A think piece inspired by Sherman Alexie's novel, "Tonto and the Lone Ranger Fighting in Heaven"
Segregation. Individualism. Challenge the man. Traditions—whether good or bad—are always traditions. Christians share wine and Indians hallucinate. Eat it, “It’ll be real fucking Indian. Spiritual shit, you know?” Sing along, America, this land is my land; this land is your land, from the high-rise condos to the all-night Bingo. Will they ever catch a break? Stop and listen to a story, just once, because it’s almost all that is left. Heard a good story lately? Not unless you live on a reservation. It’s all make-believe in the surreal world. The place where you’re expected to finish high school, make the final free throw to win the game and keep out of trouble. In Florida, history fades on State Road 7, somewhere between fifteen-dollar cigarette cartons and no-limit hold’em. “How do you get one hundred Indians to yell Oh, Shit?” Who cares, right? “Say Bingo.” No wonder they drink, D.C. wont even let them win that; it’s a grimy escape from the filthy suburbs. The Good ol’ U-S-&-A put them there, generously handed over the reservation. They put a blanket over the issues, but it’s infested with smallpox. Serve your country. 20,000+ strong, the Native Americans in armed forces, but the glass is never half filled. Alexie says, it’s not half empty, either; all that matters is if it’s good beer. See you at Thanksgiving. According to reports, Congressman Pete Hoekstra, from US Representative from Michigan’s 2nd Congressional Distract “votes against Native American housing assistance.” Your trailer is big enough. Enjoy your patch of land and stop whining, they’ll say. “I’m a poet who can whine in meters,” Alexie says. Well this is a society that listens selectively, but nice work. The cute little kid at the carnival, the one yelling “bang, you’re dead, Indian.” What does he represent? Perhaps it means another generation of not giving a crap. “Indians can easily survive the big stuff. Mass murders, loss of language and land rights.” Like it says, the little things hurt more. Tack on another lifetime of slow moving cop cars and card shuffling, throw it in a used pick-up truck rusted at the door hinge, screw in a Native American branded license plate and drive to build tikki-huts in the suburbs. They were popular growing up and it was the only time we saw Indians—the greatest country in the world my ass. Slap me in the face with Native American sentiment because I spent eight school years in a public system and high school at a Catholic one—I don’t know much. However, Florida State honors you and uses a garnet-and-gold painted face Seminole with feathered spears to intimidate their opponents—fearless warriors in every aspect of collegiate life. Women splash their cheeks with war paint to match their Nike sweatshirt and everyone drinks beer to forget the person they’re going to fuck, not to forget about life on a reservation segregated from their land. Why did the Lone Range and Tonto fight in heaven? Because Sherman Alexie’s “only purpose is to teach children to rebel against authority figures.” Paint the picture through words, the oral history of suffrage and tradition. The seemingly untold story of true American History, presented cleverly enough on a few hundred pages of unadulterated sentiment.
Cheers,
Victor
Monday, October 20, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Inhumane Society
Did you know that nearly half of the tomatoes consumed in the USA grow in the Sunshine State? It’s true. Florida is the leading winter provider of the delectable fruit, with the industry’s biggest clients comprising of major fast-food corporations. But did you know that within these Florida tomato fields lies the dirty underbelly of corporate greed and human injustice, the truth behind commercial farming and migrant workers?
The Coalition of Immokalee Workers (CIW) is a “community-based worker organization,” with members largely representing Hispanic, Haitian and Mayan Indian immigrants, “working in low-wage jobs throughout the state of Florida.” The organization strives to achieve fair treatment of its people and their families. As of late, the CIW is asking large tomato buyers to pay an extra cent per pound picked.
To break this down, I digress: Tomato laborers are asking for three-cents less than what Hollywood writers went on strike for. The same writers that earn well over minimum wage and work inside of air-conditioned offices.
However, The Florida Tomato Growers Exchange (FTGE) often times set-up unethical roadblocks along CIW’s path.
As reported online by The Economist, the CIW reached a “ground-breaking” agreement with Miami-based fast-food giant, Burger King. The company agreed to pay a full cent more per pound of tomatoes workers pick and better their working conditions. An agreement reached after reports that two Burger King officials bad-mouthed tomato-field workers, calling them “blood suckers” and “the lowest form of human life.”
The one-cent increase is the first that the FTGE has approved in 30-years. In fact, when Taco Bell agreed to pay an extra cent per pound in 2005, the FTGE threatened anyone who paid the extra penny with a $100,000 fine. The group represents nearly 90% of Florida tomato growers, thus making it nearly impossible for workers to receive the slightest pay increase.
FTGE’s website reassures web surfers that they are a just coalition, claiming that harvesters earn nearly double Florida’s minimum wage and only work 25-hours per week. The FTGE also denies any reports that say tomato pickers make the same hourly rate as they did 30-years ago.
I call bullshit. These immigrant farm workers are subject to scorching heat and exposed to chemically compounded pesticides. Slave-like conditions have prompted CIW to investigate such accusations and start an anti-slavery campaign. As recently as January 17, 2008, six Immokalee employers were indicted by a federal grand jury. They were accused of beating workers and locking them in U-Haul trucks, among other chargers.
The unjustifiable treatment they receive is indisputably the polar opposite of what the 13th Amendment stands for.
Surely workers are not earning the same wages they were 30-years ago; labor laws prevent that. But workers do need to collect 480-pounds of tomatoes per hour to even match Florida’s $6.79 minimum wage—on foot. The FTGE’s sickening threats towards companies willing to help laborers earn a little (emphasis on little) more money is disturbing, as is their wage justification on the official FTGE website: “Florida’s tomato producers pay their workers a fair, competitive wage for what is an entry-level, low-skilled job.”
It may be a low-skilled job, but it’s obviously an invaluable position. Without these farmers the Florida tomato industry would not be as large as they are today. These migrant workers are the unrecognized epicenter of FTGE’s sickening success and rather than praise, they’re treated discriminatorily. A one-cent victory is only a stepping-stone for The Coalition of Immokalee Workers battle against Florida’s inhumane agricultural society.
To find out more about The Coalition of Immokalee Workers, please visit:
www.ciw-online.org
Cheers,
Victor
The Coalition of Immokalee Workers (CIW) is a “community-based worker organization,” with members largely representing Hispanic, Haitian and Mayan Indian immigrants, “working in low-wage jobs throughout the state of Florida.” The organization strives to achieve fair treatment of its people and their families. As of late, the CIW is asking large tomato buyers to pay an extra cent per pound picked.
To break this down, I digress: Tomato laborers are asking for three-cents less than what Hollywood writers went on strike for. The same writers that earn well over minimum wage and work inside of air-conditioned offices.
However, The Florida Tomato Growers Exchange (FTGE) often times set-up unethical roadblocks along CIW’s path.
