Sunday, May 26, 2013
They took my old horse away today
They took and old horse off the beach today, as we in the business of selling dreams to wishful mid-westerners call it, his name is Samoset. It’s an old Algonquin word, loosely translated, meaning “fearless warrior” as I have been told. He lost an eye as a mere teenager to another stallion in a battle for a mare. Those who still remember talk of the days and years of research by their original stewards and protectors, the “original” Corolla Wild Horse Fund, remember him all too well. Never mind the names, or the players, who have over the years kept a watchful eye over our small but magnificent herd; these majestic animals are living examples of not only reminders of pre-Colonial global exploration and domination, these creatures are living testimony that anything that nature sees to create and nurture, she will provide for. Like this magnificent breed, dating back to pre-Colonial American history, Samoset was a true exemplification of the warrior heart, a fine example of survival of the fittest. I called him “ my boy”, Hemmingway might of penned him, very poignantly, “destroyed but not defeated”, while to the great warrior poets, and real heroes of our time, such as my favorite, Charles Bukowski , this old horse would have been notoriously known around his waterhole as “ a good duker.” Like I said before, they took him away today after his last battle rendered him bloodied, dejected, and unable to any longer defend himself. And though it may sound crass, in the sense of how he lived, and under the suspicion that one more fight could be his last, I say against all that is humane and good, he should have been left to die as he lived, fighting for his own, a ruler of his own destiny. Again, “destroyed but not defeated!” Read on and see for yourselves if you would really see this any differently, were you in my shoes.
It had been some weeks since I spoke with the herd manager about what I would call his slow domestication. Everyone loved him, and one house of folks in particular loved him a bit too much. They would routinely feed him, just little sprinkles of food. There was enough to keep him hanging around, but never enough for the cops to find after I witnessed the feedings and called the law. Feeding of our wild horses is strictly prohibited and the same family killed a mare from his harem years before, indirectly. Feed had been put out in winter. Rains fell causing the feed to mildew, and the horses continued to eat it. Well, one day we found a mare that was in a canal next to Brant Road, right across the street from that house. She was in thirty seven degree water so a bullet proof necropsy was performed, and as it would turn out, the cause of death was a toxin produced by a spore put off by the mildew, causing the kidneys to shut down, and she died. Try as I might over the years, I sought prosecution of them but never to any avail. They were slippery, and the law up there really didn’t care. I felt defeated. In my opinion, their feeding of my boy led to his being an easy mark, a cheap target for the young bachelors when the spring foaling season brought testosterone and fighting to the minds of the up and coming stallions.
Recently, well last year I guess, my old boy began hanging around that house. I would literally stop by there on every tour as I knew where to find him, near the buffet. The residents of the house had put up NO HORSE TOURS signs near their house, but I ignored them, since they lived on a public street. I saw him nearly every day, standing in their yard. It was pathetic to me in a way, but at least I would get to see him, and show him off to my guests. I recalled tales of his lead mare Lucky # 7, of fights with younger stallions, and his continual will to overcome, despite his lack of sight. He had been reduced from his former glory when he finally lost the battle for his harem and his prized Lucky # Seven to a young bachelor named Cody. It wasn’t two weeks later that Seven succumbed to cancer, leaving the last colt of the two alone with a new harem and nobody to love him. I remember him running around our private pasture screaming for her as they took her away. People may shout Anthropomorphism when I recall these emotional outbursts, but those people live in books and labs. I lived my time with these beautiful beasts in the bush and on the beaches, trudging through the mud of the spring rains and the dry summer leaves of the maritime forests, with the Live Oaks, the Loblollys, the wild pigs and the Deer Ticks. I witnessed things no one would justify as even remotely possible based on scientific knowledge, but I felt them, in my heart. I saw the look on the face of a stallion as he first walked over to inspect a new foal born 30 feet away from my wet eyes. I know the scientists to be wrong. Lucky # Seven was no different as a “rule breaker.” In a world where a mare may stay with a harem for maybe two breeding seasons before being won by another stallion, I actually witnessed her gnashing teeth and fighting valiantly alongside her man, Samoset. I have never seen that behavior in any other mare. She stood by her man, to the very end. It seems that the loss of her man to Cody would eventually kill her. Her necropsy told us that she died of cancer, while the person who named her thought it a possible complication of a contraceptive dart. I say it was a broken heart. I remember her languishing, head bowed, in the shadows of rental cottages on the dog days that summer. We had heat indices in the one hundred thirty degree range that last week. I myself would even fall victim to that unbearable heat. I passed out at work from heat exhaustion and had to be hospitalized for dehydration. One thing always connected me to Seven, and that was our apparent connection to powerful summer storms. She would always have her foals during extremely low barometric pressure events, and in the same place, so I became aware of where and when to look for her newborns when those squalls of late June and early July came in. The afternoon I was in the hospital from the heat, there was a great and terrible storm going on. I was in and out of consciousness, yet every time I awoke my thoughts turned to Seven, perhaps it was the storms. Later that night after my release I received a call from our office manager telling me to take the day off. I assured her that I was fine, but she insisted, and said finally “dude, Seven.” She said nothing else, and I knew. I hung up the phone and cried.
I recalled, as I would later to my guests how she was part of a special harem to a rock and roll misfit like me. A one eyed horse, a mare named Lucky # 7, my date of birth and lucky number, and the times we had. I remembered risking my life several times, and illegally so to interfere with nature. One time for example, as Cody had been spending years trying to steal her from Samoset as she helped to fight him off, her next to last colt Storm was left in the middle of no man’s land so to speak. After a tremendous and dusty fight, Samoset, Seven and the rest of the harem were on one side of the dry dirt road, and Cody and a few other bachelors were on the other side, with Storm in the middle, and confused. I observed the young boys dropping their ears back and creeping in on the months old colt. I knew what was coming next, so against the law and common sense I jumped from my truck and ran at Storm, whooping and waving my arms, clapping my hands until eventually hitting him like a linebacker hits a tackling dummy as I moved him over to his mom and dad. It was technically not only illegal, but arguably stupid and put me at serious risk of not only losing my job but my life. This was my relationship with these horses, personal, and on my own rules. Say what you will, no matter.
So this brings me back to where I started. Storm is gone, as is Blaze and Seven, and Samoset was being, in my opinion, domesticated by the same ones that inadvertently killed one of his mares just a few years before, and they continued to feed. I had recently emailed the herd manager asking him about the very situation, and weeks after that confronted him on the beach while on a tour. He explained in very insufficient and in my opinion neglectful fashion that he horse was old, and he had spoken to those people on numerous occasions and that they seemed to have developed a good relationship with that old horse, as he put it. If you ask me, this was blatant mismanagement and laziness on his part, and I will forever stand by that. Less than two weeks later Samoset, my boy, would be gone from my life. After ten years of our talks and playful interactions, my near death experiences rescuing two of his colts, he was taken from me. The last day I saw him was a Friday.
I had two tours, one at nine and one at eleven. It was spring and all of the bachelors were in fighting moods, borne of the chemicals in the air. As I approached the house I could see something was not right, Samoset was limping, and as I approached he turned to show me his good side. His good eye cut and bleeding, his ribs covered in abrasions and lacerations and his back right patella was weak. I took pictures and called it in. On my second tour it took me a while to find him. He was on the opposite side of the road under freshly blooming Mimosas next to the canal we had found one of his former mares in years before. He was lying in the sun, resting, but aware. I called “Samie” as I always did, “come on out, these people want to see you!” He shook his head as if to dislodge a burr from his mane and my guests laughed, “he just told you no!” So, I got out of the truck, and again breaking the law I crept closer, not only to get them a good picture, but to make further assessments of his wounds for the Corolla Wild Horse Fund. As I left him in that little green sunshine room and walked back to the truck I noticed the people covering their mouths in astonishment to keep from laughing. I turned, and he had followed me to the truck. I said “come on boy, you’re going to get me fired” jokingly as he bowed his head, shaking that kingly mane once more. He blew his nose like they do when they are grazing and get a bunch of dust, not quite a whinny or a neigh, but communication nonetheless.
