Why?

I want to.  I have to.  I need to.  My nights have been restless over so many things.  My past, my present and my future are all weighing down on me.

I was recently in Seattle.  I went out with my old friend, Angie.  Talk about a girl who can party.  But I only put myself to shame when I partied too hard the first night and couldn’t  rally for the second.  Sorry, Angie but I will make it up when you come to Atlanta.  I won’t let you down.

Of course that isn’t an important part of the story.  But,  something happened the night I crapped out.  I walked to dinner and then I walked home.  While walking home I was approached by a homeless man.

Here I am minding my own business and a guy steps out of the shadows.

“Excuse me sir, but I bet you think I am going to ask you for money.”  He said confidently.

“Well, the thought had crossed my mind.”  I didn’t really care.

“Well, I am not.  I am an artist.  I am going to perform for you and if you like it you can pay me or not it is up to you.”

“I’ll strike a deal with you big guy.  You perform while I am still walking and then we will discuss later.”

I started walking.  He followed right beside me.  And then he screamed at me.

“I AM THE STREET!”  His eyes were on fire and his words were sharp.

What I thought was a public address, was the title to his poem.  I walked and he recited this, for lack of a better term, pure fucking stroke of goddamned genius.  I was completely taken by surprise.

He walked along citing his words, punctuating only briefly to proclaim, “I AM THE STREET!”

I was amazed.  I was both shocked and awed.  In a matter of pure coincidence I was approached by a true poet and he laid his life right out in front of me.  It was unbelievable.  I paid the guy $20.  It was all I had.

The captain was there and wanted to argue the difference between hope and hard work.  I simply stood there and only reveled in what I thought was an amazing piece of work.

I didn’t sleep well that night.  I wanted to.  I tried.  But I kept thinking about this guy’s words in my head.

“I AM THE STREET!  I AM THE STREET!  I AM THE STREET!”

It really got me to thinking.  What am I?

Leaving Seattle, I encountered the town of Portland.  I am always apprehensive to come to this town.  Let’s just say that this town and I have a bit of a past.  And we will leave it at that.

Regardless, I went out with the captain one night and we met a few of his friends but at the end of the evening it was only him and me and some bar near the hotel.  He went home.  I stayed for another.  I wasn’t thirsty.  I wasn’t tired.  I went for a walk.

I walked around for a couple of hours; late at night and alone.  I made one phone call, but the rest was just me and the streets.

I walked around trying to remember the words to what that guy said to me.  I thought about another phone call I could have made but I didn’t.

I was pissed.  What am I?  What am I doing out here, again?  FOR ANOTHER DAMN YEAR!!!

I went to bed angry.  I woke up in a bad mood.  But, because of this job, I had to put on my game face.  It was Sunday and these people knew me.  They wanted the names of all the cars.  They wanted all of the funny jokes.  They wanted none other than, Classic Rob.

But, I wasn’t feeling it.  However, I managed to put on my best and get all of those people loaded in for their next destination over 175 miles away.

We made the drive and I have to admit that driving through Oregon is one of the most beautiful drives I have ever taken.  I have done it before, but it wasn’t doing anything for me.

Who am I?  Who am I?  Mile after mile, I kept asking that question.

We made it to our first stop that morning.  It was a little rest area on a little road outside of a little town.  On the premises sat a restroom and a little pull-behind trailer that two older people were selling coffee to weary drivers.  I didn’t think anything of it.  I just erased it from my mind along with the 80 miles I had just put behind me.  I was half-way there and that is all that I was thinking about.

I got everyone back into their cars and sent them on there merry way.  I made a quick stop at the john and headed back to Flo and I was on my way out.

Before I made it out of the parking lot, an old man stopped me in the parking lot.  I rolled my window down and asked, “What’s up?”

“I just thought you would like to know that you have made my wife’s day.”

“Well sir, I make a lot of women’s day.”  He left me hangin’ so I had to take advantage of the situation.

After a good laugh he replied, “My wife is a 25 year survivor of breast cancer and she saw all of those cars and she was glad to see so many people involved.  I just thought you would like to know that.”

I sat there unable to say anything because I had just remembered something very important: my passenger.  I looked to my right and I saw her there.  Her hair was just as red as the last time I saw her.  Of course, she still had it buried under that god-awful gold-sequined cap.  The freckles never left her face and she had an angelic glow about her.  She didn’t say a word whenever she rode shotgun, she just simply looked at me and smiled.

