The Written Off in The eye of every storm

Christening stars
I remember the way
We were needle and spoon
Mislaid in the burning hay

Bared on your tomb
I am a prayer for your loneliness
And would you ever soon
Come above unto me?
For once upon a time
From the binds of your holiness
I could always find
The right slot for your sacred key

There’s this friend I know. We’ll call her Cheryl. That’s her name. I’d introduce you, but this is the internets, and really, all you need to know is that she is my friend. You’re probably wondering what kind of friend; she’s the kind of friend that knew me in highschool. We had so many mutual friends. Hell, we even loved each other, but we never knew how to get out of each others’ relationships to be together. Young love and young lust, younger hearts yearning to be free. That kind of thing.

I deployed. Our lives went different paths. While I received roses, cruelty brought her orchids.

Once, she was down and out. Cheryl lived in The City, dating a perma-heroin addict, abusive, always-on-medical-leave electrician who we’ll call Mike. We’re going to call him that, because that’s his fucking name. It’s Mike. Mike’s a piece of shit. He’s trash. If he’s still alive. I don’t know, this was ten years ago.

She begged me to come visit her in the city; so I did. I had two days off, and I hopped on a flight from Las Vegas to Islip, Long Island, New York. I took a very expensive cab to a very expensive train and found my way to Jamaica Queens where she promptly blew me off.

I spent more money than I had or care to admit on a hotel room in China Town, The City (a Comfort Inn). I texted her, called her, texted her, and received nothing in return. The next day, she’s free, turns up practically outside my hotel room.

She takes me to a place across the water-way from La Guardia, some State Park or City Park. She tells me she traces lines in the sky where the planes were and projects where they’re going, where she could be. She raises her track marked arm in one direction or another, describing in detail these places I’ve been and I don’t have the courage to tell her they aren’t better, that nowhere is better. I look into her eyes, deep blues meeting deep blues, and I do not say that you cannot run from yourself, because it was a lesson I was learning.

We took the train past Shea Stadium, connected on another train and walked around Central Park. At some point, she went down on me. Fingering her, I snapped the button on her tight plaid pants. Just us, the night, the surrounding, impenetrable fortress of the city. We became lost in the park. Everything looked like the way we came in. We laughed our way down 5th Avenue, her holding her pants up.

Eventually we found the train back to Jamaica Queens. I went back to my hotel and asked her to stay with me. I told her I wanted her to be safe. But there was no safety. She was stuck. She left me with a deep passionate kiss. She left me with the words “I love you.” She meant it, and I felt it, truly, deeply, passionately, and perhaps as much as I have ever felt in my life.

And I loved her.

I haven’t seen her since that night.

She escaped that guy, Mike, the asshole electrician. She moved back home to Augusta, married some other asshole named John. John’s with an ‘h’ should be avoided.

Today at work, some new kid asked me my name, and I said, “Jonathyn.” He said, “My name is John, is yours with an ‘h?’‘

“Yeah, you can’t spell Jonathyn without an ‘h,’” I replied.

I digress.

So Cheryl, because that’s her name, and John, because that’s his name, one day are out at a bar after several drinks. They’ve had a tumultuous relationship, ups and downs, abuse, substance abuse, etc etc etc. Somehow through this, they’ve managed to squeeze out three kids. Regardless, that’s irrelevant.

So they’re driving home from this bar, and suddenly John grabs the steering wheel and veers them directly into a tree in a suicide attempt after an argument. Of course, he escapes after a brief coma with minor fuck all, but Cheryl has to relearn to walk, have pins in her legs and ankles, and a mirage of bullshit that comes down with her being accused of “drinking and driving.”

She and John broke up.

I was going to go to Augusta and visit her while she was recuperating. I offered her a reprieve. She has been living in a trailer, unable to pay bills, or provide. I’d sent her several hundred dollars to help keep power on, feed kids, etc several months in a row, because that’s what fucking life long friends do.

I back out of going to Augusta. Here’s why: I’m engaged, and happily so. My life is pretty fucking awesome. It’s roses. So while Cruelty is pissing on her orchids, i’m afraid of it pissing on my roses. So I don’t go.

Now.

She’s back with this John guy. And in my heart, I know that he’s going to kill her. Probably her children too. They’re going to become a statistic. Late night murder porn fodder for Lt. Joe Kenda. Investigation Discovery myth.

and the thing is, I’m done fighting for her.

I guess you get to that point. ya know.

======================================

I bought tickets to see Iron Maiden today. (also my parents plane tickets out here, and them Dallas Stars vs Chicago Blackhawks tickets (because it would be awkward if we bailed on them on their first day)), paid my cable bill, my electric bill, and some other things.

It’s easy to spend $1500.00.

Whatever. I’m going to see Iron Fucking Maiden.

Here’s a picture of my Cat. He don’t give a fuck.

(he’s actually standing on the money we owe the vet, so its not an arrogance thing)

Last updated October 21, 2015