An empty can of Miller beer sat on the porch step. I looked at it as the hazy fog of a morning dew slowly moved about the yard. A cricket chirped and a lone seagull whined.
At that moment I knew it was over.
I kicked the can into the yard, putting a dent in the side. I didn’t get any kind of satisfaction in the act. Just the opposite. The rattling of the can in the dirt and rocks of my yard echoed against the bar across the street. The sound bouncing off the wall and back to me.
I sighed. Resigned to the knowledge of what that can meant – she was cheating on me.
Inside, the glow of a far off sunrise was beginning to peak in. The old rotted white blinds – some stuck half open with frayed strings and cracked plastic pieces, others just leaning half opened, half closed due to a fit of anger or spontaneous fun – each allowed a different amount of light in.
I walked into our room. It had heavy Wal-Mart curtains that kept most of the light out and wood paneling that sucked up whatever got through the brownish monstrosities like a dirty, mildewed sponge. Looking at the bed I looked at her sleeping. She had this smile on her face, even in her dreams, that I just didn’t understand. I’m never happy, so her ability to always be happy – even in sleep – made me a bit batty.
A loud thud filled the room when I dropped a can of peanuts. It was the only heavy thing I saw in my living room on the way to the bedroom. It had to do.
“Wha?” she moaned as the noise broke sleep’s grasp. “Honey, what are you doing?”
“Kicking you out,” I said, matter of factly. “You need to get your stuff and leave.”
Of course “getting your stuff” was a little more complicated than just grabbing the dirty underwear on the floor and a toothbrush. We’d been living together now for two years. Her stuff was all over. My stuff was in many ways her stuff. Her stuff, well, it was mostly still her stuff.
“Stop joking honey, come back to bed,” she mumbled, pulling the covers over her head.
“I mean it Jane,” I bellowed. My anger wasn’t increasing, but my lack of patience was.
Rarely did I use her name. I always was like that. When I dated someone, I hated using their name. Didn’t really like hearing my own. Weird? Probably. But it was what I did. So this time, she knew I was serious about what I was saying.
“What is this about, Randy,” she said, emphasizing my name. Almost like a battle cry kind of thing.
“You’re fucking Scott. Aren’t you?”
Scott was the guy who came over to fix our fridge when it stopped working. He also came to fix a window. A gutter. The leaky porch door and many other things that I never knew were broken. Scott even got a Christmas card two weeks ago. He thanked me for it. I had no idea we’d sent him one, but he showed it to me, signed by me and all. Of course, I signed dozens of cards without knowing who was getting them. It was a ritual that was now two years old. Jane liked sending cards. So did I. But I liked sending them to people I gave a shit about. She sent them to everyone. She started buying them on Dec. 26 and just filled a shoebox with them. Then another. Come November, I was given two piles of cards to sign. One not so big – holding the cards I would want to personalize. The other – not so big and full of ones to people I didn’t know, or had met in passing. It turns out, the dick going inside my girlfriend got one as well.
“Stop being so damn paranoid.”
That was her response. And that let me know I was on to something.
“Fuck you,” I said. Get your stuff out of here before I do.
“What is wrong with you? Are you mad that we haven’t had sex in three months? I told you I was having pain.”
I thought about that. Between the booze and the concerts and the opening of my bar, I hadn’t even noticed that we hadn’t fucked. Maybe that’s why I didn’t really care about what was occurring. I bent over and pulled the covers off. Damn, she had great fucking tits. B cup. Nice large nipples. I’ll miss those.
What she didn’t have, however, was the right to stay here. That can of beer told the tale.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, pulling on her jeans without underwear. I always cringe at that act. Why? Because I imagine the zipper grabbing at things you really don’t want it to grab at. Reason No. 1 that I don’t use the little flap in the underwear to pee through the zipper hole. Just don’t want to get grabbed one night.
“Because you don’t love me,” I said.
“You didn’t want me to love you,” she replied. “It’s written all over your face. And in your own handwriting.”
She was right. And I stopped being even mildly mad.
Bending over, I kissed her on the forehead. We proceeded to have sex. Not great sex, just good sex. Lasted about 11 minutes. I know this because I looked at the Kit Kat Clock on the wall. It’s eyes going left to right, left to right the entire time.
After I rolled off, I looked at her. She was beautiful, even if she couldn’t be true.
“I never asked you to be mine,” I said.
She looked at me. I looked at her. She smiled. I sighed.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
whiskey talk
I woke up this morning and my teeth and gums were throbbing.
I brushed them and they felt better. So I grabbed my bottle of Jameson, a small glass and a bucket of ice and headed to the porch. It was raining outside, just like it had been raining when I went to bed 11 hours ago. Pouring the whiskey into the glass, I admired the color. I didn’t bother with the ice, this time, as I just finished it off quickly. The day was starting off better than the one before.
