Topic: The craziest thing I've ever done.

Thom Dunn

We were off Newport to witness. All 100+ feet of the Ondine was bearing down on us, a 36 foot sloop. Stanhope, a good skipper, had somehow gotten afoul of the behemoth as it negotiated in front of the Bermuda race fleet. I don’t know how the Skipper got out of danger, but he did incur cruses behind a clenched fist. Most boats were likewise reckless that day, flying spinnakers in a 35- knot wind!

And coming to leeward of this behemoth, Skipper Stanhope were he here today might likely feel was the craziest thing he had ever done.

The Craziest Thing I’ve Ever Done

Welcome to the real world.
I’m on on my way to work at Dayton’s Downtown Libarary.
I am past my favorite spot past Denny’s (no longer in existence)
And waiting at a red light.
A man without a helmet rides ahead of me.
He seems like a lumberjack that old chuck wood faster that’s 4 woodchucks.
He looks like he’s a Dad the way he wears his glasses,
He looks like a bad ass the way he has no care on his shaved, tattooed head.

Light turns green.

Red car from stage left makes a left turn to fast on “out” GREEN.

He gets hit.
The car drives away with fury for a future motorcycle man willl never see.
Motorclye man, whom I can’t name but find is called “Harold” once police arrive, is on the pavement. He is in pieces.
I stop my car.
I have work to get to an a mirty to escape.
But three seconds out of my Toyota ‘98 and I see he is wheezing and dying.
I see his last breath. I see he gone.
The care that turned left of Cherry St. at a red light is gone. Disappeared with death in the distance. And me. And me, filling out forms I didn’t know existed.
“How did you the *decesaesed*”
My answer: He was a human, like me.
“How did he die?”
My answer: He was hit and run with a red vehicle that matched the blood.

I can’t cringe when I hear a motorcycle.
WEAR YOU GODDAMN HELMET.

Topic: Luck

Author: Chris Dunn

I am what is called a lapsed catholic. I supposed I lapsed sometime around 1980. It was all so dreadfully boring, and when my mother had said, “You don’t have to go to church, if it’s not doing anything for you.” I took, what I realize now to have been, one of the bravest stands in my life. “I don’t think I’ll go then. I don’t believe in any of this.” Though a bit shocked, mom stayed true to her word and – outside of school-required services, wedding and funerals – I never went to church again.

Aside from the boring, droning, repetitive, stand-kneel-stand-kneel-sit-stand dance which is the weekly service and the YOU-ARE-NOT-WORTHY bleakness of the overall message, catholicism (sorry spellcheck, I don’t see why that word should be capitalized) is a pretty easy religion, and not without it perks. My favorite perk was always the annual church festival. It sucked that it was only an annual event, but every church had one, and Cincinnati had plenty of catholic churches. As the early days of summer came around, we were climbing into the car practically every weekend heading to one or another decorated parking lot. Why? Gambling!

Sure, there was drinking too. This is the other perk of catholicism – I did say “perks” - all events are made better with the inclusion of alcohol. But as a twelve-year-old, the wonder of beer had yet to strike beyond the occasional “swig” you got when you brought my dad his favorite sudsy beverage. And the dunking booth and the gold fish toss only took up valuable space from the important attractions: Jumbo Poker, Bars and Bells, Hi-Lo and my all-time favorite the Big-6 Wheel.

Jumbo Poker was just the classic game without all the messy, time-consuming betting. You paid ahead for your seat. Then five cards were flipped before each of the congregants. The house took half the money and the winner got the rest. While intriguing and worth a play or two to see if that was the way my luck was running that particular festival, only one winner… The odds were always too tight. Big thrills, to be sure, but too few and far between.

Bar and Bells were little tear off slot machines, the ultimate analog version of the one-armed bandit save perhaps manually shaking a trio of large baskets filled with fruit. Three plums won you two dollars. The dream payoff was twenty-five dollars, but I forget what fruit you needed to triplicate. We were assured there were two big winners per bag of cards as they were added to the mix periodically, but I never saw one. I loved choosing my car from the immense bucket, searching for one that glowed or somehow stood out from its fellows marked as lucky, and I loved pulling open the tabs to reveal each new fruit, but ultimately, the thrill was too brief.

