In the city, the sun sets over the buildings at 3:30 pm because of the hatred the high risers have toward the natural order of things. The heat from sewer drains and greasy vents pour into the alley where Bill and I sat, appreciating the nights heat with a couple of 40’s waiting to be snapped open. This is when Hollywood came alive for the two of us.
“Good night for a brew there youngster, ain’t it?” said Bill, snapping open the green hornet bottle and drawing back a deep glug. His chest rose to the occasion of deep satisfaction.
“Ah hell Bill, it’s always a good time for a brew,” I said, watching the bubbles percolate to the mouth of the bottle as I snapped mine open.
On nights like these, I liked to pretend that I was 20 years older with a wealth of experience behind me. But that was where my feelings of wishing I were someone else in the presence of the great man Bill ended. His audacity to continue living in the soulless city came from his tenaciously serene nature.
Being born in the late 50’s, Bill came out of the womb with ‘a bottle and a cigar to his lips,’ he always liked to say. His face carried a long white beard bespeckled with the acutrimon one collects from a nights slept on cardboard boxes in dingy alleyways and bus stops. A blood shot red face and nose colored his bulbous head. Razor thin white hair streamed along the top of his eyebrows, underneath a wax coated irish boonie hat. He wore a 35 year old Carhart jacket with stains too soaked in to ever be washed out. Blue jeans stretched themselves along his emaciated legs with combat boots he received from his last tour of service. They were so old that the treaded soles were as smooth as the bottoms of sandals. He shook from tremens that came whenever he didn’t get enough to drink. But he never thought once to go into rehab to combat his problem. “Why would I turn my back on the thing that has saved me from myself for the last 50 years. It’s the only thing that will keep me sane.”
Bills experience shone through not in his physical characteristics. He sat strong in the alley that he called home, peacefully watchful of the people walking by with a smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth and left eye. He never spoke ill of anyone and only described to me the great times that we lived in.
“Let me tell you youngster. The place and time that we live in is unparalleled to any other time I have lived in before. You see that over there?” he pointed with his left arm strong across the street to a lesbian couple holding hands laughing together amid the evenings bustling cars driving down overland avenue. “Thirty years ago they would have been persecuted by everyone that walked by. But look...everyone around them continues without contention or argument,” he said smiling with another glug from his bottle.
“I guess I will just have to take your word for it Bill. The only experience I have with life is running away from home from the tutelage of my parents.” “Well son, one day you’ll realize how great you really have it. But for now, just take another swig with me, and light up this joint.”
We both sat in the alley below Sunset Blvd., a quarter of the way drunk and smoothed out feelings washed over well. Bill let out a chuckle after I had drank my 2nd brew, and I vomited the access onto a pile of old newspapers staked next to the side of dumpster.
The alley was where Bill slept every night since he was 43 years old. He finagled an old mattress from a buddy that he’d done two tours with. Cardboard boxes disassembled, acted as bottom sheets to keep Bill from getting sick from the mold growing on the box spring. He kept a small gas lantern to the left, to stay up reading. Mostly Whitman, Thoreau, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Burgess and Hamsen. He was well versed in a breadth of literature and would often implore me to read. But I was too caught up in the fizzy liftings that provided me with great enthusiasm to live on the streets.
Most days and nights I spent my time with Bill in contentment that I was gaining drinkable wisdom from a homeless alcoholic. I never had any money, but Bill cashed in a 2,000 dollar check from the VA once a month, and we both drank hearty. Our meals usually consisted of begged for leftovers that I would attain from the yuppies walking out of upscale restaurants. He never wanted to spend any money he’d earned fighting in wars he didn’t want to be in in the first place. Only on things that he knew he couldn’t get otherwise.
During his service overseas, Bill procured himself many position which ended him in a career to one day become a general. That was until his alcoholism took over. In the span of a month, he drank away his career, his family, and his home. The two kids he’d raised until they were in their teens still wouldn’t speak to him. Shattered and alone, Bill went back to the only thing that he knew how to do; be a soldier. But the military couldn’t risk him being back in the service. They also couldn’t risk him describing certain events to the general public. So they bought him off with monthly checks, just to shut him up. His commanding officers granted him honorable discharge, and he never bothered them again.
“I’ll tell yah boy, some of the buddies I have down at the VA talk about the good old days of suburban housing that had kids content in sitting on street corners, and playing pick-up games of baseball and building forts. Listening to their parents and staying out of trouble so they could attend church on sundays with a clean soul. ‘Those were the days,’ they’d say as though these days that we have now mean nothing.” Bill took a hard swig of the 40 in his right hand. His eyes shut to let his balls roll to the back. “But the way I see it youngster, comes from the life that I am in now. There is a lot of peace spread around this world, but people care too much about where they could be, rather than where they are. In the moment. Contentment can come from sharing with laughter. Thats the stuff that lets people know there is a cadence that loves them...” I could never really hear him during these rants. It was a struggle to keep comfortable in the alley, on top of cardboard, with the hard concrete pressing into my back as Bill continued on with his rants. At the ends of these talks, he’d stretch his back against the dingy alley wall, right ankle brought over to the left in cross legged position and chant a deep ‘OM’ for about twenty minutes.
This was how I’d spend most days with Bill. People walked by that alley mostly oblivious to what we were doing. On occasion, a little kid would poke it’s head in to give Bill and I a glance of disgust. I’d always laugh, but I could tell it got to Bill. He had a real weakness when it came to little kids. He told me about his daughter and how much he missed her. It had been decades since the last time that he saw her, that he even questioned whether she changed her name. “She’d be about 30 now,” saying while a tear trickled down his right cheek, temporarily cleaning the dinge off his face.
On Sunday mornings, I’d get to the alley early if I wasn’t too hung over from the night before, to go to church with Bill. He liked going to church on Olympic and Hauser, in the Miracle mile. They always had good coffee there and while Bill mixed his whiskey into the drip, we’d listen to the minister preaching the gospel. Bill explained his reason for being there every sunday: “You see this youngster, this is integration at it’s finest. We are sitting in an area that is mostly Jewish. But here sits a Christian church. Say what you will about organized religion. I happen to disagree with the majority of it, but here are two world views giving a howdy-do.”
Whether he was talking out of his ass or not, Bill sat there with not even a blinking eye to anyone of the ministers speeches those mornings. Thats just how Bill was. He had an uncanny respect for what people had to say. Whether it was disrespectful or not, he listened. Something a lot of my other street crowd couldn’t exude to save there own face. Or me for that matter.
Sitting on the drainage grime of society with booze and drugs teaming through our bodies, begging for change from the same people we hated so much. The differences between us and them were not very large. The conquests were the same. They may have been sitting in the building of high finance with their high balls, laughing at the joes slaving away just get by. We sat on the streets, covered in grit and grime, laughing at them for being part of a higher echelon rat race. But we all sat in comparison to one another, one and all unhappy with our situations, forever needing to get to the next plateau or the next squat. The next financial endeavor, or the next city or town to beg from that we hadn’t burned yet by being there too long.
I sat with Bill to break from the norms I was sucked in by. He separated himself from the confused many, and sat with what he had always wanted. Even though he was a flagrant alcoholic, he sat with the quiet composure of a monk.
Coming to on the morning of September the 4th with a hangover that would turn a grizzly bear into a weak cub, I turned off the digital watch I’d had since I was twelve, beeping me awake. It was Bills birthday and I had made a promise to visit him. My friends were strewn out all about the underpass off of Cauhenga, some with vomit laden on their chests, others curled up into the fetal position form the nights chill that was still melting off. I got up to wipe the pre-goo from my eyes and the sides of my mouth, reached into my left sock and pulled out the twenty I’d saved for Bills bottle of Jack. The bills were crumpled almost to the point of a fine powder, but would suffice at the liquor store. I took a toot of meth from a little bindle Roach had kicked me down from last night.
Hopping over the fence and onto the sidewalk, I walked down the street, my pants barely held on by a moldy belt and walked into the liquor store. I knew the clerk never asked me for my ID. It might have been from fear that if he didn’t, my friends and I would smash his stores supply to pieces and then run off. Which was true.
“Eighteen-fifty,” said the clerk. I had been there a lot, but I was too high and hungover to remember his name.
“Here yah go, man.” My lines of sarcasm never phased him. As long as he got the buck he was owed, it never mattered who he sold to. He scratched his beard as I walked out the door, feeling his eyes burning holes into my back. He would definitely call the cops, I was convinced. Taking speed first thing in the morning probably wasn’t a good idea.
My feet slapped against the concrete blacktop on Overland Ave in the nine to five morning for everyone off to work. Line after line cars, packed in between red lights and the foul stench of Starbucks coffee mixed with dunkin donuts teamed through the air. Brakes screeching to a stop short, and white collars with sweat dripping down temples with an un-differentiated thought between them all: ‘I’m going to be late.’ My stained jeans too long for my body and too wide for my emaciated heroin legs dragged under grime ridden shoes. The bottle was snug next to my leather jacket, inside my faded Jansport some Christian missionaries had given me, and all I could think of was the home in the alley; Bill and I fully inebriated and content in sitting together of unabashed souls who were just interested in simpler things. Getting drunk and staying out of the lime light completely. Watching the day to dayers walk by without noticing our stares and observations.
