Long Past Stopping

by Oran Canfield

  Lawrence arrived and set up a table underneath the lightbulb. Then he laid out a mirror with a razor blade on it, a piece of tinfoil, some pills that I think might have been Valium, a bottle of tequila, six canisters of nitrous oxide, a bong, a couple tabs of acid, a bottle of aspirin, a conductor’s baton, and a colorful pile of little balloons. He began the task of ripping the balloons open, each of which contained a bag of coke and a bag of heroin. After separating the white bags from the brown ones, he emptied a bag of coke onto the mirror and put a lump of brown heroin on the foil. Then he set up his camcorder and waited for people to arrive.

  Eventually, maybe twenty people showed up. It was hard to tell because it was so dark. You couldn’t really see anyone unless they were within a few feet of the light, and it was so creepy that no one was really speaking above a whisper. At some point, Lawrence broke the awkward hush by standing under the light and telling us about the piece.

  “So, this piece is called ‘Composition for Mood Swings.’ When you feel like it, come up to the table, take the baton, and point to whatever you want.”

  He then walked over to the camera, turned it on, and walked back to the table. Conductor’s baton in hand, he looked straight at the camera and said, “Composition for Mood Swings,” waving the baton around as if he were conducting an orchestra. Then he just stood there and waited. The first guy to walk up to the table grabbed the baton and pointed to the bottle of tequila and the aspirin. I’d already decided the piece was total bullshit, but as long as I was there, I was going to try something more interesting than that.

  I stood by myself in the back corner, drinking a beer, until almost everyone had gone up and ingested the various drugs. When I finally made my way up there, the cocaine looked yellow and sticky, and the last thing I wanted to do was take acid or smoke pot. The only thing that looked at all intriguing was the heroin. I grabbed the baton and pointed to the tinfoil, but there wasn’t much left. Lawrence handed me a straw, set his lighter under the foil, and I inhaled the last of it. Then I headed back to my dark corner and waited for something to happen, but I didn’t notice anything different. I was as anxious and judgmental as ever.

  Some more people pointed to a few more drugs, and when only the bottle of aspirin remained, everyone left.

  A FEW NIGHTS LATER, Lawrence showed up at the house, which was a bit of a surprise since I was the only one home.

  “Hey, Lawrence. Jake’s actually at work right now.”

  “Oh, that’s okay, I was just in the neighborhood and thought I would stop by,” he said.

  “Oh, did you leave something here the other night?”

  “No, I just thought I’d come by and see what was going on.” Lawrence made me very uncomfortable.

  “Not much. I was just heading over to the Casanova,” I said looking for an escape. The Casanova Lounge was a bar on Valencia Street where Eli bartended. I don’t know how the place stayed in business. The owner seemed to want to draw a very specific crowd of fucked-up artists and musicians, but none of us ever had any money. So we would drink for free until two in the morning and mope about how shitty everything was.

  “Hey, do you mind if I come in for a minute, and I’ll head over there with you.”

  “Sure,” I said, letting him in. I figured he needed to use the bathroom, but as soon as he got in the door, he pulled out a couple of balloons from his pocket and asked me if I wanted any before heading over to the bar. I figured, why not? I didn’t feel anything the other night, and I was still kind of curious.

  “Sure,” I said. “Why don’t we go to my room?”

  Sitting down at my desk, he opened a balloon, unwrapped the cellophane from around the heroin, and broke off a lump of the brown sticky stuff, which he placed on a little piece of foil that came from his back pocket. He then reached behind his ear, producing a three-inch straw that was kind of melted and brown at one end. Being a gentleman, Lawrence handed me the foil and the straw, which I put in my mouth so I could get my own lighter out of my pocket. I ignited the lighter under the foil, and a big cloud of smoke came up before I could even inhale.

  “No, no, no…You’re doing it wrong. Here, let me show you.”

