“Does anyone really even like T.Rex?” she said with a shrug.
“I fucking love T. Rex,” I thought to myself sitting there watching this 20-something gal pontificate on the importance of Marc Bolan’s output. While T.Rex certainly deserves some love, I wish someone would take “The Slider” off of repeat in this bar.
“OK, life is too damn short,” she said. “For anyone to be forced to listen to this shit while drinking this shit,” she mockingly points at her empty bottle of Miller Lite.
I could fall in love with this gal. If only I wasn’t already in love with another. I turned away before I either fell too hard, or she saw me staring. And with that short dress of red, who wouldn’t stare?
“Hey kid?” Manny asked. “What do you think of T.Rex?”
“Fucking asshole,” I thought to myself. He knows damn well that I always look at Darby when she’s in there. Always thinking about her legs, her eyes and her damn ability to make me fucking nervous and nuts.
“You know, Manny, I was born to boogie,” was all I could muster.
She laughed. I tipped my bottle of Shiner Bock in her direction and thought I’d instantly regret it. But I didn’t. She looked me up, then down, then turned back to her friend – and my friend – Alexander Rifken.
Yeah, everyone called him Alex, except for me. I used his whole name. One day he got up on a bar stool and proclaimed that his name was no longer Alexander, it was just Alex. But me, Manny and Darby were all grandfathered. We could still call him Alex.
Fucking great guy Alex. Don’t have much use for Alexander.
I didn’t sleep much last night. The kid kept me up. He cries a lot. Hell, I cry a lot. I hope he didn’t get that from watching me. Although we do watch each other a whole bunch. He seems to sleep better when I’m typing. So, my writing, while not improving or really going anywheres, has become prolific.
Last night I wrote a line that seemed so silly, so dumb I had to read it to him. After I was done, he smiled. And I cried. Fucker looks like her. Not that it’s his fault. Hell, he’s lucky he doesn’t look like me. That’s a fucking curse.
Yesterday I got a check in the mail from the government. They keep sending ‘em, so I keep cashing them. My lawyer, well, the guy I met one night at Manny’s who is a lawyer and gives free advice to those who continuously buy him shots of Jager, told me that one day they’d either stop coming or a letter would show up telling me to pay it all back. Well, it’s been sixteen months and neither of those things has happened yet. So, I’m not going to try and fix the glitch. Instead, I’m going to stay gainfully unemployed and write. One day I may actually try to send something to someone who doesn’t think I’m talented or cute or humble or family. Someone who didn’t break my heart so I broke it right back. Anyone who’d keep coming back after I pissed ‘em off for the 100th time. Or the first time. Never the last time.
There are days when the words flow. There are nights when I wish they didn’t.
Today wasn’t one of those days. I tried to put myself back in the place I was before it happened. Before she went away. For good. Those days I went to a job that I hated. A place where I worked for maybe an hour a day, but had to stay there for eight. The people either smelled bad or had given up. A couple tried to pretend they hadn’t yet, but their faces and their bellies told a different story. I guess it happens. It happened to me. That’s why I stayed there so god damned long. Just existing. Waiting for the next thing to happen. And it did. Completely unexpectedly. Completely not on purpose. Excactly the way it should happen. Exactly the way I always tell other love-lorned morons.
If you look for something, you won’t find it.
Eh, bullshit.
If you watch a fucking pot, it will boil. It will take exactly the same amount of time to boil as it did last time.
All that shit, it’s a lie. Just fucking live your life the way you want to. If you want to sit in your room and never come out to say hello to your roommates, fucking do it.
If you want to steal. Rob.
If you want to Rob, fucking Halford.
But god damn it, if you want to write … just stop. The world doesn’t need another one.
Showing posts with label 800 words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 800 words. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Las Cruces
“Can you show me a dream that’s better than mine?” she asked over a whiskey and ginger on a cold spring afternoon in Las Cruces.
This caught me by surprise. She and I had never bothered to talk about such things as hopes, dreams and aspirations. It has always been silly nonsense and making fun of people. I liked the way this could evolve, because honestly, I was growing tired of being nonsensical all the time.
I stared at her sitting there, staring out the window of this shitty bar in the middle of town. We’d never been to Las Cruces before, and judging by what we’re doing now, we probably won’t come back any time soon.
She’s got long brown hair. It used to be short. She cut it one day in a fit of rage. Not mad at me so much as mad with me. Her hands are big. Well, compared to mine they are, but I have small hands.
No makeup today. We got up from our hotel with 5 minutes to check out. So, no shower for me. No makeup for her. The maid was listening to Keith Urban when she knocked on our door at 12:01 p.m. We opened the door and danced out into the hallway.
