For five nights late in the summer, I flopped in a house off of SE 37th street with three other men and two women. I did not know any of these individuals well, save Greg, though we appeared to be accepted each other, and we actually quite friendly. The house had been temporarily vacated, perhaps by someone who had gone on a long vacation, as it was fully furnished, some food stocked, and it was in good shape. It became my base for about five days. One afternoon, a group of us put a VCR tape in, and watched Pink Floyd’s The Wall, a bizarre, though mesmerizing, animated version of their famous album. We snorted a couple big lines of street meth, and our early evening seemed to be set. We were to hit a couple bars, and check out a party late in the evening.
The movie ended, and then the group was preparing to move out to the first bar, when I started getting violently ill. I started shaking uncontrollably, started having seizures and then went into convulsions. One by one the group walked by me to exit. Greg, the last one to leave, said that I would be OK in a couple of hours, and threw a blanket over me. As a lay on the couch, unable to even take the blanket off of my face, I wondered if this was finally it for me. I felt abandoned, betrayed, and helpless. I guess that loneliness has many brothers and sisters. Greg was right, two hours later, I recovered, and left the house for good. I slept in the back of my Datsun 310 for two days afterward, curled up in a fetal position.
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