A chuckle and a slap on the back

I pulled up to the house that was soon to no longer be mine.

The cool ocean breeze hit my face as I exited my car. The last chords of American Aquarium’s “Burn, Flicker, Die” faded into the air, replaced by the distant waves crashing on the beach.

“I’m going to miss this place,” I say out loud to no one but myself.

I look at the dilapidated plastic flamingos that stand guard. One of them is duct taped on the legs to keep him upright. His partner is missing his eyes. On the other side of the yard, two more sway in the breeze. They came later in the process. A gift of a friend who has sort of faded into the periphery of life. I hate it when things like that happen. But it does happen. Too often when you never stay put. I envy folks who have stayed in one place for long periods of time. They develop roots. They develop routines and have friends always available.

Me? I’ve moved so many times to so many different places. My friends are scattered from 30 miles away to New Orleans to California, then over to Japan and into England. Pockets of friends are in Virginia. Some on in Louisiana. Others are in this hell hole of Eastern North Carolina.

Some of those same friends say they are jealous of me.

“You’ve got to see so much, travel so much,” they say, “And you don’t have things holding you down.”

True, I tell them, but you have things I have always wanted. A wife, a family a dog and a cat. A steady paycheck and a feeling of purpose.

“I’ve got none of those,” I’ll say.

Usually that gets a chuckle and a slap on the back.

I open up the door to my “paradise house” as one friend described it to me once. The intense heat hits me like opening an oven to pull out a pizza. It actually blows the hot air outside. A front was just formed by this.

My brow instantly begins to sweat. I open the fridge and enjoy the cool air. I grab a Lone Star – 16-ouncer – from it and pop the top. I swig a huge sip of the Texas swill and realize that life is good most of the time. It’s only bad when you start worrying about it.

I go to the thermostat. It’s 99 degrees inside, according to the piece of plastic. But it doesn’t go to 100, so it could be 120 in here. It isn’t. There was a time about a month ago when it was 99 on the thermometer. But it was much hotter than it is now.

Then, I turned on the air. My girlfriend was there and it had to happen. We left for an hour to get some coolness from a local dive bar. Drank a couple Yuenglings and forgot about the last 48 hours.

Those are the times you remember. When someone sticks by you. Even when most people wouldn’t.

“You got a keeper,” my dad said a week earlier.

“Damn right,” I thought then, and am thinking now as I finish off the tallboy.

I don’t turn on the AC. It’s too expensive now that I’m unemployed. I have enough money to support myself for about 8 months, I figure. Of course, my figures will be way off and it’ll last five, tops.

I open up the windows and turn on a couple of fans.

Soon, it’s 91 inside.

“Not too bad,” I think.

I take a swig of beer and go outside. I open my car’s hatchback and start hauling in boxes. Medical boxes. Rubber gloves and gauze, they are slugged. My boxes display my journey as well.

These are the “I’m dating a nurse” boxes.

Others are : “I’m dating a girl from New Mexico who’s mom liked fruit” period.

Still another is :”I’m dating a Mexican who’s mom wrote what was in the boxes” period.

And still another is “This was the lesbian that I pined for” period.

Lastly, there’s the “The bitch was just looking for a safe place to be for a while” period. Those boxes, I threw away.

I sit down at my computer, hoping one of the gaggle of jobs I’ve already applied for has responded. I boot it up, log in to my email and … nothing.

I log into my other email … nada.

I went through nearly 14 months of this before, but I had a steady paycheck from the taxpayers of the United States then. I don’t now. Even though an old colleague told me “You should apply anyway.”

What’s the worst they can say? No. Right, I get that.

But why bother getting even two seconds of hope raised?

You’re a glutton for gluttony. If by gluttony you mean stupidity and pain.

I shaved my goatee off yesterday. I don’t really know why. I just did. I look weird without it. I think I look older. I definitely look “sweeter” as my girlfriend told me.

I’d rather look surly. Keeps people – other than tourists who want directions or a photo taken – away.

