psychosis - letter 2

THIRTY-ONE

letter i wrote to MAUREEN DOWD after she slammed BOB DYLAN

i have a few words to say in reference to Maureen Dowd's lambaste of Bob Dylan. not a big fan of his, altho i have always liked Tangled up in Blue. as for myself, i will also say a few words, and let you be the judge. i consider myself, the left hand of God. i have, twice, lost my job, due to my attempts to save young women from their demons (crack cocaine, and all that that life entails - abusive, psychotic boyfriends, the 'system' (medical/mental health), which, essentially, slaps on a band-aid, rather than deal with the root cause/infection, whatever you wish to call it, the other system (police/'justice'), which happily spits out restraining orders, like a sewer discharges into the Ocean, all the live-long day, yet, when called upon to, actually, protect (as opposed to 'serve', which, apparently, consists primarily of warrants), finds itself mired in, red tape, paperwork, and the dictates of the, 'law', whatever, that, means, and, in the end,
essentially useless. not to mention the, 'fathers', and 'boyfriends' and 'husbands', their, supposed protectors, who, way too often, turn out to be the originators, of their plight. the first time, five or so years back, i, to put it mildly, threw away my whole life, in an attempt to save a stripper/crackwhore from, a) herself, b) her, standard-issue, abusive, psycho, crackhead boyfriend, the aforementioned 'sytems', and, lastly, c) various, and sundry, other, predators, low-lifes, and miscreants, whatever have you. i tried twice, this first time, which was a sort of penance for having failed a woman, rather badly, in the past, myself. to wit:

i once loved a girl, who, after a couple years, went her way, while i went mine. it is really, a long, tragic, and overly involved story, with which i will not bore you with here (it will be found, however, eventually, at SUICIDEGIRLS.COM, under the guise of frank cotton, and also, at OBSSESSEDARTIST.COM (how, appropriate), under one of my many, other, aliases, nil). a year or so later, after keeping in touch, working at the same establishment (and, i assure you, this is all true), and even lending her my truck, MORGENSTERN, to move with, she asked me, if, i would like to meet her, to have a beer. i said yes. here's where i show my dark side. when we first broke up , after a two-week cooling-off period, she told me, in no uncertain terms, that it was over.

to digress, a moment, please bear with me, if you will, i broke up with her, after she stayed out all night, one friday, with her new friends, from her new job, much the same as we had done, ourselves, together, to begin with. she stopped by our apartment with a carload of them, to, 'use the bathroom', as she put it, when, in reality, she was there to snag the last bag of weed we had stashed in the freezer. she had, prior to this event, stopped smoking, while i continued to do so. at the point in question, our breakup, i had quit smoking, trying to sync up with her, however behind i might have been, it was, i don't know, maybe two or three months off, and she, having started a new third-shift job, and making new friends, had started back up, smoking, that is, not cigarettes, but the devil's own weed. i believed her, at first; i mean, why would she lie to me, even tho we only saw each other once a month, on one weekend, due to her, a) schoolwork, college,
that is, a major in microbiology, with a minor in computer science, on the side, so to speak. b) ROTC, as she was expected to give up one weekend a month, two weeks in the summer, etc., and c) her full-time, 40-hour-a-week job. the new job, that is, that we were just talking about. well. after about two hours of sitting around, and trying my best, to sell myself her story, it occured to me, to look in the freezer. and, lo and behold, the weed, why, it's gone! not there! it disappeared (i was a little slow, back then), and so, to put it, again, mildly, i threw a coniption fit. yelled at the walls, threw a couple of things(unbreakable, by the way, i didn't want to break anything of hers, you see - and, yes it is, still, all true), around the room, stomped on the floor a couple of times, and, in a split-second of, dare i say, brilliance, i had a master plan! out of nowhere, it seems, even now, impossible to believe. why, i would play her, like a hand of
poker, and i would bluff her. simple, concise. easy-as-pie, what could possibly go wrong? care to take a guess? i called her, at her new friend's house, and told her, in, once again, no uncertain terms, that, she would either, a) come home, immediately, and try to patch things up, as best we could

(i was, at this point, starting to save up for a ring; she had risked her credit, to co-sign for, me, a car loan, so that i, might be able to actually, get to work, rather than, as was the norm, the usual, get in the car (old, 1970, 'ford' LTD, black, as midnight, courtesy of earl shieve's cheap-ass, $100 paint job, looks great, but don't run for ****, kinda, pray, cross my fingers, my heart, etc.), turn the key, and hope to God it would crank, sort of thing, that, we had going on, on, say, a daily basis). i figured, hey, if she's willing to risk her credit on the likes of me (stoner, high school dropout, some community college, never really commited to anything type of guy, that i was, at that time, with, you know, no future, vague visions of an art-fueled, movie-making career in the far, but not too, too, distant future, fanciful dreams, and not much else to bank on), then, she is, undoubtly, a keeper).

