SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

There was a time in the recent past when God hadn’t yet created mobile phones or GPS.

When you needed driving directions, you sought pedestrians who appeared to know the area and requested help. 

I never could find the right person to ask. For example, if I asked some random person for directions to Route 66, then I’d get these sorts of responses:

1) Oh, yeah….uh, you gotta go….some…where…north, probably on…a…road…pretty much south, yeah, then you turn…I think…I’m not sure…anymore.

2) I’m not telling. You need to buy a map, just like everyone else, and figure it out for yourself. You can’t just rely on others to fix your problems. That’s the problem with this country. You need to learn a little self-reliance….hey, come back here!

3) Deutschland wird wieder auferstehen, du Amerikanischer Schweinehund! Heil Hitler!

4) Hey, Baby. You wanna go out on a date? I know you wanna go on a date with me. You wanna have a date?

People got lost all the time. If you couldn’t find a pedestrian for help, you’d use the sun’s position to point yourself in the right direction. Sometimes, you followed the cars whose drivers seemed to know where they were going. 

You could buy maps, but after the extensive unfolding process, you had a very detailed and intricate five-foot-by-five-foot map, which did you no good whatsoever as you had no clue where you were vis-a-vis the map. There was no YOU ARE HERE arrow on the map. Not that it mattered. Due to the 0.0025-point font, you couldn’t read the names of the streets.

ABOVE: Here is a map.

People scoured the maps for an hour and threw them in the trash. 

ABOVE: People put the map here after giving up trying to use the map.

The next step was to call someone you knew who might help. Making a call meant finding a “phone booth,” a tiny, enclosed space where you stood and used a landline-connected phone to place your call. 

ABOVE: The multi-purpose phone booth.

ABOVE: The zero-purpose phone in the phone booth.

Finding a functional phone booth was a haphazard process for a few reasons:

1) The handset was often nowhere to be found. All you had was bare wire indicating where the handset used to be. 

2) The “phone booth” doubled as the “bathroom” for individuals too drunk to notice the difference, and the odor had been deployed as a weapon of mass destruction in wars until the UN banned it.

3) It functioned as “the office” by drug dealers and pimps who stayed in the phone booth 12 hours a day conducting business. 

4) Federal law prohibited cleaning a phone booth, so the whole phone apparatus was covered by layers of slime, hair, snot, dirt, beer, vomit, and dead flies stuck in the slime.

5) You had to drop in a quarter to make a call unless the call was to someone outside a 500-foot radius of the phone booth. If so, then you were making a “long-distance” call, which required additional quarters at random times, and if you didn’t put in enough quarters in time, then your call would be disconnected.

6) Even if you were able to call and reach someone, then the conversation would go like this:

– You – I’m lost. Can you give me directions?

– Person You Called (PYC) – Where are you?

– You – I don’t know. 

 – PYC – Uh, well, what city are you in?

– You – I don’t know. 

– PYC—Let’s see if I’ve got this right. You want me to tell you how to get from “there” to “here,” but you’re missing the minor detail of where “there” is. There’s not a lot to work with. 

– You – Okay. Wait. This will help. I see a Citgo on one side of the street next to an office building, two benches in front of it, and sitting on one of the benches is a guy wearing a green….

– PYC – [click]

I frequently got lost. One day, I found myself driving in North Carolina. I didn’t know why I was in North Carolina. I have a history of driving for hours before realizing I had been driving for hours.

Once, I rode my bicycle to Newark, Delaware, until I noticed I rode my bicycle to Newark, Delaware. 

Don’t go to Newark, Delaware.

My M.O. was to wake up around 2 am, sleep-walk my way to the car (or bicycle), and sleep-drive with my eyes open for hours. 

Thanks to an interstate sign claiming Fort Bragg was 20 miles away, I boldly deduced that I was in North Carolina, the southern part.

I’m told this behavior (blanking out for hours) is called dissociating. Of course, everyone dissociates for short time frames. 

Everyone except me. 

