Sunday, February 21, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Passages — Chapter 2
Getting punked from "jail"...Dry and not so high...I ho, I ho, off to the ghetto they go...Madness inevitably needs refueling...Traps, cops and phony tales...Collect call, will you buy us a keg?...Rage and chaos ensues
It would be fair to tell the story from this point but really? Fairness or not the author is going to feed his little penguins the regurgutated backstory so you can at least understand if not appreciate the beginnings.
so there he was, Cal sitting at his computer on a Friday night by himself reading an email from a friend and his friend Pat calls him and Cal picks but not before 3 rings go by to hear, "Oh, hey Cal."
"Hey man!"
"What's up?"
"Nothing much, what are you up to?"
"Well that's the thing, I'm stuck in jail."
"Jail? Really?" If the author had to pick the most likely friend to call him from prison, Pat would be the last person on the list.
"Yeah jail, theyre chargin me with possession of marijuana."
"I see, how long ago?"
"Oh about, say...2 maybe three hours ago."
"Where are you?"
"At the new brusnwick police station."
"Damn dude, should I come pick you up...like do u need bail money or something?"
"No, no thanks though. But, a ride would be good."
"Ok what station ae you?"
"The one off Rt 18..."
...and so this went on for several more minutes until Cal was ready to leave. He grabbed his keys and walks out of the house toward his car. In the distance he sees a familiar looking car, a small hatchback and there seems to be people in it and before reaching his car Cal calls Pat from his phone.
"You just pranked me didnt you?"
Laughter follows on the other end.
Then into the feature you arrive, the author Cal, Pat, Paul, Vik and Venkat are hanging out on Venkat's back porch thinking of possible ways to get high. It was the start of the weekend, a nice friday afternoon, beginning of summer during the lull between the madness of spring semester and beginning of the summer class crunch.
Vik says he knows a spot. "I know this corner spot in downtown New Brunswick where you can usually score some weed - maybe get some X."
"Ok lets go," says Dave. By the way, Dave was there too.
Dave and Vik drive over to pickup what they can. "Nah man, this place is chill...all those townies go to get their shit here - it's the spot." Vik steps out of the car to go talk with the guy on the corner as Dave sits in his car with a sweat bead dripping down the side of his face because the car was parked and the AC was broken.
Vik comes back, hops in the car and directs Dave to drive around the corner to the next block where another guy will talk to them.
As they pull up, a kid no older than 14 jumps off a stoop and comes up to the window. "Whatchu need?"
Vik tells him they're looking for some weed and rolls if possible.
"'Ow much you want?"
"Can you hook up a quarter, maybe 6 hits?"
"Aiight, lemme see."
He goes over to the house and talks to someone inside though through the door using some kind of hatch. The kid comes back and tells them to drive up another block and someone will be waiting for them.
...purched on a cliff, an avalanche coming behind you, no golden parachute, just always knowing you're in the center of no-man's land...
They arrive at the corner and wait. Some time passes, a few songs later, another guy, this time late teens, walks up, leans into the window, and says "I got the quarter you wanted but only 4 hits of the E."
"What kind is it?"
"Some kinda crazy shit outta Amsterdam. I dunno if its good, I mean I only smoke dutches thats it, know wut Im sayin? It's $160." The guy puts a small rolled up plastic bag between the door and handle. Vik pulls out a bunch of twenties, quickly shuffles through 8 of them, folds them up and shakes hands with the guy while sliding the money in his hands. "Peace," and the guy walked back into the yard of the house behind him.
Dave drove off and they popped two pills each. After they returned to Venkat's, they rolled a big blunt and smoked that to their heads.
Several hours go by, it got dark, everyone was stoked partying and realizing there was very little pot left and everyone wanted to get more. Vik and Dave, in the ecstatic zeal of another wave coming on and the looming catastrophe of not having grass for the come down later, volunteered to go again to the spot they used earlier.
This time, as they pull up and talk to the first kid, they will not be as lucky. The kid comes over again but before he can reach the car, a cop pulls up to Dave's car and turns on the Christmas lights and Dave would shit a brick right there and then if he could but he cant because ecstacy makes his timing go off kilter and it's impossible for him to finesse the fine-tuned muscle movements one needs during such an act. So there he is intellectually, emotionally, and physically constipated in a car without air conditioning as the cop comes up to his window and he's thinking about what he SHOULD be thinking but it's too late, the window must be opened, he will need to talk to him, what will he do? I don't want to go to -- wait I didnt do anything, he thinks.
"Yes, sir."
"License, insurance and registration please."
"Yes, sir...Here you go, sir"
"Thank you, please step out of the car."
