Juice

The summer after you finished high school. Having recently moved into a small apartment, stressed out by her own demons as well as yours, your mother indicated you find someplace else to live. She’d found evidence of your partying in the basement and could not take it anymore. Never mind you were still a minor in the eyes of the law. You had to go. Jesse was already camped at your father’s townhouse so that was not an option. Naturally, you chose living with a small time drug dealer you’d met in the park. You could not legally sign a lease but “Juice” had been more than happy to take $500 dollars under the table. It was a win-win. He’d even given you the flat’s lone bedroom, preferring the living room because “it was bigger.” Far from the threatening stereotype of a drug dealer, Juice was about as odd a character as you’d ever met. African American, he was also albino, which made him whiter than you. He had pink eyes. And he had lots of drugs, which in turn attracted lots of women.

Your mother met Juice only once but you will never forget her stunned expression, upon seeing this pink-skinned, black man whose apartment you now shared. Akin to a spit take, like something from the popular TV show, Laugh In or more appropriately, The Odd Couple. But mom was a bohemian and Juice was on his best behavior. The arrangement was allowed to continue. Not that she could have prevented it anyway. For the record, your father wasn’t made aware of your exotic roommate, only that you had one.

Those two and a half months became one long weekend. An array of females came to see Juice for pot or acid, often staying to tryst with you. Or they came specifically to fool around with you but later stayed to cop from Juice. Thus, you both shared a symbiotic relationship. Many things could have gone terribly wrong that summer, and arguably should have. Yet, from what you recalled it had been a total blast.

The Endless Friendless

Chasing friends was humiliating and losing them even worse. Yet, the pattern of loss was real. And you were the common denominator. Was Sarah right? Were you too sensitive? Are you an asshole? Your estranged brother seemed to think so. The letters from your father had been unequivocal.

It wasn’t just old friends. There were the people you had helped professionally. And now, when you needed a lifeline, they were ghosts. One man, call him James, lives only 5 miles from you. He runs an agency in San Francisco, whose parent company you’d gotten him the job at.  When his career had been faltering, as well as his marriage, you recruited him to Chicago and made him a partner. You saved him. James knows you need work and he knows what you can do. Yet, he’s not called you once.

Why?

You have beaten this horse to a pulp in therapy. You shared about it in AA. You discussed it with Sarah, your father, the man on the moon. Endured their subtle damning explanations, pointing at you.

People in the fellowship like you. What do they see that no one else does? Like most, you present the best version of yourself in AA. Was that it? Still, had your second best really been that bad? Enough to alienate Tom, Peter, David and James? Maybe your mother’s theory would explain this great mystery. You sure as hell couldn’t.

Your mom has been talking non-stop, about the harrowing and narrowing life of a 77-year-old woman, living alone. Brave yet often frightened, rarely lonely but leery of isolating, doing the best that she can. She’s thrilled that you called. She loves you. Goodbye.

Paragraphs from the Edge

ONE

“Hi sweetie!” your mom warbles. Abruptly, she asks you to hold on while she adjusts her hearing aids. A clattering of noises the dog yipping and she’s back. “Sorry about that!” Like always, her voice wavered between desperate and defiant. “These new hearing aids are supposed to fit my ears but they keep falling out.” She’s having a rough week, dealing with health issues, a sick dog, and the even sicker tenants at her assisted living facility. The theme was incontinence, to one degree or another. In the process of telling you about an old man who peed his pants in the elevator the call drops. Maybe she inadvertently pushed the wrong button. When she calls you back you do not ask her to repeat the story. You got the gist of it. Getting old sucked. Twenty-five years her junior and you were experiencing it for yourself. Bad eyes. Trick back. Chronic Indigestion. How long before either of you are pissing on elevators?

TWO

A chubby kid, you had no choice but to accept lesser status among your peers. It was the price of entry. Still, you once considered David your best friend. Sometimes he treated you shoddily. Other times he was nice. You were like his overweight girlfriend; he only hung out with you when no one else was around. You hated this injustice but you believed in the friendship. Underneath the bullshit you were certain David liked you. Came a morning you rapped on his door. You knew he was there. His bike was on the porch. But it was his mother who answered. Is Dave home, you asked? She replied he’d gone to the movies. It was a lie. You could hear him telling her to get rid of you. After that, things were never the same and the same hadn’t been that great in the first place.