The Year of The Monkey (or how we lost everything) in The eye of every storm

Joe Scali was the great Italian uncle I never had. He was brilliant, graduating first in his class from the Music Conservatory of Chicago. He could play every instrument as well as he could drink every bottle of Cabernet. When the two were combined, he was unstoppable. His patience taught me more than his silence at times. I learned how to faux finish from him. I learned how to build houses, rebuild houses, redesign homes. He taught me piano, how to tighten my drum rolls, and how to appreciate the works of Bach as well as the works of the Rolling Stones.

I went to his funeral in January, an unseasonably warm Florida day, and walked into a chilly reception. His business partner happened to be my roommate and boss, who royally fucked me over. I have no idea what lies or exaggerations were spread in my absence, but I wasn’t there for them. I was there for Uncle Joe. I loved him deeply. And love supersedes all.

I hopped a Major Airline plane from Orlando to Atlanta, and hopped on a Delta Jet (FLY DELTA JETS) to Augusta, which is my hometown. There I rented a car and met my mother and we drove to Aiken, South Carolina, a small town nestled somewhere between the hustle and bustle of Augusta and Columbia, tucked neatly in the middle of Gods largest peach field. I drove and Mom asked if I remembered the way, and seventeen years later, I did. Every turn, every red light, and every bump in the road that had only deteriorated in the time since the rental wheels last careened me through the pine meadowed forest.

We arrived at the home of Leslie Tracy Dawson. She was my French teacher in high school, and one of my mothers best friends. Mom taught at the same school, in fact was my teacher for several grades, as Leslie taught. She was a vibrant storyteller, a hold over from the seventies who only grew grey hair instead of a societal misguidance. She was the kind of person who spoke with her hands, in big loopy exaggerations, and she had you hooked from the utterance of, “Back in....” or “One time in Long Beach....”

Mike, her husband, answered the door. I saw Kyle, her son, several years my junior, who I would play with in high-school when we went over to her house. Times were different then- you could go hang out with your teachers and play golf with their husbands without fear of being molested or being accused. I also was dating her daughter, briefly, which she was strangely okay with, meaning I was acceptable, or so I supposed.

Mike held a good mask of cheer and candor. He led us to the living room, where Leslie laid in a hospital bed, an IV filled with morphine dripping into her skinny arm. Her silver grey hair that once held a sway of authority and wisdom was gone, a victim of chemo, administered for the brain tumor that suddenly developed one day while she was on an airplane traveling home from Christmas with her California based family. It would be her last.

She slept, and mom and i sat on the couch beside her bed, and every time I tried to say a word, this huge lump formed in my throat, so large it squeezed tears down my cheeks. Mom held her hand and told her how much she loved her and prayed for her. My mother is a Christian, and as I watched her pray over this decaying body, I knew once again the icy realization that we are so fucking alone in this side of the Universe.

She woke up. Her eyes fluttered open, and her husband, on instinct, reached for the cup with the straw so she could have some water. Her tongue wet, I said, “Hey Mrs. Dawson, it’s Jonathan, and I flew from Texas to see you.” She said, “Jon *s” and smiled, and I knew she remembered me. She made a joke about the damn dogs and we laughed, but the tube in her throat made her words muffled.

I kissed her forehead and Mom and I cried on the way to Mellow Mushroom, where we drank beers to help our souls and ate pizza to help our hearts. Comfort foods for the creatures of habit. The next day, I caught a Delta Jet (FLY DELTA JETS) to Atlanta, and then got on my Company plane back to the Big City.

She died four days later.

My fiance’ was hired by Major Airline, in the same department I worked. A few days later, we found out a surgeon needed to drill a hole in my hip to alleviate pressure dead bone was causing, a final reminder of my Florida Trail/Appalachian trail hike. I went in for my surgery while she was in training, and missed two months of work.

This isn’t bragging, but one of the things I’m extremely well versed and successful is running Major Airline. I don’t know how or why my punk rock life turned to aviation the way it did, but I understand it intrinsically, like I was almost destined to connect people to the things they love, and have such a giant passion for it and our Customers.

While I was recovering from surgery, my fiance was fired from Major Airline, from my department. Her fibromyalgia medication prevented her from learning, and it is a great deal of information to learn. It’s one of the hardest courses I’ve ever taken in my life, and I’ve done some pretty amazing shit.

So I come back to work to the same department that fired her and was promoted to a Senior ____. It’s a big promotion, and a big deal. I swallowed hard and took it with a grain of salt. I knew I earned it, but my anger at the very people promoting me for refusing to allow me to help fiance’ clouded my vision.

Since then, her life has spiraled into a frenzied depression. She suffers panic attacks, anxiety and nausea constantly. She doesn’t feel worth anything. She feels like a failure. And every day I go to the same place that fired her, because it supports us, and I don’t know how to feel about it. I focus on helping those under me now, helping them learn, helping them grow, and helping them achieve their goals. That’s my passion at work now. But management is dead to me. Sure I smile and laugh at their jokes, but I wouldn’t shed a tear if they never came back one day.

Speaking of never coming back one day. I know this is long. In our facebook-twatter world, no one reads anymore. So bear with me. Or stop. It’s up to you.

