#first thing since 9/21 ii lets fucking GOOOOOOO

[citybythebayvisions]

Sunday April 26th, 2015

So seventeen wasn’t my best year...

Nowadays I know that it was far from my worst. The running around I did at fifteen and eighteen wore on me rougher, but as much as I hate to ‘cause they sting something brutal, at least I can think about those years. They were so consequential to my life that I’ve been forced to reflect and analyze them enough and I’ve found that, for all of the faults in my teenage chase for purpose, I at least had the energy to keep driving even when the road I put myself on was dangerously steep and rocky. With and without the substance, I was so fucking alive! I wanted to be, so much so that I was capable of saving myself by pulling off those sharp U-Turns from the edge on a dime and channeling my energy in much better and healthier ways. That’s why sixteen and nineteen were my best years during my teens: I worked as hard as I possibly could in every area of my life to cleanse myself of all that chaos I’d stirred and, while the cleanse might not have lasted forever like I wholeheartedly believed it would every time, at least it lasted long enough to bless me with the greatest gift of all when I made it to twenty.

Who, by the way, still isn’t home yet.

But he’s not and...I guess the only reason I have for why he should be is that I’m home before he is. He gets off at nine and has to take the train because I don’t get off until after eleven sometimes and now it’s after midnight…

And yeah, I know I know; Bayview might as well be the boonies, but I would’ve heard from him if it was a three-hour delay. 

Nah, I’ve got him figured out. He’s out with his friends again, and I really hope he gets back before this Adderall fully wears off because y’know, I’d like to see my son for more than fifteen minutes before the crash hits — Jesus Christ, it’s already started. I’ve gone from trying to do something totally different to going back in time to when Jason was born, but only because I hate thinking about when I was seventeen and I wish the jingle of his keys would rattle me out of it — but I don’t.

So we’re back to the year of Sabotage... 

Man, that really song put it all into perspective for me and it’s probably since I played it to death more than MTV did ‘cause shit... ‘94 blasted it’s way in with the same sheer force as that guitar riff and it left me on my knees begging and screaming to God, Jesus, and whoever else could hear me up there in the big blue sky above with the same guttural “Why?” Why did that vile piece of shit have to violate her? Why did he do it again? Why did I have to keep getting beat to a fucking pulp? Why did my dad have to do that to me? Why did my own fucking father want to hurt me so badly that I had to have surgery and recover in a hospital for an entire week? Why did I have to be muzzled like a dog for eight weeks? Why couldn’t the painkillers numb all of my pain? Why did I have to be so terrified all of the time? Why did I want to be alive? Why was everything and everyone I loved on the verge of being destroyed? Why did everything feel so chaotic and depressing for the entire world to suffer too? Why did every day feel like the worst was yet to come? Why did the year have to be so fucking violent? Why? 

There were answers to these questions, but I didn’t receive them immediately. It took years, decades even, to get the pieces together or begin to accept the few of them that were lost forever, but that initial aftershock only made me ruminate in my teenage existentialism further. I drove myself so insane that by the time my birthday came around, I was so drained that I didn’t want to do a damn thing to celebrate. I remember it was a Saturday and I didn’t have to, so this was the one year where dozing off while watching something as shitty as my free rental of Coneheads—fuck I think I’m the only one who watched that awful movie—was as crazy as I wanted to get. What the hell else was there to look forward to? My jaw was wired shut! I couldn’t open my mouth any more than a centimeter or two, so cake was out of the question and I was sick of my vanilla pudding and applesauce diet...

So thank God for birthday cake shakes.

Right around the time I’d drank my birthday dinner of chicken broth that I was also tired of and decided to call it a day, there was this loud, excited, knock on the back door. I didn’t wanna move, but I had to get up to answer my friends, who rallied me out of my self sabotaging defiance to go and get myself one. They literally threatened that they wouldn't leave the back porch if I didn’t do it, ‘cause they were that determined to not let my bullshit deter me from feeling a little better like only the best of friends do just ‘cause they love you and want to bring some light into your shittiest days. It’s the one memory that makes thinking back on the day tolerable, really. At least I’m able to recognize myself there, laughing through the painkillers in a Denny’s booth with my girl tucked underneath my arm and my best friend right across from me. The Pavement tickets he got me were the ultimate mood booster too. The first time I saw them, when crooked rain was all that seemed to fall.

