Years of sitting on a barstool, from Virginia to Arizona to Louisiana to North Carolina to Florida and back to many of those places again hasn’t eased the loneliness one bit.
Friends always tell you that time heals all wounds. I have a tough time with that. Yes, it dulls the ache of the pain. But heal it? Fuck no. It’s why someone holds on to a picture of the past. To remember the good, but also to feel the pain.
Why? Because feeling is better than not feeling.
A cutter will slice up their legs or arms or torso just to feel something. Maybe it’s to feel something different than loneliness or sadness or rejection.
But then you start to wonder if you’re a borderline personality disorder candidate…
I walked into a new bar today, hoping that something new would kindle something good. The place was called Archie’s. Seemed to be a decent joint. Folks were still smoking inside and out. The beer selection was horrible, but cheap. The jukebox was a cd player behind the bar, which the barkeep – not named Archie by the way – would let you put your own discs in. “Unless it’s fucking Slipknot. I will slit your throat if you try to play Slipknot in my God damn bar!” he told any customer who wanted to insert a cd, including me the first time I tried.
As that may tell, this bar became a favorite spot for me.
Not because it was great, because it was far from great – with great being Quentin Tarantino’s bar in the movie “Death Proof” or what I imagine the Whitewater Tavern in Little Rock, Arkansas to be like – but instead because it didn’t have a history with me.
It was in Ryland Heights, Kentucky. Not too far from Cincinnati or Lexington. And if one was in an adventurous mood in the winter – Indianapolis.
This was a town I’d never been to. Never heard of. And that was perfection.
At 41 years old and single, I figured I wouldn’t have too many suitors to fend off. Probably as many as publishers begging for me to write the next great work of American prose.
So that July afternoon when I walked in to Archie’s it never dawned on me that I’d end up spending most of my days and nights there for the next six months. Of course, it never dawned on me that I wouldn’t. A new way of looking at life, I’d tried to take up after quitting my copy editing job in North Carolina on a whim one early summer night.
The cast of regulars in Archie’s was all right with me.
There was Mona. A 47 year old mother of six whose husband was a state trooper. She was blonde and had fake tits. Liked to drink Mimosas on a good day and Vodka on the rocks on a bad one. Lately, the goods had outnumbered the bad.
There was Steven. A 25 year old former minor league baseball catcher. He was in a bus crash that claimed the lives of all the other 24 players on his Double-A team, all the coaches, trainers and media folks as well. He played one more season – hitting .111 in 135 games at Triple-A before quitting. He was still dogged by old coaches and scouts who wanted his former second-round talent back in the game.
Then there was Manning. I never figured out whether it was his first or last name, and never really cared. I asked once, and was told it was because he looked like Archie Manning the quarterback. This guy was about 40, drank only Miller Lite from a can, poured into a pint glass, and ate Kit Kat bars. He loved The Who, hated Hank Williams Jr., and wanted to one day go to a Utah Jazz basketball game.
Finally, Cora and her dog Rexington. Cora was a 29 year old former stripper who had half of her body tattooed and the other half blank. On purpose. And Rexington was her chocolate Labrador retriever who liked to fetch beer cans that we all tried to throw through an old Nerf basketball hoop located above a cut out of Rush Limbaugh’s mouth. Rex loved to lick the beer off of old Rush’s face every time as well.
I didn’t know these folks outside of Archie’s. Even though I ended up renting a double-wide just a little over two miles away, near the Waffle House and Circle K. I figured as long as the royalty checks kept coming from my one successful short story anthology, I’d keep shopping and eating and drinking at these three places.
And none of these new friends knew a thing about her.
Showing posts with label 790 words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 790 words. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Saturday, September 24, 2011
whiskey talk
I woke up this morning and my teeth and gums were throbbing.
I brushed them and they felt better. So I grabbed my bottle of Jameson, a small glass and a bucket of ice and headed to the porch. It was raining outside, just like it had been raining when I went to bed 11 hours ago. Pouring the whiskey into the glass, I admired the color. I didn’t bother with the ice, this time, as I just finished it off quickly. The day was starting off better than the one before.
A beautiful girl strolled by on her way to the beach. Yellow bikini on, towel draped across her shoulders. She couldn’t be more than 22 years old. I smiled my broken teeth grin as she moseyed on by. She awkwardly looked away when she saw me. Not at all a surprising reaction. As she continued her saunter to the beach, I continued to admire her. Not so much leering at her as appreciating her beauty. I knew I’d never see her again, so I had to remember the moment. Her black flip flops made a soothing sound that quickly was drowned out by the ocean waves.
