The Sandwich Shop That Time Forgot

Everyone knows that the only thing that never changes is that everything changes. This is especially true about my hometown. Thirty years ago, Alpharetta was the last outpost on the edge of humanity. If Alpharetta had been marked on a medieval map, there would have been a line drawn at its boundaries and a warning that “Here There Be Dragons”. Today, Atlanta has not only swallowed up my little town but all the towns in between. Roswell Road (known to the world as Peachtree Street) is nothing more than one continuous vomitious stream of gas stations, strip malls and fast food crap mongers. Due to the arrival of big businesses like Cingular, Digital, and Coca Cola, Alpharetta has become home to a never ending cycle of transient yuppie’s passing through on their way to middle management. Without exception, I can go anywhere I want in Alpharetta, with only a snowball’s chance of running into someone that actually knows me. I would guess the odds are better for me winning the lottery and having my dick grow 5 inches in the same day. That being said, you get my point and we arrive at my real intentions.
“Dagwoods” is a little sandwich shop, located at the corner of Holcomb Bridge Road and Spalding Drive. I am not sure how long it has been there, but I have been aware of its existence for 22 years. Although I cannot say that I ever became friends with the owners, we were aware of each other and there was a comfort in the familiarity. One of the owners name was Jay. He was a cross between Kenny Loggins and Willie Nelson. His long red hair was always tucked up under a baseball cap, and he always gave off a vibe like he had just finished smoking a fat one. During a particularly lonely part of my life between the years of 25 and 27, Dagwoods became one of my “safe-houses” (the Varsity Junior on Cheshire Bridge is another one). Every Sunday afternoon, you could find me with a pitcher of beer, a bowl of peppercini’s and two glasses (a single person, cannot buy a pitcher of beer, thus the need for my invisible drinking buddy). Some people might label my Sunday afternoons at Dagwoods, pitiful or even depressing. The truth was that I could not have been happier. Then one day, I just stopped going.
I will be forty on March 21st. It has been at least 12 years since I have shown my face at Dagwoods. I stopped by on the way home from work yesterday to have a beer. I want to say that I was shocked at what I saw, but the truth is that I was shocked at what I did not see…change. It was like the place disappeared when I walked out of it last, and reappeared again at that very moment. All of the material things were just as I left them: the same decorations, the same Rock posters…even the same menu. I drew slow slugs off of my beer as my current image of the room compared itself to the scan I had made 12 years ago. Everything was perfect, down to the Captains wafers. I reflected on the impossible speed at which twelve years had passed, and ended up feeling old and fat…then I saw the pictures. On the walls, were photos of Dagwoods esteemed alumni. There was Lori, my favorite waitress; Jay smiled a huge grin as his impossibly beautiful wife clung to his side; skinny kids with big moustaches flipped pizza dough. It was all ancient history. Somehow in its rush, time had overlooked the sandwich shop and kept on going like the proverbial bat out of hell. I have no doubt however, that time will catch up with Dagwoods and turn it into something horrible like a Subway or God forbid a fucking Starbucks. I was thinking that I might stop by Dagwoods again tonight and get a look at the place one more time before I stop going again. Next time, I might not be so lucky.

Rust never sleeps behind the wheel.

