Insomnia to the third power

March 15, 2009

It has been another 18 months. Sleep still eludes me. Once again, I retreat to the comfort of my Ikea desk chair, and ruminate about my life. Things have changed. A lot. As I look down the barrel of 40 years old, I have come to realize that I’m not going to win the lottery. I’m not going to wake up and know what I am supposed to do with my life. Where I am, is where I am going to be, I think.

Tonight, I am going to let the random option on my Windows Media Player dictate musical selection. I’m just too befuddled to make any decisions. Well, accept when it comes to my beverage of choice, tonight we will take this journey with my old nemesis Jack Daniels. On ice. One big change is no cigarettes. Even though I have a craving right now that goes to the very core of my being, to the end of every nerve ending I have, I haven’t had a drag in over 70 days, and I am going to keep fighting.

So, where to begin. As with the previous incarnations we will start with work, just as Icicle Works chimes in with Birds Fly (Whisper to a Scream). I do love this song. Work sucks. I have been at my wits end with retail for many years. Right now it is just habit. Unfortunately, it is a habit that has no replacement. I’m not really qualified to do anything else. I am currently negotiating my glorious return to the Chicago metro area and another job in the bicycle business. My time with the big company is coming to an end. I just can’t manage to get my desk organized. I just can’t manage to get time sheets sent into corporate on time. It’s the corporate end of things that I can’t get right. And once again, I have a boss who I don’t like and who doesn’t like me. Hmmm, I think I am seeing a pattern. I’m sure it isn’t ME…. Well now I will make an attempt to return to the Ma and Pa world, and probably work 80 hours a week, neglecting all other aspects of my life. Why? Because that is what I am good at. Self destruction. Too bad I can’t get paid for that.

Love Rollercoaster! God love the Ohio Players. And how appropriate as Love is the very next topic!

I never thought it would happen to me. In fact I hoped it wouldn’t happen to me, but I’m in love. Completely, entirely and horribly. And it isn’t going to work out. Bad timing. Very bad timing. She is in the process, or will be, of getting divorced. She lives in New York. She is an ex of mine. And she is amazing, wonderful and not ready to be with me. But I am. Very ready. On fire. And she has put the brakes on. Totally understandable. Totally sensible. Totally devastating. I don’t know how I am going to stay sane. Waiting. Indefinitely. Once love becomes unrequited, it becomes all about suffering. She is trying really hard to let me down easy, to ask for some time to get her head together, but I am an old man. I have been around the block a few times and I know what will happen. And all I really want to do is cry. It’s like holding sand in your hand. A little slips away every second until all you are left with are a few grains and the knowledge that you lost the rest. And since I am not a good crier, all that is left is intoxication, which happens to rhyme with self medication!

You know what I love about Jack? One of the first things that happens, is my lips go numb. After a while I sound like Mush Mouth from Fat Albert. “Heyb, BFat Balbert!” And here comes Green Day with Boulevard of Broken Dreams. Nice timing.

So next is sex. I went a long time without it. I was worried that maybe I had forgotten. It turns out, I didn’t forget. I did get old though. I did get really out of shape. I think maybe I have a “dysfunction”. I have become very unreliable. Starting in the fall last year, I started sleeping with a 22 year old woman. Yup. 16 years my junior. She had Daddy issues. The fling was brief. But it reminded me that I still had skills. And then New York happened and I got a reminder of what sex is like when it is flavored with emotion. Wow. I couldn’t get enough of that girl. Damn I am really going to miss her. And I suspect that I am about to start another very, very long cold spell. Because right now, sex with anyone else is entirely undesirable. Almost 40 years old and looking at the end of my sex life is both depressing and a relief. I think maybe it’s a good thing that this ends. I don’t think I have the mental or emotional capacity to keep it up. Literally.

“Alcohol” by the Bare Naked Ladies. Gotta love it when the random shuffle is paying attention….. Jack goes down much easier when the ice starts to melt. It’s like the ice cubes are sacrificing themselves in order speed my intoxication.

