This awesome distro out of Olympia WA picked up I Know You Know My Heart Issue#1!!
Check it out!
I am 28 years old and I sleep with a stuffed animal. Fortunately, I don’t have trouble sleeping without him, like if I am sleeping elsewhere or if there is an actual four year old in the house that needs him. I don’t know if he is restless when I am away, we have never talked about it.
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The feeling of being loved or not being loved is not circumstantial.
I can feel alone anywhere in the world, in any crowd, in any set of eyes or arms.
Most of the love that has been here for me in my life has not been translatable. I haven’t received it, haven’t felt it or believed in it. I am having specific kinds of memories lately, sudden flashes of times when people have been showing me they loved me and I have missed the ball completely.
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We were drinking in the bathrooms at the pier. This was in the years when they were still unlocked all of the time. Now most of the supposedly public bathrooms in this town are locked most of the time. Still they show up on lists printed by businesses to prove that there are plenty of pooping options for houseless people without them worrying about it. Those same lists are used to try to throw the book at people that are caught pooping where they can when they can. Read the rest of this entry
When I left home I was 14 years old. When I was 15 an arrangement was reached whereby my Dad would send 300 dollars of child support that was court ordered to my mom and then, most months, she would send it to me.
I moved into a room up on the eastside of Olympia at 16 after trying to secretly move to British Columbia. My secret mission was publicly foiled by Read the rest of this entry
On the Mesa to the so-called North West (the Earth is still not flat despite sick peoples best efforts) of Taos, a mesa whose name I do not know but know is worth knowing, I spent a beautiful hopeful time.
I drank a lot less out there, which meant more than an average person but not so much that I had to steal away to another town in the night trying to outrun my shame.
I looked up all of the time. I looked up into a sky that never ended, stretching for eternity. The sky was so big that my heart would race when I looked up. I would feel nervous without a canopy, but I liked it. So much of so many blues and far away blues.
I stayed with a man who years before had noticed he had been alone on this land for so long that he was loosing his mind. He had a moment of clarity where he recognized this as a state he may not return from, so he signed up to host woofers on a make believe farm. Two girls came out and smoked weed in his sweet spicy one room half buried palace. They shared a cast iron, if it got cold they made love or something like it.
He had found himself having all kinds of company ever since. I was there with a pack of performers making their living giving shows to drunks on sidewalks and in strip clubs, we moonlighted as thieves. We made clothes with pockets so big they could hide thirty paint markers or a gallon of wine.
My van blended into a sea of automobiles, buses, vans, motorcycles, and station wagons all in various stages of rot. The motley crew had one thing in common, each vehicle had at some point been given its current paint job by one or more clowns on one or more drugs whose names I can hardly pronounce.
Mine was stripes and stars but had cleverly avoided being patriotic.
Up the road was another sea of dilapidated old cars. We heard a rumour that the old man who lived in them was using their parts to make a roller coaster. I have been meaning to go back and check.
People out there were pretty isolated old geniuses. The ones that are much less fun to be around than to hear stories of. Besides the man with the roller coaster there were all kinds of people making all kinds of contraptions, spirally vortex crystal whirligigs, mechanisms for extracting ever more potent hallucinogenic properties from exotic plants, and most of all time machines; too many time machines to count. People were always talking about their time machines but never about where they were thinking they would go?
What time did these lonely fools think would be better for them? I was and am so curious about this.
The folks who were not inventors were focused on other kinds of incredible time (not) machines. For instance fire and farting; these two fantastic ones, exist perfectly inside and outside of all time. No matter what someone is watching on T.V. at any given hour in any given condition, their attention will always be drawn if their yard is on fire. In the same way, no matter how flat and sterile and cold the environment everyone giggles if a fart gets loose. People may even find themselves at the same window where they watched the yard burn, letting the smell out.
These were the kinds of important things that these people, who were smart enough and crazy enough that they could have been hired to build weapons of mass destruction, were keeping busy doing. Thank Gods.
