All right, maestro. We finally got through the song dialogue between me and Noah van Ouwerkerk. Maybe you didn’t enjoy reading it, but for me it was important to try to convince you that there is a possibility that it wasn’t all an illusion. I don’t think I succeeded in convincing you, but at least I wanted to try. Due to the trip to the United States to get the residence permit in Mexico, it took me almost a month to finish the last e-mail; I had to just bring it to an end and send it, although I could write an entire book about that dialogue. I was swapping songs with this woman for about a year, until I asked her to stop doing it through a haiku that I posted on my website just a month ago:
I called Jonathan
I can’t take it anymore
Don’t play more songs please
After that haiku, Noah only put two songs on her Spotify list: “Where is love?” by The Black Eyed Peas, and “My heart will go on” by Céline Dion. Yes, maestro, the theme of the movie “Titanic.” I understood her intention: “You don’t love me. I’ll never forget you. But all right, if you want it, it’s all over.”
I didn’t mean for us to stop communicating. I just wanted to tell her that I needed more than just occasional songs. I’ll explain why I wrote this haiku later, maestro, but my task now is to talk to you about other matters. So I’ll begin:
After the drug episode, I spent some time at my mother’s house looking for my car. I had Chaz’ number, and since I’d seen his driver’s license, I knew his real name. This emboldened me, so I made a report to the police and my insurance company, and I kept trying to contact Chaz with the number I had. My insurance company had provided me with a rental car of a better model than my car. The whole Chaz and drugs thing cost me $600. Not terribly much. I didn’t suffer any financial meltdown. In general, as far as practical matters were concerned, my life returned to normal.
As I mentioned above, I kept putting songs on Spotify in response to Noah’s new songs, but this happened in occasional spurts, not every day. I was confused by the whole thing. In fact, I was incredibly disappointed, but “the relationship” continued. Or should I say “interaction,” because I was definitely interacting with something, at least with a playlist on Spotify, if not directly with the person of Noah van Ouwerkerk.
I started thinking more and more about the things that originally inspired me to do drugs in the first place: magic and miracles. And the question of “the Prince” from the story I wrote you.
Don’t forget, maestro, I wanted to get high because Noah and her family had blocked me. I thought there was no way to contact her, impress her, or explain anything to her. I still haven’t had the chance to do any of this to this day. I’d recently found her LinkedIn profile. I made a profile for the site and sent her a request to add her as a contact, and I sent her a message via a chat tool included on the LinkedIn site. Noah read my message, didn’t block me, but he didn’t respond or accept my request. LinkedIn only allows a single message to people whose connection requests have not been accepted. I confess that last year I tried two or three times to contact her directly. I’ll tell you about this later. For now I just want to tell you that, at that time, October 2019, I had no hope of seeing her again. I just wanted to explore the supernatural. I wanted to talk to her telepathically, and to be someone else who would not be so hated. Someone young, even a woman. Anyone who could interact with Noah van Ouwerkerk would do. Everything except the monster she and her father had reported to the police: an old man.
In any case, I tried to call Chaz many times to ask him about the whereabouts of my car. I wanted to know what fate had done with it. His number worked, but Chaz didn’t answer. The police eventually found the car abandoned on the side of some road, and I was able to pick it up in a tow yard. Of course I had to pay exhorbitant fees and take it to a garage for repair. The damage was not extreme, and I felt the event was an opportunity to have it back as good as new. Only the interior had significant problems. By the way, in the car I found several hypodermic needles, a belt, Chaz’ glasses, a flashlight, a meter long wooden plank, and other things that were not mine. I assumed that Chaz had not intentionally stolen the car, and perhaps had gone on his own adventure with drugs, which would prove that that the guy was not an evil demon from another dimension, but a pathetic druggie like me. This fact would be interesting in itself, because I could not deny the patterns I had seen. Apparently, Chaz became a force of hell only when he was part of my experiences.
