The girl in green...

My house, like my teeth, is a ticking time bomb of decay.

I stepped on a soft spot on the floor today, and I thought it would collapse and I’d soon be under my house like Walter White grabbing his cash, covered in cobwebs and moldy dirt.

I don’t seem to have the want to call the landlord to get it fixed. It would mean weeks of construction workers ambling about my house, tearing up the floors and making my life miserable. I’d rather just not jump on my floor much. A simpler solution.

Speaking of, let’s talk drinking. Last night, I drank a few beers. It seemed like a very good idea. It ended up just being an idea. No great prose seeped out of my brain. No mindstorm. It ended up just being me, sitting on the couch, watching great old movies such as “Panic in the Streets” and “California Split.” At some point, I started sending massive Twitter messages. When those hashtag wars start, I just want Patton Oswalt to see mine. He doesn’t need to approve of it, or hate it. Just see it.

When I finally was ready to pass out, I went to my room and thought about masturbating. Key word being thought. I was asleep before I could spit on my hand.

I was woken by thunder sometime around 7 a.m. It’s a great feeling. The bed seemed to shake from one particularly large one. I laid there thinking about how nice it would be to live in the jungle, where such storms were an everyday occurrence and not a nice respite from the ordinary. Of course, then, thunderstorms and rain might become the ordinary.

A woman walks by my house. She’s wearing a green one-piece bathing suit. It makes her legs look awfully long – in a good way. I watch those legs the entire stretch of the block I can see from my window. I know if she saw me there, shirtless and in my underwear, she’d think about calling the cops. I guess luckily for me, she didn’t. I look at her car in the parking lot across the street. It’s a green Ford Focus. Her thing for green intrigues me. Does she like Green Day or even Green Jelly. Remember that song they did – “Three Little Pigs”? Maybe her mother read her “Green Eggs and Ham” as a child. Her favorite movies? Well, “The Green Mile” and “Soylent Green”, for sure. I decide to put on some clothes and go stare inside her car. I put on a green shirt and green shorts. If it were cold out, I’d put on green soccer socks. My Adidas Sambas have green stripes. Maybe we are a perfect fit, I allow myself to think for a moment as I walk across the street.

I hit the gravel of the parking lot when another car comes screeching in. They are playing “House of Pain” very loudly and drinking Coronas. My will to live is somewhat halted at the moment of their introduction to my life.

They park right next to the green car and get out. I decide to stop where I’m at and turn around. I get back to my carport and sit on my stool. Yes, it’s green.

The three clowns in the car get out. Two have Ed Hardy shirts on. The other has no shirt on, but appears to have Ed Hardy designs tattooed on his chest. I think of Brock Lesnar’s “sword” tattoo on his chest. I wonder if the artist did that on purpose? It really looks like a penis. Anyway, our parking lot villains proceed to take out their beach chairs and their cooler and place them in the parking lot ground. Instead of going to the beach – two blocks away – they have decided, it appears, to hang out in the parking lot of a shag dance club.

I sigh and go inside. I have to be leaving for work in about 45 minutes. So, I need to shower. I’ve already shit today, which was necessary after the night and day of drinking beer and eating shitty food. Of course, all of the turds floated. Too much fat in the diet when they bob around the bowl.

The will to go to work is not strong today. Not that it ever is, but lately, it’s been willless – to attempt to invent a word of usefulness. I wonder if Mike Ness would use them? That would be careless of him. I should send him the words in an envelope – but it would be fruitless. I really like Les Nessman’s newscasts. They do more with less.

At some point, I have to stop. The bills must be paid. The game must be played. Until it’s completion.

Do people ever use the world nadir? I used it the other day, and two people went “Huh?” with their eyes.

I’d like to use mulct in conversation. But I don’t want to talk politics.

