Drive by

I had to pee. So, I stood up from my computer, leaving the silly game story I was writing about a girls basketball game that I couldn’t even remember the score from to be finished whenever I was done.

Walking past the empty cubicles, I thought about the people who used to sit there. I never worked in this place when they were filled. The day I started, they were all empty. Never to be filled again. Yeah, every so often one of us sits in one of them. To chat, to grab election-night pizza, or to watch election returns on the television. But for the most part, the sit empty.

But that thought passes. I continue walking.

I notice that my vision is a little blurry. I’m seeing double a little. Nothing new, I think, just staring at that

computer screen too long.

I pee.

As I’m walking back to my desk, I stumble. Then I stumble again. Eventually, I have to use the wall to walk.

“This is strange,” I think, going back to me desk.

I sit there for a moment.

I get back up, stumble to the break room. I call my fiancée.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I’m seeing stuff. I can barely walk.”

After a few minutes of chatting, she tells me she’s coming. It’s 44 miles from our house to my office. I drive this every day. I can’t think of a job when I didn’t at least start out driving 40-plus miles to work – one way.

Just sort of became what I do.

For girls, mostly.

For the beach once.

I go back to my desk and finish my story. Just like me. When I got laid off, I asked my by-then old boss if he wanted me to finish my story.

He said not to bother.

Still, the one I’d written the day before but had not run yet, it ran the day I was shit-canned.

Love the biz.

My fiancée arrived. She checked my pulse. She checked my eyes.

By then, I was feeling better. Not good. But better.

“You should go to the emergency room,” she said. Wise lady.

“I’m feeling better,” I said. “I think I just want to go home.

Unwisely, I drove home.

It was dark out. Being March and all.

We took the long way.

I made it home. Ate some food. Went to bed.

The next day, it was back to normal.

A few weeks later, I was at home. The same stuff started to happen.

I drove to Wilson. 44 miles away. And then I went to the doctor.

They sent me to the emergency room.

After a bunch of tests, I was told “Well, we know you didn’t have a heart attack. And you didn’t have a stroke.”

A few weeks later, my neurologist told me “you had a stroke.” This after telling me there was “no way” I’d had a stroke.

Doctors.

They sure as hell all didn’t mind billing me for their wrong diagnosis.

Should’ve sent some paper instead of money…

Instead, I’m more in debt.

I still eat frozen burritos.

I don’t eat frozen pizza as much.

I don’t go to fast food places. Except for Hardee’s for a hot ham ‘n cheese and Andy’s, now Highway 55, for a cheeseburger. Guess it’s good I don’t live in New Orleans anymore. I’d be dead.

If I’m not already.

Maybe watching “Raising Hope” is my hell. If it is, I know I’m dead, because it’s on right now.

Banality. Yep. That’s what this is.

The written word isn’t coming like I want it to. It’s just shit oozing out of a tightened ass. A tightened hairy ass, at that.

I wonder what that dude, can’t remember his name, from my Arizona days who shaved his ass is doing right now? Not that I really care. But for the first time in probably 15 years, I just thought about that guy. And his shaving his ass.

I couldn’t imagine shaving my ass. First, I’d probably cut myself. I cut off a mole shaving my face as a youth. Still use electric razors to this day.

And David Bowie is dead, and the people have already turned on him.

It doesn’t take long anymore. Hero today, shit bag tomorrow.

I now wonder if I truly do need to drink to be creative. I know I don’t, because I write for a living and sometimes, not all the time, but just some of the time, I do it pretty well.

Getting a phone call tomorrow in the A.M. from a temp agency. Never thought I’d utter those words. I’m considering working for a temp agency instead of trudging (or driving, whatever…) 44 miles to work. Could this be a new start? Or just another misguided stupidity fix?

At least I’m not paying rent on a house in Florida. For three years. That I got to spend at best 2 months in.

A house I drove past in 2009. Three-plus years later. And still cried.

I wonder what would happen if I drove past it today?

