Shiners and Chevettes

It was our anniversary. Not really, though, since there was no our anymore. But it didn’t stop me from doing what I did every year. When we were together under the same roof, when we lived 764 miles apart, and after she dumped me.

I’d go to a bar, a new bar. One I’d never been to. I’d order a Shiner Bock, drink it slowly, and put a quarter in the jukebox to play a sad song. I never had a song picked out. Mainly because every bar has a different jukebox. Some had old school ones – played 45s still. Most had Internet ones, so you could pick whatever song you wanted to hear. But, to pick a new one cost a dollar, which violated my quarter rule.

This year, I was in a place called May’s Picket Fence. It was in Jacksonville, North Carolina. The shithole of a town I found myself working in at the moment. For some reason I’d never left eastern North Carolina. Not even after. It was why things happened the way they did. Or at least as soon as they did. I’ve come to the realization, or rationalization, that it would have happened anyway. No matter what I did.

This year I’m sitting on the brown wooden barstool, one of the fancier ones with padding on the back and the butt. I’m drinking my Shiner and listening to American Aquarium talk about antique hearts and such. I wonder if B.J. Barham has really ever been in love. He’s too young to have had so many broken hearts, right? But hell, I’m just doing what everyone does to me. They don’t understand me, I don’t understand him.

I turn to my left and see a gal looking at Craigslist on her laptop. She’s about 25, maybe 30. Lots of bad tattoos up and down her back and arms. One is a bible verse in all black lettering. It takes up her entire shoulder area. It makes me wince. I still go up to her.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey yourself, cutie,” she responds. Up close, she’s at least 40. Lots of years on those eyes. But they’re blue, and piercing. So, I take a seat beside her.

“Cutie, huh?” I reply. “It’s been a long, long time since someone thought I was cute.” I smiled at her. I figured she’d see my golden teeth before too long, might as well get it out of the way. The last girl I talked to didn’t see them until we went outside. “Are you on meth or something?” she asked. I said no, and that seemed to be enough. We had sex in her Brat. I had never had sex in a Brat before. Hell, I’d never been in a Brat before. Those car/truck/whatever they are, they’re strange little autos.

I told her I’d like to buy her Brat. She said no. I asked why.

“Because you suck at fucking,” she said.

“Well, thanks for being honest,” I replied, getting out of the Brat. It was purple on the inside and brown on the outside.

“Just kiddin’,” she said with a wink. “You want to go to the Waffle House?”

I weighed my options, going with this girl I’d just met, and fucked, and sitting in Waffle House for about an hour, or going home and watching an episode of Jason of Star Command. Sid Haig won out.

But before she pulled away, she asked me: “Why do you want to buy my baby?”

This startled me. First, I had no idea this girl had kids. Second, I wasn’t in the market to buy anyone.

“Uh?” I muttered. “Not trying to start a family,” I finally managed.

“No, stupid,” she said. “I’m glad you fuck better than you think. My car. Why’d you want to buy it?”

“Oh…I wanted to buy it tonight, drive to wherever it dies and start living there.”

“That’s weird,” she said, giving me the wary once over.

“Yeah, I’m a little strange,” I replied. “But, at least I’m good at one thing.”

“And what’s that?” she laughed.

“Writing.”

“I hope your pencil’s always full of lead,” she said, starting the car and pulling away. She had Michigan tags on her car. I figured I’d never see her again. Even in the Facebook age. It helped we didn’t exchange names.

“You have a cute smile, too,” the lady at the bar said to me.

“Cutie with some cute, I must buy you a beer my darling.”

She giggled and blushed. I loved making a stranger blush. It meant I was doing something right. For a change.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

“Shiner and whiskey,” she said.

“We’re a match made in heaven.”

“Or hell.”

“Or hell,” I repeated, clinking our now full beers together. She smiled. She had yellow teeth too.

I stared at the television in front of the taps. It had a soccer match on. Chelsea vs. Liverpool. I had no interest. Neither did anyone else in the bar. So I looked back at my new barstool friend. She was looking at Chevettes for sale on the local Craigslist.

“Why a Chevette?” I asked.

“I think they’re cute.”

“I sense a pattern here,” I replied, taking a gulp of beer and then a shot.

“Yeah, I only like cute things.”

“Let’s make a deal then,” I said confidently. It was the liquor and the beer. “If we find one for less than $400, let’s buy it and start driving.”

“Where to?”

“Wherever it takes us. Or better yet, however far it takes us.”

“Then what?”

