“I’m going home,” she said as I sat in my lawn chair watching the storm brewing off the coast.
“Ok, babe. I’ll be fine by myself.”
I watched her get in the station wagon. I loved that old brown bomber. It reminded me of my mom’s old car. The one we piled way too many people into and broke every law in the book on the way to the country club back when I was young. The way we piled in would get you pulled over in a heartbeat today. Mom would be on television explaining why she was such a bad parent. A mom that hated her kids and others’ kids so much that she’d endanger them so much.
“But really, Oprah, all I was doing was taking the kids to the pool. To have some fun. We do it every day just about.”
“But, Mrs. Jones, every time you did it, you might as well have been pointing a loaded gun at their pretty, innocent faces.”
The audience would most likely applaud that riveting bit of preaching by the old battleaxe.
This thought made me smile. The rare memories of childhood for me do that. They’re more like Polaroids than anything else. I think I’ve bashed my head too many times over the years. I was knocked out in the third grade and in college for sure. And all the head butting of friends in high school certainly never did any good. Top that off with at least 150,000 beers and whip-its and the brain, well, it gets a bit mushy.
The station wagon pulls out of the driveway. I stand up and wave with a big grin. She doesn’t wave back. This takes my good mood and throws it in the garbage bin. Sulking, I plop back into my lawn chair. I don’t see them, but in a few seconds the fire ants will make their presence perfectly noticeable by attacking like the Blitzkrieg my poor uncovered feet.
I curse the damn red bastards, smacking at them as I pull away from their lair. Summer is cool and all, but the ants are evil. But I don’t bomb them with chemicals like so many others do. I co-exist. You’d think that we could find some common ground, some kind of truce. But no. They bite me like they bite anyone. It’s annoying, yet reassuring.
Some drizzle finally starts to fall as thunder and lightening start to light up the cloudy sky. The giant anvil clouds tell me that it’s going to be a doozy. The weatherman said it would hit around 7. It’s 4:45 and I’m guessing in 10 minutes the rain will be flowing like Sprite out of a Bojangles’ spigot.
The smell is intoxicating. It’s 90 degrees and what little rain is making it to the ground is evaporating fast. Concrete and asphalt give off an odor that takes me back to better times. I sit and enjoy it, knowing that when the real rain comes, that smell will be chased away. A bolt of lightening strikes the rods on top of the water tower a few blocks away. Mother Nature’s way of telling me something, for sure.
It then dawns on me that “home” for her is 1,000 miles away. I didn’t notice her packing up the station wagon, and with gas hitting $5 a gallon right now, I just figured she was going for a ride. A lot of times I called the road home, and she sort of did too, just not as enthusiastically as me. I got worried. I grabbed my cell phone and pulled up her number. Dialed. I heard it ringing inside the house.
“Time for a beer,” I said, getting out of my rusty chair and going inside. The fridge, as always, was stocked with watermelon and Shiner Bock. My summer staples. I grabbed a hunk of melon and two beers, the door of the fridge and then the screen door on the porch both slammed at the same time as I went back to my favorite spot.
Thoughts started to betray me about 6:30 and eight beers in. A little while later, the rain came like a stampede. I looked at my clock. 7:02. Damn if the weatherman wasn’t right this time. Good for you ol’ Skippy.
Soon, beers 12 and 13 were gone. As was I. The rain was starting to flood the streets and my porch. Too weak to fight it, I passed out in the chair. A loud crack of thunder woke me up sometime later. It was dark out. The power gone. Another flash of lightening lit up the yard. In the driveway was the station wagon. I felt like an ass. Always assuming the worst, and eventually making it happen.
I stood up. The buzz from the beer had long ago faded. Just a dull ache in the left temple now.
I was soaking wet and shivering when I went in our bedroom. She was awake. She looked at me and shook her head.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You looked happy there, wet, cold, miserable.”
I started crying. She stood up.
“Take those wet things off.”
She undressed me as I whimpered. I was ashamed of my mind. Of my thoughts. I only hoped she didn’t know. But how could she not?
“You know, I almost kept driving tonight,” she said as she toweled off my back. I wondered if she was disgusted by the hair on my shoulders.
“But something about that storm told me I was making a mistake.”
“Thank God for rain,” I said, still struggling not to cry.
Showing posts with label rain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rain. Show all posts
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
22 percent
What kind of a person plays Russian Roulette?
I’m definitely of the opinion that at the wrong place and wrong time, I would play it. So, what kind of person am I?
Sad. Depressed. Lonely. Stupid. Dumb. Naïve. Stuck. Forgetful. Silly. Happy. Wonderfilled. Etc.
Devouring my soul, my work gets worse every day. I sit around and do nothing, almost literally, for 8 hours a day. I don’t understand how people do this for 40 years or more. Hating their jobs.
