I woke up this morning at 8:30 a.m. It was like dragging myself out of the grave. When the shower's hot water began splashing my face, I knew I would live. At least I had a reason for getting up today. Dave needed my help. Well, he didn't need my help, but he did need some help and I was going to do it. I showed up at Dave's place promptly at 9. He offered me a cup of coffee and a bong hit, both of which I accepted eagerly. I took a few sips of the coffee and began to feel my eyes open. I sucked hard on the bong and got a small hit. Nonetheless, my mind began to open. Dave only had scrapings left so he took a small hit, too, and we were off. It was kind of an overcast day so the ride to Oxnard was actually comfortable. I didn't know Dave very well, so there were some slightly awkward moments in the beginning. I knew that he had recently gotten out of prison and he started telling me a little bit about it. His tone was so casual I figured he wouldn't mind a few questions. He didn't.
"I was in such good shape when I got out," he said when I asked him if there were any good points, "I used to work out every day."
"You ever think about going back in," I said sarcastically.
"No way. It's not that bad, really. I mean it's boring and the food sucks, but it's not painful. It's all the damn jerking off, though." We laughed.
"Just doesn't cut it for you?"
"Nah. But watching everybody else, that's painful!"
"You mean they just whack it openly?" I was amazed.
"Nothing else to do," Dave said matter-of-factly. I took a long drag on my cigarette and we sat in silence for a while.
That afternoon after we got back from Oxnard with the display cases for Dave's new shop I took the bus to the University for my daily piano practice.
"Nothing else to do," I said as I got on the bus. I sat there, in that practice room, doing my Loeschorn scale studies thinking about that twenty dollars that Dave gave me for helping him. I swear I could feel it in my pocket. I finished the Loeschorn and started in on an Air by Purcell. I bumbled through it in typical fashion. I was still feeling that twenty dollar bill in my pocket. When I reached for the manuscript paper that had my own piece on it, I noticed the chicken wire that was embedded in the glass of the practice room door. It made me think of jail again and I started drawing comparisons, in my head, between being in jail and being in a practice room. I laughed out loud though, the comparison was absurd. I sat there lost in my thoughts for I don't know how long. I do a lot of that.
When I got home that evening a disconnect notice from the electric company greeted me. This was the man coming to my door and giving me forty eight hours to pay. Well, we're late on a bill. Throw it in the pile. I heard my roommate, Steve, pull up before I could finish half a beer. That pissed me off because Steve slams beers. He and his girl, Jill, broke in laughing hysterically. That pissed me off, too. When he said, "Bong hit?" I was easily appeased. Down right friendly. I told him about the electric bill and he was pissed. Not because he was blaming someone. He just hated it when the harsh fist of reality slammed him in the nose. To my amazement he reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash.
"How much is it," he asked dejectedly.
"'Bout a hundred dollars."
"Well, I've got twenty five now and I could have the rest next week."
"I can't cover it, it's due on Friday."
"Maybe if we gave them something. How much you got?" I felt that twenty in my back pocket shrivel up and hide. I held out the notice and pointed to the line that said, "Do not mail. Please bring cash to one of our convenient locations. Only payment in full will be accepted."
Steve glanced at Jill and she just shrugged, "I've got my own bills, honey."
There was a moment of silence which was dissolving into a moment of tension. I hate those. I flopped on the couch and said, "How 'bout another rip?"
Steve plunked the bag on the coffee table and started poking the bong furiously. We started to talk about how we hated being poor and how maybe we should go out and get drunk. We decided to save our money for the electric bill, though.
"I would just hate myself in the morning, anyways," Steve resigned.
"That's why it would be good," Jill piped in. We just looked at her like she was crazy.
"Sure, all those self degrading experiences are good. Like jail," She continued matter-of-factly. When she said jail I started to listen. Do we have a theme going here?
"That's ridiculous," Steve barked.
"No, it's true. You descend so low that you have to question your self worth. If you live through it, you're a better person."
"Will that keep the electric on," I said while trying to hold in a hit, little of puffs of smoke popping out on the "Tees". We all laughed.
The nightly news came on the tube then. I always liked watching the news. Not that it was a pleasant experience for me. The show focused mainly on the transformation of the eastern block countries after the fall of communism. There was one article about retail sales dropping for the second month in a row here in the states.
"Bring on the dark ages," I moaned.
"We're living in the dark ages," Steve said disgusted. I started to think about what he said, and it started to make sense. Every one I knew was scraping to get by. The homeless crowd seemed like it was growing daily.
