As I remained single into my late 20s I couldn’t help but ask myself this question: “Am I single because I chose to be? Or because I am fucked in the head?” The people in the former category are easy to expose. The Beautiful People. Albeit, if the standards of beauty were corrupted and make-up became nothing more than color decorating shapes, where would that leave blondes with loose vaginas? Granted if the decency of equality was real, who would I think about as I masturbated? But as Yeats once proposed “The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.” Which means no matter what a person does, they will end up in the second category. That’s where I resided. With the loneliness of freakdom. Waiting for equality.
I think because of the loneliness, I became attached to Alyssa. Treating it like a symbiotic relationship. Before her my nights were nothing more than stoned masturbation marathons. But on the morning of her 2nd night there, it became apparent to me, I was no longer alone.
She knocked on my door at 9am. I had a hangover, so I pretended to be asleep. Hoping that she would just go away. But it continued. I rolled out of bed, wiped drool off my cheek and opened the door. She looked angelic, with the sun basking off her pale skin, illuminating her blonde hair like a halo. Then she farted. It was a real cheek clapper. It smelled like a paper mill.
“Good morning to you as well.” I said.
“Sorry.” She said, smiling. “Had to get that out.”
She walked past and sat on my bed.
“I don’t know if I feel comfortable with your shitty ass sitting on my clean sheets.”
“Oh yeah.” She responded. Rocking side to side, grinding her bottom deep into the sheets. “Let me make sure I get it all.”
I picked a dirty shirt off the floor and put it on. I did the same with some sweat pants.
“What are we doing today?” She asked.
I lit a cigarette. “We’re going to get you a job. But before we do that” I took a couple drags and exhaled out the words “we need the proper motivation.”
“What does that mean?” She said.
“It means we need some Adderall.”
Alyssa leaped off the bed. “I like the way you think!”
I dropped the cigarette into an old beer can and shook it until it hissed. “Alright well…let me make a call and take a shit.”
She followed me out the door. As I shitted, I contemplated the fact that on any other day, during any other year someone waking me up in such a fashion would drive me into a frenzy. Then I realized how grateful I was that someone cared about the fact that I was awake. Causing my normal anxiety driven constipation to be relieved.
I wiped, walked into the living room. Alyssa was sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette, staring at the blank wall. I thought the behavior a little bizarre, but that thought died as she came towards me and placed her hand on my shoulder.
“I just really wanted to thank you for helping me out.” She said. “I didn’t know what I was going to do.”
It felt as if I had strep throat the way my throat swelled. My eyes blinked, my mouth watered and I swallowed gulp, after, gulp, of saliva. Trying my hardest to avoid tears.
“Don’t mention it.” I responded.
We waited at the corner bus-stop for ten minutes before it pulled up. As we climbed the two steps into its cabin, Alyssa turned to me:
“I have never taken the city bus before.” She looked around at the crowd of city dwellers. “I can see why.”
We sat in the back, near a window. “What do you mean?” I asked.
She pointed to a man sitting across the aisle from us. He had a long grey beard that stretched to his chest. He was picking his nose and wiping boogers onto the facial hair.
“Point proven.” I said.
“So, where are you taking me?” She said while looking out the window.
“Do you know Gonzo”
“You know Gonzo!?” She slapped her knee and chuckled. “I went to high school with him!”
“Well good. That’ll make this less awkward.”
We got to his place after a 30 minute bus ride. Alyssa skipped up the stairs to his 2nd floor apartment. She knocked ,Shave and a Haircut, onto his front door. Meanwhile I strolled down the hall, dragging my morning feet. We heard the rattling of a chain as he un-locked his door. He opened it and stared at us Doe Eyed, stoned on heroin.
“Alyssa…what’re you doing here?” Gonzo questioned in a monotone, junky, drawl.
“She’s living with me now.” I said.
Gonzo looked her up and down. “I thought you were into chicks?” He asked Alyssa.
She rolled her eyes. “What, I can’t live with a guy without fucking him?”
He nodded his head. “Fair enough, fair enough.” He motioned his hands like Vanna White revealing a winning letter. “Do you guys want to come in?”
We walked past him into the living room. “Thank you.” I said.
His apartment was a typical junky pad. Dishes stacked high above our heads. Dusty shelves and appliances. Cigarette burns in the furniture. And his blinds were always closed. For Gonzo was a wanted man. A felon on the run, guilty of punching a cop. He was inebriated on so much heroin and booze it was a measure in human strength that he could even throw a punch, let alone stand. Often he paced around his apartment, splitting two blinds at eye-level to look out upon the world. A place that terrified and fascinated him. After the pacing came the vomiting. Which he would do onto the carpet. This action was followed with the words “Don’t tell Angie.” His then girlfriend. I pitied him. But he had great drugs and great connections. So, I put myself at risk to acquire my highs, my lows, my everyday entertainment. Forever it goes…a person motivated by lust and greed will, in the end, not stop until they get what they want. That’s the one ability an addict has, to exemplify completion. But that’s the problem with drug users, they’re never complete. Thus this skill is abused worse than the habit. Until tomorrow. Until it ends. In either death, or poetry.