The thought of waking up alone every day scares the crap out of me. Lying in a bed for two with only one there isn’t a beautiful future, something to dream about. Instead, it’s something to fear.
Yet, fear is easier.
And fear ends up in loneliness.
Or something like that.
I thought of all that while standing at a urinal in a Bojangles in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. I didn’t eat anything while there, just took a pee. Eventually, it became a crap. So, I switched to the stall for that.
She wasn’t waiting outside for me when I was done. I’d figured taking a No. 1 and a No. 2, in separate bathrooms even, would lead to her being done before me. Nope.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
Tank's tab...
Mike Tyson walked into the bar.
We just kind of stared at him. It reminded me of the time when Tank Abbott walked into the casino that me and a buddy were at. We were sitting at the bar, and he walked up and ordered a drink. Some kind of vodka.
My buddy, who was a bit of a jackass, well before anyone thought of being paid to be a Jackass, leaned over to me and said “Hey, man. I’m going to get punched by Tank Abbott.”
Now remember, this was 1995 or 1996. This was when Tank Abbott was one of the baddest mother fuckers on the planet. Before he was exposed as an MMA one-trick pony.
“Are you fucking nuts?” I said matter-of-factly enough to try not to show that I was very interested in where this was going. “He’ll kill ya.”
We both took a swig of Budweiser and looked at Tank. He had two blondes with him. One had real tits, one fake. Neither were particularly attractive, but man, did they have tits. Maybe that’s what Tank Abbott was into? And who were we to judge. We were two skinny 20-somethings who hadn’t been laid in years.
“Nah, he’ll hurt the shit out of me for a little bit, but then I’ll have a great fucking story about when I got into a bar fight with Tank fucking Abbott,” my buddy said, taking another swig of beer and motioning to the barkeep.
“Two whiskeys!” he pronounced with a wink at me.
“On him!”
“Coming right up,” the barkeep said
I looked at my buddy with a bit of a stare.
“Shit, the least you can do is pay for the drinks. I’m about to get slaughtered here.”
“It’s your life,” I replied and finished my beer. I fucking detested Budweiser. But I was broke, and it was the cheapest thing this shitty casino far off the strip had.
The shots came, we clinked glasses and drank it up.
Then, my buddy walked over the Tank Abbott and tapped him on the shoulder.
“What?” he said turning around.
“You’re a fucking pussy!” my buddy said, just loud enough for everyone within 10 feet to hear.
“Really?” Abbott said. “You really want to do this?”
“Do what?” my buddy responded rather funnily.
“End your life in this shitty little casino?” Abbott said.
“Nah, I just thought I’d beat you up.”
Punch. Punch. Punch. Grab. Punch. Punch. Punch.
My buddy hit the floor. Hard. He wasn’t going to get up.
I, however, had to.
I rushed over and knelt down to my buddy’s side.
“You may want to move,” one of the blondes said. I saw out of the corner of my eye a big foot coming down on my buddy’s chest. I pushed him out of the way just in time. The food hit floor.
“What are you doing, son!” Abbott said, now directing his anger at me.
“Saving my buddy’s life,” I said.
“And ending your’s?”
“Nah, Tank, uh, Mr. Abbott. How about I buy you and your friends (I pointed at the two blondes) a round of drinks?”
“A round, huh?”
“OK, two,” I said.
“OK, kid. You got a deal. Hope your buddy appreciates what you’re doing.”
“He won’t. Until tomorrow.”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” he laughed maniacly.
I got my buddy up off the floor and put him in a booth. I went to the bar with Tank Abbott. He smiled and put his arm around me.
At the bar, he announced to the barkeep “This kid’s paying for the next two rounds!”
“You sure, kid?” the barkeep asked.
I had no other response except a meek “Yep.”
The barman, I’d learn later his name was Keith, pointed to the left of the stage where some really bad 1980s hair metal cover band had been playing about 15 minutes ago. There, a group of about 100 people were standing around.
“That’s my crew!” Abbott yelled and laughed his evil laugh again. “Drinks for all of ‘em. Times TWO!”
I thanked my lucky stars we were in a shithole off the strip instead of the Bellagio. At least I won’t be paying for Cristal.
“Two Budweisers,” I said to the barkeep. “Can I get those first?”
The barman looked at Tank Abbott. Abbott nodded his approval.
“Anything for my new best friend!” he laughed and walked away.
I got the Buds, and drank a full one before I even moved. I started on the second one as I walked over to my buddy. He was awake now, staring at the scene over by the stage.
“Man, that’s a crazy scene over there. You’d think they were getting free drinks.”
“They are, man.”
“Shit, then why don’t we join them?”
“I’m going to kill you dude.”
He then took my other Budweiser and drank it down.
The barkeep came over with the bill a few minutes later.
“It could’ve been worse, kid,” he said handing me a little receipt. It read $7,346.23.
“How so?” I asked.
“You could’ve been at the Bellagio.”
And here I am nearly 20 years later, I still haven’t paid that tab. And my buddy still has a great story to tell…
We just kind of stared at him. It reminded me of the time when Tank Abbott walked into the casino that me and a buddy were at. We were sitting at the bar, and he walked up and ordered a drink. Some kind of vodka.
My buddy, who was a bit of a jackass, well before anyone thought of being paid to be a Jackass, leaned over to me and said “Hey, man. I’m going to get punched by Tank Abbott.”
Now remember, this was 1995 or 1996. This was when Tank Abbott was one of the baddest mother fuckers on the planet. Before he was exposed as an MMA one-trick pony.
“Are you fucking nuts?” I said matter-of-factly enough to try not to show that I was very interested in where this was going. “He’ll kill ya.”
We both took a swig of Budweiser and looked at Tank. He had two blondes with him. One had real tits, one fake. Neither were particularly attractive, but man, did they have tits. Maybe that’s what Tank Abbott was into? And who were we to judge. We were two skinny 20-somethings who hadn’t been laid in years.
“Nah, he’ll hurt the shit out of me for a little bit, but then I’ll have a great fucking story about when I got into a bar fight with Tank fucking Abbott,” my buddy said, taking another swig of beer and motioning to the barkeep.
“Two whiskeys!” he pronounced with a wink at me.
“On him!”
“Coming right up,” the barkeep said
I looked at my buddy with a bit of a stare.
“Shit, the least you can do is pay for the drinks. I’m about to get slaughtered here.”
“It’s your life,” I replied and finished my beer. I fucking detested Budweiser. But I was broke, and it was the cheapest thing this shitty casino far off the strip had.
The shots came, we clinked glasses and drank it up.
Then, my buddy walked over the Tank Abbott and tapped him on the shoulder.
“What?” he said turning around.
“You’re a fucking pussy!” my buddy said, just loud enough for everyone within 10 feet to hear.
“Really?” Abbott said. “You really want to do this?”
“Do what?” my buddy responded rather funnily.
“End your life in this shitty little casino?” Abbott said.
“Nah, I just thought I’d beat you up.”
Punch. Punch. Punch. Grab. Punch. Punch. Punch.
My buddy hit the floor. Hard. He wasn’t going to get up.
I, however, had to.
I rushed over and knelt down to my buddy’s side.
“You may want to move,” one of the blondes said. I saw out of the corner of my eye a big foot coming down on my buddy’s chest. I pushed him out of the way just in time. The food hit floor.
“What are you doing, son!” Abbott said, now directing his anger at me.
“Saving my buddy’s life,” I said.
“And ending your’s?”
“Nah, Tank, uh, Mr. Abbott. How about I buy you and your friends (I pointed at the two blondes) a round of drinks?”
“A round, huh?”
“OK, two,” I said.
“OK, kid. You got a deal. Hope your buddy appreciates what you’re doing.”
“He won’t. Until tomorrow.”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” he laughed maniacly.
I got my buddy up off the floor and put him in a booth. I went to the bar with Tank Abbott. He smiled and put his arm around me.
At the bar, he announced to the barkeep “This kid’s paying for the next two rounds!”
“You sure, kid?” the barkeep asked.
I had no other response except a meek “Yep.”
The barman, I’d learn later his name was Keith, pointed to the left of the stage where some really bad 1980s hair metal cover band had been playing about 15 minutes ago. There, a group of about 100 people were standing around.
“That’s my crew!” Abbott yelled and laughed his evil laugh again. “Drinks for all of ‘em. Times TWO!”
I thanked my lucky stars we were in a shithole off the strip instead of the Bellagio. At least I won’t be paying for Cristal.
“Two Budweisers,” I said to the barkeep. “Can I get those first?”
The barman looked at Tank Abbott. Abbott nodded his approval.
