Hanging out at the local dirt racing track, things sometimes take a turn for the better.
Me and Mitchell just got into line for some cold beers – Miller High Life bottles, of course – when Dick Dale’s “Misirlou” started blasting out of the shitty speakers surrounding the track. No one but us seemed to take much notice of it, instantly going into air guitar mode. A couple of ladies with Billy Ray mullets and old Iron Maiden and Warrant tour shirts started pointing and laughing.
“Wanna get laid tonight?” Mitchell asked.
“Yeah, but not like that. Too desperate and too easy.”
“So you say now.”
“Yes, I say now.”
We got our beers and ambled over to the parking lot. There was some kind of distraction going on near the bunch of El Caminos parked bumper to bumper at the area known as “El Rey” to the locals. We found this out later in the evening.
Some guy was talking about how lucky he was this afternoon.
“I was brushing my teeth in the kitchen when the water stopped working all of the sudden. You know, you turn it on and all you get is the sound of pipes shaking? Well, I had a mouth full of paste and I needed to get it out, pronto! (Giggles from the crowd). So I reached for the first bottle I had on my countertops. It, of course was a mason jar, as that’s where I keep all my booze. The legal stuff and the “homemade” stuff. If you catch my drift?
“Well, I open the lid and commence to sippin’ and garglin’ when I notice a funny taste. Now, all of you know my liquors can have a taste that takes some getting’ used ta, so this ain’t no surprise. Neither is a slight burn. But, this my friends won’t no slight burn. It was Devil’s Spit kinda burnin’.
“So I spit it out pronto. All over my kitchen, my shirt – which I just paid five dollar fur at the Roses – and just start cussing up a fit.”
“What was in that jar, Puddin’?” someone in the crowd asked.
“Let’s me tell ya what was in that jar, Smithson. It was freakin’ GAS-O-LINEY!”
The audience laughed up quite a cackle. Even Mitchell and I had a good gut laugh out of Puddin’s story. Hell, he knew how to keep an audience with him. Maybe politic-an would be a future endeavor for him, if he so choose that path.
We started to walk away when someone screamed.
In a flash, we turned around. Just in time to see ol’ Puddin’ running. And he was on fire.
And instead of the stop, drop and roll we all learned in sixth grade – probably a grade or two further than ol’ Puddin’ made it – he was running around “Like a damn chick with its damn head plum cut off!” as one of the amused audience members would later be quoted describing the scene on local television at 11 p.m. later in the evening.
No one was chasing poor Puddin’ with a blanket or anything. A couple of guys in mesh hats threw some beer on him as he passed them by. But ol’ Puddin’ seemed to have a destination in mind.
About 200 yards away was a duck pond. It was a duck pond simply because someone had placed some wildly painted duck decoys in it. So forever it was known as the duck pond by locals and race affciandos.
Anyway, Puddin’ made it to the pond and dove it. A loud sssssssssssssssssssssssssssss sound followed. Which we all figured was his skin singeing after hitting the water.
Puddin’ then let out a yell.
Soon after, an ambulance arrived. It was already on sight for the racers, but now it had a fan to take care of.
A lot of folks had their cell phones out and recorded Puddin’s run, as it became known on the Internet. “With gas so expensive these days, Ol’ Puddin’ decided he wouldn’t wash it out of his shirt until he’d gotten a little buzz off it.” Was just one of the t-shirts which ended up selling. Thankfully, no one auto-tuned Ol’ Puddin’s run. I think he didn’t scream enough for it to work?
As Mitch and I were leaving the race later that night, a local newspaper reporter came up to us and asked us some questions about Ol’ Puddin’. Neither of us knew him, we said, but we saw the whole thing happen. Well, except for ignition, as we turned away to drink our Miller High Lifes.
She asked some questions and we answered. Some serious, some not so serious. It was interesting to see what got into the paper when you got asked questions by a reporter. Being a former ink slinger, I knew a thing or two about the truth and how some choose to bend it.
Finally, the reporter, who looked all of 19 years old and very out of place in rural North Carolina, asked me: “One last question, Mr. Jones. What would be your one regret if you were to die like Ol’ Puddin’ did tonight?”
I scratched my beard and made it look as if this was the single most important question anyone had ever asked me. Finally, after a few moments of silence I said: “Not having sex in a car. Now, I had a girlfriend that promised me she’d do it. But she never did. We did just about anything else. We even re-enacted the train scene from “Risky Business.” I’ve done it in a Burger King bathroom, as Digital Underground instructed me to do in 1989. I did it in front of a hotel window on the top floor. Albeit in Rockville, Maryland over looking a parking lot, not in Las Vegas looking out at the strip like it is in my fantasy.
“But never once have a fucked in a car. It would be a damn shame to die that way. Especially, if it was to go like Ol’ Puddin’ went.”
She laughed, and said “Don’t think I can use that one.”
“Sure you can. Just take out the fucks and such.”
“Have a good night fellows.”
“It’s fellas. You ain’t from ‘round here are yeh?”
“No thankfully. No.”
“Same here darling. Moved from Northern Virginia, myself.”
“Really?”
“Yep, really. Manassas via Arlington.”
“I went to Chantilly High School!” she said, now a little bit more interested in us two – me in a Lucero shirt, him in a Zanadu one.
“Actually dated a girl who went there, way before you, but still…”
“Awesome,” here’s my card. “Give me a call sometime. Maybe you can show me what there is to do here?”
“Well, tonight, Ol’ Puddin’ put on the show. It wasn’t expected, but it was a good-un.”
She smiled and walked away at that.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
seagull
It’s surprising sometimes exactly what makes you fall back into bad habits.
Today, it was walking on the beach and hearing a seagull cry. That lonesome wail that come out of its beak forced me for just a second to think about what I haven’t thought about. And I started to cry myself. Alone on the beach on a warmer than it’s supposed to be day in February I stood on the beach wailing like a small child.
So, I went home and started drinking.
I don’t like drinking alone like I used to. At one point, it was a ritual. I did it out of habit instead of want. I can’t say it wasn’t a need, however, as it probably was sometimes. Sanity is a tough thing to walk the fringes of and not falling down on one side or the other.
Much like if you travel the same roads of your past, you’re going to see ghosts. Or feel them. Deep in the bones. An ache that won’t go away. It hides sometimes. But it usually knows when to show up again.
I stopped crying for a moment and watched the seagull. It hopped on one foot for a bit, adding a bit of tragi-comic effect to the moment. Then the other leg popped out and he started walking away from me. He’d done his job, I figure. Stirred up something inside me that needed stirring. So he was off to do whatever it is that seagulls do when they’re not annoying you on your beach blanket or following behind a boat looking for food.
Staring into my fridge, I see the many six packs of beer that my girlfriend has brought me over the past few weeks. It’s a tradition of sorts. There are beer stores worth a damn in Raleigh where she lives. Here at the beach, not much to speak of. I can get Shiner at the Food Lion, and for most of my two years here, that’s been enough.
I pop open an Abita and it starts to flow over the rim of the bottle. I curse the foamy remnants that cover my hand and I go to the sink and wipe it off. I think for a moment about how not too long ago, I would have just flicked it onto the carpet or just patted it on my clothes.
After a couple of beers, and some Lucero music blasting, I start to calm down a bit. I begin to make my plans for returning to the scene of heartbreak in just 13 days – New Orleans. I bought tickets to a Lucero show at Tips in December. Figure I should use them. The long-ass drive will do me some good. As will re-visiting the scene. I have a thing with returning to the places that remind me the most of the pain. I guess it’s good that I don’t go back to Gainesville, Fla. But seriously, that would be stupid. She’s in Alexandria now anyway. Working just down the street from my best friend’s apartment. Funny how that all works out.
Now, with the mind distracted just enough, the tears start to evaporate. I hope the hate doesn’t rise. It caused me to lose a friend, well, in the way someone loses a friend now-a-days with the deletion of self from social networks. But, I’ve decided that yes, I could chase after him. Apologize. But why? He is one of a very few who knows how I’m hurting right now. And he chose to be an ass because I was an ass. But taking it a step further. Maybe it’s a joke and I’m too fucking sensitive. If so, jokes on me Sasha Baron Cohen. If not, jokes on you.
The beer isn’t as effective as it used to be either. Or the words of Ben Nichols. But the pain inside right now isn’t about a girl. It isn’t about being a fucking asshole. It’s about life itself. Just not mine. Which makes it really hard to figure out, being the narcissistic fuck that I am.
So I turn my attention to finding a way to stop thinking about trying to figure it out. It never works, but you can’t say I haven’t tried. Well, some would say that, but fuck them.
The CD ends and all I hear is the ocean. Waves slowly breaking against the sand. This time of year, it’s easy to hear. Which is nice. The tourists and jarheads are nowhere to be seen, and especially heard right now.
Today, it was walking on the beach and hearing a seagull cry. That lonesome wail that come out of its beak forced me for just a second to think about what I haven’t thought about. And I started to cry myself. Alone on the beach on a warmer than it’s supposed to be day in February I stood on the beach wailing like a small child.
So, I went home and started drinking.
I don’t like drinking alone like I used to. At one point, it was a ritual. I did it out of habit instead of want. I can’t say it wasn’t a need, however, as it probably was sometimes. Sanity is a tough thing to walk the fringes of and not falling down on one side or the other.
Much like if you travel the same roads of your past, you’re going to see ghosts. Or feel them. Deep in the bones. An ache that won’t go away. It hides sometimes. But it usually knows when to show up again.
I stopped crying for a moment and watched the seagull. It hopped on one foot for a bit, adding a bit of tragi-comic effect to the moment. Then the other leg popped out and he started walking away from me. He’d done his job, I figure. Stirred up something inside me that needed stirring. So he was off to do whatever it is that seagulls do when they’re not annoying you on your beach blanket or following behind a boat looking for food.
Staring into my fridge, I see the many six packs of beer that my girlfriend has brought me over the past few weeks. It’s a tradition of sorts. There are beer stores worth a damn in Raleigh where she lives. Here at the beach, not much to speak of. I can get Shiner at the Food Lion, and for most of my two years here, that’s been enough.
I pop open an Abita and it starts to flow over the rim of the bottle. I curse the foamy remnants that cover my hand and I go to the sink and wipe it off. I think for a moment about how not too long ago, I would have just flicked it onto the carpet or just patted it on my clothes.
After a couple of beers, and some Lucero music blasting, I start to calm down a bit. I begin to make my plans for returning to the scene of heartbreak in just 13 days – New Orleans. I bought tickets to a Lucero show at Tips in December. Figure I should use them. The long-ass drive will do me some good. As will re-visiting the scene. I have a thing with returning to the places that remind me the most of the pain. I guess it’s good that I don’t go back to Gainesville, Fla. But seriously, that would be stupid. She’s in Alexandria now anyway. Working just down the street from my best friend’s apartment. Funny how that all works out.
Now, with the mind distracted just enough, the tears start to evaporate. I hope the hate doesn’t rise. It caused me to lose a friend, well, in the way someone loses a friend now-a-days with the deletion of self from social networks. But, I’ve decided that yes, I could chase after him. Apologize. But why? He is one of a very few who knows how I’m hurting right now. And he chose to be an ass because I was an ass. But taking it a step further. Maybe it’s a joke and I’m too fucking sensitive. If so, jokes on me Sasha Baron Cohen. If not, jokes on you.
The beer isn’t as effective as it used to be either. Or the words of Ben Nichols. But the pain inside right now isn’t about a girl. It isn’t about being a fucking asshole. It’s about life itself. Just not mine. Which makes it really hard to figure out, being the narcissistic fuck that I am.
So I turn my attention to finding a way to stop thinking about trying to figure it out. It never works, but you can’t say I haven’t tried. Well, some would say that, but fuck them.
The CD ends and all I hear is the ocean. Waves slowly breaking against the sand. This time of year, it’s easy to hear. Which is nice. The tourists and jarheads are nowhere to be seen, and especially heard right now.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
heath ledger
You always hope the one that got the good stuff, the good life, won’t throw it away.
Then there are the friends that you warn to back away from the ledge, only to watch them run right off of it.
Today, a friend of mine jumped off that ledge. I just hope that he finds Keith Richards when he lands. That way, he’ll be on the ledge below the ledge and not in the bottom of some endless ravine. That ravine is not a fun place to ever spend a night in. Or even an afternoon. Or a lunch break.
Driving across half of the country with that kid, I didn’t learn much more than I knew beforehand. He spent the entire time texting the woman who would later be referred to only as “the woman of my dreams.” No matter what she did to him, mentally, physically or other she could do no wrong in his eyes. I’ve been there before. The cloud of love. Or is it the fog of love? Anyway, some people are lucky and the love is returned, completely. Fully. Honestly. With no cost. No hidden Bank of America-type fees.
I hope the kid is lucky and gets that love. The first months – hell almost year – certainly don’t point to that being the case. But, I’ve always believed that you have to learn these lessons the hard way. On your own. If you don’t, you don’t actually learn from it at all. It’s like having daddy cover your mistakes or being a Kennedy and being allowed to kill someone.
My cynical nature doesn’t allow me to not look at it in a bad light. Hell, it took me so damn long to get over the so obvious game I was played for a couple years ago. Luckily, I saw it coming the second time around and didn’t fall again. I almost did, hell, I did, but I didn’t fall fully, which kept me from falling all the way. Lesson learned. And it has let me love again. A love that has had more hurt in less than a year than it should have.
“Don’t worry about it,” she whispered as she turned the ignition.
He hadn’t known this girl for more than 10 minutes, but he was getting into her Kia and not thinking twice. It was a beat up car. Definitely had seen some serious action, KFC wrappers all over the floor. “Who eats at KFC that often?” he thought to himself. “I’ll have to ask later.”
She turned out onto Lejeune Blvd. A strip of road that he had come to hate over the past few years. Before, it had just been a place that was visited a couple of times and really never thought of. Now, it was a road that led to the place he hated more than any other place he’d been to. But it appeared by getting in this beat up Kia, he’d never see it again.
“Just let me get a few miles away, then I’ll push the button.”
“Ok,” he said, not thinking really of what she meant by that.
After about six minutes of driving, she whipped out what looked like a remote control for a television.
“Here we go,” she said. “Life’s never going to be the same for me and you now.”
He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.
“Why’d you do that?” she said balkingly.
“For luck.”
“I don’t need luck,” she said, pressing a button.
A loud rumble percolated from where they had just been. Soon, a cloud of smoke appeared in the distance.
“Guess that’s done,” he said.
“It’s just beginning, darling,” she said, pointing the car west. “We’ll be in Winston-Salem before anyone figures out what happened. Then, it gets interesting.”
The next six hours were mostly silent. Her driving, me looking out the windows. I-40 has been a constant companion for me and her for the last year. She lived hundreds of miles away from me. She built weird contraptions. I sat on my butt all day at work and slowly developed Type II Diabetes. Now, I was about to start running. Not the kind that ends with you running your first 5K and posting pictures of it on Facebook in hopes of getting a few Likes and Comments from friends and people who are simply Internet friends. No, the kind of running that would involve never seeing family ever again. Of hopefully getting out of the country before sunrise, kind of running.
I guess one could say, life no longer is what it was.
Then there are the friends that you warn to back away from the ledge, only to watch them run right off of it.
Today, a friend of mine jumped off that ledge. I just hope that he finds Keith Richards when he lands. That way, he’ll be on the ledge below the ledge and not in the bottom of some endless ravine. That ravine is not a fun place to ever spend a night in. Or even an afternoon. Or a lunch break.
Driving across half of the country with that kid, I didn’t learn much more than I knew beforehand. He spent the entire time texting the woman who would later be referred to only as “the woman of my dreams.” No matter what she did to him, mentally, physically or other she could do no wrong in his eyes. I’ve been there before. The cloud of love. Or is it the fog of love? Anyway, some people are lucky and the love is returned, completely. Fully. Honestly. With no cost. No hidden Bank of America-type fees.
I hope the kid is lucky and gets that love. The first months – hell almost year – certainly don’t point to that being the case. But, I’ve always believed that you have to learn these lessons the hard way. On your own. If you don’t, you don’t actually learn from it at all. It’s like having daddy cover your mistakes or being a Kennedy and being allowed to kill someone.
My cynical nature doesn’t allow me to not look at it in a bad light. Hell, it took me so damn long to get over the so obvious game I was played for a couple years ago. Luckily, I saw it coming the second time around and didn’t fall again. I almost did, hell, I did, but I didn’t fall fully, which kept me from falling all the way. Lesson learned. And it has let me love again. A love that has had more hurt in less than a year than it should have.
“Don’t worry about it,” she whispered as she turned the ignition.
He hadn’t known this girl for more than 10 minutes, but he was getting into her Kia and not thinking twice. It was a beat up car. Definitely had seen some serious action, KFC wrappers all over the floor. “Who eats at KFC that often?” he thought to himself. “I’ll have to ask later.”
She turned out onto Lejeune Blvd. A strip of road that he had come to hate over the past few years. Before, it had just been a place that was visited a couple of times and really never thought of. Now, it was a road that led to the place he hated more than any other place he’d been to. But it appeared by getting in this beat up Kia, he’d never see it again.
“Just let me get a few miles away, then I’ll push the button.”
“Ok,” he said, not thinking really of what she meant by that.
After about six minutes of driving, she whipped out what looked like a remote control for a television.
“Here we go,” she said. “Life’s never going to be the same for me and you now.”
He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.
“Why’d you do that?” she said balkingly.
“For luck.”
“I don’t need luck,” she said, pressing a button.
A loud rumble percolated from where they had just been. Soon, a cloud of smoke appeared in the distance.
“Guess that’s done,” he said.
“It’s just beginning, darling,” she said, pointing the car west. “We’ll be in Winston-Salem before anyone figures out what happened. Then, it gets interesting.”
The next six hours were mostly silent. Her driving, me looking out the windows. I-40 has been a constant companion for me and her for the last year. She lived hundreds of miles away from me. She built weird contraptions. I sat on my butt all day at work and slowly developed Type II Diabetes. Now, I was about to start running. Not the kind that ends with you running your first 5K and posting pictures of it on Facebook in hopes of getting a few Likes and Comments from friends and people who are simply Internet friends. No, the kind of running that would involve never seeing family ever again. Of hopefully getting out of the country before sunrise, kind of running.
