Some guy’s next to the counter, holding an acoustic guitar. He’s got a ponytail. He’s wearing cargo pants with a cell phone clipped to his belt. He looks like a volunteer fireman.
Front row, at a table, is his family. The kids are hitting each other with Happy Meal toys. The wife’s trying to calm the kids and watch him at the same time. You can tell she loves him, but she wants to be home.
He leans into the mic and says, “Here’s a song about regret.”
He closes his eyes, strums his guitar, and starts singing like he means it.
The shit’s embarrassing.
I’m laughing as we walk out. I’m thinking, This lame gave up on his dreams just to make a family.
I’m sipping my chai tea, I got my hand on Gabby’s ass.
I’m shaking my head. Nope, not me. I ain’t giving up shit.
I’m gonna have it all.
on some
faraway beach
My day starts off with The Velvet Underground and black coffee.
Ross gets here at seven. We do push-ups and complain about how the youth are pussies.
It’s been on my mind since I seen my kid. That’s what they’re teaching her in college: to be soft.
They’re all middle class and marginalized. Everyone’s owed something, but no one’s giving up shit. These rich motherfuckers’ll pat you on the head and tell you you’re a victim, then give that job to their buddy’s son.
I told her she better put that out of her mind and focus on getting it herself.
I’m complaining to Ross but I can’t even get mad at her. I didn’t raise her. I’m a sperm donor. I show up a few times a year with my ideas and expect her to live by ’em.
It’s not fair, I know. But this world is tough. We’re still savages, we just got better at hiding it.
I just want her to be ready.
Ross leaves. I get ready. I go to work. I deal with my inept coworkers who wouldn’t be working if they didn’t know somebody.
It’s frustrating, it’s not fair. I used to lose sleep about that fair shit.
Then a few years ago, I watched this lion eat a zebra on TV. And it hits me: ain’t shit in this world fair, just make sure you’re not the zebra when it’s dinner time.
That’s life. Be patient.
Go home.
I’m in my chair blowing lines, listening to Townes Van Zandt “Waiting Around to Die.” I’ll take it easy today, I won’t do too much ketamine today. Kill yourself a little bit at a time so you don’t kill yourself all the way.
I take it slow.
I’m two hours in and the buzz is fine, but more is always better. I drink some GHB and wait for that to interact.
The G kicks in. It’s good.
I’m on my phone on a dating site, texting with this girl, waiting for her to hit me back. She never does. Now I’m having imaginary arguments with her about it in my head.
Yeah, I’m a functioning drug addict, but you’re a failed actress with a jewelry line. I’m still the catch in this situation. I wish she was smart enough to know that. I wish she would hit me back.
I wish this K hit harder. I don’t know if it’s the batch or my tolerance. Probably both.
Fuck it, this girl’s not talking to me, I don’t need motor skills to text anymore. I dump out the rest of the bag, crush it with a bus pass, and chop up two monster piles. I snort ’em both with no ceremony.
Clean plate club.
Once I get ’em in me, I start thinking that might’ve been too much.
That’s how it happens: on some humdrum Tuesday night, you’re sitting alone by yourself, watching medieval fantasy movies, then you go a little too hard with the drugs, and you break your brain.
I thought I was just gonna take it easy tonight.
Ain’t nothing easy about me.
My old man’s the same way. He can’t have just one piece of cake. He eats the whole thing, mushes it in a salad bowl with a half-gallon of ice cream, and kills it in one sitting.
Then he complains when my sister calls him fat, talkin’ ’bout, “Why you always picking on me? Tell me I got nice shoulders or somethin’.”
I’m my father’s son. I do all the K in the house and cry about being single.
K’s kicking in. I feel myself go. I turn off the TV and put on a record while my hands still work. I stagger back to the couch and then I’m gone.
I can’t really describe this one, it’s muddy. I got tunnel vision. My eyesight’s blurred. I’m confused and paranoid. No visuals, it looks dark and it feels sharp.
This batch of K is bullshit. It’s like blowing an anxiety attack. I’ve done more drugs before and felt better, but every bag’s a crap-shoot.
Just ride it out, Jude. Listen to the music; Brian Eno, he’ll get you through.
I’m on the couch, eyes closed, hallucinating that I’m in some Machiavellian situation at my job. This is a real kick in the balls ’cause I did the drugs to forget that place.
I’m stuck.
Walk it off. I go to the bathroom and throw water on my face. Get a hold of yourself. I’m looking in the mirror, dripping. My pop liked PCP and I like ketamine. I guess neither one of us really wanted to stay in this world.
Ever since I was a kid I been trying to get out of here, climbing into an empty toy box trying to go to some magical place. Thirty-five years later, I’m doing the same shit.
Is that learned or hereditary? I wonder if Assia’s got it too. I wonder if it goes dark for her.
I hope not.
I’m back in the living room. The record stops and the silence is deafening. There’s no music to guide you through. It’s just you and your thoughts.
I bet this is what space sounds like.
