hand-me-down advice

I sigh as I plop my ass down on my old, dirty hand-me-down couch. It used to be some kind of off-white color, but that has long ago disappeared. I was given this couch by my sister’s boyfriend. His words upon offering it up were “It’s the dog’s couch right now, but I’m sure a little bit of Woolite and some elbow grease will make it all good again.”

It didn’t seem like a particularly dirty couch. It had some slobber marks from the dog just sitting there on it all the time. Since the dog was fixed, I didn’t need to worry about red-rocket stains. So, I snagged it up and took it to my house at the beach. Yeah, I said my house at the beach. The three-bedroom shithole that I rent for $695 a month. A little price to pay to live at the beach, but a hell of a price to pay on my paycheck.

On the couch are a pile of bills that came in the mail while I was away on vacation. The girlfriend and I spent five days jaunting and juking about the country. We saw 11 states in all. Went to Louisville for the first time, as well as Batesville, Arkansas. Add Huntington, West Virginia, to that list of new places as well. Plus all the small towns in Tennessee, Arkansas, Missouri and others that I’d never been too and it was a damn productive trip.

I also made it a point to find the time to write. Each day. Sometimes in the morning. Sometimes while she was driving in the afternoon and one time late at night. But, it got done.

“What are you writing about?” she asked.

“What we just drove by,” was one of my answers.

Another was “Sheryl Crow.”

Still another was “you.”

She crinkled her nose at that. I asked why.

“What do I do that needs to be written about?” she asked.

“Everything,” I said.

She smiled.

This reminded me of a conversation I once had. A writer of more renown and talent than I was sitting on the beach with me one hot summer day. It was Memorial Day because we were listening to the Indianapolis 500. Hundreds of tourists all over the place and there we were, sipping on Budweisers and listening to a transistor radio. I always dug that about him, he took that trusty old radio with him everywhere. And damned if he couldn’t always find something interesting to listen to. A much better success ratio than those with XM Satellite radio. However, I do believe he now has it.

But the topic of writing about people came up.

“You’ll lose friends when you write about them,” he said.

“Then were they really friends?” I replied.

“Trust me, when you write about somebody, they’ll take it the wrong way. If you mean it as a compliment, they’ll take it as a dig. If you mean it as comedy, they’ll look at it like a tragedy. It never fails.”

“I’ve written about just about everyone I know. Some have read it, some haven’t. I don’t even know who has or hasn’t. It doesn’t matter, really. I just need to type things. Scribble things. Jot them down on napkins or receipts. If you say something funny that I want to use later, the only way I’ll remember it is to write it down.”

“Exactly, and people will want to read it. And then they won’t like it. You could write like Hemingway, or you could write like Nick Sparks, either one they’ll hate it because it’s them.”

“It’s the only way to get people into a story,” I continued to rebut. “Real conversations top fake one’s every day.”

“Yes, I agree. But be ready for the consequences.”

He was right, of course. I’ve written about a lot of people. Friends, family, co-workers past and present. Ex-lovers and current ones. The ones that stumble upon my scribblings usually don’t know what to make of them. Especially if they see themselves.

“You’re such a good writer,” they say, “but what did you mean by this?” And by this, it always means the stuff about them.

“I don’t remember, really,” I respond, completely honest in saying it. “I write something that I feel in the moment. Not something I’m going to dwell upon. Well, except for the damn breakups and tooth decay.”

Sometimes I get a laugh then. But usually not.

But I don’t write for others. The time I tried to do that, it blew up in my face. “You don’t write like you did before,” she said. Well damn it, it isn’t like it was then. “You wrote about her so much better than you wrote about me.” Ugh.

Get off of the horse and you have a hell of a time getting back on. Without the stirrup, at least.

worth the effort

Two thousand, one hundred and ninety seven miles later, the doldrums come heavy.

