World Wide Web, get Kraken

AC/DC’s “If You Want Blood … You Got It” screamed out of the speakers. He took a swig of Shiner Blonde as his girlfriend’s dog warily eyed him. She had left just seconds before, taking back an expired package of Stir Fry sauce back to the local Food Lion. He would have gone ahead and made the food, but she was a stickler for such things. It was one of the things that made them compatible – having the differences be in such little things.

Of course, their taste in music differed slightly as well. She still listened to a lot of heavy metal and garage music. The stuff he liked in college, but had gravitated away from to enjoying more alt-country music.

But who gives a damn.

They were good in bed together. They made each other laugh. They knew when it was OK to cry.

He didn’t like turning the air conditioning on. Only in hotel rooms. “It’s free there,” he said, justifying his sweaty existence that most folks would deem “eccentric.” He deemed it frugal. And hell, with the coming economic apocalypse, he’d be used to not having air conditioning a lot more so than most of the people he knew. It was a bit of a hipster badge of honor. Like his flip phone and reading “Writer” magazine. Ha. How is that hipster. It’s not.

Getting drunk tonight was a priority. He had to drive to Richmond tomorrow night. Had a job interview set up. Didn’t know if he wanted the job, but figured what the fuck. It was a newspaper job. It was a work from home – mostly – job. Something a lot closer to the General Assignment Sports Writer job he supposedly had in Greenville, North Carolina, about three years prior. Only problem with that job was the sports editor was such a control freak he didn’t allow it to be a free-for-all reporting job – as advertised by him in luring him away from a very comfortable sports editor job of his own – and he ended up sitting on his ass designing the agate pages too many nights.

Photography and video shooting, not so much editing, skills were honed during the time. He won a couple more writing awards. Then he was laid off.

Oh well, he thought when the phone call came to his desk. Everyone else was sitting around on pins and needles. He figured he’d be the one. Newest hire, highest salary. It was a no-brainer, really.

He took it in stride. Even the next day when he was on a list of people not allowed back in the newsroom on the new secretary’s desk. Her eyes bugged out when he said he wanted to go there, and she didn’t quite know what to do. Before long the H.R. lady was there, taking his paperwork and shooing him back out the door.

Thinking about that right now made him chuckle. And take a couple extra sips of beer.

Her dogs stared at the door. Wondering where his girlfriend went. “Did she leave us here?” had to be going through their minds.

Bon Scott says “Shazbot, Nanu-Nanu,” it makes him laugh. Then he gets a bit sad. Bon Scott is dead. Damn. It makes him think of his other heroes, and how so many of them are dead. Joe Strummer. Johnny Thunders. Stiv Bators. Freddie Mercury. All dead. Bill Hicks. Dead. Johnny Carson, Marlon Brando. Brian Jones.

And yet Jay Leno lives.

Yes, God has a very wicked sense of humor. He wants all the good guys with him sooner. The rest have to stay longer. I’m sure they get the same great welcome, but it’s later. Much later. Then he thinks about himself. He almost died once while driving. Twice while contemplating just leaving. Would he have been greeted by God? Or by Keanu Reeves?

Thoughts are a dangerous things.

He doesn’t like thinking as much as he used to.

Nor reading. Books he still buys quite often. Sometimes he starts them. But usually then end up in a pile of others. Or they start a new pile. They get dirty. The salt air here really wreaks havoc on books. Paperbacks especially. He had to write wreaks havoc in a headline at work this past week. It is one of the laziest phrases he thinks, because really, how often is havoc really wreaked?

He wants to buy a book about the author John Kennedy Toole. But he knows he won’t read it. It’ll just sit in a pile, dusty eventually. Much like the Warren Oates biography he got for Christmas last December. His uncle gave it to him. Asked “why Warren Oates?” He replied “because he kicks ass.” They both laughed. The book has sat in a pile ever since. Kind of like Warren Oates in most people’s memories. He’s that guy in a lot of movies. But he’ll always be Sgt. Hulka to most. And he really still wants to see “92 in the Shade.” Why can’t it be legal to get ahold of movies that aren’t digital yet? And why isn’t that one digital.

He wished the internet world would just send it to him.

It worked with Johnny Thunders’ documentary, why not a Warren Oates flick?

Get busy getting busy.

potato skins

The miles peeled off in front of me like potato skins. Eastern North Carolina back roads seem to be like that more so than the roads of my old state – Virginia.

