MonoRail. Noun.
Mono as is one. Rail as in to vent and rouse.

There is nothing I own that I value more than the collection of memories and stories captured on this website, as well as the subsequent conversations and friendships that maintaining this web property has afforded me. Thank you to all who participated.

The storytelling will continue, just not from this particular spot.

Bookguy and I shared a ski lift with two older men. We struck up a conversation as people do on the leisurely ascents up a ski hill. They mentioned they were from Oklahoma. We said we had been through there once. To this, one of the guys said:

If you are ever told you just have just one year left to live, you should move to Oklahoma.

Really? Why’s that?

Because a yea...

If there is one thing I hoped to get to on the Monorail but never did, it was to hold a poll on who sported the best hair in the DeArmitt-Walter family. There’s some in-house debate about this. Baya was an early front runner but as we all know, it's not about where you start the race. Multiple people have waged compelling arguments about a mane's potential in which case Aleo would have always stood a fighting chance. Though recently, Anfer has made a late and admirable push for consideration, and no doubt has game to give. However you cut it (just a bit off the top please), we are all fortunate and grateful souls for the beautiful heads of hair each of us were gifted.

My tattoo.

In 2023, I began a new ritual. Every morning, I write a number on my hand. It is the number of days until I turn eighty years old. The reason I chose eighty is because of a man I play tennis with in Michigan. When he was eighty, he was still more fit than many college kids and was giving me ten kinds of problems on the tennis court (I was 55). Inspired by his life approach and...

This will be the last week the Monorail and Monthly Photo Galley will be updated. What these two sections have in common is that they are areas that require routine attention. One of the many things I’ve learned managing this website over the last 25 years is that publishing on a schedule does not always produce one’s most thoughtful content. There was a time where that was more ok. But that time has passed, and I want, no, I need the things I make to be more deeply considered and never rushed.

I’ve tried a number of things to combat this failing, but have concluded I’m using the wrong tool for the job. So I’m setting that tool down. Going forward, I’m not sure when things will be released. Further, I’m not even sure all future creations will be released here (like a new photo contest I have in mind). While this has been a remarkably versatile platform over the years, there are limitations.

You’re welcome to check in from time to time as I do intend to continue using the site as a repository for conversations (TroyScripts), books & quotes (What I’m Reading), some photos (new panorama gallery), and longer-form writing (brand new section coming soon).

PREV: Part 4 - The Tour

In the days leading up to the banjo delivery, Michael joked about all the things that could go wrong in the handoff. They might just open the door, give you a hundred-dollar bill, take the banjo, and shut the door in your face. They might live in a mansion and have ten fancy cars in a huge circle driveway. What if you saw the banjo for sale on eBay the next day? He enjoyed flinging his imaginative scenarios at me. 

I assured him none of those things would happen. He said there was no way I could know that. I said I met them and knew it was not in them. He countered, saying I only talked to them for a few minutes and could not possibly have any idea who they really were. At some point, I said it was going to be fun to get updates about the instrument's travels and all the places it will go; who knows, maybe it will go on to great fame. Michael scoffed at this, asking if I seriously thought these people would ever talk to me again. I said I thought they would. He predicted that once we left their house, it would be the last time I ever hear from them. 

Our conversation reminded me of a moment I shared with my other best friend, Matthew, years earlier. Matthew and I are co-founders of a business. We were working with a lawyer to create a partnership agreement. We were on a Zoom call, and the lawyer asked me a question, which I honestly can't tell you what it was about. Money. Insurance. What happens to my shares in the company if I die. Matthew interrupted the lawyer, saying he couldn't ask me that. The lawyer was struck by Matthew's objection, saying it would be highly unusual for Troy not to express his wishes here. To this, Matthew said, "I agree with you, but what you need to know is our job here is to protect Troy and his family. For all his gifts, he is like a child in this regard and cannot make these decisions, so we will make them for him to protect him, protect his wife, and protect his children." I felt Mike's caution skirted these waters, and I spent some of the next few days thinking about how sucky it would be if Michael was right. 

When we arrived at the house (that was not a mansion), the dad was packing a travel van for a trip they were taking the next day. He met us warmly, and we were catching up in the driveway. After a few minutes, the boy appeared on the edge of our circle, looking at me expectantly. I turned, said hello, shook his hand, and asked if he had ordered a banjo. He grinned and nodded his head. I pulled the case from the back of my car and presented it to him. He took it carefully, turned, and walked briskly into the house. We resumed our conversation with the father. About ninety seconds later, we heard the first signs of life from the banjo. One of us commented on how little time that took. The father spoke of how excited the boy had been about this moment. We moved inside. 

