Juice

Lousy With Ghosts is a limited edition 92-page companion book to my new album Always Been. These eleven stories take place in the same universe as the album's songs. They offer deeper looks at the main characters, and shine a brighter light on some of the people along the fringes of the songs.

This is the first chapter, titled “Juice”.

I read this article about a guy who had multiple families. He lived somewhere near Kansas City and was in relationships with two different women at the same time. Married them both, somehow. They lived about forty miles apart. Each of these women had kids from a prior marriage. One lived in Kansas and one in Missouri, but it was the same area. Kansas City has parts in each state.

Luckily, these women didn’t have any children with this guy. That’s a good thing. They can both be rid of him for now. The marriages didn’t legally stand up. But it went on for years. There were signs, of course. Unexplained absences. Missing funds. Flimsy excuses.

One of these women got a puppy, a cocker spaniel. Her daughter became allergic to it. This guy, the husband, said he knew about a family that really wanted a dog. He’d take care of it. This woman and her daughter were sad to lose the cocker spaniel, but they were happy she was going to a good home. It turns out the creep gave that dog to his other wife and her family. When it all came crashing down, the dog was reunited with all of them. That must have been some scene.

I’m drawn to these stories about people with secret families. There’s a lot of articles about these guys. It makes you wonder about how they get away with it. They do. At least for a while they do.

Of course, it takes two to tango. We all know that. It doesn’t happen to just anyone. These guys are hustlers. Part of their talent, if you call it that, is finding someone to prey upon. Someone who is weak in a specific way. Someone who is willing to put up with the unexplained absences and the flimsy excuses. Someone who wants to believe they are with a good man, despite evidence to the contrary. Someone who, for whatever reason, spiritual or emotional, needs it to work. Someone who has a massive capacity for this very unique kind of faith.

I think about the guy too. It must be so much work to keep on top of all the lies. It has to be super stressful to manage the expectations of a growing number of people who believe you are someone you’re not. These guys spend years in these situations. It’s hard to imagine.

Perhaps in some cases, these are men who are so afraid to hurt someone that they try to be everything to everyone. A man has an affair and it gets out of control. He’s afraid to end it, so he just keeps both relationships going. He attempts to keep pace with his lies. It gets messy. I picture Charlie Chaplin at the cake factory. It’s something like that.

...

I was at the bar one night and I got talking to a guy who said he was a therapist. A psychologist, he said. His name was Dr. Cello, like the instrument. That’s what he said. I only saw him there that one night.

I asked Dr. Cello if he’d ever dealt with one of these situations — a guy with multiple households going at one time. He said a person who had two active families, each secret from the other, was unlikely to see a therapist. Those guys were pretty busy, for starters. Lots of plates in the air. But then he said something that really interested me.

Dr. Cello said there’s no such thing as a pathological liar. Just addicts. He said behind every major liar is an addiction. Remember that people get addicted to all kinds of things, he said. It’s not just drugs and alcohol. It could be sex or gambling or shopping or eating or something you haven’t even considered. But if you look behind the lies, there is something driving the lies. I’ve thought about that a lot.

...

There was another article I read, in another magazine, that said these kind of grifters often claim to have jobs that require a uniform. It makes it easy for them to perpetuate their lies. They dress up like a surgeon or a pilot or a soldier. It gives their story an instant credibility. It explains their long hours away from home.

That part made a lot of sense to me too. I’ve worn a few uniforms. People treat you differently. They give you more respect. It doesn’t matter which uniform. I’ve been in the service. I’ve been in the clergy. It’s nice for people to know who you are without having to ask.

...

The other night I was grabbing a few things at Food Lion. I’ve been trying to get better at eating breakfast. They say it’s the most important meal of the day. I got some bread and some butter so I can make toast. I got some jam, strawberry. That’s about all I want in the morning. I can’t do eggs. Never could.

I thought I’d pick up some orange juice too. It’s in the back of the market. It’s been ages since I’ve bought it for myself, but I know where it is. When I got to the display, I found it overwhelming. There were too many options — pulp, no pulp, some pulp, extra calcium, organic, not from concentrate. The list went on.

I didn’t care about the brand. I just wanted orange juice. I tried to look for one that had no further designation, but I couldn’t find one like that. I tried to look for some sort of consensus — the type that was most common. I couldn’t figure that out either. Each bottle in the whole huge display had some unique quality it was advertising.

I froze. I couldn’t move. I know Dana would have said it was a symptom of hyper capitalism or something like that, but I wasn’t thinking critically. I was in survival mode. My body was responding to this stimulus by shutting down. I was aware of my condition on some level, but I couldn’t help myself. I don’t know exactly how long I was standing there. Maybe a minute. Maybe three.

I was roused out of this state by a man, a stranger. He gently put his hand on my arm and asked if I was okay. It brought me back from wherever I had been. I returned to the Food Lion, back in front of the glowing display of a thousand different orange juices.

The man still had his hand on my arm. He didn’t hold it tightly, but with enough pressure to convey his worry. I looked over at him. He was younger than me, and smallish. His brown hair was disheveled and he wore green medical scrubs. He’d probably just gotten off work at St. Cecilia’s.

I assured him I was alright, and thanked him for his concern. I went to the register to pay for my items, sans orange juice, and I walked home. In the moment, I felt comforted by the man’s dress. I assumed he was a doctor, or a nurse, or at least a technician. It made me feel like I was in good hands. I appreciated his intervention.

You have to remind yourself, though, you can’t always judge a man by his uniform.

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Pre-order Lousy with Ghosts and the new album Always Been here.