Dean Martin naked in my living room

The older I get, the dumber.

At least that’s what I’ve been told. More than once, but less than a dozen times.

When you sit about watching re-runs of “Father Knows Best” and “Hazel” on your day off, you start to wonder if maybe, they are all correct?

The want of drink is strong today. Fighting the urge becomes a day-long affair. So, instead, the keyboard beckons. A project long forgotten about is thought about for a second. No longer than that, however. It’s too draining to sit and re-read something written that had its moment, since passed.

That was the longest 98 words I’ve tried to pull out of myself. Extraction of my teeth should go so poorly.

It comes and goes, that feeling of woe. It sits and waits, I believe, for the time it is least expected or wanted around. Some days you fart in the morning, some days you pee. Hopefully, not both at the same time.

I’d like to think that she has thought about me once over the past six years. I have my doubts.

Crazy looks from crazy people.

A mixed-race child sitting with his mother, stares at me. I stare at him. He laughs. I smile. Then the grandfather gives me a bad look. I stop thinking about good, and feel the bad. Sometimes feeling the bad is what you need to stop looking inside for it. You know it’s there, always, but you don’t have to let it out.

Eating tacos in a strip mall downtown. They’re not bad. Not great either. I sit and watch the co-eds go by and wonder why I wasted so much time being down. On life. On myself. On what happened. I could have been watching co-eds. Standing on the corner, watching on the girls go by. I used to live that life. Now, I’m old and it’s a bit creepy to do. At least when I do it. When Dean Martin did it, not so creepy. Well, yes it was, but damn it, who can be creeped out by Dean Martin? Unless he’s naked in your living room, I suppose.

That’s a sight, Dean Martin naked in my living room. Like my dirty old living room needs more charm.

Halfway there and still I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything. Forced is forced. Even with bits and pieces of inspiration.

LeBron James took over that game. But he’s still overrated. How the fuck do I know this? I haven’t covered an NBA game in my lifetime. And somehow I bet you haven’t either. And if you did, you sat on press row gawking at the players on the court. Maybe even hiding a chubby under the table.

The hackery and awfulness stuns me to silence.

Even when I write it.

Ha.

Laughing at oneself, it feels good.

“Customers are not allowed behind the counter,” she said to me. I looked into her eyes and fell in love. She looked at my feet and saw a sale. It was a grouping made in heaven.

“Can you find me a pair of these, new?” I asked her, pointing down at my Samba II Jades. I got them on e-bay years ago, out of sheer luck one day, and haven’t seen another pair in my size since. One pair of 10.5s and another pair of 9s showed up. Nothing else.

“No,” she said.

“How did you end up a shoe sales lady?” I asked.

She frowned at me. I felt better about my place in the world for half a second. Then I felt horrible for saying such a thing.

“I like shoes,” she said. “They’re actually my passion. I met my last boyfriend selling him a pair of shoes. He was so damn picky about what he put on his feet. But not nearly as picky about where he put his dick.”

I laughed. So did she.

“How about just a normal pair of Sambas?” I enquired.

“Of course,” she said.

Five minutes later, I had a new pair of shoes and a phone number. It became the second girl’s phone number that I acquired. The first girl, however, gave me her digits after we had sex. That, my friend, always ends poorly. I don’t care what the Nick Sparks novels say. And no, I have no idea if there is pre-marital sex in Nick Sparks books. Is there?

She smiled at me as I left. I wondered instantly if the number was real. Why? Because I’m a product of rejection and failure. That’s why.

So, I called the number and watched. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the phone and looked at the face. She then looked at me, standing there with my phone in my hand. My flip phone. Same one I’d had since 2007.

She smiled again. Answered the phone.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hey,” I replied.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“The guy with the Sambas,” I replied. “Just wanted to say hi.”

“Dork,” she said, waving at me from 15 feet away.

“Yep. That’s me.”

“Call me later, OK?” she said.

“Will do.”