Hi-Lo was my dad’s game. He had a fool-proof system that never seemed to work. It was essentially craps without the shooters. The dice were kept in a large hourglass and flipped as rapidly as the bets could be turned around. The margins on craps are fairly low, so here volume was key. It was that very volume that Thom Dunn thought to exploit. You could make all the standard craps bets, doubles, 7 or 11, things like that, but the main game was as advertised: would the dice land HI (above 7) or LO (below 7). Dad’s secret strategy - as was whispered to me in utmost confidence and is now revealed to the world here in this story – was to wait and watch for clusters. Five LOs or HIs in a row, before he put a coin down, then you hit the opposite number and hit hard. If LO falls again, stay HI and double your bet. Repeat until you win. As sound as this system seemed to a kid - completely ignoring the gambler’s fallacy and the existence of the number 7 – it took too long. Clusters of five in a row were rare! And sitting waiting for them on a hot summer day, your icee melting over your already sticky hands, was nearly as bad as church. Before even three fell, I would be lulled into betting or I would be drawn away by the siren call of MY game.

Buzzzzzzzzzzz-tock-tock-tock tock… tock, went the Big 6 wheel. Every spin a carnival! Every tense moment of anticipation, as the numbers blurred to a meaningless black then slowed to reveal the truth of that spin, was exhilarating. The wheel featured picture of dice trios, each die face a number between 1 and 6. Doing a little research now, I find the standard wheel has 54 segments, but in the day, it felt like thousands. The wheel would spin forever and its furious vibration would echo through my chest. Pure luck, of course, but winning was only part of the draw. I would take my two or three dollars, break them into quarters and watch my stack rise and fall with each mesmerizing spin. At points I would be up, the pile of quarters to tall to fit towered in my folded fist. At others, it would run low and sadness would creep into my game. Each occurrence awoke the voice of reason in the back of my mind. “Walk away! You’re way up.” And “Walk away! You still have enough money to buy a coke.” Sometimes I would listen briefly, and wander the festival grounds searching the concrete for fallen, bars and bells cards, but the roar of the wheel was thunderous. It could be heard at the farthest reaches of the grounds, and it would not be ignored. The only times I ever made a cent, were the days my parents finished their socializing early enough that house odds hadn’t eaten my entire stack and I was in a rare, up moment. But even on those days when I sat crestfallen in the car mourning my lost quarters and their soda purchasing potential, I knew there was always next weekend. Buzzzzzzzzzzz-tock-tock-tock tock… tock… tock

The Craziest Thing I’ve Ever Done

     Getting my scalp tattoed was one of the craziest things I’ve ever done.  I didn’t even go to a real tattoo artist.  I went to a twenty something aesthetician named Brittany who worked in a strip mall in Columbus, Ohio.  It was a two hour drive from home, and I was too embarassed to tell anyone else, besides the “artist” what I was planning to do and why.

     It was June of 2004 and I had been slowly losing my hair since my early thirties.  My fortieth birthday was looming ahead in early 2005.  Girls weren’t supposed to be bald.  I had always been overweight and now I was going bald too.  It wasn’t fair. I yelled at God a lot about this.  “Bald and fat?! Couldn’t You just pick one or the other!” My doctor had assured me it was just a cosmetic problem.  He checked my blood and sent me to a dermatologist and an endocrinologist who concurred that they thought I had androgenic alopecia more commonly known as female pattern baldness.  

     A couple years prior to the traumatic scalp tattoo incident, I discovered that there were a variety of concealing agents available on the market which could be used to dye the scalp temporarily, thus minimizing the “show through” of my pasty white scalp through the sparse crop of reddish brown hair.  To make matters worse my hair was thinning on top and the individual hairs themselves were thin and baby fine.  The problem with the concealers was that they got all over everything.  They would run down my face when it got too hot.  I needed to figure out a way to permanently dye my scalp to a darker shade. 

       I got the idea for the scalp tattoo when my friend at work came in with permanent eyeliner makeup.  She explained that she had gone to an “aesthetician” at her local beauty salon and for a few hundred dollars had gotten black eyeliner tattooed around the perimeter of her eyes just where regular eyeliner would go.  She boasted how she could cry and swim and sweat and sleep and her eyeliner didn’t run.  It didn’t run.   Hmmm.  I contacted her eyeliner tattoo lady, told her my idea, and she promptly turned me away.  What I was proposing, she said, was not only unsafe, it was probably illegal.  

