Journal

The weather was absolutely perfect for the picnic yesterday. I’d have enjoyed myself a lot more had I been there with someone. I get shy in a bar with less than 200 people. I nearly disappear at a picnic with several thousand!

As I said last week, my psychic link with Danger-Boy is broken. But I discovered on Friday night, and confirmed on Saturday night, that the link with Johnny is active. And yesterday at the picnic, I discovered my precognition is back.

I found myself drawn to one end of one particular pavilion. After a couple of hours, I gave in to curiosity. As I got closer I knew exactly where to go and what to do. The 50/50 drawing! They had a second drawing too, and I played that just to be a sport mind you, for I knew that wasn’t the one.

On the way out a couple of hours later, I swung by the DJ booth even though it was out of my way. But you know, once a DJ, always a DJ. At the end of the song, they announced the winners. Some guy won on the blue ticket. Then they pulled the red 50/50 ticket. "And Bruce Wilbur has won the 50/50!" Woooo hoooo! It was only $35, but after the entrance fee and the 50/50 tickets (6 for $5) I was still $14 ahead on the day, so what the hell? I filled the gas tank on the way home to celebrate!

Taking this past weekends events as an indicator that I’m healing from all the recent trauma, I just e-mailed a note and my resume to eight firms here in Rochester. There are four other ads in Sunday’s paper that I’m qualified for, but they have no e-mail. Three list a fax number (how eighties!) and one lists only a postal address (how quaint.)

I don’t like to fax stuff out at night cause you never know if the paper jams, runs out in the middle or falls behind a file cabinet. So I’ll fire up WinFax tomorrow morning. Gee it seems an awful waste of trees, but if the mood strikes, I may just mail a resume to that cute little place with no fax or e-mail. I can almost see the chintz curtains in the office windows. J

Tonight was Danger-Boy’s first court date. He was on the docket at two towns simultaneously, and the jail information people weren’t of any help. I wonder if they ever lose inmates, or cause bench warrants to be issued because the didn’t take an inmate to court?

Before I get too far, Debbie called me from out of the blue last night. She said her aunt died and she’s been with the family in Palmyra all weekend. She wanted to talk and wanted a ride home. I picked her up at 7-11, took her by the pharmacy and ran her home. She says she misses Danger-Boy, especially his mouth. When I asked what she meant by that, she said she misses the bitching and arguments. Okay, whatever floats your boat!

Anyway I asked Debbie if she wanted to come to court with me tonight. She did, so I picked her up this afternoon. I decided that since the authorities were of no help, that I’d apply logic and intuition. Fortunately, they pointed to the same place. Intuition had been pointing there all week, and logic said, that since it was the oldest and more serious of the two charges, that’s where they’d take him first.

Court starts at 3:30, we got there just after 3:00. I found a parking spot near three overhead doors at the side of the Town Courthouse/Police Station. I knew from prior experience that they were adjacent to both the courtrooms and the holding cells. (I know. I’ll dish the dirt soon. It’s still just below here. Honest!)

I went inside to check the docket. He was on the docket for the 4:30 courtroom. I asked the officer manning the metal detector when the transfer vehicle from the county jail usually arrived. He said "At about 4:15, that way it doesn’t have to wait for either courtroom." Makes sense. We jetted over to McDonalds, and split a super-sized number two, and each got a large drink. Then we returned to the town hall, and hung out sitting on the hood of the car in the sunshine.

Sure enough, at 4:15 a 12-passenger van with blacked-out windows pulls up. For security, I expected they’d pull it in through one of the overhead doors. I didn’t think we’d get to see Danger-Boy, but at least he’d see us. To my surprise, they just parked at the curb outside the doors. When the deputy got out, I asked if he had our boy along for the ride. He said he did, so we hopped off the car and walked to the other side of the van.

Naturally we didn’t want to spook the deputies, so we kept a reasonable distance away as the inmates disembarked. There were seven altogether, one female, and the males were shackled together in two groups of three. Damn he’s looking good. Just a week of three meals a day and regular sleep (called 3 hots and a cot) and it’s taken ten years off his face. Although Debbie and I agree tan is not his color.

