i'm scared.

The opening of the novel, the memoir, the whatever, was supposed to be “I never should have left New Orleans.”

It fit. So perfectly. Those words spilled out of my lips one spring afternoon in Austin, Texas. I was there for my best friend’s bachelor party. I said them in some throwaway moment. But my friend, he understood the importance of the words, writing them down immediately. “That’s the opening to your book,” he said.

“My biography, written by you,” I responded.

And thus, “The Adventures of Alligator Jones” was born.

It never lived beyond that moment.

Fear has crept in. A little at first, but more so now.

I guess the old belief that you get more cautious with age has sort of come true. And I only have myself to blame for it. I dwell too much. I wonder what if too much. It’s silly really. I know this. I even pronounce the words of no regret a lot. Yet, I don’t live up to it.

Take now, for instance. Things should be going one direction. They aren’t. Or they are at a snail’s pace. Actually, something slower than a snail, but that’s what comes to mind. Why? Because it’s the cliché.

Inspiration also seems to have slipped a bit. I have ideas. Pretty good ones, too. But when I sit down to try and expound upon them, they fade. Or they turn into nothing. Or into Jello.

I look at my past and I see things that make me wonder about my ability to commit. At least when things are good, or looking good, or becoming good.

My journals are, and were a perfect example of this. When I am moody, depressed, unhappy, whatever -- the words flow like the Mississippi. When I’m happy, content, joyful, etc. -- they stop.

Maybe I just believe this myth. Maybe it’s true. I don’t know. I just know that when the tap turns off, I’m almost always enjoying myself. So I ignore what I want to do.

Discipline is the key, I think. I don’t have it. I need to get it.

Or maybe I just need to be miserable. Which, of course is a self-fulfilling kind of deal.

I remember the first time I seriously read my journals from cover to cover. All of them one night. It was 2000-something or other. I’d had my heart broken, and broken a heart. I didn’t understand what had happened to over a decade of my life, so I thought I’d read about it. It’s why you write it down, I told myself.

Much to my surprise, there were huge gaps in my journals. I knew I got lazy sometimes, but really this was ridiculous. In one of them, I went almost three years with about 15 entries. In another set of them, I went five years with very infrequent ones. In between those two periods, lots of writing. Before and after them. Lots of writing.

Then came the purge gal. The one I threw it all away for. I wrote a lot before, and a lot for the first few weeks. Then it became laborious. A chore. Almost a bother. One reason was the expectation. I have only myself to blame. I showed this one my writings. Something I’d never done before. She wanted them to be about her. Not about any one from the past. But I couldn’t do it. At least not knowing she was reading.

After she dumped me, I wrote more than I’d ever written. I almost killed myself. And I found a bit of a voice inside me.

Then, she came back for a moment. It stopped momentarily. But came back with a vengeance when she disappeared for good.

The period since has been full of peaks and valleys. I started a roadie with my dad, writing furiously. Slowly, it became fun. Something I didn’t expect. And the writing stopped.

Now, I’m in a place of change. A crossroad, I guess. I can chase something and see what happens. I can let it just play out. Or I can run away. I seriously sit here and think which would be better. Knowing which would be. Unless…

And this writing could have been better too. But I was scared to chase the idea that was there. Of girls, exes and twisted metal.

Maybe next time. If I remember.

All I know is there’s a killer line from a song written by Joey Kneiser. “I want to curse at the world, with my arms around you.” For years I searched for a perfect line to say to a woman that I loved. That one, I think, is it.

Alligator Jones meets Trees

“Hi! Would you like to know about becoming carbon neutral?”

“Blam!”

That may not have been the smartest way to avoid the little eco-friendly nerd, shooting off his face with a shotgun. But then again, maybe it was…

Looking down at my feet, a pool of blood was already soaking my brand new pair of Samba Classics. It’s the only shoe I wear, and pretty much the only one I want to wear. Although some vintage Ralph Sampson Puma black hi-tops would be rather stylin’.

“Shit, man. Why’d you go and do that?” a voice said from the left side. Near a booth marked “Free Vagina Maps.” Clearly, this sign had been tampered with, but it got my attention now.

“You sell Vagina maps?” I asked the person who had just spoken to me, without answering his question.

“Huh?” he said.

“Well, I guess since I didn’t answer your question, you don’t want to answer mine. Fair enough.”

Shhhh-click. I chambered another shell from the tube. This seemed to rattle my new-found friend. He was about 25 or so, wearing a “I <3 Lohan” T-shirt. For some reason, this did not strike me as creepy at all. Maybe it was the idea of a Vagina Map that made this possible.

“Sorry, bro,” Ted said. I found out his name was Ted, or at least that’s what he was telling the average consumer with his neon green plastic nametag attached just over where Lindsay’s left nipple would be. “I don’t have any more maps, and yes, they are Vagina Maps.”

“Well, you’ve interested me, Ted? Is that right?”

“What?”

“Is your name Ted?, Ted.” I said, matter-of-factly, not even keeping my finger on the trigger as I put the shotgun -- a Remington 887 -- over my right shoulder. My gun was plain brown. The guy at the gun show in Vanceboro, North Carolina, tried to get me to purchase a camouflage one. I told him to go fuck himself. Amazingly, he didn’t take offense and offered me a discount on shells. Nice fellow he was. He had better teeth than me as well. But, honestly, that’s not saying much, having not been in a dentists chair since I was 23 years old.

“No man, my name is Trees.”

“You serious? Like the Steve Buscemi movie?”

“Yep. My mom fucked Steve one night and fell in love. But she didn’t stick around.”

“You his kid?”

“Nah. This was over a decade before I was born. But when she saw that damn movie, she said she knew she’d name her first-born Trees. Fucking boy or girl.”

“Guess you’re lucky you’re a boy, huh? Trees would be a helluva name for a lady to live down.”

“Hmmm. Never thought of it that way, but you’re right!”

“About them maps. What the fuck is a Vagina Map, anyway? I’ve just got to know.”

“It’s a map of where they film pornos. New ones. Classic ones. Gang bangs and trannys as well. You want to know where any famous porno was shot, I’ve got a map to take you there.”

“Damn, that’s fucking fantastic! When are you going to get some more in?”

“You serious man? ‘Cause don’t you think this is the last place you’d want to be again? I mean, you’ve got brains on your shoes.”

“Fuck, I hate it when that happens. You know what I mean?”

“Not really, man. Not really.”

“Well, Trees, you wanna get out of the Vagina Map business? It can’t be that lucrative? I’ve got a proposition for ya. One that you can’t lose on.”

“Sure, man. Hey, what’s you name?”

“Alligator Jones, my friend. Alligator Jones.”

He squinted through the sunlight to get a look at my face when I said that. I figure he didn’t believe me when I said that. Hell, my teacher’s never believed it either. Especially when they looked at the name in the book and it said Henry. Damn, I hated that name so much as a kid.

In the distance, sirens started to approach. In the foreground, a crowd was starting to gather. So were flies.

“Kid, let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said.

“Let me grab my bag,” Trees said, lunging behind his little makeshift stand of old-ass milk crates.

I only had a second to make my decision. Was he going for a gun? Or was he really grabbing a bag. I guessed.

Correctly.

“I never go anywhere without my bag,” Trees said. “It’s got a copy of “A Confederacy of Dunces”, the movie “Elf” and a Chuck E. Cheese token.

“Sounds great, kid, let’s get moving. The cops’ll be here any moment.”

We mainlined it straight to my car -- a 1991 Toyota Celica. Moon roof, not a convertible. Stick, not automatic. She wasn’t exactly the car you’d expect to pull up on the day you were going to die. And that’s how I liked it.