change for some coffee

“Do you even care about it?” she asked me from the bathroom. She was brushing her teeth, I was watching. The question irked me. Not because I didn’t want to answer it, or didn’t want to know how I really felt. No. It irked me because it took my attention away from watching her.

“Honestly, no,” I said matter of factly as I turned over in bed. I stretched my legs, feeling the tightness in my calve muscles that drinking too much beer and not enough water has made a common element in my life. “The care has been drained out of me like the puss out of a cyst.” I figured she’d like the medical analogy, being a nurse and all. “So, I just decided to not care anymore. Yeah, I haven’t gone full Peter Gibbons yet, I’m still showing up every day to punch the clock in and out, but inside the head I’ve certainly gone that far.”

She spit out the toothpaste, rinsed and came over to me. She pecked me on the forehead.

“You need a change, darling.”

“You and me both, babe,” I replied.

We looked at each other. Me sitting in my underwear on the bed, her in nursing scrubs getting ready for a job she didn’t like either. How the hell do people end up like this? And why can’t we seem to do anything about it? Anything for a chance at change.

It could be worse. Treading water in the same place is worse. I’ve moved so many times it kept the monotony at bay. Sort of. I can’t imagine if I was still living in New Bern right now. In that one-bedroom apartment that was something out of a scene of hoarders. I think I’d be dead now. I’m Randy Jones, and I’m dead now. Huh? What’s this guy selling? Bah, just re-typing Bill Hicks’ jokes doesn’t count, does it? Lacks creatively. Of course, stealing ideas and jokes and such is what got QT all the way to the top. We celebrate thievery in this country, for sure. I guess since we were founded by ‘em, might as well be ‘em.

Fuck, if Mitt Romney gets elected, I fear for my well-being. Of course, if Barack Obama gets elected again, I fear for it too. Lesser of two evils bullshit. Vote from your heart!!!!! Ok, enough with the recycled Hicks shit.

Is it possible to get a chill when it’s 83 degrees inside your house? I just did, it kind of freaked me out a bit. I wonder what Jesus would tell me?

Epic failure is much better than mediocre existing. I’ve done the first and I’m doing the second.

The folks that tell you to “get over it” and “move on” are usually the most stationary of them all.

“I’d like to just get on my bike today,” she said. “But it’s too hot.”

I thought for a moment. It’s always “too” something. Too hot or too cold. Too hard or too easy. Too daunting. Too much. Too expensive. I’m too broke. I’m too scared. I’m too lonely. I’m too intimidated. I’m too this, too that. Too legit to quit even.

Fuck. Now I’m too tired thinking about it.

He sat on the porch watching the world go by. He never noticed it happening, really, but it did. Some days were long and hot. Others were cool and nice. Whenever a girl in a bikini walked past, he watched. When a guy with a beer gut and a Styrofoam cooler went by, he watched. It didn’t matter. It was life. It was subject matter. But dialogue doesn’t come from watching. It comes from talking. And he didn’t much like talking. At least to strangers. I guess Rick Springfield taught him that.

“Damn you Rick Spingfield!” he yelled one night. No one was around, at least visually. But the catcall from the nearby hotel let him know he wasn’t alone.

I wish it had turned into my “Mad as Hell” moment.

“Maybe I should go inside and watch ‘Network’”, he thought to himself. But the porch was much more comfy. Even with the mosquitoes.

The INXS cassette tape reminded him of a simpler time…Fuck that, I’m not going to write that here. It’s a decent little ditty on its own.

3^rd Bass on the other hand, that reminded him of a different, but still pretty simple time. Driving around in David’s old fastback Mustang. Blasting rap tunes that everyone else seemed to hate except David. I took notes, and bought them later. Never really letting on how much I liked it. Except for “Ain’t No Half-Steppin’” fucking great song that one. And it really wasn’t too much of a stretch to play that, then hit Skynard’s “Free Bird” right after. Singing at the top of our lungs. Drinking Milwaukee’s Best. Hoping to get laid, but never getting there. And not really wondering why.

They were fun times, but not times I’d want to go back to. They weren’t the best times of my life. They were just times. I don’t even talk to any of those guys anymore. That’s sad, but we’re not the same, so why should we? That’s a cop out. It’s a lazy man’s way of rationalizing. Some of those guys were my best friends. Now they have wives and kids I’ve never met. Jobs and careers I know nothing about. Mothers and fathers have died. And we don’t do anything to change it.

Lazy fucks we are. Self-absorbed lazy fucks at that.

She cried at the coffee table. Today was the day the baby was due. Instead, he and she had a tree planted in the back yard. A small reminder of what could have been. What should have been.

