Bear hunting with Elvis

The second, and so far last time I ran into Elvis Costello was in Richmond, Virginia. Well, not exactly in Richmond, but just outside of Richmond in Goochland County.

He had a shotgun. And was wearing a coonskin hat and singing quite loudly about shooting the bear.

“Hey Elvis!” I yelled, as if I was on a first-name basis with the man. “There aren’t any bears here!”

He looked at me with his hat just a little bit crooked, pushed his glasses up and shrugged.

“Listen, Mr. Jones,” he said matter-of-factly, stunning me that he remembered my name from that bar in New York oh, so long ago. “I know damn well there is a bear here, and I’m going to shoot him.”

I didn’t know if arguing with a man with a shotgun, even a man like Elvis Costello, who remembered my name for Christ’s sake, is ever a good idea. But, if there were bears in these woods, I would give him a blow job. Of course, I wasn’t about to say such a thing because on the off chance and there actually was a pretty good chance there was a bear in these woods, he found one, I’d have to fucking give Elvis Costello a blowjob. Or at least he would always have the ability to say “Randy Jones, you owe me one blow job!” at any bar or tavern or concert hall that we were together at.

So instead, I asked :”May I join you on this quest for a bear?”

“Why of course, Mr. Jones!” Mr. Costello said with glee. I wondered at that moment if he was drunk. I didn’t quite know what to make of a mad British songwriter with a coonskin hat wandering around the woods in Virginia looking to kill a bear.

“I guess you are wondering exactly why I am hunting a bear in these woods, Mr. Jones?” he asked as if reading my mind.

“Yes, yes I am Mr. Costello.”

“Call me Elvis.”

“Well, Elvis, I am a little baffled why you would be hunting bear. It seems out of character.”

“You know of my character from our one chance meeting years ago, Mr. Jones? I’d think not. I am a hunting man. I love the thrill of it. The smells of it. The kill! Yes, I love the kill! The sweet, sweet death of the prey!”

I once again pondered if it was a good idea to be in the woods with a man, his shotgun and a coonskin cap.

“So, I guess I never figured you for a hunter.”

“Well, I’m not much of a hunter, really. I did get a squirrel once. With my car. And I had to run it over twice to finish it off.”

I looked at this man, a man who’s music had been a part of the soundtrack of my life since the first time I heard him in the soundtrack to “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” back in the early 1980s. A little late to the Elvis Costello game, for sure, but I was just a wee lad of 12 or 13 at the time, so cut me some slack. I started to wonder if maybe he’d been hanging out with Ted Nugent.

“Just kidding, lad,” he said with a bit of a cackle.

“I’ve never killed anything. But I really want to!”

“Kidding again?” I asked hesitantly.

“Do you ask a man in the woods with a shotgun and a coonskin cap if he is kidding about killing a bear!” he pronounced. It wasn’t really a question, although it was phrased as such. Tone and inflection are very important things, I noted to myself. It’s one of the reasons I have always hated text messages and e-mails. Tone is impossible to project without explaining it. And let’s not even start with emoticons.

“I guess not,” finally said.

“By chance do you have any liquor?” Elvis asked.

“I’ve got my flask,” I said. “Just filled with Jameson.”

He winced a bit. “Well, I guess when you have no choice, you go with the Irish!”

Once again, I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. I didn’t get British humor.

I pulled out the flask and took a swig. Was it impolite to take a drink first, I wondered. But fuck it, it was my flask and my whiskey, which, I believe, he just insulted.

He took the flask and drank a long drink.

“Ahhhhh!” he exclaimed upon finishing. “If it were cold out, that would have been quite a nice refreshing thing. As it is, now I’m ready to go home.”

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

“With you, my friend Mr. Jones. With you!”

“Well, I’m driving back to North Carolina in a few hours,” I replied.

“Why are earth are you in the woods here?” Elvis asked. A very observant question from the man.

“Well, I was here to bury a body,” I said.

Elvis’ eyes widened. He seemed either very curious or very scared.

“And after I was done, you happened along,” I said, pointing at a freshly dug patch of ground a few feet away.

Now Elvis was scared. And I looked deep into his eyes.

“Just kidding,” I said.

“I just don’t get you American sense of humor,” he said with a long exhale.