It’s hard for me to believe sometimes that I’ve spent over a decade in this state. It started off so promising, got really good, then fell apart in the blink of an eye one night sitting amongst a collection of crap that put me in debt over the years. I still remember staring at all those boxes of shit, moved from North Carolina to Florida and back again and never leaving those damn U-Haul boxes once. What a waste of space and time and money and any other thing that one wastes. Life? Sure, why not.

I looked out my window. The sun was setting to the west, which happened to be the opposite direction I was going. The pastel colors of the sunsets here are beautiful, especially the closer one gets to the ocean. The only good thing about going east around here is you end up at the ocean eventually. Through some interesting territory sometimes, full of Confederate flags and beat up Camaros on blocks in front of even more beat up double-wides. I look at those places and wonder how awesome it would be to just move in and do that. Stop thinking so much about the past, the present and the future. Instead, just exist for a bit and work on my Camaro.

Of course, then there is the worst part of getting to the beach – the way it’s been transformed into a mini-Wildwood by the fuckers from the north. Yeah, the Yankees. Some in this state would call me a Yank, coming from the southern part of Virginia. But I’ve got an accent, more of it comes out when I’ve been drinking or when I’m nervous as hell. Which isn’t too often anymore.

The radio’s not giving me what I want at the moment. Double shot of Pink Floyd by some station in Raleigh that is most likely playing a Clear Channel approved set list. I push the button. Then I push it again. And repeat and repeat.

The best song I can find on this Wednesday night in February is Eddie Money’s “Baby, Hold on to Me.” I guess it really could be worse, but at the moment I don’t think it is.

I thought about telling her last night the name I had been thinking about. She’d asked before and I said I hadn’t thought of one. But that was before that night in New Orleans when everything changed. When we had to live through the worst night of my life.

It makes me cringe thinking of how I used to think that no pain could be worse than the one I got when the redhead broke my heart. She wasn’t the first, and much to my shock at that time, wasn’t the last either. But I nearly killed myself over it. Came within a phone call not answered of at least trying it once.

But now, that seems small compared.

As does the first time I found out that I could’ve been a dad. Even though I guess I wouldn’t have been.

It was in New Orleans too.

I still remember the bricks of the building we were walking past. The Spanish moss in the trees. And the incredible sinking feeling inside of me when she told me about the abortion. Things have never been the same since that day. It took me a long time to realize it.

Now, that pales.

The memory I can’t get out of my head is her eyes. The pain she was in. Not just physically. The mental anguish of what was happening was impossible for me to stop.

I held her hand. I told her to look into my eyes. Over and over. It happened and it was over. I almost looked down, but I didn’t. I still don’t know if she did. We said we wouldn’t and I don’t think she did either.

Honestly, I didn’t want the memory. I’m too good at them.

Now, I wonder if she would have liked the name I liked. Mellor. It’s strange enough but perfectly fitting for me to name a kid that. I liked Darby as well, but knew that it wouldn’t fly. Maybe not with her, but with my mind. So, I settled on Mellor. I guess many would have expected HRJ the IV. But I didn’t seem to think it would fit. Maybe I would have grown into that idea. Maybe not.

All I know is I want that memory out of my mind. Her eyes looking at mine. They were begging me to fix it. And I knew I couldn’t.

I was strong that night. Strong for her. I nearly cried when the doctor told us exactly what had happened. The tears were there, but they didn’t flow.

Later, while she slept, I called my mom and told her. I almost cried then.

That was as close as I’ve gotten. And I don’t know if I’m ever going to. I want to. But they just don’t want to form. Don’t want to come.

The Eddie Money song ends. A commercial for some local car dealer comes on. Telling me I need a new car. I sigh a long sigh and watch as the sun disappears beyond the trees of the Croatan National Forest.

“I’ll be home soon,” I think.

the walkman

I was walking down Houston Street in New York just listening to Megadeth on my headphones hooked to my Walkman when I had to stop to flip the tape.

“Damn, haven’t seen one of those in a while,” a voice said to me.

Looking up after my task was complete, I noticed a small boy staring at me. Next to him was Elvis Costello.

“What are you listening too?” he asked.

Now, of all the times to have “Peace Sells …” playing in my old Walkman, this is it.

“Megadeth,” I say meekly.

“Damn fine choice,” he says and walks away after a tip of the hat.

