at least i wrote over 750 words ...

You know it’s bad when you struggle to cook.

It’s too damn windy out to be productive. Especially when it’s 89 degrees and humid inside the house. I rush to make four burgers, two for tonight, two for tomorrow and some broccoli. I know I’m rushing. I have to get up at 6:45 in the morning to go to work by 8:30. What the fuck is that? Then, I’ll be there until 11. Why do I do this to myself? Is meeting this guy worth it?

But, I want to eat. And eat well tonight, so I’m cooking on the grill. That adds at least an hour to prepare time. But, I soldier on. The bugs are flying inside since I opened up the door. It’s a compromise.

I sometimes wish I had a dog. But, then I’d have to keep the air conditioning on all the time so the dog didn’t burn up. Tradeoffs.

My car needs to be inspected. It needs new brake pads. Probably needs a new timing belt. But, I’m hoping that last one is just me being paranoid. But, I am usually right about such things.

A former colleague finished his book, I hear. I’m jealous. I can’t seem to get started on one. I have ideas, but no focus. I feel like I’m always on acid. Amazed by what’s going on inside and outside of my mind, but completely unable to focus. I have no idea if that’s what being on acid is like.

My nipples are raw. I wore a new shirt to work today it the damn thing rubbed on them all day and night. I kept looking at my erect nipples and wondering what the rest of the office was thinking. I do that.

The janitor was working today. Funny to see that.

Eating tacos is fun.

Eating tacos is great.

I don’t eat enough tacos.

There’s a giant pile of gravel in the alley between my house and the hotel now. The caretaker was shoveling that shit into the alley all morning. When I was trying to sleep. I almost was going to just hook my speakers up to my computer, find the worst bit of tranny on tranny porn that I could find and blast it out the window. I’d say that’s fair. Now I’m going to have all these dug up bugs scampering about my house due to this new pile of rubble and shit. And the giant hotel sign is gone. I wonder what he did with it? I do now know that a giant pile of bricks was behind it. I wonder if that’s where the feral cats were always fucking?

I still want a taco. But instead I’m cooking hamburgers. Three the normal way – Montreal seasoning and worstershire sauce – the fourth with those and some Crawfish seasoning. It’ll be interesting.

My foot itches. It actually feels like something is crawling on top of it and biting it. I’m wondering if I have ants. I don’t want to look because ants piss me off. And it would be the fault of the fucker dumping shit in the alley. It’s right near where I am right now. So, yes, I would blame that fucker with the ugly ponytail. I wonder to myself how many people called me the fucker with the ugly ponytail when I lived in Tempe?

I spilled a beer on my couch and carpet three nights ago. I didn’t clean it up. It still smells like beer in here. Maybe that’s where the ants are coming from? Spilt beer on the couch. That would not make a good band name.

I officially put out the invite for the Crawfish get together. I wonder if more than the 11 or so what showed up last year will show up this year. I know some will not, some will. All I can do is drink my Lone Star beer, cook the crawfish and see what happens. Sounds like a God damn good plan.

It amazes me the lengths some people will go just to snark. I used to be like that. And sometimes still am. It bothers me now. Is that a sign of growing old or just getting tired? Hell, I ain’t Don Rickles.

Somewhere right now, Adam Sandler is thinking about Bog Saget. Or maybe, John Lyndon is having sex. Still another possibility is Jose Canseco staring at himself in the mirror while trying to figure out why the Iron Sheik doesn’t like him.

Well, at least I wrote more than 750 words.

toll booth guy

“Well, I got a job,” I said to my wife when she got home from her job as a nurse.

“Doing what?” she asked excitedly. I had been pretty much living on the couch for the past 11 months. I did write a book, one that a published called “God damn bad,” so it wasn’t a complete waste of a year. So I understood her excitement. I’d be getting off the couch.

“Toll booth,” I said.

“You got a job as a toll booth?” she smiled and punched me on the shoulder.

“Yep, the worst part is having that guy sit inside of me all day. But the bosses tell me you get used to it.”

I went to sleep that night after a nice bit of celebratory sex, including a nice blow job beginning, wondering why the fuck I was going to be going to work as a toll booth operator. I had two degrees from institutes of higher learning, was a pretty intelligent chap, and didn’t really want to work in a toll booth.

It didn’t really take me long to figure it out. Yeah, I could have blamed it on my being lazy. And that would be a good reason. I could blame it on the death of newspapers, and journalism in general, as a profession. Too easy, and you factor in the lazy part, and it becomes not the issue.