I guess one could say, life no longer is what it was.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
for once
Tom Petty's “So You Wanna be a Rock'n'Roll Star?” is blasting out of the jukebox as he enters the bar. A cloud of smoke billows around his face as the wind from the open door hits the stagnant atmosphere of the place.
“It feels like home again,” he says to himself.
Three weeks ago, time had kind of stopped.
His dog died first. Ol’ Sidney was just 9 years old when he ran into the street one times too many. That hound had dodged many bullets in his life, but he wasn’t about to dodge one more on that lazy Thursday night.
Two days later, at exactly 6:27 a.m. his boss called to let him know that his job didn’t exist anymore. In reality, as a newspaper reporter, his job hadn’t existed for quite a while. Instead, he was a videographer/paginator/photographer/copy editor/multimedia tweeter-facebooker who every once in a long bit got to actually write something about what was going on in the world. He wondered aloud quite often in the office the last time his pen actually hit paper.
After a three-day bender with an old college buddy, Josh, which saw them aimlessly drive – West, then South – and end up in Sierra Blanca, Texas, he got a call saying his credit card was maxed out.
“Time to go,” he said with a shrug and a pat on Josh’s back.
“Why?” Josh asks as he popped open another Budweiser.
“Money’s gone.”
“Bummer, man. I got the next round.”
The next day, they headed back to Ol’ Virgin-ia. Hung over, but happier.
However, on the following Thursday, the last bomb dropped – Amber, his stripper-turned-accountant girlfriend had decided Randy was a bum and left him for a slide guitar player for one of his favorite bands.
“Can’t get much worse than that,” Randy’s sister had said to him the next day.
And she was right. Since then, nothing had gotten any worse. Not better either, but one takes what one is given. Learned that sitting at the dinner table with my father. You put the Brussel sprouts on the floor for the dog to eat, she ain’t gonna eat them either. Why? Because they’re nasty fucking little pieces of green awfulness.
Once the dog puked it back up with a loud “Ack, ack … Hawfffffff, the smack on the back of the head and then the belt coming off wouldn’t be too far away.
“God damn son! You know how much money I have to spend feeding you? And then you just give it to the dog!”
Always in the back of my mind the thought of “isn’t mom really buying all of this?, was always there, but I never dared utter them. Fear can do that to a person.
“Sooner or later I’ve got to stop thinking about Brussel sprouts and finding a job,” I said to Manny, the bartender here at my favorite watering hole.
“Yeah, but we know that ain’t going to happen for at least another month,” he replied, always rubbing a glass with that nasty old hand towel. “You’ve got what, six weeks of unemployment left? Plus, they gave you a two-month severance package. I know you haven’t blown through that yet, have you?”
He looked at Manny. Some looks are better than words, and this was certainly one of them.
“On the house, man. On the house,” Manny said handing him mostly full bottle of J&B.
“With more friends like you …” he said smiling and drinking.
“I’d be completely out of business …”
“Fair enough.”
Thirty three minutes late, the bottle was done, and so we he. A quick glance around the place told him that staying wouldn’t hurt, but leaving wouldn’t either.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Ramirez,” Randy said ducking out the door. A Nerf football buzzed just inches away from his face as the door slammed. The orange poofy thing sat on the sidewalk teetering back and forth as he walked away.
“Missed me by that much!” he thought to himself in his best “Get Smart” Agent 86 voice.
“That was a pretty bad impression,” he heard from a nearby coffee shop table.
He glanced at the source of the voice and was pleasantly surprised it came from Amber.
“Never thought I’d see you again,” he said.
“Neither did I,” she said. “But Josh called me. Told me what you and him have been up to. Well, you mostly now as he’s in India right now.
“Yeah, making more money this week than I’ll make in three years.”
“You chose this life.”
“Did I? It’s hard for me to remember what I chose and what chose me anymore.”
“Well, let’s get you home. You need a bath.”
“Sponge?”
“Dream on, fella. My sponge days are long behind me.”
“Seriously? Those words?”
“It’s all I know fella.”
He loved the way she called him fella. She knew that. I guess she really was trying to make me feel better. For once.
“It feels like home again,” he says to himself.
Three weeks ago, time had kind of stopped.
His dog died first. Ol’ Sidney was just 9 years old when he ran into the street one times too many. That hound had dodged many bullets in his life, but he wasn’t about to dodge one more on that lazy Thursday night.
Two days later, at exactly 6:27 a.m. his boss called to let him know that his job didn’t exist anymore. In reality, as a newspaper reporter, his job hadn’t existed for quite a while. Instead, he was a videographer/paginator/photographer/copy editor/multimedia tweeter-facebooker who every once in a long bit got to actually write something about what was going on in the world. He wondered aloud quite often in the office the last time his pen actually hit paper.
After a three-day bender with an old college buddy, Josh, which saw them aimlessly drive – West, then South – and end up in Sierra Blanca, Texas, he got a call saying his credit card was maxed out.
“Time to go,” he said with a shrug and a pat on Josh’s back.
“Why?” Josh asks as he popped open another Budweiser.
“Money’s gone.”
“Bummer, man. I got the next round.”
The next day, they headed back to Ol’ Virgin-ia. Hung over, but happier.
However, on the following Thursday, the last bomb dropped – Amber, his stripper-turned-accountant girlfriend had decided Randy was a bum and left him for a slide guitar player for one of his favorite bands.
“Can’t get much worse than that,” Randy’s sister had said to him the next day.
And she was right. Since then, nothing had gotten any worse. Not better either, but one takes what one is given. Learned that sitting at the dinner table with my father. You put the Brussel sprouts on the floor for the dog to eat, she ain’t gonna eat them either. Why? Because they’re nasty fucking little pieces of green awfulness.
Once the dog puked it back up with a loud “Ack, ack … Hawfffffff, the smack on the back of the head and then the belt coming off wouldn’t be too far away.
“God damn son! You know how much money I have to spend feeding you? And then you just give it to the dog!”
Always in the back of my mind the thought of “isn’t mom really buying all of this?, was always there, but I never dared utter them. Fear can do that to a person.
“Sooner or later I’ve got to stop thinking about Brussel sprouts and finding a job,” I said to Manny, the bartender here at my favorite watering hole.
“Yeah, but we know that ain’t going to happen for at least another month,” he replied, always rubbing a glass with that nasty old hand towel. “You’ve got what, six weeks of unemployment left? Plus, they gave you a two-month severance package. I know you haven’t blown through that yet, have you?”
He looked at Manny. Some looks are better than words, and this was certainly one of them.
“On the house, man. On the house,” Manny said handing him mostly full bottle of J&B.
“With more friends like you …” he said smiling and drinking.
“I’d be completely out of business …”
“Fair enough.”
Thirty three minutes late, the bottle was done, and so we he. A quick glance around the place told him that staying wouldn’t hurt, but leaving wouldn’t either.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Ramirez,” Randy said ducking out the door. A Nerf football buzzed just inches away from his face as the door slammed. The orange poofy thing sat on the sidewalk teetering back and forth as he walked away.
“Missed me by that much!” he thought to himself in his best “Get Smart” Agent 86 voice.
“That was a pretty bad impression,” he heard from a nearby coffee shop table.
He glanced at the source of the voice and was pleasantly surprised it came from Amber.
“Never thought I’d see you again,” he said.
“Neither did I,” she said. “But Josh called me. Told me what you and him have been up to. Well, you mostly now as he’s in India right now.
“Yeah, making more money this week than I’ll make in three years.”
“You chose this life.”
“Did I? It’s hard for me to remember what I chose and what chose me anymore.”
“Well, let’s get you home. You need a bath.”
“Sponge?”
“Dream on, fella. My sponge days are long behind me.”
“Seriously? Those words?”
“It’s all I know fella.”
He loved the way she called him fella. She knew that. I guess she really was trying to make me feel better. For once.
Friday, February 24, 2012
I want my bacon
The process of losing friends is a funny one. You usually never know why it happens until after the fact, and then it’s downright sad to think that you could ever have lost a friend because of something so silly.
It can be falling love with someone else. It can be getting a job far away. I can be a single comment taken the wrong way. It can be jealousy over a job. Over money. Over an accomplishment.
One thing that it always means is you just really weren’t friends to begin with.
A wrapper from an old Kit Kat bar sits on the table. Being a diabetic, he couldn’t remember the last time he ate one. But there was a wrapper, staring back at him. Almost mockingly.
His old lamp was full of beer caps. Years worth of collecting led to that lamp finally being full. Each cap different than the next. Yet it’s hard to enjoy it now. Simply because he can no longer drink beer. Hell, drink anything fun. It’s V8 juice and water and homemade smoothies from now until the day he joins Jack Lalane in the ground.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” he thought sitting in his cubicle.
He hadn’t really moved in the last three hours. And certainly hadn’t done any work. But this is what his boss wants. Sometimes he believes it’s actually punishment for some sin done to the Napoleonic bastard.
“If you can’t do anything to fix the problem, don’t complain about it,” a co-worker said softly to another, but with just enough bile in the inflection that the meaning was conveyed.
“It is what it is,” was the boss’ favorite saying. He never fixed any problem. He let them fester and fill with puss. He was miserable, and he wanted everyone else to be so too.
“Fuck it,” was another favorite.
Somehow, the publisher never saw this side of him. Or if he did, chose to ignore it because he did plow through a lot of work. Unbelievably, he never was called on his stealing of ideas or images or words from others, snide comments from me notwithstanding.
Karma’s a funny bitch. Sometimes she bites you quick and you move on, other times she just slowly jabs you with a knife, inching it further and further into your gut with a dirty blade. Oh how I wish she’d turn her attention elsewhere for a while. But, I guess one gets what one deserves. And now, this is what I deserve.
The fog settled in on the island. The warm February days were still not normal for her. The water was cold and the days when the temps dipped back to the 20s made damn sure she wouldn’t feel normal for a while.
Today? It’s supposed to be 70 degrees with severe thunderstorms.
“Maybe a tornado will come and fucking wipe that shithole off the face of the planet,” he thought casually about the place of employment. “Maybe a bit harsh,” he continued to think, “but dammit, it may be the only way to get out of there alive.”
“Have you ever fucked in a booth in a Denny’s?” she asked with all seriousness.
“Nah,” he said. “But I’d sure give it a go.”
“Awkward,” she said with a snort. “We’re in a Waffle House.”
“Who said I wanted to fuck you?” he said, trying to be funny but knowing before the words finished coming out of his mouth that he’d regret them.
“Oh really,” she snapped. “That hard on you had last night while we were watching “Full House” was because of the Olsen Twins then?”
Blood rushed to my face. I could feel it. I’d pretty much thought that my strategic placing of a pillow moments after the erection saved me this embarrassment. But alas, she was once again, smarter and quicker than me.
It’s why I dug her so.
“I’ve always been a Bob Saget kind of guy,” I replied.
“Weak,” she said. “If you’d said Joey Gladstone I would have blown you in the parking lot.”
“Kind of like knowing the name of the guy who played Matt Houston,” I replied.
“What? Lee Horsely? The poor man’s Tom Selleck?”
“Dammit.”
“You know you love it.”
“More than you know.” Once again, too much information coming from my mouth.
“I think I’ve got a pretty good read on you Mr. Jones. And you have no reason to be worried. I like you too.”
“You want to get out of this place?”
“No, not yet. I want my bacon.”
It can be falling love with someone else. It can be getting a job far away. I can be a single comment taken the wrong way. It can be jealousy over a job. Over money. Over an accomplishment.
One thing that it always means is you just really weren’t friends to begin with.
A wrapper from an old Kit Kat bar sits on the table. Being a diabetic, he couldn’t remember the last time he ate one. But there was a wrapper, staring back at him. Almost mockingly.
His old lamp was full of beer caps. Years worth of collecting led to that lamp finally being full. Each cap different than the next. Yet it’s hard to enjoy it now. Simply because he can no longer drink beer. Hell, drink anything fun. It’s V8 juice and water and homemade smoothies from now until the day he joins Jack Lalane in the ground.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” he thought sitting in his cubicle.
He hadn’t really moved in the last three hours. And certainly hadn’t done any work. But this is what his boss wants. Sometimes he believes it’s actually punishment for some sin done to the Napoleonic bastard.
“If you can’t do anything to fix the problem, don’t complain about it,” a co-worker said softly to another, but with just enough bile in the inflection that the meaning was conveyed.
“It is what it is,” was the boss’ favorite saying. He never fixed any problem. He let them fester and fill with puss. He was miserable, and he wanted everyone else to be so too.
“Fuck it,” was another favorite.
Somehow, the publisher never saw this side of him. Or if he did, chose to ignore it because he did plow through a lot of work. Unbelievably, he never was called on his stealing of ideas or images or words from others, snide comments from me notwithstanding.
Karma’s a funny bitch. Sometimes she bites you quick and you move on, other times she just slowly jabs you with a knife, inching it further and further into your gut with a dirty blade. Oh how I wish she’d turn her attention elsewhere for a while. But, I guess one gets what one deserves. And now, this is what I deserve.
The fog settled in on the island. The warm February days were still not normal for her. The water was cold and the days when the temps dipped back to the 20s made damn sure she wouldn’t feel normal for a while.
Today? It’s supposed to be 70 degrees with severe thunderstorms.
“Maybe a tornado will come and fucking wipe that shithole off the face of the planet,” he thought casually about the place of employment. “Maybe a bit harsh,” he continued to think, “but dammit, it may be the only way to get out of there alive.”
“Have you ever fucked in a booth in a Denny’s?” she asked with all seriousness.
“Nah,” he said. “But I’d sure give it a go.”
“Awkward,” she said with a snort. “We’re in a Waffle House.”
“Who said I wanted to fuck you?” he said, trying to be funny but knowing before the words finished coming out of his mouth that he’d regret them.
“Oh really,” she snapped. “That hard on you had last night while we were watching “Full House” was because of the Olsen Twins then?”
Blood rushed to my face. I could feel it. I’d pretty much thought that my strategic placing of a pillow moments after the erection saved me this embarrassment. But alas, she was once again, smarter and quicker than me.
It’s why I dug her so.
“I’ve always been a Bob Saget kind of guy,” I replied.
“Weak,” she said. “If you’d said Joey Gladstone I would have blown you in the parking lot.”
“Kind of like knowing the name of the guy who played Matt Houston,” I replied.
“What? Lee Horsely? The poor man’s Tom Selleck?”
“Dammit.”
“You know you love it.”
“More than you know.” Once again, too much information coming from my mouth.
“I think I’ve got a pretty good read on you Mr. Jones. And you have no reason to be worried. I like you too.”
“You want to get out of this place?”
“No, not yet. I want my bacon.”
Thursday, February 23, 2012
-30-
Walked into the bar about 3 p.m. That damn Eddie Money song “Baby, Hold on to Me” was playing a bit too loudly from the jukebox. My eyes peeled about the place to see who the most likely candidate for plunking down a quarter to play this monstrosity was, and they settled on the 40-ish blonde woman wearing a flannel and jeans in the most lit-up portion of the place.
She had a smile on her face and a pint of Guinness in front of her.
“I can appreciate that,” I thought to myself while forgiving her from her musical sins.
I looked up at Joey the bartender and pointed at the whiskeys behind him.
“A double,” I said bluntly.
“You got it Randolph,” he said with a grin. We both knew what kind of a day it was going to be if I was sitting on my personal barstool at 3 in the afternoon.
He handed me the glass and tapped the bar with his finger.
“It’s been two years now, hasn’t it?” he asked knowingly.
“Yeah, almost to the minute now,” I responded before taking a shot swig of whiskey. It felt good in my mouth for that moment before it burns the back of your throat. I needed that burn right now, hopefully by the end of the night, it wouldn’t burn anymore.
Joey turned a walked over to the lady in the flannel. I watched as he sauntered over, said something to her, sparking a laugh from her tired face, then went back to watching some soccer match on the television.
She looked at me and smiled. I returned the favor the best I could. I really wasn’t in the mood for a bar conversation. It’s why I came to Joey’s on a Thursday afternoon at 3. Well, I came here because I didn’t want to think about anything else. I wanted to get away from the ghosts of my house. Everywhere I looked they watched me back. They screamed at me like Tom Keifer in a Cinderella ballad.
So I got out of bed and came straight here. Didn’t write a word this morning even though my column with the local newspaper is due in about three hours. They’d figure out that I wasn’t going to write one and pluck in one of my “pre-written” pieces. I made a deal with the editor a year ago when I started to slip. He came to me and said they were going to fire me for missing deadline so much. Even though my column had a following, and I didn’t ask for much money, they needed it to be “ON TIME!”, he yelled.
In my mind, an idea popped up and like I usually do with everyone but the ones I love I blurted out that thought immediately – “I can write you a gaggle of columns in advance to keep in the hopper. Just so you can have a backup for when I fuck up!”
I was a little too proud of that line, and it showed. My editor looked at me and shook his head.
“You’re a real prince, Randolph,” he said. “A fucking prince.”
“It’s why ya love me, Deno,” I replied. He hated being called Deno. It was his dad’s name, he always said. Not his. Even though he was a Junior and all. But damn if anyone ever called him Junior, other than his mom – who happened to own the paper and love me.
That night I wrote 17 columns for the “emergency” backup plan.
So far, 11 of them have run in a little over a year.
Deno turned a left the building after I got out my laptop. Not a lot of folks carry one of these things anymore, but I love mine. It’s seen me cry. It’s seem me smile. Hell, it’s seen me cum, though luckily never on the keys.
I typed up some words and got distracted by the jukebox again. This time it was Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” This song reminded me of middle school. Of having a huge crush on a waif-thin black girl whose mom worked with my mom at the school board office. She had braces and eyes that would kill, if she’d been old enough to know.
My buddy and I tried to get her to hang out with us a couple of times. She lived really close to him for a while. But she’d never go for it. By high school she was cool, we weren’t and it was just accepted.
I decided to write my column about her. It ended up being 23 inches long by the end. “Guess they’ll have to jump this one,” I thought to myself. Deno hated jumping columns. Thought it was “Poofy Stuff!” he’d yell. I tended to agree. If you can’t get to the point in 18 inches, get out of my way. But sometimes, hell, most of the times, it had to be longer.
I marked it with a -30- and pushed send. I knew the 22-year-old who would open this always stared at the markings at the end of the stories. He asked me one time what it meant.
