The Seven Habits

by William Todd Rose

By the time I got home, man, that feeling had mutated into some gnarly shit. It still had that diarrhea piquancy to it, but, at the same time, it also felt like someone had released a jar full of moths down my throat and my stomach was the light drawing them in, if ya dig where I’m comin’ from. So I packed the bong good and tight, ya know? I mean, I had to practically cave my head in just to get the water gurglin’, dude. But once I finally released the carb, that shit shot down my throat like liquid silk. No coughin’ or anything… And let me tell ya, that Steel can get his grubby-grubs on some primo herb, man. Smoothest shit I ever had the pleasure of burnin’.

  Anyhow, weed usually has this medicinal effect on me, see, and I—

  No, you fuckin’ smart ass, for your information, I don’t have glaucoma. Nothin’ wrong with these peepers, believe you me. I see everything. Including how you’re tryin’ to shake me up with all these dumb-ass questions. You’re tryin’ to see if there’s any pennies left in the ‘ole piggy bank. But if ya don’t hear that rattle, it doesn’t mean that my inner child’s done run off to the candy store, man. Maybe it means that pig has had so much change shoved down his gullet that everything’s packed too tight to even so much as clink. Ever think abut that, mother fucker? No, of course you didn’t. Why am I not surprised?

  See, when I say weed had a medicinal effect on me, I just mean that it calms my system, dig? A little spot of indigestion or queasiness and it’s entirely gone by the time the munchies set in. That’s why they prescribe the stuff to chemo patients, man. And I’d much rather put a little THC into my system than any of these mad scientist concoctions they call medicine, ya know? Damn, half the time you end up with something twice as bad as what you took the fuckin’ meds for.

  Only, it didn’t work this time. Instead of gettin’ all mellow and into my subconscious flow, I start squirmin’ around in my chair. Before ya know it, I’m thumbin’ through magazines like I was lookin’ for money tucked between the pages, just rifling through these old back issues of Discover and Scientific American. But I’m not reading them, not even lookin’ at the pictures. Like my hands needed somethin’ to do and that was the best they could come up with, see?

  I start to get frustrated because it also feels like I really am lookin’ for something, man. Like I know its in these old magazines somewhere, so close that I can practically smell it. Only I won’t know exactly what it is I’m searchin’ for until I actually see it. Then I get this idea that maybe it ain’t even in those periodicals at all. Maybe I’m just sittin’ there in my little shithole apartment and pissin’ away my buzz when I should be expanding my parameters, ya know?

  So I just kind throw all the mags into this big pile on the floor and, since my hands don’t have anything to keep ‘em busy, apparently my feet decide it’s their turn to join in on the fun. They start tapping away at the floor like I was playin’ the kick drum in a thrash metal band. The cheap glass in my window starts rattling around in the panes like it’s makin’ them nervous or something.

  Then—just like that—I gotta be doin’ something. Anything. So I hop up outta that chair and start pacing back and forth, so much that I’m surprised I didn’t make the carpet even more threadbare than what it already was. Not to be outdone, my hands apparently jump back into the fray ‘cause I’m lighting one smoke after another and suckin’ ‘em down like I was tryin’ to earn my merit badge for emphysema or some shit. Which, of course, doesn’t help my damn nausea in the least bit, so then I’m queasy and light-headed, and feeling as wired as if I’d downed half a bottle of No-Doz.

  Part of me knows what it is. Hell, I’ve never been good at waiting for anything. I fuckin’ detest standing in lines, man, and stoplights make me wanna pull the hairs right outta my beard in big, bushy handfuls. Don’t even get my ass started on the DMV. That place is like a circle of Hell so heinous that even Dante couldn’t see it comin’.

  So within an hour and a half or so, I was prowlin’ through my pad like a caged tiger, like the place had somehow gotten smaller than it already was, ya know? Like the cracked plaster walls were inching a little closer every time I turned my back, pushing all my junk toward me. Kinda like that trash compactor scene in Star Wars, man. I had all this garbage and second-hand furniture feeling like it was tryin’ to squeeze the air right outta my lungs, suffocating me with stale smoke, beer, and that musty odor you sometimes get in old thrift stores.