I turned back to the old man and I smiled.  “That is exactly what I need to know and hear.  Thank you and give your wife a big hug for me.”

Barbara lost her battle with breast cancer earlier in the year.  From this program, I had many opportunities to see her over the years.  I called her in February when she was admitted to the hospital.

“I need you to get better because nobody looks as good as you do in that convertible, Barb.”  She didn’t say much, but when she did speak I could tell she was smiling.  She passed away a month later.

I didn’t want to be out here this year.  I tried so hard not to have to come back but I wound up here anyway.

It was then that I decided, if I have to be out here I am going to still try my best out here.  There are actually people who do depend on me out here.  There are people who like my crappy jokes and who admire me because I take the small amount of time just to name my cars.  And when I found out that Barbara had passed, I knew that she would always be riding shotgun with me.

I had forgotten.  I was ashamed of myself and the fact that I may have let Barbara down.

But I learned a great lesson from it all.

I have been on the road now for 6 years.  I started when I was 25.  I have crossed the continent over 15 times.  I have been in every metropolis and every one horse little town.  I have drank at several bars and I have slept in many hotels.  I have been around the block.

“This must be a great summer job?”  Any participant will ask me.

Rob’s inner voice:

 “This is no fucking summer job.  I’m sorry, does your summer start in February and end in November.  That must be a great fucking summer.  Do you know what I give up?  Do you know what I have lost?  Do you know anything besides the fact that you’re a complete idiot.  This is not summer job.  This is not a great opportunity to see the country.  This is not a great way to party.  This is not a great way to meet women.  This is none of those things.  This is and will always be just a job!”

 I catch myself saying to myself from time to time, but I always refrain.  Afterall, you have to put on a “happy” face.

I don’t say and I will never say it.  Why, because deep down, I love it!

I love it for all the reasons that Barbara and every person like her made it special to me in the first place.  I love it because the kids hate it and they have passion for nothing.  No passion means no life, no love, nothing.

You have to be passionate about something.

I spoke with PITA the other day and she asked me if I was having a better day.   She knew that I was not happy.

I simply told her I was and moved on.

Because I figured out what I am.  I figured out why I am here and why I have been doing this for so long.  I figured out why I will push Jeff to the breaking point when it comes to running the Hogpen.   I figured out why I get constantly pissed at my kids for half-assing themselves through everything.  I figured out why I have so many damn journals.  I figured out why I may piss and moan about shit but I don’t give up on it.  I figured out why I post this shit whether or not anyone reads it.  I figured out why I won’t give up.  I figured out why I can’t stop now and just walk away.   I figured out why I fight to win at trivia.

The skies have opened up because Rob (that’s me) finally figured it out.  I know exactly what I am.

I have five more weeks to go.  I have five weeks to give everything I have because Barbara deserves it.  This is my last time on this merry-go-round.  I have to make it memorable.

I will.  For Barbara and myself.

“I AM THE STREETS.”  I can still remember the voice.

“I AM PASSION AND I REFUSE TO FUCKING QUIT ANYTHING!”  Now you can remember mine.

But why?  Is it the people that I work with day to day?  Is the clientele that leaves me wondering sometime about the existence of an intelligent society?  Is it the pay, or lack thereof?  It could be these things.  It could be a lot more.  But, plain and simple, these are not the things that I find the most disappointing.

It is a chair that has developed a divot that resembles my ass.  It is a desk that has two dips where my elbows rest.  It is four walls that I have stared at so much I believe I could peel off that awful stained wallpaper if I just stare hard enough.

As I look around on the faces of the people I pass and those who pass me on their way to work, I can see that I am not the only one who feels the same way.

For half an hour each day, I see the look of so many people.  Their expressions say the same thing that I am thinking, “Is this it?  Is this all there is to what I am?  Is this how I will spend today?  Is this how I will spend tomorrow?  And the next day?  And the next for as long as I live?”

So many people, so many frowns of despair, so many shrugged shoulders and heads hung low that tell me I am not alone in a day-to-day battle with agony.

I make my commute around a bustling city of people who might be satisfied.  But satisfied or not, in some way, shape or form, they too are asking, “Is this where I am?  Is this where I am supposed to be?  If someone were to ask me, is this what I am supposed to be doing this minute?  This day?  This moment?”