A beautiful girl strolled by on her way to the beach. Yellow bikini on, towel draped across her shoulders. She couldn’t be more than 22 years old. I smiled my broken teeth grin as she moseyed on by. She awkwardly looked away when she saw me. Not at all a surprising reaction. As she continued her saunter to the beach, I continued to admire her. Not so much leering at her as appreciating her beauty. I knew I’d never see her again, so I had to remember the moment. Her black flip flops made a soothing sound that quickly was drowned out by the ocean waves.
I poured another glass of whiskey, this time plopping two ice cubes in. The fall heat wasn’t nearly as oppressive as the summer version, but the humidity was wicked today. A tropical wave was stuck on the coast and delivering constant rain and constant pain to my sinuses. Which helped the teeth to hurt a little bit more as well.
The best advice I ever got from a movie was from Wyatt Earp. Of course, it’s advice I never listened to. “Take care of them, they cannot be replaced.”
A chuckle comes up from my gullet and I let it come out, audibly. A pair of tourists are unloading their car across the street. They look at me, then quickly grab their bags and assorted beach wear. A full laugh comes out right before they hit the “beep, beep” of their car alarm.
Off in the distance a giant thundercloud is building. It’s going to be a short day at the beach for these folks today.
A short swig fills my throat with a nice burn. I look at my toes. They’re small and perfectly symmetrical. I was told that by the last girl who saw them. She admired them for that. Her feet weren’t anything special. An ant craws across my left foot. I stare at it. Hoping it will just continue on. But, it bites, so I squish it between my fingers. Another piece of God’s grand plan destroyed by man. The more I think about it, the more I think we’re not built in His image. Instead, it’s the squirrels or the birds. They just watch us with disdain. And laugh at us believing we are them.
Another swig of whiskey and glass No. 2 is done. I pour the third. One piece of ice will suffice. I put my finger in the glass and then dab it on my gums. I’m like a mother treating her baby. I laugh again.
My notepad is sitting on a milk crate beside me. I pick it up and try to write down some words:
“Agony isn’t ecstasy.”
“The girl with the yellow bikini. She walks so nicely. It makes me wonder what it would be like to be 22 again. Then I remember how my 22nd year was spent. In a one-room studio apartment. No car. Making $4.25 an hour as a cashier. Chasing after a lesbian who took pity on me and talked anyway. Meeting the first girl whose heart I would break. Starting to build my mountain of debt. Yeah, those were the days.”
“Slipping into drunk at noon. It’s not madness. It’s not greatness. It’s just drunkenness.”
“I won the lottery once. A three-dollar prize. I don’t play the lottery much anymore.”
“When you eat cheese, you poop cheese later.”
“Lost in all of this madness is the thought of one day being happy.”
“Scream for me Long Beach! Scream for me Long Beach!”
“Do you know why we love to play California? Do you know why? Because you people, you really know how to party!”
I know it’s time to stop when I’m just writing down the in between song banter of heavy metal singers. While those albums are vital pieces of my adolescence and teen years and beyond, the importance of writing them down is simply non-existent.
Don’t try. Try. Don’t give up. Give up. Sleep. Wake. Eat. Starve.
I finish off drink No. 3 and look at the bottle. It’s half full. Ha! There I go, being an optimist today. Must be the whiskey talking.
I brushed them and they felt better. So I grabbed my bottle of Jameson, a small glass and a bucket of ice and headed to the porch. It was raining outside, just like it had been raining when I went to bed 11 hours ago. Pouring the whiskey into the glass, I admired the color. I didn’t bother with the ice, this time, as I just finished it off quickly. The day was starting off better than the one before.
A beautiful girl strolled by on her way to the beach. Yellow bikini on, towel draped across her shoulders. She couldn’t be more than 22 years old. I smiled my broken teeth grin as she moseyed on by. She awkwardly looked away when she saw me. Not at all a surprising reaction. As she continued her saunter to the beach, I continued to admire her. Not so much leering at her as appreciating her beauty. I knew I’d never see her again, so I had to remember the moment. Her black flip flops made a soothing sound that quickly was drowned out by the ocean waves.
I poured another glass of whiskey, this time plopping two ice cubes in. The fall heat wasn’t nearly as oppressive as the summer version, but the humidity was wicked today. A tropical wave was stuck on the coast and delivering constant rain and constant pain to my sinuses. Which helped the teeth to hurt a little bit more as well.
The best advice I ever got from a movie was from Wyatt Earp. Of course, it’s advice I never listened to. “Take care of them, they cannot be replaced.”
A chuckle comes up from my gullet and I let it come out, audibly. A pair of tourists are unloading their car across the street. They look at me, then quickly grab their bags and assorted beach wear. A full laugh comes out right before they hit the “beep, beep” of their car alarm.
Off in the distance a giant thundercloud is building. It’s going to be a short day at the beach for these folks today.
A short swig fills my throat with a nice burn. I look at my toes. They’re small and perfectly symmetrical. I was told that by the last girl who saw them. She admired them for that. Her feet weren’t anything special. An ant craws across my left foot. I stare at it. Hoping it will just continue on. But, it bites, so I squish it between my fingers. Another piece of God’s grand plan destroyed by man. The more I think about it, the more I think we’re not built in His image. Instead, it’s the squirrels or the birds. They just watch us with disdain. And laugh at us believing we are them.