They wouldn’t let Debbie into the courtroom since she was not properly attired, so I gave her the car keys, went inside by myself, and took a seat in the front row. They call all the cases with attorneys present first, then all the custody cases, so it wasn’t a long wait.

When he came in (just handcuffs, no shackles) I just couldn’t help noticing again how good he was looking. He really DOES thrive in jail. But those tan clothes HAVE to go! J

Anyway, he stood straight and tall between his Public Defender and the DA, with the deputy standing behind. He spoke loudly and clearly, and only when spoken to. Danger-Boy had proposed a plea to his PD. The PD and the DA negotiated and all three came to the same agreement. Her Honor accepted the plea and the proposed sentence. He plead guilty and received 30 days in the county jail, with credit for time-served. So he’s got 23 days remaining on that conviction.

I went out to tell Debbie the news as we waited for him to come out. About a half-hour later the overhead door opened again and the deputies led everyone out. Of the seven, there were six sad-sack faces. And then there was Danger-Boy. Smiling ear-to-ear, and you could tell he just wanted to dance and jump for joy. "Thirty days in the county jail!" he shouted over to us. We promised we’d both be in to see him on the appointment I already scheduled for Wednesday morning.

So the way things look is like this. Thirty days on this conviction. Next Monday he appears in the other town court where he expects two days. Those will take him up to his trial date on the city charges, where he expects another thirty days. If the county follows the usual custom of ¹/_3rd off for good behavior, (and he plays well with others,) Danger-Boy could be out as soon as August 24^th.

Will that be enough time for me to recover?

It’s been a week since I left off with the story of how our friendship crashed and burned. But again like the phoenix, it’s risen from the ashes. And you’re wondering, "How’d all that happen?" Well tomorrow I have no plans to do anything but finish the story, take calls from recruiters, and schedule interviews for Thursday and Friday. Tomorrow night’s posting should bring everything up to date.

What I’d like to leave you with tonight, is a excerpt from that four-page letter I wrote to him last Tuesday after I got home from court and my first visit to the jail to make sure I knew everything I needed to know, so I could get and arrange everything I needed to get and arrange. (Don’t cha just love cut-and-paste?)

Here’s a brief refresher. We had the cell phone scene on Friday, I really don’t remember Saturday, on Sunday I realized I couldn’t feel anything, and Monday, I did the unemployment thing and applied pressure to Tek to make good on the job from hell, if hell is Connecticut.

Let’s backtrack a bit to the cell phone scene on Friday.That night in the apartment, my words just couldn’t penetrate and get across that he wasn’t sleeping here. It was only after the symbolic gesture of putting away his pillows, sheets and blanket, that the message got through. Even so, what got missed was why I wouldn’t let him stay. It wasn’t out of anger, disappointment or anything like that. It was out of fear.

This is my first admission of this to anyone, other than myself. You see, all my saber rattling about calling 911 clicked in his head. We were still connected then and I felt it instantly. I had become a threat to his freedom. I knew who to call, and what to say to put him behind bars, instantly. I’m sorry, but I don’t sleep with anyone who considers me to be a threat. I’m too heavy a sleeper. As soon as he feared me, I feared him.

Let’s move ahead to Monday night July the 6^th. I still wasn’t feeling much of anything. There was a glimmer here and there, but for the most part, nothing. During the course of the day, I was able to analyze what had happened on Friday night and begin to make some sense of it. That’s when I discovered I wasn’t angry with Danger-Boy per se, just profoundly disappointed. The expression of that disappointment took the form of anger, and there are consequences of anger.

One of those consequences, is that even if you had a legitimate reason to be angry, you should apologize to the person you were angry with, because there are better ways to deal with it than in a big screaming hissy-fit.

