I find myself having this reoccurring dream. It will plague me for nights at a time and then vanish into the ether just a quick.  I find myself in this very old grocery store.  It’s dark and air is thick with the sent of almost acrid produce.  Much of the layout of the store is like that of my childhood grocery.  Long towering aisles with product descriptions hanging from a board on the ceiling.  The subtle differences are that the color scheme is that of a tri-bar orange and brown of the 60′ and that the place is immense.  The name of the place is Fates Grocery…which although sounding mysterious…it’s not… there is an actual “Fates Grocery” in a town not too far from where I live… maybe a 30 min drive.   Why my mind decided to make a bastardized grocery store in my cortex is beyond me but I thought it poignant to get it down on paper.  Oh..and in my dream… you cant get out of the grocery store…once your in,  you in.

I’ve had this dream for years and each time I venture to the “store” I find myself even more bewildered by it’s existence.   For example, the slush puppy machine.   The slush puppy machine is from the Lake Orion Kmart circa mid-1983.   I know this because my Nana and Pops would get me a cherry slush puppy every time we went to shut my little hyper ass up.   So that machine an I got very acquainted over the years…but here it sits at Fates….not as a reminder of some deep psychosis that I need to resolve…but just because.  Another thing… glass bottles.  All the pop is in those 8 pack glass bottles. Even the Faygo is in those squat tube bottles of the early 80’s.   I keep asking myself why?  Why would someone remember this and keep it locked in your head. But here I am looking around and seeing all the meaningless things occupying my mental hard drive.  Like the fucking nacho cheese bucket.   Kmart used to have this little diner in the back… it was horrible..and there on the stand next to jugs of condiments…was the oozing and bubbling nacho cheese warmer.  Upon opening it up you see that there is a thick crust of cheese that had been left for days.   Why is this in my head?

Why does Fates Grocery exist in my mind?  That is a good question.  I’m pretty good with my dreams..for the most part I have some pretty awesome dreams where I am somewhat keen on whats going on. I am not a total dream-walker-neo- matrix shit…but I know that I’m not in the present reality of boorishness that is my daily life.   So on that note you would think my subconscious is trying to tell me something or maybe my ego or ID is getting a time out.   Over the years I get into that loop where one night…poof… I’m standing near the cheese section…. always the cheese section… this big wheel of cheese on a huge table. It’s always  near Thanksgiving too… cause they have those turkey decorations where you fold out the tail of the turkey like a fan… and they have the cheese all piled up like some wack ass cornucopia spilling out onto crackers.  POOF….there I am. The different smells all wafting into my nostrils all at once….cheese….sweaty moon boots….baked beans….body odor.    And it’s just me…no one else… I’m alone in this huge place and each time I arrive everything is back to the way it was last time.  The closest thing I could figure out is that maybe Fates is like my own private Idaho…my personal emotional purgatory…. my psychotic time out.

But what is going on this time in my life that I need a time out?  I’m finally back to working a decent job…I got a plan…. I’m “adulting” the best I can… and for 3 nights straight I’m back in that fucking store staring at the slush machine waiting for it to give me some prophetic message about my life…and don’t try to get all yogi sensai guru on the mountain about it cause it doesn’t mean anything.   Some people have these super spiritual interactions with their spirit warriors… I got Betty Crocker and Fruity Pebbles in Aisle 3.

FML

If you are reading this then you are willingly accepting the terms use.  Those terms are to be outlined as we continue and may change to fit this writers narrative at anytime.  For the most part this ride is safe and secure but I will have to warn you the writer may be offending at times….charming at the other.. so know there is some adventure…and fuck you if you cant take a joke.

All of us deal with fear. That achy thing that lives in the lining of our stomach. It twists and contacts in such a way that we end up in this fight or flight lizard brain response.  That’ts the physical manifestation of fear….that “scared the shit out of me” reaction that we watch YouTube videos about….  I wont lie..I’m a “Scarecam” junkie at times.    Being scared and having fear are very close cousins…but they are possibly the most raw emotion….when you get “scared” it’s because “fear” manifests.  All the other emotions–possibly excluding anger—is this paint we wear.  We can coat ourselves in happy—sad–a plethora of emojis…. but have you really looked at them… there really isnt a good scared?!?  It’s like surprised emoji and this dual job it was never really good at.   Anyways… less scared talk….more fear.