For forty years, starting at the age of seven, I spent most of my waking hours dissociating. Sleeping hours, too.  

I’m told dissociation manifests itself in unusual ways. Some folks forget sizable portions of their personal history (short-term and long-term). Others travel with no knowledge they’re traveling, assume a different identity, watch a fixed object change shape, observe themselves at a distance, or experience personality changes.

I can’t imagine anyone experiencing all these manifestations simultaneously.

Except for me.

Oh. Robots. Let’s remember the robots. We’re not mingling with humans in the real world. They’re robots. Intelligent robots because what’s the point of living in fear of stupid robots? 

You must be practical. 

What causes dissociation? Good question. I’m glad you asked.

Those with post-traumatic stress disorder are prone to dissociation. Anyone suffering from psychotic depression is certainly not immune to it. If you are an alcoholic, join the party. Can I interest you in an anxiety disorder? If so, come on board, too.

Again, I’d be shocked if one person has been diagnosed with anxiety, alcoholism, PTSD, and psychotic depression at the same time. 

Except for me. 

What you have before you, ladies and gentlemen, is a man with an issue.

Or two.

In the past twenty years, I’ve learned to manage or overcome the above-referenced issue or two. 

For forty years, I qualified as a functional, depressed, traumatized, anxiety-disordered alcoholic who concurrently displayed overwhelming signs of amnesia, psychosis, suicidal thoughts, disorientation, obsessive disorder, identity alteration, derealization, paranoia, self-harming, and hallucinations.

Also, I firmly believed that I was a horrible human being.

Plus, I did a lot of drugs. To say nothing of the daily and unhealthy dose of alcohol.

If you find yourself in a position similar to the one I’ve described, you’ll be thrilled to know compensatory strategies are available. They’re not elegant. 

While I suggest against employing these measures, below are some steps I took to make it through the day.

Job one was to appear as a well-read, composed, sophisticated monument to spectacular mental health, which was helpful when surrounded by intimidating robots. All the robots intimidated me, so pretending to be composed was a full-time gig. 

Next, be ridiculously flexible to meet the approval of others by relentlessly pursuing the easily attainable goal of being loved and accepted by every-fucking-body.

Lastly, focus on becoming someone other than me. I used to be a spy quite often. Being a psychoanalyst was a favorite. Adopting an identity other than mine was effortless because I had no clue who I was. None. I’m serious. I was Woody Allen in the movie Zelig.

Back to North Carolina…

I took the next available exit to a town called Raeford. Raeford was quaint, small, quiet, provincial, and very Southern. The folks were genuinely friendly. Everyone smiled and waved as I drove by.

I asked a few natives for directions. I couldn’t understand a word anyone said because every man, woman, and child in Raeford had a pound and a half of chewing tobacco in their mouths. No one could utter any consonants. They spoke similar to patients at the dentist’s office after the Novocain had kicked in. Plus, pieces of tobacco came flying out of everyone’s mouth, and vast amounts of brown slobber ran down their chins and onto their shirts.

I envisioned the beautiful Raeford bride walking down the church aisle in a gorgeous white dress and brown drool all down the front. I thought about the twenty-member church choir singing elegant hymns while pieces of tobacco and brown saliva flew in all directions of the church.

My first official act in Raeford was to find lunch. Easier said than done. I didn’t find the restaurants terribly appealing.

One place had a boarded-up window. A homemade sign on the door said, “Beer to go. French Ticklers. Food.”

One rustic emporium had no name. Just the “Eats” sign above the door with a sandwich board leaning next to the door. The pink letters on the sandwich board saying, “Today’s Special: Meat.”

ABOVE: I’m uncertain what form “used porn” takes. I am confident I’ll give it a miss every time.

I spotted a convenience store. It was rustic, too, mainly because it was gross. A neon sign was behind a window. Reading was challenging as the window hadn’t been washed since the Roosevelt Administration. Teddy Roosevelt. I was four inches from the window before I could see the glories awaiting within. “Bait. Tobacco. Beer. Homemaid [sic] Donuts. Enemas – 99 Cents.”