“Anything for my new best friend!” he laughed and walked away.
I got the Buds, and drank a full one before I even moved. I started on the second one as I walked over to my buddy. He was awake now, staring at the scene over by the stage.
“Man, that’s a crazy scene over there. You’d think they were getting free drinks.”
“They are, man.”
“Shit, then why don’t we join them?”
“I’m going to kill you dude.”
He then took my other Budweiser and drank it down.
The barkeep came over with the bill a few minutes later.
“It could’ve been worse, kid,” he said handing me a little receipt. It read $7,346.23.
“How so?” I asked.
“You could’ve been at the Bellagio.”
And here I am nearly 20 years later, I still haven’t paid that tab. And my buddy still has a great story to tell…
Thursday, March 8, 2012
a little bit older ...
First impressions stick with me. And I’m sure the first impression most folks get from me sticks most of the time as well. How do I know this? Because there are very few people who I couldn’t stand initially that I can stand now, and there are even fewer folks that couldn’t stand me at first who do now.
I saw him standing against the brick wall entrance of the football practice field at South Carolina’s athletic facility. He was wearing a just a little too tight black shirt and jeans. His muscly arms protruded out of the shirt, I’m sure with the desired effect. In his hands was a bible. This was Kelvin Smith.
Many of my newspaper colleagues had warned me of this certain buffoon. That I’d certainly not enjoy being around him. Now, I don’t mind the person that tosses about bible verses and believes that God is going to come one day and judge us all. That’s their prerogative. I do, however, hate folks that preach it but don’t even come close to living it.
“Hey there,” he said to me as I walked up with the sports information intern. “I’m Kelvin.”
“Randy,” I said, putting out my hand to shake. It was not returned.
“What paper do you work for?” he asked.
“The Urinal,” I replied.
“Ha! That’s what we all call it,” Kelvin smirked. “Who are you here to talk with?”
Now, I’d heard he likes to mooch off of other’s story ideas, so I wasn’t about to give mine away. I actually had a little tidbit of information about a certain player’s off field habit of collecting moths that I didn’t really want to give away, seemed weird enough to make a good story. So I lied.
“Just the normal suspects,” I said. “Coach, running back, quarterback. Think I may just do a scouting report story. Maybe a notebook today.”
“Cool, cool,” Kelvin said. “I was going to talk to the quarterback too. He threw for almost 250 yards last week. Pretty impressive.”
“Yeah, in a 33-7 loss. How impressive is that?” I thought to myself. God damn jock-sniffer.
I had on a shirt from my old Arizona State University days because it was laundry night for me. Kelvin looked at it and asked “Did you know Pat Tillman? I’m good buddies with Lawrence Cooper here on the team!”
“Yeah, I covered ASU when Pat was there,” I replied. “Certainly wasn’t a buddy with him. But we respected each other. Had a couple of good conversations with him.”
“Me and L-Coop, that’s what I call him, had lunch yesterday at Logan’s. He let me pay for it.”
“I’m sure he did,” I sighed.
I looked at the intern and waved him over to the side.
“You going to be able to hold Johnson to the side until after he’s gone?” I asked.
“What? You don’t want Kelvin swooping in?”
We laughed before Kelvin walked over.
“What’s so funny?” he asked bemusedly.
“Oh, nothing.” I said.
“We were reading your column,” intern said coyly. “And talking about how coach really didn’t like it.”
He was setting him up. And I was enjoying it.
“Really? He didn’t like it? I was all very positive. Especially about Josh’s QB stats. I’m going to have to talk to him about it. Man, that sucks. I was trying to be positive and have them respect it.”
“Guess it didn’t work,” I said.
My story on the game was a blast to write. The coach went on a seven-minute tirade about how badly the team executed on second downs the entire game. Second down. Who the fuck ever notices such a thing? So, I wrote a 31-inch story on second downs. Had a nice graphic of their second downs as well. Seems they actually were more productive on that down than any other. Had been that way all season.
Coach called me the next day and thanked me for noticing he was joking. Unlike Kelvin. Who wrote about how poorly the second down offense was the entire game. Based simply on three quotes from the coach’s tirade and a QB’s quote on the coach’s quote.
Everyone had a good laugh on that one. Everyone, I guess but Kelvin.
But today, over a decade after that first encounter, I still get chills when he walks in the room. Or when I hear his voice on the other end of the phone. Somehow, all these years later, I ended up working with him. Strangeness all around.
That voice. Ugh.
That walk.
Those awful tight shirts.
And one police report that I got to read.
Seems he was investigated, never charged mind you, for “creepy behavior with minors.” As the police said.
Now, when I see him, all I hear is The Outfield’s lead singer Tony Lewis belting out the band’s greatest hit. More specifically, one line “You know I like my girl’s a little bit older.” Damn that guy creeps me out.
I saw him standing against the brick wall entrance of the football practice field at South Carolina’s athletic facility. He was wearing a just a little too tight black shirt and jeans. His muscly arms protruded out of the shirt, I’m sure with the desired effect. In his hands was a bible. This was Kelvin Smith.
Many of my newspaper colleagues had warned me of this certain buffoon. That I’d certainly not enjoy being around him. Now, I don’t mind the person that tosses about bible verses and believes that God is going to come one day and judge us all. That’s their prerogative. I do, however, hate folks that preach it but don’t even come close to living it.
“Hey there,” he said to me as I walked up with the sports information intern. “I’m Kelvin.”
“Randy,” I said, putting out my hand to shake. It was not returned.
“What paper do you work for?” he asked.
“The Urinal,” I replied.
“Ha! That’s what we all call it,” Kelvin smirked. “Who are you here to talk with?”
Now, I’d heard he likes to mooch off of other’s story ideas, so I wasn’t about to give mine away. I actually had a little tidbit of information about a certain player’s off field habit of collecting moths that I didn’t really want to give away, seemed weird enough to make a good story. So I lied.
“Just the normal suspects,” I said. “Coach, running back, quarterback. Think I may just do a scouting report story. Maybe a notebook today.”
“Cool, cool,” Kelvin said. “I was going to talk to the quarterback too. He threw for almost 250 yards last week. Pretty impressive.”
“Yeah, in a 33-7 loss. How impressive is that?” I thought to myself. God damn jock-sniffer.
I had on a shirt from my old Arizona State University days because it was laundry night for me. Kelvin looked at it and asked “Did you know Pat Tillman? I’m good buddies with Lawrence Cooper here on the team!”
“Yeah, I covered ASU when Pat was there,” I replied. “Certainly wasn’t a buddy with him. But we respected each other. Had a couple of good conversations with him.”
“Me and L-Coop, that’s what I call him, had lunch yesterday at Logan’s. He let me pay for it.”
“I’m sure he did,” I sighed.
I looked at the intern and waved him over to the side.
“You going to be able to hold Johnson to the side until after he’s gone?” I asked.
“What? You don’t want Kelvin swooping in?”
We laughed before Kelvin walked over.
“What’s so funny?” he asked bemusedly.
“Oh, nothing.” I said.
“We were reading your column,” intern said coyly. “And talking about how coach really didn’t like it.”
He was setting him up. And I was enjoying it.
“Really? He didn’t like it? I was all very positive. Especially about Josh’s QB stats. I’m going to have to talk to him about it. Man, that sucks. I was trying to be positive and have them respect it.”
“Guess it didn’t work,” I said.
My story on the game was a blast to write. The coach went on a seven-minute tirade about how badly the team executed on second downs the entire game. Second down. Who the fuck ever notices such a thing? So, I wrote a 31-inch story on second downs. Had a nice graphic of their second downs as well. Seems they actually were more productive on that down than any other. Had been that way all season.
Coach called me the next day and thanked me for noticing he was joking. Unlike Kelvin. Who wrote about how poorly the second down offense was the entire game. Based simply on three quotes from the coach’s tirade and a QB’s quote on the coach’s quote.
Everyone had a good laugh on that one. Everyone, I guess but Kelvin.
But today, over a decade after that first encounter, I still get chills when he walks in the room. Or when I hear his voice on the other end of the phone. Somehow, all these years later, I ended up working with him. Strangeness all around.
That voice. Ugh.
That walk.
Those awful tight shirts.
And one police report that I got to read.
Seems he was investigated, never charged mind you, for “creepy behavior with minors.” As the police said.
Now, when I see him, all I hear is The Outfield’s lead singer Tony Lewis belting out the band’s greatest hit. More specifically, one line “You know I like my girl’s a little bit older.” Damn that guy creeps me out.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
mr. vanbuilderass
I dialed her number six or seven times before I finally pressed send on my crappy flip cell phone. As it dialed the nerves picked up even more. I’d talked to this lady many times via the internet, but tonight I’d be talking on the phone. Too many times over the years I’d gotten numbers and never had the guts to call. So wimpy, yet so true to my story.
