Trouble

I’m just gonna hate

You know, it ain’t good for your soul to go around with hate in your heart. But sometimes you just can’t help it. Sometimes you gotta hate.

Sometimes you gotta hate for a reason. Like Neo-Nazis. I hate  what they get up to in prison and all. And I hate liver because it tastes like a cow shit it out onto your plate. I also hate when people tell me I just haven’t had it cooked right. Bullshit.  If I cook diarrhea in puff pastry it’s still diarrhea.  Anyway, you get me.

But there’s sometimes a time when you hate for no particular reason. Like how people hate Mimes even though they’re just lame actors who do bad mimicking of total strangers for no reason, not even money. It’s weird, but not hateworthy.

But this guy is. I fucking hate this guy.

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I hate his pot smoke, patchouli-scented, Birkenstock-wearing bullshit. I hate his North Face backpack and his collection of Dead bootlegs. He never even saw the Dead, but he calls Jerry Garcia “Jerry” like they were pals. I hate his shirtless red vest and quilt pants and his BO and his vegan friendship bracelets. I hate his trust fund and his faked poverty.

I fucking hate  him. But not for those reasons, though I think they’re good enough.

I just do is all.

Grandma Shenanigans

Man my age is lucky to have a grandma at all, at least a living one. We were never all that close, since mostly what she did in my life was express disappointment.

This is just a mask. But it does look like my grandma

This is just a mask. But it does look like my grandma

But she did teach me there was a difference between cheap booze and the good stuff (she favors Cutty Sark, which may be considered good but still tastes like a sock) and she said that if I have to lie try at least to lie well. I don’t know her background, but I think her daddy was some kind of criminal. I feel crimes in my blood, if you know what I mean.

Anyway. last time I was in County I remembered that it was her birthday. I decided to call her. Now, those of you who haven’t been inside probably don’y know about prison phones. They suck and they’re expensive and you have to use them. The main company is Pay-Tel. Look em up. If you’re a guy like me, you have had an account for so long that they should send you a Christmas card.

So I put in a request and am granted access. 3.55 for 15 minutes. It’s way more if it’s collect, and usually it is because putting money in your Pay-Tel account before doing a crime might be seen as unlucky.

Anyways, I call up grandma to wish her happy day. She doesn’t have her hearing aid in at first, and then she turns it up way to loud so it feeds back like a Hendrix solo. All this preliminary takes up half our time and we haven’t even spoken yet.

Finally I am able to identify myself and I say happy birthday. She says “Randall, where’s my song?” When I was a kid I used to have to sing to her, and she still remembered. I usually do every year I remember her birthday, but usually I’m not in the joint.

So I look around. The room is almost empty, so I sing the birthday song real quiet.

She says that’s it’s nice. We have about two minutes left by now. She asks me what I’ve been up to, so I tell her.

And then she says the best thing ever.

“So, up to your shenanigans again, are you, Randall?”

Her daddy must have done crimes. Only the daughter of a criminal would call being in jail “up to your shenanigans again.”

Two Dogs I Saw

I was coming home from my job at the Denny’s at 4am. I was supposed to work until seven but it was so slow that Derby, my manager, cut me loose. He had me make sure the pans were all done and that there were no backed up plates in the Hobart. Not a problem because it was really slow, being Sunday night and everything. The AA people finally left around one and after that there was nobody.

I’ll say this about AA people. Those fuckers can really stretch a dime. I mean, at one point there must have been eighteen of them sitting around a table. Most of them drank coffee, but there was maybe one or two food orders between all of them. And even then they didn’t eat all the omelette or toast. And they stayed for hours. 

At least they were nice enough, and even though the check was less than thirty bucks they tipped Charise seven. She gave me two for clearing the table while she went out and smoked.

The dogs looked nothing like this but you would NOT want to see an actual picture, believe me

The dogs looked nothing like this but you would NOT want to see an actual picture, believe me

Anyway, I came home and saw these two dogs going at it. I know dogs have feelings because when I was a kid we had a dog who loved me, but I don’t think there was any romance in what I witnessed. It was animal and ugly and made bad sounds.

Still, it made me lonely. I live in a one-room apartment in a building that used to be a bum hotel. You can still smell the old dead wine and all the Top and Bugler that got smoked there over the years. It’s in the floorboards and the walls. I came back to my room and saw my little cot and I got real sad. You know how it is when you feel sorry for yourself?

Yeah, that was how it was with me. Bad, too.

I tried to sleep, but my brain is a bastard. It kept showing me the dogs. Worse yet, it kept saying mean stuff.

The mean thing it said was that dog has more than you, Speedway. You have a shit job but he’s out on the street getting laid.

I called in the next day and quit. My P.O is going to be pissed, but he said there might be something out at the airport. I knew a dude with a felony rap who worked out there, so maybe it’s still possible.

Pray for me, and please don’t feel sorry for me. I do enough of that for myself.