So  I think I can count on one hand how many close friends I have.  Out of those 4 digits ( and a thumb)  I think I’m in contact with maybe one or two every few months.   Seriously.  As I write this I am sitting in a bar tapping away not waiting on anyone or expecting anyone to join me… cause I’m a loner….and I was good at it for a long long time.  This is where you, the reader, chime in….Thats not true, Chris… you have tons of friends and people who care about you…I see your facebook posts and the likes you get.   But ask yourself.   Ever been to my house?  What do you really know about me…..the man…the legend. ( Buddha I apologize for my ego)   The truth is…I know alot of people casually and I’m extremely OK with that.  I’m an introvert that enjoys bars….I like sin. I like seeing the game .  But I’ve reached a point to where things are predictable…moreso I’ve become cynical and overly judgmental.  At almost 44 I feel that I’v sorta reached some upper level of unfuckwithable…but I have some weak points in that armor that are my kryptonite….the Delilah to my Sampson….I get fuckwithable.

How does this relate to fear?  Well its a 6 degrees of Kevin Bacon thing.  I keep most people out.  I dont get attached too quick at all because I know that I’m not an easy person to handle somedays.  I am an only child which makes me stubborn and expecting.  I refuse to lose, which means I need to have the last word.  And I dont fight for points…so I’ll fight dirty.  BUT…my redeeming quality is that once you get past all that…I’m sincere, loyal, and smart.   But thats the rub…once your in and then you leave….and I’m talking about females…. my heart goes black.   It goes into fight/flight.     Problem being is that I fight so hard if I believe in the person that I push them away….cause I’ve got to win… it’s not a fix you…it’s to show them that I’m willing to work on it.   Now mind you… because of all the shit listed above…. me being an introvert–all the associated shit with it I had no clue the person was unhappy.   That is the breaks right there…. to be oblivious to your partners widening distance; their slow removal from that us that just leaves u.   So you go into repair mode and try your damnedest to connect…..so much so that you force it….. you go from to forgiveness to anger to acceptance.  The rage that lives within…. it’s unimaginable.  But after all the anger, hate, loneliness,  self doubt, and loathing.    Fear.     I fear losing her.  Losing her to time and the bullshit out there.  Losing that friend and the person I put all that stuff away for.   And when she was gone….the fear had me punching walls…. calling people names and looking for fights.

That was then.  This is now.

I find myself sitting here looking at a glass of 100 proof.  Knowing I’m just a fun stupid bastard when I get to the bottom of the second glass. But fear is always there…a scared little boy sometimes that wears the face of a 44 year old man.  Many of you are going to say it’s “mommy issues” and that is farthest from the truth.  My issue is that of trust and overthinking.  One of content ignorance. One of stalled dreams and paused promises.   And I fear thats who I am, who I’ve become.  I fear now that now the “fuckwithable” parts of me has truly found it’s remedy and become ” unfuckwithable”.   I don’t feel that need to care anymore…a self-imposed embargo on emotion.    I don’t know the way how many of you feel… I dont have kids and I dont have the greatest relationship with my family….. so you all seem to be these enigmas to me.   I feel like the person standing still at Grand Central Station….where you all move like fluid around me with lives and timelines I will never know….fear lives in that moment too.

So there it is.  Life in print.  The conversations of the bar becoming louder as the jukebox starts singing it’s praises.   My glass enters it’s second tour of duty and I know at some point I will go off on a tangent.  Just thought that I could get some of this slag off my soul. Fear is more like a lover….one that scares you because you care and reminds you of how weak we are behind the strongest armor.   I feel for you on those walking the same path…

I made this post earlier,  me reminiscing and attaching a memory to emotion. It occurred to  me..to whoever that reads this…that I don’t know if I’ve explained my ties to memories…or better yet people.

My grandfather was a constant enigma. I can claim to know him..or a version of him.  This can be said generically cause it applies to everyone.  Your mother knows her father differently than you know your grandfather…..your aunt knows your grandmother differently than you do…this goes on with everyone in every version of family.   Billy was different.

My grandad was a hurried genius.  Seriously… the man was this brilliant person that shined in his kindness and honesty.   His integrity was something I was not appreciative of until only recently…understanding what “word is bond” actually meant.   That type of conviction is rare today….a black market currency between saints and thieves.  His passing was just over a year ago…his last years were lost to failing health and dementia..but to me…that frail and failing body was not my grandfather…it was the body holding on to earthy purchase. In conversations between us in better times we had both agreed that the mind is the driver , the body was the vehicle…..at the end… he had found a better vehicle for his consciousness. That’s all I really have to discuss about that. We die…it’s what we do. Those words are the same he said to me when I was very young when I lost a pet.   That’s what they do…they die….you love them while you can.  I totally hated him for that honesty….even when in later years he took ward over a pup that I could no longer take care of…and watched him modify his life for the love of that same dog.  His compassion and his eventual love for Barren was something I cannot write here.  The universe creates light in darkness… gives sinners hope….Barren gave my grand dad a friend when all of his selfish family had found purpose in mediocrity.

