Falling into the trap again. It’s all I can think of while I’m sitting on the couch. I’m tired as hell. I want to have a beer. I want to laugh more. I want to not be so god damn sleepy. But, it’s 1:30 in the morning and I have to be at work the next afternoon. That after a four-plus hour drive to the office from where I am right now.
But I don’t want to go. I wish that something would happen. Anything. But it isn’t.
I’ve been in this situation way too many times in my life. Sitting with a woman. Hanging out with a woman. Conversing with a woman. Over and over again. Meeting up for drinks. Going to interesting places and events. Yet, nothing happens.
It can’t always happen. It doesn’t always happen fast. But most of the times, nothing happens at all. You fall into that place. That zone of friendship. You know that neither of you really wants it to be so ordinary, but it happened. How to get out of that, is always the interesting question. It takes guts to pull out of that nosedive. It doesn’t to just allow it to stay the same.
Which is what usually happens. It just gets left to stay. Eventually, one or the other gets up the nerve to do something. Sometimes. Most of the time, however, it just dies off. Either by choice of one, of just by inertia.
As I’m slumped on the couch, petting her cat and watching re-runs of her favorite cartoon, the shear awfulness of it all sits there like an extra person in the room. Subtle hints become anvils to the head. At least you feel that way about them. Yet nothing changes.
A couple of drinks later, you realize how uncomfortable it is in her apartment. It’s hot. The heat has been blasting constantly since you got back from the bar. Five hours ago. Your eyes are dry. You head hurts from that “you starting drinking, but then you stopped” feeling. Ugh. The drive home in the morning is going to be painful. Especially since it ends, not at home, but at the office. Ready for another eight-hour day of cymbal monkey-ing.
But then I look over my shoulder and see her sitting there. She gives me a look, I try to figure out what it means.
“You spending the night?” she asks.
“Nah. I have to get up early to go to work. And if I stay here, I’ll be up half the night.”
“Ahh.”
Yes, that’s simply the way it is.
It’s been that way for a while now. The jump the shark moment, it either came a long time ago, and it wasn’t noticed, or we’re still in the pilot episode. We just don’t know if we’re going to be picked up yet or not.
Much like a Hank Williams song, you know what you’re getting when you start it. Sad songs and heartache.
Wow. This sucks.
#30#
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Chili cheese Fritos
I pulled into the Trade Wilco gas station on highway 24 with one goal in mind -- purchasing a bag of Fritos. Chili cheese Fritos.
This is something I should know better than to do. I have some serious health issues. Years of living off of convenience store and vending machine foods will do that to a person. Ahh, the hazards of being a journalist. I was staring at my feet just two mornings ago. I’d worn my socks all night and my legs felt a bit weird. Taking them off in a well-lit room, something I don’t have at my own house, I saw something that scared me a bit. My feet were yellowish. Jaundiced feet? Not a good sign. I’ve gotten used to the color over my eyes. I drink too much. I have liver issues. But feet? That’s reason for concern. At least it was for a few minutes after I took those socks off. Now, here I am at 2 in the morning going into a gas station store to get chili cheese Fritos. Yep, concern is fleeting. Maybe when I die of diabetes or hepatitis, I’ll think to myself “yep, should’ve gotten that checked out sooner.” But, that’s thinking too far ahead. Right now, I just want a bag of Fritos.
I park the car. Inside, a short Italian looking guy looks at me with a long stare. Odd, definitely, I think to myself. Then, I see the woman behind the counter inside. Well, I see her hair. It’s brownish. But it has this weird dyed spot in the front of it. Almost a perfect circle. Right in front for everyone to notice. So, it was definitely on purpose. That kind of fashion statement baffles me. It’s no punk rock thing, this woman is not a punk rocker. The flair on her smock is enough to tell me that. Someone told her she looked good when it was done too. I hope they didn’t believe it. Just said it to not get smacked by those hands. I notice them next. They are meaty. Very meaty. Kind of what I’d imagine a kid of Danny DeVito and John Goodman would have.
I shudder when I think how many things those hands have handled. And by things I mean food.
About the only good thing about this situation right now is the Rolling Stones’ “Happy” from Exile is playing on the radio. An odd choice for a gas station in the middle of bumfuck eastern North Carolina, but I don’t question it. Rolling with it, you could say. Oh, and the Fritos are there, ready to be bought, then consumed by yours truly.
I grab a bag. The Italian looking guy walks over to me.
“You like dem things?” he asks. I try to figure out if I should answer him seriously, or give him the business. Figuring it’s early in the morning/late at night and he could be anyone, I go for serious.
“Yep. Dems good eats,” I say, realizing that I actually am giving him the business and being serious.
“I’m more of a Republican,” I continue.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” the Italian, clearing agitated by my presence, says.
“Guys, guys, let’s all play nice,” strange-haired, behind-the-counter lady says. “I don’t want to be cleaning up any blood.”
Now, that one throws me a bit. I look at her. I look at him. After about 10 seconds of awkward silence, they both start laughing. Loudly.
I amble up to the cash register.
“One bag of Fritos. Two dollars and 98 cents plus tax,” she says.
I look at the bag. It’s clearly marked $2.75. I say nothing. I just want to leave now.
“You’re gonna be thirsty, honey,” she says. “Get some Gatorade or something. Or maybe you want some Four Loko?”
“I thought that stuff was illegal now?” I retort.
“Yeah, but we ordered a bunch before it was. Now it’s all in the back and we sell it to those we think want it.”
“And how do you determine if someone wants it or not?” I ask. “I mean, I didn’t ask for it.”
“Well, late-night Fritos buyers tend to be of the kind that will want some,” she said.
“I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself honey,” she says with a slight grunt. “You may never get this chance again.”
“Hopefully.”
“What?” she snaps.
“Listen, I just want my Fritos and I’ll be on my way.”
“Well, you can’t have them Fritos. We’re closed.”
“Funny, your sign says OPEN.”
“Sign’s wrong,” Italian speaks up again.
“Well, then, I’ll be going along then.”
“Nope. You’re staying,” she says. Then I hear the distinct shifting of a pump shotgun putting a shell in the chamber.
“Guess I am.”
Ten minutes later, I’m handcuffed to the toilet and my car is on it’s way somewhere that I ain’t. Luckily, she left me with two things -- a foul-mouthed kiss, and a bag of Fritos.
I eat a few while I wait for someone to need to take a pee.
Two hours later, a man named Sam Sanchez finds me. He’s on his way to work and needed a quick pee. Lucky for me, he wasn’t in the mood for anything else.
“Thanks Sanchez,” is all I get a chance to say to the man that found me, called the cops to get me freed and bought me a Coke while we waited. He only spoke French, so we didn’t communicate any more. He replied with “Your welcome Jones.” As he was told by the cops my name was Jones.
This is something I should know better than to do. I have some serious health issues. Years of living off of convenience store and vending machine foods will do that to a person. Ahh, the hazards of being a journalist. I was staring at my feet just two mornings ago. I’d worn my socks all night and my legs felt a bit weird. Taking them off in a well-lit room, something I don’t have at my own house, I saw something that scared me a bit. My feet were yellowish. Jaundiced feet? Not a good sign. I’ve gotten used to the color over my eyes. I drink too much. I have liver issues. But feet? That’s reason for concern. At least it was for a few minutes after I took those socks off. Now, here I am at 2 in the morning going into a gas station store to get chili cheese Fritos. Yep, concern is fleeting. Maybe when I die of diabetes or hepatitis, I’ll think to myself “yep, should’ve gotten that checked out sooner.” But, that’s thinking too far ahead. Right now, I just want a bag of Fritos.
I park the car. Inside, a short Italian looking guy looks at me with a long stare. Odd, definitely, I think to myself. Then, I see the woman behind the counter inside. Well, I see her hair. It’s brownish. But it has this weird dyed spot in the front of it. Almost a perfect circle. Right in front for everyone to notice. So, it was definitely on purpose. That kind of fashion statement baffles me. It’s no punk rock thing, this woman is not a punk rocker. The flair on her smock is enough to tell me that. Someone told her she looked good when it was done too. I hope they didn’t believe it. Just said it to not get smacked by those hands. I notice them next. They are meaty. Very meaty. Kind of what I’d imagine a kid of Danny DeVito and John Goodman would have.
I shudder when I think how many things those hands have handled. And by things I mean food.
About the only good thing about this situation right now is the Rolling Stones’ “Happy” from Exile is playing on the radio. An odd choice for a gas station in the middle of bumfuck eastern North Carolina, but I don’t question it. Rolling with it, you could say. Oh, and the Fritos are there, ready to be bought, then consumed by yours truly.
I grab a bag. The Italian looking guy walks over to me.
“You like dem things?” he asks. I try to figure out if I should answer him seriously, or give him the business. Figuring it’s early in the morning/late at night and he could be anyone, I go for serious.
“Yep. Dems good eats,” I say, realizing that I actually am giving him the business and being serious.
“I’m more of a Republican,” I continue.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” the Italian, clearing agitated by my presence, says.
“Guys, guys, let’s all play nice,” strange-haired, behind-the-counter lady says. “I don’t want to be cleaning up any blood.”
Now, that one throws me a bit. I look at her. I look at him. After about 10 seconds of awkward silence, they both start laughing. Loudly.
I amble up to the cash register.
“One bag of Fritos. Two dollars and 98 cents plus tax,” she says.
I look at the bag. It’s clearly marked $2.75. I say nothing. I just want to leave now.
“You’re gonna be thirsty, honey,” she says. “Get some Gatorade or something. Or maybe you want some Four Loko?”
“I thought that stuff was illegal now?” I retort.
“Yeah, but we ordered a bunch before it was. Now it’s all in the back and we sell it to those we think want it.”
“And how do you determine if someone wants it or not?” I ask. “I mean, I didn’t ask for it.”
“Well, late-night Fritos buyers tend to be of the kind that will want some,” she said.
“I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself honey,” she says with a slight grunt. “You may never get this chance again.”
“Hopefully.”
“What?” she snaps.
“Listen, I just want my Fritos and I’ll be on my way.”
“Well, you can’t have them Fritos. We’re closed.”
“Funny, your sign says OPEN.”
“Sign’s wrong,” Italian speaks up again.
“Well, then, I’ll be going along then.”
“Nope. You’re staying,” she says. Then I hear the distinct shifting of a pump shotgun putting a shell in the chamber.
“Guess I am.”
Ten minutes later, I’m handcuffed to the toilet and my car is on it’s way somewhere that I ain’t. Luckily, she left me with two things -- a foul-mouthed kiss, and a bag of Fritos.
I eat a few while I wait for someone to need to take a pee.
Two hours later, a man named Sam Sanchez finds me. He’s on his way to work and needed a quick pee. Lucky for me, he wasn’t in the mood for anything else.
“Thanks Sanchez,” is all I get a chance to say to the man that found me, called the cops to get me freed and bought me a Coke while we waited. He only spoke French, so we didn’t communicate any more. He replied with “Your welcome Jones.” As he was told by the cops my name was Jones.
back tomorrow...
my posts will continue tomorrow. i've got three, maybe four written. depends on inspiration tonight or not...
lates...
lates...
Monday, January 3, 2011
freehand
writing freehand the next few days. on the road. lacking a computer. then, the rub is transcribing.
ha.
see ya soon, faithful few...
ha.
see ya soon, faithful few...
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Carburetor on a Malibu
North Carolina winters.
There was a foot of snow on the ground a week ago. Today, it was 71 degrees. I’m driving the back roads, avoiding all interstates. The holidays make them even worse than they already are. Grandmothers driving. Fathers behind the wheel while kids scream and yell. Cops everywhere. It can start to be a bit like Death Race 2000, without David Carradine to keep it interesting.
I’m on a stretch of road where 125/903 and 301 all merge into one road. It’s no different than most of eastern North Carolina. A lot of old farms that don’t grow much of anything anymore. Some have been divided up into lots. And instead of old sharecropper houses or even slave’s quarters, there are doublewides instead. Guess it’s sort of someone’s American Dream.
I get to Halifax. It’s called the Birthplace of Freedom. Somehow, I have a feeling others may have a better claim to such a name. But I’m not arguing. Not now.
As the drive continues, the white stucco garage is a beacon of light through all of the fog. The snow is still on the sides of the road, but it’s over 60 degrees still. But the temperatures are dropping fast. And this makes for lots of fog. Bad fog. The kind that idiots turn on their high beams while driving through it. Completely obscuring anything that isn’t a couple feet in front of their eyes. It must give comfort, the extra light. I don’t see it. And neither will they see the deer.
The garage has never had a light on in the decade I’ve been traversing these back roads. Ever. It’s always been a closed up shop. There is another garage just up the road. It has gas pumps and a convenience store attached. In a town of maybe 400 folks, I guess that was enough.
But tonight, there is someone there. The neon Open sign is on. It’s 8:33 p.m. on New Year’s Day. Just odd, I think to myself.
I slow down when I get near. I look inside. One mechanic is working on an old car. Looks like a Chevy Malibu. I guess time stops for a Malibu in these parts.
He stops whatever he’s doing to look out at me, creeping past his building on such a strange night. We lock eyes. He tips his hat and spits. I wave. And I keep driving.
Just a few hundred feet later, I see the lights of a pickup truck turn on. From the garage. It also has those AC lights on top. For spotlightin’ deer. I’d actually seen three cops pulling over trucks for doing just that on the drive so far. And three other trucks doing it in other places. Seems to take the sport out of it.
I wonder for a second what the mechanic is doing. He leaves his garage wide open in driving out. It’s a small town, I guess you can trust.
But I’m not from here. And now I’m nervous as I can see he’s coming for me. His headlights flashing brights over and over. Plus, I’m going 38. He’s catching up at at least 65. After a couple of seconds of thought, I pull over to the side of the road. At the railroad tracks. I open up the glove box, my 45 is there. Unloaded. No time to load now, so I grab it and tuck it between my legs.
I look in my mirrors, the mechanic is a short one. No taller than 5-foot-3 I’d guess. My senses are still a bit on edge from my last run in with a local. About 70 miles ago. Outside of Vanceboro. A guy was walking down the middle of U.S. 17. In long johns and a flannel shirt, tied around his waist. In his hands was a shotgun. On the shotgun was a Bowie knife, duct taped to the front. On top of the guy was a flashlight, yes, duct taped to it.
I didn’t know what was in his hands when I had to slam my brakes on when he just appeared in the road in front of me. I thought I had to have hit him. Instead, I missed. He ambled up to my door, tapped on the glass.
“You in a hurry boy?” he asked.
“Not really. Why were you in the middle of the road?” I queried.
“Looking for my cat,” he said, walking away.
I took that as my cue to get the heck out of dodge. And did so.
Now, 70 miles later, another local is about to meet me and maybe my gun, Bessie.
Tap, tap, tap, the mechanic raps on my window. It’s fogged up from my heavy breathing I guess. I roll it down. Standing there is Julie Delpy. Grease on her face.
“Excuse me,” she says in her French accent. “Why did you slow down at my garage.”
“Your garage?” I say, a bit flabbergasted by Julie Delpy owning a garage in Halifax, North Carolina.
“Qui,” she said, looking impatient.
“That place has been closed for a decade, tonight it wasn’t. I was curious.”
“Oh. Ok,” she said, turning back to her truck.
Now, I’m sitting there, unloaded gun in my lap thinking Julie Delpy is living in Halifax, North Carolina. I’m in Halifax, North Carolina. This must be a sign. So, I get out of my car and try to figure out something to say.
“You want to get a drink?” is what I manage.
“Only if you help me with the carburetor on that Malibu,” she says.
“Don’t know a damn thing about cars,” I reply, instantly regretting it. Only to be given a reprieve.
