I'm almost back. Back to the place I thought was killing me.
I drink some tonic and wonder if I've made that right choice.
What was that saying that Wolfe guy said? You can't go home again.
He was right. I would have died in New York. They would have found me laying face down in the gutter with a needle in my arm, or, maybe be like Jess, doing whatever I needed to do to whoever I could to get me high. Scratch that last one. I've already done that.
Jess. Jesus Christ. Did I do that to her? No. I've been gone for awhile now. She let herself dive headfirst into the toilet. If I'd been there I'd have swirled down happily with her.
I can't get her face out of my mind.
It looked all drawn. A skull with flesh stretched around it. A concentration camp survivor, or, like something George Romero thought up. Night of the Living Coke Whore.
I still can't believe I turned the job down.
"I can't take the job."
Joe leaned against his desk. "If that's what you want, fine. Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Why? I mean it's not like you've got anything going on right now. This is a good opportunity."
"I know."
"Then why?"
"I want to dance again."
"Your knees are shot."
"I can get them fixed up."
"This isn't the movies. You can't just wish for something and make it so. If you work for me-- you get benefits. You get your knees taken care of and you try to mount a come back. You do what you're planning on doing and all you'll do is hobble around for the rest of your life."
"I'd fall off the wagon."
"There are drugs and booze back in LA. I'm sure you're aware of that."
"Yes."
"Face it. You're afraid you'll fail. That you'll get swept up in the whole scene and start drinking again. You know what? You will. Why? Because you're chicken."
Joe wrote down something on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. "Here. this is an old dancer of mine's number in LA. Christine. She runs a dance school there. She needs teachers."
"I told you..."
"You can teach a few classes and get free use of a studio to mount your big comeback. What can it hurt?"
I took the piece of paper. "Thanks."
"Call me if it works out with the dancing, or, if you change your mind."
We shook hands. Joe was a true friend.
We landed. I took my bag and walked out of the Terminal.
When I left New York the temperature was in the high 30's.
The one on the building here said it was 75.
Welcome home Mike. Welcome home.
