Drive by

I had to pee. So, I stood up from my computer, leaving the silly game story I was writing about a girls basketball game that I couldn’t even remember the score from to be finished whenever I was done.

Walking past the empty cubicles, I thought about the people who used to sit there. I never worked in this place when they were filled. The day I started, they were all empty. Never to be filled again. Yeah, every so often one of us sits in one of them. To chat, to grab election-night pizza, or to watch election returns on the television. But for the most part, the sit empty.

But that thought passes. I continue walking.

I notice that my vision is a little blurry. I’m seeing double a little. Nothing new, I think, just staring at that

computer screen too long.

I pee.

As I’m walking back to my desk, I stumble. Then I stumble again. Eventually, I have to use the wall to walk.

“This is strange,” I think, going back to me desk.

I sit there for a moment.

I get back up, stumble to the break room. I call my fiancée.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I’m seeing stuff. I can barely walk.”

After a few minutes of chatting, she tells me she’s coming. It’s 44 miles from our house to my office. I drive this every day. I can’t think of a job when I didn’t at least start out driving 40-plus miles to work – one way.

Just sort of became what I do.

For girls, mostly.

For the beach once.

I go back to my desk and finish my story. Just like me. When I got laid off, I asked my by-then old boss if he wanted me to finish my story.

He said not to bother.

Still, the one I’d written the day before but had not run yet, it ran the day I was shit-canned.

Love the biz.

My fiancée arrived. She checked my pulse. She checked my eyes.

By then, I was feeling better. Not good. But better.

“You should go to the emergency room,” she said. Wise lady.

“I’m feeling better,” I said. “I think I just want to go home.

Unwisely, I drove home.

It was dark out. Being March and all.

We took the long way.

I made it home. Ate some food. Went to bed.

The next day, it was back to normal.

A few weeks later, I was at home. The same stuff started to happen.

I drove to Wilson. 44 miles away. And then I went to the doctor.

They sent me to the emergency room.

After a bunch of tests, I was told “Well, we know you didn’t have a heart attack. And you didn’t have a stroke.”

A few weeks later, my neurologist told me “you had a stroke.” This after telling me there was “no way” I’d had a stroke.

Doctors.

They sure as hell all didn’t mind billing me for their wrong diagnosis.

Should’ve sent some paper instead of money…

Instead, I’m more in debt.

I still eat frozen burritos.

I don’t eat frozen pizza as much.

I don’t go to fast food places. Except for Hardee’s for a hot ham ‘n cheese and Andy’s, now Highway 55, for a cheeseburger. Guess it’s good I don’t live in New Orleans anymore. I’d be dead.

If I’m not already.

Maybe watching “Raising Hope” is my hell. If it is, I know I’m dead, because it’s on right now.

Banality. Yep. That’s what this is.

The written word isn’t coming like I want it to. It’s just shit oozing out of a tightened ass. A tightened hairy ass, at that.

I wonder what that dude, can’t remember his name, from my Arizona days who shaved his ass is doing right now? Not that I really care. But for the first time in probably 15 years, I just thought about that guy. And his shaving his ass.

I couldn’t imagine shaving my ass. First, I’d probably cut myself. I cut off a mole shaving my face as a youth. Still use electric razors to this day.

And David Bowie is dead, and the people have already turned on him.

It doesn’t take long anymore. Hero today, shit bag tomorrow.

I now wonder if I truly do need to drink to be creative. I know I don’t, because I write for a living and sometimes, not all the time, but just some of the time, I do it pretty well.

Getting a phone call tomorrow in the A.M. from a temp agency. Never thought I’d utter those words. I’m considering working for a temp agency instead of trudging (or driving, whatever…) 44 miles to work. Could this be a new start? Or just another misguided stupidity fix?

At least I’m not paying rent on a house in Florida. For three years. That I got to spend at best 2 months in.

A house I drove past in 2009. Three-plus years later. And still cried.

I wonder what would happen if I drove past it today?

Who am I kidding…

TLTONBS

“It’s a nightmare!”