See, that’s the thing; through it all, at least my friends were along for the ride with me. We tried to have fun— looking back, there’s some good times that I can’t believe happened in the midst—but we all had things we wanted that were just out of reach that kept us from enjoying anything as wholly as we were used to. All I knew is that I wanted real freedom, some agency I could use, and I couldn’t have it for another year— more like two since that’s when she could have hers and I was starting to wonder long term about us and where we might be. I was thinking long term about everything and so was Eric, who was in his own crisis since he was about to enter senior year and had to start applying to other colleges. UCLA didn’t work out because of how badly we screwed up our grades in sophomore year and he was knocked out of sorts for the entire summer about being back at square one. It sucked for him since that was his dream school, and I thought it was pretty unfair, but I was happy he was at least on the board somewhere with a plan. College not being my thing was the only answer I had; I was totally aimless and no amount of joints we smoked or mushrooms we did that summer gave me the otherworldly answers I wanted to break through it — though they sure helped me feel better about it. It all worked out, of course, but we were too blurred by our own transitions that we couldn’t see it yet. 

My point is that I get it, Jason. I get why you’re still gone. Seventeen was the first year I never wanted to be home either. My friends were my family and I needed them ‘cause they got me in a way that my parents couldn’t. 

The way I can’t reach him now. 

Look, Jason and I are some real studies in contrast, but I’ve always appreciated and admired how different he is from me. Being the quiet kid who stays in and keeps to himself like he is would’ve saved me from so much trouble when I was younger and he spares me a lot of worry that I know that I gave my mom. He can’t exactly steal my car keys when he doesn’t even care to learn how to drive, much less come stumbling in high and shitfaced when he shuts himself in his room and rarely leaves. I’ve never worried about him ditching school either — shit, he does so well that when he goes somewhere for lunch, it’s called open campus privileges and not skipping lunch period like it was for us back in the day. They’d let him walk out the door and blow him a kiss goodbye before ever screaming down my phone about truancy. I wouldn’t blame them. He’s such a good kid. A miracle of one, I swear. I know more about what he doesn’t do than what he does, but if he’s not doing anything reckless it shouldn’t concern me, right?

Well...it didn’t until it did. I’m happy he keeps himself safe, but all the isolation he subjected himself to back home wasn’t great for him either. I don’t think I saw him leave the apartment more than a few times the entirety of the last few summers outside of going and getting cigarettes—fuck, I wish he’d quit that habit now. There’s worse things he could’ve picked up at fifteen, but geez...he smokes worse than a chimney. 

Where was I? 

Oh right, Jason being elusive about his friends. So when he moved here and started going out on weekend nights, I was ecstatic! It relieved me, because I really wasn’t sure how well he was going to handle this move. He’d lived in the same place for years — the closest thing to a childhood home he'd ever had — and never ever moved out of Oakland before. Outside of my extended stay at Corcoran's best crossbar motel, I’d never done it either— that’s so fucking wild to think about. To know that before February, the closest I ever came to getting him out of that city was the Emeryville border and that was when he was a newborn. The moment I moved out of my parents house when I was only a few months older than him now, eighteen and even more aimless, leaving the city for good is one of the only things I wanted to do. There were so many places between here and Texas that I drove by and could’ve started instead. It took me two days to get there that summer. I was always daydreaming on that route and found myself paying more attention to the houses than the road sometimes. Not like anybody was out there to notice, or nag and shoot my possibilities down. Far removed from the route, I still wonder about it, if range life would’ve made it all turn out different. I betcha it would. 

But she was coming back to California at the end of that summer and I couldn’t leave her, then I had a dealer and decent supply, then not too much later I had a probation officer who wouldn’t let me leave the state, then I was broke, then we had a kid and we had jobs and then Jason was already enrolled in school and then...well...I checked in. When I checked out, I was at the mercy of the first apartment with two bedrooms that would accept a felon and rescue us from that cramped studio she’d resorted to on Telegraph Avenue after we lost our place by the lake. 41st Street stuck and when I checked out again, I was so happy to be free that I didn’t want to go anywhere if I didn’t have to. Then I had to...

