Chapter One.

• All The Years Combine
• They Melt Into A Dream
• A Broken Angel Sings
• From A Guitar
• In The End There’s Just A Song
• Comes Crying Like The Wind
• Through All The Broken Dreams
• And Vanished Years
• Stella Blue

Let me rewind again. Stay with me, OK? In 2003, a single me worked as a bartender on the Shore while juggling a part-time landscaping and hostess/2nd bartender position. I liked working. Scratch that, I liked making money, saving money, and my independence. I lived in a “studio” type apartment minus the whole “studio”. Why do they call it that? When I hear studio, I picture some SoHo loft with vaulted ceilings, tall windows that illuminate, and wide open space. Maybe an oak desk with a view of the city…? Not so much. This studio had a bathroom. I guess I should have considered myself lucky just to have that. My living room, kitchen and bedroom were technically all one space. But, for one person who spent a majority of their time working anyway, it was a great fit. One Friday night a month I’d hold poker games in my apartment. My friends either still lived with the ‘rents, or shared my enjoyment of small spaces (a few of them lived in my complex) so I never felt like my studio wasn’t adequate enough to host. This was my clique. We’d been friends for many years, and I considered them my besties. We loved sports, wasted many days smoking pot holding Madden tourneys, drinking beers and busting balls, sharing truth,  dropping knowledge, deep conversations, laughing until we cry, adventures for days, showing love & respect – and none of them wanted to date me or sleep with me (I think, anyway) – that’s how I judge good friendship.

I also enjoyed being single. On top of not having much time to find a partner, I really appreciated the quiet solitude that was that studio at the end of a long day. Nobody to share my remote with, nobody to share my fruity pebbles with, nobody to share my sixer of twisted tea with. My close friends smoked pot, habitually. I didn’t, but I’d hit it. When it came to drugs my philosophy was pretty simple – if you had some and wanted to share, I was usually game. I knew the kids who held, and if I came across said kid and felt like putting some shit up my nose I’d place a small order. I definitely wasn’t seeking out said kids. I was a late teen/early twenties workaholic. In HS there were pills…decent coke (I went to HS in Florida)..shrooms..acid..extasy..somas..and xanax. I could count on a few hands the times I’d done one, or all, on a weekend. Typical growing pains, right? Right? I’d indulged in coke on occasion, mainly while bartending. Some co-worker would bust out a few bumps or lines throughout the night and no, I didn’t decline the offer. But it was on occasion. Not every night. I had a few friends and acquaintances with habits, and a few with aspirations to become the next big time dealer. Not exactly what I aspired to be or do, but I didn’t judge. Shit, live your life. Especially since I’d call said peeps if I felt like letting loose on a weekend, or if a special day came along (like a birthday, or a big party..or a holiday get-together with friends..). Your typical late teens-early twenties dabbling. No Big Deal. If you spent the night before doing coke, you usually found yourself in an angry/emotional depression the next day where you’re praying that if the depression stops you’ll never snort lines again. Rookies usually don’t recognize that you need a downer after an upper, and you suffer through those moments. Lessons on lessons. I believe those experiences make you smarter and less inclined to make drugs a habit. It’s the latter thinking that starts to make drugs a habit.

The only habit I was truly into revolved around making money. And those other habits took bread out of my savings…so I figured it wasn’t a good plan to make a habit out of spending my hard earned bread. Simple mantra.

While bartending at this smaller bar in Atlantic Highlands, NJ I met this kid who kind of played hard to get, or something along those lines. I dug that. When you’re a bartender, guys think that tipping you well means you’re interested in the tip. When you smile and converse (because it’s your JOB), guys can get the wrong idea. My friends used to call these guys my “stray dogs”. I’ve been followed home. I’ve had guys waiting for me in the parking lot at 3 am despite my never inviting them to stay and wait for me. And there are the guys who think that because you are talking to them that you want them, and that you want them sitting there ALL NIGHT, clogging up a spot for someone you actually might want to talk to – who will actually tip and not be a psycho stalker. They have the nerve to start to get jealous also while you are conversing with other patrons. Shit gets crazy. But, on this particular night, there was this particular dude who was shooting pool and playing it cool. He would order a drink, make a little small talk, and walk away. Can you believe that I was almost mad that he wasn’t hitting on me. It’s like that saying…”you always want what you can’t have”. I could have these fist-pumping, hair-gelled, obnoxious, poor-tipping prima donnas..but this “normal” (haha wtf is normal anyway, and like I knew at age 19?) kid didn’t want ME? How dare he! And get this, he dipped that night without even saying goodbye. The nerve! He was eye flirting that night, and I thought he was feeling me. But then he’s ghost, and I’m all wondering why he’s not in the parking lot at 3am. I’m a walking oxyMoron.

I came in two nights later, Wednesday, October 8th 2003. Now, I’m a die hard sports fan, but the Yanks are MY squad. And it’s ALCS time. Red Sawx vs. Yankees, post-season baseball, game one. I’d have much rather been at Yankee Stadium tonight, but here I was. Packed bar, game on every screen, Boston and Yankees fans scattered throughout the large crowd. I see a group of my friends glued to the tube in their usual corner spot. I clock-in, hide my bag under the counter, and walk over to refill their Guinness’s. Besides, let’s say, a Sam Adams Cherry Wheat, is there a better brew in the fall than Guinness? I think not. And with Sammy Adams being Boston’s brewery there was no way I’d be offering anyone one of those anytime soon. Secretly, between you and I, I’d pick a sixer up after work in the fall. You gotta remember – this is 2003. No such thing as Cayman Jack’s Moscow Mule in a bottle, or any other boujie fruity shit you’ll find today. When I was a kid the fruitiest you could get was a St. Ides, and the hangover was as nasty as the bevy itself.

