Tonight a kid named Hunter lended a hand.
It was weird … him and this chick pulled up
in a big truck, like the one my friend C.C.
used to drive. Her and her brothers George and Scott
and their father, General Buck Turgidson.
Right, back to tonight. This truck pulls up and stops,
the chick gets out and starts dancing to Da Dip.
I haven’t heard that since 1994.
My ex danced to that song once or twice. These days
She’s married to a man she should have been with
right from the start. I’m happy for her. Really.
I don’t want her. We were not peas and carrots.
We were pieces of flint striking together,
sparks flying, hot-and-heavy, backseat of a
bus on the way to the old Naval shipyard.
Do I miss her? Of course, but she wanted a
family. All that was holding her back was
me. She had faults, too. It’s not all on me. No.
I was never content, but neither was she.
We were happiest when we would split, then come
together 30 to 60 days later
and the pattern would repeat. Come. Go. Come. Go.
The entire time, though, each of us wanted
Something else. Something more. The greener grass thing.
The idea of Heaven … ‘cause our marriage? It was Hell.
It’s just a state of mind, right? Work towards something.
Always keep your eyes straight ahead, not staring
at bumpers or cows going moo. Whatever
it is you gaze at when you should be looking
at the long and winding road in front of you
filled with horn-blowing, tail-riding, no-blinker
idiots who would cut you off to get to
Taco Bell seven seconds faster. I mean…
gorditas won’t eat themselves, will they Goro?
Did you really need four arms, you big bastard?
I never once made it past you to Shang Tsung.
I always preferred swimming in the public
pool in our town. It was like The Sandlot.
“You’re killing me, Smalls.” Remember that line? Yeah.
Of course. Remember the one homerun Smalls hit?
It was an autographed ball, right? Signed by whom?
The Sultan of Swat. The Great Bambino. Babe…