Game Boy

“Never buy your girlfriend a Nintendo Game Boy,” I said to the guy next to me at the bar.

He was wearing dirty camo clothes from head to toe. Probably was going to vote for Donald Trump. Of course, who was I kidding, he wasn’t voting.

“What’s a Game Boy?” he asked through his broken tooth grin.

I was amazed at how white his teeth were, however. My teeth had turned yellow quite early in life. I drank way too many Mountain Dews and Nu Grapes during my childhood for my teeth to have any chance.

Then, I didn’t go to the dentist.

Been five times since 1994.

Now a humblebrag as the Facebook police would say. But a statement of fact. Stupid fact, but fact nonetheless.

Sometime around 2007, I noticed just how yellow my teeth had gotten. I was looking at photos from my best friend’s bachelor part in Austin, Tx. I wanted to put one of them up on Myspace. But they were so damn yellow. So, I made it a black-and-white photo.

Pretty much every phot of me since I’m had this crooked grin. Mostly, covering up my ugly teeth.

This guy, however, had perfect fucking teeth. And he smelled like three-day old burritos soaked in piss.

But at least he’s got a paycheck, I thought to myself.

My last paycheck was cashed on Feb. 22, 2016. I got laid off two days earlier by the last newspaper I worked out. I took out student loans totaling just over $36,000 to get my journalism degree. Really, I took out loans to enjoy my mid-20s, by staying in school, but who is really telling this story. So, I will embellish.

“A Game Boy is a hand-held video game system,” I told Mr. Camo smells like pissed burrito.

“Why’d ya need that? Can’t you use a phone?” he smartly replied.

“That, sir, is why you are a better man than me,” I replied.

He tilted his glass of Keystone Light, yes, a glass of KL, not a bottle, can, etc… and gave me a wink and a nod. Then he wandered off to the bathroom.

I’d never see him again.

The last bit of thinking got me thinking. So I wandered over to the jukebox and plopped a dollar into it. I still hate the Internet jukes, but find me a bar with a 45s juke nowadays in this shit box of a town.

My town, Zebulon, North Carolina.

I did a quick search and hit play.

The Faces’ “Oh, La, La.”

Seemed to fit the mood.

The mood I’m always in now. Sad and pissed off. About a lot of things and about nothing.

I ordered another beer. I drank it. Ordered another.

“You got the money for these beers, Randy,” John, the barkeep asked.

“Probably,” I replied.

I actually didn’t know if I did. Unemployment checks didn’t come anymore. But the occasional royalty check from my one published book did. I know I cashed one recently, but couldn’t quite remember if I’d spent it all yet.

I opened my Velcro wallet with a rip, and looked real quick.

“Yep,” I said to no one. John had walked away. He was talking to some redhead at the other end of the bar. She was not attractive, but she was a redhead, which gave her a chance.

After my song was over, I stared at the TV. There was a Motorhead video on. Hard to believe Lemmy and David Bowie died so close to each other, I thought, then wondered if they went to heaven, hell or nowhere.

I tended to believe in nowhere, but didn’t want to fully pot commit. Kind of my M.O. over the years, never going all-in. And it costs ya.

Just fucking push the chips in. If you lose, you end up in the same place anyways.

At least that’s how it felt tonight.

And has felt for quite a few nights.

I wonder what my son is doing? It’s 2:51 a.m. He’s probably standing in his bed, calling out for one of us to get him a pacifier. I wonder what the love of a piece of plastic in your mouth really is. Suck, suck, suck. Drool, drool, drool. Seems like a Dead Kennedys song.

I stare at my arm. It’s bruised.

I can’t remember where from. I probably fell while sleeping again. Been doing that a lot lately.

It’s an attempt to see if my mom will show up like she did when I was 7. I used to throw myself out of the top bunk of my bunk beds with a thud. I’d hope someone heard. If not, I’d whip up tears.

Surprised I never broke anything.

Only think broken now is my heart. And that got broke a long, long time ago.

“Fuck a broken heart,” John said.

I smiled. But quickly realized he wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to the red.

He’d tell me tomorrow about how she squealed when he grabbed the back of her thigh. That got me through the next week of sleeping on a park bench. In fucking Zebulon, North Carolina. Better get moving if I want to make Key West by winter, I thought.

Always said if I ever ended up homeless, it would be there.