Knights of the Island Counter.
.. ;xsyntheticsmile -- - ---

IT'S A SHAME, WHEN I WAKE I CAN'T RECALL A THING.

It’s almost like an old TV rerun, and I’ve memorized every scene.

1 PM. Bedroom. Camera fades in from black.

I wake up with my eyelids heavy, and my head feels like shit. And not just the normal shit either, the kind that swirls down the can all scented by some cheap-ass air freshener purchased by your grandma’s ex-mister. Nah, this is the kind that lingers, that suffocates, that turns your bathroom into no-man’s land and leaves you sitting and wondering how a burrito (or any solid food, really) could ever be so liquidy and so steamy at the very same time.

Anyway, as I was saying, my head is fucking pounding, and as I crawl out of bed, I almost have to remind myself to wince when I slam into the bedside table; as far as I can tell, the pain has been here all along. And even if it hasn’t, it sure does feel like it ‘cause whoo-whee, let me tell you, you don’t know pain until you wake up hung-over in some stranger’s bed and smelling like tequila. Believe me, you have no freaking clue.

And maybe I shouldn’t either, but that’s beside the point.

Throwing off the covers, I stumble to my feet and try and fail to make my way over to the bathroom sink without magnifying the ringing between my ears. Every step sends the sirens wailing and within a few seconds, I’m already down on my knees. A few inches more, and my eyes start tearing up. By the time I cover the five foot distance from the bed sheets to the doorknob, I’m feeling so positively giddy that I could kill myself; in a manner of speaking, of course. I twist the knob open, step inside, and close the door behind me, the cheap metal hinges squeaking in protest as the lock clicks beneath my hand.

Glancing at the mirror, I vaguely wonder when I started looking so god-awful. I mean, really, I used to be one handsome son-of-a-gun, if I do say so myself; with warm chocolate hair (not puke-brown) and striking sage eyes (not ailing-green) and one hell of a mean tan (not that yellow, pallid, vampish complexion that a lot of kids around here seem to have taken a liking to lately). I used to be a lot of things, sure, but a vampire definitely wasn’t one of them. No sir-ree bob.

And, as I click open the mirror cabinet and reach for my hangover pills, I’m almost completely sure that I wasn’t a druggie either.

Then again, that might be the meds talking. Sure enough, as I pop open the tiny orange bottle and peek in at the perfectly round tablets, I start to feel a little something churning up inside me; maybe it’s guilt, is my first impression; then, maybe it’s the beginning of an epiphany; eventually it dawns on me that, no, it’s not guilt; it’s no epiphany.

So what else, pray tell, could possibly have me falling to my knees, bending over, and calling out to the Lord Almighty?

Yep, you guessed it. Yesterday’s breakfast.

So here I am, back arched over the toilet bowl (a side-effect of all the spew-related comments, I guess), gawking at my own reflection between belching out chunks of cereal, burnt toast, and soggy bacon. After a couple minutes, I’m still not feeling any better and some part of me wishes I could just quit it already so I could get back to bed; another wants to laugh at how those red fruit loops never lost their color the entire time they were in my gut. Still the other, more logical, less drugged side of me realizes that what I think is red food coloring is actually blood and the more of it I lose, the higher the chances that I’ll end up dying before twenty.

The other two sides don’t listen, of course, because that guy’s a spoilsport and food coloring makes for better dinner conversation anyway.

Right. Schizophrenia. Moving right along.

When my head stops spinning long enough for me to get the hell up off the floor, I pull myself toward the bathroom counter and make a second grab at my SOBR’X. I shuffle about a dozen into my palm, toss ‘em between my teeth, and bite down, hard, the bitter, pink powder grinding together and filling my mouth with a substance akin to a mix of cotton candy and Lysol. My tongue feels like crying. My brain never gets the message.

Not that it ever did.

CUT. SCENE. ROLL CAMERA. ACTION.

1:55. Bathroom. Deliver to post-production to edit out the buzz.