Yeah…even me.  I had important things to do.  The man that had given me the fire for knowledge…was accepting of the fact that I was young and stupid.   I was in my 30’s.   I remember being in my mid 20’s and living at the family’s “cabin”.   My grandfather was my unnamed “roommate” . He would show up late at night , on the run, on the lam, escaping from my grandmother ( aka …The War Department).   At one point when TWD had made the trip up there had been a falling out between my “PA” and I.  His words to me had pretty much been a barrage of mid century generational disgust and beguiled hope.   He told me that ” If you got your ass in the military they would show what the hell is up, Jesus H. Christ”  I responded in a late 90s indignant punk resurgence retort ” Fuck You”.  ( years earlier, this same man, had literally pulled me from a marine recruiters clutches stating “it’s not a thinking mans service” )  Later that night… corrupt with shame…. I wrote him a letter professing to  him my apology and that I had no direction and …my 20 something self….longed to just have his arms around me… be that 8 year old that crawled in to bed when I was scared and told it was all right.

My grandfather never acknowledged that letter.  I understand now that it was him telling me to grow the fuck up.  It was not that he didn’t care…I wasn’t 8…..I was a man and it was time to learn what it meant to find your own path. Wrong or right…sink or swim.    My heart broke not being acknowledged….and for a long time I had contempt for him…I judged him and chastised him for what I viewed as his weaknesses.

I want you to know …if you’ve taken the time to read this… he kept the letter…in his dresser drawer.    20 years later…he kept it.  It wasn’t a hallmark moment, not a movie moment.  I found it getting him a Previcid.   An acid reflux pill.  Yep…that’s my emotional marker…   Previcid…takes care of that spicy burrito but will totally emotionally fuck your grandson years later.  I truly believe that he planned it…knowing his humor…litmus test positive.

After the non response to the letter.

I left.

I went to Utah.   Yeah…like UTAH.  I wasn’t broken by the “no” response.  I  was fractured in other ways.   My high school girlfriend had left me…I was bombing at college….I was…frumpy.     I was … midwest boring. As much as my grand dad was abrasive to me..he was also my greatest supporter.   My grandmother once told me that he had stopped her when she had taken issue with my attitude ( my grandfather rarely spoke to my grandmother in opposition)  … Billy told her ” to let it go…the boys heart is hurting and you cant fix  it”      That right there…learning it in passing…had me staring in the mirror and ashamed of my disrespect.

So…What the fuck Workman… what the hell…whats up with this “Knot” post..

You will  know a man by the quality of his works.

Time has its way with us all and it had it’s inevitable end for my grandfather.  I am not what you would characterize as “sentimental”.   Seriously…all of this stuff..it’s memory.   Others in my family would be saving  your first diaper.  My mind is the library of my life…the stuff I write here will outlive me…on some little server somewhere..and with luck those word will continue on when I am a unclaimed corpse in the desert ( life goals!)

The Knot.

My grandfather passed on last year…my grandmother is now in elder care.  Their home in Lake Orion has sat… in stasis.

There are many childhood stories to relay in that 4 bedroom ranch.   BB guns…..first kisses…Theft and angst…. loss and dysfunction..pools and American pie.   All of that is gone..Tonight is The Knot.

So when you die and your spouse resides in a retirement home.   Your shit gets gone.   It’s inevitable and don’t get pissed that I said  ” gets gone”. Seriously.. we only borrow the things we own.  It’s the reality of it all.  Life-Death-Taxes.   So there I am…on a ladder.  Moving a box around in the garage rafters.   Pool stuff…. solar cover…. hoses in a failing garbage bag…. and then a box.

evy-Duty..reen cov…double..pper…

My brain was adept at filling in the missing constants and vowels. The images of us at Metamora campground when I was young…running to this screen tent…cause mosquito were winged demons at 8 years old and the screen tent was this oasis. Not that I minded the mustard gas they sprayed on us in the early 80’s….but the screen tent was.. well …it was the shit.   Like  wearing new Jordans on the first day of school when every one was wearing British Knights.  ( yeah boy… I know that 90s swag)

So finding that cryptic insect impermeable fortress was like finding a camping mecca.   I had this vision of me at Wheatland… relaxing all night in my private cabana….( at this point please cue up ” Big Pimipin” by Jay-Z ( the dirty version))

And then… after loading it… travelling the 125 miles home..unloading it… getting a shower and relaxing… deciding it was time to go an inspect what I had removed from my childhood Narnia.  Sitting there on the bench…old clothesline tied into slip knots…was my grandfathers obvious handiwork.

Well…fuck me… I think I need a prevacid.

