Jay Leno midget porn

It came down to this: Jay Leno or midget porn.

Smug jokes about people I don’t care about or some chick named Twiget.

Either choice could end the relationship that was just three dates old. But I didn’t have time to think about it. I made a decision, and God damn it, I was going to live with it. What else could I do?

“What the hell are you watching?” she asked as I pretended to not know she was standing behind me.

“It’s redhead midget porn…” I said as numbly as possible to create some kind of illusion that I didn’t actually type “redhead midget porn” into Google to see exactly what was on the screen of my 52 inch television.

“Weird,” she replied and walked into the kitchen. I heard her books slam against the cement floor, then the fridge opened. Some bottles clinked around and one opened with the pssssssssssst sound that I have heard more than any other in my lifetime.

She came back in the den. Took her boots off and plopped down on my ratty red futon mattress with me.

“Is this what’s in store for the next 50 years?” she said.

“Nah, I like this tranny named Bailey Jay a little more than Twiget the Midget,” I replied, taking a small swig of whiskey from my “Makin’ Bacon” glass.

“Nice glass,” she said, pointing.

“Found it at a thrift store a long time ago,” I said. “Was with a redhead. She won’t no midget though. She was normal sized.”

“What the fuck does normal sized mean,” she said, glaring back at me.

“You know, not a midget or playing in the WNBA,” was the best I could do. I took another swig of whiskey. It was a bottle I’d brought back from Ireland in 2011. My best friend from college took me with his wife overseas. They paid for 99 percent of the trip. I’m a deadbeat, but I’m a lucky fucking deadbeat I thought to myself as I watched some guy with an 8-inch penis fuck a three-foot, 4-inch midget.

“This is pretty good,” she said. “I wonder if it hurts?”

“Nah,” I said. “It’s no different than if it was a …” I honestly couldn’t think of anything to say. My dick wasn’t that big, and I’d never fucked a midget. So my frame of reference was slight.

“You were saying?” she asked, taking a long swig of Michelob.

“Don’t drink that!” I screamed, grabbing the bottle away. “It’s old.”

“How old?”

“It’s been in my fridge for about 3 years, I’d guess.”

“Eh, I’ve had worse,” she said, grabbing the bottle back. Some of it spilled on my table/trunk. An old Joe Strummer sticker got the worst of it. I cringed a little bit. She noticed.

“That trunk means a lot to ya, doesn’t it?”

“It’s been with me for a while,” I replied, trying not to look like it mattered.

“How long?”

“After I left New Orleans. So…about 14 years now.”

“You lived in New Orleans?”

“Just a short while. I should have never left New Orleans…”

“You should write that down,” she said.

“I have.”

“Don’t get testy with me.”

“Not testy, just sad. The past does that to me. I cling to it like the Spanish moss does to the trees or maybe how the Kudzu hugs everything around here.”

“Yeah, Kudzu sucks,” she said. She stared into my eyes. I didn’t want to look at her. I wasn’t ready to fall in love again. The worst part about getting your heart broken isn’t getting it broken, it’s falling in love again.  I reached for my notepad and wrote those words down. I had to. While I probably heard them before in some clichéd Americana song in some shitty dive bar in North Carolina or Richmond, Va., over the years, they sounded close enough to good that I figured I could re-write them some other way years later and maybe sound profound.

Not likely.

The notepads full of aimless starts at stories. The blogs full of inane ramblings. The scaps of paper, or receipts or napkins or even the backs of cigarette packs that I never smoked are full of endless words. Usually scribbled while drunk, but never while thinking about Bob Costas. He scares me. Looks too much like Ellen Degenerees. Or whatever.

She watched me put my notepad back under the couch. I left one there for just such moments. It had beer and some kind of peanut residue on it.

“What was that?” she said.

“Annoying habit I picked up from a buddy,” I said, finishing off her beer.

“Did you just write down something I said?”

“Nah.”

“You’re lying.”

“No I’m not. You haven’t moved me that much yet.”

“No?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you’re really smooth with the ladies, aren’t you?”

“Never.”

I am not a role model

I get scared when it’s easy.

That’s what the 27 year old kid said to me about writing the other day. He’s followed too many of my paths in life, but he seems to keep coming out of it on the right side. Smart kid that one. Except that whole using me as a role model part.

After that conversation I had to sit down and think about it for a bit. Who was my role model? I mean, I take after my dad in some ways. I am really bad with my money. I get drunk too much. I’m bad at relationships.  But, I have to say nothing much else.

My grandfather? I always wanted to be like him. He was quiet. So am I. He followed his heart. I do that. He was an accountant who never missed a day of work. I have only used one sick day in my career as a journalist.

