1. The Shed, Part One

"Get the f**k out of my face"

Is he talking to me? There are several dogs here, pestering Richie as he cleans tools. Perhaps he's talking to one of them?

He drops wrenches and sockets into a bucket, one at a time, rubbing them with a rag apparently soaked in gasoline. I try to read his face for a clue, but it's the same screwed-up, hostile expression as always; No insight there. He's always looked to me a bit like an angry Alfred E. Neuman. Perhaps that's a subconscious association: Richie -> Richie Rich -> comic book characters -> Alfred E. Neuman.

"Who -- me?" I ask, glancing at the dogs.
"Yes, you - get the f**k out of my face. Go!"

Well, that's clear enough I suppose. I can't help but laugh a bit as I walk away; It's certainly not the sort of interaction I'm used to, but I've been out of my element since I arrived here in Vegas. I'm still trying to find my sea -- err, actually -- desert legs. Maybe this sort of crap is common around here.

Still confused, I walk back to the shed that I've gradually been turning into an art studio. I was busy arranging to ship a painting (a sale, at last!) when my sister had sent me a text message. 

Hey, is Richie home? I need to talk to him if he is. Can you have him call me at 702-555-1212?

This is Nicki's house, and I've been here for about a month. She works at a doctor's office and sometimes needs an errand during the day, so I'm used to being called-on occasionally. But sometimes she's a little bit, uh - off. I walked over to Richie and told him, but he has no phone. I dialed the number, on speakerphone, but it went directly to voicemail. Like I say - a little off.

"Why does it go to a voicemail?" He asked.
"Uh - well, I don't know. This is the number she gave." It's the best answer I can muster.
"Why would she give you a voicemail phone number?"

Unsure how to navigate this circular and unproductive line of questioning, I tried to confirm the number - no easy task with my dying phone held-together with tape covering half the screen. But it's correct, all right. 

"Well, that's the right number. I have no idea. Want to try again?"
"Get the f**k out of my face."



Back in the shed, I continue my art sale negotiations. 

The painting, a 5' x 4.5' mounted canvas, is all the way down in Niles - a lovely arts-and-crafts neighborhood in Fremont, California. The client is in Colorado. And here I am in Las Vegas, without a cent to my name to wrangle the packing, shipping, and other details required to liquidate this windfall. 

But the buyer is a good friend, who I'd worked with back in the dot-com heyday of the early 2000's. And he's being extremely accommodating and supportive. With some effort, I've managed to get friends at Dandyland - the style shop where the painting is on display - to agree to handle the shipping. I need only figure-out how to get the costs covered while keeping this whole deal fair for all parties.

The Dandyland kids can pack and ship it from a local shipping center, but I'll need to ensure they're paid for that first. Would you be willing to 

"So did you call her?!"

Richie interrupts, entering the shed behind me, smoking a cigarette.

"Um, not again, no. Just the time you saw. I sent her a text saying we got voicemail." I respond, wondering if he thinks conversations just continue after you tell someone to f**k off.

"Let me see your phone." He sucks on the cig as if it's a joint, in a way that would make my lungs hurt.

Well, he is my sister's boyfriend; I guess that trust extends as far as letting him use my phone to call her. I bring-up the number on redial and hand it to him.

"There's no smoking in here, dude." I point out. 

I silkscreen custom t-shirts and other clothing in here, which I hope to sell - and no one wants to buy clothes that smell of smoke. Thus a sign on the door reads "no smoke inside: clothes biz". Everyone's been kind enough to observe the rule, knowing my predicament.

"I'll smoke wherever the f**k I want." he exhales through Alfred E Neuman grin.

It's voicemail again, I hear through the speaker. He hangs-up.

"It's the clothes, you see - because I hope to sell them..." I decide to reason with him.

"Shut the f**k up, bitch." He's looking directly at me this time. I guess the dynamics of this relationship are clearly established at this point. 

He drops the still-smoking butt of his cigarette on the floor. I absently crush it out, minimizing the damage to the clothes. He watches with a strangely quiet bemusement.

"Um, ok. Well, I'm going to go take a shower..." I have become keenly aware now that he's standing between me and the doorway. I hold out my hand, though I already have little hope he's going to give my phone back.

"You're not going anywhere. Sit the f**k down and shut up."

A tense moment passes, in which we stare at each other as I'm trying to figure-out precisely how psychotic my sister's boyfriend might really be. Ultimately, I decide he's probably not going to sabotage his relationship with her by resorting to violence - and I press-on.

"I'm leaving..." as I make to move around him toward the door.

"Sit -- down!" he shoves me backwards, into the grungy armchair at one end of the shed.

I should point-out here that I'm not a strong guy: I'm 50 years old and only about 130 lbs on a good day. I've only recently taken to working-out - largely inspired by the Joe Rogan Podcast - but I haven't the tattooed prison physique of 30-year-old Richie. Nor do I share the propensity for violence that seems to accompany it.

Unwisely, I'm back up and in front of him before I know it. 

"Dude: There's no need for this. Just let me leave, and we can straighten all of this out when Nicky gets home." I surprise myself with the calmness in my voice. Perhaps the meditation is paying-off: I feel anger and fear bubbling-up, but simply let them "arise and pass away", as Sam Harris' course has been teaching.

"F--k you, suck-ass b*tch" He's pushed me backward into the chair again, and keeps looking out of the shed. It annoys me that I can't see anything outside from here: Am I alone in this? Are any of my other roommates even aware that this is going on?

I'm back up and trying to reason with him, and - at this point - a little confused by myself. Shouldn't I be more angry? Shouldn't I at least be afraid? But mostly I feel nothing - a strange sort of amusement, even, at how little sense any of this makes.

"Richie, why are you doing this? I've been nothing but kind to you. There's no reason for this behavior. Who made you this way?" 

I think I might sincerely be interested in how someone starts behaving this way. But this might not be the best time for a psychiatric intervention.

"Because you're a suck-ass b*tch! I don't give a f**k that you've only been kind to me..." he keeps looking outside, holding the door closed. 

I notice a golf-club among the random ephemera of the shed - well within arm's reach. I could just grab it and knock this moron over the head with it. A single swift blow should do the trick. There's some brief thought of the consequences - explaining this in court someday could be troublesome.

But the real reason I don't pick it up puzzles me even as I observe it: I find I just don't care enough. I don't like violence - period - and this idiot doesn't seem a good enough reason to cross that line.

I should be more concerned with the psychotic episode unfolding in front of me - but instead, I'm wholly consumed by my own thoughts. Why isn't this bothering me more? Shouldn't I be in fight-or-flight mode? 

Yet, everything seems hallow since my wife's death. Does nothing - not even my own safety - touch me in any way, any more? 

I should be here, in the moment, right now - if ever. But I'm not. 

I'm in the past. And all I can think about is her, and that terrible, final night...

"Hold me," she said.

[Continued in The Shed, Part Two]
[For some context, see "Preface"]