Jamaica

We set sail for Jamaica. There would be a full day of travel which meant we would be on the boat the entire time. I woke up early and freshened up, then promptly headed out for breakfast. My itinerant companion was still with me but things were uneasy. It was me really; I mean she was blunt but honest in her confession. I don’t think I was ready to accept what had happened at the little cantina in Mexico, and alcohol would fuel all of my negative drive throughout the next few days. But first, breakfast.

On our ship, as I’m sure is the case on many luxury ocean liners, there are innumerable places to sit and gorge oneself. I always picked French pastries because they were as fresh as they could possibly be- like made before your eyes- and so sweet. Every day I wished I had one of those hangy-neck flap things like a pelican has so I could store some for later. But, I am only human, so after my fill, there was only one thing to do.

Angie, along with nearly every passenger we passed by, thought it strange that I was holding a Foster’s 24oz beer at 9am wandering down the halls. But they didn’t know the truth, that was already my second. All there really was to do on the ship was sit, walk, or play games in the casino (I told myself), so why not get drunk?

I drank all day, and that evening we (she) decided to go into a night-club atmosphere sort of dance place thing. Never in my life before or after have I been in a place like that. It was awful. Disco balls, strobe lights, booming bass, and dancing. I’ve never written this, but I have an irrational fear of dancing. I will never do it; I will never try it. Just like needles, it’s just not for me. Anyhow, I sat alone in the seats off to the side while she danced the night away with everybody else. I’m sure she could sense me staring daggers at her every time a new guy would start grinding on her. I drank myself into oblivion, and then it was morning, and I had my tie on again. We were in Jamaica.

This is one of my favorite pictures I have ever taken. I had a nice camera at the time, and I took several shots and this was the best. I forgot the name of the flower.

My first impression of Jamaica was that it appeared to be the most dangerous place in the world. This hypothesis was further promoted by hundreds of signs, and a rather loud announcement about talking to any people outside of the tourist attractions. “You may be kidnapped, raped, murdered, or worse.” Worse? We were in an enclosed area surrounded by barbed wire fences, much like my future home.

 In an enclosed area, the birds are accustomed to humans feeding them so they get up close and personal. Why am I wearing that shirt if I haven't been there yet? Hmmm. 

Our shore excursion was a tour of the jungle. Or something like that. I know I bought some Blue Mountain coffee, and took a few pictures. I hated that all the tour guides made all of the stupid white people say cliché things like, “Ya, Mon.” And, “Eire!” Over, and over again. We walked through a movie set, or at least that’s what it looked like to me. It really was beautiful, and it really was part of a jungle. But everybody was really pushy about getting tipped, and very aggressive in their sales techniques of local wares. One man thrust an ugly figurine in my hand and said I could have it. I said thanks! Then he followed me and said it would be really nice if I would buy something else since he gave me something. I said I didn’t want anything they had to offer, and he rudely snatched the figurine back. Dick.

I did pay $20 for a guy to climb a tree and pick a coconut for me. He then chopped the top off and poured rum in it. It really wasn’t very good, and the rum he used was Smirnoff. Fucking Smirnoff rum in Jamaica! Stupid Americans. Ugh. I was ready to get back to the ship to get drunk, so we went. Jamaica was not that great, but it wasn’t the worst part of the trip.

We parted ways with the shore, and headed for our next destination, Grand Cayman. It was nearly the last place I ever was, and definitely as close to death as I can recall. 

Funny story. My memory is completely backwards when it comes to this trip. I didn't realize I was in the Cayman Islands before Jamaica until I put that second picture in, which I didn't do until after I had written everything. So, there ya go. I'm presenting this series of posts Quentin Tarantino style. 

Mexico Part Dos (The Cruise Part 2)

I can drink, and in Mexico after hearing some interesting news from a former lover at a tranquil resort on the beach, I began to really hit it hard. She wandered off and I sat at the bar alone for a bit, and that’s all I remember. According to a credit card bill I found in my pocket when I woke up, I had spent about $100 during my power failure. I’m sure there were some interesting conversations with the bartenders, or more likely the chairs.