“Hello?” the voice on the other end finally said.
“Hey, is this Kendra?” I said meekly.
“Of course, you called my phone!” she said laughing.
“This is Randy.”
“Hey there. Whatcha doing?”
“Well, thought I’d give ya a jingle before coming up to the city to see you this weekend.”
I wanted to hit my forehead with my palm. I fucking said jingle. Who the hell says jingle. Well, maybe Santa Claus or Arnold.
“Jingle? What are you 75?”
“Yeah, I’m like George Burns in ‘Oh, God!’”
Silence.
“Guess you have no idea what I’m talking about?”
“You got it.”
“Well, onwards… I’ll be in town sometime around 2 in the afternoon. Taking the train from D.C.”
“Ok. I’ll be working then, so you’ll have to find something to occupy yourself for a few hours before we meet up.”
“Not a problem. There’s a bar I want to find, it’s got Joe Strummer on it. A mural painted after he died.”
“That’s cool. I mean, it shouldn’t be a problem finding a random bar in New York.”
She laughed at her own comment. I was feeling a bit at ease.
“See you in a couple days then.”
“You betcha. See you soon, sweetie.”
And she hung up.
“Well, the ending was promising at least,” my jumbled mind thought.
I dialed her number. We’d been out a few times. The first time was a disaster.
For me.
She ended up meeting the band we both loved so much. And got to swappin’ spit with one of them.
I, meanwhile, was so jealous I just did shots of whiskey. With my heroes. But was too dumbstruck by a girl doing that on a first, what I thought was a date, and being surrounded by these guys to say much.
I remember listening to some stories.
I remember one of the guys asking “Are you OK?”
I don’t remember answering.
Eventually, I forced a cab ride home from her. I had to be on the road at 8 a.m. It was 4 a.m. and I was shit-hammered.
Four hours later, I was running towards a train in Penn Station. It was like a movie. Except I was really chasing a fucking train that was moving. Trying not to miss it because then I’d never get back to D.C. with time enough to get back to Greenville, North Carolina in time for work that day.
Did I mention I was still drunk. Very drunk.
I leapt for the handle of the train. Grabbing it with both hands. Lucky for me, all I had for luggage was a Rose Bowl 1997 book bag that I got during college. One of the greatest games I ever covered in my career as a journalist. Thought it would be one of many great “events” that I would get to cover. In reality, it never got topped.
Now, she answered the phone.
“Hiya, Randy!”
“Hey, there Kendra. We on for New Orleans?”
“I can’t do it. I’m too broke.”
“So am I.”
“But you’re more dedicated than me.”
I could only think, “Yes, that is true. In many, many ways.” Lucero’s “Heart So True” started to echo in my mind. Or is that song called “Poor Heartache”? It’s an internal debate that shouldn’t happen, but does.
“You know, come out drinking with me. I know the last time we drank, I was a little less than behaved …”
“Stop it, dork.”
“Huh?”
“Lucero lyric pickup lines don’t work on me. … Well, not when you use them.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you don’t know…”
I could feel me blushing. I was hoping she was too.
“Well, I just can’t make the show. I want too soooooooo badly, but you know how it goes. The bank account says no while my heart says yes.”
“You should always follow your heart, not your bank account, baby.”
“Did you just call me baby?”
“No idea. But, seriously, do what you think you should.”
“That’s not what my heart always wants.”
“Well, that’s the rub, ain’t it?”
“Certainly is, sir. Are you still going?”
“Yep. $66 bucks in my checking account, and my car is packed and ready for 30 hours of driving, three hours of concert going, and maybe 6 hours of sleeping!”
“You are to be envied, sir.”
“By who?”
“More people than you think.”
I felt like Mr. Vanbuilderass for just one second. Looking into the distance while others talked about me. It felt good.
“Talk to ya later, chica.”
“You too sir. Be safe.”
Click.
“Hello?” the voice on the other end finally said.
“Hey, is this Kendra?” I said meekly.
“Of course, you called my phone!” she said laughing.
“This is Randy.”
“Hey there. Whatcha doing?”
“Well, thought I’d give ya a jingle before coming up to the city to see you this weekend.”
I wanted to hit my forehead with my palm. I fucking said jingle. Who the hell says jingle. Well, maybe Santa Claus or Arnold.
“Jingle? What are you 75?”
“Yeah, I’m like George Burns in ‘Oh, God!’”
Silence.
“Guess you have no idea what I’m talking about?”
“You got it.”
“Well, onwards… I’ll be in town sometime around 2 in the afternoon. Taking the train from D.C.”
“Ok. I’ll be working then, so you’ll have to find something to occupy yourself for a few hours before we meet up.”
“Not a problem. There’s a bar I want to find, it’s got Joe Strummer on it. A mural painted after he died.”
“That’s cool. I mean, it shouldn’t be a problem finding a random bar in New York.”
She laughed at her own comment. I was feeling a bit at ease.
“See you in a couple days then.”
“You betcha. See you soon, sweetie.”
And she hung up.
“Well, the ending was promising at least,” my jumbled mind thought.
I dialed her number. We’d been out a few times. The first time was a disaster.
For me.
She ended up meeting the band we both loved so much. And got to swappin’ spit with one of them.
I, meanwhile, was so jealous I just did shots of whiskey. With my heroes. But was too dumbstruck by a girl doing that on a first, what I thought was a date, and being surrounded by these guys to say much.
I remember listening to some stories.
I remember one of the guys asking “Are you OK?”
I don’t remember answering.
Eventually, I forced a cab ride home from her. I had to be on the road at 8 a.m. It was 4 a.m. and I was shit-hammered.
Four hours later, I was running towards a train in Penn Station. It was like a movie. Except I was really chasing a fucking train that was moving. Trying not to miss it because then I’d never get back to D.C. with time enough to get back to Greenville, North Carolina in time for work that day.
Did I mention I was still drunk. Very drunk.
I leapt for the handle of the train. Grabbing it with both hands. Lucky for me, all I had for luggage was a Rose Bowl 1997 book bag that I got during college. One of the greatest games I ever covered in my career as a journalist. Thought it would be one of many great “events” that I would get to cover. In reality, it never got topped.
Now, she answered the phone.
“Hiya, Randy!”
“Hey, there Kendra. We on for New Orleans?”
“I can’t do it. I’m too broke.”
“So am I.”
“But you’re more dedicated than me.”
I could only think, “Yes, that is true. In many, many ways.” Lucero’s “Heart So True” started to echo in my mind. Or is that song called “Poor Heartache”? It’s an internal debate that shouldn’t happen, but does.
“You know, come out drinking with me. I know the last time we drank, I was a little less than behaved …”
“Stop it, dork.”
“Huh?”
“Lucero lyric pickup lines don’t work on me. … Well, not when you use them.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you don’t know…”
I could feel me blushing. I was hoping she was too.
“Well, I just can’t make the show. I want too soooooooo badly, but you know how it goes. The bank account says no while my heart says yes.”
“You should always follow your heart, not your bank account, baby.”
“Did you just call me baby?”
“No idea. But, seriously, do what you think you should.”
“That’s not what my heart always wants.”
“Well, that’s the rub, ain’t it?”
“Certainly is, sir. Are you still going?”
“Yep. $66 bucks in my checking account, and my car is packed and ready for 30 hours of driving, three hours of concert going, and maybe 6 hours of sleeping!”
“You are to be envied, sir.”
“By who?”
“More people than you think.”
I felt like Mr. Vanbuilderass for just one second. Looking into the distance while others talked about me. It felt good.
“Talk to ya later, chica.”
“You too sir. Be safe.”
Click.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Oil Can Boyd vs. Johnny Thunders
I arrived at St. Peter and Burgundy in my cab. The old guy had a little bit of a Boston accent, so I asked him about the Sawks on the way to the hotel.
He went on and on about Oil Can Boyd. How much that Sawks missed that guy. And about how fucking old he really was. Neither of us could quite see how he was just 24 years old when he made his debut for Boston.
“That guy had ta be at least 30, probably 32,” my cabbie said.
“Yeah, he certainly was and old one. I kind of like that about baseball. You can just make up an age, and people believe it. Hell, if I could do it, I’d say I was 18 right now.”
I was 21. Just turned.
Lost my virginity just a few months before. Came to New Orleans for the first time a little while before that momentous event, to a girl named Katie. She was a redhead.
“Kid, you want to be 18 again?”
“Shit yeah, sir. I want to go back to college and start over.”
