Nowhere America: Sweet Mariah May

Sweet Mariah May

 In this small town that I grew up in; this village, this small farming community tucked away deep in the middle of nowhere, my mom, my brothers and I, plus a family of five from Sri Lanka pretty much made up the entire minority population – enough to represent .0083 percent of the population if I calculated correctly.

 (On a side note, one of the boys from Sri Lanka was around our age and we hung out together quite a bit.  When he first arrived to our town he pronounced his name David as "Dah-veed"....It didn't take long for him change over to the pronunciation that the locals were accustomed to hearing.  Also he would proclaim “Ay let a fahrt..”  That soon gave way to the simplified “I farted.”  Anyway, I just found it amusing...)

 Mariah May, the only black person that I would meet and become friends with until after I graduated from high school (graduating class of thirty three) and first left this small town, pushed our minority representation up to .00917 percent of our tiny village's population.

(And while we are talking percentages I would wager that .00917 consumed .999 of all the rice in our small community....)

 I have no underlying reason for quantifying my minority status aside from just giving some further insight as to who I am......(Who am I talking too?  It's not like I'm going to seriously consider publishing this....I'm just doing this to keep Kenny off my back....Isn't that right, Kenny?)  With a few exceptions, I have never felt like a minority, and so, never gave my unique skin color a second thought.

I remember hearing stories of the Klan and saw the pictures of the Catholic ( --- hmm --- was it church or school?) that I have been told that they burned down.  But that story had it's origins at least a couple of generations before I was born so I don't feel comfortable either confirming or denying it ever took place.  The winners write the history books --- and you can't always trust history.

Anyhoo (no that's not a typo)  this place, for me, (personal adolescent self loathing aside) has always been and always will be really is a nice place to live…..I just had to crash and burn to figure that out.

 But anyway.....I'm veering off topic.

 Mariah May --- Sweet Mariah May --- was, in the opinion of a very young boy, quite possibly the nicest person on the face of the planet. 

 The nursing home that was just up the block from where I lived was a place that Mariah frequently visited. She had no relatives there -- she was just there to offer company to those who had none.

 Let's face it; a nursing home is the last stop in life. For many unfortunate individuals it's the loneliest, most isolated feeling they will ever experience. Not a fitting end, in my opinion.

However, there are those people that choose to reside in a nursing home of their own free will.  I actually knew a husband and wife that were very well off -- he owning a construction company -- that seemed perfectly content with living in the home.  For the life of me I couldn't ever figure out why.


 Sadly, there are those individuals that because of their medical condition have to be there it's not a simple matter of choice. Even sadder are those individuals who are there because heartless relatives didn't want to take the time to deal with a family member that they really wanted no part of.  Having worked in a nursing home for the first year after my high school graduation, I know from experience that this unfortunate reality happens a lot more than anyone is really willing to admit.

Don't believe me?  Show up on Christmas Day and see how many residence are still there --- alone.....

It's a crying shame.....There are a lot of great stories that could be shared in those homes; if only there was someone there to listen.

Mariah May WAS there --- for as many of these lonely people as she could make time for.  She never did anything extravagant; maybe (if possible) take them out to dinner or sit around the kitchen table and shoot the breeze. Or maybe she sat at their bedside and read the paper to them.

 To those confined to a bed or a wheel chair with nothing to do but look out the window, Mariah's simple gestures meant the world.  For the last days of their lives Mariah was their everything.

 Now that I sit back and think about it I don't recall ever seeing any of Mariah's family stopping in for a visit. (It's not like I was there all the time) So maybe the time she spent with her nursing home friends was every bit as meaningful to her as to those she made smile and help pass the time.

 But if she was lonely I was never aware of it.  Mariah was a kind old sole with a beautiful smile.  I can't remember if she had all of her teeth or just falsies but it didn't matter.  Her smile was as beautiful as the warm soul that resided inside her old body.



 Well.....Until she went to mow the trailer park that she owned.  Then she became the most dangerous weapon in the neighborhood. (Oh, sweet baby Jesus.....)

 The trailer park Mariah owned was just across the alley from the house I grew up in and where Kenny lives now.

 Whenever Mariah pulled into the trailer park with her little truck, towing her little trailer, hauling her little rusted red and white riding mower all the neighborhood kids, wide eyed and with accelerated heart beats, would scatter.

 Nothing tightened a sphincter faster than to hear some kid scream, “It's Mariah!!! Run!!!”  Suddenly, an entire neighborhood full of kids busted ass to get as far away as possible from the angelic danger that was lurking about in the trailer park. 

