Ninth of December

A tale of dreams, lies and broken hearts

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  • Beyond Redemption

    It’s Sunday, November 23rd, just four days until Thanksgiving. I’m planning to go to my parents’ house for the holiday. I have a million thoughts running through my head concerning the turkey-and-stuffing-filled revelry. I’m sure it will be lovely.

    Depression is getting the best of me today.

    I woke up at eight this morning and got a few things done. By 11 a.m., I was ready to slip back under the covers, but the thought of sleeping the day away unproductively sickened me. Not all that long ago, I’d stay in bed during the daylight hours after being up all night putting my nose to a dirty, rolled-up dollar bill and snorting cocaine off of a ceramic plate, complete with a hint of dish soap.

    I don’t live that way today, and I see no reason to lie down in a bed, which, at times, feels like my coffin.

    I got laid off from my job back in July. Yes, the same job for which I moved to New Jersey. I uprooted my life in North Carolina, where I lived for 30 years, for an employer who decided that they didn’t need me after only five months of employment.

    I understand; it’s business, but it doesn’t mean it feels good.

    Since my paycheck stopped mid-summer, I’ve picked up work that I can find and have managed to keep moving forward. I’ve delivered pizzas, I’ve swept ice rinks, and I even have done some work in the television industry.

    Most recently, I applied to be a substitute teacher in the Freehold Regional School District, the same folks who issued my high school diploma back in 1988.

    Not to be, I guess.

    Let’s go back to February 28, 2023, Southeast Georgia.

    I had done a live shot that morning for Fox and Friends with Lynyrd Skynyrd frontman Johnny Van Zant in Jacksonville, Florida. The remote was flawless, and I got a photo taken with a real-life rock star. A great morning, by all accounts.

    So, I’m driving home towards Raleigh on I-95 North, in a great mood, music up loud, and for whatever reason, I start purposely swerving the satellite truck from lane to lane.

    I wasn’t five miles over the Florida State Line and into the Peach State when I was pulled over by a Camden County Sheriff’s Deputy.

    Seeing the blue lights behind me, I pulled over and came to a stop on the highway’s shoulder.

    An officer carefully approached my driver’s side window. “License and registration, please.” I supplied the documentation on demand.

    “Do you know why I stopped you?” he continued.

    “Yes, sir, I was swerving,” I responded softly and respectfully.

    At that point in the interaction, he asked me if I had anything to drink or was under the influence of any drugs, legal or otherwise, to which I answered, “No,” truthfully, and amazingly for the time.

    The officer then went back to his car; I watched him in my side view mirror. It was a long and anxious six or seven minutes, even though I knew the only crimes I was guilty of were being excited and repeatedly changing lanes. Nothing more than uncontrolled emotion and a minor traffic violation.

    The officer then reappeared on my left. “Please exit the car, hands first, and place them on the hood.”

    I obliged.

    After frisking me, the officer asked if he could search my vehicle, to which I consented. I wasn’t drunk, and I wasn’t high, and I wasn’t in possession of anything. I had nothing to hide.

    After rifling through piles of television equipment and opening every bag in the vehicle for what seemed like an eternity and, in reality, was only approximately 30 minutes, the officer emerged and instructed me to place my hands on top of my head. He then cuffed me and showed me a straw, cut at an angle, with a flake of white residue on the tip.

    He explained to me that I was being arrested for Possession of Cocaine and Driving Under the Influence of a controlled substance.

    By this time, backup had arrived.

    I was placed up against the side of the patrol vehicle, my stomach pressing against the windows, my head turned to the left and resting on the roof. The officers were so close to me; I could feel their breath on my face.

    I was read my rights as the cars rushed by me on the busy interstate, as did my entire life through my head.

    I watched as the arresting officer handed the other the evidence bag with the straw in it. “Is this ALL you found?” the assisting officer asked. “Yes, and he’s going to jail for it,” was the seemingly pleased response.

    Next, I was taken to a local firehouse where a vial of my blood was drawn for testing. Then it was off to the Camden County Jail. It was three long days before I received a bond hearing. Bail was set at $12,000, and I was released two hours later.

    I imagine my blood came back clean, like I said it would, because I was never charged with Driving Under the Influence, and the Public Defender handling my case told me the statute of limitations ran out in February 2025.

    As for the possession charge, I’ve never even had a first court appearance on it. The lawyer tells me the statute of limitations on that one runs out in February 2027. He says, “Be patient.”

    Patience, yeah. Easy for him to say. He has a job.

    I have no criminal record. Guilty of nothing more than a speeding ticket, and I haven’t even had one of those in years, yet I’m treated as if I’m a convicted felon when it comes to employment.

    I have 30 years of experience in radio and television; I get second and third interviews with potential employers, only for it to end each time at the background check. I did land a job a couple of years ago with a satellite truck company, a prominent one. They fired me after two weeks, saying their insurance carrier found something when conducting a background check and described me as being “unemployable and uninsurable.”

    I was excited about the substitute teaching position; I really was. I felt like I had something to offer the kids while also being able to earn a living.

    Mass murder, a flake of cocaine on a straw, is there a difference? Neither offender is getting a job…

    “In St. James Parish, I was born and christened. I got my story, mister, there ain’t no need for you to listen…”

  • The Mexican Ice Cream Man

    I came home from work tonight, and the rooming house was quiet. Depressingly silent.

    I stopped briefly as I walked through the front door. I looked to my right, where two guys were watching some type of action movie. Terminator, I think.

    One of the fellas, he’s new, been here about a week, was lying on the couch looking at his phone and, every so often, shifting his eyes towards the television. The other guy, I don’t know his real name, but everyone in the house calls him Flames; he’s on the couch, left hand in his pants, vaping with his right and watching the movie with the look of a stoner who just took the bong hit that pushed him over the edge.

    After observing them for a couple of minutes, I made my way into the kitchen.

    As I turned the corner, I saw Noel washing his hair in the sink. I could hear the water streaming from the faucet as it mixed with the sound of his fingers scratching the shampoo into his scalp. It had a soothing, almost rhythmic beat to it, which brought me back.

    During the height of my addiction, when I lived in Raleigh and was coked up night and day, I longed for affection. Affection from anyone, or anything, and anywhere. As a solution, I used to get high and go to get my haircut. There was a lovely woman named Dana that I went to over on Falls of Neuse Rd., a main drag that ran through North Raleigh.

    Dana was a 5’4″, brunette with pearly white teeth and the cutest dimples. Dana also knew of my problems, and nonetheless, spoke with me softly and sweetly every single time I saw her. When it came time for the hair washing portion of the cut, she always fell silent.

