Back When I Was Terrible
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by Brendan S


Worse than a vicious time traveler with a gun..?

I would walk into Rite-Aid or Hanaford.

My parents were already pocketing my whole disability check, and I felt like I was dying ....

One liquor bottle quickly slid into the bag, real close to the liquor all lined up -- almost flat against the liquor, and then turn back, and walk out with my backpack on, and walk through the park to see who's around.

The Village Green (in 2012 in Bar Harbor) was where it was at in 2012 for Maine.

Travelers, hippies, beatniks, and artists of all kinds horded the town, while I sold liquor to high school kids (One in particular, who got wasted off my booze, a seventeen year old) -- and made cool with everyone over time, smoking down by the rocks, and playing guitar, blind-stoned, and blind-drunk.

They sold "spice" at one of the local head-shops in town, and when we were out of weed, we'd just go over to Debba's Giftshop and get a bag of it.

It mixed well with alcohol.

Les, my weird overcloned friend, who was like my side-entourage, as a one-man-band of some kind (who was terrible at the harmonica, and talked two decibels louder than everyone else) -- six foot two, and always talked about the people whose asses he wanted to kick -- said -- "This is some strong shit." And laughed.

We walked down main-street after smoking on the rocks.

I was fine, but Les couldn't keep up pace with me .. he was walking slow and breathing heavy. I remember looking back, and going, "You ok..?" As I walked into Debba's to buy another bag.

* * * * * * *

One time, I got real bored, and walked out of Les's place, and just roamed the streets in the night looking for shit to steal.

I found $70 in a wallet in a truck, along with some old camera, and then walked back to the gas-station where he lived upstairs, and bought some weed with it the next day.

Plus the twenty, or thirty I had, I was able to buy a quarter from some high school kids that was hilariously overpriced, and I even smoked with them once.

(Once.)

Later on, I was "nearly arrested' for stealing my parents car to get to town.

I knew a lot of people in town back then.

Abruptly, in the middle of our collective good-time, someone died, named Christian Emigh-Doyle, who was high on valium and alcohol and jumped off a bridge in Bar Harbor.

They said his body was found on the ground, and we all felt it.

* * * * * * *

He used to refer to cigarettes as "death" and was kind of very honest.

I miss him.

* * * * * * *

His own mother was my therapist for a time, honestly, and she was deficit of true logic, a total idiot for a female therapist. I bet he was tortured by her.

She thought of my ideas as silly, and placated me.

I remember getting real drunk before I went to her office, and said in the hall "No. I don't want to see a therapist. I'm FUCKING DRUNK."

And then stormed out of the building.

My sister was in the parking lot, and I screamed, "WHAT THE FUCK IS SHE DOING HERE>>?????"

* * * * * * *

I told Les the next time I saw him, about the money I suddenly had.

"I stole it."

I said.

"What the fuck. You better not get in trouble for that shit."

I just kind of smiled.

* * * * * * *

I finally stopped, "mentally" trying to make up for my stolen check, with each stolen nug or bottle, and everything I was able to keep, and fiend from other people.

I put a bottle of wine in my coat once, while the attendant of the store was watching, and got a summons from the same guy who found me stealing my parents car.

I didn't go to jail, but had to pay a fine.

Later on, I freaked out at my parents house over a lost vaporizer I couldn't find, asking my dad for help, to no avail, until I pushed him. HE pushed me back, right out the door, and then locked it.

While I was outside he called the police on me and I was taken to jail.

* * * * * * *

I read 250 pages of Charles Dickens "Oliver Twist" a story about a gang-perpetuated thief, while I was in jail, as the guard kept checking on "the guy reading the book on his bed with his legs crossed."

I had a cell to myself, until I was put into a larger cage, with other people (mental cases like me) in what they call Protective Custody, the next time I was arrested.

I went to rehab after getting high on nothing but resin and tobacco, with a little whiskey, until I finally confessed, walking out of my room, blitzed and sad, "I want to go to rehab."

I went to rehab, and ended up in an apartment of my own, where I got trashed all over again.

My dad ended up finding my body on the floor unconscious from an overdose of valium and alcohol.

I wasn't very well-respected when I got back home, where I was forced to live with people around me.

My parents over time started to accept I had a dipsomaniac thirst for "resources in my blood."

They bought me wine, beer, heroin, cigarettes, and weed to privately support me, and gave me my check money finally.

For years, I lived with their help, and got away with "being the way I am" for almost four years, until I was 32, and burned some Egyptian Musk,

And saw, the drunken face of Edgar Allan Poe in my mind telling him to fake his own death.

He only smiled.




-BLS