We were sitting in the mostly dark of Lafitte’s. My boss was trying to convince me to keep fighting the good fight.
“I just can’t do it anymore,” I said, taking a swig of Dixie beer. I paused for a second to realize the bit of irony, bad tastes left in mouth and all…
“I come into the office and I’m dragged down consistently. Yes, there are moments where you remember why you do this, but in this corporate, stock-holder is the only God world we’ve allowed the industry to become, I just can’t. It hurts.”
“You’ve said all that before,” my boss, a shaggy-haired, unkempt fellow who once applied for and didn’t get a job I got years ago, said. He played the “game” much better than I did. I told people they sucked. I pointed out the hypocrisy of it all. And I made enemies. He kissed ass and told everyone how great a job they were doing, even when he had to go home and drink himself silly because of how horrid it was. Today, he was making nearly $100K a year. Me, I was lucking to top $30K if I could con my way into enough overtime.
“Yeah, I have. I’ve said a lot of things over and over and never followed through on them. It’s kind of my modus operandi. But this time, it’s got to end.”
Why was today the day the burning decided to flicker and die, my boss asked. And I tried to explain.
It all boiled down to the office that day. The woman next to me smelled of cigarettes – that in and of itself used to be a badge of honor, but when mixed with awful perfume and the worst nasally voice this side of Fran Drescher, and you get the point. I referred to her as the office’s wounded kitten. That nasally whine just permeated her entire existence. She made personal phone calls, which I can understand, but fucking leave the cubicle at least. So, after six months, I resorted to either watching N.W.A. Over and over again. Or crinkling over and over the same Pop-Tart wrapper. She got the point, but only each time. Pavlov would not be proud.
That day, a person sat down next to her. I began to imagine we were in a Greyhound Station instead of the shell of a former newspaper. The first person lasted 30 seconds. The next chap a whopping 3 minutes. You know it’s bad when the dregs of society won’t sit next to you. Bus station beggars and thieves.
I stared in amazement when another fellow decided it was a good idea to occupy that piece of plastic that the bus station bean counters deem a seat.
“I love Hot Pockets,” she said to the man.
“I got a free empanada,” he replied with some kind of odd grin/frown.
I fully expected them to lock eyes, then lips and begin to procreate there in the middle of the terminal.
He wore a shirt three sizes too small for his impressive belly. At the right time, you could see stretch marks and black pubic-esque hair on it. The corduroy pants he had on were a few inches short of his striped white athletic socks. I’m sure they matched his tighty-whiteys.
“I’ve never had a Hot Pocket,” he continued. I’m guessing it was a lie from his physique.
“They are just dough-filled thingies with meats, cheeses, vegetables and other goodies packed inside,” a third person – a 25 year old scruffy looking, sort of hipter wanna be, added.
“Oh, I’ve had plenty of dough-filled treats!” the big man responded with glee. I thought maybe a dabble of drool formed along with his thought bubble.
“They give me gas,” the cigarette infested gal chirped in.
This finally caused my six Bloody Mary breakfast to come back. I puked on the floor, right in front of this conversation.
“How rude,” the girl nasally said.
“Just a response,” I uttered between dry heaves.
“To what?” the hipster said.
“Banality. And the death of journalism,” I said.
“Come on now, Randy, you know that didn’t really happen,” my boss interrupted the story I was weaving. I scowled at him and finished my beer. The bottle hit the table and I eyed it. My eyebrow cocked just a little bit. After a few seconds of silence, except for the tourists walking by at 10:30 in the morning, the bossman finally figured it out.
“I’ll get you another beer,” he said, walking to the bar.
“Damn right you will,” I said. “You brought me back to this world. After it had chucked me out like a redhead when she gets bored.”
“Here you go,” he handed me another beer. I popped the top and drank half of it.
“Slow down there, Mister. I’ve only got so much cash.”
“Fuck off, you’ve got plastic. Now, where was I?”
“Barfing.”
“Oh yeah.”
I turned to the big guy and the sight of him, and his smugness of knowing words – yet he had no feeling for them – triggered a final release. I purged the rest of my breakfast on the whiny, nasally bitch.
She then proceeded to puke up her McDonald’s french fries and what may have been some kind of beef product on the 25 year old.
He then threw up his breakfast – it appeared to be just a couple ears worth of corn and a grape soda. Right at the feet of the big man.
None of this, however, seemed to affect the biggest of the group. In fact, he peeled off the wrapper of a $100 Grand candy bar and took a large bite.
His chews set my mind off again. And somehow, my stomach responded again.
“Now, can you see why whatever passion I had had died?” I asked.
“Dude, you’ve a sick man. A sick, sick man.”
“Cheers to that,” I said clinking my bottle against his. I finished off the swill.
“Well, I guess it’s time for me to go finish my column,” I said.
“Knew it,” my boss said smiling. He smacked my back with his meaty hand.
“That’s going to cost you another round,” I sneered. “And this time, I want a Jameson. Double.”
He smiled and went back to the bar.
“Gotta feed the talent,” he said.
“Tell me how that works out for ya,” I replied.
It was going to be a long day I thought to myself as I walked – alone – back to the office. The first sight of it cause me to burp. It tasted of Bloody Mary.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Friday, March 23, 2012
Hopelessly awful
“So, do you have plans for the past?” she said to me as I sat in my broken down leather recliner. I got that thing at a thrift store for $35 and she’d never let me down. Sure, she smelled a little bit. The left arm had cracks in the leather, but overall, she was comfortable and certainly dependable. More than I could say about most things.
I cracked open another Miller High Life before delving into my latest companion’s attempts at saving me from myself. It never failed. Either I was trying to save them, or they were trying to save me. And really, since the only one who can truly save a person is themselves, I’m assuming we’re always fighting a losing fight.
“I don’t understand your question, honey,” I said before burping that last sip of beer. It was stale tasting. I’d gotten used to better beer, this was like a watered down version of Abita’s Amber.
“Yes you do, you fucking prick,” she said, slamming down her foot on the hardwood floor. That very same spot on the floor was where we shared a slow dance together about a year and a half ago. Three quarters of a bottle of Jameson first, mind you, but we did share a nice dance. The song was that Urge Overkill cover of “Girl, You’ll be a woman soon.”
And indeed I did know what she was talking about. It was what every girl found out about me eventually. I had a past, and I liked it there.
“You live in the fucking past. You stay there. And I really believe you want to be there!” she yelled.
“I don’t want to be there,” said. “I want us to be like then.”
That was stupid. Now it was her against her. The girl from the past. The one who broke my heart. The love of my life. I’d written those words so many times. I’d wrapped other people’s stories into her story and made them mine again. It was a losing proposition, but it was the only one I knew.
“Randy, you’ve got to get on with your life. It’s been over a decade now, and you still pine for her,” she said, starting to cry now. “I don’t think you know how much this is hurting me.”
I knew, exactly. Sometimes I think I wanted it to hurt. So maybe the one I was with could feel something akin to what I was feeling. Wrong of me? Certainly. But it just kept happening. Whether the relationship was fucking in the back of the stockroom at work every so often with the young reporter from Troy State, the girl I dated for six months and fell helplessly in love with way too fast and way too soon, or a crush that developed because a friend said “this girl’s got the same weird tastes as you” – and she was right, but just too much the same as she ended up hurting me.
“Listen, honey, I was honest with you from the get-go. And that’s a change of pace for me. I said I had a hang up, and she was it. I don’t want it to be that way. I try every day to leave her behind. But she stays. I yell at her. I curse at her. But it’s all in the wind. If I could see her today, I’d tell her to go fuck herself. And you know what? She wouldn’t care one bit. I guess that’s why it hurts. Still.”
“But that’s precisely why it shouldn’t hurt anymore, babe. Don’t you see that?”
I felt more and more like Jim Carrey in “The Truman Show.” Something always felt just a little off. Which is why I think I held on to a piece that was “normal.” A part of my life when everything went right. Even when it was wrong. Until it went to shit. In one night. All at once for me. Probably over months for her. Damn her for coming and acting like everything was OK for those two months we were together in North Carolina after all that time apart while she was in Florida. New Year’s eve was so special to me that it ranks up there as one of the top 5 nights of my life. Sadly, I do rank such things, and did so before I read about it and then watched it acted out in “High Fidelity.”
She looked at me, and sighed. She knew I was thinking about such random things. She was the first person who was able to get me to admit this. That when we were talking about serious things – bills, our sex life, insurance, houses, etc. – that most likely I was seeing pictures of Matt Damon in “Rounders” or John Laroquette in “Stripes” instead of real life. She grew to think it was cute, I believe, even if it was “fucking annoying.”
“You and I, we will be fine,” she said. “When you move to the present. Until then, we’re going to be like this. You drinking. Me crying. I just hope that’s enough for both of us forever.”
She got up and left. Off to the beach. I sat there in my recliner, thinking about the Ken Griffey Jr. Super Nintendo game. And about how hopelessly awful that was.
I cracked open another Miller High Life before delving into my latest companion’s attempts at saving me from myself. It never failed. Either I was trying to save them, or they were trying to save me. And really, since the only one who can truly save a person is themselves, I’m assuming we’re always fighting a losing fight.
“I don’t understand your question, honey,” I said before burping that last sip of beer. It was stale tasting. I’d gotten used to better beer, this was like a watered down version of Abita’s Amber.
“Yes you do, you fucking prick,” she said, slamming down her foot on the hardwood floor. That very same spot on the floor was where we shared a slow dance together about a year and a half ago. Three quarters of a bottle of Jameson first, mind you, but we did share a nice dance. The song was that Urge Overkill cover of “Girl, You’ll be a woman soon.”
And indeed I did know what she was talking about. It was what every girl found out about me eventually. I had a past, and I liked it there.
“You live in the fucking past. You stay there. And I really believe you want to be there!” she yelled.
“I don’t want to be there,” said. “I want us to be like then.”
That was stupid. Now it was her against her. The girl from the past. The one who broke my heart. The love of my life. I’d written those words so many times. I’d wrapped other people’s stories into her story and made them mine again. It was a losing proposition, but it was the only one I knew.
“Randy, you’ve got to get on with your life. It’s been over a decade now, and you still pine for her,” she said, starting to cry now. “I don’t think you know how much this is hurting me.”
I knew, exactly. Sometimes I think I wanted it to hurt. So maybe the one I was with could feel something akin to what I was feeling. Wrong of me? Certainly. But it just kept happening. Whether the relationship was fucking in the back of the stockroom at work every so often with the young reporter from Troy State, the girl I dated for six months and fell helplessly in love with way too fast and way too soon, or a crush that developed because a friend said “this girl’s got the same weird tastes as you” – and she was right, but just too much the same as she ended up hurting me.
“Listen, honey, I was honest with you from the get-go. And that’s a change of pace for me. I said I had a hang up, and she was it. I don’t want it to be that way. I try every day to leave her behind. But she stays. I yell at her. I curse at her. But it’s all in the wind. If I could see her today, I’d tell her to go fuck herself. And you know what? She wouldn’t care one bit. I guess that’s why it hurts. Still.”
“But that’s precisely why it shouldn’t hurt anymore, babe. Don’t you see that?”
I felt more and more like Jim Carrey in “The Truman Show.” Something always felt just a little off. Which is why I think I held on to a piece that was “normal.” A part of my life when everything went right. Even when it was wrong. Until it went to shit. In one night. All at once for me. Probably over months for her. Damn her for coming and acting like everything was OK for those two months we were together in North Carolina after all that time apart while she was in Florida. New Year’s eve was so special to me that it ranks up there as one of the top 5 nights of my life. Sadly, I do rank such things, and did so before I read about it and then watched it acted out in “High Fidelity.”
She looked at me, and sighed. She knew I was thinking about such random things. She was the first person who was able to get me to admit this. That when we were talking about serious things – bills, our sex life, insurance, houses, etc. – that most likely I was seeing pictures of Matt Damon in “Rounders” or John Laroquette in “Stripes” instead of real life. She grew to think it was cute, I believe, even if it was “fucking annoying.”
“You and I, we will be fine,” she said. “When you move to the present. Until then, we’re going to be like this. You drinking. Me crying. I just hope that’s enough for both of us forever.”
She got up and left. Off to the beach. I sat there in my recliner, thinking about the Ken Griffey Jr. Super Nintendo game. And about how hopelessly awful that was.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Watching John Travolta
“When you win the lottery, you end up doing a lot of stupid things,” I said to the girl at the bar. She’d asked me why I was driving a hearse, and quite simply, that was the reason I was.
“You won the lottery?” she asked, now a little too interested in me. Just seconds ago, she was creeped out by the fact I pulled up in a 1996 Lincoln Hearse. The hearse owned by the Raymer Funeral Home in Huntersville, North Carolina. The same funeral home that helped out when a certain NASCAR driver, known by most as The Intimidator was laid to rest back in 2001. For many, the second worst thing that happened to America that year.
I looked over at Rodney, the barkeep. He was used to running interference when my dumb mouth mentioned that I won the lottery. Yep, I won the Power Ball drawing on March 23, 2012. A cool $290 million. Took the cash and pocketed over $100 million that day I drove up to Raleigh.
And the first thing I did was buy that silly hearse on E-bay. Paid $1.5 million for it. Stupid? Hell yes it was. But fucking-A it was a great conversation starter. And God knows I needed help starting them.
“Listen, little lady,” Rodney said. “He won it, alright. But he paid 1.5 million bucks for that stupid hearse out there. How much money do you think he’s got left? Hell, he lives here most of the time.”
She looked at me, then looked around the bar. A bar that she’d been coming to since she was 17 years old, according to Rodney when he told me exactly seven minutes prior to her coming over to me.
“So, he’s a deadbeat?” she whispered to Rodney.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I spoke up.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” she sneered.
“Oh, the horror,” I mockingly said as I pretended to take the dagger out of my chest. “Lucky for me, you don’t have a rusty screwdriver.”
“Huh?” she said.
“Inside joke, lady. Hey, Rodney, buy that girl a drink!”
“You going to pay your tab tonight, Randy? You didn’t last night…” he said to me, in a matter-of-fact voice that I think our friendly young blonde took for anger. At least the laugh she had after those words made it seem so.
“Of course I will. Here’s my Discover Card!”
I handed him my card. It expired in 2011, but I kept it around for just these types of situations. I thought about one day writing a book for lottery winners. An “Idiots for …” kind of deal. Then my girlfriend at the time burst my publishing bubble when she said “But, only a few people win each year. Not much of a market?”
Typical of her. And of me, I’d have to say. Hair-brained Randy.
I wandered over to the jukebox. Rodney months ago stocked it with albums I wanted to listen to. Hell, I spent so much money here that the customers the music selection drove away were nowhere near the cash he got from my dumb ass sitting on a stool watching re-runs of Frisky Dingo and Welcome Back Kotter.
I clicked on A-14: Johnny Thunders’ “Hurt Me” from the album also called “Hurt Me.”
Not this damn song again, the blonde said.
“For that, you get it three times!” I yelled, pushing A-14 two more times to complete my transaction at the jukebox.
“Why do you play that damn song so often?” she asked.
“Because it reminds me of a simpler time. Not necessarily a better time, but a simpler time,” I said.
“You’re weird,” she said, snickering to her just arrived out of the bathroom friend. Her friend was Rhonda. She had big 1980s New Jersey hair, but an attitude straight out of Valley Girl. She confounded me over the weeks. Every guy in this place, yours truly included, wanted to sleep with her. But no one every succeeded. It was baffling. To everyone.
And here she was, in the bar on a Thursday at 1 p.m. Hanging out with this blonde girl. It seemed too perfect. And based upon my experiences, was.
Rhonda came over to me and sat at the stool next to mine.
“Randy, why the fuck are you sitting on that God damn barstool at 1 o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday? This is freaking Kinston, North Carolina. You have tens of millions of dollars in the bank, yet here you are. Alone and defeated.”
“Just defeated!” I pontificated.
“Ok, you’re not alone. Rodney’s here.”
“And you two lovely works of God’s master plan.”
“Fuck off.”
“You know, that’s what the last girl said to me too. And precisely why I sit here with Rodney and watch John Travolta every day. It’s so much easier.”
“You won the lottery?” she asked, now a little too interested in me. Just seconds ago, she was creeped out by the fact I pulled up in a 1996 Lincoln Hearse. The hearse owned by the Raymer Funeral Home in Huntersville, North Carolina. The same funeral home that helped out when a certain NASCAR driver, known by most as The Intimidator was laid to rest back in 2001. For many, the second worst thing that happened to America that year.
