Pufferfish

Sitting in the office,  a quick scan of the premises gives me this: One guy is absorbed by his Facebook page, he’ll probably start working in about three hours – after his two-hour lunch break. Oh, and he won’t make deadline.

A second guy is drinking water out of a wine glass. Kooky behavior, sure, but that’s perfectly acceptable to me. What isn’t is he and another co-worker – less than 10 feet apart – are having a conversation on Twitter. It seems strange to me. Maybe if they were texting or direct messaging it would make sense. Then it would be hidden or whatever. I just don’t understand communicating without communication. I guess it gets rid of the awkward part where you have to make eye contact and actually give a damn?

A third co-worker is busy working on things for outside of the office. Today he proclaimed “Why the fuck haven’t I quit this job yet?” A mantra that has been going on since Day 1 that I started – over two years ago – and probably was daily the year-plus he’s been here before I got here.

My cubicle is dusty and the only one over-crowded with crap. Photos of old friends. Photos of great places – 2400 Tulane Avenue anyone? And pieces of work that went underappreciated, including the gem of a rejected headline – Straight Outta New Bern – which came about because a bunch of cops left the job at the same time. “That won’t fly in a retirement community,” the editor said. “Fuck, they won’t even get the reference,” I replied, knowing it was a lost cause already.

The boss isn’t here. He called in sick yesterday. Heard he got hurt playing football in the park. Broken bone and everything. Ha. Karma’s a fucking bitch, ain’t she?

A breaking news story about a school teacher who was arrested for sleeping with a student – for four years – happened yesterday. Today, a new reporter asked the guy who wrote the story “So, um, you know who the girl was?” after he talked to the girl’s dad in hopes of a quote without success.

“Yeah, of course we do,” he replied.

“Is she slutty?” she asks, and she’s not playing around.

“I have no idea,” the reporter says, “She didn’t try to fuck me, so there’s always that.”

She frowns and goes back to whatever she was doing. The new reporters like to call all military heroes all the time in copy. And old-timer and me roll our eyes at yet another story about the “heroes”.

“Fuck, they ain’t saving puppies out of trees,” he says. “They’re killing brown people for corporate interests. That ain’t a hero. That’s a mercenary.”

The conversation goes awry when both new reporters – military wives, once again – decide to pounce. It’s a sad state of affairs in a newsroom when those reporting are so in love with those they are reporting on.

“God damn,” the old-timer finally yells, throwing his arms to the sky – well, the flourescant light bulbs. “I need a fucking cigarette.” He storms off and goes outside. I admire that guy. Hell, I am that guy. But lately I’ve kept the God damns and fucks inside. At least in the office. It doesn’t work anymore. At least not in this place.

I sit back down at my cubicle and stare at the bobblehead doll on my desk. It’s of a former prep athlete that I used to cover who is in the big leagues now. He was a good kid, and I didn’t see him getting that far. But he did. It’s always cool.

The first athlete I covered who made it big was a guy in Alabama. He grew up in the inner city, got a scholarship to N.C. State and ended up being drafted by the New York Jets. I remember the day I got a pack of cards and saw him staring back at me. It reminded me of the night I was covering a prep basketball game at his high school as they played their arch rival. During the game, gunshots rang out and everyone scattered. I was sitting behind the bench, and this kid, who I’d talked to probably a dozen times over the last few months came up to me and grabbed my hand. “Hey man, you better come with us,” he said. I ended up in the locker room, scribbling frantically in my notebook a story on what was happening. I called my editor and told him what happened, and he said “Damn it, there goes my main story for sports.” Baffled, I said “What?”

He sighed and yelled, “Damn it Jones, they’re gonna want that for the front now!” and slammed down the phone. I called the city editor. He yelled at me for calling him. “Why the hell aren’t you talking to the cops, Jones?” I asked what my deadline was and he yelled again “Now! Just fucking get something as soon as you can.”

Twenty minutes later I had phoned in a story. It had to be typed up because I was too poor to afford a laptop in those days. And they certainly didn’t have them sitting around for lowly interns.

The next morning I looked at my front page story and noticed a typo. It was no longer a clip. Just another article for the clipping book. Just another story to tell for years to come.

