THE DISCOVERY OF THE REAL BLAIR WITCH

In 1999, the horror film "The Blair Witch Project" was introduced to theatre audiences. A year later, "Book Of Shadows: Blair Witch 2" was viewed by devoted fans. Both of these endeavors, although entertaining were not based in fact.
I recently was in the Deep South and encounted the scariest and most evil of creatures. Crawl back into hiding, Big Foot. Waddle into the deep water, Lock Ness Monster. In my upcoming story, I will share with the reader my terrifying face-to-face meeting with the hideous and vile "REAL BLAIR WITCH". Slithering from the bar-room gutters of Milwaukee, the disgusting and horrifying monster of folk tales emerged from the dank and putrid swamps of Louisiana and was discovered in a sleepy, little town 46 miles to the north of New Orleans. Be prepared to tremble with fear, gasp in disgust, and believe that such abominations exist.

"SO CLOSE" A SHORT STORY

"SO CLOSE"

I stood outside the church with my mother, stepfather, and tiny son. We were visiting Illinois to attend the high school graduation of my younger brother. I knew my dad would be there and after years of estrangement didn't have any idea how I would react.

I turned and spied him coming in my direction. My heart was pounding within my chest. For a split second he glanced at me, then immediately redirected his gaze elsewhere.

"There's your grandpa." I choked on the words I was whispering to my two-year-old son. The child in my arms showed no interest in what I was saying to him. My father walked past us, feigning oblivion to his first-born grandson and only daughter.

My mother started to go after her ex-husband. She was infuriated. He had slighted Steven and me. I stopped her immediately in her tracks. "Don't Momma. If he doesn't want to have anything to do with us, you can't make him." She began to argue, but by the look on my face dropped the matter.

We went inside the church and to our designated places. In an effort to distract myself from the pain I was experiencing, I looked over the program. People were noisily filing in. Above their footsteps and whispers, I thought I heard a familiar voice hiss in aggravation. I glanced up to see my father and his mother settling into the pew in front of where I sat. He, obviously, was perturbed with the seating arrangement. I thought the lump in my throat would cut off all breath.

It was a catholic school and so, before the actual commencement started, the priest officiating asked all in attendance to kneel and pray.

I made the sign of the cross and called on God to help me. I begged the Heavens to please let my daddy realize how much I was hurting. I pleaded with the Almighty to let me be forgiven.

My father sat back down, but I remained on my knees. He was inches away from me. I could smell the Old Spice. It was a scent I knew so well since childhood. I inhaled deeply and for a second, memories flooded my mind. Years fades away to times when we were happy. I was his little girl again and we were truly happy. How I adored him. And how he adored his "pretty eyes".

I caught my grandmother trying to sneak a peek at the baby and me. My dad abruptly pulled her close, gave her a scathing look, and angrily cursed under his breath. Immediately, she transfixed her gaze forward. I guess, like her son, she too was lost to me.

The organ played softly and words were spoken from the altar's pulpit. But, I was unable to listen to anything above the white-hot din pulsating within my skull.

He was so near. He was so close. I reached out and lightly touched his coat.

"Turn around Daddy. Please turn around," I whispered. He stiffened. "Please, Daddy turn around and look at me," I begged. I felt him become all the more rigid. Over and over, I beseeched him to acknowledge me, but it fell on deaf ears.

My sobs were uncontrollable. With each passing moment, they grew louder and regressed to childlike affectation. I was hysterical, at this point, and pleaded with my father to look my way, to see me. I cried and repeatedly asked him to forgive me, to love me again. I frantically clutched at his coat. He continued to remain steadfastly cold and totally unresponsive.

My mother attempted to comfort me, but I could not be solaced. Others tried to quiet me, but I would not listen. I may never have another chance to make contact and I had to do whatever I possibly could to try and reach him. He just had to care for me again.

The incoherent blubbering of my anguish and despair disrupted the graduation exercises. I felt myself being led from the church. Once outside, the bright rays of the sun stung my red and swollen eyes. The darkness of my heart was mocked by the beautiful glow of the cloudless morning.

I was despondent. I was alone. The void consuming every fiber of my being was palpable. I knew nothing would ever fill this emptiness.

He never turned around. He never looked my way or heard my heartache. He never forgave me. He was gone, never to return.

Many years later, I happened to see my daddy walking down the street. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. Then, just as quickly, he crossed to the other side of the block, turned, and hurried away. I'd like to think he remembered something and had to retrace his steps. But, in the three decades that have passed, since that chance occasion, I know he's long since forgotten this little girl and there is no going back. And yet, I will forever cherish when we were so close.

Miracle of miracles, my beloved father and I were finally reunited after a thirty-three year separation. I only had his company for a couple years before he passed away in July of 2001, but in that brief, wondrous time we were as we once had been doting father and devoted daughter and the closeness we shared was not even severed in his earthly departure. His spirit envelopes me in a paternal embrace, he hears my most minute whisper and every so often he tugs at my heart and never lets me forget I am forgiven and eternally remain his treasured little "pretty eyes".

"REETNINGS" A SHORT STORY IN CELEBRATION OF MOTHER'S DAY

"REETNINGS"

Does the name Rita McKinnon Olson ring a bell? I didn't think so. She never made the papers, received a "significant award", or accomplished anything of what most would consider important. She wasn't rich; she wasn't famous. She never enjoyed a moment in the limelight. Why on earth would the name mean anything to you? It certainly didn't ring a chord with me. Individuals like Rita just live out their lives to the best of their ability, never seeking, let alone expecting, recognition from others.

A native of Boston, Massachusetts, Rita lost her father George when she was young to the hands of a murderer. Although, given good reason to be bitter and resentful by this event, she remained an open, optimistic, and outgoing youngster.

Her mother Mary Edna nurtured and raised an exceptional child. Despite hardships that befell her in childhood, she was able to overcome all of these tragedies with an undefeatable resilient spirit.

She excelled in school, was high school valedictorian, and entered college at the age of sixteen. Her ambition was to become a writer and she pursued and mastered studies to this end in university. But, abruptly and to the amazement of all who knew her, before her education was finished and a career in journalism could be realized, she married Al Olson, a man she had met in her mid teens.

Their first baby died, along with her creative dreams and hopes for a degree. But, the marriage survived and finally, after five childless years, a son was born to the couple. In the years that followed, Rita and Al became the parents of eight additional children.

The promise of a better life and opportunity for each child and the guarantee of the best of educational advantages caused the family to move from the East coast across the country to California. In California anyone, for a nominal fee, could be taught and attain knowledge at excellent colleges and jobs were plentiful.

Rita was a wonderful mother, caring, doting, and always available with unconditional love for each of her children. She, obviously, was born for this maternal role.

As the children grew being an ever present Mom was less called for. Rita volunteered her time teaching catechism, visited and fed the ill in her parish, and, to her delight, was afforded the opportunity to head a small writing workshop in her community.

This classy lady gave her all to every endeavor she embraced in her life. She was a loyal and faithful wife for over forty years of marriage, watched her children mature and go out into the world-a doctor, a lawyer, a principal, a pilot to name a few. Each and every one successful in the fields they pursued. She welcomed a new generation of grandchildren and bestowed on them freely the true essence of herself-love.

Despite a long and hard fight, Rita lost her battle with breast cancer in the summer of 1984. She was sixty-three. Rita was buried in a quiet ceremony, mourned by those whose lives she touched with her warmth and generosity. She never made the papers, received a "significant award", or accomplished anything of what most would consider important. But, Rita McKinnon Olson changed my life in a most unexpected way and blessed me with the cherished gift of my life partner, her daughter Mary.

Did you ever hear of Gloria Subat Owen Leahy Koons? I'd bet you haven't. She too didn't achieve notoriety or fame. Although, she could be flashy and gregarious, the life of a party, she could also lapse into morbidity and depression, secluding herself from the world. Either way, it was of no consequence to others, or was it?

Born in New Orleans, Louisiana, Gloria was the last child born to Delta Fucich and Andrew Subat. She had two sisters and three brothers. The beautiful little girl was pampered and protected by her parents and older siblings. She did exceedingly well in school and extra curricular activities.

Her education was cut short before attending college, when she met and married Kenneth Owen, a prominent contractor. To the couple a son was born. But, the marriage floundered from the very start due to drinking and infidelities on the part of her husband. The young bride and mother took her small son, left the union, and got a divorce.

Always sheltered throughout her life, she was ill equipped to make it on her own, let alone raise a child. She and Kenneth rekindled their relationship and remarried. But, his destructive behavior hadn't changed and in fact grew far worse. His alcoholism was undeniable and soon into the second marriage he was accused of raping a young woman. Gloria immediately separated from him and soon after her divorce was finalized, Kenneth died of an alcohol related illness.

Gloria enjoyed the single life, while relatives cared for her young child. Then, when she was around thirty, she met the handsome and suave Captain Jeremiah Joseph Leahy III. They fell head over heels in love, married, and soon welcomed a daughter into the world. A son followed two years later.

Gloria and the children wanted for nothing materially and she enjoyed once again living the upper middle class lifestyle she knew so well growing up. But, to maintain this level of comfort and wealth, Jerry was forced to ship out a great deal of the time.

To the outside world the big house on Memphis Street and the well-respected family within personified the American Dream. But looks can be deceiving as we all know.

When the Captain was called away to different ports, Gloria too traveled. But the trips she made were psychotic journeys from reality. Tragically, the younger children were forced to join her on these excursions, as the older boy was, for the most part, away at school.

Manically driven, she would take the youngsters to this bar and that bar, on business she said. From this man to that man, all uncles she claimed. She knew no bounds when it came to having fun and little did she care what affect it had on the girl and boy in tow. Whether she did more than flirt and tease the male acquaintances she made in the lounges she frequented will never really be known, but what is fact is that on more than one occasion a drunk rebuffed suitor of the evening found his satisfaction on the top of a terrified little girl, her daughter.

The house stank, the rooms were filthy and cluttered with trash, the kids were dirty, hungry, and scared. In a darkened bedroom, Gloria either sobbed uncontrollably or lay with a vacant stare for hours to days. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. She did not hear the whimpers and pleas. The sick and frightened children weren't noticed. Again and again she was off and again her children were made to accompany her.

Her marriage dissolved, all possessions were lost. Her addictive and self-destructive behavior plagued each child in one way or another. Gloria fumbled through her remaining days with questionable sanity. Why would she continue to put herself into position after position of detriment and heartache?

In the fall of 1999, Gloria died. She never was famous or gained notoriety. Those aims were abandoned a long time before. Of her three children, only her youngest son attended his mother's service. Some matters just can't be rectified, some transgressions never repaired. I know. I cry and think of my mother often.

I clicked on the computer, entered the recovery chat-room, and typed in a couple words. Thus began my relationship with Mary. From the moment we connected, we talked incessantly online and then, by phone. And despite each of us being from the opposite coast, there was little distance between our views and feelings on most every subject. It was love at first type.

Acquainting ourselves with one another, our backgrounds were discussed and, of course, our families were mentioned. Mary began to tell me about her mother. But to my amazement, she really didn't need to because somehow I felt Rita's presence and seemed to know what her daughter was going to tell me before she did. I had the strong sense that Rita had guided me to her child and was pleased I was now in her life and she in mine.

I didn't want to appear completely crazy to my new friend. I was reluctant to say anything. When I finally did venture to tell Mary about what was occurring in relation to her mother's spirit and me, she didn't seem at all surprised.

"Sounds like a Reetning to me," she said. "What's that?" I inquired. "Since my mother's death she visits some of us from time to time. It's usually to teach a lesson or to give support." "Far fucking out," was all I could say.

Sadly, regrettable circumstances soon manifested without warning. Mary and I became estranged and lost touch with one another. The confusion and longing we felt was palpable. It served no purpose to express our feelings out-loud because the relationship seemed hopeless and lost to us both. Yet, throughout this painful separation, one thing remained valid. Our love was steadfast and true and Rita was in the wings watching and waiting patiently for our reunion to take place.

As fate and her mother would have it, Mary and I remarkably beat the odds and finally in the autumn of 1999 we started a life together in New York City. On one of our first outings as a couple, we went to St. Ignatius' for a chamber music performance. Mary joked, "My mother would be so proud. Here we are on our first real date and we are in a catholic church."

While waiting for the ensemble to begin we glanced at the program. "Oh my God," Mary exclaimed, "Reception to follow in McKinnon Hall. That's my mom's maiden name." We casually dismissed the coincidence without further comment as we heard those on stage readying their instruments.

"It's going to be a lovely concert, Rita," we then overheard the woman in the pew in front of us whisper. "I'm sure it will be, Rita," her companion replied. Mary and I gave each other a startled side glance. "I wonder what mom wants to tell us, she's working overtime tonight," Mary quietly said and then, the music began. Of course, we talked at length about all that happened that night and what it might mean afterwards, but when nothing was revealed it was forgotten.

Busily we readied ourselves for the trip to North Carolina to meet Mary's second grandbaby. It was Thanksgiving Day. Despite a conscientious effort on my part to shake the feelings, I felt an overwhelming need to contact my mother. "She probably won't even know who I am. She's so out of it from what I hear," I told Mary. Gloria's life, for many years now, only existed within the confines of her small bleak bedroom and the even darker imprisoning cell of her severe mental illnesses. The power of agoraphobia, depression, and psychosis had enveloped her and from its tight grasp she would never be free.

She hadn't recognized me when I visited her last and deteriorating body and mind was too unsettling for me to witness again. She was a shell of the woman I once knew and I even questioned if her soul still existed or had long ago departed. I had stayed away since and made no other contact with her. It was useless. But I could not get her off of my mind that day and with Mary's urging, I finally agreed to phone her.

On the third ring an unfamiliar woman's voice answered. "Hi. I'm trying to reach Gloria. This is her daughter Cherie." "Hello there. How are you? Your mother and I were just talking about you not a minute ago," this stranger said. She then went on to tell me that they were laughing over some of my antics when I was younger. "Your mother can tell a story better than anyone I know; she's hysterical." "My mother," I questioned incredulously, "My mother is able to speak coherently? Do you mean to tell me that she is well enough to talk?" "Absolutely," the woman responded, "She does have her weak moments, but otherwise is still a fiesty old Southern belle." I was dumbfounded to say the least. "Please let me speak to her".

My mind rushed back in time. Decades upon decades fell away upon hearing my mother's strong hello. She sounded vibrant. She sounded alive. She sounded sane and in touch with reality. I sat down and listened hungrily to all she was saying. She missed me. She wished she could see me. And she was so very happy I was with Mary. "Wait. How do you know about Mary," I asked in disbelief. "Of course I know Mary. What do you mean? She is wonderful and I'm so glad you and she are together. I'd really love to have some pictures of you two though". I couldn't believe what I was hearing on the other end of the line.

She began to sob uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry for all I did to you, Cherie. Everything is true. Don't ever doubt what you remember. I did all of those terrible things to you. I let all of those horrible things happen. It's all true. Believe it!" She was imploring me, "Can you ever forgive me? Please, I beg you to forgive me for all I have done. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she repeated over and over. "Momma, it's ok. It's ok. I promise." "But do you forgive me? Can you forgive me? Will you forgive me?" "Yes, Momma. Yes, I forgive you." "I love you with all of my heart, Cherie. You're my little girl and I'm so proud of you and what you have accomplished in your life and all you have overcome. I love you and cherish you more than you'll ever know. I love you. Always remember, I love you." I sensed she was getting tired and so, reluctantly brought our conversation to a close. "Hey, Momma tell me something. Who is that woman that answered the phone?" "Oh that's my angel, Cherie." "You mean your nurse. Don't you?" "No, no," she protested, "She is my angel!" "Well, ok then, let me talk to your angel, Momma. I love you."

