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I don’t ever expect you to tell me that you love me. All I want is for you to know that I do. I could write long stories about it, but for me, nothing compares to those three little words.
That was the text message Danielle, my high school girlfriend, woke up to. Five years later after our falling out, she was coming out of a long relationship and I was entering back in to her life. Fate. It appeared that it was the most perfect time except I am leaving for Afghanistan in a few months. Five years later and I was making the same mistakes I always do; getting involved when I was leaving and now, telling a woman that I love her when there is no chance of her feeling the same.
When I first told her how I felt she was still in a happy relationship. Well, she was happy. Her boyfriend found a few skeletons and some minor bickering had him distancing himself. Just a fight, and Danielle wasn’t going to throw all that away on a womanizing, drunk just because he could put how he felt eloquently on paper. No, I had wronged her too many times for her to ever embrace the reformed Joe Wells. Loving, caring, hell, even happy.
Yet here we were, night after night on the phone, talking about her and Adam, her, all the other guys that wanted her and every now and then, me. The conversation was great and when I closed my eyes I saw us walking home from school, like we did all those years ago, before we moved out into the world. Then as the night went on, we would talk about us, how it seemed like there was still something there. Fate. Long ago we said we would be together in the end. Long ago, I would do anything to be with her. Long ago, we loved each other.
She could never say it though, especially now. She just had her heartbroken and she didn’t really know me anymore. This is the real world and you need a lot more to work up to those three little words. Unfortunately for me, I don’t live in this world. For I know everything I have done, every person I have hurt and every whore I have fucked. I know she could never do worse. That is how I have been able to keep the flame burning for so long.
But it is a double-edged sword, for it keeps my love for her just as strong as the first time I looked into her eyes and knew she was the one I was going to marry, those same choices push her away from me. She wanted to know how many women I slept with and I refused to tell her. No woman should ever know how many pussies their ex has had to enter, trying to forget it all.
So we talk, smile, laugh and I try not to tear up like a fag. As our conversation comes to a close, we lie in our respective beds, alone. I listen to her breath, slowly drifting into sleep, and wonder if I am the last thought on her mind. Finally we say good night and I listen to those last few, slow breaths. I can feel her heart rate slow and relaxed. She may not dream of me that night but at least I can still bring calm and peace over her. At least she knows everything will be all right.
The smile on my face as I begin to fall asleep fades as I realize that I have fallen further into the past than I believed. For what we have now is not the good times Danielle and I had when we dated, no, it’s ninth grade. We are walking home and I am carrying her book bag, it’s too heavy for her. I’m listening to all her problems with boys, none of which include me. I’m hoping and praying she will recognize me. Recognize my love for her and reciprocate it. I am a fool. I hold my pillow tight that night.
I am a fool in love.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Another night with another drink, with thoughts running all about
Mark Kozelek’s “Metropol 47” plays quietly on the radio. Over and over. A tall glass of Bushmills sits on my night stand. I chase it with Coca-Cola. Been quite some time since I had a drink. Midnight. I am alone.
Work is in six hours. It will be hot and humid. We will run and this whiskey will only hamper my performance. Due to the heat and humidity and the whiskey and the fact that I ran eight goddamn miles the day prior, I won’t eat breakfast. Instead I will lay in my bed.
My room will stay a mess. The dishes won’t be cleaned. I will just stare at my alarm clock, eventually catching an hour of rest, only to awake angered by it all. My disgust for the job at the moment, my trashed room, the blinking cursor on the white background of the word document that has been open for over a week.
Then it will all go away, and I will grab a glass from the liquor cabinet. Sucking the nectar of hate and love, joy and anguish, down so smoothly. Chasing it with Coca-Cola. A woman, that is what I need. Someone to provide balance.
Money. That is what I need. Some sort of security.
The ability to love. That is what I need. To open up and feel.
No, what I need is what I want, which is what is not possible. The last six years back AND the experience of what will come in the following year. Sadly, the latter is the only part to come to reality. Yet, I shouldn’t be sadden by this, it is really all I wanted. I did marry this bitch, Army.
