Kid, just let it go

“Listen kid, you can’t go home every night, take off your pants and pop open a beer,” Lyle said. I looked into his eyes to see if he was going off on some tangent like he does sometimes. But those were the only words coming out of his mouth. For the moment.

We both took a long, deliberate swig of beer. They were so much better when the bottle was just opened. It still had that little bit of steam rising out of it and the rim was still wet. Lyle used to say he likened it to licking a pussy right after you’d pulled your fingers out. I always countered with the penis followed ejaculation statement. And he always winced and called me a fag. He was 73 years old and didn’t have much use for politically correct speak. “To hell with that,” he’d always say. “You and your God damn penis jokes. I really wish you’d stop it. You sure you ain’t one of ‘em?”

To that, I always replied “So, I spend all my time, here with you, talking about a redheaded woman who stole the life out of me, and you still think I might be a fag?”

Lyle always smiled at that. Then frowned. He was predictable. Like a hack sportswriter using clichés or quotes from coaches that included “giving 100 percent” or “one game at a time.” When they’re spoken by other people, they’re still clichés I’d tell writers under my wing. A few got it. One was a gal. She was way too sexy to be working at the small town rag we were at. And eventually, she got out. But she was trouble. By the end of her stay in that part of the state, she’d fucked every single sportswriter who had anything to offer by way of expertise or networking. Ended up marrying the one who hated all of us others. If only he knew we’d all been there, done that. He’d probably disgorge – which was the fourth entry under vomit in my dictionary/thesaurus. Which were usually the words he’d choose, just to feel superior.

“I know kid, you’re not a fag,” Lyle said after that. “But damn it, you just need to let it go.”

“It ain’t that easy,” I’d always say.

“Fuck you, kid,” he always replied. “You don’t know how to, that’s all.”

He was right. There were a lot of things I didn’t know how to. And usually, somehow he found out what those things were. I think it’s just because we spent so much time together. Sitting on those rotten old barstools just talking.

Lyle had three kids. One was dead. Shot in the head during a bank robbery of all things. He was just there to withdraw $50 to give to Lyle so he could get a tire fixed. Lyle never drove his car again after that happened. His other two – one boy and one girl – were in prison. They were both heavy drug users. Started selling it to pay for their habits and got nabbed.

His wife died of cancer when he was 45. Never even went on another date after that. However, he was quick to point out that he’d fucked at least 100 women in the last 28 years. But he couldn’t see himself marrying any of them. Why, I asked him a while back. He answered simply: “Any woman that’ll fuck me before she gets to know me, ain’t worth marrying.”

I tried to bring up how polar opposite all the advice he tried to give me about redheads, booze and kitchen sinks was to the way he lived his life, and he poo-pooed it by simply saying “Do as I say, kid, not as I do.”

“Like a cop, huh?”

“Yeah, fucking police.”

That was one of my favorite running jokes with Lyle. He hated cops almost as much as he hated Budweiser. Almost. I once saw him hit a waitress over the head with a full bottle of Bud. Simply because she accidentally placed it in front of him instead of Heineken. “If I’d ordered a Bud, I wouldn’t have done it,” he told the police after the incident. Lyle was gone for two weeks in jail after that. I missed him. But I kept drinking in the same spot. Whenever someone else sat in Lyle’s seat, I’d talk to them. But not once did anyone keep me interested for more than 23 minutes. I had Sam, the owner of the bar, keep a stopwatch on me and my new barstool friends.

“You’re a tough nut, Jones,” Sam said after a particularly short three-minute conversation with some guy in a suit and tie.

“All I said was how’s it going ‘Suit-and-tie guy!’ And he started going off on welfare and bums and such things,” I said. “I was hurt by that. I’m not a bum. I write. It’s worse than being a bum.”

“You got that right,” Kylie, the local whore, said. “Writers never have any God damn money. Until they’re gone.”

I chuckled and wished Lyle had been there to hear it. He got a blowjob from Kylie in 2004 I think he said. Said she wasn’t very good at it … “for a pro.”

Then, one day, Lyle showed up again. And we got right back to it.