I loved it there. My life is what I love today but sometimes there are not enough puppets hanging from rafters hitting me in the forehead while I am frying an egg.
My dog joined a pack of wild dogs and I hardly saw him. Bitches gave birth to puppies that were full grown pack members in a day and a half.
That pack was second in command only to a crew of feral three-year oldes. They were definitely in charge of the people end of that strange place. They ran everywhere naked and wild eyed. They stole food and made everything they could touch into their new best toy. They came in when they were tired, they knew their names and they screamed them as they ran barefoot over bushes that made me cry if they poked me even through a shoe.
I found some scribbling I did about this place a few years ago this morning as I was riffling through old notebooks.
That piece ended something like this:
Why do I think about that place today when I sit down to write about something or somewhere? Why that place of all of the places? I think it is all the looking up. It is such a striking time of looking up because it is sandwiched between times when I was always looking down, so far down that my face could not be told from the sidewalk.
Was it the skunk spraying my dog or the dog chasing the skunk that saved my life that night?
The dreams were awful under that bridge.
We had been hitchhiking since dawn out of Portland. We were headed east, headed for Denver, for rivers and inter tubes and 40’s getting warm too fast like they aught to in the summer but never do in Washington. We barely made it 40 miles and I swear we walked most of it.
We were at four corners. Four corners is a place out of place. You can find it in any state, several times some of the time. A place where two freeways cross each other and a truck stop is sitting at each cardinal point. It’s a place made by concrete and named for how square it is. There are other types of four corners but this one is the most commonly known to many a modern american.
It had long since grown dark. We bought a couple of beers with a pile of coins that the cashier didn’t bother counting. That was good for us because it included some Canadian and at least one chucky cheese token, may have also been where my lucky bingo chip ended up.
We walked south down the smallest road leading out of there. We were looking for a nice bush, nothing fancy, just cozy. We saw a string of lights outlining a bridge not to far down the way.
Under it we found nothing too strange. There was a fire pit with the last occupants empties in it. There was a line of bushes where water used to be; the brush was thick past there. We drank and rolled out our beds. My dog, Skrap, was tied to my backpack. It wasn’t heavy enough to stop him but it slowed him to just less then my speed. This was important if a cop was to come down. I agree that it is very rude to wake people up but, in my dogs’ best interest, I still had to be able to catch him before he mauled an officer of the law.
I fell right to sleep.
The sleep was strange; something was strange.
There was something on top of me in my dream, something choking me, my eyes were open but I could not see anything but the bottom of the bridge. I couldn’t breathe. I was panicked.
I woke to Skrap taking off running faster than ever into the bushes. He was hollering loud, the kind that is reserved for real danger. The leash snapped and he was gone. My partner was sitting up, scared. I was aware of this all happening before I sat up because I couldn’t move for a little too long. I was awake but my body wasn’t responding to me telling it to get up.
He turned to me and shook me and with that stimulation my connectors kicked back in. I sat up. He said we should get out of there. I said why. The dream was already fading. He said we should get out of there.
I yelled for Skrap so much. We could hear him tearing through the bushes but he was not listening. My friend was shaken up. I was very groggy. I tried to convince him we should go back to sleep. Skrap would leave whatever it was alone eventually and we could leave at first light.
My friend was pale.
I started to lie down again but Skrap came back. He had been skunked. Fuck. There was no sleeping in that smell. Even under an entire bridge it was suffocating. Not to mention the fact that we would never get a ride farther east with him like that.
We packed it up and walked back to the gas stations. We had to go back to Portland and stick Skrap in a vat of tomato juice or something. There was still something going on with my friend but he was not saying anything to me. He found a guy headed back west willing to put us in the back of his open pick up truck. The sun came up in the gorge as we rode snuggled in our sleeping bags. Bless him; he dropped us right on the doorstep of the Garfield House.
