"The booze-soaked exploits of a blue-collar bastard in the Bible Belt"
In the middle of nowhere, Jimmy Lane (Jimbo) navigates late nights, hangovers, relationships, and comradery at a holeâin-the-wall bar called the Sand Dollar.
"The booze-soaked exploits of a blue-collar bastard in the Bible Belt"
In the middle of nowhere, Jimmy Lane (Jimbo) navigates late nights, hangovers, relationships, and comradery at a holeâin-the-wall bar called the Sand Dollar.
Going nowhere in a nowhere town. Thatâd go nicely on my tombstone. My life summed up in one sentence.
The car ride always gets me.
I stumble out of the cab and up to the door, fumbling for my keys. I wave the driver on so I can search for them without his judgement and the headlightâs glare.
My headâs spinning, churning up my half-digested dinner, and I have my doubts Iâll make it to the toilet in time. I sped past my tolerance level miles ago.
Why do I keep doing this to myself? What the fuckâs wrong with me?
Jamming the key in, I throw the door open barely making it to the bathroom before the contents of my stomach come up in frothy torrents. I come to in the embrace of the porcelain bowl a few hours later.
Somehow finding the strength to stand to my feet, I shut and lock the front door, and retreat to my bedroom for some much-needed rest.
Nestled among the rolling hills of western Kentucky, this nowhere town sits on the muddy banks of the Ohio river, which carries the distinction of being the most polluted body of water in the U.S. Itâs the third largest city in the state with a population of just under 60,000. It considers itself, without qualification, the âBarbeque Capital of the World.â It is also smack dab in the middle of the Bible Belt, so there is a certain mentality that permeates the place. One that I grew up around my entire life, but that Iâve been fighting against for as long as I can remember.
Old money runs a place like this, and believe me, they have deep pockets. Generation after generation of the same handful of last names having the final word on most every decision made. They donât want things to change, and theyâll pay whatever it costs to make sure it doesnât.
A few years back, a sports bar specializing in hot wings and greasy pub food where the servers and bartenders wear low-cut shirts
with short shorts, came to town. Protesters showed up with homemade signs and picketed the place for weeks after it opened.
We did get a new state-of-the-art movie theater though, and by the way people reacted, you wouldâve thought we had been transported to New York City, middle of Time-fucking-Square.
We canât seem to get anything but restaurants and churches built here. If youâre looking for either, this town is full of them. Thereâs one on every corner. Nothing but a bunch of Bible thumpers if you ask me. âGive me that old time religionâ might as well be blared from loudspeakers in the streets. At least if they handled venomous snakes or spiders in the pulpit itâd be somewhat entertaining.
If you do go to church, and on any given Sunday find yourself disagreeing with the interpretation of some obscure scripture verse, the preacherâs haircut, or heaven forbid donât like the color of the ceramic tile the deacon laid in the foyer entrance over the weekend, by all means find a new one. Better yet, start your own. More has been done over less.
Pretty soon large groups of patrons will follow suit, migrating to this newly minted house of worship. But just wait, it wonât be long before somethingâs said or done that offends, so off they go to the next place.
Now when the freshly forgiven get done worshiping at their air- conditioned altars, to their white, Conservative, Americanized version of Jesus, having kept their sinful nature in check for two long hours, theyâre famished, and more than willing to add gluttony back to the list.
The same people worshipping God an hour ago are complaining that the teenager who makes shit wages isnât breaking their back bending over backwards to make sure the slightest of inconveniences isnât incurred. Then have the nerve to invite you to visit their church next Sunday, while you count the loose change they left you as a tip.
Evangelicals and Pentecostals are the worst offenders when it comes to this. Ask anyone whoâs ever worked in the service industry, and theyâll tell you the same.
I say all this from experience, having grown up around them my entire life. From Sunday school and Vacation Bible school to tent- revivals, Iâve been to them all and come to this conclusion: Most if not all churches are just a social club full of hypocrites.
So, thereâs not much to do around here unless you are religious, have a filthy habit, or recovering from one. Itâs really no wonder people resort to drugs and alcohol.