The morning hadn’t even reached 10:00 a.m. and the sun had risen the sweat from near by storm drains, and out of my two month unbathed skin. The burnt calluses on my fingertips dripped in rain drop meditative sweat, and I think about the heroin I’ll need by the end of the day. Getting sick was not on my agenda. But that could wait will until after I got nice and drunk with Bill.
When I got to the alley, the walls were emanating a stench from the calcium deposits stained onto the left inner wall by the adjacent restaurants grease fans. I could see some movement from the left side of the dumpster. It was Bills rising and falling belly. There were liquor bottles scattered around the floor from last nights drunk.
Bill suddenly rose from his mattress with a loud scream. “AHHHHHH!, he belted, underneath a scraggy morning voice. “Youngster? Is that you?”
“Happy Birthday you old fart!” I said pulling the bottle of Jack out of my pack and setting it onto a small nightstand made of cinderblocks and ply wood.
“Fuck youngin’! I though it was those young gangsters that came around here last night to hassle me.” He walked over, and grabbed the bottle, snapping it open in the hot summers air.
“I see yah brought some liquor,” he said, taking a deep swig. “Much obliged.” I could tell that he really needed it. His forearms were already shaking from tremens.
Bill seemed weaker than normal. He stood up without the same confidence he normally did, slumped down in his chair swigging the Jack quickly to his lips, and taking huge slugs.
“Thanks youngster. I really needed this one.”
We spent the entire morning drinking that bottle and smoking refer in Top rolling tobacco that Bill had stashed. After awhile, Bill got some of his exuberation for life back. He slumped up and toward the mid day sun with a quiet smile. His white and blond beard glistening in the suns radiance. He turned toward me and said “Son... If there’s ever a minute in the day that you can pause from the drunkness of you own life... what I mean is... try to treat each moment you have with a quiet respect...” His long pauses were only the result of physical tremens. We both sat back, like on a raft along a wide river, smoking grass out of corn cobs, and taking in all the smells.
The days heat and a belly tanked full with booze and pot, swung me into passing out. I woke up, worried that I might be getting sick soon from the lack of junk in my system, but I was fine. The unbalanced noise of cars driving to the clubs, people quickly hurrying to get somewhere, anywhere quick, while the thick evening smog settled on obtrusive neon lighting, blocking the stars who so desperately wanted to be seen. Bill sat next to me, looking out the alley with content amusement, with one arm akimbo on his right knee. Normally he hid back in the alley without even the slightest evening stare, but tonight was different. Tonight, Bill stuck his head out like a man-eating cat fish looking only to googgle at anyone and everyone. Angry scowls ladened on passers by faces, but occasionally someone would smile and hurriedly walk on. But four eyes kept locked on us like desperate men looking for something named fight.
“You got something to say old man!” a young gangster said. A switchblade hung out of his baggy jean jacket and a tight upper lip sat stoically underneath a dirt mustache.
“Me?... Yes I do. Good evening to you gentlemen. I hope that you enjoy yourselves this evening.” Bill was so drunk he could barley stand, let alone make any kind of decent conversation.
“Listen old man, don’t bother us just because you’re some old useless drunk.”
“But all I was saying was...”
“Shut up! You got any scratch old man!” his switchblade glistened in the halogen lights glare, twisting and turning, waiting to be used.
“Hey why don’t you get the fuck outta here punto!” I said with the arrogance I’d need to kick the shit out of him and his three buddies.
“This isn’t your business fuck head. Get back to your drinking unless you feel like dying tonight,” The head gangster said, turning his back to Bill. Might have been the last thing he’d ever do.
Bill stood up like the massive adonis he had convinced himself he was after all the days booze. He had the Gangster down on the ground slamming his face in with a brick grabbed from behind the dumpster. I jumped at the other three with a piece of metal piping, and it ricocheted two of them in the head. It knocked them all out, but as I was bashing their heads in, the third guy grabbed me and slammed his fist into my jaw. Bill had already knocked out the gangster, and stood up to fly his right knee cap into the guys back who was on top of me. The knocked out gangsters lay flat across the alley floor, but the one remaining got up to run. He yelled out “I am a veteran of two foreign wars, you’d better run before I...” He grabbed his chest and gurgled “Shit youngster... I think I’m having a heart attack. Get me another drink!”
I ran over to his bed side and pulled out a bottle of dry gin he always had in case of an emergency. ‘As long as I have my booze, I can get through anything.’ I turned around after grabbing the bottle of gin, snapping it open as I spun. Bill was lying on the floor, sweat proliferating from his skin, his body sunk into the cold concrete. He wasn’t moving and his eyes skalked open staring at the alley light looming it’s aura as the last twinkle in his eye. He was dead.
I couldn’t move. All I could see were people walking by his dead body. I put the bottle to my lips, and did not stop sucking until I felt the last vapors of alcohol dried out my tongue. I no movement. No crying. This was just a body now, no need for any emotion.
Reaching into Bills pockets and gear I found an assortment of different bills, equaling 900 dollars. I knew to take it, otherwise it would go to the paramedics that I would call. I’d need that money more than they. I had to think of Bill wanting me to have that money. I really couldn’t think of anything else.
The following morning I came to in my squat on Cahuenga blvd. My crew were nowhere to be found. I sat quietly with my hands tight around a bottle of southern comfort and though hard about my dead friend: Standing without judgement and anger. Teaching me more than my family ever could have. Giving me the only solution he knew. Bottle and Buzz.
I got onto the I-70 onramp, Bills rucksack snugged tight. I was done for awhile with this town. A town oblivious as nine to fivers. As homeless street drunks.
With my brain properly inebriated, and my thumb pointing North, I was ready for the ‘fuck LA, and goodbye’ slogan I had in my head, for fear that I might return back. Quitting dope cold turkey with a wild turkey, and hopes that I’d find serenity as I had only seen Bill have.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Saturday, July 12, 2008
TROUBLE
The reality is, that when you are in trouble, when you really know that your life has hit the pavement, you notice everything around you. Everything that you look at, your heart will thump out of your chest. It scares you. Staring at the shadows of the telephone cord on the hotel desk, hoping it doesn’t ring. It’s them on the phone.
Hearing every conversation in the room next to you, thinking that they are talking about you. Causes the sweat running on the inside of your skin to turn cold. Cold to the point of endless shivering.
You know that you’re in trouble, but the only solution that you have realized, is the needle that must pierce your skin. Or the bottle.
You walk around without the same jacket that everyone knows you by, when there’s courage. You are clothed in sweatshirts, clean jeans and hoods over your head. Everyone is looking at you, or so you think. They will turn you in. You say goodbye to the friends that you can find, then SPLIT TOWN. Do not even leave behind a shadow.
The car you’ve found is full of ramshackle friends and a girlfriend who is 17, a month from 18. You’re 20, but your thoughts are lost in booze. Who knows what they are capable of? But you take the ride anyway. It’s not often that you find a ride all the way to Florida.
Hearing every conversation in the room next to you, thinking that they are talking about you. Causes the sweat running on the inside of your skin to turn cold. Cold to the point of endless shivering.
You know that you’re in trouble, but the only solution that you have realized, is the needle that must pierce your skin. Or the bottle.
You walk around without the same jacket that everyone knows you by, when there’s courage. You are clothed in sweatshirts, clean jeans and hoods over your head. Everyone is looking at you, or so you think. They will turn you in. You say goodbye to the friends that you can find, then SPLIT TOWN. Do not even leave behind a shadow.
The car you’ve found is full of ramshackle friends and a girlfriend who is 17, a month from 18. You’re 20, but your thoughts are lost in booze. Who knows what they are capable of? But you take the ride anyway. It’s not often that you find a ride all the way to Florida.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Speed in Ventura
My comadante Andrew and I were in the apartment from the late post meridians to the early ante’s, taking hit after hit chemical Hitler. All night we sat with 8 lights on in a 14 x 14 ft. room. We had taken the shade away. It was after us. Both of us sat shaking, describing in detail the people of the sewer who were one day going to become tired of our tyrannical society and take over. The shadow people as their soldiers.
We dead bolted all the access areas with 12 in. nails. There were holes from all the previous nights. Removing the nails every morning, putting them back in every night. We had our eyes drilled to the reinforced metal window blinds that were forcing the shadow people to stay where they were. At least that’s what was credible to us.
“You should to come work at Ms. Pooch’s today. Gretta said last weekend how much she loved having you around,” said Andrew. I knew he was lying from the quivering lip on his lower jaw. He just wanted me to walk behind him, so he could deal with the shadow people. They went with him wherever he went. Fact is, they followed me.
“You know that it’s worth some change if you work. This way you can get some exercise.”
Like I needed it. I was so skinny from the shards that even my rib cage shown through my skin. Even Calista Flockhart was jealous. “Alright man, I’ll go with you this time. But you’re buying the beer and tweak tonight. My dad is coming over this weekend and I at least want him to think that I am eating. That means food in the fridge, whether it’s eaten or not.”
