The girl in green...

My house, like my teeth, is a ticking time bomb of decay.

I stepped on a soft spot on the floor today, and I thought it would collapse and I’d soon be under my house like Walter White grabbing his cash, covered in cobwebs and moldy dirt.

I don’t seem to have the want to call the landlord to get it fixed. It would mean weeks of construction workers ambling about my house, tearing up the floors and making my life miserable. I’d rather just not jump on my floor much. A simpler solution.

Speaking of, let’s talk drinking. Last night, I drank a few beers. It seemed like a very good idea. It ended up just being an idea. No great prose seeped out of my brain. No mindstorm. It ended up just being me, sitting on the couch, watching great old movies such as “Panic in the Streets” and “California Split.” At some point, I started sending massive Twitter messages. When those hashtag wars start, I just want Patton Oswalt to see mine. He doesn’t need to approve of it, or hate it. Just see it.

When I finally was ready to pass out, I went to my room and thought about masturbating. Key word being thought. I was asleep before I could spit on my hand.

I was woken by thunder sometime around 7 a.m. It’s a great feeling. The bed seemed to shake from one particularly large one. I laid there thinking about how nice it would be to live in the jungle, where such storms were an everyday occurrence and not a nice respite from the ordinary. Of course, then, thunderstorms and rain might become the ordinary.

A woman walks by my house. She’s wearing a green one-piece bathing suit. It makes her legs look awfully long – in a good way. I watch those legs the entire stretch of the block I can see from my window. I know if she saw me there, shirtless and in my underwear, she’d think about calling the cops. I guess luckily for me, she didn’t. I look at her car in the parking lot across the street. It’s a green Ford Focus. Her thing for green intrigues me. Does she like Green Day or even Green Jelly. Remember that song they did – “Three Little Pigs”? Maybe her mother read her “Green Eggs and Ham” as a child. Her favorite movies? Well, “The Green Mile” and “Soylent Green”, for sure. I decide to put on some clothes and go stare inside her car. I put on a green shirt and green shorts. If it were cold out, I’d put on green soccer socks. My Adidas Sambas have green stripes. Maybe we are a perfect fit, I allow myself to think for a moment as I walk across the street.

I hit the gravel of the parking lot when another car comes screeching in. They are playing “House of Pain” very loudly and drinking Coronas. My will to live is somewhat halted at the moment of their introduction to my life.

They park right next to the green car and get out. I decide to stop where I’m at and turn around. I get back to my carport and sit on my stool. Yes, it’s green.

The three clowns in the car get out. Two have Ed Hardy shirts on. The other has no shirt on, but appears to have Ed Hardy designs tattooed on his chest. I think of Brock Lesnar’s “sword” tattoo on his chest. I wonder if the artist did that on purpose? It really looks like a penis. Anyway, our parking lot villains proceed to take out their beach chairs and their cooler and place them in the parking lot ground. Instead of going to the beach – two blocks away – they have decided, it appears, to hang out in the parking lot of a shag dance club.

I sigh and go inside. I have to be leaving for work in about 45 minutes. So, I need to shower. I’ve already shit today, which was necessary after the night and day of drinking beer and eating shitty food. Of course, all of the turds floated. Too much fat in the diet when they bob around the bowl.

The will to go to work is not strong today. Not that it ever is, but lately, it’s been willless – to attempt to invent a word of usefulness. I wonder if Mike Ness would use them? That would be careless of him. I should send him the words in an envelope – but it would be fruitless. I really like Les Nessman’s newscasts. They do more with less.

At some point, I have to stop. The bills must be paid. The game must be played. Until it’s completion.

Do people ever use the world nadir? I used it the other day, and two people went “Huh?” with their eyes.

I’d like to use mulct in conversation. But I don’t want to talk politics.

