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.”

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.

KISSmissed in 1979

I sometimes wonder how different my life would be if I’d gone to a KISS concert when I was 9.

The talk of it was big in 1979. This was the KISS on its last legs of being the “hottest band in the world” as they self-proclaimed endlessly. This was after the solo albums, and hot on the heels of the “disco song” of “I Was Made for Loving You.”

To me, the band could do no wrong. Ditto that my cousin, J.J., who like me worshipped everything that Ace, Peter, Paul and Gene did. Notice the order of the band members, it is no accident.

I got the Ace, Peter and for some reason Gene albums. The Ace one is still in rotation today. The Peter one was cool, but didn’t stand the test of time. The Gene one? Dreck. I don’t think I made it to a second listen. The Paul one? I still have not heard.

This was after getting KISS albums for doing things. I remember when I was on the high dive board at the swimming pool. Scared out of my wits. I was offered anything I wanted to jump. I said “the new KISS album?” My mom said yes. Soon, I had “KISS Alive! II”. My sister already had “Rock and Roll All Over” and “Detroit Rock City”, which soon became mine. I had a poster of Gene Simmons behind my door. Behind it because it actually scared me as a kid. Ha! But I loved KISS.

“Dynasty” came out after the disappointment of the solo albums. Soon after, a tour announcement came.

The band listed its ”Dynasty” tour for 1979 and on it was the Hampton Coliseum. July 5, 1979 to be exact. This was, of course, in the minds of an 8 and 9 year old, the be-all and end-all of the universe. An occurrence that would never happen again.

Sadly, it would turn out to be true.

At this point, Peter Criss was saddled with drug-addiction. Ace Frehley was a drunk, who probably had other issues with drugs as well. The band was a marketing empire, but it was crumbling due. And much of it had to do with the fact that people like me and my cousin – little kids – wanted to go to see them perform.

I begged my mother. Pleaded with her. But she was adamant. When did my mother, who was so cool, become the mom that would later be portrayed in the movie “Detroit Rock City”? KISS wasn’t going to turn me into some demon. I wasn’t going to start smoking pot because I went to see them. I wasn’t going to get herpes from some slut in row 15. No, I was going to just watch them. And love it.

In the end, J.J. and his mom – my mom’s sister – went to the show. It wouldn’t be until 1985 that I was allowed to go see an arena rock show. Ironically, with my cousin J.J. and his mother when Van Halen with new lead singer Sammy Hagar took the stage at the Coliseum. I was so disturbed by the lack of one David Lee Roth, that a plan was hatched to sneak toilet paper rolls into the arena and throw them at Mr. Hagar. We succeeded. It was glorious.

But back to 1979.

This kid was now sullen. I have no idea if this was the moment where I changed. I think it had to do with other things, but this coming on top of it? Well, it wasn’t a help.

I had hoped to be able to brag to my classmates, including one little girl that I had a huge crush on, that I was going to see KISS play! Yes, the same KISS that was on the television with “KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park”! Coolness and awesomeness would follow.

Instead, I didn’t go. My cousin did.

I stewed all summer and into the next school year. The lovely girl I’d had a crush on was gone, moved away. Summer turned to fall and fall to winter.

And then the news came via the magazines – Hit Parader, Creem and such. Peter Criss was leaving the band. He was my favorite KISS member. Loved the cat theme and the #3 all over things. But now he was gone. The album “Unmasked” came out with a new drummer.

I hated it simply for that.

It didn’t help KISS’ cause that “Music from The Elder” was next. More dreck.

The final straw for the band in my mind was 1982’s double shot of awful “Killers” and “Creatures of the Night.”

At 11, I was done with KISS. My first favorite band. Certainly not my last, but one that I still have a soft spot for despite knowing how bad most of the music really was.

From a distance I watched as Ace Frehley was replaced. Had Eddie Van Halen or Richie Sambora taken the job, maybe things would have changed. I doubt it, though.

Vinnie Vincent? “Lick It Up”? Ugh.

Then the makeup came off on MTV. It was horridly sad. I watched, now an awkward 14 year old. The last KISS myth was now destroyed.

Mark St. John, I think, came next. After that, I don’t remember much.

Soon, I was listening to Metallica and Slayer or The Clash and Sex Pistols or U2 and INXS. My musical tastes and my ability to find it were expanding (nothing like how easy it is today).