After a week or two, in late October 2019, Melinda called me on Chaz’s phone. Apparently he didn’t have his phone yet. I do not know why he called me. He tried to explain to me what happened to my car. I wasn’t really worried about his explanation. No doubt, nothing he told told me would have been true anyway. I didn’t need to listen to his explanation. But at least it gave me a chance to interact with them again and figure out all the shit that had happened before.
After a few days I met Chaz and Melinda in a hotel. I can’t remember the name. I think it was Extended Stay, but I’m not sure. Melinda had been texting me without Chaz knowing. He was in the shower when I arrived. I have to admit, Melinda no longer looked like the “not young but not ugly” woman I described to you in a previous e-mail. She looked like an old Harley-Davidson biker chic. Her skin looked like burlap. Her hair, steel wool. And her teeth were yellow and rotten like a thousand year old archeological ruin. Also, her voice sounded like a person who had smoked all the cigars in the world and drank whiskey for too many lifetimes.
Chaz came out of the shower, and he too, despite his bath, looked sick. At first it seemed to me that he could not even think clearly. His eyes had a distant look. Chaz made it clear to me that Melinda was a little dopesick, which meant she hadn’t had crystal, and she needed to get a some drugs, or her condition would get worse. Chaz, on the other hand, seemed to get better with the passing of minutes. I invited them to lunch at my expense. While still hanging out in the room before going to eat, I invited Melinda to spend time with me in another hotel, without drugs or sex, just to get to know her better, and to get a different perspective on the event earlier that month. Obviously everyone would think I wanted to take her to a cave to have sex with her. Of course, why wouldn’t I have that motive? After all, I’m a man. Anyway, Melinda accepted my invitation.
We were close to downtown Scottsdale, a picturesque area full of tourists and several attractive restaurants, so it wasn’t hard to find a nice Italian place to eat. Melinda behaved in a disgusting manner. She ordered everything on the menu and didn’t eat anything she ordered. But at least this time she wasn’t droning on and on incessantly saying she wouldn’t have sex with anyone like she did all night the last time we hung out. For my part, and I say this with complete honesty, I had no desire to have sex with her or to take her as my girlfriend. I wanted to hear her story and possibly help her in some way. Although later I would see that his trick with the menu was a typical game women play to test how much I was willing to put up with her in order to determine how much affection toward her I would have. But I wasn’t impressed at all.
On the other hand, my conversation with Chaz was very pleasant. I asked him how long he had been living in hotels. He said a month. Not much. It wasn’t a permanent life for him. Also, I asked him how long he wanted to continue in this kind of life. He said, “It’s been much worse,” indicating that despite everything, he enjoyed it.
For his part, Chaz asked me about my life, my plans, what I wanted to do. I told him I had no idea. I was still assimilating the turmoil of Israel and had no plans for the future. At that time I had not yet decided to become a poet to describe all the shit that was my life. Chaz suggested I volunteer with some charity.
At one point, Melinda went to the bathroom, and Chaz asked me why I wanted to spend time with her. I told him that I just wanted to meet her, that I might try to help her a little. I had in mind buying her a phone or something. Chaz warned me that Melinda had brought her situation upon herself, and that it would be important not to let her be a trap for me. He said, “You know what’s going on here, right?” I assured him that I understood the situation.
Believe me, maestro, I understood the situation, and I understand it now more than then: Satan will steal your money penny by penny, and your time minute by minute, a little at a time. And he only needs one woman to accomplish everything. He never gets tired. No amount of money is too small for him to try to swindle from you. It’s even the same here in Mexico where I have more money than in the United States.
After lunch we returned to the hotel to get Melinda’s things and to change accommodations. Chaz was still rather sanguine and enjoyable. He didn’t have a place to sleep, and yet he didn’t ask me for anything. When we got to the hotel, he helped me get Melinda’s stuff to the car. She had four huge boxes. It was all she owned in the world. Yes, Chaz had asked me if I understood the situation: I had inherited a woman. I couldn’t say much. Melinda had nowhere else to leave her things. I told her she had to find another place the day after tomorrow, but in my mind I could already see that there would be trouble in a few hours.