    Dana scrubbed my tired and overworked head with her finely manicured fingernails in a caring and nurturing manner. It was like she knew what I came for.

    I walked down the dark hallway next. My room is the first door on the left.

    I slowly opened it to see Rob sitting at his desk. He was watching old episodes of Cops on YouTube with headphones on as he read the King James version of The Bible, a book that usually sat next to his bed.

    My roommate hadn’t noticed I walked in, and I didn’t want to disturb him. I watched for a few moments, and my head tilted up, away from his computer screen, and up towards the picture of him and his son, which sat on a shelf a foot above his head.

    I found the scene very fitting of the house and of the circumstances, so I left it undisturbed. I came back out to the kitchen and took a seat at the butcher block island.

    Earlier this week, we had 10 guys, the maximum, living in the house. A three-bedroom house with one working toilet. The guys sitting on the couch informed me that we are now down to nine.

    They told me Moshe, the Israeli guy who spoke very little English, was missing and was also being accused by his employer of stealing a dump truck. They said an irate man came to the door that morning looking for him. Nobody knows where he is.

    What struck me about this story, as it may seem kind of amusing, a crackhead stealing a dump truck and being on the run from the boss who is searching for him, was the fact that none of the three of us were laughing. It was like an unspoken statement, which we all knew and recognized. It was the desperation that seemingly led Moshe to this act. It’s like he ran out of choices and took the only one left, the one right in front of him.

    I had been there before.

    When the kids were little, Elliott around 9 and Cate 6, I used to ask them if they wanted to go see The Mexican Ice Cream Man.

    What this really meant was I was seeking their approval to spend the afternoon stripping wires from the satellite trucks, then going to the metal scrapyard on the south side of downtown Raleigh to stand in line to get money for my next baggie of cocaine.

    At that scrapyard, there was an ice cream truck where the operator only understood Spanish. I knew just enough to order the kids their treats.

    It was a bribe I was trying to disguise as fun in order to get my next fix. But Elliott, he knew better and sheepishly went along with the outing each time, never smiling, even with the ice cream in hand. Cate, she was just too young to understand and enjoyed her cone, along with the novelty of ordering in an unknown tongue, each Saturday afternoon.

    When choices run thin, it’s so hard to look past what’s in your immediate grasp, no matter the cost.

    Moshe, if you’re out there, brother, I share your pain. Godspeed, my friend.

  • Missed Connections

    I usually rush through writing these. I get an idea, I pop open the computer, I bang it out and wait to see how people respond to it.

    Not today. I’m moving slowly, intently, and methodically. I need to feel this one. I’m ready to go a little deeper.

    Yes, I usually like to write funny pieces, or I try to shock the reader. The ones about heartbreak and despair are really some of my favorites. On this brightly shining Sunday afternoon in Manalapan, New Jersey, the town from which most of these stories were born, I want to invite you along on the next step in my journey.

    I was doing my chore in the rooming house this morning. It is my responsibility to clean the living room. I sweep, and I mop, and I dust, and I Windex. I keep the area livable.

    I was unusually quiet as I muddled through my domestic obligations today. There were two other housemates sitting at the butcher-block island in the kitchen, which sits just off the living room. One was Rob, my roommate, and the other was this fella named Noel.

    I don’t know Noel’s exact age, but he appears to be in his late 50s. When you live in a space filled with people who are there one day and very well could be gone the next, you learn to not ask too many questions, nor get too attached. You take the information they offer and keep it moving.

    A while back, I told Noel I was Jewish. I don’t remember exactly how the subject came up, but what I do recall about that particular encounter was that he tried to connect with me by stating that his mother was also a member of the Tribe.

    Noel went on to say his father was of Latin descent and he also had some Western European blood in his family.

    Most importantly, he was trying to be my friend, and I gladly reciprocated.

    Back to this morning, as I’m pushing my mop, trying to get the soapy bubbles caused by using too much Fabuloso off the floor, Noel noticed my unusual silence and blurted out, “Did someone have a fight I don’t know about? The tension in this room is THICK!”

    Rob and I simultaneously responded that there was nothing wrong, but Noel was correct in his intuition; an uncomfortable quietness lingered.

    After a few more minutes, I voluntarily offered that I was going through a little bit of a health concern for which I have an appointment to see a specialist next week.

    No, I’m not dying, and if I am, I’ll certainly use these pages to take you through the process with me.

    So, with my demise not exactly on the horizon, thoughts of my immediate well (or not-so-well) being are constantly on my mind these days.

    Without getting into too much detail, I explained this to Noel, and his tone changed from one of a would-be peacemaker of an imaginary feud, to a compassionate ear of comradery-like care and concern. He told me about a similar situation he went through and came out just fine. My friend seemingly understood the assignment of keeping my spirits up.

    This wasn’t exactly the case when I stopped by my parents’ house this past Friday afternoon.

    I arrived to find my mother, Ethel, sitting on the driveway in her wheelchair, with my father, Arthur, just a few feet away, smoking a cigarette.

    It was a gorgeous early fall afternoon, so I pulled a chair out of the garage and began to make small talk. I chatted with my mother about work, about the weather, and about anything else mundane, until I saw the opening to reveal that I thought I was sick and had made an appointment to see a doctor.

    Again, not in a life-threatening illness kind of way, but something’s not right.

    Upon breaking the news, my mother’s demeanor changed from pleasant and talkative to one of worry and horror, as any mother would.

    Something in the conversation even caught my father’s ear, which is not the norm. He turned to me and asked what was going on. As I began to repeat the information I gave my mother, he cut me off mid-sentence and asked, “Did you see what George Stephanopoulos said on Good Morning America the other day?” Followed by, “Did you see what Donald Trump is doing, and can you believe the Mets didn’t make the playoffs? They stink!”

    I paused. I felt like asking him if he thought I gave a fuck about any of those things, or, if he even heard what I just told him. But I didn’t, because this is the way it’s been since I was a child.

    This wasn’t exactly uncharted waters.

    Growing up, I had no human connection with my father whatsoever. Our relationship and conversations were limited to work, and money, and what he saw on TV. What HE saw, not me.

    I remember this one time, I was in my early 20s, and I called home from a payphone on the streets of Manhattan, looking for my mother. My father answered, and when I asked for her, I was told she wasn’t home.

    He actually, much to my surprise, went on to ask me how I was doing. I somberly, and nervously revealed, “Not good, I need help.”

    This was a time in my life when my addictions to cocaine, and alcohol, and gambling were getting the best of me. I fought through my tears and explained this to him. I didn’t know where to turn; I needed to be taken by the hand and shown the way.

