Journal

I must’ve jinxed myself with Sunday’s entry, when I said words to the effect of never having had a negative experience in this medium. Oh sure I’ve been flamed publicly on another guy’s site, and I’ve tangled with some of the infamous. But it’s always been in sport. Good clean fun.

Today, I received my very first mail from an asshole. I’m so, so, hmmm, underwhelmed. I’d really been hoping for better on my first time, (don't that sound familiar!) Creative writing just isn’t what it used to be. He’s no doubt a product of the public school system.

Now, I hope I’m playing this right. I get the sense that the writer is a sad, angry, yet withdrawn type, who feels he just doesn’t get the attention he deserves. I can understand that. But he should have chosen a journalist with a wider readership for his debut. I just don’t have the same following as the guys who chronicle their sexual exploits and include porno just so they can be listed at Men on the Net or SMaQ.

Or perhaps this is where he’ll do his warm-up, on the way to bigger and better sites. Maybe he’ll want a spot on the Contributors Page. One can only hope.

In any event, I shall give him the floor.

Perhaps, in his spelunking through the archives, the poor lad missed the part about how I don’t go back and "fix" things. Once it’s posted, it’s posted, warts and all. (With only one exception in over a year, that being last week.)

Imagine my delight at having a self-appointed proofreader, who happens to be only ten months too late. I wrote back:

And if that's the only one you've found, you're not looking very carefully.

Would you mind correcting my grammar too?

b

The note read simply:

"One day, you will know the pain I feel.
For that will be the day we meet, again, in hell.
Know me by my own blood.
Until then, now go."

Beneath the words, was a thumbprint – in blood.

The note seemed hardly out of place, given the overall chaos in the room. The door was unlocked. Every single light was on. Silence -- broken only by the ticking of the clock.

On the floor near where the note had been placed, a white t-shirt -- stained with blood. Books and papers flowed like Niagara from the shelf above the desk, to the desktop, and finally to the floor. In a path across the floor were bits and pieces of plastic and wire -- the remains of a telephone. On the coffee table beside a half-finished can of beer, were the bottles. Over half a dozen prescription bottles, and few over-the-counter meds – all empty.

Beside the note were several crack pipes, a Chore-Boy, and a twenty-dollar bill. The note had been left atop a stack of pages from the laser printer, their paperweight, keys to the car and the apartment.

Numb. Delirious. Occasional hysterical laughter. Hunger. But mostly nothing at all.

That’s how I feel as I sit here writing. I wonder, have I finally gone over the top? Is this what insanity feels like? What comes next?

Jim, bless his heart, picked me up from work last night. He bought dinner at the Highland Park Diner. Then he dropped me off at my shrink’s for my appointment, promising to return after the session.

The session went really well. It was a most positive experience. Every question, anticipated and answered already in the copy of last week’s page, which, as usual, I’d brought with me. Finally, seven years of therapy and I was ahead of the game. I left feeling better than I have since, I can’t remember.

Light, free, happy. Satisfied that maybe, just maybe, I was healing.

Our reverie was broken by the phone. Call ID listed the jail, although it was long past 7:30. A good sign, I thought. Out of observation and into general population.

Jeffrey had his hearing at 1:30, and was calling to tell me the news. The felony reduced to a class A misdemeanor, the other charges dropped entirely! Released to pre-trial on his own recognizance! Sentencing in seven or eight weeks. If he were to make restitution, enroll in a program, move to a half-way house, there would probably be no jail time. Other than the bench warrant in Henrietta, he was free to go!

Then the other shoe dropped.

"Mental health was finally here to see me today. Why didn’t you tell me you’d called them? I’m stuck here in observation for my entire stay. They won’t release me to general population. Why did you have to tell them?

"I’m under lights 24 hours a day, wake, sleep, all day every day. The video camera and the guards watching me 24 7, I have to wait until 3:00AM to take a shit ‘cause of all the people walking by. I can’t even jerk-off! For the one hour a day I’m let out, they stand next to me on the phone, in the shower, I can’t take it!

