Wade Boggs, Stan Musial or Joe DiMaggio?

“It’s time!” a voice inside my head yells.

I try to figure out if it’s Michael Buffer’s kid brother, the guy your event gets when it wants a cool introduction, but has a budget of a movie that would have Sid Haig in it in the 1970s, not in the 2000s when Tarantino wannabes made him cool again. Sort of.

Anyway, I sit here every night wondering when the first tooth is going to just fall out. I’ve been thinking about that for over three decades now. I think about it a lot more than I used to. Mostly because that reality is actually a reality now. It used to be some kind of badge of honor that the chicks dug. “Yeah, I wrecked my bike once, almost lost all my front teeth,” I’d say. “Ooooh, that’s so cool.” or “You’re full of shit.” or maybe they’d say nothing because they were now scared or turned on or just stupid. I really didn’t care because it was rare for me to get into a conversation with a lady.

But seriously, it is time. Time for me to make up my mind. Am I going to say fuck it and do it, or am I going to once again just get by.

Three months and a few days from now, I’m going to be a dad. That shit is starting to get real. It’s no longer off on the horizon. It’s speeding up like the Jeepers Creepers dude. And you either get sewn into the fucking mural or you kill the mother fucker.

How the hell did that go there? I have too many damn stupid things going on in my head.

It’s why I spend money on ebay for Weeble Woobles for the damn kid.

He’s going to be playing Atari 2600 at 3 and it’ll be cool. Until his friends show them their cell phones at 5.

Why the hell does a kid need a smartphone?

Get off my lawn!!!! I will shake my cane, dammit.

I don’t have a smartphone. I’m 43.

Do I want one? Yeah, sometimes it would be nice to find out exactly that fucking restaurant is that you drove 400 miles to go eat at, but can’t find it b/c you don’t have a fucking map.

I used to think I could write a pretty darn good story. Just one story, but a good one. I tried and tried to do it, but never really fully tried.

I’ve watched awful writers I know get books published (usually self-published, but fucking a, someone bought at least one copy). I’ve watched liars and shitheads get great jobs, simply because they don’t mind lying and being shitheads.

And I keep making excuses.

It’s not fun. At least not as much.

I don’t drink anymore. It actually bores me. Unless I’m with friends, but then I’ve got to worry about saying or doing something stupid.

Yesterday, a fuckhead in a giant small penis truck wouldn’t get out of the lane. Finally, I got beside him and I fucking tried to punch the car. At 60 miles per hour.

That’s just dumb.

But funny.

And if you don’t do some of that bi-polaresque shit, you can’t write about it.

Just like Ben Nichols used to say “I can’t write the fake shit.”

Well, he writes fake shit now. I think. I mean, I guess taking it from a book, script or TV show means it ain’t fake, exactly.

Fuck, it’s all fake and it’s all not real.

See, see what happens?

I might just quit my job one day in  August. Just leave. Right before my two-year. Yep that would be a Randy move.

Just like all of them.

Follow your heart, they tell you. But then they don’t do it.

You do, and you end up making less at 43 than you made at 33. And less than just about every, single person you know or knew.

Hell, my dead grandfather probably still makes more money every year than I do.

Is that possible?

Stop with the fucking Jim Gaffigan shit.

It stinks.

Hahahahahahaha.

I used to say I didn’t hate things.

I think that’s true. At least I hope it’s true.

Hate is waste.

Love isn’t, even if some don’t believe it’s enough.

Really, though, it’s everything.

We all figure that out one day. Some  earlier than others, some really late.

Hopefully, some don’t ever figure it out. They either end up being Wade Boggs or Stan Musial. I hope I don’t end  up as Joe DiMaggio.

time, time, time, to, to, to, move, move, move

I stared at the words on the page. Phrases such as “man-to-man zone defense” and “only a vivid picture” dotted the text. It should amaze me that such a horrid worker of words has a job, but it doesn’t.

Once I was a writer for hire. A pen and a notepad always at hand.