“I look a mess,” she said.
“Not possible,” I replied with a bow and a kiss on the right hand.
We stumble into the front desk area, holding hands like school kids and skipping about. An elderly couple looks at us. The man frowns. The woman smiles.
“That’s us in 50 years,” I say.
“You think?” she replies, skipping out into the parking lot.
I pay the bill. Grab a copy of the local paper. It’s about 8 pages thick. Bad times even in Las Cruces.
She’s standing by my car now. It’s a beat up Dodge Colt that we picked up for $350 before leaving Phoenix. The object of the contest was to keep driving until it died. And that’s where we’d settle in for a while.
We get in. The engine grinds to life. The radio plays a Radiohead song. I groan. She squeals. The car goes into reverse, I peel out of the parking space, shift her into second -- “no first gear anymore” the guy selling the car told me -- and into traffic.
Before I knew it, she was telling me to pull into this little diner. “It’s got a great view!” she said excitedly.
I looked around. It did have a great view. Of a vacant lot where a building used to be. It was scarred and overgrown with dried up grass and weeds. Someone had left an old ice box in the middle of it. Old as in the big boxy ones with giant handles on them that you have to sling up and pull hard to get them to open. Bet it would still keep stuff cool.
We sit down, order and just stare. Me at her. Her at the view. This is heaven, I think. I wonder what she’s thinking.
“Honey, what is your dream?”
She looked at me with a slight grin. I’d asked the right question, I believed, but maybe at the wrong moment.
“Two kids, a house in the country and a dog,” she said.
“Name?”
“Whatever you like.”
Moments come, and moments go. This moment came and went. Not too long after it, we went as well. There was no moment of “it’s over!” We didn’t drift apart because of jobs or physical distance. Instead, one day we had sex, went to get some pancakes and looked at each other and knew it was over.
It was sad, yeah, but it was nice. I’d like to think that one day we might meet up again. Say hello. Then fall in love all over again. It’s possible I guess. But in this day and age, a lot less likely.
Why? We’re friends on the internet. We still know what’s going on in each other’s -- separate -- lives. Her more than me, since I know I’ve become a bit of an open book to people who shouldn’t have a card to my library. At least not the 24-hour one.
But we don’t talk. We don’t say “hey, how are you doing?” We wish each other happy birthday. Merry Christmas. Nothing else really. Well, when we move we say “hey, here’s my new address!” but we don’t write each other.
Nobody writes anymore. I wonder when the pencil and pen factories will go out of business? It’s got to come, right? Just like the end of the newspaper. Sure, there will still be one here or there, but not everywhere.
But the moment, you can’t take that away. Unless you forget about it. And I never will.
This caught me by surprise. She and I had never bothered to talk about such things as hopes, dreams and aspirations. It has always been silly nonsense and making fun of people. I liked the way this could evolve, because honestly, I was growing tired of being nonsensical all the time.
I stared at her sitting there, staring out the window of this shitty bar in the middle of town. We’d never been to Las Cruces before, and judging by what we’re doing now, we probably won’t come back any time soon.
She’s got long brown hair. It used to be short. She cut it one day in a fit of rage. Not mad at me so much as mad with me. Her hands are big. Well, compared to mine they are, but I have small hands.
No makeup today. We got up from our hotel with 5 minutes to check out. So, no shower for me. No makeup for her. The maid was listening to Keith Urban when she knocked on our door at 12:01 p.m. We opened the door and danced out into the hallway.
“I look a mess,” she said.
“Not possible,” I replied with a bow and a kiss on the right hand.
We stumble into the front desk area, holding hands like school kids and skipping about. An elderly couple looks at us. The man frowns. The woman smiles.
“That’s us in 50 years,” I say.
“You think?” she replies, skipping out into the parking lot.
I pay the bill. Grab a copy of the local paper. It’s about 8 pages thick. Bad times even in Las Cruces.
She’s standing by my car now. It’s a beat up Dodge Colt that we picked up for $350 before leaving Phoenix. The object of the contest was to keep driving until it died. And that’s where we’d settle in for a while.
We get in. The engine grinds to life. The radio plays a Radiohead song. I groan. She squeals. The car goes into reverse, I peel out of the parking space, shift her into second -- “no first gear anymore” the guy selling the car told me -- and into traffic.
Before I knew it, she was telling me to pull into this little diner. “It’s got a great view!” she said excitedly.
I looked around. It did have a great view. Of a vacant lot where a building used to be. It was scarred and overgrown with dried up grass and weeds. Someone had left an old ice box in the middle of it. Old as in the big boxy ones with giant handles on them that you have to sling up and pull hard to get them to open. Bet it would still keep stuff cool.