"Dude. You put me here. You gotta get me out, or I will take my life.

"I’m going nuts right now. I read one book in one day, the other I’m halfway through. What am I going to do when I’m done?

"Look, I had ‘em check everything twice. There’s nothing other than the $500. I’m begging you, please, how fast can you get me out of here? And whatever you do, don’t tell Debbie!"

There was only one place I could think of where I could get half a grand in cash at 9:00 at night. The one place I dreaded calling the most.

"Hi Mom. I’m in a heap of trouble, and I’m asking for your help. I know you don’t approve of Jeffrey, and that you don’t approve of our friendship. But I need $500 cash as soon as possible."

I explained the whole thing to her.

"Look, I make more than that in a week. I’ll pay you half this week, half next. Or my taxes have been done for over a month now, all I have to do is the e-file. You worked for H&R Block for all those years, you know it doesn’t take long. I’ll even do the RAL (Refund Anticipation Loan) if you need it all by Friday. The Federal alone will more than cover it.

"Will you help?"

Silence.

Then, "Of course. Did you want your father to pick you up at work tomorrow night?"

"Uh, well … I was hoping I could come by tonight."

"How are you going to get here?"

I looked across the couch to Jim. He nodded his assent.

"I’ve got a ride right here, right now. Would it be okay to stop by?"

We were out the door in under five minutes. In under an hour, Jim had me to the jail and standing at the bulletproof glass protecting the deputies from the outside world. (There’s a really good story to be told about our waiting for Jeffrey to emerge from the door. Some other time, maybe.)

He came out, tears welling in his eyes. "Man, how did you get here so fast?" He had no shirt, torn jeans and a torn jacket. I’d brought along a sweatshirt and another jacket. He was talking a mile a minute as he changed. I noted the nervous tic on the left side of his face. I’ve only seen it when he’s in jail.

On the way to the car: "Man I’ve learned my lesson. On hit off a joint led to a beer, which led to more beers, which led to coke, and more beers, next thing I know I’m in jail facing 12½ to 25! I know you’ve heard it before, but I’m not going to drink again."

Once in the car, he said to me, "You know where I’m at?"

"No, not quite. Tell me."

"Well you know the judge that was fucking the President’s mistress?"

Huh? He’s telling about where he left off in the book! Here I’m thinking he was going to tell us how he was feeling! Silly Bruce. The remaining conversation was about the god damned book.

Jim dropped us off at about midnight, saying he thought we needed some time. I got out of the car first to let them have a few moments. I don’t know what was said. Upstairs, Jeff repeated his "never gonna drink again speech", then asked if he could shower, change, and get something to eat. Sure, says I. I set out a towel, a fresh bar of soap, and got out a new toothbrush.

"You know, they wouldn’t even let me have a toothbrush. How am I going to kill myself with a toothbrush?"

I can think of a half dozen ways, but I decided not to share.

"Hey, I hope you won’t be mad, but after I eat, I’d like to go over to Scott and Laurie’s to see Debbie."

"Uh, do you think that’s such a good idea? I mean they’re to ones who called the police on you in the first place. Maybe you should call first."

He did. Debbie started cussing a blue streak, about me. Ingrate. I bail her boyfriend out of jail and all I get is faggot this and faggot that. I could hear her across the room! She was thinking I’d been with Jeff, no doubt fucking, since 5:00PM!

What went on next is a jumbled mess in my mind. I know there was a lot of storming around on my part, and Jeff trying to defend Debbie. As I recall, I phoned Debbie myself, asking only "Do you have anything to say to me?" Hoping for "Thank you." What I got caused me to become so furious, I hung up on her. She called right back, the phone rang, and I yanked the cord in half and flung it across the room. Landing on the desk, it stopped ringing. Who says you need wire cutters?

She phoned several times, leaving voice-mail each time. I’ve transcribed them here for you.