Perhaps the delivery man is asking, “What would I be doing if I didn’t have to deliver one more package?”

Does the CEO ask, “Would I be happier if I was just shoveling fish guts on a boat somewhere?”

Do the salesmen ask, “What am I selling, a product that I believe in or another useless product that doesn’t really make a difference?”

Does an attorney ask, “Am I really defending this criminal, when I know they are guilty?”

Does the proctologist ask his/herself, “Did I really make a career out of inspecting assholes?”

The questions bubble above peoples cars as I drive by and I can see them as if I were driving through a comic strip and reading everyone’s thoughts because it is a clear as the hollow look on their faces.

I can tell because I have the same look.  No matter how strong the coffee is to push me up and out the door, no matter how beautiful the sunrise is on my way to work, no matter how good the music is that I drive to, I know that my destination lies within four walls that keep me prisoner for another day.  I wonder if this is similar to being an inmate with nights and weekends outside of the jail.

I drive my half hour a day and I get closer to work.  I drive to the building which will hold my spirit for the next 9 – 10 hours.  It is small. It is a terrible tan color and looks like it was a piece of shit from the first day it was built and not something that merely faded over time.  If I were a contractor and I built this thing, the minute I handed over the keys to the owner of this monstrosity, I would have shot myself for the pure shame of knowing that I was responsible for it.

I point my car with the building to my back and a clear view of the interstate in front of me.  I turn off my engine and I close my eyes for only five minutes and I dream in silence.

I use to travel a lot.  I have been a lot of places and I know the fastest way to get anywhere.

…

From where I sit, I know that I can be in Key West in less than 12 hours.  Ten toes in the sand and a beer in each hand and I am satisfied.  I can be in Hilton Head teeing off in less than four hours.  In the same amount of time and in a different direction I can be in Nashville debating which band I am going to see first.

These five minutes are mine and nobody can take them from me.  As far as they are concerned I am not there.  I am somewhere else.  I am in Seattle eating a Burger Royale at the Palace Kitchen.  I am in San Francisco running back across the Golden Gate again with a sandwich to enjoy as I feed the birds in Sausalito.  A few hours north of there and I am getting lost down a winding back road discovering wineries that you won’t find in your local grocery store.

I am enjoying a root beer milkshake, as I sink my fries into that nifty little sauce they make at a drive-in called Scotty’s in Idaho Falls.  After an exhausting drive along the Snake River, I cool off with a beer as I sit on barstool fashioned from a real saddle at the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar in Jackson Hole.  I am still debating what kind of hat to buy at this little hat maker in Manitou Springs.

I am up early enough to see the balloons rising in the sun over Albuquerque.  I am strolling down the River Walk in San Antonio.  I am playing blackjack at a riverboat casino in Biloxi.  I am riding a subway to a Yankees game.  I am going up in that little contraption that takes you to the top of the St. Louis arch.

I am eating a real fish taco at a little beachside café between San Diego and Los Angeles.  I am staring out over the rock formations at Arches National Park.  I am sampling a beer at the New Belgium Brewery.  I am sitting in a hot spring the size of an immense swimming pool in Glenwood Springs.  I am eating 500 things on a stick at the Iowa State Fair.  I am listening to a great blues band in Chicago.  I am walking around the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame.  I am watching the Toledo Mudhens play minor league ball.

I am no longer in my body as I travel all over the country and revisit all of the places I have been.  I am at an awful water park in Cincinnati.  I am sitting in an impotent strip joint in Delaware and laughing.  I am getting lost driving through all of the monuments in DC.  I am in Virginia Beach eating saltwater taffy in the backroom of another crappy store selling typical “beach town garbage.”  I am at a small zoo in Omaha during a school day.  I am drinking a Rogue Dead Guy at the brewery in Portland.  I am listening to the Boston Pops play as 4^th of July fireworks explode over my head.

I am eating boiled peanuts in another gas station in the middle of nowhere in another state that I have screamed through.  I am eating the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich I have ever tasted made by real Amish people.   I smell the ocean off the coast of Maine.  I am feeling a mixture of sand and snow between my toes in a beachside town outside of New Bedford.  I am eating Ben & Jerry’s at the factory.  I am buying a stupid little trinket at the Pearl River Mall.   I am playing pool in the back room of a bar in Tyler.