The woman took the receiver back from my mother and said hello. "I can't believe the change in my mom. It's miraculous," I began, "Thank you so much for all you have done for her." "It's been my honor and priviledge to spend time with her. I'm the one who is thankful," she corrected. "Well, I am grateful nevertheless. She says you are her angel and I believe now that you are. By the way, what's your name?" "It's Rita. My name is Rita". I hung up the phone and went to Mary and held her tight.

"Your mother is with mine. It's unbelievable but fantastically true. She loves me and I love her and not only that, I forgive her. I really and truly think I do." For the first time in all of my life I felt what I imagined peace and serenity must feel like. I closed my eyes and whispered "thanks" to Rita.

Two days later as we drove in the North Carolina darkness a shooting star streaked across the sky. I shuddered as I felt something pass quickly through my entire being. In Texas my mother closed her eyes and drew her last breath.

In my absence, my mother's nurse was at the burial services to lend steadfast support to my disabled son. She never left his side. But, when we later looked through pictures of the ceremony, there was only a light shining next to him. No one was there. And even more astounding, when the family contacted the Home Health Care agency to pay for Rita's private nursing services, we were informed that no such person existed.

One day a few weeks following my mother's passing, I found myself brokenhearted and crying. Mary attempted to comfort me, but I could not be solaced. Finally, I blubbered in a childlike voice, "I don't want my momma to go to Hell for all the bad things she did to me. I'm so afraid she is going to burn in Hell. I don't want that. I don't want her to suffer." "Cherie," Mary soothed, "Do you think for a moment my mother would come to take her there? She's safe with her in Heaven. She's alright and at peace, Cherie because of your forgiveness and love."

At that instant, there was a "Reetning". Two spirits were affirming my dear Mary's reassuring words. I then knew beyond a shadow of doubt I had received the cherished gift of forgiveness and the peace and serenity it afforded. And I have Rita McKinnon Olson to thank. A woman who never made the paper, received a "significant award", or accomplished anything of what most would consider important. A woman I never met, but who along with my mother is with me now and forever more. And whose love and wisdom I pray I will always embrace and heed.

THIS STORY IS DEDICATED FIRST AND FOREMOST TO THE OLSON, HANSEN, LEAHY, AND SMITH FAMILIES. IT IS ALSO MY GIFT TO MARLENE LORRAINE WHO AS A SMALL TODDLER LOST HER MOTHER EDITH AGNES LORRAINE AND OFRA WRIGHT WHO AS A CHILD TEN YEARS OF AGE LOST HER MOTHER BELLA GOTMAN. FURTHERMORE, I WISH TO GIVE THIS PIECE OF MYSELF TO SANDRA BLAIR, MY DEAR FRIEND AND SOULMATE, WHO HAS SUFFERED THE MOST HORRIFIC OF TRAGEDIES THAT COULD BEFALL A MOTHER, WHEN A YEAR AGO ON MAY 6TH FELT FROM HER MATERNAL EMBRACE HER ONLY SON GABE WAS TAKEN IN AN INSTANT. I HONOR EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU THIS MOTHER'S DAY 2009.

STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED

HEY GENTILES READ ON

THE EXPLANATION OF THE CHASSSIDIC CHASUNAH FOR SHTIK HOLLZ SHLEMIEL. MEANING YOU DUMMY!






First, a shidduch or matchmaking occurred when Ofra realized her entire life was consumed by Facebook.

There were no families to meet, but her Motek Cherie a.k.a. Shiksa Bitch the Steel Matzoh has the privilege of announcing the occasion with a virtual vort or reception. The contract called a tenaim has been signed under duress, including water boarding.

Because Ofra the Kallah is so addicted to FB the Chatan, the tradition of not seeing each other for a week is impossible due to puter withdrawals. Thus, no Kabbalat Panin, Folks.

There is a Ashkenazi tradition that both mothers stand together and break a plate. The Shiksa Bitch will rip up a paper plate instead.

To speed things up and because Ofi likes to snack, there will be no Aliyah on Shabbat and no no no fasting.

Next is the bodeken, the veiling of the Kallah (bride) by the Chatan (groom). In this case, Ofra will be veiled in a warm towel heated in a Kosher microwave and draped lovingly on her painful neck.

The ceremony lasts 20-30 minutes, but Ofra’s will be 2-3 minutes tops including the kiddushin and nisuin.

Over a glass of Manischewitz or other cheap wine, Ofra will circle her Dell and type a blessing to her monitor and then her modem.

FB will then place an application of a huge, gigantic, burn your eyes out gaudy, diamond ring on the screen and the text beneath will say “Be sanctified (mekudeshet) to me with this picture of a ring according to the law of Bill Gates and Hewlett-Packard.

After the kiddushin is complete the ketuvah is read aloud. This is boring and will be skipped.

The nisuin then proceeds. The bride and groom stand beneath the chuppah, today it’s an umbrella, and recite the sheva brachos (7 blessings) in the presence of a minyam (if a prayer quorum can’t be found, neighbors, people off the street, or if desperate anyone’s dog or cat will suffice).

Then the wine is swigged down unless someone in the building swiped it.

The groom, with his right foot, smashes a glass. This will be symbolized by the piece of crap computer crashing to represent the destruction of technology.

The couple retire briefly to a completely private room, the cheder yichud (in other words the bathroom).

Then, a festive meal of pasta followed by a repetition of the sheva brakos. Of course, this will be omitted so the party can begin. Exuberant music from a bad ass boombox will blast and dancing will start.

Please note, you won’t hear “Here Comes The Bride” at this ceremony since Wagner the composer was a low-life Anti-Semite. What a Jerk!

So, throw buckets of Jordan Almonds at Ofi and FB and scream with joy “Mazaltov Mazaltov” NOT “Malatov” as in Cocktail or everyone will run for their lives thinking there is a bomb.


THE END
Oye Gevald

COME ONE COME ALL TO A WEDDING

VER VOLT DOS GEGLAIBT?
ES TUT MIR A GROISSEH HANOEH!

TO INVITE
ALL
OF

ABRAHAM’S KIDS, SHEKETZ, SHKOTZIN
&
THE INTERNET COMMUNITY

TO THE
ERUSIM and NISUIN
OF

KALLAH MISS OFRA TRIGERMAN WRIGHT
AND
CHATAN MISTER FACEBOOK

VEN AND VU ?
*THIS WILL BE A CASUAL , NO FRILLS AFFAIR SINCE KALLAH OFI IS A BROKE, ORPHAN, IMMIGRANT. IN LIEU OF GIFTS PUT LOTS OF GELD* IN HER PUSHKEH PLEASE !

RSVP

OFI and FACEBOOK SOON TO WED!!!

FORMAL ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE UPCOMING NUPTUALS OF MISS OFRA TRIGERMAN WRIGHT TO MISTER FACEBOOK FORTHCOMING.

WHAT A DEAL!!!

My dear friend Carole Murray is celebrating 29 years in the metaphysical field by offering an absolutely fantastic deal on her readings. From Monday, April 13th - Sunday, April 19th Carole is offering a 29 minute phone reading session for only $29.00. There is a limit of 2 per person. So, treat yourself, your friends and loved ones. As soon as you place your order with Paypal, Carole will contact you and schedule the time of your appointment. Be amazed by this truly gifted woman.
To learn more about Carole and her gift visit her site- ServingSpirits.com Look under the Reading Section Anniversary Special. Thanks so much.

"THE MONOGRAM" A SHORT STORY

"THE MONOGRAM"

The skinny, long haired, hippie chick leaned against the wall beneath the flashing lights of the ShoBar. She could not have been older than sixteen or seventeen. Bourbon Street was exceptionally crowded that night, but she felt totally alone. Her friends were late and if she hadn't been so desperate for their company and the promise of getting high, she'd have tried to slip in and catch her favorite dancer's show.

Drunks staggered past her making rude comments as they went. A couple young guys even stopped, walked over to where she was, and offered to buy her a drink for a threesome. She rebuffed their crude proposition. After cursing her, they too stumbled off.

Just when she decided she had waited long enough, a mountain of a man approached her. He gave her the once over, walked by, only to return a moment later. His voice was deep and haunting when he, initially, spoke. Her hackles went up. She had the feeling, that it wouldn't be advisable to blow this guy off with a flip comment. His looming presence over her attested to that. She was cordial, but showed no real interest in what he was saying, until he offered to take her into the strip joint.

He guided her to a table on the front row. The owner, emcee, and many of the patrons seemed to know this man. And before drinks could be ordered, a bottle of champagne was sent over to them. "It's on the house," the waitress said. Needless to say, the girl was impressed and wondered who her companion might be. But, his identity was really of no importance to her. What mattered more was the free flowing liquor and the show was about to start.

Rita came out on stage and began her act. The girl never tired of watching the tall blond slowly undressing before her. She was mesmerized by her every move. She felt herself getting sexually excited. She loved this entertainer, she loved this woman.

The man across from her appeared enthralled by what he was seeing too. He stared at the performance intensely.

The girl's attention was reluctantly diverted from the stage. She could not believe her eyes. The man had unzipped his fly, pulled out his penis, and was stroking it. As Rita's gyrations intensified, so did his hand slide up and down his hardened shaft.

His face flushed, beads of sweat appeared on his brow, he moaned softly, and ejaculated upon the floor. Rita scooped up her costume and accouterments and disappeared behind the curtain.

"You stay here. I'll be right back," he commanded after righting his pants and composing himself. She sipped her drink and watched as he walked toward the restrooms and pay phone.

Upon exiting the men's room, he seemed upset. Or was it angry? He stopped and made a call. He slammed down the receiver, returned to where they were sitting and told her sternly, "Hurry up. We're leaving."

Once outside they walked to the corner. "Wait," he said. She thought he might have forgotten something in their quick departure from the bar.

Sirens were blaring in the distance, but were getting closer and louder by the second. The street was lit up with blinding flashing lights as police cruisers filled the block. More than a dozen officers stormed into the lounge the girl and the giant beside her had just left.

"What do you think is going on?" the girl questioned in alarm. "Shut up," he hissed. His concentration was fixated on what was transpiring and she knew not to utter another word.

Within minutes paddy wagons screeched to a halt in front of the establishment. Soon customers, dancers, staff, and the owner were led to the waiting vehicles in handcuffs. In all of the confusion, the girl failed to catch a glimpse of Rita.

She hoped that the woman, she cared so deeply for, had escaped what was obviously a raid. She hoped she was safe somewhere and not going to jail with the others. But, most of all, she wished she could have protected her in some way.

The crowd that had gathered dispersed and went about their business of getting loaded. The police were gone and the ShoBar's entrance was locked and chained. Strangely, the man at her side now appeared quite satisfied and smug. "Disgusting degenerates," she heard him snarl.

He turned back to the girl and smiled, "Come on, Baby. I really feel like having a good time. I've got some great shit back at my hotel. I'll bet you'd like to get stoned." Something didn't seem right, but the girl didn't feel free to turn down his offer.

They walked down Bourbon Street toward the place he was staying. She noticed more than a few street people showed an instant recognition of the man at her side. But, just as quickly they turned away never making eye contact. Again, she tried to dismiss the occurrence, just like she had at the bar. She was going to smoke some dope, maybe down a pill or two. Whoever this guy was, as long as he came through with what he promised, she dismissed her uneasiness.

He ushered her into the room. From the flask he produced, two drinks were poured. She looked about. Strangely, there was nothing to suggest he had ever been in this room, let alone was a guest staying there. No suitcase, no clothes hanging, no toiletries in the bathroom. For the first time since they met, when his presence made her uneasy and uncomfortable, she let herself think past instant gratification with booze and drugs. Something was wrong, terribly wrong and she knew she had to leave.

Naked on the bed, she lay beneath him. She had been too afraid to refuse his advances. He violently plunged into her over and over. Just went she thought she would die under his weight, he withdrew and holding his swollen penis, ejaculated upon her belly.

Too frightened to move an inch, she wondered what he had in store for her next. Slowly, he dipped his index finger into the sticky puddle of cum, and drew what appeared to be letters on the bare part of her stomach.

He wrote two initials with flair and flourish. He leaned back and seemed very pleased with himself. Then, he looked down on his prey and said in disgust, "Don't you ever forget who you have been with tonight, bitch. Now, get the fuck out of here. You make me sick."

The girl frantically got dressed and hurried to leave. As she turned the knob on the door and began to exit, he came up behind her and held it shut. "Don't you ever mention tonight to anyone. You understand?" he warned. She nodded. He glared at her. "You understand?" he said again more menacingly. "Yes, yes. I promise," she swore. With that, he roughly pushed her out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

She stood outside the hotel shaking uncontrollably. She knew she had to get away from there, but was immobilized with terror. Finally, she calmed herself down enough to venture towards Bourbon Street, where she hoped she could get lost in the anonymity of the crowds.

People she knew ignored her. Friends were aloof or downright hostile. She didn't know what she had done to cause them to act this way. She was called a "snitch", a "rat", a "fucking sell-out" when anyone would speak to her at all.

She sat by the fountain in Jackson Square. A couple hippies approached her. "We just want to know why you did it? Why did you turn on us? We thought we were family." "What do you mean?" she asked, "What did I do?" "You were with him. We saw you. You were with that prick and then, the Square was raided and a lot of people were busted. You turned on us. You betrayed us," they sneered. She tried to grasp what they were saying, the accusations they were making. It made no sense. "Who was I with? What prick? Please tell me," she begged. "Yeah. OK. Play dumb. But, you know you were with that mother fucker. You know you were with that son of a bitching creep."

She felt like someone had punched her in the stomach, the stomach he had painted his initials on in sperm.

No wonder he was recognized at the ShoBar. He had the place raided enough. No wonder people on the street knew who he was. He probably sent many of them to jail. Yes, it was in fact who her friends said it was who took her into the club, plied her with drinks, offered her drugs, and raped and defiled her. It was this same man, who gathered peace-loving individuals, who hurt no one, as they sat innocently in a park and saw fit to condemn them to jail on fabricated charges.

And although, decades have passed and the white slime is long washed away from that young girl's belly, today the woman remains indelibly marked by what happened that night at the hands of the sick, the evil, the chief prosecutor of New Orleans-J.G.

It has taken me over 40+ years to have the courage to tell this story and only because the perpetrator is dead. Monsters like him live on in the nightmares of his victims.

2 THUMBS & A BUTT PLUG UP FOR MILK!!!

I just finished viewing the dynamic story of Harvey Milk, who was assassinated in San Francisco in 1978. Watching the true account of this man's life and his contribution to the gay population and world in general took me back to the days I, personally, fought for the rights of my brothers and sisters in the Liberation Movement.
I suffered a broken jaw and loss of teeth among other injuries, when I was assaulted by three men following the march against Anita Bryant in New Orleans, while my peers on the West Coast and around this country were also being brutalized. I had been honored at the rally held in Jackson Square earlier that day by given the opportunity to speak briefly prior to an address being made by Leonard Malcovich, the first openly gay military officer.
So much has changed over the years and many take for granted the rights we enjoyed these days. But, I saw firsthand in the Deep South the raids, the arrests, the murders by police of individuals whose only so-called crime was being born lesbian and gay.
On this day, when Iowa has seen fit to uphold same-sex marriage, I wanted to take a moment to thank Harvey Milk and the other courageous pioneers who gave of themselves so we could be free to be.

