And with those words from my boss, “See you.” I’m done. My work responsibilities are over and time itself becomes something different. Time is a resource, something to be viewed dispassionately, to be used to solve my problem. That problem, as always, being how to get hard drugs into my body quickly.
The walk to work is endless in the bitter cold. I must will myself forward, re-commiting to the journey with every step. I so badly want to call in sick and just lay around the apartment watching tube – high – but I have to make it to work. I have to get that paycheck, have to get it to the check-cashing store, have to get the drugs in order to get right. Choice has nothing to do with it.
My walk from home to work, from Avenue C and 4th Street to 5th Avenue just below 23rd, takes a little more than a half an hour. It can be a real bitch of a walk, especially on a cold day like today. There’s no subway that helps to cut down the travel time in any substantial way, so I’m stuck hoofing it twice a day, every day, unless I spring for a cab, which I’ve done like… once, maybe. Continue reading “Christmas is Coming – Part 3”
The black people won’t stop coming. One after the other I kill them. I dole out a torrent of hyper-accurate punches, kicks and head-butts. I take blow after blow in return – to my face, body, kidneys and spleen – but in the end I vanquish the mother-fuckers. I’m the one left standing atop my assailant’s corpse. Still, there’s always another black man behind the one I’ve just bested.
You can read part one of this entry here.
I come to sitting on the living room couch. It’s time to leave for work. Despite the clouds outside the tall windows and high ceilings in the loft allow for plenty of ambient light. It’s almost too bright. The apartment is disgusting. You can clearly see a sheen of dirt on the hardwood floors. My rush is over. Not that it was all that much of a rush to begin with. I’m in maintenance mode. I shot just about a half a bag of dope a couple of hours ago. Which is really not very much, but it’s the state of the state these days. It beats withdrawal.
Saturday morning I emerge from my tomb-like bedroom into the living room. Will is sitting on the couch in his underwear. He’s lithe and strong with no body fat. I wouldn’t want to have to fight him, but then I pretty much don’t want to fight anyone. I’ve seen him and his brother go at it. They both gave as good as they got and fought each other to an draw – it looked exhausting and painful – not to mention pointless. Continue reading “Fire in the Hole”
As much as I’m a fan of getting high, I know it’s a two way street. If you want to play, you gotta pay and usually in more ways than one. Right now I’m paying big time for letting my habit get out of control. Every day it gets more difficult to keep up. Instead of just doing it, getting sick and going through withdrawal, I’m stumbling through my weeks without enough cash to use the way I want. I can only maintain. I know that at some point, I’m going to hit a wall.
I’m loose and relaxed as I start down 4th Street from Avenue A. I’ve still got the remnants of the dope I snorted 3 hours earlier running through my system and the beer sloshing around in my belly is making me feel a little sleepy.
Trevor would never tell his friends, but he’s nervous. He and Kyle and Dave have taken over the front of the subway car, the part near the conductors’ compartment along with the single seat across from the bench that fits 5 or 6 people; basically everything North of the first set of doors. The boys are spread out with their feet up on the seats, like they own the place. To Trevor, sitting this way feels provocative. They aren’t denying anyone a seat. There are plenty of places to sit in the mostly empty train, but they are clearly staking out this part of it as their own. Without saying so, they are telling the other riders to go sit somewhere else. He knows it’s not a very tough-guy thought to have and would never let the others know this is how he’s feeling, but all the same, they are kind of asking for trouble. Why give anyone a reason to fuck with us, he thinks. He would never say it out loud though. If he did, he’d look like a real pussy. Continue reading “Uptown Dust”
If only he could see himself through her eyes, then Kevin might understand just how petty and immature he comes off, so far from the tough guy persona he imagines for himself. He’d see how to her, he’s a prepubescent boy, his chubby cheeked face twisted into a pouty rage, howling about how emasculated he’ll feel without her on his arm at that miserable dinner.