...fucking asshole...Dave's sweat glands and adrenal glands and tear glands and the rest of the fluid producing glands in his body simaltaneously shut down and jump started - his heart climbed to a drumb and bass rhythm roni size can't match - his legs noodled and his brain turned to lukewarm jello. His first step towards the rear end of the car almost caused him to end up on his own rear end. He tried to say "Sorry, my leg fell asleep," but it was so fast only a cheetah could catch it.
There he was sweating liquid lead out of every gland, unsure, the kid hiding behind a bush, Vik completely baffled, not by Dave's baffoonary (though this was a cause of puzzlement to him) but by the fact that another cop car drove up in front of them and a DIFFERENT cop was at HIS window ready to pounce.
Vik's tongue knotted up like a pretzel and the salty aftertaste in his mouth felt like sandpaper against his throat. He couldn't turn around..total AMBUSH..utter failure...panic...disaster...THEY got him and Dave and the cop said something so Vik starts to open the door and the cop reaches for his gun, steps back and reaches to close the door with his other hand, and yells "I TOLD you to stay in the car!" and pushed on the door so Vik lost his balance and lamely tripped back into the seat, across the shifter emphatically blathering to the cop but it was too late. The car shifted into neutral and started rolling towards the cop car. The cop interigating Dave jumps towards the drivers seat, pulls Vik up and over and went head first for the break.
By this point the little kid in the bushes starts to laugh out loud, Dave profoundly unbalanced by the emotional rollercoaster he just experienced threw himself into a stalled spin towards giggle fits intercut with intense crying sessions.
The cop stopped the car just in time though not before making a lovetap to his mate's beloved cruiser that also threw him forehead first into the steering wheel. One could say sarcastically with a grim touch of irony that things were shaping up well for Vik and Dave.
It was hard for the cops to get their bearings straight with all the comotion coming from Dave's childlike outbursts, the kid's laughter from behind the bushes and Vik's unintelligable blast of excuses, not to mention the cop in Dave's car who now has blood on his hands from the cut on his eyebrow. The cop outside quickly regained his composure, turned around and said to the kid "Who are you?"
"I live..ha-ha..live...here..hahaha...."
"What are you doing here? Go back inside!" The kid slowly steps out of the bushes, laughing the whole way in. Mysteriously, the door opened before he even got there and closed just as well. The cops didn't notice.
"Now, what are you two doing here?" He looks at Dave, "Where are you from?"
It took a long minute for Dave to compose himself. When he finally got his senses back, he lost it again. "Oh man haha...Oh...ha..man...I don't want to go to jail! Please, please, we didn't do anything!"
"Relax - I'm just asking you a simple question." There are no simple questions from five-o's.
"Please! I mean...haha....I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh. I'm sorry. Aww, shit, I'm fucked aren't I?"
"You will be if you don't answer my question." The other cop was in the trunk of the cruiser pulling out a first aid kit. "You were looking for drugs weren't you?"
"No sir." Vid and Dave said so simultaneously. After that there was no point putting on pretentions, not even a pinch.
Vik had a strong desire to punch the asshole in the groin and run. He would have if his coordination wasn't so unhinged. The run would probably kill him anyway. But it would have been good payback for pushing him onto the shift knob.
Another cop rolls up and goes over to Vik.
Meanwhile, Dave was talking to the other cop. "Why are you so sweaty?"
"Because it's really hot and I nearly witnessed my car hitting yours."
"I see, and you are from?"
"I'm from Edison."
"OK, what are you doing here?"
"Listen...ok...we were just looking to get some pot."
"Was that kid going to sell it to you?"
"No not really. I mean, like, he would tell us where to go to pick it up, but he doesn't have any."
"Ok." He gave Dave the drunk tests and miracoulously Dave exhibited perfect agility and control causing the cop to think, maybe his leg was asleep.
He goes over to the other cop to confer. For some reason Vik decided it's still better to lie. For that, the bastards made him pay. Intent to purchase which meant he had to go to court.
Back at Venkat's place, the rest of the pot was gone and the people were too drunk to wonder what happened to Vik and Dave who were coming into the house and coming down from the rolls. Feeling viciously incontent, Vik said, "Shit, man, my ass still hurts from that damn shifter!" He was also just as bitter at Dave for not backing up his lie and dodging the ticket.
-----
"Are you playing me?" Cal said in disbelief then said "I thought you went to court and all that? Nice try." Everyone's attention was still locked on the author.
"No, no I did man! Apparently I was supposed to pay my fine that day," said Vik.
Cal then responds in a more serious tone, "And let me guess, you didn't pay."
