I called the phone again & again & again but nobody answered. Then someone did. “Jeremy, you gotta stop calling here.” “Can I speak to Cindy?” “She’s not here.” “Where is she?” “She’s gone,” the voice said. “She left this afternoon. I think she went back to Albany. Her and Nicole.” I hung up. Before I could think of my next move, my fist plowed through the wall. And then again. And again. I was so furious. I called Ben. Only one thing could relax me. Only one thing had the power to change the world, to change everything, to make things better. This was my fault she had left. She had told me, she had really told me, that she loved me too much for her own good. And then what did I do, I drove her away. This was my fault. I bet she was booting up right now. Because of me. Because I drove her away. She’s probably holed up in some hotel room right now, shoving a needle into her arm. Again, I slammed my fist through the wall, just as Ben picked up. “Hey, man. Can you get me some crack? I need it bad.” He said: “I can’t. But my mom can. She’ll be home soon. Why don’t you come over.” I put on my shoes, grabbed my wallet and left. I went to the ATM machine downtown and took out 40 dollars. I headed up the hill. When I got there, his mom was home, with some guy I didn’t know. “I want a 40 bag,” I told them. “Sure,” she said. “Come with us,” he told me. We left the house and headed downtown, first past the library, then the Price Chopper and the Walmart and a series of bars and then the train tracks and we just kept going. She said to me: “Gimme the cash and wait here. I’ll be right back.” The guy was leering over his shoulder as they vanished behind a house. It was so dark out. I was nearly panting. I was so angry and distraught. That backstabbing bitch! Shit, what happened to love, anyway? Does anyone truly love anyone anymore? Nah, probably not. They came back and they handed me a bag. “Hey, man,” she said. “You gonna let us have some of that.” I shook my head. “C’mon, man,” he said. “It’s the right thing to do.” I started walking and then I was running. Back over the tracks. Back past Price Chopper and then Walmart. All the bars were closed now. The world was shut down. The night was dark and lonely and scary and I was almost home. Inside my dingy apartment I lit a cigarette and disposed of the ashes into my small, metal one-hitter. Soon, I would feel good. In fact, I would feel great. In fact………. I woke up when there was a knock at my door. I was wearing only my boxer shorts. I let Rusty in and he sat on my repurposed car seat.
“Dude, you woke me up.” “It’s 4 in the afternoon,” he told me. “Shit. Guess I slept all day.” He found my pipe on the coffee table. My coffee table that looked like a dick. “What the hell is this?” I rubbed my head. “Crack,” I told him. “I smoked crack last night.” He lit his lighter and held it over the pipe. Tried to take a hit. There must have been some resin left because he managed to pull a small amount of smoke into his lungs. “You ever smoked it before?” He held it in for a bit. Released. “Yeah, once. Dude, we gotta get some more.” “The people I got it from last night, they won’t sell to me today. Because I didn’t share any with them.” “I know someone we can call,” he said. “But I’m broke,” I told him. “Shit, me too. Do you have anything we can trade?” I looked around my small apartment. “I guess my XBOX 360, I barely use it anymore.” He made a phone call and offered to trade my 360 for some rock. The guy said he’d trade us eight ounces. Rusty told me: “He said he’d give us eight ounces.” My jaw dropped, Rusty looked hungry. “That’s a lot of crack,” I said. Rusty nodded. He said: “Do you know anyone with a car?” “Yeah, my ex-girlfriend Kaylin has one. She might give us a ride.” Rusty smiled. I called Kaylin. At first she said no, but when I told her I’d give her some weed she said yes. But what we didn’t know until we got there was, it was a misunderstanding. The guy thought we were buying weed for 360 dollars. Kaylin was pissed that we talked her into taking us to buy crack. I was pissed that we didn’t get crack. Rusty was thrilled that we at least got some weed and then we went back to my apartment and smoked it.
0 Comments
I hadn’t had a drink in about eight years, give or take. Next Saturday, that was to change. I was to have a drink. I took a medication called Antabuse which causes the drunk who takes the pills to get violently ill after inducing the smallest amount of alcohol. I couldn’t even put alcohol on my skin, or else I’d get a bad rash. They say alcoholism is an allergy—well, Antabuse makes it true. I was currently, literally—but not figuratively—allergic to alcohol in all its forms. Until I stopped taking the pill. But I would have to stop taking it for three days before I could drink again. That’s how it works. If you want to drink, you’ve gotta wait three days for the medication to leave your system, ideally giving the alcoholic time to have second thoughts about drinking again. I gave it five days, just to be on the safe side. Monday afternoon I told my therapist, my psychiatrist, my AA sponsor, even my life-skill’s coach, about my plan, and they all advised me against it. But I was determined. I went to the AA meeting that night, and I told everyone that I was going to drink again. I wasn’t going to keep this a secret—there was no point; they’d all know, anyway. Besides, you’re only as sick your secrets. So I put it out in the open. After the meeting, as I was still determined, as none of their shares really deterred me from what I wanted to do--what I was going to do—next Saturday, I went home and I stared at the Antabuse for what felt like the longest time ever, because in eight years I had not missed a day, and then swallowed my resolve and dumped the pills down the toilet and flushed. My heart pounded; my nerves vibrated. I was so excited, but nervous, but mostly excited, but slightly afraid, and I might have even forgotten what it felt like to be drunk…………. Come Saturday afternoon, I texted Adrian and said: “I’m gonna drink tonight, meet me at the Bean.”
