“I’m not your dad,” I said as
nicely as I could.
“You’re right,” she said with a
dull glare. “He fucked me better.”
I looked at her, lying in bed
covered with my 15-year-old comforter that had been to two colleges and across
the country three times. I wanted to cry. Instead …
I left.
Usually, I’m the one who gets
left. For whatever reason, I decided to be the leaver this time.
It didn’t feel any better. No
matter what the country music videos show or the television commercials imply.
My heart was still broken, it’s
just this time it was my choice instead of hers.
I sit in this tiny bar in Eutah,
Alabama, still thinking about her to this day.
The first time we met, she told
me “You’ll never forget me.”
She was right.
But, I haven’t forgotten a lot
of people.
It’s just today, she’s on my
mind a little more than usual.
Maybe it’s because I know she’s
near.
The modern world allows you to
know this. To keep tabs from afar. Tabs without actually travelling to where
she is. Well, she’s always in my head, so that’s not true.
Exactly.
The baseball season ended for
her tonight. For me, for the first time since 1992, it will continue into
October.
I was 21 then.
I’d fucked just three girls.
I’d fell in love just once. Maybe
twice, as I told another girl, who left me the next day. I wasn’t talking about
her, and I don’t know if she really thought I was. She had that kind of power
over me. She made me wonder what the hell she was thinking. All of the time.
I don’t think about her very
often.
She wasn’t someone I wanted to
grow old with.
Go to Van Halen arena shows and
pelt Sammy Hagar with toilet paper with.
Eat peel-and-eat shrimp until we
puked with.
Drive the long way, every day
with.
Watch people live their lives
the wrong way with.
Like I do now.
Without.
I have a life now. But it’s not
what I expected. I write for money. Sometimes it’s actually pretty good. Each
time I set out trying for it to be, but fall short most of the time. It’s the
days when it works that I still smile. My crooked, golden teethed grin. I used
to get told I had a pretty smile. I don’t anymore.
I still smile. It’s just
reserved.
Unless I’m drunk.
Which doesn’t happen like it
used to.
In the past, I’d go to work.
Work. Leave work. Then drink.
At a bar. At a game. At nowhere.
At home.
Alone usually.
I’d scribble down what other
people say to each other.
One night a guy noticed me doing
it.
What are you writing? He asked.
Nothing.
Bull hockey. He replied.
OK. I said. I’m writing about
everything.
He stared at me.
Pussy. He said.
Nah. I replied. Haven’t had any
in a while. So I don’t write about it. Sex. That is.
So then what do you write about.
He asked.
A lot about masturbation. I
replied.
He laughed.
I expected that.
I wrote it down.
Hey. He said. What are you
writing? He asked.
Nothing. I said.
I woke up on the floor.
A nicer looking woman of about
45 years old was bent over me. Her tits were way too tanned. I still liked
them. I stared.
You don’t know when to stop. She
asked.
I figured it was a rhetorical
question.
What were you writing? She
asked.
Nothing. I answered.
Well. She said. He took your
notebook. She said, pointing at him sitting at the bar.
A brunette was looking at my
notebook.
I got up.
Walked over to the brunette.
You read? I asked.
Just your stuff. She answered.
Barkeep! I yelled. Two shots!
John, the barkeep, brought over
two shots of Jameson.
I came here often.
Hey. He said, poking me in the
back. Where is my drink? He asked.
She’s drinking it. I replied.
I woke up on the floor again.
This time, my head hurt.
This time, there weren’t any
tits in my face.
That made me sad.
My notebook was on the floor,
right next to my blood.
Written on it were just a few
words:
“You were rite,” it began. I
smiled.
“You write about nothing.”
I looked at John. He nodded.
I struggled to get to my feet. I
finally did. There was some blood on my left foot. Adidas Sambas, size 13. A
half size too small for my feet.
Feet she called clown feet.
John already had a drink waiting
for me.
I drank it.
Then I wrote about nothing.
I sold that story for $600.
Some magazine that doesn’t print
anymore.
But what magazine prints
anymore?
Mostly now, I dream.
About the day I met her.
And everything changed.
