the importance of things

sorry it's been so long since a story. i've just been caught up in being unemployed, hungry, nervous, and drunk (which, you may have guessed, makes a person feel pretty awkward). so i've been doing a lot of sitting, reading, resumè polishing and i started thinking about how it's also awkward the ways in which we are connected to rituals or objects in our lives. so i'm posting a series of jottings on post-its that connect in some way, though i don't know what it is. here goes.

an act of futlity

this is the "album" i recorded this past year.
it is not a recording by ghosts in the woods.

Drunkard's Wet Dream

Local bars, rather, their crowds, terrify me. Because the crowd is locals, and usually regulars, if you visit the place even infrequently, you are labeled a regular yourself. You can call the next song on the house playlist, get your jeans caught on the same splintering stool with the purpose of starting another conversation about how they should replace them, and your deodorant is welcome as part of the stench of spilled beer and undercooked meat-lover's pizza. Thusly, on your second visit, you are more accountable and less a ghost. The worn-out bartender remembers your drink, the jail bait hostess knows where you want to sit, and the rosy-cheeked patrons know it's okay to bother you with small talk and crackpot theories and war stories and pictures of their kids at college.

My roommate and I played music one night at such a bar/restaurant. We were filling in for Spoonful of Blues or some other band of old dudes with real jobs but little musical skill who go to the bar to drink a few beers and flirt with the young waitresses every other day after brushing what's left of their ponytails and spit-shining their Mazda Miatas they bought during their midlife crises. The youngest people in the bar by at least 10 years, Clayton and I thought it was at least worth our while for the $100 and free beer. Seeing the crowd (by crowd, I mean less than 15) of 50-something moms, we thought nothing could go over better than two young men playing heart-felt versions of old country classics and original folk soon-to-be classics. Women would weep. Men would avoid eye contact. Tips given, rounds bought, daughters thrown at us.

45 minutes in, the original crowd had stuck through enough songs they didn't know, so they started yelling requests. Trouble is, I don't know any Vince Gill or Wailers songs, and I'm not about to bust out my Blackberry to learn. I pick up the pace with the drinking, hoping I'll get to that place in which I can lose myself in whatever song I'm playing and forget about who is watching and/or listening. The plane was diving, and the only way to get back in control was to get drunk as hell.

The other reason I agreed to play music at this restaurant was that there was a very cute waitress who usually worked Thursday nights (the night we played) and who had a beautiful voice. She seemed intelligent but unassuming, quiet but not naive. A man with my dedication could perhaps persuade her to open up to watching John Cusack movies for 8 hours straight, playing cowboys and Indians in the woods at Bays Mountain, or singing a song she's never heard before. I'd seen her sing jazz songs at an open mic and forgot I was there with another woman until she came back from the bathroom and shook me out of my leering daze with a kiss on the cheek and “Let's go smoke.”

Halfway through our 3 hour set, the cute waitress finally got some tables close to us, and having the courage that possesses and then defeats a drunkard, I'd try to make eye contact and smile during the love songs. I don't think she once looked at me, because I'm sure that any beer drinkin' fool in a band has used such claims to try and get her beautiful pants on his floor. I tried to sing my sincerity, but a 10 beer deep ocean filters the senses such that everything is either a tragedy or a hysterical joke, which I believe is melodrama and comes off completely insincere.

Clayton and I finished the set to a room of fifty empty glasses and a couple of pairs of eyes half shut. We got our $100 cash, and sat around for a few minutes finishing our free beers and thinking about smoothing out the set. The stools were up, a regular here and there was making small talk with the bartenders and waitresses who were simultaneously sweeping and feigning interest. I decided after enough beer to make my piss turn a Clydesdale into glue, I'd better use the bathroom before trying to drive home.

There is a moment in consumption where you aren't completely taken by it but still willing to see where it leads. As I was following my bladder to the bathroom, I realized I was in fact being dragged there by such a burning desire I was barely able to contain myself. It wasn't the cute waitress who spurned my subtle and self-deprecating advances that started the fire in my loins. It was the fact that I couldn't see a way through that set without 14 beers and closing my eyes and praying to a god I know will never hear me to make this night be over.

