a fraud inking muck

I had an urge to write.  I was going to write on my ‘real’ blog, but apparently I’ve let the domain lapse.

It doesn’t matter.  No one reads that or this.  That is what happens when you have a website you don’t update.

But I had an urge to write.  Partially because my kid was telling me he wanted to write a book.  He’s ten.  I gave him some pointers.  Some writing excersises.  I also told him that not many people can make a living at writing.  I’m a bad dad.  I’m supposed to tell him that he can do whatever he wants, if he puts his mind to it.  But I know that isn’t true.  I did tell him that it was good to write, made you think about things differently… and that’s a good thing even if you don’t get paid for it.  I’m not an awful dad.  Just not a good one.

And he asked me, do you write? 

I told him that sometimes I did.  I should have told him, I used to write all the time and I really enjoyed it… but I’ve let life get in the way of that.  I should have, but there is only so much truth that you can burden a child with.

Which brings me back to, I had an urge to write.

Of course, I’m a lousy writer.  What I usually write about is the meaning of life, and my search for it… or lack thereof.

Which is where I am at.  Again. 

I feel rutterless.  My life has no particular meaning or direction.  I’ve felt this way before.  But I always thought that one day I would grow up and get past this. 

Now I look at my reality, I’m 40 years old, live in the basement of a very nice chinese family.  I work too much, with too little compensation.  I see my kid every other weekend and feel him slipping away from me.  The house I bought, to raise my family in, is in foreclosure.  The best case scenario there is that I will be able to short sell it.  I have a girlfriend that I love and spend time with, but circumstances outside of my control keep a distance there.

This is not where I wanted to be.  This is not where I want to be.  I’ve lived, worked and loved…. and find myself in the same kind of place I was when I was 25.

Fifteen years of effort.  Of life.  And no gain.

That’s not quite true.  But it’s close enough to the truth to make me very unhappy.

I don’t feel like I have a life.

It’s a shell of a life.

I work.  A lot.  I see the girl.  I see my boy.  I sit home.  Alone. I have no friends to call.  (Undoubtably, you think I’m wrong… that if I reached out I would find that I have friends.  Believe me, I reached out tonight.  Only one friend was there.  She knows who she is… and unfairly at this point, she is my lifeline.)

But that is not what has me bothered.

I feel that I am living a shell of a life.  And what if that is all I am capable of.  Go to work.  Go home.  Drink some (beer, wine, bourbon… fill in the blank,) try to sleep… but toss and turn with vivid and disturbing dreams… and then rinse and repeat.

If that is the rest of my life, I don’t know what the hell I have to look forward to.  I used to look forward to: when things were more stable, to when my career was further along, to when I was in a relationship that made me happy, to when I was a grown up.

I’m older than half of the people I work with.  But I don’t feel like a grown up.  I feel like that kid who is trying to figure out what the fuck he is doing with his life.  I hated that feeling at 25.  At 40, it is crushing me.

I must sound like I am feeling so sorry for myself.  And to some extent I am.  But mostly I am looking at my world and wondering, is this all there is?  And I’m terrified that it is.

I’d love to know that someone heard this… as unlikely as that is.  Leave a comment.  Email me…. tattooedbrain@gmail.com.

And i’ll try not to wait this long to write again.

I should be gone.

I should have stayed gone.

It was my intention that life would be such that I would not have to return here.

But that’s shit.

The illusions I have about being in control of my life are pathetic.

I’m nearly forty years old.  And I still have the same problems I had when I was sixteen.  This isn’t shit I’m going to grow out of.  It’s too late for that.  If we can agree on nothing else, let’s agree that I’m as grown up as I’m going to get.

And I’m failure. 

Oh yes, I have a good job, I’ve made a career for myself.  That’s something.

But it’s not enough.

I’ve raised one kid and I’m raising another.

The first one doesn’t speak to me.

And the second is far away from me.

I’ve married.  Divorced.

