Pre-Prison Musings

The following is more a personal diary entry for future reference than anything, although it fits into the narrative of recent posts too. If you're looking for my typical humor, you might want to skip this one. If you're young and dicking around with drugs and being lazy, you most certainly should read on. In any event, thanks for clicking, thanks for the support, and I'll catch you down the road...


Pre-Prison Musings

If you think getting your shit in order for a long vacation is stressful, try getting your affairs in order for a thirty-two month stint in prison! Actually don't try it, because it turns out it's not a lot of fun. Interesting? Most definitely---especially if you find psychological studies to be your cup of tea. I'm going to attempt to describe what it's like trying to go through life knowing I am going into a completely foreign, unfriendly, uncomfortable place for a long period of time.

I have always hated goodbyes. Whether they be merely from a party or a family vacation, I just can't stand bidding farewell to people of whom I'm fond. It's a real weak spot for me. My current situation seems to be like working out a weak body part in the gym, or being forced to speak in public when one finds it entirely terrifying. my greatest dislikes are being isolated, poked, and probed like never before. I know this process will make me more well-rounded as a person in the long run, but this certainly doesn't make things any easier now.

I'm dealing with seemingly endless goodbyes right now. Not the "see ya later" variety, but "I'm going for a long time, and I may or may not be the same person when I get back" shit, and it's gut wrenching. No one really knows what to say, and even if I take it past platitudes like "I'm going to be fine", I have to stop short otherwise I'll just start crying. I don't like to cry because it hurts. Not just emotionally, but it gives me a headache and a stuffy nose. But I digress. The point is this ordeal is a remarkable, crippling compilation of unpleasantness that I never bargained for when I decided to take the risk of dealing drugs. "Can I do the time if I get caught?", I asked myself. Yes. If someone had mapped out the ancillary effects of getting arrested now that I've lived them? Hell no.

Hidden Punishments...

Over the nearly ten months of being in limbo the dread and disappointment has ebbed and flowed. Immediately following the event, I was completely broken. I would often feel like simply falling to my knees and breaking down right there in public. Suicide was absolutely a possibility, and I often thought about the best way, settling on renting a storage unit big enough to fit a car with the engine running. It was nearly impossible to laugh or ever strong together moments resembling a good mood. I was the epitome of a guy who has literally had that smirk wiped off of his face. As time passed my good spirit began to take over again and gratitude inventory, along with friends and family, allowed me to compartmentalize my pink elephant. Now that things have gotten oh-so-real, however, I'm right back to where I was and then some. But as I was saying, it's the little pains in the ass that really add up.

First I had to move from my nice little apartment back to roommates. Then I had to live in a halfway house for five months with even more roommates, and go to AA meetings for ninety straight days, while working my menial delivery job. (So much for any creative progress for personal affirmation during that time.) I had very promising love affairs stall or fizzle in painful fashion because I am damaged goods who's soon going to be gone. I had the blues pretty much all the time, and was always on the razor's edge of being completely broke. Luckily I have great experience in this arena, and the extent of how stretched I was financially is downright comical if looked at in the right way.

I can't afford suspension work on my car, so it blows through tire tread. More than once I've changed a completely bald, ready to blow-out tire for a used replacement because a new one would've tapped me out. Don't think the absurdity of me deciding which tire was less likely to give out was lost on me. I was weighing whether to get breakfast at a hotel prior to a court date, but $6.99 was too pricey, especially considering I'd have to add a tip. I filled up with gas while there was still money in my bank account, know ing a check would bounce, because if my car wasn't running I make no money. I don't have any loose change laying around---it's also been used for gasoline. All the while having a hernia that I couldn't afford to get repaired.

So that's the bed that I have made for myself: broke, broken, and largely depressed. Life a huge hassle with few rewards and the pain of major separation for good measure. But in the midst of all of this, I've still managed to be a good soul, which bodes well for me emerging from prison largely unchanged. Even at my lowest point, I'd still be polite and cordial with my courier interactions because I was raised well. I'm smart enough to know that no matter how down I was, sending out bad vibes and fighting against the flow of life would only make things worse. It's nice to know that I have this instinct, and it will serve me well to emerge from my prison stint as the same person.

Not All Bad

Alas with all of the bad, came a lot of good. My 2000 Mazda Protege with 175,000 miles has been nothing short of amazing. While doing a lot of creaking due to needing front end work, this car brought me through everything with zero problems. All the trips to Asheville for court, and month after month of driving deliveries around Atlanta, this rig has needed absolutely no repairs. I've had it for 100,000 miles in two and a half years and haven't even had to replace an alternator, only brake pads once and the same for belts and hoses.

I was also introduced in earnest to the wonders of the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous as a road map for living a happy, productive spiritual life, and the many amazing people who come with it who I wouldn't have encountered otherwise. Having support for sober living for six months was invaluable, as being clear-headed and off the pills was integral in getting the most out of the lessons I've been taught. Besides these gifts, I've learned something even more valuable: who my friends really are.

One of my oldest friends Tad put up $33,000 in bail so I could try the legal process to avoid jail, as well as complete my bankruptcy and get all of my other loose ends tied prior to going up the river. The peace of mind I'll have from this is priceless. There's also Jake, my stalwart of a roommate, who has stood by me and lent me a place to stay and also somewhere to store my belongings while I'm gone. And my old friend Tom, who is letting me store my car at his house, is selling my iMac for me after I leave and investing the money for use when I return. Not t mention he's giving me a ride to the court date that will include my intake into the prison system. A number of others who I never knew cared so much have provided emotional support for which I'll always be grateful and will help keep me strong on the next part of my journey. All of these displays of love are going to come up huge, I'm sure!

Where I'm Going And How I Got Here

Finally, what I have in front of me: years removed from my life in most uncomfortable circumstances. Getting back to my shortcomings being exposed and tested, I'm faced with being surrounded by ignoramuses at best, and barbarians at worst. I'd have to say my number one pet peeve is being compelled to engage in shitty conversation, and I expect this will be unavoidable and ubiquitous where I'm headed. Pointless rudeness, confrontation, and general stupidity will be the order of the day, and that's going to suck. I will learn how to persevere, avoid incendiary sarcasm with dumbasses, and walk other tightropes to find any degree of comfort. I've learned these skills to some extent in the past, and they will be put to the test. At least I will come out a better, well-rounded man.

The real question must be: "how did you get here?" Procrastination, laziness, and too many recreational drugs. I never had a work ethic that I sustained for any length of time, and I never chose one specific path and followed it successfully, no matter what. I was far too interested in temporary satisfaction and hardly ever postponed gratification. When I was younger it was all about the party, and I was sure my intelligence and charm would provide for me when it mattered down the road. Then months turned into years, which turned into decades, and found me with nothing of substance to show for myself.