I went home for the weekend and thought nothing of it. He had been through much worse and always bounced back. These horses of the Carolinas have been likened to “The Horses of Kings”, and he was their King if you ask me. Well, Monday morning came, and I led my tour down that road and saw no sight of my old friend. And during my lunch break between tours I was jabbering about something as the office manager called me outside and told me to go home. I was shocked and asked why, and all she said was, “they took him off yesterday.” I don’t remember my reply, just my walk away, and a few cigarettes before unceremoniously piling myself into the old Ford and limping home. They had taken my old horse away and I wasn’t even there. To compound matters pictures started to surface on the CWHF website, and the nickname “Cyclops” became his unofficial name to all the weekend renters and passersby. I became enraged for some reason. I had not called him by that name since he lost Seven in that last scrap, he was never the same, and I chose to never call him by less than his registered, given name. I called him by his true name on the CWHF website much to the chagrin of the “new” powers that rule, the ones who for reasons I cannot currently go into the details of neither recognize his name or lineage, nor have record to back it up. I have access to those records. I was made to look like a fool, a simple tour guide, a derogatory term if you have experienced what I have at the hands of the officials and the residents of his home turf, and so be it. I was asked to clarify my statement about his “given name” while at the same time being smacked down in print by a representative of that board, and as I did, I drew nothing in return but silence. So I begin to write the book, eventually backing all of these assertions I have made with fact and documentation, and I will make sure that the stories and tales of this King of the horses of Kings and his Queen are recorded for the future generations of our wild herd lovers.
warehouser
sitting here and
nothing but the screen
and breezes separate me
from the road and them
me at the portal
module mechanism
cold this Memorial day
as they came and went
and Friday night rocked my
sock hop
i hear an occasional
toot from a horn
or an explicative from
one who had to piss when
the column moved slowly
now he’s left in the bush
and i laugh, i laugh
and i laugh because they
are going home and
i am not
we all have jobs
and none like them
more i guess
but i sit content
with coffee going in
as they creep by
and I can see the hands in
faces
hung-over heads and
sunburned shoulders
that will be spoken of and
showed off around
the water cooler
the blood bank
the clinics and the
quarries
and i just sit and bang
about them as like a spring tide
they retreat now
leaving the carnival
not smooth but busy with
deadbeats broom pushers and
technicians like me
getting the wiring ready for the
flood that will arrive later
i laugh again
probably no surely
because once they have all gone
and taken with them
the stress of tomorrow
the anticipation of
readjusting to reality
the job and the wife
the girlfriend boyfriend dog
the garden music flower table
money metal soul and vehicle of
hylozoist effect subconscious
i will have my warehouse and my
thousands of price tags stickers
magnets toys boxes bins and
lists leaving me feeling broken and
like an elf at lying time;
i will stand there at a
table and listen to the voices around me
the characters
the utterances of
nigger and polack and
“who the fuck is gonna knock me out?”
and then a “no, not you, i said who is gonna knock me out, you ain’t
big enough to knock me out”
-but i won’t have the anxiety
of the mundane replacing
the week of paradise
extraction/distraction
and i won’t have any of them in my way on Monday.
-just my table, my lists
the voices and my stickers,
and a signed promise not
to deviate from my natural
hair colour.
nothing but the screen
and breezes separate me
from the road and them
me at the portal
module mechanism
cold this Memorial day
as they came and went
and Friday night rocked my
sock hop
i hear an occasional
toot from a horn
or an explicative from
one who had to piss when
the column moved slowly
now he’s left in the bush
and i laugh, i laugh
and i laugh because they
are going home and
i am not
we all have jobs
and none like them
more i guess
but i sit content
with coffee going in
as they creep by
and I can see the hands in
faces
hung-over heads and
sunburned shoulders
that will be spoken of and
showed off around
the water cooler
the blood bank
the clinics and the
quarries
and i just sit and bang
about them as like a spring tide
they retreat now
leaving the carnival
not smooth but busy with
deadbeats broom pushers and
technicians like me
getting the wiring ready for the
flood that will arrive later
i laugh again
probably no surely
because once they have all gone
and taken with them
the stress of tomorrow
the anticipation of
readjusting to reality
the job and the wife
the girlfriend boyfriend dog
the garden music flower table
money metal soul and vehicle of
hylozoist effect subconscious
i will have my warehouse and my
thousands of price tags stickers
magnets toys boxes bins and
lists leaving me feeling broken and
like an elf at lying time;
i will stand there at a
table and listen to the voices around me
the characters
the utterances of
nigger and polack and
“who the fuck is gonna knock me out?”
and then a “no, not you, i said who is gonna knock me out, you ain’t
big enough to knock me out”
-but i won’t have the anxiety
of the mundane replacing
the week of paradise
extraction/distraction
and i won’t have any of them in my way on Monday.
-just my table, my lists
the voices and my stickers,
and a signed promise not
to deviate from my natural
hair colour.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
”Teeth just aren’t meant to be pulled”
At least that’s what an oral surgeon told me six or seven years ago as he stood above me, twisting, turning, and LEANING into the process of yanking my wisdom from bone. I was under a general sedation of Novocain and he was really going at it when he paused and said that to me. I remember laughing, sort of, as he and the cold steel of large instruments pressed against my lower lip; pinched the corner of my mouth. This was only the first chapter in my lesson in true pain. When one goes to the ER and they ask you, “so on a level of one to ten, where would you say your pain is?” I now had a great scale to go on. The tooth pulling was fine really, triple numbed for my pleasure, and plenty of pain pills, it would be the resulting dry socket that would educate me. I have had hernia surgery, and the day after that was nothing like the pain of exposed bone and nerve to air and the former, fading comforts of eating, drinking, smoking and spitting.
A dry socket, you see, is what happens in the hole from whence a tooth has been extracted. If it does not heal properly because you smoke from a bong, a cigarette, drink from a straw or spit, or if the clot that is supposed to form, sparking the all important healing process, either does not form due to thinning blood from alcohol consumption or falls out due to gravity or sucking, well, one hell of a mind numbing pain will result. To render it painless they pack it every twenty four hours with gauze that has been soaked in Benzocaine and clove oil. The result is a numb and pain free hole, but the taste in your mouth which results reminded me of being at a post punk show circa 1985 in the back of what was really a full time beauty salon turned punk rock dive once a month or so. Anyhow, that is what I took away from my first encounter with adult oral surgery; pain medicine is good, dry socket, bad.
About two weeks ago I was blessed with the opportunity to get my mouth looked at again. A recent discovery of spinal injuries had rendered me worthless and unemployable. After a couple of rounds with Vicodin and after what I would call thirty x-rays my principal care provider thought it necessary that I ditch the pill plan and seek physical therapy, and so I did. Nonetheless, this left me with an itch for more euphoria, and coincidentally about the same time that an old filled tooth snapped in half, leaving me in pain again, and with the taste of what I’ll call Mercury in my mouth. My wife suggested that while I did have coverage in the short term I should go and get it looked at. After the three day process of locating a dentist that accepted Medicaid for grown-ups and one who took emergency cases as well, I settled into a nice dentist’s chair where they quickly did another barrage of x-rays and scraped years of stuff off of my teeth and from beneath my gums. They gave me fifteen Tylenol number threes. “Well that sucks,” I thought, and “where is my Vicodin?” I was under the impression that if you go to the dentist you get “prizes.” As it turned out, I had picked the wrong dentist. He found several teeth that needed extraction and set me up for an appointment straight away. It was to be about four days after the initial visit, and two days into that wait I made the call one makes in my state; the call saying the pain medication isn’t strong enough and asking for a higher test variety. I realized then as I always have that this automatically predisposes you to one of two judgments; either you will be given some better meds or will be put on a list as a pill freak. In this case the latter was the result. Anyway, a couple of days later I found myself back in his chair and awaiting extraction number one. It was a Monday, and I had a bad feeling. That feeling would be proven valid after he finished drilling, sawing and yanking at my number thirteen upper, broken off below the gum. As he finished he said it all. “Well, since that was really just a little bit of root left, and had some sharp pieces, you may have a slight discomfort tonight, but just use ice and take whatever you would for a headache should you develop any discomfort.”“Damn it!” I thought quietly, “he isn’t giving me anything; he DOES think I am a dirty pill freak.” I wouldn’t say anything straight away, I just stared blindly into his sadistic blue eyes and thought of all of the other tortured souls that gladly bit his bullet, and meanwhile I made my plan. I would, and did call his office the next morning and complain of the very real pain that I was enduring. I told them of my trip to the ER the night before and how they gave me four Percocet to get through the night, and of each of them, from the triage nurse to the doctor that gave me the samples shaking their heads in disbelief. I even recounted my discussion with three family members who are dentists as well who shuddered at the thought of nothing but Advil or Aleve. Within an hour’s time I was contacted by his nurse, reassuring me that his directions were rock solid. In sheer bewilderment and horror I made it perfectly clear that while I did not intend to question the fair barber’s ethics, I was cancelling further appointments and seeking treatment elsewhere. There was a shock from the receptionist, to which I responded with a shock of mine own, sort of blowing up, telling her that I was a grown man, and had been made to feel like a child, a seeker of narcotics, and other meaningless passive aggressive speech. It was to no avail, but it made me feel slightly better. Soon thereafter I was on the phone with other offices.