    So, here I was, opening up to my own father, trying to seal that bond I yearned for since I was a child. I was looking for the guidance I so desperately needed, but instead, I was met with, “Your mother’s not home; I’ll tell her you called.”

    Click. That was it. The line went dead.

    For the next 30 years, I rarely ever brought up my addictions, except for when I did.

    At one point, I was 90 days clean and excitedly went to tell my parents. My mother offered me a sweet and sad smile of congratulations, filled with hope for a brighter future. My father’s response, “It’s better than no days clean.”

    On that note, back to Friday, and still on the driveway.

    Just before leaving them, I kissed my mother goodbye. I drifted down towards the street, where my car was parked. As I did, I looked back at my rapidly aging parents and had one request. I asked them that they not tell anyone what I had just told them. My mother replied, with her voice cracking, “Of course we won’t.”

    I continued walking, but my father just couldn’t leave it there. As I’m just about to make my exit, he says, “Don’t worry, nobody’s asking about you.”

    He blurted it out just as loudly and clearly as Noel in the kitchen.

    I told myself he didn’t mean it as dismissive as it sounded, but it doesn’t mean my feelings weren’t any less hurt.

    I’m not trying to change anyone at this late date, nor will I harbor any ill will or resentments over anything said or done. My parents have been mostly good to me over the years. They’ve helped me in the only ways they know how.

    Connections, and that bond from one person to another, were just absent. Everyone is different.

    I love songs, and I love dedications. This one goes out to my father, and my son, and also the little boy who lives inside of me, forever trying to find his way home.

    “I awoke, and I imagined, the hard things that pulled us apart, will never again, sir, tear us from each other’s hearts. I got dressed, and to that house, I did ride. From out on the road, I could see its windows shining in light.
    I walked up the steps, and I stood on the porch. A woman I didn’t recognize, came and spoke to me through a chained door. I told her my story, and who I’d come for. She said, I’m sorry son, no one by that name lives here anymore…”

  • Six Foot Tuna

    C’mon, man. You read these pages, or you know me personally; do I strike you as a fisherman? Could you picture me out on a charter boat, bracing for my balance, with rod and reel in hand, as the vessel bounced up and down on the high seas? Waterproof overalls and a yellow floppy hat would probably not be my best look.

    The nearest experience I ever had to being an angler was when a cocaine dealer told me he had “fishscale.” If you don’t know what fishscale is, good, keep it that way. I’m not here to glamorize drug use. I’ll just say it’s a term a drug pusher uses to describe high-quality cocaine. The term is used as bait; you nibble, he hooks you and reels you in. More often than not, after you hand over your cash for said product, it more resembles a dead fish, cloudy and coming apart from rot, rather than the shiny, strong, and unadulterated product which was advertised.

    I did have fishscale once, though. I was in Orlando, Florida, with my friend Jacques. Jacques is this freelance cameraman who moved to the U.S. from France in the late ’90s. Together, we became friends and covered the September 11th Terrorist Attacks, Hurricane Katrina, the Virginia Tech Shooting, and many other stories for some of the most notable news networks in the world. Over the decades, we forged an unbreakable bond, which is still intact, to this day.

    So, Orlando, the home of the magical mouse, Jacques and I were documenting some hurricane back in 2004 for the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) when I came across the legendary FISHSCALE. I’m not here to titillate myself by telling the entire story, but I will say that the night ended with hallucinations of people chasing me, after ingesting the elusive and often sought-after product.

    I checked into four different hotel rooms that night, trying to escape these fellas and eventually called Jacques to come help me fight them off. My friend and colleague arrived at the upscale hotel where I was at at that particular moment, came into the room, and calmly took the brass lamp which I was swinging at the imaginary perpetrators, out of my hands, and put me to bed.

    Jacques stayed with me until I fell asleep. This is the drug addict’s definition of Love Thy Brother.

    Anyway, I digress, back to the tuna.

    I was laying in my bed in the rooming house, last Wednesday. I believe it was the first day of fall, maybe the second. It was around 7:30 in the morning, and I was just starting to open my eyes and wake up. I had my head completely under my soft, sweatshirt like, blue comforter and was enjoying being fully surrounded by the solitary silence and complete blackness, when I heard CRRRAAACCCK!

    Without taking a peek, I figured it was just my roommate, Rob, opening one of his Fanta Orange Sodas.

    Oh no, this definitely wasn’t pop. Seconds later, the smell permeating from his freshly opened can, which made its way across our six feet of floor space and penetrated my cotton and polyester fortress, was not one of citrus and fruity pleasure, but rather it was tuna.

    Chicken of the Sea. Charlie fucking Tuna.

    At 7:30 in the morning.

    I haven’t been so nauseous, so fast since 1980 as a student at New York City’s P.S. 69. I used to sit next to this kid at lunch every day named Lonnie Shankstein. Lonnie was a shmegegge, and a putz. So was I, and we were the best of friends in Mr. Adams’ 5th grade class. The only thing which Lonnie and I disagreed on back then was he ate tuna, and I despised it.

    I used to want to punch him in the face daily, as I would gag, watching his little shaina panim get covered in mayo while chunks of the white meat fish fell down onto his lap, and then trickled to the floor. This worst of it was when he insisted on talking with his mouth full, spitting his lunch at me in the process.

    I’m still friends with Lonnie, he’s a lovely man, even if he is a tuna eating fuck.

    Back to the present – I was not about to take a peek at Rob eating the nastiest of delicacies, the smell was bad enough. My sudden nausea soon turned to anxiety. I needed to get out of that room and out of that house. The disgust of how I ended up there was now coming over me in waves. The thoughts were drowning me as my mind raced through every cheap thing I’ve ever done since my first bump of cocaine at the age of 19.

    My body could not keep up with the faster-than-light speed of my mind, but I eventually managed to get dressed and stumble out to my car, all while Rob was scraping his metal fork against the rigid bottom of the tin can, consuming every last morsel of tuna.

    I pointed my chariot towards the shore and ended up in Belmar Beach, New Jersey.

    I walked the coastline, the cool early fall Atlantic waters cascading over my feet.

    I saw a young woman, staring out at the big blue ocean, seemingly with a tear in her eye. As I was watching her, she looked at the water’s very edge, pointing her toes straight down and slowly making circular motions. She concentrated as she made her own tiny whirlpool, possibly envisioning her own lost love circling the drain. I connected with this unknown stranger.

    As I moved further along the beach, I saw a young couple playing with a dog in the sand. I saw another pair of lovers laying on pillows and blankets, staring into each other’s eyes as the waves crashed onto the shoreline, just a few feet away from them.

