The heat outside is oppressive. Phoenix is like that. It’s half-past 3 in the afternoon and the circle thermometer says it’s 118 out. But we’re on a mission.
Kurtis has a can of gasoline. I’ve got matches. We’re going to have some fun.
The backyard is full of orange traffic cones. We revel in adding to our graveyard almost nightly. Me drunk. Him stoned. The other two roommates, Teddy, the anal-retentive who writes down every interesting quote from a book, magazine or television show that piques his interest so he can use them later to sound intelligent; and Mark, the greasy-New York accented loser who can’t keep a job for more than five minutes; add to the mayhem as well. But they’re both sound asleep right now. How they can sleep when it’s that hot out, and almost as hot inside without air conditioning has never made any sense to me.
We get to the back gate. Kurtis pops the lock on the door and we go outside.
There it is: a giant mound of dirt. It rose from nowhere in just a couple of days. If it hadn’t been for Mark getting attacked last night while tossing two cones over the fenced in yard we may not have known about it for weeks, when all those damn fire ants decided to attack the house.
“Fuck, that’s enormous,” Kurtis said.
I just stared in awe.
The little buggers were crawling all over the place. A bird, still alive, was being meticulously pulled apart by 1,000s of them a couple yards away. It probably landed to take a chomp out of some trash tossed out of the taco joint across the railroad tracks, but instead, it became the meal for the ants.
“Let’s get this going,” I said.
Kurtis walked over to the mound. All around it were smaller holes. That was our plan of attack. Going for the mound could be a suicide mission. One hit on it, and they would march on you like the German Blitzkrieg.
I looked at Kurt’s boots. They were old, black and tough. Most likely left over from his days in the Army when he used to dismantle bombs. According to his stories, he had shrapnel in his foot and lost his eyesight because of his job. His Coke bottle glasses definitely were a sign of bad eyesight, which he said was 20-20 before his work with the United State of America. I then looked at my feet. Flip flops. Brilliant decision there, Jones, I thought to myself. Hot as hell, rocks and glass everywhere, and we’re about to bomb the hell out of a fire ant mound. Running shoes would have been a better choice.
Kurt takes the can of gas and begins pouring it down one of the holes. Then another. And yet another.
He has a maniacal grin on his face – a cross between George C. Scott’s Patton and Brad Pitt’s Tyler Durden. I stand back and watch. It’s quite a sight to see.
“Yo! Dreamer-boy, hand me those matches,” he yells, yanking me out of my imagination. I hand him the matches.
Two seconds later, he drops one in the hole. The flame flickers as I watch it fall into the hole perfectly. It would have taken me dozens of attempts just to get a match in the hole on a free drop. Who knows how many times it would have taken to do it with it still lit.
I see Kurt running towards me. Soon, I understand why.
Fire is flying out of the holes. And ants are scurrying out of 100 more holes. Some of them on fire.
We sit and watch this from a safe distance. Soon, some of the black smoke comes out of the giant mound.
“Round 1 to us,” Kurtis says.
At that time, Teddy comes out of the house yawning. He walks over to us and shakes his head.
“You know what boys?” he says. We know not to ask anything yet, he’s about to say some more.
He scratches his belly and yawns again.
“We have gas heat,” and he goes back inside.
I reach down to the cooler I brought outside before this all started. It’s 120 degrees out now. I wonder if our little fire had anything to do with that rise. I find a beer and pop the top, downing half of it on the first sip.
“You want one?” I say to Kurt.
“Nah, got my own,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his beat up leather jacket for his pipe. He pulls out a baggie, packing a little into his pipe. With the same matches, he lights up, taking a long drag. The sweet smell makes me jealous. I’ve live with him for three years almost now, never have I smoked a bowl with him. Can’t. Drug tests at work and all. I feel like a square. I finish my beer, grab another.
The fire’s out. We walk over to see the carnage.
The ants are already busy. Rebuilding their civilization. A few yards away, it appears a new mound is in the works.
“They’re plotting their attack,” I say. “That’s the corner where we usually pee during parties.”
“Smart fuckers, they are,” Kurtis says, lighting up one more time. “Well, I’m fucking hot. Let’s go inside.”
“It’s just as fucking hot in there,” I say. “Turn on the swamp cooler. At least we can sit out here and get misted on.”
I stare at the cone graveyard. City of Phoenix. City of Glendale. City of Tempe. Maricopa County. City of Mesa. City of Chandler.
“We don’t have a Guadalupe yet,” I say.
“Tonight, we will,” Kurt says with flick of his lighter.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
paper cuts
“You know what sucks? Masturbating when you’ve got a bunch of paper cuts. Your fingers hurt and it distracts from the whole enjoyment part of jerking off.”
I looked at my buddy in the barstool next to me. He just said that. I wondered if he was just saying it to say it, or if he’d done that a few minutes ago and was now ruminating on the consequences.
“Let me see your hands,” I said.
He pulled his hands away from his bottle of Budweiser. A longneck, as always. They were not the hands of a working man. They had no blisters. No calluses. No broken fingernails. Not even a bruise. But, his fingers each had little red marks on them.
“Paper cuts?” I asked.
“Yep. Damn things hurt too.”
“I don’t even want to know.”
His wife came into the bar. Gave us the sheepish look she always does when she knows we were just talking about something “important.”
“Hey guys. What’s cracking?”
I looked at my buddy. He but his hands back around his Budweiser and took a long gulp. I guess that meant I had to come up with conversation for the moment.
“Me and your husband here were talking about paper cuts,” I said with a smile and a quick sip of my beer.
“Really?” she said. “And what brought this up on this glorious morning here in the bar?”
Instantly I knew that it wasn’t his masturbating that he was talking about. It was him trying to get her off today. Ha. Life is good sometimes.
“Oh, you know, it’s what us guys talk about. Paper cuts and daffodils.”
My buddy gave me an icy stare. It had been years since I got that stare. Way before he was married. Hell, back then, I thought he was as gay as they got. Instead, that fucker went and married his schoolgirl sweetheart. Me? I just kept fucking up relationships, one after the other. I even got in touch with my old schoolgirl sweetheart. Gotta love the internet. But a couple of weeks after I added her on Facebook (and she accepted!!!!) still not working up the nerve to even say hello, she put on that she was “in a relationship.” Such is life. Hell, the high school sweetheart sent me a message. I responded. She never responded back. Ha. I have a way with the ladies for sure.
But now he was giving me the “STFU” look. I guess those vaginal juices were still burning his open wounds.
I decided that when I got home tonight, I’d cut my fingers and try to jerk off. Just to see if, indeed, it hurt more than the pleasure you received. If I was a betting man, which I’m not, I’d say no. That the pleasure would win.
“How ‘bout them Redskins?” I suggested as a conversation starter and way around this whole paper cut theme.
She gave me an icy stare and ordered a Harp. At least she wasn’t going to carry a grudge. We all then proceeded to drink copious amounts of alcohol and just enjoy each other’s company. It didn’t happen often enough. They lived far away. They were rich. I’m poor. It makes for embarrassing moments and conversations.
“You should come up and go to New York next weekend with us?”
“Um, I can’t. Too expensive.”
“Shit, we’ll pay for it.”
“Yeah, I wish I could, but I work Friday and Saturday nights. Unlike you normal folks in the world.”
I used my shitty profession as a crutch many times. Like the many times girls want to go out with me and I’m just not interested or just can’t afford to. “We can hang out on Sunday or Monday!” The response is always the same: “But, I’ve got to work…”
Oh well. Being old and broke and horny all the time should make for inspiration at some point in my life. Of course, it didn’t when I was young and broke and horny. Of course, my dick worked a lot better then.
That got me thinking of paper cuts again. I don’t remember what movie it was, but somebody, I’d like to say it was Harvey Keitel but I know it wasn’t, described the vagina as a paper cut. I’m sure it was in reference to a young woman’s private areas, not that of a 39 year old. Not that I’d know anything about what a well-worn pussy looked like. Blessing? Yes. Curse? Of course. I’d rather see an old twat than no twat.
You start to wonder when it’ll stop. The dry spells. They seem to get worse the older I get. When I was young, I knew it was going to end. Now? I’m old. I could go out and score some ass. I know that. I’m not ugly. I have a decent rap. I just don’t like using it. Except when I want to. And that doesn’t happen very often.
The last time was a red head. Always a red head. She blew me off within five minutes of meeting me. But we’ve become friends. I do that. I collect friends. I’m that guy. John Cusack without a curveball to get the batters out.
It happens. And one day it’ll happen again.
Just like one day I’ll masturbate with paper cuts on my fingers. Just to see if it hurts.
I looked at my buddy in the barstool next to me. He just said that. I wondered if he was just saying it to say it, or if he’d done that a few minutes ago and was now ruminating on the consequences.
“Let me see your hands,” I said.
He pulled his hands away from his bottle of Budweiser. A longneck, as always. They were not the hands of a working man. They had no blisters. No calluses. No broken fingernails. Not even a bruise. But, his fingers each had little red marks on them.
“Paper cuts?” I asked.
“Yep. Damn things hurt too.”
“I don’t even want to know.”
His wife came into the bar. Gave us the sheepish look she always does when she knows we were just talking about something “important.”
“Hey guys. What’s cracking?”
I looked at my buddy. He but his hands back around his Budweiser and took a long gulp. I guess that meant I had to come up with conversation for the moment.
“Me and your husband here were talking about paper cuts,” I said with a smile and a quick sip of my beer.
“Really?” she said. “And what brought this up on this glorious morning here in the bar?”
Instantly I knew that it wasn’t his masturbating that he was talking about. It was him trying to get her off today. Ha. Life is good sometimes.
“Oh, you know, it’s what us guys talk about. Paper cuts and daffodils.”
My buddy gave me an icy stare. It had been years since I got that stare. Way before he was married. Hell, back then, I thought he was as gay as they got. Instead, that fucker went and married his schoolgirl sweetheart. Me? I just kept fucking up relationships, one after the other. I even got in touch with my old schoolgirl sweetheart. Gotta love the internet. But a couple of weeks after I added her on Facebook (and she accepted!!!!) still not working up the nerve to even say hello, she put on that she was “in a relationship.” Such is life. Hell, the high school sweetheart sent me a message. I responded. She never responded back. Ha. I have a way with the ladies for sure.
But now he was giving me the “STFU” look. I guess those vaginal juices were still burning his open wounds.
I decided that when I got home tonight, I’d cut my fingers and try to jerk off. Just to see if, indeed, it hurt more than the pleasure you received. If I was a betting man, which I’m not, I’d say no. That the pleasure would win.
“How ‘bout them Redskins?” I suggested as a conversation starter and way around this whole paper cut theme.
She gave me an icy stare and ordered a Harp. At least she wasn’t going to carry a grudge. We all then proceeded to drink copious amounts of alcohol and just enjoy each other’s company. It didn’t happen often enough. They lived far away. They were rich. I’m poor. It makes for embarrassing moments and conversations.
“You should come up and go to New York next weekend with us?”
“Um, I can’t. Too expensive.”
“Shit, we’ll pay for it.”
“Yeah, I wish I could, but I work Friday and Saturday nights. Unlike you normal folks in the world.”
I used my shitty profession as a crutch many times. Like the many times girls want to go out with me and I’m just not interested or just can’t afford to. “We can hang out on Sunday or Monday!” The response is always the same: “But, I’ve got to work…”
Oh well. Being old and broke and horny all the time should make for inspiration at some point in my life. Of course, it didn’t when I was young and broke and horny. Of course, my dick worked a lot better then.
That got me thinking of paper cuts again. I don’t remember what movie it was, but somebody, I’d like to say it was Harvey Keitel but I know it wasn’t, described the vagina as a paper cut. I’m sure it was in reference to a young woman’s private areas, not that of a 39 year old. Not that I’d know anything about what a well-worn pussy looked like. Blessing? Yes. Curse? Of course. I’d rather see an old twat than no twat.
You start to wonder when it’ll stop. The dry spells. They seem to get worse the older I get. When I was young, I knew it was going to end. Now? I’m old. I could go out and score some ass. I know that. I’m not ugly. I have a decent rap. I just don’t like using it. Except when I want to. And that doesn’t happen very often.
The last time was a red head. Always a red head. She blew me off within five minutes of meeting me. But we’ve become friends. I do that. I collect friends. I’m that guy. John Cusack without a curveball to get the batters out.
It happens. And one day it’ll happen again.
Just like one day I’ll masturbate with paper cuts on my fingers. Just to see if it hurts.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
woo girl
I try not to be lonely.
To do this, I try to go outside as much as I can. Not sit in front of the computer, the television, the stereo until my ass falls asleep. The front yard can be a bustling metropolis. It can be a desolate island.
You smile at someone, they don’t smile back. Don’t take it personally. You laugh at the insanity of trying to one up your pals, your co-workers, your significant other, even.
It can be lonely, being alone. I guess it’s better than being lonely when you’re not alone.
**
The drapes are all open. The last rays of sun are creeping inside the house. Trying to find someone to see them before it gets dark.
**
One day, someone will miss me.
**
If you think about it too hard
Too long
Too short
Too much
It hurts.
If you don’t think about it
It fades away
Into nothing
In to everything.
**
I woke up this morning wondering if I was having a heart attack.
My chest was thumping and I could hardly breathe.
I lay there on the bed, thoughts of death filling my brain.
And still I thought of you.
I guess we’re stuck together, since my thoughts are the glue.
Until my heart stops beating
And my brain no longer is filled with your smile.
Your eyes.
Your laugh.
Your cry.
Your everything.
And nothing.
**
I wish sometimes I wouldn’t even try. That I just sat in my life and let it unfold without any thought. Any remorse. Any dare.
Other people make it look so easy. Punch the clock. Eat their donuts. Get fat. Have kids. Grow old. Die.
I guess I’m doing most of those, so what am I worried about. The more I don’t want to be that way, the more I seem to become it.
The hamster doesn’t know why the wheel is there. It just gets on it. Runs, runs, runs. Until it gets tired. Then it eats, eats, eats, eats. Until there is no more food. Then it sleeps, sleeps, sleeps. Until it wakes up. Then it shits, shits, shits. Until it has no more. Then it gets on the wheel. But, if he’s lucky, his owner will get him a woman. And then he’ll fuck, fuck, fuck. Lucky little rodent.
**
A girl came up to me at the bar and asked “do you have a light?”
I looked up, she was maybe 23, pearly white teeth, green bikini on. A gorgeous smile.
“Nope, don’t smoke,” I replied with a smile.
“Thanks,” she said, walking away.
A few minutes later, she sat with some guy. He had a cigarette lighter. I knew this guy. He was two years older than me, full head of hair and a beat up Volkswagen. I saw she had her hand on his leg.
“What’s he got that I don’t have?” I said to my buddy at the other end of the bar, gesturing to the guy with the Volkswagen.
“Good posture?” he said, laughing.
“You’re probably right,” I said, slumped over my warm bottle of Shiner Blonde. I got up and went to the jukebox. I bought the thing three years ago. Said I’d stock it with only good music too. My picks lasted three weeks before the tourists started to complain that they didn’t want to listen to Bill Withers or The Kinks.
“Where’s the Lady Gaga?”
“Who listens to his shit?”
“Can you get some REAL music?”
