1311 York Street, Denver. A Victorian mansion where the broken washed up. Mickey M. arrived as a chameleon, a fractured shell who had been drinking since age five. He didn't want sobriety to find peace; he just wanted two weeks where his hands wouldn't be curled up in the morning and he wouldn't feel like a fish thrown onto a sidewalk.
He carried a concrete bunker on his shoulders: the weight of sexual abuse, survivor's guilt from a war he never fought, and a spiritual malady that felt like a deadlier disease than the bottle. He describes a life of "H-bombs" and "blackest darkness," including a period where a loaded .32 automatic sat in his dresser. For Mickey, the bottle was just a way to treat a deeper sickness. He speaks of the "squish bug" caterpillar that must be pulled apart in the dark to emerge. Now a maker of cowboy boots, he warns that no one is "smooth as mayonnaise" and that the spirit is the only thing that keeps the knife away from the wrist.
You've been listening for a while — would you take a second to rate it? It helps others find the good ones.
Thanks — your rating was saved!
Discussion
Be the first to share your thoughts on this tape.