“Don’t ever go to jail, kid,” he told me. “You’ll see people you never thought you’d see in your life.”

“Like who?” I replied, knowing exactly what he was going to say.

“My God damn drug-addict of a son,” he yelled.

“Quiet it down there Lyle, you just got here,” Sam implored.

“Eat shit and die, Sammy boy!” he responded with.

“One of these days, Lyle. One of these days…”

I took a sip of my beer and looked at Lyle. Over the past few years he’d become the father figure I never had growing up. Yeah, I had a dad. And yeah, he was around. But he didn’t talk to me much. And if he did, he was usually yelling or complaining. It’s where I got my great personality, I do believe. He also didn’t teach me things. I still to this day do not know how to shave with a blade. My pops never taught me. I didn’t drive until I was 18. My mom taught me how to ride a bike after I cried the first time and dad gave up.

Lyle never gave up. No matter how pathetic the story got.

He patted me on the back, every time, and said “Kid, just let it go.”

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.

Tank's tab...

Mike Tyson walked into the bar.

We just kind of stared at him. It reminded me of the time when Tank Abbott walked into the casino that me and a buddy were at. We were sitting at the bar, and he walked up and ordered a drink. Some kind of vodka.

My buddy, who was a bit of a jackass, well before anyone thought of being paid to be a Jackass, leaned over to me and said “Hey, man. I’m going to get punched by Tank Abbott.”

Now remember, this was 1995 or 1996. This was when Tank Abbott was one of the baddest mother fuckers on the planet. Before he was exposed as an MMA one-trick pony.

“Are you fucking nuts?” I said matter-of-factly enough to try not to show that I was very interested in where this was going. “He’ll kill ya.”

We both took a swig of Budweiser and looked at Tank. He had two blondes with him. One had real tits, one fake. Neither were particularly attractive, but man, did they have tits. Maybe that’s what Tank Abbott was into? And who were we to judge. We were two skinny 20-somethings who hadn’t been laid in years.

“Nah, he’ll hurt the shit out of me for a little bit, but then I’ll have a great fucking story about when I got into a bar fight with Tank fucking Abbott,” my buddy said, taking another swig of beer and motioning to the barkeep.

“Two whiskeys!” he pronounced with a wink at me.

“On him!”

“Coming right up,” the barkeep said
I looked at my buddy with a bit of a stare.

“Shit, the least you can do is pay for the drinks. I’m about to get slaughtered here.”

“It’s your life,” I replied and finished my beer. I fucking detested Budweiser. But I was broke, and it was the cheapest thing this shitty casino far off the strip had.

The shots came, we clinked glasses and drank it up.

Then, my buddy walked over the Tank Abbott and tapped him on the shoulder.

“What?” he said turning around.

“You’re a fucking pussy!” my buddy said, just loud enough for everyone within 10 feet to hear.

“Really?” Abbott said. “You really want to do this?”

“Do what?” my buddy responded rather funnily.

“End your life in this shitty little casino?” Abbott said.

“Nah, I just thought I’d beat you up.”

Punch. Punch. Punch. Grab. Punch. Punch. Punch.

My buddy hit the floor. Hard. He wasn’t going to get up.

I, however, had to.

I rushed over and knelt down to my buddy’s side.

“You may want to move,” one of the blondes said. I saw out of the corner of my eye a big foot coming down on my buddy’s chest. I pushed him out of the way just in time. The food hit floor.

“What are you doing, son!” Abbott said, now directing his anger at me.

“Saving my buddy’s life,” I said.

“And ending your’s?”

“Nah, Tank, uh, Mr. Abbott. How about I buy you and your friends (I pointed at the two blondes) a round of drinks?”

“A round, huh?”

“OK, two,” I said.

“OK, kid. You got a deal. Hope your buddy appreciates what you’re doing.”

“He won’t. Until tomorrow.”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” he laughed maniacly.

I got my buddy up off the floor and put him in a booth. I went to the bar with Tank Abbott. He smiled and put his arm around me.

At the bar, he announced to the barkeep “This kid’s paying for the next two rounds!”

“You sure, kid?” the barkeep asked.

