Three Hour Sentence

I watch the ball go back and forth, back and forth.  I follow it with my eyes, left to right, left to right.  There is no clear winner here and I’m starting to believe the match will never end.  But it has to.  Nothing can last forever.  I inject the first ten milligrams of heroin solution into my left arm.  I don’t have to use a tourniquet this time because of my two weeklong hiatus.  My veins are healthy, vibrant and full.  They have recuperated quite nicely during the break.  But soon enough I’ll be back in the thick of it, needing both a tourniquet and a larger dose to get me good.  I’m on the precipice of what’s likely to be an extraordinary binge.  This shows absolutely no signs of dying.  We are what we do.

They have turned the kitchen table into a platform for ping pong.  I’m not sure where they acquired the net from but I don’t ask.  For some unusual reason, they both seem very into the game; it has taken over my mother’s inherent need for order and schedules.  I must say it is strange to see her care for something so trivial, so juvenile and so meaningless in the grand scheme of things.  This is after all the same woman who once scolded me for getting an “A” when there were “A Pluses” available.

Seconds or hours later, Tegan hands me the red ping pong paddle and requests that I step in for her.  I accept the paddle reluctantly and a bit grudgingly, not feeling completely confident or assured in the functionality of my hand-eye coordination at this moment.  My mother prompts me to get moving, impatiently displeased with my lack of luster.  I roll my eyes but eventually comply, albeit somewhat lazily.  With my back to the big window that looks out north, I raise my head slightly and steady my grip on the paddle.  This could easily be a disaster for me.  For all I know, I am displaying a bag full of tells, relatively powerless to suppress them.  But I don’t feel at this moment like I have much other choice.

She prepares herself to start off the serve, bouncing the ball a couple of times, a thinly veiled attempt at intimidation or some other kind of bullying tactic.  My mother has always been great at striking fear in our hearts.  I can recall the sounds of malevolent muttering coming up the stairs from the laundry room and warning us to behave or else.  I know I never relished being the focal point of her anger; luckily my younger sister Karen almost always accepted the brunt of that.  The rest of us were glad for it.

But I am grown now and her scare tactics will no longer work on me.  More to the point, I am unimpeachable in this state; nothing could ever hope to faze me.  This drug would never allow me to feel anything bad, not even for a second.  I’m grateful for that.  It’s a relationship I tend to exploit whenever I have the time and means to indulge.  Though to be honest, it’s not an addiction.  I couldn’t put my life on hold for it and I would never allow it to run my world completely.

Now that some amount of quantifiable time has passed, I can feel the opiate gently receding.  It hasn’t left me completely, but it soon will.  By all accounts I have only a few moments of blissful euphoria left.  Then it will be time to reload, an ugly process I only take part in out of necessity and lack of other more suitable options.  When I look back on my youth I can actually recall having a slight phobia of needles, something very humorous to me now.  Certainly back then the idea of getting a vaccination made me incredibly uneasy and somewhat anxious.  Naturally I have since gotten over all my needle-related apprehension, and not a moment too soon.

I return my concentration to the game as my mother clears her throat.  She wants to begin the match, irritated with my obvious inattention to the matter.  As she swirls the green paddle in her right hand a couple of times, I find myself wondering when this kind of stuff started mattering to her.  It never did before.  She has developed some strange priorities and I’m not really sure how they came about.

Finally she is done with all the show and serves the ball, a quick jab to the left hand side of the table.  That was in, she declares proudly.  I never really had a chance at that ball, what with my slow reflexes and terrible backhand.  She pulls another ping pong ball out from somewhere and serves to the exact same spot once again.  Of course I miss that one as well.  I don’t even attempt a noble swing at it.  In fact, by the time I realized what had happened, it was already too late to react.  She accuses me of not even trying.  I respond by telling her that it’s just a game, another pointless activity to pass the time with.  Its importance level to me is extremely low.

She shakes her head and picks up another ball to serve, imploring me to take this one seriously for a change.  I nod in agreement and start to think that maybe switching hands would help.  But my left hand only has four working fingers due to a basketball rebounding incident in the eighth grade.  So I suppose it’s not really the best hand to use in a game like this where hand strength and poise mean everything.

I decide to stick with my right hand after all, knowing it is the stronger, more athletic one anyway.  When she serves the ping pong ball this time, I am actually able to respond somewhat successfully.  We get a volley going until she hits the ball way off to the right and far out of bounds.  I feel like we should end the game now on a high point for me, but no one else in the room seems to agree with that sentiment.  My mother asserts that we will keep playing the game.  I question whether someone else would like to step in for me, but apparently nobody does.  It looks like I’m stuck in this role for awhile longer.

Tegan is on her laptop doing something; in reality I’m sure it’s nothing.  My mother encourages me to serve the ball instead of just looking around the room in search of a graceful exit.  I hesitate, not really wanting to persist in this game any further but not feeling like I have much of a choice.  Eventually I comply in order to cease the relentless petitioning from everyone around.  We get another volley going, despite my mother’s attempt to best me by slamming the ball to the back corner of the table.  I adapt impressively, given my relative intoxication and total indifference to the matter.

After awhile of this back and forth, I start to get to a point where moving my arm in the same fashion is a heavy irritation.  Finally I decide I’m done responding to the ball so I let it fly past me without taking a swat.  It bounces to the floor and rolls over toward where the bunnies are sitting in their cages.  Of course my mother doesn’t hesitate to announce that she won the point and it is her serve once again.  Must this go on further?

I exhale slowly and rub my eyes, wondering when enough will be enough.  As she winds back to serve, I put my hands up to halt the action.  I tell her to wait as I set the red ping pong paddle down on the table softly.  I take a fresh syringe out of my pocket, one that I have already pre-loaded with ten milligrams of heroin solution, and hover it around the inside of my left arm, looking for a good vein to plunge.

Do you have to do that right now, she asks me with slight exasperation.  I nod as I scrutinize my left arm for a good injection point, indicating to her that this is very important.  She sighs and shakes her head as I make her wait for me to inject the opiate into my bloodstream.  This shouldn’t take long, I assure her.

It’s an easy stick; it always is when I’ve been away for a little while.  Truth be told, it’s one of the main reasons I stay away for as long as I do.  It can be a true hassle trying to find a viable vein with a few days of constant heroin use under my belt.  I wouldn’t wish that kind of struggle on my greatest nemesis.

As I pull out the needle, I feel instantly alive again.  The heroin rush is like nothing else on this earth.  It’s like a body-slam of ecstasy, a complete and total infiltration of feel good chemicals, all energized and eager to please me.  It’s as if a compassionate soul threw a balloon filled with euphoria right at my face.  It smashes upon contact and soaks me to the core.  But it’s not cold.  Quite the contrary, it is warm and makes me feel like anything is possible and everything is good.  It’s the only time in my life where I can see my future as potentially bright.

* * * * *

We pick up the game once again and I surprisingly get some pretty good shots in.  But just as the game could be mine, my father walks into the room and announces that it is time to head down to the awards ceremony.  Ugh, I would rather play this game than endure that one.  I’m dreading the next three hours openly and honestly, knowing it will be a painful waste of my time.  But it has been made perfectly clear to me in no uncertain terms that my attendance is mandatory.  Believe me, there are a million and one other places I’d rather be spending that time.

Ándale rápido, my father yells in his fluent Spanish tongue.  He always has to have everyone in a panic, even if it’s only a subconscious goal of his.  It doesn’t really work too well anymore.  Over the years we have adapted and come to see this behavior of his as ordinary.  It barely even elicits attention anymore.  But we all know this is an event we must attend.  Merely ignoring our father’s screams is not going to make it un-so.

We slowly respond by following him down the steps to the garage.  My other two sisters have already loaded themselves into the car and have taken to complaining about the wait.  I get in the back seat and lock my door so no one can get in next to me and force me to the middle spot.  I absolutely hate the middle spot.  It always puts you slightly higher up than everyone else and right in the way of the rearview mirror.  That’s extra attention I don’t need.  Plus there is nowhere to lean your head or your arm.  It’s a terrible spot.

Once everyone is seated in the car, my father starts up the engine and tunes to the radio station playing the Padres game.  I get the feeling he doesn’t care much for going to this event either but he’s trained himself to display a healthy amount of interest.  If he had his way though, he would be sitting in his office lair, watching the baseball game on the big screen, holding the cat in his lap and dozing off in his desk chair.  But for whatever reason, he is very intent on making us believe that this is a priority for him.  In turn he asks that it become a priority for us as well.  I must say there’s a very slim chance of that happening, at least for me.

I listen as he complains about how we are going to be late and how parking will be an absolute zoo.  It’s just down the street, I offer in an attempt to quell the rising panic and long string of complaints that are sure to follow.  My father always panics about situations where he is bound to run into a lot of people.  He really hates crowds, and traffic, and driving at night.  Karen urges him to start driving now because she doesn’t want to be late to the ceremony.  She is one of the honorees and therefore she is mostly to blame for us having to endure this long and tedious night ahead.

Once we reach the top of our driveway, my father shocks us all by making a right turn.  What are you doing, my mother questions, noticing the error almost as fast as the rest of us have.  Most people on this side of the street never turn right because right leads to a cul-de-sac, a dead-end, a pit.  But my father assures us that the gate will be open today, even though in the fifteen years we have lived here, I have never once seen it open.  Why should today be any different?  This is going to make us really late if we have to turn around and come all the way back up, Karen whines in her usual fashion.  My father disregards her concerns with a simple wave of the hand.  He is not at all convinced to turn around.

