Drunken men find flaws in silence
Their words mostly noises
Ghosts with jsut voices
Your words in my memory
Were like music to me
I'm miles from where you are.
You would kill me if I told you where that came from. So, tonight it will go unattributed, though any smart man with a half sence for internet research and the abilty for music might know.
Fuck, my ability to care about what people think has overtaken every inch of my being, my living here in IndepMo, the real world.
For Morethna four months, I have lived in a cripple state of being knowing that it would take only one night out, a simply foray in the bars and night clubs this subrubs on the outskirks of Kansas City - the wrong side of the tacks from everyhting good - to actually find friends and people who seem interested in the sotries I tell and life i lead.
Instead I became a hermit living my life in at work and at home. My new home has become too drab for me to want to remain here and work has become a palce that I want to be at for only the pay check.
It is the saddedstate of affairs when your job is no longer fun. When it has taken itself to the level of being a job. Maybe i ned to stop being so laid back and easy going. Maybe I need to stir up shit for the sake of stiring up shit.
The first compliment I received for even doing my job came from someon who does not work in my office. In my line of work, as a historian of Journalism and fact, that is kind of sad.
On my home tonight, though, i fianlly conqured whatever self made fears i had about going out and decided to sit at a bar during happy hour. It was the first time i did this by myself since graduating.
I know, all those time i was drunk or madea fool of my self came at the xpence of being at home, alone.
TOnight was different, i was sick of my lot. I was tired of coming home and splitting a bottle of burbon with myself. It was time to adventure out into the real world and see what this shit hole of a town can provide for me.
There is a neighborhood bar, Bogarts, not far from my house, that provided hte perfect stage for this farce. If i got there and decided it was not worth, it would not be far to begin sucking down the burbon stored neatly aboive my fridge.
I do not know why I keep my head down and remain to myself. There was already on guy there with a note pad writing - that role in this little drama was already taken. I had to play the part of intently reading guy. I sat there for nearyl an hour, only talkin to the waitress.
"Yes, I'll have another."
The converation was short, and to the point. My reading was what took up most of my time.
Bamma came wandering over from the pool talbes in a drunken kind of wander thato nly depraved men know how to walk to appear sober. He had it down, he knew the route. he had been ehre beofre.
Bamma was from, get this, Alabama. HE was a transplant from the state after a few run ins with the law. He was travling from Alabama -getting aay from fialed marriage and a criminal record - only to land in jaiuo one more time.
This time he was broke and had no car - the police, he said, took it and did not return it.
So he was stuck, homeless for about month in Independence. He fianlly found work as a consturction worker - building homes and commercial buildings. He had a hobby for drawing and though that his artistc talent was his way about of this town and back home to Alabama.
The only probelm was he kept spending his money at the bars on half assed writers like myself.
"I'll tell you, what, you haveto have dreams," he said listing to the right just far enough that his t-shirt revealed a US air force tatoo on his arm. "YOu have ot know what you want or else you have nothing to live for."
The waitresses appologized to me when he got up to leave to go the restroom. He was aregualr and a seriosu drunk at that. Passed out in the bar a number of times. But they were more interested in the fact that I as new and promissed to come back.
As much as they told me that he was harmless and that I should not be scared off by him, i was actually endeared. He was not a smart man - the first thing he said to me aas he asked what I was doing.
I was writing down dates, times, quotes that I was reading about in the paper.
This, of course, led to the inevitable what do you do question. I love it when people are not impressed with what I do. That sounds stuck up, but its true.
"President of the USA," I would like to ring out. "Aw that's nothing you pussy. I lay dry wall for 15 hours a day. Can you do that," is what I would want to hear come back.
I don't think you job should define you and with Bamma. So he bought me a drink. And another, and another. Before I knew it I was drunk and he and I were talkingabout hte meaing of a goal and how to properly form one in life.
The bar was eirrly quiet. Despite, Janis Joplin and Led ZEplin blaring over the juke box, the palce was still somewhereyou could have a good covnersation - something I have ye to find Anywhere in this vile town.
Our conversation went back and forth. His life, my life. Why I stayed, who I thought shold win the world series - the super bowl - the Americas Cup. It did not matter.
I nteh end my bar tab for 7 beers was about 3 dollar. I tipp heavily - about 4 dollars - simply because i have this condition where waitresses who bring me alcohol paly this dual role of enabler and lust object - a deadly combination for any drunk of my stature.
Bamma strolled to the back and out the fire exit somewhere near where i think his home was located. I went home and laughed my self to sleep.
I was not making fun of the man - i am sure his heart is in the right palce, but to knw that Bamma and so many other s are desprate for a conversation - something that has gone dry here in KC - fills me with a kind of joy.
WEll, if you arereading this far into this boring post, then you deserve adrink on me. COnsider this your coupon. one free drink and a retalling of the Mike and Bamma bar adventure...
I think this is a good start out of hte hole i have dug for myself. I depres myself knwoing that htere is nithing beyond what I used to have. The last remanented of gonzo or whatever it has transmorgified into, are gone nad not i must make due with merely smearing the ashes on my face to mask the constant grimace i have.
I need to be happy. This did that. Though it is only the start. I jsut hope I do not find mysefl in some town like Independence - drunk, strung out on drugs with a bloody t-shirt - when the cops pull me over and take my car away.
Then I will wait in the nearest bar for the next punk to come along to feel some gratifiaction that he has not sunk to that levle to find that the images of crashing his car on the freway are not something that are healthy to have.
Gd this wretched post needs to end.