I noticed Miley was gone about two hours into the shift. He would usually ask me if I wanted something when he made a run to the store, so I looked around for him in the shop. He wasnt in the bathroom, not using a saw, not in the spray booth. It was just he and I in the shop making cabinets, the owner was in his office, Ronny.

Mikey had been coming in late almost once a week for months and Ronny was pissed. I had seen the glazed eyes of a man with last nights alcohol in his gut before and Mikey didn't hide it well at all.

So I thought they might talking in the office. Just to be sure, I checked outside and Mikey'S van was gone. Ronny was indignant, on the fence about whether to fire Mikey or not. A wife and two kids were a concern, but mostly it was the job that had been promised for delivery the following week that was Mikey's salvation.

Ronny had a habit of talking things out, from financial stress to employee issues, so I knew everything. When asked what I thought, I told him what he needed to hear: use Mikey until the job was delivered or Mikey just stopped coming to work. He will either..

1) Hit bottom and sober up.

2) Hit bottom and do the dance all over again and hit a new low.

3) Hit bottom and kill himself.

I could see it in Mikey. The avoidance, the self pity, the rage held in a stranglehold until it looked like depression. Everyone liked him because he was meek, but full of potential. I had no pity, not for him and not for myself, the traits I shared with him. Fuck him.

"You want to help Mikey? Help him hit bottom the most painless way possible. The straighter the line, the better," was my advice.

I could almost hear the internal dialog in Mikey's head. His father in law was a wealthy minister who was probably quite disappointed with his daughter's choice in sperm doner. They were better off without him around. Every failure a hand shoving him from behind, the future a foregone conclusion.

I found myself angry at Mikey, his enabling wife and Ronny. Sick of how we all tell ourselves bullshit excuses to avoid having an opinion, criticism or derision voiced which might impact another person.

Fuck Mikey, he was a drunk. Fuck his wife, she had to have been getting something out of the situation. Fuck Ronny for trying to cut corners.

Fuck me for having left a good job to get stuck in this situation because I had thought this would have been a good opportunity when, in reality, I just didn't want to be treated like an asshole. But I was an asshole.

But at least I wasn't a drunk asshole.

I'm sure there is a term for how alcohol changes a human being when the parent drinks all throughout the pregnancy. Before, after and without end until the child is an adult, drinking themselves.

Whatever that word is, John had it. It wasn't fetal alcohol syndrome, he was just stupid. He could function in jobs, get himself there, do the duty and be polite, but he couldn't handle much.

He had low standards as well. Not quite as low as his mother's, he mad something in his life which brought him some joy, BMX. He wasn't good, but what lacked in skill, he made up for in zero fucks, balls to the wall idiocy, and I loved it.

John was taller than me, skinnier than me and, on his bike and off, he had a quality to his movement which might bring to mind a newborn deer. A little unsure of movement,

but plowing ahead regardless.

Did I mention he always had weed? Pretty good weed, too. We would get high and John would lose all inhibitions in traffic, pedalling pull out across a busy, main street in Salem at night. Tires squeezing, horns blaring and steering wheels spinning I would briefly lose sight of him, only to see him ripping down the sidewalk on the other side. I would catch up to him and we'd laugh our asses off.

One summer he had spent a ridiculous amount of money on a GT Street bike. The team model, it had three piece cranks, chrome everything and a bash guard. The bass guard was made from additional tubing incorporated into the frame which protected the sprocket, but also functioned as a hammer. The idea was borrowed from trials bikes.

We would ride towards ledges of various Heights and jump, or bunny hop, the bike onto it, landing on the bash guard, which was below the cranks.

John had destroyed the plastic plate on the bottom and had made his own out of a piece of steel, complete with screw heads protruding from it, ensuring that, once it had been used on concrete, it would be impossible to remove without grinding the screw heads off.

John had an uncommon hatred for cars and took delight in damaging the as often as he could be provoked to do so.