Then one day I was cut loose. Deemed not economically viable. Like most, I wallowed in it for a little while. After that, I got off my butt and traveled. Spent months on the road, in planes, even on trains. It was the first extended vacation I’d ever had in my adult life – minus the New Orleans months. So, I partook.

After a while, I started to reconsider my goals. I decided to try and find a “new” career. One that would satisfy me and not be in an industry that’s fading away. It was fruitless. I got more rejection letters for jobs in the eight months or so of searching than I did when I was applying for internships as a college junior for the second time. But damn it if I didn’t persevere then. This time, I didn’t. I started applying for reporter and editor jobs again.

I got interview after interview. The first one, was at the beach. Near Nags Head, NC. Fucking perfect. I didn’t get the job. I did get a mileage check. First time for that.

Then it was a little town in North Carolina. Then a small town on the Tennessee/Virginia border. A shithole in Florida. A dungeon in Georgia. A weekend was spent in South Carolina and in North Carolina. About six and a half hours of driving between the two interviews. I wore the same suit. I wore the same shirt. I wore the same socks and shoes. I did change underwear.

I got offered all those jobs. And I turned all of them down. Except the last one.

I decided living at the beach was what I needed to do. Be alone for a bit. Don’t write newspaper stories, instead edit them. See how the other side lives. Also, get inside my head and do some cleaning.

Now, a little over two years later, I want to leave. Apathy is too high here. So high it hurts. Like altitude without the ear pops.

I see drunken leaders and timecard cheating editors. It’s sad.

I remember when everyone worked 50-60 hours and loved it. Now, you work 25 and try to skip out. I can’t bring myself to do it, but it’s tempting. And that’s why I know I have to leave.

Applying for jobs outside my “comfort zone” has been hard. I get no response from most. A canned response for most. A couple of almosts have kept me from going completely mad.

The road calls, I can’t answer it. Tied down right now. A house. A cat. Two dogs. I feel guilty for expressing that feeling, but it’s true. I won’t act on it. I know what’s important, even if it isn’t my sanity.

Some nights I want to drink myself into oblivion. Lucky for me, I can’t afford it.

The silence outside is upset by a lonely wailing cricket. Is he trying to get laid or does he want to be eaten by a spider? It’s a tossup, I believe.

“I need a love, to keep me happy,” Keith Richards sings. Hell, he’d know better than most. I need love too. It’s why I keep trying. If only I could figure out that whole garbage disposal that people so easily use.

“Cold, cold heart of mine

Just watch you cry

There wasn't much left to say

Nothing heartfelt anyway

So easy to just walk away
Tell me what that takes

Tell me what it takes
Cold, cold heart of mine

Just let it all die”

Lyrics. I put too much stock in them. That’s probably the most hated Lucero song, but the simple lyrics mean a lot to me. They make me feel less pain over what has happened in the past. Both to me, and by me.

If only I could move past the last bit of pain. It’s a hard one. I can’t get that look out of my head sometimes. And I don’t want to go through it again. It wouldn’t be possible to survive it. Oh course it would, physically, but not emotionally. And that’s what matters.

She’ll always be there for me. I know that. I want to be there for her. I’ve got to figure out how.

And I’ve got to figure out how to get out of this place.

Anyone want to open a taco wagon? Fuck, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Maybe my dad will open one with me. Guess I’d better make it a BBQ wagon. Or a BBQ Forerunner. …

season-ticket holder

It’s always been a bit stalkerish in quality.

Metallica’s “Ride the Lightning” blasts out of my speakers. The folks going to the beach music club across the street don’t seem to like it. Go figure. I’d guess at least a few of them were metalheads back in the day. When they were rebelling against their rich daddies and trying to be individuals.

Hell, it happens.

One day, I’ll be dead. And so will you. But somehow, I’m guessing, these words will still exist. And if not, at least I’m on microfiche.

Ha. That last little rhyme (sorta) made me smile. That’s always a good thing.

It’s strange to try and sit down and write when I really, really, really don’t want to.  It reminds me of those days back in 2006 when I just wrote to bleed. But then I wanted to. I wanted to cry in the wind, knowing that only a couple of people were looking, and they really weren’t all that interested.