As we drive down to the dead end, I note the “not a thru street” sign in yellow and black on the side of the road.  It’s mocking us and our decision to head this way regardless of warnings and ample experience.  I hate that sign even though I know it has a valid and inarguable point.  But just the fact that it has to rub our faces in it seems utterly unnecessary and bordering on psychopathic.  Signs, like all inanimate objects, should not have the right to be glib or condescending.  The Constitution does not stand for it.

Technically though, this street is a thru street, so that sign is consequently a big, fat, yellow liar.  The only thing that lends any sort of credence to the sign’s exclamations is the asshole at the bottom of the cul-de-sac who constructed a gate that essentially cuts the road in half and prevents it from being thru.  In his defense he has always asserted vigorously that he erected the gate only in order to discourage traffic from tearing up the street late at night.  But to me, and most other people on the block, his reasons are more closely related to mad power trips than noble feats.  He’s largely considered by the neighborhood to be a belligerent asshole with major control issues.

As we near the bottom of the street, I can see that my father was actually right in his preposterous claims.  For some odd reason the gate is open tonight.  I’ve never seen anything like this before.  We slow to a crawl as we come up on other cars waiting to cross through the gate.  I suppose everyone wants to use this pass tonight; they probably consider it a once in a lifetime opportunity.  I notice groups of people on foot walking through the gate as well, taking care not to slip down the rather steep hill that connects our street to the main street below.  This is sort of amazing.

I’ve never seen such crowds of people here before.  If I didn’t know any better, I would say it was the Fourth of July and this street was prime viewing grounds for fireworks and other related festivities.  But we have never had fireworks anywhere around here and I’m pretty sure that May 26th is not the new July 4th.  I mean nothing spectacular, at least that I can recall, has ever occurred on this day in history.

I suppose everyone around here is heading to the same destination as we are.  This is going to be a huge event and I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole town showed up in some capacity.  At least the venue is made to accommodate thousands and thousands of people.  It’s the city’s auditorium slash convention center.  Seven years ago they constructed that massive beast right next to the neighborhood elementary-middle school.  Of course it was the year that I graduated into high school, so I didn’t really get to take advantage of the brand new auditorium.  Now those stupid terrors that attend the school get to use it for dances, rainy day picnics and really huge games of heads-up-seven-up.  Recalling that particular injustice now makes me slightly angry, but I’m certain the useless emotion will pass in due time.

As our car inches through the narrow opening, my father starts to worry that the gate isn’t open wide enough for our sport utility vehicle to make it through unscathed.  That’s a ridiculous statement.  We all assure him that it will be fine; he has ample room on both sides of the car.  I think he just panics sometimes when it comes to driving.  Karen again starts to express concern over getting to the ceremony on time.  I tell her I don’t want to hear anything more about it.  We have over an hour before it is actually set to begin.

Naturally we make it through the gate with space to spare on both sides.  My father likes to get paranoid about all the things that could go wrong.  And the people walking on both sides of our car aren’t helping the situation much for him either.  But the way I see it, they’re all going to get out of our way to prevent injury to their bodies.  That’s just human nature.  No one can really stand the idea of suffering a life-threatening wound.  That fear alone controls everything they do.

* * * * *

After driving around for a good five minutes looking for the absolute best, most advantageous and closet parking space available, we finally park and cut the engine.  Without a whole lot of regard for schedules or appointments, my father likes to take his time when he drives around looking for adequate parking spots.  It makes my mother and Karen absolutely crazy, but I think it’s quite entertaining.  Tegan doesn’t seem to notice much of anything though; she’s been texting on her phone non-stop since we left the house.  Honestly, I don’t know what there is to say but she finds plenty of things to type.  And Rhea, well she’s still fuming about being stuck in the middle seat.  But that’s her curse for being last born and last on the list of seniority.  It’s not our fault she has no clout and no backbone and can’t argue competently or convincingly.  People usually take advantage of those who don’t fight back, another common characteristic of human nature.  But other than that, Rhea isn’t paying much attention to the time or displaying any urgency in that regard.

As we exit the car and start walking in the direction of the huge auditorium entrance, I notice that I am still holding onto the red ping pong paddle.  It’s strange that I didn’t put it down earlier.  It seems like something I would have done because I absolutely loathe holding onto things and being responsible for the safety of them.  I’m pretty sure Tegan would be quite pissed if I lose her red ping pong paddle.  After all, she just purchased them.

I hang back for a minute, assuring them all that I will catch up soon.   I decide to inject another ten milligrams of heroin into my arm, feeling like I could absolutely never survive this night without it.  Years ago this option wouldn’t even have occurred to me.  But here I am with it in my hands, all measured out and ready in a brand new syringe, waiting patiently for me to pull the trigger.  Even if I wanted to, I would be unable to convince myself that I am not better for it, better from knowing it, using it, feeling it, being one with it.  Because the truth of the matter is and will always be that I am better for it, better in every conceivable way.  There is no persuading me otherwise.

Some would say that voice is the drug talking, sinisterly insinuating that my life would have no worth without heroin in it.  But I’m persuaded of that truth.  Only I have known myself with and without it and therefore I can say, with a fair amount of certainty, that I am more content now than I ever was before.  Still it’s a funny thing how I got myself stuck on this little habit.  You can sit there growing up, thinking about all the lines you won’t cross, but when it comes down to it, there are very few lines you won’t cross given the right circumstances.  I can’t even be sorry about that.

After I loiter around the trees and dirt that line the vast parking lot for some untold minutes, reveling in the familiar euphoria that heroin has made my own, I decide that it’s probably time to go inside and brave the horridness that will surely be this event.  Otherwise, I’m sure someone will come out looking for me, knowing full well what it is keeping me to the outskirts.  I’d rather they only have their assumptions, no full and fair proof to charge me with.

For all its faults, chiefly its proximity to an elementary school and its location here in town, this auditorium is incredibly lush and somewhat awe-inspiring.  The fact that they built it at all is quite extraordinary, even though it was years and years in the making.  But this city is hardly worthy of such grand measures, certainly this kind of extravagance is unwarranted.  I feel like they went out of their way to make it grand.  I always sort of wondered what identifiable person they were trying to impress with this edifice.  It must be someone with a lot of clout.

Its dominion and presence is quite remarkable.  There are these old-fashioned street lamps lighting the front terrace area, giving it the impression of an old-time opera house.  You can almost imagine what it was like to live back then, when operas were a valid form of entertainment, at least for the elite.  I’m sure the common man wasn’t attending any operas in his very limited free time, but who really wants to imagine themselves as the common man?  Certainly not me, I like to envision romantic things, exciting things, unrealistic things.  That is where my excitement lies.

The haloic glows that surround each one of these lamps give this place a more authentic touch that only I can truly appreciate.  These images aren’t something that everyone here is privy to.  In fact, I would say the bulk of the attendees aren’t seeing this at all, not in the same spectacular way that I am.  Privilege doesn’t even begin to explain what I feel right now, but I suppose it is an adequate start.

As I make my stumbling way through the crowds of people outside, and the uncompromising security guards inside, I take a moment to gawk a little bit more at the lights and art that line the entrance and hallway of this magnificent building.  In a lot of ways, this inside area is reminiscent of the Louvre, especially that one hallway carpeted in red plush, lined with golden chandeliers and walled with portraits, much like this one.  I remember it sort of had the look and feel of majesty and I could imagine kings living there.  I wonder if this was place was made in that image.  If it were old enough, I could imagine kings living here.

Up ahead I notice a fuss being made.  It’s hard to tell exactly what is going on but a cluster of people have gathered and are looking at something they consider to be quite fantastic.  I walk a little closer to investigate and as the crowd parts slightly, I realize why everyone is hanging around and making such a big deal.  Oh shit, it’s George W. Bush!  Wow, I’ve never seen such a person up close!  This is insane.

George W. is with his wife and they are dancing.  I can’t believe they are actually here.  Of all the dinky little events in the world to go to, why would they possibly want to come here?  I’m so confused.  I consider the possibility that I am just hallucinating and that none of this is real, but all the usual signs of unreality are absent.  Therefore it must be real.

I glance over and catch sight of my parents, standing near the doorway to the stage, some odd feet away from me, their backs to the hoards of people.  I walk over to them and try to get my father’s attention.  He has yet to notice the presence of the former president and he needs to be informed.  These are just the types of things he likes to know about.

W and his wife are right over there, I tell my parents, pointing with my thumb behind me.  They both seem to be in a good amount of shock and awe when they finally see for themselves.  I just don’t know how you fail to observe something like that.  My mother instructs me to give them a break.  Apparently they have been hunting for good seats while I have been outside, and in their words, screwing around.  I guess they are miffed about the blatant heroin usage.  It might be time to scale back in their sights.

We sent Tegan and Rhea off to handle that job, my father states, pushing his hands deep into his pockets.  I inquire whether that will be his best excuse for not noticing the huge display behind him.  He affirms that with a nod.

