Remembering the Hotel Stay

In the drawer: a Bible,
in the bed, the scent of a bed

that can barely bear to be
unmade.  To sleep we nearly slice

it open, our legs skimming across
pure sheets.  Our course we could not

stay here, of course this desk
could not stand work; no service

could sustain us long.  Sunday
brings the bill slipped

beneath the door and we haul
our bags downstairs in answer,

but at least for awhile we had this
hollow Eden with its view of slighter roofs,

and each afternoon, crisp white towels
blooming like fruit on the rack.

Open When I Get There (Tenth Sobriety Anniversary Entry, part one)

On Wednesday, April 3rd, 2013,  I will have been sober for ten years.  And what is strange about that, it has only recently started to seem like ten years.  For the longest time, I have divided my life into two distinct periods: the part of my life before I got sober, and the part afterward.  For most of these past ten years, anything that happened “post-sobriety” seemed recent, even if it wasn’t, exactly.  I got sober in

The only picture I am in possesion of of me drinking. Very near the beginning, before real addiction.

2003 (for those mathematically challenged), and I would often read about something that happened in, say, 2005, and even if it had been seven years ago, I would say to myself, Well, I was sober, so it can’t have been that long ago!  It has only been recently, as I was looking forward to my tenth anniversary, that the events surrounding my addiction and recovery have begun to seem like they have some age on them.

I’ve done a lot of writing over the years about my addiction and recovery, but most of it focused on the drinking part, and the craziness of that part of my life, or my early “pink cloud” of recovery.  I’ve never recorded the events surrounding the actual date of the beginning of my new life—April 3rd, 2003—and even though such a recording may seem a tad self-important, the years are fading my memory, and if I don’t do it now, I fear I never will.

At my cousin Josh’s wedding, about a year before sobriety. I don’t look too bad, but note the alky’s nose and rosy cheeks.

I only drank alcoholically for five years, from about the age of 20 until 25.   In the grand scheme of life, this seems a pittance, but what I lacked in longevity I made up for in severity.  I was as physically addicted to alcohol as a person could be by the time I stopped (which is to say, considerably), and had graduated to having pretty severe withdrawals anytime I went an hour or more without alcohol in my system.  Not to brag on my addiction, but the rehab folks were quite astonished to see a 25 year old as far along the continuum as I was.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.  Let me back up.

By late summer of 2002, at the age of 24, it had become apparent to even my most casual friends that something had to change.  I couldn’t do anything sober.  Couldn’t drive, couldn’t shower, couldn’t work, couldn’t have sex sober, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t be awake sober.  I had large plastic cups with liquor in them in the console of my car—my “driving drinks”.  I made sure I fell asleep with liquor beside me so I could start drinking literally the moment I woke up.  I drank at every moment of every day.  I had car accidents—some that people knew about, but plenty that nobody knew about.  I am one of the luckiest people alive.  Even now, I know that.

People started saying things here and there, dropping hints that they were uncomfortable, that my version of partying wasn’t really partying.  I knew something was going to come to a head soon, but I was in denial as long as possible.  Listen, when you get right down to it, it is just plain weird and terrifying not being able to stop drinking.  It happens slowly and silently and by the time you realize what’s going on, you have no idea how to get out.  You didn’t plan for this, but it’s so confusing, you just ignore it as long as you can.  Turns out, my addiction was so quick and severe, I actually couldn’t ignore it for as long as I would have liked.  My

body was doing too many weird things (constantly having alcohol in your system for a few years will affect just about every system you’ve got), so that when, one late summer afternoon when my friend Shelley (the girlfriend, at that time, of my good buddy Paul) suggested, as we sat in their sweltering second-story apartment, that I should just call a rehab and see what they say, I said, OK, I will.  She said, why not now?  And she got a phone book, and we looked up rehabs, and I called one called Roxbury just outside Shippensburg, and they gave me a date a few weeks from then when a bed would be available, and I gave them my information, and they reserved my bed.  Just like that.  It was quite surprising.  I hadn’t begun that day thinking, in the least, about going to rehab.  I remember immediately calling one or both of my parents with the news as though I had just gotten engaged or had a baby.  Mom, Dad, I’ve decided to go to rehab!  I don’t remember their reactions, but I’m sure they were happy but reserved.  I imagine the only thing more terrifying than being an addict is having a child going through an addiction.  How scary!

