Sober, even

 Jesus, the Dave Matthews Band! Is all I can think. I’m sitting in my kid’s dentist office when I notice that I’ve listened to an entire DMB song.

I can’t say it’s the first time, as I think it happened by accident somewhere in my past, but it sure as hell ain’t the third time. It was always somewhat of a badge of honor, being a graduate of the University of Virginia (read as nasally as possible) during the years of 1989 to 1993, and an extra year of being in C’ville while one girl broke my heart and I started another down a path that ended with me breaking hers…

“Does it always go back to a woman, Randy?”

Apparently.

There is ice on the ground and it’s cold as shit outside. I don’t know how I ended up this far north.

“North Carolina is north, Randy?”

Apparently to me it is.

I left Virginia in 1994 to go to Arizona. I remember being in shorts all year long, even on those rare below freezing nights at the bar, that would almost always lead to at least 50, but most likely 70-degree days.

After that, New Orleans. For not long enough. I still dream of that place. Just how magical it was. And just how much I seemed to fuck up the possibility of living there permanently.

“If you’re honest with yourself Randy, you’d probably be dead if you’d stayed.”

Yeah, probably. But damn never really knowing.

I know things wouldn’t have worked out, in my mind it was beyond repair. The redhead wasn’t the cause, she was just there at just the right time.

“Right time?”

Hell, I don’t know how to articulate anything. I’ve never been any good at talking about it, mostly because there was never anyone to listen to me. Not having “die for me” friends, is you don’t get to have those conversations. Internally, yes. But that really doesn’t help.

Eight sessions with a therapist. That’s it.

“I think we should have talked about her,” was her last words to me. That kind of scared me away from therapy. Shouldn’t have. But it did. That and using all my EAP on those sessions and getting laid off for the first time just weeks later.

Two years later, I had shittier insurance. But, I didn’t take advantage of 8 more EAP sessions.

Today, I’m working on myself again. I have too much baggage. I want to do the John Cusack thing, but I think most of the people I want to talk to would be like “who the fuck are you?” except one, who would be “get the fuck away from me.”

Funny. Not funny.

I downloaded any app. Those Instagram ads really work, I tell ya.

A few sessions in, lots of close to tears writing and AI responses and it dawned on me that yep, I need a therapist. Seriously don’t want all of my baggage being absorbed by AI and spit out back at me. I’d guess one day, my AI buddy would suggest a beer, a bullet and a bye-bye. So, doing a quick Google search brought me a bunch of options. But how do you pick a therapist nowadays. Too many options. Too many fake reviews. And who wants to lay it all out, then find out you picked a shithead. Then have to do it all again?

Eh. You are a coward.

“This beating myself up, isn’t helping.”

Thank you mind for pointing out the obvious as I sit here listening to Lucero, not drinking and trying to justify gaining 13 pounds in the last three weeks.

It’s cold.

Been working at home.

New job.

Terror. (GWB voice, please)

I want to get in my car and drive. South. West. Not North. Can’t go much more East.

I had tickets to the Glossary reunion show in Nashville. No one wanted to go with. Then, snow back-to-back weekends and the chance of going solo died in icy roads.

My mom has been gone almost 3 years now. That’s a skull splitter for me. It seems like yesterday. Nothing else seems like yesterday anymore.

Not the breakups. Not the miscarriages. Not the lies. Not the truths. Not even the good times. They’re faded. I think my early stage dementia is real. I have really hard times with words – but only when speaking. I really loathe speaking. Unless I’m drunk. And I don’t get drunk anymore.

I am also promising myself to get off the phone. I’m deleting apps as soon as I reach the end of this typing road. I wonder if I’ll stay committed to finally doing this again?

Sober, even.

By the way, copilot things I should write that “I am considering whether I will remain dedicated to undertaking this task once more.”

How the hell do you follow that with “Sober, even.”???

Drinking hurts now. Maybe that’s fitting. The hurt now lives elsewhere. It’s pretty to think so. Ha!

Game Boy

“Never buy your girlfriend a Nintendo Game Boy,” I said to the guy next to me at the bar.

He was wearing dirty camo clothes from head to toe. Probably was going to vote for Donald Trump. Of course, who was I kidding, he wasn’t voting.

“What’s a Game Boy?” he asked through his broken tooth grin.

I was amazed at how white his teeth were, however. My teeth had turned yellow quite early in life. I drank way too many Mountain Dews and Nu Grapes during my childhood for my teeth to have any chance.