"ANGELS IN HELL" A SHORT STORY

"ANGELS IN HELL"

"Can you believe, she thinks she is going to be interviewing us? Please!" I winked at Mary upon hanging up the receiver, "When will they ever learn?" "Yeah," my partner chuckled, "We are checking HER out, not the other way around." "Well, we have to meet her and the mutt in a little while, maybe even take him out for a quickie. It shouldn't take too long and hopefully, we'll click and get the business. Lord knows we could use another regular and the owner swears her baby is a cutie pie and sweet as sugar." Mary nodded in agreement.

Before the bell could even be rung, a viciously barking dog was scratching and clawing at the door. We jumped back simultaneously, hoping the wood separating us was sturdy enough to hold the now snarling beast behind it. "This may not be as easy as I thought," I whispered to Mary. She didn't argue. I think she was too scared to speak. "Look, the dog is probably just a little protective. The woman says he's a sweetie once he gets to know you." "Uh huh," Mary mumbled still frozen on the spot. "OK. Here goes," I said, pushing her forward with some effort. "Let's hope his bark IS worse than his bite." I, cautiously, rang the bell and grimaced.

It took what seemed like forever for the intercom to be answered. All the while our potential client was angrily growling from within. "Just a minute," we were told, "I'm coming. Let me put the baby on his leash." A loud commotion was going on inside the apartment now. Mary and I looked at each other apprehensively, not knowing what to expect. We opted to bolt, but by then we were stuck. The chain was sliding back. Locks were being turned. The door swung wide and a large, attractive, black woman greeted us. She had a cast up to her hip and was on crutches. Hopefully, "baby" didn't cause this injury.

"Come on in and make yourself at home," the woman welcomed, "I'll let you settle down and then, will get West. He is so excited and anxious to meet you." "Can't wait," I said in the cheeriest voice I could muster. I elbowed Mary. "Can't wait," she echoed, though not as enthusiastically.

Stacy hopped off to get what type of creature we couldn't help but imagine. We braced ourselves and hoped for the best or, at least, a swift and merciful death in his jaws.

Out bounded a massive animal heading in our direction. "Christ, it's a wolf," I gasped to my partner. By the sound of her rapid breathing and muffled scream, I had an inkling she shared in my appraisal. Moving closer to me, almost in my lap, as a matter of fact, she grabbed my hand and squeezed it so tightly the veins nearly popped. The dog stopped inches away from where we were sitting and glared at us. Thankfully, our sphincters held or it would have been an embarrassing first meeting.

"Isn't he adorable?" We heard his owner coo. "Absolutely precious," I reluctantly concurred. "Precious," Mary barely was able to mutter. She hadn't fainted after-all. Damn neither had I for that matter.

West ended up not being a wolf, but a huge, and I mean huge, German Shepard. "Thank God for small favors," I silently thought. He approached with hackles raised, gave our rigid bodies a thorough sniff, and although, he bared his teeth a couple times, left us both unscathed. Well, there was that little accident, but the bleeding stopped with pressure and I was sure Mary wouldn't be permanently scarred.

"I knew he would like you two. He is just a lamb." Stacy called from the kitchen, "Can I get you girls a drink?" Obviously, she wasn't suggesting liquor, but a little liquid anesthesia would have been handy in taking our stress level down a notch. Too bad we were sober and would remain clear thinking. "I've got the kettle on and could make us all some tea," our hostess offered. "Sounds good," I said politely, "But let me give you a hand."

I got up from the couch, prying my fingers from Mary's grip, and headed toward where Stacy teetered over the stove. West was at my heels. "Look at that. I think he is bonding with you already, Cherie." "Sure seems so," I agreed, hoping it wasn't his ploy to nip at my ankles. All this dogwalker needed was a severed Achilles tendon.

We all settled back on the sofa. Mary had a smile plastered on her face. To her credit, she, at least, was able to look cordial and at ease, and even managed to utter a word here and there. "Do I detect a Southern accent?" Stacy inquired. "Is it that noticeable?" I responded. "Sure is. You can beat it with a stick." "Well, I'm from Nawlins," I exaggerated my drawl. "And I'm from Southern California," Mary piped in. "I knew it, I knew it," Stacy grinned, "I've got folks from down yonder. Small world isn't it?" We nodded. "You know, the more I look at you, Cherie, I'll bet you're Creole. Am I right?" "You're on target again. I can't believe how perceptive you are," I fibbed. "Yes, I can see a tinge of black blood in you. Is it on your mother or father's side?" she asked. "My mother's," I lied through my teeth not missing a beat, "In fact, the family had a plantation. And, if I remember correctly, my great-great grandmother was a slave." Mary gave me an incredulous side-glance and pinch. I realized I had gone too far and it was time for me to shut up. But Stacy wanted all the details and for the next half hour or so, I went on and on with one fabrication after another. You'd have thought my ancestors and me were a chapter in "Roots" by the time I finished.

"I'll be back in a sec," Stacy excused herself, "I'm on diuretics and have to pee constantly." "Take your time. We'll get to know West better while you're gone," I offered. "Sounds good to me too," Mary chimed in.

We watched her hobble off and when she was sure Stacy was out of earshot, Mary started in on me. "Jesus Christ, Cherie I know we need money, but you just told that woman you were a Negro, Black, African American. Talk about pulling the race card. Are you crazy?" "Well, there's always a chance," I weakly began. "You're insane," Mary went on, "Not to mention this situation. Let's get the Hell out of here." "Aw, come on, Sweetpea it's not so bad. The lady's nice enough and West has calmed down and doesn't seem to be in attack mode anymore," I pointed out. "Right, it wasn't you he chomped," Mary said sarcastically. "Well, look he's trying to be friends now. He's sorry. Go on and give him a pet, Sweetie," I cajoled, quickly adding, "But remember, no sudden moves."

When our hostess finally returned, we figured we should start getting the show on the road. "Why don't Mary and I take West down for a spin around the corner?" I suggested. "That would be great and so thoughtful," she answered. We leashed up the brute and started out of the door. "I'll leave it open and when you get back we can talk money," she called to us. That sounded good.

Damn the dog had super canine strength. He almost yanked my arm out of its socket and I wondered if he was downing steroids with his Alpo. Mary fell behind, as he dragged me half-way down the block, only stopping momentarily to lunge at whatever unsuspecting pets came his way.

"Hey, give me a hand," I called back to Mary. "You seem to be doing alright by yourself, Dog Whore," she said upon catching up to us. "What do you mean? Dog Whore?" I asked a tad hurt. "Cherie, I can't believe you. Did you hear yourself? The bullshit you were shoveling was too fucking much." "Actually, I thought it was just enough," I quipped trying to be funny. But, she apparently was in no mood. She looked me in the eyes, then down at the giant fur ball, then eyeballed me again. "Do we really want to do this dog? Is it really worth the hassle?" Before I could answer, she continued, "I mean we've been up there for God only knows how long. We have yet to talk price. Instead, we are having tea and cookies with some lame woman, pun intended. She is obviously lonely and desperate to hear your tales of the old South. I'm surprised you didn't start humming a spiritual." "OK OK I did stretch the truth a little bit," I said defensively, "But I would be shocked if we didn't get this account." "Shocked!!! Who the fuck else would want to walk this spawn of Satan?" She then went on in a more subdued tone, "I know you've been doing this for quite some time. And I still have a lot to learn. But, I never imagined tripping through the cotton fields and risking being human tartare was part of the job description. Call me stupid." I decided not to follow the last suggestion. "Do I sense a bit of hostility, Mary?" "No, I'll leave that to West. He's far better at it then I could ever be. And I'd never want to offend you and have you report me to the NAACP."

"How'd it go? Was he good? He didn't tug did he?" "Just fine. He's a prince. There was no problem whatsoever," I answered, making a mental note to pick up some BenGay on my way home. I really think the prince dislocated my shoulder when he didn't tug. But better me than Mary. I dreaded more what she'd have in store for me once we left.

"Now, what is your rate per hour, girls?" "It starts at $10.00 for thirty minutes. And honestly I don't think the boy needs more than that," I informed her. Yes, it was cutting off my nose to spite my face financially, but I'd go broke buying linament if I had to do double time with the bruiser on a daily basis. And I had a sneaking suspicion Mary was going to be strolling only poodles and bichons from now on, leaving me to care for this monster on my own.

"That's more than fair. And since I'm laid up, it would be better for me to hire you for less time at the moment," Stacy concurred. "It's settled then. Just give us a ring and we'll be here with bells on," I smiled.

Things were finally drawing to a close. Mary was beginning to fidget beside me. I was so anxious to be leaving, I also began to squirm. Stacy sensed our uncomfortability but read it all wrong. "Oh my," she voiced concern, "You two are starting to sweat. It must have been hot as Hades outside. I'll get something cold for you to drink." "No! No!" We protested in unison, "Don't bother yourself. We'll be alright." Stacy leaned back, evidently relieved she didn't have to make another stab at precariously carrying a tray of beverages. But, could I leave well enough alone? Could I grab Mary and head for the nearest exit? Of course not!

"I'm sure I'll feel cooler if I just wear my tank top. This blouse is sweltering," I nonchalantly commented while slipping out of its sleeves. As the words were passing my lips, I knew I made a huge mistake. It went without saying, Mary was about to slap me silly for delaying us even a smidgen longer. And in addition, the air was thick with a terrible foreboding I just couldn't put a finger on.

Stacy cast her eyes to my left breast. "Is that a tattoo I see peeking," she inquired with interest. "Uh huh," I mumbled. And then, before I knew what came over me, I stood up, raised the tank top above my head and showed the woman my naked tits. I heard Mary gasp in horror. I heard Stacy gasp, but in God forbid, arousal. We were doomed. We'd never escape now. Even West was licking his chops.

"Cherie," Mary cried, "What are you doing?" I started to apologize profusely. Stacy interrupted, "You have nothing to be sorry for. That vine with roses is gorgeous," she observed a wee bit too closely. "Thanks so much. I'm glad you like it. I feel a little chilly now though." I grabbed my over shirt and threw it back on, glancing at my watch as I did. "Jesus, I can't believe how late it's gotten to be. We have another appointment with a Boston Terrier. It's been terrific and I'll wait to hear from you about when to begin walking West." I was babbling.

Mary and I jumped to our feet and started to move quickly across the room. A split second more and we would have made it. We would have been free.

"Not so fast," Stacy commanded in a booming tone, "I've got something I want you to see before you go." I hoped she didn't hear Mary and I groan. That never made for a good impression. We, reluctantly, turned around and lumbered back to the couch in defeat. "No. Follow me," Stacy said, leading us to what we didn't know.

We walked excruciatingly slowly behind the crippled woman. Yes, her leg was broken, but why should we suffer? I felt like the condemned, hesitatingly stumbling down the green mile. So far this interview had been a fate worse than death and it wasn't over yet.

She flicked on the light. Holy Mother of God! We were in her bedroom. Would this nightmare ever end. West menacingly blocked the doorway. We were stuck.

We stood there nervously trying to ready ourselves. But nothing could have prepared us for the sight we were about to see. Stacy, in a flash, was nude below the waist. "Look. Look my angels," she urged. Now she was calling us terms of endearment. Will it ever cease? I looked at Mary and she at me and then, we both bit the bullet and looked at Stacy. Across the mammoth canvas of her ass were two cherubs. That is, I think that's what they were supposed to be. The tat was nicely inked, but good Lord the cherubs were hideously distorted and deformed. They looked all bloated and stretched. It was a horrible sight, but like encountering a traffic accident, we couldn't turn away. Stacy chuckled and her jiggling cheeks made the winged creatures appear to be laughing mockingly at us. Mary later commented, "It makes me believe there are angels in Hell."

I don't know how long we stood there fixated on the celestialite. I don't even remember leaving the apartment. And, I certainly don't have any reason to explain why Mary didn't terminate our relationship once we were safe outside. But I do know, remember, and definitely have countless reasons why we never scooped that pooch's poop. I guess it all came down to one helluva interview.

DOGS IN THE CITY by HEATHER HALEY

Heather Haley, author of the upcoming book "Window Seat", has kindly sent us a poem. "Dogs In The City" is right on target and sure to make you smile. Give it a read under the comments of my story "Janis". I'm sure Heather would love feedback and can be contacted at http://www.heatherhaley.com/onelife. Let's give this new addition to our blog family warm support.

"JANIS" A SHORT STORY

"JANIS"

The New Orleans Pop Festival was this hippie's dream come true. I had all the dope I could possibly smoke. Uppers and downers were passed around like candy mints. And the music, the groovy non-stop music, blew my mind. I was in fucking nirvana.

"Fuck me, Baby and I'll get you backstage," a long-haired freak propositioned. "How do you plan on carrying that number off?" "With these," he replied, flashing two V.I.P. passes. It was worth the risk. I'd had sex for less that day.

"Well, whip it out, Brother. But, you better not be shitting me or I'll tie that dick of yours in a knot." "You want to do it here?" "Why the hell not? Everyone's too stoned to give a shit." He grabbed me up in his arms and I straddled his waist. With a couple of thrusts it was over. "OK, I met my side of the bargain. Get that thing of yours back in your jeans. It's payoff time."

"Here's some Purple Haze," he offered. "It's guaranteed to blow my mind, right?" I dropped the acid. Shit, I wouldn't even need a tab to be tripping, if he could get us past the Hells Angels guarding the stage's side entrance.

"Son Of A Bitch! You do have fucking pull after-all," I told the guy as we slid by security with a flash of his passes. "Come on, Babe. We've got people to meet. How'd you like to hand with the "Dead" while I take care of business?" "You mean the "Grateful Dead?" He nodded. "Far fucking out. Lead the way, Daddy."

I wondered if it would be cool to tell this guy I was really into chicks. I mean, I had screwed him after-all and didn't want to fuck things up now. But damn, there was too much pussy around me to resist. I'd say I was bi, and hopefully, he wouldn't freak out when I hit on a broad.

Not only was he laid back about my scene, but told me he got off on dicks every now and then. We could hang out and have a fucking orgy.

"Catch you in a few and then, we'll start cruising. I've got some deliveries to make." "Do your thing," I said, "The chicks around here don't seem to be going anywhere."

I met Patti Santos of "A Beautiful Day" and Grace Slick of "Jefferson Airplane". "You think I could score with them?" "Dunno," he shrugged, "I think they like it hard and long. But, I do know a singer, who'd let you scarf her up. Shit, she'd let anyone scarf her up, for that matter." "Where is she? I'm horny as a mother fucker."

He pointed to a scraggily haired, scanky looking female leaning against an amp. She was scratching her crotch with one hand and holding a bottle of Southern Comfort in the other. "Is that who I think it is?" "In the flesh," he answered, "And I'd bet you could drop to your knees and have at her in a flash. She, probably, wouldn't even know it was happening."

I looked back over at Janis, who was now hurling. I doubted any of my groupie friends had bragging rights on laying her. But, damn!!!

"Let me think about that one, Man," I said. "No hurry. She and "Big Brother" have a set to do next. Say the word and I'll do intros when they're through."