“Neither do I, want to be partners?”
All I can do is shake my head in approval.
There was a foot of snow on the ground a week ago. Today, it was 71 degrees. I’m driving the back roads, avoiding all interstates. The holidays make them even worse than they already are. Grandmothers driving. Fathers behind the wheel while kids scream and yell. Cops everywhere. It can start to be a bit like Death Race 2000, without David Carradine to keep it interesting.
I’m on a stretch of road where 125/903 and 301 all merge into one road. It’s no different than most of eastern North Carolina. A lot of old farms that don’t grow much of anything anymore. Some have been divided up into lots. And instead of old sharecropper houses or even slave’s quarters, there are doublewides instead. Guess it’s sort of someone’s American Dream.
I get to Halifax. It’s called the Birthplace of Freedom. Somehow, I have a feeling others may have a better claim to such a name. But I’m not arguing. Not now.
As the drive continues, the white stucco garage is a beacon of light through all of the fog. The snow is still on the sides of the road, but it’s over 60 degrees still. But the temperatures are dropping fast. And this makes for lots of fog. Bad fog. The kind that idiots turn on their high beams while driving through it. Completely obscuring anything that isn’t a couple feet in front of their eyes. It must give comfort, the extra light. I don’t see it. And neither will they see the deer.
The garage has never had a light on in the decade I’ve been traversing these back roads. Ever. It’s always been a closed up shop. There is another garage just up the road. It has gas pumps and a convenience store attached. In a town of maybe 400 folks, I guess that was enough.
But tonight, there is someone there. The neon Open sign is on. It’s 8:33 p.m. on New Year’s Day. Just odd, I think to myself.
I slow down when I get near. I look inside. One mechanic is working on an old car. Looks like a Chevy Malibu. I guess time stops for a Malibu in these parts.
He stops whatever he’s doing to look out at me, creeping past his building on such a strange night. We lock eyes. He tips his hat and spits. I wave. And I keep driving.
Just a few hundred feet later, I see the lights of a pickup truck turn on. From the garage. It also has those AC lights on top. For spotlightin’ deer. I’d actually seen three cops pulling over trucks for doing just that on the drive so far. And three other trucks doing it in other places. Seems to take the sport out of it.
I wonder for a second what the mechanic is doing. He leaves his garage wide open in driving out. It’s a small town, I guess you can trust.
But I’m not from here. And now I’m nervous as I can see he’s coming for me. His headlights flashing brights over and over. Plus, I’m going 38. He’s catching up at at least 65. After a couple of seconds of thought, I pull over to the side of the road. At the railroad tracks. I open up the glove box, my 45 is there. Unloaded. No time to load now, so I grab it and tuck it between my legs.
I look in my mirrors, the mechanic is a short one. No taller than 5-foot-3 I’d guess. My senses are still a bit on edge from my last run in with a local. About 70 miles ago. Outside of Vanceboro. A guy was walking down the middle of U.S. 17. In long johns and a flannel shirt, tied around his waist. In his hands was a shotgun. On the shotgun was a Bowie knife, duct taped to the front. On top of the guy was a flashlight, yes, duct taped to it.
I didn’t know what was in his hands when I had to slam my brakes on when he just appeared in the road in front of me. I thought I had to have hit him. Instead, I missed. He ambled up to my door, tapped on the glass.
“You in a hurry boy?” he asked.
“Not really. Why were you in the middle of the road?” I queried.
“Looking for my cat,” he said, walking away.
I took that as my cue to get the heck out of dodge. And did so.
Now, 70 miles later, another local is about to meet me and maybe my gun, Bessie.
Tap, tap, tap, the mechanic raps on my window. It’s fogged up from my heavy breathing I guess. I roll it down. Standing there is Julie Delpy. Grease on her face.
“Excuse me,” she says in her French accent. “Why did you slow down at my garage.”
“Your garage?” I say, a bit flabbergasted by Julie Delpy owning a garage in Halifax, North Carolina.
“Qui,” she said, looking impatient.
“That place has been closed for a decade, tonight it wasn’t. I was curious.”
“Oh. Ok,” she said, turning back to her truck.
Now, I’m sitting there, unloaded gun in my lap thinking Julie Delpy is living in Halifax, North Carolina. I’m in Halifax, North Carolina. This must be a sign. So, I get out of my car and try to figure out something to say.
“You want to get a drink?” is what I manage.
“Only if you help me with the carburetor on that Malibu,” she says.
“Don’t know a damn thing about cars,” I reply, instantly regretting it. Only to be given a reprieve.
“Neither do I, want to be partners?”
All I can do is shake my head in approval.
Friday, December 31, 2010
disappointed
Steppenwolf was playing on the radio when I walked into the classroom.
The cat clawed at the jar of marmalade.
I watched The Eiger Sanction with Leonard Nimoy. He thought it was rather tepid. At least that’s what his hastily written post-it note said.
The first bite of basil is nothing compared to the third.
You’re supposed to be straight edge, not straight curved.
I can’t understand why M.C. Skat Kat didn’t make it? Such are the unanswerable questions of life.
The walkway was covered with dirty diapers and cigarette cartoons. Tom & Jerry seemed to be quite high. Somewhere, Fred Flinstone is thinking bad thoughts about Mr. Slate.
My library card didn’t work the last time it was scanned. I asked about it, and the librarian said she’d have to ask the head librarian. She was a lunch. I just wanted to check out a book. Instead, I left.
As the hours drug on, my eyes started to burn. The dryness of not blinking for hours on end, coupled with the sights I was having to witness would have drove most men to the brink of lunacy. Thankfully, a redhead named Emily had already taken care of that for me. So, instead I endured.
I looked at the copy editor sitting in the desk to my right. She was about 25 years old. From Maryland. Didn’t have that cool Maryland accent, however. Guess if you spend too much time in the South, it goes away. On my left is the guy with the Stuart Scott problem. He farts and belches a lot. I have never actually been around someone who has so much gas. My dad farts loudly and obnoxiously, but he’s got nothing on this guy in quantity. I didn’t know it was possible to always have gas. Drink a sip of water, burp. Eat a chicken nugget, fart. It goes on for eight hours. And never a single “excuse me” every muttered.
Sometimes I wonder how I ended up in this pit. I woke up one day, realizing that really, it’s always been the same. The faces change. The places change. But the pit, it doesn’t.
“Why the fuck do you keep typing?” she asked. “You never seem to be happy with what comes out of your fingers.”
I told her they words don’t actually come out of my fingers, instead, they come from my mind. She slapped me and told me to go to hell. I typed that and had a little chuckle. She came over, read what I typed and slapped me again. This time, however, she didn’t tell me to go to hell. She put me there. One bullet to the back of the head. Now, I’m typing endless press releases on women’s basketball. Go figure. I always thought hell would be a little bit meaner. Banality, however, has it’s one cruel bite.
She grabbed the one CD she knew I’d cringe at when she did what she did. Driving 55 miles per hour on the freeway outside of Biloxi, she tossed it out the window. I looked over my shoulder, saw it hit the pavement and shatter into a bunch of pieces that each glimmered in the afternoon sun. The fucking bitch, I thought then. Now, I think that may have been the day I was re-born.
“Have you ever drank the sweat off of a woman that just had an orgasm?” the barkeep asked me. I looked at her, trying to gauge her seriousness. We always ask each other one questions every day before I start drinking. But the key is to figure out if it’s a serious one or not.
“Drank? No. But I have licked,” I replied.
“Such a shame,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s magical.”
I bought the lottery ticket with six numbers that I got from friends. Well, five and one from me. When they hit, I thought for just a second about not telling them. Yet, I knew I didn’t have the balls, or that much asshole in me.
How exactly does one get asshole in them?
I asked for six inches of snow. I got none.
I asked for you not to break my heart. Instead you stabbed it.
I asked to not die alone. So you buried me alive with yourself.
Ebay is the sewer.
Google is the devil.
ESPN killed the newspaper star.
I used to have heroes, but I couldn’t name then now.
My grandfather. I miss him a lot. Even though we rarely talked. Just being around him gave me hope in life. I don’t know why. It just did. I wonder what he thought of me? I wonder what he would think of me now?
Hell, I don’t even know what my own parents think of me. They must be pretty disappointed. Well, my dad probably is. My mom, I don’t know if she really ever expected much from me. I think she knows something happened to me. She may even know what that something was. So, she just keeps an eye on me.
I dove off the bridge, fully expecting to see those stars again when I landed. Instead, I hit the pavement and bounced. I fucking bounced up and then back down to the ground. Broke nothing but my glasses. They called me lucky in the newspapers. How are you lucky when you are trying to kill yourself and you bounce? That pretty much defines unlucky in my book. Which should be written by now. Stop it you lazy S.O.B. What a horrible movie that was. Don Was. Don Johnson. Rod Johnson, stereo salesman. Damn Jennifer Jason Leigh was hot. Still is, probably. But haven’t seen her in a while…
The cat clawed at the jar of marmalade.
I watched The Eiger Sanction with Leonard Nimoy. He thought it was rather tepid. At least that’s what his hastily written post-it note said.
The first bite of basil is nothing compared to the third.
You’re supposed to be straight edge, not straight curved.
I can’t understand why M.C. Skat Kat didn’t make it? Such are the unanswerable questions of life.
The walkway was covered with dirty diapers and cigarette cartoons. Tom & Jerry seemed to be quite high. Somewhere, Fred Flinstone is thinking bad thoughts about Mr. Slate.
My library card didn’t work the last time it was scanned. I asked about it, and the librarian said she’d have to ask the head librarian. She was a lunch. I just wanted to check out a book. Instead, I left.
As the hours drug on, my eyes started to burn. The dryness of not blinking for hours on end, coupled with the sights I was having to witness would have drove most men to the brink of lunacy. Thankfully, a redhead named Emily had already taken care of that for me. So, instead I endured.
I looked at the copy editor sitting in the desk to my right. She was about 25 years old. From Maryland. Didn’t have that cool Maryland accent, however. Guess if you spend too much time in the South, it goes away. On my left is the guy with the Stuart Scott problem. He farts and belches a lot. I have never actually been around someone who has so much gas. My dad farts loudly and obnoxiously, but he’s got nothing on this guy in quantity. I didn’t know it was possible to always have gas. Drink a sip of water, burp. Eat a chicken nugget, fart. It goes on for eight hours. And never a single “excuse me” every muttered.
Sometimes I wonder how I ended up in this pit. I woke up one day, realizing that really, it’s always been the same. The faces change. The places change. But the pit, it doesn’t.
“Why the fuck do you keep typing?” she asked. “You never seem to be happy with what comes out of your fingers.”
I told her they words don’t actually come out of my fingers, instead, they come from my mind. She slapped me and told me to go to hell. I typed that and had a little chuckle. She came over, read what I typed and slapped me again. This time, however, she didn’t tell me to go to hell. She put me there. One bullet to the back of the head. Now, I’m typing endless press releases on women’s basketball. Go figure. I always thought hell would be a little bit meaner. Banality, however, has it’s one cruel bite.
She grabbed the one CD she knew I’d cringe at when she did what she did. Driving 55 miles per hour on the freeway outside of Biloxi, she tossed it out the window. I looked over my shoulder, saw it hit the pavement and shatter into a bunch of pieces that each glimmered in the afternoon sun. The fucking bitch, I thought then. Now, I think that may have been the day I was re-born.
“Have you ever drank the sweat off of a woman that just had an orgasm?” the barkeep asked me. I looked at her, trying to gauge her seriousness. We always ask each other one questions every day before I start drinking. But the key is to figure out if it’s a serious one or not.
“Drank? No. But I have licked,” I replied.
“Such a shame,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s magical.”
I bought the lottery ticket with six numbers that I got from friends. Well, five and one from me. When they hit, I thought for just a second about not telling them. Yet, I knew I didn’t have the balls, or that much asshole in me.
How exactly does one get asshole in them?
I asked for six inches of snow. I got none.
I asked for you not to break my heart. Instead you stabbed it.
I asked to not die alone. So you buried me alive with yourself.
Ebay is the sewer.
Google is the devil.
ESPN killed the newspaper star.
I used to have heroes, but I couldn’t name then now.
My grandfather. I miss him a lot. Even though we rarely talked. Just being around him gave me hope in life. I don’t know why. It just did. I wonder what he thought of me? I wonder what he would think of me now?
Hell, I don’t even know what my own parents think of me. They must be pretty disappointed. Well, my dad probably is. My mom, I don’t know if she really ever expected much from me. I think she knows something happened to me. She may even know what that something was. So, she just keeps an eye on me.
I dove off the bridge, fully expecting to see those stars again when I landed. Instead, I hit the pavement and bounced. I fucking bounced up and then back down to the ground. Broke nothing but my glasses. They called me lucky in the newspapers. How are you lucky when you are trying to kill yourself and you bounce? That pretty much defines unlucky in my book. Which should be written by now. Stop it you lazy S.O.B. What a horrible movie that was. Don Was. Don Johnson. Rod Johnson, stereo salesman. Damn Jennifer Jason Leigh was hot. Still is, probably. But haven’t seen her in a while…
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
bill madlock's batting average
Nothing to see here. Just turn around. Keep going. See ya. Bye bye.
It’s telling. The words that someone else wrote here. The entire story of here is there, on the wall. Just waiting for the next person to read it, digest it, and make a decision about what they mean.
For me, they say yep. For the last guy, they may have said nope. It’s the beauty of words. Especially simple ones.
I once wrote a love poem. The girl I gave it to laughed at it. Said it was cute. I never wrote another poem for over a decade. It cut that deep. You could say it’s still bleeding. Things are funny that way. The ones that stick.
You think something when it happens is going to be something vital. Permanent. Then, a week later, you’ve forgotten all about it. Or she forgot about it and you didn’t. Or the dog shit on the exact piece of paper you may have written it on, then ate it just to spite you.
Then there are the throwaway moments. A television commercial. A rip in your jeans. An argument in a bar. Those things, they stick. You remember them for years. Decades. Forever. Whatever that is.
I’ve always had a problem remembering “important” things. The dates a girlfriend’s parents died. The favorite drink of the woman I want to share a life with. Unless I write them down. Then I can look at them. Study them like definitions in my world history class the junior year of high school. When the one-armed teacher would write terms on the chalkboard for the first 10 minutes of class. Then tell us to remember them, read a chapter and then watch some 1940s or 50s film strip about the past. War. Death. Famine. AIDS. Well, no AIDS. It was still new then. Rock Hudson was what AIDS was about, I guess.
But I could always tell you Bill Madlock’s batting average each year he won a batting title. They were .354, .339, .341 and .323. If you want me to sign any lyric from Poison’s first two albums, I’m your man.
I don’t want it to be that way. I try my best to learn a language that I’d already studied for over six years, but never mastered. Yet I could remember the name of any girl that I ever had a crush on from the time I was 9 years old.
It’s a curse. But a blessing. Those things, those random-ass stupid facts and scenes from the past. They fill up gaps in stories. They fill up gaps in conversations. Change a little bit here, a little bit there and it becomes something different to say. To write. Tell that to the girlfriend. Tell it to her when you forget something important. Then, it sucks. A lot.
I guess that’s a guilty conscious. No. I know it is. It hurts to think of some of the stupid things I’ve done. But, there ain’t shit I can do about them now. So, I write about them. I remember them. I try to learn from them. Do I ever? Guess it depends on who you ask.
My old journals and blogs and diaries and notepads were full of confessions. Full of drunken ramblings of a broken-hearted fool. Most of it was shit. Some of it wasn’t. Sometimes people stumbled upon them. Read what I had to say about them, about us, about the things I thought we shared or should have shared. Some shuddered. Some smiled. Some never came back. Some kept coming back. Some came, went, then came back years later. Very few ever asked me about it. That always perplexes me. But what can you do except keep on keepin’ on.