Moments later I was reassured by another receptionist that I had been hoodwinked. I told her of other teeth needing extraction and she said that while they could not give me anything for the pain in the first hole, if I was to come in immediately, they could pull another and treat the pain after that. I was in the old Ford and running. When I got there, they were very receptive. They had semi-loud rock music playing in my room, it felt good. The hygienist or assistant was a nice fellow, covered in beautiful tattoos and spiked, jelled hair. His and the dentist’s name were the same, Mike. They were great. They already had all of my x-rays on electronic mail from the former office and were preparing to go in. They noticed that I needed several teeth pulled and it was just up to which one. I had been discussing my former twenty four hour ordeal with another nurse who was asking all the regular questions regarding allergies, pain scale, etc. when the dentist entered, smiling. “What’s all this I hear?” he called out as I was telling my life story to his nurse. “He wants pain pills.” She answered quickly, almost in a silly way. He re-stated that while they could not give me anything for the previous days pulling, if I wanted them to pull another they would be happy to pull another for me and “give me whatever I wanted.” I had found it, the Holy Grail of oral surgery. I recalled the conversation to him that I had had only hours before with the former driller’s receptionist, of how she said “he said to keep it packed tight with gauze, sit in a comfortable chair, like a recliner, with my head above my heart, and don’t talk.” My newfound buddy leaned in, eyes all a gleam and said “that’s because he didn’t want to give you pain pills, we give Percocet.” After a few moments I was shot and numbed. Before he went in I told him of the only other extraction I had done, years ago, and how that doctor had quipped to me, as he was deep in my mouth that “you know, in my line of work I have come to find that teeth just aren’t meant to be pulled.” Moments later, as the tattooed assistant began the suction and the dentist readied to do his best, he looked at the lesser Mike and said “hey Mikey, I have realized that teeth just aren’t meant to be pulled.” Mikey didn’t really respond the way Doctor Mike would have liked I guess, for as he told me to “bite down” and said “you’re all done my man”, he walked out, mumbling something about how maybe the lack of response was due to his inherent Canadian sensibility. I noticed then that he did have a bit of a Martin Short quality about him, and I liked it. We exchanged a firm handshake, discussed playing golf, and I was on my way with the paper rights to twenty five more Percocet. My mission was complete. I made an appointment for the following Wednesday to have the rest yanked, it was a Tuesday.
Now in the first hours of that day I probably ingested five or six of those lovely treats, in pounded powder form, chased with Coke. I was feeling no pain, and back in the warm and fuzzy world of the doped up. My wife seemed nicer, I danced with my children, and I cooked, cleaned and drove the road along my beach slowly, all with a smile on my face. With the weekend approaching, and a few teeth yet to barter with, I felt my pain med stash was getting light, and I didn’t want that, so I called back, complaining of a dry socket in the tooth they had just pulled. After a short exchange with his receptionist about the issue, she assured me that I could not just come in once a week to have a tooth pulled as my “insurance” would not cover that. She was speaking in code, and I knew what she meant. I decided to have the rest pulled on the following day, Friday. All went as planned. Mike the Canadian dentist looked me over, and regarding the broken tooth that started the whole saga, said “I knew that tooth would give you trouble my man.” He was smiling, so I smiled back and said, “Yep, you are correct sir, so let’s take that and the rest out.” I questioned further about meds, joking with him that “doesn’t having multiples pulled get you double Percocet?” to which he replied smiling, “only if I get half.” So the dance began. He shot me a few more times, and within moments I had another three holes in my head. He gave me the script and off to the pharmacy I went. He also gave me a prescription for an anti-microbial mouthwash, and instructions for usage. Moments after dropping the notes off to the pharmacist, she approached me saying, “We’ll have the other ready for you in a moment but this one you have to wait two days for.” It was the Percocet! “Oh no, how could this be...” I wondered, as I sat there, my greatest fear realized. I reluctantly approached her at the window again and asked what the problem was. She explained the new rules about oxycodone and how based on Medicaid’s rules for dosage, and the pharmacy’s, that I had to have at least two days worth of medicine left. I assured them that I didn’t and opened my mouth, all full of gauze and blood and mumbled “I have this.” She nodded that she understood but I would need to either get my doctor to change the dosage info, or prescribe something else. I tried desperately calling the office several times from the parking lot before my phone died. I rushed to the office and explained my situation to the receptionist, the numbness was wearing off as she said, “I know, it hasn’t been long enough.” I tried explaining it to her but she just told me that the doctor was already gone for the weekend and out of town to boot! “Sorry,” She said smugly, “going to be a couple of days.” It was only then that I realized the very real consequences of the hole I had dug. Here I sat, on a Friday afternoon with a crisp new prescription for happiness and nobody to fill it. After another conversation with Medicaid I was told that if I wished to pay out of pocket they would have no problem with it, so I called the pharmacy. The pharmacist told me that while Medicaid may have no problem with that, it was against pharmacy policy. I was stuck; in pain now, full blossom, and without any narcotic recourse. “Shit!” I thought to myself. After one more call to the receptionist at the office that left me sounding and feeling desperate, she asked if she called in some Vicodin instead, would that help. I told her that I thought it would. While on the phone to the pharmacy to check the status of that, and now well after all numbness had subsided, the receptionist left a nasty message on my phone: “ I called in the Vicodin, now I don’t want to hear from you again today, this weekend, next week, or NEVER!” She hung up.
I would like to tell you I handled the Vicodin more cautiously, but I would be lying. I choked it down, and that would be the end of it. I developed another dry socket and thanks to my own abuses, I endured it mostly pain med free. I guess I should have heeded the warning in that joke years ago, that teeth most definitely are not meant to be pulled.
A dry socket, you see, is what happens in the hole from whence a tooth has been extracted. If it does not heal properly because you smoke from a bong, a cigarette, drink from a straw or spit, or if the clot that is supposed to form, sparking the all important healing process, either does not form due to thinning blood from alcohol consumption or falls out due to gravity or sucking, well, one hell of a mind numbing pain will result. To render it painless they pack it every twenty four hours with gauze that has been soaked in Benzocaine and clove oil. The result is a numb and pain free hole, but the taste in your mouth which results reminded me of being at a post punk show circa 1985 in the back of what was really a full time beauty salon turned punk rock dive once a month or so. Anyhow, that is what I took away from my first encounter with adult oral surgery; pain medicine is good, dry socket, bad.
About two weeks ago I was blessed with the opportunity to get my mouth looked at again. A recent discovery of spinal injuries had rendered me worthless and unemployable. After a couple of rounds with Vicodin and after what I would call thirty x-rays my principal care provider thought it necessary that I ditch the pill plan and seek physical therapy, and so I did. Nonetheless, this left me with an itch for more euphoria, and coincidentally about the same time that an old filled tooth snapped in half, leaving me in pain again, and with the taste of what I’ll call Mercury in my mouth. My wife suggested that while I did have coverage in the short term I should go and get it looked at. After the three day process of locating a dentist that accepted Medicaid for grown-ups and one who took emergency cases as well, I settled into a nice dentist’s chair where they quickly did another barrage of x-rays and scraped years of stuff off of my teeth and from beneath my gums. They gave me fifteen Tylenol number threes. “Well that sucks,” I thought, and “where is my Vicodin?” I was under the impression that if you go to the dentist you get “prizes.” As it turned out, I had picked the wrong dentist. He found several teeth that needed extraction and set me up for an appointment straight away. It was to be about four days after the initial visit, and two days into that wait I made the call one makes in my state; the call saying the pain medication isn’t strong enough and asking for a higher test variety. I realized then as I always have that this automatically predisposes you to one of two judgments; either you will be given some better meds or will be put on a list as a pill freak. In this case the latter was the result. Anyway, a couple of days later I found myself back in his chair and awaiting extraction number one. It was a Monday, and I had a bad feeling. That feeling would be proven valid after he finished drilling, sawing and yanking at my number thirteen upper, broken off below the gum. As he finished he said it all. “Well, since that was really just a little bit of root left, and had some sharp pieces, you may have a slight discomfort tonight, but just use ice and take whatever you would for a headache should you develop any discomfort.”“Damn it!” I thought quietly, “he isn’t giving me anything; he DOES think I am a dirty pill freak.” I wouldn’t say anything straight away, I just stared blindly into his sadistic blue eyes and thought of all of the other tortured souls that gladly bit his bullet, and meanwhile I made my plan. I would, and did call his office the next morning and complain of the very real pain that I was enduring. I told them of my trip to the ER the night before and how they gave me four Percocet to get through the night, and of each of them, from the triage nurse to the doctor that gave me the samples shaking their heads in disbelief. I even recounted my discussion with three family members who are dentists as well who shuddered at the thought of nothing but Advil or Aleve. Within an hour’s time I was contacted by his nurse, reassuring me that his directions were rock solid. In sheer bewilderment and horror I made it perfectly clear that while I did not intend to question the fair barber’s ethics, I was cancelling further appointments and seeking treatment elsewhere. There was a shock from the receptionist, to which I responded with a shock of mine own, sort of blowing up, telling her that I was a grown man, and had been made to feel like a child, a seeker of narcotics, and other meaningless passive aggressive speech. It was to no avail, but it made me feel slightly better. Soon thereafter I was on the phone with other offices.
