Dying Slowly in the City of Bad Thoughts

[This is chapter 8 in an ongoing work of fiction.  To read chapter 7, see here: https://whathappenstous.wordpress.com/2017/10/17/hurtling-through-the-air-and-hitting-things-on-the-way-down/]

There were a few things Evan had to do before he died.  He had an aching in his heart for one more cupful of Rocky Road ice cream.  He hurt for one last glimpse of the colors of the Bellagio.  He would miss music worst of all.  He sat in the middle of his living room and listened to Ellington’s “Rockin’ in Rhythm” five times and imagined that he knew Cat Anderson, the only one who could hit that high, high note.  It was the most incredible note he had ever heard.

And there was the girl.  He didn’t know her name.  The girl might not even remember him.  She probably wouldn’t even want to talk to him.

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She worked at an entertainment agency on West Sahara Avenue that booked Hawaiian entertainment, which was all the rage that month.  She was slender and dark haired but definitely not Hawaiian.  She wore the type of clothes that flattered her but didn’t make her look cheap, which was a tricky line to walk.  He’d first seen her in the darkness of a club with Bruno Mars blasting.  He hated Bruno Mars and all he stood for.  She had been walking through blue and purple flashing lights to shit music.  That was the vision, flashing lights and shit music.  The bouncer had told Evan a little about her.

“She ain’t a cunt,” the bouncer said, which to him was a supreme compliment, that’s just the way he was.

Nightclub 1a

It was a couple months before he’d met Kendra and he thought he should be cruising a little.  There was something in her eyes, it was hard to put his finger on, Evan seeing her only from a distance, but it was just in the way she talked over the house music to a friend, like, Don’t hurt me, not like anyone was about to hurt her, just that in every move she made, talking to this girl or ordering a drink or just taking in the dancing bodies, whether she was happy or having fun or whatever, there was always a little touch of Don’t hurt me. 

Five years ago, a girl had told him that he liked wounded birds.

“That’s not true,” he said.

“E, trust me, just look at the girls you choose.”

Φ

The agency was a small office in an industrial mall.  Evan walked in the door, but nobody was there.  It was just shelves full of DVDs and posters on the wall of hula dancers and luaus and big, fat Izzy.  Evan poked his head into an office door and there she was at a desk, dressed all professional, turning her head, her mouth and smile saying May I help you, but her eyes saying Don’t hurt me.

“Uh…I was thinking…” Evan started, then stopped.

She waited for him.  You could see in the set of her face that she had dozens of things lined up on her to-do list, but she waited.

“Luau?” he finally said.

“Okay,” she said.  “Have a seat.”

Evan sat down.

“So tell me about your party,” she said, her pen steadied above a clipboard.

“Well….”

Girl 3a

Evan knew he was chickening out, and he tried, like a lost motorist, to find a route out of his cowardice.  You just have to find a street that you know.  Follow that street.  You’ll come to something you recognize.  Evan looked at her hands.  He remembered those hands.  He remembered thinking at the time that they were short and ugly.  Not ugly exactly, but not gorgeous like the rest of her.  Months ago, when he had seen those hands, he had thought about mighty Achilles, who at birth had been dipped in the River Styx by his heel to make him invincible, but his mother had neglected that heel.  Evan thought, Those hands make her real.  It touched him.  Evan looked up at her.  Something had changed and she knew it.

“What?” she asked.

“I’m the guy.”

“What guy?”

“The guy who chased those guys off.”

She looked at him and her smile began to fade.  He couldn’t tell whether it was okay or whether she was going to call the cops.

Φ

It had been after 3 am, and he’d seen her a couple hours after his conversation with the bouncer.  Suddenly, he caught sight of her being rushed out a back door by two guys, and she didn’t look terribly ambulatory, much less conscious.  In all the noise and hubbub, nobody seemed to notice.  He walked over to the exit and walked out after them.  Suddenly, he was in a messy back alley.  They had her draped over a table in the dark and her skirt pulled up.  She was passed out.  Their eyes were turned towards him.

“S’none of your business!” one of them said.

“You’re saying my sister isn’t any of my business?” Evan said.