I’m past the K-hole. I’m in some other place. I’m in my body but I’m out of my head. I was stuck here for weeks after the PCP overdose. You feel isolated. You move slow but you get used to it. The brain adjusts, it’s resilient.
I wonder how long I’ll be here this time.
A night? A day? A week?
I can hear my neighbors talking in the hallway, they’re going to dinner, carrying on with their evening. The woman’s laughing at something the man said.
That’s when I have my conversation. The one I’ve had in my head countless times.
If you get stuck like this, it’s no big deal. You finish your book, you get your affairs in order, then you blow your fucking brains out.
It’s settled.
I’d rather be dead than retarded.
Shit, I’ll probably sell more books dead anyway. Maybe then I’ll finally get some shine from NPR. You gotta be a Yaley or a Mexican lesbian to get love from those assholes.
It’s nice to have a plan.
I got work to do. I gotta book to write. I got a lot of feelings in me, I gotta get ’em out.
I get up and stagger to my computer. I can’t see the keys; my fingers feel like toes. I mash on the keyboard.
I’m fucked up but I’m inspired—this is my ticket out.
A half hour later, I stop and admire my work. It takes everything in me just to focus. Let’s see this masterpiece.
I read it and laugh. It’s just a line of misspelled gibberish with some pathetic shit at the end that says “alone.”
tainted
The molly hasn’t worked for years. I’m all out of happiness. There’s no euphoria, just a body buzz.
She’s going down on me. I make her gag till her eyes water. Something about a woman’s tears makes my dick hard, but I still can’t come.
So she rubs my chest and fake moans while I jerk off to public humiliation porn.
I nut on my stomach and wipe up with my pajama bottoms.
She stays the night and leaves in the morning.
It’s the most intimate thing I’ve do
ne with a woman in years.
I’m hungover. I lay on the couch, watch TV, and order pizza. I’m there all day.
By eight o’clock, I’m antsy. I break out the G and take a pull.
Twenty minutes later, it kicks in. This buzz is played out.
I dig through my dresser for my science drugs and find the 5-MeO-DALT.
Hello, old friend, it’s been a while.
I knock some powder on the back of my hand and do a bump.
My body tingles, my head gets hot, the colors pop.
I go to my computer and jerk off. I’m looking at whores on Backpage and accidently click on my Facebook tab. That’s when I decide to find Julie on Facebook and jerk off to her instead.
I haven’t looked her up since we split. I’m sitting here high, with my dick in my hand, coming up with reasons why this is a good idea.
She don’t want you no more. Get this nut. Get your power back. It’s nothing.
I type in her name, she’s the first one that pops up.
I click on her.
She’s aged.
She’s beautiful as ever.
She looks like a woman now. She looks happy.
I think about old times. I come fast, then I come to.
I stalk her page for a couple minutes and my heart breaks all over again. She’s got my number. Or maybe I’m just desperate and alone.
I’m shaking my head, What have you done? You’re conjuring ghosts.
I’m embarrassed I did it. I feel dumb that I still hurt. I thought I was good. I guess I’m not.
I leave the room.
Her face is etched in my brain again. Her phone number’s running through my head.
You’re just hungover, deal with it.
I clean my house. I do the dishes. I do the laundry; I bleach my whites.
It’s midnight, I still can’t sleep, so I call another girl over. She shows up in fifteen minutes.
She’s read my book. I’m the bad boy, she’s the square. I tell her I’m gonna smash her good then send her home. I bite her ear and she moans.
I get her in my room. We fuck. Her pussy stinks but I keep going. She wants it doggy style and the scent starts wafting. Her asshole ain’t much better. The whole room smells like fried whiting. It’s too much to deal with. I fake a nut and put her out.
And I’m left standing in the living room. I look down, I’m in the basketball shorts Julie bought me.
I feel like hearing something sad. I put on some George Jones and hop in the shower. I grab a washcloth, lather up, and try to scrub that woman off of me.
high hopes
She’s well-educated, she works in the arts, she’s stylish but not trendy.
I like her.
There’s a sweetness about her I’m attracted to. It reminds me of something I had long ago. Plus, she’s got thick thighs and I bet that’s underappreciated in the circles she runs in.
It’s our second date, but we been talking on the phone these past two weeks. She wants to take it slow. I’m cool with that ’cause usually by now I’d have already eaten her ass, and I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.
We meet on a Monday. It was s’posed to be the Saturday before, but I guess she forgot.
I text her the day of, “What time you wanna link?”
“Six thirty,” she texts back. “Oh, and I have an event at seven thirty.”
“Cool.”
Nothing good’s open on Monday, so we pick the Thai spot next to the Rite Aid.
She hits me at four thirty. “I’m hungry now. Can we meet at five?”
I text back, “You wanna come here and walk over?”
She says, “I’ll meet you there.”
I get off the couch. I get dressed. I grab my GHB and my headphones.
I’m walking by the AA church, listening to Frank Sinatra, having an internal dialogue about whether I should drink some G or not.
