If you’d like to encourage youngsters to follow their musical dream and support a worthy cause, send a few bucks to American Music Program.

Wouldn’t be a birthday without a little song now. Hugs and happies to Sun (aka Zoe) Richter. This is from a year or two back… Remember me when you’re rich!

It sounded like fun when she invited me. I had no IDEA how intensely emotional the night would turn out…

Annie and I have had a tumultuous relationship from that first day in the c-store when we fought about empty bottle returns to marriage to divorce to living together off and on for ten years. Much like that sentence, a run-on relationship. Most of those early years played out to a Pink Floyd soundtrack. Most of those songs came from sides of record albums. That was the theme of the night’s show.

I stuffed my pockets with paper towels. I know how I’ve been lately, (like an old woman when it comes to getting emotional) so I didn’t want to be a snotty mess. I stuck a few clean ones in a separate pocket in case Annie had the same problem.

Annie was celebrating five years quitting smoking cigarettes, and a year without alcohol. Man, it’s so much easier not having to deal with alcohol at a concert. We shared a mighty cupcake at Meg’s place.

Yes, I took my ex-wife to my mistress’s house. We smoked weed together and Meg sold Annie some jewelry. As we were leaving, Rain called. I let it go to voicemail, and she left no message. She’d called earlier, after standing me up twice, to say she was coming over. I told her I was out with friends, and busy until tomorrow. She seemed surprised that I didn’t want to spend my entire day off staring at the wall at home, waiting to see if she shows up.

Meg smiled at me. “You’re such a tomcat. You’re certainly not a racist!”

“Hey,” I said. “We’re all pink in the middle.” I would use that line more than once on this night.

We arrived at the show, blew through the line in about two minutes, and had an hour to kill while we waited for the cupcake to kick in. We looked at merchandise, Annie wanted to buy me a shirt but I chose the $5 DVD of greatest hits covers. Besides, I want to support my local record store by getting a shirt there.

At promptly 8 PM, the lights dimmed, and a little feller with a clarinet came to the center of the blacked-out stage.

As he stood in silhouette playing the opening ditty, a big video screen showed hands selecting a vinyl album, and dropping the needle on the side the band was about to play. Side one of The Wall.

There should be a law that every rock concert should open with In The Flesh? What an over-the-top smack in the face. Annie jolted backward, though she’s heard the album a million times. Big grins spread across our faces, and I felt the tears welling up. We had a baby to this music. I texted a picture of the stage, and a picture of her parents to that baby, who is now 33.

As Mother finished, I dropped the first of three full paper towels to the floor. I noticed Annie wiping her eyes, so I handed her a fresh paper towel. She gave me a “Whattaya gonna do?” smile. I smiled back. She was as big a wreck as me.

Time for side one of Wish You Were Here. By now we were holding hands. If The Wall brought back parenthood, WYWH reminded us of trying to give our daughter a little brother. We ditched birth control, figuring if we were gonna have two kids we should have them together. After several sexless months due to childbirth, one night she sent me out for condoms, a breast pump and a new copy of Wish You Were Here. This was a mission I would not fail at. As we sat there at the show holding hands, I wondered if she was flashing back on all the psychedelic sex we had to that album? I was…

Then came Dark Side of the Moon. I wondered how many quarter-pounds of Colombian weed we smoked listening to this album? When Us and Them began to play, I kissed her hand. We were practically bawling. “And after all, it’s not what we would choose to do…”

Intermission. Thank god. We went to the bathroom, surveyed the line and chose to wait a minute. I stepped out for a couple puffs on my sneaky-toy while Annie conquered the potty-line. We met at the seats just as Animals began to play.

This is also when the mood shifted. As Dogs played, I remembered how this used to be one of my “angry” albums. I’d put it, or One of these Days on the headphones and chug malt liquor to beat the crankies. I wondered if that’s how she was remembering this particular side?

Then came time for Division Bell. It came out about the time we separated for real. Annie remarried and subsequently lost her husband during this time. The album had two lives for me. It debuted the day my nephew was born, and we played it to death. That was a happy time.

It was Division Bell‘s second life that hit me this time.

Almost exactly eight years ago, I met someone, we hit it off and um, related for a couple years. Division Bell was one of our albums. While one wouldn’t normally think of it as a bedroom album, we made it work for us, and when the song Take It Back began playing the dam burst again. I clenched Annie’s hand, not telling her that the tears were meant for someone else, someone I loved and lost and still love and miss and am very happy that she’s okay and stuff. I’d ran into Annie about this time, things were good, but I chose the other person. I am still happy about my choices, but that was the hardest relationship I’ve ever had to end, and I don’t know if anything could have hurt more. I sure don’t want to find out. Thanks for that, Division Bell.

The rest of the show was “greatest hits.” The Great Gig in the Sky took Annie out. It’s always been her favorite song. That scrawny little white girl sure had a set of pipes on her.

One of these Days, my other pissed-off Pink Floyd song, was a crowd favorite.

“They brought the fucking pig!” It was only his head, but there he was. “Take a picture!” Annie said. I shook my head. I’m savoring this moment, not fucking around with my phone.

Comfortably Numb wasn’t loud enough, until the end. It took three guitars to nail David Gilmour’s part. Run Like Hell, with descending disco ball, was the final song.

We filed out, stopped by my work to use a cleaner, less chaotic restroom. I walked her to the MAX, she kissed me goodbye and told me, “I’ll always love you as a friend.”

“Ooh baby, you’ll always be baby to me…”

The problem with free and easy relationships is they rarely stay that way. What starts as casual ends up serious. It turns from “That was fun, want to get something to eat?” to “Where the fuck you been?”

Rain and I aren’t quite that possessive, but when one of us goes off the radar for a few days, the other notices. Level of worry?

