In horror, I watched the slow motion tumble of my half-empty bottle of beer fall from my hands onto the floor. It went straight down. The bottle shattering into hundreds of pieces when it hit the dirty stone floor. I knew exactly what was coming when it happened. My shoulders slumped in anticipation.
“Jones, you’re outta here,” the barkeep barked at me from across the room. John was a kind fellow, but he didn’t put up with bullshit either. His old, dirty and soaking wet towel was in one hand. A fist was made with the other.
I nodded my head in agreement and stumbled out into the afternoon air. It was hot, humid and windy. A perfect New Orleans day, I thought to myself. Only problem was, I was in Aiken, South Carolina.
How I ended up in a bar in Aiken would explain a lot about how bad my life had become. I quit my job exactly 16 days ago. Jumped in my car and drove south. I figured I’d be in Florida by the end of the day. Instead, I got a flat tire in Aiken. And I hadn’t left yet.
That day, I was towed from Interstate 95 to a repair shop. There, I met George Pepper. When he said it, at first I heard Peppard and got a little bit excited. Even though I knew the actor was dead, I figured that this mechanic being named the same thing had to be a sign of good.
“It’s Pepper, not Peppard,” he replied to my query on his last name. I felt bad after that.
“Where can a guy get a drink around here?” I asked.
“Soda pop machine’s out front,” George said with a smile.
“Something a bit stronger, I was thinking.”
“Oh,” he said. I could feel his disappointment in this stranger in his place of business.
“There’s a bar about six blocks from here. Turn on State Street. A left, I believe. Then a right on Main. You won’t be able to miss it.”
“Unless it’s a right on State?” I said with a chuckle.
George didn’t see the humor. I gave him my cell phone number to call me.
“This’ll be long distance,” he replied. “Just stop by in a couple hours. It’ll be fixed.”
I shook his hand and left. His grip was tight. Mine, not so much. My dad always told me to shake a man’s hand like you meant it. I really didn’t mean it that time. And it showed. The mechanic, according to my dad’s philosophy, now had the upper hand on me.
I trudged down the road for a few blocks. The sweat was already showing through my t-shirt. I looked up at the sky, a solitary blue jay few past me, landing on a stop sign. It shrieked. I stared at him. Wondering if the shriek was a warning to me. I chuckled when it stared back and seemed to nod a yes.
A black pickup truck slowly ambled down the road towards me. “Overnight Male” by George Straight was flying out the windows. I watched the truck go by. Inside the cab were two women. One blonde-haired. The other a redhead. They whistled at me and I tipped the brim of my baseball cap with my left hand. I heard giggles from the truck as it whisked away around the corner.
My steps were leaden. I’d only heard of Aiken from one other person in my life. A kid named Donnie. He was a tough kid. A lot tougher than me. He wasn’t very smart, but for some reason, we got along. Usually those types of guys wanted to beat the crap out of me in middle school. Not Donnie. In English class we’d sit in the back and try to come up with contests to prove that one or the other knew more about heavy metal music than the other. He looked the part, wearing leather studded arm bands and pentagram t-shirts. I usually wore a Joe Theisman jersey. But we both had bowl haircuts and had never even sniffed a kiss from a girl.
One day, after we’d spent the entire 45-minute long class writing the names of heavy metal bands – I had 146, he had 133, he told me that he was moving. All the way to South Carolina. We ate lunch together, talking about the band we wanted to form, the girls we wanted to “do” and the plans we had to stay in touch. We exchanged addresses that day. Mine in Virginia, his new one in South Carolina.
A handshake and a look was how it ended.
That summer, I wrote him. Told him how dull our hometown was. That the arcade was closing and the new Motley Crue album was “ok” but not as good as “Shout at the Devil.”
A few weeks later, I got a reply. He talked about how hot it was. How there was nothing but farms and niggers. I read that line over and over. The letter concluded with him saying how much he hated it there. Too many niggers. Again.
That was the last letter I got from Donnie. I never wrote again either.
Now, over 25 years later I’m in that town he hated so much. I wonder if he’s around?
Finally, I make it to the bar. An old brick building that most likely used to be something better. Now, it was a bar. Called “Sid’s Sitting Point.” I opened the big red door and went inside. Hank Williams was singing about being lonesome.
My eyes went from one side of the place to the other. There were four people in the place. Two old guys at the bar and a woman at the jukebox. The bartender was there too. I’d end up knowing his name – John Underwood – by the end of the afternoon.
“What do ya have in a bottle?” I asked.
“Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite and Coors,” he said.
I winced.
“Give me a Bud and a shot of Jameson,” I replied.
“You got it buddy,” he said. “My name’s John.”
“Nice to meet ya, man. I’m Randy.”
He poured my shot and plopped down the beer. I took a swig. It was awful, but cold, so it felt good going down. Soon, I’d had eight beers and a couple of shots. I was feeling good.
The doors opened with a crash. In came the two ladies I’d seen earlier. They saw me at the bar and plopped down next to me. John gave me a look. I knew what that look was about. It said “be careful, bro.” I nodded in appreciation, but also knew I wasn’t going to take his advice.
“Hello, stranger,” the redhead said to me.
“Howdy, ladies,” I replied in a southern drawl that always came over me when I was drunk or nervous. Right now, I was both.
“You’re cute,” said the blonde.
“Well, ma’am, you’re pretty,” I said, taking a long swig from the just delivered bottle of beer. It was the best sip I had all day.
“You wanna get out of here?” the redhead eventually asked me after the three of us had talked about their dogs, their cats and their shitty jobs for about 45 minutes.
“Sure, why the hell not?” I said.
Within two minutes I had paid my tab, gotten a stiff handshake and a stern look from John, taken a piss and jumped in the cab of that black pickup truck. This oughtta be fun, I thought to myself as I looked at the redhead, smiling and looking out the window. Her legs were pale and firm. I noticed no tattoos, always a good sign.
“You think she’s pretty?,” the blonde asked out of the blue.
“Always had a thing for redheads,” I replied. This redhead looked at me now. She smiled. Then turned back to the window.
“Where we going?” I asked no one in particular.
“Over to the shed,” the blonde said.
“Sounds like a plan,” I replied. “You got anything to drink?”
“Of course, darlin’,” the blonde said, pulling a flask from between her legs.
She handed it to me. It was warm from her body heat. I clicked open the top and took a swig. It was tequila. I nearly threw it up, but held back.
“Whoah, there Tiger,” she said. “Don’t want you puking on my man’s truck.”
That should have been a warning. But I ignored it. I handed the flask to the redhead. She took a swig and then another. That should have been a second warning. My drunk ass thought it was awesome. Me, two hot southern girls, at least 10 years younger than me, driving around in the sticks of South Carolina. What could possibly ever go wrong?
Friday, April 29, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
hey, hey, my, my
I drank myself into oblivion last night. Much like every other night. This one differed slightly. I woke up with my arms wrapped around some lady.
She was blonde. Kind of fat, but not old fat as there weren’t any stretch marks or weird discolored patches. I’d guess 24 or so. She smelled like cheap beer and so did I. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, seeing clearly that I’d brought her to my place, not me to hers.
My head hurt. Badly. Not a dull ache, but a full-on bizarre feeling of agony. For some reason, Neil Young’s “Hey, hey, my, my” echoes in my head. A random moment that will never be explained.
Feeling woozy, I get out of bed. Thankfully, I have my boxers on. Scurrying about trying to find underwear in a funk with some stranger laying on your bed is not something to take lightly.
Making my way to the bathroom, the puke comes. I didn’t think I was going to purge last night’s excesses, but apparently, the body had other thoughts. I see from what comes up that I must have had some kind of chili-based product. It’s never really “food” when you put chili on top of it. From Lucky Dogs to Sheetz fries, bad things come with chili on top.
I find a t-shirt strewn about on the floor. Not a hard thing to do in this place as I tend to just chuck them everywhere. Same with shorts. And socks. Have I mentioned I’m not a very clean person? I go outside into the sun. It feels nice on my face. A welcome relief from the horror that will unfold in a few minutes or hours, whenever the creature in my bed comes to life. I scan the driveway. No other cars. That means I have to give her a ride somewhere or pay for a cab. Disappointment swells. No chance of her sneaking out while I’m showering later.
I go back inside, open the fridge. A half-drank pint glass of beer sits on the shelf. I love it when I do something like that. I never drink them, but my drunken mind believes that it is something worth saving. I take out the glass and take a sip. It’s cold, but flat. I pour the rest out. The 20-year-old me sighs somewhere. But fuck that guy, he ain’t coming back to give me the power of strong erections and long, flowing locks of hair. I reach back into the fridge and pull out a bottle of Amber. I pop the top and take a long swig. It feels right – getting drunk before I go back into the bedroom. Soon, I’m six beers in. I feel good with a buzz now. The day’s getting better.
Instinctively, I climb back into bed. I take off all clothes right before doing so. I spoon with this overweight princess that I have no idea who she is. I get a hard on. It’s nice. I fall asleep.
A few hours later, I have this overwhelming feeling, so I open my eyes. She’s staring at me.
“Hi!” she says way too cheerily.
“Hello, darlin’,” I say. Don’t know why I said darlin’, it just seemed to fit.
“I had a great time last night,” she smiles while she says that. It’s that kind of smile, implying impure thoughts. She’s obviously a bit of a shy gal. Ha.
“Me too,” I lie. Not that I didn’t have a great time, because waking up next to a naked woman implies a good time. But I simply don’t remember. Never will. If I end up marrying this girl, which won’t happen, she’ll have fond memories of last night. Will ask me about it all the time. I, on the other hand, will remember getting up from said night and barfing in the toilet. The first time I’d barfed since the 1990s from drinking. Oh, and chili.
She nuzzles up to my chest. I put my arm around her. I get a hard on again. There’s a definite pattern here. I’m kind of hopeful that she notices, not that there’s a lot to notice.
“So, what do you do?” she finally asks after a couple minutes.
“I didn’t tell you last night?”
“Nope.”
“Well, darlin’, I’m a writer.”
“That’s neat. What do you write?”
“Nothing right now.”
“Huh?”
“Well, I write about life. My life. Your life. Everyone’s life.”
“You’re going to write about me?”
“Most definitely.”
“What if I don’t want you to?”
“Too late.”
“Don’t worry. I want you to write about me.”
My hard on went down immediately on those words. It’s like thinking of Angela Landsbury naked. Not the 1950s version, but the “Murder, She Wrote” one. Time is a terrible thing. Especially if you’re a barren branch, as the Chinese would call me. I can feel melancholy sweeping over my body and mind. A frown has appeared on my face.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
“Just…um…”
“What?”
“You just said something.”
“What? … I’m so sorry.”
She reached for my dick. I guess that’s her way of conflict resolution with a guy she just met. A guy who doesn’t even remember her name.
I rolled over to stop the inevitable. Not that I couldn’t use a nice blow job or fuck. I just knew it wasn’t going to be a good idea.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Not your fault, darlin’,” I said. “I’ve got issues you couldn’t imagine. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you about them.”
I didn’t have plans to tell her. It just seemed the right thing to say.
“Oh…OK.”
She pulled the sheet up over her body. It was nice to have a warm body in bed next to me. I put my arm around her, placing my hand on her belly. She took my hand. We went back to sleep. It was the best sleep I’d had in years. So good, I didn’t mind missing work that day. Although my boss felt slightly different about it, firing me the next day.
I never saw that girl again. But, before she left – in a cab – she told me her name. It was Rebecca.
She was blonde. Kind of fat, but not old fat as there weren’t any stretch marks or weird discolored patches. I’d guess 24 or so. She smelled like cheap beer and so did I. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, seeing clearly that I’d brought her to my place, not me to hers.
My head hurt. Badly. Not a dull ache, but a full-on bizarre feeling of agony. For some reason, Neil Young’s “Hey, hey, my, my” echoes in my head. A random moment that will never be explained.
Feeling woozy, I get out of bed. Thankfully, I have my boxers on. Scurrying about trying to find underwear in a funk with some stranger laying on your bed is not something to take lightly.
Making my way to the bathroom, the puke comes. I didn’t think I was going to purge last night’s excesses, but apparently, the body had other thoughts. I see from what comes up that I must have had some kind of chili-based product. It’s never really “food” when you put chili on top of it. From Lucky Dogs to Sheetz fries, bad things come with chili on top.
I find a t-shirt strewn about on the floor. Not a hard thing to do in this place as I tend to just chuck them everywhere. Same with shorts. And socks. Have I mentioned I’m not a very clean person? I go outside into the sun. It feels nice on my face. A welcome relief from the horror that will unfold in a few minutes or hours, whenever the creature in my bed comes to life. I scan the driveway. No other cars. That means I have to give her a ride somewhere or pay for a cab. Disappointment swells. No chance of her sneaking out while I’m showering later.
I go back inside, open the fridge. A half-drank pint glass of beer sits on the shelf. I love it when I do something like that. I never drink them, but my drunken mind believes that it is something worth saving. I take out the glass and take a sip. It’s cold, but flat. I pour the rest out. The 20-year-old me sighs somewhere. But fuck that guy, he ain’t coming back to give me the power of strong erections and long, flowing locks of hair. I reach back into the fridge and pull out a bottle of Amber. I pop the top and take a long swig. It feels right – getting drunk before I go back into the bedroom. Soon, I’m six beers in. I feel good with a buzz now. The day’s getting better.
