guts

I saw today that a former friend of mine got a new job. He got out.

It would be nice to follow in those footsteps. I got out the first time by being laid off. The second time by being fired.

Here’s hoping the third time, is a fucking shitastic awesomefest.

And that I get to make the choice.

Of course, I’m the one who keeps diving back in.

Gluttony and all. It’s my deadly sin.

I stopped writing months ago. Even though I get paid to write now. I feel like, rather, I know that I don’t write anymore. I got inspired for about 15 minutes today. At the desk. I threw out some e-mails and got some responses and then flat-lined.

It had more to do with a feeling than a fact, but I still have to face it. Head on. You know, for the penis.

I wonder too much about the past. I don’t wonder about the future. I don’t care about the future. At least that’s what I tell myself. I lie a lot. Not to other people.

Scorching forcing eating bumbling stifling working forking fasting fucking.

One time the girl looked at me and I didn’t look away. She laughed seconds later. I’ll never know if she was laughing at me or not. Because I didn’t have the guts to ask. I did have the guts to not look away, like usual, but I didn’t ask. She wanted to tell me. I didn’t have the guts to ask.

My mind still wanders over to her side of the bed. Every day. I can’t stop it from happening. No matter what. I’m happy now. Happier than I was before. Before what? I don’t know. Can I say I’m happier now, more content, more whatever than I was then? No. But I can’t say I’m not either.

It’s weird. I don’t know what’s right or wrong. What happened and what I want to have happened. It’s all a blur. I guess it helps one cope, the memory’s ability to play tricks on you. If we all remembered things exactly as they happened, every fucking second, we’d go crazy. We’d go mad. And I want that. I want to be mad, because of it. Not be mad because you think you are.

My head explodes with pain now. The teeth are rotten. The sinuses are infected. My heart probably is waiting to explode or just stop or whatever happens when they don’t have the strength to go on. Like a person, I guess. Sometimes they just quit. No warning. No reason given. It just happens.

Bye bye.

I stopped drinking soda for over 5 years once.

I dated the same girl for over 5 years once.

I drink soda now.

I’ve dated six girls since.

Why does that matter? Why do I type it? Fuck you. Fuck you in the ear. Or maybe a bloody eye socket after the eye was ripped out by feral cats. Sure, yeah, that sounds like fun. To watch. Maybe to make happen.

Probably not though.

You see? You see?

No. You never do.

Romanticizing the past like it’s some great place. Like a 78-year old who wants the 1950s back. Why? Because he's a racist shitbag. That’s why.

I don’t hate anyone. There are plenty of people, individuals I can’t stand. But I don’t hate. It’s a waste of time. It really is. Try not hating for a moment.

Of course, that’s a lie. Many times I’ve hated myself. Most would say I still do. I’m not sure anymore. I guess my behavior kind of says I hate myself.

Fucked up.

Do it. Smell it. Eat it. Fuck it. Lick it. Write it down. Drive the extra mile. Take the wrong turn on purpose so you can talk for another five minutes.

Why? Because you’ll be dead one day.

Either of old age at 91 or run over by a semi while getting a box of diapers for your newborn baby.

Which is more likely? Depends on the level of hatred. The size of the dick. The blue of the eyes.

I bought a new car two and half years ago. It’s going to pass 80,000 miles in a day or so.

Even the mechanics at the dealer go “Damn, dude. You drive a lot.”

No shit.

And I’m tired of doing it.

Not because of the deed itself, but the destination.

Then change it, asshole.

I’m working on it, I’ll say.

You’re always working on it.

It’s part of my charm.

And your destiny.

Who are we kidding, there was never a plan ...

He sighed long and loud. His car was parking at a traffic light in New Bern, North Carolina. He’d made it 37 miles from his starting point – the Atlantic Ocean. How on earth was he going to finish this task in the three weeks he had?

Burying ghosts isn’t something that comes with a manual. He’d been dealing with them like a pit bar-b-que guy must deal with flies, he swats and hopes for the best.