 The trailer park that Mariah mowed had little tiny yards, if you could even call those sparse patches that, around each trailer, with large patches of loose gravel in between.  Actually, I would say that only about a third of the trailer park was grass. The rest was rock.

 The problem was that Mariah would fire up her riding lawn mower, lower the deck, and keep it lowered the whole time she was mowing.  She would finish mowing a patch of grass and then ride across the gravel lot to the next patch of grass, launching whizzing projectiles all across the neighborhood.

 I had been hit in the leg and I believe Kenny caught a rock in the rib cage.  Thank goodness for Mariah this was long before the days of the sue happy mentality.  Every parent in the neighborhood just said, “What were you doing back there?  You know you're supposed to run when Mariah mows.”

 The logic, to this day, still escapes me...... I've seen my dad go apeshit at a baseball game when a base runner ran into his infielder as he tried to make a play on the ball.

"You gotta call that, blue!!!!" he scream, "You're gonna get one of my kids hurt!!!"

But a pointy, high velocity rock shot out by a riding mower blade?

"What are you thinking, boy?  Just go play in the front yard until she's done."

Ah.....Yeah.....I got nothin'.....

 My best guess is that perhaps there may have to been two trains of thought at work with this typical adult response:

1.  All the adults had their vehicles parked in a garage so they didn’t have to worry about dents and.....

2.  Mariah was such a nice person that no one had the heart to tell her that her motorized stone thrower was leaving bruises on their kids.

Of course you couldn't tell her anything while she was mowing anyway.  Once she put her head phones on she didn't hear a thing.

Looking back I can just imagine Mariah being completely lost oblivion; blissfully ignorant to the screaming chaos going on all about her as she sang along with Billie Holiday on her headphones.  (I have no idea if Mariah liked Billy Holiday.  I'm just guessing that she would have.....It's some really good music)

The closest building to Mariah's trailer park was an old tin shed in my backyard.  One afternoon as Mariah pulled into the park and all the kids scattered I decided that I wanted to know what it sounded like when Mariah's little riding mower launched a rock into the side of the shed.

 Well, allow me to be a little more specifice. I had heard rocks hit the shed from the outside on several occasions.  I wanted to know what it sounded like from the inside of the shed.

Since there was no electricity I left the door to the tin shed open so that I could have a little light.  Plus, with it being the middle of summer and the tin shed lacking for insulation, the open door offered just a little bit of relief from the stagnant and almost suffocating heat that I found myself sitting in.

The sweat rolled off of my forehead and rolled down my back -- my shirt was saturated. But I was determined to know what it sounded like inside the shed whan a Mariah rock pelted it's tin siding. 

I didn't have to wait long.

I involuntarily jumped when the first rock hit the shed......POP!!!!  I had no idea that a rock hitting off the shed could be that loud or that the rock could hit with that much force.  Soon, other sounds followed.  BAM!!!!  BANG!!!!! POP-a-POP-a-POP.....

Before the tin shed incident I had already had a healthy respect for the power of Mariah's tiny riding mower.  But I had no idea just how powerful, well, at least in the mind of a nine year old, Mariah’s mower was.

As soon as I felt I was safe I bolted out of the tin shed and ran into the house.  I didn't even bother taking the time to close the door to the shed....Screw it, I'll get it later. My new respect for the power of Mariah's mower was matched with a heightened sense of fear....I was in full flight mode as I ran for home.

Still -- paralyzing fear, bruises and all --- she remains in my fond memories as truly one of the nicest people I have ever met.

I wonder what ever happened the sweet Mariah May?  She was getting on in years when I was just a pup so I'm sure she's gone to see the Lord above by now. I'm guessing that she's probably having a grand time with her nursing home friends, drinking good coffee and eating wonderful dinners....

And I bet she has a brand new shiny riding lawn mower to mow her trailer park in the sky – a large lot with thick green grass and completely devoid of gravel.....
:)

Nowhere America: Mom and Dad

Mom and Dad

 Both Mom and Dad, over the last couple of weekends, stopped by for a visit – and I suspect that I won’t see them again for a while.The time in between get togethers is becasue both of them have very busy lives, albeit in completely different ways.

 After four boys and twenty five years, Mr. and Mrs. James’ marriage dissolved.  Up until now none of their four boys could figure out why.  From seemingly out of nowhere it just happened with little or no fanfare; just a simple announcement that they had decided to part ways.

Shocked and angry are the two words that most accurately describe how the children handled the announcement.  Who was to blame for this?

As divorces tend to do, two camps formed up; picking and jabbing at each other with neither side even remotely interested in compromise. This was clearly a black and white issue; the grey in the middle simply didn't exist.