It depends upon the situation…

While I don’t hide the fact, I try not to belabor the point: Rain has opiate addiction issues. In all, it’s easier than living with an alcoholic, at least for me. (I don’t have the temptation to shoot up, and don’t freak out if I run out of pills.) There are a lot of similarities between the addictions to opiates and alcohol; particularly the comedown and withdrawal. Having gone through it with alcohol enough times, I have compassion for my girl when she’s not feeling right.

Alas, there’s only so much I can do. My budget is stretched thin, and I can’t kick her a few bucks here and there like I have been. Things will switch back around. The family is getting its paychecks right again, and the onus for housing won’t all be on me.

But that doesn’t help Rain. Not right here, right now.

So what can I do? Nothing. I hope, as she disappears into the night to “do what she has to do” that she comes home safe. She’s smart and way more streetwise than me, so I continue to have faith.

Yet I worry…

I’ve seen the despair and panic after she lost a dose of heroin one night. (Those pants will forever be remembered as the ones with the holy back pocket. The pocket she used, of course.) She retraced every step until she found it, half a block from where she scored. It’s a good thing it was a rainy night; only other junkies would know what it was, laying right there on the sidewalk at 10 PM. Listening to her cry, wailing “WHAT AM I GONNA DO…?” I began to hate strongly the substance that makes my baby feel better, yet makes her hurt so much.

When she stopped by work last Wednesday to say hi and give me a kiss, she set a bunch of quarters on the counter. I began turning them into dollar bills. “Wait. I’m trying to get quarters together. I left my phone in a guy’s car last night.”

“?”

My look must have said it all.

“I got a ride from a guy that works at the cafe. Probably sounds bad, me losing my phone in the back seat of a guy’s car after midnight, huh?”

Again, my look must have said it all. I kept quiet though, not really jealous. If she were up to something, I’d never know about it.

“So, I guess I will wait for you to call or text me, then.”

“It may be a few days. I’ll have to wait until I see him at the cafe. I’ll be around.”

And then she wasn’t.

My weekend is now Monday/Tuesday. I wasn’t too worried about Rain. I figured she was either out chasing the dragon, or, worst case scenario, curled up sweating, shaking and pooping herself at another compassionate junkie’s place. They have a strong inner support system, those Portland junkies. A lot of people I’ve had problems with at the store have given me a pass, simply because I’m with Rain. In turn, those awful people everyone complains about have some remarkably redeemable qualities.

I cruised the usual spots. I was kinda concerned; Clean & Safe mentioned someone jumping from subsidized housing. It was a visitor, at a place Rain has been staying when the shelter isn’t an option. I know Rain is a fighter who cherishes life more than anything; I refused to believe it could be her. It didn’t stop me from asking around.

I walked past the usual haunts, mirrored sunglasses scanning the faces. Rain, who is a stunningly beautiful woman, can take a ballcap and a hoodie and turn into Scatman Crothers in about ten seconds. She doesn’t dress up when she’s in survivor mode. Not much anyway.

I passed the spots, making sure her friends saw me looking. I’m well enough known that no one approached me for sales. “I can just look at ‘em and know.” Rain says of other addicts. I don’t have that look.

During my final loop of Old Town, I had a brainstorm and stopped by the homeless cafe where she volunteers. The lady at the counter recognized me. “Hi, I’m looking for Rain. Have you seen her in the last few days?”

She smiled, then frowned. “Yes, I know her very well. We aren’t allowed to give out information about our volunteers, but we have a message board where you could leave her a note?” I got an okay vibe; if Rain had been the jumper it would have shown in her face.

I looked at the message board, and then for a piece of paper. I saw an empty pack of Camels on the sidewalk. I tore it in half and folded it over. I wrote Rain’s name in big letters. Inside I wrote, “Innie, Outie misses you. <3" I tacked it to the board near the corresponding last-name letter, and left. She can't say I didn't try.

An hour later, my phone rang. It was not a number I knew. "Hello?"

"Hey babe, got your note. I was out looking for you! Went to all three stores, had to call your sister to get your number because my phone is gone, you know…"

I was riding the bus toward home, so I kept conversation close to the vest. She'd been staying at the shelter, sick because she had no money. But she was feeling better, and would come see me at work. My worries subsided, I could go back to ignoring her for another week.

But of course, I won't.

So, when 10:30 rolled around the other night, as I stood in front of the Nightclub Store striking the Swearingen pose, I saw a familiar walk. As my gaze rose from her hips to her eyes, I knew who it was. I grinned ear-to-ear, and so did Rain.

An old girlfriend once told me she liked showing up unannounced, because the look of happiness on my face when I saw her was better than any compliment I could come up with. (And I'm a wordy motherfucker.) I must have given Rain one of those looks, because she began puddling up.

"Hold me, fucker." She latched onto me and wouldn't let go until a lady walked up and coughed, trying to get us to move so she could get into the store. "Stop making me cry," Rain said. She kissed me, not a Hollywood kiss that doesn't smear the lipstick, this was a full-on right-on-the-lips smacker. "I love you, Outie. I gotta get back inside, I just had to come see you for a minute." She dabbed at tears as she scurried back to the shelter. I kinda hoped she didn't make it. I got a nice single bed that could handle some overcrowding.

Every time I think I've had all I can stand and can't stand no more, she will walk up, rip my heart out of my chest, take a bite out of it like an apple, and stick it back in. And no matter how much irritation, fighting or miscommunications we encounter, I take one look at her beautiful smile and lose all my backbone.

Love hurts, but sometimes it’s a good hurt…

I’ve been steadily losing weight since 1996, when I peaked at 528 pounds. I hit a plateau or two along the way, but have been making slow but sure progress.

Especially lately.

