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.

Ants and such...

Standing pumping gas tonight, I noticed a steady stream of ants. Those perky little buggers were everywhere, but all in a nice straight line. None of them straying from whatever task they were undertaking. And that task appeared to be suicide.

The line of ants snaked around the area where my car was. They seemed oblivious to the pieces of shitty convenience store food lying around on the ground. Instead, they were making a bee-line for the gas pump itself. I looked in amazement as it seemed they were going straight down into the storage tank just below me.

How on earth could they be finding something of sustenance there? It seemed like just a mass line of ants going to their doom.

I was mesmerized by this for a good two minutes. Then my cell phone started to buzz. It jolted me out of my ant-infused brain coma. I looked at the phone, it was my ex-girlfriend texting me. She is going through what I went through a few years ago. The feeling of abandonment from the job. Journalism’s always been a tough field. Never paid all that much, although I have a feeling she did quite well for herself, unlike this dumb bastard. It, however, was at times the most rewarding job out there. Better than teaching, I’d believe, but full of the same kind of muck and dreck one had to wade through to find those diamonds in the rough.

Her paper is downsizing, big time. One of the last companies to really bite the bullet and cut to the bone. And I feel bad for her and her colleagues. Many of the folks at other papers in the company were my mentors. And some of them got shown the door as well that fateful Tuesday.

After a couple of messages, I made my points and hopefully she took at least something from it other than my cynicism.

But it got me thinking on the drive home. This was the second day in a row that ants have played a huge role in my day.

Yesterday, I went outside to get away from the office. An occurrence that used to happen every couple of weeks at other places of employment, but has become a daily, if not hourly, task at the current sweatshop.

While standing outside, I took in the stray cats and the employees leaving. It was 5:02 p.m. when I went out, and the steady stream of folks always amuses me. A newspaper should not be a 9 to 5 gig. But for many, it is. For some it’s an 11 to 4 one. But, that’s just me being cynical again.

I was standing there after watching some circulation guy leave in his rusted out old Monte Carlo – never would have pictured him in one of those. Not a Monte Carlo, as he’s a slick-talking young black guy, but instead one with a rusty roof and backside. He’s so meticulous about everything he wears and talks about, I’d of thought he’d drive a sweeter looking ride. He was the last to leave in the mass exodus, so I looked for something else.

And on the ground right between my feet was a single fire ant. He was a huge one. Probably had seen lots of action in his time. But he was staggering about. Didn’t look long for the world. And there were no other fire ants around. I’m guessing he may have been kicked out or ostracized from his colony, either for being too old or just not useful enough. Not economically viable, so to speak.

He staggered around the concrete outside of the smoke area. I watched him go into every nook and cranny of the busted up foundation. What he was looking for, I have no idea, but he seemed to be very determined. At one point he disappeared into a crack, and I figured I’d never see him again, but wala he popped up head first a little while later and restarted his search.

He hit a trash can and didn’t seem to care. He nudged up against an old newspaper rack, and turned around. A spider web was in the corner, he seemed to sense it was there, stopping in his tracks and feeling about with his pinchers before reeling about and coming back towards me. Eventually, he just stopped and sat there for a moment. Then he started again. Looking, looking, looking. For what? I have no clue. Then, the IT guy came out of the office.

He had a faux leather man purse in one hand and his cell phone in the other. I looked at him, then at the ant. The fucker and his tiny little pony tail – with about six rubber bands holding into some rat-tailesque form – was headed straight for him. For a moment, I thought about pushing him aside, not giving a reason why as he tumbled over the concrete wall that led to the entrance.

Instead, I watched in horror as he walked towards the ant, and then promptly stepped on him.

I winced. Then looked down. He was squashed on the concrete, legs still twitching. I bent over and looked closer. His head was crushed, along with most of his upper body. The rest was fine. I stood back up and picked up my foot. I finished off the little ant. Putting him out of his misery.

