Ironically, now when he no longer looked like a rock star, he had gotten himself a rock star name

In year 2002 I was living in New York and battling existential anxiety. I had just turned thirty so of course it was bound to happen. I had also just gone through a break-up that coincided with 9/11. As I found out that the dark-haired troubled angel-boy with half-melted wings wilted on his back, had betrayed me the twin towers crumbled and covered lower Manhattan with dust and rubble.
I couldn't even be bothered to react to that because I was too preoccupied with my own heartache.
In 2002 I was trying to figure out if I was staying or going. If I was good or bad. If I would amount to anything or turn out to be too much.
My dad was on a crystal clear long-distance line from another time zone. I just thought I'd tell you that your old fiance has escaped from prison and returned to his old stomping ground. It took me a second to understand who he was talking about.
Yup, he said. There's a huge manhunt up here. Everyone's freaking out. After we hung up I went online to read some Swedish newspapers to find out what was really going on. I had stashed Juha far far away, among other youth crimes and assorted vicious thoughts that would made both you and me shudder if I spelled them out.
The pictures of him that greeted me made it clear, once again, that time certainly isn't kind. His skinny frame that back then had awoken so many latent Florence Nightingale feelings, had now been fleshed out with too many pasty kilos and an unflattering pelican's chin. His nose appeared to have grown in every direction and his head was shaved save a Taxi Driver Mohawk. He no longer resembled a rock star or a potential boyfriend or even the kind of lover you could imagine one reckless fuck with, not caring if it would leave you bruised and with broken ribs. Just once to try it.
And his name was no longer Juha Valjakkala. Ironically, now when he no longer looked like a rock star, he had gotten himself a rock star name: Nikita Fouganthine.