I stand up and wave with a big grin. She doesn’t wave back. This takes my good mood and throws it in the garbage bin. Sulking, I plop back into my lawn chair. I don’t see them, but in a few seconds the fire ants will make their presence perfectly noticeable by attacking like the Blitzkrieg my poor uncovered feet.
I curse the damn red bastards, smacking at them as I pull away from their lair. Summer is cool and all, but the ants are evil. But I don’t bomb them with chemicals like so many others do. I co-exist. You’d think that we could find some common ground, some kind of truce. But no. They bite me like they bite anyone. It’s annoying, yet reassuring.
Some drizzle finally starts to fall as thunder and lightening start to light up the cloudy sky. The giant anvil clouds tell me that it’s going to be a doozy. The weatherman said it would hit around 7. It’s 4:45 and I’m guessing in 10 minutes the rain will be flowing like Sprite out of a Bojangles’ spigot.
The smell is intoxicating. It’s 90 degrees and what little rain is making it to the ground is evaporating fast. Concrete and asphalt give off an odor that takes me back to better times. I sit and enjoy it, knowing that when the real rain comes, that smell will be chased away. A bolt of lightening strikes the rods on top of the water tower a few blocks away. Mother Nature’s way of telling me something, for sure.
It then dawns on me that “home” for her is 1,000 miles away. I didn’t notice her packing up the station wagon, and with gas hitting $5 a gallon right now, I just figured she was going for a ride. A lot of times I called the road home, and she sort of did too, just not as enthusiastically as me. I got worried. I grabbed my cell phone and pulled up her number. Dialed. I heard it ringing inside the house.
“Time for a beer,” I said, getting out of my rusty chair and going inside. The fridge, as always, was stocked with watermelon and Shiner Bock. My summer staples. I grabbed a hunk of melon and two beers, the door of the fridge and then the screen door on the porch both slammed at the same time as I went back to my favorite spot.
Thoughts started to betray me about 6:30 and eight beers in. A little while later, the rain came like a stampede. I looked at my clock. 7:02. Damn if the weatherman wasn’t right this time. Good for you ol’ Skippy.
Soon, beers 12 and 13 were gone. As was I. The rain was starting to flood the streets and my porch. Too weak to fight it, I passed out in the chair. A loud crack of thunder woke me up sometime later. It was dark out. The power gone. Another flash of lightening lit up the yard. In the driveway was the station wagon. I felt like an ass. Always assuming the worst, and eventually making it happen.
I stood up. The buzz from the beer had long ago faded. Just a dull ache in the left temple now.
I was soaking wet and shivering when I went in our bedroom. She was awake. She looked at me and shook her head.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You looked happy there, wet, cold, miserable.”
I started crying. She stood up.
“Take those wet things off.”
She undressed me as I whimpered. I was ashamed of my mind. Of my thoughts. I only hoped she didn’t know. But how could she not?
“You know, I almost kept driving tonight,” she said as she toweled off my back. I wondered if she was disgusted by the hair on my shoulders.
“But something about that storm told me I was making a mistake.”
“Thank God for rain,” I said, still struggling not to cry.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
just a twat
Good thing my dreams fade away fast. The night was long and vivid. And it was all about her. All about the night she got rid of me. Cast me aside and left me behind. I don’t think she’s looked back yet. No way for me to know, but it’s a safe assumption. Some folks are built that way. I’m not.
The night started as usual. I couldn’t sleep. Tossed and turned. Threw the covers to and fro. Looked at the holes in the curtains that allow the light from the hotel next door to sneak in. Thankfully, they’re not neon lights, so there’s no blinking or awful pink or purple lights. Just straight on white light.
Finally, sleep overcame my mind. But then the mind took over. Six and a half hours I dreamed of the pain, the heartache of that night. And it was all about that night. It was like reliving the aftermath. She wasn’t there, which is the only way it could have been. Instead, she ruled with an iron screwdriver, rusty and cold, piercing my heart. Over and over. In and out. The beats kept coming and the pain didn’t stop.
In the end, the dream blamed me. I assume it’s because I blame myself. Even though I know better.
When I drowsily awoke around 9 in the morning I felt empty. All of it was crystal clear in my head still. The way a dream is. It is like a high definition television when you wake up. Then it starts to disappear. Before you know it, the rabbit ears on the old Sylvania don’t help the transmission and it fades away, finally becoming a small white circle in the center of the screen. And then gone.
I laid there on my mattress thinking I should write this down. Remember it. But I didn’t. I needed to pee, too. But I didn’t.
An hour later, most of it gone, except for the basic theme of hell, I got up and peed. Looked at my shriveled up penis as it filled the bowl with yellow. I laughed. Not really at myself, but at this moment. And I went back to bed.
A few minutes later, I farted. Time to take a shit. Get up, still naked, feeling the cold in the house with the heat set at 59 degrees. The toilet seat welcomed me. I read an article in a tattoo magazine I took from work. Some guy got a tattoo of a politician on his ass. A great political statement. If you’re the mooning type of guy. But otherwise, just a waste of ink.
I shit. It’s long and brown. Wipe. Flush. Wash. I wonder if the water is still tainted. The city sent out a notice to boil it. I haven’t. I don’t brush my teeth with it, but I shower in it. Wash my hands with it. Hell, there could be more shit in the water than on my hands. I laugh again. Simple thoughts seem to have me today.