We put Skrap in the tub. There was no tomato juice but there was ten years worth of roommates leaving half full bottles of smelly shampoo. We covered him in everything. By the end of it he still smelled like a skunks ass but more like an elite skunks ass.
We stayed another night. We went to a party with all kinds of cocktails. We drank a glass of water between each of the twelve we both drank. We were pretending that would help us still get an early start.
He told me about the dream his third or fourth drink in. He had a dream that he could not tell was a dream, everything was just like it was when we went to sleep except in this dream he woke up and where I had been was only a small pool of something like water. He said it was the scariest dream he ever didn’t know he was dreaming and that is when Skrap woke him up.
The next day we left, midday and we got a few very smooth, very long rides and we were in Denver in no time.
I don’t want to know what was there besides the three of us.
Thank you Skrap. Thank you skunk. Thank you for every time a person is protected before they know well enough to protect themselves.
My first kiss was a boy who was 5 and I was 7 in the woods behind the apartment. A slimy little peck on the lips on a dare and then I kissed his best friend because it was only fair since he had kept watch.
I was maybe 8; I was in the backyard of my stepmoms parent’s house. They were heavy smokers, you could have written your name with your fingernail in the smoke stains on the walls. The ashtrays were always full. There was a fuzzy T.V. in the living room that always had on the Grande Ole Opry or the Andy Griffith show. There was a mobile home in the driveway that I don’t think ever went anywhere but they were glad to own it and good at dreaming about it.
The neighbor boy was over, he was my same age. We were sitting against a sidewall of the house underneath a bedroom window on top of some kind of wooden electric box. I told the neighbor boy I wasn’t sure if I wanted to have kids. He said he definitely wanted to have one hundred of them. I was proud of my knowledge of sex; it was something I loved to disseminate. I informed him that to have one hundred babies he would have to engage in intercourse one hundred times. That was the end of that conversation and we moved onto whatever else 8 year olds like to talk about.
It was a little while later when she came out. She told that boy to leave and I remember standing in the sun facing her. She stood close. I remember what her sweat smelled like. It was not the first time that I was too close to her sweat.
She told me that she had heard everything. I didn’t know what she meant. She said she heard me talking sexy to that neighbor boy and that now she knew the truth about me.
The year before it had come out that a cousin had been molesting me since I was 4. The family had forgotten about it rather quickly. I still got left alone with him regularly.
In the backyard under a hot hot sun she told me that now she knew that I had seduced my cousin and she asked how I would like it if she told my whole family the truth.
I stood shaking. I didn’t say anything. Seductress, liar, slut, troublemaker, I just stood and absorbed this new information.
It was hard in California because the other 9 year old in my apartments had a little brother who we had to bring a long with us. When we would play doctor he would be the receptionist. We would lock him in the walk in closet, which was the waiting room. The walls were thick and you couldn’t hear him holler really.
He was cute. He looked like a bulldog. His cheeks were very saggy for a little guy. He was my favorite neighbor boy because we didn’t do anything gross like with the others. He just taught me how to ride a bike in the cul-de-sac. Every other ten year old in the state could ride a bike but I was a late bloomer.
I tried futily to avoid doing things that hurt while you learned them.
Whidbey Island until the End
Somewhere in there Otay had reached sexual maturity and night time cages became more necessary when we were outside or in dilapidated houses that were less like inside than a tarp. His testicles, which were as big as his torso called him to wander in a way he was less likely to return from.
We moved to Whidbey Island in the spring. Otay met a lot of goats and passed the time tearing keys off laptops that were left open and unattended. Sometimes he could get one off while a person was just a few steps away from their computer.
We hopped around to Olympia a little, and sometimes stayed over in Port Townsend, me in a bed in the back of a box truck and him leaving pee trails on the front seats.