When the original band got back together in the mid-1990s, I thought about going. I didn’t.

Each subsequent reunion tour has sort of made me want to go, simply for nostalgia, but I don’t.

Seeing them live from New Orleans this year via the Internet confirmed that I’d made the right call over the last decade-plus.

It just wouldn’t be the same, seeing them now, as they are. The wide-eyed 9 year-old is still in there, but it would have been the 30something or 40something me there. Much like if you see Star Wars for the first time now, not then. It’s just not the same.

And I’ll always wonder what I would have been had I seen KISS in 1979?

potato skins

The miles peeled off in front of me like potato skins. Eastern North Carolina back roads seem to be like that more so than the roads of my old state – Virginia.

It’s hard for me to believe sometimes that I’ve spent over a decade in this state. It started off so promising, got really good, then fell apart in the blink of an eye one night sitting amongst a collection of crap that put me in debt over the years. I still remember staring at all those boxes of shit, moved from North Carolina to Florida and back again and never leaving those damn U-Haul boxes once. What a waste of space and time and money and any other thing that one wastes. Life? Sure, why not.

I looked out my window. The sun was setting to the west, which happened to be the opposite direction I was going. The pastel colors of the sunsets here are beautiful, especially the closer one gets to the ocean. The only good thing about going east around here is you end up at the ocean eventually. Through some interesting territory sometimes, full of Confederate flags and beat up Camaros on blocks in front of even more beat up double-wides. I look at those places and wonder how awesome it would be to just move in and do that. Stop thinking so much about the past, the present and the future. Instead, just exist for a bit and work on my Camaro.

Of course, then there is the worst part of getting to the beach – the way it’s been transformed into a mini-Wildwood by the fuckers from the north. Yeah, the Yankees. Some in this state would call me a Yank, coming from the southern part of Virginia. But I’ve got an accent, more of it comes out when I’ve been drinking or when I’m nervous as hell. Which isn’t too often anymore.

The radio’s not giving me what I want at the moment. Double shot of Pink Floyd by some station in Raleigh that is most likely playing a Clear Channel approved set list. I push the button. Then I push it again. And repeat and repeat.

The best song I can find on this Wednesday night in February is Eddie Money’s “Baby, Hold on to Me.” I guess it really could be worse, but at the moment I don’t think it is.

I thought about telling her last night the name I had been thinking about. She’d asked before and I said I hadn’t thought of one. But that was before that night in New Orleans when everything changed. When we had to live through the worst night of my life.

It makes me cringe thinking of how I used to think that no pain could be worse than the one I got when the redhead broke my heart. She wasn’t the first, and much to my shock at that time, wasn’t the last either. But I nearly killed myself over it. Came within a phone call not answered of at least trying it once.

But now, that seems small compared.

As does the first time I found out that I could’ve been a dad. Even though I guess I wouldn’t have been.

It was in New Orleans too.

I still remember the bricks of the building we were walking past. The Spanish moss in the trees. And the incredible sinking feeling inside of me when she told me about the abortion. Things have never been the same since that day. It took me a long time to realize it.

Now, that pales.

The memory I can’t get out of my head is her eyes. The pain she was in. Not just physically. The mental anguish of what was happening was impossible for me to stop.

I held her hand. I told her to look into my eyes. Over and over. It happened and it was over. I almost looked down, but I didn’t. I still don’t know if she did. We said we wouldn’t and I don’t think she did either.

Honestly, I didn’t want the memory. I’m too good at them.

Now, I wonder if she would have liked the name I liked. Mellor. It’s strange enough but perfectly fitting for me to name a kid that. I liked Darby as well, but knew that it wouldn’t fly. Maybe not with her, but with my mind. So, I settled on Mellor. I guess many would have expected HRJ the IV. But I didn’t seem to think it would fit. Maybe I would have grown into that idea. Maybe not.

All I know is I want that memory out of my mind. Her eyes looking at mine. They were begging me to fix it. And I knew I couldn’t.

I was strong that night. Strong for her. I nearly cried when the doctor told us exactly what had happened. The tears were there, but they didn’t flow.

Later, while she slept, I called my mom and told her. I almost cried then.

That was as close as I’ve gotten. And I don’t know if I’m ever going to. I want to. But they just don’t want to form. Don’t want to come.

