Bob Barker's bucks

I’m sitting on a barstool in a nowhere cantina just outside of Galveston. My Shiner Bock is just about empty and I’m wondering what to do.

I drove 1,469 miles here to see her, and of course, she didn’t show up. But maybe she did and I was late, I can’t help but think to myself.

I look at the text she sent me three days ago… “Be there on Saturday, 4 p.m. Don’t B late.”

Now, there was Hitchcock, Texas. A small dump of a town outside of Galveston. I’d driven through one other time in my life, and that was with my buddy Josh back when I was 23 and full of life. Now, I’m 43 and just about done with it. The scars on my heart are deep. As are the lines on my forehead. I noticed the first one that didn’t go east-west, but instead north-south when I was 38. This was after too many years of drinking alone in one-bedroom apartments and sleezy dives that didn’t even have windows, but damn if they didn’t have black jack machines.

As I sat in Louis’ Bait Camp, I watched a blonde with good eyes and bad intentions work her way towards me. I was not excited, kind of loathing her coming up to me.

“Hey there!” she said with a thick Texas accent. I’d say it was from Denton, but I didn’t really want to find out.

I looked at her chest. She had nice round tits, the kind you dream about when you’re 14 before you’ve seen tits for real. Jessica Hawn tits I used to call them. But real.

“You like what you see?” she asked, this time a little impatiently.

“But of course, hun, what’s not to like,” I said taking my last swig of Shiner. I had about 60 dollars to my name right now and was almost 1,500 miles from home. My old lady, and by old I mean years had passed since she was my lady, didn’t show up despite telling me she would.

And to think, Bob Barker gave over 200 grand to house some chimps in Louisiana back in August of 2011. I think he called it “Chimp Heaven” or “Chimp Haven”.

“I could really use some of that money, Bob,” I said to myself, even as this young blonde was standing over my table.

“Huh?” she said confusedly. “Are you drunk?”

“Hun, not even close, and the way my day’s been going, probably not soon enough.”

“Well, shit in my pappa’s best pants!” she said. That one never made a lot of sense to me, even now, years later thinking about it.

“Hell yeah, soiled my momma’s lilly-white panties!” I yelled.

The bar went silent at that one.

The blonde stared at me, shrugged and handed me a shot of Patron. I fucking hated tequila, but I was broke and needed some booze to get to the next day. I tilted the glass to my lips and swallowed hard. I fought the urge to puke, which always came with tequila, and slammed the shot glass on the bar.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said to the blonde.

She smiled and touched my shoulders. I fought the urge to recoil. It was my instinct. Always has been.

“How about a beer for the fella,” she said to the barkeep. He looked at me, then at her, then back at me.

“You sure Alexis?” he asked her, looking straight at me. “This guy showed up here four hours ago asking about a redhead named Samantha.”

“Who is Samantha?” the blonde asked, pouting her lips just enough to make me want to do bad things to her.

“My ex,” I replied.

“Oh, you have kids together?”

“Not really.”

“What’s that mean.”

“Well, she got pregnant, that’s about it.”

Alexis didn’t know how to respond. She was 20 going on 40 but didn’t have a bit of common sense. I was happy for her. She was blissfully ignorant of the life of the mind.

I used to have conversations with my sister about how lucky those kinds of people were. So easy for them to face each day with such low expectations. Get up. Go to work. Go to church. Eat. Sleep. Fuck. And die.

Me, I wanted to find out the meaning of life, when fuck all, there was no meaning of life except to find someone who loved you and love them back.

I thought Samantha was that lady. But she wasn’t. We still loved each other. Too much most folk said. But we didn’t like each other enough to let it happen again. Or the first time, really.

I looked at Alexis and started dreaming of living in a trailer outside of Galveston with her. Maybe start my own little “Five Easy Pieces” life. But there I go again. That one didn’t end with the guy loving the girl and living happily ever after either.

Or did it?

I’m the guy who thinks Hemingway wrote the greatest love story of all time with “The Sun Also Rises.” But what the fuck do I know?

“I don’t know? What do you know mister?” Alexis asked me.

“Huh?” I said, stunned that I must have been muttering out loud again.

“You asked me what the fuck do I know? But I think you weren’t talking to me. But you.”

“You’re all right Alexis,” I said with a smile and a chug of beer.

“You too sir.”

“Why you calling me sir?”

“Because my daddy always said to treat a man with respect. Until you have a reason to not.”

“We’ll work on that one,” I said smiling.

“Huh?” she said. I hoped she was being coy. She wasn’t.

“Another round, bar man!” I sighed.

“We’re gonna be all right,” Alexis said to me and to no one.

“Always, hun,” I said.

“You got a quarter for the records?”

“They got 45s in that thing?”

“Hecks yeah, they do! Best jukebox in this part of Texas.”

I thought to myself that wouldn’t take much.

“What do you want to hear?” she asked.

“If they got the Kinks, play that.”

She frowned before skipping over to the jukebox. It was an old one. Had a Rod Stewart “Do You Think I’m Sexy?” 45 cover as a teaser.

The first bars of David Watts began playing. Alexis skipped back over.

“This is for you, sir,” she said.

“Well, hun, you chose wisely. Let’s dance.”

