ANOSOGNOSIA: When We Were Young (A Memoir)

 

 

 

WHEN WE WERE YOUNG

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FOREWORD

I started writing this book when I was about seventeen. I always knew I would write a book.  I wanted to document my life. It would be proof that I was here.  The world is huge, and it is easy to be swept up in the crowd.  The book is meant to preserve my memories of a time when we thought we were invincible.  We thought we were very different from any other generation that had lived.  Naive, yes, but when we were young, that’s how we thought.

The stories you will read in my book are fictionalized entries from my journals.  The names of my friends have also been fictionalized also.  The astute reader may recognize the town in Virginia that I refer to as the small town blend, and if you are very lucky, you may have even visited House of Waffles.  Students, drop-outs and part-time dish washers may recognize some of the places I refer to in Richmond, VA. 

I also realized that keeping track of what was going on in my life was also making my life interesting in many ways. I was much more aware of what was going on around me, and that flamed my desire to document this time in my life.  The book is a collection of short stories that may not have occurred in chronological order, but have left a huge imprint on my soul.

            One thing that hit my generation like a punch to the jaw was the tragic high school shootings at Columbine. Those students, who died unexpectedly on that day, would never experience life between high school and marriage, a house, two kids, and a minivan.  At that time, I thought my book would also be a snapshot of my generation, to show that our times were unique.  Now, looking back, I realize those were my personal “glory days.”  This book is about growing up in a small town with nothing to do.  It’s about underage drinking and the determination it takes to press on when you experience failures. 

            If you have never been young, down, and out; never struggled to find a job; never bummed a cigarette; never hoped no one was checking IDs; never searched to find your voice; or never had trouble finding the right words to say to a girl, and then you will probably not understand this book. However, if you have ever felt rejected or have failed in some way, at some time, then you will understand the lessons learned.

            Please enjoy. Cheers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WANDERING

 

 

Small Town Blend

The governor wrote a letter to all the schools warning them about taking troubled students seriously.   Would I be considered a troubled student?  I had been shaving my head for years.  I liked wearing black, and I was considered a “quiet student.”  Would that be enough to make me fit someone’s stereotype?  Paranoia seemed all around me.  There had been racial slurs spray painted on a brick wall at the school a few days earlier.   Rumor had it that one of the black students was so upset when he saw the “writing on the wall,” that he punched the first white kid he saw.  Like Columbine, my school was made up of many subcultures, each with its own identity.  I didn’t think my school would be shot up, but I was scared of being suspended for no reason.  My government teacher said it was a form of McCarthyism.   These events were not what I was expecting during my last year of high school.

Part of me enjoyed the tension. We talked about the event in class. The kids who otherwise stayed quiet gave their insights without fear of being ridiculed by the so-called perfect kids, who acted like victims. Several of us felt empathy towards the situation, even though we thought using a gun was stupid. For many, high school was a place where you were put in your place, and most people I knew didn’t like their place or thought there had to be something better.

            The kids who wore black trench coats were asked to take them off. They also bummed cigarettes from me.  We got into debates about which was cooler, guns or swords.  They chose swords.

            When I was seventeen, I thought life had no meaning. All life began and ended in routine or monotony.  Maybe these thoughts were ignited by a book my college English class read, The Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. At first I didn't understand what it was all about; I figured maybe old Mr. Conrad had some screws loose.

I was staring out a window, paying no attention. My English teacher rushed to shut the blinds. That's how he usually got my attention. My teacher explained the premise passionately. How hard could someone’s life get before he went crazy?   If life had meaning, wouldn’t we be bound by something that prevented us from going crazy?

            My English teacher believed the same philosophy as Joseph Conrad--that life had no meaning. He also claimed to be religious, which I thought was contradictory, because of all my years in Sunday school. I started respecting Joseph Conrad, because he had enough balls and brains to say life doesn't matter. How much could an individual take before he had no real sense of reality, and he starts planning a defense?

             

 The parts of the books I did understand hit me hard, and then my class had to watch the movie that was loosely based on the book, Apocalypse Now.  Before I saw the movie with my class, I thought the movie was only an accurate presentation of the Vietnam War.

During the movie, I saw there was more to these ideas. I watched intensely. In my opinion, you don't have to go across the sea for a war.  You've already got one--just look in the mirror.

I wouldn't recommend the book, because my invincibility and idealism left. I was only seventeen.

            When I turned eighteen, I did the best I could to be ignorant of life, yet I was also considered an adult by society. I put my newfound beliefs on the back burner because I became unmotivated, not just in school, but for my own personal interests.

***

            A few months after I turned eighteen, I got a tattoo. My friend Captain made me take him, because he wasn't eighteen yet.  He wanted to plan ahead.

            Captain and I were never the type of people to lie about our age.  We were very paranoid. As high school seniors, we had freshmen buy us beer with their fake IDs, because we were too paranoid to shoulder tap.  And we were too scared to make our own fake IDs. We were the ones that, if we ever did anything wrong, we would get caught.  Because of our paranoia, we never really did anything, nor did we have the stereotypical "greatest years of our lives" at high school.

            When I got my tattoo, it gave us something to do. Captain was happy as he watched me get attacked by a single needle, and he enjoyed looking at all the options of different tattoos on the wall. Most of the tattoos were naked ladies straddling something or a skull surrounded by fire or the Confederate flag. He still wanted one.

            During my experience of being pierced by a needle, I felt Captain's admiration. I showed no pain. For me, it was like a release.

            I got the tattoo on the side of my left leg. It was "black fire," as my dad would say. I got the idea from a band that toured a small club in our town. They were one of my favorite bands. The band had broken up by the time I got the tattoo. The tattoo artist added some minor details to expand on the idea, which made the tattoo more original.

            After a while, the tattoo was meaningless. I thought it looked cool, and I received several compliments, as well as rejections. I also loved things that were permanent. Nowadays there isn't much that you can depend on that will last forever.

In my experience, you can't always depend on relationships, money, a job, life; it's only flesh and blood.  Sometimes you have to dig down deeper.

            When I looked at my tattoo, it reminded me of a spark that gets an engine going. It was like a new way to motivate myself. But sometimes when I look at it now, I see mockery, like the tattoo is making fun of all my wasted time.

I guess it was easy to be lazy because of my middle-class, white boy life.  It may be a psychological thing to think life has to have a struggle.  But there was no real struggle to overcome in my neighborhood. I saw a lot of kids doing anything possible to escape from the stereotype of becoming like their parents. 

My experience with struggle came with a speech impediment.  I remember beginning speech therapy as a small child and continuing until I was in the fifth grade when I was told I would probably grow out of it.  Even though it wasn’t a handicap like being in a wheel chair, it did, however, cause me to try to express my thoughts in other ways.  Maybe that’s why I found the best way for me to communicate my feelings and ideas was through journaling.  Thus began the record of my life in spiral notebooks, napkins, cash register receipts…

***

Looking ahead, I was worried about the monotonous routine after college, if I decided to go, that is. It seemed meaningless to me.  I wasn’t interested in having a job where I’d work 9 to 5; I didn’t define success that way.  I saw it all the time on the ones holding onto their Day-Timers and briefcases.  They were like bodies without souls, working to pay the bills.  This came with the straight road--structure. The nice house with the nice car. It might be what some people strived for, but not me. 

Most kids I talked to always said they wanted to get out of this town. There was rarely anything to do. I personally felt that everything I wanted and needed was outside the small town limits. I got angry when I thought of what people were doing in other places. Maybe living in New York City was where I would find my destiny.  Now, that’s a happening place!  I wanted to be a part of it. 

            Most of my anger was symbolized by a tree growing in the middle of the street where I lived.  My neighborhood was considered to be in the city, but it might as have well been the suburbs. It was full of people I couldn't relate to. They were the people who were happy not knowing what was actually going on. They were perfectly happy living inside their own bubble.

            Every time I saw the tree, it reminded me of who I really was.  It didn't matter how many tattoos I got.  That tree, like my tattoo, would always be a part of me.  One tree that got away from the chainsaw. It was one tree in the midst of many. 

            People said that George Washington hid in the tree to escape from the Redcoats. He carved his initials on it (but no one could find them). Personally, I thought the tree was pointless, but everyone else was proud of it. In my opinion, the fact or the myth that George Washington stayed there was a reason to cut it down. I contemplated cutting it down myself.

***

            I hung out with Captain, who lived on the other side of town. Our nights usually began or ended at House of Waffles. It was the type of place where if anyone asked for a non-smoking section, the whole place started laughing.

For entertainment, we usually spent our money pushing quarters in the jukebox. They never changed the CDs, so we usually played the same songs, trying to sing along to the country ones with an old guy who may have been the last real cowboy. You could tell he had lots of years on him, but he always managed to get a "Yee haw!" out whenever he pleased. This cowboy deserved a cowboy hat.  If I’d had the money, I would have bought him one. He was a familiar face I enjoyed seeing.

            Sometimes Captain and I stopped talking and eavesdropped on the conversations circulating throughout the restaurant. One night we learned what an ex-wife could do to a man's mind, how many bullets a .44 Magnum can hold, and how to skin a deer. These interesting insights led me to believe this would have made a great place for an audition for one of those trashy talk shows on TV. Mostly it was a bunch of old guys starting each conversation with, "Remember when...”

            Once I was there by myself, writing in my journal when some high school girls came in and sat at a nearby booth. One of the girls got up from her seat and put a quarter in the jukebox. It was a slow song, but it had sentimental value to me, because this was the first song I had ever slow danced to. Some people saw me as a cynical bastard, but I found myself reminiscing.   I had become a patron at House of Waffles, just like those “remember when” guys.  We always went to House of Waffles because we hardly ever partied, and we hardly ever went out on dates. For a while my parents thought I was gay, because I never brought home a girl. We wanted out of high school, and we were the only ones who didn’t annoy the hell out of us.

We were regulars at House of Waffles before Captain left on his “mission of acceptance,” aka college. I still went to the House of Waffles. After all, coffee was only a buck there and refills were free.  The place reminded me of one of the oldest clichés: Good times never last.  Sooner or later, you have to get up and take a piss.

            When I was by myself, I enjoyed sitting back with my cup of coffee and watching the whipped faces of the businessmen with their double-breasted suits, living and breathing routine. I had to laugh. So this was what a four-year business degree gave you; you can keep it.

***

Graduation Day

            I looked around at the student body and realized I wasn't the only one who looked stupid while wearing the flat hat. If I ever saw those people again, there would be an awkward silence that I knew I’d have to deal with, sooner or later. I couldn't imagine a tenth-year reunion where we’d pretend that we were lifelong friends who hadn't seen each other in years. I saw everything surrounding me and on the stage as my past, and I was ready to move on.

            The valedictorian gave a speech, as usual. She used the lyrics of a top forty song I heard on the radio forty times a day. The last line of the chorus was, "I hope you had the time of your life." After that part of the speech, I hoped that she would walk into a trap door with a slide that led to the unknown. That way Ms. Valedictorian--aka smart ass, aka geek, aka Ms. No Life, aka Ms. Never-Will-Have-A-Decent-Time-In-Her-Life, would never be seen again.

I wished I could have given the speech.  At least mine would have kicked the smart kids in the ass so hard they could never get up again. 

Today we step into the light

Of the passing day

Growing older and growing apart

Against the grain

Try to grab hold of progress

To taste success

Which is sometimes a bitter mirage?

Of disappointment.

Start drinking

Because eventually you will

Find yourself separated

From true happiness and satisfaction.

Believing in God

But relying

On what the world has to offer you.

It will be business as usual

Carrying a brief case,

Wearing a double-breasted suit

And carrying a cell phone close

Like it is your well being

And depending on a Day-Timer for life

And kissing a lot of ass.

Today will be a memory;

Tomorrow

We will fall into never ending routine.

Don’t forget to kiss ass.

But a wise man once said:

“Fuck it!”

And now I present to you, the Class of 1999!

 

            It may have been a little cruel, but at least it was brutally honest. Why does the smartest person in the school, the person no one can relate to, give the speech?

            Finally, the principal said we were getting our diplomas, which was a lie because we only got an empty hardback folder. The reason we didn't get our diplomas was because in the past, when people got the thin piece of paper (representing the four years that they would never get back), they left early. Imagine that!

I walked across the stage, got the binder that should have had the piece of paper that proved I went through four years of hell, and gave a tremendous wave good-bye to that life.  It had been the life I would just as soon forget. I had no regrets leaving it.

We had to wait until after the throwing of the flat hats before we actually got our diplomas. Maybe they wanted to inflict pain on us one last time, but at least we’d never have to walk inside their walls again.

As a whole, I thought graduation was pretty pointless. I wished they had sent the diplomas in the mail so we wouldn’t have to go through a ceremony.

            A few days after, I got my report card.  I received Cs in two classes that required effort, but got enough to transfer to the next step: college. I didn't care, I was burned out. Now that I look back, those years went by fast. I guess all the boring, mediocre days were smashed together into a memory, but individually they don't mean anything.

            Those four years I spent in high school can be summed up with the Cs on my report card--average. In my opinion, average is a good spot to be in.  I am not so smart that I can't enjoy the taste of a good beer or so dumb that I don't know the difference between my right hand and my left.  Average means balance. As an average, mediocre guy.  I have to say there isn't an inch of me that wishes I would have studied harder so I could have gone to Yale.  Instead, I'm going to community college, with no real inspiring hopes to do anything, at least until something better comes along.

***

             That night I went to a graduation party. It was at a house that was known for drunken anarchy. I personally had high hopes. However, on through the night, there was no anarchy whatsoever. It was very relaxed. To sum it up, it was a bunch of kids sitting around getting drunk and high saying, "Yup, it’s finally over."

            At one point of the party there was no music, and no one felt like getting up. So being the drunk that I am, I stumbled to my car to get a tape of Miles Davis. A sober friend named Scrawny came with me to make sure I wasn't going to drive away in the state I was in.

During our short walk (which seemed long at the time), I think I must have extolled the beauty of the moon and stars and thrown in some drunken insights that made sense to me, but not to Scrawny.

            I remember repeating, "What artist can compete with that?"

            After I got the tape from my car, I was tired. So I lay on the walkway in front of the party house. I lay in front of some girls and their guys who were looking at the sky. Scrawny watched and talked to me, along with the people sitting on the steps.

"Jonah was telling me about the moon and stars." Scrawny said mockingly

            "They're beautiful," I said, slurring my speech.

            After the brief rest, I went inside to educate the kids about one of the greatest forms of music created in this country: cool jazz. I found a room in the house with a tape deck and played the tape. I was in the room by myself, because I guess some people don't know how to truly appreciate good music.

            Gloria, a female friend of mine, came into the room. She was going away to college. I asked her if she wanted to dance to Miles Davis. We danced, and during one of his solos, I kissed her. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I ended up kissing her on the eyebrow.

That's one of the parts of a girl's body that might as well not be there. I know those parts as well as I know the back of my right hand. My action killed the mood, and then she left. At least I could blame it on my drunkenness.

***

New York City Lights

            Another benefit of being a middle-class, white suburban slob: rich relatives. As a graduation gift, I was given a trip anywhere by my aunt.    My brother, Tactics, is three years older then I am.  He had the same opportunity when he graduated, and he picked New York City. Maybe that was the reason why I stayed in school, instead of dropping out. I wanted to see a big city with what seemed like a billion to one ratio of people.

After he returned, he told me it might as well have been a different country. People could piss on public streets, light up a joint in broad daylight, or do anything they wanted.  In New York, I guess they worry more about whether you have track marks and a gun than pissing on the street. 

            I picked Captain to go with me to New York, since I could bring a friend. Finally, the monotony of high school paid off.  We could spend a weekend in New York for free.

***

            We arrived in the early afternoon.  Captain, my aunt, and I flew into Newark so we could see the skyline. This was important, because our small town back home had only one skyscraper. By comparison, the buildings I saw from a distance made the small town buildings I was used to look like the little sock lint pebbles that I’d find in between my toes. I'd never seen so many windows and concrete walls in my life.

We took a taxi into the city.  While the cab driver dodged the other cars on the road, he talked to us the best he could as he delivered us to our destination. I didn't understand his rush; we were the ones on the clock, not him. 

 “First time in New York?” (Honk).

"YOU WILL ENJOY IT...” (Honk, Honk, Honk).

            "WHERE ARE YOU FROM?” (Honk, Honk, Honk, Honk).

It didn't matter how we answered him.  He was only concerned with the cars around him.

            We checked into an expensive hotel in Manhattan.  Everything in Manhattan was expensive. It was where all the yuppies lived and where all the TV networks were located. 

            After we checked in, we went on a double-decker bus tour. We sat on top, and occasionally we dodged low-hanging branches from trees on the side of the street.

Trees were rare in this city, though--at least in the opinion of this small town boy. 

We saw the MTV station where underground bands go to die.  Honestly, I wasn't as happy to see MTV as I was being on the street which was always full of people, like during New Year’s Eve at Times Square. 

Two other places that stuck in my mind were the store where Frank Sinatra bought his bread every morning and the place where Jack Kerouac hung out. Both of these places were in Greenwich Village.

            At one point, we were completely surrounded by buildings. We must have been in the business section of New York. We were completely surrounded by something that couldn't be cut down or dismissed. Something that was permanent and had a longer lifespan than your average East Coaster.

            I was in love with the buildings that were there to stay, the fast-paced lifestyle, and the feeling that there was always something to do. I saw up close the reason why people could never sleep there, and I still hadn’t experienced a New York City night.

I understood why so many artists were inspired by the city. So much was going on that writer's block seemed absurd.  It was the perfect place for a guy who loved to write about what was happening in his life. 

            We spent the rest of the day in Greenwich Village. We went to a record shop where I bought a Bad Brains record (an old punk band from D.C.) and a Miles Davis record with Herbie Hancock on the keys.

A sign indicated that Herbie Hancock was playing at Carnegie Hall in two weeks. I wanted to stay longer because of the concert. For me, Carnegie Hall was the equivalent of Mecca. I owned a John Coltrane album that was taped live at Carnegie Hall, and I also had a D Gordon Live at Carnegie Hall album. Miles Davis played there as well. Miles Davis was the reason why I picked up the trumpet. After I played my very first notes, that weren’t in tune, I realized it would be years before I would be that good. Fine with me; I have plenty of years left. I'd wanted to buy a Bad Brains record ever since mine was stolen. When it happened, I wasn't too upset. They were a good band. Whoever took it from me got a hell of a bargain.

            I had to wait until I got home to listen to the records, which didn't bother me. I wasn't in a hurry to go back. I was content in this city that never sleeps.  I had no intentions of going to bed.

            It was getting late, so we went to dinner at an expensive restaurant where a hamburger and French fries cost an arm and a leg. I bet my aunt was glad I didn't order the lobster. Since Captain was a practicing vegetarian, he got a veggie burger (no comment). We ate like royalty and then, after the meal, we felt like rich people--fat, bloated, and full of shit.

            My aunt was tired, so we took a cab back to the hotel. She went to sleep and left us to do whatever we wanted.

             Captain brought out the bottle of cheap vodka that we got before the trip.   Captain's boss bought it for him. He hated doing it, but he gave Captain some good insight about buying vodka. He said, "When it comes to vodka, don't go for the most expensive. Instead, go for the bottle with the coolest picture."

            We got the cheapest vodka on the market.  Captain said it had a big picture of a pirate on the label. He didn't bring the bottle; however, he put the vodka in a squeeze water bottle. I didn't think about that. If security had found it, we would have all been in trouble.

            We decided to get some orange juice from the hotel, which had a case of snacks and drinks.  We used the key card to get six cans of juice and two cans of cashews, and it was charged to the room. After about eight shots of vodka, some cashews, and a steady flow of orange juice with the special added ingredient, we went for a walk.

            Because the hotel lobby was full of mirrors, we were confused about which direction to take.  We finally got our bearings and found our way out of the hotel. After walking a little way, we saw the lights of Times Square. We kept walking and walking to the light, like insects drawn closer to the light, while the echoes of street performers played their own versions of Manhattan.

            We stopped to rest on the stairs of Madison Square Garden. We heard the cheers of the proud New Yorkers inside the surrounding bars. The Knicks were playing and obviously winning.

After a while, a cop came up to us. For some reason it didn't occur to me that this cop could have arrested us for being underage drinkers and put us in jail.  All he said was, "You can't sit there. The game is almost over."

So we started walking again until it was dark, then started walking back to the hotel.

            That night, I couldn't sleep.  Captain's annoying snoring kept me awake. I sat up in my bed and stared at him, hating that he was sleeping, and I couldn't. I finally threw one of my socks at him, hoping that would awaken him. He kept snoring. So I lit up a cigarette, then slid open the window so I could hear the cabbies in the early hours. It was soothing, like hearing trains go by from my bedroom back at home. That was a sound I knew I was going to miss when I moved out. I finished my cigarette, left the window open as I lay back in bed, and fell asleep.

***

            The next morning, we woke up early (early for me), went to another restaurant and ate another full meal, so that we could see a musical later in the day. I usually don't give musicals the time a day, but this one was different from most musicals I'd seen.

This musical was about the blues. It went through the birth of blues to the present. I couldn't help tapping my foot. When I listened to the blues, I saw a vivid image of pain. This pain went down deep--real pain.   After the play, we went to Chinatown.

           

            I’ve always loved name brand watches that looked expensive, but Captain and I were on a street that reminded us of Pappy’s, a flea market back home. The street vendors had lots of the same items that Pappy's sold, like glasses with popular logos stenciled on them.  They would probably break when you put them on, leaving you to think they looked better on the rack than when someone wore them. They didn't have a mirror, so you couldn't see how bad you really looked while wearing them.

Compact disks were sold, but you had no way of knowing if your favorite artist's songs were on them. Cheap cologne hid in name-brand boxes. Even telephones and water toys were for sale--water toys, as if someone was going to play with them in the polluted Hudson Bay.

A store on Canal Street had a bunch of clothes. When we walked in, we saw a glorious sight: a rack of pin-striped suits. We wanted to buy them and walk around New York like gangsters in the movies and maybe check out a few jazz bars while dressed in our new threads, but we didn't have enough money. We looked around the store, and I eventually bought a shirt decorated with dragons.  I liked fantasy monsters, especially the ones that can swallow people.

I also bought a blue military messenger bag.  I planned on using it to hold my journal, my notebook of shitty poetry, and a book of poems by a guy named Charles Bukowski.  This was not to be a school “book bag,” but a special holder containing writings that were important to me, and only me.

            After walking up and down the same streets, my aunt got tired and went back to the hotel.  Captain and I went to Greenwich Village again to hang out for a little while. At one point we were in a park and were surrounded by Hare Krishna’s.  It felt strange being around a lot of bald guys with ponytails, and Captain hated any kind of organized religion.  The vodka started calling us, so we went back to the hotel for more screwdrivers. 

            We returned to Greenwich Village, where we walked the streets and debated whether or not Captain’s boss bought us real vodka. We’d had more to drink than what our tolerance would normally let us have. But we also realized how good we'd eaten since we’d arrived in New York. We were always full.

This was an important realization, because back home we’d get drunk, then watch the sun go down from Captain’s roof.  Our stomachs were always empty and growling, as we tried to make the days a little more exciting. Being on Captain’s roof was a test to see how drunk we were.  The test usually went something like this:  were we sober enough to climb into someone's house through a window from the roof?  If we could climb in the window successfully, pass any sobriety test from a cop, and drive a car, then we usually made the decision to go House of Waffles, where our nights usually began or ended. In New York, it would have taken more then a weekend to find our home away from home—our very own House of Waffles.

We went to the only place we knew--the record store, where I bought the Bad Brains and Miles Davis records.   Captain went in, but I stayed outside to finish my cigarette.

            As I was smoking, a man came up to me. He looked like a Rastafarian. His dreadlocks were tucked away inside his hat. I thought he looked stoned.

            He said, "So man, are you from New York?"

            "No, this is my first time in New York,” I answered. “I live in a small town in Virginia."

I went on to say how boring the town was and how I wanted to live in New York. I added that I bought two records. He asked what they were, and I told him Miles Davis and Bad Brains.

"Oh, you like the Bad Brains," he said in a stereotypical Rasta accent.

I told him they were one of my favorite bands.

            Then he got to the point of us shooting the shit. "Do you smoke the herb?"

            I told him, "Sometimes."

            "Sometimes?"  He said it like he’d blown a sell.

            "Do you have anything on you?" I asked.

            "I'll sell you a 20 or a 40. How about a 40?"

            "How about a 20?" I answered. It sounded tempting, but I didn't want to spend the rest of our cab fair.

            "You get the money, and we'll switch hands," he explained.

            It took me a while to get the money from my pockets, because I didn't carry a wallet. I finally found a twenty in a ball of bills and other crap that somehow ended up in my pocket. The Rasta man saw me going through my pockets and disgustingly shook his head.

            After my purchase, he pretended he didn't know me. I thought that was a smart move on his part.

            Finally, I entered the record store, having some doubt about my splurge of our cab fair.  Not that I was afraid of getting caught, but the package in my pocket didn’t feel like $20 worth, but more like a nickel bag.  I found Captain drooling over some rare Japanimation video.

            "Let's spend some of our cab fair on this," he said. 

            "We can't.  We probably only have enough for the cab ride home,” I told him.

            "We have enough," he insisted.

            "No, I kind of spent some of it,” I said.

I traced the bag with my fingers inside my pocket. He could have sold me oregano. Now my curiosity was killing me. What did I actually buy?

            "What did you get?" he asked, obviously unhappy about my purchase.

            "Weed," I whispered.

            "What?" he inquired loudly.

            "Weed," I said a little louder so he could hear me as the paranoia began to sink in.

            "Wow, that took some balls. You know, he could have been a cop." He wasn’t too surprised.  Then Captain seemed to become as paranoid as I was.

            I wanted Captain to be enthusiastic about the green I had in my pocket.  “He was not a cop. He likes the Bad Brains,” I reassured him. “And he looked stoned."

            "Whatever, man," he answered.   Captain put the video back and threw his hands up in the air.

            We got a cab, and while we were in the back seat I took out the remains of our cab fair and the potential oregano.  Captain remarked on how small the bag was. So I tried to explain things to him.

            "It’s like when you go into the pipe shop back home.  You get better tobacco for more money, but it’s a small dose."

            "Whatever, man," answered Captain.

            "I'm sure it’s good stuff.  We’ll find out soon enough," I said.

            We arrived at the hotel, paid the driver, included the tip, got out of the cab, and realized we were clueless about our location. Did the buildings change?

            We stood on a street corner until Captain got some bearings. We were a block away from the hotel.

It was after twelve, and the streets were full.  There were still crowds of people everywhere we looked, and the street performers were going on for the next set. In our town, everything ended before midnight. 

            We went to our room to see if my purchase was real. Paranoia set in (yet again), because we knew my aunt could come in to say goodnight any minute, and there we were with an illegal substance that would put us all away. 

We decided to wrap the weed in cigarette papers. We ripped off the filters, and since Captain was a master of origami, he rolled them.

I locked the connecting door, the only thing separating my aunt from knowing what we were doing.

            While Captain was in the middle of rolling a masterpiece, we heard a knock at the door. We covered the table that held our weekend of sketchy memories with newspapers and pillows.  Captain jumped up to answer the door, and I pretended I was watching TV. Actually, I thought my skeleton was going to jump out of my chest and live a life of its own. I was happy I’d locked the door.

            "I thought you boys would still be out. I heard you come in." my aunt said sweetly.

            "We may go out a little later," I said, while Captain looked similar to a ghost.

            "Ok, do what you want.  This is your last night in New York. Good night."

My aunt left.  Captain and I looked at each other and chuckled.

             Captain finished rolling our last memory of New York, and we decided the best place to cover our tracks was to sit on the windowsill and blow the smoke out as we admired the view. One of us would be the lookout, and the other would put the curtain to their back to keep smoke from coming into the room.

I had the first few hits, inhaling the drag, then breathing out slowly to the city I’d fallen in love with. Then I gave it to Captain. I felt a buzzing sensation, which led me to believe this wasn't oregano. I lay on my bed and felt the buzzing going north through my leg, stomach, and chest. I smiled.  You can always depend on a Rastafarian entrepreneur to put you in a good mood.

            I heard Captain coughing, and he came back inside. It was obvious his asthma was flaring up again.

            "It's yours, man," he said in a raspy voice.

Excited, I went to the window, feeling like a kid on Christmas Day.

            After several drags, Captain brought over a safety pin so I could inhale as much of the remains as possible. I slid the safety pin through the joint, and the safety pin became my roach clip.

            "You read my mind," I said in a raspy giggle like a toothless blues singer.

I finally threw the recipient of the newly discovered point of view out the window. Then I went back to bed, and my muscles and joints went into a daze. I couldn't move because of the high.

            "Do you want to roll another one?" asked Captain.

            "I jah da…I'm paralyzed. I can't move."

 Captain poked me with his fingers, and I went into convulsions of giggles.  My arms felt like mashed potatoes without any lumps.

Since Captain was a photographer, he always carried his camera. He always enjoyed taking pictures of me in situations where I ignorantly humiliated myself. He could probably have filled a coffee table book. While poking me with one hand, he held his camera with the other, and without hesitation he snapped a picture. I didn't mind; it provided us with a good laugh.

            "Do you want to roll another one?" he asked again.

            "Nah.  Daba duba. You take it."

I guess this was my attempt to explain that I wanted him to be as happy as I was right now.

He rolled another one and went to the windowsill behind the curtain. He smoked some of it, but again had to retreat because of his asthma. I ended up finishing it for him. Then I walked slowly and carefully to my bed. I lay down and covered myself with the top blanket.

            "Jonah's high," announced Captain.

            "Yeah?" I questioned. "I think so."

            We watched a documentary on Piggy Pop. I had an album back home of his. I could tell that the studio takes a lot away from his mayhem and mutilation. His band was playing for an audience that for the most part couldn't comprehend what he was doing or why. I could have gone for an Iggy Pop show right then. 

            Suddenly Captain got up, "I'm hungry."

            "Me toooooo."

Food was definitely a good idea.  Only problem was, we didn't have much money, and we didn't have a clue where to go.

            I was still surfing on the high, so Captain went alone.

            I thought about the lobby of mirrors and hoped that Captain wouldn't get lost, even though the lobby was a single room with four exits. I went downstairs to see if he was still in the lobby or if he had found his way out.

First, I went into the bathroom to check my composure. I looked at myself in the mirror. I had one of those expressions on my face that could pass for really bad flu. I splashed water on my face, thinking it would alleviate the medicated look.  These were the actions of a self-conscience stoner. I dried off my face and stood to make sure my clothes were in the right order.

I started with my feet and checked off shoes and socks from my mental check list. I went further up to find I was wearing no pants. I didn't want to try to comprehend how I got my pants off over my shoes. I didn’t remember doing that.

I looked in the mirror one last time to find I had on the shirt with the dragons, and the tag was still in place on the breast pocket. I shook my head, and then went to find my pants.

Suddenly, Captain busted through the door.

            "The lobby was awesome. I almost got lost. I had to ask some guy for directions." 

            Horrified, he finally noticed that I was standing in the middle of a room wearing a Hawaiian shirt, boxers, and my shoes and socks.

I found my pants and tried to put then on, but realized it would be easier with my shoes off.

            "Were you going out for something?"  Captain asked.

            "I was. I remembered the mirrors in the lobby, and I thought they would give you some trouble," I said with a sigh.

            "No, I was fine. The guy I asked was nice. I think that he knew, though." Captain said.

            "He won't tell. What did you get to eat?" I asked.

            "I got two chocolate chip cookies and a bagel,” he answered. “We can share the bagel."

            "Bah, bagels! You can have it." I hated bagels. Anything shaped like a donut should taste like a donut.

"I forgot to get my change,” Captain noticed after feeling around his pockets.

“I guess that’s why the cash register guy was yelling at me when I was walking out of the store. I was scared. I just wanted to get in and out of there ASAP,"   Captain said.

            We ate our feast, and we decided that those were the best cookies we’d ever had.

After we finished eating, I looked at my Bad Brains record. On the back was a picture of the band.  One of the guys in it looked very similar to the Rasta man who sold me the herb in Greenwich Village. It couldn't be!  I debated myself relentlessly, but I remembered that he liked them and the way he said it. He said it like he knew them well.

The Bad Brains had made several records, but since they weren't on a major record label, it wasn't as if they were paid like rock stars. Maybe selling drugs was the guy’s second job.  If so, I was glad I could help. It was worth the money.

            The next morning, we packed all of our things and prepared to catch our plane back home. I couldn't help thinking how hard it was going to be to go from the city that never sleeps to the town where all you could do was sleep.

In the small town, I’d feel no remorse when I slept the day away. It was something to do. People in the small town also smoked a lot with no intent to quit--no one ever mentioned those words. I think people in the small town smoked for the bad health; because why would they want to live there any longer then they had to?  Commercials say that smoking isn't cool. Of course it isn't cool, but it does the trick, doesn't it? 

People where I lived looked like they are all used up, except for kids like Captain and me. We still had that sparkle in our eyes. We still had hope that we would make a difference in this world, but down deep we knew we were just two out of the thousands and thousands that thought they would make a difference.

            At least we'd been to New York.  That singled us out--a little.

***

The Conversation

            It didn't take me that long to get swallowed back into the small town blend. 

             Captain picked me up to go to a party for a friend who was going to college.  Several other friends would also be there. Through the treacherous years of high school, we'd always made up excuses to leave parties early. We figured we would eat what they had (after all, it was a free meal), talk a little, and then make up some excuse to leave.

            We arrived and learned that veggie burgers and salads were on the menu. I didn't say anything. I ate my veggie burger, even though my meat-directed taste buds were already planning an escape. I was confused about what to put on it though--either ketchup or salad dressing, so I followed Captain’s lead. He started with ketchup, mustard, lettuce, and tomato. I understood the ketchup and mustard part, but I thought the lettuce and tomato were already present in the veggie burger. I ate the veggie burger very slowly, but the others at the table ate theirs quickly and went back for seconds. I did have extra helpings of the salad. To me, that made sense.

            "Jonah, would you like another veggie burger?" asked Hostess.

            "No," I said. I hoped that would be the end of it.

            "Don't you like veggie burgers?" asked someone else.

            "They actually remind me of a science project I did in middle school," I said.

            "What was the project about?" asked Hostess.

            "Mold," I answered.

            Apparently this was when I became an asshole.

            "You didn't have to eat it," rebuked someone else.

            "Do you know how expensive veggie burgers are?" added another.

            The questions and attempts to make me feel bad about disliking veggie burgers kept slapping me in the face.

            "I was being polite. I would never in a lifetime order a veggie burger..." I tried keeping up.

            They continued to argue, and I attempted to describe the perfect hamburger, one with juices that run down your chin.  Finally, they asked Captain and me to go to the video store and rent a movie that would remind the people at the party about being sixteen again.

I wasn't in that phase of trying to stay young. Face it:  Santa, the Easter Bunny, and Peter Pan don't exist. People lie about those kinds of things when you’re younger. When you find out they are lies, you get old.  Everybody is going to get old, and the best thing about that is making money and living on your own. 

            They didn't have the movie at the video store, so Captain and I started back to the party.  But along the way, we decided we had outstayed our welcome.

             Captain told me about his latest girl encounter.

            "Last night I told my girlfriend that this might be the last night we would ever spend together, since we are going to the beach for a week.  After we returned, I told her I wanted to spend the rest of the time with friends."

"She bought that?" I said, astounded.

             Captain nodded.

            "So what happened after that? Did you have sex or something?" I asked sarcastically.

             Captain started shaking like a smoker in the non-smoking section. His eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his skull--not in excitement, but in horror.

            "Yes, we had wild, rebellious sex. It was terrible."

            It was terrible because Captain’s girlfriend resembled a young Charles Bronson without the heavy mustache.

            "We were drunk,” he went on to say.

            "So she took advantage of you.  That bitch," I concluded

            "No, I had my beer goggles on,” he answered.

            "You must have had them on pretty tight," I said.

            "I was good,” he said.

            "How do you know?" I asked.

            "She called me Jesus," Captain answered.

            "Like how?" I inquired.

            "She went, 'OH, JESUS!' She is also the type of girl who cusses during an orgasm. She yelled out, 'OH, FUCK,' and, 'OH, SHIT.’ She is a nympho! We did it 8 times!"

            "Eight times!" I shouted out the window.

            "My legs hurt,” Captain said.

            "I can’t imagine. Eight times, holy shit." 

            "I don't want to have sex ever again,” Captain whined.

            "I bet you’re not stressed anymore," I said.

            My conclusion was a catharsis for both of us. He wasn’t stressed about the unknowns he was facing about college, and it was because of all the sex.

            "Listen; don't tell them at the party. They may look at me differently,” Captain insisted.

            "What's wrong with that?" I asked. “I would be wearing this like a medal."

              Captain's thinking towards this was because he thought that the girls still saw guys as cooty monsters coming to get them. They listened and believed everything their dads had ever said about guys so much so they were freaked out by the PENIS.  Captain didn't want to be seen by the girls in our little group as a "guy," but still as a friend. 

We arrived back at the party with intentions of quickly leaving. We said that the video store didn’t have that particular movie; however, I was speechless about Captain’s newfound skills of endurance.

***

 Our intentions to leave were sidetracked when Captain started skateboarding with Typhus, another friend at the party. Since he picked up the skill that summer, he wasn't very good at staying on the board. I counted how many times he fell after a failed attempt at an ollie.

            "Damn, Captain, that is the eighth time you've done that," I said, making sure he understood where I got the eight times.

            "Oh, Jesus! You’re right," yelled Captain.

            "Oh! That was funny." I laughed.

            All the people at the party were outside, watching us.  Captain had laughed himself into the fetal position, and I was lying on the hood of the car, laughing back and forth in the same position.

            "Are you guys drunk again?" asked Hostess.

            "Do you have any more veggie burgers?" I asked, knowing the answer.

            "No, we’re out," she said sarcastically.

            "Ouch!" I yelled between laughing and shaking.

            Our friends had no idea what was going on, or why we were laughing. They probably thought we were laughing at them. We didn't stop laughing, but we managed to say good-bye, still holding our sides from the pain. Too much of anything is bad for you.

We headed to House of Waffles, finally starting to breathe again. Our friend Diamond was in a booth by himself, so we sat with him.

            Diamond was a year younger than we were, but he was wise beyond his years. Too bad he had another year of high school. Diamond could be summed up with his dreadlocks, soul, Rastafarian beliefs, and his stereotypical Italian physical attributes--he was hairy.

When Diamond, Captain, and I were together, our stories usually revolved around illegal substances and conspiracy theories. We would take something that everyone knew about or something accepted by American pop culture and blames it on the government and turn it into a wild theory made up of elaborate details. It didn't matter if it was fact or not, it was fun to pretend--like our theory that Boy Bands are the government's attempt at accepting homosexuality.  Captain firmly believed that aliens abducted him on two separate occasions during high school. His stories were told in full detail.

All the theories we created helped shape my opinion that the geniuses of today aren’t what society considers as intelligent, like people with PhDs or some guy who makes a piece of plastic go into space. The geniuses are the janitors and the regular guys who sit in rundown restaurants, making up reasons for why things are the way they are in their spare time.  Your average citizen in this country would never understand guys like us.

            The summer was still at its peak, and we’d already had 8 or 9 cups of coffee in the 99-degree weather. We were perspiring, releasing the impurities from smoking too much. The boiling coffee made us look like we just finished running a marathon. I guess the air conditioner wasn't working that day.  We didn't want to leave that place, swimming in our own sweat, so we switched to drinking water. 

The prolonged summer time heat has also brought on water restrictions.  Because of the water restriction, I had a mental picture of my mom, wearing her ski mask and watering her flowers at night hiding from the dreaded water patrol. Earlier in the day she’d told me about her crime in a whispered voice, and she’d made me promise not to tell anybody. I told my friends at the table, and then I told them my idea of documenting life as the water patrol. It would be similar to the show on TV about cops in big cities. I thought America would love to hear the hardships of a small town in the grips of a water restriction.  Where’s my journal???

This idea sparked conversations about past summers inside the shelter of adolescence.  Captain and I, however, saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

            Diamond talked about one experience of playing laser tag. He’d been tripping on acid, and no one could stop him, because he was invincible. He’d also had an enlightening experience as he was playing laser tag, but he couldn't put it into words. Diamond called acid an “unspoken drug,” similar to President Clinton's “don't ask, don't tell” policy about gays in the military. It made sense if you’d experienced it—acid, that is.  Diamond was an expert.

            When Captain and I played laser tag, we got tired of the game.  So we pretended we were having Vietnam flashbacks.  Most of the little kids playing laser tag had no idea how to handle two lunatics who shouted, "Charlie is everywhere! Napalm!"

            During my “flashbacks,” the same kid would find me and shoot me several times. It was a cheap shot by a bratty kid who had no idea what Nam was all about. After his fifth fatal shot, I put the kid in his place by jumping on top of him and shooting him repeatedly.

All the kid could do was scream, "No fair! You're cheating!"

            I felt like I had won that battle. 

***

            Back at the diner, we talked about how there was nothing to do.  How we all wanted out.

            "I'm glad I'm getting out of this town," said Captain.

             Captain had plans to go away to college. For the summer, he was staying in this town enjoying his last days before beginning his mission of acceptance.

            Diamond was the only one who thought of an explanation for the small town blend. 