     I called multiple spas and salons in my town to no avail, so I expanded my search.  Brittany in Columbus was game, but she wanted to be paid in cash.  She had never used the permanent makeup technology on a scalp but she was willing to try it.  She worked out a tiny salon with four chairs, but no one else was there that morning.  There was no signage outside. At the time I had never had any tattoos so I had no basis for comparison.  In retrospect, I can say unequivocally that this procedure was one of the most painful I’d endured up to that point, and I had given birth to two children and undergone a  dry socket following a wisdom tooth extraction.  

     I arrived early with my four hundred dollars cash in hand.  Brittany showed up late and apologized that she had to get her Mt. Dew and drop her daughter at the sitters.  I could tell she didn’t like it that I asked her to wash her hands first, but once I flashed the cash I was forgiven.  I settled into a beige vinyl chair that reminded me of my wisdom tooth extraction experience-except that there was Novocain with that one.  

     I didn’t look to see what type of needle she was using or if it was even a clean, sterile needle.  Why I made a big deal about her washing her hands eludes me now.  I was a junkie trying to get a fix.   She drilled on the top of my scalp for about two hours.  The plan was to conceal the entire thinning 

area of hair which covered about two by three inches.  It hurt so bad that I cried silently with a steady stream of tears running down the side of my face.  She offered to stop, but I insisted she finish the job. 

      Initially the results were impressive.  The scalp tattoo filled in all the spaces.  On the drive home my scalp began throbbing.  I had to pull over and buy some ibuprofen and recline the car seat in a truck stop parking lot until it kicked in.  

      I recount this experience in disbelief at my former self.  What the hell was I thinking?  I’m a registered nurse for God’s sake.  I was a registered nurse when I paid this person who probably wasn’t even licensed maybe didn’t even have a high school diploma to mutilate my scalp.  I could have gotten a blood borne disease, a scalp infection or worse.  The kicker is that it didn’t even take.  The tattoo or whatever she used peeled off as it healed.  

      Now 14 years later I am fully bald on top.  In 2015 I ended up shaving off what was left of the wispy hairs on the sides and back of my head for two reasons.  First, of all I thought I looked better totally bald than like a confused Dr. Phil wannabe, and second, it made it easier for me to wear wigs when I chose.  But three tiny stray tattoo markings remain on the top of my scalp to this day.  They are reminder to me of what I was willing to go through all so I could feel normal.  When I hear crazy stories on the news like the one about a woman inseminating herself using a turkey blaster or some such thing I now have to suspend judgment.  We are all so flawed and crazy and desperate in our need to be accepted and our need to fit in.  I remind myself that with the right trigger I can be and have been just as stupid and crazy as the rest of us.  

Topic: The Craziest Thing I’ve Ever Done

Author: Chris Dunn

Out of the thick fog of sheets of falling snow, an ominous shape emerges. At first glance it appears very like a building, though that’s impossible. There aren’t typically buildings constructed in the stretch between east and west-bound highways, but the large gray rectangle emerging couldn’t be much els- Oh! It’s a semi-trailer on its side! That makes more sense given the blizzard raging all around me. Silently I wish anyone in the capsized trailer well, re-clamp my hands to the steering wheel and push on into the grayness.

Chasing the approaching millennium, there is no GPS to tell me where I am, how much further I must go. We navigate by signs in this day, and most of those are obscured by falling or caked-on snow and ice. Tony holds the map and wakes briefly at my urging to assure me we’re not close enough to worry yet. I tell him about the semi, but he simply shrugs and nods off again. Snores come from the back as well. Screwing my gumption past adhesion, I drive on repeating my internal mantra. “The road is straight. My hands are locked in place. As long as I don’t flinch, we’ll arrive safely.”

December 31, 1999, my roommates and I have gathered all the makings for the party Prince had spent 18 years preparing us for. We had acquired the necessary trip materials, as well as hydration supplies, gum to keep our jaws from locking up, and loaded my 25 CD changer with all our favorites. It was go time for this annual tradition. Only one thing was missing, Kit.

As we prepped The Pit – the semi-ironic name we had given to our shared abode – for the party, Dennis, Tony, Tonya and myself waited expectantly for Kit’s arrival. Kit was returning from a visit to the west coast, but had assured us, that he could – and would – make it back in time for the year 2000. Y2K be damned! I was cleaning my room and setting up a cozy environment option, with music and throw pillows, a black-light poster here or there, everything set for when the drugs took hold and wander lust set in, when the call came in.