It was the first thing that came into his mind.

“She’s not your sister,” the other said.

“Yeah, she’s not,” the first one said.

“So get the fuck out of here.”

“Yeah, get the fuck out of here.”

Earlier in the evening, Evan had been doing this card trick.  You have a card chosen, signed, then returned to the deck, shuffled and lost.  You spread the cards out face-down on the table in a big mess—a shmear, as they call it.  Then you blindfold yourself and take out a knife.  Wearing that black blindfold, you are able to stab the signed card.  It’s a killer trick because of the knife.  Knives focuses the audience’s attention, as does fire, cursing, and flirting.  That knife was a crowd pleaser.

That’s why he had a 7-inch knife in his pocket.  Don’t hurt me was why he pulled it out.

Evan donned his best Raylan Givens face and strode purposefully towards them, his knife held in front of him at the ready, because he knew that attitude and intention were required to pull off this particular trick, although he had not thought through what he would do if they didn’t buy it, he just walked forward, knife in hand, on instinct.  The young idiots ran.

In the car, her eyes opened barely halfway.

“Thangew,” she said in a voice that was so soft and slurred that his first impulse was to turn up the VOLUME knob, and then he immediately laughed, because, as he termed it in his head, There is no volume knob on life.

“Don’t worry, everything’s going to be okay.”

Some girls you really don’t want to see hurt.

Φ

“You were that guy?” she said.

“Yeah.”

She lowered her head.  She became strangely immobile and quiet.  Finally, she took a deep breath.

“It’s all a blur,” she mumbled.  “They must have slipped me something.”

“I figured.”

“You drove me home.”

“Yeah.”

“You tucked me in.”

“Yeah.”

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Finally she lifted her head.

“You put a barf bag next to my bed.”

Evan laughed.

“I was sure you would need it.”

“And you didn’t take advantage.”

Evan just smiled warmly.  Tears were filling her eyes now and she tried to wipe them away but they kept coming.

“I don’t drink anymore,” she said.

“That’s a good idea.”

“I wanted to thank you, but I didn’t have your number.”

“I thought it might embarrass you.”

She smiled, and it was a smile that, he realized, he’d been waiting months for.

“No, it doesn’t.”

Φ

When she got off work at 5:30, they caught a meal at the Peppercorn Mill on the Strip, with its screaming highway of blue and green neon lighting everything up.  They had great booths in there, cushy, curvy, and spacious.  Lilibeth had come to Vegas several years ago from Dayton.  She liked the lights of this city.

“Incredible lights,” Lilibeth said, “I mean, it’s the only thing, really, that makes me stay.”

In those days, Lilibeth was young and fun loving and even printed up a sign for her bedroom door, PARTY ANIMAL.  Gradually, though, she realized that wasn’t where she wanted to land.  People don’t always land on their feet.  Vegas will teach you that much.  So will a back-alley attack.

Evan showed her a few magic tricks.  He floated her ring, which was some costume jewelry she had gotten for a play she had acted in after college.  He brought out the cards.  They laughed.  Laughing with someone, Evan thought, is an extraordinary thing.  He was seeing everything differently now, as if he were a Martian who was examining Earth customs.  Laughing seemed like this incredibly intimate disruption of the face, an emotional explosion, and it suddenly struck Evan as the most wondrous event in the world.

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Lilibeth asked what it takes to be a magician.  Evan said it was a way of thinking around corners.  You had to have a sense of what was around that corner waiting for you.  It could be happiness or it could be a hole in the ground.  It could be anything around that corner and you had to be prepared for it.  To be prepared, you had to think of motivations.  That’s one thing his parents had never taught him, and they were still stupid about it.  You had to watch their eyes, because eyes tell you much more than you realize.  It tells you what people suspect.  It tells you how much a pushover they are.  Belief is a building, and you have build it brick by brick.

Then Evan looked at his plate, the food all eaten now, and from the look in his eyes, she knew he was going to talk about what had happened months ago.

“I saw it on their face before they even saw you,” Evan said.

“Saw what?”

