This One Might Sting a Bit...

8/9/09  3:00 p.m.  Jacksonville Beach, Florida

No really, how the fuck did I get here?

Sitting in my parent's house on a late Sunday afternoon.  Sitting in the living room in my grandma's old black rocking chair holding a small pint of Jack Daniels in one hand and a set of razor blades in the other.

I know what you're thinking- oh shit, here we go with the drama queen shit.

But it's not really what you think.  Not really.  Let me explain.

After Lassy dropped  me off at my car in Michler's point I headed on back to my parent's house in Jax Beach.  I figured that he would stop off at Ryan McDermott's house in Jax Beach and rally things up with him.  For me this was just out of the picture.  I'd felt like I had bothered Rhino enough lately, quite often drinking on his back porch and trying to figure out what the fuck I was going to do with my life.  At one point in time I had even taken to crashing in his garage.   A dark, hot, greasy room that could only be spruced up so much with his grandmother's old furniture.  As far as caves go it was right up my alley.  But that only lasted until the true summer heat of Florida kicked in and it soon was definetly no longer an option.  Besides, I had seen the look and frustration in his eyes with Mark and I squatting at his place all the time.  After all, there was a baby on the way and he had a lot of work to do.

So I left Mark and headed down the road towards Jax Beach.  I did some fuzzy  math of what was left on my debit card and decided to blow the last of my money on the most responsible and beautiful thing one could by- a small pint of Jack Daniels.

Fortunately the card went through and I booked it out of the ABC liquors in Jax Beach and headed towards the rent's house.  Arriving I was more than relieved to see I was all by myself.  The rest of the Grizzwald clan was out in the world doing better and braver things than I.

I entered the house and wasted no time in trying to get the bottle of Jack open.  But again this was rock bottom and I was a bit hazy and even more uncoordinated than normal.

After a few attempts of struggling with the plastic sealing wrapped around the cap I finally got too frustrated and opened the kitchen cabinets searching for a knife or scissors.  It was there that I first saw them:  those shiny little bastards staring up at me.

I stared back at the set of razor blades wrapped tight in there little yellow packaging and shrugged.  Fuck it.  This will do.  These fuckers will get the Jack's plastic sealing open for sure. 

I two-stepped it over to grandma's black rocking chair and sat down.  Carefully as I could I sliced at the cap, trying to make just one good incision so I could set the booze free.  At the first strike I slipped and  nicked the underbelly of my right forearm about six inches above my wrist.

So there I was, holding a set of razor blades in one hand and a bottle of Jack in the other.  Only now a small stream of blood slowy started it's way down my arm.

So yeah, how the fuck did I get here?

I thought of the possibility of my mother walking in on me at this state and shuddered.  What a rude awakening for her, huh?  She certainly deserves better than that- ole ma Price, one of the best.

I sat and looked at my bleeding arm and considered hopping up and moving this party up into the cave.  Being the stubborn bastard I was I decided to stay put for the moment and get the plastic wrapper off just in case the party required a little ice or splash of coke from the fridge. 

One more slice and I was home free.  The cap was off and I took a long pull from dear ole Jack.

Hot fire and relief.

I grunted and breathed.  I took another pull and soon felt satisfied for the moment and looked back down at my bleeding arm.  And of course, the thought soon made it's way into my head.

What if I just keep cutting?

I hadn't planned on getting there.  Finding the blades was just another of life's little coincidences, wether they be good or bad.  But I was there now.  Alone and letting the thought roll throughout my head.  What if I just kept cutting?

Drama queen or no drama queen, suicide is á thought  that I believe strolls through almost every person's life at one point time or another.  For some it may be a long, dwindling thought and for others just a natural fleeting moment.  For me it was always the most selfish act one could do.  The final breath of greed and desperation.  However, sitting there at that moment all I could say was that whatever one's opinion may be, I could certainly understand how they got to a place and thought such as this.  If their was ever a time or reason enough to just keep cutting it was now.

I sat staring at my bleeding forearm.  It was just a nick, but good enough to raise an eyebrow.  I took another pull of whiskey and returned to that one thought.

