4.
Then I lost touch with him again for 5 years.
Most of what I know about his life then comes from snatches
of things he said later.
He apparently made one or more trips to Colombia
with his sister’s husband to buy cocaine.
One of the trips must have been psychologically devastating.
But by the time he told me anything about it,
Victor had become a pathological liar and I couldn’t
rely on anything he said.
Most of what I know about his life then comes from snatches
of things he said later.
He apparently made one or more trips to Colombia
with his sister’s husband to buy cocaine.
One of the trips must have been psychologically devastating.
But by the time he told me anything about it,
Victor had become a pathological liar and I couldn’t
rely on anything he said.
…
After my father’s death, while I was visiting my mother,
I drove fromDenver to Pueblo
He was living in a house with his girl friend
(whom I was told I had known in junior high school but didn’t remember)
and a Hispanic man who worked as a
fireman and had recently separated from his wife.
I had brought a joint with me.
Victor co-opted it the minute I arrived.
We smoked it at a strategic moment before his girl friend got home.
Victor’s movements seemed jerky,
and he had developed an odd nervous giggle.
At one point he tried to carry a pot of soup that his girl friend had made
to the stove to warm it up,
but he dropped the pot and the soup spilled all over the floor.
He was distressed, but I suggested
that we just scoop up the soup in our hands and put it back in the pot.
Victor said he would never have thought of that.
We did scoop it up, and he served it for dinner.
He didn’t eat any of it, though.
The guitars came out later on.
Victor complimented me on my flat picking,
which I had finally learned playing in my 7Hz band with Stephen Phelps.
Victor's sister came over.
She regarded Victor and me with the same dubious irony
as when we were 12.
…
After my father’s death, while I was visiting my mother,
I drove from
He was living in a house with his girl friend
(whom I was told I had known in junior high school but didn’t remember)
and a Hispanic man who worked as a
fireman and had recently separated from his wife.
I had brought a joint with me.
Victor co-opted it the minute I arrived.
We smoked it at a strategic moment before his girl friend got home.
Victor’s movements seemed jerky,
and he had developed an odd nervous giggle.
At one point he tried to carry a pot of soup that his girl friend had made
to the stove to warm it up,
but he dropped the pot and the soup spilled all over the floor.
He was distressed, but I suggested
that we just scoop up the soup in our hands and put it back in the pot.
Victor said he would never have thought of that.
We did scoop it up, and he served it for dinner.
He didn’t eat any of it, though.
The guitars came out later on.
Victor complimented me on my flat picking,
which I had finally learned playing in my 7Hz band with Stephen Phelps.
Victor's sister came over.
She regarded Victor and me with the same dubious irony
as when we were 12.
…
The next day the fireman made a big pot of green chili.
I don’t remember what we did for most of that day.
I spent some time in the late morning
watching Victor play Galaxian on a machine
in a 7-11 store.
The three of them were planning to buy a house out
in the country somewhere, east of town.
Victor seemed to set a lot of store by this plan.
I think we drove out and took a look at the place.
Later, Victor took me to a bar on the East side,
and we had a beer and tried to talk.
It was then he told me about the Colombia trips.
He said that on one of them he caught a parasite.
Microscopic worms would collect under his skin
in little red-white patches. When he pressed with his finger
on one of the patches, the worms would scatter,
tunneling away fast in all directions
in little red-white lines. He added that
sometimes they would emerge onto the outer skin,
metamorphose into tiny flies,
and go buzzing around the room.
Drove him batty, he said.
Pretty soon we went back to the house.
We ate the chili with some store-bought tamales while watching TV.
It was the best green chili I’ve ever tasted,
with big slabs of pork shoulder,
stringyNew Mexico
They all went to bed early
because the next day was the start of the work week.
Victor was working for a window installation contractor.
He seemed to have settled down
to a pretty regular kind of life.
I was too restless to go to bed,
so I knocked on Victor’s bedroom door
to tell him I was driving back toDenver
I think I may have interrupted some amorous goings on
on the water bed. But we said
goodbye, and I left.
I don’t remember what we did for most of that day.
I spent some time in the late morning
watching Victor play Galaxian on a machine
in a 7-11 store.
The three of them were planning to buy a house out
in the country somewhere, east of town.
Victor seemed to set a lot of store by this plan.
I think we drove out and took a look at the place.
Later, Victor took me to a bar on the East side,
and we had a beer and tried to talk.
It was then he told me about the Colombia trips.
He said that on one of them he caught a parasite.
Microscopic worms would collect under his skin
in little red-white patches. When he pressed with his finger
on one of the patches, the worms would scatter,
tunneling away fast in all directions
in little red-white lines. He added that
sometimes they would emerge onto the outer skin,
metamorphose into tiny flies,
and go buzzing around the room.
Drove him batty, he said.
Pretty soon we went back to the house.
