Andy, Sandy, and Charlie Bob

"So they come in the room and Andy's just jawin' and twitchin', drunk as shit. She keeps holding his head down and being loud. I thought the manager was gonna call the cops or some shit." Charlie Bob took a long swallow from his can of Bud before continuing. "She finally let's Andy up for air and tells him he can do whatever he wants to her, but he's just saying 'oh fuck,' over and over. Me and Sandy were still in the bathroom trying not to bust a fucking gut. The girl didn't realize Andy's got Tourette's. She thought he was just drunk, so she keeps answering back, 'okay, okay, okay,' over and over. Sounded like Little John. Oh, man. It was fucking great."

Everybody laughed while Charlie Bob slapped Andy on the back. Andy grinned and followed Charlie Bob back to the cooler. Charlie Bob ran his hand through the ice, grabbing himself a fresh one and handing one to Andy: Andrew Michael Coolidge...Charles Robert Coolidge's baby brother.

Andy popped open the can and swallowed the air a couple times before speaking. "I like the way you tell it."

Charlie Bob let out a belch. "You done good with that girl. That was a hell of a night."

The night in question was a Saturday night in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee about a month prior, when Steve Williams married Amanda Lester, a dyed blonde who loved talking about how much Malibu she could drink and had made her way through most of the guys in the fire department at least twice. Charlie Bob told Steve one time, "I'll bet she'd fuck a petrified turd if there was a ten minute wait for dick." He never thought Steve would marry her knowing what everyone else did. Charlie Bob meant everything he'd ever said about Amanda, but was glad Steve didn't hold it against him.

"Hey!" Charlie Bob turned just as Sandy wrapped her arms around him and planted a sweet tea kiss underneath his beer soaked handle bars. She gave Andy a hug and laughed at both her men. "Ya'll drinkin' already?"

Charlie Bob nodded. "Hell yes. Fish fry's over."

Sandy grabbed herself a beer. "How'd it go?" She smiled at Andy. "Did he run everybody off, bullshitting?"

"They--there were a lot of people earlier." Andy swallowed the beer, trying to hide behind the cold can.

"I told them we ought to do barbecue. How was work?"

Sandy shrugged. "Busy." She searched through her purse and pulled out a pack of 100's. "Eddie dropped a load of dishes and Meredith was yelling at him out front while customers were waiting at the register."

Sandy lit a cigarette while Andy watched the smoke trail up. He could feel himself turn red. He'd probably do something like dropping a load of dishes.

When Charlie Bob joined the fire department, Andy kept hanging out at the station. One day, he told Charlie Bob that he wanted to help out and be a fireman. Charlie Bob could say "hell no" to about anybody in the world. Anybody, except Andy.

Charlie Bob talked to Derrick Angel, the fire chief, about taking Andy on to sweep or wash the trucks or something. Derrick turned Charlie Bob down flat, which would've been the end of it, except Charlie Bob said he'd pay Andy out of his own pocket if Derrick would just let him hang around and do a little bit. Derrick agreed under the condition that if Andy ever fucked anything up, he was gone.

Charlie Bob had more than a few things to say about Derrick after that, but everything worked out. Andy lived with Charlie Bob and Sandy, so all the money Charlie Bob was secretly paying Andy ended up going back into Charlie Bob and Sandy's bills, anyway. After a while, Derrick moved out of state and Steve Williams took over as chief. Andy had become something like the station's mascot.

Sandy never blinked about Andy living with them and Charlie Bob loved her for it, though he told her it was because of her tits. Sandy stomped out her cigarette and finished her beer.

"Ya'll ready to head?"

Andy looked at Charlie Bob. Charlie Bob grabbed another beer from the cooler. "Yeah. Just a sec." He shotgunned his last beer and tossed the can in the trash. He grinned at Todd Evans. "Ya'll better recycle that shit."

Sandy smiled, putting an arm around Charlie Bob. "Let's get out of here before you can't get it up."

Charlie Bob laughed. "Short Bob's never seen the day." He kissed her on top of the head, put his arm around Andy's shoulder, and helped them both to his truck.

George Is Alright.

The door opened to a dark room filled with the smell of stale smoke and liquor. George sat there, his head against the back of a recliner with his eyes wide open. He looked like he hadn't slept in months.

"George? The door was open."