How the fuck did I get here?

Dark thoughts flooded the mind.  Pussy.  You're so full of shit.  Just do it.  Pussy. Pussy. Pussy.

Slowly I closed my eyes and forced the words out, only having them flood back in every other moment.  Still I managed to return to that one thought.

How did I get here?

About six months ago I had lost my job bartending at The Landshark, a popular local bar in a landmark building that everyone loved.  The money was great and at the time the lifestyle was fun.  I had lost my job for a lot of reasons.  Some was due to the jealousy and the treachory of others.  Some was due because fuckin-A right I should of been fired for drinking on the job.  Although it was commonplace to do so it was an unwritten rule that you had to do it in moderation.  I had always done just that until a mean, vicious bender crept up on me and the end results are never good with those.  Mostly I was fired because I now believe that subconsciously I wanted to be fired.  Despite all the money and good times I was miserable and couldn't figure out why.  It was time to go on another path, I just never realized how hard that path would be.

Not soon after my apartment in Jax Beach was the next to go.  At the time, it seemed like a perfect little place, a two bedroom nook (or three bedroom if you included my study and party room) that I could afford by myself.  Plenty of room for my dog Kaya and I.   But I wasn't happy.  What was the point of being there?  I wasn't writing worth shit and instead did nothing but go to work and of course party in the party room.  Oh, now don't get me wrong, there were some good times- many of you know what I'm talking about.  But still now I can't  really pick out a single decent memory from all those good times.  They're faded and gone, the way most good party times become.

Next was my two week stint in shooting Army training videos at Camp Blanding.  It was a good time where  I met some great people but even now it's hard to talk about.  War does strange things to a man. Ah, fuck off for those of you that aren't laughing with me at this thought.

Next was the failed hopes for starting my own small production business.  In reality I knew deep down this was always wishful thinking- cemented by one ever bullshitting dipshit (E.O. for those of you that know what I'm talking about- Rhino) and by my refusal to accept the inevitable.  This was not my path, or at least not yet.  McDermott was in love and now had a kid on the way and I saw this as a blessing from the get go.  It just meant that I had to figure something else out.

Then there was the thing that hurt most- losing or hurting a few friends that I loved with all my heart.  Each of these losses were my fault, created by my own benders and misery.  Still, what was done was done.  No matter what ever happens from here on out I'll never truly forgive myself for hurting these people the way I did, for letting them down.  But, el promblemo es mio, and that's between us.  When it comes to friendship my love is unconditional I can only hope that it's never too late.

Then there was the thought of the movie, Mustard Gas and Catnip.  Three years in the making and I had pulled it off.  Or had I.  The premiere- well shit, that's all I really wanted was to make a movie and have a premiere.  And what a hell of a party it was.  Despite all the small disappointing mishaps it was one of the best times I've ever had in my life.  Only that was it.  I left it at that.  Instead of going back and reediting the movie the way I should I just let it go, thinking that that was good enough and I should move on to something else.  My end game has always sucked.

And then there was the land in Costa.  A beautiful and fascinating place.  My favorite piece of dirt on earth.

But then there was what I like to call THE BIG FIRE.  I'd like to say that I never saw it coming, but for those of you that know... well you  know.  Instead of going back and sticking to my guns and rebuilding I just let it go.  And then I let THE BIG FIRE happen again. (I'll explain in further detail when the time is right)

From there the thought of the land slowly developed into a blurry dream, a thought that was so painful that I tried to surpress it as much as possible, only allowing it to surface in my dreams.  Sometimes the dream of the land was so beautiful I would wake up crying, wondering if I would ever make it back.  Sometimes it was a nightmare, telling myself that a dream was a dream and this one was was probably gone. 

Oh, this fucking life we live. 

For now, I'll just let this sleeping dog lie and say that I've figured some things out- the land being one of them.  For some thing's it's never too late.  Dirt is just dirt and you can always get it back.  Indeed I am going home one day and as this story devlops I'll keep you updated on how I plan to get there- and how I'm going to bring you all with me.   