My parents are getting ready to have their 48^th anniversary. My sister and her husband, their 20^th. My grandmother just turned 90.

Meanwhile, my sister is dating her “boyfriend” for the 12^th or 13^th year, minus that strange year when we lived together for a while for some months. That was a weird year.

Me? I’m on my sixth year of angst. It’s nowhere near the angst it was, but it still exists. I guess it always will. I lost a chance to be a dad. That was worse. Haunted is a good way to phrase it. Now I want to listen to the Pogues.

My mind works strange. Ha.

I read something today at work that made me cringe. It’s been a bit. I’m very glad that editors are editing the so-called editor now. He’s a stupid kid, and he’ll always be that. But maybe now that someone is (hopefully) correcting him again, like I tried unsuccessfully for three months before giving up (my biggest professional failure for sure), I’m hoping there’s a glimmer of hope. The other guy? Not at all. He’s a fanboi loser of the worst kind. What I was at 24, wearing my UVA shirts to ASU practices. But I learned, after being called out. And that’s the best thing that can happen to a young sports journalist. Of course, now I’m a grizzled sports journalist who hasn’t written a word for newspaper publication that got my name on it for quite some time now. But I’m applying for two jobs that will let me write again. Hopefully, I’ll at least get a nibble. I regret, somewhat, not taking the job I could have had in Bristol, Va. A great boss would have helped me get to where I should be. I have the chops, I’ve just not been pushed in so God damn long that they’ve become flabby and discolored. I’m ready to get off that pity-party wagon and start writing again. I try not to, but I still believe. In me. In it.

Beer makes me happy. Well, happier.

I miss conversations on barstools with friends. All of them live so damn far away. I’ve lived here in Morehead City for over two years now. I haven’t met a person I’d call a friend yet. The longest conversations I have with people here who aren’t visiting me are with my landlord’s secretary and the girl at Food Lion with the big nose and nice ass. She talked to me today. Said “She’ll be right with you.” I was in the “express lane” that had no cashier b/c she was bagging groceries for the butt and beak gal. I was just doing my look at the ceiling thing – yeah, I’d call it a “thing” – and I guess she recognized it. Hence the sentence to me. It’s good to be noticed.

I read today that child molestation is bad. Thanks for that.

I also heard on TV that if you are molested, you are a “lost soul.” I really wish people would think before just spouting off about things they probably have no clue about. I mean, I don’t know much, but what I do know, I know better than to just blanket call victims of abuse “lost souls.” Why? Because they survive and thrive many times. They aren’t lost. It’s the pederass that is lost.

Speaking of…why is everyone so quick to just say “kill the fucker!” or “I hope he gets gang-raped in prison!” about it. I mean, yeah, he deserves it, but fuck. I used to be full of so much anger and hatred too. But I learned how to just let that go. Do I hold on to some things still? Yes. But damn, why so much hate? Especially if you have no connection except maybe being a season-ticket holder?

Home

For some reason the “Race for your life, Charlie Brown …” song entered my  mind just as I entered the office. It stayed there, echoing over and over as he spoke to me.

I knew my resume wasn’t up to snuff. I was qualified for the job I was interviewing for, but I hadn’t show it at all. But for some reason, Mr. Steven Jacobs IV decided to call me when he got my credentials in an e-mail one day.

“Mr. Jones,” he said over the phone three days earlier. “I’d like to bring you in for an interview.”

I, of course, immediately said “Certainly, Mr. Jacobs.” And we arranged a time for me to be in Raleigh for it. I was beginning to become familiar with the city, after living in the state for over a decade now, that city had always eluded me as a place I was comfortable. Now, having made the weekend trek there every other weekend for over a year, it was becoming quite easy to navigate.

“So, then, Mr. Jones,” Jacobs said as Charlie Brown kept racing in my skull, “what exactly do you think about my company?”