    I was inspired by all my new friends’ sense of serenity and decided I was going to do something to change my situation. I was going to find a new place to live, right there, and right now. There’s only one small problem, I can’t afford to live in New Jersey.

    I make under $50,000 per year in a land where that won’t get you a cardboard box under a bridge, so I came up with the bright idea to apply for an apartment in the projects, or “Low Incoming Housing,” as they political correctly call it here in The Garden State.

    I drove home and got my financials together. I excitedly revealed my new plans to a housemate, when he expressed his concerns. I went on to tell him a story of how I lived in a homeless shelter in 2011 and pretty much became the honorary mayor of that facility.

    I enjoyed giving those folks a glimpse into my life while also closely examining theirs. I and the other residents became friends at the point where the two intersected. It ended up being one of the most beautiful and wonderful experiences of my life.

    I imagined this wouldn’t be much different.

    The next day I went to the apartments and arrived to see old women in wheelchairs. I saw men without teeth. And I saw a strung-out blonde laying on the sidewalk.

    I felt like I was right back at the corner of Goode Street and Lake Wheeler Road in Raleigh, North Carolina, where that homeless shelter sat. There was something strangely comforting about it.

    Anyway, I went in, toured the place, applied and got denied. They explained to me that my credit score was under baseball’s equivalent of the Mendoza Line. In other words, bad. So bad that even government subsidized housing won’t take me.

    The feeling of discard was just another version of December 9th…

  • First Date(s)

    I went on a date last night. It was the first time I went out with a woman, one-on-one, in quite a few years. I showered and got ready in my room at the house, and as I slipped into my Carolina Blue Hugo Boss shirt and dark designer blue jeans, my thoughts drifted to my new mystery friend for the evening.

    Her name is Luisa.

    Luisa, 44 years old, never married and proud aunt to two beautiful nieces, ages 13 and 10. She stands at 5 feet tall, has long flowing black hair, and these pretty yet sad brown eyes which match mine nicely. She is, perhaps, the only Jewish girl, born and raised in Marlboro, New Jersey, with the name Luisa. I love it.

    As I pulled my black Mazda out of the house’s driveway, made my way down Throckmorton Street, passing the cemetery on my left and got onto Route 9 heading north, my mind veered to the last time I went on a “first date” in Freehold, New Jersey.

    Her name was Candy, and she was 16 years old in September of 1987.

    Similar to last night, only driving a 1986 bright red Camaro and the driveway being at my parents’ house, I hit Route 9 north and picked up the auburn-haired cheerleader, with the cutest freckles on her nose, for a dinner date at Wendy’s and a trip across the parking lot to the movies afterwards.

    We listened to Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark” through the car’s cassette deck, and I imagined being the guy who gets the girl, and together they would dance the night away, into eternity.

    Last night was a little different. Although that very same Wendy’s still exists, in the very same spot (the movie theater does not; it’s a Crunch Fitness now – not nearly as romantic), I did not take Luisa to the home of the squared hamburger, but I did think about it for a quick moment.

    No, my new friend and I went to a nice Italian restaurant down in the center of town, complete with white tablecloths and a waitress who was visibly annoyed when we didn’t order alcohol. Luisa was stunning, dressed in a black and white party dress coupled with black high heels. We shared a pear salad; she ordered blackened salmon, and I got something smothered in marinara sauce. Louisa had a giggle at my expense as she pointed out the red stains which now covered my finely pressed shirt.

    We were dating like two teenagers hoping to get a kiss at the night’s end, yet discussing some very adult topics: love, heartbreak, children, loss, failures, and successes, to name a few. Some stories had us laughing like high schoolers, while others brought forth misty tears only understood by adults who have been hardened by the world.

    At the end of the evening, I drove Luisa home and walked her up the stairs and into her apartment, where she invited me to stay for a cup of coffee. We sat on her couch, and she kicked off her heels. We continued our conversation deep into the night as I watched the moon’s bright eggshell white glow over Luisa’s left shoulder and out her large picture box window.

    I left Luisa in the wee hours of the morning, happy but not quite ready to return to the rooming house yet. So, I drove. I drove past Wendy’s and past the movie theater, or at least the building that used to be the movie theater. I drove past my childhood home. And I drove to Candy’s house.

    I had heard that her parents had moved out years ago. I stopped the car and put it in park along the curbside near the driveway. The new owners painted the house a greyish blue and put a swimming pool in the backyard. But that basement window along the left side of the house, the one Candy would open late at night so we could kiss without her mother knowing, that was still the same. Those two garage doors, the ones Candy and her sister would open for me so I could quickly pull my car inside, hiding it from the neighbors, when her parents weren’t home and I wasn’t supposed to be there, well, they were still there to remind to me of unbridled teenage passion.

    I lost touch with Candy, as time moved on. I heard she got married, had a couple of kids, and lives somewhere down on the Gulf of Mexico. I’m glad I don’t see her today. I wouldn’t want to face her in my current condition. If she ever thinks of me, I want it to be the 17-year-old version of Jason Rogers, picking her up in that Camaro for a Friday night date. As for Luisa, this is the only version of JR she knows: a broken-down old man, his best years behind him, and the only things left to his name are a few halfway interesting stories. I hope she enjoyed our evening together as much as I did.

    I wrote this passage in the library where I worked when I met Candy, so many years ago. I could see myself as a young man, floating through the bookstacks thinking about her. A time when I was vibrant, energetic, and colorful. I also wrote this story in the same clothes which I wore on last night’s date with Louisa – complete with the red spaghetti sauce stains still visible near my shirt buttons. I felt alive for the first time in a long time, and I’m just not ready to peel that sense of youth off and throw it in the dirty laundry basket.

    I listened to Dancing in the Dark on my drive home today, right before I hit the publish button on this piece. The song’s lyrics remain the same, but the meaning to me has certainly changed over the years. I grudgingly, and unwillingly, had to say goodbye to the notion of those young kids dancing their way through life together, but now embrace the man who wants to change what he sees in the mirror and is in search of that human connection which will give him a little push.

    “Man, I ain’t nothing but tired. I’m just tired and bored with myself. Hey there, baby, I could use just a little help…”

  • The Wrestler, Baby C and Me

    11:29 PM, August 19, 2025. Freehold, New Jersey.

    It’s quiet outside. I’m looking out the window, which is a sea of black. I can’t even make out the neighboring cemetery. I know it’s there, though; I think about it all the time. Its solitary silence at night gives me some strange type of peace. It’s almost like I’m comforted knowing that people won’t be walking through there at 1 AM, or 2 AM, or 3 AM. They won’t be walking next to my house. My house. The rooming house. If anyone is up to no good, they’ll probably conduct their mischief in places other than this graveyard. Even criminals and bored teenagers don’t want that level of spookiness.

