dreams of semi - colons

Sitting in my house, staring at the wind blowing the plethora of flags in straight lines away from the coast, I decided I needed to do something.

But first I took my shoes off. I went over eight months without wearing shoes anywhere – work, driving, bars, etc., then I went to a Lucero concert and needed them. And then it got cold. Now, it’ 90 degrees inside my house and 84 outside. I think shoes are no longer necessary.

The first thing I do after taking off the shoes and socks is ball up my toes like Argyle taught John McClain in “Die Hard”. Yeah, that shit really works. You feel the stress of whatever the fuck is stressing you just shoot out of the balls of your feet and into the carpet. Thank god for this area rub. The rest of the carpet in the place is like dried cat turds crushed into a pattern. Yeah, it’s that gross.

After opening up the last beer in my fridge – I stare longingly at the 60 Lone Stars I have that are being saved for a party I may or may not have – and grow a bit ornery. I then decide I like to spell that On’ry instead.

I get on my bike and head over to the local watering hole. It’s a bit of a hike, even on the bike. Especially with the huge bridge one has to navigate. And my days of riding up such a thing are long, long past.

When I get to the pub, I take a seat. I’ve been coming here for two years now, but still don’t count as a regular. Why? Because I don’t talk to many people. I guess they know me, but they tend to steer clear. Good thing it’s summer, then, as the tourists don’t know better. Reminds me of one day in Luckenbach when I sat at the bar and drank all day. More people came up to me and asked questions that day than pretty much any day of my life. Even when I was a front desk clerk. Guess I missed my calling. “Man about town” has a certain ring to it for sure.

I plop down on the stool and order a Shiner. The barkeep comes over and smiles. “We ordered you up a new case of these,” she says.

I’m a bit taken aback. She does remember my surly ass.

“Why thank you, Midge,” I say with a tip of the baseball cap – always on backwards – and a tip of two dollars. She smiles and blows me a kiss. I smile and look at the jukebox. It was an old one, but it wasn’t too old. Meaning it played CDs not vinyl. But it also didn’t have a hook up to the internet.

I looked over at two girls eyeing another guy at the bar. He was John, a local fisherman. He had on a yellow trucker’s hat that said “Going all the way” and a dirty pair of khaki shorts. I looked at his feet. Thankfully, he didn’t have topsiders on. Instead, flip flops. Probably cost him $30 bucks those things. Mine? $2.22 at Wal-mart. One of three things I’ll buy at the Mart of Hell – flip flops, mouthwash and air filters for my air conditioner. Which, I never use, but still have to replace the filters every month.

The girls don’t go to the jukebox, so I do. I plop in five dollars. Enough to play 15 songs. I only want to play 14, but I have a 15^th. I select the entire Lucero self-titled album, plus the song “Sing Me No Hymns” from Rebels, Rogues and Sworn Brothers.

Midge hates it when I play everything at once, it usually drives the regulars away. But tonight, I only see John there. The rest are tourists. Or one-stoppers as I call them. Sort of single-serving friends like in “Fight Club” except I don’t plan on having short conversations with them. I think that it’s too bad Bukowski didn’t write “Fight Club.” It may have had a better beginning, middle and end. And it was a damn good book. Well, mostly.

But what do I know. I scribble notes in notepads, then write drivel about those scribbles late at night or before work every day. Just doing it because I told myself I would. No goal. No plan. No outline. Just scribbles.

I need a woman to let me sit in front of a typewriter all day long, drinking slowly and typing. She can pay the rent and buy the booze. I can type. And that seems perfectly honorable. Hell, I know it is because that’s what needs to be done. I just don’t have the guts. Always been my weakness. Guts.

I was once told you either have ‘em or you don’t. You can’t grow guts. But you can lose them. So that must mean you can find them. Maybe I just lost mine along the way?

I boy can dream, right?