She’d left him over six years ago. Six years, four months and 17 days ago to be exact. Two nights before, he’d finally realized that he’d been pining over her for longer than he knew her – six years, four months and 11 days. That epiphany hit its mark while lying in bed that morning. The wind was blowing outside and the cars were driving by on the still wet from an early rain road. He had to stop. And to make that possible, he had to do something interesting, something dramatic, something only he would think of.

So, he took a shower and went to work. Like he always did. For five days. Then, while sitting in his dusty cubicle at work, listening to the trollish co-worker beside him crying for the God only knows how manyieth day in a row, he got up walked to his boss’ desk and said “I quit.”

Stunned, the copy desk chief stared at him. “It is what it is, man,” he finally uttered.

“Fuck that,” he countered. “You’re just as stuck as I am, dawg.”

With that, he went outside knowing full well he’d never enter another newspaper office again. At least as an employee. That felt more liberating than what he was about to do, and that, he decided, was a damn good sign.

Driving the 58 minutes home he started plotting a course of action. How on earth could he do this? He had no job, was deep in debt and had a girlfriend. She knew he was messed up about his past, but she thought he was just too emotional.

His first decision was she couldn’t come with him.

He dialed her number. They rarely talked on the phone. She hated it. He hated it. His worst relationship moments had come on the phone. Fights from New Orleans to Arlington, Virginia. Crying fits. And the break up from Gainesville, Florida, to New Bern, North Carolina.

She picked up.

“Hey, honey,” she said. He didn’t remember her ever calling him honey. He tried to call her honey or hun a few times. She said it creeped her out.

“Hey, babe,” he responded. “I’ve got some news.”

“Good news?”

“I think so.” He paused. The next words out of his mouth were very important. And he hadn’t thought them through at all.

“Listen, I need some time by myself,” he instantly knew those were the wrong words.

“What?” she said, terrified.

“Let me re-phrase that,” he said. “I need to take a road trip. It’s going to be a long one. But I have to do it alone.”

“OK…Why?” she said, tentatively.

“I have to bury her,” he said. “She’d dead now. Well, she’s been dead for a long time. But I just found the corpse.”

He hoped she’d get it.

“You mean her? The one you always talk about in your sleep?”

“Yes,” he said. “I quit my job today.”

“What?”

“Good news is, I can move in with you now. No more long distance relationship. That is, at least after this trip is done.”

“Honey,” she sadly, “are you going to come back?”

“Unless I get killed driving or while eating pancakes somewhere, yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “I promise.”

“Love you,” she said softly. Her voice didn’t sound confident. He knew she had doubts about his intentions. It was funny, for the first time since they began dating a year and a half ago, he didn’t have any doubts about his.

“Love you too, babe,” he said. “I’ll send you a postcard from every stop I make.”

“OK,” she said, now crying.

“It’s going to be all right, baby. I promise. I just need this. We need this. To survive.”

“I know,” she replied.

“Good bye baby,” he said.

“Love you,” she said, hanging up.

He stared at the phone. He had a real hatred for phones. He hated having life-altering conversations on them. Twice in his life, he’d suffered through that life-shattering talk on a phone. One of them was while he sat on his parents’ living room floor; the other, on a broken down futon. His grey-blue eyes looked around to see where this one occurred. He was sitting on a hand-me-down couch in his holey underwear. It seemed fitting.

In the spare bedroom he kept his suitcases and bags. Under a cheap spare bed, he reached for, and found his sister’s old Virginia Commonwealth swim team bag. He loved that bag. She’d given it to him years ago. “I don’t need it anymore,” she said. He marveled then at how easy it was for her to just give away something that used to mean so much. It was a concept foreign to him. Things that had meaning, you hold on to them. They keep you grounded. They remind you of when times were better. Because, honestly, they don’t get better.

What an awful way to look at life, he thought to himself after that flood of memory.

His first instance of purging came in 2003. He and the redhead were moving. Well, she was moving, and he was moving his stuff. A box of old letters and trinkets popped up while he was taking things out of a closet. His old girlfriend’s letters and memory box. Things that reminded him of her. He looked through it all, smiling at the things it contained. His current girl had replaced her. While he was lost in thought, she walked in.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Just some old junk I don’t need anymore,” he said, throwing the entire box into a trash bag.

