A/N: Hello, oi, hola, hei, het hallo, bonjour, and ciao! Firstly, firstly is not a proper word, but a hypercorrection. Second, loves and hugs and bliss to reviewer Chinsky. Billy was obvious. Gordon sat next to Billy, and he played the Flute. Oh, and stalk away! (erg, evil Mel Gibson thoughts) Nanners-77 Hmmm... you don't like slash? That's... that's... horrible! Just pretend Gordon is a girl. Parcie05 thanks for the input. SD yay! Glad you like it. Bitter sarcasm is my forte, I guess. And I'm glad I've found someone who totally gets the Billy/Gordonness. Hopelesslydevoted12 I have nothing against freddy/zack slash (well, I do, but I'm not going to get into it now.) Either way, I'm just trying to broaden the category! Confwuzzled – I've run out of things to say, except I'm glad you questioned your first judgment and gave this story a chance. I'm such a review-ho.
A/N2: Switch of POV to Billy, because I love him. Yeah, I love him enough to make him a coked-up loser. Warning: I'm take liberties with the story. A lot of liberties. Enough to get it upped to M. That would mean everyone's favorite, DRUGS!
A/N3: Time frame is wonky. Not an immediate pick up from the last chappie. But just read, you'll understand once you finish (hopefully).
Mini disclaim: still not mine!
School of Broken Thoughts and Famous Last Words
Oh god. Oh god. Oh mothereffingeffing god.
My body is on fire, or I'm floating, or I'm about to throw up. Probably all three, with my luck. I'm exhausted, sweating, and mentally, a mess. I need one big hit. Enough to smooth out the rough patches in my life, for now, and make things okay. The Mary Jane I did a while ago is wearing off and oh god oh god oh god. It's been a week and a half since I've been on anything.
Marijuana doesn't count. I believe that you're never really on pot. It's more like suspended existence, and nothing ever bothers you, even though it should. Like when you're scoring dope in an alley behind a Wendy's, and your band is touring and your life should be great, but all you need need need is a little weed, or one more hit, one more line, one more whatever, to make it all perfect again. I need something injected, snorted, or smoked now.
Nobody really could ever understand what I'm saying, not even me. I can't offer an excuse for my deteriorating mental health/drug fixation. I seem to be permanently stuck in a crappy day/pissy mood complex. Life and death and a million other hypocrisies maybe sort of wore me out. Billy-the-coke-fiend didn't just happen; he emerged after three or ten years of abject misery.
I am eighteen years and twelve days old, but I don't remember turning eighteen. I can't even remember if I even had a birthday party. But I do remember...
A week ago. Dewey. The cell phone in my jeans, vibrating. He called me, where was I? Doesn't matter.
He said we had to meet, worried-ness, etc. I'd recently dropped off the face of the planet without leaving any form of message system.
And I was like, 'kay, sniff sniff. Sorry man, oh that? It's just a runny nose. Allergies. Spring Flu. Fuck off.
But I didn't really say that last part. Or maybe I did, because that was when Dewey got all pissy and asked me if I was stoned. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard. Interesting side note, I pawned my cell phone an hour after that conversation. I needed some cokecokecokecoke inspiration.
Later-later mashed potater, he found me. It was weird because I don't know how he did it. Like, I was just bumming around outside of a café, and he passed by, and I was passed out. So he had to slap me around a little. Or that could have been the dealer. But I woke up and there he was. Dewey. The man with the plan.
At first he was scared, like a rabbit, or like me with my mouth hanging wide, wide open to let a tap-dancing world in. My hair was a dirty mess and my face was sunken in. I thought he was my old dealer, the one who sold bad hash, so I started to run away. I owe a lot of people money these days, so I'm paranoid anyway. But he caught up to me. Super-Dewey flying through the streets and saving me from perilous dangers, like school, bad hash, and homework. It's funny, because in my mind he has a cape and shares chronic, chronically.
"We're getting you into rehab," Dewey told me, and held me, and let me shiver into his body. "I'm not going to let you ruin your life, kid. I don't want to get a phone call at three in the morning from the morgue saying that they found you dead in the gutter."
I nodded and let him pat my head, semi-affectionately. And when he wasn't looking, I did a line off my index finger.
He was serious though, about the rehab stuff. Dewey's got Ned who's got Connections. So he called, and now I've got a ticket to the Betty Ford look-alike clinic tucked away somewhere in my backpack. I'm leaving tomorrow, but not on a jet plane. And I don't like it.
The thing that they don't fail to mention is that once you go to rehab, there's no coke. No speed, no uppers, downers, pot, morphine, K, E, or H, or any other letters of the alphabet. I couldn't even get Coke, the real kind, because it has caffeine in it. I heard they special-order the caffeine-free kind, which I won't touch with a stick.
I'm going to scream until my lungs collapse. I've got a list of aspirations. I'm going to disguise myself as someone famous and run away. Make it big in the city. Something to do with fashion, but most likely film noir. Movies characterized by low-key lighting, a bleak urban setting, and corrupt, cynical characters.
Then I'll get a necktie. No, that's not slang for drugs. I had to borrow Dewey's tie this morning to pawn. MJ doesn't come for free, you know. Anyway, when I get some money, I'm going to buy him a silk one. Something nice that'll make it up to him for having to miss the concert.
