Why I Committed Suicide (39 page)

I’ll probably go and find Timothy and apologize to him, not because he thinks I stole his cheating girlfriend’s shit, but because I feel like I let him down by falling off my game and getting arrested. Go figure. I don’t feel mentally strong enough yet to hunt down everyone and get into a name calling match, even if I decide to try and reconnect.

The worst of everything is that I can see in Jenifer’s eyes now that
she
doesn’t even believe my denials. She’s all out of the hospital now and still paralyzed, but heavy in the dope scene. It makes me sad but how can I say anything? I warped and discarded reality with dope, so it’s strange that I keep asking myself that same hypocritical question over and over.

My world has turned into a crazy man dancing on the edge of a cliff but the heights of despair make me dizzy. We’re being blown about like witless dust. Maybe I can do something proactive, step up to the plate and reverse this downward spiral. Soon right? I hope so.

“April 8, 1994—Kurt Cobain was found dead of a self inflicted gunshot wound.”

What a cold-hearted sentence that reads like a pathetic by-line in a conservative newspaper. In police slang, he ate his gun, which is a shame because I really liked his voice and music. I suspect that his evil wife killed him or had him killed for secret celebrity reasons but I don’t even know if I really believe that. I’ve been observing everyone’s reaction to the news about his death, which typically ranges from anger to disappointment to martyr-like deity emulation. Most people are just calling him a coward. I don’t think it’s cowardly to take your own life if it’s desperate faith or an honest and pure cry of hope for release.

At first, I was pretty despondent when I heard about the suicide, but then I got to thinking about all the words to his songs and everything he ever spoke about in public and I realized he really was depressed. He was pained that the record companies took his anonymity and then the media branded him as a whiner for complaining about being famous. I’ve got to respect when somebody is obviously bummed about their exploited life and acts rashly. Are you really a complainer if you follow through with what your actions have pointed towards throughout your career? His suicide proved he wasn’t a fucking whiny poser cashing in on the image of being morose. He was the real deal, used and cast aside, given drugs to make it through the next show, pushed beyond his limits without consideration. His song, “All Apologies,” just keeps ringing through my mind. I actually respect ol’ Kurt a little more for standing up for his beliefs and his own philosophy by having the balls to pull the trigger and plunge into the final unknown. Rest in peace, ok?

I did something else that was pretty stupid the other day, even by my book. I took (borrowed? stole?) Bryce’s car and drove it down to Dallas to score even though his brake fluid line was busted and there was absolutely no way to stop the car. Even the emergency parking brake was shot, but since his car has a stick shift I thought I could manage. I talked myself into believing I could manage anyway. I made it all the way to Dallas just fine, even though it was rush hour and I had to grind the gears a few times to force some pretty scary stops. I even kept going after I got a flat tire and paid a side-of-the-road shop $15 to fix it for me. Then after making it all the way to where I needed to be, I still ended up totaling his car because some mini-van driver just happened to slam on her soccer mom panic brakes right in front of me while we were going through a green light.

The fucked-up part is that I still managed to find a payphone and score from the dopeman while I was dealing with the cops about the accident. I told the cops
I
was Bryce and that I was in my thirties and even though I didn’t know his birthday when they asked, somehow everything turned out okay. I just told the cops that the brakes went out on me and luckily no one was hurt, although his insurance is going to get a few claims from the whiny bitch in the mini-van who caused me to wreck.

Everything is not okay anymore. I’ve already managed to get hooked back on dope after two months of freedom and hanging out with Jenifer. My whole experience in jail and the game plan I developed to do the right thing just hasn’t worked out. How can it when I’m hooked on this shit? And poor Bryce, who depends on his car to deliver pizzas and support his useful English degree, is now totally fucked. I’m depressed about yet another bad thing associated with my habit and I don’t know what to do about it. I had his car towed to a shop to fix and I promised him I would get it out as soon as I could afford to but I’m not high on the reliability circuit lately. As a result, Bryce is moving home with his parents in Corpus Christi and without a roommate, Kirk is just leaving the apartment and moving to Austin. He won’t talk to me too much about it but I really shook up his world with my bullshit.