Different neighborhoods can feel a lot like different cities; the border was a lot different than the ‘burbs I grew up in and downtown Oakland was another fucking world in comparison, so San Francisco is a different universe entirely. Always was a totally different attitude here and that’s grown even more drastic than I remember. I never spent too much time over here — not from a lack of wanting to or anything, there wasn’t much of a need. When we were kids we’d hop the train or get a ride if there was something we really wanted to see, then when we were adults our trips unfortunately became less about stores and sneaking into concerts at the Civic Center and more about which clubs and bars to sell in and getting quick rock hookups while we were at it so we wouldn’t have to wait for our Oakland guys to cross to light up. Everything’s always been so much more expensive over here that, in all my moving plans, I never thought it’s where we’d wind up. Prior to this, I only knew of Bayview ‘cause of Candlestick. It’s getting torn down now because Levi’s got completed in Santa Clara and last year’s World Series champions moved to a new park years ago. I didn’t really think much about it while scrolling through Apartments.com, I just cared about the cheapest listings that could get us in the quickest, but anytime I pass by the rubble, the sense of nostalgia made me feel something for a place that I haven’t in a long time — belonging. 

I think Jason felt it too. Within less than two weeks of starting his new school, he put all my worries about adjusting at ease — even if it meant him suddenly staying out downtown ‘til two in the morning. After everything he’s been through, I’m not about to get on him for missing curfew or whatever. He’s never had one and wouldn’t take it seriously if I suddenly decided to start one now anyway. And I don’t really want to.  If he finally found some people worth spending so much time with and he’s happy, I don’t want to do anything to mess that up. 

Thing is, my parents at least saw my friends…and at least heard me mention them by name in my rambles, which Jason hasn’t. All I know is that he’s out with them a lot lately, and I seriously might start thinking they’re imaginary if he doesn’t get the slightest bit more specific—

There’s the sound I want to hear.

Keys are jingling in the door and I get up off the couch to—oh shit, I lost? That’s what I was doing! Playing pool on my phone…’til I dozed off and the screen went black and lit up when I moved. Damn...

Whatever, I’ll pick up from it later. Kiddo’s finally home.

“Jason! Hey…” 

“Hey…” He closes the door with his back, ‘cause  there’s a paper bag that he’s holding in his arms. 

“Oh, you went to the store! What’d you get?” 

“It’s orange juice. We werr...out, so I bought some…” He replies, out of breath and sounding as exhausted as he looks. He must’ve walked a mile with this thing lugging him down. I don’t know why! I know he needs it to take with his vitamins, but Christ...an entire carton? 

“Geez, Jason. You didn’t have to do that! I could’ve gotten it in the morning…”

“Yeah, well lit was on the...on the way, so...I got it. A lil’silly to worry about it now... don’t you think?”

“I guess. Just want you to keep it in mind for next time, that’s all.” 

For that anyway. All I can focus on is that he’s still standing there holding the brown bag and...why? I’m not in his way or anything. Go put it in the fridge already, Jason! The faster you put it in the fridge, the faster you can crash! 

And then it dawns on me that I’m equally as stuck standing here looking at him and what the fuck am I doing that for? He just walked a mile and his arm has to be sore and numb from carrying a cold bag for so long. You know how it is coming in that exhausted. Help him!

“C’mon, let me help you with that. Here,” I go over to him, arms out so he’ll hand me the bag and go lay down like I know he’s dying to. 

But the paper crumples. He clutches tighter on the silly thing while shaking his head and I sigh at myself in frustration. Shit, I could’ve approached him a little quieter; he’s so tired that his eyes are beyond bloodshot and….glassy, like he’s been…

Wait a sec...he hasn’t been drinking, has he? 

No! What am I thinking? He hates booze! He always complains about the smell making him sick! Why would he even think to try it?  

But why else does he look like that? Or be slurring?

And refuse to give me the bag?

 “Are you... okay?” I ask slowly. My hand’s frozen in the air, waiting for him to thaw. 

“I’m fine...” He tells me, but his entire face has gotten a lot more red and blotchy in a matter of seconds, “M’just hot...thatsall. Don’t…don’t you think it’s hot in here? I’m sweltering.” 

He tugs on the collar of his windbreaker but he doesn’t hand me the bag or set the damn thing down to actually take it off and that really quirks my brow.  

“...No?”

He lets out a huff and yeah...gum only works for a little bit, kiddo. It’s there. The smell of liquor is still there.

Christ. 

He keeps chewing on it though. Hell, he’s chomping on it even faster. “What…are you waiting up for?…Are y o u alright?” 

“I’m sober.”