“Death of Journalism, my man,” I said with a tip of the hat. A fedora? Hell no. An ironic Lucero trucker hat.
She had a smile on her face and a pint of Guinness in front of her.
“I can appreciate that,” I thought to myself while forgiving her from her musical sins.
I looked up at Joey the bartender and pointed at the whiskeys behind him.
“A double,” I said bluntly.
“You got it Randolph,” he said with a grin. We both knew what kind of a day it was going to be if I was sitting on my personal barstool at 3 in the afternoon.
He handed me the glass and tapped the bar with his finger.
“It’s been two years now, hasn’t it?” he asked knowingly.
“Yeah, almost to the minute now,” I responded before taking a shot swig of whiskey. It felt good in my mouth for that moment before it burns the back of your throat. I needed that burn right now, hopefully by the end of the night, it wouldn’t burn anymore.
Joey turned a walked over to the lady in the flannel. I watched as he sauntered over, said something to her, sparking a laugh from her tired face, then went back to watching some soccer match on the television.
She looked at me and smiled. I returned the favor the best I could. I really wasn’t in the mood for a bar conversation. It’s why I came to Joey’s on a Thursday afternoon at 3. Well, I came here because I didn’t want to think about anything else. I wanted to get away from the ghosts of my house. Everywhere I looked they watched me back. They screamed at me like Tom Keifer in a Cinderella ballad.
So I got out of bed and came straight here. Didn’t write a word this morning even though my column with the local newspaper is due in about three hours. They’d figure out that I wasn’t going to write one and pluck in one of my “pre-written” pieces. I made a deal with the editor a year ago when I started to slip. He came to me and said they were going to fire me for missing deadline so much. Even though my column had a following, and I didn’t ask for much money, they needed it to be “ON TIME!”, he yelled.
In my mind, an idea popped up and like I usually do with everyone but the ones I love I blurted out that thought immediately – “I can write you a gaggle of columns in advance to keep in the hopper. Just so you can have a backup for when I fuck up!”
I was a little too proud of that line, and it showed. My editor looked at me and shook his head.
“You’re a real prince, Randolph,” he said. “A fucking prince.”
“It’s why ya love me, Deno,” I replied. He hated being called Deno. It was his dad’s name, he always said. Not his. Even though he was a Junior and all. But damn if anyone ever called him Junior, other than his mom – who happened to own the paper and love me.
That night I wrote 17 columns for the “emergency” backup plan.
So far, 11 of them have run in a little over a year.
Deno turned a left the building after I got out my laptop. Not a lot of folks carry one of these things anymore, but I love mine. It’s seen me cry. It’s seem me smile. Hell, it’s seen me cum, though luckily never on the keys.
I typed up some words and got distracted by the jukebox again. This time it was Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” This song reminded me of middle school. Of having a huge crush on a waif-thin black girl whose mom worked with my mom at the school board office. She had braces and eyes that would kill, if she’d been old enough to know.
My buddy and I tried to get her to hang out with us a couple of times. She lived really close to him for a while. But she’d never go for it. By high school she was cool, we weren’t and it was just accepted.
I decided to write my column about her. It ended up being 23 inches long by the end. “Guess they’ll have to jump this one,” I thought to myself. Deno hated jumping columns. Thought it was “Poofy Stuff!” he’d yell. I tended to agree. If you can’t get to the point in 18 inches, get out of my way. But sometimes, hell, most of the times, it had to be longer.
I marked it with a -30- and pushed send. I knew the 22-year-old who would open this always stared at the markings at the end of the stories. He asked me one time what it meant.
“Death of Journalism, my man,” I said with a tip of the hat. A fedora? Hell no. An ironic Lucero trucker hat.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
potato skins
The miles peeled off in front of me like potato skins. Eastern North Carolina back roads seem to be like that more so than the roads of my old state – Virginia.
It’s hard for me to believe sometimes that I’ve spent over a decade in this state. It started off so promising, got really good, then fell apart in the blink of an eye one night sitting amongst a collection of crap that put me in debt over the years. I still remember staring at all those boxes of shit, moved from North Carolina to Florida and back again and never leaving those damn U-Haul boxes once. What a waste of space and time and money and any other thing that one wastes. Life? Sure, why not.
I looked out my window. The sun was setting to the west, which happened to be the opposite direction I was going. The pastel colors of the sunsets here are beautiful, especially the closer one gets to the ocean. The only good thing about going east around here is you end up at the ocean eventually. Through some interesting territory sometimes, full of Confederate flags and beat up Camaros on blocks in front of even more beat up double-wides. I look at those places and wonder how awesome it would be to just move in and do that. Stop thinking so much about the past, the present and the future. Instead, just exist for a bit and work on my Camaro.
Of course, then there is the worst part of getting to the beach – the way it’s been transformed into a mini-Wildwood by the fuckers from the north. Yeah, the Yankees. Some in this state would call me a Yank, coming from the southern part of Virginia. But I’ve got an accent, more of it comes out when I’ve been drinking or when I’m nervous as hell. Which isn’t too often anymore.
The radio’s not giving me what I want at the moment. Double shot of Pink Floyd by some station in Raleigh that is most likely playing a Clear Channel approved set list. I push the button. Then I push it again. And repeat and repeat.
The best song I can find on this Wednesday night in February is Eddie Money’s “Baby, Hold on to Me.” I guess it really could be worse, but at the moment I don’t think it is.
I thought about telling her last night the name I had been thinking about. She’d asked before and I said I hadn’t thought of one. But that was before that night in New Orleans when everything changed. When we had to live through the worst night of my life.
It makes me cringe thinking of how I used to think that no pain could be worse than the one I got when the redhead broke my heart. She wasn’t the first, and much to my shock at that time, wasn’t the last either. But I nearly killed myself over it. Came within a phone call not answered of at least trying it once.
But now, that seems small compared.
As does the first time I found out that I could’ve been a dad. Even though I guess I wouldn’t have been.
It was in New Orleans too.
I still remember the bricks of the building we were walking past. The Spanish moss in the trees. And the incredible sinking feeling inside of me when she told me about the abortion. Things have never been the same since that day. It took me a long time to realize it.
Now, that pales.
The memory I can’t get out of my head is her eyes. The pain she was in. Not just physically. The mental anguish of what was happening was impossible for me to stop.
I held her hand. I told her to look into my eyes. Over and over. It happened and it was over. I almost looked down, but I didn’t. I still don’t know if she did. We said we wouldn’t and I don’t think she did either.
Honestly, I didn’t want the memory. I’m too good at them.
Now, I wonder if she would have liked the name I liked. Mellor. It’s strange enough but perfectly fitting for me to name a kid that. I liked Darby as well, but knew that it wouldn’t fly. Maybe not with her, but with my mind. So, I settled on Mellor. I guess many would have expected HRJ the IV. But I didn’t seem to think it would fit. Maybe I would have grown into that idea. Maybe not.
All I know is I want that memory out of my mind. Her eyes looking at mine. They were begging me to fix it. And I knew I couldn’t.
I was strong that night. Strong for her. I nearly cried when the doctor told us exactly what had happened. The tears were there, but they didn’t flow.
Later, while she slept, I called my mom and told her. I almost cried then.
That was as close as I’ve gotten. And I don’t know if I’m ever going to. I want to. But they just don’t want to form. Don’t want to come.
The Eddie Money song ends. A commercial for some local car dealer comes on. Telling me I need a new car. I sigh a long sigh and watch as the sun disappears beyond the trees of the Croatan National Forest.
“I’ll be home soon,” I think.
It’s hard for me to believe sometimes that I’ve spent over a decade in this state. It started off so promising, got really good, then fell apart in the blink of an eye one night sitting amongst a collection of crap that put me in debt over the years. I still remember staring at all those boxes of shit, moved from North Carolina to Florida and back again and never leaving those damn U-Haul boxes once. What a waste of space and time and money and any other thing that one wastes. Life? Sure, why not.
I looked out my window. The sun was setting to the west, which happened to be the opposite direction I was going. The pastel colors of the sunsets here are beautiful, especially the closer one gets to the ocean. The only good thing about going east around here is you end up at the ocean eventually. Through some interesting territory sometimes, full of Confederate flags and beat up Camaros on blocks in front of even more beat up double-wides. I look at those places and wonder how awesome it would be to just move in and do that. Stop thinking so much about the past, the present and the future. Instead, just exist for a bit and work on my Camaro.
Of course, then there is the worst part of getting to the beach – the way it’s been transformed into a mini-Wildwood by the fuckers from the north. Yeah, the Yankees. Some in this state would call me a Yank, coming from the southern part of Virginia. But I’ve got an accent, more of it comes out when I’ve been drinking or when I’m nervous as hell. Which isn’t too often anymore.
The radio’s not giving me what I want at the moment. Double shot of Pink Floyd by some station in Raleigh that is most likely playing a Clear Channel approved set list. I push the button. Then I push it again. And repeat and repeat.
The best song I can find on this Wednesday night in February is Eddie Money’s “Baby, Hold on to Me.” I guess it really could be worse, but at the moment I don’t think it is.
I thought about telling her last night the name I had been thinking about. She’d asked before and I said I hadn’t thought of one. But that was before that night in New Orleans when everything changed. When we had to live through the worst night of my life.
It makes me cringe thinking of how I used to think that no pain could be worse than the one I got when the redhead broke my heart. She wasn’t the first, and much to my shock at that time, wasn’t the last either. But I nearly killed myself over it. Came within a phone call not answered of at least trying it once.
But now, that seems small compared.
As does the first time I found out that I could’ve been a dad. Even though I guess I wouldn’t have been.
It was in New Orleans too.
I still remember the bricks of the building we were walking past. The Spanish moss in the trees. And the incredible sinking feeling inside of me when she told me about the abortion. Things have never been the same since that day. It took me a long time to realize it.
Now, that pales.
The memory I can’t get out of my head is her eyes. The pain she was in. Not just physically. The mental anguish of what was happening was impossible for me to stop.
I held her hand. I told her to look into my eyes. Over and over. It happened and it was over. I almost looked down, but I didn’t. I still don’t know if she did. We said we wouldn’t and I don’t think she did either.
Honestly, I didn’t want the memory. I’m too good at them.
Now, I wonder if she would have liked the name I liked. Mellor. It’s strange enough but perfectly fitting for me to name a kid that. I liked Darby as well, but knew that it wouldn’t fly. Maybe not with her, but with my mind. So, I settled on Mellor. I guess many would have expected HRJ the IV. But I didn’t seem to think it would fit. Maybe I would have grown into that idea. Maybe not.
All I know is I want that memory out of my mind. Her eyes looking at mine. They were begging me to fix it. And I knew I couldn’t.
I was strong that night. Strong for her. I nearly cried when the doctor told us exactly what had happened. The tears were there, but they didn’t flow.
Later, while she slept, I called my mom and told her. I almost cried then.
That was as close as I’ve gotten. And I don’t know if I’m ever going to. I want to. But they just don’t want to form. Don’t want to come.
The Eddie Money song ends. A commercial for some local car dealer comes on. Telling me I need a new car. I sigh a long sigh and watch as the sun disappears beyond the trees of the Croatan National Forest.
“I’ll be home soon,” I think.
Friday, February 3, 2012
inside his mind for a moment
“Yeah, I’m done,” he said as he closed his laptop. “I’m tired of it all. Checking Facebook. Checking Twitter. Pinning my interests. Blogging my thoughts. Hell, I can’t even come to delete my Myspace page.”
Holding on to the past was always smart. Now, it’s a pain in the ass. He used to read old writings. Remember how it felt. Sometimes become happy in the realization that it wasn’t as bad anymore. Now, there just doesn’t seem to be any time for it. Too much going on to spend time there.
Some would say “that’s awesome.” But not him. He misses the time spent crafting something. Thinking about something deeper than the newly reunited David Lee Roth Van Halen and whether or not tweeting 140 character or less reviews of each song on a shitty album is genuinely productive or not.
The temptation of turning it all off is always there. Just like the temptation to not do anything at all. Lately, the not do anything at all has won. And it sickens him. “So get off your ass and do something,” they say from the rafters, all the while not fucking doing anything themselves except consuming and expecting others to do things for them.
Yesterday, for instance, the fourth person in the last two weeks told him to “lie about it” when applying for jobs. Hiring agencies and bosses “don’t want to hear you’re a quick learner and can figure it out.” No, they want to hear “I have experience doing that and can do it well.”
“Fuck being honest, I guess,” he thinks. “It won’t get your anywhere anymore. At least as long as they don’t check up on it.”
So, he continues to toil at a shitty job. He’s good at it. But working two or three hours a day out of the eight spent in the office – added to the hour drive back and forth to the workplace – and it all seems so pointless. So pathetic. Watching a field die that he went all in on is saddening. But he also knows that wallowing in it and feeling sorry for himself ain’t gonna get him a job somewhere else. So, just like three years ago, he keeps sending resumes out. A rarity is a response, but it’s not unexpected.
He doesn’t drink much anymore. When he does, two or three beers is enough. “Is this getting old?” he wonders at night as Netflix brings him a six-year old episode of “Law & Order.” But how many times can one search for a leak of an album by your favorite band. Same websites over and over. All pointing to other websites in a fruitless attempt to take over his computer with spam and adware and such.
Next thing you know, the acid reflux from the night before will comeback. He thinks it only came about because the hamburger he cooked with was a little “gamey”, but he can’t be sure. Getting old and all. The leftover part of that meal is still in the fridge. It’ll sit there for weeks before he finally throws it out. It’s more about not wanting to wash the dish than anything else. Some would call it laziness, but he doesn’t, he calls it apathy.
Speaking of, a conversation occurred the other day and he didn’t hear a single word. But said “Yep,” at the end. Wondering if he just sold his dog or agreed to a lunch date with the fat girl at work? Guess, he’ll find out soon enough.
His car just passed 55,000 miles, in about 20 months. Kind of scary to think he’s been in the car that long. Lately, there have been lots of dreams (well, three remembered ones, which for him is an epic amount) about car wrecks. It makes him pause and drive a little safer. Especially after getting a second ticket in less than a year. This one for “following too close” even though it was caused by a truck pulling out into fast traffic, but the officer wanted none of that, even though he said “yeah, I saw that happen. You should have slowed down.”
He’s right, but he doesn’t want to listen to that shit. Cops are shitbags. Just like shitbags are full of shit and bags of dicks still make him smile.
That’s a line that will one day lead to strange amounts of Asian porn spam. For sure.
He just wants this to end. And finally it is going to.
Holding on to the past was always smart. Now, it’s a pain in the ass. He used to read old writings. Remember how it felt. Sometimes become happy in the realization that it wasn’t as bad anymore. Now, there just doesn’t seem to be any time for it. Too much going on to spend time there.
Some would say “that’s awesome.” But not him. He misses the time spent crafting something. Thinking about something deeper than the newly reunited David Lee Roth Van Halen and whether or not tweeting 140 character or less reviews of each song on a shitty album is genuinely productive or not.
The temptation of turning it all off is always there. Just like the temptation to not do anything at all. Lately, the not do anything at all has won. And it sickens him. “So get off your ass and do something,” they say from the rafters, all the while not fucking doing anything themselves except consuming and expecting others to do things for them.
Yesterday, for instance, the fourth person in the last two weeks told him to “lie about it” when applying for jobs. Hiring agencies and bosses “don’t want to hear you’re a quick learner and can figure it out.” No, they want to hear “I have experience doing that and can do it well.”
“Fuck being honest, I guess,” he thinks. “It won’t get your anywhere anymore. At least as long as they don’t check up on it.”
So, he continues to toil at a shitty job. He’s good at it. But working two or three hours a day out of the eight spent in the office – added to the hour drive back and forth to the workplace – and it all seems so pointless. So pathetic. Watching a field die that he went all in on is saddening. But he also knows that wallowing in it and feeling sorry for himself ain’t gonna get him a job somewhere else. So, just like three years ago, he keeps sending resumes out. A rarity is a response, but it’s not unexpected.
He doesn’t drink much anymore. When he does, two or three beers is enough. “Is this getting old?” he wonders at night as Netflix brings him a six-year old episode of “Law & Order.” But how many times can one search for a leak of an album by your favorite band. Same websites over and over. All pointing to other websites in a fruitless attempt to take over his computer with spam and adware and such.
Next thing you know, the acid reflux from the night before will comeback. He thinks it only came about because the hamburger he cooked with was a little “gamey”, but he can’t be sure. Getting old and all. The leftover part of that meal is still in the fridge. It’ll sit there for weeks before he finally throws it out. It’s more about not wanting to wash the dish than anything else. Some would call it laziness, but he doesn’t, he calls it apathy.
Speaking of, a conversation occurred the other day and he didn’t hear a single word. But said “Yep,” at the end. Wondering if he just sold his dog or agreed to a lunch date with the fat girl at work? Guess, he’ll find out soon enough.
His car just passed 55,000 miles, in about 20 months. Kind of scary to think he’s been in the car that long. Lately, there have been lots of dreams (well, three remembered ones, which for him is an epic amount) about car wrecks. It makes him pause and drive a little safer. Especially after getting a second ticket in less than a year. This one for “following too close” even though it was caused by a truck pulling out into fast traffic, but the officer wanted none of that, even though he said “yeah, I saw that happen. You should have slowed down.”
He’s right, but he doesn’t want to listen to that shit. Cops are shitbags. Just like shitbags are full of shit and bags of dicks still make him smile.
That’s a line that will one day lead to strange amounts of Asian porn spam. For sure.
He just wants this to end. And finally it is going to.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Rob, Halford
“Does anyone really even like T.Rex?” she said with a shrug.
“I fucking love T. Rex,” I thought to myself sitting there watching this 20-something gal pontificate on the importance of Marc Bolan’s output. While T.Rex certainly deserves some love, I wish someone would take “The Slider” off of repeat in this bar.
“OK, life is too damn short,” she said. “For anyone to be forced to listen to this shit while drinking this shit,” she mockingly points at her empty bottle of Miller Lite.
I could fall in love with this gal. If only I wasn’t already in love with another. I turned away before I either fell too hard, or she saw me staring. And with that short dress of red, who wouldn’t stare?
“Hey kid?” Manny asked. “What do you think of T.Rex?”