Dumbfounded, I just kind of stare at the ground for a moment. I wonder if I should chase after him, maybe get an autograph. I have a gal friend that loves him immensely. However, I kind of like the way this story had a beginning, a middle and an end. It doesn’t need a chase scene, I decide, and I start walking the opposite direction.

A few minutes later, I get to a street I don’t particularly want to be on. There’s construction at one corner. A closed deli on another. The third corner has a thrift store and the one I’m on has some kind of church. It’s marquee says “Turn your back on God? Don’t do it.”

“Huh,” I think, turning back the way I came.

I decide since I’m in the neighborhood, I’ll stop by the Niagra Bar. The best bar with a mural to Joe Strummer on it that I’ve ever been to. Once, I had a drink with the pedal steel player of my favorite band. He seemed cool. Even though he made out with the girl I was with. Ha. And there we were again, hanging out in this place.

I meander to 7th Street and Avenue A to the bar. It’s open. And empty, except for a barkeep.

I amble up to the bar and take a seat. Sorry, man, that seat’s taken. I look at it and there is a hat on the bar in front of it.

“Sorry, my bad,” I reply, give me a Jameson.

“Guess what man?” the barkeep says. “You seem like the kind of guy who would care about such things, but Elvis Costello is in here.”

I look at the barkeep with a smile. “Why’d you think I’d care about such things?”

“You’re using a Walkman,” he said.

“Good call. Anyway, me and Elvis, we’re cool.”

“Whatever man,” the barkeep says and walks to the cash register.

A few moments later, Elvis comes out of the john. He’s shaking his hands and wiping them off. At least he’s the kind of guy who washes after, I think.

He plops down in the seat next to me.

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t Mr. Mustaine!” he says with a chuckle and pats me on the back. “Get this man a drink!”

The barkeep stares at me then looks at Elvis in bemused silence. All I can think of is this is pretty fucking cool.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I say, “where’s the kid?”

“Oh, mommy took him to the park. I had to pay my respects to Joe.”

“Me too,” I said. He gave me a glance under his shades. And then a once over.

“What other tapes you got?” he queried.

I actually had no idea. I grabbed a handful when I left my apartment and stuffed them into my old 1997 Rose Bowl book bag that I got while working for my student newspaper at Arizona State.

“You know what, let’s find out,” I said, reaching for the bag.

Elvis kind of gave me that “what the fuck is this kid reaching for look” when I went into my bag, but when I yanked out a handful of cassette tapes, all stress vanished from his brow.

“I’ve got Y&T, Prince’s “Around the World in a Day”, a Dixieland sampler, Bruce’s “Nebraska” and the Mick Mix,” I said.

“Mick Mix?” he looked at me.

“Yeah, I made this in 1991. It’s a tape of Clash, BAD I and II songs that Mick Jones sang. Heavy rotation back then.”

“May I” he said, pointing at the tape’s case.

“Certainly,” I said, handing over a mix tape I made and the index card I scribbled on back when I was 20 years old to Elvis Costello.

He read the card and then took the tape out of the case, removed Megadeth from my player and put in the mix. Soon, Elvis was smiling as “Lost in the Supermarket” started playing. He listened to the entire song, including the part where I accidently pushed record one day while listening to it and you hear me go “ahh”.

“I love that song,” he said. “Perfectly timed.”

He took a long draw on his drink.

“My name’s Randy,” I said meekly. “Randy Jones.”

“Nice to meet you sir,” he said. “I’m Declan.”

“He, can I get your autograph. I know this girl…”

“Her name is Alison, right?”

“Yep. Even with one L.”

He did so dutifully. I feel that ended our little moment.

“One more round?” he asked meekly. Maybe he sensed exactly what I was thinking.

“Certainly sir,” he said.

“Don’t call me that. I ain’t no sir.”

We sat for about another 15 minutes. He asked me my favorite band. I said who it was, and he smiled.

“Those guys are pretty damn good. Wish they make the bucks one day. It’s a tough road they’re on.”

I then told him of the redhead the pedal steel guy kissed. And how in these exact seats we talked.

“You and rock stars, you always meet up here?”

We shared a laugh. Then he put down a tip, paying for my drinks as well, and stuck out his hand.

“Great to meet ya Randy.”

“You too, Elvis.”

And he left. I ordered another round, knowing full well nothing better could happen if I went outside now.