Kit had been giving us updates as he came east, each one bleaker than the one before it. Snow getting thicker, driving slowing down, roads closed. Still, I never had a doubt. We’d been carrying on the tradition for years at that point, Kit would make it, coasting in at the wire in a hail of confetti to a thunderous blare of trumpets. I heard the phone ring, but it was probably just another update, this one telling us all was clear and to expect him sooner than previously feared. But it wasn’t… Tonya called me down to where the three of them sat gathered around the cradled house phone, dejected looks crushing their once expectant joy.

“He’s not going to make it,” Tonya said.

I stared mute and dumbfounded.

“Yeah,” Tony explained. “His car died on the highway. He had to get a tow to a service station and now he’s looking for a hotel to stay in. They won’t even start on the repairs until after the holiday.”

What?! This made no sense. My expression must have said as such, because Dennis tried to console me with a sympathetic look and a shrug conveying, “Yes, this is happening, but whatareyougonnado?” Slowly I sank down beside my dejected band. All the preparations we had made, all the drugs waiting to be consumed, all the synesthetic amusements poised in potentiality – it was all a waste without Kit. I mean sure, we were still going to party, but it wouldn’t really be “like it was 1999” without Kit.

“Where is he?” Tonya asked suddenly.

“He just barely made it into Iowa,” Tony answered.

“Well how far is that?”

I saw where she was going, but it only seemed feasible as a mad, hail Mary gesture, one we could say we looked into but abandoned when we realized…. Whatever would come along to derail the mad train of thought. He was in Walnut, Iowa. Walnut, Iowa was 10 hours away and it wasn’t even noon. Time wasn’t a factor. Scarlet, my car, was fresh out of the shop and more than capable of carrying our squad and a trunkful of party gear across three states. And the blizzard? Well, it would likely peter out before we got to it, and if not, I was the son of Snow Dog, my New England born father. I could drive through a little snow. All the pieces fell together! We called Kit back at the number he had given. “We’re coming to you!”

It is said, that anything worth doing is worth overdoing, so we loaded up the trunk with twenty-four bottles of Gatorade, a half dozen black-light posters, a case of nitrous oxide with proper dispensers, an ounce of marijuana, two bongs, five hits of acid, a 25-CD changer, ALL of our CDs, a bag of blow pops, glow sticks and various other party favors people had picked to add festivity to the evening. We hit the road at 2 o’clock aware that we were behind schedule, but confident in the way of providence that we would make up time somewhere on the road.

Three states doesn’t sound like a lot, not when Ohio goes by in twenty-five minutes. Even crossing Indiana and Illinois did nothing to blunt our confidence. We ate drive-thru in the car and made sure everyone drained their bladders when we filled the tank. We were going to make it. Let me point out now, for any who might seek to emulate this feat, Iowa is loooonnnggg. The founding fathers who sketched out Rhode Island and Delaware must have gotten pretty lazy when it came time to carving states out of the Louisiana Purchase, because they get big out west.

Two hours into Iowa – we’re not even half way – and the storm line hits us. This isn’t some chicken little white death forecast made to drive up sales of bread and milk. This is a for real, whiteout line of giant, sticky flakes. Only the highway, with the constant drum of tires can maintain two ruts in which to drive. Every gas up becomes a well-can-we-get-back-on adventure, and murmurings of mutiny and abandonment begin to flitter around the edges of our former optimism.

But there’s no turning back. We’re ten hours in and the storm is blowing the direction we would return. Tony offers to drive. Taking turns had been the plan at the outset, but I wasn’t about to abandon the wheel at this late hour. As tired as I was after ten solid hours of driving, I wouldn’t trust the freshest eyes to pilot my Scarlet through what lay ahead.

Scarlet was a 1992 Nissan Sentra with a 4-speed, manual transmission and what the dealer had called power “assist” steering. She had no bells and whistles, no extra candy to make her fine, but what she had was a never-say-die engine and four tires. I knew if I could keep her straight, we’d make it. Make it was the only goal left. Even the time difference hadn’t saved us from missing the millennium. It passed somewhere in early Iowa for EST and central Iowa for CST. We cheered in our seats for each one, as much to mark the moment as to reaffirm we were still alive and still on the run.

“Oh, my god,” I heard Tonya say from the back seat. She must have awakened to see the glut of abandoned cars huddled on the shoulder like they were seeking warmth from each other.

“That’s nothing,” I called back. “You should see the semis!”

