“I could KILL you right now!” I shouted incredulously over the music as I swiveled off my red barstool and beelined for the bathroom.

Jade’s liquored up confession torpedoed my broken heart into my spine. My handsome yet emotionally stunted ex-boyfriend Tommy had been flirting with my drop dead gorgeous yet commitment phobic best friend Jade for several weeks after our messy breakup.

As I dramatically yanked open the thick bathroom door, I narrowly missed cracking my skull in the process. I stumbled into the bathroom, turned the lock, and exhaled. The three PBR Tallboys and two Jaeger shots had finally hijacked my bloodstream, and now my best friend had hijacked my trust. I rested my perspiring forehead against the cool steel of the vibrating door and listened to Billy Idol wail.

In the midnight hour

She cried more, more, more!

With a rebel yell

More, more, more!

It was 80’s Night at The Model – a cherished gritty dive bar that had survived gentrification like a cockroach in the increasingly sanitized Boston nightlife scene. Jade and I had been established regulars at The Model for years. All the bartenders were friends and we playfully flirted with the door guys, Tony and Jimbo. Tonight, the place was crammed with college kids, middle aged punks, metalheads and hipsters. And at the bar, bathed in purple light and nursing a gin and tonic, waited my bewildered friend.

After Jade had let it slip, she anxiously flipped her long blonde hair behind her, revealing an oversized silver owl earring with sparkling emerald eyes. Jade had a thing for owls. “We’re both able to see beyond the illusions in the world,” she cryptically explained to me once.

“Did you flirt back?” I had shouted over the throbbing bass.

She didn’t say yes. But she also didn’t say no. She shrugged and smiled. That captivating smile seemed to get her out of – and sometimes into – all sorts of trouble. A typical Jade response to life’s complications. Jade’s playful reaction to my serious question sent me reeling and after I threatened to kill her, I needed to recollect myself in the grimy bathroom.

A fist battered the door urgently. One of the few downsides of The Model (some would argue part of its charm) was that it only had one bathroom with one toilet. When cokeheads needed a line, or a gaggle of girls needed to gossip, or the heat of the moment captured two lovebirds, you could forget about using the bathroom for its intended purpose. Most people had no choice but to run outside behind the bar and piss between the garbage dumpsters. I contemplated slinking through the crowd and exiting The Model undetected by Jade. My thoughts had spiraled, and I was growing more paranoid by the minute imagining Tommy and Jade’s whirlwind romance blossoming behind my back.

Sometimes I feel I’ve got to

Run away

I’ve got to

Get away

No shit! I muttered to myself.

The fists had multiplied and were pounding in time with the iconic Tainted Love riff. I stood up, shook out my arms and glanced behind the toilet to check if I’d dropped anything. I usually didn’t notice the writing on the bathroom walls because they were constantly being updated and I was usually too drunk to read them, anyway. But this was impossible to miss. The wall just above the toilet had been swiped with white paint. Within the swath was beautiful black cursive writing:

The mystery of life isn’t a problem to solve

but a reality to experience.

“PEARL! Open up! Did you pull a Mario and disappear into the sewage system or what?!”

It was Jade. I fumed. My alcohol-infused brain hadn’t decided how to deal with the cards she’d dealt me. I spun around and violently pushed open the old bathroom door with such force that a big fat screw fell from the top hinge and landed between us. We looked at each other aghast, and then our eyes lit up with unbridled delight. We both knew what we had to do.

She grabbed my shoulders and joyously shouted, “SCREWS FALL OUT ALL THE TIME...” to which I excitedly finished, “…THE WORLD’S AN IMPERFECT PLACE!” We howled with laughter while a group of annoyed punk girls in bondage belts jangled their way past us and into the bathroom.

It was one of our favorite quotes from The Breakfast Club. I was so impressed by the screw’s perfectly relevant cameo appearance during 80’s Night that I had temporarily suspended my annoyance towards Jade.

“I’m sorry,” she shouted.

“Me too. Let’s talk about it over brunch and mimosas tomorrow.”

“Deal!”

We hugged and then she leaned over the DJ booth and yelled, “Frankie my dear, play Girls Just Wanna Have Fun! LADIES, LET ME SEE YOU MOVE!” I twirled, shimmied, and sweat my emotions out onto the dancefloor with Jade until the bell clanged for last call.

