A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || March 23, 2003 || 10:53 pm

Hey there, you dirtybirds. I see you over there, waiting to peek into my brain. Tonight you just may get the juicy stuff.

I got the house allll to mysellllllf. How fitting, such a blessing, it being Sunday and all. Just me and the Rolling Stones, Forty-Lickin’ the evening away. What started out as plans to go for the night jog evolved into what promises to be a raging drunk. HooWEE! Nothing like nine-dollar wine from a thirty-dollar glass. I was feeling a bit dehydrated today, why not soak the sponge in a tasty Roh-Zay?

A couple weeks ago, when I was washing dishes, I started staring out the window and semi-conciously circling the rim of one of my favorite crystal goblets with the middle fingertip of my left hand, hypnotizing myself with the resonance of the sound that emerged. The hum of good crystal is enchanting. The boys happened through and Sam was mesmerized by what I was doing. I pulled out one of the cheap wine glasses, showing him that there was no sound trapped in there.

“There is no potential for music in cheap things, Sam. They just exist; they just are.” I showed him how to elicit a hum from the ‘good’ goblet himself, and he learned quickly.

Life Lessons in the House Of Jett. Don’t that make you want to be a part of the madness yourself?

Heath came by tonight, looking for Maxim. The lights in here were all off and I had six candles of varying sizes scattered about the desktop. I was fighting with words, trying to push and pull them into place, into some sort of cohesive magic for the world at large, but mostly for myself. The porch light was on and the front door was wide open, inviting the mild air into my home, into me. Heath mounted the porch steps, placing his full lips against the doorpane, eyes wide. I smiled.

“Whatchoo doin’, boy?”

He kept the door between him and me for a good five minutes, talking-talking-talking in his lazy, sleepy drawl until I finally asked him if he was gonna come in or not. Why would he act like a stranger? My youngest child was conceived in his bed; I know some of his deepest-darkests.

Sometimes I am mildly uncomfortable around Heath, although I love him. I love this manboy in a strange manner….it is a love based on sympathy, empathy, hope and Maxim’s boyhood friendship with him. The discomfort comes from feeling as if he is always two clicks away from asking me if I will lie down right there on the carpet , knees to sky, and open myself to him.

He leaned there on the doorjamb, pointedly not looking at me, looking out at the deep night sky instead. He began to speak, about addiction and dissatisfaction and disappointment with self. About loneliness, even though he didn’t quite call it that, and about feeling helplessly behind.

I listened, because I know all about these things, because I have felt them all at one time or another, sometimes all at once. I interjected, because I know all about these things, because I have felt them all at one time or another, sometimes all at once. My insides cringed, even as my responses and questions for him were delivered smoothly.

You know, sometimes I wish I could reach out to every fellow junkie in the world, but some of them hit too close to home. They remind you too very much of yourself. Fuck, it’s like talking to yourself across time and that’s not as cool a thing as you’ve been led to believe. It’s like grabbing the demon by the hand and pumping away madly: “HeyshuuureyeahIrememberyou,” while plastic-faced and screaming on the inside.

Such is Heath to me. Even worse, I think he knows this.

Perhaps you recall me mentioning Heath here previously, my quiet prayer for him, my blunt rebuke of him. (side note: If you’ve not yet experienced Matthew Ryan, then you cheat yourself. That motherfucker wrecks me. WRECKS me. How many times I gotta tell you people?? /side note)

One thing I did not add to the story is how I told Maxim about that little exchange, with him saying, “Welp, I imagine we’ll never see Heath again,” and how Heath showed up on our doorstep a scant four days later.

That motherfucker was ready to do battle under the guise of visiting Maxim, and his battle consisted of the thing I despise the most: A passive-aggressive joust and parry. He’d maintain the facade of pleasant and pure as we all sat there at the dining room table, but the minute that Maxim would leave the room for whatever reason (he was busy with something at the time and I can’t remember what it was) Heath would throw out a quiet barb:

“I don’t know what to think about that, because I’m a junkie.”
“Not that my opinion counts, because I’m a junkie.”

Whenever Maxim would come back into the room it was all sunshine and roses. I sat there, not being a pacifist, but biding my time and biting my lip. Something, for a rare once, was holding me back.

Our house is interconnected in a loose circle and, unbeknownst to Heath, he was finally caught delivering one of his barbs while Maxim approached him silently from behind. My patience had paid off and I said, firmly and voice held hard in check, “Look, Heath, if you want an adult discussion of this, I’m up for that. If you want to go rounds in the yard, I’m up for that, too. Your call.”

“I am discussing it like an adult,” he spat.

“No you’re not,” I solidly replied, “You’re throwing jabs while Maxim’s not in the room.”

“Well, maybe I need help!” He was reproachful.

“I am helping you, Heath. I’ve been in your shoes. If someone hadn’t said to me the same thing that I said to you, maybe I still would be.”

He left not long after, and we were awkward with one another every time he came by after that. Out of respect for our children, he has never showed up all fucked up; I gave him credit for that. It made his visits few and far between. Nonetheless, we were stilted with one another, Heath and I. He acknowlegded my presence with a forced courtesy and I all but ignored his presence in my house.

This went on for some time, until one day I received a call from him, asking for Maxim. Maxim wasn’t here at the time and I told Heath as much, preparing to extract myself from the call and hang up.

“Hey Beth,” he called across the wire, “I’ve been in treatment.

“I want to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you that day. I admire you a lot, you’re a strong woman. I guess you scare me, because I’ve never really known any strong women, only controlling females, manipulators. I was out of line.”

I choked back a sob on that first line, “…I’m in treatment.” I was overcome.

“God, Heath, you don’t know the times that Maxim and I have prayed for you, how we’ve held our breath for one of two phone calls: this one, or one saying that you’d been found dead on a roadside somewhere.

“You can’t know how glad I am that it’s this one, Heath.”

And there was other stuff, stuff of the hey-it’s-hard-and-the-body-never-forgets-but-the-crave-gets-less-frequent-with-time variety, too personal and too raw for me to even write down. I’m not there yet, I suppose. I don’t know if I ever will be; it just seems too far away for comfort, you know?

And we ended that call on a good note, with “Uncle Heath” being a more regular face in this household, culminating with him leaning against the doorframe tonight.

“I’m twenty-eight years old and I want drugs. I want them because I don’t want to feel this way, this frustrated and sad.

“You got a beer?”

7 worked it out »

  1. @feckless 3.23.2003

    (exhale) if i can ever tell a story that well, i’ll die happy.

    as it is, well, i’ll expend some positive energy in Heath’s general direction and hope fervently that he manages to get things right, um, if it’s any comfort i’m one o’ those former dopefiends perfectly happy to be just drunk on occasion. i’m sure there is something bad wrong with this but then again, well, you do what works, the rest, you don’t.

  2. Jett 3.23.2003

    god, feck, you flatter. your words *r0ck* me.

  3. @feckless 3.23.2003

    “feck” is the only other email i set up when i became … her. but no one’s ever called me that :)

    i’m digging it, it’s close to my favorite word anyway.

  4. Tim 3.24.2003

    we do likes the post, we dooz…

    i have no personal or affiliated knowledge of junkie-land, and i don’t think reading naked lunch counts for much.

  5. Jett 3.24.2003

    timato…don’t discount yourself. at least you know that ‘naked lunch’ EXISTS.


  6. April Love 3.25.2003

    I always want to be part of the madness at Casa de Jett.

  7. timato 3.26.2003

    “star me, kitten.”

    no, not really. but it’s so cool to say. minus the ’star’ part and adding back in the naughty bit.

    dig it.


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