No keepers anymore

The first day I was here, back in April of 2010, I drank my last Lone Star beer to celebrate. That beer had been picked up by me when my buddy John and I drove across country to take his wife and his old dog to his parent’s house.

I held on to that beer for quite a while, saving it for a celebration. That celebration would only come when I got a job.

Well, I got a job, I moved to the beach, and I drank that beer. Up until a couple hours ago, I still had that bottle. But, I chucked it in the garbage as I was moving my stuff from that house to yet another moving van.

I’ve moved a lot over the years. Less frequently over the last decade than the decade before, but still a lot by most folk’s standards. Since 2002, I’ve lived in Greenville, New Bern, Greenville again, and Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. I also had a year-long stint in Richmond, Virginia. There was also the move of almost all of my stuff to Gainesville, Florida, where I stayed for about the amount of two months, maybe three, over the next three years. Then, I had to move all of my stuff back. That took three trips. That was pretty fucking awful.

Tomorrow, I’ll be leaving the beach. Well, my stuff will be. I’ll have to come back to get my car and to clean up the place. I may just hang out on the beach those few days. I won’t have anything else to do. All my stuff will be in Raleigh, North Carolina.

For the third time in my life, I’m moving in with my girlfriend. My lover. You get the point. Technically, it’s the fourth time, but she moved in with me the other time.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to this move.

I hated my job, and I no longer have it. That’s a good thing.

Not having a steady income, that’s a bad thing. But I’m working on it. Already got some freelance stuff lined up, which is more than I had the last time I got shown the door.

It’s raining outside. It’s pretty much rained every day since I got canned. I think that’s a sign. That even the beach isn’t worth what you went through to live the life.

Driving 100 miles a day. Killing your old car, then putting 70,000 miles on a new one in less than 2 ½ years. Looking at mediocrity being rewarded, hard work not. It was enough to make me quit. And I did, without leaving the job.

I regret that. It was a mistake hanging on “just because I have bills”.  That’s been my excuse for so many wrong decisions in my life. Hanging on to a job, hoping things would work themselves out on the other end.

Well, it never fucking works. Unless you win the lottery. The, of course, you get introduced to a entirely different set of problems and concerns. Ones that, honestly, I wouldn’t mind facing.

So, I’m going into this new chapter of my life – fuck, I’m 41 years old – with my eyes wide open. I am not going to take a job working for slave wages “just because it’s in the business” ever again. And I mean ever.

Yeah, I may get a job in the biz again. But only if it’s one I want. And know that I’ll enjoy.

Hell, one of the ones I turned down I would have loved. But, the place would have made me miserable. So I chose destination over substance. And for a little over a year, I knew I’d made the right decision. Then things changed.

I don’t regret the decision. I just wish I could have that chance again. Right now, not then. I’d go now. I’d kick ass and enjoy myself.

That’s what I’m hoping for wherever I end up. It could take days, weeks, months to find a job. I have no idea. I just know that I want something I enjoy.

Maybe I’ll bag groceries? That Whole Foods looked like an interesting place to be. A hell of a lot more interesting than a newsroom with no reporters, no editors and no one giving a damn at 6 p.m.

I’ve been bitter. Way too many times and for way too long of periods of time in my life. I’m not bitter right now. At all.

The random pop ups of the past still happen. But I smile at them now. I talk to people about them more often. And when I do, I don’t cry. I don’t squirm. I don’t try to change the subject. Yeah, it took me a long time to figure it out, but I did.

I haven’t lived in a ‘city’ other than my little journey into Richmond for a long time. I guess Arlington was it. I didn’t see Manassas as a “city”. It was a suburb.

New Orleans? I didn’t live there very long.

Ditto Birmingham.

Although I loved both of them, for very different reasons.

Tempe/Phoenix was certainly the last I lived in for an extended period of time. Not living on couches or on someone else’s dime, or even on a Murphy bed while one-legged women tried to get me to drink cheap beer with them. Damn, I should have drank beer with her.

Today, I’ll grill up some food and wait for my girlfriend to get here. None of my friends could help me move on this end. I’ll take that as another sign. Two people said they’d be here, both waited until yesterday to tell me they wouldn’t.

On the other end, at least a dozen people are going to be there. Lifting boxes and drinking beer brewed in my new home city of Raleigh. I’ll take that as another sign.

I’ve never been one to be into being positive about things. It’s a flaw, not a badge of honor. It’s taken me a long time to believe that too. Yeah, I’m still a pessimist. Yeah, I think it’s going to be amazingly hard to find employment. But, I don’t want to let it get me down. Not yet. It’s too damn early. And hell, I’ve actually networked some and shown some signs of it actually working. When newspaper guys email me, asking if I can work, that’s a hell of a good thing.

I enjoyed all my time here. Yeah, I cried some. I was sad some. But I also had a couple of kick-ass get-togethers, a few latenight drunken stumbles on the beach – both alone and with friends – and hell, I got to live at the beach for two and a half years. Another life’s goal met.

So, tonight I’ll drink the last of another batch of Lone Star beers. This one brought to me in Arkansas by a friend who lives in San Antonio. And I’ll smile when I throw the bottle away.

No keepers anymore.

An economics major...

Six Miller High Lifes in my belly, I decided to go down to the beach. I wasn’t drunk, but I had a good buzz in my head. Nothing too special, nothing to out of the ordinary. I just wanted to go see the ocean.

The drizzle marked up my glasses in a hurry. I looked down at my $2 Wal-Mart flip flops and tossed them into the weeds that make up my yard. No reason to slip and break my ankle right now. No insurance.

Getting fired does that to a person.

