BLOOD ON THE KEYS

Now that Honey was "cured" of her pregnancy things calmed for a while. I kept in touch with the Berkeley cops, getting updates on what they were doing concerning the Mills murders, starting to weave a narrative of my life, relationships, conceptual work and current events. I bought a hot IBM Selectic that had been dropped on the way out the window and learned to type avoiding the (r). The pot plants on the back porch grew and grew. Then early one morning I heard the little bell I had rigged on the porch gate. Actually Honey heard it first. "Someone's on the porch." she whispered in my ear. I woke from a sound sleep and was standing naked, pointing a shotgun at a very startled paperboy before he could harvest much. He spun, bud flying and ran down the back stairs. The gun wasn't loaded.
I came back inside, pulled on some clothes, put the dog on the leash and followed a trail of indica bud across the backyards three blocks over. As I bent down in the middle of the road to pick up another bud, I heard that little "whoop" cops use in order to get your attention. He had it. I smelled like skunk and my pockets were bulging. "Everything alright sir?" the officer asked. The dog barked at the cop. "Just walking the dog." I replied. He looked down at the dog and she growled. Then he gave the mutt a little salute and went on his way. I owed Froo-froo for that one.
In the light of dawn I surveyed the marijuana theif's damage. He'd gotten more than i thought. I canceled my subscription to the daily paper and harvested the rest. The following week Honey and I flew east to visit my folks. I packed a few ozs. for my little brother Duke. Duke was the baby of the family, and the only one of my siblings who shared my taste for the weed. Prime Cali bud wasn't readily available in CT. Honey lit a stick of incense as I opened up my suitcase. "What are you burning down there?" my mother yelled from the top of the cellar stairs. Honey went up and made up something about meditation. Duke stuffed the ozs. in his coat and went to spread the wealth.
I was locked in a dark spiral of personal domestic violence, coke abuse, a murdered neighbor and the larger world events of the Dan White murders and Jonestown. I was 28 and trying my damndest to discipline myself to write every day. As Honey leafed through People magazines I borrowed a typewriter from my sister Spunky and kept plugging away. I wallowed in all the noir elements of my personal tale. It felt like I'd never make 30. I wore dark suits and dirty white shirts. Late one night I hooked my finger on a sharp piece of metal on Spunky's little electric. Blood splattered the keys. I got woosie. The next thing I remember is Honey's face looming over me. "Are you OK?" Where do I start to answer that one?