You'll all see for yourselves
There's not much left to write tonight. There's not a lot of reefer left. There's not a lot of nicotine left, either. In fact, I'm down to three. So now, it's time to start rationing. The lighter's little flame springs up with the second try. A click and I light the eighteenth in the crumbled softpack of 100s. They have the same amount of tobacco, I think, but I smoke them to make me feel like I'm getting a better deal. Plus, I'm still high from an earlier bowl and it's nice to have a long filter. I don't burn myself as often. The cherry falls on the typewriter more often than it does into my crotch. It all means little, though.
Bach's Concerto in D Minor plays on NPR. Two violins.
Some delicate sound fills this hotel room; the coarse, orange bedspread, the wall decorations of palm trees and expensive boats, the large olive refrigerator all feel more expensive, more like home. The motherly vomit of a rare bird, these sloppy walls are colored beige.
The sky is violent; but not. A few clouds have gathered close to the peak of this hotel; they're very dark. As my grandfather would say, a thunderstorm's a-comin'.
I remember the first time I tried cocaine. It was a cliche, really. Raining. In an alley outside a bar. In the backseat of an early-80s Mazda van with a girl named Krista who I knew from a writing seminar. Cutest fucking writer I had ever seen, really. Blonde hair, petite frame. I hit three lines because I wanted to impress her; to fuck her; coke makes you want to fuck, I heard.
This was all before I tried it, though. This was all before it got in my brain and I freaked the fuck out. I ran all the way up Pleasant to a house on Kingwood and passed out on my buddy Mike's couch after a few mindfucks and a bowl of g to calm me down.
Outside, a screech and very slight crash. A white Chevy Malibu had run a red light, apparently. The driver, a Jersey cat. If not for the Jersey plates, I know him by his slick hair and slicker shirt: a pastel button-up made of silk with his chesthair popping out a few inches from his strong chin. He's a cliche, too, I think.
The other car is a beat-up early-90s Ford Mustang. It's still playing Aerosmith, but the two Rednecks that had been in it have jumped out and spit tobacco in mild frustration.”I don't have insurance,” Jersey says to them, shrugging but apologizing.
One of the Rednecks in a white t-shirt says to his buddy, “To hell with all this talk; let's rush the bastard.”
His friend agrees, “Let's fuck him up.”
The two Rednecks run at Jersey and before I see the inevitable fight, I close the shades. I don't want to be an accessory. I don't want to be a witness.
More so, this fight is likely to be too exciting for the state I'm in.
The thought of what's outside–where the clouds stalk over the city and a man is being beaten in a dirty intersection–reminds me of a song that I hated as a child. I turn off NPR and light the nineteenth. I have one more night in this hotel room. One more cigarette.