“You don’t need to be 18 to do that.”
He was right. I went back to college, again, when I was 23. Put in over 8 years of school. And didn’t become a doctor.
We arrived at the final destination of this trip – The St. Peter Guest House. It was a rundown looking old rooming house that had turned into a rundown looking motel. I picked this place for one simple reason – Johnny Thunders died there. A year ago exactly.
I was almost in town the night my guitar hero died. I came there for the NCAA Women’s Final Four. I had a crush on one of the players for the University of Virginia, and I went to see them play. Plus, it was an excuse to go to New Orleans, which was quickly becoming my favorite place on earth and I’d only been there a couple of times before.
I called the guest house months ago, asking for the Johnny Thunders room. They paused for a second, then asked one question “You ain’t some kind of reporter are ya?”
“No, not me,” I replied. I was at least a year or two from becoming one, so I could answer that way.
I got my bags from the cabbie and paid my fare, tipping him 20 bucks.
“Thanks kid,” he said. “Be careful in this joint. It ain’t exactly safe.”
“No problem, old timer,” I’ve been much worse.
I went inside and rang the bell for someone to come to the ramshackle desk serving as a check-in.
A skinny guy, probably about 40 came out of the back. He was obviously gay, and in need of a haircut and a bath. But, I was the one checking into a room where one of my heroes died, so who was I to judge?
“Can I help you, young man?” he asked with a slight southern drawl. If I had to guess, I’d say somewhere in the lower reaches of Georgia. Maybe the tip of South Carolina. I didn’t ask, however, so I’ll never know.
“Yes sir, I’m here to pay for my room,” I said. “The Thunders room.”
“Oh, you’re that guy,” he said derisively. “I hope this doesn’t become some kind of ghoulish trend.”
“Nah, I’m sure no one will figure it out.” And this was a couple of years before the internet started to boom. So, at least for a little while, it would be true.
I got my key, room No. 37.
“Thank you kindly,” I said.
“Enjoy the city, boy. Not just that room,” the clerk said as he dipped back into his back room.
The room faced the street, just a couple of French doors kept the world and the room apart, and outside it smelled of dog shit. I looked up and saw broken bottles marking the line of defense for an apartment home nearby. I wondered how many of those glass shards had poked a would-be robber and left a scar on them which said “Don’t fuck with me.”
I entered the room and looked at the plain white sheet and plain white comforter and plain white pillow. It seemed silly to have so much white in a place that I’m sure catered to a pretty dirty crowd.
I looked at the floor and imagined where JT spent his last moments. And whether or not he knew exactly why he was to die there, in a heap. I wondered who was with him in those last moments. And who came in after.
The case of his death was bungled, of course, by the city cops. To them, I’m sure it was just another junkie overdosing in the Quarter. And maybe it was. But we’ll never know.
I took off my shirt and washed my face in the sink. It was old and a bit rusted, but really cool to look at. The old wooden furniture wasn’t antique, but it wasn’t new either. Cigarette burns marked many of the pieces. The old 12-inch television didn’t have a remote. Long ago stolen or broken, I’m sure.
Outside, I could hear a guitar playing. It sounded like a poor imitation of J.T.’s famous guitar solo – a simple two-finger chord with plenty of string bending.
I put my shirt back on and opened the door. Took in the song. It ended and then I trapsed on over to Lafitte’s for a beer. Or 10.
I wouldn’t get back to the room until after 3 a.m. By now, it was the anniversary of J.T.’s death.
I slumped into bed and felt an eerie chill. It was 76 degrees outside in late April, but it was cold in here. I pulled up the comforter, not a wise decision in this place I have a feeling, and fell asleep.
He went on and on about Oil Can Boyd. How much that Sawks missed that guy. And about how fucking old he really was. Neither of us could quite see how he was just 24 years old when he made his debut for Boston.
“That guy had ta be at least 30, probably 32,” my cabbie said.
“Yeah, he certainly was and old one. I kind of like that about baseball. You can just make up an age, and people believe it. Hell, if I could do it, I’d say I was 18 right now.”
I was 21. Just turned.
Lost my virginity just a few months before. Came to New Orleans for the first time a little while before that momentous event, to a girl named Katie. She was a redhead.
“Kid, you want to be 18 again?”
“Shit yeah, sir. I want to go back to college and start over.”
“You don’t need to be 18 to do that.”
He was right. I went back to college, again, when I was 23. Put in over 8 years of school. And didn’t become a doctor.
We arrived at the final destination of this trip – The St. Peter Guest House. It was a rundown looking old rooming house that had turned into a rundown looking motel. I picked this place for one simple reason – Johnny Thunders died there. A year ago exactly.
I was almost in town the night my guitar hero died. I came there for the NCAA Women’s Final Four. I had a crush on one of the players for the University of Virginia, and I went to see them play. Plus, it was an excuse to go to New Orleans, which was quickly becoming my favorite place on earth and I’d only been there a couple of times before.
I called the guest house months ago, asking for the Johnny Thunders room. They paused for a second, then asked one question “You ain’t some kind of reporter are ya?”
“No, not me,” I replied. I was at least a year or two from becoming one, so I could answer that way.
I got my bags from the cabbie and paid my fare, tipping him 20 bucks.
“Thanks kid,” he said. “Be careful in this joint. It ain’t exactly safe.”
“No problem, old timer,” I’ve been much worse.
I went inside and rang the bell for someone to come to the ramshackle desk serving as a check-in.
A skinny guy, probably about 40 came out of the back. He was obviously gay, and in need of a haircut and a bath. But, I was the one checking into a room where one of my heroes died, so who was I to judge?
“Can I help you, young man?” he asked with a slight southern drawl. If I had to guess, I’d say somewhere in the lower reaches of Georgia. Maybe the tip of South Carolina. I didn’t ask, however, so I’ll never know.
“Yes sir, I’m here to pay for my room,” I said. “The Thunders room.”
“Oh, you’re that guy,” he said derisively. “I hope this doesn’t become some kind of ghoulish trend.”
“Nah, I’m sure no one will figure it out.” And this was a couple of years before the internet started to boom. So, at least for a little while, it would be true.
I got my key, room No. 37.
“Thank you kindly,” I said.
“Enjoy the city, boy. Not just that room,” the clerk said as he dipped back into his back room.
The room faced the street, just a couple of French doors kept the world and the room apart, and outside it smelled of dog shit. I looked up and saw broken bottles marking the line of defense for an apartment home nearby. I wondered how many of those glass shards had poked a would-be robber and left a scar on them which said “Don’t fuck with me.”
I entered the room and looked at the plain white sheet and plain white comforter and plain white pillow. It seemed silly to have so much white in a place that I’m sure catered to a pretty dirty crowd.
I looked at the floor and imagined where JT spent his last moments. And whether or not he knew exactly why he was to die there, in a heap. I wondered who was with him in those last moments. And who came in after.
The case of his death was bungled, of course, by the city cops. To them, I’m sure it was just another junkie overdosing in the Quarter. And maybe it was. But we’ll never know.
I took off my shirt and washed my face in the sink. It was old and a bit rusted, but really cool to look at. The old wooden furniture wasn’t antique, but it wasn’t new either. Cigarette burns marked many of the pieces. The old 12-inch television didn’t have a remote. Long ago stolen or broken, I’m sure.
Outside, I could hear a guitar playing. It sounded like a poor imitation of J.T.’s famous guitar solo – a simple two-finger chord with plenty of string bending.
I put my shirt back on and opened the door. Took in the song. It ended and then I trapsed on over to Lafitte’s for a beer. Or 10.
I wouldn’t get back to the room until after 3 a.m. By now, it was the anniversary of J.T.’s death.
I slumped into bed and felt an eerie chill. It was 76 degrees outside in late April, but it was cold in here. I pulled up the comforter, not a wise decision in this place I have a feeling, and fell asleep.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
pit bull
Being a creature of habit, trying to write in a different location can be tough. Doing it at work has proved to be most difficult place of all.
Today, it’s at my girlfriend’s house. I already blew my consecutive streak, which kind of pisses me off, so now I’m going to attempt to write twice.
We planted a tree today. Her mom gave it to us as a way of dealing with the loss of the kiddo. We would’ve passed the five-month point sometime in the last couple of weeks. It all kind of meshes together now. Just a bunched up jumble of days that don’t seem to have much of a point. I know it’ll get better. It always does. It just doesn’t feel like it right now. Going through a lot of shit can make you realize that. To get to that point, where you just kind of understand that the pain will lessen a little bit each day is not a place that I wish I was able to reach. There are plenty of folks who go through a lot more than I have. And there are plenty of folks who seem to live charmed lives and nothing seems to take a toll on them. I know that’s bullshit, because everyone deals with shit, some just hide it better than others.
