mulch pit, chapter 2

I patted Lucy on the back. “Hey, I gotta talk to this one,” I said as she frowned at me.

“Why this one,” Lucy said, emphasis heaving on the this. She’d watched me turn down woman right and left in this place. “Throwin’ that pussy away!” as a friend of mine said to me at my 20^th high school reunion after I’d turned down a parking lot blow job.

It wasn’t the right time to tell Lucy about her. The woman who took out a rusty screwdriver and plunged it into my heart one night. On the phone. I was weeks from somehow finding a way to propose to her, finally taking the step neither one of us had been able to, but wanted to. At least that’s what I thought.

Instead, one night out of the blue she dumped me. And other than two trips to Florida – the first to try and save it, the second to pick up the scraps of a life – I hadn’t seen her since. And she’d made it pretty damn obvious that she didn’t ever want to see me again.

But there she was, standing by my favorite barstool in the world – since the passing of Nick’s on 2400 Tulane Avenue – with that same damn look in her eyes that made me melt way over a decade ago.

“Hi,” she finally said. “Can I sit down?”

I wanted to say “Fuck You!” and turn around. But I knew I wouldn’t do it. She knew I wouldn’t do it.

“Sure.”

As she sat down I noticed how much skinnier she was than the last time I saw her. But hell, I weighed about 60 pounds less than then too. She had taut calf muscles now. Something she never had before. She also had that cucumber smell. She’d left behind a bottle of that soap she used the last time she visited me in North Carolina. I never thought twice about until she was gone for good. Then I used it, very small dabs, every day. Until it was gone. I told myself when I started that I’d be over her when it was done.

That was the first of many things I did that I said to myself when it was over I would be able to move on again.

It all ended with me masturbating naked in front of a mirror with a gun in my mouth. I was even using a cookie monster hand puppet to stroke with. I’d say that was rock bottom.

More so than when I called my mom with four bottles of pills emptied out on my coffee table/foot locker. More than when I was sitting at a truck stop on the side of I-10 wondering if what was west was better than what was east. Way more than when I told my therapist that I hated the fact that all redheads reminded me of her. They still do.

But now, she’s in front of me. Smiling.

“You look good,” I say with no confidence at all.

“Thank you. You too,” she replies. But I know other than the weight, it’s not true. My hair is gone on my head, growing out of every other spot on my body now. I have early signs of diabetes and my muscles have all but disappeared from living a mostly sedentary life now.

I take a swig of my now warm beer. I figured she’d be the one talking, but she’s not. I order two Shiners, handing one to her.

“Thanks,” she says, drawing on it. “You remembered.”

Ha. I remembered. Every damn time I drink one of these things, I remember. I don’t even like the taste of Shiner. It has a soapy aftertaste that always bothered me. Until it was a way to feel connected, no matter how sad that was.

“Yeah. It’s my brand now too,” I said.

I watched her sit there. She was nervous. And I didn’t understand why. I was nervous, but I’d been building up this encounter for years now. More years than we were actually together at this point. Way more.

My calculations told me this would happen in Virginia. Either on the streets outside where she works – which of course I knew, but not because I sought it out, but because a friend of my best friend worked with her – or at some random place in the Washington, D.C. area. Hell, many times while driving by Arlington Cemetery I thought about stopping at her father’s grave. That went all the way back to when I was going to propose. I took a photo of us there, placed it on his grave and asked for his permission. I left the photo and always wondered if anyone took it away. If she did. Hell, I sometimes doubt she ever went back. Career in hand and all. All she ever wanted, I think.

I looked over a Lucy. She was staring at this redhead. I wondered what Lucy thought of her. I wanted to feel what she was probably feeling. Hatred. But I never could, and certainly couldn’t at this moment.

Finally, I leaned closer to her and looked her straight in the eyes.

“Why are you here?” It was the question that had to be asked. And surprisingly, I didn’t have a clue what I wanted her to say.