I walk down and notice how quiet everything is. I don’t notice that enough, sitting in front of my computer. Going to the same six web sites over and over, hoping for a conversation with friends who have long ago moved on from being my friend.

The sky isn’t cloudy, it’s murky. I see a few stars busting out of the mist. I look at them in awe.

The houses are mostly empty. The summer is nearly over. Just two weekends until Labor Day. Then everything will start closing up shop.

I won’t be here anymore. My last day here will be August 31. A Friday. I guess I’m excited.

I get to the beach and I marvel at how empty it is. I love it like this. I realize how little in the last year I’ve taken the time to come down here and revel in it.

When I first moved to the beach, I was here every night. I got off work, then in April, and walked to the shore. I always had a beer with me. Sometimes a few.

I’d sit in the sand and watch.

The waves. The people. The clouds. Whatever was there.

The boardwalk was always empty. A sexy lady would be working the bar at the TBT, but I’d never go in. Sometimes she’d wink at me. Wave me in. I always pulled out my pockets when this happened. My “I’m a hobo” moment. Or statement. Whichever you like better.

She’d always wave me in anyways.

I wonder what would have happened if I’d gone in?

I don’t think I would have ended up much differently, really. So, chalk it up as a lost chance. A missed opportunity.

I’ve had a lot of those over the years.

I think about my key. I placed on top of the carport when I left a few minutes ago. What the fuck, I thought. My stuff is packed. I’m leaving. Who cares if someone robs me now.

It’d be fitting, really.

I’ve thrown away more stuff than I did in the great purge of 2008. Of course, that was just my writing. How stupid was that? Hemingway would look at me and shake his head. His woman lost his writing. I threw mine away because of a woman. Hell, there isn’t much difference in the end.

The ocean slashes away at the shore. If man wasn’t here, the beach would be hundreds of feet the other direction by now. But, we’ve got houses here now, so, it stays. Until it wants to really move. Then it moves. Houses be damned.

It’s a fucking sandbar people. If you build here, you should expect it to fall.

That never goes over well with property owners.

Anywhere really.

I’ve never owned. Except for that car I bought.

It already has a dented bumper and scratched up paint. Character points.

One day, I may actually own it myself. Just $5,800 more to go.

Debt enslaves you. I wish someone had told me that when I was young. Instead, I watched my parents buy too much. And I thought it was normal. I thought I’d find a great job and it would all be all right. Then, I realized it wasn’t going to happen. So, I decided I’d find a rich lady and she’d make it all right. That didn’t happen either.

Now, I’m still a drunk. Who thinks he can write, but never does and I still have credit card debt.

And I was an Economics major.

Ha.

It’s unrealistic of me to expect much out of myself.

Unless I apply myself. Then it’s pretty impressive.

I can’t type well anymore. My carpel tunnels is deep and ingrained. My hands get tired.

I noticed that the other night while interviewing someone for the first time in over three years. I couldn’t keep up. Kind of like sex. I have good intentions, but they seem to go awry most of the time nowadays. The belief is still there. The effort is still there. But the results aren’t. I guess this is how a 30-year-old NFL running back feels. Unless he was lucky, and sat out a few years because of an injury or dumb coach. I always think of Otis Anderson.

My throat is dry. You drink shitty beer all night, that’s what happens. No matter if you eat a fucking fantastic meal – which I’ve managed to do the last two nights – or not.

I hate shitty beer. But I like getting drunk. I used to like both. But, I got refined. I got cultured. Fuck that, I got a little bit of the “good life” and I don’t like going backwards. Who does, really? Unless backwards means the best fuck of your life. And damn, I was 21 years old when that happened. On my childhood bed even.

The things you remember.

I know she probably doesn’t think of me. That pig-tailed girl with doe eyes and ab muscles before they were cool.

A redhead was working at the bar across the street tonight. She wasn’t attractive. She had an awful voice too. But she was staring me down. And I looked back.

I’d never have done a thing, even if she came over and said “Your dick, my mouth.” Which really, is just something some guy would write in a letter to Penthouse.

I’m in love. But I’m scared. And that scares me.

Does that make sense?

I hope so. Because I’m scared and don’t want to be.

A chuckle and a slap on the back

I pulled up to the house that was soon to no longer be mine.

The cool ocean breeze hit my face as I exited my car. The last chords of American Aquarium’s “Burn, Flicker, Die” faded into the air, replaced by the distant waves crashing on the beach.

“I’m going to miss this place,” I say out loud to no one but myself.

I look at the dilapidated plastic flamingos that stand guard. One of them is duct taped on the legs to keep him upright. His partner is missing his eyes. On the other side of the yard, two more sway in the breeze. They came later in the process. A gift of a friend who has sort of faded into the periphery of life. I hate it when things like that happen. But it does happen. Too often when you never stay put. I envy folks who have stayed in one place for long periods of time. They develop roots. They develop routines and have friends always available.

Me? I’ve moved so many times to so many different places. My friends are scattered from 30 miles away to New Orleans to California, then over to Japan and into England. Pockets of friends are in Virginia. Some on in Louisiana. Others are in this hell hole of Eastern North Carolina.

Some of those same friends say they are jealous of me.

“You’ve got to see so much, travel so much,” they say, “And you don’t have things holding you down.”

True, I tell them, but you have things I have always wanted. A wife, a family a dog and a cat. A steady paycheck and a feeling of purpose.

“I’ve got none of those,” I’ll say.

Usually that gets a chuckle and a slap on the back.

I open up the door to my “paradise house” as one friend described it to me once. The intense heat hits me like opening an oven to pull out a pizza. It actually blows the hot air outside. A front was just formed by this.

