The Man Had Issues

I remember the day Barry took the gas pipe. Vividly.

He was my best friend, but no fucking walk in the park. The man had issues.

I'm not talking about the drinking, drinking was not the issue. I think drinking is a virtue, not a vice. I mean, for Christ sake, with all the shit life throws at you, and all the people who do you dirty, fucking alcohol is like a trip to Disneyland. A goddamn surreal vacation. Every single day.

Sorry, I didn't mean to get off track. Barry had issues. Man, he could whine. About his job, about being poor, about his broken down car and broken down dreams. You really couldn't call what was in his head dreams, though. They were more like fantasies.

Sitting around on a Friday night leaning on a whiskey glass for support, thinking about what it would be like to have money. Not necessarily rich, but comfortable enough to kill worry. Comfortable enough to tell the bossman to Fuck Off!, and walk away. Maybe not even have a boss. Holy shit - a life where you did not have to answer to anyone? How sweet it is, baby.

Barry thought he would be a good Dad. He had been around, he had strong opinions formed by the intense and relentless pressure of just fucking living. Kind of like how diamonds are born. He liked that comparison - his thoughts were like diamonds. Diamonds he could pass on to his son when they were out trout fishing.

Trouble was, no woman could hang with Barry for long. Too opinionated, self-destructive, and he called all women sweetie, for Christ sake. They slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

The man could play cornhole, though. He was a fucking genius at it. There were eight cornhole boards out back behind the bar, and Barry was king there. Nobody could beat him. Drunk, sober - it didn't matter. He tossed those beanbags like a fucking professionally trained sniper - the man was accurate. He made a few bucks on the side here and there from deflating the egos of the generally unaware. It made Barry feel good.

There was no specific incident that finally set Barry off. He was just bored. He was 43 and knew deep down inside he could not spend another 24 or 25 years living this way until he retired. If he could even afford to retire. Too many unknowns, not enough treats.

So he walked through the door from the kitchen into the garage, ran a hose from the exhaust pipe on his shitty car in through the drivers side window, fired up the engine, uncorked a bottle of fine whiskey, tuned in the Classic Vinyl station on Sirius XM, and exited to the music that made his soul soar.

Suddenly, I missed him. I missed Barry. I missed all his neuroses and whining and pain in the ass crises.

Life is funny.