Never Forgot (Fiction Part 2)

Day after day I’m surrounded by the memories that haunt me the most. Their pictures left untouched even after ten years. My lonely cubicle is my second home, but I feel more comfortable here than in my own house. In either place, the memories never faded like they said they would. Every day I see the fire, the carnage, and the look on my dead wife’s face as she passed me on her way out. I hear the noises and the screams, and some asshole reminds me every year that they’re all dead, but I don’t show on the outside how much I dwell. I’ve lost all of my friends and family over the years so there are fewer people to remind me, so it’s just me now.

My job is incredibly boring. I field consumer complaints about product defects in general, and more often, our store-brand products that are sold in all 597 Walmart and Sam’s Club stores in 44 states. I mean, I don’t take them all, we take them all.

I work in a cluster of cubicles the size of a city block, and we are surrounded by offices filled with bosses and other corporate types that I never speak to. Those offices are enclosed by walls and doors, and there are 12 floors just like this that all do similar but different customer service-based work, 24 hours a day, every fucking day. People always complain. Sometimes they’re right, sometimes they’re wrong, I never care. My only job is to make sure everybody gets their money back or a new product. I told you it was boring.

On Tuesday September 11^th, 2001, my wife and I were in New York with our two kids doing the touristy stuff. They always say it was such a beautiful day; not a cloud in the sky. I thought it was a bit chilly, but I resent that day as a whole.

This is where the guilt starts. We were at the foot of the two largest structures I had ever seen, and we both commented on how cool they looked and wondered how they were built and how they could stand like that. I mean, they are buildings, but we had never seen anything so big. We also thought the Statue of Liberty was 100 times bigger than it looks on TV. We were hungry, so I told Elaine to go up with the kids (Steve and Bob were both six (twins)) and get tickets and I would come up and meet them with some street food because it for sure was cheaper down here than up there. She smiled at me and said, “OK!” And I never saw them again, except for one frame.

A frame is one section in a reel of film, that blend together to make moving pictures. Our mind doesn’t quite work like that, but when reality happens quickly, we can lock on to one single flash of a moment, one unforgettable pulse in time which is what I will always see of her, not the flawless smile.

The hotdog cart took me about two minutes to get to, and he wasn’t quite open yet so I chatted with him for a few minutes. He seemed the opposite of most New Yorker’s and enjoyed hearing about my small town. He looked up at the same time I did when we heard the incredible whining of the engines. I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. The building my wife and children just walked into exploded out the side and back, and rained hellfire down on to the buildings and streets below. I was not standing near anything that fell, so I never ran, I wish I had.

I knew the moment I first saw Elaine that I wanted nobody else for the rest of my life. She would have been creeped out if I had actually said that, so I kept my distance, until I couldn’t. We worked together at a small coffee shop in a small town, so we had to talk. I often stuttered my words, and blushed just talking to her. She seemed to notice that I had affection for her, and she would laugh lightly at my ineptitude. After knowing her for only two weeks I asked her out on a date, and she said yes. We went to see Reservoir Dogs in a theater in the big city, and then we had Vietnamese food and just stared at each other. It was love, we both knew it. My love. My heart. I will never forget you.

I’m writing this at work because I have a lot of down time and I just don’t care about my job or life anymore. I just got a call from a frantic woman who said she thinks she found real poop in a pooping baby doll toy in a Walmart store. I asked her why she thought it was real and she said because it smelled like it. I asked if she or anybody else in her household touched it and she said yes, that her child had ripped the box apart because it had hardened into a brick. She took it away when she smelled that it was definitely real, and what could I do about it? I wondered if she had tasted it.

I am so fucking sick of people and their stupid complaints. Obviously there isn’t real shit in a baby toy, she is probably some welfare case trying to get a lawsuit or some free money, or even a gift card from us for nothing. It happens every day, people always want something for free, and we always have to give it to them. But not today, today is the day. Today is my last day. I tell her to please go fuck herself and I hang up. When I’m done writing this, I will pull the loaded .40 caliber Smith and Wesson from my drawer that I purchased at Walmart for a discount, and point it at my chin, pull the trigger, and die.

The last time I saw her was about five minutes after the plane hit. People were running in every direction, people were falling from the sky along with metal, fire, documents, office equipment, and glass. When a body hits the cement, the noise is deafening, and stuff goes everywhere. I reckon I saw twenty or thirty people hit the ground in front of me that day, including my wife. Like I said, I didn’t know it was her until she was right in front of me, and then she wasn’t. She was everywhere. I was coated in her blood and intestines, and her brain lay next to her open head on the curb of the sidewalk. I swear I could see it pulsing, like the heart was telling it to live. But that’s not even what I remember every day; I just remember the flash of the look on her face. She looked like she was mad at me; like I had let her down. 

I know why she looked at me like that. It was because our kids were dead and she knew I was alive. My psychiatrist says there’s no way she could have conveyed all of that emotion and thought into one look and specifically fallen in front of me to show me, but I begged to differ so I never paid him. He also said it was more likely that I recognized her clothing and hair than her face or expression, but I know what I saw. I saw it. It’s all I ever see. But never again. I’m done with this letter, I don’t even know who it’s for. I’m going to say a quick prayer to her, and then I’m gone. Goodbye.