I imagined myself walking into this southern, rural, redneck store and saying, “Yes. Hi there. I’d like a Perrier with a lime twist, please.”

I imagined the guy behind the counter responding, “You pretty sensitive, ain’t cha boy.” Following that, he’d hit me on the head with a crowbar.

I found a place called “Quick Stop.” Except “Quick” was spelled “KWIK.” Wow, “KWIK,” is so cute.

Desperate, I rolled the dice and entered the KWIK (K….W….I….K….) Stop.

Inside, two individuals who may have been employees sat, glassy-eyed and catatonic, behind the counter, watching a TV rerun of “The Munsters.” Both gave every appearance of having finished a 14-day, sleepless heroin binge. 

They were friendly in a way. 

I asked the two youngsters if KWIK Stop (K…W…I…K…) had anything edible. One of them slowly turned her head and opened one bloodshot eye. Her tongue was hanging out. Crusted vomit was on her lips. She managed to say  “Ffffffffffffffffffuhhhh.” She fell off her chair and went to sleep on the floor. The other employee, quite bewildered, slowly turned to me and whispered, “Y tha’ lil’ friggin’ oughta ripiz lungs out.” He fell face-first into the TV. He returned to his slumber. 

The “deli” aisle included “pressed meats,” bologna with holes in it, a semi-digested substance called a “pork roll,” and a semi-melted yellow-ish thing containing green chunks in it and a sign stating CHEEZ propped up next to it   (C….H….E….E…Z….). The soup of the day started, I think, as tuna salad. It had decomposed into a grey, thick liquid. Dead flies surrounded it.

Along the wall, a sign exclaimed SNAX (S…N…A…X…). Under it was an open bag of Doritos covered in chocolate sauce, a few piles of fried dough under a sign saying DONUTS (D…O…N…U…T…S…), and a pink, glow-in-the-dark condom.

I lost my appetite.

A sign saying KOOL DRINKS (K…O…O…L…) was above the refrigerated section, chilled to a crisp 95 degrees. Behind the greasy, snot-stained, bullet-hole-ridden glass doors were gallon jugs of PREMIUM WATER. I managed to find a couple of hairless Gatorades. 

I brought the Gatorades and some gum to the cash register. The female employee stood, having scraped herself off the floor. She attempted to enter the information into the cash register. She had six-inch-long press-on nails. She kept hitting three different keys, but not the one she wanted to hit. She resolved the issue by hitting the keys harder causing her press-on nails to fly in all directions. I hid under a table to avoid being stabbed by one. One of them embedded itself in the ceiling. One flew into the glass door and shattered it. Another hit her co-worker, who still had his face on the TV screen, which caused him to wake up, change the TV station, and go back to sleep. 

Once she mastered the cash register, the cost came to $1.50. I gave her a $5 bill. She stared at it, clearly stunned, and didn’t know what to do. I don’t think she had ever seen a $5 bill. Plus, she couldn’t figure out how to open the cash drawer. Anyway, the young lady took the $5 bill and slowly backed away to talk with her co-worker, who, having urinated on himself after having been hit by a press-on nail, managed to regain consciousness. The two huddled and whispered, trying to figure out what to do next. 

She gawked at me in sheer terror and said, “Uh, uhnnn, mmmm, gotta talk, errrr, to, uh yeah, like talk to my manager errr somethin’.” She went to a back room, and after fifteen minutes of crashing noises, out came a guy with jet-black hair hanging over his eyes. He wore a necktie, black loafers, and a jockstrap. On his chest was a giant tattoo of Betty Boop sitting on the toilet, smoking a cigarette, and reading the sports page.

I explained higher mathematics to him and disclosed that he owed me $3.50. He tried and failed to figure out how to open the cash register for the next five minutes. He went to check his pants pockets for a key to the register until he realized he was only wearing a jockstrap. Finally, one of the press-on nails fell from the ceiling and landed on the cash register, causing it to open. 

I endured ten more minutes during which the manager just stared at the cash drawer. Following much research, he determined he owed me $3.50. 

