Journal

I’m finally feeling normal again! I’ve been dragging ass the past couple of weeks. Always tired, just no get-up-and-go. In the latter half of last week I came down with cold. With the exception of coming to work last Friday, I’ve been in bed from the time I got home Thursday night.

I slept the weekend away. In bed by 10 or 11, up by noon, two or three afternoon naps, after dinner nap, then down for the night. I think it was sunny on Saturday, but I couldn’t tell you for sure. I never even looked out the windows yesterday. I’m told we had some snow flurries in the late afternoon and early evening. Except for taking a little longer than usual to get going this morning, I’m feeling pretty good, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed so to speak. J

Two of the stories I have yet to write about last week and the week before go right to this topic. He didn’t really remember any of the events leading up to the blow ups, (Can you say "alcoholic blackout?") so naturally he’s been confused by what he’s perceived as our arbitrarily throwing him into the doghouse. He was quite surprised, and hurt, when I told him exactly, and in graphic detail, what he’d been doing to us.

He apologized profusely, and made some suggestions on how to keep him from doing all that to us. His mood dropped further and further as with each suggestion I told him how I’d already tried it and it only served to infuriate him more. The last thing he came up with probably won’t work either. He wants me to remind him of that conversation the next time this sort of thing happens. I’ll try, but I’m not holding my breath.

The only time I wish I lived in another country is when it comes to car buying. I like hatchbacks -- big four-door hatchbacks. The only place in the world you can buy a big hatchback any more is in Europe. When I bought my ’86 Dodge Lancer ES Turbo, there was only one hatchback in the world bigger than the car I bought. It was the Saab 9000, which was WAY out of my price range.

I can think of only three or four hatchback models sold in the U.S. today, and they’re all econoboxes. I don’t want a tiny car that’s been given a hatchback just so that it contains enough air space that it doesn’t collapse around me when I inhale. And frankly, cramming my 34 inch inseams into smaller cars is uncomfortable at best. I can’t tell you how many cars I simply don’t fit in because of my long legs.

U.S. car buyers just don’t go for hatchbacks, I don’t know why. You can fit all kinds of stuff into them when you need to, but you still have a nice four-door sedan when you’re not toting stuff. You’re not stuck driving gas-guzzling, top-heavy, poor-handling truck or SUV. Besides, lesbians seem to have the lock on trucks and SUVs anyway. Station-wagons and mini-vans are out on an image basis, as I’m hardly a soccer mom.

Now, given unlimited funds, or even greater funds than I have available to me now, I would own several cars. Naturally the top my list, is the big Mercedes. (Yeah, I know all the model numbers. Go here, and you can too.) Almost ten years ago, I drove a ten-year old 280C. That twenty miles or so are the most memorable I’ve ever driven. It was a superlative piece of machinery – and nowhere near the top-of-the-line.

I’d have to have a fun car for tooling around. There are too many possibilities to even list. There are the Italians, Ferrari and Lamborghini, then from Germany there’s Porsche, the BMW Z3 and the Mercedes SL (the 600 please), from Japan the Miata and the Acura NSX, and Britain’s venerable Aston-Martin.

The problem is I can only afford one car, so it has to be versatile. I need four-doors, a real back seat, plenty of space to tote stuff, reasonable performance, handling and fuel economy, a sense of style and most importantly, affordability.

A couple of months back, it was Car and Driver’s coverage of the North American Auto Show in Detroit that introduced me to the next new car I’m likely to buy. Basically a Dodge Neon in drag, the Chrysler Cruiser hits all the bullet points. And it looks kinda cool too, if you’re into the retro look. The biggest problem is that the Cruiser isn’t available until the spring of 2000. L

Even if you don't care for the car, the website is worth a visit. I'm not sure if all the effects will translate well over dial-up, but it's awesome using Internet Explorer 5 with the Macromedia Shockwave plug-ins and the cable modem at home or the direct connection here at work. 

In the meantime, I’ll probably buy another junker to get me through until next spring. You wouldn’t believe the cars that people junk. A couple of weeks ago when Jeff and I were at Northside Auto Salvage this guy drove in a early 90s Mercury Grand Marquis (without the de Sade option), removed his plates, and junked it. It ran great, there was negligible body-rot, it even had decent tires. I could have had the thing for around a grand. They crushed it.

Sorry, but real life is more important to me than journal readership.

But remember, the most important figure on your 1040 isn’t the amount of your refund, it’s the amount they keep. Although it’ll come in handy, the $800+ refund I’m getting from the IRS pales in comparison to the several thousand they’re keeping.

There is one legislature which isn’t so happy despite the revenue streaming in today. That’s the New York State Assembly and the New York State Senate. As part of the 38% pay raise they voted themselves after the election last November, was a tiny little tweak. Their pay would be withheld if they couldn’t bring the state budget in on time.

Despite this little incentive, for the 15^th year in a row, the legislature failed to deliver the budget by April 1^st. And now they’re whining about not getting paid. Last time I checked, if we working stiffs don’t do our jobs, we don’t get paid. Why should our elected officials be treated any differently? And after all if it weren’t for their petty infighting and procrastination, maybe the state would have a better credit rating.