"Did you ever think that things are really bad all over and the media and the government are just painting a rosy picture for us?"
"Was there ever any doubt?" Steve said incredulously.
"Well, I know it happens, but I mean, like, on a major scale. Like, tomorrow we'll get up and the nation'll be bankrupt and marshal law'll be declared."
"But they'll call it a peace keeping force." Steve knew what I was talking about.
"If we live through it, we'll all be better off," Jill was an eternal optimist.
"Yeah, we'll be glad to be slaves just to get food." There was silence as we watched some sugar coated bit of "good news" at the end of the show. Steve handed me the bong. I held the hit in for as long as I could.
I walked out the door after my Kraft macaroni and cheese dinner feeling not entirely whole, but at least full. The pot was starting to wear off and as is the case with most cheap weed I was burning out. I stopped by the cafe for my usual cappuccino. The regular crowd was there. I'm not sure who they were. For some reason I never felt like getting to know any of them even though they were as much a part of my life as anybody else. After all I had been going there practically every day for three years. After the coffee, I started walking up State Street. I saw the sign for Mel's looming ever so large. The cocktail glass seemed particularly bright. I felt my left back pocket and sure enough my wallet was there, holding that twenty dollar bill tightly. I hesitated for a second. I assure you it was a brief moment. I kept walking.
I wound up at Ed's house. He's always good for a beer and some conversation. He likes my company, too. I think just because I listen to him. I guess that's why most people like me. I guess that's why most people like anybody. So, Ed tossed me a Bud while we took a whirl around the cable. We stopped on PBS which was unusual for Ed. There were some uniformed soldiers on the screen. That's why we stopped. It was a show about Vietnam prisoners of war.
"Wanna watch this?" Ed always asked.
"Sure," I always replied. I was curious about this show, though. Prisoners, jail, it fit right in with the topic of the day. We laughed when Ed did his Sergeant Schultz imitation. When you talked about prisoners of war you always got a dose of Ed's Sergeant Schultz. The show continued with interviews of actual POW's and some actual footage of these men as POW's. I started to think about being in jail and what Jill said about bad experiences. And I started hearing some of the descriptions the men were giving about their torture.
"FUCK?" Ed took the words right out of my mouth. "Can you imagine that?" Ed pointed at the screen in awe.
"No," I just shook my head. But I watched these men, now plumply into their fifties, describe their experience. Most were very straight faced and I wondered if Jill weren't right. If she was, these guys had to be the best people around.
"I wonder if the army has a special pay rate for prisoners of war." Ed was always curious about how much people were paid for certain deeds.
"Huh?" I wasn't following him. I was transformed by one of the men talking about being broken and giving information to the enemy and how everybody had done it. They don't show that on Hogan's Heroes.
"I mean, how could they do it? I couldn't. Not unless there'd be a fat sack of cash wait'n for me when I got out." Ed was always looking for that proverbial fat sock o' cash. How did they do it anyways? They talked about disease, starvation, injury, torture. How could anybody live through that? How could anybody live through that and have any faith in humanity left?
"Check this out," Ed said to me as he leaped from the Lay-Z-Boy. I watched the TV. Ed returned promptly with a vial of hash oil. Ahhh, just what the doctor ordered.
"This shit is nasty," Ed said with a particular tone of delight as he let me sniff the vial.
"Fire it up!" Nothing else to do. Ed put a couple of drops into a glass pipe and as the dense smoke entered the chamber my eyes closed. I heard the voice of one of the former POW's say, "Sex? Sure, I missed it, I guess. There wasn't much time to think about it, really. With all your friends dying all around, you spent most of your time praying."
I blew out the hit and had a temporary feeling of bliss, but that didn't last long. We passed the pipe back and forth and soon I was wonderfully stoned. I could watch these men talk about their descent into hell and subsequent rise and I didn't feel like throwing up anymore. Not that I was oblivious to what they were saying, I just lost the physical manifestations of the horror I was feeling. My mind was rampant with images of tortured soldiers and extrapolations of the stories the men were telling. When one of the men told the story of receiving his "Dear John" letter on Christmas eve, after being in for six years, all pictures stopped. I had to look at this guy, almost twenty years later. How could he? How could he sit there with his jeans and T-shirt on and talk about that so calmly? They must have been filming him from the loony bin. All the other guys said that the prospect of returning to their families was the only motivating force for them to continue living -- The family.
We sat there for quite a while stoned and stone faced. Occasionally we would comment on some of the graphics shown or maybe an occasional exclamation when some particularly gruesome details were revealed. The show finally ended after what seemed an eternity. I made some niceties, and made a hasty exit.