I’m doing this so I can see you again, my love. I have never been the same, and I never will be. I hope this is quick, and I can see your perfect smile again, and we can raise the boys together in Heaven. If I go to hell because of this, I hope you know I never loved another woman, and I did this to see you. I wish I could have been more of a man; I wish I could have bared the pain. Here I go, my love. See you soon.

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To be continued…

Encopresis (Fiction Part )

There was never just a “standard” trip to Wal-Mart for us, there was always some excitement and it usually ended up with us being trespassed or at least kicked out for the day. We like to wreak havoc of an odd order, and confuse everybody we came into contact with. Today was like most days for us: we were high on mushrooms and weed, and we were giddy with amusement.

Like I said, we’d been kicked out of most Wal-Mart’s, but in the big city there are so many of them to choose from. They line the corners near highways, adorn malls, and highlight those middle-of-nowhere parking lots, and it seems that when you leave one through the exit (which for some fucking reason is the left side) it leads you through the entrance (which for some fucking reason is on the left side) of another. It’s a perpetual infinity of the big chain: they’re literally everywhere now.

We like the toy aisles because they are the most colorful and that plays with our demented minds and contracts the zygomaticus at a more intense level than in say, a dog food aisle. Also, you can see kids doing stupid things, and parents being horrible people. The toy aisle brings out the hope in children, and the despondency in parents.

“Mommy, can I have this!? A little child pulls down a boldly colored spinning unicorn thing and smiles brightly at an inattentive parent. There is no response and the child throws it on the floor with a tantrum which is when the parent snaps to action with a pointed finger and a sharp scowl.

All of this is amusing and confusing to us and we turn our minds elsewhere. In the next aisle we find a baby that claims to make real poops when you feed it a special formula that is included in the box. This is our time to shine.

About half way down the aisle is an attractive blonde-headed employee who is stocking shelves mindlessly and listening to something on her wireless earphones. She doesn’t seem to notice our demeanor but surely will when I shout to her in a frantic waving manner. They always pay attention when they’re afraid, or if they think they’re going to get into trouble.

One time we stole Wal-Mart vests from a locker room and went around with clipboards telling people they were in trouble for abusing break privileges. We claimed we were corporate auditors and that they had to clean out their lockers and go home and expect their last check in the mail. It worked twelve times because we figured that virtually all employees of every company abuse their break privileges. With a dozen employees now missing from the store, we were free to steal thousands in electronics and food.

“Hey! Is this real shit?” I yelled to the stunned shelf-stocker from fifty feet away.

Brad chimed in as he pointed to the box I was holding, “In here!”

I couldn’t see her nametag from this distance, so I decided her name was Amanda. Amanda was staring at us with her mouth open; she looked like a sunfish just pulled out of a hole drilled in the middle of a frozen lake. Her left hand slowly lowered down as the weight of her scanner overcame the mind’s subconscious desire to balance properly. Her body tilted slightly to compensate for her empty right hand. She was frightened.

I decided we should walk toward her with the box so she could answer our questions and maybe we could get her to eat some mushrooms with us and have an orgy. We have tried this move countless times with no accomplishment.

As we approached, she nervously and slowly crossed her arms in front of her but kept her mouth open. She remained quiet which I knew upset Brad because he had to know if the baby toy contained actual fecal matter, or if there was a process that happened within the $49.98 (rolled back recently from $58.98) toy that created a natural type of feces unique to this particular doll. He would also ask if there was an African-American version for sale because he is black and are they racist? I’ve seen it a hundred times. Not with the poop-doll, this was inimitable. He liked to add to the “environment” by claiming he was black.

I’ve known Brad since he was a kid but we didn’t get along until we found out we both liked the same drugs and mischief. We sort of found out by accident at a party when I dropped a bag of weed in front of him and we started to talk about finer things. He was weird, really weird. So am I. Brad is about five feet tall, morbidly obese, and has red curly hair and freckles so sometimes he passes as a black guy in certain lighting.

“Does this baby make poop, or does the poop already exist in its most processed form and we are just supposed to squeeze it through the plastic baby into some diaper then change it?” Brad asked.

Before she could ask what had just happened, I said, “Because we don’t want to pay $50 for a doll that doesn’t make its own genetically exclusive feces. We’ve been fooled before.”

Amanda surely had never been so horribly cornered and disordered in all of her life. We were used to this response, so we continued.

“We would like you to find out for us. Can you get a manager please?” I asked curiously.

Amanda nodded and hastily turned away and scampered off at a terrified gallop. She never looked back, which meant she would probably never tell anybody about what just happened, or she would tell social media about the whack-jobs you find at Wal-Mart, or she would actually find somebody to kick us out. Either way,  we had some time to fix the baby.

Brad pulled out his pocket knife and carefully unsealed the cardboard bottom of the box. You don’t want to cut the plastic, or nobody will ever buy the toy, so you have to get everything out from the bottom, which everything is usually secured from anyhow. As it always does, the doll and all of its accompaniments slid out in a tight wad of recyclable organized chaos. He cut a couple zip ties that held on the package of “special formula.” It was enclosed in a plastic box about the size of a cigarette pack and it was easy to dump out which I did on a nearby shelf. I tasted some of it, and it tasted nothing like poop.  Brad had already taken his pants down enough to shit on the floor a little which I could smell. (He had an incredibly poor diet of McDonald’s, cheap beer, and beef jerkey.) This always made us laugh and I knew we would be out of control if we didn’t focus.