I need to eat some food. I always slip into these “forgot to eat” days when something happens dramatically in my life. And though I was going to make this happen in about two months anyway, this does qualify.

I look at the stains on the carpet and the broken blinds and I wonder if I’ll get any of my security deposit back. My last place I got it all back, minus the carpet cleaning fee. I had even left a piece of petrified baby poop – well, three and a half year old poop – exactly where the kid had left it months before.

Yeah, you can call me disgusting for that, but I didn’t want to touch it. And hell, that kid was good at shitting somewhere and hiding it away from us. Gotta give him credit for that. I’m sure his dad had nothing to do with that talent.

This makes me think of the Doug Stanhope concert I went to the other night. I’d bought the tickets drunkenly one night. So it was a sunk cost. Except for the three beers and tip I bought. I woulda bought more, but I felt bad about it. That kind of thought process probably won’t last.

Anyway, he told an Assburgers joke. Or maybe one of the opening act guys did.

It was funny.

I laughed.

But it made me a bit sad too.

I wonder how that kid is doing?

Good, I hope.

It’s really all I can do.

time, time, time, to, to, to, move, move, move

I stared at the words on the page. Phrases such as “man-to-man zone defense” and “only a vivid picture” dotted the text. It should amaze me that such a horrid worker of words has a job, but it doesn’t.

Once I was a writer for hire. A pen and a notepad always at hand.

Then one day I was cut loose. Deemed not economically viable. Like most, I wallowed in it for a little while. After that, I got off my butt and traveled. Spent months on the road, in planes, even on trains. It was the first extended vacation I’d ever had in my adult life – minus the New Orleans months. So, I partook.

After a while, I started to reconsider my goals. I decided to try and find a “new” career. One that would satisfy me and not be in an industry that’s fading away. It was fruitless. I got more rejection letters for jobs in the eight months or so of searching than I did when I was applying for internships as a college junior for the second time. But damn it if I didn’t persevere then. This time, I didn’t. I started applying for reporter and editor jobs again.

I got interview after interview. The first one, was at the beach. Near Nags Head, NC. Fucking perfect. I didn’t get the job. I did get a mileage check. First time for that.

Then it was a little town in North Carolina. Then a small town on the Tennessee/Virginia border. A shithole in Florida. A dungeon in Georgia. A weekend was spent in South Carolina and in North Carolina. About six and a half hours of driving between the two interviews. I wore the same suit. I wore the same shirt. I wore the same socks and shoes. I did change underwear.

I got offered all those jobs. And I turned all of them down. Except the last one.

I decided living at the beach was what I needed to do. Be alone for a bit. Don’t write newspaper stories, instead edit them. See how the other side lives. Also, get inside my head and do some cleaning.

Now, a little over two years later, I want to leave. Apathy is too high here. So high it hurts. Like altitude without the ear pops.

I see drunken leaders and timecard cheating editors. It’s sad.

I remember when everyone worked 50-60 hours and loved it. Now, you work 25 and try to skip out. I can’t bring myself to do it, but it’s tempting. And that’s why I know I have to leave.

Applying for jobs outside my “comfort zone” has been hard. I get no response from most. A canned response for most. A couple of almosts have kept me from going completely mad.

The road calls, I can’t answer it. Tied down right now. A house. A cat. Two dogs. I feel guilty for expressing that feeling, but it’s true. I won’t act on it. I know what’s important, even if it isn’t my sanity.

Some nights I want to drink myself into oblivion. Lucky for me, I can’t afford it.

The silence outside is upset by a lonely wailing cricket. Is he trying to get laid or does he want to be eaten by a spider? It’s a tossup, I believe.

“I need a love, to keep me happy,” Keith Richards sings. Hell, he’d know better than most. I need love too. It’s why I keep trying. If only I could figure out that whole garbage disposal that people so easily use.

