See you in Nirvana

Man oh man was she cute. She was the tiniest little thing; if she had been five foot it would have been because the ruler had been exaggerating. She worked in the camera department at Richway (known nowadays as Target). She had blonde hair and blue eyes and looked like a baby faced Marcia Brady. My friend Greg dated her for just a minute and I envied the hell out of him.

“She is wild” my friend told me with a wink.
“No way, not her, she looks so innocent”, I said in disbelief.
“One night at the river park she got down in the floorboard of my car and tried to drain me of all my vital fluids” he said in a boastful manner.
“Yeah right, and then you woke up” I added.
“Okay, don’t believe me; I was as surprised as you are”

I worked for the security company that Richway had hired to monitor and lock up the place. I was only part-time which meant that I was scheduled for the hours that the full time employees did not want. Many Friday and Saturday nights I found myself locking doors and many Sunday mornings I did the opposite. It was during one of these chump shifts that I found myself flirting with said camera department girl as she swept and restocked her area.

“Hi, my name is Melissa I have seen you talking to Greg.”
“My name is GS3, I work security here.”
“Everyone thinks you are a shoplifter.”
“Yeah, the security people don’t want the people here to know who I am.”
“Would you walk me out to my car after the store closes?” she asked like she was actually concerned for her safety.
“Sure, I would love to” my pants struggling to restrain my enthusiasm.

Later that night when the store was closed, we leaned on her little car in the dark of the parking lot and talked about things we liked.

“Wow, I never met a girl that liked Monty Python”
“Yeah, have you seen the Life of Brian?”
“No, not yet I have been meaning to rent it from the video store”
“It is my fav”
“Hey do you like the Beatles?”
“I LOVE THE BEATLES!” she exclaimed like a true fan.
“Do you have any of Paul’s solo stuff?”
“Nah, I like George”
“Wow, you are incredible” I said before I fell into a love-sick dreamy la-la state.

We spent the next thirty minutes kissing while Elton John played on her car stereo.

“Benny, Benny, Benny, Benny and the jetssssssssssssssssssssssssss”, Elton lamented over and over again.

Somehow I managed to be lucky enough to share a shift or two with Melissa and we were able to sneak a few kisses in lonely forgotten aisles. One hot summer day, I grabbed her and my buddies and we all crammed into my 1973 Camaro and set out to explore Marietta. She always made me feel so silly. My lack of attention caused us to get into a minor auto accident in which I ended up chasing my hub cap down a congested street. Despite the heat and my goofy in-love behavior, to me the day was pure fucking magic.

As the summer got long in the tooth, my work at Richway became less frequent. The full-time employees were taking more of the schedule and new people had been hired. I put in my two weeks notice and hoped like hell I would have one more night with Melissa. I got my wish…and then some. As I wandered through the store securing doors and setting alarms, Melissa pulled me aside. She said that she was going to a party but would like to stop by my house later. Not only was her suggestion more than fine with me but my parents were not in town. They had gone to the mountains to visit some friends. “God damn it, there is a God”, I thought.

I finished my work at Richway, running from door to door anxious for my late night date to begin. I was in such a hurry that on the way home I ran a red light and an old lady in a station wagon slammed into the side of my Camaro, knocking my muffler out of its socket. I did not even stop. I rode home in a vehicle that sounded like a Harley. I watched the old lady’s shocked face as I hauled ass into the night.

Once home I quickly cleaned up and waiting for her on pins and needles. I ended up falling asleep on my mom’s fat overstuffed couch and did not awake until I heard the well anticipated knock. When I opened the door, Melissa was standing there drenched in water from head to toe. She said that she had fallen into a swimming pool and when she kissed me, she tasted like rum and coke.

“Do you have anything I can wear?” she slurred.
“Sure” I said and gave her my new baby blue Mickey Mouse t-shirt (my favorite).

She took off all her clothes right there in the hallway while I had a heart attack. Things were looking up for old GS3. I put in a laser disk and sat with her against those big fat pillows. The pretense of movie watching was soon discarded and soon we were knee deep in teenage lip lock….but she wanted more. My dolphin shorts were being tugged toward the floor and her head was heading south. The situation was escalating far beyond my expectations and I was elated…until a thought popped in my mind. “What if my parents come home?” There mere word parent in my brain caused an undesired reaction in another part of my body.