We stifled our laughter and I put on a latex glove I had in my pocket and picked some of the puddle of poop while he wiped his ass with the hair of a Mermaid Barbie doll from the shelf behind us. It was hard for me to get a grip of the shit as it had the viscosity of a marmalade that seemed to melt in my hand. It took several scoops to fill the empty box, but I was proud of my triumph so I raised it up to show Brad. We smiled at each other with that devilish grin we were accustomed to under the circumstances, and he got out his bottle of glue and sealed it closed, and back on to the package. We struggled to get everything back into the display packaging, but we did it, and sealed that as well and put it back with the rest of the dolls, all of which were white.

We threw all of the evidence behind various toys for somebody to find later when Amanda peered around the corner and was followed by a much more intimidating employee who wanted us to leave.

“I want you to leave.” He said sternly. His name was also Brad, and ironically, her name was actually Amanda T. This is when we started a laughter that could not be contained.


To be continued...

A Neighborhood Confession

Why am I sober? It’s a good question—one I was asked recently by a neighbor.  Instead of drawing out an epilogue of the history of Vince, or deflecting with a joke, this time I told it like it was.

We have two sets of neighbors that the girls mainly play with. Their parents are the adults we see most often in this little town of ours, and seven months into living in our house and our kids playing together, I thought it was time to tell everybody a little more about myself. I just didn't know how. This can be a scary subject to broach since the term prison has such a stigma, and one of these neighbors happens to be a 12-year veteran of the police force in Michigan. Fortunately, it came up naturally at a Halloween party for them when the wife—who happens to be a doctor— asked very bluntly why I was sober. And it came up in my own living room while I was reading my own book, when the other father from the other house brought over his child to play.

It’s an awkward moment when somebody asks, “What are you reading?” And you happen to be holding your own life story with the word prison right on the cover. I hesitated, and then I let it out. After a brief synopsis of my using career, I mentioned that I spent some time in a state facility, and had a number of years of sobriety under my belt. I went on to explain how I was active in my recovery and had a lot of support in the forms of family, friends, and a sponsor. I finished by affirming that I hoped he would never be afraid to send his kids to play here because of anything I had ever done. And his reply was beautiful, but private.

I can’t go in to detail, but I can say that he was able to identify with my story in many ways. He liked who I was now, and was interested to hear more about who I was then. So we decided to make some time in the near future to discuss life-both past and present—and let the girls run around and get into mischief while we conversed.

A few days later I had a very long, incredibly rewarding chat in my kitchen with somebody who has spent about as long as I spent using, on the opposite side of the fence. He had other ways to look at my situation, and was astonishingly insightful. He dealt mostly with drunk college kids during his cop career, and saw a lot of men drinking their lives away. We talked about drugs, felonies, sobriety, A.A., and so much more. It was a necessary conversation, and probably the first of many to come.

We are going to live in this house for a long time. It’s important to me that the people I know best around me know me. For seven months I had to shade stories and only allude to certain parts of my life with obfuscation. If anybody asked what job I held a few years ago, or where I lived before Delano, things got a little tricky, and I didn’t necessarily lie, but I did use some alternative facts and some long-winded skirting explanations of my whereabouts and accomplishments. Now, I can simply state the facts and not worry about judgement and shame.

Hiding my past no longer has a place in my life. I am no longer hiding anything about myself, because it is those great struggles and triumphs that have given me my oddity and forte. And it is my stories that can inspire hope in strangers, and beckon admiration from those who know me, and get to know me. 

I hope I explained all of this well enough. To be clear, there are two separate couples in two separate houses, both of whom have two girls. Children girls. And we have two girls, so that’s six girls and six parents. Also we have a house.  Thank you.

And a side-note—I would love to thank all of you who have purchased our book, whether in paperback, or electronic. It isn’t going to make us rich, but it is wonderful to know that so many of you care enough to show your support. You are why I keep writing.

 

History Repeats

I’ve been reading an incredible book lately, the subject of which I used to know all too well. I find myself caught in the pages of a previous existence and I wonder how I ever thought the way I did, and did the things I thought I could get away with. I’ve seen an extraordinary evolution of an aspiring writer, and I am amazed that I’ve been able to keep it up for so many years after that trauma.

Two nights ago, I was reading about a few times I got pulled over carrying bountiful felonies on my person and remaining calm and leaving the scene with no more than a warning. The very next morning—yesterday—I was pulled over.

I knew he had me dead to rights when I saw his reflectors ahead as I rounded a corner doing 55 in a 45. I braked, but his tail lights illuminated and I could see his headlights highlight the road in front of him as his vehicle came from hibernation to life. I was going 45 when I passed him on the shoulder and that’s when the red and blue emergency lights began to strobe, and a feeling of terror overwhelmed me briefly. It was only a matter of seconds before I realized that I had nothing to fear. Nothing I had done, nor anything I was in possession of, could get me arrested that morning.

I immediately pulled over to the shoulder and into a driveway that leads to the police station he was parked in front of. I always want the officer to feel safe when he approaches my vehicle, so I do that, and roll down my window, and turn off the car then wait for him with my hands on the wheel.

He greeted me, told me how fast I was going, and asked for my credentials. I told him I didn’t think that was any of his business and asked if there was any way I could get out of a ticket and then I winked at him sexy-like. Since that didn’t happen, I informed him that I would have to reach into my back right pocket for my wallet which he endorsed. I then told him I would have to do some digging for the insurance card because I was in my girlfriend’s car, and he said he would be back.