And now we are onto Death. Can you hear that knocking? Really? Because it is pretty loud. Who could it be? Let’s check. Hey, what do you know, it’s Death! We were just talking about you! Come on in. Take a load off. I will be with you soon, I think. (And with that “Many Rivers to Cross” comes on, which is a song I want played at my funeral!) So the lovely Miss New York asked me to go to the doctor, because she wanted me to be healthy, so I would be around when we grew old. Well, it turns out, I am kinda broken. First of all I have diabetes. Real shocker. Gramps had it, Dad had it. I was destined to have it. I’m surprised that it took so long. So no more fun foods. No more sugar. Well, maybe the occasional glass of whiskey…Next is my heart. Might have a bad ticker. EKG came back funny. Have to go to the Cardiologist and have all sorts of tests. Can’t wait. And then there are my testicles. Looks like a hernia from when I was a youthful bartender. So I have to go for an ultrasound. Anybody want to lay odds on Cancer? I’ll know more in a few weeks. If I write another Insomnia blog in a year or two, you’ll know I survived. In the meanwhile, I live a pleasure free life. No smoking, no wild nights of drinking, no bad food and no sex. So, so much to live for.

Ah, the Cure. All their music makes me want to open up a vein. Or get drunk. Right now I’m better off staying away from sharp objects.

So last but not least is Art. Frankly, I have managed to avoid it for the last couple of years. It’s just too painful. (Ahhh!!! “Paper Thin” by John Hiatt! Used to be a personal anthem. “You write it down in alcohol fire, cause that’s the only flame that wants you.” Amen John. Amen.) I’m sorry, where was I? Oh yeah, avoiding art. I have allowed my job to prevent me from so much as running the box office or concessions at my favorite local non profit, because it just hurts too much to be there. I can only be reminded so often and so much about what I am not doing with my life. Part of my illustrious return to Chicago is the intention to make one last attempt at becoming a director. You know in the movies, when the hero is getting his ass kicked in a fight and the gun is just out of reach and the bad guy keeps pulling the hero away from the gun? I feel like the gun. Inert. Just laying there, oblivious to the action happening around me. Passively waiting for a desperate hand to reach out and put me to work. I just hope if the time ever comes and my trigger gets pulled, that I am not already out of ammo. I’m hoping I have at least one round left in me.

Oh and we end the evening with “Empty” by Del Amitri. Wow. That’s like getting kicked in the naughty bits. It’s a song about a guy trying to console the ex husband of his new lover. Fuck me. I’m sure sleep is nowhere to be found. But I’m out of words.

Eric

Pity Party

It's sad when you offer someone everything you have, and it isn't enough.

I wonder

How long do you think it will take until every little thing no longer makes me think of her?

J.P.U.S.A.

It all started with a wedding. Ski was going to school at Western Illinois University. There was a wedding in Chicago. The child of a long time vendor of the Wet Pet Shoppe was getting married and the Gavigan clan was invited. Ski got the last minute call that he was the appointed emissary.

He came into town completely unprepared. He resurrected his father’s 70’s zip up the side pleather boots and stopped by my house and borrowed my green zoot suit. He looked ridiculous, so of course at the wedding he met a girl, went home with her and made hot monkey love all night. (Of course, “all night” in my book is longer than 12 minutes.) The next morning this girl, Christine, invited him to go to church with her. Never the one to pass up an opportunity to offend the Almighty, Ski still in the zoot suit, went along. It was one of these contemporary churches, all hip and shiny. He pretended to stay awake, hollered out a few “Amens” and was rewarded with after church sex in the car behind a grocery store. Thusly began the long distance “romance” between Ski and Christine.

Every time Ski came into town, he dragged me along and forced me to spend time with Brenda, Christine’s super Christian, not puttin’ out room mate. One look at me and Brenda decided that I was a heathen and instead of trying to show me the light of the Lord with her supple body, she simply treated me like a man with one foot in the fire. This went on for a couple months. If Ski came into town and I wanted to see him, I had to double date with the Church Lady.