We all looked at each other as the yap machine started his usual yapping session. It was Friday night in the newsroom, and this way over-stressed 50-something year-old failure was taking out life’s frustrations on anything in his path.

“It certainly is,” Mike said a little louder than I think he wanted to.

We all looked at the yap machine. He didn’t hear it. Or if he did, it didn’t matter at all.

“Why the fuck does this system suck so much? All I’m trying to do is write my God damned story. But I can’t even fucking open a new document without it taking 5 minutes. Fuck!”

Smiles all around on the copy desk.

After a few seconds of silence, the phone rings.

He answers it. Conversation starts. Then the other phone rings. Aggravation rises.

“Hold on a second will you please?” he says, his voice starting to rise.

“Hello? Coach, can you call back in a couple minutes. I’m by myself here.” Click.

“Coach? Yes, uh-huh. Yes. I need all of that. Yes, all of it.” Click.

“God damn it. You’d think they’d know by now what we need. It’s not that fucking hard!”

Ring.

“Hello. You want what? No, we don’t have that score.” Click.

“God damn it! Get a fucking life people. No one fucking cares who won that game! Fuck. Fuck!”

I walk over. I look at his head. It’s turned a shade of watermelon. The guy from Scanners couldn’t have made his head look any more ready to burst.

Conrad, one of the older guys on the copy desk comes over to my desk. He looks at my desktop picture. It’s of the Winnebago Man. He stares at it. Wondering why we’re all laughing so hard at it.

“Show him, dude,” Mike says.

“You’re right, Conrad hasn’t seen it!” I reply.

“Seen what?” Conrad questions us.

“This,” I say while bringing up the Weber nets.

“Acutrama! Who writes this shit?”

Conrad does what everyone does. Laughs out loud. So hard his eyes start to water.

“Yep, that’s Rick,” he says, loudly.

We all look over our shoulders, towards him. He didn’t hear.

“One day, he’s going to come over here and explode,” Mike says.

“It’s inevitable,” I say.

“Hope you can duck,” Josh says.

We all look at Josh. Then shake our heads.

“Taquito!” I say.

Laughs all around. Except for Josh. He puts his head phones on and goes back to Facebook. It’s what he does.

Another fucking awful night on the copy desk comes to a close.

***

“She’s got blue hair?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “And she’s another young girl.

“When are you going to learn? Find someone your own fucking age!”

“But, she’s got blue hair. That’s got to count for something?”

“A lot of stained pillowcases.”

***

It’s funny. The Kit Cat Clock doesn’t know any better.

He keeps wagging his tail and eyes, even though he can’t keep time.

Go figure. Life imitating art.

***

Part of me wants to go home this weekend. Give me an excuse to be in Virginia.

Part of me wants to say what’s going on. What could be going on. What should be going on.

Part of me is happy.

Part of me is sad.

All of me is broke.

So, I’ll probably just sit on the couch.

***

The room started to feel a little smaller. His arms were tingling, the left side a whole lot more than the right. His breath started to be labored. Not painful, just hard to do. His heartbeat also sped up.

This happens three, four times a day now.

“Better than diarrhea,” he scoffed.

***

Playing Q*bert used to be fun

For about six games. But, if you didn’t get any better fast

It just became a chore.

***

I miss television about as much as I miss geometry.

Although my geometry teacher was pretty hot.

***

Have you ever sat down, with one goal in mind, knowing quite well that you will be stressed out, fucked up and downtrodden as you try, with much effort, to figure out how to succeed?

***

The end happens. It just does.

Always.

The beginning, however, can be manipulated.

Sometimes.

***

He’s not supposed to be here anymore. The cops took him away. But there he stands. In my doorway. Looking the same, just meaner. If I’d just not called the cops, this wouldn’t be happening. My blood wouldn’t be mixed with the rain drops on the porch. The knife wouldn’t be laying there, soaked in my lover’s blood. If only I’d not called the cops. I wouldn’t be dying.

TLTONBS

***