It takes me a minute to realize that this house I’m standing in—with its screwed-up floor plan and its beer-scented air freshener—this house is actually mine, all eight-hundred square feet of it. Though that really should have hit me when I knew where to find the medication; but even that could just as easily have been blamed on something just as ridiculous—like, my mad sense of direction or my crazy observational skills, for instance. So, yeah, you can just go ahead and shut it now. I’d like to see you get wasted then do any better.

Yeah, that’s right, I thought so.

Right. So after figuring out that little tidbit and splashing some water on my face to make sure I’m not still sleeping, suddenly I feel one whole hell of a lot better about things. (And lookie here, there’s my freaking epiphany. I knew it was hiding out somewhere.) I toss together my clothes and toothpaste and finish up with my morning routine, hurrying out the bathroom door. Not that I’m really in a rush or anything; I work at a freaking AM-PM for crying out loud—I just don’t want to look at my reflection, that’s all. I mean, can you blame me? I know I’m plastered, but I don’t have to see it to prove it.

Well, that’s one of the reasons anyway.

The other is that I’m in the mood for a drink.

I step out of the bedroom, turn the corner into the kitchen, and slip back into my regular old cycle. Wake up. Piss off. Get drunk. Lather, rinse, and fucking repeat, like those stupid shampoo commercials and their stupid shampoo songs. And even if that doesn’t sound like much to you, it’s pretty much all that I’ve got and that’s fucking fine with me. Fine, I tell you. F-I-N-E, fine.

Today just happens to be one of the days that I believe it.

Whoa now, hold up, scratch that and insert euphemism of choice; that was pretty depressing, now wasn’t it? See, this is what happens when I’m sober. There should be laws against losing too much alcohol; it’d be like the goddamn speed limit or something. Never too high, but never too low either. Just right. Right smack dab in the middle of everything and nothing and everyone in the world would always be so shitting happy that no one would know the difference.

You see where I’m going with this?

It’d be fucking perfect.

Almost as nice as the warm taste of rum or Irish Cream Liquer on a cool winter day, all smooth and bubbly and biting as it slides down my throat and…

“Goddamn it, where is that Sam Adams?” I mouth into my mini-fridge, as though glaring at it will be enough to make the stuff magically appear. In fact, I even stand there for a few minutes, one hand on the fridge door and the other reaching for my cooler, actually expecting it to happen. When it doesn’t, I’m pretty damn disappointed, but this only lasts until I grab a Coors outta my ice chest and pop the cap. I let myself suffer a little bit, swirling the contents around as my tongue suddenly gets incredibly dry.

It tastes sweet going down.

I finish the bottle and toss it in the trash before reaching for another. My head is buried in the ice chest and the clock to my right reads 2:07 PM. That has to be a new record, I think to myself. I should go talk to the people at freaking Guinness Book. Owner of Longest Hangover Record for the Past Decade. Now there’s something to be remembered for. Shutting the plastic crate, I start heading into the living room with another glass in hand when the phone rings. I let the machine pick up.

Ever notice how when people call, they always have to say your name like it’s a question? Like, they don’t really know who the fuck they’re calling; they’re just hoping to God it’s you so they don’t look like stalkers or freaking shitheads? Yeah, that’s how this little conversation started. Just thought I’d point it out.

“Evan?” What did I tell you? “Evan, it’s Jared. Listen, I know you’re probably still stoned to hell right now—I mean, fuck, do you remember that thing that Baby brought? That stuff was fucking incredible—I’ve never seen so many—and then there was the—well anyway, if you’re feeling sober, we’re meeting out at Chain tonight around seven. You, me, Corey, Babe, and a couple of these freshmen we need for driving—you know, since my car’s still in the shop and all. So, yeah, call me up when you get this. Or just show up. Or not show up at all, whichever.”

He sounds like he’s ready to hang up, then he starts again.

“And hey,” he says, “Sorry ‘bout what happened last night. I’m sure she’ll get over it. I mean, she wouldn’t be coming if she was still pissed at you, right?”

I’m about to reach for the receiver when I hear it click on the other end. I stand there for a couple seconds, taking this in, thinking about it, pondering it, until it suddenly hits me like horse scuzz on a windshield.

I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about.

None whatsoever.

I glance into the living room and read the clock above my TV. 2:13. Raising the bottle to my lips, I close my eyes and drink up half the liquid. Five hours left. I have plenty of time.