Instinctively, I climb back into bed. I take off all clothes right before doing so. I spoon with this overweight princess that I have no idea who she is. I get a hard on. It’s nice. I fall asleep.
A few hours later, I have this overwhelming feeling, so I open my eyes. She’s staring at me.
“Hi!” she says way too cheerily.
“Hello, darlin’,” I say. Don’t know why I said darlin’, it just seemed to fit.
“I had a great time last night,” she smiles while she says that. It’s that kind of smile, implying impure thoughts. She’s obviously a bit of a shy gal. Ha.
“Me too,” I lie. Not that I didn’t have a great time, because waking up next to a naked woman implies a good time. But I simply don’t remember. Never will. If I end up marrying this girl, which won’t happen, she’ll have fond memories of last night. Will ask me about it all the time. I, on the other hand, will remember getting up from said night and barfing in the toilet. The first time I’d barfed since the 1990s from drinking. Oh, and chili.
She nuzzles up to my chest. I put my arm around her. I get a hard on again. There’s a definite pattern here. I’m kind of hopeful that she notices, not that there’s a lot to notice.
“So, what do you do?” she finally asks after a couple minutes.
“I didn’t tell you last night?”
“Nope.”
“Well, darlin’, I’m a writer.”
“That’s neat. What do you write?”
“Nothing right now.”
“Huh?”
“Well, I write about life. My life. Your life. Everyone’s life.”
“You’re going to write about me?”
“Most definitely.”
“What if I don’t want you to?”
“Too late.”
“Don’t worry. I want you to write about me.”
My hard on went down immediately on those words. It’s like thinking of Angela Landsbury naked. Not the 1950s version, but the “Murder, She Wrote” one. Time is a terrible thing. Especially if you’re a barren branch, as the Chinese would call me. I can feel melancholy sweeping over my body and mind. A frown has appeared on my face.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
“Just…um…”
“What?”
“You just said something.”
“What? … I’m so sorry.”
She reached for my dick. I guess that’s her way of conflict resolution with a guy she just met. A guy who doesn’t even remember her name.
I rolled over to stop the inevitable. Not that I couldn’t use a nice blow job or fuck. I just knew it wasn’t going to be a good idea.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Not your fault, darlin’,” I said. “I’ve got issues you couldn’t imagine. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you about them.”
I didn’t have plans to tell her. It just seemed the right thing to say.
“Oh…OK.”
She pulled the sheet up over her body. It was nice to have a warm body in bed next to me. I put my arm around her, placing my hand on her belly. She took my hand. We went back to sleep. It was the best sleep I’d had in years. So good, I didn’t mind missing work that day. Although my boss felt slightly different about it, firing me the next day.
I never saw that girl again. But, before she left – in a cab – she told me her name. It was Rebecca.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
fail.
I drank myself into oblivion last night. Much like every other night. This one differed slightly. I woke up with my arms wrapped around some lady.
She was blonde. Kind of fat, but not old fat as there weren’t any stretch marks or weird discolored patches. I’d guess 24 or so. She smelled like cheap beer and so did I. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, seeing clearly that I’d brought her to my place, not me to hers.
My head hurt. Badly. Not a dull ache, but a full-on bizarre feeling of agony.
She was blonde. Kind of fat, but not old fat as there weren’t any stretch marks or weird discolored patches. I’d guess 24 or so. She smelled like cheap beer and so did I. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, seeing clearly that I’d brought her to my place, not me to hers.
My head hurt. Badly. Not a dull ache, but a full-on bizarre feeling of agony.
excuses and assholes...
my computer, puchased exactly 5 weeks prior...died on sunday. it's back today. and so will i tonight.
yep.
yep.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
randall p. floyd
“Mustard on a Twinkie? That’s just wrong.”
I thought nothing of it. So, I dunked my Twinkie remnant in the yellow goop once again.
“Fuck, man, that’s disgusting.”
“It’s really not. Have you tried it?”
“No God damn it. I have not tried it. Why would anyone try that?”
“Why would someone get in a boat and sail to the west? That’s what folks used to say. If they hadn’t, you might be growing up in England right now, thinking the world was flat.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, intelligent conversation. That’s you.”
“Fuck you, again.”
“Buy me a fucking drink, you anti-intellectual, you.”
“Two beers, Danny! One for me. One for the fucking Einstein here.”
I smiled. Usually, I’m the one being berated for being a dumb-ass. Tonight? I’m back home in Hopewell, Virginia. Here, I’m still considered smart. I look in the corner of the bar. There’s my old government teacher. He was a cool guy when I was 17. Now? He’s just another drunk. Like me. Wishing he’d never come to this small, industrial town, I’m sure. The only things I remember about Mr. Harp are this: his roommate in college killed himself via hanging in the closet, thus making him the only person I know who can actually verify the “if your roommate in college kills himself, you get a 4.0” rumor. Oh, and he’s spent more time with my dad than me. If that counts as knowing something about him.
I very easily could have ended up in this very same place every night of my life. Instead of sitting alone in my living room, on a hand-me-down couch watching the same movies over and over and listening to the same songs over and over. Is one better than the other? Not really. Of course, if I’d stayed in Hopewell, most likely, I’d be married. Or at least getting laid. There’s something to be said for sticking your dick inside of a woman instead of your spit in hand. Just saying.
It’s funny. I still want a woman who doesn’t want me. She texted me for over an hour tonight. Mindless conversations about music, rock shows and the like. No flirting. At least, none returned. You try to slip in a line or two, hoping it’s a weak moment for her. Maybe she’s doing the same thing you are on a lonely Saturday night. Sitting at home, wondering where, for her the 20s went, for me, the 30s. However, she’s got three hours on you. It’s only 8:29 p.m. there. It’s 11:29 here. The night is starting for her. It’s been done for a while for you.
Still, you keep the conversation going. That is, until the messages stop coming. You know what that means. Someone found something more interesting to be distracted by. I’m sure it’s flattering to know that someone really digs you. Would do anything to have a moment with you. She knows this about me. And it doesn’t stop you from acting the fool. Chasing the tail like a dog. Or like a horny 40 year old. Whichever seems to be the more fitting description. I don’t know. I’ve never been to war. I’ve shot a gun. Twice. It sucked. I got a big bruise on my shoulder from the recoil. I think my dad knew right after that second shot that I wouldn’t be hunting with him anymore. It was pointless. And hell, I liked to run around in the cornfields and pretend I was somewhere else. I guess I could have made a good Labrador retriever? Wolf. Wolf! Go get the dead duck!
I sometimes wonder how I’d react in a combat situation. It’s one of those things you can never know about yourself until it happens. Same thing as if some drug addict pulls a gun on you. But I’ve had that happen to me. I joked with the guy until he started laughing and lowered it. Don’t think that would work with the Taliban. But one never knows? Maybe I could just put on Electric Six’s “Gay Bar” and we could all have a good laugh together. Looking at Tony Blair and George Bush.
Fuck YouTube.
Anyway, I wonder if the Anyways police are out today?
I need to stop trying to find a reason to keep going. If you need a reason and you don’t know what it is, then it’s already a lost cause. Right?
Who the fuck am I to ask such questions? Randall Pink Floyd?
I thought nothing of it. So, I dunked my Twinkie remnant in the yellow goop once again.
“Fuck, man, that’s disgusting.”
“It’s really not. Have you tried it?”
“No God damn it. I have not tried it. Why would anyone try that?”
“Why would someone get in a boat and sail to the west? That’s what folks used to say. If they hadn’t, you might be growing up in England right now, thinking the world was flat.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, intelligent conversation. That’s you.”
“Fuck you, again.”
“Buy me a fucking drink, you anti-intellectual, you.”
“Two beers, Danny! One for me. One for the fucking Einstein here.”
I smiled. Usually, I’m the one being berated for being a dumb-ass. Tonight? I’m back home in Hopewell, Virginia. Here, I’m still considered smart. I look in the corner of the bar. There’s my old government teacher. He was a cool guy when I was 17. Now? He’s just another drunk. Like me. Wishing he’d never come to this small, industrial town, I’m sure. The only things I remember about Mr. Harp are this: his roommate in college killed himself via hanging in the closet, thus making him the only person I know who can actually verify the “if your roommate in college kills himself, you get a 4.0” rumor. Oh, and he’s spent more time with my dad than me. If that counts as knowing something about him.
I very easily could have ended up in this very same place every night of my life. Instead of sitting alone in my living room, on a hand-me-down couch watching the same movies over and over and listening to the same songs over and over. Is one better than the other? Not really. Of course, if I’d stayed in Hopewell, most likely, I’d be married. Or at least getting laid. There’s something to be said for sticking your dick inside of a woman instead of your spit in hand. Just saying.
It’s funny. I still want a woman who doesn’t want me. She texted me for over an hour tonight. Mindless conversations about music, rock shows and the like. No flirting. At least, none returned. You try to slip in a line or two, hoping it’s a weak moment for her. Maybe she’s doing the same thing you are on a lonely Saturday night. Sitting at home, wondering where, for her the 20s went, for me, the 30s. However, she’s got three hours on you. It’s only 8:29 p.m. there. It’s 11:29 here. The night is starting for her. It’s been done for a while for you.
Still, you keep the conversation going. That is, until the messages stop coming. You know what that means. Someone found something more interesting to be distracted by. I’m sure it’s flattering to know that someone really digs you. Would do anything to have a moment with you. She knows this about me. And it doesn’t stop you from acting the fool. Chasing the tail like a dog. Or like a horny 40 year old. Whichever seems to be the more fitting description. I don’t know. I’ve never been to war. I’ve shot a gun. Twice. It sucked. I got a big bruise on my shoulder from the recoil. I think my dad knew right after that second shot that I wouldn’t be hunting with him anymore. It was pointless. And hell, I liked to run around in the cornfields and pretend I was somewhere else. I guess I could have made a good Labrador retriever? Wolf. Wolf! Go get the dead duck!
I sometimes wonder how I’d react in a combat situation. It’s one of those things you can never know about yourself until it happens. Same thing as if some drug addict pulls a gun on you. But I’ve had that happen to me. I joked with the guy until he started laughing and lowered it. Don’t think that would work with the Taliban. But one never knows? Maybe I could just put on Electric Six’s “Gay Bar” and we could all have a good laugh together. Looking at Tony Blair and George Bush.
Fuck YouTube.
Anyway, I wonder if the Anyways police are out today?
I need to stop trying to find a reason to keep going. If you need a reason and you don’t know what it is, then it’s already a lost cause. Right?
Who the fuck am I to ask such questions? Randall Pink Floyd?
Friday, April 22, 2011
fuck that shit
I walked through the old pink doors, Social Distortion’s “I Was Wrong” blared from some shitty bar speakers that had blown out a long time ago. I winced at a bright light from above. I hate lights in bars. They serve no purpose other than to expose the ugliness that you go into the bar to hide.
“Shiner and a Jameson,” I say to Luther, my favorite bartender of the moment.
“You got it Jonesy,” he replies with a finger point, he’s no longer my favorite bartender of the moment, but he does deliver the goods. Which I tip accordingly for.
“You ever going to replace those speakers?” I ask in a raspy, I just took a shot of Jameson voice.
“Nah, you’ll just blow them out again.”
True, one night a few months ago, I jumped behind the bar while American Aquarium’s “Redheads and Adderall” came on. Mostly, I did it to mute the gaggle of sorority girls belting out some Lady Gaga tune over at one of the booths. They had an I-phone with it playing. The worst part of this bar is its proximity to the university. However, it’s also one of its selling points on a cold, lonely night.
“Eh, that was justifiable homicide, Luther. I can’t stand it when I have to hear shrill sounds coming from shallow people.”
“How the fuck do you listen to your own thoughts?”
“Yeah, fuck you then,” I replied, finishing off my Shiner. “Another round, then.”
He took my empty bottle and the shot glass. The bottle shattered in the trash bin after he tossed it about 12 feet to the corner. It amazed me that he never fucking missed that shot. At least when I was around.
“You ever miss?”
“Of course I do. But I’m on my A-game just for you.”
“Fuck off and give me my drinks.”
He filled a shot glass. Then pounded a second on the bar, filling it to the point of overflow, but stopping just in time. “Damn, he is on his A-game tonight,” I thought.
We clinked glasses and downed the shots. It’s going to be another long night, I could tell. At 2:37 p.m. On a Tuesday.
“Where is everybody?” I asked with a grin.
“Guess they heard you’d be here, went over to Charlie’s. A lot less lecherous 40 year olds hanging out there. In fact, I think they don’t let you in anymore, right?”
“Fuck off, Luther.”
“You two bicker like a married couple,” a voice shot out from the darkness. Immediately, I was in love. No matter what she looked like.
“Nah, I’ve asked him at least 100 times. Including the first night I was in this damn bar,” I said. “Dick head always says “I’m not gay, man.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Sure you’re not,” she said. My heart skipped another beat. This lady’s got moxie. You don’t see too many in this place with moxie. Most of ‘em have money, yeah, that and pearly white teeth. Impossibly white. My golden teeth certainly don’t fit into mom and dad’s usual plans for their little darlings. Thankfully.