Moments later I was reassured by another receptionist that I had been hoodwinked. I told her of other teeth needing extraction and she said that while they could not give me anything for the pain in the first hole, if I was to come in immediately, they could pull another and treat the pain after that. I was in the old Ford and running. When I got there, they were very receptive. They had semi-loud rock music playing in my room, it felt good. The hygienist or assistant was a nice fellow, covered in beautiful tattoos and spiked, jelled hair. His and the dentist’s name were the same, Mike. They were great. They already had all of my x-rays on electronic mail from the former office and were preparing to go in. They noticed that I needed several teeth pulled and it was just up to which one. I had been discussing my former twenty four hour ordeal with another nurse who was asking all the regular questions regarding allergies, pain scale, etc. when the dentist entered, smiling. “What’s all this I hear?” he called out as I was telling my life story to his nurse. “He wants pain pills.” She answered quickly, almost in a silly way. He re-stated that while they could not give me anything for the previous days pulling, if I wanted them to pull another they would be happy to pull another for me and “give me whatever I wanted.” I had found it, the Holy Grail of oral surgery. I recalled the conversation to him that I had had only hours before with the former driller’s receptionist, of how she said “he said to keep it packed tight with gauze, sit in a comfortable chair, like a recliner, with my head above my heart, and don’t talk.” My newfound buddy leaned in, eyes all a gleam and said “that’s because he didn’t want to give you pain pills, we give Percocet.” After a few moments I was shot and numbed. Before he went in I told him of the only other extraction I had done, years ago, and how that doctor had quipped to me, as he was deep in my mouth that “you know, in my line of work I have come to find that teeth just aren’t meant to be pulled.” Moments later, as the tattooed assistant began the suction and the dentist readied to do his best, he looked at the lesser Mike and said “hey Mikey, I have realized that teeth just aren’t meant to be pulled.” Mikey didn’t really respond the way Doctor Mike would have liked I guess, for as he told me to “bite down” and said “you’re all done my man”, he walked out, mumbling something about how maybe the lack of response was due to his inherent Canadian sensibility. I noticed then that he did have a bit of a Martin Short quality about him, and I liked it. We exchanged a firm handshake, discussed playing golf, and I was on my way with the paper rights to twenty five more Percocet. My mission was complete. I made an appointment for the following Wednesday to have the rest yanked, it was a Tuesday.
Now in the first hours of that day I probably ingested five or six of those lovely treats, in pounded powder form, chased with Coke. I was feeling no pain, and back in the warm and fuzzy world of the doped up. My wife seemed nicer, I danced with my children, and I cooked, cleaned and drove the road along my beach slowly, all with a smile on my face. With the weekend approaching, and a few teeth yet to barter with, I felt my pain med stash was getting light, and I didn’t want that, so I called back, complaining of a dry socket in the tooth they had just pulled. After a short exchange with his receptionist about the issue, she assured me that I could not just come in once a week to have a tooth pulled as my “insurance” would not cover that. She was speaking in code, and I knew what she meant. I decided to have the rest pulled on the following day, Friday. All went as planned. Mike the Canadian dentist looked me over, and regarding the broken tooth that started the whole saga, said “I knew that tooth would give you trouble my man.” He was smiling, so I smiled back and said, “Yep, you are correct sir, so let’s take that and the rest out.” I questioned further about meds, joking with him that “doesn’t having multiples pulled get you double Percocet?” to which he replied smiling, “only if I get half.” So the dance began. He shot me a few more times, and within moments I had another three holes in my head. He gave me the script and off to the pharmacy I went. He also gave me a prescription for an anti-microbial mouthwash, and instructions for usage. Moments after dropping the notes off to the pharmacist, she approached me saying, “We’ll have the other ready for you in a moment but this one you have to wait two days for.” It was the Percocet! “Oh no, how could this be...” I wondered, as I sat there, my greatest fear realized. I reluctantly approached her at the window again and asked what the problem was. She explained the new rules about oxycodone and how based on Medicaid’s rules for dosage, and the pharmacy’s, that I had to have at least two days worth of medicine left. I assured them that I didn’t and opened my mouth, all full of gauze and blood and mumbled “I have this.” She nodded that she understood but I would need to either get my doctor to change the dosage info, or prescribe something else. I tried desperately calling the office several times from the parking lot before my phone died. I rushed to the office and explained my situation to the receptionist, the numbness was wearing off as she said, “I know, it hasn’t been long enough.” I tried explaining it to her but she just told me that the doctor was already gone for the weekend and out of town to boot! “Sorry,” She said smugly, “going to be a couple of days.” It was only then that I realized the very real consequences of the hole I had dug. Here I sat, on a Friday afternoon with a crisp new prescription for happiness and nobody to fill it. After another conversation with Medicaid I was told that if I wished to pay out of pocket they would have no problem with it, so I called the pharmacy. The pharmacist told me that while Medicaid may have no problem with that, it was against pharmacy policy. I was stuck; in pain now, full blossom, and without any narcotic recourse. “Shit!” I thought to myself. After one more call to the receptionist at the office that left me sounding and feeling desperate, she asked if she called in some Vicodin instead, would that help. I told her that I thought it would. While on the phone to the pharmacy to check the status of that, and now well after all numbness had subsided, the receptionist left a nasty message on my phone: “ I called in the Vicodin, now I don’t want to hear from you again today, this weekend, next week, or NEVER!” She hung up.
I would like to tell you I handled the Vicodin more cautiously, but I would be lying. I choked it down, and that would be the end of it. I developed another dry socket and thanks to my own abuses, I endured it mostly pain med free. I guess I should have heeded the warning in that joke years ago, that teeth most definitely are not meant to be pulled.
Sometimes Even a Cabana Boy gets What He Needs
I live in paradise. The radio tells me that at least. Every time I go anywhere in the old Ford, the disc jockeys, the car salesmen, the mini-golf courses, the restaurant owners, the blood drives, the marathons and half marathons, the people that talk like pirates, the liquor sellers and the hammock makers, the sweet sounding nearly English-literate foreign exchange girls from Belarus remind me with their script spoken public service announcements about walking and bicycle safety that we live in a tourism driven paradise. The drivers doing ten miles below post in front of me for half the year really nail it home. The “OBX”, as my home is called, or the Outer Banks of North Carolina, is paradise to all of these trinkets pushers, tricksters and trade workers. When I was just nineteen and had just moved to town iconic oyster bars built on cocaine money and broken toilet dive bars, crooked piers with crooked pool tables were the order of the day for our teenage turnout to the life on this sandbar, after burning down the suburbs of southeastern Virginia. I moved here in 1989, and by 1995 a man that made his loot at three hundred bucks a night working one of those oyster bars had already opened his own restaurant, created that brand “OBX” which has become synonymous with my home of today, while in 1995 we were too busy smoking pot and chanting down the system to give a rat’s ass about saving anything, or opening our own mail, let alone businesses. We drank, we smoked, and we skated. We also played in bands and listened to music.
I have been unemployed for about eight months now. This hasn’t really bothered me, but it has put strains on the matters domestic. Two days ago after answering another handful of advertisements for employment I got a call back. A man called me to be a ‘cabana boy’, or at least that is the humorously derogatory term I attached to my own short summarization of this job. The man had let on very little, other than instead of simply dropping off rental furniture at vacation palaces we would instead be in the line of setting up said furniture. Chairs and umbrellas were mentioned. I was to call him and meet yesterday, but as a house was being moved down the road by my cave, traffic was awful, so after exchanging telephone calls all day I had gleaned two things from this potential employer; first, he talked to me so much that instead of entertaining formality and protocol he was fine with me just showing up tomorrow at a local convenience store for paperwork and ‘umbrella set-up training’ between two and eight p.m., and second; he was a very busy man who was in the business of several types and was very much dependent on mindless, disposable help, like many of those very cute Russian summer school kids. I like those kids, and was even into the mindlessness of this position, it’s certain low pay and bunkhouse lifestyle, but as a husband and father of two young daughters, I knew it would be no permanent solution. Nevertheless, I figured, why not give it a go? This morning one telephone call changed all of that.
