Gang of Four's dewclaw

It was 8:23 in the evening and I was driving from the office to Food Lion. Gang of Four’s “Entertainment!” was blasting out of my poor car’s speakers.

Soon, I noticed that I was hunched over in the seat, wishing I was inside the song. It was a strange moment. One that I can’t really explain. It happened, and then it was over. Why? Because I sat up in the seat.

Something about the hunch, I guess.

These are not normal moments, for normal people. They’re fairly normal for me.

I’m at home now. It’s 2:54 a.m. James Scott Farrin is trying to ambulance chase me on the television. Followed quickly by Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus.

My dog it chewing on his dewclaws. It’s as if he wants to pull them off. One got stuck on my shorts earlier today. I’m guessing it’s too long, and probably damaged now. Guess I’ve got to figure out how to cut it correctly in the morning. Even though it’s already morning.

Tomorrow I’ll drive to a high school. Sit alone in the stands watching the games being played. I’ll keep stats. I’ll watch people. They’ll watch me. Then I’ll talk to the coaches and a couple of kids. Drive back to the office and crank out two stories. Fast. It’s the one skill that hasn’t eroded – quickness.

Interviewing after games? That’s a whole other story.

Features and long-term? No problem. But the after a game ones? I’ve lost it.

“Talk about …”

“What were you thinking when …”

“Tell me about …”

My mind goes blank sometimes mid question or mid reply. It’s kind of frightening, but also kind of invigorating. It makes me have to work harder on things that became routine. That’s a rationalization. I’m no longer 29 and witty. I’m 42 and bitty.

K.C. & the Sunshine Band playing on Dr. Oz. Fuck. My life gets more numb every moment. I want to run to my car and drive somewhere, but I don’t.

Iron Maiden Japan. Charles, why sock E?

There once was a time that my war wounds were cool. Now they’re yellow and old. The wrinkles show. The gray hairs don’t lie. The scars have shrunk with my muscle mass. I look at my legs now and wonder how on earth I used to ride 20 miles on my bike to go try and find Atari games in 100 degree heat. It seems so foreign now.

It makes me think about the video game board games I left behind in the Murphy bed apartment I lived in during my internship in Birmingham, Ala. That makes me think about all the miles I drove around that state. Just about every day I went somewhere new. That was what I thought it was going to be like for decades. When the job didn’t provide it like I thought it would, I used my days off to make it so. Then I used any excuse to go somewhere new.

Now, I dream of going somewhere new. I went to 38 states in about 30 years. Maybe it was 37 and I added one a bit later.

I’m still stuck at 38. At 42.

Those old posts taunt me now…

In 2009 I’m going to visit a new state.

In 2010…

In 2011…

In 2012…

In 2013…

Now, it’s 2014 and I’m working a job. Getting a check. Writing cheques.

I’m going to be a dad. Maybe. I’ve been down this road before. More times than I was ever allowed to know about.

Which makes me think of Oakton.

And bathrooms.

Bad sex.

When there wasn’t such a thing.

I went to New Orleans instead of answering the phone. I’ll always wonder what was on the other end. It’s me. It’s just the way it is. I can say all the right things, but I won’t be thinking them.

John T. Orcutt looks like my boss. It’s like he’s here at home every night on WRAL in Raleigh, North Carolina taunting me. Telling me things I don’t want to hear, but need to.

If I had a gun …

I’d most likely pawn it and buy that Lucero album on ebay that I just can’t afford. $150 for a slab of vinyl that I already own in its actually rarer form, but don’t own it from the special pressing. Why I’m talking about Lucero albums is anyone’s guess. Go figure.

They’ll always be a part of who I am. Which means she’ll always be a part of who I am. And honestly, that’s the way you are too. You just don’t admit it.

if christine mcvie had a penis...

I’m not sure which even told me it was definitely time to kill myself.

There was the moment when I found myself singing Jimmy Buffett songs outside my house after I took out the garbage.

Another time was when I came home and just had to hear Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” in its entirety. Or maybe seconds later when I started to debate the spelling of “Rumours” vs. “Rumors” with myself.

