by Forish, E.
I empty the groceries from my pockets before stepping into the passenger’s seat and turning on the radio. I ignore Blake’s words as he jabbers about local politics and drives towards my father’s ski condo in West Dover, Vermont. We’ve been crashing there for the past few nights now, drinking and smoking in the midst of attempting to alleviate my mental anguishes, caused by and caught within the counterproductive cycle of consuming speed and collapsing into psychotic fits and consuming K-pins and collapsing into barely-conscious sleep and consuming more speed and then consuming mushrooms and then consuming alcohol and then consuming marijuana and then consuming just a little more speed and then a lot more liquor and maybe just another cap or two of mushrooms and definitely another joint or three until the whole charade falls apart in an hysteria of tears.
And as I wonder if tonight will be any different, I notice Blake’s insidious serpentine smile from the corner of my eye, but I keep my thoughts to myself and allow my mind to wander to the beat of the music. We use each other to satisfy our own selfish needs and desires, I think, regardless of the psychological discord that always stands between us.
And tonight my mania stands a little too close to Blake’s egocentricity, for by the end of the week my psychoses will leave me standing alone.
CHAPTER IV: ON ROUTE 9
“She’s got everything I need: pharmacy keys. She’s fallen hard for me; I can see it in her eyes. She acts just like a nurse with all the other guys
[xxiii] .”
JANUARY 8, 2006. IT’S SATURDAY. I awake alone in a fancy hotel room at the base of a ski resort in West Dover. I stretch and yawn and listen to various joints crack as a thousand questions bludgeon my mind, but all seem trivial in comparison to how I got here, an answer to which I couldn’t care less to discover.
I roll off the king-sized bed and locate my purse. I pull out the film canister that normally contains a variety of pills, but it seems as though my personal pharmacy declared bankruptcy overnight. I tilt my head back, pop the remaining three Adderall tablets into the back of my mouth, and swallow quickly without the aid of water. They hit my throat with a sweet and familiar taste that causes my mood to lift before the drug even hits, for the mere anticipation of the chemical reaction about to take place inside my body offers calm relief, and soon I know that the prescription speed will decay all natural feelings only to replace them with the sensation of content invincibility. I welcome such sensations.
I toss the now-empty canister into the trash bin. I take quick inventory of my purse, and only less than a half an ounce of marijuana remains. I grow anxious over the need to replenish my supplies, and as I gather my meager possessions, I remember the motive for renting a hotel room the night before: I feared that unwanted visitors
[xxiv] would find me if I stayed one more night at my father’s condo.
For the past week the condo has been a never-ending social gathering, with random people coming and going as they pleased, always well supplied with weed and liquor, while I, the gracious hostess, ingested mushrooms in secret. Caught up in their own problems and melodramas, no one seems to notice the fact that, by now, I trip on a daily basis.
One particular trip several nights ago remains at the forefront of my memories. I ingest well over a quarter-ounce of mushrooms in Bailey and Jay’s apartment and decide to exhaust the trip’s peak by communing with the tropical fish that reside in their spacious 50-gallon tank. The primordial creatures swarm in a blaze of iridescence as their world swirls into blurs and streaks of blues and yellows and silvers until void of all colors completely, just one mass of beautifully fluid movement that creates trails of tiny bubbles like fireflies that light the way, liquidating thoughts of desperation by offering their fragile luminescence on gentle wingtips as they hurl through the underwater skies like phosphorescent raindrops, and I wonder what these tears of light have to offer; and as this multicolored galaxy merges with the frequency of my thoughts, they transport me to ancient Amazonian jungles where original sin resonates in the night sky, sending ripples of emotion, anguish, and empathy in every direction, and the energy generates crazy sparkles that fall from the sky like liquid drops of mercury in disguise as precious gems, burning embers that scar the soul as one tries to grasp them.