Now I don’t know for sure if it is just my natural resistance to work of any type at this point or the sheer horror that lurked behind the voice and perceived intentions of the man on the phone about the cabana boy thing, but something in his tone led me down the dark and winding tunnel of my mind and it’s memory of a telemarketing job I got into around age nineteen, after answering an ad for concert promotions. I would say that yes, this is probably the sense that turned me the most to instead call the HR, or human resources department of a local company with which I had filed applications frequently and recently as well. Feeling a shaky security I was inclined to jump back in the bed after my wife and kids split the digs around 9:30 to be participants. I instead called a nice woman who I only knew by name, recorded voice and extension number. Much to my very real surprise she called me back this morning, quickly and in a timely fashion. We discussed the issue of the physical application, which she assured me she had not received. She also said that she would put me to work tomorrow if she only had the application. After a moment or so discussing skills and other details, she said that although she could probably use me elsewhere in the operation, that right now she was desperate for warehouse workers and asked if I would be interested in taking that while the other stuff shook out. To be honest, whether she had any valid intentions of ever moving me on I didn’t care, I was happy with the idea of another brainless, yet more stable job, perhaps year round, and with benefits. I assured her that by lunch time I would have that application in her hand. I went to the computer, found one, printed it up, attached a copy of my resume and references along with a photocopy of my Social Security card and Driver’s License for good measure and out the door I went, looking for the warehouse on Lake Drive, Building M.
I walked out to the Ford, popped the hood and connected the battery. I got in, started her up and reset the radio to my station. There was a Rolling Stones song playing as I looked North on Highway 12 past my mailbox and into the coming traffic, and gunning it, I started smiling and singing along with them, “you can’t…always get what you want.” Now this may be the most played Stones song ever, and arguably not in my top ten really, but for some reason it made me feel good. Maybe the fact that for twenty five years I have been repeating that old saying that “you should never just go for the money, you should do what makes you happy…” thing, and every time I found myself here before, I let the walls close in, the walls that weren’t even there. I failed the test of the life and practice of that almost paradoxical cliché. I had a near miss last week when almost being hired at a restaurant. I didn’t want the job, but my family needs money; ‘nothing else matters’ became the shorter mantra regarding daily thoughts of employment, and easier to see, on the dashboard, forget any horizon. Now when that song sang “she was practiced at the art of deception” something righteous and clearly shining blue pierced my epiphanic inner eye, I was aware of the umbrella man, and I knew why I was going where I was. Something, somehow had worked, and all I had to do was show up. As the hammers slammed on steel strings in a downward flowing and fallen drag, and the choir began to soar, I gunned her harder, and smiled along, nodding it seemed. “-But if you try some time, well you might find”, and Bang! I knew it all and nothing again. As the end faded out too soon it seemed, I almost began a frown until the Kinks brought Lola in. Okay I thought, by now I was equating every lyric and chord of what would be next as a divine message, and I was tuned in, scrutinizing humanly, ready to turn off the flow at anytime. With all that said I lost my train of thought for a moment looking for the warehouse and left the music. It was short and easy enough. I found my door. A man was looking at me when I walked away from my car. Asking if it was cool to park there a minute, I assured the dude that I would be right back, that I was just dropping off. “Well, if it’s only gonna be a minute,” he sort of groaned, “’cause I think that’s someone’s space.” I said, “Thanks man, I swear” as I stepped off, Ford still open and on. I saw the lady, there was a meeting, and I dropped off my stuff. After acknowledgements and mentions of thanks, other pleasantries were mutually and understandably forgone as I bid her good afternoon, “I am going to my house,” I blurted, a bit stuttered and dumb, as if I meant to convey that I knew I wasn’t needed immediately, or shortly, but not really. I got back in the car. Comfortably Numb was playing, Pink Floyd, if you don’t know. I slid past the sandy colored stubble of surfer kids bending metals and machinists and machine drivers and workers in the street on my way to the big road, before I turned left to go home, and to that guitar solo. I shut up and went left as I needed to while the song made me understand the security I just bartered for, what I was giving, and what it meant to be nearing summer here, and my seasonably employed structure remaining motionless really. That is how I thought as I drove past three of them; probably from Bulgaria…two regulars, quirky, and then the post-always, grey third wearing her skull print hose and skin tight hot pink fake leather mini-dress. Nineteen and eighty seven was showing as I just drove on past, the hot road’s focus.
As I inched towards home, in and out of the sluggish guests Bob Segar came on the box; Against The Wind, “aww shit, I thought” even though I liked it when I was young and had it in a very small collection of forty fives including The One That You Love from Air Supply and Coming To America by Neil Diamond. To be fair I had Convoy as well, from the movie, I am too lazy to remember the artist right now. The chorus sounds like a Glee Club now, but I thought it was pretty tough back then. Funny, after all of this cleared my mind he sang the line “breaking all of the rules that would bend”, or at least if that isn’t what the song says, it damned well should, because I had the reason now for that song in the mix. Just about the time I climbed down from my musical high horse The Cars brought about the reprise of my smile and a volume hike. My Best Friends Girlfriend started in slowly with that early eighties reggae muffled delayed pick and electric hands clapping. “She always dances down the street with her suede blue eyes…” Cars got out of my way of their own volition, the road opened on that home stretch and nearing my house doing around ten to fifteen above the limit I vowed to get home with the set completed there, in that perfect sonic moment. I drove now on the incoming half of our two-lane road, a hundred yards from my house, landing gear down and air brakes applied, finger on the stereo button in case something horrible came on, like Jimmy Buffett or a Toyota commercial. Fittingly, as I slid in home, Creedence came in with Have You Ever Seen the Rain? I felt thankful for my two new shoes up front and my ability to hold the road now as I sat there, feeling the boil of the old neglected radiator. I smelled the brakes as I sang the first two verses, just being there, me in the Ford. At least the radio in that old heap hasn’t gone out on me. I love my music. I love the music for the people it reminds me of; I love it for those places. I shut her off halfway through, before the second chorus, plenty of song to go, but I wanted to tell all of you about this. I drove around blind with a purpose. I found my turns and my way was clear, and the music was beside me, and not only singing to me, but making me understand the whole time, what I cannot understand; why I can never understand. Oh, and Convoy is what would be referred to as a ‘novelty song’ from 1975. It was the title of a movie and soundtrack sung by C.W. McCall. C.W. McCall is a pseudonym of Bill Fries. I never knew the man or the legend, but I saw the movie and I had that forty five. I mentioned it earlier, I was just reminding you. I was a kid back then too, in 1975.
I have been unemployed for about eight months now. This hasn’t really bothered me, but it has put strains on the matters domestic. Two days ago after answering another handful of advertisements for employment I got a call back. A man called me to be a ‘cabana boy’, or at least that is the humorously derogatory term I attached to my own short summarization of this job. The man had let on very little, other than instead of simply dropping off rental furniture at vacation palaces we would instead be in the line of setting up said furniture. Chairs and umbrellas were mentioned. I was to call him and meet yesterday, but as a house was being moved down the road by my cave, traffic was awful, so after exchanging telephone calls all day I had gleaned two things from this potential employer; first, he talked to me so much that instead of entertaining formality and protocol he was fine with me just showing up tomorrow at a local convenience store for paperwork and ‘umbrella set-up training’ between two and eight p.m., and second; he was a very busy man who was in the business of several types and was very much dependent on mindless, disposable help, like many of those very cute Russian summer school kids. I like those kids, and was even into the mindlessness of this position, it’s certain low pay and bunkhouse lifestyle, but as a husband and father of two young daughters, I knew it would be no permanent solution. Nevertheless, I figured, why not give it a go? This morning one telephone call changed all of that.
Now I don’t know for sure if it is just my natural resistance to work of any type at this point or the sheer horror that lurked behind the voice and perceived intentions of the man on the phone about the cabana boy thing, but something in his tone led me down the dark and winding tunnel of my mind and it’s memory of a telemarketing job I got into around age nineteen, after answering an ad for concert promotions. I would say that yes, this is probably the sense that turned me the most to instead call the HR, or human resources department of a local company with which I had filed applications frequently and recently as well. Feeling a shaky security I was inclined to jump back in the bed after my wife and kids split the digs around 9:30 to be participants. I instead called a nice woman who I only knew by name, recorded voice and extension number. Much to my very real surprise she called me back this morning, quickly and in a timely fashion. We discussed the issue of the physical application, which she assured me she had not received. She also said that she would put me to work tomorrow if she only had the application. After a moment or so discussing skills and other details, she said that although she could probably use me elsewhere in the operation, that right now she was desperate for warehouse workers and asked if I would be interested in taking that while the other stuff shook out. To be honest, whether she had any valid intentions of ever moving me on I didn’t care, I was happy with the idea of another brainless, yet more stable job, perhaps year round, and with benefits. I assured her that by lunch time I would have that application in her hand. I went to the computer, found one, printed it up, attached a copy of my resume and references along with a photocopy of my Social Security card and Driver’s License for good measure and out the door I went, looking for the warehouse on Lake Drive, Building M.