It all went back to that moment in 2006. March 14^th or 15^th. I’m not entirely sure of the date only because I know it was after work, but sometimes I talked to her earlier, sometimes later. It always depended on when I left work. Usually it was late, but even my dumb ass left early sometimes. But the control freak in me didn’t allow it to happen often.

Tragic flaws are a bitch.

But now the moment has passed. Like it always does. I’m not trying to think of the female musicians that I’ve wanted to have sex with. It’s a long list. Most likely it contains just about every woman on MTV from 1981 until 1992. Then I woke up. Or porn started showing up on the internet.

You know, I did not watch much porn before the internet. Chris showed me a dubbed who-knows-how-many-times version of “Debbie Does Dallas” in about 1986 or 87. Right before we found out about Guns-n-Roses.

Is that when music mattered more than sex?

Hell no. It never has. And that’s because I can’t play.

Music and sex? Yeah, duh. I think the first time I realized this connection was Donna Summer. I was old enough to know better, but too young to know.

Stevie Nicks is on that list. So are Ann and Nancy Wilson. Lita Ford and Dora Persch. Amy Lavere and Wendy O. Williams. Sandy Saraya. Tiffany and Debbie Gibson. What a dream that awful Syfy movie was for people my age. It almost undid seeing the Amy Fisher porno. But what really can?

Olivia Newton John and the girl from J.Geils Band’s “Centerfold” video. But, does she really count? I don’t know if she could play bass…

I could keep going on, but it seems pointless. Someone will mention some hottie that I left out and I’ll go, yeah you’re right. So, I’ll stop now. But not before the Jim Dandy to the Rescue chick and the singer from the Divynals. I mean, you didn’t think I’d leave out the redheads? Bette Midler you say? Why not? I was young once too.

My broken Kit-Kat clock stares at me. It never worked. But I never got it fixed. I didn’t see the point in paying $5 and the cost of shipping to get something fixed “for free”. Some guarantee. And yes, this is an indictment of the Kit Kat clock folks. (Is there a hyphen? I don’t fucking know.)

I grow tired of Fleetwood Mac at about 500 words. I wonder if that is a scientific fact? If it is, I need to never listen to them while trying to type ever again.

Is morning better than night? Sexually, I do better in the morning, but I enjoy it more at night.

Whiskey dick is a blessing when you’re 25. It’s a curse when you’re 41.

My koozie was caught at a Mardi Gras parade in 2010. I was unemployed, broke and happier than I’ve been since. Well, that’s not true. There were a couple of great months in 2011. Then the levee broke.

And now I want to listen to Led Zeppelin IV.

And Jennifer Jason Leigh showing up at the door would be nice. Much nicer a little over a year ago. Because now, I’d have her in for a drink then call her a cab. I’m nothing if not a gentleman. It’s a blessing, really. Glad my granddad was a great man to my eyes. I have no idea if he really was in real life. Why? I didn’t know him well enough. Now, he’s gone. And I’ve made a saint out of him. Not that that is a terribly bad thing.

I miss my family. My friends and my ex friends.

Do they  miss me? I have my doubts. But I’m sure some of ‘em do. It’s the law of averages.

I was thinking of who would be in my wedding if it happened now.

There would be Josh and John and Ed (if he could get here from Japan). Then, I guess there would be my dad and spot No. 5 would be up for grabs. Sad and lonely and interesting. Really.

Fleetwood Mac is still surviving now. Almost 18 minutes in. I guess I can write, without a point, with Christine McVie singing. Oh yeah, she’s one of those I’d add to that list. Don’t judge me. I’m just a guy. With a penis. It’s what we do. Whether or not we admit it.

I guess Frampton could have come alive here...

I heard she found God.

I had to go and find out for myself.

We fucked a lot when we knew each other. And honestly, I don’t remember having a conversation about God with her. Never. I mean, we said grace when we were at her mother’s house, but that’s pretty normal stuff. Even for Atheists or Agnostics. You kind of do what is expected of you in someone else’s house.

