Sinking Ship

I woke up in Serina’s apartment Sunday morning, still drunk.  Yeah, she’s that stripper that went war wacky and started cluster-bombing me with calls at 3am every night.  That’s right, that same Serina that sent me that handmade gift box and told everyone in her club that I was “born to fuck”.  As my bro texted me when I was pondering a hot extract at 8am ‘You are proper fucked’.  How did I get here?  Where is Johnny?  Did Serina and I fuck?  These and a thousand more unanswered questions drove nails into my skull.  What the fuck happened last night?  The last thing I remember is Johnny, Serina, and I crushing five shots of vodka in her kitchen – then everything went black.

The urge to piss hits me like a punch in the gut.  I stumble out of bed, half-naked.. damn, and walk to the bathroom.  Johnny’s jacket and boots are on the floor, his wallet, keys, and phone are sitting on the counter but he is nowhere to be found.  In the futon where he passed out lays a blonde girl with huge fake tits wearing only a g-string.  I remember Serina calling one of her stripper friends to come over last night but I have never seen this girl before in my life.  She smells like Jagermeister and cigarettes.  Where the fuck is Johnny!?  No time to solve this now, my bladder is about to erupt.  With the first drop of urine into the bowl I exhale in rapturous triumph as I imagine somewhere, far off, a glorious symphony of angels celebrates my pissing.  I sluggishly crawl back into bed, want to sleep, need to sleep.  My head feels like it’s filled with a swarm of angry bees.  Serina’s little dog Pirate wakes up and starts licking the bottom of my left foot.  I am the damned.  I pass out.

When I awake again things are starting to come to life.  Serina and the blonde are playing with Pirate in the kitchen, neither dressed.  I walk out into the room;

Me, “Where’s Johnny?”

Blonde, “There was nobody here when I got here last night and you two had already sleeping.”

Serina, “When did you get here?”

Blonde, “I dunno… I was really drunk.  Did we mess around, my kitty itches?”

Serina, “I don’t think so, did we?” She looks at me quizzically.

Me, “Look man, I don’t fucking know a goddamn fucking thing and right now I don’t fucking care.  I just wanna find Johnny and go home.”

Serina, “Awww baby, let me take care of you.”

She lays me down on the bed and starts to caress my face.  The blonde comes in and plops down on the bed, she is stroking Serina’s hair.  I try to sit up but they push me down and tell me to just relax.  They are both massaging me now.  Holy shit.  I contemplate attempting the oft fantasized feat that is two girls at the same time.  Both are naked, both are willing, but alas my pitiful aching brain is too feeble and hungover to muster the effort to transform fantasy into reality.  I settle for drinking warm tap water while they make out on top of me.  My only reprieve, a short lived moment of glory when I tell Serina to “Give me both barrels, baby!”  just before I motorboat her bountiful rack.  Sometimes even despair can be fun.  I think I must still be drunk.  Despite the knowledge that on my death bed I’ll probably regret not powering through, they both start to feel their mortality the way I was already feeling mine and we all settle on a nap together.

After a 45 minute refresher I awake troubled.  I am fairly concerned about Johnny.  I’ve never known him to wander off like this before and I am praying to the god of hangovers that he is not in the clink.  He has no money, no phone, no boots, no keys, no nothing.  I need to collect his shit and escape, but I am a fucking wreck.  It’s all I can do to suggest breakfast and limp towards the door.

My stomache hurts deep.  A stab of pain, I buckle, bend over, and puke into the grass out front of her apartment.  My puke is mostly water mixed with a little blood.  The blood, idealized in the sticky heat, sits glistening on the grass below my face.  My tear-filled eyes stare at it woefully.

Serina, “Baby, you ok?”

Me, “I’m broken.  I need a fucking drink.”

Serina, “Yeah me too.  I know just the place.”

This is why I love strippers, they are pure rock n roll.  The neighbor’s dog trots over and happily begins lapping up my bloody puke.  Life sure is fucking gnarly.  Just for the record I don’t think the blood is actually from me boozing, and no you fuck-tards it’s not just denial talking.  I’ve been taking this bodybuilder speed for the last couple weeks to kick my workouts to the next level.  You know, that cherry flavored napalm they pack with heaps of caffeine, creatine, and a medley of other exotic chemicals to assist in your “thermogenic vasodilation” and other such nonsense.  I am usually dry-heaving through the last 45 minutes of my workout.   I started off taking just one scoop, but these days I tweak out on three.  It’s mutating my genes and killing my stomach, but I’m having some of the best workouts of my life.  Good stuff.

