Truthfully, I hated my life, hated every moment of it. Because I couldn’t be alone. I wanted to be alone—believe me, I was sick of those drunken, scrubby guys coming around, bringing six-packs of beer into my apartment, drinking up a storm . . . pissing all over the seat. I wanted them out of my life once and for all. But I couldn’t because I wouldn’t have anyone. And that was something I could not handle.
So I kept inviting them over because I knew they wouldn’t leave, even when I asked them to. They’d insist on staying day after day, night after night, headache after headache, and I’d pretend to be thankful because I had another body to keep me company. Sometimes there would be two guys overlapping shifts. That would often break into a fight, of course; while one guy claimed dominion over me, the other called the police claiming assault. But the new guy would always win, and I’d have to put up with him until the next one entered my life. And I would never be alone—yet I would pray for the day I could handle the solitude.
And now I suppose I should mention the Jet Ski. The original one.