“What’s wrong G” she asked as if she had never encountered such a thing”
“I don’t know, that never happens”
“Let’s go to your bedroom, you will be more comfortable”

After a few more attempts were made at raising the dead, we lay and talk and cuddle in my little single bed. Her kindness was beginning to relax me and things were looking up down there. I had just begun my ascension when I hear my mother’s voice.

“Doodle, open the god damn door!”
“Dear god in heaven I know I did not hear my mother calling me” I thought to myself.
“Doodle I said open the god damn door, what are you locking the fucking door for anyway?”

It was her.

“Shit!”
“Holy Fuck!”
“God damn it”
“I am so screwed!” (and not in the good way I thought).
“FUCK”, I said again just for emphasis.

My whole world began to spiral behind me like the opening sequence of The Twilight Zone. I quickly shoved Melissa into my closet and answered the front door feigning a sleepy-head.

“Ya’ll were suppose to be back until tomorrow”
“Now I can’t sleep, I am going to watch T.V.”

“Shit”, I thought. I have a tiny girl shoved in my bedroom closet. “How in the fuck am I going to get her out?” I tried to calm my brain while I cooked up a plan. Then it came to me: wait until my parents were asleep and then get her out of the house. I went into my room and whispered my plan to Melissa. She did not seem to be half as scared as I was, this situation must have not been new to her. After a couple hours I heard my stepfather begin to snore and used the opportunity to rush Melissa out the door. I grabbed my car keys and had just shut the big squeaky front door when I realized that I could not drive her home: I had no muffler. If I started my car it would sound like Nazi’s over London. “Think, think, think, you asshole” I berated myself. My friend Mike, he would help me. He was the only person that I could call for this sorta mission. He would not be happy about it though.

“Mike it is Gordon”
“What in the fuck are you doing calling me this late?” he asked all groggy and grumpy.
“I need your help…no questions. Bring your car to the bottom of my driveway and wait. I have someone for you to take home.”
“Who is it?”
“A girl”
“I am on my way buddy.”

Ten minutes later Mike was waiting at the end of my driveway and Melissa was sitting in the passenger seat. This would have been the end of the story except for two things: she left her purse and clothes in the laundry room. Long story short I had to spend thirty more minutes opening that squeaky bastard of a door before I could give Melissa her things. As I watched Mike and Melissa pull off I could not help but laugh at myself. I could not believe that I actually pulled it off. “What a fucking night” I thought to myself as I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling.

The next morning I got up early, purchased flowers and a card and found myself knocking on Melissa’s door.

“I am so sorry Melissa, everything was such a disaster.”
“I was mad at you at first, but now it is sorta funny to me.”
“It is not funny to me”, I said lamenting at all I had put her through that evening: impotence then being shoved in a closet for two hours and shuffled off like an illegal alien in the middle of the night.”
“Can I make it up to you Melissa? Give me one more chance”.
She smiled softly, took the flowers and said “I’ll see you in Nirvana” and went back into the house.

I guess sometimes you only get one chance to get a hard on.

And now for something completely different...

The afternoon lull has got me. My stomach is leaden with Chinese buffet. I feel so heavy that my ass and chair have become indistinguishable in my mind. If I am going to get up I will need a long pry bar and some sort of pivot. I just need to break the seal. I think that when my ass finally clears the cushion it will make a sound like ancient air rushing from a freshly popped open sarcophagus.

Some days it is hard to make yourself work; other voices call you. Today there is a strange balmy breeze blowing and it is distracting me. It is both cool and warm at the same time and smells like memories. This morning on the way to work I delayed my usual commute just to stand in it for a few minutes. Twenty minutes later I am late for work and exceeding my usual moderate pace on the highway… but there was no traffic to dodge. I like to think that strange wind scrambled the brain waves of my fellow gas guzzlers and they like me were leaning on their cars somewhere under its spell.