The place is a mad-house. Chelsea, the other bartender for the night, is tending to a group of rowdy fans – regulars – and some not-so-regulars arguing over Tim Wakefield and Mussina. Now, usually I live for these types of arguments. I know my shit, and I’m always down to conversate with intelligent fans…What I don’t dig are stupid fans. The “Yankees Suck” but I have no validity or backing as to why I feel so passionately about that statement. Gimme something! “The Yankees just buy chips” or “They’re the Evil Empire” will swifty get you owned while bringing out my jersey attitude. Don’t give me that bullshit. Chels isn’t a sports fan (whaaaat?), so she was struggling and I ran over to lend a hand. What brings everyone together? How about, “The owner wants to buy you all a drink, so start thinking about what you’d like” with a smile and a walk-off. Bam, distracted. I heard murmurs of “should I go LIT since I’m not paying?”, and “Thanks Boss” with mugs in hand looking toward my boss Mikey. Great guy. I hurried along and took orders while watching Wakefield give up back-to-back singles to Jorge Posada and Godzilla. Good shit! The place went wild. I love that type of atmosphere, and it’s why I liked bartending also. I was young, and I enjoyed a good time. Most nights, especially during the postseason, summer, spring break, or any other playoffs, the places I worked were humming and people were having fun. It keeps the mood elevated. More than sports and making money, fun was a massive part of my life. I liked to surround myself with fun, like minded peeps. You literally only live once, and I found out the hard way a few years later how true that statement is.

For now, we stay in the moment: As I poured a draft of Miller Lite for a patron I heard the bell above the door clang. And wouldn’t you know it, there stood homeboy from the night before. You know, the one I thought was crazy for not hitting on me incessantly. I found out his name was Brian. Brian had that skater style. Etnies hoody, baggy jeans, DVS’s…dirty blonde thick hair, sorta long, peeked out from a backwards black fitted hat. We made eye contact. He had really nice light blue eyes. He told me I had really nice baby blues, and ordered a Bud bottle. He paid, smiled, asked me the score of the game, and walked away to the pool table. He was with a group of dudes. He walked back over a few seconds later, asked for quarters for the table, asked me my name (FINALLY!), and promised he would come “chat” (he used that word..who says chat? was he too sophisticated for me? ) after the game. I watched him walk off. I floated around the bar, keeping tabs on Moose’s three innings of shutout ball, placing bar food orders, and talking shit to the Boston faithful. Someone put “We right here” on the digital jukebox, and the bar erupted into a chorus of, “Bring it, what, we right here. We’re not going anywhere, we right here”. Who would’ve thunk it that DMX wouldn’t live to see his 51st birthday. Sad shit. But, back to 2003.

Fourth inning, zero-zero, Mussina on the bump. Manny Ramirez leading off. Dude is a Yankee killer. And, just as I’m thinking that, Ramirez belts a lead off single. Damn. Sox fans start chirpin’. I keep it moving, the bar was slammed and time is money. I’m an Irish-Cherokee-American. More emphasis on the Irish. Three outta four of my Grandparents were majority Irish. My Mothers’ parents are from Canarsie, Brooklyn. My Great-Grandparents hail from Limerick, Ireland. And on my fathers’ side my Grandmothers’ family is straight from Cork. The Cherokee comes from my Pop and his family and a scandalous relationship with John Winthrop from Boston. Really interesting stuff. Point being, I don’t do stereotypes, but genetically speaking hothead runs in the family. I cannot say for certain where it comes from, but my pops was a bad ass who took no shit from anyone, and the nut don’t fall far from the tree. He was the youngest of 7 brothers and sisters. My Ma? The oldest of seven who dished out some bad-assery of her own. I kept this in mind as I tried not to let the chirps turn into chips – ya feel me? I kept one eye on the television and one eye on the patrons. While I was washing mugs and fantasizing about breaking a few Brian stepped up to the proverbial plate, ordered a few rounds for the boys and small talked my Yankees fandom. He was a sports better, not a die hard, but he watched football – followed the Giants, used to like the Knicks but they were hard to watch currently, and I understood that. He was a big hockey fan. NJ Devils. Me too. Apparently, he laced the skates up as a youngin’, and at the present time found himself on a “beer league” hockey team with some co-workers. His job, you ask? Cutting lawns and shoveling snow for a friend’s fathers biz. At the moment I count two commonalities. We both work in the landscape business, and we both have an affinity for the local hockey team. Check. He was 22. Easy to talk to. He was from Middletown, which isn’t a shore town, but isn’t inland. I actually did landscape work up there – on Navesink River Rd. where the likes of Bon Jovi, Derek Jeter’s sister, and Bruce Springsteen were all rumored to have riverside mansions. Wayyy too pricey for my blue-collar kinfolk. But, shit, if you can afford it..I’m no hater.

He has three roommates, my guess – those were the guys he was playing pool with, but I didn’t ask. The bar was busy, and I had to get back to work. As Brian sauntered off Big Papi drove a third deck bomb into right field. With Ramirez on, the score was now 2-0. Was Brian a jinx? That’s something I was seriously going to have to consider if things started taking off between us. Can’t date a jinx. Fuck. We’d have to see how the rest of this game played out. Sports&Shorts…that’s how it goes.