There is something very surreal about arriving to rehab.  Nobody grows up thinking they’re going to go to rehab, and you’re never really prepared for what it’s going to look like, smell like, feel like.  All of a sudden, you’re there, and in that instant, no matter what came before, you are the type of person who winds up in rehab.

A typical room at Roxbury. (pic taken off the internet, not taken by me, but it is definitely Roxbury)

A lot of the details around my first arrival to Roxbury rehab are kind of fuzzy.  I know that my dad drove me there.  I remember I got really, really drunk before I got there.  I remember arriving at this squat, modern building, almost like a Frank Gehry building with glass bubbles and counter-inuitive overhangs.  I remember it being night, but I’m not sure if that’s true.  I remember going into the lobby with my dad, carrying a big suitcase, and it felt, still, like a hospital, or a hotel, or something other than what it was.  Something less desperate, something more normal.  I think now of what it must have been like for him, to arrive with his son and to leave without him.  And why?  Did he feel like he had failed?  Like he had failed me?  Was he ashamed?  Even now these are thoughts I can barely confront.  Now matter how you exorcise it, the guilt of these things won’t leave you, ever.  And rightfully so.

I remember saying goodbye to my father then, after having filled out some paperwork, and being led into the guts of the building, up and around narrow steps, into various nurses offices, answering lots of questions, filling out more forms.  There was a loneliness to these moments beyond any experience I’ve had before or since.  Not in the depths or degree of loneliness, but in that it was a very strange loneliness.  It is a very specific variety.  You are surrounded by people, yet everyone you know and love, is back out there living a “normal” life.  And yet here you are, among strangers and paid professionals, unable to live on your own.  Unable to. 

So, I won’t tell you the whole tale of my rehab.  It is a very long and interesting story (unless you’ve been to rehab, in which case it’s probably pretty boring).  Maybe I’ll tell you that story for year eleven.

But I was in there for, I think, 32 days.  When I came out, I stayed sober for somewhere around 2 weeks.  I have a very blank memory of the time between my first and second rehabs.  It is easy for me to figure out that I was out of rehab about 3 months before entering it for the second, and final, time.

When I started drinking again after my first rehab, it was amazing how quickly the addiction took hold again.  It wasn’t just like I had never stopped, it was actually worse.  One sip, one little drink, and I was in its clutches like never before.  For those of you who’ve never been addicts, try to remember, this isn’t in the least bit fun.  However it happens, it is a fact that I was drinking because I had no choice.  Or at the very least, the part of me that was capable of making a choice was hidden from me.  It is absolutely crippling. It is an insidious, ridiculous affliction.  I couldn’t hide it for long; I knew all my friends and family could see I was drinking again.

In these three months between rehabs, I lived the absolute most horrid version of my life.  Everything hurt, my skin always crawled, I was mean and miserable and sad all the time, any vestige of a moral compass I had left was gone completely and there was no act I wouldn’t commit, no person I wouldn’t do anything to or with, nothing I wouldn’t steal, no drug I wouldn’t take to try and ease the ache, no building I wouldn’t go into, no surface I wouldn’t sleep on, no family member or friend I wouldn’t injure, irrevocably, smearing guilt onto my psyche for eternity.

As far as I know, the last picture taken of me before sobriety (with a friend who shall remain unnamed). I don’t look too bad, but it was a horrid time.

I ended up, finally, not going to work, and living for about a week in a squalid motel with a few friends, which I have recounted here. (Really, read this.)  After ten years of reflection, the time at the hotel was clearly my “bottom”, the lowest of the low.  Even now, just thinking about it brings me very close to vomiting.

But from the ashes, we did rise.  From the hotel room, I finally managed to call Roxbury again and got accepted into their program a second time.

The second time at rehab, I did not have a good time.  I was as much of a physical and emotional wreck as I can imagine ever being.  I was only there nine days this time (because of quirks in Pennsylvania’s public funding for rehab, as I did not have health insurance at the time), and by the time I left, my body was still feeling the after-effects of intense physical withdrawal, and I was still a complete basketcase.  My emotional development, having been halted at the age of 20 by being constantly drunk, was now in complete disarray; my life had become unmoored, all directional signals erased, which only added to my mind’s already baffled sense of self.