It all happened so fast, I didn’t have time to tell him how neat it was to be pulled over for the first time in my life completely legal. Of course, he didn’t know anything about me, but he didn’t seem too worried at any point and let me go with a verbal warning.

This is the same route I take to work every day, and on occasion, there is an officer posted in that very spot. I was in the wrong for speeding, and it could have been worse. I can’t afford a speeding ticket, so it would befit me to drive more carefully in the future, even when I think nobody is looking.

There is no way to explain the fear I felt if only for a moment, but it was real even if I was never in any danger. I’m well past the point of being afraid of going back to prison for a technical violation, but I think a fear of those bright lights will always strike a nerve, even when I’ve been good.

 

Organic

Infrequently, but often enough, I question my motivation to continue writing. More infrequently, my inspirations are confirmed by a reader that isn’t already a friend or a Facebook acquaintance, or a friend of a friend, etc. Don’t get me wrong, I love hearing that my work benefits people or at least amuses, but I often wonder how far these posts travel outside my circle. Well, quite far it would seem.

On Thanksgiving after leaving Roseville and my family behind for the day, we drove to Oak Grove to spend the evening with Amanda’s family, some of whom I’d never yet met in our time together. This is our second turkey day together and I’ve met almost everybody but It’s always a little nerve-racking meeting new people because I never know what they already know about me. In one case, it was everything.

A relative of Amanda’s struck up a conversation toward the end of the evening I added myself to in which she confessed that she had been reading my blog, even since before I had met Amanda. “What!?”  I’m sure I exclaimed. Yes, a cousin-by-marriage—from a different state—of the woman I’m dating had been reading  a series of blog posts I had written a while back when she realized that the content of the posts were her very own family. It dawned on her slowly—as the posts played themselves out—that the scenario I was outlining was too familiar and she confirmed with another family member that it was in fact true.

We talked about the blog, the book, how she related to the content of the overall theme of the blog and my life, Jews, mustaches, and we vaguely fought over a pooping dogs calendar during a dice game. I won the fight. Well, I won the calendar, there was no fight. But, I do own the calendar, so… It was a pretty standard night. If you are reading this post, I want you to know that it means everything to me that you found this blog, and it means even more that I got to meet you and your husband, and that we will surely get to talk again. You have inspired me. Thank you.

We released our E-Book just over a week ago and we aren’t millionaires yet. I’m largely disappointed but understanding that Oprah hasn’t reached out hitherto, but I’m sure she will someday soon. A few days after we released the digital book, it became available as a paperback and I got to see one yesterday that my biggest fan Amanda purchased, and I was humbled. I’ve written hundreds of posts, hundreds of thousands of words, and I’ve seen them published on Facebook and Blogger, but nothing is like seeing your own words in ink. It’s surreal. It’s magical.

I’ve imbedded a couple permanent links to the book in both formats somewhere on this blog page so it will live on forever. Currently, our paperback book is #75,219 on Amazon’s best-seller’s list and the E-Book rolls in at #126,302. It’s not bad considering Amazon has millions of titles, and we aren’t anybody famous. I think my goal of selling 1,000 books was a little much, we aren’t even close to 100 yet, but we have eternity. So, please buy our book and support independent publishers and authors!!!!

During this holiday season, many people will be imprisoned. Some of you may know an inmate you haven’t written to in a long time. Maybe you have resentment, maybe you’ve just been too busy, but either way, maybe now is the time to jot down some words of love and encouragement which will help somebody get through an otherwise shitty day. Many prisoners are locked down 23-hours per day, and mail is one of the few things they have to look forward to. I know I felt better every time there was an envelope sitting on my bed after we shuffled back from chow. Ten minutes and a pen can change somebody’s day.

The E-Book

I want to tell you all that I worked incredibly hard to make this thing possible. In a way I suppose I did because I lived the life that is the major subject of this book, but to turn those first few hundred posts into a book was all the work of people more technically intelligent than me, and a mother with much more experience in well grammar and edit good job. I can write what I'm thinking and feeling, but I passed college English with a B and use Microsoft Word to find big-word synonyms for expressions I expend else recurrently.

This post will be rather short, as it is intended to be an advertisement for the book that I have written about for a while now; for years, actually.

My hope is that not only will you buy the book, but you will read it and see that it is not just a story about recovery, redemption, and pain, but a great story about life. This isn’t just relatable to people in recovery or those who love them, it’s for anybody who likes to read.

I want you to buy it, read it, share the link to it, and rate it. I will never ask you to rate anything ever again, I promise, but good reviews can lead to more sales and really that’s the idea of writing a book.

We are fairly certain this isn’t going to make us a million dollars, but I think it’s a reasonable goal to sell 1,000 books with a side goal of making this paperback-available someday soon. So far, we are 986 books short of our goal, but it’s been live less than 24 hours.

So, here it is: This is the link to the Amazon Kindle version of the book, with more to follow. Please share this post on Facebook if you are a long-time follower who has read from the beginning, or somebody new to the blog. Every share helps. The Kindle app is free on Google Play, and the book reads nicely on a cell phone, laptop, or tablet.

Here is a link  to the paperback version, also available on Amazon.

Today is Thanksgiving, and it's the day we show gratitude to each other for what we do selflessly in our lives. Today I'm being selfish because I want to sell a book. I don't do this often because it's not worth it in the long run, so my next post will surely be about helping others and showing up with an attitude of gratitude. Happy Thanksgiving! 

