Fuel Level Low

It's raining today...a dripping mist really.

Sky's like a dirty dish rag.

It's cold (40 or 50...yeah Adam I know). That's our winter.

I pulled out of the drive this morning with no gas. I didn't know that 'til the truck started beepin' at me...beep, "time to go stand out in the mucky air," beeep, "clean the passenger floor board out," beeeeep, "roll your eyes and mutter because the pump's so slow, "beeeeeeeep." I hate to stop for gas. I just put it out of my mind until it can't be avoided. It's a reminder of just how high maintenance these machines are. I love what the car means. I go when I want and, in my wown peice of property, I conquer time and space. Plus, I can stop for coffe and a square whenever I feel like it; however, I hate the object itself...or maybe it's being forced to ponder the car's limitations that I hate.

Of course, that attitude leads to poor upkeep...which leads to more mechanical problems...which only fuels my purple, bleeding, hatred of the thing. It's a bulletproof cycle...the only way to avoid what I hate is to do what I hate. So why bother?

If I had the money...I'd pay somebody to sneak onot the drive at night and fill it up with gas while I slept.

I don't have that kinda bread though so...beeeep. I'm husslin' to get to the gas station. Probably the exact opposite of what you should do but, you try fightin' the urge. I knew it was bad too because the light came on yesterday..and I ignored it. Now I'm trying to make up for lost time but, there's a problem.

It's wet...and when it's wet the driver in these parts has one of two reactions. Either they take it as a sign of the Rapture and slow to a crawl..I guess in order to minimize the damage that will occurr once they disappear from the car...or in sheer terror they drive like hell to find dry land.

You're movin along at 80 miles an hour. That means that the car in front of you doing 30 miles an hour...hands at 10 and 2, chin jutted out above the steering wheel...just appears in your windshield. You can either slam on the breaks or pass 'im. That's when a streak screams past on the left...a hole in the mist. This must be what it's like driving from one deminsion to another.

I came out the other end at the Shell Station on Watkins. Suspiciously there were open pumps. I thought I might make it to work on time after all...'til I reached in my back pocket and realized I didn't have my wallet. ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHH.

A quick call to the office and then back into the wormhole to risk my life on vapors...

I survived and I made it home to retrieve my wallet...even made it to the gas station where I got the tank about half full before I completely lost patience with the pump. Which means I'll have to fill up again tomorrow on the way to Baton Rouge...:grindsteeth:.

How did I manage all that before 8:30 this morning...how did I keep it all together? With a lot of this...



at full blast.

It's about the only thing that suites this crap weather.

&@#&%! Morrissey

This is my boss...



He's not my boss anymore and he's always been a close friend more than a boss but, in my mind, he'll always be my boss.

For seven or eight years...off and on...I worked for him as a house painter. Right after I left the Army, while I was an undergraduate at Millsaps, and after I came back from graduate school, me and him spent 30 or 40 hours a week together. Sometimes workin'...sometimes fishin'...occasionally gamblin'...often just drinkin' coffee and smokin' cigarettes. That's mostly what we did.

In the mornings, I knew the second he passed through the doors at Tastee Donuts whether or not we were goin' to work. He'd sit down...really more like a violent assault on the stool and counter...next to me, already smokin', in silence. I'd stare at him trying not to laugh...

"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?," starin' off into space.

"Nothin...nothin," still tryin' not to laugh...I'd duck back into the crossword.

We'd sit like that for a few cups of coffee, half a pack of cigarettes...me trying not to laugh, him muttering curses.

Here we must stop and take a moment to recognize an Artist's mind...a true genius. Had James Joyce known him...heard him handle the language, heard him swear and curse, heard him incorporate comic book heroes and the genitals of aliens into blue tirades...he would have gone straight to his Moma's house, gotten in a fetal position, and never have written another word.

"Whhhaaaaaaaaaaaat?"

"You tell me," without looking up from the paper, "I'm just sittin' here waitin' to go to work."

Then he'd start calculating where we were in the job...what it would take to make up for a lost day...how we'd have to really get after it tomorrow. An hour later we'd be on a bream bed or at a roulette table.

Don't get me wrong...when we worked we worked like Hebrew slaves but, he understood one of life's great Truth's...you can't live to work. We spent a lot of day's 30 ft in the air hanging off a ladder with one hand, pushing a grinder with the other...caulking until you ran out of fingers that weren't bleeding, running trim at the end of the day with hands that had gone numb from exhaustion...layin' across his lap, on three feet of overhang, four stories in the air, so he could reach out and paint a stretch of facia.

In his mind there was nothing that couldn't be got...and he was never wrong. In another life he would've been a hellava engineer. I've never met anybody that understood the relationship of objects to one another any better...or a better painter. There was only one standard for the work we did...and I've got the mental scars to prove it.

