Untold Stories: Adventures in a Chevy Nova

Every night that summer was basically the same routine.  Driving around, windows rolled up, smoke choking the air inside his Chevy Nova as Rush's Tom Sawyer repeatedly played.  God, I hated that song.  Funny thing is if I happen to randomly hear it now, I swear I begin to feel slightly stoned.  Maybe, it's sort of like muscle memory. 

If that Chevy Nova could speak, I bet it would have a lot of funny stories to tell.  The three of us could be personified as any of the characters in Dazed & Confused.

This particular night was really no different than any other in my early twenties with the exception of the music being played as we drove around aimlessly stoned.   I suppose, the pilot of the Nova that night wasn't in a Tom Sawyer mood.  More so, he was a little melancholy based on the fact he was skipping around between every monster ballad he could find from Poison to Guns N Roses to that hauntingly beautiful song House of Pain from Faster Pussycat.  Sad song after sad song being played over his stereo system that was worth more than the car itself.

I have to admit the mood created by those songs with the addition of pot and Milwaukee's Best flowing in my blood stream left me thinking about you.  I knew you were gone.  I had no misconceptions that what I once dreamed of with you would ever come to fruition.  If anything, I just missed you.  My recollection of you is hazy and was even so then but what I do know is that if we are lucky, once in a lifetime, we will meet one person who raises our standards and expectations from that moment on.  You were that girl.

I didn't love you because you were beautiful and you were.  I didn't fall for you because of that little beauty mark that I always sensed you were insecure about even though, vulnerability is an aphrodisiac with me.  I didn't lay awake dreaming of you because you let me talk about myself without becoming bored.  I loved you because you were unlike any girl I had ever known.  I can't even give you specifics what it was about you.  I just know that every moment I was in your presence, I didn't want to say goodbye. 

The last time we spoke, I knew it was our goodbye yet I avoided that word.  Maybe, I hoped, someday, down the road, like right now, we could start what never began.  But I also knew that people like you; those rare remarkable human beings where beauty is external and internal, only come around once.

I was in the back seat of that Chevy Nova thinking about you.  I was wondering who you were with because there was no doubt some lucky guy out there knew what I knew about you.  I was certain he would not let you slip out of his grasp as I had.  There wasn't envy in my wonder; in fact, I wanted the best for you.  I suppose, that's how you know it's love.



My life has been chaotic since the moment I was born.  Funny thing is there comes a short period in our lives when chaos is defined as adventure.  Those years with those friends in that Chevy Nova smoking pot was adventurous.  And I loved every moment.



When you slipped out of my life for what I thought was forever, I began to long again for quiet and stability as I had as a child.  I wanted a simple life with a loving woman, 2.5 kids and a white picket fence.  I think it was that night in the Nova when I determined that this adventure was short lived and one day, I would look back upon it all without remorse but with gratitude.

And I do.

I want to tell you about this adventure I am on now but really, its just a euphemism for chaos.  I was built and bred on chaos but I thrive on stability.  We have these small talks on occasion and it's funny; you still make me want to be a better man.  To this day, you raise my standards and expectations not only of what I expect in others but in myself.  I think it's important that you know this.



We drove around for hours that night and ended up in the middle of nowhere.  I swear for 3 hours we listened to nothing but the saddest songs ever played by a hair band.  When we finally stopped in the desert to finish our cases of beer and bag of pot, the three of us spoke about our aspirations.  Let's call it deep talking; that thing friends do when under the influence.  One of the three of us has reached his dreams.  Sadly, the second friend left us too soon and me, well, I am still trying.

We spent the night in that desert and slept through the burning Arizona sun until past noon.  On the ride home, the pilot of that Chevy Nova decided it was time to go back to his routine:  playing Rush's Tom Sawyer on repeat for three damn hours.  God, I hated that song.

I used to hate routine because of that song.  I suppose the mere definition of adventure is breaking routine.  It's also the same definition of chaos. 

I've got so many stories I will never get to share with you and I am sure you've got plenty more than me.

Godspeed, Mr. G

Mrs. C misses her good buddy.

It's a little heartbreaking to hear a frail 93 year old woman as she inches across the shag carpet in her outdated living room with her walker say those words.  Maybe, the saddest part of her admission is that her good buddy is alive and right next door. 

Mr. G won't leave the house.  He won't go out to eat.  He no longer will open the door for the mail man.  He won't even get the newspaper that is carelessly thrown onto his driveway every single morning.  Mr. G keeps his curtains closed.  If not for his son and his occasional caretaker, he wouldn't even open his mouth to speak. 