These were the days when he took up a rather curious hobby of chasing Skrap (or any other dog I trusted not to eat him) and trying to nibble at their penises. He was dedicated and would not give up the chase until such time as I took pity on my patient dog and picked up Otay and tucked him in my shirt. Tucking Otay in my shirt was like putting a towel over a birdcage and he would go right to sleep.
Otay lived nights in a condo built from an old rabbit hutch so that Skrap could rest a few hours in the evening unmolested.
When we moved back to Olympia it was summer. We bounced around for a hot minute and then moved into a little house made of windows in a luscious backyard. It was a place I had seen in my dreams and not surprising to me that it showed up physically.
Otay took no time finding an escape under a gardening drawer; at least I think that was where the hole was. Truth be told it was months of me plugging up holes I though were ‘the one’. Eventually he could only be off me when I was right there and even then sometimes he would disappear and materialize outside in the tall grass.
Once he escaped for less than five minutes but I found him covered in leaves as though he had fashioned himself clothes chewing on the bark of a tree he was clinging to. It was as though he had been on his own, surviving in the wild for months. This was Otays only foray into re-wilding.
In October that year I put together an art instillation at a hall just outside of town. My dear friend watched Otay for a few days so I could work around the clock without him leaping off of ladders or chasing raccoons to try to taste their junk.
That was our first time apart. I would not have thought it was possible but when I would walk into a room after being separated from him for any length of time he would scamper to me as fast as his little legs would go, or he would sneeze to me where he was until I picked him up.
When we cleaned up the show we had a load for the dump. I was heaving bags of non-burnables and smashed toilets down about twenty feet into the otherwise empty bin. I was just about to throw down a very heavy object when I spotted none other than Otay at the bottom of the bin sniffing broken glass, wading in dumpster soup.
I nearly had a coronary incident. I put down the heavy object and ran to the lady in the booth where the dump handled money. Like a cartoon, 8 very buff men showed up quickly like they just hid all day, polishing their muscles, waiting for someone to rescue. They talked about trajectories and strategies and action plans. I offered that someone could put the ladder they had brought down into the bin. Then that person could climb down, pick up Otay and climb back out.
I was told to keep quiet and let the professionals do their job. Twenty minutes later one of the men put his ladder down into the bin. He then climbed down, picked up Otay and then climbed back out. The team left Hi-5’ing each other and talking about God’s grace in the face of such adversity.
It was a good summer for Otay. We did not know it would be his last. He rode with me on bicycles, went to the beach and the river, and ate everything his mouth touched. He spent more and more time on the bodies of other friends. My roommate learned the hard way about his computer key habit, three times.
We went to New Mexico in the winter for our first trip to the little round trailer I have since lived in twice a year. The folks in La Madera had never heard of a pet rat, and wanted to hurl when they saw how he drank. So Otay stayed in the trailer and ate avocados and drank water with Osha in it to fix up what seemed like a urinary tract infection. This was the only time Otay was ever sick. When he was healthy we went back north to our glass nest.
These final months he had a more active social life than myself. We would go to a party and people I had never met would stick their hands in my shirt to flirt with him and coo about some recent adventure they had shared. These people would regard me about as much as the chair a friend is sitting in gets regarded.
Otay was a man about town. He had many more girlfriends than me.
One day we went to Elma to see the horse that had recently become the newest member of our family. Otay stayed in the van because when he rode on me during manual labor, my neck would look like a scratching post afterwards.
He had never escaped from a car. After work we got back in the van and drove the 40 miles home at 65 miles per hour. I did not see Otay but there was any number of places I figured he was hiding.
When we got home there was still no sign of him. We searched and searched. I called his name 1000 times. We called Elma so they could check their own driveway.
Eventually we all sat crying on the porch, wondering if he had escaped or if he had gotten into the engine somehow and fell off on the highway. I had a strong feeling that he was alive but in danger. We went back to the van. My friend checked the back again. I sat in the drivers seat and closed my eyes. I called his name and spoke our secret clicking language and then I listened, hard.