"Well, I thought I could come back and take care of it, you know - and like they put out a warrant and came to my room man and for some reason your number was the only one I remembered," he tried to laugh, it sounded strained.
"Shit dude, the court ain't the fucking QVC channel you know," This totally killed the author's mellow, "I would bail you out but I'm broke right now dude."
"What's QVC? That's OK man. My sister is coming right now to bail me out, I just wanted tell you so you guys know"
"How much is the bail?"
"It's the fine plus another $200 for not paying on time and I need to come back before the judge."
"How much was the fine?"
"Four hundred."
"Bummer."
"Yeah, man."
"When do you get out?"
"I don't know, a couple of hours."
"OK, man - well, we'll be here waiting for you to join us in the festivities."
"Yeah, dope man I can't wait."
"Alright, take care dude."
"Peace."
Vik didn't come back until 4 hours later. His sister got stuck in traffic, then while walking home some frat kids asked him if he can help them get a keg for their party. Vik helped them out and in return they invited him to come to the party.
He came back to Venkat's in a gloomy mood. Took a hit on the bowl and pulled a few swigs on the Jack. Basically they made him sit in detention for 4 hours and then pay $600 to leave. Everyone made an effort to cheer him up and it sometimes helped lighten things only a little.
The night went on and everyone was merry except for Vik who wanted to rage, and rage hard. He went up to the author and said, "Yo Cal, let's go to that frat party."
"Haha, man, I haven't been to frat party in ages! You think it's any good?"
"I don't know, I know the beer is good, haha!"
"Hehe, interesting...ok let's go check it out." Vik and Cal offered the idea but no one was really biting, so it was just the two of them.
When they got to the house, it seemed dead inside. It was mid-summer towards the end of first session so understandably not many students were partying, but it was Saturday night so hopes were higher than usual.
At the door, Vik told the door guy that he was the one that got the beer and John said he could come to this party and bring anyone he liked. The guy watching the door let them into a hallway that immediately turned and went downstairs.
In the basement, there were 4 large speakers, one in each corner, the keg in a garbage can full of ice and a beer pong table with a bunch of muscleheads around it yelling loudly. The music was atrociously loud. There wasn't much light down there but the author was able to make out some faces. A bunch of random faces, mostly good looking girls drunk until ugly.
They went straight for the keg and got online. A girl was in front of the author, but he didn't notice her because he was talking to Vik about the arrest. She must of overheard him talking about it because she jumped into the conversation and asked, "Did you get the keg for us?"
Vik, slightly off guard "Umm, yeah actually."
"Awww...that's really nice of you - John told me about your story."
"Oh you know John, hehe, yeah I guess I've had a crazy day."
"Here!" She passed him a beer and then another to Cal. "I'm Becca, his girlfriend."
"Hey, I'm Vik," then pointed to Cal, "this is Cal."
"Hi!" Then she turned around to fill another cup. Vik and Cal inched around to get out of the way and let others online get beer, then Becca screamed, "Jamie!"
Jaime bounced over dancing to the music. A sexy girl with long dark hair, nice body and a face only a creeper would enjoy humiliating. Smiling she screams, "What's up, my love!"
"This is Vik and that's his friend Cal," she pointed over and then leaned in to whisper something in Becca's ear. Later, the author learned that Becca is Jamie's old sister and sorority pledge queen or master or whatever they do in sororities. It doesn't really matter. Jamie leaned over to Vik, grabbed his hand and whisked him away to dance while handing off her drink to Cal's other free hand, grabbed him and pulled towards the abyss into the crowd. By the time they reached the stairs, another girl was with them and all the beer was spilled and their shirts were wet and Jamie started unbuttoning hers. The author never caught the other girl's name, but she was lowering her top as well.
Jamie pulled out a vile of what looked like coke, tapped some out on her hand then the other girl's, they snorted the bumps then Jamie bumped out a little more on her left boob, some on the other girl's right boob, grabbed Vik by the back of his head and stuffed his face to her breast. Before the author was completely aware of this, his face was sniffing away on the other girl's tit. All this for a keg of beer? Cal thought. Why couldn't he be 21 already?
It would be fair to tell the story from this point but really? Fairness or not the author is going to feed his little penguins the regurgutated backstory so you can at least understand if not appreciate the beginnings.
so there he was, Cal sitting at his computer on a Friday night by himself reading an email from a friend and his friend Pat calls him and Cal picks but not before 3 rings go by to hear, "Oh, hey Cal."
"Hey man!"
"What's up?"
"Nothing much, what are you up to?"
"Well that's the thing, I'm stuck in jail."
"Jail? Really?" If the author had to pick the most likely friend to call him from prison, Pat would be the last person on the list.
