Vantucky pt.1

      Its Friday. Payday. 9 PM. I feel anxious. Gotta get out of Salem. Dress casual. If they’re dressed really nice, then they’ll look like the uptight ones. Cece calls it ‘Vantucky.’ It's stuck in my head now. I love wordplay. Seventy sweat-soaked dollars to fill up the old Explorer. I want to blow-up every gas station in the country. I'm usually not so concerned with whats on the radio, but tonight I need something I can scream along with as I weave up I-5 like a snake through grass. The ‘What-Ifs’ are killin’ me. 


      The Rose Fest is in full effect down on the Portland Waterfront. It’s a quarter to eleven. I’ve been mostly dry for most of the last six months. Right now, whatever part of my brain that registers thirst is wishing that my saliva glands had PBR on tap. I'm praying to Jesus. I love adventure. This is like an adventure through the wilderness of human relationships. Five whole years, not one single word. I figured she was probably waist-deep in the fat unhappiness of most American marriages by now. I thought it, but I couldn’t picture it. Not the fat part anyway. Then, poof! Just like that, out of nowhere, here she is again. Still beautiful. 

          The drive seemed to take a lot longer then usual. Finally, I crossed the bridge into Vancouver. I stopped at the ‘Hop 'n Shop’ to purchase refreshments. The happy sounding girl voice in my mobile phone informs me that they already got me some Pabst, currently chillin’ in the fridge. I buy nothing and say “Goodnight” to Mr. Indian Lover dude. He probably thinks I stole something now.  Spaced out, I put the Explorer in drive instead of reverse and almost drove back into the ‘Hop N Shop'. I miss manual transmissions.

They're making beef stew and drinking Tequila mixed with Orange Crush. Oakridge Boys "Cadillac Pussy" is penetrating the sanctity of my ears. I am told it was their grandfather's favorite song. Grandpa must have been quite a character. I’m glad there is a third person in attendance to break the ice. Can’t believe Ceecee’s an Auntie. What a lucky niece. I can see the family tree in their jaw line. So there I was, paving a new road through what used to be just another dead end street. 

I never really thought she was a bitch after what went down. Shit happens. Maybe telling someone that you're ‘crazy’ about them via voicemail isn’t such a good idea in hindsight. Same could be said about most American marriages. When she first extended the invitation to come visit her, the first thing I thought was ‘scary.’ I even told her that, not sure if she really understood the reason why though. I hadn’t thought a single thought about her for a pretty long-time, years. All the memories and feelings I might've had for her at one time where stuffed inside a old dusty box somewhere up in the chemically un-enhanced recesses of my past.

  The Pabst was cold. Aluminum cans should not be aloud to contain beer. I mean, you wouldn’t house your goldfish in a toilet bowl would you? The mood was light. No autopsy-ing the decayed corpses of yester-year, at least not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Conversation flowed without much effort like Vodka into half full glasses of orange soda. *Remind me to never tell the 'Panther' story ever again. I sat on a stool at the kitchen counter observing auntie Cece and niece Bee chop up vegetables for the stew. 

      I was surprised to hear that they like listening to my music. Some people will tell you they like your music but you can tell they really don’t give a shit. Kind of like when someone says “Hey, nice haircut.” Yeah, whatever. They convinced me that they genuinely like it though, I could tell. I declined Bee’s request for a live performance in the kitchen. I didn’t want to put her, the audience, in the awkward position of having to actively listen and think of non-verbal qeue’s to signal her approval as I rapped to no beat. 

       So we got re-acquainted. Alcohol got consumed and spilled on coffee tables and carpets. Sara stopped by for a visit. Hadn’t seen her since Sharky’s Pool Hall a few years back. Sara is cool as the frozen food section at your local grocery store. We spoke about people that we did or didn’t remember and things that did or didn’t happen exactly like we thought we remembered them. 

Good times. It was like we took the leftovers of our old friendship out of the freezer in your parents garage and microwaved it back to life. Early morning came and took over the night shift. The couch was mine. I listened to my MP3 player and thanked God for makin’ alcohol to take the edges off. Alcohol is kind of like sandpaper. Just don’t let it dig into the bare wood too deep. Did you know that some people are actually allergic to wood?  Must suck to be them sometimes. 

originally written May 30, 2008