Breakfast stared back at me with bloodshot eyes.  Roast beef hash and eggs.  I was hoping the horseradish sauce and salsa would pull me back down to earth, no dice.   I swigged a cold beer, it felt so rejuvenating on my aching stomach that I had another.  Throughout breakfast I calculated my escape from this situation.  I mean, I had completely extricated myself from this girl and now I was having breakfast with her after a drunken night of god knows what.  My cell phone was now dead, its lifeless face mocking me, frozen into a perpetual snarl.  I decide that the best course of action is to just ride it out.  I’m not being shot at.  I’m not in Iraq or Afghanistan.  I’m not bruised, bloodied, or beat up.  I’m not in jail.  I’m having breakfast with a besotted bump-and-grinder, things could be a hell of a lot worse.  I sit there watching her eat.  She has such a sweet and pleasant way about her.  It’s hard to deny that she is attractive, aside from the obvious fact that she dances naked for money.  Historically, the formula of attraction was not very difficult for me.  The women that usually accompany me only really needed two qualities; they must be strikingly beautiful and shockingly crazy.  Finding both qualities in the same woman is never a very hard thing to do.  Serina was reading Vonnegut when we first met.  She moved on to Nietzsche without any knowledge of my love for his work, or for reading.   This had an obvious draw for me.  Well that and her rocking body.  But before she even had a chance, the scars on my heart started to itch, warning me to never let her inside.  And so she was locked out.  Her sad beautiful eyes never had a chance.  I tried to warn her one night while wasted; “I’m a sinking ship, swim away from me sea-horse.”  This only had the opposite effect.  An idea finally sprouted in my brain: Hang out with her today, deal with the consequences tomorrow.  So it goes.

We pulled into my neighborhood.  I had only invited her over twice before, counting the time I passed out drunk when she was coming over and she sat forlorn in her car all night.  Somehow she knew the way by heart.  I invite her in, I put on a record and started to relax on the couch.  My condo had been the starting point of the night and in returning home I was greeted by two dozen empty beer bottles and an assortment of booze-sticky cups, music was still playing.  I had left every light on and the back window open.  By now fruit flies were cultivating the third generation of families in this newly discovered utopia of my wrecked home.  I am too tired to even think about cleaning up.  Serina is on her absolute best behavior, no hint of the psycho stalker that caused me to run for the hills two months ago.  I think she knows that at the slightest hint of crazy I’ll pull the plug on her for another couple months, possibly forever.  I’ve never believed in god, I don’t believe in Prozac anymore.  Apparently Johnny called her the night before because we needed a ride home from the Hustler Club.  I don’t even remember going or being there.  Despite the evidence presented by the entire content of this episode I actually despise strip clubs.  I wonder if I’m just lying to myself, but now is not the time to confront lingering lassitudes.

The night started out so innocently.  Johnny and I were going to see a Johnny Cash cover band at the Casbah.  We decided to pre-party at my place.  Then Jake dropped by with a couple more buddies.  Before anyone knew it we were swept up in the whirlwind that ended up ripping homes off foundations and threw me carelessly into the embosoming embrace of a lovestruck stripper.  Fuck, JOHNNY!?  I still had no word from him.  I needed to mobilize.  Serina acted understanding when I cut away to check Johnny’s house for signs of life.

I pulled into his driveway with his truck, affectionately named the ‘Apocalypse 6000’.  It was still parked at my place from the night before – yet more cause for concern.  I bang on his door, Draco starts barking, and then Johnny emerges.  Thank fucking shit!  Johnny told me he walked outside to take a piss in the bushes and got lost.  Unable to find his way back to the house in his drunken state he ended up wandering the streets of the city until hailing a cab.  He had no money, no phone, and no shoes.  He tricked the cab driver into driving to a house a block away from his actual home, and when the guy stopped the car Johnny niggered the cabbie and ran away.  He twisted his ankle running through backyards with only his socks, but he made it home safe and sound, and I was glad to see him.   We drank beers and recounted the highlights of an amazing night as the sun set.  Eventually he gave me a ride home and the weekend was over.

There is a part of my brain that is telling me to tread carefully, that the water is rising, but living raw and feral is my only escape from the tyranny of this world sometimes.  There are no frontiers any more.  There are no more wilds.  The bill of rights is just toilet paper.  I got a ticket for talking on my cell phone while driving last week.   I know strangers on X-box better than my own neighbors.  Statistics show that 98% of people eventually die.  Maybe, like Kurtz, I have created a wilderness in my own heart.  Right now, as I crack a beer and finish up this article, I don’t really fucking care.

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