to resume, if i may, my somewhat, sordid, and, twisted tale, i told her in those terms yet again, that, if we broke up, there would be no second chance, no going back, that (at this point, a mere, two-weeks into what i thought was, a done deal, an open and shut case, ie, that is, i figured she would fold her hand, so to speak, can't lose situation, i'm already falling apart; i hadn't eaten, or slept, not literally, but not quite figuratively, either), if i had to go through this once (the breakup thing), as torn up as i already was, and picturing just how much further rent i would certainly be, i would, never, ever, go through it again. period. that, if she should, ever, in the not-too-distant and/or unforseeable future, want to attempt to get back together, or to even merely whisper the idea into my ear, that she would be, **** out of luck. or words to that effect. to this, at that point in time, she agreed.

almost to the instant, i put in play my other, darker, hidden, sub, but-not-quite-sub, concious plan, my EVIL, nefarious, and entirely unforgivable plan, into play. revenge. the, how to say, the, for the sake of my, broken heart, my, splintered heart, which, to, this very day, has never quite healed, would be quite, not-that-hard, but, nonetheless, rather difficult to pull off, over the course of a year, and, in emotional terms, very costly, indeed, would be, if not sweet, at least, it would certainly be, cold, plan. please, dear, i will try to finish this, in a thousand words, or less. i set her up. i knew, see, that we were MEANT to be together, i knew, that she WOULD, at some point in time, ask me, oh, something like, if i had nothing better to do, would i like to meet her, and have a beer. just one beer.

so. over the course of the following year, post-breakup, i, right off the bat, took a transfer to another location (ten miles away; i was working, this is the 1980s, for an unnamed, guaranteed on-time pizza delivery titan, as a manager-in-training/glorified delivery driver), so i wouldn't have to drive past HER apartment, umpteen-thousand times a day. two, maybe three months later, i took a second job, at her, then, place of employment (local to Wake Forest, her school, bar/restaurant, a place where, we, once-upon-a-time, hung out), part-time, evenings, as i worked day shift as a (more-or-less) assistant manager at the aforementioned francise pizza establishment. i know, it's weird; i hated driving past 'our' place, but i loved being in her presence, because i loved her, then, and i always will.

back to - see, it was not just a job, but also, a means to an end. my miserable, hateful, spiteful, end. of course, it worked. we had remained friends, sincerely, i assure you, because we had been friends for a couple of years before we got together. and i didn't want to lose, that, that last little bit of connection i still had with her, because, even tho, on the one hand, i was plotting against her, and hated her, for breaking my heart, on the other hand, i still loved her, if only with the, still functioning, good half, of my heart. we are all, like that, half bad, half good, another story, another day. love is, a, many, splendored thing, is it not? yes, and no. it is, on the one hand, a beautiful thing, something to be cherished, and sought after, whatever the cost, yet, on the other hand, it is, how to put this, a vile, horrible, and terrible thing, which, in the wrong hands (much like a gun, don't, get me started), is every bit as destructive, and
potentially lethal, as any nuclear stockpile, whether it be weapons of war, the ultimate toxic waste thereof, or, a mere, could be, but actually isn't, 'safe', 'clean', and efficient, powerplant. sex, as a weapon, has absolutely NOTHING on, love, as a weapon. and, don't we ALL, know it.

to continue, with the, story-within-a-story, i pushed all the right buttons, and pulled all the right strings, to steer her, all unknowing, and, in this, romantic, sense, innocent, towards my EVIL, heart's desire. EVIL, half, that is. vengeance. 'and, it worked', to quote NINE INCH NAILS, like a ****ing charm. as if on cue, one night, roughly a year after the, what else can i call it, the worst day of my life, she asks me, that question. the one beer question. the fish had, taken, so to speak, the proverbial bait, and, all sytems were go, ready for lift off. if memory serves, sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't, that was a friday night, yeah, friday again, and our, to say the least, again, or is that, yet again, fateful day of reckoning, that was, as far as she knew, just a date, with an old friend, and, maybe, just maybe, a single shot at a, second chance, that, she had been assured she would never, ever get. you can fill in the rest.

yes i did. i was that sorry, that heartless, that worthless a human being that, rather than take that second chance that providence had, ironically, given me, to save my soul, and myself, and my life, and, for all i knew, at that point, all of hers as well, rather than take that gift, and give thanks, and do the right thing, the one, and only thing, i should have done, i did the worst thing i have ever done, the one thing i can not, could not, and will not, ever, forgive myself for. ever. i mean it. did you see UNFORGIVEN? do you understand what the title means? i do. it took, seven, maybe eight years for the first cracks to appear, the cracks in my self-righteous, bull**** facade, that i saw presented before me, in the mirror in the bathroom of my, $300 a month, identical to, almost-down-to-the-last-detail floorplan apartment (identical to OURs, hers and mine, for those of you who may have lost track). it took another four, maybe five years, for it to
finally hit me, the magnitude of what i had done (you haven't heard the afterword, or the aftermath, as it were). what i had actually managed to accomplish.