The Eddie Money song ends. A commercial for some local car dealer comes on. Telling me I need a new car. I sigh a long sigh and watch as the sun disappears beyond the trees of the Croatan National Forest.

“I’ll be home soon,” I think.

dobermans

“Why are you like that?”

Huh. Quite a tough question to answer, for sure, he thought. “I guess because that’s the way I’m supposed to be…” he said.

“That’s a cop out. You choose to be the way you are.”

“But you’re the one who believes in fate. In destiny. Not me.”

“Fuck you asshole.”

“That’s better. We can go back to drinking now.”

“I hope you drown in that glass, you sick fuck.”

That made him feel good. To be called a sick fuck. He was certainly sick. But a fuck? That means there’s a chance, right?


Lots of shit in my eyes. Pollen. Sawdust. Dirt. Sweat.

It’s a good day for eye drops.


This old pair of flip flops.

They were given to me by my ex.

The only pair I’d ever owned up until last summer, when I got a two dollar pair at wal-mart.

Now, I’m throwing them away. Putting them in the trash. Another reminder I’m finally at ease with tossing. I’m amazed at how I hold on to things. Give a reason, but know full well what the real one is.

Well, another anchor gone. Cast away. Cut the rope. All that nonsense.


The words come out a lot easier when I’m drunk. Yet lately, I haven’t enjoyed drinking. It hurts. Physically now. Not just mentally. It had to happen, sooner or later, would’ve rather it been later to be quite honest. It’s a shame because I like being drunk. I like tapping that vein that doesn’t seem to want to open up unless it’s been liquored up a bit. Like a cheap whore. Of course, I have no idea what a cheap whore is like, so maybe it’s completely different? New goal: fuck a cheap whore. It may change my perspective on life. Probably not. Definitely not. But how can I know unless I do it?


The lady told me she had a job for me. I was broke, wearing dirty clothes and hadn’t brushed my teeth in six days. So I said “Ok.”

We drove to her house. Me in the back of her beat up old Toyota truck. The day was nice. A tad warm, but still nice. I didn’t notice how bad I smelled while we were moving.

The city isn’t coming back the way I’d thought it would. I don’t think it ever could. In a decade or so, not much of what I loved about this place will be here anymore. Just the river and the music.

The car stops at an abandoned warehouse. The sign out front says “J.H. McClintock and Son.” It looks like there used to be an s at the end of Son, but someone obliterated it with a hammer or some other tool. I want to believe it was the son. Reality tells me it most likely was dad. Of course, mom or wife or girlfriend could have played a role. Sounds like a good idea for a book. I pull out my notepad and scribble it down. It’s just another random thought that will soon be lost. I have boxes of notes just like that one. I haven’t read most of them in years. The old “when I get old” or “when I get the time” excuses just don’t matter anymore. They’ve become the fact of the matter now. I sigh.

“You ok young man?” the old lady asks.

For a second I smile. She called me young. Ha. I was in a bar last week with a friend of mine. He’s 31. His wife is 25. The waitress asked me if I was his dad. Guess old hits hard when it does. And according to one fat, manly-looking waitress at a chain restaurant, I have been struck.

“I’m great ma’am,” I reply. “What do you need done here? Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since the storm?”

“Well, my son lived here for two years after the storm,” she said. “But one day, he stopped coming around. That was five years ago. I haven’t been inside at all. I wanted someone to go in and see if he’s in there.”

“Whoah, you mean he may be living in there still?”

“No. No. No. I think he died in there years ago. Because he never was the kind of kid to disappear. He always told his mother where he was going.”

She handed me the keys to a giant set of locks. All kinds of them. Deadbolts and chains and pad locks and combination locks and levers. It was crazy.

Finally, after 30 minutes of jimmying with locks and WD-40, the door was open. I peered inside. It was dark. It smelled. Not of a dead man, but of old rotting paper.

“What was this place?” I asked.

“An old book binding factory. But people stopped buying books. Then they stopped reading. So, printing folks like us just blew away.”

“Yeah, I was a newspaperman myself before it all went to shit.”

“Oh? That’s lovely. I miss my paper.”

“I miss the paycheck. And, of course, the smell of a freshly printed paper with my byline in it.”

“Sad times we live in. Sad, sad times.”

“Ma’am? I’m going to go in now.”

“Ok, young man. Just be careful. We used to have Dobermans that watched the place for us. They could be feral ones in there still.”