“It’s about us,” she said before taking a very long and deep breath. She exhaled and just as she was about to speak again, a loud crash sounded out behind us at the front door.

I couldn’t help but wonder what it was, but my eyes were glued to her. But her eyes were not on me anymore. They were petrified. And looking straight at the door.

I turned around, and didn’t want to believe what I saw.

Mulch Pit, chapter 1

“I don’t know what these people want from me?” Lucy screamed at the top of her lungs as she sat down next to me at the bar. I shrugged my shoulders, then asked her for a beer. She was, after all, the waitress of the joint.

“Yeah. That’s what I want too. And I ordered mine 15 minutes ago, ya bum!” an older guy at one of the dilapidated booths in this joint said as Lucy handed me a cold Ranger IPA. I’d started drinking IPAs so I could get drunk faster. They cost a bit more, but if you drank them all night instead of regular octane beers, you didn’t spend as much. Quality not quantity, someone smarter than me once said. Probably before it was used by Slater in “Dazed and Confused.”

“You know Lucy, you might want to give that guy a beer,” I said. “He is paying your salary.”

“The hell he is. That old fucker never tips. He’s been coming in here for 14 years now. I know, I’ve been working here for 15. And that shitty motherfucker only leaves dimes. One for every beer. If this was 1947, I’d be rich off the bastard. But it’s 2012, and I can’t pay my rent.”

“Neither can I but I still tip ya.”

“I know, honey, that’s why you never have an empty bottle for long,” Lucy smiled and blew me a kiss.

“Rent a God damn room you two!” the old bastard said.

I motioned at Lucy for two more beers. One for me, one for him. She brought me an IPA and a Budweiser. I looked over at his table, there were three empty bottles of Michelob. I swallowed hard as I stumbled over to his booth.

The vinyl seats were cracked and crusty. Probably never cleaned after this joint – Mulch Pile – was cleaned after the great cigarette ban of 2009. I remember Mulchie, God rest his soul, cursing up and down as he scrubbed those walls with a brush every night for months. All the while folks were still smoking up a storm in the time before the end. Now they all stand in front of the front door and give every non-smoker a big old lungfull of secondhand smoke every time they come near it.

I sit down and hand the old guy a Budweiser. He stares at it for a second, then grabs it in his meaty, blood red hands and takes a gulp.

“Thanks kid,” he said. “I always knew you were good for something. Not much, but something.”

“Well, thank you sir!” I said with a wave of my hand in my best Colonial style. He didn’t seem to appreciate it as much as I did in my mind. Such is the life in the bar.

“How come Lucy won’t never bring me a beer?” he finally asked as Frankie Freeman grounded into a double play on ESPN above us.

“You don’t tip, old-timer. Simple as that.”

“Don’t tip? The fuck I don’t. I leave her dimes for every beer!” he angrily snarled while finishing off the Budweiser. “Lucy! Bring me another damn beer!”

She looked at him, then at me. I nodded. She brought two more over. I hadn’t even take a sip of mine yet. She stood over us, waiting to be paid.

“Well?” the old man snarled some more. “Are you going to pay for it or not?”

I reached into my trusty Velcro wallet and pulled out a 10 spot.

“Keep the change, Lucy,” I smiled at her. “And keep ‘em coming.”

“Why’d you give her so much?” he asked me, gripping the beer I’d just paid for with both hands like some kind of kid with a controller in his hands after you’d unplugged his PlayStation3. “These beers only cost seven bucks.”

“Well, old man, you see, she now likes us. The better you tip, the better the service.”

“Fuck that. Like I said. I tip after every damn beer.” He pointed at a stack of dimes. Must have been 11 or 12 of them.

“How many beers have you drank today?” I asked.

“Countin’ the two you bought, 15!” he said proudly.

“Well, I see only 12 dimes there. Where are the other three?”

“You got me, kid. You got me.”

“Now watch this,” I said to the old man, pointing at Lucy.

