our apartment "LATHER"

I drove home and decided to read a little. We had a law book in the basement about everyday law and it helped me understand what happens when a company goes bankrupt. The chapter was torn out. The kids must be in the zoo by now, looking at all the wondrous animals that appear in tanks and in fenced areas looking for a way back into freedom. This house, my daughter, and my wife was all i needed. Well, I can say that now. Before Cass was born, I don't know how Shelby put up with me. We didn't live in this small town for quite as long as we lived in the city. New York City.

*****

We had a small condo on East 42nd and I would write. Shelby would snort lines (what a beautiful model she was). I would drink anything, wine, beer, bourbon. Sometimes I would mix them together and just inhale the mayhem in drink. She'd pass the rolled up 20 dollar bill and I took a snort. Good old fashion cocaine. A song sung in my mind. “Cocaine for horses, not for men, doctor say it kill ya but he won't say when. Well, hey hey baby take a whiff on me.” I knew all the songs back then and the coke helped me write all night. Mostly fashion and fitness with a little bit of romance for a local magazine. It wasn't great pay but Shelby was travelling with modelling and she was doing well. She was well and I let her do what she wanted. We were dedicated to each other. I looked around for more work and ended up finding a part time job as a dishwasher in a swanky bar called Bourbon Avenue. Half the kitchen was run by drug addicts. There was Tommy the Percocet, a dishwasher. Larry the 8 ball suis chef. Moonshine Mick, in training. Donnie, H-man with his shirt rolled down, waiter. And finally head chef, Heartbreaker Sex addict Jerome. I wouldn't really talk to anyone because we all knew what the job meant. Another way to get the next high. Jerome would fuck anything, but his dick got soft from the opium and he couldn't fuck any bimbos until he stopped opium. But opium was his love and he didn't give a fuck about sex, just the race of the horses, smoked, through his pipe.

I'd get home around 2am and hit the bottle pretty hard. I never really knew what sleep meant. The book was of the utmost importance to me. This little old red typewriter was all I needed to type a new story. Any story, whatever came into mind. I was half way finished a novel about two brothers and their lover. It was fascinating to me. I'm surprised we could keep up with the bills, but Shelby modeled, and would send some money back, in wire transfer, to keep me high enough until she got back from wherever. I really missed her. But then there were lines, and I just snorted away until I could see her in my shadow. Her voice in my mind. Her presence in the condo. So, I took some time away from the novel and created a one page story about a ghost. A ghost that was barely there but only I could see it. I called it Shelby Specter. Then I took a swig of bourbon, snorted a line and fell down head first into the floor. My skull reverberated into the floor beneath me.