Sure I had great friends, I was always attentive with family relationships, and got along well with everyone, which could be considered a degree of success, I suppose. The problem was I never took the time and effort to get serious about a career and make something of myself. There was always a distraction, whether it was sports to watch, golf to play, or the next party to rage. I always believed that as soon as "x" is over, well then I'll get serious about life. That looks good on paper, but devoid of discipline and goals it never meant a thing. Eventually the snowball of unrealized potential and a cycle of self-loathing due to all of the above led me here: desperately trying a shortcut to trey to bail myself out for past slackness.

So here I am, about to go to prison for thirty-plus months to think about it all and hopefully reset my life. If this doesn't get my attention, nothing will. The voice that tells me to get writing and creating needs to be listened to instead of being medicated away as I dick around wasting my life. They say everything happens for a reason, and given the absurd happenstances that got me arrested, I have to believe that. After all, the only reason I had enough powder to warrant a felony in the first place was because my supplier fronted me an amount four times the normal because she decided she could trust me. And I got ratted out by a guy down on his luck I was trying to help out. That's almost comical in the lack of justice and karma, so it has to be part of some grand plan.

I can only figure my drastic circumstances are the sole way to get me to come correct and make something happen instead of sitting idly watching my life go by. God knows nothing else has worked so far. So while this next stage of my life is going to suck royally, I'm going to be careful to take away the proper lessons and ultimately make it into a positive. This is really the only alternative at this point. So off I go, into the unsavory and unknown---the true school of hard knocks. I can do this. I will do this. And the next time I get the urge to dick around instead of be productive I can only hope I'll tell the short-term gratification to take a rain check. The good times will be there when I have earned them.
And they will be sweeter than any short-tem gratification, that's for sure!

Busted: The Fallout.

I did not take life seriously in my first forty-three years. I screwed off, worked the angles, and did just enough to get by while still making it to the next party. I was a “slacker” who took perverse pride in seeing how little effort I could expend and still end up a success. Stand-up comic, morning radio contributor, internet broadcaster, “half-asser.” Something had to give.

In fall, 2009 my Mother was diagnosed with lung cancer and had a two month bout with it before passing on. We were very close, and I did not deal with this period well. There was always a surplus of painkillers, a lot of which went to medicate me, and I became addicted.

I subsequently lived in a pill haze—even further beyond my means—and ran up a significant credit card debt. Unfortunately, instead of getting a second job, reigning in my expenses, and kicking the pills, I took an easier route: dealing drugs.

It started with pot, mailed to me from California, a pound or less, for distribution locally and also at “jam band” concerts here and there. This was quite profitable, and allowed me to travel and live it up while supporting my addiction.

Running in the circles I did, it was inevitable that other opportunities arose, and indeed they did. I eventually found MDMA (a/k/a/”molly”) by the ounce, which upped the legal ante considerably. The profit margins were impossible for me to turn down, however, and I started living something resembling the high life.

So I was in business—sustaining my habit, just killing my credit card debt, and staying in nice hotels. Like any responsible drug dealer, I also had an exit strategy; a set figure of saved money at which point I would stop and go legitimate. The Wright brothers had longer flights than my plan.

My downfall came from being a nice guy. To further rationalize, I was being a sweetheart while vending the two recreational drugs that bring a lot joy while doing minimal harm: weed and ecstasy. I never considered selling ugly stuff like heroin, cocaine, or opiate-based pills. This is not to whine, just things I told myself that kept me from feeling like a horrible person.

A Reunion

I was in Atlanta the first weekend of April doing some “business” around the Fox Theater, where the latest incarnation of the Grateful Dead was playing. I ran into my old friend Joseph Warren Jones , from my days seeing Phish concerts back in the nineties. I hadn’t seen him in over a decade. He was also an addict—less functioning, as it turned out—and had the down-on-his-luck story to match. He professed that he was recovering and simply needed a helping hand, so why not?

To this point I had always kept my business close to the vest, within a circle of trusted friends. I had a good instinct for this and maintained things quite well. In this case, however, I let my guard down and trusted someone who I thought I knew well. Ultimately I didn’t know him at all.

Joe needed some money to get over some “hump,” so I offered to have him join me in North Carolina the following weekend, April 8th, 2011, to work a Widespread Panic concert run. Besides selling drugs to begin with, this was literally the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

When I was vending drugs at these “traveling circus” type of shows, I spent my time discreetly in a “friendly” place, theoretically light on police presence. Gathering spots like a pizza place, or in hotels, where it’s easy to detect groups arriving for the concerts.

“You’re in room 318, the elevators are just around the corner there, and the guy wearing the Phish hat has a full selection of mind-expanding chemicals for the weekend. Enjoy your stay at the Asheville Renaissance!”

This method is clean and relatively risk-free, but I failed to instruct Joe to employ it. While he was a veteran at this, I still should have confirmed it with him during out three-hour drive. Instead, we got caught up listening to some killer Phish shows from ’10 instead. Blame it on a simple twist of fate.

So instead of higher-end hotels, Joe went off to work the area around the concert venue, soliciting “hip” passersby. I enjoyed a typical pre-show sales session at a pizza joint a friend of mine managed. After a while, however, something seemed off because I hadn’t heard from Joe and he was not responding to calls or texts. For some reason this omen didn’t send me into shutdown mode; I just kept going like everything was cool.

Later I was in the concert venue, now really wondering what the hell happened. Did this guy skip town or something, burning me for the money? Finally, I got a text from Joe, asking where the stash was so he could re-up, and claiming to have girls back at the room who wanted to party.

Somehow even this didn’t alert me, because Joe knew where the stash was. Also, when you have enough molly to fire up a cheerleading squad, the dance team, and the majorettes, women looking to party just kind of materialize. And what about the fucking concert? I sure didn’t recall Joe being this stupid.

I was starting to catch a good buzz by this point, so even though Joe made no sense, I was just glad to hear from him. What I didn’t know was the cops were texting on his phone, getting me to incriminate myself and trying to lure me back to the hotel. I went on to enjoy the show, not realizing I had been sold out by my friend.

I could whine about how he broke the rules of “the game”—which he did—but the bottom line is it’s all on me. I should not have put myself in this situation to begin with, under any circumstances. All I can do is think it happened for a good reason.

After the show I decided to grab some barbecue at a street stand and go back to the room. (Fine Joe, are you happy now?) There was an odd silence in the room before I swiped the card, and learned why the hard way.

The Music Stops

I opened the door and four cops grabbed me, screaming that I was under arrest. Before I knew it, I was shoved face down on the bed, and my wrists were not-so-gently cuffed behind my back.

Although my wrists were yelping in pain, I recall counting my blessings at that moment. If I must be pummeled into submission by burly law enforcement, after all, a pillow top mattress was a pretty good place to suffer the indignity.

