The evening smelled sweet.

I stepped out and headed toward my parked vehicle. Every step was an audible crunch underfoot. The surrounding plant life turned yard, driveway, and sidewalk upkeep into a lifelong chore that I had recently shelved. Yard tending had taken a backseat to priorities I'd come to value as a man and homeowner. Quirks appreciated, not fought tooth and nail. I embraced the overgrowth. The scattered leaves, the sticks. The random bits of nature's mess.

Landscaping wasn't high on my most recent list of priorities. Time, stress, and age had all combined to dull the drive I once had for manicure and tedium-filled physical labor that is otherwise known as yard maintenance.

Vehicle maintenance. Vehicle repair. Time spent tallying miles on the job. Receipts related to the job. The blessed but far-too-rare stretch of sleep that enabled me to persist for more punishment. These tasks consumed me. At times completely—and that was getting old.

I expected an average night of driving. Wednesday evening was upon us and I did not usually receive a lot of ridership during the middle of the week, nor the first week of the month. I loved Wednesdays when I was flush, and I dejectedly started my vehicle with resignation on Wednesdays when I was broke.

People pay rent and bills. Subscription services like Netflix or Amazon. The first week or two of the month is a bit tighter in the wallet than the last two weeks. That's where I made my best money.

I manipulated the touchscreen that had replaced the almighty stereo console in the modern era, turned on my usual classic rock playlist, and eased out of the driveway. I could see my dog, a Siberian Husky, staring out the opaque privacy glass, trying to find a trace of me.

"I'll be home before you know it, jerk off."

I had named the beautiful specimen of purebred Husky "jerk off" by honest accident. When the now older guy was a pup, he was the most difficult young dog you could ever have imagined. "Jerk off" was the first thing that came to mind at the time. Eventually, Simpson was no longer a name that he recognized. So here we were. Bart and Simpson AKA "Jerk Off". My name was Bart. I thought I was being clever with the cartoon reference. Oh well.

I followed my usual route toward the interstate, same as it had been five days a week for at least seven years of the twelve on the road. Predictable, I know. If I was a marked man I would stand no chance. Then again—people that are targeted usually don't.

I shrugged to no one in particular. "What can you do? I like the routine." I thought, savoring the self-knowledge that had come through years of introspection. The program of Alcoholics Anonymous, my spiritual expansion through participation in my faith and principles, as well as the sturdy but adverse beginnings I had in life allowed me a great degree of personal development that had produced a stability-anchored mindset of peace and composure I cherished.

Nearing the bustling city that my suburb straddled, I put my game face on. Preparing myself was essential to allow the most outgoing, helpful, and kind version of myself to inhabit my mind, body, and thoughts. I pulled off into a gas station and filled up after taking my exit into the area between downtown and midtown. As I set the pump to the automatic lever which held it in place, I bowed my head slightly and clasped my hands together discreetly.

"Lord, please divorce my thinking from dishonesty, self-centeredness, fear, resentment, and pride. Please allow my thought life plane to be with you and elevated to a dimension of service, gratitude, and love. Help me add to the stream of life, prevent me from taking away from it. In Jesus' name we pray. Amen."

With that I concluded my chat with God, and his son Jesus Christ. Or Sky Daddy, and Junior as I said routinely in casual conversation as a humorous shorthand. I hoped neither of them minded, but something tells me that it's not a big deal. I at least never received any indication that the silly names ever were problematic. However, the rumination tendency inherent in my mind still grappled with it every time that I referred to them by anything but their formal names. I digress.

I grabbed the side of my phone to steady my hand on it, as it was already clasped into the phone holder, and turned on my Uber app first. Within minutes, the familiar sound effect played, alerting me of a new rider in the queue. The first of the night.

The little old lady riding the edge of the curbed sidewalk stuck her hand out as if she was a hitchhiker of yesteryear and then began to wave emphatically as I expertly approached the sidewalk and came to a complete stop. She was still waving.

I rolled the window down and yelled out to her.

"Hi there, I'm right here, your requested Uber?" I said, smile plastered on my worn and tired twelve-hour deep and still swimming face.

She said nothing. Reached for the rear door handle, missed once, then yanked again with a look of consternation. Mean mugging me, she ended up plopping her petite body down with a miniature "plop" like sound when ass made contact with cushioned seat.

"There's some water back there for you if you like, your name is Gina—right?" I said, aiming for reassurance. Bedside manner was my thing now, and had become a skill that I did not have prior to this occupation.

"Thank you, yes. That door is quite sticky and hard to open." She seemed irritated.

"I'm sorry about that ma'am, I'll have to get out to open your door when we arrive at our destination," I said, making sure to keep my tone devoid of tone that would inflame or provoke.

"That would be best." She concluded her line of discussion with this, as my words softened her demeanor and she relaxed into her seat.

I pressed on into the dusk drawing towards night with a sigh. I started in on a time-honored routine at this point, a muscle relaxation meditation that I had memorized in my head. The guided voice was better to listen to, but I could recount the words in my head from memory. Visualization complete, I felt a mile better and more prepared.

The area we cruised through when nearing the destination was not at all where I imagined I would be dropping this passenger off at. Liquor stores dotted every street corner. The unsavory seemed to stalk every crosswalk, and I clutched my concealed carry, momentarily checking on its placement and availability to my dominant hand as I came to a stop at one of the many excessively delayed red lights at a four-way intersection. I knew the risks to being stopped here late at night and would not have bothered with a stoplight even if it was much later than it was. This was the worst neighborhood in 100 miles, and I kept glancing in my rearview to look at my passenger, then back out the windshield to the war zone she had requested transportation to.

