The Boy With The Thorn In His Side

My childhood was annoyingly, frustratingly average. Loving even. No harsh realities ever smacked me in the face. I never knew what it was to go hungry. I never wondered where my parents were or if they loved me. In fact there were more times I would push them away so I could run off and do something they didn’t approve of than anything else. It was a great way to grow up for any kid but maybe not so much for a writer. And certainly not for a writer whose life took so many drastic turns and went down roads there was really no reason to go down other than it was where the shiny things were and I was easily distracted. Am easily distracted. Bird!

From my first memories of being a kid though my ninth birthday I can’t say anything of note really happened. Fantastically elaborate Christmases and run of the mill family reunions were almost routine. My parents remained steadfast in their involvement in my life, as well as with my sisters. We were a well adjusted family from all angles - and not in the way you hear about over foreboding music at the beginning of a Netflix documentary about a family found dead at the hands of the patriarch, throats slit and bodies sliced to ribbons by the broken glass of picture frames that once held family photos from vacations to Disney and Wisconsin Dells. We were legitimately happy.

And I was apparently going to do everything I could to fuck that up.

It wasn’t on purpose. No one ever becomes an addict or alcoholic because it sounds like a super fun time. You know why? Because it’s fucking not. And I’m not talking about the more colloquial uses of those words like you might hear at a college kegger or from a few moms getting wine drunk at two in the afternoon on a random Tuesday after they drop Makenzie and Ryleigh or Rylee or, God help us all, yet another Madison at the babysitter’s. I mean taking bumps of blow off the pipe of a urinal at the now defunct Excalibur nightclub in Chicago while the random girl you found on the dance floor guards the door or orders you yet another Grey Goose and Red Bull. It wouldn’t be the first drug of the night, nor the first drink, nor the last girl. That’s a true story. That’s not bragging. And if you think it is there’s nothing I can say to make you less of an asshole.

But as with most things I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t know exactly where to start with this to be honest. While I’ve maintained a faulty (at best) memory since birth my recollection was further hindered by the use of alcohol and narcotics. In other words to label me an unreliable narrator would be doing a disservice to unreliable narrators. Nick Carraway is a more reliable narrator than I am. My point is that I’m probably not going to give you much of a reason to trust my word regardless of my intent. To that end I’m going to do what has become second nature to me over the last four decades: I’m going to lie.

Not in a malicious way, mind you. I’m not here to make enemies (though I have a sinking feeling that’s going to happen as a matter of course) but rather pepper my truths amongst the fabrications. Not totally fiction but not totally fact. But then that’s how we all live our lives isn’t it? It’s okay. We’re all friends here. You can be honest. You lied today. And yesterday. And you will tomorrow even if you promise you won’t. Every morning is like New Year’s Day when it comes to lies: you have every intention of not doing the bad stuff anymore but dammit you just can’t help yourself. Only instead of cheating on your diet you’re irreparably dismantling decades-long friendships over a conglomeration of little white lies. Because the thing about little white lies is that sooner or later they tarnish and before you realize it you’ve built an ugly wall of distrust around you and no one is near enough to hear you apologize.

Well, this is my apology. And my story. And my truth.

Well, sort of.

I will visit moments in my life that to this day stand out in my memory as important for one reason or another. Maybe it was a life altering interaction with a loved one or that time I threw up on a state trooper’s boot. Maybe it’ll be funny or maybe I’ll look back at what I’ve written and sadly shake my head, hardly believing I was able to live through it all. It’ll most likely be all of this. And it will also be counterfeit. I don’t recall specifics but I know they’re what makes a story great. So I’ll write what I know and play a little bit with names, locations, pill count, and blood alcohol content (though the many hospitals and police departments of several Illinois towns could probably help fact check that last one).

So I guess we should start with the first thing that went wrong. Of course it didn’t go wrong at the time but those seemingly tiny decisions are the ones that have the most lasting impact on us. There’s probably a story in that sentence alone but it’s nothing Bruce Springsteen and Kenny Chesney haven’t already written a song about so I’ll leave it be.

We begin in my friend’s basement. It’s 1989. There’s a party upstairs for some reason I don’t recall. The adults are all there. But the booze is stashed in the fridge in the laundry room. 

And away we go.