Maybe there are fully evolved folks that never get to experience pain and suffering on an emotional level. And then there are serial killers.
Sometimes I wonder if the later isn’t such a bad path to traverse.
Shockingly, I just put my writing through some kind of test. It said this is written at a fifth grade level. Ah, so close.
Maybe I should use words like metamorphosis? Christ on a fucking pony. The rain in Spain is just as fucking annoying as it is here in Raleigh, NC.
I drove out of the driveway and turned left. Some days, I turn right, but today it was a left. At the end of the block, a black guy was mowing his lawn. He turned as I drove past and stared. I stared back. Not a lot of good-neighborly behavior goes on in this neighborhood.
A pit bull is roaming the streets. No leash, just his frothing mouth and who knows what on its mind. I drive by it and look at it. He still has his balls attached, so I doubt much thought has gone into keeping him from being a bit of a bastard dog.
The next block sees houses damaged by last summer’s tornados. In some neighborhoods, those were cleaned up quick. In this one, not so fast. One house had a tree on it until last month. It’s now half-way to recovery. Albeit with a bunch of plywood walls. I see the plywood getting wet in the rain, knowing all to well that it will absorb it, start to mold, but then have sheetrock put over it and forgotten about. Until some kid, or some adult, starts having headaches. Or weird color schemes flashing in his eyes late at night while trying to drive to New Orleans. Not that that has ever happened to me or anything.
How do you make your reading more intelligent? Is it possible? Do I just start using a Thesaurus? It seems to work for some writers. Or maybe they have better editors? Hell, I’m employed as an editor and fuck if I can edit.
The knee jabbed into his throat. He didn’t know how he got here. A second ago, he was watching a pit bull wander down the road. Now, he was in a ditch with someone’s knee on top of him.
“Give me the fucking keys, man! Give me the fucking keys!” he heard a voice yelling.
It wasn’t the guy on top of him. It was coming from somewhere off to the left.
The voice somehow awakened him, however. He pushed the guy off of his throat, catching the guy by surprise as just seconds before he had been out cold.
“What the fuck?” he said as he tumbled into a watery ditch nearby.
The driver staggered to his feet, grabbing a piece of his car to use as a weapon. Obviously, some kind of wreck had happened. But what exactly happened, wasn’t entirely clear, especially in the cloudy mind he had.
“Whoah, buddy, we’re just trying to help you,” the same voice from before said.
“So, why do you want my keys?” he asked.
“To shut the damn stereo off!” the voice replied.
that’s when the driver heard it. The voice of Bruce Dickinson yelling. Very loudly. Maybe the radio should be turned off. A quick click of a button on the keys did that.
“Thanks, bro,” the voice said. “Now, give me your fucking wallet.”
The driver looked to his left. The voice now had a face. It was ugly. But that ugly motherfucker had a gun. And a pit bull, now on a leash.
“Now!”
Today, it’s at my girlfriend’s house. I already blew my consecutive streak, which kind of pisses me off, so now I’m going to attempt to write twice.
We planted a tree today. Her mom gave it to us as a way of dealing with the loss of the kiddo. We would’ve passed the five-month point sometime in the last couple of weeks. It all kind of meshes together now. Just a bunched up jumble of days that don’t seem to have much of a point. I know it’ll get better. It always does. It just doesn’t feel like it right now. Going through a lot of shit can make you realize that. To get to that point, where you just kind of understand that the pain will lessen a little bit each day is not a place that I wish I was able to reach. There are plenty of folks who go through a lot more than I have. And there are plenty of folks who seem to live charmed lives and nothing seems to take a toll on them. I know that’s bullshit, because everyone deals with shit, some just hide it better than others.
Maybe there are fully evolved folks that never get to experience pain and suffering on an emotional level. And then there are serial killers.
Sometimes I wonder if the later isn’t such a bad path to traverse.
Shockingly, I just put my writing through some kind of test. It said this is written at a fifth grade level. Ah, so close.
Maybe I should use words like metamorphosis? Christ on a fucking pony. The rain in Spain is just as fucking annoying as it is here in Raleigh, NC.
I drove out of the driveway and turned left. Some days, I turn right, but today it was a left. At the end of the block, a black guy was mowing his lawn. He turned as I drove past and stared. I stared back. Not a lot of good-neighborly behavior goes on in this neighborhood.
A pit bull is roaming the streets. No leash, just his frothing mouth and who knows what on its mind. I drive by it and look at it. He still has his balls attached, so I doubt much thought has gone into keeping him from being a bit of a bastard dog.
The next block sees houses damaged by last summer’s tornados. In some neighborhoods, those were cleaned up quick. In this one, not so fast. One house had a tree on it until last month. It’s now half-way to recovery. Albeit with a bunch of plywood walls. I see the plywood getting wet in the rain, knowing all to well that it will absorb it, start to mold, but then have sheetrock put over it and forgotten about. Until some kid, or some adult, starts having headaches. Or weird color schemes flashing in his eyes late at night while trying to drive to New Orleans. Not that that has ever happened to me or anything.
How do you make your reading more intelligent? Is it possible? Do I just start using a Thesaurus? It seems to work for some writers. Or maybe they have better editors? Hell, I’m employed as an editor and fuck if I can edit.
The knee jabbed into his throat. He didn’t know how he got here. A second ago, he was watching a pit bull wander down the road. Now, he was in a ditch with someone’s knee on top of him.
“Give me the fucking keys, man! Give me the fucking keys!” he heard a voice yelling.
It wasn’t the guy on top of him. It was coming from somewhere off to the left.
The voice somehow awakened him, however. He pushed the guy off of his throat, catching the guy by surprise as just seconds before he had been out cold.
“What the fuck?” he said as he tumbled into a watery ditch nearby.
The driver staggered to his feet, grabbing a piece of his car to use as a weapon. Obviously, some kind of wreck had happened. But what exactly happened, wasn’t entirely clear, especially in the cloudy mind he had.
“Whoah, buddy, we’re just trying to help you,” the same voice from before said.
“So, why do you want my keys?” he asked.
“To shut the damn stereo off!” the voice replied.
that’s when the driver heard it. The voice of Bruce Dickinson yelling. Very loudly. Maybe the radio should be turned off. A quick click of a button on the keys did that.
“Thanks, bro,” the voice said. “Now, give me your fucking wallet.”
The driver looked to his left. The voice now had a face. It was ugly. But that ugly motherfucker had a gun. And a pit bull, now on a leash.
“Now!”
Saturday, March 3, 2012
two shits in a pint glass
I walked outside without thinking. The door closed behind me with a click. Locked out again.
The sky was gray and the rain was falling hard. My clothes were soaked five seconds later. I sat down in a lawn chair and cried.
Even though I have a double shift waiting for me at work, the thought of driving the hour to the office does not seem like a prudent idea at the moment. The boss is going to be pissed off about overtime. But since I’m pulling three “two-person” shifts this week, I don’t feel bad about it. Yet, I still feel the compulsion to not go in at my normal time today so I don’t get as many hours. It’s a perverse way of living, feeling bad about a place that could give two shits in a pint glass about you.
When did I first make the mistake of putting work above all else? In college the first time, I didn’t do it. I just had fun. In college the second time, I put work above class, and my GPA went from a 3.9 to God only knows what by the end with all the F’s and incompletes that became F’s. But I still have a lot of fun and enjoyed what I was doing.
Hell, the first job didn’t have that. The girlfriend was 2,500 miles away and I was a “professional” for the first time.
The internship, I chose the relationship. And ended up paying for it.
Ditto, next real job.
I guess it’s when she left and I stayed. The job won out over life. At first, for the right reasons. Keeping us afloat until … But until never came.
Now, it just is part of me. The job. I hate it sometimes. At other times I know how lucky I am to have such an easy way to make a “living.” I miss writing. I miss reporting. I miss the edge, the drama, the fights.
The people are all just as strange. From whiny assholes to people who don’t want to improve their craft because, honestly, I don’t believe they think it’s a craft. The drunks are everywhere. The broken downs. The dropouts.
Even though this is the first paper I’ve ever worked at that I haven’t developed any “drinking buddies” or at least “talking buddies” it’s been worth it. Hell, who can say they’ve put nearly 60K on a car in two years? NASCAR racers, cabbies, truck drivers and maybe hearse guys…
I look down at my soaked t-shirt. Another advantage of my position is the wardrobe. I can wear a Pitfall Harry shirt to work with plaid shorts and soccer socks. I’ll miss that whenever the inevitable career switch happens. I’ve been looking about. Applying here and there. Not getting a single nibble, but eventually it’ll happen. And I’ll be sad that day.
