Anytime Now

I sat for a minute or so looking at my hands resting on the keyboard. My fingers were obediently in position, poised to hammer out a novel any minute now.

Any minute now.

I watched them, stationed on the home keys, just convinced they’d start typing soon. Instead they rested, fingers curled, until the cigarette felt hot on my lips, burned down to a tiny roach.

Denise went to bed hours ago, when the sound of insects in the trees still filled the summer nighttime air. Now even the bugs and the moon have retired and here I am, waiting for these fingers to jump into action and slap a few chapters down.

Any minute now. They’ve done it before. Just be patient.

My first novel was really my best. I know because it’s the only one any publisher in 48 states would touch. Sure, I’ve had a few good ideas here and there, but it hasn’t felt the same since that first good novel. Now, it seems, I tell my hands what to write and they reluctantly oblige, as if they think they could write it better.

Back then, though, I simply put them to the keys and they did all the work. I hardly felt right taking credit for that book. Maybe I should have given them credit because now they’re holding an awful grudge. I set them atop the keyboard and they just sit like pouting dogs who intuitively know they have a vet appointment.

Hell, maybe they could write it better. I bet if I’d let them write this, instead of dictating my own words to them, they’d have spun it into a beautiful multi-dimensional plot and led you over mountains of emotional peaks and valleys. By now, you’d be letting go of old characters, getting to know new ones, and reconciling your lifestyle with your new perspective of right and wrong.

But, of course, you’re not. Because I’m writing this piece and, in spite of all of my many talents (there’s not a house fly in North America I can’t catch up to with an open-hand swat), I’m not a writer. These hands did all the work back then, and in doing so they pushed me head first into a storm of fame and notoriety I’m likely never to see again.

So I sit at the old mahogany desk, scattered with notes and doodles, and wait for them. They lay on the keys night after night, uninspired and apathetic, only breaking to remove the roach from my lips, stamp it in the heaping ashtray, and roll another smoke. Soon they’ll tire of this achingly mundane life and get to work. Anytime now.

Any old time now. You just wait.

Denise still supports my writing, long after my most recent friends fell back into the same deep crevices of dishonesty that led them to be my friends at all. It seems the quiet life of a once-famous nobody doesn’t quite stimulate their senses. We often wrote to each other back then, my friends and I, in between cocktail parties or sailing trips. Not anymore though. The champagne stopped flowing from my proverbial bottle and, almost immediately, the ink stopped flowing from their pens.

For all I've given up since the money ran out, I still have the greatest wife a man can have. Every night she retires early and leaves me to the weighty task of staring at my hands. She swears my next break is around the corner. Maybe she’s right. It would be nice to make some money again.

For me, though, it’s not really about money. It’s not about writing another New York Times best seller, nor is it about getting my name in Forbes or appearing on Oprah. See, Denise thinks of my writing as courageous. A noble determination and resiliency. I see it for what it is. It’s exactly the opposite of courageous. It’s pure cowardice. It’s fear.

Let me explain. When it comes down to it, if I don’t have writing, what the hell do I have? I dropped out of college to go find a beautiful place in my soul from which to write novels (I actually thought of it like that--a small, intangible pocket of brilliant creativity waiting to be liberated from my otherwise messy and chaotic existence). I never learned a single other skill that may do me good. I can bare-hand flies until the cows come home, but that won’t get me far with the electric company. In short, I've put all my eggs in this one very tiny basket and I fear I’ve crushed the whole damn thing. Now, I'm afraid to devise a Plan B because it may be as monumental a failure as Plan A. But she doesn't know all that. 

I let her go on thinking I’m courageous. And I go on staring inanely at my inanimate hands night after night after immutable night. I stare at them until once again I feel the dull, glowing heat of my cigarette, dwindling down like the good years of my life. I beg and plead and promise my stiff old hands, praying they have some kind of talent or magic left in them. They’ll start ticking away soon like tap dancers and these keys will be begging for mercy by the time these old hands are done. I can feel it. 

Anytime now.

Be patient. Any moment now they’ll start tapping away.

Anytime now.

Marge

Marge can’t be blamed this time, I know that. But there’s so much frustration in me I can’t see this thing straight. I feel such resentment toward her for all of it, all the bullshit she’s put me through. Not just since this latest episode either; I mean since the day we married.

I’ve been told over and over that I lash out. Been told I have since the day I was born—if you asked my mom, she’d say since even before I was born. But you can’t ask her since she passed giving birth to my little brother. He didn’t make it either. Christ, what a little shit he would’ve been. For the best, I say. There’s only one McGregor asshole in this town and it’s me.