In the living room, I stare at the bleakness. A couple of lawn chairs serve as furniture. There is the recliner my dad bought me. Brown leather. I’ve sat in in twice. It’s a symbol of something, just don’t know it yet.
I do a quick count. There are three pairs of dirty underwear on the floor. Six pairs of socks. Two shirts. I try to judge the meaning of those numbers.
The bar across the street is in the process of changing over from winter to summer. The picnic tables have reappeared in the courtyard. That means the masses will soon return to my little oasis of loneliness. I think about how depressing of a thought that is. I think about the fact that I think too much. I wonder if any bars are open yet? It’s 10:55 a.m. The perils of living in a small North Carolina town. Bars don’t open early. They close early as well. Not the place for a thinker.
Plopping in a Joe Ely CD, I sit down to write. Wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to write about when I’m in such a strange mood. His generic country doesn’t do anything to inspire. Put Mr. Ely in the “Con” column for inspirational needs.
I think about how hard eight words can sometimes be. I want to get high. There’s no way it’s going to happen. Especially since it’s been longer since I got high than Bukowski’s been dead.
Speaking of Hank, he died 17 years ago. He’d think me a twat. That doesn’t bother me. I think all of my heroes and role models would call me a cunt if I was sitting at a barstool with them. That certainly doesn’t leave me weeping, not as much as my dreams. And I don’t remember my dreams.
The night started as usual. I couldn’t sleep. Tossed and turned. Threw the covers to and fro. Looked at the holes in the curtains that allow the light from the hotel next door to sneak in. Thankfully, they’re not neon lights, so there’s no blinking or awful pink or purple lights. Just straight on white light.
Finally, sleep overcame my mind. But then the mind took over. Six and a half hours I dreamed of the pain, the heartache of that night. And it was all about that night. It was like reliving the aftermath. She wasn’t there, which is the only way it could have been. Instead, she ruled with an iron screwdriver, rusty and cold, piercing my heart. Over and over. In and out. The beats kept coming and the pain didn’t stop.
In the end, the dream blamed me. I assume it’s because I blame myself. Even though I know better.
When I drowsily awoke around 9 in the morning I felt empty. All of it was crystal clear in my head still. The way a dream is. It is like a high definition television when you wake up. Then it starts to disappear. Before you know it, the rabbit ears on the old Sylvania don’t help the transmission and it fades away, finally becoming a small white circle in the center of the screen. And then gone.
I laid there on my mattress thinking I should write this down. Remember it. But I didn’t. I needed to pee, too. But I didn’t.
An hour later, most of it gone, except for the basic theme of hell, I got up and peed. Looked at my shriveled up penis as it filled the bowl with yellow. I laughed. Not really at myself, but at this moment. And I went back to bed.
A few minutes later, I farted. Time to take a shit. Get up, still naked, feeling the cold in the house with the heat set at 59 degrees. The toilet seat welcomed me. I read an article in a tattoo magazine I took from work. Some guy got a tattoo of a politician on his ass. A great political statement. If you’re the mooning type of guy. But otherwise, just a waste of ink.
I shit. It’s long and brown. Wipe. Flush. Wash. I wonder if the water is still tainted. The city sent out a notice to boil it. I haven’t. I don’t brush my teeth with it, but I shower in it. Wash my hands with it. Hell, there could be more shit in the water than on my hands. I laugh again. Simple thoughts seem to have me today.
In the living room, I stare at the bleakness. A couple of lawn chairs serve as furniture. There is the recliner my dad bought me. Brown leather. I’ve sat in in twice. It’s a symbol of something, just don’t know it yet.
I do a quick count. There are three pairs of dirty underwear on the floor. Six pairs of socks. Two shirts. I try to judge the meaning of those numbers.
The bar across the street is in the process of changing over from winter to summer. The picnic tables have reappeared in the courtyard. That means the masses will soon return to my little oasis of loneliness. I think about how depressing of a thought that is. I think about the fact that I think too much. I wonder if any bars are open yet? It’s 10:55 a.m. The perils of living in a small North Carolina town. Bars don’t open early. They close early as well. Not the place for a thinker.
Plopping in a Joe Ely CD, I sit down to write. Wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to write about when I’m in such a strange mood. His generic country doesn’t do anything to inspire. Put Mr. Ely in the “Con” column for inspirational needs.
I think about how hard eight words can sometimes be. I want to get high. There’s no way it’s going to happen. Especially since it’s been longer since I got high than Bukowski’s been dead.
Speaking of Hank, he died 17 years ago. He’d think me a twat. That doesn’t bother me. I think all of my heroes and role models would call me a cunt if I was sitting at a barstool with them. That certainly doesn’t leave me weeping, not as much as my dreams. And I don’t remember my dreams.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
powerball
I came home like every other night. Pulled the car into the driveway, cringed a little bit at the cool breeze coming off the ocean, then checked my mailbox.
It’s not very often that anything interesting is in there. If I got something off the internet, maybe a cool album or a tourist brochure. Other than that, it’s junk mail and bills. I’ve noticed the credit card offers don’t flood it anymore. A product of a tighter economy, I’m sure. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the companies see me not using the one’s I have anymore, and have figured out that maybe this dumb ass has finally figured out the game is rigged, so why bother.