I’ve fallen in love. That happened since the divorce.

But it’s all for not.

If there is one thing I can’t live with, it’s being alone.  Which is a tragedy, since it appears to be my nature to push people away.

Luckily, no one reads this shit.  If they did, they would no doubt believe I was sitting here feeling sorry for myself.  I’m not.

I’m sitting here in, the early hours of the morning, looking at myself.  The wine has worn off.  But the anger, the hurt, the self loathing still remain.

Just between us, the white space I fill with meaningless words and me, I wish I were dead.  I wish it a lot.

But that too will not happen.  I can’t take my own life.  I’m not that selfish.  It would destroy too many other lives.

So I have to continue.  Breathing, but not living.

I wrap myself up in others.  My own existence is meaningless.  I see their hopes and dreams, and make them my own.  I work to help them accomplish something, to feel their satisfaction with success.  Because I have none of my own.  Satisfaction that is.  I seem incapable of finding joy in my own success.

But I’m renting.  It’s not my life, my joy, my joys and sorrows.

It belongs to them.  And when, and invariably there is a limit to how long I can share that… when it is over, I’m left alone. 

Naked.  Watching the sun come up on a day that I can’t imagine how I will live through.

 

Your face.

Your eyes, light brown like amber.  With flecks of green glowing with life.  They dance when you smile.  you scrunch those eyes when you laugh, but the joy pours out.

And sometimes, those eyes fill with sorrow.  Wide open with pain.  And even more beautiful than ever.

Eyes filled with life, passion and intelligence.

Your lips.  Full and red.  They split open to reveal a smile filled with warmth.  They purse into the perfect pout.  Exaggerated and tragic.  They kiss. 

Your skin, pale and fair.  Framed by blond hair that flows as though it has a mind of its own.  

I used to burn my arms with cigarettes.

People don’t get that.  It freaks them out.  I’ve given up trying to explain.  They can’t understand the rush of anticipation as the red hot cherry get’s close to the skin, the fear of the pain that is moments away.  And then the pain.  The white hot moment where your physical pain matches the pain inside.  And then the pain dulls into numbness.  And the numbness spreads like a narcotic.

And it wasn’t just the burning.  I’d care for the wound.  Tend it with peroxide to clean it.  Apply antibioitc salve to  keep it that way.  It was theraputic in a way.

I cut myself.  I ran a razor blade across my chest.  Watched the skin split apart.  And blood, as red as the reddest lipstick, beads up along the line until spills over and runs down my chest.  I cut another line.  ANd another.  The pain screams out.  And blood pours down my chest.

But I out grew the self mutilation, it was a childish display and left it with childhood. 

I drank.  I tried to drown my pain in a river of beer, whiskey and sweat.  I drank to kill the pain.  I drank to forget.  The drink drowned out life.  But the pain remained.

Eventually I put down the bottle and never picked it up again.  

But the pains remains.  

I sit on the edge of my bed, naked, thinking about the pain.  The constant in my life.  A grown man, unable to solve the pain of my childhood.  I look at the gun in my hand and wonder if the bullet in the chamber will be able to end the pain.

 

Sam sat by the campfire, letting his thoughts drift but not paying attention to where they went.  Through the trees overhead twinkling stars could be seen, but there was no moon.  At least not yet.

His thoughts were interrupted by approaching footsteps.  He looked up and saw his friend, Johnny.

"Hey man."
"Everything come out alright?"
"Yeah.  My favorite thing about camping may be peeing in the woods."
"I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself."
"I am.  I’m glad you drug me out here."
"Yeah, it’s been too long since I’ve done this.  It’s good to be out here away from everything."
"Yeah.  It’s peaceful."

Sam stood up and grabbed one of the larger sticks they had gathered and carefully added it to the fire.