The boy was seated. We watched as he plucked individual strings in turn, bending his ear towards the instrument and adjusting the tuning knobs at the end of the neck. I commented that the banjo had been sitting in my living room for the last six months, so it was probably well out of tune. After visiting each string and returning to some for fine-tuning, he raised his head, straightened his back, and lit it up. Before getting there, I asked Michael if he had ever seen a good banjo player first-hand. He had not. I turned to look at Michael as he experienced this spectacle for the first time. We all then watched the boy's articulating fingers, of both hands, move in their hard-to-fathom choreography. 

After a minute or so, the boy paused and looked directly at his father. A full-body grin crossed his face, a grin that only parents typically get to see, and usually only see a few times in a child's life. I asked if it sounded like he remembered. He nodded, still smiling, and was off again, lost in the sounds. We watched and listened some more. The father thanked me for doing this. He said I couldn't really understand what it meant to his boy and to he and his wife, and how he couldn't believe this was happening based on a chance meeting years earlier. As he spoke, tears welled in his eyes. 

After a bit of listening to the boy play and chatting with the parents, I said we should be on our way and let them continue packing. The boy stood to say goodbye. When he shook my hand, he transferred a folded-up hundred from his palm to mine. I smiled at the sly move. I told him and his parents that, as far as I was concerned, their boy bought this banjo through his many thousands of hours of practice. I said that when I saw the boy coming back again and again and again to play it, and seeing the way he could play it, from that moment on, I considered this his banjo, and I was just holding onto it until it could be properly turned over. 

Our exit was rich with hugs and smiles. When we slid into the car, I turned to Michael and asked, "So, do you still think that is the last time we will ever hear from them?" A bit sourly, he replied, "No, I do not". And before we got out of the neighborhood, I received a text from the father with the picture he took of me and the boy. Since then, I have received multiple updates and photos of the banjo's travels, and each one leaves me grinning, grinning almost as big as the boy did when he first held his new banjo in his lap. 

Fin.

PREV: Part 3 - The Gun

Most people I told about my trip had things to say. Those things ranged from thinking it seemed like a stupendous adventure to thinking it seemed stupendously moronic. The most common feedback was, "Wait, you're doing what?" Or "How much is the banjo worth? Why are you giving it to a kid for a hundred dollars?" Or "Do you actually know how far away Oregon is?" 

When I told my best friend Michael about the trip, he responded with near reverence, saying it sounded like a fantastic road trip. I told him he was welcome to join me if he could get the time off work (and family). Weeks later, I received a message saying that if we could stop in Salida, Colorado, his favorite place in the world, and visit his aunt and uncle, he was in. Done!

Our initial plans were fluid. Aside from visiting relatives in Salida and passing through my hometown of Fort Collins, it was all a wonderfully free-form itinerary. Below is what ended up happening:

Mon	Mike flies from Charlotte, Nc to St Louis, Mo
Tue	Drive from St Louis, Mo to Hays, Ks
Wed	Drive from Hays, Ks to Salida, Co with lunch atop Pikes Peak and where we gave a ride to a priest, a pharmacist, and a dentist who were travelling together
Thu	Full day with aunt and uncle in Salida, Co including a personal tour of the valley from Aunt Sandy
Fri	Drive from Salida, Co to Cheyenne, Wy via Estes Park and the Stanley Manor via Fort Collins w/ a Troy childhood tour capped w/ dinner at Panhandlers Pizza (my 2nd favorite, remaining, meal in America)
Sat	Drive from Cheyenne, Wy to Jackson, Wy via the Vedauwoo Climbing Area and along the Great Tetons at sunset and again at sunrise
Sun	Drive from Jackson, Wy to Burns, Or Burns being a modern-day oasis where the nearest gas station, dentist, or Walmart was more than 200 miles away
Mon	Drive from Burns, Or to Depoe Bay, Or where we saw no whales but did dip our fingers into the Pacific this was the first time either of us had ever seen the Pacific Ocean
Tue	Drive from Depoe Bay, Or to Eugene, Or for the banjo handoff
Wed	Drive from Eugene, Or to Portland, Or via a bunch waterfalls & Mount Hood capped the day with a few hours at Powell's Books (my favorite bookstore in America) and stuffed salmon at Jake's seafood (my favorite meal in America)
Thu	Mike flies from Portland, Or to Charlotte, Nc.  Troy drives from Portland, Or to Missoula, Mt after spending 3 more hours at Powells and eating stuffed salmon for lunch before heading out
Fri	Troy drives from Missoula, Mt to Badlands National Park, Sd taking my Bronco to visit its namesake
Sat	Troy drives from the Badlands home to St Louis, Mo After watching the morning sun rise over the ridged terrain

