A cure?

The allure of bachelor living faded some time ago.

But waking up to a dream about a perky young woman in a pink dress, who happened to get drunk due to heartbreak, being raped by four gutter punks and then beheaded, well, that’s not normal. Of course, turning into Detective Stabler from Law & Order and picking up the head and talking to it, soothing it, trying to distract it – much more normal.

If I could write down the details of the dream – in detail, ha! – I’d feel a little bit better. The scene of the crime being an old abandoned train station. One of the attackers had a Mohawk, a really bad one. And he used orange spray paint to leave his mark on everything – including the other attackers before leaving the scene. Even though the other attackers just slept there, on a meat cart looking aluminum carrier.

It didn’t rain that night, but everything was damp. The stars and moon weren’t out, as the city lights and tall building blocked out all signs of outer space. And her sweet, sweet voice. The kind you hear in movies from the best friend who always is the bridesmaid. And accepts that.

Anyway, I stare out the window of my bachelor pad – a place my married friends call paradise for some reason – and wish I could be anywhere else. The bills of a hard-lived life are beginning to catch up again. They always do when I get involved with someone. Why? Because I start spending money on someone who isn’t part of the budget. I wonder where I’ll come up with $280 a month for my student loan bill, which had been deferred for two years now. I break a little less than even every month as it stands, so adding almost 300 bucks on top of that will be crippling. Makes me wish for the days of a roommate who had a thing for 40-minute showers and locking himself in his room. At least he paid the rent on time – most of the time.

There is someone parked in the middle of the street in front of my house. A Ford truck. It takes up most of the lane, forcing those who want to drive past to cut into my yard. I’m not concerned about how this will affect my lawn, but I am pissed off about the inconvenience that it causes the world. Having trouble spelling the word inconvenience reminds me of the “Convenient Convenience Store” in Greenville, North Carolina. I would chuckle every time me and my girl drove by it. She didn’t see the humor in it. She felt it was kind of sad. That made me sad. It was funny. I always think that those are the things that should have told me we were not going to make it. Silly little signs. I’ve a pro at ignoring them. Hence, the aging bachelor pad at 41 years of age.

I wonder too, about friends who have disappeared. One of my best friends, I thought, got mad at me. And now he’s gone. Just a memory on the wall now. Like so many other friends that have just moved on and out. I’m sure one day I’ll look back and laugh at it, but not now. There’s too much pain. Not really from that loss, which sucks, but from the real loss that happened just two weeks prior. A pain too horrid to think about anymore. We planted a tree. That tree will make me sad for years.

Work has become a means to an unsatisfying end. I don’t make enough to enjoy anything. My two splurges are the internet and Netflix on the internet. When did I miss that left turn at Albuquerque?

Writing is supposed to be my escape. My sharp knife. Lately, it’s not been there. It’s not writer’s block. It’s the writer is lazy.

The cloudy blue sky is mesmerizing. I look out the window and just stare in disbelief at the beauty. The sounds of nature – birds chirping and singing, the ocean waves lapping at the shore – they get drowned out by cars and electric saws and people talking. Why do people ruin things?

The mind wanders back and forth. One day she’s nowhere to be found for 23 hours. Then she pops in there to say hello. I try not to remember, but that just makes you think about her. Little things will always remind me of her. I feel guilty that it still happens. I wish it didn’t. The songs don’t hurt anymore. They don’t even sting. Just a dull ache. Kind of like teeth rotting. You just have grin and bear it, without the grinning. If you ever see me, slap me across the back of the head. It’ll hopefully dislodge whatever’s got a grip on my heart. Even if it bleeds.

it was paul westerberg all along

The voice echoed in my mind. It petrified me.

“Did I just run somebody over?”

This paralyzed me. Who the fuck was I to think I could take someone’s life so easily and not go back and see. To help them. To comfort their last moments.

Who the fuck wants to be run over by a car and left on the side of the road?

I turned my car around, Paul Westerberg still singing.

My eyes glanced all around the road. It was dark, but I figured I knew about where it happened. Where I heard the voice on the right side, just kind of mumble and yell, then a bit of a bump.

Had to be a person I hit. Not just a piece of debris on the road. Or a dog or cat. Or maybe even an opossum.

Nothing. The road was empty. As was the ditch. I pulled over to the side. Got out of the car and listened. All I could hear was Westerberg wail. I reached into my car and turned the radio off. Then the ignition.

The silence pierced my ears like a pregnant seal giving birth. I winced a bit.

Still nothing.

“The guy or gal could be dead now. Not making any sounds,” I thought to myself.

I walked around to the front of my car. The lights were still on. I looked for damage. There was none. Not even a scratch.

Now I was started to worry about my sanity. It reminded me of the time I was driving down Interstate 12. Heading towards New Orleans. I watched the traffic coming at me, the lights coming closer and closer before flying past me at 75. Each time I imagined what it would be like to hop the median and go right at ‘em. Take on those lights and have them end the pain I was feeling. It would be quick, but I couldn’t guarantee painless. Plus, it might not even work. People survive car crashes all the time. Even head-ons at 75. That would be my luck. Damaged on the outside to go with the inside.

So I kept driving.

Now, years later, I’m standing on the side of a road in bumblefuck North Carolina wondering if I put some other fool out of his misery? No one gave me that courtesy, and I guess I’m happy about that. Except for a shitty job and a ton of debt, I like my life. Even though I dwell on a redheaded girl sometimes.

A pair of lights started to make their way towards me. Knowing this road, it was a cop. So, I got back in my car and started driving. Two seconds later, his lights came on.

“Fuck,” was all I could muster.

I pulled over and so did the cop car. Bright-ass lights shining in my rearview. I made me laugh for a moment.

He ambled to my car and tapped on my window. For some reason, I hadn’t rolled it down yet.

“What were you doing on the side of the road, sir?” the pimply looking cop asked me. I had to think about this one. I decided to go with the truth.

“I thought I hit something,” I said, almost saying someone. “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a dog or something like that.”

“Oh,” the cop replied. A couple of seconds later, he continued. “Can you get out of the car, sir?”

I got out. Slowly. Like all the people tell you too. No sudden movements or gestures. You don’t want to end up dead by cop on the side of some backcountry North Carolina highway. No telling what the story would end up being.

“Journalist shot after trying to elude arrest for drugs.”

“Journalist drew first.”

“Journalist shot after killing pedestrian in hit-and-run.”

It was frightening. But also kind of cool to be sitting there thinking of headlines of my own impending demise.

“Have you been drinking?” the cop said, interrupting my train of thought.

“I wish,” I said without thinking.

“What is that supposed to mean?” the cop asked, perking up a bit too much.

“I just got off work. Driving home.”

“Where do you work so late at night?” he was now getting that accusatory tone that cops love to use.

“At the newspaper.” That answer always left cops hanging. Not as much as it used to, when papers still delivered on their promise to expose corruption and such, even though they really rarely ever did that in the first place. Myths are cool.

“Oh. Well, you should be more careful when driving on these roads. Someone could come along and run you over standing there like that.”

He looked me over. I had on plaid shorts and a shirt that read “Achiever” from Lebowskifest. He obviously didn’t golf.

“Have a good night officer,” I replied.

He said nothing and got back in his car. Turned off his lights and whisked away. Didn’t even wait for me to get back in the “safety” of my car.

I got back in the car and turned on the ignition. Westerberg finished singing and the next song started. I hit the back button.

“Merry Go Round” started up again.

A few seconds later, I heard that voice again. Apparently, it was Paul Westerberg all along. Creepy background lyrics.

I decided to get a beer. And that’s when I met her.