When you spend five days on the road, enjoying the sights, sounds, food and music of the road, opening the front door to the house can be a letdown, even if the dogs try to make you forget that it’s all over.

I’ve oftentimes wondered why I didn’t become a truck driver, or at the very least a limo driver. You’re always on the road. There’s always something new out there. But, I guess you run the same route 100 times you start to know the hookers by their real names at some point. That certainly destroys the myth.

After unpacking the car, we settle down for a quick bite to eat, some beers and a little bit of decompression. If I had it my way, I’d stay out there. Forgo the house, the furniture, the electric and water bills. But, I haven’t. Not entirely sure why. Same reason I never became a truck driver, I guess. Well, not really. I didn’t become a truck driver because I’m a horrible driver in reverse and around corners. That means driving an 18-wheeler would not be a wise career move. Or a short one.

The silence is the first thing I notice. No radio blasting out tunes. No asphalt on rubber. No tractor trailers flying by. No wind.

Just crickets and dogs barking in the distance. It’s enough to drive a man insane. Well, a man like me.

The girlfriend hits the bathroom as soon as we’re done emptying the car out. Road contraband fills it. Empty water bottles and convenience store food wrappers are strewn about. Maps and written and printed out directions – my GPS here, that’s for wimps and amateurs – fill the floor boards. Brochures from tourist attractions not attended – including one for the Buford Pusser museum. That’s a must-see on the next drive through of the great state of Tennessee. Adamsville, TN, will definitely be visited by this guy in the future. Figure it will rank up there with Sperryville, VA, although Cooter was still alive.

I take a swig of my beer and relax a bit. All of my concerns about health issues and money issues and job issues and such are starting to return to my mind and body. It’s amazing how just being away from the house, being away from the “normal” wipes all that shit from your mind. And it’s doubly amazing how quickly all that shit comes hurdling back. It sucks, but it’s the way I’m wired, for better or worse.

My mind is already filled with the thoughts of what the next adventure will be. A jaunt to Philly to see the Mutter Museum? Or maybe the Dakotas? Gotta knock off one of those 12 pesky states left some damn time. I still want to see Fenway. And Wrigley. A football game at Notre Dame. A hoops game and a boxing match at Madison Square Garden. So many things, so little time. The Dom Rock in Texas. The entire Route 61 – or at least what’s left of it that’s not an interstate. Ernest Hemingway’s grave in Idaho and Johnny Thunders’ in Queens.

How about the Rolling Stones in concert? Or Bruce Springsteen? Some would say U2, but I  don’t.

So much living to do, so little time to do it.

But, the itch to move is back. It came in 2009. Showed up a couple times in 2010 and 2011, but I think she may be back in full force in 2012. Good for that. It’s inspiring. And daunting.

Words, words, words, words.

Yes sire, you can go to Thee Dollhouse.

Bug bites swell abnormally from this trip. Got bit many times. Most likely in the fleabag motel we stayed in outside of Augusta, Ga. Who would’ve thought the home of The Masters was such a dump. I guess it makes sense. It’s an oasis of getting away from “those people”. Of which I am one.

It was cool seeing some kid’s little teddy bear sticker on the wall. I hope that kid is doing OK after staying in a place like that. Full of angst and broken down dreams. As well as broken down people.

“Are you from North Carolina?” the lady with no front teeth asked us. “Yes.”

“I lived in North Carolina.”

“Really? Where?”

“Hardscrabble.”

“Never heard of it.”

Which is exactly the problem. I’d never been to Atlantic, NC. Until one day I saw it on a map and went there. Ditto Boliva, NC. Or Nutbush, Virginia. Sometimes, you just have to get in your car and go. Most of the time, nothing will happen. But every so often. It’s more than worth the effort you made to get there…

The Sonic Reducer

Two things aggravate me when I go to a concert – whoo girls and cell  phones.

One of them you can’t do anything about. I mean, what would a concert be without women? So, I embarked upon figuring out a solution to the second.