“I can hear you, but I can’t see you,” I say, looking toward the darkness that is the left side of the joint.
Slowly, a shadow creeps out of the dark. She hits the light for a second, then disappears, then reappears.
“Who are you? Antonio Banderas?”
“You think you’re really clever, don’t you?” she says as she sits down next to me. She smells of watermelon. Her hair is, of course, red. It couldn’t have been any other color. Now, whether or not it’s real, I’ll probably never know. At least that’s what I think at that moment of terror.
“Nah, I’m just an asshole who throws shit out and usually, it sticks.”
“My name’s Maddy,” she says, sticking out her hand for a shake.
“Randy,” I reply. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“You going to buy me a drink, or do I have to do it myself?”
“Get the lady a Jameson and Shine,” I say to Luther. He cocks his head a bit. I don’t usually order my usual for the ladies. And usually, they don’t order it either. He looks at her, she doesn’t take her gaze off of me. Luther finally gets a bottle and a shot. She reaches over for the shot, clutches it and swigs it back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Was that a test?” she asks.
“Nah, I figured if you didn’t want it, I’d just drink it and then order you a Singapore Sling or something.”
“Fuck that shit.”
I had no chance after that.
“Fuck that shit, indeed.”
“Shiner and a Jameson,” I say to Luther, my favorite bartender of the moment.
“You got it Jonesy,” he replies with a finger point, he’s no longer my favorite bartender of the moment, but he does deliver the goods. Which I tip accordingly for.
“You ever going to replace those speakers?” I ask in a raspy, I just took a shot of Jameson voice.
“Nah, you’ll just blow them out again.”
True, one night a few months ago, I jumped behind the bar while American Aquarium’s “Redheads and Adderall” came on. Mostly, I did it to mute the gaggle of sorority girls belting out some Lady Gaga tune over at one of the booths. They had an I-phone with it playing. The worst part of this bar is its proximity to the university. However, it’s also one of its selling points on a cold, lonely night.
“Eh, that was justifiable homicide, Luther. I can’t stand it when I have to hear shrill sounds coming from shallow people.”
“How the fuck do you listen to your own thoughts?”
“Yeah, fuck you then,” I replied, finishing off my Shiner. “Another round, then.”
He took my empty bottle and the shot glass. The bottle shattered in the trash bin after he tossed it about 12 feet to the corner. It amazed me that he never fucking missed that shot. At least when I was around.
“You ever miss?”
“Of course I do. But I’m on my A-game just for you.”
“Fuck off and give me my drinks.”
He filled a shot glass. Then pounded a second on the bar, filling it to the point of overflow, but stopping just in time. “Damn, he is on his A-game tonight,” I thought.
We clinked glasses and downed the shots. It’s going to be another long night, I could tell. At 2:37 p.m. On a Tuesday.
“Where is everybody?” I asked with a grin.
“Guess they heard you’d be here, went over to Charlie’s. A lot less lecherous 40 year olds hanging out there. In fact, I think they don’t let you in anymore, right?”
“Fuck off, Luther.”
“You two bicker like a married couple,” a voice shot out from the darkness. Immediately, I was in love. No matter what she looked like.
“Nah, I’ve asked him at least 100 times. Including the first night I was in this damn bar,” I said. “Dick head always says “I’m not gay, man.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Sure you’re not,” she said. My heart skipped another beat. This lady’s got moxie. You don’t see too many in this place with moxie. Most of ‘em have money, yeah, that and pearly white teeth. Impossibly white. My golden teeth certainly don’t fit into mom and dad’s usual plans for their little darlings. Thankfully.
“I can hear you, but I can’t see you,” I say, looking toward the darkness that is the left side of the joint.
Slowly, a shadow creeps out of the dark. She hits the light for a second, then disappears, then reappears.
“Who are you? Antonio Banderas?”
“You think you’re really clever, don’t you?” she says as she sits down next to me. She smells of watermelon. Her hair is, of course, red. It couldn’t have been any other color. Now, whether or not it’s real, I’ll probably never know. At least that’s what I think at that moment of terror.
“Nah, I’m just an asshole who throws shit out and usually, it sticks.”
“My name’s Maddy,” she says, sticking out her hand for a shake.
“Randy,” I reply. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“You going to buy me a drink, or do I have to do it myself?”
“Get the lady a Jameson and Shine,” I say to Luther. He cocks his head a bit. I don’t usually order my usual for the ladies. And usually, they don’t order it either. He looks at her, she doesn’t take her gaze off of me. Luther finally gets a bottle and a shot. She reaches over for the shot, clutches it and swigs it back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Was that a test?” she asks.
“Nah, I figured if you didn’t want it, I’d just drink it and then order you a Singapore Sling or something.”
“Fuck that shit.”
I had no chance after that.
“Fuck that shit, indeed.”
Thursday, April 21, 2011
nervous tension
A frantic Kinks’ drumbeat kicks in the background. My teeth throb. How long has it been since I went to the dentist? Will I ever go again? Fuck if I know. I’m just thinking about the day ahead.
Supposedly, I’m meeting a lady at a bar in Raleigh. I have to drive two hours from work to get there. And then I still don’t know if she’ll actually show up or if she’ll be worth the long drive. She’s a blonde too. Uses bad grammar.
She does like good music. And apparently the booze. This could be good. Could be bad. I’ve given up really trying to figure it out beforehand. It ruins the surprise. It takes away from the chase. And hell, the opportunities come up so infrequently that, honestly, I can’t overthink them when they do.
I’ve already done one thing against my insane mindset. I shave my playoff beard. The Capitals are entrenched in the Stanley Cup run. And instead of keeping it, I shaved it. First impressions and all. If she’s a great gal, she wouldn’t have cared, right? Wrong.
I get done with work early. Caring less and less about the finished product is not a good thing. However, getting a life is more important to me at the moment. It’s easy for colleagues to scoff at my lack of passion. “Get out,” they say. “You don’t love it anymore, you should be in it.” Well, I do love it. So much so that I get ulcers looking at the shitty copy I get every day. The kind of stuff that used to get you fired, but now gets you protected. Guess if you are nice now, you advance. If you kick ass and stay surly, you get buried. Unless you know someone. Yeah, I’m bitter. But those colleagues can all go fuck themselves. They have wives and husbands and kids and lives outside the walls of the newspaper. I still don’t. I’m still living the life I was as a 25 year old. As a 30 year old. As a 35 year old. Now at 40. And my bitter ass still wants to believe one day it will be better. That journalism will prevail, despite the polls that say people don’t care. The laws that censor us a little more each day. One day we’ll wake up? Right? It’s not all about having a stupid fucking App on my smart phone tell me what to do. What to watch. What to buy. Who to like. Who to fuck.
I get in my car. Crank the engine. I look at the odometer. It read 32,234 miles. I’ve had this car less than a year. I love the road. It loves me back. Well, as well as a road can. Lucero’s “Tears Don’t Matter Much” blasts out of the speakers. It’s gonna be a good night. It can’t help but be.
The landscape on this drive is dreary. The sun is beginning to slip behind the horizon. A bright orange hue fills up the sky. It’s quite amazing. In the distance, farmers are finishing up whatever they’re doing today. I see three giant tractors going the other direction. I’m happy for them. And happy for myself that they’re not going my way. I don’t feel nervous. I know I will when I actually get to the bar we’re meeting at. It’s the way I am. I don’t think about such things until they are right in front of me. It’s a defense mechanism that has developed over the years. It used to be that I’d fret over things so much that when the actual event happened, I’d clam up from the pressure I’d put on myself. That led to an awful lot of disappointment early on in life. Not that the later years haven’t been chock full of the same feeling, but at least the buildup and release isn’t so bad anymore.
At some point, the green fields and falling down shacks give way to new expressways. I think about the days when I first moved here, 10 years ago almost to the day, when none of these roads existed. All travel from the rural outskirts to the “big city” was by small two-lane blacktops. Now, four, six and eight-lane behemoths are everywhere. That saddens me a bit. But just for a moment.
I pull into Raleigh. It’s a cool town, I figure. I never spend much time here. I see hockey games. Been shopping a few times. Covered a couple of events when I was still a reporter. Now? I’m meeting a lady. Will she be cool? Will she be smart? Will she be frightened of my crooked teeth? The seal has been broken. The nerves begin to pile upon themselves. I’m 15 minutes early. I decide that’s a good thing. Maybe I can get a shot of whiskey before she arrives. Calm the nerves. Stop the voices.
I park my car. I still can’t parallel park. Not a skill I’ve ever needed. Luckily, my little Hyundai fits in a place with no need for real skill.
The bar’s up ahead. I’m sweating a bit. I stop at the door. Staring at it for a moment.
“Here’s goes nothing,” I say to myself as I grab the door, swing it open and go inside.
Supposedly, I’m meeting a lady at a bar in Raleigh. I have to drive two hours from work to get there. And then I still don’t know if she’ll actually show up or if she’ll be worth the long drive. She’s a blonde too. Uses bad grammar.
She does like good music. And apparently the booze. This could be good. Could be bad. I’ve given up really trying to figure it out beforehand. It ruins the surprise. It takes away from the chase. And hell, the opportunities come up so infrequently that, honestly, I can’t overthink them when they do.
I’ve already done one thing against my insane mindset. I shave my playoff beard. The Capitals are entrenched in the Stanley Cup run. And instead of keeping it, I shaved it. First impressions and all. If she’s a great gal, she wouldn’t have cared, right? Wrong.
I get done with work early. Caring less and less about the finished product is not a good thing. However, getting a life is more important to me at the moment. It’s easy for colleagues to scoff at my lack of passion. “Get out,” they say. “You don’t love it anymore, you should be in it.” Well, I do love it. So much so that I get ulcers looking at the shitty copy I get every day. The kind of stuff that used to get you fired, but now gets you protected. Guess if you are nice now, you advance. If you kick ass and stay surly, you get buried. Unless you know someone. Yeah, I’m bitter. But those colleagues can all go fuck themselves. They have wives and husbands and kids and lives outside the walls of the newspaper. I still don’t. I’m still living the life I was as a 25 year old. As a 30 year old. As a 35 year old. Now at 40. And my bitter ass still wants to believe one day it will be better. That journalism will prevail, despite the polls that say people don’t care. The laws that censor us a little more each day. One day we’ll wake up? Right? It’s not all about having a stupid fucking App on my smart phone tell me what to do. What to watch. What to buy. Who to like. Who to fuck.
I get in my car. Crank the engine. I look at the odometer. It read 32,234 miles. I’ve had this car less than a year. I love the road. It loves me back. Well, as well as a road can. Lucero’s “Tears Don’t Matter Much” blasts out of the speakers. It’s gonna be a good night. It can’t help but be.
The landscape on this drive is dreary. The sun is beginning to slip behind the horizon. A bright orange hue fills up the sky. It’s quite amazing. In the distance, farmers are finishing up whatever they’re doing today. I see three giant tractors going the other direction. I’m happy for them. And happy for myself that they’re not going my way. I don’t feel nervous. I know I will when I actually get to the bar we’re meeting at. It’s the way I am. I don’t think about such things until they are right in front of me. It’s a defense mechanism that has developed over the years. It used to be that I’d fret over things so much that when the actual event happened, I’d clam up from the pressure I’d put on myself. That led to an awful lot of disappointment early on in life. Not that the later years haven’t been chock full of the same feeling, but at least the buildup and release isn’t so bad anymore.
At some point, the green fields and falling down shacks give way to new expressways. I think about the days when I first moved here, 10 years ago almost to the day, when none of these roads existed. All travel from the rural outskirts to the “big city” was by small two-lane blacktops. Now, four, six and eight-lane behemoths are everywhere. That saddens me a bit. But just for a moment.
I pull into Raleigh. It’s a cool town, I figure. I never spend much time here. I see hockey games. Been shopping a few times. Covered a couple of events when I was still a reporter. Now? I’m meeting a lady. Will she be cool? Will she be smart? Will she be frightened of my crooked teeth? The seal has been broken. The nerves begin to pile upon themselves. I’m 15 minutes early. I decide that’s a good thing. Maybe I can get a shot of whiskey before she arrives. Calm the nerves. Stop the voices.
I park my car. I still can’t parallel park. Not a skill I’ve ever needed. Luckily, my little Hyundai fits in a place with no need for real skill.
The bar’s up ahead. I’m sweating a bit. I stop at the door. Staring at it for a moment.
“Here’s goes nothing,” I say to myself as I grab the door, swing it open and go inside.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
fire ants
The heat outside is oppressive. Phoenix is like that. It’s half-past 3 in the afternoon and the circle thermometer says it’s 118 out. But we’re on a mission.
Kurtis has a can of gasoline. I’ve got matches. We’re going to have some fun.
The backyard is full of orange traffic cones. We revel in adding to our graveyard almost nightly. Me drunk. Him stoned. The other two roommates, Teddy, the anal-retentive who writes down every interesting quote from a book, magazine or television show that piques his interest so he can use them later to sound intelligent; and Mark, the greasy-New York accented loser who can’t keep a job for more than five minutes; add to the mayhem as well. But they’re both sound asleep right now. How they can sleep when it’s that hot out, and almost as hot inside without air conditioning has never made any sense to me.
We get to the back gate. Kurtis pops the lock on the door and we go outside.