I had to prostrate and humble myself to my parents to get them to help me co-sign on an apartment here in town. It was not a pleasant experience trying to deal with them again; there’s still so much animosity between us about money, but I desperately needed a place to stay and I’ve always been good about getting a job and paying my rent on time before all of
this.
To say they were reluctant to help me is putting it nicely. I’m really trying to be good though. I’ve got food stamps to help me get back on track with a balanced diet and my bicycle gets me around town now. My wrecked bug was towed and then sold by the city in an auction before I could reclaim it, which I think is the same as stealing since they didn’t wait the required 3 months before selling it off as salvage, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. Stupid city.

The new apartment is just a one room shithole behind the head shop where the Delta Lodge used to be, but at least it’s MY shithole although it always feels hot and awkward. I’ve locked myself out of the apartment several times already (how could that happen?), but by using all my strength I can push the air conditioner into the wall and crawl through the hole to get back in. Now I’m not a large guy but that should give an estimate of the dimensions of my ineffective AC unit.

While I was in jail, the Lodge burned completely to the ground and even though it makes me sad to see it gone, at least I have an alibi that clears me or more than likely it would be one more thing I might have to take the (literal) heat for. When I was homeless I spent more than a few nights on the third floor couches of the house before I finally roomed with Kirk. It’s sad because I loved that house as much as anyone and now it’s gone. All that’s left from there are people flinging crap at me.

In the past month or so I’ve already had to face a trial of my peers at the Delta Lodge because some bitches accused me of stealing money while working at the Fry St. Fair this year. I think it was to divert attention away from themselves since they didn’t show up to the trial where I had to go and address the entire house in person. I guess the worst part is that they didn’t actually see me stealing anything; they just speculated I did because I had money to buy drugs,
from them,
later on the same day! It’s a fucked up, bizarre rationale but regardless, I’m now on the outs with a lot of people from the Lodge. My habit and drug of choice have become apparent in this community and rumors circulate like wildfire through this new(er) group of guys. I’ve lost touch with them all. I vividly remember my own reaction of revulsion upon meeting my first old “Sammy” alumni who came to the house with these crazy old stories, right out of a seventies rock band cliché, filled with coke, heroin and theft. Well, now I’m
that
guy in the Lodge, and this new group, which has mostly formed while I’ve been pissing my life away and getting tossed in and out of jail, doesn’t think very highly of me. Somebody even spread the rumor that I was dressing up like my mother and going into the bank to cash her savings bonds, so I had to try and quash that also, but lies based on partial fact are always more believable.

Basically, since I showed up to the Monday meeting and made a convincing plea of my case (the girls didn’t show) I was vindicated. Mostly because the girls that I was getting the drugs from are already not very credible with them either.
Delta membership is for life, so after I said what I had to say the whole situation ended with the guys saying “fuck it” and a murmured chant of “karma cash.” “Karma cash” basically means, “We can’t prove you guilty or innocent, so if you did wrong the energy of the universe will boomerang and bite you in the ass later.” I hadn’t heard of that phrase before but it made me feel empty inside knowing I really am guilty of a whole lot more. A curse like that doesn’t bode well for my future because by now I have certainly abused any of the good karma I ever created giving out free food and beer, if
that
doesn’t count against me also. Words and phrases in everyday conversation now wrack me with ulcer-ish guilt that nearly drives me to my knees. I can’t turn this brain off and it’s so fucking hot.

Disposable pop music and peppermints are all that seem to permeate the air today. The summer heat is pressing in and the trees are dropping those nasty green things that stick to the bottom of my socks and make a green-ish paste on the bottom of my bare feet. I sense humid growth and the ever-present smell of vegetation coupled with fast food scents drifting from the Tomato and Chinese place across the street.