"Yeah jail, theyre chargin me with possession of marijuana."
"I see, how long ago?"
"Oh about, say...2 maybe three hours ago."
"Where are you?"
"At the new brusnwick police station."
"Damn dude, should I come pick you up...like do u need bail money or something?"
"No, no thanks though. But, a ride would be good."
"Ok what station ae you?"
"The one off Rt 18..."
...and so this went on for several more minutes until Cal was ready to leave. He grabbed his keys and walks out of the house toward his car. In the distance he sees a familiar looking car, a small hatchback and there seems to be people in it and before reaching his car Cal calls Pat from his phone.
"You just pranked me didnt you?"
Laughter follows on the other end.
Then into the feature you arrive, the author Cal, Pat, Paul, Vik and Venkat are hanging out on Venkat's back porch thinking of possible ways to get high. It was the start of the weekend, a nice friday afternoon, beginning of summer during the lull between the madness of spring semester and beginning of the summer class crunch.
Vik says he knows a spot. "I know this corner spot in downtown New Brunswick where you can usually score some weed - maybe get some X."
"Ok lets go," says Dave. By the way, Dave was there too.
Dave and Vik drive over to pickup what they can. "Nah man, this place is chill...all those townies go to get their shit here - it's the spot." Vik steps out of the car to go talk with the guy on the corner as Dave sits in his car with a sweat bead dripping down the side of his face because the car was parked and the AC was broken.
Vik comes back, hops in the car and directs Dave to drive around the corner to the next block where another guy will talk to them.
As they pull up, a kid no older than 14 jumps off a stoop and comes up to the window. "Whatchu need?"
Vik tells him they're looking for some weed and rolls if possible.
"'Ow much you want?"
"Can you hook up a quarter, maybe 6 hits?"
"Aiight, lemme see."
He goes over to the house and talks to someone inside though through the door using some kind of hatch. The kid comes back and tells them to drive up another block and someone will be waiting for them.
...purched on a cliff, an avalanche coming behind you, no golden parachute, just always knowing you're in the center of no-man's land...
They arrive at the corner and wait. Some time passes, a few songs later, another guy, this time late teens, walks up, leans into the window, and says "I got the quarter you wanted but only 4 hits of the E."
"What kind is it?"
"Some kinda crazy shit outta Amsterdam. I dunno if its good, I mean I only smoke dutches thats it, know wut Im sayin? It's $160." The guy puts a small rolled up plastic bag between the door and handle. Vik pulls out a bunch of twenties, quickly shuffles through 8 of them, folds them up and shakes hands with the guy while sliding the money in his hands. "Peace," and the guy walked back into the yard of the house behind him.
Dave drove off and they popped two pills each. After they returned to Venkat's, they rolled a big blunt and smoked that to their heads.
Several hours go by, it got dark, everyone was stoked partying and realizing there was very little pot left and everyone wanted to get more. Vik and Dave, in the ecstatic zeal of another wave coming on and the looming catastrophe of not having grass for the come down later, volunteered to go again to the spot they used earlier.
This time, as they pull up and talk to the first kid, they will not be as lucky. The kid comes over again but before he can reach the car, a cop pulls up to Dave's car and turns on the Christmas lights and Dave would shit a brick right there and then if he could but he cant because ecstacy makes his timing go off kilter and it's impossible for him to finesse the fine-tuned muscle movements one needs during such an act. So there he is intellectually, emotionally, and physically constipated in a car without air conditioning as the cop comes up to his window and he's thinking about what he SHOULD be thinking but it's too late, the window must be opened, he will need to talk to him, what will he do? I don't want to go to -- wait I didnt do anything, he thinks.
"Yes, sir."
"License, insurance and registration please."
"Yes, sir...Here you go, sir"
"Thank you, please step out of the car."
...fucking asshole...Dave's sweat glands and adrenal glands and tear glands and the rest of the fluid producing glands in his body simaltaneously shut down and jump started - his heart climbed to a drumb and bass rhythm roni size can't match - his legs noodled and his brain turned to lukewarm jello. His first step towards the rear end of the car almost caused him to end up on his own rear end. He tried to say "Sorry, my leg fell asleep," but it was so fast only a cheetah could catch it.
There he was sweating liquid lead out of every gland, unsure, the kid hiding behind a bush, Vik completely baffled, not by Dave's baffoonary (though this was a cause of puzzlement to him) but by the fact that another cop car drove up in front of them and a DIFFERENT cop was at HIS window ready to pounce.