Over and over I listened to this. Finally, Butch, the owner told me I had to give up at least half of the jukebox for the other paying customers. I tried to argue, but I wasn’t behind it 100 percent. Not because I knew I’d lose, because those are usually the best arguments, but instead because I wanted to get laid. Good music brought in good girls, Butch said right up front. That was like a Mike Tyson uppercut, circa 1986 right to my chin. I had no shot.
I flipped to the beginning of the CDs, where my selections still held strong. I put in a quarter, then three more. I picked C3 three times. “Hold Me Close” by Lucero. It just felt right.
“I fucking love Ben Nichols!” someone shouted from across the bar, right after I’d plopped my ass back onto my seat. She started signing, rather poorly. I listened with great pleasure. It reminded me of all those nights in steamy bars and shitty dives singing my lungs out.
The song ended. She sat down. Then it started again.
“Woooooooo!” she yelled. A woo girl. Sweet.
The song ended. She sat again.
It started once again.
“Who played this?” she shrieked.
I raised my hand like the shy kid in class that I was oh so many years ago. She looked at me. I looked at her.
That was the last time I fucked anyone. That was three years ago in July.
To do this, I try to go outside as much as I can. Not sit in front of the computer, the television, the stereo until my ass falls asleep. The front yard can be a bustling metropolis. It can be a desolate island.
You smile at someone, they don’t smile back. Don’t take it personally. You laugh at the insanity of trying to one up your pals, your co-workers, your significant other, even.
It can be lonely, being alone. I guess it’s better than being lonely when you’re not alone.
**
The drapes are all open. The last rays of sun are creeping inside the house. Trying to find someone to see them before it gets dark.
**
One day, someone will miss me.
**
If you think about it too hard
Too long
Too short
Too much
It hurts.
If you don’t think about it
It fades away
Into nothing
In to everything.
**
I woke up this morning wondering if I was having a heart attack.
My chest was thumping and I could hardly breathe.
I lay there on the bed, thoughts of death filling my brain.
And still I thought of you.
I guess we’re stuck together, since my thoughts are the glue.
Until my heart stops beating
And my brain no longer is filled with your smile.
Your eyes.
Your laugh.
Your cry.
Your everything.
And nothing.
**
I wish sometimes I wouldn’t even try. That I just sat in my life and let it unfold without any thought. Any remorse. Any dare.
Other people make it look so easy. Punch the clock. Eat their donuts. Get fat. Have kids. Grow old. Die.
I guess I’m doing most of those, so what am I worried about. The more I don’t want to be that way, the more I seem to become it.
The hamster doesn’t know why the wheel is there. It just gets on it. Runs, runs, runs. Until it gets tired. Then it eats, eats, eats, eats. Until there is no more food. Then it sleeps, sleeps, sleeps. Until it wakes up. Then it shits, shits, shits. Until it has no more. Then it gets on the wheel. But, if he’s lucky, his owner will get him a woman. And then he’ll fuck, fuck, fuck. Lucky little rodent.
**
A girl came up to me at the bar and asked “do you have a light?”
I looked up, she was maybe 23, pearly white teeth, green bikini on. A gorgeous smile.
“Nope, don’t smoke,” I replied with a smile.
“Thanks,” she said, walking away.
A few minutes later, she sat with some guy. He had a cigarette lighter. I knew this guy. He was two years older than me, full head of hair and a beat up Volkswagen. I saw she had her hand on his leg.
“What’s he got that I don’t have?” I said to my buddy at the other end of the bar, gesturing to the guy with the Volkswagen.
“Good posture?” he said, laughing.
“You’re probably right,” I said, slumped over my warm bottle of Shiner Blonde. I got up and went to the jukebox. I bought the thing three years ago. Said I’d stock it with only good music too. My picks lasted three weeks before the tourists started to complain that they didn’t want to listen to Bill Withers or The Kinks.
“Where’s the Lady Gaga?”
“Who listens to his shit?”
“Can you get some REAL music?”
Over and over I listened to this. Finally, Butch, the owner told me I had to give up at least half of the jukebox for the other paying customers. I tried to argue, but I wasn’t behind it 100 percent. Not because I knew I’d lose, because those are usually the best arguments, but instead because I wanted to get laid. Good music brought in good girls, Butch said right up front. That was like a Mike Tyson uppercut, circa 1986 right to my chin. I had no shot.
I flipped to the beginning of the CDs, where my selections still held strong. I put in a quarter, then three more. I picked C3 three times. “Hold Me Close” by Lucero. It just felt right.
“I fucking love Ben Nichols!” someone shouted from across the bar, right after I’d plopped my ass back onto my seat. She started signing, rather poorly. I listened with great pleasure. It reminded me of all those nights in steamy bars and shitty dives singing my lungs out.
The song ended. She sat down. Then it started again.
“Woooooooo!” she yelled. A woo girl. Sweet.
The song ended. She sat again.
It started once again.
“Who played this?” she shrieked.
I raised my hand like the shy kid in class that I was oh so many years ago. She looked at me. I looked at her.
That was the last time I fucked anyone. That was three years ago in July.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Algiers. Chapter 1
The gaggle of cameramen approached with little regard to whatever was around them. They stomped on daisies that were just planted last week. They overturned the pink flamingos that the little girl next door always petted while waiting for the bus every morning. They drug their shoes in the freshly planted sod of Mr. Anderson next door – the 78 year old Korean War veteran who hated all things television. I’m sure he’s getting a kick out of all of this.
Hell, he hates me too. And we drink beers together and grill discount steaks every Thursday in his backyard patio.
Me, I’m just listening to The Kinks “Are the Village Green Preservation Society” at top volume while this all goes on outside my apartment. I guess I could turn on the television and see exactly what the assorted throng of asshats and career chasers are saying about me, but I honestly don’t care. I guess it’s fitting that “Picture Book” comes on just as one of them finds a window with a curtain not drawn down to the bottom of the window. I look at him. He’s got his hat on backwards, just like me. He has a goatee. Just like me. He’s got on a t-shirt and a cheap pair of plaid shorts. Just like me. I get up and walk to the door. I hear the reporter with him say “oh my God, he’s going to do something!” I open the window, poke my head outside and look down.
“What kind of shoes you got on buddy?” I scream to the cameraman.
The reporter looks at me. She is contemplating if I’m talking to her. I did say buddy, afterall.
“I’m not talking to you bitch,” I say. She frowns.
The cameraman lets his camera go down to his belly. Relaxing for a moment.
“Samba Hi-Tops, man. Just got them last week,” he says.
“Damn. Are they comfortable? I’ve seen ‘em, but just think they look strange.”
“They actually are pretty tight,” he says. “I’ve got to start filming you again Mr. Jones. It’s my job. You understand. Right?”
“Yeah, kid. No worries. But I’m going to close the blinds. So, this interview is over.”
I go back inside my window. I draw the blinds. Then the curtains. That guy’s probably going to have some ‘splaining to do to his bitch of a reporter. Blonde hair. Perfectly cut and perfectly combed. Even in this fucking humidity.
That humidity. Same as it was the other day. On the ferry. Fuck. I don’t want to think about the ferry. I love going to Algiers Point. Now, I’ll probably never go back again. Not that I was expecting to go back again. But I chickened out.
She didn’t.
Hell, he hates me too. And we drink beers together and grill discount steaks every Thursday in his backyard patio.
Me, I’m just listening to The Kinks “Are the Village Green Preservation Society” at top volume while this all goes on outside my apartment. I guess I could turn on the television and see exactly what the assorted throng of asshats and career chasers are saying about me, but I honestly don’t care. I guess it’s fitting that “Picture Book” comes on just as one of them finds a window with a curtain not drawn down to the bottom of the window. I look at him. He’s got his hat on backwards, just like me. He has a goatee. Just like me. He’s got on a t-shirt and a cheap pair of plaid shorts. Just like me. I get up and walk to the door. I hear the reporter with him say “oh my God, he’s going to do something!” I open the window, poke my head outside and look down.
“What kind of shoes you got on buddy?” I scream to the cameraman.
The reporter looks at me. She is contemplating if I’m talking to her. I did say buddy, afterall.
“I’m not talking to you bitch,” I say. She frowns.
The cameraman lets his camera go down to his belly. Relaxing for a moment.
“Samba Hi-Tops, man. Just got them last week,” he says.
“Damn. Are they comfortable? I’ve seen ‘em, but just think they look strange.”
“They actually are pretty tight,” he says. “I’ve got to start filming you again Mr. Jones. It’s my job. You understand. Right?”
“Yeah, kid. No worries. But I’m going to close the blinds. So, this interview is over.”
I go back inside my window. I draw the blinds. Then the curtains. That guy’s probably going to have some ‘splaining to do to his bitch of a reporter. Blonde hair. Perfectly cut and perfectly combed. Even in this fucking humidity.
That humidity. Same as it was the other day. On the ferry. Fuck. I don’t want to think about the ferry. I love going to Algiers Point. Now, I’ll probably never go back again. Not that I was expecting to go back again. But I chickened out.
She didn’t.
Friday, April 15, 2011
cup
I stared at the old plastic cup on my table. It stared back at me. Neither of us had a smidge of emotion. Both just existing on this day. When the cup was placed on the table, it was full. Now, it was empty. Been that way for a while now. The contents evaporated into the air. A little more each day. Nothing I ever noticed, until half of it was gone – a little bit of mold swimming in the liquid. A bit later, there was nothing. Exactly the way she made me feel the day she left that cup sitting there. Why she even bothered to make herself a drink, plop it down on the table and then proceed to end my life, I don’t even bother trying to comprehend. But that cup, a 1999 Orpheus parade one gleaned from a Mardi Gras a long time before that day, has become a companion. Not a friend, for sure. Because a friend wouldn’t constantly remind you of the shittiest day of your life. Or would they? I don’t know. I sometimes doubt whether I have any friends. I have people that I know. But do they know me? I tend to be a bit guarded. The only ones who get in are the ones I fuck. Literally. And I guess figuratively, if you ask them. That’s my fault, I assume. I’ve tried to open up. Usually on a barstool. Usually drunk. Usually when I needed something from someone. A leech gets better results because they just suck. The cup, it doesn’t offer anything. It could be cleaned out, put back on a shelf. Then it would just become part of the rotation again. A reminder that just pops up every so often. Or, the cup could be tossed into the trash. Gone forever. Except when thoughts veered back in that direction, which, knowing me, they always would find a way to veer. That’s not really an option, however. I know that. The cup is old. It holds other memories too. It’s been a good cup. Never cracking, or letting much of the paint peel. It’s not its fault that she picked it up that day. The cup was one of her favorites. Even though it came from New Orleans. The town she told me she’d never visit. “Because of her,” she always said. I never shied away from her past. I met her ex. He was a weak person. Still living on his parent’s farm in up-state New York. I could tell he was still in love with her. She’d told me as much before we were dating. Not so much anymore when we were. I wasn’t jealous. Why? Because I trust. Cheating is the one thing a person should never do. I think I’ve lived up to that belief, although some would say I haven’t. It’s understandable. The duality of the cup is part of my attachment to it. It came from one, but is now labeled forever as the other. Now, years later, they both are part of my life still. One from afar, one just in my mind. I sit here and stare at that cup. Seems like such a waste of time. Seems? Then it dawns on me, there used to be a bunch of those cups. She must have kept all the others. Five years ago, the choice was made to keep them. And my Andy Kaufman books. A couple of hats and my fishing poles. “I’ll mail you those if I find them,” she said about the fishing poles. They were purchased in New Orleans. In 1995. On a one-off fishing trip with another ghost of my past. We didn’t catch a fish that day. But we smiled a lot. I can’t remember if I’ve smiled that much in a long time. But I kept those poles. A distant memory attached. Eventually, they were claimed by someone else. I hope they’ve been used again. By someone who picked them up at a Goodwill in Florida, most likely. And that the smiles they held passed from them into the new owner. Even if they didn’t catch a fish. It’s more about the company, anyway. Not the torturing of another creature. Or maybe we’re all put here to torture. A fish. A dog. Another person. A country. Shit. Who am I kidding? It’s about torturing yourself. The cup stares at me. I stare back at the cup. If I can get up, I’ll toss it in the trash.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
cat pee and regrets
Woke up this morning to two revelations: 1. The memory of her doesn’t cause me pain anymore. Discomfort? Yes. Loneliness? Yes. Pain? Not at all. 2. Waiting for the right moment always is a bad idea.
The road beckons me again tomorrow. It’ll be a fine ol’ time for at least five days. The car will get yet another test and she’ll pass with flying colors. A friendship will be tested by 30 hours in the car together. Always fun to see how those turn out. And a city will be visited again. Every time I go, I wonder if it’ll be the last time. I can’t help but wonder that more and more now. It’s funny, life.
The bitter sweet taste of the past came calling for a little while. It’s the worst part of the times we live in. You can’t just pine over someone lost anymore. They end up in your life somehow now. Again. Maybe you get drunk and search. Maybe she gets drunk and searches, although a lot less likely.
I got my hopes up for no real reason last month. And being the insane over-analyzing fool that I am, I waited too long to even say hello. So, instead, I watched something else unfold. Sad? Yes. But I’m a classic case of sad. But it wasn’t meant to be. Never was. That’s why it was the first of many awkward endings and continuances. What would my life be without that? Sane? Boring? Normal? All those sound so awful. I’d rather be a tormented soul than a bored one. No settled life for me, as a songwriter once penned.
The hourglass curves of the lady walking by make me wonder. What was I thinking of when I left? I know exactly what I was thinking, yet I still wonder what I was thinking. If you think you’re confused reading it, imagine thinking it.
I noticed the smell while sitting at my desk. It was most definitely urine. Whose urine or what’s urine, I have no idea. But, since I was to be cooped up at my desk for the next five hours having to breathe it in, I decided to try and find out.
The most obvious culprit would be the toothless old guy a couple of seats down. He’s the old-school journo who smells like an ashtray, eats livers and gizzards from Church’s Fried Chicken every week and holds on to his 1960’s ponytail like he does to the printed word – tightly.
I walk down to his desk to spark up a conversation. I use Tim Geithner’s comment that “Default by the United States is unthinkable,” as a starter.
“Can you believe he said that?”
“Quack,” he says. Not the word, but the actual sound of a duck.
“Notice he didn’t say impossible. Or improbable.”
“We’re all doomed.”
“Agreed. You have your vegetable garden started yet. With barbed wire fences to keep out the starving?”
“Ha!”
I notice he doesn’t smell of urine. Of many other things yes, but not him.
Back to my desk, the foul stench fills up my nostrils again. God, this place is horrible. If it isn’t the rats, it’s the gnats. If it’s not the smell of bleach, it’s urine. And the pay stinks. You’d think I’d get the fuck out. But, I live at the beach…
I turn my attention to Grimace behind me. He’s a pale white version of the giant purple blob that tried to get me as a kid to fall in love with McDonald’s. It worked then. Not now.
This guy wears shirts from the 1990s with pride. I have no problem with that, as I do too. However, I have not put on over 100 pounds so they no longer even come close to covering my belly. So, every day we are graced with stretch marks and belly hair. That and he sucks on pen tops. I wonder to myself every night as he sounds like a cow doing its thing with cud how a person gets to this point?
I glance at him. It makes my blood curdle just looking upon his mass of cellulite. I walk over and spark up some conversation. He likes women’s college basketball. Much like I did. Except I just had a crush on one of the players, and followed her around the country like a 12 year old when I was 19. Thinking back on that, I wonder if I’ve paid off my debts from those trips? Probably. But maybe not.
