Tickets

“Where are we going?” she asked with an ever-so-slight bit of concern in her voice.

“You’ll see,” I replied. “The point of this trip is for you to trust someone, right? That’s what we agreed on.”

She frown-smiled at my answer to her query. I wasn’t about to tell her where we were headed. I felt a bit of a rush in knowing that I was in control. It’s said now, thinking back on it, but not really.

The miles flew by as we talked about work, about Dean Martin, about bad television shows, about how neither of us had been to Maine. We also talked about death. I didn’t really understand what death can do to a person. It’s one of those things you have to experience, and I had not experienced it to the degree she had. Both her parents died within two years of each other. One in a long, drawn out battle with cancer that ended with her and her mom alone in a room together. Her dad died suddenly of a heart attack, trying to live a different life with a different woman.

The only people in my life who had died up to that point were my dad’s dad, who I share a name with but not much else, and my dad’s sister who I was too young to even remember. Since then, only one other person has died – my mom’s dad. That one hurt, but I wasn’t around. I still feel pain thinking of him and me not being there towards the end.

As we drew closer and closer to our destination, I was shocked that she had no idea still where we were going. No clue. And her guesses were way off.

New Jersey is an ugly state. The industrial complex of our dying nation crumbling everywhere amongst swampy land and sadness. She genuinely enjoyed the sights. It made me happy just watching her bounce around in the seat of my Toyota Celica. A car that to this day I miss. Set on fire in a parking lot years later, and replaced by an Acura – 1988 model – from her via her uncle.

Finally, as darkness started to settle around us, we pulled into a Super 8 motel. It wasn’t too bad of a place. I checked in and took our bags – hers much heavier than mine – and we got into our room. Separate beds, of course, as we were not dating. At least not yet.

Just took off her shoes and jumped on one of the beds. She hopped up and down with so much glee that I had to just simply watch her to feel the same way. However, I’m assuming it didn’t show on my face quite as much.

“You having fun?” I asked as she finally stopped by landing on her butt with a thud.

Winded and still grinning wildly, she replied “Yes sir!”

I laughed out a bit at her answer and sat on my bed, turning on the television.

The room was a dirty vanilla color. The comforters on the beds had a red paisley pattern. They looked clean, but of course were not. But this was long before I started throwing those infested pieces of cloth to the floor. I still used them and probably was infected by them at this point of my on-going journey.

The next 45 minutes were spent me staring at the television news and her taking a shower and singing. Her voice was almost angelic in sound. I don’t know now if it was just my crush on her that made me feel that way. I can’t hear that voice in my head anymore. One of the many ravages of time that disturb me the most. You take for granted those type of sounds, as you expect to hear them forever. But, like everything, they go away and while you remember how great it must have sounded, you can’t hear it anymore.

She came out of the bathroom in a towel. She quickly grabbed her bag of clothes and dashed back into the bathroom. I couldn’t help but stare, and I think she wanted it that way.

A moment later, she was dressed and smiling. She was younger than me, by a good 7 or 8 years, and didn’t need makeup. Her beauty was pure still.

“What are you doing?” she asked, after catching me staring a bit too long.

I stumbled for an answer before finally blurting out: “Thinking about tomorrow and how much fun you’re going to have!”

Her eyes squinted at me.

“You know, I’m never going to be able to sleep tonight. Not knowing.”

“Not knowing what?” I playfully responded.

“Stop that.”

“What? Do you not trust me yet? You just drove almost nine hours with me in a car to a place you don’t know the final destination. And now we’re in a Super 8 in the middle of New Jersey.”

“I know,” she said. “You could cut me up tonight and leave me in a field.”

“Damn, how’d you guess?”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“Who said I was joking?” I smirked as I went to pee.

I came out, making sure to wash my hands to keep up good impressions, and she was under the covers. Looking a little sleepy.

“I thought you couldn’t sleep, not knowing and all…”

“I can be sleepy and not A-Sleep,” she said, sounding like a 10 year old.

I went to my bag and pulled out a blank white envelope. I put in on her bed near her feet.

“If you must know, the answer is in this,” I said pointing at the envelope.

She burst out from under her blanket and grabbed the envelope.

“Really? You’ll tell me?”

“If you have to know, open it up.”

She wasted no time, ripping it open. I was disappointed for a fraction of a second. And only that short of a time period because it was all the time I had to be that way.

She was now holding them. The prize I had got off of E-bay a few days earlier.

They were blue and orange, the tickets.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” she kept saying.

Then she sprung to her feet and starting bouncing on the bed again.

“Opening Day tickets! How’d you get these!”

“I’ve got my ways,” I said, trying to be mysterious.

I watched her jumping and it made me happy.

Finally, she jumped down and gave me a hug. I was startled. As much as we’d gotten to know each other, this was the first real physical contact. I hugged back, just a little as her jumping up and down made it tough.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said.

“This is why you should trust folks more,” I said. “Good things happen.”

She smiled, but did not respond to that.

And good things did happen. Starting with Shea Stadium the next day, and lasting for nearly six years after.

A cure?

The allure of bachelor living faded some time ago.

But waking up to a dream about a perky young woman in a pink dress, who happened to get drunk due to heartbreak, being raped by four gutter punks and then beheaded, well, that’s not normal. Of course, turning into Detective Stabler from Law & Order and picking up the head and talking to it, soothing it, trying to distract it – much more normal.

If I could write down the details of the dream – in detail, ha! – I’d feel a little bit better. The scene of the crime being an old abandoned train station. One of the attackers had a Mohawk, a really bad one. And he used orange spray paint to leave his mark on everything – including the other attackers before leaving the scene. Even though the other attackers just slept there, on a meat cart looking aluminum carrier.

It didn’t rain that night, but everything was damp. The stars and moon weren’t out, as the city lights and tall building blocked out all signs of outer space. And her sweet, sweet voice. The kind you hear in movies from the best friend who always is the bridesmaid. And accepts that.

Anyway, I stare out the window of my bachelor pad – a place my married friends call paradise for some reason – and wish I could be anywhere else. The bills of a hard-lived life are beginning to catch up again. They always do when I get involved with someone. Why? Because I start spending money on someone who isn’t part of the budget. I wonder where I’ll come up with $280 a month for my student loan bill, which had been deferred for two years now. I break a little less than even every month as it stands, so adding almost 300 bucks on top of that will be crippling. Makes me wish for the days of a roommate who had a thing for 40-minute showers and locking himself in his room. At least he paid the rent on time – most of the time.