Another swig of whiskey and glass No. 2 is done. I pour the third. One piece of ice will suffice. I put my finger in the glass and then dab it on my gums. I’m like a mother treating her baby. I laugh again.
My notepad is sitting on a milk crate beside me. I pick it up and try to write down some words:
“Agony isn’t ecstasy.”
“The girl with the yellow bikini. She walks so nicely. It makes me wonder what it would be like to be 22 again. Then I remember how my 22nd year was spent. In a one-room studio apartment. No car. Making $4.25 an hour as a cashier. Chasing after a lesbian who took pity on me and talked anyway. Meeting the first girl whose heart I would break. Starting to build my mountain of debt. Yeah, those were the days.”
“Slipping into drunk at noon. It’s not madness. It’s not greatness. It’s just drunkenness.”
“I won the lottery once. A three-dollar prize. I don’t play the lottery much anymore.”
“When you eat cheese, you poop cheese later.”
“Lost in all of this madness is the thought of one day being happy.”
“Scream for me Long Beach! Scream for me Long Beach!”
“Do you know why we love to play California? Do you know why? Because you people, you really know how to party!”
I know it’s time to stop when I’m just writing down the in between song banter of heavy metal singers. While those albums are vital pieces of my adolescence and teen years and beyond, the importance of writing them down is simply non-existent.
Don’t try. Try. Don’t give up. Give up. Sleep. Wake. Eat. Starve.
I finish off drink No. 3 and look at the bottle. It’s half full. Ha! There I go, being an optimist today. Must be the whiskey talking.
Friday, September 23, 2011
sleeping, drinking, fucking
I stared at the mailbox for at least 20 minutes. It had graffiti on the sides that read “the U.S. is doomed” and “fuck the mailman, mom did.”
Chuckling, I finally put my envelope in the large metal bin. I sighed before letting go of the grey handle. Grey because the blue paint had long ago disintegrated from the thousands of hands touching it over the years.
Those twenty minutes were a whole lot longer I thought about whether or not I should apply for the job in the town of my dreams doing something I really wasn’t qualified to do, but I really wanted to get to that town, was a whole lot longer than the seconds that it took me to drop a letter in the same box three years earlier. That letter was to my ex-girlfriend. I’d dug up her address on the internet. One thing I’ve always been able to do is find people and their addresses. I’d done it for a buddy of mine. Found a former friend who became a federal prisoner. I’d found a Major League Baseball player’s address for my former ex. It was one of the reasons I think she agreed to start having drinks with me. Drinks that led to thoughts that led to actions that led to heartbreak. Twice.
But the day I sent her a letter. Over two years after she’d dumped me with the lines “I hate doing this because I still love you” and “Love is not enough.” I wrote the letter in a fit of self-pity and self-help book reading.
I didn’t think twice after pouring my heart out in page after page. Didn’t think twice about it at all. I just licked the envelope, went to the post office a few blocks from the tree that I wrote the letter under, a tree that me and her had spent time under, and mailed it. In this very same mailbox.
I hadn’t thought about it until the second I dropped the resume and such in the box.
“This is that box,” I thought.
Bad omen, for sure.
That original letter went to that address. She had since moved. But, in the great way the post office does things, it eventually found the right address. Months later.
So almost eight months after I mailed the letter. I got a response. Via e-mail.
“You violated us by sending me that,” said the letter in an e-mail sent by another friend so as I didn’t have her e-mail address, I’m sure. “Please don’t try to talk to me again. And I don’t think it’s a good idea that we meet.”
I felt numb reading it. I’d been excited and nervous for a second or two. Then deflated.
I drank a lot that night. I think. I really don’t remember.
I don’t remember a lot about my life in late 2008 and early 2009.
I got dumped right before all this. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. Better than getting laid for the first time. Better than my first kiss – which I’m not even sure of the where or when. It may have happened at Longwood College in 1990. It may have happened on frat row at UVA in 1990. I really can’t be sure anymore. I used to be very sure it was on frat row. But now? Not so much. I think maybe it happened at my friend D.J.’s house party. She made us kiss to get into the party. Me being a virginal kisser, I didn’t want to do it. And may not have. I don’t remember. Lots of grain alcohol that night. Acutally dumped the end of a trashcan full of the stuff. Almost got beat up.
But D.J. saved us.
Just like I saved him a year earlier when he started talking about “Niggers” in my dorm room. “Niggers are everywhere. Niggers are stupid. Niggers are dumb. Nigger, nigger, nigger.” Well, my roommate was black and I stood up and told him “leave. Now.”
He did. And I watched in horror as he stood outside waiting for me to come out. My roommate staring at me.
“Jimmy, he’s a dick,” I said.
“Yeah…and?” he replied.
“And you won’t see him again.”
I grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam and poured two double shots.
“Here you go, buddy,” I said, handing him the shot glass.