Who am I kidding…

Dad

I used to always tell people who got close to me that the only thing I didn't want to do was to grow up and be like my dad.
Yet every decision I made over the years, from girls to school to finances, you name it; ended up making me a lot like him.
The me of 22 isn't the me of 44.
Just like the dad of 50 wasn't the dad of 71.
We both grew. Me into a man, him into a better man.
As I watched him be a loving grandfather to Paul and Suzi, I'll admit, I was jealous.
There he was, doing the things I wanted him to do with me, but rarely did.
We never talked about it, as we rarely talked about anything; but I assumed he'd do the same for Izzy.
Sadly, he wasn't able to.
Seeing that change in him over the years, however, changed me and the way I felt about dad.
It made me able to be in the hospital, repeatedly dipping a tiny sponge into the faucet to give him water.
In that bed for the first time, I didn't see the man who I had been angry at, sometimes afraid of. I saw my dad.
That let me hold his hand that day, and in our last time together the next day. It allowed me to kiss him, something I don't remember ever doing.
And I'm glad the last words I said to him were "I love you, dad." Because there were other words I wanted to say, but didn't. And I'm glad because they weren't all kind.
Just like today.
He wasn't a perfect dad.
I wasn't a perfect son.
But I know you loved me, dad, and I'm glad you know that I loved you too.
I say goodbye today, but you'll always be a part of me; simply because I am so much like you.
And I'm ok with that.

Gang of Four's dewclaw

It was 8:23 in the evening and I was driving from the office to Food Lion. Gang of Four’s “Entertainment!” was blasting out of my poor car’s speakers.

Soon, I noticed that I was hunched over in the seat, wishing I was inside the song. It was a strange moment. One that I can’t really explain. It happened, and then it was over. Why? Because I sat up in the seat.

Something about the hunch, I guess.

These are not normal moments, for normal people. They’re fairly normal for me.

I’m at home now. It’s 2:54 a.m. James Scott Farrin is trying to ambulance chase me on the television. Followed quickly by Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus.

My dog it chewing on his dewclaws. It’s as if he wants to pull them off. One got stuck on my shorts earlier today. I’m guessing it’s too long, and probably damaged now. Guess I’ve got to figure out how to cut it correctly in the morning. Even though it’s already morning.

Tomorrow I’ll drive to a high school. Sit alone in the stands watching the games being played. I’ll keep stats. I’ll watch people. They’ll watch me. Then I’ll talk to the coaches and a couple of kids. Drive back to the office and crank out two stories. Fast. It’s the one skill that hasn’t eroded – quickness.

Interviewing after games? That’s a whole other story.

Features and long-term? No problem. But the after a game ones? I’ve lost it.

“Talk about …”

“What were you thinking when …”

“Tell me about …”

My mind goes blank sometimes mid question or mid reply. It’s kind of frightening, but also kind of invigorating. It makes me have to work harder on things that became routine. That’s a rationalization. I’m no longer 29 and witty. I’m 42 and bitty.

K.C. & the Sunshine Band playing on Dr. Oz. Fuck. My life gets more numb every moment. I want to run to my car and drive somewhere, but I don’t.

Iron Maiden Japan. Charles, why sock E?

There once was a time that my war wounds were cool. Now they’re yellow and old. The wrinkles show. The gray hairs don’t lie. The scars have shrunk with my muscle mass. I look at my legs now and wonder how on earth I used to ride 20 miles on my bike to go try and find Atari games in 100 degree heat. It seems so foreign now.

It makes me think about the video game board games I left behind in the Murphy bed apartment I lived in during my internship in Birmingham, Ala. That makes me think about all the miles I drove around that state. Just about every day I went somewhere new. That was what I thought it was going to be like for decades. When the job didn’t provide it like I thought it would, I used my days off to make it so. Then I used any excuse to go somewhere new.

Now, I dream of going somewhere new. I went to 38 states in about 30 years. Maybe it was 37 and I added one a bit later.

I’m still stuck at 38. At 42.

Those old posts taunt me now…

In 2009 I’m going to visit a new state.

In 2010…

In 2011…

In 2012…

In 2013…

Now, it’s 2014 and I’m working a job. Getting a check. Writing cheques.

I’m going to be a dad. Maybe. I’ve been down this road before. More times than I was ever allowed to know about.

Which makes me think of Oakton.

And bathrooms.

Bad sex.

When there wasn’t such a thing.

I went to New Orleans instead of answering the phone. I’ll always wonder what was on the other end. It’s me. It’s just the way it is. I can say all the right things, but I won’t be thinking them.

John T. Orcutt looks like my boss. It’s like he’s here at home every night on WRAL in Raleigh, North Carolina taunting me. Telling me things I don’t want to hear, but need to.

If I had a gun …

I’d most likely pawn it and buy that Lucero album on ebay that I just can’t afford. $150 for a slab of vinyl that I already own in its actually rarer form, but don’t own it from the special pressing. Why I’m talking about Lucero albums is anyone’s guess. Go figure.