I couldn't help myself—I had to inquire. Leaning back into the rear passenger compartment, I let out a hesitant noise of questioning.

"Uhhhhhhhm, is this area near to your destination? It says so here on the directions but I wanted to double check with you before I dropped you off."

"Yes."

"Okay, you sure? Sorry I don't normally ask riders this kind of thing but this is a really bad area and I'm worried about your safety alone here."

"I don't think my safety is any of your concern, sir." Her tone snapped at me. Like a rubber band, it seemed to ricochet its effect back toward her as I caught a glimpse of anxiety, concern, and fear in her eyes.

"Okay, sorry. How about I give you my business card and you can give me a call if you need help of any kind, or assistance in any way. I'll come get you for a ride elsewhere, if you need me." I had these for this purpose exactly, and loved that I was able to form so many connections with them.

"Sure. I could use the contact information. The nature of my work brings me to the darkest places and I am always in need of reliable transportation." Her tone had softened and as she said this she seemed appreciative, expression soft and demeanor shifting toward friendly.

"Certainly ma'am, call me whenever." I handed her one of my business cards from one of the many that I had printed in packs of fifty for my outreach which I effectively ran out of this vehicle.

Coming to a left-hand turn off the intersection-laced main drag of this neighborhood of the city, I slowed to a turning speed a bit faster than I would have used anywhere else. Preempting the brakes, I came to a quick and complete stop—exiting the driver's side door, sliding my Glock into my waistband in one motion.

I came to her door and opened it, allowing her to exit without issue. She thanked me. I called out, "Don't forget, call me!"

She didn't respond or even look at me, as she wandered down the street in an awkward gait, as if she had never worn heeled shoes. Strange. My gut was grumbling, and if I was Spider-Man I would've dropped the Spidey-sense one-liner in a bubble above my head post haste. As her pace slowed she turned into a yard, disappeared past a few men, and then into a single-family home that looked to be inhabited and maintained. I hadn't gotten back in yet. If she thought it was creepy, I could live with that—it was worth the risk to make sure she got inside safe.

Once she stepped inside, I checked my surroundings and got back into the brawler of a sedan that I called home sixty hours a week. I stowed my pistol once I peeled away and had cleared the danger zone. Hidey holes for the gun-and-knife club were abundant and provided ample position in the side streets of this area. Ambush alley was not the time to be complacent.

Once, I too had been in the grips of immorality and destructive behaviors. I escaped by the grace of God and kindness of my fellow man. I was hip to the hood rat. I spent near a decade, decades ago, as one of the very same bandits. The ways and means and methods of the car jack were familiar. Retirement was around the corner. I visualized it as a person, holding all my luggage, wearing white gloves, who existed only to make my life effortless. A man can dream. That dream was not going to be interrupted.

My lofty plans stopped for no man, boy or beast.

I had dotted all my i's and crossed all my t's, and managed to eke out a feasible plan of retirement through a combination of luck and back-breaking hard work. This was my second round of attempting an entrance into the retired club's shiny membership scrolls. Working hard was no unfamiliar friend to me. I had worked for Kroger for 15 years only to be laid off just short of a pension. That kind of bitterness isn't to be trifled with, and I thank my lucky stars as well as my creator I was able to overcome the pity, poor-me doldrums that came with it. Easily, any man in that situation could take the easier path of least resistance—crying to anyone who will listen, assailing the creator, resenting the universe and the people who inhabit this world with me. But something in me prevented that somewhat likely and predictable outcome. I can only thank God and the genetics of resilience imbued in me by my ancestors for my success, as I now fulfilled my last full-time work day ever—for the rest of my life.

I knew that I would not be hanging up the driving for life, or even longer than a few weeks once I retired for real. I was not the type to become an idle bedroom community vegetable. I needed this type of work in order to keep the gears of substance having presence in my mind lubricated with fresh experiences and stimulation of all kinds.

Plywood flew off a pickup truck. I swerved into the next lane as it shot from the truck bed and nearly slammed my windshield—landing on the ground with a clatter and screech as it got recycled by some poor bastard's wheel well. Fortunately, all was well on my end. I stopped in a parking lot to survey my vehicle.

The Walgreens on the corner of this neighborhood's main intersection was pretty well lit, and there was what appeared to be armed security posted to the front of the structure.

Rain spat from the sky.

Puddles laid bare the crumbling integrity of the city’s sidewalks. Enormous magnolia trees poked through man’s best laid plans for a sidewalk with their roots that disembodied the now jagged and jutting concrete slab work. I plowed through them. My ratty shoes were already dripping wet. The rain in this town never let up. Monsoon-like precipitation had become a uniquely inescapable nuisance.

Organic Chinese water torture. PETA would be proud. "Thanks, nature," I thought bitterly.

I was heading to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Absent a drink, I sought connection. My expression twisted into a grimace of disgust and resignation. It was not that I did not want, or even need, human connection. I desperately wanted to socialize, and found it demanding without alcohol to assist me. Drunk, I had the interpersonal acumen of a car salesman. Sober, I carried a defensive current of venomous irritability and homegrown self-loathing—on a hair-trigger. It denied me even the simplest attempt at connection.

The exposure that came with connection was daunting, and the prospect terrified me. I felt physically ill the last time someone recognized me on the street. I wanted human contact, but only on the very specific, niche terms that my neuroses dictated. This was nigh impossible, and I knew it.

My musings on my socially catastrophic internal composition abated as the eternal deluge turned the volume up to ten. The spit from the sky quickly became a steady stream of piss. I cursed my luck and picked up the pace. I was almost there.

I finally arrived at my destination and hurried through the heavy church doors. The room was far from empty, and I beelined for the bathroom—sympathetic nervous system already engaged. I felt the familiar knot forming in my stomach, the unease I’d have to endure for the next hour and change.

