Chapter 8:

Take No Medicine; Sleep It Out

Two strangers lying in the dark, in the corner of the room, still wearing their clothes but working their best to get around them, seem to attract attention from onlookers, but it doesn’t really matter when neither of them care. We were both drunk on alcohol, lust, and intrigue, although that was hardly an excuse for our behavior. The kisses shared did not contain any exchange of tongue, but the skin blazed with a fervent desire. I, at first, was too reserved to actually kiss him. What started out as a conversation concerning social ethics turned into a conversation about my relationship status. To be honest, I had never met someone who I kept captivated with my cynical musings about the world, but then again, alcohol does wonders for the mind.

We whispered trivial things to each other, things that should not even fucking matter, but said for effect: “Life is one standardized test after another, judging us for meaningless tasks that we must pass.” “But does anyone ever get a 30?” “Do you mean a 36?” “Oh, yeah, uh, right, 36.”

He reminded me too much of Ryan. This became too dramatic. I had to disconnect.

I wondered about what was going on between us, that stupid temporary feeling of attachment, and attempted to be aware of my entire body. The lips connected, our fingers grazed each other’s necks and backs.

My mind wandered off. I couldn’t concentrate.

Why did I tread into this kind of behavior? Why did I enjoy drinking and rotting away my liver? Why did I enjoy smoking and deteriorating my lungs? Why did I enjoy meeting strangers, wowing them with my silly little societal rants to trick them into thinking that I am fucking interesting, and then temporarily attaching myself to them?

The alcohol allowed my mind to disengage, and move steadily apart like a divergent fault line. The plates steadily scuttled away from each other as the blood alcohol count rose higher and higher, drawing fuzzy lines around the exact reason why I chose to drink that night. I felt as if I was on an operating table, surrounded by men and women in scrubs and aprons and facemasks. Mr. Jack Daniels would be my surgeon as he slowly cut away the skin, flesh, muscle, bone, and tendon that connected my neck to my torso. My eyesight bled from perfect to hazy any time I finally hit that point where Jack Daniels overstayed his welcome.

The cigarettes only heightened my sensation and personified the physical gluttony I chose to pursue with strangers. Whenever I inhaled, I experienced an epiphany consisting of both ethereal and mundane knowledge, a plethora of answers to the insatiable question, “Why?” while at the same time killing precious moments off this parentheses-filler that we call “life.” Everyday we decipher a different excuse for smoking the goddam cigarettes, but no one ever owns up to the fact that they are not addicted, they just covet the damn answer! They want the knowledge whose smoke does not misconstrue certainty, but rather undresses it in all its ugly nakedness to say to the world, “Not everything is going to be perfectly fine!” We are the marketable clay-urchins in servility, slaves to a pile of leaves wrapped in paper, trying so hard to vent out all our frustration but never quite receiving enough lethal dosage of nicotine to finally exclaim, “Fuck it all!” Instead, we light up a cigarette after every meal, after every time we fuck, after every argument, after every drink, looking for just one more excuse to come up with an easy answer to “Why?!”

The random acts of passion are simple to explain. I am a human with needs and wants. However, one dire factor overshadows the entire enjoyment of needs and wants. Whenever I stand in front of the mirror, I pull at my skin, suck in my belly, turn around and around, and count the number of pounds that I still need to lose in order to make sure that I will not gross out the next person that sees me. My insecurity has become this bittersweet shadow, stalking my every morsel food that I eat, constantly standing over my shoulder and making me think twice about swallowing that extra little bite. This shame of endearment haunts my steps until I blind her with the light of alcohol, drugs, and cigarettes. After this bounty of vice is consumed, one can finally enjoy the spotlight of artificial perfection, this catastrophic makeup, this two-sided mask that hides our flaws for one special moment. In this moment, one can gyrate up against another human being with no reservation, no pain, no self-loathing, just animalistic delight and comfort that, for once, you are happy with the way you are, and so is someone else

But shame… shame is a deadly human emotion. Shame is that little pen mark on your sleeve that will not come clean. Shame is the infected cut under your nail, itching, burning, and throbbing. Shame makes you a bad person, because, remember, that evil is relative.

