The white Lando Calrissian

“Wow,” I said out loud, kind of thinking saying wow is sort of dorkish, “I’ve never gotten into a fistfight over Star Wars before,” at once realizing that the rest of the statement made it all a moot point.

She looked at me and patted me on the head. It hurt a little. Not my pride. No, my head. It’s where the guy who insisted on telling me that “No, Return of the Jedi, was never actually called Revenge of the Jedi” had hit me on the noggin with his chair. It bled a lot. But in the end, he bled more. And he was wrong.

Thankfully, no one had a smartphone. It would have kept the whole thing from happening. It also would have kept me from meeting Rose.

She’d been sitting off in the distance while I was eating my pastrami sandwich. I’d driven 113 miles for this sandwich, so I was going to enjoy it. And while I was, indeed enjoying it, I noticed Rose sitting by herself in the booth next to the jukebox. She had long red hair, curly red hair, and deep blue eyes. She was wearing a Hunter S. Thompson t-shirt and a pair of oddly orange plaid shorts. I actually think I have a pair very similar to them. So, I decided to go up to her and talk about those orange plaid shirts.

It wasn’t normal for me to go up to strangers. Especially women. Except on the job. There, I talked to just about anyone. Even if in “real” life I’d never have the guts to do so. I’ve always thought that somewhere in my mind that’s why I became a journalist. Because it forced me to talk to people, and I wasn’t going to do it any other way. Unless they came up and talked to me. And how often does that happen to a guy like me? Not very often, I’ll settle on.

I finished my sandwich a little quicker than I would have liked, but I had a new goal. It was now I drove 113 miles for a chance to talk to this redheaded beauty. She couldn’t have been sent here by anyone other than God. Well, by fate, at least since I don’t really believe in God so much.

I took my final swig of lemonade – don’t drink carbonated sodas anymore – and walked up to her. I stood in front of her and stalled. My mind raced about. “This is not what you want to be doing,” I thought to myself. “She’s going to freak out. You’re some random dude with a shaved head and a long-ass goatee standing and staring at her.”

“Yes, you would freak me out if you did that,” she suddenly said without looking up from her book – “The complete history of Star Wars”.

“Did I say that out loud?” I asked.

“Yep, you sure did,” she said, putting her straw to her lips and sucking up a swig of Diet Coke. I’d noticed earlier what she was drinking when she got a refill.

“Whoops. Well, now you know why I don’t talk to strangers.”

“Did you just say that to the beat of Rick Springfield?” she asked.

“I don’t think so, but I did hear that in my head as I was saying it.”

“So did I,” she laughed. Good sign I thought. And I waited a second to make sure it was just a thought, not an utterance.

“May I sit down?” I asked.

“Only if you tell me exactly what you were originally planning on saying to me when you so awkwardly approached me,” she countered, taking another swig of Diet Coke, this time staring me down as she did.

“Well, I was sitting over there,” I pointed to the table I was at.

“And you were wolfing down that pastrami sandwich …” she said spinning her hands in the air as if to tell me to speed it up a bit. Kind of like Peyton Manning does when he’s trying to run through plays in the no-huddle.

“And I was wolfing down a fantastic pastrami sandwich that I drove 113 miles one-way to have, when I noticed your shorts. Well, I noticed you first, and then your shorts…”

“Just the shorts?” she interrupted coyly.

“Well, and your hair and eyes.”

“Nothing else?”

“And the Hunter S. Thompson shirt.”

“Nothing else?”

“Um, and you were drinking Diet Coke.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, that’s about it.”

“Continue then…” with the same waving arm motion.

“So, I thought, ‘Damn, I love those shorts. I have a pair just like them. This is a sign to at least go up to her…’”

“And make a bloody fool out of myself.”

“Yes, and make a bloody fool out of myself. And may I say, I love that you use bloody.”

“Why thank you,” you may sit down now.

We laughed and joked for another five minutes when Return/Revenge guy walked up.

“Hey Rose,” he said. “What are you doing with that guy?”

“Having some nice conversation, Charlie, that’s what I’m doing,” she replied angrily.

“I see,” he said, sizing me up. Charlie was about 5-foot-9 and weighed in at 225-230 pounds. None of it was muscle.

I looked at Rose, she looked back. Not showing her cards, I thought.

“You guys know each other well?” I asked.

“She’s my step sister,” Charlie said. I felt better. I looked at Rose for confirmation. I got none.

“Why are you talking to this clown,” he said, motioning at me. Obviously, this was not a brother-sister conversation.

“Because he’s sweet and charming and handsome. So, everything you aren’t,” she said. “Plus, he knows more about Star Wars than anyone I’ve ever met.”

I was a little shocked by that comment. We hadn’t mentioned a word of Star Wars in our talks, at least that I could remember. I hadn’t even mentioned the book she was reading. I looked at Charlie, and it dawned on me. He was dressed up like Lando Calrissian, blue shirt and all.

“No shit?” he said looking at me, then her, then me again.

“Yep,” she said. “I think you two should do a quiz off!”

I looked at her with desperate eyes. I knew a lot about Star Wars, but I didn’t know that much. Probably not as much as someone who dressed up like a pretty minor character in a popular eatery near the college.

“You’re on!” Charlie said, plopping down in the seat next to Rose. “And the loser has to eat whatever the winner wants out of her shoes!”

I found that a pretty odd request. I found Rose’s reaction to it, even more odd.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she screamed, taking off her shoe – a green Adidas running shoe that had seen better days.

She finally looked at me and winked.

“May the best man win,” she said.

Soon we were reeling off questions to each other. Each of us started off with what we thought were softball questions, and we were both right. The answers being Ewok and 1138. But the questions instantly got harder.