I went to bed that night at 4:30 a.m. It was like throwing myself into a grave. When my face finally hit the pillow, I succumbed to slumber immediately. On the way home from Ed's I stopped at the convenience store and blew almost half of that twenty on munchies and cigarettes. I tried to keep it for the electric bill, but...
"I was in such good shape when I got out," he said when I asked him if there were any good points, "I used to work out every day."
"You ever think about going back in," I said sarcastically.
"No way. It's not that bad, really. I mean it's boring and the food sucks, but it's not painful. It's all the damn jerking off, though." We laughed.
"Just doesn't cut it for you?"
"Nah. But watching everybody else, that's painful!"
"You mean they just whack it openly?" I was amazed.
"Nothing else to do," Dave said matter-of-factly. I took a long drag on my cigarette and we sat in silence for a while.
That afternoon after we got back from Oxnard with the display cases for Dave's new shop I took the bus to the University for my daily piano practice.
"Nothing else to do," I said as I got on the bus. I sat there, in that practice room, doing my Loeschorn scale studies thinking about that twenty dollars that Dave gave me for helping him. I swear I could feel it in my pocket. I finished the Loeschorn and started in on an Air by Purcell. I bumbled through it in typical fashion. I was still feeling that twenty dollar bill in my pocket. When I reached for the manuscript paper that had my own piece on it, I noticed the chicken wire that was embedded in the glass of the practice room door. It made me think of jail again and I started drawing comparisons, in my head, between being in jail and being in a practice room. I laughed out loud though, the comparison was absurd. I sat there lost in my thoughts for I don't know how long. I do a lot of that.
When I got home that evening a disconnect notice from the electric company greeted me. This was the man coming to my door and giving me forty eight hours to pay. Well, we're late on a bill. Throw it in the pile. I heard my roommate, Steve, pull up before I could finish half a beer. That pissed me off because Steve slams beers. He and his girl, Jill, broke in laughing hysterically. That pissed me off, too. When he said, "Bong hit?" I was easily appeased. Down right friendly. I told him about the electric bill and he was pissed. Not because he was blaming someone. He just hated it when the harsh fist of reality slammed him in the nose. To my amazement he reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash.
"How much is it," he asked dejectedly.
"'Bout a hundred dollars."
"Well, I've got twenty five now and I could have the rest next week."
"I can't cover it, it's due on Friday."
"Maybe if we gave them something. How much you got?" I felt that twenty in my back pocket shrivel up and hide. I held out the notice and pointed to the line that said, "Do not mail. Please bring cash to one of our convenient locations. Only payment in full will be accepted."
Steve glanced at Jill and she just shrugged, "I've got my own bills, honey."
There was a moment of silence which was dissolving into a moment of tension. I hate those. I flopped on the couch and said, "How 'bout another rip?"
Steve plunked the bag on the coffee table and started poking the bong furiously. We started to talk about how we hated being poor and how maybe we should go out and get drunk. We decided to save our money for the electric bill, though.
"I would just hate myself in the morning, anyways," Steve resigned.
"That's why it would be good," Jill piped in. We just looked at her like she was crazy.
"Sure, all those self degrading experiences are good. Like jail," She continued matter-of-factly. When she said jail I started to listen. Do we have a theme going here?
"That's ridiculous," Steve barked.
"No, it's true. You descend so low that you have to question your self worth. If you live through it, you're a better person."
"Will that keep the electric on," I said while trying to hold in a hit, little of puffs of smoke popping out on the "Tees". We all laughed.
The nightly news came on the tube then. I always liked watching the news. Not that it was a pleasant experience for me. The show focused mainly on the transformation of the eastern block countries after the fall of communism. There was one article about retail sales dropping for the second month in a row here in the states.
"Bring on the dark ages," I moaned.
"We're living in the dark ages," Steve said disgusted. I started to think about what he said, and it started to make sense. Every one I knew was scraping to get by. The homeless crowd seemed like it was growing daily.
"Did you ever think that things are really bad all over and the media and the government are just painting a rosy picture for us?"
"Was there ever any doubt?" Steve said incredulously.
"Well, I know it happens, but I mean, like, on a major scale. Like, tomorrow we'll get up and the nation'll be bankrupt and marshal law'll be declared."
"But they'll call it a peace keeping force." Steve knew what I was talking about.
"If we live through it, we'll all be better off," Jill was an eternal optimist.