  And, all the while, I got this beast stretching its tentacles through the murky waters of my mind, just waitin’ for the right moment to coil around my leg and pull me under.

  ‘Cause I can’t seem to get Clarice Hudson outta my head, see? I look at the poster with Einstein stickin’ his tongue out, try to breathe with intention and empty the ‘ole noggin’ of everything that’s clutterin’ it up. But what am I really thinkin’ about? Those plastic tumblers they sell at Dollar Bonanza and how this bitch has probably touched each and every one with her sweaty little fingers.

  Some people drink outta those things without rinsin’ them out, man. Healthy people. Innocent people. Might as well just inject them with ultra-concentrated contagion right then and there, for what it’s worth. Then I notice this empty cup from Meat World peeking at me out of the garbage and I get this image of her shoveling all that food down her throat: starve a fever, feed a cold, and founder infection.

  And I know Steel’s right. I gotta hang loose, chill the fuck out, and hope he can get the damn roscoe a helluva lot faster than he said he could.

  But this chick is doggin’ me, man. I can’t so much as turn a corner without her infected ass pouncing into my thoughts. Yeah, I realize that probably does sound a bit obessive, but if you woulda been in my shoes, you woulda done the same damn thing, mother-fucker. Guaranteed.

  So I think maybe I’ll watch a little TV, right? Something to distract me. I plop my ass down on the couch, dig the remote out from between the cushions, and press up on the duct tape covering the back so that the batteries will actually connect with the posts. Apparently the last time I watched the tube, I’d left it on one of those music channels. Nah, man, not like MTV or anything. They don’t even play music anymore, anyway. These are the ones that are on channels like 836, 837, and so on. Kinda like radio through your television… I can tell by that stupid look on your face that you still don’t have a clue what I’m talkin’ about. Get yourself some digital cable, then, you get the full package and you’ll see exactly what I mean.

  Anyhow, the point is that it’s on this music channel, right? And what the hell do you think is playing when that screen lights up, man? The Cowboy Junkies. Acoustic cover of Blue Moon. Can you believe that shit? Blue fuckin’ Moon. Of all the damn songs… Shit, man, it was like I couldn’t win.

  By this time, I’m so worked up that I hurl that remote at the wall with everything I got, and it shatters into half a dozen shards of plastic. I spring up off that couch like it had a built in ejector seat, and if you thought I was pacing before, then ya shoulda seen me this time. I mean, I coulda walked down to the East End and back four times over. I musta been stompin’ around pretty hard or something, ‘cause that old prick who lives downstairs is just bangin’ away at his ceiling with a broomstick or some shit, ya know? For some reason, my eyes kept darting to that digital clock I’d made from a potato and a glass of water as if I were trying to catch it in a lie.

  Now when I’ve taken too much speed, I can sometimes ease myself back down with the right tunes. I just gotta crank the volume so loud that it almost seems like each note is forming itself from the air itself. Like all those molecules zipping around can ring out tones and timbre when they bounce off each other.

  It can’t be any of the heavy stuff, ya know? Dead Can Dance usually works, most of Enigma’s stuff. But as I thumbed through the stacks of CDs on either side of the entertainment center, I realize that none of them felt right. I’d picked up Toward the Within, which is probably the greatest live album ever recorded, and only get as far as the second verse in Rakim before I’m al
ready searchin’ for something different.

  After trying four or five different discs, I finally realize that I’m not just tryin’ to stumble across the perfect music to soothe the savage beast… I’ve got somethin’ specific in mind. QNTAL. They kinda do this medieval-goth thing. Haunting female vocals with lotsa lyrics in Latin, all these archaic instruments that I ain’t heard since stoning witches was all the rage. Really groovy stuff, man.

  The problem is, I’ve only got one of their albums, and it’s not exactly playable anymore.