I was talking with an old-timer for a few minutes who claimed to know Teddy Ballgame. He was in the middle of sharing an incredibly interesting story about the two of them fishing in the keys when the crowd erupted. I looked up at the TV screen and tried to read the closed caption. It was too loud to hear what was happening in the game, so the caption helped. Apparently, Todd Walker ripped a ball down the right-field line which struck the foul pole. Right field ump called it foul, but the home plate umpire seemed to have overruled him. Home Run. I wanted to Run Home. WTF? Are you kidding me? It hit Pesky’s pole!! I was furious, the bar was mostly furious, the Sox fans were elated, and I wanted to throw something through the television. A fight seemed to be breaking out in the far left corner of the bar, close to the bathrooms, between four guys. Before I could run over to quell it, my boss sprinted and grabbed two guy by the shirt scruff and tossed them out. That elicited cheers from the patrons. Then Manny Ramirez hit a homer, and the F bombs were’a’flowin. The place got quiet. The solution seemed to be more beer, so I got busy. I caught Brian looking at me with what appeared to be sympathy. I wasn’t fully convinced this wasn’t HIS fault. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. He smiled back. Cute. So, you can imagine my predicament when Brian was getting ready to leave during the seventh inning – Boston up 4-0, Jeff Nelson allowed a two-out single to Manny, hits Ortiz, and gives up an RBI single to Kevin Millar to make it now FIVE-NOTHING, Boston. Yeah, my frustration was a bit beyond palpable. Brian asked for my number and I seriously considered giving him a fake. I kinda-sorta superstitiously blamed Brian silently for all of this mess. In the end, I scribbled down my digits and tried to be nice as we said goodbye. He seemed like a decent dude..and he was seeing me in a distressed situation and still seemed interested..so I figured what the hell? Wouldn’t you know it, in the bottom of the seventh Wakefield walked Jason Giambi and Bernie Williams – here we go!! Brian had left, and there was new life being breathed into my team. Totally Figures. I wish I’d given him the fake number now! Embree comes in, allows an RBI double to Posada and a sac fly to Matsui to make it 5-2!!! Unfortunately, the magic ended there, and we didn’t score again..which means we lost game 1. Bummer. And I think I gave my number to a fucking Jonah.

I drove home that night around 3am. Bitter, yet hopeful. Exhausted. A bit hoarse. Normally we count tips and grab a drink after closing, but I wasn’t in the mood that night. Mikey walked me out to my red 1998 firebird (just trying to set the scene), as he had started doing a few months ago after we found an alley dweller waiting for me to get off work. It was scary because it caught me off guard, and he was hammered. He kept trying to hug me and get into my car. I recall being nice, shooting the shit with him earlier in the night. He was there with his girlfriend, who was very sweet. I spoke more to her than him. I do not recall asking him to wait for me in an alley and scare the piss out of me by coming up behind me while I fumbled to put the key into the lock. In fact, I am positive that never happened. And where did he ditch his GF? I started yelling for him to back the F up, which got the attention of my boss who swiftly put said dude in a chokehold while he called the local cherry tops. He’d spend the night in the tank, and was told he was banned from the premises. My dad offered – insisted, really- to sit inside my vehicle with his 22 ruger to fend strays off, but I felt that might be a tad extreme, although I appreciated him having my back like that. He always had. He was thorough, my legitimate best friend.

I mentioned earlier that I worked three jobs. You’re probably asking why? Or, you’re wondering why I only have a studio apartment to show for it. Well, my bartending job was weekends, and nights. I hostessed/bartended at a cigar club my friend managed when they had big events for members, or if someone called out. So usually once or twice a weeknight. My landscaping job was during the day, four days a week. It was a crew of 3 chicks, run by a real tough broad. I liked her. We were more a design company. People came up with elaborate plans to beautify their green space, and we made those dreams come true. It was a gratifying experience, and I love working outside, so it was a win-win. To be real, I liked having a savings. I didn’t mind the work, or working often.

My brother and I both had jobs by the time we were twelve. So, we just became accustomed to working. It taught us responsibility, blah, blah, how to manage money, blah, kept me away from my wicked step-mother during the summer, and it was cool to be the friend who always had cash. Now, it probably kept me out of trouble, and it also allowed me to help my dad (although he didn’t know it). You see, my pops had suffered with degenerative disc disease, spinal stenosis, and sciatic nerve damage. He had received five failed back surgeries to try to correct the issues. The surgeries only made things worse by producing scar tissue around his spine that caused severe pain, every minute of the day. He was on pain medication. He had been since the first surgery, caused by a backwards fall of a ladder while working for my grandfather’s roofing company. He worked through the pain, hated the meds, but at some point they became a necessary evil for daily survival. We even tried moving to Florida for seven years. The hope was that the heat would help his back, as the cold winters in Jersey stiffened him and caused more pain. The doctor’s visits were expensive, and the medication was too. So, I’d leave an envelope for him the day before I knew he was filling his script or seeing his doc. He’d done everything for me, he raised my brother and I after he divorced my mother and retained full custody in 1988.

My dad was my guy. He was the nicest person you’d ever met, and all of mine and my bros friends could attest to it. As could every person he’s come in contact with – unless you’re the guy who ratted on him during a bar fight and minor cocaine arrest when he was 21. Although, had that not happened, I would not have learned the value of keeping your mouth shut, and taking the heat no matter what. You do the crime, expect the time. Do Not Rat. Or, if you’re one of the people he was furious with for catching shorts at Lake Takanassee and on the jetty at the inlet. He hated that shit. Catch the damn fish at proper length! You’re ruining it for the kids, he’d yell. I spent many an evening surf fishing with my dad. He taught my brother and I how to hunt, how to use guns safely. He was a sports die hard, hence my affinity for all things sports. We started playing little league at age 5. I was a shortstop. I never played another position in all 12 years. I would beat out whoever tried out. In high school I made varsity my freshman year. I was really proud of that. So was he. And, he never missed a single game. Camcorder in hand (think channel 2 news in the 80’s..tripod and all!), he was a proud papa. It meant a lot to have him there, supportive, and explaining after games what I could do better at, or what his assessment was of my performance.

Never tore us down, always built us up. I appreciated that. My brother was a fantastic pitcher. He was also a good utility player, but a great first baseman. I always enjoyed watching him play. He was my big bro (by 10 whole months), and yeah, when we weren’t practicing wrestling moves and bare knuckle boxing each other, I looked up to him.