I can smell the freshly cut grass at a disc golf course in Eastern Pennsylvania.  I am eating alligator in Louisiana.  I am downshifting on a deserted highway in Peoria as I power up a hill.  I am climbing to the top of the Chinese Wall.  I am speeding down a drag strip in Las Vegas in a Ferrari.

…

The horn of a tractor trailer breaks my trance and I look in the review mirror at the front door of my office and I sigh.  My five minutes is over as I come back to reality.  As reality comes closer I look at the key in the ignition and my hands on the steering wheel.  I have toyed with the idea…up and leaving as I wave one finger out the window and take off to anywhere and everywhere.  I have stopped myself so many times and this particular morning will be another time in a history of times where I do the same.

I look out over the freeway as a plane comes in for a landing at Hartsfield-Jackson and I remember that I am only five minutes away from wherever the next plane is taking off to.

I open up the center console and I see a little blue book that stares back at me as I smile.  My passport.  It always stays with me, just in case.

I look up at the plane again as it comes close enough to land on my building and crush it into nothing.

My “job” keeps me planted, for now.  My five minutes of escape dwindles as I reach down and hold my passport, almost crushing it in my hand and I think of freedom.  I think of everyone else dying to escape and break free.

I am only five minutes from anywhere I want to be and I look back at this little book and all of its stamps and think, “If only.”

…but that journey would take ten minutes.

I don’t do it in order to look cool.  I just know that if I sit at home and try to write, I will just end up watching entirely too much TV (by the way…there is a Law & Order: SVU marathon on the USA network) or I can get sucked into the time-sucking vortex that has become known as FaceBook.

I don’t get it and I don’t even begin to know how to comprehend it.  One minute I am checking my email and the next minute I am playing Mafia Wars, looking at the pages of 3 ex-girlfriends, tracking down an old middle school friend and finding as many ways as possible to waste time other than writing or doing something else productive.

Seriously, how many people/places/things do I need to become “a fan of?”  Do I really need to become a fan of Jesus Christ, Cheetos and the latest one-hit-wonder band out of LA, on the same day?  How many people are going to tell me how much they are going to miss Michael Jackson or Patrick Swayze?  Do I have to become a fan of the city I live in?  Sure Atlanta is great, but isn’t that a bit much to say what an absolute fan you are of the place?  I was born and raised here and everything looks the same.  Then again, who am I to judge?  I am just an everyday dude, sitting in a coffee shop, trying to look cool as I sit here and peck away at the keys on my laptop.

Do you really have to update your status 15,000 times on a daily basis?  Does anyone really care?  Or am I just bitter because I don’t have something to squawk about on a constant basis?  Then again, does anyone really have the time, care or need to relate to what I have to chat about?  I didn’t think so.

I find myself saying it all too often, “Did you see what so-and-so put on their Facebook page?”  And in stating that, immediately I have become one of those people who instead of calling a friend and asking, “Hey, how are you doing?”  I check in on them via Facebook and figure out that they are doing fine…and they got a haircut or something else that really just doesn’t matter.   But why should I be judging?  In all due respect, I am not judging.  I am bitching.  I am complaining.  I am whining because it is far too easy for me or anyone else to simply log on and check out what is going on in the world instead of taking the time to actually step outside and actually have human contact with a person instead.  Should I be ashamed that my sister writes messages to me via this black hole of online social networking instead of calling her sweet baby brother?  Shame shame shame.  No no no.

Instantly, I can think of at least 63 people (including my sister) that I should be calling, right now, and making plans to go and catch up with them.  Toward that end, there are twice as many people that I can think  to ask myself, “Again, who is this person and why do I have a need to know that blah blah blah or yakety yakety yak yak….?”

If I am a “Facebook Friend” does that qualify me as a friend in real life or simply an acquaintance?    And why would I want the constant update?   What kind of enrichment do I get from that?

“What??? Someone in your family is having a baby???  That’s great!!!  I thought you were and only child.  Then again, if we had spoken more than once in the past 10 – 15 years I might have known that.

“You are going out and getting drunk with your friends tonight???  That is awesome!!! I am so happy that our ONE DATE together made you feel like you needed to give me a constant update on every second of your life.  Do you have any other useless information that you want to share with me?  Because, I soooooooooooo want to give a crap.

“Hey, did you hear about this person and what they are doing?   Because I am still trying to figure out why I give a damn in the first place?  To put it simply, I don’t.”

