A riddle/story based very loosely on the song "Woof" by Approaching Nirvana.
They used to call me Woof before I came here, before they dragged me in and locked the door behind me. They said that I had sad dog eyes and they joke about how I always beg them for scraps. That is a whole other story that I won't even get into right now. Nobody here understands; they just look at me with sympathy and shake their heads, holding back an eye roll and plastering on a smile whenever I insist that I am fine, that I don't need to be here. I don't have a problem – the rest of the world does. They are too strict, too rigid, too complacent, too uptight.
Nobody knows what desperation feels like. Loneliness. Need. Fear. Loss. You have never felt these things. Not like I have.
There is nothing quite like walking down a pitch black alleyway at one in the morning, all alone and in search of a friend. No, I am not a dealer. I don't have the courage or the connections to pull that off. I'm no Turq. I just need a hit, a fix, a shot, a friend.
You wouldn't believe me if I told you that all of my friends are inanimate objects, feelings, illusions. No one understands that unless they have been in this head space. You would be here with me if you knew how it felt. I am so alone when I am surrounded by people. I can only feel alive, whole, worthy… I can only feel that way when I am dead, impaired, rejected. Go ahead. Call me a trash head, a junkie, a loser. I know am I hopeless, but I can't think of a better way to live.
At least I am not friends with Krokodil, or I guess they can him Bodil on the streets now. I have that one thing going my way. I might rot my teeth, burn my lungs, scar my veins – but at least my flesh doesn't come off in sheets. At least my bones won't decay from the inside out. Yes, I am still rotting to the core, but I hide the holes well enough that hardly anyone else can see them. I am an illusion, too.
Have you ever met my friends? I hardly talk to them myself, but someone always seems to be around to keep me company. They just have a way of appearing out of the blue. And they are very persuasive when they ask me to join them.
Mitch and Nooch act like polar opposites, trying to outdo each other and trying to force me to choose a side. I can be down, I can be up, but I can never be anywhere in between. It never ends well if they meet, although I think they secretly like each other's company. Turq introduced me to them right after I finished high school. I have known them for what feels like forever.
Mitch with his profound ideas, his inner peace, his timeless wisdom. Spending time with him and his munchies always leads to an empty fridge and stretchy sweaters and waistbands. I could be the Dalai Lama if he was willing to take the time to teach me.
Nooch gives me endless energy, boundless creativity, and infinite hours in a day. Everything inside of me is on fast-forward while the rest of the world just keeps plugging along. He pulls at my limits and hollows my cheeks as hours fly by without sleep or food. Too bad he has melted all of my spoons and scarred my arms.
Isn't it ironic that their refusal to settle their differences forces me to spend time with both of them, so that I can look and act some semblance of normal? The joke seems to be lost on both of them.
Next we have Little Lachy, one of Mitch's old friends. They spend a lot of time together, and Lachy gets along with a surprising number of my other acquaintances. If it can be smoked, puffed, breathed… it if can cloud your mind, then Lachy is your main man. It's a shame he is so hot-headed and temperamental. If you push his buttons the wrong way, you will get burned.
The only exception to Lachy's smoky domain is Icky Vikky Sticky, my sworn enemy and my exalted savior. Just take a drag and hold it to the count of three, and all of your worries will disappear, at least for a little while. Named after his obnoxiously cocky creator who plasters his name and face all over the refill packaging, I picked up Vikk after Mom started worrying about me smoking too much nicotine. She acts as if that is my biggest problem. Vikk is my most socially acceptable friend, the one I can hang out with in public without getting too many stares of disapproval. It's a shame that spending time with him is such a pain – whenever I take him anywhere, his gooey blood always stains my jeans and drowns my cell phones.
And who could forget the Bac? No one can have a party without him, whether or not real, physical people are planning to party with you. A couple of hours, a couple of glasses, a couple of bottles later and nothing in the world matters anymore. Nothing can hurt you anymore. Everything is fine, everything is grand. The Bac is always ready to party, and so am I. I guess it's a good thing that I don't own a car anymore. I have a hard time keeping him in check: when the Bac hits 0.35%, I am more him than I am me.
Last but not least, we have Preston, my personal favorite. He is always full of laughs and great ideas, and he doesn't judge me or boss me around like some of the other guys do. Sometimes he can be disagreeable, but I love him all the same. Unfortunately, he is also very high-maintenance. Three liters of agave nectar, a bag of sugar, a saucepan, a couple of empty bottles, and a distiller… but after all of that time, money, and frustration, he still might not give you that happy high you need. He is a prude, but I am addicted to him. Does that make me the needy one in this relationship?
But none of that matters now. None of my friends can help me here, and I doubt I will ever see any of them again. I will lose this job, too, and I will have to move back home for the third time. My guilt by association with Little Lachy is enough for them to keep me in jail for twenty years, and that isn't even counting my plans with Nooch later this month. I wonder if they found his tiny baggie of sandy crystals stashed in the hole in the back of the fridge. Hopefully the stench of the Bac's collection of beer and vodka bottles and the remnants of my party with Mitch last night will be enough to throw their drug dogs off of my trail. They can only convict me for what they can prove I did.
What can they prove?
So what if I was drunk in a public park with a BAC of 0.40? So what if I make my own moonshine when I can't sleep? So what if my e-cigarettes smell like shit and I buy the refills in bulk to last months at a time? So what if I smoke a little weed in a cheap bong every now and then? My parents and the law might not approve, but none of that ever hurt anyone. None of that is illegal.
That leaves Nooch. If they meet Nooch, I can kiss my life goodbye. He never keeps his mouth shut and he melts everything he touches; he even burned a hole in the countertop and stained the kitchen ceiling yellow. My fate depends on Nooch's self-control, his willingness to shut up and stop giggling long enough for them to lose interest. They won't find any needles, but they won't find any spoons, either.
Is that suspicious?
How many people own forks, but not spoons?
Is that enough evidence?
Can they get me?
Did they find it?
Are they going to find it?
Why is this taking so long?
Where are they?
The minutes drag by like they do with Nooch around, each second painfully long and growing longer and more intense by the instant. Finally, someone opens a door somewhere and starts walking down the hallway, a set of keys clanging deafeningly in their pocket. The guard stops in front of my cell, peering in at me before she starts rattling through her keys to find the one for my door.
"Robert, right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Oh, stop looking at me like a kicked puppy. You look like my mom's cocker spaniel when she wants a treat."
"I'm sorry."
"Come on, let's go get your stuff. Don't let us catch you passed out in the playground like that again, or we will have to hold you for twenty-four hours."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Call a ride and go sleep it off. At home this time."
"Yes, ma'am." I grab the clear bag full of the contents of my pockets and begin putting everything away, grimacing when I see that Icky Vikky had made everything in the bag sticky as hell. I squirt some green hand sanitizer on my hands and try to wipe the stickiness off on the front of my jeans, and the guard watches me warily, waiting to buzz me out the front door. "Thank you for your help, ma'am."
"Just keep your hands clean; I don't want to see you in here again."
"Will do."
"And Robert?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Get some help with your drinking problem. You smell like formaldehyde."
I nod and push the unlocked door open, hiding a grim smile as I walk down the pathway to the bus stop, planning my route back to my personal crematory. I am halfway prepared already; at least my parents won't have to pay someone else to pickle me with alcohol.