I walked out to the Ford, popped the hood and connected the battery. I got in, started her up and reset the radio to my station. There was a Rolling Stones song playing as I looked North on Highway 12 past my mailbox and into the coming traffic, and gunning it, I started smiling and singing along with them, “you can’t…always get what you want.” Now this may be the most played Stones song ever, and arguably not in my top ten really, but for some reason it made me feel good. Maybe the fact that for twenty five years I have been repeating that old saying that “you should never just go for the money, you should do what makes you happy…” thing, and every time I found myself here before, I let the walls close in, the walls that weren’t even there. I failed the test of the life and practice of that almost paradoxical cliché. I had a near miss last week when almost being hired at a restaurant. I didn’t want the job, but my family needs money; ‘nothing else matters’ became the shorter mantra regarding daily thoughts of employment, and easier to see, on the dashboard, forget any horizon. Now when that song sang “she was practiced at the art of deception” something righteous and clearly shining blue pierced my epiphanic inner eye, I was aware of the umbrella man, and I knew why I was going where I was. Something, somehow had worked, and all I had to do was show up. As the hammers slammed on steel strings in a downward flowing and fallen drag, and the choir began to soar, I gunned her harder, and smiled along, nodding it seemed. “-But if you try some time, well you might find”, and Bang! I knew it all and nothing again. As the end faded out too soon it seemed, I almost began a frown until the Kinks brought Lola in. Okay I thought, by now I was equating every lyric and chord of what would be next as a divine message, and I was tuned in, scrutinizing humanly, ready to turn off the flow at anytime. With all that said I lost my train of thought for a moment looking for the warehouse and left the music. It was short and easy enough. I found my door. A man was looking at me when I walked away from my car. Asking if it was cool to park there a minute, I assured the dude that I would be right back, that I was just dropping off. “Well, if it’s only gonna be a minute,” he sort of groaned, “’cause I think that’s someone’s space.” I said, “Thanks man, I swear” as I stepped off, Ford still open and on. I saw the lady, there was a meeting, and I dropped off my stuff. After acknowledgements and mentions of thanks, other pleasantries were mutually and understandably forgone as I bid her good afternoon, “I am going to my house,” I blurted, a bit stuttered and dumb, as if I meant to convey that I knew I wasn’t needed immediately, or shortly, but not really. I got back in the car. Comfortably Numb was playing, Pink Floyd, if you don’t know. I slid past the sandy colored stubble of surfer kids bending metals and machinists and machine drivers and workers in the street on my way to the big road, before I turned left to go home, and to that guitar solo. I shut up and went left as I needed to while the song made me understand the security I just bartered for, what I was giving, and what it meant to be nearing summer here, and my seasonably employed structure remaining motionless really. That is how I thought as I drove past three of them; probably from Bulgaria…two regulars, quirky, and then the post-always, grey third wearing her skull print hose and skin tight hot pink fake leather mini-dress. Nineteen and eighty seven was showing as I just drove on past, the hot road’s focus.
As I inched towards home, in and out of the sluggish guests Bob Segar came on the box; Against The Wind, “aww shit, I thought” even though I liked it when I was young and had it in a very small collection of forty fives including The One That You Love from Air Supply and Coming To America by Neil Diamond. To be fair I had Convoy as well, from the movie, I am too lazy to remember the artist right now. The chorus sounds like a Glee Club now, but I thought it was pretty tough back then. Funny, after all of this cleared my mind he sang the line “breaking all of the rules that would bend”, or at least if that isn’t what the song says, it damned well should, because I had the reason now for that song in the mix. Just about the time I climbed down from my musical high horse The Cars brought about the reprise of my smile and a volume hike. My Best Friends Girlfriend started in slowly with that early eighties reggae muffled delayed pick and electric hands clapping. “She always dances down the street with her suede blue eyes…” Cars got out of my way of their own volition, the road opened on that home stretch and nearing my house doing around ten to fifteen above the limit I vowed to get home with the set completed there, in that perfect sonic moment. I drove now on the incoming half of our two-lane road, a hundred yards from my house, landing gear down and air brakes applied, finger on the stereo button in case something horrible came on, like Jimmy Buffett or a Toyota commercial. Fittingly, as I slid in home, Creedence came in with Have You Ever Seen the Rain? I felt thankful for my two new shoes up front and my ability to hold the road now as I sat there, feeling the boil of the old neglected radiator. I smelled the brakes as I sang the first two verses, just being there, me in the Ford. At least the radio in that old heap hasn’t gone out on me. I love my music. I love the music for the people it reminds me of; I love it for those places. I shut her off halfway through, before the second chorus, plenty of song to go, but I wanted to tell all of you about this. I drove around blind with a purpose. I found my turns and my way was clear, and the music was beside me, and not only singing to me, but making me understand the whole time, what I cannot understand; why I can never understand. Oh, and Convoy is what would be referred to as a ‘novelty song’ from 1975. It was the title of a movie and soundtrack sung by C.W. McCall. C.W. McCall is a pseudonym of Bill Fries. I never knew the man or the legend, but I saw the movie and I had that forty five. I mentioned it earlier, I was just reminding you. I was a kid back then too, in 1975.
Sometimes Even a Cabana Boy gets What He Needs
I live in paradise. The radio tells me that at least. Every time I go anywhere in the old Ford, the disc jockeys, the car salesmen, the mini-golf courses, the restaurant owners, the blood drives, the marathons and half marathons, the people that talk like pirates, the liquor sellers and the hammock makers, the sweet sounding nearly English-literate foreign exchange girls from Belarus remind me with their script spoken public service announcements about walking and bicycle safety that we live in a tourism driven paradise. The drivers doing ten miles below post in front of me for half the year really nail it home. The “OBX”, as my home is called, or the Outer Banks of North Carolina, is paradise to all of these trinkets pushers, tricksters and trade workers. When I was just nineteen and had just moved to town iconic oyster bars built on cocaine money and broken toilet dive bars, crooked piers with crooked pool tables were the order of the day for our teenage turnout to the life on this sandbar, after burning down the suburbs of southeastern Virginia. I moved here in 1989, and by 1995 a man that made his loot at three hundred bucks a night working one of those oyster bars had already opened his own restaurant, created that brand “OBX” which has become synonymous with my home of today, while in 1995 we were too busy smoking pot and chanting down the system to give a rat’s ass about saving anything, or opening our own mail, let alone businesses. We drank, we smoked, and we skated. We also played in bands and listened to music.
I have been unemployed for about eight months now. This hasn’t really bothered me, but it has put strains on the matters domestic. Two days ago after answering another handful of advertisements for employment I got a call back. A man called me to be a ‘cabana boy’, or at least that is the humorously derogatory term I attached to my own short summarization of this job. The man had let on very little, other than instead of simply dropping off rental furniture at vacation palaces we would instead be in the line of setting up said furniture. Chairs and umbrellas were mentioned. I was to call him and meet yesterday, but as a house was being moved down the road by my cave, traffic was awful, so after exchanging telephone calls all day I had gleaned two things from this potential employer; first, he talked to me so much that instead of entertaining formality and protocol he was fine with me just showing up tomorrow at a local convenience store for paperwork and ‘umbrella set-up training’ between two and eight p.m., and second; he was a very busy man who was in the business of several types and was very much dependent on mindless, disposable help, like many of those very cute Russian summer school kids. I like those kids, and was even into the mindlessness of this position, it’s certain low pay and bunkhouse lifestyle, but as a husband and father of two young daughters, I knew it would be no permanent solution. Nevertheless, I figured, why not give it a go? This morning one telephone call changed all of that.