“I seriously doubt it. This place was sealed up tight. Like a …” I caught myself before saying what I was thinking. I looked at the old lady, she was short, grey haired and looked like she had lived a great life. I once hoped that I could look like that one day. Doubtful now.

Inside, the place was like a time capsule. Books strewn about. Some finished. Some not. A giant press was still loaded up with a roll of paper. Looks like they shut it down in the middle of a run, expecting to come back the next day. Then the locksmith showed up instead.

An office was in the back. The door was slightly ajar. I peered in. On a cot, there was what appeared to be a suit. It was covered in dust. I put my flashlight on it. There was her son. A note was beside him.

“Mom, I’m sorry. I had to. Love Jeremy.”

dreams lay fallow

I’ve heard that the older you get, the less picky you get. At least when you’re still single. Always single, that is. Not divorced once, twice or three times even. Who told me this? I don’t really remember any one person telling me. Just that is story of came into being as a real thing.

Between my mother telling me I should sign up for an e-harmony account and friends telling me how great a catch I am, and that they “can’t believe” anyone hasn’t snapped me up yet, being single at 40 years old sucks more than I ever imagined it could. Not that I ever imagined being single at this age until I was 36 years old, but still even then I didn’t expect it to be quite like this.

I’ve had my run ins with misanthropy. I’ve been a hermit at times. I’ve been a drunk. A wanderer. A fool. A student. A teacher. A prick. A goof. A dork. An idiot. A lot of things, really.

My dating history isn’t very impressive. Compared to most. Except in my ability to commit. Which, in and of itself, may just be the problem. Or not.

The first girl I dated, she was a slut. She fucked me in bed, then fucked me in the head. Left me wondering what the fuck that was all about. But other than a short-lived obsession with the Buzzcocks and Tom Petty’s first three albums, I survived and actually thrived.

The second one was the first “love of my life.” I’d had a crush on her since the first time my eyes saw hers. And she admitted she felt the same way when we finally got around to dating. Only problem? She was a virgin. I was a dork. And eventually she was a lesbian. Although, technically, I suppose, she always was. At leas that’s what my buddy Matty V. told me one drunken night. Yep.

The third one was a year later. Just someone to occupy time, really. I felt bad for being that way the entire time. And ended up being cruel to her. I’ve always wanted to apologize, but she’s one person who seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

The fourth came during my “finding myself” faze of life. Stupid label, but it’s when I finally got the balls to get the fuck out of my mundane existence. I lived with drug dealers, but didn’t do drugs. I rode a motorcycle. I drank exotic things. And I fell in love. Definitely for the first time. Time and distance and way too much thinking about the past lets me know that.

We were passionate about each other. We were too stupid to talk about it. Instead, we played along with whatever life dealt us and didn’t really think about it enough. Then one day, distance and the wrong set of circumstances and choices put it to an end.

The next one was the so-called “love of my life” at least that’s the label I attached to it for way too long after it ended. There wasn’t a moment during the relationship that I doubted it. Not a single second. Even the day it ended. We were so different, I figured it would work. She was driven to succeed. I was driven to be in love. She worried a lot. I never worried at all. She thought of what if, I thought of what next. Eventually, she just stopped. I didn’t understand it then. Didn’t understand it for years. Now, I mostly do. Time and perspective and comparison and such.

The last one was simply crazy. She was 23. I was 36. She had a kid. I didn’t even have a pet. Not even a fish. She was a chameleon that became what the person she was after wanted the most. I was an open book that couldn’t change if I wanted to, no matter how hard I try. The sex was great. I had blinders on to the rest. In the end, she read something I wrote and couldn’t separate the me in that piece of my past and the me that was standing in front of her. That’s what I like to tell myself. To stay sane. I know she just got bored or whatever and moved on to the next. And eventually the next.

I’m cool with it now. All of them. I know where the mistakes were made. I hope they all still think of me in a good way at some time. I didn’t mean to hurt any of them. And I believe all but one of them didn’t try to hurt me either. But, we all hurt each other in some way.

I never thought any of them would end at the beginning. But they all did. A good friend of mine told me more than once “always expect the worst. Then you’ll never be disappointed.” My reaction to that was “man, I can’t live that way. I’d rather be completely disappointed by someone, something or myself, than to never try to find that perfection.”