A bitter smile twists on me when I tell him that. It’s what he really wanted to know, but it’s clearly the answer we both don’t need to hear tonight. It’s burning his stare; he wanted me to be higher than a kite so I’d forget this sight and never say anything of it to him again — God, how I wish he were right. I wish that I would’ve never known about whatever happened here until he was sober and be so deafened by the ring in my ears that I couldn’t hear his fuming breathing. 

But I can’t ignore it. 

“And I was waiting because I wanted to make sure you made it back—”

“You can’t be serious.”

I sigh and put my hand on his shoulder to show him I am, “Not that I thought that you wouldn’t, I just...wanted to see you. Make sure you’re not just a blur…”

He opens his lids after a moment, looking less pissed. He still won’t talk.

So I switch gears, “Where were you after work, Jason?” 

“The store.” 

“Before that.” 

“Nowhere.” 

“Yeah, now we are, but the booze on your breath came from somewhere!” My hand flies off of his shoulder and sticks up in the air. His eyes look all big again, and that makes me more exasperated. What is he so shocked for? Did he really think I wouldn’t notice?! 

No… no he didn’t. I never did and I should be lucky that he’s not laughing in my face like the cocky little shit I used to be. He’s somewhat sober enough to be serious, a little shameful, even. His eyes are droopy…

“You can’t pull a fast one on me. I caught you too red eyed. You’re drunk.” 

—“Tipsy.”  

“Tipsy…there we go! See Jason, that’s all I want. That’s all I’ve been wanting. You don’t have to lie to me! You know you don’t need to…” 

His eyes screw shut again, and I keep going because I need him to hear me, hear that I’m not mad, he’s not in trouble, that I don’t care that he went out—or that I do but I’m not going to call up his buddies’ parents and rat on them or something silly like that. I don’t know their numbers! All I want to know is where he wasn’t.

But my own words start sounding more garbled and distant to me when I hear him start swallowing down hard. At first I guess he’s getting rid of the gum but he gulps again and again harder, each accompanied by a faint whine in his throat. 

Oh shit…there he goes.

Hand flying up to his mouth, he shoves the bag into my chest, leaving me to clutch onto it while he stumbles towards the sink. It’s heavy and bulky and kinda cold and…yep, definitely a Minute Maid carton. 

“I didn’t think you were lying about the bag!” I exclaim as I set the juice down on the table, because I didn’t…entirely. I don’t know why I said that to him though, it won’t make him feel better. Nothing I say will. His head is down in the sink, drowning me out by the tinny echoes of his heaving and puking. At least he must’ve had some meat for dinner, because I wince as I see red chunks cover the steel sink basin and I feel bad. He can’t help it.

It just never gets easier watching him. 

I never had the chance to get used to it, really. You can’t nurse your kid back to health from 200 miles away. I can’t tell you how awful it was to hear his strained voice struggling through bronchitis to talk to me over the phone, or to hear the report over the line about how rough a night he had every winter when he caught a stomach bug from school and stuck in a cell instead of being there to help him.

His shoulders sink while he grips the edge of the metal, my own hand curling tighter into my arm. Reaching out will startle more than soothe him, he’ll just swat me away. 

Watching is all there’s left to do. 

Jason’s had it really rough lately. He started worrying me when we were trying to move with how winded he’d get trying to lift things into the U-Haul. We were trying to move this dresser that didn’t have drawers and was light enough for the both of us to pick up, and he kept needing to stop after every few feet because he needed to catch his breath. And I know he wasn’t trying to break his way out of it, pure agony screwed up his face every time. He told me he was dizzy, that he’s been really dizzy, and I believed him — he could barely stand up straight! 

I called it a night so he could lay down on the couch and while he tried to sleep I got him an appointment. He was out of school for the move anyway, so they let him come in first thing in the morning. I really wanted to go in with him and find out, maybe get his doctor to persuade him that smoking can’t be helping matters, but I didn’t. He didn’t ask me not to go, and he didn’t need to. I always wanted to go in by myself. He’s almost an adult now, he can handle it — even if I couldn’t. The wait nearly killed me. 

Eventually Jason walked out and slumped over the counter digging in the jar for Dum Dums while his doctor told me that he was probably moderately anemic. Probably as in, she’d already sent up orders for blood tests for us to get done to confirm it. The next place I took him was the lab and she was right! Iron and vitamin deficiency anemia. She said it was from not eating as much of the right things; add more meat and over the counter supplements into his diet and he should be feeling better within a few weeks…

The dizziness did. He quit complaining about it, or maybe it took a backseat to the pills making him nauseous all the time. He really is my son, ‘cause he threw them in the trash just how I threw out Ritalin at the first sign of a side effect after I first took it. He did it right in front of me too, pretty much saying exactly what thirteen year old me told my mom: “I don’t need these, I’m fine without them!”

