Ok, so … tonight’s story, set in Shermer,
Illinois, is about the girl in fake New York.
Let’s call it Cleveland, for short. The Mistake on the Lake. Erie.
I know. It’s one of five. Ten to one odds say
Ernest Byner fumbled on purpose, but let’s just
call it 50-50, like the old days. “I’m with you, Pop.” Michael
Corleone said that next to his Dad when
he and an extra were waiting for the other
gang to show up. Mike knew the cops were on the take and so were
most of the hospital staff, apparently.
Can you pay off doctors? I bet you can. I can’t.
Oh well. Can’t complain, either. No one would listen. It’s just life.
It sucks, right? It’s awful. Our fucking parents
lied and lied and lied, and now look – there are more than
six billion people in China. Tea costs an arm and a leg.
The only Biscuits I can find play baseball
in Montgomery, Alabama … and do not
get me started on that town of magical happenstance. Hell…
I met Bob Dylan there. He didn’t want a
Painting I picked up at Hank’s boyhood home, just south
of a Pecan gift shop/tourist trap right off the highway.
At Hank’s house, Megh and I met a couple from
South Carolina, who lived in Pensacola.
We walked around a while, snapped some pictures and continued
north, towards the Civic Center where Bob was
playing that night. We parked and walked around with no
cell phones. No painting. Nothing in our hands but warm, southern air.
Neither of us really expected to see
the old man, but we walked around like idiots
until (four hours later) we randomly bumped into him
walking out of, of all things, a Hank Williams
museum. We were on our way inside to leave
the painting with the two chatty women who told us Bob was
coming back later to play Hank’s guitar and
check out the baby blue Cadillac. I wonder
if Bob had the thought, “Good car to drive after a war,” when he
saw it. I know what he thought when he saw me:
“Oh shit. I totally just checked out that guy’s wife.”
I recognized the look. Meghan is prettier than me. So?
There must be some reason I’m with her, right? Yep.
We’re friends. We’re best friends. She helps me and I help her.
We can be totally honest with each other. And get this:
We can’t fucking stand each other most of the time. She’s a bitch.
I’m an asshole. We know this and we accept it.
Why can’t anyone else? I mean, we’re all assholes, right? Or am
I the only one? Do you all take your cues
from me? Because if so I’m sorry. I am dumb.
I don’t really know how to act around anyone, ever,
Because everyone wants you to be like them
and there’s never enough time to get it all done.
Somewhere, someone is thinking of Saved by the Bell, and they should
be. Remember when Jessie freaked out on Zack?
Bad, right? At least Tori Spelling can laugh it off.
Wait, that wasn’t her? Oh, that’s right. She was the nerdy girl with
the glasses who only had eyes for Sam “Screech”
Powers. Dustin Diamond. What a dog. (He is
a boxer.) Ba-dum-cha! Hey-ohhh. Too bad Ed McMahon is dead.
Hey you … hey … you … psst … hey you. Fuck you. Asshole.
Does that hurt your feelings? If so, please don’t let it.
I promise that I am not talking about any of you.