And that brings me back around. Looking for perfection is impossible. Yet it’s all I do. Not in face. Not in looks. But in love. It’s got to be there. And if it is, it’s perfect. It’s been that way before. It can be that way again. Right?

But, as a man better than me wrote once, and sang a bunch of times… “always hated saying so long. But it always comes to that.”

It’s why one woman in particular stumps me. We get each other. We laugh all the time when we are together. Except when I get stupid drunk and she goes off chasing musicians. But, everyone has things they need to work on right? But anyway, despite these great signals of greatness, there’s no chance. And I’ve known it since the first conversation. There were many on line versions. We e-mailed, we texted, we just did that modern day romance thing that Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan did so well.

Then we met. And within five minutes the conversation somehow steered towards the “perfect” guy and gal. I said my piece, sort of describing her, you know, red hair, a great smile and eyes that tell the truth. Then she said the same kind of thing, except for the end.

“I only have two things that are a killer,” she said, taking a swig of her beer.

“And what are those?” I asked expectantly.

“He’s got to have good teeth and can’t be shy.”

I felt like Harvey Kietel in Bad Lieutenant after Darryl Strawberry doesn’t come up big for the Dodgers. My fate is sealed. I now just have to go through the motions before the gangsters shoot me in the face.

Yet, I keep going back. Because, you know, I can always get my teeth fixed.

disappointed

Steppenwolf was playing on the radio when I walked into the classroom.

The cat clawed at the jar of marmalade.

I watched The Eiger Sanction with Leonard Nimoy. He thought it was rather tepid. At least that’s what his hastily written post-it note said.

The first bite of basil is nothing compared to the third.

You’re supposed to be straight edge, not straight curved.

I can’t understand why M.C. Skat Kat didn’t make it? Such are the unanswerable questions of life.

The walkway was covered with dirty diapers and cigarette cartoons. Tom & Jerry seemed to be quite high. Somewhere, Fred Flinstone is thinking bad thoughts about Mr. Slate.

My library card didn’t work the last time it was scanned. I asked about it, and the librarian said she’d have to ask the head librarian. She was a lunch. I just wanted to check out a book. Instead, I left.

As the hours drug on, my eyes started to burn. The dryness of not blinking for hours on end, coupled with the sights I was having to witness would have drove most men to the brink of lunacy. Thankfully, a redhead named Emily had already taken care of that for me. So, instead I endured.

I looked at the copy editor sitting in the desk to my right. She was about 25 years old. From Maryland. Didn’t have that cool Maryland accent, however. Guess if you spend too much time in the South, it goes away. On my left is the guy with the Stuart Scott problem. He farts and belches a lot. I have never actually been around someone who has so much gas. My dad farts loudly and obnoxiously, but he’s got nothing on this guy in quantity. I didn’t know it was possible to always have gas. Drink a sip of water, burp. Eat a chicken nugget, fart. It goes on for eight hours. And never a single “excuse me” every muttered.

Sometimes I wonder how I ended up in this pit. I woke up one day, realizing that really, it’s always been the same. The faces change. The places change. But the pit, it doesn’t.

“Why the fuck do you keep typing?” she asked. “You never seem to be happy with what comes out of your fingers.”

I told her they words don’t actually come out of my fingers, instead, they come from my mind. She slapped me and told me to go to hell. I typed that and had a little chuckle. She came over, read what I typed and slapped me again. This time, however, she didn’t tell me to go to hell. She put me there. One bullet to the back of the head. Now, I’m typing endless press releases on women’s basketball. Go figure. I always thought hell would be a little bit meaner. Banality, however, has it’s one cruel bite.

She grabbed the one CD she knew I’d cringe at when she did what she did. Driving 55 miles per hour on the freeway outside of Biloxi, she tossed it out the window. I looked over my shoulder, saw it hit the pavement and shatter into a bunch of pieces that each glimmered in the afternoon sun. The fucking bitch, I thought then. Now, I think that may have been the day I was re-born.

“Have you ever drank the sweat off of a woman that just had an orgasm?” the barkeep asked me. I looked at her, trying to gauge her seriousness. We always ask each other one questions every day before I start drinking. But the key is to figure out if it’s a serious one or not.

“Drank? No. But I have licked,” I replied.

“Such a shame,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s magical.”

