whiskey trance collection of entries

8/6/2019 Whiskey Trance Collection of Entries

1/15

David John

Whiskey TranceSelected Writing

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2/15

Dangerade

I mix some. It helps me swallow the vitamins. All those pills and my eyes are still goingto shit. The papacy is calling a war against righteous men. Makes me want to do

something bout it, like pray to the devils in Rome. Ask them to knock down the gatesand open their jackets to reveal semi automatic pistols.

My kid goes to bed with a whine. Tell me a story, he says. And I got nothing to say. Whatgood would I be, making something up about fairies and witches and magic like I'mHarry Potter's old lady. I buy the kid books all the time. He says he read them already,and besides, my stories are better. Sweet kid, but a bad liar. He makes me want to go tosleep beside him. Curl up among the stuffed animals and beneath the superherocomforter.

The kid runs around me like a toy wound up and on auto pilot. Kids don't raise

themselves. But what can I do. It

s gonna happen. His dad goes to work and comeshome and one day, the kids throwing a punch. And I messed it all up. Fucked upanother life.

There s a dark shadow that tightens around my arteries and prevents the good bloodfrom getting up to my brain. He lays there hoping to stay awake and be entertained.TV s broke and my head don t work. I rip off some cartoon from after school in 1991. Hegoes to sleep and I mix a little more.

To Be

To be. It s not an action verb. English teachers tell us not to use it, if we can avoid it. It spassive, non-descriptive, slow, stuttering, clumsy. Still, it s necessary. I can barelyscribble a thought without blurting it out twenty times in a paragraph. Such is thelimitation of words. Action is simpler to take in and process. Action requires nodescription or explanation. We act and things happen, or we drown in the mud. I'm sickof writing in a template designed by some other man. I'm sick of creating in a bookbound by some other man. I'm sick of living in a world built by some other man.

The imaginative child creates his own universe, so I must too. But rst, I have to breakapart this one walled around my perception. I have to cut myself free from the stringspulling my limbs and appetites and dreams. That s why I like it with the screen black. It slike I'm God, creating something out of chaos. Bringing some light to the roomalbeitmundane words or thoughts or how I'm feeling right now.

You want unique or different? No second is exactly the same. But our calendars fool us.We see squares over and over again, and we feel stuck. We don t realize each secondbrings an opportunity to act, decide, dance, or sleep if we can. When we wake from a

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3/15

nightmare, the same one we ve had over and over again, it s not the monsters we refrightened of. We grown-ups know there s no such thing. It s the recurrence that terriesus, the re-traumatization.

The dream brings back that rst time, sweaty and chilled to the bone as a toddler

running through the dark, screaming out for Mom, Dad, anyone bigger stronger safethat could protect us. And now we re bigger stronger, drive cars, tie our own shoes, butthe recurrence shrinks us back to the wet sheets and shaking hands.

When we feel, hear, and see the same thing over and over again, it leads us to despair.It s the alarm clock that sounds the same each morning. It s the routine that provides notcomfort, but numbness. It s the depression that sinks our mood when seasons change.My hands freeze. There it is again.

To be, I can t get away from. On a springboard, I d run and push out hard against theberglass. The water doesn t rid me of it. Down at the bottom, with the tile it s there. I

towel off and shake the drops, and its evaporation forming goose bumps. I feel cold, not just because it s winter. And the heat doesn t come on for shit. Why, when I walkthrough crowded streets, does it feel lonely? Why do we raise our voices a pitch higherwhen asking a question? Is the unknown such a beast that we must whimper whenaddressing it? My mind wanders. And there it is again.

Compose

it's that time of the night when the sleeping pills will either kick in or wear off, and mymind and body are in a tug of war. the brain doesn't want to sleep, doesn't know what'sbest for it, and the body like an obedient acolyte, obeys begrudgingly. I think it has to dowith my father.

News reporter seemed as good a profession as any. The Edward R. Murrow s of theworld. Not just a talking head and suit; someone with ethos and a voice, the writer whohappens to look good and speak well and report on events objectively although he hasa strong opinion on the matter, the one who can hold a lens up to the here and now andconvey meaning to an audience, that speaks to me. Makes me believe there is aconscience on the shoulder of this planet..

