Yeah, I remember that day.

I almost died, you know.

It was the weekend after we won the big game. Buzzer beater, and all. I'm sure you read about it. Another year like that, and I could have declared for the draft.

Anyway, that's not the story, is it?

Buddy of mine had his parent's lake house for the weekend. Big party. Big. Of course I was late, Pa had to throw a party with all of his friends and brag. Parents -- gotta love 'em.

So there I was, barreling down the dirt road, fucking pitch black. Private roads -- gotta love those, too. This big old brown thing jumped out of the trees, I swear to God it must have been a moose or caribou or something. Fucking huge. So I swerved.

Brilliant.

Woke up with this pain in my stomach -- my nuts, too. The steering wheel was crushing my nuts. Yeah, it sounds hilarious, but come lay down and let me stand on your nuts for a half hour and then you can laugh. Things were off, too. My face was wet, and the drips were going up. You ever woken up upside down? It's weird.

I could barely breathe, and I was High. As. A. Kite. Those 8 gas cans had been tossed everywhere. Gas for the jet-skis. Eight 8 gallon cans. Probably 70 gallons of gas, because, you know, I topped off. Like they tell you not to. As if it would have made a difference. I was soaaaaaaked. Everything was. Apparently I'd been out a bit -- I felt like I'd been huffing paint thinner or something.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. I heard him walking up. Saw a pair of upside down hiking boots and jeans stop by my head. Worse? A bit past that, I saw my cigarette on the ground, still lit.

Pa always told me smoking would kill me.

Legs turned into knees as he knelt down. I knew who it was, before I saw him. It was like... I could feel him. That's not as crazy as it sounds. He'd been stalking me.

Yeah, I have a stalker.

Once, the fucker even broke into the house. I covered for him, of course. I mean, seriously -- how the fuck do you explain that? Little bitch left the family photo album sitting out. Like he wanted me to know he'd been there. My home. My family. Stupid fucker.

He tilted his head to look at me, and picked the cigarette up. He stared at it like he'd never seen one before. I would have laughed when he took a drag, he got all queasy looking and coughed. Would have laughed -- if I weren't already yelling at him. Not sure what I was yelling. Cussing him out, for sure. He probably planned the whole thing. Sneaky fucker.

Then it gets weird.

I'm yelling, non stop, and he Does. Not. Say. A. Word. Just looks at me. It's creepy. Everything that had happened, and he has nothing to say? He's killing me, goddamnit, and he has nothing to say?

He reaches into the pocket of this toggle coat he's wearing, and fishes out a newspaper clipping.

I remember that day. High school. We had won state. Some local paper, photographer had a great picture of me holding the trophy and Pa hugging me. Backboard and scoreboard in the background. Real Pulitzer stuff. No. Norman Rockwell stuff, more like it.

He looks at it, and then shows it to me, then looks at it again. Then he's, like, crying. I told you it was weird. Yeah, sure, I was stoned out of my mind on gas fumes, but I saw tears.

The weirdness doesn't stop, either.

I figured he was going to torch the truck, and me. Instead, he puts that raggedy clipping back in his pocket and fishes out one of those cheap-ass pay-as-you-go phones. He tosses it at me. He might have handed it to me, but I think I was still trying to rip his eyes out with my free hand. Don't judge me. I was high. And pissed. Anyone would be.

And that's it.

That's all. He stands back up, and walks off. Last time I ever saw him. Hell, last time I ever felt him.

Yeah, I remember that day.