I used to love politics. The first girl I ever fell in love with, we used to talk politics. I used to take the Republican side just to mess with her. I think she ended up believing I believed in the “cause”. She and I didn’t date very long. I still send her Christmas and birthday cards. Her and her girlfriend. She thinks my birthday is April 1. It’s April 9. I don’t know when that shift occurred. I used to get the cards around the 9^th, then one year, it became the 1^st. I’m guessing it means at some point she decided I was a joke. One that had to keep being told. At least that’s what my warped mind wraps itself around. Seems to fit.

The girl in green comes back to her car.  She didn’t stay at the beach long. She is walking up the street. I wonder what she thinks of the douchebags hanging out around her car. She seems them. She starts running towards them. When she gets to the cars, she hugs the guy without a shirt on. Then kisses him.

Well, there goes another imaginary relationship. Time to get ready for work.

Shiners and Chevettes

It was our anniversary. Not really, though, since there was no our anymore. But it didn’t stop me from doing what I did every year. When we were together under the same roof, when we lived 764 miles apart, and after she dumped me.

I’d go to a bar, a new bar. One I’d never been to. I’d order a Shiner Bock, drink it slowly, and put a quarter in the jukebox to play a sad song. I never had a song picked out. Mainly because every bar has a different jukebox. Some had old school ones – played 45s still. Most had Internet ones, so you could pick whatever song you wanted to hear. But, to pick a new one cost a dollar, which violated my quarter rule.

This year, I was in a place called May’s Picket Fence. It was in Jacksonville, North Carolina. The shithole of a town I found myself working in at the moment. For some reason I’d never left eastern North Carolina. Not even after. It was why things happened the way they did. Or at least as soon as they did. I’ve come to the realization, or rationalization, that it would have happened anyway. No matter what I did.

This year I’m sitting on the brown wooden barstool, one of the fancier ones with padding on the back and the butt. I’m drinking my Shiner and listening to American Aquarium talk about antique hearts and such. I wonder if B.J. Barham has really ever been in love. He’s too young to have had so many broken hearts, right? But hell, I’m just doing what everyone does to me. They don’t understand me, I don’t understand him.

I turn to my left and see a gal looking at Craigslist on her laptop. She’s about 25, maybe 30. Lots of bad tattoos up and down her back and arms. One is a bible verse in all black lettering. It takes up her entire shoulder area. It makes me wince. I still go up to her.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey yourself, cutie,” she responds. Up close, she’s at least 40. Lots of years on those eyes. But they’re blue, and piercing. So, I take a seat beside her.

“Cutie, huh?” I reply. “It’s been a long, long time since someone thought I was cute.” I smiled at her. I figured she’d see my golden teeth before too long, might as well get it out of the way. The last girl I talked to didn’t see them until we went outside. “Are you on meth or something?” she asked. I said no, and that seemed to be enough. We had sex in her Brat. I had never had sex in a Brat before. Hell, I’d never been in a Brat before. Those car/truck/whatever they are, they’re strange little autos.

I told her I’d like to buy her Brat. She said no. I asked why.

“Because you suck at fucking,” she said.

“Well, thanks for being honest,” I replied, getting out of the Brat. It was purple on the inside and brown on the outside.

“Just kiddin’,” she said with a wink. “You want to go to the Waffle House?”

I weighed my options, going with this girl I’d just met, and fucked, and sitting in Waffle House for about an hour, or going home and watching an episode of Jason of Star Command. Sid Haig won out.

But before she pulled away, she asked me: “Why do you want to buy my baby?”

This startled me. First, I had no idea this girl had kids. Second, I wasn’t in the market to buy anyone.

“Uh?” I muttered. “Not trying to start a family,” I finally managed.

“No, stupid,” she said. “I’m glad you fuck better than you think. My car. Why’d you want to buy it?”

“Oh…I wanted to buy it tonight, drive to wherever it dies and start living there.”

“That’s weird,” she said, giving me the wary once over.

“Yeah, I’m a little strange,” I replied. “But, at least I’m good at one thing.”

“And what’s that?” she laughed.

“Writing.”