Alcoholics Anonymous meetings had always felt a bit more like church service or a funeral to me. The most common feature of my twelve-step experience was biding my time. Checking the clock on the wall. Listening to people who had fewer social handicaps than me.I was meekly attempting to inherit connection and friendships by osmosis through my attendance alone.

There was cheap coffee. We sat uncomfortably in creaky fold-out chairs. Forced smiles. Handshakes. Side glances between those of the opposite sex. Axe Body Spray wafting from the group of drug treatment center visitors du jour. The visceral experience of a meeting was one that I was very familiar with at this point.The cross section of society that Alcoholics Anonymous represented in its rooms, basements, and meeting halls was always interesting in the wildlife safari, National Geographic, nature documentary sense.

The room was more crowded than I had expected, and I internally cringed at the fact that I would now have to sit there for the full hour. I cared too damn much what these people thought of my every move to duck out early. What would they think if I left the second I walked in? These things I found important. Why, was beyond me. My normally detailed internal analysis was nonexistent. I wished it were different. “But it wasn’t.” I thought. I grabbed an extra chair, and positioned myself so that no one was behind me, in the most inconspicuous spot I could find.

Ensconced in the corner, I noticed the coffee machine next to me still had the wood grain of a ’70s station wagon in its paneling. Everything in the room being fold-out was such a characteristic of any gathering of fuck-ups that I wouldn't trust anything else at this point.

The preamble was read, and the sharing began. I sat in detached silence, listening to Jed share his story. The format of the meeting was a speaker meeting—my favorite kind, where nobody looked around in confused, awkward silence waiting for someone to say their name and that they were an alcoholic.The speaker was a great one. I recognized him from a rehab I’d been to a year before—one of the detox panels, H&I, Hospitals and Institutions. He had a complexion that made you wonder whether he was descended from an Egyptian pharaoh, but his last name clearly displayed his Hispanic ancestry. I still preferred to think of him as King Tut.

I liked this speaker because he seemed to share his story in a way that let you know he wasn’t one of those assholes who liked to hear himself talk. He spoke practically, relatably, while providing plenty of qualification—his addictive and alcoholic accolades and credentials were well earned. He was a tree trimmer who had followed in his father’s footsteps—both in addiction and in trade. They were following near-identical life trajectories, from dope fiend to blue-collar climber of trees and snipper of branches at great height for average sums of money. I sat back in my seat, satisfied to hear Mr. Stanko belt out his shpeel to the rest of us fuck-ups.

He had chased heroin all over town for years, following in the footsteps of his pops, who had also endured his own scumbag phase. He went through the typical ups and downs of gutter junkies—eventually being kicked out of everywhere and everything. After intermittent law enforcement run-ins and a Baker Act hold that strapped him down and forced sobriety on him, he landed at a place called the Salvation Army program. He felt it was strict, rigid—excessively so—and a difficult place to deal with because of its unyielding rules and standards. This was also accredited to be his advantage however in providing a foundation that he built from in his life and formed habits. I zoned out for the rest of the speaker time. This happens sometimes, and I really don’t have anything to say about the rest of Mr. Stanko’s story.

I found myself staring at a woman seated across from me. She had to be new or recently arrived, because she was kind of fuckable and I’d never seen a woman here that caught my eye. I let my gaze linger a few times too many, and she noticed. I quickly averted my eyes back to the speaker, who was wrapping up the last remaining minutes of his share.

I knew there was no real use in initiating anything that even hinted at interest in this woman I’d ogled. I was too much of a social freak to do anything about it unless it was dropped in my lap.

My discomfort in social situations—and around people in general—was always more important than anything else in my life, for whatever reason. It’s why I hadn’t picked up a sponsee and rarely attended meetings. My avoidance of discomfort in all its forms nearly always took priority. It wasn’t even a conscious thought or decision. It was a knee-jerk, instinctual reaction—one I hadn’t even been aware of until right now, maybe.

As the meeting devolved into post-speaker sharing, I shifted in my seat and eventually got up to take a leak, making a scene as the chair fell on its side when I tried to push it back into place. Fortunately, the group had already begun the “Our Father, who art in heaven” portion, and we were all holding hands like some kind of limp-wristed cult singing kumbaya. The meeting was nearly finished. I grabbed the sweaty palm of the fat fucking slob who’d been seated next to me, and then—hand still warm from grabbing my dick—clasped the hand of Mr. Stanko, who’d shifted into place beside me. I think he recognized me.

“What’s up, bro?” he said in a conversational tone as the prayer ended.

“Not much, man. How’s it going?” I said, begrudgingly performing the rites of social contact.

“Good, man. It’s good to see you on the outside. How’ve you been doing?”

At this point, I didn’t mind talking as much, since the niceties that made me want to vomit had already been said.

“I’ve got a year, three months, two weeks, and five days off the sauce. Can’t complain, man. I’m working and in school now.”

“That’s amazing, man. Where at?”

Unfortunately, the summary conversation devolved into a lecture I’d prefer to pretend I didn’t sit through without gouging Stanko’s eyes out and fashioning them into a prosthesis for my dog’s empty fucking nad sack. So we’ll just detail it here in subtext: he did not approve of the work I was doing—night security at a bar that paid me cash under the table.

That was the moment Stanko made the list I kept tacked to the hallway wall. A few names were on there, but his stood out now. I knew I was going to kill him. I knew it would come soon, and I felt good about the fact that his life would end by my hand. He had humiliated me, and I was going to humiliate him. Not really—but it was a fun little violent fantasy to have. It allowed me to go through life with less indignation and fewer actual homicidal ideations. I had gotten quite good at killing people in my mind.

