I guess Frampton could have come alive here...

I heard she found God.

I had to go and find out for myself.

We fucked a lot when we knew each other. And honestly, I don’t remember having a conversation about God with her. Never. I mean, we said grace when we were at her mother’s house, but that’s pretty normal stuff. Even for Atheists or Agnostics. You kind of do what is expected of you in someone else’s house.

Which is why when I heard the rumors swirling about that she’d gone completely to Jesus’ side, it intrigued me.

I’ve dabbled in religion from time to time since the day my mother asked me at the ripe old age of nine years old “Randy, do you want to go to church anymore?”

Like most nine year olds, I said “No,” of course, and other than an occasional wedding or funeral – or sightseeing trip – hadn’t stepped in a church since.

I took some religion classes in college. I sat down one lonely night in a hotel and tried to read the Bible, not a page turner that one. And I’d prayed a few times, but mostly for silly things like the pain stopping in my teeth or kidneys, or maybe to win the lottery to pay off my student loans and credit cards. By the way, praying didn’t help any of those things.

So, God had been around me, just not part of me. I try to believe in God. I don’t think he’s a guy up in the clouds with a long white beard and a bunch of others with wings hovering about doing good things.

No, I think if God exists He’s a spark of light. An atom. A protein. Something like that. That’s why we’re all God, really. And if I didn’t think I’d be labeled “Douchebag” I’d probably be a Rastafarian. They seem to get it closer to right than most.

Anyway, I walked into the church, not knowing what to expect. It was one of those gigantic monstrosities you see on the side of the road. Huge buildings with parking lots so big you’d think that Peter Frampton, circa 1977, was playing there every night.

It smelled funny too. Not like old ladies and dust. That’s what I remember church smelling like.

Instead, this one was filled with the smells of coffee and cinnamon buns.

“How weird,” was the only thing that stuck in my head.

There were also kids. Everywhere. Now, when I was going to church, there sure weren’t any kids around. And when we were, we were in Sunday school. Being shown pop-up books about Noah’s ark or other calamadies.

These kids were running around being kids. It was strange to see. No suits and ties. Instead, mesh shorts and awful shirts from Wal-Mart that said “baseball” or “Daddy’s boy” or even fucking Betty Boop.

At once, I wanted to get out of there. But my curiosity got the best of me. As did her eyes. When I saw here smiling at me, I knew I was in trouble. Her eyes had a power over me. I’d like to think now, so many years removed, that they wouldn’t anymore. But, most likely, they do. A good reason as any to follow the path so many take – avoidance. So much easier to not be troubled by something if you just stay away from the source of the trouble.

She came up to me like she always did. Giggling, smiling and almost skipping. It had been that way the first time we met in a bar, back in the other times, and it was the same now. I could feel my legs weaken. She had that effect on me.

“You’re going to enjoy this,” she said as she handed me a flier and led me to a seat. A band was setting up on a giant stage in this cavernous place. I guess Frampton could have come alive here.

“Sit here,” she said.

I started to say something, I don’t remember what, but she was already skipping away.

A few minutes later, the audience was filled to capacity. I had an empty seat next to me, saved just in case. But she never came back.

I watched the band take the stage. A couple of songs later, I didn’t know the words, but everyone else seemed to, a man with glasses took the stage. He was bald, shaved bald, and muscular. He was trying very hard to look younger than he was – fashionable clothes and designer glasses. But he sounded like a preacher. You can take the look away, but not the feel.

His sermon was good. Not specific enough to really mean anything, but generic enough to touch everyone – including myself. He was good.

A few more songs sang and then the hat was passed around. Envelopes came with your program. I put mine in the basket like everyone else. But mine was empty, theirs were not.

Afterwards, she found me. Still skipping around with a big grin on her face.

“What did you think?” she asked.

“Interesting,” I replied.

She shrugged and wandered off again.

I thought I should leave. Never see her again. But, I came back. Two more times.

She got my hopes up.

All I got was let down.

Again.

This time didn’t hurt as much as the first. But it still hurt.

“You live and you learn, son,” my dad said to me the other day.

He doesn’t know the half of it, being married 48 years now. Of course, I don’t know the half of it either – never been married and all. Despite my best efforts.

So, I come home tonight, turn on some classic rock and pop the top off of a beer.

“Do. Do. You. Feeeeeeel like I do?”