3 taught lines…as taught as the day the day they were employed.  The symmetrical loops, each one roughly two inches in loop…snug…but ready to be released when called.  His Navy technique defined in each one.

The first one was like this snap bang cause I didn’t equate.

The second was like seeing hair rise on your arms before lightning arrives

The third was cardiac arrest.

I don’t cry anymore, but I hurt.   The bowed head was not in sorrow… but in respect.

The sentiment was not in the knots…it was in the reality that I’ve spent years tying myself up over things that I have no control over.

The screen tent was worthless…years of rafter life….heat vs. cold is lost in time.  Years earlier rodents had burrowed in and created a micro environment or urine and insulation.

As I unfolded the ancient shelter…I knew it was bound for a landfill.  My attachment more to the memory and not the object….the knot and the not.

Thats it.   The knot..and the not…..live more than normal…live more than midwest boring.

Thanks Billy….

Billy Gene Glency…. yeah… MJ stole the name for the song……like I said…he was a hurried genius

The most difficult thing I find when I attempt to write here is the repetitive subject matter and the beating of the same old dead horse.   So here I sit in a bar, with a computer, being that guy.  It’s that same old haunt that this ghost has frequented so many times I can tell you which booth has the lumpiest cushions and which bar stool has the least wobbly feet.  It’s a testament to the amount of time your author has pickled up his insides with alcohol in the pursuit of one sin or another.   The story is nothing unique or special…I’ve seen my doppelgangers here over and over as the years pass.  I’ve seen the young 21 year old me, the lost soul me,  the broken hearted me…and oh yes…the asshole me.   All of them wearing different faces but at their core the essence of me at that time.  There is a part of you that wants to grab them and say ” Hey—no seriously listen—this shit is gonna happen and you are gonna need to be ready for it– cause I’ve been there and I know.  I’ve literally been in your shoes and it doesn’t go right–she leaves and you go crazy for awhile–but you come out better for it”  or  ”   No—  just no— leave your pants on….”.   These are the things that live in my gray matter.  So I consider it sort of my bar room super power—the ability to see versions of people.  This power allows me to see that young person who walks through the bar door for the first time and realize how magical it is. How the blend of alcohol, bad HVAC systems, cheap cigarettes and a band can change your life forever.  That is exactly how it starts—the hook.  I’ve watched people come in as these timid little things and within a year become the biggest raging alcoholic party freaks you ever knew. But its not always the alcohol….sometimes its the drugs….or a combination of the two.  For many it’s the girls…for others the boys…and for some–both.   The bar doesn’t judge–it only demands respect.  Don’t puke in a booth, flush the toilets,  TIP YOUR  BARTENDER, and don’t start a fight.  God knows I’ve seen and been in enough of those over the years.  Stupid examples of peoples inability to plot revenge.  I’ve got a few scars on my face as my sacrificial ” pound of flesh” to the mighty bar god.  To tell you the truth I’ve always thought they improved my features rather than detract- a little life experience topography.  I was a bouncer off and on for 10 years…so I know the game well.   Nowadays I am more a patron then a protector ( but I can still spring into action like a god damn ninja if the situation demands it — I just need a heating pad and some flexerall afterword)

I think the bar scene is a different place socially than it was say, 4 or 5 years ago.  The fights and brawls are less  ( due to the camera phone)…and if they do happen they last no more than a few seconds.  Rarely do you see someone truly duke it out…the main street Muhammad Ali’s have all gone the way of the dinosaur.  They have been corralled into a octagon and turned into a Spike TV series to sell protein power and underarmor .  I’m not saying I miss the swinging fists in the slightest…but it does take a little bit of the adventure away from venturing into a bar of ill repute to see a band.  The mystique of that was always a draw to me — even though most of the places I ventured to when I was younger had highly inflated reputations of being bad ( even the one I worked in) .   I wouldn’t say that the bar has lost it’s heart–but perhaps it’s shrunk a little bit over the years.   Matter of fact the ratio of  bars that are sole proprietor ( not that chain Buffalo wild wing crap) has dropped considerably over the past 10 years.  You could say it’s  because of the smoking ban,  operational cost, or vegans but I sincerely believe that people believe they are entitled to be entertained.  They want 75 different TV’s, 100 different beers, 20 different meal selections from foreign lands,  vip sections and bottle services.   The want kid friendly atmosphere with free wifi and cell phone chargers in the booth.  They want apple pay, android pay, we accept paypal and uber service to the front door.  Everything that a dive bar is not—and so— the dive bar slowly slips into some backdrop.   But!  Not for me— I will sit here—and grow roots— I will borrow another glass of Yukon Jack and return it to the wild via the urinal in about 45 min. ( My liver hardening all the while)   So come visit me–drink to excess— take off your pants. Stay awhile.