I had no other response except a meek “Yep.”

The barman, I’d learn later his name was Keith, pointed to the left of the stage where some really bad 1980s hair metal cover band had been playing about 15 minutes ago. There, a group of about 100 people were standing around.

“That’s my crew!” Abbott yelled and laughed his evil laugh again. “Drinks for all of ‘em. Times TWO!”

I thanked my lucky stars we were in a shithole off the strip instead of the Bellagio. At least I won’t be paying for Cristal.

“Two Budweisers,” I said to the barkeep. “Can I get those first?”

The barman looked at Tank Abbott. Abbott nodded his approval.

“Anything for my new best friend!” he laughed and walked away.

I got the Buds, and drank a full one before I even moved. I started on the second one as I walked over to my buddy. He was awake now, staring at the scene over by the stage.

“Man, that’s a crazy scene over there. You’d think they were getting free drinks.”

“They are, man.”

“Shit, then why don’t we join them?”

“I’m going to kill you dude.”

He then took my other Budweiser and drank it down.

The barkeep came over with the bill a few minutes later.

“It could’ve been worse, kid,” he said handing me a little receipt. It read $7,346.23.

“How so?” I asked.

“You could’ve been at the Bellagio.”

And here I am nearly 20 years later, I still haven’t paid that tab. And my buddy still has a great story to tell…

Aiken, Chapter 1

In horror, I watched the slow motion tumble of my half-empty bottle of beer fall from my hands onto the floor. It went straight down. The bottle shattering into hundreds of pieces when it hit the dirty stone floor. I knew exactly what was coming when it happened. My shoulders slumped in anticipation.

“Jones, you’re outta here,” the barkeep barked at me from across the room. John was a kind fellow, but he didn’t put up with bullshit either. His old, dirty and soaking wet towel was in one hand. A fist was made with the other.

I nodded my head in agreement and stumbled out into the afternoon air. It was hot, humid and windy. A perfect New Orleans day, I thought to myself. Only problem was, I was in Aiken, South Carolina.

How I ended up in a bar in Aiken would explain a lot about how bad my life had become. I quit my job exactly 16 days ago. Jumped in my car and drove south. I figured I’d be in Florida by the end of the day. Instead, I got a flat tire in Aiken. And I hadn’t left yet.

That day, I was towed from Interstate 95 to a repair shop. There, I met George Pepper. When he said it, at first I heard Peppard and got a little bit excited. Even though I knew the actor was dead, I figured that this mechanic being named the same thing had to be a sign of good.

“It’s Pepper, not Peppard,” he replied to my query on his last name. I felt bad after that.

“Where can a guy get a drink around here?” I asked.

“Soda pop machine’s out front,” George said with a smile.

“Something a bit stronger, I was thinking.”

“Oh,” he said. I could feel his disappointment in this stranger in his place of business.

“There’s a bar about six blocks from here. Turn on State Street. A left, I believe. Then a right on Main. You won’t be able to miss it.”

“Unless it’s a right on State?” I said with a chuckle.

George didn’t see the humor. I gave him my cell phone number to call me.

“This’ll be long distance,” he replied. “Just stop by in a couple hours. It’ll be fixed.”

I shook his hand and left. His grip was tight. Mine, not so much. My dad always told me to shake a man’s hand like you meant it. I really didn’t mean it that time. And it showed. The mechanic, according to my dad’s philosophy, now had the upper hand on me.

I trudged down the road for a few blocks. The sweat was already showing through my t-shirt. I looked up at the sky, a solitary blue jay few past me, landing on a stop sign. It shrieked. I stared at him. Wondering if the shriek was a warning to me. I chuckled when it stared back and seemed to nod a yes.

A black pickup truck slowly ambled down the road towards me. “Overnight Male” by George Straight was flying out the windows. I watched the truck go by. Inside the cab were two women. One blonde-haired. The other a redhead. They whistled at me and I tipped the brim of my baseball cap with my left hand. I heard giggles from the truck as it whisked away around the corner.