Vik's tongue knotted up like a pretzel and the salty aftertaste in his mouth felt like sandpaper against his throat. He couldn't turn around..total AMBUSH..utter failure...panic...disaster...THEY got him and Dave and the cop said something so Vik starts to open the door and the cop reaches for his gun, steps back and reaches to close the door with his other hand, and yells "I TOLD you to stay in the car!" and pushed on the door so Vik lost his balance and lamely tripped back into the seat, across the shifter emphatically blathering to the cop but it was too late. The car shifted into neutral and started rolling towards the cop car. The cop interigating Dave jumps towards the drivers seat, pulls Vik up and over and went head first for the break.
By this point the little kid in the bushes starts to laugh out loud, Dave profoundly unbalanced by the emotional rollercoaster he just experienced threw himself into a stalled spin towards giggle fits intercut with intense crying sessions.
The cop stopped the car just in time though not before making a lovetap to his mate's beloved cruiser that also threw him forehead first into the steering wheel. One could say sarcastically with a grim touch of irony that things were shaping up well for Vik and Dave.
It was hard for the cops to get their bearings straight with all the comotion coming from Dave's childlike outbursts, the kid's laughter from behind the bushes and Vik's unintelligable blast of excuses, not to mention the cop in Dave's car who now has blood on his hands from the cut on his eyebrow. The cop outside quickly regained his composure, turned around and said to the kid "Who are you?"
"I live..ha-ha..live...here..hahaha...."
"What are you doing here? Go back inside!" The kid slowly steps out of the bushes, laughing the whole way in. Mysteriously, the door opened before he even got there and closed just as well. The cops didn't notice.
"Now, what are you two doing here?" He looks at Dave, "Where are you from?"
It took a long minute for Dave to compose himself. When he finally got his senses back, he lost it again. "Oh man haha...Oh...ha..man...I don't want to go to jail! Please, please, we didn't do anything!"
"Relax - I'm just asking you a simple question." There are no simple questions from five-o's.
"Please! I mean...haha....I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh. I'm sorry. Aww, shit, I'm fucked aren't I?"
"You will be if you don't answer my question." The other cop was in the trunk of the cruiser pulling out a first aid kit. "You were looking for drugs weren't you?"
"No sir." Vid and Dave said so simultaneously. After that there was no point putting on pretentions, not even a pinch.
Vik had a strong desire to punch the asshole in the groin and run. He would have if his coordination wasn't so unhinged. The run would probably kill him anyway. But it would have been good payback for pushing him onto the shift knob.
Another cop rolls up and goes over to Vik.
Meanwhile, Dave was talking to the other cop. "Why are you so sweaty?"
"Because it's really hot and I nearly witnessed my car hitting yours."
"I see, and you are from?"
"I'm from Edison."
"OK, what are you doing here?"
"Listen...ok...we were just looking to get some pot."
"Was that kid going to sell it to you?"
"No not really. I mean, like, he would tell us where to go to pick it up, but he doesn't have any."
"Ok." He gave Dave the drunk tests and miracoulously Dave exhibited perfect agility and control causing the cop to think, maybe his leg was asleep.
He goes over to the other cop to confer. For some reason Vik decided it's still better to lie. For that, the bastards made him pay. Intent to purchase which meant he had to go to court.
Back at Venkat's place, the rest of the pot was gone and the people were too drunk to wonder what happened to Vik and Dave who were coming into the house and coming down from the rolls. Feeling viciously incontent, Vik said, "Shit, man, my ass still hurts from that damn shifter!" He was also just as bitter at Dave for not backing up his lie and dodging the ticket.
-----
"Are you playing me?" Cal said in disbelief then said "I thought you went to court and all that? Nice try." Everyone's attention was still locked on the author.
"No, no I did man! Apparently I was supposed to pay my fine that day," said Vik.
Cal then responds in a more serious tone, "And let me guess, you didn't pay."
"Well, I thought I could come back and take care of it, you know - and like they put out a warrant and came to my room man and for some reason your number was the only one I remembered," he tried to laugh, it sounded strained.
"Shit dude, the court ain't the fucking QVC channel you know," This totally killed the author's mellow, "I would bail you out but I'm broke right now dude."
"What's QVC? That's OK man. My sister is coming right now to bail me out, I just wanted tell you so you guys know"
"How much is the bail?"
"It's the fine plus another $200 for not paying on time and I need to come back before the judge."
"How much was the fine?"
"Four hundred."
"Bummer."
"Yeah, man."
"When do you get out?"
"I don't know, a couple of hours."
"OK, man - well, we'll be here waiting for you to join us in the festivities."
"Yeah, dope man I can't wait."
"Alright, take care dude."
"Peace."
Vik didn't come back until 4 hours later. His sister got stuck in traffic, then while walking home some frat kids asked him if he can help them get a keg for their party. Vik helped them out and in return they invited him to come to the party.