There it is: a giant mound of dirt. It rose from nowhere in just a couple of days. If it hadn’t been for Mark getting attacked last night while tossing two cones over the fenced in yard we may not have known about it for weeks, when all those damn fire ants decided to attack the house.
“Fuck, that’s enormous,” Kurtis said.
I just stared in awe.
The little buggers were crawling all over the place. A bird, still alive, was being meticulously pulled apart by 1,000s of them a couple yards away. It probably landed to take a chomp out of some trash tossed out of the taco joint across the railroad tracks, but instead, it became the meal for the ants.
“Let’s get this going,” I said.
Kurtis walked over to the mound. All around it were smaller holes. That was our plan of attack. Going for the mound could be a suicide mission. One hit on it, and they would march on you like the German Blitzkrieg.
I looked at Kurt’s boots. They were old, black and tough. Most likely left over from his days in the Army when he used to dismantle bombs. According to his stories, he had shrapnel in his foot and lost his eyesight because of his job. His Coke bottle glasses definitely were a sign of bad eyesight, which he said was 20-20 before his work with the United State of America. I then looked at my feet. Flip flops. Brilliant decision there, Jones, I thought to myself. Hot as hell, rocks and glass everywhere, and we’re about to bomb the hell out of a fire ant mound. Running shoes would have been a better choice.
Kurt takes the can of gas and begins pouring it down one of the holes. Then another. And yet another.
He has a maniacal grin on his face – a cross between George C. Scott’s Patton and Brad Pitt’s Tyler Durden. I stand back and watch. It’s quite a sight to see.
“Yo! Dreamer-boy, hand me those matches,” he yells, yanking me out of my imagination. I hand him the matches.
Two seconds later, he drops one in the hole. The flame flickers as I watch it fall into the hole perfectly. It would have taken me dozens of attempts just to get a match in the hole on a free drop. Who knows how many times it would have taken to do it with it still lit.
I see Kurt running towards me. Soon, I understand why.
Fire is flying out of the holes. And ants are scurrying out of 100 more holes. Some of them on fire.
We sit and watch this from a safe distance. Soon, some of the black smoke comes out of the giant mound.
“Round 1 to us,” Kurtis says.
At that time, Teddy comes out of the house yawning. He walks over to us and shakes his head.
“You know what boys?” he says. We know not to ask anything yet, he’s about to say some more.
He scratches his belly and yawns again.
“We have gas heat,” and he goes back inside.
I reach down to the cooler I brought outside before this all started. It’s 120 degrees out now. I wonder if our little fire had anything to do with that rise. I find a beer and pop the top, downing half of it on the first sip.
“You want one?” I say to Kurt.
“Nah, got my own,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his beat up leather jacket for his pipe. He pulls out a baggie, packing a little into his pipe. With the same matches, he lights up, taking a long drag. The sweet smell makes me jealous. I’ve live with him for three years almost now, never have I smoked a bowl with him. Can’t. Drug tests at work and all. I feel like a square. I finish my beer, grab another.
The fire’s out. We walk over to see the carnage.
The ants are already busy. Rebuilding their civilization. A few yards away, it appears a new mound is in the works.
“They’re plotting their attack,” I say. “That’s the corner where we usually pee during parties.”
“Smart fuckers, they are,” Kurtis says, lighting up one more time. “Well, I’m fucking hot. Let’s go inside.”
“It’s just as fucking hot in there,” I say. “Turn on the swamp cooler. At least we can sit out here and get misted on.”
I stare at the cone graveyard. City of Phoenix. City of Glendale. City of Tempe. Maricopa County. City of Mesa. City of Chandler.
“We don’t have a Guadalupe yet,” I say.
“Tonight, we will,” Kurt says with flick of his lighter.
Kurtis has a can of gasoline. I’ve got matches. We’re going to have some fun.
The backyard is full of orange traffic cones. We revel in adding to our graveyard almost nightly. Me drunk. Him stoned. The other two roommates, Teddy, the anal-retentive who writes down every interesting quote from a book, magazine or television show that piques his interest so he can use them later to sound intelligent; and Mark, the greasy-New York accented loser who can’t keep a job for more than five minutes; add to the mayhem as well. But they’re both sound asleep right now. How they can sleep when it’s that hot out, and almost as hot inside without air conditioning has never made any sense to me.
We get to the back gate. Kurtis pops the lock on the door and we go outside.
There it is: a giant mound of dirt. It rose from nowhere in just a couple of days. If it hadn’t been for Mark getting attacked last night while tossing two cones over the fenced in yard we may not have known about it for weeks, when all those damn fire ants decided to attack the house.
“Fuck, that’s enormous,” Kurtis said.
I just stared in awe.
The little buggers were crawling all over the place. A bird, still alive, was being meticulously pulled apart by 1,000s of them a couple yards away. It probably landed to take a chomp out of some trash tossed out of the taco joint across the railroad tracks, but instead, it became the meal for the ants.
“Let’s get this going,” I said.
Kurtis walked over to the mound. All around it were smaller holes. That was our plan of attack. Going for the mound could be a suicide mission. One hit on it, and they would march on you like the German Blitzkrieg.
I looked at Kurt’s boots. They were old, black and tough. Most likely left over from his days in the Army when he used to dismantle bombs. According to his stories, he had shrapnel in his foot and lost his eyesight because of his job. His Coke bottle glasses definitely were a sign of bad eyesight, which he said was 20-20 before his work with the United State of America. I then looked at my feet. Flip flops. Brilliant decision there, Jones, I thought to myself. Hot as hell, rocks and glass everywhere, and we’re about to bomb the hell out of a fire ant mound. Running shoes would have been a better choice.
Kurt takes the can of gas and begins pouring it down one of the holes. Then another. And yet another.
He has a maniacal grin on his face – a cross between George C. Scott’s Patton and Brad Pitt’s Tyler Durden. I stand back and watch. It’s quite a sight to see.
“Yo! Dreamer-boy, hand me those matches,” he yells, yanking me out of my imagination. I hand him the matches.
Two seconds later, he drops one in the hole. The flame flickers as I watch it fall into the hole perfectly. It would have taken me dozens of attempts just to get a match in the hole on a free drop. Who knows how many times it would have taken to do it with it still lit.
I see Kurt running towards me. Soon, I understand why.
Fire is flying out of the holes. And ants are scurrying out of 100 more holes. Some of them on fire.
We sit and watch this from a safe distance. Soon, some of the black smoke comes out of the giant mound.
“Round 1 to us,” Kurtis says.
At that time, Teddy comes out of the house yawning. He walks over to us and shakes his head.
“You know what boys?” he says. We know not to ask anything yet, he’s about to say some more.
He scratches his belly and yawns again.
“We have gas heat,” and he goes back inside.
I reach down to the cooler I brought outside before this all started. It’s 120 degrees out now. I wonder if our little fire had anything to do with that rise. I find a beer and pop the top, downing half of it on the first sip.
“You want one?” I say to Kurt.
“Nah, got my own,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his beat up leather jacket for his pipe. He pulls out a baggie, packing a little into his pipe. With the same matches, he lights up, taking a long drag. The sweet smell makes me jealous. I’ve live with him for three years almost now, never have I smoked a bowl with him. Can’t. Drug tests at work and all. I feel like a square. I finish my beer, grab another.
The fire’s out. We walk over to see the carnage.
The ants are already busy. Rebuilding their civilization. A few yards away, it appears a new mound is in the works.
“They’re plotting their attack,” I say. “That’s the corner where we usually pee during parties.”
“Smart fuckers, they are,” Kurtis says, lighting up one more time. “Well, I’m fucking hot. Let’s go inside.”
“It’s just as fucking hot in there,” I say. “Turn on the swamp cooler. At least we can sit out here and get misted on.”
I stare at the cone graveyard. City of Phoenix. City of Glendale. City of Tempe. Maricopa County. City of Mesa. City of Chandler.
“We don’t have a Guadalupe yet,” I say.
“Tonight, we will,” Kurt says with flick of his lighter.
Monday, April 18, 2011
paper cuts
“You know what sucks? Masturbating when you’ve got a bunch of paper cuts. Your fingers hurt and it distracts from the whole enjoyment part of jerking off.”
I looked at my buddy in the barstool next to me. He just said that. I wondered if he was just saying it to say it, or if he’d done that a few minutes ago and was now ruminating on the consequences.
“Let me see your hands,” I said.
He pulled his hands away from his bottle of Budweiser. A longneck, as always. They were not the hands of a working man. They had no blisters. No calluses. No broken fingernails. Not even a bruise. But, his fingers each had little red marks on them.
“Paper cuts?” I asked.
“Yep. Damn things hurt too.”
“I don’t even want to know.”
His wife came into the bar. Gave us the sheepish look she always does when she knows we were just talking about something “important.”
“Hey guys. What’s cracking?”
I looked at my buddy. He but his hands back around his Budweiser and took a long gulp. I guess that meant I had to come up with conversation for the moment.
“Me and your husband here were talking about paper cuts,” I said with a smile and a quick sip of my beer.
“Really?” she said. “And what brought this up on this glorious morning here in the bar?”
Instantly I knew that it wasn’t his masturbating that he was talking about. It was him trying to get her off today. Ha. Life is good sometimes.
“Oh, you know, it’s what us guys talk about. Paper cuts and daffodils.”
My buddy gave me an icy stare. It had been years since I got that stare. Way before he was married. Hell, back then, I thought he was as gay as they got. Instead, that fucker went and married his schoolgirl sweetheart. Me? I just kept fucking up relationships, one after the other. I even got in touch with my old schoolgirl sweetheart. Gotta love the internet. But a couple of weeks after I added her on Facebook (and she accepted!!!!) still not working up the nerve to even say hello, she put on that she was “in a relationship.” Such is life. Hell, the high school sweetheart sent me a message. I responded. She never responded back. Ha. I have a way with the ladies for sure.
But now he was giving me the “STFU” look. I guess those vaginal juices were still burning his open wounds.
I decided that when I got home tonight, I’d cut my fingers and try to jerk off. Just to see if, indeed, it hurt more than the pleasure you received. If I was a betting man, which I’m not, I’d say no. That the pleasure would win.
“How ‘bout them Redskins?” I suggested as a conversation starter and way around this whole paper cut theme.
She gave me an icy stare and ordered a Harp. At least she wasn’t going to carry a grudge. We all then proceeded to drink copious amounts of alcohol and just enjoy each other’s company. It didn’t happen often enough. They lived far away. They were rich. I’m poor. It makes for embarrassing moments and conversations.
“You should come up and go to New York next weekend with us?”
“Um, I can’t. Too expensive.”
“Shit, we’ll pay for it.”
“Yeah, I wish I could, but I work Friday and Saturday nights. Unlike you normal folks in the world.”
I used my shitty profession as a crutch many times. Like the many times girls want to go out with me and I’m just not interested or just can’t afford to. “We can hang out on Sunday or Monday!” The response is always the same: “But, I’ve got to work…”
Oh well. Being old and broke and horny all the time should make for inspiration at some point in my life. Of course, it didn’t when I was young and broke and horny. Of course, my dick worked a lot better then.
That got me thinking of paper cuts again. I don’t remember what movie it was, but somebody, I’d like to say it was Harvey Keitel but I know it wasn’t, described the vagina as a paper cut. I’m sure it was in reference to a young woman’s private areas, not that of a 39 year old. Not that I’d know anything about what a well-worn pussy looked like. Blessing? Yes. Curse? Of course. I’d rather see an old twat than no twat.
You start to wonder when it’ll stop. The dry spells. They seem to get worse the older I get. When I was young, I knew it was going to end. Now? I’m old. I could go out and score some ass. I know that. I’m not ugly. I have a decent rap. I just don’t like using it. Except when I want to. And that doesn’t happen very often.
The last time was a red head. Always a red head. She blew me off within five minutes of meeting me. But we’ve become friends. I do that. I collect friends. I’m that guy. John Cusack without a curveball to get the batters out.
It happens. And one day it’ll happen again.
Just like one day I’ll masturbate with paper cuts on my fingers. Just to see if it hurts.
I looked at my buddy in the barstool next to me. He just said that. I wondered if he was just saying it to say it, or if he’d done that a few minutes ago and was now ruminating on the consequences.
“Let me see your hands,” I said.
He pulled his hands away from his bottle of Budweiser. A longneck, as always. They were not the hands of a working man. They had no blisters. No calluses. No broken fingernails. Not even a bruise. But, his fingers each had little red marks on them.
“Paper cuts?” I asked.
“Yep. Damn things hurt too.”
“I don’t even want to know.”
His wife came into the bar. Gave us the sheepish look she always does when she knows we were just talking about something “important.”
“Hey guys. What’s cracking?”
I looked at my buddy. He but his hands back around his Budweiser and took a long gulp. I guess that meant I had to come up with conversation for the moment.
“Me and your husband here were talking about paper cuts,” I said with a smile and a quick sip of my beer.
“Really?” she said. “And what brought this up on this glorious morning here in the bar?”
Instantly I knew that it wasn’t his masturbating that he was talking about. It was him trying to get her off today. Ha. Life is good sometimes.
“Oh, you know, it’s what us guys talk about. Paper cuts and daffodils.”