Then, I didn’t go to the dentist.

Been five times since 1994.

Now a humblebrag as the Facebook police would say. But a statement of fact. Stupid fact, but fact nonetheless.

Sometime around 2007, I noticed just how yellow my teeth had gotten. I was looking at photos from my best friend’s bachelor part in Austin, Tx. I wanted to put one of them up on Myspace. But they were so damn yellow. So, I made it a black-and-white photo.

Pretty much every phot of me since I’m had this crooked grin. Mostly, covering up my ugly teeth.

This guy, however, had perfect fucking teeth. And he smelled like three-day old burritos soaked in piss.

But at least he’s got a paycheck, I thought to myself.

My last paycheck was cashed on Feb. 22, 2016. I got laid off two days earlier by the last newspaper I worked out. I took out student loans totaling just over $36,000 to get my journalism degree. Really, I took out loans to enjoy my mid-20s, by staying in school, but who is really telling this story. So, I will embellish.

“A Game Boy is a hand-held video game system,” I told Mr. Camo smells like pissed burrito.

“Why’d ya need that? Can’t you use a phone?” he smartly replied.

“That, sir, is why you are a better man than me,” I replied.

He tilted his glass of Keystone Light, yes, a glass of KL, not a bottle, can, etc… and gave me a wink and a nod. Then he wandered off to the bathroom.

I’d never see him again.

The last bit of thinking got me thinking. So I wandered over to the jukebox and plopped a dollar into it. I still hate the Internet jukes, but find me a bar with a 45s juke nowadays in this shit box of a town.

My town, Zebulon, North Carolina.

I did a quick search and hit play.

The Faces’ “Oh, La, La.”

Seemed to fit the mood.

The mood I’m always in now. Sad and pissed off. About a lot of things and about nothing.

I ordered another beer. I drank it. Ordered another.

“You got the money for these beers, Randy,” John, the barkeep asked.

“Probably,” I replied.

I actually didn’t know if I did. Unemployment checks didn’t come anymore. But the occasional royalty check from my one published book did. I know I cashed one recently, but couldn’t quite remember if I’d spent it all yet.

I opened my Velcro wallet with a rip, and looked real quick.

“Yep,” I said to no one. John had walked away. He was talking to some redhead at the other end of the bar. She was not attractive, but she was a redhead, which gave her a chance.

After my song was over, I stared at the TV. There was a Motorhead video on. Hard to believe Lemmy and David Bowie died so close to each other, I thought, then wondered if they went to heaven, hell or nowhere.

I tended to believe in nowhere, but didn’t want to fully pot commit. Kind of my M.O. over the years, never going all-in. And it costs ya.

Just fucking push the chips in. If you lose, you end up in the same place anyways.

At least that’s how it felt tonight.

And has felt for quite a few nights.

I wonder what my son is doing? It’s 2:51 a.m. He’s probably standing in his bed, calling out for one of us to get him a pacifier. I wonder what the love of a piece of plastic in your mouth really is. Suck, suck, suck. Drool, drool, drool. Seems like a Dead Kennedys song.

I stare at my arm. It’s bruised.

I can’t remember where from. I probably fell while sleeping again. Been doing that a lot lately.

It’s an attempt to see if my mom will show up like she did when I was 7. I used to throw myself out of the top bunk of my bunk beds with a thud. I’d hope someone heard. If not, I’d whip up tears.

Surprised I never broke anything.

Only think broken now is my heart. And that got broke a long, long time ago.

“Fuck a broken heart,” John said.

I smiled. But quickly realized he wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to the red.

He’d tell me tomorrow about how she squealed when he grabbed the back of her thigh. That got me through the next week of sleeping on a park bench. In fucking Zebulon, North Carolina. Better get moving if I want to make Key West by winter, I thought.

Always said if I ever ended up homeless, it would be there.

Gang of Four's dewclaw

It was 8:23 in the evening and I was driving from the office to Food Lion. Gang of Four’s “Entertainment!” was blasting out of my poor car’s speakers.

Soon, I noticed that I was hunched over in the seat, wishing I was inside the song. It was a strange moment. One that I can’t really explain. It happened, and then it was over. Why? Because I sat up in the seat.

Something about the hunch, I guess.

These are not normal moments, for normal people. They’re fairly normal for me.

I’m at home now. It’s 2:54 a.m. James Scott Farrin is trying to ambulance chase me on the television. Followed quickly by Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus.

