Hard on. Apply directly to the penis.

It’s a moment etched in the brain. It’s not wanted in there anymore, yet it insists to exist there.

Drinking till stupid didn’t get rid of it. Yelling and screaming at it doesn’t work much either. Writing about it endlessly doesn’t help much, but the pain seems to subside a bit. Talking to others about it just gets perplexed looks and uncomfortably bad advice.

Why this memory is so much more vivid than, say, that great night in Texas or the first time I kissed someone, I have no idea.

Instead, this one stays there. It’s just a short memory, but it’s awful -- me, driving my sister’s SUV. The smell of her dog everywhere. Her, standing there with no emotion on her face at all. Tears running out of me like ants attacking a dropped Push Up. Everything so bright as the late Spring sun is high in the air on Memorial Day in Florida.

I watch her stand there, making sure I’m not going to stop and come back. I watch the entire length of the driveway, finally reaching the road. I put the SUV in drive and go. Soon, the house is gone from view. So is she. The next 12 hours are nothing. I have one vague memory of the drive back to North Carolina. I remember making a phone call or getting one, I don’t remember which it was. My best friend who is an ex-girlfriend calling me or me calling her. I didn’t kill myself that day/night because of that phone call. Although I definitely thought about it.

Funny how that sticks. Two endings meeting up, but not allowing for another end.

Why fucking Dokken brings that one flooding back, I’ll never know. I guess the line “I told you I had to leave, I had my reasons. I said that it’d hurt to stay, the way I’m feeling.”

Eh. Whatever.

I could go grab a beer. Like I did so often when this memory flooded up my mind. Clogged it may be the better descriptor. Other things just don’t exist when that memory is there. Damn, has it really been four and a half years? What the fuck am I still haunted by that ghost for? Normal people don’t do that, do they?

Enough bad writing (including my own) has been dedicated to the longing that won’t leave. The longing that you think is gone when you find someone else, but when that person goes away, it comes right back. I guess I just need to find someone that’ll stay. Is that the key? Is that the solution? Is it really that fucking simple?

Probably.

***

“You fucking listen to this shit?” she said after my jukebox selection of “Dream Warriors” by Dokken started playing.

“I saw them live once,” I replied. “Still the loudest show I’ve ever been too. I couldn’t hear right for three days after. It was even on the local news just how loud the show was.”

“Still, this song. It sucks.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t remind me of anything.”

“Well, that’s as good a reason as any. My name is Michelle.”

“Michelle, pleasure to meet ya. My name is Randy. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Nah, I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”

“Figures.”

“Why?”

“You’re the first woman to speak to me in three months that I didn’t work with or who wasn’t at a cash register.”

“It’s no wonder.”

“Huh?”

“Shave once in a while.”

“Cheers!”

***

Lights flickered in his eyes. Bright colors all of them. He felt a little heavy on the left side. Every bit of picked up medical knowledge told him he was either having a stroke or a heart attack.

But he had more important things to worry about. Mostly, the 14 hours left in his drive to New Orleans. He was depending on this trip to end some melancholy. She was depending on him to get her there. Basically, it was do or die, and maybe even do and die.

The lights stopped flickering after a couple of hours. The numbness in the arm about an hour after that.

“Survived another one,” he thought to himself as he guzzled some Dr. Pepper and ate a Slim Jim. Yeah, there was no reason to think, at 40, he’d be having those kinds of troubles. Just the mind playing tricks on him.

“Sure. But when the dick stops getting hard, that’s when you might want to get it checked out,” the sensible voice inside his head said.

“Not like I’d know,” he chuckled. Was that out loud, the definitely thought as he looked at her sitting in the seat next to him.

“You say something?” she muttered, digging around in the bag of cds he’d brought.

“Just thinking about my not having sex in a long time,” he thought.

“Nah. Just mumbling to myself.”

“You do that a lot. You know that?”

“Yeah, you live by yourself as long as I have, and you tend to not notice,” he said.

“I’ve lived by myself for most of the last 10 years. I don’t do that.”

“Well, I guess I’m insane. And you’re going to be a car with me for the next 15 hours. Buckle up!”

“Joy.”

I looked at her. Got a hard on.

“Ha. Guess, I don’t have to worry about that yet.”

***

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.