But, once again, I don’t see enough. I didn’t model myself after him. Or anyone I guess.

Is that strange? I have no idea.

This is why I find someone emulating me to be a bit disconcerting.

But, lines like “So what if all my heroes are the losing kind” have to come from somewhere, I guess. So who am I to stop a kid from being whatever he wants to be. Even if it’s like me?

A couple of police cars are circling my house at the moment. I was outside just a few minutes ago, looking under my car with a flashlight. I wonder if my awesome neighbors, of who there are just motel guests, called them on me? It’s not a good thing, not being able to just check out under your car at night without a drive by of two cop cars. One, peering into my house with a light while slowly creeping by. I raised my bottle of beer in a salute to him, and then they just parked in the empty parking lot across the street. Guess they’re going to “Keep an eye on that one!” Good luck kind sirs. Why don’t you just go back to harassing folks driving their cars on a public road at night. It’s certainly what you are good at. But, like I said, you’ve got to pick something and try at it. And when you fail, take it as an omen.

The keyboard fights back sometimes. It doesn’t seem to want to produce for me. I sometimes wish it were easier. Just to sit down and type and see results. It probably is, but I don’t take the time to just say fuck it and do it. That’s certainly the next goal. To have the nuts to do that. I’m 41 and not getting any younger. My eyesight is failing faster than my teeth are rotting. One day it’ll be interesting to see if I can still tell the difference between foods when I can no longer chew or see it. Happy days indeed.

A paragraph can be one sentence.

Or it can be two. Like this.

But it never seems to matter, unless you are keeping track. If they run on and on and on and on together. Or just stay apart.

I met a lady yesterday. She seemed oh so happy to meet me. I didn’t buy it for a second. Her office had no windows. And she dressed like she shops at Kato. I hope one day I won’t marry a woman like that. It would be enough to put the gun in my mouth for me. I wouldn’t even have to think about it.

It also dawned on me that for over a decade I was ruined by one person. At first, it wasn’t ruinous, at least in my opinion. Then it was. And it festered. I like the word fester. But not when it pertains to my life and the way it has been wasted. Like a limb with a cut that isn’t treated and eventually becomes infected. It will either be cut off or saved. But a lot of that has to do with effort.

I once was told to never give up. But that seemed so silly. I learned early on that you can’t win every time. And if you expect to, that’s a lot different than actually doing so. And I’ve yet to meet that one person who won all the time.

My neck and back hurt many times now. I think it’s from over sitting.

Last week I had some money. This week I have none. Next week I still won’t have any.

It seems darker outside than usual. I think it’s because my eyes are failing. Will my eyes failing become my new teeth are rotting? Only time will tell. At least that’s what Jimmy Cliff once told me.

Brazil

Walking down the street, the cold air burnt right through my small hoodie. Never was one to buy a coat, hadn’t owned one half a decade now. My mom bought the last one I had. Think it got worn three times. Left it in Florida. Left a lot of things in Florida.

I couldn’t help wonder if this might be the place that I finally just lay down and quit. It’s been a long journey. A good portion of it was damn fun. A small fraction certainly wasn’t. Now, I’m cold. What’s left of my teeth hurt like crazy when the wind blows like this. Imagining a sunny beach doesn’t help much anymore. The mind can help you, but even it knows when the cards have been dealt the wrong way.

Down the street is a beacon of light. An oasis of it. All the stores here went out of business years ago, I reckon. It’s why the bums come here. It’s not a self-applied title, it just sort of comes with the territory. At one time, hoboism seemed like a good alternative. Living on the free. Just going wherever the mind decided it wanted to go that day. It started off relatively well, too. Hopping a freight train in Richmond. A gal actually said she’d go to.

That train went to Jacksonville, Florida of all places. There, it was cold. An early freeze they called it. Sleeping in the orange groves didn’t sound so appealing anymore. Soon, she got on a Greyhound. Using the only money we had brought with us to get the heck back to Virginia. I don’t blame her. What the hell were we thinking. Hit the road. Be hobos. Make love under the stars.

Soon, I sold my harmonica. Got three dollars for it. Used that money to get bacon and eggs. Left the 66 cents left as a tip. Couldn’t really feel bad about it. It was all I had.

The light was orange in color. It made it seem warmer. So, I ventured on up to the window of the shop. It was clean. Freshly painted. With a sign that simply said “Always open.”

Wonder how long that’ll last in this neighborhood, I scoffed.