I watched her commanding presence on stage. She grinded and gyrated to the pounding beat. Her throaty voice screamed and reverberated through every fiber of my being. There was no one like Joplin. No one came close to her. She fucking rocked.

I flashed back to my earlier vision of the homely, bile spewing, drunk digging at her pubes. Her act was finishing up with the song "Down On Me". It had always been a favorite of mine and Janis' belting rendition that night was unfuckingbelievaable. The crowd was in a frenzy.

"Down On Me. Down On Me," I heard her screech the soulful lament into the mike. "Cant' go down on you," I sang to myself, "Baby, can't go down on you."

"She's heading our way, Sweetheart. You want to do her or not?" I glanced in the direction of Janis. "I'll pass. Shit, I couldn't eat her with your mouth." He laughed out loud, "Well, it was worth a try. Let's find something more appetizing for you to wrap your tongue around. It's not like there's no fresh meat here."

"Hey, what about Melanie? You think she's queer?" "You've got to check that out for yourself. But, I'd bet she doesn't have crabs or smells like puek." "Sounds delicious already. I'm starving," I told him as we wandered off passing Joplin on the way.

Just a few years later as I lay in bed in a dingy hotel with a hot broad from California our fuck session was interrupted by a call. The chick blanched and emitted a gasp before the uncontrollable sobs began. "My ex is dead. She's overdosed."

The world lost a treasure that day. She was a rare gem. I'll always regret that I didn't get it on with the diamond in the rough that was the infamous Janis Joplin.

HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY

I want to wish Kathryn Morris a very happy birthday today. It's a big one but, take it from me, one only gets better with age.

"STANFORD" A SHORT STORY

"STANFORD"

I spotted Sarah and Stanford as they ventured out of their building for an early morning walk. What an odd couple!

The dog was a medium sized honey colored mutt, who strutted with a bold bravado. His mistress, a high power oil lobbyist, stood four foot ten, if that, and had to have weighed maybe fifty pounds more than her pooch. She appeared to be no older than a girl in her late teens, despite being thirty-something. Impeccably dressed, at all times, she was very prim and proper.

I'd been introduced to her and the dog at a friend's party. Nothing came of the meeting, but we remained nodding acquaintances.

I watched from about a half block away. The twosome began making the rounds of the neighborhood, stopping here and there for the dog to sniff or piss. Suddenly, Stanford yanked Sarah towards a pile of trash on the curbside. I thought his owner would go flying by the force of the tug. He must have eyed some prize. Maybe, it was a half-eaten bagel or a piece of pizza crust with his name on it. Something, sure as Hell, got his attention. His head was buried in the plastic bag and no amount of pulling on Sarah's part could get him to move away.

"Drop. Drop." I heard her scream sternly. But, her commands fell on deaf ears. Stanford was preoccupied. He was after a treasure and nothing was going to stop him before it was his. God, I hoped he wasn't after a rat or even worse, bum poop.

Sarah blanched. She looked as if she would faint on the spot. "No, Stanford. No!" She yelled, then quickly glanced around to see if anyone was near. I stepped into a doorway and continued spying on them.

The dog proudly lifted his blond head. Success! In his mouth was the trophy. I thought I'd lose it on the spot. It was a foot long dildo.

Needless to say, Sarah was mortified. She tried to cajole him into discarding it. When that didn't work she scolded him harshly. But, he stubbornly refused to listen. As a last resort, she wrapped a poop bag around her hand and attempted to pry the rubber phallus from his jaws. It was a losing battle.

I could only imagine what thoughts were running through her mind. She, probably, was wondering what neighbors would think encountering her and her sex toy toting companion.

I decided to be a Good Samaritan and try to help. "Hey, remember me? What's up?" I said approaching her. She looked as if I had caught her with her hand in the cookie jar. "Oh God, you startled me. It's Cherie, isn't it?" I smiled and nodded. She turned in the direction of her dog and, not meeting my eyes, awkwardly said, "Look at what Stanford's found. It's so revolting. And no matter what I do, he won't give it up." I stifled a laugh. I think that would have put Sarah over the edge.

She glanced at her watch. "What am I going to do? I have to hurry and get to my office for a meeting. But there's no way on earth I'm going into my building and face the doorman, concierge, and elevator operator with Stanford and that thing, that awful thing in his mouth. What if I run into tenants or members of the board? What will they think?"

"Take a breath, Sarah and let me try and get him to give it to me." I bent over and extended my hand towards the dog. He growled menacingly. "Well, that won't work," I said rising. His owner shook her head in defeat and moaned.

"Listen, you don't know me well, but under the circumstances, I think you are going to have to trust me on this one." The woman was eager for any suggestions. "Go and finish getting ready for work. I'll be walking him in the meantime. I'll meet you on the corner and you can give me your keys and apartment number. He'll eventually get tired of holding it and then, I'll get him upstairs." "You'd do that?" "No sweat. My morning's free. I don't have any clients to take out until noonish."

She looked as if I had given her a million dollars as she handed me the leash. "Leave me your number, please. I'll call you when I get home." "No problemo. And I'll give your keys back to the concierge once I get him home safely," I promised.

Sarah rushed back to her place leaving Stanford in my care. "OK, Buster, it's you and me now and I don't embarrass easily. I could give a rat's ass who sees me walking you with your new chew toy. Everyone around here knows I'm a dyke. If they think it's one of mine, so what!"

He pranced at my side for blocks with the play penis clenched between his teeth. We got more than a few double takes as we strolled down Broadway. People were either appalled or amused at the sight of us. It didn't matter. I had an idea.

We walked into Gray's Papaya and I ordered the "two for one" special. "Hold the sauerkraut and relish, please," I requested. The counterman glanced down at Stanford, then up at me. "You want that for here or to go?" He asked nonchalantly. "Make it to go." He rang up and handed me my purchase. As I turned to leave, he called out, "Hey Lady, I don't mean to be nosy, but can I ask you something?" "Why not?" "Well, I was looking at your dog and was wondering." "Yes," I droned. "Is he a Lab mix?" "Yup, he's definitely a retriever," I quipped and left.

Once outside I pulled Stanford over to the curb. "OK, I've had it, Mister. It's time to negotiate." I unwrapped my bribe. "Here, I'll give you a real tasty weenie for the nasty limp one you have." He eyeballed my tempting offer, cocked his head, and thought for a moment. I waved the hot dog past his nose. That's all it took. He couldn't resist. The dildo fell from his lips and bounced into the gutter. I yanked him out of its reach and bent down to give him my part of the bargain.

As my charge was nibbling on the hot dog, I heard, a few feet from me, a startled cry. I turned to see a poodle with Stanford's dildo in his mouth. The confused owner was beside herself with humiliation. I thought about coming to her assistance and offering her the extra weenie I had, but the ordeal with Stanford had worked up my appetite and so, I ate it instead.

After dropping Stanford off, I headed back to my apartment for a well-earned cup of coffee. People think the pet care business is an easy job, but it's dog-eat-dog. And to beat out the competition, you have to go to any length, in this case, twelve inches.

I talked to Sarah later that evening. She couldn't thank me enough. Needless to say, I had a new client. And had I not been so damn hungry, I might have been able to pencil in a certain poodle on the schedule too.

FUNNY WIENER DOG COURTESY OF www.ClipArtOf.com

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

I want to express my greatest wish to all of you for a Happy, Healthy, and Wealthy 2009. Like so many, I was surely glad to bid good riddance to 2008 and all the sorrow and pain, frustration and negativity that filled it's 365 days. Let's hope a better tomorrow begins today for us and those we hold dear. I love you.

EMPTY STOCKINGS A SHORT STORY

Missy and Dorabella bounded by me oblivious of the glittering ornaments on the lower branches of the tree. Miraculously, the fragile multicolored orbs were saved, but a few needles fell at my feet.
Jim, good-naturedly, scolded the pups for their antics and then, resumed tinkering with his camera. The two culprits ran over to where Sam sat and in addition to being granted protection. They were given loving scratches behind their ears.
In the corner of the room Maggie and Lisa whispered secrets. Such a contrast they were. Although both small, and slight in build, one was the color of dark chocolate and the other of pure vanilla. They looked so fragile, like precious china dolls.
Jerry scribbled at the desk and Kevin watched silently deep in thought. What was he thinking, I wondered?
It would have been nice had any of them been there to help me decorate the tree, but I was just grateful for their company, as I went about putting the last touches on the towering spruce.
I had almost blown off celebrating the holidays. So many sad things had happened in the last year. But, as I looked around and felt the ever-present warmth and love of those in my midst, I knew I had made the right decision to get family and friends together for a very special Christmas gathering.
The last of the stockings was hung on the mantel in its rightful place. Carols played in the background, filling the room with angelic voices. The tree glowed so brightly, I thought it would come ablaze at any moment. A hush fell as Jim, Maggie, Lisa, Sam, Jerry, and Kevin came toward me and the inviting lights. Even the romping dogs stopped cavorting and came over to where I was. Nothing need be said or gesture given. A wondrous feeling of contentment and peace enveloped and soothingly caressed me.
The doorbell rang jostling my senses. "They're here," I murmured aloud and left to open the door.
Suzanne, with Dolly the Beagle, and the rest of her menagerie were the first to arrive and headed right for the chair Sam had just vacated. Mame arrived with her new Cairn. I was amazed at how much this four-legged baby looked like Minnie. It took no time for her to find some of Missy and Dorabella's toys. My dear friends Stephanie and Celeste huddled in the corner deep in conversation. A dog walker without a dog when we live by the dog and die by the dog. This was a rare occurrence, but it was great to have the Pooch Nanny here. My beautiful nieces Jessica and Vanessa came from Houston and after saying quick hellos hurried to the desk and tackled some or other pressing business. How like their father these girls were. Angie showed up surprising us with a young woman and three children I didn't know. They also were from New Orleans and were having a rough time of it as of late. They were graciously welcomed into our group and instantly made to feel at ease. Mary came through the door with a steaming platter of eggplant parmigiana, Jim's favorite. Marlene, Carole, Aris and so many other friends and relations filled the house, I thought surely it would burst at the seams. Even Martha was in attendance, thankfully sans a moose though. Laughter and tears, stories and jokes were endlessly shared. Hugs and kisses were generously given.
There were a half dozen empty seats at the dinner table and two empty spots on the floor as we all gathered for the feast and to celebrate our first Christmas without our dear loved ones and pets. But, not one of the stockings was empty. Each was brimming with wonderful memories and caring thoughts and the love and spirit of a season that will live on for all time.


This story is dedicated to the memory of those I and the world lost in 2008:

Lisa Hansen Free Spirit and Friend
Caroline "Maggie" Smith Dog Walker and Friend
Sam Boyle Associated Press Bureau Chief and Professor of
Journalism at Columbia University and Friend
Jim Fleming Good Neighbor, Renaissance Man, and Friend
Kevin France Owner of Kehoe-France Private School, Teacher,
And Cousin
Jeremiah "Jerry" Leahy IV International Entrepreneur, Humanitarian, and
My Baby Brother


Dorabella Beloved Golden Retriever of Jim Fleming
Missy Beloved Cairn Terrier of Mame Rosenberg

MISSING Y'ALL

I've been lax in posting here and apologize for my laziness. Soon I'll once again be entertaining you with my ramblings. Thanks for your patience.
Please don't forget to give "MY STORY" a read. It's in 3 installments. So scroll down to where Part 1 starts and buckle up for a bumpy ride. Part 2 still requires a seat belt, be forewarned. Part 3 is not smooth sailing per se, but finally we coast to where old Cherie is today in her journey.

MY SOBER AND DRUG FREE LIFE-WHAT IT'S LIKE NOW-Part III.

