Faith and a Switchblade

The water in the harbour in the dead of night looks like melted glass in the summer and I am still standing there. Alone and bathed in moonlight and streetlights and headlights and the neon lights of the bars and the cell phone camera flashes of those outside the bars. Mentally I have never been able to escape the night time stillness of the harbour. Just a few blocks away from the densest concentration of drinking establishments in North America.

My days propping up a bar are over. I drink three beers and bleat like some demented goat before I am tucked away in bed. Swept under the covers.

I cut my teeth in those bars. Trying on new personalities and trying out new friends and finding new ways to disappoint the ones that loved me. Trading one lover for another and not seeing the cruelty in such an act. Dancing under yellow lamps on stone streets in a crazed psychosis brought on by drink and chemical imbalances and more drink. Watching cigarettes burn down to the filter.

Snapping the filters off because I liked the way it burned.

Taking two because hey when am I ever going to be in Badger again? And why does Badger have such good stuff? And who's that man hanging out by the kitchen? And where does he go when he runs out of young women to pester? And what do you do in Badger if not each other?

I spent my youth on guard. Waiting for a thing to happen that never did happen. I blacked out for much of two thousand and twenty, unholy year of no one's Lord. I read books and fumbled with strings and clasps and fumbled around in the darkness for something to keep me upright. If I could keep my feet under me I could make it. Find a ledge and then find a door and then find its handle and then walk through and why did it not get easier when I was in the light?

Twenty years old and trying to convince the bartender to let me mix my own drinks. Who was that man? The ghost in my own stories. I didn't recognize it but very expensive medication and very expensive therapy and a very costly year showed me.

I kept faith and switchblade in my coat pocket, just in case. I pushed through the crowds and always found a reason to keep on trying. Keep on trying is what I tell The Boy when he gets frustrated and I hope he knows how important it is to never quit because I almost quit and then there would be this. No meandering essay written on a rainy Monday afternoon. No bad days at work. No video games with The Boy. No hide and seek with The Girl. Push through frustration and curse God if you must but try. This is what I want my son to know.


Anyway I thought Rigo got jobbed out of a win, Casimero couldn't have hit him with a shot gun.

Missed you guys.

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