The beginning of 2017 hasn’t been nice to me at all. It was a non-stop shit show! Suddenly I found myself waking up in a hospital bed. I was also wearing a hospital gown, I looked at both of my wrists and they’ve been wrapped in bandages, I tried to open it but a nurse came in and stopped me.

“Stop doing that.” She said.

“Where the fuck am I?” I asked.

“You’re in Mount Sinai Beth Israel in New York. Do you know your name?”

“Of course I know my fucking name! It’s Lorenzo you stupid bitch!”

“Okay, no need for profanities Lorenzo..”

“Shit, I’m sorry. Could you just tell me what the fuck happened?”

The nurse was a little hesitant to tell me of what happened but somehow she told the story.

“You’ve been unconscious for the past 48 hours. Someone found you passed out on Bowery Street and Second Avenue and called 911. You’re here due to some drug overdose and excessive alcohol consumption. Do you remember anything at all?”

I almost sobered up after she told me all those things. I also tried very hard to remember any previous recollections that I have if I could remember any. I was at a house party in East Village. I wasn’t so sure who’s party it was but one thing for sure, I was drinking whiskey and vodka like a rockstar, then someone offered me some LSD, then I did some lines of cocaine with someone, then some Jewish kid offered me a tab of ecstasy.. I also remembered that I was in my lowest low that night. I couldn’t find a day job, late on my rent, literally living on a hand to mouth situation and wasn’t able to do any sort of writing. I also remembered that the first seven months of 2017 had been unkind to me – a failed romantic relationship, a diagnosis of clinical depression, PTSD, and it went on like a fucking daytime soap opera series on CBS. Then I asked myself, what did I do? The same question that I asked myself when I was five, during the time I realized that my mother neglected me and my father abandoned me. The same fucking question I asked for the past thirty three years. But I cannot dwell on these kind of thoughts. I need to keep on moving forward. After all, it’s only me against the world since the dawn of my existence.

“Lorenzo?” The nurse asked me.

I immediately checked out of that weird mind loop and came back to reality.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Do you remember anything at all?”

“I do. I was at a house party in East Village. I was drinking more liquor like water, and eating every drug like it’s candy.”

“I’m gonna get the doctor to inform him that you’re awake and he’ll do some final test on you.”

“Okay, and I’m sorry by the way.I didn’t mean to call you a bitch.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m gonna get the Doctor..”

She politely left with a slight smile in her face. I really don’t want to wait for the doctor to tell me that I almost killed myself and I need to start taking care of myself. I don’t need to hear any of that shit. I mean, I’m aware of what I’m drinking and the drugs that I’m get high at, and I don’t need some mediocre doctor to tell me how I should live. All I know is, I’ve survived an alcohol and drug overdose, and I came back to life. Have I learned my lesson? Of course I have, to a certain degree. I didn’t want to wait for someone who get’s paid six figures and tells his/her patients how much longer they could live, so I decided to pull out the IV from my arm and put my regular clothes on. I snuck out of the hospital and wiped the blood off my arm. I went to a friend’s apartment in Elmhurst,Queens to take a shower and get cleaned up. Then I started wandering around Soho and Tribeca, thinking about my fucking life. Thinking if it will ever change.. Then I got a phone call on my phone. About a job that I applied for almost a month ago, for a start up company providing baby sitting services for dogs. That’s fucking ironic, because it seems like pets get better treatments than humans these days. They offered me the entry level position; where I’ll answer phones and email for a mere $16 an hour. It’s a shit wage, but it will sustain me in terms of rent and food. Pretty much a job for survival. An essential mediocre job I suppose. I accepted the job offer and was due to start the following Monday. I was surprised actually, since I don’t remember doing the interview with them. I wasn’t sober during the interview for sure. I was probably high on Adderall. But it doesn’t matter, I got the day job and that’s a good thing. There is something good to feel about and I try not to shit all over it. But after seven consecutive months of adversity in my fucking universe, I get cynical and believe me I’m trying to get rid of this kind of attitude.