I had to prepare this weekend for my dad coming out. I would get an eight ball for myself, then clean the house to immaculate standards. Scratch away every corner of dirt and mold. Take a toothbrush to every surface. The Stepmother (If that’s what you can call her) would be coming to. The comments would fly unless I cleaned.
“I’ll call that a deal, ‘specially since I’ll be the one eating all of it,” he said, giving a silent laugh. He sends out these silent laughs when he thinks he’s funny. I can’t tell what is funny anymore. Tweak removes the humor from your life after awhile. A true laugh would mean his whole body going into a full giggle, causing him to pant uncontrollably. He is one of those oddities that still gains weight on crystal. I never really understood why. All of my other meth buddies seemed to be imploding. “Alright. I don’t want to be the arbiter of your sudden heart attack on the way to work.” Was I talking aloud? I had no idea. Anyway, I knew his day would come soon, although I never spoke the truth.
My mother would always attest to the pigs that fly through my mind and into the mainstream of my reality that…
I went to the lavatory to scrape the dirt that had encrusted my face for the last week. Standing over the sink as skin fell off, into the bowl making it a momentary snowfield. I could hear the kids screaming and making snow angels in my bodies flesh. Picking at sores, shaving the little hairs that were on my face and brushing my teeth all at the same time. That can drive a man a bit mad. I seemed to have the inner working of the process all worked out. I thought I was calm about it, but I never was. Only thought that I was. And thinking on meth is about as insane as a little kid licking razor blades. But I enjoyed the madness. It always turned into a calmness.
My back was in agonizing pain. One of the gifts of Crystal Meth. I took the deodorizer from the cabinet and slid it along my armpits, the mentholated smell pierced my nose. Nothing worse than the smell of menthol in a tweakers brain. It’s like smelling a heavyset European, with his Hawaiian shirt open at the top and his golden chains coated in that green goo that comes out of a bottle. I threw up thinking about it, but only drive heaved. I haven’t eaten in 3 days.
I dragged my week old Dickies up to my torso, slicked back my hair and mosied out the bathroom door in a way that would make the Duke proud. “Let’s go Andy!” I said in sneering voice. I had not slept in 4 days. If I was going to go, it had to be now. The ego fluids were running through me like a steel train. I was not taking any crap from a tubby fuck this morning. His fucking ‘Wanna be a Gangster’ attitude. It would be hard enough walking to work with the shadow people nearby.
He was still sitting on the floor in his room with the blinds drawn, legs wrapped around the table where the gear still sat. One de-ended light bulb, four lighters (one working) and an empty baggy with shards that lay inside. “One more push to make the shadow people stay away a little longer?” he said lifting up the pipe to his lips.
The deal with shadow people, that Andy was blatantly unaware of, was that they become more real the more you smoke. And the more we smoked the more paranoid we became. But they tend to stick more to the evening, so we would be alright as long as we kept out of the shade. There was something about darkness and yellow tinted streetlights that really brought them out. It always makes me wonder about the poster for the exorcist. Maybe the priest was wary about them too. I knew they didn’t exist, but my eyes did.
“Sure Andy, smoke another hit and set one up for me too.” A quick hit for the road. Body swelling with sharp awakeness. Eyes pierced rolling backwards, feeling my penis shrivel into nothingness. For a minute, I thought I had the under hand. But I was just as crazy.
We left the apartment behind reality, close to insanity, our feet flying across the sidewalk like spiders along a pond. That last hit put me in a state of unreasonableness, but I knew I had the game figured out. Andrew was walking in single file line, starring at the ground. Thank the ether that I smoked that last puddle, or my patience would wear from Andy’s incessant insecurities. I felt reality slip farther away. But it didn’t matter. I had myself and that’s all I would ever need.
On the street, Andy had his CD player blasting away, my head moving in static. The shadow people were right behind us. A quick spin to find out, and an old man pushing his walker was staring at us with an intollerable fear. I could see the veins on his eyes pulsating in unison with the cold breath out of his gullet. I knew he would call the cops if we kept up like we were. Or maybe it was just a paranoia. I put on my Ray-Ban knock-offs to block the morning glare while my body ached from last nights activity; running from window to floor, window to floor saying ‘Damnit man, they will be here sooner than we thought!’
Street walkers eyes are all on me. The Mexican with the blue hat, the lady running with her baby stroller, the old guy who just walked into the coffee shop. ‘What the fuck is he doing in there?”
Dipping my left pinky into the bag that rested snugly in my left jacket pocket and raising it up to snort. Bliss from the melting brain cells.
Brilliance came that I should go in there. Pull the shirt above my mouth and nose, and beat the old man down with the metal pipe in my sleeve. Get some joy out of the bastards blood splattering against the steel while I thought of ways to get rid of the body.
But I had bigger dogs to deal with. I would be locked in a cell all day, the fierce demons that told me I could get away with beating the first person or dog that fucked with my emotionally dangerous nature. There was no questioning whether I was sane. I wasn’t.
Ms. Pooch’s was in sight. I took the metal toothed comb across my head, grinding the sun baked pomade into my scalp, breaking old scabs from picking at 2 am. It would be the only way I would know that it was in effect. Hair manageability is a great way to deal with the emotional tundra that lives in the average temperate crystal meth user. It’s the only manageability I have. “Well that’s the spot for a full day of seclusion,” I said, holding my breath as we walked into the double glass doors. I looked about as happy as a man going in for his vasectomy. His wife said it would be for the best. Andrew didn’t say a word.
Pedro, the 80’s rock star wannabe that sat at the front desk, was in his usual attire; a bright pink leopard print button down, black slacks, flock of seagulls hair cut, fat triple chin that hung like a breaking bag of moldy grapes on a chin up bar. He looked at us with his shrunken eyes turning his head to the side like an owl “Shzu geys are lat,” and continued filing his nails. “Don’t worry companero, two minutes isn’t going to send me into bankruptcy” I said. He went back to his ranchero music on whatever was top of the pops in third world Mexico, and ignored us completely. We had grooming to do.
First on the list was always Ms. Penelope’s dog Peaches. Even the name caused me to lash out irrationally. Clip the toenails, comb out the mats of hair, shampoo, condition, brush again and put the little fucker in the drier. In this business of dogs with human slaves, it must be done right.
“Make sure you use the lemon scent on Peaches, Dave. Last time Ms. Penelope yelled at me for not putting it on, docking me for 10 minutes of pay.” That’s the kind of place Ms. Pooch’s was. One wrong move while the boss was in meant some kind of repercussion.
”Well than it’s your problem and not mine.” I snapped, feeling about as powerful as 20 lumberjacks. Even though Andy could break my back with one punch, I stood my concrete. He throws a look that combines his eyebrow with his pupil, pretending to be Dillenger. I look back with an unscathed grimace. He backs down. I’ll continue brushing.
The incessant ranchero music blared over the loud speaker. I wash Peaches, trying to keep her calm. She’s really an amazingly friendly dog, it’s her owner that’s the dark bitch. One of the types that has had her ass wiped with Egyptian cotton towels since the day she was born, till the time she tells Gretta her maid, to pick up the dog and make sure that the store is running smoothly. I heard the heavy non slip shoes come through the door. It was Gretta, here to get the dog.
Gretta was an amazing woman, from working a 24 hour maid service, to running the groomers. She was the only real reason I went back to work so many times.
“Don’t worry Dave, I’ll bring the dog to Gretta,” said Andy, walking to the door with the freshly groomed Peaches. Today I just couldn’t deal with anyone, but Andy never gave a shit about that. He just wanted to galk at Gretta and her sumptuous breasts. It never mattered to me. I couldn’t get hard even if I tried. I used the opportunity and snuck out the back for a cigarette. The shit-covered basset hound that sat in its cage could wait.
I don’t think that I could have been more grateful for a camel wide at that moment. The thick rat poison aroma filled me like most thing’s could not. Along with drugs, nicotine was the only thing that held me, lifting me to a state of complete euphoria. I stood in the back with Wide hanging out of my mouth. Lifting my head straight up to see the smog floating by, letting the smoke roll up into my nose.
Andy’s head zipped out the back door, making my cig drop out of my mouth, burning my lower lip. “DAVE. GET THE FUCK BACK IN HERE! We have more dogs to wash!” My body told me to scream, but I just let it pass.
With my cigarette dead and gone, the day went on, with increments of time allowing my back to feel pain in between dogs.
My fathers words were ringing through my head. “Enjoy school David. Do your best. You are a talented artist.” The money he and my mother sent me each week for ‘food’ and ‘rent’ were always spent on whatever fizzies I wanted to put in head for the day. The credulous conning only ended when I was finally fixed for the week. At least I was off the smack and was living in the manageable endless boozing, snorting chemicals to aid in my absentism of school.
I went to two classes before I found the local pot dealers and ripped them off for a couple of dubs. When I go out at all, like this morning, I am as hidden as a green buret would be in times of war. If the dealers find me I will be eating a crowbar. They’ll ransack my apartment for everything worth any value. And this is reality, not some shadow conjured fear, the fear that haunts me as I snort line after line. Smoke puddle after puddle of pure anxiety.