We start to watch George W. and his wife dance around as the crowd bends and folds for them.  They seem to be showing off in a showy manner, and even though I shouldn’t be, I’m quite impressed.  His wife holds her head back, striking a pose to accommodate the cameras.  A few seconds later, they freeze for another photo.  Suddenly I realize why they have come to this event.  They’re important here, and treated as so.  It’s nice to be among those who appreciate you and view you as a “big deal”.  I would be happier to be here now if I were getting all that positive attention.

I watch as they continue to marvel for the cameras, shaking hands and dancing elegantly in a crowd that was made for them.  They are like royalty here, very fitting for the castle.  What an insanely better quality of life they must have than most of us.  How do some people get so lucky?  Of course I gave up on the notion that life could be fair a long time ago, but the differentiations between one side of the scale and the other border on the extreme in some cases.  I really don’t know how people can look at the injustice in this world and actually say with a straight face that they believe in a merciful god, or any god at all for that matter.  It’s beyond me.

I try to convince my father to walk up and meet George W. because he was generally a fan of him and his presidency.  Of course only generally because I do recall there being quite a few things about that administration to dislike.  But nevertheless, it is somewhat exciting to be in the midst of someone who used to hold such power.  My father refuses to walk over there and introduce himself though.  Even the “this is a once in a lifetime opportunity” aphorism doesn’t work to persuade him.  He would rather just watch from afar.

So that’s exactly what we do.  I lean my back against the wall and stare on as the people begin to come closer and gather around.  George W. and his wife continue to dance and make a general spectacle.  And as the scene unfolds in front of me, a woman a few feet away asks a relatively strange question that makes me pause and do a double take.  She harshly yells over the chattering crowds and light music, “Where are you from?”

I look at her blankly, unclear why she would ask me such an odd question and unsure what to say in response.  Instead of replying ordinarily, I request that she repeat the question, pretending that I didn’t hear it.  You have a different look, not American but something else, she restates with more detail.  This lady is a nut.  Why is she asking me such a weird question?  Before I can answer in any real capacity, my mother responds on my behalf by shouting back at her that I am from a city in New Mexico.

What, I question my mother, completely in shock and absolute confusion.  That is a wildly inaccurate statement and I feel like it came pretty much out of the clear blue sky.  I ask my mother to explain her answer but all she offers up is a shrug.  The woman to my right questions me again, demanding to know from which country I hale from.  I return my attention to her with a look of utter bewilderment.  What the hell is going on here?

Instead of inquiring further or letting this woman’s interrogation of me persist, I decide to just answer the question, hoping to dispose of it and her as fast as possible.  I am from Croatia, I tell her bluntly and dismissively.  It would be nice if she would drop the inquiry right here and now.  I don’t want to get involved in a thing.  She responds much to my chagrin, asking where Croatia is located.  I shake my head and offer that it is a country in Eastern Europe.  She finally seems satisfied enough with my answers.  Nodding briefly, she immediately walks away without another word.  What a bizarre interchange.

I shake my head and return my focus once again to George W. and his wife.  They have ceased dancing and are now starting to walk toward the main room to find their seats for the ceremony.  I bet they have real close seats, like ones in the first or second row.  In my opinion that is too close.  I don’t see how you can enjoy a show that close.  And in the case of this little production, I can’t imagine it being very advantageous to sit close enough for everyone to see when you bail out early.

After George W. and his lofty entourage fully pass by, my parents wave their arms at me and beckon that I follow them toward the seats.  I decline, saying that I must use the restroom first.  My mother warns me not to leave or hang around out here throughout the entire ceremony.  I agree to the terms and walk off in search of the bathrooms as they turn down the steps to find their seats.

The woman’s bathroom is amazing here.  I imagine the men’s isn’t too shabby either.  Not only is there a lush pink couch in the waiting area, but there are upwards of thirty stalls lining the back wall of the bathroom, great for choice and privacy.  I pick a stall near the corner wall and sufficiently far away from everyone else looming around.  Distance is key when illegal things are being attempted.  I must say I also appreciate how these doors reach almost down to the floor.  It makes me feel secluded in a comfortable way.

As I’m searching around my pockets for my last syringe, well I shouldn’t say last but the last one I have with me, I realize that I am still carrying the red ping pong paddle.  Still?  I shake my head in confusion but I nevertheless continue with my quest.  Just as I am readying my arm for another blissful, euphoric heroin injection, some devil woman decides to choose and occupy the stall right next to me.  Really, with all thirty of these vacant stalls ripe for the picking, this woman has to pick the one right next to me?  What the hell is wrong with people?  She must be kidding, this must be a joke.  People don’t really do things like this, do they?  It must be a joke.

But what if it’s not a joke?  What if this is purposeful, willful and intentional?  I start to consider the possibility that this is an assassination attempt upon me.  Does she have the mens rea to attempt my murder?  Am I worthy of garnering such a plot?  Will she ultimately be tragically successful?  No, I’m being overly paranoid, hopelessly irrational.  There is no one who desires me dead, and therefore this is not a murder plot.  But the circumstances surrounding me are eerily reminiscent of a certain scary movie scene and so the question still lingers in my head: Could she be here now only to send a sharp blade through the bathroom stall and into my ear, Scream 2 style?

I freeze, completely motionless, totally convinced, and waiting with bated breath for the knife to strike through the stall.  But it never does.  The woman just takes a piss and then walks to the sink to wash her hands.  I feel relief that she didn’t end up being an assassin.  She was just a strange woman with weird motives.  I guess I probably should have assumed that but the whole situation had a feel of doom to it, something dark that I could not shake.

Once I hear the door close again, I decide that it is safe enough to shoot up.  There will always be something that could deter me from the task but I am more or less inexorable in this state.  So I stick the needle in, pull back a smidge to check for blood, and upon seeing the requisite amount, I confidently plunge the syringe that sends the heroin solution deep into my bloodstream.

Exhale, inhale, exhale.  I remove the needle and discard the syringe in the little box for sanitary napkins.  This feels so nice, like a heavy concentration of all the best things in life.  I am a seriously selfish soul, collecting all the good feelings around me and jamming them unapologetically into my blood.  There’s nothing out there better than this.  When I tire from this rush it will be time to die.  This is the best of the best.

I wash up, even though it’s not customary after this kind of transaction.  I grab a paper towel from the automatic dispenser.  The pure robotics of the machine and how it is able to anticipate my need fascinate me like nothing else in this room.  I begin to think about how the machine works, the mechanics of it and how it was developed.  My mind is terrible at understanding how science and mathematics converge to create technological advances such as this.  But I do try to consider it a lot.

Once I leave the bathroom, I try to remember in which direction the stage is located.  I always get rather discombobulated in big structures such as this one.  Though I must confess, I have been in this building a number of times and accordingly, I have no actual justification for my lack of direction.  It’s really quite inexcusable yet I am making one anyway.

Finally I locate the double doors that lead into the stage area.  This place is entirely too big.  After walking down a few steps, I peer around the area in search of where my family may be sitting.  It looks like every single seat in this immense room is full and the ceremony hasn’t even begun yet.  This is nuts; under most circumstances this is where I would abandon ship.  But I don’t have that luxury right now.  That type of luxury would entail having a car or other rational means of getting home.  Walking would not be rational in my current state.

I text Tegan’s phone in order to find out where they are all sitting.  Even though she is constantly on her mobile device and treats it very much like an appendage, it takes her close to a minute to respond.  Meanwhile people are pushing past me, aggressively searching for family members and friends who came earlier and saved seats for them.  Seat-saving should really be outlawed; it should be first come first serve.  In that case, I wouldn’t have a seat right now and I would have a totally valid excuse for remaining outside.  If I am ever in a position of authority, I am going to strive to make seat-saving illegal.  That’s going to be one of my campaign promises.

Tegan replies that they are all sitting on the right side of the big aisle and half way up.  I begin walking further down the red carpeted ramp, somewhat impressed that Tegan and Rhea were able to snag seats as close as they obviously have.  That’s no small accomplishment for an event like this.  After all, George W. is here and who knows who else.  It must have taken some serious shoulder rubbing and finagling on their part to secure these seats.  I heard people were starting to show up here hours ago.

Finally I spot them sitting in the middle of the row.  Great, there’s no easy access over there.  They couldn’t have gotten anything closer to the aisle?  While I understand beggars shouldn’t be choosers, I expect a little more being an unwilling participant and all.  It looks like they actually tried to pick the most middle seats possible.

Wishing I could walk out but know that I cannot, I grudgingly begin the uncomfortable, awkward and irritating trek through the knees of everyone smart enough to sit closer to the aisle.  I hate bumping into people and I hate people bumping into me.  The whole touching of strangers, potentially sick and disgusting strangers, really irks me, especially when I consider the strange part of strangers.  I guess it is best not to consider it at all.

Most of these people express their displeasure at the interruption with a loud exhale but the really brazen ones also add in an exasperated eye roll.  It’s no picnic for me either.  I take a seat between Tegan and my mother, unfortunately placing myself right in the middle of their conversation about someone from school.  They are always gossiping about some poor soul they find wretched in some way.  It’s usually about her weight gain, cosmetic surgery or prolific need to procreate.  It’s all pretty boring to me, mostly because I don’t find other people’s lives to be all that fascinating.