I just regret these past six years with her. I gave up any chance of normal, teenage, life bullshit FOR A NOBEL CAUSE, only to get stuck behind a desk the entire time. Did I make a difference? Did I defend freedom? No, I just missed out on a whole bunch of shit in life and said thank you when the paycheck came.
I have been angry for so long. I am now in a place in my life where, after my tour, I am ready to move on. Be a civilian again. But then I see my guys. I think about Afghanistan and I become scared shitless, not because of war, but when we got the machine guns rocking and we sit back, having a few beers afterward I think to myself, “Damn, I could do this for the rest of my life and be happy.”
Metropol 47 continues playing softly. I pour what is left of the whiskey down the sink. Eighteen months from now I will be either a civilian or a soldier, but that is not what matters. It’s whether I will be able to finally go to bed at night and be at peace with myself. I close my eyes and turn off the light.
Work is in six hours. It will be hot and humid. We will run and this whiskey will only hamper my performance. Due to the heat and humidity and the whiskey and the fact that I ran eight goddamn miles the day prior, I won’t eat breakfast. Instead I will lay in my bed.
My room will stay a mess. The dishes won’t be cleaned. I will just stare at my alarm clock, eventually catching an hour of rest, only to awake angered by it all. My disgust for the job at the moment, my trashed room, the blinking cursor on the white background of the word document that has been open for over a week.
Then it will all go away, and I will grab a glass from the liquor cabinet. Sucking the nectar of hate and love, joy and anguish, down so smoothly. Chasing it with Coca-Cola. A woman, that is what I need. Someone to provide balance.
Money. That is what I need. Some sort of security.
The ability to love. That is what I need. To open up and feel.
No, what I need is what I want, which is what is not possible. The last six years back AND the experience of what will come in the following year. Sadly, the latter is the only part to come to reality. Yet, I shouldn’t be sadden by this, it is really all I wanted. I did marry this bitch, Army.
I just regret these past six years with her. I gave up any chance of normal, teenage, life bullshit FOR A NOBEL CAUSE, only to get stuck behind a desk the entire time. Did I make a difference? Did I defend freedom? No, I just missed out on a whole bunch of shit in life and said thank you when the paycheck came.
I have been angry for so long. I am now in a place in my life where, after my tour, I am ready to move on. Be a civilian again. But then I see my guys. I think about Afghanistan and I become scared shitless, not because of war, but when we got the machine guns rocking and we sit back, having a few beers afterward I think to myself, “Damn, I could do this for the rest of my life and be happy.”
Metropol 47 continues playing softly. I pour what is left of the whiskey down the sink. Eighteen months from now I will be either a civilian or a soldier, but that is not what matters. It’s whether I will be able to finally go to bed at night and be at peace with myself. I close my eyes and turn off the light.
Joe "Mother Fucking" Wells Is DEAD
On Wednesday, May 19, 2010, Joe “Mother Fucking” Wells was found dead in the parking lot of the Best Western Hotel in DeRidder, Louisiana.
Witnesses say that Joe “M.F.” Wells became distraught after leaving the room of what appeared to be an out-of-state slut of large proportions. It is believed the persona took its own life after it was shot down on multiple occasions.
Friends close to the persona say that Wells had been walking around for the past couple of weeks with an air of desperation. One close friend stated, “[He] kept walking around talking about how since he couldn’t be with his love he was just going to keep fucking whores and writing novels. I didn’t see him doing any of that.”
Joe “Mother Fucking” Wells is survived by his host, Joseph Wells of New Kensington, PA. Per Wells’ last requests, there will be no funeral.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
It was 2:30 in the morning and the beer was steadily flowing. The worst part was that I wasn't even drunk. No buzz. I just sat there, staring out my window at the mad world. It was late but out there everything was happening. Everyone was bumping into each other. All chaos, and to think that somewhere out there, people were living normal, quiet lives.
Everyone out there was drunk. Only a few were handling it well. Most were arguing with each other, some in physical confrontations. One big pissing match. I grabbed my cigarettes and sat outside the window. No one noticed me, not even the police when they finally showed up. Some ran, some just got on the ground, others fought. The cigarettes burned slowly.