_____________________________________________________________________

As The Model’s drunken visitors spilled out onto North Beacon St., Jade and I walked down the adjacent street to the bar and ordered an Uber away from the crowds.

“Pearl, Tommy doesn’t know….he doesn’t know...” She was slurring her words.

“He doesn’t know a lot of things. Tell me something I don’t know, Jade.”

She broke into a giggle. “He doesn’t know what a gem you are!”

“It’s true, he doesn’t! Because I’m a pearl! And a pearl is just an irritant covered in mollusk SECRETION!”

Jade let out belly laugh and plonked herself on the gentle grassy slope of someone’s front yard. Her blonde hair fanned out behind her and I noticed one of her owl earrings was missing.

“Hey, one of your ear owls flew away,” I said as I pulled her up from the ground.

She smiled unconcernedly. “Pity! But he must have flown away for a reason. Do you know how jade is made?” She extended her arm and swung it slowly as she looked out into the distance and whispered, “Metamorphosis.”

“I believe you mean ‘metamorphism,’ but who even knows the difference between metamorphosis and metamorphism. Except me. And geologists. And biologists. We know. But who cares about us? Bunch of nerds.” I laughed as Jade playfully poked me.

“I prefer saying metamorphosis. Sounds more poetic,” she reasoned.

A black Toyota Corolla inched down the street and I checked the app to verify the license plate and driver, Scott. We crawled into the backseat and the unmistakable stink of cheap vodka with notes of ocean breeze air freshener crept into my nostrils. I jokingly asked Scott, “Hey man, did you get drunk at The Model tonight, too?” The young man looked at me in the rear-view mirror and spoke very quickly.

“No, no, the passengers just before you were Russian. They spilled their vodka all over the car and I haven’t had time to clean it up yet. Only thing I could do was spray air freshener. I sincerely apologize. We can keep the windows open. It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

Jade piped up. “It is a beautiful night and we will accept this Uber booze cruise on one condition: You hand me use that aux cord so we can listen to my tunes.”

Scott turned and eagerly handed Jade the aux cord, his hands shaking slightly. I thought I smelled vodka on his breath but drove the thought away. He’d already told us what had happened, and his explanation was perfectly believable – there were plenty of Russians in the neighborhood. Jade was already scrolling madly through her playlists.

“Pearl, it’s so wild about that door screw. I still can’t get over that. We should watch The Breakfast Club when we get back to the apartment. Do we still have some Red Stripes in the fridge?”

“Yep, four left.”

“Perfect! And speaking of The Breakfast Club, found the soundtrack - turn it up, Scott!”

Don’t You (Forget About Me) by Simple Minds exploded through the speakers and Jade and I sang in unison.

Won’t you come see about me?

I’ll be alone, dancing you know it baby

And that was the last time I ever saw Jade.

_____________________________________________________________________

When I gained consciousness, I experienced the most horrible hangover of my life. My right arm felt cemented across my stomach. I couldn’t move my head and my chest achingly throbbed with every inhalation. I opened my eyes and quickly comprehended this wasn’t a hangover. Tubes and needles had burrowed into my flesh and machines beeped softly. I felt someone clasp my left hand. It was my mother, and she was dabbing her reddened eyes with a tissue.

“Mom….what happened?” I squeaked out.

Scott had been drunk. He crashed into a tree speeding down Commonwealth Ave and died on impact. I had broken my arm, 3 ribs, and fractured my neck. “It’s a miracle you’re alive, baby.” One of my mother’s tears splashed between my eyes as she carefully leaned over to kiss my bruised forehead.

“And Jade? How is she?” I whispered with equal measure hope and dread.

She exhaled deeply. “Jade sustained a massive brain injury and died this morning at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital.”

My mother began sobbing and squeezed my hand. I stared up at the ceiling and my vision blurred as tears streamed into my neck brace. I felt as if an anvil had been dropped on my broken body. Jade can’t be gone. My best friend since childhood can’t be “gone.” It should’ve been me. I thought the guy had been drinking but I ignored my gut. I’m responsible for all of this. Jade can’t be dead. This can’t be real. I’ll wake up from this, right? Oh Jade, I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault…you can’t be gone, you just can’t ….

_____________________________________________________________________

I was still hospitalized when they held Jade’s funeral. I never had the chance to say a proper goodbye.