I looked over at Rodney, the barkeep. He was used to running interference when my dumb mouth mentioned that I won the lottery. Yep, I won the Power Ball drawing on March 23, 2012. A cool $290 million. Took the cash and pocketed over $100 million that day I drove up to Raleigh.
And the first thing I did was buy that silly hearse on E-bay. Paid $1.5 million for it. Stupid? Hell yes it was. But fucking-A it was a great conversation starter. And God knows I needed help starting them.
“Listen, little lady,” Rodney said. “He won it, alright. But he paid 1.5 million bucks for that stupid hearse out there. How much money do you think he’s got left? Hell, he lives here most of the time.”
She looked at me, then looked around the bar. A bar that she’d been coming to since she was 17 years old, according to Rodney when he told me exactly seven minutes prior to her coming over to me.
“So, he’s a deadbeat?” she whispered to Rodney.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I spoke up.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” she sneered.
“Oh, the horror,” I mockingly said as I pretended to take the dagger out of my chest. “Lucky for me, you don’t have a rusty screwdriver.”
“Huh?” she said.
“Inside joke, lady. Hey, Rodney, buy that girl a drink!”
“You going to pay your tab tonight, Randy? You didn’t last night…” he said to me, in a matter-of-fact voice that I think our friendly young blonde took for anger. At least the laugh she had after those words made it seem so.
“Of course I will. Here’s my Discover Card!”
I handed him my card. It expired in 2011, but I kept it around for just these types of situations. I thought about one day writing a book for lottery winners. An “Idiots for …” kind of deal. Then my girlfriend at the time burst my publishing bubble when she said “But, only a few people win each year. Not much of a market?”
Typical of her. And of me, I’d have to say. Hair-brained Randy.
I wandered over to the jukebox. Rodney months ago stocked it with albums I wanted to listen to. Hell, I spent so much money here that the customers the music selection drove away were nowhere near the cash he got from my dumb ass sitting on a stool watching re-runs of Frisky Dingo and Welcome Back Kotter.
I clicked on A-14: Johnny Thunders’ “Hurt Me” from the album also called “Hurt Me.”
Not this damn song again, the blonde said.
“For that, you get it three times!” I yelled, pushing A-14 two more times to complete my transaction at the jukebox.
“Why do you play that damn song so often?” she asked.
“Because it reminds me of a simpler time. Not necessarily a better time, but a simpler time,” I said.
“You’re weird,” she said, snickering to her just arrived out of the bathroom friend. Her friend was Rhonda. She had big 1980s New Jersey hair, but an attitude straight out of Valley Girl. She confounded me over the weeks. Every guy in this place, yours truly included, wanted to sleep with her. But no one every succeeded. It was baffling. To everyone.
And here she was, in the bar on a Thursday at 1 p.m. Hanging out with this blonde girl. It seemed too perfect. And based upon my experiences, was.
Rhonda came over to me and sat at the stool next to mine.
“Randy, why the fuck are you sitting on that God damn barstool at 1 o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday? This is freaking Kinston, North Carolina. You have tens of millions of dollars in the bank, yet here you are. Alone and defeated.”
“Just defeated!” I pontificated.
“Ok, you’re not alone. Rodney’s here.”
“And you two lovely works of God’s master plan.”
“Fuck off.”
“You know, that’s what the last girl said to me too. And precisely why I sit here with Rodney and watch John Travolta every day. It’s so much easier.”
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
legs
“Mr. Jones, based on our calculations, you need to save about $897 a month for the next 30 years so you can retire and live the life you are accustomed to. This is based upon complex formulas and your current, past and future earnings that we estimated.”
I sat there and stared at my “Investment Guru.” This was a self-given label. These people were called in by my company to try and “kick start” retirement planning. Funny, I’ve pretty much known for 15 years that if I didn’t marry a rich woman, retirement for me would be a one-bedroom hovel on skid row.
“What do you think of that Mr. Jones?” this perky, 24-year-old guru asked me.
“Well, Miss Smythe. … It is Miss?”
“Yes.”
“That is more than I make in two weeks. If you double that to get my monthly income, then subtract rent, utilities, gas money, student loan payment, credit card payment, internet payment and so on, you’ll see that this is impossible.”
I stared at her as she stared at me.
“And that does not include food.”
“OK. So you’re feeling a little bit overwhelmed. … No need to be belligerent.”
“Belligerent? I’m not being belligerent. I’m being rational. If this company paid a living wage – no one in this office has received a raise in the years I’ve been here. In fact, they’ve all received pay cuts. Do you know what that’s like?”
“Well, uh…”
“I thought not. I mean, if the company took the money it spent hiring you and your “associates” to come in here and tell us that we’re not going to ever be able to retire, and divided it up amongst the 100 or so of us, then we’d have that amount of money. For a week.”
Dumbfounded, Miss Smythe played with her pencil and stared at her computer monitor. I didn’t mean to be mean, but sometimes it was inevitable.
Instead of apologizing, however, I decided to stare at her legs. They were great legs. The kind that look like ivory, but soft. She had on a short skirt to show them off and it made me feel worse. So, I stopped looking at them. But a little too late.
“Did you enjoy that?” Miss Smythe said angrily.
“Not particularly. Just reminded me of an ex-lover of mine who devastated me years ago.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking at her tits now.
“Mr. Jones, I want to help you. And it appears from your financials that you need help.”
“Just from my financials?”
She brushed that off and continued: “Here is my card. I don’t usually do this with clients from this job, but you genuinely need help. And I think you are smart enough to know you need help.”
“Being smart enough isn’t enough,” I said with a bit of a southern drawl.
“Yes, that is true, Mr. Jones. Most people don’t know it’s too late until they aren’t working anymore and have medical bills and other financial obligations that a measly savings and a Social Security check won’t pay.”
I knew all of this was true, but I didn’t care. I was here for one reason – my boss said I had to come – but now was here because staring at Miss Smythe was better than staring at the drivel known as copy that the reporters and editors handed to me at the paper. Bitterness did not come close to describing what I felt each day I plopped down into my cubicle.
Yesterday was especially bad because my boss found a project I’d been working on. Sometimes in the office, but mostly late at night in the comforts of my way-too-expensive for my income beach house while sipping on a bottle of Jameson. A collection of short stories based upon a dying newspaper. It would never be read, but it was damn funny – to me at least.
Reporters who can’t write and editors who can’t edit filled its pages. A manager in number – but not effort – for each reporter. A drunk leading the charge – not altogether a horrible thing, mind you – and an elf-like publisher who showed up every so often and said hello – his hunched shoulders reminding you that he had millions in the bank and you had $45.12.
“Mr. Jones, we need to talk,” she yelled from her glass-enclosed office in the corner of the newsroom.
I got up, sighed loudly and trudged to her office.
“Sit down please, and shut that door!” she barked.
She managed to say that second part after I had sat.
“What is this? This garbage?” she then yelled.
“What exactly are you talking about? The paper? Or something in it?”
She stared for a second, trying to intimidate me. After realizing the folly, she continued…
“I think you know what it is I am talking about. This, this writing you’ve been doing. Probably doing it while sitting in your comfortable chair over there.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s comfortable….”
“Shut up. You’ve been writing about us. Making fun of everyone in that office. What do you think they would all think about it if I showed them?”
“It would be quite a portrait of just how awful all of our lives have become,” I replied. “About how awful we’ve all let our lives become. This, for all of us on a daily basis, is a choice.”
My boss, taken aback by my non-chalance , sighed even louder than I did moments before.
“Mr. Jones, do you know what this means?”
“That you don’t know my first name?” I thought of saying, but since I knew the answer I refrained.
“Yes?” I finally said.
“You need to apologize to everyone for this. If you want to let them see it, and then hate you for it, that is your decision. But you must apologize.”
I stood up from the leather chair in her office, noticing just how comfortable it was compared to my stained with God-knows what, rickety old felt covered chair at my desk, and nodded. I felt it served the purpose better to just nod like Billy Bob Thornton in “Sling Blade”.
I went out into the office and cleared my throat.
“Attention everyone!” I said. “Attention everyone!”
The quiet of the newsroom stopped. Now it was a murmur of noise. A pleasant, but too slight, consequence of my voice ripping through.
“I have to say something,” I said, looking back at my editor. She was smiling, just a slight smile, but it was there. Her legs were crossed. Damn, she had great legs too.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said.
“For what?” a voice I knew all too well echoed from the back of the room. It was Larry. He was an overweight reporter. The only one in the room I had any respect for. And that was mainly because he kept action figures on his desk.
“For what? Damn, that’s a good question. I guess because I write stuff, and it hurts.”
Everyone looked down.
“We’ve seen it,” Larry piped up. “We saw your writings months ago. It made me laugh.”
I turned back to the editor. She was frowning now. Her legs? Still hot.
“And you don’t need to apologize,” Larry continued. “We all know.”
I sat there and stared at my “Investment Guru.” This was a self-given label. These people were called in by my company to try and “kick start” retirement planning. Funny, I’ve pretty much known for 15 years that if I didn’t marry a rich woman, retirement for me would be a one-bedroom hovel on skid row.
“What do you think of that Mr. Jones?” this perky, 24-year-old guru asked me.
“Well, Miss Smythe. … It is Miss?”
“Yes.”
“That is more than I make in two weeks. If you double that to get my monthly income, then subtract rent, utilities, gas money, student loan payment, credit card payment, internet payment and so on, you’ll see that this is impossible.”
I stared at her as she stared at me.
“And that does not include food.”
“OK. So you’re feeling a little bit overwhelmed. … No need to be belligerent.”
“Belligerent? I’m not being belligerent. I’m being rational. If this company paid a living wage – no one in this office has received a raise in the years I’ve been here. In fact, they’ve all received pay cuts. Do you know what that’s like?”
“Well, uh…”
“I thought not. I mean, if the company took the money it spent hiring you and your “associates” to come in here and tell us that we’re not going to ever be able to retire, and divided it up amongst the 100 or so of us, then we’d have that amount of money. For a week.”
Dumbfounded, Miss Smythe played with her pencil and stared at her computer monitor. I didn’t mean to be mean, but sometimes it was inevitable.
Instead of apologizing, however, I decided to stare at her legs. They were great legs. The kind that look like ivory, but soft. She had on a short skirt to show them off and it made me feel worse. So, I stopped looking at them. But a little too late.
“Did you enjoy that?” Miss Smythe said angrily.
“Not particularly. Just reminded me of an ex-lover of mine who devastated me years ago.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking at her tits now.
“Mr. Jones, I want to help you. And it appears from your financials that you need help.”
“Just from my financials?”
She brushed that off and continued: “Here is my card. I don’t usually do this with clients from this job, but you genuinely need help. And I think you are smart enough to know you need help.”
“Being smart enough isn’t enough,” I said with a bit of a southern drawl.
“Yes, that is true, Mr. Jones. Most people don’t know it’s too late until they aren’t working anymore and have medical bills and other financial obligations that a measly savings and a Social Security check won’t pay.”
I knew all of this was true, but I didn’t care. I was here for one reason – my boss said I had to come – but now was here because staring at Miss Smythe was better than staring at the drivel known as copy that the reporters and editors handed to me at the paper. Bitterness did not come close to describing what I felt each day I plopped down into my cubicle.
Yesterday was especially bad because my boss found a project I’d been working on. Sometimes in the office, but mostly late at night in the comforts of my way-too-expensive for my income beach house while sipping on a bottle of Jameson. A collection of short stories based upon a dying newspaper. It would never be read, but it was damn funny – to me at least.
Reporters who can’t write and editors who can’t edit filled its pages. A manager in number – but not effort – for each reporter. A drunk leading the charge – not altogether a horrible thing, mind you – and an elf-like publisher who showed up every so often and said hello – his hunched shoulders reminding you that he had millions in the bank and you had $45.12.
“Mr. Jones, we need to talk,” she yelled from her glass-enclosed office in the corner of the newsroom.
I got up, sighed loudly and trudged to her office.
“Sit down please, and shut that door!” she barked.
She managed to say that second part after I had sat.
“What is this? This garbage?” she then yelled.
“What exactly are you talking about? The paper? Or something in it?”
She stared for a second, trying to intimidate me. After realizing the folly, she continued…
“I think you know what it is I am talking about. This, this writing you’ve been doing. Probably doing it while sitting in your comfortable chair over there.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s comfortable….”
“Shut up. You’ve been writing about us. Making fun of everyone in that office. What do you think they would all think about it if I showed them?”
“It would be quite a portrait of just how awful all of our lives have become,” I replied. “About how awful we’ve all let our lives become. This, for all of us on a daily basis, is a choice.”
My boss, taken aback by my non-chalance , sighed even louder than I did moments before.
“Mr. Jones, do you know what this means?”
“That you don’t know my first name?” I thought of saying, but since I knew the answer I refrained.
“Yes?” I finally said.
“You need to apologize to everyone for this. If you want to let them see it, and then hate you for it, that is your decision. But you must apologize.”
I stood up from the leather chair in her office, noticing just how comfortable it was compared to my stained with God-knows what, rickety old felt covered chair at my desk, and nodded. I felt it served the purpose better to just nod like Billy Bob Thornton in “Sling Blade”.
I went out into the office and cleared my throat.
“Attention everyone!” I said. “Attention everyone!”
The quiet of the newsroom stopped. Now it was a murmur of noise. A pleasant, but too slight, consequence of my voice ripping through.
“I have to say something,” I said, looking back at my editor. She was smiling, just a slight smile, but it was there. Her legs were crossed. Damn, she had great legs too.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said.
“For what?” a voice I knew all too well echoed from the back of the room. It was Larry. He was an overweight reporter. The only one in the room I had any respect for. And that was mainly because he kept action figures on his desk.
“For what? Damn, that’s a good question. I guess because I write stuff, and it hurts.”
Everyone looked down.
“We’ve seen it,” Larry piped up. “We saw your writings months ago. It made me laugh.”
I turned back to the editor. She was frowning now. Her legs? Still hot.
“And you don’t need to apologize,” Larry continued. “We all know.”
Saturday, March 17, 2012
St. Patrick's Day
“What are you doing for St. Patrick’s Day?” she asked with a smile.
“Working, like always,” I replied.
When I chose to be a journalist, back in the glamour days of the early 1990s (Ha!), the thought of never having holidays off, being dirt poor and single never crossed my mind.
Some days I wish it had, others not so much.
But hindsight is a bitch and life is for living. Every day I try to remember that. Keep plodding forward instead of looking backward. It’s tough, and many times needs the help of an alcoholic beverage. Except on St. Patrick’s Day. It’s been a long, long time since I had one of those off – except for the year of unemployment, when I actually had two.
There was this girl I dated, she liked to think she was Irish. She wasn’t. Yeah, she had red hair and pale skin and was full of sass. But what she wasn’t was Irish. She was German.
I do miss that gal, though. She was the world to me. Until the day she decided I didn’t try hard enough. Or she didn’t care enough. Whichever. See, there I go, following the downward staircase instead of taking the elevator up.
I watch the girl who asked me about St. Patty’s Day walk away. A few months ago she was 30 pounds heavier and unhappy with her life. Now she’s sexy, and I believe still unhappy with her life. You can shed the pounds, tone the muscles, get a higher paying job, but those things don’t fill the void. That’s up to you, my friend.
The pollen covered my car as I got ready to leave for work. My allergies are funny. They don’t bother me too much outside. But inside they’re a bear. It’s probably the mold that this place has. And the fact I don’t dust. I saw my stereo today before playing some music to get me out of my mind funk and it was slathered in dust and God knows what else. I wiped it off with a pair of dirty underwear that was lying on the carpet and put in a CD. The notes and words and beats just keep me going. For someone who is tone deaf and completely too lazy to learn how to play an instrument, music really keeps me going.
I was lucky enough to go to Ireland last year. My best friend and his wife paid for me to tag along with them. It was a bit of a strange trip, but I fell in love with the place. Much better than the UK, for sure.
If I could be anywhere today, it would be there. Out in the middle of nowhere in a country I am not from, surrounded by people I can understand when they talk. I didn’t see too many redheads while I was there, which disappointed me, but was told simply I was in the “wrong part” of the country.
Maybe one day I’ll have the money to go back. It’s sad that I have to be saddled by that problem. It’s self-created, so I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’ve never done enough to pay off the mountain that I have. I’ve made small gains every so often, then I get a woman in my life and I forget what I was doing for a while.
