Out on the Weekend

My 2 ½ year old son looks up at me as I stare blankly as Neil Young’s “Out on the Weekend” wails along on Pandora Radio on a giant Samsung television in our living room in Raleigh, NC.

It’s a Wednesday night, around 7:30. I start to wonder what the me of even 7-8 years ago would have thought of this moment.

I hope he’d be happy.

Though, I tend to doubt it.

I wonder sometimes if that guy knew how to be happy.

“The woman I’m thinking of,

She loved me all up

But I’m so down today

She’s so fine, she’s in my mind.

I hear her callin’…”

They’re kind of fitting, those words. Especially thinking of me so long ago. Not really that long ago, but yes, so long ago.

If I’d been home at 7:30 p.m. on a Wednesday in my previous life, I’d already be drunk. The stereo would be cranked up, maybe playing some Neil Young, it did happen. Probably blasting Lucero, however, more likely.

Cooking on my mini Weber grill, hoping the sea gulls didn’t steal my sausage. Now there’s a title of a book…

“See the lonely boy,

Out on the weekend

Trying to make it pay.

Can’t relate to joy,

He tries to speak and

Can’t begin to say.”

I like to think back. Always have. Always will. It’s just how I’m wired.

Lately, I’ve been purging stuff. I did one other purge in my lifetime. AC. After Crystal. A good buddy of mine told me it was stupid. Throwing all that stuff away. My writing. My memories. My junk. Yeah, I miss some of it. I’d like to be able to see a picture of Rebecca. She and I almost dated. Well, I guess we did for a bit while I was a drifter in Charlottesville, pining away for another gal that didn’t want me.

We met at Roses. She was a cashier. I was a cashier. We made $4.35 an hour. I had a college degree from UVa. A B.A. in Economics.

We talked at work. She was cute. I liked her.

I wasn’t ready to like someone else though.

We ate lunch in the break room.

Me, always a salad from the Farm Fresh in the same strip mall. Her, something from home.

She brought me lasagna when I was sick once.

We went and rode balloons.

We went to see the movie “Thinner.”

We took a trip to Kings Dominion.

We did other things. I remember riding in her big-ass car.

Wondering a lot about what was going on.

I ended up moving back home.

We played truth or dare via letters.

Then I moved to Arizona.

In 1995 she came to visit.

We drove to the Grand Canyon. It was awesome.

In some retro-not-by-design hotel, we awkwardly sat together. I got wine coolers and beer. I was hoping to get drunk. But we didn’t.

The next morning we drove back to Tempe.

A few days we spent together. We hugged as she left. It was awkward. I think we both wanted to kiss.

We didn’t.

A while later, she sent me a cassette tape. She professed her love for me.

I was scared.

I don’t remember now if I ever replied.

It’s haunted me forever. Whatever became of her.

“Think I’ll pack it in

And buy a pickup

Take it down to L.A.

Find a place to call my own

And try to fix up.

Start a brand new day.”

Today, I hung out with my son at a park. I watched him hang out with other kids. Then we went and had doughnuts.

“See the lonely boy,

Out on the weekend

Trying to make it pay.

Can’t relate to joy,

He tries to speak and

Can’t begin to say.”

Of course, my kid walks up just now, says “Daddy stop. Put the ‘puter down.”

I must listen of course, so I stop typing. Still a few words away from filling the quota.

After a few minutes he asks to watch the robot song, aka, The Beastie Boys’ “InterGalactic”.

Pull up YouTube and we share about 4 minutes of MTV’s heyday.

I don’t think about anything else.

It’s a very good feeling.

“What’s next?” he asks when the video fades to black.

I put on The Chordettes’ “Lollipop”. He digs it. He digs Dean Martin, too. I hope I’m not creating another version of me. “Well, that can’t happen,” I think to myself. My dad never spent that much time with me that didn’t involve a beer in one hand and old guys talking about things I could have cared less about.

My son gives me a side eye when I start singing.

I stop. I smile. I don’t think about Neil Young anymore.