A religious man or monastic priest or pious nun or door-to-door evangelist doesn't do itfor me. They don't talk to me; they talk at me. They don't want me to understand; theywant me to believe. They don't ask for time; they ask for ten percent of my salary. Theydon't admit they're making it up as they go along, but we all are. They promise answersas if they speak directly to the creator. Believe them and you've already surrenderedyour soul.

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4/15

There's an inclination in the human brain to congeal segments of meaning. I feel thissame inclination or need, that results in religions forming, and born again experiences,stems from the same tendencies humans have toward genocide. They don't just dowhat they're told; they believe what they're told. It's this same part of a brain that allowsa country to round up and eliminate 6 million Jews. Or passively accept a declaration of

war based on rumors of secret weapons a country might have. There's a want in ourbrains...we want to be taken care of, like when we were little. The government, thepresident will take care of us. Or, God will take care of us. or our people (but not theirpeople) will take care of us. And for me, it's news reporters.

And then I think, If I believe them, I've already lost this soul.

How many Irishmen does it take to change a light bulb?

Both 75 watt bulbs have gone dead from behind the half circle lamp screwed to theceiling in the kitchen. The old man asks me to change a light bulb. I say, "OK." He pullsout the plastic package of three new energy-efcient bulbs. Starts saying something heheard about the bulbs causing cancer. I humor him."Maybe they need to be recycled a certain way."

He grunts and is on to the next topic. He could never keep a conversation he wasn't incontrol of. Then, he climbs up on a chair to unscrew the ceiling light. His heavy bent-over body looks unsteady the extra two and a half feet over the ground. "Dad!" I shout.I'm afraid he's going to fall and we'll be spending the night in a hospital. "Don't ask me todo something and then start doing it! I said I would help."

He reluctantly climbs down and hands me the rag he was using to get a grip on thescrew. It comes loose after a minute. I carefully lower the glass bowl to the table. It'slled with the expected dust and insect corpses. Dad offers to wash it out. I take a knifeto the plastic package of new bulbs. It's machine-sealed really well. Need the sharpknife, and am careful not to cut myself. Normally wouldn't care, but don't want to rile theold man. To him, there's still room for panic.

Maybe the bulbs won't t; maybe the lid won't screw back on. Maybe his son will dropthe four-pound glass dome onto the tile oor and everyone will walk over some piecesthe broom will miss. There are countless possibilities for disaster; not one goes

unworried.

Once the light is secured, we ick the switch to test. "Watch out for your eyes", hecautions, fearing the lamp may burst into ames and blind his youngest son. I humorhim and look away, shielding my eyes. The light turns on. I climb down from the chairand look for my beer.

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5/15

Southern California

It s been a while since I cracked the ice cube trays into a tumbler and poured a nicestrong drinkinterrupted only by cigarettes. The kid s asleep in the other room. The bite

of whiskey masks the guilt.

Haven t lled out the paperwork yet to get him into that new school. We left the oldapartment two months ago. Between moving and setting up here, a few things justslipped between the cracks. I wonder how much he really cares that it s almostNovember and he s missed 2 months of third grade. I m pretty sure he s got theMayower and Thanksgiving story down anyway. He s smarter than all those littlefuckers; he ll be OK.

New place, new set of shit. I can t tell yet if it s better or worse. Signs point to better.Weather, work. Still, there are moments Wonder if it was right dragging the kid out

here. Gotta make new friends, new school, new neighborhood. I was lucky, I guess.Lived in the same house from birth til 18. Now I can t stay in 1 job, building, or city fortoo long. Soon as the pedestrians start annoying me. Soon as the streets becomefamiliar, I m packing up.

Just was different before the kid, you know? I didn t worry as much. I could dietomorrow and it would be just ne. Now Now there are priorities.

California has sunshine--I ll give em that. Almost makes it seem a sin to be in a badmood. The weather s consistently optimistic. In 21st century industrialized living, though,there are plenty of ways to block out the sun and have a perfectly miserable day. And of

course, nights are still cold and black. Night

s the same every place in this country.Cold. Black. Empty.

In new environments and situations, when the kid could wander off and you're calling anamber alert, but you're not sure of the right number to call, or when the gas leaks, oryou don't know what days the garbage is picked up, you gotta count on the night. Coldand black and emptyit s there for you.

