questions and crutches

“You still love her? Don’t you?”

That’s a question most every guy has heard.

The lucky ones, or unlucky, depending on your theory or perspective, are the few that haven’t heard it.

The answer you give, and the answer you know, they’re always different.

Having your heart broken isn’t a badge of honor. It’s a tumor. Some of them fester and become cancerous. Others just sit there and annoy you. You can cut them out, but most of the times they grow right back. You can ignore them, and they may kill you. Or they may not.

As I sit here in my living room, drinking a cold IPA and listening to the rain, the ghosts dance around the house like they always do. I’m use to them now. I used to not have the ability to function when they were around, but, since they’re always there, it became necessary to learn how to.

At first, it was alcohol. Nothing else. Just drinking and drinking. You lose a lot of weight when all you do is drink. Even if it’s beer. Your body sort of starts to eat itself and you lose weight.

You also lose teeth. But that’s a long-term problem. It doesn’t happen quickly. Unless you fall down drunk one night or morning or afternoon and they get knocked out. No, they rot. Like your heart does. Like your soul does. Like your career does.

Yeah, you can get off of your ass and “make something positive out of it.” Like all your friends will say. Like the shrinks will say. Like the self-help books and web sites will say.

And they’re all right.

Just like you are.

It’s a choice, right? That’s what the good book of life says. You choose to be happy, you’re happy. You choose to be sad, you’re sad.

Well, what if you don’t choose?

That’s something to ponder.

For minds deeper than mine.

I’d rather just eat peanuts out of a can and drink IPAs, while listening to the rain.

My friends all moved away from here. They all got married, too.

Me? I fell in love again. Yeah, it was good. I got my heart dusted again too. It hurt like hell. But not as much.

I waited a bit. Got tentative again. Drifted. Drank. Drove.

Then I got off my ass. Got a job. Moved to the beach.

Allowed myself to look again.

Fell in love again.

Got really happy for a little while. Then got crapped on by God, or Karma, or whatever you call it.

Spent a night in a hospital in New Orleans. By far the worst night of my life. I can’t even imagine how bad it was for the girl who’s eyes I was looking into the whole time.

I shudder just thinking about it.

Now, as July 19 approaches, it hurts even more than it always did. But at least I have something else to be mad about on that day. Not something that doesn’t exist anymore. That doesn’t think about me anymore.

I wonder which I’ll think about first that morning.

It scares me to think that it would be the first, not the last.

It’s a guilty feeling, I know that. If I know me, I know which one will pop into my head first. And it’s the one no one would think should be first, but if it happened to them, it would be first as well.

God damn that’s depressing.

Like the song says, I hear her voice singing every song I hear. But, the voice ain’t calling me back. It’s taunting me. Making me stay where I am.

“So do something about it,” the angry mob sighs. Ha. An angry mob sighing.

Well, I do. I drink. And I write. And I listen to songs that I’ve heard hundreds of times before. They make me sad. Every, single time. But it’s a little less. Every, single time.

And that’s about all you can hope for.

One day, probably soon, I’ll have to deal with loss again. Death seems to be coming soon. Not me, I’ve probably got the DNA curse of long life. Even living out of a shopping cart, somehow my atoms won’t quit, I’m sure of that. Maybe the mind won’t make the journey. That’s morbid. Even for me.

I had an idea. Start a business with my dad. Only problem? It came 10 years too late.

Or is that just an excuse? Like the rest of it. Like the words. Like the thoughts. Like that crutch?

Mulch Pit, chapter 1

“I don’t know what these people want from me?” Lucy screamed at the top of her lungs as she sat down next to me at the bar. I shrugged my shoulders, then asked her for a beer. She was, after all, the waitress of the joint.

“Yeah. That’s what I want too. And I ordered mine 15 minutes ago, ya bum!” an older guy at one of the dilapidated booths in this joint said as Lucy handed me a cold Ranger IPA. I’d started drinking IPAs so I could get drunk faster. They cost a bit more, but if you drank them all night instead of regular octane beers, you didn’t spend as much. Quality not quantity, someone smarter than me once said. Probably before it was used by Slater in “Dazed and Confused.”

“You know Lucy, you might want to give that guy a beer,” I said. “He is paying your salary.”

“The hell he is. That old fucker never tips. He’s been coming in here for 14 years now. I know, I’ve been working here for 15. And that shitty motherfucker only leaves dimes. One for every beer. If this was 1947, I’d be rich off the bastard. But it’s 2012, and I can’t pay my rent.”