“What did you think about UConn and Stanford losing?” I ask.
“Amazing. It was quite possibly the biggest night in college basketball for women in a long time. It reminds me of the 1994 tournament when …” I stopped listening to this manifesto on the greatness of women’s college basketball at that point. This must be how people thought of me when I was younger. Ha. No wonder I couldn’t get laid. I also note that he does not smell of urine.
Lastly, I turn to the new girl. She hasn’t spoken to me in 6 hours today. I think she’s got a crush on me. Ha! Not if I was the last immigrant grocer on earth, honey!
Anyways, she’s got allergies today and her voice is more annoying than ever. Minnesota gal with a stopped up nose. Ugh. She has been slathering on the hand lotion a lot more than usual today, and god that stuff stinks.
I do the markets page for her, tell her, and she thanks me. I don’t get a whiff of urine. Shit.
So I sit at my desk and wallow in the stink.
Then it finally dawns on me. Maybe I stink. My jeans are the ones I wore to my friend’s house the other day. They have a cat. It doesn’t like change and new people.
I go to the bathroom. Sniff my jeans. Yep. It’s me. Never think the worst of those around you, until you’ve considered it in yourself.
The road beckons me again tomorrow. It’ll be a fine ol’ time for at least five days. The car will get yet another test and she’ll pass with flying colors. A friendship will be tested by 30 hours in the car together. Always fun to see how those turn out. And a city will be visited again. Every time I go, I wonder if it’ll be the last time. I can’t help but wonder that more and more now. It’s funny, life.
The bitter sweet taste of the past came calling for a little while. It’s the worst part of the times we live in. You can’t just pine over someone lost anymore. They end up in your life somehow now. Again. Maybe you get drunk and search. Maybe she gets drunk and searches, although a lot less likely.
I got my hopes up for no real reason last month. And being the insane over-analyzing fool that I am, I waited too long to even say hello. So, instead, I watched something else unfold. Sad? Yes. But I’m a classic case of sad. But it wasn’t meant to be. Never was. That’s why it was the first of many awkward endings and continuances. What would my life be without that? Sane? Boring? Normal? All those sound so awful. I’d rather be a tormented soul than a bored one. No settled life for me, as a songwriter once penned.
The hourglass curves of the lady walking by make me wonder. What was I thinking of when I left? I know exactly what I was thinking, yet I still wonder what I was thinking. If you think you’re confused reading it, imagine thinking it.
I noticed the smell while sitting at my desk. It was most definitely urine. Whose urine or what’s urine, I have no idea. But, since I was to be cooped up at my desk for the next five hours having to breathe it in, I decided to try and find out.
The most obvious culprit would be the toothless old guy a couple of seats down. He’s the old-school journo who smells like an ashtray, eats livers and gizzards from Church’s Fried Chicken every week and holds on to his 1960’s ponytail like he does to the printed word – tightly.
I walk down to his desk to spark up a conversation. I use Tim Geithner’s comment that “Default by the United States is unthinkable,” as a starter.
“Can you believe he said that?”
“Quack,” he says. Not the word, but the actual sound of a duck.
“Notice he didn’t say impossible. Or improbable.”
“We’re all doomed.”
“Agreed. You have your vegetable garden started yet. With barbed wire fences to keep out the starving?”
“Ha!”
I notice he doesn’t smell of urine. Of many other things yes, but not him.
Back to my desk, the foul stench fills up my nostrils again. God, this place is horrible. If it isn’t the rats, it’s the gnats. If it’s not the smell of bleach, it’s urine. And the pay stinks. You’d think I’d get the fuck out. But, I live at the beach…
I turn my attention to Grimace behind me. He’s a pale white version of the giant purple blob that tried to get me as a kid to fall in love with McDonald’s. It worked then. Not now.
This guy wears shirts from the 1990s with pride. I have no problem with that, as I do too. However, I have not put on over 100 pounds so they no longer even come close to covering my belly. So, every day we are graced with stretch marks and belly hair. That and he sucks on pen tops. I wonder to myself every night as he sounds like a cow doing its thing with cud how a person gets to this point?
I glance at him. It makes my blood curdle just looking upon his mass of cellulite. I walk over and spark up some conversation. He likes women’s college basketball. Much like I did. Except I just had a crush on one of the players, and followed her around the country like a 12 year old when I was 19. Thinking back on that, I wonder if I’ve paid off my debts from those trips? Probably. But maybe not.
“What did you think about UConn and Stanford losing?” I ask.
“Amazing. It was quite possibly the biggest night in college basketball for women in a long time. It reminds me of the 1994 tournament when …” I stopped listening to this manifesto on the greatness of women’s college basketball at that point. This must be how people thought of me when I was younger. Ha. No wonder I couldn’t get laid. I also note that he does not smell of urine.
Lastly, I turn to the new girl. She hasn’t spoken to me in 6 hours today. I think she’s got a crush on me. Ha! Not if I was the last immigrant grocer on earth, honey!
Anyways, she’s got allergies today and her voice is more annoying than ever. Minnesota gal with a stopped up nose. Ugh. She has been slathering on the hand lotion a lot more than usual today, and god that stuff stinks.
I do the markets page for her, tell her, and she thanks me. I don’t get a whiff of urine. Shit.
So I sit at my desk and wallow in the stink.
Then it finally dawns on me. Maybe I stink. My jeans are the ones I wore to my friend’s house the other day. They have a cat. It doesn’t like change and new people.
I go to the bathroom. Sniff my jeans. Yep. It’s me. Never think the worst of those around you, until you’ve considered it in yourself.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
sorry
i wrote something tonight. decided it shouldn't be posted here.
at least not yet.
maybe in a little time.
be back tomorrow.
at least not yet.
maybe in a little time.
be back tomorrow.
Monday, April 4, 2011
dobermans
“Why are you like that?”
Huh. Quite a tough question to answer, for sure, he thought. “I guess because that’s the way I’m supposed to be…” he said.
“That’s a cop out. You choose to be the way you are.”
“But you’re the one who believes in fate. In destiny. Not me.”
“Fuck you asshole.”
“That’s better. We can go back to drinking now.”
“I hope you drown in that glass, you sick fuck.”
That made him feel good. To be called a sick fuck. He was certainly sick. But a fuck? That means there’s a chance, right?
Lots of shit in my eyes. Pollen. Sawdust. Dirt. Sweat.
It’s a good day for eye drops.
This old pair of flip flops.
They were given to me by my ex.
The only pair I’d ever owned up until last summer, when I got a two dollar pair at wal-mart.
Now, I’m throwing them away. Putting them in the trash. Another reminder I’m finally at ease with tossing. I’m amazed at how I hold on to things. Give a reason, but know full well what the real one is.
Well, another anchor gone. Cast away. Cut the rope. All that nonsense.
The words come out a lot easier when I’m drunk. Yet lately, I haven’t enjoyed drinking. It hurts. Physically now. Not just mentally. It had to happen, sooner or later, would’ve rather it been later to be quite honest. It’s a shame because I like being drunk. I like tapping that vein that doesn’t seem to want to open up unless it’s been liquored up a bit. Like a cheap whore. Of course, I have no idea what a cheap whore is like, so maybe it’s completely different? New goal: fuck a cheap whore. It may change my perspective on life. Probably not. Definitely not. But how can I know unless I do it?
The lady told me she had a job for me. I was broke, wearing dirty clothes and hadn’t brushed my teeth in six days. So I said “Ok.”
We drove to her house. Me in the back of her beat up old Toyota truck. The day was nice. A tad warm, but still nice. I didn’t notice how bad I smelled while we were moving.
The city isn’t coming back the way I’d thought it would. I don’t think it ever could. In a decade or so, not much of what I loved about this place will be here anymore. Just the river and the music.
The car stops at an abandoned warehouse. The sign out front says “J.H. McClintock and Son.” It looks like there used to be an s at the end of Son, but someone obliterated it with a hammer or some other tool. I want to believe it was the son. Reality tells me it most likely was dad. Of course, mom or wife or girlfriend could have played a role. Sounds like a good idea for a book. I pull out my notepad and scribble it down. It’s just another random thought that will soon be lost. I have boxes of notes just like that one. I haven’t read most of them in years. The old “when I get old” or “when I get the time” excuses just don’t matter anymore. They’ve become the fact of the matter now. I sigh.
“You ok young man?” the old lady asks.
For a second I smile. She called me young. Ha. I was in a bar last week with a friend of mine. He’s 31. His wife is 25. The waitress asked me if I was his dad. Guess old hits hard when it does. And according to one fat, manly-looking waitress at a chain restaurant, I have been struck.
“I’m great ma’am,” I reply. “What do you need done here? Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since the storm?”
“Well, my son lived here for two years after the storm,” she said. “But one day, he stopped coming around. That was five years ago. I haven’t been inside at all. I wanted someone to go in and see if he’s in there.”
“Whoah, you mean he may be living in there still?”
“No. No. No. I think he died in there years ago. Because he never was the kind of kid to disappear. He always told his mother where he was going.”
She handed me the keys to a giant set of locks. All kinds of them. Deadbolts and chains and pad locks and combination locks and levers. It was crazy.
Finally, after 30 minutes of jimmying with locks and WD-40, the door was open. I peered inside. It was dark. It smelled. Not of a dead man, but of old rotting paper.
“What was this place?” I asked.
“An old book binding factory. But people stopped buying books. Then they stopped reading. So, printing folks like us just blew away.”
“Yeah, I was a newspaperman myself before it all went to shit.”
“Oh? That’s lovely. I miss my paper.”
“I miss the paycheck. And, of course, the smell of a freshly printed paper with my byline in it.”
“Sad times we live in. Sad, sad times.”
“Ma’am? I’m going to go in now.”
“Ok, young man. Just be careful. We used to have Dobermans that watched the place for us. They could be feral ones in there still.”
“I seriously doubt it. This place was sealed up tight. Like a …” I caught myself before saying what I was thinking. I looked at the old lady, she was short, grey haired and looked like she had lived a great life. I once hoped that I could look like that one day. Doubtful now.
Inside, the place was like a time capsule. Books strewn about. Some finished. Some not. A giant press was still loaded up with a roll of paper. Looks like they shut it down in the middle of a run, expecting to come back the next day. Then the locksmith showed up instead.
An office was in the back. The door was slightly ajar. I peered in. On a cot, there was what appeared to be a suit. It was covered in dust. I put my flashlight on it. There was her son. A note was beside him.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I had to. Love Jeremy.”
Huh. Quite a tough question to answer, for sure, he thought. “I guess because that’s the way I’m supposed to be…” he said.
“That’s a cop out. You choose to be the way you are.”
“But you’re the one who believes in fate. In destiny. Not me.”
“Fuck you asshole.”
“That’s better. We can go back to drinking now.”
“I hope you drown in that glass, you sick fuck.”
That made him feel good. To be called a sick fuck. He was certainly sick. But a fuck? That means there’s a chance, right?
Lots of shit in my eyes. Pollen. Sawdust. Dirt. Sweat.
It’s a good day for eye drops.
This old pair of flip flops.
They were given to me by my ex.
The only pair I’d ever owned up until last summer, when I got a two dollar pair at wal-mart.
Now, I’m throwing them away. Putting them in the trash. Another reminder I’m finally at ease with tossing. I’m amazed at how I hold on to things. Give a reason, but know full well what the real one is.
Well, another anchor gone. Cast away. Cut the rope. All that nonsense.
The words come out a lot easier when I’m drunk. Yet lately, I haven’t enjoyed drinking. It hurts. Physically now. Not just mentally. It had to happen, sooner or later, would’ve rather it been later to be quite honest. It’s a shame because I like being drunk. I like tapping that vein that doesn’t seem to want to open up unless it’s been liquored up a bit. Like a cheap whore. Of course, I have no idea what a cheap whore is like, so maybe it’s completely different? New goal: fuck a cheap whore. It may change my perspective on life. Probably not. Definitely not. But how can I know unless I do it?
The lady told me she had a job for me. I was broke, wearing dirty clothes and hadn’t brushed my teeth in six days. So I said “Ok.”
We drove to her house. Me in the back of her beat up old Toyota truck. The day was nice. A tad warm, but still nice. I didn’t notice how bad I smelled while we were moving.
The city isn’t coming back the way I’d thought it would. I don’t think it ever could. In a decade or so, not much of what I loved about this place will be here anymore. Just the river and the music.
The car stops at an abandoned warehouse. The sign out front says “J.H. McClintock and Son.” It looks like there used to be an s at the end of Son, but someone obliterated it with a hammer or some other tool. I want to believe it was the son. Reality tells me it most likely was dad. Of course, mom or wife or girlfriend could have played a role. Sounds like a good idea for a book. I pull out my notepad and scribble it down. It’s just another random thought that will soon be lost. I have boxes of notes just like that one. I haven’t read most of them in years. The old “when I get old” or “when I get the time” excuses just don’t matter anymore. They’ve become the fact of the matter now. I sigh.
“You ok young man?” the old lady asks.
For a second I smile. She called me young. Ha. I was in a bar last week with a friend of mine. He’s 31. His wife is 25. The waitress asked me if I was his dad. Guess old hits hard when it does. And according to one fat, manly-looking waitress at a chain restaurant, I have been struck.
“I’m great ma’am,” I reply. “What do you need done here? Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since the storm?”
“Well, my son lived here for two years after the storm,” she said. “But one day, he stopped coming around. That was five years ago. I haven’t been inside at all. I wanted someone to go in and see if he’s in there.”
“Whoah, you mean he may be living in there still?”
“No. No. No. I think he died in there years ago. Because he never was the kind of kid to disappear. He always told his mother where he was going.”
She handed me the keys to a giant set of locks. All kinds of them. Deadbolts and chains and pad locks and combination locks and levers. It was crazy.
Finally, after 30 minutes of jimmying with locks and WD-40, the door was open. I peered inside. It was dark. It smelled. Not of a dead man, but of old rotting paper.
“What was this place?” I asked.
“An old book binding factory. But people stopped buying books. Then they stopped reading. So, printing folks like us just blew away.”
“Yeah, I was a newspaperman myself before it all went to shit.”
“Oh? That’s lovely. I miss my paper.”
“I miss the paycheck. And, of course, the smell of a freshly printed paper with my byline in it.”
“Sad times we live in. Sad, sad times.”
“Ma’am? I’m going to go in now.”
“Ok, young man. Just be careful. We used to have Dobermans that watched the place for us. They could be feral ones in there still.”
“I seriously doubt it. This place was sealed up tight. Like a …” I caught myself before saying what I was thinking. I looked at the old lady, she was short, grey haired and looked like she had lived a great life. I once hoped that I could look like that one day. Doubtful now.
Inside, the place was like a time capsule. Books strewn about. Some finished. Some not. A giant press was still loaded up with a roll of paper. Looks like they shut it down in the middle of a run, expecting to come back the next day. Then the locksmith showed up instead.
An office was in the back. The door was slightly ajar. I peered in. On a cot, there was what appeared to be a suit. It was covered in dust. I put my flashlight on it. There was her son. A note was beside him.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I had to. Love Jeremy.”
Sunday, April 3, 2011
anal
“You know what?” I said to the dude beside me at the bar, a scruffy looking ex-doctor who I’d become friends with simply because we were both doing the same thing with our lives now – nothing. “I had the strangest dream last night.”