There is someone parked in the middle of the street in front of my house. A Ford truck. It takes up most of the lane, forcing those who want to drive past to cut into my yard. I’m not concerned about how this will affect my lawn, but I am pissed off about the inconvenience that it causes the world. Having trouble spelling the word inconvenience reminds me of the “Convenient Convenience Store” in Greenville, North Carolina. I would chuckle every time me and my girl drove by it. She didn’t see the humor in it. She felt it was kind of sad. That made me sad. It was funny. I always think that those are the things that should have told me we were not going to make it. Silly little signs. I’ve a pro at ignoring them. Hence, the aging bachelor pad at 41 years of age.

I wonder too, about friends who have disappeared. One of my best friends, I thought, got mad at me. And now he’s gone. Just a memory on the wall now. Like so many other friends that have just moved on and out. I’m sure one day I’ll look back and laugh at it, but not now. There’s too much pain. Not really from that loss, which sucks, but from the real loss that happened just two weeks prior. A pain too horrid to think about anymore. We planted a tree. That tree will make me sad for years.

Work has become a means to an unsatisfying end. I don’t make enough to enjoy anything. My two splurges are the internet and Netflix on the internet. When did I miss that left turn at Albuquerque?

Writing is supposed to be my escape. My sharp knife. Lately, it’s not been there. It’s not writer’s block. It’s the writer is lazy.

The cloudy blue sky is mesmerizing. I look out the window and just stare in disbelief at the beauty. The sounds of nature – birds chirping and singing, the ocean waves lapping at the shore – they get drowned out by cars and electric saws and people talking. Why do people ruin things?

The mind wanders back and forth. One day she’s nowhere to be found for 23 hours. Then she pops in there to say hello. I try not to remember, but that just makes you think about her. Little things will always remind me of her. I feel guilty that it still happens. I wish it didn’t. The songs don’t hurt anymore. They don’t even sting. Just a dull ache. Kind of like teeth rotting. You just have grin and bear it, without the grinning. If you ever see me, slap me across the back of the head. It’ll hopefully dislodge whatever’s got a grip on my heart. Even if it bleeds.

it was paul westerberg all along

The voice echoed in my mind. It petrified me.

“Did I just run somebody over?”

This paralyzed me. Who the fuck was I to think I could take someone’s life so easily and not go back and see. To help them. To comfort their last moments.

Who the fuck wants to be run over by a car and left on the side of the road?

I turned my car around, Paul Westerberg still singing.

My eyes glanced all around the road. It was dark, but I figured I knew about where it happened. Where I heard the voice on the right side, just kind of mumble and yell, then a bit of a bump.

Had to be a person I hit. Not just a piece of debris on the road. Or a dog or cat. Or maybe even an opossum.

Nothing. The road was empty. As was the ditch. I pulled over to the side. Got out of the car and listened. All I could hear was Westerberg wail. I reached into my car and turned the radio off. Then the ignition.

The silence pierced my ears like a pregnant seal giving birth. I winced a bit.

Still nothing.

“The guy or gal could be dead now. Not making any sounds,” I thought to myself.

I walked around to the front of my car. The lights were still on. I looked for damage. There was none. Not even a scratch.

Now I was started to worry about my sanity. It reminded me of the time I was driving down Interstate 12. Heading towards New Orleans. I watched the traffic coming at me, the lights coming closer and closer before flying past me at 75. Each time I imagined what it would be like to hop the median and go right at ‘em. Take on those lights and have them end the pain I was feeling. It would be quick, but I couldn’t guarantee painless. Plus, it might not even work. People survive car crashes all the time. Even head-ons at 75. That would be my luck. Damaged on the outside to go with the inside.

So I kept driving.

Now, years later, I’m standing on the side of a road in bumblefuck North Carolina wondering if I put some other fool out of his misery? No one gave me that courtesy, and I guess I’m happy about that. Except for a shitty job and a ton of debt, I like my life. Even though I dwell on a redheaded girl sometimes.

A pair of lights started to make their way towards me. Knowing this road, it was a cop. So, I got back in my car and started driving. Two seconds later, his lights came on.

“Fuck,” was all I could muster.

I pulled over and so did the cop car. Bright-ass lights shining in my rearview. I made me laugh for a moment.

He ambled to my car and tapped on my window. For some reason, I hadn’t rolled it down yet.

“What were you doing on the side of the road, sir?” the pimply looking cop asked me. I had to think about this one. I decided to go with the truth.

“I thought I hit something,” I said, almost saying someone. “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a dog or something like that.”

“Oh,” the cop replied. A couple of seconds later, he continued. “Can you get out of the car, sir?”

I got out. Slowly. Like all the people tell you too. No sudden movements or gestures. You don’t want to end up dead by cop on the side of some backcountry North Carolina highway. No telling what the story would end up being.

“Journalist shot after trying to elude arrest for drugs.”

“Journalist drew first.”

“Journalist shot after killing pedestrian in hit-and-run.”

It was frightening. But also kind of cool to be sitting there thinking of headlines of my own impending demise.

“Have you been drinking?” the cop said, interrupting my train of thought.

“I wish,” I said without thinking.

“What is that supposed to mean?” the cop asked, perking up a bit too much.

“I just got off work. Driving home.”

“Where do you work so late at night?” he was now getting that accusatory tone that cops love to use.

“At the newspaper.” That answer always left cops hanging. Not as much as it used to, when papers still delivered on their promise to expose corruption and such, even though they really rarely ever did that in the first place. Myths are cool.

“Oh. Well, you should be more careful when driving on these roads. Someone could come along and run you over standing there like that.”

He looked me over. I had on plaid shorts and a shirt that read “Achiever” from Lebowskifest. He obviously didn’t golf.

“Have a good night officer,” I replied.

He said nothing and got back in his car. Turned off his lights and whisked away. Didn’t even wait for me to get back in the “safety” of my car.

I got back in the car and turned on the ignition. Westerberg finished singing and the next song started. I hit the back button.

“Merry Go Round” started up again.

A few seconds later, I heard that voice again. Apparently, it was Paul Westerberg all along. Creepy background lyrics.

I decided to get a beer. And that’s when I met her.

The 'talent'

We were sitting in the mostly dark of Lafitte’s. My boss was trying to convince me to keep fighting the good fight.

“I just can’t do it anymore,” I said, taking a swig of Dixie beer. I paused for a second to realize the bit of irony, bad tastes left in mouth and all…

“I come into the office and I’m dragged down consistently. Yes, there are moments where you remember why you do this, but in this corporate, stock-holder is the only God world we’ve allowed the industry to become, I just can’t. It hurts.”

