His parents’ house had an element of
disclosure: dried spaghetti on walls,
baby’s stench, and damp beer coasters.
Now something happened that could
only be felt by their son, Dusty Bloom.
Hitch-hiking, he had been raped at gun
point. With bravado he told me it was
as glamorous as an art film. Something
to be twisted into art. 15 years old and
forced to – you know. Now he knew
what his house was about. He knew
why adults drank and went to A.A.
Dusty asked me to help him start a cult
for people who were proud drunks. He
finished a Budweiser and threw the bottle
out the window. He started sobbing:
tears, snot, and fear, “I came when
they raped me. Those, dirty, old, pigs
held a gun to my head--and I came. I’m
so sick; no one will ever love me.”
I was afraid to tell him the truth: “I
love you. I love you even more now.”
I walked home mute. Dusty ran away.
The last I heard, he changed his name,
and was living in a homeless shelter,
scribbling screenplay after screenplay
in drunken, schizophrenic language.