Humans are fickle when it truly comes down to it. They lie, they cheat, and they talk about each other constantly. They aren’t a tolerant and accepting species. Friends will talk ill about each other in order to make themselves feel superior, cutting down friends and breaking them one by one. My only question is… why is that a bad thing? Am I truly a bad person, though, if I don’t feel remorse for some of my actions? Naturally, there are some shameful past events that I don’t like, but those carved the figure of the person I am today. And, whether I like the person who I’ve become or not, my intention is to live, and if I am to live, then I must deal with who I am right now. I drink, I smoke, and I swear, I cheat, I lie, I am, by definition, a morally corrupt human being. I’ve kissed more than one boy in a night. I’ve stolen money from my mother. I’ve lied to people in order to get on their good side and to empathize with them. I’ve been promiscuous as hell in my own chaste way. The only vice I have not committed is having pre-marriage sex. I am too scared and, most importantly, I never think any of the applicants are good enough. Snobbiness can be a perk, apparently…

Sometimes I believe I am a bad person.

Sometimes I wish I were a bad person.

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Later on that night, after he had fallen asleep, I left. I wrote my number on his hand, although I knew that probably nothing would come of it. Protocol called for it. I have to act as if I’m slightly interested in him or else I would have indulged in only the physical attraction. I have to act as if I owe this young stranger some imitation attachment and pretend that my body was coordinated with my mind the entire time. People believe that everything that the body does, the mind controls. I beg to differ. It is the other way around. Anything the mind does the body controls. I thought about drinking, smoking, kissing, and it all went well up until this point. This is the point where you decide whether you ever want to see this urchin again in your life, make him feel special as if you picked him out of every other young man that you saw. He was fun, I liked him, I have no complaints. Nevertheless, now, you have to play a game of wants and needs. The female has to be the sensitive one, the caring one, the one who fawns after a noble young man, but he has the freedom to brush her off as easily as a leaf.

I ventured out into the cold night. It was probably three or four in the morning, and I could not wait for the amazing walk home. I stood on the outside of my friend’s house and turned my body toward the siding. I cupped my hand as I lit my cigarette and breathed in deep. The nicotine, tar, and other chemicals swept through my sinus cavities, throat, and lungs like the Angel of Death in Egypt and left me hanging in the clouds. I closed my eyes and relished that sweet light-headed moment where you did not know if you would faint or stand.

I got over the nicotine shock and walked down the street, taking in the scenery.

Necessities and commodities in this lifetime all end up on the same level eventually when you die. Your food, shelter, clothing, water, and your Xbox, designer Coach purse, Mercedes Benz, computer, teddy bears do not matter when you are finally in the ground. The Egyptians had it all wrong. The Egyptians, although prodigies in other areas, were buried with at least some burial goods which they thought necessary after death. At a minimum, these usually consisted of everyday objects such as bowls, combs, and other trinkets, along with food. Wealthier Egyptians could afford jewelry, furniture, and other valuables in their burial, which made them targets of tomb robbers. The more you had, the more desirable you were to corrupt, thus all the materialistic goods that you acquired throughout your lifetime ended up biting you in the ass because they were eventually stolen, anyways.

I kicked a rock and it rolled away quickly into a small ravine on the side of the road. A gas station perched on the corner of the street and I licked my lips. I could tempt myself with a nice beverage for the long journey home.

A bell tinkled as I pushed the door open and, not surprisingly, no one populated the premises aside from the operator and I. He eyed me warily with eyes above an unruly beard, but below a royal blue baseball cap. I nodded and headed towards the back of the store towards the refrigerator. I was still smoking my cigarette, savoring that leafy taste. Obviously, the operator did not care. I gulped down the smoke, breathed in oxygen, and exhaled. As soon as the ash reached the orange of the filter, I dropped it on the floor and stepped on it. I reached for a bottle of Diet Dr Pepper and shut the door. As I made my time towards the counter, someone else strolled into the gas station.

