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early this morning a siren wakes me and i move to the couch. the window next to it open, wind whistles. it is a breathe in through the lips kind of whistle, not a breathe out kind. the dogwood across the street blooms, its petals brilliant white against the emerald lawn below. a helicopter slices its way to saint thomas hospital. sound whips and sucks air. windows vibrate.
weather in the 60's, i get out in search of a bakery. i end up in east nashville. i love transitions in a city. the way one neighborhood flows into the next. occasionally jarring when opulence turns to poverty too abruptly. into a coffee shop. a woman on her mobile phone.
'i was just calling to see if anyone cares. it's obvious that no one does. good day.' she presses a button on her phone with her thumb. a strange conversation to walk into, but i don't say so. she closes the phone and deposits it in her purse.
after i leave, i pass old cadillacs and chevys with shiny wheels. sunroof down, windows open, music plays. i cross the bridge into downtown. over steam grates that discharge white vapor into the air. the dixie chicks cover the side of a building. i like tall women. 20 stories is nice.
tonight i'll wear the red tony alamo shirt i picked up today at the beat. the owner says alamo is pronounced like llama. a lam o rather than al a mo. in addition to making shirts, she adds, tony alamo founded a cult in the 60's. he killed his wife and then held onto her body claiming he was waiting for her to come back to life. the police arrested him and he is still in jail as far as she knew.
chase calls me. he says he just did an irish car bomb and now he's fucked up. he asks when i'll be there. tell him i don't know.
not sure where i'm going but i know i'm late getting there. i hit every red light in the district. the car drifts to a stop outside. the wind bites, but it's transient now. spring will come. then summer, too soon.
tangly waves have ebbed from the bar and now the tide is high again. i walk across black tiles. i sit. the bartender nearly drops a lemon in my beer before he stops, remembers.
a new girl works. dark hair. slightly skinny, pale. she moves. shy. sensual. i light up and look at the tv and pretend to focus as she walks by. johnny says they got bombed on st. patty's. made good money, though. cool, i say. i don't feel much like talking now. a blonde with an orange tan sits at the bar, smiling loudly. insipid.
chase calls and tells me he's at a crackhouse. well truthfully he says now he is technically outside the crackhouse that he was in earlier. i know he's not smoking crack, but i like giving him shit about it. apparently the crackheads were not too fond of him, being the non-crack smoking minority. so he left. brilliant.
i smile thinking of how crackheads in the abstract is funny. it consumes people like a giant woman eating monster just like the movies from the 50's. tragedy in life inevitably leads to humor. how else to respond to something truly awful but laugh in its face?
the pale waitress carries a bag or a backpack into the restroom, at this point a little unclear. she is checking out for the night. i settle my tab and chase is now far from the crackhouse and we have set up a meet. i nurse my beer and light another cigarette. i look over and the waitress is now at the bar chatting. a sleeveless black top reveals smooth, milky white shoulders that could inspire jealousy in men or women. on my way visions of ivory dangle from the stars. a cool night ignites a sparkle.
the towers rise across from the park. 2 blocks off west end. they house the geriatric and infirmed. wheelchairs emerge in the park sometimes, but not today. the first spring friday. a playground, covered with children after four empty months. i park facing the parthenon, not the real one. the nashville one. the athens of the south.
couples snap pictures. 2 stretch limos pull through 20 minutes apart. one white, a cadillac. the other black, a navigator. 2 tall gnarled trees cast shadows on 4 of the 8 pillars. a squirrel scampers around the bottom trunk of one. a car full of high school girls in a red monte carlo, a new one. one guy sits in front. he jumps out, chases a ball, throws it toward an open window. the ball bounces off the car and into the grass. he gets back into the car and they take off. 2 young girls pass, 1 a little punk rocker.
a beautiful girls sails by. her brunette ponytail bounces rhythmically. her steps high and assured. a gray sleeveless running shirt. cotton. blue shorts reveal sculpted legs. in the air. grass is bathed in a pale orange spring light.
pennywise plays quietly enough not to draw attention to my escape. tourists in cowboy hats. no one who lives in nashville wears them. a hensley chain hangs from one, his pants cut low. a black pathfinder with mirrors for wheels gleams past. roller skaters, bladers.
shadows grow long. a bike sails by at 5:15. dogs. all shapes, sizes, hair. a chocolate lab attached to a stringy girl on a cell phone. a smiling rottweiler lays by 2 girls in the grass. the sun breathes vitamin e and melanoma.
2 japanese girls plant a tiny tripod next to the road. a boy stands and watches. the girls run gleefully to the boy where they all smile cheesily and flash peace/victory signs.
what happens in the towers? the question follows me. out of the park and into the city.
a million miles feels like a thousand years. drink volnay straight from the bottle. i like it that way. feet hang from the bridge. a blanket of moisture clings to a gravel road powdery in the middle and rocky at the edge while the creek splashes quietly below. muscles unfurl.
birds and crickets and wine sloshes as a bottle tips upright again, our lips already drying. tall and thin. her skin a peach olive cream. a tapenade. pureed to silk.
a smile. crisp and genuine. she laughs at inappropriate moments. the unusual color of her skin and high cheekbones. the feel of her feet on my thigh. the arch, the ball, the heel. each stirs a different sensation. strange yet familiar.
the stars are out, the air is damp and she's warm. a breeze blows and a hand reaches around a shoulder. ripples. the creek sloshes below. more volnay pours down. the french know what they're doing. bastards. great wine, good food. we've got sirloin stockade and denny's and the greek pizza place is the only joint in town for real food. back then. in those days. lips taste of pinot noir and feel slightly rippled by tannins. not yet curved like a woman. the outline is there, but not yet executed with bravado.
sometimes these things take time.
