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

Dean Martin naked in my living room

The older I get, the dumber.

At least that’s what I’ve been told. More than once, but less than a dozen times.

When you sit about watching re-runs of “Father Knows Best” and “Hazel” on your day off, you start to wonder if maybe, they are all correct?

The want of drink is strong today. Fighting the urge becomes a day-long affair. So, instead, the keyboard beckons. A project long forgotten about is thought about for a second. No longer than that, however. It’s too draining to sit and re-read something written that had its moment, since passed.

That was the longest 98 words I’ve tried to pull out of myself. Extraction of my teeth should go so poorly.

It comes and goes, that feeling of woe. It sits and waits, I believe, for the time it is least expected or wanted around. Some days you fart in the morning, some days you pee. Hopefully, not both at the same time.

I’d like to think that she has thought about me once over the past six years. I have my doubts.

Crazy looks from crazy people.

A mixed-race child sitting with his mother, stares at me. I stare at him. He laughs. I smile. Then the grandfather gives me a bad look. I stop thinking about good, and feel the bad. Sometimes feeling the bad is what you need to stop looking inside for it. You know it’s there, always, but you don’t have to let it out.

Eating tacos in a strip mall downtown. They’re not bad. Not great either. I sit and watch the co-eds go by and wonder why I wasted so much time being down. On life. On myself. On what happened. I could have been watching co-eds. Standing on the corner, watching on the girls go by. I used to live that life. Now, I’m old and it’s a bit creepy to do. At least when I do it. When Dean Martin did it, not so creepy. Well, yes it was, but damn it, who can be creeped out by Dean Martin? Unless he’s naked in your living room, I suppose.

That’s a sight, Dean Martin naked in my living room. Like my dirty old living room needs more charm.

Halfway there and still I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything. Forced is forced. Even with bits and pieces of inspiration.

LeBron James took over that game. But he’s still overrated. How the fuck do I know this? I haven’t covered an NBA game in my lifetime. And somehow I bet you haven’t either. And if you did, you sat on press row gawking at the players on the court. Maybe even hiding a chubby under the table.

The hackery and awfulness stuns me to silence.

Even when I write it.

Ha.

Laughing at oneself, it feels good.

“Customers are not allowed behind the counter,” she said to me. I looked into her eyes and fell in love. She looked at my feet and saw a sale. It was a grouping made in heaven.

“Can you find me a pair of these, new?” I asked her, pointing down at my Samba II Jades. I got them on e-bay years ago, out of sheer luck one day, and haven’t seen another pair in my size since. One pair of 10.5s and another pair of 9s showed up. Nothing else.

“No,” she said.

“How did you end up a shoe sales lady?” I asked.

She frowned at me. I felt better about my place in the world for half a second. Then I felt horrible for saying such a thing.

“I like shoes,” she said. “They’re actually my passion. I met my last boyfriend selling him a pair of shoes. He was so damn picky about what he put on his feet. But not nearly as picky about where he put his dick.”

I laughed. So did she.

“How about just a normal pair of Sambas?” I enquired.

“Of course,” she said.

Five minutes later, I had a new pair of shoes and a phone number. It became the second girl’s phone number that I acquired. The first girl, however, gave me her digits after we had sex. That, my friend, always ends poorly. I don’t care what the Nick Sparks novels say. And no, I have no idea if there is pre-marital sex in Nick Sparks books. Is there?

She smiled at me as I left. I wondered instantly if the number was real. Why? Because I’m a product of rejection and failure. That’s why.

So, I called the number and watched. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the phone and looked at the face. She then looked at me, standing there with my phone in my hand. My flip phone. Same one I’d had since 2007.

She smiled again. Answered the phone.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hey,” I replied.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“The guy with the Sambas,” I replied. “Just wanted to say hi.”

“Dork,” she said, waving at me from 15 feet away.

“Yep. That’s me.”

“Call me later, OK?” she said.

“Will do.”

please, don't pee on me

It can be awkward. Letting someone into a mind that’s been solo for so damn long. So long, in fact, that it doesn’t know how to let somebody inside anymore. You spend too much time blocking things, stopping them, avoiding them, eventually, they stop a callin’.

