We reached LAX somewhere around 7 p.m. on Saturday. I had been asleep the last hour of the flight, so I was a little disoriented when we disembarked. The air outside was tinged with an amber hue, just around the edges, and jet exhaust lent the Chemical Billy, ambient fragrance. I had the shakes, bad, and it felt cold, cold to the point that even passing through that hot amber air felt like pushing through thorn-shard tendrils. It hurt inside my gut and my head screamed with the memory of the turmoil my family had put me through. It had been the same line over and over back home, just before my flight. Everybody’s a pro, and they’ve all got answers to troubles, you know? I was glad to be away from them all: they’re side-long glances and judgments. The first thing I did in the airport was hit the bar. With the cold sweats and trembling knees, the only thing that could bring me back to par was a drink, and I knew Dad would be late picking me up, so I had time to kill. One last romp before the storm, I thought.

            Tough love; Dad had a knack for it, but like any loving father, it was just a front. Like feigning a jab. He had no real control, it was just a ploy to scare me straight. Hockey masks and machetes couldn’t scare me straight at this point. I slammed a few shots of whiskey, and downed a beer. It helped, but I felt that tugging in my luggage. It tugged at me, saying, “Go to the bathroom. Be quick. This is your last chance.”

The bathroom was filthy, but it didn’t matter. All the moldy grout and soiled toilet edges in the world couldn’t keep me from elevating at that moment. I got down on my knees next to the toilet and chopped one out, did it up, and away I go. Ahhh. Not even those dirty boots at the stall door, those inauspicious blood-soaked boots, could bring me down from this.