One weekend Ski came into town and said, “We’re going to breakfast with Christine and Brenda.” I protested, but who was I to prevent him from getting enlightened? So went headed downtown. Ski cleverly waited until we were in the car to inform me that we were also going to church. I was understandably displeased, but he told me it was an inner city church. I had images of James Brown at the pulpit and conceded that this could be an interesting cultural experience. The girls were living on the north side in a neighborhood called Edgewater. Edgeofcivilizationandthelastplaceacoupleofwhiteboysshouldbe was more like it. We went up to their apartment. Christine squealed and giggled. Brenda burned a hole in my soul with one glance. We left the apartment and began walking through this neighborhood that at 10am on a Sunday still felt very dangerous. We walked under the El tracks and turned into an alley. My typing hand to God, there were bums sleeping in the alley. We gingerly climbed over their Ripple soaked bodies and headed into certain death. At the end of the alley was the entrance to what turned out to be an old gymnasium. We walked in and were met by a few hundred folding chairs and dozens of hippie throw backs. We were greeted enthusiastically by someone who was probably named Star Child. We plopped down in the oh so comfortable chairs and Christine began to tell us that this was JPUSA. Jesus People USA. It was a commune. It was also the home of the Rez Band, a moderately successful Christian Rock band. (They still exist. http://www.resurrectionband.com/) She also informed us that the service tended to run a couple of hours. Now I love Ski, but he was closer to meeting his maker than he realized.

The room filled up and eventually some Jerry Garcia look-a-like strolled out onto stage, wearing a tie dyed t-shirt, saddles and a ponytail. He was the pastor. I started to glass over. This was too much for even me. During the service, as the faithful felt the spirit, their arms would shoot up into the air, or they would jump up or run down to the front of the stage. After an hour or so, I closed my eyes and I think I dozed. I was awaked when Brenda elbowed me in the chest. Later, I was startled by a flash of light and feared that the End of Days had arrived. It turned out to be Ski, taking pictures. To this day, I have never seen the photos. I assume Jesus ruined the film.

The climax of the service was when Pastor Jerry announced that they were going to sing the Days of the Week Song. He explained that when the song reached the day of the week that you found Jesus people should stand up. “And at the end of the song, we’ll see who’s still sitting.” And then they ripped into the Days of the Week Song:

“On a Monday I found Jesus!” pop, pop, pop up went a few dozen people. “And on a Tuesday he found me!” pop, pop, pop. Thirty more. The song went on, pop, pop, pop. Pop, pop, pop. Everyone jumped up, hands extended up to the ceiling as if they were trying to catch a swinging trapeze. The song came to its inevitable Sunday conclusion and there were four people sitting; Me, Ski and two guys in wheelchairs who were reaching for the sky like they had a gun pointed at their backs. And everyone, including the wheelchair guys, was looking at us. Think of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Think of the last 20 minutes of Night of the Living Dead. The only difference was at the end of Night of the Living Dead, the black guy got shot. We weren’t going to be so lucky. The service concluded a few minutes later and I made a dash for the door like…well like an Atheist trying to get out of Christian Hippie Commune.

We left the alley and Ski told me to take Brenda to breakfast as he and Christine had some catching up to do. They headed off to Nookieland and Brenda and I walked to the nearest Salmonella factory of a diner. We sat down staring at each other. I was trying to decide what blunt instrument on the table I would use to take my life and I think Brenda already had hers picked out. So we left. We walked slowly back to the apartment, giving Ski and Christine the 12 minutes they would need.

I am pretty sure that was the last time I saw Christine and Brenda. I think Christine found some nice Christian boy and ended her relationship with Ski and hopefully Brenda fell down a deep well. But I have to say that JPUSA has never left my memory. Every time I see a photo of Jerry Garcia I am back in that gymnasium and I get a little scared. Pop, pop, pop.