“You’ve said all that before,” my boss, a shaggy-haired, unkempt fellow who once applied for and didn’t get a job I got years ago, said. He played the “game” much better than I did. I told people they sucked. I pointed out the hypocrisy of it all. And I made enemies. He kissed ass and told everyone how great a job they were doing, even when he had to go home and drink himself silly because of how horrid it was. Today, he was making nearly $100K a year. Me, I was lucking to top $30K if I could con my way into enough overtime.

“Yeah, I have. I’ve said a lot of things over and over and never followed through on them. It’s kind of my modus operandi. But this time, it’s got to end.”

Why was today the day the burning decided to flicker and die, my boss asked. And I tried to explain.

It all boiled down to the office that day. The woman next to me smelled of cigarettes – that in and of itself used to be a badge of honor, but when mixed with awful perfume and the worst nasally voice this side of Fran Drescher, and you get the point. I referred to her as the office’s wounded kitten. That nasally whine just permeated her entire existence. She made personal phone calls, which I can understand, but fucking leave the cubicle at least. So, after six months, I resorted to either watching N.W.A.  Over and over again. Or crinkling over and over the same Pop-Tart wrapper. She got the point, but only each time. Pavlov would not be proud.

That day, a person sat down next to her. I began to imagine we were in a Greyhound Station instead of the shell of a former newspaper. The first person lasted 30 seconds. The next chap a whopping 3 minutes. You know it’s bad when the dregs of society won’t sit next to you. Bus station beggars and thieves.

I stared in amazement when another fellow decided it was a good idea to occupy that piece of plastic that the bus station bean counters deem a seat.

“I love Hot Pockets,” she said to the man.

“I got a free empanada,” he replied with some kind of odd grin/frown.

I fully expected them to lock eyes, then lips and begin to procreate there in the middle of the terminal.

He wore a shirt three sizes too small for his impressive belly. At the right time, you could see stretch marks and black pubic-esque hair on it. The corduroy pants he had on were a few inches short of his striped white athletic socks. I’m sure they matched his tighty-whiteys.

“I’ve never had a Hot Pocket,” he continued. I’m guessing it was a lie from his physique.

“They are just dough-filled thingies with meats, cheeses, vegetables and other goodies packed inside,” a third person – a 25 year old scruffy looking, sort of hipter wanna be, added.

“Oh, I’ve had plenty of dough-filled treats!” the big man responded with glee. I thought maybe a dabble of drool formed along with his thought bubble.

“They give me gas,” the cigarette infested gal chirped in.

This finally caused my six Bloody Mary breakfast to come back. I puked on the floor, right in front of this conversation.

“How rude,” the girl nasally said.

“Just a response,” I uttered between dry heaves.

“To what?” the hipster said.

“Banality. And the death of journalism,” I said.

“Come on now, Randy, you know that didn’t really happen,” my boss interrupted the story I was weaving. I scowled at him and finished my beer. The bottle hit the table and I eyed it. My eyebrow cocked just a little bit. After a few seconds of silence, except for the tourists walking by at 10:30 in the morning, the bossman finally figured it out.

“I’ll get you another beer,” he said, walking to the bar.

“Damn right you will,” I said. “You brought me back to this world. After it had chucked me out like a redhead when she gets bored.”

“Here you go,” he handed me another beer. I popped the top and drank half of it.

“Slow down there, Mister. I’ve only got so much cash.”

“Fuck off, you’ve got plastic. Now, where was I?”

“Barfing.”

“Oh yeah.”

I turned to the big guy and the sight of him, and his smugness of knowing words – yet he had no feeling for them – triggered a final release. I purged the rest of my breakfast on the whiny, nasally bitch.

She then proceeded to puke up her McDonald’s french fries and what may have been some kind of beef product on the 25 year old.

He then threw up his breakfast – it appeared to be just a couple ears worth of corn and a grape soda. Right at the feet of the big man.

None of this, however, seemed to affect the biggest of the group. In fact, he peeled off the wrapper of a $100 Grand candy bar and took a large bite.

His chews set my mind off again. And somehow, my stomach responded again.

“Now, can you see why whatever passion I had had died?” I asked.

“Dude, you’ve a sick man. A sick, sick man.”

“Cheers to that,” I said clinking my bottle against his. I finished off the swill.

“Well, I guess it’s time for me to go finish my column,” I said.

“Knew it,” my boss said smiling. He smacked my back with his meaty hand.

“That’s going to cost you another round,” I sneered. “And this time, I want a Jameson. Double.”

He smiled and went back to the bar.

“Gotta feed the talent,” he said.

“Tell me how that works out for ya,” I replied.

It was going to be a long day I thought to myself as I walked – alone – back to the office. The first sight of it cause me to burp. It tasted of Bloody Mary.

Hopelessly awful

“So, do you have plans for the past?” she said to me as I sat in my broken down leather recliner. I got that thing at a thrift store for $35 and she’d never let me down. Sure, she smelled a little bit. The left arm had cracks in the leather, but overall, she was comfortable and certainly dependable. More than I could say about most things.

I cracked open another Miller High Life before delving into my latest companion’s attempts at saving me from myself. It never failed. Either I was trying to save them, or they were trying to save me. And really, since the only one who can truly save a person is themselves, I’m assuming we’re always fighting a losing fight.

“I don’t understand your question, honey,” I said before burping that last sip of beer. It was stale tasting. I’d gotten used to better beer, this was like a watered down version of Abita’s Amber.

“Yes you do, you fucking prick,” she said, slamming down her foot on the hardwood floor. That very same spot on the floor was where we shared a slow dance together about a year and a half ago. Three quarters of a bottle of Jameson first, mind you, but we did share a nice dance. The song was that Urge Overkill cover of “Girl, You’ll be a woman soon.”

And indeed I did know what she was talking about. It was what every girl found out about me eventually. I had a past, and I liked it there.

“You live in the fucking past. You stay there. And I really believe you want to be there!” she yelled.

“I don’t want to be there,” said. “I want us to be like then.”

That was stupid. Now it was her against her. The girl from the past. The one who broke my heart. The love of my life. I’d written those words so many times. I’d wrapped other people’s stories into her story and made them mine again. It was a losing proposition, but it was the only one I knew.

