Ever wake up with a TV jingle stuck in your head? Freeeee credit report dot cooom! You wake up shamed at TVs ability to get in your head, affect you unconsciously. Either way, I woke up yesterday with that stupid credit song ringing in my brain. So I’m in a sour mood to start off my long day of wandering and writing random observations. I end up, at the end of the evening, at the local beer/pizza joint in Beaverton. I sit down with a scotch and soda, a notebook and a half pack of American Spirits. Life was looking up. Then it happened. The song on the juke box ends. I hear the whirring of motors and the CD changes. The first faint strands, I knew that I’d been followed.
“The highway’s jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive!” It was Bruce. That mother fucker had followed me all the way from NJ to Oregon. I held my hands over my head as visions of hairy chested men with gold chains, in wife-beater tank tops driving beat up Firebirds down to the Jersey shore, danced through my memory. I left New Jersey to run away from “born to run”, to leave Bruce and the shore culture behind. Four eternal minutes and thirty intolerable seconds later my shattered skull stopped throbbing in cadence to the Jersey rhythm; and all was well again in the land of rain and sleeved shirts. I wiped the sweat from my brow and lit a cigarette. I missed having a credit company jingle stuck in my head; because, at least, it would have been better than Bruce. Anything would have been better than Bruce.