6 hours and 17 dogs later, Andy and I are on the outside of the building smoking beautifully engineered cig’s. Behind us, the most fragrant of all dumpsters in the area. The smell of shampoos and conditioners would normally make me vomit, but I am eased by the thoughts of cold beer sitting in my fridge. Pedro came outside handing us two envelopes flapping in the air. Man am I glad I am not queezy. His jelly arms rolling made me sick. “Here’s your pay zu guys,” he said, and shut the door behind us. 80 bucks for a days work and I know there is another eight ball on the way. I would have enough to get high for the rest of the night.
The zero hour is almost here. I have been cleaning all night. After work, Andrew and I set out to smoke a half eight ball to the dome. We accomplished this in less than an hour. It will only be a matter of time before I completely bug out into a heart attack. I am not even surprised why I smoked all that speed. I live in Ventura. I am a drug addict. I know it.
My Dad will be here in less than an hour. I spent part of the night coming up with lies that even I believe. I made up a list to get myself used to them before consumation. The list of lies goes as follows:
1. School is going great. The project that I am on is still in its beginning stages, but here, look at these sketches I have drawn up.
2. I haven’t found any girls around, because I have been so focused on school. It will happen when it happens.
3. There are no overdue bills. I am really learning how to be a responsible member of society.
All of these could not be further from the truth. The girl situation wasn’t even a real issue for me. I didn’t want one, and I was sure the girls didn’t want me. I have had the worst luck with women my whole life. Using speed was just another way of dealing with that fact.
The bills were on the tail end of getting higher and higher. The conditions with my moving in, were that I had to put the bills under my name. Since I had no credit, they were under my dads name, but were sent here. Lucky for me. The only money that I ever spent was to get drunk on the weekends, followed always by a shinning ball of clear dust.
I did my last line before my dad was due to come in. I knew if I had done it any later, he would have sensed something was up. But now I had the calmness of a sloth on heroin.
Andrew had left for the day, leaving me the apartment. The house didn’t have a speck of dirt. I had gotten into every nook and cranny with Q tips. Cigarette butts, month old yogurt containers, ice cream containers were now piled outside of the house. I sat on the couch hearing the neighborhood cats rummage through our garbage, watching religious television. “Welcome to the Believers Voice of Victory. Oh my! God is Good!”
Something about the continuous rants about how god is great because their laundry came out clean is hilarious to me.
I looked over at the clock. 11:30 a.m. He will be here in any second. I slid the last sip of bud down my throat, waiting for him to walk up the stairs. My heart was racing to the sound of every foot step he made. I shouldn’t have done so much speed. But this would be a challenge. I really didn’t care anymore if he caught me with all the “Sins” I had committed. The curtain was going to be drawn at some point. “Hey Dave! This place looks so clean. Do you always keep it this clean?” My father tundra’s over to me saying, as he squeezes me to a grinding halt. I feel my bones creaking. So can he. But he brushes it off. He doesn’t like to think of his son as a drug addict.
“Great to see you dad. Do you want a beer?” I picked up a can of bud from the grounded 12 pack. He hesitates because of my age, but snaps it open anyway.
“Why not,” taking a glug from the can.
I look around him for Debbie, but she’s nowhere to be found.
“Is Debbie coming today?”
“Oh well…her mother is in town and she wanted to spend the day with her. She says that she loves you.” Hallelujah! I can’t believe that she bailed out at the last minute. That will save me some of the bullshit that I have to throw around to please the higher ups. Now dad and I can watch the game in peace. My dad loves football more than anything else. So much, that he will evade conversations to catch every minute of the game.
“Want to sit down, and have a talk.” Something was up. He never spoke that way unless there was.
We walked into the polished kitchen, sitting down at the table my dad has had since the 80’s. I creaked down slowly. My forearms hit the edge of the table. I could feel the fearful sweat that hadn’t even christened my head, yet. I was in trouble; that feeling that the pavement was getting closer to the side of my head. Like all the times that I have fallen off my skateboard; you know it’s coming, but it’s never as bad as when the trouble has set.
“I got your report card from school” That son-of-a-bitch went behind my back. Like always. He probably told the school to start sending my cards to his house, even though he told me that I would have them sent to my apartment.
“It says that you haven’t been going to math class. What is the deal with that?”
“To tell you the truth dad. I hate math class. You have known this for years. I can’t focus, and the teaher is a total dick I don’t think that it really matters whether I am going to math, do you?” I tried pulling the A.D.D. card.
“No! You need to be going to all your classes. What if you decide to continue with school at a university? They won’t accept you with failed marked on your transcript.”
“The way that I see it dad, is that math for a degree in…” I paused. I wasn’t willing to put up with his crap anymore. I looked at his face. Blank. Was he angry? I didn’t even know how he was going to react to what I was about to say.
“Are you going to finish?” He looked at me like I owed him an explanation. But I didn’t. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to lie to him about this stuff anymore. I didn’t want to stay in this apartment anymore with that Tubby fuck Andrew. I didn’t want to pretend to be anything.
“NO!” I got to my feet. “I don’t want to do any of this anymore. I am tired of living this shit existence. I don’t know what I want out of life, but it isn’t this”
“Well here we go again Dave. Another tantrum about how your life is messed up.”
“And here we go again Dad. Another conversation where you completely disregaurd everything that I say. You’re never going to change, and I am done putting up with it.”
I walked out of the room, driving a bunch of clothes into my rucksack. Passion was flooding my body. The words of Black Flag were going through my head. ‘It’s not my imagination. I’ve got a gun in my back.’ I was walking far away from the gun, the fathered gun I had been living under all my life.
“Where are you going Dave?”
He didn’t deserve anything other than the last words I said.
“Bye dad.” He stood there. Blank stare he always had on his face. It was like he didn’t think that he was wrong in any way. But not just about this. About everything.
I tumbled down the stares. The rattling of the cement on steel echoed through the entire complex. I wondered if he would follow.
The half snorted eight ball was in my pocket. My pinky dipped into the bag, following the direction to my nose. SNORT. I heard him racing down the stairs to the car.
The door slammed. The fan belts sound getting closer. His car followed right next to me slowly.
“Can we please talk about this? I love you Dave, and I only want the best for you.”
“Dad, I just don’t want to be a part of your life anymore. I don’t even want to be a part of my own life. I just want to be gone. SO GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME.”
“FINE.” He drove down the adjacent alley.
He was gone. I knew it would be at least a day before my dad closed my bank account.
I walked the mile and a half to the B of A, and pulled out the 400 dollars that was still in my account. Hitting the numbers made the feeling cement home that I really was dropping off the grid. I would be set for a couple of days on that amount of cash.
A car drove past me in the drive through lane. A mother and daughter in a red ford explorer both staring at me like I was death incarnate. The shit they find on there hand after a nice dump. I always felt the sores on my face and arms stronger when people stared at me. I pulled out the cash, and tailed it down to the Station.
The greyhound was another 5 miles away. I would take the bus to Los Angeles to be back on the promenade by 10. I don’t even know if the hum bums from my childhood would even be there, but I would be able to find the sustenance of madmen. Back to the cookers and shady dealings. To the dives of society, the pin-eyed policemen. The late nights of BMX bicycles and fence hops. I would become the criminal I had time for. Live the way that made sense.
My mind wandered so far, that the time waiting for the bus disappeared. I was sitting with my knees to the bus terminal wall. The noxious smell of the petrol and vending machine bags filled my nostrils.
Three o four bus to Los Angeles is leaving in five minutes. I picked up my bag.
“Where yah headed to young man?” The driver reached out for my ticket.
“Los Angeles, away from this psychotic place.” I had to leave. The speed would be gone in a day.
We dead bolted all the access areas with 12 in. nails. There were holes from all the previous nights. Removing the nails every morning, putting them back in every night. We had our eyes drilled to the reinforced metal window blinds that were forcing the shadow people to stay where they were. At least that’s what was credible to us.
“You should to come work at Ms. Pooch’s today. Gretta said last weekend how much she loved having you around,” said Andrew. I knew he was lying from the quivering lip on his lower jaw. He just wanted me to walk behind him, so he could deal with the shadow people. They went with him wherever he went. Fact is, they followed me.
“You know that it’s worth some change if you work. This way you can get some exercise.”
Like I needed it. I was so skinny from the shards that even my rib cage shown through my skin. Even Calista Flockhart was jealous. “Alright man, I’ll go with you this time. But you’re buying the beer and tweak tonight. My dad is coming over this weekend and I at least want him to think that I am eating. That means food in the fridge, whether it’s eaten or not.”
I had to prepare this weekend for my dad coming out. I would get an eight ball for myself, then clean the house to immaculate standards. Scratch away every corner of dirt and mold. Take a toothbrush to every surface. The Stepmother (If that’s what you can call her) would be coming to. The comments would fly unless I cleaned.
“I’ll call that a deal, ‘specially since I’ll be the one eating all of it,” he said, giving a silent laugh. He sends out these silent laughs when he thinks he’s funny. I can’t tell what is funny anymore. Tweak removes the humor from your life after awhile. A true laugh would mean his whole body going into a full giggle, causing him to pant uncontrollably. He is one of those oddities that still gains weight on crystal. I never really understood why. All of my other meth buddies seemed to be imploding. “Alright. I don’t want to be the arbiter of your sudden heart attack on the way to work.” Was I talking aloud? I had no idea. Anyway, I knew his day would come soon, although I never spoke the truth.
