One In Every Port

“I used to think that you were me and I was worried at what I had done to you. But now I know that you are not me. What is in my head is not in yours. You are somebody else, somebody I don’t know, and I worry for you because you are launched on a journey I know nothing of.”

-V. S. Naipaul
HALF A LIFE

Twenty-five years ago today:

June 29, 1987
Monday

Marta drove me to the bus terminal after work. She works in the CSO (Customer Service Office) at Pac Bell Directory. She’s pretty nice.

Johnny met me at my bus stop.

Stacey, my roommate, was home. She ran into Johnny this morning.

Johnny and I ate dinner at the SIZZLER.
He made a nonchalant rude comment: “It seems like you strive to have one in every port.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“Well, there’s Greg Johnsson writing you from Chicago; Jim in L.A., Mike Thoennes and all.”

It was as if he’d rummaged through some old letters of mine while I was at work (or maybe a diary entry or two). Could it be? It was kind of upsetting. He knew I was disturbed by it. Needless to say, Johnny left rather abruptly. It was just as well. It was a relief actually.

I went to my mom’s house.

I went to the gym.

I returned home and called Rachelle Davies. It was kind of late.
She asked, “Could you call me tomorrow?”

But there’s a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begins.
-Mitch Albom
FOR ONE MORE DAY