As I said, I am not judging, I am merely bitching.  I am guilty of the same crime.  I sit here and write this note with the intention of posting it to a website that, in turn, will be directed to my page on Facebook.   Do I expect people to read it? No.  Do I expect people to ask themselves, “Why should I care about his overindulgent pining?”  Yes.  But, I write it because I need the writing practice and I want that really cute girl over there to think that I am doing something productive with a my time as I tap tap tap away on my laptop.

I think I may go ask her if she wants to “friend me.”  I mean, of course, I will ask her out to dinner first.  But afterwards, after a little romance, a little wine, a little flirting….I expect some serious “friending” to be going on.

Although, I strongly recommend that everyone makes sure that serious precaution is taken before any “friending” occurs.  Remember, when you “friend” someone, you “friend” all of the other people that they may have “friended” before you.

In closing, I would just like to say, enjoy your rainy Sunday afternoon.  Pick up the phone and call someone.  Go have a real conversation that doesn’t occur through the realm of the internet.   Reach out to a loved one or an old chum and make plans to get together, sit down and have a coffee or a cocktail.

….and if all of that fails, go “friend” yourself!!!

I have been carrying these little notebooks around with me for a week and just jotting.  Jotting here, jotting there…little notes to myself that I assume could grow into something bigger.  There is some…thing…some….presence… something holding me back from simply pouring my guts out in a notepad, a blog or in any other fashion.  When I was traveling, it was something that I could do on a regular basis.  But, since I have become “less dynamic,” I find the motivation to be less than encouraging.  Then again, it is getting harder and harder to hold myself back.

Pent up in my head are so many thoughts and ideas.  So many things feel like they are just clawing their way to the surface.

The biggest issue is trying to sit and think about one topic at a time without being sidetracked by mundane everyday things…work, home, eating, breathing…you know, typical everyday bullshit.  It is the boredom that kills the desire.  There is boredom in sitting here staring at pale colored walls to which there is no name.  It is a color I would love to be able to describe but it just seems only pale and nothing more.  It is an evil cycle: unexpressed creative desires lead to boredom and boredom kills any desire to be creative.  Boredom begets boredom and so on and so on.  So I write, right now.  I throw down everything I can to feed a fire that has wanted to be stoked for some time now.  I blow off work when I should be working.  I ignore sleep because I forget what a full night’s sleep is like.  I forget about eating because I don’t want to lose a train of thought.  I neglect a run because I can’t take a notepad with me.

And therein lies the dilemma; do I eat or do I write?  Do I sleep or do I write?  Do I work or do I write?  Do I date or do I write?  Do I socialize or do I write?

I do it all…but write.  It leaves me hollow.  It becomes a single burning flicker constantly put to the test by the winds of an everyday existence merely going through the motions.

In the meantime, I keep taking my little notes, I keep posting my old writings and I wait for that moment where everything shuts down except my brain and the small nerves that lead to my fingers which put my thoughts into words.

Sometimes I find myself with so much that needs to be said and so little time in which to express it.  I ask myself, “What is the point?”  It isn’t until after the fact, when the thought is gone, that I regret not having written anything.

“Oh, what was I thinking the other day??? I know it was really good and I should remember it.  Then again, maybe it wasn’t that good because I didn’t remember it.” So it goes, forgotten, never to be heard from or dealt with again.  Another spark has been put out and another day goes by.

The question remains, why now?  Why all of a sudden?  Why has my brain sat idle through so many experiences and not once made the slightest bit of noise?  Why didn’t I write about this?  Why didn’t I write about that?  Why is it now, in the middle of a relatively busy day at work that I put everything else on hold to put down these words?

What has been holding me back from this expression which I used to love so much?  Fear?  Fear of someone rejecting my words, my work, my effort, my joy?  Fear of hurting someone else’s feelings through what I think is worth being said?  My feelings should remain bottled up and become poisonous to myself so that I can spare the pride of someone else?

I sit at my desk and look outside the window at the world and think of words like “is,” “am,” “was,” “feel,” and others.  When, all the time, I should really be thinking of words like “write,” “fight,” “scream,” “shout,” and yes even “screw.”  Words of action, words of presence, these are words that are meant for the living.

I AM sitting here.  NO!!! I BREATHE life into thoughts and give them meaning.  I FORCE words down.  I CREATE.  I GRUNT.  I GROAN.  I EXPRESS.   I LIVE through these words I write.