They’ll always be a part of who I am. Which means she’ll always be a part of who I am. And honestly, that’s the way you are too. You just don’t admit it.

Throwing the football

“It’s a bit like begging,” my dad said to me after I explained a business proposal to him.

“Not really, pops, I replied. “Only kind of.”

I understood his concerns. We were independent guys. Fools as well. We’d always wanted to do things “the right way”, but also “our own way.” And many times, they conflicted.

I was 41. He was 69. Starting up a business wasn’t exactly something either of us had thought of. There was a time when I thought I hated my dad. There still are times when I dislike what he does. I’m sure he’s felt the same way about me.

But I’m tired of chasing my tail. I’m tired of doing a job I don’t like. I remember in my younger, more naïve days when I said to anyone who’d listen that I’d never end up in a job I hate. And here I am at 41, in a job I hate. Yes, it was taken out of necessity. But that was over two years ago. Plenty of time to GTFO, as the kids would write now.

So, I cooked up an idea one night. I was drinking, I will admit that, but like all drunks, I believe my best ideas come after at least four beers.

I’d start up a bar-b-que business with my dad. It would be a way for us to bond, finally, after all of these years. He’d be the recipe guy, the “talent” so to speak. I’d be the idea guy, the marketing department, the capital procurement one. He already had a cooker. All we’d need was a place to sell.

That’s when I broached the idea. It would be a “retirement” job for him. A “part-time” gig for me. Hopefully, it would morph into something special soon afterwards.

My main worries are – 1. My dad’s health. He’s not exactly in the prime of his life. 2. My ability to run a eatery. 3. Whether we’d fall flat on our faces. Maybe people won’t like his food on a grand scale. And 4. Would I enjoy it?

I decided none of those concerns were enough to worry and I plunged head first. I got up a business plan, I found a location and I set up some early food and beverage procurements. All of this before I talked to my dad once.

On vacation, right around his birthday, I decided it was time to make a sales pitch.

“You’re not a salesman,” was his response. But he smiled at the idea of me and him being business partners.

“Too bad you didn’t think of this 10 years ago,” he said.

“Dad,10 years ago, I didn’t want to be in the same room as you,” I replied.

He was hurt, but he understood the message.

“Well, what is this Kickstarter thing?”

“It’s a web site where folks go and ask for money from others in order to get their project started,” I said.

“So, we beg strangers for money?” he said frowning.

“OK, it is that. But, so is going to a bank and asking for a loan, right?”

“Yes, but,” he started. I cut him off.

“No buts, it is the same thing. We’re just taking out the institution from the process. Well, I’m sure the Kickstarter folks are now just the bank now, and I’m sure they make quite a nice cut. Hopefully, not as much as a bank.”

“You haven’t looked in to this?” my dad questioning me openly now.

“No. I haven’t.”

“Not exactly the best way to get started.”

“Well, we could just use my credit cards I guess. Since yours are most likely nearly maxed out,” I said, too snarkingly.

“No. Me and your mother have paid of most of them,” he said, smiling at her.

“You mean, she’s paid off most of them,” I retorted.

“Tough crowd tonight,” my brother-in-law interjected. A hearty chuckle was had by all.

“But back on course here dad,” I said. “We can do this. And I think it’ll be fun. Open up a BBQ joint, sell your awesome stuff, even venture into shrimps and tuna, God damn your stuff is good. And I think it’ll be a hit.”

“Son, I’d love to. But I’m too old to start a business.”

“That’s the beauty dad,” I tried to reason with him. “You teach me how to do the cooking too. You’ve never taught me anything about your cooking. I’d love to know.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“I know. But you’ve never offered either.”

My dad looked over at my mother, shaking his head.

“You haven’t dear,” she said. My mom loved to poke the bear. I’d told her many times of the last 15 years that she enjoyed provoking him more than anything else now. She didn’t get it. But I know she did. She just didn’t want to admit it. She’s much too smart to be so simple.

“Anyway,” I restarted. “Let’s make a go of it. What’s there to lose? And we could gain so much from it.”

“Gain?” my dad asked puzzled.

“Dad, maybe you and I could have a father and son relationship. Finally.”

“But,” he said.

“Dad, I love you. And I love all that you’ve done for me over the years. It took me a long time to realize that you actually didn’t hate me. That you were always looking out for me. You just never were able to tell me. Hell, if we’d thrown a football once or twice when I was 10, everything would have turned out a whole lot differently. Or maybe not. But, I’d have that memory. I don’t have it. And this is my way to try and get that memory.”