We had our moments for sure. He wouldn't just curse you in ways for which there was no defense...he'd get existential on you. He asked me one time, in the middle of a masterful harangue..."You ever thought maybe you're doin' something you don't know you're doin?"

I love the fella...that's all.

I hadn't talked to him in a while though until this week. We've been gettin' the house ready to sell..the burglary and all...and we needed some painting done.

"Hey cat...what's goin' on?"

"I been meanin' to call you just talk but we got some work for you if you want it."

"Hayle yeah."

"Can you come by the house this week...we got a crack we need looked at."

"Yeah man. I'm gonna have to come over tomorrow though. I'm leavin' town Winsdee and you aaain't gonna believe where I'm goin'."

You gotta understand and you may have already guessed...the default options for where he might be goin' and what he might be doin' are far greater than those of the average person. I took him at his word.

"Where?"

"I'm goin' ta Dallas...to see PHU-&^*^' Morrissey."

"What the...WHAT," I couldn't help but laugh right into the phone, "you're ole lady's makin' you go innit she?"

"Yeah...G*** &%&*%^&^ it...she's payin for everything. G** &&%&*&...*&*Y*yu8...&^^%%#@@...&&%$#$...&%%$##...

HAHAHHAHAHAHHHHAAAAHHHAAAAahahahah...I just hope nobody gets hurt.

Blessings

I stopped at one of my favorite accounts today. I'd arranged to meet a sales rep there but he was runnin' late so I just went on in to talk with the owner until he got there.

The owner's a big fella...over six foot tall with a frame like an offensive lineman. Even though his belly's as big around as his shoulders are broad...he's light on his feet. Got hands as big as an elephant's foot and when he grabs your's to shake it there's a flicker of apprehension...does this fella know his own strength?

No need to worry. He does and he's in no hurry to use it. In fact, even though there's an air of enthusiasm to every move he makes, he don't get in a hurry about nothin'. Always smilin'...a smile that's big even for his head. Teeth the size of dominoes. His eyes are clear blue and and active.

"Hey mayne...whatchya got fow me today?"

He reached for my hand.

"Getchya some tey mayne...get somma this tey I'm sellin now."

Who turns down a glass of iced tea?

"Wadya got dere cokecola....at's dark mayne. 'At must be unsweet. 'At unsweet's stout. So, wha kinda goodies you got fow me?"

We sat down at a card table in the middle of the store and went through my bag. He set a few items aside, and without turning from me threw a thumb over his shoulder and said..."I'll have ta let my mayne here have a look at 'eese."

I looked behind him to see a little wiry fella comin on toward us....in a deliberate manner. He was already bending at the waist so he wouldn't have to when he got to the table. He quickly scanned the items and, with the manners of a short order cook, he snatched one up..."This 'ere...how much is is 'ere?"

I told him we'd have to wait on the rep for prices. They have some latitude in that area and the last thing I want to do is get in the way of a rep's nickel.

"Well wha 'bou' dis? How much," he stopped hisself, "the rep...I reckon we just talked abou'dat." he shook his head and smiled at me. It was a genuine smile but thin. He's a dark fella...dark hair and eyes that seemed stuck in a forward position. He's a good fella though...even if he did stare at everything.

A chorus of "Heys"..."'ere's the big man."

The rep settled in to take their order from the little fella with the stare. I nursed my tea and laughed at the owner as he greeted the ladies that came through his door. He'd lift the Alabama cap off his sandy curls..."hey there sugah...how you been?" A peroxide in movie star glasses had just pulled the door open and he was reaching for his cap again when we heard his man ask the rep about condensed milk.

The little fella had a crooked smile on his face and the owner chuckled.

"He don need no damned condensed milk. He's got three cases of it back there."

Obviously there was a story here but me and the rep didn't get a chance to ask before the owner, with a smile that didn't seem exactly Christian, says..."you need to take that milk over that church. They's makin holiday candy."

"Ain't gonna happen."

"What...the Lord'll bless you for it. You don won the Lord to bless you."

"Them people got inta me for some money." the expression on his face seemed intense but really it was hard to tell.

The expression on the owners face was pure mischief. This was obviously a well oiled wind up.

"Who's into you for money? The people or the Lord?"

The philosophical nature of the question threw the little fella and he stammered.

Still grinnin' like he'd eaten the last Twinkie, he asked again, "Don't You want the Lord to bless you?"

The little fella's head started bobblin'. He didn't know whether to nod it or shake it. He stared down at the table like that for a second then looked up, hit the table with his fists and said, "I'll just go BUY some candy and hand it out myself."

Hahaha problem solved.

That was my day.