“Well, I’ll stay there. You can too. If you want to. If not, I’ll put $200 in an envelope, and that’ll be your fare home.”

“Deal,” she said, shaking my hand.

We spent the next three hours looking at Chevettes on the internet. After those three hours – and about a dozen beers – we found one. It was in Beulaville, not too far from us. It was tan. It had “only the original 44,000 miles on it.” Of course it was b.s., but the ad said it ran.

“Meet you tomorrow in Beulaville?” I queried.

“How about we get a cab. That way, we don’t have to leave a car in that God-forsaken town.”

“OK.”

That night, I packed up 17 t-shirts – all of them Lucero, the band not the skateboard guy, shirts. Some underwear, a few pairs of jeans and some shorts. Two pairs of Sambas and some socks. Threw in a toothbrush, toothpaste and an electric razor.  And lastly, my laptop and in its bag 17 notebooks to write in.

I showed up back at the bar, as we’d talked about the night before, at 3 p.m. sharp. We had to be in Beulaville at 5. At 4:30, I called a cab and went by myself.

At the IGA in Beulaville, I paid a guy name Rob $325 for a 1981 Chevette. It purred like a kitten when I started it, and ran like a dead horse when you drove it. I still took it.

Figured I’d make it a couple miles and just go home.

Instead, three years and 145,985 miles later, I’m still driving. Waiting for it to break down. Even the month of only listening to one song – David Bowie’s “Heroes” – didn’t kill it. Or me.

So now, I’m the internet Chevette guy.

Started a Kickstarter page after three months. Said “I need money to drive my Chevette until it dies. I won’t change the oil, I won’t get filters. When it dies, it dies. And that’s where I’ll live.”

The first two months, it raised about $400. Enough for burritos. I ended up working odd jobs to pay for gas. And showers. But not much else.

So, I kept driving. And each anniversary, I stopped somewhere and had a Shiner and played a sad song.

“Where does the love go when it dies?” a singer asked.

I’d say in the driver’s seat of a 1981 Chevette. Until it decides to do otherwise.

season-ticket holder

It’s always been a bit stalkerish in quality.

Metallica’s “Ride the Lightning” blasts out of my speakers. The folks going to the beach music club across the street don’t seem to like it. Go figure. I’d guess at least a few of them were metalheads back in the day. When they were rebelling against their rich daddies and trying to be individuals.

Hell, it happens.

One day, I’ll be dead. And so will you. But somehow, I’m guessing, these words will still exist. And if not, at least I’m on microfiche.

Ha. That last little rhyme (sorta) made me smile. That’s always a good thing.

It’s strange to try and sit down and write when I really, really, really don’t want to.  It reminds me of those days back in 2006 when I just wrote to bleed. But then I wanted to. I wanted to cry in the wind, knowing that only a couple of people were looking, and they really weren’t all that interested.

My parents are getting ready to have their 48^th anniversary. My sister and her husband, their 20^th. My grandmother just turned 90.

Meanwhile, my sister is dating her “boyfriend” for the 12^th or 13^th year, minus that strange year when we lived together for a while for some months. That was a weird year.

Me? I’m on my sixth year of angst. It’s nowhere near the angst it was, but it still exists. I guess it always will. I lost a chance to be a dad. That was worse. Haunted is a good way to phrase it. Now I want to listen to the Pogues.

My mind works strange. Ha.

I read something today at work that made me cringe. It’s been a bit. I’m very glad that editors are editing the so-called editor now. He’s a stupid kid, and he’ll always be that. But maybe now that someone is (hopefully) correcting him again, like I tried unsuccessfully for three months before giving up (my biggest professional failure for sure), I’m hoping there’s a glimmer of hope. The other guy? Not at all. He’s a fanboi loser of the worst kind. What I was at 24, wearing my UVA shirts to ASU practices. But I learned, after being called out. And that’s the best thing that can happen to a young sports journalist. Of course, now I’m a grizzled sports journalist who hasn’t written a word for newspaper publication that got my name on it for quite some time now. But I’m applying for two jobs that will let me write again. Hopefully, I’ll at least get a nibble. I regret, somewhat, not taking the job I could have had in Bristol, Va. A great boss would have helped me get to where I should be. I have the chops, I’ve just not been pushed in so God damn long that they’ve become flabby and discolored. I’m ready to get off that pity-party wagon and start writing again. I try not to, but I still believe. In me. In it.

Beer makes me happy. Well, happier.