We left Chaz on some random corner in front of a Seven Eleven so he could wait for some friend to pick him up. Melinda and I drove to a Best Buy to so I could get her her a gift: a cheap phone with a month of minutes and data. She was very surprised and grateful. It all cost me $150. Not much. In she store she behaved very strangely. Nervous. Yes, maestro, she was certainly dopesick. She disappeared into the bathroom for a long time. I was worried that the employees would think Melinda was a thief. I had to get her out of the bathroom so she could pick her phone number and activate her device.
After taking care of everything and getting her out of there, we drove to her favorite hotel, the name of which I don’t remember. Fortunately it wasn’t very expensive. Even though she was a woman, nothing with Melinda was expensive. A miracle! Immediately after arriving in the room, however, Melinda told me, “I want to get high. You don’t have to take anything, but I need it. The problem is that I only have a little with me.”
So, maestro, I did something I can’t explain. I’d figured we would talk at night and watch TV. But it didn’t come out like that at all. I said, “Sure, Melinda, I guess I can take a puff. Besides, I can buy you something else so you can sell it and get some money.” Apparently, something in my soul wanted to explore the drug world. What an idiot!
After smoking her little bit of crystal she had, we set about getting more. On the way to some source of meth, I finally got the opportunity to hear her story. First of all, her last name was Molnar. Melinda Molnar. Apparently her ancestors were from Hungary. In a previous e-mail I described her as looking and acting like a member of a Parent Teacher Association of a middle school. This was almost true. She had married a bible studies leader from a Baptist church and divorced him later. Since she had been divorced, the church was very cruel to her. Apparently, her husband was important in the community. Trust me, maestro, I know this story all too well. Don’t forget Harold van Ouwerkerk, the wealthy businessman. I can tell you again about the reaction of the Synagogue community to my situation with this “distinguished” and “reputable” Dutchman. I will probably do it in another mail, along with two or three personal experiences that have convinced me that there is no spirit of God in most of the churches and synagogues of the world.
After leaving the world of Evangelical soccer moms, Melinda survived as a bartender working in several bars until she broke her back during preparations for a concert at one point. During her recovery, she became addicted to opiates, and the rest of her story was a descent into the world of the streets. When she talked about her life, Melinda took great pride in giving up opiates. Somewhere along the way, though, she found a taste for methamphetamine, which she still hasn’t given up.
She also told me about the time four bastards threw her in a van and gang raped her. This event was for her a source of PTSD. She promised me she’d never worked as a prostitute. I didn’t know whether to believe her. For me, under such circumstances, the temptation to make easy money would have been very strong. Maybe she wanted to impress me and lied. Or maybe she was ashamed of sex in general. I didn’t know much about this woman. On the other hand, perhaps as a result of her rape, she felt a genuine hatred towards sex or men…or both. In the end, my impression of Melinda was that she was really a person with extreme weaknesses and surely in very desperate situation, but of good character.
I asked Melinda about Chaz and his girlfriend Rebecca. She told me she didn’t know anything about her because Chaz had found a girl named Haley, who had separated from her husband with some money from him, and she had been spending her time in hotels with drug dealers. Haley lived with two black men, a drug dealer Ron and an old man, who I’ll call the Middleman. In fact, the old man’s name was in English “Mr. Middleman,” someone who connects clients with dealers, a middleman. As far as I know, the Middleman did not intercede between dealers and clients. It was just some kind of coincidence that he was named that in society of drug dealers. I’ll probably tell you later why I nicknamed him that.
I expressed curiosity about this girl Haley. I asked if she was pretty. Melinda shrugged, “I don’t know. She has a good body,” she replied.
In fact, maestro, the following month after my meeting with Melinda, in November 2019, I wrote a poem about Haley that contains the stanza:
The memory of her thousand curls of brunette hair
Licking the oxygen from the surrounding air
Like flickering tongues of chocolate flame
Invokes a portrait of a picture-perfect dame
As a frame for wide turquoise eyes
That apparently contain a lot of lies
But I’ll detail that story later.