The other thing I’ll never forget about that moment is my main emotion was of relief. Of all the things. The stress from the life I was living was gone. Regardless of whether my new circumstances would prove to be any better, at least they would be defined and honest.

As my Mom might say: if I wasn’t going to stop myself, the universe would do it for me. Also, at least I was arrested “early” in my career, before I was really big time, and subject to a much more severe punishment. More importantly, at that moment anyway, I didn’t spill my barbecue.

The scene was hectic only for a moment, until it was clear that I wasn’t going to resist or otherwise be a problem. The four local cops were dismissed by the plain clothes NC Alcohol Law Enforcement officer running the bust, then it was just three of us, including his flunky sidekick.

I must admit I was happy to hear apologies and thanks to the uniformed cops for waiting “all night” for my arrival. Perhaps I saved a few of my concert-going brethren from getting busted in the process.

My arresting officer was a nice guy, and I suppose he felt likewise, because he showed some leniency. After first refusing to let me eat my barbecue I kept asking, and he finally relented. While I had to remain loosely cuffed, I could still reach the chow, which I devoured. I also managed to get him to pull a bottle of water out of my cooler for me.

“Hey, thanks again from letting me eat. And listen, is there any chance you’d grab me one of those waters over there?”

He looked at my incredulously, saying: “Now you’re really pushing it!,” as he stepped over to fish out the bottle.

A few minutes later the cop lost his patience, probably because I was simply finding new ways to say “I want my attorney,” and giving him nothing resembling a confession. He and his sidekick whisked me out the door before I completely finished my food. “We’ve been here for six hours.” he explained. “We need our own fucking food.”

After my hands were cuffed behind me again, I noticed the cops failed to find all of the molly I had on me when they frisked me. On the way to the station it was just me and the plain clothes in an SUV, me riding shotgun. Despite being cuffed, I was able to fish out multiple packets of powder from my back pockets and stuff them into the seat crack, undetected.

It turned out off-loading that nearly four grams of the powder didn’t matter in the long run, but it helped me feel like I accomplished something, but only for a while. The cops that frisked me at the jail alsoskipped my back pockets, so I could’ve taken the damned things right back out the door with me when I got sprung.

Jail And All Its Charms

So into the clink I went — and into the modern hell of trying to remember a phone number, thanks to cell phones. The cops take them immediately, and they don’t read off numbers for you, either. The pressure was on, for sure. I had two numbers for my lawyer memorized, but he didn’t answer either time, and he couldn’t call back because the jail numbers were blocked.

The cops were impatient and adversarial, and I had to practically beg for one more try. I was flustered, and the countdown was on prior to moving to a space with possibly no phones. I was mixing up friend’s numbers that were similar and recalling old home numbers for people, but none of them worked.

Besides being extremely frustrating, it was borderline terrifying. What if I could never get in touch with anyone, and how long until someone figured out where I was? And what about my car and all of my stuff in my hotel room? As if being on the back end of a ecstasy trip wasn’t disorienting enough…

In addition to simply wanting to get sprung quickly, there was $6,500 in cash, stashed in my car. At the time I didn’t know the cops never bothered searching the vehicle, let alone impounding it. Perhaps they felt they had enough to nail me to the wall already. Or they were simply lazy and looking forward to a dozen Krispy Kremes.

Soon I was moved to the next stage of booking, and a crucial number dawned on me: an Atlanta restaurant owned by my good friend Tad. Thanks to once working there, I remembered the number and, as luck would have it, Tad was a guy who would bail me out.

Now it was pushing 3:00 am, but it was a Friday night, so the place wasn’t quite closed. I knew that sometimes they picked up the phone when it rang this late, sometimes they don’t. My window to reach someone there was quickly closing, if it had not already — time was of the essence.

I asked the booking officer if I could use the phone across the room. “After I’m done booking you in you can.”, came the mumble. Suddenly minutes seemed like hours as I pictured the restaurant manager killing the lights and locking up.

I finally got to the phone and placed the collect call. The instructions were to speak your name at the tone, so I said: “Tad’s friend Garrett,” in case someone who didn’t know me anwered. A lot of time elapsed, until finally a voice came over the line: “Garrett, it’s Lauren.” Cue the angelic chorus.

I knew most of the managers at this place, but Lauren I know the best. She’s very tight with Tad, and would get in touch with him to bail me out, no questions asked. Knowing Tad, one of the world’s great go-getters, it wouldn’t be long until I was out.

I was then shuffled into a holding tank, a/k/a “the cooler”, which is an apt name, because by design they keep it cold as the goodbye from of a cheap hooker. As the hours wore on with my teeth chattering, t-shirt pulled over my knees, I began to wonder what the delay was for springing me—I had no way of knowing.

My mind went a lot of dark places around that time, and suicide was most certainly one of them. How disappointed would my loved ones would be? Had one of my best friends had forsaken me? Would Widespread Panic go their whole existence with the worst drummer ever?

I had assumed a bail bondsman would accept a credit card, and I’d be out in an hour or two. Unbeknownst to me, when the detainee is from out of state, with serious charges like mine, the full bail was required. All that stood between me and freedom was $33,000 and a non-refundable fee of roughly $3,700. No wonder it was taking so long.

Tad was stymied because the bail bondsman did not accept AmEx, and his other cards lacked that kind of limit. Long story short, he worked some kind of magic, and actually convinced the bondsman to spring me, basically promising the check was in the mail. Like I said: Tad is resourceful, as well as one helluva salesman.

Before the bail finally came through, however, I logged nearly a whole day in this county lockup. I was not assigned a cellmate, which was nice, but that was about the only thing that went right. Also, amazingly, the jailers placed both Joe — my rat — and me in the same cell block.

I’m not sure which one of us was more surprised by this when I encountered the shithead munching away at breakfast. I do know, however, who was more terrified: Joe. I was so astounded that I didn’t even run up and slap him, but then I’m not a violent guy to begin with.

He saw me, dropped his plastic spork in shock, got up and went straight back to his cell, leaving his tray sitting there. I just watched him slip away like the vermin he is, and I must admit it was oddly entertaining.

I got sprung about twenty hours after my arrest, which seemed more like twenty days. Amazingly, my hotel room was still under my name, despite the whole “multiple felonies committed here yesterday” thing. All of my non-illegal possessions were still there, too. I especially enjoyed sleeping on the pillow-top that night, wrecked life or not.

Picking Up The Pieces

The next day I bought a new phone and headed back to Atlanta for the day, trying to find a attorney referral and contemplating my situation in general. Listening to music or anything frivolous was out of the question; I was in a slow, surreal freak out the whole time. When I got home I rid my apartment of any additional evidence on the off chance the case went federal and I got raided.