Which is why when I heard the rumors swirling about that she’d gone completely to Jesus’ side, it intrigued me.

I’ve dabbled in religion from time to time since the day my mother asked me at the ripe old age of nine years old “Randy, do you want to go to church anymore?”

Like most nine year olds, I said “No,” of course, and other than an occasional wedding or funeral – or sightseeing trip – hadn’t stepped in a church since.

I took some religion classes in college. I sat down one lonely night in a hotel and tried to read the Bible, not a page turner that one. And I’d prayed a few times, but mostly for silly things like the pain stopping in my teeth or kidneys, or maybe to win the lottery to pay off my student loans and credit cards. By the way, praying didn’t help any of those things.

So, God had been around me, just not part of me. I try to believe in God. I don’t think he’s a guy up in the clouds with a long white beard and a bunch of others with wings hovering about doing good things.

No, I think if God exists He’s a spark of light. An atom. A protein. Something like that. That’s why we’re all God, really. And if I didn’t think I’d be labeled “Douchebag” I’d probably be a Rastafarian. They seem to get it closer to right than most.

Anyway, I walked into the church, not knowing what to expect. It was one of those gigantic monstrosities you see on the side of the road. Huge buildings with parking lots so big you’d think that Peter Frampton, circa 1977, was playing there every night.

It smelled funny too. Not like old ladies and dust. That’s what I remember church smelling like.

Instead, this one was filled with the smells of coffee and cinnamon buns.

“How weird,” was the only thing that stuck in my head.

There were also kids. Everywhere. Now, when I was going to church, there sure weren’t any kids around. And when we were, we were in Sunday school. Being shown pop-up books about Noah’s ark or other calamadies.

These kids were running around being kids. It was strange to see. No suits and ties. Instead, mesh shorts and awful shirts from Wal-Mart that said “baseball” or “Daddy’s boy” or even fucking Betty Boop.

At once, I wanted to get out of there. But my curiosity got the best of me. As did her eyes. When I saw here smiling at me, I knew I was in trouble. Her eyes had a power over me. I’d like to think now, so many years removed, that they wouldn’t anymore. But, most likely, they do. A good reason as any to follow the path so many take – avoidance. So much easier to not be troubled by something if you just stay away from the source of the trouble.

She came up to me like she always did. Giggling, smiling and almost skipping. It had been that way the first time we met in a bar, back in the other times, and it was the same now. I could feel my legs weaken. She had that effect on me.

“You’re going to enjoy this,” she said as she handed me a flier and led me to a seat. A band was setting up on a giant stage in this cavernous place. I guess Frampton could have come alive here.

“Sit here,” she said.

I started to say something, I don’t remember what, but she was already skipping away.

A few minutes later, the audience was filled to capacity. I had an empty seat next to me, saved just in case. But she never came back.

I watched the band take the stage. A couple of songs later, I didn’t know the words, but everyone else seemed to, a man with glasses took the stage. He was bald, shaved bald, and muscular. He was trying very hard to look younger than he was – fashionable clothes and designer glasses. But he sounded like a preacher. You can take the look away, but not the feel.

His sermon was good. Not specific enough to really mean anything, but generic enough to touch everyone – including myself. He was good.

A few more songs sang and then the hat was passed around. Envelopes came with your program. I put mine in the basket like everyone else. But mine was empty, theirs were not.

Afterwards, she found me. Still skipping around with a big grin on her face.

“What did you think?” she asked.

“Interesting,” I replied.

She shrugged and wandered off again.

I thought I should leave. Never see her again. But, I came back. Two more times.

She got my hopes up.

All I got was let down.

Again.

This time didn’t hurt as much as the first. But it still hurt.

“You live and you learn, son,” my dad said to me the other day.

He doesn’t know the half of it, being married 48 years now. Of course, I don’t know the half of it either – never been married and all. Despite my best efforts.

So, I come home tonight, turn on some classic rock and pop the top off of a beer.

“Do. Do. You. Feeeeeeel like I do?”

Not really Pete. Not really

I wonder if

“What the fuck are we going to do?” Gordon asked.

