audiobook < listen free
I’m not blaming the shitty turn of events on anyone else. The decisions were mine. The family of wealth, lucky, the family of an alcoholic doctor, not as lucky. I mean, I do wonder occasionally what would’ve happened to me, if I had not been kicked out of Exeter? Would I be happier now? Famous? Loved?
The next years of my life will be determined by what I do today, not what happened to me nearly fifty years ago. I could’ve had an easier go of it, sure. All of it, all the potential, creativity, and goodwill… packed up and delivered in a white baby in suburban Austin, Texas in a house big enough for five families. All hilarity ensued. You know, the cliche stuff, yelling, thrown objects, crashed cars. Mom in tears, making dinner, waiting for her Chupacabra to return. Prince charming had transformed into a monster. The castle into a prison. The marriage into a death sentence.
It could’ve gone different for me. Yes, I appreciate that. I still made the choice to smoke dope in our room that day, a pretty Sunday afternoon in a New Hampshire spring day. And we chose Rush, and dope, and an indoor concert. Bad choices.
Escape. Exit. Full deceleration in zero seconds. Done. Out.
Not to blame anyone for this. No victims. Only survivors and those left behind. And, this… Looks around the living room… not too hard, not too soft. Not just right either, but the building blocks are being crafted each day. Write. Dream. Go to work. Keep a roof over your head. Use the optimism and momentum as a strategy. Keep it up. Keep it coming. And, until discovered, keep going.
Do not despair.
From the wreckage that could’ve been my life after that moment, I am risen, still reaching upward, still processing all that life has offered me by writing it down, trying to capture the ups and downs. Living is a lot. So much of it we do without attention, without intention, without focus. I am tightening down my extracurricular activities. Write. Work. Dream and sleep. Eat well. Exercise. Pray every day for the woman of my dreams to finally arrive at my door. As a suitor, not a collections agent.
I am in a similar moment now. Doors aren’t exactly closing in, but I’m overdrawn at the bank. I have $550 for the guitar I sold, but I haven’t deposited it. Christmas. I’ve had a killer work schedule, watching all the fine people buying gifts and sustenance for their loved ones. I don’t know if I’ll see my daughter. I saw my son at 3 am. He was still awake, I was peeing. Now, he is asleep. Not sure when he will emerge. He’s not asking to join. We tried to go to Jim’s for breakfast, but even they are closed on Christmas Day.
The holidays really do feel different when you’re working in retail. My schedule didn’t really allow for gift shopping, but I don’t have anyone to buy for. Kids are mostly launched. Mainly novelty gifts and a stipend to buy something they like. The stippened is going down. A couple hundred dollars this year should be doable.
Did I miss my Ivy League aspirations? Yes. And did my life come crashing around me that summer? Yes.
I survived. I continued. I returned to campus after Christmas in the militarized zone and proceeded to inhale all the pot smoke I could. I have always been an enthusiast. I learned how the flip side of the high also cut deeply. One moment. One stupid decision. Three stupid people. Finally, one more stupid person takes an opportunity to fuck the young prep students she resented. Fuck those entitled shits.
And back to hell I went.
Mom scooped me up in a rental car. We spent the first night in a motel near the ocean. It was over. I was horrified. Ashamed. And released. Relieved. Exonerated.
And…fuck…headed back to Austin again.