  I gave him the straw and foil, he put some more dope on it, and tilting it at an angle, he slowly brought the lighter up to it. As the black spot of heroin slid down the foil, a thin stream of smoke came up, which he followed with the straw.

  “There” he said after exhaling. “That’s called ‘chasing the dragon.’”

  He handed it back to me, and this time I managed to get some of it in my lungs. It tasted kind of sweet, like brown sugar or molasses. After another hit, I realized that I felt pretty good. It was nothing incredible. I was just kind of relaxed, and whatever discomfort I had felt about being with Lawrence disappeared.

  “So, what did you think of the piece the other night?” Lawrence asked me.

  This was perhaps my least favorite question in the world. At least 90 percent of the time it meant coming up with some sort of believable lie on the spot. Unless I truly liked the person’s work, which was rare, that question always paralyzed me. Do I say what I really think and sound like an asshole? Or do I lie, and both avoid confrontation and come across as a supportive nice guy? The I-don’t-give a-fuck-what-you-think vibe I tried so hard to present may have fooled some people, but I was extremely self-conscious and cared very much what people thought. Despite my frequent tirades about almost everyone and everything, I was actually a pretty nice guy.

  This attitude, along with my terrible slouch, nicotine-stained fingers, perpetual five o’clock shadow, and all-around grumpy disposition, had earned me the nickname Cranberry. According to my friend David, who had come up with it, it was on account of my being “so sweet, but so sour.” When Jake had asked me earlier that day, “Hey, Oran, what did you think of Lawrence’s piece?” I responded without a moment’s hesitation.

  “I thought it was fucking terrible…a total piece of shit.”

  “Oh come on, Cranberry. I know you loved it.”

  “No. Really. It was fucking horrible,” I said.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he had replied with a laugh. “It was pretty bad.”

  For being such an opinionated bastard, my vocabulary was somewhat limited when it came to expressing my distaste for most things, especially when it came to talking about art.

  “Well…” I said hesitantly to Lawrence, “I’m not totally sure I understood the purpose of it, or what you were trying to achieve. How did you feel about it?” This was a classic avoidance technique I had seen many people use in art school, but only one person per critique could get away with it. This was my first attempt at using that trick and I was surprised at how well it worked.

  “Do you know this painting, The Ascension of Christ by Rembrandt?”

  “No, not that I remember anyway,” I said.

  “Well, it depicts an ascension into heaven, or a spiritual ascension, and I was attempting to replicate that idea of ascending to another plane of existence through the use of drugs instead of religion.”

  His explanation seemed somewhat hollow to me.

  “I didn’t really get that from it. I mean, thinking about it now…” because I was actually thinking instead of judging, “even if I did know that painting, I doubt I would have gotten the connection from what I saw. The only references I noticed were from the title of the piece, and the conductor’s baton. Like I said, I don’t remember seeing that painting so I can’t comment on that, but I did get the musical reference. I just thought it was kind of obvious, and it didn’t really speak to me.”

  He thought for a moment. “You know, you could have a point. If you haven’t seen the Rembrandt painting, it would have a totally different meaning. I spend so much time in academic circles that I guess I wasn’t even aware that someone wouldn’t get the reference. On the other hand, is it the artist’s responsibility to censor or limit his work because the audience may or may not have the same experiences or re
ference points? Or do I ignore that and be true to my own knowledge? I have to think about that,” he said, putting the straw in his mouth and going for another hit.

  “Hey, Lawrence. Where’s your accent from? I can’t place it.” I finally wanted to get to the bottom of this.

  “Oh, it’s Hebrew,” he answered.

  “You’re from Israel? You know there’s a tree somewhere in Israel with my name on it.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Your name means ‘tree’ in Hebrew.”

  “No…I mean, yeah, I know that, but back in the ’70s or something, my grandma gave money to some organization that would plant a tree in Israel and put your name on it. She got one for me and one for my brother.”

  “Yeah. I remember when they were doing that.” He started laughing. “That’s pretty funny, though. Your tree just says ‘tree’ on it.”

