I woke around eleven Monday morning. I had stayed at the party into the wee hours getting sloshed. My walk home was a vague memory; I probably added a good half mile to the walk by weaving from one side of the street to the other then back again the whole way home. I laid in bed for a good fifteen minutes after waking trying to determine how much my head was going to hurt by getting out of bed. I took a chance and Boris the Torturer drove spikes into my skull. My stomach turned and I thought I might yak. I wobbled to my feet and stumbled into the bathroom to urinate. I pissed for a month. The wall in front of my dead eyes was a boring companion. "Tell me a joke or something, for fuck’s sake!" Ow—I needed to think softly to keep the earthquakes at bay.
I washed my hands and face, brushed my teeth, and felt slightly better. The glass pipe sat on the coffee table whispering to me: “I am your friend. Let me help you.” There was detritus in the bowl so I cashed it into the ashtray. I wiped the bowl clean with a wet rag and threw it into a hamper for washing later. I wanted to load the bowl, I really did, but I had to lie down on the couch. I was woozy and the pain in my head was getting worse, much worse. “Fuck. Fuck, oh fuck, fucking fuck … fuck fuck fuck …fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.” It was all I could think or say. “Fuck.” The word meant nothing, just a sound in my head that fought against the nauseating pain so filled with hate that Nazis would have abandoned Hitler to worship it. “Fuck. Oh, fuck me, fuck fuck fuck!” Sometimes the fucks became louder in my mind, but only in response to increased anguish. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck.” A mantra, one I began to breathe. “FUCk FUCK FUCk FUCK FUCk FUCK FUCk FUCK FUCk FUCK.” The torturer adjusted his punishment to compensate for my new tactic so I shifted my breathing: “FUCK FUCk FUCK FUCk FUCK FUCk FUCK FUCk FUCK FUCk.”
It worked for a little while, enough to allow me to load a bowl. I lit up, inhaled mildly, and let out the smoke without holding it long. A slight buzz pushed out a few nails that had been pounded into my head with gleeful savagery by Boris. It was always fucking Boris causing my suffering. He reveled in his job—nay, art—of pain creation. He was the Michelangelo of torture; he created masterpieces of unbearable suffering. Sadists from throughout time took tours to view his work, to study his techniques, to marvel at his godlike ability to excite every nerve throughout a body with completely different magnitudes of pain that shifted unpredictably moment to moment. Boris allowed no possibility of becoming familiar with the misery as a means to cope. Aspiring serial killers and rapists majoring in evil at the University of Hell studied his works. Despots throughout history channeled Boris before massacring civilians.
I needed another hit badly. I sucked in the smoke, felt it warm my throat and lungs, and held it for a long time. I thought it might be a good idea to refrain from exhaling … ever. Instead, I blew the smoke out over the room and collapsed against the couch. “That’s better, but I need a cigarette.” I opened a window. The cold air felt good. There was a drizzling rain which was fine by me. The cigarette felt vaguely of life. I was beginning to feel human, a strange thing to be after merely existing as pain. The head-crushing vice had been unscrewed, but now I was immersed in fog; fog was better than pain, though. Water sounded good, but when I stood up I smelled Boris lurking nearby. Better to sit still and hide for a while.
I hazily watched the traffic outside, more cars than normal but then again I didn’t know what was normal on a late Monday morning. The rain may have had something to do with it, but perhaps the workday as well. There were some cyclists and motor scooters, but I saw very few walkers. These were thoughts, I realized, good old-fashioned human thoughts. Fuck, I really did take the mundane and ordinary for granted. Such a gift to observe nothing that had a preordained narrative attached. After the cigarette, I took another big hit from the pipe. Stoned now; stoned was good. The sound outside the window, though, was grating. Boris was forcing a driver to rev his engine and mangle gears while parallel parking. Motherfucker. He could descend on anyone without warning, not to torture them but to torture his real target nearby. A cunning fucking sadistic artist. His means of torture knew no bounds. I managed to close the window and found a New Age radio station playing the sounds of a gurgling stream. Boris made his victims work to escape from pain. I thought he probably kept them alive only so he could inflict more severe damage later in life.
Once I felt well enough, I walked to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed two bottles of sparkling water. I walked back to the living room, drank, cashed the bowl, and loaded another bud. I opened the window again, lit up the freshie, and inhaled. I exhaled and the smoke wafted out the window. Another degree better and one less nail in the noggin. Another cigarette. As I puffed while looking at nothing in particular, I found myself wishing for an energy drink. I understood, again, why energy drinks were so popular. Not everyone had a taxi driver delivering cocaine door-to-door. Susan had a coffeemaker in the kitchen, the kind that took a packaged bit of coffee to make a cup. I didn’t feel like getting up, though. I just sat, listened to music, smoked weed and cigarettes, and watched the world go by outside the window for a couple hours.