If you do use drugs, thereâs Narcotics Anonymous, more commonly known by its acronym-N.A., while people struggling with alcohol have A.A. Both are twelve step programs set up to help you kick your nasty habit and enjoy a happy, sober life.
These programs often partner with religious organizations, such as churches, and the recovering addicts will most certainly join the congregation as a result.
Welcome to the club!
So, where does one go to escape from the hypocrisy of organized religion, when you live in the middle of âeast Jesus nowhere?â
The bar.
Chapter 2
Drinking Buddies
After my separation and subsequent divorce, I started frequenting a little hole in the wall called the Sand Dollar. Itâs one block away from the hood and about two steps away from being a biker bar on most nights. At any rate it had gotten me through some lonely times, so I felt a bit of loyalty to the place.
As was custom on a Saturday night, cold drinks were being served and good music was being played, so I was here.
âWhatâll it be Jimbo?â Tara, a petite brunette with a goth predilection sets a coaster down on the bar in front of me.
âIâll take a beer. How about a Flying Dog.â
âSure.â
She catches me checking her ass out as she reaches into the cooler and winks.
As she hands me the bottle, Dalton walks out from the back of the house. Heâs the bouncer/barback/short order fucking chef of the place. When he sees me, he stops mid-stride, middle of the dancefloor, bends down and strikes a pose while flexing his bicep.
We have this thing we do.
Iâm not sure how or even when it started, but Iâll be damned if I donât continue the tradition. Iâm not about to let this bouncer of men, this backer of bars, this cooker of delicious late-night cuisine throw down the gauntlet and it go unanswered.
So, beer in hand, I take a knee and flex my muscle for him and the rest of the bar to see. He shakes his head in mock defeat and carries on.
I sit at the bar with a few of the regulars talking amongst themselves and take a long look around the room. Both pool tables have games going, the high-top tables lining the wall beside them full of spectators waiting their turn.
There are a couple of forever 21s testing their moves out on the dancefloor, shy friends cheering on from the safety of their seats. Theyâll join them soon enough.
Not a bad turnout for a Saturday night.
âŚCause I see some ladies tonight, that should be having my baby. BabyâŚ
I need another beer.
Before long, my buddy Mike shows up. If youâre asking him its âBig Mike.â Also, if youâre asking him, it has more to do with the length and girth of his dick than his six-foot stature or his three hundred fifteen pounds of freckled, redheaded meat.
âHow the hell are ya, Jimbo!â he says wrapping his arms around me, completely picking me up off the barstool.
âFuck man,â I protest uselessly, âput me down.â He obliges as Tara walks over to greet him. âBourbon and Mt. Dew, please.â
âWhat you been up to Jimmy?â âHard at it man. You?â âLiving the dream, my friend.â
âSomeoneâs dream,â I say, and we both cheer to that.
We met at work, but we became fast friends after realizing we were dating a set of twin sisters. Iâd just started talking to this girl I met from way back when we were teenagers in youth group.
Turns out, Mike was hooking up with her sister. We showed up at her apartment one day as he was leaving, and the rest is as they say, âbourbon under the bridge.â
Mike loves what he does for a living, but I canât stand it. I kind of fell into it all, as I tend to do with most things in my life. Before I knew it, I had completed a five-year apprenticeship and was handed a company truck, a phone, and a set of blueprints. I started running work here and there as a foreman.
I donât know why it is, but people look down on construction workers. Like weâre second-class citizens. The thing you should realize is its hard work, whatever craft youâre in. Whether youâre a carpenter, plumber, block layer, or in my case, electrician, it can be brutal. Blazing hot in the summer, freezing in the winter; dirty, muddy, dusty, and just overall shitty conditions to work in.
Most days, you take breaks and eat your lunch sitting on a five- gallon bucket right there in your workspace. Occasionally thereâs a job trailer, but youâre spending half the time waiting in line to heat your food up because thereâs only one microwave.
It does pay well, so itâs not all bad. You can make real money if you work steady. Itâs not uncommon to earn six-figures out on the road.
Some of the guys go on the road chasing the big jobs. Tramping, they call it. Thatâs a lifestyle alright, just not one I want.
The city finally got the financing to build a new hospital, so that was the job everyone was on at the time. It was a huge project. At its peak, the jobsite had over a thousand workers. The conditions were bad for a while, bordering on subhuman.