The mailbox is a black piece of plastic sitting on top of a piece of wood. It gets hit occasionally by the Cougars and MILFs that populate the shag bar across the street from my house. Before you get all wound up, it’s shag as in dance, not as in putting the penis in the va-jay-jay.
Inside, the place smells a bit like burnt sausage. I made some two days ago, guess it’s still lingering in the late winter chicken coop that is my house. The windows don’t get to be opened quite enough to let out the smell of a 40 year old bachelor. Frightening stuff, really.
I plop down on my couch and smile just a little as I look around. My transformation of this house from a crappy, dingy, way-too-rented out place to my own private Scatman Cruthers’ bad-ass bachelor sinkhole is nearly complete.
My green couch is straight out of the 1970s. So is the bar with just enough full bottles of Whiskey and Scotch to be inviting to anyone. All it really needs is a nice framed piece of sexy blaxploitation-era art to go over the couch, and of course, the bed. All in good time, my friend, I think to myself. One day the gods will shine down upon me and allow such silliness. Now? It’s pay the bills. Pay the bills. Dave Mustaine echoes in my brain… “Whaddya mean I don’t pay my bills? Why do ya think I’m broke! Huh!”
The funny thing is I think about those days, when I’ll be debt-free and anchor-free. Shit, I’ve thought about them for almost 14 years now. When the bills got so damn high I felt that I was going to drown under them, and the non-truths you have to tell to keep that kind of a thing a secret.
But was it really ever a secret?
The lottery hit $300 million today. In the office, it was a subject of the same old conversation that everyone has about the lottery when it gets that high. Much like the same conversation you have about the weather with people you don’t really like.
“It sure is sunny out?”
“Yep. Sure is.”
“Hope it stays that way for a while.”
“Probably won’t. It’s March.”
“What would you do with all that money?”
“Pay off my debts.”
“But a house.”
“Quit this place.”
All completely valid answers. All complete clichés.
I pointed this out to everyone with a scowl. I said if you win that much money, of fucking course you’ll pay off your debts and all that. You’ll buy your dream car. You’ll go on your dream vacation.
But fucking then what?
“Well, Mr. Smart Ass. What would you do with that money?” finally one of the uptight, horrible editors we have piped in, looking straight at me with a fucking “Ha-Ha-Ha!” smile on her face.
I pulled up my pants the best way I could without looking like a young Wilfred Brimley and looked her right in the eye. She kind of shriveled up at the sight of me. Kind of like a penis does when it gets cold and the girl your with says she’s a dude.
“I’d pay porn star Smokie Flame to just give me a blow job on film for three days straight,” I said.
“Gross.”
“What a guy thing to say.”
"You'd get bored," a female co-worker who I'd guess has never given a blow job before says.
I'm impressed with her answer and give him the Harvey Keitel coffee mug look to show my appreciation for a well thought out retort.
“Whoah, who is Smokie Flame,” my boss said, clearly impressed with my answer.
“She’s this redhead who makes really strange sounds when she fucks. Almost retarded like. But, I don’t want to be labeled as some guy that wants to fuck retards, cause, I’m not. They most certainly won’t compare me to the beer in hell guy.”
“Yes they will,” the blonde shit stain of an editor said to me. “That is just so rude.”
“Yep, and for the kind of money I’d be offering, she’d do it. You can watch. Just not in the room. I’ll set up Skype for ya.”
She slammed her door closed on that note. Randy 1, Blonde bitch boss 0.
“What would you do, Richard?” I asked my boss, who was now looking at “safe” Google search images of one Smokie Flame.
“I’d buy this place, and fire that bitch.”
“Yeah, but think of the better ways to spend it, and still accomplish the same thing. I mean, take out gay want ads, but make them full-page color double trucks. Turning down that kind of advertising dollar might just get one fired.”
“You’re fucked in the head, dude.”
“Yeah, and it only gets worse every single day.”
I look down at my lottery ticket. Numbers are 11, 19, 27, 9, 23 and a power ball of 7. Or mega ball, whichever damn poor tax I paid.
I look up at the blank space on my wall behind my Scatman couch. I imagine Smokie Flame there instead of a Pam Grier wannabe. Hope I don’t get an ax in my torso before I can make it all come true.
It’s not very often that anything interesting is in there. If I got something off the internet, maybe a cool album or a tourist brochure. Other than that, it’s junk mail and bills. I’ve noticed the credit card offers don’t flood it anymore. A product of a tighter economy, I’m sure. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the companies see me not using the one’s I have anymore, and have figured out that maybe this dumb ass has finally figured out the game is rigged, so why bother.
The mailbox is a black piece of plastic sitting on top of a piece of wood. It gets hit occasionally by the Cougars and MILFs that populate the shag bar across the street from my house. Before you get all wound up, it’s shag as in dance, not as in putting the penis in the va-jay-jay.
Inside, the place smells a bit like burnt sausage. I made some two days ago, guess it’s still lingering in the late winter chicken coop that is my house. The windows don’t get to be opened quite enough to let out the smell of a 40 year old bachelor. Frightening stuff, really.