Three days later, I needed Bob Barker’s help more than ever.

spontaneity

Sitting around the house, decorating for Christmas, the David Lee Roth video for “Goin' Crazy” pops into my head.

“Ahhh…breath mint.”

This is the world I live in. I inhabit.

Not always such a horrible place, I guess. Insanity would pale in comparison sometimes. At others it would be an improvement. But most of the times it would just be another excuse for not trying. And that just can’t happen any more.

Being spontaneous. It can’t be forced. Hence spontaneity.

So I jumped up in my shorts and soccer socks and dashed outside. The old crowd is gathering at the bar across the street. The shag bar. Is there such a thing as a Shag Christmas, I start to wonder as I stand out in the frigid air. The wind is blowing in from the ocean, making it feel 10 degrees cooler than it actually is. A couple is making out by their car. They stop to stare at me -- the guy in shorts and soccer socks. I feel the top of my head, I have a ski cap on. The one I bought at Mardi Gras last year. Saints. It’s much warmer than the other ones I have. And bigger. Might be the fact I haven’t washed and dried it yet. I take it off my head, give it a whiff. It has a slight odor of stale beer. That makes me think of standing on a ladder during a parade. Holding up a couple of kids. Drew Brees glides toward us in his float. It stops in front of us. He tosses 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 footballs directly at us. My cousin-in-law drops all of them. After six or seven minutes, the floats moves on again. That’s a pretty good memory.

I try to think of other memories. Just random snapshots. It should help keep my warm. There was the time I went to the Grand Canyon with Rebecca. We got in my Firebird and just drove. No reservations. It was summer. We talked nervously. I had bought a box of condoms for the trip. Actually the first time I’d bought them in my life. Ha. In the drug store I bought a magazine and a box of Slim Jims with it. Can’t ever just go in and buy condoms. At least the first time. Dork. We went to the Grand Canyon. She took photos. I didn’t. I wish I had now. Even though I’ve been back there many times over. The first time with Josh, way back when. We get one of those cheesy, haven’t been renovated since the 1960s hotel rooms that Flagstaff is so full of. It was over 100 bucks, I remember that. We went and bought beer and wine coolers. I don’t think we drank any of them. We nervously talked some more. Then turned on the TV. And fell asleep.

Seeing Barton Fink with Sharon. Ha. It was a date. Go to the library, check out a laserdisc. I suggested it. She looked interested at first, then bored. Later on, I took her to see The Hudsucker Proxy. She said it was awful. Ha. I loved it. “You know…For kids!” Not everything about her was so perfect.

Wandering about on campus. Happy and carefree. I don’t even know why. But we stopped and took a photo in front of the music hall or whatever it was on campus where the music classes were. It’s one of only two or three photos I know of that exist of me and my real first girlfriend. We’re smiling and happy. I dig that photo.

Walking around the Goodwill in Petersburg, Virginia, I was bored. It was summer, I remember that much. As I browsed the shelves, I stumbled upon some Christmas stuff. “Odd,” I thought. But there it was. “Santy”, the old plastic Santa Claus that we had growing up. Well, it’s still there. And my mom still busts it out, most of the time, at least. I snapped it up. It cost 99 cents. Probably the best 99 cents I ever spent at a thrift store. Why? It still makes me smile, even during the worst times. And there have been quite a lot of “worst” times since I found it.

We were in a hotel room in New Jersey. Probably an hour or so outside of the city. She was jumping up and down on her bed. Yes, we had two. She was so cute. So awesome. I wondered if she meant it when she said she hated it when friends try to be more than friends. Finally, she tired out and plopped down on the bed. “Where are we going?” she asked. I smiled. In the office, I always dared her to be more spontaneous. That enjoying life required it. She scoffed at the idea. She liked things safe. Planned out. Orderly. I didn’t. Still don’t. Then, one day I said it, almost as a challenge. She accepted. Saying “I’ll do anything you want. Just one time. I’ll trust you.” I smiled and said, well, next week we’re both off on these days. Let’s take a road trip. “Where?” she said. “Not telling,” I replied. “No fair, I said I’d go,” she pouted. “But, you have to trust me,” I retorted. “OK.”

Now, I was kind of perplexed. I had a week to figure out something cool. And I figured it out really quickly as I scanned the agate page that night on deadline. Opening day. New York Mets. Al Leiter pitching. That night, after work, I went to eBay. I found some tickets. I bid and won. They were nose bleeders, but they were mine. Got them shipped next day Fed Express. They came. A few days later, we were in my Celica, going North.

“Ok,” I finally relented in the hotel room. “So you don’t think I’m just a weirdo, we’re going to see the Mets. Al’s pitching.” She freaked out. Jumping even faster than before. It was magical. It seemed right. We didn’t start dating for another four months. After trips to North Carolina, South Carolina, Atlantic City and Colorado. I wonder, too often for my own health, if she at least kept that piece of what I showed her. That spontaneity is a good thing. I need to go somewhere. Soon. I think Little Rock, Arkansas, is where. It’s driveable. Only need five days total. That’s two days off. Two sick days and a holiday.

Ha. Of course, then it’s not spontaneous anymore. Or is it?