“Fuck you, Randy,” he said, taking the shot glass and downing the brown sludge. I returned the favor.
Three hours later we were hugging each other and drinking Mad Dog 20/20. He barfed it on the wall. I put a Motley Crue poster over it. Where it stayed until June when we moved out.
The moment I removed the poster we looked at each other and laughed.
“Been a long year, hasn’t it?” Jimmy said.
“Not at all, my man. Not at all.”
“That was a long night.”
“Yes. And a long time ago.”
I’m still friends with D.J. And Jimmy. Although neither of them has ever been in the same room at the same time again. As far as I know.
I only saw D.J. at my 20-year high school reunion. He married an extremely hot woman.
Jimmy is a big wig at a college now.
Me? I’m a copy editor for a dying newspaper in a shitty little town.
I guess we all got what we should have.
And I’m still wondering if I’ll ever talk to my ex again.
Once an idiot, always an idiot.
Sleep. Drink. Fuck.
One day, my teeth will fall out and I’ll just sleep and drink.
Chuckling, I finally put my envelope in the large metal bin. I sighed before letting go of the grey handle. Grey because the blue paint had long ago disintegrated from the thousands of hands touching it over the years.
Those twenty minutes were a whole lot longer I thought about whether or not I should apply for the job in the town of my dreams doing something I really wasn’t qualified to do, but I really wanted to get to that town, was a whole lot longer than the seconds that it took me to drop a letter in the same box three years earlier. That letter was to my ex-girlfriend. I’d dug up her address on the internet. One thing I’ve always been able to do is find people and their addresses. I’d done it for a buddy of mine. Found a former friend who became a federal prisoner. I’d found a Major League Baseball player’s address for my former ex. It was one of the reasons I think she agreed to start having drinks with me. Drinks that led to thoughts that led to actions that led to heartbreak. Twice.
But the day I sent her a letter. Over two years after she’d dumped me with the lines “I hate doing this because I still love you” and “Love is not enough.” I wrote the letter in a fit of self-pity and self-help book reading.
I didn’t think twice after pouring my heart out in page after page. Didn’t think twice about it at all. I just licked the envelope, went to the post office a few blocks from the tree that I wrote the letter under, a tree that me and her had spent time under, and mailed it. In this very same mailbox.
I hadn’t thought about it until the second I dropped the resume and such in the box.
“This is that box,” I thought.
Bad omen, for sure.
That original letter went to that address. She had since moved. But, in the great way the post office does things, it eventually found the right address. Months later.
So almost eight months after I mailed the letter. I got a response. Via e-mail.
“You violated us by sending me that,” said the letter in an e-mail sent by another friend so as I didn’t have her e-mail address, I’m sure. “Please don’t try to talk to me again. And I don’t think it’s a good idea that we meet.”
I felt numb reading it. I’d been excited and nervous for a second or two. Then deflated.
I drank a lot that night. I think. I really don’t remember.
I don’t remember a lot about my life in late 2008 and early 2009.
I got dumped right before all this. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. Better than getting laid for the first time. Better than my first kiss – which I’m not even sure of the where or when. It may have happened at Longwood College in 1990. It may have happened on frat row at UVA in 1990. I really can’t be sure anymore. I used to be very sure it was on frat row. But now? Not so much. I think maybe it happened at my friend D.J.’s house party. She made us kiss to get into the party. Me being a virginal kisser, I didn’t want to do it. And may not have. I don’t remember. Lots of grain alcohol that night. Acutally dumped the end of a trashcan full of the stuff. Almost got beat up.
But D.J. saved us.
Just like I saved him a year earlier when he started talking about “Niggers” in my dorm room. “Niggers are everywhere. Niggers are stupid. Niggers are dumb. Nigger, nigger, nigger.” Well, my roommate was black and I stood up and told him “leave. Now.”
He did. And I watched in horror as he stood outside waiting for me to come out. My roommate staring at me.
“Jimmy, he’s a dick,” I said.
“Yeah…and?” he replied.
“And you won’t see him again.”
I grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam and poured two double shots.
“Here you go, buddy,” I said, handing him the shot glass.
“Fuck you, Randy,” he said, taking the shot glass and downing the brown sludge. I returned the favor.
Three hours later we were hugging each other and drinking Mad Dog 20/20. He barfed it on the wall. I put a Motley Crue poster over it. Where it stayed until June when we moved out.
The moment I removed the poster we looked at each other and laughed.
“Been a long year, hasn’t it?” Jimmy said.
“Not at all, my man. Not at all.”
“That was a long night.”
“Yes. And a long time ago.”
I’m still friends with D.J. And Jimmy. Although neither of them has ever been in the same room at the same time again. As far as I know.
I only saw D.J. at my 20-year high school reunion. He married an extremely hot woman.
Jimmy is a big wig at a college now.
Me? I’m a copy editor for a dying newspaper in a shitty little town.
I guess we all got what we should have.
And I’m still wondering if I’ll ever talk to my ex again.
Once an idiot, always an idiot.
Sleep. Drink. Fuck.