Mr. G has given up.  His life is about waiting.  He's impatiently waiting to die.

He's in bed by 8:00.  He awakes early in the morning and immediately walks over to his lazy boy chair in his living room.  He reads his newspaper and watches golf all day in between naps.  His son feeds him and then he's back in bed.  It's his routine. 

Mrs. C misses you, Sir.  Would you like to go visit her?  We ask him in earnest. 

NO!  He snaps back succinctly at anyone who dares ask.

It was just months ago on Christmas when Mr. G was full of life.  Moreso, determination.  He's just simply tired; tired from the loss of his independence, tired from 90 years of life, tired of being sick and tired of waking up each day without his wife.

Mr. G is one of the last great ones.  He's from that generation that knows sacrifice and hard work.  He's from the generation where men and women took their wedding vows to heart as witnessed by his 60 years of marriage before his wife had to leave.  He finds joy in simplicity and thinks technology has caused a disconnect between people.  He doesn't understand this generation nor does he want to.

Every few months, they say Mr. G won't make it.  He always proves them wrong.  This time, he won't.  He doesn't want to.

I miss my good buddy, Mrs. C softly says with a crack in her voice. 

We all do, Ma'am, we reply in unison in one of those rare unrehearsed cosmic moments. 

So long, Mr. G.


Godspeed.

Extinction Event

Enlighten me from your ivory tower.  Frighten me with your tawdry power.  Esoteric me clings parasitically.  In spite of me, I would not change retrospectively.  Go ahead, throw those stones from your glass house.  I''ll just float on that log in your eye. Who's the spider?  Who's the butterfly?  I'll serve my purpose and you serve yours.  Love has gone the way of the dinosaurs.

Here's a match.  Ignite my paper heart.  Let that fire lead you from the dark. 
The dead horse is twitching.  Here's a stick.  Better dead than parasitic. 
Every ivory tower presides a critic.  And every glass house resides a hypocrite. 

Speculate with your arrogance.  I'll wait here as you calculate your "evidence".  Stubborn me clings unyieldingly.  In spite of me, I would not change course willingly.  Go ahead, nail me on some cross.  I'll just resurrect my restraint.  Who's the sinner?  Who's the saint?  I'll worship my God and you worship yours.  Faith has gone the way of the dinosaurs.

Here's some logic.  Tie it in knots.  Where will you turn when the rain stops?  We're all fearful farmers when there are no crops.
The dead horse is twitching.  Here's a stick.  Better dead than agnostic.
Every throne presides a lunatic.  And every church resides a hypocrite.

Surround me with the altruistic.  Drown me with the optimistic.  Stoic me clings fanatically.  In spite of me, I would not give in foolishly.  Go ahead, have the last laugh.  I'll just float in a half full glass.  I have my dreams and you have yours.  Hope has gone the way of the dinosaurs.

There's a distinction between us and them.  In the name of progress arises an extinction event. 
Dinosaurs, they came and went. 

3 Hours

Due to some unforeseen circumstances, I was given the opportunity to spend roughly 3 hours with my mom in her car with just her today.  Now, this might not seem like a big deal.  Parents and kids often do things together even once that kid is an adult.

We all know that something happens to women when they have kids... they become crazy.  Then, as each new year turns on the calender, they become worse than the previous year.  So, once a kid like me is in his early 40's, that mother is full blown annoying and crazy.  This is an exact science and millions of middle aged kids throughout time can attest to this fact.

Now, without getting into detail on why part of my day was spent with her and keeping these unforeseen circumstances as vague as possible, I want to garner some sympathy so anyone who happens to read this can feel my pain.

Let's begin with our trip to Bookmans.  This is some creative thrift store that buys and sells books, records, CDs, movies and musical instruments.  This was my first time in this place and I would have been quite impressed if this was 1987.  The reason this was our first place on our big adventure was because mom wanted to sell some old records that have been gathering dust for decades.  She was under the impression there is a big market for John Denver and other mediocre artists records. 

We arrive at Bookmans.  All of her records are in a huge box.  I, being the super strong and caring son, agree to hide my shame and carry it into the store for her.  After catching my breath, I place the box on the counter and then, mom takes over.

"Good afternoon, Sir.  I have some great treasures in this box.  There are records in here that will make you tons of money.  These are collector's items and I want your best price," mom confidently tells the hippie hourly wage worker.