It had been a long time since I interviewed somewhere and they asked me actual questions about the company itself. In newspaper interviews, it was always about getting a feel for a person. That’s why I never prepared for a newspaper interview. I had that shit down pat. I could talk the talk and look a hell of a lot more confident than I ever was sitting in whatever shitty chair I was in. And believe me, the chairs were always shitty. Except the time I interviewed at Media General. The first ones, yes, when I was in the newsroom. Those chairs sucked. But by the time I got to the head honcho’s office, he had chairs that cost more than my monthly salary at any job I’ve ever had. And you wonder why the company was/is in disarray.

I started pulling stuff from my couple of Google searches the night before. Being sure to drop plenty of strategic key words. Something a friend of mine said was useful on resumes. “It gets you past the robots,” he quipped.

I didn’t buy into that, so I would write elaborate cover letters. All of them telling a story, because that’s what I did. Told stories. Some of them true, very true. And some of them lies, utter lies.

“Employers don’t want stories,” a career counselor said to me. “They want you to prove you’re going to bring something to the company.”

When she said that, I zoned out. Probably missed a bunch of great things she had to say. But, that just irked me. And reminded me of one of my favorite books of all time – “The Confederacy of Dunces.” And from it, one line : “Employers sense in me a denial of their values.” And since I was a wear my emotions on my sleeves kind of person – except with relationships, especially early on – this was a problem.

“I see you really know my company,” Jacobs said.

“I try to be an informed person, especially when it comes to matters close to me,” I replied. “It’s part of the journalist in me.”

I felt a twinge of regret for saying that. I was harking back to the “good ol’ days”, something which did not serve me well. All employers look at my resume and see a career journalist. So why do they want to hire me to do the complete opposite?

After about an hour of talking, Jacobs gave me the tour. It took all of six minutes and thirty-eight seconds. I timed it with my cell phone. Why? Because it distracted me from that damn Charlie Brown song.

Then, all of the sudden, Jacobs pulled a fast one. At least that’s how it felt.

“Jones,” he said. “Wait here just a minute.” And he vanished. I was in the middle of some kind of stock room. Dark and full of boxes. Stacked to the ceiling filled.

About two minutes later, he called me.

“You answer a phone on an interview?” was the first words he said.

“Not usually, but my caller ID said it was you,” I retorted.

“Heh,” he said. “I like the way you think on your toes, Jones. Come back to my office, so we can talk real stuff.”

D’oh. I had not paid any attention to our stroll through his offices and had no idea where his office was. It took me five minutes to find another person, and immediately I asked where Jacobs’ office was.

“There’s no Jacobs here,” the young lady said.

I was startled, then I said: “sorry, Mr. Jacobs.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhh,” she said with a snort afterwards. “You must be the new guy, huh? He was just talking about you.”

This wasn’t cool. I had no idea if I was going to be offered a job, and if so, whether I’d take it. But before my pride or ego could get any bigger, she talked again.

“How long has it been since he left you?”

“Oh, about 10 minutes,” I replied.

“You failed the test,” she said.

“Huh?”

“You’re supposed to find him in five minutes or less. He read it in some book on management he read in college. Says anyone that can’t find him in five minutes can’t have a job in this company.”

“Really,” I said unbelieving.

“Yep.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Four minutes and 44 seconds,” I said.

“He times you?”

“With a stop watch.”

She pointed me in the right direction and I found him.

“Well, well, well,” Jacobs said. “You’re more tortoise than hare, I see.”

“I am bald.”

No laughs. Not a good sign. Even a bad joke should be laughed at under these circumstances. He looked me up and down, then stuck out his hand to shake mine.

“Good luck, Jones,” he said. “But you’ve got to be able to think on your feet to work for me. Even if you’re just picking up my laundry.”

I went back home and opening up a 16-ounce Lone Star can. I was saving them for a big shin-dig, but sometimes you just have to have a drink. That was one of them.

The next morning, I got up and went back to the newspaper. Even though it smells bad and everyone hates each other, it felt like home.

Amen

The day started off like most other days, me popping open a beer and taking a couple of pills. After that, it usually got a little bit better. Or at least tolerable.