His head dropped and he smiled. "Come in."

"How's it going?"

He chuckled. "Tommy."

I walked over and sat on the bed. His eyes half-followed me. It made my head hurt, just being there. "You been alright?"

George nodded. "I've got great friends and more money and pussy than I know what to do with." He laughed again.

George hadn't been alright in a long time. He had driven most of his friends away, lost a half dozen jobs over the last four years, and hadn't been laid in about as long, unless he'd paid for it. He motioned towards the mini-fridge

"There's some beers if you want some." He knew I wouldn't.

"Thanks."

His head hovered over an almost lifeless body. His fingers stretched out and then curled back again. It was painful to look at him, the remains of a friend who'd been a mentor and told me a million lies over the years to help me stop being a coward and shape me into the kind of man he'd stopped trying to be.

"You want one?"

He shook his head. "Nah. They'll keep."

The unwelcome sunlight slipped between the blinds, falling against his dark blue shirt. I couldn't think of anything to say. It had taken a long time for him to become like this. Those of us who whispered behind his back couldn't pin it on a single event.

He'd gone through a bad breakup with a nice girl. He'd helped put down a half dozen sick animals on his grandparent's farm. He didn't talk about the time he lived in Tennessee, except to remind everyone that Memphis was as bad a shit hole as any place he'd ever been.

He'd gone through a ton of coke and weed back then. A lot of people wrote him off. When he finally got it out of his system, we thought he'd come back around. I guess it wasn't the kind of thing anyone gets over. He was clean except for the booze, but everything he'd lost was gone forever.

He stood up and shuffled over to his computer. He clicked around until sleepy music came on.

"You been writing?"

He glanced at me. "I guess."

"I've been working on a few things. Nothing very good."

He nodded. "Send them to me." He took a slice of cheese out of the fridge and ate it. "Did you work today?"

"Yeah." It was hard to tell if he was making conversation or if he cared.

"How was it?"

I shrugged.

He stretched and looked at the clock. "I guess the mail's come. You want to go out for a bit?"

"Sure."

We walked to the mailbox. He stuffed an ad for a car lot in his back pocket and rolled a cigarette. "I hate smoking inside. It makes everything smell like shit." He watched the smoke trail off. "I'm glad you don't smoke."

"What have you been writing?"

"My memoirs." He cut a fart and laughed.

I laughed too, until everything was quiet again. Being around George made me uneasy. He was like a caged animal, made tame by years of nothing changing. You never questioned the totality of his defeat, but always wondered how deeply buried the natural instincts were.

We walked back inside, into the darkness.

He grabbed a beer before taking a seat in front of the computer and I sat on the bed again. The glow from the screen made him look sick. He rummaged around in the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of vitamins. He took one and washed it down with the beer.

He clicked around on the computer again, and scrolled through a document. "I really have been writing my memoirs." He took another pull off the bottle. "It's all bullshit, though. All ego. If I even remembered the truth, I don't think it would amount to much." It wasn't something either of us wanted to talk about, so he changed the subject. "How's Amy?"

"She's alright. We had a fight the other night. Well, actually, she just yelled at me while we ate a thirty dollar meal."

He nodded. "That's why I eat at home."

We talked about nothing for a little while longer, then he put on some old movie by a German director he loved. We watched it for a bit, until I decided it wasn't as good as he remembered or maybe he wasn't in the mood for it.

We went out again and leaned against his car. He smoked as the sun dropped behind the trees and the mosquitos began their quiet night flights. The gray blue sky turned his face to ash behind the bright red cherry.

"I hate the city, but sometimes I miss living there."

"Why don't you move?"

He shook his head. "I've got a good life here. I'll probably just stay here until I die."

He hated the sound of it as much as I hated listening to it. We both knew it was true.

Living in the city had been hard on him. He'd spent too much time there. He'd poured himself into the fast paced life and spent every minute of every day laughing at asshole's jokes. He'd networked and been the life of the party. Everyone loved him as much as he'd hated himself. Out here, he didn't have to face any of that. He felt like he was better off empty than living in the city.

It was getting late.

"I'd better go."

He nodded. "Send me that stuff you been writing."

"I will." He took another long drag off the cigarette and looked out into the night, into the distance of all that dark nothing. "I had a good time."

He smiled. "Me too."