I miss conversations on barstools with friends. All of them live so damn far away. I’ve lived here in Morehead City for over two years now. I haven’t met a person I’d call a friend yet. The longest conversations I have with people here who aren’t visiting me are with my landlord’s secretary and the girl at Food Lion with the big nose and nice ass. She talked to me today. Said “She’ll be right with you.” I was in the “express lane” that had no cashier b/c she was bagging groceries for the butt and beak gal. I was just doing my look at the ceiling thing – yeah, I’d call it a “thing” – and I guess she recognized it. Hence the sentence to me. It’s good to be noticed.

I read today that child molestation is bad. Thanks for that.

I also heard on TV that if you are molested, you are a “lost soul.” I really wish people would think before just spouting off about things they probably have no clue about. I mean, I don’t know much, but what I do know, I know better than to just blanket call victims of abuse “lost souls.” Why? Because they survive and thrive many times. They aren’t lost. It’s the pederass that is lost.

Speaking of…why is everyone so quick to just say “kill the fucker!” or “I hope he gets gang-raped in prison!” about it. I mean, yeah, he deserves it, but fuck. I used to be full of so much anger and hatred too. But I learned how to just let that go. Do I hold on to some things still? Yes. But damn, why so much hate? Especially if you have no connection except maybe being a season-ticket holder?

unhappy anniversary

Five years ago, my life stopped being fun.

Now, I’ve had good times since. I’m not saying that. But it’s always been tempered by this feeling in the back of my brain. This nagging dripping faucet of a memory that won’t fade away fast enough.

I tried drinking it away. That didn’t work. So, I’ve mostly stopped drinking now. An occasional bender with friends is about all I do at this point.

I tried writing about it. A lot. In public forums and in private notepads.

I tried hating.

I tried forgiving.

I tried killing myself.

I tried forgetting.

I tried crying.

I tried nothing.

I guess I’ve tried everything I can think of.

I lost my ability to have fun that day. I became serious. I became lame.

When I look in the mirror now, I see an old man. A guy who gave up for too long.

Why?

I wish I knew.

The days aren’t as long as they used to be.

The nights, well, they’re still lonely.

I’ve been with one other person since then. That’s it. I fell in love too fast for my own good. I adored that girl. But she faded fast. I don’t blame her. She didn’t know what she was getting into. And I didn’t know what I was getting into. I think we both got what we needed out of it.

Now, I’m thinking back on those five years. Not a lot accomplished. A few road trips. A few new friends. A lot of lost friends. And a couple of great friends.

Could be worse.

Could be dead.

Could be in a coma.

Could be married to a woman who doesn’t love me.

Still got my teeth, shockingly so.

Still got some of my health, although I think I wasted most of that, too.

I’ll be 40 in a few weeks.

That’s weird to say. Not because I’m old, because that’s a state of mind. But instead because it means I’ll probably never have a kid. If I had one now, he’d be born when I was almost 41. Graduate high school when I was almost 60. That’s weird.

If I married someone today, we’d hit milestones at milestones. 10 years at 50. 20 years at 60. That’s weird.

My grandparents each made it over 50 years married.

My parents will hit that mark soon. Me? I’d have to live to be 90. Weird.

I think too much about her. I think too much about stuff like what I just typed. It’s not fun. I wish I could stop. It just doesn’t happen. I tell myself every night to stop. I wake up and it pops right back in there and I say it again.

If I had a switch, I’d throw it. If I had a place to cut, I’d slice. If I could drive to that destination, I’d start the car right this mother fucking god damned minute.

Instead, I just live. Day by day. Moment to moment. Each one different than the one before, yet very similar. Too similar, really.

It’s better than it was 5 years ago. Better than it was 4 years ago. Better than it was 3 years ago (except for the sex part). Better than it was 2 years ago. Better than it was a year ago. It’ll be better in a year.

I can, however, still feel exactly how I felt the moment I heard those words. The despair hasn’t left. Not for a moment.

I hope I’m not just holding on to it, for fear of not having it anymore. That is just a scary way to live.

I just think I hold on to things and don’t know how to let go of them.

It just needs to be replaced by something else. Someone else.

All I know is it also has to stop. Every beginning has an end. Every end starts a new. All that clichéd pap…

The past belongs there. It doesn’t belong in the present. Or the future. Yet there it always is. My brain must have some bright spot in it. Or a dark spot. I’d love to see a CAT scan of it. See where that spot is in me, and isn’t in everyone else. Or most everyone else. Who else holds on and won’t let go. Like a scared kid on a roller coaster?