He came back to Venkat's in a gloomy mood. Took a hit on the bowl and pulled a few swigs on the Jack. Basically they made him sit in detention for 4 hours and then pay $600 to leave. Everyone made an effort to cheer him up and it sometimes helped lighten things only a little.
The night went on and everyone was merry except for Vik who wanted to rage, and rage hard. He went up to the author and said, "Yo Cal, let's go to that frat party."
"Haha, man, I haven't been to frat party in ages! You think it's any good?"
"I don't know, I know the beer is good, haha!"
"Hehe, interesting...ok let's go check it out." Vik and Cal offered the idea but no one was really biting, so it was just the two of them.
When they got to the house, it seemed dead inside. It was mid-summer towards the end of first session so understandably not many students were partying, but it was Saturday night so hopes were higher than usual.
At the door, Vik told the door guy that he was the one that got the beer and John said he could come to this party and bring anyone he liked. The guy watching the door let them into a hallway that immediately turned and went downstairs.
In the basement, there were 4 large speakers, one in each corner, the keg in a garbage can full of ice and a beer pong table with a bunch of muscleheads around it yelling loudly. The music was atrociously loud. There wasn't much light down there but the author was able to make out some faces. A bunch of random faces, mostly good looking girls drunk until ugly.
They went straight for the keg and got online. A girl was in front of the author, but he didn't notice her because he was talking to Vik about the arrest. She must of overheard him talking about it because she jumped into the conversation and asked, "Did you get the keg for us?"
Vik, slightly off guard "Umm, yeah actually."
"Awww...that's really nice of you - John told me about your story."
"Oh you know John, hehe, yeah I guess I've had a crazy day."
"Here!" She passed him a beer and then another to Cal. "I'm Becca, his girlfriend."
"Hey, I'm Vik," then pointed to Cal, "this is Cal."
"Hi!" Then she turned around to fill another cup. Vik and Cal inched around to get out of the way and let others online get beer, then Becca screamed, "Jamie!"
Jaime bounced over dancing to the music. A sexy girl with long dark hair, nice body and a face only a creeper would enjoy humiliating. Smiling she screams, "What's up, my love!"
"This is Vik and that's his friend Cal," she pointed over and then leaned in to whisper something in Becca's ear. Later, the author learned that Becca is Jamie's old sister and sorority pledge queen or master or whatever they do in sororities. It doesn't really matter. Jamie leaned over to Vik, grabbed his hand and whisked him away to dance while handing off her drink to Cal's other free hand, grabbed him and pulled towards the abyss into the crowd. By the time they reached the stairs, another girl was with them and all the beer was spilled and their shirts were wet and Jamie started unbuttoning hers. The author never caught the other girl's name, but she was lowering her top as well.
Jamie pulled out a vile of what looked like coke, tapped some out on her hand then the other girl's, they snorted the bumps then Jamie bumped out a little more on her left boob, some on the other girl's right boob, grabbed Vik by the back of his head and stuffed his face to her breast. Before the author was completely aware of this, his face was sniffing away on the other girl's tit. All this for a keg of beer? Cal thought. Why couldn't he be 21 already?
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Passages — Chapter 1
Procession into the unknown...Drinking on grave misteps...Memory Lane Maze...Distruptions and disturbances...Beef with the po-po's
He feels like writing though doesn't know where to start. As a writer this perplexes him. He knows KNOWS he wants to write. Wants to is so similar to desire, but WANTS is not desire. Wanting is like a crooked lampshade, a broken pen compared to the dark room and unused keyboard of desire. Speakers slammed, friendships tarnished, new friendships flourish and old family try to reunite feebly, unconquered techniques still flashing by - these things he wants to write but does not know how to connect (those dots-.-.-.). They will be on paper as is. They will not be finished ideas until he finishes writing them and then, even THEN, they will be muddy sand on the floor of the ocean...the thoughts are too nebulous and the vaporous gas has dissolved from the bubbling spring into the current of time.
Yet, YET, harnessing these thoughts for him is crucial and a crime against THESE thoughts at the same time. Concurrently, he's a freedom fighter and prison warden. When experiences are created in the light of crooked lampshades and crowded flickering sidewalks a writer cannot simply stitch the plot together and expect its structure to develop eloquently, perfectly - it just doesn't happen.
Too much confusion, too many experiences, too many ironies and paradoxes create excitement and the confusion still remains. Perhaps he wants to write to examine these intricacies - perhaps to decipher and lay them out in coherent symbols someone else may interpret as truth, reality, obfuscated facts clearly illustrated. But, that would not seem right and there isn't enough time to explain why.