While the other boys chose a side, I tried like hell to stay out of the mess.  Yeah, that didn’t work worth a shit.  I was an ant on a beach trying desperately to build a dam to hold back the oncoming tsunami. 

Without getting into too much detail there was a time when I didn’t talk to either of my parents for a very long period.  The delicate, well organized and slightly OCD balance that was my life had been destroyed with all the subtlety of a battle axe to the forehead.  Forgiveness would prove to be a very, very, slow process.

 But fortunately, time, distance, and forgiveness did win out over strife and undying hatred.  The boys regrouped and got on with their lives; Mom and Dad remarried and are now on friendly terms.  In fact, so friendly that Mom and Dad can be found at family functions, talking to each other’s spouses -- laughing and enjoying their company.  It all seems very genuine to me, but if it isn’t I don’t want to know.  I am more than content to let life play on as is…..

It has only been recently, when I could spend time with them separately, that I began understand the differences in their personalities that led me to have a much better understanding of their divorce.


 Dad was the first to visit after I had moved back home.  The first thing he did was mow and weed eat my lawn -- which I found kind of strange.  Dad had owned a lawn mowing business but got out of it.  I thought sure he was sick of yard work and only mowed his own lawn when he absolutely had to.  But, after he finished with my yard he told me that mowing had always relaxed him and that some of the best ideas he ever had come from the seat of his mower.  So…..I had made an erroneous assumption.


 The second thing dad did was to unload a wooden picnic table and swing for my front yard. Both wood working productions from his second business and a way to keep himself busy over the winter.


 While dad liked mowing, I believe he loves his wood working projects in his shop even more.  Dad would make picnic tables, Adirondack chairs, swings, corn hole games, toy trucks and trains, rubber band guns, bird houses, on and on and on. He would then load up his goodies and go from craft show to craft show, content to sit in a chair, sell some products, and shoot the breeze with any and all who stopped by to visit.   His income may not be as much as when he was one of the many working stiffs, but I think he is enjoying his retirement a helluva lot more than any one day he spent earning a paycheck.  His absolute favorite time of year is November and December when he is selling his wooden toys --- and maybe even just giving few away if he comes across a kid that he just can't let walk away from his booth without a toy....Sometimes I think he imagines himself as a poor man's Santa Claus....Hell, sometimes I think of him as a poor man's Santa Claus; and that makes me feel good.


 Dad, deliberate as always, found nice, shady spots to place the picnic table and swing.  Afterwards we hobnobbed for a bit over a cup of coffee; talking just about life in general and enjoying each other’s company. The more I talk to Dad the more I see how very similar we are.

 Dad has never been a big adventure guy.  In fact, he reminds me a lot of a hobbit.  He doesn’t spend much time worrying about what goes on beyond his borders. His work and hobbies indicate that this is a man who is very comfortable living a solitary lifestyle.  Dad is at peace -- when not working in the garage or in his garden -- sitting on one of the swings he made, drinking coffee, and quietly watching the world go by.

When I was a kid my grandma used to sit in her rocking chair and say “ho hum”.  But grandma didn’t mean ho hum in a bad way; in fact quite the opposite.  Ho hum was a very good thing.  Ho hum meant that you were kicking back and enjoying the fruits of a quiet, honest, clean living.  And to my Dad, there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.  Ho Hum is a wonderful thing.


 The longer I am around Dad the more I realize that I too, am a ho hum person.  I began to wonder exactly what it was that I was trying to run away from the day I graduated from high school and bolted town. 


 Actually, that’s not true at all.  I did know what I was running from.  Part of it was that I did not enjoy high school at all and felt a strong desire to break away; to dispose of my self despised identity and rebuild a new one. Another part of me just wasn’t ready to accept the fact that I was going to live a “boring” life like my dad.


 Fast forward to today......Boring is good.  Boring is simple and quiet.  Boring gives me time to get lost in my own thoughts.  Boring means that I don’t have to go to company parties and fail miserably making small talk with people I don’t know.  Boring doesn’t involve plane tickets, passports, crowds, traffic, and all the noise that comes with being in the concrete jungle. 

Boring is sitting on the open front porch of a simple little house out in the country, feeling the breeze in your face and hearing the birds chirping in the trees.  Boring is a rock road in the country outside of a sleepy small town that sees an occasional pickup or tractor going by.  Boring is gazing up at the clear blue sky and getting lost in them.


Boring is anything but boring.  Boring is, always was, and always will be, where I find my peace of mind.....


 Mom, who lives in another small town now, arrived at my doorstep the following weekend and brought with her a flurry of restless activity.

From the minute Mom walked in until the moment she left there was never a dull moment.  She be-bopped in the door and announced that she had brought coffee; which meant that we were going to be busy all day.

In short order the sounds of  banging of pots and pans filled the kitchen as mom handed me a knife and pointed me in the direction of a roast that she had set on a cutting board. When she was satisfied that I was doing my job correctly she began talking.  From then on the conversation never stopped.

Where conversation between dad and I was low key and, with a few exceptions, never really involved our own personal lives, Mom was hitting up her eldest son with a barrage of personal questions.

Are you back for good?


Are you eating right?


You need to exercise son....


Are you taking vitamins?


What happened with you and Lacey?


On and on and on the grilling and the prying went; to the point where I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.  So you can imagine my relief when the conversation switched back to mom.

 My mom is from the Philippines; a very poor island nation where her journey into education never made it past the eighth grade. But, as I would find out years later, her lack of education, while hindering her at times, did nothing to slow her down.  I firmly believe that it was growing up poor that gave her the dream big mentality she now possesses.

 The kitchen was bombarded with all the wonderful smells of my childhood.  Fried rice, marinated pork chops, chicken adobo, pancit, and, of course, a big pot of rice from the new, and very expensive, rice cooker that mom gave me as a house warming gift.

 Listening to mom talk now is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, like listening to a completely different person then I grew up knowing.  As her four boys grew up, mom took on the old school traditional roll of staying home and raising them.  She did the cooking, the cleaning, went to parent teacher conferences and ball games.  She lived a ho hum, small town lifestyle.

 It took a few months for her to get emotionally reset after the divorce; but as soon as she got her bearings about her, Mom spread her wings and went in a whole different direction then what I was expecting.  She went out and got a job, started going out with new friends that she had made, got a membership to a gym, bought her first car and started exploring the world.

 After she got remarried, Mom started to travel and take big vacations.  She began hosting big hog roasts every year and Filipinos seemingly came out of the woodwork to attend.  Where were all these people before?

 Mom had gone from stay at home mom to socialite.  She was enjoying her life in a way that I had never seen before.  I had never realized just how opposite she and dad were. In retrospect I am now certain that being totally opposite personalities lead to their parting of ways.  For Dad, the world was much too big and needed to be shrunk down.  For Mom the world could not be big enough.


 As I stated earlier, the divorce hit all the boys hard.  But several years later it has become obvious to all of us that it was for the better.  If they are getting along and happy with who they are then, hey, what have we got to complain about?

 Mom dominated the conversation as she talked about her future plans; how many vacations she was going to take and how often she was going to fly back to the Philippines to visit family.  The conservative part of me wondered about her retirement and whether or not she was investing any of her money but I refrained from comment.  She’s married now and it’s really none of my business what she does with her time and money. I figure she can hash those details out with my stepdad.

 After all the many hours of cooking mom refused to step aside and let me wash the dishes.  So I continued to drink my coffee while mom continued to chatter.  When the dishes were done Mom, seemingly in the blink of an eye, packed up her things, said good bye, and sped away in her Camry. She was gone -- just like that.


 As my four foot eleven mother with a lead foot  hauled ass down the dry dirt road, kicking up dust as she went, I wished she would slow down a bit.  But, that would be going against the grain for her.  Mom is living life full throttle now; no sense in trying to change that.

 As she sped away I wondered if maybe Lacey and I broke it off at the right time.  You know, before we had kids and built a life together.  I’m having a hard enough time starting over now.  I can’t imagine rebuilding my life after twenty five years and kids.

 Then I thought, no, I didn’t break it off at the right time.  I shouldn’t have broken it off at all.  I pull my phone out of my pocket and pull up Lacey’s number --- but I just can’t get myself to call.  I really screwed up and I can’t see how she will ever forgive me. 


I'll admit ------ I'm paralyzed by the fear of rejection. 

 I walk into the kitchen and pour the rest of the coffee out of my cup and into the sink.  I’ve done nothing but swill java since mom got here and I’m starting to get heart palpitations......No Bueno...

I pull out my phone and dial up Kenny.

“Hello?” answered Kenny.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Not much, what are you up to?”

“Mom stopped by for a visit.  She cooked a whole ton of food.”

“Shit.....I’ll be right over.”

Nowhere, America: Bug Zapper

Bug Zapper

 Call it redneck if you like, but there is something kind of soothing about sitting on the front porch and watching a bug zapper.  I can't explain why, but every time I see that flash of light and hear “tzzt!” it just relaxes me.

Well, until I sit and think about a bug being electrocuted and burnt to a crisp.  I can’t image how painful that must be.  But Kenny thinks hitting a windshield, though a quicker way to go, would be even more painful.