  See, a coupla months back… or was it a couple weeks? No, it was definitely months, I’m positive of that. I think. Anyhow, at some intermittent point in the past, I let this whore borrow it. Now, I ain’t trying to be misogynistic or nothin’. Princess is literally a whore, man. Just because she spreads for pills instead of cash doesn’t change a thing. So, against my better judgment, I let her borrow this disc, right? Soon as I did, I kicked myself in the ass, thinkin’ she would probably lump it in with a bunch of boosted CDs and see what she could get at the pawn shop for the entire lot. About fell over when she actually returned it, case and all. But anytime you’re dealin’ with Princess there’s always gonna be a problem—whether its her pukin’ on your junk when going down or some pissed off dude tryin’ to beat your ass ‘cause he thinks you’re her pimp—something is gonna go wrong.

  In this case, I didn’t realize what it was until the next time I was ready to play that disc man. I put in the CD player and the fuckin’ thing just kept spinnin’. I could hear it whirling around in there, kinda clickin’ every few seconds, but the damn thing would never play. So I take it out, thinking there’s probably dried mustard on it or something and it just needs a good cleaning.

  Why mustard? Because the bitch lives on that shit, man. She’s got more condiment packages on her floor than used rubbers. Grabs handfuls from every fast food joint she passes and eats it right outta the damn package. Now, I can’t say for certain that it’s all she eats, but this chick is so skinny that it’s like humping a skeleton, so it wouldn’t really surprise me.

  You’ve done gone and got me off topic, again. The reason I even brought up Princess and her mustard fixation in the first place is because of the CD, man. Remember? Anyhow, I flip the disc over so that I’m lookin’ at a funhouse reflection of myself on the shiny side, right? Only it ain’t mustard that’s causing the disc not to load, that stupid bitch used the damn thing as a coke mirror, man! It’s not just scratched, it’s fuckin’ gouged. You can see where the razor chopped up the cocaine as clear as day… felt like I was looking into the Grand Canyon, let me tell ya. And it wasn’t just one, you cut coke and you really gotta work it, get that shit as fine as possible before it explores the inside of your nose. And, before you ask, I knew it was blow cause I could see it wedged way down in there, man. Once I licked it and the tip of my tongue went numb, there wasn’t a lick of doubt about what that girl had done.

  So, because of that, I was in a bit of a bind. I was so wired that I needed the QNTAL to bring me back down, only I couldn’t listen to it because some crack whore doesn’t know the first thing about respecting personal property. Which put me even more on edge than I already was.

  About this time, I glanced at my clock. Fifteen ‘til eight. If I got my ass in gear and traffic wasn’t too bad, I could just make it to the mall in time to hit up Dark Desires before they closed up shop for the night. Most bigger chains don’t carry QNTAL, but I was pretty damn sure they would. So I snatch my keys off the rickety table by the door and hightail it outta there. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was already feeling better, if you can believe that. My heart rate was easing back down to a non-hummingbird level and I felt the tension start melting outta my muscles like I’d popped a Xanex or something—

  Well, of course I was actually going to the mall so I could check up on Clarice Hudson, man. Shit, you don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to figure that one out. Though I sincerely applaud the effort. Really… I do. You keep up the hard work, big guy, and you’ll show the other kids that you really did earn that gold star, yet.

  Now, I don’t wanna tax your minds too fuckin’ hard, so let me just spell it out for ya in big, block letters. Here’s how the shit went down, man…

  By the time I reached the mall, that place was nearly dead. They were so close to closing that the parking attendant had already called it a night. The booth was empty and the striped arm that they use to keep cars from just driving right in was locked in the up position. Now, I coulda parked on Level One and just went in through the set of doors practically right across from Dark Desires. But if I did that, then I wouldn’t have any reason to walk by Dollar Bonanza, right?

  So I tell myself that I’m gonna park up on Level Two and go all the way down to the other end because I want to see if that new bookstore has opened yet. Even then, I realized I was lying to myself, man. They’d had so many signs plastered all over the place that I would have to have been brain dead not to realize when the grand opening was. But, if reality is nothing more than an agreed upon set of observations and opinions—and if I was more than willing to accept my own deceit—then who’s to say that wasn’t the real reason I went so far out of my way?

  Okay, ya got me there. I’ll give you the point for that one. I hafta admit, it sounded iffy, even to me… but when you’re lookin’ for justification, fuzzy logic is better than no logic at all. Ya know? You tell yourself what you wanna hear so you can do whatever it is you wanna do but know you shouldn’t. And that’s what makes the world go around.

