8/9/09 North Florida 10.30 a.m.
How the hell did I get here, I thought.
I was cruising down A1A in Ponte Vedra, Fla. listening to Mark Lassiter talk away as he fumbled with his Ipod and weaved through the early Sunday morning traffic. We were in his black SUV and normally I would of been content as could be driving down this stretch of A1A, one of my favorite roads in the world.
But not now. Now, all I could think was
How the hell did I get here?
I had about 60 bucks left to my name. My only bills consisted of paying for a PODS storage unit that sat like a slug at the end of my parent's driveway. The POD unit represented a symbol of hope, holding all my earthly belongings where I hoped to move them to a new residence once I found a good job and better way of life. That had been about 6 months ago. And my hope for a better life had just about completely run out. I was squatting at my parents house in the room above the garage. In my cave. Every endeavor I had pursued for money, wether it be a business investment with a friend or lead on a new bartending job, had blown up in my face. No big deal. I had given up on just about everything. I was now only happy either in drunkness or in sleep, and when I came to from either I hated it and the life it represented. As far as trying to encourage myself to look for other opportunities I had sunk to the last resort of desperation and nobody could relate to that more than Mark Lassiter.
"Yeah, fuck Craíg's List," I said. I think it was the first time I spoke since our journey started.
"Fuck Craig's List," Mark echoed back, laughing at our resolution.
If anyone knew the pure crap shoot it was trying to find a job on Craig's list it was Mark Lassiter and I. I had to hand it to Lassy, he sure could sport a smile and laugh in the face of almost any adversity. It struck me as annoying sometime- his unbridled optimism. But I was glad to have him by my side, sitting here just as broke and fucked as I was. But he was laughing, and I was not.
How the fuck did I get here?
"Yeah, trying to get a job through Craig's List sucks. Everytime I go in somewhere and apply for a job I read about on Craig's List- the line is out the door," Mark said, recapping a conversation we've had many times over.
"Yeah and when they look at you, a total nobody in the midst of total nobodies, it sucks. And then they never give you a call back after they make you sit around for an hour or two waiting to fill out their application," I said in acknowledgement of my own experiences. "It'd be a lot easier and a lot less painful if you could just walk in, have them kick you in the balls a good three or four times, and then pat you on the back as they shoved you out the door. Yeah... fuck Craig's list."
We both laughed and shook our heads. We were two bartender's who had either used up all our resources in Jax beach or more likely had just lost our passion for the racket. Two washed up motherfuckers who had nothing left but to face it and enjoy the drive down Glory Road.
"Fuck it, let's get a sixer," I said.
"Absolutly!" Mark said who was more than happy to oblige. He swung into the Shell, the first gas station we came to.
I didn't even hesitate as he pulled up. I exited the truck, not even waiting for it to stop completely. I was on a mission and I was buying. It might of been my last 60 bucks to my name but it was going to go to good use. Mark was even in worse shape than I was. Not a penny to his name as far as I knew. He was planning to head to Lousiana within the week to find work as a cook on an oil rig, an opportunity he found online and something that only that crazy bastard could pull off. Fuckin' Lassy, you had to hand it to the fucker.
I walked into the store and grabbed a six pax of the lady- bud lites in a can. A-fuckin-men. As I swung around and headed for the counter I couldn't help but to notice the cute, well rounded Ponte Vedra chick that walked out the door. I stole my glance, checking her out the best I could- I was broke and pretty much fucked in life, but could still manage to enjoy the little things.
"This and two packs of L&M.s," I said to the cashier. Mark had inspired me to switch from Marlboro lights to L&M's. A good enough smoke and a couple of bucks cheaper than the premiums. At this point in time I would of smoked dirt as long as it pulled me away from reality for a few moments.
The cashier rang me up. He was a nice, innocent looking old man that smiled back at me. I looked at him and tried to smile back.