“Hey Loooose,” I cooed. “Can you come here for a moment?”

She looked at me and smiled her crooked-teeth smile. There was something about a lady that had never had braces that I liked. The vampire-esque quality of teeth slightly out of kilter and a little bit stained. It told me they got what life was about. Being happy. Not being what others think is happy.

“What, darling?” she said, sitting on my lap. I felt a slight twinge in my crotch. I hadn’t slept with a woman in six months. The prospect of Lucy had never crossed my mind seriously. Until that moment. Her legs were bare and very clean shaven. She had the veins of someone who’d stood her whole life working, but they weren’t ugly. Her feet were big, but her toes were painted nice which made them look awesome. Before I knew it, I had to move her a little, so she wouldn’t notice.

It was a futile effort.

“Honey, is that what you wanted to show me?” she said, patting me on my head. “Because I’ve seen it all before.”

“Wait,” I said. “I want you and the old-timer here to bury the hatchet.”

“Wha?” the old man said. “I never said …”

“Hold on, there sir,” I interrupted. “You listen here. From now on, you order a beer, or order beers all day and night, you leave a tip of more than a dime. Before you know it, you’ll be best friends with Lucy.”

“Ha!” Lucy snorted. I loved it when a woman snorted. It meant they were in the moment and not thinking about laughing. Which meant they weren’t really laughing at all.

“Deal?” I said, looking at the old man.

“Oh what the hell!” he said. “I’ll never spend all of my money before I die anyway. And my good-for-nothin’ son sure as hell don’t deserve to get any.”

We all laughed and took a long swig. I handed Lucy my other beer and she took a sip too.

It was going to be a good night at the ol’ Mulch Pile tonight. I could already tell.

And that’s when she walked in. The redhead I thought I’d never see again. Just like the song said, things went from better to bad to worse. Only I wasn’t at no Texas Funeral.

dreams of semi - colons

Sitting in my house, staring at the wind blowing the plethora of flags in straight lines away from the coast, I decided I needed to do something.

But first I took my shoes off. I went over eight months without wearing shoes anywhere – work, driving, bars, etc., then I went to a Lucero concert and needed them. And then it got cold. Now, it’ 90 degrees inside my house and 84 outside. I think shoes are no longer necessary.

The first thing I do after taking off the shoes and socks is ball up my toes like Argyle taught John McClain in “Die Hard”. Yeah, that shit really works. You feel the stress of whatever the fuck is stressing you just shoot out of the balls of your feet and into the carpet. Thank god for this area rub. The rest of the carpet in the place is like dried cat turds crushed into a pattern. Yeah, it’s that gross.

After opening up the last beer in my fridge – I stare longingly at the 60 Lone Stars I have that are being saved for a party I may or may not have – and grow a bit ornery. I then decide I like to spell that On’ry instead.

I get on my bike and head over to the local watering hole. It’s a bit of a hike, even on the bike. Especially with the huge bridge one has to navigate. And my days of riding up such a thing are long, long past.

When I get to the pub, I take a seat. I’ve been coming here for two years now, but still don’t count as a regular. Why? Because I don’t talk to many people. I guess they know me, but they tend to steer clear. Good thing it’s summer, then, as the tourists don’t know better. Reminds me of one day in Luckenbach when I sat at the bar and drank all day. More people came up to me and asked questions that day than pretty much any day of my life. Even when I was a front desk clerk. Guess I missed my calling. “Man about town” has a certain ring to it for sure.

I plop down on the stool and order a Shiner. The barkeep comes over and smiles. “We ordered you up a new case of these,” she says.

I’m a bit taken aback. She does remember my surly ass.

“Why thank you, Midge,” I say with a tip of the baseball cap – always on backwards – and a tip of two dollars. She smiles and blows me a kiss. I smile and look at the jukebox. It was an old one, but it wasn’t too old. Meaning it played CDs not vinyl. But it also didn’t have a hook up to the internet.