After being released from the hospital, I returned to the apartment I shared with Jade and I barely left it for 3 weeks. Time drifted on without me as I filled the endless hours with sobbing fits and marathon sleeping sessions aided by powerful sleeping pills. Family and friends often came by for support, but I was consumed with grief and racked with immense guilt. Being surrounded by Jade’s possessions was both comforting and excruciating. I sometimes thought I saw her breeze through the hallway or dancing in the kitchen and for that split second, I genuinely believed she was there.

I awoke one August morning feeling oddly refreshed, as if I’d slept a thousand years. I hadn’t felt so lucid in months, and it was a beautiful sunny day. I made myself a coffee and launched Spotify on the television, randomly choosing a Daily Mix playlist. I sat outside on the back porch and bathed in sunlight while listening to music. I closed my eyes and suddenly heard something crash through the trees in the back of the yard. Thinking perhaps baby squirrels fell out of their nest, I went to investigate. I looked up and saw a great horned owl peering down at me with brilliant yellow eyes. I had never seen one during the day before, and we stared at each other for several long seconds while it cocked its head and hooted at me.

“What are you doing there, owl? I thought you liked to hang out in dark places?”

I turned back towards the porch to grab my phone to take a photo, when I heard something hit the ground with a soft thud. When I walked back to the tree, I froze. It was one of Jade’s owl earrings that had gone missing the night of the accident. The owl hooted with excitement as I slowly picked the earring up and stared at it in absolute disbelief. I returned my sights to the owl, who vigorously bobbed its head up and down. It danced happily along the branch and hooted at me several times before it flew away.

My knees weak and barely breathing, I clumsily ran back to the porch to call my mother, and saw a calendar notification pop up on my phone.

Today: August 22nd - Jade’s birthday.

No sooner than I realized the date, Simple Minds came through the television speakers.

Don’t you forget about me

I’ll be alone, dancing you know it baby

My mind flashed back to the quote I saw in The Model bathroom that tragic night. The mystery of life isn’t a problem to solve but a reality to experience. I also recalled Jade erroneously telling me how jade was made – by “metamorphosis.”

I clutched the owl earring and realized she hadn’t been wrong after all. I knew within every fiber of my being that I still had my friend in this world, and that she had forgiven me. And the tears that fell were anything but sorrowful.

#spiritworld #friendship #lifeisamystery

I had always wanted a tattoo. I just never imagined my first would be government mandated.

Sometime in February 2021, VacTat ads blasted through social media and billboards covered the land.

Vaccine discovered – We’ve got you covered!

End the bad dream – Get the vaccine!

VacTat: Protection in a SNAP

“VacTat won’t hurt at all,” the health officials said. The vaccine would be administered with quantum dot technology, which I still don’t quite understand how it works.

Something about nanocrystals and light. It would be barely visible to the naked eye until scanned. You could choose colors for when it lit up under the scanner – for the kids I guess – but it’s not like you could choose a design or placement. Had to be right thumb. Knuckle side.

The logo for the VacTat ad campaign was 6 different colored fists raised in unison, to represent the 6 continents (minus Antarctica) ravaged by the virus. There were small but noticeable dots on each fist’s thumb. They were punching away the virus.

The world was on fire with the inception of VacTat. Politicians, healthcare professionals and influential voices lauded VacTat. Critics and skeptics vehemently decried the cutting-edge medical tattoo as invasive and easy to misuse. Holy rollers called it the Mark of the Beast. There were heated debates on talk shows and flame wars igniting online forums. Small pockets of resistance demonstrated on the streets in every country.

But the world had had enough of negativity.

The virus had choked the life out of 5 million people worldwide. Mass graves were common sights in major cities. Food and supply shortages shook the world market to its knees. Unprecedented unemployment had decimated economies. Unfettered inflation had devalued money and hard-earned savings had been wiped out. Millions were living on pittance from the government and food banks had replaced grocery stores indefinitely. Residential streets were peppered with shuttered homes and wind whistled through broken windows of ghostly office buildings nestled in overgrowth. Suicide rates spiked worldwide.

After more than a year oscillating between limited movement and total lockdown (due to the virus recurring after every attempt to loosen restrictions), the planet’s exasperated public was jubilant upon hearing a vaccine had been found. Millions desperately wanted to get back to any semblance of normalcy. We were prisoners of an invisible captor.

We yearned for freedom and safety.