At court the next day I encountered some of my former jail mates, including Joe, who stayed off in the corner, as a rat would. He would not look my way no matter what. I asked him if he had the ten bucks I lent him, because I could’ve actually used it, but of course he didn’t.

I added something like “thanks for ruining my life,” and left him to wallow in his guilt. That was the extent of our conversation. His ultimate punishment for betraying me is that he has be him the rest of his life, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

I also encountered someone of hopefully higher moral standing, my well-recommended counsel Sean Deveraux. He was around fifty and came across as very sharp and likable. I had a good feeling about him, although my cash flow decidedly did not. He had to head out of town for a court appearance, however, so he passed me off to his partner for the short arraignment procedure and my subsequent debriefing.

Andrew Banzhoff, a no-nonsense guy of about forty, entered a plea of not guilty and then we repaired to a nearby penthouse office to assess my ruins. I explained to him that although I didn’t babble to the cops and incriminate myself following my arrest, they still had me dead to rights; my fingerprints were all over everything.

My attorney seemed troubled, especially when I completely ruled out giving up my suppliers to get my charges reduced or dropped. I explained that a rat was what got me there in the first place, and that wasn’t a exactly a favor worthy of paying forward.

On the plus side, Banzhoff saw a possibility the “notorious cowboy” who made the arrest entered my hotel room before getting a search warrant, to confirm Joe’s story first. The counselor explained that, while a long shot, he and Mr. Deveraux had previously beaten similar charges with this tactic.

Unfortunately, this investigation and the additional legwork would cost me another ten grand, which I simply didn’t have. I had only recently ratcheted up my business, and had yet to put away any money of consequence to finance a washer and dryer, let alone a fancy legal defense.

Even worse, the anti-drug crusading District Attorney had a real personal problem with guys like me. So much of an issue, in fact, that he often personally joins teams to bust my ilk when concerts come to town. I guess it was easy for a guy who looked like an especially dim former offensive lineman to blend in.

Since I was caught red-handed, my only realistic legal strategy was also what I needed to do anyway: get into a long-term drug treatment program. Perhaps a display of contrition and addressing my chemical issues would gain sympathy, and convince the D.A. to prosecute a lesser amount of MDMA than demands a mandatory minimum sentence.

I went to the rehab, and benefited greatly. I also voluntarily entered a halfway house for over five months, and documented going to ninety twelve-step meetings in ninety days in the process. While this helped me personally, the D.A. couldn’t have cared less—I might as well have used that money on a Vegas bender.

I was charged with felony marijuana possession with intent to distribute, felony possession and trafficking of MDMA, and various other redundant raps. At least my lawyer made a plea deal that consolidated eight charges into one, (scroll down on the linked page) and got a flat thirty-five months with no post-release/probation.

Starting Recovery

Despite not swaying the D.A., getting treatment for the cloud that hovered over me proved to be a great choice. My lifestyle had weighed on me both physically and spiritually for quite some time, and finally addressing my addiction was a huge help and relief.

No matter, the depression of a life in tatters and its logistical problems started settling in. Getting sent to prison is nothing if not a giant pain in the ass. Luckily an old friend let me store my belongings throughout the ordeal. Also, a group of friends took an interest in my plight and set up a dreaded fund-raising site, as legal fees and rehab costs broke me. Sadly, however, the bankruptcy filing I’d always refused to consider became inevitable.

I tried to keep myself busy—to stay distracted—but I was broken, and with a three year prison sentence hanging over me there was nowhere to hide. Though hardly logical, I even wondered if I would have been better off just staying in jail to begin with, starting to do my time and get it over with.

I always figured I could do time if it came down to it—I could adjust to life on the inside. What I never expected came with it, though, was the grueling time in limbo between an arrest and learning my fate. Every laugh I had was tempered, and myriad regrets and worry were always near the surface.

I let down all who have believed in me or perhaps looked up to me, and that was tough to live with. But it’s times like these that bring blessings and silver linings where one least expects them. The support I received from my friends and family was remarkable, and this lent me fortitude that helped me weather my sentence and still emerge sane.

Some have suggested it’s outrageous for me to get three years in prison for a first offense dealing drugs. While this may be true, I believe mytrue crime was grand theft: I never earned “the good life,” I stole it. I needed this kick in the ass from the universe, and my comeuppance was just desserts for being a slacker my whole life.

Besides the wake-up call, I was presented with a new occupation: an embedded reporter at various minimum security prisons in North Carolina. I kept copious journals documenting this peculiar world that has somehow gone under-reported until now, and it will jump start a writing career.

Prison was just like a pleasure cruise, except…no booze or decent food. Or pleasure. Even worse, it never reached a port, all the accommodations were in steerage, and all of the other passengers were guys drawn from the green room at the Jerry Springer Show. It is quite different from the place depicted on “Oz” or other hard core facilities; the only real danger was being fascinated by humorous human behavior until your head exploded. The writing fodder was extraordinary.

The result of my first-of-its-kind anthropological study will be the sardonic Lookout for Shorts (A Drug War Casualty’s Prison Memoir)Select draft excerpts will be posted here on Medium en route to being published in book form. Please follow its progress here and at myTwitter account. Thanks for reading!

Viagra: Expensive . . . Until it's Free!

If you’ve been following me at all, you know I haven’t had the best of luck lately. Big things and small have gone wrong---all the way down to my intake date for a prison stint being delayed even though I’m prepared to go. Last night I was sure I had a fuck buddy lined up for a visit, only to discover she had a change of heart--- right after I ate my last viagra! Well, today may be the beginning of my changing luck!

I’ve had an annoying cough over the past month or so, and I’ve been putting off going to the doctor, assuming it will pass. Even when I had health insurance I was reluctant to make an office visit, just because. Today I finally gave in, and all of the lights down a busy street to the “Doc-in-the-Box” turned green for me, against all odds. I was examined and questioned by the nurse practitioner on duty, but she decided my symptoms called for a chest x-ray more than simply an anti-biotic and some cough medicine. This isn’t the good news though, the kicker was she didn’t charge me a dime for the fifteen minute exam!

She explained that my money would be better spent with my physician and a chest x-ray, and then if it was in fact an infection that pills can cure, well, no hard done. So here’s the other good luck, (assuming I don’t have lung cancer, of course: my chest x-ray is going to be free, courtesy of the North Carolina DOC! I may in fact be benefiting from the War on Drugs in a most peculiar way.

Ever since my arrest, I’ve been wondering why it happened as it did. Why was my life brought to a dead halt when all I was doing was spreading joy, (MDMA), and helping out a friend in need, (the guy who ratted me out.)? Sure being apprehended allowed me to check my painkiller addiction, and the way things were going I might have been busted on far more serious charges down the road. Good breaks there, but there had to be more. Certainly it wasn’t the crazy chick who unceremoniously dumped me days after professing her love for me, right? So now maybe this is it: free medical care!