I looked over at two girls eyeing another guy at the bar. He was John, a local fisherman. He had on a yellow trucker’s hat that said “Going all the way” and a dirty pair of khaki shorts. I looked at his feet. Thankfully, he didn’t have topsiders on. Instead, flip flops. Probably cost him $30 bucks those things. Mine? $2.22 at Wal-mart. One of three things I’ll buy at the Mart of Hell – flip flops, mouthwash and air filters for my air conditioner. Which, I never use, but still have to replace the filters every month.

The girls don’t go to the jukebox, so I do. I plop in five dollars. Enough to play 15 songs. I only want to play 14, but I have a 15^th. I select the entire Lucero self-titled album, plus the song “Sing Me No Hymns” from Rebels, Rogues and Sworn Brothers.

Midge hates it when I play everything at once, it usually drives the regulars away. But tonight, I only see John there. The rest are tourists. Or one-stoppers as I call them. Sort of single-serving friends like in “Fight Club” except I don’t plan on having short conversations with them. I think that it’s too bad Bukowski didn’t write “Fight Club.” It may have had a better beginning, middle and end. And it was a damn good book. Well, mostly.

But what do I know. I scribble notes in notepads, then write drivel about those scribbles late at night or before work every day. Just doing it because I told myself I would. No goal. No plan. No outline. Just scribbles.

I need a woman to let me sit in front of a typewriter all day long, drinking slowly and typing. She can pay the rent and buy the booze. I can type. And that seems perfectly honorable. Hell, I know it is because that’s what needs to be done. I just don’t have the guts. Always been my weakness. Guts.

I was once told you either have ‘em or you don’t. You can’t grow guts. But you can lose them. So that must mean you can find them. Maybe I just lost mine along the way?

I boy can dream, right?

Not that he can punctuate.

Shitting on stilts

It was cold, damp and moldy. I stood over the toilet, staring at it. It was one of those moments, pee-shy as always. A line snaked around the building outside. I knew I didn’t have long.

I looked at the walls. Anything to distract me from the mission that was becoming more impossible by the second. Six beers in, and I was ready to burst – 20 seconds ago. Right before I clicked the lock on this dirty bathroom in the back of a dirty bar. A bar that used to be a barn.

“Come on princess!” a voice yelled out from beyond the door.

It had started.

I strained and strained. Wiggled and wiggled. Stroked and stroked. Nothing.

Staring at the empty toilet paper roll I tried to imagine what it would be like if I had to take a crap. A nasty, watery one. And the toll that would take on my underwear.

“Listen up Nancy!” another voice yelled out.

“Piss or get off the pot.”

Well, they were right. If I wasn’t going to pee, I had to just leave. I zipped up my fly and unlatched the door.

“Finally!” the guy behind me in line said as he grabbed the door. His pee started before the door even closed. No latching for him.

I took three steps and had to pee again. I looked at the line. There was no way on earth I could get back in the line again. I looked at the crowd surrounding the barn and into it. Fuck.

I wandered over to the parking lot. No one seemed to be around. I got next to a giant F-150 and unzipped my fly. I barely got my dick out before the pee flowed. It felt like an orgasm. I peed and pissed and sighed.

“You ever shit on stilts?” a voice from behind me said.

I finished my business and zipped up my fly. I turned around and a cop was staring at me.

“No. Can’t say I have.” I replied.

“Well, kid, you don’t have the luxury of being shy about it,” he said. “I was in a traveling circus and ended up one night being the clown on those high 10-foot stilts. Well, let me tell ya, you don’t get to take them off to take a pee or a shit.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep, and I just watched you come out of the bathrooms over there. I’d come over because the crowd was getting a little unruly waiting for you to come out. I figured you’d passed out in there. It happens. I mean every so often a couple will be fucking, but usually, they don’t get started once they see how awful it is in there.”

“You can say that again.”

“It’s awful in there.”

He stared at me. I laughed a slight laugh. The cop spit.