I close my eyes and sink further into the chair.  I wish I was anywhere else but here.  The blended voices of the audience start to die down as the music gets louder.  The ceremony is probably about to start; loud music is a classic audience silencer.  I try to hand my mother the red ping pong paddle to hold onto.  She accuses me of always asking her to hold things.  I hardly think it’s always.  Ultimately she refuses to accept the paddle so I turn to Tegan for what I hope to be better results.  But Tegan doesn’t want to hold it either, even after I remind her that it is hers and even after I threaten to lose it.  She points out to me that I didn’t have to bring it here in the first place.  It’s hard to argue with that logic.  I ask her to take it anyway, irrespective of my irrationality.  But in lieu of actually responding, she just turns her head back to the stage, leaving me holding the red ping pong paddle up in the shape of an offer.

I sigh with defeat as I realize she will not be accepting my oral contract.  All out of options, I decide to place the paddle under my chair.  Hopefully I will remember to retrieve it later.  But it’s not overly concerning to me right now.  The red velvet curtains open suddenly, revealing a stage with at least three rows of chairs and a large podium directly in the center.  I find myself wondering why this town’s yearly ceremony is of any interest to the former President.  It’s not at all something I can understand.  As unlikely as it sounds he may have a friend receiving an honor tonight.  That would explain his attendance to some degree.  But who knows for sure.  I decide not to let it bother me any further.

The lights on the stage get brighter as the ones above lose immensity.  The show will be starting soon.  I’m fairly discontent here, something incredibly hard to achieve when high on heroin.  In a big way I feel like I’m wasting the drug’s time, like it was meant for better, more exciting things.  But I can’t apologize; without it I would surely die of boredom and I can’t have that.  So I reluctantly accept this as a loss and determine not to grit my teeth over it.  This is my reality, here, alone in a sea of people, waiting miserably for the night to end.  But realistically I know that it’s just the beginning of a three hour sentence.

We Were Never Alive

It’s taking a small eternity for him to reach me. This is his play now and he knows it. His face is draped in darkness like he somehow has control over the elements of nature. How does he do it? Everything in this place seems to be working together to shield his identity from me and I’m unappreciative in a huge way. Why do we need all this secrecy? It’s like one of those big storylines that goes absolutely nowhere. I have to wonder what his endgame is here. What does he hope to accomplish by placing me in this extreme unease?

When he finally does emerge from the shadows, I recognize him instantly. It’s Henry! Wow, this is unexpected. Things don’t usually stun me but I think I may be stunned. Agoraphobics don’t cure, they don’t even attempt to change. Yet here he stands right in front of me on the outskirts of Skid Row, far away from the safety and comfort of his Century City loft. My ears don’t believe what my eyes are telling my brain; they are going to need to hear some proof to be sure.

Henry, I ask him tentatively, hoping to coax out of him some kind of identifying trait, a voice I can recognize as his own. He responds with nothing more than a smile. But this is not adequate proof in my book. Anyone with Henry’s face could smile like he does. It’s no impressive achievement. My ears are clearly unconvinced by this unremarkable evidence.

I want to ask him what he’s doing here but I’m afraid to know the answer. He has yet to speak any words and it’s beginning to concern me. For some reason I think he’s waiting for me to notice something or make some kind of introductory move. It’s like everything around me is waiting and watching with anticipation. I feel like I’m in the spotlight of attention right now. It’s eerie in a completely unsettling way.

This whole scene feels manufactured, like it’s trying to fulfill some kind of hidden and slightly irrational agenda. But I’m not into guessing games and I really don’t feel like exploring this any further tonight. Normally my curiosity would drive me to solve the mystery, but I am ten days past tired and coming down off a cocaine high. Sleep is a luxury that is always being withheld from me. Accordingly my mind is in no shape for critical thinking and problem solving.

I return my attention to Henry. He looks normal enough, but something in his demeanor is off. I can’t exactly put my finger on it but the red flags are flying everywhere. He isn’t acting like the Henry I know would act in a circumstance like this one. He is cool, calm and collected. The real Henry would be nervously eying a way out of here and popping pills to quell his rising panic. So who is this imposter and what does the one behind the strings want from me? I laugh. Sometimes I like to allow myself a few illogical thoughts in order to indulge paranoia. This is one of those times. I definitely should know better but for some reason I let it continue. I guess that's because somewhere in my mind I know how to make it stop. Or at least I’ve convinced myself that I do.

Henry is staring down intently so I decide to humor this situation. My eyes fall to the palm of his hand where two white, elongated pills rest side by side in a perfect harmony. I know what they appear to be but not what they truly are. They could be anything. He may have disguised them as a means to an end. But what end? Death would be too merciful for this much trouble; it has to be something worse. He offers them to me with a slight raise of his hand. This has got to be a trap. I see trickery and deceit everywhere, even in places it has yet to infiltrate. But this time I believe my paranoia is somewhat warranted. This offering is too good to be true.

Henry extends his hand further toward me. He wants me to take the pills and introduce them to my bloodstream compliantly. He has his reasons but I am sure they are less than noble. But in the end I know I am not one to turn down a free gift, especially when the package is vicodin. So without much further thought, I accept his offering graciously and throw them down my throat in one fluid motion. I know that was the right decision. If I come to regret it then I’m just being foolish. These pills feel like the missing appendage I have been searching for my entire life. They belong inside me always and I’m slightly in love with how they make me feel. This is nice.

I smile suspiciously at Henry and he returns it. I’m pretty sure this isn’t really Henry, at least not the Henry that I know. The numbers just aren't adding up. But the only important question that remains now is what will become of me. If this doppelganger has indeed laced those pills, and I believe that he has, I can only hope for a nice trip on the way to my demise.

An object nearly strikes my face. What the hell was that? I recoil back abruptly in shock. That will wake up the heart and possibly even kill it. Am I under attack? My eyes and ears are now on high alert. I turn my head in the direction the object must be continuing to travel in. There is nothing but darkness and shadows, a black monster with eternal bowels and a one-track mind. There will be no clues here. I start to wonder if I imagined the whole thing. The mind can be a powerful and dangerous force and I have nothing but distrust for mine, especially these days.

The person masquerading as Henry didn’t seem to notice anything, but that means mostly nothing. He is full of secrets and lies, stuff he doesn't care to share with me. I know he is far from what he seems but I won't be digging really deep for answers. In reality, he may actually be the one responsible for whatever it was that just happened. He could be calling all the shots from his humble position beside me. But if he is, he will surely deny it. No one wants to get caught red-handed in a twisted scheme like this. Of course on the other hand, he could be completely innocent. Unfortunately for him though, he is the only one around right now to blame. So by process of elimination, he is the culprit.

I eye him carefully for a tell but come up empty. I feel like the real Henry has a tell, a few in fact. This guy whoever he is, is making some seriously rookie mistakes. He is fooling no one. Another shiny projectile comes flying in my direction from a place behind Henry. I duck down out of misguided instinct and an unwillingness to be clobbered another time. What the hell is going on? I whip my head around fast in order to catch sight of the object as it regresses, but there is nothing left to see. It’s gone again into the folds of Skid
Row, almost like it never existed at all. But this time I was able to catch a fleeting glimpse. It looked like some kind of round missile, a blatant threat to my life and sanity. Here I thought all I had to worry about was the potential negative side effects of whatever drug I accepted from this Henry look alike, but now I must also elude a new enemy, a potentially dangerous one with some kind of alien catapult device that I cannot see and could hardly describe upon later questioning. It never ends...

Arizona Avenue

The wind feels nice against my outstretched arm. I hang out the passenger side window as we drive through the desert at a comfortable sixty-five miles per hour. My dad doesn’t like to test legal boundaries, at least not anymore.

We are still an hour or so outside of Phoenix but we’ll get there long before sunset. I’m not worried. The air is hot and dry but the AC in this car broke a long time ago so comfort dictates that the windows stay open despite any threat of dust particles clouding our vision and making us choke. But those prospects don’t concern me a ton.

I may have fallen asleep briefly because I can’t remember approaching the fork in the road. Nevertheless, here we are. There is a decision upon us but unfortunately it’s not mine to make. If it were, I’d veer right and take Arizona Avenue straight on into the city. But it’s not my choice; it’s never been my choice. I’m only the passenger.

Out in the distance off to the right are the long decorative pools that stretch elegantly down the length of Arizona Avenue. I follow them with my eyes as far as the horizon allows. These pools are always such a sight to see; so distinctive yet oddly fascinating to me. I’m drawn to them solely by virtue of their mysterious purpose and I rarely deny that. Their significance has always been unknown to me but I’ve always desired some concrete answers.

I watch the palm trees that line Arizona Avenue sway in staggered unison as a response to the light wind coming up from the south. They are so tall and imposing, casting immense shadows onto the road without regard for common decency or tact. The subtle beauty of this scene would undoubtedly be lost on the odd traveler, but from my vantage point here, its sheer magnetism impresses me on a purely aesthetic level.

We continue on left at the fork. I am not surprised by this choice at all; it’s the way we always go. I suppose it’s a little more direct, less scenic, all business. That’s why my dad likes to take it. It’s the shortest, straightest route to Phoenix and after all, gas has gotten quite pricy. Though I understand his motives generally, I do wish one of these times he would decide to take Arizona Avenue. But I’d never ask him to. It’s not a request I find necessary to make.