My dog it chewing on his dewclaws. It’s as if he wants to pull them off. One got stuck on my shorts earlier today. I’m guessing it’s too long, and probably damaged now. Guess I’ve got to figure out how to cut it correctly in the morning. Even though it’s already morning.

Tomorrow I’ll drive to a high school. Sit alone in the stands watching the games being played. I’ll keep stats. I’ll watch people. They’ll watch me. Then I’ll talk to the coaches and a couple of kids. Drive back to the office and crank out two stories. Fast. It’s the one skill that hasn’t eroded – quickness.

Interviewing after games? That’s a whole other story.

Features and long-term? No problem. But the after a game ones? I’ve lost it.

“Talk about …”

“What were you thinking when …”

“Tell me about …”

My mind goes blank sometimes mid question or mid reply. It’s kind of frightening, but also kind of invigorating. It makes me have to work harder on things that became routine. That’s a rationalization. I’m no longer 29 and witty. I’m 42 and bitty.

K.C. & the Sunshine Band playing on Dr. Oz. Fuck. My life gets more numb every moment. I want to run to my car and drive somewhere, but I don’t.

Iron Maiden Japan. Charles, why sock E?

There once was a time that my war wounds were cool. Now they’re yellow and old. The wrinkles show. The gray hairs don’t lie. The scars have shrunk with my muscle mass. I look at my legs now and wonder how on earth I used to ride 20 miles on my bike to go try and find Atari games in 100 degree heat. It seems so foreign now.

It makes me think about the video game board games I left behind in the Murphy bed apartment I lived in during my internship in Birmingham, Ala. That makes me think about all the miles I drove around that state. Just about every day I went somewhere new. That was what I thought it was going to be like for decades. When the job didn’t provide it like I thought it would, I used my days off to make it so. Then I used any excuse to go somewhere new.

Now, I dream of going somewhere new. I went to 38 states in about 30 years. Maybe it was 37 and I added one a bit later.

I’m still stuck at 38. At 42.

Those old posts taunt me now…

In 2009 I’m going to visit a new state.

In 2010…

In 2011…

In 2012…

In 2013…

Now, it’s 2014 and I’m working a job. Getting a check. Writing cheques.

I’m going to be a dad. Maybe. I’ve been down this road before. More times than I was ever allowed to know about.

Which makes me think of Oakton.

And bathrooms.

Bad sex.

When there wasn’t such a thing.

I went to New Orleans instead of answering the phone. I’ll always wonder what was on the other end. It’s me. It’s just the way it is. I can say all the right things, but I won’t be thinking them.

John T. Orcutt looks like my boss. It’s like he’s here at home every night on WRAL in Raleigh, North Carolina taunting me. Telling me things I don’t want to hear, but need to.

If I had a gun …

I’d most likely pawn it and buy that Lucero album on ebay that I just can’t afford. $150 for a slab of vinyl that I already own in its actually rarer form, but don’t own it from the special pressing. Why I’m talking about Lucero albums is anyone’s guess. Go figure.

They’ll always be a part of who I am. Which means she’ll always be a part of who I am. And honestly, that’s the way you are too. You just don’t admit it.

Van Damme in ... Future Memories...

I woke up this morning feeling particularly empty.

A feeling I’m used to having at all times of the day, but this morn, it felt different for some reason.

Maybe it was because a line from a Waylon Jennings sung, but Hoyt Axton penned song finally materialized in my brain while driving home from work the night before.

It was one of those moments when a song you’ve been singing along to for years becomes crystal clear in your head for the first time. Yes, you blurted out nonsense words, or just a phrase you thought was being said at the top of your lungs for years. But then, all of the sudden, those words hit your ears at just the right angle and they were crystal clear for the first time.

And you were disappointed by them.

Epiphanies are costly, I’ve found. At least the older I get I start to feel that way.

Maybe it’s because I’m just tired of it. Tired of always wondering what went wrong. Always struggling to see the good of today instead of the good of yesterday. The good of yesterday that is skewed to be good, always and forever. Even though it wasn’t all good, no matter how much lip gloss you apply.

My dog looked at me like I was crazy. Then he went back to sleep in the small cat bed. That’s his new obsession, getting in the cat’s bed. I’m beginning to think my dog has some kind of personality disorder, which of course means he’s the perfect dog for me.