"Yeah, we'll be glad to be slaves just to get food." There was silence as we watched some sugar coated bit of "good news" at the end of the show. Steve handed me the bong. I held the hit in for as long as I could.
I walked out the door after my Kraft macaroni and cheese dinner feeling not entirely whole, but at least full. The pot was starting to wear off and as is the case with most cheap weed I was burning out. I stopped by the cafe for my usual cappuccino. The regular crowd was there. I'm not sure who they were. For some reason I never felt like getting to know any of them even though they were as much a part of my life as anybody else. After all I had been going there practically every day for three years. After the coffee, I started walking up State Street. I saw the sign for Mel's looming ever so large. The cocktail glass seemed particularly bright. I felt my left back pocket and sure enough my wallet was there, holding that twenty dollar bill tightly. I hesitated for a second. I assure you it was a brief moment. I kept walking.
I wound up at Ed's house. He's always good for a beer and some conversation. He likes my company, too. I think just because I listen to him. I guess that's why most people like me. I guess that's why most people like anybody. So, Ed tossed me a Bud while we took a whirl around the cable. We stopped on PBS which was unusual for Ed. There were some uniformed soldiers on the screen. That's why we stopped. It was a show about Vietnam prisoners of war.
"Wanna watch this?" Ed always asked.
"Sure," I always replied. I was curious about this show, though. Prisoners, jail, it fit right in with the topic of the day. We laughed when Ed did his Sergeant Schultz imitation. When you talked about prisoners of war you always got a dose of Ed's Sergeant Schultz. The show continued with interviews of actual POW's and some actual footage of these men as POW's. I started to think about being in jail and what Jill said about bad experiences. And I started hearing some of the descriptions the men were giving about their torture.
"FUCK?" Ed took the words right out of my mouth. "Can you imagine that?" Ed pointed at the screen in awe.
"No," I just shook my head. But I watched these men, now plumply into their fifties, describe their experience. Most were very straight faced and I wondered if Jill weren't right. If she was, these guys had to be the best people around.
"I wonder if the army has a special pay rate for prisoners of war." Ed was always curious about how much people were paid for certain deeds.
"Huh?" I wasn't following him. I was transformed by one of the men talking about being broken and giving information to the enemy and how everybody had done it. They don't show that on Hogan's Heroes.
"I mean, how could they do it? I couldn't. Not unless there'd be a fat sack of cash wait'n for me when I got out." Ed was always looking for that proverbial fat sock o' cash. How did they do it anyways? They talked about disease, starvation, injury, torture. How could anybody live through that? How could anybody live through that and have any faith in humanity left?
"Check this out," Ed said to me as he leaped from the Lay-Z-Boy. I watched the TV. Ed returned promptly with a vial of hash oil. Ahhh, just what the doctor ordered.
"This shit is nasty," Ed said with a particular tone of delight as he let me sniff the vial.
"Fire it up!" Nothing else to do. Ed put a couple of drops into a glass pipe and as the dense smoke entered the chamber my eyes closed. I heard the voice of one of the former POW's say, "Sex? Sure, I missed it, I guess. There wasn't much time to think about it, really. With all your friends dying all around, you spent most of your time praying."
I blew out the hit and had a temporary feeling of bliss, but that didn't last long. We passed the pipe back and forth and soon I was wonderfully stoned. I could watch these men talk about their descent into hell and subsequent rise and I didn't feel like throwing up anymore. Not that I was oblivious to what they were saying, I just lost the physical manifestations of the horror I was feeling. My mind was rampant with images of tortured soldiers and extrapolations of the stories the men were telling. When one of the men told the story of receiving his "Dear John" letter on Christmas eve, after being in for six years, all pictures stopped. I had to look at this guy, almost twenty years later. How could he? How could he sit there with his jeans and T-shirt on and talk about that so calmly? They must have been filming him from the loony bin. All the other guys said that the prospect of returning to their families was the only motivating force for them to continue living -- The family.
We sat there for quite a while stoned and stone faced. Occasionally we would comment on some of the graphics shown or maybe an occasional exclamation when some particularly gruesome details were revealed. The show finally ended after what seemed an eternity. I made some niceties, and made a hasty exit.
I went to bed that night at 4:30 a.m. It was like throwing myself into a grave. When my face finally hit the pillow, I succumbed to slumber immediately. On the way home from Ed's I stopped at the convenience store and blew almost half of that twenty on munchies and cigarettes. I tried to keep it for the electric bill, but...
fatality:
I just came over to say hi because of your member name
clementine:
Hi!!! 