The Sift
'Conventional; last person in the world to commit crime; not very self-aware, and very compassionate; believes he is a very good example of what the best is.' My analyst remarked, two weeks before I left on a three week vacation, and it still rolls around. Before I left on holiday he released notes of our consultation to my ex-business partners saying to me, 'Done with the best intentions for your partners.' Into my fourth brandy on the flight for that country where Spanish is an official language, thinking if he'd been doing this all the time, forwarding private notes, what else was this dick fuck up to? Hostile takeovers, leveraged buyouts, and mega-mergers spawned a new breed of billionaires'. In 1981 the average salary was $15,750. Life expectancy for male’s 69.9, females 77.6, and minimum wage stood at $3.10. BMW was $12,000, Mercedes 280 E costs $14,800, movies attendance was around 20 million each week, and the Equal Rights Amendment failed ratification. He actually convinced me of early retirement. It's now obvious the 'old partners' had their eyes' on several ventures. My company, and its holdings, for one. The adversary ex-wife, second.
My daughter and three sons are far away. I have not heard from them in years. After the divorce they sided with their mother. Even thought they were in their mid-twenties, they acted as children. My fault as I spoiled them more than their mother. I gave them too much. Of everything. How that chock-chain would've soothed situations had I used it. On myself. I should have swayed long ago from the rafters in our barn, just above the horses, their sweaty scent filling a last strangely gasp. Nothing better than hunting with friends, in a company of dogs, and good bourbon. It brought out the animal in us. We'd enjoy brainstorming. Some of my friends were business partners my analyst shared details with. How I wish they were with me here. Prime bitch meat.
Not hanging myself after all the facts had reason attached in knowing it would happen regardless. Dislodged from that staid position of my mother I touched ground running. I looked back once when visiting the folks with my children. Sitting there watching senility form over my father thinking, 'Travel through the twentieth century. How I wish.' I saw my father at his end, shriveled, sitting at the edge of the bed. My mother placed him in a facility and I never saw him after that. She was happy at last being rid of the man. I saw them kiss only twice. I learned to swear from their yelling tournaments. I learned my father had a taste of packing his bag and leaving for week-ends out of the house of, at one point, thirty-three cats and seven dogs, for his heaven. The beach. He openly gawked at women, shuffling around. A man in his late fifties, expressing his thirtyish. I did not want to do the same. Yet, now with destiny crap hanging around, the thirty year-olds fuck my ass every day and night. Laying at night with an undefined release date, staring at the shit Mr Fat in the bunk above me, listening to moans, beatings, screams from other cells, and snoring from the other thirteen men in the cell, I ask myself one question; how could this shift in mentality take place so quickly?