Right wrong

As I write these things, my focus drifts and gets blurry, only to become diamond sharp as something pops up like the little Johnny-Jump-Ups of my youth. My mom always said they meant the beginning of spring. I’d start to survey the lawn as soon as the winter chill started lifting. I think they were little bluish-purple flowers. If I found one, I’d pick it for my mom. The thing is, I can’t remember actually ever giving her one. I can just remember the feeling of having given her one. So, I must have. And if not, it’s still a nice thought. And so, all of this writing is me just slowly surveying my life and looking for little Johnny Jump-Ups. These are the little flowers of memory that I’m giving to you.

              What I’ve shared is from all over the place. From my very first memory to two days ago. At first, I thought there’d be more of an order to it, but that’s not how it’s panned out. And while I sat down thinking to give more shape and form to Melinda and those years of Lifter and days spent in bed watching People’s Court on repeat and all of the little specs of time that comprise a chapter of a life, well, another Johnny Jump Up has appeared, and I’m back on Franklin with Leslie.

              Things were going along in ways that precluded true happiness and peace but not so bad as to jump off the train entirely at the next vaguely familiar stop. My memory of what I think I must have been like to love and live with must be out of whack with how Leslie saw me. I can’t imagine her putting up with me the way I saw me for that entire year. And yet she did. I suppose that she knew I loved her and that my heroin use really had no connection to that. I understand fully how people who love junkies, alcoholics, and a zillion other addictions feel like, “If they loved me, they’d stop.” I understand that perfectly. But I also know what it feels like to love someone so deeply and feel completely powerless to keep from breaking their heart each day. This stuff’s tricky.

I’d hate to sound like I’m trying to excuse my behavior, but I’m truly not. It’s entirely possible to be deeply in love with someone and continue doing the one thing that causes them so much pain. We get stuck in a cartoon snowball rolling down a mountain, getting bigger and faster, and so wanting out but so incredibly afraid to stop moving. Feel what it’s going to be like outside of the snowball. Standing there stock still, frozen and sick. We just keep it going because stopping terrifies us, and love has nothing to do with it. That said, to anyone who I ever caused this kind of pain, I make myself completely available to you. Say and do whatever you want to me. It’s the least I can do.

              We kept the band going for a while there. I know it ended on Halloween night that year, but it was likely all but dead for a time before that. But for a while, it was happening. We’d get a show every now and then, and we’d rehearse at Hully Gully. I wrote some songs, Aaron did as well, and Rob wrote the most. We also did a lot of covers. Honestly, that was my favorite part. We did Skulls from The Misfits, She’s Like Heroin to Me (of course) from The Gun Club and a bunch of cool British obscure pop songs that Rob turned us onto. All of this was happening pre-Nirvana. This meant that we never thought of getting signed or anything. It just wasn’t an option for a group like this. We did it for fun, and while I surely still had those junky/rockstar ephemeral dreams, I wasn’t banking on it. We played to play, drink beer hang out, and it felt so incredible to sing on dope. I’ve played a lot of shows loaded, and nothing feels as good. Well, maybe striking someone out or that first taste of her compares, but you know it was a wonderous sensation. Singing loaded. Maybe that’s the name of the book.

              I have a hard time remembering what gear I even used. At some point, Leslie bought me a black Stratocaster for either Christmas or my birthday. Jesus, that was a big deal for me. Not only was it a guitar that wasn’t cheap, but it told me she cared about what I cared about. One of my deepest longings has always been wondering what Leslie thought of all the music I created after we went down separate paths. It always mattered to me. I’d be writing, and I’d wonder if Leslie would like it. I’d wonder if these lyrics were good enough to print on one of her t-shirts.

              When I met Leslie, and I mean, just sorta passing her in a space, I noticed her t-shirt. My friend Darren was dating Marion, Leslie’s younger sister. At some point, I went with Dareen to pick up or hang out with Marion, and Leslie passed through the frame. In an instance. I was in love, like a jolt of 540 watts from a Classictone Power Transformer in an old Fender Twin amp. Just, oh my, look at her. Look at her black hair, shy nervousness, that ever-present black mini-skirt, and the entire head-to-toe perfection. I fell in love. It took a lot of months and listenings to the Violent Femmes’ first record to win her over, but it happened. She made these shirts. She’d write all the lyrics from a loved song within the borderless confines of a block of text on a white t-shirt. Totally illegible unless you look really closely. Eventually, she made one for me. I asked for “A Box For Black Paul” by Nick Cave. I wore it forever. Well, I wore it until I got too big. My weight was always my core issue. We’ll get to that later.