    I’ve been trying to sleep for a couple of hours now. I’m three nighttime Tylenols deep, yet still wide awake. I share a room in the house with another guy; his name is Rob. Rob is about 10 years younger than me and is living here in order to save money while he goes to graduate school. I think he’s studying to become some sort of psychologist. We don’t talk too much, other than passing pleasantries. In a setting like this, the house, you don’t want to appear too vulnerable, and it is also wise not to get too involved in anyone’s business. With that being said, I’m glad I ended up rooming with Rob. He’s going places. Moving forward, which gives me hope.

    Our beds are perpendicular to each other in a room smaller than the one I grew up in as a child. Rob, he’s taller than me. Our feet both aim at the room’s door from different directions and hang off of our respective mattresses. Sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night to pee, I’ll accidentally brush against the bottom of his bare soles as I head for the bathroom.

    Rob decorates his side of the room nicely, while my walls are completely bare. I don’t even have a picture of my kids up. Nothing on the walls, and nothing on the shelves. You wouldn’t even know I lived there if I didn’t tell you. Rob seems to have this calm acceptance of his situation, knowing he has a way out when he gets his degree. I’ve yet to find this type of embrace and haven’t even been willing to search for it. I just want out of this nightmare, and I want the timeline of my life to skip right over this period.

    My roomie’s decor consists of this set of collectible championship wrestling belts and one framed picture of him and his kid. You know, I live 18 inches from the guy, and I can’t tell you if his child is a boy or a girl. I never looked at the picture closely enough, and I never asked. Maybe if I did, I’d feel compelled to hang pictures of my own kids. I’m not ready for that kind of permanence. The gold plates mounted on those wrestling belts, though, they shine on my face each and every night, speaking to my past, my future, and my immediate reality.

    Elliot, my boy, he’s 23 years old now and lives out in California. He’s a recent college graduate who is trying to break into the film industry. I live with the delusional fantasy that someday he’ll want to make these writings into a movie. I’m a proud dad. A crappy one, but proud. The kids always laugh when I anoint myself with the title, “The Best of the Shitty Fathers.” If nothing else, I’m truthful when it comes to speaking about Jason Rogers. People often mistake these types of declarations for self-deprecating humor and then appear to get a bit uncomfortable when they realize I’m not joking.

    My dear son, who looks like me and dresses like me and also writes like me, from the heart with no filter, except he does it better on all accounts, made a movie for his senior thesis; it’s about this guy who leaves his wife and young son to go chase his own professional dreams with no regard to those he left behind. The not-so-fictional father and husband is a professional wrestler in pursuit of the world heavyweight title. By the film’s end, the protagonist ends up broke and alone, with nothing in his life and is also NOT “The Champ.” He’s depicted in a self-help meeting, having become addicted to drugs and alcohol as the film fades to black. Hence those belts, shining so brightly and buffed and blinding me with the sad and distorted beauty of my own existence.

    I was talking to Chloe the other night. She says, “Jason, you have to stop living in the past. You have to stop punishing yourself. We have forgiven you; now give yourself some grace. Rest your mind.”

    So, here we are, the present, and my version of me “resting my mind” – 12:57 AM, in the rooming house, which is STILL in Freehold, New Jersey. I’m writing this piece sitting on a high and broken chair nestled up to a butcher block island in a dimly lit kitchen as various housemates stroll in and out. I’m munching on a bag of stale rice crisps and washing it down with a room-temperature bottle of water. There’s a guy loudly slurping on Raisin Bran directly to my left.

    I’ve been clean and sober for a hot minute now. A blazing couple of minutes, in fact. Do you think I could write this crap high? No. No way. When I was messed up, I routinely entered cocaine psychosis. The bouts of paranoia were so intense they had me thinking everyone I saw was affiliated with the government and was out to get me, out to silence me.

    I attended one of those self-help groups, as seen in Elliot’s film, tonight. When it was my turn to share, out came a story about my Baby C. Unplanned and unprovoked, it just happened.

    Baby C, my daughter Cate, is now 20 years old and about to enter her sophomore year at New York University. I’ve called her Baby C since she was a little girl. She’ll always be my Baby C.

    When Baby C was born, we knew there was going to be a problem. Abnormalities had shown up on an ultrasound, and the doctors had warned Chloe and me that Baby C would have to go immediately from the delivery room to the operating room for exploratory surgery. Born on September 15, 2005, Chloe and I held our just-under-five-pound beautiful newborn daughter for a couple of minutes each before we watched a team of doctors whisk her away, uncertain as to whether or not she was ever coming back.

    Those next few hours were tense. Chloe and I sat in her UNC Children’s Hospital room in silence. We didn’t touch or even talk to each other. I’d get just the occasional glance from the corner of Chloe’s eye. Complete and total quiet without acknowledgment of anything or anyone. Nothing but nervous energy.

    Sometime during the fourth hour, the Chief Surgeon entered the room. He came with an update.

    “Cate has a blockage in her intestine,” he softly explained. “We are working on removing that part of the intestine now. When she gets out of surgery, the next 5 to 7 days will be critical and will tell us more about her health.”

    As the doctor turned his back to us and was just about to walk out of the room and return to the task of fixing our daughter, I blurted out this question, “Excuse me, doctor, what causes something like this to happen?”

    I don’t know why I asked and wish I never did.

    “Well,” he responds, looking at me straight in the eye, “we usually see it when one or both of the parents are under the influence of cocaine at the time of conception, but that doesn’t seem to be the case with you guys. Just a freak occurrence; we’ll get her fixed up.”

    He seemingly tried to spare me the pain of what Chloe and I already knew to be fact.

    That meeting room tonight became as tense as the hospital room was 20 years ago as the Best of the Shitty Fathers wrapped up his disgusting tale of truth.

    Baby C never heard this story, or at least I never told her, until right now.

    Raisin Bran guy just looked in my direction and belched.

    I’m living in the present.

    It’s 2:02 AM, August 20, 2025, in Freehold, New Jersey…

  • Announcing My Arrival

    I left Raleigh the morning of January 28th and made it to my parents’ house in Morganville, New Jersey, later that night. My father, Arthur, 79 years old, is in fairly good health for a two-pack-a-day smoker. He stands at 5 feet 9 inches tall, and he looks a lot like me, or I look a lot like him, depending on who’s doing the describing, I guess. My mother, Ethel, is 77 years old and is confined to a wheelchair. She’s a vain woman who struggles with coming to terms with aging and her current life situation.

