I’m walking alone through the Everett suburbs. Honestly I don’t know where I’m walking. My band just played a show at the Warehouse, and now I’m shitfaced. I’m walking and I see a bunch of college-age kids standing outside their house drinking beers and I ask for one. This guy hands me a beer. Then Samantha pulls up to me in her car.
“What are you doing back here?” I ask. “I couldn’t remember how to get home,” she says. “But you left half an hour ago.” “I’ve been driving in circles. I haven’t drunk like this in two months, I don’t know what I’m doing. Can you drive me at least to your house and I’ll probly be better by then and I’ll drive the rest of the way home?” “But you’re a way better drunk-driver than me.” “Please,” she says. She must really be drunk; she never lets me drive her car. She gets out of her car and goes around and hops in the passenger-side. I sidle behind the wheel with the beer in my hand. I can’t remember which side the gas is on. Here goes nothing….
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“Mind if I have a beer?” I asked the big skinhead with the bulbus beer gut. “Only if you do one thing for me,” he said. I nodded. “What’s that?” “Talk to people,” he said. “Socialize. Don’t just sit in the fuckin corner like a fuckin leper.” This was it; it was called A Touch of Class. An abandoned house where the Punks and Skins went to get trashed. Jeff Turner had brought me here. I first met Randy at the free Toxic Narcotic show at the Axis. I’d seen him at other shows but this was the first time I met him in person. Jeff, Harry, and I went to the show together. It was being filmed and I licked the lens of the camera as they filmed the crowd standing in line waiting to go in. In the final production they did not use that footage after all, but they did catch me standing there like a boring buffoon. Just standing there. I was at the front of the line and I was the first one to notice the guy with the camera emerge from inside the big black doors. Usually this venue had many buff, angry bouncers standing around, making sure no one stage-dived—although that never stopped us—making sure no one was high on drugs, making sure no one danced in the pit with studded jackets, spiked collars, lock-&-chains around their necks. Tonight Toxic Narcotic had rented out the place for their 15-year anniversary and they removed the barriers between the band and the crowd, making it so much easier to stage-dive, and got rid of the bouncers, too———it was just us kids. Jeff Turner was caught on camera numerous times leaping from the stage and surfing the upraised hands that brought him to the back of the venue in a fluid, sequential motion. Personally I did not enjoy this show as much as others, because I felt that the crowd was rather divided. There were cliques formed and it was quite boring. As I left the show, down the street from the venue, Harry, Punk Rock Pete, and I were walking and then we were stopped immediately by this large, muscular skinhead who I later learned was named Lester. He said to me: “What the fuck is up with the upside-down flag on your back?” He grabbed the shoulder of my soft, navy-blue blazer, with an upside-down American flag sewn to the back. Pulled me toward him with a single heft. My jacket hung to my shoulders awkwardly after he got a hold of it. I could smell the whiskey on his breath. Next to him was this fat skinhead who I later learned was named Randy. Both were dressed sharp. They had scaly caps, braces, plaid, denim, and steel-toed Docs. Their jeans were cuffed evenly. Their braces were straight, their laces were straight. Even their scaly caps were straight. These two guys had flair, albeit they were piss-drunk and pissed-off. Lester held me in his large, hairy hand. His knuckles were tattooed: SKIN. His hand was tattooed too. I tried to avoid looking him in the eye and I noticed that he even had tattoos climbing his neck. “I oughtta kick your fuckin head in,” he spat, with one hand clung to my blazer, the other hand clenched. I was scared. Harry was scared. Punk Rock Pete was holding something in his pocket. The fat skinhead said: “Lester, let it go.” Lester’s grip on my jacket tightened as he pulled me closer. My boots were raised off the ground. The fat skinhead said: “C’mon, Lester. They’re just kids. Let it go.” He patted the skinhead named Lester on the chest. Lester released me with a shove, and I buckled into Harry. We both stumbled backwards as Punk Rock Pete stood there with his feet planted firmly on the ground. The skinheads walked away. Punk Rock Pete pulled brass knuckles from his pocket and told me that that was fuckin scary, man. Later Jay Drunk said to me: “If our Founding Fathers hated their country, why can’t we hate our own?” I was pretty sure these skinheads were not interested in an intellectual debate. That’s why I was nervous as I sat in the corner of A Touch of Class. Lester and Randy were there.