My buddy gave me an icy stare. It had been years since I got that stare. Way before he was married. Hell, back then, I thought he was as gay as they got. Instead, that fucker went and married his schoolgirl sweetheart. Me? I just kept fucking up relationships, one after the other. I even got in touch with my old schoolgirl sweetheart. Gotta love the internet. But a couple of weeks after I added her on Facebook (and she accepted!!!!) still not working up the nerve to even say hello, she put on that she was “in a relationship.” Such is life. Hell, the high school sweetheart sent me a message. I responded. She never responded back. Ha. I have a way with the ladies for sure.
But now he was giving me the “STFU” look. I guess those vaginal juices were still burning his open wounds.
I decided that when I got home tonight, I’d cut my fingers and try to jerk off. Just to see if, indeed, it hurt more than the pleasure you received. If I was a betting man, which I’m not, I’d say no. That the pleasure would win.
“How ‘bout them Redskins?” I suggested as a conversation starter and way around this whole paper cut theme.
She gave me an icy stare and ordered a Harp. At least she wasn’t going to carry a grudge. We all then proceeded to drink copious amounts of alcohol and just enjoy each other’s company. It didn’t happen often enough. They lived far away. They were rich. I’m poor. It makes for embarrassing moments and conversations.
“You should come up and go to New York next weekend with us?”
“Um, I can’t. Too expensive.”
“Shit, we’ll pay for it.”
“Yeah, I wish I could, but I work Friday and Saturday nights. Unlike you normal folks in the world.”
I used my shitty profession as a crutch many times. Like the many times girls want to go out with me and I’m just not interested or just can’t afford to. “We can hang out on Sunday or Monday!” The response is always the same: “But, I’ve got to work…”
Oh well. Being old and broke and horny all the time should make for inspiration at some point in my life. Of course, it didn’t when I was young and broke and horny. Of course, my dick worked a lot better then.
That got me thinking of paper cuts again. I don’t remember what movie it was, but somebody, I’d like to say it was Harvey Keitel but I know it wasn’t, described the vagina as a paper cut. I’m sure it was in reference to a young woman’s private areas, not that of a 39 year old. Not that I’d know anything about what a well-worn pussy looked like. Blessing? Yes. Curse? Of course. I’d rather see an old twat than no twat.
You start to wonder when it’ll stop. The dry spells. They seem to get worse the older I get. When I was young, I knew it was going to end. Now? I’m old. I could go out and score some ass. I know that. I’m not ugly. I have a decent rap. I just don’t like using it. Except when I want to. And that doesn’t happen very often.
The last time was a red head. Always a red head. She blew me off within five minutes of meeting me. But we’ve become friends. I do that. I collect friends. I’m that guy. John Cusack without a curveball to get the batters out.
It happens. And one day it’ll happen again.
Just like one day I’ll masturbate with paper cuts on my fingers. Just to see if it hurts.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
woo girl
I try not to be lonely.
To do this, I try to go outside as much as I can. Not sit in front of the computer, the television, the stereo until my ass falls asleep. The front yard can be a bustling metropolis. It can be a desolate island.
You smile at someone, they don’t smile back. Don’t take it personally. You laugh at the insanity of trying to one up your pals, your co-workers, your significant other, even.
It can be lonely, being alone. I guess it’s better than being lonely when you’re not alone.
**
The drapes are all open. The last rays of sun are creeping inside the house. Trying to find someone to see them before it gets dark.
**
One day, someone will miss me.
**
If you think about it too hard
Too long
Too short
Too much
It hurts.
If you don’t think about it
It fades away
Into nothing
In to everything.
**
I woke up this morning wondering if I was having a heart attack.
My chest was thumping and I could hardly breathe.
I lay there on the bed, thoughts of death filling my brain.
And still I thought of you.
I guess we’re stuck together, since my thoughts are the glue.
Until my heart stops beating
And my brain no longer is filled with your smile.
Your eyes.
Your laugh.
Your cry.
Your everything.
And nothing.
**
I wish sometimes I wouldn’t even try. That I just sat in my life and let it unfold without any thought. Any remorse. Any dare.
Other people make it look so easy. Punch the clock. Eat their donuts. Get fat. Have kids. Grow old. Die.
I guess I’m doing most of those, so what am I worried about. The more I don’t want to be that way, the more I seem to become it.
The hamster doesn’t know why the wheel is there. It just gets on it. Runs, runs, runs. Until it gets tired. Then it eats, eats, eats, eats. Until there is no more food. Then it sleeps, sleeps, sleeps. Until it wakes up. Then it shits, shits, shits. Until it has no more. Then it gets on the wheel. But, if he’s lucky, his owner will get him a woman. And then he’ll fuck, fuck, fuck. Lucky little rodent.
**
A girl came up to me at the bar and asked “do you have a light?”
I looked up, she was maybe 23, pearly white teeth, green bikini on. A gorgeous smile.
“Nope, don’t smoke,” I replied with a smile.
“Thanks,” she said, walking away.
A few minutes later, she sat with some guy. He had a cigarette lighter. I knew this guy. He was two years older than me, full head of hair and a beat up Volkswagen. I saw she had her hand on his leg.
“What’s he got that I don’t have?” I said to my buddy at the other end of the bar, gesturing to the guy with the Volkswagen.
“Good posture?” he said, laughing.
“You’re probably right,” I said, slumped over my warm bottle of Shiner Blonde. I got up and went to the jukebox. I bought the thing three years ago. Said I’d stock it with only good music too. My picks lasted three weeks before the tourists started to complain that they didn’t want to listen to Bill Withers or The Kinks.
“Where’s the Lady Gaga?”
“Who listens to his shit?”
“Can you get some REAL music?”
Over and over I listened to this. Finally, Butch, the owner told me I had to give up at least half of the jukebox for the other paying customers. I tried to argue, but I wasn’t behind it 100 percent. Not because I knew I’d lose, because those are usually the best arguments, but instead because I wanted to get laid. Good music brought in good girls, Butch said right up front. That was like a Mike Tyson uppercut, circa 1986 right to my chin. I had no shot.
I flipped to the beginning of the CDs, where my selections still held strong. I put in a quarter, then three more. I picked C3 three times. “Hold Me Close” by Lucero. It just felt right.
“I fucking love Ben Nichols!” someone shouted from across the bar, right after I’d plopped my ass back onto my seat. She started signing, rather poorly. I listened with great pleasure. It reminded me of all those nights in steamy bars and shitty dives singing my lungs out.
The song ended. She sat down. Then it started again.
“Woooooooo!” she yelled. A woo girl. Sweet.
The song ended. She sat again.
It started once again.
“Who played this?” she shrieked.
I raised my hand like the shy kid in class that I was oh so many years ago. She looked at me. I looked at her.
That was the last time I fucked anyone. That was three years ago in July.
To do this, I try to go outside as much as I can. Not sit in front of the computer, the television, the stereo until my ass falls asleep. The front yard can be a bustling metropolis. It can be a desolate island.
You smile at someone, they don’t smile back. Don’t take it personally. You laugh at the insanity of trying to one up your pals, your co-workers, your significant other, even.
It can be lonely, being alone. I guess it’s better than being lonely when you’re not alone.
**
The drapes are all open. The last rays of sun are creeping inside the house. Trying to find someone to see them before it gets dark.
**
One day, someone will miss me.
**
If you think about it too hard
Too long
Too short
Too much
It hurts.
If you don’t think about it
It fades away
Into nothing
In to everything.
**
I woke up this morning wondering if I was having a heart attack.
My chest was thumping and I could hardly breathe.
I lay there on the bed, thoughts of death filling my brain.
And still I thought of you.
I guess we’re stuck together, since my thoughts are the glue.
Until my heart stops beating
And my brain no longer is filled with your smile.
Your eyes.
Your laugh.
Your cry.
Your everything.
And nothing.
**
I wish sometimes I wouldn’t even try. That I just sat in my life and let it unfold without any thought. Any remorse. Any dare.
Other people make it look so easy. Punch the clock. Eat their donuts. Get fat. Have kids. Grow old. Die.
I guess I’m doing most of those, so what am I worried about. The more I don’t want to be that way, the more I seem to become it.
The hamster doesn’t know why the wheel is there. It just gets on it. Runs, runs, runs. Until it gets tired. Then it eats, eats, eats, eats. Until there is no more food. Then it sleeps, sleeps, sleeps. Until it wakes up. Then it shits, shits, shits. Until it has no more. Then it gets on the wheel. But, if he’s lucky, his owner will get him a woman. And then he’ll fuck, fuck, fuck. Lucky little rodent.
**
A girl came up to me at the bar and asked “do you have a light?”
I looked up, she was maybe 23, pearly white teeth, green bikini on. A gorgeous smile.
“Nope, don’t smoke,” I replied with a smile.
“Thanks,” she said, walking away.
A few minutes later, she sat with some guy. He had a cigarette lighter. I knew this guy. He was two years older than me, full head of hair and a beat up Volkswagen. I saw she had her hand on his leg.
“What’s he got that I don’t have?” I said to my buddy at the other end of the bar, gesturing to the guy with the Volkswagen.
“Good posture?” he said, laughing.
“You’re probably right,” I said, slumped over my warm bottle of Shiner Blonde. I got up and went to the jukebox. I bought the thing three years ago. Said I’d stock it with only good music too. My picks lasted three weeks before the tourists started to complain that they didn’t want to listen to Bill Withers or The Kinks.
“Where’s the Lady Gaga?”
“Who listens to his shit?”
“Can you get some REAL music?”
Over and over I listened to this. Finally, Butch, the owner told me I had to give up at least half of the jukebox for the other paying customers. I tried to argue, but I wasn’t behind it 100 percent. Not because I knew I’d lose, because those are usually the best arguments, but instead because I wanted to get laid. Good music brought in good girls, Butch said right up front. That was like a Mike Tyson uppercut, circa 1986 right to my chin. I had no shot.
I flipped to the beginning of the CDs, where my selections still held strong. I put in a quarter, then three more. I picked C3 three times. “Hold Me Close” by Lucero. It just felt right.
“I fucking love Ben Nichols!” someone shouted from across the bar, right after I’d plopped my ass back onto my seat. She started signing, rather poorly. I listened with great pleasure. It reminded me of all those nights in steamy bars and shitty dives singing my lungs out.
The song ended. She sat down. Then it started again.
“Woooooooo!” she yelled. A woo girl. Sweet.
The song ended. She sat again.
It started once again.
“Who played this?” she shrieked.
I raised my hand like the shy kid in class that I was oh so many years ago. She looked at me. I looked at her.
That was the last time I fucked anyone. That was three years ago in July.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Algiers. Chapter 1
The gaggle of cameramen approached with little regard to whatever was around them. They stomped on daisies that were just planted last week. They overturned the pink flamingos that the little girl next door always petted while waiting for the bus every morning. They drug their shoes in the freshly planted sod of Mr. Anderson next door – the 78 year old Korean War veteran who hated all things television. I’m sure he’s getting a kick out of all of this.
Hell, he hates me too. And we drink beers together and grill discount steaks every Thursday in his backyard patio.
Me, I’m just listening to The Kinks “Are the Village Green Preservation Society” at top volume while this all goes on outside my apartment. I guess I could turn on the television and see exactly what the assorted throng of asshats and career chasers are saying about me, but I honestly don’t care. I guess it’s fitting that “Picture Book” comes on just as one of them finds a window with a curtain not drawn down to the bottom of the window. I look at him. He’s got his hat on backwards, just like me. He has a goatee. Just like me. He’s got on a t-shirt and a cheap pair of plaid shorts. Just like me. I get up and walk to the door. I hear the reporter with him say “oh my God, he’s going to do something!” I open the window, poke my head outside and look down.
“What kind of shoes you got on buddy?” I scream to the cameraman.
The reporter looks at me. She is contemplating if I’m talking to her. I did say buddy, afterall.
“I’m not talking to you bitch,” I say. She frowns.
The cameraman lets his camera go down to his belly. Relaxing for a moment.
“Samba Hi-Tops, man. Just got them last week,” he says.
“Damn. Are they comfortable? I’ve seen ‘em, but just think they look strange.”
“They actually are pretty tight,” he says. “I’ve got to start filming you again Mr. Jones. It’s my job. You understand. Right?”
“Yeah, kid. No worries. But I’m going to close the blinds. So, this interview is over.”
I go back inside my window. I draw the blinds. Then the curtains. That guy’s probably going to have some ‘splaining to do to his bitch of a reporter. Blonde hair. Perfectly cut and perfectly combed. Even in this fucking humidity.
That humidity. Same as it was the other day. On the ferry. Fuck. I don’t want to think about the ferry. I love going to Algiers Point. Now, I’ll probably never go back again. Not that I was expecting to go back again. But I chickened out.
She didn’t.
Hell, he hates me too. And we drink beers together and grill discount steaks every Thursday in his backyard patio.
Me, I’m just listening to The Kinks “Are the Village Green Preservation Society” at top volume while this all goes on outside my apartment. I guess I could turn on the television and see exactly what the assorted throng of asshats and career chasers are saying about me, but I honestly don’t care. I guess it’s fitting that “Picture Book” comes on just as one of them finds a window with a curtain not drawn down to the bottom of the window. I look at him. He’s got his hat on backwards, just like me. He has a goatee. Just like me. He’s got on a t-shirt and a cheap pair of plaid shorts. Just like me. I get up and walk to the door. I hear the reporter with him say “oh my God, he’s going to do something!” I open the window, poke my head outside and look down.
