I Got To Tell My Wife

The cab was on Biscayne Boulevard when Nick looked into his wallet and discovered he had only a dollar. He didn’t have enough for the fare.

“Drop me off at 19th Street instead,” he instructed the cab driver. He could take out money from the bank on the corner and walk the last six blocks to the yellow building.

The streets were empty and the sky had begun to brighten. It was almost the next day. As the alcohol wore off Nick began to feel guilty. All the drinking they had done, how useless it was. It was all a waste, he thought. Nick didn’t even know why he did it. He started in with it and then he didn’t stop himself. He didn’t even enjoy it. It was all the same, the same people and places and nothing new really happened. Maybe there was a fight, or a girl, or something was said that shouldn’t have, but none of it was new. Nick wanted to get home, to lay down and go to sleep.

“This side is good?” asked the cabbie. They were approaching 19th Street.

“I need to get some money from that bank,” said Nick.

The cab stopped at the bus stop where a black man was sitting. The black man was leaned forward and held his head in his hands. He didn’t look up as Nick stepped out of the cab and passed him on his way to the bank.

Nick went inside the vestibule and saw the cash machines were off. The luck, he thought. He walked back to the cab and opened the door.

“We have to go to another bank. The machine is off.”

“Take this,” a voice spoke from behind Nick. It was the black man. The black man held out to Nick a handful of crumpled bills.

Nick looked at him and looked at the money.

“Take it. Pay for the cab,” said the black man.

Nick took the money. It was just enough to pay the driver. The cab drove away.

“Why’d you do it?” Nick asked the black man.

“Just keep going,” said the black man as he sat back down on the bench. He was dressed in a button down shirt and dress pants and did not seem much older than Nick.

“I done bad things,” he said. “I done bad things to white people,” he said. “I got to make up for the bad things I done. Don’t you worry about it. Keep going.”

Nick moved to sit down on the bench. Nick was curious what was wrong with him.

“Don’t you sit down,” the black man looked at Nick tensely.

Nick hesitated and then watching the black man he sat down carefully at the end of the bench.

“I told you not to sit next to me, sir,” the black man pleaded. “I told you to keep going, sir. I told you not to sit with me.”

“My name is Nicholas.”

“Sir, do you really want to talk to me?” The black man seemed to relax.

“Yes,” Nick answered.

“I fucked up bad,” he said. “I fucked up bad and I got to go home. I don’t know what to do. I got all this blow on me and I’m going to do it all and then go home.”

He produced a pink baggie of coke from his pocket. He handed it to Nick. Nick took out his apartment key, used it to dig out a bump and snorted it. He dug a bump for the other nostril, did it, and handed the baggie back.

“I ain’t done this shit in years. I ain’t done this shit or anything—” the black man broke off. “I can’t throw it away. I bought all these bags at the club. Good shit, not stepped on. Pure, y’know?”

“Its not bad,” Nick confirmed. His mouth was dry from the drinking and as the cocaine took effect his mouth felt even drier. He suddenly felt very awake. It was good cocaine.

“I spent $1400 tonight. I lost a $8000 watch my wife got me,” the black man paused, “I lost my wedding ring. I don’t know how I lost them. I got to go home. I just had twins, twin girls. I don’t do this shit no more, I don’t do this shit no more and I got to go home.” He put his key into the little baggie, snorted a bump and licked the rest from the key.

“How long are you married?” asked Nick.

“Eight years,” said the black man. “You don’t have to sit here, sir. You white. You don’t have to sit here.”

“You paid for my cab and I’m going to sit here,” Nick told him. Then Nick thought about it. He was married about eight years now too.

The sun had come up over the bay and there was morning traffic on the boulevard. It was going to be a hot day. Nick didn’t feel so badly now. The cocaine had awakened him. He didn’t need to sleep. It was Sunday morning.

The black man turned to Nick. He looked as if he was about to cry. “I fucked three bitches tonight. That white cracker bitch—excuse me. Excuse me, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Nick reassured him.

“I fucked three bitches at the club and I didn’t wear no protection and I don’t know what diseases I might have got. I got to go home and tell my wife that. I lost my watch and my ring and fucked three bitches and I don’t know where all that money went. How did I spend that money.”

He offered the coke. Nick keyed out another bump for himself.

“I’m not like this,” the black man continued. “God gave me a second chance and I did this. I was a junkie. I was on the street. I didn’t care for nobody and I ate off the street. I should be dead. I got shot five times. Glock 9 from five feet. I got a titanium plate in my skull, not metal so I can go through security at the airport.” He rapped his knuckles against his forehead making a dull knocking sound. “I can’t show you the other places I been shot. That’s why I helped you. That’s why I got to help people. I’m responsible for all the bad shit I done, but God’s responsible for me living today. I’m not like this, what you see now. I’m not like this. I don’t do this.”

He took a bump from the pink baggie and licked his key. A bus stopped and the black man waved it on. “Can you sit with me till the next number three?”

