I’d say 2009 was one of my strangest years in life, with the summer of 2009 being particularly odd – utterly memorable – strangely insane.
I’m gonna focus on that summer. Dina and I must’ve broke up around April/May 2009, right before The Dead played at the Spectrum in Philadelphia. I had tix and flights, but Dina didn’t go. I recall her later saying something like: “If I wasn’t such a bitch, I could’ve gone to the show.” She was totally right. Dumb too, as the Spectrum was the East Coast Home for the Grateful Dead, and that show she missed was the final show for The Dead – right before they destroyed the Spectrum.
I took Brett. He always stepped in for a free show, and he loved my ex-girlfriend tix and a place to stay. I flew in the night before him, a late night on Southwest. Ended up having fun with a stewardess. She was tall, slender; a dark-skinned Puerto Rican, with muscular tone and perky breasts you could feel when she hugged you. I waited for her after getting off the plane. She walked straight up to me. I met her at her hotel, and she showed me where to get a really good Philly Cheesesteak.
We had an unforgettable time. In addition to the show and hanging out, we connected with Cynthia, who lived in the area at that time. Wow – Talk about an undeniable itch that I’ve been wanting to scratch since we spent time in Napa with our respective spouses circa 1996, I’m not sure what to say except that would have been one of multiple times that Dina and her cuckold sidekick Susan ran cock-block on that situation. This time, I didn’t have to hear Inga’s lecture about her dramatic friends.
The months following The Dead in Philadelphia, Allegra and I were inseparable. We visited friends in Orange County, Allegra came to visit me in Sacramento, and we rode down the Pacific Coast Highway on my motorcycle for her birthday – staying in San Simeon, going to Hearst Castle, eating at Pea Soup Andersons, having the time of our lives. I loved Allegra more than she’ll ever know, especially since she won’t talk with me, or even acknowledge my existence, these daze. Sad but true.
I rode to Joshua Tree in June 2009. I wanted to remember riding to Joshua Tree the year before, when my world was crushing around me in May 2008. There’s a tattoo on my right ankle. No one says much about it these days because it’s all blurry and faded, but it reads: May 10, 2008. My doctors will tell you that was the closest time I ever came to death. Have you ever drank so much alcohol, taken so many pills, that your brain tells your lungs to stop, which makes your heart wanna go crazy? I have.
On July 11, 2009, I’m back together with Dina, and we’re riding trains around Northern California – only to be broke up again a dozen days later, with me hanging out with Brett, Allegra, and Tiffany at the Orange County Fair on July 22, 2009. Then, two days later, I’m in Sonoma County flying aerobatic biplanes, on my way to San Francisco to see Wicked at the Orpheum. Ended up in Reno with an opportunity to spend time with Cynthia, but the Dina/Susan/Inga drama was insufferable.
All along, I’m working cases, attending hearings, keeping up with my gazillion billable hour requirement, and conducting presentations. I blow off my high school reunion in favor of taking my cousin’s daughters to Disneyland – too heartbroken to see Dina and her minions. Allegra and I continue to lean into each other, and she even starts spending time with my boys and me. We take another trip to Sacramento in August, and at that time, I’m starting to feel better – the melancholy loosens a little.
On September 5, 2009, Ally and I are bonding over things – my loss of Dina, and her loss of Oscar. I agree to go the Orange Street Fair, where we meet up with Kevin and others. Fuck me – This reminds me of other unresolved trauma, right Winnie? So two days later, I take off on my bike to Running Springs and Arrowhead Lake. I rode to my parent’s old cabin, the one Thea never got to see; and the World Famous Lloyd’s, where we’d eat breakfast after the party we used to throw on New Years Eve.
Mere days later, on September 11, 2009, while we’re still trauma bonding, Ally and I board the Amtrak Surfliner in Anaheim headed to San Diego, where we board a Carnival Cruise ship to Ensenada. I’ll never forget that trip – especially our conversations at the back of the boat, and spending time in the spa. I actually have a lot of fond memories of Ally, and I suspect she might have a few fond memories of me – bowling shoes, my shower in Vegas, watching me have sex with Megan in the kitchen.
On September 20, 2009, Allegra and I went to see Les Brown at the Cerritos Performing Arts Center, and the following day I was on a plane to Nashville to see The Black Crowes. That was an amazing time. I will never forget hanging out with my nephew, who was just learning to drive. He said he needed some highway driving experience, so I gave him the keys to the rental car, and we drove for hours to Alabama for fun – his mom questioning whether we should be driving across state lines.
—ooOoo—
Nine years later…
My face was stuck to the old brown couch that used to sit in the middle of the playroom. Another night sleeping on the couch. My phone rings.
“What the fuck time is it,” I thought out loud while looking for my phone.
It was dark, I couldn’t see shit, and the phone kept ringing. Found it. Middle of the night. What the hell is going on. I answer the phone.
“Hello,” I barely get out, trying to gather my senses, “What’s wrong?”
Nothing. I can hear someone breathing, but I don’t hear any words.
“Hello, what the fuck, it’s goddamned late, what’s wrong? Steve?”
Still nothing. Only breathing.
“Steve! What the fuck? What’s wrong? What happened?”
A little more breathing, then I hear: “They took him.” He starts to cry.
“Took what? Took who? What the fuck you talking about?”
“They took my boy. They killed him.” He starts to cry more.
I don’t understand. I’m trying to process his words. I get pissed. “What the fuck are you saying? Who killed…”
“Clark! They fucking shot him. He’s dead.”
—ooOoo—
To be continued…