Not that he can punctuate.

mr. vanbuilderass

I dialed her number six or seven times before I finally pressed send on my crappy flip cell phone. As it dialed the nerves picked up even more. I’d talked to this lady many times via the internet, but tonight I’d be talking on the phone. Too many times over the years I’d gotten numbers and never had the guts to call. So wimpy, yet so true to my story.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end finally said.

“Hey, is this Kendra?” I said meekly.

“Of course, you called my phone!” she said laughing.

“This is Randy.”

“Hey there. Whatcha doing?”

“Well, thought I’d give ya a jingle before coming up to the city to see you this weekend.”

I wanted to hit my forehead with my palm. I fucking said jingle. Who the hell says jingle. Well, maybe Santa Claus or Arnold.

“Jingle? What are you 75?”

“Yeah, I’m like George Burns in ‘Oh, God!’”

Silence.

“Guess you have no idea what I’m talking about?”

“You got it.”

“Well, onwards… I’ll be in town sometime around 2 in the afternoon. Taking the train from D.C.”

“Ok. I’ll be working then, so you’ll have to find something to occupy yourself for a few hours before we meet up.”

“Not a problem. There’s a bar I want to find, it’s got Joe Strummer on it. A mural painted after he died.”

“That’s cool. I mean, it shouldn’t be a problem finding a random bar in New York.”

She laughed at her own comment. I was feeling a bit at ease.

“See you in a couple days then.”

“You betcha. See you soon, sweetie.”

And she hung up.

“Well, the ending was promising at least,” my jumbled mind thought.


I dialed her number. We’d been out a few times. The first time was a disaster.

For me.

She ended up meeting the band we both loved so much. And got to swappin’ spit with one of them.

I, meanwhile, was so jealous I just did shots of whiskey. With my heroes. But was too dumbstruck by a girl doing that on a first, what I thought was a date, and being surrounded by these guys to say much.

I remember listening to some stories.

I remember one of the guys asking “Are you OK?”

I don’t remember answering.

Eventually, I forced a cab ride home from her. I had to be on the road at 8 a.m. It was 4 a.m. and I was shit-hammered.

Four hours later, I was running towards a train in Penn Station. It was like a movie. Except I was really chasing a fucking train that was moving. Trying not to miss it because then I’d never get back to D.C. with time enough to get back to Greenville, North Carolina in time for work that day.

Did I mention I was still drunk. Very drunk.

I leapt for the handle of the train. Grabbing it with both hands. Lucky for me, all I had for luggage was a Rose Bowl 1997 book bag that I got during college. One of the greatest games I ever covered in my career as a journalist. Thought it would be one of many great “events” that I would get to cover. In reality, it never got topped.

Now, she answered the phone.

“Hiya, Randy!”

“Hey, there Kendra. We on for New Orleans?”

“I can’t do it. I’m too broke.”

“So am I.”

“But you’re more dedicated than me.”

I could only think, “Yes, that is true. In many, many ways.” Lucero’s “Heart So True” started to echo in my mind. Or is that song called “Poor Heartache”? It’s an internal debate that shouldn’t happen, but does.

“You know, come out drinking with me. I know the last time we drank, I was a little less than behaved …”

“Stop it, dork.”

“Huh?”

“Lucero lyric pickup lines don’t work on me. … Well, not when you use them.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you don’t know…”

I could feel me blushing. I was hoping she was too.

“Well, I just can’t make the show. I want too soooooooo badly, but you know how it goes. The bank account says no while my heart says yes.”

“You should always follow your heart, not your bank account, baby.”

“Did you just call me baby?”

“No idea. But, seriously, do what you think you should.”

“That’s not what my heart always wants.”

“Well, that’s the rub, ain’t it?”

“Certainly is, sir. Are you still going?”

“Yep. $66 bucks in my checking account, and my car is packed and ready for 30 hours of driving, three hours of concert going, and maybe 6 hours of sleeping!”

“You are to be envied, sir.”