100 pills to freedom

Sometimes I catch people looking at my hands. My ngernails are torn daily, right downto the cuticle. And I have a couple places where the esh is raw from repetitive,unconscious scratching. When people shake my hand and look me in the eye, there'san immediate uneasiness as they notice my right eye twitching. And at the annualphysical, I explain to my physician that the patch of callused skin on my right thigh isself-inicted scar tissue.

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6/15

I heard somewhere that nervous tics serve as a relief for some internal anxiety. Perhapsit's the price I pay for my attempts at living a regular life. I smile and shake your handand say how do, and under the table my ngers pick furiously to scratch the persistentunreachable itch.

It's really hard to conceal, this anxiety disorder. I'll use the term anxiety disorder to tryand put it in a box somewhere to try and understand it. Of course, "disorder" sounds likesomething treatable, like a rash. Or something one can live with cautiously, like Type 2diabetes. But it's neither treatable nor livable. And there's no living with me, either. If Imeet you, it will alienate you. If I love you, it will drive you to despair.

It's that time again

It took nineteen years before I went to a head shrinker. Three years of therapy (2 hoursa week) later, I was cured. haha, no not really. But I am still alive--so it musta been good

for something.

Four years since my last visit. Since then, I used every type of self-medication you couldthink of. Mostly whiskey, weed, and Benadryl. I'm not sure what benchmarks could beused to determine whether therapy or self medication works. I'm alive--that's one thing.But happy? healthy?

I'd be ne with existing in perpetual doldrums, provided I could treat others fairly andavoid self loathing. Lately though, it's back. I'm X-ing out future years on the calendar,thinking of what manner I can depart with the fewest ripples. Life insurance starts tolook like a retirement plan for my parents. Some people devise a plan for suicide like

this:1) buy rope2) learn to tie knots3) nd sturdy point from which to hang4) write obscure letter5) jump

How perfectly uncomplicated. It just wouldn't suit me at all though. What about the kid?And the other people around who would be hurt? Dying isn't an option. So, it's time.Back to the rectangular room with books and a person sitting across that I don't know.First step, look up a shrinker in the yellow pages.

white, drunk, and wearing green

St. Patty s at the bar and everyone s getting fucked up. Even the English bars take BassAle off tap and replace their CO2 tanks with nitrogen to make room for all the Guinnesskegs shipped in that morning. Guys pouring pitchers of ale wear green T-shirts soaked

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7/15

in beer. The names of the guys' beer pong teams screen-pressed over their right breast.The Dutchmasters. The Harry Buffalos. The clever rascals.

Even the prude women are cutting loose, downing shots like it s spring break in Cancun.Everyone s looking for some ass; it s written in the slurred speech and wide-eyes.

The same four songs everyone knows play over the piano. Crowds raise their glasses,spill beer on the oor, and burst out "Living on a Prayer".

They don t search you anyplace in Boston. I often don t feel like shelling out ten bucks aglass, and sneak in a ask of Seagram's Seven. Just excuse myself every ten minutesto ll an empty tumbler with whiskey in the privacy of a shit-covered men s room stall.

Later in the evening, the bars still hums, the people get drunker. Men outnumber theladies ten to one. The nicer girls have long left those boys they were teasing and aretucked in at home with their dildos or boyfriends or Rocky Road. The remaining horniest

guys circle--threshers before a feeding frenzy--around the drunkest, hottest pieces ofass remaining.

You can also bring a gun anywhere. I d like to murder everyone in the place, and I dstart with the man behind the piano. Just one more stupid announcement about Jenny &Katie s birthday. Just one more Bon Jovi song about suburban life in middle-class NewJersey.

The suspect was white, drunk, and wearing green. The cops would be looking tilEaster.

Generous

As I wait for the sleeping pills to work, the keyboard deserves at least a gentlemassage. I ve been typing all day without a rest, and ngers are more tired than mind.

Still, I feel some obligation to use this moment of temporary solitude. I try to push outthoughts of ofce coffee and email attachments and old rubber bands keeping crackerboxes closed. I try to squeeze out a little poetry before the Benedryl dries up my salivaand tears, and lulls my brain to sleep.