VacTat promised that. And more.

Progress is spelled V-A-C-T-A-T

_____________________________________________________________________

While we remained locked down in our homes, our governments had been setting up infrastructures ahead of VacTat’s rollout. VacTat scanners had been implemented just about everywhere, from courthouses to public toilets.

The tattoo, they said, was to be so much more than just a vaccination.

And it would make life so much easier to live.

Once they laid out the details, it became clear just how revolutionary VacTat would be.

It could hold your entire medical history, your passport and identification information. It would store your credit score, your various registrations, your criminal record. No need to remember passwords and codes – all would be stored in the app and uploaded into your hand. It had GPS capabilities. It could monitor your heart rate and act as a more accurate FitBit.

On top of being a health monitor, VacTat would be a stress reliever. Dexaleros had recently been touted as a safe alternative to antidepressant and anti-anxiety meds – to which millions of people had become heavily addicted to during the pandemic. Drug and alcohol abuse had skyrocketed during the lockdown, as did domestic abuse. Since VacTat would be able to accurately sense when a person was angry or stressed, the quantum dots of VacTat would automatically release Dexaleros into the blood stream, giving the subject a warm wash of tranquility and pleasant feelings.

With a quick scan you would be able to use public transport and pass through tollbooths. You could connect it to Alexa and other smart devices. You could link up all your debit and credit card accounts and with the swipe of your hand, pay for anything.

There had been a lot of talk that cash and credit cards were treacherous magnets for bacteria. The WHO and the United Nations agreed that cash and cards would eventually have to be phased out to help keep the world safe from another plague.

So, all the world’s physical money will be abolished within 2 years and replaced with global cryptocurrency. A social credit system will be implemented to maintain order and incentivize good moral practices, like that Black Mirror episode – just not as bleak. They haven’t released a plan yet, but based on what I’ve read, it seems that for every positive action, we will receive points. Accrue enough points and people can exchange them for cryptocurrency or benefits. I’m not sure what happens for negative actions.

I’ve never been very good at making money. The corporate world never appealed to me. I always preferred doing a variety of odd jobs and enjoyed getting to know people through them – an affable jack of all trades, if you will. I make enough to get by, but it’s the true human connections I’ve made along the way that make living worthwhile. I’d always maintained a decent credit score, never dipped lower than a 4.8 on ridesharing apps, and never been banned on social media. Never had any brushes with the law and always paid my bills on time.

Some people are a little (or extremely) wary about the social credit aspect, but honestly, I consider it a silver lining. It’s about time merit took precedence over capital. A society incentivizing people to be better citizens is far superior to a society incentivizing people to be greedy and selfish.

It was impossible to hold out hope while the virus collectively gutted us.

It was impossible to think about the future if we were to have one at all.

But better days are here again.

I genuinely believe that my future will be better than the one I was forced to leave behind.

_____________________________________________________________________

I received a government text in April with the location, day, and time I would have my VacTat placed.

Weeks later I pulled on my mask, slapped on my latex gloves, and waited in a line that snaked around the block at my local pharmacy. Everyone stood the mandatory 6 feet from each other. Helicopters circled overhead. Imposing black SWAT cars were parked around the perimeter. Masked police were positioned along the line, shouting at us to keep the distance. Their K-9s growled if we took too many steps or got too close to another person. I heard some faint Anti-VacTat protest chanting way back at the end of the line around the corner. Several heavily armored police ran around the building. Bloodcurdling screams, several shots, and then silence.

It didn’t feel as euphoric as the VacTat advertisements made Placement Day out to be.

I straightened up and made sure I didn’t overstep my six feet of personal space. My heart was racing with anticipation. My placement was now mere minutes away.

Before he got called in to get his placement, the young guy in front of me turned and joyfully shouted through his N-95 mask, “I’m about to be a free man again, bro!”

I nodded and gave him a thumbs up.

“Happy independence day, my man!” I yelled as he walked into a Placement Room.

As the door closed behind him, I looked down at my hand.

Freedom and safety were now just a quantum dot away.

___ _____ ___________ _____________ __________ _____ _ _ __________ ____ _

#covid19 #coronavirus #vaccine #safety

I was just about to jump to my death from a 5-story parking garage when I heard them.

“Do you have any spaaaaare chaaange? I need a cigareeeeeette!”