11:16 PM: "Jeffrey this message is for you. It’s 11:20, sorry Bruce I’m calling so late, I have nothing against you, but Jeff, what’s up? Bye"

12:05 AM: "See how wrapped he’s he’s got you? He won’t even let you answer the phone. Jeff, he wrote what he wrote. Why don’t you check the fucking computer? You’re too busy playing fuck buddy."

12:07 AM: "Jeffrey. This message is for you not for Bruce. I see a dick is more important than the child inside my womb. But, um, listen. Fuck you."

12:08 AM: "Fuck Bruce, like that cock up the ass cause he bailed you out, you cocksucker."

12:36 AM: "Jeff I see where you stand. You’re 25 minutes of trying, being with that faggot. I’ll see you later. Bye."

Finally, I gave up. Why? Because I was too drained that I couldn’t even cry. Everything else happened but the tears. Very strange.

I was just so shot down. I was dry sobbing, "Five times I’ve bailed your ass out of fucking jail, has she ever thanked me once? Why can’t I do anything right? I leave you in, I’m wrong. When you’re in I try to do the right thing, and I’m wrong. I bail you out, I’m wrong. How do I get myself into these lose-lose situations?"

Here I am, borrowed half a large from the Ice Queen, bail him out, and without so much as a " So, how have you been through all this, how are you doing?" Nope. Less than five minutes after setting foot in the apartment, he’s off. Oh sure, there was a hug and a "Thanks man, you rescued me."

Then, he’s right back to what put him in jail a week ago. Walking down to Scott and Laurie’s, to meet with a surly Debbie. Why should I even try to talk any sense into him? He left, I checked e-mail, wrote the "wee hours" entry, and went to bed.

As soon as my head hit the pillow, I began laughing. Hysterically. Uncontrollably. The one remaining part of my sanity was asking itself, "Is this hysteria? Why can’t I stop this? What’s happening here?" Clearly I’d gone round the bend. I remember laughing until I dropped off to sleep.

"I didn’t find Debbie, but I ran into Warren [a trick]. He’s gonna drive me around cause I’ve been walking everywhere. With him, I can cover more ground faster. And, I had a 40oz."

"Fine."

"You’re not mad at me are you?"

"Nope. Just shutting down."

"I can’t find where you put my car keys. I wanna go down and see if I left anything in any of those 40s."

"Fine. Take my keys. Take the whole fucking car. Just leave me alone."

It would be most unusual to find anything in a 40 leftover anywhere. While he was downstairs, I got the remains of a 12 pack, and set it just inside the door, and returned to bed.

Door opens. "Hey, what’s the 12-pack doing in the hall?

"You wanted more beer? There’s more beer. Take it."

"Are you sure you’re not mad at me?"

"Yes, I’m sure."

"Well if I don’t find Debbie, I’ll be back. You get some sleep."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Know me by my own blood."

I don’t recall what happened for the next hour. I do remember looking at the clock and thinking "Fuck it" then getting up an hour early. Tense, coiled, ready to fight, the seething rage building within me. Spying the phone on the desk, I attacked it with full fury. I split the case in two, perpendicular to the seam, ripped out the innards and busted them all up too. Finally I broke the handset over my knee.

Not quite spent, but feeling better, I paced the room, like an animal trapped in a cage. Hate, vengeance, feeling hurt, wanting to hurt back. Ahhhh! Spying the sculpture on the top shelf above the desk, and resisting the urge to break it into a million pieces, I pulled it down and removed the crack stems and pushers hidden inside. But where was the Chore-Boy?

I looked under the sink, behind stuff on the shelf, inside the little storage cubbies above the desk. Where could it be? On the desk, of course! Pushing books and papers aside I captured my quarry between the scanner and the monitor. Placing the booty on top of the journal printouts I’d run off during the "25 minute fuck buddy" time frame earlier, I noticed I was bleeding.

A spot from my right knee, and my left hand was covered in blood. I’d dripped on the carpet and my shirt was a mess. Wiping off some of the blood I found several small wounds at the base of my hand, where it joins the wrist. Nothing major, just messy. An idea clicked.