The stink of the morning is a funny thing, too. I like it when it’s cold. Hate it when it’s warm. I’m the complete opposite about the actual weather, though. Give me a hot, sweaty, sticky day over a cool, breezy and damp day any time.
“You sure you don’t want to play hooky with me?” the girl asked me after we bumped into each other again.
“Darling, I’d love to, but duty, as always, calls me …” I trail off a bit at the end.
“You’re in the military? I thought they didn’t allow facial hair like that?”
“They don’t. And I’m not,” I replied stroking my soon-to-be-shaved beard of about 10 inches in length.
We smiled at each other and she kept walking away. It’s a different perspective. It seems I’m always the one driving or walking away at the end. Looking in the rearview mirror at what I’m leaving behind. It’s enough to get you down if you let it. And I have let it.
I know one thing, I will have a beer before St. Patrick’s Day is over tonight. It may be hellishly awful to go to the bar later. Everyone will have had their “drink on” for the entire day and I’ll be just off the road. But damn, sometimes you just have to do the right thing…
“Working, like always,” I replied.
When I chose to be a journalist, back in the glamour days of the early 1990s (Ha!), the thought of never having holidays off, being dirt poor and single never crossed my mind.
Some days I wish it had, others not so much.
But hindsight is a bitch and life is for living. Every day I try to remember that. Keep plodding forward instead of looking backward. It’s tough, and many times needs the help of an alcoholic beverage. Except on St. Patrick’s Day. It’s been a long, long time since I had one of those off – except for the year of unemployment, when I actually had two.
There was this girl I dated, she liked to think she was Irish. She wasn’t. Yeah, she had red hair and pale skin and was full of sass. But what she wasn’t was Irish. She was German.
I do miss that gal, though. She was the world to me. Until the day she decided I didn’t try hard enough. Or she didn’t care enough. Whichever. See, there I go, following the downward staircase instead of taking the elevator up.
I watch the girl who asked me about St. Patty’s Day walk away. A few months ago she was 30 pounds heavier and unhappy with her life. Now she’s sexy, and I believe still unhappy with her life. You can shed the pounds, tone the muscles, get a higher paying job, but those things don’t fill the void. That’s up to you, my friend.
The pollen covered my car as I got ready to leave for work. My allergies are funny. They don’t bother me too much outside. But inside they’re a bear. It’s probably the mold that this place has. And the fact I don’t dust. I saw my stereo today before playing some music to get me out of my mind funk and it was slathered in dust and God knows what else. I wiped it off with a pair of dirty underwear that was lying on the carpet and put in a CD. The notes and words and beats just keep me going. For someone who is tone deaf and completely too lazy to learn how to play an instrument, music really keeps me going.
I was lucky enough to go to Ireland last year. My best friend and his wife paid for me to tag along with them. It was a bit of a strange trip, but I fell in love with the place. Much better than the UK, for sure.
If I could be anywhere today, it would be there. Out in the middle of nowhere in a country I am not from, surrounded by people I can understand when they talk. I didn’t see too many redheads while I was there, which disappointed me, but was told simply I was in the “wrong part” of the country.
Maybe one day I’ll have the money to go back. It’s sad that I have to be saddled by that problem. It’s self-created, so I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’ve never done enough to pay off the mountain that I have. I’ve made small gains every so often, then I get a woman in my life and I forget what I was doing for a while.
The stink of the morning is a funny thing, too. I like it when it’s cold. Hate it when it’s warm. I’m the complete opposite about the actual weather, though. Give me a hot, sweaty, sticky day over a cool, breezy and damp day any time.
“You sure you don’t want to play hooky with me?” the girl asked me after we bumped into each other again.
“Darling, I’d love to, but duty, as always, calls me …” I trail off a bit at the end.
“You’re in the military? I thought they didn’t allow facial hair like that?”
“They don’t. And I’m not,” I replied stroking my soon-to-be-shaved beard of about 10 inches in length.
We smiled at each other and she kept walking away. It’s a different perspective. It seems I’m always the one driving or walking away at the end. Looking in the rearview mirror at what I’m leaving behind. It’s enough to get you down if you let it. And I have let it.
I know one thing, I will have a beer before St. Patrick’s Day is over tonight. It may be hellishly awful to go to the bar later. Everyone will have had their “drink on” for the entire day and I’ll be just off the road. But damn, sometimes you just have to do the right thing…
Friday, March 16, 2012
Population 800
We got into the car after checking out of the hotel. It was cool today, so driving with the windows down was not going to be a problem.
“You hungry?” I asked the girl I still didn’t know a name.
“Not really. Let’s just get out of here.”
“You hiding from someone?” I asked, kind of worried.
“Just the past, guy. Just the past.”
“Fair enough,” I said, starting the car. She purred like a kitten. So glad I paid for the restoration of this car, my dream car – a 1991 Toyota Celica. With a moon roof, of course.
Before pulling out of the parking lot, I touched her hand to get her attention. She looked over at me with wearisome eyes.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I just have a question.”
“Shoot, guy.”
“What’s your name? I need to know at least that if we’re going to be hanging out. Getting kind of tired of this guy, girl thing.”
“Well, I don’t know yours either,” she responded.
I tried to think back into the night. Did I really never tell her my name? Was she just fucking with me? Am I really putting this much thought into it?
“Randy,” I finally decided to tell her.
“And you do know my name,” she said. “Or at least it was said once in front of you. I thought you were a reporter? Aren’t you supposed to be good at that kind of thing? Picking up on facts and names and such?”
“Let me think on it,” I replied, adding “or you could just tell me.”
“Think hard, Mr. Randy. Think hard.”
With that, I turned on the radio. Foghat was on the radio. We both started bobbing our heads. It seemed to be a nice distraction for both of us. Me – from thoughts of a girl gone wrong. Her – no idea.
“Which way should we go?” I asked at the edge of the parking lot.
“West! She yelled. It’s always best.”
“I knew I liked you for some reason.”
“It wasn’t the tits?” she smirked.
I looked her up and down in a false gross way. “Tits help,” I finally said. I didn’t know if she got the joke or not. But we kept bobbing along to “Slow Ride” so I guess all was well in the world.
Funny thing, we didn’t talk again for three hours.
“I’ve got to pee,” I finally broke the silence.
“Me too.”
Soon, we were at a rest area. It looked like all the others.
“Hey, we’re back to where we began,” she said.
“Huh?” I responded in my dumb way.
“You and I met at a rest stop,” she said, putting quotes around “met”.
“Oh yeah. Let’s celebrate with a photo.”
I pulled out my trusty point and shoot that my sister gave me years ago. Not many people still used them. Most had fancy phones with awesome cameras on them. Me, personally? I’d rather have an old disposable camera with film in it. But, it was such a hassle to get it developed nowadays that I don’t even bother any more. Just another example of fossilization.
We used the bathrooms and got back on the road.
“I’m hungry now,” she said.
“Let’s find some hole in the wall joint. There’s got to be something around here.”
“Works for me Mr. Randy.”
“Why you saying it like that? Mr. Randy?”
“Because it annoys you.”
“Just like not knowing your name.”
“Back to that one, huh? Well, OK. Here it is … Tara.”
“Really? Tara? That’s probably my all-time favorite name for a woman.” I almost said girl, but caught myself.
“Why? Don’t tell me ‘Gone With the Wind.”
“Nah, much simpler and much more telling about me,” I said. “I had a huge crush on this girl in college. First girl I ever tried to ask out on a date. We actually had one. Watched “9 ½ Weeks” on a borrowed VCR. That was a couple weeks after I met her at a party in my dorm suite and we battled over following “a dream” vs. following the “corporate dollar.” At that point, she was a bit of a hippie chick. I was a long-haired guy who for some reason wanted to major in accounting. I almost kissed her that first night, and that first date – which ended up being the last date – I never had the guts even though Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger were making a porn in front of us.
“What ever happened to her?”
“She ended up fucking my roommate, who was the absolute biggest piece of trash on the earth. Just a manwhore.”
“Bitter much?”
“And now she’s a corporate shill. Funny how things work out.”
“Yep, bitter.”
“What can I say? If it weren’t for the freaking internet, I’d not know about the funny ending.”
“Instead, you’d just make something up. Like we all used to.”
“Yeah, the memory and the mystery – to me – were always better than finding out the truth. Because it’s usually so dull, so drab and so sad.”
“Amen to that,” she said.
We passed over the Kentucky state line at that precise moment.
“I’ve never been to Kentucky,” she said. “Maybe this is the start of something beautiful?”
“At the least, it’ll be an adventure,” I replied. “Let’s see what this town has to offer.”
In the distance, a sign read “Welcome to Ryland Heights, Kentucky. Population 799.”
Little did I know that soon I’d be No. 800.
“You hungry?” I asked the girl I still didn’t know a name.
“Not really. Let’s just get out of here.”
“You hiding from someone?” I asked, kind of worried.
“Just the past, guy. Just the past.”
“Fair enough,” I said, starting the car. She purred like a kitten. So glad I paid for the restoration of this car, my dream car – a 1991 Toyota Celica. With a moon roof, of course.
Before pulling out of the parking lot, I touched her hand to get her attention. She looked over at me with wearisome eyes.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I just have a question.”
“Shoot, guy.”
“What’s your name? I need to know at least that if we’re going to be hanging out. Getting kind of tired of this guy, girl thing.”
“Well, I don’t know yours either,” she responded.
I tried to think back into the night. Did I really never tell her my name? Was she just fucking with me? Am I really putting this much thought into it?
“Randy,” I finally decided to tell her.
“And you do know my name,” she said. “Or at least it was said once in front of you. I thought you were a reporter? Aren’t you supposed to be good at that kind of thing? Picking up on facts and names and such?”
“Let me think on it,” I replied, adding “or you could just tell me.”
“Think hard, Mr. Randy. Think hard.”
With that, I turned on the radio. Foghat was on the radio. We both started bobbing our heads. It seemed to be a nice distraction for both of us. Me – from thoughts of a girl gone wrong. Her – no idea.
“Which way should we go?” I asked at the edge of the parking lot.
“West! She yelled. It’s always best.”
“I knew I liked you for some reason.”
“It wasn’t the tits?” she smirked.
I looked her up and down in a false gross way. “Tits help,” I finally said. I didn’t know if she got the joke or not. But we kept bobbing along to “Slow Ride” so I guess all was well in the world.
Funny thing, we didn’t talk again for three hours.
“I’ve got to pee,” I finally broke the silence.
“Me too.”
Soon, we were at a rest area. It looked like all the others.
“Hey, we’re back to where we began,” she said.
“Huh?” I responded in my dumb way.
“You and I met at a rest stop,” she said, putting quotes around “met”.
“Oh yeah. Let’s celebrate with a photo.”
I pulled out my trusty point and shoot that my sister gave me years ago. Not many people still used them. Most had fancy phones with awesome cameras on them. Me, personally? I’d rather have an old disposable camera with film in it. But, it was such a hassle to get it developed nowadays that I don’t even bother any more. Just another example of fossilization.
We used the bathrooms and got back on the road.
“I’m hungry now,” she said.
“Let’s find some hole in the wall joint. There’s got to be something around here.”
“Works for me Mr. Randy.”
“Why you saying it like that? Mr. Randy?”
“Because it annoys you.”
“Just like not knowing your name.”
“Back to that one, huh? Well, OK. Here it is … Tara.”
“Really? Tara? That’s probably my all-time favorite name for a woman.” I almost said girl, but caught myself.
“Why? Don’t tell me ‘Gone With the Wind.”
“Nah, much simpler and much more telling about me,” I said. “I had a huge crush on this girl in college. First girl I ever tried to ask out on a date. We actually had one. Watched “9 ½ Weeks” on a borrowed VCR. That was a couple weeks after I met her at a party in my dorm suite and we battled over following “a dream” vs. following the “corporate dollar.” At that point, she was a bit of a hippie chick. I was a long-haired guy who for some reason wanted to major in accounting. I almost kissed her that first night, and that first date – which ended up being the last date – I never had the guts even though Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger were making a porn in front of us.
“What ever happened to her?”
“She ended up fucking my roommate, who was the absolute biggest piece of trash on the earth. Just a manwhore.”
“Bitter much?”
“And now she’s a corporate shill. Funny how things work out.”
“Yep, bitter.”
“What can I say? If it weren’t for the freaking internet, I’d not know about the funny ending.”
“Instead, you’d just make something up. Like we all used to.”
“Yeah, the memory and the mystery – to me – were always better than finding out the truth. Because it’s usually so dull, so drab and so sad.”
“Amen to that,” she said.
We passed over the Kentucky state line at that precise moment.
“I’ve never been to Kentucky,” she said. “Maybe this is the start of something beautiful?”
“At the least, it’ll be an adventure,” I replied. “Let’s see what this town has to offer.”
In the distance, a sign read “Welcome to Ryland Heights, Kentucky. Population 799.”
Little did I know that soon I’d be No. 800.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Just keep riding
An unplayed Elvis Presley bootleg sat on my coffee table for three weeks.
There was a time when something so interesting, so weird, so different from what I usually found would have provoked the need to know what was on that tape right now – commonly referred to as instant gratification.
Not anymore.
The bootleg was in an old shoebox that I bought at an estate sale. That and an old “Kiss My Grits” t-shirt – Navy blue – just like the one I had as a kid made for a perfect day out and about.
Until the phone rang.
“Honey, we’ve got to talk,” the voice on the other end said.
“OK,” I said hesitantly. I’ve come to think of those words as nothing but bad when they come out over the phone or via text or email.
We met at our usual place – and she said exactly what I thought she was going to say.
“Blah, blah, blah. Need time to think. Blah, blah, blah. It’s not you, it’s me. Blah, blah, blah.”
I was so tired from a lifetime of disappointment, this time, I didn’t fight. I took it like a kid getting vaccinated, except I didn’t cry. After she was done, she looked into my eyes, which I’m sure were about as cold as a three day old corpses, and asked “You alright?”
Tipping the last of my beer down my throat, I looked into her eyes. They were worried, but not too worried. “Nah, I’m not alright, but one day I guess I will be,” I said before getting up and leaving. I got straight in my car and just started driving. The rent was paid for a year – a beautiful gift from my publisher – and I had a cool $3,000 in my wallet and another 100 grand in my bank account. I passed the old Big Boss Brewery and started to laugh. It was a defensive laugh, something I’d picked up over the years to hide the tears. To tuck them away until they overflowed and burst.
Eventually, the day turned into night. Two refills of the gas tank and almost needing a third and I found myself in Tennessee. I pulled into a rest area to take a piss. Mountain Dews and Slim Jims had kept me going this far, but now my body needed to expel.
At the door stood a skinny blonde woman – wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt. She seemed to be high, so I stopped at the big state map and watched her for a moment. She was humming a song by Richard Marx and sipping a Budweiser.
“Hey mister,” she said to no one, but obviously to me. “Why are you watching me?”
“You looked watchable,” I replied.
“Fair enough,” she said, going back to humming.
I went into the men’s room and took a piss. I stared at myself in the metal reflection box. These places no longer used mirrors, guess they got broken too often, so instead you had to look at a warped vision of you in steel. Of course, it wasn’t steel, but that’s what always pops into my head when talking about shiny metal.
I washed my hands and used the blow dryer to get rid of the dampness. It was one of those dryers that blow really hard and makes your hands look very strange as it pushes the skin around. I stood there for a moment watching it, even after my hands were dry.
Walking out of the bathroom, I was disappointed that the blonde wasn’t there anymore. Not that I was going to try and pick her up or anything, but because she was pretty and I wanted something to remove the dullness.
My car was waiting for me, so I pushed the door lock on my key and got in. She started up fine, like always. I pulled out and drove away.
A couple hours later, the sun was rising. I pulled into a motel and got a room.
“You know that check out is in two hours?” the guy behind the counter asked.
“Well, I guess you better make it two nights then bud,” I replied.
“How’d you know my name was Bud?” he asked almost mad, but only in a pot smoker’s way.
“Lucky guess, Bud.”
“I don’t believe you, shithead,” he said, reaching under the counter.
“Bud, stop it,” a familiar voice echoed from the office/sleeping place for the desk person.
It was the girl from the rest area. How we ended up in the same place, I’ll never know. I used to believe in fate, destiny and all that shit. But real life had kind of dragged that out of me. I hoped she would come out, just so I would have a vision of her – a fresh one – for when I got into my room. However, she didn’t come out.
“Damn it Tara, what do you know?”
“Can I have my key?” I asked.
“Sure dude,” he said after staring at me for a few seconds. “Enjoy the bed.”