Anyway, after I left the nurse place I was off to get a Cialis prescription filled. I had been putting this off due to a lack of funds, but now I had at least another week of work income, so I could at least get half the script. I asked the girl behind the counter if it was possible to get only five pills instead of ten, and the pharmacist behind her answered for her.

“Depends on what the prescription is for.”, she sneered.

“CIALIS!”, I nearly shouted, just to fuck with her.

“Oh, you can get however many you want of those.”, she replied.

I told the cashier I only needed five, and after looking at me like I was a malnourished puppy, she told me they would be ready in a few minutes. I had a seat next to an older woman who possibly scooched the other direction, but that may have just been my imagination.

Soon enough yet another pharmacy person, this time a gay man, announced that my prescription was ready. As he was ringing me up he muttered a question about whether I’d been told this item is “a little pricey”, and right about then the price came up on the read-out: $139.64, for five fucking pills!

I quickly pointed out that no, I had no idea this magic came with such a high sticker price, and voided the sale entirely. More accurately, I believe I said: “By my math, that’s almost thirty dollars per erection, and that’s not even counting the cost of the hookers!” The sneering pharmacist behind him sneered harder, which I assumed meant she wanted me to wink at her, so I did. I think this endeared me to the gay employee, and he told me to hold on a minute---he was going to see about something.

I couldn’t imagine what sort of magic this guy could pull, but I had my smart phone to read a Wall Street Journal editorial about Romney needing to push a flat tax, so what did I care? Five minutes later the fellow reemerged and said: “here are some manufacturer coupons for Cialis samples, and if you simply sign here I’ll give you three pills at no charge.”

“Well thank you, sir!”, I beamed, “and rest assured my next lover thanks you too!”, I said more boisterously, so Ms. Sneer could hear.

He grinned, but something tells he’s heard all of the hard-on pill jokes under the sun. After all, the whole transaction is just awkward, and would-be comics by the dozens probably break the tension with bad puns and what-not. I mean, I imagine when anyone nearby hears a guy procuring erection medication, they picture them punching their half-dog in frustration as their revved-up lover looks over their shoulder with great concern. Or something like that. Perhaps I’ve shared too much...

The point is it’s not every day when you get a free medical exam, (my blood pressure is exquisite, btw), and make a purchase where they say: “that’ll be $140.” to “ it’’s free”, in five minutes time. Sure I might have lung cancer, but I’m taking any victory I can at this point.

Check back soon for: “Just How Broke Are You, Anyway?”

An (Unlikely) Affair To Remember

* The following is 100% true...

I say an “unlikely” affair because I’ve been doomed to serve a prison sentence of roughly thirty months for some ten months. I’ve filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy, I have a merely dead-end job, and I’m a recovering painkiller addict. Actually the addiction issue may have been to my advantage, for it led me to the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, where I met the other half of this story. Her name is Laine*. (Name changed to protect the not-so-innocent.)

Now I’d been warned, and intrinsically known, that women in AA are a little crazier than your average ladies. In my situation, however, I was in no position to be picky. Besides, I have a personal credo: “Everybody is crazy---the only questions are subject and severity.” Seems reasonable enough for the purposes of rationalizing an ill-advised dalliance for me. And nobody died here anyway, despite blood ending up all over a hotel room and three bottles of potent psychiatric meds, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I was in a halfway house for five months after I completed a month in an addiction rehab facility. During this time I was completely sober, and also more or less downtrodden by the prospects of my immediate future, given the prison sentence hanging over my head and my financial situation. As a single man there is always the prospect of a new lover on the horizon, regardless of how delusional the thought may be. It keeps a man going. The AA meetings up the road provided the main hope for me. Laine.

She was a sophisticated-looking girl---like a taller, slightly older version of Kirsten Dunst, I’d say. Great skin, hair, and incredible blue-green eyes. Some might say “crazy eyes”, but again, what did I care? I used to gaze at her during meetings with longing, imagining how great it would be to get with her. She was very intelligent, and while seemingly dismissive of me, I would later learn that this was merely her social anxiety getting the best of her.

After many weeks, I finally got her number and we eventually met for coffee one evening prior to an AA meeting. It was exciting to have this beauty in my midst “in real life”, and it seemed the feeling was mutual. I told her right away that I was an open book, and explained that I’m most likely going to do a prison term in the near future. Much to my surprise, she seemed cool with this---probably because she detailed detrimental issues of her own such as severe depression. For at least the time being, we were a match.

Ominous Beginnings

Besides our initial meet-up being shortened by horrific rain-hampered traffic, the launch of our romance was hampered by a tragedy. (The story of my past year: any good thing will most certainly include a caveat.) Laine had a “sidekick” named Elise who battled a heroin addiction that led her in and out of jails and general torment. My girl took her under her wing; advising her and carting her around to various AA meetings. They were grand pals, and Elise was an absolute delight. I had the privilege of talking to her one time after a meeting, and she was just a bright light. In the brief time we spoke she mentioned that she had seen three friends die from Heroin in the past year. “Well, thank god you’re in the right place now; surrounded by those who can help you.”, I counseled. Not two days later I get a call...

It’s Laine, in tears. “My psychic is dead.”

Laine didn’t always enunciate clearly, in addition to speaking somewhat rapidly.

“What? Your psychic is dead?”

I must admit that my ridiculous sense of humor got the best of me here, not that I spoke it aloud, mind you. It occurred to me to say: “It’s OK, baby---your psychic knew she was going to die today; she was prepared.”

“No, Elise---my sidekick!”, she wept.

I was stunned, not to mention alarmed at how real this addiction disease can be. Fuck. I comforted Laine all I could before she had to go, but no matter what, a somewhat awkward relationship just got weirder.

Oddly, we quickly found ourselves in enviable positions: I had a lady I really liked who needed a lot of comforting, and Laine had a nice guy to hold her hand and help her make sense of the tragedy. Certainly a way to bond very quickly, for sure. And we did. Nine days after Elise’s death I found myself at Laine’s side at a packed memorial service, and then at a gathering at the home of the parents of the deceased. I was happy to be there for her, and frankly the whole relationship was a welcome respite from a year of mostly gloom for me. You could say we propped each other up, which was nice.

Christmas was just eight days away, and our doomed relationship continued on fast-forward right on through that, (despite my allergies to her dog and two cats.) We texted many times a day and reveled in sharing so many intellectual interests. Two fucked-up psyches just careening ahead as if tomorrow was no issue at all. I tried to keep my emotions on an even keel, but those eyes and that mind made this very difficult, to say the least. As did a trip to meet her parents at Christmas dinner.

