The first awesome day of the not quite spring was in full force. Slobberbone was pouring out of the speakers at higher than recommended volume and beers were chilling in a cooler.
The lawn chair was rusted, but still all in one piece. Perfectly positioned in the driveway where one could see things coming and/or going. Yes, it was going to be a damn good day.
Then she drove by. Her dark blue Ford Tempo glistening in the sun. Well, glistening as much as a car can when it’s shrouded by the layer of salt that cars tend to become permanently attached to here.
Like always, she slows down in front of my house. I have no idea if it’s due to the impending stop sign at the intersection ahead, or if she only does it when I’m outside. I watch her car approach, slow and drive by. During which she smiles and waves at me.
I smile and wave back.
This happened a lot last summer and fall. Then, it stopped. I guess because I was never outside. The ass-bitingly cold winter sapped that out of me. A definite sign of my impending doom. Cold used to not bother me. But now, my teeth hurt. My muscles shake. My will disappears. It’s sad, really. I’m the guy that used to pride myself on wearing Umbro shorts 365 days a year. Snow? Hell, I’ll put on a sweatshirt. That kind of behavior was normal.
Now, I go outside and shiver. In jeans and long johns. Brr has replaced the whir in my life. I chalk it up to being really out of shape. I’m not fat, just don’t exercise much anymore. No more 30-mile bike rides to a thrift store in the deserts of Arizona to try and find an Atari cartridge that I didn’t have yet. Oh, the stupidity of youth. I still have credit card balances due to my endless “searching” for crap. Or later in life, riding into the projects of New Orleans en route to just taking in the town that I love so much. I still think I can get around on a bike there much better than in a car. When I moved to Virginia, the bike rides stopped. I lived in suburban sprawl, and I hated it. It became normal behavior. So much so, when I moved to the sticks of North Carolina, I didn’t start riding again. Of course, the couple of times I did there, I almost got killed, so maybe that has something to do with it? But fuck (ha!) I was hit by a Mercedes in Tempe once. Flew over the hood, landed and was fine. The Mercedes? Not so much. “You OK?” the guy driving exclaimed as I got back on my bike like an illegal running from the border patrol. He must’ve thought something was up with this pony-tailed skinny fucker. Meth maybe? “I’m fine, man,” I said. “But your car isn’t!” and I pedaled away.
As I sit in my lawn chair, pondering these thoughts I watch that Ford Tempo pull away. From what I can see through the muddied windshield, she’s cute. Probably in her early 30s. I wonder if we’ll ever actually speak. If I have anything to do with it, no. If she does, yes. Such is life. I take a swig of beer. My throat is sore. Been battling some kind of sickness for a week now. Last night I had a fever and chills. Today, I’m sitting outside drinking a beer and pondering strangers driving past and whether or not they’d date me. Pretty normal afternoon.
The wind kicks up something violent. Another thing about the beach that I haven’t quite got a grasp on. The wind. Right now, it’s 70 degrees out, but the wind blowing off the ocean drops the relative temp by 15 degrees when it gusts like this. 30, 40 mile per hour gusts. With the ocean still struggling to reach 50 degrees, it’s no wonder I feel sickly. That and my assorted ailments that not having health insurance will end up costing me a hell of a lot more down the road ass is filled with -- kidney stones, heart issues, diabetes, anemia, liver, etc…..It’s enough to drive one to drink. Yet, I usually stop after two beers now.
Getting old Jones. Getting old.
“Crow Pot Pie” is coming to an end. Much like this beautiful day. Thunderstorms will be raging soon. I’m hopeful for a real rager and not just some small thing. The old Weather Channel says it’s not severe here. I want to flog Jim Cantori for that.
I put in another CD. “Everything You Thought Was Right Was Wrong Today.” And I pop open a second beer. I’m going to wait for her to come home. Nothing else to do on a Monday afternoon.
Showing posts with label old. Show all posts
Showing posts with label old. Show all posts
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
good david vs. bad david
You know, these things shouldn’t come as a surprise anymore. All one has to do is look in the mirror to get a clue, yet, the way things have always worked in the past gives one hope. I guess.