“What kind of shoes you got on buddy?” I scream to the cameraman.
The reporter looks at me. She is contemplating if I’m talking to her. I did say buddy, afterall.
“I’m not talking to you bitch,” I say. She frowns.
The cameraman lets his camera go down to his belly. Relaxing for a moment.
“Samba Hi-Tops, man. Just got them last week,” he says.
“Damn. Are they comfortable? I’ve seen ‘em, but just think they look strange.”
“They actually are pretty tight,” he says. “I’ve got to start filming you again Mr. Jones. It’s my job. You understand. Right?”
“Yeah, kid. No worries. But I’m going to close the blinds. So, this interview is over.”
I go back inside my window. I draw the blinds. Then the curtains. That guy’s probably going to have some ‘splaining to do to his bitch of a reporter. Blonde hair. Perfectly cut and perfectly combed. Even in this fucking humidity.
That humidity. Same as it was the other day. On the ferry. Fuck. I don’t want to think about the ferry. I love going to Algiers Point. Now, I’ll probably never go back again. Not that I was expecting to go back again. But I chickened out.
She didn’t.
Friday, April 15, 2011
cup
I stared at the old plastic cup on my table. It stared back at me. Neither of us had a smidge of emotion. Both just existing on this day. When the cup was placed on the table, it was full. Now, it was empty. Been that way for a while now. The contents evaporated into the air. A little more each day. Nothing I ever noticed, until half of it was gone – a little bit of mold swimming in the liquid. A bit later, there was nothing. Exactly the way she made me feel the day she left that cup sitting there. Why she even bothered to make herself a drink, plop it down on the table and then proceed to end my life, I don’t even bother trying to comprehend. But that cup, a 1999 Orpheus parade one gleaned from a Mardi Gras a long time before that day, has become a companion. Not a friend, for sure. Because a friend wouldn’t constantly remind you of the shittiest day of your life. Or would they? I don’t know. I sometimes doubt whether I have any friends. I have people that I know. But do they know me? I tend to be a bit guarded. The only ones who get in are the ones I fuck. Literally. And I guess figuratively, if you ask them. That’s my fault, I assume. I’ve tried to open up. Usually on a barstool. Usually drunk. Usually when I needed something from someone. A leech gets better results because they just suck. The cup, it doesn’t offer anything. It could be cleaned out, put back on a shelf. Then it would just become part of the rotation again. A reminder that just pops up every so often. Or, the cup could be tossed into the trash. Gone forever. Except when thoughts veered back in that direction, which, knowing me, they always would find a way to veer. That’s not really an option, however. I know that. The cup is old. It holds other memories too. It’s been a good cup. Never cracking, or letting much of the paint peel. It’s not its fault that she picked it up that day. The cup was one of her favorites. Even though it came from New Orleans. The town she told me she’d never visit. “Because of her,” she always said. I never shied away from her past. I met her ex. He was a weak person. Still living on his parent’s farm in up-state New York. I could tell he was still in love with her. She’d told me as much before we were dating. Not so much anymore when we were. I wasn’t jealous. Why? Because I trust. Cheating is the one thing a person should never do. I think I’ve lived up to that belief, although some would say I haven’t. It’s understandable. The duality of the cup is part of my attachment to it. It came from one, but is now labeled forever as the other. Now, years later, they both are part of my life still. One from afar, one just in my mind. I sit here and stare at that cup. Seems like such a waste of time. Seems? Then it dawns on me, there used to be a bunch of those cups. She must have kept all the others. Five years ago, the choice was made to keep them. And my Andy Kaufman books. A couple of hats and my fishing poles. “I’ll mail you those if I find them,” she said about the fishing poles. They were purchased in New Orleans. In 1995. On a one-off fishing trip with another ghost of my past. We didn’t catch a fish that day. But we smiled a lot. I can’t remember if I’ve smiled that much in a long time. But I kept those poles. A distant memory attached. Eventually, they were claimed by someone else. I hope they’ve been used again. By someone who picked them up at a Goodwill in Florida, most likely. And that the smiles they held passed from them into the new owner. Even if they didn’t catch a fish. It’s more about the company, anyway. Not the torturing of another creature. Or maybe we’re all put here to torture. A fish. A dog. Another person. A country. Shit. Who am I kidding? It’s about torturing yourself. The cup stares at me. I stare back at the cup. If I can get up, I’ll toss it in the trash.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
cat pee and regrets
Woke up this morning to two revelations: 1. The memory of her doesn’t cause me pain anymore. Discomfort? Yes. Loneliness? Yes. Pain? Not at all. 2. Waiting for the right moment always is a bad idea.
The road beckons me again tomorrow. It’ll be a fine ol’ time for at least five days. The car will get yet another test and she’ll pass with flying colors. A friendship will be tested by 30 hours in the car together. Always fun to see how those turn out. And a city will be visited again. Every time I go, I wonder if it’ll be the last time. I can’t help but wonder that more and more now. It’s funny, life.
The bitter sweet taste of the past came calling for a little while. It’s the worst part of the times we live in. You can’t just pine over someone lost anymore. They end up in your life somehow now. Again. Maybe you get drunk and search. Maybe she gets drunk and searches, although a lot less likely.
I got my hopes up for no real reason last month. And being the insane over-analyzing fool that I am, I waited too long to even say hello. So, instead, I watched something else unfold. Sad? Yes. But I’m a classic case of sad. But it wasn’t meant to be. Never was. That’s why it was the first of many awkward endings and continuances. What would my life be without that? Sane? Boring? Normal? All those sound so awful. I’d rather be a tormented soul than a bored one. No settled life for me, as a songwriter once penned.
The hourglass curves of the lady walking by make me wonder. What was I thinking of when I left? I know exactly what I was thinking, yet I still wonder what I was thinking. If you think you’re confused reading it, imagine thinking it.
I noticed the smell while sitting at my desk. It was most definitely urine. Whose urine or what’s urine, I have no idea. But, since I was to be cooped up at my desk for the next five hours having to breathe it in, I decided to try and find out.
The most obvious culprit would be the toothless old guy a couple of seats down. He’s the old-school journo who smells like an ashtray, eats livers and gizzards from Church’s Fried Chicken every week and holds on to his 1960’s ponytail like he does to the printed word – tightly.
I walk down to his desk to spark up a conversation. I use Tim Geithner’s comment that “Default by the United States is unthinkable,” as a starter.
“Can you believe he said that?”
“Quack,” he says. Not the word, but the actual sound of a duck.
“Notice he didn’t say impossible. Or improbable.”
“We’re all doomed.”
“Agreed. You have your vegetable garden started yet. With barbed wire fences to keep out the starving?”
“Ha!”
I notice he doesn’t smell of urine. Of many other things yes, but not him.
Back to my desk, the foul stench fills up my nostrils again. God, this place is horrible. If it isn’t the rats, it’s the gnats. If it’s not the smell of bleach, it’s urine. And the pay stinks. You’d think I’d get the fuck out. But, I live at the beach…
I turn my attention to Grimace behind me. He’s a pale white version of the giant purple blob that tried to get me as a kid to fall in love with McDonald’s. It worked then. Not now.
This guy wears shirts from the 1990s with pride. I have no problem with that, as I do too. However, I have not put on over 100 pounds so they no longer even come close to covering my belly. So, every day we are graced with stretch marks and belly hair. That and he sucks on pen tops. I wonder to myself every night as he sounds like a cow doing its thing with cud how a person gets to this point?
I glance at him. It makes my blood curdle just looking upon his mass of cellulite. I walk over and spark up some conversation. He likes women’s college basketball. Much like I did. Except I just had a crush on one of the players, and followed her around the country like a 12 year old when I was 19. Thinking back on that, I wonder if I’ve paid off my debts from those trips? Probably. But maybe not.
“What did you think about UConn and Stanford losing?” I ask.
“Amazing. It was quite possibly the biggest night in college basketball for women in a long time. It reminds me of the 1994 tournament when …” I stopped listening to this manifesto on the greatness of women’s college basketball at that point. This must be how people thought of me when I was younger. Ha. No wonder I couldn’t get laid. I also note that he does not smell of urine.
Lastly, I turn to the new girl. She hasn’t spoken to me in 6 hours today. I think she’s got a crush on me. Ha! Not if I was the last immigrant grocer on earth, honey!
Anyways, she’s got allergies today and her voice is more annoying than ever. Minnesota gal with a stopped up nose. Ugh. She has been slathering on the hand lotion a lot more than usual today, and god that stuff stinks.
I do the markets page for her, tell her, and she thanks me. I don’t get a whiff of urine. Shit.
So I sit at my desk and wallow in the stink.
Then it finally dawns on me. Maybe I stink. My jeans are the ones I wore to my friend’s house the other day. They have a cat. It doesn’t like change and new people.
I go to the bathroom. Sniff my jeans. Yep. It’s me. Never think the worst of those around you, until you’ve considered it in yourself.
The road beckons me again tomorrow. It’ll be a fine ol’ time for at least five days. The car will get yet another test and she’ll pass with flying colors. A friendship will be tested by 30 hours in the car together. Always fun to see how those turn out. And a city will be visited again. Every time I go, I wonder if it’ll be the last time. I can’t help but wonder that more and more now. It’s funny, life.
The bitter sweet taste of the past came calling for a little while. It’s the worst part of the times we live in. You can’t just pine over someone lost anymore. They end up in your life somehow now. Again. Maybe you get drunk and search. Maybe she gets drunk and searches, although a lot less likely.
I got my hopes up for no real reason last month. And being the insane over-analyzing fool that I am, I waited too long to even say hello. So, instead, I watched something else unfold. Sad? Yes. But I’m a classic case of sad. But it wasn’t meant to be. Never was. That’s why it was the first of many awkward endings and continuances. What would my life be without that? Sane? Boring? Normal? All those sound so awful. I’d rather be a tormented soul than a bored one. No settled life for me, as a songwriter once penned.
The hourglass curves of the lady walking by make me wonder. What was I thinking of when I left? I know exactly what I was thinking, yet I still wonder what I was thinking. If you think you’re confused reading it, imagine thinking it.
I noticed the smell while sitting at my desk. It was most definitely urine. Whose urine or what’s urine, I have no idea. But, since I was to be cooped up at my desk for the next five hours having to breathe it in, I decided to try and find out.
The most obvious culprit would be the toothless old guy a couple of seats down. He’s the old-school journo who smells like an ashtray, eats livers and gizzards from Church’s Fried Chicken every week and holds on to his 1960’s ponytail like he does to the printed word – tightly.
I walk down to his desk to spark up a conversation. I use Tim Geithner’s comment that “Default by the United States is unthinkable,” as a starter.
“Can you believe he said that?”
“Quack,” he says. Not the word, but the actual sound of a duck.
“Notice he didn’t say impossible. Or improbable.”
“We’re all doomed.”
“Agreed. You have your vegetable garden started yet. With barbed wire fences to keep out the starving?”
“Ha!”
I notice he doesn’t smell of urine. Of many other things yes, but not him.
Back to my desk, the foul stench fills up my nostrils again. God, this place is horrible. If it isn’t the rats, it’s the gnats. If it’s not the smell of bleach, it’s urine. And the pay stinks. You’d think I’d get the fuck out. But, I live at the beach…
I turn my attention to Grimace behind me. He’s a pale white version of the giant purple blob that tried to get me as a kid to fall in love with McDonald’s. It worked then. Not now.
This guy wears shirts from the 1990s with pride. I have no problem with that, as I do too. However, I have not put on over 100 pounds so they no longer even come close to covering my belly. So, every day we are graced with stretch marks and belly hair. That and he sucks on pen tops. I wonder to myself every night as he sounds like a cow doing its thing with cud how a person gets to this point?
I glance at him. It makes my blood curdle just looking upon his mass of cellulite. I walk over and spark up some conversation. He likes women’s college basketball. Much like I did. Except I just had a crush on one of the players, and followed her around the country like a 12 year old when I was 19. Thinking back on that, I wonder if I’ve paid off my debts from those trips? Probably. But maybe not.
“What did you think about UConn and Stanford losing?” I ask.
“Amazing. It was quite possibly the biggest night in college basketball for women in a long time. It reminds me of the 1994 tournament when …” I stopped listening to this manifesto on the greatness of women’s college basketball at that point. This must be how people thought of me when I was younger. Ha. No wonder I couldn’t get laid. I also note that he does not smell of urine.
Lastly, I turn to the new girl. She hasn’t spoken to me in 6 hours today. I think she’s got a crush on me. Ha! Not if I was the last immigrant grocer on earth, honey!
Anyways, she’s got allergies today and her voice is more annoying than ever. Minnesota gal with a stopped up nose. Ugh. She has been slathering on the hand lotion a lot more than usual today, and god that stuff stinks.
I do the markets page for her, tell her, and she thanks me. I don’t get a whiff of urine. Shit.
So I sit at my desk and wallow in the stink.
Then it finally dawns on me. Maybe I stink. My jeans are the ones I wore to my friend’s house the other day. They have a cat. It doesn’t like change and new people.