Fiance’s Uncle Jeff, and that’s what we’ll call him, because that’s his name, lost his girlfriend. His landlord murdered her up in Omaha, pumping carbon monoxide from the exhaust of his truck into their home while he was at work on a night shift. Two days later, Fiance’s other Uncle died of cancer. So she has to fly on major airline (that had just fired her) to Omaha. I never took her off of my benefits, just in case, a move which proved pivotal later in life.

I don’t think it can get any worse for her. I really don’t. She’s going to see a psychiatrist, but most of them don’t take our insurance, and the one’s that do are men and she has an issue with that, and I have not raised the question as to why. I just accept it. But she’s looking for one, and I got her to admit she needs real help, and that its okay to be helped, and that at some point or another, we’ve all needed it.

Meanwhile, we have a nice home. We also pay $1750.00 a month for it, on top of a substantial cable bill, various streaming services, gas, electric, insurance blah blah blah. The loss of her job nearly derailed us financially. Luckily, I was able to claim financial hardship from my 401K due to my medical issues and receive $6,000 out of that account. I then leveraged that money to payoff a loan I had previously took from my 401K to move, and then withdrew an even larger $10,000 loan to get us through the next year or so while fiance’ gets better. The extra money will back fill my paycheck and should sustain the gap after my promotion.

For those of you worried about my retirement, prior to Brexit, I had a comfortable $89,750 that’s fully vested, so don’t worry too much. Major Airline matches 11.8% and that’s what I put in, not to mention the nearly $10,000/year in profit sharing that gets deposited. I NEVER in my wildest dreams imagined that I could EVER type numbers like that associated with my name. I’m a very VERY lucky boy, sitting on many many shoulders that helped through very hard times to get me here.

I don’t even know how to pay them back. I doubt they want anything back. But man.

Back to death: where were we with our scythe and the impending axe?

Last week it befell on Blake. Blake is the brother of one of my best friend’s, Dustin. Dustin owned a coffee shop in downtown Augusta the same time we had a Tiki Bar there. There is an unwritten rule that mutual business owners downtown there eat/drink each others services for free, but we became close, and eventually, I met his brother Blake, who met his future wife, Tila, at the Tiki Bar.

I’m not sure of the details, but Blake divorced Tila and had several bad relationships, one of which was with a married woman. At some point, I think he snapped. The news article states a male refused to put down a shotgun during a domestic disturbance, so police had no choice to return fire. They shot him in his head, chest, legs, and abdomen. The casket will be closed.

Blake was so sweet, a very sincere, incredibly compassionate soul. I hadn’t spoken with him in years, but I learned since he was going through very hard times. I wish I could’ve reached out to him, given him a buddy pass to come stay here, maybe take a load off, start fresh, etc, but I just didn’t even know to do that. Dustin is taking it very hard. He’s never liked police officers to begin with, and I’m afraid a similar future awaits him, if he’s ever pulled over for the slightest infraction.

Today, Jinni died. Jinni was my coworker at the Tiki Bar, next to Ray, who passed in 2009. Those two were my best friends. Jin had heart problems, and a replacement surgery as a teenager. No one expected her to live passed 18, but at 23 she walked into my life in a time where I struggled severely with a cocaine addiction, while bar tending. It’s a terrible combination. I was severely depressed. i dated an incredible person named Rebecca, and completely destroyed that relationship because I liked drugs.

That was the start of everything that led me to where I am today, and I KNOW had I never took my first line, she and I would probably be married with teenagers now. It’s funny how life works out. I still love her dearly, but we’ve both moved on and are friends, and that’s sometimes how that works.

Jin helped me through all of that. I was suicidal at times, attempted it once and woke up in a hospital with my parents by my side, and Ray, and Jin. Eventually, we slept together. It wasn’t anything relationship wise, but I think it filled a void for both of us at the time. She was beautiful, and I was beautiful and hurting, and maybe she was helping me replace my addiction while getting some kind of enjoyment for herself as well.

I know that sounds like a real asshole thing to write, but I swore after Open Diary I would be uncompromisingly honest.

Jin succumbed to her heart problems today. She spent the last month in a hospital in Charleston, South Carolina. Her organs began to fail, one by one. We all knew this day was coming, even years ago, but.... Well fuck. It’s here. That day came. It came and ripped a huge hole in my chest. Her smile was amazing. Her grace was flawless. Her voice, angelic.

Later in life, she married and had a beautiful son. He’s eight now, and motherless. I think his grandparents are going to take him in, as the father is out of the picture. I cannot begin to imagine what the rest of his life is going to be like, but I do know that he was deeply loved, by many of us.

My hip recovered. I’m walking again. I can’t take stairs and I can’t run the Boston Marathon, but I can walk without a cane and carry a backpack. Next year, my friend Erin and I are planning a rim to rim hike of the Grand Canyon. I’m getting back into shape, cycling and swimming and what not. I’ve got goals.

But right now, right this second, I just need 2016 to back the fuck off. I’m so fucking sad, all of the time. I’m trying to be so strong for my fiance’ and disguise this sadness, but she sees the bourbon bottles in the recycling bin. It’s no secret and we’re not kidding anyone.

My heart hurts deeply this year, in a very real, very adult way. I’m really struggling. It may not be financially, but I feel despair and loss creeping in to the dark recess of my heart. They’re setting up shop and they’re opening for business, and what they sell is toxic, and it’s spreading to every aspect of my life.

I’m sorry this was long. I just had to get if off my chest. We’re losing everyone we love. And The Big City is so far away from all of them.

Last updated July 07, 2016