Broke-down in the left lane, in the hard rain on the Interstate-5 half way across a bridge between Portland and Vancouver.
Half way between a taken woman and where two rivers converge.
At least half delusional, if not 87%.
I don't know if I found her lies more palatable, or my own, to myself.
I've always perceived reality to be a bit pliable.
Two States converge on a beat-up, ugly, puke-green bridge; Oregon, Washington.
Toxic river-waters run beneath, gurgling obscenities and laughing at mans' dreams.
Sirens behind me, not the singing kind, I pull to the side to meet my fate.
Apparently I was supposed to pull over to the right side of the freeway and not to the left.
This the cop tells me.
Apparently I was supposed to have local registration, a clean license, good credit and a savory attitude.
I fell short in every category.
I believe these to be the reasons why officer ass-face ticketed me so vehemently on Christmas eve.
Being the “other man”, as it were, has many similarities to being an active criminal.
When you are an active criminal you get this...sense.
Its' almost as if you can feel the hammer on its' way down to the nail, which is usually your head.
You start counting days, hours, minutes, seconds, subconsciously, before you are caught.
Guilt, I suppose.
She lied to me when she said she loved me.
I lied to her when I reassured her that I believed that she did.
I lied to myself when I thought that I loved her.
She lied to me when she said she would leave him for me.
I lied to her when I said that I believed her and could wait forever.
I diluted myself when I felt self-pity at the seeming abuse that I set myself up for.
There was always a steady drizzle in those days.
Never a monsoon, like in Arizona: Arizona—where I convinced myself, in memory, I was happy.
A steady, incessant drizzle of rain and fucking cold.
I had no jacket; gimmie a break, I'm from California.
I think it is because of my lack-of-jacket that the police-officer made me stand out in the depressing drizzle for so long.
My relationship with her was like a steady drizzle.
Dull.
Just, barely annoying.
And still I thought I loved her, because I needed to love.
Because I needed to save her from her awful—according to her—boyfriend.
I needed to be needed, so an annoying drizzle was sufficient for me to tighten the noose around my own neck.
She eventually chose the boyfriend over me.
She thought me exciting and exotic and mysterious and adventurous. Like a pet ferret.
Still, she thought him safe.
People often choose a familiar prison over unfamiliar...pets.
The protect-and-server absentmindedly fiddled with his night-stick, likely imagining the beauty of my opened skull.
I think he hated my home-State and me for representing it, in all of my alien, unregistered, heathenistic glory.
I left the scene of the break-down around 2 a.m. and hitch-hiked home; 20 miles by 3 a.m..
Busses don't run on holidays, so the next morning—Christmas—I took a cab that I couldn't afford to be there for my kids in Portland by 7 a.m.
She broke up with me by inches, not miles.
Stopped returning my calls.
Missed dates.
The Great Fade...
The usual acts of a mostly decent person who found herself in a situation she could not maneuver out of gracefully.
Eventually I insisted that she come over and I ended it.
With her, that is.
It was set up that way from the beginning; from the first flirtation, the first fantasy.
If I didn't end it, it wouldn't end; forbidden fruit, now rotting on the vine.
I was okay with my forced position; I knew the risks when I got into it.
Sancho, Sancho, Sancho...
The only part that really stung was when she was headed out the door for the last time and turned back, tears in her eyes, to say one last thing.
I thought she was going to apologize, so like some misguided knight falling on his own sword, I shushed her ever so gently; telling her it wasn't her fault, that it was my fault and how she couldn't be blamed.
It Was All My Fault.
She gracefully let me finish, wiped her tears away and asked me if she could have her coffee cup back.
Its' what I deserved for being so, so...cinematic.
It is so difficult to maneuver, even clumsily, through life.
We must all try to assess and analyze reality.
We try to find truth so that we can base our decisions on sound information.
When everyone is lying—including us, to ourselves—how can we make effective decisions?
Vast questions for limited modalities.
What I do know is that I prefer a raging storm to a calm drizzle.