I go to the bathroom. Sniff my jeans. Yep. It’s me. Never think the worst of those around you, until you’ve considered it in yourself.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
sorry
i wrote something tonight. decided it shouldn't be posted here.
at least not yet.
maybe in a little time.
be back tomorrow.
at least not yet.
maybe in a little time.
be back tomorrow.
Monday, April 4, 2011
dobermans
“Why are you like that?”
Huh. Quite a tough question to answer, for sure, he thought. “I guess because that’s the way I’m supposed to be…” he said.
“That’s a cop out. You choose to be the way you are.”
“But you’re the one who believes in fate. In destiny. Not me.”
“Fuck you asshole.”
“That’s better. We can go back to drinking now.”
“I hope you drown in that glass, you sick fuck.”
That made him feel good. To be called a sick fuck. He was certainly sick. But a fuck? That means there’s a chance, right?
Lots of shit in my eyes. Pollen. Sawdust. Dirt. Sweat.
It’s a good day for eye drops.
This old pair of flip flops.
They were given to me by my ex.
The only pair I’d ever owned up until last summer, when I got a two dollar pair at wal-mart.
Now, I’m throwing them away. Putting them in the trash. Another reminder I’m finally at ease with tossing. I’m amazed at how I hold on to things. Give a reason, but know full well what the real one is.
Well, another anchor gone. Cast away. Cut the rope. All that nonsense.
The words come out a lot easier when I’m drunk. Yet lately, I haven’t enjoyed drinking. It hurts. Physically now. Not just mentally. It had to happen, sooner or later, would’ve rather it been later to be quite honest. It’s a shame because I like being drunk. I like tapping that vein that doesn’t seem to want to open up unless it’s been liquored up a bit. Like a cheap whore. Of course, I have no idea what a cheap whore is like, so maybe it’s completely different? New goal: fuck a cheap whore. It may change my perspective on life. Probably not. Definitely not. But how can I know unless I do it?
The lady told me she had a job for me. I was broke, wearing dirty clothes and hadn’t brushed my teeth in six days. So I said “Ok.”
We drove to her house. Me in the back of her beat up old Toyota truck. The day was nice. A tad warm, but still nice. I didn’t notice how bad I smelled while we were moving.
The city isn’t coming back the way I’d thought it would. I don’t think it ever could. In a decade or so, not much of what I loved about this place will be here anymore. Just the river and the music.
The car stops at an abandoned warehouse. The sign out front says “J.H. McClintock and Son.” It looks like there used to be an s at the end of Son, but someone obliterated it with a hammer or some other tool. I want to believe it was the son. Reality tells me it most likely was dad. Of course, mom or wife or girlfriend could have played a role. Sounds like a good idea for a book. I pull out my notepad and scribble it down. It’s just another random thought that will soon be lost. I have boxes of notes just like that one. I haven’t read most of them in years. The old “when I get old” or “when I get the time” excuses just don’t matter anymore. They’ve become the fact of the matter now. I sigh.
“You ok young man?” the old lady asks.
For a second I smile. She called me young. Ha. I was in a bar last week with a friend of mine. He’s 31. His wife is 25. The waitress asked me if I was his dad. Guess old hits hard when it does. And according to one fat, manly-looking waitress at a chain restaurant, I have been struck.
“I’m great ma’am,” I reply. “What do you need done here? Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since the storm?”
“Well, my son lived here for two years after the storm,” she said. “But one day, he stopped coming around. That was five years ago. I haven’t been inside at all. I wanted someone to go in and see if he’s in there.”
“Whoah, you mean he may be living in there still?”
“No. No. No. I think he died in there years ago. Because he never was the kind of kid to disappear. He always told his mother where he was going.”
She handed me the keys to a giant set of locks. All kinds of them. Deadbolts and chains and pad locks and combination locks and levers. It was crazy.
Finally, after 30 minutes of jimmying with locks and WD-40, the door was open. I peered inside. It was dark. It smelled. Not of a dead man, but of old rotting paper.
“What was this place?” I asked.
“An old book binding factory. But people stopped buying books. Then they stopped reading. So, printing folks like us just blew away.”
“Yeah, I was a newspaperman myself before it all went to shit.”
“Oh? That’s lovely. I miss my paper.”
“I miss the paycheck. And, of course, the smell of a freshly printed paper with my byline in it.”
“Sad times we live in. Sad, sad times.”
“Ma’am? I’m going to go in now.”
“Ok, young man. Just be careful. We used to have Dobermans that watched the place for us. They could be feral ones in there still.”
“I seriously doubt it. This place was sealed up tight. Like a …” I caught myself before saying what I was thinking. I looked at the old lady, she was short, grey haired and looked like she had lived a great life. I once hoped that I could look like that one day. Doubtful now.
Inside, the place was like a time capsule. Books strewn about. Some finished. Some not. A giant press was still loaded up with a roll of paper. Looks like they shut it down in the middle of a run, expecting to come back the next day. Then the locksmith showed up instead.
An office was in the back. The door was slightly ajar. I peered in. On a cot, there was what appeared to be a suit. It was covered in dust. I put my flashlight on it. There was her son. A note was beside him.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I had to. Love Jeremy.”
Huh. Quite a tough question to answer, for sure, he thought. “I guess because that’s the way I’m supposed to be…” he said.
“That’s a cop out. You choose to be the way you are.”
“But you’re the one who believes in fate. In destiny. Not me.”
“Fuck you asshole.”
“That’s better. We can go back to drinking now.”
“I hope you drown in that glass, you sick fuck.”
That made him feel good. To be called a sick fuck. He was certainly sick. But a fuck? That means there’s a chance, right?
Lots of shit in my eyes. Pollen. Sawdust. Dirt. Sweat.
It’s a good day for eye drops.
This old pair of flip flops.
They were given to me by my ex.
The only pair I’d ever owned up until last summer, when I got a two dollar pair at wal-mart.
Now, I’m throwing them away. Putting them in the trash. Another reminder I’m finally at ease with tossing. I’m amazed at how I hold on to things. Give a reason, but know full well what the real one is.
Well, another anchor gone. Cast away. Cut the rope. All that nonsense.
The words come out a lot easier when I’m drunk. Yet lately, I haven’t enjoyed drinking. It hurts. Physically now. Not just mentally. It had to happen, sooner or later, would’ve rather it been later to be quite honest. It’s a shame because I like being drunk. I like tapping that vein that doesn’t seem to want to open up unless it’s been liquored up a bit. Like a cheap whore. Of course, I have no idea what a cheap whore is like, so maybe it’s completely different? New goal: fuck a cheap whore. It may change my perspective on life. Probably not. Definitely not. But how can I know unless I do it?
The lady told me she had a job for me. I was broke, wearing dirty clothes and hadn’t brushed my teeth in six days. So I said “Ok.”
We drove to her house. Me in the back of her beat up old Toyota truck. The day was nice. A tad warm, but still nice. I didn’t notice how bad I smelled while we were moving.
The city isn’t coming back the way I’d thought it would. I don’t think it ever could. In a decade or so, not much of what I loved about this place will be here anymore. Just the river and the music.
The car stops at an abandoned warehouse. The sign out front says “J.H. McClintock and Son.” It looks like there used to be an s at the end of Son, but someone obliterated it with a hammer or some other tool. I want to believe it was the son. Reality tells me it most likely was dad. Of course, mom or wife or girlfriend could have played a role. Sounds like a good idea for a book. I pull out my notepad and scribble it down. It’s just another random thought that will soon be lost. I have boxes of notes just like that one. I haven’t read most of them in years. The old “when I get old” or “when I get the time” excuses just don’t matter anymore. They’ve become the fact of the matter now. I sigh.
“You ok young man?” the old lady asks.
For a second I smile. She called me young. Ha. I was in a bar last week with a friend of mine. He’s 31. His wife is 25. The waitress asked me if I was his dad. Guess old hits hard when it does. And according to one fat, manly-looking waitress at a chain restaurant, I have been struck.
“I’m great ma’am,” I reply. “What do you need done here? Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since the storm?”
“Well, my son lived here for two years after the storm,” she said. “But one day, he stopped coming around. That was five years ago. I haven’t been inside at all. I wanted someone to go in and see if he’s in there.”
“Whoah, you mean he may be living in there still?”
“No. No. No. I think he died in there years ago. Because he never was the kind of kid to disappear. He always told his mother where he was going.”
She handed me the keys to a giant set of locks. All kinds of them. Deadbolts and chains and pad locks and combination locks and levers. It was crazy.
Finally, after 30 minutes of jimmying with locks and WD-40, the door was open. I peered inside. It was dark. It smelled. Not of a dead man, but of old rotting paper.
“What was this place?” I asked.
“An old book binding factory. But people stopped buying books. Then they stopped reading. So, printing folks like us just blew away.”
“Yeah, I was a newspaperman myself before it all went to shit.”
“Oh? That’s lovely. I miss my paper.”
“I miss the paycheck. And, of course, the smell of a freshly printed paper with my byline in it.”
“Sad times we live in. Sad, sad times.”
“Ma’am? I’m going to go in now.”
“Ok, young man. Just be careful. We used to have Dobermans that watched the place for us. They could be feral ones in there still.”
“I seriously doubt it. This place was sealed up tight. Like a …” I caught myself before saying what I was thinking. I looked at the old lady, she was short, grey haired and looked like she had lived a great life. I once hoped that I could look like that one day. Doubtful now.
Inside, the place was like a time capsule. Books strewn about. Some finished. Some not. A giant press was still loaded up with a roll of paper. Looks like they shut it down in the middle of a run, expecting to come back the next day. Then the locksmith showed up instead.
An office was in the back. The door was slightly ajar. I peered in. On a cot, there was what appeared to be a suit. It was covered in dust. I put my flashlight on it. There was her son. A note was beside him.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I had to. Love Jeremy.”
Sunday, April 3, 2011
anal
“You know what?” I said to the dude beside me at the bar, a scruffy looking ex-doctor who I’d become friends with simply because we were both doing the same thing with our lives now – nothing. “I had the strangest dream last night.”
“Fuck, man. Do you really think I want to sit here and listen to you talk about your dreams? It drives me nuts,” he replied, taking a sip of Guinness.
“Well, I don’t fucking like watching you lick that Guinness mustache off your face every time you take a sip, but I don’t say it out loud.”
“Damn, we’re turning into a married couple aren’t we?”
Laughs all around.
I decided not to bring up the whole dream thing. I rarely remember them, so when I do, I get a feeling that my brain is serious about getting me to think about something. Although this one may not be a fit to that theory.
In the dream, I was in a small apartment. There was a naked Asian woman. Porcelain skin. Just perfect. She was laying on her stomach, taut ass just sitting there. Somehow, a voice over was telling me how to have anal sex. And how and when you’ll know the signs of whether the woman wanted it or not. Kind of like one of those 1950s films they used to show in elementary school.
This lady was beautiful. I think in the dream, I wasn’t in love with her, but just completely taken by her.
My cock was hard. I tried to do what the voice told me to do. However, every time I did, she responded with what the voice said she may respond with. She smiled at me and urged me on, only to shoo me away every time.
Eventually, I gave up. Hard cock and all and just laid there next to her, staring into her dark black eyes. She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. Then turned over and spooned with me.
“That’s when I woke up.”
“Damn, that’s a fucked up dream,” my ex-doctor friend said.
“Told you.”
“Did you wake up and jerk off after?”
“Nah, I did have a giant boner though.”
“Sure you did. I would’ve rubbed one off.”
“Not surprised. Usually, I would have too. I guess what the lady was doing sort of rubbed off on me, so I didn’t.”
“That’s just stupid. Hell, I may go in the bathroom right now and rub one out.”
“Fuck, dude. That’s sick.”
“Like you’ve never done it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t advertise that I’m going to do it.”
Laughs again. Another round of drinks. The barkeep shakes his head at us. I hate it when Gus is here instead of Mandy. Mandy’s got better tits. Smaller than Gus’ but definitely better.
“Gus, where’s Mandy? It’s Wednesday. She should be there.”
“Called in sick. Something about a doctor’s appointment.”
Then it hit me. I was supposed to be there with Mandy. She’d asked me weeks ago to go with her to this appointment. Instead, here I was sitting on a barstool talking about jerking off in the men’s room and butt sex with an Asian girl. And I don’t even like Asian girls.
“Damn. I gotta go!” I yelled.
“Why?” Doc asked.
“I’m supposed to be with Mandy.”
“You guys dating now?”
“No. We’re just friends. She needed someone to be there and I fucked it up.”
“Get, getting on then my amigo.”
I paid my tab and pushed the front door open. The noontime sun hit my face and made me cringe. My diabetic eyes don’t like the sun much anymore. And I hate wearing sunglasses. Kind of like a vampire that wants a suntan my choices and likes and dislikes non-ability to mesh.
I got in my car, started her up and drove. Fast. It was about six miles to Mandy’s house. It was 12:12. Her appointment was for 12:30. I remember that much.
I pulled up to her apartment. A shitty, weather-faded wooden mess. I’m sure it looked great in 1978 when it was built. Now, it was a fire hazard.
She was standing in the parking lot, tapping her foot on the ground. Mad was not the word I’d use to describe her face. I pulled up next to her and waved.