Insomnia Redux

Almost three years later. I still can’t sleep. I haven’t been sleeping well since I came to Austin. I think part of it is that I have never gotten used to sleeping alone. But I still wrestle with the same demons each night. Tonight’s foray into sleeplessness is sponsored by the fact that it was my 20th high school reunion this weekend. And that has me just a little freaked out. So where do I stand in my battle to come to terms with my life? Let’s see.

Tonight Dexter Gordon will be my accompanist. Sometimes when I think that maybe there is a heaven (or hell) I ruminate on the idea of meeting Dexter. The guy really knew how to make a sax sing.

My other companions will be vodka and nicotine. The clear, biting elixir of my homeland never lets me down. And cigarettes will never let me go.

So let’s start with work. No real change. I transferred to Texas with World Market in hopes of getting a GM position. And I did. And I wasn’t very good. I had no passion for it. Wine and wicker turned out not to be my milieu. Plus I hated my boss. He was a gay man in a straight man’s body. So, recognizing myself in him, and vice versa, we didn’t hit it off. Eventually I quit. And I didn’t work for 5 months. I keep repeating the mantra over and over that I took the time by choice, but I know in my heart that is a lie. I was paralyzed. I spent the entire time alone, in my apartment, with the blinds drawn. Finally I got a job with a company that sold boxes. I ran a tiny little store in the same shopping center as my World Market store. So I had the pleasure of passing yet another failure in my life each day as I went to sell cardboard to stressed out, angry people. The job was mindless at best and although it gave me the opportunity to work on theatre (which we will cover later) I was like a caged lion the entire time I held that job. In the spring of 2007 I took a job with a national chain of bicycle shops. The bike business is the ex lover that I keep returning to, even when I know that I am no longer in love. It’s the devil you know. So now I work way too many hours trying to create something that I can point to and say “look what a great job I did” and it will never happen.

When we were kids, my buddy Ski played the sax. I always hoped that he would become a great player, like the guy who played in Billy Joel’s band. Now I listen to Bee Bop and have to laugh at the comparison. Jazz is something I don’t share with too many people. It’s way too hard to describe. Great jazz makes me cry. No matter how many times I hear it.

Love. This is now a topic that I think will remain in past tense. I don’t think I will venture down that path again. It’s too hard. There is too much sacrifice for me. Although I long for it at times, I know that it would be a foolish endeavour. I think I am destined to be alone. Since coming to Austin, two women have been in love with me. One was a married woman who hit the road as soon as she realized that she wanted more. That was a shame, I liked her. The other run in with love was with a wonderful woman who used to be a man. And if I could get around the fact that she used to be a guy, if I had a real attraction to her, I might actually have had a chance at some sort of happiness, maybe. She has one of the biggest hearts and finest minds I have had the pleasure of being around. But, if I can’t get passed hairy armpits and women who don’t shave their legs, there is no way I am getting past gender reassignment. I’m just too shallow. Plus, she has a dog. And I am not emotionally equipped for another dog in my life.

Did you know that the Finns invented the Molotov cocktail? Vodka and kerosene. Named after a Russian general. Well, throw at match at me; I’m turning my liver into a fuel soaked rag.

Sex. Another arena where they can retire my jersey. It’s a shame really. Just when I finally started to get good at it, now nobody wants to do it with me. I guess I shouldn’t really say that. I’m sure I could find somebody. There are plenty of lonely people in this town who could use a little pick me up. But frankly, I have never been the pick up kind of guy. I always left that to Ski. He had the moves. Me, I want to get to know the person. I am a cerebral lover, I think. I can’t just jump in the sack with someone. I have to know something about them. What they want out of life, what makes them laugh, what are their fears. All of these things come into play when you’re rolling around with someone. For me it has always been about more than just bumping uglies. But it has been so long, I fear that I am forgetting the myriad of circus tricks I have picked up over the years. Damn.

There is a guy on this album (I still call them albums) who can make a xylophone sound like raindrops. It’s fucking beautiful.

