Gargling with Razorblades: A Short Story

I still don't fully understand what keeps drawing back to this place. I mean, it's not like the coffee's so good ... nor the service, for that matter. I guess that it just makes me feel anonymous ... at home, in an odd way. Most of the other customers here at this time of night couldn't give a crap about me or anyone else but themselves ... and that's just fine by me. New York City is infamous for its rude and uncaring inhabitants. Is that supposed to be a negative aspect of this fine town? Not as far as I'm concerned for the simple fact that at times like these I really don't give a fuck about anyone else, either. Yeah ... I'm a true New Yorker.

Damn! The coffee's particularly shitty tonight. It's almost as if it was filtered through the cook's dirty socks, after a 12 hour shift. Oh, hell ... enough sugar will make it better.

"Waitress, could you bring me some more sugar. This one's empty."

She looked a bit annoyed, didn't say a word or even bother to look my way, grabbed another sugar dispenser, and brought it over to me. The look she gave me made it seem like I had just asked her for her money or her life ... and she was considering the latter.

So here I am again writing in this damned journal like it's some overdue homework assignment for a particularly crabby teacher just looking for another excuse to fail me. The fact is that I actually find writing in this thing to be soothing ... almost like therapy. It also helps to pass the time. Finding things to write about is easy as hell, what with the life I'm leading now and where I've been ... things I've seen and done. Sometimes I even wonder if my memories are real or just imagined ... hallucinated? Nah ... they're real ...

The other night I wrote about seeing Janet's dead Dad right in front of me when he was, in fact, dead. Had been for years. Well, I saw the guy! He handed me a freaking Heineken, for Christ's sake! I can't explain it ... the how and the why ... but it happened. Took me close to three weeks to convince myself that Janet, her friends, and everyone else weren't putting me on. Weirdest of all is the fact that it wasn't the first time something like that had happened to me and it wouldn't be the last time, either. Maybe I'll get to some of the other instances at a later date.

I wonder if that woman from the other night will show up here again. I didn't have the balls to break it off with Janet yet but I'm pretty damned sure that we're done with, anyway. It's not like we're fighting or anything but I guess that we've just drifted apart. These past two years have been great but maybe this relationship has just run its course. I'm pretty sure that Janet feels the same way. Maybe we already are broken up but none of us has decided to tell the other yet. I don't know ... regardless, I'm seriously looking forward to at least talking to that other woman again.

Look at those two guys at the counter. It's so obvious that there's a drug deal going on. I mean, how many times have I been in that very same situation? Too many. The nods, quick passes of money from under one palm to another, the digging into the pocket, passing of small plastic baggie ... what a drill. And for what? Oh, who am I kidding? I could go for some blow right about now
When was the first time that I snorted coke? Good question ... probably senior year in high school. That was when I first delved into the drug scene. It was quite innocent at first and I don't really think that it ever got to be too much of a problem.

We would meet up after school at the deli down the block and get some Budweiser quarts. Then we'd all head down to Astoria Park with our boombox and beers ... a tribe of Catholic School outlaws ready to take on the world ... and give it the finger. We'd all walk the 6 blocks or so from the school to the park singing along to AC/DC, The Doors, Sex Pistols, Clash ... whatever was particularly loud and obnoxious. Then, once at the park, we'd just sit there and chat about nothing in particular. Drinking beer and smoking pot ... it was our version of an after-school program.

I honestly can't really remember the first time that I ever smoked pot. I'm assuming that we were all hanging out and someone just passed me a joint ... and I partook, of course. I do, however, remember quite vividly the first time that we got into the harder stuff ...

It was our Senior Awards Day, when the graduating class would have a small ceremony at school and awards would be handed out for all sorts of meaningless achievements. It was also our last day of High School. The next time the entire graduating class of '82 would be together again would be the day that we graduated ... with yet another meaningless ceremony.

I think it had been a half-day of school and, with the ceremony over, our group took off for the park ... as usual. We were engaging in all of the typical nonsense and the park was particularly crowded on this day. My best friend Joey and I were being our obnoxious selves when Joey overheard one of the older guys chatting with a hippie-looking dude. It was a mescaline transaction.

"Hey, Sin ... ever try mescaline," Joey asked?
"Nope," I replied.
"Want to go in on some with me?"
"Sure. Why the fuck not?"

I was easily persuaded ... and curious to try this new thing that was supposed to make us feel pretty fucked up and whacked out so we bought two hits of the tiny purple pill at three dollars each ... and popped them in our mouths, washing them down with some Budweiser.

Nothing happened. Waited a while but, still, nothing. Then Joey had the bright idea to get two more hits and, of course, we did. Popped those and still nothing. Was this hippie bastard ripping us off? By the time one of our other friends informed us that the mescaline took a while to kick in ... about 20 minutes to half an hour ... we had already taken six hits each! I remember that afternoon like it was yesterday.