As it became clear that I would not be able to stay long in rehab this time, I became terrified, because I didn’t know where to go or what to do once I got out, and I had no faith that I would stay sober for even a day.  I requested Roxbury to help me locate a “recovery house”, which is basically a halfway house specifically designed for people in addiction recovery.  Placing patients in Recovery Houses is a service Roxbury provides.  Unfortunately, because my time was so short, it was difficult for them to find me a space in one of the better, more reputable recovery houses in central Pennsylvania.  Just two days before I was to be kicked out on my kiester, I was called into an office (who can remember the offices of places?) and told they had found me a place: there was a bed available at a place called the Bethesda Mission, in Harrisburg.

I’d never heard of the Bethesda Mission before, but Bob (my counselor at Roxbury, I do remember his name) informed me that, yes, it was primarily a homeless shelter, there was a second half to the place that was a recovery house, headed up by one of the most respected recovery experts in the state.  He assuaged my fears that even though it had “mission” in the title, I would in fact be going to a very respected recovery house.

My day to leave rolled around and I had decided not to involve any of my family or friends with this phase.  I took Roxbury up on a service they offer, whereby they have a big Roxbury van that will drive you from the rehab to wherever you are going to end up.  I said my goodbyes (much less emotional this time than the first time, as I had been too fucked up this time to make any friends) and walked outside into the beautiful spring air of April 2nd, 2003, and got into a big white van that was to take me from Roxbury (right outside of Shippensburg, where I and my whole family had gone to college) to Harrisburg, to a recovery house.

And my high school Driver’s Ed teacher was driving the van.

He recognized me, and I recognized him, even though we hadn’t had any kind of close relationship in high school. (Mr. Troutman, I think?)  But we struck up an immediate and cordial conversation.  He’d retired from teaching a few years before, and had happened onto this job as a little part-time gig for extra cash.  He didn’t seem for a moment to judge me, although I’m sure I must have blubbered quite a bit in trying to explain myself.

I talked him into stopping in Carlisle (which is about halfway between Shippensburg and Harrisburg) at the restaurant I worked at, where I had a paycheck waiting for me.  I had an inkling that paycheck was going to come in handy, as without it, I had literally zero money.  Not even a penny.

Finally, he pulled up in front of this large stone structure in downtown Harrisburg, and helped me take my two suitcases out of the van.  And then, before I even walked into the building, he drove away.

The Bethesda Mission

There I stood, on the wide Harrisburg sidewalk, and looked around.  I was a man with free will.  I could walk any direction I wanted, talk to whoever I wanted, do whatever I wanted.  It was exhilarating and terrifying.  Exhilarating because, between rehab and the prison of addiciton, I hadn’t felt free like this in…well, forever.  At this point in my life, being alone in a city even the size of Harrisburg was a new thing for me.  But terrifying because I had no faith in myself to not squander this freedom on drinking.

I turned toward the building, smothered my fear, hiked up my luggage, and walked up the stairs toward the Bethesda Mission.

The plump, bespectacled man behind the desk in the lobby had never heard of me.  They did not have a spot reserved for me in the Recovery House, and in fact, a bed wouldn’t probably be open there for months.  What could they do for me?  Well, I could always sleep on a mattress in the chapel.

What does that mean? I asked him.  He says he’ll show me.  He led me down a short hallway and into a large, open space that had obviously once been used for worship.  It had a high, vaulted cieling, stained glass windows, and an unmistakable altar at the other end.  But now, dozens of filthy-looking, paper-thin mattresses lined each wall, and tinkling, calming recovery music was piped in from unseen speakers.  About a dozen haggard and hungry looking men shuffled about the open space, looking at me, sizing me up.

At night, we put the mattresses on the floor.  You’re welcome to one, once you pass the piss test.

Suddenly, I wondered just how much free will I really had.

Entry to be continued on Thursday, April 4th.

