Meeting Lyle

“God damn it!” Shelby the bartender yelled at no one, but definitely at me. “Those fucktards have been playing Puddle of Mudd and Slipknot for over an hour now.”

“So why don’t you tell them to stop? Or better yet, take those God awful bands off of your jukebox?” I retorted.

She glared at me. I think she was expecting sympathy. But I’m the guy who comes in and selects and entire twenty bucks worth of sad Lucero songs, back-to-back-to-motherfucking-back as she some of the patrons have taken to noticing out loud.

At that very moment an elderly chap walked in to the bar. He winced at the sound of Wes Scantlin’s voice. He walked over to the bar and looked at Shelby disapprovingly. I smiled and attempted to give the same look, but failed.

“You like this … this …”

“Music?” I interrupted.

“This is not music!” the old guy exclaimed. “I’m going to put a stop to this!”

He looked at the two guys, each wearing black wife beaters with some kind of skull logos emblazoned on them. The also had visors on. If they had been wearing Birkenstocks they would have needed to beat each other up, repeatedly. On principle alone.

“Oh, hell,” he said. “I need a drink first.”

The old timer sat down next to me. There were 27 other empty stools at the bar, but he plopped down in the once closest to me. This, of course, made me interested in what this old guy was selling.

“Hey, there old-timer,” I said, hoping that he wasn’t one of those old guys who hated to be told he was old. “What’s shaking?”

“I’ll tell ya what’s shaking, kid,” the old guy said. “My balls around my ankles when I don’t have my underwear on.”

We laughed and clinks whiskey glasses.

“And damn, you’d run away from my penis!” he snorted after downing his glass. “Right, Kylie?”

Kyle was the local whore. I didn’t know that yet, as I’d only been coming to the bar for about two weeks now. After getting my advance for a magazine piece, I drove 1,107 miles exactly – the amount of the check – and decided to write the story wherever that was. And that was here, at Sam’s Pub. In Kermit, Texas – just outside of Odessa, if you’re keeping track.

“You’re drinking some RedBreast there I see,” the old man said looking at my glass. “Damn good stuff. Can’t afford it much anymore. Except when Samantha’s working. She’s got a soft spot for me.”

We looked at Sam, the owner and most of the time barkeep. He was reading the local newspaper and sipping on a cup of coffee. Sam, I’d find out later, hadn’t had a drink since the night before he opened the joint. Made a promise to his now-ex-wife that he’d never hit the sauce if he actually opened the bar.

He lived up to his promise. Only problem being his wife didn’t like the Sam who didn’t drink. She ended up fucking one of the dishwashers one night by the old Donkey Kong machine. Sam walked in on them and nearly killed the two of them. Luckily, Odell, a local janitor from the nearby factory was on his lunch break and stopped Sam cold in his tracks with just these words “Sam, you won’t like getting fucked in the ass by a guy like me.”

Sam laughed at Odell’s comment, then put his shotgun back under the bar. Instead, he walked in to his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s little trist with his soon-to-be-ex-dishwasher And right before the guy came, he punched him right in the taint.

They have a still from the surveillance video of that exact moment poster sized above the bar. The video made YouTube, last time it was checked it had over 11 million views. Eventually, it made Tosh.0 once. But Sam wouldn’t allow for the dishwasher’s redemption.

As for his wife – Janet – she ended up going back home to Llano and living with her mom and her aunt.

“The bitch always deserved to live with her mom,” Sam said the day he heard that news.

Meanwhile, Slipknot’s third time singing “Butcher’s Hook” finally got me riled up enough to spend some of my ever dwindling advance.

I walked over to the jukebox, the two hogs were busy air-guitaring and singing the awesomeness that is “Go Ahead and Disagree … I’m giving up again!” I slipped in two twenty dollar bills and selected two albums. First up was Neil Young’s “Arc”. Thirty-plus minutes of noise and distortion. Followed of course by Mr. Young’s “Weld”, just another in the long line of fine live albums by the Canadian-turned-American.

As Slipknot ended, there was a brief period of silence. I asked Sam to put a pause before my songs started. This way the surprise would be better. The two lads, as they became known, went to pick some new songs by the same two bands. Putting their money to good use. But, suddenly Neil Young’s guitar started blasting.

Lad No. 1 stared at No. 2.

“What the fuck, Bart! You picked this shit?”

“Hell no, man,” No. 2 yelled back. “I picked ‘People equal Shit’, man.”

