why bother, you pee blood...

The fucking Police was playing when I walked into the bar.

“God damn I hate the fucking Police,” I yelled. Then I remembered something important, I was at the bar because a friend invited me. That friend? He’s a cop. And the bar was filled with cops.

So, like Tim Roth says in Reservoir Dogs, you’ve just got to jump right in and swim. That in mind, I walk up to the jukebox, just as Sting finishes saying something stupid over a backbeat provided by a drummer who appeared in a reality show about storage unit auctions. I put my dollar in. I picked my song.

“Right about now, N.W.A. court is in full effect…”

A few seconds later, a couple hundred cops were chanting along with Ice Cube, Easy-Z and Dr. Dre.

I watched this scene for a few seconds and thought back to 1988. I was a teenager who wanted to be James Hetfield. I drank like him. That was about the end of similarities. I had more of a Dave Mustaine mullet. I don’t think about high school much. Nothing much happened.

Kind of like this party. It’s at a strip-mall bar. It stinks like pee. I want to go home.

But I don’t. Why? I don’t know. Maybe something will happen.

I order a shot of Jameson and a Miller High Life to chase it down. I gave up drinking soon after my stroke. Well, I didn’t “give it up” as much as I just stopped because it hurt to drink now. That made it silly to do. Yeah, I still think about the girls and women of my past. And now, I don’t fight with them anymore. I just look at them and nod. Yep, still here.

Then I eat some unsalted nuts out of a can from CVS.

I take a sip of the beer. Fuck, it tastes bad. Then I take the shot. It tastes worse. But the beer, now it tastes OK.

Why am I friends with a cop? I’ve never had a good experience with one. It’s weird. Except that guy who showed up at my apartment in New Bern at 3 a.m. one night. I was blasting The Faces, signing along with Rod and Ronnie, and drinking way too much. I guess one of my neighbors complained to the police. Instead of just knocking on my door. Of course, I opened the door when the cop showed up in my shorts only. Beer gut hanging out, bottle of Shiner in one hand, devil horns in the other.

“Yes?”

“Sir, could you turn down the musi….Hey, is that a Jump in the Fire Metallica poster?” he said.

“Well, yes it is,” I said slurring just the it.

“Soooo awesome, man.”

“It is?”

“I never got to see Metallica, but they’re my favorite!” he said, to me, I guess still.

“Saw them twice in a month back in high school,” I said, puffing my chest a little bit. I have seen some good music, even though when SHE happened, I mostly stopped.

“Cool, cool,” he said. “But man, can you turn down the Rod Stewart? Neighbors complained.”

“Yeah, not a problem. Gotta be at work in the morning,” I said, fully knowing I went to work when I wanted. Some days at noon, others at 5 p.m., and still others never. Being the boss at that point of my life was a good, and bad thing.

“Night officer,” I said, slamming the door behind me and turning off the stereo. I drank the last half of the Shiner in my hand and threw the bottle in the trash can. It hit another bottle. “Clank, cla, clank.”

I went into the bathroom and peed … blood.

Probably should have paid closer attention to that stuff, I think, now back in the bar in a strip mall in suburban Raleigh, North Carolina, surrounded by cops I don’t know wondering where the fuck the one I know is?

Probably getting a blowjob in the bathroom, his brother says to me. I guess I’d been narrating stuff out loud again. It’s a bad habit of mine. I’ve been punched three times because of it and slapped twice. And got a girls number. Why? Because I fucking asked for it. Who’da thunk that actually works?

How the fuck did Sting get so damn rich? I think.

I order another beer and another shot. It’s going to be either a really long night, or a very short one. I hope for the latter, but know I’m in for the former.

“She’s here,” my buddy, not the cop, but the other one at the party I know says.

I look over my shoulder and yep, there she is, not HER, but instead her. She stole my heart for a moment because I left it out to rot. She kept if from rotting, and poisoned it instead. And her mom told me she liked me best.

Like mother, like daughter.

I look at her and then I smile. Why? Because I figured it out before it was too late.

I scratch my balls and think about cancer cells and Miller High Life bottle caps. This, I think, would make a great fucking story. And then I realize this is exactly why I don’t write for a living. Except for that newspaper thing any more.