“I’m proud of you,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you throw anything away.”

She was right.

Six years later, he was in a crappy apartment in that same town. He’d moved twice, but somehow ended up back where he was. Another girl had come and gone, and she had the audacity to say she left because he lived in the past.

She was right.

And he was throwing it all away. Garbage bag after garbage bag was filled with his past. Diaries and notepads. Menus and receipts. He even threw away the necklace that the first girl he saw naked had left on his bed that night. That was one of the things he never thought he’d throw away. Now, years later, he still can remember what it looked like, but he can’t describe it.

“Guess that’s progress,” he said out loud.

He’d packed up a bag while thinking. He also had his digital camera and his laptop.

His bank account was empty, he’d paid the rent for the month and turned in his notice. He’d get back and have one week to move.

“Good plan,” he said with a chuckle. It made him think of a line from Lucero’s “She Wakes When She Dreams” Which, of course, made him grab his Ipod – which contained only Lucero and Ben Nichols songs.

“Time to hit the road,” he said, slamming the door shut.

He’d go north first, he decided. Go right into the belly of the beast.

Shiners and Chevettes

It was our anniversary. Not really, though, since there was no our anymore. But it didn’t stop me from doing what I did every year. When we were together under the same roof, when we lived 764 miles apart, and after she dumped me.

I’d go to a bar, a new bar. One I’d never been to. I’d order a Shiner Bock, drink it slowly, and put a quarter in the jukebox to play a sad song. I never had a song picked out. Mainly because every bar has a different jukebox. Some had old school ones – played 45s still. Most had Internet ones, so you could pick whatever song you wanted to hear. But, to pick a new one cost a dollar, which violated my quarter rule.

This year, I was in a place called May’s Picket Fence. It was in Jacksonville, North Carolina. The shithole of a town I found myself working in at the moment. For some reason I’d never left eastern North Carolina. Not even after. It was why things happened the way they did. Or at least as soon as they did. I’ve come to the realization, or rationalization, that it would have happened anyway. No matter what I did.

This year I’m sitting on the brown wooden barstool, one of the fancier ones with padding on the back and the butt. I’m drinking my Shiner and listening to American Aquarium talk about antique hearts and such. I wonder if B.J. Barham has really ever been in love. He’s too young to have had so many broken hearts, right? But hell, I’m just doing what everyone does to me. They don’t understand me, I don’t understand him.

I turn to my left and see a gal looking at Craigslist on her laptop. She’s about 25, maybe 30. Lots of bad tattoos up and down her back and arms. One is a bible verse in all black lettering. It takes up her entire shoulder area. It makes me wince. I still go up to her.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey yourself, cutie,” she responds. Up close, she’s at least 40. Lots of years on those eyes. But they’re blue, and piercing. So, I take a seat beside her.

“Cutie, huh?” I reply. “It’s been a long, long time since someone thought I was cute.” I smiled at her. I figured she’d see my golden teeth before too long, might as well get it out of the way. The last girl I talked to didn’t see them until we went outside. “Are you on meth or something?” she asked. I said no, and that seemed to be enough. We had sex in her Brat. I had never had sex in a Brat before. Hell, I’d never been in a Brat before. Those car/truck/whatever they are, they’re strange little autos.

I told her I’d like to buy her Brat. She said no. I asked why.

“Because you suck at fucking,” she said.

“Well, thanks for being honest,” I replied, getting out of the Brat. It was purple on the inside and brown on the outside.

“Just kiddin’,” she said with a wink. “You want to go to the Waffle House?”

I weighed my options, going with this girl I’d just met, and fucked, and sitting in Waffle House for about an hour, or going home and watching an episode of Jason of Star Command. Sid Haig won out.

But before she pulled away, she asked me: “Why do you want to buy my baby?”

This startled me. First, I had no idea this girl had kids. Second, I wasn’t in the market to buy anyone.

“Uh?” I muttered. “Not trying to start a family,” I finally managed.

“No, stupid,” she said. “I’m glad you fuck better than you think. My car. Why’d you want to buy it?”