The violence faded. I chuckled off Stanko’s public chiding—red in the face, secretly fuming. Furious was a better word. But my impotence was the only thing on display today.

Stepping out of the Uber, I set foot on firm ground. My destination – a budget motel – located directly across from the highway that slices through Metairie's spin on suburbia, about ten minutes drive from Louis Armstrong International. Twirling around, I quickly snatched my overly stuffed, heavy backpack from the back seat with a grunt and moan, shouldering it. Orange and blue, with the distinct sheen of exposure to the elements, it looked wearier than I did. The entrance to the hotel was covered with an awning that extended out of the main structure of the building. It looked like an attempt to emulate a classier, less austere atmosphere of a place that it was not. Somehow, this feature still added to its authenticity. A primary feature of cheap hooker motels was pretending to be anything but. “I can relate to that,” I thought.

Instinctively, I patted my pockets that contained my pint of peach flavored vodka, my phone, and my wallet in that order. All present and accounted for. Stepping into the lobby I positioned myself in a corner to wait my turn in line. I was not the first early morning arrival, despite being there well before check-in. I had been kicked out of the bar I spent the last nine hours inhabiting. The fellow patron who had said he would be back with the drugs that I needed to stay awake had never showed and sleeping there was against the rules, apparently. So here I was, hoping for an early check-in, taking in the Christmas lights draped from the ceiling. On either side of the lobby were refreshments and snacks for sale.

Waiting to find out when I could drink myself into a single digit IQ, I began to sweat profusely. I often did when I couldn’t keep pace with my body’s chemical dependency on alcohol. Remembering where I was, I took a swig from the pint I had purchased at the gas station. New Orleans made it easy to be a degenerate in public. “The front desk” was little more than a scratched and worn Plexiglas plated hole in the wall. Little, hamster-cage-like holes were punched out enabling employee to interact with customer. The man in front of me appeared to be hard of hearing. He leaned down on the small bit of desk that jutted out containing pens and notepad paper, craning his ear towards the holes poked in the Plexiglas, saying something unintelligible. This went on for a few minutes. After a few moments of back and forth, the clerk manning the desk visibly leaned over towards the hamster holes, belting out “The ROOMS ARE NOT READY YET.” The older man scuffled out one of the side doors of the lobby.

Approaching the Plexiglas, I shouted “EARLY CHECK-IN?” as if it was the only phrase I knew in English.

“No, give it an hour. We should have rooms available.”

“Excellent. Can I store my bag with you?”

“Yes, come to the door on the left.”

The employee disappeared into the back and I could hear a multi-system lock being disengaged behind the otherwise flimsy looking, paint worn door. Handing him my bag as he opened, I expressed my appreciation and reiterated what he had said about the rooms before ducking out and back into the rain that had started pouring since I had arrived.

Relieved, I collapsed onto the wooden bench next to the door to consume the rest of the pint I had brought with me. Protected from the rain by the awning, and freed of the weight of my backpack, I soaked in the moment. Southern Louisiana in the rain always felt distinct from anywhere else in the world. Rain here felt nonthreatening, like a blanket of morass. I took another sip of my peach flavored vodka, checking my phone to see a response finally from my off and on again, certifiably insane long distance girlfriend. Saving that shit show for later, I finished my pint of peach, tossing it into the plastic waste bin outside. Grabbing my phone again I searched for gas stations in the area. I found one a block away and started to head in that direction, appreciating the lack of a back pack to lug with me. I felt light, and free for a moment. On the way I made a pit-stop at a twenty-four hour daiquiri establishment. Ten o'clock in the morning, this wouldn't be possible anywhere else. I counted my lucky stars I was in New Orleans, not Utah.

Once I confirmed my room for the night and received my room key. I passed a guy who was talking about some kind of stimulant analogue. I stopped to approach him, feeling hopeful. Stimulants were my favorite variety of play-date for the booze in my system. Tweaking would be preferable to sleep. He wasn’t very receptive to my questioning. I reluctantly backed off, making my way to the exterior entrance of my hole-in-the-wall room.

I got into my room, and extricated my orange Bluetooth speaker that had been given to me by a girl I met in a treatment center who I ended up going on a relapse run of booze and beam-me-up in an extended stay a few states over with. That was an adventure of rather ghastly proportions as well however not a story for the current intentional writing I am doing which is meant to remind the reader as well as me, the author, about how fortunate I am despite my rather tepid circumstances of dread and existentialism. This one gets nightmarishly boorish. In no time I was drunk and disappointed that the alcohol was not doing the same trick that the old dog always had with my mood, demeanor and outlook. Funny how that happens. I spent the better part of the next two and a half hours glued to my phone, fighting with my now ex-girlfriend about all manner of things.

We were very good at arguing and did it quite horrendously well. It had become regrettably routine to have lengthy, soul shattering arguments full of unforgivable words no one could ever hope to retract.

Real fright night shit.

The vitriol flew in this text-based combat. During this argument I remember so very well and specifically that she used the opportunity in a malicious attempt to hurt me to tell me that she had miscarried my child “the other day.” Whether this is true or not I will never really know since it’s her word versus mine and only she will ever know the god’s honest reality.

Nonetheless the round hit its mark, 3/3 in the black. I was devastated. Brutalized. Distraught. My coping mechanism had been made impotent by the shock factor upper cut I could never have expected. The vodka was ineffective, and I was bleeding out. My efforts were useless. Grain alcohol in the face of an angry woman that I loved hurting me was an exercise in futility. Discovering the loss of a pregnancy I had no prior knowledge of. I threw myself around my shithole hotel room. Trying to escape the feeling, I genuinely absorbed this sadness and despair like a sponge.