I went home that night and looked at the story. It was one of my favorites. Up there with the firing of a basketball coach that sent me on an all-day odyssey throughout the city of Phoenix one day as a student. That was fun. I still look at the Associated Press photo from that night, as the defeated coach reads a statement. I know that I’m sitting just below that piece of paper, just out of camera shot, absorbing every word he’s saying.

I miss those days. A kid in the office today asked why anyone would still want to go to school to be a journalist. I replied that it was still a very noble profession. That his only view of it was this place, and that’s like him telling his wife not to keep trying to be a professional cook because the only restaurant kitchen she’d seen was that of a McDonald’s. He took it personally, like he always does, and started going off on me because “she’s seen lots of kitchens.” He just didn’t get it. And never will. It amazes me how much the world revolves around the Me with kids. I know we all do it, it’s natural. But damn. Not every snarky comment is personal. In fact, 93 percent of them aren’t. I think you know when it’s personal. It should be obvious.

Anyway, I finish my part of the job of that day’s paper trio and stare outside. The sun is going down and I’m an hour from home. I sigh, knowing I’ll still be in the office for another three hours. I start to wish I smoked. I start to wish I had a bottle of Jameson in my desk. I start to wish a lot of things. But then I get distracted by a pufferfish lamp. It’s just like the one me and my girlfriend saw in a dive bar weeks ago. “I’d love to get a hold of that thing,” she said. “When I worked here, I wanted to steal it.” Now, I’m staring at one just like it. I click the ‘buy it now’ button and pay for it with PayPal. It’s coming from Thailand, so it’ll arrive the day after her birthday. But that’s me and my “gotta find that awesome gift that she’ll never expect” instead of just taking her out to a nice dinner. Of course, I’m going to surprise her with that too.

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.

-30-

Walked into the bar about 3 p.m. That damn Eddie Money song “Baby, Hold on to Me” was playing a bit too loudly from the jukebox. My eyes peeled about the place to see who the most likely candidate for plunking down a quarter to play this monstrosity was, and they settled on the 40-ish blonde woman wearing a flannel and jeans in the most lit-up portion of the place.

She had a smile on her face and a pint of Guinness in front of her.

“I can appreciate that,” I thought to myself while forgiving her from her musical sins.

I looked up at Joey the bartender and pointed at the whiskeys behind him.

“A double,” I said bluntly.

“You got it Randolph,” he said with a grin. We both knew what kind of a day it was going to be if I was sitting on my personal barstool at 3 in the afternoon.

He handed me the glass and tapped the bar with his finger.

“It’s been two years now, hasn’t it?” he asked knowingly.

“Yeah, almost to the minute now,” I responded before taking a shot swig of whiskey. It felt good in my mouth for that moment before it burns the back of your throat. I needed that burn right now, hopefully by the end of the night, it wouldn’t burn anymore.

Joey turned a walked over to the lady in the flannel. I watched as he sauntered over, said something to her, sparking a laugh from her tired face, then went back to watching some soccer match on the television.

She looked at me and smiled. I returned the favor the best I could. I really wasn’t in the mood for a bar conversation. It’s why I came to Joey’s on a Thursday afternoon at 3. Well, I came here because I didn’t want to think about anything else. I wanted to get away from the ghosts of my house. Everywhere I looked they watched me back. They screamed at me like Tom Keifer in a Cinderella ballad.

So I got out of bed and came straight here. Didn’t write a word this morning even though my column with the local newspaper is due in about three hours. They’d figure out that I wasn’t going to write one and pluck in one of my “pre-written” pieces. I made a deal with the editor a year ago when I started to slip. He came to me and said they were going to fire me for missing deadline so much. Even though my column had a following, and I didn’t ask for much money, they needed it to be “ON TIME!”, he yelled.

In my mind, an idea popped up and like I usually do with everyone but the ones I love I blurted out that thought immediately – “I can write you a gaggle of columns in advance to keep in the hopper. Just so you can have a backup for when I fuck up!”

I was a little too proud of that line, and it showed. My editor looked at me and shook his head.

“You’re a real prince, Randolph,” he said. “A fucking prince.”

“It’s why ya love me, Deno,” I replied. He hated being called Deno. It was his dad’s name, he always said. Not his. Even though he was a Junior and all. But damn if anyone ever called him Junior, other than his mom – who happened to own the paper and love me.

That night I wrote 17 columns for the “emergency” backup plan.

So far, 11 of them have run in a little over a year.

