in the early morning

Tuesday, September 12, 2000
@ home        0810 hrs

    I’d really like a cigarette but I think I’m going to quit today.  I just want that legal high you get from the first cigarette of the day.  Oh well. 

   Last night was George the Briton’s last night in town.  He leaves for Houston on a Greyhound in less than an hour and then flies back to London around 3 PM.  A lot of shit happened while he was here.  A lot of changes.  Relationships sprouted and died, were killed, are still struggling for life. 

   In many ways I’d like to put that entire period in a bottle and view it from time to time.  Even with all the arguments and gossip and prematurely ended relationships it was fun.  Life entails hurt, and sometimes living is fun even with the hurt. 

   I don’t know.  The memories in my mind are like those flashback episodes when someone dies on TV or in the movies.  Small snippets of time, a third-person view of all of us in the first weeks (George, Wendi, Danielle, and I) sitting around a table stacked with beer bottles outside Ruta Maya laughing; George playing guitar at a lookout point above some river the night the same four of us stayed up till dawn; sitting on his front porch laughing with Andrew and Annalisse; walks to Ted’s Greek Corner, Waterloo Records, Katz’s, the park to smoke out, the parking lots; talks about death and life and love; “pop your boot,” or “that’s a helluva queue.” 

   It’s over now.  He says he’ll be back in a month or so with a student visa to stay longer, but we’ll see.  Life has a habit of carrying you away with it. 

   Of the huge group of people at Ruta Maya last night both to send him on his way and just to hang out as usual, the only person missing was Wendi.  Which is odd seeing as how she’s the one who introduced him to our group of friends.  I still remember the first time she told me about him.  She had to cancel the massage we’d planned that day because she met him and stayed up most of the morning with him drinking, smoking, and, finally, sleeping.  Their relationship went sour soon enough, though.  They’d bitch about each other with every aspect of the other being a catalyst for hate when the other wasn’t around but acted decent, usually, when they were together.  I don’t know.

   I saw Wendi between shifts–I now do receptionist crap at the main office in the middle of the day and then do my regular security crap from 3 PM to 7 PM–yesterday.  She was depressed, she said.  I’m horrible at helping people in that mood.  Even if I know what they’re feeling (somewhat, it’s all individualized anyway) I can never figure out the right thing to do to make them feel more comfortable or help them.  It sucks.  I left her a message telling her to remember that there are people in this town (at least one person) who care about her and not just what they can get out of her.  Probably sounded like a bad come-on line, I hope not. 

   George is gone, Wendi’s unresponsive… what am I to do? 

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