I am not being.  I scribe with vigor the words that come out of me and fear nothing more than a misspelled word or a misplaced comma.  Lock me in prison and throw away the key for my grammatical injustices.  But I plead of you, leave me a pencil and a scrap of paper on which to write and in that I shall be set free.  Otherwise, put me in the chair and let me fry for accepting a life without expression.  Place me before a firing squad for not demanding to say something.  Inject me with the same poison that creeps through my veins from the words that have been left inside to rot.

This “verge” that I look upon, is a reawakening of a desire that has slept for far too long.   The desire is simply to write.

Flying, on the other hand, is an entirely different story. I love to travel. But I can’t stand flying. Airports, planes, people at the airport, you name it; I am not a fan of it.

Take my most recent trip back out on the road after a week at home.

I get dropped off after it takes forever just to get to the curb. Apparently this “no waiting” law is not an issue at the Atlanta airport. Nobody cares so nobody moves.

I grab “Big Green” (my bag) and my backpack and head inside. I walk up to those little convenient e-ticket counters, which are not convenient at all because you have to keep inputting the same crap over and over again. Then, you still have to talk to a ticket agent so they can look at your bag and put on a luggage tag. If I have to deal with a ticket agent, then what is the point of checking in at an e-ticket booth?

Now let’s talk about weight limits on a plane. Your bag can weigh no more than 50 lbs. GUESS WHAT??? I spend 4 – 5 months at a time on the road. Do you think my bag weighs less than 50 lbs.? Well, pardon my French, but fuck no! I don’t call it “Big Green” for nothing. Automatic $25 charge.

“Do you have any place you would like to put the extra weight sir?” She asked and complained at the same time. “Your bag weighs too much and I will have to charge you.”

“Well, if you would like to turn around and bend over, I can think of a place I can stick that extra weight.”

The bag gets checked. I pay my extra fee. I get my boarding pass and I move on to my favorite part of the airport: security.

The only thing security is missing is a full-body cavity search. Now that is something to write home about.

I carry a backpack with me. I carry in it all of my essentials. Its contents include:

One laptop – I never go anywhere without it.
Three written journals – I keep a big one for things I can’t write here, a little
one for little thoughts with big meaning, and one for logging my runs.
Four books – I can never read one book at once, so I carry several:
currently; The Jesus Papers, Digital Fortress, The Ultimate
Marathon, Blood on the Briefcase.
Two Magazines – It doesn’t matter what they are, I always have two
magazines for light reading. Today’s reading includes Ladies’ Home
Journal and Hustler.
Thank you cards – People send me thank you cards and I keep them. I think
if someone goes through the trouble of writing them they deserve better
than a garbage can.
IPod – Where I go, the tunes come with me.
Cords – Power cords, USB cords, headphone cords, cell phone cords, you
name it I can either power it or hook up to it.
Digital Camera – You never know when you need to take a picture of
something.
Cigars – I enjoy a good smoke and from time to time I have to light one
up.
Expense book – I spend a lot of money on the company dime, and this helps
me keep track.
Misc. – I always have random crap in there too. I keep a book of pressed
pennies that I collect on my journeys. I have a few old patches, a set
of dog tags, some toothpicks, a pocket watch I bought in Bulgaria and
just some stuff I forgot I have.

You can imagine that with all of that stuff, I do forget what I have in there from time to time.

I take out my laptop and I take of any metal and send that through.

I am asked to remove my flip-flops and sent them through. You never know what I could be hiding in two, half-inch strips of rubber with leather straps on top. Morons.

I put the backpack in and send that through, walk through and stand on the other side awaiting my stuff.

“Bag check,” a security agent screams.

Crap! What did I leave in there?

“Is this your bag sir?”

“Why yes it is.”

“We have to check it for explosives.”

“Whatever.”

The dude takes the bag and asks me to follow him over to another counter. I follow and gasp as I watch him unzip every pocket and turn the bag upside down emptying all of the contents. Books, journals, magazines, and, yes, miscellaneous, comes out all over the table.

“What do we have here?”

“Well, that looks like my cigar lighter, tiger.”

“That can’t come on the plane, and ohhhhhh, what do we have here?”

“Well, sport, that would be a bartender’s wine opener (because hotel room bottle openers suck).”

