“0” An American billboarded perspective (ABSTRACT)

“0” An American billboarded perspective (ABSTRACT)

My father had us play ROAD SIGN ALPHABET to beat the monotony of long family road trips. This game is played by spelling out the alphabet on billboards. The first one to reach Z wins.

            I took the game a step further by studying how a town’s secrets are revealed by their billboards. Or do the billboards dictate a town’s secrets?

            The two haunted highways are Highway 61 and Highway 49. Highway 49 descends to the end of Mississippi (Gulfport) (the Gulf Of Mexico), and ascends in Clarksdale. Highway 61 ascends to Memphis Tennessee and descends near St. Francisville Louisiana.

            Walked into that bar with a Bill W. pop face t-shirt on and my soles worn out on my shoes.  Yea, my soul endures. Twas an armpit of a drag that has a homeless shelter, a church, and a strip club-Choose Your Fate-Choose Your Salvation-right? Bet’cha’ all of these establishments are in a territorial war. And like a head looking around to make sure if the coast is clear there’s a billboard of a sad mutt. Yea, I am in the right place.

When you walk in the first thing you see is a huge happy face clock (3:20 am) and above it there’s neon green Old English writing “Don’t Worry It’s Five O’clock Somewhere.” Has all sorts of antique relics clustering the wall space. The bar area forms a small cubical shaped area made of more antique items. Items like: rotary phones, phone booths, 1980 cell phones, eight track and record players, 1970 televisions, 1900 empty glass soda bottles, old political campaign signs, barber shop spiral lights, and wagon wheels.

It was obvious that she had been crying by the mascara stains down her cheeks. She lifts up her head.-Is She assuming someone will come through the door and save her?

            She sneers at me. Obviously, I don’t fit into the Prince Charming type that she’s waiting for.

            “Hey baby.” There’s gotta’ be a bartending school out there someplace that teaches the female bartenders to use different vocal tones for “baby.” With each tone it subconsciously makes the customer do whatever is commanded.

            “Blackkkkkkuhhhhhhhhhhhh.” The bartender is giving me the confused dog look.

            “What shoog?” (shoog-short for sugar)

            “Black coffee.”

“I’ll have to make a fresh pot cuzz’ this has been here since this morning.”

“So that’s only about 3 hours old right?”

“Oh babe, I mean yesterday morning.”

“Well, I’ll take it. After all, coffee ain’t no good unless it taste like bug spray smells like.”

“Oh love.” Okay, so now I’m either promoted or demoted in the code of bartender: from baby to sugar, from sugar to love.

I drink down the cold coffee in two long swallows. The coffee grounds tickle my throat into a cough.

She’s watching old re-runs of some cheesy 80’s soap opera. I hear her whimpering as quietly as she can. My guess is she’s comparing her success’s and her failures through the precursor to Reality T.V. Yep, Man used to look upon the skull of the Ape pondering “the meaning of it all” NOW Man watches man, man watches man, watching man. And I am debating on approaching her, but fear the rejection.

Waiting on the cold caffeine rush to take me. I look around at the relics of a past not too long ago-no one else is here-the bar tender, miss broken hearted, and me. Maybe I’ll get her with that pick up line about being the last two people on Earth. Then, as usual, I imagine “Her” in a long beautiful wedding dress. I am in a suit and tie. We’d take vacations all around the world-maybe even hold your hand during birthing pains. My face tenses and the tickle gets me at the same time. Damn, that was Nasty.

            “It’s Ready babe.”-INDEED.

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