Sorry I didn't update sooner. Was experiencing severe writers block coupled
with a bad case of CantWriteAnythingGood-eosis (rather like
stickittothemaneosis only different)
Six: Roger
December, 1985
People talk about having catalysts, about these moments of extreme realization, of blinding light and understanding. Well the guitar and the Nikon were our catalysts, I think. It was like, once we had these things to be passionate about, we didn't need drugs. I remember looking at that guitar and seeing a million possibilities, a gazillion galaxies full of chances floating in it. It could take me anywhere or nowhere but the potential was there. The drugs seemed so boring when you put them up against all those chances. Mark said they were like imaginary numbers. The rate at which the glass does not break, the car does not skid off the road, the bullet does not connect with the brain.
You notice a lot more when you're sober. Some of it's good, like the bank of wild flowers growing by the super market or the way Daisy McEwan's front tooth is chipped a little or the used condom on the playground (some may argue that this isn't a good thing, but it means that somewhere, somebody got some). Unfortunately, you also notice the less pleasant things more, like dog poop, or how disgusting my step mom looks when she walks around the house bare assed (it was always gross but without any buffers it's nauseating).
A case of noticing things in a big way is the party Mark and I go to for Christmas. It's at Joan Kaysen's house and nearly everyone is wasted except for Mark and me. We've stationed ourselves in these two ancient bean bag chairs by this group of freshmen girls who are all stoned as rocks and the conversation is beautiful;
"Hey Maaaaaaaaary,"
"Yeah Jill?"
"Hey Maaaaaaaaaaary,"
"Yeah Jill?"
"My head feels.....light."
"The room is special."
"Hey......Heeeeeeeeyyy listen to this!" Jill tips forward and giggles into the carpet, "Lucy McGillicuty got liposuction! Can you believe?"
"Oh my God! That's so sad but it's funny. I heard they use a vacuum."
"Eeeeeeeew.....where are the chips?"
"It's like the Young and the Restless, only way better," whispers Mark and crunches on the chips.
"Are those their chips?" I ask, grabbing a handful.
"Yeah, I took them out of Mary's hand."
"Hey Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaary,"
"Yeah Jill?"
"Oh! Oh! It's starting!" I hiss. Mark snorts.
"I heard.....wait for it! I heard. That Michael. Venalia. Killed. Himself." Jill grabs Mary's arm and looks deep into her eyes, "Promise you won't kill yourself, okay? You're my best friend, Mary!"
And suddenly it's not so funny anymore. I feel Mark go stiff next to me. There's a sick, dark feeling rising in my stomach. I have no sympathy for suicides. I hate them. They're selfish and sick and so.....so thoughtless! It's like they don't care about how their actions will effect everyone else. All they think about is themselves! It's so stupid and wasteful and I hate it!
"I wonder what he was feeling?" says Mark softly.
"I don't know and I don't care. He was a jackass." I snap.
Mark stares at me. His eyes are huge behind his glasses. "How do you mean? Did you know him?"
"No I didn't know him, and you know what? I'm glad I didn't! He was a horrible, selfish, person and I hate him! I hate him just for doing what he did and leaving all these people behind. Anyone who kills themselves didn't deserve to be alive in the first place!" a couple people are staring, it's then I realize how loud I've gotten.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Roger." Says Mark so quietly I can barely hear him. He's tracing the seams on the bean bag chair with his middle finger. "You can't be mad at him for being sad, can you? He probably felt like there was no.....I don't know. I can't articulate. You don't know. You just don't know."
"I don't know what I'm talking about?" I feel like I'm about to explode, like anger is filling me up and pressing against my skin from the inside. I want to hit something, to hurt someone. I want to hurt Mark for being so calm, so—so fucking sympathetic with that loser. I grab his shoulders and shake him hard, make him look at me. "I don't know what I'm talking about? My grandfather fucking killed himself, Mark! He shot himself in the head in our garage! I was five and I saw him do it! I've seen it! He knew I was there and he did it anyway! I hate him! Don't tell me I don't fucking know what I'm talking about!"
I can't believe his face. He jerks away, nursing his left shoulder. His eyes are wider than ever, and he just looks so scared. Terrified. It's like I've slapped him or something. The stands up, stumbling over his feet and staggers out of the room.
MARK
The room is so loud. When did it get so loud? So hot? I didn't take anything, this is different. This is worse than my worst trip ever because I know it might not end. Maybe I'll be like this forever. Maybe I've lost it for real.
I can't keep the colors straight, the faces. They're all blurring together into this horrible mass and I can't breathe. There's something sitting on my chest, pushing all the air out. I'm standing but it doesn't matter, it's still there taking all my breath. My grandmother told me stories about Lilith, the helper of the Angel of Death. About how she sits on your chest and drinks your blood and waits for you to die. I feel like she's sitting on me and watching and waiting. She's an old hand at this. She knows how to wait.