Along with the logistics of getting up to the top floors with materials and tools, without the use of working elevators, the site was a swamp.
With all the workers onsite, they couldnât keep the Porta Johns empty either. Youâd wait in line, and when it was your turn to do your business, itâd be so full, shit was mounded up past the toilet seat.
Later, when we finally did get working restrooms on each floor, it wasnât much better. Someone kept throwing used paper on the floor instead of flushing it down. Others would forego the paper entirely, wiping their shit all over the walls. We had our suspicions on who the culprits were, but never did find out for sure. I put my money on the army of drywallers piling in and out of the company vans at the beginning and end of each shift.
A mix of white, Black, and Hispanic, most were either on some type of work release program, or immigrants. The ex-convicts werenât
going anywhere no matter how bad the conditions got. Only the foremen spoke any English at all.
On any given day of the week, you step onto any floor of that structure, all youâll hear is a confusing symphony of drywall saws, screw guns, and Mariachi music. If you didnât know any better, youâd swear you crossed the Border.
Eventually someone had enough and called Immigration. When they showed up onsite, the guys took off running in every direction, out through the fields and into the woods. You shouldâve seen them scatter. Some of them never did come back. They had to shut the job down for a few days while the authorities sorted it all out. I felt bad for the workers. It wasnât their fault; they were just trying to provide for themselves and their families like anyone else. At any rate, after that the shit-smearing stopped.
âYou guys coming to Ladiesâ Night?â Tara asks setting down new drinks for us.
âFirst Iâve heard of it. Whatâs that?â I say.
âYeah, when is Ladiesâ Night, cause this sure as shit isnât it,â Mike says downing his concoction, âpresent company excluded of course.â
I shrug and nod my head in agreement.
âHmmmmâŚItâs the first Thursday night of the month. There are drink specials for the ladies, and they get in free. We have a DJ and everything. Thereâs usually a really good turnout.
âYâall should come, itâll be a lot of fun,â Tara says. âConsider us intrigued,ââ I say.
âConsider us there,â Mike counters, and at that we all take a
shot.
Itâs not easy for a divorced working stiff to find kicks in East Jesus Nowhere. Jimmy/ Jimbo Lane, the downhearted but undaunted main character in Joseph Fulkersonâs novella of the same name, asks rhetorically, âSo where does one go to escape the hypocrisy of organized religion, when you live in the middle of East Jesus Nowhere? The Bar.â That's where Jimbo spends a lot of his time and money.
This story, like Jimboâs social and leisure life, revolves around the bars he frequents and the people he interacts with while drinking. It begins with Jimbo scolding himself, âWhy do I keep doing this to myself?â After this rare moment of self-reflection, he proceeds to drink himself through boozy sequences of bad decisions, awkward situations, and questionable acts, which he realizes even at the time that he may later regret but shows scant inclination to do otherwise. Â
In a revealing moment of honest but slightly unsettling candor, he rhapsodizes:
âI get lost in my thoughts for a while staring into my drink, and time seems to come to a standstill. Iâm mesmerized by the sphere of ice diluting the caramel-colored spirits in my glass. I fall in love with the feel of the bass line as it permeates every inch of my body, everything around me moving in sync with the rhythm of the song. These are the moments I feel most alive.â
Readers may engage in amateur psychoanalysis of Jimboâs drinking behavior. Some may see this as classic denial and rationalization. Others may interpret his attitude as escapist sublimation of small-town drinking culture to compensate for other life failures. His plight can be seen as typical of a common laborer trying to eke out satisfaction from a hard life. All these views may be somewhat valid, although I think they give Jimbo too much credit. This is a simple story about a man who drinks too much because he likes and thinks he deserves it.
Thereâs potential depth to Jimbo, but Fulkerson eschews any meaningful character development. For example, Jimbo is a father and claims to miss his children, although they arenât even significant enough as characters to merit being named.
Alternatively, itâs possible to read Jimboâs misadventures as antic comedy, and while there are moments of whimsy, the novella has a low laugh-per-page ratio. Thereâs really only one jokeâJimbo drinks too muchâand not everyone will find it funny.Â