holiday in cambodia

First the car died. That was in May of last year.

Then my favorite shirts started to fall apart.

Next, the only buddy I have here, stopped really hanging out.

Signs?

I thought for a moment. The last time my car died was in late 2005. I also bought a lot of new clothes that year. And, my girlfriend of six years dumped my ass early in 2006.

Yeah, I should take these things more seriously.

***

“When did you get so old?” she said, very matter-of-factly. “The last time I saw you, you looked no different than in college. Except your hair was short. Now? Damn, you look like a different person.”

“Hey! Nice to see you too!” I replied. Yeah, I was hurt by that. I know my hair is gone. My teeth are crooked and yellow. But I’m still the same little kid inside whose heart you crushed back in 1992.

She’d been married. Divorced. Then married again since then.

Me? I’d been in three relationships. So, I guess I was keeping up. In some way.

She looked older. But she was actually sexier than she was at 22. Her curves were more defined. I guess you’d say she resembled a Jewish Courteney Cox now. Hell, is Courteney Cox Jewish anyway? Making that a really silly way to describe her.

“What are you doing with your life now?” she asked.

I loathed this about seeing old friends. Ones that I’ve stayed in touch with, but who haven’t really stayed in touch with me. Every so often they’ll remember to send me a card on Christmas. Maybe my birthday. But only after I’ve sent them one. Which I always do. But really, she’s got kids. She’s got a successful career. I’m just a guy she made out with a few times. A guy who fell for her, but she didn’t fall for me. I’ve always wanted to ask why. But I’ve always kind of had an idea of why. She was always very success driven. I wasn’t. She saw me becoming exactly what I’ve become -- just an average guy. Smarter than most, but not looking to get anywhere except to tomorrow.

I guess she was right. Either that, or I have low self-esteem. Well, I know I have that. So I still don’t know.

“You know, the usual,” I said.

She stared off into the distance. Her kids were playing on a swing there. I knew right then, I’d probably never see her again.

And here I am, three years later and I haven’t.

***

I walked in. She was blasting Aerosmith’s “Rocks” way too loudly for the dog. He was sitting in a corner, hiding from Steven Tyler’s dragging out of the word “Yooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooouuuunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng.” I didn’t blame the mutt for doing so.

Walking straight to the stereo, I turned knob to the left. The digital readout of volume went from 55 to 34.

“What’d you do that for?” she asked me.

“Sidney’s in a state over there in the corner,” I said. “I think he’s still mad about the whole American Idol thing.”

“Huh? You’ve never even seen that show,” she said derisively, knowing full well that I left every time she turned that God-awful abomination on on my 32-inch Toshiba tele. The non-high def kind as well. I refused to buy into the notion of “having” to buy a new, more expensive and more importantly -- cheaply made -- tele just so I could watch broadcast TV. It really seemed to fly against the whole “free airwaves” concept that supposedly the broadcast channels, including “public TV”, were given to us Americans.

Now, I hear the voices of the over-educated masses telling me that nowhere in the Constitution does it guarantee the right to watch “The Simpsons”. And yes, you are correct in this proclamation. But it also doesn’t say you can get amour piercing bullets for your guns that you only have for “family protection.”

Fuck. I need a beer. Another mindless day at work will do that to a person. I want to have sex, but I can tell by the look on her face, that she doesn’t. I figure I can just go in the bathroom, jerk off into the toilet and be done with it. Hope she won’t want me to move any furniture for a few hours, since my legs will be out from under me for a bit.

The kitchen is its usual mess. No dish has been washed for about two weeks. I can tell because even the old 1970s Hardee’s plastic cups I bought one day in a thrift store are dirty. She’s really a mess. But damn she’s cute. I’m a sucker, my dad would tell me if he was here. “Probably rank this one a 5, just because she’s so damn cute, otherwise, she’s a 2.”

I go to the back room. There, my hidden fridge is waiting for me. And by hidden fridge, I mean my cooler outside by the trash can. It’s in the 40s still at night, so the beers stay nice and cool. And I don’t need my mountains to turn blue to be able to tell.

I grab a Shiner Blonde, pop the top and take a long, deserved swig.

“Life’s good now,” I say, bastardizing the corporate slogan that my father has taken to saying way too much. I wonder for a moment if he’s in therapy? And if he’s seeing the same doctor that one of my Facebook “friends” is so obviously seeing. No one says “Life is Good!” that many times. I don’t fucking care if your life is peachy. You just don’t rub it in everyone else’s face on a daily basis unless you’re told to do so. Like being a prisoner of war in Cambodia.