Randy handed me a beer. Beckoned me into the kitchen. “C’mon, what’re you waiting for?” he said. Lester was stumbling around with a beer in his hand. He gestured for me to come over to him. He put his hand around my shoulder and led me to a private corner. He said: “Sorry, bud.” I was dead silent. “Listen, bud,” he said. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” He said his name was Lester; I told him my own. We shook hands. Still holding my hand firmly, he said: “Here’s the thing. I hate the government but I love this country. The flag means freedom. I served two tours overseas just to keep it that way.” Then he walked away. I sipped my beer and started to feel much more at ease. These guys were welcoming me in. I was to go to a rehab center in Houston, TX, the following day. This was my last night to do it up///
Me and Lacey met up with Andrew and Caitlyn in Harvard Square; Travis was there too. They all knew the score; they knew that tomorrow I’d be gone. We hit the bottle hard, in the Pit, in the alleyways, going back and forth from the packy to the street corner so we could constantly replenish our stock of booze. The star-speckled night sky was static. The crowd was bustling—from shoppers, to drunks, to winos, to bums. Men in business suits going home to their families after a long day of work, or to their mistresses to let out some steam. Hipsters with their friends having a blast and going from one store to the next. Hippies with their long dreads trying to sell some bud. Gangsters trying to sell some dope. Junkies trying to score. Hobos trying to make some change. Andrew would do this thing where he’d run at some random person so fast they’d flinch, and right before he’d crash into them he’d stop there and start dancing. It was pretty hilarious. Lacey was around my shoulder. Caitlyn was glued to Andrew. Travis was in the middle, and he wanted to score some pot. We moved from Harvard Square to Central Square, all the way down Mass Ave. and back, harassing folks, shouting, being weird and mean, but funny. This was our city and tomorrow I was going to leave…. When we arrived back at Harvard Square, after causing the slightest of mischief in Central Square, Andrew and Caitlyn were gone. Travis was still with us. I called Andrew and he told me where he was. Travis, Lacey, and I followed his directions but when we got there he was nowhere to be found. So I tried again. Where are you? He told me and the three of us went there and he was gone again. What the fuck is going on? I was starting to become rather aggravated. He knew it meant a lot to me to be with my girlfriend and my best friend tonight. This was my fuckin night, and he fuckin ditched me. Tomorrow he could do what he wanted—after I was gone———but tonight, this was my fuckin night. He led us all over the place; it was like a wild goose chase. Everywhere we’d go was exactly where he wasn’t. I was so frikken pissed. Finally I saw him coming up the street. I ran to him as fast as I could and shouted: What the fuck! Huh! he said. What the fuck! And then I went to slug him in the face but I stumbled and he moved and my fist split open on the side of the building. Fuck! He looked at me fierce and I saw him and Caitlyn and Travis—since he was Travis’s ride home—all take off around the corner. Now it was just me and Lacey. I looked at her and she was beaming because it was just the two of us now and now I could give her my undivided attention. We walked along until we got to the park. We sat on the fountain and talked and laughed and drank whiskey from the two-liter coke bottle. Before long, I forgot about Andrew; he was dead to me. Some guy a little older than us wandered into the park. As he passed the fountain, I said: Hey! He came over to us and he had weed. So we smoked with him. I was pretty sure he wanted to have a threesome with us. It became quite apparent when he asked to kiss me and I said sure and then he gave me some pot to take home and Lacey and I left and he didn’t seem too happy about that. But whatever, this was my night. We smoked and drank all the way till 7AM and my flight was at 8 and I got on the plane and immediately ordered myself a drink. This was it: my last bout of freedom. I ordered another drink. And then another. But the guy who was there to take me to the program said I shouldn’t have any more. So I stopped. I don’t remember much of what Houston looked like as he drove me to the program; I don’t remember much of the program either because they subdued me with Ativan the whole time I was there—for alcohol withdrawals and anxiety. I left a week later because they said I was trying to take advantage of some girl in a vulnerable state. She was having a bad day and I read her some of my poetry—that was it, I swear. Nothing else happened between us—although maybe it could have if they hadn’t kicked me out so quickly. The morning