P
somewhere before things went bad
This basement smelled like absolute shit. P probably hadn’t cleaned it in a few weeks and goddamn, between him and this room, I could’ve puked. He had a month's worth of dirty laundry, sweaty concert attire in the corner. It was like a massive booby trap, studs and spikes poking through the folds of hand painted t-shirts. Anyone who hadn't known any better might’ve thought that it was some avant-garde modern art shit. It was hard to believe that he had any clean clothes left. It was harder to believe he wasn’t just recycling through the same pile of sweat soaked rags, caked in maybe vomit, maybe blood, maybe something else entirely. I wanted to tell him he was disgusting, but how could I, when the same pile sat against my own closet door?
The T.V. played SLC Punks again, it had to be the 3rd time we’d watched this tonight, or maybe it was all just the drugs. I felt liked I’d seen this scene before. The VHS player was louder than the film by now, his mother yelling us to turn it down more and more by the hour. Heroin Bob’s voice came faintly, but loud enough that we could still laugh at the irony of the situation. “Acid; it never leaves your body. It’s in your fucking spinal cord forever!” This dumbass looks at me from the couch and whispers “What if it really does stay forever though? What if we’re on an eternal trip?” I shoved into his side with my elbow. “It doesn’t actually stay there, stupid. I thought you knew about it before we took it, anyway.” He shrugged and pointed back to the screen. I couldn’t focus on the movie for much longer after that. I couldn’t focus on anything. The drugs had more than set in by now, this was a regular routine. I fell asleep, but I couldn’t tell you how long after. I don’t remember what else happened that night.
When I woke up that morning, I was more hungover than I’d ever been. P was up and bright, I never knew how he handled his liquor that well. He was wearing this orange shirt, it was Mickey Mouse on it, and the sleeves were torn off. I could never tell if he did it on purpose or if it was just another result of reckless behavior. He was drinking black coffee out the pot, I snatched it out of hands, maybe too eagerly, and splashed coffee all across the beige carpet. Maybe it wasn’t beige, maybe it was white at some point, and we’d really just gone at it. He gave me a glare, I thought he would’ve decked me, that’s how hard he stared at me. He looked at the ground and paced for a second. I apologized a dozen times over, sometimes in english and sometimes in something else. It was still an apology. He sighed, he gave me this look. A look that told me I was going to receive the lecture of my life. Instead, he took a breath, and then he laughed. He laughed so hard. Then I laughed too. We laughed so long and loud that we woke up the dog. Fat, dumb dog, dog who ruled this guy's entire world. But we kept laughing, and laughing, and laughing. The dog probably would’ve laughed too, if he could’ve. I remembered P saying that. I remembered everything he said.
The T.V. played SLC Punks again, it had to be the 3rd time we’d watched this tonight, or maybe it was all just the drugs. I felt liked I’d seen this scene before. The VHS player was louder than the film by now, his mother yelling us to turn it down more and more by the hour. Heroin Bob’s voice came faintly, but loud enough that we could still laugh at the irony of the situation. “Acid; it never leaves your body. It’s in your fucking spinal cord forever!” This dumbass looks at me from the couch and whispers “What if it really does stay forever though? What if we’re on an eternal trip?” I shoved into his side with my elbow. “It doesn’t actually stay there, stupid. I thought you knew about it before we took it, anyway.” He shrugged and pointed back to the screen. I couldn’t focus on the movie for much longer after that. I couldn’t focus on anything. The drugs had more than set in by now, this was a regular routine. I fell asleep, but I couldn’t tell you how long after. I don’t remember what else happened that night.
When I woke up that morning, I was more hungover than I’d ever been. P was up and bright, I never knew how he handled his liquor that well. He was wearing this orange shirt, it was Mickey Mouse on it, and the sleeves were torn off. I could never tell if he did it on purpose or if it was just another result of reckless behavior. He was drinking black coffee out the pot, I snatched it out of hands, maybe too eagerly, and splashed coffee all across the beige carpet. Maybe it wasn’t beige, maybe it was white at some point, and we’d really just gone at it. He gave me a glare, I thought he would’ve decked me, that’s how hard he stared at me. He looked at the ground and paced for a second. I apologized a dozen times over, sometimes in english and sometimes in something else. It was still an apology. He sighed, he gave me this look. A look that told me I was going to receive the lecture of my life. Instead, he took a breath, and then he laughed. He laughed so hard. Then I laughed too. We laughed so long and loud that we woke up the dog. Fat, dumb dog, dog who ruled this guy's entire world. But we kept laughing, and laughing, and laughing. The dog probably would’ve laughed too, if he could’ve. I remembered P saying that. I remembered everything he said.