My brow instantly begins to sweat. I open the fridge and enjoy the cool air. I grab a Lone Star – 16-ouncer – from it and pop the top. I swig a huge sip of the Texas swill and realize that life is good most of the time. It’s only bad when you start worrying about it.

I go to the thermostat. It’s 99 degrees inside, according to the piece of plastic. But it doesn’t go to 100, so it could be 120 in here. It isn’t. There was a time about a month ago when it was 99 on the thermometer. But it was much hotter than it is now.

Then, I turned on the air. My girlfriend was there and it had to happen. We left for an hour to get some coolness from a local dive bar. Drank a couple Yuenglings and forgot about the last 48 hours.

Those are the times you remember. When someone sticks by you. Even when most people wouldn’t.

“You got a keeper,” my dad said a week earlier.

“Damn right,” I thought then, and am thinking now as I finish off the tallboy.

I don’t turn on the AC. It’s too expensive now that I’m unemployed. I have enough money to support myself for about 8 months, I figure. Of course, my figures will be way off and it’ll last five, tops.

I open up the windows and turn on a couple of fans.

Soon, it’s 91 inside.

“Not too bad,” I think.

I take a swig of beer and go outside. I open my car’s hatchback and start hauling in boxes. Medical boxes. Rubber gloves and gauze, they are slugged. My boxes display my journey as well.

These are the “I’m dating a nurse” boxes.

Others are : “I’m dating a girl from New Mexico who’s mom liked fruit” period.

Still another is :”I’m dating a Mexican who’s mom wrote what was in the boxes” period.

And still another is “This was the lesbian that I pined for” period.

Lastly, there’s the “The bitch was just looking for a safe place to be for a while” period. Those boxes, I threw away.

I sit down at my computer, hoping one of the gaggle of jobs I’ve already applied for has responded. I boot it up, log in to my email and … nothing.

I log into my other email … nada.

I went through nearly 14 months of this before, but I had a steady paycheck from the taxpayers of the United States then. I don’t now. Even though an old colleague told me “You should apply anyway.”

What’s the worst they can say? No. Right, I get that.

But why bother getting even two seconds of hope raised?

You’re a glutton for gluttony. If by gluttony you mean stupidity and pain.

I shaved my goatee off yesterday. I don’t really know why. I just did. I look weird without it. I think I look older. I definitely look “sweeter” as my girlfriend told me.

I’d rather look surly. Keeps people – other than tourists who want directions or a photo taken – away.

I need to eat some food. I always slip into these “forgot to eat” days when something happens dramatically in my life. And though I was going to make this happen in about two months anyway, this does qualify.

I look at the stains on the carpet and the broken blinds and I wonder if I’ll get any of my security deposit back. My last place I got it all back, minus the carpet cleaning fee. I had even left a piece of petrified baby poop – well, three and a half year old poop – exactly where the kid had left it months before.

Yeah, you can call me disgusting for that, but I didn’t want to touch it. And hell, that kid was good at shitting somewhere and hiding it away from us. Gotta give him credit for that. I’m sure his dad had nothing to do with that talent.

This makes me think of the Doug Stanhope concert I went to the other night. I’d bought the tickets drunkenly one night. So it was a sunk cost. Except for the three beers and tip I bought. I woulda bought more, but I felt bad about it. That kind of thought process probably won’t last.

Anyway, he told an Assburgers joke. Or maybe one of the opening act guys did.

It was funny.

I laughed.

But it made me a bit sad too.

I wonder how that kid is doing?

Good, I hope.

It’s really all I can do.

lines

I guess I’m supposed to write now.

All I have is time.

No job. No kids. No responsibilities.

So, I sit and stare at a television instead.

Or I attempt to read a book. I made it to page 10 of 447.

I ate some cheese and peperoni on corn tortillas.

Drank some water.

Watched a dog stare at me.

Watched another dog roll around in the freshly cut grass.

Now the dogs are asleep.

And I’m staring at a computer screen.

My carpel tunnels doesn’t hurt as much since my job ended.

I need to go pack up the rest of my stuff. But my girlfriend seems to want me to hang around here.

Doing nothing.

I wonder how long before she’ll start to get antsy.

We love each other. I know that. But when one of the two is being a bum, it grows old.

Fast.

I have money to survive for quite a while.

It’s weird feeling that way.

I won’t get unemployment this time.

And I think that’s for the better.

I didn’t get hungry enough to lower my expectations until the checks stopped coming.

Of course, the irony was, the day after I took a job, the checks started coming again.

I guess the checks never actually came. I got a debit card.

They charged you for checking the balance on it.

That made me laugh.

I checked the balance once.

It had more than two dollars on it when I stopped using it.

I wonder where that money ends up?

Does someone get it?

Or do I always have an account with two bucks and some change in it?

The card is expired. So you can’t use it anymore.

Maybe there is some guy in a cubicle who has figured out his Superman III/Office Space way of a quick buck?

He’s collecting all the scraps off of expired debit cards from unemployed folk. Most of which probably never got a decent job again.

I see friends and former friends and never were my friends who have taken jobs not doing what they used to do.

Some do contract work.

Some flip burgers.

Some sit at home and lament the fact they didn’t network better or get the right skills for the current economy.

I said it’s all bullshit.

If you know someone who runs a company, and they like you, you’ll get a job.

If you don’t know anyone in a company, you probably won’t get a job.

Unless you’re lucky.

Or God damn good.

And that usually doesn’t matter.

I have been bitter before.

I don’t want to be bitter again.

I’d rather be better.

Ugh.

If you think, you live better.

If you just exist, you don’t live.

