Sober, even

 Jesus, the Dave Matthews Band! Is all I can think. I’m sitting in my kid’s dentist office when I notice that I’ve listened to an entire DMB song.

I can’t say it’s the first time, as I think it happened by accident somewhere in my past, but it sure as hell ain’t the third time. It was always somewhat of a badge of honor, being a graduate of the University of Virginia (read as nasally as possible) during the years of 1989 to 1993, and an extra year of being in C’ville while one girl broke my heart and I started another down a path that ended with me breaking hers…

“Does it always go back to a woman, Randy?”

Apparently.

There is ice on the ground and it’s cold as shit outside. I don’t know how I ended up this far north.

“North Carolina is north, Randy?”

Apparently to me it is.

I left Virginia in 1994 to go to Arizona. I remember being in shorts all year long, even on those rare below freezing nights at the bar, that would almost always lead to at least 50, but most likely 70-degree days.

After that, New Orleans. For not long enough. I still dream of that place. Just how magical it was. And just how much I seemed to fuck up the possibility of living there permanently.

“If you’re honest with yourself Randy, you’d probably be dead if you’d stayed.”

Yeah, probably. But damn never really knowing.

I know things wouldn’t have worked out, in my mind it was beyond repair. The redhead wasn’t the cause, she was just there at just the right time.

“Right time?”

Hell, I don’t know how to articulate anything. I’ve never been any good at talking about it, mostly because there was never anyone to listen to me. Not having “die for me” friends, is you don’t get to have those conversations. Internally, yes. But that really doesn’t help.

Eight sessions with a therapist. That’s it.

“I think we should have talked about her,” was her last words to me. That kind of scared me away from therapy. Shouldn’t have. But it did. That and using all my EAP on those sessions and getting laid off for the first time just weeks later.

Two years later, I had shittier insurance. But, I didn’t take advantage of 8 more EAP sessions.

Today, I’m working on myself again. I have too much baggage. I want to do the John Cusack thing, but I think most of the people I want to talk to would be like “who the fuck are you?” except one, who would be “get the fuck away from me.”

Funny. Not funny.

I downloaded any app. Those Instagram ads really work, I tell ya.

A few sessions in, lots of close to tears writing and AI responses and it dawned on me that yep, I need a therapist. Seriously don’t want all of my baggage being absorbed by AI and spit out back at me. I’d guess one day, my AI buddy would suggest a beer, a bullet and a bye-bye. So, doing a quick Google search brought me a bunch of options. But how do you pick a therapist nowadays. Too many options. Too many fake reviews. And who wants to lay it all out, then find out you picked a shithead. Then have to do it all again?

Eh. You are a coward.

“This beating myself up, isn’t helping.”

Thank you mind for pointing out the obvious as I sit here listening to Lucero, not drinking and trying to justify gaining 13 pounds in the last three weeks.

It’s cold.

Been working at home.

New job.

Terror. (GWB voice, please)

I want to get in my car and drive. South. West. Not North. Can’t go much more East.

I had tickets to the Glossary reunion show in Nashville. No one wanted to go with. Then, snow back-to-back weekends and the chance of going solo died in icy roads.

My mom has been gone almost 3 years now. That’s a skull splitter for me. It seems like yesterday. Nothing else seems like yesterday anymore.

Not the breakups. Not the miscarriages. Not the lies. Not the truths. Not even the good times. They’re faded. I think my early stage dementia is real. I have really hard times with words – but only when speaking. I really loathe speaking. Unless I’m drunk. And I don’t get drunk anymore.

I am also promising myself to get off the phone. I’m deleting apps as soon as I reach the end of this typing road. I wonder if I’ll stay committed to finally doing this again?

Sober, even.

By the way, copilot things I should write that “I am considering whether I will remain dedicated to undertaking this task once more.”

How the hell do you follow that with “Sober, even.”???

Drinking hurts now. Maybe that’s fitting. The hurt now lives elsewhere. It’s pretty to think so. Ha!

a little bit older ...