Bills. Still an issue. I bought a new car. For the first time in my adult life I have a car payment. It’s funny. Even at 38 years of age, I can’t accept the fact that I am an adult. I certainly don’t feel like one. What have I done that qualifies me as an adult? Nothing.
Well, I’m five days late on my car payment. I have over $2000 in the bank, but I still haven’t mailed the $250 check. What is pathetic is that all I have to do is pick up the phone and I can pay the bill. But I don’t and I can’t explain it. It is self destructive behavior and yet I continue. Pathetic.

When I listen to Dexter, I close my eyes and I am at the Blue Note in the 1950s. Times like this make me think I was born during the wrong era.

Death. It is still one of my favorite subjects. I have been working on my eulogy for the last few years. I am determined to have the last word. The eulogy is complete, with the acception of the part about women. That subject is too challenging for me to reduce to a paragraph or two that make any sense. Maybe I will just sum it up with something cheesy like, “I loved each and every one of you.” But in the meanwhile, I have decided to make one last attempt at survival. I am building up my bicycle again and have vague, unsubstantiated intentions of getting in shape. And when that fails, I will begin my slow decent into the abyss in earnest. I currently suffer from hand tremors, numbness in my extremities, bleeding from my ear and lately have been having really annoying memory lapses. I have been unable to recall entire days. I’m not complaining, really. None of this is unexpected or entirely unwelcome. Still, part of me wants to meet my grandchildren and my kids are just starting to become really interesting and those annoying little issues keep me from just pulling the plug.

You know what I love about vodka? I can drink it all night with little or no effect. And then all of a sudden it hits me like a train. Well, I hear the horn off in the distance. Better wrap it up.

Art. It’s worse than love. It breaks my heart every time. I love to direct. I love the process. You take a group of people, most often than not strangers, and a text and you create something that has the power to move people. I throw my entire being into directing. Since I came here I have directed two plays. Both were well received and both left me more depressed than ever. I can’t come to terms with the fact that I never made it to the big time. I never became a full time, professional director. I never achieved what myself and so many people thought I would. And so each time I direct, it hurts. But I still want more.

Well, as Bill Cosby once said, “the Sandman is beating me to death”, so now I will retire.
There is an empty bed and a solid four hours of sleep calling my name.

Eric

Making babies

We were trying to get Amy pregnant. Scout was a month old and now it was time to start on baby number two. I had gotten pretty good at jerking off while two lesbians waited for me, but this time was different.
“I’m ovulating.” Amy told me on the phone.
“Alright, I will be up to the house after work.”
“We’re going to be at my mom’s house. Meet us there” she said.
“Your mom’s?”
“Yeah, all the grandchildren are having a sleep over.”
“Where going to inseminate at your mom’s house?”
“Why not? She knows what we are doing. Her place is good as any.”
“Okay, I’ll be there around ten.”
Now, to catch you up, I was a sperm donor for a lesbian couple. And rather than do it the old fashion way, with doctors and science, we opted for the home method. Me, to a Rubbermaid cup, to a baby food syringe, to them. Sheri’s theory was if people can get pregnant in the back seat of a 1974 Camero, we could do this.

So I drove up to Amy’s mom’s house after work. Mom is cool and liked me because I was taking a sign language course and she’s deaf. We all sat around and made small talk for a while and then I decided it was time to go do my thing.

“Okay, where am I going?” in the past I would use Sheri and Amy’s bedroom, leave my “deposit” on the nightstand and return to the living room. No such luck here.
“There is a bedroom downstairs. We need to be quiet because the kids are sleeping down there.” Sure enough 5 little kids were sleeping on the floor of the downstairs rec room. We gingerly made our way around them to a bedroom at the end of the hall. We opened the door and I immediately smelled “boy”. Someone was living in the room.
“Who’s room is this?”
“Oh, one of my mom’s friends threw her son out and he is staying here for a while.”
“And where is he?” I asked.
“He’s at work,” Amy said casually.
“And when will he be home?” I said not so casually.
“Uh, pretty soon, I think. Well, good luck!” and she left.