I want to get in my car and drive west. See a state I haven’t seen. I think I may do that. Just to stop the monotony of life.

I applied for a job as a security guard today.

I probably won’t get it.

I most likely won’t get a call back.

If I do, I won’t channel Chinaski.

Unless the person interviewing me has nice legs.

Then I won’t be able to help it.

Television is numbingly bad.

It always has been.

It’s not like there was some great time in the past when it was a good thing.

It’s always been an opiate for the masses.

Something to placate them.

Keep them inside.

If you go outside, you’ll see just how bad things are.

Except on your cul-de-sac in the suburbs.

Two cars and three kids.

A dog and a cat that get along.

Sex once a week.

Sounds like a prison to me.

Except for the sex.

If I was in prison, I’m pretty sure I’d have sex more often.

Not that I’m pretty or anything.

But I ain’t tough.

It’s why I’ll live in a box on Broadway in Hopewell, Virginia, before I do anything to go to prison.

Of course, being homeless can get you sent to jail. Which seems very odd.

Land of the free and all.

Why can’t I be free of a residence?

A job?

A career?

A family?

A dog, cat, snake, etc?

Maybe it’s because you don’t believe in God?

Nah, lots of people don’t believe in God. Even when they say they do.

If you actually believed, you’d do more. You’d help. You’d be selfless.

But, instead, you buy stuff at Best Buy and ignore the homeless guy right outside.

You keep your sunglasses on so he can’t make eye contact.

But he knows.

And so does He.

If he exists.

I don’t think He does.

But I can’t be sure.

Until I’m dead.

Then I’ll know.

It’ll suck if I was wrong.

But, it’ll suck if I’m right.

Maybe if I had done a porno when I was younger life would be different?

I could Google myself and see it.

Just like an employer.

I got rid of my Myspace page because of that.

But I leave up a blog. That isn’t kind to me or others.

And I don’t care.

I started an on-line career assessment test yesterday.

After getting half-way through, I gave up.

I don’t want a career anymore.

I want to get paid to do something cool.

Even if it’s standing on the curb and selling Coronas to tourists.

There are worse things to do.

Like working for a newspaper that hasn’t had news in it for years.

Lots of press releases and opinions by “writers” who can’t tell the difference between “your”, “you’re” and such.

Eating a sandwich on a sunny day is not sultry.

Fucking a watermelon isn’t going to give you AIDS.

How come it’s so hard to lose arm fat?

And spare tires?

But legs get skinny fast?

Boxes will sit full for months. Never looked at. Never touched.

They are full of memories and money spent.

Is that all there is?

Is this all there is?

Are you all there is?

Am I all I am?

Scary to think it.

Not pretty at all.

Finishing... (aka, why word count quotas can be a bad thing)

Staring.

It’s all I can muster. Just my eyes firmly planted on the book – Strunk and White’s “Elements of Style.”

I have carried it with me now for almost 20 years. It was over a decade old when I bought the copy in a thrift store in Tempe, Arizona. I was 8 years old when someone else bought it brand new in 1979.

I paid 25 cents for it at Gracie’s Cottage. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, may have been in Mesa.

The unknown original purchaser, who put a drink on it to leave the distinctive “O” ring on it, paid more, I’d assume. But the edition – the third of the book, which I’m sure has now reached double digits, according to the cover – had no price on it.

The thing I noticed then, and am thinking about now in my un-air conditioned house in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina, is that the spine was pristine.

Then, I was a 20-something who thought “Maybe I’ll be a writer someday.”

I lived in a house with a gaggle of dropouts who smoked dope and rode motorcycles. Except for the guy from Massachusetts who looked way too much like Johnny Thunders. He smoked dope and drove a beat up old BMW. Soon, however, he was replaced by a corn fed, blonde-haired Real World wanna-be from Nebraska. A Mormon to boot. Making him Mormon number three that I had already lived with in Arizona in just over a year and a half. I never even remember meeting one before then. Although, I’m sure I had, visiting Utah and all.

Lots of midgets in St. George. Wonder if any of them do porn now?

That house also had no air conditioning. So, I haven’t done much in those nearly 20 years in between.

I wrote a screenplay about a demonic, well, really just mean, cat.

I threw it away right after I finished it. No one ever saw it.

I guess it was inspired by Rebecca Johnson. She was a mousy cashier that I wanted to date back in the exile year, pining for a lesbian time of my life. But I was not able to do it. Not because she didn’t like me, because she did. She paid over $500 for a plane ticket to fly from Charlottesville, Virginia, to Phoenix, Arizona the summer of 1996. I bought condoms and wine coolers. We got a room in Flagstaff after touring the Grand Canyon.

And I did nothing. I was too scared.

Or my conscious got me.  Which is a good thing. Maybe.

I was a selfish prick at that point in my life. Maybe another thing that really hasn’t changed?

I didn’t however, do what I wanted to that night. Which was have sex with her.

Why? It wasn’t moral, but I’d like to think that way.

It’s because I thought she was “beneath” me in some way. Being a high school educated cashier at a department store at the age of 25. I’m sure that was my mindset at the time.

So, I backed away.

We’d been writing to each other for over a year by then. And I liked her.

But, when she sent me a letter and cassette tape, telling me she “loved” me. I recoiled. I didn’t respond. And that was the wrong thing to do.

Over the years, I’ve thought about her. Too much, probably. I don’t forget the shitty things I do. And there are a lot of them.

I drove to where I think she lives a few years ago. A small town outside of Charlottesville. I don’t know why. I guess I was hoping to bump into her. Tell her I was sorry.

It didn’t happen, of course.

And if it had, she probably wouldn’t have cared.