He teared up. I took a deep breath and a long swig of by now hot beer. It tasted good, however. It was exactly what I needed at that moment.

I went up to him and stuck my hand out. He put his out. We shook hands.

“Let’s do this,” I said.

“OK,” he said. “Now let’s have a drink.”

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?

thoughts, and where they lead...

I want a moment with my ex like the ending of the first episode of “The Newsroom”. I know it’s not going to happen, but, I’d still like that moment.

“What are your plans for my Emily?” her uncle said to me in Colorado.

“I don’t have any plans for her. I’m just trying to be there for her,” was my answer.

He grabbed my shoulder and looked me in the eyes. “Just don’t hurt her,” he said.

“Never,” I said with a smile.

She never heard that conversation. I never told her about it.

And I hadn’t really thought about it until right now. Especially the ending part.

And now I wish I hadn’t thought about it at all.

I want so much to believe in the Hollywood ending. The epiphany will come. Even if it takes years. But life isn’t like that for most of us. We bounce into people’s lives and it works or it doesn’t. For whatever reason, some get it right the first time. Some get it right after 100 tries. Some never do.

I hope that I’m not one of the latter. I’d hate to think that really, she was the one, and I let her go. Or she let me go.

The old cliché that if you let someone go, if they come back blah, blah, blah.

Fuck that shit. And fuck the keep trying. Fuck it. It’s all lies. We all fuck each other over. Some can just deal with it better than others.

And fuck that. I don’t want to be so God damn bitter. But I am. And I only have myself to blame. And damn you The Darkness for making that phrase always be in Justin Hawkins’ voice. No matter what the context. Welcome to my fucked up mind.

But that holds true for it all. You are what you perceive. Your reality is only what you perceive it to be. It’s so damn simple, and I’d guess so damn true.

I was thinking of writing about my father’s Members Only jacket tonight. About maybe putting it one after he dies. But I don’t want to think about my dad being dead. As much as we’ve fucking hated each other over the years – and dammit, I think he’s hated me at times too – I still love that fucking drunk bastard. I still want so much to make him proud of me. And I know my time is limited on that front. His health is bad, but damn, he keeps drinking. He keeps being bitter about things. And every day I see how much like him I really am. No matter how much I tried not to be. It’s impossible. Yeah, I don’t berate the one’s I love like he did. But I hide from them as much. And nowadays, they run away when you do that. They don’t stick around.

I wonder often what would have happened if my mom had had the guts to leave. She should have. He was a fucking prick most of the time. At least what I remember. And I don’t remember much, so for it to have made that much of an impression, it must have been a lot.

I still want to incorporate my mom taking that fucking marlin off the wall, hauling it to the front door and chucking it into the bushes into a story one day. Into a screen play. I was on the stairs, peering down through the white wood railings that lead upstairs. Me, a confused and scared little kid wondering why my parents fought so damn much. I know now why. And I always tried to say I’d never do the same things my dad did. Switch jobs for a woman. Give up on my dreams for hers. But, you know what. I always did the exact same thing. Even when I thought I wasn’t. It’s a fucked up world out there. And we’re all a part of it. And no matter, I made the decisions I made. Which either directly or indirectly led to the demise of great things in my life. And as Justin Hawkins will keep singing in my head all night “I’ve only got myself to blame…”

I see it now too. I want so badly to move to Raleigh and just get a job digging ditches or mowing lawns. But, I don’t want to give up on the “life.” Not that the “life” has ever given anything back to me but a couple of plagues on my floor – yeah, I don’t hang them – and a lot of pain – laid off, unrespected, angst-ridden.

I guess that’s why all the old guys were all single. Or divorced in the business. The smart ones got out. The ones that wanted families and lives and happiness. The rest of us, we got old and crusty and bitter.

And our teeth fell out.

Not yet, though.

Moses, Chapter 2

“Have you ever done this shit before?” the boney ninth grader asked his coach.

“Of course, kid,” the coach replied. “How do you think I got to where I am today?”

The kid balked at that. He frowned openly. What the fuck did he mean “got to where I am today.” Fuck. He’s a God damn high school assistant football coach. Yeah, he played at Florida State. But no one knows who the fuck he is. Hell, he could be lying about that shit if it wasn’t for that picture of him and Coach Bobby B. on the wall in the office.

“I don’t know coach,” the kid finally said. “I can’t be sticking needles in me all the time. My momma will notice them holes.”

“What? Is your momma still washing your back for you?”