I wrote a brief note to Danger-Boy, (by hand, so I don’t remember the exact wording), but I went into how neither of us had been in a good frame of mind, how disappointed I was in him for just taking the car, going out hustling, drugging and keeping a stem in my apartment. I apologized for expressing that disappointment as anger. And since all this stuff was still at my apartment and he had no key, I wanted to know how he wanted to deal with it. Did he want to come back, or just come back and get his stuff?

Then I headed over to where he was staying. I was not at all prepared for what happened. There was more symbolism when I went over to Daphne’s with my peace offering. When I pulled up, he ran to the bedroom. When I came into Daphne’s house, he came out of the bedroom wearing the "Florida" sweatshirt he had been wearing the night we met. Considering it was July and in the 80s, I didn’t think it was because he felt a draft. I’m still not sure if the symbol was for closing the circle and therefore the friendship, or if it was to signal and new, different beginning. And, he was visibly angry, livid even. If looks could kill, I’d be a goner.

We went outside, he asked for and read the note I’d brought. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out some papers. As he unfolded them, I instantly recognized them, and my entire world fell apart right then and there, before he even spoke a word.

Here’s the short version I sent to a few close friends on the following night:

Thanks guys, for your concern and your support.

I've come to my senses and have asked Hiway to restore the site from the backup tapes.

I used to print every week's file for Danger-Boy to read.  He's never read any of them to my knowledge, so being a tree-hugger, after a while I just stopped printing it out for him.

Since our big fight Friday night, he's been staying over at Daphne's, (a 67 yo black woman who has "adopted" him.)  Daphne's a real reader, and we share some favorite authors.  Anyway, several weeks ago after the first big fight, (when I dumped his stuff on the curb in front of The Bachelor Forum,) I printed the site to date for her.  She liked it by the way, and has been bugging me ever since to keep her up to date with it.

Well that printout included the original unedited version of the "Good Riddance" entry.  The one in which I specifically detailed one of his crimes.  A day later, I sanitized the posting because I realized it was both wrong for me to post such information, and it put both of us in danger.

Well, you guessed it.  Daphne, in trying to patch things up, MADE him read what I'd printed for her.  Naturally he went ballistic.  He had every right to.  I was wrong to post that stuff in the first place.

He made me feel really bad about it last night when I went over to Daphne's with an olive branch.  Stupidly hoping it would make him feel better, I did a "Tome" and deleted the site from both the server and my PC while he watched, hoping he would say "Stop."  He didn't.

Afterwards when I said, "I just trashed six-months of my life for you" do you know what he said?  "Shit.  That's nothing.  I lost all my writings when my house burned down."  So my work is nothing.  I didn't bother to explain that unless he set the fire himself, it's not the same.

Because that comment, coupled with one he made on Friday in Connecticut while we were walking in the park, confirmed what I suspected.  He really doesn't care about me.  To him, I'm nothing more than a means to an end.  A place to stay, a meal ticket, transportation, money, and a few beers.  An enabler.

As they say in the Dodge commercials, "The rules have changed."

Thanks again for all your concern and support.  I know who my real friends are.  Each of you.

Yours,

B

A more detailed version goes something like this.

Not only can I dish it out, I can take it. I received the longest and most thorough dressing-down I’ve received in a very long time. And I deserved every bit of it. But, suddenly I started feeling something. Remorse. Okay, not the best thing to start out with, but it’s a start anyway.

He did take things a little far with regard to the impact and audience the site has. For the entire month of June, there were only 85 hits to the page in question. If I felt like it, I could constrain the site analysis report to just that page and just the day it was up in it’s original unchanged format, in order to identify how many people had actually read the original. It’s not worth the effort. The whole thing’s in the past anyway, and it already had been for a month.

I’m not saying it makes any difference in that I was wrong to make the original posting. I was wrong. I’m just saying I have considerably fewer hits than, say, Yahoo, so the scope of any potential damage is limited. And indeed, there was no permanent harm done, except to the trust between us.

It felt strange to go from trusted friend to snake-in-the-grass. But my trust in him had taken a beating too. I knew the nature of our friendship had changed permanently when he asked to pick up most of his things refused his keys to my apartment.

