an NFL fullback.
Cindy was away tonight at UC Santa Barbara’s
School of Anthropology giving a guest lecture on what it means to
be human.
Hell, he thought, I could have saved everyone
a trip out to Santa Barbara. Being human meant walking into any
liquor store from here to Nantucket and buying a bottle of Scotch
and a bag of Oreos. Let’s see the chimps pull that one off.
Cindy Darwin was a favorite on the guest
lecture circuit. Any anthropology department worth their salt
wanted Cindy Darwin’s ruminations on the subject of evolution.
Really, she was their messiah, their prophet and savior.
She had wanted me to come with her up the
coast, but I had declined, stating there were some leads I needed
to follow.
Which was bullshit, really. True I had made a
few phone calls prior to leaving the office, but I could have done
those on my cell. I wasn’t proud that I had fibbed to the love of
my life. The only lead I needed to follow was my nose to the scotch
and Oreos.
Cindy did not know the extent of my drinking.
And if it meant fibbing to keep it that way, then fine. I drank
alone and in my apartment. I harmed no one but myself and my
liver.
I lived in a five story yellow stucco
apartment building that sat on the edge of the Pacific Coast
Highway, and overlooked Huntington State Beach. I parked in my
allotted spot, narrowly missing the wooden pole that separated my
spot from the car next to mine. And for training purposes only, I
hauled my ass up five flights of stairs. The bag of Oreos and the
bottle of scotch were heavy on my mind.
Those, and the prick who took a pot shot at
my earlobe.
Inside my apartment, surrounded by shelves of
paperback thrillers and my own rudimentary artwork, I tossed my
keys and wallet next to the stove, grabbed my secret stash of
cigarettes and pulled up a chair on my balcony.
I had a wonderful view. And should probably
be paying a lot more for this apartment, but the landlord was a
Bruin fan and he appreciated my efforts to beat SC through the
years. So he gave me a hell of a deal, and in return he often
showed up at my apartment to drink and relive the glory days. I
didn’t mind reliving the glory days. The glory days were all I
had.
Now I hoped to make new glory days with the
Chargers.
We’ll see.
I opened the bag of Oreos and commenced my
training, bulking up with one Oreo after another. I washed them
down with swigs from the bottle of scotch, as a real man
should.
When I was tired of the Oreos, after about
the thirtieth, I took out a cigarette and tried like hell to give
myself lung cancer.
I watched the ocean. Flat and black in the
night. The lights of Catalina twinkled beyond a low haze. Further
out the lights of a half dozen oil rigs blinked. And somewhere
below the water was a cold world filled with life. The secret
world, where sharks ate seals, where manta rays glided, where
whales sang their beautiful songs.
Sometimes I wanted to jump into that cold
world and never emerge, especially after the destruction of my
leg.
That’s when the drinking began. Few knew
about my drinking. I did it alone and I did it hard, and I did it
until I could drink no more. Until I could forget what was stolen
from me by one fluke play by a son-of-a-bitch who chop blocked
me.
My goddamn leg had been throbbing ever since
Sanchez and I had been running sprints every morning for the past
week. I was a step slower. I could feel it within me. Sluggish.
Maybe too slow for the NFL.
And I had a goddamn kid in jail for murder
one. And he was innocent. Because if he was guilty the asshole with
the slicked back gray hair would not have felt it necessary to
pierce my ear with a 9mm.
I had to stop drinking. I had to reclaim what
was mine. And the smoking didn’t help, either.
But on this night I continued to drink. And
smoke. And eat the Oreos. Gluttony at its fucking worst.
The lights continued to blink on the
ocean.
The night was slipping away with each swallow
from the bottle and hit from the
Cindy was away tonight at UC Santa Barbara’s
School of Anthropology giving a guest lecture on what it means to
be human.
Hell, he thought, I could have saved everyone
a trip out to Santa Barbara. Being human meant walking into any
liquor store from here to Nantucket and buying a bottle of Scotch
and a bag of Oreos. Let’s see the chimps pull that one off.
Cindy Darwin was a favorite on the guest
lecture circuit. Any anthropology department worth their salt
wanted Cindy Darwin’s ruminations on the subject of evolution.
Really, she was their messiah, their prophet and savior.
She had wanted me to come with her up the
coast, but I had declined, stating there were some leads I needed
to follow.
Which was bullshit, really. True I had made a
few phone calls prior to leaving the office, but I could have done
those on my cell. I wasn’t proud that I had fibbed to the love of
my life. The only lead I needed to follow was my nose to the scotch
and Oreos.
Cindy did not know the extent of my drinking.
And if it meant fibbing to keep it that way, then fine. I drank
alone and in my apartment. I harmed no one but myself and my
liver.
I lived in a five story yellow stucco
apartment building that sat on the edge of the Pacific Coast
Highway, and overlooked Huntington State Beach. I parked in my
allotted spot, narrowly missing the wooden pole that separated my
spot from the car next to mine. And for training purposes only, I
hauled my ass up five flights of stairs. The bag of Oreos and the
bottle of scotch were heavy on my mind.
Those, and the prick who took a pot shot at
my earlobe.
Inside my apartment, surrounded by shelves of
paperback thrillers and my own rudimentary artwork, I tossed my
keys and wallet next to the stove, grabbed my secret stash of
cigarettes and pulled up a chair on my balcony.
I had a wonderful view. And should probably
be paying a lot more for this apartment, but the landlord was a
Bruin fan and he appreciated my efforts to beat SC through the
years. So he gave me a hell of a deal, and in return he often
showed up at my apartment to drink and relive the glory days. I
didn’t mind reliving the glory days. The glory days were all I
had.
Now I hoped to make new glory days with the
Chargers.
We’ll see.
I opened the bag of Oreos and commenced my
training, bulking up with one Oreo after another. I washed them
down with swigs from the bottle of scotch, as a real man
should.
When I was tired of the Oreos, after about
the thirtieth, I took out a cigarette and tried like hell to give
myself lung cancer.
I watched the ocean. Flat and black in the
night. The lights of Catalina twinkled beyond a low haze. Further
out the lights of a half dozen oil rigs blinked. And somewhere
below the water was a cold world filled with life. The secret
world, where sharks ate seals, where manta rays glided, where
whales sang their beautiful songs.
Sometimes I wanted to jump into that cold
world and never emerge, especially after the destruction of my
leg.
That’s when the drinking began. Few knew
about my drinking. I did it alone and I did it hard, and I did it
until I could drink no more. Until I could forget what was stolen
from me by one fluke play by a son-of-a-bitch who chop blocked
me.
My goddamn leg had been throbbing ever since
Sanchez and I had been running sprints every morning for the past
week. I was a step slower. I could feel it within me. Sluggish.
Maybe too slow for the NFL.
And I had a goddamn kid in jail for murder
one. And he was innocent. Because if he was guilty the asshole with
the slicked back gray hair would not have felt it necessary to
pierce my ear with a 9mm.
I had to stop drinking. I had to reclaim what
was mine. And the smoking didn’t help, either.
But on this night I continued to drink. And
smoke. And eat the Oreos. Gluttony at its fucking worst.
The lights continued to blink on the
ocean.
The night was slipping away with each swallow
from the bottle and hit from the
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