Now, you can’t just open your own bar and disallow cell phones. Can you? Is it a right to have a cell phone nowadays? Probably, knowing the way folks love to change what the founders of this country had in mind. Which, by the way, didn’t include cell phones. Or the internet. Or fucking women voting even.

So, changes to the almighty document should be made.

That’s when I started by banning of cell phones legislation. It didn’t get very far. Seems people really love their cell phones and won’t part with them. I actually miss pay phones. Not so much the paying part, but the fact that you could be in the middle of nowhere and call someone. Of course, if you transported the world back to that time, no one would know anyone’s number anymore.

We are getting dumber.

And dumber.

I set my sights on something better. If you can’t ban them or get rid of them, how about just destroying them?

In my best Stewie Griffin mindset I started to plot. There must be a way to broadcast a simple little signal to a cell phone that will simply destroy it. It had to be possible.

At first, I set about just finding a way to transmit a signal to a phone that I didn’t know a number for. This proved to be pretty easy, way too easy it seemed. I could have been just trying to tap into phones and done it. I guess the cell phone companies just don’t want anyone to know just how easy it is.

After that, I found I could get a phone to beep with my new technology.

Being I had a degree in journalism and one in economics, engineering was not my strong suit. So, many hours were spent in the library. First in downtown, then at the local college. Soon, I was hanging out at a local pub where the engineering professors and students hung out. It was an odd place. A bar just full of engineers and engineering students. Not a lot of focus on fucking there. Or is that just a stereotype and I wasn’t trying to get laid either, so it had no bearing on what I was doing.

After visiting this pub, called “Dogs-n-Suds” for some reason, a few times, I befriended John Stamos. No, not the actor, but that would have been pretty cool but not really on point for my mission, but instead a professor of engineering at the university. He was once employed by Verizon, and knew quite a bit about cell phones. Soon, we were drunk and talking about a device that could destroy cell phones at the push of a button. We dubbed it the “Sonic Reducer” for the Dead Boys’ song. We would play that song over and over on the internet jukebox while plotting our invention.

I decided early on to get his trust by talking small talk.

“Where are you from, John?” I asked after a couple of brews.

“Kennett, Mo., the hometown of Sheryl Crow,” he boldly boasted.

“Really now?” I said, acting like I was interested.

“Yes. I knew her in high school.  She wasn’t very pretty then. Or very popular. So, we got along.”

“Did you ever go on a date with her?”

“Ha. Never. I was too scared of any woman at that time in my life. But I did watch her eat at the Grecian once,” he said.

“Sounds fascinating.”

“Anyone from your hometown?”

“Seka. The porn star,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, my god! I loved Seka when I was a kid.”

“Who didn’t that is our age?”

“You got that right.”

“Now, back on point, John. Do you think there is  a way to do this little scheme of mine?”

“What? The cell phone thing?”

“Yeah man, the Sonic Reducer!” I felt my own excitement. It was a bit much.

“Of course. But we’d need some serious cash to figure it all out.”

“You get research grants, right?”

“Um, yeah. But I don’t see that being something they’d approve me for.”

“No. You’d call it something else. Like the annoyance reducer or a cell phone reduction project to keep folks from using it when they drive.”

“Now…That might just work.”

“You see, John? We make a great team. Let’s get this thing started…”

Three years later. We had a prototype. Three years of concerts with everyone filming the band. Filming themselves hugging or kissing or duckfacing. But now we were ready to try it out in the wild.

the laptop's gone

The Go-Gos “We Got the Beat” belted out of his phone. Damn. He’d forgotten that his ex had set that as his ringtone for when his boss called. It had been that long since he’d gotten a call from his boss. Even longer since she left him in Memphis without a penny to his name, just a couple of credit cards.

“Hello?” he answered. He’d thought about not answering it, but he would eventually need to get back to work and get a paycheck to pay off those credit cards.