I wish! 

And I’m glad she fished them out of the can and made sure they were back in my hand time and time again because I needed something. Ritalin wasn’t perfect, but the right dose came as close it was gonna get before Adderall was around. It just took a lot of persistence by my mom and I to get it. Didn’t help that it kept changing as I got older. Two five milligram pills a day that was too much when I was thirteen turned into an okay twenty milligrams a day when I was fifteen and it was all night and day when I switched from twenty five milligrams of Ritalin to the same amount of Adderall. Now that was perfect. I could concentrate without turning into a total zombie, had energy to keep up with a toddler, and still slept well. No doctor will write that script for me now. Too risky! The hurdles I’ve been jumping through to get tens are ridiculous. 

Anyway, Jason wasn’t used to taking pills. Isn’t. He didn’t know how you have to work and experiment with them…even if they are supplements, so I showed him. I got on the phone and got the dose fixed twice…not like that’s much help to him now.

So I’m left to wonder…why would you even risk it? You’re already sick!

Well...I don’t know...why did I? I stood and watched my dad’s battle with it for years to know what happens when you drink too much, and then I forgot all about it whenever I got ahold of the sweet taste of rum. When you’re a kid, you think you and your stomach are invincible until you’re proven wrong one too many times and learn to take it easy. 

At least Jason’s gotten his first one out of the way.

He’s stopped vomiting now and catches his breath for a second. His eyes open to see what landed in the sink…not a good idea, but he’s so familiar with it that he hardly blinks. He just frowns, slowly grabbing the sprayer and trying to wash it out of the sink.

“Don’t worry about that.” I twist the faucet knob back. He pretty much got it all anyway. 

Dropping the sprayer back in the basin, Jason looks over, lost on what to do with his face. It’s a lot, far more than he can wipe away with his hand…

“I’ll get the towels.” 

I rush behind him to pluck the roll off of the table, tucking it under my arm as I walk back. Frown deepening, his head tilts when I rip a couple of sheets off.

“I can get it.” 

I shake my head. 

“Don’t be silly, you’re a mess! Let me.” 

This is my mess too.

Breaking into a shaky sigh, he nods and sticks his chin out for me, like it’s still only strawberry jam stuck there to scrub off. The same sweet little smile twitches from the towel brushing against his cheek too, ‘cause he’s always been ticklish. This was damn near impossible when he was little, I’d usually wind up getting all of it on my shirt from him burying his head there to fight it ‘cause he was laughing so hard and couldn’t sit still. I realize I don't even need to hold onto him now, but he's letting me, he’s really letting me…

“Good.” I whisper after I swipe the last little bits off of his lip, spreading into a wide smile as I cup my palm over his clammy but clean face. 

‘Cause he is. 

None of this changes a thing. It isn’t good; I don’t want him sneaking behind my back to get drunk and I really don’t want him feeling like he has to lie about it, but he isn’t this doomed delinquent…

— “You’ll never see me like this again.” 

His voice is hoarse and hushed, yet this is the clearest he’s sounded all night. 

It’s his apology. 

“Jason…come on. You can’t help being sick.” 

“I can help this.” 

I think my eyebrows would fall off my face if they could go any higher. He’s serious as he can be too, God bless him, and I don’t mean to drag this on, he’s just miserable and is bargaining whatever he can to get it all to end, but…

“You can help being seventeen? Damn, what’s your secret?” I break into a chuckle, hand dropping to pat the satin of his jacket, “That’s what we all said! Your regret is just another rite of teenage passage, kiddo. It sucks, believe me, but… you can’t change it. Standing here feeling guilty’s not gonna make you feel better...”

Especially with how bad he’s started reeling. He blinks hard for a long time, trying to get it back, but it doesn’t do it. His shoulder’s slouched, arm dangling heavier than his breathing, and I have to hold him firmer ‘cause he’s starting to sway.  

“I’m…I wanna sit down.” 

“That would help.” 

I lax my grip when he tries to fumble with it, freeing him to stumble over to his kitchen chair, croaking for the juice once he gets there. 