before I left, I took an Ativan. The guy got me and took me to the airport and first thing on the plane I started drinking again and I don’t remember much of the flight. Or much of getting home. Or much of meeting up with Lacey. Next thing I’m waking up beside the fountain where I kissed the guy a week earlier. I was just leaving the open-mike. It was at the Center Street Alley, and as I was cutting through the first-floor balcony, there was a group about my age clustered at the picnic table closest to the door. I was sleep-deprived and stimulated; I was running on fumes and I might have said something obnoxious to them. I think I asked them if they wanted to buy one of my books. I slipped I Need Help: The SkullFuck Collection from my backpack and handed it to one of the girls. She flipped the pages and looked at the art and then asked me: “Are you on drugs?” I told her: “No.” I said: “I’m just crazy.” She said she wanted to buy the book sometime. Asked if there was a way to contact me. We exchanged Facebook information and then I left. A few months went by and out of the blue I got a message from some girl who I had no recollection of ever meeting and she told me who she was. She was the girl I met a few months earlier at the open-mike who had shown interest in buying my book. She said she was having a really bad night and she needed someone to talk to. It was probably 1AM when she messaged me, and I told her she could come over and we could talk. She agreed to meet me at the library and then we went back to my apartment. We sat there and talked but she never told me what was going on, why she was so upset; we kept it innocent and I read her some of my writing and she bought a book and then I suggested we go for a walk and we walked all around town and, as the sun crested the hill and rays of light burst from behind the storefronts and cars began buzzing past us as people went to work, I walked her home. We continued to talk. I put a cigarette out on my wrist to show her that people have different thresholds of pain; mine happens to be higher than most. At her door she hugged me goodbye and I said bye and then left and went home. Late that day she messaged me and told me she read the whole book and I said cool and we made plans to hang out later that night and when we did, we walked all over the place, talking with the energy of a highspeed train, chugging caffeine and whatnot. When the night came to an end, as it usually does, I walked her home. The following day I was feeling rather crummy myself and when she called me on the phone I told her so and she invited me over and I met her little toddler girl and we talked and smoked cigarettes outside her backdoor and she played me David Bowie’s newest music video and I remember he looked so old, for I think he had cancer, and he was still kickin and making music videos even in his cancerous state and it was kind of impressive and inspiring. The following day she met me at the library cuz she was taking her little girl to Walmart and she wanted me to come with her. I met her there and she said her fiancé worked at Walmart and he wanted to meet up with her when he got out of work and she guessed I could come along too. I didn’t know she was engaged. She never told me about it. I wondered did she tell him about me? All those late nights talking and hanging out and I was starting to develop feelings for her and I could sense the feelings were mutual, her leaning on my shoulder as I read her my poetry and me putting my arm around her or letting her wear my jacket when she was cold. She could have at least told me she was engaged. So I went to Walmart with her and her little girl and there I met her fiancé and I was a completely blank asset, didn’t say a single word. I was brewing resentments. They had no chemistry whatsoever. Complete opposites. She was fun and interesting and he was a bore. He wore a collared shirt and khakis and he was such a boring fuckin asshole. I was brooding so hard into the day until I said I had to get going. I went home and called a friend of mine and told him about it and he said he knew her fiancé—what with living in a small town in Vermont—and he was not surprised she was so drawn to me like that since he and I were total opposites in every sense of the word and I was so mad. I texted her and said I didn’t know she was engaged. She insisted she told me. I said she hadn’t. Did she ever tell him about me? Was he just as shocked to meet me as I was to meet him? She immediately changed the subject. Said I was just too conceited to remember a detail such as her being engaged. I told her it was a detail I wouldn’t forget. Then she told me to lose her number. Said she would get over her massive crush on me. “What?” I said. She blocked me. I was so distraught. The fuck just happened. Why are crazy girls so drawn to me? And why the fuck am I so drawn to them?