It all starts with something, right? A smile. A frown. A kiss. A touch. A tear. A smell. A glance. A chance.

Unhappy anniversary.

Rogers and Hammerstein

Chapter 2: She Wants

“I Ain’t Going to the Bar Tonight…No, I’m not going to the bar tonight….”

Not exactly the theme song for this place that I would have picked, but it fits. No one is coming to the bar tonight.

“Stop being a fucking pessimist,” she says. I still don’t know why I only call her she. She calls me Want, I call her She. Guess it fits.

“It’s reality, honey,” I say taking a quick swig of Shiner. “There’s no one fucking here.”

“It’s 9:45 in the morning, you asshole. And this shitbox just opened after it being closed down for seven damn years. Did you tell anyone to be here?”

“Yeah, I told a couple of folks, most of don’t live here, though.”

“You don’t want to succeed do you? Just like with women, you fall in love, then you push ‘em away. I’ve known you for, what, six months? And I have that part of you figured out.”

I think back six months ago, damn, to the day even. I hate that I’m good with anniversaries. She walked by the bar wearing a Husker Du shirt and Umbro shorts. I didn’t even know they made them that short anymore. She looked at me, trying to sand some wood on the porch.

“Why are you building a porch for the bar?” she asked.

“Have you ever seen Tarantino’s Death Proof? I want this place to be like the bar in that movie. All the way down to the jukebox…” I said looking up through my sweat.

“What about Stuntman Mike?” she replied.

“Sure, he’ll be here too…”

“If you want it, make it so,” she said walking away.

“What’s your name?” I yelled out, kind of desperately.

“Later,” she laughed.

Yeah, that was a good day. Two nights later she’d come back again. Ended up hanging out on the finished porch -- the inside was still too much of a wreck, drinking Shiners and listening to T. Rex. That went on for four months.

Then, I met Sid. Her ex-boyfriend. Well, now he’s her ex. Then, he wasn’t yet.

It was December 22nd. The night before I was going to get in my beat up Hyundai and drive the 15 hours to my parents’ house for Christmas. I’d asked She if she wanted to go with, being that she didn’t have any family that she cared to hang out with and all. She said she’d tell me later.

Well, here it was an hour before I was leaving, and I had no answer. So, I called her up. No answer.

Her apartment was near enough to I-10 that I figured I’d just stop by. I did. Big mistake. Or not. It’s all about perspective.

I got out of my car, walked up to her front stoop and knocked on the door. She lived at house number 237. That made me chuckle. I hear some commotion inside. She has two big dogs -- one a lab, the other a mutt -- but it’s not them as I see both Rogers and Hammerstein in the back yard looking at me. I notice they each have this forlorned look in their eyes. I’m good at noticing signs, days later.

“What the fuck do you want?” comes a yell from the front door in a voice I don’t recognize at the moment, but will soon come to know as Sidney’s voice. Damn, that’s the name I always wanted to give my dog. The dog I was going to get in a few weeks when I finally open my bar.

“Ummm, is She here?” I spit out nervously, forgetting that this fucktard isn’t going to know who She is.

“Natalie! Some shit bird is out here, asking for She. That’s got to be you, isn’t it? Fucking whore.” And he slams the door in my face.

Two minutes later, She comes to the door.

“I’m sorry,” She says. “I should have told you.”

“Yeah, might’ve been a good idea.”

I went home, had a miserable Christmas. But that’s par for the course. Invited my family all to come to the grand opening of my bar in a few weeks. They laughed. Isn’t that strange reaction, I thought for a second, then remembered this is my family.

The drive back to the dirty city isn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be. I just put on Lucero and sing at the top of my lungs the entire time. If I’d had a bottle of whiskey, probably would have drank it too. And then ended up pulling off the side of the road to sleep somewhere.

By the time I pull into my driveway, my throat doesn’t work anymore. Neither does my voice.

On cue, my phone rings.

“Hello,” I meekly say into the old flip phone. I won it on e-bay to replace the phone I broke back in 2010. Ironically, because of a redhead. Old habits die hard.

“Hey, it’s me,” she says.

“What’s up,” is all I can muster.

“We need to talk. He kicked me out. We’re not together anymore.”

“I have a feeling this has happened before.”

“Stop being an asshole. I’ve been in my car the last four days. Couldn’t face going anywhere else.”

“Where are you?”

“About six cars down from you, Want.”

When you put that pet name at the end of certain sentences, it can fuck with your mind. I think that’s why she does it.

“Ok, come on in…”