“We should stop,” she said. It was the first time any of us had stated it clearly and succinctly without question or equivocation. But as final and certain as it felt, there was nothing doing.

“We’re almost there,” I lied.

At this point, everyone was up. The land outside the window was a constant barrage of white. They set their wills to my support, I set my wheels to the clear ruts in the snow. When I could find them. Every time the car would hydroplane, I would hold my breath and think straight thoughts.

“Did we just skid?” someone would ask.

“No, we’re fine.”

And we were. Despite all obstacles and logic, we pulled into a motel parking lot in Walnut Iowa around 2 am local time. The plants and cars were coated in translucent, ice armor, and the hotel staff was certainly shocked to see us. Well, they thought they were shocked, at least. When we proceeded with our pre-party load-in, they learned a truer definition of the word.

Kit didn’t know what to say. We wound up staying for 3 days. It was a party for the ages. Prince would’ve been proud. I remember my head clearing long enough at one point to make out the Rose Bowl parade playing on the hotel TV. Turning to my left, I saw Kit watching me with a stupid grin on his face.

“Where are we?” I asked him.

“Walnut, Iowa,” He declared heavily, as if not for the first time.

“And, why are we here?” I follow up, still heavy with confusion.

“I honestly have no idea.”  

Topic: The Craziest thing I've Done

I would say that most crazy things I’ve done have involved a boy in one way or another, but that’s not entirely true.

The car chase through Amberly Village was definitely an all-girl endeavor. Robbing the pony keg was a group effort, and not driven by any hormonal need.

But then there were the times that I went to strange college boys’ student rentals, heedless of the danger involved.

I think that one of the craziest things I’ve done did involve a boy. Or, at least, the evening started out with a boy. The boy in question was the reason I’d gotten into the situation in the first place.

It was my senior year of high school. Summertime, I believe. I had been hanging out at my friend Jim’s house with Alan and some other people.

Alan wasn’t my boyfriend, but he also wasn’t just a dude. He and I had spent a good deal of the evening making out in Jim’s bedroom.

I honestly don’t remember who else was there, but I do know that I didn’t have my license yet, and that I had gotten a ride to Jim’s house.

As the evening wore on, it got closer and closer to time for my curfew, but the guys were still drinking. I think the person who had given me a ride had gone off with someone and wasn’t planning on returning.

Both Jim and Alan had transportation, but neither one of them was in any condition to drive.

Since I didn’t live too far from Jim’s house, they decided to walk me home, at 1AM.

Here’s the thing. Jim lived in a nice neighborhood with gas lights and stately homes. Although it bordered his, my neighborhood was much different. The houses were smaller and the streets were lit by sodium lights.

Most importantly, there was this stretch of Vine street, between his house and mine, that I knew we had no business walking down at that time of night.

I hadn’t really been drinking and I had my temps, so I’d suggested that they ride along while I drive back to my house. Then they could sit in the car, sober up, and drive back.

No dice. They insisted that we walk.

So I and three guys set out for my house, crossing from Jim’s staid, suburban area, to my more chaotic and urban environment.

Woolper was kind of a buffer zone between the two neighborhoods, and it was an easy, and uneventful walk. Then we got to Vine, at the bottom of the hill.

We turned left and headed toward my street, down an essentially deserted Vine St. Deserted save for one dude with dreadlocks across the street from us.

I noticed him notice us. I plainly saw him lock eyes on us, three white boys and one girl, as we walked several yards ahead of him on the other side of the street. He was like a cat that had locked eyes on prey, and I knew that if we didn’t stay together, he would pounce.

Well, Jim and the other guy crossed the street, leaving me and Alan alone. I tried to tell them not to run off but they thought they were invincible.

Just as I had suspected, the minute Jim and the other guy got across the street, the dude with dreadlocks was on them. They stopped and talked for a long time while Alan and I continued walking.

I had considered just going on to my street, and leaving them to their fates, but I couldn’t.

With Alan in tow, I crossed the street to where they were. As we got closer I could hear Jim saying “I don’t have any money.” When we finally got to them, that’s when I saw the knife.

Now, here’s the deal.

When I looked at the knife, I saw a short, dull bit of blade. Like a butter knife. Barely anything to worry about, and something we could all easily handle if we just worked together.

Later, they would insist that it was something along the lines of Crockodile Dundee’s knife, complete with serrations and a wicked curve.