Probably, I Won't Die Soon

I had my yearly physical yesterday, and it looks like I’m as healthy as I should be for a growing young man. I recently turned forty, and I guess I just assumed the doctor would put a finger in my butt, but he asked if anybody related to me had prostate cancer, and I told him that I only knew my maternal side but nobody in my family had prostate cancer that I was aware of. He never asked, so I never suggested that we check. I think we were both comfortable with our unspoken solution to a problem that probably doesn’t exist. We are both problem solvers.

They did draw blood. I do not like having my blood drawn, and I had to lie down and I asked the nurse to use a butterfly needle which she did. As always, it was painless, but my fear isn’t about the pain, it’s about the blood or the needle, or I don’t really know what. This is the fourth time in my life I’ve had blood drawn and it’s only ever told me that I don’t have A.I.D.S., I did have Salmonella, and that my bad cholesterol is a little bit high. I didn’t pass out, but I felt very nauseous and I wanted to run. The nurse calmly asked me about my Thanksgiving plans and talked me down as I’m sure she has hundreds of people like me. She was exceptional at her job.

The Doctor told me that as a result of my bloodwork—and he went over a ton of numbers that I didn’t understand—that I had a 2% chance of having a heart attack in the next ten years, which he said was a good number for somebody my age. He said that the computation doesn’t account for exercise, which I do frequently, so I was in pretty good shape—no pun intended.

He then told me to take off my pants and he fondled my genitals and told me to cough. He said it was standard procedure but I shouldn’t tell anybody. He then lit a candle and said that it actually was necessary to do a rectal exam, and I ended up having what is referred to as an involuntary orgasm. 

Now, as a writer, I am prone to works of fiction on occasion and that last paragraph was mostly that. Every physical comes with a junk evaluation, even in prison. In fact, in prison, it was a lady that did the evaluation of my penis and testicles. I will illuminate the fact that this was an elderly woman and she was just as indifferent about the situation as I was, but still, I never would have guessed that in that environment they would allow such touching. Well, it’s all over now, but it’s nice to reflect on old times.

I should probably keep an eye on what I eat more than I have been. Exercise is only a part of the whole, and I am only as healthy as what I put into my body, which is a lot of sugary and buttery foods. Those food groups are delicious, and I need to find ways to say no to the fats, and yes to foods including and other than salads and rice I can eat that will fill me up and not leave me craving for snacks. Fruit, vegetables, grains, all of the things I normally eat sparingly will now have to be consumed at least twice per day in a meal. I say this but who knows if I will stick to it, especially with the holidays coming up.

Speaking of the holidays, I should take a moment to say how grateful I am for this life and my loved ones. Five years ago I had no relationship with the people that I do now, and I was missing a lot. I didn’t even know the people I live with, and I feel truly blessed to be a part of their lives. Every little thing in my life was uprooted and transformed to create a new being capable of so much more than withering away and dying. I am grateful for this chance at my new life, and I will continue to take steps necessary to keep this new way of living that I never thought possible.

Each day for me is a gift. I shall open each of them carefully and cultivate a habit of being appreciative for everything I receive.

I’m constantly trying to improve on what I have achieved and earned over the past few years. I don’t succeed in my goals every time, but I keep trying.

About a month ago, I submitted a job proposal for a position that I believe could be created at my work, with the hopes that I would be promoted and given more responsibility and of course, more pay. I outlined my idea well, and reading it back I see so many uses for myself that could still be added to the pitch, but it’s too late. Last week I was sat down by my boss and an H.R. rep and told no. No more responsibility, no more pay. It was disappointing, but certainly not the end of the world, but no.

I lived in a world of failure for too many years to let something like this get to me. In fact, when I was asked to work an extra day next week, in addition to being denied a day off request for the day after Thanksgiving, instead of saying, “Fuck right off,” I said yes. Because I am now part of the solution in life, no longer part of the problem. It’s often easier to wallow in the “what could have been’s” rather than to continue forward and look for more opportunities to advance myself.

In that meeting, they showed interest in keeping me there for the long-haul by inquiring of my interest in further training of an ambiguous nature. I say that because even they didn’t really have an answer for what that meant yet, but that I would be considered for some advanced training. Maybe they will train me for Space Force?

The old Vince would have handled this rejection differently. Actually, the old Vince never would have tried to advance or think of something to be proactive in career advancement. I spent years being unhappy in every area of my life especially in my work. I love my job now, and I work in a field where the work is plentiful, and if things do stall or get stagnant, I can move around to another restaurant, or maybe even move into a different vocation which would be quite challenging without any type of degree or certificate, or knowledge of anything beyond cooking and writing. I’ve written for almost five years for free, so I think I’ll stick with soup, for now.

I wrote in my last post that this writing thing could turn into something more significant. It’s already published, but not in the form of a book. Every day for a few weeks now it seems we have been making some tweaks, revisions, and adjustments and it seems like a painfully slow process, but realistically it’s taken almost five years to get to where it is now, and we are so close. I really want to show you all the cover we came up with. It looks like a real book. This is an example of how long success can take, and how broad the definition can be.

Even though I don’t currently get paid to write, someday I might. Even though I didn’t get the promotion I invented at work, someday I might. The point is that we should try to be happy with what we currently have, and if you can, try to do a little better. If people don’t let you do better, do it anyway, not for money but for yourself.