And suddenly the air is cold and it slaps my face. For a second I can see and breathe right. The air is so cold so cold, the snow is stark white and the sky is deep and black and it just goes on forever. I feel like I'm in a photograph. There are so many stars. There are so many wishes. I want to make them all. I want to wish on just one thing. One thing if only I could remember. I wish I could just stay in this picture. I want to stay in this black and white and cold. I want to stay here forever and never leave. I want to be safe here. Laura could come too, but no one else. She'd love it. She told me she loved snow.
Then someone opens the door and the photo is shattered. Hot yellow light pours out the door and stains the snow, music (Bonzo Goes to Bittzburgh by the Ramones) comes blasting out, someone pitches forward and staggers across the snow, laughing. Then, before it can close all the way, someone else pushes it open and stumbles into the night.
"Mark? Mark are you out here?"
I hold dead still. Maybe he won't see me.
"There you are."
Aw, fuck.
"Geez man, why'd you run out like that? Look, I'm sorry if I scared you it's just some things make me really angry and......"
"Believe me, I could tell you were fucking angry." I say. I want to sound forceful, if only a little, but it comes out as barely a whisper. I know I'm going to lose him. This is the first time I've ever had a best friend, and I probably won't have another ever again. This is it. This was my chance and now it's totally blown. I mean, I knew he'd find out about Western Psyche eventually, but I hadn't really thought about what it would mean. Now I guess I know.
"Will you tell me why you're so pissed? I was just telling you how I felt." He kneels in the snow in front of me, and for a second I'm afraid he'll shake me again.
"I—I have to go," I gasp and surge upright. I'm not really thinking, just staggering away from him across the lawn. I can't think straight. I wish Laura were here.
"Oh, fuck no!" he cries, and grabs my arm. I didn't realize how strong he is until he's holding my arm. I also didn't register how tall he is. Suddenly he seems to have grown six feet and put on about ten pounds of muscle. I know it's not accurate, but that's how it feels.
"I have to go!" Somehow I wrench my arm away, and then I'm running. Haven't got a fucking clue where I'm going, just that it's away from here and away from Roger.
Note: Awwww it's a cliff hanger. I hope this chapter came out okay, cause it's important. As always, thanks SO MUCH for reviewing! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!
Six: Roger
December, 1985
People talk about having catalysts, about these moments of extreme realization, of blinding light and understanding. Well the guitar and the Nikon were our catalysts, I think. It was like, once we had these things to be passionate about, we didn't need drugs. I remember looking at that guitar and seeing a million possibilities, a gazillion galaxies full of chances floating in it. It could take me anywhere or nowhere but the potential was there. The drugs seemed so boring when you put them up against all those chances. Mark said they were like imaginary numbers. The rate at which the glass does not break, the car does not skid off the road, the bullet does not connect with the brain.
You notice a lot more when you're sober. Some of it's good, like the bank of wild flowers growing by the super market or the way Daisy McEwan's front tooth is chipped a little or the used condom on the playground (some may argue that this isn't a good thing, but it means that somewhere, somebody got some). Unfortunately, you also notice the less pleasant things more, like dog poop, or how disgusting my step mom looks when she walks around the house bare assed (it was always gross but without any buffers it's nauseating).
A case of noticing things in a big way is the party Mark and I go to for Christmas. It's at Joan Kaysen's house and nearly everyone is wasted except for Mark and me. We've stationed ourselves in these two ancient bean bag chairs by this group of freshmen girls who are all stoned as rocks and the conversation is beautiful;
"Hey Maaaaaaaaary,"
"Yeah Jill?"
"Hey Maaaaaaaaaaary,"
"Yeah Jill?"
"My head feels.....light."
"The room is special."
"Hey......Heeeeeeeeyyy listen to this!" Jill tips forward and giggles into the carpet, "Lucy McGillicuty got liposuction! Can you believe?"
"Oh my God! That's so sad but it's funny. I heard they use a vacuum."
"Eeeeeeeew.....where are the chips?"
"It's like the Young and the Restless, only way better," whispers Mark and crunches on the chips.
"Are those their chips?" I ask, grabbing a handful.
"Yeah, I took them out of Mary's hand."
"Hey Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaary,"
"Yeah Jill?"
"Oh! Oh! It's starting!" I hiss. Mark snorts.
"I heard.....wait for it! I heard. That Michael. Venalia. Killed. Himself." Jill grabs Mary's arm and looks deep into her eyes, "Promise you won't kill yourself, okay? You're my best friend, Mary!"