It took me a while to understand the reason. I knew it was largely symbolic, but again, I didn’t get it right away. Initially I thought it was to hurt me, but it was to protect himself. It had to terrible not knowing from one minute to the next when I’d blow up and snatch away the keys.

As I drove him to my apartment. I was feeling hurt about the keys, devastated about the site, and still terrible about how the whole weekend, no, how the preceding two weeks had gone. That’s when I decided to, symbolically, commit suicide. And a strange calm and sense of peace fell over me.

As I wrote above, he was not impressed. Largely I think because having no exposure to it, he doesn’t understand the technology. The one protest he did make was that all he had asked was for me to remove him from the site. He hadn’t asked me to kill the whole thing.

When I took him back to Daphne’s, he told me to call him on the following day after work. I told him no. I had make the first move, the second was his to make. He called Tuesday night, He was still quite angry, but did his best not to let it show. I was feeling much better by then, and did my best not to let it show. Nor did I let on that I’d already e-mailed Hiway Tech Support about restoring the site from the backup tapes.

Wednesday was my turn to call, and I did. The site was back up by then, although I didn’t mention it. There was still a tension between us, and the call was short. Before hanging up, I reminded him that the next call was his to make. I really didn’t expect him to call on Thursday, and he didn’t. I was busy resurrecting the local copy of the site so I could resume updating, and didn’t let it bother me.

When he called on Friday, he explained that he felt I needed some space, and so he let me have it. I thanked him, for it really was true. For almost two months I hadn’t had a waking moment to myself, and I truly enjoy my solitude.

He says he said it was so he could buy Daphne some groceries Saturday morning at the Public Market. I thought he said it was because Daphne’s electric was going to be shut off and they were short on the bill. In any event, either way the story goes, it’s a lie.

My first clue should have been when he said, "Now it’s okay to say no." While we were weaning him from crack, every time he’d ask for money for a rock or two, he always said that. And most of the time I would say no.

Anyway, I dropped him off at Daphne’s, and made sure he got inside okay because she doesn’t give her key out to anyone. Then I came home.

As I’ve read back over the past few entries, I see I haven’t made mention of this at all. I believe it was because I felt I could get everything up to date in short order, and so I tried not to confuse the chronology. But since there have been several intervening crises, I must have missed it. No wonder lots of people have been confused.

You see, a week ago Saturday, I called over to Daphne’s to see if Danger-Boy wanted to go out. It was my turn to call anyway. She said he hadn’t been home since last night. "But I saw you let him in" I said. "Oh, no," she replied. "He left right after you did, and he hasn’t been back since." This time I was both disappointed and pissed. We both knew what had happened. He went to a crackhouse.

He arrived back at Daphne’s, drunk, about a half-hour later. Apparently she bitched him out over it so there wasn’t much more that I could add. But I was fuming nonetheless. I packed all the rest of his stuff into the car and drove over.

When he’s drunk he babbles on about everything. I didn't say a word. Finally he asked, "What’s the matter?" I replied, "Danger-Boy, you know that when I’m quiet, I’m either tired or angry. Right now, I’m not tired." He started to say something and I interrupted. "Every time I start to say something, you interrupt. It’s your turn to be quiet and listen. It’s my turn to talk."

Finally I told him to get his stuff out of my car and that I was leaving. He asked, "Aren’t you going to bring it in for me?" If I were a violent person, I would have punched him out right then. Instead, in the most even tone I could muster, I replied, "If I have to take it out of my car, it will be flung piece by piece out of the sunroof as I drive down I-490. Would you like to get it yourself?" He did.

I apologized for my anger and said goodnight to Daphne and her mother, and left. Danger-Boy called after me, "Now drive safe, don’t drive mad." I ignored him, started the car and drove off. The last thing I heard, was him yelling "Hey, Wilbur!" This surprised me because he’s never called me by my last name. It didn’t matter. I waited for traffic at the end of the street and made my turn, with him still screaming behind me.

