Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Without a Weight

I've been living in Arizona for over 12 years now, and not once had I ever had any intention of going to Buckeye, AZ.  The middle of fuckin nowhere..  But I have friend at work that lives there so I was being a good friend and hanging out there for a bit.  It made for an adventurous night...

So driving to my friend's house, I become overwhelmed by the lack of business establisments for miles, seemingly.  I was so relieved when I saw a small plaza of businesses that I stopped there for a couple minutes to collect myself.  Damn cowboy hats in every car I see driving...except a Mexican in scrubs driving a Geo.  Fucking Buckeye, man.  So I'm looking for the road Windmill Village Dr.  Dirt roads and horse stables to the left of me, septic tanks and power lines to the right.  How will I spot this Windmill Village Dr. with the sun glarin in my eyes, miniscule street signs, and a cloud of dust all around?  Well its so hick they actually have a giant windmill on the street. 

So when I pick up my friend, it all of a sudden becomes a damn mission to find a place to eat.  The one plaza in the whole damn town only seemed to have fast food; Wendy's, McDonald's, El Pollo Loco.  Finally, there was one sit-down type restaurant...Fuckin Cracker Barrel.  Might as well call the plaza Honkeys R Us.  The only restaurant that would fit better is Old Country Harvest Buffet.  But go in and I'm already thrown off by how the front part is an actual store.  But its like one of those thrift stores where you buy used Christmas sweaters and Andy Gibb records. 

Anyway the hostess is pretty hot, and she started talking to us, when all of sudden she starts stumbling her words and says "sorry I got thrown off looking at your shirt".  I'm wearing my Wonder Years shirt, which always seems to get attention.  Minutes later we end up with a hot waitress.  She is acting all professional, until she comes back with my raspberry iced tea.  She points out that she had gotten some red on her shirt when making my drink.  I purposely slammed about 3 raspberry iced teas just so I could flirt with her everytime she got me a drink.  I devised a plan to leave my business card with my cell number on the back when I payed for the tip.  But it turns out at Country Harvest Barrel Buffet you pay at the cashier, and the waitress vanished. 

After paying, my friend and I hung out by my car for a bit, then as we were about to leave we saw the waitress heading out to her car.  I was like "fuck, if I leave this car and talk to her, she will think we are trying to date rape her".  So anti-climatically she drove off.  However, I know she works there and has an Indiana license plate, perhaps I can send her letters written in my blood yet....Future plans of stalking aside, things only get worse.  Driving my friend back home was tough cuz he didn't know the area well and we ended up driving around in circles in the wrong neighborhood.  But I eventually get my shit together and manage to navigate through that clusterfuck of a maze.

I end up getting semi-lost again leaving the neighborhood passing by 13 year old kids looking at me like I was a cop.  When I start going in the right direction all of a sudden I get to where I think I'm supposed to turn right...well I end up driving for 10 minutes in that direction, unable to find the I-10.  It's bad too, the further I drive, the more pitchback the roads are and the more it smells like shit.  How come people only get lost in scary places?  Like I've never gotten lost in the hidden boob palace or at a BBQ pretzel factory.  No, I get lost in a town where everyone has a shotgun, shoots trespassers, and somehow don't mind the smell of animal shit in the morning.  At first it just smelled like cows, but then I reached the depths of septic plants and pulled a dirt road u-turn.

I finally manage to escape the farms and head back to civilization... I don't know maybe that's not the most interesting story.  Maybe it is.. All's I'm sayin is would it kill you to put up some damn street lights, Buckeye.  It ain't fuckin 1963.   I'm not John F. Kennedy, you aren't Lee Harvey Oswalt, and this isn't Dallas... Too soon?

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