We ate the chili with some store-bought tamales while watching TV.
It was the best green chili I’ve ever tasted,
with big slabs of pork shoulder,
stringy
They all went to bed early
because the next day was the start of the work week.
Victor was working for a window installation contractor.
He seemed to have settled down
to a pretty regular kind of life.
I was too restless to go to bed,
so I knocked on Victor’s bedroom door
to tell him I was driving back to
I think I may have interrupted some amorous goings on
on the water bed. But we said
goodbye, and I left.
…
Not very long after this
Victor must have entered drug treatment
and gone through a 12-step program, because he made a point
of visiting my mother to let her know
that he was clean.
My mother wasn’t particularly impressed by this,
though she did care about Victor as her son’s
best childhood friend.
An advanced alcoholic herself,
she died of cancer within a year of his visit.
…
Victor must have entered drug treatment
and gone through a 12-step program, because he made a point
of visiting my mother to let her know
that he was clean.
My mother wasn’t particularly impressed by this,
though she did care about Victor as her son’s
best childhood friend.
An advanced alcoholic herself,
she died of cancer within a year of his visit.
…
In the late 1980’s Victor
was living inSandy , UT
working for 3M as a computer programmer.
He was married and had a baby son named Joey.
He would call me occasionally,
always when he had been drinking.
I think there was a transitory phase in his drinking binges
when he’d decide to call up his old buddy, John.
Once he told me that his sister and her husband had
both been arrested in a cocaine bust.
He was extremely concerned.
Her husband might do 20 years.
His sister would probably escape prison because of the kids.
“God, I’m glad I’m not into that shit anymore,” he said.
I believed what he told me about his sister,
but my interactions with him had acquired such an air of unreality
that I couldn’t be entirely sure of him.
Once when he called I couldn’t talk to him right away.
When I called back in half an hour, he was too far gone to talk,
kept dropping the telephone receiver.
Another time when I called he was in
too black a mood to talk.
I asked him how his job was going, and he said,
“It sucks.”
was living in
working for 3M as a computer programmer.
He was married and had a baby son named Joey.
He would call me occasionally,
always when he had been drinking.
I think there was a transitory phase in his drinking binges
when he’d decide to call up his old buddy, John.
Once he told me that his sister and her husband had
both been arrested in a cocaine bust.
He was extremely concerned.
Her husband might do 20 years.
His sister would probably escape prison because of the kids.
“God, I’m glad I’m not into that shit anymore,” he said.
I believed what he told me about his sister,
but my interactions with him had acquired such an air of unreality
that I couldn’t be entirely sure of him.
Once when he called I couldn’t talk to him right away.
When I called back in half an hour, he was too far gone to talk,
kept dropping the telephone receiver.
Another time when I called he was in
too black a mood to talk.
I asked him how his job was going, and he said,
“It sucks.”
…
In 1990, when I drove through Utah on Interstate 80
to join my family inAlbany , California ,
I didn’t stop to see him,
nor in 1991 on my way back toMinnesota
When I told him on the phone about the trip,
the implication was obvious,
but he didn’t say anything.
The last time I saw him was inSt. Paul
He came to receive a 3M project award, and I invited
him and his wife for brunch.
They arrived late. He was pale and flabby,
with low affect,
looking like his father.
His wife was anotherPueblo
but had grown up on the other side of town.
I had bought lox and bagels and a lot of other stuff to eat.
I think they had already had breakfast.
I brought out guitars,
which seems like a cruelty now.
He scratched a bit at the strings,
but only seemed comfortable chatting
about his mother and sister.
While he was absent for a short time, I understood
from his wife that he was on the wagon.
He seemed to be utterly estranged
from whatever part of his life
he had ever shared with me.
…
to join my family in
I didn’t stop to see him,
nor in 1991 on my way back to
When I told him on the phone about the trip,
the implication was obvious,
but he didn’t say anything.
The last time I saw him was in
He came to receive a 3M project award, and I invited
him and his wife for brunch.
They arrived late. He was pale and flabby,
with low affect,
looking like his father.
His wife was another
but had grown up on the other side of town.
I had bought lox and bagels and a lot of other stuff to eat.
I think they had already had breakfast.
I brought out guitars,
which seems like a cruelty now.
He scratched a bit at the strings,
but only seemed comfortable chatting
about his mother and sister.
While he was absent for a short time, I understood
from his wife that he was on the wagon.
He seemed to be utterly estranged
from whatever part of his life
he had ever shared with me.
…
I never talked to him again.
Nearly a decade later
I discovered that he died not long after I saw him last.
Searching the internet,
I found an obituary record,
though now all I can find
is a picture of his father’s grave marker -
“Private in WWII.”
Nearly a decade later
I discovered that he died not long after I saw him last.
Searching the internet,
I found an obituary record,
though now all I can find
is a picture of his father’s grave marker -
“Private in WWII.”