"Go ahead and have a seat, Maam.  It will take us some time to go through each one and see if any of these are worth anything to us", the hippie replies. 

Mom agrees and decides this is a good time to use their bathroom.  Me, on the other hand, looked around to see what was on their shelves and quickly determined that 1987 seems ridiculous considering how technology has evolved since then. 

I, then, sit down in some retro church pew to get on the internet on my phone to kill time.  Before too long, I start feeling like everyone was staring at me.  So, I looked up and noticed a tacky lion statue was right in front of me.

This fucking lion just stared at me and it wouldn't stop.  When you are already annoyed, a staring lion statue doesn't make me less annoyed. 

After deliberating over whether or not, I should smash that lion statue or simply admire its handiwork, I realized I had been sitting there for 45 minutes and mom was still in the bathroom.  She was taking a shit.

Finally, she emerges from the bathroom with a retarded grin on her face and blames stress for her ill placed timing to poop.  She then walks up to the counter to discuss "big business" with the hippie.

"Maam, we went through all your records and there really isn't much here we can turn around and sell.  However, we will give you 50 cents for the Englebert Humperdink record", the hippie bravely tells my over confident mom.

"You've got to be kidding?" she replies with anger and shock.

The next 10 minutes have been erased from my memory but it was basically, mom negotiating over 50 cents.  The final result was she got 50 cents and the hippie agreed to take the rest of her records off her hands and give her $2.00 in store credit. 

In other words, we spent an hour together so she could make 50 cents and take a crap.

Next stop, the gas station.  Long story short, Arco sells gas for $2.54 a gallon.  That wasn't good enough for mom.  Twenty minutes and 6 miles later, she stops at Costco because it's $2.52 per gallon for gas.  The next 30 minutes was nothing but her bragging about how she saved a quarter despite wasting all that time and gas looking to save a quarter. 

Okay, to be fair; she did make a whopping 75 cents between her record she sold and driving around looking for the cheapest gas station. 

Last stop, dinner.  This involved her crack house of choice:  the casino. 

We walk in the door and some indian welcomes her by her first name.  She's the Norm from Cheers of casinos, apparently. 

Because she's a regular patron there, she had $35 comped to her for a free meal.  Our dinner was free, basically.  Mom spent the whole time on the phone discussing her dog with a friend.  The phrase "my little angel" was used repeatedly as she spoke on the phone.  I was done eating before she even began due to her lengthy phone call about her sweet little piece of shit angel dog.


I know that 3 hours in one day with a parent is a luxury for some.  I also know that an annoying mom is better than a dead one.  That said, I wouldn't wish this day on anyone.  And I didn't even mention her non stop talking in the car about God knows what nor did I mention that she just got her car back today after totaling it a month ago and still found a way to swerve onto a sidewalk because she's the worst driver ever. 

Lucky for her, no one was on the sidewalk she found herself driving on.  Unlucky for me, I wasn't. 

Hero-despite

There are certain things I've never wanted to witness. 

I think my reoccurring thought back on a Thursday in September of 2003 was, I just want one more day. 

Maybe it was my God complex where I tend to believe I can fix people or change the course of what's intended to come.  Or maybe, it was just pure unfiltered guilt.  Whatever.   I know my thought process that rainy Thursday afternoon was no different than anyone else in that overcrowded church. 

My last image of him is blurry.  It's because he was walking away from me with slumped shoulders, head down and a slow gait.  I quietly refer to that image as dead man walking.  He was.  Ten days to turning 33.  He was a defeated man.  

I remember thinking, I will never see him again.  I pride myself in being right.  I am not proud that I was right 24 hours before he left this earth.

One thing I have never wanted to witness was someone I love and care about become defeated.  I hoped and still hope, I don't witness that again.  It haunts you at the most random of moments:  an old song, a familiar building, an alcohol induced moment of longing, or just at 2:30 on a Wednesday morning 12 years later for no particular reason. 

Time heals nothing.  Don't kid yourself.  Those images or memories may become blurry as time moves on but that void only deepens.  Because best friends, family, spouses, first loves, whatever... they are all irreplaceable when they or we move on.  

I often write about my old black lab, Buddy.  I had a dog after him.  I don't write about that dog.  He was no Buddy.  I've had best friends since 2003, I don't write about them.  Certain people own a piece of us long after they are gone.  That piece is taken with them wherever we go after this place.  And the piece of them we own, its stuck right here as a lump in our throat and sometimes, it even surfaces as an awkward smile.  I know this because I can get choked up and smile at the exact same moment when I replay that blurry image of my self defeated best friend walking away for the very last time.  Really, that image has evolved over time.  For years, it was just a weak dead man walking.   Now, he's that wounded gun shot cowboy slumped over on his horse fading off into the sunset at the end of an old western.