Deno turned a left the building after I got out my laptop. Not a lot of folks carry one of these things anymore, but I love mine. It’s seen me cry. It’s seem me smile. Hell, it’s seen me cum, though luckily never on the keys.

I typed up some words and got distracted by the jukebox again. This time it was Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” This song reminded me of middle school. Of having a huge crush on a waif-thin black girl whose mom worked with my mom at the school board office. She had braces and eyes that would kill, if she’d been old enough to know.

My buddy and I tried to get her to hang out with us a couple of times. She lived really close to him for a while. But she’d never go for it. By high school she was cool, we weren’t and it was just accepted.

I decided to write my column about her. It ended up being 23 inches long by the end. “Guess they’ll have to jump this one,” I thought to myself. Deno hated jumping columns. Thought it was “Poofy Stuff!” he’d yell. I tended to agree. If you can’t get to the point in 18 inches, get out of my way. But sometimes, hell, most of the times, it had to be longer.

I marked it with a -30- and pushed send. I knew the 22-year-old who would open this always stared at the markings at the end of the stories. He asked me one time what it meant.

“Death of Journalism, my man,” I said with a tip of the hat. A fedora? Hell no. An ironic Lucero trucker hat.

whiskey talk

I woke up this morning and my teeth and gums were throbbing.

I brushed them and they felt better. So I grabbed my bottle of Jameson, a small glass and a bucket of ice and headed to the porch. It was raining outside, just like it had been raining when I went to bed 11 hours ago. Pouring the whiskey into the glass, I admired the color. I didn’t bother with the ice, this time, as I just finished it off quickly. The day was starting off better than the one before.

A beautiful girl strolled by on her way to the beach. Yellow bikini on, towel draped across her shoulders. She couldn’t be more than 22 years old. I smiled my broken teeth grin as she moseyed on by. She awkwardly looked away when she saw me. Not at all a surprising reaction. As she continued her saunter to the beach, I continued to admire her. Not so much leering at her as appreciating her beauty. I knew I’d never see her again, so I had to remember the moment. Her black flip flops made a soothing sound that quickly was drowned out by the ocean waves.

I poured another glass of whiskey, this time plopping two ice cubes in. The fall heat wasn’t nearly as oppressive as the summer version, but the humidity was wicked today. A tropical wave was stuck on the coast and delivering constant rain and constant pain to my sinuses. Which helped the teeth to hurt a little bit more as well.

The best advice I ever got from a movie was from Wyatt Earp. Of course, it’s advice I never listened to. “Take care of them, they cannot be replaced.”

A chuckle comes up from my gullet and I let it come out, audibly. A pair of tourists are unloading their car across the street. They look at me, then quickly grab their bags and assorted beach wear. A full laugh comes out right before they hit the “beep, beep” of their car alarm.

Off in the distance a giant thundercloud is building. It’s going to be a short day at the beach for these folks today.

A short swig fills my throat with a nice burn. I look at my toes. They’re small and perfectly symmetrical. I was told that by the last girl who saw them. She admired them for that. Her feet weren’t anything special. An ant craws across my left foot. I stare at it. Hoping it will just continue on. But, it bites, so I squish it between my fingers. Another piece of God’s grand plan destroyed by man. The more I think about it, the more I think we’re not built in His image. Instead, it’s the squirrels or the birds. They just watch us with disdain. And laugh at us believing we are them.

Another swig of whiskey and glass No. 2 is done. I pour the third. One piece of ice will suffice. I put my finger in the glass and then dab it on my gums. I’m like a mother treating her baby. I laugh again.

My notepad is sitting on a milk crate beside me. I pick it up and try to write down some words:

“Agony isn’t ecstasy.”

“The girl with the yellow bikini. She walks so nicely. It makes me wonder what it would be like to be 22 again. Then I remember how my 22nd year was spent. In a one-room studio apartment. No car. Making $4.25 an hour as a cashier. Chasing after a lesbian who took pity on me and talked anyway. Meeting the first girl whose heart I would break. Starting to build my mountain of debt. Yeah, those were the days.”

“Slipping into drunk at noon. It’s not madness. It’s not greatness. It’s just drunkenness.”

“I won the lottery once. A three-dollar prize. I don’t play the lottery much anymore.”

“When you eat cheese, you poop cheese later.”

“Lost in all of this madness is the thought of one day being happy.”

“Scream for me Long Beach! Scream for me Long Beach!”