“Oh…I wanted to buy it tonight, drive to wherever it dies and start living there.”

“That’s weird,” she said, giving me the wary once over.

“Yeah, I’m a little strange,” I replied. “But, at least I’m good at one thing.”

“And what’s that?” she laughed.

“Writing.”

“I hope your pencil’s always full of lead,” she said, starting the car and pulling away. She had Michigan tags on her car. I figured I’d never see her again. Even in the Facebook age. It helped we didn’t exchange names.

“You have a cute smile, too,” the lady at the bar said to me.

“Cutie with some cute, I must buy you a beer my darling.”

She giggled and blushed. I loved making a stranger blush. It meant I was doing something right. For a change.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

“Shiner and whiskey,” she said.

“We’re a match made in heaven.”

“Or hell.”

“Or hell,” I repeated, clinking our now full beers together. She smiled. She had yellow teeth too.

I stared at the television in front of the taps. It had a soccer match on. Chelsea vs. Liverpool. I had no interest. Neither did anyone else in the bar. So I looked back at my new barstool friend. She was looking at Chevettes for sale on the local Craigslist.

“Why a Chevette?” I asked.

“I think they’re cute.”

“I sense a pattern here,” I replied, taking a gulp of beer and then a shot.

“Yeah, I only like cute things.”

“Let’s make a deal then,” I said confidently. It was the liquor and the beer. “If we find one for less than $400, let’s buy it and start driving.”

“Where to?”

“Wherever it takes us. Or better yet, however far it takes us.”

“Then what?”

“Well, I’ll stay there. You can too. If you want to. If not, I’ll put $200 in an envelope, and that’ll be your fare home.”

“Deal,” she said, shaking my hand.

We spent the next three hours looking at Chevettes on the internet. After those three hours – and about a dozen beers – we found one. It was in Beulaville, not too far from us. It was tan. It had “only the original 44,000 miles on it.” Of course it was b.s., but the ad said it ran.

“Meet you tomorrow in Beulaville?” I queried.

“How about we get a cab. That way, we don’t have to leave a car in that God-forsaken town.”

“OK.”

That night, I packed up 17 t-shirts – all of them Lucero, the band not the skateboard guy, shirts. Some underwear, a few pairs of jeans and some shorts. Two pairs of Sambas and some socks. Threw in a toothbrush, toothpaste and an electric razor.  And lastly, my laptop and in its bag 17 notebooks to write in.

I showed up back at the bar, as we’d talked about the night before, at 3 p.m. sharp. We had to be in Beulaville at 5. At 4:30, I called a cab and went by myself.

At the IGA in Beulaville, I paid a guy name Rob $325 for a 1981 Chevette. It purred like a kitten when I started it, and ran like a dead horse when you drove it. I still took it.

Figured I’d make it a couple miles and just go home.

Instead, three years and 145,985 miles later, I’m still driving. Waiting for it to break down. Even the month of only listening to one song – David Bowie’s “Heroes” – didn’t kill it. Or me.

So now, I’m the internet Chevette guy.

Started a Kickstarter page after three months. Said “I need money to drive my Chevette until it dies. I won’t change the oil, I won’t get filters. When it dies, it dies. And that’s where I’ll live.”

The first two months, it raised about $400. Enough for burritos. I ended up working odd jobs to pay for gas. And showers. But not much else.

So, I kept driving. And each anniversary, I stopped somewhere and had a Shiner and played a sad song.

“Where does the love go when it dies?” a singer asked.

I’d say in the driver’s seat of a 1981 Chevette. Until it decides to do otherwise.

talking to dogs

I’ve been awake 35 minutes, and already I’ve taken three shits.

It’s going to be one of those days.

On the third, of course, toilet paper runs out. I guess it could be worse. These things could be happening to me in a Malaysian forest.

Two nights ago I was writhing on the floor. Agonizing as some awesome tasting, but eventually abortionally awful for my stomach food was trying its best to get out of me. I twisted and turned and moaned for hours in bed. Finally, I got out, laid on the floor against the cool tiles of the bathroom and I felt a bit better.

