To state the obvious, I haven't updated this blog in awhile.
I can't tell you how many times I've sat down in front of this computer with good intentions, meaning to write for an hour or two about something or other. Unfortunately, my good intentions haven't amounted to anything, let alone any good ideas.
It's not my fault. I've lost my muse, and I don't know where she's gone.
My muse is a heavyset 86-year-old jazz singer. Her first name is Rose. I don't now what her last name is. She bounces around from city to city via a Greyhound Bus. She never spends more than a few weeks in any one place. I asked her once why she doesn't just settle down somewhere at her age, but she growled at me with a cigarette gripped between her teeth and a glass of whiskey in her hand that she prefers to live "out among the people."
I've asked her to be careful. There are some pretty crazy people out there who ride the bus sometimes, but she dismissed my concerns with an impatient wave of her hand. "Don't you worry about me, boy," she said. "Worry about yourself. Besides, whenever somebody gets in my face I get my face right back in theirs. And if I need to, I smash 'em with my purse."
It's a pretty heavy purse. She's got a brick in there or something. More likely it's "something." Whatever it is, it's dangerous. She's pretty dangerous, too. You don't want to cross this woman, or worse, waste her time asking stupid questions. She hates that. You might get a purse in the face for that.
I haven't been in contact with her in a long time. I've tried calling her cell a bunch of times, but it just kicks into voicemail. Last time I tried, it didn't even do that. The phone just kept ringing.
I haven't been able to write. I'm getting really worried. I'm going to go look for her.
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Two weeks have gone by since I wrote that.
I was pretty sure my muse might be in New Orleans this time of year, since it was so close to Mardi Gras. My wife dropped me off at the Greyhound bus terminal around midnight, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and then got out of there. I don't blame her. There must have been a convention of Jehovah's Witnesses in town, because the terminal was full of them, all smiling and suited up and eager to talk.
I bought my ticket and sat on the ground by a crowded bench. I should have watched where I sat. I knocked over someone's water bottle and it spilled all around me on the cold concrete floor.
Perfect.
"Excuse me, sir. Did you spill my water bottle?"
I could feel the eyes of a Jehovah's Witness sitting on the bench above me looking down in my direction, but my cold, wet butt didn't feel like replying, so I just sat there stubbornly quiet.
"I was honestly looking forward to finishing my drink."
Silence.
"It's been a long day. I'm very thirsty."
Go buy another, you water-drinking so-and-so, I thought.
"Would you please answer me, sir?"
Not a chance.
"You are being quite rude. It's been a very long day, and I don't know that I can manage one more rude person."
Manage this.
"Would you please buy me another water bottle to replace the one you spilled, sir?"
Jehovah couldn't make me.
"Very well, sir. You leave me no other choice. I'm going to have to teach you a lesson."
My butt is cold and wet. My jeans are chafing my cheeks. How much more of a lesson is there to learn?
The Jehovah's Witness signaled some friends, and suddenly I was surrounded and being kicked viciously from all sides.
"This is for slamming the door in my face!" one shouted.
"This is for clipping my bike with your car!" another yelled.
"This is for running me off your land with a shotgun!" another screamed.
As I was curled up in a fetal position and being battered from all sides, I heard sirens and shouting and scuffling. Suddenly the police were there, and the punishment stopped.
"Why were you kicking that man?" a cop asked angrily. "What did he do to you?"
"He spilled my water bottle!"
"He wouldn't respond to us!"
"He's the essence of pure evil!"
A cop looked down at me and said, "I think you'd better get out of here, mister. This is the angriest crowd of God worshipers I've ever encountered."
I stumbled to my feet and brushed some of the water off of my backside. It had started to creep up my shirt, so I was wet from my thighs to the center of my back. I scowled all around me. The crowd of angry Jehovah's Witnesses who gathered around to witness my beating numbered in the hundreds. One by one they started slamming their fists into the palms of their hands rhythmically, like one collective tie-wearing, white-shirted, wrath-of-God-fearing beast. They inched closer, despite the police,who were doing their best to keep the angry crowd back.
"For heaven's sake, mister! Get out of here! We can't hold them back forever."
I nodded and headed for the door. A full water bottle whooshed past me, just missing my head. I picked it up, and as I opened the door, the intercom system announced the departure of my bus. I looked back at the crowd, opened the cold water bottle, and took a big drink.
"Thanks for the drink!" I said.
The crowd roared as one and burst through the police line. As tear gas canisters exploded all around the terminal, and Tasers sounded like so many buzzing bees, I limped inside the bus as it suddenly took off. As we left the terminal, the flood of furious Jehovah's Witnesses poured out and chased us through the streets of the city.