“Randy, you’ve got to get on with your life. It’s been over a decade now, and you still pine for her,” she said, starting to cry now. “I don’t think you know how much this is hurting me.”

I knew, exactly. Sometimes I think I wanted it to hurt. So maybe the one I was with could feel something akin to what I was feeling. Wrong of me? Certainly. But it just kept happening. Whether the relationship was fucking in the back of the stockroom at work every so often with the young reporter from Troy State, the girl I dated for six months and fell helplessly in love with way too fast and way too soon, or a crush that developed because a friend said “this girl’s got the same weird tastes as you” – and she was right, but just too much the same as she ended up hurting me.

“Listen, honey, I was honest with you from the get-go. And that’s a change of pace for me. I said I had a hang up, and she was it. I don’t want it to be that way. I try every day to leave her behind. But she stays. I yell at her. I curse at her. But it’s all in the wind. If I could see her today, I’d tell her to go fuck herself. And you know what? She wouldn’t care one bit. I guess that’s why it hurts. Still.”

“But that’s precisely why it shouldn’t hurt anymore, babe. Don’t you see that?”

I felt more and more like Jim Carrey in “The Truman Show.” Something always felt just a little off. Which is why I think I held on to a piece that was “normal.” A part of my life when everything went right. Even when it was wrong. Until it went to shit. In one night. All at once for me. Probably over months for her. Damn her for coming and acting like everything was OK for those two months we were together in North Carolina after all that time apart while she was in Florida. New Year’s eve was so special to me that it ranks up there as one of the top 5 nights of my life. Sadly, I do rank such things, and did so before I read about it and then watched it acted out in “High Fidelity.”

She looked at me, and sighed. She knew I was thinking about such random things. She was the first person who was able to get me to admit this. That when we were talking about serious things – bills, our sex life, insurance, houses, etc. – that most likely I was seeing pictures of Matt Damon in “Rounders” or John Laroquette in “Stripes” instead of real life. She grew to think it was cute, I believe, even if it was “fucking annoying.”

“You and I, we will be fine,” she said. “When you move to the present. Until then, we’re going to be like this. You drinking. Me crying. I just hope that’s enough for both of us forever.”

She got up and left. Off to the beach. I sat there in my recliner, thinking about the Ken Griffey Jr. Super Nintendo game. And about how hopelessly awful that was.

Watching John Travolta

“When you win the lottery, you end up doing a lot of stupid things,” I said to the girl at the bar. She’d asked me why I was driving a hearse, and quite simply, that was the reason I was.

“You won the lottery?” she asked, now a little too interested in me. Just seconds ago, she was creeped out by the fact I pulled up in a 1996 Lincoln Hearse. The hearse owned by the Raymer Funeral Home in Huntersville, North Carolina. The same funeral home that helped out when a certain NASCAR driver, known by most as The Intimidator was laid to rest back in 2001. For many, the second worst thing that happened to America that year.

I looked over at Rodney, the barkeep. He was used to running interference when my dumb mouth mentioned that I won the lottery. Yep, I won the Power Ball drawing on March 23, 2012. A cool $290 million. Took the cash and pocketed over $100 million that day I drove up to Raleigh.

And the first thing I did was buy that silly hearse on E-bay. Paid $1.5 million for it. Stupid? Hell yes it was. But fucking-A it was a great conversation starter. And God knows I needed help starting them.

“Listen, little lady,” Rodney said. “He won it, alright. But he paid 1.5 million bucks for that stupid hearse out there. How much money do you think he’s got left? Hell, he lives here most of the time.”

She looked at me, then looked around the bar. A bar that she’d been coming to since she was 17 years old, according to Rodney when he told me exactly seven minutes prior to her coming over to me.

“So, he’s a deadbeat?” she whispered to Rodney.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I spoke up.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” she sneered.

“Oh, the horror,” I mockingly said as I pretended to take the dagger out of my chest. “Lucky for me, you don’t have a rusty screwdriver.”

“Huh?” she said.

“Inside joke, lady. Hey, Rodney, buy that girl a drink!”

“You going to pay your tab tonight, Randy? You didn’t last night…” he said to me, in a matter-of-fact voice that I think our friendly young blonde took for anger. At least the laugh she had after those words made it seem so.

“Of course I will. Here’s my Discover Card!”

I handed him my card. It expired in 2011, but I kept it around for just these types of situations. I thought about one day writing a book for lottery winners. An “Idiots for …” kind of deal. Then my girlfriend at the time burst my publishing bubble when she said “But, only a few people win each year. Not much of a market?”

Typical of her. And of me, I’d have to say. Hair-brained Randy.

I wandered over to the jukebox. Rodney months ago stocked it with albums I wanted to listen to. Hell, I spent so much money here that the customers the music selection drove away were nowhere near the cash he got from my dumb ass sitting on a stool watching re-runs of Frisky Dingo and Welcome Back Kotter.

I clicked on A-14: Johnny Thunders’ “Hurt Me” from the album also called “Hurt Me.”

Not this damn song again, the blonde said.

“For that, you get it three times!” I yelled, pushing A-14 two more times to complete my transaction at the jukebox.

“Why do you play that damn song so often?” she asked.

“Because it reminds me of a simpler time. Not necessarily a better time, but a simpler time,” I said.

“You’re weird,” she said, snickering to her just arrived out of the bathroom friend. Her friend was Rhonda. She had big 1980s New Jersey hair, but an attitude straight out of Valley Girl. She confounded me over the weeks. Every guy in this place, yours truly included, wanted to sleep with her. But no one every succeeded. It was baffling. To everyone.

And here she was, in the bar on a Thursday at 1 p.m. Hanging out with this blonde girl. It seemed too perfect. And based upon my experiences, was.

Rhonda came over to me and sat at the stool next to mine.

“Randy, why the fuck are you sitting on that God damn barstool at 1 o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday? This is freaking Kinston, North Carolina. You have tens of millions of dollars in the bank, yet here you are. Alone and defeated.”

“Just defeated!” I pontificated.

“Ok, you’re not alone. Rodney’s here.”

“And you two lovely works of God’s master plan.”

“Fuck off.”

“You know, that’s what the last girl said to me too. And precisely why I sit here with Rodney and watch John Travolta every day. It’s so much easier.”

legs

“Mr. Jones, based on our calculations, you need to save about $897 a month for the next 30 years so you can retire and live the life you are accustomed to. This is based upon complex formulas and your current, past and future earnings that we estimated.”