“They just wanted to…fuck somebody.  Not necessarily sex, but fuck somebody up.”

“You could see that in their face?”

“I can see those things.”

She smiled, then placed her hands on top of his, their eyes meeting.

“You’re a good man.”

Evan hung his head.  Her words had triggered a small chain reaction in his head, and it was like somebody stepping on his neck while he was down.

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do.  I know it like I know how to breathe.”

Evan was quiet for a long time.  Part of him was savoring it, because he’d waited a long time to hear that, but part of him was ashamed, because he knew what lay in his future.

“Well, I have to confess something,” Evan finally said.  “Lately, I’ve been having bad thoughts.  I’m sorry, I just feel I can be honest with you.”

She squeezed his hands.

“Yes, but you’re capable of such good things.  Don’t worry about it.”

“Seriously, I’m not always good.  A few months ago, I made a compromise, and ever since, it’s affected everything that I do.”

“What kind of compromise?”

“In my job, we’re cheating people.”

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Lilibeth stared at him.  She was weighing and considering.  Finally, she lowered her voice and leaned in.

“Well, I have a confession, too.  In my job, we cheat people, too.”

“Trust me, we’re bigger cheaters than you.”

“Well listen, Evan, you know that this is the city of bad thoughts.”

“Sometimes, it seems like the only way to be good is to be bad.”

Evan looked at her hands again.  She didn’t paint her nails.  She didn’t grow them long, like some girls who wore lavender silk blouses and too-short skirts.

“You were good that evening,” she said.  “I know that you’re capable of being good.”

“It’s confusing.  What I’m saying is that maybe I don’t want to be good.”

“You’re not going to rape anybody, are you?”

Evan smiled.

“I’m not the raping kind.”

“Well then.”

Φ

They went over to the Bellagio and looked at the fountains.  Then they went inside and looked at all the Monet colors.  It was the most beautiful spot in all of Vegas, he told her.

“I like to just sit here for an hour or two sometimes,” Evan said.

“I know what you mean.”

“You don’t have to spend anything to be here.  You can be poor and still sit here and enjoy all the colors.  Sometimes, that’s all I need to be happy, is colors.”

“It’s so simple sometimes, isn’t it?”

Evan thought, There is no REWIND button on life, although he certainly wished he could play this back again and again.

 

Φ

By 1 am, they were at her apartment, slumped back on a dark leather sofa, Miles Davis playing in the background, and eating Ben & Jerry’s out of the carton, two spoons.  From the kitchen, she called out.

“You want a glass of wine?”

“I thought you didn’t drink anymore.”

“Wine doesn’t count.”

“No thanks.”

So Lilibeth poured her own glass of white and walked back to the sofa.  She stood above it for a long moment, looking down at him, an imposing pov that she held for the longest time.  It was like the Incredible Hulk’s daughter standing above him.  Finally, she downed the rest of the wine in one toss and sat down in his lap.  Evan breathed in the aroma of her makeup.

“Hello, sailor,” Lilibeth said.

She leaned in.  She tilted her head.  Then the other way.  Finally she kissed him, the empty wine glass still in her hand, her mouth relaxed and open and wet.  He went with it, but after the moment was complete, he gently pulled away from her lips and looked into her eyes, which were inches from his.

“It wouldn’t work,” he said softly.

Lilibeth shrunk back into herself.  It wasn’t so much Don’t hurt me now as much as it was Shit, I always screw things up.

“You’re fine, Lilibeth.”

“Not attracted to me?  I don’t see why you would be.”

“No, I am.”

“You don’t have to lie.”

“You’re very attractive.”

“Theoretically attractive, but you don’t feel it.”

“Fact is, I’m in love with you.”

That stopped her.  There was a question that appeared in her eyes.  She had wanted to make love in a teacup, while he was going to a place that was expansive and arid, like a desert, a road that suddenly had no road blocks anymore and infinite rainbow skies, a highway to all the secret places, that if she just looked, would reveal everything about him: his abomination, his shame, all the sins he intended to commit.  His voice was suddenly aglow with motivations.