Music is my life; it always has been. The first musician I ever listened to was Weird Al Yankovic back when I was 9 or 10 years old. Then it was Green Day, Smash Mouth, the Beastie Boys. When I met someone for the first time, I’d always ask: “What kind of music do you listen to?” I’ve always been so restless and hyperactive my whole life, and music could keep me occupied for hours. I’d listen to it and all the problems of the world. my problems that had plagued me since I first could walk, vaporized—just like that. Gone. See you later. My first job was in a DJ studio; I worked in the warehouse where I sorted through inventory. It was a big company called Gibson Productions and they had lots of gear and I was so stoked about this job. I was only 14. In my free time I’d come in and set up the dual CD player with scratching capabilities—like an actual record player (they only had one dual CD player that could do that)—and a couple of monitors and just Go for it. I’d be there for hours mixing tracks, scr-scr-scratching songs, doing it up.
Finally I got the owner of the company to give me a shot in the field. He said okay, but warily, as I was only 14 years old. I had to do my first two gigs with an experienced DJ, and for free, and then he’d see how I did. The first gig was great: I made a 30 dollar tip, and I got a very complimentary phone call from the client when I returned to the warehouse the following Monday morning. The second gig—not so well. That would be the last time I DJed, but not the end of my career as a musician. I was always very anxious and quiet and most of the time I preferred music as my only company. I liked to crank it when I was drinking because nothing beats it when your vision blurs and the world spins and the roaring guitar kicks in. I was addicted to it—more than anything. Every time I went out with my friends, the moment we’d start drinking I’d flip my headphones over my head, click PLAY on my discman. The music would flow so smoothly as my head swam in a sea of liquor. Until my angry, blunt friend said to me one day: “You know, it’s kind of rude to hang out with us and then put on your headphones and act like we don’t exist!” What a dick! Well, I suppose that’s why they make boom-boxes. So the surrounding world can hear the movement. I’d bring my boom-box everywhere. It was sort of my signature, my contribution to this pre-apocalyptic world where we sometimes exist. Picture this:::: You wake up in the morning to the sound of a bass drum being kicked. Boom! And then again, it’s kicked. Boom, boom! Every few seconds you hear that bass drum, a rhythm that knocks you awake. Then there’s feedback as you make the coffee. The coffee maker rattles a bit. Buzzes. Rattles. You take the pot and pour it into your mug and the guitar cuts in like a buzzsaw with your first sip. The bass guitar gets plucked. There might be some sort of synthesizer being keyed as you sip your coffee, becoming more awake. But it’s not enough. So you have another cup and the vocals chime in with beautifully poetic lyrics that give your life purpose, and now, you can go about your day. That’s why I had to start a band. We lived faster and we played louder--that was our motto. Being onstage and releasing your emotions in a rapid-fire succession was almost comparable to taking an automatic assault rifle and gunning down a line of presidents and world leaders. With one long, raucous roar, each head would explode Domino-style, one after the next. Some venues were packed, and some were barren, but it didn’t matter. We’d play in front of a measly mirror, for all we cared. We played--for us! We played because it was fun. We played because it was a major release. We played because we … played;;;; and not to mention it was a fun way to release your emotions on an unsuspecting crowd. It was the best part of life, the only thing I looked forward to. When I wasn’t onstage or playing with my band, I was sitting on the curb playing what I later referred to as my Stink-Box—a large red construction-worker boom-box that I carried with me everywhere I went; it was my baby. I only bought it—for 120 dollars—because all my previous, cheaper boom-boxes would break in some disastrous but humorous act of destruction. They would never last. So I saved up and invested. It stayed with me for five to six years. I always had to have my music. I don’t know where we were or what we were doing or where we were going. We were on the highway; my dad was driving. The sky was dark and filled with stars. If you rolled down the window, you would smell the sweet and natural smell that only comes from the countryside.