For about two minutes. The nausea subsided a bit, but the stomach kept gurgling. I stumbled too my feet and sat on the commode. Finally, a burst of hot, smelly awfulness came out of my asshole. It splashed the bowl with its wretchedness. I spent most of that night either on the toilet, gushing brown water, or on the couch so as not to disturb my beautiful, and very understanding girlfriend.

Today, my body has come back to say “You shouldn’t eat that crap” again. I respectfully decline its advice. I need my variety of foodstuffs. Even when they cause so much angst.

Sometime later today, I’m going to have to drive the two hours to work. I wonder to myself if I’ll be able to just move here and do that every day. Instead of an hour-long commute each day, double it. Double the toll on my car. Double the thought-provoking conversations I have with myself late at night as the miles pass by. Also, double the chances of me getting a ticket as well.

The separation gets old. But so does the constant pressure to find another job. “When are you moving up here?” “Why haven’t you moved yet?” “I don’t understand why you can’t find a job here.” Are statements I get to hear almost every time I go out with friends in the city. It’s draining. It’s soul-sucking. And I’ve been through it all before. This time, I’d like to think I’ll come out on the right end. But I can’t help but wonder if I’m just the hamster on the wheel again. Churning and burning, but going nowhere. Fast.

The other object of scorn is my lack of time or motivation to write when I’m around her. This, of course, is a sign of a good thing. I’m not toiling away at some misguided exercise of futility. Instead, I’m smiling and hugging and whatever else you want to imagine I do with my girlfriend. Some of it was true! – in best Joe Strummer voice.

It’s been four days since I sat down and wrote something. I feel extremely guilty about it. It’s why I got up early today. Must type something. Even if my inspiration comes while I’m taking a shit.

The dogs look at me sitting here in bed, wearing just my boxer briefs, typing on this $400 laptop. It’s one of the first things I’ve bought for myself and paid off in a timely manner. I set a goal, and I achieved it. The wonder of it all.

I can’t help but wonder what those two dogs are thinking. Is it really all about food, food, food. Pee, pee, pee. Or poop, poop, poop?

I’d like to have a conversation with them. A two-sided one that is.

I once took advice from a dog. My sister’s now dead Labrador. I asked a question, and the dog walked up to me, panted with that smiling face and pushed her nose up against my heart. I took that as “follow your heart.” And I did. It’s funny that I still remember that day. Pretty vividly, which is a rarity for me. I barely remember eating lunch yesterday in some generic, chain bar-b-que restaurant. But I remember that day.

There are times when I’d like to just pack up my stuff and get in my car and drive until I can’t drive anymore – most likely because the money ran out. I romanticize the hell out of that kind of action. Yet, since I turned 30, it’s been dead for the most part. The feeling of wonder and wander still is in me. It’s never far away. But the acting on it, that rarely occurs. Yeah, I’ve still taken a few roadies, some of them way too expensive, and I’ve enjoyed them. But I used to have that feeling of adventure in me. And I acted on it all the time. Now? It seems to hibernate more often than gesticulate. And that, really makes no sense. Good as any place to end this….

Tickets

“Where are we going?” she asked with an ever-so-slight bit of concern in her voice.

“You’ll see,” I replied. “The point of this trip is for you to trust someone, right? That’s what we agreed on.”

She frown-smiled at my answer to her query. I wasn’t about to tell her where we were headed. I felt a bit of a rush in knowing that I was in control. It’s said now, thinking back on it, but not really.

The miles flew by as we talked about work, about Dean Martin, about bad television shows, about how neither of us had been to Maine. We also talked about death. I didn’t really understand what death can do to a person. It’s one of those things you have to experience, and I had not experienced it to the degree she had. Both her parents died within two years of each other. One in a long, drawn out battle with cancer that ended with her and her mom alone in a room together. Her dad died suddenly of a heart attack, trying to live a different life with a different woman.

The only people in my life who had died up to that point were my dad’s dad, who I share a name with but not much else, and my dad’s sister who I was too young to even remember. Since then, only one other person has died – my mom’s dad. That one hurt, but I wasn’t around. I still feel pain thinking of him and me not being there towards the end.