“I’ll sit with you,” said Nick.

“I got a construction company. I got a $235,000 house in Aventura. This shirt I’m wearing, this shirt costs $300.” He tried to pull out the tag to show Nick.

“It’s a nice shirt.

“I got to do something for you.”

“What?”

“I’m going to give you $200. You sitting with me and I’m going to give you $200. I don’t have it now but I’ll give it to you.”

“I don’t want it,” Nick said.

“I killed two people when I was a junkie. I didn’t care for nobody. That’s why I helped you and I got to help people.” He paused. “I could have killed you too,” he mumbled.

Nick’s heart beat faster.

“I don’t think so,” Nick said at last. He had to say something.

“Sure I could,” said the black man. He stared at Nick until Nick turned away.

A police car went by.

“I wish I was in jail tonight," he said. Then he said, “I think I gave you all my bus money for that cab.”

“There’s a cash machine down the street,” Nick replied.

“Will you come with me?”

Nick hesitated. If it was a plot to get his money it was the most elaborate one he had heard of. But still he wasn't sure. “Ok” he agreed, and he and the black man walked down the boulevard. At the bank the black man put his card in. No money came out. He showed the receipt to Nick. $3.47.

“I spent $1400 tonight.” He stared at the printout.

Nick took out his card and put it into the machine and punched in his code. If something was going to happen it should happen now. He completed the transaction and took out the $20 and gave it to the black man.

“Can I get a beer?” he asked Nick.

“Sure.”

They walked together silently to the supermarket on NE 2nd Avenue. The black man went in and came out with a beer in a paper bag and gave Nick the change beyond what he needed for the bus fare.

“Can you sit with me a little longer? I got to finish the blow and then I’m going home.”

Back at the bus stop bench he dipped his key into the pink baggie and snorted. There was one final bump remaining.

“I want to meet you tomorrow and give you $200.”

“I don’t want your money.”

The black man cracked open the beer. A number three bus passed them without stopping.

“Then we got to meet tomorrow so I can pay you back,” he said.

The black man snorted the final bump from the baggie. He offered the can of beer to Nick and Nick took a long pull. The cold beer tasted delicious. Nick thought about how he loved the mornings at first light and how the city came alive. He didn't feel guilty at all.

“Can you walk me to the train so I can go downtown and get some Xanax? I got to come down. I need it to come down.”

“Okay.”

Nick walked him to the Omni station on 15th Street.

“How much do you need?” Nick asked.

“Fifteen dollars.”

On the corner of 15th and Biscayne Nick counted out the money. There was $13 after the bus fare and beer and Nick handed it to the black man.

He looked at the money. “I can’t,” he said, trying to give it back.

Nick said, “Take it. A white guy and black guy passing money here doesn’t look good. Take it and get on that train.”

“Are you coming with me?” He looked desperate.

“No,” Nick told him. “You got to go alone.”

He brought out his phone. “Can I call you? Can we meet tomorrow?”

Nick gave his number.

“I’m going to call you,” the black man said.

“Everything will work out,” Nick lied. Nick turned and walked back up Biscayne in the direction of his apartment.

Nick was still sleeping that evening when his phone rang.

“Hello.”

“It’s the guy from the bus stop.”

“How are you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Did you tell her?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“No.”

“About the girls?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“Yes.”

“I think you’re going to be okay.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to call you later and give you my other number. Don’t call this number. It’s my work number.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“Okay.”

Nick lay holding the phone and feeling very alone in the darkness. He could still smell the Haitian girl on his pillow. It was a smell that only black people have. He set the phone down. There wasn't anything to tell. Nick tried to go back to sleep.

A Brief Summary of Recovery (written for a drug addicted friend to encourage his return to health)

In 1999 I stopped riding my bike and I settled in Paris. In place of cycling and travel and adventure, I took up drinking and smoking and eating. I lived with one French girl and then a second, who was truly beautiful. This seemed a wonderful and natural progression in my life at the time. I was living in a new way. I did not understand then that I had begun a course of killing myself faster.

A decade later I was married to that beautiful French girl and living in Miami and New York. By this time I was a professional drinker and smoker. I took pride in that I did more of each, and for longer, than anyone I knew. I exercised aggressively, though in short duration, and believed this sustained me through days and nights of drinking.

But I was far gone. Early in that year I had suffered through a week of being hardly able to move. My joints were so swollen and painful that I could hardly get out of bed, my body so weakened and depleted I could not lift my arm to the cupboard to open it. It took me 3 minutes to walk across our 900 sq ft apartment. Still, I did not stop drinking and smoking. When I did eat my diet was devoid of any nutritional value. I did not drink water and lived in constant dehydration. I suffered from intense fatigue and had to drink coffee and energy shots to stay awake through the day. I would often take multiple naps of sometimes 2 hours each. Still, I did nothing to change my life and expected these problems to pass.