We sit down, order and just stare. Me at her. Her at the view. This is heaven, I think. I wonder what she’s thinking.
“Honey, what is your dream?”
She looked at me with a slight grin. I’d asked the right question, I believed, but maybe at the wrong moment.
“Two kids, a house in the country and a dog,” she said.
“Name?”
“Whatever you like.”
Moments come, and moments go. This moment came and went. Not too long after it, we went as well. There was no moment of “it’s over!” We didn’t drift apart because of jobs or physical distance. Instead, one day we had sex, went to get some pancakes and looked at each other and knew it was over.
It was sad, yeah, but it was nice. I’d like to think that one day we might meet up again. Say hello. Then fall in love all over again. It’s possible I guess. But in this day and age, a lot less likely.
Why? We’re friends on the internet. We still know what’s going on in each other’s -- separate -- lives. Her more than me, since I know I’ve become a bit of an open book to people who shouldn’t have a card to my library. At least not the 24-hour one.
But we don’t talk. We don’t say “hey, how are you doing?” We wish each other happy birthday. Merry Christmas. Nothing else really. Well, when we move we say “hey, here’s my new address!” but we don’t write each other.
Nobody writes anymore. I wonder when the pencil and pen factories will go out of business? It’s got to come, right? Just like the end of the newspaper. Sure, there will still be one here or there, but not everywhere.
But the moment, you can’t take that away. Unless you forget about it. And I never will.
Friday, December 3, 2010
the champagne of rap
Waking up in the morning and feeling a cold breeze in your face. Sounds like the slogan for a great campground somewhere in the middle of a sweltering heat wave, doesn’t it? Well, right now, that’s my life.
This house is strange. It has a ventilation system that allows the ocean breezes to flow into it. So, in the summer it pumps in hot, humid air. Now, as the 29 degree nights hit, it pumps cold air in.
As a paycheck to paycheck bum, this means lots of hot sweaty nights in the summer, and balled up under four blanket nights in the winter.
Taking a shower is painful. As is swallowing, since my throat is constantly sore.
Beats sleeping in the street however. So, I plod on without too many complaints. It is funny when I visit friends. They have their heat on constantly. I never can sleep. I just sweat. And my eyes, they burn from being so dried up. That’s why my year plus in a house in Arizona without air conditioning was so awesome.
It was hot as hell in summertime, especially that summer when it was over 120 for few days. But the winters, man, when it got cool, were just perfect.
Maybe I should go back to the desert? Don’t know what I’d do there. But hell, if the collapse comes harder, at least living in the streets wouldn’t be so bad. Of course, the collapse comes, you should be near family and friends. The kinds that let you sleep on their couches for six months.
***
Hodgepodge.
Woke up today wondering if my brain would work. It did. I didn’t.
Fly to the angels, the awful voice once sang to me, and you. If I heard it now, I’d claw my eyes out.
The lights flicker, even in the daylight. Seems to be an awful waste. Until you need to see it. And it’s there.
My dad admitted he suffered from depression the last time I saw him, drunk and despondent. He understands how I feel, he said.
Gargantuan gargoyles guard grimy gourds.
Free Fanta for foxes.
My monkey makes much more money.
Thunderous thanks take time.
Remote rabid rookies rank rifles’ ranges.
Trees take time. Love lingers longer, like Lassie licks.
Fucked, faked, flossed.
***
I’m a bear!
I scribbled that on a picnic table last week. It had a meaning when I did it. Now, I don’t remember.
Wish I did.
***
Forced to feed, the mother will hate the child.
Forced to eat, the child will hate the mother.
***
I walked into a bar last night in my dreams. Charles Bukowski was sitting with Joe Strummer at the bar. In a booth, Jim Varney and Stiv Bators were doing Jager Bombs. At the jukebox, Mickey Mantle was plopping in endless rolls of quarters to play “Centerfield.”
***
My possessions need to go.
I’m tired of all the crap.
It weighs me down.
“But it all is worth so much money.”
I keep telling myself.
Fucking excuses.
There are more of them on that bookshelf than books.
***
I met my hero once. He was drunk. So was I. Now I’m scared to talk to him.
***
Pascual Perez scared me as a kid. He was tall. He had a jheri curl. His eyes were sunk way too deep into his skull. And he was wearing only thermal underwear when he came out of the locker room.
I was 10.
This may have scarred me.
***
Why hasn’t man figured out a way to stop finger nails from growing so fast?
A pill will give you a hard on, but nothing can stop the growing of finger nails. Or ear hair. How about mapping those genes and applying them to the top of the head?
