`I ... ah ... travelled around the country.' What else was Par going
to say? How could he possibly answer that question?
If he was lucky, the agency might land him a data-entry job at $8 per
hour. If he was less fortunate, he might end up doing clerical work
for less than that.
By 1993, things had become a little rocky with Theorem. After four and
a half years together, they broke up. The distance was too great, in
every sense. Theorem wanted a more stable life--maybe not a
traditional Swiss family with three children and a pretty chalet in
the Alps, but something more than Par's transient life on the road.
The separation was excruciatingly painful for both of them.
Conversation was strained for weeks after the decision. Theorem kept
thinking she had made a mistake. She kept wanting to ask Par to come
back. But she didn't.
Par drowned himself in alcohol. Shots of tequila, one after the other.
Scull it. Slam the glass down. Fill it to the top. Throw back another.
After a while, he passed out. Then he was violently ill for days, but
somehow he didn't mind. It was cleansing to be so ill.
Somewhere along the way, Rosen managed to get Par's things returned
from the Secret Service raids.
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