“Yeah, Jimmy, this is Rodney.”

“How you doing, sir?” He hated calling him sir, and only did it when he knew he had to be professional. This was definitely one of those times.

“Jimmy,” he continued. “I know things have been hard for you, buddy, but damn it, you’ve got to get back to the office. We’re in deep shit here. The SEC is coming in to scope out whether or not we were on the right or wrong side of the whole Skittle problem.”

The Skittle problem. The code word they two of them had come up with for the donations to the local congressman. The donations that exceeded the federally allowed limits. The donations that were worth breaking the law so they could get the zoning changed in downtown. Well, changed for one block only. That allowed for a bar. Jimmy’s bar. Modeled completely after the bar Quentin Tarantino ran in the movie “Death Proof”. All the way down to the AMI Continental jukebox. Although the music was slightly different – made up completely of Jimmy’s collection. A collection he started with the express goal of stocking a jukebox in his bar one day. He was 44 years old and had finally got that jukebox stocked in a bar. And he was happy. Until three weeks ago.

That’s when she left him in Memphis. They’d had sex in the morning. Darn good sex. Not the greatest sex ever, but better than the average fuck. He’d gone to get breakfast. When he came back to the hotel room, she was gone. So was his car. So was his computer. With all the information about the bar, the congressman and the bar. He’d kept it on that computer. One that he never got on the internet with. One that he’d paid for with cash in a back alley in Durham. Now, it was gone. Just like her.

She’d seen him get nervous about the impending investigation. He’d started drinking heavily due to it. And she didn’t like it. She’d told him so, but he didn’t do anything about it. So, that night, after they’d driven all the way to Memphis to go see Graceland – she’d never seen Graceland – she was gone.

All he had left was an empty wallet – she took the debit card and the cash. Well, it had two credit cards and his driver’s license. But no car.

“Yeah, I checked out of the hotel at 5:30,” he told his boss.

“Then what the fuck are you still doing there?”

“I don’t have a car.”

“Fuck, Jimmy. You haven’t had a car in three weeks now. Go to fucking Alamo or Avis and get one! I need you here. Now!”

“I can’t do that right now, Rodney. I’ve got to find her.”

“She’s not there, man. She’s not there.”

“Bullshit. She wouldn’t leave me. We loved each other. Never even fought. I mean, I drank too much these last couple of months, but hell, we met while drinking to forget. Drinking to get away. Just because she is now a success and I’m, well, still me, that didn’t matter to her.”

“I know it didn’t matter,” Rodney said. “But I think the Feds got to her.”

“Fuck no, man. She’d never do that.”

“If it meant ruining her career? Are you so sure?”

“What the fuck, man? You’re just being an asshole. Trying to knock a wedge between me and her. You always hated that I got her.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I wanted to fuck your girlfriend too. And didn’t. You want to know why? Because you fell in love with her. That’s why.”

“Shit. You just want me to get mad, don’t you,” Jimmy said, trying not to throw his phone against the wall. It was the one thing he had that she could contact him on, so he had to keep his patience.

“Jimmy, just get on a plane, rent a car, fucking jump on a Greyhound and get back to Raleigh, man. We’ve got to fix this little problem we have.”

“Ok, man. I’ll rent a car. That’ll put me there in a few days.”

“Do it. Now.”

He hung up the phone. The thought hadn’t left his mind since Rodney mentioned it. “I think the Feds got to her.” It made no sense that she took his laptop. It was his place to write every morning. Why did she take it? He had wondered that more than why she left for the past three weeks.

Now, it appeared, he had that reason.

“Fuck,” he thought. “I’ve got to get a drink.”

He called a cab. It came 11 minutes later.

“Take me to the Buccaneer,” he said.

“No problem, man,” the cabbie said. “You’re starting early today, huh?”

“Never stopped.”

“I hear ya.”