I actually had a rare day/night off the next day, Thursday, October 9th, 2003. I slept until 1 pm which was awesome. I awoke to 14 missed text messages and 2 voicemails on my Kyocera cell phone. These are the days before smartphones, although you could take grainy photos but you couldn’t send them to anyone. Obviously, you could text, and depending on your plan you had to pick and choose the important ones to read because cellular one (or insert other old school cell company here) docked you minutes for reading and sending messages. I can’t remember what plan I had, as I believe the plans were pretty universal. No such thing as unlimited anything, except aggravation over someone sending a dumb and pointless text like, “on my way”, and you open it and read it pissed off because you just got off the phone with said person and knew they were on their way because they said so before you hung up. So, I scrolled through and picked out the important numbers. My dad, who did some volunteer work for the food bank, told me he’d be in the neighborhood with a care package for me. Now, before you assume he gangked some canned goods from the more deserving poor, the massive facility always set up a “thank you” basket for my father which he in-turn shared with his “too skinny, you’re not eating right” daughter. He was thoughtful. I texted back that I was home and happy to see him. I looked back through, saw Tim, my boy, texted about hitting up Park Place for a couple’o brews and baseball. Hmm…possibility. I recognized L’s number. My boy. Tim’s boy. I figured he was reiterating Timmy’s message, so I skipped reading that one. 11 left. Choose wisely. Ma Dukes called and left a voicemail inviting me to dinner on Sunday. My grandparents & Godmother would be attending and she told me they’d love to see me. Family is everything, and I took advantage of opportunities to see and be around them as often as possible.

There was a 908 number I didn’t recognize. I reached into my bag, rummaged around until I found Brian’s scribbled number on the cocktail napkin he wrote it on. 908-910…. bingo. I opened it. He told me it was “cool” talking last night, and he said he would be back next Wednesday (pool league night). He also informed me that his roomies and himself were planning a Halloween party, and he asked if I’d be interested in coming. I must say, I was impressed with the ample notice, and that four dudes planned events this far in advance. It gave you plenty of time to either make plans, or make an excuse as to why you’re bailing. I’d have to think about it. I normally don’t do Halloween parties. Scarred from the high-school parties I frequented, when my girlfriends would decide to dress like sluts, which was no different from how they dressed for your random party behind the furniture store, or back in the woods where someone would throw a few kegs on their duly.

Those parties though…good times! I had a few fights, countless fun nights..singing Tim McGraw, George Strait, Nelly, Nirvana…Nobody parties like CLHS did! Heck, you only live once. Now, the obvious expectation when you see chicks dressed for the bedroom at a party is that they are easy and you’re gonna end up IN the bedroom. And, that more often than not turned out to be true. Being raised by my dad meant wardrobe checks before I left the house. And if I was bringing a backpack with me it better have books to study and not much else. What started happening though is I acted as if I had respect for myself, and in turn I was respected. Imagine that?! Back to this Halloween party though…I’d think about it. I texted back a “thanks” and that I’d let him know what my schedule was as the day got a little closer. Hmm…I had already made plans with my friend Pat who was moving into new digs the week of Halloween – I’d have to check to see when exactly the housewarming would be.

Next. My gf Cori from Florida texted. I still kept in touch with friends from Ft. Myers. She was one of my besties, so we talked often. She was seeing some new guy, and she thought he might really be “The One”. If I had a buck for every time Cor thought she’d found “The One” I could probably cut two jobs out of the equation, easily. I was happy for her though. And, I told her so. I asked a few questions about him and told her I’d call her tonight after she got off work. That satisfied her. Ja’hiz texted to see if I was working tonight, he wanted to stop through. He was hot. We were friends, but I was kinda sorta hoping we’d be more. I enjoyed flirting with him at work. Tomorrow, tomorrow, there’s always tomorrow.

Text roulette was interrupted by a knock at the door. My dad wasn’t coming thru for a few hours, and I wasn’t expecting anyone else. I peeked through the peephole and saw DeAndre Johnson, my neighbor two doors down. I opened the door with a smile and a dap. He needed sugar. Scratch that, his mom did. Which was good news for me, because that meant she was baking, and when she baked I always ended up with a party-sized platter of cookies in front of my door. Talk about a great neighbor. Dre was 24, and did some service work for the tenants of our apartment complex, plus he cared for his Mom who was in remission (Thank God) from breast cancer. I adored him. After inviting him in & offering him a beer, I propped myself up on my counter and patted the spot next to me. I grabbed a lighter and popped the tops on two Heineken’s and we tapped bottle necks. We shot the shit and three heines later an hour had passed. He offered me a drag of his J, but I politely refused. He kept on. The Johnson’s were originally from Boston. They moved to Jersey ten years ago, but his accent never left. One of my favorite people to argue with because he was one of the most intelligent fans I knew. He knew his Sox history. I respected that. He also knew his music, which is something I value. We both shared the sentiment that music is something that would be realllly hard to live without.

I was about to pour some sugar into a tupperware I found, but as I rummaged through my cabinets I realized I had no lid (I never seemed to be capable of keeping container and lid together..). No tinfoil either? Fuck it, I handed him the entire bag, and hugged him on his way out. We almost became a couple when I first moved in. We spent a lot of time together back then. We had a lot in common, and we enjoyed each other’s company. It didn’t hurt that he was gorgeous. But, the mother of his kids was a thorn in his side, and we ended up better friends because of it.

I was feeling nostalgic after he left, when they reminisce over you my God. He must have sensed that because he texted me like 30 seconds after I closed the door. The text said, “U still have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen and I miss hangin’ wit u like whoa”. Black Rob reference? Always appreciated! I responded with, “Ditto, kiddo” and a makeshift heart where you put the ❤ together. Emojis were non-existent back then. He had really pretty light brown eyes, full of mystery, shaped like perfect almonds…unless he’d just smoked a bone which made them like almond slits, and somehow even more mysteriously beautiful.

I did take the boys up on the offer of watching the game at Park Place, and while I was at it, I texted Adam back and took him up on the offer to pick me up. Just in case things went south with the Yanks and my drinking followed suit. No DWI’s for me. He said he’d be here around seven. I’d missed a call from my dad. When I called back it went right to voicemail. I told him that when he stops by he should go see Miss Johnson. They enjoyed each other’s company, and Dad always brought her care packages when she was fighting through that awful cancer. And, he was there for her as a supporter and a shoulder. He’d drive her to appointments too if Dre wasn’t available, and they got to be great friends. I also asked him if he didn’t mind picking me up sugar.