“One mimosa coming right up.” I smile, but he’s not amused. I guess laughter isn’t the best medicine.

Trazodone is. 

It would get him out of his head and force him to sleep, but you can’t take it after drinking — well you can, I have, but you really shouldn’t. He doesn’t have enough of a tolerance of either to try, so Tylenol PM it is.

I take two out of the bottle and deliver them to him with his glass of lukewarm juice. He doesn’t care, he sips it anyway. Slowly, but that’s okay. He needs to take his time. 

I want to sit across from him, all of my pacing around is probably distracting, but I can’t bring myself to. Not until this is settled, ‘cause if I don’t set the record straight about it now, it’ll keep playing this broken song.

“You know, Jason, sometimes the only way you’ll get to know your limits is by testing them. It’s not always ideal but you live and you learn. Now you know how much your stomach can take and you know to stay away from—”

“Vodka.” He mutters while bringing up his glass. “Half a bottle.”

Half a bottle?!

Takes a hard blink and a grip on the back of the chair to keep me from turning to the sink myself.

 “Jesus…well now you know. And next time you even see vodka, you’re only gonna think about how it had your head in a sink. I know I probably sound lame but I’m serious, it’s a real reflex.”

Just don’t ignore it. 

And I know. If he were sober, there’d be this little curl on his lip, and I’d hear him call me on my shit and question why the same doesn’t apply to me without him even having to save the words. 

Instead he whispers, “I hope.” 

Sure, it’s a rough night and he’s prone to being a little dramatic during his first time in the trenches but shit, he sounds scared. 

Scared that he’ll be sick like me. 

The mere idea of using used to nauseate me so bad when I was good and clean. I’ve been on my hands and knees throwing up just over the thought—the fact— that I’d put that damn dirty pipe in my mouth. It’d be years and I’d start salivating all of a sudden and that was all I could do to purge it.

But now…

It doesn’t matter. Can’t go through all that when you have it there to pick up, when it’s the only thing you have to hold close. 23 years is long enough to acquire the taste. When I light up, I  don’t think about it anymore. Nothing to think about. Nothing to worry about ruining when I’ve already ruined it all. 

I want to grab him, hold on and tell him he shouldn’t be scared. He’s better. He’s so much better. He’ll learn from this, I genuinely believe he will…but mom thought the same about me. I thought the same about me.

 I hope so too.

I’d tell him, but I want him to have the last word. It means more. He has to hope, he has to listen to that fearful voice in his head and let him guide him from this shit, he has to not let this fucking burden be his…

Jason’s eyes are heavier than this tension. He needs to go to bed. 

He pushes himself off the table, this time a little less wobbly when he stands. He might make it there if he goes slow but I don’t know…

“You want some help?” 

“No thank you… I got it.” He says with his palm on the wall, using it as a guide while taking a couple slow steps through the living room. I have to at least let him try, so I pick up his glass, dumping the rest of the juice in the sink. 

About halfway through, he stops in his tracks. 

 “Oh, I almost forgot…” He turns, slouching his back on the wall while he digs around in his pocket for…a skinny white envelope. 

Must’ve went to the bank.

See, this is why Jason is different. There’s no fucking way I would’ve remembered to do that before going out. Stopping to get gas in my car to even  go out was hard enough, much less withdrawing my own money to help my parents with rent.

“Thank you,” I say, sighing to myself as he drops it on the side table. I hate to ask this from him. It’s not right at all, this should be going towards his first car or his first girlfriend or even just some little thing he wants. I need to provide for him, but the move was sudden and this area has gotten so ludicrously expensive that it’s impossible to do it on my own, no matter which way I try. 

But he smiles a little, “You’re welcome. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight. Sleep tight.” 

I wait, washing the glass until he’s made it to his door and disappears into his room. I’d need a hit to open it with him here.

Need one anyway.

But this money is for fucking rent. I’m not spending my son’s hard earned cash on crack. This is for the roof over his precious sleeping head, not my pathetic addiction. It’s beyond generous ‘cause there’s no fucking way I would’ve given my money up at seventeen, my dad wouldn’t have accepted my help even if I was the only person left on this planet. 

I shouldn’t even open it now, I should wait ‘til Monday when the rental office is open when I can deliver them the check and get it over with. But I should at least count it. It feels kinda thick for what’s usually six one hundred dollar bills…

Because there’s more.