I have loathed parts of my job many times. But never hated it. I do now. It’s just so pointless. The crap that I put on the page is awful. And no one seems to care. Except for the folks paying for it. Every day I see people cancel their subscriptions. Most of the time it’s because someone in California (that’s what they tell them) charged the customer too much money for the paper.
Today, a guy brought in a print out of the web site. On it was the price of the paper’s subscription. It was less than what he was paying, so he, rightfully, “wanted that price.”
“We don’t do that price,” the lady at the desk says.
Finally, after a 5-minute argument, they get the circulation boss, who we have dubbed “Monte” for his ability to place the three card game on just about every customer with is dumbed down accent and folksy ways.
He shows Monte the print out of the Web page. Monte replies simply and succinctly.
“That’s the price for new subscribers sir, you’re already getting the paper. And, according to our records, you’ve been a reader for over 20 years. Congrad-u-lations.”
“Well, I want to pay that price. Not the one I’ve been paying. And nowhere does it say this is for new people.”
“Sir. Sir. Sir. I understand what you are saying. But I’ve got no control over this. It’s from the corporate headquarters in Cali-for-ni-a. They just do things strange there, you know?”
“I’m from Sacramento.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do…,” he stutters. “I can’ give you a rate of 76.20. That’s the best I can do.”
“Nope. I want this one. It says 66 dollars.”
“Geez, sir. I just can’t do that. How about 75 and I’ll throw in one of these,” he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a white plastic card. It’s one of the discount cards they give subscribers. They’re six months old.
“What is that?” the customer says, unconvinced.
“It’s a card we give out to the best customers. We only have a few to give. And you seem like a loyal one.”
“Well…”
“I won’t take no for an answer. Even if you don’t re-up your subscription!” Monte says with a loud chuckle and slap on the back.
“You got yourself a deal,” the customer says. “Thanks for being so understanding.”
“It’s my job.”
I turn back to my computer and with a long, drawn out breath, release a sigh.
“Step right up …” a co-worker says.
“Monte always wins,” I say, before I start laying out another page of the rag he’ll read in the morning. Smiling with his new discount card, and high priced newspaper.
***
Would an insane mailbox bite you when you get your mail? And will anyone understand that joke in 10 years? Kind of like wrapping fishes in a newspaper. One day, that won’t make sense.
Guess I’m getting old, thinking of such things?
***
It’s hot out again. Almost too hot. The rain was supposed to get here by now. Instead, we go wind. And humidity.
“It’s raining somewhere,” my old lady says, wiping her brow with an old rag. “Just never here.”
Never? That’s got to be an exaggeration. But I try to remember the last time it rained. I can’t.
“Baby, how ‘bout you and I just go somewheres tonight.” I don’t have any clue where, I just don’t want to stare at these same four walls at all tonight.
“Can we go to Wal-Mart?” she says as Southern as she can possibly manage, which is about Massachusetts by way of Arizona.
“Fuck you.”
“That’s better.”
***
Stepping outside, the first thing you notice is the fresh air. Staying inside that awful office building for too long makes one immune to the smell. It has to be illegal, the amount of chemical that is in the air. But no one says a thing. They all know if they do, they’ll be out a job. And with unemployment at 22 percent, walking out of a job is akin to suicide nowadays. Hell, suicide is a job now.
***
I’m definitely of the opinion that at the wrong place and wrong time, I would play it. So, what kind of person am I?
Sad. Depressed. Lonely. Stupid. Dumb. Naïve. Stuck. Forgetful. Silly. Happy. Wonderfilled. Etc.
Devouring my soul, my work gets worse every day. I sit around and do nothing, almost literally, for 8 hours a day. I don’t understand how people do this for 40 years or more. Hating their jobs.
I have loathed parts of my job many times. But never hated it. I do now. It’s just so pointless. The crap that I put on the page is awful. And no one seems to care. Except for the folks paying for it. Every day I see people cancel their subscriptions. Most of the time it’s because someone in California (that’s what they tell them) charged the customer too much money for the paper.
Today, a guy brought in a print out of the web site. On it was the price of the paper’s subscription. It was less than what he was paying, so he, rightfully, “wanted that price.”
“We don’t do that price,” the lady at the desk says.
Finally, after a 5-minute argument, they get the circulation boss, who we have dubbed “Monte” for his ability to place the three card game on just about every customer with is dumbed down accent and folksy ways.
He shows Monte the print out of the Web page. Monte replies simply and succinctly.
“That’s the price for new subscribers sir, you’re already getting the paper. And, according to our records, you’ve been a reader for over 20 years. Congrad-u-lations.”
