The Apartment Date Tuesday, April 23, 2024 - 07:44 AM PST Topic Experiences Prologue I sit at the computer, and write. I don’t write for any specific reason, I just type. Letters to words, words to sentences, sentences to phrases, and voila, I’ve got myself a paragraph or two. I pause, I kill some time, I check my emails, hoping Gwen has wrote something back to me, I pause again, and a wave of empty hopelessness washes over me. It’s not that my situation, whatever that may be, is bad; it’s average at best. But between the simple, clean cut lines of an uneventful teen-hood, a few strands of tragedy have weaved themselves in. Bright red, and glowing, they aren’t too visible within the rainbow myriad that is the rest of my life. But I can’t help but let my mind’s eye focus in on them, from time to time. I can’t form words anymore, the cocaine and the last silky bits of alcohol haven’t clouded me though; they’ve prolonged me, invigorated me even, in a cold alien manner. I just sit now, thinking about smoking a cigarette, but I don’t. I can’t. The thought is nauseating, and suddenly the desire to just pick up and run washes over me. I get tense, ready to leap from my chair, and for an instant, it seems real. It all appears to be so…significant. But I don’t go anywhere. Chapter one 8 miles from home. God help me, I-95 is misery. It’s at least 5 O’clock, and rush hour traffic has filled everything from Biscayne Boulevard to Tamarack. I creep along, praying for some reason that I’m not going to just explode in this stagnant heat, and I consider the Turnpike. “Bullshit,” I say aloud, “I’ll save my dollar for a god damned taco.” And then I laugh because I’m horribly serious. I light up another Camel, filterless these days, and close my eyes in reverence at that sweet smoke…and there it is: a gap. I pop into second and slice into the HOV lane, and suddenly, I’m really moving again. I don’t really remember why I’m even on 95 until I hear motion in the back, and realize I’m carting Stephanie and her British boyfriend David from Miami International Airport. I’ve completely tuned their existence out, and I’m troubled and pleased about this all at once. Cruising at 65 miles an hour, I turn around, ignoring the road and say, “How do you like this heat, man? Welcomed change?” “Eh, it’s not exactly snowin’ there.” I think he says this but I can’t understand his accent. I will spend the next two months leaning into his face like a senile old man each time he speaks to me. I’m at the apartment now, and it’s dim even in the middle of the afternoon. David is putting his things into Stephanie’s room, and I sit like a corpse on the couch, chain smoking and staring into space. Bryant walks in and smiles, “Yea, I like that, walk right in and start,” I think he says, and he sits down, bobbing his black Stetson clad head to the waning beats of a Bob Marley track. His talk unsettles me, and I look over at Christy, who smiles coyly at me, like a shy little girl asked to her first school dance, as she sips her sweating can of Miller Genuine Draft. Slowly all the regulars drift in, Steph with her boyfriend David, now settled in and wearing a NIN shirt over his broad frame, Christy and Michael, Bryant and Nathan with his girlfriend Carla…suddenly a great glowing mass of togetherness floats across me, a savage but relaxing wave of friendship and predictable uncertainty. The night could end in bloody teeth or mournful laughter, on top of an abandoned southern mansion, or maybe in its basement. [pagebreak] As it turns out, it ends up on top of the mansion, a quick ten minutes drive from the apartment. Nestled in an opulent neighborhood of Davie, between Griffin and Sterling, on 61st Ave I believe, is “The Mansion”. Some sick fucker designed a White House-like structure on a 3 acre lot, situated behind huge iron gates, and hidden under the canopies of various huge oaks, with the requisite Spanish moss and dark, dank looking pond in the front expanse. It has no windows, and is a completely open, poured concrete structure. In the back, there is an iron aviary with about 25 bird cages the size of a large storage shed, piles of ripped up marble, and a small beach house/office looking building, which could easily have served as an information desk, as well as a showroom of some sort. To say the mansion’s purpose was as much a mystery as its abandonment was an understatement: It was weird. It reeked of something gone wrong, and reminded me of the dilapidated structures one might find in a Jurassic Park sequel. None the less, it was a favorite hang out of everyone, and it held many secrets to be solved, or at least discussed over libations and marijuana. When we get here, it’s already dark; 8 pm at least. The air smells like acrid water and smoke, but it’s somehow pleasing. Crickets buzz from locations unknown, and the grass is dewy and stiff under my Converse. I lead the pack, naturally, towards the imposing structure. “My god,” I say, and I always say, because I can’t believe I’m seeing something so big, so left to rot. We