I failed to mention in my last post something that stuck in my mind for years since that day, but not yesterday. The public bathrooms were absolutely disgusting in Mexico. One in particular reminds me now of my prison cell in St. Cloud without bars. Cold, hard concrete from floor to ceiling. A bare toilet, and a urinal flush with the wall. St Cloud didn’t have urinals, but Mexico did. St. Cloud also didn’t have creepy little blind kids that would stand directly behind me when I peed. The boy said nothing but held two tin buckets. Apparently he could hear when I stopped and asked inquisitively, “Fresh lime?” I think I said, “huh?” but I felt a mixture of urine and old lime juice hit my hands and general groin area. He had tossed a half of a lime in the toilet to freshen it up, probably what he considered cleaning. It was a busy day, and I wondered why there were only a few limes in there. Did he have to feel around for the old ones to discard them? There are only a few places in this world I won’t put my hands, nearly all of them are in the mouths of wild African predators, and then one is the toilet in a Mexican public restroom. I turned around to say something but he thrust his other bucket at me which had a few coins and a dollar in it. I looked into his eyes and I could see how hard his life had been on him. He could not see, and I could clearly see that now. I could see his pupils through a thick white haze. They were offset and he appeared to be staring right through me, as if he was listening for something. My heartbeat. I was drunk, but I’m a compassionate drunk. I pulled out a $20 and put it in his shirt pocket and told him to make sure nobody else got any of it. I don’t think he understood me. As I was leaving the bathroom I looked back one final time to see him reaching toward the toilet. It hit me. He was going to reuse the limes.

Back to the boat. I don’t even have a clue how I got there. I’m surprised that I even managed to find the right boat. I woke up on our bed, my head pounding. I needed a drink. I stumbled out into the hallway, and when I say I stumbled, I mean that I had lost all sense of direction and every bit of coordination I had accumulated since childhood.  I needed strong drink. I mean I needed strong drink to survive life from that point on. That was the moment it clicked in my head again that I could drink to blackout twice in a day. I didn’t think of it as a blackout, but a buzz. You see, I never once got high or drunk because I knew I would lose all of my money, self-esteem, or vanity. I didn’t smoke crack because I could blow a whole paycheck in one night. I didn’t sell drugs because I knew it would lead me to prison. I did all of that shit because I like the way it makes me feel. That’s not past tense, I know all of those things will still have the desired consequence. I loved the way alcohol made me feel while I was using it, and I knew that no matter how bad my head hurt, or no matter which direction I was facing after each step I took, I could eventually find my way to a barstool and everything would be better again.

The Cruise Part 1

As with most events in my life that weren’t dated with a mugshot, or a stack of legal paperwork, I have no real idea when I went on my cruise. It was more than ten years ago, and it wasn’t last week. I was a drunken mess the whole time, and I nearly drowned. Also I saw a monkey.

The few pictures I have from the cruise are only around because, for some reason, MySpace still survives. I can’t log into my account, but I can copy pictures from my page.

This all started when a girl I was dating suggested we go together. We became close very quickly, and after an only brief friendship, began dating. It was a disaster, and only a month in, it all fell apart. Here’s the thing, we still had Caribbean Cruise tickets, and mine was worth over $2,000 alone, so we were going. I almost wish I hadn’t.

I had started drinking only a few weeks before the trip after nearly five years of sobriety. I was depressed because I was single again, and had lost whatever happiness I had found after years of finally making the right choices. The point is, that I had picked up where I had left off with drinking, and almost immediately started drinking to blackout every night. I’ll get to it:

We left Rochester at 4am for the Minneapolis airport, I had parked my car at a friend of Angie’s (the ex) and she would drive us to our flight. Blah, blah, blah… We arrive in Florida, wait for two stupid hours for a shuttle to take us to a line that we stand in for two more stupid hours, and finally we board the ship. One person at a time, over 2,000 people. F.M.L. Finally, at 6pm we start the safety whatever meeting where we all learn how to use life jackets. It was like an hour-long version of the seat belt speech on an airplane. 7:30, we hit the road. The road made of water. 

Forever one of my favorite pictures. This was taken on the first night from either the bow, or the stern of the massive ship. Whichever one of those terms means the front.