            "It doesn't matter how much you hate this town. I mean, I really hate this town, but there is something in all of us that makes us actually love this town. It’s kind of like an abusive father. He beats you, but you still kind of love him a little anyway.   None of us said anything after that. Diamond captured the lifestyle and the boredom that made the town what it was and made us the type of people that we were.

            He went on to tell us some of the history he’d learned about the small town  from a book he was reading.

            “A long time ago, a bunch of people kicked out some gypsies who were living here. In return, the gypsies cursed the water supply. So whoever drinks the water in the small town and leaves will eventually come back again."

            "Luckily, we’re experiencing a water shortage. You have good timing, Captain," I said. 

            "No, that means you get to start fresh, Jonah," said Captain.

            Diamond’s story sounded like a lie, but from my own experience, my brother Tactics did return from Richmond, kicking and screaming after being away for a few years.

I was still in a summer-heated haze, so I thought it would be better to continue the aftershocks of coffee than to drink the cursed water.  But I’d already had three glasses of water that night. I guess I was destined to stay.

            "I'm glad I'm leaving,” Captain said again.

            "Last night I was drinking with a friend of mine,” Diamond said. “We wanted to drink one last time before he went away on his mission for acceptance (aka college). My friend is the type of guy who always seemed to have his shit together, but last night he let his emotions get the best of him. He cried. He admitted he was scared of the future." 

            I thought that perhaps this would be my last summer of being an idealist. After this, I’d have to accept reality too, and also accept I was just a number waiting to get out of the small town blend.

            Thinking about my future, I saw myself as an old man with skin that had been stretched and then folded, resulting in wrinkles.  The old man saw all his friends again—but when he looked at their eyes, he noticed that the sparkle was gone.

            I wasn't scared of getting old, but reality was a bull, and it was charging.

***

Different Place, Same Beer, Same Porn: Beach Week

            Call it an annual ritual for newly made high school graduates. The joke going around our group was that this was an afterschool special gone horribly wrong. The group included Moonshine, who was 7 months pregnant; Placebo, who’d found a new profession as a drug dealer; Scrawny, who’d gotten kicked out of his house a few months before; Hostess and Typhus, two kids destined to stay sixteen forever; Captain, Brain, Spazz, and Gloria, four kids who had chosen college as their way of escaping the small town blend; and then there was me—a potential alcoholic slob who had a slight speech impediment and always carried a journal.

We stayed in a duplex at the beach. The beer, drugs, and their kind went upstairs, and the people who promised themselves they wouldn't drink every night stayed downstairs. During the trip, everyone went upstairs almost every night.

The night before we left, Captain and I met at the well-known drinking spot we called the big house.  It was a place where we could drink and do whatever without being hassled by anyone’s parents.  We discussed how our once close group had turned into several small cliques over the years. We planned ahead to resolve and avoid any type of insignificant argument with four cases of beer. My thinking was, if you’re passed out all the time, no one will have a problem with you.

I'd gone to that beach with my parents for several years. I probably could have driven there with no problem. Instead, I sat in the back seat, stretched out, listening to Captain and Scrawny argue about what direction to go and when we would get there. These were two things I didn't want anything to do with. If I wasn't such a peacemaker, they would have clawed each other's eyes out before we left the city limits.

            Scrawny drove his car, and it was a non-smoking automobile. It had the new car smell mixed with artificial coconut. I could only smoke at gas stations when we stopped for piss breaks and refreshments. For me, the trip could be summarized by the shakes and sticking my head out the window when I saw a nearby driver smoking, usually with her hand out the window.

Scrawny screamed several times and started arguments about which road led where, and Captain ended each argument with "Whatever, man", then throwing up his hands. Other than that, it was nice to be going someplace.

            We showed up at the vacation spot in the sun, which was a block away from the ocean.  Gloria, Moonshine, and Spazz, greeted us yelling, "We beat you!"

            Scrawny and Captain got out of the car, pointing the blame at the other. I lit a cigarette and stretched my legs. We all unloaded the car, the beer first, as always, and then our clothes.

            “Hostess, Typhus, and Brain haven't gotten here yet, but when they do, we can go grocery shopping.  But until then, I guess we just wait," said Gloria.

            Placebo hadn't gotten there either, but he told Captain and me he’d be there when he got there. It made sense.

            There was an ample amount of beer in the fridge, the TV was on, and as far as I saw it--this was paradise. 

***

            After about three or four beers, Hostess, Typhus, and Brain showed up, and we went grocery shopping. Scrawny and Captain pooled their money together to buy non-meat products. Typhus (who was very excited to know we had the Cartoon Network) and I put our money together.

Typhus picked most of the items, like ground beef, so we could cook hamburgers one night. He gave me some advice when we went down the cereal aisle.

            "When it comes to generic cereal, you want the one with the best picture,” Typhus said.

            I told him I felt the same way about vodka. He didn't really understand.

            The rest of our grocery excursion was frozen pizza and ramen noodles. Then we went back to the duplex, where Captain and I continued drinking and watching the Cartoon Network with Typhus. In his absence, Scrawny started complaining about Placebo’s new found profession.  Captain and I toasted to Placebo.

            "How do you feel about all the drugs Placebo is bringing, Typhus?" complained Scrawny.

            "Don't bother him.  He is watching his cartoons," slurred Captain.

            "Hey, after this beer, let's go swimming," I said.

            Scrawny and Typhus went to their assigned rooms to change into their swimming trunks.  Captain and I were ready. We were always ready to break the mood for the ocean blue. We were drunk and, from the sight of the chicks wearing the not-quite-pants, not-quite-shorts (aka Capri’s), we were in pirate country.

            The beach was ours. I lit a cigarette, and we went into the ocean to relive our glory days as pirates sailing and looking for buried treasure--or so we imagined. There was no contest in keeping my cigarette lit from the breaking waves, so I dropped it.

The ocean was packed with beautiful women and waves the perfect size for body surfing. After yelling pirate obscenities and singing “yo ho ho, and a bottle of beer,” we noticed the once-crowded ocean was vacant except for the four of us.

            "Arrgh matey, we've scared them away," yelled Captain, as if we had won a battle against the powerful Spanish armada.

            "The open sea is ours," I yelled.

            "Arrgh, ahoy there!" A sound came from the beach.  Placebo had arrived.

            We got out of the water to meet him as he stood on the shore. He wore sunglasses and was obviously high on something.

            "Where did all the people go?" asked Placebo with slow, detained sincerity. 

            "They retreated to the surf," said Typhus.

            "What are you on?" asked Scrawny.

            "Everything," answered Placebo with a smile.

            We walked back to the duplex.  Captain gave Placebo some of his beer, and we started drinking again. 

            Placebo brought out a bag of weed to roll a blunt.

            "I don't think you guys should smoke that in here," said Scrawny.

            "We can't do it outside in broad daylight,” Captain said. “I know!  Blow the smoke into the air conditioner so it will go out."

            Placebo sat near the air conditioner, which was also near the TV, so he had to make certain he wasn't blocking it from Typhus's viewing pleasures. He sparked the bong, inhaled, and then exhaled into the air conditioner. As he did, a big cloud of smoke went back into Scrawny's face.

"I think I have a contact buzz," announced Scrawny. He went outside in an under-the-influence state of resentment. 

            After several bowl packs and some more beer,  I was where I needed to be. I’d lost all hope of finding the perfect girl for our beach trip, but everything seemed so simple when I was in this state. I was satisfied, watching the Cartoon Network. Time went by so fast when I was satisfied.

In the evening, those living downstairs migrated upstairs.

            "Let's go swimming," said Spazz.

            It sounded like a good idea. We left for the beach.

            In my stoned state of mind, I imagined myself weightless similar to a feather being massaged by a cycle of waves, but for some reason I was still floating. When you beat gravity, there is nothing standing in your way.

            Someone made the call to remove all clothes.  I heard the “call” going down the line, as everyone before me complied with the directive.  Still high, but now naked, I felt static electricity on all parts of your body--turning me on and turning me off, all at the same time. I was still afloat. Perfect.  Everything seemed so perfect.  Flying or falling through a bottomless pit.  But who cares if you die.  You are alive now. That is all that matters.

            During high school, you may have taken classes that tried to turn you away from the perfect free fall. Maybe a cop told you it was illegal or it was bad for you. But that joker had never tried it, experienced it, lived it, created an insight, the perfect glossy coating fantasy, or had a night to dream about and to forget about all in the same light. 

            We left the beach in the twilight. The stars were out, and they sparkled on the ocean. If you reached far enough, you could touch them. We walked on the soft, sugar-coated sand back to the duplex with permanent smiles on our faces. Captain and I pulled out our other priority, other than our beer--our six strings. We played to the moon and anyone else who would listen on our upstairs deck. For some single guys, that’s the only action that is a real necessity. Music inspires real poets, painters, and musicians. We expressed our feelings to our non-perfect generation who refused to be offended by a non-existent cause, such as meaningless politics and trends that last only a few months. We had no heroes. It was just us.  Candles… far from Columbine, yet still understanding. The sun was rising when we became dry from the beer. We decided to sleep.

 

***

            The next day, I woke up at about 9:30 for no reason in particular. I watched the Cartoon Network, which was still on from yesterday. My eyelids got heavy. Then I went back to sleep; after all, it was vacation.

I woke up again abruptly, hearing my stomach growl. It had already been a full day, and I forgot to eat. I fixed some ramen noodles to settle my stomach. For dessert, I had six beers.

            That night, we were drunkards walking on the beach, looking for discarded seashells. Moonshine led us, since she was the only one not intoxicated. Suddenly we were stopped by a drunken redneck with a beer in his hand.

Glancing farther up his arm, I noticed a faded tattoo of a naked lady. He smiled at us with a toothless grin. 

            "Did you kids see those kids skinny dipping last night?"

            He was referring to us; maybe he didn't know that we were the algae skinny dippers. We all acted appalled. I stepped back and laughed, wondering who else had seen us.

            He asked us if we knew what time it was going to happen again, because after the skinny dippers left, the police showed up.

            We went back to the duplex, and Captain and I went to my room, along with an arm full of beers.  We wanted to lie down. We were tired of the weirdness--at least that was what Captain said.  I don't remember.  If it wasn't for the beer, I would have probably been bored out of my mind.

            Yellow teeth, a ragged beard, and a chronic cough could sum up the next few days. I didn't care. All I needed was the ocean, my beer, and my guitar. A man can always depend on his guitar. The only reason I got out was to ride the waves.

***

            When I woke up, it was raining. Water splashed against the windows and tinged on the air conditioner, playing a Caribbean jive. Scrawny and Captain left to get a VCR and a movie, and Brain was talked into buying a porno.

That was the project for several people at the duplex--to corrupt Brain. He had never had a drink or smoked anything in his life. We all wanted to see him out of character. We thought would be good for him.

            Placebo and I tended to our own needs. I smoked out some remaining pot in Placebo’s bong.  Then we watched the Cartoon Network until they came back again.

"They're high again," said Scrawny.

            I laughed.

            "I'm not high. I'm in a K-hole," said Placebo.

            "Where's Typhus?" asked Captain.

            "He went out with the girls," said Scrawny. "Should we start the zombie movie without him?"

            "Zombies? Hell, yeah," echoed Placebo in his K-hole.

            "Captain picked it out," said Scrawny.

             Captain had a fascination with zombies, because most of his dreams consisted of him fighting zombies or running from zombies.  We loved zombie movies.  If you ever wanted to see a real zombie, all you had to do was go to high school when classes were being held and look in.  Sometimes they drove Jeep Cherokees.  We watched the movie, laughing at the main characters and cheering for the zombies. Somehow I knew I would miss  times like this when this was over.

***

            Brain came back, followed by Typhus, Spazz, Hostess, and Gloria.

            "He got one," yelled Spazz.

            "I went into a porn shop. They had several good videos that I thought you all would like, but I got this one. I've already seen it," said Brain.

            We were amazed at Brain's knowledge of porno.  Who knew?  You would never think that such a bright guy would have a pornography addiction, but there was Brain telling us about the best porn star and what movie we should get. He talked about it like an old man talking about politics. That day, the corrupters became the corruptees.

            We put the porn in, and the girls decided they didn't want to be around a bunch of drunken guys watching porn.  Typhus and Brain soon followed them.

            It was a weird thing to be a part of, but it was raining, and we had nothing better to do.

            "I've done that," said Placebo.

            "So have I," said Captain.

            "That guy's deformed!" yelled Scrawny.

            "Let's get some prostitutes," I said before I passed out.

            When I woke up, it was evening, and the rain had stopped. We decided to go swimming, since we'd been inside the whole day.

            When we arrived at the beach, evidence of raindrops was still on the sand. It was the same scene on the beach every time we went night swimming. Crowds of people walked on the sand, looking for shells to restore their faith against the winter months, reminding themselves there was a warmer place, and it was only a drive away. Groups of kids our age walked in intoxicated herds, not realizing that in a few months they would not have the same people around them.

            We swam until Spazz and Moonshine decided they wanted to take off their clothes, then Captain, Scrawny, Placebo, and I went back to the duplex.  We had seen Moonshine naked one night on the trip, and that was enough for us. If you've seen one pregnant girl, you've seen them all.

            Placebo, Captain, and I got high and watched a movie that we all had watched religiously as little kids. We recited the lines along with the actors and pretended we were characters in the movie. It was amazing what we could remember when we were stoned.

            We watched the movie, which was on the same level as our attention span at that time. The rest of the crew soon came in. Spazz wrapped herself in a towel. Everyone else changed into other clothes.

            Spazz was naked for most of the trip and, speaking on behalf of the upstairs group, a towel wasn't good enough.  In addition, she was wet and lying on our floor. I went to the refrigerator to get another beer to avoid a conflict. I grabbed one and noticed I was almost out, although we still had another day at the beach. At the time I didn't remember drinking all of them, but the evidence was on our kitchen table.

             Captain and I had constructed a monstrous tower out of our empty beer cars.  It was a monument representing our future in this country--binge drinking. It was also good or bad publicity (depending on what side you were on) for domestic and inexpensive imported beer. We were proud of our work.

I sat beside Gloria on the couch and watched a movie.

            Placebo had a girlfriend, but he had no trouble flirting with Moonshine. "I'm gonna tickle your baby from the inside."

            Moonshine laughed, and the rest of us made a puke face. 

            Several beers later, Spazz, Moonshine, and Brain decided to go downstairs to sleep.  Captain and Typhus went to their assigned beds. Scrawny had dozed off a few minutes before on the floor, and Placebo was about to do the same.  Gloria and I were on his bed/couch. Placebo went to sleep mumbling about wanting his bed back.

I finished my beer and put my arm around Gloria. The rest was a blur, but I remember the important parts.   I kissed her forehead, this time without missing.  She turned around, and I lay down and pulled her on top of me. We started making out while the movie still playing in the background reminded us about our youth.

Scrawny got up, made a face like he had just taken a big whiff of Placebo's socks, and then decided to his bed.

            We looked at him, causing Placebo to wake up.

"If you guys are going to fuck there, then I will sleep in your bed, Jonah."

            "No," said Gloria.

            We walked outside on the porch. 

            The sky was full of clouds, and more were blowing in, getting into formation for a storm. We saw the moon shining as the blackened clouds passed. The light of the moon shone on what looked like clouds shot from a cannon.

We held each other close.  I enjoyed her company.

            "I knew we were going to hook up after we danced to Miles Davis at my graduation party," said Gloria.

            "I was drunk then, and I'm drunk now," I said.

            I didn't have a theory to explain what was happening. We had been friends for about two years in high school, and now she was talking about hooking up. I had been alone for so long; I told her I didn't want a relationship. We ended the evening by hugging again, and then she went downstairs to go to bed, and I went back inside to go to sleep.

            I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about Gloria.  I'd enjoyed kissing her, and I enjoyed her company. I had held her so close I had trouble determining which heart beat was mine.

            Then the storm hit. Usually, a storm at the beach relaxes me, but this time I couldn't sleep.  I went to the kitchen to get another beer.

            "I think I like her," I said as I sat in a chair with the lights off.  The only occasional light came after a bolt of lightening. The linoleum floor was getting cold from the breeze outside.

Then I remembered my motto. "Whatever happens ...happens." It happened.

***

            When I woke up the next day, Scrawny and Placebo were scavenging around in the kitchen to find something to eat. For some reason I thought they were talking about Gloria and me and about last night.  When I entered the kitchen, the conversation stopped--call it paranoia, but I had a vibe.

They both had seen what happened, and I thought they would be the ones to spread the news to our circle of friends.  I would rather have kept it a secret for awhile.

            I went out on the front porch to eat my cereal with a cigarette and a beer. We had forgotten to buy milk, and cereal and water don't taste good together. I started thinking about the awkwardness that might occur with our friends if Gloria and I were together. Would Captain think it was gross because Gloria and I were just good friends before last night, and now things were different? We had been like brother and sister before last night. Was this like inbreeding?

            In high school, there had been a couple that people called the Ugly Couple, because the guy looked like a rat, and the girl looked like a cloning experiment gone wrong. They always made out during school, but no administrator ever stopped them because they were scared of them. A rumor went around school that the Ugly Couple were related. 

            I finished my breakfast and got another beer, accepting the fact that people probably already knew about Gloria and me. This way I didn't have to tell anybody. I watched cartoons until Captain and Typhus woke up, and the people downstairs came upstairs. When Gloria came down, she sat close beside me.

"So, Gloria," Placebo said with a sarcastic tone. "Did you enjoy the movie last night?"

            I decided that now was time for more refreshments, so I jumped up to get another beer from the refrigerator, and quickly began to guzzle it down when the tension started to hit.

            "Jonah and I hooked up last night," Gloria spoke up.

            There was a silence.

            "Oh my God!" yelled Scrawny.

            "So you didn't get to finish watching the movie. You should rent it," said Typhus.

            "Jonah!?" yelled Spazz, surprised.

            I finished the beer in hardly any time and got another one.

            "Jonah," said Gloria, "you drink too much."

            The nagging starts now, I said to myself.

            "Why is it such a surprise, Scrawny?" asked Gloria. "You looked right at us.  You saw us."

            "I did? I must have been sleepwalking."

            "I do that sometimes," said Captain. "It's normal." 

            "I don't remember it," said Placebo.

            "You were in a K-hole," said Captain.

            "Oh, yeah," said Placebo.  

            "We are going to a club later tonight.  Would you guys like to go?" Gloria asked nonchalantly.

            Everyone was all about going out, except for me. I was attentively watching the Cartoon Network. I was in between sips of beer when Gloria nudged my shoulder, implying I should say “yes.” The beer went down my air pipe, and I gasped.

"Yes."  I quickly added.

The downstairs group decided to go swimming; Placebo got into some more K and was paralyzed on the couch; I went to my room and passed out.  Must have been the excitement.

***

            We drove in separate cars to a place called The Frikki Hut. For the whole ride I was bombarded by three points of views.

            "This is good practice for you.  Besides, she is going away to college," said Captain. "So either way, it will eventually end."

            "Fuck it then.  Leave it," said Placebo.

            "I think you guys make a good couple," said Scrawny.

            "You sound like a mom," said Placebo.

            "This is insane. I'm better off alone," I said.

            "Your last relationship only lasted a week.  Think of this as more practice," said Captain.

            We arrived before the others, and got out of the car. Placebo and I lit cigarettes and walked across the street, trailing behind Captain and Scrawny--the non-smokers.

            I strolled over to look at what the locals called The Frikki Hut and noticed a huge sign that said Booty Night. This was the club we were going to enter.

            "Excuse me.  Do you have a light?" I heard a girl’s voice ask.

            I looked over my shoulder and saw two girls wearing all-black pants and tight shirts that revealed adolescent cleavage. They had cigarettes in their mouths and could pass for the type of girls who use to be their daddy's little girls, but who now were into bald drunken slobs because it gave them the feeling of rebellion. Or I could have been exaggerating my own intentions. I lit their cigarettes and lusted after them as they went back across the street.  But wait…

            “Jonah, were you talking to those girls?”  

Gloria showed up with the rest of our group and walked over to me.

            "I just lit their cigarettes."

            She gave me “The Look”--the look where a girl scans your face for any sort of lie. When she held my hand, the temptation of Booty Night and teenage cleavage slipped away.

Gloria and I decided to walk on the beach before we went into the club.  Captain and Scrawny decided to walk by themselves to get away from the rest of the group..

            "The club looks pretty dead," said Gloria. "Let's all meet back in an hour."

            Everyone agreed, and we walked away.  Captain followed Scrawny; Typhus, Hostess, and Moonshine went off together; and Placebo waited, thinking about who he wanted to hang out with, and then he caught up with Captain. I stayed with Gloria. 

            "I've been thinking about us..." Gloria said as we entered the surf.

            "I've been thinking about us, too," I said, "and I wouldn't mind dating you."

            She told me that was fine, only she was leaving for college in a month, and after that we would just be friends. That was great for me--a relationship with a pre-arranged due date. A month seemed like a long time.

We started our walk up the beach, holding our shoes in one hand so we could feel the loose sand between our toes. A few people were shooting fireworks into the sky, competing with the massive ones being shot off the pier. Parents were sitting on blankets trying to keep a watchful eye on their kids.  They didn't want them too close, though. They wanted to enjoy the moment like as if they were kids again enjoying time off from the routine. 

I held Gloria's hand, and we talked about college. She’d graduated from high school with a 4.0 and was going to attend some smarty college four hours away. Her greatest desire was to be an actress, however. She was also into math.

We got tired of walking and decided to lie down on the beach and watch the waves come in. She told me about her dream to be a famous actress, as she complained about the sand in her dress. I just listened. I knew she could do anything she wanted to do.

We started to make out, which ended after some guy who had accepted a dare from his friends, jumped over us. I started laughing, because that was something I would do if I saw the same scene. I wasn't usually into public displays of affection. We still lay there, watching the waves descend to ripples underneath the ringed moon lighting up the ocean.

We started walking again, watching the fireworks that continued to be shot off into the horizon. The moment was as perfect as a TV sitcom. We walked until we got to a pier, and put on our shoes so we could walk in the opposite direction on a sidewalk and on the same street to The Frikki Hut.

            The street was busy, with the same cars going up and down, drivers honking at the pretty girls, then coming back to see them again. Some girls didn’t get any honks, so they insulted the girls being honk at, and they made fun of the guys who didn't notice them.

We walked to the club, and I noticed the Booty Night sign again. I also noticed a sign, that said: Ladies Night. We waited in a line with about twelve other people. Some of the girls ahead of us must have bathed themselves in their favorite perfume, because it gave me a headache.

            It turns out the men had to pay ten dollars, but the women  got in free. We were all in the club now except for Scrawny and Captain.

            Inside the Frikki Hut, girls wore tight-ass jeans and leather pants with shirts that looked like their breasts were holding them up.  The usual scrumping was happening on the dance floor. Girls rubbed up against me even though they had plenty of room to walk around. Some were obviously looking at me with inviting eyes when they thought Gloria wouldn’t see. Booty time hadn't started yet. The club could have been the beginning of a really bad R and B video, and I had just started dating someone--temptation.

Maybe this was all a conspiracy? Maybe Gloria had called ahead to tell all the girls to put me through this misery? Maybe she paid them? I stood beside her Gloria. I wasn't going to be broken.  Well, maybe just a little bit on the inside.  Why didn't this type of experience happen when I was single? Girls at this club were there for the taking.

Suddenly a voice came over the PA.  “And now what you've been waiting for..."

            Five pairs of devils were going to shake their asses for the huge group of frat boys up front, drunk as rats in a maze.

            The first duo came out.  The music was loud enough to make your ears bleed, but hey, the scenery was very nice. Both of the girls wore mini skirts that were already revealing the slight thread going up the crack of their asses. This didn't stop them from pulling up their skirts so their ass cheeks could give a full, "How do you do?" to the crowd.

            "I could do that," yelled Moonshine over the music.

            "They're whores, all of them," yelled Hostess.

            "I wouldn't do that," yelled Gloria.

            Typhus, Placebo, and I both agreed this was good by nodding our heads. 

            As the next girls came on stage, I stood on a stool to get a better view. I almost lost my balance when the loud music started playing again. These girls were wearing leather pants, the way to any man's heart (except for Scrawny who was vegan at the time, but he might have changed that idea if he’d seen it). Somehow, during their dancing their pants slipped off. They danced closer to the frat boys, who yelled at them to take it all off. Then the two strip teasers got in line and smacked each other’s butts. It was a great show.

Before the next contestants, a voice over the PA announced, "Please do not touch the merchandise." The frat boys booed. 

            One of the next contestants was heavyset, so I jumped off the stool. The frat boys didn't cheer as much, but rather yelled in a gasp.

            Because of the heavyset contestant, the other contestant were out of our views, so. we left.  Show over!

            Scrawny and Captain were already waiting at the cars.

            "Are we ready to go?"  Captain said as he claimed the front seat of Scrawny's car.

            "You missed Booty Night," said Gloria.

            "Dahhhhh! I did," said Scrawny regretfully.

            We drove back to our rented condo.  Gloria and I sat close together in the back seat.

            "So Jonah, how did you like Booty Night?" asked Captain.

            I hit the back of his seat, knowing the truth would hurt. There was silence.

            "You still haven't answered my question," announced Captain as he smiled at me in the rearview mirror.

            I hit the back of his seat again.

            "What did you think of Booty Night, Jonah?" Gloria whispered softly.

            "It was decent," I said.

            We listened to one of our anthems on a tape had Scrawny made. Whenever a particular song came on, Captain played air guitar, Scrawny provided the terrible vocals, and I played the unseen drums. This time it felt like I couldn't, because of the company.  Somehow with Gloria beside me, it felt different, and I couldn’t enthusiastically join it with our imaginary band.

            Back at the duplex, Captain and Scrawny went upstairs. Gloria went into her temporary living space. I stood there for a minute, and then followed Gloria.

            I went through the front door. She was heading to her room. She noticed me and came closer. I kissed her.

            "I've been eating cookies," giggled Gloria.

            I smacked my lips, "Lemon flavored, cool. I was just coming to say goodnight."

            "Goodnight, Jonah."

            "Goodnight," I said, and then made my way upstairs.

            I went straight to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer.   Before long I was joined by Captain. Since I had survived temptation, I deserved a beer--too bad about the limited supply.

            "It’s official.  We're dating," I said, opening my beer.

            "Cool," said Captain.

            We watched the Cartoon Network before calling it a day.

            The rest of our days at the beach were similar to the first few. Nothing really happened, but as the week came to an end, reality began to set in.  Conversations changed. Some people talked about doing the same thing in five years. I didn’t see that happening. In five years I hoped that we would be doing something better then what we are doing now.

            I hung out with Gloria as much as I could in our remaining days at the beach. We spent our time walking on the beach and stretching out together, enjoying each other's company.  We listened to music that took us farther back into time. Every song reminded us of something that had happened or an old friend who was once in our lives.

The morning we left, I felt the same way as when we first arrived.  Although I had fun being with my friends for a week without any prying eyes, I hadn’t gained any new knowledge about myself that would change my life--the type of knowledge people get in those movies about high school. All I knew was that the summer was ending.

***

            Later that summer, I went to the same beach with my parents. There was no beer in the fridge for me to drink, so I stayed sober.

            Of course I saw several pretty girls walked around in their bathing suits.  If I was half the man I was in my imagination, they would have all come to me to make conversation. I usually stumbled on my words when I talk to them.

Then I would receive the inevitable question, "What planet are you from?"

            Since I could never find an answer for this question, so I’d fly away in my spaceship.

            While on the trip with my parents, I spent my nights on the beach playing my guitar with my own panoramic view. People walked past me, and the sand sloped into low tide, barely hitting the surf.

            One night, I was at my usual spot when a kid about my age came up to me and handed me a beer.

            "Hey man, me and my friends are going to sit behind you and listen to you play. You play good."

            I accepted the beer, thanked him, and started a mini concert in between sips of beer. I couldn’t help wondering if they were planning sabotage behind my back.  Finally a girl came over and asked if I wanted to sit with her and some friends. I grabbed my guitar and my beer, and then followed her to a spot where three kids sat beside a Styrofoam cooler.  The girl who’d invited me commented on the punk shirt I was wearing. She said her boyfriend had one like that. She then asked me what other music I liked. I told her about jazz. 

            The rest of the conversation was the normal getting-to-know-you/shooting-the-shit stuff. It would have been more stimulating with more beer. I eventually went back to where we were staying. In those days, I had a curfew of midnight.

            The rest of the trip with my family crept by.

            Tactics and I drove back home with the windows down. This was my favorite part of any trip.    The car floated with the wind; it felt like we were in front of a hair dryer. We were back in the middle of the water restrictions, with no ocean to cool us off.

            On the way back I noticed a sign that read, "HEAVEN—Don’t Leave Earth Without Jesus” Heaven, I thought, just another place for us to destroy. Maybe we don't deserve a second chance.

 

***

Gloria

When I started dating Gloria, I noticed that all of our conversations started like a tennis match. I would serve her the question, "So, what do you want to do?" Then she would hit it back to me.

When Captain and I were having this type of conversation, it was assumed we were going to House of Waffles. Luckily, Gloria had more ideas of things to do than Captain and I put together. 

Gloria showed me a manmade miniature Grand Canyon in the shape of a perfect oval. A dump truck was parked at the bottom. It was the rock quarry I had heard about at House of Waffles but never experienced.

We made out at the top. I kept my eyes open.  I couldn't keep myself from staring at the gigantic hole in the ground. I don't remember the conversation, or if there was one. I don’t think we really talked much.

But I do remember one conversation we had. We were at her mother's house, and we went out right after a storm.  The hot summer seemed like it was extinguished temporarily until the heat regained its power. 

We walked on the train tracks near her house. We followed them as we talked about school. I had finally decided to give the local community college a try and had gotten my schedule from school. I had decided to take some English classes and explore my writing further.  I still wrote in my journals almost everyday, recording all the big and small events that made up my life at that time.  I wasn't thinking about failure but only succeeding.

We talked about the question we’d both been asked several times by adults after our high school graduation. "So, what are your plans for the future?"

            If you answer that question with words like "live" or "survive," that wouldn't be considered a plan in the questioner’s eyes. I could think of several other ways to answer that question, like telling the inquirer that I want to improv like John Coltrane. That answer, however, wouldn't be good enough because the person asking the question probably had already gone through these premature moments of life, so why can’t I?  Shouldn’t everyone get the chance to just coast for awhile?  Why the rush to decide?  Why the need to move into adulthood without ever experiencing all that was part of life, even in the small town blend?

***

The Story of Blue Balls

            The summer was in its last few weeks. Several of my friends were overly anxious about going away to college. They saw this town as only a place to come back to for visits--not their home. They tried to reassure me that some time I would leave, also. I usually said something sarcastic like, "This town is actually starting to grow on me." Maybe I was trying to convince myself.

             Captain thought he was going to Mecca. However, he was disappointed when he realized that there was no  House of Waffles within walking distance of his dorm.

            I smiled and told him, "We can't all be so lucky."

            Gloria and I talked about the same type of thing. We were on top of the downtown parking garage, making out as usual.

            She told me that she was glad to leave our small town, but she didn't like the school she was going to attend. She also said the school she would be attending had one of the highest suicide rates of the country. I guess every school has to excel at something.

We started making out again, but I stopped the backseat antics when I concluded this was beginning to be a one-man show.  There was something going around inside her head, fighting to get out.

            "What's on your mind?" I asked.

            “Nothing,” she answered.

            "I have ways of making you talk. You’d better tell me."

I started tickling her until the concealed thoughts began to pour out.

            "Jonah," she hesitated," have you ever heard of blue balls?"

            "What?" I questioned.

            "When you make out with a guy and he gets aroused, then you are supposed to…"

            "Jerk him off," I said.

            "Yeah, and if you don't, he gets blue balls."

            I tried keeping the conversation serious because I could see that she wasn’t joking, but I failed to do so.

            "That's okay, I don't have any testicles," I confessed, followed by a bolt of laughter.

            "Don't make fun of me," she said unconfidently.

            "I'm sorry," I said.

At this point I began feeling guilty for making fun of her. She was serious about not wanting to give me the alleged blue balls.

"Before I went on a class trip to London last semester, my ex-boyfriend gave me the choice of either having sex with him or giving him a blow job."

            "So which one did you give him?" I asked.

            "I told him I would give him the answer after I got back, but when I got back I found out he had cheated on me while I was gone,” she continued.

            This was personal.  I told her to wait in the car while I walked a small distance away to think everything over. I lit a cigarette and thought about it. As I exhaled the drag, I thought about the so-called blue balls and started laughing.

I walked back to Gloria, who was still in the back seat of my car and holding her knees up to her chest. She looked embarrassed. I opened the door, and began gesturing like a politician.

            "This is the deal. (A) that guy is an asshole. (B)  my balls aren't going to turn blue and fall off or whatever else you heard.” (I was lying. I felt the pain.) and (C)  I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to. Now, do you feel better?"

"Kind of," she answered.

            "Oh, shit, my balls! They’re falling off--oh!" I started doing the steps of a tourist who has to piss but couldn’t find the bathroom.

            She laughed.

            Afterwards we got ice cream, and I took her home.

***

Boxing Up the Old, Reopening the New

            Tactics and I found a new home. He had recently moved back to the small town blend from his life in the big city, and we were going to share an apartment while we both went to community college.  I was finally leaving the neighborhood I hated so much. When I found out the exact date we could move in, I started to box up all things that would accompany me into another world. The same week, I began looking for a job.

            I started a process of making myself seem qualified for something, faking enthusiasm and pretending to be prompt to work. I went out with a nice pair of khakis and a button-up shirt, all tucked in.  I actually brushed my hair, which was rare because I usually had a shaved head.  I had started keeping it long for Gloria.

            While I was out being productive, I started remembering all the shitty jobs I’d had in the past. When I was about sixteen, I worked at a yuppie kind of restaurant, waking up at 6:30 am every Saturday and Sunday to wash several bus tray loads of dirty dishes.

            The first month the romantic in me came out.  This was a good job because I got to see the sunrise while driving to work. Then the reality of being elbow-deep in dirty dishwater and standing three hours at a time near a stack of dirty dishes bludgeoned the romantic right out of my mind. I worked for a little bit over minimum wage, I had to sneak around for bathroom breaks, and I never got a chance to eat for six hours a day. So much for the sunrise.

            I did manage to "accidentally" break some of the dishes and lose silverware. After six months, I quit. It didn't matter to my manager, though, who thought I might be postal. Dishwashers were a dime a dozen in this small town.

Another job I had was at a pizza place. I was the door host. I thought it was a good idea that I was a part of the wait staff and not the dishwasher. I stayed as far away from the sink as possible, but I still had to deal with the customers.

Most of the complaints were the same on my side of the restaurant, like this one guy who was representing a party of nine. In order to seat a large party, everyone in the party had to be there. It wasn't my rule.

When the guy found out that he had to wait for everyone else, he said, "It’s going to take only 10 minutes, right?"  Asking the question in a “don't-hassle-me” tone.

            "If it is only 10 minutes, then you can wait.  You’re a grown man, and you’re whining!”

            I seated someone else; he didn't say anything.

            I also had to clean up after customers. My deep dislike toward customers started when I had to clean up pieces of chewed-up food that were held together by a napkin, and got worse when I had to clean up pubic hairs from the toilet. The customers were animals, and I was a zookeeper, cleaning the cage for the next animal to mess up.

            I got fired for "miscommunication." I still have no idea what my manager meant by that.

            Soon after that, I was sitting on a couch with my future employer having a job interview at a movie theater. She went on and on about what she expected from her employees.  Then she mentioned that since I was an employee, I would receive free popcorn and free movies. She said I would be paid minimum wage.  As she was going on about what the job requirements were, the word “free” was  sounding  in my head like a siren on a police car. 

            I ended up getting the job, and I had to start that day.

***

             Captain and I woke early at 9:30 am so we could go to House of Waffles and have a decent breakfast of a waffle, sausage, and several cups of coffee. The drought was still plaguing the summer, so both of us knew that this would be "work" and not just a leisurely summer afternoon.  Today I was moving our of my parents’ house.  Captain told me that he’d always wanted to do this, and he was living his life vicariously through me. 

            After digesting our breakfast along with cigarettes, we went back to where I’d spent the last  twelve years of my life. The place where tomorrow, I would be considered a visitor.

            My mom made a big cooler of ice and bottles of cold lemonade. She remarked on how hot it was outside and that maybe this should be a two-day job since I had so much stuff.  Today I was moving what I could move without a truck. That was the plan for that day, and the heat wasn't going to stop me from accomplishing my mission.

             Captain and I went upstairs and began boxing up my things. I got sentimental while packing some old elementary school assignments. Back then, the only thing I’d had to worry about was which kick ball team I was going to be on, and if I was on the team that lost it would ruined the rest of the day. I also boxed up my old journals, maybe the most important thing I owned because they contained my thoughts about schoolyard crushes, the first few fears of high school, my first dance, and other embarrassing stories that seem funny now. I wanted to take all of this with me. I packed up  my first notebook of poetry, were with each one, I struggled for the right rhyme. They were all put into the notebook perfectly.  Looking at them now, I thought some of them were terrible, but I couldn't make myself throw them away.  These writings were as much a part of me as my heart.

            We carried the boxes to my car. Then we came back inside, making a stop for a cup of cold lemonade. We were already drenched because of the heat.

            "My baby is leaving. I can't believe it," my mom said wistfully.

            My dad came over and hugged me. "You know you can still stay here if you are unsure about apartment life.  This is always your home."

            "I'll be fine," I said.

            "Do you think you can come back every once in a while and stomp up and down the stairs or play loud music?  We’re really going to miss that" my dad asked trying to lighten the moment.

"Sure," I said quickly, not wanting to get caught up in the emotion I sensed from them. "We still have some more boxes to take care of."

             Captain and I hurriedly went upstairs again.

            "That was depressing," said Captain.

            "I'm the youngest. Now they only have the cat,” I told him.

            We loaded the last few boxes in my mom’s car. The only thing left to show my existence in my old room was a bed, a mattress, and tape marks on the wall from where my posters use to be.  I wasted no time getting back down stairs with the last boxes.

            My mom, Captain, and I drove over to my new apartment.   My car was so filled up that Captain had to sit in the fetal position, and when I looked through the rearview mirror all I saw was a wall of cardboard boxes. I had a vision of Captain and me getting decapitated from the heavy cargo in the backseat if I made a sudden stop. The car was weighted down, and the speedometer wouldn't let me go over 25 mph.

            "We are going to die. You didn't really want to go to college, did you?" I asked Captain.

            "Whatever, man," he said, from his cramped spot.  "If I die, I'm taking you with me."

            We arrived safely, fortunately with no casualties. We got out of the car after we peeled ourselves away from the sweaty car seats.  Captain finally got the feeling back in his legs. My mom and I went to the office to get the key.

Tactics and I was established earlier on that whoever got the smallest bedroom in the apartment got the parking permit. Tactics, maybe because he was older, got the bigger room. The landlord only allowed one parking permit per apartment, so Tactics had to park in visitor parking. My small room was big enough for me.  I gladly accepted the parking permit. I wouldn't have known what to do with the extra space anyway.  I had always had a small bedroom.

            We moved the boxes into my room. The bare walls in the apartment were similar to the ones I had just left, but they had the potential for greatness. The echo of a drippy faucet in the apartment gave the only cool rhythm against the summer the heat. We had some more lemonade before moving all the boxes into the middle of my room.

            When we finished, we sat in the front room, leaned our backs against the wall, and drank more of the cold lemonade. Then it happened.  A moving truck came, along by two guys covered in sweat and wearing hot coveralls, hating their jobs particularly on that day, arrived with some of my new furniture.  When  I told them they could put the furniture anywhere, the movers dropped our new chair and table on the floor apathetically.

My future landlord showed up with papers for me to sign. This was all a new experience, but it felt good signing grown-up papers.  If I had known ahead of time that I would be signing my name to a bunch of guidelines to live by, I would have prepared papers of my own for him that would have prepared him for his new tenants.

(1)    Expect loud, sacrificial music, Rastafarian behavior, and mutiny.

(2)    What you see, you cannot tell.

(3)    Failure to understand the guidelines of your new tenants may result in another WACO.    Signed “X”

             

After the movers and my new landlord left, mom went home too, and Captain and I went to pick up Gloria for lunch. We went to a sandwich place, and I tried to regain feeling in my hand after signing my name so many times on the rental agreement. However, having a sore hand was a small price to pay for having my own place. I couldn't stop smiling. What I had was better than any college dorm.

            After eating our sandwiches, we went back to my apartment.  It was still nothing to show off, since the furniture was in the middle of the floor, and  boxes were in the two would-be bedrooms, but still the place was mine.

Gloria was enthusiastic. "Wow."

            We hung out for awhile until Gloria and Captain got tired of staying. I guess all they saw were white walls and empty space. I had a different vision of the place and wanted to stay longer.  Captain sighed and went into my future bedroom to play my guitar, leaving Gloria and me lying on the floor with our shoes off.

I kissed Gloria's cheek. She closed her eyes. I kissed her again, starting at her neck and then slowly and quietly up to her lips.  Captain played some weird stuff on the guitar, then he stopped, and we heard his footsteps coming closer. We all decided to leave.