I plop down on my couch and smile just a little as I look around. My transformation of this house from a crappy, dingy, way-too-rented out place to my own private Scatman Cruthers’ bad-ass bachelor sinkhole is nearly complete.
My green couch is straight out of the 1970s. So is the bar with just enough full bottles of Whiskey and Scotch to be inviting to anyone. All it really needs is a nice framed piece of sexy blaxploitation-era art to go over the couch, and of course, the bed. All in good time, my friend, I think to myself. One day the gods will shine down upon me and allow such silliness. Now? It’s pay the bills. Pay the bills. Dave Mustaine echoes in my brain… “Whaddya mean I don’t pay my bills? Why do ya think I’m broke! Huh!”
The funny thing is I think about those days, when I’ll be debt-free and anchor-free. Shit, I’ve thought about them for almost 14 years now. When the bills got so damn high I felt that I was going to drown under them, and the non-truths you have to tell to keep that kind of a thing a secret.
But was it really ever a secret?
The lottery hit $300 million today. In the office, it was a subject of the same old conversation that everyone has about the lottery when it gets that high. Much like the same conversation you have about the weather with people you don’t really like.
“It sure is sunny out?”
“Yep. Sure is.”
“Hope it stays that way for a while.”
“Probably won’t. It’s March.”
“What would you do with all that money?”
“Pay off my debts.”
“But a house.”
“Quit this place.”
All completely valid answers. All complete clichés.
I pointed this out to everyone with a scowl. I said if you win that much money, of fucking course you’ll pay off your debts and all that. You’ll buy your dream car. You’ll go on your dream vacation.
But fucking then what?
“Well, Mr. Smart Ass. What would you do with that money?” finally one of the uptight, horrible editors we have piped in, looking straight at me with a fucking “Ha-Ha-Ha!” smile on her face.
I pulled up my pants the best way I could without looking like a young Wilfred Brimley and looked her right in the eye. She kind of shriveled up at the sight of me. Kind of like a penis does when it gets cold and the girl your with says she’s a dude.
“I’d pay porn star Smokie Flame to just give me a blow job on film for three days straight,” I said.
“Gross.”
“What a guy thing to say.”
"You'd get bored," a female co-worker who I'd guess has never given a blow job before says.
I'm impressed with her answer and give him the Harvey Keitel coffee mug look to show my appreciation for a well thought out retort.
“Whoah, who is Smokie Flame,” my boss said, clearly impressed with my answer.
“She’s this redhead who makes really strange sounds when she fucks. Almost retarded like. But, I don’t want to be labeled as some guy that wants to fuck retards, cause, I’m not. They most certainly won’t compare me to the beer in hell guy.”
“Yes they will,” the blonde shit stain of an editor said to me. “That is just so rude.”
“Yep, and for the kind of money I’d be offering, she’d do it. You can watch. Just not in the room. I’ll set up Skype for ya.”
She slammed her door closed on that note. Randy 1, Blonde bitch boss 0.
“What would you do, Richard?” I asked my boss, who was now looking at “safe” Google search images of one Smokie Flame.
“I’d buy this place, and fire that bitch.”
“Yeah, but think of the better ways to spend it, and still accomplish the same thing. I mean, take out gay want ads, but make them full-page color double trucks. Turning down that kind of advertising dollar might just get one fired.”
“You’re fucked in the head, dude.”
“Yeah, and it only gets worse every single day.”
I look down at my lottery ticket. Numbers are 11, 19, 27, 9, 23 and a power ball of 7. Or mega ball, whichever damn poor tax I paid.
I look up at the blank space on my wall behind my Scatman couch. I imagine Smokie Flame there instead of a Pam Grier wannabe. Hope I don’t get an ax in my torso before I can make it all come true.
Monday, March 7, 2011
do you love me?
We’d been having problems for awhile now. Little things mostly. Silence at dinner. Short conversations when we had them. Not making plans.
So I asked one morning “Babe, are you OK?”
“Of course,” she said after a little bit too long of a pause and with a grin that looked more like a grimace. “Why?”
“Because something’s changed. Not saying it’s good or bad. Just that something is different than it was.”
We started dating almost three years ago. It happened one night, kind of by accident, but not really. I guess one of us had a motive.
“It just feels strange lately, babe,” I continued. “We just aren’t us lately.”
She’d been working long, hard hours at work. Me? I’d been trying to write a novel. And getting about as far as Jack Nicholson in “The Shining.” What little work I was getting paid for, was just enough to distract me from what I should have been doing.
“Let’s go get drunk tonight,” she said eagerly. “That’s how we met. That’s how we coped during the lean times. So, let’s do it!”
I smiled. She had that look in her eyes. The one that got me that first night we kissed. It’s a rarity to see that in someone’s eyes. And when you find it, you’ve got to grab hold of it and do everything you can so it doesn’t disappear. So far, every other time, it went away.
“You got it babe,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.
“That’s all I get?” she said coyly, pretending to sad.
That’s all the cue I needed. Soon, we were naked again and enjoying each other.
After a sweaty mess of a time, I laid there in bed watching her. I had the luxury of being able to do that, not having a real job. She was clumsy, dropping her bra when she was looking for a pair of underwear. Or simply forgetting something and having to run back into the room seconds later.
I smiled at this.
“What?” she asked.
“I love you, don’t every forget that.”
