go outside, you might like what you find...

For all the days I’ve wasted, just sitting alone inside of my house/apartment/dorm room whatever, today should stand as a reminder that going outside is always the better option.

I woke up today determined to not waste it like I did the day before. While I had what I thought was a good story idea, I ended up burying it under half a bottle of Jameson and producing a turd. Bukowski once said that Hemingway was an alcoholic who got up early to write so he could get it out of the way so he could get drunk. That may be true. I just know that every writer thinks he writes better drunk. And while it is good to every now and then get blasted and type away, I’m finding that the creative juices are a bit more, how should I say it, diverse, when not drunk.

So, after tooling about a bit, I went for a walk. Decided to hit the beach and see if it was indeed as eroded as it looked last night in my drunken stupor. It was.

Only problem with it, really, was the people. Seems you’re allowed to drive on the beach this time of year. So, of course, to justify owning a four-wheel drive vehicle all these folks are on it. In their cars. Getting in my way as I’m just walking.

Then, out of nowhere I hear a voice, obviously saying something to me. I have headphones on, but keep them low enough on the odd chance someone wants to have a conversation with me. I try to say hello to everyone, but most people do everything they can to look away or not make eye contact. I used to be like that too, but found it to be more tiresome.

“Hey, honey. You from around here?” the redhead says.

“Umm. Yeah, I live over there,” I reply, pointing in the general direction of where my house is located. I look at this person and quickly come to the conclusion that she’s a he. He’s with another person, one of the many folks that I’ve noticed in my neighborhood, but never talked too much with. She is the skinny lady who lives across the main road. The one who I was five seconds from calling the cops for when her boyfriend/husband/whatever was cussing at her and hitting her. But then the cops showed up anyway.

“Well, you should invite us over,” he/she says.

“Yeah, maybe. But I’ve got things to do,” I manage to say as I turn up the volume on my I-pod. Lucero’s “When you decided to leave” begins, somewhat fittingly, I figure. By then I’m walking down the beach, hoping this conversation has ended.

“Catch you later, hon!” he/she yells at me, waving, just as I’m walking by an older couple tanning themselves in the 70-degree fall day. The give me a look, I say “Hi!” and keep on walking.

I walk along the beach for a good two miles before getting bored. I was going to try and make it all the way to the Sheraton, which is about five miles from my house, but it starts to become something I’m not interested in anymore. So, I turn right up the sand and head for a trashcan. Usually they’re around rentals and public beach access areas, I figure. This time, I figure wrong. It’s got the “Don’t you dare!” signage for tourists and riff-raff to be scared by. Since I’m just riff-raff and the house in question is still boarded up from the hurricane about a month ago, I figure I’m safe.

On the road, I put my shoes on and start walking. No one here is very friendly. I say hi to a guy out fixing up something on his porch. Nothing. A couple of eldery New York-types give me the eye from their “Private Beach Access” walkway. I smile and say good afternoon ladies!”, and get nothing but a look and some whispers between the two. Guess my unkempt appearance and tattered hat don’t suit their wants and or needs at the moment.

A garbage truck passes by with one of the most strikingly beautiful women I’ve seen in quite some time driving it. I look her way and she gives me the “yeah, I’m hot, get over it,” look. I just look away and keep walking.

Upon arriving at the boardwalk area, I am walking slowly towards an entrance to a local eatery. A mustang is there. He stops and waits for me. Kind of odd, since I’m a good half a block away. I don’t hurry up. This seems to bother the marine (guessing here). He gives me a look and starts waving his hand in a “speed it up” kind of motion. I get beside his car, finally, and he gives me the look again. I say “you’re the one who waited.” Which sets him off on a tirade of profanities and then the old rev up the engine and pull into the parking lot real fast move.

I can only feel sorry for his girlfriend/wife. She’s going to have to listen to him for the next hour cussing about that ragged beach bum who walked so darn slow.

Ha.

After getting past the boardwalk, I get near the water tower. A bunch of construction workers are laughing. I look around and see one other guy going towards the hotel across the street from them. He goes up some stairs to a bungalow. There, three woman are hanging around. Young women. I watch as I walk. He says something to one of them and they give him a hug and a peck on the cheek. The other construction workers let out a howl. Two of the ladies go in the room, the other hangs out on the deck.

She looks down at me, walking by, and gives me the wave for “come on up.” From behind, I hear the construction guys’ cat-calls. I look up, smile and shrug. As I walk on, I wonder if I’ve now found the local brothel location?

Trannies, marines and whores. Who needs the big city?

IEDs vs. IUDs

IED vs. IUD


Damn. What a horrible place for my fucking car to finally break down. Not that there is a good place for smoke to come billowing out of the engine block of my 1988 Acura Legend coupe, well, in front of the Playboy Mansion when Hugh Hefner’s out at the urologist might count, but hell, this is about as bad as could be imagined.