First one he's ever missed. It's not like he still plays regularly, only on special occasions. He's always there to support the band though. Freddy and Tomika and Zack and other generic band-mates are disappointed. But Dewey has to stay in the motel and watch to make sure I don't do something extreme, like a bipolar nut.
He's anxious. Tapping foot. Tap tap tap. If you strain your ears, you can almost make out the crowd and the yelling and the first chords of the first song they wrote for this tour. Dewey looks at his watch, then me, then his watch, then me. It's pathetic. Keep going back and forth like that, maybe I will go insane.
I open my mouth. "You can go, if you want. I'm sure..." I trail off, because Dewey is glaring moodily at me. He's only human, you know.
It is ALL MY FAULT. How can I get out of this one? I absently pull at my hair. How how how now, brown cow?
"If we both go together," I hear myself say out loud, tactfully, "Nothing bad will happen, I'm sure."
He gives me a wry grimace. "The counselor I talked to said it would be better for you if you stayed inside and away from 'bad influences' tonight. Considering who this is coming from, I know it's kind of hypocritical, but hey Billy, what she said sounds about right."
Yeah, to everybody but me.
He stares out for the window for a while longer, and I flip through an expired TV Guide. A crack of lightning illuminates the dark sky. The wind picks up. "Isn't the concert supposed to be outside tonight?" I ask, bored.
Dewey sits up, concerned. "Is it?"
Maybe I've got something here. "Yeah, I think I remember Frankie worrying about the tower-lights. He was going on about not having enough manpower to get them down tonight quickly if it started to rain." It's a blatant lie, I haven't spoken to Frankie in about a month.
I timidly look up from the magazine. Dewey is openly staring at me, thoughtfully. Even to me, what I said sounded like the truth. We're in a small town right now. Small towns mean small fan-bases. And about half of our roadies had called in sick. They were just worried about the predicted tornado warning.
Light droplets of rain starts to pitter-patter on the motel's roof.
"Fine," Dewey resolutely says. "Get warmer clothes on, we're leaving in five."
I suppress a tiny cheer/prayer of thanks. I find an old, blue coat in my duffel. Rummage, rummage, rummage. And, and... right when things are looking okay, they get even better. When Dewey is hunting for his shoes, I stuff a bag of E down my pants. For later.
"You coming dude?" he asks me, and I turn and nod. Yes. I'm ready. I'm steady. Here we go.
It's raining harder than I thought. Downpour. Drenching. Deluge. And some other d-words too.
We take the stairs. Not for the exercise. Or maybe for the exercise, I don't know, I'm letting Dewey lead me to my fate. When we get to the bottom step he turns, hesitantly.
He has to yell to be heard over the wind, "Look Billy, I'm going to be really busy taking down the tower-lights in this weather." Now I feel guilty. "I'm not going to have any time to supervise you. And ah, I think it would be better if you would stay here."
It's the greatest feeling in the world to know that you're not wanted. I'm used to it, from my parents. "On my own?" That'd be fantastic, a lonely room and a bag of ecstasy (named for a reason). This is how new drug addictions are started in the first place.
Dewey's face lights up. "Hey look, there's Gordon. Why don't you go hang with him for a while?"
A not-so-lonely room and a bag of ecstasy (named for a reason). Gordon is Gordon, though. I'd probably have to sneak it in the bathroom.
OR (there's always an or) I could make Dewey happy and let him watch me take the elevator up to the top floor, then get out, go back down, and hitch a ride to someplace where there's at least three H&Ms in a four-block radius. Europe it is, then.
Dewey pats me on the shoulder, all affectionate. Atta boy, good job. So I start marching by three counts. Ec-sta-sy. Everytime my foot hits the wet pavement, I mentally-shout a syllable. Ec-sta-sy, ec-sta-sy.
And then here's Gordon now. What do I have to say about him? I borrowed-without-returning his calculator once. He dresses like a Sears Catalog reject. Clothes matter to me because one day I hope to make them. Or at least design a fashion line. Project Runway 10, here I come, if I can kick the habit(s).
Can he not see me coming? The stupid idiot. "Wait!"
Gordon looks at me blankly.
"Hold the door," I say. Some people... If he isn't stoned, I don't know what he is. Definitely not human. Yeah, that's right. Glare at me. I know what you are. You're just like me.
"I said to hold the elevator, but I didn't mean to hold it all day."
Gordon grunts, or makes some disgusting animal noise. "Huh. I hate elevator music."
"What?" I mutter. "Do you think that this crap is turning me on or something? Idiot." I tap my foot on the floor. Ec-sta-sy, ec-sta-sy.
Now he's staring at me. My fast-talking, humdrum exhibitionist, what does he want? What should I-
And then the power goes off. Lightning strikes, the elevator trembles, and we are nearly transformed into beautiful, compressed cadavers.
Eff, I think, when I say, "fuck," out loud.
After a while I decide that death would be the easy way out. This is my test, or my punishment, I decide. I have to survive in here, for who knows how long, with Gordon.
I give him a couple of hostile looks, just to tell him to keep his distance. Compute yourself out of this one, computer boy.
And don't think I'm sharing any of my Ex.