Once Upon A Time In My Life: March 2007

It's midmorning on a clear, brisk, late winter day in southern Maine. I'm driving quickly on Route 1 through the outskirts of Ogunquit, and the scary looking pickup behind me is following me. Shit. Are they friend or foe? I heard a minute ago on the radio that Brad Delp, lead singer for Boston, committed suicide last night. It's my fault. He ended his life because he was so distraught over my persecution, my plight, all the people who want to do me harm.

I'm not sure where I'm going, only that I need to lose that fucking pickup. I make a quick left at the middle of town. I hear the pickup honk at me but I'm not turning around. Heading south on the twists and turns of Shore Road, driving too fast. I run into some construction. That's why the guy was honking. He must have been a friend who was trying to steer me clear of this. Losing my way I wind up near the ocean, not sure what road I'm on. There's a construction worker ahead, eyeing my Corolla nervously. Should I risk asking him for directions? Fuck it, he doesn't look too dangerous. He tells me how to get back to Route 1.

I make my way to the Coachman Inn in Kittery, rent a room for the night, not sure of my plans for tomorrow. I've got about three grand in the checking account, enough to last a few weeks if I'm smart. The million dollar check I'm waiting for from my Hollywood connections should be coming soon, I'm sure. At the Oscars a few weeks back a collection had been taken up for me, this I know. The bleeding hearts in LA were sympatico with my plight, and had given big. Once I got that money I'd be set for life. Just had to hold on until it was delivered, hopefully by Ellen and Melissa E. The couple of times in the past two weeks I was sure they were coming to visit me up in Portland at my place, those false alarms, that was just nerves playing tricks on me. They knew me, they knew I needed money. And they were coming. Just a matter of time. It was all gonna work out just fine.

That night at the Coachman my school, Miami U, was playing in the finals of the MAC tourney on tv. They win on a last second shot! The fuckers listening in on and watching my room have no idea how happy this makes me. I raise a beer to them: take that, assholes! I'm going to be rich and you'll still be a government snoop, spying on innocent heroes like me. I find myself sitting in a chair in the furthest corner of the rather sizable single I've got for the night, protecting my flanks like a good infantryman, curtains drawn tight, locks set. I can hear the snoops laughing at me for the longest time, then silence. Silence for the first time in weeks. Maybe months. They finally understand who they are dealing with. I'm a bad fucker who is willing to take this all as far as it has to be taken.

A thump against the wall across from me. I am sure that all the rooms in the motel have been rented out to spooks, sent to either protect me or harm me, I'm not sure. Better scare 'em: "Don't fuck with me!" I snarl to the wall. They get the message and there are no more distractions the rest of the evening. Finally, late, I fall asleep drunk. Get my usual three hours. Up early. Where to now?

Mom's place is in Kittery. Maybe that's why I've been heading south from my home in Portland. She is safe but her house is bugged too. The cameras are pretty much everywhere, watching my every move. I go to her home, hoping she will save me, protect me. She seems as scared as I am, and asks me for the key to her house back. She doesn't trust me with it. What the hell is going on? My Mom is turning her back on me when all these fuckers are out to get me, to harm me, to help me? I tell her, "I just need some time." I have an idea.

I get a room at the Hampton Inn in Portsmouth, just across the New Hampshire line off I95. The clerk smiles knowingly when I get the key to my room. I feel safe; there are National Guardsmen all over the place. Are they getting ready for some type of operation, or are they there to protect me from all those who want to do me harm? I assume they care about me, that they know how hard I've been fighting for such a long, long time. They won't hurt me, I'm sure. I rent a fridge and stock it with Corona. Gonna be a long night and I need something to make the time go faster. More basketball on tv. I do a load of laundry and someone steals a sock from out of the dryer. No problem, just someone getting a keepsake from a famous guy like me. Maybe there really are folks in the world who don't hate and wish me dead, but instead want me to understand they are with me after all I've been through. Maybe some people actually like me. Get maybe two hours of sleep. Watch videos until daybreak. Gather my stuff to check out. It was a good night, the fucking spooks left me pretty much alone. A giggle here and there, but not much. They took it easy on me. Maybe they finally have some respect for my fight. Gather my stuff and close the room door behind me. Getting on the elevator is a muscled young man, mid twenties, with a sizable backpack slung. He must be my guide, my protector. He says nothing to me as her gets on. Just as it should be. He's obviously a pro. Not going to give anything away. We arrive at the ground floor. He turns left, I turn right. Wait, was I supposed to follow him? Was he going to lead me to the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, the place I am headed this morning? I check out and the desk clerks do not ask for any money or credit card. Surely this means the government has paid my bill. The least those bastards can do for me. I walk quickly out to the parking lot, looking for that soldier. Nowhere to be seen. I know I've fucked up their plans for me, so I return to the lobby of the Hampton, confused as to what I should do. Sitting on a couch, listening to the commotion of the morning rush. Suddenly I realize that everyone there is an actor. They are all there for my benefit, my safety. Go ahead, pretend to order a coffee and a bagel. I'm on to you guys. Feeling safe, I close my eyes and take a half hour nap. Best sleep I've gotten in weeks.