Now I don’t know for sure if it is just my natural resistance to work of any type at this point or the sheer horror that lurked behind the voice and perceived intentions of the man on the phone about the cabana boy thing, but something in his tone led me down the dark and winding tunnel of my mind and it’s memory of a telemarketing job I got into around age nineteen, after answering an ad for concert promotions. I would say that yes, this is probably the sense that turned me the most to instead call the HR, or human resources department of a local company with which I had filed applications frequently and recently as well. Feeling a shaky security I was inclined to jump back in the bed after my wife and kids split the digs around 9:30 to be participants. I instead called a nice woman who I only knew by name, recorded voice and extension number. Much to my very real surprise she called me back this morning, quickly and in a timely fashion. We discussed the issue of the physical application, which she assured me she had not received. She also said that she would put me to work tomorrow if she only had the application. After a moment or so discussing skills and other details, she said that although she could probably use me elsewhere in the operation, that right now she was desperate for warehouse workers and asked if I would be interested in taking that while the other stuff shook out. To be honest, whether she had any valid intentions of ever moving me on I didn’t care, I was happy with the idea of another brainless, yet more stable job, perhaps year round, and with benefits. I assured her that by lunch time I would have that application in her hand. I went to the computer, found one, printed it up, attached a copy of my resume and references along with a photocopy of my Social Security card and Driver’s License for good measure and out the door I went, looking for the warehouse on Lake Drive, Building M.
I walked out to the Ford, popped the hood and connected the battery. I got in, started her up and reset the radio to my station. There was a Rolling Stones song playing as I looked North on Highway 12 past my mailbox and into the coming traffic, and gunning it, I started smiling and singing along with them, “you can’t…always get what you want.” Now this may be the most played Stones song ever, and arguably not in my top ten really, but for some reason it made me feel good. Maybe the fact that for twenty five years I have been repeating that old saying that “you should never just go for the money, you should do what makes you happy…” thing, and every time I found myself here before, I let the walls close in, the walls that weren’t even there. I failed the test of the life and practice of that almost paradoxical cliché. I had a near miss last week when almost being hired at a restaurant. I didn’t want the job, but my family needs money; ‘nothing else matters’ became the shorter mantra regarding daily thoughts of employment, and easier to see, on the dashboard, forget any horizon. Now when that song sang “she was practiced at the art of deception” something righteous and clearly shining blue pierced my epiphanic inner eye, I was aware of the umbrella man, and I knew why I was going where I was. Something, somehow had worked, and all I had to do was show up. As the hammers slammed on steel strings in a downward flowing and fallen drag, and the choir began to soar, I gunned her harder, and smiled along, nodding it seemed. “-But if you try some time, well you might find”, and Bang! I knew it all and nothing again. As the end faded out too soon it seemed, I almost began a frown until the Kinks brought Lola in. Okay I thought, by now I was equating every lyric and chord of what would be next as a divine message, and I was tuned in, scrutinizing humanly, ready to turn off the flow at anytime. With all that said I lost my train of thought for a moment looking for the warehouse and left the music. It was short and easy enough. I found my door. A man was looking at me when I walked away from my car. Asking if it was cool to park there a minute, I assured the dude that I would be right back, that I was just dropping off. “Well, if it’s only gonna be a minute,” he sort of groaned, “’cause I think that’s someone’s space.” I said, “Thanks man, I swear” as I stepped off, Ford still open and on. I saw the lady, there was a meeting, and I dropped off my stuff. After acknowledgements and mentions of thanks, other pleasantries were mutually and understandably forgone as I bid her good afternoon, “I am going to my house,” I blurted, a bit stuttered and dumb, as if I meant to convey that I knew I wasn’t needed immediately, or shortly, but not really. I got back in the car. Comfortably Numb was playing, Pink Floyd, if you don’t know. I slid past the sandy colored stubble of surfer kids bending metals and machinists and machine drivers and workers in the street on my way to the big road, before I turned left to go home, and to that guitar solo. I shut up and went left as I needed to while the song made me understand the security I just bartered for, what I was giving, and what it meant to be nearing summer here, and my seasonably employed structure remaining motionless really. That is how I thought as I drove past three of them; probably from Bulgaria…two regulars, quirky, and then the post-always, grey third wearing her skull print hose and skin tight hot pink fake leather mini-dress. Nineteen and eighty seven was showing as I just drove on past, the hot road’s focus.
As I inched towards home, in and out of the sluggish guests Bob Segar came on the box; Against The Wind, “aww shit, I thought” even though I liked it when I was young and had it in a very small collection of forty fives including The One That You Love from Air Supply and Coming To America by Neil Diamond. To be fair I had Convoy as well, from the movie, I am too lazy to remember the artist right now. The chorus sounds like a Glee Club now, but I thought it was pretty tough back then. Funny, after all of this cleared my mind he sang the line “breaking all of the rules that would bend”, or at least if that isn’t what the song says, it damned well should, because I had the reason now for that song in the mix. Just about the time I climbed down from my musical high horse The Cars brought about the reprise of my smile and a volume hike. My Best Friends Girlfriend started in slowly with that early eighties reggae muffled delayed pick and electric hands clapping. “She always dances down the street with her suede blue eyes…” Cars got out of my way of their own volition, the road opened on that home stretch and nearing my house doing around ten to fifteen above the limit I vowed to get home with the set completed there, in that perfect sonic moment. I drove now on the incoming half of our two-lane road, a hundred yards from my house, landing gear down and air brakes applied, finger on the stereo button in case something horrible came on, like Jimmy Buffett or a Toyota commercial. Fittingly, as I slid in home, Creedence came in with Have You Ever Seen the Rain? I felt thankful for my two new shoes up front and my ability to hold the road now as I sat there, feeling the boil of the old neglected radiator. I smelled the brakes as I sang the first two verses, just being there, me in the Ford. At least the radio in that old heap hasn’t gone out on me. I love my music. I love the music for the people it reminds me of; I love it for those places. I shut her off halfway through, before the second chorus, plenty of song to go, but I wanted to tell all of you about this. I drove around blind with a purpose. I found my turns and my way was clear, and the music was beside me, and not only singing to me, but making me understand the whole time, what I cannot understand; why I can never understand. Oh, and Convoy is what would be referred to as a ‘novelty song’ from 1975. It was the title of a movie and soundtrack sung by C.W. McCall. C.W. McCall is a pseudonym of Bill Fries. I never knew the man or the legend, but I saw the movie and I had that forty five. I mentioned it earlier, I was just reminding you. I was a kid back then too, in 1975.
I have been unemployed for about eight months now. This hasn’t really bothered me, but it has put strains on the matters domestic. Two days ago after answering another handful of advertisements for employment I got a call back. A man called me to be a ‘cabana boy’, or at least that is the humorously derogatory term I attached to my own short summarization of this job. The man had let on very little, other than instead of simply dropping off rental furniture at vacation palaces we would instead be in the line of setting up said furniture. Chairs and umbrellas were mentioned. I was to call him and meet yesterday, but as a house was being moved down the road by my cave, traffic was awful, so after exchanging telephone calls all day I had gleaned two things from this potential employer; first, he talked to me so much that instead of entertaining formality and protocol he was fine with me just showing up tomorrow at a local convenience store for paperwork and ‘umbrella set-up training’ between two and eight p.m., and second; he was a very busy man who was in the business of several types and was very much dependent on mindless, disposable help, like many of those very cute Russian summer school kids. I like those kids, and was even into the mindlessness of this position, it’s certain low pay and bunkhouse lifestyle, but as a husband and father of two young daughters, I knew it would be no permanent solution. Nevertheless, I figured, why not give it a go? This morning one telephone call changed all of that.
Now I don’t know for sure if it is just my natural resistance to work of any type at this point or the sheer horror that lurked behind the voice and perceived intentions of the man on the phone about the cabana boy thing, but something in his tone led me down the dark and winding tunnel of my mind and it’s memory of a telemarketing job I got into around age nineteen, after answering an ad for concert promotions. I would say that yes, this is probably the sense that turned me the most to instead call the HR, or human resources department of a local company with which I had filed applications frequently and recently as well. Feeling a shaky security I was inclined to jump back in the bed after my wife and kids split the digs around 9:30 to be participants. I instead called a nice woman who I only knew by name, recorded voice and extension number. Much to my very real surprise she called me back this morning, quickly and in a timely fashion. We discussed the issue of the physical application, which she assured me she had not received. She also said that she would put me to work tomorrow if she only had the application. After a moment or so discussing skills and other details, she said that although she could probably use me elsewhere in the operation, that right now she was desperate for warehouse workers and asked if I would be interested in taking that while the other stuff shook out. To be honest, whether she had any valid intentions of ever moving me on I didn’t care, I was happy with the idea of another brainless, yet more stable job, perhaps year round, and with benefits. I assured her that by lunch time I would have that application in her hand. I went to the computer, found one, printed it up, attached a copy of my resume and references along with a photocopy of my Social Security card and Driver’s License for good measure and out the door I went, looking for the warehouse on Lake Drive, Building M.