We finally got to her dealer, Ron. This guy was a very sincere and pleasant black guy. At first glance I knew I could be his friend. We met him in the parking lot of a Motel Six. Yes, maestro, in my country there seems to be an entire population of its own living from Motel Six to Motel Six. Sometimes they break with the traditional move to stay in an Extended Stay. Some of them even have driver’s licenses. But I’ve already commented on this phenomenon in another e-mail.
We didn’t enter the room where Ron and the Middleman were. Ron found us in the motel parking lot. It was a little cold, but Melinda wanted to talk about something with Haley, who came out to meet us. Apparently the girls had had an argument, and Haley threw away some of Melinda’s clothes. The two made up, however, and I got a chance to see Haley for the first time. Yeah, she was a pretty woman, and she had a nice body. I only saw her for a few minutes. We had to leave because it was not a good idea to meet in a cold parking lot for a long time with drugs in our pockets. We said our goodbyes, and Melinda and I went back to our room.
As soon as we entered the room we started smoking meth with a vengeance. I sat on the couch, and after a bit Melinda went to the bathroom to take a shower. I was considerably high, and there, all by myself, I started trying to change my body through willpower. I looked at my arms to imagine them without hair. I don’t like my hair. I have too much everywhere except on my head, where I’m balding. I also tried to imagine that I had Bruce Lee’s abdomen instead of my belly. I didn’t want to be like the Hulk. The image of an Asian martial arts hero was my model. Maybe a little effeminate, but strong, clean, and obviously young. Such a boyfriend would surely impress Noah. Come to think of it, I don’t know why I didn’t try to get taller. Noah is quite tall. But I think that because of the age difference between us, I would necessarily be something of a paternal figure to her, and in the same way though, she could be something of a mother to me on account of being taller than me. I like her height. I would love to look upward into her eyes.
But do you understand what I was doing with my arm hair, maestro? These mental exercises were based on the idea that reality is a product of human perception. However, I am religious, though a religious person who hates religious organizations and most religious people. I know very well that reality is not just a perception. The question here is, what are the limits of how a religious person can ask God to alter reality for him? For example, Jesus didn’t even have to state his requests to God as a question. He simply said said to the paralytic, “get up, take up your bed and go home,” in a casual way, and God granted his desire to heal the man. I mean, the way a person asks is not that important, or so I was thinking at that time. It is a matter of faith in the will of God. If you want to change reality, for example you want to change your body and you can’t, according to the Prince I mentioned in my story, it’s because you don’t have enough confidence in what you are seeing. According to the One, you don’t have enough faith in God. Or God just doesn’t want to change your body. At any rate, I couldn’t change my body. My pot belly was still there.
Melinda came out of the bathroom to put on makeup in front of the mirror while I was sitting on the couch trying to mentally change the shape of my body. As far as I knew, anyone would think I was sitting on the couch with my eyes focused on my arms and my belly. No one should have been able to guess what I was doing. But Melinda said, “You’ll get hurt if you keep doing that.”
I didn’t know what she meant. I was just sitting. Did she realize what I was thinking?
Don’t forget, maestro, telepathy was the other superpower I was looking for. Since Noah had blocked me, my only chance to communicate with her was through a dream or some other kind of supernatural communication such as telepathy.
Then Melinda told me, “I can read your mind.
“Really? I was just thinking about this,” I told her.
“I know,” she replied.
“Can you prove it to me?” I asked with great curiosity.
“Yes, I can, but in order to show you how I do it, you have to stop bothering me. Let’s go outside and smoke.
Again, outside the hotel while we were smoking, I asked her to show me how she could read my mind. She just complained, saying, “It doesn’t work like that! You have to let me do it my way!
Then she began to talk incoherently about several unrelated issues. I could tell that my insistence made her very agitated. I was pretty high, but the whole “mind-reading” thing seemed like a trick Melinda wanted to play on me. I thought she didn’t really know how to do it, and that she was just trying to entertain. We returned to the room, and she began to grumble immediately.
She started to behave as was usual with her. She got really pissed off and started complaining about everything. I was, according to her, too close to her, which seemed very strange and even creepy, she told me.