“Fucking asshole,” I thought to myself. He knows damn well that I always look at Darby when she’s in there. Always thinking about her legs, her eyes and her damn ability to make me fucking nervous and nuts.
“You know, Manny, I was born to boogie,” was all I could muster.
She laughed. I tipped my bottle of Shiner Bock in her direction and thought I’d instantly regret it. But I didn’t. She looked me up, then down, then turned back to her friend – and my friend – Alexander Rifken.
Yeah, everyone called him Alex, except for me. I used his whole name. One day he got up on a bar stool and proclaimed that his name was no longer Alexander, it was just Alex. But me, Manny and Darby were all grandfathered. We could still call him Alex.
Fucking great guy Alex. Don’t have much use for Alexander.
I didn’t sleep much last night. The kid kept me up. He cries a lot. Hell, I cry a lot. I hope he didn’t get that from watching me. Although we do watch each other a whole bunch. He seems to sleep better when I’m typing. So, my writing, while not improving or really going anywheres, has become prolific.
Last night I wrote a line that seemed so silly, so dumb I had to read it to him. After I was done, he smiled. And I cried. Fucker looks like her. Not that it’s his fault. Hell, he’s lucky he doesn’t look like me. That’s a fucking curse.
Yesterday I got a check in the mail from the government. They keep sending ‘em, so I keep cashing them. My lawyer, well, the guy I met one night at Manny’s who is a lawyer and gives free advice to those who continuously buy him shots of Jager, told me that one day they’d either stop coming or a letter would show up telling me to pay it all back. Well, it’s been sixteen months and neither of those things has happened yet. So, I’m not going to try and fix the glitch. Instead, I’m going to stay gainfully unemployed and write. One day I may actually try to send something to someone who doesn’t think I’m talented or cute or humble or family. Someone who didn’t break my heart so I broke it right back. Anyone who’d keep coming back after I pissed ‘em off for the 100th time. Or the first time. Never the last time.
There are days when the words flow. There are nights when I wish they didn’t.
Today wasn’t one of those days. I tried to put myself back in the place I was before it happened. Before she went away. For good. Those days I went to a job that I hated. A place where I worked for maybe an hour a day, but had to stay there for eight. The people either smelled bad or had given up. A couple tried to pretend they hadn’t yet, but their faces and their bellies told a different story. I guess it happens. It happened to me. That’s why I stayed there so god damned long. Just existing. Waiting for the next thing to happen. And it did. Completely unexpectedly. Completely not on purpose. Excactly the way it should happen. Exactly the way I always tell other love-lorned morons.
If you look for something, you won’t find it.
Eh, bullshit.
If you watch a fucking pot, it will boil. It will take exactly the same amount of time to boil as it did last time.
All that shit, it’s a lie. Just fucking live your life the way you want to. If you want to sit in your room and never come out to say hello to your roommates, fucking do it.
If you want to steal. Rob.
If you want to Rob, fucking Halford.
But god damn it, if you want to write … just stop. The world doesn’t need another one.
“I fucking love T. Rex,” I thought to myself sitting there watching this 20-something gal pontificate on the importance of Marc Bolan’s output. While T.Rex certainly deserves some love, I wish someone would take “The Slider” off of repeat in this bar.
“OK, life is too damn short,” she said. “For anyone to be forced to listen to this shit while drinking this shit,” she mockingly points at her empty bottle of Miller Lite.
I could fall in love with this gal. If only I wasn’t already in love with another. I turned away before I either fell too hard, or she saw me staring. And with that short dress of red, who wouldn’t stare?
“Hey kid?” Manny asked. “What do you think of T.Rex?”
“Fucking asshole,” I thought to myself. He knows damn well that I always look at Darby when she’s in there. Always thinking about her legs, her eyes and her damn ability to make me fucking nervous and nuts.
“You know, Manny, I was born to boogie,” was all I could muster.
She laughed. I tipped my bottle of Shiner Bock in her direction and thought I’d instantly regret it. But I didn’t. She looked me up, then down, then turned back to her friend – and my friend – Alexander Rifken.
Yeah, everyone called him Alex, except for me. I used his whole name. One day he got up on a bar stool and proclaimed that his name was no longer Alexander, it was just Alex. But me, Manny and Darby were all grandfathered. We could still call him Alex.
Fucking great guy Alex. Don’t have much use for Alexander.
I didn’t sleep much last night. The kid kept me up. He cries a lot. Hell, I cry a lot. I hope he didn’t get that from watching me. Although we do watch each other a whole bunch. He seems to sleep better when I’m typing. So, my writing, while not improving or really going anywheres, has become prolific.
Last night I wrote a line that seemed so silly, so dumb I had to read it to him. After I was done, he smiled. And I cried. Fucker looks like her. Not that it’s his fault. Hell, he’s lucky he doesn’t look like me. That’s a fucking curse.
Yesterday I got a check in the mail from the government. They keep sending ‘em, so I keep cashing them. My lawyer, well, the guy I met one night at Manny’s who is a lawyer and gives free advice to those who continuously buy him shots of Jager, told me that one day they’d either stop coming or a letter would show up telling me to pay it all back. Well, it’s been sixteen months and neither of those things has happened yet. So, I’m not going to try and fix the glitch. Instead, I’m going to stay gainfully unemployed and write. One day I may actually try to send something to someone who doesn’t think I’m talented or cute or humble or family. Someone who didn’t break my heart so I broke it right back. Anyone who’d keep coming back after I pissed ‘em off for the 100th time. Or the first time. Never the last time.
There are days when the words flow. There are nights when I wish they didn’t.
Today wasn’t one of those days. I tried to put myself back in the place I was before it happened. Before she went away. For good. Those days I went to a job that I hated. A place where I worked for maybe an hour a day, but had to stay there for eight. The people either smelled bad or had given up. A couple tried to pretend they hadn’t yet, but their faces and their bellies told a different story. I guess it happens. It happened to me. That’s why I stayed there so god damned long. Just existing. Waiting for the next thing to happen. And it did. Completely unexpectedly. Completely not on purpose. Excactly the way it should happen. Exactly the way I always tell other love-lorned morons.
If you look for something, you won’t find it.
Eh, bullshit.
If you watch a fucking pot, it will boil. It will take exactly the same amount of time to boil as it did last time.
All that shit, it’s a lie. Just fucking live your life the way you want to. If you want to sit in your room and never come out to say hello to your roommates, fucking do it.
If you want to steal. Rob.
If you want to Rob, fucking Halford.
But god damn it, if you want to write … just stop. The world doesn’t need another one.
Monday, January 30, 2012
the kid
Bob Marley’s “Talkin’ Blues” was playing on the jukebox when I entered Manny’s bar on Conti. Over the years, usually when I got to Conti, it was after a night alone in a hotel room wondering about the past. A curse that has stuck with me since grade school.
I looked around the place. It was dark, dirty and full of smoke. Another rarity in these days was a bar full of smokers. I’m not a smoker, never was. But I found something comforting about being in a dive with the hovering cloud of those that did.
“Hey Kid,” Manny said as I sat down at the bar. Funny, I’m 43 years old, he’s maybe 45. Yet from the first time I stepped foot in his bar, he called me “Kid.” Reminded me of that Jeff Nichols’ movie “Shotgun Stories” where all three main characters were named “Kid” “Boy and “Son”. When that movie came out, life for me was pretty shitty. Now? It’s up and down and all over the place.
I ordered an Abita amber. Always did for the first beer when I was at Manny’s. He didn’t put it out for me before I ordered it. He knew that I’d rather not feel like that much of a regular. Even though I asked him to put The Replacements in the juke one day. Just so I could hear “Here Comes a Regular” whenever I wanted.
First sip taken, I sighed a long, low sigh.
“Long day there, Randy?” Manny asked.
“Nah, just the normal. Diapers, words and more diapers.”
“that kid hasn’t learned to shit in a toilet yet?”
“Nah, he’s stubborn. Sometimes, he’ll look at me and say with his eyes “I’m going for the toilet’ and then shit in the floor. I think it’s game at this time. I’m not too worried. Hell, I shit in my pants til I was 10 probably. Not because I couldn’t, but because I hated to do it in public restrooms. So, I’d hold it in and hold it in. Eventually, you lose that battle.”
“Amen to that, Kid.”
“How’s business, Manny? Haven’t seen a lot of folks around this week?”
“Yeah, seems like the cold weather is forcing folks to stay away. Never a good thing. I hate the cold weather. Reminds me of 2012.”
He regretted saying it as soon as those digits came out of his mouth. He looked away, then down at his feet. Trying everything he could not to make eye contact.
“Don’t worry Manny,” I said. “She’s been gone almost two years now. If there’s one thing life taught me, it’s to not count on someone being around for the long haul. Whether it’s death or life, something’s going to convince them it’s time to go.”
“You saying shit like that? That’s like Paula Deen cooking without butter.”
“What can I say? Eventually, you move on. Even from the worst things.
“Time will take hold,” I finished off with, then commenced to finishing off my beer.
“Guess you’re right. Guess you’re right,” Manny said as he poured a double shot of Jameson. Tapping the bar, he walked away.
I stared at the shot glass for a good five minutes, Bob wailing away about shooting a sheriff and all, before I noticed that it was raining outside.
“The world’ll be cleaner in a minute,” I thought, taking the shot and downing it.
“See you in a few, Manny,” I said as I got up. He was talking to some blonde-haired floozy that had taken to hanging out the last couple of weeks. Manny really liked her. And I hoped she liked him too, not just the free drinks.
“Where you going, Kid? Ya just got here.”
“Got to do some writing. It’s been too damn long.”
“You a writer?” the blonde said, perking up a little too much for Manny’s liking.
“Nah, I just dabble in it,” I replied. “They pay me to sit behind a piece of bullet-proof glass and hand out cigarettes now.”
“But you said you had to do some writing?” she asked again, this time causing Manny to turn and flip a new CD in the player. Thin Lizzy’s “Jailbreak”. He knew that album caused me pain, so it was a message.
“Just because someone can write, doesn’t make them a writer,” I said with a tip of my cap.
“Manny, stay cool, I’m out of here,” I finished and pushed open the doors. It was pouring outside. I was going to get wet, very wet, on the walk home.
In the distance, a lightning bolt lit up the sky. I stood in the middle of the street admiring it for a moment. One that didn’t last. They never do, especially when you want them to.
I looked around the place. It was dark, dirty and full of smoke. Another rarity in these days was a bar full of smokers. I’m not a smoker, never was. But I found something comforting about being in a dive with the hovering cloud of those that did.
“Hey Kid,” Manny said as I sat down at the bar. Funny, I’m 43 years old, he’s maybe 45. Yet from the first time I stepped foot in his bar, he called me “Kid.” Reminded me of that Jeff Nichols’ movie “Shotgun Stories” where all three main characters were named “Kid” “Boy and “Son”. When that movie came out, life for me was pretty shitty. Now? It’s up and down and all over the place.
I ordered an Abita amber. Always did for the first beer when I was at Manny’s. He didn’t put it out for me before I ordered it. He knew that I’d rather not feel like that much of a regular. Even though I asked him to put The Replacements in the juke one day. Just so I could hear “Here Comes a Regular” whenever I wanted.
First sip taken, I sighed a long, low sigh.
“Long day there, Randy?” Manny asked.
“Nah, just the normal. Diapers, words and more diapers.”
“that kid hasn’t learned to shit in a toilet yet?”
“Nah, he’s stubborn. Sometimes, he’ll look at me and say with his eyes “I’m going for the toilet’ and then shit in the floor. I think it’s game at this time. I’m not too worried. Hell, I shit in my pants til I was 10 probably. Not because I couldn’t, but because I hated to do it in public restrooms. So, I’d hold it in and hold it in. Eventually, you lose that battle.”
“Amen to that, Kid.”
“How’s business, Manny? Haven’t seen a lot of folks around this week?”
“Yeah, seems like the cold weather is forcing folks to stay away. Never a good thing. I hate the cold weather. Reminds me of 2012.”
He regretted saying it as soon as those digits came out of his mouth. He looked away, then down at his feet. Trying everything he could not to make eye contact.
“Don’t worry Manny,” I said. “She’s been gone almost two years now. If there’s one thing life taught me, it’s to not count on someone being around for the long haul. Whether it’s death or life, something’s going to convince them it’s time to go.”
“You saying shit like that? That’s like Paula Deen cooking without butter.”
“What can I say? Eventually, you move on. Even from the worst things.
“Time will take hold,” I finished off with, then commenced to finishing off my beer.
“Guess you’re right. Guess you’re right,” Manny said as he poured a double shot of Jameson. Tapping the bar, he walked away.
I stared at the shot glass for a good five minutes, Bob wailing away about shooting a sheriff and all, before I noticed that it was raining outside.
“The world’ll be cleaner in a minute,” I thought, taking the shot and downing it.
“See you in a few, Manny,” I said as I got up. He was talking to some blonde-haired floozy that had taken to hanging out the last couple of weeks. Manny really liked her. And I hoped she liked him too, not just the free drinks.
“Where you going, Kid? Ya just got here.”
“Got to do some writing. It’s been too damn long.”
“You a writer?” the blonde said, perking up a little too much for Manny’s liking.
“Nah, I just dabble in it,” I replied. “They pay me to sit behind a piece of bullet-proof glass and hand out cigarettes now.”
“But you said you had to do some writing?” she asked again, this time causing Manny to turn and flip a new CD in the player. Thin Lizzy’s “Jailbreak”. He knew that album caused me pain, so it was a message.
“Just because someone can write, doesn’t make them a writer,” I said with a tip of my cap.
“Manny, stay cool, I’m out of here,” I finished and pushed open the doors. It was pouring outside. I was going to get wet, very wet, on the walk home.
In the distance, a lightning bolt lit up the sky. I stood in the middle of the street admiring it for a moment. One that didn’t last. They never do, especially when you want them to.
Friday, December 2, 2011
The madness of monotony makes me itchy
The madness of monotony makes me itchy.
It also makes for bad things. My mind doesn’t work the same when the body is unoccupied with something. Even as little a something as watching television or washing the dishes or picking my toes. It’s why winter is the least favorite month. I stay indoors. I sit under a blanket on my couch, staring at things. Thinking about the past, not enough about the present, and certainly not the future.
Plans aren’t my strong suit. I once had a plan. It worked out well. Until the bottom fell out.
Sitting here in my underwear, hoping that my tooth stops hurting enough to make it through the day, I wonder why I had to look.
Maybe it all stems from that wandering thought that popped into my head for no reason the other day. Over six years later, standing in a lukewarm shower on a frigid November morning, it dawned on me. She didn’t cry.
Every breakup that I think of ended with both parties crying. Well, except for the first one. But she was a toad.
But the one that “matters” to me. The obsession one. The one that friends are even too scared to say “get the fuck over it” about, she didn’t cry.
And that all of the sudden matters. For days I’ve been mulling over that fact. Something glossed over in the depression immediate, and the depression that followed. The depression is over, but some of the thoughts stay. It’s like I’m Jim Carrey from the Truman Show. Hopelessly wondering about some part of my past. Unrequited love and all. But it’s a sign of mental illness, no?
This latest thought revelation has helped me. I know that my way of looking at life is strange to most. You fall in love with someone, you don’t fall out of love with them. Either you change or they change. The person you were in love with, or the person you were, no longer exists. So, one or the other or both move on.
I think this thought has let me move on. It’s been a lingering thought, that’s been trying to bust out for quite a while now. I didn’t let it until that morning in the shower. A calm came over me when that idea was there.
There’s other things important now too. It always helps. This one is different. I feel it. And I know it. That’ll reveal itself soon enough.
So, what do I do to drive away the monotony? And with it, the evil that is my warped brain? No idea, really. But I’m working on it.
Drinking alone is no longer an option. I do it when I watch a game or cook out. But not when I’m just sitting. I’ve not learned how to open the floodgates of my head without the lubricant quite yet. It’ll happen. Or it won’t. That’s when I’ll finally realize that writing isn’t my thing. It’s been too long since I tried to write something other than a journal entry anyway.
Those cats on my stoop. They howl at night. I’d let them in, but they don’t like me. They just stare in disbelief or jealousy. Not sure which. Not that it matters to me. Or them.
Two glasses – Abita pint glasses – sit on my coffee table. They both are dirty. They both have apple juice in them. Apple juice used to be my friend. Now I’m told it has arsenic in it. Guess I’m full of arsenic. So don’t try to kill me that way.
My boss is a homophobe. He’s also a terrible boss. I’m going to close off the work world starting today. I want to leave. Need to leave. And the excuses for still being there are about as sturdy as dollar store paper towels.
I’m out of Pop Tarts. That makes me angry.
I haven’t shaved in two weeks. And while the sight of me is quite awful, even to mine own eyes, I don’t do anything about it. It just seems not worth it at the moment.
I don’t like being a passenger in my car. I freak out. It has to only be the fact that I don’t own it yet. And won’t for quite a few more years. I wonder what that says about me? I trust someone to drive it, yet I don’t like it when they do? Control freak? Nah. Just an idiot whose values are a bit warped.
Can you tell I struggled to make it to the end? This story had no meaning. And the rambles at the end were just that, blank rambles. Getting back on the horse. It’ll take some time. Maybe it’ll take a shot of whiskey or three. I just know it feels better this way.
A story? That’s the next step. Gotta involve the road, bars and redheaded women.
It also makes for bad things. My mind doesn’t work the same when the body is unoccupied with something. Even as little a something as watching television or washing the dishes or picking my toes. It’s why winter is the least favorite month. I stay indoors. I sit under a blanket on my couch, staring at things. Thinking about the past, not enough about the present, and certainly not the future.
Plans aren’t my strong suit. I once had a plan. It worked out well. Until the bottom fell out.
Sitting here in my underwear, hoping that my tooth stops hurting enough to make it through the day, I wonder why I had to look.
Maybe it all stems from that wandering thought that popped into my head for no reason the other day. Over six years later, standing in a lukewarm shower on a frigid November morning, it dawned on me. She didn’t cry.
Every breakup that I think of ended with both parties crying. Well, except for the first one. But she was a toad.
But the one that “matters” to me. The obsession one. The one that friends are even too scared to say “get the fuck over it” about, she didn’t cry.