“Fuck, man. Do you really think I want to sit here and listen to you talk about your dreams? It drives me nuts,” he replied, taking a sip of Guinness.
“Well, I don’t fucking like watching you lick that Guinness mustache off your face every time you take a sip, but I don’t say it out loud.”
“Damn, we’re turning into a married couple aren’t we?”
Laughs all around.
I decided not to bring up the whole dream thing. I rarely remember them, so when I do, I get a feeling that my brain is serious about getting me to think about something. Although this one may not be a fit to that theory.
In the dream, I was in a small apartment. There was a naked Asian woman. Porcelain skin. Just perfect. She was laying on her stomach, taut ass just sitting there. Somehow, a voice over was telling me how to have anal sex. And how and when you’ll know the signs of whether the woman wanted it or not. Kind of like one of those 1950s films they used to show in elementary school.
This lady was beautiful. I think in the dream, I wasn’t in love with her, but just completely taken by her.
My cock was hard. I tried to do what the voice told me to do. However, every time I did, she responded with what the voice said she may respond with. She smiled at me and urged me on, only to shoo me away every time.
Eventually, I gave up. Hard cock and all and just laid there next to her, staring into her dark black eyes. She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. Then turned over and spooned with me.
“That’s when I woke up.”
“Damn, that’s a fucked up dream,” my ex-doctor friend said.
“Told you.”
“Did you wake up and jerk off after?”
“Nah, I did have a giant boner though.”
“Sure you did. I would’ve rubbed one off.”
“Not surprised. Usually, I would have too. I guess what the lady was doing sort of rubbed off on me, so I didn’t.”
“That’s just stupid. Hell, I may go in the bathroom right now and rub one out.”
“Fuck, dude. That’s sick.”
“Like you’ve never done it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t advertise that I’m going to do it.”
Laughs again. Another round of drinks. The barkeep shakes his head at us. I hate it when Gus is here instead of Mandy. Mandy’s got better tits. Smaller than Gus’ but definitely better.
“Gus, where’s Mandy? It’s Wednesday. She should be there.”
“Called in sick. Something about a doctor’s appointment.”
Then it hit me. I was supposed to be there with Mandy. She’d asked me weeks ago to go with her to this appointment. Instead, here I was sitting on a barstool talking about jerking off in the men’s room and butt sex with an Asian girl. And I don’t even like Asian girls.
“Damn. I gotta go!” I yelled.
“Why?” Doc asked.
“I’m supposed to be with Mandy.”
“You guys dating now?”
“No. We’re just friends. She needed someone to be there and I fucked it up.”
“Get, getting on then my amigo.”
I paid my tab and pushed the front door open. The noontime sun hit my face and made me cringe. My diabetic eyes don’t like the sun much anymore. And I hate wearing sunglasses. Kind of like a vampire that wants a suntan my choices and likes and dislikes non-ability to mesh.
I got in my car, started her up and drove. Fast. It was about six miles to Mandy’s house. It was 12:12. Her appointment was for 12:30. I remember that much.
I pulled up to her apartment. A shitty, weather-faded wooden mess. I’m sure it looked great in 1978 when it was built. Now, it was a fire hazard.
She was standing in the parking lot, tapping her foot on the ground. Mad was not the word I’d use to describe her face. I pulled up next to her and waved.
She grabbed the door handle, pulled. Nothing. Rapping her fingers on the door a little harshly, I got the message. Door. Still. Locked.
I pushed the unlock button. She opened the door. Slammed it shut.
“You’re late, asshole,” she said.
“Yeah, and I’m drunk, too.”
She kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”
“Anything for my Mandy.”
“Quit talking like that. People might think you like me.”
“Only if you’ll let me put it in your butt.”
“What?”
“Bar story. I’ll tell you later.”
I put the car in drive. It was a 20 minute drive to the doctor’s office. She found a lump the other day. Had me feel it. I felt it. She cried. I held her. We agreed to go to the doctor together. Even though neither of us had insurance. I knew I’d be paying for it too. Didn’t care. It’s what friends do. At least, in my mind.
We pulled into the parking lot of the office. Tom Petty’s “Even the Losers” was ringing out of my blown out speakers. This song was kind of “our” song. We’d listen to it on a loop while watching trains go by my house on random Tuesday afternoons that turned into Wednesday mornings. I parked the car and turned the engine off. TP faded out.
“Well, time to pay the piper!” she said a little too fake.
“Let’s just go in and see what happens.”
“Ok, friend,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “Then we can go home and talk about this anal you so desperately want.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Fuck, man. Do you really think I want to sit here and listen to you talk about your dreams? It drives me nuts,” he replied, taking a sip of Guinness.
“Well, I don’t fucking like watching you lick that Guinness mustache off your face every time you take a sip, but I don’t say it out loud.”
“Damn, we’re turning into a married couple aren’t we?”
Laughs all around.
I decided not to bring up the whole dream thing. I rarely remember them, so when I do, I get a feeling that my brain is serious about getting me to think about something. Although this one may not be a fit to that theory.
In the dream, I was in a small apartment. There was a naked Asian woman. Porcelain skin. Just perfect. She was laying on her stomach, taut ass just sitting there. Somehow, a voice over was telling me how to have anal sex. And how and when you’ll know the signs of whether the woman wanted it or not. Kind of like one of those 1950s films they used to show in elementary school.
This lady was beautiful. I think in the dream, I wasn’t in love with her, but just completely taken by her.
My cock was hard. I tried to do what the voice told me to do. However, every time I did, she responded with what the voice said she may respond with. She smiled at me and urged me on, only to shoo me away every time.
Eventually, I gave up. Hard cock and all and just laid there next to her, staring into her dark black eyes. She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. Then turned over and spooned with me.
“That’s when I woke up.”
“Damn, that’s a fucked up dream,” my ex-doctor friend said.
“Told you.”
“Did you wake up and jerk off after?”
“Nah, I did have a giant boner though.”
“Sure you did. I would’ve rubbed one off.”
“Not surprised. Usually, I would have too. I guess what the lady was doing sort of rubbed off on me, so I didn’t.”
“That’s just stupid. Hell, I may go in the bathroom right now and rub one out.”
“Fuck, dude. That’s sick.”
“Like you’ve never done it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t advertise that I’m going to do it.”
Laughs again. Another round of drinks. The barkeep shakes his head at us. I hate it when Gus is here instead of Mandy. Mandy’s got better tits. Smaller than Gus’ but definitely better.
“Gus, where’s Mandy? It’s Wednesday. She should be there.”
“Called in sick. Something about a doctor’s appointment.”
Then it hit me. I was supposed to be there with Mandy. She’d asked me weeks ago to go with her to this appointment. Instead, here I was sitting on a barstool talking about jerking off in the men’s room and butt sex with an Asian girl. And I don’t even like Asian girls.
“Damn. I gotta go!” I yelled.
“Why?” Doc asked.
“I’m supposed to be with Mandy.”
“You guys dating now?”
“No. We’re just friends. She needed someone to be there and I fucked it up.”
“Get, getting on then my amigo.”
I paid my tab and pushed the front door open. The noontime sun hit my face and made me cringe. My diabetic eyes don’t like the sun much anymore. And I hate wearing sunglasses. Kind of like a vampire that wants a suntan my choices and likes and dislikes non-ability to mesh.
I got in my car, started her up and drove. Fast. It was about six miles to Mandy’s house. It was 12:12. Her appointment was for 12:30. I remember that much.
I pulled up to her apartment. A shitty, weather-faded wooden mess. I’m sure it looked great in 1978 when it was built. Now, it was a fire hazard.
She was standing in the parking lot, tapping her foot on the ground. Mad was not the word I’d use to describe her face. I pulled up next to her and waved.
She grabbed the door handle, pulled. Nothing. Rapping her fingers on the door a little harshly, I got the message. Door. Still. Locked.
I pushed the unlock button. She opened the door. Slammed it shut.
“You’re late, asshole,” she said.
“Yeah, and I’m drunk, too.”
She kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”
“Anything for my Mandy.”
“Quit talking like that. People might think you like me.”
“Only if you’ll let me put it in your butt.”
“What?”
“Bar story. I’ll tell you later.”
I put the car in drive. It was a 20 minute drive to the doctor’s office. She found a lump the other day. Had me feel it. I felt it. She cried. I held her. We agreed to go to the doctor together. Even though neither of us had insurance. I knew I’d be paying for it too. Didn’t care. It’s what friends do. At least, in my mind.
We pulled into the parking lot of the office. Tom Petty’s “Even the Losers” was ringing out of my blown out speakers. This song was kind of “our” song. We’d listen to it on a loop while watching trains go by my house on random Tuesday afternoons that turned into Wednesday mornings. I parked the car and turned the engine off. TP faded out.
“Well, time to pay the piper!” she said a little too fake.
“Let’s just go in and see what happens.”
“Ok, friend,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “Then we can go home and talk about this anal you so desperately want.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Friday, April 1, 2011
today
That morning was cold. A bit damp. And the sun was not out with a haze of fog blanketing the world. Average for the time of year, I’d guess.
It was also the morning my back seized up. I woke up needing to pee. Just like every other morning in my life, it seemed lately. However, instead of drearily wandering to the bathroom in my underwear, I winced in agonizing pain and found it impossible to sit up.
“Strange,” was all I thought at the time. I struggled to my feet, hunched over at the waist, and shuffled to the toilet just 10 feet from my bed. I peed in this strange position as well. Not wanting to see if the angle I was at was a dream or not. After finishing, there was no flushing. That would have taken too much effort. Instead, a slow pivot back towards the bedroom and a slow descent back onto the mattress and box spring – no frame – that was the master suite.
A few hours later, I awoke again. It was well past 2 in the afternoon. I was late for work. Well, I would be since I was supposed to be there at 2:30 and I lived an hour away. The pain was still there. Puzzled, I struggled into the shower. Dropping my underwear – blue boxer briefs from Fruit of the Loom – on the bath mat and turned the water on. It hurt to reach down. I felt the water. Cold as ice.
“No good,” I muttered, waiting for it to heat up.
Finally, after a couple of minutes, steam started to rise from the bathtub behind the cheap dollar store shower curtain. The kind that get mold on them no matter how vigilant you are in spraying them down every day. You end up buying three a year. Still, the three bucks and tax spent is better than the 10 dollars you would for a nice one at Bed, Bath and Beyond or such a store. Just the fact that you didn’t have to enter those broken down housewife den of sadness was worth the effort of replacing these things every so often.
Stepping into the tub to get wet proved to be quite a challenge. The back still wouldn’t give an inch, and lifting legs up that far hunched over was a task not for the weak or weary at heart. Neither of which I consider myself anymore. Finally in the tub, I let the water soak my head, then shifted around 180 degrees to let it hit my back.
After about three minutes of boiling hot water to the back, it loosened up a bit. I could stand straight. This allowed me to lather up and shampoo my head. When the hot water heater finally spit out its last bit of water and the shower became lukewarm, then cold, I shut it off.
A shiver came over me as the 59 degree temperature of the house hit the steam room weather I was in inside the shower.
I grabbed a towel and dried off as quickly as possible. My dick shriveled up even smaller than it already was at the frigid air. One day I’d like to have the money to turn on my heater and not count the money flowing out of it. One day. Ha. Yeah right.
Getting dressed, I could feel my back tightening up again. By the time I was at work, it was stuck in place again. Eight hours of sitting at a desk, surrounded by mediocre assholes who wouldn’t know good journalism if it was handed to them on the Internet for free, month after month had finally taken its toll on me, I decided.
My boss looked at me. Shaking his head.
“We’re getting too old for this,” he said with a shrill laugh.
“Shit, when are you not too old for this?” I responded. “This isn’t the Army I signed up for.”
Laughs all around.
The Marine wives in the place gave their icy stares to us. Yet another anti-military joke. Yep, we’re full of them. Not just full of shit.
I struggled to make it through the day. Taking more Tylenol than I had in the previous two years in one day. I could feel the ulcer forming in my stomach from it. But it helped.
A little.
If only I knew what it meant. Now three months later. Sitting in a white gown, my butt crack exposed in the back. Me not caring that the semi-intelligent and incredibly hot blonde nurse is looking at me, sick and troubled.
She has sympathetic eyes, but they’re trained to be that way. And one thing I’m good at, it’s telling the difference in the eyes. They never lie. Except for this one girl…
Without insurance, you avoid finding out about the little things. Then they become big things.
Today’s the day I found out I have cancer. Prostate cancer. Should have known about it years ago. At least that’s what the doctor told me. “You should have noticed the signs,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I did,” I said. “But, I had three dollars to my name and 40 grand in debt. Let’s see you go to the doctor then.”
He shook his head.
I picked up my pants. Put them back on. Then walked out without paying the bill.
It was also the morning my back seized up. I woke up needing to pee. Just like every other morning in my life, it seemed lately. However, instead of drearily wandering to the bathroom in my underwear, I winced in agonizing pain and found it impossible to sit up.
“Strange,” was all I thought at the time. I struggled to my feet, hunched over at the waist, and shuffled to the toilet just 10 feet from my bed. I peed in this strange position as well. Not wanting to see if the angle I was at was a dream or not. After finishing, there was no flushing. That would have taken too much effort. Instead, a slow pivot back towards the bedroom and a slow descent back onto the mattress and box spring – no frame – that was the master suite.
A few hours later, I awoke again. It was well past 2 in the afternoon. I was late for work. Well, I would be since I was supposed to be there at 2:30 and I lived an hour away. The pain was still there. Puzzled, I struggled into the shower. Dropping my underwear – blue boxer briefs from Fruit of the Loom – on the bath mat and turned the water on. It hurt to reach down. I felt the water. Cold as ice.
“No good,” I muttered, waiting for it to heat up.
Finally, after a couple of minutes, steam started to rise from the bathtub behind the cheap dollar store shower curtain. The kind that get mold on them no matter how vigilant you are in spraying them down every day. You end up buying three a year. Still, the three bucks and tax spent is better than the 10 dollars you would for a nice one at Bed, Bath and Beyond or such a store. Just the fact that you didn’t have to enter those broken down housewife den of sadness was worth the effort of replacing these things every so often.
Stepping into the tub to get wet proved to be quite a challenge. The back still wouldn’t give an inch, and lifting legs up that far hunched over was a task not for the weak or weary at heart. Neither of which I consider myself anymore. Finally in the tub, I let the water soak my head, then shifted around 180 degrees to let it hit my back.
After about three minutes of boiling hot water to the back, it loosened up a bit. I could stand straight. This allowed me to lather up and shampoo my head. When the hot water heater finally spit out its last bit of water and the shower became lukewarm, then cold, I shut it off.
A shiver came over me as the 59 degree temperature of the house hit the steam room weather I was in inside the shower.
I grabbed a towel and dried off as quickly as possible. My dick shriveled up even smaller than it already was at the frigid air. One day I’d like to have the money to turn on my heater and not count the money flowing out of it. One day. Ha. Yeah right.
Getting dressed, I could feel my back tightening up again. By the time I was at work, it was stuck in place again. Eight hours of sitting at a desk, surrounded by mediocre assholes who wouldn’t know good journalism if it was handed to them on the Internet for free, month after month had finally taken its toll on me, I decided.
My boss looked at me. Shaking his head.
“We’re getting too old for this,” he said with a shrill laugh.
“Shit, when are you not too old for this?” I responded. “This isn’t the Army I signed up for.”