"I never knew you were such a hippie." Johnny said as Sam poked the fire with a stick.
"Hippie? What are you talking about?"
"You say, ‘Hey Johnny! We should go camping.’ And I picture the fucking KOA or something.  Instead you drag me out here to the middle of nowhere and we just pitch tents on the side of some mountain."
"I like to be away from everything, it’s hard to do that at the KOA.  But how does that make me a hippie?"
"I don’t know, nature boy."
"Fuck you."
"I brought something for you, since you are such a hippie."
"What, a tie dye?"
"Better." he said as he tossed a baggy at Sam.
"What is this?"
"Oh I think you know."
"Shit.  I know what it is, but what he hell are you doing with it?"
"Giving it to you."
"I don’t want this."
"Tell me you never went camping and got high."
"I can’t tell you that."
"I didn’t think so."
"But, fuck, that was a long time ago.  I’m 35 years old.  I’m a Vice President at a Fortune 500 Company.  I have kids.  I can’t just get high!"
"And why not?"
"I… I don’t know, I just can’t."
"Sure you can.  You’re out here, miles from anywhere or anyone, you can do what ever you want."
"It’s not like I packed a bowl."
"That’s why i picked up these."
"You’re gonna roll a joint?"
"No. You are."
"Fuck."

Working by the light of the fire, Sam carefully picked small buds from the baggy and broke them up on the paper.  He folded the paper lengthwise and let the contents even out.  He rolled it in his fingers and licked the remaining edge to seal it to the handmade cigarette.

"It’s not pretty, but it will work."

He offered it to Johnny, but Johnny declined.  "Go ahead nature boy, you first."

Sam lit the joint and drew in the acrid smoke.  He held it in his lungs while he handed the spliff to Johnny.  They passed it back and forth, the quiet only broken by an occasional cough.  When there was nothing left but a bit of paper Sam tossed it into the fire.

"Damn, it’s been like time since I felt like this."
"Like what?"
"High.  I am so fucking high."
"Yeah it feels good, doesn’t it."
"Yeah."

The sat in silence for a while.  Each man alone with his thoughts.  After while, Johnny looked at Sam.

"Why the fuck are you grinning like that?"
"Hey man, I feel good."
"It looks like you feel real good."
"Yeah, plus I’m trying real hard not to giggle like Beavis and Butthead.  It just doesn’t seem appropriate for a V.P."

And then they did laugh.  They talk ed about this and that, but mostly they enjoyed the quiet.  The campfire burned down to a bed of glowing red coals.

"I can’t believe you brought a bag of fucking dope with you."
"What can I say, I’m full of surprises.  Are you sorry I did?"
"No.  This is nice."
"I hope I haven’t ruined your career or anythign by opening a can of worms here."
"I don’t think you need to worry about that.  This feels good, just like I remembered, but somehow it’s different.  I guess the difference is me.  I used to crave this. It seemed to be important, somehow.  Now, like I said, it’s nice.  But it’s not important."
"Damn nature boy, don’t get all deep me on me."
"No fear of that.  Besides, it’s late.  I’m hitting the sack.  Try not to burn the forest down and I’ll let you cook breakfast tomorrow."

With that Sam went to his tent and crawled in his sleeping bag.

And slept. 

"How many sleepless nights would it take to drive some one crazy?"
"What?"
"How many restless nights would it take before you went nuts?"
"You mean how long can you go without sleep before you break?"
"No.  I mean, you get sleep. A catnap here or there, a few hours a night, but never a good night sleep.  How long could you go on like that?"
"I don’t know, forever maybe."  He looks up from his menu and looks into my eyes.  "You’re not sleeping well?"
"No."
"Are you guys ready or do you need another moment?" The waitress interrupts.
"We’re ready."

I checked her out while Frank orders his burger.  She is pretty, slim and young.  She seems sweet and nice.  Part of me hates her for this.  Just looking at her makes me feel old, fat and grumpy.  I order my burger and watch her tight ass walk away from me.  I look back to Frank and he is grinning because he caught me watching.

"Why no sleep, man?"
"I don’t know, maybe I have a troubled soul."
"Maybe."