And that all of the sudden matters. For days I’ve been mulling over that fact. Something glossed over in the depression immediate, and the depression that followed. The depression is over, but some of the thoughts stay. It’s like I’m Jim Carrey from the Truman Show. Hopelessly wondering about some part of my past. Unrequited love and all. But it’s a sign of mental illness, no?
This latest thought revelation has helped me. I know that my way of looking at life is strange to most. You fall in love with someone, you don’t fall out of love with them. Either you change or they change. The person you were in love with, or the person you were, no longer exists. So, one or the other or both move on.
I think this thought has let me move on. It’s been a lingering thought, that’s been trying to bust out for quite a while now. I didn’t let it until that morning in the shower. A calm came over me when that idea was there.
There’s other things important now too. It always helps. This one is different. I feel it. And I know it. That’ll reveal itself soon enough.
So, what do I do to drive away the monotony? And with it, the evil that is my warped brain? No idea, really. But I’m working on it.
Drinking alone is no longer an option. I do it when I watch a game or cook out. But not when I’m just sitting. I’ve not learned how to open the floodgates of my head without the lubricant quite yet. It’ll happen. Or it won’t. That’s when I’ll finally realize that writing isn’t my thing. It’s been too long since I tried to write something other than a journal entry anyway.
Those cats on my stoop. They howl at night. I’d let them in, but they don’t like me. They just stare in disbelief or jealousy. Not sure which. Not that it matters to me. Or them.
Two glasses – Abita pint glasses – sit on my coffee table. They both are dirty. They both have apple juice in them. Apple juice used to be my friend. Now I’m told it has arsenic in it. Guess I’m full of arsenic. So don’t try to kill me that way.
My boss is a homophobe. He’s also a terrible boss. I’m going to close off the work world starting today. I want to leave. Need to leave. And the excuses for still being there are about as sturdy as dollar store paper towels.
I’m out of Pop Tarts. That makes me angry.
I haven’t shaved in two weeks. And while the sight of me is quite awful, even to mine own eyes, I don’t do anything about it. It just seems not worth it at the moment.
I don’t like being a passenger in my car. I freak out. It has to only be the fact that I don’t own it yet. And won’t for quite a few more years. I wonder what that says about me? I trust someone to drive it, yet I don’t like it when they do? Control freak? Nah. Just an idiot whose values are a bit warped.
Can you tell I struggled to make it to the end? This story had no meaning. And the rambles at the end were just that, blank rambles. Getting back on the horse. It’ll take some time. Maybe it’ll take a shot of whiskey or three. I just know it feels better this way.
A story? That’s the next step. Gotta involve the road, bars and redheaded women.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Warren Oates > Warren Buffet
My man crush developed late on him.
I’d known of his existence from at least the first time I saw the movie “Stripes.” So, that would make it sometime in the early 1980s.
He was dead by then, most likely.
However, these last few weeks, Mr. Warren Oates has become my new favorite. The go-to guy when I’m having a bad night. Or day. Or life.
His characters seem to always be on the other side of luck. Yeah, sometime he got the pretty girl. But it seemed she always did something to screw it up. See “Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia” or “China 9, Liberty 37”.
When he was the tough guy, it went wrong.
When we was in the race, he wrecked.
I’m in awe of him right now. Will it pass? Maybe. I used to think Robert DeNiro could do no wrong. And Jack Nicholson. But they certainly went down wrong paths.
So far, Oatesy hasn’t.
Maybe I’ll dig into something one day and it won’t be quite right. I am trying to get a hold of “92 in the Shade” right now. Only on VHS they say. So I bid a buck for one on ebay. Maybe I’ll win. And it’ll be life changing.
Of course, that may be my problem, always searching for some sign, some life-changing fact or journey from a movie. Or a book. Or a song. Instead of looking inside.
Maybe my father is right. There isn’t much in there to begin with. All the brains and no desire to do anything with them, he always implies but never out-right says.
Last conversation I had with the old drunk, he told me I needed to “figure out what the fuck you’re doing with your life.”
I laughed, like I usually do. First it was kind of funny. Second, it’s a defense mechanism.
He’s right. I know. But then he uses his life as some kind of shining example of what “success” is. He started rambling on about civic organizations, things he’d done with his life, being proud, raising three college-educated kids, and so on.
Yes, he’s done a lot of things. But do you need to sit there and list them in a drunken stupor to prove it? Or to prove to your son that he’s a failure when measured up to that?
“Dad, me and you, we have different definitions of success,” I said. “Maybe it’s that simple.”
He stared at me blankly when I said it. I didn’t regret it for a moment. Those times when the truth slip out of my mouth when I’m talking to him get rarer and rarer. They used to come freely. And they always ended in fights. Yelling. Temper tantrums. From both of us. This one wasn’t going to end that way. He knew it. I knew it. It was just going to end.
“If you are happy doing what you do, then so be it,” he slurred. “I just don’t get ….” he trailed off into babble.
That night, after driving home I sat in bed. I started to say things out loud. Cursing my ex-girlfriend for “still taking up space in my thoughts” and the like. It dawned on me how much me and my dad are alike at that moment. Bitter shells of what we once thought we were.
It don’t do much good sulking about it anymore. A lot of folks make choices that hurt people. Hurt them real bad. I’ve done it at least twice in my life. Probably a lot more. Fuck you if you think your hurt is worse than anyone else’s. Everyone has pain. Some are lucky and it doesn’t hit for a long, long time. Some get hit early and never seem to dodge it again. But eventually, it gets everyone. How you respond goes a long way in determining what happens next. Boy, that thought came out stupid. But that’s why I (used to) sit here and just type and type and type. Something good comes out every so often.
Back to Mr. Oates. Not the guy with Hall, but the one with a big toe named bill murray.
He could replace Harry Dean one day as the top dog. Steve Buscemi threatened, but never quite reached the pinnacle. Mickey Rourke went nuts, which didn’t disqualify him, but his surgery did. Hell, I understand what happened, my man, women can drive you to the verge and over the verge of stupidity. You went berserk, I got drunk and apathetic. You probably won that round. Except for the hitting part. If it’s true?
Anyways, I’d rather be Warren Oates than Warren Buffet any day. Pride is greater than money. Except when you need a good suit.
I’d known of his existence from at least the first time I saw the movie “Stripes.” So, that would make it sometime in the early 1980s.
He was dead by then, most likely.
However, these last few weeks, Mr. Warren Oates has become my new favorite. The go-to guy when I’m having a bad night. Or day. Or life.
His characters seem to always be on the other side of luck. Yeah, sometime he got the pretty girl. But it seemed she always did something to screw it up. See “Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia” or “China 9, Liberty 37”.
When he was the tough guy, it went wrong.
When we was in the race, he wrecked.
I’m in awe of him right now. Will it pass? Maybe. I used to think Robert DeNiro could do no wrong. And Jack Nicholson. But they certainly went down wrong paths.
So far, Oatesy hasn’t.
Maybe I’ll dig into something one day and it won’t be quite right. I am trying to get a hold of “92 in the Shade” right now. Only on VHS they say. So I bid a buck for one on ebay. Maybe I’ll win. And it’ll be life changing.
Of course, that may be my problem, always searching for some sign, some life-changing fact or journey from a movie. Or a book. Or a song. Instead of looking inside.
Maybe my father is right. There isn’t much in there to begin with. All the brains and no desire to do anything with them, he always implies but never out-right says.
Last conversation I had with the old drunk, he told me I needed to “figure out what the fuck you’re doing with your life.”
I laughed, like I usually do. First it was kind of funny. Second, it’s a defense mechanism.
He’s right. I know. But then he uses his life as some kind of shining example of what “success” is. He started rambling on about civic organizations, things he’d done with his life, being proud, raising three college-educated kids, and so on.
Yes, he’s done a lot of things. But do you need to sit there and list them in a drunken stupor to prove it? Or to prove to your son that he’s a failure when measured up to that?
“Dad, me and you, we have different definitions of success,” I said. “Maybe it’s that simple.”
He stared at me blankly when I said it. I didn’t regret it for a moment. Those times when the truth slip out of my mouth when I’m talking to him get rarer and rarer. They used to come freely. And they always ended in fights. Yelling. Temper tantrums. From both of us. This one wasn’t going to end that way. He knew it. I knew it. It was just going to end.
“If you are happy doing what you do, then so be it,” he slurred. “I just don’t get ….” he trailed off into babble.
That night, after driving home I sat in bed. I started to say things out loud. Cursing my ex-girlfriend for “still taking up space in my thoughts” and the like. It dawned on me how much me and my dad are alike at that moment. Bitter shells of what we once thought we were.
It don’t do much good sulking about it anymore. A lot of folks make choices that hurt people. Hurt them real bad. I’ve done it at least twice in my life. Probably a lot more. Fuck you if you think your hurt is worse than anyone else’s. Everyone has pain. Some are lucky and it doesn’t hit for a long, long time. Some get hit early and never seem to dodge it again. But eventually, it gets everyone. How you respond goes a long way in determining what happens next. Boy, that thought came out stupid. But that’s why I (used to) sit here and just type and type and type. Something good comes out every so often.
Back to Mr. Oates. Not the guy with Hall, but the one with a big toe named bill murray.
He could replace Harry Dean one day as the top dog. Steve Buscemi threatened, but never quite reached the pinnacle. Mickey Rourke went nuts, which didn’t disqualify him, but his surgery did. Hell, I understand what happened, my man, women can drive you to the verge and over the verge of stupidity. You went berserk, I got drunk and apathetic. You probably won that round. Except for the hitting part. If it’s true?
Anyways, I’d rather be Warren Oates than Warren Buffet any day. Pride is greater than money. Except when you need a good suit.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
dick and other shit
I always wondered what that moment was like. The one where you find a lump. Knowing that more likely than not, death would soon be knocking.
The moment was disappointing. For me. Not for her.
She'd always expected to die. She talked about it all the time. How she'd never see 25. Then 30. Now it's 40.
Me, I'm 40. Guess I know now that I won't see 50. Probably not 42. Maybe even 41.
The lump showed up the night after a disappointing night of sex. Well, mostly sex.
When the dick isn't cooperative, the sex tends to disappoint. And this time, the dick certainly didn't disappoint. At being uncooperative.
She said all the right things, the girl underneath. But hiding true feelings in those moments doesn't happen. A shrug becomes a smirk. A sigh becomes a curse.
It had all happened before.
This time, however, was a little different.
In the morning, while taking a pee, I noticed that my less than huge dick was less than its normal self. Stretching the complete package out, a lump showed up.
Not the STD kind. Not the bug bite kind. Instead, just a raised portion. It didn't hurt. But the groin always sort of hurt. Ever since the first of now dozens of kidney stones. Including one the sized of an unshelled peanut.
***
I'm the Cubs fan of love.
I liked taking pictures of dead things, I remember that part of my childhood.
If it makes no sense, it’s better than what I’m used to.
I kind of wish I’d kind of done it differently. Maybe.
***
She walked into the room, and dust kicked up.
“Who are you?” she asked with a smile.
“I’m no one.”
“Ok,” she said, walking away.
I watched her walk. She had a nice walk. One leg was a little longer than the other. Her brown shoes didn’t match her plaid skirt.
“Better that way,” I thought to myself.
***
I watched from a far. I used to watch from up close. But one day I thought she saw me. So I had to stop getting so close. If she saw me, she’d never come back. Why? Because she didn’t want me there.
The paint was peeling off the sign that read “Memories.” Faded memories. A cliché. How appropriate.
A patch of sand had started to turn into a hill of sand. I wondered if this was how a dune would slowly build. From run off and one man’s laziness?
I grabbed a shirt off the ground, I was about to cum and I didn’t want to make a mess. Three days later, I found that shirt – it was my favorite old tour shirt. Now, forever stained by my five minutes of needless pleasure. I’d had that shirt since my first show. How could I ever wear it again? Knowing that these new stains came from that?
I bumped into the pool table on my way to the bar. Luckily, no one noticed as the six ball edged closer to the middle of the felt. I grabbed my composure from out of my ass and went to order my beer.
“You dodged one there, sweetie,” a voice came from over my shoulder.
Instead of turning to look back, I gazed into the cloudy mirror behind the bar. A brunette stood behind me. At least I thought she had brown hair. You never really know in bar light.
I smiled at the reflection. It smiled back.
Yesterday, I wished it hadn’t.
I promised I wouldn’t think about her today. I failed. I said I wouldn’t listen to their music. I did. The only thing I followed through on was buying a lottery ticket. Same six numbers as always. I figure the number seven has got to come up as the mega-power-terrific ball someday. All the numbers represent birthdays. Not mine, but theirs. And since so many of them are Cancers, I figured seven was my unlucky lucky number. So far, it’s still that’s held true.
“Have you ever been there?” she asked.
“No. I didn’t know it was even there until you told me two hours ago.”
We had been driving for almost an hour now. Headed west towards “Pete’s Pizza and Beer”, what she told me was the “best damn pizza and beer joint in New Mexico.” Of course, we were in Tallahassee when she told me that.
Waylon was right. You do look in the mirror one day and see how old you’ve gotten. My chest hair is almost completely white now. As is my beard. Guess I’ll never be the new kid anymore.
Scurvy kills.
You know you’re in trouble when you wake up and your car keys are in her hands.
Still haven’t figured out why I left her. Although I know why I wanted to.
The moment was disappointing. For me. Not for her.
She'd always expected to die. She talked about it all the time. How she'd never see 25. Then 30. Now it's 40.
Me, I'm 40. Guess I know now that I won't see 50. Probably not 42. Maybe even 41.
The lump showed up the night after a disappointing night of sex. Well, mostly sex.
When the dick isn't cooperative, the sex tends to disappoint. And this time, the dick certainly didn't disappoint. At being uncooperative.
She said all the right things, the girl underneath. But hiding true feelings in those moments doesn't happen. A shrug becomes a smirk. A sigh becomes a curse.
It had all happened before.
This time, however, was a little different.
In the morning, while taking a pee, I noticed that my less than huge dick was less than its normal self. Stretching the complete package out, a lump showed up.
Not the STD kind. Not the bug bite kind. Instead, just a raised portion. It didn't hurt. But the groin always sort of hurt. Ever since the first of now dozens of kidney stones. Including one the sized of an unshelled peanut.
***
I'm the Cubs fan of love.
I liked taking pictures of dead things, I remember that part of my childhood.
If it makes no sense, it’s better than what I’m used to.
I kind of wish I’d kind of done it differently. Maybe.
***
She walked into the room, and dust kicked up.
“Who are you?” she asked with a smile.
“I’m no one.”
“Ok,” she said, walking away.
I watched her walk. She had a nice walk. One leg was a little longer than the other. Her brown shoes didn’t match her plaid skirt.
“Better that way,” I thought to myself.
***
I watched from a far. I used to watch from up close. But one day I thought she saw me. So I had to stop getting so close. If she saw me, she’d never come back. Why? Because she didn’t want me there.
The paint was peeling off the sign that read “Memories.” Faded memories. A cliché. How appropriate.
A patch of sand had started to turn into a hill of sand. I wondered if this was how a dune would slowly build. From run off and one man’s laziness?
I grabbed a shirt off the ground, I was about to cum and I didn’t want to make a mess. Three days later, I found that shirt – it was my favorite old tour shirt. Now, forever stained by my five minutes of needless pleasure. I’d had that shirt since my first show. How could I ever wear it again? Knowing that these new stains came from that?
I bumped into the pool table on my way to the bar. Luckily, no one noticed as the six ball edged closer to the middle of the felt. I grabbed my composure from out of my ass and went to order my beer.
“You dodged one there, sweetie,” a voice came from over my shoulder.
Instead of turning to look back, I gazed into the cloudy mirror behind the bar. A brunette stood behind me. At least I thought she had brown hair. You never really know in bar light.
I smiled at the reflection. It smiled back.
Yesterday, I wished it hadn’t.
I promised I wouldn’t think about her today. I failed. I said I wouldn’t listen to their music. I did. The only thing I followed through on was buying a lottery ticket. Same six numbers as always. I figure the number seven has got to come up as the mega-power-terrific ball someday. All the numbers represent birthdays. Not mine, but theirs. And since so many of them are Cancers, I figured seven was my unlucky lucky number. So far, it’s still that’s held true.
“Have you ever been there?” she asked.
“No. I didn’t know it was even there until you told me two hours ago.”
We had been driving for almost an hour now. Headed west towards “Pete’s Pizza and Beer”, what she told me was the “best damn pizza and beer joint in New Mexico.” Of course, we were in Tallahassee when she told me that.
Waylon was right. You do look in the mirror one day and see how old you’ve gotten. My chest hair is almost completely white now. As is my beard. Guess I’ll never be the new kid anymore.
Scurvy kills.
You know you’re in trouble when you wake up and your car keys are in her hands.
Still haven’t figured out why I left her. Although I know why I wanted to.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Michael Jordan wouldn't do that...
When I woke up, the only thing I noticed was the stickiness. All around my feet. My arms. My chest. My fingers. Everything.
It was dark in my room. I fumbled for the switch on the lamp beside my bed. I’d kept that lamp for over a decade now. It had no shade anymore, long ago that was crushed in a move and thrown away. But the little unicorn sticker still sat there on its side. Put there by her niece one day. It reminded me that one time I was happy.
When I clicked the switch, I saw what I had done. Was I surprised? No. Not at all.
I was pissed off, however. I’d fallen asleep after doing it. After slitting her throat with my dad’s old pocket knife. I’d not have much time to clean this all up before the day got started.
Naked, I stumbled into my bathroom and turned on the shower. I felt the cold water with my right hand, turning the knob to make it a little warmer with my left. I didn’t wait for the change to take hold before stepping into the water. Soon, I was clean.
“Much better,” I thought to myself. Now I’d have to clean up my room.
She bled an awful lot. She didn’t put up a fight, but she dropped a lot of red on my carpet. This was going to be tedious.
I grabbed some old t-shirts, just plain black ones and started mopping up the mess. Squishing around, I made slow progress. These Hanes tees really did the job. If I was to start a business, I’d make Sham-Wows out of Hanes tees. Maybe Michael Jordan would be a proud spokesman in his older age. The William Shatner is to Priceline of my empire.
I smiled at the sheer absurdity of that image in my head.
“You know, Michael Jordan would never do that,” she said to me.
“What do you know? You’re just a fucking dead whore?” I pleaded with the girl I’d killed last night.