The kid balled his fists and wanted to hit the coach in the mouth so badly. But he knew better. He’d get kicked off the team. Maybe even arrested. That’s what happened with black kids hit white men. He knew that.

“I’m gonna hold off, coach,” he said as confidently as he could. “I’m gonna do it on my own. Work hard. Train hard. Go hard.” He’d read that slogan on a shoe ad once. Figured it might get him out of this situation.

“Well, kid, it’s your decision. But don’t blame me when you end up at a community college in Kansas instead of Gainesville.”

Those words didn’t bother the kid. His dad went to community college in Texas. Then ended up playing for the Longhorns for a season before he blew out his knee in practice his senior year. Still signed on with the Cowboys after he graduated – “the best damn thing I ever did was get that degree,” his dad always said when talking about football. Three years he toiled on the “tax squad” he called it. “It ain’t the taxi squad, it’s the tax squad,” he said. “Because it’s fucking taxing.”

Finally, in game 15 of his third season, the coaching staff called his dad into the office. “You’re gonna play this week,” they said. It was against the Redskins. At Cowboys Stadium. ESPN. Prime time. His dad called all his friends and family. Got 44 tickets to give to the “important ones.” That included the kid. He was 3 years old, but has a faint memory of being there. It was the noise, his momma always said. “I think you liked it when the crowd roared. You weren’t scared at all.”

His dad got in during the second quarter. Took a handoff from the quarterback and broke into the open. He dashed and shaked his way to a 17-yard gain, tackled by the strong safety by a shoestring. If he’d gotten past him, “It would have been touchdown city!” dad always said.

He didn’t get back in the game. Why? Well, on the next carry the starter burst into the open the same way, and scampered all the way for that touchdown. 55 yards. The next possession, the guy did it again. This time 76 yards. By the end of the quarter, he had 199 yards. They kept feeding him the ball. He kept churning out yards. At the end of the third, he had 254 yards. The score was 33-28 Redskins. He ran for 111 yards in the fourth quarter, scored two more times and the Cowboys beat the Skins, made the playoffs and went to the Super Bowl. There, his dad watched on the sidelines as Dallas topped the Broncos for the title. He got a Super Bowl ring for being on the roster at the time. He was cut the month after. Tried out for three more teams, was cut by them all.

His dad’s final career numbers – 1 game, 1 carry, 17 yards. And a Super Bowl ring.

“One more than Marino!” he’d say to all his boys when he moved back to his parent’s neighborhood in Miami. In a trailer on their property. He got a job and makes a good living. That ring is the only thing he hasn’t sold or pawned at some time. He gave it to his mom so he couldn’t.

The kid is thankful for that. When he was real little, it fit around his whole fist and on his arm. He’d walk around with it on – but only when grandma was asleep.

His dad went to all his Pop Warner football games. “He’s got my moves, but he’s a little slow,” he’d tell his friends.

When he got to middle school, pops told his coaches to move him to defense. “He’s got my moves, but he’s a little slow,” he’d tell the coaches.

They listened, because his dad was an NFL player. He wore the ring that day to tell the coaches and they saw it, shining and full of stones.

The kid at first didn’t like defense. He was used to running away from hits, not delivering them. But, on the last practice before the first game, he leveled the kid who took his job. The “star” running back – Nathan Johns. Johns went down in a heap. Started to cry after the kid tackled him.

“Good hit!” “Fucking awesome!” He heard the coaches scream.

“Moses! Come here son,” he heard his dad yell after the practice.

Moses ran over.

“What do ya want pops?”  he asked.

“Just wanted to tell ya, that was one great motherfucking hit, son.” He hugged Moses. That made Moses feel awesome.

“But you need to get bigger,” pops said. “Because them boys you’re hitting, they’re gonna get bigger too.”

Six years later those words echoed in Moses’ brain as he was re-habbing from a knee injury in Gainesville. It was the same injury that felled his pops – torn ACL. He had to come back. He’d worked his tail off – “The right way” – for so many years. He couldn’t quit now. He was the top-rated linebacker in the nation coming back next season – according to Mel Kiper Jr., some douchebag with a really bad haircut on ESPN.

But after six months of rehab, the speed wasn’t there. The strength wasn’t there. So he went to his old high school. Found his old coach.

“Hey there Moses,” the coach said. “What brings you ‘round here?”

The coach had hated Moses for not using back then. As good as Moses was, the coach believed, he could have been 10 times better with “a little help.” Well, now Moses was here, against everything he believed in, to get that help.