He didn’t respond. I went to the Radio Bean, walked inside, and order a drink. A beer. Something cheap. Something to start the night smoothly. I was nervous. I thought they wouldn’t even sell to me. Everyone who works here, who hangs out here, knows me, and they’ve never served me anything other than coffee or tea. They must know I was in recovery. I used to live above this joint and everyone knew I was in recovery, and they probably wouldn’t even serve me but, Gawd, I hope they do. The waitress was short, with blond hair, big boobs, big blue eyes. She was one of those hipster coffee house chicks who tried to dress Punk but didn’t quite pull it off, in her tattered fishnet tights, and ratty denim miniskirt. She brought me the beer and I paid. Then I went outside and sat on the patio. Set the drink on the table and lit a cigarette. Stared at it. Took a drag. Watched the foam bubbling over. Took a drag. This was too much. I gripped the beer and let my hand really absorb the coolness coming from the glass, and tipped it to my lips and sipped. It was bittersweet, the foam and my lips becoming one as the liquid eased into my mouth and flopped and splashed around my tongue and descended my throat and a familiar warmness settled inside my stomach, festering like a heated blanket on a cold winter day. I was set. I took another sip and my limbs loosened. Another sip. My mind expanded. I saw a guy I knew from AA. I set the beer on the table, wiped the foam from my upper lip, and hurried over. I hadn’t drunk in a while and the ground was starting to seesaw and my body was rocking as I said: “Hey, man.” I chuckled. “Hey.” “Where you off to?” I queried. “Going to an AA meeting, you should come.” “Can’t,” I said, as I noticed some friends scramble onto the patio. “I’m drinking.” He looked disappointed. “What’s going on?” “Naw, I just needed to try something different.” “Haven’t you tried this before? And before?” “But this time is different,” I said. He glared at me, smiled, and said: “Okay, but if you need to talk, you know where to find me.” He left me and I hurried over to the patio and sat down and continued to drink my beer. Gemma was there and a few others. Gemma said: “Hey, I thought you didn’t drink.” “I didn’t,” I told her, taking another sip. It tasted and felt good. When I finished the whole beer, I got up and hurried inside. This time I ordered a shot of whiskey with my beer. I downed the shot and went back outside, with the beer in my hand. Gemma said: “You going to Waking Windows?” “Sure, when is it?” “Tonight,” she said. “All of us,” gesturing to the four guys she was with, “are going.” “I’ll go,” I said. I drank more and then saw Adrian stumble in. He said: “I heard you were drinking tonight.” I nodded. “Didn’t want to miss this for a minute. Let me buy you a drink.” When the sun went down, we called an Uber Plus and took it to Winooski, and since no one had any money other than what we spent on the booze we were carrying on our persons, we all sat on the grass outside the gates. We were on a hill and from this vantage point we could hear the music and just barely make out the nearest band. Gemma passed me a bottle. “What’s this?” I asked her. “Tequila, have some.” It tasted sweet as it sweltered in the darkest part of my stomach. I saw the guy from AA, who I saw earlier, stroll past us. He came over. He knew most of us in this group. He was laughing with us, but he wasn’t drinking. I was a little nervous about drinking hard liquor in front of a fellow AA-goer, but who gives a shit? Tonight we were partying. I downed some more of the tequila. A car picked us up and drove us down to the river and we sat there and drank beers, chucking our empty bottles at fish. A guy sat on the picnic table strumming his guitar. I wrote a poem. I felt good. Adrian started acting weird. He was pretty fuckin shitfaced. I said: “Maybe we should start walking back to Burlington.” He nodded, and stumbled, and I grabbed him, and we went. The streets were dark and cold and cars buzzed past us. It was only a 30-minute walk from here. I turned around and Adrian was gone. Fuck it. I kept going. A car pulled up to me and it was Scott. He said: “Do you want a ride?” “Okay.” I got in the car and sat beside Tom. There was some girl I didn’t know riding shotgun. I told them I was drunk. They all could tell. They all laughed. They drove me back to the Radio Bean and I got out and started walking home. I passed Nectar’s and decided to have one final drink, when I saw Wyatt and someone else eating at some table there and I walked in and joined them. I ordered myself some chicken tenders and a beer. Wyatt said: “Wait, what?” I said: “It’s okay, I’m already drunk.” He was grinning. Then he looked away and continued talking to his friend like I wasn’t there. After I finished my chicken tenders, I went home. I resolved that tomorrow night I would do the right thing; I would get drunk again. To be continued…. Can’t remember exactly how Burt and I had met. He’s a poet, too. I was fairly new to Burlington and I attracted a small group of people, all of whom were complete strangers before I arrived, and now we’re just acquaintances as life had surpassed our time together. First it was Jared. We had met outside of the Radio Bean. He's an amazing