I used to love politics. The first girl I ever fell in love with, we used to talk politics. I used to take the Republican side just to mess with her. I think she ended up believing I believed in the “cause”. She and I didn’t date very long. I still send her Christmas and birthday cards. Her and her girlfriend. She thinks my birthday is April 1. It’s April 9. I don’t know when that shift occurred. I used to get the cards around the 9^th, then one year, it became the 1^st. I’m guessing it means at some point she decided I was a joke. One that had to keep being told. At least that’s what my warped mind wraps itself around. Seems to fit.

The girl in green comes back to her car.  She didn’t stay at the beach long. She is walking up the street. I wonder what she thinks of the douchebags hanging out around her car. She seems them. She starts running towards them. When she gets to the cars, she hugs the guy without a shirt on. Then kisses him.

Well, there goes another imaginary relationship. Time to get ready for work.

a hug

“Where have you been?” August, the barkeep asked as I walked into his bar – August’s.

“He’s got a woman,” sniped permanent barstool No. 2 sitter Clarisa.

“That so?” August said looking at me.

“Yep, Clarisa explains it all,” I said with a grin. “Now give me a Shiner.”

August pulled out a can of Blonde, my favorite of the Texas brewery’s stock. I used to drink only the Bock, but it was me hanging on to the past. I stopped drinking it and started to enjoy Blondes. Much like in real life.

You see, I’d made it 40 years without going on a date with a blonde-haired woman. Kind of, fuck, who am I kidding, I proudly wore that as a badge of honor. When a lady asked me I’d say it with pride: “I’ve never dated a blonde. Kissed one once, but never dated one.”

That all changed one day in April. When I met a blonde. She didn’t fit most of my criteria. And it didn’t bother me at all. She was quiet, like me. Liked to brood in the corner and think about all the people around her, like me. She liked old garage bands. Once again, like me. And she wore these awesome boots. The kind that most likely could stomp on hipster’s feet when being bothered at a concert. Something I never considered, being a Samba tennis show only wearing kind of guy. And that sealed the deal.

We kissed on our second date. At a concert, of course. The bar spun around in circles while it was happening. Not due to alcohol or any other substances.

A few weeks later, my routine had changed. And it was starting to get noticed.

“You look tan,” August said.

“Well, not spending seven hours a day here, under the neon lights, can have that effect on ya,” I said.

“So, you going to the beach now?” Clarisa snarled.

“Well, I do live here,” I said. “It kind of makes sense that if one chooses to live at the beach, one should visit the beach at least every so often.”

“I hate the beach,” Clarisa said. “Fucking tourists everywhere. Leaving their trash behind. Making noise. Blocking traffic. Neon signs. Confederate flag bikinis and beach towels everywhere. Fuck the beach.”

“It sounds like you just don’t like people,” August said, pulling the handle on the draught Budweiser for another customer who was sitting in the dark a couple seconds ago, but now was at the bar. He looked at me, then looked at Clarisa. When I stared into my eyes, I knew who it was.

“Hey mayor,” I said a little too loudly. “How goes running the city?”

I had my run in with the mayor about a year ago. He had been building a brand new house right on the beach. It was an old school kind of design, meant to harken back to the days when anyone who lived on the island was either a fisherman, or worked with seafood or beer.

The only problem with the house, was it was too close to the water. At least by the standards the mayor himself had pushed through after the last hurricane.

“It’s a whole lot better without you poking around,” he snarled. “And to settle the debate you and the fine dame Clarisa are having – tourists suck. But their money certainly does not. Which is why we tolerate them for three months a year.”

“More like eight months now,” Clarisa said. “Because of you, mayor.”

“Not a lot of votes in this bar, are there?” he said with a chuckle.

“Mr. Letchworth,” I said, “I voted for you every single time.”

“Not hard to do,” August said. “He was the only one on the ballot.”

“True, my favorite barkeep,” I said. “But you can always write in a candidate. It’s lost on the American voter. The ability to vote for who you want to – always and forever.”