“Let’s get going,” I said.

“On to North Carolina!” Elvis said.

I put  my arm around his shoulders and we shared a few more swigs from the flask. I was beginning to enjoy my encounters with Mr. Costello.

The 'talent'

We were sitting in the mostly dark of Lafitte’s. My boss was trying to convince me to keep fighting the good fight.

“I just can’t do it anymore,” I said, taking a swig of Dixie beer. I paused for a second to realize the bit of irony, bad tastes left in mouth and all…

“I come into the office and I’m dragged down consistently. Yes, there are moments where you remember why you do this, but in this corporate, stock-holder is the only God world we’ve allowed the industry to become, I just can’t. It hurts.”

“You’ve said all that before,” my boss, a shaggy-haired, unkempt fellow who once applied for and didn’t get a job I got years ago, said. He played the “game” much better than I did. I told people they sucked. I pointed out the hypocrisy of it all. And I made enemies. He kissed ass and told everyone how great a job they were doing, even when he had to go home and drink himself silly because of how horrid it was. Today, he was making nearly $100K a year. Me, I was lucking to top $30K if I could con my way into enough overtime.

“Yeah, I have. I’ve said a lot of things over and over and never followed through on them. It’s kind of my modus operandi. But this time, it’s got to end.”

Why was today the day the burning decided to flicker and die, my boss asked. And I tried to explain.

It all boiled down to the office that day. The woman next to me smelled of cigarettes – that in and of itself used to be a badge of honor, but when mixed with awful perfume and the worst nasally voice this side of Fran Drescher, and you get the point. I referred to her as the office’s wounded kitten. That nasally whine just permeated her entire existence. She made personal phone calls, which I can understand, but fucking leave the cubicle at least. So, after six months, I resorted to either watching N.W.A.  Over and over again. Or crinkling over and over the same Pop-Tart wrapper. She got the point, but only each time. Pavlov would not be proud.

That day, a person sat down next to her. I began to imagine we were in a Greyhound Station instead of the shell of a former newspaper. The first person lasted 30 seconds. The next chap a whopping 3 minutes. You know it’s bad when the dregs of society won’t sit next to you. Bus station beggars and thieves.

I stared in amazement when another fellow decided it was a good idea to occupy that piece of plastic that the bus station bean counters deem a seat.

“I love Hot Pockets,” she said to the man.

“I got a free empanada,” he replied with some kind of odd grin/frown.

I fully expected them to lock eyes, then lips and begin to procreate there in the middle of the terminal.

He wore a shirt three sizes too small for his impressive belly. At the right time, you could see stretch marks and black pubic-esque hair on it. The corduroy pants he had on were a few inches short of his striped white athletic socks. I’m sure they matched his tighty-whiteys.

“I’ve never had a Hot Pocket,” he continued. I’m guessing it was a lie from his physique.

“They are just dough-filled thingies with meats, cheeses, vegetables and other goodies packed inside,” a third person – a 25 year old scruffy looking, sort of hipter wanna be, added.

“Oh, I’ve had plenty of dough-filled treats!” the big man responded with glee. I thought maybe a dabble of drool formed along with his thought bubble.

“They give me gas,” the cigarette infested gal chirped in.

This finally caused my six Bloody Mary breakfast to come back. I puked on the floor, right in front of this conversation.

“How rude,” the girl nasally said.

“Just a response,” I uttered between dry heaves.

“To what?” the hipster said.

“Banality. And the death of journalism,” I said.

“Come on now, Randy, you know that didn’t really happen,” my boss interrupted the story I was weaving. I scowled at him and finished my beer. The bottle hit the table and I eyed it. My eyebrow cocked just a little bit. After a few seconds of silence, except for the tourists walking by at 10:30 in the morning, the bossman finally figured it out.

“I’ll get you another beer,” he said, walking to the bar.

“Damn right you will,” I said. “You brought me back to this world. After it had chucked me out like a redhead when she gets bored.”

“Here you go,” he handed me another beer. I popped the top and drank half of it.

“Slow down there, Mister. I’ve only got so much cash.”

“Fuck off, you’ve got plastic. Now, where was I?”

“Barfing.”

“Oh yeah.”