photographer and he showed me some of his Instagram photos. We also exchanged phone numbers. We got along quite well. The following night he called me and asked if he could crash at my place. It was raining and he was camping out on the beach that summer and I said yeah he can spend the night. I didn’t know him very well so like most nights I stayed up to make sure I didn’t find myself ripped off in the morning. Not that I had anything worth stealing at the time. That was when we became good friends. Next was Mike. Jared and I were outside talking about how the world would burn one day and Mike chimed in. He told us that he liked where this conversating was heading. And then from there, the conversation flowed. Sometimes I would sit outside of the Bean all by myself and share poetry with strangers and talk about dark, nihilistic subjects and very few people were intrigued. But Mike and Jared were. So the three of us hung out most nights. One night, I think it was Mike, asked us if his coworker could come along on our venture. Neither Jared nor I cared, so Burt joined us that night. He was a poet, and he asked me if I could help him put together his book. I said I would. The following day I met him at the library and when we were done with our session, we walked around together. He and I had quite a bit in common. He was camping out in some graveyard, which I would never do by myself. I think Chuck was staying in his tent too, although I can’t be sure. I brought Burt to Monday night Lit Club and he read his poetry and it was damn good. Very visual. I remember sitting in the park with him and it started to pour. Like really pour. We ducked under a tall tree and stayed completely dry. Most people were scrambling for real solid cover, but Burt was like: Let’s stand under that tree. I never thought a tree would provide so much protection from the rain, but it did. There were lots of other trees there too and no one even thought to commandeer one for themselves. So Burt and I hung out quite a bit for a whole week straight, probably every day, and we’d just walk all over the place and talk about stuff, some conversations were deep and meaningful and others were shallow and pointless. Then Burt decided to leave, I think to New Mexico or something. We continued to talk for a bit after he had left, via Facebook and Facebook Messenger, but eventually the amount we talked started to dwindle and fade away and now we are back to being strangers. It’s just amazing sometimes, the people you get to know closely in life. All the people who’ve touched you in some way or another. All the people you remember and will probably never forget.
After school I took the bus up Mass Ave. but stayed in Arlington and got off downtown. All the storefronts were filled with shoppers. It was a Friday afternoon in spring and the cobblestone atrium was littered with townies, students, and yuppies. In front of the Starbucks were outdoor tables and people were sipping coffee and typing up their novels under the sun. I walked past the shoppers till I got to the street where the residential Harry was staying at was. I had met Harry at a different, more short-term residential program called CIP, also located in Arlington, right up the street from his current residential and even farther down the street from my school. I didn’t live in Arlington, and neither did he. We both lived in Newton even though we met in Arlington and we kept ending up in Arlington. The residential he was staying at, similarly to the one at which we had met, was just one big house, sort of a mansion. When I got there, there was an older guy in his early 20s sitting outside talking to a girl about my age. I told them I was here for Harry. The guy said he would go in and tell him I was here. While I waited, the teenage girl asked me if I was a Punk. She must have noticed my blue hair. I said: “I guess.” She asked me: “Are you like nice Punks or A Clockwork Orange Punks?” Harry came out. I smiled at her. Harry said: “We’re about as nice as they come.” The guy, who I presume was one of the staff members, told Harry to be back before 10. Harry nodded and said he would. We hopped back on the bus and headed into Harvard Square, where we met up with Jeff and then found a homeless man to buy us a handle of the cheapest vodka. The vodka he came out with was Cossack. Then the three of us got back on the bus and headed back into Arlington and got off downtown. One of us went into the CVS and got a bottle of Sunny Delight and we poured out half the bottle and poured in as much vodka as we could. The show we were going to was at the Knights of Columbus and we sat on benches on the cobblestone atrium and passed the bottle and watched the people till it was time to go to the show. Then I vomited in some toilet. Harry was trying to revive me while someone was yelling at us telling us to get the fuck out of here. I vomited some more. I was sitting on a bench and the cop said: “Is he okay?” Jeff told the cop I have an inner ear infection. I rolled off the bench and fell on the ground. Then Jeff carted me around town on his shoulder. On the way to school the following Monday morning, I had a vague recollection of stashing the rest of the vodka in the bushes somewhere outside the Knights of Columbus.