“Never will darlin’.”
I pulled up the covers to my chin. I’m glad I asked. In the past, I would have just ignored the signs. Let them grow. Let them become doubts. Needless doubts, but doubts. And when they sprout, they grow like vines. They choke out everything else. They spread to the other person. Before you know it, you’re alone, wondering what the fuck happened.
Don’t know when I realized that. I guess the last time. When she left without a word on a Saturday afternoon. Two hours before she said she was. Not even a note. Just gone. With all her stuff.
A little over a year later, after we’d reconnected a bit, she did it again. I saw it coming, however. Wasn’t killed by it. Just hurt. But if I’d just asked, I would have known at least a month earlier. Instead, I just watched.
The next girl didn’t have the eyes. I wasn’t consumed by her stare. It sucked. I wanted it to be there. But it wasn’t. It took me over a year to finally one night to drunkenly try something. We enjoyed a night. Then woke up the next day without much to say. I chocked it up to just being scared of being hurt. We were both gun shy by this point in our lives. Probably at a time when that should have been the furthest thought, but instead consumed us like 14 year old school kids.
One night, I asked her why she stayed with me.
“I like you,” she said.
“But you don’t love me, do you?”
Silence.
A little while later, I asked again.
“Do you love me?”
“I guess not.”
“Yeah, it’s just not there, is it?”
We stayed together for another year. But the end was inevitable.
One night in our favorite bar, I saw her. She had the most gorgeous eyes I’d seen in a long time. I couldn’t help but look at her in the mirror behind the bar.
“You should go talk to her,” my girlfriend said.
“What?” I said, shocked at this.
“You’ve been looking at her the entire time she’s been in here. She’s your type.”
“I can’t.”
“Why? Because of me?”
“No. … I’m scared.”
She looked at me and laughed. Then she bought another drink and a second one. Except it was a drink she’d never have -- a Singapore sling. She sent it to the other woman. From me.
I watched this happen. The other girl looked over at me, took the drink and held it up with a smile and a blown kiss.
By the end of the night, I had her number and her eyes in my head.
They’re still there. Thankfully. Because I don’t think I could do it without them.
So I asked one morning “Babe, are you OK?”
“Of course,” she said after a little bit too long of a pause and with a grin that looked more like a grimace. “Why?”
“Because something’s changed. Not saying it’s good or bad. Just that something is different than it was.”
We started dating almost three years ago. It happened one night, kind of by accident, but not really. I guess one of us had a motive.
“It just feels strange lately, babe,” I continued. “We just aren’t us lately.”
She’d been working long, hard hours at work. Me? I’d been trying to write a novel. And getting about as far as Jack Nicholson in “The Shining.” What little work I was getting paid for, was just enough to distract me from what I should have been doing.
“Let’s go get drunk tonight,” she said eagerly. “That’s how we met. That’s how we coped during the lean times. So, let’s do it!”
I smiled. She had that look in her eyes. The one that got me that first night we kissed. It’s a rarity to see that in someone’s eyes. And when you find it, you’ve got to grab hold of it and do everything you can so it doesn’t disappear. So far, every other time, it went away.
“You got it babe,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.
“That’s all I get?” she said coyly, pretending to sad.
That’s all the cue I needed. Soon, we were naked again and enjoying each other.
After a sweaty mess of a time, I laid there in bed watching her. I had the luxury of being able to do that, not having a real job. She was clumsy, dropping her bra when she was looking for a pair of underwear. Or simply forgetting something and having to run back into the room seconds later.
I smiled at this.
“What?” she asked.
“I love you, don’t every forget that.”
“Never will darlin’.”
I pulled up the covers to my chin. I’m glad I asked. In the past, I would have just ignored the signs. Let them grow. Let them become doubts. Needless doubts, but doubts. And when they sprout, they grow like vines. They choke out everything else. They spread to the other person. Before you know it, you’re alone, wondering what the fuck happened.
Don’t know when I realized that. I guess the last time. When she left without a word on a Saturday afternoon. Two hours before she said she was. Not even a note. Just gone. With all her stuff.
A little over a year later, after we’d reconnected a bit, she did it again. I saw it coming, however. Wasn’t killed by it. Just hurt. But if I’d just asked, I would have known at least a month earlier. Instead, I just watched.
The next girl didn’t have the eyes. I wasn’t consumed by her stare. It sucked. I wanted it to be there. But it wasn’t. It took me over a year to finally one night to drunkenly try something. We enjoyed a night. Then woke up the next day without much to say. I chocked it up to just being scared of being hurt. We were both gun shy by this point in our lives. Probably at a time when that should have been the furthest thought, but instead consumed us like 14 year old school kids.
One night, I asked her why she stayed with me.
“I like you,” she said.
“But you don’t love me, do you?”
Silence.
A little while later, I asked again.
“Do you love me?”
“I guess not.”
“Yeah, it’s just not there, is it?”
We stayed together for another year. But the end was inevitable.
One night in our favorite bar, I saw her. She had the most gorgeous eyes I’d seen in a long time. I couldn’t help but look at her in the mirror behind the bar.
“You should go talk to her,” my girlfriend said.
“What?” I said, shocked at this.
“You’ve been looking at her the entire time she’s been in here. She’s your type.”
