Van Damme in ... Future Memories...

I woke up this morning feeling particularly empty.

A feeling I’m used to having at all times of the day, but this morn, it felt different for some reason.

Maybe it was because a line from a Waylon Jennings sung, but Hoyt Axton penned song finally materialized in my brain while driving home from work the night before.

It was one of those moments when a song you’ve been singing along to for years becomes crystal clear in your head for the first time. Yes, you blurted out nonsense words, or just a phrase you thought was being said at the top of your lungs for years. But then, all of the sudden, those words hit your ears at just the right angle and they were crystal clear for the first time.

And you were disappointed by them.

Epiphanies are costly, I’ve found. At least the older I get I start to feel that way.

Maybe it’s because I’m just tired of it. Tired of always wondering what went wrong. Always struggling to see the good of today instead of the good of yesterday. The good of yesterday that is skewed to be good, always and forever. Even though it wasn’t all good, no matter how much lip gloss you apply.

My dog looked at me like I was crazy. Then he went back to sleep in the small cat bed. That’s his new obsession, getting in the cat’s bed. I’m beginning to think my dog has some kind of personality disorder, which of course means he’s the perfect dog for me.

The emptiness subsided while I was driving to work. Must’ve been the Motley Crue that fixed that. It certainly wasn’t the Turbonegro. I’m guessing the album “Ass Cobra” will be set on a shelf for a good while now. It’s run its course of being interesting and simply couldn’t hold my attention. I’d like to think that’s just what happened. She lost interest in me. I became boring.

I doubt that, however. We didn’t see each other enough for her to get bored with me.

Bored with the silence. Bored with the distance. Yes and yes.

I still wonder what it would have been like had I bought a cell phone. One much like the one I have now, only it would have been sexy then.

Ha.

Funny to think about the amount of money spent. On calling cards. Phone bills and credit card calls. I laugh at the thought of a credit card call now. But then, it was something I did often. And boy to 45-minute phone calls charged to a Master Card or Visa get expensive.

I wonder if any of the old girlfriends ever thought of that when they said “Call me.” Always with just a tinge of guilt.

Being broke became an excuse. Then a crutch. Now? I think I’m just stuck there. I’m lucky, I guess. My mind is still mostly intact. Except when I’m interviewing kids after games. I don’t hold on to moments of the game like I used to, and then be able to recall them perfectly for a well-thought out question.

Instead, now I stammer a lot. And most likely appear feeble.

Some would say blame it on the stroke.

I can’t.

Even though it’s probably true.

Like a tortoise, I’m just a shell.

See? Even that doesn’t make sense. I saw it in my head, it came out like that. Fuck it.

The emptiness goes away while I’m typing. Even with this free version of Word that locks up every so often when a new ad has to appear on the side of the page. Or heaven forbid, if I want to save or look up the spelling of a word, like tinge. Which, isn’t the word I want, I guess, since it’s not in the dictionary of this version of “free Word.”

Let’s write some ol’ honk, now ‘right! Ha-ha.

Southern joke. Fuck, sleep doesn’t come easy any more. I take pills for that now.

I guess soon I’ll be taking pills to wake up. At least the dog wakes me up for the time being. He’s a damn good dog. It makes me wonder why I never got a dog before. Oh yeah, because I would never have seen him/her, and that ain’t cool. I already feel bad leaving the guy alone for five or six hours every day that both of us work.

Anyways, I finally figured out what was gnawing at me this morning … I realized that I’m no longer chasing the dream.

I started out in the right direction, then I moved to North Carolina. It seems that North Cackalack is the state where dreams, well, at least my dreams went to die.

Well, not die, just fester. Like my old leg wound did back in 1992. It’s funny that the girl I was chasing then was untouchable. Even though she kissed me that day that the photo in my bathroom right now was taken. Staff infected leg and all.

Those are the memories that don’t fade. Why? Because I have a picture of them. Just like the ones that are written down. One day, maybe, maybe not; I’ll read this and remember sitting in the cold living room in Raleigh, NC, looking at an ultrasound photo and a Kit Kat bar wrapper. Yep, that’s what this memory will be.

I’ll call it a future memory. But can something be a future memory? If it’s a memory, it’s in the past already. I’m sure wiser men than me have pondered this and the comments on this story, if there ever are any, will surely advise me on the answer to each question pondered.

Maybe, we’ll be lucky (is that the right word to use?) and he or she will read this and think that his/her dad was really just as confused as he/she is/was.

Van Damme.

again and again

“Have you ever tried to let yourself love again?”