“Do you know why we love to play California? Do you know why? Because you people, you really know how to party!”

I know it’s time to stop when I’m just writing down the in between song banter of heavy metal singers. While those albums are vital pieces of my adolescence and teen years and beyond, the importance of writing them down is simply non-existent.

Don’t try. Try. Don’t give up. Give up. Sleep. Wake. Eat. Starve.

I finish off drink No. 3 and look at the bottle. It’s half full. Ha! There I go, being an optimist today. Must be the whiskey talking.

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.

Sadie and the wind

(Edit: I changed the name to Sadie. Only because after I was done, realized that Maggie was a name in a Lucero song. When I started, there were no thoughts of the band, but with a reference, it became stupid. Maggie works better than Sadie, however...)

I stare at the bar lights after the door opens and closes. It’s windy outside, gusty even. The little time the door was open let in a big ol’ gust of wind. The dust in the lights attracts me like a moth to the headlights of your car while driving down a desolate back-country road.

“What keeps me here?” I say out loud.

“Me, honey,” Sadie, the other barfly here at 11 in the morning says to me with a crooked-teeth smile. I’ve had sex with Sadie three times. We’ve both been regulars here for almost three years. So, that works out to having sex with her once a year. Not exactly the tie that binds.

“Donna” by Waylon Jennings starts up on the jukebox. I think I picked that one about 45 minutes ago. Or two whiskeys and three Miller High Lifes ago. It’s not that bad of a day, I think.

“I’m serious, Sadie,” I say. Knowing full well that she’ll get her feelings hurt by that. Almost instantaneously she pouts. I look at her red dress. It’s nice. Plus, it has dandelions all over it. Maybe tonight will be No. 4.

“Now, Randy. Why you have to say something like that,” she moans. “You and me, we got something special. It’s taken us years to get to where we are.”

“Years?” the barkeep, Johnny, exclaims. “You two haven’t changed since the first day you both walked in here.”

That day was July 19th, 2012. I had just finished moving into my new apartment off of General Pershing. She happened to live next door. I was playing Lucero’s “Tennessee” on my front porch. God, how lucky was I to have a front porch? I could sit out here, listen to music, watch the people go by and not have to talk to any of them. I put an old foot locker out there with a good lock on it. I kept a crappy old lap top computer in there to write on.

“Paradise,” I thought to myself as Ben Nichols’ belted out the heartbreak of “Here at the Starlite” probably for the 2,007th time on my turntable. I loved this album. Paid a pretty penny for it too. But you tend to do that with things that are important. That record saved my life more than once.

She walked up just as “memories too close to home, for something that’s never coming back” screamed out of my JBLs, a gift from my buddy Mike, who shared a love of great music, drinking beer and holding on to the past for way too long.

Sadie, I would find out, used to be stripper in the Quarter. Not exactly my cup of tea, but hell, I hadn’t drank from the loving cup that Mick Jagger sang so damn much about in a long, long time. So, hell, that didn’t matter to me. That was, until her boyfriend at the time -- Mitch -- died in a knife fight on Decatur.

She said she cried for a complete year over that. He was “the one,” and all. But, Mitch, it seemed, had been hiding a secret from her for the three years they dated. Mitch used to be a ballplayer. A damned good one, too. Signed a $44 million dollar contract after he graduated from Arizona State. Then he blew his knee out and was out of football in less than three years. He never spent any of his guaranteed money. Died still driving a 1987 Ford Tempo with a bank account bulging with $27 million in it. He left it all to Sadie.

Mitch’s mother, however, didn’t agree with the will. The only one that Mitch ever drew up. He did it three weeks after seeing Sadie dance at the club. Two weeks after he asked her to quit dancing up on that stage. One week before they kissed for the first time. And one hour after they got married.

The lawyers, courts and such took an awful toll on Sadie, she told me one night. So, after six months of fighting, she gave up. Signed a piece of paper that gave the mom everything but the Ford Tempo and $300,000.

ESPN did a report on it. I remembered watching it with Josh. We both said, “damn, sucks for her” at the same time. I thought she was kind of cute. Josh’s wife said she looked like trouble. We were both right.

“Who is that?” Sadie asked about my favorite band in the world.

“The greatest band to walk the earth,” I said with a smile while reaching into my old Igloo cooler for an Abita Amber. I grabbed two and held out one for her.