I was not there but last night D set off a firework in the house. We had bought some fireworks from Publix for the Fourth of July and there were a few little ones left in the pack. D picked out a harmless looking little firework, put it in the sink, and lit it; big mistake. That little stick of gunpowder gushed black smoke into our kitchen and rained up showers of golden hot sparks towards our ceiling; then the twenty-one gun salute began. Our little Yorkshire terrier, Winston got so upset by this boom-boom stick and light show that he now is afraid to be in the kitchen. His little nervous system was so short-circuited that he was running around in circles and insisting on sitting out in the pouring rain from hurricane Cindy. Although Winston bonded early on with D, he embraced my homecoming with new enthusiasm and was more than happy to go upstairs and got to bed with me. Thanks to D and the power of thermal dynamics I now have a new relationship with my dog.

I went to get an autograph last night. Hollis Gillespie was signing her new book at the Outwrite Bookstore in midtown. I arrived just as Hurricane Cindy was getting started and left right before she caught her second breathe (Cindy…not Hollis). I have been a Hollis fan for a couple of years now and I had a slight apprehension about being in her presence. I must admit I was a little star struck. Before everyone lined up to get their book personalized, Hollis did a telling of her stories. She was very likeable and had me smiling and feeling glad that I had braved the weather and bad Map Quest directions to be there. I had come with the intention of giving her the address of this little blog to check out (if she wanted to of course). I made a little address label with my name and blog and email and all that shit on it. I had my hand on it as I inched my way towards her in line but when the time to give it to her I left that paper there like a whore on a corner.

“Hi”, I said faking being comfortable.
“Hi”, Hollis said.
“Wow, look at all that rain. I will never get home now. I live in Lawrenceville”.
“You came all that way to see me”
“Yeah” I said (but I had only driven from Cumberland Mall).
She paused and seemed to be flattered by this remark.
“I give your book to all my friends” (well one…but she really liked it).
“Really”
“Yeah, I was so scared to come up here and see you”
“Why”
“You know…you’re a celebrity and all” I said with downcast eyes.
“Honey, don’t be afraid of my. Take a flight to Pensacola on Delta and I will be serving you peanuts”

I walked away shyly just as the word peanuts left her mouth. I did not want to take up too much of her time. I looked at her one last time before I did some puddle stomping and walked up the sidewalk to my car. I was glad that I did not bother her with my little piece of paper but at the same time of course I wish that I had given it to her. God damn it.

Haunting Dreams

I'm there again. The house is different, slightly. I'm older. This time I'm buying the house and my father is with me, and we're walking around, looking at it.

This time the house is different, bigger, more rooms...rooms that were there before but we never noticed.

Each dream is unique, never quite the same. But each dream features that house.

Perhaps a part of our childhood will stay with us always, perhaps some parts are better as memories. Those memories can be so strong, so overpowering.

For the biggest part of my childhood, age 5 through 11, I lived in an old house in Sanford, Florida. It was over a hundred years old at the time, white, frame, two stories, large yard. It was the perfect house. Our later abodes were far less memorable in many ways....a mobile home, a tiny rented house, a two bedroom one bath ranch....

It's natural to remember that old house with fond memories, but things in my later life were so underwhelming, so disappointing, that the old house in Sanford was raised to lofty proportions. The morning after we moved out I woke up, looked around, and realized with sadness that we weren't there anymore. From that moment until the present, I have been haunted with dreams of the old place. Sometimes I will dream about it every night, sometimes I will go months without dreaming of it. But the dreams always return. Sometimes I'm buying the house, moving back in, sometimes it's bigger, more grandiose. It is impossible to describe how real some of those dreams are, so utterly real. I know, absolutely KNOW it's real as it's happening, I say to myself "This is real, this time I'm not dreaming, I'm really HERE". Without fail, every awakening brings sadness and overwhelming emptiness.

Last week I went back there. It's been 30 years. But I went back. As I drove up the street towards it, everything was familiar. I'd never left. Then...there it was. Look at it. I don't say a word, I just look, I look at the yard, I look at the windows, the front porch, the trees, the sidewalk. I get out of the car and walk around. Every board, every shrub is familiar. I know that place, I never forgot it.