I bought the lottery ticket with six numbers that I got from friends. Well, five and one from me. When they hit, I thought for just a second about not telling them. Yet, I knew I didn’t have the balls, or that much asshole in me.

How exactly does one get asshole in them?

I asked for six inches of snow. I got none.

I asked for you not to break my heart. Instead you stabbed it.

I asked to not die alone. So you buried me alive with yourself.

Ebay is the sewer.

Google is the devil.

ESPN killed the newspaper star.

I used to have heroes, but I couldn’t name then now.

My grandfather. I miss him a lot. Even though we rarely talked. Just being around him gave me hope in life. I don’t know why. It just did. I wonder what he thought of me? I wonder what he would think of me now?

Hell, I don’t even know what my own parents think of me. They must be pretty disappointed. Well, my dad probably is. My mom, I don’t know if she really ever expected much from me. I think she knows something happened to me. She may even know what that something was. So, she just keeps an eye on me.

I dove off the bridge, fully expecting to see those stars again when I landed. Instead, I hit the pavement and bounced. I fucking bounced up and then back down to the ground. Broke nothing but my glasses. They called me lucky in the newspapers. How are you lucky when you are trying to kill yourself and you bounce? That pretty much defines unlucky in my book. Which should be written by now. Stop it you lazy S.O.B. What a horrible movie that was. Don Was. Don Johnson. Rod Johnson, stereo salesman. Damn Jennifer Jason Leigh was hot. Still is, probably. But haven’t seen her in a while…

Frank Sinatra and Super Bowl III

Sleep is the enemy. Something to be fought off like the advances of an obese and drunk woman. Not a drunk woman. Nor an obese woman.

It comes from out of nowhere most of the time. Lurking. Creeping. Sneaking up on an unsuspecting prey. Zapping all strength, mostly of the eyelids. Slowly taking roost in the lungs, causing slower breathing and eventually snoring comes about.

Sometimes fighting it becomes hopeless. So, drinking until passing out becomes an option. Or taking drugs, both prescription and over the counter. NyQuil will take the edge off of any lingering thought if taken at just the right moment.

The actual act of sleep itself is quite a good thing. Dreams fill the mind with wonder and amazement. The soul is free to do the things it never would. Fuck the prom queen. Have a martini with Frank Sinatra while watching Super Bowl III in his suite in Vegas. Jumping from the top of cliff into the Pacific Ocean. All of these things happen in dreams. But so do nightmares.

Some remember everything from sleep. Others nothing but scattered thoughts.

Drifting in and out of sleep usually provides more memories of them. Or the quick jolt of energy that comes with being woken up suddenly.

The one thing that always comes with sleep, however, is the quick passage of time. Night becomes day. Day becomes night. Yesterday becomes today. Today never, however, becomes yesterday. That seems somewhat cruel. To always take away, and never give back.

It’s why this traveler, he never wants to sleep. Turn on the television. Surf the internet. Read a book. Take a long walk. Sit outside in the rain. In the cold. In the sweltering heat. Write some meaningless words in a journal. Answer an e-mail. Write a letter. Think about the past. Never the future.

As sleep wraps itself around the mind, fighting isn’t useless. Caffine will work for a little bit. So will sugar. Loud noise helps. But they all fade into the recesses of dreams. Sleep will win.

“I don’t want to sleep,” the little boy says.

“Why on earth not,” mother asks.

“Because today will end and tomorrow begins,” he replies.

“Silly boy. Why do you feel this way?”

“Because, mommy. I know what is in store for me tomorrow. And I don’t like it.”

“Then do something different,” mom says while smiling and patting his head.

“You won’t let me,” he screams, pulling the covers up to his eyes, but not covering them.

“I will,” she says, cooing in his ear. “Just dream it, and you will do it.”

The boy believes his mother and closes his eyes smiling. As she walks out of the room, his breathing has slowed and he is no longer holding the blanket. It has fallen down towards his chin. She does notice one thing. A frown on his face.

The same frown that’s always there at night. And gone in the morning. That boy has too much on his mind to be so young, she thinks as she turns out the light. Another night on the couch for her. It’s much more home to her than the bed. Her husband snoring the night away. Loud, drunken snores that even the kids complain about. The boy even gets up in the middle of the night to close the door. The door dad never wants closed. She takes the blame for it being closed. And he hits her. But she never lets her son know that. Even though he does know.