I thought of indexing and winced. Not today ... maybe in the evening. I lied down for a pot nap, falling asleep as soon as I put the pillow under my head. It was an unsatisfying half-sleep with the sounds outside creating strange dream scenes that played like a sampled music mix in my mind. Revving engines mixed with steady drizzle punctuated by scooter horns and bicycle rings; together, the noise created a soundtrack for a disoriented film about a group of women who kept trying to take off their clothes in the middle of the street only to have to dive out of the way every time a car raced by. Not once did they ever manage to get all their clothes off. A terrible, fucking frustrating on-and-off dream of irregular noise and undressing women who could never get past their bras and panties. Every time they got close I felt like I was about to drift into a relaxed and satisfying sleep, but then a fucking car whizzed by causing the women to scream hellishly. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. If I could have talked with the women I might have been able to convince them to undress on the sidewalk. Why the middle of the street? And who were these assholes driving? There were women undressing in the street, for shit-cracking fucksense! The fucking twats didn’t even have the wherewithal to slow down, stop, and enjoy the show.
I woke from the annoyance wondering if I needed to water the plants. That was a weird, out-of-nowhere thought. I had forgotten the place had plants. Fuck, it was bad enough that I didn’t see the prints on the wall, but how the fuck could I miss plants? There was something written on the list about how and when to water the plants, I remembered that. I crooked open an eye and looked up. Sure enough there was a tall, broad-leafed plant in the corner where the couches came together at a ninety-degree angle. Jesus, how could I miss a four foot plant in the corner of the room? Shit, the plants could wait; I had only been in the apartment a few days. I dozed off again, this time without bothersome dreams.
I came awake around seven—damn, this fucking sleep schedule!—when I heard my phone ringing. I stumbled from the couch, disoriented. I didn’t make it to the phone in time. I heard the phone give its SMS beep as I held it in my hand. The message was from Vanessa. “Where you are? I miss you.” I listened to the message. Vanessa asked the same thing she had in her SMS. I sent an SMS to let her know I was in Amsterdam, that I was sleeping. She returned a message. “You see me tonight?” Hmmm. I thought about this. I didn’t feel like seeing anyone in my condition. Besides, I only wanted to see her without money changing hands. I was also done with the coke, although it certainly would have helped with the exhaustion. I sent another SMS. “Not tonight.” Vanessa quickly responded, “You no like me?”
I decided enough of this and called her. She answered the phone, “Hey, baby.” Uh oh. Calling might have been a mistake. That accent cut right to the heart. I answered dreamily, “Hello, Vanessa, my darling.” She paused for a few seconds and staccatoed, “Why you no see me?” I replied, practically whining, “Vanessa, I am exhausted. I went out to a party last night and I’m still hung over.” Then I said, “If you want to come over to hang out, though, that’s cool.” Another pause then Vanessa said with sadness in her voice, “Yeah, but you must pay. Is my work, you know?” The sadness in her voice was overpowered by the “you must pay” comment. I didn’t have to pay! I didn’t need to see her. I wanted to see her, yes. Hmmm. I didn’t know how to get out of this cleanly so I lied to her, “Vanessa, I’m seeing someone.” I heard the shock in her voice. “You have girlfriend?! No, I no believe you!” She sounded indignant.
Fuck, saying that was a mistake. Being hung over never helped anyone make good decisions. Then I got upset. Why the fuck wouldn’t I have a girlfriend? I’m not hideous, for crying out loud. Fucking bitch. I took a deep breath … I calmed down and reminded myself that I was talking with Vanessa. She was just hurt, either because she missed me or she wanted money on a slow work night. Either way, Vanessa was the woman who had punched me in the stomach during sex because she felt hurt by something I had said.
I sighed. “Vanessa, it’s not going to work tonight. Maybe another time, okay?” Vanessa quickly jumped on me, “No, you lie! You no want see me.” I reacted, “No I don’t, not for fucking money!” I took a deep breath, calmed down, and continued. “Vanessa, honey, I really do want to see you. I care about you and I miss you, too. You tickle my heart, you know? But I can only see you as a friend. The money, I have to spend less money. The gift I gave you—”
She cut me off: “Yes, was gift! That no mean I see you free! Gift is gift, no?” She was hurt, frustrated, confused, and angry. I thought to myself, “Damn, she is a firecracker all around.” Were all Romanian women like Vanessa? Fuck, that would be deliciously hot and absolutely terrifying. Why does that combination get me so fucking hot?! “Vanessa, it was a gift and I am happy that I gave it to you to help your family. It has nothing to do with not wanting to see you at all; I just don’t have the money right now.” Not really true, but I had to set a boundary as I had other priorities in life. “Still, I want to see you! But as a friend, not an escort.” I sighed, “If you don’t want to see me as a friend then maybe we shouldn’t see each other for a while.”
Silence. I heard a sigh then Vanessa said, “Okay, baby. You call you want see me. I miss you, you know? I sorry for money but is my work.” I felt genuine affection for her. “I understand, Vanessa. I miss you, too. I really do. You are an amazing woman and you gave me life when I really needed it. I understand that you have to work, that you need to make money. I don’t blame you for that one bit. If I had the money you would be over here right now.” Vanessa was silent before answering with a smidgen of affection in her voice. “Okay, baby. I go now.”
By the time I said “Goodbye” she had hung up. I slumped in the dining room chair. A sadness came over me. I was going to miss her physical vibrancy and her explosive spirit. I realized a chapter of my life had ended. My mind thought it was for the best, but my heart sure as fuck didn’t think so.
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