That phrase, as always sent me to the jukebox. Luckily, August had two of them. One with 45s on it, that he plugged in during non-tourist time, and the Internet one. I went to the Internet one. Put in a dollar and pushed the buttons.

The opening chords brought a groan from August.

“Not that again?” he sighed rubbing a glass with a dirty white towel.

“Always and forever, Each moment with yoooooooou… Is just like a dream, that somehow came through….”

“Sorry, folks,” I said. “I love Heatwave. How can you not like this song.”

“Damn, I think Jones is in love,” the mayor broke his mini-silence to say.

“Could be,” I said. “Never thought it would happen again. Well, I never thought I’d allow myself to do it again.”

“Why should a woman not hurt you?” Clarisa added.

“Point taken,” I replied. “I’m a bastard. A misanthrope.”

“But a fine tipper,” August interjected.

I raised my almost empty pint glass to August.

“It’s one of those things I learned at a young age. Tip well, and the bartkeep will keep your glass full.”

“Amen to that,” the mayor interjected once again.

“I’m still waiting for you to learn that one, Letchworth,” August sneered.

“You’d think, on the taxpayer’s dime, he’d be more willing the splurge,” I said. My reporter days, I found he had become quite adept at charging his drinking binges to the taxpayer. Amazing how many nights in the bar were labeled as “fundraisers” or “meet and greets with the constituents.”

I thought then that exposing it would make a difference. This was, of course, after the time newspapers had a reason for existing other than lining the owner’s pockets. Instead, it was lining a stock owner’s pockets, so exposing things turned into a bad idea.

“Don’t rock the boat, Jones,” one publisher told me. He was from what we called the “Lucky Sperm Club”, going back to the days of a single family owning a paper, and usually owning the agenda of the town. In those days, a newspaperman’s kids started out delivering the paper, maybe shot some photos or write a sports article or two before going to college. Then, he’d come back, work in the pressroom and mailroom for a while, then get a job as a reporter. Soon after, he’d be an editor. And when pops was old, he’d become publisher. The salad days.

Well, I enjoyed thoroughly when the non boat rocker got rocked one day. He was demoted and a few weeks later sent packing. Vermin he was. And he didn’t get a chance to flee the ship. Instead, he got tossed off into the ocean – but with a golden parachute. Robber barons take on different looks in different places. But they’re all robber barons.

“Jones, what the fuck are you thinking about now?” the mayor interrupted my fine memory.

“Your wife,” I said. “On your boat right now. Living in your house. While you’re hear.”

He came up to me. I thought he was going to punch me. And I’m not fighter. I can write that I won a fight, like Hemingway could. But, I couldn’t really do it. And I have no idea if he could either, but the shotgun he took to his face at the end – self inflicted – may answer it for me.

But instead of punching me, he hugged me.

“You saved my life, Jones,” he said. “You saved my life.”

That hug, it soon turned out, was the best thing to ever happen to me.

Organ donor

Beer shits, dehydration and gout toes. A normal way to wake up now.

Old creeps up on you. One day your sunning on the beach, watching bikinis and drinking cold beers. The next morning, you can’t get out of bed due to the pain inside.

Staring at the hair on my shoulders and the lines on my face, I don’t want to believe it. But I do. Golden teeth and white pubic hairs are now standard.

I don’t feel old otherwise. It may have more to do with lifestyle than fact. When you don’t change the way you live – except no longer eating frozen pizzas for just about every meal – it’s tougher to emotionally change. Which for this character, is probably a good thing.

If I was wearing a suit and tie, sitting in a cubicle, hating my job … oh wait, that has happened.

If I was DVRing every television show that I’m told is “hot”. If I was listening to modern jazz or Ray Lamontague. If I felt the urge to vote for Mitt Romney. If the contents of my 401k worried me. Then, I’d be worried about myself.