My favorite automotive aggression event happened on a Friday. It was such a beautiful day and we had been riding for quite awhile, but were heading to get weed. At that time there had been a restaurant inserted into a former warehouse with the remnants of a loading dock on the side, where cars parked in front of.

It had been a great set up to bash a car, since the run up to it was straight and visibility was perfect. The problem was that, if there were cars around, there were people around.

This particular evening there weren't any people outside and music could be heard inside the restaurant. There, in from of the dock, was a brand new, orange corvette. It was shiny. It was flawless. It was fiberglass, but there was no way John new this fact.

All he saw was shiny and vulnerable.

Without even slowing as we approached he laughed off the dock and onto the edge of the fender and hood, punching through, the bike lurching to a halt immediately as the car alarm went off. John was pitched onto his chest across the windshield, breaking it with his forehead.

He didn't miss a beat, but grabbed his handlebars and began extracting his bike from the shredded fiberglass fender and hood, which seemed to have grabbed various parts of the bike.

I came to a stop, turned around and people were coming outside from the restaurant to look. It was a scene I'll never forget. John ripping his bike out of the hood of this car, blood dripping down his face, not saying a word as music played in the background of that fucking car alarm.

I'm no longer asleep, and I know I have been in bed too long, but I keep my eyes closed and my ears peeled. The head of my bed is under a window and sunlight is peeking around the curtains as I hear action in the kitchen. Someone is looking for doughnuts.

In past weekends I have arranged my pillows to appear as though I am still in bed, then hid behind the closet door, but this time I continue to feign sleep when I hear whispering outside my door.

The handle slowly turns, making no sound. They have practiced this dozens of times and have their technique honed to a fine point, rivaling any SWAT team in the nation. Once the door starts to open, it is thrown wide, my 11 year old son bursting through the doorway to pounce on my feet, straddling and pinning them to the bed.

Then a 6 year old girl launches herself onto one of my arms as they both start tickling, targeting my most sensitive areas; my feet and my arm pits.

"We want doughnuts!" is their demand.

Which is fine, because I do, too.

I knew two pimps growing up, at least that didn't hide the fact, and they were vastly different except in one area: they were fathers and husbands.

Eastern Washington isn't known for its pimp populace, but pimps are everywhere and, usually in my experience, black. Rose was Monte's (pronounced MonTay) father and was stereo typically ghetto. He usually wore a white wife beater, jeans and tennis shoes says socks if he wore shoes at all. His wife, Barb, was white, blonde and punch drunk. I thought she was retarded in some way, but she wasn't completely stupid. She talked with a slur and wasn't pretty by any stretch, but she had johns, regardless. Rose pimped her, as well.

Monte was obviously biracial, so he didn't fit in with the Mexican kids or the black kids.

He ran around with us, the white kids. Where most houses had grass in front, the Mexicans had dirt and that's where we played marbles. Rules were contested prior to war and violation occasionally led to shoving matches, which times Monte displayed exceptional technique.

Ricardo was one of the few Mexican boys our age and he loved the word, "Nigger." At that age, I had not ever heard the word uttered in my house, and I hadn't ever said it. Not because, at ten years old, I knew what it meant, but because I had watched a few minutes of a show on TV called, "Roots." I understood that black people had been slaves and slave owners in the past, but those people were all dead, beyond salvation or punishment. I hadn't seen a real slave, but people acted like it had just happened whenever the word was voiced.

Monte set Ricardo straight one time, smashing his face into the dirt, and after that, we rarely heard "nigger," again, except from older boys and never to Monte. There was only one person who called him a nigger and that was Rose.

From the window of my bedroom, converted from the attic, I heard screaming. It was Barb, I knew her voice. I headed down stairs and onto the front lawn, where my mom stopped me. She was cursing Rose and calling the police, though they would take their time. Rose was beating Barb up in their front yard for reasons we could all hear.