After surgery, I began wearing a back brace that also kept tummy flab (aka “meat apron” or “dicky-do”) up where it belonged. Soon I discovered that fat won’t climb uphill to lose itself, but will melt right off if it’s held up high enough long enough. I kept wearing the brace, and now the brace has gotten too small.

As Mizelle once teased me, “You’ve got a torso again!”

Clothes have always been troublesome. Once the internet and fat-sites popped up, stores caught on and you could buy fat clothes locally. It didn’t hurt that ‘Merika is getting fat in the ass. Used to be hard to find a shirt with an “X” in the size. Now you have multiple Xs, off the rack. Too bad they’re all cargo shorts and barber shirts.

The Brit-Floyd show is next week, and I wanted to find my concert tee from 1987, the Delicate Sound of Thunder tour. I paid $17 for it, and it was always too small. I figured I’d shrink into it someday. That was when I weighed 275.

Before I got fat.

I prowled the boxes. I found the safari vest I wore to Las Vegas, and tried it on. I could literally get two of me in there. I weighed 454 when I went to Vegas. I looked at the vest I wear today. 3 Xs smaller. And I swim in it.

While digging, I found pants I was ‘saving for a rainy day’. They were almost too big. I washed them and they go into the rotation today. Wear those bitches out before they fall off.

I found a dressy shirt I’d been saving for a wedding or a funeral. I tried it on. I looked like a little kid playing dress-up. The tag was still attached. $50. Ouch. I decided to take it (and my Fred Meyer Rewards coupons) to the store and see what I could get.

Since I had no receipt, and it had been more than three months, they gave me an in-store credit for the lowest price in the last 90 days. ($25.) Sigh. Oh, well.

Woohoo! The same shirt I exchanged was still on sale. I got one with only one X, a tall. Slimming and highlighting my newfound torso? I’ll take it! I found two more tee-shirts, in the “normal” sized mens department. By the time I’d used all coupons and credits, I walked out of Freddy’s with three new shirts for a total out-of-pocket cost of $1.43.

Oh, and I found the old Pink Floyd tee-shirt. I can still tell the girls, “I have tee-shirts older than you!”

It fits me better than ever. But it wears like a muscle shirt, and I still am more Michelin Man than Marlboro Man. I’ve got batwings and man-boobs, but so do a majority of the men my age. Call me fat. I will laugh. And in ten years, I will laugh at you when all that designer beer hits your waistline.

It’s time to show off…

I guess that’s a really roundabout way of saying, “I’m having women problems, and I love it!”…

I’ve been taking a break from Rain. I don’t want to get into a long drawn-out castigation of someone who is sick. I am having troubles with her addiction, and situation, and am in tough-love mode right now. I hate it. I miss our “thing”. Although few crimes are committed, she is my “PIC” (partner-in-crime) and I love her very much. She needs to do some things for herself, and if I have to be the strong one, so be it. I hate that she feels I’m pushing her away, but I have more loved ones than just her to take care of, and I won’t jeopardize my (or my family’s) home for anybody.

Meg? We are getting along fine. I go to her to unburden, but it’s from the chair across the room, not next to her on the bed like I used to. I haven’t taken a nap there in ages. And as to being my mistress? Yeah, that’s still a thing. (Yes!) I no longer pay her rent, but we love each other, and I still come to her for lunch almost every day. The Marshal, her longtime abusive boyfriend, is “dying of prostate cancer” and “bleeding out his ass.” She’s giving him a respectful sendoff, despite all the nasty things he’s said and done to her over the years. I will be there for her when it happens. My other women friends will just have to understand.

What I didn’t expect? A wild card in the equation. As I slept last week, I got a text. From my ex-wife: “Daughter and I are in town for a couple hours. Want company?”

I blinked awake and texted back, “Sure! Give me half-hour to shower/wake up.”

By the time I got out of the shower, there was another text. “Sorry, ran out of time. Raincheck?”

Well, shit. I’d kinda hoped to see the Old Lady, and always love the hugs and giggles of the grandkids. Alas, another day.

The next day I get another text, this time from Annie, my ex-wife, and she’s alone. “Am bored out here in the country, can I come visit? I have something to share with you.”

“Sure.” I gave her my work hours, and forgot about it. One of the things I hated most about my ex-wife was her propensity for making plans she never keeps. If she shows up, I will deal with it. Otherwise, I got work to do!

About an hour later, as I upsell a homeless tweaker on lottery scratchers, I see a familiar face. A face from thirty-five years ago. She’s a bit thicker in the middle, there are a few lines around the eyes, but she’s the same beautiful Indian princess I married a lifetime or two ago. I declare “Time out!” to no one who mattered and gave her a big hug and chaste kiss on the lips. “Howdy, stranger.”

“Hello yourself, handsome. You are looking good.” (I’d bragged to her a bit on the phone. Lost about 50 pounds since she’d last seen me.)

“You too.” I got rid of customers as quickly as possible. Fortunately, we met in a c-store, and I proposed to her in a c-store, so she’s always been cool with me taking a minute from a deep, heartfelt moment to sell some drunk some Camels and a box of Magnums that don’t fit.

“So, you got a surprise for me? You’re pregnant? Didn’t do it!”

“No, smartass. I’ve been sober almost a year, and as a reward of sorts my brother bought me tickets to Brit-Floyd. Do you know what that is?”

“We were clicking around on TV the other night and PBS was doing pledge drive. I thought they were showing the Pulse concert, but it turned out to be Brit-Floyd. I almost bought a ticket, but didn’t want to spend that kind of money on just me. Wish I had, now…”

“Well, my brother can’t go, he’s got business in Chicago, but he suggested I take you. And I kinda like that idea. Anybody else I take would be drinking, and that kinda defeats the whole purpose of the night.”

