by Forish, E.
I dunno what the fuck he did, I think, but it’s not my fuckin’ problem.
I momentarily surrender to the mission of finding Blake and decide instead to explore the upstairs of Mardi Gras. Immediately, I notice a white baby grand along the far wall of the spacious room.
I gravitate towards the instrument, gently placing my fingers on its ivory keys. They feel smooth beneath my fingertips.
I lose myself between the notes of Ludwig van Beethoven’s “Quasi una fantasia.” The sadness twinkles beneath my fingers. My hands control the sorrowful tones; my movements control the atmosphere of the room. I cannot remember the last time I felt so in control; I cannot remember the last time I created such a thing of beauty.
My head sways softly to the melancholy harmony. The sorrow pours from my heart and into the keys. I am lost in the sound; I am lost in the purity. It soothes the evening’s maladies.
My hands no longer belong to my body. The keys play without my guidance. In this moment, I am free; in this moment, I am the song, and I am beautiful in my desolation.
The music rises in crescendo. I become weightless in its climax. The room and its inhabitants disappear. Only the music remains.
I glide across the broken melodies. I travel into the timeless space that exists in the silence between the notes. I arrive in the nighttime lull of faded promises. I separate my mind from my body, and
A voice startles me out of my trance.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
I crash back to tangible reality.
“Apple Martini?” I request without falter.
“Sure.” The man with graying hair and weathered skin disappears.
I resume playing until he returns by my side.
“Don’t expect anything,” I caution. “I use my mind, not my body.”
Respect flashes across his face.
“Teach me,” he says. “To play.”
I drink martinis as he learns the C major scale.
Four drinks later, the scale is flawless.
“I gotta get going,” I announce.
“Thank you,” he says. He continues to practice, even in my absence.
I make one last serious attempt to find Blake. I stagger outside and look in all directions. People flow from the bars and into the streets. I stand motionless for several minutes. I scan the crowd for Blake to no avail.
I eventually turn left down Taylor Street.
“Blake!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Blake!”
Hours have passed since his disappearance. I feel a desperate need to find him again.
“Blake! Blake!”
People turn their heads to stare, but it doesn’t deter the strength of my voice.
“Blake!” I cry into the deserted night. “Blake!”
Where the fuck are you?
* * *
2:00 A.M:
The lights are off, and the bars are closed.
I return to Mardi Gras in a state of drunken oblivion and walk upstairs. I sit on a couch in the middle of the room and use my hands to cover the stream of tears falling down my cheeks.
Within seconds staff members form a circle around me. I feel trapped and want to disappear. I bury my face in my hands as the trickle of tears turns into an uncontrollable flood.
People speak, but I do not hear their words. Reality collapses around me until nothing remains but fear and regret. My body grows stiff, ripe with paralysis. I freeze, head in my lap and arms wrapped around my knees.
I look down from the ceiling and observe myself acting in this manner. I feel the vibrations of pure energy surge through my consciousness, but the body does not react. It just remains motionless on the couch. I cannot control the separate entity of my body, only observe.
I hear a loud buzz surge throughout the entire room, drowning out all the voices of those that engulf me. The sound reaches its pinnacle height and then abruptly drops away. I am left alone with only my thoughts, but none of them make any sense as the dream dissolves.
No more California. No publication. No self-discovery. No financial stability. No temperance, reparation of the soul, or self-metamorphosis. No reconciliation with Blake. No more reason to simply believe, for if the lies aren’t true, then nothing is.
The vibrations intensify, but my body below does not quiver. The energy simply culminates throughout my fractured soul until I feel as though I may die from its power. The room radiates bright light around its edges. All entities merge together into a single, glowing whiteness, and the buzz of universal consciousness returns with ferocity.
And then the flash disappears, and the noise recedes. I suddenly fall from my place above and snap back into my body. I raise my head and scan the room with hollow eyes. The faces seem menacing in my psychotic state of mind.
I need to get out of here, I think.
Some instinctual mechanism in my brain sends a message to my legs, and I manage to stand. I pass through the circle of people, ignoring their voices as I leave the entire scene behind me.
My tears dry in the wind as I find myself outside the club. The once familiar city now seems alien to me.
I find myself standing next to my Camry. I place the key into the lock and turn, but nothing clicks. I remove the key and notice that it’s bent.
I grab a piece of asphalt broken off from the curb and smash the back window, watching the shards of glass scatter across my backseat.
I pray that the key will work in the ignition. It does, and I watch the lights of the city disappear in my rearview mirror.
“All you gotta do is believe the lie yourself.” Blake’s words echo inside my skull.
I realize that belief is not enough, for without faith, belief always falls apart.
I tell myself one last lie as I drive down Route 57.
I tell myself that I still have faith in my future.
CHAPTER X: ON ROUTE 57
“It’s not where you’re from, not where you’re at; it’s where you’re going, and I am going home to the land of the lost souls
[lxxvii] .”
3:00 A.M:
I abandon the city night behind me and surrender to the fact that the time to return home
[lxxviii] to Granville, groveling and jaded, has finally arrived.