Michael and I spent 61 hours in the car and only played ten songs (not over and over but just one time, on day five). And the only reason that happened was Michael had to hear the main song from the Anatomy of a Fall movie because he could not fathom what a German Caribbean band sounded like playing 50 Cent's PIMP. Well, his true interest was piqued when I said the same German Caribbean band also covered Crockett's Theme from Miami Vice—that is what truly ended the music fast. 

I spent an additional 35 hours going from Portland to St Louis. The benefit of this final leg is that I still got in some personal reflection time, though I found I didn't need it as much as I thought I might. Grateful for that. 

One thing not mentioned above is the shooting of the gun. To retain its Guns and Banjo designation, I told Michael that before we turned the banjo over, we had to find a place to fire the .22 rifle. I assumed that while traveling through the western states, we would see a gun range we could stop at and pop a few rounds off. While we passed several ranges, none seemed inviting in that way. 

Then one day, while traveling on a winding and rutted Wyoming road, we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, though we did pass two guys skinning a deer a few miles back. I came upon an even more meager set of tracks that led off into some hills. I took the hard right, and we disappeared into the landscape. The road naturally terminated after a bit at some fencing that marked private property. 

I'm not going to detail how long it took Mike and me to figure out how to load the gun. All that matters is we figured it out. There were some hills in front of us that we could safely shoot into. I initially worried about the gun's recoil, but it turns out the kick isn't what I needed to fear. It was the remarkably huge sound the weapon made when fired. I had no idea that such a tiny bullet could make such an untiny sound. I was expecting a tad more than a BB gun pop, but instead got a grenade-grade explosion.

After this surprise, Mike and I looked at each other, eyes wide. I pushed the gun at him and told him to hurry up and shoot because I'm sure they heard that back in Cheyenne, and the authorities were already saddling up. Mike took the gun, lined up his shot, and squeezed off the round. He pushed the gun back to me. I pulled the clip, threw it in the case, hurled it into the back of the Bronco, and we raced Dukes of Hazzard style to our seats. On the run, we scanned the horizon for the law, laughing about and reliving our tale of lawlessness for the next two states. 

NEXT: Part 5 - The Delivery

PREV: Part 2 - The Banjo

I did have one other bit of estate business to deal with.  For as long as I can remember, a cousin of mine from central Pennsylvania has commented on how much he loved one of my dad’s hunting rifles. I called this cousin to ask which gun it was so I could set it aside for him. 

He first expressed his condolences at my father’s passing and then said it would not be necessary, as my dad brought him the gun a year earlier when he was up north. My father told him his eyesight was failing and he couldn’t shoot it anymore, so he wanted to pass it on now to make sure he got it. While they were not often public knowledge, I came to learn and was glad to hear that my father had a surprising number of thoughtful and generous moments on his life’s ledger.

I was thankful my cousin had the gun, but it created a small problem for me. In my mind, I had already worked out that after my father passed, I was going to get this gun to my cousin and then deliver the banjo to the boy. My working title for this endeavor was the Guns and Banjo Tour. The structure of the campaign was this. I was going to drive from Saint Louis, Missouri, to State College, Pennsylvania, to give my cousin the gun. I was then going to drive from State College to Eugene, Oregon, to give the boy the banjo. And then, of course, there was the return to St Louis from Eugene. 

All told, this was going to be about eighty-five hours of driving. My plan was to use this time to ruminate on this new parentless chapter of my life. Keep in mind, both of my parents have now passed, I have no siblings, and reasonably distant relationships with my extended family, as I grew up in Colorado and they all lived on the East Coast, which means I only saw them a handful of times. Given the sum of this, I thought I might need a minute, or eighty-five hours, to process my new place in the world. 

But now that my cousin already had his gun, it wrecked my multi-year vision. Realizing this, I scanned the other guns in my dad’s collection. I knew he had a .22 caliber rifle because my kids shot it once while my mom and dad still lived in the woods of Missouri. I located this gun and told the estate accountants this was the one thing I wanted of my fathers.

My modified plan was now, instead of driving a hunting rifle to Pennsylvania, I would find a place somewhere on my drive to Oregon where I could shoot this .22 rifle and, in doing so, save the Guns and Banjo Tour.