After 25 minutes, we’d both stayed perfect. That’s when I started to get bored. I wanted to talk to Rose, not some guy. And I let an easy one slide. “What was the original name of ‘Return of the Jedi?’” I asked.

Charlie snickered. “You think you can trick me?” he said. “Of course not! They never changed the name.”

“Ha!” I said. “It was Revenge of the Jedi. They even made posters that said it, sent them out, and had to recall them at the last minute.”

“Bull shit!” Charlie yelled.

“Nope. You lose jack,” I said, looking at Rose’s shoe.

Then a punch. It hit me square in the ear. It didn’t hurt as much as Brad Pitt made it seem like in “Fight Club.” But it did startle me. Enough to fall out of my chair. I got back up and threw a punch back, right into Charlie’s nose. It started to bleed. He lunged for me, but missed as I stepped aside. He grabbed a chair and leveled it right on my head. I fell in a heap. Blood everywhere.

I got up, staggering and kicked the fucker right in the balls. He fell. I kicked his face. He bled some more. I turned about and grabbed Rose’s shoe.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said, breathing heavily.

“Second best idea you’ve had all day,” she said.

“And what was the first?”

“The urge to eat Pastrami,” she said.

I smiled and felt my teeth. One was chipped, I could feel it. I hadn’t chipped a tooth since I was in college. And that time I bit down on a spoon. Yep, the wild life.

We walked outside just in time to avoid the cops. A mall security guy had called them. Told them to look for a “Keifer Sutherland looking guy” and “a white Lando Calrissian.” The cops, obviously, weren’t in any hurry to arrive on this scene, so we walked right by them.

Ten minutes later, we were at a Tasty Freeze enjoying some more conversation and a couple of sundaes. I’d completely forgotten I had to be at work later that night.

dreams of semi - colons

Sitting in my house, staring at the wind blowing the plethora of flags in straight lines away from the coast, I decided I needed to do something.

But first I took my shoes off. I went over eight months without wearing shoes anywhere – work, driving, bars, etc., then I went to a Lucero concert and needed them. And then it got cold. Now, it’ 90 degrees inside my house and 84 outside. I think shoes are no longer necessary.

The first thing I do after taking off the shoes and socks is ball up my toes like Argyle taught John McClain in “Die Hard”. Yeah, that shit really works. You feel the stress of whatever the fuck is stressing you just shoot out of the balls of your feet and into the carpet. Thank god for this area rub. The rest of the carpet in the place is like dried cat turds crushed into a pattern. Yeah, it’s that gross.

After opening up the last beer in my fridge – I stare longingly at the 60 Lone Stars I have that are being saved for a party I may or may not have – and grow a bit ornery. I then decide I like to spell that On’ry instead.

I get on my bike and head over to the local watering hole. It’s a bit of a hike, even on the bike. Especially with the huge bridge one has to navigate. And my days of riding up such a thing are long, long past.

When I get to the pub, I take a seat. I’ve been coming here for two years now, but still don’t count as a regular. Why? Because I don’t talk to many people. I guess they know me, but they tend to steer clear. Good thing it’s summer, then, as the tourists don’t know better. Reminds me of one day in Luckenbach when I sat at the bar and drank all day. More people came up to me and asked questions that day than pretty much any day of my life. Even when I was a front desk clerk. Guess I missed my calling. “Man about town” has a certain ring to it for sure.

I plop down on the stool and order a Shiner. The barkeep comes over and smiles. “We ordered you up a new case of these,” she says.

I’m a bit taken aback. She does remember my surly ass.

“Why thank you, Midge,” I say with a tip of the baseball cap – always on backwards – and a tip of two dollars. She smiles and blows me a kiss. I smile and look at the jukebox. It was an old one, but it wasn’t too old. Meaning it played CDs not vinyl. But it also didn’t have a hook up to the internet.

I looked over at two girls eyeing another guy at the bar. He was John, a local fisherman. He had on a yellow trucker’s hat that said “Going all the way” and a dirty pair of khaki shorts. I looked at his feet. Thankfully, he didn’t have topsiders on. Instead, flip flops. Probably cost him $30 bucks those things. Mine? $2.22 at Wal-mart. One of three things I’ll buy at the Mart of Hell – flip flops, mouthwash and air filters for my air conditioner. Which, I never use, but still have to replace the filters every month.

The girls don’t go to the jukebox, so I do. I plop in five dollars. Enough to play 15 songs. I only want to play 14, but I have a 15^th. I select the entire Lucero self-titled album, plus the song “Sing Me No Hymns” from Rebels, Rogues and Sworn Brothers.

Midge hates it when I play everything at once, it usually drives the regulars away. But tonight, I only see John there. The rest are tourists. Or one-stoppers as I call them. Sort of single-serving friends like in “Fight Club” except I don’t plan on having short conversations with them. I think that it’s too bad Bukowski didn’t write “Fight Club.” It may have had a better beginning, middle and end. And it was a damn good book. Well, mostly.

But what do I know. I scribble notes in notepads, then write drivel about those scribbles late at night or before work every day. Just doing it because I told myself I would. No goal. No plan. No outline. Just scribbles.

I need a woman to let me sit in front of a typewriter all day long, drinking slowly and typing. She can pay the rent and buy the booze. I can type. And that seems perfectly honorable. Hell, I know it is because that’s what needs to be done. I just don’t have the guts. Always been my weakness. Guts.

I was once told you either have ‘em or you don’t. You can’t grow guts. But you can lose them. So that must mean you can find them. Maybe I just lost mine along the way?

I boy can dream, right?

Not that he can punctuate.