Death comes easy if you let it in. Guess there are many ways to do that. The way I’ve chosen seems to be nicer. I enjoy most of my life. Just those moments of too much reflection get in the way. Yeah, I’d love to have money in the bank. That way I could go buy some new underwear that the waistband isn’t saggy, but I’m OK. They still do the job. Just have to pull them up every so often.

That my friends is getting old gracefully.

Ha.

It’s good to have a sense of humor. When all around you crumbles. Who wants to be the guy huddled in a bomb shelter, hoping it doesn’t cave in on him? I’d rather be the guy with a bottle of gin and some Robert Johnson playing while I sit in my lawn chair and watch. Are they really going to take aim at one guy in a lawn chair? Or a bunch of  townhomes full of folks huddled in basements?

The sound of a fan blowing is soothing. The fan itself is what keeps me cool in this un-air conditioned house. Yeah, I could turn it on. But then I’d have $150 to $200 to pay the electric company every month. $58 or so is much better. And, you get used to the heat. Just like you get used to the cool. Heck, when the A/C is on, I sleep more. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing. You miss life sleeping too much. It’s why I don’t take naps. Some of the best things in my life have happened when I was sleepy. If I’d taken a nap, I would have missed them.

Like right now. I’m going to open up the window and see what’s going on outside.

No people. Heaven.

An empty Pepsi can saunters down the street. It’s windblown and makes a slight clanking sound as it moves slowly down the road. In the big city, that can would’ve been swooped up by a homeless guy looking for a little cash, an environmentally driven hippie or maybe even a giant behemoth of a street cleaner – spraying dirty water on the road and sucking it back up again with whatever garbage it can.

Here it’ll get to go on a journey.

It could get buried by a freak storm in a dune, preserved for years until a hurricane comes along and exposes it to the world again.

Maybe it’ll roll into an abandoned yard, slowly making its way under an abandoned house. Safe from the elements and content to have a spider move into it.

Or it could be picked up by a kid, stared at intently and then tossed back into the world.

Or another kid may kick it down the street, over and over again.

Still another kid could shoot bbs at it.

But, most likely it’ll make it to Fort Macon Road and get run over by a car. Flattened, it’ll sit there crushed over and over again until it rains. The rain will float it down to a drain. The drain will dump it in the ocean. There, it’ll get eaten by a fish or shark if it’s unlucky. If it’s lucky, it’ll float to Cuba, where some kid will find it on the beach, pick it up and put it in a bag. To be recycled for money.

I guess the life cycle of an aluminum can is pretty depressing. It’ll always end up the same – melted back down and sold for scrap.

Sure am glad I’m an organ donor.

a shtick

Haunted is the right word.

I was awoken today by thoughts of that day in New Orleans. I was probably dreaming about it. Just remembering it. Certainly my conscious knows that I need to deal with it. Face it.

I just remember thinking I wanted to look, so badly, but I didn’t. I’d promised her I wouldn’t.

I’m glad I didn’t for her. I wish I had for me.

It seemed to cold. Too clinical. Uncaring.

He deserved better.

I should be extremely tired right now. Instead, I’m well rested.

My nights should be short and interrupted. They’re not. They’re endless.

Should we have done what we did? In hindsight, no.

Were the doctors setting us up for the inevitable, but not telling us flat out? I believe so. And I hate them for it if it’s true. I won’t bother with finding out, because I don’t need another source of hatred in my life. It’s wasteful feeling any hate. But very few people actually pull that off.

I wish I had a way to figure it all out. To make sense of it. There’s a reason behind it right? Probably not. We just end up the way we end up. Choices, yeah they play a role. So does dumb luck. So does genetics.

We’re all ticking time bombs. Some of us wake up and become millionaires or porn stars. Some of us wake up and buy a gun to blow our own heads off, or maybe strangers sitting in a movie theater or walking across a campus somewhere.

All of us have great ideas. No matter where we are on the food chain. It’s what we do with them. Some jump full hog into making the idea come true. Maxing out their credit cards, borrowing from friends, eating Ramen noodles and then – BOOM! – the idea either blows up successfully, or just in your face.