“I can’t.”
“Why? Because of me?”
“No. … I’m scared.”
She looked at me and laughed. Then she bought another drink and a second one. Except it was a drink she’d never have -- a Singapore sling. She sent it to the other woman. From me.
I watched this happen. The other girl looked over at me, took the drink and held it up with a smile and a blown kiss.
By the end of the night, I had her number and her eyes in my head.
They’re still there. Thankfully. Because I don’t think I could do it without them.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
the new hire
The thought of sitting down next to her every day at work is kind of appalling I mean, she’s attractive and all, she doesn’t smell bad, but when the first conversation you have with her involves “looking at that stupid Puerto Rican and black girlfriend all day long” you know it’s not going to end well.
Or begin.
It’s a shame when you’re introduced to someone and you seem to hit it off. Then just a few minutes later, you completely can’t stand said person. But, it’s done. The damage has been done. No turning back.
She bats her eyes and gets what she wants too. I can see where it’s heading. The boss, he’s a bit of a moron. He also is a sexist in an old school kind of way, but with the new school twists. He loves putting almost naked women as his desktop background. He makes crude jokes. He openly spews bile about all the female bosses ahead of him in the chain.
And yet, the new edition bats her eyes and just says “I’m not listening.”
She’s got a plan. And it ain’t going to end well.
Today, she told me I was not a team player. All because she asked this question “Is saying someone is a excellent professional redundant? I mean, doesn’t saying you’re a pro imply you are excellent at what you do?“ And she didn’t like my answer. Which happened to be, “Well, look around here. There are a lot of professionals who aren’t excellent.”
“Do you like anyone’s work?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do.”
“So why aren’t you more of a team player? Boost up people instead of breaking them down?”
“All I did was answer your question. Let me make it easy for you. Just because you are paid to do something, a professional, doesn’t mean you are super, good, great or awesome at it.”
She got up and huffed off.
The boss saw her doing so, jumped up and looked at me with a horrified look on his face. “What’s wrong with her? What did you do?”
I explained. He laughed. But not his normal laugh. Hell, she’s probably already got one in on him.
Oh well. I know I’m negative in the office. It’s impossible not to be when one is surrounded by apathy and awful. But a non-journalist hired for her eyelashes and skinny butt who admits to “not knowing much about journalism…tee-hee,” trying to put on a happy face isn’t going to get on my good side.
I forget about it until a few hours later, when the head copy editor starts to bitch about a photo being shitty. I laugh, add my two cents and instantly “Don’t you like anyone?”
“Yeah, I do. But none of them are here right now,” I think to myself.
“Of course. I like professionals. Excellent ones.”
The other co-worker who I’d say is part of the Terrible Trio of Negativity, the one’s who pet the al-Qaida cat, is also pissed. She gets Fridays and Saturdays off. He wants them off and has worked there almost three years. She comes in, first day, gets those days off.
Then, she asked for four days off in a row. “Can’t I just take time off without getting paid?”
“Yes, technically you can,” the boss says.
She smiles.
He frowns.
I turn to her, “You know, when you do that, however, you’re just making it so someone else has to do your work on top of theirs when you do that?”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought about it that way!” she says.
She got the days off.
My buddy. Not happy.
Funny thing is, after typing this, I’m done. Her? Hopefully too. But I doubt it. Having the retention abilities of a house dog has advantages and disadvantages. This here, is one of the advantageous times. When your girlfriend tells you something important and you forget it 10 minutes later, that’s a disadvantageous time.
But damn it if I can’t remember song lyrics!
Good night.
***
I remember the movie “Salem’s Lot” being a lot more scary when I was a kid. That first time you see the vampire’s face, yeah, it’s still chilling and got my heart racing. But the rest of it? Grade-A turd. And the whole house thing? Man, Mr. King, you really grab a hold of a subject and flog it until post mortem. Guess maybe I may just have some kind of a future in this here writing racket. Yeah…
Or not.
***
The gal at the Food Lion sparked up another conversation with me. She has nice eyes. They’re light blue and big. Very emotive and kind of sad. The rest of her doesn’t come close.
Me saying that makes me mad, sad and glad. Mad for being so damn shallow. Sad that I know it’s true, however. And glad that I’m honest enough with myself to not allow other things to cloud my intentions and motives and such.
Or begin.
It’s a shame when you’re introduced to someone and you seem to hit it off. Then just a few minutes later, you completely can’t stand said person. But, it’s done. The damage has been done. No turning back.
She bats her eyes and gets what she wants too. I can see where it’s heading. The boss, he’s a bit of a moron. He also is a sexist in an old school kind of way, but with the new school twists. He loves putting almost naked women as his desktop background. He makes crude jokes. He openly spews bile about all the female bosses ahead of him in the chain.
And yet, the new edition bats her eyes and just says “I’m not listening.”
She’s got a plan. And it ain’t going to end well.
Today, she told me I was not a team player. All because she asked this question “Is saying someone is a excellent professional redundant? I mean, doesn’t saying you’re a pro imply you are excellent at what you do?“ And she didn’t like my answer. Which happened to be, “Well, look around here. There are a lot of professionals who aren’t excellent.”
“Do you like anyone’s work?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do.”
“So why aren’t you more of a team player? Boost up people instead of breaking them down?”