At first I’m like, She’s tightly wound maybe you shouldn’t…
Then I’m like, She’s tightly wound so maybe you should. Plus you’re gonna get faded around her ass sooner or later, so might as well be now.
It’s GHB, not heroin. It’s like having a glass of wine or three.
I take a swig from the bottle and sing along with Sinatra, “Oops, there goes another rubber tree plant.”
I wanna be like Frank but I’m Dean Martin through and through.
Ten minutes later, we’re sitting in the restaurant.
She gets a water with no ice. I order the whole damn menu.
She says, “That’s a lot of food.”
We’re eating family style.
I say, “Darlin’, I got a buzz going and I like ordering a lot of shit ’cause I can.”
The food comes.
The conversation is lively. She’s a liberal, I’m a free thinker, and we keep having discussions that move towards debate. She doesn’t wanna debate. So we gotta stay switching topics.
We’re speaking on rent control, when she says, “I don’t want to talk about that either.”
I say, “Well, you brought it up. Let’s change the subject then.” I ask her, “You ever do hallucinogens?”
I like to recommend psychedelics to the uptight people in my life.
Surprisingly she says, “I have.” Then she asks, “Do you do any drugs?”
I smirk. I say, “I’m on ’em right now.”
She says, “Really?! What?”
I’m smiling. “GHB.”
She’s not smiling. “Are you serious?”
I slurp up some noodles and nod. “Yeah.”
She says, “I’m ten years sober.”
I tell her, “Congrats.”
She studies me. “This is weird.”
I smile. “Really? Your soberness doesn’t bother me at all.”
She says, “Well, I feel extremely uncomfortable right now.”
I say, “You never brought up you were AA. If I knew it was that big a deal to you, I wouldn’t have done it.”
She’s shaking her head. “It’s only our second date.”
I’m feeling tingly. The G’s kicking in.
I say, “Do you feel weird when someone has a glass of merlot with their meal?”
She says, “No.”
I roll my eyes. “Imagine that.”
She goes on, “You did seem a bit off.”
“Really? Why? Because I haven’t been agreeing with you?”
She shakes her head. “Just more aggressive. I barely know you and you’re loaded.”
Loaded. There’s that AA jargon.
I feel fine, just a baby buzz.
I say, “I’m not aggressive, I’m Italian. And ’cause I’m not doin’ socially acceptable drugs like weed or alcohol, you got a problem with me.”
She looks like she’s about to cry.
She sighs. “I’m not gonna debate you on this.”
She’s looking at me like I’m a monster. I feel judged.
She says, “I’m not judging, but I can’t even have this conversation with you while you’re high.”
“Why? I’m stringing words together just fine.”
She sighs. “You’re high doing it.”
I say, “Well, it looks like we’re at an impasse. You’re stonewalling me.”
This is bullshit.
As I gather my words to continue my rebuttal, the G lands hard. My eyes go blurry, I get woozy, I lose my train of thought.
I start rethinking things. Perhaps I should’ve assessed the situation first. That was a big dose on an empty stomach.
I take a deep breath. Keep it together, Judey.
My head’s doing the Stevie Wonder. I stop it. I start shoveling curry in my mouth to soak this shit up.
She’s talking but
I’m not tracking.
I answer her back with some noncommittal “that’s what’s ups” and “for reals.”
When she looks away, I turn my head and look off to the side. My eyes wanna close, I don’t let ’em. I’m a cunt-hair away from falling out.
I focus on breathing. I snap back.
She’s exasperated. “It’s our second date, Jude. It’s five o’clock on a Monday.”
I say, “I been up since five this morning!”
Her argument was total shit five minutes ago but right now, she’s spot on. I force myself to focus, I can’t be wrong on this one, so I lie.
I say, “Look, I thought we were meeting at six thirty. So I drank some G after work. It woulda worn off by six, but you wanted to meet early…so here we are. I wasn’t planning on none of this…”
I fight the dizziness to look her in the eye. We lock on for a moment, then she looks down at her food.
I go on, “Ay girl…I’m a wild one but I’m still a good dude…I’m like kale. I ain’t easy but I’m worth it.”
She won’t look up.
She says, “You’re not kale. Kale’s easy.”
We go quiet.
She’s off somewhere else eating her broccoli. Her fork scrapes the plate. I hear the waitress’s broken English take orders. The couple behind us talks about a reality show with a celebrity in it.
I say, “Hey, I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. I think you’re really smart and cool, but obviously I’m not for you. I like getting faded and having debates way too much to be your man.”
I take a sip of my water and let that sink in. I really wanted to like this one.
She swallows her food and says, “We can still be friends.”
“Sure.” I say, then motion to the waitress for the check.
quitsville
I go to bed fucked up. Take a Xanbar to stay down and wake up at eight in the morning.
I’m still high. It’s my first day of vacation. I don’t even know what to do with myself.
I make coffee. I eat Malt-O-Meal. Now what?
I break out the ketamine and snort a half a gram. Just like the day before.
Hummingbird Page 12