It seemed our housing for Mardi Gras just fell through. Minutes before we – a group of seven in three different cars – were about to embark on the drive from Charlottesville, Virginia, to New Orleans. We were college seniors – Fourth Years as the folks at the University called ourselves – and this was a trip that was going to be our Fandango. A final hurrah together. Drinking. Wandering the streets and just doing what stupid, single and way too innocent college students do.

Now, however, we’d hit a snag before we’d even left.

“That fucker was supposed to get us a place to say,” Mark shouted. “And now we’re shit out of luck. How the hell are we going to New Orleans for Mardi without a place to say.”

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” was all that J.B. could or would muster.

I just sat back and smiled. I was going. Yeah, I’d have to convince at least one other person to keep the dream alive – since I did not have a car, and would not have a car for another three years – but I was going.

“What do you think Randy?” Josh asked me.

“We have a plan, and it’s hit a snag. We either pull up tents and keep driving forward, or we stay here and get shelled.”

I had no idea where that came from. Kind of like channeling John Belushi in “Animal House.” You just kind of said what was there and hoped for the best.

“I like it,” Josh said.

“Ok, so we’re still going?” Gordon said. “I mean, my sister has a friend at Tulane, maybe we can hook up with them?”

“See, things are already better,” I said. Ryan stared at me with a blank expression. He was scared of what we were all about to do. Be homeless in New Orleans for five days and five nights. Maybe six nights if we drove fast enough.

“Let’s get fired up!” Josh yelled. “Fuck Nate. He screwed us. But we can’t let him fuck us!”

“Yeah!” J.B. shouted.

“Fucking right!” Mark joined in.

“Oh well,” Gordon sighed.

“Yesssir,” Will chimed in finally.

“Let’s get on the road,” Matty said.

Then the phone rang. It was 1992. There were no cell phones. At least in the house of a bunch of broke-ass college students there weren’t. So the landline sang its song.

“Ring-a-ling-ding-ding….Ring-a-ling-ding…Ring-a-ling-ding…”

Finally, someone upstairs, Gardocki or Pollock, answered the phone.

You could hear some chatter, then walking on the hardwood floors upstairs.

“Hey! Randy! Phone’s for you,” Gardocki said.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Some chick. Said her name’s Katrina.”

Now, Katrina was a name that didn’t mean a thing to those in New Orleans in 1992. But it meant a whole hell of a lot to me in 1992. Katrina was a woman I’d met just a few weeks earlier. It was a cold, dark and snowy night in Oakton, Virginia. We were going to a party at one of my friend’s high school buddy’s house. When we got there, everyone was already drunk. It was cold, so we all started drinking too. A lot.

Soon, I was doing shots of Jim Beam with Miller Lite chasers. Soon, this girl was eyeing me. Big time. Her name was Katrina. She had long dark hair, in a very late-1980s do. She had on a sweater and jeans. They were tight and showed off an amazing body. And for some reason, she liked me.

We talked endlessly on the back porch. Drinking and talking. Talking and drinking. She leaned in and we kissed. It was magical. Before I knew it, I had her in my arms, kissing those kinds of kisses you don’t experience too often and when you do, you remember them.

Later, she was making out with another friend. It was weird watching it happen. Just minutes before she was with me. But while she was doing it, she was looking at me. Making it hot for some reason. This made me want her more.

Soon, everyone was gone except for the last few friends. Me and two compadres, Katrina and the guy who owned the place. Soon, it was just me and Katrina awake.

We made our way to the bathroom. I pulled off her sweater and couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Two large breasts with very large nipples. I grabbed them and kissed them. Probably too hard and too much. But damn, I was drunk, she was drunk and we were going at it like crazy.

She grabbed my dick and pulled it out of my pants. I was stunned. At this point, I’d had sex with one other person in the world. And it was a horrible experience. Now, I was living out a Penthouse Forum letter.

She didn’t need to do anything to get me ready. I got her naked and we fucked. I looked at myself in the mirror while doing it for a second. “Whoah, that was weird,” I remember thinking. Before I knew it, I was done.