I hope at least some of that made sense.

I’ve just come inside from hanging 210ft of Christmas lights around 2/3rds of the house and a tree. I was lucky enough to have had hooks already in place from the previous owners, so all I had to do was move my ladder about a hundred times to get the result I hoped I would. It’s not even Thanksgiving yet, and I am the first person in the neighborhood with lights up. Suck it, neighbors, Vince is in town and it’s Christmas all year now. This is because it’s likely that I will never take down the lights; they are permanent now.

That’s all for now, it’s time to feed the girls and settle in. The snow is coming, winter is here. It’s Christmas, bitch.

Big News

The midterms are finally done with, and Facebook is quiet. No gloating, no boasting, just pictures of kittens and couples. The holidays are fast approaching, and I hope everybody is done with their arguing, and ready to enjoy the lights and love of the various annual denominational fests, or whatever you choose to do with your time.

I’ve celebrated Christmas and Chanukkah growing up, and will continue to participate in both. I only celebrate the latter with my mom, but it has been a tradition for as long as I can remember, and hopefully someday soon, the girls will get into it as well. I’m sure they will soon realize that they will get another set of presents, and maybe even want to learn a little about another culture. In our home, we will celebrate Christmas, but it’s all just for show. We will get a tree; pretend Santa is coming, decorate the house inside and out, and exchange presents with pictures of sleds and reindeer on the wrapping paper. It’s not a religious thing for us, but it’s important for the girls because… presents. I guess that’s really it. Hmmm. I’ll have to think about that one.

 

 

I’ve been writing for over four years. My mother has been writing in this capacity for as long. We started a blog together, and we blog separately now, but the beginning was important. I believe that I’ve mentioned a few times that someday, the first year or so of our blog could be transformed into an e-book. Well, through a lot of hard work, dedication, a computer scientist, a copy editor, and time, the transformation is nearly complete. No kidding, before Christmas this year, my mom and I plan to publish and publicize an internet-based book with a little (a lot) of help from some great people. I’ve said it before, but I really mean it this time. I have in my possession the entire thing minus a few finishing details in e-book form. I would love to show it to you, but I’d much rather you paid for it. So, when the time comes, I will most definitely provide a link for you to do just that.

 

 

That’s about all I have for today. Winter is coming and there will be plenty of time to sit inside and write, but for now I need to be a responsible adult and get some laundry done. This is my exciting life. But this is so much better than doing laundry in prison.

 

Over the Hill

Well, I’m forty. It all happened so quickly. It seems like just ten years ago I was pissing and shitting in my pants; probably because it was.

The day before my 30th birthday I was at the local bar and I had a quick necessity to defecate. The bathroom was occupied, and so was the ladies. I decided I could make it home so I grabbed some bar napkins and headed out. About half way there, I felt it come out. It was liquid because of my sophisticated diet of malt and hops, and there was a good chunk knocking at my already lubricated door. I stopped in the middle of the road. I knew if I took one more step, I would shit even more down my leg. And then it happened, and I just let it go. There was a point where I knew I could make it the rest of the way home, so I cut it off and walked with both a stagger and a limp up my stairs and into the laundry room where I took off my pants and went directly into the bathroom to finish then take a quick shower. In less than ten minutes I was back at the bar with a different pair of pants, nobody asked why.

On my 30^th birthday, I lived in the southeastern Minnesota town of Lanesboro, and at 7:30am, my good friend came down from Fountain with a wiffle-ball set and a case of beer for each of us so we could open up the Parkway Pub at 8am, then play drunken alley baseball behind my apartment building. The plan was a success, but I quickly became a puddle. Tequila shots at the bar in the morning lead to an early afternoon nap every time. Although I was generally in a blackout state at the end of any given day, before noon was less common and I remember waking up in a fog with plenty of daylight to spare, and I had the thought that it could still be my birthday. I needed to celebrate.

I was in my apartment, so I knew I had to make it to one of the local businesses that I was still allowed in to take a shit because I was all out of napkins. You see, back in those days I didn’t care about anything other than gambling, drinking, and weed. Accessories like toilet paper, toothpaste, and soap were not to be found unless there was a special occasion. I also had no laundry detergent, so my streaks and my spills were always visible from my last blackout, and I was in a steady state of deterioration.

This wasn’t even my bottom. I lived like this for years and I was wholly okay with my lifestyle. Other people seemed to like me, so I just kept on living in that breaking-point state. For years I somehow survived myself through drinking excessively, doing every drug I could find for free, being broke on payday, and recklessly demolishing my image with local woman with whom I would assuredly try to make time with in my stupors, which I would always hear about later.

My early 30s were just like my mid to late 20s: somehow I didn’t die. Finally, I destroyed myself enough to get back into hard drugs which were the catalyst for my transformation, of which you have read so much about over the years.

Today, I am living in my apotheosis. I don’t mean that I am God-like, I’m simply stating that this is the greatest point in my life thus far, and so long as I keep clean, follow a few simple suggestions, help others who are like me, and try to be loving and tolerant to everybody I encounter, I get to keep this life.

Imagine this: everything I have, the house, the car, the girlfriend, the job, relationships with my family members, this great opportunity to be a role-model to two little girls, everything that’s important to me, is just three years old. Maybe a few months older than that, but this life started for me on September 8^th, 2015, the day I walked out of prison. From then until now I have accumulated an entire life of love, responsibility, and hope. And this is the best part: anybody can do this.