            I dropped Gloria off at her home, and Captain and I met up with Scrawny. He was living on his own, along with four other people.  Captain and I wanted beer, so we asked Tactics to buy us some. Because of our limited amount of pocket money, he bought us two 40 oz. bottles of cheap malt liquor, which we were used to drinking. After that, Scrawny drove us over to his own personal non-alcoholic but tolerant, zone where he lived.  He was straight edge, but very tolerant of his friends who drank. In my opinion, straight edge was white suburban slang for designated driver.  We hung out and watched a movie while Scrawny reminded us repeatedly not to spill anything. We watched a spoof about life in the ghetto. 

            When the movie was over and Captain and I had finished drinking, we went out onto Scrawny’s roof, and I realized for the first time this was the only thing my new apartment was missing-- a roof. My old home had one outside the window of my bedroom. I’d crawl unto it when my parents were out of town. I’d smoke cigarettes and watch the sun go down.

            I now lived in a three-story apartment complex, and I lived at the bottom. There were balconies, but they started at the second floor. The window in my bedroom had a perfect view of the brick wall holding up the apartment building beside mine.  The window in our TV room beside the kitchen had a view of a motionless parking lot. 

            Scrawny drove me back to my apartment, then left to take Captain back to his house. I was still drunk, so I got a cup I used to drink lemonade, filled it up with water, and went to my room. I had to move some boxes so I could sit down. I grabbed my guitar, lit a cigarette, used the cup of water as an ashtray, and serenaded my new room.

Oh, I thought I sounded good, but that could have been the malt liquor talking. It was a drunken melody for an audience of one, plus the bare white walls, of course. I played and sang words that would only make sense to me. I looked around at my new room in admiration, smoking a cigarette in my own space.

            It was about 2:30 am when,  I remembered Gloria saying that her mom was out of town.  I got in my car and drove over to her house all the while singing to the radio. I couldn’t believe that most people were asleep at that time of day. The sad thing is that in the small town blend, every night was like this--dead after midnight.

            I went to her front door. I thought it would be cooler to climb up to a balcony and sneak into her room, but I figured I could barely stand up straight, so I banged on the door a few times.

She answered it, and I could tell she had been asleep because she had to shield her eyes from the light the moon was projecting into the room.

            "I thought you were going to call me." She yawned.

            "I hate telephones,” I said.

            "Are you drunk?" she asked

            "Yyeeaahhh," I said, somewhat debating my intoxication. "I wasn't tired, so I came over,” I explained. “I can go if you want."

            She opened her front door further, inviting me in. We went to her brother's room because it was the only room with air conditioning. We lay down on his bed for awhile and enjoyed each other's company.  She fell asleep, and I felt a sober insomnia coming on. I left quietly, not wanting to disturb her sleep.

***

            The next day, Tactics and I used our neighbor’s truck to move the rest of our stuff from my parent’s home to our new apartment. We thought we played it smart by waiting until the evening to do all the heavy moving, but still we broke a sweat and our backs.  It took two truckloads to vacate our old rooms. With the car windows rolled down, we enjoyed the ride because of the cool breeze, and it gave us a short break. 

            We situated our rooms the way we wanted them.  Captain came over, and after seeing pools of sweat running down my forehead he said, "I'm glad I didn't help you move." 

            That night, we received our first problem. The air conditioner didn't work, so Captain and I went across the street to get some cold drinks. After we came back, we sat in my room and played chess, drinking while beads of sweat ran down our faces. I never knew chess could be so intense.

            After losing three games and hearing Captain’s Russian chess player’s accent, I paged Diamond. We paged him several times, one after another, so it would result in an eruption of beeps.

            When Diamond finally called back, Captain answered in a Russian accent, "It's your mother, mother fucker."

            But Diamond, not recognizing Captain’s voice was pissed off.

 Captain finally explained who he was and what was going on. He got off the phone and told me Diamond was coming over.

While we waited for Diamond, we played another game of chess. My strategy this time was to last as long as possible. I still lost, but I lasted longer which says something about me.

             Captain explained that he used to play chess in elementary school. He said he was the best on the team. I played chess one year in elementary school. I was turned off to it, though, because the chess coach reminded me of a drill sergeant. He would raise his fist in the air, and yell,  "Chess isn't a game like Monopoly, but a battle. You have to win your opponent’s king!"

 I dug the car he drove because it reminded me of my grandma's.

            Finally, Diamond showed up. I told him that this wasn't a party apartment but a relaxed environment. We went to my room, and Diamond pulled out a bag of weed. I thought that this was a perfect way to break-in a new apartment. Diamond rolled a joint, and we started subbing up my room.

The joint went around the circle of three, as well as my guitar. This was normal behavior for this group. There wasn't anything like taking a hit of inspiration and then exhaling it on a six string.

            After drinking several glasses of water, Diamond left, and Captain and I went to sleep. I didn’t realize this at the time, but this would be the last time I saw Captain before he left for college

***

Working

            The movie theater where I worked had a lot of history. It was built around the time of Prohibition, and it still had a speakeasy, which was sealed by a huge, metal door that bullets couldn't go through. The speakeasy was used as storage. No alcohol was served.

Since it was a very small theater, the owner, who was rarely there, tried to make it shine above other competitors showing some artistic films, as well as other current runs. Instead of buying gigantic bags of popcorn from wholesalers like our rivals did, we popped our own. When the owner told me this, it was like she wanted me to share her pride. I didn't give a shit. This was a job for me and I just wanted to get paid. I took pride in my paycheck.

The owner was a flaky old lady who said I looked like her ex-husband. She told me that the theater mainly showed independent films. It was a good idea to have an independent film theater, but not in this conservative town. Here, if a movie didn't have Harrison Ford or Mel Gibson in it, then it was unholy.  I thought that was pretty cool movies other than the main stream types, but I didn't know that artsy, oh-my-tortured-soul, flaky bullshit was also under the broad title of independent film making. For the art followers who actually saw these movies, coffee and herbal tea was at their disposal. I thought the herbal tea tasted like piss, but apparently film artists liked the taste of piss.

            The other employees were cool. Some of them had taken the job for extra pocket money, to pay the bills, or to put themselves through college. Some of them, like most of the kids who lived in this town, were doing this until something better came along, like a one-way ticket some place else.

            A friend who worked there told me to disregard everything I heard in the interview. She told me it was a relaxed, bullshit job. It sounded good. I usually disregard what I hear in job interviews anyway, and that was all a bum like me needed--more slack. 

***

            On a typical night, I’d answer customers’ stupid questions and end up being burned by the popping oil that dripped down from the popcorn popper. (Employees who'd worked there for a while called it napalm.). One night, the guy I worked with tried to help me think of ways to make clean-up easier.

"I have an idea!" said the boy who was the projectionist who was in charge when the manager wasn't there.  Following that logic, the manager was in charge when the owner wasn't there, this was about half the time.

He went to a storage closet and returned with, not just a vacuum, but a two vacuum packs which were normally used to get loose popcorn kernels from the bottom of the popper.  To use a vacuum pack correctly, it had to be worn like a backpack.  Seeing the two vacuum packs, we gave in to our masculine instincts, loving anything in backpack form, and came up with another use for the vacuums.

A thriller/horror movie, The Blair Witch Project, was playing in the main theater. Another employee and I decided to wear the backpacks while we went down the main theater aisles. I’d gone through the lost and found earlier that night and found a pair of stupid-looking sunglasses with black frames and apricot-orange lenses. I put them on, and the other employee and me picked separate aisles of the theater to go down.

I couldn't see very well because of the glasses, but the response was great. One lady got up from her seat and hurriedly walked right passed me. When she saw me, she yelled, "Oh my God!" and began running.

Some of the people were laughing, and some were applauding. I just kept walking, holding in my laughter.  I waved my vacuum around like it was a laser owned by a space invader.  I went back in the other direction, and the crowd was still applauding as I went out the double doors at the back of the theater.

The next day I was working a day shift at the theater when Gloria came by to tell me Captain had left. She told me the two of them had been out looking for me the night before, and she asked what I was doing.  Somehow it didn’t seem like a good idea to tell her that I had been playing space invaders with a vacuum pack.

I’d wanted to give Captain some big bon voyage deal, but I knew the only thing we probably would have done was get drunk, then go to House of Waffles and spend most of the night pushing quarters in the jukebox. He deserved more, but then again, the bastard got out, and I had to stay.

"At least he got out," I said. "He deserves it."

            Gloria left, and I think this is when I began to hate my job. I wanted to vent my frustrations out on someone or something.  That was when a co-worker, the one I’d worked with the night before, thought of a plan to freak out the girl projectionist, the one no one liked.  She had a jaw line like Mr. Ed.

The theater sold brownies that we ordered from the yuppie coffee shop up the street at a hefty price. I didn't understand: all a customer had to do was buy a brownie at the coffee shop for a cheaper price and then sneak it into the theater.  Why anyone would do that, however, was beyond me.  The brownies tasted terrible, and they looked terrible. Customers, not even recognizing them as brownies, would ask, “What is that?” 

I think that was why the management bought them.  The theater used to sell chocolate chip cookies, but the employees ate them before the customers had the option of buying them. No one ate the brownies.

            But back to the plan with one of the girl employees.  A single brownie was the most important part of the plan. My fellow employee took the brownie out of the plastic wrap and rolled the poor excuse for a brownie up so that it looked like a small, lonely piece of shit.

After this task was completed, he went into the employee’s bathroom, slid it across the toilet, and laid it gently on the floor. I went into the bathroom to inspect it. It was a perfect job. Now, all we had to do was wait for a scream and hide our laughter.

            Our shift ended.  We sat on the couch that was for customers waiting for their movie to start.  Usually the couch was taken over by the employees, so the customers couldn’t sit. We waited for the employees working the night shift to come and relief us from our slacker duties.

            Suddenly, we heard sounds of horror from the girl projectionist.  "Ohhh!  Oh, my God!" She came running out of the bathroom.  "Someone went to the bathroom and missed! There's a giant turd on the floor."

            "Really?" I yelled.

I ran to the bathroom and pretended to wave the stench away from my nose. She showed me the fake shit, and I pretended to look in horror.

            "Oh my God, is it real?" I asked as I knelt down beside it, pretending to wave away the stink again.

            My hands closed and I gently went over to the ripe piece of fake shit, like I didn't want to wake it up from its drunken slumber. I slipped my hands under it while she was still in the grips of insanity, standing there shaking with her eyes closed tightly

            "It's real,” I announced, taking a sniff.

            Mr. Ed's offspring went running out to the couch, where the other employees had gathered, avoiding work as long as possible.

            "He picked it up with his bare hand!"

            "It's okay.  It won't hurt you,” I said with my best Vincent Price impression as I squished it in between my fingers.     

"Oh my God!" she yelled.

            Then I took a big bite of it and smiled at her. 

            "You see? It’s fine," I said.

            My fellow employees were disgusted, and the projectionist looked like she was going to throw up.  One employee,  who was also in on the joke, remarked that no one had cleaned that floor in a while.

            Finally, another employee came to relieve me from my shift.  I clocked out and left.   Another exciting night at the movie theater.

***

Remembering

            Later that night when I got home, I did some decorating in my room. I put up some old snapshots that Captain had given me. They were pictures of the summer after our junior year of high school and our adventure at the lake.  Although  most of the pictures were crooked when I stood back to look at my decorating expertise, I was reminded of another great adventure. The pictures featured Placebo, Captain, and me.

            The plan was Placebo’s idea. I actually had a job then as cook prep for an Italian guy who was slowly forming a southern accent. I enjoyed working for him, but most of the time I didn't understand him when he told me to do something because of his changing accent, so it was usually done wrong. The only thing I did understand was when he yelled my name to tell me about something I didn't do. Because of this, I had no trouble delivering a phony phone call to say that I was sick. It was those last few days of summer, and the three of us were always looking for an adventure.

            We shoulder-tapped some guy who was at House of Waffles. He told us he’d just gotten out of prison.  Captain and I felt “the fear,” not because we were trying to buy cheap wine, but because an ex-con was buying it.  Either way, he pulled through, and we were off to the lake a few miles down the road.

            This trip was done spontaneously (that’s what we called it). We had nowhere to go at first. Our only plan was to go to the nickel arcade and stay there until it was dark. 

After that, we drove around the shore of the lake and looked for a place where no one was home, a place where the lights were out. This lake was like the suburbs, we wouldn’t have to worry about the cops. We picked a deserted home with a dock and drank as the stars started to show themselves.

We could see the whole lake from our location. Although it was getting late, boats still skimmed through the water. They produced waves that passed under the dock, and we lay there feeling the ripples.

We finished drinking the wine, and Placebo and Captain went swimming. I changed into my trunks, and then found contentment lying on the dock, which by this time was under siege by the rocking waves.

I looked at the horizon, the line that separated the lake from the sky. Suddenly the lake and sky seemed to trade places. Now they seemed to be following each other around and around. After awhile longer I realized it wasn’t the sky turning round and round, my stomach.

"I got the spins!" I yelled, laughing.

            Right about then, Captain and Placebo decided to go back home, despite the mass of vomit that had now formed in my stomach and might eventually come up.

             Placebo started driving. When he put on his house music, it awakened the puke that colonized my insides. The constant electronica mixed more then the half-witted beats. I needed jazz.

            "Pull over! I'm going to puke. I'm going to puke!" I stammered.

            Placebo pulled over immediately. I got out of the car, dropped to my hands and knees, and puked. And puked.  And…

A line of drool went from my lips to the ground.  Captain took a picture that found its way into our high school yearbook. In my opinion, it was a Pulitzer Prize winning photograph. I would forever be the stain inside the pages of our senior high school yearbook.

***

            As I continued putting pictures on the walls of my bedroom, I remembered how Captain and I used to sit on top of his mom's roof and drink until it was dark. We each dished out our own theories, like how no one could be fully content until they've been through the struggle of depression.  We discussed the idea that, for the most part, life should have been simple but not necessarily easy. If it had been easy, we would all live-forever, all thoughts that I recorded in my journal for posterity.

            People change when they go away to college. I had no problem with change. Changing was a part of life, but tonight I just wished I had said good-bye to my friend.  

 

 

 

***

Stranded

            Because I was working so much, but wanted to spend as much time with Gloria as I could before she left for college, we hung out at my apartment when I had any spare time.  One time she spent the night, and she woke me up at 8:30 am.

She walked around the apartment like she usually did, with a smile on her face. I, on the other hand, was shocked to find out there was such a thing as morning in the late summertime. She woke me up early because she had a gift certificate she’d received after graduation and the closest store (where the gift certificate could be used) was an hour drive down the road. I decided to go with her. I had nothing better to do; I had to work a night shift.  

            I went to the bathroom and prepared myself for something called "morning."

            She drove her car. I smoked a cigarette and noticed the huge bags of coal underneath my eyes in the right-side mirror. It made me look like a junkie, but the sun was shining, and the wind was keeping me awake.

            There was no conversation while we went down the long, predictable road. It was a straight shot that made the drive seem longer then it really was. I nodded off to the soothing sound of tires on smooth pavement. My eyes were closed, and I knew it wouldn't take long for me to go back to dreaming again.

My awake sleep was interrupted when Gloria hit something.  One side of Gloria's car felt like it was on a gravel road. I awoke when the first thud hit my head, followed by a sound of grinding wheel metal rolling on concrete.   Suddenly there we were, unable to go above 15 mph in the fast lane of the interstate.

Disgruntled drivers honked as they passed us, while metal from the wrecked side of the car shook the black top below.

            "So," said Gloria, casually. "What do you think I should do?"

            "Well, if I was in your position, I would pull over to the right side of the road, if you want to avoid road rage," I answered with the same tone.

            Gloria did so, and we got out to inspect the left side of the car. When she described the sound to me, Gloria thought a helicopter was landing when she first felt the shake.

            The final judgment was that the tire looked like a band-aid that had lost its stickiness to  the skin. The tire was mutilated. We stared at it and laughed.

            "I knew that was going to happen," Gloria said.

            "How did you know that was going to happen?" Wondering if I was I being initiated?

            "It happened to me when I was going with my ex-boyfriend. He complained the whole time. When it happened before, we got a ride to the gas station from a hippy in a Volkswagen van. He told us he just got off probation, and while he was driving, he was smoking pot."

"I hope we get the same guy,” I said, laughing at the omen.

            The realization set in that we couldn't stand there and laugh at our misfortune. We crossed the lanes in a light jog, and then crossed a few more lanes while cars zoomed in the opposite direction. This got us to an exit ramp, where we walked in search of a telephone to call a tow truck.

Turning left, we reached a narrow bridge with barely enough room to walk. One car passed us, while a police car came toward us.  We thought this was a good thing, because the policeman might give us a ride to the nearest gas station. I waved to him, but he drove past us. The cop must have enjoyed his air-conditioned car so much he didn't want to offer us a ride. Way to serve and protect, PIG! We laughed as sweat poured down our foreheads.

In the summer, we had no real schedules, so we had to laugh at these types of situation; we walked the rest of the way to a gas station. When we arrived, we wiped more of the sweat from our foreheads. I was willing to walk another mile with her to add to the last remaining memories of the summer.

            We passed people filling up their cars with gasoline, and we headed to the pay phones on the other side of the parking lot.  I gave Gloria 35 cents for the call.  Luckily I had my AAA card. 

I thought she was cute the way the phone touched her ear, and she seemed confused about what to say and do. I sipped on the grapefruit juice that I had bought inside the convenience store, still laughing about the tire that had been destroyed.

She got off the phone and told me the tow truck would take 45 minutes. I didn't care; I had no place to go. I also was having the time of my life. If I’d been with anyone else, I would probably have been plotting their death.

I imagined Captain in this situation. He would have left the car and walked back home, because he enjoyed that kind of misery. He would also have enjoyed telling the story at House of Waffles.

            We went inside the gas station to avoid the heat and sat at a booth, which was part of a restaurant adjoining the gas station.

            "I don't mind if you kids sit there, but our air conditioner isn't working," said the clerk at the cash register.  It seemed like everyone's air conditioner was broken, or they didn't have one that year, during one of the hottest summers on record.

            Gloria and I didn't mind though,  We started talking about movies that one of us hadn’t seen. I was surprised to find out she had never seen Rocky. I watched that movie religiously. In fact, in high school I was in a band named Apollo Creed. Ironically, we died too.

            I told her that the movie wasn't just a bad-ass boxing movie; it also had a love story in it. This is what I usually told girls about the movie, hoping they would want to watch it with me. It never happened.

When the tow truck arrived, I was disappointed, because I wanted the classic-looking tow truck. This one was a flatbed tow truck.  The driver was an older man with wrinkles and a hat that said Clinton's.  Gloria asked him if he was from AAA.

            "Yup," he said." Ya'll don't look stranded."

            We were too busy taking it all in, so it didn’t look like we were suffering.

            We got inside the truck, and Gloria gave the driver poor directions. But I couldn't have given them any better. I guess all the heat made us stupid. The driver figured out where the car was while she did most of the talking. I enjoyed the ride and the air conditioning.

Finally, we arrived at Gloria's car, which resembled a tripod.  It didn't take any time for our new friend to hoist the car on the flat bed.  As he did this, Gloria noticed an orange citation.  The ticket pretty much said that she couldn't leave her car on the side of the road, and we had to move it. The cop who drove past us when we needed a ride to the gas station probably circled around and put the citation there.

            We got back into the tow truck, and the driver slightly tipped his hat and informed us his name was Clinton. We were in a town called Rocky Mount. Clinton must have taken a liking to Gloria, and decided to give us a free tour through his town.

He pointed out different locations, including an old, abandoned warehouse where a guy had committed suicide after he got caught selling moonshine.

This was a smaller town than the one we wanted to escape. The thing I liked about it was that there were no franchises, none of the same stores were built together—all free standing, and there were no strip malls. Everything was right there in the small town, although I couldn't imagine living there.  I didn’t see a House of Waffles anywhere.

            On our way to Clinton's shop, he stopped at a heating and air conditioning business. The man who came out to greet us wore a shirt that was similar to Clinton's, only it was sky blue with a patch on one of the pockets.  I couldn't read what it said.

Clinton asked, "How's it going?"

            The man said the same. Then there was a long silence. 

            Clinton said, "Bye." 

The man said the same, and then we were off again. I guess they could only speak in short greetings in the town of Rocky Mount.

            Finally, we arrived at Clinton's shop. We got out of the tow-truck, and Clinton asked to see my AAA card. As he inspected it, all of his workers walked at their own pace to their next job in the scorching sun. And they all wore the same striped shirt that Clinton wore, with patches that showed their name.

            A few of them said, "Hey, Clinton."

            Clinton said, "Hey,” back.

He put Gloria's car in one of the three garages. Then he came back to me, gave me my AAA card, and told us it would be a little bit of a wait.

            Gloria and I sat on the curb in front of Clinton's gas station/shop. We watched his customers fill up their cars with gas. The old gas pumps were underneath a shelter that looked like it could fall at any moment if the wind changed direction. From where we sat, it looked like the whole area had a spilled oil finish, and the hut where the customers paid looked like a shack made of brick aged by car exhaust.

Even though Clinton's business looked like a smoker's lung, it seemed to run smoothly. People left there happy, as we did when Gloria's new tire was put on.

            We said, "Thank you."

            Clinton smiled back.  His teeth were the only thing that lit up on his face. The rest of his face was permanently stained with his knowledge of cars. When a man like Clinton smiled, you had to smile back.

            Gloria decided she would spend her gift certificate some other day, but I would have kept on going. We went home, and she told me that most of the people coming in to get gas at Clinton's reminded her of the family of her dad's girlfriend.  Her dad paid for his girlfriend to go through hair styling school, but still she just sat on her ass and smoked pot.  Gloria told me how weird her family was and how normal she felt compared to them. I told her how normal my family was and how weird I felt compared to them.

We arrived in Roanoke as the clock in her car hit noon. Was it really just noon?  It seemed so much later.  She brought it to my attention. This was the usual time my day started.

            "Now, see everything you can do when you don't sleep in? You would have missed riding in a tow-truck."

            We went back to my apartment and took a swim in the pool. Afterwards she went home, and I went to work.

***

A Night of Jazz and Bowling

            Gloria was leaving for college in just two days, and one of her last nights was going to be spent with me. She wanted to go to bed early her last night, because she had to be at her school at about 10 am.

            After hearing this, I thought of a superior plan for the night we would get to spend together. The day of this special night, I told her to dress up and to be prepared for a wonderful dining experience in a fancy restaurant. I made reservations for two at seven. After dinner we would go bowling, and for the most important part, I hunted down Tactics for an expensive bottle of gin. This was important to do early in the day, because the liquor store closed at nine.  

            After making these arrangements, I went back to my apartment and made a tape of slow ballads so we could dance on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Then I realized that I wasn't sure if I had enough money in my checking account, so I rushed to the bank to check my balance.  Check!  I was okay in that department.

            I decided to wear my black skinny tie.  It was the only tie I owned that went down to my belt buckle. All the other ties I owned looked like I had worn them as a little kid.

This kind of dressing up was different. I wanted to look halfway decent. The last time I’d dressed up had been my last school dance my junior year. I’d gone with Gloria, and she was in the homecoming court. She’d planned to go with Placebo, but he’d backed out at the last minute. She asked me to go with her the day before the dance. I decided not to go at first, but I finally said yes. We were just friends at that time, but I figured she shouldn't be standing up with the other homecoming nominations without a date.

At the dance, when the homecoming court was called up to the front, I stared at the drunken student body and with all the fake school spirit. I vowed never to go to this kind of event again. 

The countdown was on before I had to pick up Gloria, and I was nervously chain smoking. I didn't feel smooth, suave, or like a cool, movie gangster. I was the guy who never got the girl. I was the guy who’d sit at House of Waffles for hours and listen to my friends moan and complain about their girlfriends while I smiled on the inside. At the time, I didn't want the complication of having to be responsible for someone else’s happiness.   

I got dressed, made sure my tie wasn't crooked, and realized it was a dumb idea to get dressed up in the summer's heat. I was already sweating, so I caked on the deodorant. After that I debated whether or not I should wear my dress shoes or my tennis shoes. Tennis shoes won out.  I didn’t want to look too dressed up.  People may have thought I was a Jehovah’s Witness.

6:30pm… I drove over to Gloria's house, smoking a cigarette.  I hesitated before I walked to her door, because the ashes of my cigarette found their way onto my black slacks.

"Damn it,” I said furiously as I swept them off with my hand.

As I approached the door, I prepared myself for her mom to answer.  I was thinking of a nice, witty conversation to fill up the time before Gloria's arrival at the door.

I knocked and produced a nice guy grin for the mom, but Gloria answered. I was so sure her mom would answer that I had no idea what to say to Gloria.

            All I could do was notice how pretty she looked. She wore a short black and white dress with sparkles. Her purse was from a friend in California, and it looked like it was made with fuzzy zebra skin. She was the first one to say anything.

"You look nice. Do you think my hair looks like an old lady's?"

            "It looks nice,” I said.

            "I feel like a whore."

            "You look beautiful," I said, even though I had no problems if she did look like a whore. 

"I feel like a yin and yang symbol,” I told her, nervously glancing down at my black and white clothes.

            She laughed. We got in the car, assuring one another that we both looked fine.

            There a line as we went through the front doors of the fancy restaurant, but that didn’t stop us.  Holding Gloria’s hand, I confidently walked to the front and told the hostess I had a reservation at seven under Jericho. She sat us in a booth near the bar in the smoking section. 

I could tell who the high-class patrons were.  They sat at the bar, sipped their expensive dark beer, and watched the game on the big screen. This was no House of Waffles. I was in a forbidden zone.

            When our waiter finally came, he was an older man who could have been my dad, and he called me “sir.”  I gave him a smart-ass smile--what a tool. He took our drink orders and left.

            Gloria and I discussed how uninviting the bar looked for anyone under the age of forty. The women had bags underneath their eyes, and the men had bellies that hung over their belt buckles. It looked like a high school reunion or an AA meeting, except for the fact that alcohol was all around. 

The waiter came back with our drinks. I could tell he hated serving me. He had already decided this would not get him a very big tip.  It must have been humiliating for him to call me “sir.” He took our orders and left again.

            As our food was being prepared, we talked about how cool high school had seemed when the only knowledge we’d had was formed from stupid sitcoms on television about high school kids. 

Gloria talked about how much she’d wanted to meet new people when she entered high school, and I told her that my best friend for the first two years of my high school experience had been my guitar.  Then I’d met Captain.  

            Our food came. She’d ordered a salad. I’d ordered the one-of-a-kind turkey and broccoli sandwich with fancy potato chips. We started eating. I took the toothpicks out of my sandwich, and chewed like a Viking. Suddenly I felt something odd in my mouth.

Was I being poisoned by the old waiter for acting like a smart-ass? Was he racing to the border of Tijuana Mexico? I imagined the likes of him laughing in a villainous sort of way and rubbing his hands together like a bad guy from an old black and white Western. I chewed further and felt a hard, smooth surface that was shaped like a rod. It wasn’t going away.

I pushed through the mush to the UFO and pulled it out of its hiding place. There it was, staring at me--part of my toothpick. Why did they give me an extra one, and why was it in my sandwich?

"You could have choked and died," yelled Gloria.

            After that, it was as if every eye was waiting to see when I would choke. They were all in on it. The waiter came back to see if everything was satisfactory. I laid the foreign object on the side of the plate. I didn't tell him about it. I was on to him.

"Everything is fine," I said sarcastically.  

            The rest of the dinner was spent checking behind my back to see what else was on the agenda.

            I paid the bill and gave the waiter a shitty tip. Next was bowling.

            When we entered the parking lot of the bowling alley, I saw that Gloria was a little unsure. I guess it sounded good over the phone, but she probably thought I wouldn't go through with it. Then she realized how far her short skirt would go up, which wasn't appropriate bowling gear. I was going to enjoy this.

            "It's going to be fun," I explained. "When are we ever going to do this again?" 

            As we went through the front door, there were a few stares. Evidently they'd never seen bowlers with such style. 

            Some people we knew from our high school were there also and came up to us, the frat boys and sorority girls of the future who never missed a chance to feel better about themselves. They could relate to Gloria because she was going to a real college, not a community college.

One of the preppies asked me, "So Jonah, you are going to community college?"

It was a question, but it sounded like a summons.

            "Yup," I said.

One-word answers were the only answers they understood.

            "What are you going to do afterwards?" she asked.

            "New York," I slipped.

            She told me, “Well, you are definitely the New York type. What college are you looking at?"

            I acted like that was a stupid question. "I’m not sure."

            The girl started talking to Gloria again. I decided to rent some bowling shoes.

            "What's your shoe size?" I interrupted the girl, who still babbled away to Gloria.

I bought two pairs, walked back over, dropped them abruptly ahead of Gloria's feet in front of the future soccer mom, and sat down beside them. Then I acted like a cowboy on a bucking bronco, except I was on the floor of the bowling alley trying to put on my bowling shoes under the conversation about the dueling colleges. This turned off the conversation, and Gloria and I finally started bowling.

One of the guys in the group came over to me.  He and I had been best friends in a past life. We still talked, though, although that was seldom. I asked him where he was going to school, and he told me he was going to some rich-boy, private, all-guy college. I asked him why he was going to such a terrible place. He told me he didn't know. But he wanted to get out of the house and charge it to his parents.

For as long as I’d known him, he’d never gotten along with his parents. They always neglected him or made up rules at any given time to make his life hell. He found out early in life that the best revenge for parents like that was to leave them the bill.

             Gloria went to the computer to get the scoring ready, and I went ball hunting. I came back, and then Gloria went to find her ball, tapping the bottoms of her bowling shoes on the tile beside the family of bowling balls behind us. She came back, and we started bowling in our assigned alley.

The other bowlers stared at us. I think I saw a few redneck girls swoon. Some guys who looked like they’d mistakenly swallowed their bowling balls checked out Gloria as she bowled.

            "Am I flashing you when I bowl?" Gloria asked.

            I said, "No." Liar!

I’d hate the bowlers in the back to miss out on this. However, Gloria developed a technique that prevented any ass showing. The technique was working--she was beating me. I asked her if she was a regular. She told me she bowled with her dad sometimes.

            My male instinct spoke up: I was losing to an actress. Then I bowled a strike. Gloria took a picture of me celebrating, with my arms up in the air. I’d already taken several pictures of her smiling with the bowling ball.

Eventually, I lost to an actress. We played one game, then left to go to the parkway.

            It was getting dark, and the temperature was cooling down. I drove to an overlook that she picked out. I parked the car, turned off the engine, but kept the lights on.

            "What exactly are we going to do here?" Gloria asked.

            "You'll see,” I said as I popped in a tape.

            We got out of the car, and the jazz flowed freely like moths drawn to my headlights. The echoes of their ghosts guided us. Occasionally the scene lit up when a car drove by with their brights on.

I put my right hand on her hip and held her with my left. We put our left hands down to hold each other closer.  I called the shots, like I did when I used to watch baseball on TV but was too young to understand the business.

I called out the solos:  "That's Lee Morgan's solo on John Coltrane's Blue Train masterpiece called “Call Me Old Fashioned,” and from Miles Davis’s, “Kind of Blue album, his trumpet solo called Flamingo Sketches.  This one is Cannonball Alderly’s solo, John Coltrane's solo, this is Miles Davis's, “You're My Everything,” “Relaxin'” with the Miles Davis Quintet, etc..."

            She put her cheek on my shoulder, and I held her closer. She put her hand up to the back of my neck, lightly rubbing it. I kissed her forehead. Suddenly our dancing stopped as the tape unexpectedly  switched into blaring punk rock. The moment could have outlasted the tape that I didn't make the tape long enough.

We went back down the mountain. On the way to my apartment, we stopped at a convenience store for some grapefruit juice for the gin.

            As we went for the expensive bottle of gin in the freezer, the telephone rang. I picked it up.  The voice on the other end sounded like a mom.

            "Is Gloria there?"

I gave the phone to Gloria as I whispered, "It's your mom."

            I didn't get the whole conversation, only Gloria's half, but that was enough.

            "We are just hanging out... I'm spending the night with Hostess...”

And then… “You went through my diary... I'm not having sex with Jonah..."

            Her mom must have had a pathetic life if she had to go through Gloria's diary for entertainment. I sat on a table in the TV room, listening intently, and giving Gloria gestures of how she should tell her mom off. Gloria stayed calm with her crazy mom, said a quick good-bye, and then hung up the phone.

            "I can't believe she’d go through my things. This has happened before, too," protested Gloria.

            I quickly defended myself, "I didn't take you out tonight expecting something afterwards. I wanted to give you a good night in this town before you went to college.”

            We started drinking, wondering if Gloria's oppressive mom would pay us a visit.

            Gloria went back to my room to change into her pajamas, and I loosened my tie, untucked my shirt, and took off my shoes.

Gloria came back, and we started drinking again. I filled the glasses, estimating a shot, then added grapefruit juice.

After a few glasses, Gloria started telling high school liquor stories. I wasn't really paying any attention. I looked through the smoke of my cigarette to concentrate on her eyes.

            Occasionally she would giggle. "Why are you looking at me that way?" 

            "I don't know,” I answered. “You have nice eyes."

            Through the course of our underage drinking, my estimation for shots became more liberal and blurred. Our heads got heavier; and our eyes glazed over in full. Knowing we couldn't pass sobriety tests, we didn't go out again.

We stopped drinking finally and stood up. I put the gin in the freezer. We kissed, standing in the middle of my kitchen of my apartment. I held her close, still kissing her, and directed us both down the small hallway to my room, using my hand as a guide. Our eyes were still closed.

            We entered my room, stumbling on some dirty laundry on the floor. I reached for the light switch, turned it off, and then we crashed on my single-sized bed. I reached around her body with my right hand to the floor, felt my stereo remote, and pressed play.

The sounds of Dexter Gordon were our soundtrack that night, live at Carnegie Hall. Hollywood couldn't have written it better.

            We took the clothing off of one other. Soon I was in the midst of smooth skin and bed sheets, while Dexter Gordon played “A Secret Love.”

When I was on top of her, she was in pain.  Seeing her face through the dimly lit room I realized that, it must have felt like a dagger trying to make its way through her. There was nothing but pain on her face, so I pulled out. Now the intense pain on her face was gone, and I decided not to go through with it. We lay there in silence. What was there to say?

            "Sorry," was enough said.

            I held her, consoled her. For some reason she was cold.

            The gin called us to the bathroom, and I gave Gloria my bathrobe. After she left, I lay naked on my bed. I lit a cigarette, waiting for my turn. She came back, and I got up, not even thinking to cover up, still smoking my cigarette as I walked down the hallway. .

            Suddenly I heard footsteps entering the apartment. It was Tactics and his girlfriend. Tactics and I hadn’t talked about this happening.  I waited until I thought I heard them go into his room, and then I opened the bathroom door.  However, there stood Tactics’ girlfriend, at point-blank range with a perfect view of a side of me she thought she would never see.

She took it well. She didn't scream as I shut the door.

            What a night, I thought. I waited until I was sure she was in Tactics’ room before I made a break for my own room. The chance was there, and I took it.

I told Gloria what happened, and she laughed. She was underneath the covers of my bed. I couldn't help but feel lucky at the sight of a beautiful girl lying naked in my single-size bed, where I dreamed about things like that. I couldn't help but wonder why she was with a guy like me tonight. I carefully made my way to bed. I had never shared this bed with anyone before.

We lay there quietly, confused teenagers. We talked about how we would go from this stage back to just friends, and how hard that would be.

            I tried to make everything okay.  "You’ll meet some college guy," I said. “It always works that way.”

            "I don't even want to go to this college,” she said.

            "It's better than community college. At least you’ll get out of this town."

            Again there was silence.

            "Do you believe in love at first sight?" she asked.

            "No,” I answered.

            "Do you believe in true love?" she asked

            "No," I said. "I believe love is obsolete, like Atari."

            "I believe in true love," she said. "but I'm scared that I will die alone."

            "I'm scared of reality,” I said.

I knew I drank excessively to stop the fear of reality. I usually needed something or someone to tell me it was okay. Reality produced stress and the feeling that someday I’d conform to the same job, the same house, the same life. Here I was, a privileged, middle-class boy, and I was scared. I was a C student looking for some escape. 

            "Happiness has always been a struggle for me.  Captain was the best friend I’d ever had. He got out. So what’s the point?"

            She started crying.

I remembered Diamond's story at the beach of his friend who cried when he was at that stage of life when choices started to matter for your so-called long-term goals. I didn't cry.  I was made of stone like a boxer before a fight, and a matador before the charging of the bull. I was at that same stage.

            "You shouldn't cry," I told her.

            "Happiness has been a struggle?" she asked in between tears.

            "It doesn't really matter now, does it? Don't worry about me," I said. "You'll meet a college guy, and you will fall in love." 

            "When I go away, I'm gonna miss my friends like you, but not my mom." 

            I went on to talk about my so-called future. I was tired of the teachers in high school who told me I had potential. I was tired of hearing that. If they’d known some secret about my future, I wished they would have told me.  Otherwise, I’d have fended for myself. Because of that, I told her I couldn't see myself being happy or satisfied, but always striving.

She cried again and again, and it took me off guard.  No one had cried over me in a long time. I apologized--no one should have to have that put on their shoulders.

She said, "You are going to do everything you want."

            Sometimes people say things because they feel like they have to. Sometimes they are honest, and you can tell they are. Either way, it is bullshit. I'm the one who has to live this life, not them. I'm the one who has to deal with it. She was still there.

            We decided to go to sleep. Gloria had no trouble. She rested from all the shit I put on her. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I went to the futon in the front room to find salvation.

***

 

            It only seemed like about 15 minutes had gone by when I heard, "Jonah, Jonah, it's time for orientation."

            Fuck, I thought, I had totally forgotten about orientation for community college. Tactics was shaking me. I woke up from what seemed like an explosion; I walked to my room, stinking from the summer heat and a hangover from hell--and there was Gloria, shining. She was definitely a morning person. I hated mornings.

She’d had all the sleep she needed in my bed, and seeing her smile made me smile. I grabbed a shirt from the floor. I could care less if I had a shower or not. I had to go to college orientation. A responsible guy would have gone to bed at a decent time, but not me. I drank gin with my girlfriend. I quickly put on my shoes, and Tactics and I left.

I wanted him to drive to my school.  Instead, he made me drive--with a near empty tank of gas. I had no idea where I was or where I was going, even though I was in my own hometown. Tactics gave me directions. I was afraid I’d fall asleep at the wheel. I smoked my last cigarette, and we were there, wherever “there” was. We were 20 minutes late.

            The orientation was held in the auditorium, similar to high school. As we entered, an overhead presentation projected a stick figure with a sandwich board that said, "Opportunity knocked and I was in the shower." At least that guy got to take a shower. I could smell myself, which was bad, but I didn't care.

            I hardly remember anything that was said. The few things I do remember involved the three black girls who sat behind me and complained about the smell of feet (they were mine), and I do remember almost laughing out loud at the small, nerdy, security guard with the nasal twang.

The rest of it might as well have not happened. It was too long, and I didn't care enough to pay enough attention.  I looked around at the whipped faces of the students who may have partied too much in high school, or saw it as affordable education, or who were too dumb to go anyplace else, and I felt like they were sharing my hangover and lack of sleep.

This was torture, and it was worth one credit. Tactics and I left at the break, returning later when the bullshit was over so we get the information about our classes. I was surprised there wasn't a mass suicide from the kids who stayed.

At lunch we went to the small, downtown restaurant where Tactics worked as a cook.  As we had lunch, the main topic of conversation was based around how much I smelled. It brought back memories of being called “Pigpen” by my mom when I was young and refused to take a shower after playing all day.

Tactics thought we should return to orientation in an hour. We went back to the apartment to escape from the excessive bullshit of orientation. I didn't care. My hair could have been on fire, and I would still not care. All I wanted was a nap, so I took one, and the time flew. I woke up to Tactics shaking me--again. The nap didn't do anything. I was still very tired and very hung over.

            Tactics and I returned to orientation. He drove this time, pointed me in the right direction, and left me.

My "major" (for two years) was liberal arts, so I went to the room where I thought it would be and waited outside the door in the hallway. At least that’s where the huge packet of papers from orientation said that it was.  I waited there a while--a long while.

As I waited, herds of kids went past me, complaining about the boring orientation. Suckers—all of them!

            One guy looked at me and said, "I want to kill someone."

I smiled back at him invitingly--death is kind of like sleep. When the crowd filtered out, I was still waiting.

            A teacher came to me as I stood in my daze. "What are you doing?"

            I told him my major and that I was supposed to meet here. He asked me to follow him to the gymnasium to I would find what I was looking for.  Now, I'm not a gambling man, but I was willing to bet that what I was truly looking for wasn't in that gymnasium.

The teacher opened the doors of the gymnasium and said, "This student is a liberal arts major." I joined the other students, who were sitting sluggishly. I thought it was cool that someone announced my presence, but I was relying on counting sheep to keep me up.

            The guy who ran the charade in the gym looked at me the same way I looked at him. We wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

He told the group to fill out a yellow sheet in our ridiculously long orientation packet so that we could have one credit for showing up. I filled it out until I got to a line that said “counselor.” I had no idea who my counselor was, so I asked the person sitting next to me.

She told me that the name of my counselor was on my schedule. I got the rag out of my pocket, my schedule. I must have traced my grimy hands over it too many times too make sure I had it. I opened my schedule carefully to find my counselor's name. It said, "See Counselor" then listed a room number.

The person beside me said, "I guess you have to hunt her down."

            I didn't feel like hunting. I wrote “See Counselor" and the room number like it was part of my name. After that, I really felt like community college material.