“Did you come?” she asked. That certainly inspired confidence in what I’d just accomplished.

“Uh. Um, yes.” I said feebly.

“You didn’t have a condom, did you?”

“Uh. No.”

“I’m not on the pill.”

We kind of looked at each other while pulling ourselves together. My drunk was gone. Hers wasn’t. She had sobered me up.

We went back into the living room and laid down on the floor together. Fell asleep real fast under a sleeping bag.

The next morning, I woke up to the sun hitting the snow piles outside. It was way too early to be awake. Katrina was by my side. Her pants had fallen back down. I pulled them back up. She had on white, with stripes – all sorts of colors like Juicy Fruit – panties. I admired her for just a second before putting her jeans on the best I could and pulling the sleeping bag back over her. She woke for just a second, looked at me and smiled.

I was feeling better now about what happened and what might happen.

We went back to sleep.

Hours later, Matt woke us both up. Me with a kick to the side. Her with a slight tap to the head.

“Hey guys, I’m hungry. Let’s grub.”

We ambled outside into a car. It was cold. I was shivering. She was shivering. I put my coat on her, as she stumbled out without it.

We talked at lunch. About life. About school. About music. About movies. About everything. Except last night.

Soon, it dawned on me that she didn’t remember a thing. By the end of my day there, when we had to go back to Charlottesville, I knew it was so.

“Are we cool?” I asked her when I was getting in the car.

“Of course, silly,” she said, kissing my cheek and handing me an index card. On it was Katrina. (703) 565-5565. It had hearts and was in pink magic marker.

“Call me sometime. Maybe you can go to that formal with me next week?”

“Yeah, sure. Most definitely!” I said.

We snuck in a kiss and I watched her fade away as we drove down the road towards Route 29 and Charlottesville.

“You fucked her didn’t you?” Matt asked.

“Yeah, I did,” I said.

A couple days later, I called her. Nervously I dialed the digits and hoped for the best.

“Hello?” her voice, so soft, answered.

“Hey, it’s Randy,” I said.

“Oh, wow. How are you doing? I wasn’t sure you’d call me.”

“Of course I was going to call you. You’re an awesome chica.”

We then talked for about three hours. Time flew. I forgot I was supposed to be studying for an Economics test. I ended up getting a D on that test. But it was worth it, mostly.

Finally, as the conversation was coming to a close, I broached the subject.

“Are we good?”

“Why do you keep asking that?” she remarked.

“Because of what happened.”

“What do you mean, what happened?” she sounded confused.

“About us, you know, having sex.” There I said it. I felt relieved and scared.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Um… We had sex. In the bathroom.”

“Fuck,” she said. Not the word I would have liked to hear at that moment. “Did you have a condom?”

“Um…no.”

“Shit. I’ve got to go.”

I called her each of the next three nights. All three times, her roommate said she couldn’t come to the phone.

Finally, she called back on Day 4.

“Randy, we can’t see each other anymore,” she said. “I just can’t.”

I tried to find out why. But she was set. She also ended our conversation with these words: “I won’t call again. Unless I’m pregnant,” and she hung up the phone.

Now, here I was weeks later, staring at my roommate telling me she was on the line.

“Gardocki, tell her I’m not here. Tell her we already left for New Orleans and you’ll leave a message.”

I felt like shit. But, I could not face what might be on the other end of that line. Not now. I was taking the most selfish path I would ever take in my life. I wanted to go to New Orleans and have fun. Not start thinking about having a kid. Although, all I would think about during that trip was exactly that.

Six days later, I was back at home. Broke. Unshaven. And scared shitless.

I looked at that index card. Probably for at least 45 minutes. Then I dialed the number. Answering machine. I left a message.

“Katrina, hey, um…This is Randy. I just got your message that you called last week. I was in New Orleans and didn’t know you’d called. Call me back. OK?”

She never called back.

I never called again.

And to this day, I wonder if.

He or she would be nearly 20 now. In college.

And I wonder if.