Out and about, getting a crappy sub from Subway because I’m much to lazy/uninspired/not willing to deal with gaggles of jarheads to go to a local indie shop for my sandwich fix. Coming back, there is a pretty ugly accident at the local hangout, aka the BP station with a McDonald’s inside. A motorcycle vs. SUV as I have so named them after seeing so many of the damn things going all the way back to my Arizona days when I lived with three cyclists -- one of which seemed to make a living at getting hit by motorists and living off the settlements, because, “the car is always at fault” he said.
Anyway, I’d noticed before leaving the office that the cute reporter named for an emotional state of being -- Hope -- was the reporter for the weekend. I still shudder at the thought of one reporter working in an office on weekends. Even I remember the days when a reporter never really had a “day off.” Instead, they’d work from home when the news happened.
“Hell, we publish 365 days a year,” a man I respect a little more every day told me when I was a young cub reporter. Hell, I wasn’t even a reporter, I was a skinny, long-haired, wide-eyed lost person who stumbled into a weeklong tag-along with a couple of real reporters. I was 21 at the time. They were in their late-20s or early-30s. The man, he was in his sixties. Last I heard, he was still writing his clunky, but always correct prose. Most likely scaring the crap out of what passes for journalists today, and hopefully inspiring some other young fool to follow in his footsteps.
“And that means we work 365 days a year.”
He also drank a lot. And was divorced twice.
I drink a lot. Haven’t been lucky enough to be divorced twice. Let alone married once.
Hope, she’s a cute lass, as the old guy would’ve called her. She wasn’t a very good reporter. I’d read her copy. Heard her weak excuses for not having things in them. I think she wants to be a good journalist, but if you don’t have any mentoring you, there is really little hope. (Ugh.)
Anyway, again. My time at the paper has been kind of strange. Pushed aside from the beginning, I just carved out a niche as the broody, quiet guy over in the corner. However, in the last few weeks I’ve kind of come out of that shell. It’s my usual pattern. I make a couple of friends, become kind of a dominant part of the discussions in the newsroom while we’re in the place, but not really branch out. Then, one day, the branching begins and before you know it, you’re talking to everyone all of the sudden. Usually, this leads to going out and drinking with, etc. It has not this time. It’s led to curious looks and smiles, mostly.
After doing a bit of manuevering to take a look at the crash, it looked somewhat awful. The motorcyclist was being attended to by three medics and there were two ambulances there, a fire truck there and a couple of cops. As I drove down the road, a third ambulance was en route.
I got to the office, walked over toward the cute reporter. Her cubicle was a bit of a maze to get to. Just as I enter, my boss yells out my name. Awkwardness. She sees me right behind her, holding food and looking dumb. I look at her, then at my boss. I start to walk towards him.
“Huh?”
“Can you take that story again?”
“Um. Yeah. Sure.”
“Sorry, bro.”
“Not a problem.” I had suggested taking a story on a kid who got paralyzed in a football game from him to put on the sports pages due to lack of space. He agreed. We set it up. Then he took it back.
“Unless the obits run long,” he said.
And now, two hours before deadline, two hours after obit deadline, he has decided obits ran long.
Eh, whatever.
I turn back to the reporter. She’s back at looking on the internet. A favorite pastime of journalists now. Especially those under the age of 30.
“Hope,” I meekly say.
She turns and smiles, then says “Yes sir?”
Taken aback a little by this, I stutter out “I saw something…might make a story.”
I then explain the wreck, clumsily. I’m still thinking about being called “sir.”
She asks me how bad it was.
“Looked not that awful,” I reply. “There were three ambulances.”
“Ok,” she said, turning back to the internet.
I walk away. Feeling sorry for myself.
I am old, I guess. At least to a girl who graduated from college in 2008.
I think about asking her about David Bowie, since I'd been jamming to what the old folks would have poo-pooed on the ride to work "China Girl" and on the way home "Suffragette City."
I think better of it rather quickly.
Me and my boss start talking about “remember the days when…”, further solidifying our own demise.