No, really it came down to one thing. I was a toll both operator because my last boss walked in on my sticking a hammer up by butt. Yep. I did it. And thankfully, I had a condom on the hammer, because you never know where those things have been before your hand. You really can’t explain your way out of “my boss just walked in on me shoving a hammer up my butt in the office” now can you? So, I simply pulled the hammer out of my butt, turned my computer off and walked out the side door of the office. He didn’t say a word, I didn’t say a word, although I’m sure many words were spoken after I exited.

Anyway, now that you are paying attention again, I, in best Zack Morris style, will get on with the true story.

I was a toll booth operator, collector, what have you because it sounded like a fun job. I mean, it’s like working at a supermarket or a Target store. You take money from someone and give them change and receipts if needed. But you get to see people at the strangest, I figured. And hell, you never know who you’d meet.

When I told the guy who would soon be my boss that I was considering writing a book about my experiences as a toll booth guy, he shrugged.

“Don’t know why anyone would want to read a book about a guy sitting in a box all day, taking coins from strangers,” he said looking me in the eye. “Would you read that book?”

I thought for a moment. I knew he was right, but was the embellishing of the day-to-day monotony that would make it great.

“How about a screen play then?” I replied. “I mean, I saw a movie about parking lot attendants, why not toll booth guys?”

“It’s your life, Jones,” he said. “By your cover letter – and you were one of three people who had cover letters that applied – I can tell you can write some. Hell, the only reason I called you was because of that cover letter, so maybe you know something I don’t. But dammit, I don’t want you writing while you are in the booth.”

“So I’m hired?” I said with a smirk.

“Of course you’re hired, Jones,” Mr. Latham, my new boss said.

I got fitted for my toll booth uniform that day. It was grey. Sort of like a mechanic’s outfit. It even had a spot for a name tag.

“Are we getting a patch to go here?” I asked.

“God dammit, Jones,” Latham yelled. “Of course not. Do you want everyone to know your name when you’re in that booth?”

“Good point,” I said. “It might lead to a conversation. And that would disrupt traffic flows.”

“God damn right it would,” Latham said. I began to think that maybe he was regretting hiring me.

I started to daydream about who I might meet. These toll booths were brand spanking new, so no one would have the foresight to avoid them yet. So everyone driving that I-95 corridor from Florida to New York City would pass through.

I envisioned seeing Miley Cyrus cruise through my lane in her supped up Dodge Charger. Or maybe Roy Williams going from one recruiting visit to another. Maybe Johnny Depp would go by in his limo, leaving me a tip.

It seemed the possibilities were endless.

But, it turned out, my dreams were spot on. You could see anyone. And that first day, in fact, the first person to drive through my lane was an old boss of mine.

“Well, well, well,” McSorlip said to me as he pulled up. “I see you’ve really gotten places in life, Jones.”

“Yep,” I said. “And I didn’t have to fuck with my integrity to do it, either.” I smiled and pushed the button that brings the green light up.

“Move on now,” I said as McSorlip was looking at me and trying to come up with something to say. “There’s plenty of cars waiting to get through.”

The next eight hours were a blur. Face after face. Most of them not looking at you at all, just sticking the dollar bill out the door and yanking their hand back as fast as possible.

I had talked to an old timer who was brought in from New Jersey to train us. He said that the rush hour shifts were the best to see things. Women going from work, trying to change clothes or whatever. They always showed a little skin for ya.

I didn’t see any of that. I did see a guy pick his nose with the dollar in the hand he was picking with. Then he wiped it on the dollar and handed it to me.

Another fine citizen handed me a $1 bill and then honked at me. “Hey buddy, I gave you a ten!” he yelled. “Nope, you gave me a one, sir,” here’s the photo of it. I pushed a button and a flip screen tv popped up, with the man’s hand holding a George Washington clearly showing.

“Well, guess you were right,” he said, speeding off.

At some point I realized I had to pee. I’d been drinking Country Time lemonades all morning, and was about to burst. I knew that we were awarded bonuses on not taking breaks, because “An open lane keeps the traffic flowing”, Latham would always say. So I gritted it out. Finally, at the 8 hour mark, my light turned red and traffic stopped coming to me. I ran out and went straight to the “shack”, the tiny office where we had vending machines and a fridge. I had never noticed, but there was just one bathroom, and a line was in front of it.

“First day pee?” the old timer said to me.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Get a bottle next time. You get pretty good at holding it in one hand, and taking money with the other. Just have to hope they don’t need change.”

powerball

I came home like every other night. Pulled the car into the driveway, cringed a little bit at the cool breeze coming off the ocean, then checked my mailbox.

