Fear and Loathing, bits and pieces (pt. 2)
"You never think about anyone else. It's always you, you, you," she whimpers and flops down on the king-sized, hotel bed.
"Well, I'm a narcissist, honey. What do you expect?" I turn away from her to throw back the few painkillers in my pocket and tip up the bottle of Wild Turkey I’m holding. We’ve arrived in this dusty town just minutes before, but I am more than ready to go, "We have work to do. Get me my shaving kit." I say, unlit cigarette still dangling from the corner of my lip.
This is life on the road: chaotic, ravenous, and unforgiving to say the least.
Sherry starts to cry a bit, and even more importantly, she hasn't made a single move to bring me my shaving kit. "What are you doing now? Can't you see that I'm sobering?" I take a step nearer the bed, although I am still weary of the swirling floral patterns and little marching automatons circling the duvet. "eh, do you have my bag?" I ask, softening my voice a little. She stops crying almost immediately and with a sniff, lifts her head to offer a look full of accusations.
“You are a worthless piece of shit!” She screams and starts throwing clothes from the open suitcase lying beside her; a pair of pink lace panties lands atop my head. “I can’t believe I ever drove out here with you! And now, what am I going to do? Where can I go?” Her anger peaks. “You! You’re worse than shit – You shit-eating son of a bitch!” In her rage she has grown nearly twelve feet tall. “All you do is booze and smoke and get higher. I don’t think I’ve seen you sober for three months! Good-bye!” And with those words and a final “hrmph!” Sherry attacks the door, throws her self into the open air and then slams the world shut around me.
The last blow sends me sprawling on the floor wondering exactly what I had done to piss her off this time. “Fuck.” Now I’m alone. “FUCK!” I scream, wildly. There are no better words to describe the kind of panic that will sweep over a man trapped in a bad acid trip and left to his own devices. Shakily, I crawl to the edge of the bed and boost myself up far enough to spy the remnants of a carefully packed suitcase. In the midst of the calamity I see my golden egg.
Shaving kits are notorious hiding spots for junkies, pill poppers, dope heads and boozehounds. I think it must be the convenience of having a world of intoxication wrapped up and laid out neatly in medicine bottles, glass vials, twisted baggies and little bottles of liquor. Plus, it’s right next to your razor blades – just in case the situation, staggering, leads you into dire straights.
I carelessly snake my arm out across the bed, inching my way toward a means to even out my high, when all of the sudden I realize that I’m being attacked, “Get the fuck off of me, you goddamn army ants!” I grab my shirtsleeve and yank on it violently trying to knock the mongrels off. Unfortunately, I only succeed in ripping my sleeve off, giving the bastards open access to my bare skin. “Gah! FUCK!” I scream as I roll around, mercilessly beating my hand across the hotel room floor and into the hard linoleum of the bathroom.
When I next open my eyes, the insects are gone but have left my right arm in ruins. I find a little composure and slide up the side of the bathroom sink, turn the faucet, and submerse myself in the cool, natural stream. And then, in the following seconds, something terrible happens – all is lost. I turn my head in hopes of reorienting myself towards the bed and my bag of wholesome goodies, only to find the drugs and booze strewn haphazardly across the floor. Apparently I had gotten to my prize earlier than I previously thought, “either that, or the ants sabotaged me.”
There are bits and pieces everywhere. There are pills ground into the carpet, six mini-bottles of Vodka shattered and wasted, a pool of glass and blood and cocaine seeping in the corner, and marijuana thrown carelessly about. “There has to be something left, something not ruined in all of this.” I spring to the floor in hopes of discovering some hidden treasure. Maybe just one hit of acid. Maybe some mescaline tablets. “Who knows?” I mutter to myself digging through the coarse industrial carpet that only rinky-dink hotels and cheap businesses have. And then I see it: a half bottle of Vicodin that had narrowly escaped the plunder.
I reach under the bed and grab the bottle, screw off the top and quickly take all three pills in my mouth. I start to chew, not minding the acrid taste of the medicine. “Although something to drink isn’t a bad idea,” I say, while I continue to look about the room for something, anything salvageable. To my surprise, the Wild Turkey is turned on its side but miraculously remains a quarter full. The bottle is at my lips before I can close my eyes; I drain the liquor in four deep swigs and lay my head on the carpet. Now, it’s my turn to cry.