a night out. waitress deficiency. critical. so i go out with the lads for some trivia at the saucer. listen to the cult, electric. wild flower. next to the museum because i'm sick of paying for parking. walk down the hill, breezy. cold. moments of spring dissipate to northeasterly winds.
johnny works tonight, but since i'm with christian and friends we sit at a table. say they are in 1st place in trivia. work calls. there are problems. music blares. i go out. deal with it. start the process. go inside. work calls back. walk out again and so on and so forth for the next 30 minutes. finally back to the table. light a cigarette. the dark hefe has just come in. a new pint arrives.
our waitress is jordan. i don't like the name, but she is nice and helpful and entirely innocent. i feel criminal, but then again that is normal. not in an i'm going to take advantage of you kind of way. more of an i know how some of the world really operates type of criminal. jaded. with that being said, jordan has an appeal. blonde hair? no, i'm not a fan of blondes. and it's dyed. i have nothing against dyed hair, but dyed blonde is so...trite. i am too harsh. too judgmental. but jordan has her appeal. like her incredibly pale legs. love them. she's kind of skinny, but those pale legs. i notice small moles on her upper arm next to her shoulder as i leave. that's hot.
so. trivia. we lost. i smoke. i drink. i deal with problems at work and fade into jordan and tuesday has become a good day.
a good guy
friday. i look forward to this day all week. there is a girl, a waitress, i'm interested in. she usually works friday nights. so friday is virtually guaranteed to be a good day. i go out. late. fly solo again tonight, and that's ok. there is something somehow rewarding about going to the bar alone. no one can hold you back or sway you from your convictions. or you can reinvent yourself. create a new identity, massaged by alcohol.
i drink hefe-weizen. the 2nd new bartender in a week. both women. the one from last week looks like she has aged 3 years. the meter is running. the other bartender tonight is johnny, a good guy.
a waitress wears a tartan plaid skirt. they all do. she wears a blue top. more blue before the night is through. she looks good to the point of magical. her eyes and hair dark. her face unconventional.
i drink. we exchange glances. i smoke. heavily. my nerves simultaneously charged and dimmed by alcohol. nervous but unstoppable. another beer. my chest warm like it just popped out of a kiln.
emboldened after a couple beers, i ask johnny the name of the waitress. he asks which one. i describe her. he says 'that's katie.' i say so what's her story? off guard. he humbly says 'she's my girlfriend.' light from a corner of blackest black pupils dies. johnny sees it.
i settle up my tab. as i walk out, johnny says 'shallow, have a good night.' a nice guy. i think how much easier it would be if he weren't. get home. crushed like an unfiltered cigarette burnt past its prime. stay up til daylight trying desperately to become numb. it doesn't work. never does.
the votes are in. i can't count so i had my brother do it. the clear winner was florida. recount. ok. h wins. thanks voters.
i love sentences. the way they can be put together and taken apart. like most writers, i feel that i've written a few good ones and a whole lot of bad ones. i picked out a few of my favorites and thought it might be fun to vote on everyone's favorite. i'm also posting the original date the sentence was posted, in case you're interested in reading it in context. ok. here are the sentences:
a) her eyes are dark and unforgiven. (2.26.04)
b) stone walls surround sprawling grounds with mansions and driveways and parties and senators. (2.26.04)
c) on the way home a hearse, a woman with a sure jaw wears fur and a black hat. (2.23.04)
d) wrinkles like desert air when the road tars and straightness curves. (2.13.04)
e) the sink is cold against my leg in the pitch. (1.26.04)
f) break the heart first, she says. (1.23.04)
g) after dark it's like another time zone where all the cool things happen, like vampires and red wine and steak dinners. (1.23.04)
h) she says hey or hello or something and it is only a little extraordinary. (12.29.03)
i) a guy comes and delivers eggs and cheese to the table burglar who smells like the garden of eden in the very best part. (11.19.03)
j) it is subtle and delicate like creme brulé, not like a cinnamon scented urinal puck. (11.5.03)
k) i pass two girls feigning a punk rock look as i weave through the lone checkout lane. (10.7.03)
in the village, walk inside the coffee shop. the floor scuffed, somewhere between filthy and unclean. pressed tin above. the bar wooden, espresso brew stimulates air. foam rushes and steam rises. dialogues bleed.
a girl with tattoos takes my order. she has black hair, pale skin. a ring through her lip and pin through her eyebrow. she asks what i'm having. i look at the times. a picture of an iraqi body washer on the front page. he washes the dead. you won't see an ad for his job on monster.com. i ask for a double cappucino.
it's spring and i sit at a table on the sidewalk outside. voices are crisper out here. the sun beats down and warms my skin. southern weather never ceases to amaze. spring comes so early here. the sun reflects off the table. a blonde walks by. she is not too thin and tan and wears shorts that say vandy across her ass. she is cute in a womanly sorority girl type of way. a girl with a stern look and librarian glasses surfs her laptop silently. a white guy passes in a foreign car with windows down blaring hip hop out open windows. the laptop surfer does not move her eyes from the screen.
warm and increasingly caffeinated i walk. i don't know where i'm headed. i find myself in a park. contemplating the homeless. i could sleep on this slide. i know i'm deluding myself. i wouldn't want their job, you know, being homeless. scrounging. trying to get assholes like me to give up a buck. find the car. open the sunroof and drive. warm, punk rock, 5th gear, untouched. it's still quiet on the inside.
i like waitresses and witnesses
i like underhanded dealings and shady characters
i despise convention and morally upright
i like painters out of step and poets out of touch
i refute the necessity of being pragmatic
i like temporary loss of control through love, sex and intoxication
i like walking through doorways and opening windows
i love tall women
i like good listeners and smooth operators
these are a few of my favorite things
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