Laughs all around.
The Marine wives in the place gave their icy stares to us. Yet another anti-military joke. Yep, we’re full of them. Not just full of shit.
I struggled to make it through the day. Taking more Tylenol than I had in the previous two years in one day. I could feel the ulcer forming in my stomach from it. But it helped.
A little.
If only I knew what it meant. Now three months later. Sitting in a white gown, my butt crack exposed in the back. Me not caring that the semi-intelligent and incredibly hot blonde nurse is looking at me, sick and troubled.
She has sympathetic eyes, but they’re trained to be that way. And one thing I’m good at, it’s telling the difference in the eyes. They never lie. Except for this one girl…
Without insurance, you avoid finding out about the little things. Then they become big things.
Today’s the day I found out I have cancer. Prostate cancer. Should have known about it years ago. At least that’s what the doctor told me. “You should have noticed the signs,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I did,” I said. “But, I had three dollars to my name and 40 grand in debt. Let’s see you go to the doctor then.”
He shook his head.
I picked up my pants. Put them back on. Then walked out without paying the bill.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
No fun...
Johnny Rotten yelled in his ears.
“No fun!”
Over and over. The white ear buds were sticking out of his black hoodie. He swore the girl saw him looking at her – in complete disgust. But he couldn’t be sure. Didn’t really have time to think about it anyway. It would be the last time either of them saw each other, no matter what. The thought of that satisfied him in a way he hadn’t been in a while now. Surprisingly, he paused to bask in that feeling for just a moment. He’d promised himself no distractions. But this was too good to pass up. The warmth of the feeling washed over his entire body, almost like a sunrise on the beach in the winter.
But her voice ended the peace. Like an anvil falling on Wil E. Coyote. “Damn you,” he thought.
It was time.
He reached for the zipper on his hoodie. It stuck halfway down, like it always did. A slight pause to get the thread matched back up and whoosh, it came off. Both arms were now out, each holding a shotgun, sawed off hastily two nights before under the influence of half a bottle of Jameson and a few shots of tequila.
The only person who saw the guns before they started shooting was her. Her crooked grin that always was plastered on her face disappeared in an instant that stayed with him for the rest of his life, turning into a wide-agape mouth full of sheer terror.
“Blam!” Went the shotgun in his left hand. “Odd,” he thought, “I’m right-handed. Would have thought I would have pulled that trigger first.”
“Blam!” the second gun erupted a split second later.
The first shot had struck her in the arm, nearly taking it off from her shoulder. She looked at it, flapping there. The second shot hit the guy next to her. He was covered in blood before the buckshot hit him from her arm’s explosion. He didn’t have long to notice as his shot blew straight through his head.
Instant death. It’s what he always jokingly asked for, he thought to himself.
Clicking a new round into each gun’s chamber like he was in a John Woo movie, he spun around in time to see his boss ducking under a table, yelling “Shiiiiiiiiiiiit!” The next two shots were for her. Never liked that bitch.
Another round loaded, the last person left in the room was the custodian. He was an old Hispanic guy. Never said much to anyone. And did a horrible job cleaning anything. It baffled him why the old guy was still around. Some kid could be doing his job, for less money, and actually clean the dried up shit off of the toilet bowl. Except for the executive’s bathroom. It was cleaned daily. And the floors waxed every Saturday. It drove him nuts that this bathroom right next to his desk was always closed on Saturdays, forcing a long trek to the back bathrooms and their shit-covered seats.
“Don’t shoot me Jake,” the old man said.
“I ain’t shooting you, Alex,” he said back. “You’re already dead. I’d just be wasting my shots.”
“Mighty kind of you,” he said, ducking into that very bathroom. He heard the old man vomit. The only thing he’d ever seen the old guy eat was leftovers from corporate meetings, so there was no telling what was coming out with the stomach bile.
By now, the cops would be on the way. Johnny was still yelling in his ear about how little fun life was. “Boy was he ever right,” he said out loud.
Walking out the front door, a few people were outside, talking on cell phones.
“Calling the cops?” he asked them.
All froze in their tracks. He laughed manically. He felt good. For the first time in years. The pain in his back was gone. The cancer growing inside him, making his joints ache, his eyes yellow and his muscles atrophy was stopped for a minute. It too was admiring what he was doing, he thought to himself.
A man from the public relations department was pointing his phone oddly.
“Are you fucking filming me?” he screamed, almost channeling Mr. Rotten’s yarble.
“Um. Um. Um. No…” he said meekly.
The blast of the shotgun knocked him over. A direct hit to the chest. Still breathing, he whimpered “No…No…Please. Du…du…don’t do it…”
The second blast took off a leg. The third and fourth his arms.
Still alive, his eyes glazed over a bit. The phone was still in the ad executive’s severed hand.
Laughing, he picked it up, pushed stop on the camera and watched the video. It was from the beginning. This fucker had been watching the whole thing. Was probably going to sell it to ABC or Fox.
“Guess you won’t be getting rich, huh?” he said to the guy’s face.
The ad man spit out a gob of black blood.
“Pretty cool,” he said, walking away.
Before he knew it, he was in his car. Driving west. Always drive west a song had once told him. Or was it a friend? Anyway, if you aren’t driving west, you’re going back. You’re retreating. You’re giving up. So, always drive west.
He drove east to work every day. Well, he did until today. And west to go home. That allowed him to stay sane. For a while.
Now, he saw the sun, falling in front of him. A blood caked cell phone was on his dashboard. Johnny Rotten was yelling at him, too.
“This is not a love song…”
“No fun!”
Over and over. The white ear buds were sticking out of his black hoodie. He swore the girl saw him looking at her – in complete disgust. But he couldn’t be sure. Didn’t really have time to think about it anyway. It would be the last time either of them saw each other, no matter what. The thought of that satisfied him in a way he hadn’t been in a while now. Surprisingly, he paused to bask in that feeling for just a moment. He’d promised himself no distractions. But this was too good to pass up. The warmth of the feeling washed over his entire body, almost like a sunrise on the beach in the winter.
But her voice ended the peace. Like an anvil falling on Wil E. Coyote. “Damn you,” he thought.
It was time.
He reached for the zipper on his hoodie. It stuck halfway down, like it always did. A slight pause to get the thread matched back up and whoosh, it came off. Both arms were now out, each holding a shotgun, sawed off hastily two nights before under the influence of half a bottle of Jameson and a few shots of tequila.
The only person who saw the guns before they started shooting was her. Her crooked grin that always was plastered on her face disappeared in an instant that stayed with him for the rest of his life, turning into a wide-agape mouth full of sheer terror.
“Blam!” Went the shotgun in his left hand. “Odd,” he thought, “I’m right-handed. Would have thought I would have pulled that trigger first.”
“Blam!” the second gun erupted a split second later.
The first shot had struck her in the arm, nearly taking it off from her shoulder. She looked at it, flapping there. The second shot hit the guy next to her. He was covered in blood before the buckshot hit him from her arm’s explosion. He didn’t have long to notice as his shot blew straight through his head.
Instant death. It’s what he always jokingly asked for, he thought to himself.
Clicking a new round into each gun’s chamber like he was in a John Woo movie, he spun around in time to see his boss ducking under a table, yelling “Shiiiiiiiiiiiit!” The next two shots were for her. Never liked that bitch.
Another round loaded, the last person left in the room was the custodian. He was an old Hispanic guy. Never said much to anyone. And did a horrible job cleaning anything. It baffled him why the old guy was still around. Some kid could be doing his job, for less money, and actually clean the dried up shit off of the toilet bowl. Except for the executive’s bathroom. It was cleaned daily. And the floors waxed every Saturday. It drove him nuts that this bathroom right next to his desk was always closed on Saturdays, forcing a long trek to the back bathrooms and their shit-covered seats.
“Don’t shoot me Jake,” the old man said.
“I ain’t shooting you, Alex,” he said back. “You’re already dead. I’d just be wasting my shots.”
“Mighty kind of you,” he said, ducking into that very bathroom. He heard the old man vomit. The only thing he’d ever seen the old guy eat was leftovers from corporate meetings, so there was no telling what was coming out with the stomach bile.
By now, the cops would be on the way. Johnny was still yelling in his ear about how little fun life was. “Boy was he ever right,” he said out loud.
Walking out the front door, a few people were outside, talking on cell phones.
“Calling the cops?” he asked them.
All froze in their tracks. He laughed manically. He felt good. For the first time in years. The pain in his back was gone. The cancer growing inside him, making his joints ache, his eyes yellow and his muscles atrophy was stopped for a minute. It too was admiring what he was doing, he thought to himself.
A man from the public relations department was pointing his phone oddly.
“Are you fucking filming me?” he screamed, almost channeling Mr. Rotten’s yarble.
“Um. Um. Um. No…” he said meekly.
The blast of the shotgun knocked him over. A direct hit to the chest. Still breathing, he whimpered “No…No…Please. Du…du…don’t do it…”
The second blast took off a leg. The third and fourth his arms.
Still alive, his eyes glazed over a bit. The phone was still in the ad executive’s severed hand.
Laughing, he picked it up, pushed stop on the camera and watched the video. It was from the beginning. This fucker had been watching the whole thing. Was probably going to sell it to ABC or Fox.
“Guess you won’t be getting rich, huh?” he said to the guy’s face.
The ad man spit out a gob of black blood.
“Pretty cool,” he said, walking away.
Before he knew it, he was in his car. Driving west. Always drive west a song had once told him. Or was it a friend? Anyway, if you aren’t driving west, you’re going back. You’re retreating. You’re giving up. So, always drive west.
He drove east to work every day. Well, he did until today. And west to go home. That allowed him to stay sane. For a while.
Now, he saw the sun, falling in front of him. A blood caked cell phone was on his dashboard. Johnny Rotten was yelling at him, too.
“This is not a love song…”
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
to be continued...
after aborted attempts, computer is bought, paid for and ready for use.
the blog will continue tomorrow.
thank you for your patience...
the blog will continue tomorrow.
thank you for your patience...
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Three memories
Chapter 1
Three memories haunt me like the vision of the man at the stairs in the movie poster for “The Exorcist”, meaning, they just stay there in my mind.
I guess haunted would be the wrong word to use to describe them. The three all represent failure of some sort, but they also represent hope. Why those three memories have stuck, I do not know. They are all of the same person. All from a time in my life when I have almost no memories. And they all bring smiles and melancholy when I think about them, even almost 30 years later.
The person in them is a girl. Her name is Heather. She was quite possibly the root of all my insanity. Not for anything she did, at least that I can remember. Instead, for the sheer magnitude of importance that I placed on her existence at a very young age.
I knew her, or knew of her at least, for three years. First grade. Second grade. And third grade. I don’t remember talking to her. Or hanging out with her. Nothing. But recent revelations about places I’d been and things I said would certainly not rule out that any of those things actually happened at some point. Maybe even in lots of detail. Probably not, however.
Those years of my life were kind of strange. Setting a tone, I believe, for the rest of them to follow.
I was labeled “smart” early on. And it turned out, I was much smarter than almost all my classmates at the large brick monstrosity of a school that I attended, old and full of rot, this thing was built right after World War I. It doesn’t exist anymore, but that’s ok.
My schooling started at a different school. Why? Because mom taught at the elementary school I was supposed to go to, and she did not want me to have the other kindergarten teacher because she sucked. So, I went to a school actually closer to my house, but not the one I was supposed to go to.
I have one memory of that school. Being in the field beside the school during recess. One guy had just bought Zips shoes. In the commercial, the kid who is wearing them can do all sorts of incredible things. One of them is to leap over a large bush. Well, the kid who got the shoes is bragging he can now do all of those things. Me, being the smartass I was, and still am, pointed at a bush in the yard. It was probably three foot tall, but I am remembering it from a kindergarteners perspective, so I could have been inches tall.
“Jump that, Derek!” I exclaimed.
The kid looked at me with shock. He ended up being the quarterback of the high school football team, but then, he was just a little kid.
“I, I, I, can’t do that,” he said.
“But you said you could do what the guy in the commercial does!” I yelled, puffing my chest in superiority. I had a problem with that as a kid.
“Um. Ok. I’ll try.” Derek finally said.
I was shocked. He’s actually going to do it?
Well, Derek ran right at the thing, leaped in the air and landed squarely in the bush. Got stuck even.
A teacher saw all of this. She rushed over.
“Why did you do that Derek?” she shrieked. Derek had ripped his pants a little and also had a little trickle of blood running down his arm from a branch or something cutting him.
“Randy told me to do it,” he whimpered pointing at me.
I was smiling. Looking around at all the kids. They were looking at me too. I wanted it to be awe. Well, whatever feeling a kindergartener would call it. Instead, they gave me looks of scorn.
“He did do that,” one girl said.
“It’s Randy’s fault!” a fat boy said with enthusiasm.
“Randy, did you tell Derek to do that?”
“Well, he said he could do it, because he’s got Zips on. I wanted to let him know that they really couldn’t give you powers like on TV.”
“Now Randy, you should know better than that. Derek was just proud of his new shoes.”
I looked at Derek. He was crying a little. He smiled at me when the teacher turned her back, sticking out his tongue. Round 1 went to me. Round 2 to Derek. I don’t remember if there was a Round 3. Unless being the school jock in high school was his victory dance. I played soccer. Not a lot of fans of soccer back then. Especially females. This was the South in the 1970s and 1980s, you’ll have to remember.
The next year, I was with a whole other batch of kids at the brick school.
That’s where I met Heather. I guess.
Three memories haunt me like the vision of the man at the stairs in the movie poster for “The Exorcist”, meaning, they just stay there in my mind.
I guess haunted would be the wrong word to use to describe them. The three all represent failure of some sort, but they also represent hope. Why those three memories have stuck, I do not know. They are all of the same person. All from a time in my life when I have almost no memories. And they all bring smiles and melancholy when I think about them, even almost 30 years later.
The person in them is a girl. Her name is Heather. She was quite possibly the root of all my insanity. Not for anything she did, at least that I can remember. Instead, for the sheer magnitude of importance that I placed on her existence at a very young age.
I knew her, or knew of her at least, for three years. First grade. Second grade. And third grade. I don’t remember talking to her. Or hanging out with her. Nothing. But recent revelations about places I’d been and things I said would certainly not rule out that any of those things actually happened at some point. Maybe even in lots of detail. Probably not, however.
Those years of my life were kind of strange. Setting a tone, I believe, for the rest of them to follow.
I was labeled “smart” early on. And it turned out, I was much smarter than almost all my classmates at the large brick monstrosity of a school that I attended, old and full of rot, this thing was built right after World War I. It doesn’t exist anymore, but that’s ok.
My schooling started at a different school. Why? Because mom taught at the elementary school I was supposed to go to, and she did not want me to have the other kindergarten teacher because she sucked. So, I went to a school actually closer to my house, but not the one I was supposed to go to.
I have one memory of that school. Being in the field beside the school during recess. One guy had just bought Zips shoes. In the commercial, the kid who is wearing them can do all sorts of incredible things. One of them is to leap over a large bush. Well, the kid who got the shoes is bragging he can now do all of those things. Me, being the smartass I was, and still am, pointed at a bush in the yard. It was probably three foot tall, but I am remembering it from a kindergarteners perspective, so I could have been inches tall.
“Jump that, Derek!” I exclaimed.