As I abandon my last milligram of dignity in preparation to reappear on my mother’s front porch, I turn up the volume on the radio.
“I declare I don’t care no more —”
I lose myself within the solace of music as I travel down the familiar hills, around the predictable curves, and over all the other inimitable, topographical features of the remarkably routine Route 57. I fumble through my purse for my pack of Camels and a lighter, simultaneously shouting along to the lyrics with an absent mind.
“… To hit the streets tonight — to drive along these shit town lights.”
I deeply inhale the nicotine-enriched tobacco in a pathetic attempt to calm the raucous inner dialogue characteristic of pure mania, exacerbated by excessive alcohol consumption.
“I’m not growin’ up, I’m just burning out —”
As I promptly exhale, the cloud of smoke escapes through the smashed window in the back, dissolving into the frigid winter airs of another bleak New England night.
“ And I’ve stepped in line to walk amongst the dead
[lxxix] .”
I flick the ashes onto the floor of my Camry as I guide the vehicle around the bend and hit the accelerator to climb yet another incline in the roadway. Within seconds my headlights shine across the reflective, white sign that indicates my arrival into the town of Southwick.
Back in the Pioneer days, Southwick earned the charming nickname Poverty Plains, and, although in modern times the U.S. government can now safely label the majority of citizens as “middle class
[lxxx] ,” the name still applies, for the town remains devoid of a certain level of livability. After founding the settlement on an entirely agrarian system of living, the now obsolete lifestyle l
eaves the area trapped in time, both economically and socially. Tobacco barns, despite their continued usage, rot and decay in the middle of open fields where Jamaicans labor for minimum wage. Ancient tractors, mottled with patches of rust, plow through rock-strewn soils, maneuvering amidst the entourage of free-range chickens and Billy goats. Cornstalks sway like hypnotized serpents in the soft breezes that gust between split-rail fences and the planks of historical farm houses.
Beyond the farmlands, Southwick’s modest commercial district offers little in the ways of entertainment or convenience, hosting space for a half dozen pizza joints, four gas stations, three fast-food chains, several mini-marts, one each of a department and a grocery store, and, most recently, a colossal tractor supply depot. Multiple liquor stores keep the area well supplied with the vice of choice, as do the numerous dive bars, where the townsfolk commit themselves to the pursuit of maintaining their family’s alcoholism throughout the generations. In combination with the meager surroundings, the deficiency of leisure activities causes the population of 9,000 people to both lack a certain level of sophistication and to thrive on the diversion of gossip.
Eventually, the rumor that Southwick lingers in an outdated era will spread throughout the neighborhoods, and the villagers will, naturally, dissent against such condescending classifications. They will abandon their archaic values and immerse themselves in efforts to satisfy the new American Dream, which translates into accumulating a multitude of expensive, material possessions and living on private roadways with names like Secluded Ridge. To fulfill the Dream they must also break the unfavorable odds of being raised in such a dead end town, must defy their roots and succeed in modern society despite their humble upbringings.
Alas, some will prefer to maintain more conventional traditions, for a certain level of elegance emerges from the perpetuation of one’s ancestry, but the pursuits of both the agrarian believers and the American Dream-seekers will conclude with, ultimately, the same result: a serious cultural clash amongst the citizens of Southwick. The confused populace, restricted within their diminutive geographic area
[lxxxi] , will remain lost between the two opposing paradigms of the old and the new, forever indeterminate of their place within the world due to the lack of strict social cues that normally dictates the cultural standards expected within any given community.
As the adults attempt to sort through the cataclysmic stigmas spawned by the cultural collision, the impressionable adolescents, inordinately indecisive by nature, will suffer through their own severe crises of identity, unsure as to whether or not they should ride tractors and dress in cowboy hats with matching boots or drive Mustangs and wear designer Rocawear lounge suits, but one factor unifies even the most disparate cliques: partying. From growing pot in cornfields to buying beer with fake I.D.s, from picking ‘shrooms out of cow dung to blowing lines in their mothers’ basements, from rolling on a batch of Mercedes to shooting up with their older brothers, teenagers endure the painstakingly boring quality of life through experimentation with chemically altered states of consciousness, and for that reason alone, I force myself to overlook the disparaging qualities of Southwick and appreciate its drug-infused sacraments.
My attention returns to the roadway as the next song begins to blast through the speakers.
“I’m taking all you down with me”
I open the center console and remove the pre-packed pipe stored inside. I bring the glassware to my lips and, letting go of the steering wheel momentarily, ignite the delectable substance it contains. Inhaling the fumes deeply, I allow the tetrahydrocannabinol to linger deep inside my lungs for half a minute before I slowly exhale. I perform this ritualistic incidence until only ash remains and then permit my thoughts to wander alongside the melodious lyrics of the music.
“… Do you ever think back to another time?”
Constantly. I revel in the ghosts of the past, as if those memories dictate a future forever eclipsed by the permanent shadows of previous mistakes.
“Does it bring you so down that you thought you lost your mind?”