Through the walk that lasted forever, I realized songwriting isn't about hooks or catch or ambition necessarily. It's about writing something meaningful and heart-felt and playing it and singing it as such and people listening. This restaurant/bar maintains as its way of life everything that detracts from the atmosphere and emotional intensity of good songwriting, so that even were I to possess some sort of beauty and the ability to express it, I would never be heard there. I would never be heard. I would always be left agitated and on fire and drunk as hell. Fuck it, I've reached the bathroom. The zipper will be tricky, and I'm about to burst, and opening the door with one hand and trying to free myself from this hell I've trapped myself in, and in more of a rush than I realized, I come face to face, and crotch to bulging crotch with one of the regulars, a fella whom I saw earlier actually chatting pleasantly with the love of my life. Startled after bumping in to one another, he looks down to see what I'm holding, and realizing what it is for a moment longer than he'd like to be aware, jerks his eyes forward and past my head to the door and the bar and the therapist. Too rapt with the impending situation, I keep moving at pace until I can finally let myself go.

After a few minutes of deep breaths and hand washing, I figured I'd killed enough time to be able to safely return without contact from this guy again. I walk quickly (as quickly as presently possible) to the table, grab my hoodie, and head for the door. Within reach of the handle, I heard “You guys may want put a bouncer by the bathrooms.” My decision to stay away from that place has been made for me.

House Away From Home

Fog is the blanket under which the people of south central Kentucky sleep. The fog is pervasive and carries a power that sags the air, heavy in the way that makes you feel weightless like you're swimming in an ethereal swimming pool. Corbin itself feels thick. The coal industry has pushed the limits of the town's soul; it bulges until the cold gray of steel and fog and smoke stacks flood the streets, through the Taco Bell parking lots and running the 15 red lights in the one and a half mile stretch of highway 25-E before it connects to I-75.

I worked the day before, 4-11, driving pizzas around town while trying to beat the clock. Then I started on my 8 hour drive to western Kentucky to see my college roommate and his family. All this is to say that I had gotten comfortable being let alone.

At 3 a.m. driving through Corbin, I decide to go to Waffle House in that “Well, why the fuck not?” way most people do right before they find themselves staring at a plate of greasy eggs. I'm not even hungry, or thirsty, or tired. I just need something to do with my hands besides swerving lane to lane rolling cigarettes in the dark. I walk in and ask which side is the smoking section (the ban in Kentucky is by county) and choose a seat in the far corner. From there, I can see the door, a couple chain smoking a few booths in front of me in the near corner, and the cooks in the reflection from the windows, dripping with condensation as they are.

A waitress no older than I takes my order, “Okay honey, we'll have it for ya in a few,” betraying the presence of her old soul. The hash browns, grits, and coffee arrive together, all plain as they come. I put out my cigarette, grab the ketchup, and get to work. No, I don't need a refill, thank you. Sure, I'll politely smile and nod when you add “darlin'” to the end of your pleasantries. The man half of the couple in front of me has a sleeveless t-shirt on with the name of (I'm assuming his) landscaping company on the front and a big right arm wearing a faded blue tattoo of the Tasmanian Devil cartoon character. His woman is dressed more appropriately for the sub-freezing weather: pants, boots, a leather jacket that I assume is his. Their talk is indiscriminate. I watch the cooks in the reflection in the window, calling out short hand orders and joking with the local patrons.

As I'm about to get up to pay the bill and leave, I notice the sound of what seems to be a male baritone voice singing a Spanish opera (although in retrospect it may have been a 70's country song. Regardless, there was oddly no music playing before), and simultaneously a man enter the cooking area from the back room, as if the music were to mark his arrival. The mood was changing. Tall and lean, he strides with the confidence of a mafia don, a man in complete control of his surroundings, a gait few men of his age (at least 60) keep through their 40's when they realize they don't have to fight anymore, that they can resign to the world and become rocks in the wake instead of oars. His white hair is pulled into a ponytail and bound by a couple of rubber bands, and his white mustache and soul patch hang on his face like memories of fallen comrades.