The kid looked at me with shock. He ended up being the quarterback of the high school football team, but then, he was just a little kid.
“I, I, I, can’t do that,” he said.
“But you said you could do what the guy in the commercial does!” I yelled, puffing my chest in superiority. I had a problem with that as a kid.
“Um. Ok. I’ll try.” Derek finally said.
I was shocked. He’s actually going to do it?
Well, Derek ran right at the thing, leaped in the air and landed squarely in the bush. Got stuck even.
A teacher saw all of this. She rushed over.
“Why did you do that Derek?” she shrieked. Derek had ripped his pants a little and also had a little trickle of blood running down his arm from a branch or something cutting him.
“Randy told me to do it,” he whimpered pointing at me.
I was smiling. Looking around at all the kids. They were looking at me too. I wanted it to be awe. Well, whatever feeling a kindergartener would call it. Instead, they gave me looks of scorn.
“He did do that,” one girl said.
“It’s Randy’s fault!” a fat boy said with enthusiasm.
“Randy, did you tell Derek to do that?”
“Well, he said he could do it, because he’s got Zips on. I wanted to let him know that they really couldn’t give you powers like on TV.”
“Now Randy, you should know better than that. Derek was just proud of his new shoes.”
I looked at Derek. He was crying a little. He smiled at me when the teacher turned her back, sticking out his tongue. Round 1 went to me. Round 2 to Derek. I don’t remember if there was a Round 3. Unless being the school jock in high school was his victory dance. I played soccer. Not a lot of fans of soccer back then. Especially females. This was the South in the 1970s and 1980s, you’ll have to remember.
The next year, I was with a whole other batch of kids at the brick school.
That’s where I met Heather. I guess.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
eyes.
“Why won’t you ever go to church with me?” she asked in her floral dress with her little kid all dolled up with a clip-on tie.
“I don’t believe in it all,” I replied groggily from under the beat up old comforter that I won’t throw away despite the stuffing all being at one end.
“You’re god is always a foot away from you,” she sighed then slammed the bedroom door behind her.
It took me a few minutes to realize she was talking about beer. And damn if she wasn’t right. I guess that’s why I loved her, despite the Jesus thing, as I’d come to refer to it. When we met, she didn’t talk about God. She didn’t go to church. Instead, she went to bars. Listened to offensive music. Got tattoos and drank an awful lot.
Now? She went to church. On Tuesdays for lessons. On Wednesdays for “Chicks Night.” On Saturday and Sundays for the big show. We weren’t together during the changeover. She’d dumped me for being too attached to my ex-girlfriend.
That sent me reeling. I drank more after that than I had in a while. But it only lasted a little while.
We met up again months later. She convinced me she was sorry, even though I knew better. I was her constant. She knew I’d take her back whenever she came calling. It wasn’t exactly desperation on my part, but it should has hell looked a lot like that to everyone I knew.
Her eyes just did it to me every single time. She knew this. She used it. God damn they were beautiful. Still the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever had the pleasure of looking into for a long period of time. They haunted me when we weren’t together. Which, I’m guessing will be forever soon.
The first time around, the sex was great. We fucked and fucked and fucked. I didn’t fuck like that when I was 20 years old. I can’t say as a teenager, because I never fucked anybody during those prime fucking years.
She brought something out of me that I guess was always there, but no one else had tapped into.
This time, however, she doesn’t believe in premarital sex. So, we don’t. Hell, she will only give me pecks on the cheek. It’s a strange sensation. Knowing this gorgeous woman is lying next to you in bed, a woman who you know fucks like a banshee, loves every little thing about it, yet you know it isn’t going to happen.
Just like me putting a ring on her finger isn’t going to happen. Which is why this is all doomed. Doomed to fail. Like all the rest of my relationships. Except this one is a known quantity. I or she just needs to make it happen. I’m betting on her doing it before me. She’s been engaged four times. She wants me to be No. 5. I wonder what she does with the rings? I’ve never asked. A sign of weakness, for sure.
She comes back in the room.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I don’t say anything.
“For slamming the door, baby. You know I just get angry when we talk about your drinking.”
“I haven’t drank a single drop in three weeks. There’s nothing in the fridge. I don’t even think about it.”
“But you want to.”
“If I’m not thinking about it, how can I want to?”
“I just know you do. Just like you wish she was here instead of me.”
That just isn’t fair. It’s also not true. It was true. But the one thing I’m going to take out of this relationship is that she doesn’t matter anymore. And by she, I mean the redhead that stole the best years of my life. The one who left me cold. The one who changed the locks because she thought I’d do something stupid. Funny. I never even yelled at her during our relationship. I was scared to death of fighting. A scar from another failed dance. Avoiding conflict does as much damage, if not more, than actual conflict does.
Anyway, the eyes knew they could say anything to me. As long as they looked me deeply. A master manipulator this gal was. I knew it. She knew it. And that was the worst part. When she knows she has the power, she uses it. Keeping her guessing was the right thing to do. And it was us until four months in. Then I told her. And I remember the smile that came across her face. She had me.
Just like she has me now.
Until she’s done.
“I don’t believe in it all,” I replied groggily from under the beat up old comforter that I won’t throw away despite the stuffing all being at one end.
“You’re god is always a foot away from you,” she sighed then slammed the bedroom door behind her.
It took me a few minutes to realize she was talking about beer. And damn if she wasn’t right. I guess that’s why I loved her, despite the Jesus thing, as I’d come to refer to it. When we met, she didn’t talk about God. She didn’t go to church. Instead, she went to bars. Listened to offensive music. Got tattoos and drank an awful lot.
Now? She went to church. On Tuesdays for lessons. On Wednesdays for “Chicks Night.” On Saturday and Sundays for the big show. We weren’t together during the changeover. She’d dumped me for being too attached to my ex-girlfriend.
That sent me reeling. I drank more after that than I had in a while. But it only lasted a little while.
We met up again months later. She convinced me she was sorry, even though I knew better. I was her constant. She knew I’d take her back whenever she came calling. It wasn’t exactly desperation on my part, but it should has hell looked a lot like that to everyone I knew.
Her eyes just did it to me every single time. She knew this. She used it. God damn they were beautiful. Still the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever had the pleasure of looking into for a long period of time. They haunted me when we weren’t together. Which, I’m guessing will be forever soon.
The first time around, the sex was great. We fucked and fucked and fucked. I didn’t fuck like that when I was 20 years old. I can’t say as a teenager, because I never fucked anybody during those prime fucking years.
She brought something out of me that I guess was always there, but no one else had tapped into.
This time, however, she doesn’t believe in premarital sex. So, we don’t. Hell, she will only give me pecks on the cheek. It’s a strange sensation. Knowing this gorgeous woman is lying next to you in bed, a woman who you know fucks like a banshee, loves every little thing about it, yet you know it isn’t going to happen.
Just like me putting a ring on her finger isn’t going to happen. Which is why this is all doomed. Doomed to fail. Like all the rest of my relationships. Except this one is a known quantity. I or she just needs to make it happen. I’m betting on her doing it before me. She’s been engaged four times. She wants me to be No. 5. I wonder what she does with the rings? I’ve never asked. A sign of weakness, for sure.
She comes back in the room.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I don’t say anything.
“For slamming the door, baby. You know I just get angry when we talk about your drinking.”
“I haven’t drank a single drop in three weeks. There’s nothing in the fridge. I don’t even think about it.”
“But you want to.”
“If I’m not thinking about it, how can I want to?”
“I just know you do. Just like you wish she was here instead of me.”
That just isn’t fair. It’s also not true. It was true. But the one thing I’m going to take out of this relationship is that she doesn’t matter anymore. And by she, I mean the redhead that stole the best years of my life. The one who left me cold. The one who changed the locks because she thought I’d do something stupid. Funny. I never even yelled at her during our relationship. I was scared to death of fighting. A scar from another failed dance. Avoiding conflict does as much damage, if not more, than actual conflict does.
Anyway, the eyes knew they could say anything to me. As long as they looked me deeply. A master manipulator this gal was. I knew it. She knew it. And that was the worst part. When she knows she has the power, she uses it. Keeping her guessing was the right thing to do. And it was us until four months in. Then I told her. And I remember the smile that came across her face. She had me.
Just like she has me now.
Until she’s done.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
unhappy anniversary
Five years ago, my life stopped being fun.
Now, I’ve had good times since. I’m not saying that. But it’s always been tempered by this feeling in the back of my brain. This nagging dripping faucet of a memory that won’t fade away fast enough.
I tried drinking it away. That didn’t work. So, I’ve mostly stopped drinking now. An occasional bender with friends is about all I do at this point.
I tried writing about it. A lot. In public forums and in private notepads.
I tried hating.
I tried forgiving.
I tried killing myself.
I tried forgetting.
I tried crying.
I tried nothing.
I guess I’ve tried everything I can think of.
I lost my ability to have fun that day. I became serious. I became lame.
When I look in the mirror now, I see an old man. A guy who gave up for too long.
Why?
I wish I knew.
The days aren’t as long as they used to be.
The nights, well, they’re still lonely.
I’ve been with one other person since then. That’s it. I fell in love too fast for my own good. I adored that girl. But she faded fast. I don’t blame her. She didn’t know what she was getting into. And I didn’t know what I was getting into. I think we both got what we needed out of it.
Now, I’m thinking back on those five years. Not a lot accomplished. A few road trips. A few new friends. A lot of lost friends. And a couple of great friends.
Could be worse.
Could be dead.
Could be in a coma.
Could be married to a woman who doesn’t love me.
Still got my teeth, shockingly so.
Still got some of my health, although I think I wasted most of that, too.
I’ll be 40 in a few weeks.
That’s weird to say. Not because I’m old, because that’s a state of mind. But instead because it means I’ll probably never have a kid. If I had one now, he’d be born when I was almost 41. Graduate high school when I was almost 60. That’s weird.
If I married someone today, we’d hit milestones at milestones. 10 years at 50. 20 years at 60. That’s weird.
My grandparents each made it over 50 years married.
My parents will hit that mark soon. Me? I’d have to live to be 90. Weird.
I think too much about her. I think too much about stuff like what I just typed. It’s not fun. I wish I could stop. It just doesn’t happen. I tell myself every night to stop. I wake up and it pops right back in there and I say it again.
If I had a switch, I’d throw it. If I had a place to cut, I’d slice. If I could drive to that destination, I’d start the car right this mother fucking god damned minute.
Instead, I just live. Day by day. Moment to moment. Each one different than the one before, yet very similar. Too similar, really.
It’s better than it was 5 years ago. Better than it was 4 years ago. Better than it was 3 years ago (except for the sex part). Better than it was 2 years ago. Better than it was a year ago. It’ll be better in a year.
I can, however, still feel exactly how I felt the moment I heard those words. The despair hasn’t left. Not for a moment.
I hope I’m not just holding on to it, for fear of not having it anymore. That is just a scary way to live.
I just think I hold on to things and don’t know how to let go of them.
It just needs to be replaced by something else. Someone else.
All I know is it also has to stop. Every beginning has an end. Every end starts a new. All that clichéd pap…
The past belongs there. It doesn’t belong in the present. Or the future. Yet there it always is. My brain must have some bright spot in it. Or a dark spot. I’d love to see a CAT scan of it. See where that spot is in me, and isn’t in everyone else. Or most everyone else. Who else holds on and won’t let go. Like a scared kid on a roller coaster?
It all starts with something, right? A smile. A frown. A kiss. A touch. A tear. A smell. A glance. A chance.
Unhappy anniversary.
Now, I’ve had good times since. I’m not saying that. But it’s always been tempered by this feeling in the back of my brain. This nagging dripping faucet of a memory that won’t fade away fast enough.
I tried drinking it away. That didn’t work. So, I’ve mostly stopped drinking now. An occasional bender with friends is about all I do at this point.
I tried writing about it. A lot. In public forums and in private notepads.
I tried hating.
I tried forgiving.
I tried killing myself.
I tried forgetting.
I tried crying.
I tried nothing.
I guess I’ve tried everything I can think of.
I lost my ability to have fun that day. I became serious. I became lame.
When I look in the mirror now, I see an old man. A guy who gave up for too long.
Why?
I wish I knew.
The days aren’t as long as they used to be.
The nights, well, they’re still lonely.
I’ve been with one other person since then. That’s it. I fell in love too fast for my own good. I adored that girl. But she faded fast. I don’t blame her. She didn’t know what she was getting into. And I didn’t know what I was getting into. I think we both got what we needed out of it.
Now, I’m thinking back on those five years. Not a lot accomplished. A few road trips. A few new friends. A lot of lost friends. And a couple of great friends.
Could be worse.
Could be dead.
Could be in a coma.
Could be married to a woman who doesn’t love me.
Still got my teeth, shockingly so.
Still got some of my health, although I think I wasted most of that, too.
I’ll be 40 in a few weeks.
That’s weird to say. Not because I’m old, because that’s a state of mind. But instead because it means I’ll probably never have a kid. If I had one now, he’d be born when I was almost 41. Graduate high school when I was almost 60. That’s weird.
If I married someone today, we’d hit milestones at milestones. 10 years at 50. 20 years at 60. That’s weird.
My grandparents each made it over 50 years married.
My parents will hit that mark soon. Me? I’d have to live to be 90. Weird.
I think too much about her. I think too much about stuff like what I just typed. It’s not fun. I wish I could stop. It just doesn’t happen. I tell myself every night to stop. I wake up and it pops right back in there and I say it again.
If I had a switch, I’d throw it. If I had a place to cut, I’d slice. If I could drive to that destination, I’d start the car right this mother fucking god damned minute.
Instead, I just live. Day by day. Moment to moment. Each one different than the one before, yet very similar. Too similar, really.
It’s better than it was 5 years ago. Better than it was 4 years ago. Better than it was 3 years ago (except for the sex part). Better than it was 2 years ago. Better than it was a year ago. It’ll be better in a year.
I can, however, still feel exactly how I felt the moment I heard those words. The despair hasn’t left. Not for a moment.
I hope I’m not just holding on to it, for fear of not having it anymore. That is just a scary way to live.
I just think I hold on to things and don’t know how to let go of them.
It just needs to be replaced by something else. Someone else.
All I know is it also has to stop. Every beginning has an end. Every end starts a new. All that clichéd pap…
The past belongs there. It doesn’t belong in the present. Or the future. Yet there it always is. My brain must have some bright spot in it. Or a dark spot. I’d love to see a CAT scan of it. See where that spot is in me, and isn’t in everyone else. Or most everyone else. Who else holds on and won’t let go. Like a scared kid on a roller coaster?
It all starts with something, right? A smile. A frown. A kiss. A touch. A tear. A smell. A glance. A chance.
Unhappy anniversary.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
yellowy eyes
Sitting on the same bar stool in the same bar on the same nights. That’s the life I’ve chosen for myself. It isn’t particularly exciting. Not too fulfilling. Certainly isn’t very productive in the eyes of society. Not really worried about it either.
My dad used to be proud of me. He’d brag about my exploits in the newspaper business. He doesn’t do that anymore. I sometimes wonder if he even knows how bad it’s gotten out there. It’s mostly been tough choices that I made that I figured would make me happier in the long run. The only part of my life that I’ve ever considered the long term was relationships. Always thinking about the future, forgoing every other thought.
They’ve never panned out.
Which is how I ended up on this bar stool. Most nights. I tend to not come in on weekends. The tourists are bothersome. Their looks of disdain are fueling, but their white teeth and North Face clothing is too much to handle.