So I took the bus a little farther down and got off downtown and headed over there. The bottle was in the bushes, just like I had remembered. I drank enough to feel good and then went to school. Of course, I showed up to Math class 30 minutes late and the teacher angrily smacked a worksheet down in front of me. I started to fill it out and then read the top of the page and yelled: “Fuck it’s a test!” The whole class laughed. Next class was English and afterwards the teacher asked to speak to me in the hall. I knew she knew I was drunk. But to my surprise, she told me this was my best class yet. That’s when my guidance counselor came and got me and said they wanted to give me a sobriety test. I failed it. I couldn’t walk a straight line. But I did ace the Math test which was probly the best I did all year. I was outside the venue smoking a cigarette. Samantha said: “Firework!” and flicked her lit cigarette butt at me and the cherry kissed my chin before it fell to the ground. She laughed. When she was looking away, I said: “Firework!” and flicked my lit cigarette butt at her and it hit her in the chest and rolled into her bra and she howled. I laughed. And then I heard it———--
“We are … the league!” The Anti-Nowhere League was up. I pushed my way through the mob and burst through the door. I saw the band onstage. Animal held the microphone in his hand, while the rest of the band bathed in the screeching feedback of the guitar. I hurried across the venue and when I reached the front I grabbed the stage and hoisted myself up. The guitarist started in. I stood up there staring off into the crowd. The drums kicked in and their singer, Animal, passed me the mike and right on cue, I began: “Another boring night and I’m feeling pissed My head’s fucked up and I’m in a mess Too many drugs, they make me high I wanna cause havoc, I wanna die.” And then leapt into the swarming mob…. I swung around, and, as I was about to dive into the pit, two hands grabbed me from behind, spun me around, and I was facing off with some buff hardcore kid in a white T-shirt. He shouted at me: “You split my lip.” I said: “I can’t hear you.” Gesturing to the looming monitors, I repeated: “Dude I can’t hear you. The music’s too loud.” He said even louder now: “You split my fuckin lip.” I couldn’t help but laugh. He said: “Don’t do that again!” I pushed past him and reached the front again and started to pogo. My arms swinging. Two hands grabbed me again. Spun me around and his fist smashed into my teeth. I laughed again. I was bleeding, and I was laughing. He grimaced and walked away just as someone from behind me said: “Keep doing what you’re doing, everyone here’s got your back.” Outside the venue, Samantha asked that me, Andrew, and Ben give Katie a ride home since her dorm was on our way and not on hers. We said we would. When we arrived at Katie’s dorm, Andrew suggested we go in too. Katie said: “No, don’t.” I said: “Yeah, let’s do it.” Katie said: “Please don’t.” Andrew said: “Fine, it’s settled. We’re going in.” We all followed Katie through the door and up the stairs. When we entered her common room there was a girl crying on the couch and Andrew asked Katie if she had any beer. I said: “What’s wrong with her?” gesturing to the girl on the couch. Katie told us: “Her boyfriend just broke up with her.” Ben said: “Maybe we should just go.” Andrew said: “Not till we get some beer.” I said: “Why’d your boyfriend break up with you?” She stood up and went into her own room and slammed the door shut. Andrew asked: “Um, beer?” Katie said: “Guys, get out of here!” Ben said: “Yeah, you guys are being assholes. Let’s just go.” I was laughing. So we left. But we didn’t leave empty-handed. Down the stairs was a door left ajar, and we snuck in and found boxes of pizza that were half-eaten and beer and then we left. And then I got lost in the parking lot…. This wasn’t the first time I met Lacey. Last time, I met her briefly as Andrew whisked her away under his arm. Somehow, though, after everything that had happened that night—getting tanked, breaking into a sex shop and stealing a bondage belt and selling it for five dollars, breaking into a car and stealing the stereo but tossing it into a dumpster, verbally assaulting the cop standing outside the show all because of the frightful phone call I got where these two strange guys said they were the police and they were going to rape my girlfriend, and finally, getting jumped by those two guys, getting ignored by the same cop as I laid there bleeding out of my ears, nose, and mouth, getting up and lumbering on the train, going home, and thrusting a knife through all four tires of Samantha’s car, because she was the one who had set me up, and then plopping on the curb and crying myself into a red-eyed prune———after all that, I woke up with someone else’s cellphone in my pocket. I received a phone call on my landline from Samantha checking if I was okay and she said when she called my cellphone, someone named Lacey picked up. So, after Samantha’s mom drove her over to my house to pick up her car with its four flattened tires, and I sat in the backyard crying and feeling rather foolish, I hopped on the train to Fenway and exchanged cellphones with Lacey. No one would have foreseen her being my next girlfriend. In fact, she said she would never in a million years hook up with me because I was a scumbag. The next time I saw her was a month later, when Lethal Erection played for a rowdy crowd at the Midway Café. I spotted her first and she was staring adoringly at Andrew as he plucked & thrummed his weapon of mass destruction. Song after song flew past the night like a radioactive hawk. We rode the waves of heavy Punk rock riffs and knockout drumbeats and of course the lyrics meant something a little more than dribble. When we were all done, Andrew and I hopped down from the stage and she ran over and greeted Andrew first and then me. When she heard we were playing, she just had to see. I went over to the bar and ordered myself a drink. Over by the door was Fishface talking to a bouncer—we called her Fishface because, well, her face looked like a fish. She was the usual girl to take our money before we entered the venue. The crowd was pouring onto the street. Laughing and