I look at the other restaurant patrons around us.  Mostly working people on their lunch breaks.  Drones wearing their uniforms of business casual.  Just like us.

"I hate my job.  I hate my life, really.  I mean, how I am supposed to go on day after day like this?  Nothing happens. We don’t do anything.  We pretend that we do.  But that’s all we are doing, fucking pretending?"
"I feel busy, for some one who is pretending."
"Do you?  What are you busy with?  Filling out forms that will be buried in a computer somewhere, that in all likelihood human eyes will never see again?  Making phone calls to leave messages for people who will later call you and leave a message?  Going to meetings, to listen to other people bring you up to speed on the nothing they are doing?  You might be busy, but you are busy pretending."
"Dude, are you okay?"
"No.  I am not okay.  I am sick of living a Dilbert life in a Dilbert nation.  I want to do something.  Anything."
"What would you do, Socrates?"
"I don’t know.  I don’t think I know how to do anything real.  Did you ever think about it?  If all of this stuff went away, no computers no electronics, could you survive?"
"You mean like some post-apocalyptic sci-fi kind of thing?"
"Yeah.  Could you hunt or raise food?  Build shelter?  I think I would be dead in a week."
"Dude, you think to much."
"I get that a lot…  maybe I just need that good night sleep."

Our burgers came and we finished our meal with the typical chit chat, office politics and sports.  We settled the bill and headed to our cars.

"Are you heading back to the office?"

I looked at the sky.  It was perfectly blue.  Only a one cloud to be seen, it was placed there, it seemed, just to serve as a contrast to the blue.  "I don’t think so.  I don’t think I"m gonna make to the office today.  I’ve got some things to check on."

I got in my car and headed down the road.  I drove across town and got on the Interstate, heading west.

"Go west young man." I mumbled to myself.

I was still driving as the sun was setting.  No plans, no destination.  Just a burning desire to do something.  Anything. 

James woke up with a start.  These days it was always with a start.  He looked around and was relieved to see that he was still alone.  He gathered his few belongings and shoved them in the pockets of his trench coat.  He pulled the revolver out the from it’s hiding place, under a slab of concrete that had once been part of high rise, and shoved it in his belt.  He only had four rounds for it, but he didn’t really plan on using it if he could avoid it.  

He moved out of the alleys to the larger streets and saw that the sun was already visible in the sky.  He cursed himself for sleeping late.

"It will get you killed, asshole."

The streets were deserted, but he wasn’t surprised.  Anyone who had the means had left years ago.  Back when the shelling started.  There hadn’t been any shelling in some time.  James wasn’t sure how long it had been, he had trouble keeping track of time.

He moved quickly, keeping close to the buildings and avoiding open spaces.  He came to what was once a high rise apartment complex.  The upper floors were gone, but the the lower portion of the building was mostly intact. He entered and began foraging from apartment to apartment.  Most of them were already stripped of any thing of use.  After a time, he found some canned corn and some stale crackers.  He sat down and had himself a breakfast.  By the noon time he had found some new jeans that fit pretty well.

He curled up in the corner of the apartment, and tried to sleep.  It was to hot to do much until later in the afternoon.  Besides, there wasn’t much shade.  James didn’t like to leave himself to visible. It had been a few days since he had seen another living person.  And after that encounter he was in no rush to meet anyone else.

He had been foraging in a different neighborhood.  He had been hungry and desperate.  He was searching through the rowhouses.  Some of them had been real nice, before the trouble began.  The first two had been stripped bare.  Nothing left.  Everything had probably been looted during the riots that had followed the initial attacks. In the third home that he tried, there was some furniture and stuff left.  He thought his luck might have changed.  He found a little food and decided to go upstairs and see what was up there.  In one of the bedrooms he found a body.  It was curled up in the corner with it’s back turned to him.  He thought it was dead, until it spoke.

"Get out of my house." It rasped.
"I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone lived here."
"This is my house." It rolled over and sat up.