 “I mean, think about it,” Kenny muses, “What is the last thing that goes through a bugs mind when it hits the windshield?"


 “I don’t know – what?”


 “His ass….”


 “Oh….”


 But bugs are nasty, disease carrying creatures, so my pity does not last long.
 
However……What I really loved about bug zappers was that it always belonged to someone else.  Now that Kenny was nice enough to buy me one I'm not quite as enamored with it.


“You know that bug zappers don't attract mosquitoes, right?” I ask, “Mosquitoes aren't attracted to light.”


“This one does,” Kenny said with a devilish grin, “This ol' boy here emits carbon dioxide which DOES attract mosquitoes."


“Ah, I see.  Well, I must say that that is brilliant.  You know, however, that I could have just put up a couple of bat houses.  Did you know that a single bat can eat up to four thousand insects in an evening?”


 “I call bullshit....Plus bats aren’t as much fun to watch.”


 “Yeah, but now I gotta clean this thing.” I said, “Don't you know that the best thing to do with a bug zapper is to give it to your neighbor?”


 “Well, you're not close enough to be my neighbor, but you'll do.”


 “Prick.”


 “Dude, you're making a mountain out of a mole hill.  It's not that hard to clean.”


 “Fine.  But can you at least get it off the porch?”


 “What for?”


 “Don't you know that after a bug is electrocuted it's body parts go flying all over the damn place?  It'll get in our pizza or in my open bottle of beer........Some bugs carry bacteria you know....I once......”


 “Blah, blah, blah.” Kenny interrupts, “Holy shit.  Would you like a little cheese with your whine?  If I move it over to that tree will that make you happy?”


 “Is it more than ten feet away?”


 “Are you sure we're related?  If we are then I think mom had to have dropped you on your head.  Shit the bed... I'll go get an extension cord.”


 Satisfied that the bug zapper was a safe distance away from the porch, I open my bottle of beer and grab a pizza out of the box.


 “You got the Louisiana hot sauce?”  Kenny asks.


 “Yeah, here.”


 TZZT....


 Kenny, speaking with a full mouth, “Hey, you remember that commercial where the guy is putting the hot sauce on his pizza, a mosquito lands on him, draws blood, and then as if flies off it explodes into a big ball of flame?”


“Yeah, I remember that commercial.  I don’t remember what company it was, but yeah….”


“Wouldn’t the world be a cooler place if that could actually happen?”


“I’d be using hot sauce on everything I eat.”


“No you wouldn’t.  You’d be worried about getting bug parts all over you.”


“Au Contriare.  I believe that the exploding fireball will be lava hot, therefore assuring the bugs complete incineration.”


“Um, whatever you say there, dork.”


 Kenny opens his can of Keystone Light, takes a long guzzle, and belches loud enough to scare off any wildlife wandering within a mile of the house."

“BBBRRAAAKKKK! Ugh.  That felt good. Anyway, I hope you like your summery foo foo beer there.  Is that one of your micro brews?”


 “Just because my beer has a mildly fruity flavor does not imply in any way that it's foo foo.”


 “Yeah, whatever.  By the way, if in the future you plan on drinking you're Guinness I suggest you buy it while you’re in the big village.  You're not going to find it here.”


 “Huh,” I say, “That's too bad; people don't know what their missing.”


 “I don't think the locals like their beer to look like tar,” said Kenny, “Plus, it's not beer if you have to chew it.”


 TZZT....


 “Whatever.  Go on and drink your stones you uncultured shit.”


 “Yes....Yes I will.”


 TZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!!!!!!!


 “Well,” said Kenny, “That was probably our first June bug.”


 “Yup.”

 “So how long do you plan on keeping that ring on your finger?”

  “Oh no; we are not starting this again.  You bring this up every time we meet.”


  “Yeah --- and?”


  “Well, aren’t you tired of talking about it?”


“No.  So, how long are you going to wear it?”


 “Good God, Kenny, I don't know.  It has its uses.  I mean, I don't have to worry about being asked out on a date.”


 “True.....(Burp)” Kenny chucks the can into the recycle bin I had set out. (Well, aren’t you the environmentally conscious hippie?) “You were never one for small talk.”


 “Nope.”


 TZZT...


 “So I hope you don’t mind me prying but I have to ask.  Just how in the hell did one so socially challenged as you manage to land a nice girl like Lacey in the first place?”


 “Well, as luck would have it, when I first saw her at the library she was having problems with her laptop.”


 “Ah,” Kenny smiles, “So it was your first girlfriend that introduced you to your second.  That was very nice of her.”