“Cold, cold heart of mine

Just watch you cry

There wasn't much left to say

Nothing heartfelt anyway

So easy to just walk away
Tell me what that takes

Tell me what it takes
Cold, cold heart of mine

Just let it all die”

Lyrics. I put too much stock in them. That’s probably the most hated Lucero song, but the simple lyrics mean a lot to me. They make me feel less pain over what has happened in the past. Both to me, and by me.

If only I could move past the last bit of pain. It’s a hard one. I can’t get that look out of my head sometimes. And I don’t want to go through it again. It wouldn’t be possible to survive it. Oh course it would, physically, but not emotionally. And that’s what matters.

She’ll always be there for me. I know that. I want to be there for her. I’ve got to figure out how.

And I’ve got to figure out how to get out of this place.

Anyone want to open a taco wagon? Fuck, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Maybe my dad will open one with me. Guess I’d better make it a BBQ wagon. Or a BBQ Forerunner. …

Amen

The day started off like most other days, me popping open a beer and taking a couple of pills. After that, it usually got a little bit better. Or at least tolerable.

She came by my place at 10 a.m. It took some doing, but I was able to convince her that coming inside wasn’t too bad of an idea. She’d been there many times before. Most of the times late at night. Most of the times as drunk as me. But she was never there in the morning when I woke up.

Most guys would think that was paradise. All of the glory, none of the fight.

But I wasn’t most other guys. And it pained me every morning when she wasn’t there as I rose. It’s why the pills started. They put me in a better mood and made it easier to face the mundane tasks that the day would throw at me.

I was a copy editor at a shitty newspaper now. I used to be an editor. Used to be a reporter. But I’d lost the fire to chase after it anymore. It happened while I was unemployed. Laid off by a newspaper that I thought I was doing a good job at. Won some state press association awards, covered some shit no one else wanted to. Shot photos. Shot videos. Laid out pages. Read other people’s stuff. Just a little of everything. But, I wasn’t friends with the folks I worked with. Most of ‘em at least. And I guess that wasn’t part of the plan.

Anyways, while unemployed I wanted to do something else. Anything else. So I applied and applied for jobs. Public relations jobs. University jobs. Business and even furniture sales writing ads. Jobs at recreation departments. Jobs at super markets. Jobs in different states. And I didn’t get any of them. In fact, only a couple even bothered to send me rejection emails or letters. Those days of actually contacting folks interested in your jobs are long gone I guess. I once had an opening that over 200 people sent in their resumes for. I sent a message to all of them.

Finally, I had to bite the bullet and interview for newspaper jobs again. I was broke and my time on the dole would eventually come to an end. So, I did it. And immediately I got interviews. At first, I was rejected for the job but only after they hired a friend. Then I got offers. But I couldn’t pull the trigger on them. I didn’t want to move to some shit hole in the middle of nowhere to work at a job that would barely pay my bills.

So, I called a friend and got a job where I’m at now. A shithole little newspaper, but I live at the beach. And that was enough.

For a while.

Now, it’s not anymore. I want to do more. I want to write. I want to get out of my cubicle. I want to interact with folks. Will it happen? Yes. Where I’m at? Only if they let me. And I’ll find out soon if they will.

She looked at me.

“You’re always somewhere else,” she said.

I looked at her and smiled. She got me. But didn’t want anything to do with me. Well, the me that was me now. She’d met me before all of this. Before depression and hatred took their toll on me.

We used to go to the bars downtown and just laugh and smile and have a good time. Then one day I changed. It wasn’t because of her, but it was because of a she. And that she killed me for a long time. I’m not fully recovered from my death yet. But I’m working on it.

That’s why she still comes around. She’s seen the other side of me, and knows it’s closer to being back than it has been for years.

“Did you write last night?” she asks me.

“Of course not,” I say. “I did scribble some, but it’s not much.”

“How many words?” she asked.

“About 3,000.” I stated with a yawn.

“What did you write about?”

“You really have to ask?”

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “One day you’re going to do it.”