Tired of being lied to, tired of broken promises and commitments, tired of the same old story, "I’ll never drink again, until the next drink", the perfect way to combine hate, vengeance and hurting back. I wrote the note. Rather than sign it, I dabbed my right thumb in the blood and left a thumbprint instead. Then I left my shirt on the floor where I stood, and headed off for the shower.

The stage set.

Late evening Tuesday March 9, 1999

Stand down from DEFCON1!!!!

I am okay. I won’t say fine, because we all know what that means!

I hadn’t considered the impact the above story would have on anyone other than the intended audience. An audience of one.

I had to convince a Rochester Police officer, his Sargent, and a couple of EMTs who had brought along one of those jackets with the really long arms, AND my shrink, two friends and the man I’m becoming very attached to, that it really was a stage set for an audience of one.

Granted I went a little over the top – okay, WAY over the top. But I confess, publicly as I have privately, that no, I probably wasn’t in my right mind last night. But then, there are those who have thought that since May 17^th last year! (Some even longer! J )

I am spending tonight in strong, warm, loving and capable hands. Safe and sane.

Late afternoon Wednesday March 10, 1999

First, I am still safe and sane.

Second, I am grateful to everyone who has sent mail voicing their concerns, thoughts, opinions and advice.  As of 5:00 Eastern Time, I've replied to each and every one.  (It's not been busy at work today.)

What started out as a note to Jeffrey to pack his things and get out, kinda took on a life of it’s own. I’d always thought the signature in blood thing was kinda cool, but not having a fountain pen, the thumbprint was the next best thing.

I was really hurt and felt betrayed by Jeffrey that night. First the bit about how he had finally learned alcohol was a major problem for him, then was drinking within hours of his release. Then, Jim and I bend over backwards for the guy and I don’t get five minutes of conversation out of it before he’s right back at what put him there in the first place, chasing a surly Debbie all around town.

The "I’ll never hustle again" speech went right out the window too. And he had finally admitted that he manipulated me, and everyone else in his life, to get us to do the things he wanted. I’ve known all along, but it takes on a different perspective when in the midst of a manipulation, you’re told you’re being manipulated.

And so, the rest of the set-up as all designed to manipulate the manipulator. The busted phone, the note, the blood, the stuff piled around it for him to take, were all easy to for him to mentally ignore. It would have been just another Bruce snit. What was needed was something that would hit back equally hard to the place where I’d been hit.

And so, the pills thing was born. This would make him really wonder what was going on. To add to the tension he would feel, I removed the battery from the cordless phone, and unplugged the AC from the base unit. Then, he would have to really stew, and make some tough decisions. He wouldn’t be able to call me at work to see if I were still kicking, nor would he be able to phone the police, friends or anyone else to enlist their aid. If he left to use a phone, he risked my being upset that he wasn’t there when I returned.

The final insult was aimed directly at him. I unplugged every cable and patch cord from the audio/video system. He would have no diversion from his contemplation, and he knew that I knew he had no idea how plug the stuff back in. He would be walk into this incredible scene then be completely isolated from everyone and everything else. He would be alone, trapped, with only his thoughts and imagination. Exactly where he’d put me so many times.

When I opened the door, things were exactly the way I’d hoped they’d be.

A distraught and overwrought Danger-Boy sat on the couch facing the hallway to the door. I met all his feelings with a stony silence. And they flooded out like his tears.

"Where were you? I didn’t know if you were dead or alive. I couldn’t call you, or the police or anyone. I thought you were out there dying in a snowbank somewhere, and I couldn’t get to you to help. Why did you do this? What were you thinking? Oh, God. I thought you were dead!"

And with the relief that I was still alive and kicking, he was able to get angry. "You did this to hurt me. You sonuvabitch." And on and on. The venom flowed and spewed forth as I met him, eyes locked, with silence. The rant went on for a solid 20 minutes as he vacillated between yelling and sobbing, my silence infuriating him as much as the hurt I’d caused.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, and mine was like liquid nitrogen. It felt so good to finally put him in the place he’d put me so many times. Those few minutes were truly the high point of my week, month and year.