NEXT: Part 4 - The Tour

PREV: Part 1 - The Boy

In March of 2025, my father passed away while working on a John Deere tractor in the front lawn of his home. Marty and I drove south to help my father’s second wife and her family deal with the estate. Upon arriving, I found the home full of activity. I believe this is in part because my step-family has an unenviable amount of experience with death, and they were doing, once again, the things they knew had to be done. Further, I’m confident they were trying to be helpful to me, who has thankfully little experience in these matters. 

The banjos I feared would be mine to deal with were not. A family friend, the same I would have called for help, had already arrived and was knee deep, literally from his seated position, in stacked instruments, cataloguing the collection to be sold.

I dashed a quick email off to the boy’s father, asking if his son was still playing the banjo or if he had discovered girls yet. No girls. All banjo. I said I may be looking for a home for the boy’s banjo and wanted to see if he was still interested. He was. I explained that it would not be free and that his boy would have to come up with, one way or another, one hundred dollars to buy the instrument. With a smiley emoji, the father replied, saying he was confident the boy could make that happen.

I pulled the select banjo from the line and said I had a buyer for this one. Oh great. Who? A family I met at IBMA a few years back. Excellent. How much are they buying it for? $5,000. A note was made in the ledger tracking the sale of the instruments. I was next asked when I would have the money. Later in the year, after I delivered it. And with that, the banjo’s fate was set.

When I wrote the father and told him his boy was on the clock to raise the hundred. The father said they travel quite a bit from their home in Oregon in support of the boy’s playing and could meet me somewhere closer to my home in Saint Louis. I said that would not be necessary and I would personally deliver it to him because I was going to be in the area later that year. It is true that I was going to be in the Pacific Northwest, but what I held back was that I was going to be there with the sole purpose of delivering the banjo to the boy. 

While sorting the collection of instruments, I learned two more things about the banjo. First, I learned that of all the banjos my dad had, this banjo, labeled #5 on the inventory, was his favorite of them all. He said, and others, including the boy, seemed to agree, that it was one of the finest bluegrass banjos you will ever hear. The second thing I learned is that it was priced high because my father didn’t want to sell it. This insight helps explain my father’s earlier offense at my suggestion that he give banjo #5 to the boy years ealier. 

NEXT: Part 3 - The Gun

My father played Bluegrass music for over fifty years. In the late eighties, he played professionally in Branson, Missouri. In the aughts, he leveraged his training in tool & die to become a luthier specializing in the restoration of pre-war Gibson banjos. At times, he had as many as twenty of these coveted instruments in his collection. 

For the last several years, he hosted a booth at the International Bluegrass Convention, held annually in Raleigh, North Carolina. Before the 2022 affair, he told me he was not able to go because his helper had a conflict, and he, my father, being in his late eighties, was not able to set the booth up on his own. 

Given his age, I know he fretted every year might be his last. Feeling for him, I volunteered to help get him there and set up so he could attend the event. Two things came from this offer. I was struck at the childlike joy this ellicited from my father when he learned he would not miss the event. And, I did not expect to, but found I enjoyed watching people discover my father’s collection. If you’re into 1930s Gibson banjos, which a surprising number of people are, and unexpectedly stumble upon this private horde, well, watching a person take this in offers a unique pleasure.

Amongst the banjo-lovers was a standout. It was a 14-year-old boy, though you had to look close to confirm this as he stood well over six feet tall. This boy loved banjos, like next to his mother, and possibly his father, I would guess he loves banjos more than anything else in the world. You can imagine the thrill he experienced when he rounded the corner and took in my father’s booth. 

He entered the cramped space and eyed each instrument with deep curiousity. After asking if he could try one, he cautiously lifted the first in the line and sat in the chair reserved for trials. The cacophony of organized sound this boy pulled from the instrument seemed impossible to my ear and brain. He played the first for a few minutes, put it back, and after getting approval, selected the next from the stack and sat with it for a few minutes. Like that, he worked his way down the line, sampling each banjo. After trying them all, he returned to one in the middle and played it until my father shooed him away, saying he had to make room for others. 

The next day, the boy was back. He selected “his” banjo and sat oblivious to all until my father chased him off. This dance played out over and over for the remainder of the event. On one of his visits, I commented to the boy that he seemed to have found his favorite. Not realizing I had watched it all unfold, he explained to me that he had played each instrument, and this one, the one he was playing now, sounded the very best of them all. 

