I want my bacon

The process of losing friends is a funny one. You usually never know why it happens until after the fact, and then it’s downright sad to think that you could ever have lost a friend because of something so silly.

It can be falling love with someone else. It can be getting a job far away. I can be a single comment taken the wrong way. It can be jealousy over a job. Over money. Over an accomplishment.

One thing that it always means is you just really weren’t friends to begin with.


A wrapper from an old Kit Kat bar sits on the table. Being a diabetic, he couldn’t remember the last time he ate one. But there was a wrapper, staring back at him. Almost mockingly.

His old lamp was full of beer caps. Years worth of collecting led to that lamp finally being full. Each cap different than the next. Yet it’s hard to enjoy it now. Simply because he can no longer drink beer. Hell, drink anything fun. It’s V8 juice and water and homemade smoothies from now until the day he joins Jack Lalane in the ground.


“I’ve got to get out of here,” he thought sitting in his cubicle.

He hadn’t really moved in the last three hours. And certainly hadn’t done any work. But this is what his boss wants. Sometimes he believes it’s actually punishment for some sin done to the Napoleonic bastard.

“If you can’t do anything to fix the problem, don’t complain about it,” a co-worker said softly to another, but with just enough bile in the inflection that the meaning was conveyed.

“It is what it is,” was the boss’ favorite saying. He never fixed any problem. He let them fester and fill with puss. He was miserable, and he wanted everyone else to be so too.

“Fuck it,” was another favorite.

Somehow, the publisher never saw this side of him. Or if he did, chose to ignore it because he did plow through a lot of work. Unbelievably, he never was called on his stealing of ideas or images or words from others, snide comments from me notwithstanding.

Karma’s a funny bitch. Sometimes she bites you quick and you move on, other times she just slowly jabs you with a knife, inching it further and further into your gut with a dirty blade. Oh how I wish she’d turn her attention elsewhere for a while. But, I guess one gets what one deserves. And now, this is what I deserve.


The fog settled in on the island. The warm February days were still not normal for her. The water was cold and the days when the temps dipped back to the 20s made damn sure she wouldn’t feel normal for a while.

Today? It’s supposed to be 70 degrees with severe thunderstorms.

“Maybe a tornado will come and fucking wipe that shithole off the face of the planet,” he thought casually about the place of employment. “Maybe a bit harsh,” he continued to think, “but dammit, it may be the only way to get out of there alive.”


“Have you ever fucked in a booth in a Denny’s?” she asked with all seriousness.

“Nah,” he said. “But I’d sure give it a go.”

“Awkward,” she said with a snort. “We’re in a Waffle House.”
“Who said I wanted to fuck you?” he said, trying to be funny but knowing before the words finished coming out of his mouth that he’d regret them.

“Oh really,” she snapped. “That hard on you had last night while we were watching “Full House” was because of the Olsen Twins then?”

Blood rushed to my face. I could feel it. I’d pretty much thought that my strategic placing of a pillow moments after the erection saved me this embarrassment. But alas, she was once again, smarter and quicker than me.

It’s why I dug her so.

“I’ve always been a Bob Saget kind of guy,” I replied.

“Weak,” she said. “If you’d said Joey Gladstone I would have blown you in the parking lot.”

“Kind of like knowing the name of the guy who played Matt Houston,” I replied.

“What? Lee Horsely? The poor man’s Tom Selleck?”

“Dammit.”

“You know you love it.”

“More than you know.” Once again, too much information coming from my mouth.

“I think I’ve got a pretty good read on you Mr. Jones. And you have no reason to be worried. I like you too.”

“You want to get out of this place?”

“No, not yet. I want my bacon.”

memphis in may

The half empty/half full debacle. I’ve always tried my damnedest to be optimistic about things, yet I seem to fall into pessimism pretty fast.

Take my upcoming birthday, for example. I’d planted the seeds for it back in 2007. Sitting in a bar one night with a bunch of my best friends. We all agreed to be there. I figured a couple would actually make it. I then spread the word to other friends, and it took on some kind of epic status.

Now, as the date is just a little over a month away, it appears all but two of my friends that aren’t already in New Orleans are going to bail on me.

Promises just ain’t what they used to be. I mean, I get it that shit happens and life changes and all that. But damn, this was something I thought could get some far off friends back together. Now, all I hear is excuses. Only one of which flies.

Oh well, the couple of people that show up will have a good time at least. And I hope I can find a way to as well. Shit, I’ve been disappointed by life for so long now I kind of expect it. I don’t want to expect it, but I do sometimes. This time, I had faith in people. So much so I spent over $700 bucks already to make it happen.

Shitty.

Maybe I’ll just find a hooker.

I’ll stop now. You don’t want to read this drivel.

***

Memphis in May.

I started writing a nice story here. Then my fucking computer just shut down. It does that now. It’s quite aggravating. Another obstacle to sanity.

Luckily for me, unluckily for you, it saved the top part. And the title of what I was beginning to write. I guess I’ll try again…

We agreed to meet in Memphis in May.

It seemed like such a grand idea. Especially mired in what had to be the worst winter that I’ll ever have to live through. Cold all the time. Snowing and icing every other fucking week. The freezing wind that blows off the ocean every, single night and day. And the loneliness of being somewhere fantastic by yourself.

The question was spur of the moment. The way it always was with her. I just blurted it out in a Facebook post. She responded, like she always did, in the positive. This is how it’s always been. First it was MySpace. Now it’s Facebook. It’s hard to remember what she sounds like, since almost all communication comes via these fucking social network sites.

I made a reservation. Flying in at noon. She said she did, too, but never gave a time.

I got a hotel room. With a view of the Mississippi flowing.

I showed up on time.

She never bothered.

I called. She didn’t answer.

I sent an unanswered text.

E-mail and postings didn’t bring a response.

So, instead of moping round, I went out to Beale Street. Checked into a small club. It was dark, smoky and not crowded at all. I slipped into a chair, left side of the stage and ordered a beer.

The waitress was tall, thin and black haired. I wondered her age in the dark. I guessed 23. When she stepped into the light, I could tell it was more like 35. A tattoo adorned her right arm, from top to bottom. The lowcut green shirt she wore showed off another on her right breast. I thought about fucking her for about 10 seconds, then the lights went out and a small lady appeared on stage.

She plopped down on a stool, holding an upright bass. She began strumming it softly, picking up the pace with every finger pluck.

Her hair was dark and curly, her eyes were big and blue -- the mesmerizing kind.

I listened to the notes. I heard her voice sing. Before I knew it, three hours had passed away.

As the lady left the stage, she stopped by my table with a smile.

“The bar’s closing, darling,” she cooed in a Southern way. “Would you like to get a drink?”

I couldn’t say much to this woman out of my class. I’d been stood up, I told her, and just had to get outside.

She smiled and took my hand, writing with her pen. She drew a heart with arrows piercing through my skin. Next she took out a piece of paper, writing something down.

“Don’t look at it till tomorrow. Only then will it mean something.”