I was living in a rundown, one hundred an twenty dollars a month, rooming house in downtown Gallipolis, Ohio. It was three stories of constant madness that heightened on the first of the month while becoming very brutal towards the end of each month. I was collecting an honest, bi-weekly, unemployment check. That, I believed, made me better, and somehow kept me a half a step in front of surrounding pack who waited on the mail lady for their means. You see, I had chased a girl from the grey hustle and bustle of Fullerton, California to the plush green, slow rolling hills and mountains of West Virginia, striking matches and burning every bridge along the way. God! I thought I was in love. I raced the postcards. We didnâ€™t work out. My pride and youthful foolishness had my totally alone. After two weeks of living in my cramped car, stuffing my coat pockets Shoneyâ€™s greasy chicken and dry corn bread. I moved up and improved my lot upon checking into the Gallia Hotel.
I hadnâ€™t planned on living there long. But a year later, after countless fist fights, a few knife and ball bat encounters, and a .22 caliber gun shot, that missed. I had accidentally risen to king of the flophouse. If I wanted to be left alone, I was left alone. If I wanted a sloppy blowjob, I knew which doors to knock on. I was the king. The communal bathroom on my floor was spotless. Finding a true love that would lead to an ex was the last thing on my mind. Shit! I was smoking and choking on the finest Megis County weed ever grown.