Maybe my lashing out isn’t the best for making friends, but I say fuck friends. I live in a world where two men are allowed, expected even, to spend time together and tell each other their secrets and feelings. From where I’m standing, friends are for chicks and fags. If you want to solve your problems, you’ve got to start by finding who caused them. If that’s lashing out then, by god, I lash out quite a bit.

As I stand here looking down at Marge, I feel all the anger I’ve ever felt for her all at once. I can’t remember hating a person more than I hate Marge right now. Sure, my dad pissed me off every single day of his life. Always whining about losing my mom and that dip shit kid she would’ve had. My dad always was a big pussy. And the worst part is people bought his shit, ate it up. He’d cry for no good goddamn reason and some aunt or sister of his would hold him by his shoulders and cry with him. My god, what a sorry bunch of pussies raised me. Hell, they didn’t raise me; they just fed me ‘til I could hunt. That old man won’t be missed. Not by me, that’s for sure. But even his sorry ass never pissed me off like I’m pissed at Marge today.

My miserable dad even told me once that I can’t blame Marge for every little thing that goes wrong in my life. Told me I have to accept responsibility and admit when I make mistakes. That’s just the whiny pussy shit I expected from him, too. Accept responsibility, ha! Any person with half a human brain could tell Marge isn’t exactly the brightest light in the harbor. Damn woman’s about as sharp as a marble. If something goes wrong, there’s a helluva good chance she’s at the heart of it.

Trouble is, this time I can’t give her hell for it. Lord knows she deserves it, leaving me to milk the cows and feed the hogs and every little goddamn thing by myself day in and day out. Yes sir, as I look down at her face right now I’d like to grab her and shake her by the shoulders. Tell her what a mess she’s made of everything. Tell her I hate her, that I really, truly hate her. But I can’t rightly go makin’ a fool of myself in front of all these damned crybabies at her funeral, can I?

Laundry Lore

I stood folding my still hot clothes on the small, plastic laundromat table that always reminds me of a public bathroom diaper station. The TV was blasting the sound of Mexican (or Spanish) soap operas over by the desk where the woman always politely exchanged my dollars for quarters ever since the coin machine quit working a year ago.

I was about halfway finished neatly folding my clothes when a truly profound thought crossed my mind. To confirm my hypothesis, I did a quick count of my underwear on the table. This realization will be the next bit of laundry lore, right up there with the sock gobbling driers. I will publish my findings in an academic article I plan to title There Are Always More Dirty Underwear Than it Has Been Days Since I Washed Them, or something to that effect.

Fine Dining and Windsor Knots

"What will you be having this evening," I asked, knowing full well that the couple had not so much as acknowledged the menus on the table. I do that as a friendly sort of hey-I-have-things-to-do-so-please-consider-what-you-want reminder. Otherwise, people get so wrapped up in examining the art pieces or swirling their expertly decanted wine that they forget they have to order dinner.

Maybe it is a result of our doing everything else for them; we take their coats, push in their chairs, and pour their wine. By the time ordering food comes around, I believe they expect we will go ahead and do that part for them too. Hell, we might as well wipe their chins when they have finished.

After a puzzled look from the gentleman, he seemed at last to comprehend the question. "Oh. Yes. We'd like an appetizer. Preferably something with a lot of meat," he joked, and we all shared a hearty laugh. That type of humor, though, had ceased provoking a genuine laugh from me around the time I waited my fourth table.

I had endured several years of the same jokes, recycled and spit at me with such regularity that I had my own, equally unfunny responses prepared. It is true that I often find myself grumbling about unpleasant guests, but the 40-something couple before me was especially irritating, bordering on intolerable.

To start, the man's necktie was ridiculous. Sir, do you know where you are, I thought. We require a Windsor knot at minimum. If you cannot complete the basic task of tying a respectable knot, please spare us looking at it and eat somewhere else. Or is that our responsibility as well, immediately following removing and checking your coat?

Not to be outdone, his charming wife wore a pair of wedges, those awful shoes that are a cross between high heels and cork board. Originally intended as heels for women who cannot walk in heels (my own theory), wedges have become a fashion trend in recent years, one that both horrifies and baffles me.

Again to myself, I fumed, Something with meat? Maybe you could have read the goddamn menu we have so generously provided. "Well, I can definitely recommend the Saigon Rolls. Jam packed with meat," I offered, this time out loud, shamelessly lowering myself to this pair's wretched level of unintelligent humor.

