Long Road to Ruin

“Go,” she said bitterly. “I don’t want to see your fucking face around here anymore.”

As I wandered aimlessly down the street, further and further away from my house with each heavy step, that particular phrase repeated itself numerous times in my head. I felt almost like a parasite, a disgrace to my host, unwanted and rejected by everyone who had once cared for me. I gave off a constant aura of being misunderstood, which probably added to the perception that I was childish, but at this point I didn’t know if I’d ever have a reason to feel any other way.

“You don’t love me.” The sinister voice of my former lover seemed to chant in my mind.

The first thought that had occurred to me after leaving my front yard was that I wasn’t sure where I was going to go from there. I wasn’t going to burden Mike’s household with my troubles; he had two very young children, one a year and a half old and the other a newborn, and I didn’t want him to have to carry another responsibility. Tré was my second choice, but that one was completely out of the question. He had always been secretly fond of my wife, a fact that I discovered over time, and there was no question that I’d angered him with my betrayal. I don’t see how it’s any of his business, but that’s how he’s always been. My mother would be more than willing to let her youngest son move back home, but at my age, I wanted to preserve whatever dignity I had left.

I continued to walk down the newly paved street, toward the freeway that would lead me away from the suburban neighborhood in which I had lived for more than a decade. I had myself, a suitcase full of clothes, and my first guitar, Blue. It seemed like old times. I had learned to take care of myself when I was very young, and with any luck it would be just as easy to manage this time around. Eventually, I decided to stop and rest. I had made it to downtown Oakland, and there were plenty of benches to sit on along the main street strip.

It was a beautiful day, despite the dark circumstances that had brought me to town in the first place. The bright California sun shone fiercely even in late November, casting a mass of warm, reflected light onto the landscape below. Passers-by shot me an occasional curious glance, and I suppose I can understand why. If I saw a man with disheveled black hair, sunglasses, and a white suit jacket and tie over casual clothing, staring off into space, I’d be giving him weird looks too. With my suitcase and guitar case close by, I probably resembled a rich hobo.

That thought made me laugh a little. I felt bad for laughing considering I was deserting my likely to be ex-wife, my children, and my friends, but a rich hobo? That’s enough of a contradiction to make anyone laugh.

My children. What would become of my children, now left without their father for reasons they couldn’t understand? Jake had been so happy to see me, and I hadn’t even gotten the chance to speak to Joey. How were they all doing? Did Jake make the seventh grade basketball team like he wanted? Had they made the honor roll at school? Had Joey liked the new Fender Stratocaster I’d sent him for his birthday? I guess I’d have to go without knowing. For now, at least. I knew I’d have the chance to ask eventually, even if Adrienne was so resentful that she tried to keep our sons from me. I had the access to the resources needed to hire a damn good lawyer, if necessary. Having to rely on the court system was another unpleasant thought, so I brushed it off for now.

I hadn’t eaten since before landing at LAX that morning. As a result, I now felt a pang of hunger rumbling ferociously in the pit of my stomach. Café 15, a little soup and sandwich place on the corner was where I decided to go. Once I had stepped into the small, art deco restaurant, a bell on the glass door announced my arrival. I pulled the smallest compartment of my suitcase open to reach for my wallet. To my surprise, my hand was met with empty space. My driver’s license and social security card, along with $250 in cash, was gone.

“But how?” I wondered frantically, setting my belongings down on the floor and rummaging through them. This attracted more than a few odd stares from employees and customers, but I was too upset to care. I tried to think back to the last time I remembered seeing my wallet. What was the last thing I had bought that I hadn't charged to my credit card?

Suddenly, I froze.

"Whiskey," I whispered.

I had paid for my drinks in the bar that night in Chicago with cash. I hadn't seen my wallet since, nor had I even noticed that it was no longer in my posession.

"That bitch," I whispered angrily, gathering up all of my stuff. It turns out I really had made a deal with a hooker. She'd taken advantage of me while I was drunk, ruined my life, and then walked away with her paycheck for the night: $250 in cash and a black leather wallet. Luckily, I still had my ATM card, though, which had been shoved absent-mindedly into the pocket of a different pair of jeans the day before we arrived in Chicago. My credit card had also avoided her greedy clutches. I found an ATM not far from the cafe and withdrew $50.

I bought myself a roast beef sandwich and ate it slowly, still fuming.