I made a mistake. Somewhere along the line I got it in my head that I had my last cigarette last Tuesday night. Nope. It was last Wednesday night. So three hours from now will be one week exactly.

I have my own personal time zone. The problem comes in translating to everyone else’s.

It’s nice to be caught up and able to write about current events and feelings instead of trying to remember things from weeks ago. Twenty years of pot smoking really makes it hard to form and then recall memories.

Still, the pain I felt going through those days, and writing about them yesterday, comes through with startling clarity. It didn’t make it all the way to the entry. But it was here anyway. It’s not gone either.

Today was my visit to the jail. Although I was none too happy about it myself, I took Debbie with me. Danger-Boy and I are each a bit peeved that she hasn’t made any appointments of her own. And frankly, I was jealous that although I’d made the appointment, he spent more time with her. But she’s been around for six years, and for me it’s just a few weeks, so I suppose it’s natural they’d have more to talk about. Anyway, Danger-Boy’s pleased that Debbie and I are getting along. I think we’ll wait until he’s out before we tell him it’s only a front we put on for him.

And damn he looks good. Most of the lines around his eyes are gone, even the scar on his left cheek seems less noticeable. Amazing. He’s no longer in 23-hour lockdown with suicide watch. (He spent five days there because I was overwhelmed and forgot to call jail administration and tell them he’s really okay.) Now he’s in a dorm room on the mezzanine. He and 59 other guys in the same room.

He told me that he’s sleeping during the day because it’s quieter, (as you recall, when I snore it wakes him up,) then he stays up all night reading and writing. Of course the envelope delivery hasn’t made it to the jail yet, so everything he’s written is still waiting to go out.

He’s been writing poetry again, so expect an update to his poetry page soon. I didn’t think to ask if it was new material or if he was committing older works to paper; I’ll find out. And it reminded me that we’ve never taken care of the transcription errors I made in the first batch. I actually have verses from two different poems mixed together in one. So I’ve printed the page so he has it to edit from, send it in tomorrow’s letter, and I’ll post the corrections when they come back.

Now I’ve said that he positively thrives in jail. And it’s not just health-wise. He does a good business decorating envelopes and letters for other inmates, and he does good trade in the tattoo business as well. That explains his most recent request. He wants a Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse coloring book.

I spent my afternoon shopping for coloring books. I have no idea where to go. I’m a 41 year old gay man. And I knew I wouldn’t have kids before I knew I was gay. I give savings bonds, cash and gift certificates for chrissakes. I’ve never paid attention to that kind of stuff. Talk about clueless!

So I figure, check out the Disney store in the mall.

Frustration and isolation.

Frustration, isolation and guilt.

Hell, might as well go for the quantity discount!

Frustration, isolation, guilt and shame.

Cheaper by the dozen? I can come up with eight more!

Frustration

Ever feel frustrated? Like you’re talking to a wall? How about when the wall wants to talk back, but can’t? Aarrrrgh! I write every day. Just so he has something to look forward to. Some days it’s several pages. Others just one. Nothing comes back. And I know it’s not his fault.

I guess the envelope delivery didn’t make it to the jail. I’d have heard something by now. Why does the friggin’ jail need special envelopes? Shit, if he were in State Prison he could use the SASEs I've sent. But noooo! Monroe County requires that he use their special envelopes. The ones that apparently are on backorder and being shipped from fucking Alpha Centuri!

And who knows what’s going on with MCI. They have the contract for inmate outbound calling. Special phones which can only make collect calls through MCI. The hitch is (apparently) most phone numbers are blocked by MCI so they can’t receive those phone calls. I spent an hour on the phone with MCI last week, only to finally get to a voice-mailbox where I was told to dictate my phone number and if I wanted a block removed, or a block placed on the number.

Shit, I even switched my long-distance to MCI. Both lines. And four fucking calling cards. And I got an 800 number. Isn’t that enough of a clue that I’m willing to spend $1.75 per ¼ hour or fraction thereof (plus tax and surcharges) to take calls from the Monroe County Jail? What the fuck is the matter with these clowns?