"Oh, great! What are Saigon Rolls," he prodded. A fair question, I suppose, for someone who has never dined here. They obviously had not, as evidenced by the disgracefully simple knot of his necktie. Anyway, it was no trouble to describe the dish; I can relay every small detail about Saigon Rolls in my sleep (and I have been told that I do).

"Great question! Saigon Rolls are Vietnamese style spring rolls. Braised pork, plancha grilled rib-eye, and soy butter Maya shrimp are combined with baby bok choy, Chinese red cabbage, and hoisin marinated shiitake mushrooms to create a perfectly balanced roll. They are flash fried in a combination of sesame and peanut oil until crispy and golden brown. They are served on a bed of arugula and Korean seaweed and finished with a wasabi vinaigrette and fresh salmon roe."

The couple stared at me, bewildered at what complex and unintelligible language I had subjected them to. Noticing their discomfort, I decided I must press on. Yes, I had other things to do, but this clownish duo with their basic four-in-hand tie knot and astonishingly unsophisticated footwear could not be anymore clueless. I hated them. So, I continued on, adding a touch of my own type of humor.

"We also have a very special offering for this weekend only. Pulled Alaskan King Crab steamed and then baked in a kimchee aioli, tossed in our chef's own spicy pterodactyl glaze, and served on a house-made seaweed and mint leaf crust."

Completely lost now, this Beau Brummel of penny loafers ordered whatever it was I had just described. He had most assuredly done so only so that this torture could be ended immediately. Alas, I had not finished illustrating to the abominable tandem of clientele just how out of their element they had ventured.

I went on, "Or, if you are in the mood for something a little more traditional, this time of year we offer the Legumes et de petoncles. A seven cheese fondue accompanies this beautiful medley of seasonal vegetables and green tea marinated Scandinavian salt water scallops, aged in a local P.O. box for four weeks and then stir fried with mango and jalapeno salsa.

"I think we'll just have that one you mentioned before," he interrupted, reeling at what he thought he had just heard me say.

Quite intentionally failing to acknowledge his decision, I offered yet another suggestion. "But my personal favorite is the bocadillos para perro grasso. Locally sourced cadaver dumplings filled with minced North American husky and truffles that we have submerged in the Chicago river. The dumplings are steamed in small adobe huts and served with a sweet potato and Peruvian pumpkin mousse. Finally, the dish is drizzled with a Smeagol reduction sauce and achiote seed oil for a pleasant, peppery smokiness.

It Could Be Worse

I stood on the last plank of the dock with my back turned on Atlantic City (both literally and figuratively). The breeze generously blew in that mossy, salty smelling air that I had come to love. I came to this spot and stood on this particularly unstable board often. It has come to be a ritual that follows a bad night at the casinos.

Nights like those it did not matter what was your strategy. Play aggressively and you lose. Play conservatively and you lose more; it just took longer. I called those unfortunate outings "dark matter nights" for two reasons. First, there was an invisible, unidentifiable force tugging on me like an amazing gravitating mass. Second, gambling, I concluded, was a very dark matter.

Sometimes you hit the tables and cannot be stopped; you win no matter how reckless you approach the games. More often, though, there is an ethereal force working hard to prevent you succeeding. At the low point of my professional gambling stint, I came to call the result of that supernatural force the "message-in-a-bottle effect". I sent my money out into the world only to be received and enjoyed by a stranger I would never know.

I came to the edge of this dock for isolation and tranquility. By the time I had lost a month's salary, the sun was just beginning to peek over the distant edge of the Atlantic and the sea was peaceful. Best of all, the boardwalk was abandoned aside from a dedicated runner here and there. The setting calmed me, almost allowed me to forget the large stone in my gut.

As I stood that morning facing the breeze and listening to the refrain of waves aggressively washing onto the beach and rolling gently back into the sea, I was interrupted. Jerking me out of my meditative daze was the low, somber voice of a man. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Who are you to talk to me? Can't you see I'm here alone because I prefer it that way? I wasn't able to say what I was thinking, though. I suppose I don't like to be rude. "Yeah. Sure is," I offered.

"I come here sometimes and just listen. And think," he said in a thoughtful tone.

Man, I don't give a shit about your life. Piss off. "It's a good place to do that," I replied, humoring the stranger. I still had not looked at the intruder and I decided I was not going to. Somehow if I looked at him, he won. What he won, I had (and still have) no idea, but I could not allow it.