People are like that. They get over things. It’s how they live.

I think back to those days in Arizona with her. We smiled a lot. And we were awkward a lot. Neither of us knew what to do.

But, in the end, I didn’t do anything. Good or bad.

How dumb.

Instead, I broke her heart. I’d get mine broken repeatedly over the years. I’m sure I deserved all of it.

And I’ve never finished anything else I’ve written.

So, now I’m staring at Strunk & White. I open the book. The pages are yellowed and old.

I start the first paragraph of the Introduction:

“At the close of the first World War, when I was a student at Cornell, I took a course called English 8.”

It took me back to those Arizona days. When I had dreams. When the future looked bright and shiny.

I don’t look at the world the same way anymore. I still think I have a book in me. A good one? No clue. But it’s there. It’ll be about women. And the road. And drinking. I know that. The protagonist will have to be me, there’s no way I’m avoiding that.

But otherwise, I don’t have a plan for it.

Maybe that’s a problem? Maybe not.

Fucking things up can be fun. It can also be tedious, when it’s all you know. All you do.

But beating one’s self up about it for years isn’t fun either. Been there.

Before Strunk and his buddy White entered my conscious yesterday, I was sitting outside. It was late afternoon. My fate was sealed by what I’d done the week before. I was in a contemplative mood. And I was enjoying a Big Boss Harvest Time beer from the previous year. Yeah, it was an “aged” beer. But after the first sip, it was quite enjoyable.

I watched the people drive and walk by. No one paying me any notice. It was nice. It was like it was when I first moved here. My mind was open. My thoughts unburdened by the past. All I had was a blank slate in front of me.

And after finishing that beer, I thought about how little I cared about my broken heart. About the woman who crashed it.

“Six years it took me to get to this point,” I thought to myself.

I’m ready to move on. Westward ho, bitches.

(If that’s not a terrible ending, I don’t know what is) – Randy Jones, August 10, 2012.

Throwing the football

“It’s a bit like begging,” my dad said to me after I explained a business proposal to him.

“Not really, pops, I replied. “Only kind of.”

I understood his concerns. We were independent guys. Fools as well. We’d always wanted to do things “the right way”, but also “our own way.” And many times, they conflicted.

I was 41. He was 69. Starting up a business wasn’t exactly something either of us had thought of. There was a time when I thought I hated my dad. There still are times when I dislike what he does. I’m sure he’s felt the same way about me.

But I’m tired of chasing my tail. I’m tired of doing a job I don’t like. I remember in my younger, more naïve days when I said to anyone who’d listen that I’d never end up in a job I hate. And here I am at 41, in a job I hate. Yes, it was taken out of necessity. But that was over two years ago. Plenty of time to GTFO, as the kids would write now.

So, I cooked up an idea one night. I was drinking, I will admit that, but like all drunks, I believe my best ideas come after at least four beers.

I’d start up a bar-b-que business with my dad. It would be a way for us to bond, finally, after all of these years. He’d be the recipe guy, the “talent” so to speak. I’d be the idea guy, the marketing department, the capital procurement one. He already had a cooker. All we’d need was a place to sell.

That’s when I broached the idea. It would be a “retirement” job for him. A “part-time” gig for me. Hopefully, it would morph into something special soon afterwards.

My main worries are – 1. My dad’s health. He’s not exactly in the prime of his life. 2. My ability to run a eatery. 3. Whether we’d fall flat on our faces. Maybe people won’t like his food on a grand scale. And 4. Would I enjoy it?

I decided none of those concerns were enough to worry and I plunged head first. I got up a business plan, I found a location and I set up some early food and beverage procurements. All of this before I talked to my dad once.

On vacation, right around his birthday, I decided it was time to make a sales pitch.

“You’re not a salesman,” was his response. But he smiled at the idea of me and him being business partners.

“Too bad you didn’t think of this 10 years ago,” he said.

“Dad,10 years ago, I didn’t want to be in the same room as you,” I replied.

He was hurt, but he understood the message.

“Well, what is this Kickstarter thing?”

“It’s a web site where folks go and ask for money from others in order to get their project started,” I said.

“So, we beg strangers for money?” he said frowning.

“OK, it is that. But, so is going to a bank and asking for a loan, right?”

“Yes, but,” he started. I cut him off.

“No buts, it is the same thing. We’re just taking out the institution from the process. Well, I’m sure the Kickstarter folks are now just the bank now, and I’m sure they make quite a nice cut. Hopefully, not as much as a bank.”

“You haven’t looked in to this?” my dad questioning me openly now.

“No. I haven’t.”

“Not exactly the best way to get started.”

“Well, we could just use my credit cards I guess. Since yours are most likely nearly maxed out,” I said, too snarkingly.

“No. Me and your mother have paid of most of them,” he said, smiling at her.

“You mean, she’s paid off most of them,” I retorted.

“Tough crowd tonight,” my brother-in-law interjected. A hearty chuckle was had by all.

“But back on course here dad,” I said. “We can do this. And I think it’ll be fun. Open up a BBQ joint, sell your awesome stuff, even venture into shrimps and tuna, God damn your stuff is good. And I think it’ll be a hit.”

“Son, I’d love to. But I’m too old to start a business.”

“That’s the beauty dad,” I tried to reason with him. “You teach me how to do the cooking too. You’ve never taught me anything about your cooking. I’d love to know.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“I know. But you’ve never offered either.”

My dad looked over at my mother, shaking his head.

“You haven’t dear,” she said. My mom loved to poke the bear. I’d told her many times of the last 15 years that she enjoyed provoking him more than anything else now. She didn’t get it. But I know she did. She just didn’t want to admit it. She’s much too smart to be so simple.