“You’ve been saying that to me for years,” I replied. “And maybe I’m just another one like so many. I’ve only got one story to tell. And I just haven’t figured out how to tell it. Once I do that, I can become the Sparks of my genre.”

“Fuck that,” she said. “You could write about kittens with machine guns and it wouldn’t be funny. It would be awesome.”

“Thanks. I guess.”

She frowned at me. It made me feel small. She was good at that. I slinked over to a cooler I’d left on the porch last night. I kicked it. The lid fell off and inside were two Lone Stars. I reached in and plucked them out. The water was still cold, and so were the bottles.

“To a great day,” I said handing her one of the bottles.

“Amen,” she said, taking the beer and popping the top off.

“You working today?” I asked.

“Yes. Are you?”

“My drive starts in an hour,” I replied pointing at my beat up car. I bought that thing new and it already had over 120,000 miles on it. In three years and seven months. “In my chariot.”

It was a Hyundai Accent. Three doors and a busted air conditioner. I liked going to work all sweaty and gross. It kept the bosses from talking to me. And I liked it that way.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you later tonight?” I said in the most hopeful voice I can muster.

“You know you will,” she said with a smirk.

“Amen,” I replied.

Educated

Sitting in the unemployment office, the signs on the wall always amuse me. My favorite is the one that says “More education is better.” I chuckle each time I see it. And I see it a lot lately. My social worker, well, that’s what I call her at least, Marlena, has three of them on her wall.

She’s kind of fat. The kind of fat that lets you know she worries about it all the time. She has these huge arms, which tell one that she was once a whole lot fatter, but couldn’t afford surgery or the right kind of trainer to get rid of the arms.

And she loves that motivational poster: “More education is better.”

“How so?” I asked her the first time I was in her office.

“Excuse me, Mr. um, uh, Jones,” she said, quickly glancing down at my file to get my name right. Kudos for the effort Marlena.

“The sign. How is more education better?”

“Studies show that having a high school degree you will make more money than one without. A college degree more so than a high school grad. A masters, more than a bachelors. And so on.”

“So, I should stay in school forever, and eventually I’ll be rich?”

“Well…It doesn’t work thaaat way, Mr. Jones.”

“Really? That’s not now you’re telling me. And your posters are telling me.”

She frowned at my last response. I wished it was more like a Bukowski book right now and she had great legs. Because then I could stare at them instead of those God damn posters. Or her giggly arms. Every time she reached for something – and she reached a lot, for her coffee, a pen, my file, the phone, her cell phone, her teeth, it went on and on – they giggled. It was almost mesmerizing. Luckily, it wasn’t.

“What are you here for today, Mr. Jones?”

“Well, the state says I have to come in here to prove that I’m A-unemployed and B-still looking for a job,” I replied.

“Well are you?”

“Which?”

“Both, Mr. Jones,” she said callously.

“Yes and yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Well, I’m broke and I have the time to come here to talk to you, don’t I?”

“Certainly, but I need proof positive that you are indeed seeking a job.”

I pulled out a stack of resumes and a stack of rejection letters from publishers. I also pulled out three forms signed by jobs I had applied for, interviewed for, and been turned down for. One was at Food Lion as a cashier. One was for a deep sea fisherman. And the last was for a bridge attendant.

“So, this will do,” Marlena said, stamping the files I handed her with her giant rubber stamp. Her arms giggled. I even think her nose giggled a bit.

“Here are some new leads,” she said after a few seconds of sweet silence. “Hopefully, something in there will do.”

I couldn’t help but think of Alan Arkin in Glengarry Glen Ross. I wondered if I was just as sad a character? Then I started thinking of Alec Baldwin holding those big metal balls. I wished Marlena would do something like that. I scanned her desk for any giant balls. Instead, I saw a Furby, a Ziggy calendar and a box of unopened Triscuits.

“I’m sure these will be great,” I said.