She was maybe 20 years old, but she was so emaciated that she appeared much older.  Her eyes were sunk deep in her skull and her hair was thin and stringy.  The clothes she wore seemed several sizes too big.

"Why are you here?"
"I’m sorry." James was already backing out the door.
"Do you have any junk?"
"I don’t do that shit."
"Liar!"

She moved with surprising quickness.  She was on James before he could retreat completely.  She clawed at his face while digging through his pockets.  He threw her off.  Any hesitation he might have had about striking a woman had disappeared years ago. 

"I don’t do that shit!" He repeated, pulling the revolver from his pants. "I’m leaving. Don’t follow me."

James shivered at memory.  The junkies bothered him even more than the Militia.  In the early days, after the police disappeared, drugs were plentiful and the junkies had indulged themselves.  It was anarchy and they were in their element.  But the drugs had dried up over time.  There were a few labs in the city that still made junk, but most of the junkies couldn’t afford to pay for their drugs.  Currency was no longer an issue, but there was still payment to be made, a system of slavery that James didn’t quite understand, nor did he want to.  Those who couldn’t offer anything to masters of the labs could only hope to stumble across their junk or steal it.  They were too weak with addiction to do much more.

James opened his eyes, a bit surprised that he had managed to doze off.  The sun sat lower in the sky.  It was time to go.  James needed food.  He hadn’t much to eat in days.  He slipped out of the building and walked quickly in the shadows.  He came to the wall.  It always amazed him.  It wasn’t really a wall, but more a barricade.  It stood over two stories high and was built of rubble and slabs of concrete.  The militia had built it keep themselves in and everyone else out.

James was terrified of the militia.  They were suspicious, paranoid and armed to the teeth.  They seemed to think that agents of the enemy were still in the city.  Anyone they caught coming close to their compound was captured and tried.  They were proud of the fact that they stood for law and order.  Their trials were proof of this, but James had never heard of anyone who hadn’t been found guilty. 

James had heard rumors of a community of scavengers, like him, that had formed on the other side of the river.  To get there he had pass through militia territory, so he’d never tried.  But the scavenging had on;y gotten worse.  He needed to find someplace new.  If he couldn’t find the scavengers, he’d have to try to leave the city.  He’s never been outside of the city, and he didn’t know what he might find.  He had thought about it for weeks.  There was no other choice.  He’d cross the river tonight.

He walked through the alleys, trying to stay as far from the wall as he could manage.  Every time he caught sight of the monstrous thing, it made his skin break into goosebumps.  That wall look like death to him.

By the time he reached the river, it was nearly dark.  He hid in a doorway, waiting for true dark.   He took off the trench coat and his boots.  He wrapped the boots in the coat, tying it up carefully.  As the last rays of the sun dissipated, he made his way to the rivers edge.  He could see fires burning at regular intervals along the top of the wall.  He hoped that the fires would keep them to blind to see him.  He looked to black water, it didn’t look like it was moving that fast, but he knew that to be lie.

He gripped the bundle he’d made from his coat and plunged into the icy water. 

"What the fuck are you doing?"
"What does it look like? I’m lying here on the floor."
"Are you okay?"
"Right! as rain I am. Fuck! I sound like fucking Yoda. Strong the darkside is."  Tom started giggling.
"Are you drunk?"
"Hard to say, but give me a few more drinks and I’ll know for sure."
"Dude!  You don’t drink."
"Oops."
"What the fuck are you thinking?"
"I was thinking that life had little value, but now I am thinking that I don’t know why I waited so long to fall off that stupid wagon."
"Fuck."
"I haven’t felt this good in years.  I feel posi… positisss… fucking good.  Plus, I like slurring my words, I think it suits me."
"What happenned?"
"Well, I open the bottle and started drinking.  It was easier than you would have thunk."
"What bottle?"

Tom nodded his head in the direction of an empty fifth of bourbon.

