I’m back in L.A. and already in the routine.
Last night The Georgian came over to have a drink and catch me up on all that I’ve missed while on vacation. Our conversation started off light, discussing which idiot at work did what. After an hour of bullshitting, he changed the tone and warned me that what he was about to say wasn’t easy.
Normally my response would be, “Then don’t say it,” and we’d change the subject, but this time I sensed something and kept my mouth shut. In a very professional and calm manner, he told me that last week his older brother Verne killed himself. He checked into a hotel, popped some pills, wrapped a bag around his head and suffocated himself.
I was shocked. I’ve heard plenty of stories about Verne and how much The Georgian looked up to him. I sat still and silent. I didn’t tell him I understood because I didn’t. I didn’t say I’m sorry because I wasn’t. I didn’t hug him because his body language said no. All I did was listen. I let him tell me how he’s never felt so much blood rush to his head. How Kurt tried to hide his keys so he wouldn’t leave the apartment. How he walked down Hollywood Blvd clenching his fists in rage. How if at any moment someone confronted him, he’d kill them, especially Cathy.
”I swear,” he said. “When he married Cathy, he became a different person. He wanted kids so badly but she said no. She made him sell his drum kit. Drums were his life. Then she made him move to Athens. When he married her, I saw the life sucked right out of him. Fucking women.”
”I know you’re angry,” I said softly. “But you can’t blame Cathy. When it comes to suicide, there’s only one person to blame and that’s Verne.”
”And it sucks,” he said. “Why’d he’d have to do that?”
I let him sleep at my place and drink all the gin he wanted. I went to bed around midnight, but he stayed up pacing until 4. I slept in to noon but he was up at 9, back to pacing and gin. He told me that he was feeling better, thanks partly to the masturbation session he had last night and this morning. Curious, I checked the history.
”Man,” I said. “You really are pissed off at women right now. To be searching triple penetration, you must really wanna her suffer.”
He started laughing.
“I was curious,” he said. “I’d never seen it before.”
I didn’t ask him about the other stuff, like “evils of homosexuality” and “is Los Angeles a place of evil,” because I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Let’s just try and keep it light and airy for a bit.