I poured another glass of whiskey, this time plopping two ice cubes in. The fall heat wasn’t nearly as oppressive as the summer version, but the humidity was wicked today. A tropical wave was stuck on the coast and delivering constant rain and constant pain to my sinuses. Which helped the teeth to hurt a little bit more as well.
The best advice I ever got from a movie was from Wyatt Earp. Of course, it’s advice I never listened to. “Take care of them, they cannot be replaced.”
A chuckle comes up from my gullet and I let it come out, audibly. A pair of tourists are unloading their car across the street. They look at me, then quickly grab their bags and assorted beach wear. A full laugh comes out right before they hit the “beep, beep” of their car alarm.
Off in the distance a giant thundercloud is building. It’s going to be a short day at the beach for these folks today.
A short swig fills my throat with a nice burn. I look at my toes. They’re small and perfectly symmetrical. I was told that by the last girl who saw them. She admired them for that. Her feet weren’t anything special. An ant craws across my left foot. I stare at it. Hoping it will just continue on. But, it bites, so I squish it between my fingers. Another piece of God’s grand plan destroyed by man. The more I think about it, the more I think we’re not built in His image. Instead, it’s the squirrels or the birds. They just watch us with disdain. And laugh at us believing we are them.
Another swig of whiskey and glass No. 2 is done. I pour the third. One piece of ice will suffice. I put my finger in the glass and then dab it on my gums. I’m like a mother treating her baby. I laugh again.
My notepad is sitting on a milk crate beside me. I pick it up and try to write down some words:
“Agony isn’t ecstasy.”
“The girl with the yellow bikini. She walks so nicely. It makes me wonder what it would be like to be 22 again. Then I remember how my 22nd year was spent. In a one-room studio apartment. No car. Making $4.25 an hour as a cashier. Chasing after a lesbian who took pity on me and talked anyway. Meeting the first girl whose heart I would break. Starting to build my mountain of debt. Yeah, those were the days.”
“Slipping into drunk at noon. It’s not madness. It’s not greatness. It’s just drunkenness.”
“I won the lottery once. A three-dollar prize. I don’t play the lottery much anymore.”
“When you eat cheese, you poop cheese later.”
“Lost in all of this madness is the thought of one day being happy.”
“Scream for me Long Beach! Scream for me Long Beach!”
“Do you know why we love to play California? Do you know why? Because you people, you really know how to party!”
I know it’s time to stop when I’m just writing down the in between song banter of heavy metal singers. While those albums are vital pieces of my adolescence and teen years and beyond, the importance of writing them down is simply non-existent.
Don’t try. Try. Don’t give up. Give up. Sleep. Wake. Eat. Starve.
I finish off drink No. 3 and look at the bottle. It’s half full. Ha! There I go, being an optimist today. Must be the whiskey talking.
I brushed them and they felt better. So I grabbed my bottle of Jameson, a small glass and a bucket of ice and headed to the porch. It was raining outside, just like it had been raining when I went to bed 11 hours ago. Pouring the whiskey into the glass, I admired the color. I didn’t bother with the ice, this time, as I just finished it off quickly. The day was starting off better than the one before.
A beautiful girl strolled by on her way to the beach. Yellow bikini on, towel draped across her shoulders. She couldn’t be more than 22 years old. I smiled my broken teeth grin as she moseyed on by. She awkwardly looked away when she saw me. Not at all a surprising reaction. As she continued her saunter to the beach, I continued to admire her. Not so much leering at her as appreciating her beauty. I knew I’d never see her again, so I had to remember the moment. Her black flip flops made a soothing sound that quickly was drowned out by the ocean waves.
I poured another glass of whiskey, this time plopping two ice cubes in. The fall heat wasn’t nearly as oppressive as the summer version, but the humidity was wicked today. A tropical wave was stuck on the coast and delivering constant rain and constant pain to my sinuses. Which helped the teeth to hurt a little bit more as well.
The best advice I ever got from a movie was from Wyatt Earp. Of course, it’s advice I never listened to. “Take care of them, they cannot be replaced.”
A chuckle comes up from my gullet and I let it come out, audibly. A pair of tourists are unloading their car across the street. They look at me, then quickly grab their bags and assorted beach wear. A full laugh comes out right before they hit the “beep, beep” of their car alarm.
Off in the distance a giant thundercloud is building. It’s going to be a short day at the beach for these folks today.
A short swig fills my throat with a nice burn. I look at my toes. They’re small and perfectly symmetrical. I was told that by the last girl who saw them. She admired them for that. Her feet weren’t anything special. An ant craws across my left foot. I stare at it. Hoping it will just continue on. But, it bites, so I squish it between my fingers. Another piece of God’s grand plan destroyed by man. The more I think about it, the more I think we’re not built in His image. Instead, it’s the squirrels or the birds. They just watch us with disdain. And laugh at us believing we are them.