I already thought my career in journalism was dead three years ago. But I went back with my tail between my legs because I had to not be a bum anymore. Bills and such needed to be paid.
Now, I’m in love and life needs to move forward. I wish we stumbled on to some wealth or she had a trust fund for me and her to tap into. But, that shit ain’t gonna happen. Instead, we’ll toil on. Hopefully, in a better mood than I am right now soaked to the bone.
I’ve got to try and keep writing. As you can tell, I have nothing to say today. Nothing creative. Just words flowing out of my mind. I read that I should find my “writing time.” It seems to me that I write more in the mornings or late at night – preferably after a few adult beverages. Heartbreak and misery fuel the words more so than puppies and flowers and celebrations of life. Which is too bad.
At the end of the day, I can still be happy that I’m trying again. I gave up there for a little bit. Well, more than a little bit. I lost a couple of friends for reasons that still baffle me, and I gained 15 pounds. But these things won’t matter after I’m gone. These words probably won’t either. It would be nice, however, to see my name in print again. It’s going to happen. Why? Because I’m going to make it happen. Maybe I’ll go to Shiner, Texas and work for the Gazette there? I’m sure they need a surly, but talented, reporter to write about how great the Texas hill country is…
The sky was gray and the rain was falling hard. My clothes were soaked five seconds later. I sat down in a lawn chair and cried.
Even though I have a double shift waiting for me at work, the thought of driving the hour to the office does not seem like a prudent idea at the moment. The boss is going to be pissed off about overtime. But since I’m pulling three “two-person” shifts this week, I don’t feel bad about it. Yet, I still feel the compulsion to not go in at my normal time today so I don’t get as many hours. It’s a perverse way of living, feeling bad about a place that could give two shits in a pint glass about you.
When did I first make the mistake of putting work above all else? In college the first time, I didn’t do it. I just had fun. In college the second time, I put work above class, and my GPA went from a 3.9 to God only knows what by the end with all the F’s and incompletes that became F’s. But I still have a lot of fun and enjoyed what I was doing.
Hell, the first job didn’t have that. The girlfriend was 2,500 miles away and I was a “professional” for the first time.
The internship, I chose the relationship. And ended up paying for it.
Ditto, next real job.
I guess it’s when she left and I stayed. The job won out over life. At first, for the right reasons. Keeping us afloat until … But until never came.
Now, it just is part of me. The job. I hate it sometimes. At other times I know how lucky I am to have such an easy way to make a “living.” I miss writing. I miss reporting. I miss the edge, the drama, the fights.
The people are all just as strange. From whiny assholes to people who don’t want to improve their craft because, honestly, I don’t believe they think it’s a craft. The drunks are everywhere. The broken downs. The dropouts.
Even though this is the first paper I’ve ever worked at that I haven’t developed any “drinking buddies” or at least “talking buddies” it’s been worth it. Hell, who can say they’ve put nearly 60K on a car in two years? NASCAR racers, cabbies, truck drivers and maybe hearse guys…
I look down at my soaked t-shirt. Another advantage of my position is the wardrobe. I can wear a Pitfall Harry shirt to work with plaid shorts and soccer socks. I’ll miss that whenever the inevitable career switch happens. I’ve been looking about. Applying here and there. Not getting a single nibble, but eventually it’ll happen. And I’ll be sad that day.
I already thought my career in journalism was dead three years ago. But I went back with my tail between my legs because I had to not be a bum anymore. Bills and such needed to be paid.
Now, I’m in love and life needs to move forward. I wish we stumbled on to some wealth or she had a trust fund for me and her to tap into. But, that shit ain’t gonna happen. Instead, we’ll toil on. Hopefully, in a better mood than I am right now soaked to the bone.
I’ve got to try and keep writing. As you can tell, I have nothing to say today. Nothing creative. Just words flowing out of my mind. I read that I should find my “writing time.” It seems to me that I write more in the mornings or late at night – preferably after a few adult beverages. Heartbreak and misery fuel the words more so than puppies and flowers and celebrations of life. Which is too bad.
At the end of the day, I can still be happy that I’m trying again. I gave up there for a little bit. Well, more than a little bit. I lost a couple of friends for reasons that still baffle me, and I gained 15 pounds. But these things won’t matter after I’m gone. These words probably won’t either. It would be nice, however, to see my name in print again. It’s going to happen. Why? Because I’m going to make it happen. Maybe I’ll go to Shiner, Texas and work for the Gazette there? I’m sure they need a surly, but talented, reporter to write about how great the Texas hill country is…
Friday, March 2, 2012
I guess it’s cool I didn’t end up like Griffin Dunne?
It’s early morning – 11:24 a.m. – when I crack open my first beer. The bottle cap makes that sweet “chicaaaaa” song upon opening.
I tried to be good last night. Played the part to a tee, I believe. Yet we went home separately. It was supposed to be the night I proposed to her. A walk down by the levees. A couple of drinks. Maybe take in a show somewhere.
Instead, we fought. Long and hard. In public. For all the world to see.
Sometime during the night, we ended up over by the Superdome. How we got there I have no recollection. We were at Nick’s, drinking Miller Lites and listening to the jukebox. She was talking to the bartender. I generally just stared into space, thinking of how to remember details without pulling out a little notepad like my best friend, who happens to be a great writer that never took the chance. Me, I’m a mediocre writer who took the chance as a newspaperman, but never got up the confidence to try his hand at fiction.
She was laughing and talking and pretty much not saying a word that she meant. She had a talent for that. Covering up what really was going on inside, but always appearing to those unaware of being in complete control. That part of her intrigued me. But it scared me just as much.
Soon, I was chasing her through the streets of New Orleans. This was pre-Katrina and many of those streets were as dangerous as any you’d walk in in America. But there we were, me chasing her staying ahead of me – loudly proclaiming my lack of love for her. Or something. The details never stay with me unless I write them down. Something, obviously, I learned late in life. Eventually, we went back home. I don’t remember what calmed her down. Or me down. Neither of us dead. Neither of us happy.
Looking back, years later, that night always stands out. Not for what happened or what was said – honestly, I don’t remember any of that. Instead, for the grand view of the Superdome that I got for an instant. I’ve seen that building hundreds of times since – when a game was going on inside, on television during Katrina when it was at its worst, and now in its newly decorated state of endorsement for Mercedes. But that moment is the in my mind of that building. It almost reminds me of the Martin Scorsese movie “After Hours.” I guess it’s cool I didn’t end up like Griffin Dunne?
Why that moment popped into my head just now as I finished up my morning beer before heading to my dull job as a copy editor I do not know. I liked it though. It reminded me of a time. A much simpler time that while a tough time, was certainly more fun than what’s going on today.
Not that I want to go back. There were awful times to go with the “mythical” ones. Everyone’s memories are clouded with how great things were, when in reality that weren’t so great. You tend to hold on to those great moments, and forget the ones where you wanted to kill someone or kill yourself. At least my mind works that way. Really, it works as a bottle of liquid paper. It just covers everything up as best as it can. Sometimes, you can read through the whiteness and remember, but most of the time it’s just a muddied, blurry mess. Unless you took a picture.
I took a lot of pictures in the 2000s. Not so much the few years before and the years since. Except for 2011. I took some photos that year. Until I started dating again.
Much like writing, I have a hard time taking photos when I’m happy. I want to, but I get too distracted by living to do it. It took a tragedy to get me to start typing again, and every letter is a reminder of what happened. There has to be something that comes out of it, right? Something that changes me for the better, hopefully not the worse.
A second beer is not an option today. A friend, who seemingly is an ex-friend now, wants to be off work today. He publicly proclaimed that on his work account. Which is ironic, seeing he “un-friended” me due to a public “calling out” as his wife explains. I hate social networks and the god damn internet. It’s worse than going to a high school reunion every day of your life.
People come into your life for a reason, the old saying goes, but they get the fuck out of it for one too.
I tried to be good last night. Played the part to a tee, I believe. Yet we went home separately. It was supposed to be the night I proposed to her. A walk down by the levees. A couple of drinks. Maybe take in a show somewhere.
Instead, we fought. Long and hard. In public. For all the world to see.
Sometime during the night, we ended up over by the Superdome. How we got there I have no recollection. We were at Nick’s, drinking Miller Lites and listening to the jukebox. She was talking to the bartender. I generally just stared into space, thinking of how to remember details without pulling out a little notepad like my best friend, who happens to be a great writer that never took the chance. Me, I’m a mediocre writer who took the chance as a newspaperman, but never got up the confidence to try his hand at fiction.
