You have to understand, this was my self-destruct mode. A beautiful, glorious, and completely out-of-control tailspin. I was in Bend, Oregon, going through a divorce so public it practically had its own goddamn zip code. I owned the local tequila bar, which meant I was the pope of that little shithole town.
And I was a goddamn mess. 300-some-odd-pounds, a fat, tire-wearing beast of a man. But I was also six-foot-four, I had a little more confidence than any sane man should possess, and I was the owner. And in a world of quiet, respectable, and completely castrated men, being the king of the local shithole makes you a goddamn god.
I had the master key, my friends. And it seemed every goddamn lock in that town was just… waiting. Nobody was holding out. They were throwing themselves at me. Women of all levels, all degrees, all ages, all quietly, desperately hungry for a little taste of the beautiful, ugly, and completely honest chaos I was serving up.
I rented a two-story vacation home, right next to the McMenamins. A perfect, respectable stage for a completely degenerate one-act play. And the women… Christ. They just came. And they went. A beautiful, revolving trough of human desperation. I’d leave the doors and windows open, and they’d just… walk in. Lay down beside me. It was fucking chaotic.
I remember bringing a new one home one night, and as I’m fumbling with the keys, a goddamn dog I’ve never seen before starts barking from inside my bedroom. I open the door, and there’s another woman, one I’d forgotten about, passed out in my bed. A beautiful, ugly, and completely awkward moment.
Another time, I had my son over for a sleepover. He was crashed on the couch. And around 2 a.m., another “friend,” one with a key, she just lets herself in, tiptoes past my sleeping kid like a goddamn Christmas elf, sneaks upstairs, and we spend a couple of beautiful, quiet, and completely degenerate hours together before she sneaks back out.
It was a beautiful, ugly, and completely unsustainable circus. I’m glad I lived it. I’m glad I’m not living it now.
But the point of this story, the real punchline, the cherry on top of the whole goddamn sundae, was the landlord.
He comes up to me one day, this quiet, nervous, and completely out-of-his-depth little man. He’s shuffling his feet, can’t make eye contact. “Look,” he says, “I don’t want to talk about it, but… here.” And he hands me a letter. An envelope that’s already been opened. He’d read it, of course.
It was a handwritten letter. From one of my neighbors.
And it was a goddamn masterpiece.
A beautiful, scathing, and completely poetic piece of hate mail. This poor, dried-up, and completely sexless soul on the other side of the hallway, she had been keeping a goddamn journal of my love life. My bedroom windows were open, you see. And my “exploits,” as she called them, had been traveling all over the goddamn neighborhood.
She was “disgusted,” she said. By the “disgusting” sounds of sex. By the “different voices” every goddamn night. She accused me of running some kind of “porno den” or being a “disco-crazy sex player.”
And the descriptions… Christ. The descriptions were the best part. She’d written down, word for word, the beautiful, ugly, and completely honest things she’d overheard.
“Finish!” “Do this!” “Get it on there!” “Put it on my face!”
This woman, this quiet, respectable, and completely horrified neighbor, she had been taking notes. She was “hurt.” She was “appalled.”
And I’m standing there, reading this beautiful, ugly, and completely hilarious laundry list of my own sins, and I’m not ashamed. I’m not embarrassed.
I was in my forties. I was a 300-pound fat fuck. My life was a goddamn train wreck.
And I was getting so much loud, angry, and apparently very vocal pussy that the neighbors were sending fan mail.
That, my friends, that wasn’t a complaint.
That was a goddamn triumph. A beautiful, ugly, and completely honest plaque to hang on the wall. Something for the goddamn books.