“Mr. Jones? May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly Marlena,” I replied, somehow now thinking of “Falling Down” when Michael Douglas is in the Whammy Burger place calling everyone by their first names. I chuckle. Out loud.

“What is funny?” she asks, almost hurt it seems.

“You ever seen the movie “Falling Down?”

“No, I have not.”

“Well, that just popped into my head. You should rent it sometime.”

“Back to the questions. Can I ask you something?”

“Like I said, certainly.”

“Do you have an education?”

“Yes. I. Do!”

“How far did you make it?”

“I have a high school degree, as you call it. I have two bachelors. I have six Community college associates degrees and I almost finished my masters in creative writing, but gave up when the professor in charge of my thesis said I was “too God damn repetitive!”

“Oh, why that was mean of him.”

“Not really. It was the truth. But he just didn’t like my answer to his question of why I was so G-D repetitive,” I said, not cussing this time because I saw her wince the first time.

“What was your answer?”

“That I only have one story to tell, and I want to make sure and get it right.”

Harp

“Well, at least you’ve got some health benefits now,” my dad said, putting his fist out for me to pound it. I never really figured my dad as the fist-pound type. But for years now, he put out his fist for folks to pound.

Where that started, I don’t know. But every single time he does it, I try to remember when he did start doing it. And every single time, I have no clue.

To me, it’s strange. It’s also fitting. He has intimacy issues. I think I was 35 before I heard him tell me he loved me. That’s probably an exaggeration, but not much of one. The year I turned 35 was just one so full of emotion and angst that I guess it seems to fit.

I pounded my dad’s fist. It’s always an awkward kind of affair. But I do it. Because despite all the shit between me and my pops, he is my pops. He has stuck his neck out for me many times. And I love him endlessly for the sacrifices he made.

But he makes it hard.

And I don’t tell him that, yes, I took a job. Which will be my first job in 14 months. But, no, I do not have benefits.

A friend at the bar listens to me tell this story. She looks at me and says “what if you get sick?”

“Well, I had the swine flu when I was unemployed. I just stayed in bed, drank orange juice and about a month later, I was fine. A few pounds lighter even!”

I take a swig of Harp and glance at the television. Local news is on.

“I guess,” she says.

I get distracted by the beer again. Harp has become my beer of choice when I go out. I don’t really like it, but when in an Irish Pub, it always seems to be my pick. It’s better than Yuengling. Which got me through the break up. And if it wasn’t for my buddy Andrew, I never would’ve drank it. It gives me heartburn now. Which I think is a sign.

Alison and I have been hanging out at this bar for most of my unemployment. It’s funny, we met up one day, just to shoot the shit. This was while I was still chasing after my folly of a relationship, part 2, with Crystal.

The ex and I were just starting to talk again, and at first, it was great. Just like everything with Crystal. But, the inevitable fall would come. Later.

But my first meet up with Alison should have been a bright flashlight in my face. An awakening of sorts from a stupor. Much like when you pass out in the car on a cold night of too much to drink and a cop raps on the window. You, figuring out your predicament, hope that the gum you chewed hours ago will still cover up the stench of beer on your breath as you roll down the window.

That first time the two of us hung out, it was interesting. I came away really thinking we’d hang out sometime again, but who knows?

So I wrote about it. And Crystal read about it.

She, of course, twisted the words to fit her version of what I was about. And this time, she was completely wrong.

And soon after, she stopped talking to me again. Just as abruptly as the first time, though not nearly as painful. It still sucked. It still hurt. But I kind of expected it this time. I still trusted her. Much to the chagrin of anyone that knew me and knew of her.

I still have that e-mail somewhere in my old hotmail account. The account that I keep for two reasons. Both being stupid. 1. Because it’s the e-mail address that Emily knows of. 2. I sent one of those in 5 years e-mails to myself and used that address. I figure it was sent in late 2005 or early 2006, because it was before I was single. And I want to see if that e-mail ever comes.

Glutton.