The emptiness subsided while I was driving to work. Must’ve been the Motley Crue that fixed that. It certainly wasn’t the Turbonegro. I’m guessing the album “Ass Cobra” will be set on a shelf for a good while now. It’s run its course of being interesting and simply couldn’t hold my attention. I’d like to think that’s just what happened. She lost interest in me. I became boring.

I doubt that, however. We didn’t see each other enough for her to get bored with me.

Bored with the silence. Bored with the distance. Yes and yes.

I still wonder what it would have been like had I bought a cell phone. One much like the one I have now, only it would have been sexy then.

Ha.

Funny to think about the amount of money spent. On calling cards. Phone bills and credit card calls. I laugh at the thought of a credit card call now. But then, it was something I did often. And boy to 45-minute phone calls charged to a Master Card or Visa get expensive.

I wonder if any of the old girlfriends ever thought of that when they said “Call me.” Always with just a tinge of guilt.

Being broke became an excuse. Then a crutch. Now? I think I’m just stuck there. I’m lucky, I guess. My mind is still mostly intact. Except when I’m interviewing kids after games. I don’t hold on to moments of the game like I used to, and then be able to recall them perfectly for a well-thought out question.

Instead, now I stammer a lot. And most likely appear feeble.

Some would say blame it on the stroke.

I can’t.

Even though it’s probably true.

Like a tortoise, I’m just a shell.

See? Even that doesn’t make sense. I saw it in my head, it came out like that. Fuck it.

The emptiness goes away while I’m typing. Even with this free version of Word that locks up every so often when a new ad has to appear on the side of the page. Or heaven forbid, if I want to save or look up the spelling of a word, like tinge. Which, isn’t the word I want, I guess, since it’s not in the dictionary of this version of “free Word.”

Let’s write some ol’ honk, now ‘right! Ha-ha.

Southern joke. Fuck, sleep doesn’t come easy any more. I take pills for that now.

I guess soon I’ll be taking pills to wake up. At least the dog wakes me up for the time being. He’s a damn good dog. It makes me wonder why I never got a dog before. Oh yeah, because I would never have seen him/her, and that ain’t cool. I already feel bad leaving the guy alone for five or six hours every day that both of us work.

Anyways, I finally figured out what was gnawing at me this morning … I realized that I’m no longer chasing the dream.

I started out in the right direction, then I moved to North Carolina. It seems that North Cackalack is the state where dreams, well, at least my dreams went to die.

Well, not die, just fester. Like my old leg wound did back in 1992. It’s funny that the girl I was chasing then was untouchable. Even though she kissed me that day that the photo in my bathroom right now was taken. Staff infected leg and all.

Those are the memories that don’t fade. Why? Because I have a picture of them. Just like the ones that are written down. One day, maybe, maybe not; I’ll read this and remember sitting in the cold living room in Raleigh, NC, looking at an ultrasound photo and a Kit Kat bar wrapper. Yep, that’s what this memory will be.

I’ll call it a future memory. But can something be a future memory? If it’s a memory, it’s in the past already. I’m sure wiser men than me have pondered this and the comments on this story, if there ever are any, will surely advise me on the answer to each question pondered.

Maybe, we’ll be lucky (is that the right word to use?) and he or she will read this and think that his/her dad was really just as confused as he/she is/was.

Van Damme.

Bear hunting with Elvis

The second, and so far last time I ran into Elvis Costello was in Richmond, Virginia. Well, not exactly in Richmond, but just outside of Richmond in Goochland County.

He had a shotgun. And was wearing a coonskin hat and singing quite loudly about shooting the bear.

“Hey Elvis!” I yelled, as if I was on a first-name basis with the man. “There aren’t any bears here!”

He looked at me with his hat just a little bit crooked, pushed his glasses up and shrugged.

“Listen, Mr. Jones,” he said matter-of-factly, stunning me that he remembered my name from that bar in New York oh, so long ago. “I know damn well there is a bear here, and I’m going to shoot him.”

I didn’t know if arguing with a man with a shotgun, even a man like Elvis Costello, who remembered my name for Christ’s sake, is ever a good idea. But, if there were bears in these woods, I would give him a blow job. Of course, I wasn’t about to say such a thing because on the off chance and there actually was a pretty good chance there was a bear in these woods, he found one, I’d have to fucking give Elvis Costello a blowjob. Or at least he would always have the ability to say “Randy Jones, you owe me one blow job!” at any bar or tavern or concert hall that we were together at.

So instead, I asked :”May I join you on this quest for a bear?”