I walked out to the Ford, popped the hood and connected the battery. I got in, started her up and reset the radio to my station. There was a Rolling Stones song playing as I looked North on Highway 12 past my mailbox and into the coming traffic, and gunning it, I started smiling and singing along with them, “you can’t…always get what you want.” Now this may be the most played Stones song ever, and arguably not in my top ten really, but for some reason it made me feel good. Maybe the fact that for twenty five years I have been repeating that old saying that “you should never just go for the money, you should do what makes you happy…” thing, and every time I found myself here before, I let the walls close in, the walls that weren’t even there. I failed the test of the life and practice of that almost paradoxical cliché. I had a near miss last week when almost being hired at a restaurant. I didn’t want the job, but my family needs money; ‘nothing else matters’ became the shorter mantra regarding daily thoughts of employment, and easier to see, on the dashboard, forget any horizon. Now when that song sang “she was practiced at the art of deception” something righteous and clearly shining blue pierced my epiphanic inner eye, I was aware of the umbrella man, and I knew why I was going where I was. Something, somehow had worked, and all I had to do was show up. As the hammers slammed on steel strings in a downward flowing and fallen drag, and the choir began to soar, I gunned her harder, and smiled along, nodding it seemed. “-But if you try some time, well you might find”, and Bang! I knew it all and nothing again. As the end faded out too soon it seemed, I almost began a frown until the Kinks brought Lola in. Okay I thought, by now I was equating every lyric and chord of what would be next as a divine message, and I was tuned in, scrutinizing humanly, ready to turn off the flow at anytime. With all that said I lost my train of thought for a moment looking for the warehouse and left the music. It was short and easy enough. I found my door. A man was looking at me when I walked away from my car. Asking if it was cool to park there a minute, I assured the dude that I would be right back, that I was just dropping off. “Well, if it’s only gonna be a minute,” he sort of groaned, “’cause I think that’s someone’s space.” I said, “Thanks man, I swear” as I stepped off, Ford still open and on. I saw the lady, there was a meeting, and I dropped off my stuff. After acknowledgements and mentions of thanks, other pleasantries were mutually and understandably forgone as I bid her good afternoon, “I am going to my house,” I blurted, a bit stuttered and dumb, as if I meant to convey that I knew I wasn’t needed immediately, or shortly, but not really. I got back in the car. Comfortably Numb was playing, Pink Floyd, if you don’t know. I slid past the sandy colored stubble of surfer kids bending metals and machinists and machine drivers and workers in the street on my way to the big road, before I turned left to go home, and to that guitar solo. I shut up and went left as I needed to while the song made me understand the security I just bartered for, what I was giving, and what it meant to be nearing summer here, and my seasonably employed structure remaining motionless really. That is how I thought as I drove past three of them; probably from Bulgaria…two regulars, quirky, and then the post-always, grey third wearing her skull print hose and skin tight hot pink fake leather mini-dress. Nineteen and eighty seven was showing as I just drove on past, the hot road’s focus.
As I inched towards home, in and out of the sluggish guests Bob Segar came on the box; Against The Wind, “aww shit, I thought” even though I liked it when I was young and had it in a very small collection of forty fives including The One That You Love from Air Supply and Coming To America by Neil Diamond. To be fair I had Convoy as well, from the movie, I am too lazy to remember the artist right now. The chorus sounds like a Glee Club now, but I thought it was pretty tough back then. Funny, after all of this cleared my mind he sang the line “breaking all of the rules that would bend”, or at least if that isn’t what the song says, it damned well should, because I had the reason now for that song in the mix. Just about the time I climbed down from my musical high horse The Cars brought about the reprise of my smile and a volume hike. My Best Friends Girlfriend started in slowly with that early eighties reggae muffled delayed pick and electric hands clapping. “She always dances down the street with her suede blue eyes…” Cars got out of my way of their own volition, the road opened on that home stretch and nearing my house doing around ten to fifteen above the limit I vowed to get home with the set completed there, in that perfect sonic moment. I drove now on the incoming half of our two-lane road, a hundred yards from my house, landing gear down and air brakes applied, finger on the stereo button in case something horrible came on, like Jimmy Buffett or a Toyota commercial. Fittingly, as I slid in home, Creedence came in with Have You Ever Seen the Rain? I felt thankful for my two new shoes up front and my ability to hold the road now as I sat there, feeling the boil of the old neglected radiator. I smelled the brakes as I sang the first two verses, just being there, me in the Ford. At least the radio in that old heap hasn’t gone out on me. I love my music. I love the music for the people it reminds me of; I love it for those places. I shut her off halfway through, before the second chorus, plenty of song to go, but I wanted to tell all of you about this. I drove around blind with a purpose. I found my turns and my way was clear, and the music was beside me, and not only singing to me, but making me understand the whole time, what I cannot understand; why I can never understand. Oh, and Convoy is what would be referred to as a ‘novelty song’ from 1975. It was the title of a movie and soundtrack sung by C.W. McCall. C.W. McCall is a pseudonym of Bill Fries. I never knew the man or the legend, but I saw the movie and I had that forty five. I mentioned it earlier, I was just reminding you. I was a kid back then too, in 1975.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
un otra sueno debilitamieno
shaken awake just
un otra sueno debilitamieno
rolling and stumbling
but NOT
hallucinating this time
…
i remember pride
i remember my
daughter beautiful
Ella as a cat
and another that
was real and ringed
about the neck
drinking from a
puddle on the black
non busy street
a band was playing
but in two venues
i heard them out
side the first but
watched while
inside the second
place.
there was no crowd
nobody save us
and my dead uncle and
his motorcycle
and he said i could ride
i can’t but i’d
load her onto the
front and gun it
from one side
of the room
to the next/squeeze
the brake
remember people on
a busier street calling
to get the hell out
of the way, but
not for me as
my ire was up and
my voice ready to
strike; turning
Ella had climbed
inside a small and
broken monitor as
the band completed-
the names familiar but
the faces changed.
they gave me parting
gifts of herbs/two types
in tiny metal boxes
my girl picked me up
no flailing no rolling just
the story of the madness
and a car much younger
than ours now –
i showed her the herbs
and she was happy
as we drove away
and another dream scene
i repeated of
her aunt obsessed
over Gatorade we
had not been drinking
though she was sure
we had/looking through
the recycle pile and fridge
of her mother’s house i
proved the drinks not drunk
and found the half full
bottles
i don’t remember much
much else save that aunt
wanting to combine
the two to make as one
my wife kissed me and
took me home as
i awoke shaking, tooth
not hurting bad like
nights before so
meds and bedroom
as i shut the door.
she laughed at me
got up to make coffee
and i think i’ll have one too
for the first this day
in weeks
since…
one
more
dream of
debilitation
sorry, she said
as I passed with the
coffee she made for
no
i said;
a mi.
un otra sueno debilitamieno
rolling and stumbling
but NOT
hallucinating this time
…
i remember pride
i remember my
daughter beautiful
Ella as a cat
and another that
was real and ringed
about the neck
drinking from a
puddle on the black
non busy street
a band was playing
but in two venues
i heard them out
side the first but
watched while
inside the second
place.
there was no crowd
nobody save us
and my dead uncle and
his motorcycle
and he said i could ride
i can’t but i’d
load her onto the
front and gun it
from one side
of the room
to the next/squeeze
the brake
remember people on
a busier street calling
to get the hell out
of the way, but
not for me as
my ire was up and
my voice ready to
strike; turning
Ella had climbed
inside a small and
broken monitor as
the band completed-
the names familiar but
the faces changed.
they gave me parting
gifts of herbs/two types
in tiny metal boxes
my girl picked me up
no flailing no rolling just
the story of the madness
and a car much younger
than ours now –
i showed her the herbs
and she was happy
as we drove away
and another dream scene
i repeated of
her aunt obsessed
over Gatorade we
had not been drinking
though she was sure
we had/looking through
the recycle pile and fridge
of her mother’s house i
proved the drinks not drunk
and found the half full
bottles
i don’t remember much
much else save that aunt
wanting to combine
the two to make as one
my wife kissed me and
took me home as
i awoke shaking, tooth
not hurting bad like
nights before so
meds and bedroom
as i shut the door.
she laughed at me
got up to make coffee
and i think i’ll have one too
for the first this day
in weeks
since…
one
more
dream of
debilitation
sorry, she said
as I passed with the
coffee she made for
no
i said;
a mi.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
the Jays scream
the Jays scream as I
walk my concrete
and the Live Oak gives
up her winter’s hidden
as the Anoles and nobody
i guess
the ghosts
i guess of another
dream rush past the
hot walk
to rustle in the
dead leaves.
i and the season
both late this one
and this day as well;
we’ll see.
walk my concrete
and the Live Oak gives
up her winter’s hidden
as the Anoles and nobody
i guess
the ghosts
i guess of another
dream rush past the
hot walk
to rustle in the
dead leaves.
i and the season
both late this one
and this day as well;
we’ll see.
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