Taking this in, I forget that he can see me as well in the sweating windows. I guess I was staring, but not in an offensive or aggressive way. He locks his eyes on mine and instantly looks across the room to the sleeveless man sitting in front of me. The bouncer, his muscle. The man nods, and The Chef turns. Neither look at me the entire time afterwards.

I pay, thank, and tip the waitress. I also neglect to tell her that she made a mistake on the ticket and that I should have been charged for the grits, but we've already done the dance. I open the door and the fog instantly clings itself to my clothes, wilting my collar and closing in on my resolve to drive 4 more hours in the dark. “Hey boy, I like your tattoo.” I know without need of proof it is the Tasmanian Devil. He looks like his voice, a little gruff and regretting his wardrobe choice. I turn around to meet him, to steady myself against what may be punishment for crossing an invisible (and ridiculous anyway) line. Did I unknowingly look at either The Devil or The Chef crossways? I damn sure hope not. His woman is there at his side, swimming in the fog or the jacket or the situation. “I like yours, too.” He takes a step towards me, his woman takes a step towards him. “Is that supposed to be funny?” His woman puts her arm in his, pulling him towards a truck the fog, or even a flood of biblical proportions, couldn't clean. “Come on, let's go. It's goddamn late and he's a young man with out of town tags,” she says, looking at my license plates and my cleanly shaved face.

They get in the truck, rev the Hemi a few times, which I assume is my cue to get the fuck out of there. Halfway into my car, I hear him stop. I can't help but look. A blackened window rolls down, and from inside, I think I hear “'Cause it wasn't.”

I have realized why guys like that, the guys that love Larry the Cable Guy and spend more money on their trucks than their trailer homes, love the Tasmanian Devil cartoon. They can identify with him. He has a mullet, you can't understand a goddamn word he says most of the time, and time has pushed him to become a caricature of himself. Over the years, the simplicity of what he was has been refined, distilled, until all we are left with is a cartoon image, comical in its exaggerated defining features. I suppose we can say the same of the Devil himself.

Walker

Here, it is beautiful today. The end of December, and we've got temperatures around a gentleman's 73, billowy clouds bumping around a blue sky, and a slight wind that blows hats from their heads and napkins from their picnic blankets.

On days like today, I like to drive around with the windows down seeing what sort of once-in-a-year happenings Winter's friend Cabin Fever will sprinkle upon the town. Days like today are when I get to bear witness to all types of little events: fender benders, dogs splashing through puddles, the cops chasing a man on foot. Generally, days like today are the days I get to see other people's stories, to have some external visualization for all of those interwoven yarns, the minor pulses that make the rhythm of my small town beat, beat, beat.

Days like today are prime days for awkward situations.

Driving, eyes open, windows down, music humming, a man on a bicycle "strolling," or the equivalent of strolling for cyclists, down the sidewalk, and another man walking towards him. I say walking, but I rather mean "walking with cerebral palsy."

He looked like, and only because of his hair and clothing (leather shoes, even), my imagination's representation of Lennie from Of Mice and Men or the unwitting men I'd seen in pictures from the 1940's of the mentally handicapped who took the fall for others' rape/murders. "He has no disease; and so what if his birth mother was just an alcoholic!" yelled the jury/lynch mob. The hung had no idea.

However, this man, my contemporary man, seemed to have an idea. His awkwardly bouncing walk made his back arch and head wobble, but if he didn't have CP, I'd bet he'd walk like the tallest man on two legs. His eyes seemed to pick out people driving past and say "Look at me, I dare you. You are scared." And I'm sure some were scared. I'm sure many people don't know too much about CP (I don't). I can spot the hell out of it, but I couldn't tell you what it does or how it works. All I know is that this man had it, or something like it, that caused his knees to bow and force him to walk on his toes, as if his heels were tied to his neck from behind and he was carrying a full-grown man in his mouth. Still, his rhythm was steady, bump, bump, bump.