The Theme Was Hotels, the Theme Was the Absence of Worry

Some memories that seem somehow important:

Waking on a hotel bed as a young young boy–no older than 5–on a family vacation to Ocean City, Maryland.  I had apparently been allowed to sleep in.  I could see out of a high window (it was a high window to me then) and the sun was at it’s zenith.  I was suffering from my first sunburn, which if you remember is quite confusing.  What had awoken me was the sound of seagulls squaking.  I caught a glimpse of a clump of them flying by the window in my first few moments of consciousness.  The bed was the most comfortable and comforting thing I could imagine. The air conditioning was pumped up, and the cold air mixed with the warm sun created an elegant sensation. I was alone in the room. This is the definition of childhood happiness, and the absence of worry.

Waking on a hotel bed, trembling.  Where am I? Which hotel is this?  It is dark, and much too hot.  It smells of mushrooms and bile in here. Who is next to me?  Is it someone?  Perhaps it is her.  I didn’t think she’d return. I try to rise, but my peripheral swims with still motion, my stomach lurches, I knock the lamp over, lay back down.  The trembling rises, it crescendos, it is hot and shaky and moist in here.  This is depravity.  This is the sadness. Strangely, it is also the absence of worry.

Waking on a hotel bed, a man of nearly thirty.  I’m in town for my job interview.  The light through the drawn curtains is low and grey; it’s just past dawn.  I only slept an hour but am instantly awake.  My eyes focus and are aware. Standing before the mirror to tie my tie, I am fatter and older. I accept this and smile. I like my fat cheeks, the bulbous nose.  I earned them. I gather my things: the suitcase I bought, the journal I keep, the socks I wash myself.  Tomorrow I’ll drive home. Tomorrow I’ll be OK, I know.

Audio Poem: “The Salt Flats”

 

Year written:  2006
Collection:  The Salt Flats  

 

 

 

 The Salt Flats

 

Here be the salt flats of the soul;
the long wide white expanse,
the glowing blank field,
the loving wide glowing blank
salt flats of the soul.

When I used to drink everyday
I got so lonely sometimes
I could hear
(and see!)
my heart beating,
pumping gin & nicotine rapidly
to my confused organs;

I could get so drunk & lonely
and all I could ever think about
(and see when my stuttering eyes closed)
were those girls who’d taken their clothes off
for me,
who had whispered sweet things,
blown kisses across parking lots.

Near the end of the drinking
I began to get hotel rooms
for myself
so I could drink with no one seeing me.
I’d throw my bag on the bed
unwrap the complimentary plastic cup
mix a drink
(three-fourths gin one-fourth Coke)
& drain it like a marathon runner
drains water held out to him.

After the first drink
I was loose and steady
(and maybe grinning a little)
& I’d mix a second one,
take it into the shower with me.
I never used soap or shampoo
but just sat there
with hot hot water dancing on me
thinking and drinking in the dark.

For an hour or more I usually sat there.

Out of the shower
(the room now entirely humid everywhere,
the mirrors fogged, the sheets damp,
even the television needed wiping off)
I’d position myself at the round oak table
with the TV on
& old newspapers or magazines
spread everywhere,
the gin bottle & 2 liter of soda
by my socked feet.

It didn’t take much for the loneliness
to happen;
two drinks?  Three?
Soon the naked whispering women filled the room
(muttering about how great I was,
what a shame life was).
I rarely cried. I just tried not to think.

Sometimes they’d taunt me.
Sometimes they drank with me.
Sometimes we’d argue,
I’d call them whores and harlots
and apologize & apologize.
Usually they fucked me.
Once they were there,
they didn’t leave
(until sunrise).

After some weeks
(a month? Maybe more,
I’ll never know)
of performing this ritual
the newspapers, the magazines,
the pre-emptive shower were no longer enough
to hold off that miserable loneliness:
it began as I walked through the door.
Desperate, I tremblingly paged through
the Gideon’s Bible
(there was nothing there for me.
It never left the bedside table.)

And then I found the phone book.

I suppose I knew what I was looking for
because I turned right to it.
Escorts, right there in the open
for anybody to find.
I was amazed!
Women would actually come to my room
(and do whatever I asked).
The idea was a wonderment.

The first time I called
I requested an Asian woman
(I’d never so much as held hands
with a girl who wasn’t as white as
freshly painted parking lot spaces);
immediately after hanging up
I knew I wouldn’t sleep with her.

She got to my room an hour later.
She wasn’t Asian
(she was whiter than me)
and she wasn’t very pretty.
But she wasn’t ugly.