I had a few hours before Adam was coming by, so I opened up my cabinets and fridge to see what I could cook. I loved to cook. I just couldn’t always find the time to do it. I also loved to eat, but you wouldn’t be able to tell. I had an athletic body on the thinner side. I had some curves I developed later than most girls (probably because of playing sports), and I learned to appreciate them. I tried to workout when I had time. Just simple home-based exercises like squats, push ups, sit ups, curls with milk gallons, and some yoga stretches. I tried the gym, but essentially it was a wasted membership. I wasn’t a huge fan of other people watching me workout, and I didn’t have the patience to wait for equipment. I think I spent more time at the smoothie bar than I did with an actual barbell in my hand. I have gone through some moments of body dysmorphia. I guess we all can be a bit hard on ourselves sometimes… Currently, thankfully, I was enjoying the skin I was in.

Yes, I’m a tomboy. No, I’m not a lesbian, but I’m extremely open-minded. I may not be a lesbian now simply because I haven’t found “the one”. Just like not being straight right now because I haven’t found “the one”. I’m good on labels. Can I live? I do, however, like to put on makeup, find a killer outfit, fix my hair up and feel “sexy” every once in a while. It’s not the makeup that makes me feel any certain way, it’s just fun to put it on, spice a look up, and find something you look and feel good in. I’m big on confidence, not cockiness.

Park Place was a couple steps above a hole in the wall, and a few steps below a hot-spot. It always had a good crowd, and that crowd usually included people I enjoyed seeing. It also was a great place to catch a game in any season. There was a bar inside & out, and some cocktail tables for those looking to make it a more personal evening. Friday nights you’d get a band, a DJ on Saturday night, and an acoustic guitarist on Sunday afternoons. They had a dining room that I hadn’t christened. But, the food and atmosphere were bueno. Adam and his two brothers showed up at ten til. I met them all years ago when we played beer league softball at the Ocean Township, NJ baseball fields during the weeknights. All three were really good athletes. All three were Dominican, and handsome in their own ways. All three had an awesome sense of humor. All three became like brothers to me. I hugged Victor as he held the door for me. I squeezed into the back with Alex. Alex was a smart-ass. Always sarcastic, with this dry delivery that was hilarious. If you didn’t know him, you might think he’s a dick.

We caught up on the last week. 112’s Peaches and Cream was on the radio. Al and I bounced and sang in the backseat. Shoooot, that was the joint in high school! I saw Adam more frequently than his brothers, but it was nice to see all of them and hear what’s happening in their lives. Victor had a new squeeze. He was the youngest. 19, my age. Adam was 24. Alex was 27. Adam had been seeing someone on and off for a few years. He wasn’t the most faithful individual I knew, but he wasn’t planning forever with her, and while I know I wouldn’t appreciate infidelity, it was his life, not mine. I threw my opinion in when asked, but I didn’t pry, and I didn’t pass judgement. The marvelous Bob Marley once sang, “Who are you to judge me, And the life that I live? I know that I’m not perfect, And that I don’t claim to be. So before you point your fingers, Be sure your hands are clean. Judge Not, Before you judge yourself.” If we all lived by that mantra, and the Kindergarten classic “Golden Rule”, I truly believe we’d be a moral and more harmonious human race. Alex was gay, but not currently in a relationship. He was in the military, and focused on his future with the Marines, who did not know he was gay. I asked him once why he couldn’t tell them, and he told me that in his experience gay men and women in the military are treated different. What an absolute cruel and harsh reality to have to hide who you love and who you are. To put up a facade and have to pretend to be someone or something you are not. I couldn’t imagine.

It’s a short drive to the bar, and I noticed vehicles I recognized immediately. I hit the ladies room on the way in, and told the boys I’d meet them out back. Quick lip gloss application. I brushed my long black hair under the blue Yankee fitted. Yep, black was my natural color. Ma said it was the Cherokee and black Irish in me. My brother, on the other hand, was a towhead blonde. We both had blue eyes – mine a very light blue that matched those of my father, his a darker blue. My mom had blue eyes that turned green on the day of her wedding – how crazy is that? She told me she should have taken it as an omen pertaining to the marriage itself, but she carried on. My parents divorced six years later. She could be dramatic, but it seems as though she was right to question the decision to go through with it.

I sauntered out to the “tiki bar”. I saw my friends in our regular corner dwelling. I took a seat next to Pauly and Mike. Was this an episode of Jersey Shore? Absofuckinglutely NOT. Anyone from the actual Jersey Shore will tell you that those goons were Bennies. Look it up. Pauly wasn’t a big sports guy, but he was always down to chill. Super nice dude. Great taste in music, which is where we vibed. Mike was mellow, and sweet. Big Yankee fan. Came from a big Italian family. I dug that. My parents were both one of seven. I’d always dreamed of having lots of kids and having them grow up like I did – with lots of cousins and Aunts and Uncles, get-togethers, bbq’s….Anyways, I actually hadn’t seen him around for a minute. He was trying to become a firefighter in Asbury Park, which was a hard thing to do. I respected anybody who put others’ lives and safety above their own. Noble as hell. The usual suspects were all here. Jim, Matty, L, Anthony and his GF Melissa, Stephan, Dave, his cousin Lina, and Sully. Plus, the three & me, Pauly Walnuts, and Mike.

I ordered a 7&7. Yes, I was underage. Yes, I had a fake ID. Yes, the bartender knew it was fake. Yes, we were friends. This was my spot. I tipped exceptionally well, and I “rarely” caused a ruckus..or a scene that would get myself or my bartending friend in trouble. I respected him sticking his neck out for me and I showed respect. There was one teeny-tiny exception where I had probably had a little too much to drink and had to put some dude in his place. He followed his chick into the ladies room and tried to lay hands on her. It was chaos. I found this to be unacceptable, and completely inappropriate, so I stepped in. All’s been forgiven and forgotten, the dude got a lifetime ban, learned a lesson about putting his hands on anyone, and the girl and I became really good friends. Who doesn’t love a happy ending?