“Anyway,” I restarted. “Let’s make a go of it. What’s there to lose? And we could gain so much from it.”

“Gain?” my dad asked puzzled.

“Dad, maybe you and I could have a father and son relationship. Finally.”

“But,” he said.

“Dad, I love you. And I love all that you’ve done for me over the years. It took me a long time to realize that you actually didn’t hate me. That you were always looking out for me. You just never were able to tell me. Hell, if we’d thrown a football once or twice when I was 10, everything would have turned out a whole lot differently. Or maybe not. But, I’d have that memory. I don’t have it. And this is my way to try and get that memory.”

He teared up. I took a deep breath and a long swig of by now hot beer. It tasted good, however. It was exactly what I needed at that moment.

I went up to him and stuck my hand out. He put his out. We shook hands.

“Let’s do this,” I said.

“OK,” he said. “Now let’s have a drink.”

Ryan Adams hated this town too...

I’ve never met a red haired girl that I didn’t like.

This just dawned on me.

I tried to think about it. There had to be one. Somewhere along the line. Just one that annoyed the crap out of me. Or scared me. Or made me want to date a blonde.

But, it’s never happened.

And I’m dating a blonde now.

Irony.

No.

I got fired today. It didn’t hurt. At all.

I hadn’t been fired from a job since 1989 or 1990. Whenever I worked at Toys R Us and got busted by the manager for playing with the toys in the loading dock area. We used to bust open boxes “on accident” to see what goodies were inside. Busted open toys had to be sent back, but not before we tried them out.

Well, one night after the trucks were emptied and we had free time – we were quick like that – we busted open some Laser Tag equipment.

Bad idea.

Soon we were dodging rays all throughout the storeroom.

The boss walked in on us. He wasn’t amused. There were no video cameras in this place. He just happened to come back there. God knows why. He never did. But this night he did. And we were shit out of luck.

I got canned.

So did a bunch of other guys.

Not everyone.

But I was a long-haired smartass.

Now, I’m a bald smartass.

And I’m out of work again.

I thought I’d care. I didn’t.

I did have trouble sleeping. And on the drive in, I contemplated quitting before they could fire me. It’s with cause, so no unemployment for me. It’s rack up debt and hope that I find a job time.

Ha.

Anyway. I walked to the door – my key card didn’t work. First real sign of what was coming. So, in the rain I had to walk around the front of the building to the main entrance. I came in with my USPS bin to put my belongings in.

I rapped on the HR lady’s door.

“Can I just go fill this up now, before our meeting?” I asked.

She hurriedly got the guy she was talking to out of the office.

“Hold on just a minute,” she said in her small North Carolina town accent. It always annoyed me. It was very fake in its sincerity. If you catch my drift.

Anyways, she called my boss over. He came in.

“What’s up, man?” he said to me. Always a man with the right words at the right time that guy.

I didn’t reply. I did laugh, however. Not nervously or weirdly. But kind of hardy. It was awesome.

“I guess since you brought a box, you know what the answer is,” the HR lady said.

“Yep,” I replied. “Not much of a secret.”

“Well, you crossed a line,” she said, trying still to be all nice.

“Yep,” I said. “I know what I did.”

“So, you’ll be getting a package in the mail with your COBRA information. Any questions?”

“Nope. I can’t think of any.”

“OK. Your final paycheck will have your vacation in it. Paid in full.”

“Allrighty,” I said as I stood up to leave.

I went to my desk and filled it up. I threw away anything that had passwords or addresses on it. No need to help out the guy or gal that replaces me.

I threw some paper plates on the desk of the guy who partially put me where I was going. It was my fault, for sure. But it was also a bit of his.

Adulthood is fun.

We made up 10 minutes after the fracas. But, a lone person saw the aftermath. I knew immediately my fate was sealed. She hated me. I hated her. She got an upper hand and took full advantage of it.

Good for her. It was the first bit of inspiration I’d seen from her in the nearly two and a half years I’d worked there. Maybe she had something inside her afterall?

Ha.

I walked out with my boss. Well, my former boss.

“My only mistake was her being there,” I said as we exited the building.

“I was going to say exactly that, man,” he replied.

I laughed. He smoked a cigarette.

I felt a surge of energy. I was free of this place. I came here expecting it to suck. And it did. It only got worse from there. Some of the suck was self-generated, but not much.

A photographer came outside. He looked at me and smiled. He tucked his head down low.

“Keep your head down, man,” he said laughing.

“I never was able to do that,” I said with a laugh. “It’s why I always seem to end up like this.” I point at my USPS bin full of all my “professional” loot – a couple of staplers, a gaggle of notepads, a dictionary and a thesaurus. There are some printouts of pages done and a bobblehead doll of a kid I used to cover. Finally, my Godzilla doll – been with me everywhere since I bought it at a KB toy store in Potomac Mills back in 1999. It doesn’t roar anymore, but I can get a new battery.

Just like I can get a new job.

I shake my old bosses hand. I think that’s the first time I ever did.

“Sorry it had to be this way,” he says. “I may be following you out the door soon. By my count, the last six guys who got canned, they all ended up with better lives afterwards. It must be the only way out of here.”

“Good luck finding your ticket,” I said.

“And getting it punched,” I continued laughing.

He finished his cigarette and went back inside. I got in my car, sat in the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition.

Ryan Bingham’s “Mescalito” album was playing. I did not want to listen to that right now.

I turned on the radio. Whitesnake was on one channel. “Still of the Night.”

I clicked over to the Mexican station.

I have no idea what the song was, but those corny horns and synths got me out of that God-forsaken town for the last time.