CUT. SCENE. KEEP THAT CAMERA ROLLING.

7 PM. Parking Lot. Wrong side of town.

Tonight starts like any other. I have on the same clothes I wore yesterday, and we meet up at the same spot we always do; a clean little place down Lincoln with just enough lighting to keep us out of trouble and more than enough booze to make sure we don’t. Now, I’m not usually one to be on-time; hell, more likely than not, you’ll be lucky if I even show up. But for some reason, I decide to play nice for a change and be the one who provides the car and drinks, and well, isn’t that so goddamn generous of me? These kids should be fucking thanking me. Oh, Evan, this is amazing. This beer is amazing. You are amazing. Let’s go have amazing sex and get wasted before the night is over.

Okay, so that last one wasn’t meant for all of them, just one. A pretty goddamn amazing one, in my opinion. But, more on that later.

Leaning back against the door to my car, I twiddle my cigarette between my fingers and scan for any signs of life in this god-forsaken town. A couple headlights come close then pass right on by me. I swear I can hear crickets chirping and well, it’s moments like these when I hate those guys for being the only folks around here worth knowing. It really freaking stinks.

“Hey fucker, get out of the way!” First I hear it. Then I see it. A great big mass of faded blue pick-up and the three grinning idiots sitting in the front seat, with two girls in the back. The driver stops just short of making me road kill before each of them files out, arms, legs, limbs flailing into nothing and looking like some bad alien porno movie.

Hey now, I’m just telling it how it is. You want something a little less graphic? Well, howdy-fucking-doo:

The passenger door opens. One guy falls out, followed by another, then another, then finally the drunken sigh of “you fucking lush,” along with the sweet sounds of Kings of Leon and Goodnight City from the concert hall behind us. In the scramble, I notice Jared’s been playing dress-up with his younger sister’s closet again and it’s all I can do not to choke on my cigarette because damn, for a guy in a school uniform, he’s got some pretty nice legs.

Yeah, I said it. Take that up your homophobia and shove it.

I barely glance up as they walk over, instead flicking off some ashes of the tip of my cigarette and slouching down all tough and cool-looking, like those guys in the old Levis commercials. Brushing a hand through my hair, I feel like I’m freaking Jimmy Dean.

“The hell Evan, this ain’t no jeans commercial,” someone calls out from the glare of headlights. I shudder. What can I say? We hang out much longer and we might as well be the same person.

“At least I’m wearing jeans,” I shoot back, smirking as they come into focus and I eye Jared up and down. “Not that I’m complaining,” I add.

“You are one sick bastard.”

“Thanks, I’ll be here all night.”

Jared mutters something under his breath, but I ignore it, reveling in my ability to be the only guy in the world who can get under his skin the way I do. I mean, hell, before we met he was just about the snarkiest person in his small little world and now? Now, he has to dance around on his toes just to keep up with me. Sometimes I think that’s the only reason he’s stuck around as long as he has.

That, and we’re the only ones around here who don’t gawk at him for his skirt-wearing fetish.

Not that I care—can’t care for Pete’s sake, it’s practically impossible—as long as I have some minds to fuck, I’m one happy bunny.

And that, folks, is why you should never let your kids out after dark.

Behind him I spy a mass of choppy red hair and the girl whose unbelievably sober head it’s sitting on. I take another puff to keep myself from grinning. “God, you guys are way too good at that,” she says outta nowhere. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you both were fucking queers.”

“No need to feel jealous, Cor, there’s enough of me to go around.”

“Piss off,” is all she has to tell me.

Rolling her eyes, she walks over and buries her face in my neck. I laugh and kiss her hair. And just like that, we go from being screwed up strangers to your typical teenage couple; as dysfunctional and disappointing as that sounds. It’s just one of the reasons I love the girl. Never a dull moment.

“So, where are we headed tonight?” she mumbles into my shirt collar. My bed is the first thing that comes to mind.

“’Dunno,” is what comes out.