find our spot on the second floor, while Bryant goes to the lightless black expanse of the basement to listen to pop music on his mp3 player. “That fucking guy,” I mutter, and sit down next to Michael and Christy, who are sitting awfully close. Not again, I think, violating everyone’s sex laws. My mind is gibberish it seems, and I start losing track of my place in the social line. Many drink later. I pass the pot, satiated with the cool plateau of being. Somewhere near the edge of nothingness. Michael plays a Death Cab for Cutie song on his acoustic. Bryant wanders slowly from empty hall to empty hall. Stephanie and David kiss and giggle from some dark closet next to us. Nathan and Carla wander the courtyard out back, talking about something mind numbingly important. And Christy…where the hell is Christy? I stand up awkwardly, light a cigarette, walk to the back. No one lifts their head, no one asks where I’m going. They carry on, numb. I keep treading along, and my mind’s wandering, uncomfortably. I try to focus, but on what? “Whatever,” I say aloud, and sip my Natural Ice. Passing a Drug test this week. Going home and jerking off. Gwen in England with Jason; My can crushes damply in my hand, and foam spouts onto it. Christy sitting in the aviary, crying. What? My mind is cleared now, and somehow…somehow I went from walking to crouching next to the shadowy mass of Christy’s frame, surrounded with the dry, mossy stink of years old bird shit and hay. She cries softly but wetly, and I curse myself for not carrying a handkerchief, though I don’t know why. “Christy, what’s, what’s wrong?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” She snorts, and coughs. I sit down roughly on the earthen surface, and offer my beer to her. She nurses it like an infant on a teat, and her eyes light up a bit. [pagebreak] “Everyone wants to talk about it.” I think about what Gwen told me once, about laying alone and weeping all night. I shut my eyes for a moment, and then look at Christy in the half-light. “I don’t know. Like, I thought Michael really liked me, but all he does is fucking play his guitar and smoke pot.” “Christy, we all sit and smoke weed. We’re losers.” I’m fascinated by my own choice of words, and grab my beer from her hand. “Besides, Michael is…I dunno he’s beyond humanity at the moment.” I sip. She cries again. “Come on Christy, it’s just a guy. We’re all just fucking people. You’ll survive it. Just try to stop crying so much, you’ll have red eyes all day tomorrow.” She looks up at me, and I can’t quite make out her face, so I just stare. She looks so weak and broken in this unsavory place, pallid skin cut into criss-crossed patterns by the light filtering through the cage all around us, and those vaguely Russian features all crushed and red and wet. I’m not sure what’s next, but she lunges at me, holds me, and rubbs her face into my polyester shirt. I look around, stare at rusted cages and uncared for feeding troughs. I think about what time it is. My head itches. She kisses me. I kiss her back, but why? Oh god. Chapter two I have a little box that I hold In my little box I have a little dream In my box I have a picture, a note, an idea, a scent In my little box my little pictures hold my little dream I’m a little boy with a little box I think I’ll just hold onto my little dream instead I leave class, and I drive around for about an hour. I drive past my old friends Danny and Patricia’s duplex. I drive through Sheridan Plaza, think about eating at Burger King, and then change my mind and drive to I-95. I drive south the Hollywood Boulevard, laugh about how we ripped off California, and then drive to the cemetery and steal flowers. I imagine bringing them home to Gwen. And then I stop my car on Arthur and 64th. What the fuck am I doing? I throw the lilies and roses and rotting sunflowers out the window. I smoke my last cigarettes, and I hold my head in my hand. I can’t believe I’m still doing this. It’s not harmless. It’s destroying me. Us. “You’re killing us you know?” it says. “I don’t care to speak to you right now.” I say. “Would you rather speak to me?” She says. “Yes, fine.” “You’re killing us, you know? With all this,” I swish my hand in circles, “She wasn’t perfect.” “I’ll never find anyone like her again. I’ll never feel that way ever a-god-damned-gain.” I say, visibly upset. “Of course not, silly. You never feel the same. Every love is different. Besides, if you were meant for each other, you’d still be together. If she was perfect for you, you’d still be with her, eh? A perfect fit fits. A perfect fit doesn’t not fit. That’s just…well…silly.” She says, coyly. [pagebreak] “And so are you. Your double-negatives are tiring, and I’m ditching this god-damned party. Goodbye.” I say, nicely though. I drive to the apartment, and I smoke. When that gets boring- there’s no one there- I go to my psychiatrist’s appointment, which was at 7, even though it’s 7:15. I go through the motions. She lets me in. “How are you today Samuel?” She’s always the same: Red blouse, black pinstriped