The ship was colossal; I can’t think of a better word for it. And, it had everything you could possibly want or need. Several casinos, a hundred themed bars, too many restaurants, some free some not, a full gym, swimming pools, various clothing shops, duty-free stores, and more. The first night we just walked and walked, taking it all in. I grabbed a Foster’s and that became my theme as far as beer went for the extent of the trip. The first night, I didn’t black out.

Day two was all ocean. We took advantage of what the ship had to offer, for me that was sitting by pools with colorful drinks the size of fishbowls, and getting some sun. Sun+booze= Derrrrrrrr. I know I took a nap because I was told by somebody that I should be presentable for the formal dinner that evening. Well, I wouldn’t want to make a scene.

Taken in one of the never-ending hallways of the cruise ship on the second night just before the first formal dinner.

The formal dining hall was, and still is, the most charming, elegant setting I have ever eaten in. Seating was assigned, and we were placed with other Minnesotans for the three proper dinners of the trip, it was pretty cool. Lobster, beef tenderloin, other things, stuff, it was all delicious. And I only had a glass of wine because I was classy. A few hours later I was escorted back to my room because I was found blabbering in a hallway well after everything had shut down for the night. I woke up with my tie still on in the morning.

Day three: Mexico. I remember very little of Mexico because they have Tequila. I love Tequila. I love Tequila. Did I say that?

I love this picture. This was my view from a bar stool at the port bar in Costa Maya, Mexico.

We went on a four-wheel excursion where we saw a monkey in a tree from restricted vehicles. I mean, these things wouldn’t go over 30, and they still made us wear helmets. Also, I had to pretend not to be drunk at 11am, which is stupid, because I was hammered drunk because they sell drinks everywhere!

This bar is where Angie opened up and told me that not only did she never want to get back together, but she had found somebody else. He was married, and had a kid on the way. Also she had been with him while we were briefly dating. Also she had been with her ex-boyfriend.  “Camarero, uno mas, por favor!”

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A Little Spring Dusting

I've not written for a few days because I have been working more than usual and I've been a bit lazy. So, I've copied this old post from Breaking Free, because it's yet another reminder of how fucked up I was. This is one of only two posts written by somebody other than my mother or myself, and the only thing on Fixing Broken not written by me. But it is bout me, and it's scary and real. Enjoy.

The following story is about me, from the perspective of a friend of mine that has a much better memory than I do. I knew that this story existed, and I knew when I heard it the other day that I was in one of those blackouts where somehow you can still walk and talk or, in my case stumble and mumble. I asked my friend, we’ll call him Kenny, to write it out for me so I could put it on the blog. If I had actually remembered that night, it may have beat out my arson night for my worst 24.  So, here goes….

I (Kenny) had just gotten off work and was probably texting everyone to see if there was anything going on that night.  Vince, one of our friends, told me they were all out drinking at our mutual acquaintance’s private campground.  I grabbed a few beers knowing they would have more there if I ran out, or, god forbid, we’d start on the whiskey.  I arrived there shortly after the call and we promptly began drinking and bullshitting.

As the night progressed, all but three of us had gone home or to sleep.  Vince, Brad (a coworker at the time) and myself.  I had been texting a girl I knew from Rochester, and she invited us to her friend’s house to hang out and drink.  Brad’s car was the only one with enough gas, so after convincing him to let me drive us all there, we were on our way.

We were all drinking on the way.  Vince would occasionally ask me if one of the girls would have sex with him, and Brad would remind me that he has an open warrant.  We finally arrived at this trailer park (which was half of the town) and got to the address.  Nobody home. We waited, and I tried to keep Vince  “calm.”  He would all of a sudden walk around the trailer and pull on the window frames.

We sat in the car and gave the girls ten minutes to get there before we took off.  Just in time, they showed up.  The two of them brought us inside and we start handing beers out trying to figure out how to have any fun.  The one that I didn’t know went into another room and my friend [not Vince] followed. 10-15 minutes went by.  Us boys were sitting and staring at each other when I finally wen to  see what the girls were doing.  I opened the bedroom door and both girls were taking turns inhaling Dusters [the canned air used to clean computer keyboards].  Vince popped up behind me, made a comment on how it had been a while since he had done it.  They offered him a can and he took a lung full.  I had never seen people do this before so it made me worried and uncomfortable.