            The prick in the gym kept talking. I got one of his tangents. He told the group that he went to school for five years before he figured out what he wanted to do. After hearing that, I wouldn't have been surprised if I saw him in the hallway the first day of school with an armload of books, walking to his next class. Why the hell was he talking to us?

            Most of it was a blur, but finally he was almost ready to let us go.  But first, we had to get his signature to prove that we were there. After that, we had to deliver our yellow sheet to orientation in the auditorium. I did so, and then drove away without Tactics because he wanted to buy his textbooks.

I made it back to the apartment, depending on a cigarette to keep me awake. I went through the front door, closed it, and locked it. Then I dragged my feet to my room and crashed for three hours. 

            I was awakened by a phone call by Gloria. "Are you coming?"

            "What?" I said.           

"Me and some other friends are going out to eat since this is my last day here before leaving for college. Would you like to be picked up?"

            "Uhh, damn, I'm tired," I said.

            "You don't have to come."

            "I want to,” I assured her. “Go ahead, pick me up."

            This was her last night.          

"Okay, Typhus and Eddie will pick you up,” she answered.

            Typhus and Eddie showed up, and we went to a restaurant where the waitresses wore skimpy outfits that accentuated their tits and ass. I had no problem with that. I didn't have any money for food, so I admired the view.

            The whole time, I felt the insecurity of the girls sitting with us, yet they were the ones who’d wanted to eat there. I had no trouble taking in the beauty. I figured beautiful women were a living, breathing masterpiece, pleasing to the eye that also affects the soul.  Even a man who was attached to someone had to breathe it all in.

            This was Gloria's good-bye dinner at least that was what the kids who went to beach week with us said. I hadn't seen them since then. I didn't really mind, though.

            After dinner, we went to someone's house. The evening turned into an over-exaggerated festival of emotions, full of "I will miss you," "Come visit me," and "What am I going to do without you?" People started leaving, and Gloria received some good-bye hugs. Gloria and I rode back to my apartment so that she could get her dress.  She’d left it in tangles on my bedroom floor the night before. But she couldn't stay very long, because she had to wake up early the next day.

            It seemed like any other night of the summer, only tomorrow Gloria would be gone.  We lay on the bed and made out, which seemed pointless to me. We had the same sort of awkwardness that we’d had when we’d started dating. It was pointless to do the long-term thing.  She couldn't go to college with a ball and chain. She'd meet a college guy.

            We talked about how weird it was going to be to go from where we were now to just friends.

That's when she said, "I love you. I really feel like you have treated me well."

            L-O-V-E is the worst four-letter word I can think of. I didn’t understand what that meant.  I felt confused—one part of me wanted to be alone with no strings attached.  I didn’t want to be vulnerable to another person.  But there was another part of me that loved being loved by someone else.  I had enjoyed spending time with Gloria the last few months.  I had never had these feelings for anyone before.  I knew I would miss her when she was gone, so I told her I loved her, too.

We were silent as I drove her home. There were plenty of things I wanted to say, but I didn't know how. After I stopped in front of her house, we stared at each other. We kissed, and she got out of my car. I gave her a slight wave good-bye and felt stupid doing it. Then I drove home.

            As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I moped all the way back to my apartment. After I came in through the front door, I dragged my feet to the refrigerator. I grabbed the bottle of gin in the freezer and started drinking it straight, like it was soda. I didn't realize what I was doing until I started swaying. The first buzz brought on the thought that I could wake up early tomorrow and say a real good-bye. My brain was still elsewhere.

I started mixing the gin with grapefruit juice, adding more gin after each drink. I somehow ended up on my bed, spread out and listening to one of those bands that sing about lost love. It got to me. My hardened shell began to crumble.

            I didn't want this to be the end, so I used the only way I knew of expressing myself. I wrote her a letter, and the only thing I remember saying was telling her she was, "My New York city skyline." I felt more like Newark with all the gin, so I apologized for my sloppy handwriting and put the letter in an envelope.

I wrote on it, "To Gloria", and, in parenthesis, "Not to Gloria's mom." I sealed it, took another swig of gin straight, lit a cigarette so the smoke would keep me from dozing off, and went out with the letter and bottle of gin in my hands.

I drove to her house, alternating between sips of gin and drags from my cigarette. I was warm from all the gin, but it was a cool summer night. Although I did a horrible parking job that left the backend of my car in the street, I was able to get out of the car. I walked to her house, walked up the steps to her front door, and wondered how all those steps got there. I didn't remember so many from previous visits.

I put the letter on the windowsill so she could see it from the steps that went to her room. That was harder than it should have been, and the gin caused my weight to be disproportionate. As I left, I admired my act from her vacant, faint street. It was 3 am, people were asleep. They missed it--the calm serenity.

            I went home with a slight grin and passed out.  Occasionally I woke up and stared at the ceiling, shining from the lightning storm outside.

            Summer blew by after that. It only took me a week of being burned by popcorn oil at the theater and drinking excessively to get over Gloria--or so I thought. She called me a few times during that week to talk about the bad time she was having since arriving at her college. I made the mistake of telling her again that I loved her.  Was it influenced by beer?  Maybe it wasn’t. Even then, after I said it, I felt guilty. 

            I came to the conclusion that girls were like your favorite chair in your home.  Some guys whine about needing to fill that space with warm flesh. I welcomed the empty chair. For the most part, I only cared about who I saw every day--the reflection in the mirror. 

***

Community College and Obsolete Dreams

            School finally started. In community college, you’d see the same type of people you’d see in a long line at the unemployment office. People, young in the eyes of society, but old as far as the decisions they’d made--both wrong or right. I saw them in class trying hard to take it all in, then going to some shitty job, and then taking care of their kids. Some, like me, imagined dropping out sooner or later.  But a few were determined to hold on. Some students had done their time in the military and now went to school off the GI Bill. Some students were future frat boys of America who’d partied too much in high school and saw community college as a way to raise their GPAs. And some students, young teenagers, were engaged to their first love, but realizing that love won't pay the bills alone, so they were working for a future job.

            Of course, community college had no real school spirit or sports teams, but some students felt unified, sitting in the back of the class, watching that guy who kissed the teacher’s ass. You couldn’t help but hate every square inch of him, from his girly sandals to his Brady Bunch haircut. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was dating the teacher on the side or waited until she was in a private room so he could ask her to bend over so he could kiss her ass further. He’d study hard and make straight As, but he was in a class with a guy like me, the type who was waiting for something better to come along.

            The first semester of my community college career wasn't what I expected. Although I had taken a couple of college classes while I was a senior in high school, I couldn't speak the language of math or science; and my one computer class could be summarized as I hoped that Bill Gates would find himself in the death grip of one of his computers come to life. The only things I knew about computers were how to win at solitaire and how to do some word processing. I dropped three classes and kept a Spanish class, which I usually came to with a hangover.  I barely passed that one.

            I also still had my job at the old theater, getting burned by popcorn oil and listening to customer complaints. During breaks, I still sat with other employees on the couch and watched what was going on outside.  We talked about what we wanted to do with our lives and thought we’d actually achieve our goals someday.  We discussed our personal philosophies.  I shared my own thoughts:   The world is huge whether you like it or not.  There is fierce competition to be somebody or to have your moment in the spotlight.  Thousands have this feeling, but only a few are actually recognized.  That's what people want--to be recognized. Sooner or later, some adult tells them their thinking is stupid or they experience reality firsthand, and they are left feeling nothing but abused.   Dreamers are obsolete.    

Knowing this, I want to just make enough money to survive.  Who cares who knows me? I don't care if they think it is pathetic if I like drinking alone, listening to my jazz, and counting bubbles in my beer. In life the only one you can truly depend on is yourself. Everything else is a distraction. This, of course, is coming from a community college, C student.  So much for philosophy…

***

            One night I had no money because I’d spent my last few dollars on a Stan Getz record. Tactics was visiting his friends in Richmond, and I had no one to hang out with. Although I’d turned off my obsolete record player, I still heard Stan Getz going around in my head. It fit.

I walked downtown, wondering why it was called “downtown” when we didn't even have an uptown. One club had a show with a pretty well-known band, and I hoped someone would let me in for free. I stood outside and lusted over the beautiful girls, wearing their tight leather pants and drowning themselves in perfume as they walked into the 21-year-old clubs I couldn't get into. I'll admit I had a wandering eye, but was that necessarily a bad thing? No.

             I decided to sit down on a bench and write in my journal. Putting my thoughts down in writing was better than conversation anyway.  Since Gloria and Captain left for college, I began to think that most conversations were pointless anyway. I saw, wrote, and observed kids talking about how there was nothing to do, who's fucking who, while bumming cigarettes from each other.  I had all those conversations before.

            The rest of that night was spent walking up and down the street looking for something worth caring about, giving a bum a cigarette for good karma, then stopping at an expensive coffee shop.

I never really liked these coffee shops, because if you’d ask for a cup of regular coffee,  you were overwhelmed with all of the different flavors and blends you could get. I usually asked the person working for a suggestion and picked that.

You couldn't smoke in this coffee shop that was like asking for a hamburger without meat. You had to smoke outside. Adding to the scene were the type of people who came in there, either stupid high school kids listening to the current top 40 or old people who thought they’d escaped the so-called weirdness or freaks of this town. I could also tell that they were hoping that the outside couldn’t touch them in there. All of this combined with my cup of expensive coffee--and without a cigarette--made me want a leave. It wasn't my scene. After all, it was some trend started from the west coasters in La-La Land.  

            I walked aimlessly up the street and saw the same bum who had finished the cigarette I gave him earlier.

            He smiled at me. "Can I get a cigarette? How about money for beer?"

            I gave him another cigarette. I had a fistful of nickels and dimes that was for coffee later on in the night, but I told him I had no money. I was walking away when some Christian vultures started circling over our heads, ready to strike at the walking dead and me.

They were always down there on Friday, trying to get people to listen. They’d get me when I was alone, but this time I was with someone who didn't want to be hassled, either. We sat down at a park bench and faced each other, smoking a cigarette, sometimes making eye contact with empathetic expressions.

We’d say, "Yeah man.  They got me, too," speaking about the Christian vultures.

            Most of the bums downtown didn't mind it, though. They’d listen; pray the prayer, then ask for money for food or cheap liquor. Sometimes the vultures gave them money, and sometimes they told them about the closest hotel and then would leave them without a ride.

How I handle it was pretty simple. No matter what they’d ask me, I’d answer with yes. That's all I did, but sometimes a foreign accent helps.

            "Do you know God as your personal Savior?"

            “Yes.”

            "Do you go to church?"

            “Yes.”

            "Do you go regularly?"

            “Yes.”

            "Cigarettes are bad for you."

            “Yes.”

            Then I’d make up a place I needed to go. I’d tell them my name was Lucifer, and I was the anti-Christ.  It was stupid but amusing for a boring night. Sometimes a good fake seizure did the trick. They usually walked away and stared.

This night, I went to House of Waffles, the place where you could get a real small town blend.  I wrote in my journal, smoked one cigarette after the other, and took full advantage of the bottomless cup of coffee.  I took up my own booth at the corner with a clear view of the monotony of cars passing.

Ink dripped off the page as I wrote with my usual black pen.  Some guy sitting behind me asked, "Hey Kerouac, do you have a light?"

I looked around the restaurant to see if the definer of the beat generation was alive and well in the small town blend. Not seeing anyone resembling old pictures I'd seen of Kerouac, I turned around, handed the stranger my lighter, and said, "My name isn't Kerouac.  It's Jonah."

***

            I was rarely sober at House of Waffles.  After several beers, most of the time I had a calling for hash browns. A cop would always be there late on a Friday or Saturday night to provide amusement while I was in my drunken state. I always made eye contact and insulted the police officers of this town, like the bike cops and the cops who drove three-wheel vehicles that looked like the vehicles in the early science fiction movies about the future, the ones that got people for parking in the wrong places.

Still making eye contact, I’d say out loud that if one of those wastes of space would actually catch me, I’d let them throw me in jail without a struggle. I felt sorry for the cops in this town, itching for the chance to use their glocks. The cop in the restaurant would finger his temples, waiting for time to go home. 

Drunk, you will eventually have to get up and take a piss. Going to the bathroom in that place was an adventure in itself, because there were no locks on the door, which led to a urine-stained toilet and a sink clogged by paper towels. When you took a piss, you had to spread yourself out and hold the door closed with your left hand. In my personal experience, showing your dick to a stranger who wandered in wasn't the best form of greeting.

At the House of Waffles, you might find someone you know there or not.  Or you might take up a whole booth by yourself and piss off people in a bigger group. This is what I did when my best friend Captain moved away, I didn’t have a girl, and I hankered for something to eat. Sometimes I eavesdropped on deep conversations about jailhouse tattoos.

            I couldn’t imagine actually working there; the waitresses were treated like shit. Working there was like working for the mob--they wouldn’t let you leave. Quitting didn't seem to be an option. The manager was hated. He was usually at the grill, keeping an eye over his shoulder for a fork to his back or projectile hash browns. 

            When every drop of coffee had been forced down and the last goblins from the dance club down the street were gone, I’d leave.   Sometimes I missed Gloria, and wondered what she was doing.

***

Drinking to Stay Sober

            When work was over and classes were suspended until Monday, Tactics and I filled our empty refrigerator with cheap and cool libations and stay put for a few hours on our futon, a futon that had conformed to our bodies.

The futon was our kingdom, with a currency of beer and cigarettes. Recreation consisted of watching B-movies on a device that Tactics nicknamed the Apocalyptic VCR. He gave it that name after he took apart the outer shell to fix it one night when he was desperate for entertainment.

Reality stopped at our front door as we resembled the likes of drunken sultans, intelligent Neanderthals, and bums consumed with the now. It was good to get off our feet and stop thinking the way anyone wanted us to think.

            Sometimes we got so frustrated; we came home after work and punched a few holes in the wall, then covered them up with posters.  We threw stuff against the wall and yelled at each other for no reason.

"Get me another beer, you dog!"

"Damn you! I'm leaving!"

These threats were said just to show up the dueling couple upstairs.

We hated our landlord because he took forever to fix things in our apartment.  Examples: a faucet leaked expensive hot water that we had to pay for, and the air conditioner seemed to always be broken.

One day the bathroom leaked, which left the floor looking like a swamp. We had to put on our shoes before we went into the bathroom. One time I even got some rash on my feet while standing there shaving. 

But Tactics thought up a perfect plan.  According to our rental agreement, the utilities were already paid. We didn't have to pay for them, the landlord did. So we left cold water running through the night and day.  But eventually we stopped doing it through the night because we got tired of making several trips to the bathroom to take a piss.

            Some nights as the sacred tower of empty beer cans reached to the ceiling and the last movie of the night was coming to the climax, our pirate impulses revealed themselves. It would be time for mutiny over our routines of clocked-in, clocked-out roles called life--existence. It was time to pull out our sabers of spray paint and paint our reign of FEAR on anything we could find. I was the getaway driver, and Tactics was the mastermind behind the cans of black spray paint.

One night we hit a church not far from our apartment, followed by a convenience store and several other places downtown. This was how we gave back to the community, and it was nice to see Tactics’ handiwork from the weekend before when a mediocre Monday arrived.

As the months dragged on, and as Christmas was the most wonderful time of the year, we traded places. Tactics was the getaway driver, and I was the magic maker.

Usually, the first item on the agenda was to rip off some tacky decorations at the nearby shopping mall. I did this as planned taking a wreath, because Christmas was our favorite holiday, and we had no money to decorate the apartment. Then we went to our old neighborhood. I took a decorative flag, which looked very silly when I finally saw it in the light. I also took garbage bags full of leaves from a front yard and lined them up in the middle of the road. At least I gave these people a reason to go off road in their SUVs.

Lastly, Tactics found a florist with forty dollar Christmas trees.  Since every home deserves a Christmas tree, and no one was around, I grabbed one and pushed it aggressively into the back seat, breaking some of the branches. My car smelled like pine until the end of January.

***

 

The turn of the millennium brought on my resolution to lie, cheat, and steal.  In other words, take advantage of people's stupidity whenever possible.  My first successful turn was at the theater, where I worked with a high school kid who drove a shiny red BMW. I couldn't figure out why he wanted a job when his parents bought him such a nice car. One night as we were both working at the concession stand, he started bragging about how he and a friend could get cheap stereo equipment, DVD players, cameras etc. His friend worked in the electronic section of a retail store.

His friend changed the prices of name brand products to dirt cheap names. Then he sold the item or items for money, making a hefty profit. I told my fellow employee that I knew the owner of the store where his friend worked, that I used to live beside him. I told him that we’d had barbecues with his family all the time, and I couldn't let this happen in good conscience. He didn't believe me at first, but I gave him a made-up name and phone number for his boss, the owner of the store.

Then I said, “If you don't give me all the money in your wallet, then my friend will get a phone call.” I also told him that even if I didn't know him, I could still call.

            "You would do that?" he asked.

            "Share the wealth," I said.

            That night, Tactics and I had all the pizza we could eat and beer. It was all for free.

 

***

Fighting Like Communists

            Second semester, I promised myself that I wasn't going to drop any classes. I was going to get my shit in gear and pass, no holds barred. I switched my major to broadcasting to get me closer to my goal of a two year degree.

The only thing standing in my way was modern technology and the man in charge of the broadcasting curriculum--Mr. Skunkhead.  You could tell he hated his job. After he retired from a major local news station, he decided that he wanted to teach. He landed in community college. I guess he felt like he deserved something better.  He talked with a monotonous nasal twang, teaching straight from the text, and he gave the impression that the media was often the victim.  He made me hated the media.

I had two classes with him, and when class was over, he was the first one to leave. Several times I asked him for extra help to show initiative. He offered no real help, just telling me to consult the computer, because it had a program on it that explained what to do. I didn't know anything about computers, and I dropped that class first semester.

His teaching reminded me of my first semester--he did the minimum, and so did I. The difference was that I had to drop my classes, but he got a paycheck.

            Another disappointment was my job at the movie theater. My boss gave me the “miscommunication” speech again. Apparently, she’d ask me to do something, and it didn’t get done, or I’d do it wrong. I thought that was funny. For some reason, I couldn't take that job seriously, and I couldn't take her seriously, either. She said I should look for another job, because I was skating on thin ice.

I asked her if I was fired. She said no, and then repeated what she’d said. She did a very poor job of telling me I should quit, so I said it for her. I wanted so bad to walk out. Instead, I gave her my two weeks’ notice, because I need the money and time to find another job.  My last day at the theater, I walked out with so many necessities Tactics and I needed like toilet paper, candy, popcorn, etc.

I applied to about four ads I saw in the classifieds and didn't get one of them, just a lot of “the positions are filled,” or they needed someone with experience.

            Dropping classes became my favorite part of college.  It also meant I had to stay in community college longer. I hated that. I also hated not being able to find a job. I had no income, just a savings account that was quickly becoming scarce. I didn't want to complain to anyone, but I wanted to get my frustrations out somehow.

            In the apartment, the boredom was thick. I didn't want to waste gasoline, so I hardly ever went out. I amused myself by finding the humor in my misery. At least I wasn’t evicted, at least I hadn't gotten a girl pregnant, and at least I had a TV. And if I squinted my eyes the right way, the picture actually looked clear.

I had a routine of filling our tea kettle with water, then putting it on the stove just to hear it whistle to break the silence or the usual sounds of the apartment above us.

When I found enough money for beer, or when Tactics was generous enough to buy it for me, I’d take a piss and see how many times I could snap my fingers or twist my hips.

***

 

I was in a pathetic funk when Captain came home for spring break from school. He was making good grades in college but was stressed out from all the work.    We both were on breaks from school, so it was good to be together again.  I wondered if Captain had changed since leaving our small town blend for college.  It wasn’t long before it felt like the old Captain again.   Captain thought I was joking after I told him all the things I was doing to break the boredom.

He brought over a bottle of cheap vodka and some beer. We spent that night shit talking and chasing the vodka with beer. Sometimes we stopped talking shit and tried staring the other one down, putting up our defenses and waiting for the other one to spring. The tension was erupting; you couldn't shake it.

            Even Tactics felt it. "Don't kill each other," he said.

            We kept staring at each other. I knew there was going to be a fight for absolutely no reason. It was going to be our experiment. Being an art major, Captain was going to use it to explore a side of himself he’d never seen before. I told him I was in a similar mindset, only I was lying to him and myself. Truth be known, I wanted to vent some of the frustration I was feeling with my life, to try to find a drive or to put my feet back on the ground. I wanted to brawl until we couldn't stand up.

We drank some more. It was unavoidable, neither of us backed down over a matter of principle. But it doesn't matter what kind of man you are, eventually you’ll get that impulse of wanting to fight to spill blood.  We are all still barbarians deep inside.  When the fight seemed inevitable, I said, "You can't use your Taekwondo”.

            "I wasn't going to anyway. I would kick your ass without it," said Captain.  He also had a height advantage.  We decided, under the influence, that whatever happened, we wouldn't go away hating each other.

             It was time. We each took a swig of vodka without a chaser and walked to the playground, which was for the kids in my apartment, a place meant to come back to in conversations about their youth. I could relate to that. We sat on some picnic tables, and, despite his asthma, I shared a cigarette with Captain. We were unsure about what was going to happen next. We were stepping into the unknown because we had never done this before, and we didn't know how to start.

            "Let's slap each other in the face a few times, and when we are both ready, go for it," said Captain.

            "Okay," I said. I kind of wanted a bell.

            We stood.

            "You go first," I said.

            He slapped me. I slapped him harder. He slapped me again, and I slapped him harder.

            Then it was time for the punches.

            "Are you ready?" he said.

            "Yes."

            I gave him a right hook to the jaw, and he went down.

            "Holy shit! I didn't think you were serious," gasped Captain.

            "I'm serious." At this point, I felt somewhat psychotic.

            We stopped and each smoked a cigarette. I felt the wall inside me begin to  crack and the water starting to boil. It felt good.

            "I can barely see you. I don't have my contacts in,” I said.

            "You’re just a blur, too,” Captain said.

            After the cigarettes, we went at it again, each going at the other with our defenses up at the same time.  Captain connected with several shots to the body. I connected again with the same right hook.  He went to his knees. We stopped again. After all, this wasn't about making the other one bleed.  It was all about exploring.  Right?  I was still lying to myself. I wanted to see blood.

I was out of cigarettes, so we went across the street to buy another pack. "I told you I was serious," I said.

            The Captain did his best to swallow before he spoke.  "No shit!  One of your punches would have landed me in the hospital if it hit. I can't close my jaw all the way."

            "Man, I'm sorry."

            He bought the pack of cigarettes, and we each smoked one while walking back to the picnic table ringside.

            "Let's not do the slapping thing,” Captain said, rubbing his jaw as if to make sure it wasn't out of joint. I could tell that he wanted to get me back.

            "Is your jaw okay?" I asked.

            "It doesn't hurt as much. I still can't close it all the way."

            We finished our cigarettes and got up for the next round.

            "So how are we going to start?" I asked.

             Captain walked to his corner of the playground. "Let's count to three, and then we'll go at it. Let me psych myself up first."

            I stood there and watched Captain change into a savage beast, pacing back and forth, grunting, spitting, and slapping his face with his own hands.

            "Are you ready yet?" I asked.

            "Just about," he answered.

            I stretched my arms.  What the hell was he doing?

            "Ready!" It came from Captain, but with the darkness and with my bad night vision without my contacts, it could have been anything or anyone.

            "Ready!" I said.

            "One,” Captain announced.

            "One...etc.," I repeated.

            “Two…”

            “Two…,” I repeated.

            “Three.”  We charged at each other, anticipating a hook. He was breathing hard, and I only made out his eyes and his teeth. He dodged a right jab, and then came at me with several blows to the chest and ribs as I put my guard up to protect my face. I stepped back to lay a hard right hook. He dodged it. Then I went for the body, laying down my aggression to his ribs and chest.  Next, I faked left and connected with a right hook to the jaw.

            "All right man, let's go inside," Captain finally mumbled. The light was shining on his fat lip, and he was feeling his jaw. The poor guy already had a tongue thrust.

            "How about another round?" I asked.

            "You’re crazy. It's like you want to get a black eye."

            "Just one more round."  I wasn't feeling any pain.

I looked at Captain and wondered if we did go again, would that be enough, or would I want another one, and another one? I had nowhere to be tomorrow. I didn't have a job.

After a while, I felt tears run down my cheeks. I hadn’t done that since Little League.

            “Sorry,” I said.  “I’m going through some shit man,” I replied with tears in my eyes, knowing that this was probably the only person in the world that I would allow to see me in this state.

            He put his arm around me while he massaged his own jaw. I think I pushed his arm away. 

We went back inside though, and each took another shot of vodka from the bottle. He took refuge on the futon in the front room. I went to my room and put on some jazz.  Miles was playing his horn. I examined my ribs and chest and felt some bruises that hadn't surfaced yet.

I looked down at my fist, which had felt the worse end of the fight. I could barely make a fist without feeling every punch again in full swing. I lay there. I couldn't sleep.

"I can beat tomorrow,” I whispered.

***

Empty on a Full Tank of Rum

            Hash was a friend who lived in a neighborhood full of business executives and lawyers. The houses surrounded a golf course, and they all looked the same. His dad battled cancer when he was about twelve. I didn't know him then, but friends who did said they saw him change as his dad got worse. Then his dad died, and he became like us--that piece of the puzzle that was manufactured wrong and just didn't fit no matter how you tried to turn the piece.

I was friends with him because we were in a band together back in high school. When some of the guys formed another band with Hash, he asked me to play guitar.  I said no.  They wanted a sound like all the other bands out there that complained about breaking up with a girl--or just complained. I felt there was more to life then breaking up--what about breaking in?  That was why I’d said no. Still, we were all friends.

            Hash was kicked out of the band for reasons that I don’t know, but they may have been because of his drinking and drug use. Personally, I thought he got fucked over. He was still a good drummer.

I graduated high school before him, but we kept in touch.  He was struggling for a passing grade. It wasn't that he was stupid; it was just that he had better things to do, like getting a paycheck and drinking.

One night, he came over to the apartment. Tactics bought him bottles of cheap vodka and rum. Beer was already in the fridge, so Hash used an uncola chaser, and I used grapefruit juice with the vodka. There was a high probability, we weren't going to remember that night.

Tactics started on beer first and then worked to vodka and rum. We watched a movie that boosted our testosterone, and our drinks enhanced our destructive impulses. Everyone has these destructive impulses, and maybe they should give into them sometimes.

Pirating was routine for Tactics and me; we'd been doing it since we'd moved in to our apartment. It almost seemed like a job. Whenever you saw the FEAR stencil, it was like payday. We weren't revolutionaries; we just had nothing better to do. Boredom and everything else in our life was our motive. We always put on our dark clothing for our pirate voyage. This was the best job. But Hash seemed lost.

"Does anyone have any dark clothes for me to wear?"

            Tactics put on his ski mask. "Here are some pants. We're driving your car."

            Tactics grabbed his FEAR stencil and two cans of spray paint. We each had our own pack of cigarettes, and it was a unanimous decision to bring what was left of the rum. We walked quickly to Hash's car, blending in with the darkness in the silent parking lot.

Hash drove and held onto the bottle of rum. Tactics rode shotgun, and I was in the back seat of the red BMW.  Tactics showed Hash the church and a convenience store that were already tagged with our mark: FEAR.  The sight of FEAR stenciled on the wall at these locations always made the drive to and from school a little more satisfying.

Hash laughed out loud, almost spilling the rum. Tonight we had our sights on something bigger, a place visible and well-known to everyone who lived in this small town.

Growing up going to a church like this, two things could happen to you: (1) you could learn how to live a life of no sex or no drugs or no real opinion on how things are; or (2) you could catch up on your sleep from the night before.  I should have brought a pillow.

This church, like most, was the ultimate symbol for fear--the fear of living, the fear of dying, and the fear of truly being free.

Hash parked in the side parking lot. Tactics held his spray can tightly, and I took a few swigs of rum, and then passed the bottle back to Hash. The smell of rage, boredom, and revenge released was more than the rum.  This was our baptism.

            Tactics gave a count of three, while Hash drank the rum and kept the engine going for a quick getaway. Tactics and I were in a dead sprint to the side doors of the clone factory. He quickly painted FEAR on the windows and the bricks. I spent my time destroying anything breakable.  Tactics looked at me and gave a nod to run back to Hash's car. I was still laughing.

            We got in, and Hash drove away in skids and squeals.

            "What did you guys do?" Hash asked.

            Still laughing, I said, "Tactic spray painted the church."

            "I know, man. I'm disappointed in myself," Tactics said.

            "Why?" asked Hash.

            "I couldn't think of anything to say,” Tactics answered. “I was there staring at the wall with my spray paint, and I couldn't think of anything to say. I used to do this all the time in Richmond."

            "Maybe you're getting old,” I said.

            "Shut up! Pass me the rum."

            If there is a God, I thought, we were definitely going to hell. The way I saw it, on the other hand, was if all my friends were there, and if my heroes were already there, then I was glad I was burning with the people I cared about.

"You have to create your own fun in this town," said Tactics.

            We drove downtown, past the barhopping drunkards, past the kids with nothing to do, past a few cop cars.

            Hash pulled behind a white Bronco.  Purple lettering on the side said the vehicle belonged to Dr. DJ.  The vehicle was also decorated with a phone number and the slogan, “Let's party.”

            "He probably finished playing some middle-school dance," said Tactics.

            "What a waste,” I said.

            "I hate pop. You know that's all he was hearing tonight," said Hash.

            So it was unanimous to get Dr. DJ for the common good (what was left of it). We all took a drink. Tactics put his ski mask back on and stared, Hash flicked him off, and I started to realize how drunk Hash was becoming as his head became heavier.

Dr. DJ stopped at a convenience store and parked in their lot, so Hash parked in a different parking lot. The parking lots were separated by a two-foot high wall. We waited, not knowing what we were actually doing.

The unsuspecting Dr DJ came out with a cold beverage, got into his Dr. DJ mobile, and drove away.

            "He's getting away!" yelled Tactics.

            Hash revved up the engine and drove at top speed over the small wall. For a split second, his car was in the air, not finding the ground underneath. The contact as the car hit the pavement sounded like a ravenous drummer in a quartet beating everything back.   As sparks flew, we howled.

Hash maintained control of the car, and we were in heated pursuit of Dr. DJ.

Realizing Dr DJ was out of our sight, Hash yelled, "Where the hell is he?" 

            "Wow, Hash. Your drunk driving skills are excellent," said Tactics.

            I chugged the rum and cola.  Finishing it, I wondered why I wasn't feeling the effects, but I was sober enough to say, "We are all going to die."

            These words initiated more howling.

I thought that if this was going to be used later as a re-enactment of drunk driving for a drivers improvement class, we might as well make the most of it. Either way, we had no real destination in mind. We could have gone anywhere that night, but we stayed within the confines of the small town.

            "Hey, Hash. Where are we going?" asked Tactics.

            "I don't know. Just driving.  Where are we?" slurred Hash, "I can't believe I'm still driving."

            Tactic started giving Hash random directions. "All right, man. Go left, go right, and remember to keep your foot on the gas."

            We ended up in a residential area.

            "Hey, Tactics," I said, "you think Hash is okay to drive?"

            "Yeah, sure,” Tactics answered. “Jonah, check out this soccer mom Caravan in front of us. Ya think I should?"

            "Hell, yeah," slurred Hash as he slowly started to pass out.

            "No Hash, you can't go to sleep. You have to drive," Tactics insisted.

            "Oh, all right. Hey, this is a nice neighborhood.  Maybe I'll live here after I move out of my mom's house," Hash concluded.

Tactics ran out and stenciled FEAR on the van. In a few hours when the baby factory woke up, she would go into cardiac arrest. Tactics jumped back in the car, and we laughed.

             Hash pulled out and found his way back to a well-lighted, main stretch of road, a place where three guys as drunk as we were shouldn't have been.

Our heads were full of rum and beer, and suddenly a cop car was on our left side. This was sobering, as another one, and then another, drove with us down the long stretch of road. There was nothing but silence between us. Was this it? Were we going to be pulled over?

The three of us softly strapped on our seat belts and faced forward, hands folded on our laps like a group of choir boys on their way to church. I needed more rum.

I didn't want to go to jail, and I didn't think Hash should have been driving, but, lucky for us, the three cops turned left while we went right through an intersection. The howling began again. 

            "Where are we?" asked Tactics.

            "I was about to ask you the same question,” I said.

            "Whoa, we're drunk!" yelled  the insightful Hash.

            Confusion crept up like vomit as Hash nodded off at the wheel, causing the car to swerve. It was late enough that we didn't have to worry about other cars on the road, but the median kept getting closer and closer. It was only a matter of time before we heard BLAMA! CHUNK! and CHUNK!  Two wheels were where they were supposed to be, but the other set was on the median.

Tactics took the wheel and refreshed Hash's memory about what straight meant.

            "See those dotted lines on your right and that yellow line on your left?  Stay between those,” he said.

            "What go right?" slurred Hash.

            Tactics surveyed the situation and told Hash to turn into the parking lot of a convenience store that was closed.

"I'm driving," said Tactics.

            "No! Uh, I have to take a piss," Hash answered.

Drunk and disorderly, Hash stumbled out of the car at the same time that he tried to unzip his fly.

            "Don't piss on your car, man!" I yelled.

            "Where is it?" asked Hash.

            "Just keep walking straight, man, to the store. Piss there,” I said.

            "Where's the yellow line, man?" Hash asked.

            Hash walked with one hand holding his zipper, which was down, and the other hand holding his crotch.

            "I'm kind of drunk, but  I can drive,” I told Tactics.

            "No,” Tactics answered. “I'm drunk, but I know my way home."  

            "Ok, you drive. But where are we?" I asked.

            "I don't know, but I do know I should be driving."

            Hash came back and sat in the front seat, where he immediately fell into the monk prayer position. Tactics went to take a piss and returned with a potted plant.

            "What's with the plant?" I asked.

            "It may look nice in our apartment,” he answered.

            "Cool," I concluded.

            Hash groaned, "I can't remember the last time I was this fucked, uh, this fucked up."

            "If you could remember, you wouldn't have been fucked up," I told him.

            "Whooo, I'm fucked up?" yelled Hash as he went under in a deep sleep.

            "Bullshit, Hash. If I have to be up, so do you," announced Tactics. "I didn't know I was going to babysit tonight."

            "Do you know where we are yet?" I asked.

            Tactics and I looked around, trying to find anything that looked familiar. We knew we were nowhere near home, but we didn’t know how far. I wondered if we were in the same state.

            "It looks like the back woods," Tactics said.

            We were immediately scared, in a vacant highway sort of way. The road wasn't lit, and we had already passed several decent places to put a dead body.

            Finally, we passed a sign that meant sleep, rest, and relaxation to us--or “home, the small town blend,” 27 miles away.

            "I know where we are," cheered Tactics, "only 27 miles! How in the hell did we get this far away from home?"

            "Everybody, just sit back and relax," Tactics said as if he was a flight attendant.

            "Attention, ladies, and gentlemen, and Hash. The pilot finally knows where we are," I announced as if I was a on a loud speaker.

            Hash groaned.

            I sat back in my seat, rolled down the window, and breathed easier. This was the perfect cool summer night to have an adventure with a few detours. Too bad Hash would never remember this.

            "Hey, Tactics, put on some music,” I said.

            "Good call. You got a cigarette?" he asked.

            I handed him my last, and that was when I noticed how close the orange needle was to the E and getting larger. It all started to sink in. We were almost on empty.

            "Hey Tactics, we are almost out of gas," I told him.

            "Oh shit! We have enough. We can make it."

            I punched the back of Hash's seat. "Why didn't you fill up before this excursion? That is irresponsible behavior!"

            Hash groaned.

            "We'll make it," Tactics said.

            "I dig your optimism, man, but we still have 20 miles left,” I told him.

            "If we can only get to a gas station," said Tactics.

            "We're in the back woods. I don't think they have gasoline-powered engines in this neck of the woods,” I told him.

            Tactics laughed. "I think they do, man. The problem will be finding a gas station that is open. They actually close them out here."

            The car jerked as it sucked up the last drop of gasoline. The end was close, and we managed to get to the crest of a hill and coast down. Tactics moved his shoulders and back forward and backward, trying to inch the car closer to home, forgetting that he wasn't a part of the engine that refused to go any farther. We stared spitefully at Hash and at each other.

            "Hey, Hash. We have a problem," said Tactics.

            Hash moaned.

            "It involves your mom's car," I said.

            "Fuck it," groaned Hash.

            I looked around to the right and saw an old cabin. A dog chained to a tree was barking. At the top of the next hill (the one that we failed to go up), I could see a gasoline station that appeared to be closed. We got out of the car, and Hash tried to stand. Tactics gave me the potted plant.

"Throw it as far as you can."

            "I thought this was for the apartment?" I inquired.

            "Get rid of the evidence," Tactics said.

            "Speaking of evidence, look at your hands,” I said.

            Tactic's hands were caked in silver and black spray paint. We started laughing. 

            "Do you have a plan, Jonah?" he asked.

            "Yeah, first we can sell Hash to whoever lives in that cabin."

            "No, they wouldn't take him.  Hash is too skinny," Tactics answered.

            "I'm sure he would love to have him on a leash. Anyway, the other plan is that I'm going to get out and walk until I find something that will help our situation."

            "Are you sure, brother?" Tactics asked.

            "Yeah man, I got it taken care of,” I answered.

            I got out, took a few cigarettes from Hash's pack, and gave them to Tactics. "I'm out, so we might as well take his.  He won't know," I said.

            Hash stumbled back into the car.

            "If I don't come back in 45 minutes, don't come looking for me.  You know what happens,” I announced.

            "Why would I want to?  It’s cold as hell out. Be careful, though. I'll stay here and take care of this guy," Tactics said.

            I started walking, feeling the splinters of a cold wind. I wrapped my arms around myself trying to get warm, all the time calling myself the hero of the evening of hell we were going through. The Immortal.  The Chosen One. I was still freezing.

My face was chapped, making it scrunched up like a villain from an old Saturday morning cartoon.  I couldn’t forget that I was wearing all black and looking like I was up to no good. This was also a problem when I tried to hitch hike, because no one saw me until after they passed me by. The black made me invisible. I finally found a brilliantly lit restaurant that was open 24 hours.

            As I entered the restaurant, everyone stopped their conversation and stared at me like eggs served over easy. I strolled to the front desk and asked the host if I could use the phone or get some help because my friends and I were out of gas on the side of the road a ways back.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Wow, that sounds like a problem. But you can't use our phone, because you’re not a paying customer, but we probably have an empty milk jug.

            "A milk jug?" I inquired.

            "Yeah, put gasoline in it when you find a gas station," he said.

            I said thanks, even though I could have really used a free phone call.  I didn't have 35 cents.  I did have $2, but I needed to use that money to buy gas.

            I walked back to the car, freezing and carrying the milk jug. Too bad the rum was gone. I got back in the car with no clue or solution for our dilemma--just an empty milk jug. I told Tactics everything that happened.

"So now. What do you want to do?" Tactics asked.

            "I guess wait until that gasoline station opens,” I answered.

            Suddenly I heard it and felt it. The wail of sirens crawled up my shins, my thighs, and my back, and it felt like a sandpaper massage. It was a cop car.

This was it.  We were going to jail. I would have to call my parents, and for the rest of my life I would never hear the end of it, the time my parents had to pick me up from jail at 4:30 am.

I quickly acknowledged my fate--either way, it was a great experience. Too bad Hash still had no clue about what was going on.

            "What the hell are you boys doing on the side of the road at this hour?" the cop said as he rolled down his window.

I could tell by the twang of the voice the cop was from around here.

            "Car trouble," said Tactics.

            "What's wrong?" he asked as he slowly got out of his car.

            "We're out of gas,” I said.

            Tactics shook his head as the cop approached closer. "Here it comes," He said to me under his breath.

            "What's wrong with your friend in the front seat?" the cop asked.

            "He's stupid,” I yelled back.

            The cop chuckled. "You boys need a ride?"

            Tactics and I looked at each other. One of us had to go.  I knew that both of us probably reeked of rum, beer, and vodka but, for some reason, we felt sober now.

            "You want to go?" Tactics asked me.

            "Let's send out Hash.  He hasn't done anything the whole night,” I whispered to Tactics so that the cop couldn’t hear.

            "I wish," Tactics mumbled.

            "Yeah, I'll go,” I said.

            I got out of the red BMW with my empty milk jug and opened the door of the cop’s car for what might be a death trap.

The cop was smoking cherry pipe tobacco, his hat lay on the dashboard, and I rested easier as the stench of cheap whiskey plagued the rest of the car.

            "Top of the morning to ya," I said.

            "How ya doing, partner?" he asked cordially.

            He started driving, and the area began to look more familiar to me.

"Everything was going good until we ran out of gas,” I told him.

            "That's a problem," he said.

            "Yup.  Do you always have to wake up this early?" I asked making random conversation.

            "Yup."

            "Is that your hat on the dashboard?" I asked.

            "Yup."

            "Mind if I put it on?" I asked.

            "No! Are you crazy?"

            "Ah, come on," I pleaded.

            He chuckled devilishly. "You’re something."

            Paranoia suddenly visited me. Was this a guy shooting the shit with me? Or was he some deranged homosexual cop who enjoyed picking up young 19-year-old boys on a vacant highway? If so, the only thing I had to defend myself was an empty milk jug.

