Thunder Sandwich #23 - Carter Monroe

From "Waffle House Blues"

III

2 a.m. and the ceiling stares at me

as if it might actually speak

my frame's entrapped

by that soft mattress ache

lower back and left shoulder

need to be in a bodybag

i don't yearn for the play now

don't feel like an actor

but lying here old and stiff

seems like too obvious an option

the warm waters soothe

and the toothpaste stains the mirror

i gargle and hit the road

4 a.m. now and 20 miles from home

pickups with dog boxes

camouflage and orange

gray clouds billowing inside

"turn that damned fan on

second hand shit's gonna kill dexter

and he don't even smoke"

they know me here

some acknowledge it

others don't

no matter

"you don't hunt no more

do you"

"nope"

the stories hover around the booths and stools

tales of massive racks, missed shots,

and the big one that crossed the road

they want me to pull up a chair here and there

but it's not my game plan today

"hey, are the yankees gonna sign schilling"

a buddy from my youth comes in

takes the adjacent stool

orders four over easy

four pieces of sausage

and grits

"been a long time since we were kids

and you walked a half mile

back to the house to take a shit"

the food arrives

he takes his lockblade from his pocket

starts cutting and slicing

mixes everything together

"any hot sauce around here"

finally having arranged his meal

he takes one bite and says,

"damn! I forgot my blood pressure pills."

somehow I know

this is the last major road trip

the back's about gone

too many airplanes

and too much money

whatever happened to necessity

the trip down's always about visions

what once emerged in the afternoons

now comes in waterfalls of illusion

or is that disillusion

the brightness jumps out

then fades into the darkness of memory

i'm an observer now

a viewer

too old to act

too practical to instigate

i watch and try to learn

but the knowledge is old hat

the sun begins to pierce the foothills

i see the yellow sign at an exit

pulling into an empty parking lot at 6:30 a.m.

strangely barren is this mecca

for the lonely and displaced

it's just me, the staff, and one black guy

i can't hide

even behind the newspaper

not enough box scores

and I don't care about local news

not here

not in this foreign province

the coffee's strong enough

to burn through the best of guts

i choke it down like medicine

wondering almost aloud

in this unaccustomed silence

why i never realized years ago

that one day i'd be old

railroad crossings mark the spot

on a hip feeling morning lost in time

i'm not the faded warrior

whose countenance is reflected

in the bathroom mirror

but some temporarily youthful whistling guy

feeling capable of one more adventure

in this mix of lost and found

it's baseball cap time

as i hit the cold

my breath condensing in spurts

a jaunt in the dark

a loud radio

a stevie ray vaughan tune

my fingers keep time

"the things that i used to do"

a half full parking lot

(it might have been half empty yesterday)

greets me along with the "good mornings"

meted by the waitresses

they split the smokers here

progress sucks

"are you ready to order"

"just coffee, please"

it's weak today

one creamer pales it completely

shouldn't have added the second sweet -n- low

but, christ, you never know

i sip and watch the cook

wondering why a fat, middle-aged female

would have rings and metal everywhere

and scrawled illegible tattoos

her neck rolling over multiple chains

another woman sits to my left,

casually negotiating a salem

definitely wal-mart material

but she has a bit of a look

if you catch my drift

decisions

is it blonde or is it memorex

the transplant beside me

knows all the regulars

he looks at me and says

"they got beer clubs in california

you pay twenty-five bucks to join"

for once i'm speechless

"they have, hunh"

then comes the spew of words

generated by acknowledgement to the lonely

the thing they thrive upon

that which makes their days

it's no bother for a change

i'm ready to join in

prepared to follow the lead

and maybe even take charge

as time permits

this day's about conversation

about action and energy

about being and doing

i'm tired of remembering

i'm sick of yesterday

VII

yeah, billy joe

you got it right

it's pertinent and proper

head-on phrase coinage

for those such as myself

the bad backed, arthritic souls

who wander around the scenes

of this never ending play

us "old five and dimers"

who let today disappear

i'm at the counter now

my favorite spot

cupping my marlboro

even though i'm inside

the drunk in the corner

is too rambunctious

the scene builds like a fire

from a leftover ember

my cup's been empty for 15 minutes

as the general group concentration

has become focused in his direction

i finally raise it above my head

the caffeine buzz in need of refreshing

"sorry sir, but it's fresh now"

the deputies come in

take a seat

it's their break time

everybody speaks

except me, the drunk,

and some couple from florida

a plate falls from the back booth

the sound of shattering startles me

i'm expecting trouble

it doesn't come

the lawmen smile and laugh

"how long's ol' cleo been here"

"'bout an hour, hon"

thank god he's a regular

they look after their own here

a stranger might have been in trouble

could have been a six o'clock news flash

headlined by the word "victim"

i laugh inside

feeling negative and sarcastic

i work every day

45 to 65 hours a week

pay my bills

tell the truth

drink at home alone

but still can't sleep

how strange to realize

for this one time

at this particular moment

that the real fucking victim

is me

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