“Um, coach, I need some help,” he said meekly. The coach wasn’t used to Moses talking like that, he was confused.

“Sure, Moses, anything you need.” The coach was expecting him to ask for a little bit of money. And since he was an FSU guy and not a Gator guy, it wouldn’t be an NCAA violation at all. Which seemed weird to him. As long as you’re not a booster, it’s ok to give money. But if you are, it’s not.

The coach already had his wallet out when Moses said it.

“Coach, I need some juice.”

The coach was floored. Here was a kid that had made it without, but now wanted it.

“Why Moses?” he asked sheepishly.

“Because, coach, my knee. I can’t get the old Moses back.”

Three days later, Moses was in that old office, staring at Bobby Bowden and the coach. The picture had faded over the years, but was still the centerpiece of the coach’s office.

Moses winced when the needle went into his buttocks. He didn’t cry, not in front of coach. But he did when he got back to Gainesville. Sitting in his dorm, looking at the welt on his ass cheek.

Six weeks later, Moses was at fall practice. His strength was back. That wasn’t a surprise to anyone. Everyone, scouts, coaches, fans, they all knew about Moses’ legendary work ethic. But what surprised everyone was the speed. Moses was now so much faster than he was before.

“He’s a great player, but he lacks that burst,” the scouts always said.

Now, the scouts were writing something different.

“Great player. Great speed. Red flag for quick improvement after knee injury.”

His first game his junior year, Moses collected 15 tackles and three sacks as the Gators torched Louisiana Tech. His second game? Even better. 20 tackles and an interception returned 66 yards for a score as the Gators beat No. 2 Texas – daddy’s alma mater.

Soon, everyone was talking about Moses.

Which, he found out, wasn’t always a good thing.

Warren Oates > Warren Buffet

My man crush developed late on him.

I’d known of his existence from at least the first time I saw the movie “Stripes.” So, that would make it sometime in the early 1980s.

He was dead by then, most likely.

However, these last few weeks, Mr. Warren Oates has become my new favorite. The go-to guy when I’m having a bad night. Or day. Or life.

His characters seem to always be on the other side of luck. Yeah, sometime he got the pretty girl. But it seemed she always did something to screw it up. See “Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia” or “China 9, Liberty 37”.

When he was the tough guy, it went wrong.

When we was in the race, he wrecked.

I’m in awe of him right now. Will it pass? Maybe. I used to think Robert DeNiro could do no wrong. And Jack Nicholson. But they certainly went down wrong paths.

So far, Oatesy hasn’t.

Maybe I’ll dig into something one day and it won’t be quite right. I am trying to get a hold of “92 in the Shade” right now. Only on VHS they say. So I bid a buck for one on ebay. Maybe I’ll win. And it’ll be life changing.

Of course, that may be my problem, always searching for some sign, some life-changing fact or journey from a movie. Or a book. Or a song. Instead of looking inside.

Maybe my father is right. There isn’t much in there to begin with. All the brains and no desire to do anything with them, he always implies but never out-right says.

Last conversation I had with the old drunk, he told me I needed to “figure out what the fuck you’re doing with your life.”

I laughed, like I usually do. First it was kind of funny. Second, it’s a defense mechanism.

He’s right. I know. But then he uses his life as some kind of shining example of what “success” is. He started rambling on about civic organizations, things he’d done with his life, being proud, raising three college-educated kids, and so on.

Yes, he’s done a lot of things. But do you need to sit there and list them in a drunken stupor to prove it? Or to prove to your son that he’s a failure when measured up to that?

“Dad, me and you, we have different definitions of success,” I said. “Maybe it’s that simple.”

He stared at me blankly when I said it. I didn’t regret it for a moment. Those times when the truth slip out of my mouth when I’m talking to him get rarer and rarer. They used to come freely. And they always ended in fights. Yelling. Temper tantrums. From both of us. This one wasn’t going to end that way. He knew it. I knew it. It was just going to end.

“If you are happy doing what you do, then so be it,” he slurred. “I just don’t get ….” he trailed off into babble.

That night, after driving home I sat in bed. I started to say things out loud. Cursing my ex-girlfriend for “still taking up space in my thoughts” and the like. It dawned on me how much me and my dad are alike at that moment. Bitter shells of what we once thought we were.

It don’t do much good sulking about it anymore. A lot of folks make choices that hurt people. Hurt them real bad. I’ve done it at least twice in my life. Probably a lot more. Fuck you if you think your hurt is worse than anyone else’s. Everyone has pain. Some are lucky and it doesn’t hit for a long, long time. Some get hit early and never seem to dodge it again. But eventually, it gets everyone. How you respond goes a long way in determining what happens next. Boy, that thought came out stupid. But that’s why I (used to) sit here and just type and type and type. Something good comes out every so often.