He's my hero. 

Despite, so much. 


It was just weeks ago, I muttered moms are dropping like flies.  It's as if everyone my age has a lost a parent recently.  My family, my support system consists of one person:   my mother.  We don't have the warmest of relationships.  She's not the most nurturing, either.  I'm probably not the greatest son.  Whatever.  It doesn't matter.


I think I'm going to die. 
That sentence came across my phone today from my mom.  We live in a world where affection, pain, love, intimacy and fear are articulated by human fingers instead of human voices.  My almost natural reaction was to text her back and ask why.  Almost.

I called her.  She was crying.  I mean, sobbing.  It doesn't matter why but I can say that her reasoning for those inconsolable tears were born of self defeat.  She was ready to give up.  Sixty something years of bad luck or poor fortune or whatever has taken its toll on her. 

She's the reason I don't believe in karma.  Bad things always happen to her.  Sometimes, they are consequences of her own actions but nonetheless, she never gets a break from the universe.

One thing, I have never wanted to witness was my mom feeling defeated.  And I did, today.  This little reminder how fragile and vulnerable she really is broke my heart.  I'm powerless.  We all are.  My God complex is futile.  My pure unfiltered guilt is just an unnecessary anchor.  I learned that today as I listened to her choke on her despair. 

One day, she will be gone.  I will be turning to all my friends who have lost their own; hoping for comfort or at least, just to listen to me.  Really, no one can comfort us when we lose certain people.  Our job is simply to listen.  And I know, I will need those caring ears to simply empathize with me as I tell them...

She was my hero. 

Despite, so much. 





  

Window Shopping

Inadequate mannequin posing on display.  An inanimate skeleton with emotions in disarray.  He's barely noticeable except for the occasional sashay.

"Look mommy, he's got daddy's eyes". 
Precocious little girl is in for a big surprise. 

"Honey, he's just a mannequin; not a human in disguise." 

Mommy's little monster thinks mommy is full of lies.

Curiosity grabs him by the tail.  Down he goes, now everybody knows that the mannequin is really frail. 

"Look, mommy, I told you he was real". 
Precocious little girl is a future puppeteer. 

Bloody mannequin, with broken pride, has a superficial headache. Everybody's friend is someone's potential mistake. 

Untalented mannequin ponders his existence.  An inadequate skeleton is at his best when he keeps his distance.  He's barely noticed as the crowd walks on by.  Precocious little girl refuses to objectify.  Thank God for mommy's little monster and her misguided persistence. 

Inadequate mannequin with his daily mundane routine.    An impassioned specimen has become somewhat of a machine.  Precocious little girl stops to make him laugh.  Inadequate mannequin recaptures his self esteem. 

Inadequate mannequin posing on display.  He's not real, just make believe as some will say.  Inanimate skeleton may doubt his worth or ability on any given day. 

Window shopping will always be an exercise in futility except to the mannequin on display. 

 

Writer's Block

I need some inspiration break my heart.  My imagination has gone dark.  I need some motivation break my heart.  My imagination needs a spark.

Mock me, mockingbird.  Stalk me like I'm a celebrity.  I could use your abuse, my beautiful muse.  I can handle the ugly truth.  Sting me, honey bee.  Bring back my creativity.  The liar's liability is plausible deniability.  Ego overfed.  Return my words to my head.  Catch me in a butterfly's net.  Snatch me in a spider's web. 

I'm floating on peaceful waters.  Rescue me, sinking ship.
We fell through the ice when we tried not to slip.
Sabotage the summer with winter's grip.

I need some inspiration tell me you love me.   My imagination has turned ugly.  I need some motivation tell me you love me.  My imagination has lost its beauty.

Save me, beauty queen.  It's always raining.  God's wet dream.  Break the mood  from nothing to something.  I can always find beauty in a sight unseen.  Crush me, elephant in the room.  My identity is my non de plume.  Ego underfed.  Return my words to my head.  Catch me in a moment of weakness.  Exactly with your sweetness.

I'm sinking with the ship.  Rescue me, peaceful sea.
Release my artistry, winter's grip.

Sting me or bring me honey, my busy bee.  Something is better than nothing.
Tick tock, broken clock
Ego overfed
Return my words to my head, writer's block.