I sat there and stared at my “Investment Guru.” This was a self-given label. These people were called in by my company to try and “kick start” retirement planning. Funny, I’ve pretty much known for 15 years that if I didn’t marry a rich woman, retirement for me would be a one-bedroom hovel on skid row.

“What do you think of that Mr. Jones?” this perky, 24-year-old guru asked me.

“Well, Miss Smythe. … It is Miss?”

“Yes.”

“That is more than I make in two weeks. If you double that to get my monthly income, then subtract rent, utilities, gas money, student loan payment, credit card payment, internet payment and so on, you’ll see that this is impossible.”

I stared at her as she stared at me.

“And that does not include food.”

“OK. So you’re feeling a little bit overwhelmed. … No need to be belligerent.”

“Belligerent? I’m not being belligerent. I’m being rational. If this company paid a living wage – no one in this office has received a raise in the years I’ve been here. In fact, they’ve all received pay cuts. Do you know what that’s like?”

“Well, uh…”

“I thought not. I mean, if the company took the money it spent hiring you and your “associates” to come in here and tell us that we’re not going to ever be able to retire, and divided it up amongst the 100 or so of us, then we’d have that amount of money. For a week.”

Dumbfounded, Miss Smythe played with her pencil and stared at her computer monitor. I didn’t mean to be mean, but sometimes it was inevitable.

Instead of apologizing, however, I decided to stare at her legs. They were great legs. The kind that look like ivory, but soft. She had on a short skirt to show them off and it made me feel worse. So, I stopped looking at them. But a little too late.

“Did you enjoy that?” Miss Smythe said angrily.

“Not particularly. Just reminded me of an ex-lover of mine who devastated me years ago.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” I said, looking at her tits now.

“Mr. Jones, I want to help you. And it appears from your financials that you need help.”

“Just from my financials?”

She brushed that off and continued: “Here is my card. I don’t usually do this with clients from this job, but you genuinely need help. And I think you are smart enough to know you need help.”

“Being smart enough isn’t enough,” I said with a bit of a southern drawl.

“Yes, that is true, Mr. Jones. Most people don’t know it’s too late until they aren’t working anymore and have medical bills and other financial obligations that a measly savings and a Social Security check won’t pay.”

I knew all of this was true, but I didn’t care. I was here for one reason – my boss said I had to come – but now was here because staring at Miss Smythe was better than staring at the drivel known as copy that the reporters and editors handed to me at the paper. Bitterness did not come close to describing what I felt each day I plopped down into my cubicle.

Yesterday was especially bad because my boss found a project I’d been working on. Sometimes in the office, but mostly late at night in the comforts of my way-too-expensive for my income beach house while sipping on a bottle of Jameson. A collection of short stories based upon a dying newspaper. It would never be read, but it was damn funny – to me at least.

Reporters who can’t write and editors who can’t edit filled its pages. A manager in number – but not effort – for each reporter. A drunk leading the charge – not altogether a horrible thing, mind you – and an elf-like publisher who showed up every so often and said hello – his hunched shoulders reminding you that he had millions in the bank and you had $45.12.

“Mr. Jones, we need to talk,” she yelled from her glass-enclosed office in the corner of the newsroom.

I got up, sighed loudly and trudged to her office.

“Sit down please, and shut that door!” she barked.

She managed to say that second part after I had sat.

“What is this? This garbage?” she then yelled.

“What exactly are you talking about? The paper? Or something in it?”

She stared for a second, trying to intimidate me. After realizing the folly, she continued…

“I think you know what it is I am talking about. This, this writing you’ve been doing. Probably doing it while sitting in your comfortable chair over there.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s comfortable….”

“Shut up. You’ve been writing about us. Making fun of everyone in that office. What do you think they would all think about it if I showed them?”

“It would be quite a portrait of just how awful all of our lives have become,” I replied. “About how awful we’ve all let our lives become. This, for all of us on a daily basis, is a choice.”

My boss, taken aback by my non-chalance , sighed even louder than I did moments before.

“Mr. Jones, do you know what this means?”

“That you don’t know my first name?” I thought of saying, but since I knew the answer I refrained.

“Yes?” I finally said.

“You need to apologize to everyone for this. If you want to let them see it, and then hate you for it, that is your decision. But you must apologize.”

I stood up from the leather chair in her office, noticing just how comfortable it was compared to my stained with God-knows what, rickety old felt covered chair at my desk, and nodded. I felt it served the purpose better to just nod like Billy Bob Thornton in “Sling Blade”.

I went out into the office and cleared my throat.

“Attention everyone!” I said. “Attention everyone!”

The quiet of the newsroom stopped. Now it was a murmur of noise. A pleasant, but too slight, consequence of my voice ripping through.

“I have to say something,” I said, looking back at my editor. She was smiling, just a slight smile, but it was there. Her legs were crossed. Damn, she had great legs too.

“I’m sorry,” I finally said.

“For what?” a voice I knew all too well echoed from the back of the room. It was Larry. He was an overweight reporter. The only one in the room I had any respect for. And that was mainly because he kept action figures on his desk.

“For what? Damn, that’s a good question. I guess because I write stuff, and it hurts.”

Everyone looked down.

“We’ve seen it,” Larry piped up. “We saw your writings months ago. It made me laugh.”

I turned back to the editor. She was frowning now. Her legs? Still hot.

“And you don’t need to apologize,” Larry continued. “We all know.”

St. Patrick's Day

“What are you doing for St. Patrick’s Day?” she asked with a smile.

“Working, like always,” I replied.

When I chose to be a journalist, back in the glamour days of the early 1990s (Ha!), the thought of never having holidays off, being dirt poor and single never crossed my mind.

Some days I wish it had, others not so much.

But hindsight is a bitch and life is for living. Every day I try to remember that. Keep plodding forward instead of looking backward. It’s tough, and many times needs the help of an alcoholic beverage. Except on St. Patrick’s Day. It’s been a long, long time since I had one of those off – except for the year of unemployment, when I actually had two.

There was this girl I dated, she liked to think she was Irish. She wasn’t. Yeah, she had red hair and pale skin and was full of sass. But what she wasn’t was Irish. She was German.

I do miss that gal, though. She was the world to me. Until the day she decided I didn’t try hard enough. Or she didn’t care enough. Whichever. See, there I go, following the downward staircase instead of taking the elevator up.

I watch the girl who asked me about St. Patty’s Day walk away. A few months ago she was 30 pounds heavier and unhappy with her life. Now she’s sexy, and I believe still unhappy with her life. You can shed the pounds, tone the muscles, get a higher paying job, but those things don’t fill the void. That’s up to you, my friend.