“All I did was answer your question. Let me make it easy for you. Just because you are paid to do something, a professional, doesn’t mean you are super, good, great or awesome at it.”
She got up and huffed off.
The boss saw her doing so, jumped up and looked at me with a horrified look on his face. “What’s wrong with her? What did you do?”
I explained. He laughed. But not his normal laugh. Hell, she’s probably already got one in on him.
Oh well. I know I’m negative in the office. It’s impossible not to be when one is surrounded by apathy and awful. But a non-journalist hired for her eyelashes and skinny butt who admits to “not knowing much about journalism…tee-hee,” trying to put on a happy face isn’t going to get on my good side.
I forget about it until a few hours later, when the head copy editor starts to bitch about a photo being shitty. I laugh, add my two cents and instantly “Don’t you like anyone?”
“Yeah, I do. But none of them are here right now,” I think to myself.
“Of course. I like professionals. Excellent ones.”
The other co-worker who I’d say is part of the Terrible Trio of Negativity, the one’s who pet the al-Qaida cat, is also pissed. She gets Fridays and Saturdays off. He wants them off and has worked there almost three years. She comes in, first day, gets those days off.
Then, she asked for four days off in a row. “Can’t I just take time off without getting paid?”
“Yes, technically you can,” the boss says.
She smiles.
He frowns.
I turn to her, “You know, when you do that, however, you’re just making it so someone else has to do your work on top of theirs when you do that?”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought about it that way!” she says.
She got the days off.
My buddy. Not happy.
Funny thing is, after typing this, I’m done. Her? Hopefully too. But I doubt it. Having the retention abilities of a house dog has advantages and disadvantages. This here, is one of the advantageous times. When your girlfriend tells you something important and you forget it 10 minutes later, that’s a disadvantageous time.
But damn it if I can’t remember song lyrics!
Good night.
***
I remember the movie “Salem’s Lot” being a lot more scary when I was a kid. That first time you see the vampire’s face, yeah, it’s still chilling and got my heart racing. But the rest of it? Grade-A turd. And the whole house thing? Man, Mr. King, you really grab a hold of a subject and flog it until post mortem. Guess maybe I may just have some kind of a future in this here writing racket. Yeah…
Or not.
***
The gal at the Food Lion sparked up another conversation with me. She has nice eyes. They’re light blue and big. Very emotive and kind of sad. The rest of her doesn’t come close.
Me saying that makes me mad, sad and glad. Mad for being so damn shallow. Sad that I know it’s true, however. And glad that I’m honest enough with myself to not allow other things to cloud my intentions and motives and such.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
sick as a dog
Surprisingly, the credit card doled out fifty more dollars for me. I knew that this was the last of it. My last payment was exactly enough to leave me one dollar under my limit, which I’ve not exceeded. This is the fifth card that I have flown past my limit on now. Using credit cards to live off of and to pay the others’ minimum balance is a fool’s game that has just reached it’s apex.
But, instead of moping about it, I get in my car and go fill up the tank. I’ve got to get to Virginia on this money, so, better spend it wisely.
I buy a 12 pack of beer as well. While I’m driving back to our house, I look at that beer in the passenger seat. I begin to wonder what she’d think if I told her about how much debt I was in. She’s got a great job. It pays well. She’s happy. Me, I’m a bum. I can’t find a job that I like. Much like the spoiled brat that I am, I don’t take one that could have been perfectly good. And in retrospect, would have been better than the one I ended up taking many months later.
Bur right now, I’ve got a 12 pack of beer to drink. Maybe I’ll drink half of it and get on my bike and ride around town. Buzzed bike riding is a beautiful thing. Especially in this city. The Spanish moss dripping down off of every tree. The smells. Whether it’s the river lazily flowing past behind a levee or some homeless guy’s piss from the night before, I love all of it. Call me crazy, but it just fills me with strength, something I need as my troubled existence gets more troubled by the compounded minute.
I should know better than this. I got a decent education. Twice. Even an economics degree from one of the U.S.’ best schools. Some of my professors, I’d learn later, were involved with Bernie Madoff in a bad way, meaning they got snookered too. So, I guess that could help explain things. But the one who made the biggest impact was a Mike Milken lover. Go figure. Maybe one day I’ll be able to write my own Wikipedia page and say that I was a “financier and philanthropist”, but instead mine will read was a “drunken bum and all-around nice guy.”
I decide to just drive around town instead of going home. Waste some more of that last 50 bucks. Good thing as is just a little over a dollar a gallon now. I might never make the trip back to Virginia.
After 20 minutes or so of rambling, I find myself on the Algiers ferry. The Mississippi is dull here. Too many tourists and not enough wooden rafts. I don’t know why I think one day I’ll see Huck Finn piloting on the waters, but I do. Some kind of fantasy. I’ve always wanted to do just that. Jump on a skiff in Minnesota and take her all the way to the Gulf. It sounds great in theory, but I’m sure would be a disaster of epic proportions if this city-fied fool ever tried it. End up dead like Chris McCandless.
One thing for sure on such a trip, there wouldn’t be any fights. No sleepless nights. No fretting when the mail delivers another bill you can’t pay. Just me and my thoughts. Lonely? Yes. Better than what I’ve got? Not really, as being alone is the worst thing one can do to the soul.