It’s not very often that anything interesting is in there. If I got something off the internet, maybe a cool album or a tourist brochure. Other than that, it’s junk mail and bills. I’ve noticed the credit card offers don’t flood it anymore. A product of a tighter economy, I’m sure. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the companies see me not using the one’s I have anymore, and have figured out that maybe this dumb ass has finally figured out the game is rigged, so why bother.

The mailbox is a black piece of plastic sitting on top of a piece of wood. It gets hit occasionally by the Cougars and MILFs that populate the shag bar across the street from my house. Before you get all wound up, it’s shag as in dance, not as in putting the penis in the va-jay-jay.

Inside, the place smells a bit like burnt sausage. I made some two days ago, guess it’s still lingering in the late winter chicken coop that is my house. The windows don’t get to be opened quite enough to let out the smell of a 40 year old bachelor. Frightening stuff, really.

I plop down on my couch and smile just a little as I look around. My transformation of this house from a crappy, dingy, way-too-rented out place to my own private Scatman Cruthers’ bad-ass bachelor sinkhole is nearly complete.

My green couch is straight out of the 1970s. So is the bar with just enough full bottles of Whiskey and Scotch to be inviting to anyone. All it really needs is a nice framed piece of sexy blaxploitation-era art to go over the couch, and of course, the bed. All in good time, my friend, I think to myself. One day the gods will shine down upon me and allow such silliness. Now? It’s pay the bills. Pay the bills. Dave Mustaine echoes in my brain… “Whaddya mean I don’t pay my bills? Why do ya think I’m broke! Huh!”

The funny thing is I think about those days, when I’ll be debt-free and anchor-free. Shit, I’ve thought about them for almost 14 years now. When the bills got so damn high I felt that I was going to drown under them, and the non-truths you have to tell to keep that kind of a thing a secret.

But was it really ever a secret?

The lottery hit $300 million today. In the office, it was a subject of the same old conversation that everyone has about the lottery when it gets that high. Much like the same conversation you have about the weather with people you don’t really like.

“It sure is sunny out?”

“Yep. Sure is.”

“Hope it stays that way for a while.”

“Probably won’t. It’s March.”

“What would you do with all that money?”

“Pay off my debts.”

“But a house.”

“Quit this place.”

All completely valid answers. All complete clichés.

I pointed this out to everyone with a scowl. I said if you win that much money, of fucking course you’ll pay off your debts and all that. You’ll buy your dream car. You’ll go on your dream vacation.

But fucking then what?

“Well, Mr. Smart Ass. What would you do with that money?” finally one of the uptight, horrible editors we have piped in, looking straight at me with a fucking “Ha-Ha-Ha!” smile on her face.

I pulled up my pants the best way I could without looking like a young Wilfred Brimley and looked her right in the eye. She kind of shriveled up at the sight of me. Kind of like a penis does when it gets cold and the girl your with says she’s a dude.

“I’d pay porn star Smokie Flame to just give me a blow job on film for three days straight,” I said.

“Gross.”

“What a guy thing to say.”

"You'd get bored," a female co-worker who I'd guess has never given a blow job before says.

I'm impressed with her answer and give him the Harvey Keitel coffee mug look to show my appreciation for a well thought out retort.

“Whoah, who is Smokie Flame,” my boss said, clearly impressed with my answer.

“She’s this redhead who makes really strange sounds when she fucks. Almost retarded like. But, I don’t want to be labeled as some guy that wants to fuck retards, cause, I’m not. They most certainly won’t compare me to the beer in hell guy.”

“Yes they will,” the blonde shit stain of an editor said to me. “That is just so rude.”

“Yep, and for the kind of money I’d be offering, she’d do it. You can watch. Just not in the room. I’ll set up Skype for ya.”

She slammed her door closed on that note. Randy 1, Blonde bitch boss 0.

“What would you do, Richard?” I asked my boss, who was now looking at “safe” Google search images of one Smokie Flame.

“I’d buy this place, and fire that bitch.”

“Yeah, but think of the better ways to spend it, and still accomplish the same thing. I mean, take out gay want ads, but make them full-page color double trucks. Turning down that kind of advertising dollar might just get one fired.”

“You’re fucked in the head, dude.”

“Yeah, and it only gets worse every single day.”

I look down at my lottery ticket. Numbers are 11, 19, 27, 9, 23 and a power ball of 7. Or mega ball, whichever damn poor tax I paid.

I look up at the blank space on my wall behind my Scatman couch. I imagine Smokie Flame there instead of a Pam Grier wannabe. Hope I don’t get an ax in my torso before I can make it all come true.