She was laughing and talking and pretty much not saying a word that she meant. She had a talent for that. Covering up what really was going on inside, but always appearing to those unaware of being in complete control. That part of her intrigued me. But it scared me just as much.
Soon, I was chasing her through the streets of New Orleans. This was pre-Katrina and many of those streets were as dangerous as any you’d walk in in America. But there we were, me chasing her staying ahead of me – loudly proclaiming my lack of love for her. Or something. The details never stay with me unless I write them down. Something, obviously, I learned late in life. Eventually, we went back home. I don’t remember what calmed her down. Or me down. Neither of us dead. Neither of us happy.
Looking back, years later, that night always stands out. Not for what happened or what was said – honestly, I don’t remember any of that. Instead, for the grand view of the Superdome that I got for an instant. I’ve seen that building hundreds of times since – when a game was going on inside, on television during Katrina when it was at its worst, and now in its newly decorated state of endorsement for Mercedes. But that moment is the in my mind of that building. It almost reminds me of the Martin Scorsese movie “After Hours.” I guess it’s cool I didn’t end up like Griffin Dunne?
Why that moment popped into my head just now as I finished up my morning beer before heading to my dull job as a copy editor I do not know. I liked it though. It reminded me of a time. A much simpler time that while a tough time, was certainly more fun than what’s going on today.
Not that I want to go back. There were awful times to go with the “mythical” ones. Everyone’s memories are clouded with how great things were, when in reality that weren’t so great. You tend to hold on to those great moments, and forget the ones where you wanted to kill someone or kill yourself. At least my mind works that way. Really, it works as a bottle of liquid paper. It just covers everything up as best as it can. Sometimes, you can read through the whiteness and remember, but most of the time it’s just a muddied, blurry mess. Unless you took a picture.
I took a lot of pictures in the 2000s. Not so much the few years before and the years since. Except for 2011. I took some photos that year. Until I started dating again.
Much like writing, I have a hard time taking photos when I’m happy. I want to, but I get too distracted by living to do it. It took a tragedy to get me to start typing again, and every letter is a reminder of what happened. There has to be something that comes out of it, right? Something that changes me for the better, hopefully not the worse.
A second beer is not an option today. A friend, who seemingly is an ex-friend now, wants to be off work today. He publicly proclaimed that on his work account. Which is ironic, seeing he “un-friended” me due to a public “calling out” as his wife explains. I hate social networks and the god damn internet. It’s worse than going to a high school reunion every day of your life.
People come into your life for a reason, the old saying goes, but they get the fuck out of it for one too.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
the bag broke
I’m sitting at my dank, dirty, depressing, disturbing cubicle at work. White Flag’s “Glass Tambourine” is playing in my ears, drowning out the worthlessness I feel at still being employed here after almost two years.
My original plan was to go a year, and they blow the joint and head west and south. New Orleans of course. Maybe even take a friend with me. Life detoured those plans a little, but I like to think that I’m just being responsible, not scared. Or lazy. Or just unmotivated. Well, the last one is certainly a flaw I possess. I don’t think the other ones still fit me. They have at times, but now I’m no longer scared of things.
Right before the song ends, he walks in. You can’t miss his shuffling way of stomping. It makes me think that an elephant that had a stroke is wearing those modern tennis shoes that seem more like moccasins is coming towards me.
He’s huffing and puffing as usual as well. Both arms full of fast food purchases. It appears today it’s all McDonald’s fare. “I can hear you getting fatter,” is my only response inside my head.
Grimace, as I’ve taken to calling him, is angry today, however. He shuffles past me arms full of wrapped up chemical goodness and deadly as Sarin Gas foodstuff.
He tosses some of his holdings onto the desk. Placing two drinks down gingerly. He picks one up and takes a long swig from the straw. It’s obviously some kind of shake as he has to struggle to get some liquid goodness to enter his mouth. He slurps and then burps, wiping his chin and mouth with his sleeve on his three sizes too small Bob Mould 2008 concert tour shirt.
His eyes look down towards his desk. A lone cheeseburger sits on his keyboard. He picks it up, standing up in the process and slings it at his cubicle wall.
“Damn it!” he yells. “My fucking bag broke. I can’t believe my fucking bag broke!”
All of us look at each other in unison. One of us is going to laugh, I know it. Mitchell knows it. Joshua knows it. Hell, even troll knows it.
I look away and put my hoodie on. I’m the one who breaks. A cackle comes out of my mouth and it feels oh so good. Not as good as the first sip of a beer after doing some roofing work or the smell of a woman’s body for the first time, but damn it did feel good.
“I had to pick everything up and carry in here without a bag! That’s just so wrong!” he continued.
The troll waddled over to his desk. Looking down at him with her soul-less eyes.
“But at least they gave you two shakes,” she said to him.
“I know! I only paid for one too!” that seemed to perk up the giant beast.
He grabbed one of his cheesburgers and ate half of it in one bite.
“Damn it! I ordered no pickles!” he said right before spitting the half chewed remnants of that half a burger into his hands. He pulled out the pickle piece and threw the rest back in his mouth.
Once again, all of us looked at each other. Then the floor. This was getting old.
“Hey Mitchell, want to go grab a drink?” I said.
“Can’t bro. Have to finish this front. Then get to work on my project.”
“Same project you’ve been talking about for two years?” I asked rather pompously.
“Yep,” Mitchell replied. “Just like that book you’ve been writing.”
“Touche.”
“Touche, indeed,” the troll said.
Joshua let out a wicked witch-esque laugh and put his ear buds back on. Certainly listening to some Dane Cook, I guessed.
Meanwhile the boss kept tapping out the beats to whatever awful 1980s R & B song he was listening to on Youtube. It never ceased to amaze me how off beat someone could be. It reminded me of a kid learning how to dance for the first time with his grandmother or his father teaching him.
“One, two, three, ugh.”
“One, two, three… Crunch. Shit!”
“One, two, ugh.”
“One, two, three, four!!!!”
Meanwhile, I started to feel back for Grimace. Not because he was such a disgusting human being. But more the fact that he probably hadn’t had sex. Ever. Unless he paid for it. Of course, I used to feel sorry for myself. But I was 18 years old.
“Back to work,” I thought to myself.
“Chomp, chomp, chomp.”
“Tap, tap, tap, tap.”
“Buuuuuuuuuuuuurp!”
Another day in paradise. I put on the Descendants “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up” and wish I hadn’t.
My original plan was to go a year, and they blow the joint and head west and south. New Orleans of course. Maybe even take a friend with me. Life detoured those plans a little, but I like to think that I’m just being responsible, not scared. Or lazy. Or just unmotivated. Well, the last one is certainly a flaw I possess. I don’t think the other ones still fit me. They have at times, but now I’m no longer scared of things.
Right before the song ends, he walks in. You can’t miss his shuffling way of stomping. It makes me think that an elephant that had a stroke is wearing those modern tennis shoes that seem more like moccasins is coming towards me.
He’s huffing and puffing as usual as well. Both arms full of fast food purchases. It appears today it’s all McDonald’s fare. “I can hear you getting fatter,” is my only response inside my head.
Grimace, as I’ve taken to calling him, is angry today, however. He shuffles past me arms full of wrapped up chemical goodness and deadly as Sarin Gas foodstuff.
He tosses some of his holdings onto the desk. Placing two drinks down gingerly. He picks one up and takes a long swig from the straw. It’s obviously some kind of shake as he has to struggle to get some liquid goodness to enter his mouth. He slurps and then burps, wiping his chin and mouth with his sleeve on his three sizes too small Bob Mould 2008 concert tour shirt.
His eyes look down towards his desk. A lone cheeseburger sits on his keyboard. He picks it up, standing up in the process and slings it at his cubicle wall.
“Damn it!” he yells. “My fucking bag broke. I can’t believe my fucking bag broke!”
All of us look at each other in unison. One of us is going to laugh, I know it. Mitchell knows it. Joshua knows it. Hell, even troll knows it.
I look away and put my hoodie on. I’m the one who breaks. A cackle comes out of my mouth and it feels oh so good. Not as good as the first sip of a beer after doing some roofing work or the smell of a woman’s body for the first time, but damn it did feel good.
“I had to pick everything up and carry in here without a bag! That’s just so wrong!” he continued.
The troll waddled over to his desk. Looking down at him with her soul-less eyes.
“But at least they gave you two shakes,” she said to him.
“I know! I only paid for one too!” that seemed to perk up the giant beast.
He grabbed one of his cheesburgers and ate half of it in one bite.
