i realize that the focus of this story is cashpoint, but i’ve never written a novel without mentioning the big handsome (who is perhaps my most mentally ill friend) … the big handsome’s family is rich-as-shit, but he’s fallen on hard times in 2017 and had to move back in with his mom in kentucky … in the span of about 9 months, big handsome’s father and cats died, plus he was fired from another teaching gig in colorado (and i think the death of his beloved cats hit him the hardest) … we kinda lost touch over the years, and the only reason i know anything about him now is through his internet podcast … the disconnect certainly wasn’t my fault--i flew out to denver on spring break to stay with him in 2014, and the big handsome was too high to pick me up at the airport … i called and called, and he was ultimately too fucked up to drive the hour from colorado springs, and i wound up staying with another friend, alaska dave, in boulder … i haven’t seen the big handsome since 2013, and it’s entirely possible that i’ll never see him again (and that makes me sad) … per the podcast, big handsome is seeing a psychiatrist in 2017, but i don’t necessarily know what’s wrong with him (other than being high every moment of the day from 1990-2015) … other stories from other novels dealt with big handsome calling me a “republican” for not wanting to sit in 6-month-old puke while driving to a party, and his cats using his bathtub as a giant litterbox, but this particular paragraph will deal exclusively with the life/times of big handsome while teaching at a college in louisville from 2008-2010 … there’s no real connection to cashpoint other than they paid my salary, and i came back to iowa with some fucked-up stories to tell my students … this might seem like a diversion, but i promise that the big handsome is always worth it … at the time, big handsome was teaching english at government cheese university…..i don’t know how he got the job, but he only lasted 2 years … big handsome went to colorado to party the summer after his 2nd year and never returned … as the story goes, the head of the english department started calling big handsome’s friends/colleagues/former professors in september after the big handsome failed to show for the first 3 weeks of school--there was no official resignation or notification of any kind--big handsome simply decided to go smoke doobies and assumed his job would be waiting for him when he returned … i was only on their campus once, but government cheese was a helluva nice school--100 times classier than cashpoint and the kind of place where i would give my left nut to teach … my one visit to their campus was to see a play that big handsome had written about his cats as part of some “galileo festival” (and i have no idea what the connection to galileo was other than big handsome’s life revolved around his cats the way planets revolve around the sun) … i was high-as-a-bat, but big handsome played himself, and his cats were played by 2 hot coeds in slinky cat-suits complete with ears/tails … instead of smoking doobies, the character was a writer who drank scotch and played with his cats (who would perch on the furniture while sticking their asses in big handsome’s face wanting to be petted) all day--nice work if you can get it, yeah? ... big handsome even got a stipend from the university for writing the play (which seemed to be nothing more than his own life, but with hot coeds playing the parts of his cats) … i sat with one of big handsome’s students, and she seemed to think he was some kind of eccentric genius … she seemed to like me too--until i asked her if she wanted to go outside to get high (and then she seemed terrified of me) … after the play was over, we went to a local pub where big handsome let his students buy us drinks for the remainder of the evening … i didn’t have my car and big handsome was out-of-his-mind, so one of his students offered to drive us home (and, of course, big handsome paid the kid back by getting him so high that he wound up crashing on the floor next to me) … if you’re curious, big handsome’s apartment was just like you remembered it … there were 5’ tall stacks of dirty clothes in each room (complete with q-tips, dental floss or whatever other piece of garbage big handsome decided to throw into the pile) … big handsome was 38 at the time and had no idea how to do laundry--whenever he needed new clothes, he would simply charge them to his mother’s credit card … there was no toilet paper or cleaning supplies whatsoever, and i think big handsome shat at work and showered at the government cheese gym … the only food big handsome knew how to make was pizza, so his fridge was an assortment of (dripping-out-of-the-can) sauces, pizza dough, and assorted designer beers … whenever big handsome drank a beer, he simply left the bottle wherever he finished it (and there must have been thousands of empty beer bottles strewn across his apartment) … one time, big handsome’s alarm clock buzzed and woke him up, so he smashed it with his fist and the broken glass stayed on his nightstand until i returned again the following year … big handsome didn’t like junk mail, so whenever it was delivered to his mailbox, he immediately threw it on the front steps leading up to his apartment--the pile was 2’ high during my first visit and 4’ high for my second visit (and never forget that big handsome has a phd and his grandfather had once been the attorney general of kentucky) … during my second visit in the spring of 2010, i got to meet some of big handsome’s friends from undergrad … the most interesting of the pack were the son and daughter-in-law of one of big handsome’s english professors at the university of louisville … i don’t remember their names, but the dude had worked as a male stripper to put himself through college, and the chick had been a jockey at churchill downs until she failed a drug test (meth) … the groom’s go-to story was about once stripping for jeffrey dahmer at a private party in milwaukee whereas the bride’s had to go with doing lines off the winning horse’s saddle after winning a $1,000,000 handicapped race … the couple had 3 kids, lived in a victorian mansion full-of-books, and both worked as nurses as the local hospital … they were also huge cokeheads and hooked me up with their dealer in the bathroom of a dilapidated bar in the seediest section of town--then we went to the graveyard across from their house and did lines off the headstone of colonel harlan sanders (i thought it was disrespectful, and it made me uncomfortable, but party etiquette dictates that the needs of the drug dealer takes precedence over everyone else) … (daytripper) big handsome actually refused because of what happened to len bias and because doing lines off the grave of colonel sanders would be disrespectful to the great sport of basketball--hey, i guess we all have to draw the line somewhere
The Midnight Rider prefers to remain mysterious. You could visit his
website, but he won't say where it is. You could read his books, but
he won't say what they are. You could email him, but I'm pretty sure
spam@gofuckyourself.gov is not a real email address. In a world where
everyone is repping their Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, sex
tapes, line of clothing, new microbrew, virus panic vaccine status, and overall brand, I find that
refreshing. I am happy to have The Rider ride on drinkdrankdrunk.
Posts