Dreadlock dude was wild-eyed, obviously in over his head, and quite possibly high on something.

So, the first words out of my mouth were “We can take him.”

The boys weren’t having none of it. As far as they were concerned, they just wanted the knife-wielding man to go away, and they figured that if I gave him my purse it would do the trick.

“I’m not giving him my purse,” I said. “Look, I’ll kick the knife out of his hand, and you guys tackle him.”

Nope.

“Fine, I’ll tackle him. But you have to have my back,”

Nope.

“Look! It’s just a butter knife. We can take him.”

Nope.

So while the four of us are arguing about whether or not I should kick this guy’s ass, the mugger is looking wild-eyed between the four of us, brandishing his knife at each of us, and trying to regain control of the situation.

“Look, all I have to do is hit him. The knife isn’t even that sharp.”

“What if he has friends?” They said. “What if he’s not alone?”

“If he had friends, they’d be out here by now. Let’s just go.”

“No, give him your purse.”

“Fuck, no!”

“Look at him. There are four of us and one of him.”

“But he has a knife!”

“It’s a butter knife!”

“No it’s not!”

“Yes it is, look at it! Just kick him!”

On and on, back and forth. I was adamant, but so were they, and there were more of them.

I’d had half a mind to hit the mugger in the head with my purse, knock him down, and then kick him a few times just to show these pussies how it’s done. And to drive home the fact that they were pussies.

But, at the same time, I realized that on the off chance things didn’t go my way, they’d all crumble like a poorly-built house of cards.

So I gave the fucker my purse.

He was afraid of me. I could tell by the way he reached for the purse. It was almost as if I were mugging HIM, forcing him to take it.

But take it, he did.

Then he backed away warily, until he was far enough away from us, and ran off into the night.

We continued the rest of the walk to my house in silence, me seething with unsatisfied anger.

I was pissed off at the mugger, I was pissed off at my friends for not having my back, and I was pissed off at myself for getting into this situation. I was REALLY pissed that I had to give up my really cool purse.

Every now and then I wonder what would have happened if I’d just walked away and left them there. But I couldn’t do that. Even though they didn’t have my back, I’d had theirs – which is why I gave up my purse.

But I still think I could have taken him.

Topic: Addictions

“We’ve done some tests,” the doctor said. “To determine the cause of your mysterious illness. We’ve narrowed it down to two things: Wheat and cats.”

Wheat… and cats.

Well, the wheat was the easy part. If I had to, and I had to, I could live without pie, and croissants, and crusty, warm bread. But cats? That was a tough one.

Forget for a moment that I already had two of them waiting at home for me, a home that could no longer be theirs. The fact was that I had never been without a cat in my adult life. I didn’t know how to live without them. And here this doctor was, blithely telling me that I would have to go cold turkey if I wanted to save my life.

But was a life without cats a life worth living? There was only one way to find out. So I found homes for my babies and started my new, cat-free, life. I decided to keep a journal to chart my progress.

Day 1

I don’t know if I can do this. I feel like I’m already going through withdrawal. 

I miss Pumpkin and Rasputin so much it hurts. Pumpkin used to have this thing where she would sit half on my lap and knead the couch cushion next to me. Now, I suppose she’s doing that at her new house. Or maybe not. Maybe she’s just staring at the new couch, waiting for me to sit down so she can assume the position. Maybe she’s crying, wondering where I am and why I’m not there for our evening ritual. I’d cry for her if my tear ducts weren’t swollen shut.

I really should clean, or I won’t get better.

I wonder what Putie is doing. Probably hiding under the basement steps, with his little triangular nose hidden in his paws.

You and me both, buddy. You and me both.

Day 5

I haven’t been sleeping well. Don’t get me wrong, I can breathe through my nose again, but I miss their weight and heat. I miss waking up in the middle of the night to a little bundle of purring fur at the foot of my bed.

I tried using stuffed animals, but they aren’t the same. They just don’t have the same heft.

So I lie down at night and stare at the ceiling. With no purring to lull me to sleep, I just lie there until my eyes burn and the edges of the world blur. I eventually fall asleep only to start awake in the silence. There’s no Putie snoring to reassure me that all is right with the world. Pumpkin’s not draped over the headboard, her tail brushing my forehead.

I am so alone.