Just the other day. It seems someone from my past paid a visit. I wrote something about this person drunk one night a long, long time ago. The internet is funny. It’s been deleted, but it still exists. They found it, read it, and read some more. I have no idea what the reaction to it was. Although I may be able to hazard a guess. But that’s a futile effort. Why? Because only they know, and if they don’t want to tell, I ain’t going to find out anytime soon.
Damn. I’m uninspired, yet inspired to think.
I did just eat too much bad for me food. And two cans of ginger ale. That also may have something to do with it all.
Bare with me. It will get better.
A boy can dream…
It’s telling. The words that someone else wrote here. The entire story of here is there, on the wall. Just waiting for the next person to read it, digest it, and make a decision about what they mean.
For me, they say yep. For the last guy, they may have said nope. It’s the beauty of words. Especially simple ones.
I once wrote a love poem. The girl I gave it to laughed at it. Said it was cute. I never wrote another poem for over a decade. It cut that deep. You could say it’s still bleeding. Things are funny that way. The ones that stick.
You think something when it happens is going to be something vital. Permanent. Then, a week later, you’ve forgotten all about it. Or she forgot about it and you didn’t. Or the dog shit on the exact piece of paper you may have written it on, then ate it just to spite you.
Then there are the throwaway moments. A television commercial. A rip in your jeans. An argument in a bar. Those things, they stick. You remember them for years. Decades. Forever. Whatever that is.
I’ve always had a problem remembering “important” things. The dates a girlfriend’s parents died. The favorite drink of the woman I want to share a life with. Unless I write them down. Then I can look at them. Study them like definitions in my world history class the junior year of high school. When the one-armed teacher would write terms on the chalkboard for the first 10 minutes of class. Then tell us to remember them, read a chapter and then watch some 1940s or 50s film strip about the past. War. Death. Famine. AIDS. Well, no AIDS. It was still new then. Rock Hudson was what AIDS was about, I guess.
But I could always tell you Bill Madlock’s batting average each year he won a batting title. They were .354, .339, .341 and .323. If you want me to sign any lyric from Poison’s first two albums, I’m your man.
I don’t want it to be that way. I try my best to learn a language that I’d already studied for over six years, but never mastered. Yet I could remember the name of any girl that I ever had a crush on from the time I was 9 years old.
It’s a curse. But a blessing. Those things, those random-ass stupid facts and scenes from the past. They fill up gaps in stories. They fill up gaps in conversations. Change a little bit here, a little bit there and it becomes something different to say. To write. Tell that to the girlfriend. Tell it to her when you forget something important. Then, it sucks. A lot.
I guess that’s a guilty conscious. No. I know it is. It hurts to think of some of the stupid things I’ve done. But, there ain’t shit I can do about them now. So, I write about them. I remember them. I try to learn from them. Do I ever? Guess it depends on who you ask.
My old journals and blogs and diaries and notepads were full of confessions. Full of drunken ramblings of a broken-hearted fool. Most of it was shit. Some of it wasn’t. Sometimes people stumbled upon them. Read what I had to say about them, about us, about the things I thought we shared or should have shared. Some shuddered. Some smiled. Some never came back. Some kept coming back. Some came, went, then came back years later. Very few ever asked me about it. That always perplexes me. But what can you do except keep on keepin’ on.
Just the other day. It seems someone from my past paid a visit. I wrote something about this person drunk one night a long, long time ago. The internet is funny. It’s been deleted, but it still exists. They found it, read it, and read some more. I have no idea what the reaction to it was. Although I may be able to hazard a guess. But that’s a futile effort. Why? Because only they know, and if they don’t want to tell, I ain’t going to find out anytime soon.
Damn. I’m uninspired, yet inspired to think.
I did just eat too much bad for me food. And two cans of ginger ale. That also may have something to do with it all.
Bare with me. It will get better.
A boy can dream…
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
mr. jones
The deadline is looming. I’ve got nothing to write about. I stare at the clock, it tells me “you better hurry up you stupid ass, your editor will be here in 10 minutes.”
I scan the shelves, looking for inspiration. I turn on the radio. I flip through a phone book. Nothing seems to have a story attached to it. Coming up with something interesting, or witty, or smart or simply filling the inches that I’ve got budgeted is almost always a breeze. But every so often, the writing elf leaves the building.
He’s gone right now, so I got outside to see if I can find him. I put sixty-five cents in the soda machine, the damn thing doesn’t spit out a Dr. Pepper. That’s gonna make me angry. I kick the damn thing. Out plops a Fresca. It’ll have to do, my pockets are only full of lint and scraps of paper with story ideas on them. Hell, why am I not looking at those bits of wisdom. I grab things when I have ideas. Profound ones they always are when they pop in there and demand to be let out. Almost 100 percent of the time, I throw the scraps of paper into a shoebox to be forgotten about. Worthless statements of fact or fiction that usually don’t jar a memory of profoundness when they’re read aloud again.
“Eggs are for suckers.”
“I love you. You love me. We don’t love each other.”
“I’ll buy you a river if you pee in it.”
“The bum has better clothes than me. I still give him a couple of quarters.”
Shit, if I had those quarters I’d be able to get the drink I wanted to get. Surely there’s an ironic tale in that somewhere? Fuck it.
I walk outside. It’s humid as shit. My clothes turn into sponges almost immediately. I can thank my grandfather on my mom’s side for a hairy back, a bald head and the ability to sweat myself into a river at the first sign of 80 degrees. Take that Wonder Twins.
I head west. Why? Because that’s the direction of progress. Of inspiration. Of the Pacific, mother-fucking ocean, man. (Use a Dennis Hopper voice there.)
My editor pulls up to the parking lot as I’m walking out of it. He sees me, waves. I don’t stop. This causes him to chase after me. I speed up. This is a game that happens every so often. If he was Faye Dunaway, we’d probably have fucked by now. But he’s not. He’s more Gabe Kaplan, without the Jew-Fro.
“Jones,” he yells, knowing full well I never respond when anyone calls me Jones. “Jones, have you filed yet?”
He also knows god damn well that I haven’t filed yet. I don’t ever file early. Even if it’s Christmas. I don’t believe in it. A good writer on deadline uses every second he’s got. You never know when one word might decide it doesn’t belong anymore. My first editor taught me that. He hated that he taught me that after a while, because I believed his fucking bullshit. He even told me one day he was bullshitting me over beers when he told it to me. “I thought it sounded like something Jimmy Breslin might have uttered,” he mused.
I thought it was something Ed Petruscwitz would say. I wonder if Ed’s still living in his double wide in the Arizona desert? Well, if he’s not, at least his memory survives to this day. And drives my editor bat shit.
He finally catches up to me after three city blocks. I’m sweating. He’s sweating. In another block is my favorite bar. I’m going to get a beer. This Fresca is awful. I don’t think I’ve ever had a Fresca before.
“Jones, where are you going?” he says as he grabs my arm from behind. He’s clearly winded from the walk. So am I, but I do a better job of covering it up.
“I’ve got to check with a source at Joe’s,” I say. “He’s supposed to meet me there in 15 minutes.”
That’ll give me 30 minutes before he calls me. I hate cell phones. Have no use for them. But they make me carry it. “So we can get in touch with you, Jones,” he always says when I scoff at the newest improvement that they hand me every six months or so. I do have a cool ring tone for when he calls me, Eazy-E’s “We Want Eazy.” It fucking drives him nuts when he hears it.
I go in the bar. It’s empty. Just the way I like it. I go up to my favorite seat, away from the televisions and not behind the taps, just to the right of them, and order a Newcastle. Jerry, my second favorite barkeep, is working the early shift. He’s reading the previous day’s paper. I point out to him that it’s yesterday’s news, and he flips me the bird. I like Jerry.
I milk my beer for about 34 minutes, well, exactly 34 minutes when a bunch of ladies in my phone scream “We Want Eazy!” I answer the phone.
“Jones, where the fuck are you? You’re deadline’s in two hours and your file is empty for today.”
“How the hell do you know that?” I queried.
“Because I went to your damn desk and looked in it.”
“Damn. You got me, boss. I just wrapped up with my source, be there in 10.”
“You damn better be!” he screamed as I clicked the phone off. I didn’t actually hear him say it, I just know he said it.
As I’m leaving the bar seven minutes later -- it’s a three-minute walk back to the paper -- I dazzling brunette is walking in. We make quick eye contact. Her eyes get wide. Mine stay the same. Just before the door slams shut behind me, I hear her yell out “wait a minute Mr. Jones!”
I turn around. She comes stumbling out the door. Her daisy-infested dress flaps in the wind. I suddenly am intrigued. She knows me. I don’t know her.
“I was told you’d be here,” she said. I was more intrigued.
“I’ve got a story for ya…”
Some days, it pays to go to the bar.
I scan the shelves, looking for inspiration. I turn on the radio. I flip through a phone book. Nothing seems to have a story attached to it. Coming up with something interesting, or witty, or smart or simply filling the inches that I’ve got budgeted is almost always a breeze. But every so often, the writing elf leaves the building.
He’s gone right now, so I got outside to see if I can find him. I put sixty-five cents in the soda machine, the damn thing doesn’t spit out a Dr. Pepper. That’s gonna make me angry. I kick the damn thing. Out plops a Fresca. It’ll have to do, my pockets are only full of lint and scraps of paper with story ideas on them. Hell, why am I not looking at those bits of wisdom. I grab things when I have ideas. Profound ones they always are when they pop in there and demand to be let out. Almost 100 percent of the time, I throw the scraps of paper into a shoebox to be forgotten about. Worthless statements of fact or fiction that usually don’t jar a memory of profoundness when they’re read aloud again.
“Eggs are for suckers.”
“I love you. You love me. We don’t love each other.”
“I’ll buy you a river if you pee in it.”
“The bum has better clothes than me. I still give him a couple of quarters.”
Shit, if I had those quarters I’d be able to get the drink I wanted to get. Surely there’s an ironic tale in that somewhere? Fuck it.
I walk outside. It’s humid as shit. My clothes turn into sponges almost immediately. I can thank my grandfather on my mom’s side for a hairy back, a bald head and the ability to sweat myself into a river at the first sign of 80 degrees. Take that Wonder Twins.
I head west. Why? Because that’s the direction of progress. Of inspiration. Of the Pacific, mother-fucking ocean, man. (Use a Dennis Hopper voice there.)
My editor pulls up to the parking lot as I’m walking out of it. He sees me, waves. I don’t stop. This causes him to chase after me. I speed up. This is a game that happens every so often. If he was Faye Dunaway, we’d probably have fucked by now. But he’s not. He’s more Gabe Kaplan, without the Jew-Fro.
“Jones,” he yells, knowing full well I never respond when anyone calls me Jones. “Jones, have you filed yet?”
He also knows god damn well that I haven’t filed yet. I don’t ever file early. Even if it’s Christmas. I don’t believe in it. A good writer on deadline uses every second he’s got. You never know when one word might decide it doesn’t belong anymore. My first editor taught me that. He hated that he taught me that after a while, because I believed his fucking bullshit. He even told me one day he was bullshitting me over beers when he told it to me. “I thought it sounded like something Jimmy Breslin might have uttered,” he mused.
I thought it was something Ed Petruscwitz would say. I wonder if Ed’s still living in his double wide in the Arizona desert? Well, if he’s not, at least his memory survives to this day. And drives my editor bat shit.
He finally catches up to me after three city blocks. I’m sweating. He’s sweating. In another block is my favorite bar. I’m going to get a beer. This Fresca is awful. I don’t think I’ve ever had a Fresca before.
“Jones, where are you going?” he says as he grabs my arm from behind. He’s clearly winded from the walk. So am I, but I do a better job of covering it up.
“I’ve got to check with a source at Joe’s,” I say. “He’s supposed to meet me there in 15 minutes.”
That’ll give me 30 minutes before he calls me. I hate cell phones. Have no use for them. But they make me carry it. “So we can get in touch with you, Jones,” he always says when I scoff at the newest improvement that they hand me every six months or so. I do have a cool ring tone for when he calls me, Eazy-E’s “We Want Eazy.” It fucking drives him nuts when he hears it.
I go in the bar. It’s empty. Just the way I like it. I go up to my favorite seat, away from the televisions and not behind the taps, just to the right of them, and order a Newcastle. Jerry, my second favorite barkeep, is working the early shift. He’s reading the previous day’s paper. I point out to him that it’s yesterday’s news, and he flips me the bird. I like Jerry.
I milk my beer for about 34 minutes, well, exactly 34 minutes when a bunch of ladies in my phone scream “We Want Eazy!” I answer the phone.
“Jones, where the fuck are you? You’re deadline’s in two hours and your file is empty for today.”
“How the hell do you know that?” I queried.
“Because I went to your damn desk and looked in it.”
“Damn. You got me, boss. I just wrapped up with my source, be there in 10.”
“You damn better be!” he screamed as I clicked the phone off. I didn’t actually hear him say it, I just know he said it.
As I’m leaving the bar seven minutes later -- it’s a three-minute walk back to the paper -- I dazzling brunette is walking in. We make quick eye contact. Her eyes get wide. Mine stay the same. Just before the door slams shut behind me, I hear her yell out “wait a minute Mr. Jones!”
I turn around. She comes stumbling out the door. Her daisy-infested dress flaps in the wind. I suddenly am intrigued. She knows me. I don’t know her.
“I was told you’d be here,” she said. I was more intrigued.
“I’ve got a story for ya…”
Some days, it pays to go to the bar.
Monday, December 27, 2010
why not me?
A half eaten bag of shelled peanuts sits on the table, along with three empty bottles of beer.
She looks down at them, and wonders what possessed him to eat and drink last night. Then disappear. She’d only asked him why he felt the need to write about girls from his past so much and not about her.
“They all ended,” he said. “You and me, we haven’t.”
His pause at the end let her know that he wanted to say “yet”. He chose not to, and then got out of bed, walking straight to the fridge and popping open a bottle of Shiner Bock. Despite it being only 58 degrees inside the house, she knew he couldn’t afford to turn on the heat much higher than that. The perils of living in an old house with high ceilings and big, drafty windows. She sighed and went to sleep, knowing full well that he was sitting in front of his old typewriter now, staring at the keys hoping something would come out.
She heard the keys punching on paper just before she fell asleep. That made her smile. He’d be in a good mood in the morning at least.
Instead, he wasn’t there when she got out of bed and put on her robe. She had expected him to be in bed, snoring the way he does after drinking a few too many beers. “He must be on the couch,” she thought. But a quick glance in his office showed the couch to be empty as well. On his desk was a ragged pile of typed sheets. They were some kind of screenplay, she could tell by the way they were typed with the centered parts and lots of dialogue.
He hadn’t tried to write a screenplay in years. But here, it appeared, was a completely finished one. One night’s work. About 100 pages worth. Something must have really inspired him. She had to know what it was.
The title simply was “Why not me?”
She dared not ready anymore of it. It had to be about they’re one and only constant fight. Her need, her desire for him to write about her. As far as she knew, he never did. He shared most of his writings with her, when they were done. Very rarely when they were WIPs. It took her three months to figure out that he wasn’t saying whips, but instead Works In Progress. He laughed when she told him that. She felt stupid. But never told him that.
“Maybe that’s why he doesn’t write about me?” she thought. “I don’t tell him my fears. My insecurities. At least about us. Yes, I’ll tell him about my uncle’s advances or my boss’s lies. But when it comes to me and him, I don’t.”