My hunger issue was entirely resolved, I hopped into my car, drove a block, and turned onto Main Street. Two blocks later, I was pulled over. I was driving 0.0001 MPH over the speed limit. However, the car had New York tags, so I’m sure Mr. Nice Policeman Guy (MNPG) couldn’t resist. I saw him slowly get out of his car in my rearview mirror. The guy was the spitting image of Sheriff Buford T. Justice in “Smokey and the Bandit.” He had sunglasses, a hat, and a cigarette hanging from his lips.

It took him over five minutes to walk from his car to mine. Once he finally made it, he scanned the car’s interior before acknowledging me. 

“Lah-since ‘n reg-stray-shun.”

I gave him my license and registration. He stared at them for a minute and said, “Don’ ‘member seein’ yew in mah fahn city ‘fore, Son.” 

“First time I’ve had the pleasure.”

MNPG threw me a sardonic smile. “Well, well, well, ain’t dat sweet. I dew trust yew have found us most accommodatin’. Have we met yo lofty standards of decorum ‘n grace?” 

“Well, if I had high standards, the folks here have exponentially exceeded them.”

He lifted his sunglasses, stared at me briefly, and let them drop to his nose. “Yeah, we’ll see ’bout dat. Tell me, Son. To wha’ do we owe duh pleasure of a visit from a dazzlin’ young urbanite such as yo-self in the humble, God-fearin’ town uh Raeford, Nothe Car-LINE-uh?”

Well, I don’t think an answer of “I dunno” will work.

“Me? Right. Yes. Sorry. I’m trying to find Fort Bragg to visit a friend. I got lost.” I hoped I might score points if I said I had a friend in the Army. Plus, Fort Bragg was close, so it sounded plausible.

“Oh, reeeeely. Wuz his name?”

“Jack Tatum.” Jack Tatum was a safety for the Oakland Raiders. It was the first name that came to mind.

Please don’t ask me any more questions.

I thought that. I didn’t say it.

MNPG seemed puzzled. “Same Jack Tatum who play fo duh Raiders.”

“Different Jack Tatum.

“Related?”

“Highly unlikely.”

“Wha’s ‘is rank, if ah may be so bold as tuh ask?”

“Private First Class.”

I’m screwed. Bufford is going to trip me up. 

He paused, looked around my car and frowned. “How long yo friend been servin’ in duh Army?”

“Little over a year.” I knew I had to reroute the conversation. “Oh, sorry. While I think of it, and if you don’t mind me asking, then….”

MNPG stepped away in mock surprise. “Now, why would Ah mind yew askin’ me anythin’? Ah would be honored tuh provide duh answers yew longin’ tuh git.”

“What’d I do wrong? I mean, honest. I’m not sure what I did to get your attention.”

“Glad yew asked cuz ah wuz quite alarmed seein’ yew cuttin’ in an’ outta lanes, burnin’ rubber in our thrivin’ bindis district in yo effort to git outta our fine, provincial, church-goin,’ lil’ hamlet. You’ll pardon mah ignorance when ah ask yew, ‘Dat how yew people drive in duh big city?’”

“We must drive that way. Less likely to be shot. Survival tactic.”

“She-it.” 

I waited for the moment he’d pull the cuffs and say, “Boy, yew got duh rat to git duh fuck outta dat car and come meet some mah ‘sociates.” 

Instead, he frowned and said, “Whadda you got in duh trunk? Got a broad in there?”

“She didn’t fit. Besides, her father made me give her back.”

“Cute?”

“Well, nice legs. Shame about the face.”

I got a chuckle out of him. “Yew funny. Ah b’lieve ah dislike yew a little less. Mo than ah kin say fo most yew people. Gimme yew wallet.”

I gave MNPG my wallet. After carefully inspecting the contents, he pulled out a $50 bill, put it in his shirt pocket, and tossed the wallet onto the passenger’s seat. 