“Neither can I but I still tip ya.”

“I know, honey, that’s why you never have an empty bottle for long,” Lucy smiled and blew me a kiss.

“Rent a God damn room you two!” the old bastard said.

I motioned at Lucy for two more beers. One for me, one for him. She brought me an IPA and a Budweiser. I looked over at his table, there were three empty bottles of Michelob. I swallowed hard as I stumbled over to his booth.

The vinyl seats were cracked and crusty. Probably never cleaned after this joint – Mulch Pile – was cleaned after the great cigarette ban of 2009. I remember Mulchie, God rest his soul, cursing up and down as he scrubbed those walls with a brush every night for months. All the while folks were still smoking up a storm in the time before the end. Now they all stand in front of the front door and give every non-smoker a big old lungfull of secondhand smoke every time they come near it.

I sit down and hand the old guy a Budweiser. He stares at it for a second, then grabs it in his meaty, blood red hands and takes a gulp.

“Thanks kid,” he said. “I always knew you were good for something. Not much, but something.”

“Well, thank you sir!” I said with a wave of my hand in my best Colonial style. He didn’t seem to appreciate it as much as I did in my mind. Such is the life in the bar.

“How come Lucy won’t never bring me a beer?” he finally asked as Frankie Freeman grounded into a double play on ESPN above us.

“You don’t tip, old-timer. Simple as that.”

“Don’t tip? The fuck I don’t. I leave her dimes for every beer!” he angrily snarled while finishing off the Budweiser. “Lucy! Bring me another damn beer!”

She looked at him, then at me. I nodded. She brought two more over. I hadn’t even take a sip of mine yet. She stood over us, waiting to be paid.

“Well?” the old man snarled some more. “Are you going to pay for it or not?”

I reached into my trusty Velcro wallet and pulled out a 10 spot.

“Keep the change, Lucy,” I smiled at her. “And keep ‘em coming.”

“Why’d you give her so much?” he asked me, gripping the beer I’d just paid for with both hands like some kind of kid with a controller in his hands after you’d unplugged his PlayStation3. “These beers only cost seven bucks.”

“Well, old man, you see, she now likes us. The better you tip, the better the service.”

“Fuck that. Like I said. I tip after every damn beer.” He pointed at a stack of dimes. Must have been 11 or 12 of them.

“How many beers have you drank today?” I asked.

“Countin’ the two you bought, 15!” he said proudly.

“Well, I see only 12 dimes there. Where are the other three?”

“You got me, kid. You got me.”

“Now watch this,” I said to the old man, pointing at Lucy.

“Hey Loooose,” I cooed. “Can you come here for a moment?”

She looked at me and smiled her crooked-teeth smile. There was something about a lady that had never had braces that I liked. The vampire-esque quality of teeth slightly out of kilter and a little bit stained. It told me they got what life was about. Being happy. Not being what others think is happy.

“What, darling?” she said, sitting on my lap. I felt a slight twinge in my crotch. I hadn’t slept with a woman in six months. The prospect of Lucy had never crossed my mind seriously. Until that moment. Her legs were bare and very clean shaven. She had the veins of someone who’d stood her whole life working, but they weren’t ugly. Her feet were big, but her toes were painted nice which made them look awesome. Before I knew it, I had to move her a little, so she wouldn’t notice.

It was a futile effort.

“Honey, is that what you wanted to show me?” she said, patting me on my head. “Because I’ve seen it all before.”

“Wait,” I said. “I want you and the old-timer here to bury the hatchet.”

“Wha?” the old man said. “I never said …”

“Hold on, there sir,” I interrupted. “You listen here. From now on, you order a beer, or order beers all day and night, you leave a tip of more than a dime. Before you know it, you’ll be best friends with Lucy.”

“Ha!” Lucy snorted. I loved it when a woman snorted. It meant they were in the moment and not thinking about laughing. Which meant they weren’t really laughing at all.

“Deal?” I said, looking at the old man.

“Oh what the hell!” he said. “I’ll never spend all of my money before I die anyway. And my good-for-nothin’ son sure as hell don’t deserve to get any.”

We all laughed and took a long swig. I handed Lucy my other beer and she took a sip too.

It was going to be a good night at the ol’ Mulch Pile tonight. I could already tell.

And that’s when she walked in. The redhead I thought I’d never see again. Just like the song said, things went from better to bad to worse. Only I wasn’t at no Texas Funeral.