My mother would always attest to the pigs that fly through my mind and into the mainstream of my reality that…
I went to the lavatory to scrape the dirt that had encrusted my face for the last week. Standing over the sink as skin fell off, into the bowl making it a momentary snowfield. I could hear the kids screaming and making snow angels in my bodies flesh. Picking at sores, shaving the little hairs that were on my face and brushing my teeth all at the same time. That can drive a man a bit mad. I seemed to have the inner working of the process all worked out. I thought I was calm about it, but I never was. Only thought that I was. And thinking on meth is about as insane as a little kid licking razor blades. But I enjoyed the madness. It always turned into a calmness.
My back was in agonizing pain. One of the gifts of Crystal Meth. I took the deodorizer from the cabinet and slid it along my armpits, the mentholated smell pierced my nose. Nothing worse than the smell of menthol in a tweakers brain. It’s like smelling a heavyset European, with his Hawaiian shirt open at the top and his golden chains coated in that green goo that comes out of a bottle. I threw up thinking about it, but only drive heaved. I haven’t eaten in 3 days.
I dragged my week old Dickies up to my torso, slicked back my hair and mosied out the bathroom door in a way that would make the Duke proud. “Let’s go Andy!” I said in sneering voice. I had not slept in 4 days. If I was going to go, it had to be now. The ego fluids were running through me like a steel train. I was not taking any crap from a tubby fuck this morning. His fucking ‘Wanna be a Gangster’ attitude. It would be hard enough walking to work with the shadow people nearby.
He was still sitting on the floor in his room with the blinds drawn, legs wrapped around the table where the gear still sat. One de-ended light bulb, four lighters (one working) and an empty baggy with shards that lay inside. “One more push to make the shadow people stay away a little longer?” he said lifting up the pipe to his lips.
The deal with shadow people, that Andy was blatantly unaware of, was that they become more real the more you smoke. And the more we smoked the more paranoid we became. But they tend to stick more to the evening, so we would be alright as long as we kept out of the shade. There was something about darkness and yellow tinted streetlights that really brought them out. It always makes me wonder about the poster for the exorcist. Maybe the priest was wary about them too. I knew they didn’t exist, but my eyes did.
“Sure Andy, smoke another hit and set one up for me too.” A quick hit for the road. Body swelling with sharp awakeness. Eyes pierced rolling backwards, feeling my penis shrivel into nothingness. For a minute, I thought I had the under hand. But I was just as crazy.
We left the apartment behind reality, close to insanity, our feet flying across the sidewalk like spiders along a pond. That last hit put me in a state of unreasonableness, but I knew I had the game figured out. Andrew was walking in single file line, starring at the ground. Thank the ether that I smoked that last puddle, or my patience would wear from Andy’s incessant insecurities. I felt reality slip farther away. But it didn’t matter. I had myself and that’s all I would ever need.
On the street, Andy had his CD player blasting away, my head moving in static. The shadow people were right behind us. A quick spin to find out, and an old man pushing his walker was staring at us with an intollerable fear. I could see the veins on his eyes pulsating in unison with the cold breath out of his gullet. I knew he would call the cops if we kept up like we were. Or maybe it was just a paranoia. I put on my Ray-Ban knock-offs to block the morning glare while my body ached from last nights activity; running from window to floor, window to floor saying ‘Damnit man, they will be here sooner than we thought!’
Street walkers eyes are all on me. The Mexican with the blue hat, the lady running with her baby stroller, the old guy who just walked into the coffee shop. ‘What the fuck is he doing in there?”
Dipping my left pinky into the bag that rested snugly in my left jacket pocket and raising it up to snort. Bliss from the melting brain cells.
Brilliance came that I should go in there. Pull the shirt above my mouth and nose, and beat the old man down with the metal pipe in my sleeve. Get some joy out of the bastards blood splattering against the steel while I thought of ways to get rid of the body.
But I had bigger dogs to deal with. I would be locked in a cell all day, the fierce demons that told me I could get away with beating the first person or dog that fucked with my emotionally dangerous nature. There was no questioning whether I was sane. I wasn’t.
Ms. Pooch’s was in sight. I took the metal toothed comb across my head, grinding the sun baked pomade into my scalp, breaking old scabs from picking at 2 am. It would be the only way I would know that it was in effect. Hair manageability is a great way to deal with the emotional tundra that lives in the average temperate crystal meth user. It’s the only manageability I have. “Well that’s the spot for a full day of seclusion,” I said, holding my breath as we walked into the double glass doors. I looked about as happy as a man going in for his vasectomy. His wife said it would be for the best. Andrew didn’t say a word.
Pedro, the 80’s rock star wannabe that sat at the front desk, was in his usual attire; a bright pink leopard print button down, black slacks, flock of seagulls hair cut, fat triple chin that hung like a breaking bag of moldy grapes on a chin up bar. He looked at us with his shrunken eyes turning his head to the side like an owl “Shzu geys are lat,” and continued filing his nails. “Don’t worry companero, two minutes isn’t going to send me into bankruptcy” I said. He went back to his ranchero music on whatever was top of the pops in third world Mexico, and ignored us completely. We had grooming to do.
First on the list was always Ms. Penelope’s dog Peaches. Even the name caused me to lash out irrationally. Clip the toenails, comb out the mats of hair, shampoo, condition, brush again and put the little fucker in the drier. In this business of dogs with human slaves, it must be done right.
“Make sure you use the lemon scent on Peaches, Dave. Last time Ms. Penelope yelled at me for not putting it on, docking me for 10 minutes of pay.” That’s the kind of place Ms. Pooch’s was. One wrong move while the boss was in meant some kind of repercussion.
”Well than it’s your problem and not mine.” I snapped, feeling about as powerful as 20 lumberjacks. Even though Andy could break my back with one punch, I stood my concrete. He throws a look that combines his eyebrow with his pupil, pretending to be Dillenger. I look back with an unscathed grimace. He backs down. I’ll continue brushing.
The incessant ranchero music blared over the loud speaker. I wash Peaches, trying to keep her calm. She’s really an amazingly friendly dog, it’s her owner that’s the dark bitch. One of the types that has had her ass wiped with Egyptian cotton towels since the day she was born, till the time she tells Gretta her maid, to pick up the dog and make sure that the store is running smoothly. I heard the heavy non slip shoes come through the door. It was Gretta, here to get the dog.
Gretta was an amazing woman, from working a 24 hour maid service, to running the groomers. She was the only real reason I went back to work so many times.
“Don’t worry Dave, I’ll bring the dog to Gretta,” said Andy, walking to the door with the freshly groomed Peaches. Today I just couldn’t deal with anyone, but Andy never gave a shit about that. He just wanted to galk at Gretta and her sumptuous breasts. It never mattered to me. I couldn’t get hard even if I tried. I used the opportunity and snuck out the back for a cigarette. The shit-covered basset hound that sat in its cage could wait.
I don’t think that I could have been more grateful for a camel wide at that moment. The thick rat poison aroma filled me like most thing’s could not. Along with drugs, nicotine was the only thing that held me, lifting me to a state of complete euphoria. I stood in the back with Wide hanging out of my mouth. Lifting my head straight up to see the smog floating by, letting the smoke roll up into my nose.
Andy’s head zipped out the back door, making my cig drop out of my mouth, burning my lower lip. “DAVE. GET THE FUCK BACK IN HERE! We have more dogs to wash!” My body told me to scream, but I just let it pass.
With my cigarette dead and gone, the day went on, with increments of time allowing my back to feel pain in between dogs.
My fathers words were ringing through my head. “Enjoy school David. Do your best. You are a talented artist.” The money he and my mother sent me each week for ‘food’ and ‘rent’ were always spent on whatever fizzies I wanted to put in head for the day. The credulous conning only ended when I was finally fixed for the week. At least I was off the smack and was living in the manageable endless boozing, snorting chemicals to aid in my absentism of school.
I went to two classes before I found the local pot dealers and ripped them off for a couple of dubs. When I go out at all, like this morning, I am as hidden as a green buret would be in times of war. If the dealers find me I will be eating a crowbar. They’ll ransack my apartment for everything worth any value. And this is reality, not some shadow conjured fear, the fear that haunts me as I snort line after line. Smoke puddle after puddle of pure anxiety.
6 hours and 17 dogs later, Andy and I are on the outside of the building smoking beautifully engineered cig’s. Behind us, the most fragrant of all dumpsters in the area. The smell of shampoos and conditioners would normally make me vomit, but I am eased by the thoughts of cold beer sitting in my fridge. Pedro came outside handing us two envelopes flapping in the air. Man am I glad I am not queezy. His jelly arms rolling made me sick. “Here’s your pay zu guys,” he said, and shut the door behind us. 80 bucks for a days work and I know there is another eight ball on the way. I would have enough to get high for the rest of the night.
The zero hour is almost here. I have been cleaning all night. After work, Andrew and I set out to smoke a half eight ball to the dome. We accomplished this in less than an hour. It will only be a matter of time before I completely bug out into a heart attack. I am not even surprised why I smoked all that speed. I live in Ventura. I am a drug addict. I know it.