I asked the boy’s father, who was always standing nearby, about buying the banjo, and was told it was not in the cards. After my dad ran the boy off the fifth or sixth time, I told my father he should give that kid the banjo. Appalled, my father said that if he had six thousand dollars, he could buy the banjo. I said he was a kid and surely didn’t have 6k. My father, sans emotion, said it looked like he wouldn’t be leaving with the banjo then. 

On the last day of the convention, I got the father’s contact information, explaining that as my father’s only child, I may one day be tasked with finding homes for all of these instruments, and I might have an inkling where one of them belongs. The conference ended, and as is often the case with my father and banjos, he went home with more instruments than he came with.

NEXT: Part 2 - The Banjo

I was standing alone at a party, which I often do, and a friend approached me and with zero preamble said: To this I replied: I usually require twenty four hours to be this clever, unless you threaten me with never experiencing the unique pleasure that is a Marta-backscratch again.

And can you imagine how delightful the world would be if all conversations began with this much thought and intimacy?

When I meet new people or see folks I haven't chatted with in a while, I like to ask them what their most vivid memory is from the last year. This has exposed all sorts of curious stories and has proven to be an effective conversation accelerant. You could never predict the randomness this simple prompt has produced. Given where I am in life with my family and work, I have an enviable number of ri...

Bella recently unveiled an organization that she has been working on, well, kinda, since she was in fifth grade, but with proper intention for the last three to five years. It is called Find Kind and strives to connect people with opportunities to engage in acts of kindness for all ages and sorts. Her website, findkind.org, went live earlier this year. Months later, we celebrated her getting more than 1k Instagram followers. Now, just a few months after that, we are on the brink of celebrating 2k followers. I should note she is doing all this while working a day job and easing her way into that whole adulting game.

To celebrate her numerous victories, she and her boyfriend planned a trip to Spain. Abdi left a few days early to catch a soccer match. When she left to join him, her travel day began at 4 am, took her to Atlanta, then New York, and then Barcelona. Once at her final destination, totally spent from the day’s travel, she exited the plane. As she scanned the crowd of people at the gate, she spied a large hand-drawn sign over people's heads. It read: Bella DeArmitt / Find Kind CEO. I will let you guess how special that made our Bella feel. Well played, Abdi.

a new TROYSCRIPT was posted today. Blink twice if you require help

A few months after Marty and I were married, we had an unfortunate incident. We were both getting ready for work. I had just showered and was at my desk working on my computer. Marty just finished her morning shower.

Troy! Come here!

Give me a minute. I’m finishing something.

No! You need to come here. Now! There’s a giant bug. It has me trapped in the bathroom. <...

PREV: Part 4 - The Dry Life

I’ve won many lotteries in my life. The top five, in order:

1. Being born (and put up for adoption instead of the other on-the-table option)
2. Being born healthy
3. Being adopted by my mother
4. Meeting and marrying Marty
5. Not killing anyone while driving a four-thousand-pound car, blind drunk

I once led a book discussion with a group of college kids. In the book (The Other Wes Moore), the author talked about life-saving moments of luck in our lives. I shared my drinking and driving story with the students as an example of mine. I asked them to think about how their lives would be different if their moment of luck had played out in another way. Would they be in this room? Would they be without trauma? Would they be living free? Would they be alive? I still become grateful, reverent even, when I think about surviving that experience without incident. I wonder about the infinite ways my life would be different had the universe not spared me on that day.

Decades later, one of my teen children asked me how old I was when I lost my virginity. I told them I didn’t know. I told them that I could tell them about the first time I remembered having sex, but not the first time, or even several times, that I actually had sex. How’s that for knocking some of the sheen off any idealized visions they held of their father?

Speaking of my children, if there is a single benefit that came from my experience, it is that it prevented my kids from jumping into that fray too early or with careless abandon. We were always open about my condition and told them they may have it too. They didn’t even have to pretend to be an alcoholic. They got to say, "Yeah, my dad’s broken and I might be too, so none for me."

As for how different my life would be had I been unable to stop drinking in my early twenties, I cannot fathom the delta. I'm not going to iterate through all the ways my life would be worse. There's not time. It would suffice to say I would likely not have survived the last three decades. In our early married life, Marty was telling her mother how bad I was with money and the problems it created. In an effort to appease her young daughter, she said, “Well, at least he doesn’t drink.” Mama Nat has no idea how much truth was packed into that simple statement of fact. And I can’t tell you how grateful and fortunate I am that she doesn’t.