“I know a lot more than you think,” she smirked. “I know you don’t know how to love. It’s why you kill.”
“Yeah, I guess you do know more than most,” I said. “But, what did it get you?”
“Fucking filleted on your bed, that’s what.”
She didn’t talk anymore after that. Probably a good thing. I might have killed her again.
After finishing up the cleaning job, I pulled my Hyundai up to the back door and plopped all the bags of waste into the back. I drove the three miles to my boat and hauled all that stuff into it. The sun was just beginning to show signs of rising when I finished. Luckily, no fishermen had cast their lines here today so far. It always makes me nervous when they see me on mornings like this.
“Hey there!” a scruffy fisherman wearing and old El Zarape Mexican Cantina shirt yelled. “You sure do take a lot of bags out with you.”
“I just don’t want my gear to be seen,” I’d say coyly. “Then everyone would know what I’m fishing for…”
I had pretty good luck with the fish. But I didn’t really want anyone to know my bait was human. Female, to be exact.
“Well, one day we’ll figure you out, kid,” scruffy man would always say.
“When you do, I’ll buy you and your daughter a beer.”
“You leave her out of this. She’s much too smart to hang out with the likes of us!”
“You got that right, old-timer,” I said as I started my boat. “Catch you in a few!”
He stared at me as I backed out my boat. Always very slowly as I didn’t want to raise his ire about creating too much wake. He forgave a lot of bad behaviors at his docks. Even let a group of NFL players shoot up a rival coach’s boat with their 9mm’s one night. But creating too much wake, that was unforgivable.
I waved at the old man. I think he knew I was up to no good. But since I paid my dock fees in advance and always made sure to leave a few extra beers on his porch at night when I was done, he didn’t question it. Plus, I think he really wanted me to date his daughter. She was pretty. But she always wore than damn University of Florida t-shirt that said “Rowdy Reptile” on it. That, simply, was a deal-breaker for me.
It was dark in my room. I fumbled for the switch on the lamp beside my bed. I’d kept that lamp for over a decade now. It had no shade anymore, long ago that was crushed in a move and thrown away. But the little unicorn sticker still sat there on its side. Put there by her niece one day. It reminded me that one time I was happy.
When I clicked the switch, I saw what I had done. Was I surprised? No. Not at all.
I was pissed off, however. I’d fallen asleep after doing it. After slitting her throat with my dad’s old pocket knife. I’d not have much time to clean this all up before the day got started.
Naked, I stumbled into my bathroom and turned on the shower. I felt the cold water with my right hand, turning the knob to make it a little warmer with my left. I didn’t wait for the change to take hold before stepping into the water. Soon, I was clean.
“Much better,” I thought to myself. Now I’d have to clean up my room.
She bled an awful lot. She didn’t put up a fight, but she dropped a lot of red on my carpet. This was going to be tedious.
I grabbed some old t-shirts, just plain black ones and started mopping up the mess. Squishing around, I made slow progress. These Hanes tees really did the job. If I was to start a business, I’d make Sham-Wows out of Hanes tees. Maybe Michael Jordan would be a proud spokesman in his older age. The William Shatner is to Priceline of my empire.
I smiled at the sheer absurdity of that image in my head.
“You know, Michael Jordan would never do that,” she said to me.
“What do you know? You’re just a fucking dead whore?” I pleaded with the girl I’d killed last night.
“I know a lot more than you think,” she smirked. “I know you don’t know how to love. It’s why you kill.”
“Yeah, I guess you do know more than most,” I said. “But, what did it get you?”
“Fucking filleted on your bed, that’s what.”
She didn’t talk anymore after that. Probably a good thing. I might have killed her again.
After finishing up the cleaning job, I pulled my Hyundai up to the back door and plopped all the bags of waste into the back. I drove the three miles to my boat and hauled all that stuff into it. The sun was just beginning to show signs of rising when I finished. Luckily, no fishermen had cast their lines here today so far. It always makes me nervous when they see me on mornings like this.
“Hey there!” a scruffy fisherman wearing and old El Zarape Mexican Cantina shirt yelled. “You sure do take a lot of bags out with you.”
“I just don’t want my gear to be seen,” I’d say coyly. “Then everyone would know what I’m fishing for…”
I had pretty good luck with the fish. But I didn’t really want anyone to know my bait was human. Female, to be exact.
“Well, one day we’ll figure you out, kid,” scruffy man would always say.
“When you do, I’ll buy you and your daughter a beer.”
“You leave her out of this. She’s much too smart to hang out with the likes of us!”
“You got that right, old-timer,” I said as I started my boat. “Catch you in a few!”
He stared at me as I backed out my boat. Always very slowly as I didn’t want to raise his ire about creating too much wake. He forgave a lot of bad behaviors at his docks. Even let a group of NFL players shoot up a rival coach’s boat with their 9mm’s one night. But creating too much wake, that was unforgivable.
I waved at the old man. I think he knew I was up to no good. But since I paid my dock fees in advance and always made sure to leave a few extra beers on his porch at night when I was done, he didn’t question it. Plus, I think he really wanted me to date his daughter. She was pretty. But she always wore than damn University of Florida t-shirt that said “Rowdy Reptile” on it. That, simply, was a deal-breaker for me.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
homemade tattoo
Being poor isn’t romantic. It isn’t some kind of soul building exercise.
It’s just horrid.
I feel this way pretty often. Tonight, it hit while I was jerking off in my room. I had to turn the fan on loud and put headphones on while doing it. Soon after, I found myself listening to The Plimsouls and wondering where did I steer off in this direction?
She was crying yesterday. It made me feel sad. And it made me just feel. I told her things I’d not told anyone else. At least not face to face. I didn’t feel quite as lonely that night. Until later, when I got nauseous and felt as if I was going to either die, pass out or throw up everywhere. Thankfully, I did none of those things. Instead, I just felt really terrible and moaned a lot.
The ability to cover up the way I feel sometimes eludes me. I have no poker face. But I’ve known that for years.
Today, the boss pissed me off. So I snapped at him. Like a little bitch, I’m sure he thought. Hell, it’s what I thought. Soon after it was forgotten. But it bothered me that I let it come out like that. I’d done so well getting out of that mode. I know what it means. I need to leave. I need to run. I need to find something new to sink my life into.
Yet, all I can think about is scrounging up the cash to buy four tickets to a concert in Nashville in a little over a month. Take the girlfriend and have some fun. Get drunk. Do stupid things. Maybe even get a homemade tattoo.
I want to take myself serious, but I don’t seem to have the ability to. It drives me somewhat crazy. And that’s the problem. It should make me mad. Insane. Fucking nuts. Instead, it causes bother.
Lately I’ve been wondering why I don’t remember my dad being around. Except when we went places. I don’t remember him even being at my high school graduation. But I know he was there. I just blacked him out. Put a little black bar over his eyes in my memory so I wouldn’t remember him? Of course, I don’t remember anyone else being there either. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t? It’s just another layer of lost.
I wish I could afford to get my teeth fixed. I don’t know how much longer they’ll be in my head. They don’t hurt much. But I stopped taking the supplements that seemed to hasten their demise. Of course, that has hastened other demises. Fuck, getting old sucks. Especially when you haven’t taken care of yourself.
Only me to blame, though. Jack Lelane is laughing at me.
And so are you.
The sky was a burnt orange color when she came outside. I was sitting in my usual place on the front stoop. It was light blue with pieces of the shitty concrete falling off into the lawn of mostly weeds. I loved dandelion flowers. Almost as much as daisies. They both grew everywhere. I know my neighbors hated me for that. But they only lived there for three weeks a year, so fuck ‘em.
She grabbed one of my busted up beach chairs. This one had dolphins on it at one point. Every day I used to comb the beach, looking for the discards of tourists. Koozies and beach chairs. The occasional umbrella or cooler. The stuff people buy for a day then toss on the ground next to a trash can is remarkable. I would take pictures and publish a book on it if I thought it would sell. But who really wants to see 100 pages of pictures of plastic shit? One day some hipster kid would find a copy in a thrift store and it would be popular for a moment. He’d blog about it (or whatever form of on-line communication exists at this point) and it would become a phenomenon. They’d seek me out on the internet, only to find me on my stoop. Wishing their parents had bought the book in the first place so I wouldn’t be living in a shitty, wood-paneled renter in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina, drinking Shiner Bock’s out of a beat up old pint glass that I got at the Chevron station next to the General George Patton Museum in California.
We looked at each other and smiled.
“When we leaving for Nashville?”
“In the morning, honey. In the morning.”
It’s just horrid.
I feel this way pretty often. Tonight, it hit while I was jerking off in my room. I had to turn the fan on loud and put headphones on while doing it. Soon after, I found myself listening to The Plimsouls and wondering where did I steer off in this direction?
She was crying yesterday. It made me feel sad. And it made me just feel. I told her things I’d not told anyone else. At least not face to face. I didn’t feel quite as lonely that night. Until later, when I got nauseous and felt as if I was going to either die, pass out or throw up everywhere. Thankfully, I did none of those things. Instead, I just felt really terrible and moaned a lot.
The ability to cover up the way I feel sometimes eludes me. I have no poker face. But I’ve known that for years.
Today, the boss pissed me off. So I snapped at him. Like a little bitch, I’m sure he thought. Hell, it’s what I thought. Soon after it was forgotten. But it bothered me that I let it come out like that. I’d done so well getting out of that mode. I know what it means. I need to leave. I need to run. I need to find something new to sink my life into.
Yet, all I can think about is scrounging up the cash to buy four tickets to a concert in Nashville in a little over a month. Take the girlfriend and have some fun. Get drunk. Do stupid things. Maybe even get a homemade tattoo.
I want to take myself serious, but I don’t seem to have the ability to. It drives me somewhat crazy. And that’s the problem. It should make me mad. Insane. Fucking nuts. Instead, it causes bother.
Lately I’ve been wondering why I don’t remember my dad being around. Except when we went places. I don’t remember him even being at my high school graduation. But I know he was there. I just blacked him out. Put a little black bar over his eyes in my memory so I wouldn’t remember him? Of course, I don’t remember anyone else being there either. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t? It’s just another layer of lost.
I wish I could afford to get my teeth fixed. I don’t know how much longer they’ll be in my head. They don’t hurt much. But I stopped taking the supplements that seemed to hasten their demise. Of course, that has hastened other demises. Fuck, getting old sucks. Especially when you haven’t taken care of yourself.
Only me to blame, though. Jack Lelane is laughing at me.
And so are you.
The sky was a burnt orange color when she came outside. I was sitting in my usual place on the front stoop. It was light blue with pieces of the shitty concrete falling off into the lawn of mostly weeds. I loved dandelion flowers. Almost as much as daisies. They both grew everywhere. I know my neighbors hated me for that. But they only lived there for three weeks a year, so fuck ‘em.
She grabbed one of my busted up beach chairs. This one had dolphins on it at one point. Every day I used to comb the beach, looking for the discards of tourists. Koozies and beach chairs. The occasional umbrella or cooler. The stuff people buy for a day then toss on the ground next to a trash can is remarkable. I would take pictures and publish a book on it if I thought it would sell. But who really wants to see 100 pages of pictures of plastic shit? One day some hipster kid would find a copy in a thrift store and it would be popular for a moment. He’d blog about it (or whatever form of on-line communication exists at this point) and it would become a phenomenon. They’d seek me out on the internet, only to find me on my stoop. Wishing their parents had bought the book in the first place so I wouldn’t be living in a shitty, wood-paneled renter in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina, drinking Shiner Bock’s out of a beat up old pint glass that I got at the Chevron station next to the General George Patton Museum in California.
We looked at each other and smiled.
“When we leaving for Nashville?”
“In the morning, honey. In the morning.”
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
empty can of miller
An empty can of Miller beer sat on the porch step. I looked at it as the hazy fog of a morning dew slowly moved about the yard. A cricket chirped and a lone seagull whined.
At that moment I knew it was over.
I kicked the can into the yard, putting a dent in the side. I didn’t get any kind of satisfaction in the act. Just the opposite. The rattling of the can in the dirt and rocks of my yard echoed against the bar across the street. The sound bouncing off the wall and back to me.
I sighed. Resigned to the knowledge of what that can meant – she was cheating on me.
Inside, the glow of a far off sunrise was beginning to peak in. The old rotted white blinds – some stuck half open with frayed strings and cracked plastic pieces, others just leaning half opened, half closed due to a fit of anger or spontaneous fun – each allowed a different amount of light in.
I walked into our room. It had heavy Wal-Mart curtains that kept most of the light out and wood paneling that sucked up whatever got through the brownish monstrosities like a dirty, mildewed sponge. Looking at the bed I looked at her sleeping. She had this smile on her face, even in her dreams, that I just didn’t understand. I’m never happy, so her ability to always be happy – even in sleep – made me a bit batty.
A loud thud filled the room when I dropped a can of peanuts. It was the only heavy thing I saw in my living room on the way to the bedroom. It had to do.
“Wha?” she moaned as the noise broke sleep’s grasp. “Honey, what are you doing?”
“Kicking you out,” I said, matter of factly. “You need to get your stuff and leave.”
Of course “getting your stuff” was a little more complicated than just grabbing the dirty underwear on the floor and a toothbrush. We’d been living together now for two years. Her stuff was all over. My stuff was in many ways her stuff. Her stuff, well, it was mostly still her stuff.
“Stop joking honey, come back to bed,” she mumbled, pulling the covers over her head.
“I mean it Jane,” I bellowed. My anger wasn’t increasing, but my lack of patience was.
Rarely did I use her name. I always was like that. When I dated someone, I hated using their name. Didn’t really like hearing my own. Weird? Probably. But it was what I did. So this time, she knew I was serious about what I was saying.
“What is this about, Randy,” she said, emphasizing my name. Almost like a battle cry kind of thing.
“You’re fucking Scott. Aren’t you?”
Scott was the guy who came over to fix our fridge when it stopped working. He also came to fix a window. A gutter. The leaky porch door and many other things that I never knew were broken. Scott even got a Christmas card two weeks ago. He thanked me for it. I had no idea we’d sent him one, but he showed it to me, signed by me and all. Of course, I signed dozens of cards without knowing who was getting them. It was a ritual that was now two years old. Jane liked sending cards. So did I. But I liked sending them to people I gave a shit about. She sent them to everyone. She started buying them on Dec. 26 and just filled a shoebox with them. Then another. Come November, I was given two piles of cards to sign. One not so big – holding the cards I would want to personalize. The other – not so big and full of ones to people I didn’t know, or had met in passing. It turns out, the dick going inside my girlfriend got one as well.
“Stop being so damn paranoid.”
That was her response. And that let me know I was on to something.
“Fuck you,” I said. Get your stuff out of here before I do.
“What is wrong with you? Are you mad that we haven’t had sex in three months? I told you I was having pain.”
I thought about that. Between the booze and the concerts and the opening of my bar, I hadn’t even noticed that we hadn’t fucked. Maybe that’s why I didn’t really care about what was occurring. I bent over and pulled the covers off. Damn, she had great fucking tits. B cup. Nice large nipples. I’ll miss those.
What she didn’t have, however, was the right to stay here. That can of beer told the tale.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, pulling on her jeans without underwear. I always cringe at that act. Why? Because I imagine the zipper grabbing at things you really don’t want it to grab at. Reason No. 1 that I don’t use the little flap in the underwear to pee through the zipper hole. Just don’t want to get grabbed one night.
“Because you don’t love me,” I said.
“You didn’t want me to love you,” she replied. “It’s written all over your face. And in your own handwriting.”
She was right. And I stopped being even mildly mad.
Bending over, I kissed her on the forehead. We proceeded to have sex. Not great sex, just good sex. Lasted about 11 minutes. I know this because I looked at the Kit Kat Clock on the wall. It’s eyes going left to right, left to right the entire time.
After I rolled off, I looked at her. She was beautiful, even if she couldn’t be true.
“I never asked you to be mine,” I said.
She looked at me. I looked at her. She smiled. I sighed.
At that moment I knew it was over.
I kicked the can into the yard, putting a dent in the side. I didn’t get any kind of satisfaction in the act. Just the opposite. The rattling of the can in the dirt and rocks of my yard echoed against the bar across the street. The sound bouncing off the wall and back to me.
I sighed. Resigned to the knowledge of what that can meant – she was cheating on me.
Inside, the glow of a far off sunrise was beginning to peak in. The old rotted white blinds – some stuck half open with frayed strings and cracked plastic pieces, others just leaning half opened, half closed due to a fit of anger or spontaneous fun – each allowed a different amount of light in.
I walked into our room. It had heavy Wal-Mart curtains that kept most of the light out and wood paneling that sucked up whatever got through the brownish monstrosities like a dirty, mildewed sponge. Looking at the bed I looked at her sleeping. She had this smile on her face, even in her dreams, that I just didn’t understand. I’m never happy, so her ability to always be happy – even in sleep – made me a bit batty.
A loud thud filled the room when I dropped a can of peanuts. It was the only heavy thing I saw in my living room on the way to the bedroom. It had to do.
“Wha?” she moaned as the noise broke sleep’s grasp. “Honey, what are you doing?”
“Kicking you out,” I said, matter of factly. “You need to get your stuff and leave.”
Of course “getting your stuff” was a little more complicated than just grabbing the dirty underwear on the floor and a toothbrush. We’d been living together now for two years. Her stuff was all over. My stuff was in many ways her stuff. Her stuff, well, it was mostly still her stuff.
“Stop joking honey, come back to bed,” she mumbled, pulling the covers over her head.
“I mean it Jane,” I bellowed. My anger wasn’t increasing, but my lack of patience was.
Rarely did I use her name. I always was like that. When I dated someone, I hated using their name. Didn’t really like hearing my own. Weird? Probably. But it was what I did. So this time, she knew I was serious about what I was saying.
“What is this about, Randy,” she said, emphasizing my name. Almost like a battle cry kind of thing.
“You’re fucking Scott. Aren’t you?”
Scott was the guy who came over to fix our fridge when it stopped working. He also came to fix a window. A gutter. The leaky porch door and many other things that I never knew were broken. Scott even got a Christmas card two weeks ago. He thanked me for it. I had no idea we’d sent him one, but he showed it to me, signed by me and all. Of course, I signed dozens of cards without knowing who was getting them. It was a ritual that was now two years old. Jane liked sending cards. So did I. But I liked sending them to people I gave a shit about. She sent them to everyone. She started buying them on Dec. 26 and just filled a shoebox with them. Then another. Come November, I was given two piles of cards to sign. One not so big – holding the cards I would want to personalize. The other – not so big and full of ones to people I didn’t know, or had met in passing. It turns out, the dick going inside my girlfriend got one as well.