The young man strode with a relaxed cockiness, a sly aura surrounding him, as he slipped a twenty on to the counter and instructed the operator, “Twenty on pump five.”

My eyes surveyed him, a little too obviously. I liked the way he stood, emphasizing the fact that he was taller than I was. Thick-framed glasses outlined a pair of icy blue eyes with long eyelashes and his straight, shaggy russet hair. He was pale and skinny, but not too skinny, sporting a thick forest green hooded sweatshirt underneath a navy blue jacket. Medium-sized navy blue buttons decorated the right side where the jacket folded and closed. The hood stuck out over the top in a cute way, and his stonewashed jeans were slightly tighter than they had to be, but I did not mind one bit. I smiled softly at the way I objectified him, but forced that into a frown when he glanced at me.

He caught me. He totally knew that I had been checking him out. The corner of his mouth lifted and there was a small dimple in his cheek. “Are you drunk?” he asked.

Actually, was I? I stuck out one foot as I attempted to touch my finger to my nose. The feat was a success. I was indeed sober. “No.”

His mouth broke out into a full smile and I noticed a row of perfectly aligned teeth. This man was gorgeous. “Are you here with anyone?”

“No, I was actually walking home from a party,” I admitted as I handed my money to the operator who was rolling his eyes at us and muttering belligerent, breathy curses. He handed me my drink and set my change into my hand in a belligerent manner. He practically shooed us out of the little store.

I turned to the stranger as soon as we stepped out into the frigid night air. His shoulders hunched forward as he slipped his wallet into the back of his jeans. “Are you here with anyone?” I ventured.

He shook his head and his hair traversed back and forth in a messy but appealing way. “Same thing you’re doing, except I have a car,” he responded and motioned to a maroon-looking Toyota Tercel. If I really cared about cars, I could tell you what year and model it was. “Oh by the way,” he started, “I’m James.”

“Nice to meet you,” I smiled. “Does James want a cigarette?”

“Yes, please,” he rasped with a grateful smile. His hands practically shook as he reached out for the paper-wrapped tobacco. I obliged to light the cigarette for him and I saw those sapphire eyes water slightly as he breathed in.

“Ha… thanks… what’s your name?”

I told him.

“Really pretty. Do you live around here?” he asked.

I wagged my head. “Not really. It’s like a forty-five minute walk from here.”

His lips puckered as I saw him delve deep into thought, but he continued to speak. “What party were you at?”

“Oh, just some sporadic drinking party. I decided to get out of there for personal reasons,” I told him. “What about you?”

He exhaled sharply and laughed a little. “I was enjoying myself at some art opening down at my school, but then our professor started to get way too drunk and yelled at some freshman to take off her top. I figured it was time to get out of there.”

“You’re in college? Where do you go?” I asked him.

“Columbia College.”

I nodded. “What year are you?”

“Freshman. I took off a year between high school and college to work full-time and earn some money.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen, but I’m turning twenty, soon.” He eyed me cautiously, as if I was about to pull out a handgun.

I answered nervously, “I’m seventeen, about to turn eighteen soon.”

He exhaled smoke, but what also seemed like a sigh of relief. “You seem older.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Have you ever wondered about the relativity of time?” I pondered thoughtfully. I even cocked my head slightly to the side for effect as I lit my own cigarette. I exhaled as I stared off into the starry sky.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I began, “who really determined what a year is? Or what even a minute is? And why is it so important? Why do we have to habituate ourselves into this daily routine of rising with the sun and lying with the moon? Why do we rise on sunbeams and fall in the night? What is the significance if we choose to break that routine? What significance does time play in our age? Should our age truly define our maturity level although that is purely mental capacity and development? Or, better yet, how would defining my age against yours really determine the future of our conversation?” I turned back to James and my gaze met his. He stepped toward me and asked in a very courteous manner, “Would you like me to drive you home?”

What a strange moment. I had the choice to determine my future at this point. Should I really accept this offer to blindly take this stranger’s hand and let him lead me into the unknown? Would I die if I accepted his offer? Would I pass up on a mind-blowing experience?

Then again… I am a bad person who makes bad decisions. “I would like that a lot.”