When I was younger, I abused words. I guess most young writers dooveruse all thecrafty tools of prose and verse. I sprinkled similes as generously as a child sprinklessugar over breakfast cereal.

And how clever I thought I was! How much cleverer than the other kids who watchedMTV instead of sitting at their computers composing teenage poetry with words likelove and dreams poking out like pimples in every third line.

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8/15

Now I reread the thousand pages of poetry I ve written since the age of fteen, and lookfor the matches. Eight years later, I'm just starting to put the play dough in the back ofthe pantry and go out back and dig up some actual clay.

Do I sound like an adult or still a teenager trying to sound like an adult? We all assumeour vocabulary grows with age. But how useful are words like strategy and manageand market penetration in describing the human experience.

The days are much shorter, and not just because it s winter. How does a starving youngprofessional nd time to starve a little more for his art?

The Roommate Ron

Where to beginRon says "There s no chance in hell of writing something worthwhile if

you

ve got a dirty kitchen. The dishes in the sink covered in hardened food particles giveoff a high pitched scream. You ll hardly begin to pick up a pen and sit down comfortablywith both feet at against the carpet before the sound bores its way to the front of yourhead.

You ll write some shit about two love birds sitting on a park bench with a world runningto death all around them. It will make people bored and sleepy, which is ne if that wasyour goal. Some people are content to begin reading and fall asleep after a few pages."

If Bukowski met Ron in a bar after a few beers, there woulda been some kind of ght(1). And while Ron is no weakling, his ass woulda been beaten to a pulp in ve seconds.

I'm not gonna challenge Bukowski with my blood full of whiskey and Coke and nicotine.So the dishes will sit there dirty, and Bach can drown out the humming.

Ron was a perfect roommate, if you like the crazies. He was neat and all that. I mean,our toilet was fucking immaculate. The man was on a quest to convince the whole worldthat he never took a shit in his life. Fine with me; I d rather it too far one way, than toofar the other. I ush after going and wash my hands. But then I forget about it. Roncouldn t forget.

The psychiatrist he saw when he was a kid called it obsessive compulsive disorder, or just plain obsessive thinking. The micro bacteria that survive the 99.9% effectiveness of

soapthose persistent fuckers were the ones that frightened him. And so, he washedtwo or three times after wiping. We bought our soap in bulk.

Most people think obsessive compulsives only care about germs. Walk into Ron s roomand you ll see he s xated on more than just the critters living on the pay-phonereceiver. His room was out of a fucking catalog. Every piece of furniture was placed justso. His bookshelf was in order, alphabetically, and then small to big, and in color, so that

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9/15

it looked more like an articial wall, where the books are one large plastic chunk,rather than physical bindings you can pick out and read while sitting on the john.

I almost never went in Ron's room. I felt too disheveled. If I had to talk to Ron or handhim his mail, I d rather wait until he emerged rather than stand there feeling that my

clothes needed ironing.

His wall was a collage of letters. Letters with all different sorts of fonts, type-faces, linespacing, margins, and logos. National Geographic and TIME and Newsweek andlesser-known companies letterhead like The Citywide Cover and Improper Bostonian.Rejection letters, specically.

Ron was something of an amateur photographer, and wherever he went, he carried hiscamera with him. His dream was to be on staff of a magazine and take pictures full time.Damn publications with their bullshit language.

We appreciate your interest in our photography department, but currently there are noopen positions available.

A hundred letters saying No a hundred different ways. Each one he received seemedmore insincere. Not sure why he posted them. Maybe he thought surrounding himself inrejection would somehow spur him on to greater achievement. Seemed depressing asshit to me, but that s them crazies for you.

So, you re probably beginning to see how obsessive thinking works. Once you get thisidea into your head, it ain t going nowhereit gets bigger and nags at you like a womanwho wants to get fucked by some other man but married you. He wanted fame. He

wanted something other than that dead end boring ass job he had. Before thephotography gig, he had this idea for ve years straight he wanted to be a TV newsreporter.

So Ron used to get off work around ve and just walk the streets for a few hours lookingfor the evening news crews set up around the hotspots of the city. (You think they rereporting from all over New England, but really they have only about a dozen placeswhere they keep setting up their interviews.) The story could take place in Southie, butthe reporter doesn t feel safe there, so she has her crew shoot footage at the scene andthen does her sign on and sign off in Copley plaza, and her voice over in the fuckingvan.