So I am standing in the bedroom of some guy. There are clothes strewn everywhere and again, it smelled like him. I walked in and sat down on the edge of his bed. This wasn’t going to be easy. I will spare you the details, but let’s just say that I had been “doing my thing” for well over a decade and this time it was almost impossible. But finally after much focus and will power I was successful. Almost immediately, there was a knock on the door. Picture this; I am sitting on some other guy’s bed, pants at the ankles, cup of “stuff” in my hand. How do you answer that knock?
“uh, yeah?”
“Are you done yet?” It was Amy.
“Yes. Just.”
“Well get up here quick.”
I got myself together and rushed upstairs, with my little cup, to find Sheri lying on the ground in the fetal position.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with her! We called the ambulance.”
The worst thoughts shot through my head. If Sheri died, I was legally responsible for a one-month-old little girl. That chilled my blood. The paramedics arrived and carted Sheri, with Amy in tow, off to the hospital leaving me with Amy’s mom and baby Scout. Talk about feeling helpless.

For the next hour we heard nothing. Nothing except Scout crying. It was time for a feeding, but the necessary breast was at the hospital. So Grams and I took turns rocking, singing, and praying. Finally around 1:00am we got a call from Amy.
“It isn’t her heart. It might be gallstones. We will know more in a couple of hours.”
“We don’t have a couple of hours. Scout is hungry.” I pleaded.
Amy of course remained calm.
“Have my mom give you directions to the store and pick up some formula. Oh, and a bottle. And a nipple. She should be able to stomach some formula.”
“Okay.” And she hung up.

I got directions from Amy’s mom for three different stores and headed out the door like a rocket. I didn’t, and still don’t, know anything about babies. If figured if she didn’t eat soon she might spontaneously combust. Store one was closed as was store two. Store three was 900 miles away. It was a huge grocery store. I ran inside and found the baby food isle. I got to the formula and stopped dead in my tracks. For as far as the eye could see in each direction and straight up was every type of baby formula known to mankind. Soy, non-soy, lactose, non-lactose, carbonated, dye free, high octane, free range, kosher, vegan, and generic. I began to shake. I grabbed three different formulas at random and turned around to the bottles. Once again the shelves grew until they reached the sky. I grabbed a few bottles and any nipples that I might have enjoyed and sprinted to the register. The kid behind the counter could see the panic in my face and did what any overnight cashier would do. He took his time. Fortunately for him, my desire to care for the little hungry girl outweighed my desire to cause him bodily harm.

I ran to the car and spent three minutes trying to invert the directions back to the house. Not since Blues Brothers has nighttime suburban driving been taken to such levels. I came tearing around the corner on two wheels to see a cab pulling away from the house. I parked in it’s spot and leapt from the car. I ran inside to find Sheri holding Scout to her breast and Amy and her mom smiling. I put the bags of feeding supplies down and plopped in a chair at the kitchen table. Then I noticed my “sample” waiting on the kitchen counter. Spoiled. All my hard work down the drain. And that is exactly where it ended up.

Fortunately Amy got pregnant the next month. And 40 weeks later Tate arrived. But that is another story…….

Caroline

The interrogation was brief.
“Have you been drinking?”
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Do you live around here?”
I pointed towards home and nodded again.
“What were you doing out there?”
“She doesn’t love me.”
“Oh. Can you make it home?”
Again a nod.
“Well, then get out of here.”

I met Caroline at a high school theatre festival. I saw her across the lobby of a theatre and was mesmerized. There was something about her. She had a smile that just sucked me in. Of course, at the time I was standing next to my girlfriend Lori, who I loved dearly, so I just smiled like an idiot. Throughout the two-day festival I would see her at shows and at workshops and we finally got to talking. We exchanged addresses and began the longest written relationship I ever had with another person. We wrote each other weekly for almost 3 years. I lived in the suburbs of Chicago and during that time she lived in southern Illinois, the Azores islands and Iowa. I really had a thing for this girl. She was absolutely lovely and had a habit of sending me pictures just to remind me of that fact.