Betrayal, by omission. What would have been different if I had known that she was pregnant?

“Maybe I would have gotten sober or conducted myself differently. Why would she not cast the lifeline of a pregnancy to a man drinking himself to death? Didn’t she know that was the only kind of thing that might have brought me back from the brink of the abyss I now faced?” Masochistically I dwelled on the what if’s and why’s.

I sobbed like a fucking woman for a few minutes and then resigned myself to the fate I had brought to fruition. Drinking myself into a stupor, I drank most of the fifth of cheap rot gut poison I had purchased until I fell unconscious, my belongings strewn across the bed and floor. Surrounded by the grimy mess of a room, I fell into the only escape I had left and slept.

Waking up with a start I came to and began to assess the damage and scramble to check my phone for the time. 11AM was rolling around quickly and I needed to figure out what I was going to do. Eventually I came up with more money to pay for the second night at this hotel and resumed my debauch. I sauntered back to my room and drank a bit before sleeping a while longer and finally woke up when it was dark. Groaning and feeling a sense of dread panic in my throat, I looked at my phone and the time.

“Three AM, fuck.”

The witching hour had always felt depressingly vacant and filled my heart with nostalgic sadness and dread when in crisis. With every second that went by I was closer to true homelessness, and I knew it. I got drunk and then set out to wander the property’s parking lot and surrounding area a little bit, to see what I could see. This consisted of a parking lot area around the structure with no fence or boundary from the street. It was easy walking, and I could see for a long way who and what was around.

Exploring my surroundings, I noticed two people reclining on the ground of the parking lot. Closest to the street, covered in a blanket next to a light post they had found access to some kind of outlet which appeared to be sticking out of the fuse box next to the light post. Movies played on their phones shined the characteristic but subtle blue digital glow on their faces in a pleasant and reassuring way. Phones had a sense of passport to them, in today’s day and age. A silent reminder of membership in society.

I questioned them about the safety and security of the location they were at, and whether it was a viable place to camp out.

“Yeah, nobody fucks with you.”

I made a mental note that nobody fucked with me there and wandered aimlessly a bit more in the parking lot before running across a guy pacing on the upstairs exterior entrance corridor “balcony.” He walked down the stairs, he opened the driver's side door of a vehicle parked in a spot to the left of them. A Dodge Charger, or something like it. American Muscle. Loud, low to the ground and noticeable. I walked in his direction, and he spotted me approaching. Not put off by me, I was surprised when he began to talk to me.

He asked me if I had anywhere to stay, to summarize the brief and limited conversation that we initially had. I told him no, not after tonight. Not after the next three to four hours. He asked me if I wanted to stay in the room with him, but that he was only there one more night – adding in that he had a “little bit of dope” if I wanted it.

I should have been far more leery thinking back on it, but I was in a very scraped spot and the allure of an indoor retreat that had access to drugs I liked was a little too tempting for me to resist at this phase in my life. I walked up the stairs to the exterior entrance corridor’s second story with him, and he passed me the small bag of goodies that he had, as we entered the room. Immediately setting out to put it up my nose, I questioned him about his situation and how he landed at this hotel. He described briefly how he was kicked out of the house by his wife and couldn’t go home. He also mentioned that he had business to attend to. When I asked him what made him invite me to the room and help me out – he said he didn’t like to sleep alone. Fine by me.

I did not sleep that night.

I stayed up the remainder of the early morning hours and into the daylight. Once my newfound friend woke up I grabbed my things and we eventually made our way to his vehicle and set out on the road to a smoke shop to get a smoking device for the rest of the stuff we had. He was asking me a few different ways where I wanted to get dropped off, so that he could go conduct his business in the armpit asshole of the Mississippi delta that was obscurely enough described that I could put two and two together and realize that something shady was the nature of his business.

From what he’d said the night before, and again now in the car, he claimed to be a Latin King gang member, and somehow the conversation also revealed that he had a pistol on him. A subcompact .380 that disappeared, when not in use, into the plastic drawer he was using for a suitcase. After we picked up the pipe and talked some more about a potential drop off, I elaborated upon the reality of my situation. In truth, I had nowhere to go. I had no money. I did not know anyone who would let me stay with them in the area.

After some discussion he agreed to bring me along to the ass end of the Mississippi and his business there.

The interstate spread out before us as we sped past swamp land and tree line. I attempted to share my irrational nervousness at the sight of a particularly bushy tree line with my companion of just a few hours. No response, tough crowd. Unnerved, I sighed and pulled another swig from the cheapest, largest volume vodka I could afford. My battle against withdrawal symptoms was a desperate one at this point. My body's ability to tolerate alcohol intoxication was becoming a problem of large magnitude and I often found myself barely fighting off withdrawals. I just couldn't drink the shit fast enough. “So far so good though” I thought, “as long as I keep sipping, I'm going to be fine”.

We were both indulging in the drugs we had left, taking intermittent scalp tingling hits from the pipe interchangeably. I offered him a cup of my vodka. He passed me the pipe with one hand, grabbed the cup with the other and chugged. He held one hand on the steering wheel again, speeding down the interstate. I turned the music up and leaned a little further back in my seat, relieved.

“Now he'll talk”, I thought – as I offered him his third refilled cup of vodka.

Silence was something I feared, something that made me nervous in the characters I met. I wasn't able to read someone who refused to engage with me. It didn't often bode well, and I did my best to continue the engagement that I had fostered between us with continued offerings of cheap vodka.

