AC/DC’s “If You Want Blood … You Got It” screamed out of the
speakers. He took a swig of Shiner Blonde as his girlfriend’s dog warily eyed
him. She had left just seconds before, taking back an expired package of Stir
Fry sauce back to the local Food Lion. He would have gone ahead and made the
food, but she was a stickler for such things. It was one of the things that
made them compatible – having the differences be in such little things.
Of course, their taste in music differed slightly as well.
She still listened to a lot of heavy metal and garage music. The stuff he liked
in college, but had gravitated away from to enjoying more alt-country music.
But who gives a damn.
They were good in bed together. They made each other laugh.
They knew when it was OK to cry.
He didn’t like turning the air conditioning on. Only in
hotel rooms. “It’s free there,” he said, justifying his sweaty existence that
most folks would deem “eccentric.” He deemed it frugal. And hell, with the coming
economic apocalypse, he’d be used to not having air conditioning a lot more so
than most of the people he knew. It was a bit of a hipster badge of honor. Like
his flip phone and reading “Writer” magazine. Ha. How is that hipster. It’s
not.
Getting drunk tonight was a priority. He had to drive to
Richmond tomorrow night. Had a job interview set up. Didn’t know if he wanted
the job, but figured what the fuck. It was a newspaper job. It was a work from
home – mostly – job. Something a lot closer to the General Assignment Sports
Writer job he supposedly had in Greenville, North Carolina, about three years
prior. Only problem with that job was the sports editor was such a control
freak he didn’t allow it to be a free-for-all reporting job – as advertised by
him in luring him away from a very comfortable sports editor job of his own –
and he ended up sitting on his ass designing the agate pages too many nights.
Photography and video shooting, not so much editing, skills
were honed during the time. He won a couple more writing awards. Then he was
laid off.
Oh well, he thought when the phone call came to his desk.
Everyone else was sitting around on pins and needles. He figured he’d be the
one. Newest hire, highest salary. It was a no-brainer, really.
He took it in stride. Even the next day when he was on a
list of people not allowed back in the newsroom on the new secretary’s desk.
Her eyes bugged out when he said he wanted to go there, and she didn’t quite
know what to do. Before long the H.R. lady was there, taking his paperwork and
shooing him back out the door.
Thinking about that right now made him chuckle. And take a
couple extra sips of beer.
Her dogs stared at the door. Wondering where his girlfriend
went. “Did she leave us here?” had to be going through their minds.
Bon Scott says “Shazbot, Nanu-Nanu,” it makes him laugh.
Then he gets a bit sad. Bon Scott is dead. Damn. It makes him think of his
other heroes, and how so many of them are dead. Joe Strummer. Johnny Thunders.
Stiv Bators. Freddie Mercury. All dead. Bill Hicks. Dead. Johnny Carson, Marlon
Brando. Brian Jones.
And yet Jay Leno lives.
Yes, God has a very wicked sense of humor. He wants all the
good guys with him sooner. The rest have to stay longer. I’m sure they get the
same great welcome, but it’s later. Much later. Then he thinks about himself.
He almost died once while driving. Twice while contemplating just leaving.
Would he have been greeted by God? Or by Keanu Reeves?
Thoughts are a dangerous things.
He doesn’t like thinking as much as he used to.
Nor reading. Books he still buys quite often. Sometimes he
starts them. But usually then end up in a pile of others. Or they start a new
pile. They get dirty. The salt air here really wreaks havoc on books.
Paperbacks especially. He had to write wreaks havoc in a headline at work this
past week. It is one of the laziest phrases he thinks, because really, how
often is havoc really wreaked?
He wants to buy a book about the author John Kennedy Toole.
But he knows he won’t read it. It’ll just sit in a pile, dusty eventually. Much
like the Warren Oates biography he got for Christmas last December. His uncle
gave it to him. Asked “why Warren Oates?” He replied “because he kicks ass.”
They both laughed. The book has sat in a pile ever since. Kind of like Warren
Oates in most people’s memories. He’s that guy in a lot of movies. But he’ll
always be Sgt. Hulka to most. And he really still wants to see “92 in the
Shade.” Why can’t it be legal to get ahold of movies that aren’t digital yet?
And why isn’t that one digital.
He wished the internet world would just send it to him.
It worked with Johnny Thunders’ documentary, why not a
Warren Oates flick?
Get busy getting busy.
No comments:
Post a Comment