Drive 65000 miles a year for 11 years it was bound to happen even to marathon driver like me.Almost 3 years to the day that I hit a car parked in the middle of hwy 400 at 3am in the morning.Hosea Diego Salazar Jesus Mateo Martinez Juan Ignacio Indigo Cesar Phillipe Oscar Juantwo Esteban Jorge Chi Chi Fernando Octavio Pepe Zaporo Felix Martin Jorge Palicio Rafael Hector Louis Anthoni Fez Fabian Emilio Juanthree Tomas
Julio Carlos Fidel St. Vitus, freshly arrived from Ecoudar and completely ignorant and irresponsible to the laws of civilization, had stopped his car and turned off his lights.We came along at 65mph and as I changed lanes away from another car with its flashers on in the emergency lane BAM!And yes he did call my insurance agency and
ask for compensation for his 1993 Geo Metro sedan, covered in two years pine resin and now with its back seat resting on its hood.State Farm laughed at him in at least two languages.
This time however it was my fault.I had picked up Mickey and we were heading to the jobsite and decided to cut back on 120 to avoid the holiday mall traffic clogging up 400 like 2 loaves of bran on a bus riders colon.Round a curve I came and the phone rang so looking down I picked it up just in time to look up and see the two cars stopped coming out of the curve.The person on the other line heard the double crash and the airbags going off.I hit some little girls driving to work and bashed the back pretty good but probably not fatal to the little Saturn until the E350 moving van hit us full on the passenger side going about 60mph.Bam we went forward again after airbag deployment which reminded more of like the time I got tackled by a busty redhead on my back lawn.Mickey jumped out of the car and began shouting "get out the trucks on fire".No just the airbags I shouted back.I pulled over from the wreck and put the truck in park,the horn blaring from the airbag popping out.
Next thing Mickey and I are scrambling to disconnect the horn and exchange the post wreck inquiries with the others.Mickeys usually hinckey back kicked in and off to the hospital for x rays and reaallly good painkillers.Two and a half hours later she was out.I went directly to the wrecker driver and asked him first thing if he could yank the bumper off my front tire.Chain in hand I strolled back to the truck and in 25 minutes I was out of there and headed to work.The E350 was totaled on site, a vehicle heavier about by 2500 lbs.
But now a little about my truck.TOTALED and still driving.Its been 460 miles in a week.I had bought it almost three years ago in Columbus,just about perfect.A near perfect replacement for that truck that was totaled out the week before.I still remember cruising home that night
I got it and reveling in hushed tones of its flowmasters burbling away.And verilly it was a token of one of the best years I had had in business.Now it sits in the yard , awaiting the agent to take it off to the salvage yard.
In the traditon of the navys of old, the crew of a warship headed to the breakers, would never bring back a shabby ship, even a battle damaged one.In that tradition I've scrubbed and cleaned the truck,damage and all,because it was built Ford tough and my most faithful companion of three years.

Now is the winter of our Disco Tent

Normally I approach winter with the same sort of dubious regard that one might feel while holding a spitting cobra at arms length.Winter, that dread specter of long shadows, cold winds and more modestly dressed young ladies.Convertible tops up,boats locked tight for, riding out the chill days at the docks,no sanding and painting on old cars,brown lawns and coughing,hacking, sneezing and fevers.Winter, dulling the mind and the senses.
But hey, business is better than ever and even with the impending loss of one of my most stellar employess ,I hold this winter with a warm regard for many opportunities.If and when I take a vacation I will be ready.I'm taking suggestions from you bold adventurers so sharpen your minds and tell me what would be your dream vacation would be and I will tell you a few of mine.