I was doing my best to keep my rate of consumption up, tilting the unwieldy and large half gallon bottle to my lips. Up and down it went. From nestled between my feet on the floor mat of the passenger seat, to the lips that could barely move without quivering, and arm that shook with each exertion.

I felt fucking terrible. A constant feeling of a burning, acidic hole in my stomach, nausea lying dormant in my throat. Thirst, and the knowledge that I had no time to drink anything less than pure vodka – lest I become a quivering, sweaty shitting mess of incapacitation. There was no escape. No matter how much I drank. Only the promise of still worse symptoms if I drank too slowly.

“Bro, you smell like shit”

“I do?”

“Yeah man, I think it's coming from you”

“What does it smell like?”

“Piss, or shit. I don't know but it's awful – smell your pants”

I grabbed a bit of the fabric of the crotch of my pants so I didn't look like I was blowing myself. I brought it towards my face and dropped my head a little bit while trying not to fucking puke all over myself. I was two hundred and sixty-five pounds of fat body and my gut jabbed into my organs nauseatingly, and painfully as I did so.

I was greeted by a smell that I could not process. To this day, I don't know why. Whatever he smelled that day, I could not. Somehow, this was more terrifying than the alternative.

I apologized, feeling a combustible mixture of outraged indignation and utter humiliation. I told him that I would change clothes and shower once we arrived. I had been very strung out many times before this point, but I always made a gargantuan effort to maintain appearances. This time, I had failed.

My facade of functionality, my romanticized strung-out-addict chic hadn't kept up. In a fit of vanity, I pulled the sun visor down and looked into my reflection. A metric ton of pomade in my sweat congealed hair caused dripping sweat to stain white against my forehead. My cheeks were red and puffy, dark circles lined my eyes. Consoling my shattered pride was pointless. With the desperation of a drowning man I realized there was nothing left to hold on to.

I could not help myself. I continued to make repeated attempts to smell my pants. Desperate to share in the sensory experience that had upended my last molecule of dignity. Either my senses were in a state of disarray due to withdrawal, or the circulating air made it difficult for me to smell anything. I took his word for it, and then contemplated that he could be lying. During the ruminative internal live fire thought exercise that ensued – I pondered – and then quickly discarded the thought, remembering how little I had taken care of myself in the preceding weeks.

I could not lean my head down to smell again. I was going to hurl. Swallowing as vigorously as I could, the sweat poured down my face now in earnest as I narrowly avoided my stomach's attempt to refuse the alcohol I needed to survive. I wiped the latest deposit of off-white sweat from my brow, wiping it on my pants.

“Fuck it”.

Reaching between my legs I mustered what was left of my forearm strength, opened my shaking lips, and took another long pull of the bottle.

I’m standing in a bar near the beach. The bar is having a house music night, and I’m near the DJ booth with a co-worker who knows the people running the event, a luxury that I don’t have. Feeling uncomfortable and out of place I’m downing drinks at record pace, I've already consumed more than anyone else who I’m there with. I've been drunk since noon. I had to convince my colleague to allow me to join him due to the state of intoxication I was already in. As the minutes quickly tick by and the circumstances continue to disappoint my preconceived expectations, I conclude that I have no business at this club or this event on this night.

I was drinking as much as I could, as quickly as I could from the bar, trying to ameliorate the disdain. This usually worked for me. At this point in my career of catastrophe I was immensely disappointed in the way this tried-and-true prescription was failing me. I was beginning to feel the dissonance surrounding my expectation's bloody cage match with reality. I managed to get inconceivably drunk and in the process was rewarded with a level of shitfaced I could not handle functionally. This was a phenomenon that I had some success mitigating with other drugs in the past. That cure-all not being available meant I was doomed to raw dog the deliriant psychosis that alcohol induces in the self-destructive and functionally retarded.

Transitioning from the humidity of the outdoor area of the beachside bar to the humidity of the cracked sidewalk – hailing a cab seemed like a good idea. Stepping from sidewalk to street I entered the forgetful stage of my poor decision making. The next retained memory I'm sitting in the passenger seat of a van-turned-cab on the opposite side of town from my apartment, van-turned-cab driver as confused as I am.

He’s asking me where to go motioning towards the meter which said “$40.00” and counting. Having neither forty dollars nor a route home; I made the executive decision to leave the vehicle and tear ass across the street. As the van-turned-cab driver pursued me – shining flashlights into potential hiding places on the street to try to find me – I managed to clamber onto some poor bastard’s raised wrap-around porch. Laying down, concealing myself, I successfully evaded the van-turned-cab driver’s efforts to locate me and promptly drifted to sleep on the porch.

I woke up with a start, taking in my surroundings the next day. Very disoriented, half drunk and hungover all at once, for some reason I wanted to knock on the door of the home I had used to commit a misdemeanor and talk to the homeowners about whatever the fuck I thought at the time to be a good line of questioning. This was not to be, as thank the lord above nobody answered, and I walked down the stairs to walk the many 25 or so blocks back to my apartment in a daze.

Getting back to my apartment a horrifying prospect had begun to dawn on me. I started to realize that I did not have my wallet, which contained my ID and social security card. I had left it in the cab. This presented me with an existentially terrifying dilemma of epic stakes and disproportionately limited solutions. The first, and only real option I chose was to call the cab company seeing as there were only two or three established, locally. Once I had located the correct company, I spoke with the driver. He stated that there was “already a warrant for my arrest”, my heart sank into a bottomless pit of dread. The van-turned-cab driver stated that he would collect the money from me and drop my wallet off later that day.