Back to Mr. Oates. Not the guy with Hall, but the one with a big toe named bill murray.

He could replace Harry Dean one day as the top dog. Steve Buscemi threatened, but never quite reached the pinnacle. Mickey Rourke went nuts, which didn’t disqualify him, but his surgery did. Hell, I understand what happened, my man, women can drive you to the verge and over the verge of stupidity. You went berserk, I got drunk and apathetic. You probably won that round. Except for the hitting part. If it’s true?

Anyways, I’d rather be Warren Oates than Warren Buffet any day. Pride is greater than money. Except when you need a good suit.

Hey Odell!

I came home after many years. The drifting, the loneliness, the pain, it all finally came to a festering head. For years I’d run. Always trying to stay a step ahead, knowing full well I was always one behind.

My bus pulled into the Greyhound station at 4 p.m. in Richmond, Virginia. Right across the street from The Diamond ballpark on Boulevard.

A lot of my youth was spent in those stands. More was spent in old Parker Field, the old ballpark that this ugly monstrosity replaced back in 1984 or so. I loved Parker Field and it’s ratty bleachers and rusted metal poles everywhere. It had some character. The Diamond? It had none then. And now, over 25 years after it was built, still has none. Even the giant Indian -- Connecticut -- is gone. He had some “it” factor to it at least. More the “what the hell is it doing here?” or “why the hell did they build it here?” kind of thing. I always wondered why they called it Connecticut as a kid. But I never asked. Just like now, I don’t just Google why. That destroys something. I just called him “Chief Knock-A Homa.” Because that was what the white guy, white Italian guy when I met him, was called. He’d go around the stadium with his Indian garb on, taking photos with kids. I even got his autograph once. His wife was “Queen Win-A-Lotta.” So wrong now, but so right then.

That’s one of the good memories for sure.

I think that place is where I started to learn how to hide. My dad always took me to games. It was his way of bonding with me I guess. Taking me to games, professional ones like the minor league baseball games there of the Richmond Braves, or maybe a Washington Redskins game, or a UVA basketball game. Those were the times we were supposed to be father and son. What it really meant was dad goes and drinks with his buddies while little Randy tries to find something to do to get away from that.

At the games at Parker Field and the Diamond, I’d try to get autographs before it, sit with dad for a while, maybe getting something to eat, until he started drinking. Then, I’d get up and go. Just wander around the stadium. By myself. The ushers got to know me. Let me sneak into better box seats sometimes. Except for that ugly old guy. They called him Ratty. Don’t know if it was his nickname or his name. Whichever, it fit. He’d chase me out of places I shouldn’t be. So much so you’d try to find him early, so you knew where to avoid. Sometimes I’d just go way up in the rafters of the stadium. Look out at the city in the distance, dreaming of something else. Never really have been a pin-pointer of what exactly, but always something else than what was in front of me.

Other times, I’d play cup ball in the area behind first base. It was kind of like The Sandlot, except the kids were always different. Or if they weren’t, I didn’t know the difference. I don’t remember ever asking a name or anything from the other kids. Guess I always loved the distance anonymity allowed.

Foul balls and home runs interrupted games. That was it. Everything else was focus. If a person walked on to the field, they may get hit by a hand batted cup ball or by a throw from one of the fielders. That meant only one base, and some of us got good at hitting the fans instead of trying to actually get the out. It would save a run or two every so often. And get a good glare from someone who dared enter our territory. Every so often, a player would venture into our realm. Either going to the locker rooms or even to grab some food. The game would stop, and we’d all stare at them in awe. These behemoths of baseball. Walking amongst us.

Our game would end and everyone would go back to where they came from when the real game got close to ending. Sometimes we’d actually set a score to reach, or a number of innings. But that was not the norm. It was just a game that ended when it was supposed to. I’d hang out in the empty area many times. Sweaty and covered with ballpark grime -- a mixture of spilt beer and soda, chewing tobacco and spit, peanut shells and hot dog buns. The black under fingernails comforted me somehow.