And I’ll probably never know.

the bag broke

I’m sitting at my dank, dirty, depressing, disturbing cubicle at work. White Flag’s “Glass Tambourine” is playing in my ears, drowning out the worthlessness I feel at still being employed here after almost two years.

My original plan was to go a year, and they blow the joint and head west and south. New Orleans of course. Maybe even take a friend with me. Life detoured those plans a little, but I like to think that I’m just being responsible, not scared. Or lazy. Or just unmotivated. Well, the last one is certainly a flaw I possess. I don’t think the other ones still fit me. They have at times, but now I’m no longer scared of things.

Right before the song ends, he walks in. You can’t miss his shuffling way of stomping. It makes me think that an elephant that had a stroke is wearing those modern tennis shoes that seem more like moccasins is coming towards me.

He’s huffing and puffing as usual as well. Both arms full of fast food purchases. It appears today it’s all McDonald’s fare. “I can hear you getting fatter,” is my only response inside my head.

Grimace, as I’ve taken to calling him, is angry today, however. He shuffles past me arms full of wrapped up chemical goodness and deadly as Sarin Gas foodstuff.

He tosses some of his holdings onto the desk. Placing two drinks down gingerly. He picks one up and takes a long swig from the straw. It’s obviously some kind of shake as he has to struggle to get some liquid goodness to enter his mouth. He slurps and then burps, wiping his chin and mouth with his sleeve on his three sizes too small Bob Mould 2008 concert tour shirt.

His eyes look down towards his desk. A lone cheeseburger sits on his keyboard. He picks it up, standing up in the process and slings it at his cubicle wall.

“Damn it!” he yells. “My fucking bag broke. I can’t believe my fucking bag broke!”

All of us look at each other in unison. One of us is going to laugh, I know it. Mitchell knows it. Joshua knows it. Hell, even troll knows it.

I look away and put my hoodie on. I’m the one who breaks. A cackle comes out of my mouth and it feels oh so good. Not as good as the first sip of a beer after doing some roofing work or the smell of a woman’s body for the first time, but damn it did feel good.

“I had to pick everything up and carry in here without a bag! That’s just so wrong!” he continued.

The troll waddled over to his desk. Looking down at him with her soul-less eyes.

“But at least they gave you two shakes,” she said to him.

“I know! I only paid for one too!” that seemed to perk up the giant beast.

He grabbed one of his cheesburgers and ate half of it in one bite.

“Damn it! I ordered no pickles!” he said right before spitting the half chewed remnants of that half a burger into his hands. He pulled out the pickle piece and threw the rest back in his mouth.

Once again, all of us looked at each other. Then the floor. This was getting old.

“Hey Mitchell, want to go grab a drink?” I said.

“Can’t bro. Have to finish this front. Then get to work on my project.”

“Same project you’ve been talking about for two years?” I asked rather pompously.

“Yep,” Mitchell replied. “Just like that book you’ve been writing.”

“Touche.”

“Touche, indeed,” the troll said.

Joshua let out a wicked witch-esque laugh and put his ear buds back on. Certainly listening to some Dane Cook, I guessed.

Meanwhile the boss kept tapping out the beats to whatever awful 1980s R & B song he was listening to on Youtube. It never ceased to amaze me how off beat someone could be. It reminded me of a kid learning how to dance for the first time with his grandmother or his father teaching him.

“One, two, three, ugh.”

“One, two, three… Crunch. Shit!”

“One, two, ugh.”

“One, two, three, four!!!!”

Meanwhile, I started to feel back for Grimace. Not because he was such a disgusting human being. But more the fact that he probably hadn’t had sex. Ever. Unless he paid for it. Of course, I used to feel sorry for myself. But I was 18 years old.

“Back to work,” I thought to myself.

“Chomp, chomp, chomp.”

“Tap, tap, tap, tap.”

“Buuuuuuuuuuuuurp!”

Another day in paradise. I put on the Descendants “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up” and wish I hadn’t.

the waiting...

I hate waiting. Lately, it’s all I do.