Whatever he said about calling off the arrest warrant was not enough to calm my nerves. Perhaps due to the situation not being resolved yet, but also perhaps because the driver decided to leave me in suspense by something he said. This was not helped by my hangover. The day's saga, accompanied by the typical dissociative hellscape I confronted daily, multiplied several times over after drinking. A high cost paid dearly. At this point I had spent the day pacing my tiny apartment in a permanent mode of crisis infused, dissociative agony.

As the business day ended, and the sun began to set, the van-turned-cab driver approached the appropriately steel barred enclosure that secured the entrance to my apartment complex. He had called me to let me know he had arrived, and I had jumped up, rushing to meet him. Stepping up onto the sidewalk and walking towards where I stood, he removed his sunglasses and took the sixty dollars I had mooched to pay him. He regaled me with the stories of his time working as a correctional officer before he left, stating that there was a lot of sexual assault between inmates, and gang rapes even. He stated that, given the nature of the mistake I had made, I would likely face jail time if I had not resolved the situation the way that I did. I thanked him, emphatically. He turned and left. I walked back into my apartment and closed the door.

Thorn bushes in Raleigh were something that I knew nothing about until I decided to spend the first ten years of my adult life making alcohol the sole purpose of it. I had been walking around after shirking the homeless shelter cold turkey detox for the street for what seemed like a long time in the cold. First, I had gone to the nature trails behind the nearby gas station and laid there for a while after wrangling up my last few dollars to buy a tall can of 4loko. I looked up at the stars and felt the old twinge and stirrings of the spirit of adventure that I originally had found in my booze laden escapades. It was a mere glimmer, or gasp now. Compared to the comet, and roar that it was in the beginning. I couldn’t pretend that this was a scene from a Kerouac novel anymore. I was not Neal Cassidy and nothing about my life was worthy of much more than a pre-emptive obituary and a pathetic one at that.

Eventually as the reality of my situation crept in to such an extent that I was beginning to feel the inklings of a rational decision come on, I got up off the wet, short grass and looked around as I chugged the last of the first 4loko. I decided this was not where I was going to sleep and set out to figure something else out. I walked into a neighborhood that had a little convenience store on the main street of it. Upon walking into the neighborhood, on what I believe I remember to be called “Savage Street” I found a church and figured that behind it was probably best to lay down and catch a few drunken stupor Zs. I wandered back into their property, found some bushes and essentially threw myself into them. I fell asleep shortly thereafter with little difficulty as I was exhausted from the walk and the 4loko in my system.

I woke up a few hours later and it was daylight. No one had disturbed me or otherwise messed with me or my belongings. A great fortune for me at the time and I celebrated a bit too early as I realized I had lost my ear buds in the bush. Oh well, I proceeded down the street back towards the convenience store which I saw was now open. Upon entering I attempted to locate the booze and discovered it was too early to buy booze in North Carolina. Phooey. I was offered a cup of coffee by the store owner, and I took it, gulping it greedily. Eventually I realized I should probably give that indigent, homeless shelter, cold-turkey detox another shot as I had nowhere else to go and nowhere to buy alcohol as well as dwindling remaining funds becoming a statement which carried a severe degree of understatement to it. Leaving the convenience store, I headed towards the sidewalk in the direction of the indigent detox shelter. By the time I arrived, I was very ill already indeed. I stood up right next to the intake desk where volunteers manned their stations to process the broken, weary, tired and roofless masses, of which I had become one. The first thing I did in relatively quick fashion was to puke the neon red and green colors of the contents of my stomach into the nearest trash receptacle. This occurred multiple times until they stated that I was too sick for them to handle and needed medical attention.

One of the volunteers took me to the hospital – WakeMed in Wake Forest, an affluent area outside of Raleigh where I was admitted for seven days due to my heart rhythm and need for detox.

Everyday I peel myself out of my outstretched mattress on top of a mattress in my studio apartment, sometimes night, sometimes day, sometimes one turning into the other. Almost always after a consecutive period of no sleep.

I roll myself out of bed to resume the debacherous tasks in front of me of not feeling like shit. Involving copius amounts of foreign substances that go in my body in some form or fashion. It's been months since I got home, and the two weeks that I promised myself I would drink to decompress has now become no less than eight months.

How odd to go from your largest challenge in life being staying alive, to your largest challenge in life becoming living. Destroying yourself because of the things you saw while staying alive, because of the things you did to stay alive, and because of the people who didn't live. What a mind fuck.

Life is full of contradictions but few as stark as the realization that the self destructive streak in you is the literal ying to it's sources yang. The ebb and flow is more like a light switch to a Amazon warehouse, than a wave on some shitty beach on the Eastern Shore that barely laps at the pebble covered excuse for itself.

I would like to preface anything I write here by saying that I have found it incredibly difficult to write, and I will probably look back on this and frown in disgust and embarrassment despite not expecting anyone to ever read this -- I have a special talent for loathing myself in any and all fashions beyond the ones that are extrinsically validated. Because I don't approve of anything I am or do, nor do I feel like I deserve to feel as bad -- to have to write about it -- as I do.

I miss the youthful enthusiasm that I once had for life, I miss the zealous nature that I sought out what I liked, and fanaticism with which I did it. I miss feeling like people would be by my side no matter what, and understand what I needed from them. I miss feeling like my girlfriend would never leave me after four years of her putting me through indescribable bullshit that would drive most people to cut sling load, but me to stick around and eat out of her poisonous hand.

I miss me, and who I was before this insanity kicked off that I so willingly plunged into. I miss what my life was which is absolutely fucked to say considering that it was not anything to write home about in the fucking slightest.

I wake up. I remember and behave like a chimpanzee muttering and halfway yelling obscenities and telling my own mind to shut up while pacing my apartment. I shut out the memories of everything that I had before the war, and everyone I had who perished there or who left me in my darkest hour after. I hear a noise at my door, I have no clear line of sight to my front, this forces me into a peephole patrol crackhead like figure who stares out the tiny baby's first fucking porthole of a view I have available, I cuss at nothing in particular and chug back towards my next station.