  

Day 9

Today was a bad day. I made the mistake of watching TV before bed and sleeping pill commercial came on – the one where sleep is a little gray cat. I think I cried for three hours, which just made things worse because Pumpkin wasn’t around to put her little paws on my cheek as if to say “It’s OK, mama.”

That wasn’t even the worst of it. I got a call from my Aunt, the one who took my babies. It turns out that Putie got out and hasn’t been found. We’re hoping he’ll find his way here but, so far, nothing.

Meanwhile, the lady who sits three cubicles down just got a new kitten and spent the whole day showing everyone the pictures.

I spent 30 minutes in the bathroom crying into the stuffed cat I keep on my desk.

Day 15

Oh god! I feel terrible. My eyes are completely swollen shut, and I have huge red welts up and down my arms, but it was so worth it. Putie found his way back to my aunt’s house. After six days he just showed up, skinny and frayed, with no word about where he’d been or what he’d been up to.

I couldn’t stand it. I went straight there after work and spent an hour or so just hugging and snuggling them. It was so wonderful feeling their soft, sinewy bodies in my arms and feeling their warm, slightly fishy, breath on my face.

It was so hard to leave, but then I started wheezing and my aunt kicked me out.

Day 16

I’m starting to regret seeing the cats. I had been doing so well for the past few days. I’d started sleeping better and missing them a little less. I could even look at pictures of cats without bursting into tears. But, after seeing Putie and Pumpkin, it’s like I’m starting all over again.

Plus, my lungs feel raw and ragged, like I’ve walked through a house fire, and I can’t breathe through my nose again. This is harder than I’d ever imagined.

Day 36

Ok, so for the past 20 days I have been totally cat-free. No visits to Putie and Pumpkin, I even got rid of the stuffed cat on my desk. My breathing is clear, I’m sleeping through the night, and my cough has finally cleared up.

I think I can do this.

Day 43

There is no god. That’s it. That’s all I have to say.

Day 44

Ok, here’s the deal. Yesterday I came home to find a kitten just hanging out on my porch like it owned the place. I walked up to my front door and there it was. I thought that, maybe, if I made a bunch of loud noises, it would run away. But NO! The damned thing walked right up to me and sat on my foot.

What the fuck, man? Why does this have to happen to me?

I managed to push it off and run inside before it could follow me, but then it just sat outside the door meowing all night.

Today I stopped by the store, on the way home, and got some dry food. If it’s still there, I’ll give it some food. But it’s NOT COMING IN.

Still, it’s so friendly, it has to belong to someone. Maybe someone will take pity on it and take it in. It really seems to like my porch.

Day 56

Ok, so, the kitten now has a little bed, some food dishes, and a couple of toys on the porch. But I’m still not letting it in. It seems to be doing ok outside, and it greets me every time I come home.

I think I can do this. As long as I don’t let it inside, and wash my hands after I touch it, I’ll be fine.

I can do this.

Day 72

Turns out the kitten is a girl, and she’s older than I thought. I was worried that she would go into heat, and thereby continue the cycle of unwed motherhood, so I took her to the spay and neuter place. Thing is, they told me that she would need a safe place to recover after surgery… so she’s now in my basement.

That’s not REALLY in the house. I mean, it’s more like UNDER the house. I’ll put her back outside once she heals.

Day 78

She doesn’t want to leave. I put her out on the porch and she ran back inside before I could close the door.

Day 82

Fuck it. It was me or the cats and the cats have won. Putie and Pumpkin are back, joined by Petunia. Benedryl isn’t that expensive, and I found a coupon for that 24 hr allergy stuff. I think that if I take several doses each day I should be fine.

Sure, I’ll be a little drowsy but that’s a small price to pay to have the whole family back together. The great thing is that Petunia loves to snuggle under the covers. I wake up each morning with her nestled in my arms like a little doll. It’s the cutest thing ever.

Well, I think it’s the cutest thing. I can’t really tell because my eyes are usually crusted shut. But she’s so adorable that it only stands to reason.

Another great thing is that they all seem to get along. Sure, there are have been a few incidents between Pumpkin and Petunia, and Putie wants nothing to do with the new addition but, for the most part, they all seem to live and let live.

So my face is a little swollen, and my throat is a little tight.

It’s all worth it.

Topic: Addictions

Author: Chris Dunn

My gas light is on, so I turn the car off and let it idle in the dark. Enough heat lingers to keep me warm, and Jill shouldn’t be much longer. Sh’s just going in to buy one of those vape cartridge dealies. She can go right to the register. As long as there isn’t a crowd of kids wanting shakes and ice cream cones, it shouldn’t be long.