I need sleep.
***
Is overtime worth my time? It pays so little. But, I’ve got a shot at a full extra 10 hours the next two weeks. Gotta take it.
***
My mind is a mess. My face is old. My exes aren’t in Texas.
***
Procrastination. My kind of place.
***
Cum-soaked sheets.
Smell of crotch.
***
A girl walks by my window. I watch her slowly step away. Where is she going? Who is she? Why won’t you talk? You don’t love me. Good bye.
***
Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde’s “The Champagne of Rap” is either the best or worst rap album of all time.
Listen for yourselves and decide.
***
I’ve run out of meaningless drivel to type. Luckily for me, at this moment … I’ve typed 765 words so I can stop.
Some days, it doesn’t pay to get out of bed. Or the boat. Never get off the boat. “You’re God damned right, never get off the boat.”
This house is strange. It has a ventilation system that allows the ocean breezes to flow into it. So, in the summer it pumps in hot, humid air. Now, as the 29 degree nights hit, it pumps cold air in.
As a paycheck to paycheck bum, this means lots of hot sweaty nights in the summer, and balled up under four blanket nights in the winter.
Taking a shower is painful. As is swallowing, since my throat is constantly sore.
Beats sleeping in the street however. So, I plod on without too many complaints. It is funny when I visit friends. They have their heat on constantly. I never can sleep. I just sweat. And my eyes, they burn from being so dried up. That’s why my year plus in a house in Arizona without air conditioning was so awesome.
It was hot as hell in summertime, especially that summer when it was over 120 for few days. But the winters, man, when it got cool, were just perfect.
Maybe I should go back to the desert? Don’t know what I’d do there. But hell, if the collapse comes harder, at least living in the streets wouldn’t be so bad. Of course, the collapse comes, you should be near family and friends. The kinds that let you sleep on their couches for six months.
***
Hodgepodge.
Woke up today wondering if my brain would work. It did. I didn’t.
Fly to the angels, the awful voice once sang to me, and you. If I heard it now, I’d claw my eyes out.
The lights flicker, even in the daylight. Seems to be an awful waste. Until you need to see it. And it’s there.
My dad admitted he suffered from depression the last time I saw him, drunk and despondent. He understands how I feel, he said.
Gargantuan gargoyles guard grimy gourds.
Free Fanta for foxes.
My monkey makes much more money.
Thunderous thanks take time.
Remote rabid rookies rank rifles’ ranges.
Trees take time. Love lingers longer, like Lassie licks.
Fucked, faked, flossed.
***
I’m a bear!
I scribbled that on a picnic table last week. It had a meaning when I did it. Now, I don’t remember.
Wish I did.
***
Forced to feed, the mother will hate the child.
Forced to eat, the child will hate the mother.
***
I walked into a bar last night in my dreams. Charles Bukowski was sitting with Joe Strummer at the bar. In a booth, Jim Varney and Stiv Bators were doing Jager Bombs. At the jukebox, Mickey Mantle was plopping in endless rolls of quarters to play “Centerfield.”
***
My possessions need to go.
I’m tired of all the crap.
It weighs me down.
“But it all is worth so much money.”
I keep telling myself.
Fucking excuses.
There are more of them on that bookshelf than books.
***
I met my hero once. He was drunk. So was I. Now I’m scared to talk to him.
***
Pascual Perez scared me as a kid. He was tall. He had a jheri curl. His eyes were sunk way too deep into his skull. And he was wearing only thermal underwear when he came out of the locker room.
I was 10.
This may have scarred me.
***
Why hasn’t man figured out a way to stop finger nails from growing so fast?
A pill will give you a hard on, but nothing can stop the growing of finger nails. Or ear hair. How about mapping those genes and applying them to the top of the head?
I need sleep.
***
Is overtime worth my time? It pays so little. But, I’ve got a shot at a full extra 10 hours the next two weeks. Gotta take it.
***
My mind is a mess. My face is old. My exes aren’t in Texas.
***
Procrastination. My kind of place.
***
Cum-soaked sheets.
Smell of crotch.
***
A girl walks by my window. I watch her slowly step away. Where is she going? Who is she? Why won’t you talk? You don’t love me. Good bye.
***
Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde’s “The Champagne of Rap” is either the best or worst rap album of all time.
Listen for yourselves and decide.
***
I’ve run out of meaningless drivel to type. Luckily for me, at this moment … I’ve typed 765 words so I can stop.
Some days, it doesn’t pay to get out of bed. Or the boat. Never get off the boat. “You’re God damned right, never get off the boat.”
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