I told her I was a writer
(for a reputable magazine, no less)
doing a story on the lives of
young girls working for dreary escort services.
I just wanted to talk, I told her,
and she’d be paid for her time.

I mixed her a drink,
which she gladly took.

She told me all about herself,
but I don’t remember any of it now.
I just remember staring at her
(taking fake notes)
and smiling as she became more enchanting
with each drink I took,
each word out of her mouth.

After an hour she said it was time to go.
I gave her the money I owed her.
As she was gathering her things I managed to say
How much more would it be
for a quick handjob?

That’s not what you want,
she said. She shut the door behind her.

I just sat there, mixing another drink.
I remember it was snowing outside
and the roads were icy.
Letterman was on TV.

Here be the salt flats of the soul;
the long wide white expanse,
the glowing blank field,
the loving wide glowing blank
salt flats of the soul.

Way too much information about my upcoming Hey Rosetta! concerts.

I know most of you are probably sick of hearing me blather on about the incredible amazing fantastic band Hey Rosetta!  And it looks like, very soon, I may be able to rein in the salivating.

Barring any unforeseen craziness, (read: snow) I should be seeing the band live TWICE this coming weekend:  Friday in Albion, NY and Saturday in Buffalo, NY.  They’re opening for a singer/ songwriter named Sarah Harmer who I haven’t heard of before and who I still haven’t been able to really familiarize myself with, although most of her music seems to sound like this (click ‘preview track’).  In short–not bad, but not exciting.  Having read her wikipedia page, it seems she may in fact be rather famous in some circles.  I just aint in dem circles.

ANYWAY, the mondo super exciting element of this New York excursion is the fact that the first concert, in Ithaca, will be being attended not only my myself but by two of my longest-held dudefriends, Paul (codename:  Mr. Turnpike) and Davey (codename:  Nature Boy).  It’s been yeeeaaaarrrs since the 3 of us hung out at the same time, and even longer than that since we went on an exciting road trip together (it should be noted that the three of us essentially invented the “exciting road trip”, so this is really like a comeback tour for us.)  Paul and I will be spending Friday night in a hotel in a town close to Ithaca (the town of Painted Post, NY), with Paul leaving early the next morning to head back to PA to play in a championship game in his flag football league (Davey will just be going home Friday after the show, as he lives in upstate NY and Painted Post is the opposite direction from his house.)  While Paul drives home to play in his football game, I’ll be driving to Buffalo, NY, to see Hey Rosetta! a second time on Saturday night, this time by myself!  If this all seems confusing (and you for some reason give a crap) I am prepared to provide you with maps of all three of our movements.

First, on Friday afternoon, I will be driving from Erie to Painted Post, NY, to meet Paul at our hotel.  Here’s what that looks like.

Likewise, Friday afternoon, Paul will leave from central PA to Painted Post, NY, to meet me at the hotel.  At the moment I can’t remember where his work is located, so I’ve got him leaving from Carlisle.   

Around this same time, Nature Boy Christopher Davey will be leaving his home in the city of Oswego, NY and heading to the town the concert is in–Ithaca, NY.  This is Davey’s trip.

After meeting at the hotel, Paul and I will travel together from Painted Post to Ithaca.

Then the three of us are meeting, having dinner, and going to the show, which will look kind of amazing, like this:

Then following said amazingness, Davey will go back to Oswego, while Paul and I head back to Painted Post.  Then in the morning, Paul heads from Painted Post back to Central PA  whereas I (after enjoying having the hotel room to myself for a few hours) will head from Painted Post, NY, to Buffalo, NY.    I’ll probably get there fairly early, so I’ll have some time to futz around, much like I did earlier this year when I saw Ed Kowalczyk there.  Then after the show, it’s back home for me, from Buffalo, NY, to Erie, PA. 

That might sound overly complicated to you, but I think maybe I’ve just over-explained it.  The point is that I am really, really excited about this trip.  I am more excited to see Hey Rosetta! than I have been to see a band since the first time I saw Pearl Jam in 2000.  Add to that an excursion with two lifelong pals–well, it might be awesome, but it also sounds like the beginning of a movie…

So, barring it turning into “Judgment Night” (and if it meant we got to hang out with Jeremy Piven, I might even be OK with that), it’s gonna be a great two days!!