I turned to the big guy and the sight of him, and his smugness of knowing words – yet he had no feeling for them – triggered a final release. I purged the rest of my breakfast on the whiny, nasally bitch.

She then proceeded to puke up her McDonald’s french fries and what may have been some kind of beef product on the 25 year old.

He then threw up his breakfast – it appeared to be just a couple ears worth of corn and a grape soda. Right at the feet of the big man.

None of this, however, seemed to affect the biggest of the group. In fact, he peeled off the wrapper of a $100 Grand candy bar and took a large bite.

His chews set my mind off again. And somehow, my stomach responded again.

“Now, can you see why whatever passion I had had died?” I asked.

“Dude, you’ve a sick man. A sick, sick man.”

“Cheers to that,” I said clinking my bottle against his. I finished off the swill.

“Well, I guess it’s time for me to go finish my column,” I said.

“Knew it,” my boss said smiling. He smacked my back with his meaty hand.

“That’s going to cost you another round,” I sneered. “And this time, I want a Jameson. Double.”

He smiled and went back to the bar.

“Gotta feed the talent,” he said.

“Tell me how that works out for ya,” I replied.

It was going to be a long day I thought to myself as I walked – alone – back to the office. The first sight of it cause me to burp. It tasted of Bloody Mary.

fuck that shit

I walked through the old pink doors, Social Distortion’s “I Was Wrong” blared from some shitty bar speakers that had blown out a long time ago. I winced at a bright light from above. I hate lights in bars. They serve no purpose other than to expose the ugliness that you go into the bar to hide.

“Shiner and a Jameson,” I say to Luther, my favorite bartender of the moment.

“You got it Jonesy,” he replies with a finger point, he’s no longer my favorite bartender of the moment, but he does deliver the goods. Which I tip accordingly for.

“You ever going to replace those speakers?” I ask in a raspy, I just took a shot of Jameson voice.

“Nah, you’ll just blow them out again.”

True, one night a few months ago, I jumped behind the bar while American Aquarium’s “Redheads and Adderall” came on. Mostly, I did it to mute the gaggle of sorority girls belting out some Lady Gaga tune over at one of the booths. They had an I-phone with it playing. The worst part of this bar is its proximity to the university. However, it’s also one of its selling points on a cold, lonely night.

“Eh, that was justifiable homicide, Luther. I can’t stand it when I have to hear shrill sounds coming from shallow people.”

“How the fuck do you listen to your own thoughts?”

“Yeah, fuck you then,” I replied, finishing off my Shiner. “Another round, then.”

He took my empty bottle and the shot glass. The bottle shattered in the trash bin after he tossed it about 12 feet to the corner. It amazed me that he never fucking missed that shot. At least when I was around.

“You ever miss?”

“Of course I do. But I’m on my A-game just for you.”

“Fuck off and give me my drinks.”

He filled a shot glass. Then pounded a second on the bar, filling it to the point of overflow, but stopping just in time. “Damn, he is on his A-game tonight,” I thought.

We clinked glasses and downed the shots. It’s going to be another long night, I could tell. At 2:37 p.m. On a Tuesday.

“Where is everybody?” I asked with a grin.

“Guess they heard you’d be here, went over to Charlie’s. A lot less lecherous 40 year olds hanging out there. In fact, I think they don’t let you in anymore, right?”

“Fuck off, Luther.”

“You two bicker like a married couple,” a voice shot out from the darkness. Immediately, I was in love. No matter what she looked like.

“Nah, I’ve asked him at least 100 times. Including the first night I was in this damn bar,” I said. “Dick head always says “I’m not gay, man.”

“I’m not gay.”

“Sure you’re not,” she said. My heart skipped another beat. This lady’s got moxie. You don’t see too many in this place with moxie. Most of ‘em have money, yeah, that and pearly white teeth. Impossibly white. My golden teeth certainly don’t fit into mom and dad’s usual plans for their little darlings. Thankfully.

“I can hear you, but I can’t see you,” I say, looking toward the darkness that is the left side of the joint.

Slowly, a shadow creeps out of the dark. She hits the light for a second, then disappears, then reappears.

“Who are you? Antonio Banderas?”

“You think you’re really clever, don’t you?” she says as she sits down next to me. She smells of watermelon. Her hair is, of course, red. It couldn’t have been any other color. Now, whether or not it’s real, I’ll probably never know. At least that’s what I think at that moment of terror.