Bear in mind, maestro, I was just sitting on the fucking couch doing nothing as far as anybody should have been concerned. In the end, she recommended that I leave the hotel for a walk and leave her alone. I agreed. For me, this was an opportunity to experience the world on my own and try to change my body. I didn’t realize Melinda was trying to get rid of me.
Look, maestro, at that point I already had a suspicion that I hadn’t been able to change my body because Melinda had seen me at all times as old Jonathan Bailey and not as young Jonathan Bailey with Bruce Lee’s body. But the strangers on the street didn’t know me or what to expect from my appearance. It could be that they would see what I visualized in my mind. Yes, maestro, this idea of changing perception corresponded more to the path of a sorcerer than to that of a man of God. But I was happy to leave the room and be able to experiment without Melinda’s annoying presence.
Although I couldn’t change my body on the street either, people there looked at me strangely. This reminded me of the night I was waiting for my mother in the restaurant, with the two girls who treated me like a woman until I told them my name was Jonathan. I mean, I couldn’t change my appearance according to my perceptions, it would seem. I wasn’t sure that others would see me as I did. The exercise was interesting at any rate. I was amazed at how difficult it was to determine the nature of reality by controlling my perceptions. As the Prince of my legend, there was always another experiment I wanted to try. It never occurred to me that maybe it would have been easier to ask someone on the street if I had a lot of hair on my arm or not.
After a while, I returned to the room where Melinda was. When I arrived, there were two other people in the room. One was a black guy who didn’t talk much. The other was Marcus, a Latino who spoke perfect English. I do not know if he was Mexican or from another country, or if he was American with Latin American parents. In any case, his Latin culture was not relevant at all, except for one thing that I will explain a little later.
Marcus had a very thin leather case like a barber, like those in which they keep their scissors and knives; all the stuff they need to do their job. But what Marcus put in there were his drugs, bags, scales, etc. Everything he needed to carry out his trade as a dealer. He was a very orderly man. He was wearing a black collared shirt with khaki pants. Something told me he had a birth certificate and didn’t live in a Motel Six. I assumed the black man was his security. At least at first I had that impression.
As soon as I walked in, Melinda told me, almost seductively, “people who use drugs always want something…” Then she paused, as if she could guess exactly what I needed. “This is Marcus. He’s my friend.”
The aforementioned Marcus was in the middle of something when she introduced him. Meticulous and elegant, he interrupted what he was doing and, after the typical greetings, said to me: “If you want to go out, just be careful with the door, that no one looks inside.” The black guy didn’t say anything. He just stared. Marcus went to Melinda to ask her what she had told me.
“I told him I could read his mind,” she replied.
Marcus nodded, but said nothing. He just looked at me.
So I wanted to know if Marcus could access my thoughts. I told him quietly, telepathically: “Can you read my mind, too?”
Marcus looked at me with a smile, I do not know whether understanding or just being ironic. He didn’t say anything, but I got the feeling he understood something. Then I told him out loud: “I can’t get my hair off my arms!”
Again Marcus smiled and shook his head, turned to Melinda and told her that he had never seen anything like this before.
Melinda replied that she did not understand why I could not do such a thing.
“He’s one of them,” Marcus said.
“One of them? Who are they?” Melinda wanted to know.
Suddenly Marcus’ voice in my head said, “he’s a Jew.”
Soon after, I also heard Melinda say that she didn’t understand why that would be important. I do not know if I heard her because she said it out loud or because I heard it in my mind. I was looking at Marcus. Anyway, I added out loud that it was complicated.
And I do not know why I heard what I heard, “he’s a Jew.” I think the voice was Marcus’, but I wasn’t clear on that. I didn’t have at that time any awareness that I had even a drop of Jewish blood in my body. Perhaps the idea he was talking about was from a verse of the Apostle Paul:
For no one is a Jew who is merely one outwardly, nor is circumcision outward and physical. But a Jew is one inwardly, and circumcision is a matter of the heart, by the Spirit, not by the letter. His praise is not from man but from God.Romans 2:28-29
In that Letter to the Romans, Paul refers to the concept that Jews are “the people of God,” and that is why someone who is “a person of God” is “Jewish” in a metaphorical sense.