The pollen covered my car as I got ready to leave for work. My allergies are funny. They don’t bother me too much outside. But inside they’re a bear. It’s probably the mold that this place has. And the fact I don’t dust. I saw my stereo today before playing some music to get me out of my mind funk and it was slathered in dust and God knows what else. I wiped it off with a pair of dirty underwear that was lying on the carpet and put in a CD. The notes and words and beats just keep me going. For someone who is tone deaf and completely too lazy to learn how to play an instrument, music really keeps me going.

I was lucky enough to go to Ireland last year. My best friend and his wife paid for me to tag along with them. It was a bit of a strange trip, but I fell in love with the place. Much better than the UK, for sure.

If I could be anywhere today, it would be there. Out in the middle of nowhere in a country I am not from, surrounded by people I can understand when they talk. I didn’t see too many redheads while I was there, which disappointed me, but was told simply I was in the “wrong part” of the country.

Maybe one day I’ll have the money to go back. It’s sad that I have to be saddled by that problem. It’s self-created, so I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’ve never done enough to pay off the mountain that I have. I’ve made small gains every so often, then I get a woman in my life and I forget what I was doing for a while.

The stink of the morning is a funny thing, too. I like it when it’s cold. Hate it when it’s warm. I’m the complete opposite about the actual weather, though. Give me a hot, sweaty, sticky day over a cool, breezy and damp day any time.

“You sure you don’t want to play hooky with me?” the girl asked me after we bumped into each other again.

“Darling, I’d love to, but duty, as always, calls me …” I trail off a bit at the end.

“You’re in the military? I thought they didn’t allow facial hair like that?”

“They don’t. And I’m not,” I replied stroking my soon-to-be-shaved beard of about 10 inches in length.

We smiled at each other and she kept walking away. It’s a different perspective. It seems I’m always the one driving or walking away at the end. Looking in the rearview mirror at what I’m leaving behind. It’s enough to get you down if you let it. And I have let it.

I know one thing, I will have a beer before St. Patrick’s Day is over tonight. It may be hellishly awful to go to the bar later. Everyone will have had their “drink on” for the entire day and I’ll be just off the road. But damn, sometimes you just have to do the right thing…

Population 800

We got into the car after checking out of the hotel. It was cool today, so driving with the windows down was not going to be a problem.

“You hungry?” I asked the girl I still didn’t know a name.

“Not really. Let’s just get out of here.”

“You hiding from someone?” I asked, kind of worried.

“Just the past, guy. Just the past.”

“Fair enough,” I said, starting the car. She purred like a kitten. So glad I paid for the restoration of this car, my dream car – a 1991 Toyota Celica. With a moon roof, of course.

Before pulling out of the parking lot, I touched her hand to get her attention. She looked over at me with wearisome eyes.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I just have a question.”

“Shoot, guy.”

“What’s your name? I need to know at least that if we’re going to be hanging out. Getting kind of tired of this guy, girl thing.”

“Well, I don’t know yours either,” she responded.

I tried to think back into the night. Did I really never tell her my name? Was she just fucking with me? Am I really putting this much thought into it?

“Randy,” I finally decided to tell her.

“And you do know my name,” she said. “Or at least it was said once in front of you. I thought you were a reporter? Aren’t you supposed to be good at that kind of thing? Picking up on facts and names and such?”

“Let me think on it,” I replied, adding “or you could just tell me.”

“Think hard, Mr. Randy. Think hard.”

With that, I turned on the radio. Foghat was on the radio. We both started bobbing our heads. It seemed to be a nice distraction for both of us. Me – from thoughts of a girl gone wrong. Her – no idea.

“Which way should we go?” I asked at the edge of the parking lot.

“West! She yelled. It’s always best.”

“I knew I liked you for some reason.”

“It wasn’t the tits?” she smirked.

I looked her up and down in a false gross way. “Tits help,” I finally said. I didn’t know if she got the joke or not. But we kept bobbing along to “Slow Ride” so I guess all was well in the world.

Funny thing, we didn’t talk again for three hours.

“I’ve got to pee,” I finally broke the silence.

“Me too.”

Soon, we were at a rest area. It looked like all the others.

“Hey, we’re back to where we began,” she said.

“Huh?” I responded in my dumb way.

“You and I met at a rest stop,” she said, putting quotes around “met”.

“Oh yeah. Let’s celebrate with a photo.”

I pulled out my trusty point and shoot that my sister gave me years ago. Not many people still used them. Most had fancy phones with awesome cameras on them. Me, personally? I’d rather have an old disposable camera with film in it. But, it was such a hassle to get it developed nowadays that I don’t even bother any more. Just another example of fossilization.

We used the bathrooms and got back on the road.

“I’m hungry now,” she said.

“Let’s find some hole in the wall joint. There’s got to be something around here.”

“Works for me Mr. Randy.”

“Why you saying it like that? Mr. Randy?”

“Because it annoys you.”

“Just like not knowing your name.”

“Back to that one, huh? Well, OK. Here it is … Tara.”

“Really? Tara? That’s probably my all-time favorite name for a woman.” I almost said girl, but caught myself.

“Why? Don’t tell me ‘Gone With the Wind.”

“Nah, much simpler and much more telling about me,” I said. “I had a huge crush on this girl in college. First girl I ever tried to ask out on a date. We actually had one. Watched “9 ½ Weeks” on a borrowed VCR. That was a couple weeks after I met her at a party in my dorm suite and we battled over following “a dream” vs. following the “corporate dollar.” At that point, she was a bit of a hippie chick. I was a long-haired guy who for some reason wanted to major in accounting. I almost kissed her that first night, and that first date – which ended up being the last date – I never had the guts even though Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger were making a porn in front of us.

“What ever happened to her?”

“She ended up fucking my roommate, who was the absolute biggest piece of trash on the earth. Just a manwhore.”

“Bitter much?”

“And now she’s a corporate shill. Funny how things work out.”

“Yep, bitter.”

“What can I say? If it weren’t for the freaking internet, I’d not know about the funny ending.”

“Instead, you’d just make something up. Like we all used to.”

“Yeah, the memory and the mystery – to me – were always better than finding out the truth. Because it’s usually so dull, so drab and so sad.”

“Amen to that,” she said.

We passed over the Kentucky state line at that precise moment.

“I’ve never been to Kentucky,” she said. “Maybe this is the start of something beautiful?”