My Dad will be here in less than an hour. I spent part of the night coming up with lies that even I believe. I made up a list to get myself used to them before consumation. The list of lies goes as follows:
1. School is going great. The project that I am on is still in its beginning stages, but here, look at these sketches I have drawn up.
2. I haven’t found any girls around, because I have been so focused on school. It will happen when it happens.
3. There are no overdue bills. I am really learning how to be a responsible member of society.
All of these could not be further from the truth. The girl situation wasn’t even a real issue for me. I didn’t want one, and I was sure the girls didn’t want me. I have had the worst luck with women my whole life. Using speed was just another way of dealing with that fact.
The bills were on the tail end of getting higher and higher. The conditions with my moving in, were that I had to put the bills under my name. Since I had no credit, they were under my dads name, but were sent here. Lucky for me. The only money that I ever spent was to get drunk on the weekends, followed always by a shinning ball of clear dust.
I did my last line before my dad was due to come in. I knew if I had done it any later, he would have sensed something was up. But now I had the calmness of a sloth on heroin.
Andrew had left for the day, leaving me the apartment. The house didn’t have a speck of dirt. I had gotten into every nook and cranny with Q tips. Cigarette butts, month old yogurt containers, ice cream containers were now piled outside of the house. I sat on the couch hearing the neighborhood cats rummage through our garbage, watching religious television. “Welcome to the Believers Voice of Victory. Oh my! God is Good!”
Something about the continuous rants about how god is great because their laundry came out clean is hilarious to me.
I looked over at the clock. 11:30 a.m. He will be here in any second. I slid the last sip of bud down my throat, waiting for him to walk up the stairs. My heart was racing to the sound of every foot step he made. I shouldn’t have done so much speed. But this would be a challenge. I really didn’t care anymore if he caught me with all the “Sins” I had committed. The curtain was going to be drawn at some point. “Hey Dave! This place looks so clean. Do you always keep it this clean?” My father tundra’s over to me saying, as he squeezes me to a grinding halt. I feel my bones creaking. So can he. But he brushes it off. He doesn’t like to think of his son as a drug addict.
“Great to see you dad. Do you want a beer?” I picked up a can of bud from the grounded 12 pack. He hesitates because of my age, but snaps it open anyway.
“Why not,” taking a glug from the can.
I look around him for Debbie, but she’s nowhere to be found.
“Is Debbie coming today?”
“Oh well…her mother is in town and she wanted to spend the day with her. She says that she loves you.” Hallelujah! I can’t believe that she bailed out at the last minute. That will save me some of the bullshit that I have to throw around to please the higher ups. Now dad and I can watch the game in peace. My dad loves football more than anything else. So much, that he will evade conversations to catch every minute of the game.
“Want to sit down, and have a talk.” Something was up. He never spoke that way unless there was.
We walked into the polished kitchen, sitting down at the table my dad has had since the 80’s. I creaked down slowly. My forearms hit the edge of the table. I could feel the fearful sweat that hadn’t even christened my head, yet. I was in trouble; that feeling that the pavement was getting closer to the side of my head. Like all the times that I have fallen off my skateboard; you know it’s coming, but it’s never as bad as when the trouble has set.
“I got your report card from school” That son-of-a-bitch went behind my back. Like always. He probably told the school to start sending my cards to his house, even though he told me that I would have them sent to my apartment.
“It says that you haven’t been going to math class. What is the deal with that?”
“To tell you the truth dad. I hate math class. You have known this for years. I can’t focus, and the teaher is a total dick I don’t think that it really matters whether I am going to math, do you?” I tried pulling the A.D.D. card.
“No! You need to be going to all your classes. What if you decide to continue with school at a university? They won’t accept you with failed marked on your transcript.”
“The way that I see it dad, is that math for a degree in…” I paused. I wasn’t willing to put up with his crap anymore. I looked at his face. Blank. Was he angry? I didn’t even know how he was going to react to what I was about to say.
“Are you going to finish?” He looked at me like I owed him an explanation. But I didn’t. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to lie to him about this stuff anymore. I didn’t want to stay in this apartment anymore with that Tubby fuck Andrew. I didn’t want to pretend to be anything.
“NO!” I got to my feet. “I don’t want to do any of this anymore. I am tired of living this shit existence. I don’t know what I want out of life, but it isn’t this”
“Well here we go again Dave. Another tantrum about how your life is messed up.”
“And here we go again Dad. Another conversation where you completely disregaurd everything that I say. You’re never going to change, and I am done putting up with it.”
I walked out of the room, driving a bunch of clothes into my rucksack. Passion was flooding my body. The words of Black Flag were going through my head. ‘It’s not my imagination. I’ve got a gun in my back.’ I was walking far away from the gun, the fathered gun I had been living under all my life.
“Where are you going Dave?”
He didn’t deserve anything other than the last words I said.
“Bye dad.” He stood there. Blank stare he always had on his face. It was like he didn’t think that he was wrong in any way. But not just about this. About everything.
I tumbled down the stares. The rattling of the cement on steel echoed through the entire complex. I wondered if he would follow.
The half snorted eight ball was in my pocket. My pinky dipped into the bag, following the direction to my nose. SNORT. I heard him racing down the stairs to the car.
The door slammed. The fan belts sound getting closer. His car followed right next to me slowly.
“Can we please talk about this? I love you Dave, and I only want the best for you.”
“Dad, I just don’t want to be a part of your life anymore. I don’t even want to be a part of my own life. I just want to be gone. SO GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME.”
“FINE.” He drove down the adjacent alley.
He was gone. I knew it would be at least a day before my dad closed my bank account.
I walked the mile and a half to the B of A, and pulled out the 400 dollars that was still in my account. Hitting the numbers made the feeling cement home that I really was dropping off the grid. I would be set for a couple of days on that amount of cash.
A car drove past me in the drive through lane. A mother and daughter in a red ford explorer both staring at me like I was death incarnate. The shit they find on there hand after a nice dump. I always felt the sores on my face and arms stronger when people stared at me. I pulled out the cash, and tailed it down to the Station.
The greyhound was another 5 miles away. I would take the bus to Los Angeles to be back on the promenade by 10. I don’t even know if the hum bums from my childhood would even be there, but I would be able to find the sustenance of madmen. Back to the cookers and shady dealings. To the dives of society, the pin-eyed policemen. The late nights of BMX bicycles and fence hops. I would become the criminal I had time for. Live the way that made sense.
My mind wandered so far, that the time waiting for the bus disappeared. I was sitting with my knees to the bus terminal wall. The noxious smell of the petrol and vending machine bags filled my nostrils.
Three o four bus to Los Angeles is leaving in five minutes. I picked up my bag.
“Where yah headed to young man?” The driver reached out for my ticket.
“Los Angeles, away from this psychotic place.” I had to leave. The speed would be gone in a day.
Friday, March 14, 2008
A Tale of socks
First Day
The relief I feel when I get to the back of the hand out van, can be explained in words. “Who needs socks?” I hear from one of the outreach workers. I bolt past the sack lunch tables, and snag two pairs of brand tube white cotton socks. I almost weep at the soft fabric against my face. Now I can get high in peace.
I go to the bathroom in the alley of the promenade, the chafing in my ass has subsided, and I can walk with freedom. Without any consciousness, my shoes are off, and feet inside the sink. I scrub them hardy, with the hard grit that surrounds my palms. I rub the foot ointment on like a petting an old dog, and the sigh that was pent for far too long comes like a dropped bucket. My soles are clean for the first time in weeks, and when they are finally dry, I put on the socks of cotton beauty. There is nothing more sublime, than the feeling I get when new socks are on clean feet. Even though I know it won’t last outside of a few days, I remain serene, even for the briefest moment.
I put the ointment back in the bag, and walk out with an air of contentment all around me. I see Pockets coming down the hallway. “Time to spark up a joint Whispers?” ”Sure is man. I just put on the first of two brand new pairs of socks. Life is sweet.” We walked like two punks on a mission, to the spot where we knew the cycle cops wouldn’t find us. A smell of shit and BO permeated our tattered clothing, and every time we walked past yuppies, an air of disgust brushed past us. We didn’t care, since they were the only ones that could smell us. I had been wearing the same dirt stained pants for the last month, and was in no hurry to change them. I knew who I was. A street punk whose plan for the next few minutes was to be sucking on Mary Jane’s beautiful paper skin.
We sat Indian style behind the concrete fence, and I sparked up the joint, which I had been saving till after the transference of socks took place. The joint was sparked, and Pockets pulled out a bottle of OE, snapped off the cap, and skulled the first sip, while I put flame to paper to get the high started. Almost simultaneously, we passed one to the other. No words are spoken, unless you count the bowel movements, which were flying at random. “Yes sir, this is living” Pockets said, as a group of middle aged stockbrokers rain by, their trudging seeming pointless. “So what’s the skating plan for the day?” I said, knowing that we would be down to the beach for the drum circle as soon as the high was achieved.
Second day
I wake up, feeling the warm sweat against my feet, and let out a confidence burst of consummate glory. Even though the girl wasn’t there, my hand supremely did the trick. I had passed out alone in my own squat, away from the madness of the promenade. The sun just barely melting the right side of my sleeping bag, and I knew the day would be pure of endless summer joints, and 40 oz. bottles, plentiful for the begging friends that I had made since I was 13.