One day, my teeth will fall out and I’ll just sleep and drink.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me
It’s 4 a.m. and I’m driving aimlessly towards the sun.
The road passes by, my bald left front tire going thunk, thunk, thunk every second or so. It was soothing at first, annoying for a while, then just part of the journey for the rest.
I wondered before I left if the tires would last. I decided not to care much since I didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t much care for where I was going. Wanted to see where I was going. And not really worried about whether or not a flat tire would keep me from getting there.
Six hours later, I’m still moving forward and the tire is still doing it’s job.
So, I guess I made the right decision.
For once.
I got tired of sitting in my too-small of a recliner. My dad bought it for me for Christmas one year. Strange gift, for sure, but one that I was pleasantly surprised to see when it arrived in a giant box that cold December morning.
After putting it together, I noticed how small it really was. But I figured it was better than what I had, which was nothing. In fact, I hadn’t owned a recliner since I was in college. I got my roommate to pay most of the cost for this sweet leather thing at a thrift. This was maybe six months into my time as a resident of Arizona. I loved that chair. I left it in the hands of my girlfriend’s brother when I moved to Alabama.
Never saw it again.
And never thought about owning another chair again. Until my dad sent me this one.
It’s the same color. But not nearly the same chair.
I think that’s why I rarely sat in it.
Until one day I found myself just sitting there in this brown, faux-leather thing. The sides sticking to my legs in the hot summer heat. I was just sitting there, sweating, and not doing anything else. Not writing. Not drinking. Not listening to music. Not jerking off. Not even thinking about her.
Instead, I was just staring at nothing.
That’s when I decided I had to go. Just get up and get out. I grabbed my hoodie, a toothbrush and toothpaste container and a stack of CDs and threw then in my 1997 Rose Bowl backpack. Then I grabbed six t-shirts off of their hangers in my closet, six pairs of underwear and a couple pairs of pants. Next, I took a bottle of Jameson and grabbed my car keys to leave.
“See ya when I see ya,” I said to my roommate, who was doing what he always did – playing Call of Duty in his room with the door closed.
“Where you going?” he asked after putting his game on pause.
“West,” I said.
A few awkward moments of silence for him later and he said: “Well, enjoy,” and turned his game back to playing mode.
He was a decent chap, I suppose. I didn’t know much about him. He was a friend of a friend who always seemed to be doing something to get somewhere else. Taking classes at a community college one year. Studying to be a manager for a car wash another. All I really knew was that he was able to pay the rent on time and didn’t seem to mind my penchant for not using the air conditioner or heat. He also was receiving food stamps.
I turned and walked out the door moments later. I’d already forgotten that conversation and was more thinking about where I was going to go.
“West, young man,” the voice in my head, strangely sounding like my buddy Josh’s voice combined with William Shatner. Had to be a good sign.
Anyways, I checked my wallet before I started the engine. Two hundred dollars in 20s and three ones.
“I can always burn my credit card for fuel,” I sang along with Neil Young.
Unlike that Canadian, I knew exactly how I lost my friends.
I started the engine and turned it west. The sun was high in the sky and would be my guide. I went over the bridge – a momentary northern turn – then got on U.S. 70 West. It would intersect with Interstate 40 eventually, which seemed like a good idea.
Raleigh, Memphis, Little Rock, Amarillo, Flagstaff and Bakersfield could be at my fingertips. It’s funny. I-40’s a road I’ve been on every inch of, but never all in one trip like I-10 or I-20. Someday I figured I’d take the Highway 61 trip, but I’ve talked about it so much that it’s become something of an epic quest that needs a Sam Wise along for the ride.
Of course, I could go way up north and hit I-90. It is summer, the right time to do that.
Hours later, I was still on I-40. Somewhere outside of Nashville, just wondering if I’d have a job in a week when I just showed back up.
I figure it doesn’t matter much. Just like she thought when she said those words to me.
“You’ll get over me.”
That was six years ago.
And I’m still driving around trying to outrun her. But she always catches me.
Just then, I see a sign for the “Pocahontas Hotel.” If there ever was a sign to stop, take a load off, that’s it.
I pull into the parking lot. It’s 4:34 a.m. A red-headed woman is sitting there at the front desk. She sees me pull in. I see her seeing me. I wonder if she’ll have an accent.
“Hi, honey,” she says, with an excellent Tennessee drawl. “You look tired. Needin’ a room?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say as politely as I think I can. “I’ve been driving for quite a while and I need a place to rest a bit.”
“Well, we got you a nice lil’ room that’ll fix ya right up!” she says. “And in the morning, we’ll make you a nice breakfast. Grits and all!”
“Thank you kindly,” I replied, handing her my credit card.
“You’re a Hank III? Well, I’ll be damned. You know he’s playing across the street tomorrow night?”
“No shit? Whoops, pardon my language.” I blush just a bit.
“Yep, no shit. And don’t worry ‘bout yer tongue. Mine’s a bit nastier.” She realized what she said and blushed as well.
I filled out the card and signed away $78.89 more of my life away.