  “Yeah.” I started laughing too. “I’ve never thought about how ridiculous that is.” I motioned for Lawrence to pass me the tinfoil and I took another hit. “Man, this stuff is good,” I said. “Isn’t this shit pretty addictive, though?”

  “Not if you smoke it. I’ve been smoking it now for thirteen years,” he said.

  I was skeptical about that.

  “Really, so nothing happens when you leave town?” I asked.

  “My nose seems to run a little when I’m flying somewhere, but I’m not sure if it’s the chiva,” he said, referring to the street name for heroin, “or the crappy air on those planes.”

  “Huh. That’s interesting because I would have thought…”

  He seemed pretty convinced, so I decided to let it go. At this point it was late. The Casanova was long closed and an incredible, warm, tired feeling had come over me.

  “Hey, man, thanks for coming over. I think I’m about to pass out, though.” I was suddenly very out of it, like everything was happening in slow motion.

  “No problem, I had a good time hanging out. I’ll stop by again some time,” he said, getting up to leave.

  I walked him to the door, and without taking off my clothes, went straight to bed. Lying there, teetering on the border of sleep, I became aware that something was definitely different now. There were still the muffled sounds from the residency hotel, the distant car alarms, and the rumbling of buses driving by, but there was also a strange sort of silence I had never noticed before.

  three

  The adventures and misdeeds of the boy and his brother on a dirt lot in New Mexico

  HEY, ORY…KYLE. Wake up, guys,” my mom was saying. I struggled to open my eyes. The transition to the real world was always jarring, but I could tell something was weird. The first thing I noticed was that the light was different from when Mom usually got us out of bed: it was coming from a lightbulb rather than outside. It was pitch-dark out, and a glance at the digital clock said it was 5:00 a.m. Kyle was already sitting up, and I managed to do the same.

  “Okay, guys, how would you like to take a trip to Santa Fe, New Mexico?” She said it as if we had won some sort of game-show prize, and we always fell for it. We were immediately wide-awake, jumping up and down on our beds with excitement. This was what we lived for. By the time other seven-year-olds were getting up to go to school, we would be in an airplane flying to Santa Fe.

  “All right then. The plane is leaving in two hours, so let’s pack up quick.” Kyle and I threw some clothes in a couple of duffel bags, and a few minutes later, we were ready to go.

  We flew into Albuquerque, rented a car, and drove up to Santa Fe. I still didn’t have a clue what we were doing there. I’m not sure if it even occurred to me to ask. As far as I knew, my mom had some sort of psychology workshop out here and we were just along for the ride. Our drive ended when we pulled into a dirt lot with one cinder-block building and five trailers scattered over the three-acre property. A sign at the entrance said Santa Fe Community School. A bald guy came out of a trailer and showed us around. Since we were closest to the cinder-block building, he took us there first. The hallway was no more than twenty feet long and separated a classroom that he said we didn’t need to worry about and a cafeteria that would be a good thing to remember since that’s where we would be getting our food. I was confused because he was clearly talking to Kyle and me, and neither of us knew much about psychology, or whatever it was my mom came out here for. We continued our tour around the property, but there really wasn’t a whole lot to see—mostly just dirt. The only other structure not on wheels (unless you counted the outhouses) was some kind of clubhouse that the students built out of scrap wood and old doors. Even though it was barely standing, Ed, the bald guy, was very proud of it.

  “You see, the way it works here is that if we just kind of stay out of it, the kids come up with these kinds of incredible projects on their own, and they have a much more meaningful experience that way than if they do something just because an adult tells them to,” Ed was saying, this time to my mom, which was a relief.

  “Likewise,” he continued, “we have the same attitude about the kids getting into trouble. For example, if all we do is lay down rules and regulations—well, you’re a parent, you know how smart kids can be—the kids don’t get to experience the consequences of right and wrong actions for themselves. They either see the rules as arbitrary and rebel against them, or even worse, they might just do what they’re told without questioning what’s behind it. Either way, they don’t get to experience that a wrong action can lead to negative consequences, and vice versa. The best way for a kid to learn is through experience.”