He, on the other hand, was an open book. His stories of past loves that he did not let inside his mind, his passions, his inner-most thoughts filled up the first few weeks of their relationship. He was a failure, by his own admission. Never going after what he knew he should have and could have. She felt sorry for him, and listened to his stories. They drank lots of wine, even though he loathed the taste of wine. But she inherited her father’s collection of wines and his ability to find great wines out of the 1,000s of bottles that even a grocery store had.
He’d told her one night, weeks into their relationship, that wine made him impotent as a writer. That the drunk it provided just made him want to lay about and be with her. She loved that line, and told him so. That sparked something. Her saying that. He wrote it down. And then wrote a story based on that one line. It was the first story he’d finished in years, he told her. The line was the beginning and sort of the end. It was a story of a woman, a man and a six-week long love affair. That was exactly how long he and her had been together when the book was finished. She read it. And was devastated. It was the best thing she’d read in a long time. But it wasn’t about her. It was dedicated to her, but the woman in the story was not the tall, pale, redhead that she was. Instead, it was about a short, black haired, barfly.
She cried after reading it. He asked why. She didn’t tell him why, only that it was a beautiful story.
The next day he sent it out to publishers. Something he’d never done before. Weeks went by, he kept writing at a prolific pace. Churning out story after story on women, men and the lives they wanted and the ones they ended up with. He even got halfway through a novel -- 222 pages worth -- when he received a phone call. An editor had picked up his submission from the pile of submissions on his boss’s desk. It was the pink paper it was typed on that got my attention, he’d tell her the editor said. I read it and knew this was worthy of publishing.
Months later, the book was on the shelves. His editor had arranged to get it in the hands of a couple of important people. It was reviewed in the New York Times. The Washington Post. And most importantly of all, on a small show on the Oprah Network.
From there it sold copies like crazy. Soon, it was optioned to be a movie. He had done what he always wanted to do, be published. The success was an added bonus. If he’d stayed anonymous to most of the world, he would have been fine. Just to see his book on a shelf in a store was enough.
Everything seemed great for him. He wrote more stories. They were published in magazines and in book form. They enjoyed great evenings together, listening to his LP collection and drinking -- her wine, him Shiner. One night, she’d had a few bottles and was quite drunk. They were dancing to Dean Martin’s “Houston”, a song that for whatever reason, made him quite happy. She looked in his eyes and asked “Why not me?”
He looked at her, puzzled by the question. “What do you mean, honey?” he asked with a smile.
“Just that,” she said, stopping the dance. “You’re stories are never about me. Only the woman that you used to talk to me about so much. They inspire you. Why not me?”
He hung his head low and sat down in his favorite patio chair. The one he’d written a poem in one night, about her. And gave to her for their anniversary. One of only two poems he’d ever written that he liked. He didn’t bring this up. He knew what she was asking was true, but only in a superficial way.
“All my writing is inspired by you,” he said. “I wouldn’t be doing it if not for you.”
She looked at him. An icy stare. Then walked away.
He stopped writing after that night. They stopped laughing. Until she asked again, weeks later.
And he wrote all night. And now he was gone.
She looks down at them, and wonders what possessed him to eat and drink last night. Then disappear. She’d only asked him why he felt the need to write about girls from his past so much and not about her.
“They all ended,” he said. “You and me, we haven’t.”
His pause at the end let her know that he wanted to say “yet”. He chose not to, and then got out of bed, walking straight to the fridge and popping open a bottle of Shiner Bock. Despite it being only 58 degrees inside the house, she knew he couldn’t afford to turn on the heat much higher than that. The perils of living in an old house with high ceilings and big, drafty windows. She sighed and went to sleep, knowing full well that he was sitting in front of his old typewriter now, staring at the keys hoping something would come out.
She heard the keys punching on paper just before she fell asleep. That made her smile. He’d be in a good mood in the morning at least.
Instead, he wasn’t there when she got out of bed and put on her robe. She had expected him to be in bed, snoring the way he does after drinking a few too many beers. “He must be on the couch,” she thought. But a quick glance in his office showed the couch to be empty as well. On his desk was a ragged pile of typed sheets. They were some kind of screenplay, she could tell by the way they were typed with the centered parts and lots of dialogue.
He hadn’t tried to write a screenplay in years. But here, it appeared, was a completely finished one. One night’s work. About 100 pages worth. Something must have really inspired him. She had to know what it was.
The title simply was “Why not me?”
She dared not ready anymore of it. It had to be about they’re one and only constant fight. Her need, her desire for him to write about her. As far as she knew, he never did. He shared most of his writings with her, when they were done. Very rarely when they were WIPs. It took her three months to figure out that he wasn’t saying whips, but instead Works In Progress. He laughed when she told him that. She felt stupid. But never told him that.
“Maybe that’s why he doesn’t write about me?” she thought. “I don’t tell him my fears. My insecurities. At least about us. Yes, I’ll tell him about my uncle’s advances or my boss’s lies. But when it comes to me and him, I don’t.”
He, on the other hand, was an open book. His stories of past loves that he did not let inside his mind, his passions, his inner-most thoughts filled up the first few weeks of their relationship. He was a failure, by his own admission. Never going after what he knew he should have and could have. She felt sorry for him, and listened to his stories. They drank lots of wine, even though he loathed the taste of wine. But she inherited her father’s collection of wines and his ability to find great wines out of the 1,000s of bottles that even a grocery store had.
He’d told her one night, weeks into their relationship, that wine made him impotent as a writer. That the drunk it provided just made him want to lay about and be with her. She loved that line, and told him so. That sparked something. Her saying that. He wrote it down. And then wrote a story based on that one line. It was the first story he’d finished in years, he told her. The line was the beginning and sort of the end. It was a story of a woman, a man and a six-week long love affair. That was exactly how long he and her had been together when the book was finished. She read it. And was devastated. It was the best thing she’d read in a long time. But it wasn’t about her. It was dedicated to her, but the woman in the story was not the tall, pale, redhead that she was. Instead, it was about a short, black haired, barfly.
She cried after reading it. He asked why. She didn’t tell him why, only that it was a beautiful story.
The next day he sent it out to publishers. Something he’d never done before. Weeks went by, he kept writing at a prolific pace. Churning out story after story on women, men and the lives they wanted and the ones they ended up with. He even got halfway through a novel -- 222 pages worth -- when he received a phone call. An editor had picked up his submission from the pile of submissions on his boss’s desk. It was the pink paper it was typed on that got my attention, he’d tell her the editor said. I read it and knew this was worthy of publishing.
Months later, the book was on the shelves. His editor had arranged to get it in the hands of a couple of important people. It was reviewed in the New York Times. The Washington Post. And most importantly of all, on a small show on the Oprah Network.
From there it sold copies like crazy. Soon, it was optioned to be a movie. He had done what he always wanted to do, be published. The success was an added bonus. If he’d stayed anonymous to most of the world, he would have been fine. Just to see his book on a shelf in a store was enough.
Everything seemed great for him. He wrote more stories. They were published in magazines and in book form. They enjoyed great evenings together, listening to his LP collection and drinking -- her wine, him Shiner. One night, she’d had a few bottles and was quite drunk. They were dancing to Dean Martin’s “Houston”, a song that for whatever reason, made him quite happy. She looked in his eyes and asked “Why not me?”
He looked at her, puzzled by the question. “What do you mean, honey?” he asked with a smile.
“Just that,” she said, stopping the dance. “You’re stories are never about me. Only the woman that you used to talk to me about so much. They inspire you. Why not me?”
He hung his head low and sat down in his favorite patio chair. The one he’d written a poem in one night, about her. And gave to her for their anniversary. One of only two poems he’d ever written that he liked. He didn’t bring this up. He knew what she was asking was true, but only in a superficial way.
“All my writing is inspired by you,” he said. “I wouldn’t be doing it if not for you.”
She looked at him. An icy stare. Then walked away.
He stopped writing after that night. They stopped laughing. Until she asked again, weeks later.
And he wrote all night. And now he was gone.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
a vestavia hills gal
“You think you’re better than me don’t you?”
At first, one might be prone to think that’s a loaded question. But it’s not. If someone indeed every asks you that question, the answer is already known. What is also known is the truth of it. If someone thinks that you think you are better than them, it is indeed a fact.
However, this would not be the correct answer to give at this very moment.
“Hell no, brah,” I said with a smile and a quick man hug. “I’d never even think such a silly thing about my dawg.”
Yeah, my dawg. His name is Steven. Steve is what he goes by. Steven Wilson. We’ve been drinking at this same bar for 28 years now. Of course, for me, it’s just a once or twice event now. For him, it’s five times a week.
I used to be in the same boat. When I lived in this dump of a town. Maury, Alabama. I visited once, for a story on a great football player. A blue-chip high school player. He was being recruited by Alabama, Auburn, even USC. Football season was perfect for him. Right before the playoffs, I came down, did an interview with the kid. He had all the elements of a perfect “human interest” piece. Great athlete living with his grandma. Both parents dead. Working at Wal-Mart to help with the bills. Still rushing for 2,000 yards. He was a good kid. A bit standoffish at first, but I completely understood. Here I was, some white guy with long blonde hair, looking like Gunnar Nelson showing up at his high school in the middle of nowhere Alabama.
I wrote the story. It won some awards. Got picked up by some bigger places and his story was everywhere. Then, in a harmless basketball game, he injured his knee. All the offers from the big schools all vanished. I felt bad. I sent him a note and all. But never visited him. Shitty thing. But, that’s what writers do. They do the story, then they move on to the next one.
He ended up at a smaller school. Became all-conference. Drafted into the NFL. Even stuck around a few years. Cool for him I thought one day while I was in the only bar in his old hometown. His family were all gone now. Either dead or moved away. There was nothing left to remind folks of his exploits, except for the article I wrote, still pinned to the head coach’s wall at the school.
I lived there for three years. In a double wide. Trying to avoid creditors and a woman I’d knocked up in a Birmingham bar. Yes, in the bar itself. Bad scene all together.
In this place, I met Steve. He made me call him “my dawg.” Never understood why. Guess he just liked it that way. He was a stock boy at a local grocery store. His dad owned the store, so one day, Steve would own the store. But for now, at 32 years old, he was still just a stock boy. Which is why he drank. And why we met.
I had just moved in to my beautiful trailer home, tucked behind some trees in the way back of the lot. I’d asked the manager if he had one “away from everyone else” and he looked at me for a moment, then said “you look like you’re just hiding from something simple, not the law, so I’ll show you Marge’s old place.”
Apparently, Marge had died a death very much like the Gluttony guy in the movie “Seven.” She’d been obsessed with winning a sweepstakes that the Hungry Man meals were putting on. Inside of each package contained a scratch off ticket. So, she spent weeks just binging on salisbury steaks and fried chicken plates from your friends at Swanson. The cops said it was the XXL meals that seemed to finally tip the old lady into some kind of frenzy. Every store within a 50-mile radius reported Marge buying all their stock every Thursday. Which happened to be the day she got her check from the state.
On the last day of her weeks-long binge she actually won the damn sweepstakes too. The $150,000 winning ticket is exactly what brought me to Alabama again in the first place. A friend of mine in the police department from my first journalistic stint in the state called me up one night, drunk as all get out, and told me everything. I was there 8 hours later. Writing the first story on the event. To the local scribes, it was just a fat lady who had a heart attack. To me, it was a goldmine. I saw a book in there. And I chased it hard and fast.
Which is why, one night I was in a bar in downtown Birmingham, celebrating my good fortune. I stumbled out into the street and bumped into Michelle, a 27 year old grad student. I was wearing my old Ralph Sampson UVA vintage t-shirt and she happened to be related to the Doug Newburg, a backup guard from the 1980 squad. We hit it off immediately. Too well.
(Five) weeks later, while I was chasing a higher up in the Swanson company, I got a call from Michelle. She said she was pregnant. I was kind of shocked. In fact, until that call, I hadn’t given her a thought since I said goodbye the morning after over waffles and toast at Waffle House in Vestavia Hills.
I told her I’d meet her for dinner. We met, she said she was “keeping the baby” and all I could think about was Madonna’s “Poppa Don’t Preach” video. She had such a nice ass in that one. This did not bode well for a long-term commitment from me, the father. I told her to call my agent, Sidney Sweaton, and I gave her his number. We’d set up some kind of payment plan. I just wasn’t in the right place, right time to talk about it. She threw her coffee in my face. Luckily, it was cold. And she left.
This story made Steve laugh the first night we met at Meg’s Bar in Maury. He said all those “Vestavia Hills bitches are just looking for some easy money. A ticket out of being daddy’s little girl.” I asked him why he felt that way. He said he dated one while he was a linebacker at Troy. She got pregnant too. “The bitch who ruined my life,” he would refer to her every time she came up. And still does.
I liked talking to Steve. He gave me an extra character to draw upon for first my series of articles on “the Swanson affair” as it became known. I never knew if people understood I was actually trying to do the old lady right with my attempts at writing about her. She seemed like a nice lady. At least from all the stuff I went through when I just happened to get to move into her old double wide.
Eventually, I wrote a book. It was made into a movie and I made a shit load of money. Enough to leave Maury, Alabama, and not be worried about payments for my kid, who the mom named Randy Jr. Never understood that either, since technically, he’d be Randy IV. In fact, every penny I made from Marge when into the “Junior fund” as Sidney Sweaton called it. It ended up being $14.3 million. Not too shabby. I wonder if he’ll marry a Vestavia Hills gal one day?
Anyway, I still come back to Maury two times a year. Once for Steve’s birthday, once for Junior’s. Steve and I meet up at the bar, we get drunk and he talks about his shitty father, now 78 years old, not letting him run the place still. I laugh too much at his plight, and he gets angry. I hug him and say I’m sorry and he calms down.
One day, I figure, he’ll be dead and I won’t have to come back but once a year.
At first, one might be prone to think that’s a loaded question. But it’s not. If someone indeed every asks you that question, the answer is already known. What is also known is the truth of it. If someone thinks that you think you are better than them, it is indeed a fact.
However, this would not be the correct answer to give at this very moment.
“Hell no, brah,” I said with a smile and a quick man hug. “I’d never even think such a silly thing about my dawg.”
Yeah, my dawg. His name is Steven. Steve is what he goes by. Steven Wilson. We’ve been drinking at this same bar for 28 years now. Of course, for me, it’s just a once or twice event now. For him, it’s five times a week.
I used to be in the same boat. When I lived in this dump of a town. Maury, Alabama. I visited once, for a story on a great football player. A blue-chip high school player. He was being recruited by Alabama, Auburn, even USC. Football season was perfect for him. Right before the playoffs, I came down, did an interview with the kid. He had all the elements of a perfect “human interest” piece. Great athlete living with his grandma. Both parents dead. Working at Wal-Mart to help with the bills. Still rushing for 2,000 yards. He was a good kid. A bit standoffish at first, but I completely understood. Here I was, some white guy with long blonde hair, looking like Gunnar Nelson showing up at his high school in the middle of nowhere Alabama.
I wrote the story. It won some awards. Got picked up by some bigger places and his story was everywhere. Then, in a harmless basketball game, he injured his knee. All the offers from the big schools all vanished. I felt bad. I sent him a note and all. But never visited him. Shitty thing. But, that’s what writers do. They do the story, then they move on to the next one.
He ended up at a smaller school. Became all-conference. Drafted into the NFL. Even stuck around a few years. Cool for him I thought one day while I was in the only bar in his old hometown. His family were all gone now. Either dead or moved away. There was nothing left to remind folks of his exploits, except for the article I wrote, still pinned to the head coach’s wall at the school.
I lived there for three years. In a double wide. Trying to avoid creditors and a woman I’d knocked up in a Birmingham bar. Yes, in the bar itself. Bad scene all together.