 “Ah ha....Ah ha....You're a scream.  Anyway, I can't explain why, but I just felt comfortable around her. I mean, I never stuttered once.  She offered to pay me for fixing her laptop but I wouldn't take anything for it.  It wasn't that big a deal.”


 “What did you do to it?”


 “I gave it the three finger salute.”


 “Is that dork speak?  In English please.”


 “It's a Windows machine.  I just rebooted and everything was fine.”


 “Ah.”


 “Yes.....Buy a Mac.  Anyway, Lacey told me that since I wouldn't take her money then the least she could do is take me out for dinner.  We've been together ever since........Well, up until recently.”


 “Dude, she's the one.” Kenny said, “You can't let her get away.  Otherwise you’re going to be that goofy old recluse who talks to animals and wears the same underwear for weeks at a time.”


 “Irreconcilable differences.”  I say before finishing my bottle of beer.


 There was a long pause as I delve into my next beer and stared off into space.


 TZZT...


 “She a very ambitious woman,” I said without any prompting from Kenny, “She's a city girl from a well off family that dreams of one day shattering the glass ceiling and becoming a CEO.  All I was doing was holding her back. I mean, I tried to be someone I'm not and it simply didn't work out.”


 “Ain't it odd,” said Kenny as he waved his hand to present the world sitting before us – trees, fields, and dirt roads. “The one place you couldn't wait to get the hell away from turns out to be the very place where you end up feeling most at home?”


 “Yeah.  I didn't want to admit it, but I'm glad to be back.  It's quiet out here.  No concrete, no sirens, no people......No people.”


 “Dude, as much as you enjoy being a hobbit tucked away inside this little hobbit hole of yours, at some point you are going to have to go into town and reestablish some old contacts.”


 “Listen to you,” I laughed, “A Tolkien reference.”


 “What?”


 “The gentleman that wrote the hobbit. JRR Tolkien.”


 “Oh.  Yes.  Well, you simply can't live with a dork for as long as I have and not have some of his dorkiness rub off on you.”


 “Whatever, dude.  I’m not that bad.  I never got into Dungeons and Dragons or anything like that.”


 “Still a dork.”


 TZZT....


 “So….” Kenny pauses long enough to polish off another stone, “About this ring.”


 “My precious.”


 “NO! Not that ring you dipshit.” Kenny says and points to my finger, “Your wedding ring.  If you’re not going to take it off, then is it safe to assume that you’re still holding out at least a small bit of hope that you and Lacey can get back together?"


 I stare at the band on my finger.  It’s simple. No diamonds. No frills. Just a band. It seems fitting of the guy that’s wearing it.


 “Hope.” I whisper, “Yeah, to answer your question for the thousandth time, I’m kinda hoping. But I’m kinda hoping for that winning lotto ticket too.  I think the odds are about the same.”


 “Have you tried to call her?” Kenny asked.


 I shake my head.  “No, I haven’t. Just like I didn’t the day before and the day before that. I mean, what in the hell am I supposed to say to her?  Hey, sorry I packed up all my shit and walked out on you.  It’s not you, it’s me, will you take me back?”


 “True, you did dig yourself a big hole to climb out of,” said Kenny, “ but I don’t think that excommunication will lead to reconciliation.”


 “I’m impressed that you used two big words in one sentence.  I believe that you may have exceeded your big word limit for the month.”


 Kenny smiles, “Yeah, I’ve been saving that one for ya.”  Then the smiles disappears as his face turns grim, “I worry about ya, bro.”


“I know.  I appreciate it.”


TZZT….


After a long silence Kenny blurts out, “Do you think people would be more civil to each other if we could be like monkeys and just fling our poop on them when they say something that we don’t like?”


??????


“Dude……What?  Um, I got nothing.  Where in the Hell did that come from?”

“I think it would solve a lot of problems.”


“No, Kenny, I think that would get you shot.”


“Nah, just gotta be quicker on the draw. I guess that mean you couldn't wear a belt.”


“How much beer have you drank?”


“I’m about out.”


“Call Marlo, you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Nowhere America: Ol' Jim's Gas Station

Ol' Jim's Gas Station

     Wow, the gas station is now a....what?...I don't know---- a nursery, I guess?  Given that there is a section of the old lot covered with a ton of plants I assume that’s what it has to be

      I wish I could be more descriptive but I don't know a damn thing about plants other than they are green and come in an array of colored flowers.  And I'll be damned if I'm going to research the matter.  This so called book that I'm writing is, according to Kenny, more for therapy, or perhaps even enlightenment, then it is for publication. 