Rose accused her of keeping money from him from her johns. He was calling her his worst nigger, next to, "that little nigger boy of yaws." I knew he was talking about Monte, and now had the word redefined for me. Now I knew why people reacted to it. It meant that they could be whipped, no matter what color they were. Wives and moms and best friends.

I turned, ran through the house and went out the back, up the alley and looked for Monte in the usual places. I found him, being held back by Kevin and Bruce, tears in his eyes as he watched his mom on her hands and knees spit her teeth out. All the neighbors were yelling at Rose, as well. When Rose turned to yell back, Barb backed away from him, her face swollen.

I ran up to the boys and yelled at them to let Monte go. As soon as they did, he ran into his house, yelling at his father, who grabbed Barb's arm and followed.

The police showed up later and took Rose away in a squad car. A few days later, I saw Barb driving slowly down the street, windows rolled down. I ran up to ask her where Monte was and that's when I saw Rose, his head in her lap, his bare feet out the passenger window. She seemed happy, despite her bruised and swollen face.

"He grounded, "Rose told me. I knew better. Monte was ungroundable.

I found him and his little sister, a year younger than him, sitting under a hollowed out bush. They had sliced their palms and made an oath to kill Rose in his sleep. It was obvious that there was no alternative and, as I sliced my palm, I recited a precise oath of vengeance and clasped hands with the both of them in turn.

7-11 on the fourth of July, 1989. It was so bright and packed at 2 a.m., including, I had just noticed as I entered, a cop. Fuck. I had managed my first acid trip pretty well, so far, but I was in over my head. Sonny and I had rehearsed out front before I went in and we had a few rules...

1. Don't look at anyone's face. I had no reason to, so don't fucking do it. I wasn't really a people person, but the acid gave me the ability to really connect with people, as long as their way of expressing love was to smile at me as I laughed at them and, occasionally, fainted like I was going to punch them... No, wait, that was Sonny.

2. Get chocolate in all forms not to exceed $20 in cost. Because the Gods had communicated the need for chocolate.

3. Don't look anyone in the face. This is important.

It had been my turn, since Sonny had gone in the last place. We had really peaked not too long before, blasting through the city on our expensive BMX bikes, grinding, flatlanding, jumping and avoiding Mexicans with knives. Oh, and cops. We didn't want to talk to cops. Big no-no.

Sonny pumped up my confidence outside and I headed in. I had gathered many chocolatey items and was getting in line when I noticed the cop car parked out front. I was smart, I didn't look around. I didn't look at anyone. I was managing my shit and the wave was looming over my head as I outran the peeling doom... Mentally.

Nobody spoke to me, I didn't speak. I was really focused on the cop, though. When it was my turn, I just handed the guy behind the counter my $20 bill and took a casual look around, not at any faces, just shirts, etc. The cop was four behind me in line. The cashier, about three or four years older than me, white, frumpy his 7-11 blazer a little too big for him said something to me and I looked at him.

Yeah, I had been doing so good, too. I must have spaced off for a second or something, I mean, was I just standing there? Suddenly, I couldn't remember whether or not I had paid. I looked at my hand and I had money in it, so I handed it to the cashier.

He was looking at me with a mix of mockery and envy, with a touch of understanding. When I raised the hand holding the money he had just handed me, he looked at it, then back at me. About that moment, I realized I had already paid.

I froze. Fuck, I was stuck in a loop or something. Fuck. don't turn around and look for the cop, don't turn ...

The cashier shrugged, looked at me with a grin as he took the money out of my hand and said, "Right on." He didn't look away as he shoved it all in his pocket and pointed to the door, as if giving me a secret doorway.

There is a place within our bodies where true laughter comes from, a place of enormous power. A single giggle bursting forth from this place shortens our lives by hours. It gives no warning, seeks no permission and does not give a shit about decorum.

I shaved about two weeks of my life as I walked briskly to the door, my long hair in my face. As I came through the door, the look of disappointed horror on his face as he looked away from me towards the officer in the police cruiser parked right in front of him, he moved into action, handing me the handle bars to my bike.