Others have an idea and tell someone else. That person takes the idea and runs with it. Leaving the idea person behind in the dust.

Some, we just burying them in words. Layer upon layer upon layer piled on top until the idea is lost in the mass.

I wonder sometimes if going to church really helps folks. I mean, if you can choose a religion, choose a God, why does it have to be some wise, old man? Why can’t it be some frog-looking dude. Or William Shatner? Or a vagina? They all make as much sense. And hell, wouldn’t you rather die and wake up in the arms of a vagina? Well, some of you no.

KISS founder Gene Simmons probably wouldn’t mind. He’s been in more vaginas than most gynecologists. It seems odd. Such an ugly person – inside and out – gets so much pussy. Further proof of the thesis that people are plain stupid. Me included.

At this very moment, Stouffer’s frozen meals popped into my head. They’re always bland, they’re always under or over cooked – never just right. Yet at some point that Stouffer guy made a lot of money off of them. I’m sure if any Stouffer’s are still involved, it’s just cashing a check now. Investing what grand-dad did, or great grand-dad. I’m sort of glad I wasn’t born into money, it gave me my independence. Of course, I took my independence and swiped it all away. So, maybe being born into money isn’t so bad.

Most of those folks don’t go to a job they hate every day. They may go to a club or a country they don’t like much, but all things are relative.

Do you have any more gum? More gum? More gum? … Do you have any more gum?

I used to think a little bit of Billy Madison could get me through anything. I was wrong. Mainly because Adam Sandler has become filthy rich by playing Billy Madison in every movie  he’s made since.

Here comes the jibberish part! Oh, he’s going to be some kind of man-child, redeemed by a child.

Fuck.

I need a shtick that makes money.

Or at least gets laughs. You know, laughter does help.

Unless you’re one of those people who laughs at everything. Nervously. As a defense mechanism. You might as well tell people that your either not listening or you don’t understand.

I can’t hear much in crowded places anymore. I’ve destroyed my hearing. Too many days with headphones cranked all the way up. Too many Lucero shows in the front row – never with earplugs.

You don’t get smarter. You get wise.  You don’t get dumber. You just stay put.

Plastic and chrome

That smell. A combination of plastic and chrome. It greeted you every so often.

Some opened and didn’t release that odor.

Others opened and sprayed it out like mace. Or a Glade air freshener, depending on your point of view.

I will always identify that smell from cassette tape in particular – INXS’ “Listen Like Thieves”.

“I have a very vapid life,” I said out loud while I sat in the dark, avoiding my computer.

A bolt of lightning struck the Atlantic Ocean seconds later, filling the air with thunderous approval or rejection.

I turned on my computer seconds later.

The words still aren’t flowing. Maybe it was all the Triscuits and beer?

She sat down on the porch across from his house. She was wearing a striped shirt and knee-high socks. It was like she was straight out of a porn set. If she’d had her hair in pig-tails, it would have cinched it.

Watching her, he noticed that she was very much watching him. They played the game as if neither noticed the other, but it was too hard to do.

“Hey neighbor,” he finally yelled out.

“Howdy,” she screamed back.

A few hours later, he was soaked with sweat and naked. Who knows what she was doing.

“I like bottle caps,” he said to the waitress. “Can you be sure to keep them for me. I collect them.”

She looked down at him, sitting in the booth. He looked pathetic in his cowboy boots and Umbro shorts. All the while the booth’s giant red vinyl seat was devouring him.

“Sure hun,” she responded. “Where’d you come from all dressed like that?”

He looked down at his knees, so much smaller were his legs than just 20 years ago. That was when he rode his bike everywhere. Back then, he said he’d never stop riding. It’s been over a decade since he did it regularly. Over a year since he last did.

“Oh, just work,” he replied.

“What are you a rodeo clown?” she snickered.