“I can keep you sober AND goofy as fuck. I got cupcake…”

“That sounds fun. Or some acid…”

“Nah, not for me. I’m just fine with my herbal enhancements. I’ll get you in a Floyd mood, with nary a drop of booze.”

We passed the time for a bit, caught up on small stuff. A gal we had a three-way with in the ’80s had died of liver failure. (Her second.) That affected us both; she was younger and drank less than either Annie or I.

Eventually she decided to head home, and I got back to work. We texted back and forth, and on Friday I got a message: “Wanna spend some time together today?”

“I have to work today, but have half-day tomorrow. If you don’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight, you could come over.”

“Are you inviting me to spend the night?”

“If ya want. It won’t be anything you haven’t seen before, but I only have a single bed. It *will* be cozy.”

“We’ll work it out. How about I come tomorrow? I’ll meet you at work and we can hang out after?”

Perfect.

We met at a Starbucks a block from the Waterfront Store. We walked a while, met Meg, who was trying to bleed some money out of the Saturday Market crowd with her less-expensive jewelry. I got hugs from random customers, which seemed to impress Annie. “Wow, you got quite the fan club down here…”

After work, we beelined to the weed clinic on Hawthorne, where I procured for her a couple bottles of glycerin tincture and an eighth of Fruity Purple Kush. “They don’t grow weed like this in the country!”

After, we headed to my house, and my room. We took a late-night MAX trip to Gateway Freddy’s for a quick dinner. By the time we got home and smoked a bowl, she was starting to fade. “I don’t stay up past eleven much anymore. Not a lot of nightlife where I stay.”

She curled up on my bed, and I curled up next to her. The next thing we know, it’s 9 AM and I have messages from Meg and Rain. I set the phone aside. Annie got out of bed, put on her shoes and ballcap, and said, “I’m gonna hit the road. You need good sleep before work. Text me when you wake up.”

And she was gone.

So… We have a date for an upcoming Tuesday. The third Tuesday in May is quickly becoming the official Pink Floyd Day in my life. Two years in a row I’ve had big Pink Floyd doin’s.

At the end of the month I will be 52 years old. 26 years ago my sister and I took Annie to see Pink Floyd in Seattle. It took half a lifetime, but Annie is finally getting me back for it.

Are my other girlfriends jealous about this?

God, I hope so.

Since moving back to the Nightclub Store I’ve been feeling revitalized. My schedule tends to stay constant; when I get relocated it’s usually for reasons deeper than schedule conflict. While I may appear to be a lazy (alebit clean) hippie, I have territorial issues that extend well into my working life. The boss may have figured out how to exploit that.

In other words, get off my porch, you bums!

Downtown, a piece of sidewalk near an open business is a goldmine. Ever been past the liquor store during business hours? There’s a constant pile of dreadlocked, dirt-encrusted bums a few feet from the door. Cardboard signs litter the ground. Their disinterested dogs dream of a life where they chase squirrels instead of rats, and a doggie treat has meat in it, not the leftover PBR that’s too flat for the human to tolerate. Their women have a Ferengi quality about them. “Why lie? I wanta get wasted” is their mantra, and they practice what they preach. While they hustle up their drinking money? I get to listen to it.

“Bro? Spare one a them cigarettes?”

“Can you spare a dollar for some clean underwear?”

No subject that evokes sympathy is taboo. The Ferengi women will show you the scabs on their labia if you’ll give ‘em five bucks for salve.

“Cool! Another space-bag!” (A space-bag is box wine taken out of the box. They fit the Mylar bag into a jacket or backpack and fill Arizona Ice Tea cans with bottom-of-the-barrel white zinfandel.)

My first few nights back were contentious. I let the bums continue mostly unabated the first week, coming out to the front of the store and watching the pecking order. Seeing who was a constant, who was just passing through. The next week I cultivated a following amongst the Clean & Safe officers. Their dropping by to say hi would clear the front of the store post-haste.

The third week it was time to get pro-active. When bums sat too close to the door I would approach and politely tell them, “My boss has been getting on me about not keeping the area in front of the store clear. If you move a bit further from the door, no problem. If not, I have to call Clean & Safe.” I turn and leave before they have time to argue.

I don’t mind some of the regulars. It helps that Rain knows a lot of these folks from her adventures at the shelters and Old Town Clinic. If I have a problem, she talks to them and they go away. (Thanks, babe.) Others spend money, so I give them slack. They are beginning to understand that if the store doesn’t eat, nobody eats.

Some bring amusement to the game. Beamer is one. He looks like a post-teen Bela Lugosi dressed as a Road Warrior, and likes to use Jim Beam for the liquid in his heroin shots. (“The alcohol cooks down when you heat it, and makes the high last longer.”) That might explain why I see him break-dancing on the sidewalk when there’s no music to be heard. He was ornery at first, but after I listened to some of his tall tales he’s dubbed me all right.

One old dude I always see on a bicycle got some attention the other day. He pulls up, sits on the sidewalk with a leg draped over his bike and panhandles enough for a cup of coffee. I don’t say anything, just give him a mild stinkeye and go back into the store. Weird Steven was inside, and we chatted until I noticed red and blue flickering lights outside. Hmm.

We stepped to the door, and an officer from the Portland Police Bureau (the ‘real’ cops) was talking to Old Scraggly. I announced to no one in particular, “Wow, that didn’t take long!”

Might as well use the tools given. They don’t know I didn’t call.

“Is that your bike? How long have you had it?” The officer was asking Scraggly.

“Oh, I don’t know. A while now. Let’s see-”

The cop cut him off. “Before you say any more, let me show you something. We’ve got pictures of this bike here, and pictures of a guy who looks a lot like you taking this bike from Powell’s Books about half an hour ago. Doesn’t this look a LOT like you and your hat? Now, anything you want to tell me before we get off on the wrong foot?”