I dropped out of college after a year and moved into the city to live the good life. Caroline was attending college in Iowa and her choir came to town. She stayed with me. I spent the day playing tour guide and that night we fumbled around in bed. I felt like Casanova, some worldly man showing her all that I knew. In retrospect it was pretty pitiful, but at the time I was ecstatic. She left the next day and we continued to correspond. I was absolutely head over heals for her and I thought she felt the same way. The following spring she invited me to visit her at school. I took a week off work and drove like a madman to the middle of Iowa. I was on fire the entire drive. This was going to be it. We were going to fall madly in love and she was going to come home with me.

I pulled up to the school after calling from the outskirts of town. She was waiting. She looked better than I had remembered. I jumped out of my beat up Toyota pick up ready for the loving embrace of the woman of my dreams. The look on her face was not what I expected. It was a look that can only be described as “oh” and a disappointed “oh” at that. I hoped that it was the truck, or the 8 hours of driving, but it was most likely the beer gut or the fact that she had a new boyfriend. However, we spent the day having fun. I met her friends and we hung out. At one point one of her friends pulled me aside to inform me that I wasn’t getting laid. I was okay with that. My plan was to be the consummate gentleman and romance my way back into her good graces. That night we talked, I expressed my feelings, which were very unrequited, and then we went to sleep in separate beds. The next day was tense. I started to notice all the good-looking, chiseled frat boys who were noticing Caroline. I was neither chiseled or a frat boy and Caroline noticed that. I began to see that we were not going to be married, have children and grow old together. The next morning I left. (I have never returned to Iowa.) I drove with my broken heart to Macomb, Illinois where my best friend, Keith, was attending college. Being my best friend and hearing my story, he new just what I needed. Alcohol. We proceeded to get drunk and he told me stories about having sex with a fat girls. It made me feel better. I rose the next morning and made my way back to Chicago. During the drive my grief returned. I could see clearly that I was going to die alone, blind and drooling in a flophouse in the outskirts of Shanghai.

I got home and began to act like a complete moron. I began drinking again. I called Caroline and told her how much I loved her and assured her that I would win her back. She was kind and understanding but let me know that I was wasting my time. I had 2 roommates and they were very understanding as I drank myself back into a lovelorn stupor. March in Chicago that year was shitty. And as I plowed through the last half of a bottle of Southern Comfort I decided I needed to get out and take a walk. I staggered out the door into a sleet storm. We lived a half a block from Lake Michigan and that was where I headed. When I got to the beach the wind was ferocious and sleet was blowing horizontally. I looked up at the sky and began to give God a piece of my mind. “WHY GOD?! WHY DOESN’T SHE LOVE ME?! WHAT KIND OF A CRUEL JOKE IS THIS?!??” I was like Lear on the heath. I finished off the bottle with a sloppy gulp and hurled it into the storm. It never landed. I charged down toward the water. At this beach there happened to be a concrete break wall that went about 50 feet out into the lake. I made my way to the end and proceeded to pass out.

Suddenly there was a bright light. I opened my eyes and was looking down a tunnel of white light. “Thank God, I’ve died.” was my only thought. I put my head back down and closed my eyes. A few minutes later someone was kicking me. “Shit, I’ve gone to hell” was my next thought. I looked up to see a Chicago police officer standing over me. He was not at all happy to be standing on a slippery concrete wall 50 feet out in Lake Michigan in a sleet storm. As waves crashed onto the wall I dragged my shivering, soaked, drunken carcass back onto the beach.

After my wet conversation with the very understanding cop, I weaved back to my apartment a broken man, unable to find love and unable to died a tragic death, the police cruiser behind me the whole way. My loving roommates then let me fumble at the door for almost 30 minutes while I tried to work my key. When I finally made it in, I walked into the living room and fell face down onto the floor.

My roommate, Denise and her boyfriend got me into bed. They were concerned about me choking on my own vomit so they told me a story about how Janice Joplin had died by choking on a bologna sandwich. So I fell asleep on my stomach and woke up on the floor. I never spoke to Caroline again.