In this the last installment of my story I will address how my life has dramatically changed in the past 30 years. Angie and I, first and foremost, made a promise to each other to be honest and open in our relationship. We continued to attend meetings jointly and individually at least three times a day, as was my practice for the prior years in the 12 Step groups. Our social life was mainly centered around sober and drug free events and get-togethers, although we also visited both of our families on occasions.
A legal battle manifested in regards to Beverly's assault on me and I learned first hand in dealing with this fiasco how vital it is to always place "Principles Before Personalities" and why "Anonymity" is so crucial in most individuals recovery. I guess it came down to human nature and curiosity that made fellow members start snooping into the case and our private business. Needless to say, sides were taken. I had decided to stay mum on the subject with my peers and did just that. I also made it a point to go to different meetings than Beverly since I was acquainted with all sorts of groups around town and she only felt comfortable in a select few (gay). Choosing this, rather than possibly invoking a confrontation where it had no place whatsoever, would cost me dearly. In my absence at those regularly attended meetings it was assumed I was running away out of pure cowardice or worse-guilty as accused. Stories began to circulate around the rooms and the French Quarter community. Half truths bloomed quickly into full blown lies. I was shunned if I happened to see someone I knew or attacked verbally. On more than one occasion I was even threatened with physical violence by those in Beverly's camp. I'd go to a new group only to come out to find my tires slashed and vile notes taped to the windshield of my car. Phone calls were endless warning me not to attend this or that group or there would be retaliation. I'd arrive to speak at a meeting and with the snap of fingers the entire room would clear. It was mean, ugly, and almost cost me my sobriety. But, I knew that A.A. and N.A. was not a select group of people but the fellowship as a whole and I would not stop until I found a place I could safely go, share not vent, and be welcome. Before it was all over lawyers stepped in and those harassing me the most were told that it cost no more to add their names to a law suit. I ended up winning the counter-suit against Beverly, but lost many so-called friends in the process and never ever felt comfortable within the rooms where I initially got sober. I was totally vindicated and Beverly's ludicrous and blatantly false accusations against me were retracted. But it is very doubtful that to this day any of the individuals who saw fit to go after me have read the truth because I've yet to receive apologies.
In addition to A.A. and N.A., Angie and I were very involved in the groups of Al-Anon, ACOA, and CODA. Our dysfunctional families were both chronically sick and it was not too good a bet they would get treatment to become healthier so, the responsibility for getting better fell to us. Angie began the excruciating process of dealing with incest and child abuse issues and in helping her to recognize what had happened within the confines of her home as a young girl, I began to discover the extent of the horrors in my own life. To say we felt shell-shocked would be an understatement. Even when the most blatant actions of those who perpetrated their sexual, physical, and verbal assaults on us came into our memory's eye it was hard to grasp and digest on any real feeling basis what we were recollecting. The horrific movie of our childhoods was playing in front of us on a big screen, we just couldn't see the images clearly or read the sub-titles to truly get it's message and what it meant in regards to how we lived our lives and faced the world. We decided to take a big step, a step that so many in the Programs tried to discourage us from doing. We decided to go into therapy. "Yea, Yea," I know, "'Keep It Simple Stupid' and 'Don't Analyze Utilize,'" but at this stage, it was imperative we come to some type of deep understanding of what was at the bottom of our diseases and the resulting symptoms. "Truth Will Set You Free" is also another saying and at this point it was a better one for us to use as a mantra than the ones harped at meetings. We did not seek to find excuses for our drinking and drugging. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. We wanted the underlying reasons for our descent into the escapism and self-abuse of addiction to be exposed and dealt with in a rational and healthy manner other than just putting a cork in a bottle and cap on a pill vial.
We went to individual, couple, and group therapies for days on end. Week after week, month after month, year after year we painstakingly looked at ourselves, learned from our observations, and began to truly develop. Whereas we had gotten psychiatric help in the past, this time with the clearness of a sober and chemically clean mind, we were better able to look at things and go through the pain safely and with the knowledgeable guidance of the specialists we saw. Our emotions were raw nerves and we, for the most part, received support and unconditional love from our true friends within the rooms of all of the Programs. Yet, there were those who I would assume felt threatened in some way and as a result attacked us for the path we were undertaking. We were treated as if we were second class citizens because we couldn't do it, or in our case in their opinion, chose not to do it solely with the 12 Steps. We were even asked, "Who do you think you are to be doing this? What do you hope to accomplish other then setting yourself up to go back out?" But, we knew in our guts we were doing what was in our best interest in the pursuit of growth and maturity. And grow we did slowly but surely. It was horribly painful and frightening to say the least for both Angie and I. But, we did have each other and our Higher Power always saw fit that only one of us would be regressed and in crisis at a time so the other could be there to assist and be supportive. During this time of personal work, I often hoped to escape through sleep only to dream of the assaults and attacks. And when awake felt as if my eyes were pried open and the images were flashed non-stop before my fixed gaze with no chance to blink or turn away from the brutality. We were seeing Angie's family off and on during these years, but whenever any problem arose (younger brother's attempted suicide, older brother's commitment, our lesbian relationship) I would find myself placed in the position of scapegoat for all of the ills of this terribly damaged household. Her mother, who ran rough-shot over everyone in close proximity was a rage-aholic and borderline personality. I can't count how many times, I felt the brunt of her wrath and lunatic ravings. But the Programs, we devotedly attended each day, gave us strength and helped us to fortify our little girls within. They began to emerge with a new courage and confidence. We started to trust and honor ourselves like never before and, contrary to some of the teachings of A.A. and N.A., we began to place responsibility in it's rightful position and not squarely on ourselves when it was not for us to take on.
When I began to really delve into the Satanic and Ritualistic abuse it knocked me to my knees. I was forced to see those mental illnesses that protected me from total annihilation of body and spirit. I had to recognize and come to grips with the bouts of depression, free-floating anxiety, and even more upsetting my multiple personalities. As soon as I began to let myself get past my own self-beratement and abhorrence of the deficiencies that actually served to keep me alive, I began to integrate and bring all personas of Cherie together under the watchful eye of the Gatekeeper. I even began to understand how before alcohol and drugs became a lethal poison to my system they were, in many ways, my medicine. Fixing myself was exhausting and time-consuming. I never knew what state I would be in from one moment to the next, but had to trust the process and those in charge of my care. Whereas I had always worked in the past, I lived now on Unemployment Benefits and cared for the house, while Angie provided the monetary difference for our upkeep working as a waitress. During this time of my rebirth and emerging life as the real Cherie, I became agoraphobic for two years. I would only venture out of the house to therapy or meetings and only in the company of Angie. I was too fragile, disoriented, and distracted to go out alone. Angie provided me this wondrous opportunity to just be and her gift of making no demands on me was the nurturing I needed as much as a breath of air.
I appeared on various local shows addressing the subjects of Incest and Child Abuse and belonged to numerous groups that aided those in the midst of the horrors. Angie and I started the first A.A./N.A. meeting at St. Gabriel's Women's Penitentiary and served on various committees in the respective programs. We put all our time and efforts in being the best women we could be, continued in the discovering of ourselves, and gave back whenever and where ever we could in gratitude. Over the years our relationship grew and matured and we were looked to for guidance and as role models, of all things. But, family troubles still plagued us. In particular, Angie's mother, the sociopath, continued to be relentless with her vicious attacks on us as a couple and the two of us individually. I adored Angie. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. We had been through so much together and came out of the tunnel beaten but still alive. Nevertheless, I had not bargained for her family and their chronic blows upon our fledgling well-beings. It was our only source of arguments and discontent and that, I'm sure was part of what those people intended.
I remember, and will to my dying day, being asked by our therapist one afternoon how did we go on and on when we were tortured and defiled on an almost constant basis. I replied and Angie concurred, "There is a little flicker of light inside. We kept it lit." Our insightful counselor smiled and said, "That is your souls." Angie and I left the visit and clutching hands in the quiet of the car as we drove away we cried and repeated over and over, "They didn't kill our souls. They didn't kill our souls."
But now, the phone calls were starting again and I knew this scenario all too well. Angie's mother was raring up for another assault on our psyches. I knew I couldn't go through it again. I knew I wouldn't survive another of this vicious woman's insane bouts of rage. I reached out to a friend. My reach was indeed a far one. I contacted a sweet woman I had met in the last year of my drinking. A woman who had been kind to me, a New Yorker. She too was in the midst of her own hell at the moment we touched base. She was dealing with her own addictions and like me was grasping for help. We began corresponding and talking on the phone. Feelings began to stir in me and I immediately sexualized them as I always did. Whenever times got rough with "The Family" I could escape and be with my Manhattan lady and escape into a wonderful and safe place. My feelings deepened.
I met Marlene in a Greenwich Village bar in the late 70's. I recall looking over at her and saying, "I want to go home with the most beautiful girl in here. I want to go home with you." We did indeed go home and we had fun more than once. But, what always stood out in my mind was she never took advantage of me in my debilitated state. She never used or abused the drunk. In fact, she showed a deeper concern for my well-being than most.
Angie and I still loved each other, but things had changed in our relationship of 10 years. Due to therapy, in many ways, we were two little girls growing up together and growing up in a healthy way. Sex was no longer a part of the equation. It didn't fit with what we were doing to be whole and complete. I pulled away first. I shut that door on our union. And although it did prove to be for the best in the long run, at the moment it cause great pain and befuddlement.
I knew I had to close the door on New Orleans. I knew I had to put everything behind me if I was to survive. I was so frightened and wanted Angie to take me away, but deep down I knew that was an impossible request. She had her own path to follow. I had to venture into this unknown land alone. People in the Programs couldn't believe what I was doing or wanting to do. I couldn't be ending a long-term solid and strong
relationship to begin another one with a woman I hardly knew in of all places New York City. It was insanity. But, despite my terror, I had to proceed with my plans. I had warned Marlene of my intensity and reactions and was assured she could handle my outbursts and regressions. Of course, I doubted that, but I had to risk. Leaving Angie and my life in New Orleans was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life. And I had to do it. It was do or die.
I flew into JFK on Halloween night 1990. I had been a visitor often to Manhattan, but this was different, I was now relocating there. Marlene met me at the airport and we started our life together with hope and promise as big as the skyscrapers that towered over me.
I was overwhelmed and my senses were on overload. Noises were deafeningly loud, sights were blindingly clear, emotions were disabling intense. Marlene and I, of course, enjoyed every free minute together, but even a split second on my own was too much for me to physically and mentally contend with. My adult maintained as best she could, but little Cherie was in a constant state of panic and hyper-vigilance. Marlene's generous love and concern was no match for the terrors overwhelming me and my ever increasing self-doubts. I called Angie almost daily, but her long-distance intervention could not give me any solace or comfort. I functioned for the most part and was able to pull things off when I had to in the public eye. But, I felt myself deteriorating and knew, sooner than later, I would be in a life compromising state on my own. It's not that I didn't attend meetings because I did. It's not that I didn't reach out to others in the Programs and practice the Steps in my daily life. And it's certainly not that I didn't have a wonderful and devoted partner in Marlene. She would have done anything, I know, to make it all right in the world for me, but my fears were realized. By no fault of her own, she was ill-equipped to handle me in my regressed state. And a self-destructive little girl in a woman's body pounding herself with clenched fists was not the easiest scenario to witness. Our relationship, of course, was negatively affected by this and we became testy and aloof with one another. Sensing the eminent loss of my new lover and the union, I had such high expectations for, added more tension and sadness to my already overburdened psyche. I lapsed into a deep, deep depression and with each passing day I was becoming irretrievably lost to the here and now.
Marlene devoured the contents of "Courage To Heal". She read "Secret Survivors" over and over and even contacted the author begging E. Sue Blume to see me for an evaluation. She really really tried, but I guess it all came down to me as did every step I ever took in getting better.
There was a notice in the New York Times about a depression study being conducted at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. I had been in touch with my therapists in New Orleans during this period, had my records from their years of treating me, and although frightened to leave the apartment (agoraphobia was beginning to manifest again)I made and kept an appointment with the psychiatrists at the Depression Evaluation Services Department.
One after one, the doctors met with me and I was thoroughly evaluated by each. I was physically checked from head to toe and extensive blood work was done. I felt safe there almost instantly probably because I knew this was the last resort I had to hope to recapture some smidgen of life back into my dismal existence. But then all of my teetering optimism was dashed in an instant when the physician I trusted the most approached me with a pill and told me this was the treatment I was to begin with them. "But, I don't take any medication," I vehemently argued over and over. "This will help you," I was assured by the entire staff at this point. "No, no I have to do it without medicine. It's up to me to change. We can talk through what's bothering me." "Cherie, no one has been more diligent in going after your problems in therapy than you. You have been in A.A. and N.A. for well over 13 years and we believe your alcoholism and drug abuse is in check as long as you continue to attend meetings and follow the teachings of your Programs. But, Cherie, there is a malfunction in your brain and it's not your fault. Perhaps, it's the result of heredity, trauma, the countless years of being abused. Regardless, this medication will not cure your disease, but will help to make the symptoms less and less." I continued to protest. The head of the department took my hand and told me, "Cherie, you are morbidly depressed. This is a blind study, but your case is so severe that we have decided to take you out of the group that could be given a placebo because your health, your life is very high risk. Would you take insulin if you had diabetes and was going into shock?" I nodded yes. "Cherie, this pill is just as vital to you staying alive as the person with a bad pancreas needs insulin. We will monitor you daily with tests and blood work. Please, please let us help you." With great trepidation I swallowed it down and thus, began my communion with the anti-depressant Prozac.
It definitely didn't kick in as all hoped and before I started to notice a minuscule amount of change in myself I was bombarded with every side-effect that could be had. "It will get better. You are safe and we won't let anything happen to you," I was told by all the doctors treating me, "Just be patient a little while longer and let it build up in your system." I listened. I waited.
I begged Marlene for a puppy. "Please I need the company and it will help me get out each day. I will have to get past my hangups and walk the little thing." Easter was coming up and my partner finally relented and off we went to get me my special gift. I fell in love with Gumbo Ya Ya the moment I saw her. She had the biggest feet and was a clumsy bundle of quivering nerves. But, she was also gorgeous, loving, and had knowing eyes that drew you deep within.
Dr. Deliyanides laughed, "Well, we'll never know what kicked in first the Pup or the Prozac. The change in you is miraculous. More than we could have ever hoped for." She was right. I was different, totally different and I could tell you the exact moment in time and space I was when I felt true happiness and contentment for the first time in my life. I was finally whole and complete. And dare I say, well.
I began venturing out more and more in the neighborhood, then farther and farther about the city. I met lovely people while I was out and about with my little charge in tow. Gumbo was a real charmer and we spent countless hours with each other and my new friends. One individual and I became quite close-a dog walker. One afternoon he was in a jam and asked me for a favor. "I am swamped and overbooked. You are already out with Gum, could you please walk Zoey? She's in your building. I'm sure you know her and it would really help me big time." I agreed and as fate (and hard work) would have it, one dog led to two then three then slowly but surely "Goin' To The Dogs Of New York" my dog-walking and pet care business became a reality on the Upper Westside of Manhattan.
A new, successful, and independent life openned up to me - "The Lady With The Dogs." A.A. and N.A. and the other Programs mainly contributed to this wondrous rebirth. If I had not gotten clean and sober and lived according to the teachings of the "Big Book" and heeded the messages of my fellows in the rooms I would have never been able to utilize all the other options before me to their fullest. As I mentioned before, therapy was an essential tool in my continuing growth in recovery, my personal recovery. Understanding and comprehending the complexities of what makes up Cherie only fostered a stronger impetus for me to continue to strive to live free from all mind altering chemicals including alcohol and to search for inner truth.