“Why of course, Mr. Jones!” Mr. Costello said with glee. I wondered at that moment if he was drunk. I didn’t quite know what to make of a mad British songwriter with a coonskin hat wandering around the woods in Virginia looking to kill a bear.

“I guess you are wondering exactly why I am hunting a bear in these woods, Mr. Jones?” he asked as if reading my mind.

“Yes, yes I am Mr. Costello.”

“Call me Elvis.”

“Well, Elvis, I am a little baffled why you would be hunting bear. It seems out of character.”

“You know of my character from our one chance meeting years ago, Mr. Jones? I’d think not. I am a hunting man. I love the thrill of it. The smells of it. The kill! Yes, I love the kill! The sweet, sweet death of the prey!”

I once again pondered if it was a good idea to be in the woods with a man, his shotgun and a coonskin cap.

“So, I guess I never figured you for a hunter.”

“Well, I’m not much of a hunter, really. I did get a squirrel once. With my car. And I had to run it over twice to finish it off.”

I looked at this man, a man who’s music had been a part of the soundtrack of my life since the first time I heard him in the soundtrack to “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” back in the early 1980s. A little late to the Elvis Costello game, for sure, but I was just a wee lad of 12 or 13 at the time, so cut me some slack. I started to wonder if maybe he’d been hanging out with Ted Nugent.

“Just kidding, lad,” he said with a bit of a cackle.

“I’ve never killed anything. But I really want to!”

“Kidding again?” I asked hesitantly.

“Do you ask a man in the woods with a shotgun and a coonskin cap if he is kidding about killing a bear!” he pronounced. It wasn’t really a question, although it was phrased as such. Tone and inflection are very important things, I noted to myself. It’s one of the reasons I have always hated text messages and e-mails. Tone is impossible to project without explaining it. And let’s not even start with emoticons.

“I guess not,” finally said.

“By chance do you have any liquor?” Elvis asked.

“I’ve got my flask,” I said. “Just filled with Jameson.”

He winced a bit. “Well, I guess when you have no choice, you go with the Irish!”

Once again, I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. I didn’t get British humor.

I pulled out the flask and took a swig. Was it impolite to take a drink first, I wondered. But fuck it, it was my flask and my whiskey, which, I believe, he just insulted.

He took the flask and drank a long drink.

“Ahhhhh!” he exclaimed upon finishing. “If it were cold out, that would have been quite a nice refreshing thing. As it is, now I’m ready to go home.”

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

“With you, my friend Mr. Jones. With you!”

“Well, I’m driving back to North Carolina in a few hours,” I replied.

“Why are earth are you in the woods here?” Elvis asked. A very observant question from the man.

“Well, I was here to bury a body,” I said.

Elvis’ eyes widened. He seemed either very curious or very scared.

“And after I was done, you happened along,” I said, pointing at a freshly dug patch of ground a few feet away.

Now Elvis was scared. And I looked deep into his eyes.

“Just kidding,” I said.

“I just don’t get you American sense of humor,” he said with a long exhale.

“Let’s get going,” I said.

“On to North Carolina!” Elvis said.

I put  my arm around his shoulders and we shared a few more swigs from the flask. I was beginning to enjoy my encounters with Mr. Costello.

punchy

“Honey, you need to go to the doctor,” the dirty-blonde in a green nightie said to me.

I winced at the pain in my lower back. I knew what it was, and damn it, I did not want to go pay someone hundreds of dollars to say just that.

“Fucking kidney stones,” I said. “Joyous they are not.”

I struggled out of bed and made it to the bathroom. A trickle of pee came out, pain stayed in. I’d been having stones on and off since I was a spry 24 year old that was living in the desert. I’ve always kind of associated them with the desert, even though I haven’t lived there since I was 27.

Since, I’ve had some adventures with them. My first time was expensive. No insurance, and the stupidity to believe that my soon-to-be career in journalism would one day allow me to pay off my credit cards. So, I put all the doctor’s visits on them. Specialists charged a lot in 1995 too.

Next, my urologist in Virginia was the guy who re-attached John Wayne Bobbit’s penis after it was hacked off. He made a porno, beat up another girl and disappeared. I also knew the guy who found the damn thing. Small world. Ugh.

Also in Virginia, I passed on in the office one night. I was to save it to have it “tested” the doctors always say, so I scooped it out of the urinal with my boss’ spoon for his coffee. Didn’t wash it off.

Maybe it’s Karma for that?

