Déjà vu ~ do*do

Thursdays are a big event in town.  Shops on Main Street stay open longer.  A band plays at the BBQ restaurant close enough for me to hear, and smell the BBQ grilling.  I could walk over and join them if I wanted to.

Last night when I got off work I sat in the backyard with Little Man Charlie and listened for a while until it dredged up painful memories and I had to go back into the house.

Memories of *him* too drunk and high on meth and cocaine to keep his hands and feet under control.  Bouncing from one thought to another, wired, frantic to find someone who will pay attention to him.  Playing his electric guitar at 2:30 a.m., full blast and amped up (both him and the electric guitar), after the bars closed and kicked him out.   

He was under the delusion that being drunk and high made him a better guitar player and singer.  (Uh, not.)

He didn't care if I had to get up and work the next morning.  He didn't care if I hadn't had any sleep the night before for the same reason.  He didn't care that even with doors and windows closed, it was loud enough to be heard three houses away, or that we had a next-door neighbor fighting cancer and chemo treatments.  All he cared about was that I was there to record him on his cell phone over and over and over and over and over and over until he got it "just right" so he could share it on Facebook with his family and friends.

His momma and his sisters would all pump up his narcissistic ego.  You sound great, honey!  I just love to hear you play.  I miss the days when we could all play together.  I'm so proud of you, Bubba.

I just don't know how I made it out alive.