Knowing I'm being watched out for by good people, I decide to make my move: the Shipyard. Driving north I notice a hand colored sign with arrows and letters that I don't quite understand. Must be directions meant for me, but they are nonsensical. They aren't going to make this easy, are they? At least the spooks are trying. I pull into the shipyard's visitors parking lot and wait for someone to come get me. To welcome me and thank me for all the good work I've been doing with my life the past several years. Minutes go by. Nothing. These assholes are incompetent. I'll just have to do this myself, I think, and walk to the visitors center. Seeing no signs to direct me to whoever is in charge I take a number and sit. Finally, I'm called. The friendly, surprisingly relaxed elderly women whom has been given this important assignment pretends like she doesn't know who I am or why am I here. I cry out in exasperation, "Are you going to let me on the base or not?" She looks scared. What the fuck is going on? I run out the door. Another messed up operation by the government; they couldn't bring in one of the most important people on the planet. Me.

Where to now? It's only midday, but I decide to check into a Motel Six. It's located a few hundred yards from the Hampton I stayed in last night, so it should be easy for the spooks to set up their equipment and watch me. Knowing how many people are watching me I decide to give them a treat: I buy a boombox and a Chaka Kahn greatest hits CD. And of course some beer. Go to my room, jar the door open so everyone in the hallway can listen, and crank Chaka. I know I am doing a service to my country, to all the guys paying attention to me through this ordeal, as they listen in through the internet, and the music is a sweet relaxer.

The big item on my agenda for this night was the arrival of a woman from my past that I'm sure the government is bringing in to reward me for my work. I had met L. back when I was in college. She was a type of counselor who knew my father. We had talked often during my freshman year in college and now that I was famous she had realized her love for me. She had, I knew, left her husband and life out in Cleveland and was being transported here, to Portsmouth, tonight, for my benefit. Having met her just once, twenty three years ago, I couldn't believe she still loved me. But she did. And tonight we would spend the night at a Motel Six and sleep together for the first time. That would have to do; maybe not the most romantic setting to come together but it'd have to do. The Hollywood money I had coming would set us up for life; this would just be a pleasant memory to laugh about in the upcoming years of our marital bliss.

I took a nap. When I woke snow was beginning to come down. Heavy. A March snow; how cool. Hopefully this wouldn't mess up L's flight in, but surely the government could handle a few flakes. And they owed me from the fuckup today at the shipyard. I wasn't worried, we'd be together in a few hours. Setting up the room as a kind of bridal suite, I put the Coronas on ice, started the Chaka CD, turned back the covers, and waited for L. to arrive.

Where the fuck was she? Were they going to mess this up, too? I deserved better after all I had put up with.

It was getting late in the day and the snow was piling up; time to investigate. I went down to the lobby and asked the front desk clerk, "Where's my L.? Where is my L." The woman appeared confused and a bit frightened. Another amateur. Two decent sized guys were in the lobby. I knew instinctively they were security. I walked up to the bigger one and chest pumped him, to show him he couldn't do anything to hurt me. They were both there to protect me and couldn't hit back. Man, this was fun! The fuckers scattered and I returned to my third floor room. How could I move this process along and get the damn woman of my dreams into my room and on to the life I'd been obsessing over for so long. The other rooms on my floor obviously were all occupied by government spooks and security personnel. Maybe I could fuck with them a little to show them that I was almost at the end of my rope: I deserved better treatment.

I broke open the door to the room next door to me. They have the nerve to lock me out, so I showed them what was what. And when I shattered the door with my shoulder, the asshole had the nerve to start yelling "Get out!" at me. Didn't he understand what was going on? Books would be written about this night. About my place in the world. He'd regret that.

I returned to my room next door, closed the door and tried to come up with a plan. How long before L. showed up? It was now a nasty snowstorm, so I could understand the delays. But Pease airport was right next door, practically. Couldn't they helicopter her in? Wasn't I important enough?

Angry, I returned to the hallway. Fuckers think they can slow this shit down. I'm sick of waiting. Four or five cops appeared at the end of the hallway. Thank god; somebody was taking this shit seriously. The cops were here and L. was sure to follow. To show them I wasn't afraid, I picked out the biggest, baddest looking policeman. As they approached I slowly walked over and gave him a congratulatory love bump with my chest. My saviors were here! I bumped him again. "Taser...taser!" I heard from someone. The cops backed away from me. A gun fired, I felt a small sting in my chest. Then pain. As much pain as I'd ever felt. As much pain as anyone had ever felt. I went down on all fours. Confusion. Anger: they were fuckups, too! "Hit me again!" was all I could think to yell. They did: the second taser hit was worse than the first. I was face down on the ground with boots on my neck and back, preventing me from moving a muscle. Why were the people sent to save me being so cruel to me, just when I was about to have the life I'd dreamed of: L., the money from the good people out in Hollywood, Maybe a house in the Berkshires. Time to read, time to write. Time to travel, to spend with my Mom. Why were these cops fucking with me when it was all close.

All I could hear in my head was the same thought, going round and round: "Why? Why" Why?"