Why it was so fun, so tasty, so smart, so bullshit. Why is my life overshadowed by the failure? I wanted to be something… somebody. I used drugs at first just to stay awake. But then I wanted more. Ha, now you see? You don’t wanna know. Shit I done, shit I said, shit I ruined. My life was changed by dope. Changed to evil and I played the game. I cheated even, but I still lost. I never wanted to say “I regret” but I do… I fucked up my life and I was wrong. The things I did are crazy and awesome and amazing and throughout my younger life I excelled. Drugs, or not: Some unbelievable feats.
I have popped four 5 mg oxycodone and drank 12 beers to keep up my energy to write this day. Wow’ some reform. But my shit is all legal, and RX prescribed. I got real pain. The beer helps roll me into being able to write this story tonight!
Ok, bitch you asked for it. I am still afraid of criminal prosecution or getting sued for revealing old stories. Let alone revenge-getters finding out I am still alive and where I am. After all these years they may still come and get me. Yeah, maim or kill me. Half the reason I left my family was to save them from underworld people that were after me. I tried to make it look like I didn’t care.
I was living in San Francisco, and my friend was an old x-ball player from Boston. He was center Willie Anthonic. Willie owned Bouncers Bar. I frequented it quite often. This particular year my bar tab was the biggest I ever had. Willie trusted me, when I was impaled on an Iron work’n job that ruined my career and life. He let me keep drinking, knowing that I would pay up some day. The day I paid it off, it was $4,864.00. I gave him a check for $10,000 and trusted him overnight for my change. He got me my 5 + grand. Actually, I trusted him for 136 bucks more than he trusted me. His took less time in paying off, though!
You know that durn Willie. I blew my money on dope, but him, he blew his on gamblin. Big time! I became homeless and he was no longer in his Oakland mansion with a young beautiful wife. I heard he was living in a pick-up and slide-in-camper. Movin’ from place to place in San Francisco. At least I had holes in my arms to show for my stupidity, he didn’t even have that!
I gotta say, Willie was one of two bar owners that let me ride my MX motorcycle right inside the bar. I would shut her down, throw out the kickstand and swagger up to the bar for my double Chevis-Regal with a Heineken back. The other bar owner was George Lady from East Bay; The Bird Cage Bar. They had these gargantious heavy bar stools. I could pick up one by the bottom of one leg and, one handed, push it all the way up in the air, then down to touch my nose. Then gently return it to the floor. My bro, best bro, Mike would pick-em up and start throwin’ the stools from the back of the bar all the way to the front double doors. Man, that always cleared the bar out good. Me? Well, I just watched a couple sail by my head and walked towards Mike. I was the only one that wasn’t afraid of that fucker. He was high, big, fucked up, and mean. I grabbed the next stool he was throwin’ mid-air and wrenched it away. I set it down and took Mike to the counter for another drink. I know how to deal with my friend. For a big smart welder, that metallurgist was a monster on speed. That fucker was a kitten in my hands after I sat him down for a drink.
I took a S.F. phone book and ripped it in half, then the halves in half. I stacked the 4 pieces on the bar, and believe me; anyone left inside was usually buying me a drink. I wasn’t the toughest, but I was tough. I could hand grip and arm wrestle anyone fool enough to try me. I’d bite the cap off a Heineken bottle and spit it out. Pick up the bottle with my teeth and guzzle it, then swallow the neck of the bottle down my throat and blow it out 6 ft. in the air and catch it again and gently place that bottle on the bar! I never had trouble getting’ a drink in any bar or any place any time I needed it. I eventually had over 200 fights, and no losses. My trademark was to end the fight by breakin’ their nose. That sound “crack” still haunts my memories to this day. Oh yeah, that was the 1980’s I’d hit a mother fucking bulls eye in the heart: Every time, every one. They would lean forward puking, their heart stops, and they can’t breathe. The next punch I can drive a 6 ft. 200 Lb. man off his feet and watch him slide into oblivion. I quit doin’ shit like that. It’s not who I am!
Do you think I fuckin’ care what anyone thinks?
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