With my sleeping bag rolled up and tied with a long shoelace, I traipsed out into the manicured city, out of the alley ways of 9 am, looking for a for a shiny new four wheeled slab of metal to come screeching in front of me, honking it’s horn, and screaming obscenities about the fact that he is going to be late to the office because of my incompetence. Sometimes people are so caught up in their lives, that the homeless people that they see everyday have no opportunity to get a job, nor start a new life for themselves. Trust me, all the time that I was homeless, I never saw a dime that the government was supposed to be helping me with.
I saw Mark sitting by the dinosaur statues, and talking to himself about the intrinsic nature of condors. He didn’t even recognize me, after the tight fisted friendship that we had together for over 6 years. His dementia, and the fact that the government wouldn’t pay his veterans services, was the reason he couldn’t remember who I was. It only came in short waves, so if he didn’t raise the effort, I didn’t say hello to him.
My friends sat in the center of the promenade. I saw Peter sitting down, reading a book with a rolled cigarette protruding from his mouth, a box of wine sitting next to him. “I’ve been waiting around for you man. Where did you go anyway, last night? One minute you are out at the beach drinking with us, the next you’re stumbling drunk down the beach. So what happened?” Peters inquisitive mind always seemed to touch on subjects that I had no clue what they were about. These subjects were always on my blackout experiences, of which I could never remember, and could never comment on. The truth would always come out weeks later, and even then I couldn’t reiterate what had happened. “Let’s not talk about that today man. Lets just go get hammered on the beach.” I said, and without contention for argument, he got up, and we walked on. The only thing that mattered to me at that point, were the clean socks on my feet, and the space bag of wine we were about to consume. Sometimes that’s about as sweet as life can turn into.
Some time later
Two weeks after I received the superbly new socks, there was nothing but a thick black thickness on both pairs, making both of the hard as rocks. In a drug induced oblivion I left town. Where I was now was in some desert, and the only article that I recognized, was the leather jacket I have had for countless drunken bouts.
The scathing sun hit down on my back, as I pour liquid from my bottle like a waterfall into a stream. I knew I would have to get to a city fast, or pick up a ride with a friendly Christian, willing to give me a ride and a decent meal. They were always trying to save someone. I stood up, and flicked out my thumb to a passing truck. He just honked his horn in an angry refrain, and kept his velocity up.
I thought of what could have compelled me to come all the way out to a desert, waiting for hours for another ride, and not have packed any new socks. Granted, the only thing that I still had with me was the rolled sleeping bag in the used shoelace. I would love the sweet cotton vegetation, nuzzling against my aching feet, but sometimes my only solace, lives in a bottle.
I drank what was left of the bottle, while a 1978 Ford Pinto came ramshackle up to my feet. “Where yah headed there, son?” said the driver. I said next town over, and in the car I went. Man I hope they have handouts in the next town. The socks were cutting my feet.
??
I got dropped off by a Mexican trucker named Esteban when my memory jogs to 8th grade Spanish class, when the teacher forced us pick Spanish names to authenticate our experience. “I hope you fin what you looking for companero,” says Esteban in fragmented English. I nod in accordance with the politeness my mom always taught me. I wonder what she is doing right now?
But the concerns of my mother are of no importance now, as I notice some hitchers that are walking around to the other side of the 711 I am dropped off at. “See you later Esteban, thanks for the cigarettes. A load clank spurted out as I shut the door, and went walking over to the back of the mini mart. “How’s it going?” I said brandishing the fresh pack of reds in their faces. “ Grab a seat man, and have a swill with us,” said the young girl, a Mohawk draped across her head. “Thanks a lot, I am parched as hell” I sat down, and wrapped my fingers around the 40 ox bottle, the rocks grinding under my feet, as I stretched my legs out. The day was melting hot and I needed to sleep. Who knows, I may manifest some new socks in my dreams.
The relief I feel when I get to the back of the hand out van, can be explained in words. “Who needs socks?” I hear from one of the outreach workers. I bolt past the sack lunch tables, and snag two pairs of brand tube white cotton socks. I almost weep at the soft fabric against my face. Now I can get high in peace.
I go to the bathroom in the alley of the promenade, the chafing in my ass has subsided, and I can walk with freedom. Without any consciousness, my shoes are off, and feet inside the sink. I scrub them hardy, with the hard grit that surrounds my palms. I rub the foot ointment on like a petting an old dog, and the sigh that was pent for far too long comes like a dropped bucket. My soles are clean for the first time in weeks, and when they are finally dry, I put on the socks of cotton beauty. There is nothing more sublime, than the feeling I get when new socks are on clean feet. Even though I know it won’t last outside of a few days, I remain serene, even for the briefest moment.
I put the ointment back in the bag, and walk out with an air of contentment all around me. I see Pockets coming down the hallway. “Time to spark up a joint Whispers?” ”Sure is man. I just put on the first of two brand new pairs of socks. Life is sweet.” We walked like two punks on a mission, to the spot where we knew the cycle cops wouldn’t find us. A smell of shit and BO permeated our tattered clothing, and every time we walked past yuppies, an air of disgust brushed past us. We didn’t care, since they were the only ones that could smell us. I had been wearing the same dirt stained pants for the last month, and was in no hurry to change them. I knew who I was. A street punk whose plan for the next few minutes was to be sucking on Mary Jane’s beautiful paper skin.
We sat Indian style behind the concrete fence, and I sparked up the joint, which I had been saving till after the transference of socks took place. The joint was sparked, and Pockets pulled out a bottle of OE, snapped off the cap, and skulled the first sip, while I put flame to paper to get the high started. Almost simultaneously, we passed one to the other. No words are spoken, unless you count the bowel movements, which were flying at random. “Yes sir, this is living” Pockets said, as a group of middle aged stockbrokers rain by, their trudging seeming pointless. “So what’s the skating plan for the day?” I said, knowing that we would be down to the beach for the drum circle as soon as the high was achieved.
Second day
I wake up, feeling the warm sweat against my feet, and let out a confidence burst of consummate glory. Even though the girl wasn’t there, my hand supremely did the trick. I had passed out alone in my own squat, away from the madness of the promenade. The sun just barely melting the right side of my sleeping bag, and I knew the day would be pure of endless summer joints, and 40 oz. bottles, plentiful for the begging friends that I had made since I was 13.
With my sleeping bag rolled up and tied with a long shoelace, I traipsed out into the manicured city, out of the alley ways of 9 am, looking for a for a shiny new four wheeled slab of metal to come screeching in front of me, honking it’s horn, and screaming obscenities about the fact that he is going to be late to the office because of my incompetence. Sometimes people are so caught up in their lives, that the homeless people that they see everyday have no opportunity to get a job, nor start a new life for themselves. Trust me, all the time that I was homeless, I never saw a dime that the government was supposed to be helping me with.
I saw Mark sitting by the dinosaur statues, and talking to himself about the intrinsic nature of condors. He didn’t even recognize me, after the tight fisted friendship that we had together for over 6 years. His dementia, and the fact that the government wouldn’t pay his veterans services, was the reason he couldn’t remember who I was. It only came in short waves, so if he didn’t raise the effort, I didn’t say hello to him.
My friends sat in the center of the promenade. I saw Peter sitting down, reading a book with a rolled cigarette protruding from his mouth, a box of wine sitting next to him. “I’ve been waiting around for you man. Where did you go anyway, last night? One minute you are out at the beach drinking with us, the next you’re stumbling drunk down the beach. So what happened?” Peters inquisitive mind always seemed to touch on subjects that I had no clue what they were about. These subjects were always on my blackout experiences, of which I could never remember, and could never comment on. The truth would always come out weeks later, and even then I couldn’t reiterate what had happened. “Let’s not talk about that today man. Lets just go get hammered on the beach.” I said, and without contention for argument, he got up, and we walked on. The only thing that mattered to me at that point, were the clean socks on my feet, and the space bag of wine we were about to consume. Sometimes that’s about as sweet as life can turn into.
Some time later
Two weeks after I received the superbly new socks, there was nothing but a thick black thickness on both pairs, making both of the hard as rocks. In a drug induced oblivion I left town. Where I was now was in some desert, and the only article that I recognized, was the leather jacket I have had for countless drunken bouts.
The scathing sun hit down on my back, as I pour liquid from my bottle like a waterfall into a stream. I knew I would have to get to a city fast, or pick up a ride with a friendly Christian, willing to give me a ride and a decent meal. They were always trying to save someone. I stood up, and flicked out my thumb to a passing truck. He just honked his horn in an angry refrain, and kept his velocity up.
I thought of what could have compelled me to come all the way out to a desert, waiting for hours for another ride, and not have packed any new socks. Granted, the only thing that I still had with me was the rolled sleeping bag in the used shoelace. I would love the sweet cotton vegetation, nuzzling against my aching feet, but sometimes my only solace, lives in a bottle.
I drank what was left of the bottle, while a 1978 Ford Pinto came ramshackle up to my feet. “Where yah headed there, son?” said the driver. I said next town over, and in the car I went. Man I hope they have handouts in the next town. The socks were cutting my feet.