Soon, I was used to them. Just passing them every so often. I changed my diet. I exercised. Hell, I even gave up soda for five years. Nothing worked.

Finally, I gave birth to the biggest thing I think has ever passed out of the urethra. I passed a small one. Then hours later, passed one bigger than a peanut -- still in the shell. I looked at it and was scared of it. Actually still have it.

A few hours later, I had the best sex I’d had in a decade. Go figure.

Now, I’m here standing in the shower, doing swats under the hot water to try and get some kind of ability to move going. Every day is like this now. But I’ve found a way of relief. It’s worked once before. Failed another. It’s time for a try at No. 3.

“I just want to be un cold,” she said as we walked toward another bar. We’d never been to this one. Heard it had a tough rep. That’s what we want.

After we go in, it lives up to the rep. A very Roadhouse vibe going on. Just on blind blues guitarists to break up the monotony.

The pain shoots up from my back. It does into the leg, into the groin, into my teeth even. They come out of nowhere, sucking your strength. They feel much better when you’re walking, if only you can stand up.

They sap your strength, mentally mostly, as my threshold for pain is pretty high.

And they really taunt you when you’re one of “those people” without insurance.

The object now is to get in a fight and guarding every inch of me except where the pain is, hopefully getting punched there and dislodging it from it’s current spot.

I spot a guy, perfect candidate. He’s about 5 foot 7, weighing about 200 pounds. Fat guy. But he looks like a mean bastard. And he only with a gal.

“That’s him,” I say, pointing him out.

“Don’t point, babe. You know I hate it.”

I point at her tits. She slaps my hand away. I smile.

The waitress comes over. We order Jamesons with beer chasers. Figure I need a good buzz to have this happen. The last time didn’t work. I ended up with a bruised kidney. Had one before. Fell out of a tree as a kid. Hell, maybe that’s why this happens to me all the time?

So many theories, not enough time to research it. At this point, I just want relief.

After a few more drinks, she looks me in the eye. We only had $40 bucks, so we can’t stay very long.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Now or never, babe,” she says.

Damn she’s sexy. Red hair and pale skin. Geeky glasses and a fucking attitude. I’m the luckiest son of a bitch that I said hi to her that night two years ago. She had blue hair and was watching some reality show on TV in a small restaurant in Galax. Why was I there? To meet her. We met on the internet and I followed. She also doesn’t beat me up like others have about this epidemic of stones. We tried different diets too. They keep coming back.

“Here’s hoping it works this time,” she says with a wink.

Damn, me too. The last time it worked, when some Vanceboro redneck popped me good in the gullet in a bar in New Bern, I peed blood for a day, then a stone came out. The next week, we didn’t leave the bedroom.

I take a last swig and walk up to the guy. He’s busy watching a Duke and North Carolina basketball game. He didn’t go to either school, I assume. This is a basic assumption in shitty dives in North Carolina. Usually, the guy rooting for either team, didn’t go to school there.

“Who you rooting for beau?” I say.

He looks at me. The says “no one, I hate basketball.”

“Ahh.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“To fight your ass.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” I gulp, knowing what’s coming.

The guy swings, and I duck. He’s slow and stupid. This may be tough. I go into my weird stance, leaving my kidney area exposed. He goes for my head again.

I duck, and swing at him. I connect. He falls.

“Shit,” I sigh. He’s knocked out cold.

Soon, two bouncers are on me. They grab me, look down and laugh.

“You just punched Bobby?” one finally exclaims.

“I guess,” I say.

“He’s the sheriff’s daughter, er, son.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, had a sex change.”

“Shit.”

“I’ll say. He never pays his, her, whatever, tab. Thanks!”

“Drinks for this guy all night!” he says to the barkeep.

“One for the lady too?”

“Definitely,” he says.

After taking them back to the table, I go to my new friend.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, anything man.”

“Hit me.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I was just trying to get hit.”

“Uh, not really looking to do something unnecessary, sorry bro.”

“Really, man. It would be a huge favor.”

“Where?”

“Right here,” I say, pointing at my kidney, left side.

“Dude, that’s gonna hurt. A lot.”

“That’s the point.”

“You one of those kinds?”

“Nah, I got rocks in my shit.”

“What?”

“Kidney stones. This gets ‘em moving.”

“Why don’t you go to a doctor?”

“Just do it, please.”

Punch.