In this place, I met Steve. He made me call him “my dawg.” Never understood why. Guess he just liked it that way. He was a stock boy at a local grocery store. His dad owned the store, so one day, Steve would own the store. But for now, at 32 years old, he was still just a stock boy. Which is why he drank. And why we met.
I had just moved in to my beautiful trailer home, tucked behind some trees in the way back of the lot. I’d asked the manager if he had one “away from everyone else” and he looked at me for a moment, then said “you look like you’re just hiding from something simple, not the law, so I’ll show you Marge’s old place.”
Apparently, Marge had died a death very much like the Gluttony guy in the movie “Seven.” She’d been obsessed with winning a sweepstakes that the Hungry Man meals were putting on. Inside of each package contained a scratch off ticket. So, she spent weeks just binging on salisbury steaks and fried chicken plates from your friends at Swanson. The cops said it was the XXL meals that seemed to finally tip the old lady into some kind of frenzy. Every store within a 50-mile radius reported Marge buying all their stock every Thursday. Which happened to be the day she got her check from the state.
On the last day of her weeks-long binge she actually won the damn sweepstakes too. The $150,000 winning ticket is exactly what brought me to Alabama again in the first place. A friend of mine in the police department from my first journalistic stint in the state called me up one night, drunk as all get out, and told me everything. I was there 8 hours later. Writing the first story on the event. To the local scribes, it was just a fat lady who had a heart attack. To me, it was a goldmine. I saw a book in there. And I chased it hard and fast.
Which is why, one night I was in a bar in downtown Birmingham, celebrating my good fortune. I stumbled out into the street and bumped into Michelle, a 27 year old grad student. I was wearing my old Ralph Sampson UVA vintage t-shirt and she happened to be related to the Doug Newburg, a backup guard from the 1980 squad. We hit it off immediately. Too well.
(Five) weeks later, while I was chasing a higher up in the Swanson company, I got a call from Michelle. She said she was pregnant. I was kind of shocked. In fact, until that call, I hadn’t given her a thought since I said goodbye the morning after over waffles and toast at Waffle House in Vestavia Hills.
I told her I’d meet her for dinner. We met, she said she was “keeping the baby” and all I could think about was Madonna’s “Poppa Don’t Preach” video. She had such a nice ass in that one. This did not bode well for a long-term commitment from me, the father. I told her to call my agent, Sidney Sweaton, and I gave her his number. We’d set up some kind of payment plan. I just wasn’t in the right place, right time to talk about it. She threw her coffee in my face. Luckily, it was cold. And she left.
This story made Steve laugh the first night we met at Meg’s Bar in Maury. He said all those “Vestavia Hills bitches are just looking for some easy money. A ticket out of being daddy’s little girl.” I asked him why he felt that way. He said he dated one while he was a linebacker at Troy. She got pregnant too. “The bitch who ruined my life,” he would refer to her every time she came up. And still does.
I liked talking to Steve. He gave me an extra character to draw upon for first my series of articles on “the Swanson affair” as it became known. I never knew if people understood I was actually trying to do the old lady right with my attempts at writing about her. She seemed like a nice lady. At least from all the stuff I went through when I just happened to get to move into her old double wide.
Eventually, I wrote a book. It was made into a movie and I made a shit load of money. Enough to leave Maury, Alabama, and not be worried about payments for my kid, who the mom named Randy Jr. Never understood that either, since technically, he’d be Randy IV. In fact, every penny I made from Marge when into the “Junior fund” as Sidney Sweaton called it. It ended up being $14.3 million. Not too shabby. I wonder if he’ll marry a Vestavia Hills gal one day?
Anyway, I still come back to Maury two times a year. Once for Steve’s birthday, once for Junior’s. Steve and I meet up at the bar, we get drunk and he talks about his shitty father, now 78 years old, not letting him run the place still. I laugh too much at his plight, and he gets angry. I hug him and say I’m sorry and he calms down.
One day, I figure, he’ll be dead and I won’t have to come back but once a year.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
star light, star bright...
Walking on the beach alone on Christmas night, taking small sips from a flask of whiskey you think of things. Some are good, like the girl I know who’d appreciate what I’m doing. Some are bad, like the asshat at work who doesn’t see the way he makes everyone else bow down to his simpleton-ness.
And then there are the memories that come back. I started to think of the five months that I got to be a dad. I’ve always wanted a kid. Things just haven’t worked out for me in that department. I know my rifle doesn’t shoot blanks, but I also know that the older I get, the less likely I’ll meet someone that shares this desire.
There was a time, however, when I got to be a dad. Experience some of the terror of it. Some of the thrill. Some of the mundane. Some of the joy. But it all ended with sadness. Not for him. Thankfully. At least I hope so.
She moved in with me pretty quickly in our relationship, Crys did. We kissed for the first time on her mom’s doorstep in the town I’d left just a little over a year earlier because it had nothing but evil for my heart. It was one of those moments. Everything just fell right into place at just the right time.
I’ve had that happen just a couple of times in my life.
The first time was in the amphitheater behind my old dorm in Charlottesville. Me and Samantha were just wandering around campus. Don’t really remember what we were doing. I think we’d gone to a party and got bored. Anyway, we walked around all the fraternity houses and took a detour to the dorms. Having been drinking some cheap beer, we both had to pee. I, being a shy virgin of 19 at the time, wasn’t about to pull out my stuff in front of her, a 20 year old who had at least once, tried to seduce me.
We found an unlocked door and got inside the commons area building. All the doors inside, however, were locked. Finally, a janitor came along, asking us “what are you doing here?” She jumped up quickly and said “looking for a place to pee” being all Massachusetts class that she was. I just stared. He said he’d open one bathroom up “for the both of us.” And he did. The men’s room.
I went inside with her. Only one stall. No door. She sat down, peed and flushed. Then stood and looked at me. I walked up to the bowl, unzipped my fly and held my dick. Nothing came. I knew it would be so. She snickered, then walked out. Sweet relief finally came my way about 10 seconds later. Fifteen seconds later, she jumped back in. I promptly stopped again. She laughed this time. Leaving me alone again.
After washing my hands, I went out. She was standing there, having a laugh with the janitor. He was an older guy, probably about mid-30s. Had on overalls that were of the blue striped variety. He was smoking a blunt. He passed it to Samantha. She took a hit. Looked at me and handed it back to the janitor. I walked up and she grabbed my hand and we ran out the door.
Skipping all the way back to the amphitheater we took a seat on the hard cement rows near the top where the colonnades were. I sat back and looked up at the sky. She laid next to me, her head right next to my lap. I got a bit uncomfortable, but in a good way.
She edged a little closer to me. I pointed up at the sky and said, “Wow, this is beautiful here. Especially with all the lights out around here.” She said nothing.
Soon, her head was lying in my lap. She grabbed my hand and put it in hers. This, to me, was pure heaven. Sitting out in the middle of summer, hanging out with the girl I’d been trying to get with for the entire summer, holding hands and just sucking in the night air.
After about five minutes, she unbuttoned her shirt. She was wearing a pink button down Polo shirt. It was the guy who’d I’d managed to give her $10 to afford to go on a dutch date with earlier in the night. The guy whose fraternity we had been to about two hours before. How’d I know this? She told me. Which, of course, made me feel oh, so brilliant.
After a few seconds, she took my hand again, placing it on her breast. I was stunned and completely shocked. In a good way. I began caressing it. I looked up in the sky, trying to not to allow my member to rise. Since her head was laying directly on top of it. But, of course, it was of no use. But she sat up, turned to me and looked in my eyes. At that moment, a shooting star buzzed over us. I leaned in and kissed her.
“What a perfect moment, one I will never forget,” I thought to myself. And quite obviously I was right as I am remembering it over 20 years later.
Her tongue was a bit annoying. I remember that as well. We would kiss a few times over the next two years. Always just flirting, never going anywhere. I told her I loved her the next summer, after she’d graduated and came back to visit me. She said she didn’t want that with me. But then kissed me again.
That first night, however, was almost perfect. At least in my mind.
Years later, I was at her wedding. We danced one dance together. I asked her “do you remember that night when we saw that shooting star?” She looked in my eyes, puzzled, and said “No. When did that happen?”
The music stopped a second or three later. I kissed her on the cheek and handed her back off to her husband. He patted me on the back and I ambled over to the bar.
Two years later, she moved back to Virginia. We had lunch. Her marriage came up. Friends, she said, told her they never thought it would last. What did I think, back then? I lied. I said “I knew you guys would make it.” She said. “I knew you believed in me.”
Three years later, they got divorced.
A couple more years later, she got married again. We had lunch one more time after that. She was still as beautiful as she always was. Me, I had crooked teeth and my hair was short. No longer nearly halfway down my back. I was wearing a buttoned up shirt. Striped.
Her first word to me were “you look like Ice Cube.” I found that funny. You would too if you could see me.
We talked. Fell right back into the old days. Me and her, we know how to talk to each other. I’ll give it that. I don’t think she remembers me the way I remember her. That’s OK. If she did, we probably wouldn’t be friends. That’s how it usually works. How it’s supposed to. I’m told.
And then there are the memories that come back. I started to think of the five months that I got to be a dad. I’ve always wanted a kid. Things just haven’t worked out for me in that department. I know my rifle doesn’t shoot blanks, but I also know that the older I get, the less likely I’ll meet someone that shares this desire.
There was a time, however, when I got to be a dad. Experience some of the terror of it. Some of the thrill. Some of the mundane. Some of the joy. But it all ended with sadness. Not for him. Thankfully. At least I hope so.
She moved in with me pretty quickly in our relationship, Crys did. We kissed for the first time on her mom’s doorstep in the town I’d left just a little over a year earlier because it had nothing but evil for my heart. It was one of those moments. Everything just fell right into place at just the right time.
I’ve had that happen just a couple of times in my life.
The first time was in the amphitheater behind my old dorm in Charlottesville. Me and Samantha were just wandering around campus. Don’t really remember what we were doing. I think we’d gone to a party and got bored. Anyway, we walked around all the fraternity houses and took a detour to the dorms. Having been drinking some cheap beer, we both had to pee. I, being a shy virgin of 19 at the time, wasn’t about to pull out my stuff in front of her, a 20 year old who had at least once, tried to seduce me.
We found an unlocked door and got inside the commons area building. All the doors inside, however, were locked. Finally, a janitor came along, asking us “what are you doing here?” She jumped up quickly and said “looking for a place to pee” being all Massachusetts class that she was. I just stared. He said he’d open one bathroom up “for the both of us.” And he did. The men’s room.
I went inside with her. Only one stall. No door. She sat down, peed and flushed. Then stood and looked at me. I walked up to the bowl, unzipped my fly and held my dick. Nothing came. I knew it would be so. She snickered, then walked out. Sweet relief finally came my way about 10 seconds later. Fifteen seconds later, she jumped back in. I promptly stopped again. She laughed this time. Leaving me alone again.
After washing my hands, I went out. She was standing there, having a laugh with the janitor. He was an older guy, probably about mid-30s. Had on overalls that were of the blue striped variety. He was smoking a blunt. He passed it to Samantha. She took a hit. Looked at me and handed it back to the janitor. I walked up and she grabbed my hand and we ran out the door.
Skipping all the way back to the amphitheater we took a seat on the hard cement rows near the top where the colonnades were. I sat back and looked up at the sky. She laid next to me, her head right next to my lap. I got a bit uncomfortable, but in a good way.
She edged a little closer to me. I pointed up at the sky and said, “Wow, this is beautiful here. Especially with all the lights out around here.” She said nothing.
Soon, her head was lying in my lap. She grabbed my hand and put it in hers. This, to me, was pure heaven. Sitting out in the middle of summer, hanging out with the girl I’d been trying to get with for the entire summer, holding hands and just sucking in the night air.
After about five minutes, she unbuttoned her shirt. She was wearing a pink button down Polo shirt. It was the guy who’d I’d managed to give her $10 to afford to go on a dutch date with earlier in the night. The guy whose fraternity we had been to about two hours before. How’d I know this? She told me. Which, of course, made me feel oh, so brilliant.
After a few seconds, she took my hand again, placing it on her breast. I was stunned and completely shocked. In a good way. I began caressing it. I looked up in the sky, trying to not to allow my member to rise. Since her head was laying directly on top of it. But, of course, it was of no use. But she sat up, turned to me and looked in my eyes. At that moment, a shooting star buzzed over us. I leaned in and kissed her.
“What a perfect moment, one I will never forget,” I thought to myself. And quite obviously I was right as I am remembering it over 20 years later.
Her tongue was a bit annoying. I remember that as well. We would kiss a few times over the next two years. Always just flirting, never going anywhere. I told her I loved her the next summer, after she’d graduated and came back to visit me. She said she didn’t want that with me. But then kissed me again.
That first night, however, was almost perfect. At least in my mind.
Years later, I was at her wedding. We danced one dance together. I asked her “do you remember that night when we saw that shooting star?” She looked in my eyes, puzzled, and said “No. When did that happen?”
The music stopped a second or three later. I kissed her on the cheek and handed her back off to her husband. He patted me on the back and I ambled over to the bar.
Two years later, she moved back to Virginia. We had lunch. Her marriage came up. Friends, she said, told her they never thought it would last. What did I think, back then? I lied. I said “I knew you guys would make it.” She said. “I knew you believed in me.”
Three years later, they got divorced.
A couple more years later, she got married again. We had lunch one more time after that. She was still as beautiful as she always was. Me, I had crooked teeth and my hair was short. No longer nearly halfway down my back. I was wearing a buttoned up shirt. Striped.
Her first word to me were “you look like Ice Cube.” I found that funny. You would too if you could see me.
We talked. Fell right back into the old days. Me and her, we know how to talk to each other. I’ll give it that. I don’t think she remembers me the way I remember her. That’s OK. If she did, we probably wouldn’t be friends. That’s how it usually works. How it’s supposed to. I’m told.
Friday, December 24, 2010
topeka
We’d been dating for over three years. Seemed like it was heading in the right direction, whatever the right direction is. Maybe that’s why I shouldn’t be too astonished that tonight I came home and found one piece of notebook paper ripped out from one of my endless supply of journals.
It read simply “That’s enough. See you in Topeka.”
Topeka? I couldn’t wrap my simple mind around what the hell that meant. Never been to Topeka. Never openly expressed the desire to travel to such a nothing kind of place. But, I want to go everywhere in this country at least once, so I guess it’s as good as any other place to say “Fuck you.”
Or is this some kind of cryptic message being sent. Go to Topeka the mind says. Maybe you’ll find the answer there. At least it will answer a question. One question. And usually you don’t even get that much.
When we first met, she seemed to share my desire for aimless rambling. Going somewhere just to go there. Not planning out a course or even booking a hotel room. Slowly, the journeys became less frequent and the spontaneity non-existent. But I just took it for what I thought it was, a little bit of complacency. Maybe a little bit of laziness.
In fact, it was both of them, and neither of them. We just stopped paying attention to what we needed from each other. Or maybe we got exactly what we needed, and no longer had to suck from the tit of “us.”
Those first few months were reckless and stupid. We kissed on a random moment after skirting around the issue for too long. We laughed constantly around each other. We did the same things. We talked about the future. We got in our cars and drove, and went places. And didn’t much pay attention to all the places. Instead, paying attention to each other. Well, that’s what I did. I can’t much speak for her point of view, except what I thought was going on.
We had sex. It was good, but it also was strange.
Soon, we fought a lot. I never understood why. I never knew how it started or what would end it. It always did end. And we fell back into each other. Drinking too much. Fucking in bathroom stalls and shitty hotel rooms. Trying a quickie in the living room of my best friend. It didn’t matter. We were in love with each other. And we wanted to suck every last moment of it out.