(for the record, my codename is Wise Guy in the Back Seat OR Wise Man in the Back Seat, depending which one of them you ask.  You can imagine this is the kind of nickname an alcoholic comes by.  Luckily it’s too damn long for anyone to ever really call me it!)

Notes From Pittsburgh

1.  Being stuck in traffic on a bridge in a windstorm which is undergoing structural contsruction?  Not so much.

2.  I could not have had a better day for a 3+ hour solo drive.  Beautiful.

3.  Having not smoked for almost 6 months has really improved my ability to sing very loud and obnoxiously while I drive.  This may be the best side-effect yet.

4.  Why is it always 10 degrees colder in the west of the state than in the east of the state?  I mean, like, always.

5.  I can now officially drive from Carlisle to the Eat ‘n Park corporate office in Pittsburgh without any directional help, either printed, written, or GPS.  This may sound like a not-big deal to you, but navigating to a specific point across an entire state without aid is not a trait usually attributable to me.

6.  This hotel’s computer is slower than my computer at home.

7.  The Monongahela rules because it’s so obviously shitty.

8.  Seriously…why are they still letting Dianne Rehm be on the radio?  I am not exaggerating to say she can barely speak.

9.  I am definitely swimming in this hotel’s pool within the hour.  I just walked past it and there was NOBODY there.

10.  Free USA Today.  Score.

The Theme Was Hotels, the Theme Was the Absence of Worry

Some memories that seem somehow important:

Waking on a hotel bed as a young young boy–no older than 5–on a family vacation to Ocean City, Maryland.  I had apparently been allowed to sleep in.  I could see out of a high window (it was a high window to me then) and the sun was at it’s zenith.  I was suffering from my first sunburn, which if you remember is quite confusing.  What had awoken me was the sound of seagulls squaking.  I caught a glimpse of a clump of them flying by the window in my first few moments of consciousness.  The bed was the most comfortable and comforting thing I could imagine. The air conditioning was pumped up, and the cold air mixed with the warm sun created an elegant sensation. I was alone in the room. This is the definition of childhood happiness, and the absence of worry.

Waking on a hotel bed, trembling.  Where am I? Which hotel is this?  It is dark, and much too hot.  It smells of mushrooms and bile in here. Who is next to me?  Is it someone?  Perhaps it is her.  I didn’t think she’d return. I try to rise, but my peripheral swims with still motion, my stomach lurches, I knock the lamp over, lay back down.  The trembling rises, it crescendos, it is hot and shaky and moist in here.  This is depravity.  This is the sadness. Strangely, it is also the absence of worry.

Waking on a hotel bed, a man of nearly thirty.  I’m in town for my job interview.  The light through the drawn curtains is low and grey; it’s just past dawn.  I only slept an hour but am instantly awake.  My eyes focus and are aware. Standing before the mirror to tie my tie, I am fatter and older. I accept this and smile. I like my fat cheeks, the bulbous nose.  I earned them. I gather my things: the suitcase I bought, the journal I keep, the socks I wash myself.  Tomorrow I’ll drive home. Tomorrow I’ll be OK, I know.

“I Want to be Touched Like Something in the MOMA”

There was a night
a thought
a merest something
(you see, I cannot remember how long
it lasted
only that it happened
and the memories are like Polaroids
thrown past a window)
when you laid on a hotel bed
in only your underwear–
navy blue skin-tight things–
I watched you as I put my tie
around my neck and sipped hotel coffee
from a paper cup.
It was still dark and I hadn’t slept
and a pale of cigarette smoke hung round the room
like a see-through wreath.
You were on your stomach, your hands
perfectly at your sides
as if you’d been carefully rested in a coffin–
upside down.
Your breasts pushed against the mattress
and the mattress pushed against them
causing just the sides to billow out from your sternum,
orange-sized segments of perfect skin,
the nipples hinted at in my memory.

 

The hotel hallway was bright,
too bright for that early morning hour,
and the elevator was bright, too,
and as I emerged into the lobby I saw
the world outside had changed
ever-so-slightly:
the sun had poked just the smallest sliver
of it’s orange head over some horizon.
The black sports cars in the parking lot
were illuminated the faintest degree
(it was that kind of light
where everything is fuzzy,
as though viewed through
a sheet of cheese cloth).
Somewhere in some thicket
beside the river which skirted the hotel
birds were beginning to chirp,
making morning-moving-around-noises,
their branches rustling with their weight.