The cops spent a good hour trying to restore the peace but they couldn't. The mob was too strong. Even the ones that laid down or ran were fighting now. Men were on the ground, bleeding, screaming for help, mercy. They were all for the cause moments before but now, faced with their mortality, they abandoned everything, everything except their god.
I drank beer as I listened to them repent and swear to God that they wouldn't commit the sins they have anymore. I was finishing the six pack on the window sill when my phone rang. It was the chief of police, Tom Lambert.
"Hey Ryan, it's Tom. Look, we got a situation goin' on right now," you could tell he was scared of what was out there.
"Yeah I know. It's going on right outside my apartment."
"Good so you can get down there quickly."
"What? Wait a minute. You want me to try and end this madness?"
"Come on Ryan, you know they will listen to you."
"Well all right, just let me put some shoes on."
I hung up the phone and searched for my sandals. It took awhile and I could still hear the screams coming through my window, hurrying me. Before heading out the door I opened up another bottle of beer.
Outside it was cool and the moon shined high in the ski. I looked down at the bodies. Poor sons of bitches. They were still yelling for God until they saw me at the bottom of the stairs. Then they became quiet. I walked amongst them for a few minutes. Finally, I stopped next to a big pine tree and finished the beer. I threw the bottle behind me and gave everyone a stern look.
"Look, you all have been damn fools. Every damn one of you is a goner. Did you really think you could live a life like mine? Did you really think that you could stop it? Your comrades have left, both sides have called a truce, yet here you lie.
I walked up and down the scattered rows of bodies and watched them expire one by one. After a half hour there were only two men left, a drunk and an officer. I looked down at both of them. They were quiet but were staring at each other hatefully.
"Damn," I said to the drunk, "you're pretty fucked up."
The drunk tried to sit up a little more, "Yeah well at least I ain't as bad as that fucker over there."
I looked down at the officer and I couldn't believe it. He was only shot in the shoulder. He wasn't going to die. "I hate to tell you this but he ain't gonna die," I said to the drunk.
"I'm not?" asked the officer, shocked.
"No, you were hit in the shoulder, straight through. No organs or arteries hit. You will be fine, but this guy," I looked over at the drunk, "he's done for."
Just then the drunk looked up at me and said, "You know what Hall? You can be an asshole sometimes." He died seconds later.
I patched up the officer and took him to a bar down the street. We went back and forth buying rounds of beer and whiskey and he told me about himself. His name was James, married to his wife Sally for five years. Two children, both boys, Junior and Nathan, named after James' father. He became a cop to protect his community. He wanted to save it, save it from drunks like me.
"You know before you came down there, all I was doing was asking God to forgive me and if he let me live I would change, be a better man," James said staring into his glass of Bushmills.
"Yeah I heard. All of you were, it was almost deafening."
"No, but I really meant it and still do. See, I have been cheating on my wife for over a year now. I love her but Kelly, she's just different. There is something about her."
"I understand that."
"But I am going to change. I love my wife. I can't hurt her anymore."
We continued drinking well past sunrise. James told me all about Kelly. He was going to show me a picture of her when his phone rang. It was none other than Kelly. They talked briefly then he hung up and finished his beer.
"Well I had a great time and thanks for everything but that was Kelly and she wants me to come over."
"But what about everything you just told me? What about changing?"
"No I am just thinking I should break things off in person."
"BULLSHIT! You're going to fuck her. Fuck her and forget everything else."
"Look, you know I have to be honest with you. I probably will sleep with her but change takes time."
"All it takes is will. And you don't have to be honest with me. You have to be honest with Sally, your WIFE."
James put on his coat and walked to the door., "You know, you are an asshole."
He was gone and the only thing I was left with was the tab.
Everyone out there was drunk. Only a few were handling it well. Most were arguing with each other, some in physical confrontations. One big pissing match. I grabbed my cigarettes and sat outside the window. No one noticed me, not even the police when they finally showed up. Some ran, some just got on the ground, others fought. The cigarettes burned slowly.