“Nah, I’m just an asshole who throws shit out and usually, it sticks.”

“My name’s Maddy,” she says, sticking out her hand for a shake.

“Randy,” I reply. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

“You going to buy me a drink, or do I have to do it myself?”

“Get the lady a Jameson and Shine,” I say to Luther. He cocks his head a bit. I don’t usually order my usual for the ladies. And usually, they don’t order it either. He looks at her, she doesn’t take her gaze off of me. Luther finally gets a bottle and a shot. She reaches over for the shot, clutches it and swigs it back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Was that a test?” she asks.

“Nah, I figured if you didn’t want it, I’d just drink it and then order you a Singapore Sling or something.”

“Fuck that shit.”

I had no chance after that.

“Fuck that shit, indeed.”

Ode to the glass

The glass is dirty. From my grubby hands holding it, drink after drink. Memory after memory.

Yet it doesn’t mind. And it still does it’s job. Transferring the whiskey from the bottle to the glass with ice and then entering my mouth. Where it will go to my liver, further shrinking its usefulness.

That’s what I like about a glass. It does it’s job until it’s broken. And when it’s broken, you throw it away. You can’t glue it back together, it just won’t work the same way.

Wonder if a heart is the same?

You think it’s healed but really, is it ever? You can move on to someone else. Move on to someplace else. But your heart, it can stay behind. That’s what happens when you give it to someone, right? You’ve taken it out of your chest.

Fuck, that’s depressing.

Speaking of … I tend to wonder if I’ll die of liver disease one day…My dad is a drunk. He has a liver of steel. I was told my grandfather (dad’s dad) was a drunk. He died because he was too damn stubborn to go to a doctor.

It all sounds so damn familiar to me. Like a song that only has one memory attached to it. You could hear this song every day of your life, before that day, and after that day. But no matter what, it will remind you of just that day. Life’s like that. And there’s not much you can do about it.

Except tilt the bottle down, pour it into the glass, clink the new ice in and take a swig.

To many that sounds like a cop out.

Others see it as a need.

I’m in between those two places. Which means I’m just no good at making decisions. I can go weeks without a drink, and then weeks with one every night. There are good nights when I’m all happy and content. And of course, there are nights I black out and don’t remember whether or not a friend is still a friend anymore.

It think that’s why I keep looking for new music. If you’ve never heard a song, it can’t remind you of the past. It’s not from there. But, that’s the biggest lie I tell myself every night. A song just wraps itself around whatever the hell it wants. You have no part in this dance. That’s why an album I downloaded last night takes me back to 2000. It just does.

And one I bought two weeks ago reminds me of 2005.

And one I listened to as a high school runt puts me in college. Whichever time it feels like on that day.

Why? Maybe I don’t ever evolve. I just stagnate. Thinking too much about the past, not enough about the present. The future? Yeah, I used to plan things. But they never come true.

Shit, maybe that’s the solution. Plan to Nic Cage myself. I’ll fail at it right?

But I once said the only thing I can’t fail at is failure, so if you plan to fail what happens?

It’s like this fucking awful goatee I’m growing. Technically, I’m just not cutting it, the body itself is growing it. I know that most folk find it kind of silly. Maybe even frightening. Me? I just like being able to do what the old guys used to do in Kung Fu movies with it. Stroke it while “thinking” or right before letting out a long, ear-piercing chortle.

It also makes me look my age.

I considered signing up for a dating site today. Just to see what happens. You get the free profile set up, and then it sends you “matches”. So, after considering, I did it.

I was matched with lots of ugly people. Lots of people with “kids at home but separateds.” Even more folks with a high school education.

Sorry, I need someone who likes to read. And most of the folk I was matched with, they’d say “really don’t like to read, or no time to read.”

Fuck that. I like to read. And I do it. Lately, I’ve been taking books to work and reading there.

Thank god I got that from mom. That and being the shyest M’fer in the world.

I hate being bitter. I’m not a fucking lemon.

But I’ve let myself become this shell of a human.

And it hurts.

I like watching the rain.

I enjoy driving.

Bands still get my heart racing.

So do redheads.

And apparently, so does a good bottle of whiskey.