A Little More For You & Me
I stared at the bottle. The fan was on in the bathroom. That was the way I liked it. Nobody could hear me in there. Nobody could hear me outside.
It was a plain bottle. I'd seen a million like it before. The darkish orange/brown color. I'd taken a million pills. Drank a million spoonfuls of prescription medication.
Once we sat in a dark basement, behind a japanese blind. We hid to make sure his mother didn't see. There was some potent marijuana in a bag on the table. We broke it up, packed it into a water pipe. I had him pull out the shot glasses and poured us out one shot each. Liquid Vicodin. Well over one pint was left. The night hadn't even begun.
Back in the bathroom, I looked at the bottle. I looked at the off-yellow tile. The bathroom floor had me wondering. Hadn't I promised myself? Speed never did much for me. I already thought at what I believed was a high rate. The shit made me nuts. It also made the next day rather boring and painful. I'd shit my brains out for hours and sweat, sweat, sweat as my mind raced. And waste away the sunlight.
I looked at my hands in the light of the bare bulb. Maybe it wasn't written in the stars that I should go on living. Maybe I should eat some of the pills. Just one? What if I did? Maybe my night would go better...
He was dead, according to the paper. He sat in a dingy bar. I was serving the drinks. It had been a slow day. Perhaps he was the third customer of the day. In those times, only one day of the week would net me any real money. I dealt with it. I worked the bad days, waiting for the good.
It was a twisted path he lead. One of dark alleys and destruction. Cocaine'd and cross-eye'd. He was dealer, he was a user. But he changed his life. He became a chef. He was proud of himself, he was proud of his new family, of his new life. We relished the facts together.
We'd never been great friends. Acquaintances at best. But that day changed everything. Friendship can be bred in a matter of seconds. In our case it was born in a hour and a half, a few beers bought, at least one on the house.
I walked out of the bathroom and made my way into the kitchen. I opened the fridge door and took out my brandy and my mixer. The mixer itself was speed. America, the world was hooked on speed. I was drinking another form of it.
The pills weren't gonna help. I knew there were problems. Maybe my heart would give out as I slept.
I mixed myself another alcohol-speed concoction, took my drink to the couch. The cushions were soft, seemed moist against my skin. I sipped at the drink. I considered my own mortality.
I got up and turned the light off in the bathroom. I left the bottle of pills alone. I went back to the kitchen, took a pull from the bottle of brandy. More of the hard road was ahead. I was just beginning to ride it, and only my courage could keep me from dying on it.
It was a plain bottle. I'd seen a million like it before. The darkish orange/brown color. I'd taken a million pills. Drank a million spoonfuls of prescription medication.
Once we sat in a dark basement, behind a japanese blind. We hid to make sure his mother didn't see. There was some potent marijuana in a bag on the table. We broke it up, packed it into a water pipe. I had him pull out the shot glasses and poured us out one shot each. Liquid Vicodin. Well over one pint was left. The night hadn't even begun.
Back in the bathroom, I looked at the bottle. I looked at the off-yellow tile. The bathroom floor had me wondering. Hadn't I promised myself? Speed never did much for me. I already thought at what I believed was a high rate. The shit made me nuts. It also made the next day rather boring and painful. I'd shit my brains out for hours and sweat, sweat, sweat as my mind raced. And waste away the sunlight.
I looked at my hands in the light of the bare bulb. Maybe it wasn't written in the stars that I should go on living. Maybe I should eat some of the pills. Just one? What if I did? Maybe my night would go better...
He was dead, according to the paper. He sat in a dingy bar. I was serving the drinks. It had been a slow day. Perhaps he was the third customer of the day. In those times, only one day of the week would net me any real money. I dealt with it. I worked the bad days, waiting for the good.
It was a twisted path he lead. One of dark alleys and destruction. Cocaine'd and cross-eye'd. He was dealer, he was a user. But he changed his life. He became a chef. He was proud of himself, he was proud of his new family, of his new life. We relished the facts together.
We'd never been great friends. Acquaintances at best. But that day changed everything. Friendship can be bred in a matter of seconds. In our case it was born in a hour and a half, a few beers bought, at least one on the house.
I walked out of the bathroom and made my way into the kitchen. I opened the fridge door and took out my brandy and my mixer. The mixer itself was speed. America, the world was hooked on speed. I was drinking another form of it.
The pills weren't gonna help. I knew there were problems. Maybe my heart would give out as I slept.
I mixed myself another alcohol-speed concoction, took my drink to the couch. The cushions were soft, seemed moist against my skin. I sipped at the drink. I considered my own mortality.
I got up and turned the light off in the bathroom. I left the bottle of pills alone. I went back to the kitchen, took a pull from the bottle of brandy. More of the hard road was ahead. I was just beginning to ride it, and only my courage could keep me from dying on it.
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TheJoeD on
I read this in the voice of one of those 'B' detective movies from the '50s. You should keep that going, and put a half naked redhead on the cover, strewn across a bed with an empty bottle of tequila tipped over next to her.