He watched me drive away and I kept the radio off for the whole drive home. I could picture him going back in for another beer, sitting in front of the computer, hacking away at the keyboard for a few hours, until stopping for a bit and falling asleep in his chair.

George hates for people to see him like this. He prefers the loneliness, because he doesn't know any other way to face each day. He knows he's not alright and probably won't ever be again. Everything he writes is a memoir and it's all bullshit. He'd never tell it as a sad story. He changes the names, talks about raising hell, and laughs off how the characters should have known better.

George laughs a lot when there's nothing to laugh about and I don't ever feel like there's anything I can do about it.

Dress Money

“You going to wear that dress?”

“Yeah, why? Something wrong with it?”

Robin smiled and pushed the brim of his hat back with his index finger. “You going out?”

Lisa brushed her curls. “No. I’m staying in.”

Robin gave a grin. “Then why are you wearing that dress?”

“I like it. Don't you think it looks good on me?”

“I think it hides the real you. You look better without it,” Robin chuckled and tossed his hat in a chair.

“You’ve got a dirty mind.”

“And a dirty mouth, but it never stops you from kissing me.” Robin put his arms around her and studied her beautiful face. “You get it with the money I gave you?”

“What?”

“The dress. I want to see the one you bought.”

Lisa frowned and pulled away. “No. I didn’t get it. My brother was in trouble. He’s going to pay me back.”

Robin was annoyed, but tried to look bored. “That's what he told you? I hope you gave it straight to his bookie.”

“You don’t understand. He’s in a tight spot right now.”

“From what I hear, it's tight and getting tighter.”

Lisa looked up, her face filling with concern. “What have you heard? From who?”

Robin blew air through his lips, fluttering his fingers like a breeze. "Just whispers. I wouldn't get yourself worked up, though. He's too small a fry for anyone to do much about. Still, you shouldn't be covering his debts.”

Lisa frowned. “Ain't you ever been in trouble?”

“Sure. I'm probably in trouble right now. But a man’s debts are his own. Sooner or later, everybody's got to face that.”

“Like you're facing up to this?”

Robin looked down at her swollen belly. He shook his head. “I never meant for nothing like that to happen.”

“You haven’t asked me to marry. Sounds like you're passing the buck.”

Robin's face went hard. “You think I owe you something?”

Lisa's head dropped. “You don’t owe nobody. You write your own ticket and expect the world to let you get away with whatever you want to do because you’re so god damned honest.” She looked up again. "But you're not honest. You're smug. You're self-righteous. But you're not honest."

“Is that right?” Robin picked up his hat again. “I changed my mind. You look better in the dress." He started out the door in time to avoid a pair of heels aimed at the back of his head.

“Go to hell, you god damned...” Her voice trailed off as she slumped back onto her bed.

Robin lit a cigarette on the stairs. "Who could marry a girl like that?"

A Salt Miner's Walk

The skins over Umar's shoulders tapped lightly against his chest and back as he walked through the blowing sands. While riding, the wind never bothered him, but on this long walk, it's sound robbed the naked desert of it's tranquility. His sandals scratched at the ground and and each footstep was quickly erased behind him.

Rain had fallen the night before. The men set up camp when it started and in the morning, unwrapped the salt blocks to dry. The blocks would crumble if they weren't give time to dry. Unfortunately, the waiting meant there would not be enough water for the two days remaining in their journey. Karaji gathered the skins and a short-handled shovel before laughing and sending Umar off to chase his shadow.

After walking nearly a kilometer, Umar crested a tall dune and watched the sand slip away in front of him as he descended down the other side. Below, dry scrub and hard ground marked the location of the well. The wind swept by overhead, but left the hollow bottom untouched.

He stepped across the hard ground and slipped off the skins before untying the shovel from his waist. He poked around at the lowest point, the hard packed sand was still slightly damp from the night's rain. He bent over and scooped out for a little while witht he shovel, then dropped his knees and trading off between the shovel and his hands.

The earth broke apart in his hands, but as he went deeper, each scoop held together a little better than the last. As the sun moved slowly across the sky, he dug with regular precision, gradually excavating several feet down. The sand began to crumble again, but was wetter in his hands.

As the sun shone brightly into the well, he could feel the heat coming up from the earth. And then, he noticed in the bottom a tiny pool of mud. He worked faster, until his hands were splashing around, pulling out silt and broadening the pool.

