time, time, time, to, to, to, move, move, move

I stared at the words on the page. Phrases such as “man-to-man zone defense” and “only a vivid picture” dotted the text. It should amaze me that such a horrid worker of words has a job, but it doesn’t.

Once I was a writer for hire. A pen and a notepad always at hand.

Then one day I was cut loose. Deemed not economically viable. Like most, I wallowed in it for a little while. After that, I got off my butt and traveled. Spent months on the road, in planes, even on trains. It was the first extended vacation I’d ever had in my adult life – minus the New Orleans months. So, I partook.

After a while, I started to reconsider my goals. I decided to try and find a “new” career. One that would satisfy me and not be in an industry that’s fading away. It was fruitless. I got more rejection letters for jobs in the eight months or so of searching than I did when I was applying for internships as a college junior for the second time. But damn it if I didn’t persevere then. This time, I didn’t. I started applying for reporter and editor jobs again.

I got interview after interview. The first one, was at the beach. Near Nags Head, NC. Fucking perfect. I didn’t get the job. I did get a mileage check. First time for that.

Then it was a little town in North Carolina. Then a small town on the Tennessee/Virginia border. A shithole in Florida. A dungeon in Georgia. A weekend was spent in South Carolina and in North Carolina. About six and a half hours of driving between the two interviews. I wore the same suit. I wore the same shirt. I wore the same socks and shoes. I did change underwear.

I got offered all those jobs. And I turned all of them down. Except the last one.

I decided living at the beach was what I needed to do. Be alone for a bit. Don’t write newspaper stories, instead edit them. See how the other side lives. Also, get inside my head and do some cleaning.

Now, a little over two years later, I want to leave. Apathy is too high here. So high it hurts. Like altitude without the ear pops.

I see drunken leaders and timecard cheating editors. It’s sad.

I remember when everyone worked 50-60 hours and loved it. Now, you work 25 and try to skip out. I can’t bring myself to do it, but it’s tempting. And that’s why I know I have to leave.

Applying for jobs outside my “comfort zone” has been hard. I get no response from most. A canned response for most. A couple of almosts have kept me from going completely mad.

The road calls, I can’t answer it. Tied down right now. A house. A cat. Two dogs. I feel guilty for expressing that feeling, but it’s true. I won’t act on it. I know what’s important, even if it isn’t my sanity.

Some nights I want to drink myself into oblivion. Lucky for me, I can’t afford it.

The silence outside is upset by a lonely wailing cricket. Is he trying to get laid or does he want to be eaten by a spider? It’s a tossup, I believe.

“I need a love, to keep me happy,” Keith Richards sings. Hell, he’d know better than most. I need love too. It’s why I keep trying. If only I could figure out that whole garbage disposal that people so easily use.

“Cold, cold heart of mine

Just watch you cry

There wasn't much left to say

Nothing heartfelt anyway

So easy to just walk away
Tell me what that takes

Tell me what it takes
Cold, cold heart of mine

Just let it all die”

Lyrics. I put too much stock in them. That’s probably the most hated Lucero song, but the simple lyrics mean a lot to me. They make me feel less pain over what has happened in the past. Both to me, and by me.

If only I could move past the last bit of pain. It’s a hard one. I can’t get that look out of my head sometimes. And I don’t want to go through it again. It wouldn’t be possible to survive it. Oh course it would, physically, but not emotionally. And that’s what matters.

She’ll always be there for me. I know that. I want to be there for her. I’ve got to figure out how.

And I’ve got to figure out how to get out of this place.

Anyone want to open a taco wagon? Fuck, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Maybe my dad will open one with me. Guess I’d better make it a BBQ wagon. Or a BBQ Forerunner. …

Mobile.

My phone. It’s not much use to anyone, like me.

There was a time not too long ago when you could look at the received or missed call list -- I never erase any of them -- and the oldest call would be over nine months old. I tried once to wrap my mind around that. It really means that no one really ever calls me much.

My made calls list was pretty long. I don’t make a lot of calls, but I tend to make a hell of a lot more calls than I receive. Not really surprising.

***

I wonder what goes on in that bar across the street. All I see go in are old folk. But how much longer before they will be me instead of me watching? I have no idea. About either.

***

Summer has passed by. It always seems to take one big moment to push summer out. An event that ushers in fall.

I always kind of look at fall as death. It’s when the leaves die. That’s the only reason I feel that way.

***

How does a person cope with going to work, and not doing anything while they are there? I’ve never understood it.

My grandfather instilled that ethic in me. He didn’t miss a day of work in 40 years. They gave him a piece of paper and took his photo for the newspaper.

I was in the newspaper when I was five years old. A little kid eating ice cream.

***

The hotel next door is apparently open tonight. The seafood festival is in town. Folks are drinking. Hanging out with friends. Driving drunkenly about.

A cop drove by earlier. He looked a me standing in front of my house. I looked at him. A couple of drunks were leaving the bar, getting in their cars at the same time.

The cop kept looking at me.

***

It’s raining again. Five days in a row it rained a lot. This is the sixth day, I figure. Tomorrow it’s supposed to rain some more. If it goes on for 34 more days, does that mean someone should have been building a boat?

***

The rain plops down on the ground. A ground so saturated, I’m really surprised it’s not a river here too. The land is mostly sand, however, so it just soaks on through.

I use the words really and I guess, too much.

The dripping of the rain off of my roof is soothing. Except when it hit’s the aluminum can that someone left in my side yard. It’s a Milwaukee’s Best Ice can. I don’t want to pick it up. So I don’t. It just sits there.

One day, it will either be picked up, or it will blow away. That’s a given. Where it ends up from there is a mystery?

It may go to a landfill, rotting with egg shells and screen doors. It may go to a recycling place, where it’s eventually melted down and turned into something else. Or it may just sit in the side yard for decades, buried under weeds and garbage.

Maybe the asshole yelling “Hey!” outside will fall on it, and in doing so, cut his jugular?

This do happen like that every day.

***

I can’t think of any really good friend of mine, past or present, that isn’t married or in a long-term, committed relationship.

Except for two people. They’re both journalists, too.

No wonder I feel empty.

I hope they don’t feel the same way.

***

Am I still a fan of anything anymore?

I try to watch sports, but rarely get into them. I used to live and die when watching a game.

Now, about the only time I feel that excitement is standing in the audience at a Lucero show. That’s the one time I feel completely alive. Completely unselfaware.

That’s funny.

***

I haven’t bought a new suit since 1998.

Heck, I’ve never bought one. My mom bought it for me. For when I started interviewing for jobs.

I still wear that same blue suit.

It’s out of style.

It looks kind of raggedy

I’ve never bought a TV either. All of them have been hand-me-downs.

Same with microwaves, clock radios and MP3 players.

I finally bought my first car at the age of 39.

It didn’t make me feel “all grown up.”

It felt more like an anchor around my waist. Another reason to not be mobile.

How silly is that? Having a car, but not feeling mobile.

I still haven’t gone on a proper roadie in it. Been to DC. That really didn’t count.

I’ve got to take it to Arkansas. Or Memphis. Or New Orleans. Then it will be officially “my” car.

At least the Gator seems to like her.

She does need a name………