FIN

PREV: Part 3 - My Last Drink

My exit from drinking went off about as elegantly as it began. But this is life, no. Figuring things out on our own by trial and error tends to be clumsy by nature. Why would we ever expect otherwise? The first hurdle was the guy, usually the loudest in the room, who finds it unacceptable for anyone not to be drinking if they were. They wouldn’t have it and would grab you up and not let you go until you had a beer in your hand.

It took me a little bit, but in time, I learned to just accept and hold the beer. That bought you some leeway. But then, if you weren’t raising it enough, that might get the notice of someone, again, usually the loudest guy, and that would also not do. So then I learned to get the beer and, at some point, excuse myself to the bathroom or an empty kitchen where I could pour out the beer and replace it with water.

I ran into some situations where I could not lean on my sleight of hand and decided to just stand my ground, saying I didn’t want any and not take any. As an adult in this day and time, you’d think this strategy would be perfectly solid. But to a twenty-year-old in the late eighties, running with the crew I ran with, it was like trying to pass Canadian quarters at the arcade.

Then I stumbled upon the only thing I found to work on every person in every setting with one hundred percent effectiveness. Think of it as a solution to a riddle. What is the only thing you could tell a loud, drunk guy to get him to stop badgering you about a drink? The answer is to tell them that you are a recovering alcoholic. Curiously, not only will this quiet down the drunkard, it will give them a level of respect for you in that, look, this is something I was soooooo good at, even as a twenty-year-old, that I had to stop doing it. It’s like the drinking version of being registered as a deadly weapon. Then, still curiously, that same loud clod will not only stop harassing you, they will become your protector, threatening anyone who comes near you with a drink.

While technically I am not an alcoholic, because I never really developed an appreciation for that genre of refreshment, I gotta think I fall on some ven-adjacent circle that gives me partial rights to the club.

NEXT: Part 5 - Life-Saving Luck

PREV: Part 2 - The Morning(s) After

I was living in the basement of a friend’s family home one summer. I was about to start at a new university and didn’t have a place to live. This family was kind enough to let me stay with them until the school year got going.

On a Saturday morning, I met a group of friends at a park to play basketball. We played in the St. Louis swelter for a few hours. During a break, I asked if anyone had brought anything to drink. I was directed to a cooler to the side. In it was a sea of floating cans of beer. Desperately thirsty, I pulled one and drained it quickly.

Twenty minutes later, one of the people said that given the heat, they were headed to Harper’s pool. About a mile into the drive home to get my trunks, I approached an underpass that went beneath some train tracks. As you enter the brief tunnel structure, there is a cement median about two feet wide dividing the two sides of traffic. When I came to the median, I somehow got my car straddled over it, so the driver's side was in the lane of oncoming traffic, and the passenger side was on the right side. I remember repeatedly jerking the steering wheel to the right, trying to get back in my lane, and was confused why it would not go as the wheel kept hitting the median (which I was not fully cognizant of).

Next thing I know, I wake up on the floor of my basement bedroom. I think back, and the last thing I remember is fighting with the steering wheel. I walk up the stairs and open the front door.

This house I’m living in, which is part of a standard suburban neighborhood predominantly made up of families with children, is set up on a little hill. By the street, they have created extra parking spots with some railroad ties and gravel. I drove through the gravel, over the railroad ties, through their front yard, and my car was sitting six feet from their living room’s bay window. The driver’s door was still open, and the parking brake was engaged. I scanned the street to see if there were people taking in this unexpected scene. Thankfully, there were none. I got in and rolled the car back onto the street and properly parked it.

I then got out, still looking around suspiciously, and moved to the front of the car. There I knelt down and inspected the headlights and front grill. I was looking for blood and hair. Thankfully and miraculously, there was none.

NEXT: Part 4 - The Dry Life

PREV: Part 1 - My First Drink

I woke in my bed. No Molly. I called to her. No response. I walked through the house. Still no Molly. But I did find a good number of her clothes. And not just minor articles like a scarf or jacket, but critical parts, like, uh, her dress. I was going to the Coors Classic bike race in Boulder that afternoon, so I jumped into the shower before my ride came by. When the hot water hit my body, I recoiled in pain. In looking down, I saw three cuts on my left chest with dried blood below them.

A few days later, I stood at Molly’s bedroom door holding a paper bag filled with her clothes.

Hi.

Hey.

So, sorry about the other night. Honestly, I don't know what happened.

I think you got drunk.

Yeah, I guess I did. But I mean, I don’t remember much.

You didn’t miss much worth remembering.

I was worried when you weren’t there.

You didn’t look qualified to drive me home, so I called a friend.

Right. Good. Sorry about that. I brought your clothes back.