I realize that some in the Program will look down on me for having given in and taking prescribed anti-depressants for my severe and chronic depression and anxiety. In fact, some people have told me I should change my date because I'm not truly abstinent. But, you see it is these same imbeciles who more than once rushed to tell me one of our recovering friends had overdosed or slit their wrist or blew their brains out. "At Least They Died Sober And Clean," they would exhuberantly shout with pride. "But, They Are Dead," I countered just as loudly, "They Are Dead." I believe where there is life there is hope and dead is final-kaput. I also believe there are priorities in dealing with some addictive personalities. I reiterate the word "some". So, in some circumstances I have a tier system of sorts. Give me a crack addict jonesing for a hit and I will go and grab them a shot of whiskey to keep them from the pipe. Straddle me across an alcoholic tasting that next drink and suffering in the throes of delirium tremens and I'll give them a toke on a joint. I am not talking game playing "slippers and sliders" but extreme cases. Not everyone stops cold turkey as I did. Not everyone can do it all in one day. But, I'll be damned if I will let them commit suicide so, I can say they died clean and sober and make me feel secure that my way is the only way because it isn't. If someone suffering finds Jesus and stops-great. If someone talks to a therapist once a week and stops-terrific. If someone stands on their head in the middle of Times Square but doesn't pick up-who the fuck am I to argue I know better. If I had not listened to my well-informed and addiction knowledgeable physicians and denied myself the medication I so direly needed to survive I too would be dead. And I would rather be around another day than be eulogized "At Least She Died Clean And Sober." Do not and I cannot stress it loudly enough. Do not let anyone in any Program browbeat you into not taking legitimate medication for a legitimate illness by putting your recovery's quality into question. We, who in addition to our alcoholism and addiction suffer from other illnesses that require prescription medications, do stay sober and clean and recover. Yes, it does require diligence and extra effort and the trusted support of well-informed Program members and physicians, but it can and must be done if mandated.
Working tirelessly and being on call 24/7 kept my mind and body busy. I frequented established meetings on my routes with the pooches or would have mini ones (where two or more are gathered) in Riverside Park with others in recovery while our four-legged clients played in the dog run. Marlene and I had parted. And although it was a painful breakup, the love and trust that brought us together as a couple in the first place eventually won out and we were able to see past misunderstandings and conflicts and, in time, built a strong and solid friendhip that only gets better with each passing year.
True to form, I continued to enjoy sharing my love and lust with beautiful ladies. Manhattan offered some of the most gorgeous I'd ever encountered. I had met a very nice woman, who was in our dog-owner circle, and after separating from Marlene began a brief affair with this person. She and I both knew "in love" was definitely not what was going on in regards to us, but we did enjoy going out to posh restaurants and taking in Broadway shows together. Our intimate relationship dwindled to a flicker in a very short time, but we continued to be friends and Ilys used my apartment as the launch pad for her now lucrative dog grooming salon and training academy.
I was now doing very well financially and gave back whenever I could to the community and especially, those disinfrancised and homeless. Because I was out on the streets morning to night each day, I met many down on their luck whether it be a result of addictions or other circumstances. If nothing more I always made it a point to remember each and every one of their names and some of their personal history. They were all once somebody's baby and were not invisible to me. They deserved respect and my strict attention. "But For The Grace Of God," always echoed in my mind when I was in the company of the "Tunnel and Park" people. Never and, I mean never, did I preach or harp on the men and women who were life's throwaways because they lived in the bottle or at the end of a crack pipe. They knew my story. They knew my recovery. They knew if help was ever wanted I'd be there for them in a New York minute. No matter how filthy, disoriented, or violent, I took my bums into my heart and on some occasions my home. I have buried many, but have also watched miraculous transformations in a few, who are now clean and sober and back in the working force. I might add these success stories could be found at my side many days helping their struggling brethren and giving back once in recovery.
Soon after Ilys and I broke up I took on a new client, an actress with a very old and decrepit dog. She was a beautiful blond, originally from Texas, and although a bit snobbish and demanding got my juices flowing. We would have tea together and talk and I grew to like her more and more, overlooking her faults. She was very lonely and I used that to my advantage by filling her time with me and shows, me and dinners, me and me. She was "straight", but with a little help from me and a little more help from her favorite white wine was in my bed and I guess moved over to the "bi-sexual" label. Almost overnight we were a couple, but a couple of what I don't know and, honestly, still can't tell you.
My business was doing terrific. There was a waiting list for my services and I could now pick and choose my hours. Because I am not one to be greedy, I helped others go into the field and gave them some of my contacts to get started. I was making hand over fist monetarily anyway. I had my apartment/office on the Upper Westside of Manhattan and also lived in a fantastic house on a hill in Upstate New York on five acres of land complete with an indoor swimming pool. I was recognized whereever I went and was even tagged, "The Unofficial Mayor of the Upper Westside." But, something was missing and that was in addition to the passion-less union I remained in with Lisa.
Fortified with courage from the Programs and friends in the rooms, I began to entertain the wildest of fantasies. I began to daydream about the impossible. I started to contemplate getting in touch and reuniting with my family. But, fate intervened before I took a step toward my objective. My little brother was in trouble and because of all of my hard work over the years both in repairing the past and making the present a healthy and prosperous one, I was able to go in and offer help to Jerry and his family. I flew to Louisiana and visited my estranged brother at the Federal Penitentary, in which he was incarcerated. I generously contributed to making a wonderful Christmas for my neices and sister-in-law. By no means monumental gestures, but solely due to recovery I was able to do these things. Around this time, I also made contact with my older brother and decided to invite he and his wife to the Big Apple for a vacation, my treat. I pulled no stops and wined and dined the couple at the best my City had to offer. We sat front row center at all the top Broadway shows and enjoyed gourmet fare at 21 and other 5 star restaurants. Again, I marvelled at the many benefits I now had at my clean and sober disposal.
I rushed to my mother's side upon learning of her stroke. Laden with gifts, I lavished the frail unresponsive woman with Dior penoir sets, French perfumes, and bouquets upon bouquets of flowers. I involved myself with her treatment plan and saw to it she was finally put on medication that would treat her mental illnesses. She started to make progress, real progress. But, it was short-lived when her husband, a practicing alcoholic and horribly co-dependent spouse decided he would no longer permit her to take the medicine that was holding her psychoses in check. I begged and pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears. I offered to pay for all costs of the drugs, but still was met with total resistance. I had done my best to help my mother, but now I had to bow out of the sick situation that was only going to get worse, which it did. The last time I visited my mother, she was confined to a small room in her home and a even smaller delusional place in her mind. She didn't know who I was.
True to "our" tradition there was no kiss or toast at midnight. I rarely got a "goodnight" anymore when my partner went to bed. Why would today be any different? The ball dropped and the masses in Times Square welcomed in 1998. I sat alone and silently hoped this year would be a better one for me and mine, as I always did.
Try as I might, for the life of me, I cannot recall the early morning phone call on that first day in January. Nor can I remember getting to the airport. The flight is very sketchy too. My memories only start to unfold once I have arrived at Charity Hospital's Critical Care Unit in New Orleans where my son lay near death.
Angie's brother Joseph, now a resident doctor, and his wife Ingrid, nursing supervisor in Neurology, were both on duty and in the Emergency Room when Steven was rushed in. They, immediately, called Ang (his other mother)to his side and she contacted me and told me to catch the next plane there.
Upon seeing my child, now a man of almost 30, my mind instantly raced back to the image of the tiny ten year old laying in a similiar bed, in a similiar unit, connected to similiar tubes, wires, and machines, and similiarly comatose. Deja vu. Deja vu of hideous proportions.
They were on River Road coming from a Buddhist Temple or some other religious gathering, where there had been a holiday celebration for the new year. Hal and Gloria, a fortyish couple and Steven's best friends were in the front and he sat in the back passenger seat. The fog was heavier than usual on the road which curved treacherously alongside the Misssissippi. Only a couple more miles and Steven would be dropped off at his grandmother's where he was staying to help in her care. Gloria was chanting. Hal and Steven were laughing and gently teasing the woman. In an fraction of a second headlights were bearing down on them. Then, the high-velocity impact. The drunk driving the other car and all travelling with him (3 others)were killed instantly. Before his injuries, a broken neck and brain trauma rendered him unconscious, Steven watched both his dearest friends be decapitated and thrown from the demolished wreckage.
I was enraged. One driver, under the influence, had destroyed the life of a little boy and now another would finish the job on the man. There was no making sense of the injustice when it happened once, but now twice.
Although, we repeatedly told him they were gone, Steven couldn't grasp what we were saying about Hal and Gloria. "They told me I wasn't finished and had to go back for a little while," he argued, "But, I'm done and I have to join them. I'll catch up to where they have gone to." When Steven finally realized gone equalled dead, I watched him shut down before my eyes. I stood helplessly by and witnessed him retreat into the smoky veil of delusions. I watched my fighter go down for the count and give up.
One evening I grabbed a piece of paper and pen and began to compose a very important letter to a very important person. I struggled to begin, but then the words poured from within like a stream. Three decades of thoughts and feelings, both good and bad, enveloped me. I, first, made it clear that I expected nothing in return. I was doing well, clean and sober for almost 20 years, and was very happy and satisfied with life. I went on to apologize for any wrongdoings committed and hurts inflicted. Although my intention was to make amends, I did not use the excuse of my addictions to rationalize my behavior one iota. I took full responsibility for my actions. Then, I dared to tread into a very scary and vulnerable place. I went deep within my heart and soul and shared with my Daddy the love I had always felt for him, how much I missed his presence in my life, and how I would never stop caring for him as my Father. Of course, I imagined my note would be received warmly and there would be a beautiful reunion and thirty years of estrangement would be inconsequential once I was again within his warm embrace. But, I knew the odds were against me and had in fact, tried once before when I was still using to make contact to no avail. I posted the letter and then, as best I could, I let go and turned it over to my H.P.
In the weeks that followed, I would occasionally think about "the letter". But the longer time elapsed the less I held on to any semblance of hope I would receive a reply.
I could have spotted the script from a mile away. Within my shaking hands I held an envelope with the return address Jerry Leahy III, Houston, Texas. I wanted to rip it open and gobble up it's contents, but I was frightened, afraid that now I would have written proof I was still unwanted, unloved, disowned. As if all the years of separation wasn't enough evidence. I poured a cup of coffee, lit a Marlboro, earnestly said the "Serenity Prayer" and sat down to read my Dad's response.
It started off cordial and light. He spoke of being pleasantly surprised to be in receipt of my correspondence. I smiled at his flowery way of expression, so like his daughter. He chose each word carefully and never hesitated to go into elaborate detail in order to make a point. He was happy that I was doing well and even more pleased to learn of my decades in the Program. He had a new family. His wife was a year my senior and from Saigon. She had four children he adopted. "You have a half-sister and three half-brothers, Cherie." My heart leapt being included in the fold. He continued touching on this and that before broaching the subject of "our future". He had one request and one only, "That we don't discuss the past, but start from this day forward to build a relationship." A few more sentences were jotted and then it drew to an end. I was so ecstatic that there was the promise of a tomorrow with my Daddy I cried tears of joy. I struggled to read the closing and finally, was able to decipher the words through blurry eyes. He signed, "Love Always, Your Father." I cried all the more.
We volleyed letters and notes back and forth for months and then, a face-to-face was proposed. I was a nervous wreck, but my apprehensions were squelched by the excitement and anticipation of being in my Daddy's company again. I was not disappointed, in fact, it was better than I could have ever imagined. The little man with snow white hair and beard flashed his smile at me as I got off the plane and all was right with the world. I rushed to his arms and never wanted our first hug to ever end. When he called me his "Little Sweetheart. His Pretty Eyes," I thought my heart would burst I was so happy. The Programs promise us many many things, but nowhere in the "Big Book" of any of the groups do they offer the precious gift of reconcilliation and mutual forgiveness I received that afternoon in that Texas airport. My joy knew no bounds.
The new family was terrific and welcomed me with open arms. My step-mother was a beautiful Vietnamese woman a year older than me. Gentle, demure, and exuding unmistakeable wisdom and patience, I too noted very quickly she could hold her own with the Captain. My brothers Jimmy, Johnny, and Joey were very outgoing and warmed up to me immediately. Jennie, my sister was a bit distant at first, but soon we were laughing and joking and sharing secrets. The visit was heaven sent, but of course way too short. Before I would even consider boarding the plane to leave, our next get-together was being scheduled.
Surrounded by such an abundance of love and acceptance, respect and positivity it was not easy for me to return to my lackluster relationship of 5 years. But, I did and continued to try to make it work. Although, there was no argument it was a hopeless situation good for neither of us. Gregarious and social being that I was I filled my days in the City with people as much as possible knowing I faced a void of human contact once I went to my home in the country on weekends. It was becoming an unbearable task hiding my identity and mere existence to protect my partner from the vicious and vile scrutiny of her parents and friends. I was miserable.
The internet and online Recovery Rooms drew me like a moth to a flame. In the privacy of my own home at any hour of the day or night, I could log on and instantly touch base with recovering alcoholics and addicts all over the globe. Because of my many years in the Programs, I was always needed on this or that site to share my experience, strength, and hope or do a 12th Step Intervention. The meetings and chats were sometimes far more intense than those in real life because of the true anonymity aspect of the participants. We were all just usernames and IP addys. Over the years, however I have had the pleasure to put faces and bodies to many of those I met in cyberspace.
"I just knew I had to meet the infamous Gumbo. You are the star around here," Laplander gushed, "I'm Mary and maybe we can talk sometime." I faintly recollect this first encounter, but our second communication made a lasting impression. "I don't have an earthly idea how I did it. I'm in agony. I'm blind." I didn't stop to read the writer's name but continued to scroll through the message. "The pain is excruciating, like salt in a wound. I don't know what to do." I clicked on the private button, donned my nurse's cap, and contacted the patient who continued to moan and groan via her keyboard. "Hi, it's Gumbo-Cherie. I was an ER nurse. Maybe I can help," I offered. "You're a woman. I had no idea," was the reply. "Yup last time I looked. What's going on? What's the injury?" "Promise not to laugh." I typed nada. She went on without waiting. "Some kind of way while I was typing I dropped something and when I reached to pick it up I cut my eye with a potato chip." I was glad I made no promises because I bursted out laughing. "Gumbo, you are rolling on the floor aren't you? You think I'm kidding," Laplander typed back post-haste. "Damnit, I'm serious," she continued, "I'm dying here and blind." "Duh, now I remember. You're Mary." I began putting 2 + 2 together, "Too bad we aren't closer friends I'd let you use my navel for the dip." "Please, Cherie don't make me laugh it hurts too much. I really did cut my eye with a potato chip." I knew this person was one for the books and instantly decided to talk to her more. The chip had to be off the old block of other crazy stories I imagined. I wasn't wrong and thus, began our friendship.
Just like in real life when personalities come before principles trouble invaded the pixel world of the Programs online. Many people were hurt, some went back out, one committed suicide. I tried unsuccessfully to stop the perpertrators from continuing to sabotage the groups, even going in person to the headquarters of A.A. in New York City and MSN, the chat server, to plead my case. For my trouble, I found myself in the midst of the escalating commotion and accused of complicity (hackers were tapping into my account unbeknowst to me). My hard drive was confiscated by the authorities and I was banned from Microsoft Network. It was so preposterous what was occuring I would have found it hilarious if it weren't for the fact I was being attacked right and left by members of the demised groups for bringing about the fall of 12 Step Chat as we knew it. As per usual, I was vindicated and all charges were dropped against me. But, the damage was done and my trust was broken. Even the Almighty Bill Gates couldn't get me to rejoin the network.
My days with Lisa were drawing to an end. Mary and I had deepened our friendship with calls that lasted for hours upon hours. There was something intense growing between us, but I was still in a committed relationship and she was dealing with a family crisis.
"I will talk to Alan and size up the situation and if he asks me to help him I will," I assured Mary, "Don't worry about a thing. He will be alright." I made plane reservation to fly into San Francisco, told Lisa I was going to visit friends in A.A., and left with one objective in mind to ease some of Mary and her brother's pain. If anything else happened that would be langiappe.