For some reason, I figured he slipped me a bad room. It ended up being a great one. No light. No neighbors. And no dripping faucet. I fell asleep like a baby.
Twelve hours later, a knock came on my door.
“Huh,” I managed to say loudly enough for whoever it was to hear.
“Mister, can I come in?” the blonde’s voice said.
I was in my underwear and not looking all that spiffy. So I wrapped a sheet around me and opened the door. The sun hit me and I winced. She was still wearing that Led Zeppelin shirt.
“Come on in,” I said sleepily.
“I’m sorry, but Bud turned out to be a real dick,” she said. “He picked me up hitchhiking about 5 minutes after I saw you at that rest stop.”
“Really?” I replied.
“Yeah, I wish I’d just asked you for a ride.”
“But you would’ve ended up in the same place, it appears,” I said as I sat back down on my bed.
“Not even close,” she said as she sat down too. “Do you mind if I sleep with you?”
“As long as it’s just sleep, honey, we’re cool.”
She reached over and kissed my forehead.
“Oh course, darling,” she said before lying next to me.
I woke up six hours later, expecting her to be gone. Instead, she was sitting in a recliner watching re-runs of “Welcome Back Kotter” and drinking straight from a bottle of Maker’s Mark.
“Did I wake you,” she asked. I noticed she no longer had the Led Zeppelin shirt on. Now it was a Thin Lizzy one.
“Nope, you sure didn’t,” I replied. “You got a plan?”
“Do you?” she shot back.
“Just to keep driving.”
“Well, then. Just to keep riding.”
There was a time when something so interesting, so weird, so different from what I usually found would have provoked the need to know what was on that tape right now – commonly referred to as instant gratification.
Not anymore.
The bootleg was in an old shoebox that I bought at an estate sale. That and an old “Kiss My Grits” t-shirt – Navy blue – just like the one I had as a kid made for a perfect day out and about.
Until the phone rang.
“Honey, we’ve got to talk,” the voice on the other end said.
“OK,” I said hesitantly. I’ve come to think of those words as nothing but bad when they come out over the phone or via text or email.
We met at our usual place – and she said exactly what I thought she was going to say.
“Blah, blah, blah. Need time to think. Blah, blah, blah. It’s not you, it’s me. Blah, blah, blah.”
I was so tired from a lifetime of disappointment, this time, I didn’t fight. I took it like a kid getting vaccinated, except I didn’t cry. After she was done, she looked into my eyes, which I’m sure were about as cold as a three day old corpses, and asked “You alright?”
Tipping the last of my beer down my throat, I looked into her eyes. They were worried, but not too worried. “Nah, I’m not alright, but one day I guess I will be,” I said before getting up and leaving. I got straight in my car and just started driving. The rent was paid for a year – a beautiful gift from my publisher – and I had a cool $3,000 in my wallet and another 100 grand in my bank account. I passed the old Big Boss Brewery and started to laugh. It was a defensive laugh, something I’d picked up over the years to hide the tears. To tuck them away until they overflowed and burst.
Eventually, the day turned into night. Two refills of the gas tank and almost needing a third and I found myself in Tennessee. I pulled into a rest area to take a piss. Mountain Dews and Slim Jims had kept me going this far, but now my body needed to expel.
At the door stood a skinny blonde woman – wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt. She seemed to be high, so I stopped at the big state map and watched her for a moment. She was humming a song by Richard Marx and sipping a Budweiser.
“Hey mister,” she said to no one, but obviously to me. “Why are you watching me?”
“You looked watchable,” I replied.
“Fair enough,” she said, going back to humming.
I went into the men’s room and took a piss. I stared at myself in the metal reflection box. These places no longer used mirrors, guess they got broken too often, so instead you had to look at a warped vision of you in steel. Of course, it wasn’t steel, but that’s what always pops into my head when talking about shiny metal.
I washed my hands and used the blow dryer to get rid of the dampness. It was one of those dryers that blow really hard and makes your hands look very strange as it pushes the skin around. I stood there for a moment watching it, even after my hands were dry.
Walking out of the bathroom, I was disappointed that the blonde wasn’t there anymore. Not that I was going to try and pick her up or anything, but because she was pretty and I wanted something to remove the dullness.
My car was waiting for me, so I pushed the door lock on my key and got in. She started up fine, like always. I pulled out and drove away.
A couple hours later, the sun was rising. I pulled into a motel and got a room.
“You know that check out is in two hours?” the guy behind the counter asked.
“Well, I guess you better make it two nights then bud,” I replied.
“How’d you know my name was Bud?” he asked almost mad, but only in a pot smoker’s way.
“Lucky guess, Bud.”
“I don’t believe you, shithead,” he said, reaching under the counter.
“Bud, stop it,” a familiar voice echoed from the office/sleeping place for the desk person.
It was the girl from the rest area. How we ended up in the same place, I’ll never know. I used to believe in fate, destiny and all that shit. But real life had kind of dragged that out of me. I hoped she would come out, just so I would have a vision of her – a fresh one – for when I got into my room. However, she didn’t come out.
“Damn it Tara, what do you know?”
“Can I have my key?” I asked.
“Sure dude,” he said after staring at me for a few seconds. “Enjoy the bed.”
For some reason, I figured he slipped me a bad room. It ended up being a great one. No light. No neighbors. And no dripping faucet. I fell asleep like a baby.
Twelve hours later, a knock came on my door.
“Huh,” I managed to say loudly enough for whoever it was to hear.
“Mister, can I come in?” the blonde’s voice said.
I was in my underwear and not looking all that spiffy. So I wrapped a sheet around me and opened the door. The sun hit me and I winced. She was still wearing that Led Zeppelin shirt.
“Come on in,” I said sleepily.
“I’m sorry, but Bud turned out to be a real dick,” she said. “He picked me up hitchhiking about 5 minutes after I saw you at that rest stop.”
“Really?” I replied.
“Yeah, I wish I’d just asked you for a ride.”
“But you would’ve ended up in the same place, it appears,” I said as I sat back down on my bed.
“Not even close,” she said as she sat down too. “Do you mind if I sleep with you?”
“As long as it’s just sleep, honey, we’re cool.”
She reached over and kissed my forehead.
“Oh course, darling,” she said before lying next to me.
I woke up six hours later, expecting her to be gone. Instead, she was sitting in a recliner watching re-runs of “Welcome Back Kotter” and drinking straight from a bottle of Maker’s Mark.
“Did I wake you,” she asked. I noticed she no longer had the Led Zeppelin shirt on. Now it was a Thin Lizzy one.
“Nope, you sure didn’t,” I replied. “You got a plan?”
“Do you?” she shot back.
“Just to keep driving.”
“Well, then. Just to keep riding.”
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Archie's
Years of sitting on a barstool, from Virginia to Arizona to Louisiana to North Carolina to Florida and back to many of those places again hasn’t eased the loneliness one bit.
Friends always tell you that time heals all wounds. I have a tough time with that. Yes, it dulls the ache of the pain. But heal it? Fuck no. It’s why someone holds on to a picture of the past. To remember the good, but also to feel the pain.
Why? Because feeling is better than not feeling.
A cutter will slice up their legs or arms or torso just to feel something. Maybe it’s to feel something different than loneliness or sadness or rejection.
But then you start to wonder if you’re a borderline personality disorder candidate…
I walked into a new bar today, hoping that something new would kindle something good. The place was called Archie’s. Seemed to be a decent joint. Folks were still smoking inside and out. The beer selection was horrible, but cheap. The jukebox was a cd player behind the bar, which the barkeep – not named Archie by the way – would let you put your own discs in. “Unless it’s fucking Slipknot. I will slit your throat if you try to play Slipknot in my God damn bar!” he told any customer who wanted to insert a cd, including me the first time I tried.
As that may tell, this bar became a favorite spot for me.
Not because it was great, because it was far from great – with great being Quentin Tarantino’s bar in the movie “Death Proof” or what I imagine the Whitewater Tavern in Little Rock, Arkansas to be like – but instead because it didn’t have a history with me.
It was in Ryland Heights, Kentucky. Not too far from Cincinnati or Lexington. And if one was in an adventurous mood in the winter – Indianapolis.
This was a town I’d never been to. Never heard of. And that was perfection.
At 41 years old and single, I figured I wouldn’t have too many suitors to fend off. Probably as many as publishers begging for me to write the next great work of American prose.
So that July afternoon when I walked in to Archie’s it never dawned on me that I’d end up spending most of my days and nights there for the next six months. Of course, it never dawned on me that I wouldn’t. A new way of looking at life, I’d tried to take up after quitting my copy editing job in North Carolina on a whim one early summer night.
The cast of regulars in Archie’s was all right with me.
There was Mona. A 47 year old mother of six whose husband was a state trooper. She was blonde and had fake tits. Liked to drink Mimosas on a good day and Vodka on the rocks on a bad one. Lately, the goods had outnumbered the bad.
There was Steven. A 25 year old former minor league baseball catcher. He was in a bus crash that claimed the lives of all the other 24 players on his Double-A team, all the coaches, trainers and media folks as well. He played one more season – hitting .111 in 135 games at Triple-A before quitting. He was still dogged by old coaches and scouts who wanted his former second-round talent back in the game.
Then there was Manning. I never figured out whether it was his first or last name, and never really cared. I asked once, and was told it was because he looked like Archie Manning the quarterback. This guy was about 40, drank only Miller Lite from a can, poured into a pint glass, and ate Kit Kat bars. He loved The Who, hated Hank Williams Jr., and wanted to one day go to a Utah Jazz basketball game.
Finally, Cora and her dog Rexington. Cora was a 29 year old former stripper who had half of her body tattooed and the other half blank. On purpose. And Rexington was her chocolate Labrador retriever who liked to fetch beer cans that we all tried to throw through an old Nerf basketball hoop located above a cut out of Rush Limbaugh’s mouth. Rex loved to lick the beer off of old Rush’s face every time as well.
I didn’t know these folks outside of Archie’s. Even though I ended up renting a double-wide just a little over two miles away, near the Waffle House and Circle K. I figured as long as the royalty checks kept coming from my one successful short story anthology, I’d keep shopping and eating and drinking at these three places.
And none of these new friends knew a thing about her.
Friends always tell you that time heals all wounds. I have a tough time with that. Yes, it dulls the ache of the pain. But heal it? Fuck no. It’s why someone holds on to a picture of the past. To remember the good, but also to feel the pain.
Why? Because feeling is better than not feeling.
A cutter will slice up their legs or arms or torso just to feel something. Maybe it’s to feel something different than loneliness or sadness or rejection.
But then you start to wonder if you’re a borderline personality disorder candidate…
I walked into a new bar today, hoping that something new would kindle something good. The place was called Archie’s. Seemed to be a decent joint. Folks were still smoking inside and out. The beer selection was horrible, but cheap. The jukebox was a cd player behind the bar, which the barkeep – not named Archie by the way – would let you put your own discs in. “Unless it’s fucking Slipknot. I will slit your throat if you try to play Slipknot in my God damn bar!” he told any customer who wanted to insert a cd, including me the first time I tried.
As that may tell, this bar became a favorite spot for me.
Not because it was great, because it was far from great – with great being Quentin Tarantino’s bar in the movie “Death Proof” or what I imagine the Whitewater Tavern in Little Rock, Arkansas to be like – but instead because it didn’t have a history with me.
It was in Ryland Heights, Kentucky. Not too far from Cincinnati or Lexington. And if one was in an adventurous mood in the winter – Indianapolis.
This was a town I’d never been to. Never heard of. And that was perfection.
At 41 years old and single, I figured I wouldn’t have too many suitors to fend off. Probably as many as publishers begging for me to write the next great work of American prose.
So that July afternoon when I walked in to Archie’s it never dawned on me that I’d end up spending most of my days and nights there for the next six months. Of course, it never dawned on me that I wouldn’t. A new way of looking at life, I’d tried to take up after quitting my copy editing job in North Carolina on a whim one early summer night.
The cast of regulars in Archie’s was all right with me.
There was Mona. A 47 year old mother of six whose husband was a state trooper. She was blonde and had fake tits. Liked to drink Mimosas on a good day and Vodka on the rocks on a bad one. Lately, the goods had outnumbered the bad.
There was Steven. A 25 year old former minor league baseball catcher. He was in a bus crash that claimed the lives of all the other 24 players on his Double-A team, all the coaches, trainers and media folks as well. He played one more season – hitting .111 in 135 games at Triple-A before quitting. He was still dogged by old coaches and scouts who wanted his former second-round talent back in the game.
Then there was Manning. I never figured out whether it was his first or last name, and never really cared. I asked once, and was told it was because he looked like Archie Manning the quarterback. This guy was about 40, drank only Miller Lite from a can, poured into a pint glass, and ate Kit Kat bars. He loved The Who, hated Hank Williams Jr., and wanted to one day go to a Utah Jazz basketball game.
Finally, Cora and her dog Rexington. Cora was a 29 year old former stripper who had half of her body tattooed and the other half blank. On purpose. And Rexington was her chocolate Labrador retriever who liked to fetch beer cans that we all tried to throw through an old Nerf basketball hoop located above a cut out of Rush Limbaugh’s mouth. Rex loved to lick the beer off of old Rush’s face every time as well.
I didn’t know these folks outside of Archie’s. Even though I ended up renting a double-wide just a little over two miles away, near the Waffle House and Circle K. I figured as long as the royalty checks kept coming from my one successful short story anthology, I’d keep shopping and eating and drinking at these three places.
And none of these new friends knew a thing about her.
Monday, March 12, 2012
finish
Overcoming hatred. I never thought it was something I’d need to possess, that ability.
I never hate. I don’t always love, that’s for sure. But hatred is a wasted emotion. I don’t like dealing with it and the things it does to one.
Lately, I’ve felt hatred for some things. Completely innocent fucking things. But they’re making me feel shitty. Making me feel anger. Making me hate. And it has nothing to do with those that are causing these feelings.
My neck hurts. Sitting in this shitty excuse for a couch, I wonder why.
“One day, you’ll want that,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because it’s so cool to look at. To touch.”
“Oh,”
“Have you ever failed?” she asked.
“How can you ask that? Of course I’ve failed. Failed quite often, actually.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I fail every day. It seems every minute of every day.”
Veiled insults were tossed.
Many beers were drank.
Yet, no fucking.
Sell that shit on e-bay. Make a million bucks!
Shit in a commode that’s not hooked up.
Run in traffic.
Drive to a Burger King, just to honk your horn at it.
Take off your shirt in public. Take pictures of people’s reactions. Post them on the internet. Become famous.
Write a novel. But don’t let anyone read it.
Write a journal. Let everyone read it.
Kiss all the girls.
Kiss only one girl.
Start exercising. Drink Kool-Aid.
Lie to your boss. Take an extra day off every once in a while. Stop caring about your fucking job more than your life. Your sanity. Your girlfriend. Your health.
Let a fly live instead of killing it with a fly swatter.
Eat Brussel sprouts.
Watch a Michael Sera movie and not be bored.
Jump into a puddle when you’re wearing your best suit.
Wear a Scooby Doo tie to an interview.
Go look at houses you’ll never be able to afford.
Walk on the beach every morning.
Stop drinking soda. Start drinking lemonade.
Write down whatever comes to your mind. And never erase a word.
Say hello to a stranger. Say hello to a long lost friend.
Stop making excuses.
Go for a drive to somewhere you’ve never been, but wanted to go.
Go for a drive to somewhere you’ve been, and said you’d never go back.
Go for a drive somewhere other than your destination.
Write a letter.
Twiddle your thumbs when you’re bored.
Play tiddly winks with someone over the age of 70.
Throw a Frisbee for a dog to chase.
Pet a cat.
Squawk at birds in your yard.
Smell the grass after you cut it.
Find something to smile about every hour. Every half hour. Then every minute.
Eat more Pop Tarts and fewer tomatoes.
Aspire to be better than you were.
Laugh at monkeys.
Smile at babies.
Don’t be bitter about what happened, it wastes seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. Hopefully, never decades.
Make up with friends who are mad at you. Even if it means swallowing your pride.
Find an excuse for old friends to come visit. Or if they won’t, go visit them. Sometimes you have to camp out in their back yard.
Wish upon a star.
Look for 4-leaf clovers. Even if you never find one.
Try not to get mad driving.
Find less faults and more beauty.
Wasting time can be a good thing, so get out there and waste some having fun.
Go to a baseball game or 10 during the summer.
Get drunk with strangers.
Get drunk with friends.