              Just a quick note, some motherfucker just shot off about 3 dozen fireworks in my neighborhood. Big, loud, flash the yard ablaze in white light rockets. My dogs are traumatized. I hear other dogs in the neighborhood barking and yelping. I just walked out back and yelled as loud as I could, “Stop being such a fucking cocksucker!” Who knows? Maybe they heard me. Likely they didn’t. I just want you to know who you’re dealing with. But you know what? I was that cocksucker growing up. I was the kid always setting off fireworks and bombs throughout the year. I was the motherfucker scaring all the dogs. I guess this is karma. I just hate that it spills over onto my dogs.

              I fell so deeply in love with Leslie. A part of me wants to tell you about the first time we had sex. But, It’s not for me to share her secrets. And the truth is that just earlier tonight, I got a call from a friend, and he nervously asked me if maybe I could change something in one of these

              Ok…everything has changed. Everything went red with rage. Another barrage of explosions happened, and my dogs are dying with fright. I ran outside and saw other neighbors standing outside, wondering what’s going on. The Fourth of July was weeks ago. I just happened to see new fireworks shooting from the street a few blocks up. I just felt something come over me. I thought about the gun but threw that idea away immediately. I just realized I was bulletproof and don’t give a fuck about physical pain. I’ve kicked enough dope to just go. I just went. I started marching down the street, and another car pulled over, and a guy got out. He said, “Jesus, that’s some crazy shit.” I blurted out something like, “I’m gonna fuck this motherfucker up.”

 Look, I never act this way. I just don’t. I fantasize about it, but I keep it there. Safe. But I was pushed. Some energy and a complete lack of self-care pushed me forward. I came to a corner and saw the empty carton of about 24 rockets still smoking in the street. Now what? I can hear a party around the corner to my left. I make a snap decision and just go berserk. I start asking, screaming, “which of you motherfuckers is lighting off these things, and don’t you know there’s dogs and babies in this neighborhood?” Some big cholo motherfucker rushes up, challenges me, and says, “Why you gotta come like that?” “Fuck you! Why do I even have to come at all motherfucker?”

Immediately two of his friends start separating us. I know the guy would have made easy work of me, but it felt so good to just unleash and not feel fear. I just didn’t care about any sort of damage, any sort of pain. Once you’re had guns pushed into your right temple and knife blades pressed against your throat and kicked a thousand times, there’s just not much anyone can threaten you with. All I was afraid to feel was the pain of regret if I hadn’t rushed in. Now I was safe. I had most certainly rushed in like a fucking banshee! I just kept telling him he was a cocksucker! And a motherfucker! and what the fuck did he think he was doing? Jesus, I know I just looked like a crazy guy. But it worked. Two other guys started apologizing to me, and I immediately embraced them. Now he was alone. And then I tried to give him some sort of love. He wasn’t having it. He was in gangbanger mode. But fuck. To feel so free and utterly unconcerned with pain was so beautiful it made me love them all the more. They picked up their stuff, and all of the twenty or so excited and confused party just started walking inside.

              This isn’t about whether I did the right thing or not. I’ll do horrible things to protect my dogs. But this is about the absence, the complete absence of fear. How far is Heaven? I’ll go tonight  motherfucker.

              And the truth is that I wish I could have one extra thing. If there’s just one thing I’d give anything for, it’s to somehow be friends with this guy. I was him most of my life. I regret how strong I came on. Who knows, I’ll look for him. I can see us being friends. But fuck, I’m so filled with adrenaline now I need to back off. I love you all, and Dodger hat-wearing cholo, I love you too. I bet t happens because I’ll put the effort in to make it happen. I’ll make that guy real pozole.

              Sorry if this got derailed. Sometimes life intervenes.

              This is easily the most embarrassing and vulnerable thing I’ve shared with you all.