He slows down to make a right turn, a turn here we’ve never made before. I note that this street is called Milky Way, which makes me think of galaxies and infinite space. What an interesting turn of events. I feel like we are just doubling back the way we came but I can’t imagine why we would turn back now. We’ve gone way too far. There’s an explanation for this I’m sure but I don’t require one spoken out loud. To be honest, I would like to see how all this unfolds without protests or displays of concern hindering the eventual outcome. I want to see where he intends this to lead.

Up ahead I can tell this street will connect with Arizona Avenue. Milky Way is just an intermediary, a bridge between Arizona Avenue and the Interstate. How about that? I may actually get my longtime wish after all. I may get to drive down Arizona Avenue and see the long pools that have always made me wonder. Some answers may finally be forthcoming.

After he makes a left onto Arizona Avenue, my suspicions are all but confirmed. He has finally decided to take the good route, the route I’ve been silently touting for years, or at least ever since my sister moved out here from California and we’ve been making these journeys to visit her. This time our drive is going to be interesting and informative.

I think my dad is only taking this street so he can stop at the avocado stand, but his motives for the choice aren’t important now. I’m finally going to get the chance to cruise down Arizona Avenue and get a closer look at the long rectangular pools that run parallel to it, the very ones that have intrigued me for years on end. According to my sister, these pools, that from all accounts appear to be ornamental in nature without much function or utility, follow Arizona Avenue all the way in to town. I’m extremely skeptical of that statement but I look forward to finding out nonetheless.

We pull off the side of the road at the first Avocado stand we come to. While my dad goes over to inspect avocados and try to negotiate a deal, I walk over to the edge of the road and look across the street, through the palm trees, and to the pools beyond. Why were these built here, what purpose could they possibly serve, and for whose amusement were they meant to satiate? I imagine someone with fame and money ordered these constructed for some lavish and overly hedonistic reason. But no one I’ve talked to seems to really know. Admittedly, I haven’t conducted a ton of surveys or performed much due diligence on the matter. But I do tend to wonder if there’s a Wikipedia page dedicated to them out there. I’ll have to investigate that later.

I kick some dirt as I stare out toward the pools of water with an appropriate amount of intrigue. They are pretty luscious and massive. I find myself wondering if they can be seen from outer space. I make a note to check on Google Earth later. It’s a good idea; it will probably give me a better idea of their magnitude and territory-span as well.

After perusing the avocado stand for fifteen minutes, my dad finally decides to purchase a bundle of ten Haas avocados for $10. He asserts that it is a pretty good deal and I don’t disagree. We head back to the car. I casually ask him what he thinks of the long, rectangular pools on the other side of the street. He thinks I said tools but after I clear up the misconception, he responds that he has no idea why the pools are there or what their purpose could possibly be. I agree that it’s quite a mystery.

Back in the car, I stare out at the pools in between the spaces in the palm trees that line the road. Unarguably these pools are well kept. Someone or something is keeping them in good repair, not allowing them to succumb to mold scum, algae or dead leaves. Whoever owns this land and these pools must have hired a large crew to add chlorine on a regular basis because they look fresh and clean. I can’t imagine any one person on his or her own could handle the massive responsibility that upkeep like this would require.

The pools finally end and a tall grassy field appears in their wake. It’s a field I never knew existed before. It looks like the perfect place for crop circles and other teenage pranks. From here, Arizona Avenue continues on straight into the heart of Phoenix. But my sister lives on the west part of town so it won’t be too much further now.

She has mentioned the pools in the past, living in such proximity to them and all, though she’s never gone into a tremendous amount of detail. I think in a way she knows I’m fascinated by them but at the same time she doesn’t take it too seriously. Likely she believes it’s just a minor obsession that I indulge to humor myself above all else. She may be right.

We finally pull up to my sister’s place. Our dad declines an invitation to come in for a bite to eat. I guess he only intended to drop me off. It seems like a far way to drive for that sole purpose, but I don’t go out of my way to point that out. We bid goodbye to him as he hops back in the car and heads off for home. I wonder if he will take Arizona Avenue back as well. Now that he has his avocados, I don’t think he will see any sort of reason in it.

My sister tells me that our friend Serena is coming over soon. I nod and follow her back into the house. We eat some chips and salsa while we wait for Serena to arrive. She takes her sweet time. Napoleon Dynamite is on television so we sit down and watch a little as we eat our snacks. I’ve always disliked this movie and today I am no more impressed by it than I was when it was first released. But I don’t complain.

As soon as Serena shows up, we all decide to go to Las Ramblas, a town market of sorts that runs the span of two city blocks. Merchants and vendors set up tents every Tuesday and sell everything from knickknacks to candles to tweed and leather bracelets, to herbs and spices to plants, and even clothing. It’s fun to shop there because you can effectively cut out the greedy middleman and thus reduce the price of the overall good you intend to purchase. We head down there almost every time I come for a visit.

When we arrive downtown at Las Ramblas, I announce that I’m going to purchase some sunglasses if I can find aviators that look good. I’ve needed new sunglasses ever since I accidentally stepped on mine somewhere on a trail near Taos. They’re still somewhat functional and I use them fairly frequently but they tend to slip when I bend down and they sit a little crooked on my face.

At a tent selling red, yellow, and green bracelets, I get beckoned by the vendor into the space behind the curtain. I accept the invitation somewhat reluctantly and follow him back. Serena and my sister continue to peruse the front area, largely unconcerned about my general whereabouts. I wonder if this will end up being a mistake on my part.

In the back, the vendor offers to sell me an eighth of marijuana for $50. I laugh softly, as impressed by ingenuity and frankness as anyone else. But I decline politely. It’s not my general practice to buy drugs from strangers. Usually I require some kind of friendly vouching. But he insists, this time rather surreptitiously, making me somewhat anxious. He brings the price down to $40 in the spirit of negotiation. I’ll admit that I’m tempted but I ultimately refuse. This is just way too suspicious.

I walk back out to the front and catch up with Serena and my sister who have moved on to the next tent. I tell them what happened. They are not surprised, in fact they cite multiple occasions where they were approached and offered similar deals here. The woman behind the counter at this tent overhears our conversation and interjects some information that I in particular find very interesting. She tells us that we can acquire free marijuana in the open fields next to Arizona Avenue if we’re really in the market for that sort of thing. I’m shocked, and I relay that shock back to her. But she confirms the truth of her statement, she swears by it actually.

I tell Serena and my sister that I was just by that area earlier today and I didn’t see anything that vaguely resembled marijuana plants. Of course, I wasn’t really looking for that crop but still I feel like I would have noticed something. If not me, then my father would have noticed and pointed it out to me. He has a particular knack for being able to identify specific species of plants.

My sister rolls her eyes and Serena waves off the woman making the wild marijuana assertions. We move on to the next tent but that woman’s words have really gotten me thinking. If I could acquire a good amount of free marijuana, I could make some serious cashola, an item in very short supply for me right now. But could it be true? Is there really a bunch of weed growing out in those fields, free for the plucking? Even if it turns out to be a bust, I think it’s still worth checking out while I’m in town. I’d hate myself if I found out later it was true and I did nothing to profit from it.

I finally convince Serena and my sister to come out with me to the Arizona Avenue fields to see if we can corroborate that woman’s marijuana story. I entice them with promises of edibles and large amounts of money to be made. They agree we’ll stop by on the way home from the market. I can hardly wait.

After we visit all the tents, some of them twice, my sister decides to buy some feta and dried tomato dip with pita chips. She claims this dip is better than anything you can get at a supermarket. There’s nothing left for us to check out at this market so we decide to take off for the fields. It’s after five but the sun stays up close to forever here, especially in the early summer. So I’m not at all concerned about losing light to search.

We park about a mile away from the fields in a carpool lot that’s always free. There isn’t really a discreet place to pull off the road any closer. We walk the rest of the way to the field in relative silence. My sister is somewhat concerned that there might be authorities guarding the area. I formulate a clever excuse in the event someone finds us searching in the field. We will simply say that an important document flew out of our car and we are just trying to recapture it. That story will give us complete deniability I assure them. They agree and it’s settled.

When we get to the field, both Serena and my sister turn down my idea to split up and look for the marijuana separately. I tell them it will take less time but they are not convinced. They claim that they don’t really know what they are looking for and that it would be smarter for us to all stay together. I roll my eyes but eventually concede; there’s no use arguing over it. So we stay together for the time being.

It’s not long before I spot exactly what we came here for. I walk up to the plant briskly and take a big whiff. I smile wide back at my companions. Serena gives me a somewhat sarcastic “thumbs up” sign. Neither one of them is super impressed now, but they’ll both like the profits to be made later. They’re business-minded to the core and I can respect that.

I start examining the bud. This might be difficult. I’ve had little experience on this end of the transaction, specifically in the cultivating stages. It can’t be too hard though. I break off the bud and place it inside the pocket of my hoodie. Serena calls out to me, asserting that she found another marijuana plant. I walk over to where her voice originated from and find that she is correct. Nice! I pocket the bud off this plant as well.

Then I turn around and instruct both of my companions to start collecting all the bud they can fit into their pockets. We of course didn’t bring anything to carry it in. That was a pretty large lapse in judgment but I don’t think any of us really believed we’d find anything here. It’s nice to be wrong about something like this.