“I’m in love with who you were that night,” Evan said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m in love with who I was, too.  And what I did.  I’m in love with it all.  And I had to come to see you.  I needed to fill myself up with that love.”

Evan grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

“Then why can’t we do something about it?” she asked, and then she leaned her body into his and he felt the room go electromagnetic again and her voice became a pussycat whisper.    “I’m a hellcat in bed, I promise.”

“Hellcat?” he said, the smallest smile like a spider creeping onto his lips.

“That’s right, baby, hellcat.”

“Okay.”

“So why can’t we?”

“Because I’m dying.”

“What?” Lilibeth said.

“Dying.”

Evan watched her face change.  It was like the changing part of the day, dusk just before night, when you can see unbelievable shapes and colors move in and phase out.  He saw bruised clouds drift in front of her mood, darkness falling like a hammer, tomorrow crumbling like dried leaves.

“What are you dying of?”

Evan paused, then said, “You couldn’t pronounce it.”

There was a silence that sat down between them for a while.  She didn’t seem to want to let go of the intimacy, but after a while, it just died and she scooted off Evan’s lap and back onto the sofa.  After a while, she stood up.

“I need another drink,” she said.

Lilibeth walked into the kitchen again and filled her glass, downed it again.

“Man, you are full of surprises,” she said.

Finally, she sat down next to him again.  After a while, she reached out and held his hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I don’t know.  I don’t know.  I can’t seem to focus.  Is—is there anything I can do?”

“Well, in fact, yes there is.”

Evan reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a letter.  It was sealed and stamped, all ready to mail.

“When you hear that I’m dead, can you mail this?”

Lilibeth took the letter with a touch of reverence.  It was buff stationery and had red sealing wax on the back.

“Of course.”

“You’ll get a call about it.  I’ve seen to that.”

Lilibeth smiled, and this time, he realized, she had solar systems of expression in her face, it wasn’t just Don’t hurt me.  Some people, he thought, are infinite.  Or maybe all people, Evan wasn’t sure.  He hadn’t met everyone.

Φ

Eventually, Lilibeth left the sofa and visited the restroom.  In that moment, Evan got up and did what he had been waiting to do.

All those months ago, on that difficult night, Evan had helped Lilibeth into bed.  She had crawled into bed without removing her clothes and had fallen immediately into the sound sleep of the inebriated.  Evan had looked at her on that bed for a long moment.  He had a surge of emotion.  He wanted to make sure she was okay.  Then he wanted to disappear.  He didn’t need that responsibility.  Finally, Evan figured that she didn’t have enough blankets.  He walked over to the closet and grabbed another one.  As he was about to close the closet doors, Evan had looked up and seen something on the top shelf that caught his eye.  It was an old box with printing on the side— “Springfield EMP”—along with a photo of a small pistol.

While Lilibeth was in the restroom, Evan pulled the box down, set it on the bed, took the pistol out, and quickly put the box back.  He quickly glanced at the restroom door, where he heard noise, but the door wasn’t opening just yet.  Evan went back to the bed and stuffed the pistol into his waistband in the back, where it was hidden by his jacket.  Then he returned to the sofa and sat down.  When Lilibeth came back out, Evan stood up and said his goodbyes.  They hugged.

“Stay safe,” he said.

“You too,” she said.

[This is an ongoing work of fiction.]

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Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy

In high school, Lily was a cute, bubbly girl. I knew her from the born-again Christian youth group to which we both belonged, called Young Life. Kids in Young Life were their own clique of “good kids.” They met monthly in kids’ homes, sang songs together, went on campouts together, and generally tried to channel the energy and humor of youth into something that didn’t involve substance abuse, depression, and lawbreaking, but instead, involved God and Jesus.

http://www.younglife.org/About/Pages/History.aspx

We grew up in Orange County, California. There was a lot of wholesome whooping it up. There was a lot of guitar playing and sing-alongs. There were a lot of Praise the Lords.

“Happy! Happy! Happy! Happy! Happy is the people whose God is the Lo-or-o-ord!” went one of our favorite songs. We would clap together while singing it. It was a bright and perky song, and it was great fun to sing.