Out and about, getting a crappy sub from Subway because I’m much to lazy/uninspired/not willing to deal with gaggles of jarheads to go to a local indie shop for my sandwich fix. Coming back, there is a pretty ugly accident at the local hangout, aka the BP station with a McDonald’s inside. A motorcycle vs. SUV as I have so named them after seeing so many of the damn things going all the way back to my Arizona days when I lived with three cyclists -- one of which seemed to make a living at getting hit by motorists and living off the settlements, because, “the car is always at fault” he said.
Anyway, I’d noticed before leaving the office that the cute reporter named for an emotional state of being -- Hope -- was the reporter for the weekend. I still shudder at the thought of one reporter working in an office on weekends. Even I remember the days when a reporter never really had a “day off.” Instead, they’d work from home when the news happened.
“Hell, we publish 365 days a year,” a man I respect a little more every day told me when I was a young cub reporter. Hell, I wasn’t even a reporter, I was a skinny, long-haired, wide-eyed lost person who stumbled into a weeklong tag-along with a couple of real reporters. I was 21 at the time. They were in their late-20s or early-30s. The man, he was in his sixties. Last I heard, he was still writing his clunky, but always correct prose. Most likely scaring the crap out of what passes for journalists today, and hopefully inspiring some other young fool to follow in his footsteps.
“And that means we work 365 days a year.”
He also drank a lot. And was divorced twice.
I drink a lot. Haven’t been lucky enough to be divorced twice. Let alone married once.
Hope, she’s a cute lass, as the old guy would’ve called her. She wasn’t a very good reporter. I’d read her copy. Heard her weak excuses for not having things in them. I think she wants to be a good journalist, but if you don’t have any mentoring you, there is really little hope. (Ugh.)
Anyway, again. My time at the paper has been kind of strange. Pushed aside from the beginning, I just carved out a niche as the broody, quiet guy over in the corner. However, in the last few weeks I’ve kind of come out of that shell. It’s my usual pattern. I make a couple of friends, become kind of a dominant part of the discussions in the newsroom while we’re in the place, but not really branch out. Then, one day, the branching begins and before you know it, you’re talking to everyone all of the sudden. Usually, this leads to going out and drinking with, etc. It has not this time. It’s led to curious looks and smiles, mostly.
After doing a bit of manuevering to take a look at the crash, it looked somewhat awful. The motorcyclist was being attended to by three medics and there were two ambulances there, a fire truck there and a couple of cops. As I drove down the road, a third ambulance was en route.
I got to the office, walked over toward the cute reporter. Her cubicle was a bit of a maze to get to. Just as I enter, my boss yells out my name. Awkwardness. She sees me right behind her, holding food and looking dumb. I look at her, then at my boss. I start to walk towards him.
“Huh?”
“Can you take that story again?”
“Um. Yeah. Sure.”
“Sorry, bro.”
“Not a problem.” I had suggested taking a story on a kid who got paralyzed in a football game from him to put on the sports pages due to lack of space. He agreed. We set it up. Then he took it back.
“Unless the obits run long,” he said.
And now, two hours before deadline, two hours after obit deadline, he has decided obits ran long.
Eh, whatever.
I turn back to the reporter. She’s back at looking on the internet. A favorite pastime of journalists now. Especially those under the age of 30.
“Hope,” I meekly say.
She turns and smiles, then says “Yes sir?”
Taken aback a little by this, I stutter out “I saw something…might make a story.”
I then explain the wreck, clumsily. I’m still thinking about being called “sir.”
She asks me how bad it was.
“Looked not that awful,” I reply. “There were three ambulances.”
“Ok,” she said, turning back to the internet.
I walk away. Feeling sorry for myself.
I am old, I guess. At least to a girl who graduated from college in 2008.
I think about asking her about David Bowie, since I'd been jamming to what the old folks would have poo-pooed on the ride to work "China Girl" and on the way home "Suffragette City."
I think better of it rather quickly.
Me and my boss start talking about “remember the days when…”, further solidifying our own demise.
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