And suddenly it's not so funny anymore. I feel Mark go stiff next to me. There's a sick, dark feeling rising in my stomach. I have no sympathy for suicides. I hate them. They're selfish and sick and so.....so thoughtless! It's like they don't care about how their actions will effect everyone else. All they think about is themselves! It's so stupid and wasteful and I hate it!
"I wonder what he was feeling?" says Mark softly.
"I don't know and I don't care. He was a jackass." I snap.
Mark stares at me. His eyes are huge behind his glasses. "How do you mean? Did you know him?"
"No I didn't know him, and you know what? I'm glad I didn't! He was a horrible, selfish, person and I hate him! I hate him just for doing what he did and leaving all these people behind. Anyone who kills themselves didn't deserve to be alive in the first place!" a couple people are staring, it's then I realize how loud I've gotten.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Roger." Says Mark so quietly I can barely hear him. He's tracing the seams on the bean bag chair with his middle finger. "You can't be mad at him for being sad, can you? He probably felt like there was no.....I don't know. I can't articulate. You don't know. You just don't know."
"I don't know what I'm talking about?" I feel like I'm about to explode, like anger is filling me up and pressing against my skin from the inside. I want to hit something, to hurt someone. I want to hurt Mark for being so calm, so—so fucking sympathetic with that loser. I grab his shoulders and shake him hard, make him look at me. "I don't know what I'm talking about? My grandfather fucking killed himself, Mark! He shot himself in the head in our garage! I was five and I saw him do it! I've seen it! He knew I was there and he did it anyway! I hate him! Don't tell me I don't fucking know what I'm talking about!"
I can't believe his face. He jerks away, nursing his left shoulder. His eyes are wider than ever, and he just looks so scared. Terrified. It's like I've slapped him or something. The stands up, stumbling over his feet and staggers out of the room.
MARK
The room is so loud. When did it get so loud? So hot? I didn't take anything, this is different. This is worse than my worst trip ever because I know it might not end. Maybe I'll be like this forever. Maybe I've lost it for real.
I can't keep the colors straight, the faces. They're all blurring together into this horrible mass and I can't breathe. There's something sitting on my chest, pushing all the air out. I'm standing but it doesn't matter, it's still there taking all my breath. My grandmother told me stories about Lilith, the helper of the Angel of Death. About how she sits on your chest and drinks your blood and waits for you to die. I feel like she's sitting on me and watching and waiting. She's an old hand at this. She knows how to wait.
And suddenly the air is cold and it slaps my face. For a second I can see and breathe right. The air is so cold so cold, the snow is stark white and the sky is deep and black and it just goes on forever. I feel like I'm in a photograph. There are so many stars. There are so many wishes. I want to make them all. I want to wish on just one thing. One thing if only I could remember. I wish I could just stay in this picture. I want to stay in this black and white and cold. I want to stay here forever and never leave. I want to be safe here. Laura could come too, but no one else. She'd love it. She told me she loved snow.
Then someone opens the door and the photo is shattered. Hot yellow light pours out the door and stains the snow, music (Bonzo Goes to Bittzburgh by the Ramones) comes blasting out, someone pitches forward and staggers across the snow, laughing. Then, before it can close all the way, someone else pushes it open and stumbles into the night.
"Mark? Mark are you out here?"
I hold dead still. Maybe he won't see me.
"There you are."
Aw, fuck.
"Geez man, why'd you run out like that? Look, I'm sorry if I scared you it's just some things make me really angry and......"
"Believe me, I could tell you were fucking angry." I say. I want to sound forceful, if only a little, but it comes out as barely a whisper. I know I'm going to lose him. This is the first time I've ever had a best friend, and I probably won't have another ever again. This is it. This was my chance and now it's totally blown. I mean, I knew he'd find out about Western Psyche eventually, but I hadn't really thought about what it would mean. Now I guess I know.
"Will you tell me why you're so pissed? I was just telling you how I felt." He kneels in the snow in front of me, and for a second I'm afraid he'll shake me again.
"I—I have to go," I gasp and surge upright. I'm not really thinking, just staggering away from him across the lawn. I can't think straight. I wish Laura were here.
"Oh, fuck no!" he cries, and grabs my arm. I didn't realize how strong he is until he's holding my arm. I also didn't register how tall he is. Suddenly he seems to have grown six feet and put on about ten pounds of muscle. I know it's not accurate, but that's how it feels.
"I have to go!" Somehow I wrench my arm away, and then I'm running. Haven't got a fucking clue where I'm going, just that it's away from here and away from Roger.
Note: Awwww it's a cliff hanger. I hope this chapter came out okay, cause it's important. As always, thanks SO MUCH for reviewing! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!
