Constant Humanity

Went to bed last night thinking I’d hit the beach the next day. It was too nice of a day to do what I did -- staying inside most of the day, drinking Miller High Life and Budweiser while watching badly torrented and streamed football games.

Instead, I got up today and watched JFK conspiracy flicks all day. I think that it inevitably happens to all poor white guys when they get old and they stay in their apartments/houses by themselves too much. They start to look around and see what is going on around them. Which, leads them to think about conspiracies.

When really, you’re just a loser, who fucked up his chance at the “good life” or the “normal life” and instead is living by himself in a lonely old town.

Could be worse, however, you rationalize.

This is going to get awful, I can tell. So I’m stopping while I still can…

***

I have an old hat. I used to refer to it as my “Brett Favre” hat, because he was once known, and my still be known, for his old crusty hat that he wore all the time.

Well, I don’t wear this hat all the time anymore. It smells too badly now. So, wearing it to work, and to most social engagements would be kind of silly. Funny, but silly. I’d rather not folks want to stay away from me because of my stank-ass hat. Instead, they can stay away because of my overall demeanor. That’s just more suited to me.

Anyways, I’ve also worn this hat to every Lucero show I’ve been to. Minus two. Both times, the redhead was there. I figure I didn’t want her to smell it.

Why? Not a clue in the world. Good impression? Ha. Those days have long since past.

I’ve got two shows to go to next month. They will be the barometer of the old hat. If I wear them there, it is her. If I don’t it isn’t. Of course, knowing this now, I could influence the actual chance factor. But I really don’t care.

***

Decided to walk down to the boardwalk area. Good for the heart and soul. I figure to get some exercise and maybe some random human interaction. It’s been too long.

I get to the boardwalk and glance in the local pub. Bunch of old-timers and, much to my amazement, three women. Attractive ones at that. One of them even gives me the once over. I return the favor. She looks at me again and just stares. I look, then glance away and keep on going.

Maybe my Wanda moment could of happened, but I have doubts. Three against one isn’t the right set up for such things. The four dollars and change in my wallet usually keeps me away from even trying the single wings. It’s a viscous cycle and all. I know. Can’t win if you don’t play and all. I just like my odds to be better than that. I feel the hole in my pants pockets and know I was probably right, this time.

Net up is a couple, one looks the part of the marine. A pretty common role, it seems, in these parts. These parts. What the fuck is that?

They give me the glance as I walk by. My $2 flip flops doing what they do to make noise. I do look the part of vagrant right now. Then they just up and start faux humping on the bench in the covered picnic area. How oddly fascinating. I think about just watching the show. Imagine the possibilities…

However, I decide against it. I like having teeth in my mouth. As bad as the ones I have are, they are, inside of it still.

Next is the beach. I sit down, sigh and stare. All of the footprints in the sand depress me. Going here. Going there.

A few minutes later, the same couple is now jumping on swings. Pushing each other in a mad frenzy. Next up they start running and skipping, it would appear. Grabbing sign posts and lamp posts. Swinging on each and ever one of them. Some kind of mating ritual, I assume. It’s been so long since I’ve been on that prowl it doesn’t register quite correctly in my mind.

“Good for them,” I think. “I hope they make it.”

I doubt they will. Hope they don’t end up hating each other. It seems that’s the choice most make. Even when they stay together.

The thrill leaves me, so I decide to walk to the gas station. Not the BP close to my house. I have sworn that place off. Actually never been there. And, never going to. It’s amazing how many BP stations there are here. Must be a coastal thing. Because 40 miles inland, don’t see any.

I get there and there are two folks sitting outside. Smoking cigs and chatting. I turn my I-pod off so I can hear them. However, when I get close enough, they stop and go inside.

The beer selection here sucks. I was hoping maybe they’d have something I can’t get elsewhere, but it’s all Budweiser and Corona and the like. I get some generic funyons and a throwback Pepsi. How sad is it that real sugar is a “throwback” to anything.

My corpse will be well preserved.

I walk home, staring at my shadow. He’s my constant companion. It’s good to have a constant of some kind.

Slim's

Instead of caring about going to work, I just didn’t go today. The day started out the same as just about every one does. I woke up, turned on my computer and my stereo -- Rick James’ “Street Songs” begins every day now. It’s a ritual that seems to work. Keeps me focused I figure.

After a few minutes doing that, I struggled to write something. Failing that, I got in the shower. Cleaned off a day and night’s worth of filth and dirt.