Weird Steven and I chose to high-five inside the store. Both our shifts will be quiet for a few days now.

PoPo cuffed and stuffed Scraggly. He told some old woman with a walker, “See you in a couple hours, babygirl.” There oughta be a law against septuagenarians calling each other baby-anything.

Clean-cut types can be as bad or worse. Nearing the end of a particularly irritating shift, a clean-cut young man, shaved head, Kangol cap, flesh-colored guitar case, came to the counter. His charm was just a bit too ingenuine, so I chose not to take his word at face value.

“Hi there,” he started in a politician’s voice. “I’m a nice guy in a terrible situation, and I’m hoping you can help me.”

I looked him in the eye. “Probably not.” Anytime there’s a preamble like that, some bullshit is involved.

His smile glitched. “I just need to make a phone call.”

“Pay phone right there.” I pointed to the one just outside the door, where a dirt urchin was sitting down with a sign.

“But I don’t have any change.”

“Bummer.”

“Can’t I use your phone.”

“No.”

“Seriously?’

“No. Seriously.” I sighed through my nostrils, in case he hadn’t figured out by now that he was getting on my nerves. “Anything else?”

“You’re a dick!” Ooh, he was mad his charming line didn’t work on me.

“So much for being a nice guy.” I smirked and nodded toward the door. “Out.”

“Call the cops. I ain’t leaving!”

“Okay.” I called Clean & Safe, gave all the info in case he didn’t leave. As I repeated the store address, he walked out.

“Fuck you!” he yelled.

“See ya later, mister nice guy!” I told Clean & Safe I’d call back if he returned.

Five minutes later I looked out by the payphone. He was sitting next to the sign-bum. I called Clean & Safe and told the dispatcher he’d returned. The ne’er-do-wells saw me on the phone, cursed none too gently and left for the last time. I let the law come this time. I had three or four officers walking the block for the better part of an hour. We all get a break.

We all gotta swim in these waters. I don’t want to keep my boot upon the neck of my downtrodden fellow man. (And Ferengi women.) The panhandlers spend lots of money with us. We just can’t have them scaring away the high-rollers. The easy touches.

Panhandlers should know this better than anyone. You don’t kill the golden goose.

While I wouldn’t call Rain a liar, she’s not known for letting the truth get in the way of a good story. I have been present at some of the events she has described to me, and they are fascinating. Factual? Well… Based in fact. Mostly.

Solidarity…

Rain has been couch-surfing for months since losing her apartment. There’s no point rehashing that; it’s over and time to move on. Except she’s found nowhere to move to. After exhausting her shelter options, she began staying with friends. She discovered how many true friends she had. The hard way. She called one night and asked if she could stay with me. My voice showed no hesitation, but I was conflicted inside. I didn’t fear for my family’s safety. I didn’t really fear getting ripped off. If I had money she would know.

I think I was worried my last place of sanctuary would no longer be mine…

Rain first came to my house last Thanksgiving. We were both alone, so we hooked up and celebrated in a most non-traditional way. After that, she came by when she felt like it, always going somewhere else to sleep. I bought a single bed for space reasons, but I think there was some self-preservation going on. If there were room, she’d never leave.

As her options dwindled, I wondered; could we spend long periods of time in what amounts to a luxury jail cell without shivving each other? We both smoke like steam shovels, her cigarillos and my, well, you know. If I’m home, there’s usually a cosmic utensil within reach.

So we tried. I’d gone to the grocery store, gave her some money to go see The Man, and we went points east. Commuters used to my sullen expression and jet-level earphone-bleed were surprised to see me sitting in the back of the bus, holding hands with an ebony goddess. Frederick, an old black dude Dr T thinks looks like a giant Ewok, gave me a big laugh. “Boy, look what you got! Hoo, he got him a live one!” Rain gave him a hug, which did nothing to hurt her approval rating with Frederick.

The first time she stayed I barely slept. Uncomfortable in my chair, she fell out once or twice. She kept nodding off while sitting on the edge of the bed. I was concerned she’d catch the place on fire. After a couple days of this, I was ready for some space. And some sleep.

Problem! I couldn’t fucking sleep if I didn’t know she was okay. I’d awaken and look to the chair. I texted her: “You okay?”

“Yeah, can’t sleep here either. Wish I was at your place.”

“Why don’t you come.”

So we played Tetris, not on the computer but on my single bed. She tried sleeping with her head at my feet. I figured her olfactory senses wouldn’t be able to take that for long, and I’d probably end up kicking her in the head. So we settled into a spooning position, and it worked. She was comfortable, I was guaranteed a lapdance that would last all night with a booty I adored. What could be the problem? Her head cut off circulation to my arm. After about an hour, my left arm was frozen in place over my head.

Back to the chair, Missy.

While we were sitting around talking, she played with her smartphone while I surfed the internet. “Hey babe, help me with something,” she asked.

“Maaaaybe…”

“I need to fix my passwords.”

“I can do that,” I said.

And thus began my moral quandary.

I opened her email account quickly enough; she’d forgotten one letter. I checked everything out, nothing untoward. Messages in her inbox? 6,700 or so. Almost all spam.

“Can you get rid of all that? Just save the songs I’ve emailed to myself, (Youtube links) and stuff that you think I’d really want to keep. Ditch the rest.”

I scanned the page, selected and archived the Youtube stuff. I started deleting spam. “There’s a lot of stuff here. Can I do this later? Promise I will.”

“Yeah, sure.” Then she must have forgotten all about it.

Last night, I got a text from her in the middle of the night. “I’m stuck out in Gresham, walking back down Burnside. Cold and angry, fucking max. Call me so I have someone to talk to?”