It was a fair question, really. She’d known me now for three years. We’d started out just drinking away our misery together, like so many other women I’ve known over the years. But unlike all of them, I didn’t fall in love with them. Or at least fall into bed with her.

“I did. Once. And it ended worse than the time I really was in love,” I said, slowly tilting my half-empty bottle of “Distillery” Jameson. A bottle I got while on a trip to Ireland that someone else paid for.

I looked at the whiskey in the glass. A nice shade it was. I’d been carrying this bottle around with me, move after move, taking one shot at each stop. There was Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. Then there was Raleigh, North Carolina. By that time, I was ready to finally give up on North Carolina. The state that stole my heart, twice.

So I drove to Arkansas. Never planned on staying. Ended up being there two months. A little while in Fayetteville. Then a short stop in Little Rock. After that, Memphis called. I wanted to try and live in the Arcade Hotel for a month. But, I knew it was long, long gone. But still, I went. Sat under the train bridge that Joe Strummer filmed a scene with Steve Buscemi long, long ago.

I felt sad. So I left. Immediately.

Drove to Paris, Texas. Thought maybe I’d see Harry Dean walk by.

He didn’t.

Into Oklahoma I drifted. I saw a lady I’d met on the Internet. She liked that I liked Level 42. I always wondered why she actually added me. This was in the Myspace days. So I drove to her town -- Durant – knocked on her door, and just asked her.

“Because I was lonely one night,” she said, her red hair glistening in the hot, summer dust.

We’d stayed in touch over the years. I wondered many times if we’d try to spark some kind of relationship. But as time passed, it became obvious it wasn’t going to happen. When I showed up that afternoon, I knew she wasn’t lonely anymore. She had her daughter. Now 12. She had her organic garden. And her boyfriend.

“Not getting married again,” she said. “Just don’t see the point.”

I smiled when she said that. Gave her a hug and thanked her for being a friend. I tried not to hear those words in song form. But damn if “Golden Girls” hadn’t driven it into my head forever…

Next, I just drove. Three days and nights. Stopping in small towns as a drove closer and closer to the border. There was Medicine Lodge, Kanas. Next was Scottsbluff, Nebraska. Two days later, Custer, South Dakota. The next night it was Carrington, North Dakota . I only remember them because I took pictures of signs in each town I slept in.

I didn’t talk to a single person on those days and nights. I listened to the same albums, over and over. Of course it was Lucero. Of course every song reminded me of a woman I’d once known. I often wonder if I should have told each woman after the next about that certain part of me. The “can’t let go” piece of me that holds on to the remnants of the past like they’d kill me if they could get out of my grasp.

Even women I’d met and been dumped or dumped or just passed in the night – naked – got a song. Wasting all of that effort was nothing new.

I used to write down the names of girls who just spoke to me. I stopped one day when I was 24. Living in Arizona, trying to “find” myself in the way middle-class wimps like me do – in college.

Her name was Denise Ragu. I figure if I spell her name correctly, she’ll see this one day. Just like every other lady that put their real name down. We had geology class together. Or some kind of earth science.

She must have marked me as a smart guy – good mark – and started talking with me. We teamed up in lab and I really dug her. She laughed at my awful remarks and my long hair.

One day, near the end of the semester, we got to talking about social things. Yeah, I’m kind of slow like that. It was on a path. I was on my bike, she was walking. We said hello, and it turned to going out on the town stuff. Pretty soon, I started to work up the courage to ask her out. Right before I did, her demeanor changed. She was a smart lady, after all. She knew where I was going.

“Well, I’ve got to go meet my boyfriend,” she said.

“I froze for just a second. Stuttered something about cool, see you later.”

I watched her walk away. The sun was high in the sky and it was hot. Nothing remarkable about that.

I went home and got drunk. Drank 12 Red Dog beers. The beer with a Red Dog on the bottle and a different saying under the twist off cap.

We saw each other in class the next week. She smiled, but sat down on the other side of the room.

The next time I saw her, she didn’t smile.

Pretty soon, the semester ended and I never saw her again.

I stopped writing down names soon after.

I wonder if it was because of her, or because I started dating a girl – what would become three years and lots of booze and fights and fun and travel and angst.

“What the hell are you thinking about now?” she asked.

“All the reasons I don’t want to fall in love. And all the reasons I do over and over.

“Again and again.”

anal

“You know what?” I said to the dude beside me at the bar, a scruffy looking ex-doctor who I’d become friends with simply because we were both doing the same thing with our lives now – nothing. “I had the strangest dream last night.”