“Damn it! I ordered no pickles!” he said right before spitting the half chewed remnants of that half a burger into his hands. He pulled out the pickle piece and threw the rest back in his mouth.
Once again, all of us looked at each other. Then the floor. This was getting old.
“Hey Mitchell, want to go grab a drink?” I said.
“Can’t bro. Have to finish this front. Then get to work on my project.”
“Same project you’ve been talking about for two years?” I asked rather pompously.
“Yep,” Mitchell replied. “Just like that book you’ve been writing.”
“Touche.”
“Touche, indeed,” the troll said.
Joshua let out a wicked witch-esque laugh and put his ear buds back on. Certainly listening to some Dane Cook, I guessed.
Meanwhile the boss kept tapping out the beats to whatever awful 1980s R & B song he was listening to on Youtube. It never ceased to amaze me how off beat someone could be. It reminded me of a kid learning how to dance for the first time with his grandmother or his father teaching him.
“One, two, three, ugh.”
“One, two, three… Crunch. Shit!”
“One, two, ugh.”
“One, two, three, four!!!!”
Meanwhile, I started to feel back for Grimace. Not because he was such a disgusting human being. But more the fact that he probably hadn’t had sex. Ever. Unless he paid for it. Of course, I used to feel sorry for myself. But I was 18 years old.
“Back to work,” I thought to myself.
“Chomp, chomp, chomp.”
“Tap, tap, tap, tap.”
“Buuuuuuuuuuuuurp!”
Another day in paradise. I put on the Descendants “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up” and wish I hadn’t.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Educated
Sitting in the unemployment office, the signs on the wall always amuse me. My favorite is the one that says “More education is better.” I chuckle each time I see it. And I see it a lot lately. My social worker, well, that’s what I call her at least, Marlena, has three of them on her wall.
She’s kind of fat. The kind of fat that lets you know she worries about it all the time. She has these huge arms, which tell one that she was once a whole lot fatter, but couldn’t afford surgery or the right kind of trainer to get rid of the arms.
And she loves that motivational poster: “More education is better.”
“How so?” I asked her the first time I was in her office.
“Excuse me, Mr. um, uh, Jones,” she said, quickly glancing down at my file to get my name right. Kudos for the effort Marlena.
“The sign. How is more education better?”
“Studies show that having a high school degree you will make more money than one without. A college degree more so than a high school grad. A masters, more than a bachelors. And so on.”
“So, I should stay in school forever, and eventually I’ll be rich?”
“Well…It doesn’t work thaaat way, Mr. Jones.”
“Really? That’s not now you’re telling me. And your posters are telling me.”
She frowned at my last response. I wished it was more like a Bukowski book right now and she had great legs. Because then I could stare at them instead of those God damn posters. Or her giggly arms. Every time she reached for something – and she reached a lot, for her coffee, a pen, my file, the phone, her cell phone, her teeth, it went on and on – they giggled. It was almost mesmerizing. Luckily, it wasn’t.
“What are you here for today, Mr. Jones?”
“Well, the state says I have to come in here to prove that I’m A-unemployed and B-still looking for a job,” I replied.
“Well are you?”
“Which?”
“Both, Mr. Jones,” she said callously.
“Yes and yes.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Well, I’m broke and I have the time to come here to talk to you, don’t I?”
“Certainly, but I need proof positive that you are indeed seeking a job.”
I pulled out a stack of resumes and a stack of rejection letters from publishers. I also pulled out three forms signed by jobs I had applied for, interviewed for, and been turned down for. One was at Food Lion as a cashier. One was for a deep sea fisherman. And the last was for a bridge attendant.
“So, this will do,” Marlena said, stamping the files I handed her with her giant rubber stamp. Her arms giggled. I even think her nose giggled a bit.
“Here are some new leads,” she said after a few seconds of sweet silence. “Hopefully, something in there will do.”
I couldn’t help but think of Alan Arkin in Glengarry Glen Ross. I wondered if I was just as sad a character? Then I started thinking of Alec Baldwin holding those big metal balls. I wished Marlena would do something like that. I scanned her desk for any giant balls. Instead, I saw a Furby, a Ziggy calendar and a box of unopened Triscuits.
“I’m sure these will be great,” I said.
“Mr. Jones? May I ask you a question?”
“Certainly Marlena,” I replied, somehow now thinking of “Falling Down” when Michael Douglas is in the Whammy Burger place calling everyone by their first names. I chuckle. Out loud.
“What is funny?” she asks, almost hurt it seems.
“You ever seen the movie “Falling Down?”
“No, I have not.”
“Well, that just popped into my head. You should rent it sometime.”
“Back to the questions. Can I ask you something?”
“Like I said, certainly.”
“Do you have an education?”
“Yes. I. Do!”
“How far did you make it?”
“I have a high school degree, as you call it. I have two bachelors. I have six Community college associates degrees and I almost finished my masters in creative writing, but gave up when the professor in charge of my thesis said I was “too God damn repetitive!”
“Oh, why that was mean of him.”
“Not really. It was the truth. But he just didn’t like my answer to his question of why I was so G-D repetitive,” I said, not cussing this time because I saw her wince the first time.
“What was your answer?”
“That I only have one story to tell, and I want to make sure and get it right.”
She’s kind of fat. The kind of fat that lets you know she worries about it all the time. She has these huge arms, which tell one that she was once a whole lot fatter, but couldn’t afford surgery or the right kind of trainer to get rid of the arms.
And she loves that motivational poster: “More education is better.”
“How so?” I asked her the first time I was in her office.
“Excuse me, Mr. um, uh, Jones,” she said, quickly glancing down at my file to get my name right. Kudos for the effort Marlena.
“The sign. How is more education better?”
“Studies show that having a high school degree you will make more money than one without. A college degree more so than a high school grad. A masters, more than a bachelors. And so on.”
“So, I should stay in school forever, and eventually I’ll be rich?”
“Well…It doesn’t work thaaat way, Mr. Jones.”
“Really? That’s not now you’re telling me. And your posters are telling me.”
She frowned at my last response. I wished it was more like a Bukowski book right now and she had great legs. Because then I could stare at them instead of those God damn posters. Or her giggly arms. Every time she reached for something – and she reached a lot, for her coffee, a pen, my file, the phone, her cell phone, her teeth, it went on and on – they giggled. It was almost mesmerizing. Luckily, it wasn’t.
“What are you here for today, Mr. Jones?”
“Well, the state says I have to come in here to prove that I’m A-unemployed and B-still looking for a job,” I replied.
“Well are you?”
“Which?”
“Both, Mr. Jones,” she said callously.
“Yes and yes.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Well, I’m broke and I have the time to come here to talk to you, don’t I?”
“Certainly, but I need proof positive that you are indeed seeking a job.”
I pulled out a stack of resumes and a stack of rejection letters from publishers. I also pulled out three forms signed by jobs I had applied for, interviewed for, and been turned down for. One was at Food Lion as a cashier. One was for a deep sea fisherman. And the last was for a bridge attendant.
“So, this will do,” Marlena said, stamping the files I handed her with her giant rubber stamp. Her arms giggled. I even think her nose giggled a bit.
“Here are some new leads,” she said after a few seconds of sweet silence. “Hopefully, something in there will do.”
I couldn’t help but think of Alan Arkin in Glengarry Glen Ross. I wondered if I was just as sad a character? Then I started thinking of Alec Baldwin holding those big metal balls. I wished Marlena would do something like that. I scanned her desk for any giant balls. Instead, I saw a Furby, a Ziggy calendar and a box of unopened Triscuits.
“I’m sure these will be great,” I said.
“Mr. Jones? May I ask you a question?”
“Certainly Marlena,” I replied, somehow now thinking of “Falling Down” when Michael Douglas is in the Whammy Burger place calling everyone by their first names. I chuckle. Out loud.
“What is funny?” she asks, almost hurt it seems.
“You ever seen the movie “Falling Down?”
“No, I have not.”
“Well, that just popped into my head. You should rent it sometime.”
“Back to the questions. Can I ask you something?”
“Like I said, certainly.”
“Do you have an education?”
“Yes. I. Do!”
“How far did you make it?”
“I have a high school degree, as you call it. I have two bachelors. I have six Community college associates degrees and I almost finished my masters in creative writing, but gave up when the professor in charge of my thesis said I was “too God damn repetitive!”
“Oh, why that was mean of him.”
“Not really. It was the truth. But he just didn’t like my answer to his question of why I was so G-D repetitive,” I said, not cussing this time because I saw her wince the first time.
“What was your answer?”
“That I only have one story to tell, and I want to make sure and get it right.”
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Ol' Puddin'
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.
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.
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.
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