After a half minute of standing silently alongside my trespasser, he piped up again. "Rough night? A man only comes out here this early if he's coming to terms with something."

Okay, you fucking philosophy smart ass. Who talks like that in real life? And don't you dare try to get into my business. I came here for isolation and tranquility, not to talk to some smart dick head about why I came here. "Yeah. Well. I lost a good chunk of money last night," I answered after considerable hesitation.

"Ah," he offered, evidently understanding my position. "It could be worse. You're alive and healthy. That's more than a whole lot of people can say."

I don't need to be comforted. I need to be alone. I need you to turn your philosophical ass around and never come back here. "A man only comes out here this early if he's coming to terms with something. What's that something for you?"

"Nothing. I've already come to terms with my circumstances."

There goes your theory about why a man comes here this early. Maybe smart ass isn't as smart as I gave him credit for. Admittedly a tiny bit curious now, I pressed, "So, why are you here?"

After a moment, he said solemnly, "Today is the last day of my life. I just thought I might as well get up early." He turned and shuffled slowly back toward the boardwalk. I stood watching the sun reveal itself entirely and the waves predictably flooding the shore and receding softly back into the Atlantic.

Eastbound 56

I stood at the bus stop waiting for the eastbound 56 to rescue me from a very disagreeable neighborhood at a very disagreeable time of night. What brought me there is not important; or I am embarrassed to admit it. Either way, it will remain undisclosed.

It's a strange phenomenon I've noticed since moving to the city four years ago: No matter which bus you happen to be waiting on; regardless of route, area, and time of day, you can always sadly observe three or four buses on the same route pass by in the opposite direction you wish to travel.

In this case, three westbound 56 buses had chugged by, spitting bursts of black smoke out at the rear, which I took to be their antagonistic laugh. "Ha!" they all hacked at me and I wished they had "How is my attitude?" and a 1-800 number printed on the back. I leaned against the "BUS STOP ROUTE 56" sign post, begging to be plucked out of this offensive place. No bus came.

Several people whose company I could have done without were pacing or standing in view. Most were alone, but there were a couple of pairs, as. I cannot quite identify the reason, but I felt threatened, in immediate danger.

I considered crossing the street to be swept up and carried westward, but I supposed the phenomenon would work against me again. Then, in this nightmarish hell hole, I would stand watching four eastbound transports cruise on by while westbound service halted just to laugh at me. So I stayed put, stubbornly holding my ground and determined to wait it out.

In the scattered orange light of the streetlamps (or the ones that still worked), shadows leaped and jumped. Dumpster lids slammed shut and cans skidded across pavement somewhere nearby. I am not sure how many of the moving shadows were my imagination, but I suspect most or all of them were. The woman who emerged from a nearby alley, stumbling and crossing her feet in a laughable excuse for walking, though, was not my imagination.

I stepped off the curb to check for an approaching 56 and it was nowhere to be seen. Meanwhile, she came closer in what I thought of as a "sidewinder" kind of walk. I hoped to shit she wasn't coming to stand with me at the bus stop.

Remaining upright only by some miracle, some celestial puppet master whose strings were busting one by one, rendering the woman progressively less stable, she passed by. A bitter sweet moment it was, as another 56 churned westward away from me.

I was again considering swapping sides but I had already invested a full twenty-five minutes waiting for the eastbound bus. Not to mention, going west would only bring me farther from home. But because I wasn't looking for a scrolling bus banner that read Route 56 toward HOME, I figured Route 56 toward ANYWHERE ELSE would do just fine.

I would wait it out. I had made a conviction to catch the eastbound goddamn bus and, Christ as my witness, that is exactly what I was going to do. Soon after convincing myself (again) that it was in my best interest to stay put, a haggard old man stepped up to the bus stop across the street.

I supposed that the phenomenon couldn't work against us both. It couldn't, right? Surely it was this gray old hunchback's turn to watch helplessly as three or four eastbound buses strolled by to antagonize him, and I'd be on board the first. It had to be his turn. He was the last to step up to the curb. And everyone knows this is one rule that never fails. The bus phenomenon is as reliable as any of Newton's laws.

The Long Way Home

I continued walking south on Parsons Boulevard after work, in the opposite direction of our tiny New York City apartment. I didn’t have much idea where I was heading; just that it couldn’t be there. Jennifer, as much as I loved her, was not pleasant to be around the past few months. In fact, she was downright miserable to be around.

I don’t believe I would ever say it to her, but the word that most accurately described her attitude (at least in English) was asshole. I realize that is not a word often used to describe a woman, but damned if it didn’t feel right to think to myself. Asshole I thought again, internally hearing my own voice grumble the word. It felt good.