She came by my place at 10 a.m. It took some doing, but I was able to convince her that coming inside wasn’t too bad of an idea. She’d been there many times before. Most of the times late at night. Most of the times as drunk as me. But she was never there in the morning when I woke up.

Most guys would think that was paradise. All of the glory, none of the fight.

But I wasn’t most other guys. And it pained me every morning when she wasn’t there as I rose. It’s why the pills started. They put me in a better mood and made it easier to face the mundane tasks that the day would throw at me.

I was a copy editor at a shitty newspaper now. I used to be an editor. Used to be a reporter. But I’d lost the fire to chase after it anymore. It happened while I was unemployed. Laid off by a newspaper that I thought I was doing a good job at. Won some state press association awards, covered some shit no one else wanted to. Shot photos. Shot videos. Laid out pages. Read other people’s stuff. Just a little of everything. But, I wasn’t friends with the folks I worked with. Most of ‘em at least. And I guess that wasn’t part of the plan.

Anyways, while unemployed I wanted to do something else. Anything else. So I applied and applied for jobs. Public relations jobs. University jobs. Business and even furniture sales writing ads. Jobs at recreation departments. Jobs at super markets. Jobs in different states. And I didn’t get any of them. In fact, only a couple even bothered to send me rejection emails or letters. Those days of actually contacting folks interested in your jobs are long gone I guess. I once had an opening that over 200 people sent in their resumes for. I sent a message to all of them.

Finally, I had to bite the bullet and interview for newspaper jobs again. I was broke and my time on the dole would eventually come to an end. So, I did it. And immediately I got interviews. At first, I was rejected for the job but only after they hired a friend. Then I got offers. But I couldn’t pull the trigger on them. I didn’t want to move to some shit hole in the middle of nowhere to work at a job that would barely pay my bills.

So, I called a friend and got a job where I’m at now. A shithole little newspaper, but I live at the beach. And that was enough.

For a while.

Now, it’s not anymore. I want to do more. I want to write. I want to get out of my cubicle. I want to interact with folks. Will it happen? Yes. Where I’m at? Only if they let me. And I’ll find out soon if they will.

She looked at me.

“You’re always somewhere else,” she said.

I looked at her and smiled. She got me. But didn’t want anything to do with me. Well, the me that was me now. She’d met me before all of this. Before depression and hatred took their toll on me.

We used to go to the bars downtown and just laugh and smile and have a good time. Then one day I changed. It wasn’t because of her, but it was because of a she. And that she killed me for a long time. I’m not fully recovered from my death yet. But I’m working on it.

That’s why she still comes around. She’s seen the other side of me, and knows it’s closer to being back than it has been for years.

“Did you write last night?” she asks me.

“Of course not,” I say. “I did scribble some, but it’s not much.”

“How many words?” she asked.

“About 3,000.” I stated with a yawn.

“What did you write about?”

“You really have to ask?”

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “One day you’re going to do it.”

“You’ve been saying that to me for years,” I replied. “And maybe I’m just another one like so many. I’ve only got one story to tell. And I just haven’t figured out how to tell it. Once I do that, I can become the Sparks of my genre.”

“Fuck that,” she said. “You could write about kittens with machine guns and it wouldn’t be funny. It would be awesome.”

“Thanks. I guess.”

She frowned at me. It made me feel small. She was good at that. I slinked over to a cooler I’d left on the porch last night. I kicked it. The lid fell off and inside were two Lone Stars. I reached in and plucked them out. The water was still cold, and so were the bottles.

“To a great day,” I said handing her one of the bottles.

“Amen,” she said, taking the beer and popping the top off.

“You working today?” I asked.

“Yes. Are you?”

“My drive starts in an hour,” I replied pointing at my beat up car. I bought that thing new and it already had over 120,000 miles on it. In three years and seven months. “In my chariot.”

It was a Hyundai Accent. Three doors and a busted air conditioner. I liked going to work all sweaty and gross. It kept the bosses from talking to me. And I liked it that way.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you later tonight?” I said in the most hopeful voice I can muster.

“You know you will,” she said with a smirk.

“Amen,” I replied.