“Need a ciggie, need a ciggie!” * squawk squawk squawk*

Goddamn it. Not fuckin now. I don’t want this to be the last thing I hear.

John was on the beat again. His routine was standing at busy intersections, bellowing for spare change while slowly flapping his arms like a wild-eyed albatross that had lost its wing feathers but halfheartedly tried to fly anyway. The little friend on his shoulder had feathered wings and could fly away at any moment. But he never did.

Compton the cockatoo squawked and flapped his wings frenetically when John went begging around town. He had recently taught Compton how to say “Spare change please! Need a ciggie!” Compton and John were local celebrities. Videos of the duo were easy to find, and he they were no strangers to photobombing live news reports.

My act wasn’t as colorful, but my sidekick was.

My canary, Rocky, had been with me several years before I hit the streets, and he was the only living creature that I gave a hot damn about. Bought him on a whim at a pet store that was going out of business. He was an affectionate little bugger. He loved spending time on my shoulder, nuzzling my face and preening my beard. He bopped around and chirped his little heart out when he was happy and stomped his left foot and shook his head from side to side when he was mad, like a child having a tantrum. He could sense when I was sad and would playfully bite my earlobe and squeak. Sometimes when he sat on my finger, he’d cock his head to the side and stare at me with quiet fascination, and I’d stare right back and whistle. He’d snap out of his trance and cheerily mimic the tune back to me. Rocky loved music, and he’d memorized hundreds of the classic rock tunes I loved listening to.

That little yellow bird had more character and a bigger heart than any human I’d ever encountered. And I knew people, lemme tell ya. I worked in the service industry – the industry where all your hope in humanity goes to die.

I had been a bartender at a popular dive bar for 12 years when I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I immediately started treatment, but the effects of chemo left me too weak to work most days. I was eventually let go from my job and my health insurance plan went up in smoke right along with it. Rent and bills piled up, but I was too tired to care. Days drifted into months. My body was taking on a worryingly skeletal form, and my soul was running on empty - so I filled up on spirits that came in glass bottles. I had just polished off a pot of coffee and a pint of whisky when my landlord served me the eviction notice. It was 10:15 am on a Sunday, and I had until Tuesday at noon to get my wretched, shit life together and get out.

Taking only a few essential items, I spent a few months hopping from couch to couch. My parents were no longer living, and my extended family was scattered around the country, so I relied on friends. I had taken to heavy drinking, and my new normal state of being was in a blind drunken rage.

I don’t blame my friends for kicking me out. Hell, I don’t even remember it happening. Alls I ’member is waking up outside a homeless shelter with a headache from Hades. Next to me was Rocky’s cage, a tent bag and a duffle bag crammed with clothes and toiletries. Tucked in the front pocket was a folded-up note that read, “Sorry Mac. You will be safe here. Please forgive us, we will always be there with you in spirit. We love you.”

We love you. The nerve, ya know? I understand why they had to do it, man, I really do. But to throw the word “love” in there was like dumping a cup of rock salt into a gaping flesh wound. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that human love is a minefield of conditions and expectations that are impossible to live up to. Animals love ya unconditionally. They’re not gonna stop lovin’ ya just because you’ve fallen on bad times.

Rocky and I gave the shelter a chance. Free food was nice, but the evenings were treacherous. Throw the dregs of society into small quarters, what could possibly go wrong? If you didn’t sleep with one eye open, you’d soon find out just how wrong it could get. Rocky was the canary in the homeless coalmine – he sounded the alarm when anyone came near us. His night shrieks didn’t win him any fans, and after one sleepless week, I decided that we’d have to go it alone on the streets.

A few weeks later I was sitting on a bench with Rocky’s cage next to me and Rocky bouncing around my shoulders and head. The summer wind was making my t-shirt billow like a goddamn parachute on my bony frame. I’d put my favorite Red Sox ballcap upside down on the ground for coin collecting. Rocky started chirping classic songs – that day it was “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” “We Gotta Get Outta This Place,” and “Love Me Two Times” – and the coins rained down like manna from heaven. I was brown bagging a 40 oz of lukewarm Steel Reserve, ruminating on where we were going to sleep that night.