“I really shouldn’t,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

That produced a smile. The first one I’d ever seen from her. It stuck. Her lips had no lipstick on them. But they were red. Too red not to have anything on them. Her eyes were hazel.

We drank a case of beer and talked about Lucero for the next two hours. By the time the beer was gone I was burning her a couple of CDs and working up the courage to ask for her phone number. She didn’t give me a chance to ask, swooping down on me like a sea bird plunging into a school of fish on a cool September day. I woke up the next morning with an STD and a new obsession.

Yes Mam

We walk out of the apartment. It’s a warm day for October. A little humid.

“You think it’s going to rain?” I ask. I hate asking weather questions. It means you have nothing to talk about.

She sticks out her tongue. Takes a deep breath.

I don’t remember her exhaling.

“Yep.”

That was exactly how that conversation needed to go, I figure.

I look down at my “Life and Times of Tim” shirt. It’s the one that says “Don’t squeeze and old woman’s boobs.” I dig it.

“Maybe I shouldn’t wear this to a restaurant,” I say.

“No one’s gonna notice it, ya moron,” she replies.

Quick and to the point. Got’s to like that. We jump in her car. It’s old. There’s a cat cage in the backseat. A row of Homies line the dashboard. A window shield reflector thing is in passenger seat. I grab it and throw it in the back.

“Make yourself at home!”

“I did.”

We’re driving. I mention the shirt again. It’s the third time so far today.

“You certainly are proud of your shirt there young man,” she says. “Next time, you should wear it to show and tell. Cause right now, I don’t want to hear about it.”

Ha.

We cross the nickel bridge. It costs 35 cents.

At the restaurant, I get out, put on my flip flops and look at my mesh shorts. I think I bought these in 1998 or so. They don’t look so good anymore. I hold the door for the lady.

We go inside. An older lady is the hostess. She looks straight at my shirt and stares a bit long.

“Awkward,” I whisper. She snorts. Always a good sign.

At the table, we sit.

“Told ya,” I say with a smirk.

“Yeah, yeah. Blah. Blah. Blah. But that is funny.”

After eating, we head straight to the bar. It’s the same old crowd. Literally, an old one. This place is always full of old white men. At least in the afternoon.

“I’m glad I skipped work,” she says.

“Me too.” I didn’t skip work. But I’m glad she did.

We drink awhile. Make small talk. Make fun of people. Probably get made fun of.

Then a gaggle of women come in. One is in a wheelchair. She comes toward us with a couple of others.

“Excuse me. Excuse me,” she says over and over to other barstoolers.

One by one they stand, scoot their chairs in and let her pass. Then sit back down and resume drinking, talking or staring.

She gets to me and her. She gets up. Then I get up.

“Excuse me,” the lady says. Then she looks at me.

“Get out of my way,” she says to me.

All I can think is “huh? What the fuck did I do?”

We sit back down. In the back of the bar, now there are at least 50 blue hairs. A gathering.

Then it dawns on me. I turn to her and point at the shirt.

“Psychic about un-important things,” we both say in unison.

“Time to drink,” I continue.

We look at each other and laugh.

“One day, you should write all of this stuff down,” she says. “I’m not going to do it for you.”

I have to pee. The bathroom is behind the area where all the old ladies are. I decide to hold it. Better safe than sorry.

Of course, the chance to be accosted by 50 of the Greatest Generation seems to be something that could make for good fodder later on in life. After another beer and a half, I make my move. I scoot out my stool just loud enough to be noticed.

I sashay over to the back. It seems like a long walk after six beers and no peeing.

I reach the area where all the women are. The one in the wheelchair is right in front.

“Excuse me,” I say as I step by her.

No response. I keep walking. I get to the bathroom. I pee. I wash my hands. I look at my shirt in the mirror. And as always, when I hear the word mirror, even in my head, I start to say “mirror, father. Mirror, father.”, from Ghost World. I. Am. Idiot.

I walk out of the bathroom. Two ladies are standing there. I feel their glare.

“’Scuse me, ladies!” I say, a little too happily.

“You should try it sometime,” the older of the two says after I’ve passed.

I do a quick turn. I smile. And do my best gentlemanly bow.

“One day, ‘mam. One day.”

I get back to the bar.

“Whiskey please.”

“Make it a double,” she says.

I knew I liked this girl.