Or possibly Marcus was talking about some predecessor of mine thousands of years ago who I didn’t know. But for me the words were strange. I could say I was a servant of God, but a Jew? It was interesting.
My thoughts returned to the fact that I could not wax my arms with the power of my mind alone.
Marcus looked at me a little, then turned around and said to himself, “He’d make a badass bitch.” I was stunned. Again gender issues were coming up. It is true that the perfect body I had imagined was more feminine than mine by certain standards. Bruce Lee is hairless, as women usually are or pretend to be. But again, as when Chaz tried to sell me as a prostitute, or as when the girls in the restaurant treated me like a lady, what I said or did –in this case, the desire to have a body without hair– was interpreted as the effort of a female enclosed in the gross body of a man.
Yes, maestro, I have gender issues. I’m not exactly a misogynist. I love my mother, my daughter, Chloe, fire girl. In fact, most of my friends are women.
However, I am disturbed by the treatment of men by society in general. I mean, I think society prefers women over men. I think I’ve written about this before. And yes, maestro, I suppose there may be a hint of envy in my attitude.
I don’t think this is weird or harmful. From time to time someone says, “It’s not fair that men can do such a thing,” or “It’s not fair that women can do such another, blah blah…” I think it’s normal for there to be some kind of envy between men and women.
It is true that in my e-mails I mention some problems I have had with women, and I will tell you more about these experiences in the future, but I do not see myself as misogynist or transsexual.
For me, the fact that so many references to a literal and physical gender transformation kept coming up during these experiences was very intriguing. It seemed to me that my inner world and my outer world were connected in a very broad and clear way. And something even weirder was that Marcus seemed to know more about me than I knew about myself.
I’ve always believed that I’m just a man with a certain understanding of his soul, of his feminine side. But at that moment it was like my outside world was trying to turn me into a transsexual. I didn’t say anything about his remark of me making a good bitch. But this was obviously much more than a drug dealer’s comment.
For a moment the idea appeared in my mind that the two wanted to transform me into a woman and that the black dude in the room was not the security of a drug dealer, but porn star of a BBC (“Big Black Cock”) scene. After all, Melinda was friends with Chaz. I started getting a little worried.
I also want to comment on something else about telepathy. When you hear a voice in your head, how do you know it’s not a hallucination? Yes maestro, I wanted to have the power of telepathy to communicate with Noah van Ouwerkerk. But without being able to confirm by any other means my interaction with her, how would we know if we really interacted, or if it was all a trick of my mind?
Since these experiences also involved drugs, I had good reason to doubt my telepathic abilities. So I suspected I had had a dialogue with Noah van Ouwerkerk through Spotify songs, remember? But all this was mere speculation, without the confirmation of voices or looks.
Everything could be nothing but my imagination. However – and despite the drugs – I was in a hotel room talking through my mouth and through my thoughts, without having problems of understanding, with a man named Marcus.
He nodded, noticeably understanding what I had told him before. He answered me in a logical and cordial way, “you know, many of us can do anything we want.”
I thought for myself, and also with the intention for Marcus to hear me telepathically: “But how long?”
Marcus opened his mouth to say, “some of us are very old. We live a long time.”
Melinda asked, “really? How long?” Of course a woman would not be able to avoid this form of curiosity. Anyone really should have an interest in the subject. If a person had the power of God, why would he die? But, in selling the soul, usually most do not contemplate death. Although, a woman’s power is connected to her beauty and youth. If a woman could ask for what she wants, she would normally choose beauty. Eternal beauty. That’s why Melinda couldn’t avoid the question. But Marcus didn’t say anything to her in response.
That’s why I said to Melinda, “centuries,” and Marcus nodded. But I also thought to both of us: “But centuries are not forever. What happens next?”