Another swig of whiskey and glass No. 2 is done. I pour the third. One piece of ice will suffice. I put my finger in the glass and then dab it on my gums. I’m like a mother treating her baby. I laugh again.
My notepad is sitting on a milk crate beside me. I pick it up and try to write down some words:
“Agony isn’t ecstasy.”
“The girl with the yellow bikini. She walks so nicely. It makes me wonder what it would be like to be 22 again. Then I remember how my 22nd year was spent. In a one-room studio apartment. No car. Making $4.25 an hour as a cashier. Chasing after a lesbian who took pity on me and talked anyway. Meeting the first girl whose heart I would break. Starting to build my mountain of debt. Yeah, those were the days.”
“Slipping into drunk at noon. It’s not madness. It’s not greatness. It’s just drunkenness.”
“I won the lottery once. A three-dollar prize. I don’t play the lottery much anymore.”
“When you eat cheese, you poop cheese later.”
“Lost in all of this madness is the thought of one day being happy.”
“Scream for me Long Beach! Scream for me Long Beach!”
“Do you know why we love to play California? Do you know why? Because you people, you really know how to party!”
I know it’s time to stop when I’m just writing down the in between song banter of heavy metal singers. While those albums are vital pieces of my adolescence and teen years and beyond, the importance of writing them down is simply non-existent.
Don’t try. Try. Don’t give up. Give up. Sleep. Wake. Eat. Starve.
I finish off drink No. 3 and look at the bottle. It’s half full. Ha! There I go, being an optimist today. Must be the whiskey talking.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Miss January, 1972
Driving along, I stare at the sand. Out here, it’s everywhere. It is a desert after all.
On the radio, Lucha Reyes belts out “Guadalajara”. I stare at the sand some more. The landscapes out here are beautiful. I’d forgotten how much. I left the desert in 1998. Didn’t go back again until 2005. Now, I’m watching it go by again. I’m only stopping for gas and food. Gas and food. Not that I have somewhere to be. I just haven’t figured out if I want to go someplace at all.
The song ends. A commercial starts. I switch the channel. It’s on the AM dial. So it just keeps moving. Until it stops. On a discussion.
“Why the hell did Orson Welles have Charlton Heston play a Mexican in “Touch of Evil”?” the voice asked.
The other voice, a woman’s said simply “Well. Hollywood in the late 1950s would not have let Janet Leigh be married to a Mexican! So, they said “we’ll put Moses in Mexican face!”
Seemed to be about right to me. Well, historically, at least. And I didn’t want to listen anymore. Click.
The next station my radio found was playing something straight out of the “Three Little Bops” Looney Tunes cartoon. I leave it as it brings a smile to my face. A rarity of late. I start to play along with my fingers on the dashboard of my car, a la, John Candy in “Planes, Trains and Automobiles.”
The song ends. Another commercial. I stare at the sand some more.
I start to wonder what the hell I’m doing driving in the middle of Arizona staring at sand. I pull off to the side of the road. I want to walk in the sand. I take off my shoes. I get out of my car. I walk to the west. Immediately, there’s an obstacle -- barbed wire fence. I slowly work my way over it. I guess I’m trespassing now.
The sand isn’t like that on a Florida beach. First of all, there’s no Gulf of Mexico to look at. Just buttes and plains and a couple of cacti. I was always disappointed with the lack of cacti when I lived in Arizona. Except in certain places. But most of them in the high-cacti density kinds of places were shot by idiots and their guns or ruined by exhaust fumes.
And when you actually get out and walk around, barefoot, you realize there isn’t really sand in the desert here. It’s just dirt. Hot dirt. With lots of twigs. Lots of burrs. Lots of other things.
I find an old can. It’s rusted and brittle. I kick it. It mostly falls apart.
In an old river bed, well, old in the fact that it’s been there for a long time, I see an old car. A Mustang. Probably from 1974 or ‘75. Whichever year they started screwing with the design. What I would call the downfall of a great car. But I’m sure there are fans of those versions too.
I look inside. It’s still a beautiful car without any upholstery. The radio, shockingly, is still in the dash. I marvel at that for a moment. Think about how unlikely that is. About as unlikely as me walking around out here on a spring day without any shoes on. Not the brightest of ideas, but I’m not a light bulb.
The walkabout continues. I kind of wish my buddy John was here with me. He’d dig the strangeness of it all.
I come upon an old travel trailer. It has no tires. It has no door. I look inside. On the wall is a painting of a Playboy centerfold. Miss March 1972. A perfect reproduction of the magazine spread. Some one really had a thing for that gal. Even did the info part.
