I saw him a few months ago. He was walking down an isle at Walmart.
At first, I wasn’t sure it was him because of his slow, shuffling gait. “That’s not the way he walks,” I thought.
His gray hair was hanging loose, almost to his shoulders. I didn’t remember it being that long or curly.
I wanted to be certain so I stopped, stood and studied closely the man as he staggered past. He turned to return my stare.
He was so fucked up he didn’t even try to push at me.
He always did like pills and booze.
The man who waged two decades of physical and psychological warfare against my former girlfriend, the man who constantly tried to intimidate/manipulate/coerce me into leaving her, the man who never passed up a chance to crush us under his boot of evil was so obviously tanked, so under the influence that, despite a good 20 seconds of studying my face, he failed to recognize me.
And when he was high, he’d call me and make threats.
And I’d listen and then I’d mess with him.
I’d say, “You’ve OD’d on V3 again, man.”
Then he’d say, “What the fuck you know bout V3? What the fuck’s V3?”
Then I’d say, “Vicodin, Vodka and Vengeance. It’s what keeps you goin…right now but, one day, mark my words, it’s gonna kill you “
Then he’d say, “Fuck you know? You burr head prick.”
That’s when I’d hang up.
I don’t know how many years I took his calls. All I know is it happened a lot, 10 years or more.
Long enough to think I was wrong about his fate. Long enough to think hate would keep him alive forever.
And then he died.
I was told it was cancer. I was told his last words to his eldest daughter were insulting and not fit to be repeated.
Sounds like he died the same way he lived.
And I’m not sorry he’s gone.
My hate left with him.
That’s why I have no enemies today.
And I intend for it to stay that way.
joefingas 