As reported online by The Economist, the CIW reached a “ground-breaking” agreement with Miami-based fast-food giant, Burger King. The company agreed to pay a full cent more per pound of tomatoes workers pick and better their working conditions. An agreement reached after reports that two Burger King officials bad-mouthed tomato-field workers, calling them “blood suckers” and “the lowest form of human life.”
The one-cent increase is the first that the FTGE has approved in 30-years. In fact, when Taco Bell agreed to pay an extra cent per pound in 2005, the FTGE threatened anyone who paid the extra penny with a $100,000 fine. The group represents nearly 90% of Florida tomato growers, thus making it nearly impossible for workers to receive the slightest pay increase.
FTGE’s website reassures web surfers that they are a just coalition, claiming that harvesters earn nearly double Florida’s minimum wage and only work 25-hours per week. The FTGE also denies any reports that say tomato pickers make the same hourly rate as they did 30-years ago.
I call bullshit. These immigrant farm workers are subject to scorching heat and exposed to chemically compounded pesticides. Slave-like conditions have prompted CIW to investigate such accusations and start an anti-slavery campaign. As recently as January 17, 2008, six Immokalee employers were indicted by a federal grand jury. They were accused of beating workers and locking them in U-Haul trucks, among other chargers.
The unjustifiable treatment they receive is indisputably the polar opposite of what the 13th Amendment stands for.
Surely workers are not earning the same wages they were 30-years ago; labor laws prevent that. But workers do need to collect 480-pounds of tomatoes per hour to even match Florida’s $6.79 minimum wage—on foot. The FTGE’s sickening threats towards companies willing to help laborers earn a little (emphasis on little) more money is disturbing, as is their wage justification on the official FTGE website: “Florida’s tomato producers pay their workers a fair, competitive wage for what is an entry-level, low-skilled job.”
It may be a low-skilled job, but it’s obviously an invaluable position. Without these farmers the Florida tomato industry would not be as large as they are today. These migrant workers are the unrecognized epicenter of FTGE’s sickening success and rather than praise, they’re treated discriminatorily. A one-cent victory is only a stepping-stone for The Coalition of Immokalee Workers battle against Florida’s inhumane agricultural society.
To find out more about The Coalition of Immokalee Workers, please visit:
www.ciw-online.org
Cheers,
Victor
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
I
Damien’s chauffeured Navigator pulls up to the hotel’s curb shortly after midnight. There are a handful of paparazzi eagerly awaiting his arrival, but not enough to cause a major commotion. Three young women wearing vintage rock-n-roll t-shirts and skinny jeans, dangling oversized Marc Jacobs handbags from their skinny shoulders—very heroin chick—wait near the hotel’s doorman, smoking cigarettes and texting on their Blackberries.
“God damn,” one says, “what the fuck is taking him so long to get out.”
Damien is still sitting in the backseat of the SUV that’s taxied him around the city while the rest of his band, Billy Heywood, is out celebrating the release of their sophomore album.
“I just don’t feel like being there,” he yells into his phone. “…Well, fuck him…No…Yes…I already told you, I’m at the hotel…Okay…Yes, with her…I’ll talk to you later.”
After the phone conversation he reaches across the empty rear seat and opens the right-rear door of the truck. He’s wearing a black button-down shirt with white stitching that matches his worn out black-and-white Chuck Taylor sneakers. He slides across the black leather seats, yells for the driver to grab his bags and rushes to the front entrance of the hotel, avoiding eye contact with the press but acknowledging the three girls with a simple nod.
Before the new owners refurbished The Loft, 60’s and 70’s hippie musicians and controversial writers frequented the hotel. Today the 200-room hotel is an elegant combination of sleek design and modern technology. White leather couches sit atop dark hardwood floors and a DJ spins records from behind the front desk in an oversized fish bowl. Plasma televisions on each side of the two white pillars near the concierge’s desk display an electronic light show that dances to the beat of the music, while cigarette smoke lingers over the crowded bar.
“Welcome to the Loft,” says the soft voice behind the desk, “It’s an honor to have you here with us this weekend.”
“What?” Damien yells over the music.
“It’s an honor to have you,” she says a bit louder.
“Thanks,” he says, though never making direct eye contact with the blonde woman behind the check-in desk. “Listen, three girls are going to walk in here and ask you where Cliff Huxtable is staying.”
“As in Bill Cosby?” she interrupts.
“No, as in my alias,” he replies, “give them one key to my room and make sure they’re not being followed.”
“Will do, Mr. Huxtable.”
Damien signs for the room and walks away. He’s packed considerably light—a Jack Spade messenger bag, Tumi weekend duffle and a weathered guitar case. He walks towards the elevator and pushes the “up” button. Seven or so people file out and they’re all dressed similar to one another—jeans, t-shirts and vintage track jackets. They’re sipping Heineken as they walk out and are obnoxiously laughing at each other’s tired jokes.
Damien walks into the elevator, pushes “twelve” and the door closes. The ride is quick and Damien is fidgeting with the electronic room key shortly after.
II
“Hi, we’re here for Cliff Huxtable,” a petite tattooed girl wearing a “Dark Side of the Moon” shirt says. Behind her are the two other girls that stood outside smoking cigarettes; they’re still texting.
“Oh, of course,” the blonde hotel employee responds, “He’s in 1251 and here is the key to that room.”
“Thanks.”
The girls walk towards the elevator and push the “up” button. When the door opens four people walk out wearing designer jeans, T-shits and vintage track jackets, holding their empty Heinekens from the short neck of the bottles. When everyone is out, the girls step onto the elevator and push “twelve.”
The three young women walk down the dimly lit hallway and have to scoot a maid’s cart out of the way. The rooms all have doorbells and led lights illuminate the suite numbers. At the end of the hall is a large double door made of thick, dark brown wood. Room 1251 was notorious among the musical elite. It was rumored that Jimmy Page threw an amplifier out of the window and onto the city streets. Iggy Pop allegedly spent six weeks at the hotel destroying everything only to piece it back together while experimenting with crystal meth. In 2003, when the new owners bought the property, 1251 was reconfigured and it became known as the white room. Everything in the room besides the dark wood floors is a shade of empty white; white sheets, white walls, and white piano—white everything.
The girls reach the room’s front door and slip the plastic keycard into the slot and the green indicator light let’s them know the door in unlocked.
III
Across the city in a rowdy bar, Jason, Bruce and Alix have been drinking since nine-ish. The three other members of Damien’s band are surrounded by skinny models and dancing atop velvet couches. Champagne bottles arrive at their table every fifteen minutes escorted by scantly clad women. Everyone around them raises their glasses and proposes toasts to their success each time a new bottle is uncorked.
“Dude, D’s missing out.” Alix comments.
“Fuck him,” Bruce says, “he can’t handle this shit, man.”