“Well, I want to pay that price. Not the one I’ve been paying. And nowhere does it say this is for new people.”
“Sir. Sir. Sir. I understand what you are saying. But I’ve got no control over this. It’s from the corporate headquarters in Cali-for-ni-a. They just do things strange there, you know?”
“I’m from Sacramento.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do…,” he stutters. “I can’ give you a rate of 76.20. That’s the best I can do.”
“Nope. I want this one. It says 66 dollars.”
“Geez, sir. I just can’t do that. How about 75 and I’ll throw in one of these,” he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a white plastic card. It’s one of the discount cards they give subscribers. They’re six months old.
“What is that?” the customer says, unconvinced.
“It’s a card we give out to the best customers. We only have a few to give. And you seem like a loyal one.”
“Well…”
“I won’t take no for an answer. Even if you don’t re-up your subscription!” Monte says with a loud chuckle and slap on the back.
“You got yourself a deal,” the customer says. “Thanks for being so understanding.”
“It’s my job.”
I turn back to my computer and with a long, drawn out breath, release a sigh.
“Step right up …” a co-worker says.
“Monte always wins,” I say, before I start laying out another page of the rag he’ll read in the morning. Smiling with his new discount card, and high priced newspaper.
***
Would an insane mailbox bite you when you get your mail? And will anyone understand that joke in 10 years? Kind of like wrapping fishes in a newspaper. One day, that won’t make sense.
Guess I’m getting old, thinking of such things?
***
It’s hot out again. Almost too hot. The rain was supposed to get here by now. Instead, we go wind. And humidity.
“It’s raining somewhere,” my old lady says, wiping her brow with an old rag. “Just never here.”
Never? That’s got to be an exaggeration. But I try to remember the last time it rained. I can’t.
“Baby, how ‘bout you and I just go somewheres tonight.” I don’t have any clue where, I just don’t want to stare at these same four walls at all tonight.
“Can we go to Wal-Mart?” she says as Southern as she can possibly manage, which is about Massachusetts by way of Arizona.
“Fuck you.”
“That’s better.”
***
Stepping outside, the first thing you notice is the fresh air. Staying inside that awful office building for too long makes one immune to the smell. It has to be illegal, the amount of chemical that is in the air. But no one says a thing. They all know if they do, they’ll be out a job. And with unemployment at 22 percent, walking out of a job is akin to suicide nowadays. Hell, suicide is a job now.
***
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Henry's Hyundai Highways
Listening to a new album right now. All the songs are very much about someone being cheated on by their husband/band member. Or her cheating on him. Since they’re in the band together, it’s all up in the air. I don’t know the back story, and really, it might harm the songs in the mind.
Very Fleetwood Mac, for sure.
As I’m listening, my heads resting against the porch storm window. I’m staring outside through the dirty piece of plastic. And I start to wonder what it would be like to cheat on someone. Been cheated on, quite a few times, I figure. But never did the deed myself.
Like any guy, I’ve thought about it in a relationship. Always in passing, as in “that girl’s hot, I wonder…” and then it stopped. Always. Hell, maybe it’s just because I’m so damn shy. It really has nothing to do with being above it. Or better than all those heathens that actually went through with it.
Or maybe it is.
I’d like to think I’d never do it. And at this point in my life, I think if I actually got lucky enough to meet someone who I trusted enough to let in, I’d guard that thing with all my might. Good thing? Yes and no, I’d figure. The point of obsession and overprotecting could become an issue?
But, that’s a road I’ll cross if I ever get to that intersection.
***
Shaking his keyboard methodically.
Over and over.
The upside down plastic receptacle empties out a couple months worth of crumbs. Which the ogre across from me in the office wipes to the floor with one swat of his meaty paw across the desk. The sound of little pieces of spit out and dropped food fill the newsroom.
Two people, myself included, notice this episode. We look at each other, cringe and laugh.
Two others don’t seem to care.
Ahh, the newsroom.
This hulking, bulbous jester of a man walks around the office with his belly protruding from his t-shirts like his is some kind of Ignatious in the wrong part of the world.
His 1994 t-shirts are either an extreme attempt to hold on to his “better days”, when I’m guessing life was better for a know-it-all before the internet and Google. Or he simply doesn’t notice his stretch-marked paunch protruding out beneath the too-little and way-too short cotton Ts.
Somewhere Bob Mould is crying at this vision.
He’s just a gross and obtuse fucktard.
Sometimes he bends over in the office, his tighty-whiteys drooping out of his pants. All pushed up to the edge of his pants, which are much too tight and short.
I know I don’t buy clothes very often, hell some of my shirts are from the early 1990s, but once they don’t fit, I get rid of them. Luckily for me, I used to buy clothes way too big for me. Now, they’ve shrunk and I’ve grown.