Someday I’ll find a way to describe the longing inside of me. Find a way to explain it. Make the words come out right so that it doesn’t hurt her feelings when I say them. But I just don’t know how to right now.

There’s so much inside of me that I don’t like. It’s like an infection or an abscessed tooth. You know it’s not good to keep around, but you don’t do anything about them. You could mow the lawn, or you can let it grow. Eventually turning to weeds and dandelions, which of course, are just weeds.

Moments come and moments go. They seem right, but turn wrong. It’s impossible to explain that moment, but you always know it when it happens. Yet you’re powerless to stop it. And then you wonder if you would have tried with the ability to do so?

I think about my dad sometimes. The state he’s in now. I seem to be heading in a similar direction, and it scares me. I don’t like where he’s at. I’ve rarely liked anything about the man. But every so often he shows the good that’s inside of him, and I fear that I am just like him. So many have told me that I shut them out, I keep them at arms’ length. Of course I don’t see it that way. Who does though?

Words are a struggle sometimes.

Eating is easy. Eating right isn’t.

I used to exercise because it was my mode of transport. Then I got a car, a job and I got fat.

The tingling won’t go away like it used to. It scares me. A little more every day.

I hear songs in my head when I type certain phrases. It annoys me.

I wanted to go to the circus. But I didn’t.

The eagle crashed in my back yard. I looked at it. It looked at me. Then another eagle swooped down and clawed the other eagle. I guess eagles fight too.

My beard annoys me. I think it’s a problem.

Trying to do this every night has been a breeze. Until now. I need a beer. Or six.

The dogs sit on my carpet and never stop moving. It’s strange. I’ve never seen two dogs who just can’t settle down and crash out. One is just old. The other is nervous. Guess that could be me.

One day I stood in front of Barry Bonds. I stuck out the baseball and he signed it. I didn’t say a word. I was 16 or 17 years old and still had a bowl haircut. He must’ve been really impressed.

There are days when I wish I’d now crashed my bike. Even though the scars are cool. The aches in my jaw aren’t.

The cockroach stumbled out of the house when I came home today. It seemed like it didn’t want to be inside. I wonder what is so bad inside? Maybe he just wanted to see his friends, the outdoors cockroach family?

It used to inspire me to listen to certain music. Inspire me to get sad. Inspire me to drink. Inspire me to write. I don’t think it inspires me anymore. Love is like that. It comes, it flourishes and then it goes away. Leaving you behind to wonder what the fuck happened.

The tuba sat in the pawn shop window for 11 years. The price never changed -- $150. So, Edward decided to change it. He made it $175, but also put a big “On Sale” banner next to it. Damned if the thing didn’t sell the very next day.

So he tried it with other things. And without fail, they sold.

This was the beginning of advertising. And lies in advertising.

Ok, it wasn’t the beginning of advertising. Or lies in advertising. Just lies in advertising for Edward the Pawn Shop guy.

My neck crackles every time I move it. I wondered a few years ago what it was, so sure it was a clogged artery that would one day kill me. My doctor laughed at me. Said I was fine. Now, I’m not so sure about his diagnosis. He really didn’t inspect me too well. He was a drunk, like me, after all.

The dog is staring at me. He hates me I think, but is so desperate for any kind of attention and love, he hangs out. He lies on my feet. He wags his tail. But he also pees on me. Which if you’re not getting paid for isn’t very fun.

goblocker

Larry sits on his old footlocker. It’s been with him longer than the memories of her have. That, he takes solace in. It’s covered with stickers. He’s made a point of always grabbing a sticker when possible, adding it to the wallpaper of his life, as he calls it.

He once had another footlocker. But his Celica was too small that day he loaded as much of his stuff into it when he left her behind. It was the first thing he threw into the car, completely loaded down with stuff. But it just took up too much precious space. He knew he’d not make it back to get anything he left behind. It would be much too painful. He sighed when he had to leave it behind. It wasn’t the only thing he sighed about that day.