Do I write too much about how hot it is? That’s because it is so fucking hot all the damn time. My body feels like a solar cell when it gets out of a cold environment, storing and internalizing the heat for later use. Must have something to do with my Minnesota roots.

I see Jenifer a lot now that it’s the dead heat of summer. Her habit has gotten really bad, about as bad as mine was while she was in the hospital, but I still need her love even if she can’t perceive it. Every morning I wake up and realize that I live about 100 yards from where I first met and fell in love with her that one fateful day on Fry St. So long ago. Every waking day, I am reminded of what I have done. We’ve just got to see how everything turns out.

How can I describe freedom to people who’ve never had it taken away, people who’ve never lived without it? It’s just not enough that the cops always win, why do they have to make somebody lose in the process of doing it?

I was settled nicely in my new job, new apartment and I was having a mid-morning toke with the screen door open to let in some of the early morning breeze before the heat got too stifling. I was comfortably nice and warm, taking a nap in my only chair after a long night of working at the medical supply company, when I woke up to the cops walking into my place. I heard the squeak of the screen door as it opened and as soon as I saw them, I told them to “get out of my house.” They walked in anyway, saying they saw me napping in my chair and wanted to check and see if everything was ok. I assured them I was fucking “ok” but by that time they were already in my apartment despite my repeated requests not to enter.

The police philosophy is to never pass up the opportunity to search something or somebody around here, whether it’s legal or not. They just always seem to find some fucking excuse to do what they want to do and damn the constitution. I requested to see a copy of their warrant when they had both had stepped foot inside my little room but they just laughed saying that they didn’t need one because they “thought they were responding to a medical emergency.” As they started looking around I clearly indicated that I was not having a medical emergency and that they were not welcome in my apartment, but by then it was too late.

The cops found half of a joint behind my TV and now I’m in fucking jail again with another marijuana misdemeanor and while I was in handcuffs I bitched those cock sucking bastards up and down as they stood and collaborated on their story to say they could see I had marijuana in the house before they entered the front door. This was because the half-joint they found was
behind
the damn TV and my TV was off to the side
behind the door,
which would make it
impossible
for them to see without entering the premises. So it looks like I’m going to get screwed over again because the cops always support each others’ “plain view” story and I have a prior criminal record. So what if it goes against the FOURTH AMMEDMENT TO THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES! Denton County is so corrupt and this is just another reason why their 99% conviction rate is currently under investigation by the federal government. It’s a fucked up system. You can wait six months in jail to go to trial and be proven innocent or plead Nolo Contendre, do thirty days and go home. It’s pathetic how easily they’ve psychologically worn me down and I HATE THEM for it! I’ve learned so much in the past year. All I had was a one-fucking-percent chance, baby! 1%!

Jenifer is taking it personally that I’m in here again, she feels abandoned and that’s the hardest part. With the money she got from the insurance in the accident she now has a brand new Saturn equipped with a special handle that let’s her drive it around town using just her hands. She got about $100,000 from the wreck and that was only because of the extra insurance my parents had bought protecting against paralysis due to an auto accident. If it hadn’t been me driving she wouldn’t have gotten anything extra, but that’s small consolation given the big picture. I think she got scammed and could have sued them for more but that’s another thing I was left out of the loop on. I’ve pretty much been removed from her life by everyone else that’s close to her now. Even the dopeman won’t see me anymore without her there.

I was so happy to hear she got a car, it means some sort of freedom for her and things at her house are bad with her Dad. He’s actually using her injury to try and control her when he should be trying to encourage her to use her freedom. It is more bad news and now she doesn’t have the same confidence in herself that she always used to say “fuck it” and move away from him. Even her mom who should have left him by now is staying to be with Jen. Jen is Jen. Still feisty and I want her so much. Her habit’s gotten so bad that when I get out this time I reallywant to stop, I have to stop for her sake.