Looking up, I turn to Jared and the two other fuckheads he’s brought along with us this fine evening: a couple of freshmen who I don’t recognize and who look like they’ve already had a little too much to drink. Not to say I haven’t met them before, though, ‘cause I probably have—loads of times, I’m betting—I just don’t remember them too well. Probably weren’t anything worth remembering anyhow, I figure, so that makes the guilt a little easier to deal with.

Each of them shrugs.

“Don’t care,” the first one says, wiping his crack-stained hands onto his dingy black Dickies, leaving a trail of white powder where his fingers have been. Real smooth. “Who’s playing tonight?”

“Some indie shit, you into that?” I reply evenly, nodding my head toward the line of kids across the street, all giggling and grinning as they wait for tonight’s show down at Chain. Not to say I’m anti-indie or anything—I mean, hell, the Kings are some of the most hardass fuckers that side of the country—it’s just that I’m a real bastard when it comes to these things and if this guy doesn’t smarten up, we’re all gonna be screwed before it hits eight o’ clock. I glare at Jared as if that’d be enough to tell him how pissed I am. He just looks at me. His eyes say I know. But…

My brain fills in the rest: But they had a car.

Turning back to the kid, I watch his bloodshot eyes flicker from the concert to the beer in my hands and back again. He slurs out something in the negative.

Behind him, Chain’s bouncers out front throw open the big, red, rusted metal doors and one by one the line of teeny-boppers starts filing through. I drop my cigarette to the sidewalk and smother it with my shoe. I wish these kids would just stay where they belong, back with their bright eyes, sobriety, and late-night whatevers and out of this fucked-up world they’ve found themselves in.

He continues to eye my pack of Coors greedily.

Somehow I know he won’t.

- - - - -

It’s 2 AM, and I’m flat on my back. The ground beneath us is warm and motionless. Everything is quiet. I wait for the sound.

Beneath our breathing, I faintly make out something like rubber on asphalt; it starts off soft at first, hardly any louder than the buzz I’ve got going—which, by the way, is pretty goddamn loud, all things considered. Then, little by little, it gets harder, faster, stronger; the sound of dumbass in the middle of the night, speeding like it’s nobody’s business and completely oblivious to the pack of kids lying right smack dab in front of him. The gears shift. The engine steadies. The car creeps closer and fuck it all, it’s like a slow-motion silent picture or something; it can’t come fast enough.

You see, in our twisted little heads, this sorta thing is actually kinda fun. Damn right it is. The point of it all—the street, hands, and shit—the point is to be the last one to get up and piss yourself running before the car, truck, or whatever gets close enough to peel your fucking face off. Except it won’t really peel it off—you’d be one lucky son of a bitch if it did—tear it off, more like, leaving you with this big bloody hole in your head where your eyes and nose used to be.

Hey, we said it was fun. We never said it wasn’t sadistic.

So, here we are, still giggling like drunken bastards, practically pissing ourselves already when the driver starts flooring at 90 miles an hour and I swear I can just feel the adrenaline pumping. The feeling is freaking orgasmic. Orgasmic, I tell you; even better than amphetamines and Saturday morning cartoons.

About twenty seconds to impact, I think to myself, noticing my girl’s hand tightening around mine. Grinning, I turn and glance over at the others. The freshmen are getting antsy—at least, as antsy as stoners get these days. Jared’s playing it cool. Baby’s falling asleep. Corey just wishes we’d get up and go home, maybe even get in a couple of shots before the night’s through. I’m laughing like there’s no tomorrow, even if I am thirsty as hell. My body feels weightless. I feel like I could fight the sky.

Fifteen seconds.

(And, in case you were thinking about it, don’t bitch to me about how I’m making these numbers up. When you’ve done this sort of thing since you were twelve years old, you don’t even have to learn physics to figure this shit out, you just know.)

Alright, alright, before I start pulling philosophy out of my ass.

Ten seconds and the car doesn’t sound like it’s slowing down any time soon. Perfect. This guy’s one of those jackass types, the ones that’ll just honk their horns expecting us to get out of the way even if they’re the ones that’ll get fucked if anything should happen. The best type there is. And wouldn’t you know it? Just a couple feet away and the asshole actually speeds up; only by about ten miles, it sounds like, but enough for the kids to jump and scream bloody murder, leaving just the four of us sitting there like the fuckheads we are.

