You gotta wonder if you’re just batshit crazy.

And of course, I know I am. The only person I’ve ever known to be crazier, was my brother. We pushed each other to ultimate craziness. Jumping off bridges… Swimming 10 miles out into the ocean. Flying down a freeway at 130 plus miles per hour on motorcycles.

And other things… LOL.

And he just walked past me…

Yeah, just now. He pisses me off when he does that. Why? Because I sense movement — I look up — and all I see is him turning a corner. I get up to look and he’s gone.

Other times — when I least expect it — the hair on the back of my neck stands straight up. Yeah, it’s him. No, he doesn’t talk to me. He doesn’t have to. Do I turn around?


He’s never there.

One night I was on my couch… Tired as hell but not sleeping. Don’t sleep much. Four to six days with no sleep and then I’m fucking out for around 4 to 5 hours.

Rinse and repeat.

Anyway… I’m laying there… Thinking. I do that. LOL. And then I feel SOMEONE sitting down on the couch, against my legs. I didn’t see him this time but I smelled him.

Ghost? Fuck if I know. Not sure I believe in ghosts per se…

All I know is that he’s still pushing me and he’s not even physically here.

Yesterday I got on a freeway… Just a leisurely eight mile ride was all and no helmet… Just a ballcap. I hit the ramp at 75 — the freeway at 90 and before I knew it I was passing cars as if they were standing still and my tach hit the redline… A little over 7000 RPM — again a little over 130 miles per hour.

I could feel him next to me… Pushing me.

I could see the red and blue lights flashing behind me a quarter-mile away. That’s how it always happened. We’d be racing each other and out come the lights.

But at just under 140, you don’t really think about pulling over… At least I don’t. We never used to either. You just go… Faster. You take the next offramp and you disappear.

I don’t hallucinate. I do have nightmares or… At least I used to. Not so much lately. Is it the sleep deprivation? Maybe. But I do have a keen sense of smell and it’s gotten me out of trouble many times.

Maybe it’s the guilt… He called me twice the day he killed himself and I was out of town. I got back home to those two messages…

“Hey, it’s your brother… Want to have breakfast this morning? Let me know.”

“Hey, it’s me again… Guess you didn’t get my message about breakfast. How about lunch? Call me.”

I know those two messages by heart because I listen to them every fucking day even though I no longer have a home phone… Just the answering machine.

I can’t help but listen to them.

A month after he died, I received a birthday present in the mail from him.

A car he used to own back in California — 15 years ago — is now parked just a couple of miles from where I live.

I live in New Mexico.

Another car he owned here in New Mexico and sold years before he died is now parked at a business I pass almost every day.

Yeah… It’s the sleep deprivation.

What’s this gotta do with screenwriting?



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