talking. The air was filled with the buzzing static of happy Punk rock chatter. I drank my drink while Andrew and Lacey spoke somewhere behind me, then the three of us left and passed through the mob of smiling derelicts. The bar would be closing soon and we had to find an alternate refuge. It was Saturday night in the city. We drank all night, from bar to bar, alleyway to alleyway, streetcorner to streetcorner, passing bums and winos, hookers and addicts, talking to the riffraff skaters and goths, mingling with gutter pirates and the other street Punks we’d find, seeing college boys stumble and stagger, swaggering college girls throwing up over the curb, latching onto the boys with their pumps and their cleavage. The night was raw and on fire; we found our adventure and we lived it. At 2AM we went to crash at Lacey’s college dorm. She went to Emanuel College, right around the corner from the Fenway train station. We had to wait till 2AM because we wouldn’t be able to get past the RAs sitting downstairs if we had gotten there any earlier. The RAs were off duty at 2AM. We stormed into the elevator raucously and you could have heard the laughter traveling through the shaft all the way to the roof and if you heard it, you better fuckin move, because we were belligerent, too. The doors slid open on her floor and we whisked on through and I rapped my knuckles on all the doors leading to her room. Lacey told me to stop and Andrew had reached the epoch of mania as he laughed and egged me on. Andrew had to pee so we barreled drunkenly into the coed bathroom. I climbed on to the top of a stall and sat on the half wall and began chucking toilet paper at Andrew. At this point Lacey had given up all restraint because she knew there was no point in trying to stop what we were doing and she started laughing too. A girl moseyed out of the shower with a towel wrapped around her and when she saw the riotous commotion she ducked back into the stall and I laughed so hard I nearly fell down from my perch. We left the bathroom and the hysterical buzz was vibrant and we defied every rule there was. Back at Lacey’s dorm I tried on Lacey’s clothing. I was skinny as a snake and I fit right into her fishnet stockings and skirt and I sat at the windowsill smoking cigarettes as the two of them made out on the bed. I climbed onto the bed to join them but Lacey cringed and put a hand up to block my advances and Andrew was laughing so hard the bed was shaking. I climbed up onto the top bunk and found a wrapped present and asked Lacey if this was hers; she told me it was her roommate’s and I should not open it. I told her it was too late. I had already opened it. It was a book about nature. I grimaced and chucked it on the floor. Andrew and Lacey screwed on the bed as I searched her room for some food. I couldn’t find any. In the morning I woke up covered in lipstick. Lacey told us we had to smoke outside. She wasn’t drunk anymore, so now she was laying down the law. When we came back from our smoke, she was so mad at us and we couldn’t figure out why. She kicked us out immediately and the streets were cold and windy and we waited outside the nearest liquor store for it to open. At some point during the night, since Lacey and I lived so close to each other, we exchanged phone numbers. I can’t remember who called who first but for the next three weeks we hung out every day.
One night we were riding the train home and by the door was an older Punk rocker with spikes and leather and dyed hair. We sparked up a conversation with him and he invited us to his place to smoke weed and drink more. This was probably the coldest night that winter, and we were on the last train already, I explained. He said it was fine, we can crash at his place. I looked at Lacey and she nodded in approval and we got off somewhere in Allston. The cold air was brutal. We stayed tucked close together as we lumbered after the older Punk rocker. Steam wafted from our mouths. Our boots left prints on the sidewalk. We were shivering. When we got there, he opened the door and the two of us rushed inside to escape the cold. We sat on the couch and it was just us two and this older Punk rocker we didn’t know. He went into the next room to get the weed and then he came back and said his girlfriend called, we had to get going. But what are we supposed to do? I looked at Lacey and she looked at me and shrugged. I looked at the older Punker rocker and he said sorry, dude. But you guys can’t be here right now. We were back in the cold. There were no trains anymore. Our ears and finger were so numb they stung. With our hands tucked deep in our pockets, we trudged back to the train, but really we had nowhere we could go. We’d probably die out here, when Lacey pointed and said look! Someone had left their backdoor ajar, and almost on cue we hustled across the backyard and we didn’t take any chances as we dashed through the door, closing it softly behind us. We were in the basement and it was dark and cold—but not as cold as outside—and smelt of mildew and mold and there were spiderwebs hung from corners with nasty-looking spiders waiting for their chance to strike. We sat on the cold concrete floor and pressed our backs to the wall behind us. We each had a flannel shirt tied to our waists and we used them as blankets as we shook. The radiator was down there and all we could hear was a buzz and a rustle and a scrape as it shot hot air into the house above us. At some point we heard screaming come from upstairs—a domestic dispute. We sat down there and chain-smoked, trying to make out what the fight was all about. We were so cold we held each other tight to keep warm; then started making out. Every day for the past three weeks we hung out—now, Lacey asked me to be her boyfriend and I said I would…. I was walking alone. I was dirty. Scared. I wanted to die so badly. I thought about how I would do it. It would be so easy, too. The day before, my band got back together with a whole new lineup. It was originally me, Jeremy, DP, and Harry. Now, it would be me, Andrew, Bill, and Samantha. I was so excited to play again. Even more excited to see Samantha again. We were broken up now. Around the same time the band went on hiatus, our love story fell to ashes.