There seems to be a huge amount of marijuana growing in these fields. We’ve only been here ten minutes and I’ve already found five plants. Of course one of them was too young to have any usable bud on it, but still. This is quite remarkable. I’m glad that lady confided in me today. To think, if she hadn’t been eavesdropping on our private conversation, I would never have known about any of this. I’m glad she was present to be nosy.

There must be loads of marijuana here, just growing up toward the sun all around me, completely and wholly ripe for the taking. And I plan to take it. But this seems almost too good to be true in a lot of ways. I mean where are the cultivators with guns to protect their crops? Where are the authorities with warrants to enforce the law? Where are the other pilferers with bags to steal the weed?

The apparent emptiness of this field is starting to make me a little nervous. I’m not really versed in the art of committing theft, so it makes me somewhat wary when things don’t appear to add up. I walk over to my sister and voice my concerns but she brushes me off, claiming that I’m just being paranoid. Maybe she’s right, but then again, maybe she’s wrong. It’s hard to tell right now.

All of a sudden I hear some rustling coming from behind me, the kind of sound you can almost always attribute to boots forcing their way through plant life. Shit! Someone’s coming and they’re coming fast. I look in the direction of the sound just as a lady police officer emerges from behind the tall grass. Fuck!

Teegan run, I yell at my sister, as I push towards her. For some inexplicable reason, I have decided to completely abandon our plan of saying that we lost an important document in the field and we are now innocently searching for it. My sister turns around briefly and I watch her face change as she spots the cop running toward us. Shit, she exclaims loudly as the realization undoubtedly sinks in.

We start running away from the cop and further into the tall grassy field. I look out for Serena as I run, following my sister as she curves in between and around the brush. Somewhere along the way, we lost sight of Serena and I start to wonder if maybe she already got captured. That would be terrible. I’m sure there are more cops where this one came from. They never do anything solo.

Then without warning, Serena appears to my left and she’s running too. I’m glad she was able to get away. We stop for a second in a tiny clearing to gather our composure and formulate a quick plan of escape. Teegan and Serena throw all the marijuana they collected aside but I decide to keep mine where it is, damn the consequences. This is what I came for and I refuse to relinquish it as dismissively as my companions have.

The sound of rustling nearby, forces us to get on the move once again. I pick up some of the bud Serena dropped by the wayside and then I run off after them. But the grass is really tall in this field and I’m having a lot of trouble getting one foot in front of the other. This feels almost like a dream, one where you consistently try to run but you’re feet weigh a thousand pounds and refuse to work properly.

It’s gotten to the point where I can’t run anymore. I slow to a stop and put my hands on my knees. I feel like a failure and I really don’t want to keep running because I’m bad at it. I just don’t want to exert the energy it takes. It seems too hard anyway. But as I feel the cops closing in on me, they seem to have multiplied markedly in mere minutes, I decide that I must try to run again for my survival. I really don’t want to be captured and hauled into jail on drug charges.

When I finally catch up to Serena and my sister, they are crouching down near the edge of the field. We spot a cop driving slowly down Arizona Avenue so we duck further down until he passes by. I tell them that we should cross the street and head back to the car because the cops are still looking for us in the thick of the field. They won’t suspect that we made it all the way over here.

Teegan agrees but for some strange reason, Serena starts to freak out. She thinks we are going to jail and she begins to have a panic attack as a result. We try to calm her down but to no avail. She gets up and runs away from us and in the direction of the cops. What are you doing, I yell after her but she doesn’t stop. Teegan and I both look at each other in horror, neither of us knowing why Serena has all of a sudden lost it.

I tell Teegan that Serena will draw attention to us and alert the cops to our presence. We decide to run in the opposite direction, essentially agreeing to give Serena up to the authorities. I feel bad about it, but in the end it was her decision to run away and freak out. I don’t know why she did it. I mean even if we were caught, the worst thing that could happen is a ticket with a court date to appear. Marijuana possession has been all but decriminalized now.

As we are running through the grass, Teegan shouts something back at me. She has spotted an old shed in the brush and wants to use it as a hiding place. We approach it with a fair amount of caution, not really knowing what to expect. But it seems like as good a place as any to hide, so we walk inside and shut the door behind us. I want to lock it up in order to keep the cops out but I pause for a second. This lock is very sophisticated-looking, like the one I have on my apartment door. That’s weird. It’s so out of place because the rest of this shed is old and cruddy. Apart from that, there is really nothing in here worth stealing, at least nothing in plain view. All I see are a few bales of hay and some buckets, not a good bounty by any standards.

Teegan urges me to stop admiring the lock and lock it already. I comply and then back away to listen for movement outside. There’s just silence and I start to think that maybe we’ll be okay. Teegan nods at me and I nod back. We should be good now; all we need to do is wait them out for a few hours. Eventually they’ll get bored of the hunt and return to their lair to finish paperwork and return phone calls. Of course neither of us knows at the moment what the fate of Serena will be. If she had just stayed with us and kept her cool, she would have survived this along with us. But now, it’s anyone’s guess where she will end up.

What do you think happened to Serena, Teegan whispers, without taking her eyes off the little window at the east end of the shed that looks out across the field. I shake my head in lieu of actually voicing an answer. It’s hard to say for sure what will come of any of us. This is a fairly hairy situation and the outcome is still very much undecided. But I choose not to tell Teegan any of that in order to keep her spirits up.

Then without adequate warning, our meager little shed door is kicked open violently. Teegan screams and I step back a good yard in response. As pieces of the wooden door fly wildly about, I cover my face and look away. When I feel like it might be safe to unshield my eyes, I see exactly who was responsible for this mess. It’s the lady cop who first spotted us in the field. She has chased us down despite our best efforts to elude her. Now she informs us that we are both busted.

Teegan surrenders immediately and states that she is willing to cooperate in every capacity. But I can’t bring myself to admit that kind of defeat. So I push past her, out the shed door and back into the tall, grassy field. I’m determined to prevent the police from catching me alive. Besides, I don’t want them finding all the marijuana in my pockets that I’ve still been unable to part with. I’m sure there’s enough on me for a hefty possession with intent charge and that won’t look very good on my thus far unblemished record.

But I’m still finding it pretty hard to run with any sort of enviable speed. I want to evade the cop but she catches me by the arm and drags me back to the shed where my sister is now standing in handcuffs. How did this happen? I find myself angry with Teegan for surrendering so easily. We could have beaten this together.

I’m incredibly dismayed and I attempt to flee once more. But the cop is smarter this time; she anticipates my intent and blocks the door. I try to rationalize with her, desperately attempting to convince her that we did nothing wrong. When she doesn’t appear to be persuaded by my candor, I move onto bargaining with her. Finally she has heard enough and raises her hand to stop me from persisting. She pulls out a notebook and starts writing things down in it. I ask her what she’s writing but she doesn’t respond.

I begin to freak out about being arrested and having a criminal record. Things like this must be reported to the state bar and there are no exceptions. But how do you explain something like this to a disciplinary committee? I can’t believe this is happening. I feel like I’m being railroaded here, wrongly accused for a crime I only thought about committing. I start to scheme ways to best argue this case before a judge or jury. But I’ll have to be much more persuasive than I am being right now if I want any chance of an acquittal.

Finally the officer finishes writing her notes and instructs me to place my hands behind my back. I decline to comply. This is wrong, I tell her with all the sincerity I can muster. We weren’t doing anything illegal, I add while taking a couple of steps away from her. She advances on me, handcuffs in hand, telling me not to resist. I reply that I will always resist when I know I’m in the right.

She snorts at my statement and then proceeds to challenge the very veracity of my claim by once again pulling out her notebook. She starts reading off a list of my prior offenses. As I listen to her name transgressions going back years and years, I find myself wondering how she could have possibly obtained all this information about me. I mean she knows about the time when I was a kid and I threw a ball at Teegan, which ended up breaking everything on her dresser. She knows about the time I broke a mirror by using it as a slide and she knows about the time I almost got arrested for smoking pot up on the Eleventh Avenue Lookout. How could she have possibly found out about all of this?

Finally I believe enough is enough. I raise my hand to stop her from continuing on and to admit my earnest defeat. I’m very disturbed that an Arizona police officer, with no identifiable connection to me whatsoever, possesses this kind of information. It definitely releases the air from my insurrection in a big way. I turn around and allow her to place the handcuffs on my wrists.

It’s all over now.

In The City We Tripped On The Urge To Feel Alive

Excerpt from Unpublished Work © 2009. Please as always observe copyrights and all that other junk.

Signed, Counselor.

* * * * *

The cops are taking me into custody for the second time this week.  According to the paperwork that was briefly shot in front of my face, it looks like I'm a viable suspect in a second suspicious death.  Of course I am truly guilty of neither, being only an innocent bystander of the first and only an unfortunate finder of the second.  But this week has been a series of wrong place wrong time circumstances for me, and now it seems to have all culminated in the execution of an undoubtedly faulty arrest warrant.

From the backseat of this squad SUV, I can only perceive the city in segments of blurred lights.  My cuffed hands are beginning to cramp and cause me discomfort.  I move to my left a little to alleviate some of the tension.  We still have awhile to drive before we get to the station and restlessness is beginning to ravage me.  It won't be long before the need to kick something will become overwhelming.