Don’t get drunk alone.
Watch your favorite movie for the 100th time.
Keep going to Lucero shows.
Find an excuse to go back to New Orleans and see if she’ll fall in love with it under better circumstances. But don’t be mad if it never happens.
Move out of the house you’re in by the end of the summer.
Find a new job.
A better job.
One that doesn’t stress you out for no reason.
One that gives back. Even a little.
Ask “How you’re doing?” and mean it.
Cook outdoors.
Remember that I could be, and has been worse.
Spend wisely.
Ask for help.
Find a new way to get there, wherever there is.
Take her where she wants to go.
Give the dogs an extra treat.
Stop worrying about it so much.
Listen to the Rolling Stones.
Try to play Q*bert again.
Stare at the sun too long.
Wish you were on the moon.
Walk barefoot on the road after it rains.
Start.
Then finish.
I never hate. I don’t always love, that’s for sure. But hatred is a wasted emotion. I don’t like dealing with it and the things it does to one.
Lately, I’ve felt hatred for some things. Completely innocent fucking things. But they’re making me feel shitty. Making me feel anger. Making me hate. And it has nothing to do with those that are causing these feelings.
My neck hurts. Sitting in this shitty excuse for a couch, I wonder why.
“One day, you’ll want that,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because it’s so cool to look at. To touch.”
“Oh,”
“Have you ever failed?” she asked.
“How can you ask that? Of course I’ve failed. Failed quite often, actually.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I fail every day. It seems every minute of every day.”
Veiled insults were tossed.
Many beers were drank.
Yet, no fucking.
Sell that shit on e-bay. Make a million bucks!
Shit in a commode that’s not hooked up.
Run in traffic.
Drive to a Burger King, just to honk your horn at it.
Take off your shirt in public. Take pictures of people’s reactions. Post them on the internet. Become famous.
Write a novel. But don’t let anyone read it.
Write a journal. Let everyone read it.
Kiss all the girls.
Kiss only one girl.
Start exercising. Drink Kool-Aid.
Lie to your boss. Take an extra day off every once in a while. Stop caring about your fucking job more than your life. Your sanity. Your girlfriend. Your health.
Let a fly live instead of killing it with a fly swatter.
Eat Brussel sprouts.
Watch a Michael Sera movie and not be bored.
Jump into a puddle when you’re wearing your best suit.
Wear a Scooby Doo tie to an interview.
Go look at houses you’ll never be able to afford.
Walk on the beach every morning.
Stop drinking soda. Start drinking lemonade.
Write down whatever comes to your mind. And never erase a word.
Say hello to a stranger. Say hello to a long lost friend.
Stop making excuses.
Go for a drive to somewhere you’ve never been, but wanted to go.
Go for a drive to somewhere you’ve been, and said you’d never go back.
Go for a drive somewhere other than your destination.
Write a letter.
Twiddle your thumbs when you’re bored.
Play tiddly winks with someone over the age of 70.
Throw a Frisbee for a dog to chase.
Pet a cat.
Squawk at birds in your yard.
Smell the grass after you cut it.
Find something to smile about every hour. Every half hour. Then every minute.
Eat more Pop Tarts and fewer tomatoes.
Aspire to be better than you were.
Laugh at monkeys.
Smile at babies.
Don’t be bitter about what happened, it wastes seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. Hopefully, never decades.
Make up with friends who are mad at you. Even if it means swallowing your pride.
Find an excuse for old friends to come visit. Or if they won’t, go visit them. Sometimes you have to camp out in their back yard.
Wish upon a star.
Look for 4-leaf clovers. Even if you never find one.
Try not to get mad driving.
Find less faults and more beauty.
Wasting time can be a good thing, so get out there and waste some having fun.
Go to a baseball game or 10 during the summer.
Get drunk with strangers.
Get drunk with friends.
Don’t get drunk alone.
Watch your favorite movie for the 100th time.
Keep going to Lucero shows.
Find an excuse to go back to New Orleans and see if she’ll fall in love with it under better circumstances. But don’t be mad if it never happens.
Move out of the house you’re in by the end of the summer.
Find a new job.
A better job.
One that doesn’t stress you out for no reason.
One that gives back. Even a little.
Ask “How you’re doing?” and mean it.
Cook outdoors.
Remember that I could be, and has been worse.
Spend wisely.
Ask for help.
Find a new way to get there, wherever there is.
Take her where she wants to go.
Give the dogs an extra treat.
Stop worrying about it so much.
Listen to the Rolling Stones.
Try to play Q*bert again.
Stare at the sun too long.
Wish you were on the moon.
Walk barefoot on the road after it rains.
Start.
Then finish.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
failure...
The thought of waking up alone every day scares the crap out of me. Lying in a bed for two with only one there isn’t a beautiful future, something to dream about. Instead, it’s something to fear.
Yet, fear is easier.
And fear ends up in loneliness.
Or something like that.
I thought of all that while standing at a urinal in a Bojangles in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. I didn’t eat anything while there, just took a pee. Eventually, it became a crap. So, I switched to the stall for that.
She wasn’t waiting outside for me when I was done. I’d figured taking a No. 1 and a No. 2, in separate bathrooms even, would lead to her being done before me. Nope.
Yet, fear is easier.
And fear ends up in loneliness.
Or something like that.
I thought of all that while standing at a urinal in a Bojangles in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. I didn’t eat anything while there, just took a pee. Eventually, it became a crap. So, I switched to the stall for that.
She wasn’t waiting outside for me when I was done. I’d figured taking a No. 1 and a No. 2, in separate bathrooms even, would lead to her being done before me. Nope.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Tank's tab...
Mike Tyson walked into the bar.
We just kind of stared at him. It reminded me of the time when Tank Abbott walked into the casino that me and a buddy were at. We were sitting at the bar, and he walked up and ordered a drink. Some kind of vodka.
My buddy, who was a bit of a jackass, well before anyone thought of being paid to be a Jackass, leaned over to me and said “Hey, man. I’m going to get punched by Tank Abbott.”
Now remember, this was 1995 or 1996. This was when Tank Abbott was one of the baddest mother fuckers on the planet. Before he was exposed as an MMA one-trick pony.
“Are you fucking nuts?” I said matter-of-factly enough to try not to show that I was very interested in where this was going. “He’ll kill ya.”
We both took a swig of Budweiser and looked at Tank. He had two blondes with him. One had real tits, one fake. Neither were particularly attractive, but man, did they have tits. Maybe that’s what Tank Abbott was into? And who were we to judge. We were two skinny 20-somethings who hadn’t been laid in years.
“Nah, he’ll hurt the shit out of me for a little bit, but then I’ll have a great fucking story about when I got into a bar fight with Tank fucking Abbott,” my buddy said, taking another swig of beer and motioning to the barkeep.
“Two whiskeys!” he pronounced with a wink at me.
“On him!”
“Coming right up,” the barkeep said
I looked at my buddy with a bit of a stare.
“Shit, the least you can do is pay for the drinks. I’m about to get slaughtered here.”
“It’s your life,” I replied and finished my beer. I fucking detested Budweiser. But I was broke, and it was the cheapest thing this shitty casino far off the strip had.
The shots came, we clinked glasses and drank it up.
Then, my buddy walked over the Tank Abbott and tapped him on the shoulder.
“What?” he said turning around.
“You’re a fucking pussy!” my buddy said, just loud enough for everyone within 10 feet to hear.
“Really?” Abbott said. “You really want to do this?”
“Do what?” my buddy responded rather funnily.
“End your life in this shitty little casino?” Abbott said.
“Nah, I just thought I’d beat you up.”
Punch. Punch. Punch. Grab. Punch. Punch. Punch.
My buddy hit the floor. Hard. He wasn’t going to get up.
I, however, had to.
I rushed over and knelt down to my buddy’s side.
“You may want to move,” one of the blondes said. I saw out of the corner of my eye a big foot coming down on my buddy’s chest. I pushed him out of the way just in time. The food hit floor.
“What are you doing, son!” Abbott said, now directing his anger at me.
“Saving my buddy’s life,” I said.
“And ending your’s?”
“Nah, Tank, uh, Mr. Abbott. How about I buy you and your friends (I pointed at the two blondes) a round of drinks?”
“A round, huh?”
“OK, two,” I said.
“OK, kid. You got a deal. Hope your buddy appreciates what you’re doing.”
“He won’t. Until tomorrow.”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” he laughed maniacly.
I got my buddy up off the floor and put him in a booth. I went to the bar with Tank Abbott. He smiled and put his arm around me.
At the bar, he announced to the barkeep “This kid’s paying for the next two rounds!”
“You sure, kid?” the barkeep asked.
I had no other response except a meek “Yep.”
The barman, I’d learn later his name was Keith, pointed to the left of the stage where some really bad 1980s hair metal cover band had been playing about 15 minutes ago. There, a group of about 100 people were standing around.
“That’s my crew!” Abbott yelled and laughed his evil laugh again. “Drinks for all of ‘em. Times TWO!”
I thanked my lucky stars we were in a shithole off the strip instead of the Bellagio. At least I won’t be paying for Cristal.
“Two Budweisers,” I said to the barkeep. “Can I get those first?”
The barman looked at Tank Abbott. Abbott nodded his approval.
“Anything for my new best friend!” he laughed and walked away.
I got the Buds, and drank a full one before I even moved. I started on the second one as I walked over to my buddy. He was awake now, staring at the scene over by the stage.
“Man, that’s a crazy scene over there. You’d think they were getting free drinks.”
“They are, man.”
“Shit, then why don’t we join them?”
“I’m going to kill you dude.”
He then took my other Budweiser and drank it down.
The barkeep came over with the bill a few minutes later.
“It could’ve been worse, kid,” he said handing me a little receipt. It read $7,346.23.
“How so?” I asked.
“You could’ve been at the Bellagio.”
And here I am nearly 20 years later, I still haven’t paid that tab. And my buddy still has a great story to tell…
We just kind of stared at him. It reminded me of the time when Tank Abbott walked into the casino that me and a buddy were at. We were sitting at the bar, and he walked up and ordered a drink. Some kind of vodka.
My buddy, who was a bit of a jackass, well before anyone thought of being paid to be a Jackass, leaned over to me and said “Hey, man. I’m going to get punched by Tank Abbott.”
Now remember, this was 1995 or 1996. This was when Tank Abbott was one of the baddest mother fuckers on the planet. Before he was exposed as an MMA one-trick pony.
“Are you fucking nuts?” I said matter-of-factly enough to try not to show that I was very interested in where this was going. “He’ll kill ya.”
We both took a swig of Budweiser and looked at Tank. He had two blondes with him. One had real tits, one fake. Neither were particularly attractive, but man, did they have tits. Maybe that’s what Tank Abbott was into? And who were we to judge. We were two skinny 20-somethings who hadn’t been laid in years.
“Nah, he’ll hurt the shit out of me for a little bit, but then I’ll have a great fucking story about when I got into a bar fight with Tank fucking Abbott,” my buddy said, taking another swig of beer and motioning to the barkeep.
“Two whiskeys!” he pronounced with a wink at me.
“On him!”
“Coming right up,” the barkeep said
I looked at my buddy with a bit of a stare.
“Shit, the least you can do is pay for the drinks. I’m about to get slaughtered here.”
“It’s your life,” I replied and finished my beer. I fucking detested Budweiser. But I was broke, and it was the cheapest thing this shitty casino far off the strip had.
The shots came, we clinked glasses and drank it up.
Then, my buddy walked over the Tank Abbott and tapped him on the shoulder.
“What?” he said turning around.
“You’re a fucking pussy!” my buddy said, just loud enough for everyone within 10 feet to hear.
“Really?” Abbott said. “You really want to do this?”
“Do what?” my buddy responded rather funnily.
“End your life in this shitty little casino?” Abbott said.
“Nah, I just thought I’d beat you up.”
Punch. Punch. Punch. Grab. Punch. Punch. Punch.
My buddy hit the floor. Hard. He wasn’t going to get up.
I, however, had to.
I rushed over and knelt down to my buddy’s side.
“You may want to move,” one of the blondes said. I saw out of the corner of my eye a big foot coming down on my buddy’s chest. I pushed him out of the way just in time. The food hit floor.
“What are you doing, son!” Abbott said, now directing his anger at me.
“Saving my buddy’s life,” I said.
“And ending your’s?”
“Nah, Tank, uh, Mr. Abbott. How about I buy you and your friends (I pointed at the two blondes) a round of drinks?”
“A round, huh?”
“OK, two,” I said.
“OK, kid. You got a deal. Hope your buddy appreciates what you’re doing.”
“He won’t. Until tomorrow.”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” he laughed maniacly.
I got my buddy up off the floor and put him in a booth. I went to the bar with Tank Abbott. He smiled and put his arm around me.
At the bar, he announced to the barkeep “This kid’s paying for the next two rounds!”
“You sure, kid?” the barkeep asked.
I had no other response except a meek “Yep.”
The barman, I’d learn later his name was Keith, pointed to the left of the stage where some really bad 1980s hair metal cover band had been playing about 15 minutes ago. There, a group of about 100 people were standing around.
“That’s my crew!” Abbott yelled and laughed his evil laugh again. “Drinks for all of ‘em. Times TWO!”
I thanked my lucky stars we were in a shithole off the strip instead of the Bellagio. At least I won’t be paying for Cristal.
“Two Budweisers,” I said to the barkeep. “Can I get those first?”
The barman looked at Tank Abbott. Abbott nodded his approval.
“Anything for my new best friend!” he laughed and walked away.
I got the Buds, and drank a full one before I even moved. I started on the second one as I walked over to my buddy. He was awake now, staring at the scene over by the stage.
“Man, that’s a crazy scene over there. You’d think they were getting free drinks.”
“They are, man.”
“Shit, then why don’t we join them?”
“I’m going to kill you dude.”
He then took my other Budweiser and drank it down.
The barkeep came over with the bill a few minutes later.
“It could’ve been worse, kid,” he said handing me a little receipt. It read $7,346.23.
“How so?” I asked.
“You could’ve been at the Bellagio.”
And here I am nearly 20 years later, I still haven’t paid that tab. And my buddy still has a great story to tell…
Thursday, March 8, 2012
a little bit older ...
First impressions stick with me. And I’m sure the first impression most folks get from me sticks most of the time as well. How do I know this? Because there are very few people who I couldn’t stand initially that I can stand now, and there are even fewer folks that couldn’t stand me at first who do now.
I saw him standing against the brick wall entrance of the football practice field at South Carolina’s athletic facility. He was wearing a just a little too tight black shirt and jeans. His muscly arms protruded out of the shirt, I’m sure with the desired effect. In his hands was a bible. This was Kelvin Smith.
Many of my newspaper colleagues had warned me of this certain buffoon. That I’d certainly not enjoy being around him. Now, I don’t mind the person that tosses about bible verses and believes that God is going to come one day and judge us all. That’s their prerogative. I do, however, hate folks that preach it but don’t even come close to living it.
“Hey there,” he said to me as I walked up with the sports information intern. “I’m Kelvin.”
“Randy,” I said, putting out my hand to shake. It was not returned.
“What paper do you work for?” he asked.
“The Urinal,” I replied.
“Ha! That’s what we all call it,” Kelvin smirked. “Who are you here to talk with?”
Now, I’d heard he likes to mooch off of other’s story ideas, so I wasn’t about to give mine away. I actually had a little tidbit of information about a certain player’s off field habit of collecting moths that I didn’t really want to give away, seemed weird enough to make a good story. So I lied.
“Just the normal suspects,” I said. “Coach, running back, quarterback. Think I may just do a scouting report story. Maybe a notebook today.”
“Cool, cool,” Kelvin said. “I was going to talk to the quarterback too. He threw for almost 250 yards last week. Pretty impressive.”
“Yeah, in a 33-7 loss. How impressive is that?” I thought to myself. God damn jock-sniffer.
I had on a shirt from my old Arizona State University days because it was laundry night for me. Kelvin looked at it and asked “Did you know Pat Tillman? I’m good buddies with Lawrence Cooper here on the team!”
“Yeah, I covered ASU when Pat was there,” I replied. “Certainly wasn’t a buddy with him. But we respected each other. Had a couple of good conversations with him.”
“Me and L-Coop, that’s what I call him, had lunch yesterday at Logan’s. He let me pay for it.”
“I’m sure he did,” I sighed.
I looked at the intern and waved him over to the side.
“You going to be able to hold Johnson to the side until after he’s gone?” I asked.
“What? You don’t want Kelvin swooping in?”