I open my laptop and on my way to my desk look around in dismay at the state of my belongings strewn across my apartment.

I seek out connection in shared experiences among my community which can be hit or miss -- but has provided me with my only form of real relief that I've found beyond large bottles of clear liquor and stimulant abuse.

I lift weights but only at the house because leaving my apartment and these four walls that I call a house is too daunting for me due to the level of suspended tension and hyperawareness of what really lays in wait out there being a constant in my life.

Every single day I wake up and feel like shit, I drink, I feel like shit some more, I get drunk enough and feel average. I reach out to someone I can relate to in hopes that I experience the fleeting feeling of relief associated with my old life to some degree. Often this happens and I feel for a brief hour or two or three even the familiar excitement, shared comradery and joy. Then the curtain closes again, and I can't find my way out.

I drink more. I buy more booze, I do more dope. I listen to more music so loud that I can't think but then still do. I lift weights. I sweat ridiculously due to the lack of alcohol in my system and the tap dance of a cocktail like uppers and downers falling off rhythm thereby failing me.

So I grab the bottle and grimace as I raise it to my lips, or pour it into what used to be my protein shaker and mix it with whatever's available to chase. I hear another noise, and have to go check it out lest I allow someone to get the drop on me.

Documenting all of this is incredibly disturbing to me as it puts down on paper what I already knew but now can see in front of me.

I don't know why or how or where I broke. I can't tell you the defining moment or pivotal spot or place in time during my experiences where it all came cascading forwards like a waterfall in my mind. It didn't. It just streamed, trickled, and dropped tiny little fat fucking water drops into my psyche until one day I found myself here writing this godawful fucking whiney diatribe of a text.

I've spent my whole life dealing with trauma and emotions one way, talking about them and trying to dump them on people I could trust as quickly as possible and as much as possible. Much to everyone else's annoyance and conversation fatigue.

It doesn't seem to have done much good, and increased them in an intensifying way that was outrageously uncomfortable. I tried that for these first eight months. I've given up on doing what the popular talk therapy contemporary band waggoners recommend. Maybe the old guys who used to tell you to shut the fuck up and suck it the fuck up were right all along.

I'm done talking about this shit from now on, I've tried on numerous occasions and received beyond negative feedback. Complete abandon is what I was met with by the people that I expected the most from, which wasn't that fucking much to begin with.

Ever since it drained in the light, I skulk in the dark. Trying to suppress my emotions. Separating the emotion.

It feels right though, to separate it in this moment. To abandon those that abandoned me and will, to further my own and forge my own -- path in life. I don't plan on talking about my experiences anymore. I don't plan on ever using my current habitual and physically dependent use of alcohol as an excuse not to fulfill my obligations to myself. Not to anyone else, who see so fit to place them upon me.

I'm going to work towards getting on the road. Finding the land I want to buy and once I have enough money buying it.

Sauntering outside to get fucked up was the only thing I had done so far today with real enthusiasm. Brushing my teeth and changing my underwear, all but showering had card charged its way the fuck out of my daily ritual.

The card. Charging off. In the literal financial sense of the word I had experienced it already one time before - when you make mistakes they’ll be there for you but it’s only in there briefly, then the piper demands payment and pop the pussy on the corner if you want to survive another month of rent.

The vehicle was an all blue, miscellaneous sport model ford. The pasty white skin of the smiling driver who had waited a 5-10 minute interval for me smiled more than his mouth did in its original ride of his meat suit.

Taught and wrinkled at the same time

in a disarming way.

I didn’t think of any of these observations as thought process but now that I am fresh in mind and memory I remember the specifics - like how I couldn’t care less about anything except arriving at that shit hole trailer to buy some narcotics.

The night cut into the vehicle in darkening shades of icey black that hung heavy in the back seat of the vehicle tearing across creation into deeper and deeper still vegetation lined roads - bordered by wire fences and ditches on either side it always seemed like a perilous journey driving these roads of pedestrian impasse in Texas.

We talked as the vehicle sped. The closer we got the more I said and spewed from my mouth. Not many people you can be brutally honest with in life. I had a habit of being brutally honest anyways.

Late at night in the back country of nowhere we meandered to a stop and then a left turn into a trailer park. I let him know how to get out of there should any problems arise and then asked if he didn’t mind the wait that was scheduled. He didn’t.

Out of the vehicle I went and into tiny trailer I walked, to find the woman I had come to buy drugs from looking at me in a way I couldn’t really figure out until the very last second with her allusion to sexual innuendo and a half hearted attempt at a come on.

I made my way to the door and backed away after I got my hands on what I needed and not in her. I typically actually regret this moment and the lack of initiative to no holds barred take a risk to expand my horizons but that doesn’t really work out a lot of the time and I’d already risked quite a bit this evening and at that point in the circumstances I had come out on top.

I laughed as I recounted to my uber driver how she had tried to have sex with me, and we sped out of the trailer park - looping around the encampment until we reached the exit again.

I was elated and had no problem shooting every chatter box shit I had at this point, and most of it was probably lost on me and him. We got back - and I got his card and I got high, then went to California.

Anger doesn't exist without nostalgia.

I'm angry, that I'm not there anymore. I'm angry at what you did. I'm angry at what I did. I'm nostalgic for the pain I experienced, and caused. I'm nostalgic for the good times that weren't good at all.

Sometimes we go back and forth between euphoric recall and nostalgic anger. They are the same. They don't differentiate. So why should we?