Not really Pete. Not really

empty can of miller

An empty can of Miller beer sat on the porch step. I looked at it as the hazy fog of a morning dew slowly moved about the yard. A cricket chirped and a lone seagull whined.

At that moment I knew it was over.

I kicked the can into the yard, putting a dent in the side. I didn’t get any kind of satisfaction in the act. Just the opposite. The rattling of the can in the dirt and rocks of my yard echoed against the bar across the street. The sound bouncing off the wall and back to me.

I sighed. Resigned to the knowledge of what that can meant – she was cheating on me.

Inside, the glow of a far off sunrise was beginning to peak in. The old rotted white blinds – some stuck half open with frayed strings and cracked plastic pieces, others just leaning half opened, half closed due to a fit of anger or spontaneous fun – each allowed a different amount of light in.

I walked into our room. It had heavy Wal-Mart curtains that kept most of the light out and wood paneling that sucked up whatever got through the brownish monstrosities like a dirty, mildewed sponge. Looking at the bed I looked at her sleeping. She had this smile on her face, even in her dreams, that I just didn’t understand. I’m never happy, so her ability to always be happy – even in sleep – made me a bit batty.

A loud thud filled the room when I dropped a can of peanuts. It was the only heavy thing I saw in my living room on the way to the bedroom. It had to do.

“Wha?” she moaned as the noise broke sleep’s grasp. “Honey, what are you doing?”

“Kicking you out,” I said, matter of factly. “You need to get your stuff and leave.”

Of course “getting your stuff” was a little more complicated than just grabbing the dirty underwear on the floor and a toothbrush. We’d been living together now for two years. Her stuff was all over. My stuff was in many ways her stuff. Her stuff, well, it was mostly still her stuff.

“Stop joking honey, come back to bed,” she mumbled, pulling the covers over her head.

“I mean it Jane,” I bellowed. My anger wasn’t increasing, but my lack of patience was.

Rarely did I use her name. I always was like that. When I dated someone, I hated using their name. Didn’t really like hearing my own. Weird? Probably. But it was what I did. So this time, she knew I was serious about what I was saying.

“What is this about, Randy,” she said, emphasizing my name. Almost like a battle cry kind of thing.

“You’re fucking Scott. Aren’t you?”

Scott was the guy who came over to fix our fridge when it stopped working. He also came to fix a window. A gutter. The leaky porch door and many other things that I never knew were broken. Scott even got a Christmas card two weeks ago. He thanked me for it. I had no idea we’d sent him one, but he showed it to me, signed by me and all. Of course, I signed dozens of cards without knowing who was getting them. It was a ritual that was now two years old. Jane liked sending cards. So did I. But I liked sending them to people I gave a shit about. She sent them to everyone. She started buying them on Dec. 26 and just filled a shoebox with them. Then another. Come November, I was given two piles of cards to sign. One not so big – holding the cards I would want to personalize. The other – not so big and full of ones to people I didn’t know, or had met in passing. It turns out, the dick going inside my girlfriend got one as well.

“Stop being so damn paranoid.”

That was her response. And that let me know I was on to something.

“Fuck you,” I said. Get your stuff out of here before I do.

“What is wrong with you? Are you mad that we haven’t had sex in three months? I told you I was having pain.”

I thought about that. Between the booze and the concerts and the opening of my bar, I hadn’t even noticed that we hadn’t fucked. Maybe that’s why I didn’t really care about what was occurring. I bent over and pulled the covers off. Damn, she had great fucking tits. B cup. Nice large nipples. I’ll miss those.

What she didn’t have, however, was the right to stay here. That can of beer told the tale.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, pulling on her jeans without underwear. I always cringe at that act. Why? Because I imagine the zipper grabbing at things you really don’t want it to grab at. Reason No. 1 that I don’t use the little flap in the underwear to pee through the zipper hole. Just don’t want to get grabbed one night.

“Because you don’t love me,” I said.

“You didn’t want me to love you,” she replied. “It’s written all over your face. And in your own handwriting.”

She was right. And I stopped being even mildly mad.

Bending over, I kissed her on the forehead. We proceeded to have sex. Not great sex, just good sex. Lasted about 11 minutes. I know this because I looked at the Kit Kat Clock on the wall. It’s eyes going left to right, left to right the entire time.

After I rolled off, I looked at her. She was beautiful, even if she couldn’t be true.

“I never asked you to be mine,” I said.

She looked at me. I looked at her. She smiled. I sighed.