Bruce and Damien had a falling out last year while recording the record. The band was renting a house in Barcelona and making great progress. One day, however, Damien showed up to the studio six hours late, visibly shaken and wearing dark aviator sunglasses. After a weekend in Ibiza, Damien relapsed and his drug addiction was becoming a problem for the entire band. Their record label was on the brink of terminating their contract, but their manager convinced Sony to allow him some personal time for rehab.
Bruce also battled addiction, but cut out the drugs before starting the new record. He still drank, but nothing had gone up his nose in over two years and a nurse administered the only needle that pierced into his vein at routine doctor visits. The same wasn’t true for Damien. He had completed the brief stint at rehab, but found himself using seven months after his release from the program. Three months before the due date of the album Damien crashed his BMW into a warehouse but managed to walk away with only a few bruises. Though Damien attempted to flee the scene of the accident, his blurred state of consciousness wouldn’t allow it. Police officers arrested him and charged the lead singer with drunk driving. As a result his license was suspended. The band agreed that if Damien started using again, they’d find a new singer. He’s been clean since the accident, but refuses to socialize with the band when alcohol is present.
IV
“Damien,” a sweet voice from the foyer echoes.
“Tess, I’m on the patio.”
Tess walks towards Damien while the other two girls use the bathroom. There’s an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth and he’s strumming a vintage Gibson J-series acoustic. A bright yellow legal pad is thrown on the floor next to his feet scribbled with black ink and a half empty bottle of Fiji water serves as a paperweight.
“D,” Tess yells as she squeezes through the cracked-open sliding door. She drops her deep purple handbag onto the concrete and wraps her arms around Damien.
“Tess, what’s up, hun” he says.
“Not much,” she says as she smiles, “just flew in today with Chelsea and my sister, Valerie.”
“Where’re they at?” he asks.
“They’re in the bathroom,” she replies.
Inside the bathroom Valerie pees while Chelsea fiddles through her purse. She finds a small plastic sunglass case and plucks a little Ziploc bag from it. Valerie wipes, runs some water through her skinny hands and starts to clear a glass toiletry tray of its scented body lotions and designer shampoos. Once everything is off, Chelsea empties the content of the Ziploc and with a Platinum American Express credit card divides the white powder into two even lines, leaving the rest in a small pile. Using a rolled up five-dollar-bill she snorts a line of cocaine and moves to the opposite side of the countertop. While Chelsea stares at her own reflection on the mirror, Valerie hovers over the glass tray and uses the same five-dollar-bill to snort a line. She has trouble clearing the powder at first, but manages after tilting her head back and sniffling three times.
“You want another line?” Valerie asks.
“Maybe we should ask Tess and Damien if they want,” Chelsea responds.
“She told me he’s been clean for a few months, but fuck it, let’s go ask,” Valerie says.
Chelsea follows Valerie through the bathroom door and into the living room. They drop their purses on the couch and then squeeze through the patio’s sliding door. Damien’s guitar is lying on its back in the worn-down case and Tess is sitting on his lap smoking a cigarette.
“Hey, D, it’s been a while,” Valerie says.
“Yea, I know,” he responds. “Hey Chelsea, what’s up?”
“D, not much,” she says, “Congratulations on the new album.”
“It’s so different than the first one,” Valerie says, “But good different, not bad different. We love it.”
“Thanks.”
“Are the rest of the guys coming?” Chelsea asks.
“The label is throwing us a release party across town at some bar,” he says, “but maybe they’ll show up after.”
“I wish you and Bruce would stop fighting,” Tess says.
“We’re not fighting,” Damien says.
“Then why aren’t you at the party,” she asks.
“I can’t hang out with them when they’re all drinking,” he says. “My sponsor told me to avoid dangerous situations because ‘that fucking demon follows you.’”
Chelsea and Tess met Damien at a London theater in November 2005, after the band performed their last European show. Chelsea was a South Florida socialite living in Paris with longtime friend, Tess. They were in the process of converting an old French chapel into a trendy live music venue, but were in London searching for opening night performers.
Damien’s band played for two hours that night, performing every song off their first album and covering Oasis’ “Wonderwall.” Their encore consisted of four unreleased tracks and a tribute to Britain’s Sex Pistols. After the performance, the girls met the group backstage and invited the four members to their hotel for drinks. Alix and Jason had already made plans with British star Lily Allen, but Bruce and Damien accepted the invitation.
At the time, Damien and Bruce were living a typical rockstar lifestyle and had begun experimenting with heavy drugs. They befriended rock-n-roll junkie Pete Doherty while touring England and were spending most their royalty checks on heroin. Damien’s rockstar antics were somewhat of a turn-on for Tess and the two began dating shortly after meeting. She was no stranger to self-indulgence.
In Miami, Tess was introduced to South Beach’s decadent nightlife at an early age. She started smoking pot in high school, but quickly turned her attention to ecstasy and cocaine. When she moved to Paris with Chelsea, the two girls started snorting heroin, claiming that shooting the drug would be too dangerous.
Chelsea and Bruce also dated, though not as long as Tess and Damien. They only shared a physical attraction, unlike their friends that connected on a much deeper level. At night, Damien and Tess would share a bottle of wine near the Eiffel Towers and write music together. He taught her how to play guitar, and she taught him to cook. They vacationed in Ibiza, and spent holidays with her family in South Florida. But their relationship came to a halt when Damien crashed the BMW.
Tess saw the accident as a wake-up call and ended the relationship. Their recreational drug use had become a serious problem for both of them. She felt the only way to get clean was to part ways. Though they talk on the phone regularly, the two rarely see each other.
“Do you ever miss the rush?” Valerie asks.
“What rush?” questions Damien.
“The rush of the high,” she responds. “Like, they’re all out there celebrating a collaborative milestone, and we’re not the least bit inebriated. Remember how releasing an album felt rewarding and exciting?”
Damien looks confused, almost dumbfounded, that Valerie would make such a valid point.
“I know I shouldn’t bring it up,” Valerie starts, “but I have something to liven things up.”
Damien looks up at Tess, who’s still sitting on his lap, and gives her a what-do-you-think type shrug of the shoulders. “We’ve been clean for long enough, right?” he asks. “The hotel sent me a bottle of Vodka, even though I asked for a dry room, plus tonight is a special occasion, so maybe we can celebrate a little.”
V
“I want to thank each and every one of you motherfuckers who came out to celebrate tonight,” Alix screams into a microphone at the bar. “This is our second album, and we think it’s going to kill. Thanks a lot for the support, the love and the free fucking booze!”
The crowd breaks into applause as the band exits. A group of fans gathered around the bar’s entrance and hundreds of paparazzo are waiting with the mob too. Compared to Damien, the band is much more media-friendly. They pose for pictures, sign autographs and hand out copies of the new album. A black limousine is waiting across the busy street and city officials have rerouted traffic. One by one they jump into the back of the limo. As the car slowly pulls away, Bruce opens the moon-roof and sticks his body out of the car. He triumphantly throws his hands in the air and pumps his right arm as a group of teenagers run behind the Lincoln. He sits down when the car turns the corner.