First impressions stick with me. And I’m sure the first impression most folks get from me sticks most of the time as well. How do I know this? Because there are very few people who I couldn’t stand initially that I can stand now, and there are even fewer folks that couldn’t stand me at first who do now.

I saw him standing against the brick wall entrance of the football practice field at South Carolina’s athletic facility. He was wearing a just a little too tight black shirt and jeans. His muscly arms protruded out of the shirt, I’m sure with the desired effect. In his hands was a bible. This was Kelvin Smith.

Many of my newspaper colleagues had warned me of this certain buffoon. That I’d certainly not enjoy being around him. Now, I don’t mind the person that tosses about bible verses and believes that God is going to come one day and judge us all. That’s their prerogative. I do, however, hate folks that preach it but don’t even come close to living it.

“Hey there,” he said to me as I walked up with the sports information intern. “I’m Kelvin.”

“Randy,” I said, putting out my hand to shake. It was not returned.

“What paper do you work for?” he asked.

“The Urinal,” I replied.

“Ha! That’s what we all call it,” Kelvin smirked. “Who are you here to talk with?”

Now, I’d heard he likes to mooch off of other’s story ideas, so I wasn’t about to give mine away. I actually had a little tidbit of information about a certain player’s off field habit of collecting moths that I didn’t really want to give away, seemed weird enough to make a good story. So I lied.

“Just the normal suspects,” I said. “Coach, running back, quarterback. Think I may just do a scouting report story. Maybe a notebook today.”

“Cool, cool,” Kelvin said. “I was going to talk to the quarterback too. He threw for almost 250 yards last week. Pretty impressive.”

“Yeah, in a 33-7 loss. How impressive is that?” I thought to myself. God damn jock-sniffer.

I had on a shirt from my old Arizona State University days because it was laundry night for me. Kelvin looked at it and asked “Did you know Pat Tillman? I’m good buddies with Lawrence Cooper here on the team!”

“Yeah, I covered ASU when Pat was there,” I replied. “Certainly wasn’t a buddy with him. But we respected each other. Had a couple of good conversations with him.”

“Me and L-Coop, that’s what I call him, had lunch yesterday at Logan’s. He let me pay for it.”

“I’m sure he did,” I sighed.

I looked at the intern and waved him over to the side.

“You going to be able to hold Johnson to the side until after he’s gone?” I asked.

“What? You don’t want Kelvin swooping in?”

We laughed before Kelvin walked over.

“What’s so funny?” he asked bemusedly.

“Oh, nothing.” I said.

“We were reading your column,” intern said coyly. “And talking about how coach really didn’t like it.”

He was setting him up. And I was enjoying it.

“Really? He didn’t like it? I was all very positive. Especially about Josh’s QB stats. I’m going to have to talk to him about it. Man, that sucks. I was trying to be positive and have them respect it.”

“Guess it didn’t work,” I said.

My story on the game was a blast to write. The coach went on a seven-minute tirade about how badly the team executed on second downs the entire game. Second down. Who the fuck ever notices such a thing? So, I wrote a 31-inch story on second downs. Had a nice graphic of their second downs as well. Seems they actually were more productive on that down than any other. Had been that way all season.

Coach called me the next day and thanked me for noticing he was joking. Unlike Kelvin. Who wrote about how poorly the second down offense was the entire game. Based simply on three quotes from the coach’s tirade and a QB’s quote on the coach’s quote.

Everyone had a good laugh on that one. Everyone, I guess but Kelvin.

But today, over a decade after that first encounter, I still get chills when he walks in the room. Or when I hear his voice on the other end of the phone. Somehow, all these years later, I ended up working with him. Strangeness all around.

That voice. Ugh.

That walk.

Those awful tight shirts.

And one police report that I got to read.

Seems he was investigated, never charged mind you, for “creepy behavior with minors.” As the police said.

Now, when I see him, all I hear is The Outfield’s lead singer Tony Lewis belting out the band’s greatest hit. More specifically, one line “You know I like my girl’s a little bit older.” Damn that guy creeps me out.

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.