I got this message about six hours too late. I sent her a text: “Still walking?”

While I awaited her reply, I remembered my promise to clean up her email account. I opened it, and began deleting. I saw nothing suspicious, just lots of crap. To me, anyway. Talk about a coupon queen, but it explained why there was never a shortage of household products at her apartment.

Then it occurred to me. If I wanted to see what she was up to, check her Sent file. So I did.

And there it was, the smoking gun. An email to her ex-boyfriend, a short, direct and very dirty request. A desperate request. My stomach flipped, and I felt kicked in the nuts. I took a couple deep breaths.

My phone rang, it was Rain. I took another deep breath and said hello.

“Hi babe, I got a ride, I’m down in Old Town.”

“I’m here cleaning out your email, like I said I would.”

“Oh? I didn’t know you’d be going in there.”

“I can get out if you want.” I logged out immediately.

She asked me about something.

“I don’t know, I’ll log back in and look. It’s mostly a lot of crap. Would you like me to block some of these? I mean, Pampers? Really?”

“I do babysit once in a while. Don’t block anything, just throw shit away.”

“Okay.”

Sounds like permission to snoop to me!

Except I didn’t, really. I scanned through them quickly, finding old ones I’d sent her, but not much else. I looked at the message in the Sent file again. I could delete it, but that would serve no purpose. I looked at the date. It was during the time we fought, and I’d decided to take a break. I got around some. Not cool to use a double standard here.

So it wasn’t what I saw, but what I didn’t see that had me mushing up like a distraught schoolgirl. My hard-knock baby was giving it to me straight.

On this date two years ago I lost my older sister, got drunk and got into a fight with Rain. Last year was “the break”. This year I hope things are a little more lovey-dovey. We could both use a little more love and less attitude.

So, next to the naughty email to her ex-dreamboat, I checked the star function. She will know I have seen it. That’s all I want to say to her about that. Since she’s told me I am hers, and she mine, there has been no one else.

Guess I should start having some faith, huh?

How did I feel about moving? I hated moving away from Dr T. I thought we made a pretty good team, but Master P wanted to stare at something besides old hippies, so he gave Dr T a female assistant or two, and replaced me with an eight-toed genius. This guy knows more than Uncle Cliffy and shows it. (If he and Uncle Cliffy ever get into a semantic argument? Christ, they’d still be talking.) That genius pool is too deep for me to be wading into; I’ll just wait over here.

I thought working with Uncle Cliffy would be more of a challenge. He took over as manager of the Nightclub Store, and I moved about two weeks later. (Phew!) After a year and a half, he’s settled into his role as leader of the pack. I can accept leadership if I respect it, and play along for the sake of the team, but when people bark orders at me to see me jump?

Well, this little froggy don’t play.

The first usurpage of authority came when Weird Steven came to make his weekly phone call. He goes to a gaming party and calls his ride from the store. Weird Steven’s code-name is Linus; I joke that the Red Baron is circling. Uncle Cliffy hates this part of the week more than any from the way he reacts. Enjoy this conversation like I had to:

WEIRD STEVEN: (Into phone:) “Are you picking me up at 4 PM?”

UNCLE CLIFFY: “Is that a personal call?”

WEIRD STEVEN: “Yes. Why?”

UNCLE CLIFFY: “You will make no personal calls in MY store! This is a business and-”

WEIRD STEVEN: “Are you in a bad mood or something?”

UNCLE CLIFFY: “This is MY store and-”

(The phone rings. It’s Master P. Weird Steven answers.)

WEIRD STEVEN: “Thursday night? No problem. I can do any night but Wednesday. Oh? Is it okay if I make a personal call once a week to arrange my ride to game night? Thanks.” (Weird Steven looks at Uncle Cliffy:) “Boss says it’s okay.”

Weird Steven walked out without another word. Uncle Cliffy skulked back to the office, seething. When will he realize this ain’t the army?

We haven’t butted heads much, me and Uncle Cliffy. I’ve been good about not being a diva. I’ve worked there long enough that I could get away with a lot more laziness and manipulation if I wanted to. Fact is, I feel like I’m being better used at the Nightclub Store. The Waterfront is too nice a place for me.

Cliffy asked me to participate in keeping the store looking nice. That’s a major part of what I do, but if he wants to tell me to do it? Okay. Keep the coolers near the front stocked? Okay! Come in early every day, since he’s on salary and can leave when he feels like it? Sure! I’ll help you get out early…

I’ve never been a lightbulb-duster. I am good at BSing the customers, counting money and stopping thieving bastards from running off with the store’s livelihood. A bouncer that takes cash, if you will. The Avenue is way more active when it comes to scumbags and ne’er-do-wells. I assumed my Al Swearingen pose in front of the store and showed some leg. How long before someone I know rolls up?

About five minutes. A friend, a former Washington lobbyist, shook my hand, welcomed me home, offered me passwords to sneak in on their wifi. Lydia, a favorite gambler who runs a flophouse up the road, gave me a hug that’d make Rain jealous as fuck. All through the past couple weeks I’ve been running into old faces. Even the ones that I’ve 86ed are happy to see me. How’s that work?

Not all were happy to see me. The pack of shits that made the Wall of Shame, for example. When you’ve stolen so much so often, you get your mugshot posted within eyeshot of the cash registers. Some stores have different shitbirds, but all are 86ed from all stores.

Wednesday is my new Monday. I never seem to know what day it is. I returned to work Wednesday, arguably the busiest day of the week. It’s freight day, a bunch of deliveries from beer and soda distributors. It’s the one day everyone is expected to break a sweat, to gitterdone.