The cops spent a good hour trying to restore the peace but they couldn't. The mob was too strong. Even the ones that laid down or ran were fighting now. Men were on the ground, bleeding, screaming for help, mercy. They were all for the cause moments before but now, faced with their mortality, they abandoned everything, everything except their god.
I drank beer as I listened to them repent and swear to God that they wouldn't commit the sins they have anymore. I was finishing the six pack on the window sill when my phone rang. It was the chief of police, Tom Lambert.
"Hey Ryan, it's Tom. Look, we got a situation goin' on right now," you could tell he was scared of what was out there.
"Yeah I know. It's going on right outside my apartment."
"Good so you can get down there quickly."
"What? Wait a minute. You want me to try and end this madness?"
"Come on Ryan, you know they will listen to you."
"Well all right, just let me put some shoes on."
I hung up the phone and searched for my sandals. It took awhile and I could still hear the screams coming through my window, hurrying me. Before heading out the door I opened up another bottle of beer.
Outside it was cool and the moon shined high in the ski. I looked down at the bodies. Poor sons of bitches. They were still yelling for God until they saw me at the bottom of the stairs. Then they became quiet. I walked amongst them for a few minutes. Finally, I stopped next to a big pine tree and finished the beer. I threw the bottle behind me and gave everyone a stern look.
"Look, you all have been damn fools. Every damn one of you is a goner. Did you really think you could live a life like mine? Did you really think that you could stop it? Your comrades have left, both sides have called a truce, yet here you lie.
I walked up and down the scattered rows of bodies and watched them expire one by one. After a half hour there were only two men left, a drunk and an officer. I looked down at both of them. They were quiet but were staring at each other hatefully.
"Damn," I said to the drunk, "you're pretty fucked up."
The drunk tried to sit up a little more, "Yeah well at least I ain't as bad as that fucker over there."
I looked down at the officer and I couldn't believe it. He was only shot in the shoulder. He wasn't going to die. "I hate to tell you this but he ain't gonna die," I said to the drunk.
"I'm not?" asked the officer, shocked.
"No, you were hit in the shoulder, straight through. No organs or arteries hit. You will be fine, but this guy," I looked over at the drunk, "he's done for."
Just then the drunk looked up at me and said, "You know what Hall? You can be an asshole sometimes." He died seconds later.
I patched up the officer and took him to a bar down the street. We went back and forth buying rounds of beer and whiskey and he told me about himself. His name was James, married to his wife Sally for five years. Two children, both boys, Junior and Nathan, named after James' father. He became a cop to protect his community. He wanted to save it, save it from drunks like me.
"You know before you came down there, all I was doing was asking God to forgive me and if he let me live I would change, be a better man," James said staring into his glass of Bushmills.
"Yeah I heard. All of you were, it was almost deafening."
"No, but I really meant it and still do. See, I have been cheating on my wife for over a year now. I love her but Kelly, she's just different. There is something about her."
"I understand that."
"But I am going to change. I love my wife. I can't hurt her anymore."
We continued drinking well past sunrise. James told me all about Kelly. He was going to show me a picture of her when his phone rang. It was none other than Kelly. They talked briefly then he hung up and finished his beer.
"Well I had a great time and thanks for everything but that was Kelly and she wants me to come over."
"But what about everything you just told me? What about changing?"
"No I am just thinking I should break things off in person."
"BULLSHIT! You're going to fuck her. Fuck her and forget everything else."
"Look, you know I have to be honest with you. I probably will sleep with her but change takes time."
"All it takes is will. And you don't have to be honest with me. You have to be honest with Sally, your WIFE."
James put on his coat and walked to the door., "You know, you are an asshole."
He was gone and the only thing I was left with was the tab.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Things I Couldn't Say to You In Person
It took him less than an hour to push out another story, another poem, hell, another drunken ramble and they ate it up. Thanks to the 21st century, his babble hit the masses within seconds. He could see them all sitting in front of their blue screens, hitting the refresh button, waiting.