"You drank all of that?"
"Good to last drop, baby."
"What am I going to do?"
"I say go get some beer.  I love beer.  I would love to drink beer."
"You can’t drink anymore."
"Oh.  I bet I can.  Shit. I’m ten years out of practice, but I think its all coming back to me."
"No.  You told me before, if you hadn’t stopped drinking you would be dead."
"I said that?  Huh.  Maybe I was right.  Sounds okay by me.  I can do it too.  Leaving Las Vegas style."
"Let me get some coffee."

Tom sat up, the smile had fled from his face.

"Don’t bring me any coffee that isn’t suitably Irish.  I may drunk, but I’m not stupid and I’m not a child.  I know what I did, and I know what I’m doing.  The only difference between now and… say, yesterday, is that I no longer care."
"What happened?"
"That doesn’t matter.  Not tonight.  Tomorrow will be filled with remorse and regret, I’ll deal with it then.  Or not."
"This isn’t like you."
"Are you sure?  I think that maybe this is just like me.  And maybe I’ve been denying to myself who I am for the last 10 years."
"Don’t talk like that.  Maybe you need to go to some sort of meeting, get support."
"Meeting are for pussies.  God grant me the strength not to lower myself to attending meetings, to fill the void I feel when i don’t drink, grant me the wisdom to tell those fuckers to hug themselves."
"Tom."
"Frank, I’m off the wagon.  And there is no way I’m going to get back on it tonight.  So let it go."
"Jesus, man."
"Help me up, I need to piss."

Frank held out his hand and lifted his buddy from the floor.  Tom stumbled into the bathroom and clumsily lifted the lid.

"Hey Frank," he called out, "I’m sure I could fill that bottle more than once with all this piss.  You ever wonder about that?  Where does it all come from?"
"Alcohol is a diuretic.  Just like coffee."
"What does that mean."
"I guess it means that it makes you piss."
"Let’s go out." Tom said, walking out of the bathroom.
"Out?"
"Sure, let’s go out to a strip club."
"I can’t believe I’m questioning this, but you hate strip clubs."
"Of course I do, but they are much more tolerable while intoxicated.  Besides I’ve almost forgotten what boobs look like."
"How about something a little more sedate?"
"Such as?"
"Grab a twelve pack and chill here?"
"You’re saying no to strippers?"
"Dude, I’m scared of letting you near strippers right now, I can’t see any scenario that doesn’t end with us not getting our asses kicked by big scary strip bar bouncers."
"I can see that.  Hell, I think that would be the best part."
"You’re fucked up."
"Yeah.  And drunk too."
"Twelve pack?  Watch Fight Club?"
"Make it a case.  And throw in some weed."
" A case.  And let’s not get too carried away on you first big night."
"Your loss. But fine. Gentleman… Welcome to Fight Club…"

"The First Rule of Fight Club is Don’t Talk about Fight Club.  The Second Rule of Fight Club is… Don’t Talk about Fight Club." They finished in unison.

"Thanks dude."
"Don’t worry about it.  Just chill the fuck out, don’t do anything dumb and I’ll be back in a minute with your fucking case."

"You’re cut off Jack."
"What?"
"You’ve had enough.  Take a breather.  Okay?"
"You can’t do that."

Fucking bitch. She can’t cut me off.  Christ.  Doesn’t she know who I am?

"Look.  I’m sorry.  I was excited.  I’ll just sit here and drink my beer.  I won’t bother anyone.  I promise."
"Jack."
"Look, Matt is a friend of mine.  He wouldn’t want you to do this."
"Jack, who do you think told me to cut you off?"

I looked down the bar, Matt was looking at me.  He shrugged apologetically.

"Whatever." I mumbled.

Things were confused.  I just needed to think.  Sometimes this happens, shit gets a little wild.  I just need to think.  I light a cigarette.

"Okay.  How about one more beer and then I’ll go home."
"Jack, you’re done."
"Fuck."