“You going to that show tomorrow?” I asked.
“I was certainly planning on it,” she replied.
“Got anyone to go with?” I said slyly.
“Actually, no. My boyfriend just dumped me six nights ago.”
“Well, he must be crazy.”
She blushed again.
“And you know what? You can have his ticket. Me and Hank III going to see Hank III!!!”
“Ok. It’s a date. See you tomorrow, then…Heck, I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Angela. But everyone calls me Cari, with a C.”
“Ok, Cari with a C, I will see you tomorrow.”
“Sweet dreams Hank.”
“Same to ya, Cari.”
Sometimes, I thought to myself as I walked to my room, it pays to drive west trying to get away from your past. Because you’re also driving to your future. Like a bad country song, even.
The road passes by, my bald left front tire going thunk, thunk, thunk every second or so. It was soothing at first, annoying for a while, then just part of the journey for the rest.
I wondered before I left if the tires would last. I decided not to care much since I didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t much care for where I was going. Wanted to see where I was going. And not really worried about whether or not a flat tire would keep me from getting there.
Six hours later, I’m still moving forward and the tire is still doing it’s job.
So, I guess I made the right decision.
For once.
I got tired of sitting in my too-small of a recliner. My dad bought it for me for Christmas one year. Strange gift, for sure, but one that I was pleasantly surprised to see when it arrived in a giant box that cold December morning.
After putting it together, I noticed how small it really was. But I figured it was better than what I had, which was nothing. In fact, I hadn’t owned a recliner since I was in college. I got my roommate to pay most of the cost for this sweet leather thing at a thrift. This was maybe six months into my time as a resident of Arizona. I loved that chair. I left it in the hands of my girlfriend’s brother when I moved to Alabama.
Never saw it again.
And never thought about owning another chair again. Until my dad sent me this one.
It’s the same color. But not nearly the same chair.
I think that’s why I rarely sat in it.
Until one day I found myself just sitting there in this brown, faux-leather thing. The sides sticking to my legs in the hot summer heat. I was just sitting there, sweating, and not doing anything else. Not writing. Not drinking. Not listening to music. Not jerking off. Not even thinking about her.
Instead, I was just staring at nothing.
That’s when I decided I had to go. Just get up and get out. I grabbed my hoodie, a toothbrush and toothpaste container and a stack of CDs and threw then in my 1997 Rose Bowl backpack. Then I grabbed six t-shirts off of their hangers in my closet, six pairs of underwear and a couple pairs of pants. Next, I took a bottle of Jameson and grabbed my car keys to leave.
“See ya when I see ya,” I said to my roommate, who was doing what he always did – playing Call of Duty in his room with the door closed.
“Where you going?” he asked after putting his game on pause.
“West,” I said.
A few awkward moments of silence for him later and he said: “Well, enjoy,” and turned his game back to playing mode.
He was a decent chap, I suppose. I didn’t know much about him. He was a friend of a friend who always seemed to be doing something to get somewhere else. Taking classes at a community college one year. Studying to be a manager for a car wash another. All I really knew was that he was able to pay the rent on time and didn’t seem to mind my penchant for not using the air conditioner or heat. He also was receiving food stamps.
I turned and walked out the door moments later. I’d already forgotten that conversation and was more thinking about where I was going to go.
“West, young man,” the voice in my head, strangely sounding like my buddy Josh’s voice combined with William Shatner. Had to be a good sign.
Anyways, I checked my wallet before I started the engine. Two hundred dollars in 20s and three ones.
“I can always burn my credit card for fuel,” I sang along with Neil Young.
Unlike that Canadian, I knew exactly how I lost my friends.
I started the engine and turned it west. The sun was high in the sky and would be my guide. I went over the bridge – a momentary northern turn – then got on U.S. 70 West. It would intersect with Interstate 40 eventually, which seemed like a good idea.
Raleigh, Memphis, Little Rock, Amarillo, Flagstaff and Bakersfield could be at my fingertips. It’s funny. I-40’s a road I’ve been on every inch of, but never all in one trip like I-10 or I-20. Someday I figured I’d take the Highway 61 trip, but I’ve talked about it so much that it’s become something of an epic quest that needs a Sam Wise along for the ride.
Of course, I could go way up north and hit I-90. It is summer, the right time to do that.
Hours later, I was still on I-40. Somewhere outside of Nashville, just wondering if I’d have a job in a week when I just showed back up.
I figure it doesn’t matter much. Just like she thought when she said those words to me.
“You’ll get over me.”
That was six years ago.
And I’m still driving around trying to outrun her. But she always catches me.
Just then, I see a sign for the “Pocahontas Hotel.” If there ever was a sign to stop, take a load off, that’s it.
I pull into the parking lot. It’s 4:34 a.m. A red-headed woman is sitting there at the front desk. She sees me pull in. I see her seeing me. I wonder if she’ll have an accent.
“Hi, honey,” she says, with an excellent Tennessee drawl. “You look tired. Needin’ a room?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say as politely as I think I can. “I’ve been driving for quite a while and I need a place to rest a bit.”