"I'd like to get me some of that," he said, still smiling and nodding toward the hot Ponte Vedra chic getting into her car. I laughed and nodded my head. Fucking life, still manages to surpise you even when you've givin' up on most of it. Dirty old men were no exception to the rule.
Two beers pop open and two smiles follow with it. We'"re back on A1A cruising down the road, neither of us have any idea where we were going. Just cruising and drinking with nowhere to go. Rock bottom never tasted so good.
"We could stop at Guana state park, drink there," said Mark.
I just shrugged, neither supporting or rejecting the idea. It was hotter than shit out and all I wanted to do was just drink my beer and try not to think about things.
"We could hit the Fort in St. A- watch all the tourists and shit," he said, his optimism and resources never ceasing.
"Gas and cops,"I replied, sticking to my end of the spectrum and content that we're fucked no matter what we do.
"Well what?"
I took a long pull from my beer and watched the green marshy grass of A1A speed by.
The theme music:
A Life Wasted. Track 1. Untitled. Pearl Jam.
The thought.
What if this is as good as it gets? (Jack Nicolson. As Good As it Gets. Mark Andrus and James L. Brooks. James L. Brooks).
"Let's just keep going," I said.
"Fuckin' A, sounds good to me brother," Mark said.
So we just kept driving. We drove past Guana National Park, past the Gate Station, and into Villano and the bridge. He came upon St. Augustine the best way you can, climbing the Villano bridge as we looked down to the left and saw the beautiful city growing in the horizon. Below us marinas were all around and the world suddenly seemed to be overcome by sailboats, outboard engines, and every other water craft imaginable. It was beautiful and I was pissed my beer was getting warm. I had already lapped Mark twice and had no plans on stopping anytime soon.
Lassy pulled into a Marina and Condominum complex arousing my curiousity.
What the hell was the little fucker up to now?
I didn't bother to ask and decided to just see what happens. We pulled up to a Marina parking lot and he opened his car door. I was content on just sitting there and drinking but of course Lassy had other plans. I followed him out on the docks as we walked and looked at the different sorts of boats. Sailboats, powerboats and a few yachts here and there.
Plush, baby, plush. Where the fuck do people get such things? Where do they come from? And of course, where the hell did they get their money from?
We settled on looking at a Marine Patrol boat. A streamlined fiberglass work of art complete with four top of the line outboard motors. Just by looking at it you know that this thing could zip and of course we joked about the thought of stealing it. If you did, just who the fuck could catch you? Oh the thoughts you have when your looking up at the rest of the world from rock bottom.
Soon we were off again, driving down A1A and entering the heart of St. A. We did the obligatory drive down Magnolia Street, marveling at the world famous Magnolia Trees that hovered above and created a giant canopied tunnel that you drove through as you passed by tourist attraction numero uno: the Fountain of Youth.
Soon we were cruising down U.S. 1 and now I was definetly sure neither one of us had any clue as to just where we were going. This place used to be familiar stomping grounds for both of us and now neither one of us had a clue what to do.
"Gas and another sixer," I said and Mark agreed.
We pulled into another one and I hopped out as Mark dumped our trash bag full of empties into the nearby dumpster. Good form, brother, good form.
Two more beers popped open and we were back on the road heading in whatever direction. Driving from one block to the next we soon reached the decision to say fuck it and head back the way we came. A1A bound- just keep drinking and going.
So we drove and drank, heading back towards Jax beach. I wish I could say and remember some of the highlights that may of happened but all I can really remember is the heat and the taste of the beer. I remember hardly speaking at all.
We stopped at Six Mile Landing, the Guana boat ramp to take a leak. We drank a bit and watched people pull their canoes out of the water. Mark and I had done our own canoing here just a day before, the end result being us two drunks tipping the fucker over twice and coming up short one sandal and a pair of his sunglasses.
"I bet you we could go back out there and find my sunglasses," he said as we sat, drank, and watched the swamp before us.