The practice was at our new drummer Bill’s house in New Hampshire, and since Andrew, who I had met a few weeks earlier in college, lived in Haverhill, MA, right on the border of Massachusetts and New Hampshire, I would ride the train to Haverhill and Andrew would pick me up and drive us to practice. I arrived in Haverhill with my backpack full of new song lyrics, a microphone, half a bottle of Jack, and a small bag of coke. I looked around the lot but there was no sign of Andrew. In the corner of my eye a red pickup truck backed out of its spot, turned slightly, and then gunned it at me full force. My nerves were on overdrive. I dashed out of its path. The truck stopped there, and the passenger door popped open. I looked up into the cabin, and saw it was Andrew. In the first leg of the drive, I turned to him and said: “Mind if I drink?” He said: “Not at all.” Pulled a bottle of Jäger out from behind the seat and took a hit. I removed the bottle of Jack from my backpack and did the same. The cocaine, on the other hand, I was saving for Samantha. I owed her, and I was to woo her back to me today. But after I was all lubed up with the whiskey I was sipping, it slipped out of me. I said: “You ever done coke?” He looked at me and smiled. “Nah, why?” “I got some if you wanna try it when we get there.” “Yeah, definitely,” he said. And so it was settled. I asked Bill when we got there if he’d ever done coke and he said he had, so I didn’t feel obligated to share any with him. But really, I just didn’t like Bill. I liked Andrew, though. Andrew was fun. We huddled in the bathroom and I made lines and we alternated hits. Samantha still wasn’t there. She was running late, she told me. Boy would she be psyched to see what I brought her. Too bad there wasn’t too much left by the time she finally got there. Practice was fun. We wrote new songs and played them. Afterwards, Andrew and Bill drove out to some hardcore show in New Hampshire. Samantha offered to give me a ride home. We stopped in Harvard Square on the way. I remember this day the crowd was sitting behind the entrance to the train station, against the slanted wall. We were among them. Tanya was there too. Since Samantha and I had broken up, Tanya had been my new plaything. One night I met Tanya in Harvard Square and she and I bought a bottle and sat on the front steps of some church and talked. She had a really annoying New York City accent. She was a philosophy major and she said my ideas reminded her of those similar to Nietzsche. One thing led to another and we made out on those steps. Another night she and I went to a show at Regeneration Records and it was raining that night and she pushed me into the mud behind the venue, mounted me, and screamed that she was a lion, biting me and scratching. Little did I know, she had been falling for me, but I had my sights on Samantha and Samantha only. She was just someone I was having fun with till I got back together with Samantha. This would be the first night she met Samantha and Samantha invited Tanya to come down to the river with us. The three of us hung out down by the river. Tanya kept her eyes on me, I kept my eyes on Samantha, Samantha kept her eyes on the bottle. It was the classic love triangle. The night progressed and Tanya’s jealousy took on a drunken low. She started yelling, getting belligerent, knocking over trashcans. She didn’t want it to seem as though she was in love with me, but it was obvious by this point. The trains stopped running at around 1AM and it was 2AM and Samantha was planning to drive me home. We were about to leave but Tanya was a complete lovesick mess. Samantha said to me: “Maybe you should help her get home.” “Why don’t you just give us both a ride?” “I can’t,” she told me. “My mom would be worried about me.” “Then how are we supposed to get her home if the trains stopped running.” Tanya lived in Summerville, I lived in Newton. “You can walk there with her,” she suggested. “Just make sure she gets there safe.” “But then how am I supposed to get home? I can’t walk from Summerville to Newton, that would take all night.” Tanya interjected: “You can crash with me?” She was beaming. So that’s what I did. The two of us walked to Summerville together. When we got there, her grandmother was still awake, waiting for her to get home. Tanya opened the door and brought me inside. She asked her grandmother if I could crash here. “No,” her grandmother said. “No way.” “Please.” “No,” she said again. “He’s dirty. He’s probably got diseases.” Tanya turned to me and said: “You can sleep in my backyard. I’ll sleep out there with you.” The ground was wet and muggy and we lay there together and fooled around and first thing when the sun came up, I walked to the Davis Square train station all alone. I was so depressed. Crashing from cocaine and hungover. I was dirty and gross. I wanted to die. And it would be so easy…. I was leaning on her shoulder. She was my rock. My source of comfort. She looked over at me and said: “Why do you always gotta lean on me like that? It’s annoying.” There was a group of us there; they were her friends, not mine, and they only tolerated me because I was her boyfriend.
We went to a party. I drank probably too much. When I arrived at the party, I could barely stand. Someone gave me some pills; I took them without a moment’s thought. I was intent on escaping, what? … something or another. I couldn’t stand myself, my shadow, my reflection—it was all so repulsive. When she found me in the next room, faced buried in a rag, as I sprayed Axe Body Spray up through the rag and into my mouth and took an epic huff that turned the floor into waves and my thoughts were skipping beats, she was pissed. She stormed out of the room and I stormed after her. She left the party in a rage, and I stopped her on the sidewalk. “Where are you going?” She stopped and turned and glared at me hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she spat. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” “It’s what I’m good at,” I told her. It’s all I’m good at.” “What are you talking about?” “I’m not good at anything,” I explained. “I can’t do anything right. My mind is a growing void.” She said: “You’re not making any sense.” “I’m too smart,” I went on. “I’m too fuckin smart for my own fuckin good. I need to dumb myself down. Maybe people will like me better. Maybe I will like myself better. Maybe I won’t care.” She hurried off into the night. I followed. “Go away!” she spat at me. “I mean it, I’m not interested in what you got to say.” “I can’t even make you love me!” I said to her back as she kept walking, and then she was gone, and I was alone, holding in one hand a damp rag and in the other hand a can of Axe Body Spray. A few weeks ago an old friend of mine—his name is Pat—sent me an old picture of a crew of us hanging out at maybe 18 years of age. Guess he was feeling very nostalgic because he kept talking about the band, the times, the friends, the places we went, the things we did, sending me the pictures we took. I don’t know what was happening in his life to have spawned such a series of old memories flashing through his mind like that. Then he mentioned Andrew. “Have you talked to Andrew in a while?” he said. “No. I haven’t spoken to him in about eight years, give or take.” “Me, neither. But if I hear from him I’ll let you know.” As if I’d been waiting all my life to hear from Andrew again, as if I had this unyielding desire to see what became of him—truth is, I kind of did, but even so, I played it cool. “You do that,” I told him. Andrew and I were best friends and I missed him….