pants, hair parted carefully and meticulously, and small white-gold tennis bracelet on her well tanned wrist. “Not so hot. I’ve been feeling pretty much like shit in fact. Can I smoke in here? No, no I can’t,” I look around her small office, and she stares at me, welcoming but distant, “Anyhow, I’ve just been pretty…vacant.” “Have you been taking your medication,” she looks at her file, “150 mgs of Welbutrin, the Zyprexa and the Adderrall?” “Oh yea, I’ve been good about that. I dunno, maybe it’s just a bad week.” I lie about the drugs, the ones I’m taking and the ones I’m not taking. I lie about Gwen, about the talking to myself, about the failures in college. Twenty minutes later and she lets me out, usher in the next person, a black girl with unshaven legs, which turns me on, and I walk to my car. I sit there and I listen to Stina Nordenstram wail and whisper. I sit there and I wish I had cigarettes. I stare at the sky, the rippled clouds. They look like hundred of thin lines of cotton, pulled paper thin, and flowing. I smile at the clouds, wishing I was somewhere else watching them. Wishing I was watching them in another time, actually. A very vague time, it seems, in the violent retrospect of warm but painful memories. Oh, it’s so sweet, that aching satisfaction, like rubbing an old scar. I see…I see myself standing on the porch of a house, with a scratched brown door. I see a disheveled lawn, familiar to me now, and I see laughter. I smile. I feel so light, but I’m always grounded in these times. A dreamscape. I drive back to the apartment. The door keeps opening and closing, and every time I stare at it like it’s a moment of massive importance. Lost in the shuffle. It’s like watching a house of cards being built: That feeling of anticipation for a social disaster, that anticipation to see it all fall down. Hours pass like minutes, and people file by like sugar crazed ants. My head swims with thousands of thoughts, it’s on fire with ideas. I doodle on a stray sheet of paper. I study my hands, my arms, my clothes. I chew my nails. More people come and go, David, Michael, Carla, Nathan, thousands, millions of times. How many million of times will I open a door in my life, I wonder. The night comes, and the night falls dim. Everyone’s gone now. The weed, the beer, maybe the haunting tunes of Marley, now both music and a living epitaph, are keeping me full: Numb but observant. Such a strange feeling; this mix of freedom and coziness. “I can’t think with this noise.” I think I hear. “What?” [pagebreak] “I dunno, turn it down or something.” I go to the living room to investigate. It’s Michael, and he’s sitting next to Danielle, who must have just arrived. “Want to go to Ft. Lauderdale with us, Sam? We can go to The Poorehouse.” “Shit, why not.” Chapter three Ft. Lauderdale was something else. I’m sitting in Danielle’s car, watching Michael walk back to the apartment from our spot here in front. “Funny thing,” I say, “how friends work sometimes.” We got to The Poorhouse at 2 am, late as hell, but the place was buzzing. I sat out front, chatted with musicians, and fingered the button holes of my suit, laughed at bad jokes. I walked around the block, and a girl in a beige halter top with gorgeous green eyes grabbed my face, held it close to hers and said “YOU”…and then walked away. “Funny how?” Danielle says, putting her hair up. I drank draft beers, and walked across the street to another club, I think it was called Fat Cats. I watched the girl with green eyes try to secretly claw open a side door to the club; she must not be 21. I chain smoked, while two Spanish girls talked about my tie. I could hear them, but they didn’t know. The girl with greens eyes pushed her friends against a wall, then yelled, then smiled, then laughed, and then stumbled. “I don’t want to sleep around, you know?” I tell her, looking down at my shoes. “Sometimes, I just wish I could sleep next to someone.” A black woman in a green dress stumbled towards me drunkenly from across the road, and leaned against me, breathing onto my neck and shoulders. “Are you gay?” she asked. “Why, did you lose a bet?” “No. I won the bet.” “Well, thanks.” She tells me about New York, and her boyfriend, who was watching awkwardly from the other side of the street. She goes, and I smoke another cigarette. “So what does this have to do with friends?” Danielle asks, turning her car back on. “Come, on, we’re going for a walk!” Michael said, and I was dragged from my perch in front of Fat Cats. Michael was walking with a guy who looked like a teenage trucker, and a husky guy in a bright yellow sweater, a blonde mop for hair, and tons of black eyeliner. “You look like Jack Sparrow when he went to college.” I told him, and he laughed, led us into a dark alley, and played a cover of an REO Speed Wagon song he had recorded the night before with his band, on his truck stereo. “I want you to know, that this is what me and Rob think about you guys,” the pudgy Jack look alike told us, “and we want you to take heed to these words. This is pretty