People such as Gonzo accepted the grave, treating the cold dirt like a mud-bath, courtesy of some ritzy spa. So, we obliged his invitation and lowered ourselves onto his couch. Gonzo’s cat, Penelope, nuzzled herself against my leg. The animal released this throaty meow, which sounded more threatening than cute.
“What the hell is wrong with this cat?” I asked.
Gonzo leaned against the wall. His eyelids fluttered like a monarch’s wings fresh from the cocoon.
“Damn thing is in heat.”
Alyssa reached down and tried to pet it. The cat hissed at her hand.
“Hey!” Gonzo screamed. “Be nice!” He grabbed a small square of tinfoil off the floor. He had used it prior to freebase heroin. He crumpled it into a tiny ball and threw it towards the cat’s head. But the cat remained, rubbing against my shin.
“I didn’t even want the fucking thing. That’s all Angie’s deal.”
“Don’t touch my fucking cat.” Angie caterwauled, as she walked around the corner. Her hair matted with grease, bags under her eyes that looked like bruises.
“What’s that?” He asked.
“I saaaaaiiiddd, don’t touch my” she pointed to herself “fuuuuccckking cat, you fucking piece of shit.”
Gonzo rolled his eyes. “Settle down you’re being a bitch.” He said.
Here I would like to state that all junky couples, gay or straight, act like this. If they’re not fighting, they’re high. If they’re high, they’re trying to fuck. But for a straight couple, or gay men, this is often a moot attempt at pleasure. For a man on heroin cannot get an erection. As for the lesbian couples, well, God Speed.
Gonzo released himself from the wall and anchored, freestanding. He leveled his hands with his biceps and simulated a pushing motion towards the ground.
“Calm down.” He said. “No one wants to touch that flea ridden…sex crazed…pussy.”
Angie stumbled over; she lifted Penelope off the floor and sat on the loveseat. She stroked the cat from head to tail. It showed its gratitude by vocalizing a long drawn out purrrrrr.
“Anyway.” Gonzo said. “How many do you want?”
“They’re 30 milligrams?” I asked.
“Yep.” He responded.
“Well, then, maybe…” I looked over at Alyssa.
“Six?” She interjected.
“Yeah, six should be good.” I replied.
Gonzo went into his bedroom. He came back with 6 pills, wrapped tight in cellophane.
“Here” he said handing them to me “guys have any big plans for the day?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Just picking up applications, for…” I pointed at Alyssa.
“Well, good luck.” He said.
The cat leaped from Angie’s lap and I peered over at her. She sunk into the chair, treating it like quicksand.
“Okaaaaayyy.” I said. “I think we’re going to go.”
Gonzo looked at Angie, as well. He had this solemn stare that reminded me of the faces I saw at funerals. A dead-eyed gaze focused on a deceased loved one. Eyes coated in a thin film of tears.
“yeah…seeya…later…” He said.
We walked out into the 11am sun. Traffic sped past. Down the street was the pounding sound of a jackhammer separating concrete. I handed three pills over to her. We spoke in a louder volume because of the construction.
“I am just going to swallow mine.” I told her.
“I really like to snort them.”
“No, just pop them. There’s no place to snort anything around here.”
“No, I want to snort them.”
“Where?” I asked, annoyed.
“How about that gas station bathroom?”
I squinted; through my narrowed lens saw the mentioned landmark down the street.
“Whatever…” I replied.
Now, my annoyance stemmed from the fact that addicts are never grateful. They always have a routine to Chase the Dragon, if this routine isn’t followed to a precise direction, 9/10 they bitch about the amount taken, or fiend for more throughout the entire high. Rather than acknowledging the fact that they just acquired free drugs and should be satisfied with the old saying ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
We marched onward towards the gas station. Alyssa snorted her pills. I stood outside smoking a cigarette. Avoiding eye contact with the clerk through the window, who stared at me like I was a criminal.
“Satisfied?” I asked Alyssa as she came out.
“Very.” She said, while scratching her nose.
The rest of the afternoon was a collection of methamphetamine influenced conversation. Words coated with positive undertones which culminated in sentences such as:
“There’s plenty of fish in the sea! You’re a catch.”
“Hang in there. It’ll get better.”
As Alyssa went on and on about how much of a cunt Ashley was.
We finished our application hunt, after we had grabbed the 12th one. We took them back to the house. Alyssa filled them out, while I sat writing poetry and smoking cigarettes. Upon nightfall, the moon crested among an infinite amount of stars, I looked out my window at an empty fire-pit. Un-used, at that point in time.
“Heeeyyyyy.” I said to Alyssa. “Let’s have a bonfire.”
She nodded her head, yes. “Not such a bad idea.”
The hour struck 10pm; our backyard was full of, as Kerouac once described, The Mad Ones. The night became the catalyst, for what would be…a summer of Naked Betrayal.