We laughed before Kelvin walked over.
“What’s so funny?” he asked bemusedly.
“Oh, nothing.” I said.
“We were reading your column,” intern said coyly. “And talking about how coach really didn’t like it.”
He was setting him up. And I was enjoying it.
“Really? He didn’t like it? I was all very positive. Especially about Josh’s QB stats. I’m going to have to talk to him about it. Man, that sucks. I was trying to be positive and have them respect it.”
“Guess it didn’t work,” I said.
My story on the game was a blast to write. The coach went on a seven-minute tirade about how badly the team executed on second downs the entire game. Second down. Who the fuck ever notices such a thing? So, I wrote a 31-inch story on second downs. Had a nice graphic of their second downs as well. Seems they actually were more productive on that down than any other. Had been that way all season.
Coach called me the next day and thanked me for noticing he was joking. Unlike Kelvin. Who wrote about how poorly the second down offense was the entire game. Based simply on three quotes from the coach’s tirade and a QB’s quote on the coach’s quote.
Everyone had a good laugh on that one. Everyone, I guess but Kelvin.
But today, over a decade after that first encounter, I still get chills when he walks in the room. Or when I hear his voice on the other end of the phone. Somehow, all these years later, I ended up working with him. Strangeness all around.
That voice. Ugh.
That walk.
Those awful tight shirts.
And one police report that I got to read.
Seems he was investigated, never charged mind you, for “creepy behavior with minors.” As the police said.
Now, when I see him, all I hear is The Outfield’s lead singer Tony Lewis belting out the band’s greatest hit. More specifically, one line “You know I like my girl’s a little bit older.” Damn that guy creeps me out.
I saw him standing against the brick wall entrance of the football practice field at South Carolina’s athletic facility. He was wearing a just a little too tight black shirt and jeans. His muscly arms protruded out of the shirt, I’m sure with the desired effect. In his hands was a bible. This was Kelvin Smith.
Many of my newspaper colleagues had warned me of this certain buffoon. That I’d certainly not enjoy being around him. Now, I don’t mind the person that tosses about bible verses and believes that God is going to come one day and judge us all. That’s their prerogative. I do, however, hate folks that preach it but don’t even come close to living it.
“Hey there,” he said to me as I walked up with the sports information intern. “I’m Kelvin.”
“Randy,” I said, putting out my hand to shake. It was not returned.
“What paper do you work for?” he asked.
“The Urinal,” I replied.
“Ha! That’s what we all call it,” Kelvin smirked. “Who are you here to talk with?”
Now, I’d heard he likes to mooch off of other’s story ideas, so I wasn’t about to give mine away. I actually had a little tidbit of information about a certain player’s off field habit of collecting moths that I didn’t really want to give away, seemed weird enough to make a good story. So I lied.
“Just the normal suspects,” I said. “Coach, running back, quarterback. Think I may just do a scouting report story. Maybe a notebook today.”
“Cool, cool,” Kelvin said. “I was going to talk to the quarterback too. He threw for almost 250 yards last week. Pretty impressive.”
“Yeah, in a 33-7 loss. How impressive is that?” I thought to myself. God damn jock-sniffer.
I had on a shirt from my old Arizona State University days because it was laundry night for me. Kelvin looked at it and asked “Did you know Pat Tillman? I’m good buddies with Lawrence Cooper here on the team!”
“Yeah, I covered ASU when Pat was there,” I replied. “Certainly wasn’t a buddy with him. But we respected each other. Had a couple of good conversations with him.”
“Me and L-Coop, that’s what I call him, had lunch yesterday at Logan’s. He let me pay for it.”
“I’m sure he did,” I sighed.
I looked at the intern and waved him over to the side.
“You going to be able to hold Johnson to the side until after he’s gone?” I asked.
“What? You don’t want Kelvin swooping in?”
We laughed before Kelvin walked over.
“What’s so funny?” he asked bemusedly.
“Oh, nothing.” I said.
“We were reading your column,” intern said coyly. “And talking about how coach really didn’t like it.”
He was setting him up. And I was enjoying it.
“Really? He didn’t like it? I was all very positive. Especially about Josh’s QB stats. I’m going to have to talk to him about it. Man, that sucks. I was trying to be positive and have them respect it.”
“Guess it didn’t work,” I said.
My story on the game was a blast to write. The coach went on a seven-minute tirade about how badly the team executed on second downs the entire game. Second down. Who the fuck ever notices such a thing? So, I wrote a 31-inch story on second downs. Had a nice graphic of their second downs as well. Seems they actually were more productive on that down than any other. Had been that way all season.
Coach called me the next day and thanked me for noticing he was joking. Unlike Kelvin. Who wrote about how poorly the second down offense was the entire game. Based simply on three quotes from the coach’s tirade and a QB’s quote on the coach’s quote.
Everyone had a good laugh on that one. Everyone, I guess but Kelvin.
But today, over a decade after that first encounter, I still get chills when he walks in the room. Or when I hear his voice on the other end of the phone. Somehow, all these years later, I ended up working with him. Strangeness all around.
That voice. Ugh.
That walk.
Those awful tight shirts.
And one police report that I got to read.
Seems he was investigated, never charged mind you, for “creepy behavior with minors.” As the police said.
Now, when I see him, all I hear is The Outfield’s lead singer Tony Lewis belting out the band’s greatest hit. More specifically, one line “You know I like my girl’s a little bit older.” Damn that guy creeps me out.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
mr. vanbuilderass
I dialed her number six or seven times before I finally pressed send on my crappy flip cell phone. As it dialed the nerves picked up even more. I’d talked to this lady many times via the internet, but tonight I’d be talking on the phone. Too many times over the years I’d gotten numbers and never had the guts to call. So wimpy, yet so true to my story.
“Hello?” the voice on the other end finally said.
“Hey, is this Kendra?” I said meekly.
“Of course, you called my phone!” she said laughing.
“This is Randy.”
“Hey there. Whatcha doing?”
“Well, thought I’d give ya a jingle before coming up to the city to see you this weekend.”
I wanted to hit my forehead with my palm. I fucking said jingle. Who the hell says jingle. Well, maybe Santa Claus or Arnold.
“Jingle? What are you 75?”
“Yeah, I’m like George Burns in ‘Oh, God!’”
Silence.
“Guess you have no idea what I’m talking about?”
“You got it.”
“Well, onwards… I’ll be in town sometime around 2 in the afternoon. Taking the train from D.C.”
“Ok. I’ll be working then, so you’ll have to find something to occupy yourself for a few hours before we meet up.”
“Not a problem. There’s a bar I want to find, it’s got Joe Strummer on it. A mural painted after he died.”
“That’s cool. I mean, it shouldn’t be a problem finding a random bar in New York.”
She laughed at her own comment. I was feeling a bit at ease.
“See you in a couple days then.”
“You betcha. See you soon, sweetie.”
And she hung up.
“Well, the ending was promising at least,” my jumbled mind thought.
I dialed her number. We’d been out a few times. The first time was a disaster.
For me.
She ended up meeting the band we both loved so much. And got to swappin’ spit with one of them.
I, meanwhile, was so jealous I just did shots of whiskey. With my heroes. But was too dumbstruck by a girl doing that on a first, what I thought was a date, and being surrounded by these guys to say much.
I remember listening to some stories.
I remember one of the guys asking “Are you OK?”
I don’t remember answering.
Eventually, I forced a cab ride home from her. I had to be on the road at 8 a.m. It was 4 a.m. and I was shit-hammered.
Four hours later, I was running towards a train in Penn Station. It was like a movie. Except I was really chasing a fucking train that was moving. Trying not to miss it because then I’d never get back to D.C. with time enough to get back to Greenville, North Carolina in time for work that day.
Did I mention I was still drunk. Very drunk.
I leapt for the handle of the train. Grabbing it with both hands. Lucky for me, all I had for luggage was a Rose Bowl 1997 book bag that I got during college. One of the greatest games I ever covered in my career as a journalist. Thought it would be one of many great “events” that I would get to cover. In reality, it never got topped.
Now, she answered the phone.
“Hiya, Randy!”
“Hey, there Kendra. We on for New Orleans?”
“I can’t do it. I’m too broke.”
“So am I.”
“But you’re more dedicated than me.”
I could only think, “Yes, that is true. In many, many ways.” Lucero’s “Heart So True” started to echo in my mind. Or is that song called “Poor Heartache”? It’s an internal debate that shouldn’t happen, but does.
“You know, come out drinking with me. I know the last time we drank, I was a little less than behaved …”
“Stop it, dork.”
“Huh?”
“Lucero lyric pickup lines don’t work on me. … Well, not when you use them.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you don’t know…”
I could feel me blushing. I was hoping she was too.
“Well, I just can’t make the show. I want too soooooooo badly, but you know how it goes. The bank account says no while my heart says yes.”
“You should always follow your heart, not your bank account, baby.”
“Did you just call me baby?”
“No idea. But, seriously, do what you think you should.”
“That’s not what my heart always wants.”
“Well, that’s the rub, ain’t it?”
“Certainly is, sir. Are you still going?”
“Yep. $66 bucks in my checking account, and my car is packed and ready for 30 hours of driving, three hours of concert going, and maybe 6 hours of sleeping!”
“You are to be envied, sir.”
“By who?”
“More people than you think.”
I felt like Mr. Vanbuilderass for just one second. Looking into the distance while others talked about me. It felt good.
“Talk to ya later, chica.”
“You too sir. Be safe.”
Click.
“Hello?” the voice on the other end finally said.
“Hey, is this Kendra?” I said meekly.
“Of course, you called my phone!” she said laughing.
“This is Randy.”
“Hey there. Whatcha doing?”
“Well, thought I’d give ya a jingle before coming up to the city to see you this weekend.”
I wanted to hit my forehead with my palm. I fucking said jingle. Who the hell says jingle. Well, maybe Santa Claus or Arnold.
“Jingle? What are you 75?”
“Yeah, I’m like George Burns in ‘Oh, God!’”
Silence.
“Guess you have no idea what I’m talking about?”
“You got it.”
“Well, onwards… I’ll be in town sometime around 2 in the afternoon. Taking the train from D.C.”
“Ok. I’ll be working then, so you’ll have to find something to occupy yourself for a few hours before we meet up.”
“Not a problem. There’s a bar I want to find, it’s got Joe Strummer on it. A mural painted after he died.”
“That’s cool. I mean, it shouldn’t be a problem finding a random bar in New York.”
She laughed at her own comment. I was feeling a bit at ease.
“See you in a couple days then.”
“You betcha. See you soon, sweetie.”
And she hung up.
“Well, the ending was promising at least,” my jumbled mind thought.
I dialed her number. We’d been out a few times. The first time was a disaster.
For me.
She ended up meeting the band we both loved so much. And got to swappin’ spit with one of them.
I, meanwhile, was so jealous I just did shots of whiskey. With my heroes. But was too dumbstruck by a girl doing that on a first, what I thought was a date, and being surrounded by these guys to say much.
I remember listening to some stories.
I remember one of the guys asking “Are you OK?”
I don’t remember answering.
Eventually, I forced a cab ride home from her. I had to be on the road at 8 a.m. It was 4 a.m. and I was shit-hammered.
Four hours later, I was running towards a train in Penn Station. It was like a movie. Except I was really chasing a fucking train that was moving. Trying not to miss it because then I’d never get back to D.C. with time enough to get back to Greenville, North Carolina in time for work that day.
Did I mention I was still drunk. Very drunk.
I leapt for the handle of the train. Grabbing it with both hands. Lucky for me, all I had for luggage was a Rose Bowl 1997 book bag that I got during college. One of the greatest games I ever covered in my career as a journalist. Thought it would be one of many great “events” that I would get to cover. In reality, it never got topped.
Now, she answered the phone.
“Hiya, Randy!”
“Hey, there Kendra. We on for New Orleans?”
“I can’t do it. I’m too broke.”
“So am I.”
“But you’re more dedicated than me.”
I could only think, “Yes, that is true. In many, many ways.” Lucero’s “Heart So True” started to echo in my mind. Or is that song called “Poor Heartache”? It’s an internal debate that shouldn’t happen, but does.
“You know, come out drinking with me. I know the last time we drank, I was a little less than behaved …”
“Stop it, dork.”
“Huh?”
“Lucero lyric pickup lines don’t work on me. … Well, not when you use them.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you don’t know…”
I could feel me blushing. I was hoping she was too.
“Well, I just can’t make the show. I want too soooooooo badly, but you know how it goes. The bank account says no while my heart says yes.”
“You should always follow your heart, not your bank account, baby.”
“Did you just call me baby?”
“No idea. But, seriously, do what you think you should.”
“That’s not what my heart always wants.”
“Well, that’s the rub, ain’t it?”
“Certainly is, sir. Are you still going?”
“Yep. $66 bucks in my checking account, and my car is packed and ready for 30 hours of driving, three hours of concert going, and maybe 6 hours of sleeping!”
“You are to be envied, sir.”
“By who?”
“More people than you think.”
I felt like Mr. Vanbuilderass for just one second. Looking into the distance while others talked about me. It felt good.
“Talk to ya later, chica.”
“You too sir. Be safe.”
Click.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Oil Can Boyd vs. Johnny Thunders
I arrived at St. Peter and Burgundy in my cab. The old guy had a little bit of a Boston accent, so I asked him about the Sawks on the way to the hotel.
He went on and on about Oil Can Boyd. How much that Sawks missed that guy. And about how fucking old he really was. Neither of us could quite see how he was just 24 years old when he made his debut for Boston.
“That guy had ta be at least 30, probably 32,” my cabbie said.
“Yeah, he certainly was and old one. I kind of like that about baseball. You can just make up an age, and people believe it. Hell, if I could do it, I’d say I was 18 right now.”
I was 21. Just turned.
Lost my virginity just a few months before. Came to New Orleans for the first time a little while before that momentous event, to a girl named Katie. She was a redhead.
“Kid, you want to be 18 again?”
“Shit yeah, sir. I want to go back to college and start over.”
“You don’t need to be 18 to do that.”
He was right. I went back to college, again, when I was 23. Put in over 8 years of school. And didn’t become a doctor.
We arrived at the final destination of this trip – The St. Peter Guest House. It was a rundown looking old rooming house that had turned into a rundown looking motel. I picked this place for one simple reason – Johnny Thunders died there. A year ago exactly.
I was almost in town the night my guitar hero died. I came there for the NCAA Women’s Final Four. I had a crush on one of the players for the University of Virginia, and I went to see them play. Plus, it was an excuse to go to New Orleans, which was quickly becoming my favorite place on earth and I’d only been there a couple of times before.
I called the guest house months ago, asking for the Johnny Thunders room. They paused for a second, then asked one question “You ain’t some kind of reporter are ya?”
“No, not me,” I replied. I was at least a year or two from becoming one, so I could answer that way.
I got my bags from the cabbie and paid my fare, tipping him 20 bucks.
“Thanks kid,” he said. “Be careful in this joint. It ain’t exactly safe.”
“No problem, old timer,” I’ve been much worse.
I went inside and rang the bell for someone to come to the ramshackle desk serving as a check-in.
A skinny guy, probably about 40 came out of the back. He was obviously gay, and in need of a haircut and a bath. But, I was the one checking into a room where one of my heroes died, so who was I to judge?
“Can I help you, young man?” he asked with a slight southern drawl. If I had to guess, I’d say somewhere in the lower reaches of Georgia. Maybe the tip of South Carolina. I didn’t ask, however, so I’ll never know.
“Yes sir, I’m here to pay for my room,” I said. “The Thunders room.”
“Oh, you’re that guy,” he said derisively. “I hope this doesn’t become some kind of ghoulish trend.”
“Nah, I’m sure no one will figure it out.” And this was a couple of years before the internet started to boom. So, at least for a little while, it would be true.
I got my key, room No. 37.
“Thank you kindly,” I said.
“Enjoy the city, boy. Not just that room,” the clerk said as he dipped back into his back room.
The room faced the street, just a couple of French doors kept the world and the room apart, and outside it smelled of dog shit. I looked up and saw broken bottles marking the line of defense for an apartment home nearby. I wondered how many of those glass shards had poked a would-be robber and left a scar on them which said “Don’t fuck with me.”
I entered the room and looked at the plain white sheet and plain white comforter and plain white pillow. It seemed silly to have so much white in a place that I’m sure catered to a pretty dirty crowd.
I looked at the floor and imagined where JT spent his last moments. And whether or not he knew exactly why he was to die there, in a heap. I wondered who was with him in those last moments. And who came in after.