I had no idea to what extent Mary was involved with the worst of the worst of the victimizers I had just recently fought so hard to bring down. Still manipulative and demanding, this individual threatened to hurt herself if Mary dared to see me. I met Mary at the airport and to say I felt betrayed would be an understatement. The proverbial rug had been pulled out from under me and I was confused, angry, and inconsolably broken hearted. Our first meeting was certainly not what I planned. I sent Mary off and sat alone on my suitcase in the airport lobby.
Dazed I wandered into an oasis. No matter where in the world you go, an airport bar is an airport bar. I ordered a brandy and lit a cigarette. I had travelled 3,000 miles to an unfamiliar place, where I knew barely anyone, to do the unspeakable. What in God's name was I thinking? And what in God's name had I ordered? I called the bartender over, said there was a mistake, sent back the drink, reordered a soda and change in quarters for a ten.
No one I tried to reach was home or they were screening and didn't like early a.m. calls. It hardly mattered, I was running low on change and people to contact. All flights back to New York were solidly booked for the weekend, but I could go on standby and hope, I was told. I lifted the receiver and dialed the number. I really didn't recognize the voice on the other end of the line, but was grateful to hear her ask, "Where are you?" And even more thankful when she immediately said, "I'll be there in an hour. Don't move."
Kristen was true to her word and within the promised time she was there, loaded my bags into her car, and off we went to parts unknown. One would think I'd feel especially safe with her since she had been a victim also of Jo. In fact, Jo had seen to it that Kristen lost her children to an abusive husband by dropping a nickel and letting him know where his wife and little girls were in hiding after Kristen fled cross-country to be with her in a lesbian relationship. Well, it goes without saying, we did talk endlessly about the psychotic woman Joann, but now had to also discuss how Mary fit into the equation. In Mary's defense, Jo was a genius at manipulation and a pathological liar who could dupe and take advantage of even the most savvy of people. Overwhelmed and vulnerable in dealing with her brother's approaching death, Mary was easy prey to this cruel abuser.
We drove around the Bay area for hours on end. There was a convention in town and no vacancies were to be had at even the seediest of motels. I was exhausted, drained, and becoming totally disoriented. I needed to rest. Jet lag and the time differential was catching up to me. It was bad enough being "Kicked To The Curb". But in an unknown city, with limited funds, and even less mental and physical energy left I was starting to go into a full anxiety attack.
Ten hours later, after much wheeling and dealing, and a couple hundred tacked on my credit card and a close to equal amount in cash greasing the palms of a desk clerk, I had a room for a night near Cannery Row. How appropriate!
I took a shower and prayed in my absence Kristen didn't leave me on my own. I was indeed frightened. But, there she was, sleeping in a chair, with her coat draped across her. Saving the New Yorker had worn her out too.
"Come and lay down. Get some sleep," I called to her patting a spot next to me where I was sprawled. Groggily she rose from her seat and collapsed inches away.
What started as snuggling escalated quickly and within minutes we were pawing and clawing at each other frantically. Pure raw sex seemed to be a perfect distraction from what we were facing outside the dimly lit motel room. And, at least, on my end it had been so very long since someone wanted to touch me and have me touch them in return. Years too many years.
Kristen finally put a place with the face of the desk clerk she had met when we checked in. She realized she had seen the individual at an A.A. meeting in the next town over. I guess there is an alliance with alcoholics and so, we were able to keep our room for the remainder of the weekend. Another hefty tip was required though. A dollar in the hat passed around at the meetings wasn't being carried over to here.
What little I saw of the West Coast during this visit could be seen from the little window in our room and when we ventured out to grab a bite to eat. My new friend stayed with me up until I boarded the plane to return to sanity. Well, at least, any craziness in New York was familiar to me. We promised to keep in touch and I offered her a place to stay if ever she came East.
Over the cyber grapevine rumors began to spread about Kristen and my encounter in California. But, more disturbing was the fact there was also continuous mention that she was having quite a hard time of it and was planning to leave the West Coast for the East Coast. I knew there was a sister somewhere in Brooklyn and so, didn't give it much more of a thought until my phone began to ring off the hook.
Mutual friends and just plain old busybodies felt the need to update me on Kristen's every move. Joann, and allegedly Mary, continued to cause disturbances both online and in the real lives of Kristen and me. Removed from the fray, I only had second hand information to go on, until the frantic call came from Kristen herself.
Through her blubbering tears and plaintive wails I finally began to piece together what was going on. Jo had called Kris' sister, told her who knows what, and bottom line-there was no place for her to stay once she arrived, which was in two days. And to complicate matters, all of her worldly belongings were already enroute. I have never been one to make flippant offers or extend frivalous invitations and so, immediately reminded Kristen that she could stay at my Manhattan apartment until she got on her feet. She had been so very kind and helpful to me when I was a stranger in a strange land, now it was my opportunity to return the gesture. I would handle what was sure to be Lisa's negative over-reactions, when they occurred and I had no doubt they would be forthcoming.
Almost a dozen overstuffed boxes and Kristen awaited me at Port Authority Bus Station. She looked haggarded and depleted. Once back at my place with everything unloaded, I drew her a bath, fixed her a light meal, and then put her to bed. I felt a strange uneasiness. Perhaps, I had bitten off more than I could chew. I shook off the apprehension and wariness. "One Day At A Time" we'd tackle any situation.
Lisa came into the City and we went to the theatre and dinner together. Kristen was the sole topic of conversation. "She's in a crisis. She has no where to go. As soon as she gets a job and a pay check she'll be gone," I repeatedly told my partner. "Will you ever stop being the fucking bleeding heart? You and your bums, A.A. losers, and now some who-knows-what chick!" "Please, she'll hear you," I whispered, reminding Lisa that Kristen was just on the other side of the wall sleeping. "I don't know what you are up to, Cherie. But, she better be gone and quick. Let your drunks in the Program help her. That is, unless you have ulterior motives for the skank."
I went about doing my job each day and weeks passed. Kristen dressed and went out looking for work, but no one in all of Manhattan was hiring. "You can help me with the dogs," I offered, "Actually, you'll make more money than at anything else out there you'll find." I recall her looking at me incredulously, "That's your thing. Sorry, but stooping to pick up shit ain't for me. I'm a professional." "That shit pays the bills and puts money in your pockets," I reminded her, "I wouldn't be too quick to put it down." "Whatever."
I hadn't been to the country house for a few weekends. Lisa was still seething about "the roommate." Why in God's name I decided to get everyone together to iron out things, I'll never know, but that is what I did.
Lisa greeted us warmly when we pulled up. She even went so far as to give me a hug. Then, for the most part, I was odd woman out. They baked cookies together, worked in the vegetable garden together, and now were upstairs rooting through Lisa's wardrobe together. "I've given Kristen some dresses and things for her to wear when she's out job hunting," I was told. This was someone I never had made acquaintance with. Lisa was strangely happy, gregarious, and unselfish. "This just might work out," I dared to imagine.
I needn't have to tell you that things didn't go as I would have hoped. Almost immediately upon my arrival back in the City with Kristen the calls began to come. Lisa would have been bad enough, but she had enlisted the help of not only my trusted friends, but some relatives. Whatever she told all of these individuals I will never know, but she must have been quite convincing. One after another went at me full throttle. "You are being used, Stupid. She's taking you for all you're worth, you Asshole. How can you be so gullible and naive? I hope she's a good lay and you are having fun destroying a beautiful relationship. Poor poor Lisa to have to put up with all of this." Like a broken record I would answer when I could get a word in edgewise, "She was helpful to me and is now in a crisis. I feel obligated to return the favor. I won't turn on her and kick her out when she is down. I just won't." Even people online were getting involved. I was inundated with emails all harping the same messages as those I got vocalized ad nauseum.
Kristen was still not working and would go off for hours on end while I was out with the dogs. We hardly ever slept together and sex was non-existent. But, I had decided to be there for her and continued with that objective. I terminated my relationship with Lisa as gently as I could. I asked for nothing monetarily and took a substantial loss financially in doing so. I knew that Lisa didn't love me, but did have separation anxiety problems and to make things easier for her and in the interest also of the animals, I let her keep my beloved dogs Gumbo and Gaytor. This was very difficult for me to do, but it was the right thing for all involved.
People, who never understood my being with Lisa in the first place and urged me to leave her more times than I care to remember over the years, now vehemently attacked me for being so heartless and cruel. My friend and therapist refused to see me anymore because of my "insensitive and immature" behavior. My Father called weeping because he was told I had returned to drinking and drugging. I even had an ex-lover, who I hadn't seen in over twenty-five years, call me to discuss the aspects of my sex life with Lisa versus Kristen. It was insane to say the least.
I started to have trouble focusing on things. I was in a daze and disoriented many times. At first, I just started taking more vitamins thinking I was coming down with a bug, the flu. But, I felt as if I was getting progressively worse.
My ATM card, which I never used went missing. I bought Kristen's story I had misplaced it even though I saw it in her hand with my own two eyes. Things didn't make sense anymore. I felt trapped and had no one to turn to because they had all deserted me for the pitiful Lisa.
"I have to have surgery on my hand and wrist. It can't be put off any longer. I'm begging you, please just do the dogs a day or two. I'll have the doctor put me in a plaster cast and shoot me up with a local and will get back out on the streets as fast as I can. Please, Kristen I really could use some support." "Oh alright," she begrudgingly agreed, "But, no more than a couple days and just the mutts you can't get covered by anyone else."
I waited and waited in the hospital to be released. Eventually, some five hours later, Kristen finally showed up with no explanation and took me home. She never offered an apology or reason for not arriving to get me following the operation, but instead told me, "Listen, you have to make arrangements for the dogs because I have to go to California." "When? Why?" "Something's come up with the kids and I have to leave like yesterday." I lay in my bed, still groggy from the surgery's anesthesia and watched her pack what appeared to be a lot more than for a quick visit to the West Coast.
I had, from the beginning, given Kristen access to my credit card, so she could pick up things needed for herself and the household. I also gave her permission to buy the children gifts. "Here, you'll need some cash while you are there," I told her handing over $1,000. She stopped and counted the money and then, without skipping a beat threw more items into the duffel bag.
"You're not coming back, are you," I asked before dropping her off in front of the airport. "Of course I am. Don't get all maudelin on me," she replied but was less than convincing. I slipped another $500 into her hand. "Treat the babies to some fun while you are there." She quickly tallied the amount, gave me a hug and air kiss. Then went on to quip, "You are just too good to me," and was gone.
I didn't hear anything from Kristen for a few days and when her call finally did come it was odd to say the least. She wouldn't tell me where she was or give me any way to reach her. But, stranger still was her last question to me before abruptly hanging up. "Cherie, did you get the bank statement yet?"
My checking and money market accounts were totally wiped out. I tried to do the right thing, to help another alcoholic and this is how I was repaid. I was bankrupt socially and now financially. Kristen was absolutely right when she said, "You are just too good to me." But, she was definitely wrong if she thought I'd let her get away with it. I preferred petty and grand larceny charges against her, as did the bank.
Reeling from the theft and doing my damndest to work only a few days post-op, it took me a while to notice other things that were missing and amiss in my life. My mother's diamond earrings and a beautiful gold ring from Angie were gone. Clothes and other expensive incidentals were nowhere to be found. I couldn't understand how she pulled this all off under my nose unless she was doing it while I was out earning a living for us both. Then, more was revealed. Hidden amongst some of the garbage she left behind was a brown paper bag. When I openned it I thought I would puek. There was a single edge razor, a small pestle and mortar, and some of my vitamins and supplements. I recognized the capsules although they had been pulled apart and the contents emptied. The "bug" I couldn't shake. The spacey, woozy, flu-like feelings were compliments of Kristen and, God only knows, what she was slipping me.
I still have difficulty wrapping my mind around how I was ill-treated by this woman, but Mary never doubted for a moment her capabilities. Yes, Mary as fate would have it, had learned by pure chance some of what was occuring in New York by intercepting misguided emails and instant messages. She offered to come to Manhattan immediately to help me manage my business. "You can only be re-injuring yourself and negating the effects of the surgery by walking those dogs. I can't believe that bitch left you in that condition. But, then it actually doesn't surprise me in the least. We have to compare notes, Cherie." And that we did night after night on the phone and computer. We both had been duped, used and abused. The more we talked, the more fell in place. Kristen and Joann, Joann and Kristen. Pillars of the Program, not even close. Who knows how many people this couple victimized. At least, no one that I knew of from my neighborhood and home groups of A.A. and N.A. were affected by Kristen. She never accompanied me to the meetings I attended thankfully. I could only hope she didn't go elsewhere in the City and cause problems.
Mary and I courted each other long distance for months on end until one more moment apart became unbearable. We set a date to finally get together-New Year's Eve in New York City. My mother didn't raise a stupid child, there was no way I was going back to the City By The Bay. It was Mary's turn to come to me in the Big Apple. Scratch that plan, too much time to go until next year. We would enjoy Christmas in Manhattan. No place on earth was more romantic and magical. Still the wait for Santa was far too long for us to endure. Now Thanksgiving would be extra special with us together expressing gratitude after taking in the Macy's parade. The holidays all went out of the window, we would make our own memorable date. November 8th 1999, Mary and her guitars, more guitars, and still more guitars arrived at JFK and we've been making beautiful music ever since.
Well, perhaps there have been sour notes on occasions, but it usually had to do with "our" children. We have five sons altogether and sadly, some of the boys haven't learned by our example and are still out there using and abusing drugs and alcohol and, as a result, getting in trouble. I am old school and take the no nonsense "Don't Bullshit An Old Bullshitter" and "Do The Crime Do The Time" approach. Whereas, Mary is too fluff to do tough love on a consistent basis and wears rose-colored glasses blinding her very often to the games and scams those in the throes of addiction are so masterful at playing. Hopefully, each of the kids will find sobriety and chemical freedom and, especially in Steven's case, a foothold in reality. But they are all grown men and have to make that decision for themselves and not to make their Mothers happy or gain approval.
I have been blessed with eight grandchildren to date. (Enough already, I got it, you guys are macho studs. Zip it or clip it.) Mary and I were packing to go and meet our 2nd in line Brenden, who was only a few weeks old just like our relationship. It was Thanksgiving holiday and we were travelling to North Carolina to see the baby. I stopped in my tracks. Mary looked at me questionally. "My Mother, of all people, just popped into my head." I went back to what I was doing. Again my thoughts were interrupted and I froze in place. Without having to ask, Mary suggested, "Phone her, Cherie." I argued that she wouldn't know who I was and it was useless, but Mary wouldn't let it go. "Phone her and if she's out of it, no harm done. Do it for me."
A strange, but kind and gentle female voice answered the call. I asked for my Mother. An equally different sounding woman, than I remembered, took the receiver and said "Hello". This person came across as vibrant, strong. And sane. "It's me, Mama," I began. "Cherie, we were just talking about you. How are you and Mary? When are you coming to see me?" "How do you know about Mary," I asked knowing there was no earthly way. "Don't be silly. I know all about you and Mary. Just send pictures, please." We spoke and caught up on this and that and then the conversation shifted dramatically. "Forgive me, please. I'm so so sorry for all I did to you, Cherie. Everything you've ever accused me of is true. I did all those things to you and then some. I need to know you forgive and love me." I couldn't believe what I was hearing at first, but it went on and on and my Mother's tone was becoming increasingly despondent. Her begging and frantic pleas fell on deaf ears at first and then, I began to soften and really listen. She was desperate, she was scared, she was sincerely apologetic and remorseful. "I forgive you, Mama and I love you," I told her over and over until I was sure she was convinced and, for that matter, I was too. When she was calm I could hear that our little talk had taken it's toll on her. "You're tired, Mom. I'll let you go. I do love you and I do forgive you. And yes, I know you love me with all of your heart." Other miraculous things happened while I was on the phone with my Mother that day. Unexplainable, but wonderful things. I hung up the phone and felt relieved and safe. I felt vindicated. I felt loved. As we drove in North Carolina the following night I watched a star shoot across the heavens. I was sad knowing she was gone, but realizing she was finally out of her misery gave me solace and comfort.
Mary and I worked hard at the business (If you consider a couple hours a day hard. Goin' To The Dogs Of New York had arrived and was one of the Upper Westside's most respected pet care businesses.) We lived very comfortably and were financially secure. So much so, we decided to buy a vacation house in the Poconos (Pennsylvania Mountains) so, we could get away from Manhattan and it's hustle and bustle from time to time.