After a while, the passion was still there, but life interrupted. It has a way of doing that, if you let it. My experience is that if you let it get in there, it will. Like a slow drip of water. Eventually, even that topples a mountain.
Decisions became less about us, and more about I or me or you or him or her. It wasn’t on purpose. And honestly, I think decisions were always attempted -- in the most roundabout ways -- to be for the good of “us.” But there was never a discussion. It’s why the lyrics “who are we kidding? There never was a plan,” resonate with me every time Benjamin belts ‘em out. The first time I heard those words, I thought of her. The years haven’t dulled the feelings. They haven’t made them less important. All the time has done is fade the memory. Like a painting that been on display in a museum for too many years, it gets old, dirty and maybe starts to crack a bit. But underneath, it’s still the Mona Lisa. It’s still a Picasso or a even a Yves Klein.
“You think too much about the past,” every girlfriend before and since has said to me. They’re all right. I know this. But the fact that they say that means they just don’t get it. Or, I’d like to think they don’t get it. Love lasts forever. Every book ever written on the subject says so. Every song does too. Why? Because you wouldn’t write it if you didn’t want it to last. For the message to be there. Always.
Is it wrong to allow a piece of you to still hold on to the past. No matter how cruel that past was to you, or you to it? I believe it’s folly to believe you can let go of it. Completely. Hell, that’s why we have memories, right? To learn from mistakes. To not repeat them. You put your hand on a hot oven once. Not over and over again. You knock a hornets’ nest from a tree but one time. Unless you like being stung.
What the fuck is in Topeka? Neither of us will probably ever know the answer to that.
Maybe she should have written that note. Instead of me. Or maybe I just think too much about her. And me. And what it is we used to be.
It read simply “That’s enough. See you in Topeka.”
Topeka? I couldn’t wrap my simple mind around what the hell that meant. Never been to Topeka. Never openly expressed the desire to travel to such a nothing kind of place. But, I want to go everywhere in this country at least once, so I guess it’s as good as any other place to say “Fuck you.”
Or is this some kind of cryptic message being sent. Go to Topeka the mind says. Maybe you’ll find the answer there. At least it will answer a question. One question. And usually you don’t even get that much.
When we first met, she seemed to share my desire for aimless rambling. Going somewhere just to go there. Not planning out a course or even booking a hotel room. Slowly, the journeys became less frequent and the spontaneity non-existent. But I just took it for what I thought it was, a little bit of complacency. Maybe a little bit of laziness.
In fact, it was both of them, and neither of them. We just stopped paying attention to what we needed from each other. Or maybe we got exactly what we needed, and no longer had to suck from the tit of “us.”
Those first few months were reckless and stupid. We kissed on a random moment after skirting around the issue for too long. We laughed constantly around each other. We did the same things. We talked about the future. We got in our cars and drove, and went places. And didn’t much pay attention to all the places. Instead, paying attention to each other. Well, that’s what I did. I can’t much speak for her point of view, except what I thought was going on.
We had sex. It was good, but it also was strange.
Soon, we fought a lot. I never understood why. I never knew how it started or what would end it. It always did end. And we fell back into each other. Drinking too much. Fucking in bathroom stalls and shitty hotel rooms. Trying a quickie in the living room of my best friend. It didn’t matter. We were in love with each other. And we wanted to suck every last moment of it out.
After a while, the passion was still there, but life interrupted. It has a way of doing that, if you let it. My experience is that if you let it get in there, it will. Like a slow drip of water. Eventually, even that topples a mountain.
Decisions became less about us, and more about I or me or you or him or her. It wasn’t on purpose. And honestly, I think decisions were always attempted -- in the most roundabout ways -- to be for the good of “us.” But there was never a discussion. It’s why the lyrics “who are we kidding? There never was a plan,” resonate with me every time Benjamin belts ‘em out. The first time I heard those words, I thought of her. The years haven’t dulled the feelings. They haven’t made them less important. All the time has done is fade the memory. Like a painting that been on display in a museum for too many years, it gets old, dirty and maybe starts to crack a bit. But underneath, it’s still the Mona Lisa. It’s still a Picasso or a even a Yves Klein.
“You think too much about the past,” every girlfriend before and since has said to me. They’re all right. I know this. But the fact that they say that means they just don’t get it. Or, I’d like to think they don’t get it. Love lasts forever. Every book ever written on the subject says so. Every song does too. Why? Because you wouldn’t write it if you didn’t want it to last. For the message to be there. Always.
Is it wrong to allow a piece of you to still hold on to the past. No matter how cruel that past was to you, or you to it? I believe it’s folly to believe you can let go of it. Completely. Hell, that’s why we have memories, right? To learn from mistakes. To not repeat them. You put your hand on a hot oven once. Not over and over again. You knock a hornets’ nest from a tree but one time. Unless you like being stung.
What the fuck is in Topeka? Neither of us will probably ever know the answer to that.
Maybe she should have written that note. Instead of me. Or maybe I just think too much about her. And me. And what it is we used to be.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
take your credit card to the liquor store
Christmas night. Just pulled a double shift. Me and the rest of the guys who don’t have wives club, as I’ve kind of coined it. Not that I’d say it out loud, don’t want to let everyone in on the fact that I’m depressed.
I walk outside. It’s cold. Brutally so. The roads are covered with a slim layer of slush. I’m sure underneath much of it is black ice. It’s 45 miles home. I decide that’s a bad idea. Gotta be at work in the morning anyway. Same skeleton crew of misfits will meet up again and put out a newspaper that has no relevance.
But what to do for the next six, seven hours? I get in my car. It’s cold inside. As much so as outside. Just no wind. I crank the engine. Thank goodness for a new car. The heat is still on from when I drove to work 13 hours ago. However, instead of pushing out a nice gusher of hot, warming air, I get a face full of cool breeze. It may be a new car, but the heater is still not the top of the line unit. “Get what you pay for,” I think to myself.
After a couple of minutes, I put the car in reverse. Ready to find something to do. I point the car east, the way home. I figure maybe something will pique my interest. Hopefully.
I see a co-worker walking home. It’s 3 in the morning on Christmas. I pull over. Honk. He looks at me, not knowing who the fuck I am for a moment, then bends down and opens the door.
“Thank ya partner,” T.J. says in his southern drawl. “It’s cold as a witch’s titties out there.”
“Yes. It. Is,” I reply. “So, where you headed.”
“I was going to hit the Driftwood before going home for a few,” T.J. murmured.
“The Driftwood? That Marine strip bar?” I asked incredulously.
“One and the same. You oughta come with, partner. You can meet my daughter.”
Well, that’s an odd invitation. Gotta hand it to T.J., he’s quite the character. Also, exactly who I’m slowly but surely becoming -- a single, old, toothless journalist. Holding on to some bit of the past in a job that doesn’t look kindly on those doing exactly that.
“Sure, why not,” I say. Feeling neither joy, nor pain, over this turn of events. Of course, now I have that song “Joy…and Pain…” by Rob Base and Ez Rock, but it’s fleeting.
The drive to the Driftwood is about a three-minute one from the office. And that’s only because of the numerous stoplights that fill Lejeune Blvd. There aren’t a lot of people on the road tonight, shockingly. I guess everyone’s at home with their families and friends.
Or more likely sleeping.
I pull into the parking lot of the Driftwood. It’s 3:13 a.m. There are exactly two other cars there -- a 1987 Sunfire and a 2009 Kia Sorrento. I don’t think much of it.
We go to the door. A tall, fat black guy is sitting inside the door on a stool.
“Well, Hell-OOOOOOOO, T.J.,” he says as we enter. “It’s Christmas, so you and your buddy, you get a free pass.”
“Much abliged,” T.J. replies with a wink and a no-tooth grin. He makes a sort of quack, quack, noise. I just keep walking. Inside, Motley Crue is playing. “Dr. Feelgood.” Can’t stand that song, so I don’t care to see who would dance to it.
There aren’t any folks in the place. In fact, I don’t even seen girls wandering about. I guess when there aren’t customers, there’s no need to troll around. I head to the bar. T.J. to the head.
“You want anything?” I ask.
“Just say ‘Give me a T.J. They’ll know what it means.”
Not surprised at all that he’s a regular. It turns out a T.J. is a whiskey sour. That actually does surprise me.
At the bar, all the girls that are working are huddled about. Just watching television or playing silly bar computer games. They all see me at the same time, and start making an effort to put on their game faces. That is, until I say “I’ll have a Shiner. Oh, and a T.J.” It seems his name, and his drink order carries some kind of weight here. Not good weight. The girls all turn back to their Tvs and video machines.
I grab my beer, take two long swigs. The music stops.
“And now, for your enjoyment. Eeeeeeveeeeee…” the announcer says.
Nightrain by Guns and Roses starts to play. This interests me. While I understand the attraction of the song to certain elements of society, including hookers, drug dealers and such, I never thought of it as a stripper song.
“Eve” is a redhead. Pale as the fog on a spring morning in the mountains of Tennessee. She loves the song. That’s about all I can tell from her dancing. I’m mesmerized for four minutes and 26 seconds. So much so, I find myself walking up to the stage and actually sitting in one of the chairs that lines it. Kind of gross in an empty strip club.
She sees me and doesn’t pay me much attention. Works the entire stage, despite the fact that I’m there and I’m the only one there. This is cool. I think. She doesn’t give a shit.
After the song, “Eve” disappears behind the stage. T.J. comes out of the bathroom.
“Where’s my drink, partner?” he asks.
I don’t realize he spoke for a second.
“Hey, kiddo, you in love or something? You need to stop staring at that door. She’ll be back, sooner or later. They all come back at some point.”
“Huh? Oh, here’s your drink,” I say, handing him his whiskey sour. He downs it in one long sip. Slams down the glass on the stage and bolts for the bar. Less than a minute later, he’s got two more.
“Two drink minimum, bah!” he says slumping into his chair. An Asian stripper comes over and starts giving him a lap dance. “Well, kiddo, I’ll be seeing ya.”
T.J. disappears to a private room. I don’t see him again until the next night at work. Doesn’t even mention a thing. Not surprised.
A blonde comes up to me, starts doing her thing. I look up, smile and say “No thanks.” This repeats itself four more times. Another blonde, in a black piece of lingerie first. Then a black girl with freckles on her butt. And then a brunette with blue eyes that have way too much eyeliner on them, as well as glitter, glitter everywhere. Finally, “Eve” gives it a go. She doesn’t seem to remember me. I just stare as she talks, not hearing a word. She takes my hand and we go to a private room. I know this is a mistake. I’ve got $58 in my bank account and $45 in my wallet. But I go anyway.
In the room, I just ask one question “Why Nightrain?”
“Because it’s my favorite song. But I only dance to it when no one is here.”
“But I was here,” I said.
“Yeah, at first I was pissed. But then I noticed you were mouthing the words. That means you weren’t just lustily leering at me.”
“Well, I was a bit.”
“Me too.”
I walk outside. It’s cold. Brutally so. The roads are covered with a slim layer of slush. I’m sure underneath much of it is black ice. It’s 45 miles home. I decide that’s a bad idea. Gotta be at work in the morning anyway. Same skeleton crew of misfits will meet up again and put out a newspaper that has no relevance.
But what to do for the next six, seven hours? I get in my car. It’s cold inside. As much so as outside. Just no wind. I crank the engine. Thank goodness for a new car. The heat is still on from when I drove to work 13 hours ago. However, instead of pushing out a nice gusher of hot, warming air, I get a face full of cool breeze. It may be a new car, but the heater is still not the top of the line unit. “Get what you pay for,” I think to myself.
After a couple of minutes, I put the car in reverse. Ready to find something to do. I point the car east, the way home. I figure maybe something will pique my interest. Hopefully.
I see a co-worker walking home. It’s 3 in the morning on Christmas. I pull over. Honk. He looks at me, not knowing who the fuck I am for a moment, then bends down and opens the door.
“Thank ya partner,” T.J. says in his southern drawl. “It’s cold as a witch’s titties out there.”
“Yes. It. Is,” I reply. “So, where you headed.”
“I was going to hit the Driftwood before going home for a few,” T.J. murmured.
“The Driftwood? That Marine strip bar?” I asked incredulously.
“One and the same. You oughta come with, partner. You can meet my daughter.”
Well, that’s an odd invitation. Gotta hand it to T.J., he’s quite the character. Also, exactly who I’m slowly but surely becoming -- a single, old, toothless journalist. Holding on to some bit of the past in a job that doesn’t look kindly on those doing exactly that.
“Sure, why not,” I say. Feeling neither joy, nor pain, over this turn of events. Of course, now I have that song “Joy…and Pain…” by Rob Base and Ez Rock, but it’s fleeting.
The drive to the Driftwood is about a three-minute one from the office. And that’s only because of the numerous stoplights that fill Lejeune Blvd. There aren’t a lot of people on the road tonight, shockingly. I guess everyone’s at home with their families and friends.
Or more likely sleeping.
I pull into the parking lot of the Driftwood. It’s 3:13 a.m. There are exactly two other cars there -- a 1987 Sunfire and a 2009 Kia Sorrento. I don’t think much of it.
We go to the door. A tall, fat black guy is sitting inside the door on a stool.
“Well, Hell-OOOOOOOO, T.J.,” he says as we enter. “It’s Christmas, so you and your buddy, you get a free pass.”
“Much abliged,” T.J. replies with a wink and a no-tooth grin. He makes a sort of quack, quack, noise. I just keep walking. Inside, Motley Crue is playing. “Dr. Feelgood.” Can’t stand that song, so I don’t care to see who would dance to it.
There aren’t any folks in the place. In fact, I don’t even seen girls wandering about. I guess when there aren’t customers, there’s no need to troll around. I head to the bar. T.J. to the head.
“You want anything?” I ask.
“Just say ‘Give me a T.J. They’ll know what it means.”
Not surprised at all that he’s a regular. It turns out a T.J. is a whiskey sour. That actually does surprise me.
At the bar, all the girls that are working are huddled about. Just watching television or playing silly bar computer games. They all see me at the same time, and start making an effort to put on their game faces. That is, until I say “I’ll have a Shiner. Oh, and a T.J.” It seems his name, and his drink order carries some kind of weight here. Not good weight. The girls all turn back to their Tvs and video machines.
I grab my beer, take two long swigs. The music stops.
“And now, for your enjoyment. Eeeeeeveeeeee…” the announcer says.
Nightrain by Guns and Roses starts to play. This interests me. While I understand the attraction of the song to certain elements of society, including hookers, drug dealers and such, I never thought of it as a stripper song.
“Eve” is a redhead. Pale as the fog on a spring morning in the mountains of Tennessee. She loves the song. That’s about all I can tell from her dancing. I’m mesmerized for four minutes and 26 seconds. So much so, I find myself walking up to the stage and actually sitting in one of the chairs that lines it. Kind of gross in an empty strip club.
She sees me and doesn’t pay me much attention. Works the entire stage, despite the fact that I’m there and I’m the only one there. This is cool. I think. She doesn’t give a shit.
After the song, “Eve” disappears behind the stage. T.J. comes out of the bathroom.
“Where’s my drink, partner?” he asks.
I don’t realize he spoke for a second.
“Hey, kiddo, you in love or something? You need to stop staring at that door. She’ll be back, sooner or later. They all come back at some point.”
“Huh? Oh, here’s your drink,” I say, handing him his whiskey sour. He downs it in one long sip. Slams down the glass on the stage and bolts for the bar. Less than a minute later, he’s got two more.
“Two drink minimum, bah!” he says slumping into his chair. An Asian stripper comes over and starts giving him a lap dance. “Well, kiddo, I’ll be seeing ya.”