I showed up fashionably early, (forty minutes, will write in half-hour) and counted in. I began recording lottery scratch-off numbers, realized no customers were around, so I wandered over to the two remaining boxes of freight. Boxes of candy and crackers. I can bang that out in no time. Uncle Cliffy was busy-beeing about as I headed back to finish my opening paperwork.

“Hey, where you going? We got freight here!” Uncle Cliffy was giving me a schoolmarmy look. “Take something with you and put it away!”

“I’ll get to it. The time is now 2:58…” I was scheduled to start at 3 PM.

“I remember somebody wanting to start early on a regular basis…”

I looked at Uncle Cliffy. “I’m in the middle of counting in. Would you like me to stock groceries now and finish starting my shift later?”

“I’m just sayin’, take some chips and put them up on your way back.” He handed me two packages of Pringles. “Teamwork.”

“Okay.” I walked over to the chip rack, tossed the chips up, went over to the time cards and wrote in my half-hour. If he’s gonna yell at me, I’m getting paid for it.

While Uncle Cliffy and the new guy went outside to smoke cigars and bask in Uncle Cliffy’s knowledge, I tossed up the last two boxes of freight.

The boys came back inside, reeking of cheap cigar and Cliffy’s smugness. Then he surprised me. “I apologize for being such a bitch earlier. I’m running behind and had to yell at somebody.”

I pinched myself. Did Uncle Cliffy just apologize for something? Good lord, there’s hope for the future!

But I’m not done being mad. I refuse to smile or be seen enjoying myself until he leaves. If he thinks being a humorless fuck makes for a good employee, well bask in this, you… you… basker!

It’s not like sleepwalking yet, but the routines are coming back. At least I’ll have something new to look at.

And a fresh crop of honeys to charm…

At first I was worried, and asked Master P if I was in trouble? He mentioned something that irritated him recently, “but that wasn’t it. I just need fresh eyes and faces, stirring the pot.” While stirring the pot, he tossed out a rotten rutabaga. I’m the big Irish potato going into the pot to fill that space. Once this became clear, I stopped worrying so much.

I’ve rather enjoyed the lack of drama the past couple years. The Waterfront store is closest to a true grocery store experience in the Master P chain. It could close at 6 PM and no one would care much. Once the office workers commute home and the sun goes down, the customer base is mostly cocktail waitresses and homeless kids filling up on jerky and gummy bugs with their food stamp cards between rounds of PBR at the nearby pub. There are a steady stream of familiar faces, but they are scarce after a certain hour.

Which gives yours truly a chance to stare stupidly into space and ponder the whys and what-ifs of life. During my time on the Waterfront, I watched the HBO series Deadwood, and couldn’t help comparing some of the locals to characters on the show. Sure it’s vague, sure it’s a stretch, but since they took the radio away I only have my mirthly musings to keep me sane.

I start making parallels to my life and the shows I get hooked on. I was fairly well-dressed during my Sopranos period. I was scared shitless during The Wire‘s run, working at the Nightclub Store during a rivalry between two nearby hip-hop clubs. Pop pop pop every Saturday night.

With the MAX rolling past and the historic feel of the district, it wasn’t hard to step back in time. So, hitch up your garters and come along for the ride. It’s NSFW, politically incorrect, and hopefully the Fine Dining Establishment (FDE’s) can’t read English yet…

Everyone wants to be Al Swearingen. Sorry kids, my blog, I get to be Al. Don’t like it? Create your own copycat universe.

If you’re not familiar with Deadwood, you should watch the series before reading this. There is your spoiler alert. I waited until my regular readers got caught up before writing this. It is a hell of a show, and I wish it had gone on forever, but it experienced an abrupt and unexpected end. Much like my tenure on the Waterfront. Let us compare the two worlds…

First off, everyone knows the mayor is useless. (Not Useless, a character you will meet soon.) Played by William Sanderson, of Newhart’s Larry, Darryl and Darrell fame, his propensity for using ten-dollar words on fifty-cent ears impressed only the newest in town, and not for very long. We had one of those. We called him “The Mayor”. The Mayor has since moved along, getting an apartment out in the new ‘hood. He comes by to panhandle the platform once in a while, and looks horrible. He seemed healthier and more robust when he was sleeping in the doorway.

There are Irish bars and hip-hop clubs and the local Road Warrior tavern, but none create as much good will and mellow vibe as the Cannabis Club. It has changed hands a bunch of times, and is now being run by a family of Asians. It’s our own little opium den.

Oh, it’s not all good will and camaraderie. FDE, the restaurant we share a bathroom with, has often been less than neighborly. FDE has complained numerous times that we trash the bathrooms. One day the bartender chided me for leaving a faucet running. “It flooded the whole basement.”

“I haven’t been in there since 3:30 PM. When did this happen?”

“Oh, that’s right, I saw you come out. Never mind.”

Two days later, he’d locked his keys in the basement. He came to me in a panic, fearing he’d be fired. When I let him into the basement, did he thank me? Offer me a tip for saving his job? No, he went on acting like a smug prick who is too good to be talking to the help next door. His Asian boss calls him “the retard”. Even though he’s not Asian, or the least Asian of the crew, we call him The Chinese Cocksucker.

Yes, the word cocksucker became prevalent in my daily thoughts and prayers. Folks praise the authenticity of the dialogue in Deadwood, I can attest with personal knowledge that it’s true. My dearly departed mother, born close to 100 years ago, often complained that with her first Gypsy husband “every other word was cocksucker.” Of course, hearing my Jehovah’s Witness mother use the word cocksucker lit me up like a Christmas tree. I could never not laugh when she’d share that part of her life. Of course, in honor of my older brother’s father, I used the word cocksucker every chance I got.