If you have found the courage to look for help, to seek hope, and have found this blog, you can do this, too. You are fully capable of being a human, you are worthy of love, you can be honest without fear, and you can have everything and anything you need. It will take a lot of work, and you have to be open and honest or it will not work. You have to own your mistakes—all of them. And you have to find something out there that is more powerful than you and your addiction, and you have to believe that It can help you. You have to clean up your past, pay debts, apologize, and maybe even shed a tear or two in the process, and you can’t ever stop trying to be better. You have to try every day to be the person you want people to see you as, even when they aren’t looking. You can be a miracle.

When I was 30, I knew I would be dead by the time I was 40. I lived in pain, and I loved nothing. I couldn’t. I couldn’t feel.

Now I smile. I laugh.

I live.

I love.

Bath Time

The bathroom is done. I should say, the bathroom is roughly half completed. It took two days to demolish, remove, and replace a cast iron tub from 1954 with something modern and more fitting with what we like in the 2000’s. I didn’t do any of the work, but we will likely do the rest of the demolition over the winter.

The contractor said that he rarely sees a home as well constructed as ours. Well, he actually said that what would normally be a two-hour demolition took him all day because of the layers of plaster, metal mesh, and tile that some “asshole” had put up back in the 1900’s. Fortunately, we had paid by the project, not the hour, so we didn’t incur any additional labor charges due to frustration. I’ve posted pictures of the old bath before, but I will post one again to compare it to the new one.

 

As you can see, this tub needed to be replaced. I can't find anymore pictures of the rest of the shower, but I can assure you they are burned into my memory.

I told the contractor that Amanda and I planned on using the winter months to tear down and build up new walls for the rest of the bathroom, and he suggested that I use all of them. I’m now wondering if it’s even possible to do what he has done and make it look decent. I have absolutely no knowledge of how to make a wall, or take one down properly for that matter. But, I have neighbors who are willing to teach, and to help. I think this is a project we will need help with, and this small town is great for people who want to help each other.

 

Here is our new bath and shower. Everything from top to bottom, inside and out, is covered by a lifetime warranty. I mean, it's plastic and pex, so nothing should really go wrong, but it's nice to know that we don't have to worry about anything.

 

It's not fancy; it's functional. All people really need to do in a shower is... bathe. We have to wait 24 hours before we use it so the adhesive has a chance to dry, but then we can leave that old cast-iron tub in our memories, and begin the process of completing the rest of the bathroom by removing years of plaster, steel mesh, and tile, and putting up something modern. I think I may have written an identical sentence up at the top of this, but I will leave it in because I'm about done writing and I don't have time to fix anything.

I'm still sober. There, this post is now recovery-related.

I'm Almost 40 and I Drive a Minivan

It’s getting harder to find time to do the things I used to be able to do like write, go to the gym, and sleep. I have sacrificed all of these things for my existence in the middle of nowhere, because life evolves and changes into something else when you start doing things for other people instead of yourself. My goal is to always be selfless, but sometimes I can bend the truth a little to get the things that I want.

For instance…

I recently purchased a minivan. Now, I’ve been on the fence for a while on what to do with my old car because it was either time to put in a couple thousand in repairs, or trade it in for something with a bit less mileage. I decided on the latter because of two things: 1. Getting a three-year-old into the back seat of a Mini and buckled up properly is the worst thing. 2. I needed something better at dealing with over six inches of snow on the road.

So, I made a choice. I got something I wanted, and I got something that was good for the family. We went to a dealership in Lakeville where a friend of mine from the rooms of A.A. works, and we looked at cars. Well, vans.

Six months ago, when we started looking at houses, we ended up making an offer on the second house we looked at. The same was true in the parking lot. We looked in and around at a 2016 Dodge Grand Caravan SXT, and we drove it around. We loved it, and we made an offer. The offer of course was listed already on the price tag, but we did end up getting a better deal by about $1,000 off the listed price, plus my trade-in, plus some cash down. It’s still a huge investment, but it was needed, and now we can drive as a family in comfort.

It is a flex-fuel vehicle which means that I can use E-85 or gasoline, whichever I choose. So far, I have noticed that M.P.G.s are slightly lower with E-85, but in town, the difference in price per gallon is about a dollar, so do the math. I won’t. I wouldn’t know how to do the math. I’m good with letter’s, not number’s. I should clarify immediately that I made those punctuation errors on purpose. I thought it was funny. Enough about the car.

 

A lot is happening this week. I turn 39 for the second year in a row, and our bathroom gets a professional makeover with a new tub and shower. I have shared a picture or two of the old tub, and it is necessary to remove it and have everything under and behind it re-plumbed before a new one can be installed. I’m not willing or able to do any of that. It will, however, motivate me to remove the rest of the ancient pink tile on the other side of the bathroom and put up drywall, or sheetrock, I still don’t know the difference. Eventually, when we can afford it, we will put in a new sink to complete the remodel. Anything will look better than it does now, and this will certainly boost the value of our home.

 

Oh, I’m turning 40 on Wednesday. I just wanted to get that out there before anybody else does. Honestly, for what I’ve put myself through over the years, I can’t believe I don’t feel older than I do. I can attribute everything to exercise. It’s the only good thing I’ve ever done to my body, and it seems to be paying off. I don’t have any aches or pains; I can still get less than eight hours of sleep every night without being groggy in the morning, and I’m not out of breath when I perform simple tasks like walking up stairs. I see a few people similar in age struggling with these same simple motions, and I’m glad I’m not there.