“Well, we got you a nice lil’ room that’ll fix ya right up!” she says. “And in the morning, we’ll make you a nice breakfast. Grits and all!”
“Thank you kindly,” I replied, handing her my credit card.
“You’re a Hank III? Well, I’ll be damned. You know he’s playing across the street tomorrow night?”
“No shit? Whoops, pardon my language.” I blush just a bit.
“Yep, no shit. And don’t worry ‘bout yer tongue. Mine’s a bit nastier.” She realized what she said and blushed as well.
I filled out the card and signed away $78.89 more of my life away.
“You going to that show tomorrow?” I asked.
“I was certainly planning on it,” she replied.
“Got anyone to go with?” I said slyly.
“Actually, no. My boyfriend just dumped me six nights ago.”
“Well, he must be crazy.”
She blushed again.
“And you know what? You can have his ticket. Me and Hank III going to see Hank III!!!”
“Ok. It’s a date. See you tomorrow, then…Heck, I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Angela. But everyone calls me Cari, with a C.”
“Ok, Cari with a C, I will see you tomorrow.”
“Sweet dreams Hank.”
“Same to ya, Cari.”
Sometimes, I thought to myself as I walked to my room, it pays to drive west trying to get away from your past. Because you’re also driving to your future. Like a bad country song, even.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
again and again
“Have you ever tried to let yourself love again?”
It was a fair question, really. She’d known me now for three years. We’d started out just drinking away our misery together, like so many other women I’ve known over the years. But unlike all of them, I didn’t fall in love with them. Or at least fall into bed with her.
“I did. Once. And it ended worse than the time I really was in love,” I said, slowly tilting my half-empty bottle of “Distillery” Jameson. A bottle I got while on a trip to Ireland that someone else paid for.
I looked at the whiskey in the glass. A nice shade it was. I’d been carrying this bottle around with me, move after move, taking one shot at each stop. There was Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. Then there was Raleigh, North Carolina. By that time, I was ready to finally give up on North Carolina. The state that stole my heart, twice.
So I drove to Arkansas. Never planned on staying. Ended up being there two months. A little while in Fayetteville. Then a short stop in Little Rock. After that, Memphis called. I wanted to try and live in the Arcade Hotel for a month. But, I knew it was long, long gone. But still, I went. Sat under the train bridge that Joe Strummer filmed a scene with Steve Buscemi long, long ago.
I felt sad. So I left. Immediately.
Drove to Paris, Texas. Thought maybe I’d see Harry Dean walk by.
He didn’t.
Into Oklahoma I drifted. I saw a lady I’d met on the Internet. She liked that I liked Level 42. I always wondered why she actually added me. This was in the Myspace days. So I drove to her town -- Durant – knocked on her door, and just asked her.
“Because I was lonely one night,” she said, her red hair glistening in the hot, summer dust.
We’d stayed in touch over the years. I wondered many times if we’d try to spark some kind of relationship. But as time passed, it became obvious it wasn’t going to happen. When I showed up that afternoon, I knew she wasn’t lonely anymore. She had her daughter. Now 12. She had her organic garden. And her boyfriend.
“Not getting married again,” she said. “Just don’t see the point.”
I smiled when she said that. Gave her a hug and thanked her for being a friend. I tried not to hear those words in song form. But damn if “Golden Girls” hadn’t driven it into my head forever…
Next, I just drove. Three days and nights. Stopping in small towns as a drove closer and closer to the border. There was Medicine Lodge, Kanas. Next was Scottsbluff, Nebraska. Two days later, Custer, South Dakota. The next night it was Carrington, North Dakota . I only remember them because I took pictures of signs in each town I slept in.
I didn’t talk to a single person on those days and nights. I listened to the same albums, over and over. Of course it was Lucero. Of course every song reminded me of a woman I’d once known. I often wonder if I should have told each woman after the next about that certain part of me. The “can’t let go” piece of me that holds on to the remnants of the past like they’d kill me if they could get out of my grasp.
Even women I’d met and been dumped or dumped or just passed in the night – naked – got a song. Wasting all of that effort was nothing new.
I used to write down the names of girls who just spoke to me. I stopped one day when I was 24. Living in Arizona, trying to “find” myself in the way middle-class wimps like me do – in college.
Her name was Denise Ragu. I figure if I spell her name correctly, she’ll see this one day. Just like every other lady that put their real name down. We had geology class together. Or some kind of earth science.
She must have marked me as a smart guy – good mark – and started talking with me. We teamed up in lab and I really dug her. She laughed at my awful remarks and my long hair.
One day, near the end of the semester, we got to talking about social things. Yeah, I’m kind of slow like that. It was on a path. I was on my bike, she was walking. We said hello, and it turned to going out on the town stuff. Pretty soon, I started to work up the courage to ask her out. Right before I did, her demeanor changed. She was a smart lady, after all. She knew where I was going.
“Well, I’ve got to go meet my boyfriend,” she said.
“I froze for just a second. Stuttered something about cool, see you later.”