So far this writing about writing hasn't done much good in creating the beginning and these passages are all dead ends to somewhere.
As a matter of fact, the writer grew up on a dead end street - it was called Good Luck Street, although now changed to Goodluck Street and became a dead end again too.
Damp floors from spilled beer, foggy corridors filled with strangers and cigarette smoke, crumb and ring stains on the table, empty bowls filled with resin, empty lighters in a box that won't light incense, ripped posters on the wall, offset tapestries on couches, burns in the carpet, streaks on vinyl floors, splatter on the stove top, wet bars, broken stools, knolls of grass so slushy they suck shoes off your feet, fucking in snow drifts through 4 layers of waterproof gear, ear piercing bass from speakers on every wall of every floor, road trips destined for white knuckled slams into guardrails, empty conversation around full vodka bottles, vomit and sweat all over the place, pint glasses tipped and spilled, muddy bare footprints, wet clothes, dirty bed sheets, broken bongs, pieces of foil crispy and brown, snapped CD cases engulfed with white residue, stockpiles of trash and bags of beercans, broken guitars, buzzing amps, flickering tv's, girls those beautiful baby dolls with flaky make up, guys with tight shirts and veiny muscles, sly pointless arguments, serious laughter, strict drug regiments, empty Camel packs, ripped Trojan wrappers, blurry videos, the list goes on...
He had to go, although unwillingly, throw clothes in the laundry machine and by the time he came back the trainwreck had already happened. A symbolic cymbal crash thoughtfully collided with the inside wall of his skull - hemoragging anger, hate, laughter. The warden has a prison riot on his hands and the wry smile appears on his face and the smoldering residue of meaning maybe IS contained though ultimately dust, red ashes and these words are...
...broken Carona bottles on ceramic kitchen tiles, spit, sweat, hair gel, giz and alochol and all in the ice cold jacuzzi and cigarette butts float on the surface, incoherrent text messages from 4am, homeless men living on the street under light blue bed sheets (hey watch it!), clubs full of tease dancers and the douchie assholes who battle for them, friendly strip dancers, coy black jack dealers, lucky purses, college dorm coutches, getting lucky on them, suffocating in the subway heat, box wine in winter green park, blunts and cops on the hill, ecstacy fueled binges going into sunrise, and then drawing it with pastels with the help of shrooms, acid, hash and grass, listening to music on porches with the glow of stoges enhancing the mood, mind bending confabulation about synchrocities we can't touch and only know by feel, duplicitious questions in neon lounges over tequila shots, passing out in couches, awakining to bouncers flashing lights in your eyes, puking into closet utility sinks, getting high in dorm bathrooms and student center rooftops, drum circles, getting hassled by cops at them, getting pulled over later that night by the same cops, are you any closer to getting the picture?
spectacular...but, not technicolor -- maybe more like monochrome.
sitting rather stooping at venkat's house after smoking a fat L and downing some beers, a discussion about music started and calling it a heated exchange would be considered more suitable and Stan thinks it's not really worth thinking about so he doesnt listen in. But Paul and Chris think its worth listening to so too they want to throw their opinions in. While all this happens Stan plays on an accoustic guitar, going through his usual reportoire of songs he wrote while staring through the floor into presumably China or perhaps the Phillipines if the angle is right.
So anyway there everyone was toasty and ear to ear and Paul whose propensity to weigh his opinion in on everything was about to take the stump but he wouldnever get to it because the author of these passages got a call from a local phone number he didnt recognize. Hesiitantly, he picked up and waited to see what the person, if it really was a person, on the other end would do.
...as time stood still for those brief seconds, each its own lifetime recaptured and lost again, those moments wait for spotlights...
"...Hello? Hey its Vik. Hello?" It was Vik. "Cal you there?"
"Yo! Whats happening, man?" said the author.
"Well, actually a lot...I'm in jail."
Just as Paul was about to continue with what he was going to say about the group AIR —
"What?! Why are you in jail?" and everyone locked their attention on the author.
He feels like writing though doesn't know where to start. As a writer this perplexes him. He knows KNOWS he wants to write. Wants to is so similar to desire, but WANTS is not desire. Wanting is like a crooked lampshade, a broken pen compared to the dark room and unused keyboard of desire. Speakers slammed, friendships tarnished, new friendships flourish and old family try to reunite feebly, unconquered techniques still flashing by - these things he wants to write but does not know how to connect (those dots-.-.-.). They will be on paper as is. They will not be finished ideas until he finishes writing them and then, even THEN, they will be muddy sand on the floor of the ocean...the thoughts are too nebulous and the vaporous gas has dissolved from the bubbling spring into the current of time.
