Barroom Hero

A Eulogy for the Dead and Forgotten

Corey Groce, as far as I can recall, was raised somewhere in the middle of Tennessee. When I met him, he was homeless--sleeping in the basement of a local coffe shop/bar called The Map Room next to a guy named Stephen. Stephen worked at The Map Room. Corey did not, but he was a puppy dog, a sweet, messed-up kid you couldn't help but like, you couldn't refuse to help. He was the only person I ever saw allowed to sleep in public. Oh, sometimes they'd wake him up and tell him to go; others, though, they'd just let him sleep, passed out on the couch. He looked so innocent in his sleep, though innocent really isn't accurate. Corey always looked innocent. His pale face, shrouded behind thick, black glasses (we called them birth-control glasses) was the image of youthful purity. But the look of hurst confusion that so often marred his wakened glance was missing when he slept, replaced by a pure, necessary peace. It was too bad this peace came at the price of booze and heroin.

At 21, Corey looked 16. Perhaps junk is the cure for aging. A year after I met him, Corey still looked 16. I'm sure he didn't age much, if at all, before he died. He was 27. I hadn't seen him in four years.

I don't know--or can't remember--much about his childhood. He didn't grow up rich, but I don't think he grew up poor, either. His parents, the one time I met them, seemed a typical, uptight, middle-class couple. They were not pleased with their eldest son, but they drove the hour to attend his wedding. Corey's younger brother also attended. At 21, he looked 17. He was some kind of financial broker, comfortable in his suit and tie. None of them helped with the wedding ceremony. The parents disappeared within a few minutes of the ceremony's end. The brother hung around for a bit, drinking beer and talking. He left within the hour.

But Corey was damaged; his wound was a festering sore, an exploding star, a train wreck, a viral video of castration that no one wants to see, that even the most hardened souls avoid. It was ever-present and ominous, a being without words to tame it, for Corey never once named his pain. It was the tragedy of Corey--a tragedy unknown and unknowable. A sorrow that finally killed him.

Corey was forever losing jobs and forever regaining them. His life tread a familiar path of redemption and fall, resurrection and disgrace. He would find a reason to stay clean--a new job, a new girl, a new band. Then he would do his damndest, work his hardest, strive to not only stay clean, but to excel. And he was a hard worker. Strong, determined, amiable, his size belied his strength. More than once I witnessed his hundred-pound frame carrying two full kegs of beer at the local brewery he worked at. I have no doubt that each of the kegs outweighed him. When he was clean, you couldn't find anyone who would bust ass harder than he would. And he would do it with unflagging cheer and a self-depracating, full-throated laugh.

But that would only last for a short time. Soon, Corey's attendance would slip. He'd start showing up late, forget to call the girl, disappear for a few days. It was only a matter of time before he went full-cycle, was again slipping into a heroin-induced coma, waking to find his things gone, or worse, depending on where he was overcome, and who was there to protect him.

--Next, My Funny Junkie

Chasing Pirates

It's seems like I've spent my life trying in vain to improve myself. I've always some scheme to improve things. I'll write every day. I won't eat any sugar, starting tomorrow. I will do chores daily. No more procrastination. I'll keep everything shiny and clean and perfect. I rarely make it a day. Never more than a week.

But I keep promising these things to myself. I keep reasoning with myself that I ought to do things that truly make me feel good, not things that I only believe will make me feel good. That bag of chips really didn't make me feel better, and the Bones marathon that kept me up until 2 am didn't provide relief the following day. Nor that night, really.

I find myself facing Paul's problem: the good that I would do, I don't. In the midst of this latest digression, I wrote a piece on how I felt. I know, it sounds like the wailings of an angsty teen. So fair warning, the next bit may not be of use to anyone but myself:

My misery is written in the expanse of my flesh. Grotesque corpulance of sorrow and self-loathing. I find no joy in my life, and punish myself by destroying my physical form, dessicating the mind and torturing the body. I embalm myself in the shallow-false intimacy of the lit screen, torturing my flesh for wrongs I cannot stop perpetrating.

How utterly useless am I in my shrine to self-pity. How ill thought, ill read, ill kempt. A slug of pithy apathy, willing to do no more to remedy my situation than reminisce about the tragedies of normalacy that led me here. It isn't enough. It's never enough.

I feel devoted to secrecy—a foolish, unnecessary secrecy as I really have nothing to hide. I do nothing, I say nothing. I merely languish in my miserable shroud, entombing myself in adipose as I bemoan my fate. As if fate had anything to do with my disease.

It is a disease, isn't it? Surely it must be. Nothing this—no, horrifying is too strong a word: it implies interest, a reach to the edge of human experience, to the fringe of reality—no, nothing this bland and insidious could be sought, could be chosen. It has to be the product of an inescapable force, doesn't it? The ennui of death, a juggernaut of apathy.

But not apathy, really. For apathy would not manifest in rebellion. Rebellion is truly what it is—a deliberate destruction masked in the garb of repentance. A pretense towards change that is little more than an oft-repeated lie.