randall p. floyd

“Mustard on a Twinkie? That’s just wrong.”

I thought nothing of it. So, I dunked my Twinkie remnant in the yellow goop once again.

“Fuck, man, that’s disgusting.”

“It’s really not. Have you tried it?”

“No God damn it. I have not tried it. Why would anyone try that?”

“Why would someone get in a boat and sail to the west? That’s what folks used to say. If they hadn’t, you might be growing up in England right now, thinking the world was flat.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, intelligent conversation. That’s you.”

“Fuck you, again.”

“Buy me a fucking drink, you anti-intellectual, you.”

“Two beers, Danny! One for me. One for the fucking Einstein here.”

I smiled. Usually, I’m the one being berated for being a dumb-ass. Tonight? I’m back home in Hopewell, Virginia. Here, I’m still considered smart. I look in the corner of the bar. There’s my old government teacher. He was a cool guy when I was 17. Now? He’s just another drunk. Like me. Wishing he’d never come to this small, industrial town, I’m sure. The only things I remember about Mr. Harp are this: his roommate in college killed himself via hanging in the closet, thus making him the only person I know who can actually verify the “if your roommate in college kills himself, you get a 4.0” rumor. Oh, and he’s spent more time with my dad than me. If that counts as knowing something about him.

I very easily could have ended up in this very same place every night of my life. Instead of sitting alone in my living room, on a hand-me-down couch watching the same movies over and over and listening to the same songs over and over. Is one better than the other? Not really. Of course, if I’d stayed in Hopewell, most likely, I’d be married. Or at least getting laid. There’s something to be said for sticking your dick inside of a woman instead of your spit in hand. Just saying.

It’s funny. I still want a woman who doesn’t want me. She texted me for over an hour tonight. Mindless conversations about music, rock shows and the like. No flirting. At least, none returned. You try to slip in a line or two, hoping it’s a weak moment for her. Maybe she’s doing the same thing you are on a lonely Saturday night. Sitting at home, wondering where, for her the 20s went, for me, the 30s. However, she’s got three hours on you. It’s only 8:29 p.m. there. It’s 11:29 here. The night is starting for her. It’s been done for a while for you.

Still, you keep the conversation going. That is, until the messages stop coming. You know what that means. Someone found something more interesting to be distracted by. I’m sure it’s flattering to know that someone really digs you. Would do anything to have a moment with you. She knows this about me. And it doesn’t stop you from acting the fool. Chasing the tail like a dog. Or like a horny 40 year old. Whichever seems to be the more fitting description. I don’t know. I’ve never been to war. I’ve shot a gun. Twice. It sucked. I got a big bruise on my shoulder from the recoil. I think my dad knew right after that second shot that I wouldn’t be hunting with him anymore. It was pointless. And hell, I liked to run around in the cornfields and pretend I was somewhere else. I guess I could have made a good Labrador retriever? Wolf. Wolf! Go get the dead duck!

I sometimes wonder how I’d react in a combat situation. It’s one of those things you can never know about yourself until it happens. Same thing as if some drug addict pulls a gun on you. But I’ve had that happen to me. I joked with the guy until he started laughing and lowered it. Don’t think that would work with the Taliban. But one never knows? Maybe I could just put on Electric Six’s “Gay Bar” and we could all have a good laugh together. Looking at Tony Blair and George Bush.

Fuck YouTube.

Anyway, I wonder if the Anyways police are out today?

I need to stop trying to find a reason to keep going. If you need a reason and you don’t know what it is, then it’s already a lost cause. Right?

Who the fuck am I to ask such questions? Randall Pink Floyd?

exactly

Two and a quarter beers in, and I’m done. The beer doesn’t do what it used to do. Now, it’s just the depressant that it is. Making me feel bad. Taking the desire to live away.

So I stop drinking. I pace around for a while. Trying to find something to occupy my mind. It’s not easy when there’s nothing around.

Downloading an Elvis Costello concert diverts my attention for a moment or two. Finally, I dig into the boxes of VHS tapes that I cling to for just this reason. “We’re No Angels” grabs my attention. I plop it into the VCR. Push play. Start watching. It’s got to be better than the other options.

The quarter drunken beer sits on the coffee table. Staring at me. By now, it’s warm. Well, as warm as it can get when you don’t turn the heat on in the middle of November. But this is North Carolina. Not North Dakota. So, it’s not freezing cold. Inside. Yet.

The itch is here. To do something wrong. Something dumb. Stupid. Ignorant. Would it make Dennis Hopper proud? Hell no. I feel too sorry for myself. But maybe he felt sorry for himself sometimes to. Hell, who doesn’t? Assholes and cereal killers. But they smell and have bad teeth. Wait a second…

Just five minutes ago I was thinking about going to bed. Calling it quits at 11:45 p.m. Instead, I’m typing. Sitting in my mind, trying to come up with some way to get 750 words into this Microsoft Works Document. I looked at my old diary on disc while I was at home earlier this week. My mom threw away the old Brother Word Processor that I typed them on. Of course, I threw away my journals from the rest of my life up until 2008.

Still bitter about that one aren’t we? No remorse. No repent. We don’t care, what it meant…

My mind wanders back to the TV for a moment. The absolute awfulness of 1980s movies that took themselves seriously makes me chuckle. The music, straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. David Mamet. Ha. But he’s a writer. Of films and such and so much more. Me? I used to be a reporter. A decent one. Best thing I could do was write features and the like. My gamers tended to be too wordy. But my leads were usually spot on. I just need someone to tell me -- “write 10 inches dipshit, not 35.” All those years I wished for an editor. Which is why, I think, I went back to being just a reporter. But the editor was a friend. A friend who sometimes had a complex about being an editor. Just not a good thing.

Now, I’m just a squatter. My posture has gotten worse. My attitude better in some ways, a whole lot worse in others. I can feel my depression seeping away the more letters I type into words. No matter how silly what I type is. How banal. How insipid. Hey, fun with words without a thesaurus. It can happen. Not that you care.

I thought about my ex girlfriend today. Which one, you may be asking? But probably not. And really it doesn’t matter.

The phrase “love isn’t enough” echoed throughout my empty skull for most of the drive home tonight. I hate those words put together. They killed me once. And I try every day and night not to let them kill me anymore. It’s why I feel so god damned one-dimensional. I can only write about one thing. No matter what I’m writing about, it’s always about that. Hell, I remember a few times I’d see it seeping into my newspaper stories. I’d have to stop myself and consciously keep the words from steering that direction.

How stupid is that?

I got an e-mail earlier this week. Or late last week. It’s hard to keep that straight when I go on trips. And that’s a damn good thing. It was from forbes.net. It was the one I sent to myself five fucking years ago. However, it was addressed to her, not me.

I saw the message title. It made me happy for a second. Until I opened it up.

Guess it’s better than it being in an envelope. That would have meant effort involved in the matter. I did get a postcard this week. From another. It made me smile. I wish we tried harder with people. I like letters. Writing them and getting them. Yet, I don’t send them. So why should I think I should get them?

Exactly.