The following day, I went up with Michelle and her daughter to stay the week at Michelle’s grandparents. In the car Pat kept sending me pictures and I just kept responding with “Cool.” “Cool,” I kept saying. “Cool,” was all I could say. I didn’t know what else to say other than “Cool.” The next night I received some unsettling news. “I finally heard what happened to Andrew,” he said. “Andrew’s dead.” “What? How?” “I don’t know. Curtis stopped responding and I messaged Rachel and I’m still waiting for a response.” I was heartbroken. I didn’t know what to do. Rachel is his wife—or was his wife, last I heard—so I went to message her myself. A few minutes later my phone rang. I was sitting beside Michelle and we were watching a TV show on the computer, while my mind was racing about the endless horrors of what had become of Andrew. Since I rarely get any phone calls except from Michelle and she was right next to me, I was shocked. So I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Rachel calling me, via Facebook Messenger. I answered immediately and she was frantic. She told me Andrew is not dead, he’s out with his mom now. He’s been having a really rough time, what with the recent deaths of his dad and his grandfather, both of whom he was very close to. He was sober for a while, she told me, but now he’s using again. She’s really concerned about him. She heard I was married now. Every now and then she and Andrew would go and look me up on Facebook and reminisce about the “good ol’ days”; and she saw that I got married. And since I was sober, she had no problem giving me his number. Immediately I texted Andrew: Hey, Andrew. This is Jeremy St. Chaos. I miss you. Call me. I expected an immediate response, but after no response came for the next half hour, all the usual self-doubts descended upon me. Maybe I should have elaborated more. Maybe I should have said something different. He’ll be so confused when he gets this text, I probly just screwed up any chances of reconnecting. What was I thinking? This was useless. He probly doesn’t miss me at all. There’s no way these feelings are mutual. He knew my Facebook, even though he didn’t have a Facebook himself; I’m friends with his wife on Facebook, so he could have contacted me there. Rachel thinks I’m doing well, which is the only reason she gave me his number. What if I’m not doing as well as she thinks? What if I say the wrong thing? What if I make matters worse? Fuck it anyway, it’s probly best he doesn’t write back. I’ve gone this long without contacting him, maybe it was best it remain this way; maybe it would be best he stay dead in my mind. Fuck it, I told myself. A couple hours later, between 11:30 and 12, I received a text back: Is this really Jeremy? Yeah, it’s me. I’ve probably already said the wrong thing. I get off work in half an hour I’ll call you in about 45 minutes. I checked the time. I’m pretty tired. I might be asleep by then. You can call me tomorrow, I guess. I’ll be on the road all day tomorrow. Shit. This was a mistake, I knew. So we texted each other. When I told him I was married, he said: “Man you really changed for the worse.” I assumed he already knew I was married; Rachel did, anyway. He asked me: “Do you still listen to rock & roll?” I told him: “No. I listen to classical. You know, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart.” “Seriously?” “I’m just fucking with you, dude. Of course I still listen to rock. I haven’t changed that much.” “Do you still use drugs?” “No.” “Then it’s probably not a good idea we hang out.” I thought he was sober—at least for a little while—as Rachel had told me. I was really disappointed. I mean, I was so thrilled to finally reconnect with him, that I was crushed to find out he was the same-old Andrew. After a short while of text message silence, I wrote: Well, it was good to hear from you. Glad you’re not dead. Haha. Yeah same it was good to hear from you too. Later. Later. I felt so crushed. I thought this would have been good. But I guess it was good—too good to be true, in fact. The following day I received a text from him. It was a song by Hank Williams, Jr., called “All My Rowdy Friends (Have Settled Down)”. Very funny, I thought. I sent him Patrik Fitzgerald’s song “All My Friends Are Dead”. Well, this was it; this was all we had in common now: our musical interests. For the next three to four days we shared bands via text message; I shared him my writing, sent him my book The Gospel of Chaos, and he wired me 25 dollars on the Cash App in exchange. I was thrilled he showed an interest; I knew he would like the book. He suggested a book to me called Death of Cool: From Teenage Rebellion to the Hangover of Adulthood, a novel, and I immediately ordered it on Amazon. He said I would like it, and it seemed good to me. Right up my alley. When The Gospel of Chaos came in the mail for him, he took a picture and sent it to me so that I knew he got it. Then he went to work. While he was at work, I sent him a prose poem I had written a while ago called “A Rebel’s Paradise”, which I knew he would like—I knew he would be able to relate. He didn’t write back till the following morning though, when we had a brief back and forth about reverse racism, political correctness, pandering to the masses, etc.