I remain elusive within the unnatural fantasia, for my mental eccentricities camouflage my vulnerabilities within the chaos, and I float along like vaporized neurons through the air and into a new cosmic realm, where I view existence from a new perspective; and as I watch over this visionary landscape of yesteryears, my elusive eyes perfectly reflect my own soul as it shines outward with time, adding wisdom and light to its essence, and, in this moment of suspended reality, I understand that a limitless soul can never be trapped in conditions, for I cannot accept the occupancy of another in my jaded heart; and even though I am a beautiful anonymous these days, faded and vacant, I cannot learn to love myself, for in love we only slip and stumble as we choose sides and hide truths, all in the feeble pretense of rediscovering some semblance of balance between ourselves and the other, and I need no other.
Convoluted moments such as these make it difficult to vocalize my inner thoughts coherently, for I cannot translate them into words as quickly as they enter my head. Just as an idea fully materializes, another will rush in and take its place, making it impossible to concentrate —
WherecanIfindmoreweed?
Whathappenedtoallmy’phetamine?
Whydoesthatguykeepstaringatme?
WhatamIdoinginWestDover?
WherethefuckdidIleavemycar?
WherethehellisBlake?
HasitbeenanhouryetsinceIatethose’shrooms?
Whydon’tIfeelhighanymore?
WheredidIleavemy
containerfullofpills?
The subsequent rapid speech and bizarre insights that spew from my mouth like a scorching lava of lies make it difficult for anyone to understand what, exactly, is wrong with me; I am fairly uncertain myself, but I do have a strong premonition that others must just write me off as a speed freak in opposition to a bipolar nightmare, nothing more than a lying drug addict
[xxv] undeserving of the emotional support that my deteriorating psyche so desperately craves.
And in the now I crave any sort of benzodiazepine but ran out two days earlier and still feel the chemical exiting my body. My hands tremble uncontrollably as I pack my luggage, stowing my pipe and the small amount of remaining weed separately in my purse. I scan the hotel room with glazed eyes, smoky like opium dens, for any possessions I had carelessly overlooked and then take the elevator down to the lobby to check out. People’s stares penetrate my back like poisoned darts, but I walk passed their confused and troubled faces with an air of importance despite my disheveled outward appearance.
Wrinkles decorate my entire outfit, for I couldn’t be bothered to change since yesterday. I wear black pinstriped pants with 34-inch cuffs that drag across the floor despite the chunky soles of my black boots. A stained white t-shirt depicts the image of a chemist in Day-Glo colors, pouring liquid from a test tube and into a beaker. Underneath it reads, “This should fuck ‘em up.” Overtop, I dress in a Geoffrey Bean purple button-down shirt, purchased from the Salvation Army, coupled with an oversized black blazer with fraying seams. A trusty brown fedora
[xxvi] adorns my head and shades my revealing eyes, which shine with psychedelic mystery and glisten with the thin gloss of ‘phetamine, from strangers and their assumptions. My skin resembles porcelain, delicate and unnatural, and I figure that to the general public I must look like a zombie in a recycled soul.
I approach the desk with yesterday’s newspaper in my left hand and my luggage in the right. After some quandaries regarding the physical absence of my credit card
[xxvii] , I settle my bill and decide that rather than hauling around all my belongings, I’d leave them at the hotel’s baggage check, assuming that Blake, like a hired servant, would fetch them at my beckon call later in the day.
I trudge
across the snow-covered parking lot towards the bus stop, where I wait for the MOOver, a white shuttle bus painted with black splotches like a dairy cow. It arrives, and I step inside to ride alongside the ski tourists, clad in $500 parkas and coordinating sets of designer gloves and hats. They tote around clunky bags, crammed with ski boots and goggles and helmets, as well as the skis themselves and matching poles. I release a deep sigh of discomfort as I find a seat currently occupied with ski gear but no owner. As I shove the gear aside, the person seated adjacent from me begins to speak.
“Hey, that’s my —” but I shoot him a glance that clearly says, “Don’t fuck with me or I’ll castrate you in a second.”