(Kenny; this part is for you: BITE MY ASS!!!!.......Therapy?  Really?....Whatever)

      But, if it wasn't for Kenny insisting (prodding, demanding, incessantly prodding)  that I drive into town to look at all of the places that I would be writing about, dredging up a past that I’m not totally excited about reliving,  then I wouldn't have even known that the gas station no longer existed.  In fact, until Kenny told me I didn't even know that ol' Jim, the owner had, sadly, passed away. Perhaps if I had known in time I would have attended the funeral. He was, after all, a great guy.

     Okay, I’m lying.  I wouldn’t have gone to his funeral.  That would have required me to engage in conversation --- and not just conversation but small talk.  Given my incredibly inept social skills the situation would have rendered me a bumbling, stuttering idiot (albeit a well-dressed one) and taken me back to my awkward high school days.  No thanks, I’ll pass – and that makes me feel horrible because Jim, as I said, was a really good guy.  I really should have paid my respects.

(But, in all honesty, I wouldn’t even go to my own funeral if I thought I could get away with it.)

     Wow....A nursery.  They say the more things change the more they stay the same.  Well not in this case.  I wonder how many more surprises await me as I continue my return to Nowhere, America odyssey.

 “Remember,” bellows the booming voice of Kenny that I can’t get out of my head, “It's a happy journey.....NO self-loathing....Understand?”

 “Grr.....I got it, I got it.....Shit.”

      I chose the local gas station as my first piece for one main reason:  It's on the edge of town.  I can drive by it real slow, pull into the parking lot, turn around, and high tail it back home. No one outside of those that happen to be there would even have to know that I stopped by. (But give it five minutes and the whole damn town will have been notified --- therefore, I must be quick)

      I don’t recall Kenny ever saying that I had to get out of my car and talk to anybody so, by God, I'm not going to.

 No....Freaking....Way....The old outhouse is still there. Whoa..... That's -- Ugh -- kind of disgusting.

      Ol' Jim's was one of the few places in town where I felt I could just kick back, not say a word, and be accepted.  There were more than enough of the old farm hands coming in and out of the station for Jim and Kenny to bullshit with; allowing me the luxury of happily sitting back and quietly watching life go by.  I was comfortable at Ol’ Jim’s......with exception given to the outhouse.

      Jim's place didn't have a bathroom.....Just that awful outhouse.  I never once dared to set foot in it and, near as I can tell, neither did Kenny.  When he was working for Jim he would tell the old man, “I'm going to the bathroom.”

     Jim, sitting behind a cluttered desk (at least I believe it was a desk that was what was lying beneath his piles of books and papers) would simply nod his head and go back to his newspaper. Kenny would then exit the building, get in his pickup and drive halfway across town; going home to use his own bathroom; complete with porcelain, sink, soft toilet paper, and a can of shit be gone spray.

      As I gaze at the door of the outhouse I notice that there are no markings on it.  I have no idea if it's true or not but I had read somewhere that the old outhouses used to have either a half moon on the door to indicate a women's privy, or a sun on the door for men.  It could be just an old wives’ tale, but, like I said, that's what I have read.

     Given that there are no markings on this door I can only assume that the women have long since come to their senses and have taken full advantage of the wonders of indoor plumbing.

    Yes, this old relic had to be strictly a men's outhouse.  Only a barbarian would plop his hairy, crusty ass down inside that sunbaked shit box.

     I had also read somewhere that men's outhouses always had the seat mangled by wild animals that would wander in at night and chew on the seats to consume the salt from the urine that was dried onto them. Given the aiming skills of most men I can totally believe that.  A man can throw a baseball over a plate from sixty feet, six inches…..Can’t hit the center of the bowl while standing over it….
 Blech.....Ok.  No more outhouse. 

     The door to the main building ---- ok, shack if we must be honest ---- is closed.  Back in the day that door was never closed during business hours. 

      I can’t help but smile as I remember the sign Jim had hanging on the wall just to the right of the doorway as you walked inside; it was always the first thing I saw.

      The sign had a drawing of a man with his head in hand and looking absolutely miserable.  Just above the man the sign said:

 “One day, I was feeling down when somebody told me “Cheer up, things could get worse”.  So I cheered up and, sure enough, things got worse.”

      If you only knew Jim, you would see the humor in it.


     Because the lot was gravel and the door was always open, dust was a mainstay inside Jim's station.  There was a broom there and I hear tale that it got used on a regular basis, but I can't claim to have ever seen it in action.

    But that was okay.  Oddly, the dust just made the place seem more homey. I could take a seat on the beat up cloth chair and watch the dust float about in the sunshine that would beam through the small window at the front of the station.  A table and chair would sit just below the window so that Kenny could look out and see if anyone was driving in to fill up.  Although you didn't really need to look, you could hear the tires hit the gravel as the cars and old pickups made their way to up to the pump.