So he camped out around those spots. The news reporters are always looking forsound bytes from witnesses. They choose em, at what seems at random. And youknow, they interview a half dozen people but tend to air the interviewees who speakwell, and have told a little factoid that seems interesting and true.

So Ron would camp out where these interviews happen and push to the front of theline. Didn t matter if he was at the scene of the event or not. Didn t even matter if he

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knew what the hell the story was about. He had good hearing. He d listen to whatpeople in front of him said. He d listen and then he d get in front of the camera and withthe microphone and he d spice it up. He was so good at bullshitting that they d interviewten people and Ron s sound bite would get aired that night at 6 and 11. And the bastardhad the VCR set up at home with blank tape loaded to record the bullshit he d spewed

earlier that evening. Conceited son of a bitch would get on the news and the dead guy

scrying wife would get cut. He was good.

He planned to put together a montage tape of sound bites and submit them to a newsstation with his application. And then, for no real reason, he got over the TV reporterfantasy and got into photography.

Photography didn t require lying. Photography was truth, he d say over beers.Photography was one of the last real art forms. And he collected newspapers andmagazines and shit. Every time he saw a front page photo similar to one in his privatecollection, he d sit there in his room bitter as hell. Those bastards, he d say. They

don

t know what they

re missing out on. This guy is a hack. He shoots with a disposablecamera and makes front page. The world is insane. And Ron would slam the paper intothe garbage tin, and go wash his hands.

1. Show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually clean kitchen, and 8 times outof 9 I'll show you a man with detestable spiritual qualities. Charles Bukowski

news

The kid's asleep. I tilt the TV toward the kitchen and turn the volume real low. I press"closed caption" button, but never read the captions. It doesn t matter much what they resaying anyhow. I'm not really watching, just sitting because I can t sleep.

It comforts me, knowing he s sleeping there real good. Maybe he won t end up like hisold maninsomniac afraid of the bed. I d sleep in an armchair, if I could stand thatfeeling of my stomach sticking out and the sensation of blood pooling in my veins.

Sometimes he stirs, and I go over to him and gently pat his head. If it s a bad dream, Iwake him. Most of the time he opens his eyes a crack, and lies back down peacefully.

Other times, he

s awake for good. I know he should get rest; even bad dreams meansyou re sleeping and getting the much needed REM. But I can t stand to hear himwhimper. No sleep is worth enduring a nightmare.

I d like to take the kid to a ballgame or go shing--just doesn t happen very often. Wish Icould make him understand I d spend every day shing with him if I could. Just youwait till we make it big, I tell him. We ll go shing every day. No school. No work. Just

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11/15

you and me, a boat, 2 rods, and a bucket of bait. Not really sure if he likes spendingtime with his old man.

Fathers take their sons shing because they wished their fathers took them shing.Most of the time, though, the kids would rather be watching TV. The nice ones humor

their old men and go anyway. The kid and I never go, but I

d like to think he

d at leasthumor me.

Stay in Bed Today

This world is disappointing. I feel no regret from leaving it for days on end immersed inthe TV or computer or in the bottom of a bottle. I feel calmer from it, like sleeping in until4 p.m. The day is gone and I m so glad. Another over and done with. Sit back. Let life yahead. I ll just lay on the couch and see you in a year or two. And my hair will be longer.

Even if you see me tomorrow walking around, talking to people, eating or breathing, it's just a clever illusion. I'm not really there; I'm sitting in a little room somewhere controllingeverything with a joystick. Connected by the thinnest cord, my body and mind encountershadows of people. I see their lips bend and their eyes wrinkle but the reasons behindthese facial movements are lost to me. I could sit in a room with you all day and we'dget nowhere past hello.

Orange

My cell phone can only capture 60 seconds of audio, and sometimes my arm doesn'twork. Writing, I guess, is really just talking.

I had an experience today where I felt the absence of a chemical in my body for just acouple hours. I starting thinking... friends, family, people that I love and who love me--we're all pretending.

It's such an irrational thought, and I recognized it quickly. When I feel, you know,hopeless, it's good to know that it's a chemical. That it's not the truth. Because a couplehours after I took my pill... thoughts start going away.