Lily was the cutest of the bunch, I always thought. A few times, I got the look. You know the one, the one that says, Maybe I like you. But nothing ever happened between us because, in my mind, she wasn’t good enough for me. Through the years, it turned out that nobody was ever good enough for me. But hey, that’s a whole other story.

After high school, my born-againism faded. There was so much that born-againism prohibited me from experiencing. For one thing, sex. For another, poets like Dylan and Plath and, on the music side, Beck.  For still another, thinking for myself. For still still another, doubt.

Happy, happy, happy, happy, now that’s an interesting subject. Within ten years of leaving born-againism, I was much happier. To be specific, I was happier using my own logic to decide whether something was wrong or not, like abortion, or watching violent movies, or whether all indigenous people should be converted to Christianity. I was happier sleeping in on Sunday mornings. I was happier reading pagan literature in bed.

Decades passed. You can live several lives in that amount of time, and I certainly did. I was first a journalist, then a New Yorker, then an uncle, then a famous magician, then “a guy who never married.” I had so many different identities. I was political. I was an exercise fiend. I was a guy who had been with his girlfriend for 14 years and had never married her. I was a world traveler who published accounts of his journeys in the New York Daily News: http://www.nydailynews.com/life-style/travel/palau-splendid-view-pacific-paradise-article-1.290314

Then Facebook comes along. This weird free network puts you in touch with people you haven’t thought of in years. And one day, we all “friend” Lily. I was so happy to see her smiling face, which still lit up any room she was in. I started having chats with her, and discovered that she still lived in the area. One day, I called her.

“We should get together for coffee,” I said. “Catch up.”

“Sure,” she said.

And then she popped the question.

“How are you with the Lord?”

Ugh God, she wasn’t still into that, was she?

“I’m not,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, what happened?”

“Jeez, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you when we get together, if you like.”

I wasn’t interested in being converted, that was for sure. But if all she wanted to do was hear the story, I could do that.

In the end, we never got together. In June, I read on Facebook that Lily was dead. I was stunned. She was far too young. I scrolled through her Facebook page, but nobody was being specific about what had transpired. She died around March 1, but her friends didn’t seem to have been invited to the funeral, if there even was one. A memorial had been promised, but that had fizzled out, too.

There were so many mysteries. To me, it seemed to reek of bad family. I mean, what kind of family wouldn’t invite friends to a funeral? There are so many ways for families to be dysfunctional.

Last night, I went to Lily’s wake. It was held five months after she passed, at a sports bar in Newport Beach.

http://www.clubplanet.com/Venues/124022/Costa-Mesa/Skosh-Monahans

It seemed like a weird place to celebrate someone’s life, more like an Irish wake, with the dark lighting and all the alcohol flowing. The young waitresses wore tight black shorts and skimpy black tops and had lots of weird tattoos and sneered. For the wake, there were lots of middle-aged women, all chatting, laughing, and raising a glass to Lily.

“How did you know Lily?” one of them asked me.

“I knew her in high school,” I said.

“Did you know her as an adult?”

“I hadn’t seen her since high school, but in the last year, we were planning on getting together. It never happened, though.”

“That’s sad.”

I listened hard, trying to figure out how Lily died. It was weird. I wondered if she had died of something that some consider shameful, like AIDS. For example, one of my friends has rectal cancer but finds it embarrassing to talk about, so he just leaves it at “cancer.” But you have to die of something, and nobody was talking about what the cause was in Lily’s case. Finally, I leaned over and asked a woman named April in hushed tones.

“So how did she die? Cancer?”

April locked onto my eyes. She pursed her lips and shook her head no. She became very quiet. I leaned in even closer. I waited expectantly, but she didn’t answer, she just started telling the story.

On a convention trip, April had roomed with Lily. Watching her day in and day out for several days, she quickly realized.

Realized what?

April recounted the conversation she had with Lily that brought it all to a head.

“Lily, you’re going to kill yourself if you keep drinking and doing pills the way you are. I’ve seen this so many times,” April said.

Turns out that April has worked for years as a substance-abuse counselor at a local hospital.