    Ethel is pretty by anyone’s standards—6 feet tall, with blondish-brown hair and the lightest green eyes you’ve ever seen. They are so faint that it seems like you can see right through them. To me, my mother has always looked like she is constantly crying. I’ve viewed her that way for years. I’ll never write about the reasons. I have too much respect for my mother to do that to her. Even the person I see in the mirror has his boundaries.

    I was to start my new job on February 3, and my plan was to stay with them until I got my first paycheck and then get a place of my own. That notion lasted for three days. My parents are good, hard-working people who supported me through the darkest of times, and they are people who were extremely proud when I experienced my greatest successes. I used to love looking at my mother’s face when she’d visit us at the St. Mary’s Street house. I’d see her beaming and know exactly what she was thinking. Chloe and I were the Princess and Prince, and Ethel, the Queen, while living in our own version of fantasy land. Anyway, like I said, my stay at their house lasted three days. The first 24 hours were a welcome home love fest, and the following 48 were a constant fight over the person I’d disintegrated into since my glory years in the satellite truck business.

    Not wanting to hear what they had to say, I left. I packed up the four bags I came with, got in my car, and just drove. It was dark, cold, and damp. Driving aimlessly, I decided to pull into a rest stop between exits 11 and 12 off the New Jersey Turnpike. That’s where I ended up living for several days and through the first week of my new job. In my car, in the parking lot, under a light post, where it felt safest.

    I remember going to work that first Monday morning and taking my clothes out of the trunk, along with soap and a toothbrush, to get ready in the building’s bathroom. I wasn’t proud of what was happening, and I certainly wasn’t excited to start a new job under these circumstances. I didn’t want to be there, or anywhere, for that matter. But, I took the job, and I was going to show up, no matter what type of tailspin my life was in. Those first few days at work, I was useless. My mind was all over the place, and I’m pretty sure my boss knew it.

    Having not received my first paycheck yet, I didn’t have much money and didn’t want to spend what I had. There was a hot dog stand in the building next to my new parking lot palace. It closed at 9 PM each night. I’d go in as they were breaking down for the night and ask them for the food they were going to throw away. I’d accumulate hot dogs and buns, which would provide me with three meals a day.

    After that first week of work and living in my car, my body and my mind had had enough. I asked my parents if I could come back. I pleaded with them to just let me rest my head for a few days. I didn’t want anything, and I didn’t ask for anything. I just needed a little mercy, and they gladly gave it to me. The pleading of my case was unnecessary, as I knew it would be. My parents have never, and would never, turn me away. These are the people I rejected turning into for most of my life, and now they are the role models for who I aspire to be.

    I stayed with them another few days before the next episode of fighting began. I was talking to a friend of mine about returning to the rest stop, and he told me he was booking me a four-night stay at a hotel. Relief. Sadness. Embarrassment. Gratitude. A flood of emotions, but, as a sign of respect to him and our friendship, I used my time in the hotel wisely—I found a more permanent place to live.

    That place to live is where I live today. Where I woke up this morning, where I’ll lay my head down tonight. It’s a little house off Route 9 in Freehold, New Jersey. I probably drove by it a thousand times as a kid, never dreaming I’d be living one of my worst nightmares, in this nondescript white house, out on the edge of town, right next to the St. Rose of Lima Cemetery.

    What’s so bad about it? It doesn’t sound horrible, right? I guess I buried the lede there. Well, I share it with six guys; it’s a rooming house. Seven guys, five bedrooms, two bathrooms—do the math for yourself. Some guys are there for a long-term stay, some guys just passing through.

    There are some nights I lay there, staring at the stained ceilings and punctured walls, and think that it’s no coincidence that this house is next to a cemetery. I think of the pain of those who laid in this bed before me. I glance over at the Peabody Award sitting on my night table, one of the only things I took with me from Raleigh besides clothes, and I think of my own struggles which landed me in this situation. I imagine that this is God sending me a message: “This is the final stop before death, little boy.” A sort of preview, if you will. My own personal purgatory.

    Many nights I cry myself to sleep, not bawling—just slow and steady tears uncontrollably streaming down my face. I feel alone, unloved, unwanted, unfulfilled, and underachieved. I feel discarded. I think of the inevitable and uncomfortable notion which is that I will die alone in this dark and dirty bedroom, not even worthy of a marker in the graveyard which I wake up to each morning.

    One night, not all that long ago, I sat on the edge of the bed around 3 AM. I let my feet dangle off the side as I stared up at the bare wires hanging out of the ceiling. I hadn’t had anxiety like this in a long time. I needed to get out of that room and out of that house, before I let my mind run away with itself and before I returned to the destructive behaviors which landed me here.

    Without a second thought, almost as if my mind cleared at that moment, I jumped up, sprang to life, got dressed, packed a bag, and got in my car. I had my mind set on two people—the only two people who could relieve my pain, if only for a little while. Under the cover of the early summer’s night darkness, I drove towards the Turnpike, and I wasn’t sure I was ever coming back…

  • Going Home

    We’re a long, long way from St. Marys Street. Literally, figuratively, and, most concerning, mentally.

    After 25 years of covering news stories and travels which took me around the world, my beloved satellite truck business closed for good in July 2024. Unemployed and unable to get out of my own way, that summer saw police cars and ambulances at my dirty, bug-infested, one-room apartment on a regular basis. Severe depression and anxiety were getting the best of me. A mop felt like it weighed 1,000 pounds, and I’d go for days at a time without a shower.

    The first responders who routinely showed up at my place were often the same. Some knew me by face and first name by the time late summer hit. I remember this one night I called 911 thinking I was having a heart attack. It took a lot for me to pick up the phone, but on this night the chest pain was just that bad. As I was being attended to by the EMTs, one of the police officers who had witnessed this scene once or twice before asked, “Hey, where’s your dog?” With IVs being inserted into my arms and blood pressure cuffs tightening, as the gurney was being raised, I began crying inconsolably and uncontrollably and responded, “He died.”

    My 18-year-old Beagle, Peaches, one of the very few real names I’ll use in these writings, had passed the same week the doors to my over two-decade-old income stream had closed.

    I continued to sob. The sides of the apparatus on which I was laying bumped against the frame of my apartment door, as the entire crew made its way into the heat of the hallway. A hot breeze was blowing down the corridor. I felt the wheels of the gurney come to a stop and listened to the EMTs discuss their plan for getting me down the stairs and into the cherry siren-lit box truck which was waiting to whisk me away, once again. Then, through the commotion, I heard a faint voice behind me, “Did you hear that?,” the voice asked.” I asked him where his dog was, and he said he died.”