The old guy watched them arguing. He looked and me and patted me on the back.

“Those guys gotta learn to let it go, kid. They really do.”

This was the day I met Lyle.

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.

No fun...

Johnny Rotten yelled in his ears.

“No fun!”

Over and over. The white ear buds were sticking out of his black hoodie. He swore the girl saw him looking at her – in complete disgust. But he couldn’t be sure. Didn’t really have time to think about it anyway. It would be the last time either of them saw each other, no matter what. The thought of that satisfied him in a way he hadn’t been in a while now. Surprisingly, he paused to bask in that feeling for just a moment. He’d promised himself no distractions. But this was too good to pass up. The warmth of the feeling washed over his entire body, almost like a sunrise on the beach in the winter.

But her voice ended the peace. Like an anvil falling on Wil E. Coyote. “Damn you,” he thought.

It was time.

He reached for the zipper on his hoodie. It stuck halfway down, like it always did. A slight pause to get the thread matched back up and whoosh, it came off. Both arms were now out, each holding a shotgun, sawed off hastily two nights before under the influence of half a bottle of Jameson and a few shots of tequila.

The only person who saw the guns before they started shooting was her. Her crooked grin that always was plastered on her face disappeared in an instant that stayed with him for the rest of his life, turning into a wide-agape mouth full of sheer terror.

“Blam!” Went the shotgun in his left hand. “Odd,” he thought, “I’m right-handed. Would have thought I would have pulled that trigger first.”

“Blam!” the second gun erupted a split second later.

The first shot had struck her in the arm, nearly taking it off from her shoulder. She looked at it, flapping there. The second shot hit the guy next to her. He was covered in blood before the buckshot hit him from her arm’s explosion. He didn’t have long to notice as his shot blew straight through his head.

Instant death. It’s what he always jokingly asked for, he thought to himself.

Clicking a new round into each gun’s chamber like he was in a John Woo movie, he spun around in time to see his boss ducking under a table, yelling “Shiiiiiiiiiiiit!” The next two shots were for her. Never liked that bitch.

Another round loaded, the last person left in the room was the custodian. He was an old Hispanic guy. Never said much to anyone. And did a horrible job cleaning anything. It baffled him why the old guy was still around. Some kid could be doing his job, for less money, and actually clean the dried up shit off of the toilet bowl. Except for the executive’s bathroom. It was cleaned daily. And the floors waxed every Saturday. It drove him nuts that this bathroom right next to his desk was always closed on Saturdays, forcing a long trek to the back bathrooms and their shit-covered seats.

“Don’t shoot me Jake,” the old man said.

“I ain’t shooting you, Alex,” he said back. “You’re already dead. I’d just be wasting my shots.”

“Mighty kind of you,” he said, ducking into that very bathroom. He heard the old man vomit. The only thing he’d ever seen the old guy eat was leftovers from corporate meetings, so there was no telling what was coming out with the stomach bile.

By now, the cops would be on the way. Johnny was still yelling in his ear about how little fun life was. “Boy was he ever right,” he said out loud.

Walking out the front door, a few people were outside, talking on cell phones.

“Calling the cops?” he asked them.

All froze in their tracks. He laughed manically. He felt good. For the first time in years. The pain in his back was gone. The cancer growing inside him, making his joints ache, his eyes yellow and his muscles atrophy was stopped for a minute. It too was admiring what he was doing, he thought to himself.

A man from the public relations department was pointing his phone oddly.

“Are you fucking filming me?” he screamed, almost channeling Mr. Rotten’s yarble.

“Um. Um. Um. No…” he said meekly.

The blast of the shotgun knocked him over. A direct hit to the chest. Still breathing, he whimpered “No…No…Please. Du…du…don’t do it…”

The second blast took off a leg. The third and fourth his arms.

Still alive, his eyes glazed over a bit. The phone was still in the ad executive’s severed hand.

Laughing, he picked it up, pushed stop on the camera and watched the video. It was from the beginning. This fucker had been watching the whole thing. Was probably going to sell it to ABC or Fox.

“Guess you won’t be getting rich, huh?” he said to the guy’s face.

The ad man spit out a gob of black blood.

“Pretty cool,” he said, walking away.

Before he knew it, he was in his car. Driving west. Always drive west a song had once told him. Or was it a friend? Anyway, if you aren’t driving west, you’re going back. You’re retreating. You’re giving up. So, always drive west.

He drove east to work every day. Well, he did until today. And west to go home. That allowed him to stay sane. For a while.