I watched her walk away. The sun was high in the sky and it was hot. Nothing remarkable about that.
I went home and got drunk. Drank 12 Red Dog beers. The beer with a Red Dog on the bottle and a different saying under the twist off cap.
We saw each other in class the next week. She smiled, but sat down on the other side of the room.
The next time I saw her, she didn’t smile.
Pretty soon, the semester ended and I never saw her again.
I stopped writing down names soon after.
I wonder if it was because of her, or because I started dating a girl – what would become three years and lots of booze and fights and fun and travel and angst.
“What the hell are you thinking about now?” she asked.
“All the reasons I don’t want to fall in love. And all the reasons I do over and over.
“Again and again.”
It was a fair question, really. She’d known me now for three years. We’d started out just drinking away our misery together, like so many other women I’ve known over the years. But unlike all of them, I didn’t fall in love with them. Or at least fall into bed with her.
“I did. Once. And it ended worse than the time I really was in love,” I said, slowly tilting my half-empty bottle of “Distillery” Jameson. A bottle I got while on a trip to Ireland that someone else paid for.
I looked at the whiskey in the glass. A nice shade it was. I’d been carrying this bottle around with me, move after move, taking one shot at each stop. There was Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. Then there was Raleigh, North Carolina. By that time, I was ready to finally give up on North Carolina. The state that stole my heart, twice.
So I drove to Arkansas. Never planned on staying. Ended up being there two months. A little while in Fayetteville. Then a short stop in Little Rock. After that, Memphis called. I wanted to try and live in the Arcade Hotel for a month. But, I knew it was long, long gone. But still, I went. Sat under the train bridge that Joe Strummer filmed a scene with Steve Buscemi long, long ago.
I felt sad. So I left. Immediately.
Drove to Paris, Texas. Thought maybe I’d see Harry Dean walk by.
He didn’t.
Into Oklahoma I drifted. I saw a lady I’d met on the Internet. She liked that I liked Level 42. I always wondered why she actually added me. This was in the Myspace days. So I drove to her town -- Durant – knocked on her door, and just asked her.
“Because I was lonely one night,” she said, her red hair glistening in the hot, summer dust.
We’d stayed in touch over the years. I wondered many times if we’d try to spark some kind of relationship. But as time passed, it became obvious it wasn’t going to happen. When I showed up that afternoon, I knew she wasn’t lonely anymore. She had her daughter. Now 12. She had her organic garden. And her boyfriend.
“Not getting married again,” she said. “Just don’t see the point.”
I smiled when she said that. Gave her a hug and thanked her for being a friend. I tried not to hear those words in song form. But damn if “Golden Girls” hadn’t driven it into my head forever…
Next, I just drove. Three days and nights. Stopping in small towns as a drove closer and closer to the border. There was Medicine Lodge, Kanas. Next was Scottsbluff, Nebraska. Two days later, Custer, South Dakota. The next night it was Carrington, North Dakota . I only remember them because I took pictures of signs in each town I slept in.
I didn’t talk to a single person on those days and nights. I listened to the same albums, over and over. Of course it was Lucero. Of course every song reminded me of a woman I’d once known. I often wonder if I should have told each woman after the next about that certain part of me. The “can’t let go” piece of me that holds on to the remnants of the past like they’d kill me if they could get out of my grasp.
Even women I’d met and been dumped or dumped or just passed in the night – naked – got a song. Wasting all of that effort was nothing new.
I used to write down the names of girls who just spoke to me. I stopped one day when I was 24. Living in Arizona, trying to “find” myself in the way middle-class wimps like me do – in college.
Her name was Denise Ragu. I figure if I spell her name correctly, she’ll see this one day. Just like every other lady that put their real name down. We had geology class together. Or some kind of earth science.
She must have marked me as a smart guy – good mark – and started talking with me. We teamed up in lab and I really dug her. She laughed at my awful remarks and my long hair.
One day, near the end of the semester, we got to talking about social things. Yeah, I’m kind of slow like that. It was on a path. I was on my bike, she was walking. We said hello, and it turned to going out on the town stuff. Pretty soon, I started to work up the courage to ask her out. Right before I did, her demeanor changed. She was a smart lady, after all. She knew where I was going.
“Well, I’ve got to go meet my boyfriend,” she said.
“I froze for just a second. Stuttered something about cool, see you later.”
I watched her walk away. The sun was high in the sky and it was hot. Nothing remarkable about that.
I went home and got drunk. Drank 12 Red Dog beers. The beer with a Red Dog on the bottle and a different saying under the twist off cap.
We saw each other in class the next week. She smiled, but sat down on the other side of the room.
The next time I saw her, she didn’t smile.
Pretty soon, the semester ended and I never saw her again.
I stopped writing down names soon after.
I wonder if it was because of her, or because I started dating a girl – what would become three years and lots of booze and fights and fun and travel and angst.
“What the hell are you thinking about now?” she asked.
“All the reasons I don’t want to fall in love. And all the reasons I do over and over.
“Again and again.”
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