It’s been half an hour
since Charles fucked off. Right now he’s
moshing. I microwave myself a cup of
coffee and sit down to watch the rest of The
Message. Genesis is talking about how abortion is
murder so I flip the channel to Day
To Day. Guys talking about abortion is about as
redundant as women talking about circumcision.
A year ago, a network
executive by the name of Alexander Bigelow rented a low-budget porno titled A Tale of Two Titties. It starred an unknown blonde named Katherine Summers. As soon as the tape was over, Bigelow pried
its sweaty contents from his VCR, leaped into his red Porsche 9-11 and raced to
the video store, panting, cursing and demanding every single Katherine Summers
porno they had. The video clerk informed
Mr. Bigelow that (unfortunately) there were no other pornos featuring Katherine
Summers and that A Tale of
Two Titties was
the only one. Bigelow was ecstatic.
The very next day, he
tracked her down. He ordered the network
to drive a dump truck full of money up to her apartment and offer her a job as
the leading news correspondent on a show called Day To Day. Needless to say,
Katherine accepted. Three weeks later,
Bigelow proposed – and she accepted. Why
did Bigelow marry a porn star? Why
not? It’s every man’s dream to fuck a
porn star – and she’d only made one porno.
She was practically a virgin. Day To Day was a hit.
Bigelow was a fucking
genius. He knew that if guys were buying
a piece of shit magazine just because the girl on the cover was wearing leather
pants, these same guys would watch a piece of shit news program as long as it
had some porn star reading off the teleprompter. Think about it. If the apocalypse were here, who would you
rather hear it from: some decrepit foghorn whose hair piece could blow off at
any second – or a chick with big tits? I
think the answer is obvious.
Katherine is at a
clinic for young girls dealing with anorexia talking with two teens about what
it’s like being a stick. The first girl
speaks in slow, winded breaths, appears to be on some kind of medication,
closes her eyes and then opens them with such a vengeance you’d think she was
wired to five thousand volts of electricity.
Katherine sticks the mike up her nostril and asks her why she became
anorexic. The girl’s name is Annie.
Mostly magazines.
Mostly magazines?
There were all these beautiful girls with
beautiful skinny bodies … I just didn’t want to be fat.
Katherine nods.
I know what you mean. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s FAT
people.
Close up on girl number two. Her eyes shine like pink gasoline. She’s wearing an orange dress and the straps
keep falling off her shoulders. And
while the poor girl is trying to look like she’s paying close attention to
whatever Katherine says, you can tell she’s only trying to make it through the
interview without her dress falling off.
The girl’s name is Consuelo.
Now, Consuelo. You arrived at this place a month ago.
Yes.
One month, yes.
Has it helped.
Definitely. Yes.
Consuelo, are you happy?
Ummmm … yah. Though I think – I think I could still lose a
few more pounds.
Katherine places her hand on Consuelo’s
knee.
Consuelo … Always trust your instincts.
BANG BANG BANG
Open up!
It’s the police!
John is twenty-two, pale skin, skinny –
bright blue eyes with a bushy black fro.
He’s wearing a pair of white shell toe Adidas, baggy cargo pants and an
imitation ’76ers jersey that says ’86ers on it.
Other than the silver ring twisting out his left nostril, nothing’s
changed. Same old John. In his hands he carries a Ziploc bag
containing a pack of Zig Zags and three or four grams of weed. Same old John.
You got my message?
I did.
So why didn’t ya call me back?
I dunno.
Just … things.
Man, I hate things.
John settles on the couch and I close the
door.
What you doing later?
Nothing.
Wanna hit up a party?
Sure.
Think you can go til six?
Maybe five.
FIVE?
You’re killing me.
He takes out a cigarette and taps it with
his finger, dumping brown flakes of tobacco on top of some greens. Two seconds later, he’s rolled a perfect
joint.
How much is it?
Don’t worry. I got friends in high places. Wanna take a hit?
Why not?
He hands me a Zippo. It’s got
this picture of a heart with a knife in it.
I fire it up, inhale, exhale, choke.
John takes the joint, takes two puffs and releases a cloud of smoke out
his nostrils.
No one seems to appreciate a good, firm joint these days, Justin. Everything’s getting all hi-tech and shit. Ya heard about some of those kids who get lit with a gas mask?
No.
They like, take a hit of weed and then
put a gas mask on. That’s some fucking –
I dunno. Fancy-shmancy shit. Why do people gotta make getting high so
fucking complicated?
John coughs and passes me the joint. I take another hit. It feels like somebody’s massaging my brain
with the tips of their fingers, turning over and over, over and over, and pictures
are starting to scroll down in front of my face like a broken film projector. John shakes his head and laughs.
Fuckin’ gas mask. Man, I gotta stop doing drugs, man. Last week, I spent the whole week walking
around sober. It was incredible.
I met John at a rave
two and a half years ago. I was coming
down off two super domes and some liquid.
By the time the party was over, I was tripping hardcore, saw insects
that looked like the alphabet on the dancefloor, crawling on top of each other,
making words up, sentences, phrases – none of which made any sense. And I sat there, completely fixated,
convinced that God was trying to tell me something. John was one of the promoters. He was packing up the gear when he saw me,
staring at the insects, sucking on a pacifier.
He tried talking to me but everything sounded Chinese so he got one of
his friends to help lift me up off the floor and into his car. Then he took me back to his place.
After dumping me on the
bed, John put on some records and vacuumed the whole apartment. I think he was tweeking. I don’t remember. I was lying on the bed, puzzling over what
had just happened, insects crawling on my fingers, on my arms and legs. Before I could smash my brains out with
John’s desk lamp, he appears out of nowhere with a bunch of bananas and a
pitcher of water. If you’re ever frying
on acid and feel like sticking a gun in your mouth, the best thing to do is eat
a couple bananas. You’ll be left a
little light-headed, but hopefully the visuals will cut out. I ate the whole bunch, drank the water and
half an hour later, the insects were gone.
John and I have been best friends ever since.
Remember all that X you used to do? Those little beaded necklaces you used to
wear? Hehe.
John’s flipping through
my CD’s.
Yah.
I gotta find me that picture. I took a picture like two years ago or some
shit. I’m gonna blackmail you with that
picture.
Fuck you.
Fuck you.
The glow stick picture. No! The PACIFIER picture! That’s what it was. I’m gonna like, go to Kinko’s and print me up
like five hundred copies of that shit.
And then I’m gonna pass them out at the door with a little thing at the
bottom that says: Have you seen me? Like
a raver on a milk carton.
Where’d you park?
Downstairs.
Did you park in the alley?
’Course I parked in the alley.
I grab the corduroy
Natasha bought me and head for the door.
You ready to go?
Sure.
We gotta stop by my house though.
So we can get that picture.
Asshole.
John doesn’t hate the
scene as much as he pretends to. It
gives him the chance to be a celebrity.
Without it, he’s just another kid with a nose ring working at Jamba
Juice.