Now, he saw the sun, falling in front of him. A blood caked cell phone was on his dashboard. Johnny Rotten was yelling at him, too.

“This is not a love song…”

Alligator Jones meets Trees

“Hi! Would you like to know about becoming carbon neutral?”

“Blam!”

That may not have been the smartest way to avoid the little eco-friendly nerd, shooting off his face with a shotgun. But then again, maybe it was…

Looking down at my feet, a pool of blood was already soaking my brand new pair of Samba Classics. It’s the only shoe I wear, and pretty much the only one I want to wear. Although some vintage Ralph Sampson Puma black hi-tops would be rather stylin’.

“Shit, man. Why’d you go and do that?” a voice said from the left side. Near a booth marked “Free Vagina Maps.” Clearly, this sign had been tampered with, but it got my attention now.

“You sell Vagina maps?” I asked the person who had just spoken to me, without answering his question.

“Huh?” he said.

“Well, I guess since I didn’t answer your question, you don’t want to answer mine. Fair enough.”

Shhhh-click. I chambered another shell from the tube. This seemed to rattle my new-found friend. He was about 25 or so, wearing a “I <3 Lohan” T-shirt. For some reason, this did not strike me as creepy at all. Maybe it was the idea of a Vagina Map that made this possible.

“Sorry, bro,” Ted said. I found out his name was Ted, or at least that’s what he was telling the average consumer with his neon green plastic nametag attached just over where Lindsay’s left nipple would be. “I don’t have any more maps, and yes, they are Vagina Maps.”

“Well, you’ve interested me, Ted? Is that right?”

“What?”

“Is your name Ted?, Ted.” I said, matter-of-factly, not even keeping my finger on the trigger as I put the shotgun -- a Remington 887 -- over my right shoulder. My gun was plain brown. The guy at the gun show in Vanceboro, North Carolina, tried to get me to purchase a camouflage one. I told him to go fuck himself. Amazingly, he didn’t take offense and offered me a discount on shells. Nice fellow he was. He had better teeth than me as well. But, honestly, that’s not saying much, having not been in a dentists chair since I was 23 years old.

“No man, my name is Trees.”

“You serious? Like the Steve Buscemi movie?”

“Yep. My mom fucked Steve one night and fell in love. But she didn’t stick around.”

“You his kid?”

“Nah. This was over a decade before I was born. But when she saw that damn movie, she said she knew she’d name her first-born Trees. Fucking boy or girl.”

“Guess you’re lucky you’re a boy, huh? Trees would be a helluva name for a lady to live down.”

“Hmmm. Never thought of it that way, but you’re right!”

“About them maps. What the fuck is a Vagina Map, anyway? I’ve just got to know.”

“It’s a map of where they film pornos. New ones. Classic ones. Gang bangs and trannys as well. You want to know where any famous porno was shot, I’ve got a map to take you there.”

“Damn, that’s fucking fantastic! When are you going to get some more in?”

“You serious man? ‘Cause don’t you think this is the last place you’d want to be again? I mean, you’ve got brains on your shoes.”

“Fuck, I hate it when that happens. You know what I mean?”

“Not really, man. Not really.”

“Well, Trees, you wanna get out of the Vagina Map business? It can’t be that lucrative? I’ve got a proposition for ya. One that you can’t lose on.”

“Sure, man. Hey, what’s you name?”

“Alligator Jones, my friend. Alligator Jones.”

He squinted through the sunlight to get a look at my face when I said that. I figure he didn’t believe me when I said that. Hell, my teacher’s never believed it either. Especially when they looked at the name in the book and it said Henry. Damn, I hated that name so much as a kid.

In the distance, sirens started to approach. In the foreground, a crowd was starting to gather. So were flies.

“Kid, let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said.

“Let me grab my bag,” Trees said, lunging behind his little makeshift stand of old-ass milk crates.

I only had a second to make my decision. Was he going for a gun? Or was he really grabbing a bag. I guessed.

Correctly.

“I never go anywhere without my bag,” Trees said. “It’s got a copy of “A Confederacy of Dunces”, the movie “Elf” and a Chuck E. Cheese token.

“Sounds great, kid, let’s get moving. The cops’ll be here any moment.”

We mainlined it straight to my car -- a 1991 Toyota Celica. Moon roof, not a convertible. Stick, not automatic. She wasn’t exactly the car you’d expect to pull up on the day you were going to die. And that’s how I liked it.