Off in the distance I can hear it. The pop, pop, pop of machine gun fire.

“Damn Marines,” I think to myself. Or did I just say that out loud? Just as a fucking flashlight shines right into my face.

“Put up your hands!” a voice spews from the darkness. Spew, not speak. I hear the distinct sound of rounds slipping into chambers all around me.

“Put your mother fucking hands up!” another voice decides to spew.

I put my hands up.

Lights dance all around now. Not flashlights. But lights nonetheless. I’m guessing their attached to automatic rifles. Hell, they could be giant fireflies for all I care. All I do know is I’m fucked.

Ten minutes ago I was at work. A place that every day gets a little more awful. But I’d give my big toe to be back there right now. Hell, if this gets as bad as I think it could get, I’d give my entire left foot. Although my place-kicking days would be over then.

Finally, I see a face.

Damn, this guy can’t be more than 22 years old. And all the rest of these jar heads are looking at him to tell them what to do? Reminds me of a newsroom. Where there are too many under qualified, stupid reporters running around with pens in their hands and pads in their back pockets because they’d take less than minimum wage to do the job.

I remember when I was that kid. And now, I’m 40 years old making less than I did when I was 30. Why? Well, that’s a long story that I’ve told too many times.

Now, I’m standing on the side of North Carolina Highway 24. Seven miles from the office. Thirty-three from my beach house.

“Sir, why are you here?” the kid says, not spews.

“Huh?”

“Why are YOU here?” he repeats.

“My car broke down. You see that smoke? It’s not me barbequing.” I regret saying that before the ing leaves my mouth…

“Sir, you are on restricted territory. We could have shot you. Not questions asked.”

I think to myself for a second. I’m on the side of the road. A state road. Yes, surrounded by military installations. But, still a public highway.

“Um, isn’t this highway 24?”

“Sir, that is highway 24,” he says, pointing his rifle at the pavement. “This. This is restricted territory.” Now pointing at the median.

“Sorry to interrupt your war games.”

Oops.

“How did you know we were conducting war scenarios?” he asked with a crocked up eyebrow.

“Lucky, I guess…”

Yeah, lucky is the perfect word for it. I am nothing if not lucky. Hell, I haven’t had sex in over two years, so I can’t even get lucky. Although, I have had chances. Just haven’t pursued them. It’s really why I don’t complain about it. At least I don’t have the AIDs. Ha. The AIDs.

As I’m having this internal dialogue, I glance over at some of the other “soldiers” standing about. They’re dressed in those grey fatigues. Not the tan ones you see all the time now in news footage from the Gulf or Afghanistan. Certainly not the ones in M.A.S.H., for sure.

Soon I see that they are really preoccupied with my car. Looking at it wearily. Almost scared in their approach to it.

“Why did you park this thing here?” the kid in charged asks me.

“Well, the engine started smoking, and I pulled off the side of the road.”

“But why here? There is a gas station about a ½ click to the east.”

What the fuck does that mean, I think to myself. Click.

“Didn’t you hear the gun shots?”

“Uh, not until I pulled over,” I said. “My radio was pretty loud.”

All of the sudden another kid came running over.

“Sarge, there’s something fishy under the dashboard.”

“Why the fuck are you under my dashboard,” I asked almost instinctively.

“Why the fuck do you care? Got something to hide?”

Instantly, five guns are trained on me again.

“Shit, that’s an IED!” a guy with glasses yells out.

“Sir, is there a bomb in this car. I’ll ask you once, and once only,” kid asks, or really demands.

“Uh….Uh…”

I feel a sharp pain on my neck. One of those shitbirds just hit me with the butt of his rifle. I fall down.

I wake up in a hospital. My neck hurts. Bad.

A man in a really nice uniform comes in. He must be important.

“Mr. Jones, we are extremely sorry,” he says. “But you certainly understand my men did what they did.”

“Uh…Uh…No.”

“Well, they found a box, with wires running straight from the steering wheel area duct-taped inside the dashboard. A very suspicious thing, for sure.”

“Yeah, but why were they under my dashboard?”

“You were parked in a secure area,” the nice suit guy said.

“I was parked on the side of a state highway.”

“Well, son, you’re lucky to be alive. These men are well trained. And they took all the right steps. You? You were an asshole.”

He’s got me there. I am an asshole. I wasn’t just play acting.

“Whatever. I would like to see my boss.”

“We’ve already spoken to him. This WILL NOT be in the paper.”

After they left, my boss came in.

“We’ve got to keep this under wraps, Randy. We have a nice working relationship with the base right now. Can’t mess that up for you.”

I just stare at him. Wondering exactly when the journalist leapt out of his body? What year it was. What decade even.

I told him I needed sleep. Concussion and all.

As soon as he was gone, I reached for my phone. Called my buddy. He works for a TV station. Who would have thunk the TV station would get my story over a fish wrapper?