“Well, kid, there are two things that can happen here,” he said, spitting again. “I can write you a ticket for public urination or I can haul your ass to jail for indecent exposure. The latter makes you sex offender in this state if you’re convicted, and well, I think my testimony will pretty much assure that.”

“Those are really the only options?” I asked with a shrug.

“Well, you can just run.”

I looked him in the eyes to see how serious he was. I was 50-50.

Right at that moment, a girl popped out of the F-150. She had long brown hair and was wearing a Vinnie Vincent Invasion shirt. The lights from the stage hit her just right as she stepped out of the cab of the truck, highlighting just how great her legs were. I think I fell in love right there.

“Johnny,” the girl said. “He’s with me. Leave him alone.”

“Monica,” the cop said. “You don’t even know this guy’s name.”

I looked at Monica. She had hazel eyes and too much eyeliner on. I looked down at my feet then back up again. She smiled.

“His name’s Randy,” she said confidently.

“Well, kid, what’s your name?” the cop asked. I felt kind of funny, being 41 years old and being called “kid” by a country cop who couldn’t be older than 28 himself.

“It’s Randy,” I said.

“Well, excuse me if I don’t take you on your word,” he said. “Can I see your driver’s license.”

Panic took over for a moment. I usually leave my wallet in my car at these kinds of events. I felt my back pocket and found nothing there. My eyes must have shown some kind of fear, because the cop started in again.

“Boy, you really are testing me,” he said. “Show me your damn license. You had to have it to get in here.”

Boom. The light bulb went off. Just like when someone spells out motherfucker, but uses two words. You know right then you have them.

I reached into my front pocket and pulled out my ID and handed it over to him.

“It says Henry Jones here,” the cop said. “Looks like you lose today.”

“Sir,” I said, “My middle name?”

“Randolph,” the cop read. “Well I’ll be damned.”

“Told ya, Johnny,” Monica said. “Now, can you leave me here with my boy Randy so we can do what we came out here to do.”

The cop smiled and laughed.

“Randy, you are a tropper, my boy. You really are.”

I had no idea what he meant, but I as happy as a clam at an oyster roast that she came to my rescue. The cop sauntered away and I just looked at Monica, my new savoir.

“So, Mr. Randy, what are we going to do now?” she said.

“I don’t know, how about we get in that truck of yours and go for a ride,” I said.

“Fuck, this ain’t my truck, I was stealing some money out of the dashboard,” she said. “It’s amazing how many of you fuckers who came to these things leave your wallets in the car.”

I laughed and pointed to the Toyota a few cars away.

“That’s mine,” I said.

“Really?” she said.

“Yep.”

“Well,” she said digging into her bag. “Here’s your wallet.” She tossed me my red Swiss Army Velcro wallet. Inside were three maxed out credit cards and a press pass from my last newspaper. Nothing I needed nor really wanted.

We went over to the Celica. The back window was busted out.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Eh,” I said. “We’re even now.”

“I like the way you think, Randy,” she said reaching in to give me a hug.

I didn’t let her. Instead, I kissed her. Deeply.

She stumbled back just a bit. I watched her eyes. They never left my gaze.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

“I still have to file my story about this concert,” I said.

“Write it on the road,” she replied. “Where are your keys?”

I flung them at her and got in the passenger seat. The main act was just going on stage. I was supposed to interview them after the show. But, I knew that wouldn’t happen. Instead, I would have done some story about following a band around as they drank, did stupid things or just fell asleep. So, I wrote that anyway. Editors never noticed a thing.

Three weeks later, we were in Luckenbach, Texas. Hanging out at the general store and admiring the bust of Hondo out front.

A chicken fluttered by and we looked at the sun falling from the sky, Shiner Blondes in our hands. Not a word was said before we got in the back seat of my Celica and just passed out. Exhausted and dirty, but happier than we’d each ever been.

And the only reason I know that is the letter she wrote me 15 years later. After she’d left.