He climbed back above the well, pulling the skins and a plastic cup back down with him. He scooped the water, filling each of the skins, digging a bit more when the water got too shallow. When the skins were filled, he tied a rope around them and climbed up again before hoisting them out of the well.

He sat for a while, eating the dried fruit Sonji had sent with him. He was tired, but the sooner he returned, the sooner they could ride again. Finally, he pushed himself up, tied off the shovel, and crouched to slide the skins over his shoulders. He stood slowly, adjusting his burden to balance the weight.

Taking the most gentle slope part of the dune, Umar trudged back up into the wind. It was beginning to pick up. The sand beat against the skins and his robes as he navigated back by position of the sun.

Umar frowned as the horizon blurred and sand began swirling higher into the air. To the north, he could see it pitching like waves on a violent sea. It began to sting his eyes when he squinted to find the sun. He kept on, worried the growing storm would get worse, but even more worried to stop.

He leaned into the wind and looked for the sun less and less. His shadow was swallowed up in the brown air. The bright day faded into a dark cloud until his only guide was his internal compass. He began to doubt his sense of direction.

He looked up again, but the sky was as dark above as the ground was below. Umar knelt, huddling against the heavy skins. He would wait a little while. The camp was not so far from the well, but he could no longer guess how much distance he'd covered. He shut his eyes and thought about Sonji.

He could see her soaking reeds and thought about the way she sat up, trying to stay awake until he came to bed. He could see her as she soaked salt from his clothes and the care she took in wrapping the sores on his hands and feet. He could almost hear her voice, like a whisper when she knelt to pray.

Umar's eyes opened, slightly. He really could hear a voice. He shouldered the skins again and stood up. The shrill wind drowned out the voice, but between it's furious gusts, he could make out the midday prayer.

He could barely trust his ears in the storm, but it was better to follow slim hope than be buried alive. He again leaned into the blowing sand and trudged toward the sound. The voice came in and faded out, over and over. The sun hid away in the darkened sky. Umar stumbled and scrambled, feeling his way over dunes that slid out from beneath his feet with every step.

And then, the voice was gone.

Umar stopped in his tracks and felt his stomach tighten. In the swarming sands, he might easily pass right by the camp and never know it. He knelt again, huddling against the skins.

Slipping off his sandals, he thought to himself it was a foolish thing to do. He said his midday prayer, honoring the Prophet and Allah. He surrendered himself.

Huddled there, his thoughts returned to Sonji. He thought about her hard, worn hands. Hands that looked so much older than her gentle, dark eyes. They had always talked about making the pilgrimage when the children were older. He thought of the way she laughed and then would stop herself, going quiet with a smile still on her face. She never wanted anything for herself among the list of things he was to bring back from the market. Every time, he wanted to bring something back to her, but never knew what to get.

He drove the thoughts from his head. No. He did know. He shouldered the skins again and marched against the unrelenting fury of the sandstorm.

All at once, the shrill wind changed. The grains began to fall like rain and the swirling cloud settled on the smooth desert like a thick fog. In another moment, the sky was bright and the air turned warm.

Umar squinted as the horizon began taking shape again. In another moment, the sun shone on his shoulders and the sands blew off to the south. He shook himself off and walked up a tall dune as wisps of sand scattered, like little children trying to catch up to their mother, the tempest who had left them behind.

He crested the dune and saw below him the other merchants huddled by the camels. Karaji waved and hurried up the slope. Karaji took the skins from his shoulders and laughed. "A good thing you took your shadow to lead the way."

The others had already wrapped up the salt blocks. They loaded the camels, each giving Umar a pat on his sore shoulders. His camel lifted him into the air and each of the merchants fell in line behind Karaji.

All Sonji ever hoped for was his safe return. He could do that much. And perhaps he'd pick her up some silk, too.

The NEW Adventures of Led Zeppelin

Robert Plant scowled through his grizzly lion's whiskers as he rapped for a second time on the door with his walking staff. The door popped open, revealing the beaming face of John Paul Jones.

"Ah, here we are! 'ello, Robert."

"That's Mr. Plant, to you." Robert bustled into the house, brushing imaginary snow from his shoulder before shimmying from his coat and handing it to Jones.

