Page 6 of Joey

The only thing I know for sure is that I have a lot more weaknesses than I do strengths.

I have no real education. I limped my way through high school. Barely graduated because there was so much uncertainty back then. College was never in my future.

And if I didn’t have my father, if he didn’t change my life the way he did, then I’d have ended up working an endless string of low-paying jobs at places like Matt’s Auto Parts or the local 7-Eleven.

I would’ve dated mean men, and lived in some crappy apartment or maybe even a trailer park. I would’ve woken up every Monday morning and wished I could just go back to sleep. I’d have come home on Friday evenings and thought about drinking, and drugs, and sex.

I would’ve had nothing but a long string of pointless days that turned into weeks, that turned into months, that turned into years.

That was my lot in life.

Until it wasn’t.

Until I moved away and spent more than a decade doing things that made me feel special. Illegal things, for sure. Scams and lies. But that felt like the real me. I think it was the real me. And I was OK with that. I guess. Hell, it’s better than being the other real me.

But last month I was given a bank account with money and told to never come back. That life was over. And this was something of a rescue.

Lucky me.

I had money, and a private jet back to America, and new possibilities.

But am I lucky?

Was it really a rescue?

Because one month later it doesn’t feel like a rescue. It feels like a dismissal.

It’s not a fair assessment of the situation. The situation is far sadder than just a dismissal.

I take the tablet and the cold cup of unfinished espresso back inside and set them on the kitchen counter, then rinse out the cup and put it in the dishwasher.

I look around—the new stuff, the new room, the new everything—and decide… what’s the point?

What is the point?

There isn’t one.

There is no point to this at all.

I sigh and walk over to the coffee table with my tablet. It’s silent now because the book is over. So I take a deep breath and open up chapter one again.

Start over from the beginning.

I’m starting over, I tell myself.

I really am this time. I’m going to put this book on and listen to every word and by the time I’m done with it in thirteen hours and forty-two minutes I will have a solution.

I need a solution.

Because I can’t live like this. I’m in limbo. I have no one who needs me, or counts on me, or cares about me.

So what is the point?

I stop myself. I sit up straight. Lift up my chin. Square my shoulders and I press play on this damn audiobook.

The answers have to be in there. They must. Ten easy steps. How hard can it be? Just ten easy steps divided up into four simple parts.

Recognizing yourself.