I fall. In a heap. It hurts. I gasp for air. All of the sudden, I need to pee. Badly. I know I’m not getting to the bathroom. It comes quickly. And painfully. The sharpness of it tells me I’m getting cut.

I smile as my pants get wet.

“You’re a fucked up dude, man.”

“Life is fucked up. Life is fucked up.”

I get up and go over to my lady. She’s laughing at my wet pants.

“Laugh it up. Laugh it up. I’ll show ya later.”

“Hope so.”

the dame and john franco

The first bombs didn’t even wake me up. Years later, I’d think back on that and laugh. Right now, however, it was kind of disconcerting. It has been two months now since they started. Always at night. Always three bombs. No pattern found yet by the police. Except the night part. This is exactly what the police spokeswoman said to me when I asked about a pattern. “Nothing, except the night part.”

It’s strange to be a reporter again. Especially covering the biggest story to hit this place, most likely ever. How the powers that be saw me as the most qualified, I’ll never understand. But, it’s given me a voice, an audience, and a chance that I had not had in quite some time. Plus, when this is over, I’ll be able to write my ticket out of here. Finally.

I kid myself when I say I don’t know why I got this story. I was in the office over Christmas vacation when it happened. The news reporter there was at a parade 30 miles away. The editor, a 25 year old with little to no ability to make a decision, didn’t know what to do. I stepped up and said, “I’ll go.” The office was awful that day, and I figured it was fireworks. The initial little leaks were of “light explosions” in a warehouse.

Jumping into my car, I felt a little bit of nothing. I had a name of a police officer at the scene - “Veronica Stephens” - and that was it.

When I arrived at the warehouse, there were the remains of a car, smoldering after the fire department had put it out. The local television stations had already packed up their cars and were leaving. I trudged over to the woman, about 5 foot 8, 130 pounds with red hair. Of course she was a redhead, I remember thinking. Thank god she was a redhead, I think now.

We exchange pleasantries and I explain my lack of formal knowledge of news in general in the area. She gives me the lowdown of the “explosion.” Someone set a car on fire. It had a gas can in the back. It blew up. I asked who the car was registered to. This brought an eyebrow wrinkle from Miss (I found this out later) Stephens.

“It belongs to a Mr. John Franco,” she said matter-of-factly.

“The relief pitcher for the Mets?” I said with a chuckle.

“Exactly,” she said, not laughing.

“Really? Now that’s a story!” My sports instincts kicked right in. Veronica smiled when she saw me open up my notepad again.

“I thought so too,” she said. “The TV reporters didn’t even bat an eyelash when I said his name.”

“Have you contacted him yet?”

“It seems that Mr. Franco disappeared from his house in New York four days ago,” Veronica said. I noticed myself glancing at her lips and then her eyes. Not really paying attention to the story she was gift-wrapping for me. She had hazel eyes. The kind that can make the stars turn to stone. I had yet to figure out if she knew it or not. “And records indicate he’s been here in North Carolina the last two.”

“Records indicate?”

“Credit card receipts and such,” she said.

“And such?”

“Well, he bought this car at the Stephenson Toyota lot yesterday. We talked to a car salesman, Mr. Whittaker, and he was just excited to see the former Met here in North Carolina.”

“So, he definitely knew it was him.”

“Yep. He even got a Poloroid taken with him,” she showed me the picture. It definitely was John Franco. I thought about the 1987 Fleer baseball card set I had that I was attempting to get every card autographed. Did I have a John Franco? Probably not.

“This is awesome.”

“It is isn’t it?” she replied. “My dad was a huge Mets fan, which made me a huge Mets fan. Used to go see games at Shea all the time.”

“You from New York?”

“Is that going to be in the story?”

“Just for my own personal file.”

“Ha. Well, let’s just save that for another time,” she said handing me her business card. “You’ve got a story to write. See you soon, I hope.”

“Well, sure.”

“You have a card?”

“Well, like I told you before. I’m not even a reporter. So, no. You have a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“A personal one?”

“Yep,” and she pulled it out of her pocket.

“You don’t keep that in that utility belt somewhere?” What an awful joke. Batman belts. Policewomen. Fuck.

“I usually store it in my invisible jet.”

That made me smile. She’s a dork too.

“Can I hold your phone?”

“What is this grade school?”

“Just hand it over, officer.” That may have crossed the line. But no one else was here to hear it. And she did.

“Here’s my number.” I punched in the digits with my name. “Call me sometime.”

“About the story?”

“Eh. If that’s all you want to talk about.”