Picking out a t-shirt to wear is about the toughest decision I have to make. There are too many of them in my closet. Especially ones that don’t quite fit right, but I don’t want to give up on because “one day” I may weigh less. Ha. One day.

That’s when it dawns on me that today is just a day to not go to work. I feel that way too often. The love of the game is no longer in me. Well, at least where I’m at. But really, I can’t remember when the love of the place was there? There are times when I used to get wrapped up in the moment of the chase of a great story, either by me or a staffer. And it was bliss. Those moments don’t come anymore. I don’t write at work anymore.

That stinks.

So does feeling that way, so today, I’m not going to feel that way I decide.

The moment I decide this comes after I get in my car to go to work. There is an exact moment where it becomes reality, but I don’t remember the moment it became a choice.

There’s a turn I have to make to get to work. I didn’t make it. Instead, I kept going straight.

Eventually, that road led to Interstate-40. I get on. Going west, of course. East is a sign of failure. A sign of the journey being over. Of going “home.” Whatever “home” is.

Once on the road, I don’t have a plan. That makes me feel good. Just like rolling down the windows does. It’s a perfectly sunny, 72-degree day. The asphalt zooms by me. There aren’t a lot of cars on the road. Just the way it should be.

This road goes to Memphis. That’s really all I’m thinking about. Could I actually drive all the way today? And then what? It’ll take me 12-15 hours to do that. It feels unlike any other feeling right now. That anticipation of the unknown. The wonder of it all. Where will I end up? Will there be something there at the end to fill the void.

After a couple of hours, I pull over on the side of the road, just outside of Raleigh. The hustle and bustle of a mid-sized to large southern town bores me. It’s all leave the suburbs, go to work in the city, leave the city, go to sleep in the suburbs. Repeat. My life has become that as well. Not that it doesn’t happen to everyone at some point in time. You become a zombie. You become a slave. But it’s the people that get out of it that are my heroes. My role models. Hopefully, I’ll join them one day.

I need gas. So I pull into a place called “Slim’s Slow Store.” It sounds perfectly invigorating.

The gas pumps are mostly broken. Or they just haven’t filled the tanks with gas in a while. The pumps have those yellow plastic bags over them. Except for one, it has a white plastic bag on it. I pull my car into the only spot with a useable pump. The Hyundai takes 9.2 gallons. I love it. Full tank, 10 gallons. My last car took 18. I filled it up just as often.

At this time I get the incredible urge for Funyons and Gatorade. It happens. No meat stick, however. So, I decide to venture inside. Heck, maybe I’ll meet Slim and we can talk of things convenient.

Upon entering Slim’s, it becomes quite obvious that there is no Slim. At least not anymore.

Yeah, the right things are in place for the most part. There are confederate flag shirts. Bass fish belt buckles. As well as Conway Twitty and Kenny Rogers cassette tapes, 3 for $9.99. But the first giveaway is the lady mopping up the floors. She’s Asian. She’s probably about 55. Her face is downtrodden, as you’d expect someone to be working here. But she also has a t-shirt that reads “Don’t fuck with Jesus.” And it ain’t Jesus Quintana we’re speaking of.

I get my orange Gatorade, noticing how it’s not quite cold like all convienence store drinks and my 99 cent bag of Funyons and head to the counter.

There, two Middle Eastern guys are standing, side by side. One is smiling. One is counting money from the register. I’ve noticed lately that there are always two Middle Eastern dudes, not one, behind the counter. It first dawned on my in New Bern, a couple years ago, heck five years ago now, that this happened. I used to hit the old converted BP station for snacks on the way home from late nights at work. It helped me avoid Wal-Mart or my boss’s wife at the Harris Teeter. Fucking bitch.

Those guys were from Iraq. They talked a lot. And knew a lot about me. Hell, it was usually 2 in the morning and I didn’t have anything better to do. And, you know, they didn’t either. But without fail, they’d open the conversation the same way… “Oh, Gatorade and Funyons. Someone has the munchies! Ha. Ha. Ha.”

I didn’t have any pot. If I did, my lethargy would have an excuse. Damn, five years of lethargy. That could be the title of my book…

Anyways, these stores, when it’s a redneck gal or dude, they work alone late at night. There’s no tag team action then. That’s starting to get to deep. I pay for my Funyons and Gatorade and leave. It reeks of incense anyway. I hate the way incense smells. It gives me a headache.

I get in my car, plop in a new CD, Neil Young’s “On the Beach”, and hit the road.