But that’s not why you’re here, is it?

Most of it anyway. I’ve had two hours sleep in the past two days, so I may crap out at any minute, and as usual, I have to be careful with what I say about Jeffrey’s ongoing legal issues. Having said that …

Right now I’m experiencing a really strange mixture of emotions. Some intense, some not. I just got a call from Debbie. Jeffrey is in the back of a State Trooper car on his way to his second home, the Monroe County Jail. Only 18 hours before he was going to skip the state.

Of course this means my car is on it’s way to impound, again. I’m not sure that I care. It would really be a bummer though, if he finally got the windows repaired today.

Thank heavens I insisted on waiting until he got to the Greyhound station to buy his ticket. I just saved $145. And it means that just maybe I’ll get some of his $750 bail back. On top of a nice tax refund, this makes me happy.

On the other hand, Jeffrey’s facing a few years in the county jail instead of his usual few days or months. It saddens me that one of the freest spirits I know is going to be in lockup for more time than we’ve know each other. But, if anyone needs a time-out, it’s my Danger-Boy. And I’m still forbidden visits to the jail. I guess I’ll finally do something about appealing that decision.

And goddammit! We had a fight this morning and parted on not the best of terms. They always say not to do things like that because you never know when, or if, you’ll ever see that person again. Debbie was proud of me for not feeding into his bullshit though.

I also feel a great sense of relief. I’ve been looking forward to having my life back. Just the little things, like being able to use lights in the apartment at night, hell, sleeping at night. Not having to hide cash and my ATM card. Not feeling guilty about spending my money on him instead of other things, like paying bills. Hell, not feeling guilty about lying to him about how much money I have.

I’ve been looking forward to clean laundry, knowing that whatever is in my fridge when I leave the house, doesn’t wind up in someone else’s fridge by the time I get home. Even writing at home instead of at work. It’s truly the little things that make life easier.

The first few days are the hardest. Given my current run-down physical condition, emotional exhaustion from the past month, and the grieving to come, I’d better call it quits for now. I’ve already cried a river. A sea or two yet to come.

I’ll close tonight with something a bit lighthearted, but also a teaser. A glimpse of what life’s been like lately. The usual three-ring circus around here has added a water-park, midway, demolition derby and sideshow.

One forty-five Tuesday morning: In a scene that was half Dragnet and half Keystone Kops, the nighttime "visitations" we each suffer from take on a physical manifestation in the form of Officers Frick and Frack, two of Rochester’s finest.

In bed, lights out, TV on, just finished smoking half a joint. We hear the elevator doors open in the hallway. This is unusual because generally at this time of day it’s Jeffrey. A moment later, the trademark loud, authoritative knock they teach at the Police Academy.

Holy fuck! They’re here!

Jeffrey heads for the closet. I put on my pants while making the appropriate, "who the fuck is knocking at my door in a security building in the middle of the goddamned night" noises.

Second knock. The adrenaline surges, the mind races.

"Okay, okay, I’m coming. Who is it?" I ask innocently.

"RPD. We’d like to have a word with you." Hmmm. Just the way Danger-Boy announces himself when he calls from the security door-buzzer phone in the lobby.

Without turning on the lights, I open the door and am greeted by Officer Frick, who looks for all the world like Fred Gwynn of "Car 54 Where Are You?" Although he’s probably better remembered as Herman in "The Munsters".

I was disappointed that his partner, Officer Frack, is the spitting image of Wayne Rodgers from "M*A*S*H", rather than Fred Gwynn’s partner in "Car 54". (I can never remember that actor’s name. A little help maybe?)

Resisting the urge to say, "Ooo. Ooo." I ask "What can I do for you?" hoping I come across as sleepy rather than stoned.

"Are you Bruce or Jeff?" Officer Frack has the speaking role in this episode.

"We’ve come to arrest Jeffrey on some outstanding bench warrants. Is he here?"

"That was about an hour ago."

"May we come in to check?"

"No, not without a warrant."

"Then that tells us he’s here. We’ll wait right here for a warrant."

"Fine." I gamble. "Come in."

They enter, snapping their flashlights on. Officer Frick heads immediately through the walk-in closet to the bathroom, as Officer Frack backs me down the hallway to the main room.

"Does he live here?"

"No. But he spends the night here from time to time."

Officer Frick, having made the mistake of turning on the bathroom light thereby blinding himself in the glare of the Fabulous Fifties pink tile, joins us in the room and they begin to look around.

"Nice place, very nice." says Officer Frack admiring the watercolors on the walls of my modest, yet tastefully decorated abode.

I’m thinking to myself, "Boy, it sure has that lived-in look. I’ve gotta do some cleaning. And those dishes …"

"Is this the whole place?"

"Uh, yeah. How much do you think one person can afford off East Avenue?"

They look down, and sense that something’s up.