And then there was the ultimate nail in the coffin.  I hadn't been writing the way I liked lately.  I had been struggling in starting my first novel, Hockin' the Boys, and to me there were a few good lines here and there, but mostly it was shit.  It was shit and I wasn't enjoying writing anymore.  Writing and enjoying it had always been one of my favorite things to do in life, and now it all felt like shit.  Maybe it was too late.

So how the hell did I get here?

Where was I going to go from here?

A few days beforehand my Dad had called me and asked to visit him in Puerto Rico. I could stay for a month and work with him a little bit.  His small logistics company was struggling a bit, the way most small companies were struggling in the wake of this shitty recession, and that he could really use my help if I was willing.   My Mom and Niece were going anyway and he had the flight miles so it was no big deal for me to go as well.  When he asked me I refused instantly, figuring that he and my mother had just been concerned with my bitter, sad, and brooding mood of late and were just throwing me a pity invite. 

I refused but my Dad just ended  the conversation by saying that the ticket was there if I wanted and that I could think about it for a couple of days.

And think about it I did.

Many of you have asked me many times why I never went out to P.R. and worked  with him in the first place. 

Well the best reason is that my father never asked me before.   He figured that I was always too busy doing my own things, which I was.

The other reason is that I never asked him to go before either.

I was indeed doing my own thing.  There was the traveling, the raft guiding, the snowboarding, the surfing, and rolling with The Circle through all of it.

Then came the land.  The years that it took to get there.

Then there was the movie.

And then there was the idea that I wanted to do it all on my own.  Wether it be through bartending or through whatever job it took I was going to do it on my own.  I had always hated those trust fund kids in Costa- the ones that had everything handed to them, nice beachside houses that were put up in a week when it took  Dave O and I months just to build a fucking bridge across the lagoon- so yeah, I never wanted to be one of those fucking kids.  I never wanted anything handed to me.  Never had the opportunity to have anything handed to me either.  I was going to do it all on my own.

And there I was.  All alone.  Sitting in my rocking chair with nothing but a bottle of Jack and a bleeding forearm.

Why don't you just keep cutting?

The thought came crashing into my mind again and the tears soon followed.

You big pussy?  What do you have to lose? 

Sitting there I realized I had a decision to make.  It was either P.R. or just to go on cutting?  I'm sorry to say I was leaning towards the latter.

I took a deep breath and did what all people would do in my situation-  I asked God for a sign.

Oh please God, anything, just anything, I know it's quite stingy of me but I could really use a break here.  Please God, anything at all would do.

I took a deep breath and listened, trying to clear my mind of all thoughts. 

Nothing.  Nothing at all. 

I took a long pull from the bottle and gripped the razor blades in my right hand.

Where was I going to go from here?

This one might sting a bit.

I looked down at my forearm... wondering.

Suddenly it came.  A simple beep from my phone.  Incoming text message.

I looked down and saw it was from Dave O.

God had spoken and this was my sign.

Oh Dave O.  I hadn't talked to him in months.  To sad and to ashamed to face him ever since I dropped his sweet girlfriend Molly on her head (This is a story all in itself and hopefully will follow when appropriate).  Following that there were bitter words exchanged and then silence.  Weeks passed and neither of us contacted one another.  Then slowly I'd get a message from him.

What's up there Buck?

And then there was another.  I'd answer none of them.  Still swimming in my rock at the bottom and to frustrated with myself to return his calls.

Dave.  My best friend and worst enemy.

And there I was.  Sitting in my rocking chair and stairing at the name on my phone.  My best friend.  Somehow, he had heard my prayers, my calls for hope, and Dave O had responded with words of love and encouragement.  He was there when I needed him most and I loved him for it.  Proudly, and with all the thankfullness in my heart I pushed a button and  read the sign that I had asked for.  And the message read:

Fr: O Dog:  In case u forgot, you are one sorry bastard asshole

I sat for a moment, stunned and not sure what to make of it.

Soon there was nothing left to do but laugh, cry a bit, and laugh some more.  Ask and you shall recieve.

I guess I was going to Puerto Rico.