Posts Tagged ‘drugs’

Snap!

July 18, 2017

Some days you just want to kick the dog. You know what I mean?  You’re frustrated and the damn dog gets in your way.  You kick it and then you feel badly and wish you could change things.  I never kicked the dog though.  I don’t have a dog.  I got nothing against dogs.  When I was younger I had a dog.  It got sick and old and died and then I felt badly and so I never bought another dog.  If I had one, I wouldn’t kick it.  At least I don’t think so.

So how did I wind up in prison?  I’ll tell you because I got nothing but time now.  I’m not joining the born again prayer group or the Aryan Brothers meeting, so I got time to explain it all.

I have horrible insomnia.  I fall dead asleep and then I’m wide awake.  I walk around like a zombie and eat shit that I shouldn’t eat.  I’ll watch Spanish soap operas and I don’t speak Spanish.  I worry that I won’t get enough sleep and that I’ll be wiped out all day long.  I hate the feeling of being at my desk falling asleep and unable to keep my eyes open.  Happens all the time.  So I had a shitty night sleep.  Slept maybe three hours, got up and shaved in the shower, I had baggy eyes like a blood hound.  My suit was wrinkled like I had slept in it and my t shirt smelled like mold because I forgot to dry the clothes in the dryer for two days.  I get in the car and I notice that I forgot to shave one whole side of my face.  I’m running late.  I won’t have time to park at a drug store, stand in line and make the meeting on time.  Why?  Because I already went to the coffee shop and stood in line for almost fifteen minutes because some jag off bought vente lattes for everyone at work.  I’m not kidding.  This fucker made four trips to the car with four cups in the cup holders.  Then he’s on the phone and struggling to hit the prompts on the visa swipe box because he cannot talk and read and follow directions at the same time.  The barista or whatever the fuck you call those marginally employed bust outs who fuck up orders.  He ruined my day.  I paid almost six dollars to get soy in my damn drink.   I should have known when the tool with the bone in his lip and saucers in his ears like and African Pygmy cooking a white devil in a hot pot, did not make eye contact- my order was going to get fucked up.  He even said said to me, “wait… what?”  I hate that almost as much as when black people prompt you to repeat what you said by saying “who?”

I wanted an extra shot of espresso and got fucking soy.  It tasted like shit and now I’m probably growing tits.  I don’t know.  I get so mad that I decide to roll my window down but it won’t go down.  My air conditioning died last year and it’s hot as fuck and I can’t get air or even throw my drink in anger.  I wanted to go back to the cafe and pull the saucer from his ear and break the plate under his lip.  I wanted to pull his beard and tighten his skinny jeans.  Fuck!  I’m tired, I’m late, half shaven, look like I slept in my suit and then something crazy happens unlike all the other shit.  I drop my keys, the only key I have to my car and apartment and it goes down the crack in the elevator shaft.  I go to find the door man who is trained just to say good morning and good bye.  I present him with an issue and it was as if I was speaking fucking Dutch.  The maintenance men look at me like they don’t understand.  After telling the head janitor, the one making union wages, three times, he finally begins to understand and tells me that doing such a thing is like throwing you keys into the ocean.  It will go into a pit of oil and nobody will crawl under an elevator car to fetch keys with the prospect of having the car crush the fool trying to save the keys.  I walk into the meeting late.  I get that feeling I used to get in school when I overslept.  Everyone looked at me.  Wrinkled suit, eyes like a bloodhound, half shaven and fucking late.  I was supposed to give a report on sales.  That was my raison d’être and I forgot the print outs that everyone was to get.  They were on my desk.  I could have excused myself and left everyone feeling uncomfortable and questioning my professionalism for thirty seconds while I ran to and from my office.  Instead I give a plausible lie.  The printer wasn’t printing so alas- no fucking print outs.  I stutter, I stammer, I fuck up common words, my hands tremble.  It’s a mess.  I look out and everyone seems to be looking at me like I’m naked.  I get a text from my boss who is watching my melt down and his text unglues me more.  It reads, “May Day!  May Day!  I’m going down in flames…”. It mercifully ends and I sit down.  Within minutes, nobody is looking at me any longer.  I only have my boss to deal with and I know he is upset already.  Fuck it.  I can get another job.  People come and go.  You divorce this company or that one and keep moving and nobody misses you or gives a fuck so fuck you and the meeting.  I go to lunch at a fake Mexican restaurant.  I sit at the bar.  The bartender doesn’t make eye contact with me either.  I order tacos on corn tortilla and get a burrito with flour tortilla.  My gin is vodka and the tonic is flat, very little ice and a brown shriveled lime.  I quietly reach into my waist band and pull out my gun.  I shoot up every bottle on the shelf, reload and throw my plate of food up in the air like a clay pigeon and shoot the plate.  The bar area looks like a bomb hit it.  I put on my aviator shades and calmly ask the bartender if I could just have a beer…. No lime.  I drank my beer in silence until the sirens got closer.

They got me on a medicine to relax.  Then I got one to help with anxiety.  I have one to help me sleep and another for high blood pressure and another for diabetes.  I go to classes to discuss anger.  I think I might want to take a cooking class too while I’m here.  I think cooking my own food might help me lose weight.  I don’t know exactly and really nobody does know.  Things line up now and then and things happen and then we wonder how people snap.  Life is a crazy place.  Life in America, in a big angry city is even crazier.  I’m just a cog in it’s giant wheel.  Doing my time.  Slowly.  Peacefully.  And that’s all I got to say right now.