    What happened next? No, “I’m sorry to hear that,” nor any compassion. The officer and whoever he was talking to, they were laughing. I may have been in a mental fog, but I was cognizant enough to realize they weren’t cruel enough to laugh at my beloved Peaches’ passing; they were laughing at me. Having a snicker at my expense and at my mental state. I had become a joke to them, to the people who were supposed to be there to help me.

    So, after a summer filled with emergency room visits, a voluntary stay in a mental health facility, and with the arrival of fall, I started to feel better. The authorities and the doctors stopped making appearances. Things were quiet. For the first time in a long time, there was no pressure. And I needed that, for just a little while, anyway.

    Even though I was officially out of the satellite truck business, I still kept in touch with a certain few clients on a regular basis. The ones who I was able to establish a personal rapport with throughout the years. I missed dealing with those certain few, and I also missed the action which satellite trucks brought me. I longed for the days of the phone ringing, and I’d see a familiar client’s number pop up. Where was I going now? What happened in the world? It was usually stuff I could have never imagined. This was a drug which no chemical could produce.

    December 31, 2024, New Year’s Eve, of course. I didn’t care to stay awake into the night to watch the festivities unfold on television. I didn’t want to think about the sat trucks which were there to transmit the revelry. I had operated one of those so many times. On this night, I had a clear and comfortable mindset and just didn’t want to revisit what used to be.

    A few days into the new year, my phone rang. I almost never answered, not wanting the burden of being bothered, but always looked to see who was calling. I’d childishly imagine that this was going to be the call which would change my life.

    On this afternoon, the caller ID read Sarah Matzoh.

    Sarah worked for one of the big three American television networks and had a voice that was perhaps the most attractive I’ve ever heard through a phone line. She was strong, smart, confident, funny, attentive, attractive, and she routinely sent me on high-ticket assignments. Most of all, Sarah was no nonsense. She never wasted time and got right to the point.

    It was Sarah who sent me on my first six-figure job ever – the Elian Gonzalez story. You remember, the little boy who floated over from Cuba and landed in South Florida. When I wanted to leave because I had enough, or when the weather was too hot and the hours were too long, she advised me to stay. I actually did leave for a few days at one point, and when I was ready to come back, Sarah had a spot for me. I was there for several weeks, sitting in my sat truck outside the Little Havana home where Elian was staying with relatives. I remember the somber feeling when the ATF, guns drawn, burst into the residence to scoop the child up and send him back to Fidel Castro’s Cuba.

    Sarah sent me to nightclub shootings, church shootings, and countless hurricanes throughout the years. During the pandemic of 2020, when no sat trucks were working and the world had shut down, Sarah helped to send me to a late-night comics house where I set up shop on the guy’s front lawn and stayed for five long months. I received a Peabody Award for that one. Shortly after, Sarah sent me inside the gates of the White House to cover President Trump’s Republican National Convention. My final assignment for Ms. Matzoh was when she asked me to drive to San Antonio, Texas, to cover 2024’s solar eclipse. The spunky, high-spirited woman with a Jewish cracker-like last name seemingly trusted me. Sarah certainly took care of me, whether she realized it or not.

    I was excited to see her name. So excited that I fumbled the phone during the transfer from the coffee table to my ear.

    “Hey, Sarah, what’s goin’ on?,” I nervously asked with a big smile on my face which she probably could have felt through the phone. Like I said, Sarah was no nonsense all through the 25 years I’ve known her. She was calling with a purpose.

    And, right on cue, “Are you looking for a job?……OK, great! Call this guy at this number. GOOD LUCK!” Quick, with no filter or pleasantries needed. Typical Sarah fashion, and I loved it.

    So, what can I say? I called the guy immediately, and upon his answering, launched into a long-winded introduction of my abilities and experiences. Midway through my sales pitch, a thick New York City accent interrupts me, “You come highly recommended,” he says. “Do you know anything about Central New Jersey? Would you move there for the job?”

    I didn’t take a pause for dramatic effect, nor did I tell this guy my life story. I accepted the job on the spot and thought about what I was doing after I hung up the phone. The company’s offices are 15 miles north of where I grew up. In New Jersey speak, one exit away on the New Jersey Turnpike.

    After 30 years in Raleigh, North Carolina, three decades of love and heartbreak, now with two beautiful children to my credit and having covered countless news stories, it was time to go home. Home to the place with which I have had a love/hate relationship for most of my life. Home to the place which molded the beginnings of who I am, and who I became. For better, and for worse, it was time to go home now.

  • December 9th

    December 9th, 2009. It was like any other night; it started that way, anyway. My lovely wife, Chloe, and I were watching late-night television in the living room of our 4,200 square foot, inside-the-beltline Raleigh, North Carolina home, with our children, Elliot, 7, and Cate, 4, asleep in their rooms, maybe 10 feet away from us. We were an American fairy tale.

    For the uninitiated, inside-the-beltline Raleigh, think Westchester County, New York; think Encino, California; Palm Beach, Florida; and the barrier islands of South Carolina. It’s where the Mayor of Raleigh lived. The guy who lived directly across the street from us was the longtime Athletic Director at North Carolina State University. There was this other guy; he lived around the corner and made a serious run for Vice President of the United States. It’s where old money congregated, and this middle-class kid from Central New Jersey managed to infiltrate that fraternity.

    My name is Jason Rogers, I’m 54 years old. I’m of average height, I have brown eyes and brown hair, I’m not good-looking, but I’m not ugly; I have an average build. I’m not smart, and I’m not dumb. I long considered the average guy in the mirror to be a loser and consider him to be my greatest foe.

    I met Chloe during the winter of 1995. I was working as a photographer who was hired to shoot a company Christmas party on Manhattan’s west side. Chloe, she was a “cater-waiter,” as she called it, at the same affair at which I was working. She was the girl in charge of serving food and drinks to the holiday revelers. Chloe stood 5 feet 7 inches, had short blond hair, and had the prettiest and saddest eyes I had ever seen. She had natural good looks that even made the tuxedo shirt and pants she was wearing look good.

    This girl had confidence, too. She strolled right up to me that night, “Hey, my name is Chloe, can I get you anything?” “Nah, I’m working,” I sheepishly replied. “So what? You have to eat, right?” she quipped back as she sauntered her way through the crowd.

    I hadn’t laid eyes on her for the next 30 minutes or so; that’s not to say I wasn’t looking. I had been sitting down in a chair not placed at a table, taking a break, when Chloe, decked out in her black and white, complete with a clip-on bow tie, approached me with a plate of food and a fresh bottle of Heineken.

