why bother, you pee blood...

The fucking Police was playing when I walked into the bar.

“God damn I hate the fucking Police,” I yelled. Then I remembered something important, I was at the bar because a friend invited me. That friend? He’s a cop. And the bar was filled with cops.

So, like Tim Roth says in Reservoir Dogs, you’ve just got to jump right in and swim. That in mind, I walk up to the jukebox, just as Sting finishes saying something stupid over a backbeat provided by a drummer who appeared in a reality show about storage unit auctions. I put my dollar in. I picked my song.

“Right about now, N.W.A. court is in full effect…”

A few seconds later, a couple hundred cops were chanting along with Ice Cube, Easy-Z and Dr. Dre.

I watched this scene for a few seconds and thought back to 1988. I was a teenager who wanted to be James Hetfield. I drank like him. That was about the end of similarities. I had more of a Dave Mustaine mullet. I don’t think about high school much. Nothing much happened.

Kind of like this party. It’s at a strip-mall bar. It stinks like pee. I want to go home.

But I don’t. Why? I don’t know. Maybe something will happen.

I order a shot of Jameson and a Miller High Life to chase it down. I gave up drinking soon after my stroke. Well, I didn’t “give it up” as much as I just stopped because it hurt to drink now. That made it silly to do. Yeah, I still think about the girls and women of my past. And now, I don’t fight with them anymore. I just look at them and nod. Yep, still here.

Then I eat some unsalted nuts out of a can from CVS.

I take a sip of the beer. Fuck, it tastes bad. Then I take the shot. It tastes worse. But the beer, now it tastes OK.

Why am I friends with a cop? I’ve never had a good experience with one. It’s weird. Except that guy who showed up at my apartment in New Bern at 3 a.m. one night. I was blasting The Faces, signing along with Rod and Ronnie, and drinking way too much. I guess one of my neighbors complained to the police. Instead of just knocking on my door. Of course, I opened the door when the cop showed up in my shorts only. Beer gut hanging out, bottle of Shiner in one hand, devil horns in the other.

“Yes?”

“Sir, could you turn down the musi….Hey, is that a Jump in the Fire Metallica poster?” he said.

“Well, yes it is,” I said slurring just the it.

“Soooo awesome, man.”

“It is?”

“I never got to see Metallica, but they’re my favorite!” he said, to me, I guess still.

“Saw them twice in a month back in high school,” I said, puffing my chest a little bit. I have seen some good music, even though when SHE happened, I mostly stopped.

“Cool, cool,” he said. “But man, can you turn down the Rod Stewart? Neighbors complained.”

“Yeah, not a problem. Gotta be at work in the morning,” I said, fully knowing I went to work when I wanted. Some days at noon, others at 5 p.m., and still others never. Being the boss at that point of my life was a good, and bad thing.

“Night officer,” I said, slamming the door behind me and turning off the stereo. I drank the last half of the Shiner in my hand and threw the bottle in the trash can. It hit another bottle. “Clank, cla, clank.”

I went into the bathroom and peed … blood.

Probably should have paid closer attention to that stuff, I think, now back in the bar in a strip mall in suburban Raleigh, North Carolina, surrounded by cops I don’t know wondering where the fuck the one I know is?

Probably getting a blowjob in the bathroom, his brother says to me. I guess I’d been narrating stuff out loud again. It’s a bad habit of mine. I’ve been punched three times because of it and slapped twice. And got a girls number. Why? Because I fucking asked for it. Who’da thunk that actually works?

How the fuck did Sting get so damn rich? I think.

I order another beer and another shot. It’s going to be either a really long night, or a very short one. I hope for the latter, but know I’m in for the former.

“She’s here,” my buddy, not the cop, but the other one at the party I know says.

I look over my shoulder and yep, there she is, not HER, but instead her. She stole my heart for a moment because I left it out to rot. She kept if from rotting, and poisoned it instead. And her mom told me she liked me best.

Like mother, like daughter.

I look at her and then I smile. Why? Because I figured it out before it was too late.