“Stop being so damn paranoid.”
That was her response. And that let me know I was on to something.
“Fuck you,” I said. Get your stuff out of here before I do.
“What is wrong with you? Are you mad that we haven’t had sex in three months? I told you I was having pain.”
I thought about that. Between the booze and the concerts and the opening of my bar, I hadn’t even noticed that we hadn’t fucked. Maybe that’s why I didn’t really care about what was occurring. I bent over and pulled the covers off. Damn, she had great fucking tits. B cup. Nice large nipples. I’ll miss those.
What she didn’t have, however, was the right to stay here. That can of beer told the tale.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, pulling on her jeans without underwear. I always cringe at that act. Why? Because I imagine the zipper grabbing at things you really don’t want it to grab at. Reason No. 1 that I don’t use the little flap in the underwear to pee through the zipper hole. Just don’t want to get grabbed one night.
“Because you don’t love me,” I said.
“You didn’t want me to love you,” she replied. “It’s written all over your face. And in your own handwriting.”
She was right. And I stopped being even mildly mad.
Bending over, I kissed her on the forehead. We proceeded to have sex. Not great sex, just good sex. Lasted about 11 minutes. I know this because I looked at the Kit Kat Clock on the wall. It’s eyes going left to right, left to right the entire time.
After I rolled off, I looked at her. She was beautiful, even if she couldn’t be true.
“I never asked you to be mine,” I said.
She looked at me. I looked at her. She smiled. I sighed.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
whiskey talk
I woke up this morning and my teeth and gums were throbbing.
I brushed them and they felt better. So I grabbed my bottle of Jameson, a small glass and a bucket of ice and headed to the porch. It was raining outside, just like it had been raining when I went to bed 11 hours ago. Pouring the whiskey into the glass, I admired the color. I didn’t bother with the ice, this time, as I just finished it off quickly. The day was starting off better than the one before.
A beautiful girl strolled by on her way to the beach. Yellow bikini on, towel draped across her shoulders. She couldn’t be more than 22 years old. I smiled my broken teeth grin as she moseyed on by. She awkwardly looked away when she saw me. Not at all a surprising reaction. As she continued her saunter to the beach, I continued to admire her. Not so much leering at her as appreciating her beauty. I knew I’d never see her again, so I had to remember the moment. Her black flip flops made a soothing sound that quickly was drowned out by the ocean waves.
I poured another glass of whiskey, this time plopping two ice cubes in. The fall heat wasn’t nearly as oppressive as the summer version, but the humidity was wicked today. A tropical wave was stuck on the coast and delivering constant rain and constant pain to my sinuses. Which helped the teeth to hurt a little bit more as well.
The best advice I ever got from a movie was from Wyatt Earp. Of course, it’s advice I never listened to. “Take care of them, they cannot be replaced.”
A chuckle comes up from my gullet and I let it come out, audibly. A pair of tourists are unloading their car across the street. They look at me, then quickly grab their bags and assorted beach wear. A full laugh comes out right before they hit the “beep, beep” of their car alarm.
Off in the distance a giant thundercloud is building. It’s going to be a short day at the beach for these folks today.
A short swig fills my throat with a nice burn. I look at my toes. They’re small and perfectly symmetrical. I was told that by the last girl who saw them. She admired them for that. Her feet weren’t anything special. An ant craws across my left foot. I stare at it. Hoping it will just continue on. But, it bites, so I squish it between my fingers. Another piece of God’s grand plan destroyed by man. The more I think about it, the more I think we’re not built in His image. Instead, it’s the squirrels or the birds. They just watch us with disdain. And laugh at us believing we are them.
Another swig of whiskey and glass No. 2 is done. I pour the third. One piece of ice will suffice. I put my finger in the glass and then dab it on my gums. I’m like a mother treating her baby. I laugh again.
My notepad is sitting on a milk crate beside me. I pick it up and try to write down some words:
“Agony isn’t ecstasy.”
“The girl with the yellow bikini. She walks so nicely. It makes me wonder what it would be like to be 22 again. Then I remember how my 22nd year was spent. In a one-room studio apartment. No car. Making $4.25 an hour as a cashier. Chasing after a lesbian who took pity on me and talked anyway. Meeting the first girl whose heart I would break. Starting to build my mountain of debt. Yeah, those were the days.”
“Slipping into drunk at noon. It’s not madness. It’s not greatness. It’s just drunkenness.”
“I won the lottery once. A three-dollar prize. I don’t play the lottery much anymore.”
“When you eat cheese, you poop cheese later.”
“Lost in all of this madness is the thought of one day being happy.”
“Scream for me Long Beach! Scream for me Long Beach!”
“Do you know why we love to play California? Do you know why? Because you people, you really know how to party!”
I know it’s time to stop when I’m just writing down the in between song banter of heavy metal singers. While those albums are vital pieces of my adolescence and teen years and beyond, the importance of writing them down is simply non-existent.
Don’t try. Try. Don’t give up. Give up. Sleep. Wake. Eat. Starve.
I finish off drink No. 3 and look at the bottle. It’s half full. Ha! There I go, being an optimist today. Must be the whiskey talking.
I brushed them and they felt better. So I grabbed my bottle of Jameson, a small glass and a bucket of ice and headed to the porch. It was raining outside, just like it had been raining when I went to bed 11 hours ago. Pouring the whiskey into the glass, I admired the color. I didn’t bother with the ice, this time, as I just finished it off quickly. The day was starting off better than the one before.
A beautiful girl strolled by on her way to the beach. Yellow bikini on, towel draped across her shoulders. She couldn’t be more than 22 years old. I smiled my broken teeth grin as she moseyed on by. She awkwardly looked away when she saw me. Not at all a surprising reaction. As she continued her saunter to the beach, I continued to admire her. Not so much leering at her as appreciating her beauty. I knew I’d never see her again, so I had to remember the moment. Her black flip flops made a soothing sound that quickly was drowned out by the ocean waves.
I poured another glass of whiskey, this time plopping two ice cubes in. The fall heat wasn’t nearly as oppressive as the summer version, but the humidity was wicked today. A tropical wave was stuck on the coast and delivering constant rain and constant pain to my sinuses. Which helped the teeth to hurt a little bit more as well.
The best advice I ever got from a movie was from Wyatt Earp. Of course, it’s advice I never listened to. “Take care of them, they cannot be replaced.”
A chuckle comes up from my gullet and I let it come out, audibly. A pair of tourists are unloading their car across the street. They look at me, then quickly grab their bags and assorted beach wear. A full laugh comes out right before they hit the “beep, beep” of their car alarm.
Off in the distance a giant thundercloud is building. It’s going to be a short day at the beach for these folks today.
A short swig fills my throat with a nice burn. I look at my toes. They’re small and perfectly symmetrical. I was told that by the last girl who saw them. She admired them for that. Her feet weren’t anything special. An ant craws across my left foot. I stare at it. Hoping it will just continue on. But, it bites, so I squish it between my fingers. Another piece of God’s grand plan destroyed by man. The more I think about it, the more I think we’re not built in His image. Instead, it’s the squirrels or the birds. They just watch us with disdain. And laugh at us believing we are them.
Another swig of whiskey and glass No. 2 is done. I pour the third. One piece of ice will suffice. I put my finger in the glass and then dab it on my gums. I’m like a mother treating her baby. I laugh again.
My notepad is sitting on a milk crate beside me. I pick it up and try to write down some words:
“Agony isn’t ecstasy.”
“The girl with the yellow bikini. She walks so nicely. It makes me wonder what it would be like to be 22 again. Then I remember how my 22nd year was spent. In a one-room studio apartment. No car. Making $4.25 an hour as a cashier. Chasing after a lesbian who took pity on me and talked anyway. Meeting the first girl whose heart I would break. Starting to build my mountain of debt. Yeah, those were the days.”
“Slipping into drunk at noon. It’s not madness. It’s not greatness. It’s just drunkenness.”
“I won the lottery once. A three-dollar prize. I don’t play the lottery much anymore.”
“When you eat cheese, you poop cheese later.”
“Lost in all of this madness is the thought of one day being happy.”
“Scream for me Long Beach! Scream for me Long Beach!”
“Do you know why we love to play California? Do you know why? Because you people, you really know how to party!”
I know it’s time to stop when I’m just writing down the in between song banter of heavy metal singers. While those albums are vital pieces of my adolescence and teen years and beyond, the importance of writing them down is simply non-existent.
Don’t try. Try. Don’t give up. Give up. Sleep. Wake. Eat. Starve.
I finish off drink No. 3 and look at the bottle. It’s half full. Ha! There I go, being an optimist today. Must be the whiskey talking.
Friday, September 23, 2011
sleeping, drinking, fucking
I stared at the mailbox for at least 20 minutes. It had graffiti on the sides that read “the U.S. is doomed” and “fuck the mailman, mom did.”
Chuckling, I finally put my envelope in the large metal bin. I sighed before letting go of the grey handle. Grey because the blue paint had long ago disintegrated from the thousands of hands touching it over the years.
Those twenty minutes were a whole lot longer I thought about whether or not I should apply for the job in the town of my dreams doing something I really wasn’t qualified to do, but I really wanted to get to that town, was a whole lot longer than the seconds that it took me to drop a letter in the same box three years earlier. That letter was to my ex-girlfriend. I’d dug up her address on the internet. One thing I’ve always been able to do is find people and their addresses. I’d done it for a buddy of mine. Found a former friend who became a federal prisoner. I’d found a Major League Baseball player’s address for my former ex. It was one of the reasons I think she agreed to start having drinks with me. Drinks that led to thoughts that led to actions that led to heartbreak. Twice.
But the day I sent her a letter. Over two years after she’d dumped me with the lines “I hate doing this because I still love you” and “Love is not enough.” I wrote the letter in a fit of self-pity and self-help book reading.
I didn’t think twice after pouring my heart out in page after page. Didn’t think twice about it at all. I just licked the envelope, went to the post office a few blocks from the tree that I wrote the letter under, a tree that me and her had spent time under, and mailed it. In this very same mailbox.
I hadn’t thought about it until the second I dropped the resume and such in the box.
“This is that box,” I thought.
Bad omen, for sure.
That original letter went to that address. She had since moved. But, in the great way the post office does things, it eventually found the right address. Months later.
So almost eight months after I mailed the letter. I got a response. Via e-mail.
“You violated us by sending me that,” said the letter in an e-mail sent by another friend so as I didn’t have her e-mail address, I’m sure. “Please don’t try to talk to me again. And I don’t think it’s a good idea that we meet.”
I felt numb reading it. I’d been excited and nervous for a second or two. Then deflated.
I drank a lot that night. I think. I really don’t remember.
I don’t remember a lot about my life in late 2008 and early 2009.
I got dumped right before all this. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. Better than getting laid for the first time. Better than my first kiss – which I’m not even sure of the where or when. It may have happened at Longwood College in 1990. It may have happened on frat row at UVA in 1990. I really can’t be sure anymore. I used to be very sure it was on frat row. But now? Not so much. I think maybe it happened at my friend D.J.’s house party. She made us kiss to get into the party. Me being a virginal kisser, I didn’t want to do it. And may not have. I don’t remember. Lots of grain alcohol that night. Acutally dumped the end of a trashcan full of the stuff. Almost got beat up.
But D.J. saved us.
Just like I saved him a year earlier when he started talking about “Niggers” in my dorm room. “Niggers are everywhere. Niggers are stupid. Niggers are dumb. Nigger, nigger, nigger.” Well, my roommate was black and I stood up and told him “leave. Now.”
He did. And I watched in horror as he stood outside waiting for me to come out. My roommate staring at me.
“Jimmy, he’s a dick,” I said.
“Yeah…and?” he replied.
“And you won’t see him again.”
I grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam and poured two double shots.
“Here you go, buddy,” I said, handing him the shot glass.
“Fuck you, Randy,” he said, taking the shot glass and downing the brown sludge. I returned the favor.
Three hours later we were hugging each other and drinking Mad Dog 20/20. He barfed it on the wall. I put a Motley Crue poster over it. Where it stayed until June when we moved out.
The moment I removed the poster we looked at each other and laughed.
“Been a long year, hasn’t it?” Jimmy said.
“Not at all, my man. Not at all.”
“That was a long night.”
“Yes. And a long time ago.”
I’m still friends with D.J. And Jimmy. Although neither of them has ever been in the same room at the same time again. As far as I know.
I only saw D.J. at my 20-year high school reunion. He married an extremely hot woman.
Jimmy is a big wig at a college now.
Me? I’m a copy editor for a dying newspaper in a shitty little town.
I guess we all got what we should have.
And I’m still wondering if I’ll ever talk to my ex again.
Once an idiot, always an idiot.
Sleep. Drink. Fuck.
One day, my teeth will fall out and I’ll just sleep and drink.
Chuckling, I finally put my envelope in the large metal bin. I sighed before letting go of the grey handle. Grey because the blue paint had long ago disintegrated from the thousands of hands touching it over the years.
Those twenty minutes were a whole lot longer I thought about whether or not I should apply for the job in the town of my dreams doing something I really wasn’t qualified to do, but I really wanted to get to that town, was a whole lot longer than the seconds that it took me to drop a letter in the same box three years earlier. That letter was to my ex-girlfriend. I’d dug up her address on the internet. One thing I’ve always been able to do is find people and their addresses. I’d done it for a buddy of mine. Found a former friend who became a federal prisoner. I’d found a Major League Baseball player’s address for my former ex. It was one of the reasons I think she agreed to start having drinks with me. Drinks that led to thoughts that led to actions that led to heartbreak. Twice.
But the day I sent her a letter. Over two years after she’d dumped me with the lines “I hate doing this because I still love you” and “Love is not enough.” I wrote the letter in a fit of self-pity and self-help book reading.
I didn’t think twice after pouring my heart out in page after page. Didn’t think twice about it at all. I just licked the envelope, went to the post office a few blocks from the tree that I wrote the letter under, a tree that me and her had spent time under, and mailed it. In this very same mailbox.
I hadn’t thought about it until the second I dropped the resume and such in the box.
“This is that box,” I thought.
Bad omen, for sure.
That original letter went to that address. She had since moved. But, in the great way the post office does things, it eventually found the right address. Months later.
So almost eight months after I mailed the letter. I got a response. Via e-mail.
“You violated us by sending me that,” said the letter in an e-mail sent by another friend so as I didn’t have her e-mail address, I’m sure. “Please don’t try to talk to me again. And I don’t think it’s a good idea that we meet.”
I felt numb reading it. I’d been excited and nervous for a second or two. Then deflated.
I drank a lot that night. I think. I really don’t remember.
I don’t remember a lot about my life in late 2008 and early 2009.
I got dumped right before all this. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. Better than getting laid for the first time. Better than my first kiss – which I’m not even sure of the where or when. It may have happened at Longwood College in 1990. It may have happened on frat row at UVA in 1990. I really can’t be sure anymore. I used to be very sure it was on frat row. But now? Not so much. I think maybe it happened at my friend D.J.’s house party. She made us kiss to get into the party. Me being a virginal kisser, I didn’t want to do it. And may not have. I don’t remember. Lots of grain alcohol that night. Acutally dumped the end of a trashcan full of the stuff. Almost got beat up.
But D.J. saved us.
Just like I saved him a year earlier when he started talking about “Niggers” in my dorm room. “Niggers are everywhere. Niggers are stupid. Niggers are dumb. Nigger, nigger, nigger.” Well, my roommate was black and I stood up and told him “leave. Now.”
He did. And I watched in horror as he stood outside waiting for me to come out. My roommate staring at me.
“Jimmy, he’s a dick,” I said.
“Yeah…and?” he replied.
“And you won’t see him again.”
I grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam and poured two double shots.
“Here you go, buddy,” I said, handing him the shot glass.
“Fuck you, Randy,” he said, taking the shot glass and downing the brown sludge. I returned the favor.
Three hours later we were hugging each other and drinking Mad Dog 20/20. He barfed it on the wall. I put a Motley Crue poster over it. Where it stayed until June when we moved out.
The moment I removed the poster we looked at each other and laughed.
“Been a long year, hasn’t it?” Jimmy said.
“Not at all, my man. Not at all.”
“That was a long night.”
“Yes. And a long time ago.”
I’m still friends with D.J. And Jimmy. Although neither of them has ever been in the same room at the same time again. As far as I know.
I only saw D.J. at my 20-year high school reunion. He married an extremely hot woman.
Jimmy is a big wig at a college now.
Me? I’m a copy editor for a dying newspaper in a shitty little town.
I guess we all got what we should have.
And I’m still wondering if I’ll ever talk to my ex again.
Once an idiot, always an idiot.
Sleep. Drink. Fuck.
One day, my teeth will fall out and I’ll just sleep and drink.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me
It’s 4 a.m. and I’m driving aimlessly towards the sun.
The road passes by, my bald left front tire going thunk, thunk, thunk every second or so. It was soothing at first, annoying for a while, then just part of the journey for the rest.
I wondered before I left if the tires would last. I decided not to care much since I didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t much care for where I was going. Wanted to see where I was going. And not really worried about whether or not a flat tire would keep me from getting there.
Six hours later, I’m still moving forward and the tire is still doing it’s job.
So, I guess I made the right decision.
For once.
I got tired of sitting in my too-small of a recliner. My dad bought it for me for Christmas one year. Strange gift, for sure, but one that I was pleasantly surprised to see when it arrived in a giant box that cold December morning.
After putting it together, I noticed how small it really was. But I figured it was better than what I had, which was nothing. In fact, I hadn’t owned a recliner since I was in college. I got my roommate to pay most of the cost for this sweet leather thing at a thrift. This was maybe six months into my time as a resident of Arizona. I loved that chair. I left it in the hands of my girlfriend’s brother when I moved to Alabama.
Never saw it again.
And never thought about owning another chair again. Until my dad sent me this one.
It’s the same color. But not nearly the same chair.
I think that’s why I rarely sat in it.
