It was a true act of courage to walk into that store without a pair of dark 
sunglasses to hide my swollen, red eyes-- with my guts hanging out, all naked and fragile. But there were no red badges to be had. No brass bands or pats on the back or welcome home parades for someone fighting the real war of surviving in this place where freedom means payment. Everyone would look up from their perusal of jacket covers for Robin Hood and Sleeping With The Enemy, and know that I was having a personal crisis, and they would wonder what it was, and if it would make a good movie, and then tear their eyes away from me when they realized they were staring.
I told myself I didn't care what anyone thought... that it was the very least of my worries. So was the fact that I was returning a mangled tape-- the one I threw at you out of desperate rage and frustration, knowing you would step out of the line of fire because you've come to expect reactions like that from a manic-depressive-sensitive-artist type like me-- and I told the clerk it got caught in my machine and I had to break it to get it out, and besides, it was Madonna's, Truth or Dare, and everyone and his dog had seen it and it was worn out. I mumbled something about the insurance I bought when I rented the tapes, and she was very obliging, didn't even offer to engage in fisticuffs at all, and slightly disappointed, I left that store to go back home to you.