“Man, this is going to be the best fucking year,” he exclaims.
“Dude, we’ve made it,” Alix says.
“Let’s keep fucking drinking, man,” Bruce says, “Fuck it, let’s get that son-of-a-bitch D out here too. Fuck it; I don’t even give a shit. He’s part of the band also.”
“Man, we shouldn’t show up this drunk,” Jason says, “I mean, the guy has no control.”
“No, man,” Bruce says, “He’s a big boy, he’ll be fine. I have to get something before we get to the hotel though, man.”
The limo pulls up to the hotel’s curb shortly after four-in-the-morning. A small group of paparazzi are gathered near the entrance and some eager fans wait near the doorman. One by one the band members jump out of the car, briefly pose for pictures and sign a few autographs. Bruce, Jason and Alix walk into The Loft and are greeted by a tall young gentleman behind the counter.
“Welcome to the Loft,” he says. “It’s an honor to have you stay with us.”
“It’s an honor to be here, man,” Bruce says, “Our manager checked us in earlier, we’re actually just wondering were Mr. Huxtable is staying.”
“Yes, Mr. Huxtable is in the white room,” he replies.
“The white room with black curtains?” Alix sarcastically asks.
“No, Eric Clapton, room 1251, the white room.”
“I’m just messing with you. Thanks and have a good one,” Alix says. He leaves a fifty-dollar bill on the white check-in counter and turns towards the elevator.
Jason presses the “up” button and the group waits for the elevator. When the door opens, two guys dressed in jeans and t-shits step out drinking Heineken. The group then steps onto the elevator and Jason pushes “twelve.” When they reach the twelfth floor they hear loud music from the end of the hallway and walk towards Iggy Pop’s “Nightclubbing.” Much to the surprise of the band, the music is coming from room 1251.
“What the fuck’s he doing in there?” Bruce asks, though the question isn’t directed at anyone. “You think it’s the right room? I figured he’d be passed out and we were going to wake him.”
Jason pounds on the door and only wearing a bra and jeans, Valerie opens it and tells the guys to come in.
“Holy shit, my band is here,” Damien yells from his seat on the living room couch. “It’s a celebration, bitches.”
“Listen to this guy,” Alix says, “he thinks he’s Rick James.”
The room is filled with thick smoke, a mixture of marijuana and cigarettes. The glass tray from the bathroom is sitting atop the rectangular coffee table and Tess is asleep out on the balcony. Chelsea is in the bathroom vomiting, confessing her sins to a porcelain bowl and wiping her tears with a roll of toilet paper. Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” starts after “Nightclubbing” and Damien is playing air guitar.
Bruce walks towards him and gives Damien a hug. He says, “Dude, I’m so fucked up. Forget that fucking shit between you and me. I brought you a gift.” He pulls out a wrap of heroin, some syringes and places them on the table. “We fucking made it, man. Let’s get fucked up.”
“Alright, let’s do it,” Damien says, “but keep it away from Tess.”
Bruce and Damien sit on the living room couch behind the triangular coffee table to prepare the shot. With a brown leather belt wrapped tightly around his right bicep, Bruce slaps two fingers over the protruding vein and pierces the skin with a sterile syringe.
“Holy fuck,” he says as the heroin rushes through the brachial artery. “Better than fucking sex, man.”
“Is it that good, man?” Damien yells.
“You know the first is always the best,” Bruce responds.
As Bruce loosens the belt from his bicep, Tess yells Damien’s name from the balcony.
“Shit, hide this stuff man,” Damien says to his friend, but Bruce is too high to move, let alone hide his drugs.
“Tess, what’s up?”
“Let’s go to bed,” she whines, “You have a show tomorrow.”
“Hold on,” he yells.
Curious as to why Damien is telling her to wait, she peels of the cushioned patio furniture and stumbles into the living room. Trying to hide the heroin from Tess, Damien pushes everything on the table into Bruce’s duffle bag. Bruce’s eyes are rolled back into his head, but Tess assumes he’s had too much to drink when she sits on the couch next to Damien.
“When did Bruce get here?” she asks while positioning herself close to Damien’s right side.
“Not too long ago, but you were sleeping,” he says.
Lifting her bare feet onto the coffee table, she notices the open duffle bag underneath her legs. “Is that what I think it is?” she asks.
“Tess, Bruce brought some H, he shot up and I didn’t want you to know.”
“Why not?” she asks. “Do you think I can’t handle some H. I bet you were going to shoot up, but then I woke up.”
“Honestly, yea I was. I’m sorry. Let’s just dump it and go to bed.”
Tess kicks her feet off the table and back onto the hardwood floor. She sits up and grabs the duffle bag, placing it between her and Damien. She pulls out the needles, the belt and the drugs, and scatters them around the coffee table.
“Do you ever miss it?” she asks. “Like Valerie said, ‘do you ever miss the rush?’”
“All the time, Tess,” he says vulnerably. “This life—the fame, money, cars—none of it’s real, but the H is.”
“I’m real,” she says.
“I know you are.”
Tess places the duffle bag back onto the floor and grabs Damien’s right arm palm up and rolls up his sleeve. She gently brushes her soft fingertips along the inside of his tattooed forearm and leans over to kiss his neck. Still holding his arm with her left hand, she reaches for the leather belt and wraps it around his bicep. “Shh, don’t worry,” she says as she kisses the skin around his vein, “this wont hurt.”
Damien’s relaxed, comfortably slouched into the large leather couch as Tess reaches for the needle. She leans over him and softly kisses his lips, then tells him to firmly bite the excess belt. He obliges and her lips touch the sensitive skin one last time. Damien stares into Tess’ eyes as the needlepoint pierces his skin and the heroin rushes through the vein. Complete euphoria overtakes his body and his head falls right, against Tess’ head.
“Was it good?” she asks.
“The best,” he says breathing heavily. “You should take a hit.”
VI
At around two in the afternoon, Damien wakes up with Tess lying next to him. The white comforter is sliding off her body, exposing her tattooed hipbone and blue-and-white underwear. Careful to not wake her up, Damien slides out of bed and walks into the living room. Bruce is sleeping on the couch holding an empty bottle of Grey Goose and Chelsea’s sitting upright on the floor, leaning against the sofa.
Last night’s antics trigger a craving in Damien’s brain for more drugs. He tiptoes around Chelsea and lightly slaps Bruce in the face.
“What? Huh? Oh shit,” Bruce says as he’s woken up, “you scared the shit out of me, man.”
“Dude, we need to score again, where’s the stuff?” asks Damien.
“It should be in my bag,” he says, “check and see.”
Damien searches through the duffle bag but only finds an empty pack of cigarettes. “I know Tess took a hit after me,” he says, “let me wake her up and find out if she knows anything.”