much how much we care about you two.” The song was good, and we laughed, made jokes about awkward silences, and then me and Michael walked away. [pagebreak] “Because some friends are close enough to just sleep with each other. No sex, just closeness.” I say, looking bashfully into her eyes. I walked back to Fat Cat’s, and saw the girl with green eyes dragging some ugly townie towards the parking lot, with keys in her other hand. “My god, I hope she gets into an accident,” I said, but there was no one with me. I walked back to The Poorhouse, saw Danielle talking with two men covered in tattoos, and she introduced them as BJ and Dave. We talked, we joked, I asked for an on the spot tattoo, but they just laughed and drank there draft beer. We drifted away, and then back together, I was told I looked like an Abercrombie and Fitch model, and then we left. “Yea, it happens like that sometimes, she says. “Hug?” We hug. “Night hun’” “Goodnight Danielle.” I walk to my car, get in, turn it on, and turn the music off. I sit, I think. And for a moment, I feel guilty. A tiny spark of regret and shame bubble up inside me, boil, and then fizzle out. “No,” I say aloud, “I’ve done nothing wrong.” And I’m pretty sure I haven’t. I haven’t just asked for sex. I haven’t done a thing. I’m sure now, in fact, that I’m ok. I had just asked to be close to a friend, and that was all. And slowly, the doubt trickles out of me. I sit up a little straighter. The doubt was gone, because in my heart, I knew: I really didn’t want to screw Danielle. I just wanted to sleep next to someone, someone close but not truly. Someone I could feel, hold, and smell…but someone I could picture as something, or someone, else. I smiled a bit, cranked the music up, and put the car into reverse. Goodbye, apartment. I go home and have this conversation online: Dorothy kin: hey! hunter_th0mpson: hi Dorothy kin: how are you? hunter_th0mpson: Oh, I'm doing pretty good, you? Dorothy kin: im great thankyou! besides being up early this morning for work haha! *yawns* hunter_th0mpson: Yea it's a tough hour, I guess hunter_th0mpson: I don't sleep much what with this vicious coke adiction and all these adderall they perscribe. Dorothy kin: lol Dorothy kin: what you been up to lately? hunter_th0mpson: nothing much hunter_th0mpson: writting a short story, passing some drug tests for work (I hope) eating food, misery, sleeping, etc Dorothy kin: lol! hunter_th0mpson...goodbye. [pagebreak] Epilogue Weeks, months have passed by. Or so it seems. Sweet is the remembrance of troubles when you are in safety, as they say. I’ve laid down in bed so many nights, red, black, and white sparks of thought and fury flying through my head, and all because I pumped whatever I could into me. Escape, rapture…half-truths. I used to call out that name, picture it in my head: Gwen. For a while, I did the right thing, the rightest thing at the time; I just buried it away. It would pop up, I would see a picture, remember a time, and then, just like that, I’d grit my teeth and let it sink back down into whatever mental pit I’d dug for it. I sit now smoking my real, true, last cigarettes. I quit. I think about my ideas, my future. I ask questions that I don’t need the answers to. I consider what to do with my last baggy of cocaine. I think about how I don’t feel like running after my friends any longer. And then, as I stub out a smoky camel into a filled ashtray, I realize what I’ve done wrong. Burying Gwen and everything she stood for hasn’t gotten me any further from that day so long ago when I stood crying, hearing her say those words, telling me it was over, wishing it were all not true…so distant. A dreamscape. I decide now, to just try to be. Be myself, be a person, be a friend. Not a jealous shitty ex with a bad complex…just be. I’m not stupid. I know I have a long way to go. I know I’ll have to turn away from her, and her pictures, and her songs, and bight down sometimes…but what in life is ever easy? Suddenly the desire to just pick up and run washes over me. I get tense, ready to leap from my chair, and for an instant, it seems real. But then… I grab the keys to my car, walk, run, out of the house, fast and sure, and hop into my Civic. I turn the ignition, and it lights up, fast and smooth. I glance at the empty road, the dark pathway from my house to the rest of the world. For a split second, I think about my things, my possessions, my TV, my friends, my computer…and then…I put the car in gear. For now, I’m going to watch the sunrise on the beach. I will do it, and I will enjoy it. But one day…I’ll be long, long gone. “You’re making a mistake, if you think you can just walk away from everything. Be some knight in shinning amour. There’s nothing to save, you know? She’s happy.” It says, grinning into my rear view mirror icily. “I know. But so am I. And persistence, humble persistence…it’s a virtue.” I drive. Fade to black. The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one. (Wilhelm Steckel) This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=760