Small town life can be pretty boring. I made this observation to my buddy Jim late one afternoon as we sat on a bench drinking sodas. We'd spent the last hour shooting basketballs and a combination of heat and my increasing lack of fitness had ensured that Jim had quite literally run rings around me. Or maybe he was just a better on a court than I was.
'I thought boring was what you wanted,' said Jim.
'Maybe. I just feel a little restless,' I replied, taking a long hit of Sprite and finally getting my breath back.
'Do something about it then.'
'Not that easy. I'm approaching Thirty, I'm-'
He interrupted me with a laugh. 'So, it's an age thing?'
I shook my head. 'It's not just that. I live in the same town I was born in. I know just about everybody here and I'm doing a job that is never going to make me rich.'
'Thought you liked the job?'
For the last year I'd been working for the local newspaper, and I had my own column where I reviewed music and movies, talked a little about whatever took my interest. If I'm honest, it really was an easy position. Companies sent me the latest CD's and I either said good or bad things about them, and I got to see most of the latest movies before they came out, and for free. Each week I did my best to add a little humour to what I wrote, and generally the readership of the paper seemed to like what I offered. Occasionally I received an e-mail telling me what an asshole I was, but those occasions were rare. When I did get one, it brightened the day.
'I do like it. But like I say, I'm never gonna make my fortune at it. Just feels like I'm going nowhere.'
'So go back to the city. See if you can take your work to one of the big papers or magazines out there.'
'Maybe.'
He stood and clapped me on the shoulder. 'Small town living ain't so bad pal. Good air, clean streets, very little crime. Plus, you can take the afternoons off and let me whip your ass at sports.'
I grinned. 'Well, that gives my life a whole new purpose.'
Jim was rarely serious, but he was now. 'You make your own luck in this world, Rich. If you want something, then you have to go for it. I know that I'm not exactly a role-model for today's youth, being the slacker that I am, but I do know that things don't just fall in your lap.'
He tossed the ball to me and I caught it, bounced it a couple of times. 'I just wish something good would come along,' I said.
'My old Dad used to say, wish in one hand and shit in the other, see which one fills up faster.' He took the ball away from me with ridiculous ease.
'You have such a way with words, Jim.'
'Maybe I should become an English teacher,' he said, as the basketball slapped through the hoop and rattled the chain netting. 'What's the score now?'
I turned my back and started to walk off the court. 'Fuck the score. Let's go and get a beer.'
'Good deal.'
***************
The next day I was playing hoops again, this time sitting at my desk and scrunching up paper and launching it towards the wastebin. True to form, there were more white balls around the bin than inside it. I'd been trying to think of an angle for that week's column, but my mind wasn't on the job. In truth, I'd been thinking about what Jim had said. Maybe I did need to take myself back to the big city.
I'd lived in Los Angeles for two years, running the usual route of minimum wage jobs while waiting for the big break in the acting business that predictably never arrived. I wasn't alone in failure; every year thousands of young hopefuls like myself had their dreams of stardom dashed by unscrupulous casting agents. There always seemed to be an average of a thousand people competing for the same role, and with that ratio agents could afford to pick and choose. The only way to get noticed was to have either exceptional talent or be able to give a blowjob that could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. My acting, while acceptable, was never going to trouble the Acadamy, and nothing was ever going to persuade me to get down on my knees. So one morning I cut my losses and returned to my little backwoods town, which is where I'd remained ever since. Old friends, my parent's farm, the coffee shops and bars I knew like the back of my hand. Decent and stable job for possibly the first time. Life was okay. Life was normal. Life was...dull.
I'd run out of sheets to screw-up, and content with having wasted a small part of the planet's natural resources I decided that a unhealthy dose of caffeine was the required kick-start my brain required. My editor's secretary had a pot of coffee brewing near her desk, but the smell that hung around the room as I approached was all the convincing I needed to get myself to the deli across the street. I asked a couple of my colleagues if they needed anything but they both replied to the negative, so I took the stairs two at a time and crashed out of the front doors onto the sidewalk.
It was nearing six and the street had taken on it's usual quietness that always approached at the end of the working day. A few cars dotted the kerb, and two kids shot past me on skateboards, one of them performing an impressive kick-flip and grind along the concrete flowerbox that lined the front of the newspaper office. I watched the two of them traverse around the block before trotting across the street, raising my hand to Pete Jameson as he cruised past sedately in his old Plymouth Fury, the fire-red body work and acres of chrome immaculate as always.
A searing blast of air-con hit me as I pushed Gino's door open, and by the time I'd walked over to the marbled counter my teeth were chattering. Gino himself; fat, red-faced and sporting his trademark stubble, grinned as I approached.
'You expecting a busload of Eskimos?' I said.
His grin widened. 'You listen to me. This climate is good for your body.' His accent was heavy with his Little Italy, New York roots. Talking to Gino was like re-enacting a scene from Goodfellas.
'The only thing it's doing is causing my balls to climb up inside my ass.'
'It's good to learn new skills,' he shot back. 'You want coffee?'
I confirmed I did and watched as he poured jet-black java into a tall beaker and added a generous amount of cream. There were a fine selection of bagels under the counter, and I chose a creamcheese and tomato, left five dollars and said my goodbyes. I'd always liked Gino's place; as a kid some of my first dates had taken place in the booths towards the back of the store.