One girl passed out and began shaking in the corner of a bathroom.  After a while I made an excuse so we could leave soon.  Vince was in one of their rooms going in and out of a drunken/duster stupor on her bed.  He kept telling me we needed to stay because the girl was going to fuck him, but she was in another room doing more duster.

I managed to get Vince to the door.  Before I left though I went into the room with the girls and took the can of Duster.  They made a fuss and tried to get it back.  Vince pretty aggressively pushed me and took the can.  He gave it back to them and tried once more to stay with them and failed.

We left and wound up at Denny’s restaurant in Rochester.  I’m sure Vince verbally assaulted the waiter after he brought him multiple shots of syrup.  He got up a few times with a steak knife and followed the waiter back to the kitchen.  Fortunately, the waiter never saw it.  We finally made our way back to Fountain.  End of story….

VINCE here. I have no idea why I had shots of syrup.  My guess is that I tried aggressively to order booze which they do not have at Denny’s.  Also I had never tried Duster before or after that night.  I am grateful to Kenny for putting up with me that night.  Who knows how many stories are out there that I will never remember.  Stories I hope to never have to hear.

Mom

Mom, I know I’ve let you down. Over, and over again I’ve made a mess of my life and brought both of us shame. There were years where you were unable to explain my whereabouts to family and friends, and times where you yourself didn’t know where I was. I’ve put you through more pain and distress than I care to recall. I’ve not been a son to you for many years, and I have lost your trust far too many times. All these things are true and I think on them frequently.

But for some reason, you still love me. It’s an unconditional love that I’ve felt nowhere else. Even recently when we didn’t see eye to eye when we lived together, there was never any doubt that you loved me. I wish I could say that I promise you that I will never be lead astray again by the temptation and allure of alcohol and the world of drugs, but I cannot because it’s the nature of the disease that I am always at risk of going back. What I can say is that once again, today I made a small step in my progress toward restoring sanity in my life. And tomorrow, when we go out on our secret trip to an unknown location for Mother’s Day lunch, I will be repairing even more of the damage I have caused. I will be repairing the bond that had been broken for so long as a result of my actions. I have nobody to blame but myself, which leaves only me to clean up the mess. And so far, I think it’s working.

It’s hard work, searching inside myself to try to figure out what’s been broken for so long. But through writing this blog, attending A.A. meetings, and working with a sponsor, I’m starting to change my life around. I no longer do these things to avoid going back to prison, I do them because I want to be out here living life and being with my family as much as I can.

Although you had help from some family members raising me for a small portion of my childhood, I know that you were solely responsible for bringing me up and I know that you not only did the best you could without a father present, you truly were an amazing Mother, I just didn’t see it until later in life.

I see it now, and I won’t forget it. You imparted upon me how to be a good, loving person, and it took me about 20 years longer than it should have to recognize that. The things you showed me are the things I strive to emulate now because I know that they are righteous, moral, and honorable.

Mom, I love you. It doesn’t get any more honest than that. You were instrumental in keeping me sane throughout my prison term. You wrote to me, sent me money, and answered my calls. Not everybody is as lucky as I was in there. Not everybody has a person that loves them no matter what, and I consider myself fortunate. You moved just to accommodate me living with you when I got out, and I am so grateful for that. I may not have acted like it when I lived there, but that was because I was ashamed of myself, and I shut myself in my room, and my own little world where I felt comfortable. I’m breaking out of that shell slowly, but surely, and I won’t forget that it’s because of you that I’m even out here in the first place and had a warm safe place to sleep. Sometimes it takes a while to realize what I have to be grateful for, but eventually it comes.

Tomorrow is your day, and I’m excited that I have the ability to take you out for the day, and the means to make it happen. I think this will be the best Mother’s Day we’ve ever spent together, and I look forward to many more.

Mom, I know I’ve let you down. But I’m going to make it up by becoming a good son, and making up for all the hurt I’ve caused. I love you, Mom.