“I hope your pencil’s always full of lead,” she said, starting the car and pulling away. She had Michigan tags on her car. I figured I’d never see her again. Even in the Facebook age. It helped we didn’t exchange names.

“You have a cute smile, too,” the lady at the bar said to me.

“Cutie with some cute, I must buy you a beer my darling.”

She giggled and blushed. I loved making a stranger blush. It meant I was doing something right. For a change.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

“Shiner and whiskey,” she said.

“We’re a match made in heaven.”

“Or hell.”

“Or hell,” I repeated, clinking our now full beers together. She smiled. She had yellow teeth too.

I stared at the television in front of the taps. It had a soccer match on. Chelsea vs. Liverpool. I had no interest. Neither did anyone else in the bar. So I looked back at my new barstool friend. She was looking at Chevettes for sale on the local Craigslist.

“Why a Chevette?” I asked.

“I think they’re cute.”

“I sense a pattern here,” I replied, taking a gulp of beer and then a shot.

“Yeah, I only like cute things.”

“Let’s make a deal then,” I said confidently. It was the liquor and the beer. “If we find one for less than $400, let’s buy it and start driving.”

“Where to?”

“Wherever it takes us. Or better yet, however far it takes us.”

“Then what?”

“Well, I’ll stay there. You can too. If you want to. If not, I’ll put $200 in an envelope, and that’ll be your fare home.”

“Deal,” she said, shaking my hand.

We spent the next three hours looking at Chevettes on the internet. After those three hours – and about a dozen beers – we found one. It was in Beulaville, not too far from us. It was tan. It had “only the original 44,000 miles on it.” Of course it was b.s., but the ad said it ran.

“Meet you tomorrow in Beulaville?” I queried.

“How about we get a cab. That way, we don’t have to leave a car in that God-forsaken town.”

“OK.”

That night, I packed up 17 t-shirts – all of them Lucero, the band not the skateboard guy, shirts. Some underwear, a few pairs of jeans and some shorts. Two pairs of Sambas and some socks. Threw in a toothbrush, toothpaste and an electric razor.  And lastly, my laptop and in its bag 17 notebooks to write in.

I showed up back at the bar, as we’d talked about the night before, at 3 p.m. sharp. We had to be in Beulaville at 5. At 4:30, I called a cab and went by myself.

At the IGA in Beulaville, I paid a guy name Rob $325 for a 1981 Chevette. It purred like a kitten when I started it, and ran like a dead horse when you drove it. I still took it.

Figured I’d make it a couple miles and just go home.

Instead, three years and 145,985 miles later, I’m still driving. Waiting for it to break down. Even the month of only listening to one song – David Bowie’s “Heroes” – didn’t kill it. Or me.

So now, I’m the internet Chevette guy.

Started a Kickstarter page after three months. Said “I need money to drive my Chevette until it dies. I won’t change the oil, I won’t get filters. When it dies, it dies. And that’s where I’ll live.”

The first two months, it raised about $400. Enough for burritos. I ended up working odd jobs to pay for gas. And showers. But not much else.

So, I kept driving. And each anniversary, I stopped somewhere and had a Shiner and played a sad song.

“Where does the love go when it dies?” a singer asked.

I’d say in the driver’s seat of a 1981 Chevette. Until it decides to do otherwise.

To Searcy

“You’re 40 years old and you still sing along to Descendants songs?” the girl in the red dress asked me. We were sitting in a field waiting for the Lucero show to start somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Arkansas. The Descendents’ “I’m a Bear” was playing.

“Of course,” I said. “The day I stop doing that, is the day I’m dead inside, so I might was well die on the outside.”

She smiled and reached into her purse. She pulled out a flask, took a swig and handed it to me.

“Why thank you lady,” I said, taking the flask and putting it to my mouth.

“We’ve pretty much kissed now,” she said with a laugh. I took another swig. It was smooth stuff.

“What kind of whiskey is this?” I queried.