Now, I knew that ants in dreams were bad. Something about uniformity and conformity as well as some kind of dissatisfaction with daily life. So, if I notice ants tomorrow, I’ll know it’s the insect kingdom trying to tell me something. Something I already know.

hand-me-down advice

I sigh as I plop my ass down on my old, dirty hand-me-down couch. It used to be some kind of off-white color, but that has long ago disappeared. I was given this couch by my sister’s boyfriend. His words upon offering it up were “It’s the dog’s couch right now, but I’m sure a little bit of Woolite and some elbow grease will make it all good again.”

It didn’t seem like a particularly dirty couch. It had some slobber marks from the dog just sitting there on it all the time. Since the dog was fixed, I didn’t need to worry about red-rocket stains. So, I snagged it up and took it to my house at the beach. Yeah, I said my house at the beach. The three-bedroom shithole that I rent for $695 a month. A little price to pay to live at the beach, but a hell of a price to pay on my paycheck.

On the couch are a pile of bills that came in the mail while I was away on vacation. The girlfriend and I spent five days jaunting and juking about the country. We saw 11 states in all. Went to Louisville for the first time, as well as Batesville, Arkansas. Add Huntington, West Virginia, to that list of new places as well. Plus all the small towns in Tennessee, Arkansas, Missouri and others that I’d never been too and it was a damn productive trip.

I also made it a point to find the time to write. Each day. Sometimes in the morning. Sometimes while she was driving in the afternoon and one time late at night. But, it got done.

“What are you writing about?” she asked.

“What we just drove by,” was one of my answers.

Another was “Sheryl Crow.”

Still another was “you.”

She crinkled her nose at that. I asked why.

“What do I do that needs to be written about?” she asked.

“Everything,” I said.

She smiled.

This reminded me of a conversation I once had. A writer of more renown and talent than I was sitting on the beach with me one hot summer day. It was Memorial Day because we were listening to the Indianapolis 500. Hundreds of tourists all over the place and there we were, sipping on Budweisers and listening to a transistor radio. I always dug that about him, he took that trusty old radio with him everywhere. And damned if he couldn’t always find something interesting to listen to. A much better success ratio than those with XM Satellite radio. However, I do believe he now has it.

But the topic of writing about people came up.

“You’ll lose friends when you write about them,” he said.

“Then were they really friends?” I replied.

“Trust me, when you write about somebody, they’ll take it the wrong way. If you mean it as a compliment, they’ll take it as a dig. If you mean it as comedy, they’ll look at it like a tragedy. It never fails.”

“I’ve written about just about everyone I know. Some have read it, some haven’t. I don’t even know who has or hasn’t. It doesn’t matter, really. I just need to type things. Scribble things. Jot them down on napkins or receipts. If you say something funny that I want to use later, the only way I’ll remember it is to write it down.”

“Exactly, and people will want to read it. And then they won’t like it. You could write like Hemingway, or you could write like Nick Sparks, either one they’ll hate it because it’s them.”

“It’s the only way to get people into a story,” I continued to rebut. “Real conversations top fake one’s every day.”

“Yes, I agree. But be ready for the consequences.”

He was right, of course. I’ve written about a lot of people. Friends, family, co-workers past and present. Ex-lovers and current ones. The ones that stumble upon my scribblings usually don’t know what to make of them. Especially if they see themselves.

“You’re such a good writer,” they say, “but what did you mean by this?” And by this, it always means the stuff about them.

“I don’t remember, really,” I respond, completely honest in saying it. “I write something that I feel in the moment. Not something I’m going to dwell upon. Well, except for the damn breakups and tooth decay.”

Sometimes I get a laugh then. But usually not.

But I don’t write for others. The time I tried to do that, it blew up in my face. “You don’t write like you did before,” she said. Well damn it, it isn’t like it was then. “You wrote about her so much better than you wrote about me.” Ugh.

Get off of the horse and you have a hell of a time getting back on. Without the stirrup, at least.