 

That’s all I’ve got for now. I’m still going to my meeting weekly in town, and I am able to get to my old meeting in Delano about every other week which I love. I still get to my first home group in St. Paul about once a month, and I recently was asked to be a sponsor again. Life is good, and it’s all because I constantly work at it from so many angles. I am exactly where I want to be in most areas, and I’m actively doing things to move forward in the stagnant ones. More on that hopefully soon.

 

Fixing Broken Bad

I’ve been bad. Rather, I’ve been watching bad: Breaking Bad. I knew that I wanted to see this series when it came out many years ago, before I started the bender that sent me to prison for possessing the drug that the show embellishes. I wanted to wait until not only did I have the time, but the ability to watch it without wanting to get high.

Here’s what I think of the show so far, and how it relates to reality and my old life.

The first scene that struck a nerve was in the first episode where they make their first batch of meth. I was only ever involved in the process once, and really I just watched. We were out on an abandoned farm and I can remember vividly the smells and sights, and some of those were recreated quite well on the program.

That day on that farm, things didn’t go well. We couldn’t get the right temperature for the chemical reaction because we didn’t have a hot-plate, and we were trying to use an old wood burning stove which uses, well, fire which doesn’t mix well with the process. We ended up going back into the city to a house where we had permission to cook. About midway through the operation, we were surprised by a landlord who showed up with a utility guy and we all had to hide in a basement bathroom with the lights off for an hour until the coast was clear. We netted very little by the end, and I would never see any of those people again.

The people in the show generally smoke their meth, which is the way I also intook the chemical. This has actually not been a source of trigger for me because they do it improperly. I’ve written before on the ritual, and I don’t want to do it again because that really can be a trigger for me, so I will just say that most meth users keep a very clean pipe and keep the source of the heat far away so as not to burn the precious commodity. Many people also shoot, boof (no, it's not a reference to flatulence. Not even close.), and eat their dose, but I stayed away from those other methods for a variety of reasons, most of them fear-based.

I see a lot of the people I used to hang around with. Their names and shapes are different, but their spasms and bearings are all the same. The looks on a tweaker’s face I believe cannot be duplicated without great acting and research, and these people did their homework—or their meth. I find myself wondering what they did to study the lifestyle, and how they reacted to seeing these types of people first hand. I also wonder what type of drug addict lets people not in the trade into their lives, and how they are recompensed.

I’m nearly into the third season and there are five total. I haven’t had an urge yet to throw away my life and go off the deep end, and if I had any sudden urge to make a call to an “old friend” I would call my sponsor: that’s what he’s there for.

I like a lot of different types of shows, and I love this one for the dialogue and character development. If you’ve never seen it, Bryan Cranston plays a chemistry teacher who is diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer, and decides he can make money to pay for his chemo by making and selling meth with an addict partner. I was a drug-addict/dealer, which is a losing combination because all of the profit goes inside me and my friends. It’s a vicious cycle that bears no repeating, and only dredges up calamitous and stomach-turning recollections. It’s much better watching somebody else do it from my couch in my house. Well, her couch in our house.

Feast of Fantasy

We made it a year. About sixteen months ago I walked into a restaurant for a job interview and walked out with a dream. I saw the most beautiful woman I had—and have—ever seen, and I would take the job just to meet her. It was a terrible decision and I hate my job. No, no, that isn’t true at all. I love my job, and I love my girlfriend who happens to be that beautiful woman. Yesterday was our first official anniversary and we celebrated in grand fashion.

For her birthday which was ten days previous, I had purchased tickets to the Minnesota Renaissance Festival and a show inside called the Feast of Fantasy. During our holiday party earlier this year, we won a night’s stay at Hotel Minneapolis West End in St. Louis Park, so we finished our day on the rooftop looking over the Minneapolis skyline, and enjoyed a couple appetizers and she a few adult potions.

This post will be mostly pictures and a pretty cool video from inside the Feast of fantasy. It was the last show of the year, and they pulled out all of the stops, including dick and fart jokes. Those are my favorite.

Before I show off my pictures, I’d like to say that this was my first time at the RenFest, and it was really cool. It was nice to be in a place where people weren’t afraid to be who they wanted to be, even if it wasn’t themselves. If anything, we were the odd ones out, but nobody looked at us sideways; nobody made fun of us for the way we looked. I think the opposite is not so true outside those walls for people that are….you know, nerdy. I like most people, especially people who have fun.

So, we walked around in circles for a couple hours, watching people and spending money on various wares and fares, and of course, we had to have a turkey leg.

 

 

Don't worry, I will have some Photoshop work done to these pictures and send them to those I deem appropriate.

I tried on a kilt because when you are in Rome, you do as the Romans do. When you are at the Renaissance Festival, you try new things. Obviously, I look good.

 

This is the entrance to the feast. They primed us with some jokes and we played along. We were called in by name and we entered to our set tables. It was much smaller than I expected inside, but the size would have nothing to do with the event in the end. If I counted correctly, there were 72 attendees.

 

The fire-breathers were a dynamic trio of entertainment. Nothing they did would I ever want to try at home, but I will anyhow because it looked super easy. Also, I love the smell of gas, so I assume it tastes great as well.

Just a cool shot.

 

I had to resize this video to fit it onto this post. I hope it's viewable.