Thanks. You can just leave them there.

With that, she turned back to drawing on her paper. Those were the last words Molly ever said to me.

From the moment I fell down the stairs until the moment I woke up, I have zero memories. Well, that is not entirely true. There are two fuzzy five-second fragments, but aside from that, it is all lost time. What the hell happened? We were doing great. We were laughing. Talking. Having such a wonderful time.

I wish I could report that that is the last time that happened, but it was not. It didn’t happen hundreds of times, but it did happen more than ten. I would drink. At some number of minutes after that, I would stop remembering. Then I would wake up somewhere and work to learn what happened in the missing hours.

It is worth mentioning that this is not a situation where this happened to me after drinking eight beers or four shots. This could happen to me after one or two beers (depending on when I last ate) or a single drink of something harder.

Not all of the nights went fully unreported. I would get snippets here and there, but never a full accounting—the people I was with were drinking too. But there were more names that would go in the Molly column. Things were going well, then I drank, and that was that.

I had two things going against me.

1. This is what people my age, the people I was running around with at least, were doing—drinking often and drinking lots.
   
2. I assumed that what happened to me was what happened to everyone.

It wasn’t until I shared this with a girl I was dating (who obviously hadn’t drank with me yet) that I learned this was not everyone’s experience. After asking a few questions, she casually said that I might not be able to metabolize alcohol, which is why it was having this amplified effect on me. Intrigued, I asked what this meant. She explained that there are people who have reactions to alcohol. Some people are allergic to it. And some people have zero ability to process it at all. She said if I were in the can’t-process-it camp, then it means I’m the cheapest date out there because all of it is like one hundred proof to my body.

Further, she said there are some ethnicities (asian and american indian) that can struggle with alcohol. Since I am adopted and have very intentionally sought not to learn anything about my racial makeup, AND seem to be a bit of a mutt and carry common characteristics from numerous ethnicities, it is a fair supposition.

Some might think learning this information would immediately right the ship, but remember, I was nineteen years old and these were all new experiences, and again, that is just what the people I spent the most time with were doing, and it was assumed in a number of ways that I would be doing the same.

NEXT: Part 3 - My Last Drink

The summer before my senior year of high school, I worked at McDonald's. As is the case at most McDonald's, I imagine, they employed a curious cast of characters. There was Rand, who used every break to go to his sun-faded Camaro and get high. He often fell asleep in the hidden spot beneath the pine tree behind the building. Sending a runner to wake him up if he did not return was an actual work assignment at the Campus West McDonald's. Another employee was amazingly named Joe Dice, or at least that is the name he applied for work under. In some ways, that feels like all that needs to be said about Joe, but in case you need a bit more. I got hired on the same day Joe did. The manager sent the four of us new hires to the bathroom to try on our magenta polyester pants. When Joe dropped his shorts, we all learned that young men named Joe Dice do not wear underwear. Thankfully, no patrons felt the need during those unexpected ninety seconds. And then there was Molly.

Molly was cool. Cool as in Molly had, what I was told by another employee, a Polish Mohawk. This meant the sides and back of her head were shaved, and the top was left really long and flew about unpredictably. Molly had this give-no-shits approach to things while still being both kind and competent—doubly so when put up against the likes of Rand and Joe Dice. Next to Molly, I was the squarest square in the mix—triply so when competing against the likes of Rand and Joe Dice. But this did not deter me from throwing all seventeen years of my flirting arsenal her way. If you asked me, or anyone watching the awkward dance, if a single one of my missiles hit her battleship, confidence would have been low.

One day at the end of her shift, she bid all of us unfortunates farewell, as she passed me, she handed me a slip of paper. It was a pulled bit of register tape and said in a fun scrawl, 'McMolly' with a phone number beneath. She flashed me those eyes and wordlessly continued her exit.

I didn't even have to knock on her home's door when I picked her up. Before I had time to get out of my '76 Volvo station wagon, she was striding down the sidewalk and slipped into the car. After a few pleasantries, she asked about the plan.

I thought we might get some food.

I just ate.

Oh, well, maybe we could see a movie.

A movie, really. That's what you want to do?

Uh. Well.

Didn't you say your parents were out of town?

Before I could answer, she reached into her voluminous shoulder tote and hefted out a large, clear bottle filled with an equally clear liquid. My entire knowledge of drinking could have fit in the red metal cap that poked out of Molly's clenched fist. I'd seen people at parties mixing drinks with orange juice or sodas. I asked if we should stop and get some of those things. Her reply, "if you want", stressing the word 'you'. Yes, I want. So we stopped at a store and I got a bag full of diluters.