Jeffrey and I stopped sleeping together after he came home from jail in February. He said he thought it sent me the wrong message. In retrospect, I think he thought it sent Debbie, and later, Jim, the wrong message. At the time I thought that was strange since he’s always been the one who brought up the subject of sex, and I’ve always been the one to (reluctantly, trés reluctantly) decline. There are enough times when we treat each other like rentboy and trick without adding any credence to it. Anyway, since then, rather than put the sofabed’s mattress on the floor, I leave it on the fold-out frame, and Jeffrey sleeps on the seat cushions on the floor.

The beds are still warm, and there on the floor next to his bed are Jeffrey's clothes, boots, a beer and a sandwich. We all look at each other in the combined glare of the police-issue flashlights and The Discovery Channel.

As I casually lean against the credenza hiding the ashtray with the roach in it (as if they can’t smell the pot), they look under the desk, under and behind the sofabed, and finally they re-examine the art.

Officer Frack resumes the interrogation: "Do you know where he is?"

"When he’s not staying here, where else does he stay?"

I gave him the one address I knew they already had, Daphne’s.

Finally they decide to leave. On the way out, they ask me for ID. My University of Rochester staff ID goes to Frick, my New York State ID goes to Frack.

"Yep. It’s Bruce Wilbur all right," says Frick.

I’m thinking, "Yes! He’ll get paid for a speaking role!"

As he opens the door to leave, Frack asks Frick, "Did you check in there?" indicating the coat closet.

"When you see him, call us," says Frack.

"I will," I lied, and closed the door, locking it behind them.

I lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the bed listening to the elevator, the security doors, their car doors, and finally their cars as they pulled away. I waited an extra minute before I myself went looking for Jeffrey. Nowhere.

"Dude, you’re good at this. They’re gone. Where the hell are you?"

Then the only other closet door in the apartment opened. Inside on all the laundry and wedged between the ironing board and my 14 suits sat one very frightened Danger-Boy.

Either they’re incredibly inept, or they didn’t want to fill out all that paperwork while the crullers got cold at Dunkin’ Donuts on Monroe.

I wrote to a couple of friends earlier today,

We expected them back last night, but they never showed. We're expecting them tonight. Maybe I'll put out a plate of donuts as a distraction.

In any event, tonight I'll wave the bail receipts in their face and tell them I'm looking for him too, no you can't come in without a warrant, kindly take a donut and go.

Even when one lives as interesting a life as I, there certain predictable events. The sun rises in the east, Danger-Boy stresses over underwear, socks and t-shirts, (as if there are fashion police in the jail,) and Jim re-enters the picture as Jeffrey exits stage-left.

Now, I’m not disappointed in any of the three. The sun rising in the east is a good thing, one doesn’t want to upset the cosmic order of things, and we don’t get much sunshine here on the North Coast. We’ve had a remarkably sunny winter and spring. However, this causes one to wonder when, and how, the other shoe will drop.

It was an awkward moment, and with equal amounts of suspicion and curiosity I asked why he had come. A rather stilted conversation ensued for the duration permitted by the sentry phone system. I thought I had buzzed him in before we were cut off, but at my door I watched the elevator run down to the basement, then back up without stopping at the first-floor. I dashed down the fire stairs that lead to the outer lobby. Jim was still there, and I invited him up.

After establishing his motives and intentions, and feeling the need to tie one on, I agreed to go over to the Forum for a drink or two so we could talk in neutral territory. As I was putting on my Nikes, Jim snapped this picture with his new digital camera. So here I am, unshowered and with a severe case of bed-head. How’s that for honesty and realism? I’m quite sure no other web journalist would offer quite such an unflattering picture of themselves on their sites. Incidentally, I donned a cap prior to venturing forth.

In the background, you’ll notice one of the advantages of living in such a compact apartment. The fridge, with the microwave on top, is right next to my desk. Convenient, no? Admittedly it’s lacking somewhat in the decorating statement category, but life is full of compromises. By the way, those are Jeffrey’s bail receipts hanging on the fridge.

Quick show of hands now: How many of you use your refrigerator magnets to file away bail receipts? Hmmm, no one. I thought not.

In any event, once at the Forum I availed myself of two passes at the three-for-two cocktail hour special. Jim, having started earlier over at Tara, finished one Tanqueray and tonic to my six Dewar’s and waters. Thankfully, the Forum is but a short stagger home.

While consuming a satisfying amount of scotch and fending off the amorous advances of Carl, who by count of his olives was on his sixth martini, (and as evidenced by my photo above, had lost all eyesight,) Jim and I, tentatively, began the process of sorting things out. In the end, we decided that friendship was fine, but anything beyond that was probably not in the cards.

Ring the bells that can still ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything.
That's how the light gets in.

In the note that accompanied the picture of me, he said, "The sky is blue today. I think I'm going to Durand Park to snort daffodils and cherry blossoms. I will call you @ a decent hour."

He spent the better part of the afternoon here, and we picked up our discussion where we left off last night. Jim is still more taciturn with regard to his feelings and sharing his history. I, on the other hand, let it all hang out, (go figure!) I shared specifics of roles and interactions in almost all of my relationships, beginning with my parents and brothers and ending with Jeffrey. From there, we discussed our brief relationship, how we got to where we started from, what our perceptions of the other were, and finally, the hurtful evening when it all hit the fan.

And lucky you! You know how I’ll look in the morning!