It's yellow. It has vinyl siding...used to be white wood, the shrubs are very overgrown, the grass is not kept up. The whole neighborhood has gone downhill. There's a crazy, zig-zag fence in the backyard, and a huge metal garage in the far back, like for a business.

The whole place has shrunk. I don't know how, I'm no expert in physics, but I know it's smaller. The giant yard that hosted many a game of kick ball, now seems not giant at all. The big, wrap around porch is not very big. Even the length from the front steps to the sidewalk is smaller. The other houses in the neighborhood have gone through similar transitions.

There's a giant live-oak tree in the side yard that stretches over the whole yard and to the sky. My dad once threw a long rope over a high branch and made a swing for us....that branch was a mile high. That tree still seems huge, other trees are gone. Others....well, it's been 30 years, others are very big and old, but didn't exist when I lived there.

I was very tempted to walk up and ring the bell. I could ask to look around. I could offer to buy the place, it certainly needed fixing up. A crooked flag was strung across the front porch between two columns, an old sofa was on a side porch. I could restore it, put it back to it's former glory. Maybe it could blossom again, maybe it could grow again.

Maybe someday.

I walked back to my minivan, and told the wife and kids "Alright, let's go".

Hmm...Okay, on second thought...maybe not.

It may be possible for some people to "find themselves", and in some sci-fi sort of way, it may be possible for one to find an alternate version of themselves.

For me, it happened in Florida last week. There I was strolling down the beach, my shirt unbuttoned, a breeze blowing through my hair as I slowly looked around at what the tide brought in...and what it brought in was thousands upon thousands of dead fish, compliments of a red tide...and I was picking them up, one after the other, and putting them in a big bin I was dragging along with me.

What? Wait a second, that's not me! That's the ALTERNATE me...that's what I COULD have been...the real me is sitting on a third floor balcony of a very nice condo, WATCHING the other me. I sat there, sipping my drink, discussing investment real estate with another vacationer, trying to decide the break-even point on buying a condo to rent out, all the while eyeing the man on the beach.

I had seen him before, and a few others like him. They were old. They might not have been more than 40 or 50, but they were old for their years....their skin was dark and very wrinkled. Their hair long and grizzled, and with much grey. Their clothes spoke volumes, it spoke of years of usage and neglect. I wondered what their story was, did they quit school to live the life of a beach bum? Did they find themselves swallowed up with condos and resort hotels? Are they now living the only life they've trained themselves for? Did they lose that special girl they loved so much in their youth, because she wanted someone more responsible, someone who could provide for her and their kids?

I remember once hearing a teacher say that maturity is when you think of the future and not just the present. When you plan for tomorrow, when you give up good times right now so that you will be better off later. There's a lot of ways to say it but the meaning is the same.

And I'm sure the good readers of this post know where this is going. And there's no need to drag it out. Needless to say, we all make choices in life....who can ever say what a right choice is, or a wrong choice.

For me, I might have enjoyed the beach bum life, and it might have been fun for a while. But eventually I would have had to give it up, lest I become the alternate me, picking up dead fish on the beach for a living.

What is your ECD ?

I was in a meeting this afternoon; nothing special, just the weekly confessional.

“What did you do?”
“What is your ECD (estimated completion date)?”
“What are you going to do this week?”

The meeting was held in the extra large and fancy executive meeting room on the 15th floor. The chairs are covered in red velvet and there is a huge round table more befitting King Arthur than a bunch of computer geeks. The best thing about the room, though, is the view. One entire side of the room is glass from the floor to the ceiling. It faces north into Marietta and further on into Tennessee. On any day you can look out and down onto the tangled intermingling of gray ribbon highways. Eighteen wheeled monsters muscle out lesser vehicles as they merge and weave there way through the traffic. Cars break down and well meaning police and ambulance drivers worsen the situation with their hypnotic rubber neck inspiring lights.

Today, however God threw rain at those windows. At first the rain came in small taps, like a shy kid knocking at your door. Then the tapping became more urgent and adamant for attention. I looked over from my slice of the round table and saw the blankets of rain swirling and twisting. The rain was riding on an invisible wave that smashed against the mirrored exterior of the building and sent it sprawling in all directions. The thunder that had been building in the distance was now booming and close and lightning bolts burst like capillaries in the sky. In an instant I was looking out the window of my third grade class onto the playground.