I let out a long sigh as he pulled over at a gasoline station. I got out with the milk jug and filled it to the top, spilling gasoline on myself. I went inside and paid for my milk jug full of gas.

            The lady smiled at me and shook her head. "Had a rough night?"

            I sighed. "You have no idea."

            I got back in to the cop car, and we drove back in total silence. I felt satisfied though, because we had enough gasoline to get back home.  He stopped at Hash's car, and I got out, holding the milk jug full of gasoline like a trophy. I thanked the cop, and he drove away.

            Tactics flipped the gas cap open and got out of the car. I unscrewed the lid and poured the gasoline in. But I stopped when I realized that most of the gasoline was on my feet.

            "We need a nozzle to put the gasoline in," I stammered.

            "We're stupid," Tactics said, monotone.

            Insanity conquered my senses, "Ha, ha, ha, we are going to die here. We'll never leave, and Hash doesn't give a shit."

            "Man, I'm going to walk up to the gasoline station and use the phone. Everything will be cool." Tactics reassured me.

            "Wear your ski mask; its cold,” I advised.

            Tactics started walking, and I sat in the driver's seat plotting against Hash. Meanwhile, the night sky was fading past midnight blue into dawn awakenings, different shades of orange, purple, and gold found their routine, and the sun threatened to show. I had my own picture show right in front of me.  Sometimes the sunset can be as motivating as a beautiful blonde who asks you for directions.

            "Hey, Hash. You're missing it," I whispered.

            He moaned.

            "Suit yourself," I told him.

            I stopped thinking about sleeping, about being under the covers and having a pillow under my head. I smoked Hash's last cigarette as the new day came in.  I wondered if Tactics was seeing this--as midnight black became obsolete, the sun was shining through the night I’d just had. I looked over at the old cabin, and even that looked better than it had when we’d first arrived on empty.

The sun slowly came up, and cars were around, and a few cars passed us probably wondering what predicament we might be in.  I stared as the sun rose, and I thought how much people take advantage of it. Now, that was the thing that will never become digitalized.

            Then there it was… a tow truck arriving in the midst of a new day rising. I looked around to see if any other cars were on the side of the road. No, it had to be ours. It pulled up in front of Hash's car. Tactics jumped out of the cab, and the driver followed.

"He's going to tow us all the way back home," said Tactics.

            "Is there enough room in the cab?" I asked.

            "Nope, you're gonna sit in your friend’s car and enjoy the ride. Your friend looks like he had a few too many," the driver said.

            "He's not my friend," I said.

            I got in the car as the driver hooked up to his classic tow truck with the crane high in the air.

The sudden jerks awoke Hash, and the confusion on his face as his jaw dropped closer to the ground was indescribable. He had no idea where he was or who he was. His eyes were heavy, yet still open.

"Hash, you’re dreaming. Go back to sleep,” I told him.  He did so.

            We were at a 45-degree angle behind a tow truck and finally going home. I waved at all the senior citizens as they prepared to terrorize the employees at breakfast places offering discounts to the elderly. They stared back in disbelief, and I gave them the thumbs up, like I was an astronaut waiting to be shot into space.

I enjoyed the ride all the way back to our apartment. The driver parked Hash's car perfectly and lowered it to the ground.

We were back home, and Hash was still passed out. I tried waking him up, but he wouldn't budge. I finally gave up and left him sleeping in his car. The car was his problem now.

Tactics and I sluggishly strolled into our apartment, ate a can of pork and beans, and went to sleep to the sound of Miles Davis.  I had only one regret…if only Gloria had seen me riding behind that classic tow truck.    

***

Bon Voyage

            After twelve years of driving around looking for something to do, I was finally leaving. This change came out of the blue. My dad found a job in the former capital of the Confederacy, Richmond, Virginia, and I decided to hitch a ride with them. My parents didn't mind.  I could continue community college there and have a change of scenery.  I also knew that Captain and some of my other friends from the small town blend days had also migrated there for college, work, or just continuing on with life.

            Tactics, who knew I was leaving, helped push me out the door. He stated that it was my time to leave this small town blend, like he had done a few years before. He eventually came back, but I’d lived there for twelve years and, like he did, I needed a change.  I felt like I’d done my time. The end of it seemed like an accomplishment.

On one of my last nights in the small town I went to a party being thrown for a girl I’d worked with at the theater. She was moving away to go to school, and the party was on the top of a duplex. I was pondering the whole situation--moving away--as the night began with a wink and my ongoing attempt at finding the meaning of life (or at least my own) in a bottle of the usual cheap beer. I was also trying to define my generation.  But all my friends and the ones who considered themselves my friends were someplace else.  This party was mainly old high school acquaintances who had just graduated.

            A girl sat across from me at a table in the corner of the kitchen, sipping her beer, and scanning my face for any sign of a potential one-night companion. I winked at her.

            "Stop doing that!"

            "You never had anyone wink at you before?" I asked.

            "All the time.  I'm a waitress, and it's usually by balding 50-year-olds."

            I dropped my philosophy session, as the other guys at the table started arm wrestling.

We had to stay active, somehow, because there were no playing cards around and nothing else to do. I won one match, then quit when I lost to a guy who was shorter then I was. He gladly rubbed it in my face.

            "I beat Jonah!  I beat Jonah!"

            We quit our competition, realizing that we were there to drink, and there were only a few beers were left. I grabbed a beer and got up to take a piss, stepping over a body that was on the brink of passing out. He had his head in a girl’s lap, using it as a pillow and muttering his true feelings. She wasn't interested, but she was making sure her friend was okay. I listened as I pulled, shook, flushed, and then lit my cigarette. I decided to have this cigarette on the roof, and the girl I had winked at followed me with the same intentions.

The darkness was perfectly clear, the humidity was gone, and there was another guy and girl up there, debating their intoxication. They eventually made out. Behind us, an open window was our entrance to the silver and cool aluminum roof.

 Two gay guys and a girl were trying on our friend Hostess's dresses. These were two sights I didn't care to see, so I looked at the few stars that were visible.

            Drunk and a little delirious from avoiding the sight behind me, I told the girl with me how I wanted to own a deserted island. She only contribution to the conversation was to ask me how I would get there, and I couldn't think of an answer.

"Somehow."

            For the last couple of months, I’d already been on one—a deserted island. For some reason, with all my real friends gone, I’d been content drinking alone, watching all the late-night television shows, and beating on the walls every time I heard the couple upstairs screaming at each other.

Meanwhile, I told my roof companion about one of my early-hour adventures to House of Waffles where I met a girl with long, red, curly hair. She came back to the apartment with me, and we made out. But before we had got too far along, she told me that she had attempted suicide. She asked me why life had to be so hard. I told her hard was better then being too easy. The next time I saw her, she had a shaved head, and she told me it felt liberating. I never saw her again on my island.

            For some reason, this girl at the party was still on my island.

            After the guys had finished trying on dresses, we went back inside. I went to the kitchen because I was thirsty for more beer. My new island girl followed. Seeing that the beer supply was no more, I picked up a measuring cup from the sink, filled it with tap water, and drank it, sharing some with her.

            The kitchen was full, and our places at the table were taken, so we went outside. We sat on the front steps of the lower half of the duplex, which belonged to the landlord. The drunks were performing like it was their individual circus ring. People from the party started leaving, and the drunks went back inside. Someone inside played Miles Davis, and I called out a Coltrane solo.

Slowly, I moved closer to my companion, kissing her neck and cheek. We kissed. A part of me expected a slap in the face, but she lay down the best she could on the steps. I touched her bare stomach and massaged it with my fingertips. My hand moved to her breasts and then trailed down slowly to her waist, while a concrete step bruised one side of my rib cage.

            "Why on the steps?" I asked.

            She laughed.

            We stopped for a minute when we heard a commotion inside.

            "That's Hostess going nuts." she said.

            "Ok," I said apathetically.

            We started back up again.

            "Why the steps?" I asked again.  “Do you want to go someplace?"

            "Where?" she asked.

            I deduced that since there were parties going on, all the rooms inside were filled with people doing the same thing we were. I considered taking her back to my apartment, but a pipe had burst, resulting in a flooded bathroom (again), carpet that resembled a swamp (again), and the smell of mildew (again). I surrendered to my bruises and bummed a cigarette from her.

            Noticing her eyes and outline of her face in the early hours of Sunday initiated the drunken babble. "You’re beautiful.  Your eyes and ..." I stopped when I heard myself talking, feeling embarrassed.

            "Thank you," she said as she lit a cigarette, sort of laughing.

                        The night ended with me sitting in my friend Shorty’s car and making sure he could drive home.  He was talking in complete sentences without slurring.  Earlier in the night, he’d told me how he wanted to be the god of Rock’n’Roll. I told him that it was a very rock'n’roll thing to do, and he was well on his way. We both started laughing about it. Then I figured he was okay to drive home, so he left.

            I went back inside, smoked a bowl with some people, and drove home with the windows down so the breeze could breathe in my car while I exhaled the smoke from my cigarette.  I was happy to have helped the future god of Rock'n‘Roll.

***

Underage

            I’d left the small town blend, and my life was starting to change. Placebo was caught with an ounce of pot and some ecstasy. He was in jail. Gloria dropped out of college and was trying to make it as an actress in LA. I thought about Tactic's last words before I moved away, "You’ve got to find your niche."

            I’d been living in my aunt's attic room for a few days while my parents and I waited for the new house to be built. I wasn't looking forward to the real move because I’d be out in the suburbs away from the action of downtown. I had enjoyed living in the city rather then suburbia. One night I went to a bar that Captain told me about.

            The days were still long, and the heat was directing our every move, but it was dark now. As I stood on the sidewalk outside a jazz bar, God's headlight helped reveal the silhouette of a woman's legs as she bent down slightly to pick up the last of her groceries to put them in her car. The few remaining summer nights were making way for fall.

 “Compose yourself,” I thought, “you're nineteen, trying to drink at a jazz bar. They won't serve you at the bar, so sit at one of the booths and look busy.” I entered the double-swinging doors and noticed they were decorated with the letters R and R. I’d like to think they stood for Rest and Relaxation; instead, they were the first letter of the owner's name, an Asian man with a stained apron who was always willing to talk to the paying customers.  I didn't meet him during my first experience.  But when we did meet, he didn't fit my stereotype of a jazz bar owner. But anyone could tell he was proud of his bar.

            The cocktail waitress, a queen from Afghanistan, came to me with a smile. She wore a revealing, low-cut dress, which helped fill the tip jars at the end of every night. "Would you like a menu?"

"No, I'll have a beer,” I answered.

            I ordered the cheapest one they had. She left with my order, and my eyes followed her firmly sculptured legs as they skipped down a set of steps. Suddenly they were hidden behind the bar. She didn't look suspicious, but the doorman did. He sized me up, and I gave him a nod. The cocktail waitress finally came back with my beer and smiled.

            "When does the show start?" I asked confidently.

            "Usually about 10:30," she said.

            "Thanks." I smiled.  Not busted yet.

            It was still early, and I was the only one in the bar except for an older couple sitting on stools in front of the bartender, slurring the language of a potential divorce. I couldn't make out the language yet.

The band members arrived one by one. The alto saxophone player opened his case beside me.  Like the bottles of whiskey behind the bar, I stared straight ahead at the scene unfolding before my eyes.  He took out a rag and wiped off the excessive fingerprints on the instrument and smiled at the trumpet player, taking off his hat as he entered the bar. The drummer set up beside the window and had a conversation with the front man, who played the tenor saxophone, but there was no sign of the trombone player. I was the only one who seemed to notice. They finally  walked to the stage in a slow pace, each instruments whispering faint warm-up sounds

            The front man took his position at the soundboard, and the drummer played the cymbals, molding a soundtrack as the crowd stepped in, looking for an escape from their daily lives. The trumpet, alto, and tenor played chaos, while the drummer switched to the snare with a bass drum, forming a drumbeat that sealed in the already drunken voices of the crowd. I was not going anywhere.

            I counted the beers I drank and realized I was running out of money, but the show hadn't even started. The cocktail waitress came back to check on me.

            "How much is one beer?" I asked

            She looked at me as if beer was shooting out of my ears.

            Realizing the question sounded slightly underage. I explained to her that I just moved here.  

            "Two bucks." She stride away as the band played a song by Sonny Rollin off of his Saxophone Colossus album. I was hooked.

            The trumpeter played a solo. He walked around the bar with his stiff cheeks and profusely sweating forehead, making eye contact with everyone. Everyone was forced to listen. I thought he sounded like Lee Morgan. The other musicians did the same thing, not competing with each other, but telling the story of their shitty work week.  There was still no sign of the trombone player.

            As the cocktail waitress checked on the individual booth, Lee Morgan's wonderful imposter was in the aisle and blocked her from getting out, so she sat down next to me. She smiled and I smiled back. I wished I had money for more PBR, and the last thing I wanted was to be sober in a jazz bar--underage. The last few sips created a bittersweet taste for alienation and the jazz.

            Suddenly the trombone player walked through the swinging doors, already in sync with the other members of the band. I quickly knew I would became a regular, as the whole place erupted in applause, and the jazz band howled throughout the streets of Richmond. The melody echoed throughout the bottom of my empty beer can. I was content.

            When the intermission was called out by the tenor saxophone player, I asked for my bill as the cocktail waitress passed by.

            "You mean your tab," she corrected. “I’ll get it for you."

            Since the band had stopped playing, the bartender had turned on the stereo.  Sinatra sang “The Good Life.” I paid and felt bad for leaving a shitty tip, determined that I’d make up for it next time.

            I went outside, where two band members were drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Another musician came out and told them he was going across the street to buy a hot dog at the convenience store.  I talked to the remaining musicians and asked if they would take requests when they began the next set.

            "Sure, what would you like to hear?" one asked.

            "`Blue into Green’ by Miles Davis,” I answered.

            They smiled at me. One of them knocked on the window that said "Rick's."

            The band leader, the tenor saxophone player, came over. He opened the door beside the window, where the band loaded their equipment in and out of the bar.

            "This gentleman has a request," said one of the band members.

            "Really? What would you like to hear?" asked the leader.

            "`Blue into Green’ by Miles Davis, and could you dedicate it to the cocktail waitress with the black skirt?"

            "Sure thing."

            The band members went inside to start their second set. I stayed outside, staring and watching as the band leader announced that tonight, and every Friday and Saturday night, featured vocalist Miss Lady E would perform.  I could hear her opening lines of “Summertime,” and I walked to my car, hoping my request would make up for the dollar tip I left the waitress.

 

***

No Drink Is Free

            The 1950s were alive in domesticated suburbia. The houses in the neighborhood circled around with their backs facing the outside, like horse-drawn carriages headed west for gold. I was going to another community college and did the usual routine of working hard enough for a C. I found a job working at a video store, which was overrun by a fraternity from the main university in town.

            If I wasn't ringing up customers, or listening to how excited they were to have the new romantic comedy by a primetime TV star, then I was faking interest in conversations about how expensive everything was: their Mustang payments, fraternity dues, or fraternity pins.

My only escape was the jazz bar. It was the only thing I looked forward to, and it was my only alternative for getting beer. I wanted a cleansing from the week; from not being able to relate to the fraternity guys I worked with, and from hating the drive to school every morning.

I felt almost weightless because of the pleasant melodies produced by the band and an interaction with a girl named Jill. I saw her alone at first as she passed out fliers. She gave me one, and I felt some chemistry with her eye contact--maybe the beer had exaggerated it, but who was I to question that? She was blonde. Seemed like they were always blonde in a dim bar. I invited her to sit with me in my booth, usually filled by one on Fridays.

            We talked about the usual obstacles that life carried like belonging, accepting that what you really want out of life isn't necessarily what you're going to do with your life, and how the unpleasant moments make good stories. She told me how she thought this city sucked, but still it was big enough to never see a familiar face again. I wanted to see her again.

            "Can I buy you a drink?" I asked.

            "My boyfriend is right over there." She pointed to a guy in white-boy dreadlocks. “But I could use a drink."

            I bought her one anyway.

            Her boyfriend was present while she drank her expensive dark beer. When she finished, they left, and she told me I should go to the show with the address was on the flier.

            I stayed around for the length of another beer and nodded at the doorman. "I'll see ya again."

            I crossed the street to my car, and I was stopped by a black man who I thought was panhandling.

            He said, "I don't want your money. I was wondering if you wanted a drink. I saw you go into the bar."

            I smelled the whiskey on his breath, and I thought I deserved a free drink. Who knew what else he had on is mind? I followed him to his apartment. His television was showing soft-core porn. The bodies were moving in “mute” without penetrating.

"Nice place," I said.

            "It's a piece of shit," he corrected me.

            I followed him to a miniature bar with several bottles of liquor. He poured me some whiskey.

            "You are young.  You need a chaser." He added cola.

            He obviously had been drinking for awhile, "When I was your age, I was wild. I was very wild. You seem laid back. I use to fuck as much pussy as I could stick my dick into, but now I don't get any. My daughter died a year ago in a car wreck. I don't speak to her mother anymore. I was going to buy her a car."

            Because of my intoxication, I don't remember how the topic of conversation had changed to masturbation.

            "It's a man thing. It’s okay to admit it. Sometimes you just feel alone. You're tall; I bet you have a long, skinny dick."

            "What?" I drank my whiskey and cola faster.

            "It's okay; I'm not one of those. I'm not gay. Here, take a beer shot." He stumbled on his words as if he was concealing what he needed at the time.

            I took the beer shot, even though I didn't see the point in a shot of beer.

            "I gotta go.  Thanks for the drink," I said with urgency.

            I left, even though he asked me if I wanted another whiskey cola. He followed me out.

            "Thanks for the drink," I said again.

            I walked up the street, and then stopped to take a piss in an ally. After relieving myself, I started walking as a mansitute, a male prostitute, passed me. I was trying to be polite, so I said, "Hey, how are you doing?"

"Hey, baby," he said in a feminine voice. Seeing the Adam’s apple and unshaven face, my steps fell quicker.

            "Hey!" It was the sketchy stranger who’d given me the drink. "You looking for pussy?"

            "Naw, man, I got no money,” I answered.

            "That's okay. I'll find you free pussy. There'll love you because you have a long skinny..."

He made the same gesture a doctor makes right after he tells you to turn your head and cough. I cocked my fist back, and he put one hand back and moved backwards like a crippled.

"I'm not… you know..."

            "’Bye, don't follow me," I interrupted.

            I finally made it to my car and made my way back to suburbia.  I had never encountered anything like that while living in the small town blend.

***

Walking Away

            I went to a keg party after I got off work.  Because of the slow night I was anxiously awaiting the stupidity that went on. It was obvious, when hormone-driven young adults came together and shared a few kegs, there was a night that would later become a story to tell their friends (if they didn’t show up when the keg was about to go dry).  For me, there was always a story for my journal.  All of my thoughts, all of my dreams seemed to end up there.

The last thing I wanted to do was to go around like my farts don't stink. An unreliable drunk was definitely in my future, but I did have my youth and cynicism outlook working for me. I danced even though the kegs were running dry, and I danced with several girls.  They usually stopped and stared at the white guy without the moves. But I didn't care for a world based on appearance.

I’d had about six beers and the truth was, I would rather be uninhibited than put myself on some higher level to judge.  At this party I had met up with who was Captain was trying to get with a new girl, someone I told him he might as well go for. What did he have to lose--or any of us, for that matter?  Now that I was in the big city I saw Captain most weekends, and he always had stories about his latest girl.

The last girl he’d wanted existed inside his head. He knew her, she knew him, but she wasn't too willing to know him any better then she already did. He had her on his pedestal.

Captain had recently seen her making out with a guy named Bubba who wore ridiculously large jeans. His name turned off Captain, so he moved to a tall blonde. I left them alone.

            A terrible, radio-friendly, pop punk band was playing, but they were easily tuned out while experiencing the keg line. I called it the keg congregation.

The band finally played their last song, and a DJ started in on the hip hop. The crowd started scrumping on the dance floor.  Captain and I couldn't dance.  We didn't pretend, so we stood there, staring.

Some white guys started rapping, although most of their rhymes were composed of just one word. "Yo, yo, yo, uh, yo, yo, uh..." They sounded like pirates.

I started chanting, "Crackers, crackers, uh uh crackers, crackers uh uh..." Feeling the flow and embarrassing the half-wit drunkards, I danced with random girls.  Captain left to go to the restroom, leaving his beer. Drunkenly, I put my cigarette in a random cup which was among many others on one of the speakers.

Stupidity consumed my rhythm-less ways, and I danced with random girls--almost made out with one. I think her name was Francesca or something. It was hard to hear. Sounded like a damsel in a Shakespeare play.

             Captain finally came back from the restroom.  He and his friends laughed as I performed mating rituals in the form of the sprinkler, the lawn mower, and my personal version of the lone cha-cha.

            People started leaving, including Captain and his friends, as well as the tall blonde.

            A girl holding two beers came up to me. "I saw you dancing. It was hilarious."

            "Is one of those beers for me?" I asked.

            "No! You have no idea what I had to go through to get these."

            Her name was Alice; she had brown hair and brown puppy dog eyes.  She was cynical and majoring in social work. We talked, having the occasional silence where we stared trustingly into each other’s eyes.

            "I come to these things, and I never feel like talking to anybody," she said.

            I didn't see the point in charming this one. I asked if I could kiss her.

            "You totally ruined the moment," she said.

            "I have that way with women,” I said.

            “You didn’t have to ask,” she said.

            I didn’t know what to say after that.

            We went outside to smoke a cigarette and sat on a bench, listening to the windows rattle from the heavy bass inside.

            "Romantic," I said.

            I put my arm around her. Two guys were smoking a cigarette in front of us and occasionally looking back. I didn't care so much for public displays of affection, but I kissed her.

            It was getting colder outside, so we went back in. I wanted another beer because I was starting to feel sober, but the kegs were dry, so it was time to go. Alice invited me to go home with her. I accepted. It was the first time anyone had ever done that. I usually invited myself.

We walked together to Mason and Broad, I had my arm around her, and we were both freezing.

            My teeth chattered. "I'm freezing."

            "Quit complaining," she said. "You're the man, so you are supposed to keep me warm."

            "This is the 21st century, baby. You’re supposed to keep me warm."

            Her teeth chattered as she began to laugh.

            I followed her to her front door. Alice’s roommate and her boyfriend were a distance behind us.

            "She has the key," Alice told me.

            We waited as they embraced one another. I rubbed her arms, trying to keep us both warm. Her roommate finally came and opened the door for both of us. I was glad to find the heat was on in her apartment, so multiple layers were stripped off.

The four of us vegged out in her front room, watching Bullwinkle.

            Her roommate was very tipsy. "I have a secret to tell you, Jonah."

            She looked at her boyfriend, then walked slowly to where I was sitting and sat down next to me. Alice looked at her as if wondering what she was doing.

            "Okay?"  I asked dutifully.

            "At the party I saw you standing near the fireplace, and I thought you were the best-looking guy there," she whispered in my ear.

            Was she too drunk to realize her boyfriend was right there?  

            She pulled away from my ear. "What's your shoe size?"

            "What?" I inquired.

            "Your shoe size," said Alice.

            "10 and a half,” I answered.

            "That's about an inch, Alice." The roommate said.

            "What?" Alice questioned.

            Finally her roommate and boyfriend went to bed. Alice and I watched Bullwinkle. The sexual tension was mounting. I started hating that damn cartoon, so I took the remote and turned off the TV.

"Enough of that."  I kissed Alice.

            Her pants were very difficult to take off. They were made of nylon, and the zipper required both hands. My left hand went further down to pleasure her. My right bicep aided as a pillow for her head. I loosened my belt buckle and lowered my pants. She moaned while I kissed her neck.

I got on top, and we fit our bodies together. We switched positions so that she was on top, and that was when we heard footsteps. It could have been her roommate. We stopped.

"Do you want to go to your room?" I asked.

            "Yes."

            We put on our clothes, disregarding our zippers, and walked quickly to her room.  

            We entered her room and removed our clothes again. For some reason, I didn't feel it anymore.  I didn't want to force anything that wasn't there. It might have been “Bullwinkle.” She didn’t like it, either.

            "I think the moment's gone, babe. It may have been the walk to your bedroom."

            "Yeah,” she said, as if wondering what was going on.

            We lay there and looked at each other, smiling. She laughed, and my face went down in the pillow. Embarrassed.

            "What’s so funny?" I mumbled.

            "I am so content right now,” she said.

            "Really?" I inquired.

            "Yes, even though we didn't have sex," she mocked.

"I think you're pretty."  I added.

            She put the palm of her hand on her forehead. Her face turned red. She looked embarrassed. I kissed her cheek and smiled.

            "So," she said, "are you going to call me."

            "Let's not play phone tag like those other weirdoes. Give me a place and time, and I'll meet you there. I hate telephones."

            "You are such a little boy."

            "Maybe."

            I kissed her again, and then we went into separate positions of uncomfortable slumber. It was about 4:30 am. 

            At 10 am, I put on my clothes. She was starting to stir, but I knew she was pretending to be asleep. I looked at her, debating whether or not I should say good-bye. Instead, I used her bathroom and went out her back door. It was still freezing, and I had a long walk to my car.

While my face was chapped, my lips were dry, and the corners of my mouth bled after every drag from my cigarette. I remembered the last time I was in a similar position. That night started when two fashion design majors took me back to their apartment after closing time at the jazz bar. Their apartment was above a party blaring hip hop. If it hadn’t been for all the beer I’d had before, I might have felt sketchy for being there. But they were fashion design majors, and they definitely fit my stereotype, spinning around like ballet dancers and speaking in a girly language. I needed a translation. In the living room, a wannabe DJ and a roommate of the fashion design majors were discussing the Electoral College and the whole recount mess in Florida. I wasn't in the mood for that sort of conversation, so I went in to the bedroom with the fashion design majors.

They started speaking their language again, so I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

            "Do you ever get high?" one asked.

            "Yup," I answered.

I jumped up; I hadn't smoked any for a long time. One of them packed the bowl. I had a few drags and didn't feel anything. Disappointed from the lack of numbness, I went into the living room to observe the debate. 

"Virginia has always voted Republican," insisted the wannabe DJ. "Your vote doesn't matter here."

            "Yeah, but it's our right to vote," said Ms. Crusader.

            "He's right," I said. "Your vote here doesn't count."

            "I know, but everyone should vote,” she insisted.

            "I’ve made my point," announced the DJ as he got up to go to the party downstairs.

            Then it was just me and Ms. Crusader, so I told her straight up what I thought about voting. I had never voted.

            "You’re a jerk for not voting!" She defended the right.

            "I can't believe we’re still talking about this," I said. 

            "We are in the 18-24 age group. Everyone thinks we are slackers and thinks we are not going to vote." 

            "Let them think what they want.  All I care about is me."

            "You shoulda voted."

            "I can't believe we are still talking about this on a Saturday. Here we are drinking, and the only thing you can talk about is the Electoral College. Look at you--your legs are crossed, and your hands are folded. You look like you are posing for a picture. Who are you trying to impress?"

            "Maybe I want to be able to walk in a room and be respected,” she answered.

            "It's Saturday,” I said.

She uncrossed her legs, rested her chin on the palm of her hand, and smiled. "What was your name again?"

            "Jonah,” I answered.

            She led me by the hand, and with drunken strides, we ended up in her room. Most of it was a blur. We kissed. My hands ventured down to her fly, but her hand moved them away. She told me she didn't want to go farther then making out, and she told me she was a virgin.

"Have you ever had sex?" she asked.

            "I'm not quite a virgin, and I'm not far from it, either. Losing your virginity has become commercial in this country. I'm sure we are not missing anything."

            We started making out again. My hands didn't behave themselves again, so I put them up over my head.

When I was young, my mom made me put my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t break anything in an antique shop. I guess that action developed other urges.

            "I think you are sexy," she said as she rubbed her legs together.

            That was too much for me. She started kissing me again, and I tried to kiss her back, even though my deviant hands were over my head.

            "Can I spend the night here?" I asked.

            "No. In fact, I'll have to ask you to leave. I am having lunch tomorrow with my dad."

            "I'm tired. I don't feel like moving,” I slurred.

            "You have to. Put your shirt back on."

            Sluggishly, I put my shirt on.

            "I am going to give you my number," she said.

            "No, don't worry about it. I hate telephones," I said.

            She wrote her number and gave it to me. We sat beside each other on her bed.

            "I think you are going to call me,” she said.

            "No, I don't think I will,” I said in a daze.

            She rubbed my back, "Yeah, you will. I want to have sex with you."

            I started thinking about Gloria, our attempt, and how I caused pain. "Naw, save it for another asshole."

            I left, not knowing where I was and how I could get to my car. I wandered up and down the street until something looked familiar. I finally saw the jazz bar--a monument in the Confederate capital, as far as I was concerned. I found my car and drove home.

***

The Last Time

            I had crossed into enemy lines, and I knew I was just another face served on the wrong side of the swinging doors at the country club. I looked at the waiting staff's blank, discontented expressions, and understood that they could care less if I enjoyed the meal or not, because either way they would have to clean it up afterwards.

            The last time I’d been at a country club, I’d been in the back, washing dishes.  Tactics helped me to get the job.  As I stood there feeling like I should be in the kitchen rather than seated at a table with a white cloth, my mind traveled back to one particular day when I helped the cooks slice onions.

Suddenly, I sliced something besides onions.  Blood splattered on the wall like a scene out of a Chainsaw thriller.  I held my thumb with both hands, making sure it was still attached.

The blood ran down my wrist and dried quickly, like expensive glue. It hardened to a brown crust on the surface of my skin, which was beginning to hold layers of blood.

            My boss grabbed my wrist, still dripping with blood, and held it under the sink. As a thin line of water came down, I felt chills inside. The flap of skin attached to my thumb waved like a Confederate flag in South Carolina. Some blood followed the water down the drain, but the thickest globs of blood stayed on my hand.

            After I wrapped some dishtowels around my thumb, Tactics escorted me to his car to drive me to the hospital. "Don't put so much pressure on it," he said, "You'll make it bleed more."

            He lit a cigarette and gave it to me. "Man, look at your apron."

            I looked down at the mosaic of unused food, dirty dishwater, and blood-- proof of a short workday.

            "Did you clock out?" asked Tactics.

            "No," I said. "Worker’s comp."

            We started laughing, while the effects of the lack of blood to my brain presented itself.

            "I think...I think I'm going to pass out."

            "Don't die on me, man," said Tactics, like it was a dramatic climax of a movie. He turned serious.  "Would you like some beer for later?"

            Elevating my left thumb, I used my right hand to get $5 out of my left pocket by a series of twists and turns. Beer--the perfect painkiller (even though I already felt intoxicated).

"I feel bad," said Tactics.

            "Why the hell do you feel bad?" I stammered.

            "I feel bad that you're hurt."

            "Aw...Thanks, man."

            It was a brother-to-brother moment.

            He lit me another cigarette. "Don't spill any blood on the interior."

            When we arrived at the hospital, the gatekeeper saw my apron and the dishtowel stained with blood, and then let us in without paying for parking. I took off the dishtowel. The piece of loose skin added another dimension to my wave and smile as we drove past.

I don't remember much about the walk to the emergency room, only that my legs felt like I had stepped off a trampoline. And I remember the squeaks the soles of my drenched tennis shoes (saturated with water from standing in the dish pit) made on the tile of the hallway.

Somehow, I was face-to-face with a blur dressed in white.  She took my blood-infested apron and towel and threw them in a red can. She asked me all kinds of questions that I answered with sighs.

            After consulting my driver's license for my social security number (the one thing I thought I learned in community college), two nurses led me into a room and helped me sit on an upright bed.

            The doctor came in, willing to jam my thumb with a needle underneath the flap of skin, which was turning black. One side of my hand felt non-existent. The experience ended with nine stitches, but no pain medication was offered.

            My reminiscing about my country club experience came to an abrupt halt, and I was brought back to the moment—another country club, but this time, I was on the other side of the kitchen door.

"Jonah, Jonah!"

            My mother pulled my arm, awakening me from reminiscing about another country club and my first time with a slicing machine.

            "What?" I asked. I would rather have continued the reminiscing.

            "This nice lady asked you a question," my mother prompted.

              The lady gave me an irritated look.

"What school do you go to?"

            "I go to community college."

I gave her the rehearsed suburban speech about my plans to transfer to a four-year institution that anyone could get into.

            "My daughter goes to the University of Virginia."

            I pretended to care.

            "Jonah was going to a community college where we used to live. He was living with his brother," said Mom.

            "What made you decide to move up, Jonah?" the unknown lady asked.

            "I don't know. I decided to hitch a ride up. I figured, what did I have to lose? Plus, I wanted to see how many different schools I could go to in my college experience."

            They didn't show any interest in my joke. (Note to self: you can't shoot the shit with these people.)

            "Are you on your spring break, Jonah?" The businessman who asked this question had his arm over his shifty-eyed wife, who was sizing me up for whatever purpose.

            "Yeah,” I answered.

            "Did you do anything special?" he asked.

            "Nope."

            "Our son went to Daytona," said the businessman, straightening his tie.

            "He didn't plan ahead," interrupted his wife.

            "He went down there," said the businessman, ignoring his wife, "when there was a biker's convention."

            "Cool," I said.

            "Apparently, there were Harley Davidson’s all over, and there were no vacancies," added the businessman.

            "He couldn't get a hotel," said his wife. "His aunt, my sister, was there, though."

            "He was with a boy from school, and they were so scared they hid in the back seat of his car," laughed the businessman.

            "It rained some," said his wife. "I bet you can imagine how scared he was with all the bikers."

            I imagined that their son was either a raging homosexual or didn't take advantage of what could have been the best week of his life.

The wait staff at the country club cleared off the tables and served coffee and pie.

            "Jonah. Jonah?" my mom spoke up.

            "Yeah."

            She slightly nudged me.

"Your dad and I appreciate you coming with us. If you have plans, you can go ahead and go."

"Okay." I left.

 

***

            The last time I drank with a biker, I was at my usual place, waiting for the band to go on. I heard someone turn off a motorcycle engine outside. When the rider entered the bar, he wore a full leather suit, and he held his helmet like he was a conquistador.

"I see you here all the time," he said.

            "Yeah," I said. "I come for the jazz, and I stay for the beer."

            "Me too.  I love the jazz in this place."

            In theory, the jazz band played the same set, but when the right musicians were there, the solos were always different. I was there enough to notice.

            "I usually eat here; have a couple of beers, then go to the yuppie bar up the street to try to pick up another man's wife. Sometimes I go for their daughters," the biker laughed.

            "I usually try to pick up a sugar momma." I laughed.

            "I pay my own bills." He said proudly.

            He put in an order for stuffed mushrooms, and the bartender gave him a beer. "You still want to go for a ride?"

            The bartender shook her head and went to the kitchen.

            "Women love to have a hog's engine between their legs. Hey man, you wouldn't be interested in buying a bike would ya? It was handmade in Wichita. I'll take sixteen grand for it."

            "I don't have sixteen grand. My friend, Captain, wants a bike. He only has 2 thousand, though.  Although that was a great sales pitch.”

            "He's not gonna buy much of a bike with that,” he said.

            "He'll take what he can get,” I said.

            "How old are you?" he asked.

            "Twenty." I didn't mind answering, since the bartender was gone.

            "Do you go to school?" he asked.

            "Community college,” I answered.

            "When I was 20, I joined the Army. I was what they called a grunt. I was in the field, and then got moved up to door gunner--you know, like on a helicopter. The people with nothing fought that war."

            "Wow,” I said, interested in the conversation.

            "How's school?" he asked apathetically.

            "It sucks," I answered.

            "Why are you there?" he asked.

            "Because I got a lot of time on my hands and nothing to fill it with," I answered.

            He laughed. "That's funny.  Most kids go on and on about what they want to do. You should look into the Army. You could be the guy that shoots Sadam.  Either way, it did me good, and it beat the hell out of starving."

If the Army had the guarantee of a Harley Davidson and leather suit after three years, I would most definitely join--although I had my eye on a black '57 Chevy convertible with flames on the hood and doors.

He received his stuffed mushrooms and finished them off, then picked up his helmet.  "Well, I’ve got to go. Hopefully I'll get lucky at the yuppie bar."

            "Get lucky for the both of us. I'll be here,” I said.

***

I started the second semester, and every morning I told myself I wasn't going to mess up anymore. I was in it for the long haul, but there was nothing for me but the basics for the curriculum I’d chosen. Was this life's plateau forming as I prepared myself for a routine 9-to-5 lifestyle? Questioning the curriculum was already routine for me, so I suppressed those feelings, because you could find flaws in everything.

            A part of me thought college was the way to go and that I should stick with it. For once I was motivated, but it didn't change the fact I had BIOLOGY.  It didn't matter how much the teacher dumbed up the material. I was still just a gringo in Mexico asking for directions to the nearest bar.

            On the plus side, I was finally published.  After about 20 rejections, a small press in southern California accepted one of my poems. They were putting it in their annual. I wouldn’t get paid anything, but people were going to read my words. Too bad it wasn't that good of a poem. 

            I had started sending my material out for publication after I took a creative writing class in high school.  Maybe my inspiration in that class came from the hot teacher who was a redhead.  However, I don’t remember that we discussed rejections in that class.  I wasn’t fazed.  Instead I knew those publications who sent me numerous rejections didn’t know good writing when it came across their desks.

            While driving to school that day, I felt like I’d won the lottery, and I was actually on time. Late was the story of my life. As far as school goes, I was usually the last one there, and the first one to leave. But that day, I had time to spare for biology lab.

A girl in class was going over the chapter. I’d noticed her before because she dyed her hair in red strands that could be found in a deluxe crayon box. I struck up a conversation with her, but she seemed intimidated.

"Hey, I'm Jonah,” I said.

            "Hey." She sounded surprised.

            "I'm in biology with you. I should probably be doing what you're doing, but I forgot my book."

            "You need that," she snickered.

            "Well, luckily this is only lab,” I said.

            "Did you do your lab?" she asked.

            "No, but I have my lab partner to copy off. He wants to be some EMS guy."

            "I usually do my lab on my own,” she said.

            "Wow, good for you." I was impressed. "This stuff is confusing,” I concluded.

            "I love science,” she said.

            "So do I--I mean, I respect it, but it isn't my strongest class. I dig history."

            "I'm bad with dates,” she said.

            "Well, there aren’t too many of them. Either way, history, is a bunch of cool stories."

            "Oh, you like stories. Do you like to write?" she asked.

            "Yeah, in fact I just got published.  That's probably why I'm acting so weird."

            "Oh, you're not acting weird,” she said.

            "Hey, you dig science. Maybe I'm just an alien." I said.

            "Then what planet are you from?" she asked.

            I answered it in a hypothesis. "If I knew what planet I was from, then I wouldn't be on this one." On that note, it was time for lab. 

For the last couple of weeks, groups had been making presentations on vertebrae. The group would research their particular category of vertebrae, and one person would present their findings. Seemed easy enough, but being the group-proclaimed slacker, I didn't research. From the beginning I’d told them I would present, thereby showing a slight effort of showing I was pulling my weight.

            Not only was I ignorant of the topic, but the trip wire that had petrified me since I was a little kid prevented me from pronouncing the “r” sound, but instead words came out like a distorted New York accent. "My group had chordates.  We… ah chordates because we… ah human. Which is a chordate..."

It was one of the most moronic experiences I've ever had. I was willing to admit that. The laughter was deserved. But the eye-scalping, finger-pointing mocks coming from a table of fake, thug-boy wannabes, gotcha freaks on slangin' no soul white boys in the suburban ghetto, pierced through the surface like a needle from a tattoo artist.

I had the struggle of explaining something while embarrassing my group members and not being able to say it correctly, because I’d never been able to say it correctly before. I could take a joke to a degree, but not from a stranger.  

            After it was over, the class ended for break. I went outside, smoked two cigarettes, and counted to ten. I thought of all the ways that I could stand up for myself: One idea was to use three of the guys as bowling pins, use another guy as the bowling ball, and knock them all down. Another idea was to use my textbook as a baseball bat and take care of them, because I’d been a slugger in Little League.  Maybe I should throw them out the window and forget about them.  Another idea was to make an example out of one of them and make him swallow my coffee-stained, obsolete laptop.  Finally, I could have thrown their insults back, but I probably would have said something wrong, resulting in a another fleet of mockery.

I hated thinking about what I wanted to do. If I did anything along those lines, I’d be kicked out of school, and my parents would be disappointed. I'm not the best son, but either way, I couldn't handle their disappointed faces.

            I went back to lab and pretended to work. Every eye in the classroom stared at me, like I was mentally handicapped. It felt like I was receiving paper cuts on my backbone.  My hard shell had been reduced to little-boy’s  insecurity inside an inferior mindset. I couldn't look my lab partners in the eye. All I did was stare at my lab book.

Today’s lesson: the different defenses used by the body to fight off mutations or things that didn't belong.

            You are a mutation in this universal body of life, I said to myself.  The thought scraped against the side of my skull. You are a coward. Stay quiet. You have nothing worth saying.

            Lab was finally over. For a lack of a better cliché, I thought it was my own personal hell, and it was going to last forever. I drove home with both hands gripping the wheel, firmly annoyed by the bassy speakers at an intersection that vibrated my rearview mirror. I imagined myself getting out of my car and pulling out the driver, just to beat him until he developed a speech impediment.