The following night, I ended up at some bar that I never frequent. At GMT Tavern in Greenwich Village. The drink prices are pretty steep but I liked the ambiance of the bar and EDM playlist that they have. I ordered a glass of old fashioned and the cocktail itself did live up to its price. While finishing my drink, I met a French tourist named Jeremie, he’s a student at NYU pursuing his Phd in International Trading. His English is pretty damn good for a Frenchie, he told me later on that he went to a boarding school in England, which explains the crisp British accent. He then invited me to snort some cocaine with him in the bathroom, we finished the whole packet of his coke. It was a grand high, not cheap high like the coke that you buy from East Village or Lower East Side. He also told me that he smuggled it from Colombia. I guess it was my lucky night! LOL! I went back to the bar to have another glass of old fashioned. When I tried to look for Jeremie, he’s nowhere to be found. It’s either he met someone that night and or he ghosted. Anyway, I decided to have one last drink since my cocaine high seems unassailable for the next eight hours… After I finished my second glass of old fashioned, I thought I won’t be coked up anymore. But the truth is, it only made me feel higher. I decided to leave the bar and went to Washington Square Park. I sat on the bench while smoking a cigarette. Then suddenly, I heard a familiar voice.

“Can I bum a cigarette?” She asked.

I looked around me and there she was, my dead psychiatrist who’s the doppelganger of Sharon Stone, my absentee bestfriend who only appears when I’m high.

“If you’re still alive, I’d give you one!” I replied.

She then laughed at me like a fucking hyena.

“I like the fact that you haven’t lost your sarcasm.”

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

“What is it the you want?”

“It would be a lot better if I got a billion dollars in cash, I could use a sabbatical around the world!”

“That would be nice isn’t it?”

“You’re goddamn right it would!”

“I wish I could help you out on that, but I simply can’t”

“Then why the fuck do you keep showing up when I’m high?!”

“Me showing up to you when I’m high isn’t really my choice. It’s fate.”

“Oh bullshit! My life is slightly changing and you’re not even lifting your goddamn finger to help me!”

“That is not true. I show up because I give a shit.”

I took a drag of my cigarette and started to feel very impatient with her. I also realized the emptiness of her apparition every time I’m drugged up.

“For once, just tell me something nice. I don’t give a fuck if you lie to me. The past seven months had been all fucked up. I had to fight tooth and nail to maintain my sanity!”

“I know, but lying to you would be wrong. Congratulations on the new job. And just try to believe that good things will do happen to you. After all everything’s eventual.”

“When will I feel better? Because to tell you the truth, I feel like I’m disappearing, I’m goddamn tired!”

“Just trust every moment that comes to you. Your ship of troubles has sailed. I know it’s not easy for you to be optimistic right now. But hope requires focus and strength in order for it to be effective.”

Dr. Spencer then hailed a cab and disappeared into the night. From that moment, I did sense that something is ending and something begins. I’m not sure if it’s good or bad. I finally called it a night and headed to Union Square. Right in front of the building with the digital numbers that keeps on going. I stared at the homeless kids sleeping on the pavement, the guy holding a sign that says “FREE HUG”, the guys playing chess, the woman reading tarot cards, and finally a guy who looks like Jesus sitting on the steps dressed in a three piece, black suit smoking a joint. I walked towards him and asked if I could share the joint.

“Can I take a hit?” I asked.

“Sure you can!” He replied.

I started smoking the joint and it was good stuff. It reminded me of the fresh weed back home in California. When I tried to give it back to him he refused and told me that I should finish it. He has a unique charisma, something that I rarely encounter these days. I also knew that he’s from a foreign land, somewhere spiritual.

“Thanks for the joint, I really appreciate it. Perfect timing for my fucked up life!” I said.

“You’re very welcome. Same here, I’m holding on to my sanity as we speak.” He replied.

“I’m Lorenzo by the way, what’s your name?”

“It’s Yeshua. Nice to meet you Lorenzo.”

The look in his eyes told me something, he needed a friend. He’s coming from a very troubled place just like me. And just like me, he’s also damaged and in pain.

“Yeshua as in Jesus?”

“Yes, I’m from Tel Aviv. And how about you?”

“From California. Los Angeles.”

Yeshua then stood up and looked deep into my eyes. I wasn’t sure what his intentions were. It wasn’t a psychotic look he gave me but a sincere one.

“Listen Lorenzo, I don’t want to waste your time. But I just lost my wife and my child, and I could tell you’re also suffering. I’d like you to join me for a drink in my hotel a couple blocks away, and we could keep each other warm. What do you say?”

“Yeah, I need that as much as you do.”

We then headed back to his hotel. As a born and raised Roman Catholic, I felt like I hooked up with the messiah. I also felt like I was in one of the scenes from the bible where Jesus stops on the side of the ride to save a stranger. It was the tale of the Good Samaritan. From time to time, I have to admit, I need to be rescued just like everyone else.