Still, I couldn’t completely suppress the warmth of compassion. By the time he stormed out, I felt truly sorry for my hurt, confused, angry, frightened friend. And although he vowed never to return, I knew he’d be back. Not for the reasons you might think, his drug paraphernalia and clothes. But I had finally proven to both of us, that he does in fact love me, not my income and assets. And that relit the fire of compassion.

Seeing a 34 year-old, three-time convicted felon, (and who knows how many misdemeanors,) an man who has a heart made of a brick wall tattooed to his chest, "Fuck the World" tattooed on his "arm of hate", a man who wears his scars, and battle damaged hands like a badge, a man who intimidates everyone (but me) with just his very presence, seeing that man sob and weep uncontrollably until his tears ran dry, was deeply satisfying, warming, sad, sorrowful and dozens of other emotions.

The one thing I did not feel, was guilt. And you’ll understand why in a bit.

As I wrote that entry at work that day, and as I posted it that afternoon, I had never considered that it could be interpreted not as a stage carefully set with props to play to an audience of one, but as a genuine suicide attempt.

Sort of a "War of the Worlds" effect was rippling out through the internet to my friends, then to others not online. I had channeled Orson Welles! Everyone thought it was real!

After I got Jim calmed down a bit, (it took several days to finish the task) he told me he’d called my shrink, Caroll, out of genuine concern for my life, health and well being. He’s so sweet. Then he told me to expect the police at any minute, for Caroll had called them to check up on me, also out of concern.

When I finished vacuuming, I phoned Caroll, who was incredibly relieved to hear the sound of my voice. As we talked, I heard the sirens. The call-waiting beep signaled their arrival. I buzzed them in, opened the door and waited for the elevator. When they got off the elevator, I had my ID out and my hands in full view. Thank heavens Jeffrey had taught me that. Make them feel safe, and they won't hurt you.  Just the thing he'd forgotten the week before.

I backed into the apartment explaining I had Caroll on the phone, and it had been she who’d called them. They inspected the place, and finding a fairly clean and tastefully decorated apartment, asked what the fuss was all about. I explained everything, fired up the PC and printed the entry for them. While I was doing that, the Sargent spoke with Caroll on the phone.

This was the only raised eyebrow of the evening. Apparently they’ve never seen a cordless phone with a headset. The Sargent eyed it suspiciously as I unclipped it from my waist, unplugged the headset and handed it to him, saying, "She’d like to speak to you." I think he’d have liked to have the bomb squad take the phone.

The officer who had accompanied the Sargent kept peppering me with questions on dozens of topics in order to ascertain my state of mind. The EMTs arrived and repeated the examination. One of them held something behind his back the whole time. I can only presume it was a straightjacket.

Satisfied that I was a not a danger to myself nor to society as a whole, the Sargent chided me for wasting so many taxpayer dollars on a hoax. And although I had already realized the piece could be interpreted more than one way, I told him I would not be held responsible for other people misinterpreting what they’d read.

I’m sure Orson Welles must have said something like that.

Late Afternoon Sunday March 14, 1999

Even days later, writing about all this is draining. A nap helped a bit. I’m getting so that I can write while Jim is here. He respects the process and doesn’t interrupt or try to read as I write. He seemed bored though, and I can’t blame him. He says it’s all right because he doesn’t get much time to himself to just veg out. We all need that. And napping together.

It’s truly, I don’t know, comforting maybe, to know so many people care so deeply for you. I let Jim come over to protect me, although I needed none. Rather, I felt it was the best way for me to soothe his mind and begin to make up for the agony I’d just put him through. Although he says he realizes now that I don’t need rescuing, that’s his thing and to deny him the opportunity to at least go through the motions would have been worse for him than the original goings-on.