There was dew on the manicured grass,
catching the particles of morning’s first light.
I reached in my pocket for my keys–
they jingled loudly as they dangled in the air,
as I’ve always kept more keys with me
than I need.
Folks are always telling me it’s not good for
the car’s starter–
and, stifling a yawn, put the key in the lock
(the sound of the lock popping,
the door swinging on it’s hinges,
and the muffle of it’s closing
all seemed magnified in this arching light)
and inside the car smelled of stale smoke–
not like the hazy blissful smoke that must still have been hanging
in the hotel room,
but canned, incestual smoke,
smoke that you could eat if you were starving.

 

I undid my tie and unfastened the top two buttons of my
suffocating shirt
and pulled my undershirt up to my nose,
breathed deep.
It was the smell of you,
that flowery-powdery smell of you
and the smell of your breath
which is the smell of heat.
It made me hear you, once again,
in the grip of last night whispering
I want to be touched like something in the MOMA.
I put the car in gear and headed to my meeting,
imagining a world where the wind smelled like you–
and a world where you touched me
like I touched you.

 

 

 

 

After the Fire

Everyday smells more and more like Indian food.  Must be the owners, down in their tiny shitbox office, cooking some sort of lentils and curry or whatever.  The blankets smell like it, the towels smell like it, she smells like it, next to me, as she quivers and sweats.  When I raise my forearm to my nose, even I smell like the spicy Indian food.  I begin to associate the smell with the girl and I grow to love it; I will be sad if someone launders these blankets, which is unlikely.  Two days ago the toilet overflowed, and a puddle formed in the carpet outside the shoebox bathroom.  It’s overflowed twice more since, and now when we walk to the bathroom it squishes between our bare toes.  It is cold like dewy grass, but mushy like oatmeal.  This morning I thought I was really going to die.  My whole body hurt, and I got so hot like I was exploding.  I vomited bile on her pants, which I was wearing but I do not remember putting on.  She did not seem to care, though.  She has driven to Harrisburg now, to see if she can find any drugs she can afford.  The teenage girl stopped by again last night and gave me a bottle of gin.  I can’t keep any of it down.  I throw it up, I throw it up, I throw it up.  The carpet between the twin beds—where I am sitting—is soaked through with my puke-gin.  If I could hold some down I’d feel better; I would stop dying.  Last night the three of us played truth or dare and I thought I was dying.  I ate a jalapeño off the teenage girl’s breast without shame, but now in the daylight, all alone, I do feel shame.  There is a three-day-old pizza from Papa Johns on the radiator but no one is able to eat it, not even the teenager when she stops by.  There is an unused tampon in the middle of the pizza from some practical joke I can’t remember.  Somehow we have a little boombox but only two CDs; the song What a Good Boy by Barenaked Ladies has been on repeat for hours now, and I am watching Hey Arnold! on mute as I try to get this gin to stay down.  She bought me expensive gin, too.  I am in this hellhole and I am puking Tanqueray onto the floor, and onto the pinstriped women’s pants I am wearing.  Last night I was curled up on the floor in the shower, and she dumped a bucket of ice water over the curtain onto me.  She was trying to be funny, but she didn’t know I was dying.  We have to find some money to stay another night.  Everything smells like curry.  A few nights ago I had a mini-seizure and I knocked the lamp off the nightstand. It didn’t break, but it scared me a lot.  My penis has been less than an inch long for days now and I can do nothing to change that.  What a fate, to die so shriveled surrounded by helpless women.  Cigarettes have been put out on the carpet everywhere.  Yesterday I found a butt in her mascara.  Sitting here, Indian-style, watching Hey Arnold!, I can smell my ass through these pants and my underwear.  It doesn’t smell like shit, but like an ass without shit.  I haven’t shit for a week—not that I recall.  There we go, there we go, there we go—a sip has stayed down for over three minutes.  Each sip will be easier now.  A sip, a sip, a sip, a sip, now a gulp, now a gulp, ah! I feel good, I feel less hot, less shaky, the all-over-pain has drawn back like a persistent tide.  Smiling and laughing, I collapse face-first into my puke-gin and so damn happy.  I am going to die in this hellhole.