            I got home, avoided my mom, and went straight to bed, hoping I could sleep it off like I’d had a long night of heavy drinking. But I couldn't sleep. My heart pounded so hard it could have jumped-started a car. But I had to work at the video store, and I couldn't block out the usual fraternity crap today. I could only think about immediate retaliation.

             I showed up to work on time, hating to see my boss's face. Whenever a customer asked him what he planned to do after college, he went through the same story.

"I was more stressed out than most people this semester because I was the president of my fraternity. But that was a good experience for me, because it taught me leadership."

            Who in the hell would elect that guy? I thought.

            I had plenty of opportunities to learn about fraternity guys while working at the video store.  Frat guys were the lowest form of Caucasians. And I believe that the silent mass majority of people out there felt the same way about them. The only thing good I could say about them was their women. Although the women all looked the same, staying in tune with whatever was in fashion for that week.  They were the closest thing to a supermodel or a celebrity siren a simple man would ever get close to. Some chose not to do this, but I would have loved to see one of those high-class bitches as confused as I was about life and meaning. Their cell phones did the thinking for them.

A fraternity guy walked into the store while talking on his cell phone about some “formal” Dance.  His t-shirt projected his unique Greek lettering. He went to my boss and started talking loudly about his girl, who was coming into town.

My brain went on temporary shut down. Something was about to give.

***

            In my dreams, I kept hearing the laughter and seeing the fingers pointing at me from my biology class.  This resulted in black circles underneath my eyes and also affected my other classes that had no relation to biology. I shaved my head.  That had been a release in the past, and I figured that if the students in the class saw me as a demented individual, so be it. At least they would leave me alone. I was there to pass biology.

              To escape some infernal thought, idea, or emotion, I would either write about it, eventually forget about it, or Captain and I would have one of our boxing duals that made anything manageable and comprehensible for me.

Luckily, payday rolled around.  It seemed to be the only thing for me to look forward to--and, of course, visiting my second home at the jazz bar.

I could pick up my check early at the video store, rush to the bank to get it deposited, and then be back to the video store in time to begin my shift.   As usual, the check was late, which forced me to use my contingency plan of rushing to the bank before it closed and being late for work, which I didn't mind so much. The bastard was late with my money.

Fortunately I made it to the bank before it closed, and despite the long line, I received a lollipop from the bank teller. The clock radio in the car indicated that I was already a half  hour late. Instead of taking it easy and realizing I was late, why rush, I sped to the highway exit like an overly faithful employee.

Thinking that both lanes were clear, I pulled out into the street and forgot to check my right side.  Suddenly, a car broadsided me, and I saw the whites of the driver's eyes as we swerved to opposite ends of the street.

Damage was minimal.  When we got out of our cars to survey the scene, the driver looked at me like I’d pushed him an inch closer to death's grasp. I noticed his baby girl sitting in a child’s seat in the back. A single strand of drool connected her mouth to her thumb.  I saw fear in her eyes, and I felt like a cancer. 

            Whatever sanity I had, left through my shaking hands.  A police officer showed up and talked to the other driver first, while I stared at the inconvenienced traffic behind us.

The baby girl put her thumb back in her mouth after her dad told her everything was going to be all right. I could have used something like that.  I wished I had the security of putting my thumb in my mouth.

            "Okay," said the cop, "there isn't that much damage to your cars. So can I get you two to move them to the gasoline station across the street?"

            We parked the cars on one side of the gas station.

            The cop came over to me. "Can I see your information? How old are you?"

            I told him I was 19 and found my insurance company card in the glove compartment. For some reason he had his flashlight out while I went through the trash inside my glove compartment, although it was broad daylight.

"I have to ask you this, he said. “What were you thinking?"

            "I was late for work, and I wasn't thinking," I said, shaking nervously. "Is his kid okay?"

            "Yeah, she's fine. I'm going to have to report this," he said as he gave me the other driver's information.

            "It was all my fault," I said.

            "Thank you!" said the other driver sternly after hearing my confession.

He got in his car and drove away. The little girl waved to me with four fingers while she still sucked her thumb.

            "Okay," said the cop, unfazed by the situation. "Have a good one."

            "Thanks." 

            I was able to drive home. I left the other driver's information on the kitchen counter, and I went into the bathroom to wash my face. Staring at myself in the mirror, I noticed my eyeballs were ready to break into tears. I held it back. I washed my face again and called work to tell whoever was managing what had happened and that I was going to be late. I made sure my eyes were dry and my face looked stoic, then I drove to work, preparing myself for a suburban Friday night at a video store.

***

The moment I walked in the doors, one of the frat guys laughed at me. I stared at him with an atom bomb face.

            "Dude, are you okay?" he asked.

            "I'm still walking,” I answered.

            "Can you work?"

            "I need the money,” I answered.

            My first customer yelled at me because another employee didn't reserve a movie for her. I told her to take my advice and take her business elsewhere, so she did.

            Another customer put his movie on the counter. I rang it up and told him about his 50 cent rewind charge.

            "No way! I don't have a rewind charge. I've never had a rewind charge, and I'm not going to pay it!"

            "Sir," I said politely, "if you don't pay the rewind charge, then I can't rent to you."

"I'm not paying it now. How much do I owe you? Come on, come on, I'm in a hurry."

            "Then I can't rent to you!" I yelled.

I put his movie on the return rack and waited for his next response, wishing he would come over the counter so I could give him a right hook to the jaw. 

            He stormed out. "Good luck with your business!"

            From a business standpoint, what I did was stupid. It would have been better to take his $3.50 rather then nothing at all. But from a moral standpoint, store clerks shouldn't have to put up with that shit.  

It was a typical Friday, only the customers had to be defensive. I was the dictator of the video store. When it was over, I drove to the jazz bar, already tasting the booze.

             After several beers, scotch and waters, and shots of Yeager, the bartender told me for the first time to take it easy, and she asked if I wanted her to call a cab. A girl tried to talk with me, but my bitter bar face scared her away. I didn't hear the music that night. I didn't even feel the blues.

            I asked for my tab, and the bartender asked if I was driving. I told her no, that I was staying with a friend a few blocks away. I paid, trying to remember where I parked my car. When I found my car, I struggled in a rage to turn the key. In that mindset, I believed that I could have stopped a bullet.

            I drove home with the windows down, intoxicated yet able to drive, screaming to hard furious punk (an old friend) and smiling in my rearview mirror at the police car behind me. He turned off at an exit going in the opposite direction. I kept thinking that this would have been the perfect night to meet my tormentors face to face, but they were nowhere around, and my lab was a few days away. I didn't want to go, but I couldn't let my tormentors think they could touch me. Show no emotion, I thought to myself. Have a stiff upper lip.

I pulled into my parent’s driveway, having already forgotten about the car accident earlier in the day and the accident form I left on the kitchen counter. Drunk and stupid, I fingered my keys until I found the right one to open the front door. I was still singing, only quieter, "They tell me when I tell them, I do it my way and I always win..." so I wouldn't wake up my parents. I stepped softly through the kitchen to the bathroom to take a raging beer piss. 

Suddenly I heard slippers softly stepping down the stairs and bare feet sticking on the wood floor, coming in my direction.

            "Is that you, Jonah?" asked my dad.

            "Um, yeah." I was still pissing.

            "Jonah?" It was my mom. 

            "Jonah, we saw the accident form on the kitchen table." My dad sounded concerned.

            "Dad, I'll be with you in a second."

Paranoia filled the bathroom, and I reeked of liquor. I flushed and told myself to be cool, but I had no problem staying in the bathroom for as long as I could so my parents wouldn't smell my breath.

I slightly stumbled out of the bathroom. "So, you guys are still up," I said cheerfully.

            "Yeah, we are glad to see you're okay.  Next time this happens--hopefully there won’t be a next time, but for any emergency, please call us," said my dad. 

            "I'm fine. Sorry for not calling."

            "You know, Jonah, that isn't my main concern," said my mom, sounding disappointed. "My main concern is that you are drunk and you drove home."

            "I'm standing across from you, and I can smell the liquor," said my dad.

            It must have been the scotch. I could still taste it.

            "This cannot happen again," said my dad.

            "We will call this guy's insurance company tomorrow. Why don't you go to bed?" said my mom.

            Bed sounded good, and I had to work tomorrow. I walked upstairs, feeling the disappointment of my parents. For me, it was now time to vent.

***

            Surprisingly, I was not hung over in the morning when I went to work. I was already conspiring as I clocked in.

            "Jonah, your employee picks have been up for three months. Change them now," threatened my manager.

            "If that's what you want,” I said.

            He stopped pretending he was busy arranging the movie racks and looked at me. "That's all. No wise-ass comments."

            "I'll change them,” I said.

            I never gave him a wise-ass comment that I knew of, but in my mind I always referred to him as asshole.

            I took down my old picks, which consisted mainly of Martin Scorsese movies, and started working. I finally decided on six Faces of Death movies, Footloose, and Dr. Seuss's Green Eggs and Ham. It was an experiment using naturalistic observation.

"Okay, you're nuts," announced my manager. “So you have a fascination with death, you're probably gay, and you're on drugs."

            "Drugs! Why drugs?" I asked.

            "Dr. Seuss was obviously a junkie. I think he was on mescaline. How else would he see green eggs and ham?"

            "Dr. Seuss was a genius, drugs or no drugs," I concluded.

            "You're nuts."

            "Shut up."

            "You can't talk to me like that. I am your boss. I'll write you up," whined my manager.

            "Whatever."

            A woman and her daughter entered the store, stopping anymore empty threats by my manager. The woman went straight to the kid section, but her daughter stopped when she noticed Dr. Seuss. 

            "Look, mommy," said the little girl.

            The woman walked back sluggishly to her daughter and sighed. "What is it?"

            "Dr. Seuss," said the little girl.

            The woman looked at the Faces of Death videos and mouthed the word Footloose, confused. "Uh..."

            "It's Dr. Seuss, mommy," the child said again.

            "Uh..." The woman picked up the box, turned it over, and referred back to the Faces of Death "Uh...um, I don't think this is what you think it is, dear. Let's go to your section now."

            The little girl seemed confused as she followed her mom to the kid section. 

            What else would it be? I thought.

            While my boss's back was turned, I switched some of the new-release DVDs with porno DVDs. But I stopped when a middle-aged couple placed their movie on the counter.

            "Well hey, Craig."

            My manager walked over. “How’s it going, Mr. and Mrs. Phelps?"

            "Fine," said Mr. Phelps. "Still planning to graduate in the spring?"

            "Oh yeah, I can't wait. This year has been so stressful already because I was the president of my fraternity."

            "Yeah," I interrupted, "and I used to be the pope."

            The Phelps’s produced a phony laugh.

            "No, really," said my manager, "and I put my resume on the net. Some radio station in Florida is interested in me."

            "Oh, really? Are you going to be a disk jockey, Craig?" asked Mrs. Phelps.

            "No, I'm going into sales,” he answered.

            "That's funny," I laughed. "Dead weight selling dead air."

            The Phelps’s looked at my manager as if wondering what he was going to do with this undisciplined employee.

            "Don't you have something to do?" my boss asked.

            "I already worked my $5.75 worth for the day, Craig."

            "Put those movies back on the shelf," Craig demanded.

            "Yes sir, Mr. President."

I left, humming “Hail to the Chief.”

            The Phelps’s managed another phony laugh, paid for their movie, and left.

                        I came back around the counter after putting the movies on the shelf wherever I wanted.

            "What has gotten into you, Jonah? You rarely ever say two words, and now all you're doing is insulting me and making the business look bad. You are always introverted."

            "Introverted?" I hated being called an introvert.

            "In business class, my teacher said you have to keep a watchful eye on those introverts."

            Another fraternity guy entered the store while talking on his cell phone. Sometimes I wonder if people really used them as often as they seem.  Maybe they were pretending. Looking at the drama in their faces as they waved their hands around seemed like a show. I used a cell phone once. I could hardly hear the person on the other line. I had to listen closely and breathe softly. 

            This frat boy one didn't go to the same school as the others. He messed up at his old school and now went to the same community college I attended. He planned to transfer, like I did. He still reminisced about his old school, something he’d probably do for the rest of his life without remembering any vivid details.

            "Back where I went to school, it was 75% Greek."

            "Really?" said Craig. "We're only 8% Greek. There isn't much of anything."

            "75%, that is so sad," I said.

            "Why is that sad? I think that's dope," said the Greek stooge.

            "Because 75% of the students at your old school had to pay for friends," I mocked.

            "Jonah," Craig said, shaking his head, "it's not going to get busy today. We don't need three people, so go ahead and leave.”

            I gladly clocked out and left, overhearing the word freak directed towards me. It was their only defense. No one ever complained about finding porno where it didn't belong.

***

Operation Junk Mail

            The torment stopped in lab, but I still hated to go.  My only motivation was to prove to the thorns in my side that they weren't fazing me. I prepared myself by listening to loud crashing metal while driving to school, and I always sat facing them.  Sometimes I stared and they glared back at me, but most of the time it was in my own head. This situation left me with three choices (1) I could get into a fight, get kicked out of school, and have my parents be disappointed and embarrassed, especially my dad; (2) I could insult them back, but knowing my luck, I would stumble on my words again or say something wrong, resulting in more torment; or (3) just show up.

I picked Option Three, and it withered away at, not only my confidence, but my chances of passing the class. I never did any work, but I did build up a wall so no one or nothing could touch me. I didn't look my lab partners in the face if they said anything. They eventually figured out I wasn't going to do anything to help them. Dead weight filling up space.

***

            Feeling like a freak, I decided to mess with conformity--the Army. I had a lot of time on my hands anyway, so one day I went to the local recruiting office.

            I looked through the front door window at the recruiting officer in full uniform. We made eye contact, and he waved me in. I took a drag off my cigarette and waved back at him. He looked confused. I took another drag off my cigarette and smiled at him again. Now the recruiter was salivating like he was sizing up a nice, juicy steak. I finally went inside.

            He was on me the minute I stepped on the battleship-gray carpet.

            "Have you been thinking about joining the Army?"

            "Yeah," I said. "I've been thinking about joining an army."

            "An army? You mean joining a branch of the military. The Army offers a lot for young men your age."

            "I don't know if I want to join the Army in Switzerland or in Holland. Either way, I want to fire a gun."

            "What?" he asked.

            "I want to fire a gun,” I answered.

            "Switzerland?" he questioned, probably wondering if I was an international student.

            "It's a country in Europe."

            "Yeah, I know, son, but this is the US Army."

            "But I thought you guys had connections."

            "Connections?"

            "You mean you don't have connections? Either way, I still want to fire a gun. Or what do you suggest I do?"

            I obviously made the man eager, since I asked for his opinion.  I didn't know they had those in the Army.

            "I'm biased, son. Ya see, I was an MP. Have you ever thought about being a military police officer?" he asked.

            "No,” I answered.

            "Why?"

            "Cops suck. I want to travel."

            "Are you adventurous?" he asked.

            "Yup,” I answered.

            "How about the infantry?" he asked.

            "Do I get to see Switzerland? Then I want to rush on over to Sweden, then after that Denmark. I always wanted to experience my Viking heritage."

            "Oh, I get it.  You're fucking with me."

            It was about time, I thought.

            "Am I?"

            "Either way.  Get out; this is not a travel agency."

            I walked out quickly and started laughing.

            That evening, I worked at the video store. I worked most of my shift, and when a line of customers waited at the check-out, I clocked out and left. This was an automatic termination. I never had to see those frat freaks again.

***

            Driving to my biology lab the next day, there was great music, and I felt unusually relaxed. Waiting for class to begin, I sat in the hall avoiding any conversation, feeling happy. When it was time to go in, I whistled “Freddie Freeloader,” by Miles Davis. The other students stared, but I could have cared less. The teacher came in and gave instruction for the day’s lab. I hummed to myself, feeling no need to put up a wall of defense. When she finished, I nonchalantly packed all my books into my bag and started to leave.

"You're leaving?" It was the girl with the red hair.

            "Yup,” I answered.

            "Slacker."

            "Hey," I said with smooth apathy, "I'm good at it."

***

One night, Captain and I made plans to meet at the jazz bar. Captain finally showed up, and the band went on. The band played something that wasn't on the set list (which hardly ever changed). The keyboard was set to organ, and the trombone player wandered in from the bitter cold. Even though it was a slow tempo, the muse hit me like a blitzkrieg.

Sometimes jazz throws me into a dark, deep ocean. When I go there, I am treading water with land miles away. Some waves go over my head, but I am still afloat. All I can do is close my eyes and accept my fate, which will eventually come.

The music was so loud I couldn’t hear Captain that night.

            I asked for a scotch and water and remained consumed.

 

***

Bar Acquaintances

            I've learned more in bars through conversation then I’ve ever learned in a classroom.

            One night I talked with a Vietnam vet who must have had a stroke. He had to drink through a straw, and when he talked it seemed like one side of his face was still sucking for more liquor. He called me naive when I said I was trying to do something with journalism, and I wanted to report on everything.

            Another time I met a black man named Royal.  Honestly, I don't remember the conversation that well, just my drunken insights. "The white man is becoming obsolete, and guys like me are a dime a dozen."

            "That's what you think," he said with a surprised look on his face.

            When Slim, the insomniac, was there, the conversation centered on her. Regular blondes with trim figures are an oasis for drunken eyes. Most of her conversations centered on her cats--how they pissed on her furniture, with a little college football and bad plumbing thrown in for good measure. Usually she talked about her insomnia.

            "I can't sleep. I haven't been able to sleep for a while. I wake up in hot sweats. My white t-shirt is soaked, and sweat actually drips from my breasts."

            The word "breasts" triggered the dishwasher to come to the bar with a full bucket of ice, even though the bartender hadn't asked for it. He stayed to hear the rest of the story.

            "Sometimes I wake up my fiancé, because I am so frustrated."

            The word fiancé triggered the dishwasher to go back to the kitchen and stand around until it got busy again.

            "You should see someone about that," I said.

            "I can't sleep."

            "Yeah, you should see a doctor."

            She finished her beer, then left. It was only a matter of time before that body would need both swinging doors to leave.

***

            Another regular was a man I called the Atheist. One night I saw him drink one beer, and then leave, with both feet agreeing with each step. This sight was unusual for the Atheist. I wondered if he was coming back.

            I drank alone again, losing all thought of time as my motor skills and any sort of motivation left with each empty glass of beer, and forgotten again, as another beer was placed in front of me, and then I repeating the same smoke exchange

The Atheist came back during intermission and sat next to me at the bar, far from the musicians’ wailing solos. Sitting this far away, there was still a nice benefit.  Every beautiful woman walked past and occasionally touched your back in hopes that they wouldn't fall in their drunken state.  It was nice sitting close to the ladies room.

            "Look at all these niggers!" he yelled as his hand gestures interrupted his drunken slurs.

            We were the minority at this end of the bar, so I stayed quiet. Not to mention, I had been sitting next to an old black man underneath a dark cloud of smoke that formed from both of our cigarettes.

            "Hey man, how's life?" he said as he waved his hands in the air like he forgot something, "Listen man, I'm sorry I called you Jewish last time I saw you," he continued.

            He was referring to when we first met, and I found out he was an atheist. He didn't see anything to believe in, and he didn't understand why anybody else should, either. I told him that there had to be something out there to believe in, something to make everything make sense. He didn't feel the same, so he assumed I was Jewish. I asked him why. He said it was my nose and dark hair. That was his third apology.

            "That's okay," I said. "I'm not Jewish, and you shouldn’t be sorry."

            He flagged down the bartender and ordered me a shot of Yagermeister and a beer, as well as one for himself. "It's on me, man."

            "Thanks," I said.

            "People think I'm from New York and that I'm Italian because of my accent, but actually I'm Hungarian."

            We both laughed as the bartender placed the shot and beer in front of us. We toasted, "Salute."

            I slipped the ashtray over closer toward him.

            "That's okay, man, I got one."

            "Just being nice," I said.

            "Niceness won't get you anywhere in life," he said.

            "Hey man, look what I got for my birthday," I said pointing to my new brown leather jacket.

            "Go ahead, put it on," he said.

            I picked it up from the floor and put it on slowly.

            "Nice," he said. "You look like a kid from Queens."

            I've been to New York. Once the tour guide pointed to Queens, then we drove right past.

            "It took me forever to save up for my leather jacket," he said.

            I finished drinking my beer and started drinking the one he bought for me.

            "Man, it was a shitty week," he said, "The people I work with are like family to me, but they can be real assholes."

            His job was preparing the needles for an artist at the tattoo parlor down the street.

            "Do you have any friends?" he asked.

            "A few,” I answered.

            "Good friends last longer then family."

            We took a gulp of beer as the jazz band played the last song of the night. Lady E sang “Summertime.”

            "I'm tired of this cold weather shit,” I said. “The weather man is calling." 

            "Hey man, you know where I can score some cocaine?" the Atheist interrupted.

            "No," I whispered.

            It was that time of night where the crowd was growing scarce and two drunken different worlds threw around questions and answers that were unprocessed by both parties. I had been drinking before the doorman started carding, which was nine o' clock, and it was almost closing time.

            He laughed. "Too much information!"

            "No problem,” I said.

            The bartender placed the atheist’s tab in front of him, along with a phone number. He stared at it, focused on the total, and then refocused on it again.

            "Hey, some girl gave me her phone number."

            The bartender shook her head and gave him the telephone. "It's a number for a cab. I don't want you walking home tonight."

            "Hey man, you have a car. Why don't you drive me home?" he requested.

            "No. It’s parked on Grace Street."

            I answered "No" to cover up the truth, like everyone else. In this state, he only understood yes or no answers. Too many details always disappeared in this state.

            He tried dialing the number of the cab, but he was seeing double and his finger shook. Finally, he looked at me.

"The line is busy. Let's walk, man, to my apartment. It's only 12 blocks away, and I can use the company. "

"Nah, I'm gonna stay here for a while longer,” I said.

            I took the phone and dialed the number, feeling drunkenness in my knuckles as they extended to the digits.  

            "I can walk," he protested.

            "It's more luxurious to go home with a driver," I said.

            He smiled while he stumbled off his barstool and walked like a starving stray dog to the bathroom.

            I heard a voice on the other end of the telephone.

            "You want a cab?" said the voice.

            "Yeah," I said," I need a cab for someone who doesn't want a cab. I don't think he'll give you any trouble, though."

            "Where are you?" the voice asked.

            "Meadow and Broad," I answered.

            "Oh, you're at the jazz bar. Someone will be out front in 15 minutes."

            The Atheist came back and paid for his beer.

"Sure you don't wanna come? I don't think I have enough for cab fare."

            He finished his beer.

            "The cab will be here in 15 minutes," I told him.

            "One last trip to the bathroom,” he said.

            "You just came back from…” I said struggling to find the right words. “Whatever. I'll be waiting outside for you."

            Outside, my breath mixed faintly with the air I was breathing out, and my cigarette was held by shaking bare knuckles that were going dry.

            The cab pulled up out front, like the voice said that it would. The driver looked like he was prepared for impaired, relentless aggression.

            "He's in the bathroom," I said.

            "I'll park at the convenience store across the street," said the cab driver.

            The Atheist came outside. "Wow, man. You waited outside for me."

            "Yeah, the cab is across the street," I said.

            "It was a shitty week, man. Come home with me?" the Atheist asked.

            "Naw, man, I'm staying," I answered.

            "I don't think I have enough for cab fare," he slurred.

            I gave him my last 5 dollars.

            "Thanks, man. I'll pay you back."

            "Sure you will," I said as I shuffled him into the cab, knowing his intentions were good.

            "Damn, what a shitty week,” he said again.

            "Hey, just think paycheck," I said. "It pays for the beer and good conversation."

            "Yeah, I'll see you next time," the Atheist said.

            "There's always next time and next week,” I concluded for us both.

            The cab drove away, leaving me alone.   I knew I wouldn’t have a paycheck next week.

***

The Jazz Singer

            Evan was a piano player I drank with a lot. Evan knew I was underage, and I knew he was damn near thirty. He came in later than me, usually after he played a gig that might have been at a fancy restaurant or a party at a fancy hotel. Since the drinks were on the house for piano players at these parties, he was always drunk when he showed up. I was just as intoxicated whenever I saw him.

One night, we sat at the bar and made a list of all the nursery rhymes that Doc played during his solos. We’d been there enough times to know that he played the same ones all the time. It wasn't a mystery anymore. The list was entitled: Life and Times of Regulars, and it went like this:

(1)   Pop Goes the Weasel

(2)   Here Comes the Bride

(3)   Shave and a Haircut

(4)   Mary had a little Lamb

(5)   Joy to the World

(6)   Three Blind Mice

(7)   Old McDonald

(8)   Yankee Doodle

            On this night, Evan couldn’t stay as long as he usually did because he bent his apartment key enough to break off a piece.  That was the usual luck at this bar. He paid for his beer and rushed back to his apartment to catch his roommate after he got off work. 

            After he left, I sat at a table in front, although I had memorized the entire set. The trombone player always gave good company through his melodies and improvs to anyone who was alone for the evening.

The first set ended, when a new jazz singer stepped up to the mike. She wore shorts and a polo shirt. I had seen her there before, but not recently.

Sometimes she sang originals, and she was probably one of the best vocalists there.  Her hips swayed and her head swiveled back and fourth to the bass and percussion served on the rocks. In return, the horns played a background for desire, and on this night I was drinking alone maybe one time too many. She caught me staring and closed her eyes as she reached for a higher octave. I had a few more beers. After her last song, I shrank back to the doorman's stool.

Holding her bourbon and smoking her cigarette, the featured vocalist, Miss Lady E, went on last.  It was as constant as the sunrise.

Before she started singing, there was a moment of silence for a male vocalist who’d passed away.

            The vocalist with the shorts and coffee-stained legs asked me for a light.

            "I see you here all the time, but something is different about you," she said exhaling a drag.

            She pointed to my navy blue toboggan with a red stripe—my beanie, I called it. I put it on.

            "Aaah, it's you."

            "Yes, it is I," I said like a Roman emperor.

            We listened as Lady E started her first song.

            "Did you hear what happened to him?" she asked referring to the male vocalist who had passed away.

            "No," I answered.

            "He apparently snapped. He went to Wal-Mart last week, and he shot his girlfriend. Then he drove down Broad Street and shot himself."

            "Why?" I asked.

            "No one knows, but he always seemed composed," the vocalist answered.

            She went on to explain the aftermath. The cops had roped off an entire intersection, forcing cars to take a detour. Blue lights flashed all over, and it could be seen from several blocks away.  The statue of Stonewall Jackson was forced to wear blue.

The local news team had been there, interviewing the stupidest person they could find. In the center of the yellow tape was tangled metal that still had signs of once being a car. The tow truck had taken the car away that it hit.

"What's your name?" she asked.

            "Jonah."

            "What do you do?" she asked.

            Good question. "When I'm not drinking here, I'm a writer," I answered.

            "Is that all?"

            "I go to community college, and I had a shitty job."

            We shot the shit that consumes drunken bar acquaintances. I lied about my age and said I was 23.  She was 28, and it was now closing time.

            "Would you like to go someplace?" she asked.

            "Okay," I answered.

            "I can't believe you're going with me. You are so young."

            She had no idea how young I really was. We decided to go to a diner, and she drove. On the way she told me how tired she was of Richmond. She knew the streets so well, and even some shortcuts. I told her it was still new to me, because I had just moved there. Suddenly she underestimated the size of a narrow street, and her car slammed into a curb. Luckily, no cars were around.

            It jolted us like a traumatic car crash. She hoped her car was okay. At least it was still drivable.

            "I'm drunk. I probably shouldn't be driving," she said.

            "You're doing okay. Just don't hit anymore curbs."

            We arrived outside a 24-hour diner, and she inspected her car.  When we saw it was fine, we went inside and had coffee.

            "Can I have a cigarette?" she asked. "So, what do you want to do with your life?"

            I gave her a cigarette. "Bum cigarettes out to people." I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know.  What do you want to do with your life?" I asked.  I was still covering this territory.

            "I want to sing, but I got my degree in social work. I'm thinking about moving to the south of France to sing. Maybe wait tables or something. Do you have a girlfriend?"

            "No, do you?" I asked.

            "No," she laughed. "So, writer...tell me a story, Kerouac."

            "Honey, I don't feel like telling any stories. Why don't you tell me one?"

            She told me a story about a girl in front of an extravagant feast who was salivating, mesmerized by the smell of all the delicacies. She devoured each bite with a lust for more. When she came to the last bite, she noticed a cockroach. She gagged in disgust. She got the waiter’s attention and showed him the cockroach. He explained to her that the whole meal consisted of cockroaches.

            "Now it’s your turn,” she said.

            "That was a good one,” I said.

            "It’s not actually mine. I read it earlier in the day. Now, tell your story."

            "Okay." I told her a story based on everything that had happened so far, remembering the minor details like her drink, which was a scotch and water. I improved on what I thought she was thinking, and told what I was thinking when she was singing. When I got to where we were now, I looked at her.

"Now what?” she asked. "Your story doesn't have an ending."

            "I don't like endings," I said.

            She asked if I wanted to go to a park in downtown Richmond. She really got my attention when she paid for my coffee. We left the diner, and she started driving again.

            "Going to the same bar by yourself isn't normal," she said.

            "Normal? I usually do whatever comes natural. Normal is rarely involved,” I said.

            "Why did I decide to talk to you?" she asked herself.

            "What?" I inquired after her question, which was out loud.

            "Tonight. I see you sitting on your barstool all the time. I guess I felt compelled to talk to you. Maybe I thought you looked interesting, but you're too young. You're so sweet."

            I could tell that thoughts ricocheted inside her brain. I watched as she weighed the pros and cons of taking me home with her.

            "You know, I thought you sounded like a detective when you were telling your story. You know, ‘She walked into my life with her coffee-stained legs,' like Humphrey Bogart."

            "Cool,” I said.

            We made it to the park without hitting any more curbs. She drove to a part of the park where the Richmond skyline was in full view. We sat in the grass as a train went by slowly in front of us. It had its own build-up that never fell, only faded away like the cool nights in early April. 

She went back to her car to get her sweatshirt. I shivered. She came back and sat down, rubbing her arms. I put my arm around her.

            "Are you cold?" she asked.

            "Naw, no."

            "You're cold,” she said.

            "Ah...yeah." I debated with myself. Was I supposed to keep her warm?

            "You can't even admit when you’re cold."

            "I'm cold,” I said.

            "Do you want a jacket?" she asked.

            "No, I can take it,” I answered, referring to the cold.

            We looked inside each other, concluding we were sober.

We kissed, lips gripping each other and our tongues confessing. She pulled away, and my lack of experience revealed itself in the form of a fair amount of drool on my lips. She wiped it off, and then she wiped her own mouth.

"You're so young, aren't you?"

            Embarrassed, I nodded.

            "We should go,” she said.

            We got back in her car, and she started driving.

            "I could take you home with me,” she said too herself.

            "Okay,” I concluded after hearing her.

            "Where did you park?" she asked.

            "Grace Street, a block from the jazz bar."

            She kind of laughed. "I could take you home with me. I would corrupt you."

            "I'm already corrupted. I guess I can use a little more."

            I had vandalized churches, and I figured I could use a little bit more corruption.

            "No, we already passed my house,” she answered herself. “You're too young."

            "We should have gone to your house,” I said. Curiosity motivated my intentions to go home with her.

            "I know," she said, "but this is better."

            She turned left on Grace, and I pointed out my ride.

            "It was nice meeting you," she said as she stopped beside my car.

            "I'll see you again," I said as I got out of her car.

            "Yeah, I’ll be singing again," she said.

            "Don't hit any more curbs," I said.

            "Have a good night," she said.

She drove away, and I drove back to my parents’ house, still hearing her singing in my head.

***

I gave Boozer his nickname, because he was the first one in our trio to turn twenty-one. It was Captain’s idea to bring out the cards so we could play poker. Since none of us had enough money to gamble, Boozer let us use an ample amount of change that he collected in a wooden bowl.  He also had a fresh pot of chili cooked and ready for us.

            One spoonful of that chili, and your mouth would be left feeling like a stream of devils had flown down your throat leaving strands of hell on your tongue.  Even cold beer had no affect extinguishing the inferno in your mouth. You had to sit there, take it, and hope you weren’t making a fool of yourself.

            We were well into the game when some of Boozer’s neighbors came to his apartment. They were two young girls who knew more about drinking and poker than their ages would suggest. One was seventeen, or so she said, and she had her eye on Boozer, and he had his beer drenched eyes on her. The sixteen-year-old, who wore braces, looked like her eyes had been in the crossfire of a lipstick and eye shadow rebellion, leaving the remnants on her face as a casualty. A few times when she went to the refrigerator to get herself one of our beers, she would bend over and stretch her arm to retrieve a beer, which made her thong underwear ride higher against her back. I think Captain felt guilty for staring at a sixteen year old, but I saw it as a test of restraint or a war, so I reminded myself I was only there for the chili, the beer, and the poker, that was all. Stay legal for now, Jonah.  

            Boozer raised the volume on his Irish music as the seventeen-year-old decided to try the chili. On her venture up to the pot of chili, she bragged about her tolerance for spicy food. She swallowed an entire spoon full and quickly found herself underneath the kitchen faucet. She was hoping lukewarm tap water would be an efficient coolant for the monstrous rage burning on her tongue.

            The sixteen-year-olds’ lips immediately spoke after seeing her friend’s response. If she had tried it, her tongue would have been the color of her lips that were now acting as brake lights for the so-called adults drinking away their memory."I don't usually eat in front of people I don't know so well because of braces."

            “Call!” announced the Captain, interrupting the chili taste off.

            We dropped our cards, face up.

            “Who won?” asked Captain.

            “I didn’t,” slurred Boozer.

            “At least you can make good chili,” I said.

            “I think I won,” said Captain.

            “No, you didn’t,” I insisted, “I won. I have two two-of-a-kinds, and you only have one three-of-a-kind.”

            “That doesn’t make any sense,” protested Captain.

            “Bullshit, man. I get the pot!” I shouted, knowing that the change would never see the inside of our pockets, because it was Boozer’s.

            “I think three-of-a-kind does beat your hand,” mediated Boozer.

            “Bullshit!”

            “I win!” Captain slid Boozer’s change over in his direction.

            “We make up our own rules,” said Boozer, still eyeing the seventeen-year-old. 

            “In life and in poker,” I slurred proudly.

            “I know I win.”  Captain was still rubbing it in. “My dad taught me how to play poker.”

            “My dad taught me how to be a goalie in soccer, and you can see what good that did,” I added.

            “Soccer’s cool,” said Boozer, as he along with his Irish music.

            The seventeen-year-old finally had feeling back in her tongue and announced she and the sixteen-year eyes were leaving.  Boozer’s roommate was coming up the steps.

            “I have to go too,” said Captain, “I have to wake up at 8 am tomorrow for work.” He’d always been the responsible one. He left with the young girls.

            “Hey man, ya wanna go to a bar?” asked Boozer’s roommate, who came in from work.

            Immediately, Boozer picked up his jacket. “Yeah, let’s go. But what about this guy?  He is still underage,” he said as they all looked at me.

            “Aw shit, he can use my friend’s ID.” Boozer said as he looked me over, “You look like him.”

            He went into his room, brought back the ID, and gave it to me. His friend had a boxy forehead and a crooked nose. I hope I didn’t look that bad.

            “It’ll work, man.  Trust me.”

            Three of us left, while Boozer’s Irish music played ... “Be easy and free... when you’re drinking with me...’”

            The bar was a block away. Boozer and his roommate showed the tattooed bouncer their IDs, and they went in. I showed him mine.

            “Man, this ID expired three years ago.” The doorman smiled.

            “Three years? Wow, this is embarrassing,” I said.     I waved farewell to Boozer and his roommate, who were now inside, and I decided to wander the street searching for a shoulder to tap. The weather was colder, not fitting with the norms of October.   I watched cars with 99 cent patriotism on their antennae and bumper stickers with the word REMEMBER.  On the street around me, name brands with arms and legs passed hot air through their cell phones. 

            A man and the woman parallel parked in front of me. He got out, and I went up to him probably looking like a sketchy drifter.

            “Hey man, would you mind buying me some beer?” I asked.

            He stomped his foot, dropped his hands to his sides, and then raised them up again like a Southern Baptist preacher. “God will strike me down at this spot if I don’t buy this kid some beer!”   He generously bought me a six-pack, and I rambled back home, the taste of chili still on my tongue.

 

***

I met her in a bar, and I hadn't truly sailed over the curves of the flesh of a woman. I would rather have my hands on a woman (not necessarily this one) than a remote control, which was what most of my friends were holding onto at the time. So we began my first real affair.

              When I was around her, it always seemed to feel like a one night stand. Our similarities were there, but most of them were characteristics she wouldn't show the other party girls who were her friends. She might have seen it as another random hook-up that later turned into a summer affair. I was not used to this type of girl.

            In Richmond, dating outside the punk scene was condoned, and most people wouldn't do that, or what she called the conventional ugly. Then there were those of us who were tired of the scene, seeing it as a lot of college kids who had finally moved out of their parent’s house. Normally, she wouldn't have made eye contact with someone as "anti- social" (so her friends would say). Yet she seemed to be more comfortable around me (an unlikely boyfriend for this otherwise shallow rich girl) then the guys with the drugs, nice cars, and name brand clothes.

I recalled the day she addressed my white t-shirt. I always wore one.

            “People judge you by what you project,” she said.

            “What do you project?” I asked.

            She was wearing tight dark pants and a red tube top that barely showed her naval at the time.

            “I’m socially outgoing.  Her tone moved to sarcasm. “I project success.”

            We both came from typical suburban backgrounds, but it was apparent we had different interpretations of success and suburbia.

            “What do I project?” I asked.

            “It’s like you don’t care what people think,” she answered.

            “Good, that’s what I was going for. I’ve never been too fashionable.”

 

 

 

 

***

 

Vices

            Walking to class was beyond me. Sitting in a desk trying to focus, thinking of all the things I could be doing, meeting the eyes of a girl, and receiving the invitation of a party on Friday night transformed my facial extractions to a blank stare. It wasn’t that I thought I was better or that I thought anyone was better then me. I’d just had my fill of parties.

            I’d talked to several college dropouts, some with the cell phones attached to their belt, some wearing a polo shirt with a computer programming company name stitched to the left breast. For the life of me, I couldn't come to any conclusion about why I didn’t come out like that. Again, same or similar backgrounds, different interpretations.

With my habits, lack of motivation, and apathy, college wasn’t for me. What was? Not computers. Writing wouldn’t pay the bills, and a full-time dishwasher who wasn’t willing to be boxed in and felt the need to go probably had no chance to move up.

I had enrolled in a real university, where I kept dosing off in my classes. Some of the textbooks I had purchased lay on my bedroom floor, still sealed in Saran wrap and with the spine unbroken. During the fall, I had created my own insomnia. My first love, words, often carried my mind, body and soul into the early morning hours. I tried to modernize myself, conform to the computer. I drank tanks and tanks of coffee so my words could be filtered out through ten extensions onto a keyboard, instead of a forgiving pen.  I went on long drives, looping the city aimlessly, after growing tired of looking at my refection on the computer screen, submerged in perfectly polished words that seemed watered down and meaningless with no direction. I could ponder or fit in to the current digitalized world, but eventually the last word was written and my fingers were wondering, what the hell was that?

***

Last night, I was drinking at the bar, and for the first time in my life I was legal. The bartender gave me two double shots of Southern Comfort, and I had a couple beers. Nothing but the best and the cheapest.  Not to mention the six packs I had before I decided to take advantage of the convenience of just turning twenty-one.   Bartenders would never again be this friendly to me.   The man beside me bought me a shot of whiskey to celebrate.  School was out for the winter break. I was drinking to straight Ds and praying for a diagnosis of cancer to minimize the parental reaction. The tumor never surfaced at the bar that night.

A guy back at the bar told me after I explained that I had just turned twenty-one. "It’s all downhill from here, man.”

            Downhill? I don’t remember ever rising to the peak.  However, my luck fell like the Confederacy, even before the legalization of my alcohol consumption and the below-average college ratings.

            I suddenly realized that I had lost the “antique.”   The antique, my prized beanie, very sentimental in value, and worn by me everywhere, especially when I was writing.   It held my thoughts inside until I could write them down.  It was navy blue surrounded by a red stripe, and I had it since the second grade. It was part of me, my autobiography, and now it was gone. My good luck charm with the holes that added character.

While sitting at the bar, I thought of all the stories that my lost hat could tell. One was back in fifth grade when, after taking the insults from a kid about of all the things, my speech impediment.

            I was wearing the hat the day I took his bike, held it like a dad teaching his son how to ride without training wheels. Only difference, there was no son of mine on that bike. I pushed it down the hill. I couldn't believe that personless bike rode itself down the hill for so long before crashing at the bottom. An outsider might conclude the bike wanted to escape from the spoiled trash kid who made fun of me. I did it a favor.

            Now, hatless and drunk, I began to think….Things will go your way with a new hat. Now you’re jobless, dateless, a potential bastard because of the grades, and you have limited amount of birthday cash left. A new hat equals a new life, and that is what you need--a new hat, I thought to myself.  I needed a new hat. I had to find a hat.

            That’s when I saw him--the miracle maker. Even the track lighting on top of the bar added grace to his life--changing my attitude as if this guy was an angel from heaven. He came off the streets with a bag full of what I needed, with all the colors you could find in a preschool crayon box. A new life, right there in his bag.  I waved the man over and picked out the best-looking, brand new, hand-woven beanie in the whole bag, paid the man who told me he was always there on Wednesdays, and eventually I walked home after another free shot of Southern Comfort.