Sitting on that barstool, it hits me that I’m very lucky to have become friends “again” with Alison. We’ve got a lot in common. And I think more so that I even know.

We order another drink. Finish it and decide to go somewhere else. “Where something interesting might happen,” we agree upon.

Outside, it’s still chilly. I’m glad winter is almost over. And I guess that I’m going to be employed soon.

Booze and Lucero tickets

I woke up a little early today.

Walking out into my kitchen, I scratched my butt. As I stood there in between the kitchen and the hallway, I wondered what time it was. It’s been a game of mine, well in my head, for years now. Ever since I stopped owning a watch. Or a clock. I never have understood the need for a watch. If one ever really needs to know what time it was, just ask someone. Or guess.

I seemed to always be pretty darn close.

As I stood there, finger finding a place to scratch, I guessed 8:30 or so.

I walked towards my lawn chair. Yep, no furniture except for the dirty old couch and a couple of lawn chairs. At 39 years old, that might seem a bit sad. But honestly, I have had lots of furniture over the years. Most of it was taken by girlfriends or their family. That’s the sad part.

By the chair was my cell phone. My only clock, except for the computer, which is off. It read 8:33.

As always, I’m pretty close. Sometimes after a bender or something, and it’s cloudy out, I’ll be off. Usually, however, it’s easy.

I go to the fridge. There’s not much in there. Pickles. Eggs. Condiments. A jug of tap water. And a 12-pack of Miller High Life. Bought it for the hurricane. My broke ass decided it was the best thing for the money. And really, it probably is. Yes, it sucks, but for 5.99 you really have a tough time getting anything better.

I grab one and grab the opener off the counter. Psssssssssssssssttttttttttttt! I open it up and take a swig.

No better way to start the morning, huh? Maybe it’ll be a good day for once.

I go to the cupboard to find something to eat. I spy a box of generic Pop Tarts. They’re called Toast’em pop-ups. They even have a pop guy with a big shit-eating grin on his face staring at you from the cardboard. Pretty much saying “You bought these? For 67 more cents you could have had the real thing. AND, they give you eight, not six. Dumb ass.”

I pull one out, put it in the oven. I don’t have a toaster. I bought one once for a girlfriend. It ended up getting recalled, but I never took it back. I wonder if she still uses it? And will it one day burn her house down? And since I just typed that, am I now responsible for that? Nice train of thought for 8:37 in the morning. Swig. Swig. Swig.

Yeah, that’ll help.

“Can’t hurt none,” the voice in the head says. Not a voice like Jim Gaffigan’s baby voice, but anyway.

I put on some shorts and a shirt to go outside and stare at the day.

It usually doesn’t stare back, but for some reason, today it is. There is a lady outside walking her dog. It’s one of those ugly, poodle-like dogs. Yeah, the schnoodle. I’d probably be driven to drink if I had to walk a schnoodle for my wife. Oh yeah.

The dog takes a giant shit in the parking lot right across from my house. I’m happy it didn’t shit in my yard, because that is about the only thing I get mad about nowadays. Well, that and the fucking idiots that I have to work with. Sports editors with no sense and sports reporters who can’t put two words together without fucking up grammar rules.

It’s a great way to not earn a living.

My bank account is at an all-time low for the time I’ve been living here. I have bills due on pay day. For the first time in probably two or three years I’m going to be paying them all on line that day.

That’s a scary place to be. Especially when you’ve been there so much over the past 20 years. It reminds me of that great thing that Matty and Josh used to have on their fridge… UVA + You = Success. They always laughed at it. All the while getting closer and closer to being productive members of society. I always saw it for what they wanted to see it as, a reminder that life doesn’t have to go according to a plan.

Glad my student loan deferment ends this month too. Such excellent timing. Of course, I should have just not paid it the entire 14 months I was unemployed, instead of getting the deferment right when I got a job.

Brilliance is written all over this guy. And as always, master of great timing.

Anyways, I would have spent that extra cash while unemployed on booze and Lucero tickets anyway.