Then suddenly, a sneeze!!!!! Halleluiah! From inside the dashboard. Behind the steering wheel, so many sneezes then. 16 screws, a lot of prayers and a dashboard removal later he was free. As near as we could figure, Otay had crawled through the gas pedal hole up to a tiny platform in the dashboard where he had clung on for dear life, surviving high speeds and bone rattling pop music.
In spring a trip to California brought Otays first stay in a five star hotel. On our way back north we were stopped at a friends place and I put a watermelon rind in his cage. In the morning he was scratching like wild at his bars. I looked and it was like a horror movie, everything in the cage was covered in ants so thick it was all you could see. There were two lines marching out of the wall right into the cage with no sign of stopping. Otay was rescued in the nick of time.
In retrospect this was the closest he ever came to being eaten.
In Portland we met a rat named Augustine Octavius who was being called Cointel-pro, living a lonely life in a basement. He was not older than Otay but he was bigger and paralyzed from the waste down. He was supposedly a biter.
We learned that Oggy (as we called him) was a sweet flower waiting to blossom with love and avocados. We adopted him as a pet for Otay who had been lonely in his cage when I found steady work.
They were quick cuddle buddies. Oggy was the only rat Otay had ever liked. Oggy thrived in Olympia. Otay on the other hand began to wither. It was too much time in his cage and not enough on my body. Even with Oggy as a pet, I believe his heart was broken.
Two weeks later he got sick. It came on fast, a matter of a day or two. By the time I noticed he was not well he was hardly moving and not eating or drinking by himself.
For two days we sat watching him. I fed him nettle tea in an eyedropper. I had seen nettle tea bring goats back from the gates of death. I also fed him pedialyte and at one point he ate applesauce and we thought he would recover.
It was not so. He passed away, cuddled between our greatest friend and me. It was the early morning of June the 8th. We wrapped him in lace like the sweetheart of Mel Gibson in Brave Heart. We had a public viewing for the entire day and then he was buried by a parade of children who loved him, in a bed of flowers and stories and a boat made of flute melodies created for his journey.
In a world where complacency can take us over so quickly Otay was a living and constant reminder of lifes’ magic. Though he may be sitting on a golden throne eating dog dick in rat heaven, we are hear missing him and forever listening for his sneeze.
A day later we headed north. Grandpa left us in San Francisco and Otay, Skrap and myself moved on alone (together).
We went through Petaluma, hot tubs at parents’ houses, so much wine with so many Dads, washes, olde theatres and punk shows.
We got dropped off one afternoon at a very strange spot that was not in walking distance of food or water. It was the Y where one kind of large road became two much smaller roads. The sun set and we walked into a spooky park called ‘Organ Donors Grove’.
Skrap and I slept hard. Otay stayed by my head and kept watch. I was worried about him in my dreams but in the morning he was curled at my feet. I drank a warm beer in my backpack, the last one left and we went back out to the road.
By afternoon we had not been picked up. Otay was the only one of the three of us that had food, funny because he did not mind missing meals nearly as much as Skrap and myself.
Mixed in with Otays’ food were raw almonds in their shells. Rats have ever growing teeth and if they don’t have that sort of thing to grind on then their teeth can actually grow up into their little skulls. I picked all the almonds out. I stomped them open on the road and picked out the smushed guts. I ate some and gave some to Skrap.
Some dogs love vegetables, some love nuts and tofu and all kinds of strange things. My dog is not like that. He likes meat and butter and things that taste like meat and butter but since this day he has also loved almonds.
By the time we got picked up in a ride going clear to Oregon we had eaten all of Otays nuts.
We got another ride and made it to Olympia that night. We got to stop with each ride for soft serve. It was a good day.