I looked at myself in the reflection of the glass. I had a white beard now. I was 44 going on 74. My teeth, what were left of them were yellow and cracked. The last time I had a shower was at least a month ago. Couldn’t smell myself, though. That urge passed a long time ago.

Staring at the lights, it finally dawned on me what this place was -- a travel agency.

“Pretty fitting, I guess,” I thought. “A dead street. A dead business.” No one used travel agencies any more. Hell, they stopped when I was still a productive member of society. When there was society. Then the internet came. First, it was a great place to find trinkets and collectibles. Then a place to watch television shows and movies. Finally, it just became life.

That’s when I hopped a train with her. We didn’t want to work for the internet anymore. We wanted to see reality.

She lasted just that first two weeks. The cold finally got to her.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said. That was 19 years ago.

The door knob is silver. And old. It’s the only thing that isn’t shiny and new. Well, the door knob and me. I reach for it, but at the last second I recoil. “What could possibly be inside there? What could be in there that I would need to see?”

I stare at the other window. A picture of a lady looking out into the see. Too fucking much. It’s the Barton Fink painting. But only if it was set in 1977. Ugly-ass “groovy” font. Then, the door opens. A lady leaves.

“Pardon me,” she says, walking past.

I take a whiff of her perfume. It’s subtle. I like that. And I usually despise perfume.

“Ma’am?” I say meekly.

She turns to me. Looks me over and says “yes?”

“What kind of perfume is that? It’s wonderful.” I can’t believe I’m saying this. The door behind me is still open. The song “Brazil” is playing. I start to wonder if I’m imagining all of this.

“You know, I don’t know,” she sort of giggles. “I just picked it up at Wal-Greens. Go figure. But thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I stammer as she hops into her car -- a 1987 Pontiac Sunfire. She starts the engine and is gone.

The song is still echoing in the background. The door, still ajar.

“Well, I guess I’d better go in,” I say out loud.

On the mat just inside the door is one slogan: “Focus on what you can do, not on what you could’ve done.”

blood

Man. I need to piss. This isn’t the normal, everyday wake up at 8 in the morning and the bladder needs to be emptied kind of pee either. This is the you’ve been driving for six hours straight needing to relieve yourself but you don’t want to stop the momentum of a great drive kind of piss.

But you can feel just how cold it is on the other side of your blankets. Five piled high. The thought of turning on the heat at night makes your cringe. So you just add more blankets the deeper winter gets.

This conversation has been had many times. Folks don’t understand what it’s like to not be able to turn on the heat. “What do you mean it’s 44 degrees inside your house?” They always say, with the degree mark fluctuating between 44 and 55. Well, you say usually with a long sigh, much like Homer Simpson’s brain trying to explain the correlation between a $20 bill and having peanuts to eat, when one is poor, one has to make decisions like this. Should one keep eating and paying debt down or should one be comfortable when waking up in the morning. Because let’s be serious, that’s the only time it really matters.

And right now, it matters. The pee isn’t going to wait much longer. So, throw the blankets aside and run to the bathroom, which is always five degrees cooler since it has tiled floors and gets absolutely none of the morning sun.

Sweet relief as the urine flows into the bowl. Fingers so cold that shrinkage makes it take just a little bit less time.

Done. Flush. Jump back in bed. Shiver. Try to get back to sleep. Some days, it’s easy. Others not so much.

A few hours later, sleep or no sleep, it becomes necessary to get out of bed. Either due to work commitments or just the overall want to not be so God damn lazy today. Rise and shine, ya bastard.

Put on some dirty clothes. Ones that may have been worn the past two days, depending on what time of the week it is. Brush the teeth. Trying to stop the eventual death of the smile is important. Stumble into the hallway, look at the thermostat, it usually will be rising by this time of the day. Walk to the windows and open up the blinds. Let the sun light in. Good thing about the beach, the sun beats down on you, even in the winter. Heating up the house. Even on cold days it gets to 70 inside naturally.

Turn on the computer. Decide whether to even attempt to write in the morning. If so, sit down, type. Usually aimlessly. Words just appearing with little or no thought involved. It’s therapeutic and anguishing at the same time. There’s a story in there somewhere. It’s about heartbreak and redemption. Or heartbreak and death. Or heartbreak and things. Yeah, it’s about that.

On a day off, spend a lot of time convincing one’s self not to drink. Lately, it’s been easier than it used to be. Mostly because of the balance in my bank account. Hopefully that’s not the real reason, but optimism is not a strong suit.

If that victory is won, outside usually beckons. Some kind of new adventure must be had. Every single day. If not, the soul starts to itch. The mind starts to gelatinize.