He stumbles to the room where Tess is still sleeping and softy whispers, “Wake up, it’s almost time for sound-check and I want you to come with.” Tess doesn’t respond. “Tess, you need to wake up.” Damien lightly touches her cheek, but it’s cold. He starts to panic, “Tess, wake the fuck up,” he yells, but no response. “Tess, don’t do this shit now, not fucking now. Bruce, get the fuck in here man.”
Bruce walks towards Damien and yawns as he stretches his arms over his head. “What’s up, man?”
“She’s not fucking breathing,” Damien yells as tears begin to roll down his eyes, “She’s not fucking moving, she’s not responding.”
“Tess, honey, wake up, it’s Bruce.”
“You see, man, no fucking response.”
Damien begins to sob and falls to his knees. “No, not now. Not her. Fuck, man.” He’s squatting, rocking back and forth, holding his knees close to his chest. “Fucking do something, man. It’s your fault, you brought that shit over,” he yells at Bruce.
“Man, fuck you, this isn’t my fault,” Bruce yells. “Tess, c’mon.” He checks for a pulse, shakes her cold body and peels open her eyelids. “She’s fucking dead, man, she’s fucking dead.”
“It should be me,” Damien says, “She doesn’t deserve this.”
“I’m so sorry, man,” Bruce says, wiping tears from his eyes.
“I can’t take this shit, man.” Damien cries, “Let me be alone with her, please.”
Bruce leaves the room and Damien stands over Tess’ lifeless body. He brushes some hair away from her face and gently rubs his hand across her cheek. “I was writing a song for you before you got here,” he says. “I was going to play it for you at the show tonight, but I don’t think I’m going to make it.” Damien reaches into his Tumi duffle bag and pulls out an assortment of pillboxes. “Maybe I can play it for you soon, though,” he says. He locks the bedroom door, opens a bottle of complimentary champagne and swallows a combination of anti-depressants and sleeping pills. He crawls into bed with Tess, holds her in his arms and shuts his eyes.
Damien’s chauffeured Navigator pulls up to the hotel’s curb shortly after midnight. There are a handful of paparazzi eagerly awaiting his arrival, but not enough to cause a major commotion. Three young women wearing vintage rock-n-roll t-shirts and skinny jeans, dangling oversized Marc Jacobs handbags from their skinny shoulders—very heroin chick—wait near the hotel’s doorman, smoking cigarettes and texting on their Blackberries.
“God damn,” one says, “what the fuck is taking him so long to get out.”
Damien is still sitting in the backseat of the SUV that’s taxied him around the city while the rest of his band, Billy Heywood, is out celebrating the release of their sophomore album.
“I just don’t feel like being there,” he yells into his phone. “…Well, fuck him…No…Yes…I already told you, I’m at the hotel…Okay…Yes, with her…I’ll talk to you later.”
After the phone conversation he reaches across the empty rear seat and opens the right-rear door of the truck. He’s wearing a black button-down shirt with white stitching that matches his worn out black-and-white Chuck Taylor sneakers. He slides across the black leather seats, yells for the driver to grab his bags and rushes to the front entrance of the hotel, avoiding eye contact with the press but acknowledging the three girls with a simple nod.
Before the new owners refurbished The Loft, 60’s and 70’s hippie musicians and controversial writers frequented the hotel. Today the 200-room hotel is an elegant combination of sleek design and modern technology. White leather couches sit atop dark hardwood floors and a DJ spins records from behind the front desk in an oversized fish bowl. Plasma televisions on each side of the two white pillars near the concierge’s desk display an electronic light show that dances to the beat of the music, while cigarette smoke lingers over the crowded bar.
“Welcome to the Loft,” says the soft voice behind the desk, “It’s an honor to have you here with us this weekend.”
“What?” Damien yells over the music.
“It’s an honor to have you,” she says a bit louder.
“Thanks,” he says, though never making direct eye contact with the blonde woman behind the check-in desk. “Listen, three girls are going to walk in here and ask you where Cliff Huxtable is staying.”
“As in Bill Cosby?” she interrupts.
“No, as in my alias,” he replies, “give them one key to my room and make sure they’re not being followed.”
“Will do, Mr. Huxtable.”
Damien signs for the room and walks away. He’s packed considerably light—a Jack Spade messenger bag, Tumi weekend duffle and a weathered guitar case. He walks towards the elevator and pushes the “up” button. Seven or so people file out and they’re all dressed similar to one another—jeans, t-shirts and vintage track jackets. They’re sipping Heineken as they walk out and are obnoxiously laughing at each other’s tired jokes.
Damien walks into the elevator, pushes “twelve” and the door closes. The ride is quick and Damien is fidgeting with the electronic room key shortly after.
II
“Hi, we’re here for Cliff Huxtable,” a petite tattooed girl wearing a “Dark Side of the Moon” shirt says. Behind her are the two other girls that stood outside smoking cigarettes; they’re still texting.
“Oh, of course,” the blonde hotel employee responds, “He’s in 1251 and here is the key to that room.”
“Thanks.”
The girls walk towards the elevator and push the “up” button. When the door opens four people walk out wearing designer jeans, T-shits and vintage track jackets, holding their empty Heinekens from the short neck of the bottles. When everyone is out, the girls step onto the elevator and push “twelve.”
The three young women walk down the dimly lit hallway and have to scoot a maid’s cart out of the way. The rooms all have doorbells and led lights illuminate the suite numbers. At the end of the hall is a large double door made of thick, dark brown wood. Room 1251 was notorious among the musical elite. It was rumored that Jimmy Page threw an amplifier out of the window and onto the city streets. Iggy Pop allegedly spent six weeks at the hotel destroying everything only to piece it back together while experimenting with crystal meth. In 2003, when the new owners bought the property, 1251 was reconfigured and it became known as the white room. Everything in the room besides the dark wood floors is a shade of empty white; white sheets, white walls, and white piano—white everything.
The girls reach the room’s front door and slip the plastic keycard into the slot and the green indicator light let’s them know the door in unlocked.
III
Across the city in a rowdy bar, Jason, Bruce and Alix have been drinking since nine-ish. The three other members of Damien’s band are surrounded by skinny models and dancing atop velvet couches. Champagne bottles arrive at their table every fifteen minutes escorted by scantly clad women. Everyone around them raises their glasses and proposes toasts to their success each time a new bottle is uncorked.
“Dude, D’s missing out.” Alix comments.
“Fuck him,” Bruce says, “he can’t handle this shit, man.”
Bruce and Damien had a falling out last year while recording the record. The band was renting a house in Barcelona and making great progress. One day, however, Damien showed up to the studio six hours late, visibly shaken and wearing dark aviator sunglasses. After a weekend in Ibiza, Damien relapsed and his drug addiction was becoming a problem for the entire band. Their record label was on the brink of terminating their contract, but their manager convinced Sony to allow him some personal time for rehab.