“By who?”

“More people than you think.”

I felt like Mr. Vanbuilderass for just one second. Looking into the distance while others talked about me. It felt good.

“Talk to ya later, chica.”

“You too sir. Be safe.”

Click.

just a twat

Good thing my dreams fade away fast. The night was long and vivid. And it was all about her. All about the night she got rid of me. Cast me aside and left me behind. I don’t think she’s looked back yet. No way for me to know, but it’s a safe assumption. Some folks are built that way. I’m not.

The night started as usual. I couldn’t sleep. Tossed and turned. Threw the covers to and fro. Looked at the holes in the curtains that allow the light from the hotel next door to sneak in. Thankfully, they’re not neon lights, so there’s no blinking or awful pink or purple lights. Just straight on white light.

Finally, sleep overcame my mind. But then the mind took over. Six and a half hours I dreamed of the pain, the heartache of that night. And it was all about that night. It was like reliving the aftermath. She wasn’t there, which is the only way it could have been. Instead, she ruled with an iron screwdriver, rusty and cold, piercing my heart. Over and over. In and out. The beats kept coming and the pain didn’t stop.

In the end, the dream blamed me. I assume it’s because I blame myself. Even though I know better.

When I drowsily awoke around 9 in the morning I felt empty. All of it was crystal clear in my head still. The way a dream is. It is like a high definition television when you wake up. Then it starts to disappear. Before you know it, the rabbit ears on the old Sylvania don’t help the transmission and it fades away, finally becoming a small white circle in the center of the screen. And then gone.

I laid there on my mattress thinking I should write this down. Remember it. But I didn’t. I needed to pee, too. But I didn’t.

An hour later, most of it gone, except for the basic theme of hell, I got up and peed. Looked at my shriveled up penis as it filled the bowl with yellow. I laughed. Not really at myself, but at this moment. And I went back to bed.

A few minutes later, I farted. Time to take a shit. Get up, still naked, feeling the cold in the house with the heat set at 59 degrees. The toilet seat welcomed me. I read an article in a tattoo magazine I took from work. Some guy got a tattoo of a politician on his ass. A great political statement. If you’re the mooning type of guy. But otherwise, just a waste of ink.

I shit. It’s long and brown. Wipe. Flush. Wash. I wonder if the water is still tainted. The city sent out a notice to boil it. I haven’t. I don’t brush my teeth with it, but I shower in it. Wash my hands with it. Hell, there could be more shit in the water than on my hands. I laugh again. Simple thoughts seem to have me today.

In the living room, I stare at the bleakness. A couple of lawn chairs serve as furniture. There is the recliner my dad bought me. Brown leather. I’ve sat in in twice. It’s a symbol of something, just don’t know it yet.

I do a quick count. There are three pairs of dirty underwear on the floor. Six pairs of socks. Two shirts. I try to judge the meaning of those numbers.

The bar across the street is in the process of changing over from winter to summer. The picnic tables have reappeared in the courtyard. That means the masses will soon return to my little oasis of loneliness. I think about how depressing of a thought that is. I think about the fact that I think too much. I wonder if any bars are open yet? It’s 10:55 a.m. The perils of living in a small North Carolina town. Bars don’t open early. They close early as well. Not the place for a thinker.

Plopping in a Joe Ely CD, I sit down to write. Wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to write about when I’m in such a strange mood. His generic country doesn’t do anything to inspire. Put Mr. Ely in the “Con” column for inspirational needs.

I think about how hard eight words can sometimes be. I want to get high. There’s no way it’s going to happen. Especially since it’s been longer since I got high than Bukowski’s been dead.

Speaking of Hank, he died 17 years ago. He’d think me a twat. That doesn’t bother me. I think all of my heroes and role models would call me a cunt if I was sitting at a barstool with them. That certainly doesn’t leave me weeping, not as much as my dreams. And I don’t remember my dreams.