Friday, July 27, 2012

Strobing Purple Neon

Generally being hopped up on speed by the time I arrived home from work, I rarely went straight to bed, unlike normal people who worked a graveyard shift. Today was no exception.
I got undressed and lay on my bed completely naked - staring at the orange stains on the ceiling paint from a leaky roof. I grabbed the meth that I had received from Carl earlier that morning.
“Don’t do it all.” He had warned.
I grabbed my glass pipe from the end table - held it in thumb and forefinger, pondering that such a small thing was capable of giving so much insidious indulgence. The pipe was nearly charred black from so much use - black and silver.
I pinched a rock from the little baggie and went to work. Kerpow! On that first hit, I realized that shit from old Carl was special. The rush was orgasmic. For hours, I lay on my bed propped up against the cold, dingy wall smoking smoking smoking until it was all gone.
After the pipe cooled - I smoked the residue left on the inside shaft and bulb. I tore open the little bag like a skilled surgeon and extracted the dusty remnants of white and pink flecks nestled in the creases and folds of the plastic and I smoked them, too.
I deteriorated into a tweeking, shivering, tongue-clicking, jaw-grinding mess. I tried to get up from the bed - my head swirled and the room spun into a vortex. Plop! I fell onto the musty carpet. I tried to prop myself onto one elbow - I couldn’t get up. I lay there as time spun by like a sped up film.
I realized that I had to work that evening - couldn’t be late - that thought pounded in my fried brain. I kept track of time from the television programs fading in and out from the living room on the set I forgot to turn off.
“Today on Oprah Winfrey!” It’s 3pm - no worries - I didn’t have to be at work until eleven. I squinted out the unbearably bright window - the tree morphed into obscene Disney characters. I looked on, transfixed in terrified, paranoid, fascination.
“Live from San Diego - It’s Chanel 5 news at five!” Okay, it was 5pm. Eyes darted uncontrollably around the room - shortness of breath - still unable to move.
The Star Trek theme began - it was six. I felt as if I was about to pass out. I twitched and shuddered in a vain attempt to at least sit up from that fixed position.
The boinging tune of The Simpsons popped on - it was seven. I really needed to get up and get ready for work. As The Simpsons back to back comedy hour drew to a close - I thrust my torso upward. I stood fully erect - naked - then swirled and crashed onto my bed, falling straight and solid as a board. I lay akimbo for a moment and burst into laughter.
If only this was filmed, I thought.
As the Law and Order theme drummed on, I realized it was 9 o’clock and I had to get my ass in gear. Popping up once again - body tingling and head swirling - I walked into the small bathroom and splashed water on my greasy face. Not in there long - that water hurt.
Dressed, I darted out of my apartment into the cool night and hailed a cab at the corner. Reaching downtown Tijuana, I walked to the border.
I felt fantastic - everything in sharp focus, sounds crisp and clear. Rapidly crossing the bridge that spanned the sewage crusted Tijuana River; I looked up and smiled as the dark, pendulous clouds were outlined in strobing, purple neon.
I passed two Mexican tweekers - dirty and furtive - on the bridge as they rushed in the opposite direction at supersonic speeds.
“Wooh! White boy’s tweeeeeekin’!” One smiled.
I grinned, exhaled, and continued my power walk up to customs. Passed through the Sentry without a hitch and jumped the trolley to downtown San Diego. I glanced at my watch - 9:45pm. Enough time for a quick beer before work.
Trash lined streets with old liquor stores and porno shops and cut rate hotels. The throng of deviants that prowled the night were out in full force. Junkies squealed and meth addicts howled at the yellow moon as prostitutes of both sexes did their stylized ballet back and forth in front of the Rialto Theater. Florescent shadows played along cracked walls.
“Hey, man - ya lookin’?” White boy hip-hop asks through bent teeth.
Dark street packed with hobos lying in piss and hip blacks on the hustle, clenching crack rocks in quivering, cold hands - liquor stores and blue red purple neon of porno shops that peddled it real nasty all night - and all kind of sick junkies screaming in the alleyways of the world.
I hit the cracked pavement and found a bar full of hip kids and fags - sat there savoring my beer when a black man, rail thin, barged in and sized me up as an easy mark, I reckon.
“Now, what you need is a safistamacated woman.” He breathed liquor and halitosis into my face.
I smiled and croaked, “What?”
“A safistamacated woman, boy. One’ll fuck ya all night.” When he said ‘all’ his yellow eyes rolled around his lined, scarred head.
I told him to scattah and he stared me down all gangsta and shit, but jets, anyhow - leaving me to my beer. Finished up, paid the man, and headed to work.

No comments: