//9// Call Me Foolish; I Feel Hopless

Los Angeles always left me with a sense of wanting; we had plenty of friends to visit and things to do when we weren’t working and yet I always wished there was something else.  A stark contrast to the relaxed and casual pace of Oklahoma, LA always struck me as being incredibly busy and full.  I felt claustrophobic.  When I received a call from Austin, a friend from one of our opening acts in years past, asking me to join him at a small party at his house, I had initially told him no.  It took four phone calls and a total of forty-five minutes of persuasion for me to cave and trudge from our hotel to his place across town.

I paid the taxi driver and walked to his front door; I was about to knock when the door swung open to reveal a petite woman wearing a bathing suit and a drunken smile.  “Hi, are you the pizza guy?”

“No…” I shook my head just as Austin’s face appeared behind the tiny girl’s head, a smile on his face.

“Zachary!” he exclaimed, ushering me in.  “I’m glad you decided to come; I was worried you’d be wallowing in self pity at some dive bar, or worse—the mini fridge’s bar.”  I felt my face blush; he wasn’t far off from my original plans.  “I’ve been there, dude, don’t worry.”  He swung me around and introduced me to a couple of people I knew I would never remember, then guided me toward his couch.  “We’ve got a variety of refreshments,” he pointed toward the coffee table where I saw different types of paraphernalia, and a seemingly endless pile of small baggies, some containing weed while others contained pills or powders.

I lifted a package of pills off the table, inspecting the small white tablets, before tossing them back to the table.  “If it’s all the same, I’d prefer to start with a beer,” I requested.

“Sure, sure, in the fridge man, help yourself!”  Austin was busy with one of the baggies of weed, stuffing a large bud in to his grinder.  “Bring me back one, would you?”

Navigating to the kitchen proved to be a bit more difficult than I had anticipated.  It wasn’t that I didn’t know where it was located—I had spent many a day and night at Austin’s place in the past—but rather the fact that every two feet it looked like I’d stepped on to the set of a porno.  I stepped over and around couples, one of which who were actually fucking in the hallway, her skirt hiked up around her hips.  My mind told me to look away, but it was like trying to avert your attention from a train wreck; my eyes just wouldn’t budge.

The guy, whose back was pressed against the wall, happened to catch me staring—in what I assume was shock and horror—and a smirk crossed his mouth. “Wanna join in?” he asked, his voice holding a rasp to it I didn’t expect.

Blushing, I coughed, shaking my head and quickly moving past them in to the kitchen. I saw bottles of liquor on the table, shot glasses lined up. Upon inspecting the refrigerator, I noticed it was stocked top to bottom with nothing but beer. I shook my head, grabbing three beers from the fridge and scurrying back to the living room, my eyes against the wall not being used for sexual favors. I settled back on to the couch, handing Austin his beer and cracking mine open. I took a long drink from the bottle, pausing long enough to swallow and breathe before taking another long sip. I finished the first bottle in three gulps, setting the empty down on the table amidst others, and was popping the cap off the second when I caught Austin’s eye.

“Everything OK, Zac?” Austin’s eyebrow was raised, a concerned look on his face.

I was sick of that damn look.

I knocked back the second beer just as quickly as I had the first, then reached for the bowl Austin had been smoking. He handed it over and allowed me to take a few hits before suggesting I pass it along. I was finally beginning to relax, my head swimming from the swiftness with which I drank those two bottles of beer, a light buzzing forming behind my ears as the pot settled in. “I’m fine,” I finally answered, sitting back in to the couch.

“You don’t look fine,” a new voice said from next to me. It was the girl who had answered the door; she had put a large t-shirt on over her bathing suit and was sitting next to me on the couch, a CD case in her lap with some of the white powder on it. She was using one of Austin’s CDs to cut lines of it, then used a piece of a plastic straw to snort it. She offered it to me then, an expectant look on her face. “It won’t kill you,” she promised. “It’ll just take away the sadness.”

“I don’t…” my voice trailed off as she held it farther out in my direction, encouraging me to take it. I watched as my hands reached out and took the CD case and straw from her; I saw them both start to shake immediately after I had them in my grasp and I was afraid I was going to drop it. I glanced to where Austin was sitting, only to find that he was no longer there. It was just the bathing suit girl and I. My already impaired mind rationalized that no one would know but the two of us and that if it did what she promised, even for a little while, it might be worth it.