??
I got dropped off by a Mexican trucker named Esteban when my memory jogs to 8th grade Spanish class, when the teacher forced us pick Spanish names to authenticate our experience. “I hope you fin what you looking for companero,” says Esteban in fragmented English. I nod in accordance with the politeness my mom always taught me. I wonder what she is doing right now?
But the concerns of my mother are of no importance now, as I notice some hitchers that are walking around to the other side of the 711 I am dropped off at. “See you later Esteban, thanks for the cigarettes. A load clank spurted out as I shut the door, and went walking over to the back of the mini mart. “How’s it going?” I said brandishing the fresh pack of reds in their faces. “ Grab a seat man, and have a swill with us,” said the young girl, a Mohawk draped across her head. “Thanks a lot, I am parched as hell” I sat down, and wrapped my fingers around the 40 ox bottle, the rocks grinding under my feet, as I stretched my legs out. The day was melting hot and I needed to sleep. Who knows, I may manifest some new socks in my dreams.
Boxcar to AZ
I laid belly down against the cold gravel bed, arms akimbo, sweat pouring down my forehead as I looked at Johnny to say “Give me a kick when you know the train is leaving. I am brokenly tired.” He nodded so as not to arouse the suspicion of the railroad bull, who was less than ten feet away. I try to sleep, even though my heart is racing like a rabbit across an open field, the hounds chasing after him, planning to tear his guts out of the tender flesh that surrounds the fragile body. I feel this way because the bull, a policeman that is hired by the railroad company to make sure everything is within the law of the rail, is a few cars away. If we are caught, he will beat us with a metal pipe that he finds in a scrap metal yard, as he screams at us to keep off the tracks, or the next time he’ll kill us. His dog will be tearing out jeans, as it rips into our flesh with his razor sharp teeth.
The train ride to Arizona came at the last minute, after Johnny had heard from Boston (one of the old cronies that hung out at the Promenade) that the peyote would be ripe for the picking this time of the year. His plan was for us to catch the seven twenty bus out to Union Station at ten fourty- five Pre-Menstrual, and find out which train left for Tucson. We would catch it out, and just before we arrived at Tucson, we would jump off in the wilderness of the desert, where no one would be able to follow us. The whole point of an inebriated journey is to just get lost.
Johnny was ecstatic, but I was really just looking forward to the half gallon of Bicardi Silver that was giving my back a comfortable chill. I put it safely between a pile of clothes and other essentials I would need for the long ride through the night. I longed to be on the train, bottle to lips, as we waged through the desert heat, singing our heads off of old rock n’ roll songs. Even in the middle of winter, desert days still allowed t-shirts and shorts to run freewheeled.
I felt the kick, and we slid out from under the immobile car. We rapidly jumped to our quiet feet, trying our best not to give off any noise to the bull, who was standing – back faced to us – yammering away on his walkie-talkie. He didn’t even budge when we ran off. Sometimes you get lucky with a decrepit old bull.
Bolting after a train that is only increasing in speed is no easy task, especially when you have a seventy pound tramping pack strapped to your back. Johnny raced ahead of me, and tossed his pack onto the flat bed of the car, as he said in a still small voice “Move your fucking ass!” I got close enough to toss my bag into the car, Johnny catching it without even the slightest sign of fatigue. If he hadn’t caught it, I would have been screwed, and would have made it back to the pit that exists in Malibu.
Tired after only a few minutes of running, I felt the super human strength that comes after running past the breaking point, and with the strength of a cheetah, I lunged myself onto the flatbed of the car, just barely making enough of a leap to get half of my body in. Johnny pulled me in the rest of the way. We made it, and without giving the slightest inkling to the bull that there were two transients on his rail. I have known many others who were caught, and suffered the tutelage of the bull.
My friend Eric was one of them. He was riding from Tucson to Boulder one summer, and was pulled off of a rolling train by an angry bull. “You tried to run like a rabbit, now you’re going to look like one,” the bull said as he beat all but Eric’s front teeth out. He drinks all of his food these days. The medical expenses that were supposed to come from his tours in the military wouldn’t cover the replacement of his old teeth for old ones, a tough break for a soldier that served in Iraqi more than four years, for a country that he loved.
At eighteen years old I was already on my way to having train adventures of extreme magnitude, grateful to be swigging on a bottle of booze, and laughing at my friends who were sitting at home, preparing themselves for the American dream that was already planned out for them, whether they knew it or not. I kicked back on my sleeping bag, as Johnny set up the primus stove for dinner, while describing to me when he lost his virginity to his stepsister Simone. I always thought it was creepy, but he always had a funny way of bringing you over to his side, making you believe, if only for a moment, that what he was doing was right. Even when we first started using heroin on the weekends, he convinced me that it was a good idea.
I scribbled primitive drawings into my sketchbook, flashlight protruding from my mouth, not worrying about staying warm. The gin which was in a consistent up down flow towards my lips was doing me just fine. I sat on the tattered sleeping bag, which had been handed down through the generations. My great-grandfather may have even brought it over on the boat from England when he first came to this great land, but I’m not sure.
The smells that ululated through the boxcar were toxic monoxides and other resonating pollutants from the Los Angeles air. They set off my asthma, causing me to hack up phlegm of the red variety, but I didn’t care. I was ready for anything, and after a few minutes, the hacking stopped. I guess the gin was good for a lot more than I thought, as it was giving my throat and lungs a healthy coat.
We both sat around the primus stove at eleven thirty with every ounce of clothing on so that we wouldn’t wake up sick in the morning. These cars get extremely drafty, especially at night, so any wind was coming in whether we liked it or not. At least the stove stayed lit, as our refried beans cooked on the blue flame protruding from the metal cylinder, the half-gallon heating us from the inside out. A friend of mine told me before I got on the train, that a friend of hers got onto a car without the proper clothing, and froze to death from frostbite.
The primus stove finally heated up the two cans of beans, and we ate hearty, ripping insidious farts, and laughing all the way. Santa Claus had nothing on our laughter, ho, ho, ho! Johnny even managed to get a bag of herbs, so we could stay lifted the entire trip. Even when he was completely slammed, Johnny managed to think ahead
After a restful nights sleep, over eight hours, we were bearing closer to Tucson. Johnny was already mending from the freezing night, and basking in the radiant sun, skulling back the half drunken bottle of liquor, Marlboro sticking out of the side of his mouth as he scratched his dirt stained pants. “If this isn’t living youngster, than I’d rather be dead,” he said as he put the bottle down in between his legs, and took a long drag off of his cigarette, and in one swift movement, he flicked the stoge into the air, smoke catching to the wind as he smiled his grizzly smile.
We both sat at the opening of the car, legs dangling as we sang fragmented versions of purple haze, dazed and confused, and war pigs. Johnny sparked up a fat one, as I pulled the primus stove closer to me to start up on an extravagant oatmeal breakfast. We ate, and just as we finished breakfast, a sign came lunging at us, bearing the inscription:
WELCOME TUCSON
CITY LIMITS
Quickly, we gathered up all the gear, and drove it into our sacks. Jumping off the train almost broke my ankle in half, but luckily my mom had always told me that milk helped build strong bones from a young age. I still believe it to be true, and upon checking my ankle, everything was fine.
When I turned around, Johnny disappeared. I turned again, and the desert was gone. I woke up from the dream.
It’s been eight years since Johnny overdosed, the same day that my mother threw me out of the house, with nothing but a backpack full of clothes, and my dreams of grandeur about my destined travels of N, S, E, W. A hot shot of heroin at twenty-two must have done the trick.
The truth is, is that we never made to Arizona. We never made it out of Los Angeles County. The furthest we ever got to was the alley behind the Smart n’ Final, a box of Franzia wine to our lips, as we had talks about the trips we were going to take. We even made lists of all the gear we would need on the blank sides of the boxes of wine we drank from. But somehow, they were just out of our reach. The fizzy lifting’s of life had us in it’s grip.
The last time that I saw Johnny was at an RKL show at the Lush. Before the show, he shaved my head into a Mohawk, tossing back a bottle of Wild Turkey, as white riot played in the background. We got into the club with a couple of wristbands that a guy slid to us as he was leaving, and we made it in without the slightest inkling of judgment from the bouncer. We drank through the whole show off of the sixty dollars that I stole from my mothers purse, as I snuck out of the house that afternoon.
We left the bar so tossed that a random punker gave us some strength as a crutch to Johnnies old beater. We both came to in the first a.m’s, and Johnny gave me ride home. He was found dead in his apartment the next day by his girlfriend.
That night I had the boxcar dream, and when approached with writing about a memorable event in my life, I couldn’t think of a better way to write about my dead friend. I have taken a lot of cement looks at my life before sobriety happened to me. Hitchhiking around the country, dangerous rides with strangers, drunken bouts in forest, jail bars slamming behind me, and multiple friends dying from a disease that almost killed me. These thing’s, along with the tools I have learned to live a better life, have held my sobriety in tact, and have allowed me to live the life that my friends can’t.
I honor Johnny’s death, as well as the death of all the others, by waking up another day sober and present in the lives of my friends and family’s.
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