He always was the odd duck. He preferred a good conversation to senseless noise. He read books over choosing to sit endless hours in front of a TV screen. He always spoke like some throwback in the old black and white films. He called all the boys sport. Most didn’t understand him and I simply didn’t care. He drank scotch and would ramble for hours over the taste. The subtle hints of this and that. He was a talker with little to say. I gave him a book I had written . He looked at me as if I had handed him a pile of shit. “You write Sport?” “When not drinking I believe that’s what most people would call it bud.” “What sort of things do you write?” I took a sip of my drink and crunched an ice cube. “Well my friend looks like you will have to read it and find out.” He thanked me and took the book home. I saw him a few days later. He never mentioned the book or said another word to me. A small sacrifice for art. I was happy either way not to be called sport anymore.
I remember the first time I knew love for what it truly was. I was flying down a backroad there was nothing but me and her. It was passion it was everything I yearn for now . She purred like a cat everything we did felt as one. It’s a high no drug could match. The night the doorway to something we could not fathom. I was drunk on the moment then again I was drunk from the bottle as well. It all was perfection. Till that fucking deer ran out in front of me and I swerved to miss it. A broken leg, busted ribs. A concussion later I listened to you slowly die. Underneath a blanket of stars I struggled to breathe and questioned if this was it . A few hours later as the paramedics loaded me up in the ambulance I viewed your body saying my last farewell. I couldn’t fight the tears. The paramedic looked down at me puzzled slightly shaking his head. “Dude you must have really loved her huh?” I struggled to speak . “She was my first. ” He remained serious although I can imagine he had to fight not to laugh. “Well buddy you just try to relax.” “Besides I’m sure after they fix you up you can get another bike.” Love knows many forms.
Not All The Greats Are Dead
I had been writing away. Getting work done sending it out that’s what true writing is work. I found a rhythm and no one could stop the train course neither could I. I became respected by mistake. And somehow one day I found myself the one thing I told myself I would always be. I was a first class fuck up at everything else. But when it came to that page I connected. People read my words I made some laugh I made others cringe but I always made them feel something in the end. You have to grasp emotion to truly write and if you cant you are simply typing to feed your own ego. I received a email from a respected and known writer. His words carried their weight. And I was floored when he told me he admired my work as well. I was a insecure mess of a person he let me know so was everyone else. We talked about the shit that writers do. Even in a email the man was poetic. There was art in every line . He didn’t like crowds either. “Most every writer is a recluse so you’re in good company my friend.” I realized I was considered an equal even though I would never compare myself to the man. I realized most kids worshiped dead poets in the ground. And here I was conversing with a legend in the flesh. I didn’t breathe his air for I had my own. Not every great writer was dead and gone. But much like every great artist at his craft he wasn’t appreciated in his time. Who once stood as a hero had became my friend. I realized the world doesn’t get bigger at the top. It just becomes more desolate and void of human contact. But I realized I was a writer for the first time. It was deep shit and strange company from here on out.
You never drink that last bit of beer at the bottom of the bottle. Least I never did. It was many a moon since I drank beer but as in anything that involved alcohol if I did consume it I did so to the best of my abilities. I would usually kick back a case by myself. Watch others get wasted puke and begin the hangover long before the party ever stopped. The last bit was something you either poured out on the ground or down the drain. It was mainly backwash but if you drank beer for the taste I had to question your logic to begin with. I never drank that last bit and I never knew truly why. Some things we do and simply never question. I never wasted a drop of whiskey I would wring the bottle out if I could. Maybe it was the price difference or maybe I was just crazy as shit. I don’t know where I was going with this one I believe I drank too much and scrambled my GPS. I had to question in a situation like this, What would Jesus do?