"Come on, Percy. We're old mates."

Plant turned his narrow eyes to John Paul, frowning more deeply. "No." He reconsidered for a moment, then repeated himself, shaking his head emphatically. "No."

John Paul gave a sheepish shrug. "Well, all the same, I still consider you a mate, mate." Jones glanced down the long hallway. "Jimmy said for you to come on in. He's in the study."

Plant raised his eyebrows at Jones with amusement. "Are you his butler, now?"

Jones laughed nervously. "It's not like that, really."

"Houseboy, then?"

Jones's face melted into shame. He stared as he fumbled with Robert's coat, trying to avoid meeting the old lion's eyes. "I'll just take care of this. Jimmy's in the study. He's expecting you."

Jones shuffled off as Robert sauntered down the dark hallway and swung open massive doors of what had once been Alister Crowley's study--a room not much changed since it's former tenant had vacated the premises. Stacks of leather bibles, flickering candles, and ebony carvings of pagan gods littered every open inch of floor space. Across the room, a figure stepped from behind a black desk, his wrinkled face and silver hair coming into the light as though materializing from the shadows themselves.

Jimmy Page smiled at his old friend. "Ah, Percy!" Plant's face creased from a look of measured disappointment to somber weariness. He was happy to see his old friend. Plant crossed the room, but Page warned him, "Mind the pentagram."

Plant looked down, side-stepping the crude circle of sawdust, wax, and blood that had been dripped onto the rug. "Hello, James. What's this all about?"

"Well, to be honest, I was wondering if you'd thought any more about the possibility of touring? I mean, nothing extravagant, maybe just a few odd dates in New York and the UK."

Plant's frown returned. "I told you. I'm not sure if I want to rock and roll again with my country music career just beginning to take root."

Jimmy nodded sympathetically. "Yes. I understand all that. You see it's just..."

"What?"

Page glanced around, as though spirits of the damned might be listening to his every word. "The man at the morgue raised his delivery fee since we did the show. And you know I can't stave off arthritis without cutting up the bodies and draining them into the tub."

Plant searched his memory. "Which show?"

"The one a month and a half ago. The only one we've done in the past decade."

"I see." Plant stroked his beard. "Money trouble."

"Yes. At least Jonesy still helps around the house for free." Page looked up with a twinkle in his eye. "Poor chap doesn't realize Ron Wood's called dibs if we go out for a world tour." Percy let a chuckle slip before quickly stifling it into a cough. Page started again, "I was wondering..."

"Oh?"

"The night of the show--the one a month and a half ago. Do you remember when we did 'Living Loving Maid'?"

"Yes."

"I mean, you know I can play it as well as ever. All I've done these past twenty some years--besides writing 'Come With Me' for that nice black fellow--the only thing I've done is go down to the dungeon and play our songs over and over and over again. But the night of the show, you insisted we bring out gypsy musicians and slow everything down to sound like a funeral dirge."

"Yes. It's accurate to say I do not enjoy the fast guitar music."

Page nodded. "Yes, yes. I understand all that. I was just wondering. Is it only that you don't enjoy rocking out, or is there something wrong with the pipes these days?"

Plant turned indignant. "I get my pipes worked on eight or nine times a day, minimum. In fact I've got a girl waiting in the car right now in case I should require--"

Page shook his head. "No, not those. I mean your diaphragm."

"Never used one in my life. A gentleman never does."

"Your voice, mate. Your lungs! Have you lost some of the old oomph with your instrument?"

"My instrument is capable of producing as much pleasure as ever."

Page nodded. "Yes. I suppose so. Quite right." He winced and stared at the pentagram, lost in a fog of regret. "Still, I do wish you felt up to having another go at some shows for old times' sake."

"Don't be so glum, James. Our master told us there would always be a hunger we could never satisfy. It was part of the bargain. For me, it's a sexual appetite. For you, it's something vaguely to do with music. We knew this would happen when we signed our names into the book of the damned."

Jimmy nodded. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't fret over it. Things aren't really so bad as I make them out to be. When it comes to good times, I know we've had our share." The lines around his face seemed to soften a little. He broke out from his brooding, into a smile again. "Dear me. What kind of host am I, anyhow? Can you stay for some marmalade muffins and a spot of tea? I can ring for Jonesy."