Orange Sodas and Chico Sticks

Lately I have been posting my "Intro To Creative Fiction" homework. I actually sent one of the stories, "Kingdom of Heaven" to a few literary magazines. Who knows ? Can't go fishing without putting your worm out there. As usual, I find myself hoping that someone will like my worm. School has kept me pretty busy lately. I actually polished off two little papers within the last two days. Thank god. They were like thorns in my academic ass. I hate research papers, and being an English major, there is no escaping those fucking things. Looks like I am the only one posting these days. RButler has all but disappeared off the radar, and MNeal has about a thousand blogs of this own to populate. God, is it hot and sticky in my house. D turned off the fucking air conditioning. Ahhhh, it sure is nice to come home to thick as butter jungle funk. I just wish that I had a vinyl couch to lay on, and a rayon shirt to suffocate me. Sweet Jesus, it is like someone put me in one of those bags you buy to roast your turkey. "Fresh hot GS3 right out of the oven...come and get him while he is hot!" "Momma, I want a leg." "Oh honey, you can't eat all that!" To make things worse D left the stereo on some homeboy music, and I am too lazy to turn it off. God damn it, I hate that shit. Ever pull up to the QT for a bucket of Coke and a Whatchamacallit, and are assaulted by a piece of shit car with a 1000 dollar radio ? I am surprised that the sub woofer does not rattle the rust bucket piece of shit apart. I can see it now, a couple of homies coming out of the QT with Orange sodas and Chico Sticks, only to find their 1000 dollar stereo sitting in a pile of rust. The only thing that I wish, is that it would fall apart while they are driving down 85. One of these days, I am just going to get in one of those homie mobiles ( they always leave the key in it ), and drive it to Car Max and sell it. It feels good to let off a little steam, although really, I have it pretty sweet compared to others. Take my brother for instance. He puts up with more shit than a little bit, working for a body shop in Cumming. When he is not busy detailing cars, they give him a razor and make him convert big fat boxes into little thin ones. Oh yeah, they make him clean their fucking shit hole too. He is 38 years old, going on 39 and those fuckers have no respect for a working man. Hell, the world has no respect for a working man. The only thing keeping him going is his side job, coaching football for his son's high school. He lives for three o'clock every day. Until then, it is all work and hiding from it. He is a good father too, and a good man. Much better than I have turned out to be. I am not being down on myself, just honest. Trust me, I know me. Great now I have a headache. Time to 86 that fucking boom boom shit someone calls music.

Coming Home from the Ball Park on a Summer's Evening

Curled up small and tight
A roly-poly in the floorboard of the family car
The transmisson hump makes a dirty hot pillow
Each bump in the road
Bounces your head
Each gear
Grinds in your ear

Lifting
Your face remembers the carpet
With crop circles
And tiny trash
Like ice cream sprinkles

Adults are talking
Blah, blah, blah
And
This and that
And hand me another one of those cold things

McDonald's french fries
Hot
Cold
And in-between
Greasy candles
Dropping salt
Delicious, tiny, happy bites
Will make them last
Forever

Drifing in and out
Of dark
And light
Along the highway home
Safe
And
Invisible

The Drivers License Shirt

He couldn’t remember why he liked it in the first place, much less why he was in a panic to find it. The shirt was threadbare and speckled with holes of various dimensions but once it glistened like orange and green striped polyester gold. It had originally come into his possession through the fruits of a fit he threw at the Hickory Flat Bargain Store, the summer before his eighth grade year. Anyone witnessing that vocal and tearful event would attest to the fact that his mother had no choice but to buy the shirt and ease his teenage suffering. In 1979, the shirt had clung tight to his skinny torso like a sock on the wall of a dryer. Seventy-five pounds and a quarter of a century later, he had little hope of squeezing back into his old friend without looking ridiculous...but then again, that was the point.

This was not the first time that Paul had lost the shirt. In fact, out of the twenty-six years that it had been in his possession, it had only made a handful of cameo appearances: his first day of high school, his first date, and every Drivers License photo he ever had taken. Originally a stunt to entertain his friends, the tradition of wearing what became known as the “Drivers License Shirt” (or DLS), evolved into something unexpected: a visual record of time flying. Every five years when his license expired, he squeezed back into that glorious rag, combed his hair down straight like Moe Howard and went to stand in line at the DMV.

“Where is that freaking shirt?” he said in the oppressive heat and humidity of the attic. It always turned up in the loneliest places. Once he had found it wedged in a crevice between the arm and seat of his frat boy quality sofa. Potato chip crumbs and ghosts of farts fell out into the air and almost choked him when he dislodged it. Another time, the shirt turned up in a moldy cardboard box full of ancient history. Inside were the odds and ends of his life: an Elvis mirror, a pair of 3D glasses, assorted Christmas and Birthday cards, immaculate unopened bills, and a zoo of unloved stuffed animals. He wished that the shirt had found a less retrospective place to hide.
So far, he had collected four Drivers License photos and kept them pinned in chronological order on a dry and crumbling cork board behind his computer. This year’s photo would be the fifth. With each successive laminated portrait his face widened, his eyes tired, and his smile looked less believable. It was like looking at time lapse photography of a man being poisoned. The consequences of five years revealed in a moment. It would have been depressing if the pictures had not been so god damned funny.