I managed a, "I just gave that fucker a $15 tip."

"Why?," he asked, clearly overwhelmed.

"No fucking idea!"

We sped away as fast as we could, taking turns and attempting as confusing an escape as we felt capable of.

Into a night, ticking away, ears waiting to accept screams, skidding tires, bitching sirens and scratching lighters. Was it ever really that good again?

"William Zin Bauhb."

He wasn't finished, "Call me Bill."

"Yup," and he didn't seem to care about my lack of etiquette. We shook hands, but I felt dirty after touching his cool skin. It wasn't that I was any better than he was, just cleaner.

"D'you ever read the Bible? " He actually sneared. He was partially missing part of a tooth, what was left was a weird brown.

Bill would be in and out of my life, throughout the stages I sped into and out of. I realize at this point that I possessed a strange sort of blindness in regards to his role in the events that would follow after a visit from him.

It wasn't because he was charismatic, no. He was probably capable of charm, but wouldn't have been caught dead.

Bill slid into my ego like a molecule of heroin, altering the chemistry of perception. From there, ideology, space and even time possesed a subtle skew, a degree in a change of course, but the more time passes, the greater the divergence.

Back then, when he insisted he was the Devil, I felt embarrassed for his delusion. He was overweight, mid-forties, balding with a beard that made him look almost hip. Beanies were the chosen mask for his shaved head. He had two tattoos I could see. A forearm piece depicting the Bible cut out in the shape of a handgun and a crude upside down cross on the back of his neck, green after years of sunburns.

He knew how to pursue a theme. He was also a very happy drunk.

As I left the counselor's office I felt elation. It occurred to me that she had a shit job, but she seemed to enjoy it. She enjoyed my rage and fed off it in a cool way. I couldn't picture her raging at all, ever. The tinge of skittishness about the shoulders when I spoke of my hatred with accuracy.

She's getting into it, though. Two addicts cooking a spoon, getting anxious while boiling off pretence for the first time together. Eager to taste the goop of denied tar left behind.

Anger is healthy, according to her, a good motivator. And Fuck, she's right. She's counselling me through my pain as though she can fathom twenty years of tension smashed down like a piece of coal. Let's stomp through this mud puddle, we can surely wash it off later, when we start to feel unclean.

She's never had someone staring up at you in the eye, fists wrapped in your hair, desperate for you to stay and Fuck them because they have no idea how to function as your equal. Taking your rage as a good sign that things are normal. Taking it as a good sign things are in control.

Counseling people through their shit would drive me to mockery. Maybe she mocks me behind my back to bleed off the tension. Good for her. Do it to my face, let's do this. Verbal Russian Roulette.

Sharpening my tool. You're going to eat all these shit sandwiches that were layed out for someone else. Someone who bought the bread, prepared the feces and put the knife in my hand. Gobble it down, honey, I won't be happy until you hate her just as much as I do.

Today, I feel elation. War Ensemble pounds upon my deaf ears and bring joy to a horse voice.

That nobody really knows what they're doing. I wish I could believe in God. But there is no fucking God. He's not fighting for you or the human race. We have to figure it out ourselves, so STOP FUCKING WAITING.

I can go kill your mother and God will not stop me. I can beat a puppy to death... God? Are you watching? No.

Children. Dead. Mothers. Dead. Doctors. Dead. Leaders. Dead. What keeps us from imploding I have no idea, but it sure ain't God.

The closest we have are our parents and they are winging it. The more technology aids our lives the less capable we are to guide our own experiences, though we have more choice to do so.

God wants us to have more choice? More access to ideas? How is the Bible reconciled in modern society? If you believe in God, then how can you not support extremism?

If there is a God, and he has some plan for humanity, he is either one jaded Fuck or Ned Flanders. And there you are on your knees.

And I envy your coping mechanism, but shut up and quit rubbing my nose in it.