Skrap is very polite when sharing ice cream. He takes small licks and never bites. Otay, on the other hand, would burrow in with his whole head leaving claw marks and head sized holes all up in your cone. I never minded because I always got the largest of the largest cone available. Next to that, his head was pretty small.
Once we got back to Olympia it took quite a while to reach Montana again. The pass snowed over, I lost three or four days here and there in a bottle and I kept ending up in Portland with my so many loves there.
My brother, from a different and so similar mother, in Portland had a house that loved Otay. There was always a bedroll for us in the basement workshop with two bowls of water beside it, one big for skrap and one teensy for Otay.
Otay had run of that workshop. He loved to chew and play in the pallets that lined the floor so that all the desks, tables, and shelves were raised up when it flooded each winter.
When I went outside Otay would make the herculean climb up the stairs to find me. I always heard him coming because on each step he would stop to sneeze and clean his face.
He was always a big sneezer, when he had play dates with other rat buddies I had to calm the minds of concerned people because sickness spreads so fast among them. Sneezing was not a symptom for Otay, but rather a lifestyle.
When we did finally make it east to the moldy teepee it had been a good while since Otay or I had taken any kind of solid poop. I quit the sauce when I got back to Montana, which is an entirely huge and different story but I will never forget what a milestone it was when me and my rat received the blessing of solid bowel movements…
It is a story best told by Grandpa, but I will do my best to give the gist of it. Grandpa had been pretty sick ever since we had left the bay. Various symptoms digestive and otherwise had afflicted him. These symptoms were above and beyond what was common for our kind of diet and alcohol consumption. They included tremors, fevers, flashes and all kinds of not funs but none of them in any order or pattern that was familiar to me.
One night, in the bus, as Grandpa and Otay hung out alone, the sickness came worse than ever. Grandpa seriously thought he might die, like he had been poisoned or possessed or something. He was laying there, to sick to get help when Otay crawled onto his chest. Otay proceeded to do an elaborate dance that Grandpa later described but that I believe is best left unpublished. The dance took place down the length of Grandpas body and he said he could feel the sickness moving around, following Otay.
When Otay reached his feet he shook the sickness right out of them. A very tired Otay then came to Grandpas lips and drank drank drank.
That mystery illness never came back after that night.
The beginning of our life in Monatana was me passed out on a tiny karaoke stage at the neighborhood bar. Otay was on his hind legs, teethe barred, balanced on my shoulder defending himself from a barkeep who was swatting him with a broom.
She had never heard of a pet rat.
Folks would come try to get me up and back on a barstool and he would defend me too.
That night was the horribly predictable result of me rewarding myself for being sober 12 hours. The next weeks in Montana Otay slept tucked tight in my sportsbra, safe as I marathon jumped on and off the wagon.
We lived in a teepee buried by 12 foot snowdrifts.
He ran around at night over our moldy futon making trouble in the dry goods box on the desk, chewing candles and leaving pee trails on the ever-growing piles of pictures and poems drawn o the inside of grocery store bags.
A neighbor dog broke into the teepee through a loose seem and chased ota out of where the back corner would have been if a tee pee had corners. It was then that we acquired a big chicken wire cage that had brought chicks to the land the spring before. It had a cute wooden roof and a straw floor and fit perfectly between the futon and the barrel stove. This way he stayed toasty without catching fire.
The cage irritated him a little but kept him from being eaten. My strong preference was that Otay never be eaten.
The sides of the cage were very nice for climbing. A couple of times Otay managed to suspend himself long enough to chew through the corners of the roof and I had to repair them with various methods and masses of electrical tape. Why did we seem to have so much electrical tape?
The dogs would wine at the cage but they knew not to get to close or they would be out in the snow. It was hard for them to understand, having been raised with rewards when they kept Otays’ wild distant cousins out of the barn and the big cabin where the family who belonged to this land lived.
We took a short walk to Oakland California at some point to see my olde drinking buddy from Cottage Grove. He is one of my favorite people I have ever made a series of poor decisions with. Otay nibbled our toes in the loft built above the kitchen built above the bike shop.