On those nights, I sit in a lawn chair outside when it’s warm. On my dirty hand-me-down couch on the cold nights, smothered by my grandmother’s blanket.
You don’t have lofty expectations when you’ve sunk that low. It’s why when I saw her, I thought nothing of it.
She had yellow circles around her eyes. They should have been yield signs. But my mind processed that to mean they weren’t stop signs.
Her laugh was intoxicating. More than the cheap $1.75 drafts of whatever cheap American swill they decided to give folks this week. I asked the barkeep one night why the shitty beer was always different. She answered honestly. Whatever kegs the distributor is trying to peddle quickest. The one’s expiring.
I ordered one for me. One for her.
The barkeep, Kim was her name, was in her early 30s. She had been a bartender in many places over the years. But was now heading down the list. She still looked good in her bikini top and shorts, but time was starting to take its toll. Especially beach time. Too much sun, too much booze and too many late nights without sleep. Still, we enjoyed each other’s company when we could. She also knew I was done trying. At least until I found something worth trying for. And we both knew neither of us were worth trying for. In our own circumstances.
She smiled when the beer was handed off. So did the barkeep. She leaned in and whispered something into her ear. Both of them laughed a long laugh. I only watched the new lady’s laugh.
Eventually she finished the beer. Looked at me right after it was done.
“Another one for the lady,” I said to Kim.
“You got it, sexy. Looks like I’m going home alone tonight, huh?”
“You’re more confident than I.”
“If you ever figured out just how sexy you really are, you’d be unstoppable.”
“You think? Anyway, you and I both know that ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.”
“Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I returned with a clink of cheap bar mugs.
I sat there looking at my beer. Looking at her every so often. She wasn’t worried about me. Yet. The rerun of “Charlie’s Angels” was her focus right now. I had no problem with that. It gave me time to think.
Think about when I’m not so low. Not so shy.
It only happens when I’m happy. When I’m in tow, so to speak.
The first time I noticed it was the week after I got laid for the first time. I was seeing a gal, and I could feel my chest puffing out further than it ever had. My step had a pace to it that it had never had. My posture even improved.
Then I saw her. A really cute girl I’d had a crush on for months. She knew my “girlfriend.” Hell, she’d probably heard about my 11-second mess of a couple nights earlier.
“Hi,” she said with a smile.
“How are you Kami?” I said confidently. Probably for the first time ever.
Taken aback a little, I could tell, she pondered what to say next.
Before I knew it, we’d been talking 10 minutes. Both of us realized this at about the same time -- right after a long laugh.
“Crap, I’ve got to get to class. I’m already late.”
Me being me, suggested “let’s skip and go get a drink.”
“Can’t,” she said. “Gotta go to class.”
I couldn’t believe I just asked a hot number out for a drink. And turned down.
And it didn’t bother me at all.
A few months later, after the relationship ended at a Hooter’s in Jacksonville, Florida, when she hooked up with her husband-to-be I ran into Kami again.
I looked at her. She looked at me, smiled and waved. I nodded my head and kept walking, too scared to say a word.
My dad used to be proud of me. He’d brag about my exploits in the newspaper business. He doesn’t do that anymore. I sometimes wonder if he even knows how bad it’s gotten out there. It’s mostly been tough choices that I made that I figured would make me happier in the long run. The only part of my life that I’ve ever considered the long term was relationships. Always thinking about the future, forgoing every other thought.
They’ve never panned out.
Which is how I ended up on this bar stool. Most nights. I tend to not come in on weekends. The tourists are bothersome. Their looks of disdain are fueling, but their white teeth and North Face clothing is too much to handle.
On those nights, I sit in a lawn chair outside when it’s warm. On my dirty hand-me-down couch on the cold nights, smothered by my grandmother’s blanket.
You don’t have lofty expectations when you’ve sunk that low. It’s why when I saw her, I thought nothing of it.
She had yellow circles around her eyes. They should have been yield signs. But my mind processed that to mean they weren’t stop signs.
Her laugh was intoxicating. More than the cheap $1.75 drafts of whatever cheap American swill they decided to give folks this week. I asked the barkeep one night why the shitty beer was always different. She answered honestly. Whatever kegs the distributor is trying to peddle quickest. The one’s expiring.
I ordered one for me. One for her.
The barkeep, Kim was her name, was in her early 30s. She had been a bartender in many places over the years. But was now heading down the list. She still looked good in her bikini top and shorts, but time was starting to take its toll. Especially beach time. Too much sun, too much booze and too many late nights without sleep. Still, we enjoyed each other’s company when we could. She also knew I was done trying. At least until I found something worth trying for. And we both knew neither of us were worth trying for. In our own circumstances.
She smiled when the beer was handed off. So did the barkeep. She leaned in and whispered something into her ear. Both of them laughed a long laugh. I only watched the new lady’s laugh.
Eventually she finished the beer. Looked at me right after it was done.
“Another one for the lady,” I said to Kim.
“You got it, sexy. Looks like I’m going home alone tonight, huh?”
“You’re more confident than I.”
“If you ever figured out just how sexy you really are, you’d be unstoppable.”
“You think? Anyway, you and I both know that ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.”
“Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I returned with a clink of cheap bar mugs.
I sat there looking at my beer. Looking at her every so often. She wasn’t worried about me. Yet. The rerun of “Charlie’s Angels” was her focus right now. I had no problem with that. It gave me time to think.
Think about when I’m not so low. Not so shy.
It only happens when I’m happy. When I’m in tow, so to speak.
The first time I noticed it was the week after I got laid for the first time. I was seeing a gal, and I could feel my chest puffing out further than it ever had. My step had a pace to it that it had never had. My posture even improved.
Then I saw her. A really cute girl I’d had a crush on for months. She knew my “girlfriend.” Hell, she’d probably heard about my 11-second mess of a couple nights earlier.
“Hi,” she said with a smile.
“How are you Kami?” I said confidently. Probably for the first time ever.
Taken aback a little, I could tell, she pondered what to say next.
Before I knew it, we’d been talking 10 minutes. Both of us realized this at about the same time -- right after a long laugh.
“Crap, I’ve got to get to class. I’m already late.”
Me being me, suggested “let’s skip and go get a drink.”
“Can’t,” she said. “Gotta go to class.”
I couldn’t believe I just asked a hot number out for a drink. And turned down.
And it didn’t bother me at all.
A few months later, after the relationship ended at a Hooter’s in Jacksonville, Florida, when she hooked up with her husband-to-be I ran into Kami again.
I looked at her. She looked at me, smiled and waved. I nodded my head and kept walking, too scared to say a word.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
another song about the rain
“I’m going home,” she said as I sat in my lawn chair watching the storm brewing off the coast.
“Ok, babe. I’ll be fine by myself.”
I watched her get in the station wagon. I loved that old brown bomber. It reminded me of my mom’s old car. The one we piled way too many people into and broke every law in the book on the way to the country club back when I was young. The way we piled in would get you pulled over in a heartbeat today. Mom would be on television explaining why she was such a bad parent. A mom that hated her kids and others’ kids so much that she’d endanger them so much.
“But really, Oprah, all I was doing was taking the kids to the pool. To have some fun. We do it every day just about.”
“But, Mrs. Jones, every time you did it, you might as well have been pointing a loaded gun at their pretty, innocent faces.”
The audience would most likely applaud that riveting bit of preaching by the old battleaxe.
This thought made me smile. The rare memories of childhood for me do that. They’re more like Polaroids than anything else. I think I’ve bashed my head too many times over the years. I was knocked out in the third grade and in college for sure. And all the head butting of friends in high school certainly never did any good. Top that off with at least 150,000 beers and whip-its and the brain, well, it gets a bit mushy.
The station wagon pulls out of the driveway. I stand up and wave with a big grin. She doesn’t wave back. This takes my good mood and throws it in the garbage bin. Sulking, I plop back into my lawn chair. I don’t see them, but in a few seconds the fire ants will make their presence perfectly noticeable by attacking like the Blitzkrieg my poor uncovered feet.
I curse the damn red bastards, smacking at them as I pull away from their lair. Summer is cool and all, but the ants are evil. But I don’t bomb them with chemicals like so many others do. I co-exist. You’d think that we could find some common ground, some kind of truce. But no. They bite me like they bite anyone. It’s annoying, yet reassuring.
Some drizzle finally starts to fall as thunder and lightening start to light up the cloudy sky. The giant anvil clouds tell me that it’s going to be a doozy. The weatherman said it would hit around 7. It’s 4:45 and I’m guessing in 10 minutes the rain will be flowing like Sprite out of a Bojangles’ spigot.
The smell is intoxicating. It’s 90 degrees and what little rain is making it to the ground is evaporating fast. Concrete and asphalt give off an odor that takes me back to better times. I sit and enjoy it, knowing that when the real rain comes, that smell will be chased away. A bolt of lightening strikes the rods on top of the water tower a few blocks away. Mother Nature’s way of telling me something, for sure.
It then dawns on me that “home” for her is 1,000 miles away. I didn’t notice her packing up the station wagon, and with gas hitting $5 a gallon right now, I just figured she was going for a ride. A lot of times I called the road home, and she sort of did too, just not as enthusiastically as me. I got worried. I grabbed my cell phone and pulled up her number. Dialed. I heard it ringing inside the house.
“Time for a beer,” I said, getting out of my rusty chair and going inside. The fridge, as always, was stocked with watermelon and Shiner Bock. My summer staples. I grabbed a hunk of melon and two beers, the door of the fridge and then the screen door on the porch both slammed at the same time as I went back to my favorite spot.
Thoughts started to betray me about 6:30 and eight beers in. A little while later, the rain came like a stampede. I looked at my clock. 7:02. Damn if the weatherman wasn’t right this time. Good for you ol’ Skippy.
Soon, beers 12 and 13 were gone. As was I. The rain was starting to flood the streets and my porch. Too weak to fight it, I passed out in the chair. A loud crack of thunder woke me up sometime later. It was dark out. The power gone. Another flash of lightening lit up the yard. In the driveway was the station wagon. I felt like an ass. Always assuming the worst, and eventually making it happen.
I stood up. The buzz from the beer had long ago faded. Just a dull ache in the left temple now.
I was soaking wet and shivering when I went in our bedroom. She was awake. She looked at me and shook her head.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You looked happy there, wet, cold, miserable.”
I started crying. She stood up.
“Take those wet things off.”
She undressed me as I whimpered. I was ashamed of my mind. Of my thoughts. I only hoped she didn’t know. But how could she not?
“You know, I almost kept driving tonight,” she said as she toweled off my back. I wondered if she was disgusted by the hair on my shoulders.
“But something about that storm told me I was making a mistake.”
“Thank God for rain,” I said, still struggling not to cry.
“Ok, babe. I’ll be fine by myself.”
I watched her get in the station wagon. I loved that old brown bomber. It reminded me of my mom’s old car. The one we piled way too many people into and broke every law in the book on the way to the country club back when I was young. The way we piled in would get you pulled over in a heartbeat today. Mom would be on television explaining why she was such a bad parent. A mom that hated her kids and others’ kids so much that she’d endanger them so much.
“But really, Oprah, all I was doing was taking the kids to the pool. To have some fun. We do it every day just about.”
“But, Mrs. Jones, every time you did it, you might as well have been pointing a loaded gun at their pretty, innocent faces.”
The audience would most likely applaud that riveting bit of preaching by the old battleaxe.
This thought made me smile. The rare memories of childhood for me do that. They’re more like Polaroids than anything else. I think I’ve bashed my head too many times over the years. I was knocked out in the third grade and in college for sure. And all the head butting of friends in high school certainly never did any good. Top that off with at least 150,000 beers and whip-its and the brain, well, it gets a bit mushy.
The station wagon pulls out of the driveway. I stand up and wave with a big grin. She doesn’t wave back. This takes my good mood and throws it in the garbage bin. Sulking, I plop back into my lawn chair. I don’t see them, but in a few seconds the fire ants will make their presence perfectly noticeable by attacking like the Blitzkrieg my poor uncovered feet.
I curse the damn red bastards, smacking at them as I pull away from their lair. Summer is cool and all, but the ants are evil. But I don’t bomb them with chemicals like so many others do. I co-exist. You’d think that we could find some common ground, some kind of truce. But no. They bite me like they bite anyone. It’s annoying, yet reassuring.
Some drizzle finally starts to fall as thunder and lightening start to light up the cloudy sky. The giant anvil clouds tell me that it’s going to be a doozy. The weatherman said it would hit around 7. It’s 4:45 and I’m guessing in 10 minutes the rain will be flowing like Sprite out of a Bojangles’ spigot.
The smell is intoxicating. It’s 90 degrees and what little rain is making it to the ground is evaporating fast. Concrete and asphalt give off an odor that takes me back to better times. I sit and enjoy it, knowing that when the real rain comes, that smell will be chased away. A bolt of lightening strikes the rods on top of the water tower a few blocks away. Mother Nature’s way of telling me something, for sure.
It then dawns on me that “home” for her is 1,000 miles away. I didn’t notice her packing up the station wagon, and with gas hitting $5 a gallon right now, I just figured she was going for a ride. A lot of times I called the road home, and she sort of did too, just not as enthusiastically as me. I got worried. I grabbed my cell phone and pulled up her number. Dialed. I heard it ringing inside the house.
“Time for a beer,” I said, getting out of my rusty chair and going inside. The fridge, as always, was stocked with watermelon and Shiner Bock. My summer staples. I grabbed a hunk of melon and two beers, the door of the fridge and then the screen door on the porch both slammed at the same time as I went back to my favorite spot.
Thoughts started to betray me about 6:30 and eight beers in. A little while later, the rain came like a stampede. I looked at my clock. 7:02. Damn if the weatherman wasn’t right this time. Good for you ol’ Skippy.
Soon, beers 12 and 13 were gone. As was I. The rain was starting to flood the streets and my porch. Too weak to fight it, I passed out in the chair. A loud crack of thunder woke me up sometime later. It was dark out. The power gone. Another flash of lightening lit up the yard. In the driveway was the station wagon. I felt like an ass. Always assuming the worst, and eventually making it happen.
I stood up. The buzz from the beer had long ago faded. Just a dull ache in the left temple now.
I was soaking wet and shivering when I went in our bedroom. She was awake. She looked at me and shook her head.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You looked happy there, wet, cold, miserable.”
I started crying. She stood up.
“Take those wet things off.”
She undressed me as I whimpered. I was ashamed of my mind. Of my thoughts. I only hoped she didn’t know. But how could she not?
“You know, I almost kept driving tonight,” she said as she toweled off my back. I wondered if she was disgusted by the hair on my shoulders.
“But something about that storm told me I was making a mistake.”
“Thank God for rain,” I said, still struggling not to cry.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
just a twat
Good thing my dreams fade away fast. The night was long and vivid. And it was all about her. All about the night she got rid of me. Cast me aside and left me behind. I don’t think she’s looked back yet. No way for me to know, but it’s a safe assumption. Some folks are built that way. I’m not.
The night started as usual. I couldn’t sleep. Tossed and turned. Threw the covers to and fro. Looked at the holes in the curtains that allow the light from the hotel next door to sneak in. Thankfully, they’re not neon lights, so there’s no blinking or awful pink or purple lights. Just straight on white light.