Andy Pettitte vs. Derek Lowe. Game 2. The game had already started by the time we settled in. It was the top of the 2nd inning, Jason Varitek was on second base. Ugh…Maybe B wasn’t a jinx after all …maybe the Yanks just don’t have it this season..maybe the Red Sox break the 1918 curse finally…I found myself pondering all of this when my purse buzzed and startled me out of it. I saw a new text. It was Brian. He simply sent, “Thnknofu”. At first I didn’t understand what the hell I was reading. After staring at the phone screen for probably 2 minutes I finally got it. Huh, he must have one of those plans that charges you for every letter you text so he’s got to condense shit to create words. Thinking of you. I smiled to myself. That’s sweet. I put the phone back in my bag and thought about him.

The commotion around me shook me out of my feel good moment. Varitek was suddenly crossing home plate. Damian Jackson was on first. I felt the heat rise up my neck and into my face as it usually does when I get angry. Here we go again. I JUST opened a text from this dude, and suddenly we’re losing the game? Mother f*cker! Am I destined to be alone?! I downed the rest of my 7&7 and briskly ordered another, this time make it a tall and a double, please. Ben, the bartender, brought my drink back and asked me how things were going. We spoke for a few minutes about what’s been going on in each other’s life. He just got engaged, was finishing his third semester at Brookdale, and seemed really stoked on the future. I was happy for him. He’d been in a relationship with my ex’s sister, Lacy, for like 2 years. So, I’d see him a few times during get-togethers for the family. She apparently wasn’t ready to “settle down”, and I guess Ben’s at that place in his life where he is. They split and it sounds like he’s found a wonderful girl he plans to wife up and spend his life. Very awesome!

My ex (Lacy’s brother) and a really nice guy, was almost 10 years older than I was. And I certainly wasn’t looking to settle down then either. We had a fairly amicable split, and the last I heard he was dating someone who looked eerily similar to me but with way bigger teeth. Weird, but I wish him the best. 

A couple walked in and found a spot at the bar. Their body language said “first date”. He walked off to take their order and I looked down the bar at the 15 of us. Scoundrels. Would any of us ever really grow up? Get engaged? Have a family? Ant and Melissa had been together for a while, but I couldn’t picture marriage there…Shit, I never really thought about marriage for myself. Yeah, obviously I’ve daydreamed about my prince or princess charming sweeping me off my feet..carrying me through the threshold of what?…my studio apartment? Before I got too in my head (which is a serious issue for me) the commercial break had ended and Jorge Posada was up. He worked a walk and we all pumped our fist. Apparently someone had comped shots. I thanked Mike, and watched Ben shake up Lemon Drops for the crew. In the same moment Nick Johnson takes Lowe deep and here come the Yankees!! We clink shot glasses, sending sugary vodka drips into the air and spilling down our hands. Cheers!

I spent the next few hours loose, enjoying the game, catching up with friends. The Yankees won. Half of us decided to keep the celebration going after the game and ended up at another bar. When I walked in I saw the familiar face of a really good friend. He had texted me earlier inviting me out to watch the game and I’d meant to text him back but I figured we’d catch up somewhere. And I was right. Him and I bartended together at a popular beach club a few summers ago, and it was a blast every night. It was a great crew, really.

He engulfed me in a warm embrace, then quickly grabbed my hand and led me right back out to the parking lot. I signaled to my group to order me whatever they were having and dodged patrons trying to exit. Lou walked me to the passenger side of his Tahoe, opened the door and invited me inside. He reemerged, hopped into the front seat, and quickly turned the overhead lights out. “You get my text?” he asked as he reached over me to open the glove compartment. “I figured I see you out” I replied while watching him fetch his supplies. He threw a few quick and paranoid glances toward his rear & sideveiw mirrors. I laughed and assured him, “I got you”. He was crushing up 2 blue pills on a small Norman Rockwell tin with a faded and scratched up picture of a police officer and a little boy sitting at a diner. Ironic. Then he pulled out a cellophane of white powder – cocaine – and poured some on top of the blues. He mixed the powders and produced 2 big lines before handing me the tin. “Ladies first” he offered with a wink and a smile. I had a bill rolled and gladly accepted. “Thanks, doll!” Perfect, because the liquor had me feeling tired quicker and I could use a boost. When we finished we pushed the seat back for a minute to have a smoke and shoot the shit. “A minute” turned into an hour. You see, that’s the problem with pills and powder – with getting high. You become enraptured in a rhapsodic, rapturous entrancement. Like Whoa. We were gabbing like a couple of schoolgirls, blissful and ignorant to anything happening outside of that Tahoe. Music on, vibing. Feeling. Beyond. Euphoric. And as it tappers down you look over to see that you’re very generous friend is reading your mind and breaking up a few more blues to mix with a little more white. And the beat goes on. We quickly devoured the thick lines and decided to hit up last call and do a little minglin’. Why waste this feeling?

Lou had a killer smile. And it was impossible to see it and not return a smile. He was Irish & Italian. I have a thing for Italians. I also have a thing for Irish. I have a thing for smokin’ hot. We kinda sorta may have hooked up back in the day, but it never made things uncomfortable or weird. It was just something that happened organically – something we both wanted to do, and something that didn’t complicate our friendship. So, the flirtation was always on point. But, it wasn’t everything. We had managed to maintain an awesome friendship without murking up the waters, and yeah, sometimes there was a desire we knew existed. It was fun, actually. No jealousy, no drama.

The dynamically giddy duo busted through the doors and into the darkened bar. I let my eyes adjust and tried to locate the gang I abandoned two hours ago. Arms started waving towards the back left corner of the bar. Bingo. I pointed to the ladies room and got a “thumbs up” from corner. In the dusky light of the restroom my reflection showed bowling ball pupils that are reallllly hard to disguise with light blue eyes. I rummaged around my bag and found an altoids box that I kept a few xanax in for times of stress or anxiety. I nibbled half a bar, reapplied some gloss, brushed my hair to my side, hoped the darkness of the room and the benzo kicking in would hide my pupils as I hit the bar. Gotta admit, I was really enjoying this blitz and rush churning through every ounce of my body. Drugs…Am I Right?

