An economics major...

Six Miller High Lifes in my belly, I decided to go down to the beach. I wasn’t drunk, but I had a good buzz in my head. Nothing too special, nothing to out of the ordinary. I just wanted to go see the ocean.

The drizzle marked up my glasses in a hurry. I looked down at my $2 Wal-Mart flip flops and tossed them into the weeds that make up my yard. No reason to slip and break my ankle right now. No insurance.

Getting fired does that to a person.

I walk down and notice how quiet everything is. I don’t notice that enough, sitting in front of my computer. Going to the same six web sites over and over, hoping for a conversation with friends who have long ago moved on from being my friend.

The sky isn’t cloudy, it’s murky. I see a few stars busting out of the mist. I look at them in awe.

The houses are mostly empty. The summer is nearly over. Just two weekends until Labor Day. Then everything will start closing up shop.

I won’t be here anymore. My last day here will be August 31. A Friday. I guess I’m excited.

I get to the beach and I marvel at how empty it is. I love it like this. I realize how little in the last year I’ve taken the time to come down here and revel in it.

When I first moved to the beach, I was here every night. I got off work, then in April, and walked to the shore. I always had a beer with me. Sometimes a few.

I’d sit in the sand and watch.

The waves. The people. The clouds. Whatever was there.

The boardwalk was always empty. A sexy lady would be working the bar at the TBT, but I’d never go in. Sometimes she’d wink at me. Wave me in. I always pulled out my pockets when this happened. My “I’m a hobo” moment. Or statement. Whichever you like better.

She’d always wave me in anyways.

I wonder what would have happened if I’d gone in?

I don’t think I would have ended up much differently, really. So, chalk it up as a lost chance. A missed opportunity.

I’ve had a lot of those over the years.

I think about my key. I placed on top of the carport when I left a few minutes ago. What the fuck, I thought. My stuff is packed. I’m leaving. Who cares if someone robs me now.

It’d be fitting, really.

I’ve thrown away more stuff than I did in the great purge of 2008. Of course, that was just my writing. How stupid was that? Hemingway would look at me and shake his head. His woman lost his writing. I threw mine away because of a woman. Hell, there isn’t much difference in the end.

The ocean slashes away at the shore. If man wasn’t here, the beach would be hundreds of feet the other direction by now. But, we’ve got houses here now, so, it stays. Until it wants to really move. Then it moves. Houses be damned.

It’s a fucking sandbar people. If you build here, you should expect it to fall.

That never goes over well with property owners.

Anywhere really.

I’ve never owned. Except for that car I bought.

It already has a dented bumper and scratched up paint. Character points.

One day, I may actually own it myself. Just $5,800 more to go.

Debt enslaves you. I wish someone had told me that when I was young. Instead, I watched my parents buy too much. And I thought it was normal. I thought I’d find a great job and it would all be all right. Then, I realized it wasn’t going to happen. So, I decided I’d find a rich lady and she’d make it all right. That didn’t happen either.

Now, I’m still a drunk. Who thinks he can write, but never does and I still have credit card debt.

And I was an Economics major.

Ha.

It’s unrealistic of me to expect much out of myself.

Unless I apply myself. Then it’s pretty impressive.

I can’t type well anymore. My carpel tunnels is deep and ingrained. My hands get tired.

I noticed that the other night while interviewing someone for the first time in over three years. I couldn’t keep up. Kind of like sex. I have good intentions, but they seem to go awry most of the time nowadays. The belief is still there. The effort is still there. But the results aren’t. I guess this is how a 30-year-old NFL running back feels. Unless he was lucky, and sat out a few years because of an injury or dumb coach. I always think of Otis Anderson.

My throat is dry. You drink shitty beer all night, that’s what happens. No matter if you eat a fucking fantastic meal – which I’ve managed to do the last two nights – or not.

I hate shitty beer. But I like getting drunk. I used to like both. But, I got refined. I got cultured. Fuck that, I got a little bit of the “good life” and I don’t like going backwards. Who does, really? Unless backwards means the best fuck of your life. And damn, I was 21 years old when that happened. On my childhood bed even.

The things you remember.

I know she probably doesn’t think of me. That pig-tailed girl with doe eyes and ab muscles before they were cool.

A redhead was working at the bar across the street tonight. She wasn’t attractive. She had an awful voice too. But she was staring me down. And I looked back.

I’d never have done a thing, even if she came over and said “Your dick, my mouth.” Which really, is just something some guy would write in a letter to Penthouse.

I’m in love. But I’m scared. And that scares me.

Does that make sense?

I hope so. Because I’m scared and don’t want to be.

lines

I guess I’m supposed to write now.

All I have is time.