  My mom was beaming. “You really can’t believe how wonderful this is. I mean, you just said it. Kids learn through experience, not memorizing state capitals. I’ve always raised my kids like that. You know, when Oran was around three he would just start climbing around on everything, and, instead of telling him to get down or shame him for it, I would just lay down a few pillows and let him figure it out for himself. I mean, he’s either going to fall and not want to go up there again or he’s going to learn to be more careful next time. If I yell at him, all he learns to be afraid of is me.”

  “And that’s exactly how we approach the educational process here,” Ed said.

  They kept talking while he showed us the water pump and the outhouses. I had rarely seen my mom interact with someone so enthusiastically. Eventually, he led us to the only tree on the whole property and a trampoline just lying flat on the ground next to it. Trampolines were one of the few things that brought out something resembling visible excitement in me, and I was extremely disappointed that it wasn’t set up.

  “You want to jump on it?” Ed said to me. “Go ahead.”

  After all that talk of learning through experience and falling off things, I thought this was one of those lessons. As if I would go jump on a trampoline that was on the ground. There’s nothing like that sound your teeth make when you misjudge a jump, or think you have reached the bottom of a stairway only to find out there’s one more step.

  “Seriously, you can go jump on it if you want to. You can do whatever you want here.”

  “Yeah, Ory. You love trampolines. Go jump on it…if you want to,” she was quick to add. I’d never heard her say that last part before, so it must have been for Ed’s benefit.

  “But it’s not set up,” I said.

  “Yeah, where are the legs?” Kyle added.

  “Ah, you’ve never seen one like this before? There’s a big pit underneath. That way you don’t have as far to go if you fall off. Another example of what kids can come up with if you let them fall off a regular trampoline enough times.”

  That’s all we needed to hear. Both Kyle and I were racing to get there first. We were jumping around like maniacs, and as if to prove Ed’s theories on experiential education, after a number of midair collisions, we started taking turns. I was so consumed with trying to do a backflip, I didn’t realize that Ed and my mom had disappeared. By the time they returned, it was getting dark and I had come very close to landing the backflip a few ti
mes.

  “Hey, guys, come here. Let’s talk for a minute,” she said. “So what do you think of this place? It’s great, isn’t it? Do you want to spend the night here?”

  She was using her you-just-won-a-prize voice again. My mind was still consumed with the trampoline, or more specifically the proximity of the tree to the trampoline. It seemed that, if you gauged the jump just right, you could probably make it, but it was hard to tell where you would land afterward. If we spent the night, though, I could work out that problem the next day.

  “Okay, where are we staying?” I asked.

  “Well, you guys are going to stay in that trailer over there with a very nice woman named Carol. She’s getting a room ready for you now. I’m going to go get a hotel room, and I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

  “Why don’t we stay with you, and we can all come back in the morning?” I asked, confused about why we had to stay with a woman we had never met before.

  “Or you can stay here with us, Mom,” Kyle offered.

  “No, I can’t stay here, but I just thought you guys would rather stay here, where it’s fun, than come to the hotel where it’s boring.”

  She had this way of telling you what it was you were supposed to do without actually telling you to do it. The choice was apparently between fun and boredom, and as much as I just wanted to go to the hotel with my mom, I knew that the right answer was “fun.” As subtle as it may have seemed to an outside observer, I knew she wasn’t asking us; she was telling us.

  “Okay, guys? Let’s go meet Carol.”

  When we got to the trailer, our bags had already been taken in, confirming my suspicion that we never had a choice to begin with. After introducing us to this woman, Mom hugged us and went to the hotel. Carol must have been in her late thirties and had short sandy hair. She seemed nice, but also kind of uninterested in us.