I walked around to the back tables of the bar and found my friends. Lou and his crew joined us. They had ordered me a Heineken. We all clinked necks. The beer had warmed in my absence, and it was hard swallowing the skunked flavor. I tried not to make eye contact. It’s my own paranoia that makes me feel like the whole bar knows I just snorted coke and blues and is either mad they weren’t invited or disappointed I didn’t say no. Either way, any minute now, my good pal xanny will envelope me in an anti-give-a-fuck blanket. As if the concoction I snorted hadn’t already..

I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned abruptly and found Peg ( a really close friend of my brothers) standing behind me with her arms outstretched for a hug. I was obviously caught off guard and very cheesily made a “Hey, What a nice surprise” face where you sort of make a big eyed, arched eyebrow, open mouthed smile type thing. I hugged her, and watched for any indication on her face that she knew my secret. She was hammered, so I think I was in the clear…but, the last thing I needed was a lecturing from my brothers good friend, and then her telling him and me having to deal with those politics. MYOB, am I right?? We made small talk, which appeared difficult for her considering how trashed she was.

I decided one more beer for me should do it. I had to work tomorrow. The problem now, you see, was that the drug seed had been planted in my brain. That’s the seed that nags you with thoughts like, “You know, that shit would really make work tomorrow (or, waking up for work tomorrow) a ton more palatable…” So, I scanned the bar for Lou. I didn’t have to look hard. He was at a cocktail table behind me patting the empty seat next to him. I smiled, wiggled my fingers in a wave and took the seat. He had a 7 & 7 waiting for me. I asked him if he wouldn’t mind breaking me off a piece of that. Of course he thought I meant that ass…And maybe he was right about that in this moment, but I played it cool. I cleared it up that I meant a piece of that 8ball and maybe a few blues. So, we finished our drinks an walked out to his Tahoe.

He divied up an amount, I threw some cash at him, he threw it back and offered me a ride home. I accepted. I ran back in to say goodnight to my friends still standing, left a tip, and dipped. We did a bump and off we were. He was a small time dealer when we worked together. Not much had changed since then except that he seemed to be getting high off his own supply more frequently than he did then. He looked a little gaunt, not extremely noticeable. In the light of the overhead lamp of his truck I could see the bags under his eyes. Let’s be real, I’m sure I was sporting dark circles myself. No biggie.

During our little drug fueled babble fest earlier we had pretty much covered what’s been going on lately. He filled me in on life at the bar (he still worked at Windansea – the place we bartended at together). I knew he was studying for his Series 7, the general securities representative qualification exam (or GS, whatever you wanna call it) for some stock company in the city. That seemed to be going well. I asked about his brother and his parents who I really liked. All was well in McMann land. Good. He put Nas on. We Will Survive. Great song, great album. We both looked at each other and mouthed the line, “Ain’t nuthin’ changed, still Party and Bullshit” like we were thinking out loud. We laughed. It was true in this moment. “Still on the block around fiends numb from coke” however was something I hoped wasn’t true ..shit, I looked at Lou and wondered while my mind finished the lyric, “I guess so”.

I hoped silently that he wasn’t “addicted” or anything. Was he treading beyond “we’re just young, having a little fun”? Maybe he just sells a little and dips in a little. I cared about him as a friend and already didn’t like that he risked his future by slinging. I know, I know, Yes I just contributed to this risk I worried about by buying. I’m an asshole for that. I asked him how often he fucked around with this shit and he acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about at first. He then nonchalantly shared that he only dabbles on the weekend. Today was technically Friday (morning) so I just nodded my head and told him to be careful. He put his hand on top of mine, and we drove in silence for a few minutes. He pulled into an empty parking space in front of my place. After a quiet moment of us looking at one another I kissed him on the cheek, thanked him for the ride, and told him to get in touch with me this weekend. I tried to give him money again and he pushed it away. Before I opened the door he locked it. He grabbed my arm, looked me in the eyes intensely and told me that he still thinks about me. A lot. He also thanked me for showing concern but insisted that it wasn’t necessary. Thankfully, that xanax had kicked in and any uneasiness melted away. I manually unlocked the passenger door, opened it, and told him that he should be in touch more, that I would like to see more of him, and I genuinely meant it. I also told him to take care of himself, and that I think about him too. I blew a kiss, told him to drive safe, and walked the stairs to my place. He waited until I was safely inside before pulling away. Raised right.

It was a little after 2am. I obviously wasn’t tired, but I knew from experience that the best thing to do in this situation is Not to stay up all night chasing the initial coke buzz that isn’t going to return. Take some PM’s, make a cup of sleepy time, eat something, and go to bed. And that’s exactly what I did.

I woke up 4 hours later. In my groggy, lack of sleep exhaustion I needed a minute to drag my pillow creased face up from the prone position. It hit me a few seconds later that I had a wake-up assistant just begging to be used, and like a kid on Christmas I bolted up and tried to find my purse. When there’s nobody except you and the ca’cain that knows what’s happening at that moment you’re less likely to feel ashamed of what you’re doing. In fact, I don’t remember feeling anything except excitement and relief. Relief that I wouldn’t be schlogging through a three shift day. Relief that I purchased enough to probably get me through the next two or three days if I “paced” myself. So, one huge rail and a cup of vanilla chai later and I was buzzing around my apartment singing whatever Hot97 put on while I got ready for work.