T.J. disappears to a private room. I don’t see him again until the next night at work. Doesn’t even mention a thing. Not surprised.
A blonde comes up to me, starts doing her thing. I look up, smile and say “No thanks.” This repeats itself four more times. Another blonde, in a black piece of lingerie first. Then a black girl with freckles on her butt. And then a brunette with blue eyes that have way too much eyeliner on them, as well as glitter, glitter everywhere. Finally, “Eve” gives it a go. She doesn’t seem to remember me. I just stare as she talks, not hearing a word. She takes my hand and we go to a private room. I know this is a mistake. I’ve got $58 in my bank account and $45 in my wallet. But I go anyway.
In the room, I just ask one question “Why Nightrain?”
“Because it’s my favorite song. But I only dance to it when no one is here.”
“But I was here,” I said.
“Yeah, at first I was pissed. But then I noticed you were mouthing the words. That means you weren’t just lustily leering at me.”
“Well, I was a bit.”
“Me too.”
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
night off...
having worked a double, with two more doubles coming up (even on x-mas eve :-( ...) i'm taking tonight off.
two ideas were kicking around, one was part 2 of pretty vacant with some velvet underground and radar o'reilly or something about sad songs not being sad anymore.
later.
two ideas were kicking around, one was part 2 of pretty vacant with some velvet underground and radar o'reilly or something about sad songs not being sad anymore.
later.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
chiseled
“The Velvet Fog. Fuck. That’s such a great nickname,” I said to the lady next to me.
“Excuse me?” she said in startled reply.
Hell, that’s the first time that one’s worked for me I think to myself. I look at this lady who has decided that I’m worthy of at least one question. She’s probably 30 years old. Long black hair, just past her shoulders. Dark brown eyes.
“The Velvet Fog. I think that’s a fucking great nickname.”
“Do you have to cuss when you say it?”
“The Velvet Fog. I think it’s a freaking great nickname,” I say with a tip of my glass and a quick gulp. I’m actually quite nervous now. She hasn’t run away or just simply looked away. She’s giving me the Robert DeNiro stare now, so she must have some interest in me.
“You know, Mel Torme supposedly hated that nickname,” a voice from the other side of the lady spoke up.
Shit. This guy’s going to swoop in and take her away from me like a hawk with a batch of stray kittens in a New Mexico field at noon. Both of us look at this guy at the same time. He’s got a chiseled chin. The kind that says “I’m a homosexual.” Well, at least that’s what I usually think. She probably thinks he’s dreamy, in a Robert Redford kind of way. I just see Peter Griffin.
“In fact, I think it’s kind of a simple nickname,” he continued, now that he had her attention, and much to my chagrin, mine as well.
“I like it,” she said, quickly turning her back on chisel chin and back to me. Her gaze once again drilled right into my brain. I think she was scanning me like Michael Ironside. I checked my nose in the mirror for a bleed. No such thing.
“Why did you just spit that out like that,” she asked me. “I mean, you were just staring at your beer and then you said it. I have to know.”
I was flabbergasted. She had to be looking at me when I said it to know this. In fact, she must have been looking at me for a while.
“It just popped into my head. I’ve only had a couple of nicknames in my life. Pony Boy, because I had a ponytail, and lesbo, because my e-mail address closely resembled that.”
“Pony Boy? Ha! You look nothing like C. Thomas Howell!”
“Thank you,” I said.
We shared a smile. And then silence while we took in the surroundings. Chisel chin was making his move on a chunky Asian by the jukebox now. He was laying it on think from the way he was moving his hands this way and that. All the while, his newest target yawned.
“Watch this,” she said to me as she stood up.
I quickly grabbed a hold of her wrist. “Wait a second…”
She looked down at me holding her arm. Then gave me a scornful look. I recoiled. She laughed.
“Don’t worry, I’m not running away or anything.”
“But I don’t know your name.”
“Nor do I know yours,” she said as she ambled over to the jukebox where chisel chin was now staring dully into his beer after yet another love connection misfire.
I watched her walk over to the jukebox. She had quite the amazing ass. It moved when she walked, but it didn’t move too much or too little. I bet it looks very good outside those jeans.
She cocked her head back and then to the left, giving me a wink in the process. I watched on. I was quite in rapt with this. I had no idea what would come next.
They talked for a couple of minutes. He didn’t seem to interested at first, then she touched his arm. I got jealous. “Am I getting played,” I started to wonder. But before I could delve too deeply into my own psychosis, the two of them were coming back to the bar. Laughing quite profusely.
“Damn, guy,” chisel chin said. “Your wife here just told me you were in Iraq for the last two years and tonight is the first night you’re together. I wanted to apologize for being such an ass and hitting on your woman.”
I was dumbfounded. In a good way. I just nodded and looked at my new “wife.”
“Yeah, we were here hoping to get a quick drink before going to the W across town and then just enjoy each other,” she said.
“Shit, the W? I’m the manager of the place. You have reservations?”
“No.” I said quickly. “We figured we would just roll up.”
“Shit, that’s bad news, my man. The Celtics are in town tonight and the place if almost booked solid.”
We both looked at each other when he said “almost.”
“Damn,” she said.
“However,” chisel chin interjected. “I can get you guys a room. You don’t mind the penthouse suite do you? We will just have to kick out Kevin Garnett’s posse. But they won’t be trying to check in until 5 or so.”
“Wow. That’s awful nice of ya,” I said, waiting just enough of a pause before saying… “But…”
“No buts, my man,” he said, slapping me on the back. “Consider it a gift from me, Raeford P. Curlins.”
“Why thank you Raeford!” she said with a wink to me and a high five to him.
Twenty minutes later, we were at the W. Fully stocked bar, included.
“You going to tell me your name now?” I asked.
“Mairead,” she said.
“Damn, you even have a cool name,” was my only response.
She touched her lips with one finger, ssshhhing me without a sound.
“I’m beginning to feel like I’m in the presence of greatness,” I thought to myself.
“Excuse me?” she said in startled reply.
Hell, that’s the first time that one’s worked for me I think to myself. I look at this lady who has decided that I’m worthy of at least one question. She’s probably 30 years old. Long black hair, just past her shoulders. Dark brown eyes.
“The Velvet Fog. I think that’s a fucking great nickname.”
“Do you have to cuss when you say it?”
“The Velvet Fog. I think it’s a freaking great nickname,” I say with a tip of my glass and a quick gulp. I’m actually quite nervous now. She hasn’t run away or just simply looked away. She’s giving me the Robert DeNiro stare now, so she must have some interest in me.
“You know, Mel Torme supposedly hated that nickname,” a voice from the other side of the lady spoke up.
Shit. This guy’s going to swoop in and take her away from me like a hawk with a batch of stray kittens in a New Mexico field at noon. Both of us look at this guy at the same time. He’s got a chiseled chin. The kind that says “I’m a homosexual.” Well, at least that’s what I usually think. She probably thinks he’s dreamy, in a Robert Redford kind of way. I just see Peter Griffin.
“In fact, I think it’s kind of a simple nickname,” he continued, now that he had her attention, and much to my chagrin, mine as well.
“I like it,” she said, quickly turning her back on chisel chin and back to me. Her gaze once again drilled right into my brain. I think she was scanning me like Michael Ironside. I checked my nose in the mirror for a bleed. No such thing.
“Why did you just spit that out like that,” she asked me. “I mean, you were just staring at your beer and then you said it. I have to know.”
I was flabbergasted. She had to be looking at me when I said it to know this. In fact, she must have been looking at me for a while.
“It just popped into my head. I’ve only had a couple of nicknames in my life. Pony Boy, because I had a ponytail, and lesbo, because my e-mail address closely resembled that.”
“Pony Boy? Ha! You look nothing like C. Thomas Howell!”
“Thank you,” I said.
We shared a smile. And then silence while we took in the surroundings. Chisel chin was making his move on a chunky Asian by the jukebox now. He was laying it on think from the way he was moving his hands this way and that. All the while, his newest target yawned.
“Watch this,” she said to me as she stood up.
I quickly grabbed a hold of her wrist. “Wait a second…”
She looked down at me holding her arm. Then gave me a scornful look. I recoiled. She laughed.
“Don’t worry, I’m not running away or anything.”
“But I don’t know your name.”
“Nor do I know yours,” she said as she ambled over to the jukebox where chisel chin was now staring dully into his beer after yet another love connection misfire.
I watched her walk over to the jukebox. She had quite the amazing ass. It moved when she walked, but it didn’t move too much or too little. I bet it looks very good outside those jeans.
She cocked her head back and then to the left, giving me a wink in the process. I watched on. I was quite in rapt with this. I had no idea what would come next.
They talked for a couple of minutes. He didn’t seem to interested at first, then she touched his arm. I got jealous. “Am I getting played,” I started to wonder. But before I could delve too deeply into my own psychosis, the two of them were coming back to the bar. Laughing quite profusely.
“Damn, guy,” chisel chin said. “Your wife here just told me you were in Iraq for the last two years and tonight is the first night you’re together. I wanted to apologize for being such an ass and hitting on your woman.”
I was dumbfounded. In a good way. I just nodded and looked at my new “wife.”
“Yeah, we were here hoping to get a quick drink before going to the W across town and then just enjoy each other,” she said.
“Shit, the W? I’m the manager of the place. You have reservations?”
“No.” I said quickly. “We figured we would just roll up.”
“Shit, that’s bad news, my man. The Celtics are in town tonight and the place if almost booked solid.”
We both looked at each other when he said “almost.”
“Damn,” she said.
“However,” chisel chin interjected. “I can get you guys a room. You don’t mind the penthouse suite do you? We will just have to kick out Kevin Garnett’s posse. But they won’t be trying to check in until 5 or so.”
“Wow. That’s awful nice of ya,” I said, waiting just enough of a pause before saying… “But…”
“No buts, my man,” he said, slapping me on the back. “Consider it a gift from me, Raeford P. Curlins.”
“Why thank you Raeford!” she said with a wink to me and a high five to him.
Twenty minutes later, we were at the W. Fully stocked bar, included.
“You going to tell me your name now?” I asked.
“Mairead,” she said.
“Damn, you even have a cool name,” was my only response.
She touched her lips with one finger, ssshhhing me without a sound.
“I’m beginning to feel like I’m in the presence of greatness,” I thought to myself.
Monday, December 20, 2010
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.
“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.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
wet fart in a sleeping bag
The cold is penetrating my sleeping bag. I fart a drawn out, almost wet fart. I’m inside the bag, and it’s so potent it makes my eyes water. However, for just a brief instant, I feel a bit warmer. Maybe from the fart, but I doubt it. More likely it’s because of the smile on my face. Farts do that.
***
I walk by this guy on the street corner every day. He’s got a beat up cardboard sign. I guess, actually, he has two. One says “Laid off. Need money to pay my rent.” The other says “Bush lied to me. And to you. I need money. Now.”
His old lawn chair is frayed and torn. It probably doesn’t have a lot of life left in it.
He knows my name by now. Eight months of passing and saying hi, dropping some coins in his jar and swapping chit-chat can do that. It still startles some folks when he says “Hey, Randy!” to me.
His name? Joe Riggin. He calls himself Dirt because he’s dirty. Which of course allows folk to playfully call him Joe Dirt. One time someone gave him a truckers hat with a long wig attached. He laughed it up, then tossed it in the dumpster next to the old fish market that he’s staked out as his territory.
***
My feet stink.
I’ve worn the same socks for three days in a row now.
With old dirty shoes.
I can’t remember the last time anyone swept or vacuumed the floor.
Anyone?
I do live alone.
Burnt down match sticks also litter the floor, along with aluminum foil and playing cards.
No drugs, however.
Just empty candle jars, microwave dinner boxes and notepads.
***
What the fuck? It’s daylight? It should be night.
Sleep comes sometimes 16 hours a stretch. Or just fits of one hour spurts.
***
I watched he when she came into the bar. Light green dress on. The kind that lets you see up her leg for a second, then covers itself right back up before showing you too much.
Damn she has good legs. Anyone who doesn’t like a good set of sticks on a lady is a fool. If the legs hold up, you know everything else will too.
***
I found an old notepad. I opened it up because I didn’t remember where it was from. It was in a folder with some handouts and such.
As the words unfolded from the paper to my brain, I couldn’t comprehend ever having written them. But it’s clearly my handwriting. Clearly my scattered way of taking notes. And it’s about my profession. The one I gave up a life for. The one that has died and gone to hell. The one that seems to be so close, yet impossible to reach again.
Finally, I realize this is the notepad from the seminar I went to in April of 2006. A month after one of the worst moments of my life. Which, looking back, really wasn’t so god damn awful after all. If you put it in perspective of other folks’ worst moments.
I don’t remember much of that seminar. It should have been a chance to mingle with the “greats” of my profession. To network. Hobnob. Get my name out there, so to speak. It started with me in line for my hotel room. There was Woody Peele. There was Jim Litke. There was Susan Brennan. And then there was me.
I said hello. Love your work. They made pleasantries. Then I went blank. I started to wander back to my depression. And I just sunk back into line. Didn’t say a word.
Later, at a meet and greet, I saw a familiar face. We shared laughs. We got a drink. Then I slipped back into my coma. He ended up going off to talk to Stephen A. Smith. Me? I went to a table and just sat. I don’t remember much else.
Eventually, I must have gotten tired or bored or paranoid.
I woke up the next day having drank two Red Stripes and started crying.
I cried a lot in 2006. A lot in 2007. A whole lot in 2008. A little less in 2009. A whole lot less so far in 2010.
It still “matters” to me. But I don’t care as much. I guess that’s as good an explanation as there is?
I put the notepad back in a box. The words are unfamiliar and not at all reassuring. But, I still have it, and that’s a rarity. So, I keep it. Stash it away for the next time I stumble upon it.
***
***
I walk by this guy on the street corner every day. He’s got a beat up cardboard sign. I guess, actually, he has two. One says “Laid off. Need money to pay my rent.” The other says “Bush lied to me. And to you. I need money. Now.”
His old lawn chair is frayed and torn. It probably doesn’t have a lot of life left in it.
He knows my name by now. Eight months of passing and saying hi, dropping some coins in his jar and swapping chit-chat can do that. It still startles some folks when he says “Hey, Randy!” to me.
His name? Joe Riggin. He calls himself Dirt because he’s dirty. Which of course allows folk to playfully call him Joe Dirt. One time someone gave him a truckers hat with a long wig attached. He laughed it up, then tossed it in the dumpster next to the old fish market that he’s staked out as his territory.
***
My feet stink.
I’ve worn the same socks for three days in a row now.
With old dirty shoes.
I can’t remember the last time anyone swept or vacuumed the floor.
Anyone?
I do live alone.
Burnt down match sticks also litter the floor, along with aluminum foil and playing cards.
No drugs, however.
Just empty candle jars, microwave dinner boxes and notepads.
***
What the fuck? It’s daylight? It should be night.
Sleep comes sometimes 16 hours a stretch. Or just fits of one hour spurts.
***
I watched he when she came into the bar. Light green dress on. The kind that lets you see up her leg for a second, then covers itself right back up before showing you too much.
Damn she has good legs. Anyone who doesn’t like a good set of sticks on a lady is a fool. If the legs hold up, you know everything else will too.
***
I found an old notepad. I opened it up because I didn’t remember where it was from. It was in a folder with some handouts and such.
As the words unfolded from the paper to my brain, I couldn’t comprehend ever having written them. But it’s clearly my handwriting. Clearly my scattered way of taking notes. And it’s about my profession. The one I gave up a life for. The one that has died and gone to hell. The one that seems to be so close, yet impossible to reach again.