I hope he dreams of a better father, she thinks.

Little does she know, he doesn’t dream that. He only dreams of falling. Of laughter. Spiders crawling on his neck. And of lightning.

Oh how he loves lightning. Stands on the porch during violent storms. Running inside when a clap of thunder is too loud. He says he knows when it will strike close. “You can smell it mom,” he says, adamantly.

“Lightning doesn’t smell,” she says, egging him on.

“If I could bottle that smell, I’d let you take a whiff,” he said. “But I’m afraid that if you do that, lightning will find you.”

It seemed very innocent that comment. He was just eight years old. Now, as she stared at him, dressed in a dark blue suit with a balding lawyer with a smushed up nose standing beside him, remembering that day brought a chill to the back of her neck. So bad was that chill, her entire body became covered in goose pimples. Just then, she noticed the judge looking at her. He smiled.

The trial was over. The verdict had been delivered. Now, she wondered if he’d ever sleep again.

inspirational sodomy

A couple more minutes.

That was the difference between right and wrong. Yes and no. Fucked and fucking.

It happens.

I’ll get over it. Always have, always will. Except for that one thing. The only thing I never get over.

Ah. Who cares? In the end, we all end up worm food and back into the food chain. For some, it just takes a little bit longer. I think that may be the best thing about being poor. I’ll be tossed into a pine box and the bugs will eat me fast. No sitting in a moldy, metal box for centuries. Then, being moved by some developer and most likely dumped into a trash heap or into an oven.

***

A light. A small red reflection of it, at least.

That’s all I saw.

Then came the thud.

Everyone knew what happened. No one wanted to say a word. Especially when Joe kept driving. The only thing he did was turn up the radio.

It haunts me to this day. I wonder how much different our lives would be if we had stopped. If we had cared.

***

Walking out of jail was almost as frightening as walking in. Five years is a long time to have taken away from you. To be isolated from humanity. Because what’s inside is nothing. And it certainly wasn’t humane.

I went in at the age of 40. Already having wasted most of my life.

Now, I’m 45. The economy is worse than it was when I was free. Now, I’m just an ex-con. That’ll make it easier to find a good job, I’m sure.

They gave me $75 and a the wallet I brought in with me. Plus the suit. My mom bought me this blue suit when I was interviewing for jobs for the first time. That was when I was 27 years old.

I feel in the pockets. They’re empty. Except for a business card of the lawyer my dad found for me. He was a shitty lawyer. I should have been on probation. Instead, I got 10 years. Served five, got five off for good behavior.

The sun hits my face as I leave the yard. I strain to see who is there. I can make out a silhouette only. I walk towards it. Figuring this person must be meeting me.

I told my family I’d be getting out this day. March 14, 2016. I sometimes wonder if God gets a good chuckle out of me and dates.

After a few paces, I see who is waiting for me. I’m kind of surprised.

It’s her. The only person not related to me who wrote me. Who visited me. Who gave a shit.

“Thanks for being here,” I say.

“Least I could do, I guess,” she says shyly.

“But I’ve got to ask,” I say looking deep into her eyes. “Why you? It can’t make certain people very happy.”

“Nope.”

“You avoided the question.”

“Yep.”

Always a wordsmith. She could say so much more than I could in one word than I could say writing a book. Something I actually did while I was in prison. But, for the life of me I can’t figure out if anyone wants to read about a skinny white guy who was falsely imprisoned and then fucked in the ass for five years.

“How’s your corn hole,” she says, almost sensing my thoughts. Just like always.

I look at her smile and give her a big hug.

“Still too tight for most of those fuckers. But not all of ‘em,” I laugh. “Now, why are you here? It’s driving me a bit nuts.”

“It’s your mom. She’s sick.”

“How bad?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

I’m taken aback by the we part of that reply. But I don’t bring it up. That can wait.

“Let’s go then. I gotta see my mom.”

My mom. The greatest woman on the earth. Just like most guys see their moms. Even the ones that beat you, cussed at you, or fucked the whole town. My mom never did any of those things. Really, all she did was read books.

Maybe that’s why I wanted to write one my whole life so badly. And killed myself over not being able to do so. I just wanted her to pick up my book one day and smile.

Now, I have a book that took my five years of being cannon fodder for murderers and rapists to finally inspire my ass, pun intended. And my mom is sick.