When we stumbled back to the car in San Francisco he narrowly avoided the nervous kitty. I was no help to him, curled up and shaking. Then it was back home through stormy mountain passes in a car with no heat whose windows had to stay down to keep the windshield from fogging over.
In December we traveled over to Seattle for Otays first Christmas. He lived on cookies and cheese wedge shaped chew toys and took extra long naps.
We decided to go down to Olympia. Then we decided we may as well borrow little white truck and drive to Arizona since we were already there. Otay rode on the seat behind my head or between the laps of myself and the friend who came along. We picked up 3 of our closest friends in S.F. and drove south a few miles at which time the trucks engine exploded because I had forgotten that trucks need oil.
We left it by the side of the road. We broke into two teams of two and hit the highway one after the other. Our fifth went back to the city. He was in love up there anyways and found it very fortunate that he had a good reason not to go south with us. For all I know he had put sugar in the gas tank.
It was the middle of the night and Skrap, Otay, Grandpa (our buddy) and myself were the second team on the on-ramp. A bottom hitting football star cokehead in a big big big shiny shiny shiny black car picked us up.
We slept that night in an R.V. parked in his side yard. That R.V. was larger and more luxurious than most homes either of us had ever been in. Otay got to tunnel in and out of fresh sheets while we watched belly dancing on public access on a large TV mounted between the driver and passenger seats.
Like I said, by that time we did not travel with a cage. By night we would be sleeping in the bushes and I would periodically wake up and hear him nibbling around, but come morning he would be curled in the bottom of my sleeping bag or scratching at my lips. I bet Skraps smell and over-all awesomeness lent itself to Otay never becoming a snack in those days.
It was a whirlwind down thru L.A. and out into the desert. We stopped only to charm people in Wal Mart parking lots, take our naps and drink beers when we tired of pouring them into to-go cups.
Then there was McDonalds. Oh McDonalds. Grandpa and myself had inadvertently found us on a spiritual journey where everything in our lives was being questioned. This included such no brainers as- McDonalds is not actually food. So we ate it. It was our new attitude, breaking away from all preconceived notions. Freedom tasted not like a baby and not like bathwater, we had thrown both out! Freedom tasted like double “cheese burgers”. We ate it until out poop turned black and we dreamt about vegetables. Then we ate it again, big macs apple pies chicken nuggets….it was not a proud time.
Between decisions like that and the booze, Otay, who basically lived in my mouth and refused most other water, suffered similar digestive struggles as myself. Diarrhea became very common for both of us. Rat diarrhea on me in 105-degree weather, racing toward Bisbee where we hardly had enough water to keep us conscious let alone bathe… that was love.
Grace had a dear friend scoop us up. She was visiting family in southern California and she drove us through the miles of one-exit-at-a-time that some people get trapped in for years.
Tucson was wild. We met back up with the friends who had been in the white truck. We got drunk in a tunnel in the morning. When I woke up t was afternoon, Skrap and Otay were curled up on the dirt with me. We walked back to our friend’s house and got drunk again. I had sex with a nice girl on the front porch then went inside and had sex with another nice girl who didn’t normally do that sort of thing. Certainly not on the kitchen counter, then in the middle of the dance floor, then in a sleeping bag 3 feet from her ex boyfriend. Otay was a real trooper. I have no idea where he was but in the morning he was beside me.
Grandpa and I woke up early and got while the getting was good. A hippy headed to Bisbee for the same New Years Hoorah we had our sights set on picked us up. We listened to a cassette tape of chicken stompers from a tribe that lived half on this side of the border and half on the other.
In Bisbee Prince Otay rode in and out of all kinds of music and pubs and parades. We stayed out in the desert. Otay stayed in a bus with Grandpa so that the dog of the guy I was boning would not eat him.
It was here that Otay performed his first miracle…