Angry Bob

I just listened to Warren Zevon’s album “Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School” and was reminded of a time past. A specific and obscure point where time stands still, but dilates both forward and backward.

This exact moment was captured within the confines of a trailer, in a trailer park. What was unique was that this trailer was truly a trailer. It was short and stubby and ready to be hitched and carried away – not the least like its counterparts residing in the adjoining lots. They were of stouter origin. Wider and longer and proclaiming loudly that they were there to stay.

This trailer was different for another reason. It was my home, for now, for this night. It really wasn’t my home, it belonged to another who really didn’t own it either. But it was her home of last resort when she couldn’t find a real home of her own. And now it was my home for the very same reason. It was a bizarre moment, a place mark in time. And Warren Zevon was my background theme I carried on my hip.

I cannot remember how I got there, although I remember who invited me. She’s dead now due to circumstances both within and without my control. My own weaknesses contributed to her death. Such as not being man enough to tell my mother to shut the fuck up and take in this poor child. Two weeks after my last conversation with the girl she is dead.

Mothers response: “Well, its her own fault.” or something like that. It really doesn’t matter what the exact words were. The heartless feeling is just the same. It is the saddest moment in a son’s life when he is forced to the realization that his own mother can be a worthless lump of flesh.

Dilate past: A soul you meet in life’s journey who is more than a friend, but less than a lover even though those boundaries become confused. A way station, a safe harbor, a port in a storm. You both know you need each other desperately, but only temporarily. The need is sincere, but fleeting. Everything gained in the moment, nothing lost in the long term.

Dilate forward: Caitlin’s pure heart is dead. Years pass and after a small, somewhat intimate concert, I chance to thank Mr. Zevon for a very peculiar moment I’ll not forget. I am bowed in his presence and the best I can say is to thank him for carrying me though a rough time. He nods. His band mates exclaim “Well sure”, “That’s why we do it”, and a simple “Thanks.”

Now Warren Zevon is dead too. I’m left with a signed wristband which I’ve subsequently lost and a memory of a dear friend that will die with me.