Contributed by: Joe
Hello again. It’s that time of the year when I’m finally leaving Southern California, when I’m putting this shithole of an apartment behind, when I have so few possessions left that it won’t take much to load them up in a trailer, when this constant reminder of everything at least won’t be staring me in the face every fucking day – in other words, Friday (March 31) can’t come soon enough.
I don’t know where to start. It’s been so long since I wrote something besides … that I’m unsure of myself, unsure of my writing. I wonder if my writing voice has changed. I wonder if I can approach the level I once did. I wonder.
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Late March and early April are my time of change. I started my job in Owensboro, Ky. , in early April 1995 (wow, that seems like three lifetimes ago). I left there in late March 1997 and started at The News-Gazette in Champaign, Ill. , on March 31. I left Champaign on March 31, 2003 and headed west. And now I’m loading up my meager possessions on March 31, 2006 and leaving Southern California .
Maybe it’s just a coincidence – hell, it probably is. But it seems strange. Spring sprung a week ago, and I could get into the symbolism of change, renewal, rebirth, a phoenix rising from the ashes of its past – but that would be reading too much into it. I think.
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My Uncle Kenny died Feb. 24. I flew home to be with my family, to be with them like they were for me and my family when my dad died Aug. 31, 2000.
The beginning and end of my relationship with her was marked by death, bookends on a failure. We got together in November 2000, a couple months after Dad died. We ended for good in January 2006, a couple months before Uncle Kenny died.
There’s a black hole inside where all of the death lives. In one form or another, it’s there every day.
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And this is much harder – still – than I thought it would be.
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What else? I quit working out nearly three months ago, after three months of hitting it five days a week. I’ve lost so much muscle mass, I’m so much skinnier than I should be.
I finally started flossing again a couple of weeks ago after nearly three months of barely making an attempt at oral hygiene. My gums bled for days and looked positively hideous, and I would spit out chunks of I don’t know what, but they were bloody. I’m thankful that has stopped.
I have been drinking, on average, two cases of beer a week. Four to six after getting off work, 10 to 15 on my days off. It adds up. I’m getting a blood test tomorrow to see just how fucked up my liver is. And my blood sugar. And my cholesterol. And whatever else they test for. I’m a little scared of what the results might say. I’m not drinking tonight, however. And I didn’t drink when I went home for Uncle Kenny’s funeral. So I’ve got that.
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I fucked up when she moved her shit out by not cleaning out the filing cabinet with her tax returns and auto information and whatnot. So I packed it all up. And then I kept finding stuff. Stupid little shit, every piece another turn of the screw. I finally got it all boxed up and sent it, along with a goodbye letter. I thought that was the end.
Then I started boxing up my books, and I discovered more of her books. Fuck me. So I looked for any last reminders, anything that connected her to me. I boxed up everything and sent that off last week. That’s it. The end.
I was going to send back all of the clothes she bought me through the five years. Then I realized that I would lose about two-thirds of my wardrobe, so that idea was scrapped. But if I win the MegaMillions lottery later today, that fucking shit is getting burned. Every last bit of it. And this Dell computer. And anything that connects her to me. A huge, choking, toxic-fume-spewing conflagration. And I will rejoice.
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A little black stone of hate has formed inside me. I polish it every day.
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Depending on who you ask, there have been either 10 or 11 murders in San Bernardino so far this year. It’s the armpit of the fucking Earth.
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I missed “24” tonight. What happened?
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I saw my first and only squirrel this weekend, on Gannett Parkway about 300 yards from The Sun parking lot. I had my window down, and I hollered at it, “Squirrel, don’t play in the road. You’ll get run over.” It ran back from whence it came, into the trash-strewn empty lot.
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And that’s about it. I have a notebook in which I’ve written down topic ideas, things that might be funny, true things that might make you laugh. But I don’t feel very funny these days.
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I turned down a job on Maui the same week she came to get her stuff.
A couple of weeks ago, I critiqued a shitty-looking paper in Florida and basically ripped them a new one. Oddly enough, I haven’t heard back from them. Former drag racing legend “Big Daddy” Don Garlits has his museum in that town.
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In four days, I embark upon my journey. Thousands of miles of highway await me. And I can’t wait to get started.
Till who knows when,
Joe
March 28, 2006
Joes North by NorthWest
http://www.joesnxnw.com/article.php?story=2006032804062051