     Most of the time Kenny would be sitting at the table sharpening one of the many knives he owned.  You could pick up any one of Kenny's knives and shave with them.  You had to be careful though, those knives would cut you deep if your hand slipped. 

    Kenny’s favorite, by far and away, was a very large bowie knife which, to this very day, he still owns.  I don’t know how many times I’ve seen him sharpening that blade --- and I’ve never once seen him actually use it.  A friend of ours once joked, “Why skin the deer when you can just hack its legs off?”

    Jim was what would turn out to be the last of a dying breed.  In these parts there is no such thing as a full service gas station anymore.  No one comes up to your car and asks you how much you want, cleans your windows, or checks the oil and your tires.  Sadly, there are no companies that want to pay anyone to do that kind of thing anymore.  I kind of miss it on those cold and rainy days when I have to get out of my car to fill up. (I hear tale that there are still full service gas stations on the east coast but I have never personally been there to confirm it)

    The running joke around town was when Kenny worked the pump you always got eight dollars’ worth of gas; $7.50 in the tank and .50 cents on the ground.  Kenny may not have had the best math skills, but he certainly did know how to round up.

    You know what, I almost forgot about the stock tank sitting outside the station.  I can't remember how many gallons that old galvanized stock tank could hold but it was more than big enough to hold a seventy pound plus catfish and some monster snapping turtles.  Occasionally you could go to the station and see one of these creatures floating around in the tank, filled with fresh water, in order to clean the mud out of its system.  Trust me, catfish tastes horrible if you don’t get them properly cleaned.

      Now I have no problem eating catfish.  In fact, fish fries are a part of everyday life around these parts, especially during Lent.  There are few things better than fried catfish, French fries, and your favorite beer. (Well, not at lent.  We obviously can’t serve beer at church --- I think….I'm sure there is a Catholic joke in here somewhere -- but nothing is coming to mind right now)

  Of course, a lot of things here are fried, so I suppose it's not any real surprise that high blood pressure and heart attacks are just a way of life.  But, that's nothing to get fired up about.....Just ask the locals.

    Catfish -- damn good.......A snapping turtle, on the other hand....

    I have never once had a desire to eat a snapper.  Snappers are just plain ugly and I just can't imagine anything that grotesque tasting good.  I've been told by several friends that I'm really missing out.....I'll take their word for it. (Yes, I’ve been told they taste like chicken.  But doesn’t everything?)

 Ok, sorry, I got distracted....Let's get back to the old couch.

   The couch in Jim's station, I'm quite certain, had once enjoyed a quiet and peaceful existence inside Jim's house.  But then, I'm guessing, Jim's wife decided it was time for new furniture and the old couch suddenly found itself at the station, covered in dust, stained by greasy gas station food and the occasional Skoal or Redman spit that had inadvertently dribbled off the lip of some farmer that was shootin' the shit with Jim and Kenny.

    I loved that old chair.  I used to sit in it and pat the arm just so I could watch the dust fly off of it.  I also liked to sit in it and listen to the sound of someone’s boots as they entered the station and sauntered across the hard wood floor -- whump, whump, whump.   I don't know why, but I love the sound of a pair of boots on a hard wood floor.  (Oddly, I had never owned a pair of boots growing up)
 It was also in that old chair that I acquired a taste for the Landshire burrito.  (I wonder if they still exist.) I don't remember the names of all of them but I tend to gravitate towards those of the spicy variety.

   Today I would be a little concerned at making any attempt at consuming this oversized, microwaveable, plastic wrapped, sodium bomb.  But back then I practically emptied out Jim's refrigerator of all the Landshire burritos he had available.

   The key to enjoying your burrito was to make sure you didn't smack the arm of the old chair beforehand.  You didn't want to send the dust flying as you were microwaving your lunch.  Otherwise your burrito ends up tasting a little gritty.

 You know what, Kenny?  Perhaps you're right.  Maybe this is good therapy for me.  I wonder just how long I've been sitting here this goofy grin on my face?

    Damn. These are good memories; memories that have been buried for way too long in the back of my head.

    (Sigh)  Jim was the only guy in this town other than me that liked dark beer.  I remember the Celebrator that I had my brother give him.  Kenny (the idiot) left the beer in his truck and let it bake in the sun for a day....But it didn't matter.  Jim guzzled it down and told Kenny to have me get him some more.......Unfortunately I never did.  Damn it.

Good guy....Good guy.

    

I best get home and put this all on paper before I forget.....again....