Dr T? This was an easy one for me, though he may not agree. Charlie Utter, Wild Bill Hickok’s friend to the end. There’s a bit of a personal resemblance, but I loved his loyalty and ability to stick to his own code. One of my favorite scenes is when Charlie Utter stomps the pretentious crap out of a Jack-the-Ripper type.

I said I was gonna be Al in this fantasy, but in reality I’m more like Dan Doherty. Not afraid to get dirty, but would rather let someone else make the tough decisions while I party and chase hookers.

Who would Master P be? George Hearst. ‘Nuff said.

Uncle Cliffy could be Powers Boothe’s character, Cy Tolliver. Cy reminded me of Snidely Whiplash, and I’m disappointed Cy didn’t get to tie a damsel (or a useless hooker) to the railroad tracks. But then, that hasn’t happened at the Waterfront Store either. Maybe I can get Uncle Cliffy to tie Bart to the MAX tracks…

Calamity Jane would have to be Crazy Cat Woman Carol. While no nearby school is asking Carol to come in and share her fascinating stories with the children, (“I’ve been spending a lot of time with Antonio Banderas lately. He’s the president of Venezuela, don’t you know?”) she does add color to the area. A tinge of blue, every time she addresses some “cocksucker!”

I mentioned Useless. Yeah, he gets to be the Little N-Word General. Always scamming us for coffee, he’s tolerable in small doses. It’s like feeding a grizzly bear; do it once and never see the end of him. His scams are small time, and I’d enjoy his company more if he’d just shut up and go away. It’s the forty minutes of pontificating after he buys his coffee that makes my head explode. I bear him no ill will.

Art East would be Sheriff Bullock. Always getting roped into doing shit he’d rather not, applying common sense when it is at its highest commodity, etc… Art is packing up soon and moving on. Guess we’re both heading West…

My womenfolk would be a combination of Tricksie and Joanie Stubbs. Rain is a good mix of the two, actually. She is high fashion, like Joanie, but can cut you to shreds with her wit and snap, like Tricksie. Meg would be more like Alma Garrett; staying in her room most of the time with her cat and various tonics.

I loved that Geri Jewl had a part in this. She plays “the gimp”, and is always backtalking Al. This part would be played by Petunia, our coupon queef-queen, and Lucy, our adorably well-intentioned cleaning lady who works four hours a week dusting shelves. Petunia has a way of needing to be put in her place every now and then. I recently did this, and now wonder if that’s why I am heading to greener pastures. Lucy, on the other hand, is easily offended and often wanders up at just the wrong moment. Through no fault of his own, Dr T has been branded a pervert by her finding my old stripper catalogs, condom wrappers and other documents of deviance.

While I didn’t become obsessed with cocktail waitresses like everyone thought I would, there *is* a special one. She’d come every night just before closing for Marlboro Lights. (Never once called them Marbs, god bless you young lady.) While I have a full plate and she could do way better than me, I could end up seriously conflicted if she showed me any more attention. I will miss her a lot.

There are several I will miss. The Wine Lady, who comes in so melancholy and leaves with a grin. A recent transaction with her left Rain smoldering with jealousy; something I’d not seen before. We talked about movies, drug habits and death with dignity. (“Can you say morphine?”) I’ve seen her during my rare day appearances. It won’t be hard to find a bench on a sunny day and happen upon her.

I have made friends with a couple dogs, including one that looked like my dog growing up, Major. After my dad “fixed” him, Major became gay as Paul Lynde, always trying to bugger the older dog. Tippy was nobody’s bitch. So long, little fella.

The upside is I’m only going eight blocks away. It’s another world, but those worlds frequently collide. Dr T will make his bank run about the time I start, I will get to say hello as he wanders past. I spent four years working the Nightclub Store, and tend to get a hero’s welcome each time I return. I hope that’s the case this time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get into character:

“That’s right, folks. Step right up! Big Al’s back on The Avenue, gonna slut up the joint… Get your porno, your inexpensive wine. Got something to roll that with, sonny? Need a light? Step right up…”

Okay, that’s not such a big deal. I asked Art East, my go-to guy for sensible internet advice, and he pointed me to Feedly. It makes me wonder if Google owns this, and just wants its reader in a fancier package. I guess if I were that curious, I could Google it, huh?

I’m actually more bummed about this recent news: Jack Bogdanski’s blog is going on indefinite hiatus. While Jack threatens to return, and I hope he does, what am I going to do for readership?

See, this here little blog gets little or no pimping. It’s a labor of love for me. I don’t want to answer to advertisers, and the only editor I have to get past is my own common sense. In other words, MINE MINE MINE!

But, reassurance is nice. Mister Jack has featured a couple of my posts on his site. Both times were the highest number of hits for a single day. The current record is 697; a rant about “Marb” cigarettes. The previous record holder was a stroll down memory lane, featuring the downtown Park Blocks, Ma Anand Sheela and and the early ’80s.

My total views on this blog, as of this morning? 95,221. Yup, after almost six years, I’m approaching 100,000 hits. Jack probably gets that in a good afternoon. (Some folks have mojito recipes, I have topless barbers and Jack to bring in traffic.) If not for Jack’s site, I might drift off into obscurity.

I wish you well, Jack. I know change happens, and I try not to be one of those fussy old guys that hates any break in routine. But, with the loss of Bojack.org and Google Reader, the new version of coffee and newspaper will need something different to focus on.

And Jack, thanks for your quiet help with certain things over the years. ‘Nuff said?

I don’t know if what you’re spending a year writing will be something I’ll eventually want to read, but if it’s more blog and less tax code? I am there.

You’re still providing a community service. Your blog reminded me to pay my f***ing Arts Head-Tax this morning. Maybe later I’ll tag your URL on a downtown alley and they can spend the $35 removing my “art”!

All the best, Sir!