My friend Gerg.

I worked with Greg (aka "Gerg") at the Western Steer restaurant, for about 6 years. He was a most unusual guy. In fact, it took me a while to "get" him. At first he seemed like a nut - and maybe he was a nut - but there was another level to him. He was intelligent (in spite of his often "tunnel visionary" mind-frame) and meek. Oddly spiritual and funny. Naive - in the best sense of the word. And just down right silly. Hey, we were all a bit nutty at the Steer.
He lived with his mother and step-father, even though he was in his 30s. The house was a neat-freak's nightmare. A dark, decaying abode of psychotic hoarding. There was a slim path that wound through the house into Greg's bedroom. In his room - it was more of the same. Crowded and stifling. Blankets nailed over the window.
Greg, me and another one of his friends, "Landscaper," were in his room, one day, getting high. Landscaper was going on about how Greg should clean his room up. I told him that what the place needed was a good coat of FIRE.
Greg had been married, at one point, and had 3 kids! This blew my mind. I couldn't imagine him having anything like a normal life. I mean, he didn't even drive. No car. No license. It must have taken everything he made at the restaurant to pay his child support.

The next few postings will consist of sections of a long letter Greg wrote me in March, 1992.