I crack my neck and try to focus on the outside clearly as we slow for a signal light.  I note the extravagant amount of billboards that dot this city and mar its otherwise beautiful facade.  Apparently Los Angeles only likes to advertise in grand fashions.  "Go big or go home" is likely the city motto.  I groan in disgust as my eyes fall on a particularly obnoxious billboard that spans the length of a fifteen story building.  It's lit up by a huge light at the bottom, causing a lot of attention that I would deem unwarranted and excessive.  I've never been convinced of a product's utility based solely on an advertisement and I find anyone who has to be utterly pathetic.

Billboards in this city have gotten out of control.  They are annoying eyesores that spark a fair number of complaints.  The rampant commercialization of our world significantly detracts from any natural beauty we could otherwise indulge.  To me that's a worse offense than petty crime.  But I'm not a lawmaker and I've never claimed such a duty.  Accordingly, most of my rants, while wholly and completely justified in every sense of the word, will ultimately be dangerously ineffectual.  Of course by now I've accepted that reality.

We start to pick up speed again, a result of the signal light changing back to green.  I start to worry about losing the focus my eyes have just barely found.  It's hard to see the world clearly when combining recent drug use and unnecessarily high speeds.  But it was working while we were slowing to a stop.

I feel the painkillers I took earlier starting to loosen their stranglehold over my body and mind.  This realization depresses me to a certain degree because it means my high is in the process of evaporating.  At least I'm slowly regaining the privilege of being able to perform the more complicated cognitive functions I've come to take for granted.  However I think as we gain more speed I will lose some of those important functions once again.  Already, things are beginning to blur.  I look out the window and try to wrangle my eyesight, but it's ultimately to no avail.  Soon I decide that it's easier to just zone out.

* * * * *

As I watch billboard after billboard fly by in colorful streaks, I am somehow reminded of a few weeks ago during spring break when we drove down this very same avenue looking for adventure.  I was not alone but cannot recall the faces that kept my company. We dropped at ten after smoking some pot and were on the road shortly after.  I always like to be outside when tripping because there is much more sensory stimulation outside.  In a big way, I feel that a high is mostly wasted indoors.

I remember the faces on the billboards turning into demons and mocking me with shallow observations. I had tried hard to ignore them but they were persistent.  They wouldn't let up no matter how hard I tried to shut them out.  It was a relentless taunting that vilified my state of mind.  I was convinced of the need to put miles between us, but I ultimately settled for only blocks. 


We pulled off the road on Wilshire and parked the car in a ridiculously expensive lot with a very broad definition of security.  But none of us were concerned about that.  After soaking in the warm waves of the Lo-Fidelity All-Stars for untold minutes, we proceeded on foot to The Standard to consume the plushy view of downtown from its lush poolside roof.

We stole waterbeds from other patrons and spilled martinis that were set down carefully on tables.  There was daredevil picture-taking near the ledges and a lot of smoking.  One of the guys with us pushed a lady in a blue evening dress into the deep end of the pool, causing a loud splash and a ruckus that finally forced the hotel staff to get involved.

We were eventually kicked out of the establishment for disturbing the peace so we went in search of other entertainment because we hadn’t peaked yet.  We walked the largely empty streets, pushing over trashcans and laughing at the cabbies hovering around The Library and waiting for drunk yuppies to stagger out.  Businessmen and women avoided us as they fled from their offices after a long hard day of work.  We were constantly looking out for interesting things to inspect.

Outside the Disney Concert Hall, I dropped another tab and marveled at the structure of the silver masterpiece.  I commented that the designer drew up the plans in the midst of a hallucinogenic spell but my companions ignored me in favor of gawking at the building.  I remember sliding my palms over the walls in back and forth motions until my hands felt numb.  It was the strangest sensation.

When the show finally let out, we stood by the exit and mocked the patrons as they walked past us to retrieve their valeted cars.  The concert-goers were not pleased with our existence there and a few of them complained to management.  But we refused to heed the warning to disperse made by security; we knew they couldn't touch us in any threatening way.

It was all good-natured fun until I became convinced that one of the patrons was actually a cop, writing down notes about us on her clipboard.  I tried to take it away from her so I could read what she wrote but I was ultimately unsuccessful in that endeavor.  Finally, we gave up and left the area.  I found out later from the non-flyer that the woman was really just an employee of the concert hall conducting a voluntary survey.  She was not a cop as I had suspected.  I remember thinking that night for sure I had gone over the edge, took my experimentation way too far. Yet here I am.

* * * * *

That night remains a fond memory for me even though I cannot recall many of the details that made it great.  What I do remember and have just recounted is enough for me to hold it in high regard.  Of course that won't be the case with the memory of tonight.  I'm afraid the cops won't be able to understand my urge to feel alive.  They'll see me as an irrational addict with more than enough of a propensity to have committed the crimes charged.  Then it will be case closed.  The same old story.

They can't understand the urge to feel alive.  If it ever existed inside of them, it is long gone now.  They have settled instead for the life of a drone and the salary of a glorified knight.  I sigh and close my eyes tight.  I'm not going to make it out of this situation unscathed.

Mor Phine Please

I switch on the radio in my car. The station is playing Boston’s More Than A Feeling. I lay my head back against the seat cushion to enjoy what’s to come. This is fantastic. The speed impresses me in a purely visceral sense. It’s the only sense I have right now but that doesn’t bother me. I feel so immediately gratified. It’s hard to account for this rapidly beautiful change and I won’t attempt to try. I’d rather just enjoy it.

Pain is a word without a definition to me now. I almost can’t believe it ever existed in my life. But I sense that it did and I do remember the general concept associated with the term. The sensation itself is what escapes me presently. And I’m more than okay with that. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever been this okay before in my life. I smile and close my eyes at the revelation. It’s nice to feel content, so completely devoid of unease. It’s unfamiliar but of course welcome.

It has left me unconcerned over whether the pain might return someday in the future. I don’t care if it does; all that matters is how I feel right now. It makes me think I might be dreaming. Only I’ve never dreamed this nice of an experience before. My dreams are usually more like nightmares, blatantly mocking me with meanings I wish I didn’t understand. But this is much different; this is the polar opposite of those things called nightmares. In all honesty, I don’t believe it’s even humanly possible to dream this particular kind of contentedness. I’m sure countless people have tried and failed many times. I guess some things are just relegated to the effects of substances and there’s no getting around it. I’ve learned to accept that in the most mature way that I know how. I indulge the substances on a regular basis and I won’t claim to be sorry. How could anybody ever be sorry for this?

I open my eyes. Wow. It occurs to me that the world is still going on around me. I hear voices talking in the distance. But they’re not bothering me. I know they want to bother me and that they’re attempting to do so, but the drug won’t let them be successful. There is only so much of my attention to go around and the drug is selfish and wants to keep me all to itself. But I won’t be complaining or trying to fight it. I don’t care that it has hijacked my body and has quickly retained complete control over my mind. As far as I’m concerned, it can have me for an eternal amount of eternities. I don’t even want to fight it.

This is nothing short of amazing. I’m so blessedly powerless in the wake of this powerful drug. Wow, an injection was definitely the right way to go here. No ifs, ands or buts about it. Anyone who wastes drugs by swallowing or smoking them is an idiot and I feel sorry for them. They will never feel quite like this and that’s a real life shame. They are cheating themselves out of the greatest peacefulness they could ever know. It’s hard to not feel sorry for people like that. I admit that at times I am people like that. But I’m trying really hard to change; it’s unarguably worth it.

Hello morphine, my new friend. I mean that in the sincerest way possible. This is much, much better than I ever thought it would be. I find myself smiling again. What an unimaginable niceness I have found. I’m in awe, literally. I consider writing a ‘thank you’ note but I refrain. That would take too much time and waste precious seconds I could be enjoying this high, and I’ve never been one to condone any sort of waste, especially when it comes to substances.

Wow, this high is incredible. Seriously, it exceeds my expectations. Admittedly, those expectations were not terribly high to start with but still. This is amazing. I feel so warm and pleasant. I feel like I could do anything. The morphine is all over me already. It didn’t take long for it to infiltrate my entire being. Now it has me cornered into a large blanket near a fireplace in a cozy enclosure with pillows and other soft things all around. But that’s not all. It has me draped in euphoria, the real kind of euphoria that you couldn’t otherwise experience without dopiates. I laugh. Dopiates, did I just invent a new word? I’ll have to remember that later. It really is rather clever.

I can’t get over this. I don’t want to get over this. Everything around me is so soft and non-threatening, like a big, comfy euphoric bubble that has me pleasantly immersed in its womb. I love this womb. I cannot describe it or adequately explain it using real words. Its qualities are necessarily indefinable. I marvel at my newfound peace. Nothing matters anymore, but in a good, almost positive way. The concerns I once had in this life are not concerning anymore. I know nothing bad can happen to me in this bubble. Someone could kill me and I’d still be alright. I would survive it.

And I don’t care if I’m the only one who believes in my invincibility. Other people’s views and opinions are irrelevant in the most literal sense. Nothing can bother me, not even the voices speaking all around me. They won’t be successful in knocking me off this high. The morphine will not allow it and I cannot possibly express my gratitude enough for that.