Half a mile up the highway there was a large, lumpy shadow splayed out across the road. As we got closer to it, the shadow turned into flesh and we realized it was a dead bear. We were going way over the speed limit and we were much too close to it to slow down and pull around. All we could do was barrel through. We got closer and it grew larger in the front windshield. Closer and closer the dead bear just got bigger and soon you could almost see its cold dead eyes in our headlights as--thrump-thrump—the car bounced and came down and a sheet of dark red fluids draped the front windshield, raining down all around us. My dad was frozen sold. I was screaming, asking him if he saw that. He didn’t move or speak. He was in complete shock. Almost on auto-pilot. I said: “Are you okay?” He said nothing. All I could see was red. The car kept going. Then the windshield wipers kicked on and wiped away all the blood. My dad shook his head; he snapped out of it and we continued on our way >>> My dad gave me a ride to Waltham, which was the next town over from Newton. I was going to some boy’s birthday party. Even though I didn’t know the boy whose party it was, I knew Kyle—he was the singer of the band Predictable Chaos, which was just one of the band’s playing tonight. And although the party was at a bar, I promised Kyle that I would not drink because I would always get out of control when I was drunk.
In the car my dad asked me: “Where’s a good place to let you off?” I shrugged. “Anywhere,” I told him. He pulled over on the side of the street and I got out. As I crossed over the bridge, I saw Katie and Seth sitting down by the river. I waved to them, and they waved me over. I darted down the stairs and saw they were drinking straight vodka from the bottle. Seth held out the bottle to me, but I held out my hands in protest. I said: “I promised Kyle I wouldn’t drink tonight.” Katie was sitting on the ground smoking a cigarette with her back against a brick wall. Seth looked disappointed. “You can’t even have a sip?” he asked me. “Just one sip.” What the hell! I grabbed the bottle from him, and he stepped back as though I was to chuck it at his head. I lifted it to my mouth and took a swig then immediately passed it back to him. “You happy?” I said, and lit a cigarette, laughing. Seth was chuckling; Katie was smiling. The three of us walked up the stairs together and headed to the show. Kyle spotted us coming. He came over to us right away. He must have smelt the vodka because he immediately wrapped his hands around my neck and screamed. Katie said: “Dude, Kyle!” Seth said: “Yeah, Kyle, he didn’t drink any.” “I didn’t?” I murmured, as Kyle’s grip got tighter. “Yeah, I didn’t.” Katie said: “It was us!” “Yeah, we were the ones drinking,” Seth added. “It was us, not him.” I sighed as Kyle released his grip on my neck. He looked me dead in the eye. “I swear!” I said. We went to the show. I was painstakingly sober. Outside the bar I called Andrew and asked if he was coming. He was on his way. He’d be there soon, he told me. When he got there, he didn’t even have to get out of his truck. I hopped in and said: “Let’s get outta here!” I suggested we go back to my house, park there, and then go to Harvard Square and get drunk. In Harvard Square we hit the bottle hard. I was so tired of people telling me what I can and can’t do. I have rights, too. Who do they think they are? Watch out for the Punk Police!!! We sat in the Pit and saw others we knew somewhat well, others we didn’t know at all, and those to whom we might have even felt a connection. Hannah was there too. She was Midget’s girlfriend. Midget was this big squatter we called Midget for irony’s sake, who I’d known since I was 16, and he was one of the first guys I’d come across in Harvard Square and I remember him telling me about a band he liked called Adolf & the Piss Artists. Hannah I didn’t know as well. She had only been coming around since the beginning of the summer. The things I knew about Hannah were: She was a heroin addict, and she was a prostitute. Or, she was a heroin addict, when she was living in New York City, and she still, as in currently, sold her body for money. She had dark black hair and brown eyes and she always wore this ratty denim vest with a UK Subs backpatch. While we were sitting there she revealed to us that she and Midget had broken up a few days ago. Andrew and I both nodded. I said to Andrew: “Hey, man. Wanna go get some blow?” “Yeah, sure,” Andrew said. I invited Hannah to join us. She said we could do it at her place. She lived right next to a needle exchange, so she had plenty of clean