I put the straw to my nose and inhaled one of the snow-white lines before the angel appeared on my shoulder and talked sense in to me.

The high was nothing like I had ever experienced.  It was different than marijuana, which—with some good headies—usually hit my system after a few hits and left me feeling relaxed and calm for a few hours.  After I had taken that line, it took a few minutes for me to feel the effects but, when I did, I felt better than I had felt in months. The numbness that had seeped in to my veins and infected my heart began to melt away; suddenly, I felt full of life and energy.  Unable to keep the energy bottled, I stood up and felt the blood rush toward my extremities.

Electricity coursed through my veins and I couldn’t sit still.  I had to get up; had to move around, to do things.  I eyed the small drum kit tucked in the corner of Austin’s apartment, tapping my foot to the beat of my vibrating body.  After a few seconds of contemplation, I sprung off the couch and took three long strides to the kit, settling behind it and picking up the sticks.  I tentatively hit the tom, the kick, then let my body loose.  I ferociously attacked the drums, pounding out the energy that filled me like I did the sugar rushes I got when I was eleven.

Roughly seventeen minutes later, I had finished the entire drum line to “In-A-Godda-Da-vita”—including the solo—and was sweating heavily, surrounded by most everyone at the party.  Eyes bore in to me, stunned and impressed.  I smiled and stood up, shrugging.  “I am a golden god?” I asked it more than declared it, but it elicited a loud laugh from everyone in the room.  “I am a GOLDEN GOD!”  I lifted my hands—drum sticks still in my fists—toward the ceiling, triumphantly.  The laughter and chattering continued, even after I’d found my way back to the couch and sank down in to it.

Austin was just staring at me as I fidgeted next to him.  “What?” I asked.

“Dude.  That was ridiculous!”  he slapped me a high five, then went back to the joint he was rolling.

“Oh, thanks.”  My hands rested on my bouncing knees, and I couldn’t keep my eyes focused on one thing.  My heart was pounding in my chest and I was beginning to feel a headache coming on.  I looked over to Bathing Suit Girl, who was sipping from a bottle of some nondescript alcohol.  She caught my eye and must have known how I was starting to feel because she passed the bottle to me, advising me it should help.  I took a few swigs, finding the burn of whiskey hitting the back of my throat.  I rested my head on the back of the couch, watching the ceiling, and feeling tired but also like I wouldn’t fall asleep if my life depended on it.

I must have lost track of time staring at the ceiling because when Austin nudged me, I lifted my head to find his apartment essentially empty.  Aside from the two of us, just Bathing Suit Girl remained, lying across his easy chair—legs over one arm, head resting against the other.  She was tracing patterns in the air with her finger and humming along to a song only she could hear.  My eyes met Austin’s and his lips curved in a smile.  “How you doing, man?”

“I’m alright,” I managed.  “My eyes…hurt,” I commented, rubbing them.

“Drink this and go lie down in my guest room,” he laughed, handing me a freshly cracked beer.  I followed his instructions, walking slowly down the hall toward his guest room.  A queen bed sat in the center of the room, flanked by nightstands on either side, one with an alarm clock and each with a lamp; the room was otherwise void of furniture.  A few paintings hung on the wall, one of them an oil painting I had done a few years back that he’d demanded to keep.  I chugged the last bits of beer in the bottle and flung myself on to the bed, not bothering to remove my shoes or clothes.  My heart continued to pound in my chest and I watched the minutes tick by on the clock for over two hours before I finally felt myself start to drift off.

**

The sudden feeling that I might vomit jolted me from the sleep I had been in.  I sat straight up in the bed, feeling disoriented in the darkness.  Once I had my bearings, I stumbled from the bed and rushed to the bathroom, falling to my knees in front of the toilet.  For five minutes, I waited, my stomach rolling and churning, but the heaving never came and the contents of my stomach stayed where they were.  It was warm in the little room, and I peeled my sweater off, wiping my clammy hands on the fabric.

When I was certain I was not going to vomit, I got up from the floor and walked back to the guest bedroom.  It was even warmer than the bathroom; I closed the door and peeled my pants off down to my boxers, opened the window, and crawled back in to the bed, closing my eyes and praying for sleep to come again.  When it settled over me, it was fleeting, and I was woken shortly after by the muffled sound of “Fat Bottom Girls” indicating my phone was ringing.  I pushed myself up in to a sitting position, my head pounding and stomach churning, and reached for my pants on the floor.  My phone slid out of the pocket in to my hand as I shook my pants upside down, and I groaned at Taylor’s name and photo on the screen before answering it.  “Hello?” I grumbled.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Good morning to you, too,” I squeezed the bridge of my nose with my forefinger and thumb as I yawned, the nausea building in the pit of my stomach again.