"No. I'm afraid I'm joining the Opry tonight, old man. I have to take the Starship to Nashville straight away."

Jimmy smiled. "Yes, of course. Of course. Well, give us a hug before you're off."

Plant shook his head. "No, James. Ours is not that kind of friendship."

"Oh. Quite right. I see."

Vampire hunters are cool.

Buying her fund-raising cookies, joining her after school clubs, and hanging out with her friends just isn't working. I wish I wasn't so chubby, cowardly, and weak. She doesn't notice me at all. I think she likes Brock Dillinger. I tried to show her the drawing I did for the art show the other day, but she said vampire hunters are stupid.

I hope I don't get knocked down in gym today. I hate this school. I guess there was no point in my making a mixed tape and writing her a letter. I feel sick. I want to go home.

There she goes, laughing and talking with Carson Clark. They sure look like they're having a great time. I guess it's off to math for me. I don't have my homework done, so I'll probably be flunking yet another assignment.

At least I won't need math in arts school. Everything will be better when I'm in college. After I graduate, I'll probably be some big shot novelist/comic book artist/movie director. I'll get to date whoever I want! I'll have tons of hot girls! Just you wait and see, you "Brock Dillingers" and "Carson Clarks" of the world.

Oh. Ha ha. That guy knocked my books to the ground. Funny. I'm late to class.

Broken Glass, Bad For Love

The kitchen is no place to end a weekend fuckfest, but I wasn't judging things too clearly at the time. Natalie had come over Friday night with "Evita" from Netflix. We started the movie at eleven, but never made it to the end. After a couple fiery songs from Banderas, Natalie slipped her tongue in my mouth. When she pulled it out again, she asked if I had any vodka.

"Yeah, in my room."

I left her and returned a minute later with a bottle of Popov. We did shots while Antonio strutted angrily on the screen. It wasn't long before the movie was background noise. The main event was trying to work buttons loose as fast as we could. From the corner of my eye, I saw Madonna pleading with the people of Argentina.

We left the movie on and brought Comrade Popov to the bedroom with us. My vote was for keeping up the pace we'd set while watching all that Latin passion, but Natalie wanted to make a game of things. She insisted we each do a shot before removing each piece of clothing.

I must've been dressed in layers, because things were already pretty fuzzy by the time I made it to my boxers. She fumbled around on the nightstand and found the play button on my MP3 player. The music blared, drowning out Madonna's political maneuvering in the next room. Natalie giggled and told me I looked like Robert Downey Jr. I said something about how her orange nails were freaking me out. I don't think it was an actual conversation. One of us spilled vodka on the sheets.

The rest, you can imagine. (Because I don't even remember).

The next morning, I woke to Everclear singing about a "Heroin Girl." Even with all the booze in our systems, I was amazed we slept through the raucous music all night. My sense of balance was completely screwed when I stumbled from the bed. Natalie wasn't there, but the smell of food drifted in from the kitchen. I put on my boxers and a shirt (buttoning only two buttons because it makes me feel like Thomas Magnum). I weaved to the kitchen where Natalie stood in my National Guard t-shirt and her delicate, white panties.

The sight of her over the stove was a beautiful reminder of how important it is for those of us with good genes to continue the species.

I watched her squirt ketchup on the eggs in the pan. A half-empty glass of milk was sitting beside the stove. I walked up and put my arms around her hips. She turned and kissed me. It was a nice way to say "good morning," but she wasn't finished. She pulled my mouth to hers again and started working her panties down with her back to the stove.

A moment later, Natalie's eyes went wide.

"Oh shit!"

The eggs and milk went crashing to the floor.

She had leaned against the hot burner for just a second. Life went from a sultry telenovella to a "Tom and Jerry" cartoon in the blink of an eye. I got a tiny piece of glass in my foot, and--needless to say--lost my erection. She pulled her panties up and found a broom. I scrubbed ketchup off the cabinets while she swept up the glass. Then we went to the bathroom where she helped me dig the glass out.

After we patched ourselves up and had some pop-tarts, we retreated to the living room to find where we'd left off in the movie. It wasn't long before Banderas was spinning toward the camera, shooting off rays of ferocious lust from his dark and daring eyes. Natalie snuggled closer. I looked back at Antonio. His power of suggestion might be the death of me, but I have to admit I admire his gifts.