Bruce also battled addiction, but cut out the drugs before starting the new record. He still drank, but nothing had gone up his nose in over two years and a nurse administered the only needle that pierced into his vein at routine doctor visits. The same wasn’t true for Damien. He had completed the brief stint at rehab, but found himself using seven months after his release from the program. Three months before the due date of the album Damien crashed his BMW into a warehouse but managed to walk away with only a few bruises. Though Damien attempted to flee the scene of the accident, his blurred state of consciousness wouldn’t allow it. Police officers arrested him and charged the lead singer with drunk driving. As a result his license was suspended. The band agreed that if Damien started using again, they’d find a new singer. He’s been clean since the accident, but refuses to socialize with the band when alcohol is present.
IV
“Damien,” a sweet voice from the foyer echoes.
“Tess, I’m on the patio.”
Tess walks towards Damien while the other two girls use the bathroom. There’s an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth and he’s strumming a vintage Gibson J-series acoustic. A bright yellow legal pad is thrown on the floor next to his feet scribbled with black ink and a half empty bottle of Fiji water serves as a paperweight.
“D,” Tess yells as she squeezes through the cracked-open sliding door. She drops her deep purple handbag onto the concrete and wraps her arms around Damien.
“Tess, what’s up, hun” he says.
“Not much,” she says as she smiles, “just flew in today with Chelsea and my sister, Valerie.”
“Where’re they at?” he asks.
“They’re in the bathroom,” she replies.
Inside the bathroom Valerie pees while Chelsea fiddles through her purse. She finds a small plastic sunglass case and plucks a little Ziploc bag from it. Valerie wipes, runs some water through her skinny hands and starts to clear a glass toiletry tray of its scented body lotions and designer shampoos. Once everything is off, Chelsea empties the content of the Ziploc and with a Platinum American Express credit card divides the white powder into two even lines, leaving the rest in a small pile. Using a rolled up five-dollar-bill she snorts a line of cocaine and moves to the opposite side of the countertop. While Chelsea stares at her own reflection on the mirror, Valerie hovers over the glass tray and uses the same five-dollar-bill to snort a line. She has trouble clearing the powder at first, but manages after tilting her head back and sniffling three times.
“You want another line?” Valerie asks.
“Maybe we should ask Tess and Damien if they want,” Chelsea responds.
“She told me he’s been clean for a few months, but fuck it, let’s go ask,” Valerie says.
Chelsea follows Valerie through the bathroom door and into the living room. They drop their purses on the couch and then squeeze through the patio’s sliding door. Damien’s guitar is lying on its back in the worn-down case and Tess is sitting on his lap smoking a cigarette.
“Hey, D, it’s been a while,” Valerie says.
“Yea, I know,” he responds. “Hey Chelsea, what’s up?”
“D, not much,” she says, “Congratulations on the new album.”
“It’s so different than the first one,” Valerie says, “But good different, not bad different. We love it.”
“Thanks.”
“Are the rest of the guys coming?” Chelsea asks.
“The label is throwing us a release party across town at some bar,” he says, “but maybe they’ll show up after.”
“I wish you and Bruce would stop fighting,” Tess says.
“We’re not fighting,” Damien says.
“Then why aren’t you at the party,” she asks.
“I can’t hang out with them when they’re all drinking,” he says. “My sponsor told me to avoid dangerous situations because ‘that fucking demon follows you.’”
Chelsea and Tess met Damien at a London theater in November 2005, after the band performed their last European show. Chelsea was a South Florida socialite living in Paris with longtime friend, Tess. They were in the process of converting an old French chapel into a trendy live music venue, but were in London searching for opening night performers.
Damien’s band played for two hours that night, performing every song off their first album and covering Oasis’ “Wonderwall.” Their encore consisted of four unreleased tracks and a tribute to Britain’s Sex Pistols. After the performance, the girls met the group backstage and invited the four members to their hotel for drinks. Alix and Jason had already made plans with British star Lily Allen, but Bruce and Damien accepted the invitation.
At the time, Damien and Bruce were living a typical rockstar lifestyle and had begun experimenting with heavy drugs. They befriended rock-n-roll junkie Pete Doherty while touring England and were spending most their royalty checks on heroin. Damien’s rockstar antics were somewhat of a turn-on for Tess and the two began dating shortly after meeting. She was no stranger to self-indulgence.
In Miami, Tess was introduced to South Beach’s decadent nightlife at an early age. She started smoking pot in high school, but quickly turned her attention to ecstasy and cocaine. When she moved to Paris with Chelsea, the two girls started snorting heroin, claiming that shooting the drug would be too dangerous.
Chelsea and Bruce also dated, though not as long as Tess and Damien. They only shared a physical attraction, unlike their friends that connected on a much deeper level. At night, Damien and Tess would share a bottle of wine near the Eiffel Towers and write music together. He taught her how to play guitar, and she taught him to cook. They vacationed in Ibiza, and spent holidays with her family in South Florida. But their relationship came to a halt when Damien crashed the BMW.
Tess saw the accident as a wake-up call and ended the relationship. Their recreational drug use had become a serious problem for both of them. She felt the only way to get clean was to part ways. Though they talk on the phone regularly, the two rarely see each other.
“Do you ever miss the rush?” Valerie asks.
“What rush?” questions Damien.
“The rush of the high,” she responds. “Like, they’re all out there celebrating a collaborative milestone, and we’re not the least bit inebriated. Remember how releasing an album felt rewarding and exciting?”
Damien looks confused, almost dumbfounded, that Valerie would make such a valid point.
“I know I shouldn’t bring it up,” Valerie starts, “but I have something to liven things up.”
Damien looks up at Tess, who’s still sitting on his lap, and gives her a what-do-you-think type shrug of the shoulders. “We’ve been clean for long enough, right?” he asks. “The hotel sent me a bottle of Vodka, even though I asked for a dry room, plus tonight is a special occasion, so maybe we can celebrate a little.”
V
“I want to thank each and every one of you motherfuckers who came out to celebrate tonight,” Alix screams into a microphone at the bar. “This is our second album, and we think it’s going to kill. Thanks a lot for the support, the love and the free fucking booze!”
The crowd breaks into applause as the band exits. A group of fans gathered around the bar’s entrance and hundreds of paparazzo are waiting with the mob too. Compared to Damien, the band is much more media-friendly. They pose for pictures, sign autographs and hand out copies of the new album. A black limousine is waiting across the busy street and city officials have rerouted traffic. One by one they jump into the back of the limo. As the car slowly pulls away, Bruce opens the moon-roof and sticks his body out of the car. He triumphantly throws his hands in the air and pumps his right arm as a group of teenagers run behind the Lincoln. He sits down when the car turns the corner.
“Man, this is going to be the best fucking year,” he exclaims.
“Dude, we’ve made it,” Alix says.
“Let’s keep fucking drinking, man,” Bruce says, “Fuck it, let’s get that son-of-a-bitch D out here too. Fuck it; I don’t even give a shit. He’s part of the band also.”
