Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, hey you, Fuck, Or a Vacation in Colors; pt. 5

Eight o’clock. “Time to head out,” dad said.

They are driving me back to Charlotte, NC, where I flew in and will fly out in the morning. At 6:00am. I am staying at the Days Inn outside of the airport because driving me there in the morning would conflict with their church schedule. To the hotel!

I attempt to fall asleep in the backseat for the duration of the two hour drive. I manage the half-sleep that I remember feeling coming home from Christmas at my grandparent’s house in Junior High. I would fantasize about a droopy-eyed girl that had a twin and rode the same bus as I. How her twin got to school, I don’t know. She was well-developed for her age and I fantasized about her womanly body. The uglies and retards seemed to get breasts before everyone else. In the car now I fantasized about going to the hotel bar and drinking alone. Whiskey, people in transit, stories exchanged…

We pull up and I rouse my slumber to dig out the luggage. “This looks nice,” mom said.

“Yeah, it’s new. They just built it.” Dad is proud of his reservation. My reservation is calling him out on saying the same thing with ‘it’s new’ and ‘they just built it’.

We enter, check in, say goodbye (mom cries but I don’t feel that it’s genuine because, after all, she’s making me stay in a hotel in the middle of North Carolina rather than spending one more night with me. The reason is her god. I wish that I was her god) and I get in the elevator. Repeatedly hit the CLOSE DOOR button, thinking about how I make fun of people in a hurry hitting the UP or DOWN button like they’re masturbating it.

They didn’t just build it. The elevator slumbers to the third floor and spits me on stained carpet. I throw my luggage on the floor, light a cigarette, and call Lil’ Knucks. She’s drunk. Doesn’t want to talk. I put out the cigarette, return downstairs and ask where the bar is. “There’s no bar.”

“Well, where is there a bar?” In the five minutes since I last saw her, she’s forgotten me.

“You can go over to the Marriot. They have a real nice one.”

“Where’s that?”

“Take the service road over the parkway and it’s just past the gas station.”

“Thanks.”

I laugh at myself walking the service road. What if I get hit by the recycling truck? The food delivery for the shitty continental breakfast? (“It’s free…but it’s at six…when your flight is,” dad says.) There’s the parkway.

Billy Graham Parkway.

To be hit on this would be the greatest way to go. Hoggle Parkway.

I enter the Marriot and find the bar in the middle of the lobby, flanked by fountains and tropical plants of all sorts. I root myself in the barstool and wait. “What will ya have?”

“Makers on the rocks.”

“ID?”

He looked at it and I was hoping that he would see the Chicago address and say, ‘Chicago, eh? What you doin’ here?’ while pouring the strong drink. Amber, not tan. Happy, not sad.

He said nothing.

“Start a tab?”

“Why not.”

I ate peanuts. I drank fast. I got drunk fast, too. After number three I asked, “Is that pool table free?”

“Yep.”

I stumbled over, racked the balls, filled my head with Tom Waits’ “Jitterbug Boy”, broke, and started on the first verse. Out Loud.

“I’m a jitterbug boy
By the shoeshine
Resting on my laurels
And my Hardys, too…”

Disgusted with my ability and the comments from the drunk patrons, I returned the stool after three solo games. A man came down to pick up an order and I struck up a conversation out of boredom. Anything, anything. Please.

He recently returned from Iraq. He was a sniper and loved his job. Enough of that. I turned my head and let him talk to my full-haired crown while I coveted a man’s wife sitting at a neighboring table. Eventually, I blacked out.

Black as night. Even with the fountains, peanuts, cigarettes. I think it was the whiskey. Appraoching the double digits ordered.

I came to.

Convention.

In the Marriot.

Pimps?

Am I surrounded by pimps?

Can I take your picture?

No.

Okay.

I did. When they weren’t looking.

In the bush…the wild ones can’t see you. That’s what I had been truly looking for all night. Solace. I left quickly.

Walking back, I stopped at the grocery store and awakened myself into an almost sober state by screaming, “OE! You guys have forties of OE!”

I bought it, walked back. Into the elevator. Wanted to brown bag, but they gave me plastic.

I sat in the room. Leafing through the yellow pages looking for something funny to call…I got mad that I couldn’t figure out the alphabet. Clock says 2:24am. Fuck it. Fuck it.

“Front desk.”

“Can you get me an escort?”

“What?”

“Can you get me a cab?”

“Where you going?”

“The airport.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Thanks.”

I pick up my suitcase, go downstairs, and smoke outside.

I wait at the airport for four hours. Sober now. Mad now.

So dry and cheeks wet, I return to my home.

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Comments
4 Responses to “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, hey you, Fuck, Or a Vacation in Colors; pt. 5”
  1. sealegs says:

    you forgot calling me in the blackout, i reckon. you borrowed my sleeve, so to speak.

  2. There’s a reason it’s a blackout, dear. I also forgot to pay my tab. I looked at my account online to see how much I spent and IT’S NOT THERE. Mr. Buckets – 1, Charlotte Hotel – 0.

  3. sealegs says:

    WHAT THE FUCK WHY WONT UPDATE

  4. RJ says:

    seriously, your fanclub is getting pissed.

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