    “There’s supposed to be a blizzard tonight, you know,” she declared. “Yeah, I’m trying to get out of here before it gets bad,” I told her.

    The room was filled with anticipation of the impending snowstorm and whatever else was in the air that night. Chloe and I instinctively and silently walked over to the front window of the establishment together and watched the first snowflakes pass by the streetlights and begin to cover the eerily quiet New York City street. Looking back, I’m pretty sure this was the exact moment I fell in love, roughly an hour after meeting her.

    People began exiting the party quickly, in fear of getting stranded. The buses stopped running, black cars weren’t showing up, and cabs were nowhere to be found, and this wasn’t exactly the subway kind of crowd. Chloe and I, we were the hired help, and we stuck it out to the end. I don’t think either of us minded though, returning to the window to watch the snow fall together, every chance we got. It got heavier and heavier as the night grew longer. It was pure, unscripted magic.

    “How are you getting home,” I asked her. Chloe waited a beat before responding, “I don’t really know,” she said it so slowly and so deliberately, with her head tilted to one side and with a smile on her face, as if she was actually saying, “I don’t really care, at this moment.” Picking up on her vibe and feeling very much the same, I make my offer, or better yet, my move, “I have a car service coming; you can hop in with me.” She offered no resistance.

    That black car I had reserved didn’t show up for hours. Chloe and I effortlessly talked about everything and anything—religion, politics, family, hopes, dreams, and desires. We even sang Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” together to pass the time. I was actually disappointed when the car finally arrived, signaling the end of our impromptu date.

    “Where am I taking you,” the driver asks. Chloe quickly leans forward as she brushes the thick, wet snowflakes from her hair, “79th and 1st, please.” Well, well, well, this is convenient I thought to myself, as I lived less than 10 blocks away on 88th Street.

    Our chauffeured chariot wound us through the city as we watched its tires making fresh tracks in the snow out the vehicle’s back window. My arm was leaned against the seat, resting just inches from Chloe’s ear, occasionally brushing the ends of her short blond hair. I could still feel her breath on mine as we unintentionally, yet intentionally, had our heads leaned in towards each other and our faces just inches apart. We seemed to be as frozen as the streets we were gliding through.

    Chloe, I, and our designated driver for the evening eventually made it through the winter wonderland that was New York City that night and arrived at her apartment building. Being the 20-something-year-old gentleman I fancied myself at the time, I asked Chloe to wait in the car while I got the door for her. She happily obliged. I walked carefully around the back of the car, gently opened the door, and took her by the hand. I helped her out of the car, up onto the sidewalk, and we made our way under the awning that led to the residence’s lobby. With the East River as our backdrop, the heavy snow still falling, and the building’s doorman and black car driver as our witnesses, Chloe and I kissed for the very first time. I can still remember the feeling tonight.

    After watching her disappear into the building and up into the elevator carrying her to whichever floor she may have lived, I told the black car driver I’d be walking the rest of the way home and thanked him for his service on this horrible yet spectacular evening. I blissfully made my way between the snowflakes, with Chloe, and only Chloe, on my mind.

    We spent New Years together in Times Square as 1995 turned to ’96. We spent Valentines Day together. That night we saw actor Abe Vigoda, you know, “Fish” from Barney Miller, in the Upper East-side restaurant in which we dined. We also found ourselves sitting right next to a young woman who was getting dumped by her man, right there at the table, on the one day a year that’s not supposed to happen. We eavesdropped, and giggled our way through the young mans lack of character, and the brokenhearted girls tears.

    Chloe and I laughed together, we loved together, we cried together, and in September 1996 we moved to Raleigh, North Carolina together. Raleigh was Chloe’s hometown. Her grandparents, who pretty much raised her, were nearing the end of their lives, and she was determined to see them through and shower them with love as they made their journey to their final destination. This act of selflessness, repayment, and life coming full circle was so appealing and so attractive to me. So I joined her.

    Chloe and I were married in 1997 with both her grandmother and grandfather in attendance.

    Having children wasn’t an easy go at first. It just wasn’t happening for one reason or another. We occupied our minds with friends, dogs, vacations, and home remodels. In 1999, we went into business together.

    The television news business is what we decided on; we owned satellite trucks. You know what they are: little vans with dishes on top that are often seen outside courthouses and at sporting events in your town. We’ve covered hurricanes, terrorist attacks, school shootings, and church shootings. We covered a story once where college athletes were falsely accused of rape by a hooker. I always used to jokingly tell people, “That one put the pool in my backyard.” We made a small fortune mostly off of other people’s misery and misfortune.

    I remember, back in 2004, the business brought me to the moment where for the first time in my life I did not feel inadequate. The guy who lived around the corner, the one running for Vice President, CBS’ 60 Minutes was coming to town to interview him, along with the guy who was running for President and their wives. At one point in the night, the interviews stopped, and we broke for dinner. There I was, sitting in the living room of the Vice Presidential candidate of the United States, the Presidential candidate, their wives, a well-known 60 Minutes female anchor who still works for the show today, a couple of producers, photographers, and audio techs, all eating homemade fried chicken.

    Politely, the wife of the VP candidate, the gracious host for the evening, was briefly asking each of the crew a little bit about themselves, as we casually enjoyed our meals. After listening to each person for a few minutes, she turned to me, and I could not wait to share, “I’m Jason. I’m your neighbor; I live over on St. Mary’s Street.” I almost burst telling her. From there, the conversation went from seemingly obligatory, you know, politician-like, to neighborly and familiar. We talked about schools and about roads and about construction and about what was happening around town. It was real, and for the first time in my life, I felt accepted in a place where I so desperately wanted admittance.

    It’s at that exact point that I changed. Yet, I hadn’t realized it, but Chloe did.

    So, I digress, December 9th, the title of the post: 2009, to be exact. December 9th, 2009.

    Chloe just turned to me, looked at me, no yelling, no drama, “Jason, I want you out.” I didn’t question it; I thought she wanted space to herself for the night. I was halfway up out of my chair and declared that I was going to bed when she clarified, “No, I want you out, I want a divorce. Please leave.”

    That was it, my breath was taken. In that exact instance, my world stopped. I was stunned. Shocked. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t fight for my wife, my kids, my business, my family, or my home, and a large part of me died right there, late at night, on December 9th, 2009. I packed what I could carry and walked out the door into the 40-degree Raleigh, North Carolina night, only to return to the St. Mary’s Street house once or twice more to see the kids.

    Chloe has long since remarried, and I, I’m awake writing about the past at 2 a.m. nearly 16 years later.

    That’s what it was like then. I hope you’ll visit the site again to see what it’s like now…

    ninthofdecember.com