“Man, we shouldn’t show up this drunk,” Jason says, “I mean, the guy has no control.”
“No, man,” Bruce says, “He’s a big boy, he’ll be fine. I have to get something before we get to the hotel though, man.”
The limo pulls up to the hotel’s curb shortly after four-in-the-morning. A small group of paparazzi are gathered near the entrance and some eager fans wait near the doorman. One by one the band members jump out of the car, briefly pose for pictures and sign a few autographs. Bruce, Jason and Alix walk into The Loft and are greeted by a tall young gentleman behind the counter.
“Welcome to the Loft,” he says. “It’s an honor to have you stay with us.”
“It’s an honor to be here, man,” Bruce says, “Our manager checked us in earlier, we’re actually just wondering were Mr. Huxtable is staying.”
“Yes, Mr. Huxtable is in the white room,” he replies.
“The white room with black curtains?” Alix sarcastically asks.
“No, Eric Clapton, room 1251, the white room.”
“I’m just messing with you. Thanks and have a good one,” Alix says. He leaves a fifty-dollar bill on the white check-in counter and turns towards the elevator.
Jason presses the “up” button and the group waits for the elevator. When the door opens, two guys dressed in jeans and t-shits step out drinking Heineken. The group then steps onto the elevator and Jason pushes “twelve.” When they reach the twelfth floor they hear loud music from the end of the hallway and walk towards Iggy Pop’s “Nightclubbing.” Much to the surprise of the band, the music is coming from room 1251.
“What the fuck’s he doing in there?” Bruce asks, though the question isn’t directed at anyone. “You think it’s the right room? I figured he’d be passed out and we were going to wake him.”
Jason pounds on the door and only wearing a bra and jeans, Valerie opens it and tells the guys to come in.
“Holy shit, my band is here,” Damien yells from his seat on the living room couch. “It’s a celebration, bitches.”
“Listen to this guy,” Alix says, “he thinks he’s Rick James.”
The room is filled with thick smoke, a mixture of marijuana and cigarettes. The glass tray from the bathroom is sitting atop the rectangular coffee table and Tess is asleep out on the balcony. Chelsea is in the bathroom vomiting, confessing her sins to a porcelain bowl and wiping her tears with a roll of toilet paper. Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” starts after “Nightclubbing” and Damien is playing air guitar.
Bruce walks towards him and gives Damien a hug. He says, “Dude, I’m so fucked up. Forget that fucking shit between you and me. I brought you a gift.” He pulls out a wrap of heroin, some syringes and places them on the table. “We fucking made it, man. Let’s get fucked up.”
“Alright, let’s do it,” Damien says, “but keep it away from Tess.”
Bruce and Damien sit on the living room couch behind the triangular coffee table to prepare the shot. With a brown leather belt wrapped tightly around his right bicep, Bruce slaps two fingers over the protruding vein and pierces the skin with a sterile syringe.
“Holy fuck,” he says as the heroin rushes through the brachial artery. “Better than fucking sex, man.”
“Is it that good, man?” Damien yells.
“You know the first is always the best,” Bruce responds.
As Bruce loosens the belt from his bicep, Tess yells Damien’s name from the balcony.
“Shit, hide this stuff man,” Damien says to his friend, but Bruce is too high to move, let alone hide his drugs.
“Tess, what’s up?”
“Let’s go to bed,” she whines, “You have a show tomorrow.”
“Hold on,” he yells.
Curious as to why Damien is telling her to wait, she peels of the cushioned patio furniture and stumbles into the living room. Trying to hide the heroin from Tess, Damien pushes everything on the table into Bruce’s duffle bag. Bruce’s eyes are rolled back into his head, but Tess assumes he’s had too much to drink when she sits on the couch next to Damien.
“When did Bruce get here?” she asks while positioning herself close to Damien’s right side.
“Not too long ago, but you were sleeping,” he says.
Lifting her bare feet onto the coffee table, she notices the open duffle bag underneath her legs. “Is that what I think it is?” she asks.
“Tess, Bruce brought some H, he shot up and I didn’t want you to know.”
“Why not?” she asks. “Do you think I can’t handle some H. I bet you were going to shoot up, but then I woke up.”
“Honestly, yea I was. I’m sorry. Let’s just dump it and go to bed.”
Tess kicks her feet off the table and back onto the hardwood floor. She sits up and grabs the duffle bag, placing it between her and Damien. She pulls out the needles, the belt and the drugs, and scatters them around the coffee table.
“Do you ever miss it?” she asks. “Like Valerie said, ‘do you ever miss the rush?’”
“All the time, Tess,” he says vulnerably. “This life—the fame, money, cars—none of it’s real, but the H is.”
“I’m real,” she says.
“I know you are.”
Tess places the duffle bag back onto the floor and grabs Damien’s right arm palm up and rolls up his sleeve. She gently brushes her soft fingertips along the inside of his tattooed forearm and leans over to kiss his neck. Still holding his arm with her left hand, she reaches for the leather belt and wraps it around his bicep. “Shh, don’t worry,” she says as she kisses the skin around his vein, “this wont hurt.”
Damien’s relaxed, comfortably slouched into the large leather couch as Tess reaches for the needle. She leans over him and softly kisses his lips, then tells him to firmly bite the excess belt. He obliges and her lips touch the sensitive skin one last time. Damien stares into Tess’ eyes as the needlepoint pierces his skin and the heroin rushes through the vein. Complete euphoria overtakes his body and his head falls right, against Tess’ head.
“Was it good?” she asks.
“The best,” he says breathing heavily. “You should take a hit.”
VI
At around two in the afternoon, Damien wakes up with Tess lying next to him. The white comforter is sliding off her body, exposing her tattooed hipbone and blue-and-white underwear. Careful to not wake her up, Damien slides out of bed and walks into the living room. Bruce is sleeping on the couch holding an empty bottle of Grey Goose and Chelsea’s sitting upright on the floor, leaning against the sofa.
Last night’s antics trigger a craving in Damien’s brain for more drugs. He tiptoes around Chelsea and lightly slaps Bruce in the face.
“What? Huh? Oh shit,” Bruce says as he’s woken up, “you scared the shit out of me, man.”
“Dude, we need to score again, where’s the stuff?” asks Damien.
“It should be in my bag,” he says, “check and see.”
Damien searches through the duffle bag but only finds an empty pack of cigarettes. “I know Tess took a hit after me,” he says, “let me wake her up and find out if she knows anything.”
He stumbles to the room where Tess is still sleeping and softy whispers, “Wake up, it’s almost time for sound-check and I want you to come with.” Tess doesn’t respond. “Tess, you need to wake up.” Damien lightly touches her cheek, but it’s cold. He starts to panic, “Tess, wake the fuck up,” he yells, but no response. “Tess, don’t do this shit now, not fucking now. Bruce, get the fuck in here man.”