Carburetor on a Malibu

North Carolina winters.
There was a foot of snow on the ground a week ago. Today, it was 71 degrees. I’m driving the back roads, avoiding all interstates. The holidays make them even worse than they already are. Grandmothers driving. Fathers behind the wheel while kids scream and yell. Cops everywhere. It can start to be a bit like Death Race 2000, without David Carradine to keep it interesting.
I’m on a stretch of road where 125/903 and 301 all merge into one road. It’s no different than most of eastern North Carolina. A lot of old farms that don’t grow much of anything anymore. Some have been divided up into lots. And instead of old sharecropper houses or even slave’s quarters, there are doublewides instead. Guess it’s sort of someone’s American Dream.
I get to Halifax. It’s called the Birthplace of Freedom. Somehow, I have a feeling others may have a better claim to such a name. But I’m not arguing. Not now.
As the drive continues, the white stucco garage is a beacon of light through all of the fog. The snow is still on the sides of the road, but it’s over 60 degrees still. But the temperatures are dropping fast. And this makes for lots of fog. Bad fog. The kind that idiots turn on their high beams while driving through it. Completely obscuring anything that isn’t a couple feet in front of their eyes. It must give comfort, the extra light. I don’t see it. And neither will they see the deer.
The garage has never had a light on in the decade I’ve been traversing these back roads. Ever. It’s always been a closed up shop. There is another garage just up the road. It has gas pumps and a convenience store attached. In a town of maybe 400 folks, I guess that was enough.
But tonight, there is someone there. The neon Open sign is on. It’s 8:33 p.m. on New Year’s Day. Just odd, I think to myself.
I slow down when I get near. I look inside. One mechanic is working on an old car. Looks like a Chevy Malibu. I guess time stops for a Malibu in these parts.
He stops whatever he’s doing to look out at me, creeping past his building on such a strange night. We lock eyes. He tips his hat and spits. I wave. And I keep driving.
Just a few hundred feet later, I see the lights of a pickup truck turn on. From the garage. It also has those AC lights on top. For spotlightin’ deer. I’d actually seen three cops pulling over trucks for doing just that on the drive so far. And three other trucks doing it in other places. Seems to take the sport out of it.
I wonder for a second what the mechanic is doing. He leaves his garage wide open in driving out. It’s a small town, I guess you can trust.
But I’m not from here. And now I’m nervous as I can see he’s coming for me. His headlights flashing brights over and over. Plus, I’m going 38. He’s catching up at at least 65. After a couple of seconds of thought, I pull over to the side of the road. At the railroad tracks. I open up the glove box, my 45 is there. Unloaded. No time to load now, so I grab it and tuck it between my legs.

I look in my mirrors, the mechanic is a short one. No taller than 5-foot-3 I’d guess. My senses are still a bit on edge from my last run in with a local. About 70 miles ago. Outside of Vanceboro. A guy was walking down the middle of U.S. 17. In long johns and a flannel shirt, tied around his waist. In his hands was a shotgun. On the shotgun was a Bowie knife, duct taped to the front. On top of the guy was a flashlight, yes, duct taped to it.
I didn’t know what was in his hands when I had to slam my brakes on when he just appeared in the road in front of me. I thought I had to have hit him. Instead, I missed. He ambled up to my door, tapped on the glass.
“You in a hurry boy?” he asked.
“Not really. Why were you in the middle of the road?” I queried.
“Looking for my cat,” he said, walking away.
I took that as my cue to get the heck out of dodge. And did so.
Now, 70 miles later, another local is about to meet me and maybe my gun, Bessie.
Tap, tap, tap, the mechanic raps on my window. It’s fogged up from my heavy breathing I guess. I roll it down. Standing there is Julie Delpy. Grease on her face.
“Excuse me,” she says in her French accent. “Why did you slow down at my garage.”
“Your garage?” I say, a bit flabbergasted by Julie Delpy owning a garage in Halifax, North Carolina.
“Qui,” she said, looking impatient.
“That place has been closed for a decade, tonight it wasn’t. I was curious.”
“Oh. Ok,” she said, turning back to her truck.
Now, I’m sitting there, unloaded gun in my lap thinking Julie Delpy is living in Halifax, North Carolina. I’m in Halifax, North Carolina. This must be a sign. So, I get out of my car and try to figure out something to say.
“You want to get a drink?” is what I manage.
“Only if you help me with the carburetor on that Malibu,” she says.
“Don’t know a damn thing about cars,” I reply, instantly regretting it. Only to be given a reprieve.
“Neither do I, want to be partners?”
All I can do is shake my head in approval.