I look at her.  She is worried.  She thinks I might give her trouble.  Fuck her.  Scared of me.  She wouldn’t have to worry about that if she would just give me a fucking drink. 

Wait.  Think.  I pull on the cigarette.  I feel its smoke fill me.  I exhale through my nose.  But still I can’t get a handle on this situation.

How many had I had? Seven? Eight? Yeah, maybe eight pints.  Shit.  I was drunk.  But why did they cut me off?  Something happened.  I’m not sure what.

Heat on my fingers snaps my attention back to the bar.  The cigarette has burned down to my fingers.  I carefully move the cigarette and the inch and a half long ash that is perched on it over the ashtray.  With less than a tap, the ash falls to the ashtray.  Cut me off?  I am in total control.  I grind the butt into the ashtray and, as though to contradict my assertion, it somehow turns over.  A small cloud of ash settles over the butts that have landed on the bar.

"Fuck!  Sorry.  Sorry."
"Don’t worry about it, Jack.  How about some coffee?"
"No.  No don’t bother, I was ready to leave."
"Jack, you can’t drive."
"I can’t drink if stay. I can’t drive when I leave.  Want to tell me everything else that I can’t do too?"
"Jack, listen closely.  That guy over there is a cop.  If you get in your car, he will arrest you."

I look at him.  He looks like a cop. Fucking two faced cops.  He wasn’t on his first, but he’ll never gt a DWI.  I knew he was there, how did I forget.  I need to get of here.  Fresh air will help.

"You right, I won’t drive.  I’m gonna walk."
"You are in no condition to walk."
"I’m not going far, I’ll crash at a friends over at the Apartments.  Okay?"
"Are you sure?"
"I’ll be fine."
"I hope so."
"What do I owe?"
"Don’t worry about it, we’ll settle up later."
"You’re a nice girl."

I throw a twenty on the bar and climb off of the bar stool.  For a moment I think my legs will betray me, but they hold.  I walk out the door.

It is colder than I thought out there.  I grab my smokes and pull out the cigarette that was set the opposite way of the others. It is my special cigarette. I put it in my mouth as I walk down the street.  I turn up an alley and look around.  There is no one around.  I light t with a flip of my zippo.  I take a long deep drag and taste the acrid sweet smoke.  I hold it until a cough threatens, with a tickle to the back of my throat.  I slowly blow it out.  I start walking again as I finish the cigarette..

It did not take long for me to feel the weed take effect.  That’s what my buddy Scott always says. "We are in effect."  And I am.  I am in effect.  My face feels dense and my lungs feels heavy.  But I fell better.  Calmer.  I look around.  5th Street.  I could go to Maria’s.  Hopefully I can get in for last call.  I need a fucking drink.

I walk for a while, mostly just concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.  Concentrating on not walking like a drunk.  I concentrate on it so much that I am surprised when I realize that I am standing in front of Maria’s. 

The bar is dark.  The door is locked.  What is going on?  I check my watch, it’s 3:12.  How did it get so late?  I consider walking back to my car, but that seems to far.  I really need a drink.  I start walking again, in the same direction I had been.

I hear a car slowing behind me. I keep walking.  It’s going to be a fucking cop.  The car pulls next to me. 

"What the fuck are you doing."
"I’m looking for a drink."
"You idiot, everything is closed."
"Yeah, it’s not going well.  Do you have anything to drink at your pad?"

Jamie is a cool chick. I don’t think she likes me that much, but she tolerates me for some reason.  Her eyes are bloodshot, she is drunk or stoned.

"I can take you home…"
"I don’t want to go home, no booze at home."
"Shit Jack, do you really need another drink?"
"Fuck, forget it."

I start walking again.

"Jack!  Jesus, wait.  What the fuck is wrong with you?"

What is wrong with me?  Everyone worrying about how much I drink. Fuck them.  They don’t have to walk in these shoes, they don’t know.  How could they know?  I need a fucking drink and I don’t need to hear about it from every asshole I run into.