While he was on his way over, I phoned Vince, then Mark to tell them not to worry, that I was okay. They had already read the entry and had discussed it trying to discern whether it was a real or staged suicide. To their credit, they decided on the latter. Knowing someone for years and years does help you understand even the strangest of things a person could do. They were concerned, however, that I’d gone to such great lengths to make a point. They seemed to understand when I told them that Jeffrey generally doesn’t pay attention to anything unless he’s whacked upside the head with it.

Jim arrived as I was preparing the last of the three Tuesday postings. He was visibly shaken, and shaking. We settled in on the couch and held each other as we talked and munched chocolate-chip cookies and drank ginger ale. Later, I called Caroll as promised. She repeated her warning that Jeffrey would return armed and extremely dangerous, that she understood him and that I should spend the night elsewhere.

I thanked her for the advice, but decided against it. I was not about to turn my home into an armed camp, or flee to the shelter of a different bed. I let Jim stay the night, and this seemed to pacify them both.

Several hours later, and about an hour after Jim and I had gone to bed, Jeffrey returned, and caught us in flagrante delicto. He was extraordinarily embarrassed. Even in the dark I could see his face redden. He’d stopped back to make sure that I was all right. Jim was upset that I hadn’t called 911, but I knew it was unnecessary. Satisfied that I was okay, not hurting or dead, Jeffrey apologized again and left.

That anger was exemplified in the only act that got the hair to rise on the back of my neck. I know there will be those, most everyone I expect, who say that I’m misinterpreting the entire thing. I could just as well leave this entire bit out to avoid the conjecture, but the moment was so powerful, so moving, and so telling, that I can’t make myself keep it secret.

At one point a bit more than halfway through our confrontation, he tore his shirt off and went to the kitchen drawer. He withdrew the 14" chef’s knife and knelt on the floor before me. With both hands, he slowly drew the tip down his chest from his throat to the point just below his breastbone. Pausing there, put the handle against the couch between my legs, and leaned forward into it.

Keeping my eyes locked on his as he leaned into the blade, I knew it was all show, no go. I couldn’t quite suppress the smile on my face as he grimaced then finally jumped back off the blade exclaiming "Ow, that hurts!" He’d never broken his skin.

I coolly explained that although he had the technique correct, he’s chosen the wrong type of knife. Although the chef’s knife is certainly showy, it’s wide blade slowly tapering to the tip is ineffective for plunging. I suggested the boning knife instead. He threw the chef's knife onto the counter and said to me, "You get the picture." It was the second time he’s stepped out of character.

This time, there was some coffee left in a cup at the end of the table. As it’s contents soaked into the rug, Jeffrey stepped out of character. Instantly the raging bull became an embarrassed houseguest. "Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Where’s a towel?" After I told him I wasn’t worried about the rug and that he was more important to me, the embarrassed houseguest exited stage-left as quickly as he had appeared, returning the spotlight to the raging bull.

And that is why I was able to remain so zen-like in the face of the returning sociopath. Except for the very first moments of genuine relief at my arrival, safe and alive, the tears expressing love, and his genuine feelings of insult at being left the money, car keys and easily transportable and hockable consumer electronics, it was all an act, played out on the stage I’d so carefully set.

And I knew that although the message had been sent and received, it’s impact had been dampened by the heart hardened by a brick wall.

Before dropping the subject he did remind me that what had hurt the most, was that during the day Tuesday, he’d already figured out he’d hurt my feelings Monday night and had planned a quiet candlelight evening for just the two of us to talk, soothe our feelings and generally enjoy each other’s company. The evening I had planned kinda conflicted with his.

Talk turned to lighter subjects and we were considerably less tense by the time he dropped me off. The details of the rest of the evening escape me, for the exhaustion was beginning to take it’s toll. I’m not sure of the timeline, but Jim and Jeffrey were both at the apartment later on. Jeffrey promised he’d give me a ride to work on Thursday and that he’d stop by and do the dishes in the afternoon.

Jim spent the night again, and Jeffrey didn’t show in the morning. I didn’t think he would. He’d been snot-hangin’ drunk. I chalked it up to another broken promise.

There’s actually quite a bit more to the week, but I’ve run out of steam.

Up to Tue, Wed, Sat