  Anyway, I pull into my space and, even though I’m the only fuckin’ car in sight, I make damn sure there’s not any handicap signs or shit like that around. I mean, what’s five extra feet of walkin’ compared to havin’ irrefutable evidence that I was in the vicinity of Ms. Hudson’s place of employment the night after our little altercation at Blue Moon? So, in a way, I was partially taking Steel’s advice… I was staying cool. It was just the layin’ low part that was giving me problems.

  So I’m riding down the escalators and the mall has practically closed up for the night, right? They’ve already turned the waterfall off and they’re not even piping in that synthesized bastardization of classic songs that usually gets lost in all the hubbub anyway. I can hear shoes squeak somewhere down on the other end of the second floor, things banging around up near the food court, and the drone of a floor polisher. Most of the shops have got those cage-like doors partly lowered and, at that time, I don’t see another soul in sight.

  Which gets me to thinkin’ that maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea. I mean, I’m not exactly a wallflower, ya know? I stand out like a shark in a tank of guppies. Even more so when all the little fishies are nowhere to be seen. Shit, man, I didn’t know it would be like that, I figured the place would be as busy on a week night as any other time. That they’d have to practically shove all those frenzied consumers out the fuckin’ door. Goes to show how much I know about marketing, I suppose.

  Part of me wanted to turn back right then and there. Don’t even bother gettin’ to the bottom of the escalator, it told me. Just walk back up this thing, go home, watch some Discovery Channel, and go to bed.

  Problem was, in my current state of mind, that small voice sounded like a pussy. I mean, what the hell was it afraid of anyway? Sure, Clarice Hudson was one toxic bitch, but I would be keepin’ a safe distance away. I wasn’t exactly gonna stroll right up and ask how being infective was workin’ out for her, ya know?

  So despite the fact that my stomach was flip-floppin’ like a nervous acrobat, I just kept right on trucking. Pushed my hands into my pockets, looked around at all the stores with what I hoped to be an expression of bored detachment. I wanted to play myself off as some dude who was just waitin’ around for his girlfriend to get off work, dig? Hell, I even started whistling a little tune because I figured the most conspicuous people are the ones who try their damnedest to look inconspicious.

  Up ahead, I could
just make out the Dollar Bonanza. Because of the angle, I couldn’t see their signs or anything, but I’d been at that mall often enough to know where it was.

  I had to tell myself to keep strollin’ along at the same pace, right? To not even break stride in the least bit. And it wasn’t because I wanted to get there more quickly, exactly the opposite. That little part of my mind was whisperin’ again, practically begging me to turn back before it was too late.

  But I don’t think I could’ve. Not even if I’d been one hundred percent committed to the idea. ‘Cause it felt like something was pulling me, right? Like Clarice fucking Hudson was this irresistible force and I was as powerless to stop as an iron shaving in an MRI chamber.

  I still tried to play it off like it was all part of some grand scheme, ya know? Hell, I didn’t even know for certain whether or not our dear Clarice was even workin’ that night. For all I knew, she could already be out there, surprising some unsuspecting horndog with the gift that keeps on giving. So it wouldn’t hurt to just take a leisurely stroll past her store, right? Yeah… that’s what I thought, too. Or, at least, wanted to believe I thought. That distinction needs to be made, I think.

  So the Dollar Bonanza is looming closer with every step, and the whole place is still empty, which is really starting to freak me out a little. Maybe it’s because I’ve always been there when the place was packed, but it felt like I was walking through the world’s largest mausoleum, man. Like maybe all those clerks were sprawled in the middle of toppled displays while their lifeless bodies slowly cooled to room temperature.

  Even the clanging from the food court had fallen silent, but I could still hear the whine of that floor buffer, only it didn’t rise and fall in pitch like it would if someone were actually pushin’ it around. It was just this constant drone, like it was sittin’ in one place.

  I tried to tell myself not to be such a pansy ass. There was no way that everyone in that place could’ve bought the big one all at the same time. No way that I could be the only living soul in a mall full of corpses. Just wasn’t fuckin’ logical, man.