Title: Coping
Author: mao
Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine belongs to Michael Stipe, Todd Haynes, and a lot of other people, most namely not me. The lyrics at the beginning come from an ABBA song, though unfortunately, I don't know which one. Ooops. I know it's the one I was listening to when I wrote this - track 10 on their Gold CD. I'm just a poor teenager not trying to make any money from this, and if you sue me, all you'll get is some soda bottles.
Author's Notes: Just Curt coping with the loss of Brian, and the way their relationship ended.
Warnings: Graphic drug use, language.
Dedication: written for Jamie.
***
1975 - Death of Glitter
I pull back the plunger slowly, letting just the tinest amount of blood into the chamber. Most of the heroin's already on its crash course with my brain, but I force the plunger down and the rush flies into my head. It's a good-sized hit, but as long as I've been at the smack, it doesn't do too much besides calm me, seal off my nerves as if with wax. I'd need more to really be high. I don't want to be gone, just happy.
The line of coke is already set out for me on the table, neatly straightened, with no stray grains wandering out onto the rest of the black enamel. I take the straw, place it up my nose, and zipper up it in one quick motion, sucking all the coke into my nostril. It's easy...habit really, after being with Brian.
I rock my head back quickly, put one hand under my nose and snort again, making sure it's all up there. I can feel it hit my brain, taking its time mingling with the beer and the smack already up there.
I'm up and down at the same time. I haven't done this since...oh, well, a couple years ago, and this is a toned down version anyway. I'd do a huge amount of junk, a few lines of blow, and then half a set. Once that was through, I'd pack some speed or acid in there, just for good measure, and get totally fucked up again. If I tried to do that now, it'd kill me...I've been almost clean for so long now, my body would just tell me, "That's it Curt, I'm too fucked," and I'd kick the bucket. I'm depressed, but I'm not ready to die yet.
I haven't done this since I met him, but I think I'm well-justified now. It'll be the last time, anyway. I need to be on the ball tonight - Jack and I were fine in the studio, but it gets harder and harder on tour. He's never touched me - perhaps if we were screwing it would be easier. I'd have a recourse then, instead of this crash course I know I'm on.
But every night, someone's got something - and it's not like my fans are the Pot And Shrooms Only crowd. They've got acid, blow, junk, speed, angeldust...everything, man. Good shit, too. Stuff I woulda paid good money for back in Michigan, and they just want to fucking give it to me because of who I am now.
And who am I?
Curt fuckin' Wild.
Curt Andrew Woodson is gone. I remember standing up at church with my parents, taking the sacrament, the body of fucking Jesus. Ten, eleven years old, and wondering what part of him I was eating. A toe, maybe a part of his arm or even...
While I was thinking that, my brother would turn, and wink at me.
Stop stop stop my brain I can't think like that now I need to focus. I'm about to go onstage. It's a short set, and I have to be there for it, not just there, singing the words, but THERE, riding on the music, cresting on the bass lines and writhing to the drums.
If this is the last time, to do all this shit before going onstage, I have to make it count.
I take a beer from the cooler, pop the top off with the edge of the table and chug it, taking half of it into my body at once before stopping and wiping the icy coolness across my forehead.
I go across the room to the closet, pull out the silver pants. Brian loved these pants - brought them home one day with a grin on his face like I'd never seen before. He pulled them out of the bag with a flourish and held them up to me, for examination.
"Nice," I told him. "I can't wait to see you in them."
"You won't," he told me. "They're for you."
He never saw me in them. The shit hit the fan before I ever wore them.
But I'll wear them tonight, as a last testimonial.
I pull off my shirt, then fluff out my hair a bit. Yeah, I'm a dandy. It's a secret, though. Then I pull off my pants, loose cotton trousers, and toss them on the floor. I take off the undrwear too, and toss them into a dirty clothes hamper. I pull the leather pants onto my skin, the silver clinging to me like paint, cool on my skin, though I know for a fact that they'll heat up later.
The belt, thin and beaten metal, flowery - Mandy gave it to me for Christmas last year. We got together for a sort of Lonely Hearts Club celebration, and she gave it to me.
"It made me think of you," she said, weeping with wine and exhaustion, as she handed me the box.
I fasten the clasp on the belt, then turn to look into the mirror. I look beautiful, though if I were sober I'd never say that about myself. I take another swig of beer, then step closer to the mirror.
Something's missing.
I pick up the eyeliner, lean forward, and begin drawing on my eyelids.
After all, if I'm going to regress to 1972, I'm going to do it fuckin' right.