And why isn’t the county worried about the loss of revenue opportunity? They’ve gotta get a cut.

And is it somewhere in the jail’s Mission Statement that they need to punish those on the outside too? Does Sheriff Andrew J. Meloni want my vote in the next election? Is he gonna get it?

Isolation

I’m used to solitude. I need more of it that most people. And if you live by yourself you get a lot of it. Too much.

So who do you turn to? Family? My parents are too consumed with grandkids and the new pond they had dug in the back yard. Fuck! I moved, mixed and poured 8,000 pounds of fucking concrete for the new shed foundation two weeks ago. Doesn’t buy me any face-time. They barely said two sentences apiece to me last night.

My brothers? I stopped by there too last night. Television is more important than actual human visitors. The show? Friends. Go figure.

Friends? Willie is in Nicaragua. Danger-Boy is in jail. Mark is on vacation. That’s the whole list. You’d think a guy in his 40s who has lived in the same town all his life would have more than three friends. I understand I’m part, if not most, of the problem. I’m shy. I feel awkward in social situations. But once I get warmed up, I’m okay.

Somehow though, just when I get something started, people disappear. And I don’t know why. Is there something that repulsive about me that after a couple of visits people run and hide? If there is, I want to know so I can fix it. Will somebody please tell me?

I wrote this to a net-friend back in April, (edits in square brackets):

Guilt and Shame

I couldn’t take it any more. Frustrated, lonely, no one to turn to, except my drug. Always there. I bought a pack today. Kicking myself for it before, during, after and still. And I couldn’t, no wouldn’t, stop. If there isn’t some-one to help me feel better, there’s always some-thing. Twenty friends to a pack. And they call me. No-one else does. Except my other drugs. Will I answer their call next?

I feel guilty for caving in. Ashamed because I’ve let myself down, and others too. The guilt, shame and disappointment inside are almost as crushing as the frustration and loneliness. Not quite. Not enough for me not to answer the call.

He wrote that he didn’t want to overwhelm me with gratitude, and thanking me for the love and support. He went on about how he enjoyed the visit on Wednesday, "with both of the people I love." And he wrote the he can dimly see some light at the end of the tunnel. He also sent a poem I’ve posted on his page.

I’ve written before that I use my writing to think. And I’ve written that by other people writing with questions, I have to think harder about how best to express myself so they’ll understand. And the whole process helps me to clarify my thoughts and understand them better myself. It works even with people I’m close to. Here’s part of what I wrote back:

And on to what you wrote. I doubt that I can be overwhelmed with good feelings. Unaccustomed to them, perhaps, but overwhelmed? I hope not. You’re welcome to try though. J I’m glad you seem to be enjoying it too. There’s more to life than pain and struggle. Thank heavens!

And still I sense the unasked question. Motivation. Everyone asks me that, including me sometimes. It always comes back to the same thing. Right from the very start I sensed in you a sensitive, good, kind, caring and giving soul behind the mask. And a kindred spirit. We’ve each had a rough time of getting at the goodness inside and releasing it on the world, for we each wear the mask.

The mask is not made of stone, steel or brick. It’s made of the pain, sadness and anguish we’ve experienced. We use it to deflect further insults to our souls. But deflecting these insults has a cost. We hurt the ones around us. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. The guilt that accompanies this cost, the hurt, serves only to reinforce the mask, making it even heavier on our souls.

So we put insulation behind the mask, to protect ourselves from it. Drugs, distance, indifference, and more. We bury ourselves deeply under the insulation, only to find our souls atrophy, wither and are dying beneath. Our souls long to bask naked in the sun, but we are stifled beneath our layers.

But I don’t know how to break out of the insulation and the mask. I’m hoping that by each of us pushing from inside, and pulling the other’s from outside, we can free ourselves. And that’s why even though we’ve hurt each other in the process, we keep coming back for more. I too see the light at the end of the tunnel. And for the first time in my life, I’m convinced it’s not a train.