I love you.
I hate you.
I don’t trust you.
I’m leaving you.
Get out and don’t come back.
I did it.
I murdered her (or him).
What got me started on this tangent on a fine 66 degrees and sunny day in southern Ohio?
No idea unless it is this excellent Indica strain coming in at 36% THC.
I was always super-careful not to use the “L” word in any of my pre-Karen days (and no, she isn’t looking over my shoulder right now as I type this). I never had to, thank God.
It’s not right and it is not fair to misuse the word love.
Real, true love can indeed be unspoken, but its true depth unmatched. Saying you love someone is not a frivolous thing to do, at least not with me.
But I do love a medium-rare prime rib French dip sandwich on a grilled buttered French roll and plenty of dark, rich au jus.
Saying you don’t trust me is worse than accusing me of murder in my book.
I am NOTHING if not trustworthy.
But I wasn’t on this one night back in the summer of 1981.
I really hope my brother is not reading this, because I never told him what actually happened that night at closing time.
I had once again reunited with my big brother in the food service industry as his Assistant Manager at a fine dining restaurant on North State Street in Santa Barbara.
The bartender was a friend of mine Keith, whom Ed nicknamed “Flipper” for some silly unknown reason.
It was closing time and the trio we had playing in the lounge area was just breaking down and everyone was heading out as the lights were turned up.
Everyone except this one table of three young very inebriated ladies who had danced the night away on the small patch of linoleum that served as the dance floor.
As I pulled the register and closed it down for the night, I headed back and secured the monies in the office.
When I came back to the bar, the lights had been dimmed, and the music was blaring from the sound system.
It was on.
I had no reason on earth to jeopardize this great relationship with my brother, but I did exactly that.
Drugs, alcohol, motivated young ladies, say no more.
I should have.
Three hours that would make Caligula blush and we destroyed the bar and the gilded glass windows.
I remember getting the call in the morning from my brother who said he didn’t care who, he wanted a set of keys, meaning either Keith’s or mine. I kicked Keith awake on the floor.
“Ed wants your keys or mine” I told him.
“Give him mine,” he said.
“Keith said he’ll turn in his keys,” I said and hung up.
Now I only needed a few minutes for the cobwebs to clear before a bad taste started forming in my mouth.
I called Ed back.
“It wasn’t just Keith. It was me too.”
“OK. Turn in both sets of keys.”
I never disappointed my big brother again after that day.