This protective womb-bubble is like a body guard, massage therapist, and lover all rolled into one. It is everything I ever wanted but couldn’t honestly believe I deserved. I still don’t think I deserve this but I’m too selfish to let it go. I only wish we had met earlier and under different circumstances. We would have been the best of friends by now. But I don’t make a habit of dwelling on past mistakes. Instead, I will make the best of our time together here and in the future. We will have lots of fun together.

I can’t help the pure joy that comes across my face. I’m probably smiling like a complete moron right now. But this is so good that it’s hard to care about anything else. I don’t feel concerned about giving myself away. I just feel so relaxed, so very, very heavy, like I could melt into this seat right now and that would be alright. I close my eyes for a second to enjoy the feeling I’ve come to know as euphoria. This is so nice. It’s like a huge, warm blanket has crashed down on me, smothering me in feelings of wellness and forcing me into a putty-like goo that will inevitably and mercifully dissolve into the seat. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this okay in my entire life. Nothing can injure me. I can’t really believe I ever lived a second in a state other than this one. This is what life is really about, I’m sure of it. When people refer to the gift of life they are referring to this. I won’t believe there is anything better out there. I vow to replenish this feeling again and often. Only a fool could ever let this go and still carry on.

Now I’m done trying to capture this into words. Honestly, to describe it any further would be to waste it and I have way too much respect for the drug to do something like that. I open my eyes. It’s time for me to get to class. I feel as though I might get little out of a law lecture today but I’ve had so many absences thus far, they may consider dropping me out. I really don’t want to enter the real world yet. It’s harsh out there and often times unforgiving of self-indulgence.

I contemplate taking the other dose but I refrain. It’s better if I save it for the future. I like to have something to look forward to. So I exit my car and head for the stairs.

As I make my way down the stairs one at a time, I dig out my sunglasses and put them on. My eyes are way too sensitive to brave the strong rays of the sun all on their own. They need even more protection than the morphine bubble can offer. In fact, I believe that drug is the very reason why my eyes need protection at all. Brilliant lights are very clever at piercing corneas and causing permanent damage when under the influence of certain narcotics, namely opiates. It’s been a clear yet unspoken threat in the past and I’ve learned to take it seriously.

At the landing of the staircase, I nod at someone I know. He nods back in response and continues on his way up the stairs. I walk into the sunlight and out into the open. The weather is nice today. A day like this tells me that summer really isn’t that far off. It’s warm with a light, yet not unpleasant breeze. There doesn’t appear to be a cloud in the sky. It’s pretty impressive for a morning in February. Usually it doesn’t heat up until the afternoon this time of the year, if it heats up at all. But it’s warm today. I feel wrapped in the arms of Mother Nature as I walk. All assets of the planet are working in unison to provide me with more comfort and serenity than I could ever ask for.

A big part of me wishes I didn’t have class today. I’d much rather be somewhere else, enjoying the bountiful remnants of my morphine high. I imagine myself lying in a field of grass and dandelions, under the cornflower blue sky, blowing smoke rings around the golden sun in concentric circles. Somewhere in the distance music is playing; I like the song but am unable to identify it. But the rhythm is nice and calming and there is nothing around that could bother me. All the people who could be near are keeping their distance, pleasantly remaining out of earshot. I feel like they may be calling out to me but it’s too peaceful here to listen. I don’t care what they want from me anyway. The fact that I’m lying down, smoking and secluded from everything that could ever bother me, brings a lazy smile to my face.

But I realize it’s just a daydream as I almost stumble on the pathway. Someone passes by me and says hi but I don’t force a reply. I’m still wondering why I brought myself here today. There are many other better places for me to be right now. But I decide not to dwell on it any more. Obviously I had my reasons at the beginning of the day for taking myself to school. So I should probably just trust that instinct and forego any further questions. My motives and reasons for doing the things that I do make sense to me in the long run most of the time.

I glance up at the sun as I make my way to class along the designated path. It feels warm on my face and even through my sunglasses it appears much more golden than I can remember. Wow, it’s so very, very golden. It’s mesmerizing, like a warm golden pool of honey. I feel like just touching it once could renew the rush of euphoria that has temporarily subsided. The sight of the sun all golden and warm causes my heart to beat faster and slower at the same time. Its rays are reaching out to me and whirring around my body, causing feelings of euphoric giddiness and invincibility. I’m in love with this feeling.

Our sun truly is amazing. It provides just the right amount of warmth and light to sustain life. It's pouring golden rays of light everywhere I walk. It’s like the sun is spoiling only me and disregarding everything else here. The warmth it’s sharing is immeasurable. How did I become the sole creature of its concern? That’s some noteworthy kind of luck! I’m literally enthralled with the sun in this moment and I have to think I’ve missed out on something great by largely ignoring it for all these years. But I, like many others before me, fell for the myth that staring at the sun for too long can cause permanent blindness. And not wanting a deformity of any kind, I chose to refrain from any sort of sun-staring. To me it wasn’t worth the possible blindness and the associated stigma that would surely follow.

Of course myth is all that was. The sun doesn’t steal your sight as punishment for taking in its golden beauty. I’m seeing, breathing proof that the sun is not that cold-blooded. It’s the naysayers that spread that kind of propaganda around, those that don’t believe beautiful things should be seen or touched or experienced. I hate them for their unnecessary dissemination of sun-related fear. They have robbed good people of the chance to see true beauty and for that they should be chastised.

Dream No. 9857

I will preface this by stating that I have never taken a life nor have I ever had the impulse to take a life. This dream came to me from an unconscious gray area that I have yet to understand. But I am no scientist.

* * * * *

I killed Beverly Leslie. Was it a hate crime? I’m not sure. He was a closeted homosexual dwarf, a member of two protected classes. However he was also rich and white so the question isn’t quite so easy to answer. Ultimately I believe whether or not this was a hate crime is unimportant. It’s not the real issue here. The real issue is whether it was even a crime at all. Maybe there were some extenuating circumstances that take this killing out of the realm of the penal code. Only the jury will be able to answer that question for sure.

* * * * *

We met under cordial terms but he had a sinister message for me. Somehow he had found out that I was infringing on his territory with my pharmacy business and he wanted an end put to me. He wasn’t happy with the dramatic decline in his own business and had decided that I was to blame. So a mutual friend of ours invited me to a meeting. But that’s not when I killed him.

I agreed to the meeting, albeit reluctantly, because I trusted that my friend meant me no actual harm. Beverly Leslie came up and sat down at the counter next to us, wearing a white suit with an orange collar. I noted that his outfit could be viewed as either masculine or feminine. I didn’t dwell on it long though.

Beverly Leslie didn’t say much to me directly, choosing instead to speak through our friend. But the message wasn’t lost on me. Finally I got fed up with the bullshit and confronted him face to face like the adults we both were. Being clinically a dwarf, Beverly Leslie didn’t intimidate me much. Quite the contrary, I saw him as a pathetic little man with a fairy’s voice and really soft skin. He pretended to pay me no attention. Instead he brushed me off and resumed chatting with our friend. I took a sip of my raspberry lemonade. After another five minutes of small talk, Beverly Leslie rose to stand up. He put his knuckles on the counter and threatened to kill me if I didn’t leave his Quiznos. Deciding that he was serious, I got up and left.

The next day I was at my friend’s house discussing the situation. I told her I was certain that Beverly Leslie would try to kill me. He was known to carry a knife on his person at all times and he was small enough to fit inside a box. I was uneasy about the whole situation and there was the distinct feeling that our altercation had gone too far for an amicable resolution. Beverly Leslie was already determined to carry out his threat against me.

The next thing I knew, Beverly Leslie was lunging his tiny body at me and brandishing a knife. Without forethought or remorse, I grabbed him around the throat and threw him to the ground. I tightened both my hands around his throat, intent on strangling him. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking about having to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life. I knew that he would keep trying to kill me if I didn’t stop him. So tighter and tighter I squeezed, our friend crouched next to us looking on. She didn’t really seem to register what was happening and if she did, she showed no signs of disapproval. Finally Beverly Leslie stopped moving and struggling against my arms. He crumpled to the ground and I removed my hands from around his neck.

Our friend looked somewhat taken aback. She reached down and poked Beverly Leslie in the nose to see if he was really dead. He wasn’t. He gasped in a breath and rose like a horror movie villain. My heart skipped a beat and I yelled at her for meddling. She apologized profusely and took a step back from us. I reapplied my hands to Beverly Leslie’s neck and started squeezing again, this time harder and with more purpose. I don’t like having to do things twice. I remember feeling his trachea and esophagus as I squeezed tighter and tighter. This time it was going to work. When Beverly Leslie stopped struggling for the second time, I was a little bit wary. I thought he might be faking it again. But he wasn’t. He was really dead and I was the one who had killed him.

Sometime during the act of strangling Beverly Leslie, I realized that I had efficiently disarmed him of the knife he held in his hand. I knew there was no longer a threat to my life. But I persisted. It’s not really all that clear to me why I continued to strangle him even though he presented no immediate danger. I suppose it was instinct. I think I subconsciously realized that Beverly Leslie would harass me forever if I didn’t put him in the ground for good. In my mind, it had to be done.


* * * * *

Was it murder? I’m not sure. Self-defense comes to mind but the evidence might not back up that theory. Whatever the outcome, I’m not sorry for what I did, nor do I have any regrets. I believe it was necessary to save my life. And given the chance to do it again, I can’t say it would have turned out any differently.


The End.