“At the least, it’ll be an adventure,” I replied. “Let’s see what this town has to offer.”

In the distance, a sign read “Welcome to Ryland Heights, Kentucky. Population 799.”

Little did I know that soon I’d be No. 800.

Just keep riding

An unplayed Elvis Presley bootleg sat on my coffee table for three weeks.

There was a time when something so interesting, so weird, so different from what I usually found would have provoked the need to know what was on that tape right now – commonly referred to as instant gratification.

Not anymore.

The bootleg was in an old shoebox that I bought at an estate sale. That and an old “Kiss My Grits” t-shirt – Navy blue – just like the one I had as a kid made for a perfect day out and about.

Until the phone rang.

“Honey, we’ve got to talk,” the voice on the other end said.

“OK,” I said hesitantly. I’ve come to think of those words as nothing but bad when they come out over the phone or via text or email.

We met at our usual place – and she said exactly what I thought she was going to say.

“Blah, blah, blah. Need time to think. Blah, blah, blah. It’s not you, it’s me. Blah, blah, blah.”

I was so tired from a lifetime of disappointment, this time, I didn’t fight. I took it like a kid getting vaccinated, except I didn’t cry. After she was done, she looked into my eyes, which I’m sure were about as cold as a three day old corpses, and asked “You alright?”

Tipping the last of my beer down my throat, I looked into her eyes. They were worried, but not too worried. “Nah, I’m not alright, but one day I guess I will be,” I said before getting up and leaving. I got straight in my car and just started driving. The rent was paid for a year – a beautiful gift from my publisher – and I had a cool $3,000 in my wallet and another 100 grand in my bank account. I passed the old Big Boss Brewery and started to laugh. It was a defensive laugh, something I’d picked up over the years to hide the tears. To tuck them away until they overflowed and burst.

Eventually, the day turned into night. Two refills of the gas tank and almost needing a third and I found myself in Tennessee. I pulled into a rest area to take a piss. Mountain Dews and Slim Jims had kept me going this far, but now my body needed to expel.

At the door stood a skinny blonde woman – wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt. She seemed to be high, so I stopped at the big state map and watched her for a moment. She was humming a song by Richard Marx and sipping a Budweiser.

“Hey mister,” she said to no one, but obviously to me. “Why are you watching me?”

“You looked watchable,” I replied.

“Fair enough,” she said, going back to humming.

I went into the men’s room and took a piss. I stared at myself in the metal reflection box. These places no longer used mirrors, guess they got broken too often, so instead you had to look at a warped vision of you in steel. Of course, it wasn’t steel, but that’s what always pops into my head when talking about shiny metal.

I washed my hands and used the blow dryer to get rid of the dampness. It was one of those dryers that blow really hard and makes your hands look very strange as it pushes the skin around. I stood there for a moment watching it, even after my hands were dry.

Walking out of the bathroom, I was disappointed that the blonde wasn’t there anymore. Not that I was going to try and pick her up or anything, but because she was pretty and I wanted something to remove the dullness.

My car was waiting for me, so I pushed the door lock on my key and got in. She started up fine, like always. I pulled out and drove away.

A couple hours later, the sun was rising. I pulled into a motel and got a room.

“You know that check out is in two hours?” the guy behind the counter asked.

“Well, I guess you better make it two nights then bud,” I replied.

“How’d you know my name was Bud?” he asked almost mad, but only in a pot smoker’s way.

“Lucky guess, Bud.”

“I don’t believe you, shithead,” he said, reaching under the counter.


“Bud, stop it,” a familiar voice echoed from the office/sleeping place for the desk person.

It was the girl from the rest area. How we ended up in the same place, I’ll never know. I used to believe in fate, destiny and all that shit. But real life had kind of dragged that out of me. I hoped she would come out, just so I would have a vision of her – a fresh one – for when I got into my room. However, she didn’t come out.

“Damn it Tara, what do you know?”

“Can I have my key?” I asked.

“Sure dude,” he said after staring at me for a few seconds. “Enjoy the bed.”

For some reason, I figured he slipped me a bad room. It ended up being a great one. No light. No neighbors. And no dripping faucet. I fell asleep like a baby.

Twelve hours later, a knock came on my door.

“Huh,” I managed to say loudly enough for whoever it was to hear.

“Mister, can I come in?” the blonde’s voice said.

I was in my underwear and not looking all that spiffy. So I wrapped a sheet around me and opened the door. The sun hit me and I winced. She was still wearing that Led Zeppelin shirt.

“Come on in,” I said sleepily.

“I’m sorry, but Bud turned out to be a real dick,” she said. “He picked me up hitchhiking about 5 minutes after I saw you at that rest stop.”

“Really?” I replied.

“Yeah, I wish I’d just asked you for a ride.”

“But you would’ve ended up in the same place, it appears,” I said as I sat back down on my bed.

“Not even close,” she said as she sat down too. “Do you mind if I sleep with you?”

“As long as it’s just sleep, honey, we’re cool.”

She reached over and kissed my forehead.

“Oh course, darling,” she said before lying next to me.

I woke up six hours later, expecting her to be gone. Instead, she was sitting in a recliner watching re-runs of “Welcome Back Kotter” and drinking straight from a bottle of Maker’s Mark.

“Did I wake you,” she asked. I noticed she no longer had the Led Zeppelin shirt on. Now it was a Thin Lizzy one.

“Nope, you sure didn’t,” I replied. “You got a plan?”

“Do you?” she shot back.

“Just to keep driving.”

“Well, then. Just to keep riding.”

Archie's

Years of sitting on a barstool, from Virginia to Arizona to Louisiana to North Carolina to Florida and back to many of those places again hasn’t eased the loneliness one bit.

Friends always tell you that time heals all wounds. I have a tough time with that. Yes, it dulls the ache of the pain. But heal it? Fuck no. It’s why someone holds on to a picture of the past. To remember the good, but also to feel the pain.

Why? Because feeling is better than not feeling.

A cutter will slice up their legs or arms or torso just to feel something. Maybe it’s to feel something different than loneliness or sadness or rejection.

But then you start to wonder if you’re a borderline personality disorder candidate…

I walked into a new bar today, hoping that something new would kindle something good. The place was called Archie’s. Seemed to be a decent joint. Folks were still smoking inside and out. The beer selection was horrible, but cheap. The jukebox was a cd player behind the bar, which the barkeep – not named Archie by the way – would let you put your own discs in. “Unless it’s fucking Slipknot. I will slit your throat if you try to play Slipknot in my God damn bar!” he told any customer who wanted to insert a cd, including me the first time I tried.

