I just wanted them to disappear back into the oblivion from which they came. His girlfriend gave a reaffirming, “Thhhaaaankkksssss ! Ancient.” As soon as the phantom pusher appeared, he disappeared, dissolving into the mass of people. “Well now, don’t you have to get up to work tomorrow? Well.” I figured I could take what I wanted from the lint-sized tablet and leave the rest to sleep, forgetting the first and foremost rule of drug consumption: a) Especially one that’s melded together with a slew of unknown proportions of variables (Ecstasy being more of a fusion of acid, heroin and methamphetamines than it was pure MDMA) b) Especially one that’s sold to you by a ghostlike pusher with a small vampire clinging to his chest These signs and symbols—not to mention the common knowledge that wine, painkillers and Ecstasy can easily suck you into the undertows of the afterlife—usually steered reasonable people away from such levels of intoxication. Girls in bright pink blouses rushed by, smelling of cheap perfume, vanilla and the random patchouli. ” It was then—right then—that I felt that almost painful surge of topsy-turvy that makes you realize: .
” Then he tossed me a small bag of what to any drug-free, good-doing, upright American citizen would look like mud. “Take that too,” he said with a philanthropic smile. It all happened so quickly that I didn’t have time for my sober self to give my drunken self a lecture. We sat on the floor for a while smoking cigarettes. Guys in tight-fitting white T-shirts and tan khakis followed the girls. And then, not too long after, you ask yourself the same question again.
Isaac passed me the bottle of wine, shouting, “I’m pretty drunk, but what are we going to do, you know, after we run out of this bottle?
” His eyes seemed to say, At this point, the whole world was so full of animation that I didn’t feel a need to contribute at all.
Not that I’d forgotten; I just hadn’t thought about it. not more than 37 hours ago,” I declared, taking a long pull from the bottle of wine. It was supposed to be some kind of reparation for having taken off to Mexico.” My tongue stumbled around like feathery lead and my body felt like Jell-O cement. “I talked to Newt Gingrich in DC.” I was going to go into details about the conversation, the dialogue with the war vet, and the bathroom incident, but something spawned thoughts about John. “Hey,” I said, quickly changing subjects, “have you heard from John lately? “Nobody has since that night at the Casual Corner.” We made silent evaluations, both of us absently feeling guilty for not knowing where or what John was doing, or how to do anything about it. “Long ago they used to eat humans on the Pacific Islands.
By the time I entered my house and ate a sandwich, then watched my dog run laps in the backyard, the pills were already making me feel numb and glorious. It could all be traced back to the suspended moment in time when—while watching my dog squat and take a shit—the Vicodin started to push the serotonin and suppress the synaptic pain responders.
Another disease had been found in some tropical town, killing hundreds. He’s Samoan and he’s part of that gang—I guess they’re called Yard Dogs—and he wants to kill me.
Another man was found dead in his car in Sendero Loco. Anyhow,” I said, passing the bottle back over to Isaac, “she doesn’t like me. Actually, he says that if I make his wife feel uncomfortable one more time, he kill me.” Going over the whole story felt good.
Something like: All right there, Scott, you’ve already taken two Vicodin and drunk a couple bottles of wine. Huddles would form, mixes of high school and college students, suburban lingerers, unemployed drunks. And it goes like this, a vicious circle of the mind, until you stabilize on the plateau. ” I asked myself out loud, not even realizing I did so.
I amused myself by trying to spot Christinas, Elsas, Matthew Feltses, budding Padgetts or Pauls, wet newborn birds perching anxiously to make the great glory leap toward cement. And then, to answer Isaac’s question, “Yeah, I feel it.” Time evaporated with quick ferocity and my mind dissolved, sodium into hot water. Yesterday's Warrior ISBN: 0-9746940-0-2 Outlet or a Heaven Full of Televisions ISBN: 0-9746940-1-0 Stranger In My Skin ISBN: 978-0-9746940-2-3 Schools, Universities, Libraries & Institutions: Schools and universities receive a 20% discount; .99 off each book.