The miles between us make it hard, not impossible, to feel it. I hope she’s doing better than me.

the laptop's gone

The Go-Gos “We Got the Beat” belted out of his phone. Damn. He’d forgotten that his ex had set that as his ringtone for when his boss called. It had been that long since he’d gotten a call from his boss. Even longer since she left him in Memphis without a penny to his name, just a couple of credit cards.

“Hello?” he answered. He’d thought about not answering it, but he would eventually need to get back to work and get a paycheck to pay off those credit cards.

“Yeah, Jimmy, this is Rodney.”

“How you doing, sir?” He hated calling him sir, and only did it when he knew he had to be professional. This was definitely one of those times.

“Jimmy,” he continued. “I know things have been hard for you, buddy, but damn it, you’ve got to get back to the office. We’re in deep shit here. The SEC is coming in to scope out whether or not we were on the right or wrong side of the whole Skittle problem.”

The Skittle problem. The code word they two of them had come up with for the donations to the local congressman. The donations that exceeded the federally allowed limits. The donations that were worth breaking the law so they could get the zoning changed in downtown. Well, changed for one block only. That allowed for a bar. Jimmy’s bar. Modeled completely after the bar Quentin Tarantino ran in the movie “Death Proof”. All the way down to the AMI Continental jukebox. Although the music was slightly different – made up completely of Jimmy’s collection. A collection he started with the express goal of stocking a jukebox in his bar one day. He was 44 years old and had finally got that jukebox stocked in a bar. And he was happy. Until three weeks ago.

That’s when she left him in Memphis. They’d had sex in the morning. Darn good sex. Not the greatest sex ever, but better than the average fuck. He’d gone to get breakfast. When he came back to the hotel room, she was gone. So was his car. So was his computer. With all the information about the bar, the congressman and the bar. He’d kept it on that computer. One that he never got on the internet with. One that he’d paid for with cash in a back alley in Durham. Now, it was gone. Just like her.

She’d seen him get nervous about the impending investigation. He’d started drinking heavily due to it. And she didn’t like it. She’d told him so, but he didn’t do anything about it. So, that night, after they’d driven all the way to Memphis to go see Graceland – she’d never seen Graceland – she was gone.

All he had left was an empty wallet – she took the debit card and the cash. Well, it had two credit cards and his driver’s license. But no car.

“Yeah, I checked out of the hotel at 5:30,” he told his boss.

“Then what the fuck are you still doing there?”

“I don’t have a car.”

“Fuck, Jimmy. You haven’t had a car in three weeks now. Go to fucking Alamo or Avis and get one! I need you here. Now!”

“I can’t do that right now, Rodney. I’ve got to find her.”

“She’s not there, man. She’s not there.”

“Bullshit. She wouldn’t leave me. We loved each other. Never even fought. I mean, I drank too much these last couple of months, but hell, we met while drinking to forget. Drinking to get away. Just because she is now a success and I’m, well, still me, that didn’t matter to her.”

“I know it didn’t matter,” Rodney said. “But I think the Feds got to her.”

“Fuck no, man. She’d never do that.”

“If it meant ruining her career? Are you so sure?”

“What the fuck, man? You’re just being an asshole. Trying to knock a wedge between me and her. You always hated that I got her.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I wanted to fuck your girlfriend too. And didn’t. You want to know why? Because you fell in love with her. That’s why.”

“Shit. You just want me to get mad, don’t you,” Jimmy said, trying not to throw his phone against the wall. It was the one thing he had that she could contact him on, so he had to keep his patience.

“Jimmy, just get on a plane, rent a car, fucking jump on a Greyhound and get back to Raleigh, man. We’ve got to fix this little problem we have.”

“Ok, man. I’ll rent a car. That’ll put me there in a few days.”

“Do it. Now.”

He hung up the phone. The thought hadn’t left his mind since Rodney mentioned it. “I think the Feds got to her.” It made no sense that she took his laptop. It was his place to write every morning. Why did she take it? He had wondered that more than why she left for the past three weeks.

Now, it appeared, he had that reason.

“Fuck,” he thought. “I’ve got to get a drink.”

He called a cab. It came 11 minutes later.

“Take me to the Buccaneer,” he said.

“No problem, man,” the cabbie said. “You’re starting early today, huh?”

“Never stopped.”

“I hear ya.”

The cab took off. Soon, he was at the bar. Staring at the old sign with the Pirate on it. A woman was sitting at a table out front. All alone. Two years ago, he would’ve joined her. But, he wasn’t that guy anymore.

He didn’t really know what he was anymore. A criminal? A lover? A deadbeat? All of them, apparently.

He went in an ordered a shot and a beer.

That’s when he felt it. A hand on his shoulder. He didn’t look into the mirror. He knew who it was.