—in response to me sending him that piece. We agreed with each other pretty much 100% of the time. Then things got weird. He told me that he was glad to hear from me again but he would have been just as happy not hearing from me at all. It didn’t make a difference to him. Where was this coming from? He accused me of thinking that he was only saying what he was saying to impress me. He was not trying to impress me; this was who he was and these are the things he thought and felt. “I don’t think you’re trying to impress me,” I assured him. He said I reminded him of the depressed Jeremy who used to patronize everyone about this and that before practice. Where the hell was this coming from???? I was so confused. “What are you talking about?” I had no idea how things turned out this way. He was clearly paranoid. He told me he worked long hours and I figured he must have had a bad day at work. He wrote: You do you and I’ll do me. I said: Have you been working all night? Nothing. No response. I guess this moved too fast; I always move into things too fast. No. I take that back : : : I always dive into the freezing cold water headfirst. No holding back, I just leap and crash into the water with no regrets and I figure I’ll find out the temperature once I’m immersed in it. That’s what I did; that’s what I always do. And then I’m always surprised that lately none of my friendships seem to be sustainable. But still, I hope he reads my book, anyway. I know he’ll like it. But then again, I bet he just threw it in the trash and said fuck that asshole! When the book Death of Cool came in the mail for me, I debated sending him a picture of it just so he knew I was taking him seriously, but then just decided to let it die. There really was nothing here; nothing good could have come from this—it would only drag me into a hole that would take years to climb out of. 50 miles down the hill, 50 miles back up/// When I hadn’t seen him in some time, and he was suddenly married, it made sense that something was up. He was fat, and even though he always bragged about his nine-inch pecker, a previous girlfriend of his told me he lied and his penis fell just short of average.
So when I found out Ben was married, at first I couldn’t believe it. I had to meet this new chick. My own girlfriend, Lacey from LA, was out with some friends that night, so I drove myself to Ben and Christy Boyd’s Section 8 apartment in Wellesley, MA. His apartment was located behind a used car lot. I parked in a Dunkin Donuts parking lot. It was still daylight when I got there. As I’d never seen his new apartment, he agreed to meet me outside the Dunkin Donuts. I saw him there, and he waved me over. “Long time no see,” he said. I smiled. “Wait till you meet her,” he said. I nodded. We cut through a line of thick, bushy trees and entered a patchy field. His building was three-stories. We walked through the field and came to the residents-only parking lot and he punched in the passcode and the door buzzed and I followed him in. Up on the second floor was where he lived. On the way, we passed his neighbor just leaving and Ben said: “This is Frankie.” “Sup,” said Frankie. I nodded. “Frankie’s a major pot head,” said Ben. “Cool,” I said. “So you two must have a lot in common, then.” I chuckled. We entered his apartment and that’s when I met Christy. Christy was kinda chubby, with short orange hair. As always, Ben was loaded with booze and we drank the booze and chatted and laughed. Eventually Frankie came over and we smoked pot in his water bong. Everything was real crazy and details went missing like slots of time had vanished and I sat on the beanbag chair and Ben and Frankie sat on the couch as Christy lay on the floor beside me. She kept smiling at me and we might have even been flirting and Ben had no idea. Eventually I decided to leave. But of course, Christy wanted me to stay. “Please stay,” she said, grasping my arm. “I really gotta go.” “Please!” “I’ll see you again some other time.” I left. I went down the stairs, through the front door, around the building, through the trees, and I came out surrounded by cars. There were cars everywhere. I wandered left and right, back and forth, searching for my own car. It was almost impossible with all these other cars everywhere. I sat down on the grass and stared off into the sky. The stars were like pixels and the sky was moving like TV static. Fuck! I had no idea where I was. I stared off into the sky for a moment longer, until I looked to my left and saw the Dunkin Donuts sign and I remembered that was where I had parked my car. I staggered between the rows of various used vehicles until I reached the end of the used car lot and I hopped into my own car and left. When I got home, I called Lacey. I was shitfaced. I could have just told her the truth about what had happened, but for some reason—I don’t know why I did it—I lied to her. I said: “I met Ben’s new wife tonight.” “How is she?” Lacey asked me. “We had sex,” I told her. “What??” Lacey was furious. I was hammered. I went through the kitchen and started to head downstairs, when I tripped and slammed my face through the wall at the bottom. I lay there in a heap of discomfort. My dad must have heard the noise, because I saw him at the top of the stairs, looking down at me. He shook his head in disapproval and then he was gone. The next day, Lacey came over to drop off some stuff I had left at her dorm. She was going to break up with me. But when she walked in the door, first thing she saw was my face. It was covered in bruises and cuts and dried-on blood. “Jesus!” she said. I told her the truth about what had happened—now that I was sober and much more rational. For some reason she forgave me for what I had done…. |
Archives
January 2024
Categories
All
|