Next thing we knew it was New Year’s Eve. Sober. I had over six months without a drop by then, and Laine had over five. About this we were restless and discontent for a portion of the evening. Truth be told, we were conniving to break our sobriety at one point, but sober heads eventually prevailed. We ended up spending the night at my place, watching a Webcast of Phish’s concert live from Madison Square Garden, much to my delight, and she liked it too. I expected Laine to make it two nights sleeping over, (she had brought her dog over, after all), but she had other ideas. I later learned that this was the beginning of her inevitable withdrawal from us, which would quickly blast to the forefront.

“And if you happen to see my dignity...”

The next time we shared time was Tuesday, January 3, after I received a fateful text: “Hey. Interested in some hotel sex?” Um...yes. Yes I was.

She filled me in on which hotel, and I assumed she was using a room comp solely for the two of us to hook up near her place with no pet dander as an obstacle. What a sweetheart! I finished the workday with a pep in my step, and settled in for a nap, for it was going to be a long night. When I awoke I was greeted with a text message that made my heart sink...

“I need to be honest and tell you I’ve been drinking all day. I understand if you don’t want to see me this way, but I wanted to warn you.”

Enter that gut feeling. The one that’s telling you to not do something. I’ve learned that this is my higher power communicating with me, but of course I can rationalize it away at will, and this time was no exception.

“I understand if you don’t want to see me this way...” Oh, I want to see you that way. I want to see you bent over the bathroom counter. To see you laid out on the chaise lounge. To see the “happy drunk” that you were proud of being back when you drank. Besides, I have maybe three weeks before I go to prison anyway, whereupon I’ll have over two years to be sober. Fuck yes, I want to see you this way, and I’m going to be a real sport about it and get drunk with you!

It also occurred to me that if my ass wasn’t going to meet her in that fancy hotel bar, some other bastard would be---probably even some random salesman already there. (I said as much on the phone after I got her text, but she halfheartedly said: “I wouldn’t do that.” No, of course you’d simply lay in bed and surf the web to take your mind off the self-loathing that accompanies a relapse, right? But I digress.) So off I went, honestly with a knot in my stomach because I was damned proud of my sobriety, but in greater need of a “last hurrah.” Get my kicks while I still can.

So after stopping for a half-pint of Jack, (hello, low tolerance!), I entered the swank hotel bar. Predictably enough, Laine was next to an attractive middle-aged businessman, happily chatting away. She lit up when she saw me and rose to give me a big hug, much to that poor bastard’s chagrin. He figured it she was too good to be true, and most certainly heard the needle scratch across his evening’s record. Anyway, Laine looked tremendous, and was in fact a very happy drunk. We drank away and studiously avoided discussing the elephant in the room that was our blown sobriety. At least mine, anyway.

She admitted that she’d faltered numerous times lately, but had neglected to tell me. She planned on this being her final bender though, hence the fancy hotel room. (This intention would prove to hasten the end of “us”, but that comes a little later.) Soon enough we found ourselves in her posh room, and I insisted on sharing a shower right away because that’s great foreplay and things were about to get dirty. And did they ever...

Upon exiting the shower, Laine managed to knock over a champagne flute. It broke on the bathroom counter and the stem proceeded to land directly on top of her foot, square on a vein. Right after I said: “buzzkill”, and saw a quick pool of dark blood, I declared “Welp, we need to go to the hospital.” It was then that I met belligerent, stubborn drunk Laine.

She was convinced, or more like hoping against hope, that she had merely a surface would that would stop bleeding soon enough. She wrapped her foot with a towel and a belt from a bathrobe and dragged my out to the bed. After a half-hearted attempt to resume our conjugal visit, she finally rolled over to reveal blood pretty much everywhere. The towel was soaked through, the sheets were riddled, and blood was running up her leg. She then had the wisdom to wander around the room, leaving blood tracks all over the carpet. This gig was up, although it took still a while longer for her to admit it.

Eventually back into the bathroom she went, placing her butt in the bathtub with her foot elevated as I tried to reason with her. She wasn’t hearing logic yet, however, and even launched into some especially pathetic bravado: “I’m a Randall, goddammit! We are tough, and we don’t give up over some pussy shit like this!” As things deteriorated into resembling a Dexter kill scene, she thankfully relented and called for an ambulance. After she made the call, she asked for her bottle of champagne, which I gladly went to fetch. “And if you happen to see my dignity”, she called, “will you bring that in too please?”

“I Love You!”

Before the stretcher left we were still unable to locate her ID. This worked in my favor because I was still a bit peeved about having to put up with her ridiculousness for the past hour. Not to mention the Michigan - Va Tech Sugar Bowl was coming down to the wire. I told her I’d meet her at the emergency room in a few minutes and off she went. I settled in to watch the end of the game and enjoy a drink and cigarette since she’s blown the $200 fine for smoking already anyway.

Security arrived and took photos of the scene while I enjoyed the game and one of them was curious:

“What relationship are you to the guest?”, he asked.

“We’re dating”, I replied.

“You’re dating, but you’re sitting here watching the game while she’s going to the hospital?”, he mused.

“Brother”, I began, “if you had spent the last hour trying to corral this cat and listening to her run her mouth in the face of logic, you’d be doing the exact same thing.”

I think he saw things my way, not that I gave two shits what he thought at that point. All I knew was that my bright idea of coming up here for a night of huge rewards had been cut comically, pathetically short. Deep down I knew I deserved it, but that only made me feel worse.

I scooted over to the nearby emergency room to find my girl in a wheelchair, sporting a silly grin. She really was a happy drunk after all---or a complete lunatic. A minute or two later I was leaning towards the latter, when she looked at me all earnest-like and blurted: “I love you!”, followed by a trailing, “did I just say that?”

Before I could respond, she reiterated: “No---yeah. I love you!”

I paused and allowed: “Honey, I really like hanging out with you too, but that’s not a word I throw around lightly. I’ve only told two girls that in my whole life.”

“Yeah, I don’t tell people that much, either.”, she responded.

“Tell you what: we’ll see if you still say that in the morning, and then we’ll talk about it, OK?’

“OK!”, she said, happily. Then of course we kissed or something. She really was hopelessly cute, even in this condition. Tough for a man to resist. Knowing better at the time, I was sucked just that much further into this doomed relationship. Then things got weird.

We finally ended in a treatment room, where Laine intermittently fought with her IV input, and had other bursts of being a pain in the ass. Happily, however, she was polite to the help and reasonable most of the time. At one point as we were waiting she casually said: “I should’ve just gone ahead and killed myself.”

“Um, what?”, I asked, not entirely surprised.

“I brought a knife and a bunch of psyche meds with me to the room today, and I was really thinking about doing it until I texted you.” (That’s me: saver of lives!)

I tried to be casual. “I don’t think you should do that. You have an a ton going for you, and besides, I’d miss you horribly.”