Twenty minutes pass, and I arrive at my destination: the Wilmington branch of Chittenden Bank. I dig through my purse as I walk inside, attempting to locate a $100 Savings Bond. I find it without much trouble and approach the teller with the crinkled slip of paper in my left hand. She provides me with the appropriate forms, which I fill out as I contemplate my current financial situation.
I undoubtedly maxed out my $2,000 line of credit last night at the hotel, for my credit card represented my main source of income throughout the entire month of December, and with a new year upon me, my funds are seriously depleting. After managing to spend a lifetime of savings bonds, intended to support the beginning of my adult life after graduating from college, on drugs and petty luxuries over the course of three months, I am left with only the account numbers of various credits cards, checking accounts, and trust funds
[xxviii] that I have stolen from close friends and casual acquaintances alike
[xxix] as a means of financial support, but even in combination with the small amounts of cash that I generate by occasionally selling drugs and pawning possessions, I still struggle to sustain my daily habits and eccentric spending.
The teller hands me one hundred dollars, which I greedily shove into my pocket before I exit the bank. While leaving, I take note of the numerous security cameras mounted throughout the lobby and feel my heart stop for several seconds as I realize that some unknown figure in an unspecified location watches over me, recording my movements like some sort of specimen in a documentary. I envision crowded audiences staring at huge silver screens that project images of my each and every action, and as their scientific eyes pass judgment on my behaviors, I fear their verdicts hold little promise for my future.
I light up a Camel as I stand outside on the vacant sidewalk, allowing the winter air to clear my mind of such paranoid sentiments and instead turn my attention to the dilemma of retrieving my Camry from the parking lot of the Brattleboro Co-Op, a twenty minute drive down Route 9 from Wilmington. After reviewing my options I decide not to worry about the car and instead focus my energies on reaching my hometown, Granville, Massachusetts.
FLASHBACK TO 1754: Granville is first incorporated. The convenience of numerous streams and rivers encourages various traders to settle in the spacious area of western Massachusetts, but as the brutality of the winters encases the farmlands with snow and ice and the impurity of the soils litters the fields with pebbles and rocks, the town’s people, knowing nothing beyond the agrarian lifestyle, experience bouts of discouragement, ultimately leading to the decision of many to abandon the rural cul-de-sac in the hills and migrate westward towards the flatlands of Ohio with no intention to return.
I cannot blame any individual for wanting to leave Granville, for with a residency of less than 2,000 citizens, I have yet to learn what, exactly, the town has to offer beyond vast nothingness. With the exception of the country store and local ice cream shop, the area has failed entirely at commercialization and, subsequently, modernization; and although equivalent to a private school atmosphere due to its minimal number of students, the public school system stops short at the eighth grade; and besides the fact that traffic lights remain completely nonexistent on all roadways, one can additionally treat stop signs like yield signs without much risk of causing an accident; and although the population remains excruciatingly low, pastures full of sheep, goats, chickens, and, most notably, dairy cowsall guarded by numerous varieties of manmade enclosures, from split rail to chain linked fences, barbed wire to electric compensate for the shortage of people.
Although Granville severely lacks the conveniences and excitements of a more populous urban setting, including bars and clubs, drug dealers, and a liquor store on every corner, it allows the individual plenty of space and serenity to reflect upon life and its various mysteries. Back in high school, I sit at the home of a childhood friend, listening to Cat Stevens on vinyl as the acid
[xxx] slowly creeps into my brain, and within moments I decide that I need to relocate outdoors, alone.
I ramble between the dozens of gardens not yet in bloom and anticipate the dazzle of their rainbow colors within the upcoming months, imagining an infinite number of shapes and sizes blazing in the summer heat, petals radiating shades of blues and oranges and yellows and pinks like the neon lights of Vegas. In the backyard I cross over a stream, whose clear water glitters like crystals in the final light of dusk, cautiously placing my feet on stepping stones coated with plush moss, and enter into the wild, darting between maples and oaks and pines and poplars and birches as I hurriedly embark towards my ultimate destination. The birds chirp in stereophonic, orchestral harmony like a personal soundtrack for my distorted world as they flutter between the branches that reach upward, ripe with budding leaves that illuminate various shades of green into my dilated pupils.