My Father was having increasing difficulty breathing despite earnestly doing respiratory exercises and procedures and maintaining the healthiest of regimens. On oxygen 24/7, the emphesema was debilitating him more and more. The slightest cold was life-threatening. Mary and I made immediate plans to pay him a visit in Houston while he was still up to having guests. It was important to me that my significant other meet the Captain and he meet her. Those holding the most precious parts of my heart had to come to know one another. I needed that connection. I recall how wonderful it was when I got to watch my Daddy and my Angie talking and laughing over coffee at the big dining room table months earlier. And it was even more wondrous when Grandpa finally met his first grandchild, Steven, and they spent hours on end with each other. There was no doubt my Father loved Steve and Steve adored his grandfather.
Just as Angie and Steven's time with my Father was terrific, Mary and my Daddy hit it off famously. She shared story after story with him about me and my successful life in New York. Mary made it a point to emphasize to him how well respected and loved I was by very prominent people, pillars of the community. She bragged about my long-term recovery and work in the Programs. "He was beaming. He looked as if he would burst with pride," she later told me.
I deep down knew this would be our last time together and believe he did also. "Daddy, I know we aren't supposed to discuss the past and I haven't, but I do need to ask you something please." He nodded. "In all the years I was gone, did you ever think of me? Did you ever miss me? Did you love me for even a moment?" Without saying a word he reached over, took me by the hand, and led the way up the stairs. "I want to show you something," he softly said with tears in his eyes. He unlocked the door and I followed him in. Pictures of me were everywhere. Report cards, awards, faded scrawled drawings of Liddle were placed about the room. "You were with me always, Cherie. I wanted to contact you so often, but I was afraid you would reject me and it was more than I could bear and so, I foolishly let you go. But, never think for a moment I ever stopped loving you because I didn't. I made many mistakes in my life, but the absolute worst was in deserting you, Sweetheart. I am so sorry."
Thi held the receiver to his ear. "Daddy, do you want me to come? I can be there in a matter of hours." "Sweetheart, Pretty Eyes I'm already gone. I'm not here." "I love you, Daddy. Please." "I love you, my daughter. Your father has and will always love you, my Cherie." My Daddy passed away soon thereafter. July 24th, 2001.
"We will get through this, Mary. Remember you have your very own nurse on duty. Multiple Sclerosis is not going to get the better of you, of us." Try as we might to stay positive and optimistic, we were both devastated with the news of her diagnosis that Friday afternoon in September. Yes, September 7th was to prove to be a very life-changing day for us. What a twist of fate!
We left the doctor's office and were heading downtown to grab some breakfast before Mary went to her part-time job at Solomon, Smith, Barney. "I love it there, Cherie. It is such a fantastic gig. But, there is no way I can show up late like today and keep the position." The first plane hit.
Our skin burned. Our lungs were raw. We stood and watched in horror as did the nation. But, they were safe in their homes. And the nightmare was being relayed across a TV screen that with a flick of a switch they could turn off. We were there in New York City, witnessing first hand the devastation. Every one of our senses transmitted what we were experiencing in crushing proportions of horrific dimensions. We could not escape if we even wanted to. Like Ground Zero our lives were now and forever more under siege.
I'd open my eyes to a beautiful day and feel my guts churn. Full blown Post Traumatic Stress Disorder could now be added to my list of maladies. It was a cloudless day with the bluest of skies when everything changed, so why wouldn't I have anxiety attacks. Sirens, planes overhead, loud noises, tunnels, subways were triggers and avoided when possible. But, I had to honor those I breathed into my soul that day. I had to live and continue to do my best or else why was I still alive.
Young and healthy dogs began to succumb, one after the other, to rare cancers and blood diseases. They were the closest to the ground when the dust settled and probably ingested carcinogens through their paws was one hypothosis. I watched helplessly as my clients died and consequently my business would also.
"I'm sorry, but she probably won't make it," the respiratory specialist told Mary, "Her lungs are terribly damaged and filled with God knows what from the Towers." I lay in the hospital near death. My gall bladder had been gangrenous. I was suffering with bacterial and viral pneumonia in both lungs. I was malnourished and dehydrated. I was being treated shabbily by the medical staff in the Poconos and knew if I was going to leave, other than in a body bag, I had to use my last ounce of strength to get better. I had to fight, but I didn't think I had it in me or even wanted to anymore. Thirty eight pounds lighter, my lips scarred and bleeding from lack of fluids, unable to walk without assistance I left the Medical Center to spend what I believed to be my last Christmas with my partner. But, my Mary, battling MS herself and not in the greatest of shape, wouldn't give up on me and tirelessly nursed me back to life.
But life in the Poconos was not life in New York City. I was too sick and debilitated to care for what few pets I still had as clients. I was told my rehabilitation would be a long and tedious one. I held on as long as I could, commuting over 200 miles daily to walk and make house calls to three little dogs, for almost six months. Finally, I had to face reality. It was costing me a fortune to travel back and forth. And the energy I was expending to make the trip was also being taxed to the max. I turned over my business to a trusted friend. Letting my apartment go was one thing, but letting Goin' To The Dogs Of New York and all it represented fall from my grasp was a heartbreak I have yet to recover from.
At some point many years ago, I stopped working the 12 Steps and let them begin to work me. Never did I ever entertain the thought of drinking and drugging when I was up against it and, as you well know, I was often up against it. But, I certainly could lapse into stinking thinking and play those tapes that only served to bring my serenity into jeopardy. That is, when I decided to take back my life and not permit the steps to keep me in check.
I knew it was going to be bad. I didn't need the weathermen to put the fear of God in me. I was already petrified. Would this be the "Big One" I'd been hearing about for 53 some odd years? Would a lady name Katrina be the next crisis I would have to face? And where was Steven and my beloved Angie?
All contact with New Orleans and thereabouts was broken. I watched the coverage on television with my guts in my throat. I knew every inch of that city and could see the damage with deeper comprehension of its magnitude than most. It came as no surprise when the levees broke and water engulfed New Orleans. Both Angie and my childhood homes were swept away with the initial breach from the 17th Street Canal. But, those houses were not to be mourned. The true soul wretching catastrophe was yet to occur. The Lower 9th Ward, where Steven lived, was under a 40 foot surge. He didn't swim, had no means of evacuating, and in all probability was left behind along with thousands upon thousands of others, who the powers that be, deemed expendible. The people of color, the aged, the disabled didn't deserve to live. Anyone watching the blatant genocide in "The City That Care Forgot" and continues to argue the fact is as culpible as the cruel victimizers of the Katrina survivors.
I saw an aerial shot of homes and one especially caught my eye. There painted in bold letters on a roof was the message-ANG OK. I breathed a sigh of relief though I wouldn't be fully convinced of her safety until I talked to her finally two weeks later.
But, where was Steven? Was he hold up in an attic slowing starving to death? Was he one of the countless bloated bodies floating in the streets? We searched in vain in any crowds shown on the news. We contacted FEMA, the Red Cross, and every other government agency we could in an effort to locate him. I even tried to get my DNA to the make-shift morgue in Carville hoping one way or another I could find out if he perished. It was a shameful and loathsome time in the history of America and the government was not only inept, but downright counterproductive in helping those of us who were searching for loved ones.
Not knowing whether my son lived or died was eating at me. It consumed my every thought. Mary was called away to a family emergency out West and I was left alone in this hellish limbo of ignorance. I took few calls. I saw no people. I just lay there day after day for almost half a year imagining the most hideous of scenarios befalling my child.
The phone rang. Mary was screaming. "Pick up. Pick up," she yelled. "I'm taking no calls," I shouted back in aggravation. "God damnit it. Take this one." "Hi Mama, it's me Steven," I heard my son say nonchalantly. "Where are you? How are you?" I was blasting him with questions at a fevered pace. He was in Nashville and had been taken out of town by a friend at the last minute. "But, why the fuck didn't you call me," I screamed letting my frustration bubble up knowing he was ok. "They told me you were dead. They said you went looking for me and died down there," he replied. Not there I didn't die, I thought, but I sure as hell was as good as dead drowning in the muck of my own self-pity and grief. The miracle of having my son returned to me all in one piece was the life-line I needed to take a deep breath and face tomorrow.
We went and got Steven in Tennessee and brought him back to live with us. Unfortunately, because of his mental illnesses and refusal to take medication or seek therapy, after a tumultuous year and a half together I was forced to put him out on the streets. My and Mary's physical and mental health was being direly affected by his unpredictable and unacceptable behavior. But, even more at risk was our serenity, that we worked so long to maintain with sobriety and abstinence from drugs. It was not easy knowing my son was homeless with winter approaching, but my Program had to come first.
"Well Vern finally died," I told Mary, "Jerry is executor and it seems sole heir to the estate. The "estate". What a laugh. I guess I should call him and get the lowdown. But, I'm sure I'll be cheated one way or another. According to Ken and Carol that's always been his M.O. And who am I to argue, it's not like we've kept in touch." It had been so very long since I spoke to my baby brother and I tried to brace myself for the worst. But, prior to dialing his number I had also decided to call him on anything I thought to be shady or shifty. What did I have to lose? Although apprehensive and visibly shaking, I came out swinging when he answered and tried to catch him offguard. "I'm not signing a damn thing until I have a real estate agent give me some comps on the house. How do I know you aren't low balling the property and making a deal with one of your friends and..." "Uh hello, Cherie. How are you? Listen, you can buy the place yourself and see what kind of profit you make. It's a dump. I don't need this kind of headache. Come down and take over. I'll give you it all." Well, I sure didn't expect that and started to back pedal. He took a breath and continued,"I have been dealing with that mother-fucker for too many years and now even in death I'm stuck with the bastard. I hated the son-of-a-bitch, but he did stick with Mama until the end so, I figured she'd want me to take care of the prick. I mean he was family. And Cherie, not even a flower, a fucking flower for Mama?" It was a low blow. I cringed, but then snapped back. "No, Jerry not even a flower. I gave Mama something far better. I gave her forgiveness and a guilt-free conscience. You were gone and you have no idea the life I had with her. It was a fucking nightmare. I'll tell you about it sometime. A flower! Who are you to jump my shit? I've been sober and clean thirty cock-sucking years. I have turned my life totally around. What the fuck do I have to do to get your respect?" My brother didn't say anything and the silence was broken with my sobs. "Really, Jerry what do I have to do? I'm sick. I live in constant pain. Mama died. Daddy died. 9-11 destroyed my life as I knew it. And your nephew was missing and presumed dead for half a year. But, your sister the drunk, the addict, the whore didn't give up. I kept going and will keep going." "Stop. Stop. I had no idea. This is all news to me," his voice broke, "Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you come to me for help?" "I didn't want you to think less of me. I didn't want you to know I was having a hard time of it and despite all of my efforts was once again a failure." "You are my sister. We are one of the craziest dys"fuck"tional families around. But, we are Leahys and we are a dying breed. For what it's worth we are all we have got left."
My brother and I began talking and writing to each other on a regular basis. We shared hours upon hours becoming reacquainted. No actually, we were discovering one another for what seemed the first time. Just like me he had his faults, but also like me he was accused of being many things he was not and had never been. I reproached myself for believing the worst without expending the time or energy to see if it was indeed true. I chastised myself for letting so much time slip away without having my dear sibling in my life. Decades of needless estrangement was all the more painful when just a few months into our reunion Jerry told me he had terminal cancer.
I felt so gyped, so cheated. Why was I given the gift of the love and support of my little brother only to have it quickly snatched away so cruelly? I promised myself to make the most of what time we had left together and made arrangements for Mary and me to travel to Houston.
We eyeballed each other and without saying a word both began laughing. "What's with the dyed blond hair, Bro?" "Is there any place you haven't inked, Sis?" Mary came forward and then stopped short, "Oh my God, you two are identical. You could be twins." "Yea we're the dynamic duo," we almost said in unison.
Despite exhausting easily and obviously in pain, Jerry spent whatever time he could with us. We met his wife and adopted son. By the same token, we were introduced to his girlfriends. "You Yard Dog You!!! You're sick give it a rest," I teased. He got a mischievious look on his face and winked, "Yea when you do."
Our bellies ached from laughing at the stories he shared with us. "I never could have imagined there could be two of you, Cherie in this world," Mary remarked, "But, your little brother is just the male you."
We stood together at my mother's grave. "Thank you for all you did for her and Vernon. You deserve all of the inheritance and then some. You were a good son. Kenneth and I did nothing. We have no claim to anything." "I could care less about Ken, but I will provide for you, Cherie. Don't you worry. Here I have something for you. I know Mama would want you to have these." My mother's cherished engagement and wedding rings were placed within my hand.
Jerry was a very successful business man and held a position of the highest esteem in the Hispanic community and throughout the Latin countries of the world. But, the greatest accomplishments of his life and what he treasured most were his two beautiful daughters Jessica and Vanessa. And no more precious gifts did he give to me than my lovely and gifted neices.
I hugged and kissed him goodbye knowing I'd never see him again. In just the week we were there his health was deteriorating. Perhaps, he'd have another Christmas and maybe even enjoy Easter with the family, but save a miracle not much longer than that.
We continued to keep in touch through emails, but his replies were becoming less and less frequent. Then, in the beginning of May his final note arrived. He was saying goodbye to me, his wife, his children, his dearest friends. He filled the page with love and appreciation for all of us. And then, went on to assure us it was ok and he was just going on a new adventure he just didn't yet know where to or when. With the simple click of the "send" button it was done. On May 30th, 2008 my baby brother Jeremiah Joseph Leahy IV raised his arm as if to wave goodbye and then was gone.
Two weeks following my brother's memorial, I lost my dear neighbor and friend James Fleming. He was five days shy of celebrating his 68th birthday on June 20th, the same day I celebrated my 58th year. Whereas, Jerry succumbing to colon cancer at the young age of 56 was indeed a tragedy, Jim's passing to me, in many ways, was significantly more tragic because of it's needlessness. You see, Jim drank himself to death and died from complications of alcoholism. Generous and kind, he saw fit to bequeath to us his home.
Perhaps I'm crazy, but I often wander room to room and speak aloud to him. "Why you and not me? Why did I make it and you didn't?" I searched through pictures, letters, and anything else I thought might give me a clue as to what made this brilliant, loving, and gregarious man shut himself away from all that once mattered. Choosing instead to crawl within a bottle and drown in the murky depths of alcohol poisoning. He has yet to respond and so, I best rely on what answers I've learned through the years in the writings of Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob and the other pioneers of the 12th Step Programs.
When I began to write this endeavor it was to share with others what I went through, what happened, and what it is like now. It was my gift back to A.A. and N.A. in appreciation of my upcoming 31 years of continuous sobriety and chemical freedom. But, it seems I needed to go into greater detail than a simple drunk/drugalog. I had to tell my life story. Because I did it in installments I have been blessed along the way with encouraging letters and emails and messages. Now I will admit, I did receive one note that simply said, "What a bunch of crap." To that individual, I can only hope your disbelief is based in not having any frame of referrence to what I and other low bottoms have experienced with the insidious diseases of alcoholism and drug addiction.
A lot has happened in the 31 years since I last picked up a drink and drug. Empty chairs surround the tables where old timers once sat. Grimy church basements have given way to sterile treatment facilities. White knuckling and sweating out the hours have been replaced with "Desire Chips." Perhaps I'm beginning to show my age or just miss the days when to recover you gobbled up the meat of the Program and didn't have it pablum fed to you by cottage industries mainly concerned with making a buck.
I read the brief message over and over. Each time the words touched me on a deeper and more meaningful level. I'm sure the woman who sent her thanks to me for sharing my story with her would have no idea how, in turn, her sentiments affected me. A sentence here, a cliche there and I knew without question either she was a fly on the wall in all those rooms I sat in long ago or without me knowing it was at my side walking down the path, trudging the trenches, scaling the boulders, and pushing through the briars of life encountered on the road to recovery.
I wish nothing more than that the bearing of my soul reaches if only one individual and helps that person to know they aren't alone in this journey and that someone not only understands, but empathises. I never dreamed it would be me that would be the recipient of a boomerang effect.
Two little girls growing up without a mother's love. One through death, the other insanity. Two little girls deserted by stern and unfeeling fathers. Both orphaned and sentenced to fend for themselves. One in the system, the other on the streets. Two little girls with two little brothers snatched cruelly from their older sibling's grasp by selfish adults. Growing up and apart until their faces were unrecognizable from even across the room. Two adolescent girls suffering neglect, abuse, injustice, and torturous pain. Two young female adults turning to a bottle. Two suffering drunks seeking relief. Two surrendering people finding the answer. Two little girls growing in recovery. Two older women with two little brothers snatched cruelly from their older sibling's grasp by death. Two strangers finding each other while Wayne and Jerry smiled down. Two little girls now two healthy and sober soulmates for good.

FOR
SHEILA K.