She showed me a stern look and threatened: “If you tell anyone I said this, I’ll kill you! They’ll put me back in the psche ward, and I do not want to go back there!”

I promised her I wouldn’t tell, but at the same time began thinking back to determine how nuts she might be. She had mentioned a bout with depression that included being institutionalized in the past, but she had assured me that was yesterday’s news. She had made passing references to her pain not being worth it recently, but nothing beyond what a normal grieving person might say.

Beyond her ill-advised “GONZO” tattoo, complete with a goth cross she had applied six years back there was nothing to indicate she was suicidal. I knew she wasn’t bluffing about the pills, however, because I saw three bottles worth as I was looking for her ID in the room, but I didn’t think anything of them at the time. Ultimately I decided to pay close attention to what she said from here on out on the matter, but let the current incident slide. (No other warning signs would surface.)

“I won’t tell anyone,” I assured her. “And please, for gods sakes, don’t kill yourself.”

“I won’t. At least until you’re gone, anyway.”

I greeted that with a sideways frown, which drew a grin from her. I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.

A frumpy nurse eventually came in, aiming to put a stitch and a pressure pack on Laine’s puncture wound. The three of us waited five minutes for the doctor talking on his cell in the hallway to finally come in to assess and instruct, but it seemed like an hour. The procedure was finally done, and the patient took it like a champ. She even relished watching it happen, which I’ll never quite understand. Soon enough we were heading back to the hotel.

Picking Up The Pieces

Seriously, the room looked like a murder scene. There were piles of bloody tiles, and thick dried blood, now brownish, here and there all over the bathroom. And the hotel staff didn’t exactly have the sheets changed while we gone, either. This didn’t exactly deter us, however, as we made a halfhearted attempt to rekindle our lost romantic evening. The fact was we were drained both mentally physically and mentally at this point, not to mention on the back end of a good alcohol buzz. Somehow Laine never complained about her foot hurting though, much to my amazement.

Sleep didn’t come easily for me, and I wish I had fallen off the wagon for xanax as well as alcohol by the time dawn rolled around. I had come prepared to start my courier job in the morning, but the first order of business was to go get some crutches. I found some at a nearby drug store, but only discovered one can rent them instead later. Good to know for future reference anyway.

As a final insult to our best-laid plans for a fancy hotel night, there was an enormous crane blocking the front driveway, so we had to walk a decent distance to get to our cars, even with the valet service. We went to Laine’s apartment, where I set her up with an ice pack and all that jazz. We sat around having a smoke, (she smokes inside, of course), and had hungover conversation. Then it happened again...

“I still love you.”, she said, grinning.

“Aww, that’s sweeet!”, I replied, invoking a redneck accent.

I then reiterated that I don’t use that term lightly, but if she played her cards right...
The way this our relationship turned out, I would hate to ever learn how she’d act if she merely liked me! In any event, I headed off to start a work day of exhaustion.

Our phone contact continued as normal over the next couple of days, and she managed to get around well enough on her crutches as her foot felt better pretty quickly. I ended up back at her place Friday night, whereupon I informed her that my next court date was going to be as early as two weeks, maybe three. She knew “court date” in fact meant the day when I get taken away for as long as three years. I had been operating on the assumption that I would be taking off sometime in February, but as I put it now “shit’s got real.”

She was obviously taken aback, but showed no real emotion otherwise. I could see things had changed for her right then and there, though, and I certainly couldn’t blame her. The fact that a cool girl fifteen years my junior hung out with me as long as she did under the circumstances was a goddamn miracle, not to mention a blessing. Chick had to be, well...crazy! Anyway, Laine didn’t make any declarations on the spot, and I didn’t ask. She would need to process the info in her own way, and that was fine. For the moment, anyway.

Shattering Different Pieces

We were back on the AA wagon at this point, so we hit up a good speaker meeting and then ended up back at her place again. Now Laine isn’t the most affectionate girl I’ve ever met. This is actually kind of refreshing---she’s a lot like a dude in this respect. She certainly has her moments, but she’s really not needy in that way at all. This time was clearly different though---to the point that I came right out and asked her if she even wanted me to be there. She said that she did, but showed nothing to back this up. There was no real tension though---we hang out quite well together---and a killer Gorillaz show was on Palladia, so I stuck around. She’s the type that would tell me to beat it if that’s what she wanted anyway.

Eventually took my leave, but not before I snagged Season 1 of Arrested Development, a Kevin Smith monologue DVD, and the movie Digby Goes Down. (It honestly didn’t occur to me at the time that these would end up being parting gifts, but that’s how it turned out.) We had a long, sad, affectionate hug as I left, and honestly I could’ve broken down right then and there. Maybe I even should have. Although intellectually I didn’t think this was really the end, my heart knew otherwise.

My drive home found my iPod shuffle bringing up most appropriate songs, most notably Yo La Tengo’s Daphnia, which might as well have been written for my feelings that exact moment. Laine and I exchanged texts regarding appropriate songs during the whole ride, and as she pointed out we could’ve done that forever. After I mention that The Stones’ When The Whip Comes Down came on, she responded with simply: “Fuck.” Fuck, indeed.

The morning found me compelled to write her a long Facebook message making a case why we should hang out until the end. My view was we could either celebrate the time we have left, or we can treat it like a funeral. Turns out Laine, being newly dedicated to her sobriety, was interested in cutting her losses, but couldn’t manage to say as much. I can’t really blame her, but communication would’ve been nice. Maybe she was afraid I’d talk her out of it, who knows? IN any event, chalk up yet another nasty unforeseen consequence of my being busted for dealing drugs.

A suggestion that Laine come spend the night was shot down, and after an attempt to rendezvous for a Buddhist meditation ceremony in the morning didn’t work out for various reasons, responses from her ceased entirely. Mid-afternoon the next day I finally sent her a text: “Are you OK?” After all, a girl who told me she was both suicidal and loved me days earlier had seemingly disappeared. This was met with a cold, dismissive response to which I responded with words I regret, but were probably accurate just the same. Suffice it to say, that was that, and I haven’t heard from her since.

I guess being treated rudely is the quickest way to get over someone, so I’ve got that going for me. On the other hand, I do feel bad for Laine. She had mentioned how foreign actually dealing with her feelings was now that she wasn’t simply medicating with alcohol and whatever else, bless her heart. “Feelings!”, she exclaimed. “What am I supposed to do with these?” A damned good question, dear. A damned good question. Something tells me where I’m spending the next couple of years or so no one gives a rat’s ass.

What I do know is Laine brought me affirmation when I needed it desperately. She gave my mind a respite from a most trying circumstance, if only for a little while. For this I will always be grateful, no matter how it ended up. Not to mention the story fodder. And wait until I write the song---heaven knows I’m going to have the time!

