setting a mind to sleep ...

"don't roll over," she said softly as i scooted up next to her warm body.

"am i going to crush you?"

"i just need to crawl up behind your back tonight. sometimes i feel like this is all i really need from you. put your body in front of me for protection, and don't crush me."

"then what is everything else for?"

"you. don't ask stupid questions, just close your eyes and set your mind to sleep."

the imaginary dialogue of an overdue reunion ...

"don't i get a hug?"

"no, why would you think that?"

"i am your father, and i think that counts for something."

"well, it's nice that you have decided to try thinking, it's just a shame that you still don't think of much other than yourself. but here's something you can think about: being a father is a lot more than a job only in name, and childern mean something too."

"don't you have what it takes to forgive me?"

"i don't even know what it is that you would want me to forgive you for. you want to know why i don't like you, and the first thing that comes to my mind is how you treated me. but it was always so much more than just me. in fact, i would say that you treated me better than almost anyone else in this whole stupid fucking mess.

"there is a lot that i have gotten out of being your son. i know that i don't want to be like you. i don't want to look like you, i don't want to think like you, and i don't ever want to feel that i must feel like you. i suppose that's a little bit of a burden, but it's a burden that i got from you.

"but i just think that a man owes a little bit more to the world. and i feel that it's silly to think that i can tell you exactly what you owe. i look back on everything, and i don't even know what makes you think that you have the right to enter back into my life."

"is there a hope for me?"

"and it's shit like this that drives me that much more insane. how the fuck do i know. you act like the verdict rests in my hands. but i stand here before you the man least concerned of anything having to do with you. this is not my life, and not my fight. and i don't even know where to go from here."

seems like old times

i pulled the old truck up to near the front of safeway and jumped out, leaving the windows open, but the dog to scare off any intruders. he was a good dog that way -- a large hound dog with a brilliant bark that didn't really have the desire to leave the cab at all.

it must have been a weekend or something. thinking back, i am sure of that because it was one of those grocery stores with the bank in the front, and i had to wade through the massive lines that marked a common payday. but also, it had seemed like ken had grown up.

the man didn't drink more than one night a week -- an agreement he had struck with his girlfriend, who had become increasingly annoyed by his now-weekly treks through a time when there was no tomorrow, and nothing to worry about. now everything had to be planned and thought out.

but nonetheless, i managed to get a couple nights in where we could sit down and take shots of vodka and talk shit into the night. and this night was looking good. i had landed a date with some 20-something vixen that assured me she could drink with the best of them.

i grabbed a couple of bottles of vodka -- absolut and some russian top-shelf that i couldn't even pronounce the name if i had wanted. when drinking vodka straight, you want to go with a bottle that will give you the ambiance of old russia, and the absolut was if you wanted to mix. so i guess i thought things out from time to time too.

when i made my way out of the store, there was a hobo looking just about my age standing outside the passenger's side of the truck talking to my dog. the dog didn't bark, he was getting old and preferred to save his energy for what he considered to be threatening ... i think. you never can know with dogs.

"it seems just like old times, elmer," was just about all i overheard as i approached the scene.

my dog didn't have a name. i guess i just figured that he never felt the need to tell me what to call him, so i never really felt the need to name him. for fourteen years, "hey" or "stop" or "come on" and a few other common sense words had done the job just fine. maybe this guy could sense that he didn't have a name.

it's always the same thing if you have a dog without a name. the first question someone asks when they bend down to pet your dog is "what's his name?" i don't know if that's because they took the time to look for a penis before engaging the dog, or if they just always assume that dogs are men and cats are women ... i am yet to make up my mind.

usually they will ask how old they are next, but not when you tell them the dog doesn't have a name. that usually shakes up their world -- especially when it's a dog as old as this one. they always ask why, and i would usually just say, "i don't know his name." so needless to say, many a person has named my old dog. but i don't recall anyone ever foregoing this cookie cutter conversation. ... but i still went ahead and jumped in.

"why elmer?"

"that's what he says his name is, man. but he says it's not your fault, he's never been able to tell you."

"do you know my dog?"

"i don't know, man. i seem to feel like i do. i think i was a dog in another life. he called me from over there," he said pointing out to the cross-street that he must have been standing at when i first pulled up.

"i know you too," he added. "and i know what you are doing. you are lying to everyone. there is no light outside for them to see. you don't know what you are talking about. nothing has really changed for you. you are a sad, sad man, who doesn't even know what to call his dog. you may think you are different. but you are still one of society's whores. that's all any of us can ever be."

he had worked himself up into a full roar by the end of his tirade. but when he was done, he just turned and walked away from the truck.

i didn't know what to say. i lit a cigarette and got in the cab. the dog looked back at me, as if to say that the dude was crazy, but that he didn't care. and just then, i saw him standing at the truck behind mine, where there was a st. bernard crosstied in the bed.

"seems like old times, elmer," i heard him say as i drove off.

the hitchhiker

rain poured down in giant beads and flew in against the car from a sideway angle. cat stevens' "i wish, i wish" rolled out of the speakers from the doors, the only speakers that worked that day. i saw her up ahead under a bridge with her thumb out.

i had a couple hundred more miles to fly, so i figured i could use the company. i slowed down and stopped just five or ten feet in front of her, still under the bridge. she, a beautiful girl light on her feet with long wavy ash-blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail, ran up to the car door with a giant smile on her face. i rolled down the window.

"how far are you going?" she asked.

"up to arcata. can you pitch in?"

she didn't answer, just ran back for her bag, opened the front door and jumped in, throwing the bag on the back seat next to the dog, who didn't really seem to care at all about the new person in the car.

the radio had switched to "dallas" by the silver jews. she knew the lyrics.

"i love this song. i moved to dallas for a while, thinking that it was just this romantic," she said.

"it's not?"

"it's not."

"so how far you going?"

i picked her up hoping that i could not only get her out of the rain, but also get some help paying for gas. i had some money, probably enough. but i was more concerned about having money further on down the line. i felt like i was coasting in on the proverbial fumes more than the ones in the car. it was going to be a while before i landed myself on a payday again. but i just couldn't figure out how to ask, unsure if she heard me before she ran back and got the bag.

"i don't really have a destination as much as a force i am trying to outrun, but i think you know exactly how that feels," she said, gambling on her perceptiveness, as far as i could tell. "what's in arcata? you don't seem like a hippie."

"there's nothing there, really. a place to sleep for a couple of nights, before i head the rest of the way up to portland, where i am meeting a friend this weekend."

"a girlfriend?"

"no, an old college friend."

"so is that why i am here?"

"what do you mean?"

just then, as funny as it seems, the silver jews turned to royal city's "enemy." the lyrics over and over: "you are not my enemy, i will make my bed up for thee." i am sure it was just a coincidence.

"cash, grass or ass, right? isn't that how it works? so i got two of the three. not cash, right, 'cause then i might not even be out here."

"but i thought you were running. what are you running from?"

"an old college friend. but i am just asking what the deal is. you asked me if i could chip in, i didn't know what you meant. i don't have any money, but i got some weed ... and i guess if you are willing to take me up to portland with you, we could talk about the other."

"moving a little fast, aren't you? why don't you just roll a joint, and i will find a spot to kick it somewhere in a break from the rain? i didn't pick you up because i wanted to hump you. hell, i couldn't even see what you looked like. i could only see that you were trapped, and needed out from under that bridge."

"a romantic, huh? well what if i can't roll a very good joint?"

"i don't know, do you have a raincoat in that bag?"