the waiting...

I hate waiting. Lately, it’s all I do.

Sitting on my front stoop I notice a guy hanging out on the balcony of the hotel next door. He’s pretty much naked, even though I’d hazard a guess that if one took a survey of 1,000 people maybe 4 or 5 would say his dress was appropriate. His hairy beer belly hangs out like a starving kid in Africa’s would. Almost distended looking, but not quite. If he didn’t have a beard and enough hair to qualify for big foot status, I’d say he was pregnant.

He’s holding an ancient cell phone. Not even a flip phone, but older, in one hand. The other holds a bottle of Miller High Life. While this is not the best beer to choose, it is acceptable under certain circumstances. And, I have a feeling he meets those criteria in spades.

His cut-off jean shorts just complete his ensemble. I can’t help but stare. He sees me doing so.

“What the fuck you looking at pretty boy?” he yells from his perch.

“Just admiring the merchandise,” I reply. Not exactly the smartest response, but, I usually say what I’m thinking. Which explains a lot about my lot in life.

“What the fuck?” he says, throwing his beer bottle to the ground. I watch it fall to the ground, twirling in the air, spraying the contents of the clear glass into the atmosphere.

“What a terrible waste of a beer,” I think to myself. I don’t say it, because, really, he knows. In fact, judging by the look on his face right now, it’s dawned on him just how stupid that act of intimidation was. Of course, this revelation has no good points, at least where I’m concerned. Now he has two reasons to be mad at me.

“Boy, you better take that back,” he scowled. “I’ma gonna come over there and put a boot in your ass.”

Great, Toby Keith references. This guy is the complete package. I mull my options over in my mind for a brief second. Ha. I wonder if this guy wears tighty whiteys. Shit, back on point, Jones. You don’t want to get punched in the face. You see, this is why I hate waiting.

“Just a second bro,” I say, ducking into my house. It’s 95 degrees outside and 93 degrees inside. Being poor is not glamorous, no matter what the books and movies tell you. I go to my fridge. In it are many assorted beers. Some good, some bad. I spy a couple of PBRs that I have been hauling along with me since my days in Richmond. They’re over three years old. I grab one. And I grab myself a Shiner Blonde, popping the top as I come back outside and taking a swig. Just in case Mr. We Wear Short-Shorts wants to try and take the good stuff.

Much to my chagrin, he’s standing in my driveway, belly and all.

“Where’d yam run to Martha,” he says with a chuckle.

“Peace offering bro,” I say, extending my left hand with the PBR in it.

“Shit yeah!” he growls.

Looks like I’ve made another friend. He pops the beer open and takes a long swig. I wonder if it tastes as bad as I think it does.

“Ahhhhhhh. That hit the spot. Fucking stupid of me to waste my High Life.”

“Damn straight. Hold on a second brother,” I say, disappearing into my lair. I open the fridge, enjoying the cool air that comes out for just a second, then I grab the other PBRs.

“Here you go, man, enjoy!”

“Why you being so nice to me? You a fag or something?”

“Far from it, my man. Far from it.”

“You keep talking like that, I may not believe it.”

Just that moment she pulls up. I’ve been on three dates with this lady. Each one better than the one before. I wonder, like I always do, when they will start to decline in enjoyment. What a fucking stupid thing to think about, I know, but I can’t help myself.

“Woooah, pretty lady!” my new friend exclaims.

She looks out of the window of her 2002 VW Beetle and smiles. At that very moment, I wonder when we’ll have sex. I’m guessing this guy being around might prevent something like that from happening.

“Well, bro, gotta head out,” I say to my Sasquatch pal.

“Why don’t you and your lady friend come on over to the hotel later tonight? We can smoke up, if ya want.”

“Maybe, bro,” I say, sticking out my hand to shake. I cringe when I look down and see just how sweaty this monster is.

He grabs my hand and squeezes tight. It’s a wet, sloppy mess.

“See ya,” I say.

“Alright, man,” he replies and walks back to the hotel.

“Who was that?” she asks as I get in the car.

“You got a Handi-Wipe or something?” is my reply.

“Not gonna tell me, huh?”

“You really want to know?”

“Nah, let’s get a taco.”

Sometimes, the waiting pays off.