An Even Bigger Butterfly, Part 3.

Have you ever had that dream where you're scuba diving with friends, and suddenly a shark zooms through and makes man-sushi of your diving partner?

No?

Ever go to a party with your best bud and accidentally leave his naked, prone ass in the bathroom for all the girls to shave, dress up, and leave on his parents' lawn with a note about NAMBLA?

That was what it was like, being a hetero male in Monica's orbit. I felt like some kind of remora. She would find a guy, milk him, and leave his desiccated corpse next to me at the bar while she whisked away with the next lucky victim. We all knew each other, too. We knew each other's stories, and we still took that ride. Well, they did.

Pillhead John was already awash in self-medication when this platinum-tressed velociraptor sidled up alongside him, smiled that wide, beautiful, I'm-crazy-but-you-already-love-me-so-do-as-I-say smile, and swamped him. I don't know if he ever recovered, either from the pills or the smile.

Dave The Genius was a computer operator before everybody operated computers, and he had the misfortune of meeting Monica in the right wrong light. The next thing I knew, I was moving her stuff out of his apartment in the middle of the night...and he was vomiting like some kind of bad Japanese cartoon monster after trying heroin in a bathroom stall. He always looked haunted after that...which inspired me to never even think about trying heroin. Thanks, Dave.

She never touched me... well not like that. She called me when it was over, many times, and summoned me for a million rides home from failed assignations or generally hairy situations. In exchange, she'd hook me up with discounts or free food or somewhere to crash or...you get the idea. I got to play hero, which is my worst addiction, and she made it as worth my while as she could.

How does it reassure you to know that somebody always has your back, if they're as flawed, self-centered, and rank with nicotine as I was then? Does it, in fact? If so, she must have slept assured that the Last Son of Guthrie would pull on that trademark longcoat, fire up the Olds, and roar into the night like I had a chance into those pants...or, more precisely, that tremendous (if toxic and permanently damaging) heart.

Some nights, I ached with a nearly intoxicating agony, knowing that there were such hearts, and that I'd never been in one. Other nights, I looked at the trail of carnage behind her, and thanked my maker that I was broke, unfashionable, and lived in my parents' basement.
It's funny when you can be thankful for such questionable blessings.

So there she was, wrapped around my neck like we were something much different than we were, and all these people are looking at us. She kissed me once on the cheek and bounced off to seek a stray professional type, but not before throwing me a piece of sage advice:
"Be sure you primp tonight. I'm sure you'll meet someone, and you deserve to get lucky."
I'm forced to wonder what she considered lucky.