Within ten minutes I emerge into a small clearing, overgrown with thick blades of grass that sway in the late spring breeze to the rhythm of the earth. I saunter through the tall grass, which feels like feathers brushing against my skin, and approach the infinite rows of apple trees that inhabit the field just beyond the modest meadow. My sudden presence startles a herd of nearly twenty deer, who instinctively bound away in fear over the thickets of grass, white tails bobbing up and down like tufts of cotton attached to broken springs. I stare at them, completely transfixed, until their profiles become mere silhouettes on the horizon, but soon those, too, vanish entirely into the descending night sky.
I find myself following the pathway created by the deer and wander like a lost spirit for an undisclosed amount of time, for Time never exists in such states of altered consciousness. I pause amidst the orchard to absorb my surroundings, and I see nothing but row upon row of apple trees, whose tens of thousands of tiny blossoms glow iridescent under the pale moonlight. The outer tips of their petals are white as pearls, fading into a soft pink towards the centers. Tiny brown spots speckle their flesh like misplaced droplets of mud scattered across virgin snow. Several dots of pollen add the tiniest flash of yellow to the color scheme of the velvet-like flowers, and I reach out to touch one. The petals oscillate like a flag caught in an ocean breeze as the flower’s center pulsates, as if alive and breathing. I retract my hand and simply stare at these delicate creations while my mind warps around in circles of abstract thought.
I realize that the birth of these flowers and their eventual fruition will, by harvest season, lead ultimately to barren branches, gnarled and bent like the fingers of an arthritic grandfather, and all the leaves of the surrounding oaks and maples will change from emerald green to brilliant hues of red and yellow, like the gaseous fires of a thousand stars combined, before slowly slipping away towards the ground, shriveled of life and drained of color.
And I wonder how the fluctuation of the seasons affects my own survival, whether or not I, too, will slip away from the source that provides me with nourishment, and, with the ‘cid running rampant inside my body, I am aware of its ability to offer me reasons to persevere throughout the months ahead, regardless of the season, for without it or all the other chemicals, reality would be completely unbearable, and I cannot learn to love the world around me nor myself without the crutch of such altered perceptions.
I shake away such convoluted memories and cross the street in Wilmington to th
e Sunoco station, observing each and every vehicle that approaches the pumps in search of one with Massachusetts plates and an approachable drive. I soon find my match a maroon Ford F-150, adorn with multiple patches of rust and the stereotypical redneck driver. The man, who appears fairly average in terms of weight and height, dresses in torn flannel and mud-encrusted Levis. Despite his lack of style, he appears harmless enough, so I decide to ask him where he’s headed.
“Greenfield,” the man replies flatly.
I quickly think of nearby landmarks before I reveal a tentative destination. “Any way you could get me to the Holyoke Mall?” I query.
The mall, located approximately halfway between Greenfield and Granville, seems like an ideal location to my frazzled mind.
“Sure. Why not?” replies the man without hesitation. He opens the door to the vehicle and I step inside, graciously accepting the unquestioning willingness of this complete stranger to safely deliver me to the curbside of the Holyoke Mall.
As we travel across the Vermont landscape, I feel the need to comply with the hitchhiker’s golden rule: gas, ass, or grass. Having little to offer in all areas, I eventually am overcome with the desperate urge to get high, so I ask, “Wanna smoke a bowl?”
“Hell yes,” the stranger replies with alacrity. I cram a large bud from my stash into a glass pipe as we drive passed a poorly marked road sign, indicating that we are now in Massachusetts. As we enter into my home state, I take a long puff on the pipe, filling my lungs deeply with the comfort of marijuana smoke before I pass the paraphernalia along to my newfound companion. As he exhales a massive hit, he informs me that we draw closer to our first destination, at which point an associate will join us in the journey.