A young kid wanders the parking lot approaching exiting customers for brief conversations before returning to his perch, - spanging, I assume. Worried he might spot me sitting in the car, I crane my neck around to try to see into the United Dairy Farmers hoping to gauge how much longer it will be. “Dairy Farmers”, or UDF, is a bit of a joke. Sure, they still sell a little scooped ice cream and advertise malt specials, but like any other convenient store their primary purpose is dispensing drugs – nicotine and alcohol. And I suppose you might as well pick up some coffee filters while you’re there, save a trip and only four dollars over what the grocery would charge. You know, for the convenience.

I can’t see her so I settle back hoping the kid will miss me and move on. I watch him head across the street to hassle folks at the nearby gas station, it dawns on me. This UDF has a particular significance in my own smoking history. This is the store where I had purchased my first pack of cigarettes, ones that were wholly my own. Up untill then, I had been getting by smoking Kit and Drew’s OPs, but Drew had been not so subtly hinting that that shit was getting a little tired. We were there. They were buying some. And I wanted one – god did I want one! I believe they cost $1.65 at the time. I swore that if the price ever got over $2 a pack, I would quit.

This was ten years into my addiction. I had always been a social smoker. My earliest exposure was thanks to Mark Voss. Wanting to be cool, I choked through my first few cigarettes with him in a tiny park, coincidently just a block away from where I currently live. We were 12. We got Drew involved, and when his cousin Tracy came to town. I found the knack. I wasn’t going to be the prude off on the side NOT smoking as we hid behind the grocery store being bad. Oh, those first lustful longings! I didn’t even know what I wanted to do with her, but I was certain I needed to be cool to have a chance. So, we smoked and coughed and felt sick while I tried to determine if I could see through her shirt. Of course, she wound up with Mark, and I wound up getting caught smoking by my mother. I really believed that if you put a fan in the window, no one could tell!

There followed ten years of sobriety, until I discovered Kit was a smoker. He’d gamed with us for over a year, keeping it a secret. In this circle, smoking was decidedly uncool, and he had really wanted to fit it. He fit in quite well, after college he would become my monogamous, life partner for nearly 20 years. Gaming brought us together, but it was the cigarettes which brought us close. I remember we were sitting in the parking lot of the Famous Recipe Chicken on Goodman Avenue. I had already opened the box and broken off a piece of the still hot and crispy breading – as was my ritual – when he lit up. I looked at it. Looked at the dash. Thought about my mother. Looked at him. Watched the passing traffic. Smelled the smoke. “Can I get one of those?” I asked.

How long it went from there, it’s hard to strictly say. There were periods of sobriety throughout twenty-five years or so, one lasting three solid years. I made several pacts with myself, several dares to quit, several tests, that should these specific circumstances come to pass – that would be the end of it. Until the end of this lighter… Until they hit $3 per pack... When I get back from Europe... If I get this job… Mark would join the army and move away. Kit would find true love and move out. Who knows whatever became of Tracy… But the smoking endured.

I’ve done a lot of different drugs over the years. The gateways, the hard stuff… No heroin or cocaine, mind you, I’m not an idiot. But none of them calls to me like nicotine. I could get high… Or not. I like a few beers now and then, but if you told me never again, it wouldn’t kill me. And sure, I miss our yearly rituals with LSD and others, but I’m not a young man anymore, and they can be exhausting. But cigarettes are about simplicity and community. We share and we breath and while the smoke lingers in our veins, nothing else really matters as much as it seemed to before. Sure the world will come crashing back in, but these next fifteen minutes are mine. Very centering…

Almost two years ago to this day, my mother passed away, instead of turning to nicotine, I quit. It all just seemed suddenly stupid. To be honest everything at that time seemed empty and meaningless, so I decided to seize on the opportunity and at least have one good thing come of it. Since then, I’ve been good. The odd smoke bummed from friends (Kit, Curtis, Neal) at the end of the night, shared as we recounted the finished gaming session or a handful imbibed during a night when one drink becomes several and you just want the party to roll on, sleep be damned! Other than those minor slips – which I feel will always be with me – I’ve been good.

The car door opens and Jill hops back in the car. I engage the engine and pull quickly into traffic. Jill is already puffing on her vape pen, or maybe not. I am pointedly not looking.