Sourced from my umpteen photo files & albums throughout the years...
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After quaffing several ales, I was magically transported from the brewery to a stool at Jakes Famous Crawfish Restaurant; a Portland institution. I injected myself into the conversation of the occupants of neighbouring bar stools, showering them with small talk. A crew of Portlanders took a shine to me. I remember them as Guy, Girl, Girl; and somewhat Skanky Girl.
From across the street, sultry, soulful voices were calling. I glided toward them. I found two gorgeous African-American damsels sitting in what I made out to be either an AMC Gremlin or a hearse.
They asked me to get in.
I got in and sat between them in the front seat.
Strangely, like the bar managers, they asked me five times: if I was a cop.
I replied, NO, each time.
I showed them my driver’s license.
They believed me.
They began to caress my body, brushing over my—they asked me if I’d like to party.
A dim light gleamed, hookers?
Lately, I've been in a state of flux, shifting in and out of the past and present. I'm trying to find sanity after a period of terrible uncertainty. I've been trying to avoid thinking about my past. This man's tragic ending began to pull my mind toward darkness. Writing this letter helped me to avoid the descent. It also helped me to lighten things up—except for the past few paragraphs, of course.
I decided: just in case George was right, I was going to fight for my hair. I didn't want life to lead me to a dimly lit bachelor pad with just my hands, potato chips, and porn. I'm not sure I even like porn.
Shut up hands. Don’t make me put on gloves.
I was first on the scene. I stopped twelve feet from the mangled wreckage. I looked to my left to see a middle-aged man slumping over the steering wheel of the Corolla. I could see his neck pulse faintly. His eyes went blank. They became vacant. He died.
Tears rolled over my cheeks, breaking at my chin, dripping onto my lap.
Soon, I would be driving a dead man to work.
His desperation caused me to consider whether I could ever pull the proverbial trigger. Ed, I’d like to say the answer to the question was an emphatic no.
Unfortunately, I think most of us, when life brings us darkness, are capable of doing unthinkable measures; like suicide.
Sunday morning in Nice brought with it a warm, overcast haze. I crawled out of bed at 6 AM, sleepless from the night before. Sleep had become torturous because my past kept swirling in my head.
When I opened my mailbox, one email greeted me. It was from my ex-girlfriend, Trish.
Dear Asshole. I hate everything about you. You suck. I love my new man more. He's far better than you—blah, blah, fucking blah.
Trish twisted the dagger by finishing with—I hate you.
I left the café in tears.
Three days after reconstructive knee surgery, I was pleasantly hallucinating on a morphine drip. My nurse came in and upped my dosage. Fifteen minutes later she returned to remove a drain inserted on the outside of my left knee. She tugged vigorously on the drain. It wouldn't budge. She tugged again. When the hardware finally came out, it felt like a wire brush was tearing my veins to shreds. I screamed FUCK so loudly it ricocheted throughout the hospital—sparking coma patients awake.
I sheepishly tried to break down language barriers by speaking the only French I knew. Bon retour guimauves, I said.
Guimauves means “marshmallows.” I’m not entirely sure why I know that?
Anyway, this rendezvous with Steph and Arno led to the night stopping just shy of casual sex. I’ll spare the details. I believed: casual…would have spoiled the moment.
Instead, I bid them a·dieu and hopped back on the despair train
Did I think about ending my life that beautiful misty day?
Sure. It would have been easy to end it all, just swig down some pills. But I didn't have the strength—no, I guess what happened: a stronger sense of purpose came over me. And besides, I'm not sure taking the easy way out is what any of us are supposed to do—isn’t the easy way just wasting valuable lessons about life?