needles we could use. Andrew and I exchanged a menacing look. Andrew said: “We don’t shoot it.” “We just blow it,” I added it, “and sometimes we smoke it.” Andrew said: “Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything.” Midget walked past us and drilled us with his angriest of stares. I remember this one time when Midget had challenged me to a fight and he said he wouldn’t use his hands at all. He won. He kicked the shit out of me, with his hands tied behind his back. Pretty crazy, right? This woman in the Pit overheard our conversation and she asked if she could pitch in. We said sure. We’d bring it back to her. She gave us the cash and Andrew, Hannah, and I hopped on the train and headed back to Newton. On the train I called Greg, asked for soft, and requested a quantity. He said he would meet us at the Newton Highlands park in an hour. We went back to my house and the three of us sidled into Andrew’s pickup truck and he drove us up the street and pulled into the parking lot of the park. I had many memories of smoking crack with Andrew and Samantha in this lot. We all got out but Andrew left the truck running and we were listening to Richard Hell & the Voidoids. Still to this day when I hear the song “Down at the Rock & Roll Club” by the Voidoids, I think of Hannah and that night. We danced, talked, laughed, and waited. We waited for much longer than an hour. Possibly two or three hours before Greg showed up with the product. They always make you wait. Good thing we had Andrew’s truck, though, because the trains had already stopped running. We took the cocaine and Andrew drove us to Central Square where Hannah lived. It was a fairly nice apartment, all things considered. Once inside Hannah stripped off her clothes right in front of us and put on something much more comfy. I remember earlier she had told us she could only cum with a guy if she felt comfortable enough to take a shit in front of him. She was so hot. She went into the bathroom and came out with a bottle of caffeine pills. She was going to cut that woman’s portion with caffeine pills so that there would be more for us. We sat down on the couch and from under the coffee table she came out with a shoe box. She opened it up and there were brand-new, untouched, unused needles inside. Neither of us questioned how she was able to have more than one clean needle in her possession. It was a question that didn’t cross our minds; we didn’t really care. She took a bottle cap and started mixing coke with saline water and adding a cotton ball and she filled her own needle. On her right arm was a big black hole right on her vein. She always used the same hole to shoot it in, she said. It was gross. Next, she shot up Andrew. She said: “Promise me you’ll never shoot it up again unless you’re with me.” We both promised. I gave her my arm and she tied a torniquet to my bicep and she tapped my forearm and when a vein popped out she jabbed it with the needle, released the torniquet, and I was set. I fell back into the couch. I looked over at Andrew and he was staring out the window. It was like I could read his thoughts. I knew what he was thinking. Even though it didn’t make a lick of sense. My own thoughts were exploding, my mind a gleeful mess of broken train tracks. I felt bliss. At the tip of the needle. When the initial, immediate euphoria faded away, we were all over the place. Moving around. Talking to one another. Fidgeting with everything and anything and nothing. We were brilliant. We were sexy. Then there was some Guatemalan man I didn’t know hanging out with us. In the morning I awoke and everyone was gone. I was on the cusps of panic. Nothing felt right; I felt awful. I tried to call Andrew but he didn’t answer. I called him again and again but there was no response. I was alone in this apartment. When Andrew and Hannah came back I found out that Hannah had given the Guatemalan man a blowjob for more cocaine but then he took off without forking over what he had promised. Hannah was pissed. She and Andrew drove all over the place looking for the Spic to kick his Guatemalan teeth in. A few days later the police called me because they needed me to make a statement. Hannah got raped by the Guatemalan man and they needed to find out my side of the story, so they could compare details. I didn’t know anything, I slept through it all. Except that Hannah was very upset when I woke up—upset because of What That Man Had Done to Her. 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. 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.
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