Not this guy.
I’d hate to see the skid marks he leaves behind.
I know nothing about him, other than he was supposedly a sports editor at a paper in West Virginia for over a decade. Yet, he doesn’t seem to grasp the concepts of what people like in a sports section. Nor does he seem to have any grip on reality. He answered the phones for the sports department one night, and seemed lost taking phone ins. And these people keep jobs. Get better jobs.
One day, it won’t matter any more.
***
Sitting outside, well, on the carport, the rain started falling.
The complete silence around me, except for a wooden wind chime and the rain was amazing. It started me thinking of Charles Karult. And those the CBS Sunday Morning News, whatever it was officially called. Even as a young kid, I loved watched those reports. “One the Road” with Charles Karult. He’d go all over the county in a Winnebago.
Where can a guy get that job today? They’d never spend the dough anymore. Guess I could do it myself.
An Asshole in his Accent.
Henry’s Hyundai Highways.
Chortle. Snarf. Gack.
It sounds like fun, anyway.
But now the rain is over. The humidity is rising. And cars are starting to drive about. For some reason, the Lemonheads’ “It’s a shame about Ray” pops into my head.
Now I can’t stop thinking about Urge Overkill.
And mopeds.
Then it all goes away, and I think about going to the store to buy a frozen pizza and some beer.
***
Very Fleetwood Mac, for sure.
As I’m listening, my heads resting against the porch storm window. I’m staring outside through the dirty piece of plastic. And I start to wonder what it would be like to cheat on someone. Been cheated on, quite a few times, I figure. But never did the deed myself.
Like any guy, I’ve thought about it in a relationship. Always in passing, as in “that girl’s hot, I wonder…” and then it stopped. Always. Hell, maybe it’s just because I’m so damn shy. It really has nothing to do with being above it. Or better than all those heathens that actually went through with it.
Or maybe it is.
I’d like to think I’d never do it. And at this point in my life, I think if I actually got lucky enough to meet someone who I trusted enough to let in, I’d guard that thing with all my might. Good thing? Yes and no, I’d figure. The point of obsession and overprotecting could become an issue?
But, that’s a road I’ll cross if I ever get to that intersection.
***
Shaking his keyboard methodically.
Over and over.
The upside down plastic receptacle empties out a couple months worth of crumbs. Which the ogre across from me in the office wipes to the floor with one swat of his meaty paw across the desk. The sound of little pieces of spit out and dropped food fill the newsroom.
Two people, myself included, notice this episode. We look at each other, cringe and laugh.
Two others don’t seem to care.
Ahh, the newsroom.
This hulking, bulbous jester of a man walks around the office with his belly protruding from his t-shirts like his is some kind of Ignatious in the wrong part of the world.
His 1994 t-shirts are either an extreme attempt to hold on to his “better days”, when I’m guessing life was better for a know-it-all before the internet and Google. Or he simply doesn’t notice his stretch-marked paunch protruding out beneath the too-little and way-too short cotton Ts.
Somewhere Bob Mould is crying at this vision.
He’s just a gross and obtuse fucktard.
Sometimes he bends over in the office, his tighty-whiteys drooping out of his pants. All pushed up to the edge of his pants, which are much too tight and short.
I know I don’t buy clothes very often, hell some of my shirts are from the early 1990s, but once they don’t fit, I get rid of them. Luckily for me, I used to buy clothes way too big for me. Now, they’ve shrunk and I’ve grown.
Not this guy.
I’d hate to see the skid marks he leaves behind.
I know nothing about him, other than he was supposedly a sports editor at a paper in West Virginia for over a decade. Yet, he doesn’t seem to grasp the concepts of what people like in a sports section. Nor does he seem to have any grip on reality. He answered the phones for the sports department one night, and seemed lost taking phone ins. And these people keep jobs. Get better jobs.
One day, it won’t matter any more.
***
Sitting outside, well, on the carport, the rain started falling.
The complete silence around me, except for a wooden wind chime and the rain was amazing. It started me thinking of Charles Karult. And those the CBS Sunday Morning News, whatever it was officially called. Even as a young kid, I loved watched those reports. “One the Road” with Charles Karult. He’d go all over the county in a Winnebago.
Where can a guy get that job today? They’d never spend the dough anymore. Guess I could do it myself.
An Asshole in his Accent.
Henry’s Hyundai Highways.
Chortle. Snarf. Gack.
It sounds like fun, anyway.
But now the rain is over. The humidity is rising. And cars are starting to drive about. For some reason, the Lemonheads’ “It’s a shame about Ray” pops into my head.
Now I can’t stop thinking about Urge Overkill.
And mopeds.
Then it all goes away, and I think about going to the store to buy a frozen pizza and some beer.
***
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