Grumpy and discouraged by his failure to locate the shirt in the attic, Paul gingerly coached his feet down the ladder. Although he knew a steel bar was bolted across the bottom of each rung, he could not help but envision himself painfully splintering through each one and crashing to the floor. He imagined his spirit hovering over his broken body as the medics arrived on the scene. “No more Cheetos for you big boy” one of them would say and then they both would start laughing. Paul’s right leg reached downward and found solid ground. “Looks like I’ll be having at least one more bag, you fuckers” he thought defiantly and let the folded ladder spring back into the ceiling. He paused to scan his brain for memories.

Once again he turned to his bedroom dresser; the contents of every drawer strewn about the room in random hurricane order. “Think” he said and tried to direct more juice to the part of his brain that remembered things. “I came home from the DMV, threw my change in the candy dish, pulled the shirt up over my head and threw it in the…GOD DAMN IT…I am starting to freak out people!” He grabbed one of the tacky brass handles on the front of the dresser and yanked the whole drawer out of its socket. “SHIT!” he screamed slowly as if the word was a mile long…and then there was silence. In one corner of the space previously occupied by the drawer, pressed flat against the back of the dresser, was his holy grail. “Oh, Drivers License shirt, I LOVE YOU!” Paul said mimicking Elmo from Sesame Street and then burst into laughter.

The shirt was in worse condition than he remembered both visually and odiferously. “All the better.” he thought and began inserting himself into the fragile garment with all the care of an archeologist trying to unroll a Dead Sea scroll. “Just one more time, old buddy” Paul thought as he began slipping the neck of the shirt down over his talk show host sized head. The polyester smashed his nose flat and clipped his ears as it stretched across his face. He felt like he was being born. “Almost there…” he said as he applied the final bit of pressure and then “pop”, he was wearing it.

Paul looked at himself in the narrow full length mirror that hung on the back of his bedroom door. The shirt stopped short of his hairy belly and a hole fell fortuitously around his left nipple. A pimple loomed red and ripe on the side of his nose and his off-white teeth smiled as if they were made of ivory. It felt good to be sixteen again.

Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Unemployment

Day Nine of doing nothing. I've fallen into an endless cycle of taking care of kids, playing with Google Earth, and listening to the screaming of a two-year-old who wants her way and is trying to talk above a wife complaining that I left dishes in the sink. Time has begun to lose meaning. The days run together. I've done away with knowing the days of the week in favor of a new method of my own invention. There are now two days of the week. Funday lasts for 6 days, and liquor-store-closed-day lasts for one day. Today is Funday.

Each morning I wake up, crawl downstairs, lay around. I stretch, yawn, and feel too lazy to reach for the remote. I try to get Katelyn to bring it to me, but instead she decides to start pushing buttons. Man, I'm way too tired to do anything about it.

After the first few days my beard had started coming in nicely. By now it's a huge, scraggly mess. My hair sticks up in all sorts of places. The hair brush sits idle. I've realized I can give up most forms of hygiene, including bathing. I was surprised that after a week I still didn't stink. But the other day I showered because I finally started to notice an odor. In an unrelated note my cold finally started clearing up and I can smell again.

My wife is throwing out lots of hints lately, more each day. She asks about all those projects I was going to do, how the job search is coming, etc. She even asked if I was going to write anything while I was off, kind of nudging me along. Dang. That instantly turned it into work, now I don't want to do it anymore.

After a hard days work of laying on the sofa, it's almost noon and I'm ready for a nap. Wish I had some chicken wings. But just the thought of getting dressed to go to the store is taking way too much energy. I collapse on the bed. Soon it will be late enough to have a rum and coke....I can't wait.

Oh damnit!!! I'm out of rum! Now I HAVE to make myself at least presentable enough to go into the liquor store. They've been looking at me funny lately, one of them offered me a frequent fliers discount! Jokers.

I think my life is becoming a Jimmy Buffett song.