My steps were leaden. I’d only heard of Aiken from one other person in my life. A kid named Donnie. He was a tough kid. A lot tougher than me. He wasn’t very smart, but for some reason, we got along. Usually those types of guys wanted to beat the crap out of me in middle school. Not Donnie. In English class we’d sit in the back and try to come up with contests to prove that one or the other knew more about heavy metal music than the other. He looked the part, wearing leather studded arm bands and pentagram t-shirts. I usually wore a Joe Theisman jersey. But we both had bowl haircuts and had never even sniffed a kiss from a girl.

One day, after we’d spent the entire 45-minute long class writing the names of heavy metal bands – I had 146, he had 133, he told me that he was moving. All the way to South Carolina. We ate lunch together, talking about the band we wanted to form, the girls we wanted to “do” and the plans we had to stay in touch. We exchanged addresses that day. Mine in Virginia, his new one in South Carolina.

A handshake and a look was how it ended.

That summer, I wrote him. Told him how dull our hometown was. That the arcade was closing and the new Motley Crue album was “ok” but not as good as “Shout at the Devil.”

A few weeks later, I got a reply. He talked about how hot it was. How there was nothing but farms and niggers. I read that line over and over. The letter concluded with him saying how much he hated it there. Too many niggers. Again.

That was the last letter I got from Donnie. I never wrote again either.

Now, over 25 years later I’m in that town he hated so much. I wonder if he’s around?

Finally, I make it to the bar. An old brick building that most likely used to be something better. Now, it was a bar. Called “Sid’s Sitting Point.” I opened the big red door and went inside. Hank Williams was singing about being lonesome.

My eyes went from one side of the place to the other. There were four people in the place. Two old guys at the bar and a woman at the jukebox. The bartender was there too. I’d end up knowing his name – John Underwood – by the end of the afternoon.

“What do ya have in a bottle?” I asked.

“Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite and Coors,” he said.

I winced.

“Give me a Bud and a shot of Jameson,” I replied.

“You got it buddy,” he said. “My name’s John.”

“Nice to meet ya, man. I’m Randy.”

He poured my shot and plopped down the beer. I took a swig. It was awful, but cold, so it felt good going down. Soon, I’d had eight beers and a couple of shots. I was feeling good.

The doors opened with a crash. In came the two ladies I’d seen earlier. They saw me at the bar and plopped down next to me. John gave me a look. I knew what that look was about. It said “be careful, bro.” I nodded in appreciation, but also knew I wasn’t going to take his advice.

“Hello, stranger,” the redhead said to me.

“Howdy, ladies,” I replied in a southern drawl that always came over me when I was drunk or nervous. Right now, I was both.

“You’re cute,” said the blonde.

“Well, ma’am, you’re pretty,” I said, taking a long swig from the just delivered bottle of beer. It was the best sip I had all day.

“You wanna get out of here?” the redhead eventually asked me after the three of us had talked about their dogs, their cats and their shitty jobs for about 45 minutes.

“Sure, why the hell not?” I said.

Within two minutes I had paid my tab, gotten a stiff handshake and a stern look from John, taken a piss and jumped in the cab of that black pickup truck. This oughtta be fun, I thought to myself as I looked at the redhead, smiling and looking out the window. Her legs were pale and firm. I noticed no tattoos, always a good sign.

“You think she’s pretty?,” the blonde asked out of the blue.

“Always had a thing for redheads,” I replied. This redhead looked at me now. She smiled. Then turned back to the window.

“Where we going?” I asked no one in particular.

“Over to the shed,” the blonde said.

“Sounds like a plan,” I replied. “You got anything to drink?”

“Of course, darlin’,” the blonde said, pulling a flask from between her legs.

She handed it to me. It was warm from her body heat. I clicked open the top and took a swig. It was tequila. I nearly threw it up, but held back.

“Whoah, there Tiger,” she said. “Don’t want you puking on my man’s truck.”

That should have been a warning. But I ignored it. I handed the flask to the redhead. She took a swig and then another. That should have been a second warning. My drunk ass thought it was awesome. Me, two hot southern girls, at least 10 years younger than me, driving around in the sticks of South Carolina. What could possibly ever go wrong?