“Fuck, man. Do you really think I want to sit here and listen to you talk about your dreams? It drives me nuts,” he replied, taking a sip of Guinness.

“Well, I don’t fucking like watching you lick that Guinness mustache off your face every time you take a sip, but I don’t say it out loud.”

“Damn, we’re turning into a married couple aren’t we?”

Laughs all around.

I decided not to bring up the whole dream thing. I rarely remember them, so when I do, I get a feeling that my brain is serious about getting me to think about something. Although this one may not be a fit to that theory.

In the dream, I was in a small apartment. There was a naked Asian woman. Porcelain skin. Just perfect. She was laying on her stomach, taut ass just sitting there. Somehow, a voice over was telling me how to have anal sex. And how and when you’ll know the signs of whether the woman wanted it or not. Kind of like one of those 1950s films they used to show in elementary school.

This lady was beautiful. I think in the dream, I wasn’t in love with her, but just completely taken by her.

My cock was hard. I tried to do what the voice told me to do. However, every time I did, she responded with what the voice said she may respond with. She smiled at me and urged me on, only to shoo me away every time.

Eventually, I gave up. Hard cock and all and just laid there next to her, staring into her dark black eyes. She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. Then turned over and spooned with me.

“That’s when I woke up.”

“Damn, that’s a fucked up dream,” my ex-doctor friend said.

“Told you.”

“Did you wake up and jerk off after?”

“Nah, I did have a giant boner though.”

“Sure you did. I would’ve rubbed one off.”

“Not surprised. Usually, I would have too. I guess what the lady was doing sort of rubbed off on me, so I didn’t.”

“That’s just stupid. Hell, I may go in the bathroom right now and rub one out.”

“Fuck, dude. That’s sick.”

“Like you’ve never done it.”

“Yeah, but I don’t advertise that I’m going to do it.”

Laughs again. Another round of drinks. The barkeep shakes his head at us. I hate it when Gus is here instead of Mandy. Mandy’s got better tits. Smaller than Gus’ but definitely better.

“Gus, where’s Mandy? It’s Wednesday. She should be there.”

“Called in sick. Something about a doctor’s appointment.”

Then it hit me. I was supposed to be there with Mandy. She’d asked me weeks ago to go with her to this appointment. Instead, here I was sitting on a barstool talking about jerking off in the men’s room and butt sex with an Asian girl. And I don’t even like Asian girls.

“Damn. I gotta go!” I yelled.

“Why?” Doc asked.

“I’m supposed to be with Mandy.”

“You guys dating now?”

“No. We’re just friends. She needed someone to be there and I fucked it up.”

“Get, getting on then my amigo.”

I paid my tab and pushed the front door open. The noontime sun hit my face and made me cringe. My diabetic eyes don’t like the sun much anymore. And I hate wearing sunglasses. Kind of like a vampire that wants a suntan my choices and likes and dislikes non-ability to mesh.

I got in my car, started her up and drove. Fast. It was about six miles to Mandy’s house. It was 12:12. Her appointment was for 12:30. I remember that much.

I pulled up to her apartment. A shitty, weather-faded wooden mess. I’m sure it looked great in 1978 when it was built. Now, it was a fire hazard.

She was standing in the parking lot, tapping her foot on the ground. Mad was not the word I’d use to describe her face. I pulled up next to her and waved.

She grabbed the door handle, pulled. Nothing. Rapping her fingers on the door a little harshly, I got the message. Door. Still. Locked.

I pushed the unlock button. She opened the door. Slammed it shut.

“You’re late, asshole,” she said.

“Yeah, and I’m drunk, too.”

She kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

“Anything for my Mandy.”

“Quit talking like that. People might think you like me.”

“Only if you’ll let me put it in your butt.”

“What?”

“Bar story. I’ll tell you later.”

I put the car in drive. It was a 20 minute drive to the doctor’s office. She found a lump the other day. Had me feel it. I felt it. She cried. I held her. We agreed to go to the doctor together. Even though neither of us had insurance. I knew I’d be paying for it too. Didn’t care. It’s what friends do. At least, in my mind.

We pulled into the parking lot of the office. Tom Petty’s “Even the Losers” was ringing out of my blown out speakers. This song was kind of “our” song. We’d listen to it on a loop while watching trains go by my house on random Tuesday afternoons that turned into Wednesday mornings. I parked the car and turned the engine off. TP faded out.

“Well, time to pay the piper!” she said a little too fake.

“Let’s just go in and see what happens.”

“Ok, friend,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “Then we can go home and talk about this anal you so desperately want.”

“Sounds like a plan.”