The case of his death was bungled, of course, by the city cops. To them, I’m sure it was just another junkie overdosing in the Quarter. And maybe it was. But we’ll never know.
I took off my shirt and washed my face in the sink. It was old and a bit rusted, but really cool to look at. The old wooden furniture wasn’t antique, but it wasn’t new either. Cigarette burns marked many of the pieces. The old 12-inch television didn’t have a remote. Long ago stolen or broken, I’m sure.
Outside, I could hear a guitar playing. It sounded like a poor imitation of J.T.’s famous guitar solo – a simple two-finger chord with plenty of string bending.
I put my shirt back on and opened the door. Took in the song. It ended and then I trapsed on over to Lafitte’s for a beer. Or 10.
I wouldn’t get back to the room until after 3 a.m. By now, it was the anniversary of J.T.’s death.
I slumped into bed and felt an eerie chill. It was 76 degrees outside in late April, but it was cold in here. I pulled up the comforter, not a wise decision in this place I have a feeling, and fell asleep.
He went on and on about Oil Can Boyd. How much that Sawks missed that guy. And about how fucking old he really was. Neither of us could quite see how he was just 24 years old when he made his debut for Boston.
“That guy had ta be at least 30, probably 32,” my cabbie said.
“Yeah, he certainly was and old one. I kind of like that about baseball. You can just make up an age, and people believe it. Hell, if I could do it, I’d say I was 18 right now.”
I was 21. Just turned.
Lost my virginity just a few months before. Came to New Orleans for the first time a little while before that momentous event, to a girl named Katie. She was a redhead.
“Kid, you want to be 18 again?”
“Shit yeah, sir. I want to go back to college and start over.”
“You don’t need to be 18 to do that.”
He was right. I went back to college, again, when I was 23. Put in over 8 years of school. And didn’t become a doctor.
We arrived at the final destination of this trip – The St. Peter Guest House. It was a rundown looking old rooming house that had turned into a rundown looking motel. I picked this place for one simple reason – Johnny Thunders died there. A year ago exactly.
I was almost in town the night my guitar hero died. I came there for the NCAA Women’s Final Four. I had a crush on one of the players for the University of Virginia, and I went to see them play. Plus, it was an excuse to go to New Orleans, which was quickly becoming my favorite place on earth and I’d only been there a couple of times before.
I called the guest house months ago, asking for the Johnny Thunders room. They paused for a second, then asked one question “You ain’t some kind of reporter are ya?”
“No, not me,” I replied. I was at least a year or two from becoming one, so I could answer that way.
I got my bags from the cabbie and paid my fare, tipping him 20 bucks.
“Thanks kid,” he said. “Be careful in this joint. It ain’t exactly safe.”
“No problem, old timer,” I’ve been much worse.
I went inside and rang the bell for someone to come to the ramshackle desk serving as a check-in.
A skinny guy, probably about 40 came out of the back. He was obviously gay, and in need of a haircut and a bath. But, I was the one checking into a room where one of my heroes died, so who was I to judge?
“Can I help you, young man?” he asked with a slight southern drawl. If I had to guess, I’d say somewhere in the lower reaches of Georgia. Maybe the tip of South Carolina. I didn’t ask, however, so I’ll never know.
“Yes sir, I’m here to pay for my room,” I said. “The Thunders room.”
“Oh, you’re that guy,” he said derisively. “I hope this doesn’t become some kind of ghoulish trend.”
“Nah, I’m sure no one will figure it out.” And this was a couple of years before the internet started to boom. So, at least for a little while, it would be true.
I got my key, room No. 37.
“Thank you kindly,” I said.
“Enjoy the city, boy. Not just that room,” the clerk said as he dipped back into his back room.
The room faced the street, just a couple of French doors kept the world and the room apart, and outside it smelled of dog shit. I looked up and saw broken bottles marking the line of defense for an apartment home nearby. I wondered how many of those glass shards had poked a would-be robber and left a scar on them which said “Don’t fuck with me.”
I entered the room and looked at the plain white sheet and plain white comforter and plain white pillow. It seemed silly to have so much white in a place that I’m sure catered to a pretty dirty crowd.
I looked at the floor and imagined where JT spent his last moments. And whether or not he knew exactly why he was to die there, in a heap. I wondered who was with him in those last moments. And who came in after.
The case of his death was bungled, of course, by the city cops. To them, I’m sure it was just another junkie overdosing in the Quarter. And maybe it was. But we’ll never know.
I took off my shirt and washed my face in the sink. It was old and a bit rusted, but really cool to look at. The old wooden furniture wasn’t antique, but it wasn’t new either. Cigarette burns marked many of the pieces. The old 12-inch television didn’t have a remote. Long ago stolen or broken, I’m sure.
Outside, I could hear a guitar playing. It sounded like a poor imitation of J.T.’s famous guitar solo – a simple two-finger chord with plenty of string bending.
I put my shirt back on and opened the door. Took in the song. It ended and then I trapsed on over to Lafitte’s for a beer. Or 10.
I wouldn’t get back to the room until after 3 a.m. By now, it was the anniversary of J.T.’s death.
I slumped into bed and felt an eerie chill. It was 76 degrees outside in late April, but it was cold in here. I pulled up the comforter, not a wise decision in this place I have a feeling, and fell asleep.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
pit bull
Being a creature of habit, trying to write in a different location can be tough. Doing it at work has proved to be most difficult place of all.
Today, it’s at my girlfriend’s house. I already blew my consecutive streak, which kind of pisses me off, so now I’m going to attempt to write twice.
We planted a tree today. Her mom gave it to us as a way of dealing with the loss of the kiddo. We would’ve passed the five-month point sometime in the last couple of weeks. It all kind of meshes together now. Just a bunched up jumble of days that don’t seem to have much of a point. I know it’ll get better. It always does. It just doesn’t feel like it right now. Going through a lot of shit can make you realize that. To get to that point, where you just kind of understand that the pain will lessen a little bit each day is not a place that I wish I was able to reach. There are plenty of folks who go through a lot more than I have. And there are plenty of folks who seem to live charmed lives and nothing seems to take a toll on them. I know that’s bullshit, because everyone deals with shit, some just hide it better than others.
Maybe there are fully evolved folks that never get to experience pain and suffering on an emotional level. And then there are serial killers.
Sometimes I wonder if the later isn’t such a bad path to traverse.
Shockingly, I just put my writing through some kind of test. It said this is written at a fifth grade level. Ah, so close.
Maybe I should use words like metamorphosis? Christ on a fucking pony. The rain in Spain is just as fucking annoying as it is here in Raleigh, NC.
I drove out of the driveway and turned left. Some days, I turn right, but today it was a left. At the end of the block, a black guy was mowing his lawn. He turned as I drove past and stared. I stared back. Not a lot of good-neighborly behavior goes on in this neighborhood.
A pit bull is roaming the streets. No leash, just his frothing mouth and who knows what on its mind. I drive by it and look at it. He still has his balls attached, so I doubt much thought has gone into keeping him from being a bit of a bastard dog.
The next block sees houses damaged by last summer’s tornados. In some neighborhoods, those were cleaned up quick. In this one, not so fast. One house had a tree on it until last month. It’s now half-way to recovery. Albeit with a bunch of plywood walls. I see the plywood getting wet in the rain, knowing all to well that it will absorb it, start to mold, but then have sheetrock put over it and forgotten about. Until some kid, or some adult, starts having headaches. Or weird color schemes flashing in his eyes late at night while trying to drive to New Orleans. Not that that has ever happened to me or anything.
How do you make your reading more intelligent? Is it possible? Do I just start using a Thesaurus? It seems to work for some writers. Or maybe they have better editors? Hell, I’m employed as an editor and fuck if I can edit.
The knee jabbed into his throat. He didn’t know how he got here. A second ago, he was watching a pit bull wander down the road. Now, he was in a ditch with someone’s knee on top of him.
“Give me the fucking keys, man! Give me the fucking keys!” he heard a voice yelling.
It wasn’t the guy on top of him. It was coming from somewhere off to the left.
The voice somehow awakened him, however. He pushed the guy off of his throat, catching the guy by surprise as just seconds before he had been out cold.
“What the fuck?” he said as he tumbled into a watery ditch nearby.
The driver staggered to his feet, grabbing a piece of his car to use as a weapon. Obviously, some kind of wreck had happened. But what exactly happened, wasn’t entirely clear, especially in the cloudy mind he had.
“Whoah, buddy, we’re just trying to help you,” the same voice from before said.
“So, why do you want my keys?” he asked.
“To shut the damn stereo off!” the voice replied.
that’s when the driver heard it. The voice of Bruce Dickinson yelling. Very loudly. Maybe the radio should be turned off. A quick click of a button on the keys did that.
“Thanks, bro,” the voice said. “Now, give me your fucking wallet.”
The driver looked to his left. The voice now had a face. It was ugly. But that ugly motherfucker had a gun. And a pit bull, now on a leash.
“Now!”
Today, it’s at my girlfriend’s house. I already blew my consecutive streak, which kind of pisses me off, so now I’m going to attempt to write twice.
We planted a tree today. Her mom gave it to us as a way of dealing with the loss of the kiddo. We would’ve passed the five-month point sometime in the last couple of weeks. It all kind of meshes together now. Just a bunched up jumble of days that don’t seem to have much of a point. I know it’ll get better. It always does. It just doesn’t feel like it right now. Going through a lot of shit can make you realize that. To get to that point, where you just kind of understand that the pain will lessen a little bit each day is not a place that I wish I was able to reach. There are plenty of folks who go through a lot more than I have. And there are plenty of folks who seem to live charmed lives and nothing seems to take a toll on them. I know that’s bullshit, because everyone deals with shit, some just hide it better than others.
Maybe there are fully evolved folks that never get to experience pain and suffering on an emotional level. And then there are serial killers.
Sometimes I wonder if the later isn’t such a bad path to traverse.
Shockingly, I just put my writing through some kind of test. It said this is written at a fifth grade level. Ah, so close.
Maybe I should use words like metamorphosis? Christ on a fucking pony. The rain in Spain is just as fucking annoying as it is here in Raleigh, NC.
I drove out of the driveway and turned left. Some days, I turn right, but today it was a left. At the end of the block, a black guy was mowing his lawn. He turned as I drove past and stared. I stared back. Not a lot of good-neighborly behavior goes on in this neighborhood.
A pit bull is roaming the streets. No leash, just his frothing mouth and who knows what on its mind. I drive by it and look at it. He still has his balls attached, so I doubt much thought has gone into keeping him from being a bit of a bastard dog.
The next block sees houses damaged by last summer’s tornados. In some neighborhoods, those were cleaned up quick. In this one, not so fast. One house had a tree on it until last month. It’s now half-way to recovery. Albeit with a bunch of plywood walls. I see the plywood getting wet in the rain, knowing all to well that it will absorb it, start to mold, but then have sheetrock put over it and forgotten about. Until some kid, or some adult, starts having headaches. Or weird color schemes flashing in his eyes late at night while trying to drive to New Orleans. Not that that has ever happened to me or anything.
How do you make your reading more intelligent? Is it possible? Do I just start using a Thesaurus? It seems to work for some writers. Or maybe they have better editors? Hell, I’m employed as an editor and fuck if I can edit.
The knee jabbed into his throat. He didn’t know how he got here. A second ago, he was watching a pit bull wander down the road. Now, he was in a ditch with someone’s knee on top of him.
“Give me the fucking keys, man! Give me the fucking keys!” he heard a voice yelling.
It wasn’t the guy on top of him. It was coming from somewhere off to the left.
The voice somehow awakened him, however. He pushed the guy off of his throat, catching the guy by surprise as just seconds before he had been out cold.
“What the fuck?” he said as he tumbled into a watery ditch nearby.
The driver staggered to his feet, grabbing a piece of his car to use as a weapon. Obviously, some kind of wreck had happened. But what exactly happened, wasn’t entirely clear, especially in the cloudy mind he had.
“Whoah, buddy, we’re just trying to help you,” the same voice from before said.
“So, why do you want my keys?” he asked.
“To shut the damn stereo off!” the voice replied.
that’s when the driver heard it. The voice of Bruce Dickinson yelling. Very loudly. Maybe the radio should be turned off. A quick click of a button on the keys did that.
“Thanks, bro,” the voice said. “Now, give me your fucking wallet.”
The driver looked to his left. The voice now had a face. It was ugly. But that ugly motherfucker had a gun. And a pit bull, now on a leash.
“Now!”
Saturday, March 3, 2012
two shits in a pint glass
I walked outside without thinking. The door closed behind me with a click. Locked out again.
The sky was gray and the rain was falling hard. My clothes were soaked five seconds later. I sat down in a lawn chair and cried.
Even though I have a double shift waiting for me at work, the thought of driving the hour to the office does not seem like a prudent idea at the moment. The boss is going to be pissed off about overtime. But since I’m pulling three “two-person” shifts this week, I don’t feel bad about it. Yet, I still feel the compulsion to not go in at my normal time today so I don’t get as many hours. It’s a perverse way of living, feeling bad about a place that could give two shits in a pint glass about you.
When did I first make the mistake of putting work above all else? In college the first time, I didn’t do it. I just had fun. In college the second time, I put work above class, and my GPA went from a 3.9 to God only knows what by the end with all the F’s and incompletes that became F’s. But I still have a lot of fun and enjoyed what I was doing.
Hell, the first job didn’t have that. The girlfriend was 2,500 miles away and I was a “professional” for the first time.
The internship, I chose the relationship. And ended up paying for it.
Ditto, next real job.
I guess it’s when she left and I stayed. The job won out over life. At first, for the right reasons. Keeping us afloat until … But until never came.
Now, it just is part of me. The job. I hate it sometimes. At other times I know how lucky I am to have such an easy way to make a “living.” I miss writing. I miss reporting. I miss the edge, the drama, the fights.
The people are all just as strange. From whiny assholes to people who don’t want to improve their craft because, honestly, I don’t believe they think it’s a craft. The drunks are everywhere. The broken downs. The dropouts.
Even though this is the first paper I’ve ever worked at that I haven’t developed any “drinking buddies” or at least “talking buddies” it’s been worth it. Hell, who can say they’ve put nearly 60K on a car in two years? NASCAR racers, cabbies, truck drivers and maybe hearse guys…
I look down at my soaked t-shirt. Another advantage of my position is the wardrobe. I can wear a Pitfall Harry shirt to work with plaid shorts and soccer socks. I’ll miss that whenever the inevitable career switch happens. I’ve been looking about. Applying here and there. Not getting a single nibble, but eventually it’ll happen. And I’ll be sad that day.
I already thought my career in journalism was dead three years ago. But I went back with my tail between my legs because I had to not be a bum anymore. Bills and such needed to be paid.
Now, I’m in love and life needs to move forward. I wish we stumbled on to some wealth or she had a trust fund for me and her to tap into. But, that shit ain’t gonna happen. Instead, we’ll toil on. Hopefully, in a better mood than I am right now soaked to the bone.
I’ve got to try and keep writing. As you can tell, I have nothing to say today. Nothing creative. Just words flowing out of my mind. I read that I should find my “writing time.” It seems to me that I write more in the mornings or late at night – preferably after a few adult beverages. Heartbreak and misery fuel the words more so than puppies and flowers and celebrations of life. Which is too bad.
At the end of the day, I can still be happy that I’m trying again. I gave up there for a little bit. Well, more than a little bit. I lost a couple of friends for reasons that still baffle me, and I gained 15 pounds. But these things won’t matter after I’m gone. These words probably won’t either. It would be nice, however, to see my name in print again. It’s going to happen. Why? Because I’m going to make it happen. Maybe I’ll go to Shiner, Texas and work for the Gazette there? I’m sure they need a surly, but talented, reporter to write about how great the Texas hill country is…
The sky was gray and the rain was falling hard. My clothes were soaked five seconds later. I sat down in a lawn chair and cried.
Even though I have a double shift waiting for me at work, the thought of driving the hour to the office does not seem like a prudent idea at the moment. The boss is going to be pissed off about overtime. But since I’m pulling three “two-person” shifts this week, I don’t feel bad about it. Yet, I still feel the compulsion to not go in at my normal time today so I don’t get as many hours. It’s a perverse way of living, feeling bad about a place that could give two shits in a pint glass about you.
When did I first make the mistake of putting work above all else? In college the first time, I didn’t do it. I just had fun. In college the second time, I put work above class, and my GPA went from a 3.9 to God only knows what by the end with all the F’s and incompletes that became F’s. But I still have a lot of fun and enjoyed what I was doing.