“These can’t go with you,” he smiled.

“Why not, they flew in with me.”

“Well, then someone on the other end wasn’t doing their job properly.”

“No, I think the person on the other end isn’t a complete idiot who thinks I am capable of bringing down a plane with a lighter without fuel and a corkscrew.”

“You can put them back in your car,” he suggested.

“Let me see, I can call the person who dropped me off and have them come back and get these things,” I took a deep breath. “Then, after I have explained to them how stupid this is, I can come back through the security checkpoint to do it all over again?”

“Yes, you can.”

“Take the lighter. Take the corkscrew. Stick one in your ear and stick one in your ass, but don’t take too long trying to figure out which to put where. I’m outta here.”

I grabbed the rest of my belongings and made my way towards my next destination: the airport bar.

Lucky for me the concourse my flight was leaving from was under construction, so there were only two bars serving.

There was Chili’s, and I say screw Chili’s. It isn’t like they aren’t a staple on the road.

Then was this other bar, Sojourner’s Bar. Since there wasn’t a smoking lounge on the concourse, Sojourner’s was the smoking section.

I found a seat, ordered a big beer and lost myself in my newest issue of Ladies’ Home Journal. Note: With summer in full effect, it is time to start thinking about your fall gardening. Do you know what you are going to plant?

Somehow, I managed to lose track of 2 hours as I waited for my flight to leave.

I had just enough fuel in me to drift off into a nice sleep once on the plane. Unfortunately, the lady behind me could not stop talking about her father with a broken hip and how she wouldn’t dare put him in a home.

I don’t care. I am sure the guy sitting next to you doesn’t care. Just shut up!

I put on my headphones and pull out a journal and begin to write. My mind soothes itself. I forget about the airport. I forget about the plane. I forget about everything but what I am writing about. The pages fly by and my hand begins to cramp. A quick shake of the wrist and I am writing again. I am relaxed and enjoying myself. I have found a topic that I can endlessly write about and I do and I don’t want to stop. I would share it here, but that just wouldn’t be wise. The pen flies and the words spew forth. I turn the page and get ready to take the next stroke when…

“Sir, we are getting ready to land. You need to put up your electronic device.”

Crap. I pack my bag, but I leave out the journal. I have an hour layover. I will find a place and sit down to continue where I left off.

As I watch the people move off the plane, a little voice inside screams, “Get off the plane, I have to finish what I am writing.”

Each and every person in front of me on the plane is taking there sweet time getting their bag and walking off the plane. Step. Inch forward. Step. Inch forward. Step. Inch forward.

Wake me when it is over!

Success! I am off the plane. I have made it down the jet way. I am sitting alone at a bar with nobody around. I am finally happy and in an airport at the same time. What a change.

“What can I get for you, hon,” a heavy-set, older woman named Debbie is asking.

“Debbie, I am having a bitch of a day. What would you recommend?”

“Hows ’bout a big beer and a shot of tequila?” She guessed.

“Debbie, if this bar weren’t in between us, I would kiss you.”

“Sounds like I got it right.”

“Yes you did, woman.”

The shot is in me and re-energizes my writing spirit. I go back to work on my writing. I write. I sip my beer. I write. I am at peace.

I know that the bar is still empty. However, I can feel a presence has entered. I am desperately trying not to pay any attention to the barstool moving next to me. I am writing and I want to be left alone. The two voices I want to hear are mine as it narrates the words in my head, and Debbie as she asks if I want another drink.

“Another beer, hon?”

I look up and smile.

I look to my left and there is this creepy old guy sitting next to me now and smiling at me. I know what is about to happen. I look back at my empty glass. A sad glaze comes over my face as I see that I still have some time before my plane boards.

Gulp.

“Yes, Debbie, I would like another beer.”

“Would you like another shot with that?”

I look back at the guy next to me who still has this smirk on his face.

Gulp.

“Yes, please.”

She pours the drinks in front of me. I hammer the shot down. He opens his mouth.

“I am glad to see I am not the only one drinking in this bar.”

I smile.

*NOTE* – The part of Rob’s inner monologue will be written in italics.

