by Jason Alan
This is a little piece of a book I have abandonded for a while but I’m thinking of returning to it. The basic idea I have in my head is that the main character drops acid and becomes clairvoyant. I haven’t written very much yet so I could go anywhere with it without having to rewrite anything. Please let me know what you think about it so far. After all, I write for you.
Here is the link to the first chapter if you haven’t already read it: Chapter One
and here’s Chapter Two:
Adam was half expecting Brett to be sitting outside waiting when he got there, but no one was around. Walking up the stairs to number 215, he had an irrational urge, just for a moment, to leave. No packing, no goodbyes, don’t even go inside. Just take whatever was with him in his pack and the clothes on his back. Not stopping completely, his steps merely slowed to a crawl while having this thought, and then it was gone as quick as it came, and he returned to a normal pace. The pills were kicking in, and all those negative feelings were beginning to melt away.
Brett was sort of a temporary resident of the apartment, or was supposed to be. He needed a place to stay for a couple weeks, and that couple weeks turned into a couple months and he was still there, and still jobless. In fact, it was supposed to be a temporary arrangement for all four of them, but eight months into it they were all still stuck together. In a two bedroom apartment, no less.
He went inside and closed the door, making a cursory inspection of the place to see if anyone was there, but the apartment was empty. He stepped around various food wrappers and other junk lying on the floor, sometimes kicking them, knocking out errant potato chips or whatever other contents happen to still be in them. This was a drug den in every sense, a crash pad for the hopelessly fucked up. Even though they all used more than one, everyone had their drug of choice.
Adam’s poison was acid, and when he would come down he would smoke what seemed like a pound of weed, giving everyone around him a contact high. Brett’s was alcohol. He drank vodka like they were about to stop making it, switching to beer only occasionally. He would sometimes take one hit of a joint, usually after being hounded to do it when he was piss drunk. He would inevitably go right to sleep.
The other roomies were Craig and Larry. Larry started doing coke regularly five months ago, which was the sole reason why he had been short on his part of the rent for the past couple months. He had quit drinking, then almost immediately jumped from the wagon into the fire. Adam ended up having to cover for him but didn’t mind too much, though. They were pretty close friends and Larry would no doubt do the same for him.
Craig was the straight one, or at least that was what he wanted everyone to think. He went through a regular supply of speed that he got from a dealer he worked with. A dealer who often bought LSD from Adam’s hookup, so of course Adam knew first hand. Not that it was hard to spot. Adam and everyone else in the apartment knew all about it even before the proverbial beans were spilled, they just didn’t say anything. An addict can spot another from a mile away, and methamphetamines have a habit of leaving a lingering, putrid stench behind them. No one really liked Craig much, even before the meth, but he always had his part of the rent so they tolerated him. Plus, his name was on the lease, so what where they gonna do about it?
Adam went to the fridge, hoping he would find something to drink. There was one generic soda left from a twelve pack, along with two boxes of old pizza, something growing fuzz in a clear plastic container, condiments galore and an open can of Natural Light. Grabbing the soda and leaving the case inside the refrigerator, he went into the living room (which also doubled as his and Brett’s room) and sat on the old couch that he had found next to the dumpster.
He had a ritual that he pretty much followed to the letter when he dropped acid. He would sit on the couch with a soda and twist a blunt. When he smoked about half of it, he would put the blotter on his tongue and wait, usually finishing the other half and zoning out in front of the TV until the effects started to kick in. He was beginning this ritual now, and while he was licking the blunt to seal it there was a knock at the door.
“Min!” he yelled. One day Craig told him about his theory that nobody really hears the first syllable of ‘come in’ when they’re on the other side of the door. So from that day forward they started to say only the last part, and nobody ever seemed to notice.
The door came open and a scruffy, unshaven guy with long, dirty brown hair appeared. “Hey, Adrock. ‘Sup, bro?”
Some of Adam’s friends called him that because his name was Adam Horowitz, like the guy from the Beastie Boys. Most of them didn’t know the name was spelled just a bit different, and they probably wouldn’t care even if he had bothered to tell them. Besides, he supposed it was a pretty cool nickname. After all, he could have been stuck with a name like Michael Bolton.
“Hey Mick. How are things on the stoner front?”
Mick pointed at the blunt in Adam’s hand and smiled. “You tell me.”
“Oh yeah. I guess I should know, huh?” Adam lit it, took a deep drag and passed it to him as he sat down, clearing junk off the couch and onto the floor.
Mick took a hit of his own and asked in that raspy, holding-the-smoke-in voice “Did you get it?”
“Fuck yeah. Damn near had a panic attack waiting for the bus. I had this weird feeling I was going to run into some cops. That ever happen to you?”
Mick let a big cloud of smoke out. “Nah. Doesn’t matter anyway, dude. They can’t search you without a warrant.”
“Sure, but then they’ll just hold you until they get one. You can’t fucking win, man. This freedom thing’s all a big goddamn front. Nobody’s free unless they got money. The rich get away with everything. Look at O.J.”
Mick laughed. “Yeah, but he got into more shit, though.”
“Well, even money has it’s limits on what it can get you out of. Unless you’re Michael Jackson.”
They laughed and continued to smoke while Adam unzipped his backpack, pulling out some plastic baggies. “That’s cold, man. Ice fucking cold.”
There were three bags, each with a sheet of blotter paper, a hundred hits to a sheet. At the standard five bucks a hit, he was holding $1,500 worth of LSD, and he would probably do a third of it himself. The other two thirds would be sold and probably equally divided between junk food, weed, useless crap and, after all that, rent. After all, a responsible chap such as Adrock had to have his priorities straight.
Adam took one sheet out as he looked around for scissors. “So how much you want, Mickey ol’ pal?”
“Bitch I told you quit calling me that shit, you know I hate it,” he said with a sneer.
“Why do you think I do it, dipshit? So how much?”
“Four. But for calling me Mickey, I should get extra.” He reached in his pocket and dropped a twenty on the table.
“I’ll give you one extra, but only ’cause that blowjob you gave me was oh so special to me,” Adam said, batting his eyelashes at Mick and laughing.
“Fuck off, queer boy,” he said with a mock angry face. “And thanks.”
“No need to thank me, sweetheart, just watch the teeth next time. And get the hell out. I got shit to do.”
Mick grabbed the smaller bag that Adam had put the acid into and headed toward the door. “Why you always gotta be an asshole?” he asked as he grabbed the doorknob.
Adam laughed again. “Well if it weren’t for assholes like me, dicks like you wouldn’t have a place to park. See ya later, man, and tell your friends I got some shit.”
Mick rolled his eyes and opened the door. “Thanks again. Oh yeah, and fuck you,” he repeated, flashing the middle finger before walking out.