I can feel them getting nervous. I don’t even blink.

“Evan, fuck, it’s coming in fast,” one of the freshmen hisses at me, stringing his words together all the way from the concrete.

“Y—Yeah, man,” his buddy chimes. “Don’t you think you should be getting up about now?” I can hardly hear them. My eyes are closed and I can faintly make out the sounds of a horn honking off in the distance. “You’re gonna get hurt!”

BEEP—BEEEEEP! Yep, that’s definitely a horn.

Six seconds.

“Evan!” the kids say again, shrieking now. “Evan, get up!” I tighten my grip on Corey and Jared, the two of them grinning back at me wildly as our comrades continue to piss.

Three seconds.

“Fuck it man!” I hear one of them yell to the other. “Let’s just get out of here!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see them running; practically tripping over each other as they scramble off into the bushes. Which is pretty freaking stupid, the way I see it. I mean, hell, they didn’t even get to see the best part.

One second.

Each of us breaks, Corey and I rolling off to a side and Jared and Baby to the other. The warm air of exhaust speeds through our hair as the car passes, the driver spewing obscenities as he races off in the other direction. We watch the taillights glow brightly, then disappear into the dark, never for a second regretting or looking back again. Even if we’ve done this a thousand times, it never gets old, and as my heart rate starts slowing down again, our lungs explode in unison, laughing, laughing, laughing our fucking asses off at exactly the same time. The night around us beats on unchanged.

We are fucking invincible.

CUT. SCENE. BREAK. RESHOOT.

The rest of the night comes to me in flashes.

A car. A boy. A cigarette falling to the ground and dying out on the dark and dirty asphalt. Graffiti splatters the dingy brick walls behind him. Sweat builds beneath his collar. He looks around for his sanity. He finds nothing.

CUT.

An empty parking lot in an empty town and a pile of empty bottles lying there at his feet. The streetlight glares down above him, bathing him in a pool of yellow light. A pair of headlights drives by on the street in front of him. Silence settles down again.

CUT.

An explosion; an eruption. A huge group of kids pulling into the lot, glasses raised and voices loud—screaming and singing and echoing into the night sky above them. They share a toast. The party has begun.

CUT.

Strike a match. Light the fuse. Run, fuckers, run. The sparks fly behind them. Red. Purple. Green. Blue. Fuck the law. Fuck logic. You can’t live your life always running from your fantasies. They bury their common sense beneath their hallucinogens and flames. Let it burn. Let it burn. Let it burn.

CUT.

Friends. Cigs. Beer. Drugs. Laughter. Happiness. Orgies. Heartache. Slowly he finds himself raising another bottle to his lips and taking it all in, long and deep, drinking like a fish breathes water and as long as he can stay like this, this is all he needs. Right here. Right now. What’s happening right in front of him. He lets himself fall.

CUT.

CUT.

CUT.

I wake up with my eyelids heavy, and my head feels like shit. And not just the normal shit, either, the kind that swirls down the can all scented by some cheap-ass air freshener purchased by your grandma’s ex-mister. Nah, this is the kind that lingers, that suffocates, that turns your bathroom into no-man’s land and leaves you sitting and wondering how a burrito (or any solid food, really) could ever be so liquidy and so steamy at the very same time.

As I lift myself from bed, my head is fucking pounding. It hurts like hell, and my brain feels like it’s about to explode. I stumble my way over to the bathroom counter. I slip; fall. Beneath the daze and hangover, I feel a twinge of familiarity tugging at my sleeve.

Last night was just a repeat; tonight will be no different.

I pick myself up and stare at the person standing on the other side of the mirror. He looks back at me. His eyes are cold and plastic.

And, as I turn away and kneel over the smooth, porcelain bowl, I swear I can almost hear him laughing.

Almost.

“And we'll sing out loud for hours
‘til the morning that we know we can't avoid.
These nights are notable and priceless.
I swear that every word I say
I mean until my dying day.
It's a shame
when I wake I can't recall a thing.

It's a shame
when I wake I can't recall a thing.”

- - - - FIN.

Lyrics © Dave Melillo, “Knights of the Island Counter”