I was struck by how quickly we settled in at my home's dining room table, the conversation flowing as easily as the pours from Molly's bottle. I tried multiple combinations from the bank of drinks I had neatly lined up on the table, looking for a blend that softened the liquid's bite. Molly tried exactly none of them, and I found no magic mix. In this setting, I was able to see Molly in much more detail. Less the rough polyester and fry vat sheen, she was beautiful. Zero makeup. No tan. Her skin was so light it seemed translucent. She was stunning. I remember wondering what she would look like with a more conventional haircut and attire, if it would make her more striking or maybe less so.

We were laughing and sharing embarrassing stories. If someone walked in on the two of us, they would have thought we were long-time pals, given our easy rapport. I repeatedly fought back the disbelief that I was out with Molly, a girl who had several guys at work, ten kinds of twisted up, including Rand and Joe Dice, but here she was with me.

My dog started barking in the backyard. From my chair, I pulled the sliding glass door open and called for her to come inside. No dog. More barking. I called again. Still no dog. Annoyed at the interruption, I walked onto the back deck and called her more emphatically, including a slap of my thigh. She came to the bottom of the deck's stairs but did not come up. She held her ground, now barking at me. Even more annoying. I took the first step down to collect her. I never touched the second tread because my body just pitched forward, and I fell down the wooden steps.

NEXT: Part 2 - The Morning(s) After

Marty’s 91-year-old mother has decided to sell the family home. This is the house they had when Marta was born—her next older sibling was two when they bought it. That front stoop is where I first saw and was thunderbolted by my beautiful Marta. And it is the house where the wonderful Ch...

Today, August 21, 2025, I'm driving our youngest child to college. Anfer is our first to leave home for school, though will thankfully, only be a few hours away. Marta and I view this as the end of our high-impact parenting years and will likely celebrate the moment with a high-five. Our years as parents have been rich in laughter, memory, fulfillment, and yes, of course, effort.

A few r ...

Marty and I resumed hosting dinner parties over the summer. This is something we used to do with great regularity before having kids. Now that they are grown and more busy, we are slowly working to reinstate the practice. For me it is in no way about the food on the table but the conversations around it that make these evenings special. Here is one of the more memorable morsels from this summer where a friend, John, shared the story of how he first met his wife, Sole.

The were both architecture students. He was in his last year and she in her first. He saw her talking at an information counter and when she walked away, he approached the counter-woman, whom he knew.

Can I ask who that was?

That girl who was just here?

Yes.

Soledad.

Sole-uh-what?

Soledad.

Soledad.

No. You’re saying it wrong. Soledad.

Soledad.

Still wrong. Soledad.

Can you say it slower?

Slower? Why slower?

Because I’m a white guy from New Jersey. You gotta help me here.

So he practiced the name for days but out of fear of botching his initial impression, opted to make first contact through a note, which he taped to the window of a classroom door where he knew, through his recon, she had class—this took place well before cell phones or even email. She accepted his offer of coffee and they had their first date on a Monday.

They saw each other again Wednesday and then went to a school-related party on Friday. When it was time to leave they found themselves in a room picking through piled up coats looking for their own. It was next to this heap of winter frocks where they shared their first kiss.

As for her side of the tale, she was dating a guy who had just left the country to teach english. For a few reasons, she had questions about his viability as a long-term partner. Then she saw John present to all the students at a school event (remember he was in his last year and she in her first) and thought to herself, now that’s the kind of guy I should be with. He looks like he’s going somewhere. And then a few short months later saw a note from him taped to her classroom door.

Here we are decades and a few children later and I am always happy to see them in the foyer of my home at the start of a fresh visit.

Oh, one last noteworthy bit. When John first met Sole’s parents, he looked through the local hipster paper for suggestions of what to do. A new foreign film was talked up as taking the festivals by surprise. He stabbed it with his finger in success, feeling this would surely impress Sole’s international parents. What he did not know and what the paper did not share is that the film opened with a horrific and graphic rape scene that spanned the first seven minutes. Though had you asked John how long the scene played out, he would have guessed it lasted the full 86 minute run-time.

My city used to have this absolutely amazing bookstore. It was a multi-level labyrinth with subject-centric rooms, cozy reading nooks, and the largest array of magazines from around the world you've ever seen. If you loved books, their heft in your hand, the smell of their paper, the art of their jacket, this was mecca. And then a little shit-show called Borders came along and told the readi ...