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.