Finally, I realize this is the notepad from the seminar I went to in April of 2006. A month after one of the worst moments of my life. Which, looking back, really wasn’t so god damn awful after all. If you put it in perspective of other folks’ worst moments.
I don’t remember much of that seminar. It should have been a chance to mingle with the “greats” of my profession. To network. Hobnob. Get my name out there, so to speak. It started with me in line for my hotel room. There was Woody Peele. There was Jim Litke. There was Susan Brennan. And then there was me.
I said hello. Love your work. They made pleasantries. Then I went blank. I started to wander back to my depression. And I just sunk back into line. Didn’t say a word.
Later, at a meet and greet, I saw a familiar face. We shared laughs. We got a drink. Then I slipped back into my coma. He ended up going off to talk to Stephen A. Smith. Me? I went to a table and just sat. I don’t remember much else.
Eventually, I must have gotten tired or bored or paranoid.
I woke up the next day having drank two Red Stripes and started crying.
I cried a lot in 2006. A lot in 2007. A whole lot in 2008. A little less in 2009. A whole lot less so far in 2010.
It still “matters” to me. But I don’t care as much. I guess that’s as good an explanation as there is?
I put the notepad back in a box. The words are unfamiliar and not at all reassuring. But, I still have it, and that’s a rarity. So, I keep it. Stash it away for the next time I stumble upon it.
***
Saturday, December 18, 2010
spontaneity
Sitting around the house, decorating for Christmas, the David Lee Roth video for “Goin' Crazy” pops into my head.
“Ahhh…breath mint.”
This is the world I live in. I inhabit.
Not always such a horrible place, I guess. Insanity would pale in comparison sometimes. At others it would be an improvement. But most of the times it would just be another excuse for not trying. And that just can’t happen any more.
Being spontaneous. It can’t be forced. Hence spontaneity.
So I jumped up in my shorts and soccer socks and dashed outside. The old crowd is gathering at the bar across the street. The shag bar. Is there such a thing as a Shag Christmas, I start to wonder as I stand out in the frigid air. The wind is blowing in from the ocean, making it feel 10 degrees cooler than it actually is. A couple is making out by their car. They stop to stare at me -- the guy in shorts and soccer socks. I feel the top of my head, I have a ski cap on. The one I bought at Mardi Gras last year. Saints. It’s much warmer than the other ones I have. And bigger. Might be the fact I haven’t washed and dried it yet. I take it off my head, give it a whiff. It has a slight odor of stale beer. That makes me think of standing on a ladder during a parade. Holding up a couple of kids. Drew Brees glides toward us in his float. It stops in front of us. He tosses 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 footballs directly at us. My cousin-in-law drops all of them. After six or seven minutes, the floats moves on again. That’s a pretty good memory.
I try to think of other memories. Just random snapshots. It should help keep my warm. There was the time I went to the Grand Canyon with Rebecca. We got in my Firebird and just drove. No reservations. It was summer. We talked nervously. I had bought a box of condoms for the trip. Actually the first time I’d bought them in my life. Ha. In the drug store I bought a magazine and a box of Slim Jims with it. Can’t ever just go in and buy condoms. At least the first time. Dork. We went to the Grand Canyon. She took photos. I didn’t. I wish I had now. Even though I’ve been back there many times over. The first time with Josh, way back when. We get one of those cheesy, haven’t been renovated since the 1960s hotel rooms that Flagstaff is so full of. It was over 100 bucks, I remember that. We went and bought beer and wine coolers. I don’t think we drank any of them. We nervously talked some more. Then turned on the TV. And fell asleep.
Seeing Barton Fink with Sharon. Ha. It was a date. Go to the library, check out a laserdisc. I suggested it. She looked interested at first, then bored. Later on, I took her to see The Hudsucker Proxy. She said it was awful. Ha. I loved it. “You know…For kids!” Not everything about her was so perfect.
Wandering about on campus. Happy and carefree. I don’t even know why. But we stopped and took a photo in front of the music hall or whatever it was on campus where the music classes were. It’s one of only two or three photos I know of that exist of me and my real first girlfriend. We’re smiling and happy. I dig that photo.
Walking around the Goodwill in Petersburg, Virginia, I was bored. It was summer, I remember that much. As I browsed the shelves, I stumbled upon some Christmas stuff. “Odd,” I thought. But there it was. “Santy”, the old plastic Santa Claus that we had growing up. Well, it’s still there. And my mom still busts it out, most of the time, at least. I snapped it up. It cost 99 cents. Probably the best 99 cents I ever spent at a thrift store. Why? It still makes me smile, even during the worst times. And there have been quite a lot of “worst” times since I found it.
We were in a hotel room in New Jersey. Probably an hour or so outside of the city. She was jumping up and down on her bed. Yes, we had two. She was so cute. So awesome. I wondered if she meant it when she said she hated it when friends try to be more than friends. Finally, she tired out and plopped down on the bed. “Where are we going?” she asked. I smiled. In the office, I always dared her to be more spontaneous. That enjoying life required it. She scoffed at the idea. She liked things safe. Planned out. Orderly. I didn’t. Still don’t. Then, one day I said it, almost as a challenge. She accepted. Saying “I’ll do anything you want. Just one time. I’ll trust you.” I smiled and said, well, next week we’re both off on these days. Let’s take a road trip. “Where?” she said. “Not telling,” I replied. “No fair, I said I’d go,” she pouted. “But, you have to trust me,” I retorted. “OK.”
Now, I was kind of perplexed. I had a week to figure out something cool. And I figured it out really quickly as I scanned the agate page that night on deadline. Opening day. New York Mets. Al Leiter pitching. That night, after work, I went to eBay. I found some tickets. I bid and won. They were nose bleeders, but they were mine. Got them shipped next day Fed Express. They came. A few days later, we were in my Celica, going North.
“Ok,” I finally relented in the hotel room. “So you don’t think I’m just a weirdo, we’re going to see the Mets. Al’s pitching.” She freaked out. Jumping even faster than before. It was magical. It seemed right. We didn’t start dating for another four months. After trips to North Carolina, South Carolina, Atlantic City and Colorado. I wonder, too often for my own health, if she at least kept that piece of what I showed her. That spontaneity is a good thing. I need to go somewhere. Soon. I think Little Rock, Arkansas, is where. It’s driveable. Only need five days total. That’s two days off. Two sick days and a holiday.
Ha. Of course, then it’s not spontaneous anymore. Or is it?
“Ahhh…breath mint.”
This is the world I live in. I inhabit.
Not always such a horrible place, I guess. Insanity would pale in comparison sometimes. At others it would be an improvement. But most of the times it would just be another excuse for not trying. And that just can’t happen any more.
Being spontaneous. It can’t be forced. Hence spontaneity.
So I jumped up in my shorts and soccer socks and dashed outside. The old crowd is gathering at the bar across the street. The shag bar. Is there such a thing as a Shag Christmas, I start to wonder as I stand out in the frigid air. The wind is blowing in from the ocean, making it feel 10 degrees cooler than it actually is. A couple is making out by their car. They stop to stare at me -- the guy in shorts and soccer socks. I feel the top of my head, I have a ski cap on. The one I bought at Mardi Gras last year. Saints. It’s much warmer than the other ones I have. And bigger. Might be the fact I haven’t washed and dried it yet. I take it off my head, give it a whiff. It has a slight odor of stale beer. That makes me think of standing on a ladder during a parade. Holding up a couple of kids. Drew Brees glides toward us in his float. It stops in front of us. He tosses 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 footballs directly at us. My cousin-in-law drops all of them. After six or seven minutes, the floats moves on again. That’s a pretty good memory.
I try to think of other memories. Just random snapshots. It should help keep my warm. There was the time I went to the Grand Canyon with Rebecca. We got in my Firebird and just drove. No reservations. It was summer. We talked nervously. I had bought a box of condoms for the trip. Actually the first time I’d bought them in my life. Ha. In the drug store I bought a magazine and a box of Slim Jims with it. Can’t ever just go in and buy condoms. At least the first time. Dork. We went to the Grand Canyon. She took photos. I didn’t. I wish I had now. Even though I’ve been back there many times over. The first time with Josh, way back when. We get one of those cheesy, haven’t been renovated since the 1960s hotel rooms that Flagstaff is so full of. It was over 100 bucks, I remember that. We went and bought beer and wine coolers. I don’t think we drank any of them. We nervously talked some more. Then turned on the TV. And fell asleep.
Seeing Barton Fink with Sharon. Ha. It was a date. Go to the library, check out a laserdisc. I suggested it. She looked interested at first, then bored. Later on, I took her to see The Hudsucker Proxy. She said it was awful. Ha. I loved it. “You know…For kids!” Not everything about her was so perfect.
Wandering about on campus. Happy and carefree. I don’t even know why. But we stopped and took a photo in front of the music hall or whatever it was on campus where the music classes were. It’s one of only two or three photos I know of that exist of me and my real first girlfriend. We’re smiling and happy. I dig that photo.
Walking around the Goodwill in Petersburg, Virginia, I was bored. It was summer, I remember that much. As I browsed the shelves, I stumbled upon some Christmas stuff. “Odd,” I thought. But there it was. “Santy”, the old plastic Santa Claus that we had growing up. Well, it’s still there. And my mom still busts it out, most of the time, at least. I snapped it up. It cost 99 cents. Probably the best 99 cents I ever spent at a thrift store. Why? It still makes me smile, even during the worst times. And there have been quite a lot of “worst” times since I found it.
We were in a hotel room in New Jersey. Probably an hour or so outside of the city. She was jumping up and down on her bed. Yes, we had two. She was so cute. So awesome. I wondered if she meant it when she said she hated it when friends try to be more than friends. Finally, she tired out and plopped down on the bed. “Where are we going?” she asked. I smiled. In the office, I always dared her to be more spontaneous. That enjoying life required it. She scoffed at the idea. She liked things safe. Planned out. Orderly. I didn’t. Still don’t. Then, one day I said it, almost as a challenge. She accepted. Saying “I’ll do anything you want. Just one time. I’ll trust you.” I smiled and said, well, next week we’re both off on these days. Let’s take a road trip. “Where?” she said. “Not telling,” I replied. “No fair, I said I’d go,” she pouted. “But, you have to trust me,” I retorted. “OK.”
Now, I was kind of perplexed. I had a week to figure out something cool. And I figured it out really quickly as I scanned the agate page that night on deadline. Opening day. New York Mets. Al Leiter pitching. That night, after work, I went to eBay. I found some tickets. I bid and won. They were nose bleeders, but they were mine. Got them shipped next day Fed Express. They came. A few days later, we were in my Celica, going North.
“Ok,” I finally relented in the hotel room. “So you don’t think I’m just a weirdo, we’re going to see the Mets. Al’s pitching.” She freaked out. Jumping even faster than before. It was magical. It seemed right. We didn’t start dating for another four months. After trips to North Carolina, South Carolina, Atlantic City and Colorado. I wonder, too often for my own health, if she at least kept that piece of what I showed her. That spontaneity is a good thing. I need to go somewhere. Soon. I think Little Rock, Arkansas, is where. It’s driveable. Only need five days total. That’s two days off. Two sick days and a holiday.
Ha. Of course, then it’s not spontaneous anymore. Or is it?
Friday, December 17, 2010
Hey, nobody's shooting at me
(Disclaimer...Didn't make the world limit. Even close. Sue me.)
I saw this kid every day. Blonde hair, cut short. Not quite a buzz cut, but darn close. Always wore a Quicksilver t-shirt. Ordered the same thing every time.
“Bud light. One shot of Wild Turkey.”
He’d drink it, then walk over to whatever woman might be in the place. Big. Little. Short. Tall. Fat. Skinny. White. Black. Well-dressed. Wearing biker shorts. It didn’t matter to this kid.
Every time, he’d go up, say something then smile. The woman would shake her head. Or simply say no.
How’d I know all this? I’m the barkeep, Joe.
“Joe, give me a Bud Light. One shot of Wild Turkey,” the kid said after his latest answer of no from a lady. “Actually, make that a double.”
I opened the bottles and poured the shots. Three of ‘em. One for me.
“Here’s to ya kid. You’ve got heart,” I said.
“Why do you say that Joe?” he queried.
“Every single day you do a shot, drink a beer and then go talk to a woman. I have no idea what you say to them. What you ask of them or just ask them. But every time, they say no. Usually very politely, but it’s always a no. And no matter what, you always go back for more.
“That to me says you got heart.”
“Really? You think talking to a woman means I got heart?”
“Certainly.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you get shot down every time. But you keep going back.”
“I’m not getting shot down. They’re just answering the question. And so far, it’s always been no.”
“Well, shit. Tell me this question, Mitchell.”
“Nah. That would spoil it. One day, one of them is going to say yes.”
“I used to think that way.”
“Why don’t you anymore?”
“Too many of them said yes.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
I poured out two more shots. We raised glasses and shot ‘em down.
“Well, Mitchell, if it ain’t heart you got, it’s persistence.”
“My Sergeant used to say the same damn thing,” Mitchell said with a sigh.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Then he’d send me out to be the sniper. You see, I was my unit’s crack shot.”
“Damn. I guess all this talking to strange women ain’t so hard then?”
“It’s hard, for sure. But hey, nobody’s shooting at me,” he said.
We laughed for a second. Mitchell got up, went to the jukebox. Plopped in a quarter, clicked some buttons and walked back to the bar. By the time he was comfy on his stool, the song started playing.
“I’ve Been Hurt” by Bill Deal.
“One Bud Light. Shot of Wild Turkey, Joe.”
I saw this kid every day. Blonde hair, cut short. Not quite a buzz cut, but darn close. Always wore a Quicksilver t-shirt. Ordered the same thing every time.
“Bud light. One shot of Wild Turkey.”
He’d drink it, then walk over to whatever woman might be in the place. Big. Little. Short. Tall. Fat. Skinny. White. Black. Well-dressed. Wearing biker shorts. It didn’t matter to this kid.
Every time, he’d go up, say something then smile. The woman would shake her head. Or simply say no.
How’d I know all this? I’m the barkeep, Joe.
“Joe, give me a Bud Light. One shot of Wild Turkey,” the kid said after his latest answer of no from a lady. “Actually, make that a double.”
I opened the bottles and poured the shots. Three of ‘em. One for me.
“Here’s to ya kid. You’ve got heart,” I said.
“Why do you say that Joe?” he queried.
“Every single day you do a shot, drink a beer and then go talk to a woman. I have no idea what you say to them. What you ask of them or just ask them. But every time, they say no. Usually very politely, but it’s always a no. And no matter what, you always go back for more.
“That to me says you got heart.”
“Really? You think talking to a woman means I got heart?”
“Certainly.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you get shot down every time. But you keep going back.”
“I’m not getting shot down. They’re just answering the question. And so far, it’s always been no.”
“Well, shit. Tell me this question, Mitchell.”
“Nah. That would spoil it. One day, one of them is going to say yes.”
“I used to think that way.”
“Why don’t you anymore?”
“Too many of them said yes.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
I poured out two more shots. We raised glasses and shot ‘em down.
“Well, Mitchell, if it ain’t heart you got, it’s persistence.”
“My Sergeant used to say the same damn thing,” Mitchell said with a sigh.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Then he’d send me out to be the sniper. You see, I was my unit’s crack shot.”
“Damn. I guess all this talking to strange women ain’t so hard then?”
“It’s hard, for sure. But hey, nobody’s shooting at me,” he said.
We laughed for a second. Mitchell got up, went to the jukebox. Plopped in a quarter, clicked some buttons and walked back to the bar. By the time he was comfy on his stool, the song started playing.
“I’ve Been Hurt” by Bill Deal.
“One Bud Light. Shot of Wild Turkey, Joe.”
Thursday, December 16, 2010
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.
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.
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