Sitting on my front stoop I notice a guy hanging out on the balcony of the hotel next door. He’s pretty much naked, even though I’d hazard a guess that if one took a survey of 1,000 people maybe 4 or 5 would say his dress was appropriate. His hairy beer belly hangs out like a starving kid in Africa’s would. Almost distended looking, but not quite. If he didn’t have a beard and enough hair to qualify for big foot status, I’d say he was pregnant.

He’s holding an ancient cell phone. Not even a flip phone, but older, in one hand. The other holds a bottle of Miller High Life. While this is not the best beer to choose, it is acceptable under certain circumstances. And, I have a feeling he meets those criteria in spades.

His cut-off jean shorts just complete his ensemble. I can’t help but stare. He sees me doing so.

“What the fuck you looking at pretty boy?” he yells from his perch.

“Just admiring the merchandise,” I reply. Not exactly the smartest response, but, I usually say what I’m thinking. Which explains a lot about my lot in life.

“What the fuck?” he says, throwing his beer bottle to the ground. I watch it fall to the ground, twirling in the air, spraying the contents of the clear glass into the atmosphere.

“What a terrible waste of a beer,” I think to myself. I don’t say it, because, really, he knows. In fact, judging by the look on his face right now, it’s dawned on him just how stupid that act of intimidation was. Of course, this revelation has no good points, at least where I’m concerned. Now he has two reasons to be mad at me.

“Boy, you better take that back,” he scowled. “I’ma gonna come over there and put a boot in your ass.”

Great, Toby Keith references. This guy is the complete package. I mull my options over in my mind for a brief second. Ha. I wonder if this guy wears tighty whiteys. Shit, back on point, Jones. You don’t want to get punched in the face. You see, this is why I hate waiting.

“Just a second bro,” I say, ducking into my house. It’s 95 degrees outside and 93 degrees inside. Being poor is not glamorous, no matter what the books and movies tell you. I go to my fridge. In it are many assorted beers. Some good, some bad. I spy a couple of PBRs that I have been hauling along with me since my days in Richmond. They’re over three years old. I grab one. And I grab myself a Shiner Blonde, popping the top as I come back outside and taking a swig. Just in case Mr. We Wear Short-Shorts wants to try and take the good stuff.

Much to my chagrin, he’s standing in my driveway, belly and all.

“Where’d yam run to Martha,” he says with a chuckle.

“Peace offering bro,” I say, extending my left hand with the PBR in it.

“Shit yeah!” he growls.

Looks like I’ve made another friend. He pops the beer open and takes a long swig. I wonder if it tastes as bad as I think it does.

“Ahhhhhhh. That hit the spot. Fucking stupid of me to waste my High Life.”

“Damn straight. Hold on a second brother,” I say, disappearing into my lair. I open the fridge, enjoying the cool air that comes out for just a second, then I grab the other PBRs.

“Here you go, man, enjoy!”

“Why you being so nice to me? You a fag or something?”

“Far from it, my man. Far from it.”

“You keep talking like that, I may not believe it.”

Just that moment she pulls up. I’ve been on three dates with this lady. Each one better than the one before. I wonder, like I always do, when they will start to decline in enjoyment. What a fucking stupid thing to think about, I know, but I can’t help myself.

“Woooah, pretty lady!” my new friend exclaims.

She looks out of the window of her 2002 VW Beetle and smiles. At that very moment, I wonder when we’ll have sex. I’m guessing this guy being around might prevent something like that from happening.

“Well, bro, gotta head out,” I say to my Sasquatch pal.

“Why don’t you and your lady friend come on over to the hotel later tonight? We can smoke up, if ya want.”

“Maybe, bro,” I say, sticking out my hand to shake. I cringe when I look down and see just how sweaty this monster is.

He grabs my hand and squeezes tight. It’s a wet, sloppy mess.

“See ya,” I say.

“Alright, man,” he replies and walks back to the hotel.

“Who was that?” she asks as I get in the car.

“You got a Handi-Wipe or something?” is my reply.

“Not gonna tell me, huh?”

“You really want to know?”

“Nah, let’s get a taco.”

Sometimes, the waiting pays off.