“Nah, just a hack writer.”

“Really? What do you write?”

“Anything they’ll pay me to. Anything.”

“Like what?”

He was tired of her questions, but she had red hair and a nice ass. So, he made small talk. She had on long pants – it was 24 degrees outside – so he had no idea what her legs looked like. Legs were the deal breaker for him. Ugly legs equals ugly girl. No matter what.

“My job now is writing travel brochures, so, I dress up like this to inspire my writing. Today, I wrote about Cary, North Carolina and Farmington, New Mexico.”

“Huh,” she said with some interest. “What else?”

“I dabbled in greeting cards for a while. Also was a newspaperman for over 15 years. But, no one reads ‘em anymore, so they don’t need writers as much. Hell, I was replaced by a robot in the Phillipenes. Heard he has a really good way with the letter Q.”

She didn’t laugh, and really, it didn’t deserve a laugh.

“Any books?”

“I’m writing one now. Short stories. Like Hemingway, but not at all.”

“I love Hemingway,” she said with a sparkle. This made him smile.

“What’s your favorite?”

“Oh, you know, the one about the guy who got wounded and couldn’t have sex.”

“The Sun Also Rises?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Do you think it had a happy ending?”

“Of course not,” she said. “How could anyone see that as a happy ending?”

“Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

“It would be, yes, but it was not a ha…Oh, I see what you did there.”

He was shocked and quite happy to discover she had actually read the book. And actually remembered how it ended. He still thought there was a possibility, no matter how remote, that Hemingway saw happiness in Jake Barnes. It’s what kept him alive many nights, re-reading that book. Trying to absorb it. Become it. Then purge it all out with a 12-pack of beer.

“How’d you like to go see my collection of copies of it?” he said.

“You have more than one?”

“I have almost a hundred now. All with different covers. That’s the catch. I need to see how others have seen the book. I really like finding old library copies. Usually, people scribble notes all over the margins. It’s quite fascinating.”

“Carol,” a voice boomed from behind. “Get your cute little ass shaking and start doing your job. And stop flirting with Mr. Fancypants there.”

He blushed. She blushed.

Later, after he’d eaten his meal – a pulled pork sandwich, Western North Carolina style, and hush puppies with a side of macaroni and cheese (white) – he noticed her phone number on his bill. He tipped $10 on the $4.66 bill and walked out humming. He didn’t know what song it was, until he smelled the awful generic taco shells that he pulled out of his pantry later that night. “Biting Bullets” by INXS. The smell of taco shells brought back the smell of a cassette tape, a fresh one, newly opened in 1985. The smell he always tried to smell because it reminded him of a simpler time, when he didn’t want to do anything except kiss a girl. Not fuck her. Not marry her. Just kiss her. And maybe hold her hand afterwards if he was deemed worthy of such finery.

He looked at the receipt he had put on his fridge. He didn’t want to go all John Favre and call her immediately, or too many times. Instead, he wrote down what he wanted to say. Figured she’d be asleep or at work still.

He dialed the number. It rang. Five times. After the fifth, it picked up.

“Hello?” a man’s voice said.

Startled, he just sat there, listening.

“Listen, whoever you are, we have caller ID. I’m going to get up and go look at it. Then I’m going to come and beat the shit out of you.”

The voice put the phone down and started to walk. He panicked a little, but held fast.

“So, Mr. Jones,” the voice said. “You want to fuck my wife, don’t you?”

“Actually, sir,” he said. “I want to write about her. And now, write about you.”

“What?”

“It’s what I do. I meet someone, I talk to someone, I just see someone and I write about them. Now, you have entered my world, so I will write about you.”

He hung up the phone. It rang seconds later. He picked it up.

“Randy?” the voice on the other end was much softer, much sweeter.

“Yes?”

“Go fuck yourself,” she said.

He never went back to that Bar-b-Que joint again. Even though they had great macaroni and cheese (white, of course).