Christmas in a Cloud

I’ve been having a most notable tough time with life lately. In April of 2011 I was arrested on a number of drug charges, the most serious, (and unshakable), being MDMA trafficking. For this offense I will being doing time in the North Carolina penal system, starting in late January and ending as much as three years later. This turn of events has left me completely broke, filing Chapter 7 bankruptcy, and living the absolute definition of paycheck to paycheck. The prospect of doing prison time in the very near future is daunting, but oddly enough, this somehow isn’t even the inspiration for the title of this blog entry.

Nor is the fact that I was unable to afford to take off work and drive ten hours to see relatives who would be happy to have me for the Holidays. I honestly couldn’t afford the gas for my car, not to mention not push it further towards impending repairs. I also have a strained relationship with my Father, whom I might also have visited just over two hours away. No, even these things don’t contribute to this blog title, even though it would obviously fit. The “cloud” to which I refer in this case is of cigarette smoke, of all things, and how I ended up spending my Christmas.

Despite my current woes and station in life, I somehow managed to recently land a girlfriend. Her name is Laine. While she is certifiably nuts and a relapsing alcoholic, she was also extremely intelligent, pretty, and has a lot going for her, but I digress. The death of a dear friend of hers merely days after our first date served as an instant bonding mechanism for the two of us, as I gladly provided a shoulder on which Laine could cry. This certainly fast-tracked our relationship, and when it became clear that I planned to pretend Christmas was just another day, she reciprocated my caring ways and offered me to join her family on Jesus’ birthday.

We cleared up the whole: “wow, you must be some desperate freak to latch onto me like this three weeks into dating” thing quickly. We agreed that it was merely odd timing and convenience that would lead us to share this “sacred” day, not that we were careening towards a wedding engagement or anything anyway. (When you are recovering substance abusers, things like this stop seeming odd anyway.) In other words, I wasn’t interested to meet her parents to learn where my soul mate came from or anything, I was more down with spending time with her and eating prime rib instead of sitting around in the halfway house. Not to mention I’m pretty social and enjoy trying to charm people in somewhat bizarre situations. She was just happy to have me as a buffer between her alcoholic mother, in addition to an excuse to leave when she wished. And she enjoyed being with me as well.

So off we went on a rainy Christmas day to a nearby Atlanta suburb. I had a cheesy seasonal floral arrangement I’d picked up because it’s just bad form for an interloper to arrive for an occasion as this empty-handed. Now Laine is a sophisticated girl---just has that air about her. She has a masters degree from a top-notch university and a great job in the computer world. In addition, she attended high school in one of the wealthier areas of Atlanta. This place I once considered to be an example of the “refining of the gene pool”, but that’s another story. Laine also mentioned her father was extremely intelligent and flew helicopters, and these are not normally poor-man’s attributes. Suffice it to say, I expected to encounter an upper-middle class environment for this dinner, but it didn’t quite end up that way.

Now don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying these people were living in a trailer park. They were actually on par with my Dad’s side of the family as far as social status, but that’s not even the point. I guess I’m just spoiled with where I’ve been Christmas-ing for most of my life, and as I’ve explained, all signed pointed to something other than a 1,700 sq. ft. house in serious need of interior renovations. I was exceedingly grateful to be there and will always be thankful to Laine for taking me, but it just threw me for a loop---almost as much as Laine’s Mother’s rose-colored glasses. Literally. I still can’t figure out that fashion choice, and neither could her daughter, for that matter. But that wasn’t even the weird part---I had entered a time warp, Mad Men style.

So there were five of us on hand: the nuclear family including Laine’s older brother, and me. I was greeted warmly, but it was just awkward because, a) I couldn’t drink, and b) this gathering was in desperate need of social lubrication. I can usually light up any social engagement, as I’m basically a talk-show host when I put my mind to it. This time, however, I was a bit gun-shy, as my current story is not exactly a springboard from which I’d like to launch. “Me? Oh, I’m recovering from substance abuse issues, working a dead-end service job, living in a halfway house, waiting for my prison sentence to be handed down. Thanks for asking!” So I’m hanging back, keeping answers brief, and looking for a better place to steer things. Laine’s parents were friendly enough, and I got good vibes from them, but they deferred mostly to the bane of my existence: the poor conversationalist. In this case, their son Brad...

At least Brad offered a firm handshake and managed at least a tinge of eye contact when we met before almost entirely disregarding me. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t need to be venter of attention, but I do need to be in a conversation that might tend to general interests instead of inane stories about the behavior of a dog, etc. Brad was a classic case of a guy with nothing notable to say, but who dominates the conversation anyway. I would try to indulge him when he got near something interesting, but inevitably we would get back to tedium. Did I mention that I couldn’t drink? It was brutal---especially because I could tell Laine’s parents would be a fun chat, but that was impossible with this guy in the room. Thankfully other things were interesting though, in a physical way.

Smoking. Indoors! Unbeknownst to me, Mom had a butt going elsewhere in the kitchen around the time we got there, which is, well...whatever. The crazy thing was soon enough not one of them, but everyone had a butt going, right there at the kitchen table. I hadn’t seen this sort of behavior since---hell, since 1975 at my Grandma’s house. I too wanted a cigarette, but I honestly didn’t want to add to the cloud in the room, so I went outside. It all reminded me of taking a train trip in Europe, when oddly I needed my own cig lit to make the second-hand smoke more bearable. I had no idea people still smoked indoors to this extent, hence the impetus for this blog title.

The real kicker was after our delicious meal, (at which the homemade rolls were downright delectable, I might add), out came an ashtray, and butts were lit by everyone, right there at the table. It was then that I noticed a small faux dogwood try nearby, complete with white blooms---except they were yellow from who knows how many years of nicotine floating through the air. Nothing short of a trip through a time warp, I tell ya.

After the meal was gift exchange time, and the family repaired to the living room for gift exchange while I grabbed a nap on the recliner in the family room. Everyone re-convened in the kitchen for more cigarettes and conversation in the kitchen. I felt guilty about not rejoining the gathering, but a poor conversationalist produces a force-field that I am unable to penetrate, even if it makes things awkward. Eventually, thankfully, Brad took his leave, and I was back in the mix, if only briefly. I have a feeling the damage was done, however, and Laine’s parents saw me as some sort of anti-social weirdo, or worse, the judgmental fuck that I am.

I guess things ended on a cordial enough note, though, and apparently I was a damn sight better than the last guy Laine brought through there, who failed to make eye contact with anyone and literally nodded off at the table. Dad wouldn’t even address him, so I may have been off the hook for being a snob. I would enjoy going back there sometime because frankly, if those folks produced someone as cool as Laine, I am intrigued at the thought of getting to know them a lot better. Alas, if that day ever comes, it’s probably going to be at least two Christmases from now, because my ass is going up the river for a while. In the meantime Im just glad to have spent a Christmas in a Cloud.