“Well, I am not! This is my bar. I came here and I sat down and I was happy to see that there was nobody in here. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wanted to sit here, drink my beer, write, and enjoy my solitude for the afternoon. But NOOOOOO! You couldn’t drink alone. Of the over 100 seats in this bar, you sit right next to me. I don’t want to talk to you. I want to write. It was a good session too. But do you care, fuck no! You just saw someone sitting at the bar and you had to strike up a conversation. It made no difference to you that I looked like I was busy. It made no difference that you could have struck up a conversation with anyone else at any table or Debbie the bartender. UGH!”

“Well I was the only one working…err…I mean drinking in the bar,” I state.

“Don’t you worry, after about three or four of these big beers in me, I am going to be switching to Captain Morgan,” his eyes glazed over with excitement.

“Well that is fanfuckingtastic! I am going to go to bed easy tonight now that I know what you are going to be doing for the rest of your life. I have already had a bad enough day and now I have to sit here and listen to you. Give me a break.”

“Then I guess you better get busy,” I muttered as I took a few sips of beer.

“I am on my way down to Florida to go to work for my son. I am in construction and I can’t get a job up here so I am going to work for him. I get a car and a credit card. What do you do?”

“Me, I get easily annoyed by people who tell me their life story without even being asked. You get a car and a credit card, well; you are a big boy now aren’t ya?”

“What do I do? Well, I could tell you but you wouldn’t believe me. Because I am going to lie my ass off.”

“Give it a shot, “He prodded.

“I write cards for Hallmark. Well, to be more specific, I write cards of condolence to people who have just lost someone close.”

“Really, anything I may have seen?” He asked in all seriousness.

“Are you kidding me? I come up with the bullshit that I write cards and you want to know what I have written.”

“Well, I am mostly writing for people who have recently lost pets. You may not believe it, but there is a big market it for ‘I am sorry you lost your dog/cat’ cards.” I was lying through my teeth.

“Yeah, I can believe that. I had a dog about 20 years ago and I know a card would have made me feel better.” His eyes welled up.

“CRAP. FUCK. SHIT. Are you kidding me? Where is God right now? He is looking at me and he is laughing. I did the best I could do with what I had.”

“Well, look at it this way. Your dog is sitting up there wagging his tail knowing that he will see you again.” I patted him on the shoulder.

“No wonder you write for them card companies. You are really good.”

“Well, it is a start until a start doing what I really want to do.”

“And what is that?” His interest reached an all-time high.

“An exotic male dancer at the ‘Thunder from Down Under’ in Vegas is my dream someday.”  I smiled.

He stood there with his mouth gaping open.

“ATTENTION, PASSENGERS OF FLIGHT 470 TO GRAND RAPIDS, FOR THOSE SEATED IN FIRST CLASS, WE ARE NOW BOARDING.” Saved by the intercom.

I threw down my cash and got up.

“Debbie, it has been a pleasure, you are a peach.”

“Thank you, Rob.” She smiled back. She had been listening to our conversation.

“Jethro, you will meet up with your dog someday. I just know it. But until then, good luck with your car and credit card.” I patted him on the back and shook his hand.

“Well thank you, it was really…” He kept talking but I kept walking.

I had my journal in my hand as I boarded the plane. I threw my bag out of the way and got back to work.

Still unfinished with what had to be said. The 30-minute flight was over before it started. I had to put the journal away and promised myself to resume it again soon.

I got off the plane and I got “big green” from the claim. I waited outside for Rocky and the Captain to pick me up.

I finally had a smile on my face because I knew the only thing waiting for me to conclude this airport episode was just the car to take me away.

The guys pulled up and stopped. I was done. I loaded my bag as I said my hellos.

“Sir you need to move this car.”

I stopped dead and my tracks. I turned around and saw a 5-foot-nothing, 90 lb security guard. I paused and looked at the situation.

“Sir you need to move this car you are blocking traffic.”

I looked again. In a 5-lane driveway, almost a half-mile long sat only one car, our car. I didn’t say a word and finished loading my bag.

“Sir?”

“Cubby, as soon as I get in this car, we are out of here. As a matter of fact the more you sit here and lecture me about this car blocking this vast, empty driveway, I could be leaving. You are the last thing I need to punctuate this day. Are you finished? Can I go?”

“You need to move your car.”

“Gladly, I am up and gone like the fucking wind.”

I got to my room. My nerves were shot. I looked at the journal on the other side of the room. It was to far away and then I thought, “She has made me wait this long, what difference is another day going to make?”

I am definitely not a big fan of airports, but I am thankful that there is this one thing I can think about to take me away from it all.