She grabbed the door handle, pulled. Nothing. Rapping her fingers on the door a little harshly, I got the message. Door. Still. Locked.
I pushed the unlock button. She opened the door. Slammed it shut.
“You’re late, asshole,” she said.
“Yeah, and I’m drunk, too.”
She kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”
“Anything for my Mandy.”
“Quit talking like that. People might think you like me.”
“Only if you’ll let me put it in your butt.”
“What?”
“Bar story. I’ll tell you later.”
I put the car in drive. It was a 20 minute drive to the doctor’s office. She found a lump the other day. Had me feel it. I felt it. She cried. I held her. We agreed to go to the doctor together. Even though neither of us had insurance. I knew I’d be paying for it too. Didn’t care. It’s what friends do. At least, in my mind.
We pulled into the parking lot of the office. Tom Petty’s “Even the Losers” was ringing out of my blown out speakers. This song was kind of “our” song. We’d listen to it on a loop while watching trains go by my house on random Tuesday afternoons that turned into Wednesday mornings. I parked the car and turned the engine off. TP faded out.
“Well, time to pay the piper!” she said a little too fake.
“Let’s just go in and see what happens.”
“Ok, friend,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “Then we can go home and talk about this anal you so desperately want.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Fuck, man. Do you really think I want to sit here and listen to you talk about your dreams? It drives me nuts,” he replied, taking a sip of Guinness.
“Well, I don’t fucking like watching you lick that Guinness mustache off your face every time you take a sip, but I don’t say it out loud.”
“Damn, we’re turning into a married couple aren’t we?”
Laughs all around.
I decided not to bring up the whole dream thing. I rarely remember them, so when I do, I get a feeling that my brain is serious about getting me to think about something. Although this one may not be a fit to that theory.
In the dream, I was in a small apartment. There was a naked Asian woman. Porcelain skin. Just perfect. She was laying on her stomach, taut ass just sitting there. Somehow, a voice over was telling me how to have anal sex. And how and when you’ll know the signs of whether the woman wanted it or not. Kind of like one of those 1950s films they used to show in elementary school.
This lady was beautiful. I think in the dream, I wasn’t in love with her, but just completely taken by her.
My cock was hard. I tried to do what the voice told me to do. However, every time I did, she responded with what the voice said she may respond with. She smiled at me and urged me on, only to shoo me away every time.
Eventually, I gave up. Hard cock and all and just laid there next to her, staring into her dark black eyes. She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. Then turned over and spooned with me.
“That’s when I woke up.”
“Damn, that’s a fucked up dream,” my ex-doctor friend said.
“Told you.”
“Did you wake up and jerk off after?”
“Nah, I did have a giant boner though.”
“Sure you did. I would’ve rubbed one off.”
“Not surprised. Usually, I would have too. I guess what the lady was doing sort of rubbed off on me, so I didn’t.”
“That’s just stupid. Hell, I may go in the bathroom right now and rub one out.”
“Fuck, dude. That’s sick.”
“Like you’ve never done it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t advertise that I’m going to do it.”
Laughs again. Another round of drinks. The barkeep shakes his head at us. I hate it when Gus is here instead of Mandy. Mandy’s got better tits. Smaller than Gus’ but definitely better.
“Gus, where’s Mandy? It’s Wednesday. She should be there.”
“Called in sick. Something about a doctor’s appointment.”
Then it hit me. I was supposed to be there with Mandy. She’d asked me weeks ago to go with her to this appointment. Instead, here I was sitting on a barstool talking about jerking off in the men’s room and butt sex with an Asian girl. And I don’t even like Asian girls.
“Damn. I gotta go!” I yelled.
“Why?” Doc asked.
“I’m supposed to be with Mandy.”
“You guys dating now?”
“No. We’re just friends. She needed someone to be there and I fucked it up.”
“Get, getting on then my amigo.”
I paid my tab and pushed the front door open. The noontime sun hit my face and made me cringe. My diabetic eyes don’t like the sun much anymore. And I hate wearing sunglasses. Kind of like a vampire that wants a suntan my choices and likes and dislikes non-ability to mesh.
I got in my car, started her up and drove. Fast. It was about six miles to Mandy’s house. It was 12:12. Her appointment was for 12:30. I remember that much.
I pulled up to her apartment. A shitty, weather-faded wooden mess. I’m sure it looked great in 1978 when it was built. Now, it was a fire hazard.
She was standing in the parking lot, tapping her foot on the ground. Mad was not the word I’d use to describe her face. I pulled up next to her and waved.
She grabbed the door handle, pulled. Nothing. Rapping her fingers on the door a little harshly, I got the message. Door. Still. Locked.
I pushed the unlock button. She opened the door. Slammed it shut.
“You’re late, asshole,” she said.
“Yeah, and I’m drunk, too.”
She kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”
“Anything for my Mandy.”
“Quit talking like that. People might think you like me.”
“Only if you’ll let me put it in your butt.”
“What?”
“Bar story. I’ll tell you later.”
I put the car in drive. It was a 20 minute drive to the doctor’s office. She found a lump the other day. Had me feel it. I felt it. She cried. I held her. We agreed to go to the doctor together. Even though neither of us had insurance. I knew I’d be paying for it too. Didn’t care. It’s what friends do. At least, in my mind.
We pulled into the parking lot of the office. Tom Petty’s “Even the Losers” was ringing out of my blown out speakers. This song was kind of “our” song. We’d listen to it on a loop while watching trains go by my house on random Tuesday afternoons that turned into Wednesday mornings. I parked the car and turned the engine off. TP faded out.
“Well, time to pay the piper!” she said a little too fake.
“Let’s just go in and see what happens.”
“Ok, friend,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “Then we can go home and talk about this anal you so desperately want.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Friday, April 1, 2011
today
That morning was cold. A bit damp. And the sun was not out with a haze of fog blanketing the world. Average for the time of year, I’d guess.
It was also the morning my back seized up. I woke up needing to pee. Just like every other morning in my life, it seemed lately. However, instead of drearily wandering to the bathroom in my underwear, I winced in agonizing pain and found it impossible to sit up.
“Strange,” was all I thought at the time. I struggled to my feet, hunched over at the waist, and shuffled to the toilet just 10 feet from my bed. I peed in this strange position as well. Not wanting to see if the angle I was at was a dream or not. After finishing, there was no flushing. That would have taken too much effort. Instead, a slow pivot back towards the bedroom and a slow descent back onto the mattress and box spring – no frame – that was the master suite.
A few hours later, I awoke again. It was well past 2 in the afternoon. I was late for work. Well, I would be since I was supposed to be there at 2:30 and I lived an hour away. The pain was still there. Puzzled, I struggled into the shower. Dropping my underwear – blue boxer briefs from Fruit of the Loom – on the bath mat and turned the water on. It hurt to reach down. I felt the water. Cold as ice.
“No good,” I muttered, waiting for it to heat up.
Finally, after a couple of minutes, steam started to rise from the bathtub behind the cheap dollar store shower curtain. The kind that get mold on them no matter how vigilant you are in spraying them down every day. You end up buying three a year. Still, the three bucks and tax spent is better than the 10 dollars you would for a nice one at Bed, Bath and Beyond or such a store. Just the fact that you didn’t have to enter those broken down housewife den of sadness was worth the effort of replacing these things every so often.
Stepping into the tub to get wet proved to be quite a challenge. The back still wouldn’t give an inch, and lifting legs up that far hunched over was a task not for the weak or weary at heart. Neither of which I consider myself anymore. Finally in the tub, I let the water soak my head, then shifted around 180 degrees to let it hit my back.
After about three minutes of boiling hot water to the back, it loosened up a bit. I could stand straight. This allowed me to lather up and shampoo my head. When the hot water heater finally spit out its last bit of water and the shower became lukewarm, then cold, I shut it off.
A shiver came over me as the 59 degree temperature of the house hit the steam room weather I was in inside the shower.
I grabbed a towel and dried off as quickly as possible. My dick shriveled up even smaller than it already was at the frigid air. One day I’d like to have the money to turn on my heater and not count the money flowing out of it. One day. Ha. Yeah right.
Getting dressed, I could feel my back tightening up again. By the time I was at work, it was stuck in place again. Eight hours of sitting at a desk, surrounded by mediocre assholes who wouldn’t know good journalism if it was handed to them on the Internet for free, month after month had finally taken its toll on me, I decided.
My boss looked at me. Shaking his head.
“We’re getting too old for this,” he said with a shrill laugh.
“Shit, when are you not too old for this?” I responded. “This isn’t the Army I signed up for.”
Laughs all around.
The Marine wives in the place gave their icy stares to us. Yet another anti-military joke. Yep, we’re full of them. Not just full of shit.
I struggled to make it through the day. Taking more Tylenol than I had in the previous two years in one day. I could feel the ulcer forming in my stomach from it. But it helped.
A little.
If only I knew what it meant. Now three months later. Sitting in a white gown, my butt crack exposed in the back. Me not caring that the semi-intelligent and incredibly hot blonde nurse is looking at me, sick and troubled.
She has sympathetic eyes, but they’re trained to be that way. And one thing I’m good at, it’s telling the difference in the eyes. They never lie. Except for this one girl…
Without insurance, you avoid finding out about the little things. Then they become big things.
Today’s the day I found out I have cancer. Prostate cancer. Should have known about it years ago. At least that’s what the doctor told me. “You should have noticed the signs,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I did,” I said. “But, I had three dollars to my name and 40 grand in debt. Let’s see you go to the doctor then.”
He shook his head.
I picked up my pants. Put them back on. Then walked out without paying the bill.
It was also the morning my back seized up. I woke up needing to pee. Just like every other morning in my life, it seemed lately. However, instead of drearily wandering to the bathroom in my underwear, I winced in agonizing pain and found it impossible to sit up.
“Strange,” was all I thought at the time. I struggled to my feet, hunched over at the waist, and shuffled to the toilet just 10 feet from my bed. I peed in this strange position as well. Not wanting to see if the angle I was at was a dream or not. After finishing, there was no flushing. That would have taken too much effort. Instead, a slow pivot back towards the bedroom and a slow descent back onto the mattress and box spring – no frame – that was the master suite.
A few hours later, I awoke again. It was well past 2 in the afternoon. I was late for work. Well, I would be since I was supposed to be there at 2:30 and I lived an hour away. The pain was still there. Puzzled, I struggled into the shower. Dropping my underwear – blue boxer briefs from Fruit of the Loom – on the bath mat and turned the water on. It hurt to reach down. I felt the water. Cold as ice.
“No good,” I muttered, waiting for it to heat up.
Finally, after a couple of minutes, steam started to rise from the bathtub behind the cheap dollar store shower curtain. The kind that get mold on them no matter how vigilant you are in spraying them down every day. You end up buying three a year. Still, the three bucks and tax spent is better than the 10 dollars you would for a nice one at Bed, Bath and Beyond or such a store. Just the fact that you didn’t have to enter those broken down housewife den of sadness was worth the effort of replacing these things every so often.
Stepping into the tub to get wet proved to be quite a challenge. The back still wouldn’t give an inch, and lifting legs up that far hunched over was a task not for the weak or weary at heart. Neither of which I consider myself anymore. Finally in the tub, I let the water soak my head, then shifted around 180 degrees to let it hit my back.
After about three minutes of boiling hot water to the back, it loosened up a bit. I could stand straight. This allowed me to lather up and shampoo my head. When the hot water heater finally spit out its last bit of water and the shower became lukewarm, then cold, I shut it off.
A shiver came over me as the 59 degree temperature of the house hit the steam room weather I was in inside the shower.
I grabbed a towel and dried off as quickly as possible. My dick shriveled up even smaller than it already was at the frigid air. One day I’d like to have the money to turn on my heater and not count the money flowing out of it. One day. Ha. Yeah right.
Getting dressed, I could feel my back tightening up again. By the time I was at work, it was stuck in place again. Eight hours of sitting at a desk, surrounded by mediocre assholes who wouldn’t know good journalism if it was handed to them on the Internet for free, month after month had finally taken its toll on me, I decided.
My boss looked at me. Shaking his head.
“We’re getting too old for this,” he said with a shrill laugh.
“Shit, when are you not too old for this?” I responded. “This isn’t the Army I signed up for.”
Laughs all around.
The Marine wives in the place gave their icy stares to us. Yet another anti-military joke. Yep, we’re full of them. Not just full of shit.
I struggled to make it through the day. Taking more Tylenol than I had in the previous two years in one day. I could feel the ulcer forming in my stomach from it. But it helped.
A little.
If only I knew what it meant. Now three months later. Sitting in a white gown, my butt crack exposed in the back. Me not caring that the semi-intelligent and incredibly hot blonde nurse is looking at me, sick and troubled.
She has sympathetic eyes, but they’re trained to be that way. And one thing I’m good at, it’s telling the difference in the eyes. They never lie. Except for this one girl…
Without insurance, you avoid finding out about the little things. Then they become big things.
Today’s the day I found out I have cancer. Prostate cancer. Should have known about it years ago. At least that’s what the doctor told me. “You should have noticed the signs,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I did,” I said. “But, I had three dollars to my name and 40 grand in debt. Let’s see you go to the doctor then.”
He shook his head.
I picked up my pants. Put them back on. Then walked out without paying the bill.
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