Hell, the first job didn’t have that. The girlfriend was 2,500 miles away and I was a “professional” for the first time.
The internship, I chose the relationship. And ended up paying for it.
Ditto, next real job.
I guess it’s when she left and I stayed. The job won out over life. At first, for the right reasons. Keeping us afloat until … But until never came.
Now, it just is part of me. The job. I hate it sometimes. At other times I know how lucky I am to have such an easy way to make a “living.” I miss writing. I miss reporting. I miss the edge, the drama, the fights.
The people are all just as strange. From whiny assholes to people who don’t want to improve their craft because, honestly, I don’t believe they think it’s a craft. The drunks are everywhere. The broken downs. The dropouts.
Even though this is the first paper I’ve ever worked at that I haven’t developed any “drinking buddies” or at least “talking buddies” it’s been worth it. Hell, who can say they’ve put nearly 60K on a car in two years? NASCAR racers, cabbies, truck drivers and maybe hearse guys…
I look down at my soaked t-shirt. Another advantage of my position is the wardrobe. I can wear a Pitfall Harry shirt to work with plaid shorts and soccer socks. I’ll miss that whenever the inevitable career switch happens. I’ve been looking about. Applying here and there. Not getting a single nibble, but eventually it’ll happen. And I’ll be sad that day.
I already thought my career in journalism was dead three years ago. But I went back with my tail between my legs because I had to not be a bum anymore. Bills and such needed to be paid.
Now, I’m in love and life needs to move forward. I wish we stumbled on to some wealth or she had a trust fund for me and her to tap into. But, that shit ain’t gonna happen. Instead, we’ll toil on. Hopefully, in a better mood than I am right now soaked to the bone.
I’ve got to try and keep writing. As you can tell, I have nothing to say today. Nothing creative. Just words flowing out of my mind. I read that I should find my “writing time.” It seems to me that I write more in the mornings or late at night – preferably after a few adult beverages. Heartbreak and misery fuel the words more so than puppies and flowers and celebrations of life. Which is too bad.
At the end of the day, I can still be happy that I’m trying again. I gave up there for a little bit. Well, more than a little bit. I lost a couple of friends for reasons that still baffle me, and I gained 15 pounds. But these things won’t matter after I’m gone. These words probably won’t either. It would be nice, however, to see my name in print again. It’s going to happen. Why? Because I’m going to make it happen. Maybe I’ll go to Shiner, Texas and work for the Gazette there? I’m sure they need a surly, but talented, reporter to write about how great the Texas hill country is…
Friday, March 2, 2012
I guess it’s cool I didn’t end up like Griffin Dunne?
It’s early morning – 11:24 a.m. – when I crack open my first beer. The bottle cap makes that sweet “chicaaaaa” song upon opening.
I tried to be good last night. Played the part to a tee, I believe. Yet we went home separately. It was supposed to be the night I proposed to her. A walk down by the levees. A couple of drinks. Maybe take in a show somewhere.
Instead, we fought. Long and hard. In public. For all the world to see.
Sometime during the night, we ended up over by the Superdome. How we got there I have no recollection. We were at Nick’s, drinking Miller Lites and listening to the jukebox. She was talking to the bartender. I generally just stared into space, thinking of how to remember details without pulling out a little notepad like my best friend, who happens to be a great writer that never took the chance. Me, I’m a mediocre writer who took the chance as a newspaperman, but never got up the confidence to try his hand at fiction.
She was laughing and talking and pretty much not saying a word that she meant. She had a talent for that. Covering up what really was going on inside, but always appearing to those unaware of being in complete control. That part of her intrigued me. But it scared me just as much.
Soon, I was chasing her through the streets of New Orleans. This was pre-Katrina and many of those streets were as dangerous as any you’d walk in in America. But there we were, me chasing her staying ahead of me – loudly proclaiming my lack of love for her. Or something. The details never stay with me unless I write them down. Something, obviously, I learned late in life. Eventually, we went back home. I don’t remember what calmed her down. Or me down. Neither of us dead. Neither of us happy.
Looking back, years later, that night always stands out. Not for what happened or what was said – honestly, I don’t remember any of that. Instead, for the grand view of the Superdome that I got for an instant. I’ve seen that building hundreds of times since – when a game was going on inside, on television during Katrina when it was at its worst, and now in its newly decorated state of endorsement for Mercedes. But that moment is the in my mind of that building. It almost reminds me of the Martin Scorsese movie “After Hours.” I guess it’s cool I didn’t end up like Griffin Dunne?
Why that moment popped into my head just now as I finished up my morning beer before heading to my dull job as a copy editor I do not know. I liked it though. It reminded me of a time. A much simpler time that while a tough time, was certainly more fun than what’s going on today.
Not that I want to go back. There were awful times to go with the “mythical” ones. Everyone’s memories are clouded with how great things were, when in reality that weren’t so great. You tend to hold on to those great moments, and forget the ones where you wanted to kill someone or kill yourself. At least my mind works that way. Really, it works as a bottle of liquid paper. It just covers everything up as best as it can. Sometimes, you can read through the whiteness and remember, but most of the time it’s just a muddied, blurry mess. Unless you took a picture.
I took a lot of pictures in the 2000s. Not so much the few years before and the years since. Except for 2011. I took some photos that year. Until I started dating again.
Much like writing, I have a hard time taking photos when I’m happy. I want to, but I get too distracted by living to do it. It took a tragedy to get me to start typing again, and every letter is a reminder of what happened. There has to be something that comes out of it, right? Something that changes me for the better, hopefully not the worse.
A second beer is not an option today. A friend, who seemingly is an ex-friend now, wants to be off work today. He publicly proclaimed that on his work account. Which is ironic, seeing he “un-friended” me due to a public “calling out” as his wife explains. I hate social networks and the god damn internet. It’s worse than going to a high school reunion every day of your life.
People come into your life for a reason, the old saying goes, but they get the fuck out of it for one too.
I tried to be good last night. Played the part to a tee, I believe. Yet we went home separately. It was supposed to be the night I proposed to her. A walk down by the levees. A couple of drinks. Maybe take in a show somewhere.
Instead, we fought. Long and hard. In public. For all the world to see.
Sometime during the night, we ended up over by the Superdome. How we got there I have no recollection. We were at Nick’s, drinking Miller Lites and listening to the jukebox. She was talking to the bartender. I generally just stared into space, thinking of how to remember details without pulling out a little notepad like my best friend, who happens to be a great writer that never took the chance. Me, I’m a mediocre writer who took the chance as a newspaperman, but never got up the confidence to try his hand at fiction.
She was laughing and talking and pretty much not saying a word that she meant. She had a talent for that. Covering up what really was going on inside, but always appearing to those unaware of being in complete control. That part of her intrigued me. But it scared me just as much.
Soon, I was chasing her through the streets of New Orleans. This was pre-Katrina and many of those streets were as dangerous as any you’d walk in in America. But there we were, me chasing her staying ahead of me – loudly proclaiming my lack of love for her. Or something. The details never stay with me unless I write them down. Something, obviously, I learned late in life. Eventually, we went back home. I don’t remember what calmed her down. Or me down. Neither of us dead. Neither of us happy.
Looking back, years later, that night always stands out. Not for what happened or what was said – honestly, I don’t remember any of that. Instead, for the grand view of the Superdome that I got for an instant. I’ve seen that building hundreds of times since – when a game was going on inside, on television during Katrina when it was at its worst, and now in its newly decorated state of endorsement for Mercedes. But that moment is the in my mind of that building. It almost reminds me of the Martin Scorsese movie “After Hours.” I guess it’s cool I didn’t end up like Griffin Dunne?
Why that moment popped into my head just now as I finished up my morning beer before heading to my dull job as a copy editor I do not know. I liked it though. It reminded me of a time. A much simpler time that while a tough time, was certainly more fun than what’s going on today.
Not that I want to go back. There were awful times to go with the “mythical” ones. Everyone’s memories are clouded with how great things were, when in reality that weren’t so great. You tend to hold on to those great moments, and forget the ones where you wanted to kill someone or kill yourself. At least my mind works that way. Really, it works as a bottle of liquid paper. It just covers everything up as best as it can. Sometimes, you can read through the whiteness and remember, but most of the time it’s just a muddied, blurry mess. Unless you took a picture.
I took a lot of pictures in the 2000s. Not so much the few years before and the years since. Except for 2011. I took some photos that year. Until I started dating again.
Much like writing, I have a hard time taking photos when I’m happy. I want to, but I get too distracted by living to do it. It took a tragedy to get me to start typing again, and every letter is a reminder of what happened. There has to be something that comes out of it, right? Something that changes me for the better, hopefully not the worse.
A second beer is not an option today. A friend, who seemingly is an ex-friend now, wants to be off work today. He publicly proclaimed that on his work account. Which is ironic, seeing he “un-friended” me due to a public “calling out” as his wife explains. I hate social networks and the god damn internet. It’s worse than going to a high school reunion every day of your life.
People come into your life for a reason, the old saying goes, but they get the fuck out of it for one too.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
the bag broke
I’m sitting at my dank, dirty, depressing, disturbing cubicle at work. White Flag’s “Glass Tambourine” is playing in my ears, drowning out the worthlessness I feel at still being employed here after almost two years.
My original plan was to go a year, and they blow the joint and head west and south. New Orleans of course. Maybe even take a friend with me. Life detoured those plans a little, but I like to think that I’m just being responsible, not scared. Or lazy. Or just unmotivated. Well, the last one is certainly a flaw I possess. I don’t think the other ones still fit me. They have at times, but now I’m no longer scared of things.
Right before the song ends, he walks in. You can’t miss his shuffling way of stomping. It makes me think that an elephant that had a stroke is wearing those modern tennis shoes that seem more like moccasins is coming towards me.
He’s huffing and puffing as usual as well. Both arms full of fast food purchases. It appears today it’s all McDonald’s fare. “I can hear you getting fatter,” is my only response inside my head.
Grimace, as I’ve taken to calling him, is angry today, however. He shuffles past me arms full of wrapped up chemical goodness and deadly as Sarin Gas foodstuff.
He tosses some of his holdings onto the desk. Placing two drinks down gingerly. He picks one up and takes a long swig from the straw. It’s obviously some kind of shake as he has to struggle to get some liquid goodness to enter his mouth. He slurps and then burps, wiping his chin and mouth with his sleeve on his three sizes too small Bob Mould 2008 concert tour shirt.
His eyes look down towards his desk. A lone cheeseburger sits on his keyboard. He picks it up, standing up in the process and slings it at his cubicle wall.
“Damn it!” he yells. “My fucking bag broke. I can’t believe my fucking bag broke!”
All of us look at each other in unison. One of us is going to laugh, I know it. Mitchell knows it. Joshua knows it. Hell, even troll knows it.
I look away and put my hoodie on. I’m the one who breaks. A cackle comes out of my mouth and it feels oh so good. Not as good as the first sip of a beer after doing some roofing work or the smell of a woman’s body for the first time, but damn it did feel good.
“I had to pick everything up and carry in here without a bag! That’s just so wrong!” he continued.
The troll waddled over to his desk. Looking down at him with her soul-less eyes.
“But at least they gave you two shakes,” she said to him.
“I know! I only paid for one too!” that seemed to perk up the giant beast.
He grabbed one of his cheesburgers and ate half of it in one bite.
“Damn it! I ordered no pickles!” he said right before spitting the half chewed remnants of that half a burger into his hands. He pulled out the pickle piece and threw the rest back in his mouth.
Once again, all of us looked at each other. Then the floor. This was getting old.
“Hey Mitchell, want to go grab a drink?” I said.
“Can’t bro. Have to finish this front. Then get to work on my project.”
“Same project you’ve been talking about for two years?” I asked rather pompously.
“Yep,” Mitchell replied. “Just like that book you’ve been writing.”
“Touche.”
“Touche, indeed,” the troll said.
Joshua let out a wicked witch-esque laugh and put his ear buds back on. Certainly listening to some Dane Cook, I guessed.
Meanwhile the boss kept tapping out the beats to whatever awful 1980s R & B song he was listening to on Youtube. It never ceased to amaze me how off beat someone could be. It reminded me of a kid learning how to dance for the first time with his grandmother or his father teaching him.
“One, two, three, ugh.”
“One, two, three… Crunch. Shit!”
“One, two, ugh.”
“One, two, three, four!!!!”
Meanwhile, I started to feel back for Grimace. Not because he was such a disgusting human being. But more the fact that he probably hadn’t had sex. Ever. Unless he paid for it. Of course, I used to feel sorry for myself. But I was 18 years old.
“Back to work,” I thought to myself.
“Chomp, chomp, chomp.”
“Tap, tap, tap, tap.”
“Buuuuuuuuuuuuurp!”
Another day in paradise. I put on the Descendants “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up” and wish I hadn’t.
My original plan was to go a year, and they blow the joint and head west and south. New Orleans of course. Maybe even take a friend with me. Life detoured those plans a little, but I like to think that I’m just being responsible, not scared. Or lazy. Or just unmotivated. Well, the last one is certainly a flaw I possess. I don’t think the other ones still fit me. They have at times, but now I’m no longer scared of things.
Right before the song ends, he walks in. You can’t miss his shuffling way of stomping. It makes me think that an elephant that had a stroke is wearing those modern tennis shoes that seem more like moccasins is coming towards me.
He’s huffing and puffing as usual as well. Both arms full of fast food purchases. It appears today it’s all McDonald’s fare. “I can hear you getting fatter,” is my only response inside my head.
Grimace, as I’ve taken to calling him, is angry today, however. He shuffles past me arms full of wrapped up chemical goodness and deadly as Sarin Gas foodstuff.
He tosses some of his holdings onto the desk. Placing two drinks down gingerly. He picks one up and takes a long swig from the straw. It’s obviously some kind of shake as he has to struggle to get some liquid goodness to enter his mouth. He slurps and then burps, wiping his chin and mouth with his sleeve on his three sizes too small Bob Mould 2008 concert tour shirt.
His eyes look down towards his desk. A lone cheeseburger sits on his keyboard. He picks it up, standing up in the process and slings it at his cubicle wall.
“Damn it!” he yells. “My fucking bag broke. I can’t believe my fucking bag broke!”
All of us look at each other in unison. One of us is going to laugh, I know it. Mitchell knows it. Joshua knows it. Hell, even troll knows it.
I look away and put my hoodie on. I’m the one who breaks. A cackle comes out of my mouth and it feels oh so good. Not as good as the first sip of a beer after doing some roofing work or the smell of a woman’s body for the first time, but damn it did feel good.
“I had to pick everything up and carry in here without a bag! That’s just so wrong!” he continued.
The troll waddled over to his desk. Looking down at him with her soul-less eyes.
“But at least they gave you two shakes,” she said to him.
“I know! I only paid for one too!” that seemed to perk up the giant beast.
He grabbed one of his cheesburgers and ate half of it in one bite.
“Damn it! I ordered no pickles!” he said right before spitting the half chewed remnants of that half a burger into his hands. He pulled out the pickle piece and threw the rest back in his mouth.
Once again, all of us looked at each other. Then the floor. This was getting old.
“Hey Mitchell, want to go grab a drink?” I said.
“Can’t bro. Have to finish this front. Then get to work on my project.”
“Same project you’ve been talking about for two years?” I asked rather pompously.
“Yep,” Mitchell replied. “Just like that book you’ve been writing.”
“Touche.”
“Touche, indeed,” the troll said.
Joshua let out a wicked witch-esque laugh and put his ear buds back on. Certainly listening to some Dane Cook, I guessed.
Meanwhile the boss kept tapping out the beats to whatever awful 1980s R & B song he was listening to on Youtube. It never ceased to amaze me how off beat someone could be. It reminded me of a kid learning how to dance for the first time with his grandmother or his father teaching him.
“One, two, three, ugh.”
“One, two, three… Crunch. Shit!”
“One, two, ugh.”
“One, two, three, four!!!!”
Meanwhile, I started to feel back for Grimace. Not because he was such a disgusting human being. But more the fact that he probably hadn’t had sex. Ever. Unless he paid for it. Of course, I used to feel sorry for myself. But I was 18 years old.
“Back to work,” I thought to myself.
“Chomp, chomp, chomp.”
“Tap, tap, tap, tap.”
“Buuuuuuuuuuuuurp!”
Another day in paradise. I put on the Descendants “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up” and wish I hadn’t.
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