Most days I would leave my phone either off the hook, or in the “send to voicemail” mode ... for the majority of my calls were coming from bill collectors, or the IRS, as they had a lien against my house on Elm and South Terrace. Persistent drug and alcohol abuse had taken a hideous and disastrous toll ... publicly, professionally, mentally, and physically. The Piper was now knocking on my front door, and the consumer-in-chief needed to consider letting him in for immediate, if not partial, payment.

Like I said earlier, the phone rang. Today it was on the hook. Why, I’m not thoroughly certain. All I know is I was participating in my habitual, mid-morning daily exercise: smoking a joint and having a beer. I put the headset to my ear and cringed. On the other end all I heard was a faint whisper. “Dad, this is Ryan.”

My first thought was that it was a prank or possibly a wrong number. It had been 10 years since I had attached myself to that paternal designation. But the name Ryan admittedly rang a bell. I paused for a moment to collect my thoughts. Thoughts that began to flood my mind with uncertainty. Could this really be my son? Ten years had passed since his stepdad had adopted him. I knew I needed to respond within reason, but also knew I wasn’t in my right mind to adequately do so.

“Well hello, Ryan. How are you?” I said. Anything else I heard jetted through my vacuous vessel of a skull like nothing was there which at the time, sadly, was quite accurate. All I remember was this: He was asking if he could visit me this coming summer, as his mom had promised him he could contact me when he turned 10, which today, Wednesday, the 6th of March, 1991, he was. And yes, he certainly did. Oh boy, did he. It was clearly a morning I never expected, or even dreamed of, but it turns out he indubitably saved my life.