And his eyes, too, worked quite well, almost inversely well compared to his withered joints. They were alive with a spirit, even if it seemed accusing and haughty. Selecting every few drivers, he'd watch them and contort his mouth into what seemed a snarl. I calculated quickly his pattern, and realized I was on his hitlist.

What should I do? Were he to stare me down, I'm sure I would be accused of being closed-minded and ignorant. I'm sure I would be forced to look away, even though I have nothing about which to be guilty. I'm sure that my questions would betray themselves and me.

The moment of truth. I drive by, still looking at this man but without judgement. I have no condecension or even pity for him. He is a man like any other to me, equal and capable as we all are unless we choose not to be. His eyes, the most steady part of his entire body, snap and lock onto mine, and before I can tell myself "nod, as one man to another," I look away. I flinch. I lose.

Feeling red in the cheeks, I return my gaze to him before he looks away to find his next victim, and his expression is of smug victory. He has defeated me and my closed-minded, simplistic, black-and-white view of the world that I don't even hold. He has come out on top, metaphorically standing with one foot on my chest, pumping the words "Now who's better than whom" into my forehead with a steady pulse that mimics the cars and traffic lights and potholes, thump, thump, thump.

Convenient

I read in the archaic newsprint that a convenience store was forcibly parted from its cash in the early hours of Wednesday morning. This gas station is conveniently on the way to a drinking buddy's house, so needless to say I have stopped there hundreds of times. But it being Friday, I felt distanced and inquisitive about the situation regarding the robber. Had I unknowingly exchanged looks with this guy standing in line?

Had he counted change to the sum of a pack of cigarettes in front of me or stared at the back of my head as we waited to buy beer? Could I ask the clerk about the incident without seeming guilty? Constantly seeming guilty, even for the actions of others, is one of the more incriminating traits I possess; my mother says it's because I can't tell a lie, but I'm truthful and nervous to the point that it seems I could have been involved in the murder of JFK, the theft of the Mona Lisa, and jay-walking in the process.

On the drive, I thought about just pulling in to another gas station. The beer's the same, the staff as helpful, and the patrons as pleasant. But then I realized I had a pen and paper to write down all the answers to all the questions I could ask, which led me to believe that theoretically, I could Dick Tracy the hell out of this incident and solve the crime. I'd be given a reward, and for my money (which is about none), any clams is a feast.

I sauntered in the door, at least, as smoothly as an awkward guy can saunter. Grabbed the six-pack of beer and stood in line for the counter. Without hesitation, I showed the kind woman at the counter my ID, all the time suspecting she'd think it were a fake, even though it was issued by the DMV itself. The last thing I need is having the cops called on me; I'm sure those parking tickets from Kentucky have been unpaid for at least 2 years. I've heard they go to warrant.

I calmly requested, without imperative, mind you, a pack of rolling papers. I roll my own cigarettes because it's extremely cost-effective. I suspect she took me for a pot head. I probably would have accused myself of the same in her shoes.

Total: $9.07. I have a ten and twenty in my wallet. I hand her some bill, a 50/50 chance it being twenty. She hands me $0.93 and I put it in the pouch in my wallet reserved especially for coins and arcade tokens.

Without thinking, as she turns to set up some beef jerky or cigarette display as part of her shitty minimum-wage-for-the-desperate job, I stare her deadpan in the face and say "Um, I need the change." It may have been some subconscious aversion to gas station attendants, but the look on her face seemed dumb. Again, I say "Yes, the ten."

Without blinking she replies "You gave me a ten, I gave you ninety three cents," with a look of incrimination reserved for those with enough brains to realize they've been caught trying to short change a third shift gas station employee two days after a robbery.

Red with shame, I return to my car and drive off to drink.

Introduction

I have an inherent aversion to highly social situations, especially those involving strangers.

Also, I hate being hugged/touched in general by people with whom I have no close relationship.

This blog will be a collection of those instances in my life in which I feel awkward, with the hope that I will gain some insight into my own behavior so as to maybe grow out of these feelings. We'll see.