Yet, YET, harnessing these thoughts for him is crucial and a crime against THESE thoughts at the same time. Concurrently, he's a freedom fighter and prison warden. When experiences are created in the light of crooked lampshades and crowded flickering sidewalks a writer cannot simply stitch the plot together and expect its structure to develop eloquently, perfectly - it just doesn't happen.
Too much confusion, too many experiences, too many ironies and paradoxes create excitement and the confusion still remains. Perhaps he wants to write to examine these intricacies - perhaps to decipher and lay them out in coherent symbols someone else may interpret as truth, reality, obfuscated facts clearly illustrated. But, that would not seem right and there isn't enough time to explain why.
So far this writing about writing hasn't done much good in creating the beginning and these passages are all dead ends to somewhere.
As a matter of fact, the writer grew up on a dead end street - it was called Good Luck Street, although now changed to Goodluck Street and became a dead end again too.
Damp floors from spilled beer, foggy corridors filled with strangers and cigarette smoke, crumb and ring stains on the table, empty bowls filled with resin, empty lighters in a box that won't light incense, ripped posters on the wall, offset tapestries on couches, burns in the carpet, streaks on vinyl floors, splatter on the stove top, wet bars, broken stools, knolls of grass so slushy they suck shoes off your feet, fucking in snow drifts through 4 layers of waterproof gear, ear piercing bass from speakers on every wall of every floor, road trips destined for white knuckled slams into guardrails, empty conversation around full vodka bottles, vomit and sweat all over the place, pint glasses tipped and spilled, muddy bare footprints, wet clothes, dirty bed sheets, broken bongs, pieces of foil crispy and brown, snapped CD cases engulfed with white residue, stockpiles of trash and bags of beercans, broken guitars, buzzing amps, flickering tv's, girls those beautiful baby dolls with flaky make up, guys with tight shirts and veiny muscles, sly pointless arguments, serious laughter, strict drug regiments, empty Camel packs, ripped Trojan wrappers, blurry videos, the list goes on...
He had to go, although unwillingly, throw clothes in the laundry machine and by the time he came back the trainwreck had already happened. A symbolic cymbal crash thoughtfully collided with the inside wall of his skull - hemoragging anger, hate, laughter. The warden has a prison riot on his hands and the wry smile appears on his face and the smoldering residue of meaning maybe IS contained though ultimately dust, red ashes and these words are...
...broken Carona bottles on ceramic kitchen tiles, spit, sweat, hair gel, giz and alochol and all in the ice cold jacuzzi and cigarette butts float on the surface, incoherrent text messages from 4am, homeless men living on the street under light blue bed sheets (hey watch it!), clubs full of tease dancers and the douchie assholes who battle for them, friendly strip dancers, coy black jack dealers, lucky purses, college dorm coutches, getting lucky on them, suffocating in the subway heat, box wine in winter green park, blunts and cops on the hill, ecstacy fueled binges going into sunrise, and then drawing it with pastels with the help of shrooms, acid, hash and grass, listening to music on porches with the glow of stoges enhancing the mood, mind bending confabulation about synchrocities we can't touch and only know by feel, duplicitious questions in neon lounges over tequila shots, passing out in couches, awakining to bouncers flashing lights in your eyes, puking into closet utility sinks, getting high in dorm bathrooms and student center rooftops, drum circles, getting hassled by cops at them, getting pulled over later that night by the same cops, are you any closer to getting the picture?
spectacular...but, not technicolor -- maybe more like monochrome.
sitting rather stooping at venkat's house after smoking a fat L and downing some beers, a discussion about music started and calling it a heated exchange would be considered more suitable and Stan thinks it's not really worth thinking about so he doesnt listen in. But Paul and Chris think its worth listening to so too they want to throw their opinions in. While all this happens Stan plays on an accoustic guitar, going through his usual reportoire of songs he wrote while staring through the floor into presumably China or perhaps the Phillipines if the angle is right.
So anyway there everyone was toasty and ear to ear and Paul whose propensity to weigh his opinion in on everything was about to take the stump but he wouldnever get to it because the author of these passages got a call from a local phone number he didnt recognize. Hesiitantly, he picked up and waited to see what the person, if it really was a person, on the other end would do.
...as time stood still for those brief seconds, each its own lifetime recaptured and lost again, those moments wait for spotlights...
"...Hello? Hey its Vik. Hello?" It was Vik. "Cal you there?"
"Yo! Whats happening, man?" said the author.
"Well, actually a lot...I'm in jail."
Just as Paul was about to continue with what he was going to say about the group AIR —
"What?! Why are you in jail?" and everyone locked their attention on the author.
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