If that victory is not won, inside rules. The stereo gets turned on. Shitty speakers don’t let the music live correctly, but there isn’t any way to replace them. Beers go down like hookers used to on 42nd Street before Rudy Guiliani cleaned up the big city. The words flow a bit easier onto the written page now. Journals get entries. The past sometimes makes an appearance. She usually goes away now when I ask her to. It’s a nice compromise we have. I don’t let go of her, and she goes away when asked. What else could one ask?

When the words are forced, it just becomes a countdown to the pre-set limit. That’s a cop out. There are times when the wall needs to be smashed into. Ignored. The forehead needs to be bloodied. That’s the goal, right there. To never stop until the time is right. And to be there, I have to figure out what it means to know the time is right. And to know that, I have to write. More. Even when it sucks. And it usually does suck. Beat myself up about it until it no longer hurts. Show other people and watch them wince. Heck, take a class and watch uneducated fuckers rip it apart for not having structure or a proper flow.

Then go to the bar and try to meet someone. Even though you never do.

never get off the boat

Hungover to the point of the shakes almost 20 hours after the last drink, driving home the six and a half hours in the dark was probably not a good idea. The road flies by underneath the car, the occasional thud of a bad section of road jars one from the coma of nothingness.

The repetitive sound of bugs tapping up against the glass of the windshield is almost soothing. Almost because the horror of the guts and left behind awfulness in front of your eyes makes you realize how easily that could be you.

This road has been traveled by me so many times. Yet, only twice have I ever stopped anywhere on the 102 miles of back roads that have etched itself into my mind. The interstate system in this country has its merits. In Texas or Nebraska or Oklahoma it works out nicely. Maybe it has something to do with football? But in North Carolina and Virginia, not so much. It could be the repetition of it all. I’ve done the drive so many damn times that eventually you seek out a different way. But by now, I’ve done this back roads version that it should feel that way, but it doesn’t.

But, in all those years, only twice have I stopped.

One time was at the Hardee’s in Scotland Neck, NC. Emily and I were driving home for the holidays. It was extremely early in the morning. She wanted some food, and honestly, so did I. But there isn’t much to choose from on this road. A small diner in Hobgood was closed that time of day. Odd, since I would have believed the smaller the town, the earlier the eatin’ place would be open.

In Oak City, I have no idea where the barbeque joint that is advertised on the side of an old barn actually is. The sign read “Smitty’s BBQ. Best in the land!” But no directions. Guess that means if you don’t know, they don’t want ya there.

As we pull into Scotland Neck, a picturesque little town in the god awful middle of nowhere in North Carolina. It has and old Main Street section. All the old buildings look awesome, but three out of four are closed up. You park in the middle of the street still, which makes for some dodgy driving conditions when the weather is bad because people just don’t seem to care. It could be that living in Scotland Neck makes you that way…

We pull into the Hardee’s order some breakfast food. As we pull up to the pay window, a nice in the face looking older woman greets us with a loud “Hiya!” It startles me, but I manage to smile and say “Purty good.” Yeah, my accent comes out sometimes.

She gives us our food after I give her the money. It’s a transaction.

Then she hands us an extra box.

“Here’s some more biscuits,” she smiles. Yes, the sentence came out in a smile. “We made too many, so it’s your lucky day!”

“Thanks,” I say, not really sure how lucky we really are. The box has 10 biscuits in it. What two normal people want that many biscuits, to go along with the biscuit sandwiches we actually ordered.

“She was nice, and that’s pretty cool,” Emily says. I don’t like remembering the banality of our relationship sometimes. Yet, it’s better for me to do so.

The only other time I stopped anywhere on this drive was to get gas once. And only because my old Celica, Carla as it was named by my ex, was running on empty. But not in a Jackson Browne kind of way. No, that’s me as I’m driving tonight.

The E on the gas gauge was mocking me. I didn’t think I’d make it anywhere near a gas station that night. But before the car started putt, putt, puttering in the way a car does when the gas tank is exhausted of it’s fine liquid, I saw a light.

There it was at 1:35 in the morning. An open gas station in the middle of nowhere.

I pulled in, hoping it was still open.

It was. Two people were inside. I got out, pushed my credit card for fuel and filled her up.

I looked inside at the two people. One the cashier, the other dressed in black. They were just standing there, not looking at me, but not looking at each other. Odd.

I finished gassing up. Put the cap back on the gas tank and drove off.

A few minutes later, down the road I was when I saw flashing lights ahead. Three cop cars flew right on past me, going at least 100. Don’t know if they were heading to the gas station, and I never bothered to try and find out.