We work. We work when we don't work. We fall into these patterns of getting by, doingwhat makes us feel safe and comfortable. And there's just no person that fully gets it.There's no consistent entity you can really trust.

You spend more time at your job than with your own family. Spend more time followingsomeones' dream instead of your own. I'm putting an expiration date on that.

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12/15

I have a problem with compassion. It engulfs me. I protect myself from being consumedby not caring, not helping, not making any contribution.

Chemicals may be the cause of depression, anxiety, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, orbeing an asshole. Maybe. But we also have the ability to retrain our brains, think about

things differently.

While waiting for about 30 minutes in the shrink's ofce, I thought to myself "Why didn't Ido this 4 years ago?". I guess I wanted to be normal. I thought I could beat it.

You know the relationships that I have with folks: family, close friends--I don't have anaccurate depiction of how I'm portrayed in their lives. I see myself in the worst light. I'msuspicious of people. I wonder why they choose to invest in this person who is sodeated, and doesn't even have the stomach to show it.

Maybe I was never meant to be a father. I don't think my father was ever meant to be a

father. And I know his dad wasn't meant to be a father. There are some things that aretoo much for people--they're too sensitive or challenged or just don't have the patienceor the time or the organization or the language to be a father.

It's not so much the babies I worry about, or even the little kids. That's easy. I can dothat. I can make money to buy diapers, a high chair, a lot of stupid stuffed-animals... It'snot a question of material. And it's not a question of love.

The Ex. She's insane. If the kid goes to her, she'll turn him against me. And I won't bethere. He'll grow up, and might not even remember a day that we spent together.

The shrink, he talked about how people like me get stuck in our thought process. Weget stuck when faced with ordinary tasks. We experience a panic. The out-of-the-ordinary then is insurmountable.

So, what's best for him? Not what's best for me.

You know, I never hit the kid. Would never do that. Sometimes he makes me mad ashell, but I wouldn't lay a nger on him. I beat myself up though. I beat my ego up, Iguess. Real good.

I don't want a family, because I don't want any more people that I have to worry about

disappointing. I don't want to fail them. Besides, cancer runs in my family; kidneys areweak in my family, bones easily broken.

The mundane tremors that drive me through the grind of Starbucks emotion and SamAdams mind created a cyst. I think it's malignant. And a little orange pill isn't going tosolve that. A bottle, a joint, a powder isn't going to solve that.

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13/15

God cursed me the rst day I doubted in him, or started believing. He knew what was instore for this little one.

I don't think God was meant to be a father either. He didn't give his son to save theworld. No father would let that happen. Damn the world. I'm keeping my son.

Ambien

We work for our daily bread. It has been this way throughout history, and is still ourpresent system. Oh, but the nights, the nights are supposed to be our own. Nights arefor revelry and music and love.

And sleep is a place to rest our heads in safety and silence and darkness. Sleep shouldbe ours and ours alone, where we dream of fantastic things that never could bold truewhile we are awake. But my dreams . . . my dreams haunt me always. In my dreams, I

work, I labor and toil and carve a basin of worry a thousand times deeper than the one Iconsciously drink from. I have no control in my sleep. I am robbed of peace.

thin

The orange candies I swallow twice a day are doing something. After the rst 4 weeks, Istarted feeling...relief. My diet mainly SSRIs, sedatives, a half ounce of green a week,and Bali Shag to mix it with. Medicated and confused, but sleeping regularly.

Whiskey bottles now empty and off the shopping list. Even lost the munchies--a greatside effect, I thought. Condently walk past the candy, chips and soda isles in Shaws.My receipts shorten. The empty prescription bottles collect in a felt purple bag under mybed. "Keepsakes", I think.

My exercise routine simplies--work all day and don't drive. Walk to the store, walk upthe stairs, lift heavy things once in a while. Push ups, pull ups, and sit ups. Stretch whenI remember. My gym membership's become a charitable contribution more thananything else. Don't like going outside that much. Who needs sunlight, vitamin D? Addanother pill (Centrum) and another (Simply Sleep) back to the cocktail. We'll be OK.