No job. No kids. No responsibilities.

So, I sit and stare at a television instead.

Or I attempt to read a book. I made it to page 10 of 447.

I ate some cheese and peperoni on corn tortillas.

Drank some water.

Watched a dog stare at me.

Watched another dog roll around in the freshly cut grass.

Now the dogs are asleep.

And I’m staring at a computer screen.

My carpel tunnels doesn’t hurt as much since my job ended.

I need to go pack up the rest of my stuff. But my girlfriend seems to want me to hang around here.

Doing nothing.

I wonder how long before she’ll start to get antsy.

We love each other. I know that. But when one of the two is being a bum, it grows old.

Fast.

I have money to survive for quite a while.

It’s weird feeling that way.

I won’t get unemployment this time.

And I think that’s for the better.

I didn’t get hungry enough to lower my expectations until the checks stopped coming.

Of course, the irony was, the day after I took a job, the checks started coming again.

I guess the checks never actually came. I got a debit card.

They charged you for checking the balance on it.

That made me laugh.

I checked the balance once.

It had more than two dollars on it when I stopped using it.

I wonder where that money ends up?

Does someone get it?

Or do I always have an account with two bucks and some change in it?

The card is expired. So you can’t use it anymore.

Maybe there is some guy in a cubicle who has figured out his Superman III/Office Space way of a quick buck?

He’s collecting all the scraps off of expired debit cards from unemployed folk. Most of which probably never got a decent job again.

I see friends and former friends and never were my friends who have taken jobs not doing what they used to do.

Some do contract work.

Some flip burgers.

Some sit at home and lament the fact they didn’t network better or get the right skills for the current economy.

I said it’s all bullshit.

If you know someone who runs a company, and they like you, you’ll get a job.

If you don’t know anyone in a company, you probably won’t get a job.

Unless you’re lucky.

Or God damn good.

And that usually doesn’t matter.

I have been bitter before.

I don’t want to be bitter again.

I’d rather be better.

Ugh.

If you think, you live better.

If you just exist, you don’t live.

I want to get in my car and drive west. See a state I haven’t seen. I think I may do that. Just to stop the monotony of life.

I applied for a job as a security guard today.

I probably won’t get it.

I most likely won’t get a call back.

If I do, I won’t channel Chinaski.

Unless the person interviewing me has nice legs.

Then I won’t be able to help it.

Television is numbingly bad.

It always has been.

It’s not like there was some great time in the past when it was a good thing.

It’s always been an opiate for the masses.

Something to placate them.

Keep them inside.

If you go outside, you’ll see just how bad things are.

Except on your cul-de-sac in the suburbs.

Two cars and three kids.

A dog and a cat that get along.

Sex once a week.

Sounds like a prison to me.

Except for the sex.

If I was in prison, I’m pretty sure I’d have sex more often.

Not that I’m pretty or anything.

But I ain’t tough.

It’s why I’ll live in a box on Broadway in Hopewell, Virginia, before I do anything to go to prison.

Of course, being homeless can get you sent to jail. Which seems very odd.

Land of the free and all.

Why can’t I be free of a residence?

A job?

A career?

A family?

A dog, cat, snake, etc?

Maybe it’s because you don’t believe in God?

Nah, lots of people don’t believe in God. Even when they say they do.

If you actually believed, you’d do more. You’d help. You’d be selfless.

But, instead, you buy stuff at Best Buy and ignore the homeless guy right outside.

You keep your sunglasses on so he can’t make eye contact.

But he knows.

And so does He.

If he exists.

I don’t think He does.

But I can’t be sure.

Until I’m dead.

Then I’ll know.

It’ll suck if I was wrong.

But, it’ll suck if I’m right.

Maybe if I had done a porno when I was younger life would be different?

I could Google myself and see it.

Just like an employer.

I got rid of my Myspace page because of that.

But I leave up a blog. That isn’t kind to me or others.

And I don’t care.

I started an on-line career assessment test yesterday.

After getting half-way through, I gave up.

I don’t want a career anymore.

I want to get paid to do something cool.

Even if it’s standing on the curb and selling Coronas to tourists.

There are worse things to do.

Like working for a newspaper that hasn’t had news in it for years.

Lots of press releases and opinions by “writers” who can’t tell the difference between “your”, “you’re” and such.

Eating a sandwich on a sunny day is not sultry.

Fucking a watermelon isn’t going to give you AIDS.

How come it’s so hard to lose arm fat?

And spare tires?

But legs get skinny fast?

Boxes will sit full for months. Never looked at. Never touched.

They are full of memories and money spent.

Is that all there is?

Is this all there is?

Are you all there is?

Am I all I am?

Scary to think it.

Not pretty at all.