"Well, I'm a narcissist, honey. What do you expect?" I turn away from her to throw back the few painkillers in my pocket and tip up the bottle of Wild Turkey I’m holding. We’ve arrived in this dusty town just minutes before, but I am more than ready to go, "We have work to do. Get me my shaving kit." I say, unlit cigarette still dangling from the corner of my lip.
This is life on the road: chaotic, ravenous, and unforgiving to say the least.
Sherry starts to cry a bit, and even more importantly, she hasn't made a single move to bring me my shaving kit. "What are you doing now? Can't you see that I'm sobering?" I take a step nearer the bed, although I am still weary of the swirling floral patterns and little marching automatons circling the duvet. "eh, do you have my bag?" I ask, softening my voice a little. She stops crying almost immediately and with a sniff, lifts her head to offer a look full of accusations.
“You are a worthless piece of shit!” She screams and starts throwing clothes from the open suitcase lying beside her; a pair of pink lace panties lands atop my head. “I can’t believe I ever drove out here with you! And now, what am I going to do? Where can I go?” Her anger peaks. “You! You’re worse than shit – You shit-eating son of a bitch!” In her rage she has grown nearly twelve feet tall. “All you do is booze and smoke and get higher. I don’t think I’ve seen you sober for three months! Good-bye!” And with those words and a final “hrmph!” Sherry attacks the door, throws her self into the open air and then slams the world shut around me.
The last blow sends me sprawling on the floor wondering exactly what I had done to piss her off this time. “Fuck.” Now I’m alone. “FUCK!” I scream, wildly. There are no better words to describe the kind of panic that will sweep over a man trapped in a bad acid trip and left to his own devices. Shakily, I crawl to the edge of the bed and boost myself up far enough to spy the remnants of a carefully packed suitcase. In the midst of the calamity I see my golden egg.
Shaving kits are notorious hiding spots for junkies, pill poppers, dope heads and boozehounds. I think it must be the convenience of having a world of intoxication wrapped up and laid out neatly in medicine bottles, glass vials, twisted baggies and little bottles of liquor. Plus, it’s right next to your razor blades – just in case the situation, staggering, leads you into dire straights.
I carelessly snake my arm out across the bed, inching my way toward a means to even out my high, when all of the sudden I realize that I’m being attacked, “Get the fuck off of me, you goddamn army ants!” I grab my shirtsleeve and yank on it violently trying to knock the mongrels off. Unfortunately, I only succeed in ripping my sleeve off, giving the bastards open access to my bare skin. “Gah! FUCK!” I scream as I roll around, mercilessly beating my hand across the hotel room floor and into the hard linoleum of the bathroom.
When I next open my eyes, the insects are gone but have left my right arm in ruins. I find a little composure and slide up the side of the bathroom sink, turn the faucet, and submerse myself in the cool, natural stream. And then, in the following seconds, something terrible happens – all is lost. I turn my head in hopes of reorienting myself towards the bed and my bag of wholesome goodies, only to find the drugs and booze strewn haphazardly across the floor. Apparently I had gotten to my prize earlier than I previously thought, “either that, or the ants sabotaged me.”
There are bits and pieces everywhere. There are pills ground into the carpet, six mini-bottles of Vodka shattered and wasted, a pool of glass and blood and cocaine seeping in the corner, and marijuana thrown carelessly about. “There has to be something left, something not ruined in all of this.” I spring to the floor in hopes of discovering some hidden treasure. Maybe just one hit of acid. Maybe some mescaline tablets. “Who knows?” I mutter to myself digging through the coarse industrial carpet that only rinky-dink hotels and cheap businesses have. And then I see it: a half bottle of Vicodin that had narrowly escaped the plunder.
I reach under the bed and grab the bottle, screw off the top and quickly take all three pills in my mouth. I start to chew, not minding the acrid taste of the medicine. “Although something to drink isn’t a bad idea,” I say, while I continue to look about the room for something, anything salvageable. To my surprise, the Wild Turkey is turned on its side but miraculously remains a quarter full. The bottle is at my lips before I can close my eyes; I drain the liquor in four deep swigs and lay my head on the carpet. Now, it’s my turn to cry.
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10:51 AM
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