Until one day I found myself just sitting there in this brown, faux-leather thing. The sides sticking to my legs in the hot summer heat. I was just sitting there, sweating, and not doing anything else. Not writing. Not drinking. Not listening to music. Not jerking off. Not even thinking about her.
Instead, I was just staring at nothing.
That’s when I decided I had to go. Just get up and get out. I grabbed my hoodie, a toothbrush and toothpaste container and a stack of CDs and threw then in my 1997 Rose Bowl backpack. Then I grabbed six t-shirts off of their hangers in my closet, six pairs of underwear and a couple pairs of pants. Next, I took a bottle of Jameson and grabbed my car keys to leave.
“See ya when I see ya,” I said to my roommate, who was doing what he always did – playing Call of Duty in his room with the door closed.
“Where you going?” he asked after putting his game on pause.
“West,” I said.
A few awkward moments of silence for him later and he said: “Well, enjoy,” and turned his game back to playing mode.
He was a decent chap, I suppose. I didn’t know much about him. He was a friend of a friend who always seemed to be doing something to get somewhere else. Taking classes at a community college one year. Studying to be a manager for a car wash another. All I really knew was that he was able to pay the rent on time and didn’t seem to mind my penchant for not using the air conditioner or heat. He also was receiving food stamps.
I turned and walked out the door moments later. I’d already forgotten that conversation and was more thinking about where I was going to go.
“West, young man,” the voice in my head, strangely sounding like my buddy Josh’s voice combined with William Shatner. Had to be a good sign.
Anyways, I checked my wallet before I started the engine. Two hundred dollars in 20s and three ones.
“I can always burn my credit card for fuel,” I sang along with Neil Young.
Unlike that Canadian, I knew exactly how I lost my friends.
I started the engine and turned it west. The sun was high in the sky and would be my guide. I went over the bridge – a momentary northern turn – then got on U.S. 70 West. It would intersect with Interstate 40 eventually, which seemed like a good idea.
Raleigh, Memphis, Little Rock, Amarillo, Flagstaff and Bakersfield could be at my fingertips. It’s funny. I-40’s a road I’ve been on every inch of, but never all in one trip like I-10 or I-20. Someday I figured I’d take the Highway 61 trip, but I’ve talked about it so much that it’s become something of an epic quest that needs a Sam Wise along for the ride.
Of course, I could go way up north and hit I-90. It is summer, the right time to do that.
Hours later, I was still on I-40. Somewhere outside of Nashville, just wondering if I’d have a job in a week when I just showed back up.
I figure it doesn’t matter much. Just like she thought when she said those words to me.
“You’ll get over me.”
That was six years ago.
And I’m still driving around trying to outrun her. But she always catches me.
Just then, I see a sign for the “Pocahontas Hotel.” If there ever was a sign to stop, take a load off, that’s it.
I pull into the parking lot. It’s 4:34 a.m. A red-headed woman is sitting there at the front desk. She sees me pull in. I see her seeing me. I wonder if she’ll have an accent.
“Hi, honey,” she says, with an excellent Tennessee drawl. “You look tired. Needin’ a room?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say as politely as I think I can. “I’ve been driving for quite a while and I need a place to rest a bit.”
“Well, we got you a nice lil’ room that’ll fix ya right up!” she says. “And in the morning, we’ll make you a nice breakfast. Grits and all!”
“Thank you kindly,” I replied, handing her my credit card.
“You’re a Hank III? Well, I’ll be damned. You know he’s playing across the street tomorrow night?”
“No shit? Whoops, pardon my language.” I blush just a bit.
“Yep, no shit. And don’t worry ‘bout yer tongue. Mine’s a bit nastier.” She realized what she said and blushed as well.
I filled out the card and signed away $78.89 more of my life away.
“You going to that show tomorrow?” I asked.
“I was certainly planning on it,” she replied.
“Got anyone to go with?” I said slyly.
“Actually, no. My boyfriend just dumped me six nights ago.”
“Well, he must be crazy.”
She blushed again.
“And you know what? You can have his ticket. Me and Hank III going to see Hank III!!!”
“Ok. It’s a date. See you tomorrow, then…Heck, I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Angela. But everyone calls me Cari, with a C.”
“Ok, Cari with a C, I will see you tomorrow.”
“Sweet dreams Hank.”
“Same to ya, Cari.”
Sometimes, I thought to myself as I walked to my room, it pays to drive west trying to get away from your past. Because you’re also driving to your future. Like a bad country song, even.
The road passes by, my bald left front tire going thunk, thunk, thunk every second or so. It was soothing at first, annoying for a while, then just part of the journey for the rest.
I wondered before I left if the tires would last. I decided not to care much since I didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t much care for where I was going. Wanted to see where I was going. And not really worried about whether or not a flat tire would keep me from getting there.
Six hours later, I’m still moving forward and the tire is still doing it’s job.
So, I guess I made the right decision.
For once.
I got tired of sitting in my too-small of a recliner. My dad bought it for me for Christmas one year. Strange gift, for sure, but one that I was pleasantly surprised to see when it arrived in a giant box that cold December morning.
After putting it together, I noticed how small it really was. But I figured it was better than what I had, which was nothing. In fact, I hadn’t owned a recliner since I was in college. I got my roommate to pay most of the cost for this sweet leather thing at a thrift. This was maybe six months into my time as a resident of Arizona. I loved that chair. I left it in the hands of my girlfriend’s brother when I moved to Alabama.
Never saw it again.
And never thought about owning another chair again. Until my dad sent me this one.
It’s the same color. But not nearly the same chair.
I think that’s why I rarely sat in it.
Until one day I found myself just sitting there in this brown, faux-leather thing. The sides sticking to my legs in the hot summer heat. I was just sitting there, sweating, and not doing anything else. Not writing. Not drinking. Not listening to music. Not jerking off. Not even thinking about her.
Instead, I was just staring at nothing.
That’s when I decided I had to go. Just get up and get out. I grabbed my hoodie, a toothbrush and toothpaste container and a stack of CDs and threw then in my 1997 Rose Bowl backpack. Then I grabbed six t-shirts off of their hangers in my closet, six pairs of underwear and a couple pairs of pants. Next, I took a bottle of Jameson and grabbed my car keys to leave.
“See ya when I see ya,” I said to my roommate, who was doing what he always did – playing Call of Duty in his room with the door closed.
“Where you going?” he asked after putting his game on pause.
“West,” I said.
A few awkward moments of silence for him later and he said: “Well, enjoy,” and turned his game back to playing mode.
He was a decent chap, I suppose. I didn’t know much about him. He was a friend of a friend who always seemed to be doing something to get somewhere else. Taking classes at a community college one year. Studying to be a manager for a car wash another. All I really knew was that he was able to pay the rent on time and didn’t seem to mind my penchant for not using the air conditioner or heat. He also was receiving food stamps.
I turned and walked out the door moments later. I’d already forgotten that conversation and was more thinking about where I was going to go.
“West, young man,” the voice in my head, strangely sounding like my buddy Josh’s voice combined with William Shatner. Had to be a good sign.
Anyways, I checked my wallet before I started the engine. Two hundred dollars in 20s and three ones.
“I can always burn my credit card for fuel,” I sang along with Neil Young.
Unlike that Canadian, I knew exactly how I lost my friends.
I started the engine and turned it west. The sun was high in the sky and would be my guide. I went over the bridge – a momentary northern turn – then got on U.S. 70 West. It would intersect with Interstate 40 eventually, which seemed like a good idea.
Raleigh, Memphis, Little Rock, Amarillo, Flagstaff and Bakersfield could be at my fingertips. It’s funny. I-40’s a road I’ve been on every inch of, but never all in one trip like I-10 or I-20. Someday I figured I’d take the Highway 61 trip, but I’ve talked about it so much that it’s become something of an epic quest that needs a Sam Wise along for the ride.
Of course, I could go way up north and hit I-90. It is summer, the right time to do that.
Hours later, I was still on I-40. Somewhere outside of Nashville, just wondering if I’d have a job in a week when I just showed back up.
I figure it doesn’t matter much. Just like she thought when she said those words to me.
“You’ll get over me.”
That was six years ago.
And I’m still driving around trying to outrun her. But she always catches me.
Just then, I see a sign for the “Pocahontas Hotel.” If there ever was a sign to stop, take a load off, that’s it.
I pull into the parking lot. It’s 4:34 a.m. A red-headed woman is sitting there at the front desk. She sees me pull in. I see her seeing me. I wonder if she’ll have an accent.
“Hi, honey,” she says, with an excellent Tennessee drawl. “You look tired. Needin’ a room?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say as politely as I think I can. “I’ve been driving for quite a while and I need a place to rest a bit.”
“Well, we got you a nice lil’ room that’ll fix ya right up!” she says. “And in the morning, we’ll make you a nice breakfast. Grits and all!”
“Thank you kindly,” I replied, handing her my credit card.
“You’re a Hank III? Well, I’ll be damned. You know he’s playing across the street tomorrow night?”
“No shit? Whoops, pardon my language.” I blush just a bit.
“Yep, no shit. And don’t worry ‘bout yer tongue. Mine’s a bit nastier.” She realized what she said and blushed as well.
I filled out the card and signed away $78.89 more of my life away.
“You going to that show tomorrow?” I asked.
“I was certainly planning on it,” she replied.
“Got anyone to go with?” I said slyly.
“Actually, no. My boyfriend just dumped me six nights ago.”
“Well, he must be crazy.”
She blushed again.
“And you know what? You can have his ticket. Me and Hank III going to see Hank III!!!”
“Ok. It’s a date. See you tomorrow, then…Heck, I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Angela. But everyone calls me Cari, with a C.”
“Ok, Cari with a C, I will see you tomorrow.”
“Sweet dreams Hank.”
“Same to ya, Cari.”
Sometimes, I thought to myself as I walked to my room, it pays to drive west trying to get away from your past. Because you’re also driving to your future. Like a bad country song, even.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
again and again
“Have you ever tried to let yourself love again?”
It was a fair question, really. She’d known me now for three years. We’d started out just drinking away our misery together, like so many other women I’ve known over the years. But unlike all of them, I didn’t fall in love with them. Or at least fall into bed with her.
“I did. Once. And it ended worse than the time I really was in love,” I said, slowly tilting my half-empty bottle of “Distillery” Jameson. A bottle I got while on a trip to Ireland that someone else paid for.
I looked at the whiskey in the glass. A nice shade it was. I’d been carrying this bottle around with me, move after move, taking one shot at each stop. There was Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. Then there was Raleigh, North Carolina. By that time, I was ready to finally give up on North Carolina. The state that stole my heart, twice.
So I drove to Arkansas. Never planned on staying. Ended up being there two months. A little while in Fayetteville. Then a short stop in Little Rock. After that, Memphis called. I wanted to try and live in the Arcade Hotel for a month. But, I knew it was long, long gone. But still, I went. Sat under the train bridge that Joe Strummer filmed a scene with Steve Buscemi long, long ago.
I felt sad. So I left. Immediately.
Drove to Paris, Texas. Thought maybe I’d see Harry Dean walk by.
He didn’t.
Into Oklahoma I drifted. I saw a lady I’d met on the Internet. She liked that I liked Level 42. I always wondered why she actually added me. This was in the Myspace days. So I drove to her town -- Durant – knocked on her door, and just asked her.
“Because I was lonely one night,” she said, her red hair glistening in the hot, summer dust.
We’d stayed in touch over the years. I wondered many times if we’d try to spark some kind of relationship. But as time passed, it became obvious it wasn’t going to happen. When I showed up that afternoon, I knew she wasn’t lonely anymore. She had her daughter. Now 12. She had her organic garden. And her boyfriend.
“Not getting married again,” she said. “Just don’t see the point.”
I smiled when she said that. Gave her a hug and thanked her for being a friend. I tried not to hear those words in song form. But damn if “Golden Girls” hadn’t driven it into my head forever…
Next, I just drove. Three days and nights. Stopping in small towns as a drove closer and closer to the border. There was Medicine Lodge, Kanas. Next was Scottsbluff, Nebraska. Two days later, Custer, South Dakota. The next night it was Carrington, North Dakota . I only remember them because I took pictures of signs in each town I slept in.
I didn’t talk to a single person on those days and nights. I listened to the same albums, over and over. Of course it was Lucero. Of course every song reminded me of a woman I’d once known. I often wonder if I should have told each woman after the next about that certain part of me. The “can’t let go” piece of me that holds on to the remnants of the past like they’d kill me if they could get out of my grasp.
Even women I’d met and been dumped or dumped or just passed in the night – naked – got a song. Wasting all of that effort was nothing new.
I used to write down the names of girls who just spoke to me. I stopped one day when I was 24. Living in Arizona, trying to “find” myself in the way middle-class wimps like me do – in college.
Her name was Denise Ragu. I figure if I spell her name correctly, she’ll see this one day. Just like every other lady that put their real name down. We had geology class together. Or some kind of earth science.
She must have marked me as a smart guy – good mark – and started talking with me. We teamed up in lab and I really dug her. She laughed at my awful remarks and my long hair.
One day, near the end of the semester, we got to talking about social things. Yeah, I’m kind of slow like that. It was on a path. I was on my bike, she was walking. We said hello, and it turned to going out on the town stuff. Pretty soon, I started to work up the courage to ask her out. Right before I did, her demeanor changed. She was a smart lady, after all. She knew where I was going.
“Well, I’ve got to go meet my boyfriend,” she said.
“I froze for just a second. Stuttered something about cool, see you later.”
I watched her walk away. The sun was high in the sky and it was hot. Nothing remarkable about that.
I went home and got drunk. Drank 12 Red Dog beers. The beer with a Red Dog on the bottle and a different saying under the twist off cap.
We saw each other in class the next week. She smiled, but sat down on the other side of the room.
The next time I saw her, she didn’t smile.
Pretty soon, the semester ended and I never saw her again.
I stopped writing down names soon after.
I wonder if it was because of her, or because I started dating a girl – what would become three years and lots of booze and fights and fun and travel and angst.
“What the hell are you thinking about now?” she asked.
“All the reasons I don’t want to fall in love. And all the reasons I do over and over.
“Again and again.”
It was a fair question, really. She’d known me now for three years. We’d started out just drinking away our misery together, like so many other women I’ve known over the years. But unlike all of them, I didn’t fall in love with them. Or at least fall into bed with her.
“I did. Once. And it ended worse than the time I really was in love,” I said, slowly tilting my half-empty bottle of “Distillery” Jameson. A bottle I got while on a trip to Ireland that someone else paid for.
I looked at the whiskey in the glass. A nice shade it was. I’d been carrying this bottle around with me, move after move, taking one shot at each stop. There was Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. Then there was Raleigh, North Carolina. By that time, I was ready to finally give up on North Carolina. The state that stole my heart, twice.
So I drove to Arkansas. Never planned on staying. Ended up being there two months. A little while in Fayetteville. Then a short stop in Little Rock. After that, Memphis called. I wanted to try and live in the Arcade Hotel for a month. But, I knew it was long, long gone. But still, I went. Sat under the train bridge that Joe Strummer filmed a scene with Steve Buscemi long, long ago.
I felt sad. So I left. Immediately.
Drove to Paris, Texas. Thought maybe I’d see Harry Dean walk by.
He didn’t.
Into Oklahoma I drifted. I saw a lady I’d met on the Internet. She liked that I liked Level 42. I always wondered why she actually added me. This was in the Myspace days. So I drove to her town -- Durant – knocked on her door, and just asked her.
“Because I was lonely one night,” she said, her red hair glistening in the hot, summer dust.
We’d stayed in touch over the years. I wondered many times if we’d try to spark some kind of relationship. But as time passed, it became obvious it wasn’t going to happen. When I showed up that afternoon, I knew she wasn’t lonely anymore. She had her daughter. Now 12. She had her organic garden. And her boyfriend.
“Not getting married again,” she said. “Just don’t see the point.”
I smiled when she said that. Gave her a hug and thanked her for being a friend. I tried not to hear those words in song form. But damn if “Golden Girls” hadn’t driven it into my head forever…
Next, I just drove. Three days and nights. Stopping in small towns as a drove closer and closer to the border. There was Medicine Lodge, Kanas. Next was Scottsbluff, Nebraska. Two days later, Custer, South Dakota. The next night it was Carrington, North Dakota . I only remember them because I took pictures of signs in each town I slept in.
I didn’t talk to a single person on those days and nights. I listened to the same albums, over and over. Of course it was Lucero. Of course every song reminded me of a woman I’d once known. I often wonder if I should have told each woman after the next about that certain part of me. The “can’t let go” piece of me that holds on to the remnants of the past like they’d kill me if they could get out of my grasp.
Even women I’d met and been dumped or dumped or just passed in the night – naked – got a song. Wasting all of that effort was nothing new.
I used to write down the names of girls who just spoke to me. I stopped one day when I was 24. Living in Arizona, trying to “find” myself in the way middle-class wimps like me do – in college.
Her name was Denise Ragu. I figure if I spell her name correctly, she’ll see this one day. Just like every other lady that put their real name down. We had geology class together. Or some kind of earth science.
She must have marked me as a smart guy – good mark – and started talking with me. We teamed up in lab and I really dug her. She laughed at my awful remarks and my long hair.
One day, near the end of the semester, we got to talking about social things. Yeah, I’m kind of slow like that. It was on a path. I was on my bike, she was walking. We said hello, and it turned to going out on the town stuff. Pretty soon, I started to work up the courage to ask her out. Right before I did, her demeanor changed. She was a smart lady, after all. She knew where I was going.
“Well, I’ve got to go meet my boyfriend,” she said.
“I froze for just a second. Stuttered something about cool, see you later.”
I watched her walk away. The sun was high in the sky and it was hot. Nothing remarkable about that.
I went home and got drunk. Drank 12 Red Dog beers. The beer with a Red Dog on the bottle and a different saying under the twist off cap.
We saw each other in class the next week. She smiled, but sat down on the other side of the room.
The next time I saw her, she didn’t smile.
Pretty soon, the semester ended and I never saw her again.
I stopped writing down names soon after.
I wonder if it was because of her, or because I started dating a girl – what would become three years and lots of booze and fights and fun and travel and angst.
“What the hell are you thinking about now?” she asked.
“All the reasons I don’t want to fall in love. And all the reasons I do over and over.
“Again and again.”
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