My own irritated thinking voice was replaced by that of Roger Hodgson, quite unintentionally. Take the long way home, I heard him repeating, antagonizing me. I always found his voice soothing. He has a way of describing a nasty subject that infuriates me (particularly when Jennifer is being an asshole) while simultaneously making me feel at ease. But this time, as I slowly lumbered past a strobing storefront with a bright neon OPEN sign someone had forgotten to switch off, that familiar sense of ease did not accompany the fury. And the bastard kept right on belting lyrics about my life.

Then your wife seems to think that you’re part of the furniture.

Oh, it’s peculiar.

She used to be so nice.

I have seen Supertramp perform live four times. The last time was in Buffalo on their Famous Last Words tour in 1982. The only reason it has been such a long time is because I have not bothered going to the concerts since Hodgson left the band.

How could the new Supertramp possibly live up to the original group I fell in love with? Similarly, how could the new asshole Jennifer ever… Oh, shit. I almost finished that thought.

Over the next eleven blocks, as I rhythmically glowed in the neon lights and faded in the forbidding shadows of a deserted borough, I came to hate Roger Hodgson. His complete understanding of my marriage was proof that he was to blame.

I can vividly remember standing in the pit in 1982, balled fist in the air, watching him sing Take the Long Way Home while simultaneously hammering out notes on the synthesizer. And he was singing and playing specifically for me. I was absolutely sure in that moment that he cared about me in the same way that I cared about him.This I remember clearly.

But I do not recall ever once wanting to pound in his mouth and leave him spitting out those goddamn British teeth of his in some horrible and dreary place far from home and far from help—not until right now had the thought occurred to me.

And, of course, he kept at it as I slipped deeper into the wet, misty early morning hours.

Lonely days turn to lonely nights.

You take a trip to the city lights.

And take the long way home.

I pulled a joint from my jacket pocket and turned the corner, heading west. Usually if I go in a round about path home, rather than heading back North up Parsons Boulevard, asshole would be asleep by the time I got in, impossible to wake in her painkiller coma.

While I rounded the corner, right onto 147^th Street, I considered her need for the meds and her dependency upon them. I wondered if my need for the joint I was burning was a similar compulsion.

Around the time I passed Queens Library I decided that I got high because she is an asshole. I subsequently supposed that she takes meds not because of her MS, but because she can justify it now.

It was a handy excuse. And it doubled as an excuse to treat me like piss (lucky her!). Asshole, I thought. Or maybe I grunted it into the ominously silent air. Either way, it felt really, really good.

I would have sworn that New York had never been so quiet. A taxi cab would pass by here and there, but not another soul on foot and, perhaps most unsettling, not a single bum groaning near a dumpster or rustling beneath an overpass. I flipped into the gutter the roach that remained of my spent joint and reluctantly pressed on, motivated only by my need for a bed (and my lack of interest in the brawl that would ensue had I not gone home).

At the very moment that my aching feet hit the tiny, octagonal tiles on the ground floor of our old apartment building, I finally recognized the root of my distress, though I had not quite yet affirmed it for myself. On the fourth floor, I turned the clunky lock and creaked open the door.

Jennifer would not wake up, but despite my certainty of that fact I was unwilling to challenge it (the way you would bet $500 that the Ravens won the Super Bowl this year, but not your life). I squeezed in through the half open door, careful not to let too much light spill into the miniature apartment. Inside, I stood silent and motionless like one of those ridiculous Buckingham Palace guards.

I don't know how long I held my station on that tacky welcome mat she had picked up at a Bronx flee market, but it was long enough to come to terms with the simple fact that faced me. Stoned and exhausted, but thinking as clearly as I have since the day I said my vows, I admitted it to myself: Hodgson wasn’t the only person I had come to hate on that night’s stroll.

At least he wouldn’t be there in the morning, hissing at me like I was a raccoon who had toppled the trash bin one too many times. Not to mention he would never have a welcome mat on the inside of the door (I should tack that onto the unofficial List of Reasons I Hate my Wife right below “There’s no L in BOTH”).

I had not seen Roger Hodgson since 1982 and, as it would turn out, I would never see him again. Realistically, he had never seen me at all but that didn’t matter. It would be Asshole doing the hissing in the morning; not my boss or my creditors or my friends, and certainly not my former idol.

Nevertheless, you took the long way home, he went on taunting.

You took the long way home.

You took the long way home.