He was freezing cold sitting on the second footlocker of life. He wondered how many, if any of the old stickers still were visible on the old one. If the Moosehead Beer cutout was still on it. That was his favorite thing on it. That and the Luckenbach, Texas, sticker. He replaced the Texas one when he visited that town again. The Moosehead one? Not so much.

As he sat there, remembering things, Bono screamed out “We’re stealing it back!” from the shitty speakers he had jerry-rigged to his amplifier. He’d had those speakers since he was about 10 or 11 years old. They’d seen a lot, for sure. From his days of pretending to be Morris Day and dancing the “Oak Tree” in his old room in Virginia, to his fits of crying when the love of his life deemed him not important.

He knew that he’d done that to one person for sure, and probably two. So, he still had much to atone for. The shitty deeds always stuck with him. Way more than the average soul. Or at least it seemed that way.

The space heater was all that was keeping the frigid air at bay. He’d holed himself up in one room in his three bedroom “cottage” at the beach. His last paycheck paid his rent, with $30 to spare for the next two weeks.

He gobbed on it.

Spit…Tsssssssss.

Spit…Tsssssssss.

His reflection in the old cracked mirror above his dresser showed just how old he was getting. He looked a little like Paul Simonon now. Hair receding in a cool way, shaved way down. Crow’s feet slowly inching out from his eyes, more so from the left than the right. The gap between his front teeth solidified the look. If only he could afford a leather jacket and a cool fedora. Then, he’d be his own version of the coolest bass player in the world.

Spit…Tssssssssss.

Spit…Tssssssssss.

It amused him. It was gross, he admitted as much. But the sound of it was soothing for some reason.

It was noted by his lady friend of the moment that people tended to spit a lot more in New Orleans than they did in Biloxi. Or even Slidell.

“I had not noticed that,” Larry said when she mentioned that. It started him on a spitting kick. He used to spit a lot growing up in the Southern part of Virginia. A small down called Hopewell. Mostly redneck kids back then. Kids of factory workers for the most part. When his parents decided to move there, it had yet to achieve it’s moniker of “The Chemical Capital of the South.” But it wasn’t too many years after when it did.

Kepone was the talk of the town one summer. Dan Rather made an appearance, proclaiming to the huddle masses in front of the television that “People are dying in the streets of Hopewell!”

It wasn’t really true. Although, the people dying now due to those chemicals sure would make a nice story. But, those days are mostly gone for journalism. “It might make for a good book,” Larry thought, debating in his head if he could spend a couple of years in his old hometown again to work on this book. One that would probably be made into a movie one day, but not ever make him any money until some Hollywood player noticed it. Too bad his classmate who had a walk by part in “Evan Almighty” hadn’t made it bigger, he’d probably have a connection to get it made. He certainly was no Dick Ritchie. He decided that if his latest scheme to run off back to New Orleans and try to make a go of it in the town he never should have left in the first place didn’t pan out, he would do that. Hell, he knows the mayor now, she could get him a job.

Spit…Tssssssssss.

Spit…Tssssssssss.

He looked at his mini-fridge. He’d gotten so bad that he had that thing sitting outside, cooling his beer. It’s amazing that no one has either stolen it, or even worse, taken his beer. It’s right outside his window, on a stool beside his window. He opens the window. The 25-degree night air flows inside. He shivers. Grabs a couple of beers and closes the window.

“It’s been a long day, now I need to relax,” he says out loud like he has a habit of doing now.

Opening the beer with a nail in the wall, he smiles at his accomplishment of not spilling any of it.

“My brother-in-law would be proud,” he says, thinking of his sister’s husband. An almost famous keyboardist who could have been a lot bigger, but decided to be a family man instead. Larry used to think that his brother-in-law was bitter about it. The decision to give up the music to be a dad in Hopewell. Instead, now he knew better. As Ronnie Lane wrote, “I wish that, I knew what I know now. When I was younger.” Because my life would have gone in a lot of different directions if I’d just taken the time to look around and see that things in some places, really weren’t all that bad. Or, if I’d stepped out of a funk and met me, 20 years later, like Richard Hell described to me when I was 21 years old. If I’d met the me that was to be, I may have slapped myself. I certainly would not have had my way with myself, as Dickie Hell did, but I couldn’t be completely sure.