not only did i a) flush what might have been a wonderful, joyful life, spent with her, right down the toilet, i also, call it a consolation prize/curse, managed to break a good deal of the faith that she had in men, in general (the same faith that women, in general, have in men, in general, that is, that we are not all, assholes, that some of us 'men', not me, mind you, are actually worthy of the name, 'man', are, in fact, actually worthy of the love that you, you women, you ANGELS, that you give us, that some of us, won't mistreat you, won't forget you, won't forget to watch over you), and, not only that, but i also managed to do one other, unforgivable thing. i managed to, not be there, the night, some months after, that, night of EVIL, that, night of, throwing away, of, spitting in the face of, of, the second chance, i also managed to, not be there, the night, the second night of EVIL, the night she was raped. the worst, of her life.

this is what i am, trying, with my, attempts, fated tho they may be, to make up for. not just, this part, or that part, but for all of it. the sum total. that is, not just metaphorically speaking, but literally, the burden that i bear, every day, for the rest of my life. i haven't dated, really, since then, altho there was, a dalliance, shall we say, with another lost soul, not as lost as the one that ran me to ground, but, well, i'm a sucker, for a damsel in distress, even if it is of her own making. but that was but a blip, a bogey, as the flyboys say, on the radar of life.

i failed her.

this is the 'sin', for which there is no ammends. i write, mostly for my own amusement, as no one seems to have any interest in any of my, other, stories, the fictional ones that i have lately, after finally giving up on ever selling them, started posting on the internet for free. once, when writing a letter to one of the many lost souls, there are, inhabiting our world, i wrote the following:

woman was God's gift to man

that he might know

beauty and joy

there is no greater sin than

to fail her

i, while a fair wordsmith at best, am nowhere near as eloquent as that. i, who used to think i was a great guy, a swell dude, a cool cat, i, have committed, long ago, the worst sin of all. the sin for which no one can forgive me. in a vain, pointless, attempt to somehow, say, balance the scales, if not actually make up for, my crime, against her, the one true love of my life, i continue to, despite the best advice of family and friends, try and save lost souls, from themselves. to wit:

a month or so, ago a young lady, from my place of employ (once, yet again, in the pizza delivery service dragon), who had previously, almost passed out, and also, due to a failed drug test, lost her place at school, was seen by mine own eyes, in her car, in the passenger seat (it is, a sign, to those in the know), with three crackheads, some hundred or so feet away from what i call, crackland. so. me, idiot that i am, i decide that something must be done, to save this girl from the life that the aforementioned stripper/crackwhore lived. that one, i met at the end; this one, i met at the beginning, so, what better point at which to assualt the demon? i tell my manager, who is still upset over the, 'almost passed out' thing (which, of course, i was also involved in. silly me, why don't i just quit trying to help people?), about what i saw, and he, big man that he is, says to, MIND MY OWN BUSINESS. (this fraidy-cat, he thinks that he is, personally, mind
you, going to be sued by this girl's family, at some point or another, over some thing or another). big man, who has some serious paranoia issues, tells me to back off. so. **** him. **** my job. **** my life. i am going to do something, and, i'm thinking, maybe i'll write her a letter, and tell her about the other one, the one i threw everything away for, tell this girl, about, that girl's 'life', if it can be called that, give her a glimmpse into her own possible future, as it were, and maybe, just maybe, that little peek at that horror show might snap her to her senses. which i did. and, i put it in her car, in a pretty envelope, the kind a secret admirerer might use. stupid, stupid man. what are you thinking? how dare you, try to help out a fellow human being? i get the one reaction i hadn't forseen, the 'freak out and show everyone in the store the letter ' reaction. i thought she would either, a) laugh it off, and say, 'you don't really think i
smoke crack, do you?' or something to that effect. or b) she would say nothing at all. at worst, i thought she might, maybe, slap me (in private), and curse me out. goes to show, what the hell, do i know? long to short - i show up to work the next morning, and get the axe. again.

so. what's the point of all this? the point is, i think i stand on firm ground, when i ask, just what the hell has ms. dowd done? other than write columns that are critical of others? so what if BOB DYLAN got paid? doesn't she? get paid? hypocrite, much? at least he wrote some songs that will stand the test of time. has she? done anything? that will stand the test of time? have you, Maureen. i'd like to know. thanks for your time. too bad you won't print this...