As we drew closer and closer to our destination, I was shocked that she had no idea still where we were going. No clue. And her guesses were way off.

New Jersey is an ugly state. The industrial complex of our dying nation crumbling everywhere amongst swampy land and sadness. She genuinely enjoyed the sights. It made me happy just watching her bounce around in the seat of my Toyota Celica. A car that to this day I miss. Set on fire in a parking lot years later, and replaced by an Acura – 1988 model – from her via her uncle.

Finally, as darkness started to settle around us, we pulled into a Super 8 motel. It wasn’t too bad of a place. I checked in and took our bags – hers much heavier than mine – and we got into our room. Separate beds, of course, as we were not dating. At least not yet.

Just took off her shoes and jumped on one of the beds. She hopped up and down with so much glee that I had to just simply watch her to feel the same way. However, I’m assuming it didn’t show on my face quite as much.

“You having fun?” I asked as she finally stopped by landing on her butt with a thud.

Winded and still grinning wildly, she replied “Yes sir!”

I laughed out a bit at her answer and sat on my bed, turning on the television.

The room was a dirty vanilla color. The comforters on the beds had a red paisley pattern. They looked clean, but of course were not. But this was long before I started throwing those infested pieces of cloth to the floor. I still used them and probably was infected by them at this point of my on-going journey.

The next 45 minutes were spent me staring at the television news and her taking a shower and singing. Her voice was almost angelic in sound. I don’t know now if it was just my crush on her that made me feel that way. I can’t hear that voice in my head anymore. One of the many ravages of time that disturb me the most. You take for granted those type of sounds, as you expect to hear them forever. But, like everything, they go away and while you remember how great it must have sounded, you can’t hear it anymore.

She came out of the bathroom in a towel. She quickly grabbed her bag of clothes and dashed back into the bathroom. I couldn’t help but stare, and I think she wanted it that way.

A moment later, she was dressed and smiling. She was younger than me, by a good 7 or 8 years, and didn’t need makeup. Her beauty was pure still.

“What are you doing?” she asked, after catching me staring a bit too long.

I stumbled for an answer before finally blurting out: “Thinking about tomorrow and how much fun you’re going to have!”

Her eyes squinted at me.

“You know, I’m never going to be able to sleep tonight. Not knowing.”

“Not knowing what?” I playfully responded.

“Stop that.”

“What? Do you not trust me yet? You just drove almost nine hours with me in a car to a place you don’t know the final destination. And now we’re in a Super 8 in the middle of New Jersey.”

“I know,” she said. “You could cut me up tonight and leave me in a field.”

“Damn, how’d you guess?”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“Who said I was joking?” I smirked as I went to pee.

I came out, making sure to wash my hands to keep up good impressions, and she was under the covers. Looking a little sleepy.

“I thought you couldn’t sleep, not knowing and all…”

“I can be sleepy and not A-Sleep,” she said, sounding like a 10 year old.

I went to my bag and pulled out a blank white envelope. I put in on her bed near her feet.

“If you must know, the answer is in this,” I said pointing at the envelope.

She burst out from under her blanket and grabbed the envelope.

“Really? You’ll tell me?”

“If you have to know, open it up.”

She wasted no time, ripping it open. I was disappointed for a fraction of a second. And only that short of a time period because it was all the time I had to be that way.

She was now holding them. The prize I had got off of E-bay a few days earlier.

They were blue and orange, the tickets.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” she kept saying.

Then she sprung to her feet and starting bouncing on the bed again.

“Opening Day tickets! How’d you get these!”

“I’ve got my ways,” I said, trying to be mysterious.

I watched her jumping and it made me happy.

Finally, she jumped down and gave me a hug. I was startled. As much as we’d gotten to know each other, this was the first real physical contact. I hugged back, just a little as her jumping up and down made it tough.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said.

“This is why you should trust folks more,” I said. “Good things happen.”

She smiled, but did not respond to that.

And good things did happen. Starting with Shea Stadium the next day, and lasting for nearly six years after.

it was paul westerberg all along

The voice echoed in my mind. It petrified me.