That’s when John and Compton scampered over, lookin’ like something you’d see in the throes of a fever dream. John’s eyes bulged cartoonishly from behind his coke-bottle glasses as he introduced himself. Compton screamed “Fuck shit!” and flapped his wings while banging his head. John’s skin was leathery and caked in filth. His appalling stench wafted into my nostrils uninvited. His dirty knotted hair bounced around Compton’s face as he excitedly offered me a place to throw my tent down amongst “friends” – a group of animal-possessing hobos.

Fuck it, why not. I was probably 130 pounds wet at this point (down from 185 pounds) and the chances of living out the rest of my days in relative comfort would probably be better in a group, and what better group than a bunch of animal lovers. Feeling surprisingly hopeful, I picked up my cap and turned my back to John as I carefully distributed my coins in different parts of my bag. I threw the cap on my head and followed John to a bridge by the Charles River. Underneath there were several tents and makeshift sheds. The Red Line trains traveling between Boston and Cambridge thundered and squealed every few minutes. Dogs were barking as we approached, but as we got closer the menagerie came into view.

A shirtless young man covered in tattoos and wearing filthy khakis was caressing and feeding wilted lettuce to a tortoise. Next to him was a 5-gallon plastic water jug with the top sawed off, covered with a mesh frame. Coiled up inside was a small red, black and white snake. Several mutts chained to poles barked and wagged their tails, hoping we’d come bearing food. A man and a woman were hunched together in by the wall, preparing their meal over a small fire. A tiny kitten tumbled playfully near the flames. An elderly man with long white hair and a beard to match was sleeping on his box bed and laying atop him was a rolled-up hedgehog. I caught sight of a very young woman leaning against the wall with a needle in her arm. Her head had rolled back, and she was drooling onto a large black and white rat nestled in her lap. It was a lot to take in. “This ain’t even everyone, but you’ll do just fine here with us!” John exclaimed as he clapped my back lightly, which sent me stumbling forward. I was growing weaker by the day.

Rocky and I lived peaceful lives there – as peaceful as it can be living with terminal cancer under a bridge with deeply troubled people, a horde of animals, and trains going by all hours of the day and night. We kept ourselves busy, Rocky and me. We’d get up whenever and head downtown to earn our wages with the winning combination of my pathetic physical state and Rocky’s beautiful singing. We did alright for ourselves. I even regained some faith in humanity, and all it took was for me to lose my health, my job and my apartment to find it. I didn’t trust anyone entirely, but there were many acts of kindness and compassion that took place under that bridge. Goes without sayin’ that there was some real dark shit that went down, too.

The darkest moment happened this very morning. When I opened my eyes, I saw Rocky’s cage had been knocked over and yellow feathers were strewn about the ground. Rocky was gone. Some of us were drinking 80-proof vodka the night before and I had blacked out. I was so weak, but absolute terror shot me with a bolt of energy as I desperately called out to him. He always flew to me when he was called. Nothing. Some of the others began to stir as I ran around in a complete frenzy, turning over everything in sight as I searched for my beloved friend. Kurt – the young tattooed man with the tortoise and the snake – was dead asleep. I vaguely recalled Kurt handling the snake last night. My eyes darted to the water jug. The mesh cover was off and there was no snake inside. The son of a bitch forgot to put the fuckin’ snake back. I pulled the burlap sack off Kurt and the creature slithered out. It had a large lump midway down its body. It was roughly the size of Rocky.

Nature had no moral code, and now neither did I. I stomped the snake to death while Kurt slept right through the carnage. My vision was blurred from the barrage of tears and my skull felt like it had split in two. I collapsed into the dirt and vomited to the sounds of dogs barking and a flurry of unintelligible voices. I wanted to murder Kurt, but I didn’t have the strength. The others would have easily restrained me had I tried. I got to my feet, grabbed my duffle bag, and told everyone to fuck right off to hell as stumbled straight to the liquor store.

I was certain the cancer would take me, not heartbreak. Rocky was my only real friend in this giant fuck up that was my life. His affectionate nature and his reliance on me kept me from goin’ over the edge. He was my tiny singing ray of sunshine. His untimely and gruesome death broke what little spirit I had left. It was my fault he was dead. The guilt weighed down every tired bone in my diseased body.

I’ve been sitting here on top of this parking garage for several minutes. I was about to jump when I heard John and Compton hustling for change nearby. Can’t a sad sack of shit die in peace for Christ’s sake? I’ll sit here a little longer. Wait for them to fuck off while I finish my drink.

It’ll give me the courage I need to fly without wings.