There was a retarded kid named Eddie that sat behind me and made sounds like the wind blowing (when he wasn’t eating red crayons). The wind sound that Eddie made was so realistic that he could break your arm out in goose bumps from the anticipation of the chill. Many days I thought that there was a white squall minutes away from destroying the school only to realize the storm had originated from Eddie’s mouth. Once I went to a birthday party for Eddie and learned that I was way too obedient to win at Simon Says.

“Simon says Standup”.
And I would stand up.
“Sit down”.
And I would sit down.

I was the first one out, three times in a row and the early loser of the game. I sat and pouted as the other kids played out the remainder of the game.

“Pin the tail on the donkey, now that is a game” I said to myself.
“Simon Says is for babies” I added to make myself smile.

A huge crack of thunder split the air like a strike from God’s bowling alley and I was back in my slice of the meeting table.

“GS3 what have you been doing this week” my manager asked ready to document my response”

“Looking out the window” I said in my little voice.
“Looking out the window”.

Like water off a ducks back

Poor B, for someone who waited so long to get married, I wish that she had waited even longer. Not only did I loose an excellent hair dresser and wonderfully eccentric friend when her new husband whisked her off to Florida, but I have been led to the impression that the guy is a nutball. He is very jealous and controlling and has pretty much sequestered B in a hardwood-floored tower (he installs hardwood flooring) away from her friends.

I remember going out with B one night when the nutball was new in her life (she actually was dating two nutballs at the time).The whole evening was spent with her telling me all about the both of them. I could not help but to think (while she bombarded me relentlessly with joy-inspired, cryptic ramblings) that normal guys like me don't have a chance (this has been a topic on this blog before). A guy like me could never get a date with a B. What makes it worse is that if you rule out the appearance factor (I am told B's current hubby is no Clark Gable), I really cannot pin point what makes one guy attractive and another labeled with the “friend” curse. I have been around the block long enough to know that in general (not always) women like a challenge. They like for a guy to be rough around the edges. They like a project. It is no fun to get someone that is ready to go right off the shelf. But I can't help but wonder that as women get older; do they change what they look for in men? Does there come a time when the James Deans and Marlon Brandos of the world loose their appeal and all of the sudden a Rick Moranis or a Norm Abrams becomes more appealing?

My own father is shacked up with a twenty-four year old, big butt swishing moocher. It is amazing how a free house, a Ford Expedition, free child care and free college tuition will melt the years off of a 62 year old man and render him into an acceptable life partner. Each week I call my dad to get my dose of verbal abuse and he laments to me that “S is the only person that gives a shit if I eat or not!” This week he elaborated on his usual rant with the “I just might leave everything (money, property) to S, and you and T and T (my brother and sister) can kiss my ass!” I must admit that the thought of my grandmothers antiques and my great grandfather’s land in the possession of that little moocher hit a nerve with me. I wonder what my ancestors would think about the Shirley legacy being left to a bad waitress my dad met at the waffle house.

Back to B. For those of you that did not have the pleasure of knowing B, she was like a ray of sunshine. Nothing could rain on her parade (including reality). In some respects B was like Michael Jackson. Not that she molested children (I know he was declared innocent, right?), but that she did not seem to live in this world. Michael Jackson retreats from the world by going to the Neverland Ranch and B retreated from the world by living inside her own head. With every haircut that B gave me, she shared stories of possible dates with famous boyfriends and lucrative business plans to sell her famous makeup travel case. I may never know how based in this world B’s stories were but the joy on her face as she shared these dreams beamed like a breach from a nuclear power plant.

A friend at work was telling me about a friend of his girlfriend. Evidentially she is quite a hot-little number and could probably have her pick of men. However, her boyfriend is in jail. As a matter of fact, she is going to marry him before he gets released. When I hear stories like this, once again I am filled with wonder. If I went to jail, D wouldn’t send me a tube of Preparation H to cool off my over-used ass. What differentiates guys that can inspire fierce loyalty in women and guys that couldn’t get pissed on if they were on fire? Is it a big dick? Is it that the guy reminds them of their father? Is it that there is some sick need inside them that needs to be treated like shit? Or maybe it is something indefinable. Something that is not known until it is seen. Maybe geeks like me need to stop worrying about shit like this and enjoy the women that do like them. Regardless of the answer to my philosophical question, B I hope that you continue to let your smile be your umbrella.