             The cracks on the sidewalk were untouched, as I walked along, and my way was clear as I crossed the street, one way shining red, the other green. This could be an individual enlightenment, a new beginning. The new beanie held in my body heat, blocked from the cold, the source of my thinking comfortably concealed by a new awakening. Nothing could knock me down that night. I wasn't cold.

            The next morning, I woke up with the shining sun, which was disguised by frost sprinkled on the asphalt and lawns. It was like I woke up beside a goddess empathetic towards my imperfections, and she decided to stay. Despite the hangover from the night before, I was still ecstatic about my purchase.  I ventured into the front room of my apartment to break the monotony.

            “My, God!” I said as I looked at my purchase from the night before.  The miracle maker said it was camouflage, but now, it looked like a hand-woven mass of vomit. This could sum up my high school years. I wore it that day anyway, stepping on the cracks of the sidewalk, and waiting for my turn to cross the street. My luck was beginning to run out, but my fall had actually begun earlier in the semester. 

***

A couple of months ago, Gloria, had come into town.  It had been a while, but the awkwardness was at a minimum. She told the others that she’d sprained her neck in a car accident, so she decided to come back from her dream of stardom, decorated by the lights of Hollywood.

            Now hating the industry, she came back from her inspired hopes of being an actress on a Greyhound bus.   Unlike most of them, she could really act. She was born to be on stage, beneath the spotlight, with a curtain call and applause at the end. However, her experience was mostly waiting in lines and no “call backs.”

            She had known about the connections, the agents, and what not. But to really get the ball rolling in Hollywood, an actor or actress needs a certain amount of hours until they make it to the actor's guild. She had a few hours left before she made it to momentous status for an actress with a speaking role; instead, she came home. Gloria came home discouraged by the industry and fed up with her loser ex-boyfriend who couldn't pay his share of the rent.

                        Saturday night began to hang around, and I had my usual eight beers at the jazz bar with an old friend of mine. Afterwards, I went to a party and shared a bottle of whiskey with a stranger who’d just moved to the present-day Confederacy, Richmond, Virginia. It must have been the whiskey that made me think about days gone by. Ironically, who was there to catch me, but my ex-girlfriend, Gloria.

            Gloria went home with me that night because she said she didn't have another place to stay.  With the friends she was visiting, she would have experienced the same type of chills from lack of heat in the dead of winter, but I, at least, had an electric blanket. We walked together, and she hadn't had as much to drink as yours truly. It was Gloria though, and her closest of friends had no idea what to make of what she had experienced. Hollywood was a dream, and acting was her love. No man in his right mind could compete with that. This was rejection, and she was the first friend of mine to suffer such a derailment.

            I remember seeing her on stage in high school, as well as in my dreams, winning an Oscar. How could she not make it? She seemed to have a plan, but the ones who knew about her dreams were totally clueless. What the hell was Gloria going to do without acting? Now, I was just a friend, wondering if anything was going to become of this struggling, undefined, young woman.

            Gloria was still smiling in her defeat. I could relate to her rejection. I was the drunk, also known as the writer (self-proclaimed).  Always rejected, and depending on how much I put into a piece of work, depending on the mood and the lack of will, I always went back to the ink stretched against the lines of the page. This wasn't acting, it was more confining. And considering it took up most of my time, with little results, I continued to butcher words--the language. And so what was left could be seen as broken stained glass reflected down a dark uninviting alley.

            She had driven cross-country to California, to obsessively pursue something she loved. Leaving it all behind, this seemed to be the perfect release for Gloria; she knew she was good at it, even gifted.  I, at the time, was socially untamed and, for the most part, chose not to shave. I wasn't good in school and wondered why she was with me. She was just a friend.   I constantly reminded myself of that: Gloria was just a friend.

            We were freezing when we entered my apartment. It was a typical day:  a sink full of dishes; ash-ridden floor; stained aroma with a smoke screen; monitor with a beer-dried stench on the keyboard; emerald green ashtray filled to the brim in ashes and cigarette butts, and  my clothes were on the floor. 

            "Leave your coat on," I told her.

            "I heard Captain has rats in the walls." Gloria said.

            "Yeah, they wake him up at night,” I said.

            "What's California like this time of year?" I asked, trying to make a joke.

            "Oh, I’m not cold." She shivered, distracted by the cold. She was trying to be polite.

            "I'm sorry that the heat doesn't work. I'll call the guy again tomorrow."

            We hadn't hugged in about a year or so. I put my arm around her and drew her closer. She didn't mind, I guess she was quite cold. I apologized again about the cold inside. Some nights it was colder inside then it was outside, but it was better than Captain's rats.

            This was the winter when it didn't matter how much you drank, the walk back or the couple of paces to a doorstep would sober you up.

I shoved some of my rejection notices onto the floor so that she could sit.

            "I get rejected too,” I said, trying to be sympathetic with her situation.

            Despite the cold and her venture back from a dream, her spirits were up. And maybe that’s what helped her out more then anything when we were at the party. She was surrounded by college students, but also the drop-outs or others who could be summed up by yours truly. She was glad to be away from her mom, who wasn’t fond of the idea of Gloria being an actress in the first place. The boyfriend that she found in Hollywood didn't help much, especially after he wrecked her car. He was probably the last part of Hollywood she wanted to see again.  Gloria’s new plan was to go back to school.

            "Do you want a cup of coffee?" I asked, trying to think of things to keep her warm.

            She shook her head.

            I wanted to hear more about her experience in LA. She told me she’d lived in the Hispanic ghetto, and she talked about the TV shows where she had a small part. What made her madder then anything else was the fact that her clingy boyfriend was the better prospect at landing a major movie or TV role, but he often depended on her for the rent. Her boyfriend broke up with her when they got back to their new apartment. He was the same boyfriend she lost her virginity to, and this was the same girl who could handle most things, as if it was a simple stroll in a park to her next class. She was an outstanding student before her left, so she figured the transition back wouldn't be too difficult.  The fact that she already had a plan and she had come to the realization on her own that she had to put her acting on hold for the time being, was another inspiration.

            "So, what do you want to do?" I asked.

            "Sleep,” she answered.

            She followed me to my bedroom, where my flannel sheets were unmade but ready to be filled by a cold body, which happened to be hers. I saw her as a friend. I couldn't think of the right words to describe Gloria. I’d shared an impressionable time with her as an 18 year old, clueless youth.  Being a gentleman, at least sometimes, I picked the chair with the footrest in the front room, and gave Gloria the small twin bed where I usually slept.

            She had my pillow, and I had my blanket. My breath transformed into a fog as I exhaled. I couldn't sleep, though. Instead, I smoked and wrote in my journal. I wished I had more beer.

            "I'm cold," Gloria said quietly.  "Jonah, come sleep with me."

            My eyebrows lifted as my eyes lit up. That was the last thing I’d expected. I was already planning to drive her someplace for breakfast and possibly even pay the check. I turned off my computer and grabbed my blanket. I slid in sock feet to my single-sized bed, filled with her.

            "I am so cold!" she announced.

            "Here's another blanket, and I'll try to warm you up."

            I lay down with the extra blanket covering us both. Then I put my arms around her. We were both in our clothes. I had even had my beanie on.

            "It’s colder in the front room,” I told her.

            "Why would you sleep in there in the first place?" she asked.

            I didn't have an answer. A girl was in my bed, and I was sleeping some place else?

            "I guess I was being polite,” I answered. "I am sorry about that happened to you. I know what it feels like to be rejected. I've been concentrating on my writing more. I was published once back when I lived with my parents, but nothing has happened since.  I still keep trying.”

            My main mission that night was to make sure she wasn't cold. In return, I was just as warm. As we lay on our sides, I rubbed around her stomach. My cheek touched hers. I kissed it as she rolled over.

            The sun hadn't come up yet, but the neon tranquility of the city reflected in her emerald green eyes, the same shade as the ashtray in the front room. She was all eyes. My hands broke apart as she looked at me in the face, and then my eyes were closed as I thought about all she had been through.

            "Jonah, I think of us as just friends."

            I massaged my temples, slightly embarrassed, and looked back at her.

            "Sorry.  So, can you tell me where I can touch you?" I asked.

            I put my fingers around her sides, tickling her so she would thrust around, and then suddenly I stopped.

            "Were you sleeping before I showed up?" I asked.

            "A little," she answered.

            "Are you still cold?" I asked.

            She nodded. I put my arms back around her, and as she turned over, so did I. She closed her sleepy eyes, but mine were still open for the rest of our time together.

***

Gusto’s

            Without a job, now I felt like a cliché, a worthless lost cause without a paycheck. My work ethic had matured since my days of dropping jobs like beats from a white trash, bassy, car stereo coming from a wreck on four wheels. Without a job, I sold some of my CDs to a music store on Cary Street. I usually had the shakes when I walked in, because I hadn’t taken the first drag off a cigarette. My eyes would be hanging low from the lack of sleep the night before, thinking about what I didn’t have and what I might never be.

            The stares from the cashier would say it all. “He must be a junkie. Oh my God, he’s shaking.” All this for a pack of the cheapest cigarettes on the market and a forty of the cheapest malt liquor. The real kick to the groin happened when I sold my Dexter Gordon Live at Carnegie Hall. That’s when I figured I had to get a job, and after about eight or ten “we-will-call-you and we-will-see-what- we-can-dos;” it happened at Gusto’s Squid.

            It was a new restaurant in the Fan district of Richmond, a sister restaurant to a very popular one in Carytown known for fine Italian dining in a very compact space. The customers were treated like cattle at feeding time, and then pushed out of the restaurant so another confined table could be filled again. Yet people in town raved about the food served there, and the poor treatment was considered part of the ambience.  The wine was poured in little juice glasses (customary in Italy), the customer was always wrong in the cook’s eyes, and people knew about it from word of mouth, not from corny ads in the local paper or the TV.

            The new restaurant had the same compacted eating area, which was above a sub shop. The tables were covered with sky blue tablecloths, tiny candles that had been used for last year’s Passover, and different shades of oils used to add more flavor to the appetizer bread.  The tables were small, with chairs forcing themselves into the confined space. There was a jukebox that played compact discs in a corner beside the coat rack. The bar served three kinds of beer and wines that I had never heard of. That sort of knowledge never presented itself at my old jobs.  All of this was controlled by the bartender, Dr. Bob. He wasn’t a real doctor, but he did wear a lab coat, and he made the perfect Manhattan.

            The interview was a simple question: “Do you want to wash dishes?”

            This was asked by my future boss. He had a long red beard and flannel shirt, making him look like a lumberjack glazed over by scotch--or tired from the job.  I’m not sure which.

            I had been avoiding restaurant jobs, but I was so desperate for a job, I regrettably accepted. I filled out my information on a piece of paper from a legal pad; it wasn’t even a real application.

            “Come in on Saturday at 10 am or around 10:30,” the boss ordered

            I showed up Saturday at ten. My boss was late, and I had smoked my second cigarette before he got there. He eventually showed up in a red pick-up truck. His eyes were tired, and his hair was covered in a blue bandana.

            “Have you been waiting long?” he asked, showing signs that he didn’t actually care if I had been waiting all night; he had a job to do regardless.

            “Nah.” I said, not wanting to appear too anxious.

            He unlocked the front door, and we climbed the stairs to Gusto’s, passing old black-and-white photographs of a man and woman smiling during a day at the beach. There were others of the same man smoking a cigarette with an apron on while making pasta in the kitchen.

            “Who’s that?” I asked.

            “That’s the owner’s parents. He owns one half, I own the other half of this place.”

            “Wow.” I couldn’t see myself owning anything that could make a profit.

            “Saturdays are a leisurely day of prepping for tonight. When you first show up, you have to empty the trash from the night before. I’ll help you out today, but not always.”

            I nodded.

            We gathered the trash at the bar, the wait station, the dish pit, the salad station, and the cook’s trash. They were all filled to the brim, reeking of tomato sauce, stale wine, and bits of uneaten seafood.

            “How’s business?” I asked.

            He nodded slightly and strummed his beard. “Business is good. This is my baby. I care a lot about what goes out of this kitchen.”

            We slid the overflowing trash cans to the back stairway. He had no problem sliding them individually down the stairs, using only one hand as a guide so the trash wouldn’t fall out. I, on the other hand, had to use my whole body to, not only make sure the trash cans would not tip over, but also make sure that my feet were still on the floor.

            The boss shook his head. “Women,” he said under his breath.

            One by one, we pulled the trash cans to the dumpsters. He had no trouble lifting his to dump the trash out, but he had to help me with mine. He shook his head again and we went back inside.

            He led me into the kitchen. “All right. I want you to sweep and swab the deck from last night. I want you to give it a woman’s touch.”

            He went to the bar to thumb through the receipts from last night. I located the broom and dustpan and decided it was a waste to empty the dirty mop water that reeked of whatever. I picked up the mats on the floor and threw them on one side of the kitchen.

            I started sweeping near the stove around his cooking area, underneath the cutting board where the muscles, clams, and squid were located. I swept under the table where the pasta was kept. Moving on, I covered the area near the deep fryer where squid was transformed to calamari, which was across from the salad and bean station. The customary kitchen linoleum was caked in flour, pressed to the floor with someone’s stressed-out Nike soles. I had to use the broom handle to scrape it up so it could be swept away into the dustpan. I did this for a while, and then grabbed the mop, which was drowning in a bucket of blackened gray stench. I found bleach and poured some into the bucket to cover up the wretched smell.

I started at the cooking station and moved closer to the dish pit, adding more weight to shoe marks, tomato stains, and the permanent flour on the floor. I took a piece of cardboard and placed it on the floor of the cooking station and the salad station, and covered them with the mat that was there before.

            I picked up the mat and shook it wildly. Water and particles of saturated food flung themselves all over my white t-shirt and arms. Next, I swept up small puddles of water and food, and put it all in the trash can, inside a new trash bag.  Then I mopped, placed a piece of cardboard down, and the mat. The mat was the savior for dishwashers from their slippery soles.

            The boss came back to the kitchen and looked around. “Did you clean?”

            “Yes,” I answered.

            “What are you talking about? You didn’t give it a woman’s touch.”

            I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. At the time, it seemed like a day’s work. I thought, “This kitchen is a dive.  It would never be clean.”

            “I cleaned it,” I insisted.

            “You’re gonna learn how to work here.”

            Work?  I thought…All I wanted was a paycheck.

            “Do you know anything about mussels?” he said as he brought a plastic burlap bag from the freezer near the sinks.

            “No.”

            “How about clams?” he asked.

            “No.”

            “How about squid?” he asked.

            “No.”

            He sighed. “Have you ever worked the line?”

            “No.”

            He shook his head as if I was wasting his time.

            “These are mussels,” he said in a kindergarten teacher’s tone of voice. He cut the bag of mussels open. Next, he turned the bag upside down so the mussels could spill in the sink. Then he turned on the faucet. He picked one up.

            “You have to rip out the beards,” he explained

            The beard of a mussel looks similar to dark navy blue bristles on an overly used toothbrush.

            The boss had his own long orange beard that he stroked in disbelief as I fumbled around with the mussels. I saw him shake his head again, and I could imagine what he was saying to himself.

            He went back to the freezer and brought out a bag that looked similar to the last one, but this one was filled with clams. He placed the bag in a sink beside the one with the mussels. He walked over to a shelf, picked up a plastic bucket, and brought it over to where I was standing.

            “You want to soak them first. Then you scrub them.”

            He opened the bag with the same knife, emptied the bag of clams in the bucket, swung the faucet over to it, and filled it. When the water reached the top, it flowed over the side. He stirred the clams with his hand.

            “These are my friends. Be gentle. If you’re not gentle, they’ll get pissed off, and they’ll die!”

            I nodded once and said, “Okay.”

            He stopped stirring the clams, and looked at me as I ripped the beards from the mussels.

            “Get your hands moving, you’re going too slow.” 

            He walked to the stove.

            “Lucky for you, you’re starting today. Saturdays are usually a leisurely day of prepping.”

            This was a bad idea, I thought to myself.

            He lit the stove and yelled, “I need pots of water on the back burners!”

            I left the mussels and went to the stack of pots on the grill beside the stove. I grabbed three and went back to the sink to fill them. He unwrapped all the inserts for the pasta station, as I struggled, filling the first pot. Finally, I held one in both hands and took it over to him.  The boss shook his head.

            After the last pot, I went back to the sink and slowly but surely finished the mussels. I stirred the clams in the plastic bucket ever so gently, and then began wondering what I should do next. I walked up to the boss, still apprehensive about my first day.

            “What should I do now?”

            He looked at me as if I had asked him where the kitchen was.

            “Why don’t you scrub the clams?”

            “What do you mean?”

            He shook his head and walked over where the clams were soaking. I followed.

            “Get another big container,” he demanded.

            “Uh what?”

            He pointed to the shelf where he got the last bucket for the clams.

            “Oh, you mean a plastic bucket.”

            He shook his head. I brought one over.

            “Okay. You take the scrubby and a clam, and you scrub the top, the bottom, and the sides. Make sure you scrub hard. They’re gritty.”

            He went back to the other side, and I started scrubbing.

            “Be gentle with my friends!” he yelled at me.

            I scrubbed hard, thinking about the depressing life of a clam. They stay in, they only leave when they need to get food, and they depend on a hard shell for survival. The life of a clam is something I could relate to. 

            “Are you done?” he asked.

            “Not yet!” I yelled back.

            “Get your hands movin’!”

            I scrubbed the clams as quickly as I could.

            “Coming over!” I heard my new boss yell.

            “What?” I yelled back, ignorant of his ways in the kitchen.

            He came over with a big pot of boiling water containing pasta, and then stared at me for a while as I stood there confused.  Was I supposed to read his mind?

            “Get the strainer.”

            The strainer was over my left shoulder, hanging on a hook. I got it down and held it by the handles on the sides while the boss drained the contents of the pot. The boiling water went through the holes of the strainer.

            “Now, rinse it cold,” my boss demanded.

            “I’m not sure…” I hesitated.

            He turned on the faucet, dosing the burning pasta with cold water.

            “If you don’t rinse it cold, the pasta will overcook,” he muttered disgusted with his new hire.

            I turned off the faucet, redirected the water through the hose connected to the sink, and continued rinsing the pasta cold.

            “When you’re done with that, put the pasta in a container, and bring it back over to me. Then put water up on the stove.”

            He started walking back to his station. “Hurry up with the clams!”

            I brought over the pasta and started refilling the pot of water. First, I burned my hands on the metallic handle, forgetting that it had just come off the stove. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around the handle so it wouldn’t burn my hands. I carried that over to the stove with both hands, struggling. My boss looked at me and once again shook his head.

            “Hold it with one hand, like a man!”

            I shrugged my shoulders and went back to the clams. The boss eventually came back to the sinks. He stood beside me, staring at my scrubbing skills. Then he picked up another scrubby and started helping me with the clams.  Maybe he was showing me how to do it.

            “You’re taking to long.” the boss said.

            “Well, you know it’s my first day,” I replied with a little more courage.

            He looked at me and shook his head, no doubt wondering what the hell was he thinking when he hired me.

            “After this, you have the squid to do.”

            “I’ll go ahead and ask you,” I said cautiously, “How do I do that?”

            To my amazement, this time he grinned. “It’s easy.” He took a big bag out of the freezer and placed it on a dish rack beside me. “First you need a knife and a cutting board.”

            He found the knife hanging on the side and picked up a cutting board from the floor underneath the slicer beside the white room or the freezer. He put the cutting board on the trash can and went out the swinging doors. Later he came back with a bucket of ice from the bar.  

            “You have to keep the squid iced so it will stay fresh.”

            He placed the bucket of ice beside him near the cutting board and picked up a squid.

            “First, you rip it out of the capsule. Take the capsule in your hand and, with two fingers, scoop the scum and shit out of it.”

            “It looks like snot,” I concluded.

            “Whatever.   Get the snot out of it.”

            “Next, take the knife and cut above the eyeball, then rip the two tentacles off the body. They’re the longest legs. You throw away what you cut off and the two tentacles. It’s easy. Now, you do one.”

            I picked up one squid, sizing it up first from the capsule to the longest, smoothest, slippery legs. I ripped the body out of the capsule. My fingers went deeper through the scum, making a squish squash sound as the load inside slowly came out. My fingers slightly stuck together with sea life residue, and I felt a slight tug on my gag reflex. I cut above the eye, ripped off the tentacles, and threw both body parts away.

            My boss brought over a container and put some ice in it.

            “Make sure you keep it fresh.”

            I put the capsule and what was left of the legs in the bucket.

            “Slice the capsule up.”

            The boss took the capsule out of the bucket with its bottom half full of ice, and sliced the capsule in rectangles.

            “You got it?” the boss asked.

            “Yup.”

            I scrubbed the remaining clams again.

            “After the clams, can I get a cigarette?” I asked.

            The boss shook his head. “Yeah, sure.”

            He went back to the stove, and I picked up the last clam, realizing I still had squid to do. I scrubbed it well, and then put it in the bucket of clams that I already scrubbed. I wiped off my hands with my apron and then turned to my boss.

            “Where should I smoke?”

            “Do you remember the door we took out the trash? The stairwell?”

            I nodded, went out the swinging doors, and forcefully pushed opened the door to the stair well. I sat on the steps, relieved that I could finally sit down.

            My first day could be summed up in my boss’s words (said to the only waitress on duty), as I was walking back into the kitchen.

            “Yo, boy, punk kids don’t know how to do shit!”

 

***

The rain was falling during a day that should have the potential for being beautiful. I’ve always been able to relate to rain, the ugly, the worst, no cash, no exit, and no place to go.

            A hard face begins to chip like crystal as the rain comes down in individual, long high pitched screams. In front of my apartment, puddles overflow in the street. Some of the ugliness is washed away, leaving some scum on the curb. The leftovers will all be here tomorrow to collect more debris ignored by passersby. One storm cannot wash away all the debris.

            I started that Saturday with my usual routine, drinking coffee, and smoking a cigarette as slowly as I could before heading for my shift at Gusto’s.

            As I arrived, my boss snickered, seeing my face coming through the door. He had recently hired another dishwasher, thinking I might quit at anytime. I didn’t mind so much, it was less work for me with the same paycheck. The dishwasher was already sweeping up from last night in the kitchen as I slowly finished my coffee and cigarette and eventually joined him. The new dishwasher’s name was Blink.

            “Do you go to school?” I asked when we had a chance to talk.

            “Yeah man, I’m about to graduate.”

            “What are you doing?” I asked.

            “Political science, but after I graduate I’m going into carpentry. I enjoy working with my hands.”

            “Why political science?”

            “I just thought it was interesting. I can’t work for the government though,” he said shaking his head.

            We quickly became friends and partners in crime as far as cleaning and gutting squid.

            I meet people all the time who are similar to Blink, about to graduate with a major, but ending up doing something else, something better, or they can‘t find a job in their field of study. They spend those four or five years in college, studying hard, and turning in assignments on time. These people amaze me. They can shovel the shit on the collegiate level obviously better then I ever could. Jobs aren’t a guarantee for anyone any more, not jobs that could leave you satisfied. Bills have to be paid, and someone has to dig the ditches, teach the future, and serve the public. I respected Blink for following his passion into carpentry.

            He was still sweeping while I was cleaning the scum off the pipes underneath the sinks. I used a bucket, part water, part bleach, and a rag. The small cuts on my hands felt submerged in bleach, even after I took my hand out of the bucket. The saturated rag was the main host of pain. I eventually forgot about the pain, realizing it would be there regardless. This was a task I didn’t have to do, but I had experienced so much with these pipes—clogging and unclogging, that I had a love/hate relationship with them. They were mine.

We finished mopping and made a trash run. I had worked there long enough now to think the trash cans were getting lighter. The new guy had some trouble lifting them. I smiled as I watched him struggle—been there!

            We lit up our cigarettes and had a smoke by the dumpsters.

            “So, where did you used to work?” I asked.

            “A cafe on Strawberry Street,” he answered.

            “What happened? Did you get tired of it or something?”

            “That, and I were told to never come back,” he said.

            “Why?” I asked

            “…or they would call the cops,” Blink continued snickering.

            “I figured that much, but why did they ask you never to come back?”

             “My bosses thought I was stealing, and I confessed. I didn’t do it, though.”

            “Bullshit.” I didn’t believe him.  I’d heard that line too many times before.

            “I was taking the heat for a boy of mine.”

            “That’s cool, so you didn’t steal anything.”

            “Some steaks and cigarettes,” Blink added with a grin.

            We both laughed.

            “I was tired of working there, so I told them I did it.”

            Feeling his pain, I continued, “Before I got this job, I had walked out of another job with a peach pie, salsa, several bottles of iced tea, trash bags, and some root beer.  That was all from an ice cream shop.  Once I worked at a movie theater; the last day there I didn’t take anything but the things I needed for my apartment like trash bags and a cookie sheet that could fit in my oven because the one I had didn’t fit.”

            “Why did you quit the ice cream job? That seems like an easy job for the summer.

            “I made out with the assistant manager, and things got weird after that. She quit, and then I left.”

            “You made out with a manager?” he asked.

            “She was nice, but I think it was a rebound for the both of us.”

            We went back inside to start the prep work for the day. It was my job to train Blink. I showed him how to clean and gut the squid, showed him how to scrub a clam, and where to cut an unshelled shrimp so you could rip the vein out. Suddenly the boss called me over to the stove.

            “How’s he doing?” the boss asked.

            “Good,” I said.

            He nodded his head, scratched his beard.

            “I got a job for you.”

            Uh, oh, I thought. Was I moving up or about to do a tedious job that he didn’t feel like doing? He had the option now, and he was the boss.

            “You are going to make the polenta.”

            Polenta is also known as forty minutes of hell. The instructions were simple: Put a pot of water on the stove and wait until it starts to simmer. Then stir in cups of corn meal.

            Although considered to be one of the easiest things to make in an Italian kitchen, a cook has to have the right eye. When it was done, good polenta was usually sliced like a loaf of bread. If too much corn meal was added, then the mass in the pot would look like southern grits.  After adding enough corn meal, the cook would then have to stir the corn meal in the same direction for forty minutes while standing in front of a hot stove that felt like an August afternoon when the sun above you seems to be following you, reducing the distance between you. 

            After the forty minutes is up, the cook pours the steaming polenta into a moistened metal bowl, places it someplace out of the way, and waits for it to thicken to a Jell-O-like mass that can stand on its own.

            I filled a pot with water to start the simmering.

            “Put on some music,” I requested with my game face on.

            The boss put Guns and Roses in the CD player that he brought from home for these leisurely Saturdays of prepping when we didn’t have many customers.

            I grabbed the bucket of cornmeal, the metal spiral whip, and a wooden spoon, which was used to stir the polenta after the corn meal’s chunks were whipped out.

            During one of Slash’s guitar solos, as the sweat poured down my face in waves,

I stirred the corn meal in slowly.       

Gusto, the boss of the boss, entered the kitchen. When I first started working there, I was told when he came into the restaurant to stay out of his way, so I never introduced myself.  I had no problem showing up to work and receiving a paycheck from the man I didn’t know.

            “You’re stirring it in the wrong direction,” he said.

            “Oh?” I said as I began stirring to the right.

            “It really doesn’t matter.,” he added.  “It’s an age-old tradition involving an Old Italian woman always stirring to the right. They were superstitious back then. They would think you were sinister for stirring to the left.”

            “Are you serious?” I wondered if he thought I was sinister.

            “Yeah. They didn’t care too much for the right brained.”

            “Wow, that’s cool.” With my experience, not that many people concerned themselves with the right brain (or the left, for that matter).

            “How long do you have left?” he asked.

            I switched to the wooden spoon. “About twenty minutes.”

            He nodded his head, then left me alone to continue my work.

            The sweat was still pouring down my face during one of Axle's squeals. Blisters were forming on my hands with the help from the wooden spoon. I switched stirring hands to insure that one arm wouldn’t be more muscular than the other.

            The boss came back over and muttered, “Woman.” This wasn’t the first time he referred to me as a woman.

            Yellowish brown moisture was forming underneath my arms. My arms were sweating, my balls were sweating, and I still had about ten minutes left.

            The polenta had no corn meal chunks. It was smooth and destined for the gods. It was satisfying, so the sweat and blisters weren’t for nothing. I was positive I was making the finest polenta the world had ever known. I felt Zeus himself salivating over my shoulder at the perfection I had created. It was beautiful. I kept stirring in the same direction, as the countdown for the birth of this magnificent masterpiece began. 

            My God, I thought to myself, I was actually good at this.

            Time! I pulled the pot of polenta off the stove and gently poured it into the prepared metal bowl. The steam danced off the perfect yellow mass made for the gods like a stripper doing a private show. I used the wooden spoon to get the last drop of polenta into the metal bowl. Then I smoothed out the top. I gently placed the polenta on the cooler by the window so the cooling process could begin.

            Feeling like an accredited employee for surviving the forty minutes of hell, I began helping Blink out with the dishes. When we finished, it was time for our free meal.

            I sat beside Blink.

            “So, how’s your first day going?” I asked.

            “Good. This place is pretty cool.”

            “Yep.”

            “I saw you making the polenta. That was intense. You looked hardcore.”

            “Yep. I’ve never stood that close to perfection before in my life.” I was proud.

            He looked at me like I was the bum in the alleys cursing at some imaginary figure, but it was his first day so obviously the kid didn’t understand the force of polenta, nor did he understand the forty minutes of hell that came with the process of making the polenta.  

            After our pasta with meat sauce, we went back to the kitchen.

            “J, get me a case of veal and an Italian sausage from the cooler,” demanded the boss.

            I carefully moved the polenta to the window sill, so I could get to the cooler.  

Suddenly I heard the horn from the delivery truck underneath the window. Another part of the routine on these leisurely Saturdays consisted of a fresh delivery of produce. I ran out the back door to accept the delivery. The rain had stopped, and the Puerto Rican delivery driver was staring up at the window. His eyes were glazed over, and his arms were slightly out like he had just seen the Virgin Mary or he just had an outer body experience. Then he noticed me and wiped the sweat off his brow. I looked past him, and there was the god-sent polenta splattered in the alley close to the restaurant. I would like to think that maybe the miracle wasn’t meant for mortal tongues, but then I remembered the slight slant of the window sill above. As much as I wanted to plea insanity to my boss, I knew it was just old-fashioned stupidity.

            I went on with the usual routine, loading my arms up with crates of Brussels sprouts, boxes of red peppers, eggs. The boss would find out about it sooner or later. I would have to tell the boss; but, then again, mutiny was always an option. I’d done it before, I could do it again. I entered the kitchen and put the boxes on the floor.

            “Hey, boss,” I said, slightly timid.

            “Yeah.”

            For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what my failed creation was called.

            “The corn meal thing... the bowl with corn meal? The corn meal went out the window.”

            “You threw the corn meal out the window at the delivery guy,” laughed the boss.

            “The bowl of... fell.  I’m going to bring up the rest of the stuff.” 

            I went back outside, and picked up the evidence that would have shown that human hands had the potential for perfection. The metal bowl was severely dented from the fall out the window. A little polenta was left inside, but not enough to serve. I thought for an instant I could stash the bowl, maybe in the bushes or in the dumpster, but this particular bowl was specifically for polenta. The boss was on a tight budget for cooking supplies, he had even said so when I broke the lid on the food processor. Maybe the bowl was salvageable.

            I placed the dented bowl on top of a box of garlic and slowly walked back to the kitchen. Blink saw the dilapidated bowl and quickly decided to go outside to smoke a cigarette. I placed the box of garlic on the floor and picked the metal bowl back up.

            “Hey boss!” I yelled from the kitchen.

             “Yeah?” and as he walked into the kitchen, he noticed the bowl.  He walked towards me sizing up the dent, while my backbone was going through a liquidation process of some kind.

            “Go bring in the rest of the stuff.” He said in his usual tone, but in his eyes, I saw that he was holding back a swift kick to the groin. 

            I went back downstairs accepting my fate and whatever was to come.

            Blink, who had shown that he was a master escape artist, was still smoking his cigarette and snickering. “What the hell happened, man?”

            I put a finger to my lips and stared up at the window. “Shhh…  The polenta fell out the window,” I said.

            The delivery guy, who had now recovered from the aerial attack, started laughing. I gave him a “fuck you” grin as I picked up the remaining boxes from his truck.  Sympathetic Blink gave me a drag off his cigarette. This was going to be bad.

            Before I entered the stairwell leading back to the kitchen, I looked back at Blink, remembering I was still technically training him. “Do you see what I just did? Don’t do that.”

            I went back up the stairs, the delivery guy following at a distance behind.   Somehow, in my efforts to avoid attention, I somehow managed to nudge one of the glass racks beside the bar. It came crashing down. Thankfully, the only thing that broke was a coffee cup, however, for a single, minuscule coffee cup; it sure made a lot of noise. I put down the boxes and repaired the damage, putting the glass rack back in its original spot.

            When I entered the kitchen, Boss just stared at me, his head rocking back and forth. I was counting the seconds before he exploded.

                        “Jonah!” yelled the boss. He only used my full name when he was upset. “Don’t touch anything! You would probably end up breaking something! Go to the bar and peel garlic!” a punishment worse than going cold turkey.

            Garlic stings your fingers.  As you peel it with a knife, you can’t help slicing and cutting the top layers of skin. The juices seep through the surface. I had to feel the pain for about two hours before my boss came back around and told me to make another batch of polenta.  I found the dented polenta bowl and started stirring…to the right…to the right…right.

***

Walkout

            It was a little over a month into the semester when I realized I didn’t know any of my professors’ names. I was on the threshold of the college dropout plunge. Spring break was over, and although I didn’t remember what I did, I knew I had a long-running tab of screw-ups. I thought leaving school might be a temporary solution. Or maybe not.  What the hell, I didn’t know what to do.

            I had one of the slowest nights ever in the dish pit.  I was drowning in remembrances and the puddles of water I was standing in. I couldn’t forget the ruptured pipes, the exposed pipes in my apartment, student loans, the infestation of tiny legs crawling on my bare toes, the convicting eyes pushing me farther inside, disappointed parents, the words that couldn’t flow, and the questions that seemed to fall into routine.

            The boss was in an unusually good mood that night. He sang what was probably the last song he heard on the classic rock radio station before he came back to work. “All we are is dust in the wind. . .”

            Another cook interrupted. “All we are is squid in the fryer.”

            I wouldn’t call it a nervous breakdown or a panic attack. It was a temporary disturbance of thinking or rationalization.  

 “Buy a one-way bus ticket to California, and even though you won’t have any money or food, it would at least be better than being in this dish pit.  Hell, sell your body on the street.  Someone will buy it for at least a buck or two.”  These were my thoughts that night.

            “If we weren’t squid in the fryer, then we’d be the scum on the ruptured pipes, and that is the best it will ever get for yours truly,” I muttered.  I was down, worse than I’d ever been.

            Revolutions happen in short doses, similar to happiness.

            I made sure the cooks had plenty of pots and pans, the wait staff had silverware, and the bartender had pint glasses. I slipped out the back door with my jacket in my hand, hoping that I would never see that place again.

            The walk home was liberating. I felt a temporary sense of freedom. No more blistering burns on my arms, no more dirty dishes, and no more clogged sinks. This liberation only lasted a few minutes. When I entered my apartment, I reached for the six-pack that was already in my fridge. It was a rare moment; the drinking didn’t help push me out the door. I began to come out of my down state of mind and actually thought rationally. I’d need a new job, and I hated looking for jobs, but I felt worthless without a paycheck.

The job at Gusto’s wasn’t my first choice for an ideal job. My life was cramped in that confined space, but it was honest work. I paid for most of my college through student loans, so I   wasn’t a total failure. It was hard to regret my decision to walk out of Gusto’s.  One thing was clear: yours truly wouldn’t be driving a sports car any time soon.

            I was looking at the rejection letter I had just received for a freelancer’s position for the weekly magazine, when my boss began calling. I didn’t answer; I let the machine get it. His voice sounded distressed. I had left early, it wasn’t a busy night, all the other employees had everything they needed to have, and there weren’t any customers.

            One of the messages said, “J.? What’s up? Call me back, and tell me everything is okay. It’s the boss.”

            The second message said, “Hey J. It’s the boss again. The girls are worried about you. Where’d you go? Talk to me. I’ll be here until 12:30. You don’t show up, then I’m gonna call the jails and the hospitals tomorrow, and that takes time. Talk to me, man. Take care.” 

            What was I going to say to him? I couldn’t even explain what I was feeling to myself.

            “Time to grow up kid,” I muttered to myself. “Save your hopes and dreams for the times you actually can get some sleep.  Sleeping is like a paycheck.”

            Dreaming, it gives sleep a slight decadence. It’s an unspoken fantasy or paradise that never goes away, and no one can take it from you. It’s free. I think it is the only thing I’m good at.

            I went for a drive to collect my thoughts.  I made a decision.  I figured I could be lost between jobs or beg for the dish pit back again. There were two dead ends in my future--when suddenly, a Mack truck made its presence known. He obviously wanted me to switch lanes, but I was there first. As he inched close to my bumper, I slowed down.  The Mack truck was taking up all the space in my rear view mirror. The driver occasionally blared his horn; that was when I rolled both windows down. I lit up another cigarette and had one firm grip with my left hand on the steering wheel. I made an easily avoidable, intense situation into a leisurely drive to the beach.

            The next day, I received another call. It wasn’t from my boss, but from Moses, a 43-year-old cook who was in a classic rock band in his spare time, and still wanted to be Jimmy Page. He helped create drunken mayhem in the kitchen with a Boston accent.   After drinking cognac after cognac, after imported Italian beer after imported Italian beer, he would yell out, “Whoop! Whoop!” while rocking out to the Led Zeppelin going around inside his head. He acted the way I should be acting at my age.

            I smiled as I thought about one night while working with him, he was out of pans. “Jonah!” he yelled. “This isn’t just a job, it’s a coup.” Even the boss thought it was bullshit, but it was Moses’ kind of bullshit so the kitchen staff started to refer to themselves as a coup.

            The message he left was just as weird.

“J., what the hell is going on? You can’t quit. What the hell is going on? I haven’t shown you all the strip bars in town yet. We just went to Jersey. There's so much more than that. Jonah come on, it’s your friend Moses the coup man, the coup mister. You can’t quit. Okay take care, Bud.”

            For a forty-three-year-old, he sure knew how to twist a guy’s arm.  For one of the first times in my life, I knew that Gusto’s was like a family.  Sure, I sometimes hated the work, but when I was there I felt necessary.  I didn’t feel all mushy; I realized that these were my friends.

            Getting up my courage, I smoked a cigarette and had a cup of coffee. I had nothing to lose. I would get my job back or hear the seven days a week, ten hours a day, tone in my boss’s voice to get the hell out of his face.

 After the long walk back to Gusto’s, I braced myself as I made eye contact with Boss.

            He pointed his finger and laughed. “What the hell, man.  We looked all over for you. Moses went to your apartment at 1101. No one has lived there for a while.

            “I live at 1102.” I usually made it a habit to lie about my address on my job applications.

            “Why did you write down 1101? Oh.” Suddenly realizing, he smiled.

            The wait staff came around to ask what had happened.

            “I went nuts.”

            They left it at that.

            “The thing is, you were finished when you walked out. The wait staff had silverware. The bartender had all the glasses, and you just left. So what’s the deal? You working still?” asked my boss.

            I was stunned.  Instead of getting my last paycheck or a slammed door in my face; he was giving me my job back.

            “I like the note you left,” Boss said to me.

            “What note?” I said, not remembering the exact wording.

            My boss reminded me.  The note read: Don’t call the jails.  Don’t call the hospitals.  I quit.    “J”

The note was duct taped next to boss’s picture of Osama Bin Laden that he used for target practice.  He could look at it while he was cooking.

            “You didn’t know, did you?” he asked me.

            “What?”

            “Once you’re in, you’re never coming out,” the boss prophesized.

            “It’s like the mob,” I concluded.

            “It’s some gangster shit,” he said. Then he went back to the kitchen to prepare for that evening, and I had a beer at the bar before starting my shift.

            I had gotten my job back. This might not be necessarily a good thing for a career path; it was a paycheck. In the midst of failure and rejection, my best was at zero or entry level. I thought about how the weekly newspaper had probably laughed at my skimpy resume. They probably weren’t too impressed with the profanity and the grammatical errors in the sample of my writing I sent to them.

Then there was my manuscript for the book I had been writing from my journal which chronicled most of my life.  At the moment, I couldn’t stand the sight of it. I wanted to get a bottle of whiskey and burn it from beginning to end, thinking it would be cathartic, but Captain and Boozer wouldn’t let me. I gave my writing to  them to keep for a while.  Words were not coming to me, and I had to separate myself from my writing if I was going to survive.

***

This decision was slightly on my mind, as well as being caught on top of the building or falling to the street below when Captain, Scrawny, and me decided to take an excursion up the fire escape of one of the tallest corporate banks in the city. Even though it was trespassing, I figured our founding fathers wouldn’t have a problem with this, considering how fucked up they were when corporate America was created.

             Captain and Scrawny went to the same college, but had different majors.  Captain loved what he did and enjoyed using his mind differently then just academia as usual. Scrawny was a photography major who, for the most part would rather play his bass in the hard-blasting beats of his metal band then take that god-awful math class. Scrawny used to preach against the use of alcohol and drugs in high school but with metal, beer happens.  Captain felt that if he couldn't have a canvas, then he would rather be around people who wanted to be around art.  Captain had his paints, Scrawny had his music, and yours truly had my words.  These were our escapes.