She smiled, got in her car and left.

I went back to the office. Wrote up the story. Called a few people I used to know in the sports writing business. Got John Franco’s agent. A brief comment on his “missing status” and plopped the story in the queue.

The next day, I got a call from Veronica.

“Randy, let’s meet up.”

“So soon? I hardly know ya.”

“This is business. Not pleasure.”

Such is life, I thought. Or did I think it. I often worry that I say things out loud when I shouldn’t. Never really knowing if I did or didn’t.

“I heard that,” she said.

“What?”

“You do mumble out loud. Noticed it last night. Something about my eyes.”

“Oops.”

“Meet me at the Waffle Hut in 10 minutes.”

I said OK and quickly got dressed. I ran back inside when I realized I hadn’t brushed my teeth. Was I actually chasing a story again? Was I actually falling for a cop? This could be fun.

ring...ring

Echoes are the first thing you notice walking into this once-proud room. Even if moccasins are being worn, footsteps are impossible to hide.

Friends and enemies alike are gone. Debates are few. Arguments, non-existent.

When a phone rings now, the person at the desk cringes. Because the person at the other end could be a few rooms away. With a stack of papers for you to sign. Sign away your last ditch effort at wanting to do something good. Something important. Something that matters. Eventually, the numbers will fall the right way. It has nothing to do with luck. Not how good or bad you are. Those days don’t exist anymore. Instead, you’re an item on a spreadsheet. When your worth becomes less than your cost, the knife it falls.

Unions concede wages now and consider it a big victory. Pensions are gone. That 401k match? Ha. We promise we’ll get it going again by the end of the next fiscal year. All the while the bonuses at the top of the food chain continue. $1.3 million here. $2.2 million there.

I never wanted to be at the top. I figure other than great white sharks, grizzly bears and maybe piranhas, I was in a pretty good place, why did I ever want to be a CEO or Executive Editor? Seemed like too much awfulness.

Now, I’m in a newsroom with very little news people in it. If you dare rock the boat, you’re labeled a trouble maker, a malcontent, or maybe even just an asshole. I’ve been called all three by editors in the past. All those editors are out of the business now. None of them were bought out. None of them seemed to care. They were fired. Simply put, for being bad at their jobs.

As I sit at my cubicle, waiting for what’s coming next, I think of the day I made a mistake in my career. The only one, really. I quit one job before I should have. That led to bad choices for quite a while. Not mistakes, because I was trying to do the right thing, just bad choices as they turned out.

The last job I had, the phone rang on a warm January day. I had come in to work early to get some stuff done ahead of time. Interviews were complete, story half written when I saw a co-worker get a call. He went into the HR office. Ten minutes or so later, he came out, head hung low with a cardboard box in his hand. Soon, he was gone. The scene repeated for another co-worker. The day of reckoning had finally come to this little place.

Finally, my phone rang. Ever since my first days on the job, I kind of expected that call. I was paid well for the first time in my life. And I was happy doing my job. A relationship had sputtered, sending me into an emotional hell, which cost the company money. And, never being the ass-kissing type, I didn’t make the right friends.

Ring. I picked it up on the first ring. My boss looked a me in horror. He’d brought me into this. Now, he had to watch me leave.

“Well, it’s been fun,” I said as I got up to go to the HR woman’s office.

“Sorry man,” my boss said. I didn’t believe him then, still don’t.

I walked in to the HR office. Where the HR head and the EE were sitting. I took off my ID badge and toss it on her desk.

“Where do I sign?” I asked with a smile.

“Thanks for making this easy,” the EE said.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” I replied. “It’s the way of the beast now.”

“Sadly, it is,” he said. Not looking at me.

I felt a wave of euphoria come over me when I exited the building. Honestly, other than a few first kisses and a slow dance I hadn’t felt this good, this relieved, this happy since pushing the accelerator to begin my first solo cross-country drive in 1994.

Everything was a blank slate. Well, everything but my debt, which I wasn’t too worried about at the moment. What was next? Anything was possible.

So, that begs the question: why are you back in Eastern North Carolina, sitting and waiting for a phone call? I guess I wasn’t ready for the unknown. The change. The exit.

This time, however, I am. Seven months of toil, with one major rejection later, I know it’s time to say goodbye. To a lot of things. One by one I’ve tried working through them. Some I tossed aside. Others I made a shaky peace with. Lastly, that telephone call needs to come.

And I know it will. It’s just a matter of patiently waiting.

…