This mess I have made

A lot of shit went down in 1985. My grandmother Mama Ruby had a stroke and died right in front of me on the blue and white checkered linoleum of her kitchen floor. It was also the year the Dire Straights came out with the Brothers in Arms album. You could not turn on a radio without hearing Mark Knopfler grumbling about getting your money for nothing and your chicks for free. There was only one season that year: summer, and it rained everyday.

During the summer of 1985, I was taking an “Into to Psychology” course at the Dunwoody campus of Dekalb Community College. I had a huge crush on a curly-haired, trench coat wearing classmate named Wendy Ivey. Wendy was four years older than me, which put her at a respectable 23 years old. Understandably, I lied to her and told her that I was also 23. I think she believed me. Wendy was one of many ex University of Georgia students at Dekalb whose grades had fallen on hard times. She was attending Dekalb College to jump start her GPA, make a little money working at the newly built Galleria Mall and hopefully return to Athens one day.

Wendy was the coolest girl that I had ever met. She liked to drink beer and talk about going to Scotland. We were going to be expatriates. One day we skipped class and hung out by the old mill ruins at Vickory Creek in Roswell. It was jungle hot that day and while Wendy worked on her tan, I drank sun-warmed beer and attempted sneaky glimpses at her cleavage (which was more than ample). Another day, she took me on a long car ride to visit her boyfriend in Athens. We listened to Bob Marley on her car cassette deck for the entire trip. It was the first time that I had heard the song, “Jammin” and I loved it. Wendy’s boyfriend lived with his roommates in a typical “guy apartment” full of empty beer bottles and a bong adorned coffee table. He was tall and blonde and nice and funny, so understandably I hated him. I remember standing uncomfortably by the “tree that owns itself” while Wendy and her man tried to work in some abbreviated loving in his cleanliness impaired apartment. I remember thinking, “Here I am with a fucking tree and he is inside with her”. “I am such a loser”. Finally she immerged from the frat cave, flushed and happy and talking about going to see a band called the “Swimming Pool Q’s”. The ride home was not near as fun as the ride out, and an electrical short began to form in my head as the beer worked on the area between my brain and mouth. I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember that the vibe in the car got thick and uncomfortable and Atlanta seemed a hell of a long way away.

Wendy was a great proponent of psychedelic experimentation. In an effort to cure my own curiosity and incur her favor I arranged through her to purchase a vehicle to transport me and a friend to an alternate reality. Under the guise of borrowing a text book, I rushed to her house one evening and collected the aforementioned substance on two Chiclets-sized pieces of paper, resting deep between the pages of chapter 8. It was this attempt at impressing Wendy by engaging in one of her favorite pastimes that eventually soured our friendship. In short, I never paid her the ten bucks for the product (ten bucks was a lot of money in those days). Those ten dollar bills became the piece of sand that irritated the oyster. Only instead of making a beautiful pearl, it made a great black sore spot in our relationship. Two, three, four times she asked me for the money and each time I turned out empty pockets. My lack of repayment for my purchase was due more to irresponsibility than intention. For some reason I was sure that she would turn away my ten and credit my purchase to the house. I was childishly wrong.

Time went by and after many weeks of trying I finally got through to Wendy on the telephone. The level of irritation that she had towards me was made evident through a voice that seemed to be forced through a clenched lips.

“I am engaged to a real Scotsman, now”
“I met him on the beach”
“Oh, really” I said. “Are you going to get to go to Scotland?” I asked her.
“In a month”
“That’s great” I said with regret and jealousy in my heart.
“You know I still work at the radio station” I said trying to thin out the slow and heavy conversation.
“I gotta go, my mom needs me”, she said not interested.
“Okay” I said meekly and listened to the finality of the dial tone.

That was the last time I spoke to Wendy. Man, I sure can make a mess. Some fuck ups you never get the chance to fix.