“Marilyn Cole. Miss January. 1972,” it read.
“36-24-35. 5-feet, 8-inches. 119 pounds. Born May 7, 1949. Portsmouth, England”
“Pretty thorough,” I think to myself. “But no turn-ons and turn-offs.”
She’s standing in front of books. Holding one even. I look a little closer. Why? Because I’m in the middle of the desert staring at a life-sized painting of a Playboy centerfold on the wall of a travel trailer, that’s why. The painting is very life-like. Her hair is brown, with beautiful 1970s waves. She also has blonde hairs on her belly. Something they’d airbrush away nowadays. Not then. Beauty shone through.
I take a mental picture. This is one to remember.
The sun is starting to go down. It’ll be dark soon. I turn around, got to go back to my car. Got to drive some more. Stare at the sand some more. Think about everything and nothing. Some more.
On the radio, Lucha Reyes belts out “Guadalajara”. I stare at the sand some more. The landscapes out here are beautiful. I’d forgotten how much. I left the desert in 1998. Didn’t go back again until 2005. Now, I’m watching it go by again. I’m only stopping for gas and food. Gas and food. Not that I have somewhere to be. I just haven’t figured out if I want to go someplace at all.
The song ends. A commercial starts. I switch the channel. It’s on the AM dial. So it just keeps moving. Until it stops. On a discussion.
“Why the hell did Orson Welles have Charlton Heston play a Mexican in “Touch of Evil”?” the voice asked.
The other voice, a woman’s said simply “Well. Hollywood in the late 1950s would not have let Janet Leigh be married to a Mexican! So, they said “we’ll put Moses in Mexican face!”
Seemed to be about right to me. Well, historically, at least. And I didn’t want to listen anymore. Click.
The next station my radio found was playing something straight out of the “Three Little Bops” Looney Tunes cartoon. I leave it as it brings a smile to my face. A rarity of late. I start to play along with my fingers on the dashboard of my car, a la, John Candy in “Planes, Trains and Automobiles.”
The song ends. Another commercial. I stare at the sand some more.
I start to wonder what the hell I’m doing driving in the middle of Arizona staring at sand. I pull off to the side of the road. I want to walk in the sand. I take off my shoes. I get out of my car. I walk to the west. Immediately, there’s an obstacle -- barbed wire fence. I slowly work my way over it. I guess I’m trespassing now.
The sand isn’t like that on a Florida beach. First of all, there’s no Gulf of Mexico to look at. Just buttes and plains and a couple of cacti. I was always disappointed with the lack of cacti when I lived in Arizona. Except in certain places. But most of them in the high-cacti density kinds of places were shot by idiots and their guns or ruined by exhaust fumes.
And when you actually get out and walk around, barefoot, you realize there isn’t really sand in the desert here. It’s just dirt. Hot dirt. With lots of twigs. Lots of burrs. Lots of other things.
I find an old can. It’s rusted and brittle. I kick it. It mostly falls apart.
In an old river bed, well, old in the fact that it’s been there for a long time, I see an old car. A Mustang. Probably from 1974 or ‘75. Whichever year they started screwing with the design. What I would call the downfall of a great car. But I’m sure there are fans of those versions too.
I look inside. It’s still a beautiful car without any upholstery. The radio, shockingly, is still in the dash. I marvel at that for a moment. Think about how unlikely that is. About as unlikely as me walking around out here on a spring day without any shoes on. Not the brightest of ideas, but I’m not a light bulb.
The walkabout continues. I kind of wish my buddy John was here with me. He’d dig the strangeness of it all.
I come upon an old travel trailer. It has no tires. It has no door. I look inside. On the wall is a painting of a Playboy centerfold. Miss March 1972. A perfect reproduction of the magazine spread. Some one really had a thing for that gal. Even did the info part.
“Marilyn Cole. Miss January. 1972,” it read.
“36-24-35. 5-feet, 8-inches. 119 pounds. Born May 7, 1949. Portsmouth, England”
“Pretty thorough,” I think to myself. “But no turn-ons and turn-offs.”
She’s standing in front of books. Holding one even. I look a little closer. Why? Because I’m in the middle of the desert staring at a life-sized painting of a Playboy centerfold on the wall of a travel trailer, that’s why. The painting is very life-like. Her hair is brown, with beautiful 1970s waves. She also has blonde hairs on her belly. Something they’d airbrush away nowadays. Not then. Beauty shone through.
I take a mental picture. This is one to remember.
The sun is starting to go down. It’ll be dark soon. I turn around, got to go back to my car. Got to drive some more. Stare at the sand some more. Think about everything and nothing. Some more.
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