“Did I just run somebody over?”

This paralyzed me. Who the fuck was I to think I could take someone’s life so easily and not go back and see. To help them. To comfort their last moments.

Who the fuck wants to be run over by a car and left on the side of the road?

I turned my car around, Paul Westerberg still singing.

My eyes glanced all around the road. It was dark, but I figured I knew about where it happened. Where I heard the voice on the right side, just kind of mumble and yell, then a bit of a bump.

Had to be a person I hit. Not just a piece of debris on the road. Or a dog or cat. Or maybe even an opossum.

Nothing. The road was empty. As was the ditch. I pulled over to the side. Got out of the car and listened. All I could hear was Westerberg wail. I reached into my car and turned the radio off. Then the ignition.

The silence pierced my ears like a pregnant seal giving birth. I winced a bit.

Still nothing.

“The guy or gal could be dead now. Not making any sounds,” I thought to myself.

I walked around to the front of my car. The lights were still on. I looked for damage. There was none. Not even a scratch.

Now I was started to worry about my sanity. It reminded me of the time I was driving down Interstate 12. Heading towards New Orleans. I watched the traffic coming at me, the lights coming closer and closer before flying past me at 75. Each time I imagined what it would be like to hop the median and go right at ‘em. Take on those lights and have them end the pain I was feeling. It would be quick, but I couldn’t guarantee painless. Plus, it might not even work. People survive car crashes all the time. Even head-ons at 75. That would be my luck. Damaged on the outside to go with the inside.

So I kept driving.

Now, years later, I’m standing on the side of a road in bumblefuck North Carolina wondering if I put some other fool out of his misery? No one gave me that courtesy, and I guess I’m happy about that. Except for a shitty job and a ton of debt, I like my life. Even though I dwell on a redheaded girl sometimes.

A pair of lights started to make their way towards me. Knowing this road, it was a cop. So, I got back in my car and started driving. Two seconds later, his lights came on.

“Fuck,” was all I could muster.

I pulled over and so did the cop car. Bright-ass lights shining in my rearview. I made me laugh for a moment.

He ambled to my car and tapped on my window. For some reason, I hadn’t rolled it down yet.

“What were you doing on the side of the road, sir?” the pimply looking cop asked me. I had to think about this one. I decided to go with the truth.

“I thought I hit something,” I said, almost saying someone. “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a dog or something like that.”

“Oh,” the cop replied. A couple of seconds later, he continued. “Can you get out of the car, sir?”

I got out. Slowly. Like all the people tell you too. No sudden movements or gestures. You don’t want to end up dead by cop on the side of some backcountry North Carolina highway. No telling what the story would end up being.

“Journalist shot after trying to elude arrest for drugs.”

“Journalist drew first.”

“Journalist shot after killing pedestrian in hit-and-run.”

It was frightening. But also kind of cool to be sitting there thinking of headlines of my own impending demise.

“Have you been drinking?” the cop said, interrupting my train of thought.

“I wish,” I said without thinking.

“What is that supposed to mean?” the cop asked, perking up a bit too much.

“I just got off work. Driving home.”

“Where do you work so late at night?” he was now getting that accusatory tone that cops love to use.

“At the newspaper.” That answer always left cops hanging. Not as much as it used to, when papers still delivered on their promise to expose corruption and such, even though they really rarely ever did that in the first place. Myths are cool.

“Oh. Well, you should be more careful when driving on these roads. Someone could come along and run you over standing there like that.”

He looked me over. I had on plaid shorts and a shirt that read “Achiever” from Lebowskifest. He obviously didn’t golf.

“Have a good night officer,” I replied.

He said nothing and got back in his car. Turned off his lights and whisked away. Didn’t even wait for me to get back in the “safety” of my car.

I got back in the car and turned on the ignition. Westerberg finished singing and the next song started. I hit the back button.

“Merry Go Round” started up again.

A few seconds later, I heard that voice again. Apparently, it was Paul Westerberg all along. Creepy background lyrics.

I decided to get a beer. And that’s when I met her.