“Ah b’lieve duh appropriate restitution has been made. Ah thank yew. An’ Son, may ah sincerely say, on behalf uh duh good, decent, patriotic an’ highly Christian folk of Raeford, Nothe Car-LINE-uh, the followin’: GIT DUH FUCK OUTTA HERE. An’ God bless. An’ don’ say one fuckin’ word.”

I didn’t see the need to argue the point. 

He slowly walked back to his car, pivoted towards me, and said, “Give yo friend at Fote Bragg a kiss for me and tell him I’ll write.”

“May I kill myself instead of kissing him?”

I got another chuckle out of him. “Ah dew b’lieve ah dew not dislike yew even moe. Not much moe. Dat duh best you gonna git.’”

I was still lost and had no clue where to go. I turned towards MNPG as he slowly sashayed back to his car. He stopped, turned around, and said, “Drive straight ahead. Den, keep drivin’ straight ahead. Den, go nothe on 295 ‘til yew arrive at duh enchanted village of Fote Bragg, Nothe-Fuckin-Car-LINE-uh.”

Then, he belched, turned back, and continued walking. 

“Ah, thank you, Sir. Thank you, kindly.”

He looked over his shoulder and said, “N’ ‘member tuh always keep yo ass to duh sunset.”

That is excellent advice. 

I drove very slowly out of Raeford. The locals smiled and waved. I passed six churches and six bars in five blocks, so it evened out.

At the last stop light in town, a young mother walked my way, pushing a baby girl in a stroller, and said hello. Behind her was a church. It also functioned as a women’s shelter. Four girls in their late teens stood before the building, watching me and the young mother. None of them appeared pleased. I guessed she lived in the shelter.

The baby had brown slobber on her bib and pieces of tobacco on her pacifier.

Truthfully, the baby, as opposed to her mother, appeared happy, healthy, and well taken care of.

She, the mother, was very friendly, especially when she nicely asked me if I had any money I wanted to give her. She was flat broke. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. In the 1970s, single motherhood was quite frowned upon. The bruises on her arms confirmed that her story wasn’t a happy one.

As is my tendency, I built a historical profile for her. It included an unfortunate home life and non-consensual sex that resulted in the baby, who, at that moment, had tobacco on her face.

So much for a fair and just world.

She didn’t seem the type who might have considered terminating a pregnancy. Abortions were legal, but you’d have been hard-pressed to get one in the southern US as doctors performing them were used for occasional target practice. Respectable citizens murdered abortion clinic employees because a live baby is better than a dead adult.

I’ll leave it to you to figure that one out.

Besides, suppose a woman in the South mentioned either birth control or abortion. If she did, she’d be in for some problematic human interactions, including getting beaten up by the eldest male in the house, being tossed out onto the street, and having to listen to concerned citizens explain the degree to which God hates her.

I hoped to brighten her day. “Your baby is gorgeous!” I was being nice. The kid was okay. I could have said, “Okay. Fine. Potentially inoffensive. I wouldn’t suggest pursuing a modeling career.” I went with “gorgeous.”

“Why, thank yeeeewwww.” She gave me a bright, expressive, sincere, and brutally sad smile. Her facial expression was cheerful and, in a way, entirely innocent. Her eyes told a very different story. They reminded me of the pain in my mother’s eyes when she smiled.

I inquired if everyone in Raeford was as kind and friendly as they seemed.

“Why, yes, Sir. We try to be nice to everyone. Do unto others….” She kept up with the heartbreaking smile. She was doing her best.

“Is everyone always nice and friendly to you?”

“No.”

She gazed at her baby and shrugged.

I uttered a sincere, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I got my little ray of sunshine.”

I was devastated by that response.

I gave her some of the cash that MNPG didn’t shove in his pocket.

“Oh, thank yew, Sir. Bless yew. Thank yew so much.”

As the light turned green, I looked at her, smiled, and said, “Mah pleasure. And remember, Honey, to always keep yo ass to duh sunset.”

She laughed. “I guess yew met the Sheriff.”

I drove off. In the side mirror, I saw her wave. For a moment, at least, her smile was happy.

—THE END—

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