"Jack!  I’m sorry.  I got some beer in the fridge I think.  Maybe some JD too."
"Don’t you think I know if I need another drink?  Don’t you?"

I am fucking crying now.  Dammit.  I need to get it together."

"You know.  I’m sure you do.  If you need a drink, we’ll get you one."

Part of me wants to stand there and refuse.  Stand right here and show how proud I am.  But I don’t really want to stand here in the cold on the street.  And I really need a drink.

"Okay."

I walk around and get in her car.  She puts it in gear and we shoot forward,  much faster then I had been moving.  I watch the street lights go by.  After I while, I wonder if she’ll sleep with me.  I wonder what it will take, to get in her bed. 

We arrive at her apartment and I follow here to her door.

"Look Jack, drink as much as you need, but if you start trying to hit me on me again, I’ll put you out on you ass." she said, as she unlocked the door.

Jamie is a cool chick, but I don’t think she likes me that much.

I was working the heavy bag with Little Jimmy when he walked in.  He was a big fucker.  Strong and black as midnight.  He walked in and his entourage followed, two big boys— more fat than muscle on these two, and two girls wearing too tight pants and too small shirts.  They wore those awful weaves that girls wear down here in the city.  One blonde and one orange. 

I turned back to Jimmy.

"Concentrate."

He’s a good kid, Jimmy is.  He can’t fight for shit, doesn’t have the heart for it. He can’t take being hit.  A fighter is going to be hit.  But he’s a good kid and likes to come here and lift and work the heavy bag.  I won’t turn him away, kids like him need someplace to be.

"Yo.  Jerome D is in the mudderfuckin house! Yo! I’m talking to you.  Are you the fucker that is gonna train up Jerome for a championship?"

This one is going to be trouble.  I’ve seen his kind before.  In his mind he’s already won.  He’s already big time.  He won’t be prepare, he’ll get his ass pounded, and he’ll blame his trainer.  Me.

I walked over to him and took a look at him.  He was big.  Long arms.  Strong.  It was tempting, but not worth it.

"Go home Jerome. There is nothing for you here."
"Shit. You talkin to the next Champion."
"You don’t have what it takes."
"Shit Nigga, I got it all."
"Watch the profanity."
"Whas the matta?  You can’t handle a fighter like me."
"No.  You can’t handle me."
"Shit."
"Language."

He stood there staring at me.  I didn’t like where this was going.  He looked more like one of those damned hip hop rappers on MTV than a boxer.

"Alright, let’s see what you got."

I led him into the ring.  He threw his jacket on the ropes and held is fists in front of his chest.  He bounced around and punched at the air.

"Have you ever boxed Jerome?"
"Sure.  Yeah." 

I walked up to him and looked at his arms and his stance.  And then — and I’m not at all ashamed of this– I sucker punched him with my bare fist.  Right in his loud mouth.  It cut his lip and  knocked him backwards.  He looked at me with wide eyes, seeing for the first time something more than just a middle aged white guy.

"What the fuck!  You fucking hit me!"
"What exactly did you think would happen to you when you stepped in to the ring?"

I took the towel off of my shoulder and wiped the blood of my hand and then tossed it to him.

"You get in that ring to fight, and you will get hit.  And harder than I can hit you.  You need to know that, Jerome.  There ain’t a fighter who never got hit.  You wanna fight?  You wanna train with me?  Fine.  You came back tommorrow.  Leave your posse at home.  And you profanity too.  You’re nothing but a big dumb nigger who thinks he’s somebody, right now.  You come back here and you do it my way, I’ll make you a fighter."

He just looked at me.

"Now get on out of here."

He gathered his jacket and walked out the door.  I went back to the heavy bag.

"Come on Jimmy, hit the damn bag and stop staring."

Jimmy was a good kid, but I couldn’t help but think about Jerome.  I couldn’t help but think that if he came back he just might have what it takes to fight.