After wandering around Algiers for an hour or so, I get back on the ferry to the Quarter side again. The sun is falling, the tourists will be coming out. It’s Friday night. I think I should be at work. I don’t realize that soon enough, every Friday night of my life will be consumed by the job. Something no one should do, when I look back at it. I remember the friends I’ve made along the way. Only two of them are still toiling away in the cesspool of sports journalism. One is an editor for a pretty damn good paper, he offered me a job on his staff not too long ago, I turned it down to chase living at the beach. Smart move? Jury’s still out on that one…The other? He’s in Japan. Living the dream.
Me? I’m a page designer now. I don’t write anymore. I miss it. A little more with every dreadful article I read by the “journalists” that populate the papers I work for. I had a thought yesterday about the newsroom. How not a single soul in there that has a say in things has “it”. My feeling was this is what a newsroom full of citizen journalists must be like. Puppies and kittens and submitted photos and press release re-writes. Cubicle hell, indeed.
And I think about those days when I was free to do what I wanted to do. How I ended up making all the wrong choices. Some that I’m still paying for today. Some that became habits. Some that became patterns. Sometimes the voice in your head, it doesn’t know what the hell it’s talking about.
“Sick as a Dog” by Aerosmith plays as I pull into my driveway. I very distinctly remember thinking to myself that life is great, and what I do next will either be a huge step towards getting my life in order or it will further dig the hole.
Wonder how he’d feel if he met the me of today?
But, instead of moping about it, I get in my car and go fill up the tank. I’ve got to get to Virginia on this money, so, better spend it wisely.
I buy a 12 pack of beer as well. While I’m driving back to our house, I look at that beer in the passenger seat. I begin to wonder what she’d think if I told her about how much debt I was in. She’s got a great job. It pays well. She’s happy. Me, I’m a bum. I can’t find a job that I like. Much like the spoiled brat that I am, I don’t take one that could have been perfectly good. And in retrospect, would have been better than the one I ended up taking many months later.
Bur right now, I’ve got a 12 pack of beer to drink. Maybe I’ll drink half of it and get on my bike and ride around town. Buzzed bike riding is a beautiful thing. Especially in this city. The Spanish moss dripping down off of every tree. The smells. Whether it’s the river lazily flowing past behind a levee or some homeless guy’s piss from the night before, I love all of it. Call me crazy, but it just fills me with strength, something I need as my troubled existence gets more troubled by the compounded minute.
I should know better than this. I got a decent education. Twice. Even an economics degree from one of the U.S.’ best schools. Some of my professors, I’d learn later, were involved with Bernie Madoff in a bad way, meaning they got snookered too. So, I guess that could help explain things. But the one who made the biggest impact was a Mike Milken lover. Go figure. Maybe one day I’ll be able to write my own Wikipedia page and say that I was a “financier and philanthropist”, but instead mine will read was a “drunken bum and all-around nice guy.”
I decide to just drive around town instead of going home. Waste some more of that last 50 bucks. Good thing as is just a little over a dollar a gallon now. I might never make the trip back to Virginia.
After 20 minutes or so of rambling, I find myself on the Algiers ferry. The Mississippi is dull here. Too many tourists and not enough wooden rafts. I don’t know why I think one day I’ll see Huck Finn piloting on the waters, but I do. Some kind of fantasy. I’ve always wanted to do just that. Jump on a skiff in Minnesota and take her all the way to the Gulf. It sounds great in theory, but I’m sure would be a disaster of epic proportions if this city-fied fool ever tried it. End up dead like Chris McCandless.
One thing for sure on such a trip, there wouldn’t be any fights. No sleepless nights. No fretting when the mail delivers another bill you can’t pay. Just me and my thoughts. Lonely? Yes. Better than what I’ve got? Not really, as being alone is the worst thing one can do to the soul.
After wandering around Algiers for an hour or so, I get back on the ferry to the Quarter side again. The sun is falling, the tourists will be coming out. It’s Friday night. I think I should be at work. I don’t realize that soon enough, every Friday night of my life will be consumed by the job. Something no one should do, when I look back at it. I remember the friends I’ve made along the way. Only two of them are still toiling away in the cesspool of sports journalism. One is an editor for a pretty damn good paper, he offered me a job on his staff not too long ago, I turned it down to chase living at the beach. Smart move? Jury’s still out on that one…The other? He’s in Japan. Living the dream.
Me? I’m a page designer now. I don’t write anymore. I miss it. A little more with every dreadful article I read by the “journalists” that populate the papers I work for. I had a thought yesterday about the newsroom. How not a single soul in there that has a say in things has “it”. My feeling was this is what a newsroom full of citizen journalists must be like. Puppies and kittens and submitted photos and press release re-writes. Cubicle hell, indeed.
And I think about those days when I was free to do what I wanted to do. How I ended up making all the wrong choices. Some that I’m still paying for today. Some that became habits. Some that became patterns. Sometimes the voice in your head, it doesn’t know what the hell it’s talking about.
“Sick as a Dog” by Aerosmith plays as I pull into my driveway. I very distinctly remember thinking to myself that life is great, and what I do next will either be a huge step towards getting my life in order or it will further dig the hole.
Wonder how he’d feel if he met the me of today?
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