There was a great silence in the room. Marcus was looking at Melinda. I had the feeling that they were talking telepathically, and that they didn’t want me to hear them. Suddenly Melinda said, “let’s get high.
Marcus handed her a pipe full of speed. I didn’t pay anything. This wasn’t a financial drug deal, apparently. Melinda lit the pipe and gave it to me. They gave me more and more crystal. Marcus and the black guy didn’t take anything. Just me and Melinda, and me more than her. At one point I didn’t feel like I normally do when I take crystal. I was very, very relaxed. Like in a dream.
Then the black guy said the only thing he actually said all night: “I’m worried we’re gonna have an overdose here.”
At that moment I thought about about a guy named Dean. To explain who this character is, I have to tell a little about the fire girl. Her name is Skyla Edwards, formerly Skyla Abadir, and formerly Skyla Felicci, and formerly Skyla Bailey. This is my cousin, the daughter of my father’s brother.
We’ve loved each other since we were eight. When we were teenagers, we were lovers. The family couldn’t stand that “nonsense” and separated us. She’s my soul mate. I’ve loved her all my life. After we were separated, I spent a few years partying and getting high. That wild time in life resulted in my joining the army. Skyla got pregnant and married a lawyer, Paco Felicci. Then she had a miserable divorce and became a stripper. I don’t recommend marrying a lawyer, maestro. Because you’ll then have to divorce a lawyer. It’s not fun at all. As a stripper, Skyla found a millionaire from Egypt, Magdi Abadir, who wanted a wife to give him threesomes with other strippers. In the mean time, Paco the lawyer took her son from her. She lost all custody. Even the ability to talk to him. So she got depressed, and ended up not being an acceptable sex trophy for Magdi, so he divorced her. During this time she married her third husband, Dean, who was addicted to heroin. He didn’t work. He had to put up with his wife’s work at the table dances. Then one day Dean died in an ordinary hotel room from a methamphetamine overdose. In the end, Skyla converted to Christianity and married an engineer from England. They have two daughters and live in Arizona.
Yes, maestro, I didn’t want to be the second death from a crystal overdose in a hotel room for the love of my life. I said to Melinda, “I’ve had enough for now.” The black guy turned out to be somehow chilling: At first he was security. Then, a gigantic dick that was going to fuck me like a whore. And now he was the herald of my death by overdose. Melinda replied to me, “I think you need to keep going. Your dreams are about to come true.”
“No,” I said. I’m not feeling well. I think I want to go home. I’ll be back tomorrow.
Marcus said, “If you want to go, smoke this,” and he gave me a bag of crystal. It was at least a sixteenth of an ounce. The front of the small package was clear, appearing white because of the crystal. But the reverse was black, with the drawing of a skull on it. Earlier in this mail I mentioned that Marcus’ culture was not important except for one thing: Mexicans love skulls.
Probably under other circumstances I would not have considered the skull. My friend George, a Mexican-American, has skulls all over his house. His towels have skulls on them. His shower curtain has skulls on it. His lamps are skulls. He has several skull paintings. Also, I know some Mexicans who have skull tattoos. When I’m in Mexico, I always see t-shirts with skulls everywhere. Skulls are part of Latin culture. Again, normally I wouldn’t have payed any mind to a Latino’s skulls. But in this circumstance I was impressed by that crystal bag with the image of a skull. I interpreted it as a possible death notice.
However, I am very, very stupid. I left the room and drove from one end of town to the other for half an hour, absolutely blitzed on speed, on my way to my parents’ house. When I arrived I realized that I had no pipe, so I used a straw and aluminum foil to improvise something that would allow me to smoke the entire amount. But God loves me. I accidentally put the lighter too close to the foil and burned it, causing the entire pile of crystal to evaporate in an instant. If I had accomplished my mission, I would have probably wound up flying in the ninth dimension with Dean, the tragic husband of the fire girl.
Perhaps it would have been better than now, or at least it would have been better than later. Sitting in my bedroom, with scorched aluminum foil in my hand, substantially disappointed that there were no modes of destruction available, completely drugged and delirious, I fell asleep.