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Voices Carry

October 1, 2013

Charles sometimes Chuck, Chucky or even Chas, made it through the 1980s level headed and drug-free. Nancy Reagan told him to say no and Chas listened. Except for a year or two when he took steroids to bulk up so as to not get messed with as young Marine recruit near San Diego, Chuck was not into drugs. Other than steroids, Chuck was drug free. Charles drug was his perfect body.
It was sometime in the 1980’s, the late 80’s that Charles was jogging in a pair of silky shorts with his shirt off and no socks in Minot, North Dakota. All he wore was a knit hat that had a smiling priest/friar swinging a baseball bat- San Diego Padres. Emily watched in awe as the young military man jogged almost naked on a night when the air temperature was about 5 degrees Fahrenheit. She stepped outside her parent’s home where her future was becoming a wife to some local slob who might drive a truck or a miner who was into wrestling and monster truck rallies. An Adonis jogged by in frigid temps and suddenly stopped to marvel at what he thought was the Northern Lights. The strange colors in the sky was a Chinook taking place. The frigid air gave way to a sudden rise in temperatures and hurricane force winds. Chas stood looking at the strange sky and inhaled the crisp air that was becoming warmer by the minute. Emily opened the door to her house and walked up to Chas without saying a word and took his hand. Charles took it to be a gift from god and an answer to prayer. You decide.
Charlie and Emily had been placed in places all over the world and all over the United States. The Marines had sent one of their top recruiters to live in Los Angeles. Charlie hated LA. To Chas, it was New York with palm trees. It was nothing more than an over-populated metropolis and what god had in mind when he was getting ready to destroy Gomorra. Or was it Sodom?
Emily and Charlie only had one child, a boy that they named Cliff. Cliff grew up in the San Fernando Valley. He played ice hockey and liked to sing. Cliff through inheritance had a very nice body for a young man. Cliff dyed his hair blond and cut it into a tall flattop. Cliff listened to early eighties New Wave music and watched every John Hughes movie that was ever made, tried to look like Billy Idol and was part of the Til Tuesday fan club, a band that was known in the eighties for a song entitled, Voices Carry. Cliff liked musicals and dancing and really wanted to be an entertainer, not a military man.
“Well sir, we stopped your son for crossing lanes twice on the 405 near Sherman Way before Roscoe without a signal. We have it on film if you care to see. We found eight individuals crammed into a vehicle that could fit four comfortably and then we discovered contraband, which brings a class two felony. Bond is set at $10,000.00. You can post bond or let your son face the judge on Monday.”
Charlie’s sharp jaw line grew tight as he spread out a stack of hundred dollar bills collected from an ATM. Cliff emerged from the holding pen in Van Nuys with his collared shirt unbuttoned and his lip slightly curled just like Billy Idol and Elvis Presley before him. Charles said nothing to Cliff on the ride home. Once inside their yellow stucco home in Granada Hills, Chas quietly began to ransack Cliff’s bedroom in search of drugs. Cliff asked his father rhetorical questions.
“What the fuck are you doing? What right do you have to go through my shit?”
“This is my home and I have a right to do what ever I wish. You have drugs in my house and I am going to find them. When the fucking ruby heads hid guns in their goddamn homes, I found them. That was my job to find hidden shit. I will find what you have hidden tonight without a doubt.”
It took a solid five minutes before Charlie overturned his son’s bed to find that he had cut a hole in the hardwood floor and had a stash of weed, cocaine and dildos in a box. There was a ten inch black cock with veins sticking out, an off-white one about six inches long and then a double dong. Charlie was paralyzed by his findings. Cliff spoke first.
“I confiscated things I found in this house so that when the day came when you would intrude on my privacy, I could then ask you what the fuck this shit is for. Is this going up your ass, some other dude or mom? You tell me. You tell me what this shit is used for and I will tell you what you want to know. The wholesome Marine loving god and country and rubber cocks… I’m ready when you are, dad.”
“Keep your fucking voice down. I don’t need the neighbors to hear what we’re discussing.”
Emily was reading Oprah’s O magazine about how Oprah trained for marathons. Emily was thinking about running a marathon too. Emily heard things falling earlier but never got out of bed to find out what the noise was about. Chas came into their bedroom with furrowed brow, looking distracted and disturbed. Emily put her hand on her husband’s and kissed his naked shoulder. Charles said nothing. Emily turned off the light on her side of the bed on a nightstand and settled in to fall asleep. She could sense that her husband was unsettled. Charles was famous for never showing emotion or discussing things. Charles nervously asked two questions at once just before Emily had drifted off to sleep.
“I have two things I have to ask you and I want the truth. Have you ever been with a black man?”
“Okay… What’s the second question?”
“Is a two headed dildo used for your ass and vagina or would you use something like that with an other woman?”
Emily chose to not answer. Charles acted as if the question was never posed. Other things came up again with their son and they lived mostly happily ever after. Or as good as could be given all the things that could happen in life in America.

I’m in the dark, I’d like to read his mind
But I’m frightened of the things I might find
Oh, there must be something he’s thinking of
To tear him away-a-ay
When I tell him that I’m falling in love
Why does he say

Hush hush, keep it down now, voices carry