“You’ve got to promise me,” April said, “that you’re going to stop tonight.”

“Okay, okay, I know it’s bad for me, I promise I’ll stop,” Lily said. At this point, Lily was in tears.

April called Lily the next morning.

“Hllo?” Lily said.

And April lost it, because she could hear the pills in Lily’s voice. This wasn’t just a patient, this was her best friend.

“You promised me!” April said.

“I know,” Lily said, “but I had insomnia last night, I had restless legs.”

And that’s how it was every time Lily made a promise to April.

Throughout the evening, I heard other stories from other people.

From a blonde with a determined mouth: “Lily loved my husband. He was her knight in shining armor. We would go on those conventions, and we would go down to the Jacuzzi and she would drink, and it would get to the point where she couldn’t drag herself out of the Jacuzzi. And my husband would always pull her out and help her back to her room. And she was always so thankful, it was, like, ‘Henry, you’re my knight in shining armor.’”

From a woman with long grey hair who was sitting at what seemed to be the alcoholics’ table: “Yeah, I met her here, at this bar, when I moved down the street seven years ago. She met us here every Tuesday for seven years.”

From a brunette: “Oh man, she could do great Blow Jobs—you know, the kind of shot drink where you can’t use your hands? She was the best at Blow Jobs.”

Happy, happy, happy, happy.

You can see a video of anonymous stupid girls doing Blow Jobs at 7:50 here:

April told me about another conversation she had with Lily just a few months before she died. April and her grown daughter were at a party that Lily was at. April’s daughter, who had known Lily since she was ten, was bartending, and her daughter came up to her.

“Mom, I think Lily is dying,” the daughter said. “She looks so bad, with her eyes sunken in and everything and her skin translucent.”

So they walked up to Lily and April’s daughter says: “Lily, you look terrible. What’s wrong with you? I think you’re dying.”

Lily immediately burst into tears.

“I know something’s wrong with me,” Lily said, “but I don’t have the money to see a doctor.”

It was a strange thing to say, because she was working for AAA at the time.  I can’t believe that a full-time employee at AAA doesn’t have medical insurance.

“I work for a doctor,” the daughter said, “and I know I can get him to see you for free.”

But Lily turned down all offers.

“I don’t want to do that,” she said, “I just don’t want to do that.”

Remembering back to high school, I recalled that Lily had had scoliosis and had to have a rod surgically implanted in her back. Perhaps the painkillers were originally prescribed to treat that. Perhaps she still had lots of pain.  Perhaps the alcohol was another form of medication.

Suddenly in April, people were notified that Lily had been admitted to the hospital. April came to see her, and when she entered the room, she saw a woman who was a shell of her former self lying in the bed. Lily’s hands and feet were in restraints so that she couldn’t leave the bed and look for alcohol. Worst of all, Lily had incredibly sad eyes. Almost immediately, though, April was approached by a friend named Samantha and told to leave. April was escorted out with the help of several nurses while Lily kicked against her restraints, perhaps to object wordlessly to ejecting her best friend from the room.

“Samantha is sitting right over there,” April said, pointing at a steely blonde sitting at the alcoholics’ table. “When I leave, I’m going to give her a piece of my mind. She had no right to turn away all these people who loved Lily. They stole our goodbyes from us.”

The hospital visit was on a Tuesday. By Saturday, Lily was dead. Her friends never did give a name to Lily’s cause of death, but it was clear by the description. It was cirrhosis. It was liver failure. Or, as one family member kept telling people, “liver cancer.” In essence, it was like a cancer, relentlessly eating away at Lily.

I told April about my phone conversation with her about “the Lord,” and April was shocked.

“I never ever ever heard her talk about ‘the Lord,’” April said. “You mean she was a born-again Christian?”

“Yeah, we all were.”

“And she implied to you that she was still one?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“My God, that’s so hypocritical what she said to you. It makes me mad.”

Everything had been turned around, and I told them about it.

“You know, when I came here tonight, I thought I was going to a memorial for a woman who might have died a virgin,” I said. “I mean, I heard she’d never married and never had children, so maybe she just followed that born-again stuff to its logical extreme.  And she even told one of her high school friends that she was a virgin.”

But April just shook her head solemnly, an ironic twinkle in her eye.

“No, trust me, she wasn’t a virgin.”

It was in that moment that I realized what had bothered me about that song Happy all these years. It was the enforced happiness. It was the denial of any other feelings except happiness, with an emphasis on denial.

When she left, April passed by the alcoholics’ table and had a brief conversation with Samantha, who looked like a hard woman with no illusions and no pity. Since I knew the confrontation was coming, I’d had time to reposition myself so I could hear it.

“We were all wondering why none of Lily’s friends were allowed to see her in her last days in the hospital,” April said calmly.

“Well, it was Lily’s wishes,” Sam said sadly.

“Well you know, all of her friends think it was you.”

“What?”

“They think it was you who blocked all of us from seeing her.”

“Well, I don’t give a shit.”

Sam began to get visibly hot under the collar.

“And you know, I think it was you, too.”

“Well,” Sam said, her voice rising, “I. Don’t. Give. A shit.”

That’s when April walked away. At that point, Sam turned back to her alcoholic friends, clearly pissed. She took a few sips from her red wine, trying to calm down. Finally, she emptied the glass in a single gulp.

“What?” one of the friends said. “What’s wrong?”

“You see that woman April?” Sam said, pointing at her as she walked out the exit.

“Yeah.”

“Well, they told me she was a troublemaker.”

“That woman over there?”

“Yeah, what a bitch.”

Strangely enough, I believe Sam. It would be just like Lily to block her friends. She didn’t want her friends to see her die from an excess of Blow Jobs. It would have been humiliating. She wanted to just disappear. And that’s kind of what she did.

The 10-year-old Who Made Me Wonder

Today, I performed on the street in Monterey for four hours.  During much of that time, my mouth was going at full speed but my mind was sitting on the sidelines saying, “My God, when is this going to stop?”  Because the crowds kept coming and throwing money into my hat and people came up asking how much it would cost if I came to their house and did a party and people came up saying, “I saw you the other day and we live out in Palm Desert and want you to come out there!”

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Finally at 7:30 pm, I got a little breather and shut down for a few minutes.  I was hungry but I didn’t want to eat because I had to work.  I don’t dare count my money during a show–bad luck–but I knew there was a lot in there.  No matter how good I’m doing, I don’t go easy on myself, I just continue pushing.  It is a job, after all, and there are people in offices pushing themselves even harder.

Recently, there was a homeless guy playing guitar next to me on the wharf.  It was about noon on a sunny day, and the guy was making a little money.  Pretty soon, his friend comes up.

“Hey, you’ve worked hard,” he said.  “Let’s go have a drink.”

So after only an hour on the street, the guy packed up and start his drinking for the day.  That’s the antithesis of my style.  What I believe in is work for as long as you can and as hard as you can.  You can worry about the aching bones tomorrow.

Suddenly, this 10-year-old Hispanic kid shows up.

“I saw your show, and you were great,” he said with this great smile.  “So I wanted to give you these.”

He held out a jumbo wrapped chocolate chip cookie and a cannoli in a to-go box.

“Thank you very much,” I said, smiling.

“My father owns a bakery.”

“Where?”

“Over there,” he said, pointing, and he slipped me a business card.

“That’s great,” I said.  “I’ll go over and visit before I leave.”

Around 8 pm, the crowds had pretty much dispersed and I packed up my gear and walked down the street.  Strangely, though, there was no bakery where the kid had pointed.  I walked up and down the street, but no bakery.  So I pulled out the business card and looked at the address.  It was nowhere near here.

So I walked to my car, packed my gear into it, and typed the address into the GPS.

“No such address,” the GPS said.

It was very strange.  Why would someone print up cards with an address that didn’t exist?  I wondered for a moment whether it was a scam, but I couldn’t figure out what his angle might be.  He had given me something, he hadn’t taken anything.

Then I looked at the business card again.

Angelina’s Heavenly Bakery

And I smiled, wondering about something impossible (but then, my business is the impossible): Was he an angel?