As I was getting dressed in my customary yoga pants and a tank top landscaping uniform I heard my phone ring. My boss, Christine, was going out of town today and asked if I could plant flowers at a customer’s house on my own. That eliminates that “I hope nobody can tell I’m a little jacked today” anxiety that started to settle in as I was getting ready to walk out the door. “No problem, boss.” I wear sunglasses usually, so I knew I had the 2 inch pupil thing covered. I had my Altoid tin of varietyanxiety merch, so I was good there. That also meant my day would be cut short which would leave me with more time in-between my bartending gig which would probably be much appreciated around 3pm this afternoon. In celebration, I busted out a lil’ bump, hit the chirp unlock on my car door, gnawed off the corner off a xany bar and began to lock up. I started my car, plucked a CD from the overhead vizer case ( a mix-tape, obviously!), and took off. Windows down, t-tops off, singing like I’m auditioning for American Idol. It was a mix a friend from Brookdale made me – Lagwagon, Op Ivy, Rancid, Social Distortion, and the Bouncing Souls (another Jersey great!). I LOVE music. Scratch that…I am FUCKING IN LOVE with music. All shapes, sounds, variety. I legit couldn’t live without it. It has been the soundtrack of my life since I was young enough to feel the electricity of a double bass pedal or killer guitar rif flow through my body like an energy that shook every ounce of my tiny being. I’m big on lyrics, and have been trying to dissect and decode them since I was 2 -3 and learning to understand words. Songs, music, lyrics, beats..they all helped me escape the terror of my wicked and insane step-mother, or cope with my mother disappearing from my life without my understanding why, while longing for her presence. Navigating divorce and discourse. The constant, besides my beloved father, was music. From Patsy Cline and Billie Holiday, to Dolly Parton and Jimmie Rodgers (I taught myself the banjo because of this dude!), Johnny Cash, OBSESSED with Bob Dylan, Nina Simone, The Grateful Dead (who my father followed for two years during the 70’s), Bruuuuuuuce Springsteen has obviously written my NJ screenplay score word for word. Led Zeppelin. The Stones. The Velvet Underground, Lou Reed!! TP and the Heartbreakers on heavy rotation today and especially back in the early 90’s. I love how much he loved his band. Social Distortion is a fav fav, Nirvana, Soundgarden, RHCP, Counting Crows. Gaslight Anthem, an incredible Jersey group! Dashboard Confessional (thanks ex boyfriend), Against Me, Tristan Prettyman, Lauren Hill, Erika Badu, Amy Winehouse, Macy Gray, But, I’m an East Coast kid who grew up listening to Real Hip-Hop. Luckily. Biggie Smalls IS the illest. Nas. Jay-Z. I bump Reasonable Doubt in 2023. I LOVE 2Pac. Wu, EPMD, Jadakiss, Cam’ron, Big Pun, NWA, DMX, Beastie Boys, Big L, Mobb Deep, GangStar, Rakim, OutKast ’cause that SouthernPlayalistiCaddilacMuzik was a classic right? Yes, I loved Juvi and Lil’ Wayne (400° if you had the right system!) – I lived in Florida, where we got the systems with the mids and highs tuned up in the Caprice so ya gotta show love to Mystikal and Master P (Ghetto D bumped), Trick Daddy, Slick Rick, Dre, Lil’ Kim, Em, Nelly, Luda, Lost Boys, Geto Boys, Kendrick,  KanYe, T.I., Too Short, E-40, Onyx, Public Enemy, Ghostface, A Tribe Called Quest, Raekwon, ODB, the Liks, Foxy Brown… Layne Staley has one of the most intensely painful, gritty, yet straight-up beautiful voices I have ever heard. So, Mad Season and AIC are tops in my playlists. Chris Cornell and his haunting vocal perfection..It’s crazy, because when he, Shannon Hoon, Bradley Nowell, Kurt Cobain, Andrew Wood, John Bonham, Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson, Allen Woody, Dee Dee Ramone, Brent Mydland, Johnny Thunders, Hillel Slovak, GG Allin, Kristen Pfaff, Jim Morrison, Janis, Jimi, Frankie Lymon, John Baker Saunders, Howie Epstein, David Ruffin, Dorothy Dandridge, Gerald Levert, ODB,…and so many other beloved musicians passed away from some form of drug or alcohol excessiveness, or with drugs and alcohol as a major player in the reason they died, you never think that you could be in those shoes someday. Or, you embrace how devastatingly tragic it is because you find you can relate to it in some way. In 2002, when Layne Staley died, I was 18 and had known addiction personally for the last 12 years. And, I despised addiction. Addiction ended my family before it literally ( in 2008 ) ended my family.

No, I didn’t know anyone at the time who died 89 lbs soaking wet, with their cat and dentures in their lap and their chin on their chest trying to absorb a speedball. Alone. Forgotten about, not checked in on by “friend” bandmates..or family. That is heartbreaking.  Besides my mother’s alcoholism, and my step-mother’s turbo alcoholism, abuse of my fathers opiates, and partying with mine and my brothers friends through high school which was mortifying (there is NOTHING cute or fun about watching your wicked step-mother blow shotguns with your brothers best friend), I’d made friends with a variety of people through work, my friend’s older siblings that became friends, neighbors, actual friends, family.. there were a few overdoses, a few suicides, and a few times spent watching people you care for lose the things they care most about. You know the repercussions, but you are the young and untouchable. Right? Or, you’re going through the right of passage all teenagers turned twenty-somethings, turned sometimes thirty-plus-somethings are allotted, or take advantage of.

When I was a wee-lad, I would have these nightmares about my dad dying. I was probably 5 or 6 when I’d climb out of bed with my blanket and pillow and lay down beside his side of the bed. Just being close to him made me feel OK.

Truthfully, I missed my mom too, but couldn’t say that. My wicked bitch step-mother wouldn’t allow my brother and I to even mention her. After two times of my camping out by his bed, my dad asked me why I was doing this. I told him tearfully that I was terrified of him dying. He hugged me, smiled, wiped my tears and promised me that he wasn’t going to die or leave me for a long, long, long, time. Imagine my dismay and utter devastation if at age 5 I knew I wouldn’t even get 20 years with the person I adored most in the world. And the other person who I loved the most, longed to see and be around, and missed terribly – my mother – wouldn’t be able to give me 20 years either.