Fittingly, the gospel singers of “Rattle and Hum” belt out “but I still, haven’t found, what I’m looking for.”

Life is full of those moments. At least if you constantly look for them. Analyze them. And fuck your brain up with them.

Spit…Tssssssssss.

Spit…Tssssssssss.

Brazil

Walking down the street, the cold air burnt right through my small hoodie. Never was one to buy a coat, hadn’t owned one half a decade now. My mom bought the last one I had. Think it got worn three times. Left it in Florida. Left a lot of things in Florida.

I couldn’t help wonder if this might be the place that I finally just lay down and quit. It’s been a long journey. A good portion of it was damn fun. A small fraction certainly wasn’t. Now, I’m cold. What’s left of my teeth hurt like crazy when the wind blows like this. Imagining a sunny beach doesn’t help much anymore. The mind can help you, but even it knows when the cards have been dealt the wrong way.

Down the street is a beacon of light. An oasis of it. All the stores here went out of business years ago, I reckon. It’s why the bums come here. It’s not a self-applied title, it just sort of comes with the territory. At one time, hoboism seemed like a good alternative. Living on the free. Just going wherever the mind decided it wanted to go that day. It started off relatively well, too. Hopping a freight train in Richmond. A gal actually said she’d go to.

That train went to Jacksonville, Florida of all places. There, it was cold. An early freeze they called it. Sleeping in the orange groves didn’t sound so appealing anymore. Soon, she got on a Greyhound. Using the only money we had brought with us to get the heck back to Virginia. I don’t blame her. What the hell were we thinking. Hit the road. Be hobos. Make love under the stars.

Soon, I sold my harmonica. Got three dollars for it. Used that money to get bacon and eggs. Left the 66 cents left as a tip. Couldn’t really feel bad about it. It was all I had.

The light was orange in color. It made it seem warmer. So, I ventured on up to the window of the shop. It was clean. Freshly painted. With a sign that simply said “Always open.”

Wonder how long that’ll last in this neighborhood, I scoffed.

I looked at myself in the reflection of the glass. I had a white beard now. I was 44 going on 74. My teeth, what were left of them were yellow and cracked. The last time I had a shower was at least a month ago. Couldn’t smell myself, though. That urge passed a long time ago.

Staring at the lights, it finally dawned on me what this place was -- a travel agency.

“Pretty fitting, I guess,” I thought. “A dead street. A dead business.” No one used travel agencies any more. Hell, they stopped when I was still a productive member of society. When there was society. Then the internet came. First, it was a great place to find trinkets and collectibles. Then a place to watch television shows and movies. Finally, it just became life.

That’s when I hopped a train with her. We didn’t want to work for the internet anymore. We wanted to see reality.

She lasted just that first two weeks. The cold finally got to her.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said. That was 19 years ago.

The door knob is silver. And old. It’s the only thing that isn’t shiny and new. Well, the door knob and me. I reach for it, but at the last second I recoil. “What could possibly be inside there? What could be in there that I would need to see?”

I stare at the other window. A picture of a lady looking out into the see. Too fucking much. It’s the Barton Fink painting. But only if it was set in 1977. Ugly-ass “groovy” font. Then, the door opens. A lady leaves.

“Pardon me,” she says, walking past.

I take a whiff of her perfume. It’s subtle. I like that. And I usually despise perfume.

“Ma’am?” I say meekly.

She turns to me. Looks me over and says “yes?”

“What kind of perfume is that? It’s wonderful.” I can’t believe I’m saying this. The door behind me is still open. The song “Brazil” is playing. I start to wonder if I’m imagining all of this.

“You know, I don’t know,” she sort of giggles. “I just picked it up at Wal-Greens. Go figure. But thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I stammer as she hops into her car -- a 1987 Pontiac Sunfire. She starts the engine and is gone.

The song is still echoing in the background. The door, still ajar.

“Well, I guess I’d better go in,” I say out loud.

On the mat just inside the door is one slogan: “Focus on what you can do, not on what you could’ve done.”