They all knew it was coming, nothing was a secret. He put his life up there for everyone to see. Tweets, status updates, video rants. Part of him did it for them, it helped keep them away. Soaking up all this generic bullshit made them all feel like his best friend. He worked harder at that then the blank page.
The other part did it because he was drunk.
What idiots he thought. "They wonder where I get this stuff, why I do it. Can't they see? All they have to do is take off the gloves and not give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks."
The reviews were coming in now. Most were the same. "You're the greatest thing since Hemingway!" He hated that, being compared to Hemingway, or Bukowski, or Hank Moody. He respected them all, even the one that wasn't real. Yet, he didn't like to think that he was embodying these people, it was more like he was heading down the same slippery slope they all traveled before him. Fuck, people could be dumb, he laughed to himself.
Then he saw the note from his mother, "I hope you are ok."
FUCK FUCK FUCK! She shouldn't see this, he thought. The acquaintances, "friends," co workers, fan boys, young lady admirers, sure they could read all they want, but his mother; there was no reason for her to see how fucked up his life was. That was why he escaped home in the first place.
It got to him more and more when he saw the comments from the girls asking to see him, and the girls asking to see him again. He had disappointed his mother. Her friends and coworkers saw this shit and he was sure that bothered her as well. Hell, he fucked a few of them and they hinted to that shit when in the messages they left him.
He got up and grabbed his phone and a beer. He had to tell her he was ok, he couldn't apologize for everything, but he could give her some peace of mind. That would be enough.
As he looked through his phone for his mother's number someone knocked at the door. "SHIT!" he yelled. It was Cindy, he forgot she was coming today.
He let her in and they talked for awhile and after a few drinks they moved to the bedroom. Same old play, different cast. He had beer, a place to stay, food in the fridge, and a young woman of 19 laying naked in his bed. His latest story was a hit. It was all he wanted out of life and he was happy.
He regretted never calling his mother, though. Part of it was because he loved her. The other part was because he was drunk.
there's no F'in christmas!
you're right mom. there is no f in christmas. :)
They all knew it was coming, nothing was a secret. He put his life up there for everyone to see. Tweets, status updates, video rants. Part of him did it for them, it helped keep them away. Soaking up all this generic bullshit made them all feel like his best friend. He worked harder at that then the blank page.
The other part did it because he was drunk.
What idiots he thought. "They wonder where I get this stuff, why I do it. Can't they see? All they have to do is take off the gloves and not give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks."
The reviews were coming in now. Most were the same. "You're the greatest thing since Hemingway!" He hated that, being compared to Hemingway, or Bukowski, or Hank Moody. He respected them all, even the one that wasn't real. Yet, he didn't like to think that he was embodying these people, it was more like he was heading down the same slippery slope they all traveled before him. Fuck, people could be dumb, he laughed to himself.
Then he saw the note from his mother, "I hope you are ok."
FUCK FUCK FUCK! She shouldn't see this, he thought. The acquaintances, "friends," co workers, fan boys, young lady admirers, sure they could read all they want, but his mother; there was no reason for her to see how fucked up his life was. That was why he escaped home in the first place.
It got to him more and more when he saw the comments from the girls asking to see him, and the girls asking to see him again. He had disappointed his mother. Her friends and coworkers saw this shit and he was sure that bothered her as well. Hell, he fucked a few of them and they hinted to that shit when in the messages they left him.
He got up and grabbed his phone and a beer. He had to tell her he was ok, he couldn't apologize for everything, but he could give her some peace of mind. That would be enough.
As he looked through his phone for his mother's number someone knocked at the door. "SHIT!" he yelled. It was Cindy, he forgot she was coming today.
He let her in and they talked for awhile and after a few drinks they moved to the bedroom. Same old play, different cast. He had beer, a place to stay, food in the fridge, and a young woman of 19 laying naked in his bed. His latest story was a hit. It was all he wanted out of life and he was happy.
He regretted never calling his mother, though. Part of it was because he loved her. The other part was because he was drunk.
there's no F'in christmas!
you're right mom. there is no f in christmas. :)
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