Finally, sleep overcame my mind. But then the mind took over. Six and a half hours I dreamed of the pain, the heartache of that night. And it was all about that night. It was like reliving the aftermath. She wasn’t there, which is the only way it could have been. Instead, she ruled with an iron screwdriver, rusty and cold, piercing my heart. Over and over. In and out. The beats kept coming and the pain didn’t stop.
In the end, the dream blamed me. I assume it’s because I blame myself. Even though I know better.
When I drowsily awoke around 9 in the morning I felt empty. All of it was crystal clear in my head still. The way a dream is. It is like a high definition television when you wake up. Then it starts to disappear. Before you know it, the rabbit ears on the old Sylvania don’t help the transmission and it fades away, finally becoming a small white circle in the center of the screen. And then gone.
I laid there on my mattress thinking I should write this down. Remember it. But I didn’t. I needed to pee, too. But I didn’t.
An hour later, most of it gone, except for the basic theme of hell, I got up and peed. Looked at my shriveled up penis as it filled the bowl with yellow. I laughed. Not really at myself, but at this moment. And I went back to bed.
A few minutes later, I farted. Time to take a shit. Get up, still naked, feeling the cold in the house with the heat set at 59 degrees. The toilet seat welcomed me. I read an article in a tattoo magazine I took from work. Some guy got a tattoo of a politician on his ass. A great political statement. If you’re the mooning type of guy. But otherwise, just a waste of ink.
I shit. It’s long and brown. Wipe. Flush. Wash. I wonder if the water is still tainted. The city sent out a notice to boil it. I haven’t. I don’t brush my teeth with it, but I shower in it. Wash my hands with it. Hell, there could be more shit in the water than on my hands. I laugh again. Simple thoughts seem to have me today.
In the living room, I stare at the bleakness. A couple of lawn chairs serve as furniture. There is the recliner my dad bought me. Brown leather. I’ve sat in in twice. It’s a symbol of something, just don’t know it yet.
I do a quick count. There are three pairs of dirty underwear on the floor. Six pairs of socks. Two shirts. I try to judge the meaning of those numbers.
The bar across the street is in the process of changing over from winter to summer. The picnic tables have reappeared in the courtyard. That means the masses will soon return to my little oasis of loneliness. I think about how depressing of a thought that is. I think about the fact that I think too much. I wonder if any bars are open yet? It’s 10:55 a.m. The perils of living in a small North Carolina town. Bars don’t open early. They close early as well. Not the place for a thinker.
Plopping in a Joe Ely CD, I sit down to write. Wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to write about when I’m in such a strange mood. His generic country doesn’t do anything to inspire. Put Mr. Ely in the “Con” column for inspirational needs.
I think about how hard eight words can sometimes be. I want to get high. There’s no way it’s going to happen. Especially since it’s been longer since I got high than Bukowski’s been dead.
Speaking of Hank, he died 17 years ago. He’d think me a twat. That doesn’t bother me. I think all of my heroes and role models would call me a cunt if I was sitting at a barstool with them. That certainly doesn’t leave me weeping, not as much as my dreams. And I don’t remember my dreams.
The night started as usual. I couldn’t sleep. Tossed and turned. Threw the covers to and fro. Looked at the holes in the curtains that allow the light from the hotel next door to sneak in. Thankfully, they’re not neon lights, so there’s no blinking or awful pink or purple lights. Just straight on white light.
Finally, sleep overcame my mind. But then the mind took over. Six and a half hours I dreamed of the pain, the heartache of that night. And it was all about that night. It was like reliving the aftermath. She wasn’t there, which is the only way it could have been. Instead, she ruled with an iron screwdriver, rusty and cold, piercing my heart. Over and over. In and out. The beats kept coming and the pain didn’t stop.
In the end, the dream blamed me. I assume it’s because I blame myself. Even though I know better.
When I drowsily awoke around 9 in the morning I felt empty. All of it was crystal clear in my head still. The way a dream is. It is like a high definition television when you wake up. Then it starts to disappear. Before you know it, the rabbit ears on the old Sylvania don’t help the transmission and it fades away, finally becoming a small white circle in the center of the screen. And then gone.
I laid there on my mattress thinking I should write this down. Remember it. But I didn’t. I needed to pee, too. But I didn’t.
An hour later, most of it gone, except for the basic theme of hell, I got up and peed. Looked at my shriveled up penis as it filled the bowl with yellow. I laughed. Not really at myself, but at this moment. And I went back to bed.
A few minutes later, I farted. Time to take a shit. Get up, still naked, feeling the cold in the house with the heat set at 59 degrees. The toilet seat welcomed me. I read an article in a tattoo magazine I took from work. Some guy got a tattoo of a politician on his ass. A great political statement. If you’re the mooning type of guy. But otherwise, just a waste of ink.
I shit. It’s long and brown. Wipe. Flush. Wash. I wonder if the water is still tainted. The city sent out a notice to boil it. I haven’t. I don’t brush my teeth with it, but I shower in it. Wash my hands with it. Hell, there could be more shit in the water than on my hands. I laugh again. Simple thoughts seem to have me today.
In the living room, I stare at the bleakness. A couple of lawn chairs serve as furniture. There is the recliner my dad bought me. Brown leather. I’ve sat in in twice. It’s a symbol of something, just don’t know it yet.
I do a quick count. There are three pairs of dirty underwear on the floor. Six pairs of socks. Two shirts. I try to judge the meaning of those numbers.
The bar across the street is in the process of changing over from winter to summer. The picnic tables have reappeared in the courtyard. That means the masses will soon return to my little oasis of loneliness. I think about how depressing of a thought that is. I think about the fact that I think too much. I wonder if any bars are open yet? It’s 10:55 a.m. The perils of living in a small North Carolina town. Bars don’t open early. They close early as well. Not the place for a thinker.
Plopping in a Joe Ely CD, I sit down to write. Wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to write about when I’m in such a strange mood. His generic country doesn’t do anything to inspire. Put Mr. Ely in the “Con” column for inspirational needs.
I think about how hard eight words can sometimes be. I want to get high. There’s no way it’s going to happen. Especially since it’s been longer since I got high than Bukowski’s been dead.
Speaking of Hank, he died 17 years ago. He’d think me a twat. That doesn’t bother me. I think all of my heroes and role models would call me a cunt if I was sitting at a barstool with them. That certainly doesn’t leave me weeping, not as much as my dreams. And I don’t remember my dreams.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
powerball
I came home like every other night. Pulled the car into the driveway, cringed a little bit at the cool breeze coming off the ocean, then checked my mailbox.
It’s not very often that anything interesting is in there. If I got something off the internet, maybe a cool album or a tourist brochure. Other than that, it’s junk mail and bills. I’ve noticed the credit card offers don’t flood it anymore. A product of a tighter economy, I’m sure. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the companies see me not using the one’s I have anymore, and have figured out that maybe this dumb ass has finally figured out the game is rigged, so why bother.
The mailbox is a black piece of plastic sitting on top of a piece of wood. It gets hit occasionally by the Cougars and MILFs that populate the shag bar across the street from my house. Before you get all wound up, it’s shag as in dance, not as in putting the penis in the va-jay-jay.
Inside, the place smells a bit like burnt sausage. I made some two days ago, guess it’s still lingering in the late winter chicken coop that is my house. The windows don’t get to be opened quite enough to let out the smell of a 40 year old bachelor. Frightening stuff, really.
I plop down on my couch and smile just a little as I look around. My transformation of this house from a crappy, dingy, way-too-rented out place to my own private Scatman Cruthers’ bad-ass bachelor sinkhole is nearly complete.
My green couch is straight out of the 1970s. So is the bar with just enough full bottles of Whiskey and Scotch to be inviting to anyone. All it really needs is a nice framed piece of sexy blaxploitation-era art to go over the couch, and of course, the bed. All in good time, my friend, I think to myself. One day the gods will shine down upon me and allow such silliness. Now? It’s pay the bills. Pay the bills. Dave Mustaine echoes in my brain… “Whaddya mean I don’t pay my bills? Why do ya think I’m broke! Huh!”
The funny thing is I think about those days, when I’ll be debt-free and anchor-free. Shit, I’ve thought about them for almost 14 years now. When the bills got so damn high I felt that I was going to drown under them, and the non-truths you have to tell to keep that kind of a thing a secret.
But was it really ever a secret?
The lottery hit $300 million today. In the office, it was a subject of the same old conversation that everyone has about the lottery when it gets that high. Much like the same conversation you have about the weather with people you don’t really like.
“It sure is sunny out?”
“Yep. Sure is.”
“Hope it stays that way for a while.”
“Probably won’t. It’s March.”
“What would you do with all that money?”
“Pay off my debts.”
“But a house.”
“Quit this place.”
All completely valid answers. All complete clichés.
I pointed this out to everyone with a scowl. I said if you win that much money, of fucking course you’ll pay off your debts and all that. You’ll buy your dream car. You’ll go on your dream vacation.
But fucking then what?
“Well, Mr. Smart Ass. What would you do with that money?” finally one of the uptight, horrible editors we have piped in, looking straight at me with a fucking “Ha-Ha-Ha!” smile on her face.
I pulled up my pants the best way I could without looking like a young Wilfred Brimley and looked her right in the eye. She kind of shriveled up at the sight of me. Kind of like a penis does when it gets cold and the girl your with says she’s a dude.
“I’d pay porn star Smokie Flame to just give me a blow job on film for three days straight,” I said.
“Gross.”
“What a guy thing to say.”
"You'd get bored," a female co-worker who I'd guess has never given a blow job before says.
I'm impressed with her answer and give him the Harvey Keitel coffee mug look to show my appreciation for a well thought out retort.
“Whoah, who is Smokie Flame,” my boss said, clearly impressed with my answer.
“She’s this redhead who makes really strange sounds when she fucks. Almost retarded like. But, I don’t want to be labeled as some guy that wants to fuck retards, cause, I’m not. They most certainly won’t compare me to the beer in hell guy.”
“Yes they will,” the blonde shit stain of an editor said to me. “That is just so rude.”
“Yep, and for the kind of money I’d be offering, she’d do it. You can watch. Just not in the room. I’ll set up Skype for ya.”
She slammed her door closed on that note. Randy 1, Blonde bitch boss 0.
“What would you do, Richard?” I asked my boss, who was now looking at “safe” Google search images of one Smokie Flame.
“I’d buy this place, and fire that bitch.”
“Yeah, but think of the better ways to spend it, and still accomplish the same thing. I mean, take out gay want ads, but make them full-page color double trucks. Turning down that kind of advertising dollar might just get one fired.”
“You’re fucked in the head, dude.”
“Yeah, and it only gets worse every single day.”
I look down at my lottery ticket. Numbers are 11, 19, 27, 9, 23 and a power ball of 7. Or mega ball, whichever damn poor tax I paid.
I look up at the blank space on my wall behind my Scatman couch. I imagine Smokie Flame there instead of a Pam Grier wannabe. Hope I don’t get an ax in my torso before I can make it all come true.
It’s not very often that anything interesting is in there. If I got something off the internet, maybe a cool album or a tourist brochure. Other than that, it’s junk mail and bills. I’ve noticed the credit card offers don’t flood it anymore. A product of a tighter economy, I’m sure. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the companies see me not using the one’s I have anymore, and have figured out that maybe this dumb ass has finally figured out the game is rigged, so why bother.
The mailbox is a black piece of plastic sitting on top of a piece of wood. It gets hit occasionally by the Cougars and MILFs that populate the shag bar across the street from my house. Before you get all wound up, it’s shag as in dance, not as in putting the penis in the va-jay-jay.
Inside, the place smells a bit like burnt sausage. I made some two days ago, guess it’s still lingering in the late winter chicken coop that is my house. The windows don’t get to be opened quite enough to let out the smell of a 40 year old bachelor. Frightening stuff, really.
I plop down on my couch and smile just a little as I look around. My transformation of this house from a crappy, dingy, way-too-rented out place to my own private Scatman Cruthers’ bad-ass bachelor sinkhole is nearly complete.
My green couch is straight out of the 1970s. So is the bar with just enough full bottles of Whiskey and Scotch to be inviting to anyone. All it really needs is a nice framed piece of sexy blaxploitation-era art to go over the couch, and of course, the bed. All in good time, my friend, I think to myself. One day the gods will shine down upon me and allow such silliness. Now? It’s pay the bills. Pay the bills. Dave Mustaine echoes in my brain… “Whaddya mean I don’t pay my bills? Why do ya think I’m broke! Huh!”
The funny thing is I think about those days, when I’ll be debt-free and anchor-free. Shit, I’ve thought about them for almost 14 years now. When the bills got so damn high I felt that I was going to drown under them, and the non-truths you have to tell to keep that kind of a thing a secret.
But was it really ever a secret?
The lottery hit $300 million today. In the office, it was a subject of the same old conversation that everyone has about the lottery when it gets that high. Much like the same conversation you have about the weather with people you don’t really like.
“It sure is sunny out?”
“Yep. Sure is.”
“Hope it stays that way for a while.”
“Probably won’t. It’s March.”
“What would you do with all that money?”
“Pay off my debts.”
“But a house.”
“Quit this place.”
All completely valid answers. All complete clichés.
I pointed this out to everyone with a scowl. I said if you win that much money, of fucking course you’ll pay off your debts and all that. You’ll buy your dream car. You’ll go on your dream vacation.
But fucking then what?
“Well, Mr. Smart Ass. What would you do with that money?” finally one of the uptight, horrible editors we have piped in, looking straight at me with a fucking “Ha-Ha-Ha!” smile on her face.
I pulled up my pants the best way I could without looking like a young Wilfred Brimley and looked her right in the eye. She kind of shriveled up at the sight of me. Kind of like a penis does when it gets cold and the girl your with says she’s a dude.
“I’d pay porn star Smokie Flame to just give me a blow job on film for three days straight,” I said.
“Gross.”
“What a guy thing to say.”
"You'd get bored," a female co-worker who I'd guess has never given a blow job before says.
I'm impressed with her answer and give him the Harvey Keitel coffee mug look to show my appreciation for a well thought out retort.
“Whoah, who is Smokie Flame,” my boss said, clearly impressed with my answer.
“She’s this redhead who makes really strange sounds when she fucks. Almost retarded like. But, I don’t want to be labeled as some guy that wants to fuck retards, cause, I’m not. They most certainly won’t compare me to the beer in hell guy.”
“Yes they will,” the blonde shit stain of an editor said to me. “That is just so rude.”
“Yep, and for the kind of money I’d be offering, she’d do it. You can watch. Just not in the room. I’ll set up Skype for ya.”
She slammed her door closed on that note. Randy 1, Blonde bitch boss 0.
“What would you do, Richard?” I asked my boss, who was now looking at “safe” Google search images of one Smokie Flame.
“I’d buy this place, and fire that bitch.”
“Yeah, but think of the better ways to spend it, and still accomplish the same thing. I mean, take out gay want ads, but make them full-page color double trucks. Turning down that kind of advertising dollar might just get one fired.”
“You’re fucked in the head, dude.”
“Yeah, and it only gets worse every single day.”
I look down at my lottery ticket. Numbers are 11, 19, 27, 9, 23 and a power ball of 7. Or mega ball, whichever damn poor tax I paid.
I look up at the blank space on my wall behind my Scatman couch. I imagine Smokie Flame there instead of a Pam Grier wannabe. Hope I don’t get an ax in my torso before I can make it all come true.
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