When the drugs finally kicked in it was like a totally different world. People seemed to be moving and talking in slow motion. The sky was bluer than I'd ever seen it. The sound of the water (we were on a street right next to the East River ... under the Hell Gate Bridge) was intoxicating. AC/DC even sounded better than ever to me ... as if these were more intense versions of their songs that I'd never heard before. Best of all ... I think that I was at peace with everyone and everything. Not a care in the world. All I wanted to do was lie down in the grass and stare at the sky taking in all of the wonders of this world as the AC/DC boys blasted through their Back in Black album.

Joey lay down next to me and he must've said something like, "This rocks, man!" and I agreed. Then we both got up to go and grab some beers. We started walking across the park towards the street and I think that I was staring at the sky the entire time. I didn't even bother to look while crossing the street. Who knows? Maybe if a car hit me I might have enjoyed that experience as well ...

We made it to the where the beer was and now there were a bunch of bikers hanging out with our girls ... and we didn't care. We went up to them and started chatting about God knows what ... probably not making any sense. I remember going up to one particularly huge guy and almost strangling him with the hug that I gave. I don't know why ... it just seemed like the right thing to do, you know?

Realizing that we were out of beer, Joey and I decided to go get some more. I had a job at a local deli and could get it cheap ... sometimes free ... if my other buddy was working there so off we went. I'm not entirely sure what exactly happened next but I seem to recall tripping over someone and knocking over some Harleys that were parked by the street and someone yelling ... and Joey and I just laughing as we ran across the park, towards Rocco's Deli.

I don't know how long it took to get there but we finally did and were happy to see that Tommy was, indeed, working. Tommy was a great friend and we would do each other favors at work. The fact that these favors amounted to thievery was irrelevant. We did what we had to do, you know?

"What's wrong with your eyes, Sin? Are you fucked up," he asked?

I think that I just laughed and asked if he would get us some beers. Tommy asked for us to wait outside, by the side door next to the trash dumpster ... so we did. A few minutes later he stepped outside with a garbage bag and a banana box full of trash and dumped them in the dumpster. We shook hands and he said, "See you later," or something like that and then we sat on the sidewalk and just waited.

A short time passed and I went over to the dumpster, opened it, and took out the box. Then Tommy and I started walking back towards the park with the banana box in my hands. You see, the scam was for whichever one of us was working to put some beer in an empty box and toss it in the dumpster. Then, later on, the one that needed the beer would take it out of the dumpster. Seems stupid ... and dangerous ... but it worked for almost four years. Thank God that the boss was a very nice, yet clueless, old world Italian guy. Or maybe he knew what we were doing all along and didn't care? I don't know ...

We were about two blocks or so from the park when one of our others friends pulled up his car alongside us and asked if we needed a ride. Of course! We hopped in and started singing along to whatever was playing on the radio. We were all having a great time when, out of nowhere, it seemed like the car skidded in slow motion and came to a complete stop. I was in the front passenger seat and my head hit the windshield but I don't remember feeling any pain, really. I do, however, remember looking up and seeing my little sister, who was around 11 or 12 at the time, standing directly in front of the car ... startled. Scared. Staring at us with a weird look on her face. We had almost hit her!

I'm not sure what I said to her but she continued walking towards home and we drove off towards the park. I remember wondering, "What if we'd hit her?" What surprised me was that I really didn't care ... and that was odd. This was my little sister, whom I loved ... and I didn't care? What the hell was wrong with me? Oh ... the mescaline ... putting a rosy glow on even the horrible things, I guess.

I asked the guys to just drop me off at home, determined to just go to bed and sleep it off.

I remember getting in the house and the only people there were two of my sisters, the one that I'd almost killed and my older sis. Brenda (who'd just had a near-death experience) was in her room playing with Barbies so I convinced myself that she was fine ... and went into my own room.

It was probably close to 5 PM and the folks would be home soon so I decided to lay down on my bed and try to snap out of this mescaline haze before they got home ... but that proved to be impossible. No matter how hard I tried I just couldn't sleep! Every time that I closed my eyes I'd drift into some weird head-trip ... like a freaking sci-fi movie.

I don't even remember when the folks got home or if they even bothered to check up on me ... but they must have. They always did. Perhaps they looked in on me while I was off in space, in my own world, and assumed that I was sleeping. Anyway, I spent most of the night watching the movies in my mind and drawing some odd pictures that I wish I still had today, for they would surely make for some fine entertainment.

I didn't sleep at all that night and by the time morning came around I was feeling pretty damned awful. My head was spinning and it was as if I was in a haze ... a cloud. Luckily, it was a Saturday and school had ended the day before so I was free to do nothing all day.

At some point in the afternoon my grandparents came by to pick me up and take me to their place, where I spent most of my weekends. I remember thinking later that evening that I was glad the mescaline had worn off when I happened to look at the curtains in the living room ... and saw Gene Simmons (bassist for the band KISS) laughing at me.