"They're gaining on us!" a woman screamed.
With no other choice, the bus driver ran a red light, and then another, and soon the crowd of parched zealots was left behind.
I settled down into a seat and looked out at the lights and the buildings streaming away from us as the bus made its way through the night to the City of New Orleans.
"Good morning, America, how are ya?" I hummed to myself as I leaned my head against the bus window.
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I got into the city with the first light of dawn. I limped off the bus, and into the streets of New Orleans. It was unseasonably cold. And then it started to rain.
I pulled my coat tight around me and wondered where I would be now if I were my muse.
"Good heaven's, mister. What happened to you?"
I looked up.
It was a Jehovah's Witness.
I ran as far and as fast as my limping legs could manage, and then hailed a taxi.
"Where to, bud?" He didn't even look at me, or else he might have thought twice about giving me a ride.
I brushed the wet hair out of my face and said, "wherever there are bars and people singing jazz at this hour."
Without a reply he hit the gas, and we tore through the drizzly morning streets of the city. After about 10 minutes he screeched to a halt in front of a seedy bar. The steady thump, thump, thump of music from inside the bar vibrated the taxi as I got out and paid the driver.
"I got you here, mister." he said as he started to drive away. "Where you go and how you end up is up to you." The taxi turned a corner and was gone, leaving me alone on the sidewalk. I looked up at the sputtering neon sign. "Rose's Place." This looked promising.
As I reached for the door, the thumping suddenly stopped, and I heard the sound of the door being locked. I gave it a pull, but it wouldn't budge.
"Let me in!" I yelled to the door. "Please, let me in!"
"We're closed!" I heard a woman inside say. "Come back some other time!"
I would know that voice anywhere. It was her. It was my muse.
"But Rose! Rose! Please, I've come a long way. I need to talk with you!"
Someone looked out of a window by the door. I heard the door being unlocked, and an old woman's fleshy arm pushed it open for me.
"Come in if you're gonna come in," she said.
I grabbed the door and walked into the little bar.
"Thank you," I said, looking around. "Do you own this place?"
"I've owned this place for over a dozen years," she said. She plopped down on a nearby chair and started smoking a cigarette.
"What?" I said. "I thought you liked to travel."
"You thought what?" she asked. "You don't know anything about me. I'm 86 years old. I'm too old to travel. I've been too old to travel for a long time now. Now, let's get to the point. What do you want from me?"
I sat down across from her, trying to avoid the cigarette smoke as best as I could.
"I don't know," I said. "I had an idea that you could inspire me to write something important and meaningful. I have a bad case of writer's block, and I thought you could help me with that."
"Where on earth did you get an idea like that?" she asked. "If you're all blocked up, go see a doctor. I don't have any help to give you."
She blew some smoke in my face.
"Wake up," she said.
"I thought you were my muse," I said.
"You thought I was your what?" she laughed. She started coughing violently, and then turned to spit into a plastic cup. "I don't know where you so-called writers get the idea that somebody has to be your goddamn muse. I'm through with this whole 'muse' business. If you have no ideas, it's your fault, not mine. Go out and live your life and write about that, if it's worth writing about. Just don't bore other people like you're boring me right now. Now, get out of my bar, get off of this street, and get back home. I've got nothing more to say to a crazy person like you."
"But," I sputtered.
"Get your butt out of here!" she shouted, slapping her hand down on the table between us. "Move on, or I'll slam you with my purse! You're boring me!"
I stood up and turned to go. As I limped to the door, I noticed someone was outside with their hand raised and about to knock.
"Looks like someone else wants to talk with you," I said, looking back at her.
"Send them away!" she said, waving her hand.
"Thank you for your time," I said.
"Thank you for leaving," she said.
I opened the door and stepped outside, nodding to the person standing there.
"She'll be very happy to see you," I said, holding the door open.
"Thank you!" said the Jehovah's Witness as he went inside.
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I'm home now. My face is almost healed, and I'm still limping a little, but I feel pretty good all things considered. I've reconciled myself to the fact that I no longer have a muse to inspire me, and to be quite honest, I feel pretty good about it. Now I can only blame myself when I feel too uninspired to write. I think I'm going to be OK with that.
Someone is knocking at the front door, so I have to wrap this up now.
Actually, it sounds like a whole crowd of people out there.
The doorbell is ringing off the wall and our dog is barking like crazy.
I wonder what's going on?
I'd better go see.
