I’m strapped to another gurney, being carted away from our posh neighborhood for the second time this week.
The trees and mansions go by in a blur, as I’m transported to the city’s oldest hospital.
“What did you take Nick?”
Really who knows at this point, and does it really matter? My wife tries to hand them my passport, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Somewhere I’m on a beach in Miami with Mark. (I’m married now, try to keep up).
At this point my wife gets sick of my shit and sends me back to the ‘W’ Summer Estate to detox.
One night I’m convinced six black men are staging a hostile takeover of my father’s peaceful farmhouse, and I lock myself in the attic with canned goods and an AK-47. When he finds me there asleep in the morning he’s just happy I’m still alive. Another night I spend hours taking videos of what I henceforth call ‘proof’ of intruders on his front porch.
“You realize that’s just concrete right Nick?”
I power wash his siding and front porch since at this point I owe I him hundreds-of-thousands of dollars and even in death will never be able to repay him what I owe. I guess it’s a start.
He flies me back home, but I’m still not well. Let’s not blame it on the sock full of uppers, downers, and in-betweener’s I hid in my Kenneth Cole bag.
My wife takes me back to the ER, the same hospital I’d seen twice the week before.
They want to admit me for psychiatric examination, hold me against my will, but like always I talk my way out of it.
Curse this eloquence.
My real Psychiatrist’s Assistant stops by the ER and promises to take good care of me. I start crying because I told my wife to leave. Because no one should have to see me like this.
The piercing shriek of a hellish banshee is all I hear when I come to in the sterile hospital room. No warm gooey coma this time. There’s a fire alarm going off in my head, but none of the nurses seem to take me my pleas for help seriously. It finally takes a triple does of Ativan to knock me back out.
Conscious once again, I call the wife.
“So, the FBI called our phones…”
“What the fuck does the FBI want?”
Turns outs one our dealers from six months ago was running guns and large quantities of drugs, who knew? Like all things, you never really know until the FBI knocks on your door.
So I Guess This Is The End Huh?