I wonder if Ryan Adams felt the same the last time he was there? Probably not, but it could have happened.

vacation...

maybe for a day or two, maybe longer.

shit hit fan. i'm in the process of packing, moving and figuring out the rest of my life.

enjoy this in the meantime...


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shopping spree

The beginning of the end was pretty tame.

He walked into the local Food Lion to buy some Pop Tarts before heading to work. The aisle was blocked by three middle-aged women fighting over a jar of mayonnaise. He stopped to watch this spectacular spectacle unfold in front of him. While he stood there, he wondered why anyone would use spectacular spectacle to describe something.

The first woman was big. Not tall, but fat. Her arms were larger than his thighs, but none of it was muscle. She needed mayonnaise like he needed reminders of his ex-girlfriend.

The second woman was tiny. Twiggy tiny. Her legs were as wide around as the cardboard that a roll of paper towels is wrapped around.

The third woman – who happened to be holding the jar everyone so eagerly wanted – had on a Pixies t-shirt and nerd glasses. Her curly hair looked like an afro that hadn’t been combed in weeks.

“I have three kids!” the fat woman said loudly. “They need this more than you do.” She said directly to the skinny woman.

“Well, if we’re going by need, I’d say I need it the most!” Twiggy yelled right back.

“Well, I got to it first, so I’m taking it,” afro woman said.

“Ladies, why are we fighting over a jar of mayo?” I said.

All three looked at me curiously. Then back at each other. Then back at me.

Twiggy spoke up.

“You haven’t heard?” she said.

I stared back in silence.

“He hasn’t,” the fat one said in disbelief.

“Do you not have television?” afro added.

“I have not heard of anything, and no, I do not have a television. They seem so…pointless.”

They laughed at me and went back to fighting. He ambled his way through the melee.

Suddenly, he noticed that the shelves were pretty vacant. As always, the Sex Pistols churned through his mind at the mention of those two words together. He got to the Pop Tarts and saw one measly box of Vanilla Ice Cream flavored ones.

“I guess it’ll have to do,” he said, taking the box in his hands.

Walking to the cash registers, he noticed another thing, no one was paying.

“Odd,” he thought to himself. He found the short, balding manager of the store. He had glasses and a whiny Irish accent – if such a thing is even possible.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

The manager looked up at him and started chuckling.

“Here’s two bucks,” he said to the now hysterically laughing polo-shirted man. “You can’t say I didn’t pay whenever the cops show up.”

The two dollars dropped from his hands to the floor.

“They’re worthless kid,” he finally spoke. “You have no idea, do you?”

“Not at all,” he said, not waiting to find out the answer. Why? Because it dawned on him that he needed to get some beer.

He got in his car and drove 20  miles west. There was a small mom-and-pop beer craft beer store down the road. He got there and it was still closed. Lucky for him, he got up early this morning.

Getting out of his car, he noticed a din of activity everywhere. It seemed like the day before Christmas, but it was August 3. All the shops were buzzing.

At the door, he knocked. He knew the owners and knew they’d be there. Gracie came to the door, peered outside and saw who it was and clicked the door.

“Inside, fast!” she said in a hushed, but excited tone.

He slinked inside the door, and looked around. All the shelves were empty, but the floors were full of boxes. Each one filled with bottles and cans of beer.

Finally, his interested was piqued.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked Gracie, who was by now joined by her husband Jeff.

“It’s the end, my friend. The end.” Jeff said.dd

“The end of what?”

“Life as we know it.”

“You’ve got to explain a little better.”

“You really haven’t seen?” Gracie asked as she grabbed two boxes of beer and walked over to the basement entry. He was one of a select few people who knew about the basement storage site under the store. It was an old bomb shelter, built in the 1950s, that Gracie and Jeff didn’t know about until one day when the termite man showed up and asked if they wanted it bombed as well.

“No, I haven’t. I woke up this morning, wanted a Pop Tart and watched three ladies fight over a jar of mayo. Now I come here to get some beer, because some kind of run on stores is happening and I don’t want to be unprepared.”

“We’re all unprepared.” Jeff said. “And if you want some beer, just take a few cases. Pretty soon, it’ll all be gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“The roads, they’re all closed going west,” he said. “The military aren’t letting anyone leave.”

“Wait a minute. I drove west to get here.”

“From the island?”

“Yes, from the island.”

“It’s only the main highway. But I’m sure they’ll get to your road soon enough.”

“And there’s a curfew at 5 p.m. tonight,” Gracie added.

“What?” he said incredulously.

“They’re shutting down the entire east coast, my friend. Go home, get ready for the shit to hit the fan.”

He grabbed six cases of really good beer. Put them in the back of his car. Going back inside, Gracie and Jeff were almost done putting the beer in the cellar.

“How much do I owe ya?” he asked.

“Nothing, my friend. Money doesn’t mean anything. It’s just friends and enemies now. I consider you a friend.”

They shook hands and he left.

He had one more stop – the old Roses department store. If things were really about to get “shut down” he knew something else he needed.

Getting to the store, it was oddly open. Cashiers stood at their posts. But they weren’t paying attention to customers, they were watching a television. The president was speaking.

“My fellow Americans,” he began. “This is a time of unprecedented action. We don’t do this lightly.”

He decided to go finish what he came to this store for. He got a shopping cart and headed to the outdoors section. There, he grabbed as many fishing poles and pieces of tackle and fishing line as he could find. If the supermarkets were going to be empty soon, he’d need a way to get food. Fishing was about it, on an island.

Lastly, he grabbed seeds. He took the entire display of vegetables. He found it odd that no one had hit up Roses yet. I guess being in a bad location was good for him today.

