The person who was born in Albert Lea doesn’t exist anymore. Physically he does, but on paper he doesn’t. In a touching little ceremony that I held by myself when I returned from Mexico, I burned my real birth certificate, Minnesota drivers license, Social Security card, and my military ID card. My California identity also went into the flames. Sooner or later the government would get their shit together and put my fingerprints with that name. A tattoo artist had covered up my navy tattoo with a jet black shark. If I look real close I can still see the old one through it.
My identity now is that of a Alabama baby who was born about the same time I was, but died young. Got his name out of the obituaries. His mother had forgotten that she had put him on the top of her car while unlocking the doors. She was coming out of a bar. A true class act.
I never realized how handy that book would become.
I had been working in the gulf shores area at a local marina. Scraping the barnacles off the bottoms of boats. My Dad was finally right. That good navy training finally became useful. In the evenings I would spend my time trying to keep my old houseboat afloat.
The owner of the marina gave it to me when I expressed an interest in it after he said it was destined for the wood pile. It leaked badly, so the bilge pump was always running, and was infested with mice, but it was home.
I’d been drug and steroid free for the first time in over a decade. Anti-steroid zealots are full of shit when they tell the public that being on the juice doesn’t work. But when you get off them the size just melts away. I don’t even lift anymore. Every morning I get up and run five miles on the beach. I weigh almost fifty pounds less than I did two years ago. I don’t know if anyone would even recognize me now. My hair is down to my shoulders and my beard almost reaches my chest. It’s starting to turn gray. I feel pretty good.
But being drug free doesn’t mean beer free. That part of Minnesota will never leave me. I had been trying to limit myself to only two frosties a night. I’d only broken that self imposed rule once.
I’d also been following another personal rule No contact with anyone from my previous lives. That’s meant no letters or phone calls. Ever. It’s better for me and it’s sure better for everybody else. I never wanted to put anyone in the spot of having to lie to some government official or someone much worse. Some drug dealer still pissed about some long ago scam and wanting to settle the score.
One lonely night I had decided to call Artimus. He had left Isla Mujures some time after I had, but he had given me the number of his mother in South Dakota. Said she would always know where he was.
Television hadn’t been a big part of my life, but this night at the marina I had caught this weekly show that was about navy and marine lawyers. Shit, the things that they did in one hour were incredible, as well as unbelievable. Flying fighter planes, kicking the shit out of people, and shooting terrorists. All in one hour. And here I am thinking that all JAG officers did was bust people for smoking pot. The marine lawyer was a babe on top of everything else. I just had to call Arty and tell him about it. And I missed him.
Artimus had been killed on his motorcycle while he was headed for the annual biker rally in Sturgis. It was a hit and run accident. The driver and vehicle were never seen.
I woke up the next morning where I had passed out the night before after consuming a huge amount of malt liquor and smoking a gram of hash. I had been laying face down on the beach. A bunch of surly sea gulls were doing bombing runs on my prone body and had shit all over me. They were screaming with glee when I came to.
My life had officially hit rock bottom. It was time to make a stand.
After getting back to the houseboat and taking an ice cold shower, having a breakfast of cold Krystal burgers, and then throwing it up over the side, I had broken my non contact rule for the second time in less than twenty four hours.