“Good morning?”  Taylor laughed.  “Zac, it’s two o’clock in the fucking afternoon.  I’ve been trying to call you since nine this morning.  We have a show in five hours—we need to do sound check and get the set list sorted out.  Where are you anyway?”

My eyes were drawn to the alarm on the nightstand.  Sure enough, the numbers flashed 2:03 at me.  Suddenly dizzy, I laid back down, tossing my arm over my eyes.  My face was burning up but the rest of my body felt cold.  I struggled to pull the blankets over me, trying to center myself on the bed.  “Fuuuuck…” I whined, curling in to the fetal position.

Silence on Taylor’s end, then:  “Zac.  I need you to get down here.  Now.”  His tone was biting; he was angry, and he had every right to be.  “Where are you? I’ll send a cab.”

“I’m at Austin’s,” I muttered.  “And I’ll find my own way to the venue.” I hung the phone up and lay on the bed for a few minutes, trying to formulate a plan.  Was I hung over?  I didn’t think I had drunk that much last night.  Maybe I had the flu; I hadn’t exactly been taking the best care of myself over the last few months.  It was entirely possible it was all catching up to me.

With Taylor’s words hanging over my head, I finally managed to get up, pull my pants back on and shuffle in to the living room.  The smell of something cooking promptly assaulted my nose, causing my stomach to churn again.  I paused, steadying myself against the wall as a wave of dizziness washed over me, letting out a slow, shaky breath.  When I emerged in to the kitchen, I found Austin flipping bacon in a pan, and Bathing Suit Girl—now clad in a pair of short cut off shorts and an oversized t-shirt that hung off her shoulder—sitting at his breakfast bar.

She was cross-legged on the raised stool, cutting a line of white powder on the countertop.  When I walked in she looked up, the smile fading from her face momentarily.  “You don’t look so good,” she started laughing.

“I don’t feel so good,” I barked back at her.

“The drop will do that to you,” she commented, as if it were common knowledge.  “Here,” she held up the freshly cut powder to me.  “It’ll make you feel better,” she assured after I hesitated.

“Don’t do that, man,” Austin’s voice came from the stove.  “Just drink some juice and have something to eat.”

“Oh God, no,” I shook my head.  “I don’t think I could ingest anything right now.”  I swallowed against a hiccup, shaking my head.  “I have to get to the House of Blues,” I muttered.

Austin turned the stove off and turned his attention to me.  His hair was all disheveled, but in a way that looked intentional.  He surveyed me for a moment before putting the bacon on a plate and handing it to Bathing Suit Girl.  She eyed it, then him, incredulously, then went back to the task of snorting the lines she had just cut.  Austin rolled his eyes.  “I’ll take you.  Just give me a few minutes.”

He left the room and I managed to sit down at the breakfast bar.  “My name’s Elisa,” the girl said, running the back of her hand across her nose.  “You’re Zac, right?”  I nodded my response, my head falling in to my hands.  “Listen, you’re just coming down off the line you did last night,” she explained.  “It wasn’t that much, it should pass by tomorrow.  You can let it take its course or you can do another line.  It’ll make you feel better,”

The idea of another line sounded like the best and worst thing I could possibly do.  Even if it made me feel better right then, what would happen when the high wore off next time?  As my stomach began to bubble again, my clammy skin making me uncomfortable, I thought it was a better idea by the minute.  Bathing Suit Girl was just sitting there, one solitary line resting on the CD case.  I bit my lip in contemplation.  If I could just get through the afternoon and evening, I’d be OK and could use tomorrow to just feel like shit.

“Do you have anymore?” I asked her.  “I can pay you,” I added.

She laughed, reaching in to her pocket and pulling out one of the small bags from last night.  “You can just have it…consider it penance for putting you in this position,” she winked, slipped the baggie in to the pocket of my jacket and patted it before standing up and walking away.  I eyed the line she left on the counter for a moment before reaching over to it and lifting it to my nose.  I snorted it quickly, setting the case back down on the counter and closing my eyes.

 

 

 

 

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