The image of us tipping the canoe over again and wading around in waste deep mud searching for his sunglasses didn't really appeal to me at the time. However, I didn't even respond but instead took a sip. Mark, even with his unyielding optimism, had gotten used to my bouts of silence, rare moments where I can do nothing more but to drink and watch the world before me. He'd still laugh, giggle, and prod at me here and there, but wise enough to lay off at the right times and let the rock bottom lie.
Soon we were off again. Back to P.V., passing Michler's point and stopping for sixer number three at the Gate station. It was 12:30 in the afternoon and I was just getting started.
Soon it was down the road into the mouth of the beast- Jax Beach. We drove through it at a steady pace- wild memories and ghosts flooding my mind in every direction I looked.
Fuckin' Jax Beach.
Next it was Neptune and Atlantic beach. Down thru A.B. and into the droll degradation of Mayport beach. Mayport beach- it suddenly felt appropriate and right for me. We cruised through and I didn't even bother looking for cops as I pulled and slugged from my beer. I had no idea where we were going, just mentioning to Mark that I'd cover all of Northeast Florida with him but didn't feel like paying for the ferry at the end of the road. He said not to worry and pulled off just beforehand and into a dirt road, a long jetty of rocks on our right and behind them the St. John's river. Good call, Lassy, good call.
"Dave Homan introduced me to this spot," he said.
Dave Homan? Wonder how the hell that old soul is doing? You just had to know he was fine and loving life.
Down the road a bit and Mark pulled off at a nice private little spot. Again I was content just sitting in the truck and watching the world go by but you know the fucker wouldn't let up until I followed him down to the rocks and river.
It was then that I realized, God damn, dude, I'm buzzin' pretty good, here. We were into our 3rd sixer and no breakfast and certain physics were taking hold. It was this realization that probably made me follow him onto the rocks and the next thing I know I was down to boxer shorts (having ended up on this trip on a whim and not anticipating baggies) and dipping my feet in the river.
I sat and drank my beer, feeling the cool St. Johns river run over my feet. Lassy of course was off- diving into the river and talking about rebirth and baptisms. I myself was content just sitting there and watching the fucking kid swim and unknowingly getting swept downstream in the current. He soon realized this and swam hard to get back to where I was. He scurried up some rocks and began to scream.
"Ah, shit! Fuck, man, fuck! Yo, be careful getting up on these rocks, the oysters shells will cut the shit out of your feet."
I looked down and saw his feet bleeding and laughed.
"I'm not kidding man, it really fucking hurts."
I suddenly remember
LASSY AND THE CLOTHESLINE and laughed- but that's a story for another time.
Mark managed to get back to me and smiled as he saw me laughing at him. He retorted back by scanning me up and down and saying, "Hey man, you sure put on a lot of weight. You used to be built like a stack shithouse."
Ah, fuck off, Lassy. A hell of a thing to mention when we're at rock bottom here and I'm the one buying all the beer and gas. Instead I just drank some more and decided that I would at least jump in one time.
Don't know about a rebirth but it was cold and refreshing. I treaded water on my back and rested my head back, my ears lying just below the water and drowning out the world. I thought of staying there forever and letting the current take me out to sea but of course we were low on booze again and that was a problem.
I managed to climb out back onto the rocks, only suffering a few cuts onto my feet, which was nothing compared to the bloodbath that Lassy the Trailblazer was suffering from.
Soon we were back on the road and didn't take long to stop off at a salty little convenient story and score some more gas and sixer number four.
He drove on and I drank more. This time I knew where we were going even if Mark didn't. We were headed back to Michler's point, to the crossroads, where I had parked my car earlier that morning. I mentioned this to Mark and he asked why.
"Take me back to my car. It's time for me to go home," I said, more ordering him than telling him.
It's time for me to go home.
Oh how little did I know what that would really mean.
Beautiful ain't it?
Niiiice!
Pure fucking Whoah!
