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?