Energy levels explode--I spring up stairs each time as if a great burden were unloaded. Ismile when walking through crowded city streets. I say "Hello, Ma'am" to the silver-haired woman shufing behind a walker on the sidewalk. I work hard, try to forget thekid's empty bed. I work hard, hit ignore on the cell phone whenever I want. I identify allmy relationships and categorize them into neat stacks of permission. I start wantingmore friends. Smile at the pretty girls, get a few glances in return.

It won't hold. I reject the awful thoughts. It won't hold.

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14/15

Shit.

Prescription runs out 5 days early. Need one of those days-of-the-week pill boxes.Nicotine starts hitting me hard. 1 cigarette knocks me out for three minutes, just like the

rst time I lit up. "Quit", I tell myself. My sheets have black pockmarks. My pillowcasesneed to be washed.

Walk to the gym in ip-ops. No intention of rubbing elbows with men in the free weightssection or picking a strategically located treadmill behind some piece of ass. Fingerprintscan and I'm past the turnstile. Scale #1, I step on. 158 lbs. Can't be right. Scale#2--thisone's digital. 158 again. I was 30lbs heavier in March. I buy some protein powder, 4items at Shaws, a bag of Bali and lters, and another half-ounce of green beforewalking home.

stopped working

The cigarettes betray me as my immune system ghts off its latest intruder. The handfulof pills--vitamins, tylenol, decongestant--mingle with the THC, nicotine, and alcohol.Sleep is all I can think of--ever elusive and restless. A friend reaches out once in awhile. Grab a beer, burger. Go to the crowded pub and talk to strangers as if we're bestfriends. We really are.

I've been staying off the sauce, except on holidays. Figure I'll be depressed anyway.This year, managed to avoid the carols over the radio, the pageants and gift-giving.Decorations all went with the ex and kid. I call on Christmas. Voice mail. The next week

drags its heels. On New Year's, the masses raise their goblets and shout in happiness.No place for a man like me. The booze works at the time. You'll see a well adjusted manmingling among the faces. Happy. Next day, I nurse the withdrawal symptoms from bed.The smoke weighs me down. The joint lures sleep to no avail.

I take candies prescribed by the doc. They too, have stopped working. Or never did.Who can know such things? I stopped taking the yellow one for a few days. Predictably,my brain's electrons misred. Disoriented and confused, I struggled to avoid walkinginto pedestrians or telephone polls. Felt the user's itch in line at the pharmacy. Thingstake a while after swallowing to kick in. While waiting, I ducked into a grocery store andcried in the ketchup aisle. Everything is ne. The polite old ladies push their carts past

the strong man covering his face.

Back home

Where is it? My hands furiously overturn dishes and dirty laundry strewn about the dimbedroom. Cigarette papers y into the air, and my glasses slip off every ten seconds.

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15/15

Suitcases all packed and cab parked out front. I always forget something, no matterhow often I travel.

Take as few items as you can. A few pairs of underwear, handgun, smart phone, andprescription bottles. I roll up to the sweet old lady behind the airline counter.

"I'm all checked in," I say. "I just need a printed boarding pass." The delay in herresponse suddenly makes me conscious of the blue annel pajama pants, black leatherdress shoes, and red Spider-Man t-shirt I had chosen to wear for the red eye.

"Do you need to use the plane? Can't you just swing there?" the woman asks almostwithout cracking a smile. The joke loosens the worry of my missing ID badge anddeodorant I would later realize was left on my bathroom counter.

Twenty-four hours later, I'm sipping PBR's on a bar stool in Boston. The day went by in

a blink. I've slept three hours in forty. The last one, I decide, will be at Bukowski's onDalton St. While I rarely collect things, I pocket a coaster. My friend walks in--beenmonths since I've seen the mug. I'm buying. He's drinking. We swap stories, advice,laughter.

This might even work, I think. A week back home for trials, meetings, reunions. No,probably won't. She took the kid to Weston and put him in a private school. The courtsare convinced that I require supervised visits. Order another round, swallow, breathe.

Back through the snow and thirty-degree night. I unpack the suitcase and tuck thehandgun into a drawer near the bed. Lawyers with their briefcases and corny

commercials...we're all dead men. The hotel room's bed feels better than my own. Flickon the tube. Three pills work like a charm. I'm asleep by one.

15

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