I exist in perfect comfort with the knowledge that I have, indeed, lost my mind. I misplaced it years ago, and, although at times I desperately seek to rediscover its unknown whereabouts, often through the justified
[lxxxii] use of psychedelic substances, the outward mania, fueled by inward self-loathing, generates a false certainty that I can survive without my sanity, for I have endured for so long without it that these crazed thoughts and emotions epitomize my normal state of consciousness. It is the acceptance of this maddened mindstate as standard that drags me down, for normalcy equates to the absence of mental stability and, consequently, to the ubiquitous presence of mania and self-loathing.
“…Do you ever build up all the small things in your head to make one problem that adds up to nothing?”
The lies, the drugs, the bars, the crimes, the parties, the friendships, the collection of all my personal problems and affairs will, one day, be lost among the other trivial and infinite moments of history, the moments enacted by myself and all the other great, unknown players of the world, for within the wholly comprehensive, universal design of things, I know my actions amount to nothing.
“To me, it’s nothing
[lxxxiii] .”
My tire dips into one of the many potholes that litter the New England streets, jolting my attention back to the roadway. I robotically drive across the deserted Route 57 as I distractedly evaluated the suburban landscape that flanks either side of me. Inflatable Santas mar the front yards of otherwise pristinely landscaped lawns, swaying gently in the crisp and bitter winds. Icicle lights twinkle under twilight skies, trimming the exterior of every other homestead. Wooden reindeer pose lifelessly beneath snow-dappled pines and birches, promising the continuation of another endless winter.
I apply more pressure to the gas pedal and accelerate past the modest houses, built mostly in the styles of Capes and ranches, and imagine the families sleeping soundly inside, oblivious to the wonders and mischief of the Saturday nightlife. I notice the flickering blue glow of a television set through the front windows of one particular house and wonder if they, too, are now unwinding from a late night out partying in downtown.
Rambling meadows soon break the monotony of suburbia as I draw ever closer to my hometown. A blanket of crystallized snow covers the surface of the fields, a naturally pure sheet of untouched whiteness that tonight appears damaged and scarred from the manmade tracks of zigzagging snowmobiles. As the open countryside surrenders to thick woodlands, ancient oaks and elegant maples commence to replace all the street lights along the roadside, stretching upward with their naked branches and intermingling with the needled limbs of pines.
“You’re the reason for my misery”
I become preoccupied by the pitch-black proponent of nighttime perplexities that penetrates the proximate panorama, and I feel my manic energy collapse under the serenity of stolen shadows that casts comforting darkness around the unbounded nothingness.
I’m almost there, I think. Three miles to go.
My eyelids start to slide shut as I reach a place of internal peace.
I can finally relax now, for I have entered the safety of familiar and desolate territory.
I crank the radio’s volume in hopes that the noise will keep me awake and focused for the brief remainder of my trip.
“Strange how you’ve become my biggest enemy”
Suddenly, the headlights of my car catch the reflection of the eyes of a possum as it meanders across the street. He starts to scuttle faster in order to avoid the dangers promised by the unexpected piece of machinery that barrels towards him. I slam on the brakes, and he crosses the road without harm.
“… Maybe it’s just jealous mixing up with a violent mind”
I continue down the lonely street and enter into the Gorge. On the left giant icicles cling to the sides of cliff-like rocks that tower above the roadway. On the right pines an
d birch trees block the view of the other side of the precipice, which drops off vertically into frigid waters below. With potential hazards on either side, I know that one false move could equate to complete disaster, but the familiarity of my surroundings numbs my attitude towards potential dangers.
“A circumstance that doesn’t make much sense”
I cross the imaginary line that differentiates the town of Southwick from that of Granville, gliding smoothly around the bends at 55 m.p.h. The vehicle feels like an extension of the self as I maneuver through the sharp curves with precision and confidence.
“Or maybe I’m just dumb
[lxxxiv] .”
My momentary serenity falls away like forbidden nirvana as the vehicle begins to fishtail dramatically across the lanes. In a pathetic attempt to regain control, I jerk the steering wheel sharply towards the right, causing the car to propel rapidly towards the guardrail as the tires slip over a sheet of black ice. Instinctively but erroneously I then twist the wheel in the opposite direction, away from the spin.
“Fuck,” I say under my breath as the vehicle hurdles across the lanes and towards the cliff. I panic further and stomp on the brakes full force
[lxxxv] .
My sedan skids across the opposite lane, finally ending its spastic and unpredictable movements by crash-landing into a monstrous snow bank.
I inhale a deep breath and release a sigh filled with both relief and frustration. I kick the car into reverse and tap the gas pedal, an action that results in spinning tires. I apply more pressure to the gas only to hear the rubber respond with a squeal.
I slam my hands against the dashboard and at the top of my lungs scream, “What the fuck?!”
I climb out of the driver’s seat and kick the front wheel with all of my strength. “You fuckin’ piece of shit,” I grumble as I walk towards the rear of the vehicle. I fall to my knees and begin to furiously dig out the snow around the tires with my bare hands. I make little progress before I notice the headlights of an approaching vehicle. I pause to observe the white S.U.V. as it rounds the bend, and after a second of further inspection, I notice its reflective decal that reads, “Granville Police.”