And what pissed me off even more was that there wasn’t much left to write. I just sat, staring at the
blank sheet of paper thinking about muses and bullshit.
And there wasn’t a lot of reefer left. And maybe even more importantly, there wasn’t a lot of nicotine left, either. In fact, I was down to three cigs. So now, I thought, it's time to start rationing. The lighter's little flame sprung up with the second try. A click and I lit the eighteenth in the crumbled softpack of 100s. More talk on the radio. I just kept the dial tuned to NPR and consented to the idea of talk.
"One of the Rednecks said to his buddy, To hell with
all this talk. Let's fuck him up."
100s. I’m pretty sure they have the same amount of tobacco in them as regular cigs but I smoked them to make me feel like I was getting a better deal. Plus, I was usually high from an earlier bowl and it was nice to have a long filter to help in the “amplification” process. And even better, I didn't burn myself as often. Of course, the cherry regularly fell off; I had a tendency to really give it some gusto when I ashed. Luckily, it was only on the typewriter and not my crotch. It all meant little, though. A smoker’s concern seems oxymoronic.
Then, the talking stopped and Bach's Concerto in D Minor played. Two violins.
Some delicate sound filled the hotel room; the coarse, orange bedspread, the wall decorations of palm trees and expensive boats, the large olive refrigerator all felt cheaper, more like a place I might call home. The motherly vomit of a rare bird, these sloppy walls were colored some sort of beige.
I poked through the metal blinds; the same color as the room. The sky was violent; but not. A few clouds had gathered close to the peak of the Hotel Morgan; they were very dark. As my grandfather would’ve said, a thunderstorm was a-comin'.
I remembered the first time I tried cocaine. It was a formula, really. Raining. In an alley outside a bar. In the backseat of an early-80s Mazda van with a girl named Krista who I knew from a writing seminar. Blonde hair, petite frame. I hit three lines because I wanted to impress her; maybe even to fuck her. Coke makes you want to fuck, I heard. This was all before I tried it, though. This was all before it got in my brain and I freaked the fuck out. I jumped out of the van and sprinted all the way up Pleasant and Cobun to a house on Kingwood and passed out on my buddy Mike's couch after a few mindfucks from the laughing of people in another room. I seriously considered the idea that they were making fun of me and a voice in my head wouldn’t let me defend myself. I had to smoke a bowl of nugget to calm down and sleep.
I woke up the next day with the world’s worst hangover. I don’t know if you believe me when I say that, but I don’t get ‘em from alcohol. So, I have to have some sort of reprimand for my vices. After all, I was raised Catholic.
Outside, a screech and very slight crash. A white Chevy Malibu had run a red light, apparently. The driver, a Jersey cat. If not for the Jersey plates, I knew him by his slick hair and even slicker shirt: a pastel button-up made of silk with a few tufts of black chest hair popping out a few inches from his chin. God, you have sent me a character, I thought and without looking, began to click the keys on the typewriter.
The other car was a beat-up early-90s Ford Mustang. It was still playing Aerosmith, but the two Rednecks that had been in it had jumped out and hocked up tobacco in mild frustration.
“I don't have insurance,” Jersey said to them, shrugging and maybe even apologizing.
One of the Rednecks in a white t-shirt said to his buddy, “To hell with all this talk.”
His friend agreed, “Let's fuck him up.”
The two Rednecks ran at Jersey and before I saw the inevitable fight, I closed the shades. I don't want to be an accessory, I thought, I don't want to be a witness.
More so, this fight was likely to be too exciting for the state I was in, and that made me somewhat jealous. Shit like that never happened to me. Car wrecks. Fights. Aerosmith. Nope. Just talk on the fucking radio.
After a few hours and a decent story, I began thinking of what was outside again. The clouds that stalked over the city as my character was being beaten in a dirty intersection had floated on down the sky and the stars above the city were now appearing. The little twinkles reminded me of a song that I hated as a child. Something my mother sang to my little brother before he went to bed. I don’t remember the name.
I turned off NPR and lit the nineteenth cig. I have one more night in this hotel room, I thought, and one more cigarette.