As that may tell, this bar became a favorite spot for me.

Not because it was great, because it was far from great – with great being Quentin Tarantino’s bar in the movie “Death Proof” or what I imagine the Whitewater Tavern in Little Rock, Arkansas to be like – but instead because it didn’t have a history with me.

It was in Ryland Heights, Kentucky. Not too far from Cincinnati or Lexington. And if one was in an adventurous mood in the winter – Indianapolis.

This was a town I’d never been to. Never heard of. And that was perfection.

At 41 years old and single, I figured I wouldn’t have too many suitors to fend off. Probably as many as publishers begging for me to write the next great work of American prose.

So that July afternoon when I walked in to Archie’s it never dawned on me that I’d end up spending most of my days and nights there for the next six months. Of course, it never dawned on me that I wouldn’t. A new way of looking at life, I’d tried to take up after quitting my copy editing job in North Carolina on a whim one early summer night.

The cast of regulars in Archie’s was all right with me.

There was Mona. A 47 year old mother of six whose husband was a state trooper. She was blonde and had fake tits. Liked to drink Mimosas on a good day and Vodka on the rocks on a bad one. Lately, the goods had outnumbered the bad.

There was Steven. A 25 year old former minor league baseball catcher. He was in a bus crash that claimed the lives of all the other 24 players on his Double-A team, all the coaches, trainers and media folks as well. He played one more season – hitting .111 in 135 games at Triple-A before quitting. He was still dogged by old coaches and scouts who wanted his former second-round talent back in the game.

Then there was Manning. I never figured out whether it was his first or last name, and never really cared. I asked once, and was told it was because he looked like Archie Manning the quarterback. This guy was about 40, drank only Miller Lite from a can, poured into a pint glass, and ate Kit Kat bars. He loved The Who, hated Hank Williams Jr., and wanted to one day go to a Utah Jazz basketball game.

Finally, Cora and her dog Rexington. Cora was a 29 year old former stripper who had half of her body tattooed and the other half blank. On purpose. And Rexington was her chocolate Labrador retriever who liked to fetch beer cans that we all tried to throw through an old Nerf basketball hoop located above a cut out of Rush Limbaugh’s mouth. Rex loved to lick the beer off of old Rush’s face every time as well.

I didn’t know these folks outside of Archie’s. Even though I ended up renting a double-wide just a little over two miles away, near the Waffle House and Circle K. I figured as long as the royalty checks kept coming from my one successful short story anthology, I’d keep shopping and eating and drinking at these three places.

And none of these new friends knew a thing about her.

finish

Overcoming hatred. I never thought it was something I’d need to possess, that ability.

I never hate. I don’t always love, that’s for sure. But hatred is a wasted emotion. I don’t like dealing with it and the things it does to one.

Lately, I’ve felt hatred for some things. Completely innocent fucking things. But they’re making me feel shitty. Making me feel anger. Making me hate. And it has nothing to do with those that are causing these feelings.


My neck hurts. Sitting in this shitty excuse for a couch, I wonder why.


“One day, you’ll want that,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because it’s so cool to look at. To touch.”

“Oh,”


“Have you ever failed?” she asked.

“How can you ask that? Of course I’ve failed. Failed quite often, actually.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I fail every day. It seems every minute of every day.”


Veiled insults were tossed.

Many beers were drank.

Yet, no fucking.


Sell that shit on e-bay. Make a million bucks!

Shit in a commode that’s not hooked up.

Run in traffic.

Drive to a Burger King, just to honk your horn at it.

Take off your shirt in public. Take pictures of people’s reactions. Post them on the internet. Become famous.

Write a novel. But don’t let anyone read it.

Write a journal. Let everyone read it.

Kiss all the girls.

Kiss only one girl.

Start exercising. Drink Kool-Aid.

Lie to your boss. Take an extra day off every once in a while. Stop caring about your fucking job more than your life. Your sanity. Your girlfriend. Your health.

Let a fly live instead of killing it with a fly swatter.

Eat Brussel sprouts.

Watch a Michael Sera movie and not be bored.

Jump into a puddle when you’re wearing your best suit.

Wear a Scooby Doo tie to an interview.

Go look at houses you’ll never be able to afford.

Walk on the beach every morning.

Stop drinking soda. Start drinking lemonade.

Write down whatever comes to your mind. And never erase a word.

Say hello to a stranger. Say hello to a long lost friend.

Stop making excuses.

Go for a drive to somewhere you’ve never been, but wanted to go.

Go for a drive to somewhere you’ve been, and said you’d never go back.

Go for a drive somewhere other than your destination.

Write a letter.

Twiddle your thumbs when you’re bored.

Play tiddly winks with someone over the age of 70.

Throw a Frisbee for a dog to chase.

Pet a cat.

Squawk at birds in your yard.

Smell the grass after you cut it.

Find something to smile about every hour. Every half hour. Then every minute.

Eat more Pop Tarts and fewer tomatoes.

Aspire to be better than you were.

Laugh at monkeys.

Smile at babies.

Don’t be bitter about what happened, it wastes seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. Hopefully, never decades.

Make up with friends who are mad at you. Even if it means swallowing your pride.

Find an excuse for old friends to come visit. Or if they won’t, go visit them. Sometimes you have to camp out in their back yard.

Wish upon a star.

Look for 4-leaf clovers. Even if you never find one.

Try not to get mad driving.

Find less faults and more beauty.

Wasting time can be a good thing, so get out there and waste some having fun.

Go to a baseball game or 10 during the summer.

Get drunk with strangers.

Get drunk with friends.

Don’t get drunk alone.

Watch your favorite movie for the 100th time.

Keep going to Lucero shows.

Find an excuse to go back to New Orleans and see if she’ll fall in love with it under better circumstances. But don’t be mad if it never happens.

Move out of the house you’re in by the end of the summer.

Find a new job.

A better job.

One that doesn’t stress you out for no reason.

One that gives back. Even a little.

Ask “How you’re doing?” and mean it.

Cook outdoors.

Remember that I could be, and has been worse.

Spend wisely.

Ask for help.

Find a new way to get there, wherever there is.

Take her where she wants to go.

Give the dogs an extra treat.

Stop worrying about it so much.

Listen to the Rolling Stones.

Try to play Q*bert again.

Stare at the sun too long.

Wish you were on the moon.

Walk barefoot on the road after it rains.

Start.

Then finish.