Dad, on the other hand, he’d see me covered in the scum and get angry. “Go to the bathroom! And get cleaned up dammit! Why are you always so damn dirty?” he’d slur to me.
One time, he told me I smelled of shit. Loudly. And being that I mastered public shitting around my 14th birthday, he could have been right a lot of times. This time, he was too. I used to do everything in my power not to shit in public restrooms. Holding it in until it forced it’s way out like toothpaste tubs in your carry on luggage. At that point, I’d sit on my foot and use it as a barracade against the impending poo missile or missiles. Holding. Holding. Holding. It was embarrassing. In the middle of things, taking a knee and grimacing. He’d see me doing it sometimes and he’d yell at me. “Dammit boy, go to the bathroom!” He’d cuss up a storm. Even as a little kid in diapers I vaguely remember it. He’d scoop me up, smell my ass and tell me to “take a shit. Right Now!” I’d go in the toilet, sit on the bowel and cry. Sometimes he’d come in with me, keeping the door open and staring at me. He’d cuss more when I didn’t go. He’d then go drink some more.

Eventually, when he’d leave, I’d go. Always embarrassed.

One time, before we even left, I’d been too excited to poop. In the meantime, my drawers got a little soiled. On the ride to the game, he smelled it. He pulled to the side of Interstate 95 and smacked me. “You went in your pants again, didn’t you?” he yelled. I hadn’t, but I was sure there was a streak of something in there that smelled. “No,” I’d say meekly. He flipped me over and smelled my ass. “You’re lying!” his rage increased. Back home we’d go. “Change your clothes and go to the bathroom!”

I’d go inside, change while trying not to cry. My mom would ask why we were back. I wouldn’t answer. She’d figure it out soon enough, I thought to myself. She must figure these things out, right?

That place of so many good memories blurred always by the bad.

One time, my buddy Chris tagged along. I no longer had bowel issues by then, we were teenagers. Both geeks. But happy geeks. Getting autographs and eating Cracker Jacks while trying to catch foul balls. Still haven’t caught one to this day.

My dad, he drank a lot that night. Even before we left for the park. My buddy thought it was all so funny, my happier than usual dad. His dad didn’t drink, that I knew of. At least not in public. So this was probably some kind of visceral experience for him. For me, it was an average Tuesday night in the summer.

We got to the park, went after some autographs. We had our eyes on a veteran on the other team -- pitcher Odell Jones. He was a tall, lanky right-hander who was once a Pittsburgh Pirate. That made him almost a god to both of us. I thought he looked a lot like Satchell Paige, not that I’d ever seen ol’ Satch in real life or anything. Just a baseball card that was a painting of him.

He came out of the bullpen and signed our cards. Smiling the entire time. Cool, I thought. Odell is an alright guy.

We got back to our seats. They’re good ones on this night. My dad must’ve known someone who gave him the tickets. We’re hoping he’ll buy us some food.

“Who’d ya get?” he slurs to us.

I cringe. Chris smiles.

“Odell Jones,” Chris finally says. I look at him, hoping he’ll stop. Wondering why he spoke up.

“Odell? He’s starting today!” my dad blurts out in that just a little too loud voice that drunks share.

The next six innings, my dad and his buddy who is at the game, taunt Odell Jones.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeey Odell! Odelllllllllllllllllllllll. Odell. Odell. Jooooooooooooooooooooooones!” he yells. In between large Dixie Cups of beer.

Odell tosses six shutout innings that night. He’s in rare form for a guy with over a decade in pro baseball but pitching in Triple A now. As he lets two get on in the seventh, he’s yanked.

My dad stands up and continues the taunts.

“Odellllllll. Can’t you finish anything? I guess we know why you’re not in the show anymore!”

Odell looks up to find the bane of his night in Richmond. He finds us. And tips his cap to my dad. This brings a loud series of guffaws from my dad. He elbows his buddy. “We got to him, didn’t we?” His buddy takes a long sip of beer. I don’t think he’s amused anymore either.

I don’t speak on the entire trip home. We drop off Chris at his house.

Then my dad says “Odell was inspired tonight. Wasn’t he?”

I say nothing.

It’s a nice summer night when we get home. He pulls into the driveway. Parking the car. I get out. He doesn’t. Instead, he starts the car back up, puts it in reverse and goes. Luckily, I’ve been a latchkey kid since I was nine, so I have a key. Back to the bar, I guess.

Two things ring out as I look at my Odell Jones autographed card here in my parents’ house decades later, me back with the world around me collapsing. 1/I did a best not to become the bad in my dad, succeeding and failing, but mostly succeeding, and 2/Potty training patience definitely was inspired by my awesome experiences as a wee lad. It was the one good thing I did while dating my last girlfriend -- potty training her kid for her.