I remember the morning I decided to change. My wife had been gone for 6 months at this point. Since I sent her away all I had done was drink harder, smoke more, snort cocaine, and chase women. The world stock markets were collapsing and I had been short massively the day before but had covered and gotten into a much larger position long. I awoke that morning praying the bottom was in.

It wasn’t. Next to me in bed was a naked fat girl. I seemed to recall a pretty-faced Cuban from the night before. Then I recalled the shock of getting her clothes off. The loose skin hung from her stomach from the gastric bypass that brought her down from 500lbs. The fat girl was snoring loudly. Clearly it had been some sort of charity fuck. My mouth hurt and was full of what I thought was saliva. I went to the bathroom and began to spit but instead of saliva I was spitting blood. Bright red, fresh blood. It kept coming out of my mouth. There were blood spots all over the sink and countertop. I was bleeding from my gums. There were darkened brown patches on each of the gum areas between my teeth. I flushed my mouth with water but the bleeding wouldn‘t stop.

I went back into the room and checked the futures. They were limit down. The market was fucked. My positions were fucked. My body was fucked. The girl moaned and called out to me. I walked over to the bed and looked at her. She begged me to fuck her again before she went to work. I just looked at her and then went to the bathroom to spit more blood. She was waiting for me when I came out. She was bent over on the bed with her ass up. I saw the stain on the sheets and remembered how she had vomited on my stomach while trying to take all of my cock down her throat. What a fucking mess.

“Just get the fuck outta here,” I mumbled. I was afraid to open my mouth. “Get the fuck outta here. I’m serious.” I went back to the bathroom to spit blood.

She left finally. I puked my positions and found a doctor who would see me. I was fucked and I knew it. I accepted it. It was only a matter of how I was to die and what they called it.

But the doctor said I could be saved. Drink, cigarettes, drugs and a terrible diet had done this to me. You’ve got to change, she said. Your body is breaking down. That day I had my last cigarette. Drinking was harder to quit. Though I did not drink for a few weeks it was to be some months later before I had my last.

It was in New York that I got drunk for the final time. It was Super Bowl Sunday and I went at it as seriously as I used to. The next day the fatigue returned and the glands on my neck just below my jawbones were swollen. The next day they were even larger and aching. My strength left me, my body ached all over, I was dizzy, and even the lightest exercise was impossible. I was fucked all over again. I pledged to myself that if I could live there would be no more drinking. I pledged to drink only water. I pledged to take my vitamins and eat only what my body needed. If only I would not die but be given another chance.

It took 1 month before the swelling in my glands had gone down. And then in the following months I began to slowly feel better. I moved to Chicago and began cycling. I stopped talking to everyone I knew. I did not need anything but my body. I became a night worker and exercised my body throwing tons of bags of soil and stone and brick. I drove forklifts. I spent much of my days outside. I began to recover what was animal in me. I added to the cycling and night labor a rigorous kettlebell and weight program. My strength returned as I had not known it before. My muscles expanded. My clothing fit tightly on my body. I began to look more youthful. I walked differently. The world responded to me differently. I had the sort of physical confidence I once had before I put down my bicycle a decade before.

But most magical was the return of my mind. I was doing good philosophy again and the original thoughts were substantial and lasted more than a few days. The writing returned as well. I was seeing the world again and its depths and I did not feel dull or dazzled. I realized I had been reduced to a great degree for a long time. Each day that I thought I was back--and that my physical and intellectual strength could not be any greater-- I was surprised that in the next I felt even stronger. I had neglected the life of my body and had nearly lost everything because of it.

I realized I didn’t need anything. I realized my time was all I was and that I would no longer give it up for wives, booze, drugs, parties, television, bars, and definitely not for money. Yes, I needed some money, but I only wanted to make money doing something that increased my physical strength. I would not work any job that did not contribute directly to this project of increasing my strength. Night laboring was perfect and I was the hardest worker anyone had ever seen. But they did not understand that I did not do the job for the money. They would not understand that I did the job for the challenge. These other workers lived as I once did: living in a way that killed them faster.

What is wonderful about the life of health is how cheap it is. Sure, the knowledge worker office jobs pay more, but I have little use for that money today. I have no large expenses. I only need to pay for my needs, which my body reminds me of. The other problem with the knowledge worker jobs is that they are not intellectually challenging (true intellectual challenges are my own projects). So other than more money, I see no reason to do such jobs. And, as above, I have no use for more money. The physical labor jobs can also be left whenever I wish to leave them (for travel or more intense periods of writing and study) and returned to or new ones found. I understand now why Wittgenstein recommended his philosophy students work in canning factories.

Better Than Cocaine

40, 20, 20
3 minutes
40, 20, 20
3 minutes
40, 20, 20

**4 hours**

40, 20
3 minutes
40, 20
3 minutes
40, 20

daily total: 240 renegade rows, 60 dragon flags, 120 ribbons

but do what ya wanna