The cab took off. Soon, he was at the bar. Staring at the old sign with the Pirate on it. A woman was sitting at a table out front. All alone. Two years ago, he would’ve joined her. But, he wasn’t that guy anymore.

He didn’t really know what he was anymore. A criminal? A lover? A deadbeat? All of them, apparently.

He went in an ordered a shot and a beer.

That’s when he felt it. A hand on his shoulder. He didn’t look into the mirror. He knew who it was.

Tired and hungry

Tired and hungry, it sometimes takes a short step away from everything to be able to deal with it.

“Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath.”

It didn’t appear to be working. Of course, breathing doesn’t feed you. Neither does having no money.

Yet, those are the two things I can do at the moment. Having just shelled out my last $83 for a room at the Motel 6 outside of downtown Memphis, a place I stayed at over a decade ago in a very similar situation, I wondered if I’d make it through the night without having a panic attack.

What a man I was, I thought to myself. I’ve got to get a grip on it. Stop driving myself into these situations where I hadn’t eaten and my sugar levels were too low. How the hell did I get so old and have such old man problems? Another thought bubbled up. If I was a cartoon panel, I’d be full up now. And nothing would be resolved. Guess I could be a serial comic strip. But those things usually suck.

The bug bite on my art looks nasty. Almost like a nipple now. I wonder if it was something poisonous. I really don’t care, at the moment, except that I’m staring at it. It almost stares back with its red bulbous raised section.

Eww.

I may have grossed myself out now.

Not as much as the first night. In the flea bag hotel. I even had second thought about pulling into the place, but the front looked acceptable, so I guess that’s why she chose it. I would’ve paid the extra 15 bucks, but we didn’t and paid the price.

The acrid odor of stale cigarettes filled the room as soon as we opened the door. So much for the “No Smoking” option. At least they didn’t charge us for it.

The bed was a King sized one. Perfect size for sure. But the pillows were stained with dirt. The sheets were stained with God knows what and let’s not even talk about the floor. I noticed a crushed up piece of food near the recliner – which itself looked like it had been humped endlessly by two male dogs that had not been neutered. I quickly pushed the chair over it, then thought about how gross it was to just touch the chair.

The toilet seat had a cigarette burn on it. Not just a little bit of melted plastic, but a hole from it singing straight through it. No toilet paper either.

Good thing the girlfriend brought some. I was never that prepared.

The curtains also had cigarette burns, so I started seeing what else did or didn’t. Carpet? Yes. Door? Yes. Sink? Yes. Television? No. Mirror? No. Towels? Yes and no. Some did, some didn’t. Of course, some had dirt on them.

I peered into the shower, at least there were no roaches. That night in the Roach Motel in Galveston, Texas, where the water actually was filled with baby roaches will stay the champion of awfulness.

There was however, a dead spider. At least I hoped it was dead. Maybe that’s what gave me the arm titty?

I slept like a rock there. She? Not so much. I can sleep anywhere if it’s dark and quiet.

I would drive from Augusta to Memphis the next day. Stopping in many places along the way, including Birmingham, where we had Dreamland BBQ. That made the afternoon pretty nice. We arrived in Memphis, I went to two places I wanted to go, took photos and then we searched for a room. Ended up at the Motel 6. Seems to be a recurring theme in the life of me. Driving around aimlessly. Getting worked up. Staying at a Motel 6. Maybe that’s my movie idea? Motel 6 man?

That makes me think of Gainesville. Me wiping oil off of my hood with some industrial strength cleaner that took the pain off too. The red pain of that Acura. Watching people watch me clean off the car and see that bloody looking rag I was using just trickle all over the place was priceless. Almost worth the agony that was that trip. But, not quite. At least not yet. I’ll get over it. Right?

The next step is to motivate to get out of the room. Have a little bit of fun for a bit.

Smile. Kiss. Hug. Pat on the butt. Get back on the right track and stop all of this mopey behavior. Life’s too damn short. Buck up buddy.