As he exited the store, the president continued:

“These are your friends. Your family. Your spouses and your children. But for the good of the rest of the country, North Carolina’s coast must become a quarantine zone.

“I wonder what the fuck is going on?” he thought after those words. But for now, he just wanted to get  home. Call his girlfriend and make sure she was on her way home.

“Looks like I won’t be moving out afterall,” he chuckled as he started up his car. Full tank of gas and Lucero playing on the stereo.

“Punk rock girls and Lone Star beer,” Ben Nichols bellowed. “Tonight’ll be ok…”

A question

Johnny walked out of the bathroom, he struggled with the small wooden door. Everyone did. It was on some kind of spring that shot the damn thing right back at you when you pushed on it.

“When did I become such a shit factory?” he said when he plopped back down on the barstool next to mine.

“Are we talking about poop or your writing?” I countered pointing at the just placed bottle of Budweiser on the bar.

“Very funny, compadre,” he said. “Very fucking funny.”

“He’s got his moments,” a voice cooed from the corner.

We both turned our stools to the source of this angelic voice. It was 2 p.m. on a Tuesday, there usually weren’t such things hanging out with us and our ever-depleting sources of alcohol.

She was stunning. In every way possible. Legs that didn’t end. Pale skin like just poured milk. A figure that would have made Jessica Alba jealous. And red hair. God damn it was the reddest I’d ever seen – and I made it a point to see a lot of red hair. Even if I have to pay for it.

“Hello trouble, come on in,” Johnny said when he was done observing.

“A Buck Owens fan, I see,” she purred. I was beginning to like this lady.

Silence filled the bar. Sarge, the afternoon barkeep had gone to the back to get something, I don’t remember what it was. The jukebox had stopped. The televisions were all on mute. And Johnny and I were completely in awe of what we were seeing.

“You boys going to invite me over or what?” she asked, slicing that silence like a chef in a Japanese steakhouse – with lots of moxie.

“Oh course, darlin’,” Johnny said. “Come on over.”

“Your friend’s gotta ask,” she replied, looking straight past Johnny and right at me.

“Well?” Johnny said, poking me in the ribs. I hated it when anyone poked me in the ribs. Not just because it was in and of itself an annoying thing to do, but because I’d broken a rib years back in a “minor golfing accident” and it still bothered me to this day.

“Only if you can answer one question,” I replied. “Get it right, I’ll buy you beers all night.”

“It’s actually the afternoon,” she tried to sass.

“That’s my point,” I shot back.

“Ooooh, a confident man,” she went back to purring.

“Not really, just full of enough shit to make it work,” I said, not knowing what to say. “But to continue, get it right, you get beer. Get it wrong, and my buddy John here will pay for the beers.”

“Hey…” Johnny said. “That sounds like a trick.”

“Shut up,” she said to him.

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, slinking down just a bit on his barstool.

“Well, what’s this question?” she asked, now a bit of eagerness in her voice. That, I decided, was a good sign.

I racked my brain for something great. Something worthy of the buildup I had given this. But my mind was blank. Like it usually got around a beautiful woman. Completely wiped clean of anything useful.

Finally, I dorked out.

“What’s your favorite Lucero song?” I said.

She smiled. An even better sign.

“Sing Me No Hymns,” she said, walking up and sitting in the barstool next to mine.

“Looks like I’m buying,” I said.

“Leave me be and let me drink, I need none of your good intentions,” she said raising her bottle of Abita amber to my face.

“Well, if that’s not an invitation, nothing is,” I said, clinking my bottle of Shiner Bock to her bottle.

Johnny slinked a little lower in his barstool. I noticed and pointed at him ever so subtlety.

The redhead turned around and gave Johnny a peck on the cheek. Years later, he’d always brag that she kissed him before she ever kissed me.

“Why thank you ma’am,” he said, perking up.

“Listen Johnny, please don’t call me ma’am,” she said. “It makes me feel my age.”

“How old are ya?” he asked. Johnny was never too smooth.

“Old enough, babe. Old enough.”

The next couple of hours went by like lunch period in high school when you sneak out to go to Hardee’s. I looked at the Dixie Beer clock when she sat down and it said 2:11. The next time I noticed it, it read 4:57.

“Damn, the after work party’s gonna be here soon,” I said. “All those, those …”

“Employed people,” she finished my sentence.

“Are you implying, that I have no job?” I retorted.

“Why yes I am,” she said, smiling. Her teeth were so white they scared me. I wondered what she thought of my gold teeth, and I wasn’t talking 14K.

“He’s a writer,” Johnny slurred to her. “Best damn one I’ve ever read.”

“Really?” she replied. “And how many have you read?”

I laughed hard at that. I liked this gal. She had spunk. It didn’t hurt that she was way out of  my league and she was paying attention to me.

Yeah, I was a writer, I went on to explain to her. I wrote mostly about heartbreak and sadness. But my published work was about travel. I went on road trips and wrote about them. I’d stop at the ugliest, most beat up roadside diners or wig shops and find a story. I’d hang out for a couple of days, drink with my subject matter – sometimes I’d go to church with them instead – and the write up a couple thousand words. Slip it in the old electronic mail and a couple days later, I’d get a check.

“What do you do with the checks?” she asked.

“Half in the bank, half to Mick.”

“Mick?” she asked.

“He owns this place. He’ll be in here any minute now.”

“Mick doesn’t own this place,” she said puzzled.

“Huh?” I could only muster. I’d been coming here for two years now, and Mick always told me he owned the place.

“No, my father owns it. His name is Sid. He owns the taco stand a couple blocks from here too.”