“Redbreast,” she said, putting her hand out to take her flask back.

I handed it back and then reached into my pocket, pulling out my flask. I handed it to her.

She screwed the top off and took a long swig. An impressive one. While doing it, I saw a tattoo on her shoulder for just a second. It said “For Tommy. It was fun while it lasted.”

After she was done she smiled.

“Redbreast!”

“Yes ma’am,” I replied. “My buddy Josh got me a bottle for Christmas last year. Been a steady drinker ever since.”

“Steady, huh?” she said.

“Well, until a few of those go down the throat.”

“I hear ya,” she said, handing me my flask back.

We both leaned back on our hands and took in the scene. A flowing river was off in the distance. A small town behind us. Somewhere off to the left, the sounds of acoustic guitar filled the air. Then the estarted up again. “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up!” We both looked at each other and smiled. Moments like these don’t last, I thought to myself, so don’t forget to enjoy it.

I did.

The wind died down just at that moment. The girl in the red dress sighed.

“Where are you from?” I broke the silence with that lame question.

“Searcy,” she said, as if I was supposed to know where that was.

“Searcy, huh?” I said.

“Yep. What about you?”

“Originally? I’m from Hopewell, Virginia. Now, nowhere in particular. Just kind of looking for a place to stay. A place to get old and saggy and such.”

“Have you thought of Searcy?” she asked.

I laughed, but I don’t think she was joking.

“Where is this Searcy?”

“’Bout an hour south of here. You should stop in sometime.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Well, I’m not the mayor or anything, but yeah, consider it your key to the city.”

“Thank you kindly, my lady,” I said. I took her hand and kissed it. She blushed.

I took a swig from my flask. I looked over as I wiped my mouth. She was watching me. Her eyes were green and her hair was red. I knew right then I was in deep, deep trouble.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked at just the wrong moment.

“You,” I replied, honestly. I cringed a little on the inside with that one. I felt 14 years old at that moment.

“Me too,” she said.

I smiled. She smiled.

I still didn’t know her name. She didn’t know mine. It seemed like the best thing.

The Descendents finished their playing and the crowd started to howl.

“Opening band’s coming on!” she shouted, grabbing my hand.

A surge of people were rushing the stage. This girl knew how to maneuver through them, however, and by the time we stopped we were standing next to the stage.

The next six hours were filled with singing, sweating and shouting. Yeah, it’s what the song says, but it happened. We put our arms around each other and held on. Four bands came and four bands left. Then Lucero took the stage and the singing and sweating and shouting took on a whole new meaning. I was glad I had three bottles of water in my pockets and she had our two flasks in hers. By the time the sun set, we were deliriously drunk and exhausted. When the band finally left, we went back to our spot by the gazebo in the park and collapsed next to each other.

Someone started up their car and with it, their stereo.

“What’s your name, little girl?” Ronnie Van Zandt decided to sing at that moment.

We stared into each other’s eyes. We knew that at that very moment we either answered that question to each other, or we just kept going without it.

“Hey,” I said finally. “Let’s get out of here.”

“OK,” she said. “There’s a good bar a couple blocks from here. They have The Replacements on the jukebox.”

“Works on so many levels,”

“Ha, they have Level 42, too!”

We picked up my old blanket and threw it in the cab of her old pickup truck. She asked what kind of car I drove. I said “in my mind, it’s a Celica. In reality, it’s a Hyundai.”

“I won’t judge you,” she smirked.

“Yes you will,” I replied. “Yes you will.”

We walked a couple blocks and entered the bar. I ordered a couple of Lone Stars and we sat at the bar.

“Come with me,” she said about 15 minutes later as we finished our third beers.

“Where?” I asked.

“To Searcy.”

I put my finger on her lips. I really wanted to kiss her at that moment. But didn’t. I never do the first time I want to. I ordered two shots of whiskey.

“To Searcy,” I said, clinking her glass. We shot the stuff down and left the bar. Never to return.