I scratch my balls and think about cancer cells and Miller High Life bottle caps. This, I think, would make a great fucking story. And then I realize this is exactly why I don’t write for a living. Except for that newspaper thing any more.

you couldn't make this shit up...or could you?

The smarmy fuck comes in smiling. Every single time. His little rubber band wrapped pony tail sticking out like a piece of shit from a fat girl’s ass. Just not right that visual image. But it’s what I see when I see him.

He’s the office IT guy. I hate the fact that they call them IT guys. There’s nothing ‘it’ about them. Maybe at some places, but here, it’s not even Jimmy Fallon-esque.

Today, he got yelled at. By me.

Some days you just know aren’t going to go well. Today, didn’t seem like one of those days. Even after having to sit in my car for 40 minutes just 5 minutes away from the office. Almost a full hour I lost. An hour I won’t get paid for. An hour in this wretched place where I never thought I’d end up, but somehow have. It should be enough to fuck with my head. But my head’s already fucked enough, so this town can’t do that to it.

Anyways. My boss is being a prick today. He’s reached the point I reached a long time ago. I left the damn company, but had to come back…Swallow that pride. It’ll just hurt for a little while.

But, the shit with the computer system being completely awful just makes me mad. Then, the little rat fucker IT guy decides he’s going to be condescending. And, like Floyd in True Romance that’s one thing I’m no good at taking. Which is, of course, ironic since I tend to do that to folks. I try not to, but it just happens….

“Hey, the feeds aren’t working,” I say.

“Oh yes they are,” turd tail replies.

“The last thing moved at 12:26. It’s 2:13.”

“You need to use the right feed,” turd gurgles.

“I’m USING the FUCKING right feed,” I belt out, feeling the lack of control and having no way to stop it. I regret it. It’s the first real instance of my temper since I came back to this rat-infested office many months ago, but not enough months yet.

He doesn’t reply.

Later on, an e-mail to my boss. Detailing how all the problems are “our” fault and not “his” fault.

I hate people that pass the buck. Refuse to take the blame for shit when it happens.

I fully take the blame for my lot in live. Yeah, it sucks, but I spent the money that put me in debt. I stayed at shitty jobs when I had other offers. And I own all that shit. I don’t go to the doctor or dentist. So when I die with no teeth, it’ll be my fault.

And when I fuck up at work, I say, “yep, that was me. Sorry.”

Oh well.

The turd disappeared and two minutes later, the feed started working again.

“Yep, guess it wasn’t broken,” I say loudly. It gets a grin or two. Really not worth it, but, sometimes it is.

Me and another guy at work, Mike, we start talking about stupid things. Bad cartoons, good cartoons, baffoons we work with, and then the greatest Web site of late … a place that shows death scenes from movies.

It gets us to thinking about great ways to off the folks who bug us.

The consensus between us, and then many others in the office is Omar. The shotgun wielding homo from “The Wire”.

“Omar’s coming!” becomes the days rallying call. As is the whistling of The Farmer and the Dell.

Before too long, new guy, Jake, starts to get annoyed with us. We are a bit repetitive. But at least he wasn’t here for the Meg standoffs. When anything that bugged us got a “Meg” followed by a “Pbbbt.”

Good times are had by all. At least just enough to stay sane. And that’s really all you can ask when you’re doing mindless drivel. Reading mindless written drivel from mindless drivel peddlers with pens and pads. Although, I’d bet they all just have digital recorders now. Who has the ability to take notes anymore. Just too damn tough to pay attention and write at the same time.

Fucking amateurs.

My newest quote for the office is “One day, I won’t be here anymore.”

It’s not the best attitude, all give you that. But it’s better than “I fucking hate this place!” Although, some would argue that the new slogan implies the old one, not that that has ever been my motto at this job.

The best thing I can do is tread water and dog paddle my way though the awfulness. Tomorrow night, I’ll fight another 10 o’clock deadline. Maybe I’ll miss it this time, just to do it. Add a little spice to life.

Fiction? Or not…You be the judge.