Bruce walks towards Damien and yawns as he stretches his arms over his head. “What’s up, man?”
“She’s not fucking breathing,” Damien yells as tears begin to roll down his eyes, “She’s not fucking moving, she’s not responding.”
“Tess, honey, wake up, it’s Bruce.”
“You see, man, no fucking response.”
Damien begins to sob and falls to his knees. “No, not now. Not her. Fuck, man.” He’s squatting, rocking back and forth, holding his knees close to his chest. “Fucking do something, man. It’s your fault, you brought that shit over,” he yells at Bruce.
“Man, fuck you, this isn’t my fault,” Bruce yells. “Tess, c’mon.” He checks for a pulse, shakes her cold body and peels open her eyelids. “She’s fucking dead, man, she’s fucking dead.”
“It should be me,” Damien says, “She doesn’t deserve this.”
“I’m so sorry, man,” Bruce says, wiping tears from his eyes.
“I can’t take this shit, man.” Damien cries, “Let me be alone with her, please.”
Bruce leaves the room and Damien stands over Tess’ lifeless body. He brushes some hair away from her face and gently rubs his hand across her cheek. “I was writing a song for you before you got here,” he says. “I was going to play it for you at the show tonight, but I don’t think I’m going to make it.” Damien reaches into his Tumi duffle bag and pulls out an assortment of pillboxes. “Maybe I can play it for you soon, though,” he says. He locks the bedroom door, opens a bottle of complimentary champagne and swallows a combination of anti-depressants and sleeping pills. He crawls into bed with Tess, holds her in his arms and shuts his eyes.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Joe's Acid Trip (Very Short Story)
Joe’s been to the grocery market countless times in his 22 years, but after spending an afternoon watching Pink Floyd’s The Wall, smoking an eighth of marijuana alone and dropping acid, his Publix experience was much different then the others. For starters, someone decided a freakish carnival would make better use of the 20,000-square-foot store that was once occupied by the most pleasurable shopping facility.
Wearing combat boots, a parka and brown derby hat, Joe walks through the electronic turnstile and into the fluorescent circus.
“Hello sir,” an elderly woman dawning an apron gently says, “would you like try this chowder I just made?”
He’s standing in front of a cooking exhibition booth. Stunned that the decaying corpse speaks, Joe peeks over the counter and focuses on the steaming pile of marshmallows and centipedes. “Dear God,” Joe screams, “where do you people come from? That is sickening.”
“Have a nice day, Sir,” the lady mumbles.
Joe turns right and walks towards a field of strawberries, but not like Lennon’s. These strawberries are above him, floating high in the air—though this may be because he’s crawling through the linoleum jungle avoiding any enemies that might recognize his tall stature through the cereal box wall that metaphorically separates society and Joe.
He’s ventured deep into the tundra where time has been frozen, and life stands still, yet stares him the face. To sober individuals this is known as the fish counter.
“These damned fish wont stop starring,” Joe whispers as he stands to his feet and leans towards the curved glass counter-top.
“Sir, what can we get for you?” asks the Publix employee wearing a bright yellow rubber apron.
“Nothing, obviously, they’re all dead,” Joe says.
He walks towards aisle three: cookies, baking goods and Vietnamese insurgents— Luckily Joe wore his combat boots. The acid is in full effect and 1968, the deadliest year of the Vietnam War is resurfacing in Publix. Joe quickly falls to his knees, and then places both hands on the murky jungle floor. The rain has stopped, but his supply of water is running low. Three aisles to his left there is water, plenty of it, but two shelves in front of Joe is Charlie, the enemy.
He’s wearing a green vest, unloading heavy boxes onto the base camp’s artillery storage facility. His back is turned towards Joe, but at any moment he may hear Joe’s heavy breathing. Joe reaches for his grenades, a bag of mint-flavored Milano cookies. He bites the tip of the deliciously disguised grenade and launches it towards the enemy. The explosion goes off and Joe jumps to his feet, runs away from the stock-boy and finds shelter in the walk-in beer cooler.
Joe thinks he is dead but is resting in heaven. He sits on a royal throne of golden bottles, sips imported Red Stripe and closes his eyes accepting the eternal sleep. An hour later the store manager shakes Joe and wakes him up.
“Sir, you’ve been here over an hour, and it’s illegal to have an open container in the store,” the manager says. “We’re going to ask you to leave.”
“Sorry man, that was one fucked up acid trip."
Cheers,
Victor
Wearing combat boots, a parka and brown derby hat, Joe walks through the electronic turnstile and into the fluorescent circus.
“Hello sir,” an elderly woman dawning an apron gently says, “would you like try this chowder I just made?”
He’s standing in front of a cooking exhibition booth. Stunned that the decaying corpse speaks, Joe peeks over the counter and focuses on the steaming pile of marshmallows and centipedes. “Dear God,” Joe screams, “where do you people come from? That is sickening.”
“Have a nice day, Sir,” the lady mumbles.
Joe turns right and walks towards a field of strawberries, but not like Lennon’s. These strawberries are above him, floating high in the air—though this may be because he’s crawling through the linoleum jungle avoiding any enemies that might recognize his tall stature through the cereal box wall that metaphorically separates society and Joe.
He’s ventured deep into the tundra where time has been frozen, and life stands still, yet stares him the face. To sober individuals this is known as the fish counter.
“These damned fish wont stop starring,” Joe whispers as he stands to his feet and leans towards the curved glass counter-top.
“Sir, what can we get for you?” asks the Publix employee wearing a bright yellow rubber apron.
“Nothing, obviously, they’re all dead,” Joe says.
He walks towards aisle three: cookies, baking goods and Vietnamese insurgents— Luckily Joe wore his combat boots. The acid is in full effect and 1968, the deadliest year of the Vietnam War is resurfacing in Publix. Joe quickly falls to his knees, and then places both hands on the murky jungle floor. The rain has stopped, but his supply of water is running low. Three aisles to his left there is water, plenty of it, but two shelves in front of Joe is Charlie, the enemy.
He’s wearing a green vest, unloading heavy boxes onto the base camp’s artillery storage facility. His back is turned towards Joe, but at any moment he may hear Joe’s heavy breathing. Joe reaches for his grenades, a bag of mint-flavored Milano cookies. He bites the tip of the deliciously disguised grenade and launches it towards the enemy. The explosion goes off and Joe jumps to his feet, runs away from the stock-boy and finds shelter in the walk-in beer cooler.
Joe thinks he is dead but is resting in heaven. He sits on a royal throne of golden bottles, sips imported Red Stripe and closes his eyes accepting the eternal sleep. An hour later the store manager shakes Joe and wakes him up.
“Sir, you’ve been here over an hour, and it’s illegal to have an open container in the store,” the manager says. “We’re going to ask you to leave.”
“Sorry man, that was one fucked up acid trip."
Cheers,
Victor
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