             Captain and Scrawny had been on top the building before. The fire escape was the easiest part of the trip. Although rusted over in places, it seemed steadfast.  There was no way it would detach from the wall from the extra weight. Next we came to a ladder going all the way to the top. It was wobbly because it was attached to the wall by some loose screws. With three bodies on the dilapidated passageway to the executive level, we all leaned forward.  If the ladder decided to give, we would have a chance to grab hold of something, saving ourselves a bone-crushing death.  I was the last one going up, and I kept a firm grip with my hand.  Occasionally, I let my legs dangle, slightly kicking like I was the villain at the climax of a movie.   Only there was no to see to my act, even if I fell. 

             Hanging there, I simply floated with the breeze, thinking about my rejected manuscript. I had received the phone call carrying the rejection earlier in the day. I was surprised that the publisher even called me. He explained what he liked about it, and then he referred to it as a “dirty manuscript” because of the spelling and grammar. He told me I needed a professional editor. I couldn’t afford one.  The only thing that I heard was “no.”  No. I wanted to burn it.

There’s nothing like defiant behavior to get your mind off of the past, and from the looks of things on top of this carefully constructed corporate bank, the executives seemed to only have one thing going for them, which is the perfect view of the city. That was all I could see from my view. 

            No cars were out on Main or Cary Street.  Occasionally a cop drove, by making their rounds. But there is no real fear from Scrawny, Captain, and me.  The top was usually the last place they looked.  We were safe atop our tower of escapism.

***

Reality and Memories

            I couldn’t remember the last time I checked my email.  Today there was a letter from my mom.    She said this was her only way of getting my attention.  I usually just blew off my parents.  This was a time in my life when they seemed irrelevant.   I mean, I couldn’t talk to them about what was going on in my life now—getting high, getting drunk.  I had lived with them temporarily after high school, and they gave me some financial help at times, but I wanted to be independent, on my own with all that might mean.  This was my time, and I needed time away from them to find what I wanted out of life.  I had to have time to make my own decisions and my own mistakes.  Sometimes it was hard, but at least I knew I was making my own way.

In the e-mail she mentioned that my grandpa’s health was worse than ever, and his cancer had taken its toll on my grandma.  I hadn’t written a letter to them in a long time.  Just last Christmas, my parents and I had opened our presents on Christmas Eve so my parents could take a cheap flight to California to visit my grandpa.  It was cheap because hardly anyone flies on Christmas Day.  They decided to go then because his pain was so great that hospice started coming over.  Now he was injected with so much morphine, he was only awake an hour a day.  Mom put their phone number was at the bottom of the e-mail in hopes I would call them.  I had to call them.

 

I didn’t have the best memories of Grandpa. For example, Christmas 1988, Tactics had received two cassette tapes of his favorite bands.  I listened to one in my Walkman while we were visiting my grandparents.  Grandpa sat down beside me and asked for a listen.  I gave him the earphones, and he put them on.  In a second, he swiftly threw the earphones off.  “That’s rock and roll.  You are listening to rock and roll!” He scowled.  He promptly stormed out of the room.  It was never mentioned again.

I was eighteen and had just graduated from high school when my family visited them again.  My cousin had also just graduated from high school.  Her GPA of course, was higher than mine.  Tactics and I had come to the conclusion that our cousins weren’t only overly sheltered but religiously warped.  A person with a high GPA and good grades didn’t mean anything to us.  It’s what you’ve conquered that matters.

            My grandparents, my cousins, my aunt, my uncle, and my family were sitting around a table finishing lunch.  My grandpa brought checks for my cousins and me.  We were to use them to help pay for college.  I had never been around that much money before, so my thank you was muffled and maybe not as enthusiastic as he wanted it to be, and grandpa didn’t hear it.  Later in the day, he confronted me about the thank you he didn’t hear.  I apologized first, told him that I had said thank you, but he must not have heard me.  I thanked him profusely for the check.  Afterwards, he preached to me about gratitude.  Those were some of my last memories of being with my grandparents.

            I still had some rum left from last night, but I promised myself I wouldn’t touch it until after the phone call to my grandma.  Looking for my phone card, I knew my grandpa would probably be asleep, so my grandma would be answering the phone.  I couldn’t think of anything to say that would help to ease her pain, but I dialed the number anyway.

            At first she sounded excited to hear my voice but not knowing what to say, and feeling like a moron, I began by asking her how thing were going.

            “Your grandpa is on the devil morphine.  He sleeps a lot.”

            “Oh.”  I didn’t know what else to say to that.

            “Oh, are you still working at that Italian restaurant?”

            “Yes, Grandma.”

            I couldn’t tell her that Grandpa would get better.  All I could do was tell her that I was thinking about her.  What good would that do?

            The energetic tone in her voice that made her “grandma,” the voice that would have in the past told me about her tangelo tree in the backyard, and the voice that would tell me that she was making a big batch of fudge for me and Tactics wasn’t there anymore.

            “Well, J, it was nice to hear from you.”  She sounded like she was tired of telling people what was going on.  The 3,000-mile distance was showing.

            “It was nice talking to you, Grandma.” 

I wished that I had more to say to her. 

            “Bye, J.”

            “Bye, Grandma.”

            She hung up the phone first, and then I followed.  I lay down on my gray dusty hardwood floor, wishing I could have told her something good that was happening in my life.  There was nothing but distance now, and all I could say was that I was thinking about her.  I told myself that I would get up from this eventually, but for now, I just lay there.  I covered my face with my arms and mumbled, “I have to call the maintenance guy.  My refrigerator is broken.”

***

            My dad told me over the phone; he died the night before.  He died in his sleep, so he wasn’t in pain.  My dad said he cried and prayed when he heard.  I asked him if he needed to talk about it; if so I was there to listen.  I wondered if there was going to be someone there to tell me the same thing when the worse happens to me.  I shook off those feelings like a burn from a hot pan on my forearm.

            There were some things left unsaid between my grandpa and me.  I wanted to tell my grandpa that I thought he was wrong.  I wanted to tell him that I didn’t necessarily know what was right, but I was doing the best I could.  I wanted to see pictures he had taken during his missionary trips to the Philippines, Cuba, and Russia, just to name a few of the places he had traveled.  I never got to see them the few times that I visited.  Now, I probably never would.

 

***

Several days later, I was sitting at the bar again with the boss. Along with Moses and the bartender, we were peeling garlic.  I was telling them of a major decision that I had made not long before.  I had decided to look at my future in terms of a career, not just a job.  I had done some research and looked into the idea of working on a degree in firefighting.  There were several reasons that I thought this might work.  First, I could get an associates degree from the community college in Fire Science.  That wouldn’t require too much more work on my part.  If I could pass the test for firefighters, I would have a career that would allow me to continue doing what I really wanted to do which was my writing.  No matter what decision I made about my future, I knew I would always be a writer.  Most of the people that I talked to about this gave me respect for making the decision.  Riding in that big fire truck would be one of the perks.  I would continue working at Gusto’s until my plan was fully in place.

“You know you can’t be a fireman if you keep throwing hot bowls of polenta out the window. You could have killed the delivery guy. You would have been charged with manslaughter.”

            The boss and Moses chuckled. The bartender smiled.  The boss got up to refill his glass with scotch on the rocks and handed me another beer.

“Why the window sill?  It’s polenta, not a pie.”

            “J, we couldn’t let you go off some place and flake out,” said Moses as he finished off a bottle of wine.

            “I’m a writer; I’ve already flaked out.”

            “Yeah, that’s his deal,” said my boss. “He’s a writer.”

            “Writers are alone,” said the bartender, grinning.

            Out of all the things he could have said, he had to quote Hemingway, and I could only surrender to the times, as a post-modern dishwasher with not much of a chance of moving up.

***

            Twelve hundred people took the written test that day. After the written test, that 1200 was reduced to 300 to 400 people who then took the agility test. Those people would be reduced to about 150 who had to go through an interview screening. Whoever passed the interview, followed by the drug test, got a certificate of completion, which enabled that individual to become a fireman. This process was known throughout the region to be ultra competitive.  This was the plan and the one thought that helped to pull me out of the winter.  My boss would even help me with the agility training while I was at work; he would either put a case of beer on my back or a case of squid weighing about 50 lbs. I would then try to do as many pushups as I could. 

I began lusting over the classic red fire engines roaring across town. I wanted to see how close I could stand beside the fire, and I wanted to save the lives that had the potential to burn. There was nothing else in the future but this plan, so I obsessed over it.  Thinking about it and planning for it.

            Captain drove me to take the written test. I had to walk by the minor league baseball stadium.   That was another childhood dream that used to play itself out nightly, but I never learned how to hit the curve ball.

            After the test, Captain drove me back to my apartment. The burning rays of sun were shining on my black tattoo of fire that day during early spring. I showed up ready to work.

            My boss instantly noticed the tattoo on my leg that had been covered all winter.

“Hey man is that for real?”

            “Yeah, I got it when I was eighteen.”

            “Damn that’s some Jesus shit right there. You’ve been branded.  No wonder you want to be a fireman.”

            It felt like it was meant to be. Something was going to go my way; all that was holding me back was the wait on the confirmation letter from the fire department.

            Days passed and finally, it was the day of the potential notice from the fire department. Despite the beer the night before, I only received four hours of sleep. After a couple of cups of coffee, and an overflowing ashtray, I began making a mental checklist to help get my mind off waiting. I could wash the dishes (in my sink), sweep and mop my front room, and scrub the sink in the bathroom. Instead, I decided to go on one of my epic drives.  First I stopped to pay my rent and told my landlord that I wasn’t going to renew the lease. It was too much money for a full-time dishwasher to afford. I thought about getting roommates, which is harder than you might think for yours truly.

            After paying my rent, I had about five dollars left in my bank account; it wasn’t as if I could spoil myself by having breakfast at Denny’s. So I took the loop around the city, buying a pack of cheap cigarettes at a convenience store, driving with the windows down with two great minds lingering around an audience of one. This was my day; all I needed was confirmation that I had passed to the next round of the fire examination.

            I had half a tank of gasoline, and the public radio station blared the scores of Mozart and Beethoven. Their spirits were immortalized while passing through an intersection on green.     The red lights gave a moment, where I could look around at the other drivers. They may have it better or worse than yours truly, but either way we were all stopped at the same red light.  The teenager beside me in his souped-up Mustang was blaring top forty hip-hop. So I turned the epic odyssey up louder rattling my factory speakers.

             

As I neared my apartment, I noticed a vehicle with the post office insignia. Stopping at an intersection, a fire engine was on the left, and it was so close I could almost touch it. I waved to the driver and he waved back as the light turned green; the classic fire engine turned left.

            Finally, I parked in the alley behind my apartment building. I walked through the hallway to the front of the building where the mailboxes were hung on the wall close to the front door. The anticipation was burning. I flung open my mailbox, and took out a coupon book and the utility bill. There was nothing else; I went inside my apartment and then back outside to check my mailbox again. Maybe I had missed it somehow in my excitement.  It was still empty.

            I walked to Boozer’s apartment with every step feeling like I was sinking deeper and deeper into the pavement. I felt like I had a heavy weight hanging on my neck

I wasn’t usually sober walking to Boozer’s apartment. With some hesitation I entered the apartment hoping that I wouldn’t catch Boozer and his girlfriend enjoying their afternoon with a little delight. As I walked into the room his girlfriend jumped up and was already in a full sprint to the bathroom wearing what looked like a bikini. Boozer grinned spitefully at me as he crossed his legs.

            I was the first one to break the awkward silence.

            “I didn’t get it. I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

            Boozer’s expression changed to sympathy, which was the last thing that I needed. “Sorry man.”

            “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

            Boozer shrugged his shoulders. “You got a cigarette?”

            Leave it up to Boozer to bum you out a smoke during a low moment in your life. His girlfriend came back with clothes on as I lit his cigarette.

            “Hey man, it’s our three-month anniversary,” Boozer announced.

            I rubbed my eyes and gave them an unenthusiastic, “Congratulations.”

            Changing the subject, Boozer said, “You said you would be able to hook us up for a good meal whenever. Do you work tonight?”

            “Yeah, unfortunately I will be in the dish pit tonight.”

            Leave it up to Boozer to ask for a favor during a low moment in your life.

            “Yeah, I can hook you up.  Just mention my name,” I said.

            “Thanks, man, and I’m sorry that the fire department thing fell through.”

            “Yeah,” I mumbled.

            “You want to smoke a bowl?” Boozer’s girl asked.

            “No,” I answered at first, but then “Wait a minute… I can smoke now.   Yeah, sure.”

            I had been doing my best to avoid the bowl, because of the drug test that I thought I would have to eventually take.  I took a couple of drags and handed it back to her. Boozer didn’t smoke herb. The two-person rotation didn’t give me a sense of euphoria like before. I had to be in the dish pit in two hours, not to mention I had to ask my boss, who sometimes referred to me as a dumb ass dish, to hook up my friends with a free meal.

            I walked back to my apartment and soon 5:30 rolled around, and the hand to mouth cycle of smoke was inhaled and then exhaled into the unknown future. Arriving, I passed the bar without saying anything to anyone. The other employees peeling garlic could probably see the rejection from my face. I strapped on an apron and went to work.

            I made sure that the cooks had the big pots of water on the stove used for making pasta. I washed the dished in the bus tray of the wait station and washed the pint glasses for the bartender. My boss entered the swinging doors like he usually did after his break in between shifts; I went back to the bar to pour myself a glass of water for the dry mouth still present from the herb smoked earlier. 

            That evening I experienced the slowest shift I had ever worked. There was hardly a customers in the restaurant; this meant no dishes to distract my current state, so I chained smoked at the top of every hour in the stair well with the walls that looked like they were made of paper mache. Some of the holes looked like they had been punched in. The stairs were covered in cigarette butts and stained wine. It reeked of garbage with a twist of bleach, but it felt like a second home.

            Like any other evening I walked home drenched, after being lectured by my boss about telling my friends that they can come here and eat for free, I determined never to make that mistake again. I got home and the apartment felt empty. I was alone again, and it seemed to be everywhere. I couldn’t shake it or dry it off.   My plan had failed again, and I was still stuck in the dish pit.

***

Boxing Party

            It had been planned for a while, and I already knew about it, but everyone wanted me to be there because Captain was the first, then there was Boozer, a mutual-drinking buddy of our friend  Scar, and then there was Old Man. It was all going to be at Old Man’s house. My expectations were high, and it gave me something to look forward to. I invited the other dishwasher Blink.  Blink would enjoy it. He used to tell me several stories about how he would start a fight at a bar.

            “It’s easy, man; all you have to do is look for a couple at the bar. Guy and girl. Then you walk up to the bar ignoring the dude and you buy the girl a drink and start talking to her. Then you usually have to talk some shit to the boyfriend. After that when you leave chances are the boyfriend will follow you with his friends.  I did it to some frat guys. I got a fat lip.”

            “How often have you done this?” I remember asking.

            “A couple of times. Sometimes I just feel like fighting.”

            “Don’t we all,” I concluded.

            The party was Saturday night, and Blink and I had to work our usual day shift. It used to be just me, but now we split up the prep work.

            Saturday mornings, we were both usually hung over, but it didn’t matter since we hardly had any customers. All we had to do was stick to the list: cleaning and gutting squid, deshelling shrimp, deveining shrimp, rinsing off vegetables, cutting off the stalks of fennel, the dreaded forty minutes of hell that came with making polenta, eggplant parmesan, scrubbing clams, and ripping out beards of mussels. That Saturday we were both a little excited about getting out as soon as possible.

            “I’m walking over with Boozer and Scar,” I said energetically.

            “I used to work with Boozer and Scar,” Blink announced. 

            “Really? That’s cool.”   

            Most of the list we completed the day before, after I cleaned the clams and Blink made the eggplant parmesan. The only thing we had to do was to clean and gut 50 lbs. of slimy stinky snot-like squid, but first we went outside to smoke a cigarette.

            “You got a woman in your life?” I asked.

            “Had one, but things changed right after I told her I was going to trying to change to be the man she wanted me to be.”

            “Women don’t wait.”

            “You got a girl?” he asked.

            “Had one in the summer,” I said apathetically.

            “What happened?” Blink asked.

            It was an easy question, but the truth was the guy in the summer didn’t exist anymore. I wanted to fight him, and that fight was not far off.

            “It didn’t work out. Just another crazed daddy’s little girl who should be sent to the Middle East and sold to the tyrannical dictators to be used as a human sacrifice.”

            Blink kind of snickered and realized there was still a little bitterness there.

            “Settle down man; we’re boxing tonight,” he said, trying to extinguish the rage.

            I changed the subject.

            “Check out the wall. You can still see some polenta that fell out of the window.”

            We both laughed.

            “It’s like a monument to your first day working here,” I said still laughing.

            “Man, I didn’t know what to think of you after that day.”

            “I value my goof-ups. They build character.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Sometimes I think I have way too much character.”

            We went back inside, walked up the stairwell, and into the kitchen where the boss was rinsing the pasta.

            “Are you boys having fun? I shouldn’t be doing this shit; this is your job!”

            The boss went back to the line. “From now on, smoke one at a time.”

            Blink rinsed the rest of the pasta, and I started cleaning the squid.  Blink delivered the pasta to the boss, and then came over and started our two-man assembly line.

            I would clean the squid by ripping the jelly-like body out of the capsule, and removing brain mass out of the capsule that looked similar to the thickest snot. I would put the split organism on Blink’s cutting board where he would slice the capsule into several strips, yank out the long tentacles used to capture the squid’s prey, slice it just above the two dead eyes and then remove the beak by punching through the remaining legs. Repeating the process, it took us about two hours to go through 50 lbs. of squid.

            I had already scrubbed the clams, and Blink was done with the eggplant parmesan. We checked to make sure the cooks had everything they needed for the evening shift that night. The only thing we could do now was peal garlic, and pick parsley. I called first dibs on parsley so I could avoid the blazing garlic hands. Blink said he had no preference. We sat at the bar drinking bottled coke, talking shit to each other and counting down the seconds to quit time.         

            “The fire department didn’t work out for me,” I said still feeling the loss of a dream.

            “Ah man, that sucks.”

            “Maybe that’s why I feel like fighting.” There was no emotion in my voice.

            “I don’t think I want to fight you anymore,” Blink concluded.

            “It’s all in good fun, man,” I reassured him; “It’s a give and take. You’ll deliver some blows. I’ll deliver some blows. No big deal, I need this.”

            Blink smiled and shook his head. “All in good fun.”

            “What are you going to do now since the fire department didn’t work out?” Blink asked.

            “Think of another plan,” I answered.

            The dishwashers for the evening shift finally showed up so Blink and I were able to switch our cokes to bourbon and ginger. The cook who arrived said he had enough parsley so I switched to garlic.

            “This is going to be fun,” Blink said in anticipation of the fight.

            “Yup, I have high hopes,” I said.

            “Knights in White Satin” came on the jukebox randomly, and I started singing, “Knights in white cotton,” as the anticipation grew with every sip of bourbon. The bartender was usually friendly with our free drinks after the shift. I could only taste the bourbon so I couldn’t complain, and worrying would be a waste of my time.

            Blink and I reached for our glass at the same time, which was a source of relief for our burning fingers from peeling garlic.

            “You know what my family motto is?” I asked.

            “What?”

            “Every day above ground is a good day,” I answered.

            “Right on. I think that’s enough garlic.”

            I was out of cigarettes, but Blink was willing to bum me out one of his god-awful menthols. I couldn’t complain.

            “So are you going to call me, man?” Blink asked.

            “Yeah when I get there, I’ll check out the scene, and if it’s lame, I will probably not call you. We’ll probably hangout though since you already know Scar and Boozer.”

            “Cool.”
            “Scar and I have been talking shit to each other. I have to fight him, too,” I said.

            “This is going to be fun.”

            We were told to move by the bartender, because some customers wanted to sit down at the bar. We signed our time sheets, and left later to meet up with the two fisted solution. It was all in good fun.

***

 

Scar and I were at Boozer’s place along with Boozer’s girlfriend. Scar matched the boxing gloves and looked up at all of us.

            “What time does it start?” he asked.

            “I think it starts when we get there,” said Boozer.

            “I probably shouldn’t box you, Boozer. I would hate to kick your ass in front of your girlfriend.” I said.

            “Girlfriend?” Scar questioned, “When was the last time you got any, Jonah.”

            “What the hell is this small man syndrome?” I said knowing how to push Scar’s buttons.

            “We’re boxing!” Scar announced.

            “We’re boxing first,” I concluded.

            “I need a few beers in me first,” Scar mumbled.

            “Damn, you boys are starting the shit talking early,” Boozer’s girlfriend laughed.

            I nodded with a chin up to Scar; he did the same back to me. It was all in good fun.

            “Are you fellas ready to go?” I asked. The anticipation felt like a muscle spasm after a long busy shift.

            Scar guzzled down his beer. “Yeah.”

            We started walking to Old Man’s house; there was a slight chill in the air. The conversation was about work and paying rent. I wasn’t involved in the topic of conversation; it was the last thing on my mind. 

            “What are you thinking about, Jonah?” Boozer’s girlfriend asked.

            “Boxing.”

            “How’s work?” Boozer asked.

            “It’s work,” I snarled.

            Scar looked at me. “You’re crazy!”

            I lit up a cigarette. My hopes were high.

            When we showed up at Old Man’s house we found out he didn’t have his usual keg so the three of us chipped in for a case of beer to split. Scar and I voted us out of the block and a half walk for beer since we were going to be getting our exercise very soon.  This forced Boozer to actually move for once.

            “I hate beer.” Boozer’s girlfriend complained.

            “I’ll pick you out something,” assured Boozer.

            Boozer left and came back with two twelve-packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 for his poor girlfriend, who didn’t like beer.

            “Only the best for my girl!” Boozer laughed.

            Boozer’s girlfriend shook her head and rolled her eyes. Boozer was used to this response, so he didn’t care. Besides, he had his beer.

            “It’s orange, baby. You like orange.”

            The four of us drank in the kitchen and wondered why there was no one else waiting to box.

            Scar especially was starting to get antsy. “Where is everybody? Aren’t we supposed to box? I’m gonna ask, Old Man, what the deal is.”

            He walked into the next room where everyone was drinking and watching TV. Then he came back.

            “I asked Old Man if we are going to box here tonight, and he said,  “I hope not?”

            “Was his girlfriend with him?” I asked.

            “Yeah.” Scar answered.

            I threw up my hands, as the fun seemed to have slipped away. “That’s why.”

            Boozer’s girlfriend rolled her eyes. “I thought there was going to be boxing here tonight.” She seemed to have no preference either way after a few sips of Mad Dog. Suddenly she jerked herself away from the bottle of Mad Dog and decided she did in fact like the taste of beer. Not wanting it to go to waste, Scar, Boozer, and I passed around the bottle. It reminded us of cough syrup. 

            “I’m going to call Blink and tell him to come over, even though nothing is going on,” I said, remembering my promise to Blink.

            He sounded disappointed over the phone; Blink decided to come over anyway even though I apologized, because boxing hadn’t been on some of the other partygoers’ agenda.

            We all sat in the kitchen drinking, occasionally kicking around the empty boxing gloves. It was just us, those who might have been seen as the weirdoes or freaks who scrambled the words one time or another, “I hope I don’t waste away,” or “I want to do something more.”  Some were college students with no place else to go, dropouts, struggling artists, high school jocks without the scholarship, two job slobs. It was only one night of our lives, hopefully, something better would happen next weekend.

            Blink, finally came over after he spoiled himself with some expensive Irish beer. We toasted, and Scar and I decided we might as well go at it. Old Man, entered his kitchen to get some more beer. Scar and I were pulling on the last glove with our teeth.

            “You’re actually going to box?” Old Man inquired.

            “That’s why you invited us over, isn’t it?   Help me move the table from the middle of the floor” Scar said, maybe overly motivated to kick someone’s ass.

             Old Man grabbed one end of the table, and I grabbed the other. We moved it out of our way, while Old Man grabbed another beer.

            “You all are nuts,” he announced.

            “Only with the gloves on.” I surrendered.

            Scar smiled.

            He was shorter then I was.  The bike accident he was in a couple of months prior gave him his name. With Scar it was either a scar, a broken bone from a punk show or a bike accident. This permanent memory started below his left eye, and headed south to his mid-cheek. It made him seem taller to a stranger. 

            Scar and I stood in the middle of the kitchen and took off our shoes. Blink used his watch to keep time. We weren’t going to fight in rounds since we all knew our black lungs would be the ones to throw in the white towel so we had a time limit.

            Scar and I touched gloves. I, immediately, used my longer reach against him, because back in Boozer’s apartment I couldn’t get past the scar. He was at perfect fist level for me. It was hard for him to get on my inside. He was able to fling some shots up to my jaw. Hearing the ruckus, people from the next room started rolling in to watch the fight. I landed a few more blows to Scar’s head, and he did the same to mine.

            “Time!” Blink announced.

            “You two are crazy,” said one of the strangers from the next room.

            Scar and I ignored the comment.

            Scar pointed at me with his glove. “You are too tall.”

            I started rubbing the left side of my face. “This side of my jaw hurts.”

            We both broke open a beer. No one won, no one lost; it was all in good fun.

            “I don’t want to fight you again,” Scar said as he shook his ringing head.

            “Yeah,” I agreed, “Who’s next?”

            We recruited some other fighters to enter the makeshift ring while we rested. It was now Boozer’s turn. At first glance he looked like anyone else. A string stretch across chest read Abercrombie & Finch. He went to a different college close by. He and his opponent strapped on their gloves. We were all expecting a close and even fight. They looked like the same size and the same height. It looked like it was going to be an even blow fight. Instead, Boozer got his ass kicked. Everyone thought he at least looked tough before the fight standing there with the gloves on smoking a cigarette. Thank God he could paint.

            During the monsoon of punches, his girlfriend yelled. “He’s just an artist! Take it easy!”

            The poor Boozer didn’t throw one punch, although his guard was always up. The opponent’s punches broke through his raging beer face. There was nothing Boozer could do, but wait, punch, jab, jab, but wait, punch jab, jab, punch jab jab...

            “Time!” Blink yelled, fearing the safety of his friend as he jumped in between the two fighters, stopping Boozer’s branding. We later found out that Boozer’s opponent was friends with a golden glove who taught him what he knew about boxing. We called him the Ringer.

            Boozer walked back to his already opened beer with his usual smirk on his face shaking his head. His girlfriend gave him that look of sympathy that causes every man to confess. Boozer was in love. They kissed. He wouldn’t have admitted it but I think Boozer actually blushed (or maybe his face was just red from all the punches).

            Captain couldn’t make it that night for a similar reason. He was meeting his girlfriend’s parents. We each had an extra beer for him, because it wasn’t the same without him. We weren’t very good with parents, and since Captain was meeting an airborne ranger we hoped for the best. I was ready to box again.

            “Blink!” I yelled.

            He looked up from his beer and his watch.

            “Okay.” He gave a gesture to Boozer’s girlfriend to be the timekeeper.

            “Ready!” Boozer’s girlfriend announced.

            We touched gloves. This was personal.   To motivate myself, I thought, this guy who smoked the god-awful menthol cigarettes might be planning to take my job. It wasn’t the best job, but it was my job. Just the menthol cigarettes in his front pocket was reason enough to go bare knuckles.

            “Go!”

            With two hard left jabs to the face I felt the sting like I felt from the steel wool used to scrub the pots and pans with the thick layer of grease. His shots were coming. We both had to work tomorrow.

            He landed a right hook to the temple. I felt it. Yep, I thought.  We were fighting for the same job. Two left jabs, a right hook, and another right hook. I waited, hesitantly for him to deliver his two right hooks. It was my job. It was one of the lowest jobs to have, but it was mine. He shook his head after feeling some more blows by yours truly. The scrapping went on, and we were still entry-level employees when it was over. We had a beer to celebrate.

            There was no response from the other would-be fighters for the next fight. I looked at Boozer giving him an invitation.

            “I don’t want to fight anymore. I just wanted to drink tonight,” said Boozer.

            “I don’t want you to fight anymore either,” said Boozer’s girlfriend.

            Scar found himself a new recruit.   The new fighter was an art student who said he had never done anything like this before. He must have said it a thousand times; walking to the gloves like he already knew what the result of the battle would be. Scar began talking shit. Both fighters put on their gloves. The art student took off his glasses. Blink took his watch from Boozer’s girlfriend, and she put her arms around Boozer. Scar and the art student touched gloves.

            “Go!”

            The art student was taller then Scar, but Scar had no problem taking advantage of the rookie’s lack of experience. The art student let his presence be known, however, with his first right hooks ever thrown at someone. The art student took more blows to the head as his senses fell to an institution that had no deadlines or assignments. All that was inside these walls was time. It seemed the art student began learning a different lesson when he reacted to Scar with a furious upper cut that stopped Scar in his tracks. Yet Scar’s smile was not falling from his face. Scar hadn’t seen a textbook for three years, and the art student had probably only seen his mother’s kitchen. These were two lives that wouldn’t normally intersect.

            “Time!” Blink yelled.

            Scar, bummed the art student out of a beer, and then they both exchanged bruises and glassy eyes.  In this room, no one was better than anyone else.

            Blink went to get some more recruits, and then he came back.

            “Some guy wants to fight now, too.” Old Man said apathetically, because anything could happen at Old Man’s house.

            “Where is he?” I asked.

            “He’s finishing his beer,” Blink answered.

            “Why isn’t he in here?” I asked lighting up a cigarette and starting to strap on the gloves.

            “He’s finishing his beer,” I mocked.

            Old Man brought out his camera, thinking that he could use the footage for his video class. The new recruit finally showed up, bragging about his wrestling background.

            “I went all-state in high school.” A dream that could only exist in his glory days.

He strapped on the gloves and I stared through him, seeing my way already paved. I wanted to beat the bullet out of Hemingway’s head, pound on Bukowski’s big white belly, torment Steinbeck’s soul, and blacken Kerouac’s free spirited eyes.  This fight would be about rejection.  I could see the rejection letters from my writing right in front of me, and he was wearing boxing gloves.

            Blink managed the time. Everyone in the house was now in the kitchen.

            We touched gloves, as the newly formed crowd in the kitchen grew silent.

            “Go!”

            The past will hammer your gut and bludgeon your brain. It will push you even though you can’t go any further; it doesn’t follow the rules, while it delivers cheap shots that can only leave you stunned. Move!

Jab…jab…jab….  He delivered the blows.

            I had my guard up, but slightly blacked out, yet still standing. I threw a couple of jabs to his jaw, and temple. Then I was pushed to the wall again. I was standing straight up as he landed a hook coming out of nowhere.  I wondered what was holding me up. It wasn’t the past; it wasn’t my car or my job. It wasn’t my parents or the rent. He delivered more blows to my head. The punch blurred into my deceased heroes; they were supportive like a guardrail. Maybe it was punishment for thinking about using spell-check or thinking that maybe I could be the exception. You could die a thousand times and still have to wake up the next day.

            When Blink yelled, “Time!” I asked for more.

            I landed a few more shots, and the strangers did the same. I was still standing.

            When it was all over, the stranger went back to his beer lying on the table before he entered the kitchen. I was stumbling on my own two feet, smiling and chuckling like a predator that had been caged by something more powerful. 

            “We have to do this again,” I said still smiling at the stranger who now saw in full view the damage he had done. He dropped his sore jaw, when he saw I was taking the beating a little too well.

            “Your cheek is bleeding.” Boozer said.

            “Really,” I said. “Can I bum a smoke?”

            He gave me one and lit it for me.

            My eyes were tied down by surviving the winter, a shitty job, and this life with no instructions or direction. I was doing the best I could with no guarantees.

            My whole face seemed like it was slouching as I exhaled drags, dancing out from the corners of my mouth. I was willing to take anything that thought it could knock me down. I was tired of taking it like a man, and I was not going to be defeated by anyone.

            I opened another beer. I turned around to offer one to the stranger, but he was gone. He apparently didn’t get it.  I could only come to the conclusion that maybe he, too, had something to prove, and he thought he had met his match.

            Blink, Old Man, and I walked into the hallway to view the footage from Old Man’s camera. During the fight, Blink would sometimes look back at me with inquiry after every blow to my head, daring to ask if he should call “Time.”  I had some trouble focusing on the tiny screen of the camera.

            “How am I still standing up?” I asked.

            Blink and Old Man shook their heads. They didn’t know. The recruit walked passed us drinking his beer, pretending he had no interest in the footage by Old Man.

            After the footage, I slid my sock feet to the floor, using the wall as a guard. The hallway had gotten longer somehow. I eventually entered the bathroom, and shut the door. I stared in the mirror, slightly swaying to maintain a balance. It looked like I had aged twenty-one years with the two shiners and soft pillows underneath my eyes. .

            “You haven’t lived unless you failed,” I said softly to the image in the mirror.

            Blink finished his six-pack and decided he was ready to go home. We gave him some beers for the walk. Boozer, his girlfriend, Scar and I eventually left as well. The sounds of the city sounded like they were under water. At least I knew how to walk.

            “Hey man, are you sure you’re okay?” Boozer asked.

            “Never felt better,” I answered.

***

We stopped at a convenience store, Scar picked out a donut, Boozer bought a bag of chips, and I was ID’d for cigarettes. The lady behind the register hurriedly compared the person on the ID to the person who was standing in front of her. She must have thought it was a robbery. I smiled back; showing all my coffee-stained teeth.

            “You look so innocent in this picture,” the lady said.

            I paid her for cigarettes, and went outside to wait for Scar and Boozer. Scar was the first to come out.

            “She didn’t charge me for the donut.” Scar announced.

            “She was probably scared of my black eyes.”

            Boozer came out scratching his head apprehensively. “She didn’t charge me for my chips.”

            “Nice lady,” I said.

            Scar passed out back at Boozer’s place, and I walked back to my apartment. It was still early for Saturday night/Sunday morning when I hit my uncovered mattress, already in the grips of a tranquil abyss.   I promptly awaited the best sleep in my life.

            The best sleep was behind me when I started making coffee in the early afternoon.  A letter from the fire department and the telephone bill were there as well. The letter from the fire department, of course, told me officially what I already knew, that I couldn’t go on to the next stage of competition, which was the agility test.  But somehow I felt that I had just passed an agility test, and I was still standing.

***

Moving up, out and on

            After that I went to a record store and my fingers strolled down used soul by James Brown, Otis Redding and what not. I was raised on the Motown. My dad and I sang along to it whenever it came on the oldie station during the drive to my aunt’s condo at the beach for our annual trip. I bought Otis and a Gangster CD, and I left regretting that I didn’t buy any jazz. I needed the tunes--the silence was deafening.

            I came back home after my purchase and sat on my front porch (and everyone else's who lived in the building). My front door was open so I could hear guru vocals smashing against the jackhammer at the construction site up the street, which was the very same jackhammer that had forced me to wake up at the ungodly hour of 6 am some mornings. I had survived the winter and its insomnia created by myself, and now I had to deal with modern man’s need to drill. A part of me was tired of dreaming, anyway. Insomnia and jackhammers were the cure.

           

***

            I had to be at work in a couple of hours, last paycheck; the boss had given me a raise.  I was making almost as much as a cook.  The boss told me I had to train a new dishwasher.  I pitied whoever it might be.

            Before I went to work, I had to make another notch in my belt.  For some reason, I was losing weight.  I thought I should probably shave, but the maintenance guy hadn’t come by to fix the lights.  I tried several light bulbs, but the wiring was messed up.  I’ve been taking showers in the dark.  No worries.  Cold water was more relaxing after a long shift in the dish pit.  The refrigerator was still broken.  The maintenance guy showed up to view the problem.  I didn’t care.  I bought nonperishable food and depended on cold tap water.

            I walked to work unfazed by the third world apartment I had just left.  We had a new waitress that night.  It had been my experience that anything new could slow down Gusto’s well-oiled, but somewhat dilapidated machine.  All the rest of us employees would have to pick up the pace that the newcomer left behind.  But then again, the restaurant might be dead tonight.

            The new dishwasher came in half-hour after I showed up.  Her favorite music was metal, and she was slightly deaf from all of her experience at bone crunching, I-don’t-give-a-fuck type of shows.  I found myself having to repeat myself several times while explaining to her where pots, dishes, and other stuff went.  The boss, sensitive guy that he was, threw lemons at her when she seemed incoherent to his warnings of a hot pot of boiling water coming her way.  Women!

            Occasionally, she would smooth her hands one over the other experiencing the discomfort that comes from steel wool and hands in dishwater for hours.  Someone had to do it. Even with its faults, I thought it was still better than working in a cubicle, and it wasn’t who you were, it was just a paycheck.

            After reminding the new dishwasher about the dirty pans she had to clean for the cooks, I decided to smoke a cigarette in the stairwell.  I couldn’t believe I was giving orders, even though I was still technically at entry level myself.

            I returned to the dish pit and told the dishwasher she could smoke a cigarette if she wanted.  She left, and started to drained the sink.  As I stuck my hands into the dishwater, a jagged edge ripped across the palm of my hand, cutting through the surface and producing a sting that I thought I had gotten used to.  I took my hand out of the water, but the oil residue from the pots and pans was met with another piece of a puzzle.  Blood ran down my wrist like a river. I wiped it on my apron, but the blood kept reappearing.  I had a large cut on the palm of my hand.

            I wrapped a towel around my hand and went through the swinging doors to the bar.  The towel started to stain with red and caught the eye of some customers.  They looked down at the marinara sauce covering their pasta, thinking the worst. From a cabinet under the bar, I grabbed a latex glove from a box, near some paychecks that hadn’t been picked up by employees. 

The bartender advised me to get stitches, but I decided against it.  Then I went back into the kitchen in search of the duct tape, which was on a shelf at the salad station.  I wiped my hand with the cut on it with the blood-stained towel.  I asked the cook to help me with the duct tape.  The cook wrapped the cut several times so I could still move my fingers, which were soaked again with blood. Then I covered my hand with the latex glove I had gotten from the bar.

The new waitress, who wasn’t advised about pint glasses, came back clueless about what had just happened on her first day.

            “Glass doesn’t go in the sink.”I warned her.  Wish I had told her that before.

            “Oh,” she said cluelessly.

            I snapped off the latex glove like I was a doctor after giving a physical.  Blood splattered against the wall.  Apparently, the duct tape didn’t seal the wound properly.

            “When you put glass in the sink, this happens,” I reminded her again.

            “The waitress didn’t know where to put them so I told her she could put them in the sink,” another waitress said.

            I felt like yelling at her, but I didn’t.  I was new once, and I figured she would never put glass in the sink again.  On purpose, anyway.

            I finished draining the sink.  She filled it back up again while I was wearing the latex faded red balloon and decided to go hunt down the waitress.  I found her and making gestures with my bloody hand, I made sure she understood the cardinal rule of dishwashing.

            “Don’t put pint glasses in the sink.”

            Her eyes widened at the sight of the blood.  “Sorry,” she repented.

            “It’s cool.”

            I went back to the dish pit and unloaded the dishwasher.  I put the plates in the right places for the cooks and walked back.  This shift was almost over.

            “Jonah!”  I heard the boss yelling my name.  He used my full name when he was pissed off.

            I walked over and met him in the middle of the kitchen.

            “You’re bleeding on the plates again.”

            I would be the first to admit I was accident-pronged in the kitchen.  “This time it wasn’t my fault.  The new waitress put two pint glasses in the sink.”

            “Dumb bitch,” the boss muttered.

            I shrugged my shoulders.  “It’s her first night.  I told her not to do it again.”

            He shook his head.  “How’s the new dishwasher holding up?”

            “She’s tired, but I think she’ll work out.  What do you want me to do?  I don’t want to bleed all over the dishes.”

            He stroked his beard.  “Have a beer at the bar.  You can go home early tonight.”

***

            I headed back to my apartment that night thinking how these days were numbered.  This life was starting to move up from the bottom.  I had found a new place to live, and I was moving on to a newer duplex life with a washer and dryer.

            I passed this test, I thought to myself.   

I had spent winter in an apartment with no heat, wearing three sweaters with a sweat shirt over top of them, a pair a jeans underneath a loose-fitting pair of slacks, and the so-called new-awakening covering my head but leaving my ear lobes uncovered to be smacked by the cold.  My legs had been covered by a quilt my grandmother made me awhile ago.  I went to sleep ramblings the words, “I can hack it. I can hack it.”     

I once heard someone say that a man’s trials and failures make up who he is, maybe more so than his triumphs and victories.  I also remember telling Blink once that “every day above ground is a good day.  Maybe that is what keeps me standing when time and its boundaries are beating me down.  My life could be summed up with the proverb:  one step forward, two steps back.  I wasn’t going to give up until I was dead.  I had gone through many setbacks, but I was still above ground.

 

Epilogue

If you’ve reached the end of this book, you know that writing continues to be a passion for Jonah.  He finally did get his book published.  I hope you found some of your own life in my stories about Jonah and his friends and their experiences when they were young.  I realized when I was reading over my writing about Jonah that he battled some rough times along the way, but he was sure good at picking friends.  I’m also happy to tell you that from what I hear, Jonah’s friends have gone on to live successful lives as adults.  Occasionally Jonah sees some of his old friends, and they relive some of their memories of when they were young.