We get in my old car. Guess she drove it here, which makes sense since she would have had to fly in to come pick me up. I notice a sticker on my window. It’s one of the Who. The bulls-eye logo.

“Paul’s been driving your car the last few years,” she says.

“Well, that makes me smile. He take it anywhere interesting?”

“Open up the glove box.”

I push the button and out pops a rock. On it is some scribbling.

“From the “Dom Rock”, for uncle Randy” it reads.

“God damn. He got there before I did. Little shit.”

She starts the car and we’re off. It’s two hours to home. She puts in a CD. It’s Lucero.

“Thanks,” I say and look out the window. The road is so soothing. I missed it. The only thing I had in my cell was my torn copy of Kerouac. Which I read 458 times. I counted.

“You know, I haven’t heard a single note in five years. They still together?”

“Put out album No. 9 last week, actually.”

“Well, at least I can count on that.”

“You can count on a lot of things, Randy. You just never do.”
***

i tried some pills for my heart, but a little too late

Good decisions are harder to remember than the bad ones. Bad decisions not made are impossible to forget. Good decisions not made just aren’t there…

Talked back from the abyss.

I remember sitting on my sectional couch that my buddy gave me before he moved out of eastern North Carolina, looking at three bottles of pills. One was full of Oxycodone that I’d gotten the last time I had kidney stones. The other was Zolpidem, sleeping pills I’d gotten because I couldn’t sleep. The last was, Budeprion, some anti-depressants I had because, well, I was depressed.

Work sucked at that moment. I’d gone through some issues with a story I didn’t want to write. About a kid who died.

Things just seemed hopeless. And sitting in my apartment, by myself, every, single night didn’t help matters. All I seemed to do was cry. Think about how crappy things were. No girl. No money. A job I hated. Yep, this was where I wanted to be at 37 years old.

And those bottles all had what I thought was the answer.

Death.

I wasn’t very lucky at that point in my life. Well, that’s not entirely true, but it’s the way I felt. My friends who were local, of which I could count on one hand at that time, didn’t seem to see anything wrong with me. Or if they did, didn’t bother to say anything.

I clung to opportunities to go and hang out with anyone. Usually, ending up in a chicken wing joint or just on a barstool. Not exactly theraputic, but it helped. Anything did, really.

But the abyss kept getting closer and closer.

I don’t know what exactly pushed me to the edge. But, there I was sitting in front of three bottles of pills, wondering if the combination would be enough to kill me. If it would put me to sleep and not hurt.

I had no clue.

But I think I was about to find out. I curled up in a ball, crying. I don’t know how long I was there doing it. I grabbed the bottles and opened them up. Pouring their contents onto my footlocker/coffee table. The one with scribbles on it from a three-year-old that touched my heart and made me live for a little while again.

That kid was gone. At least from my life.

After getting the crying done. I stared some more at those pills. All white and awful.

I grabbed my cell phone. Looking at the numbers in it. Wondering who would even answer the phone if I dialed them.

I called my mom. Saying to myself…if she doesn’t answer, it’s a sign.

She answered on the third ring.

I broke down. Completely. Utterly. I told her how much pain I was in. How little I felt and how much I felt. She had no real words for me. She never does. But she listened. And she cried. I felt horrible. She was at work. But she put off everything to just listen.

And that’s all I needed. After a long time of a lot of words and a lot of crying. I hung up.

I put the pills back in their bottles. I wiped my face, grabbed my keys, and went to work. Just like I always did.

That’s the day my mom saved my life. She’s one of two people to do that. Maybe I’ll write about the other time and other person some other time.

Is life any better now than it was then? Nope. It’s pretty much the same. I don’t have any money. I have no friends where I live and I’m single as single can be. Also, every day begins with a ritualistic listening of Rick James’ “Street Songs”. Why? Because I’m scared of what the day will bring if I don’t do it.

The highlights of my days are writing, now, however. So that’s an improvement.

I still have two of those bottles, as well. They both have two pills left in them, so don’t be scared for me. The Hillbilly Heroin went away a while ago. I used to take one every so often just to help me sleep. Or if I was in pain.

Now? I just want to go to sleep. And get up tomorrow and go to work.

The weekend is coming. I’ll probably do nothing but watch and observe and think. Maybe even read a bit. I’ll write something down too. Maybe it won't be forced? It’s what I do.

Better than the alternative.