Getting Higher

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  "Well, you're still alive," answered Joe. "I'd call that pretty good." He drank some more punch and burped.

  Rocky was worried about his buddy. "You okay there, Cranky? You took some bad knocks, man."

  "Yeah, sure. I'm fine. Don't sweat it. It takes more'n some asshole like him ta' put me away. Who was he, anyway? I never saw the dick before in my damn life."

  "His name's Mickey," identified Rocky. "He used ta' work for Global Steel. We met at some bar once, an' went drinkin' together. Other'n that, I hardly know the guy. Somebody invited to th' party brought 'im along."

  "Bad move, man," said Joe. "He was definitely trouble."

  "Aw, don't worry about it," Rocky said. "He just had a little too much to drink. He'll cool off."

  Once he had wiped all the blood from his nose and face, Crank threw the rag in a corner. Then, he stood. "I need to get stoned," was all he said.

  Joe held up his cup, as if in a toast. "I'll drink to that, man!"

  The brunette, who had kept quiet until now, laughed. "Well, Mister Crank, I just happen to have some...medication that'll help you out there." Reaching into a small purse that she carried, she brought out a baggie full of pills. "Just what the doctor ordered."

  Crank's face evolved into one gigantic smile. "Well, all right!"

  Outside the bathroom, the party roared on.

  *****

  Part Two: Getting Worse

  Chapter Eleven

  When Joe awoke, his eyes were burning. They felt like pure bloodshot, as if all the white had dried up and all that remained were naked, stinging veins. Joe reached up and rubbed them, but it only made them burn more.

  He woke slowly and very painfully, suffering from the legacy of last night's wild fling. As usual after a party, his head hurt the most, hammering fiercely with residual dope and alcohol. The rest of him was in pain as well; his arms and legs were aching and limp--his stomach was a hard, cold stone. It took every bit of strength he had left to drag himself awake.

  His mouth tasted horrible. It felt like a dry socket full of cotton, tasted like warm beer and vomit. As he writhed on the floor, trying to come around, Joe yawned; the instant he opened his mouth, he started choking and coughing furiously. Suddenly, his mouth and throat were overwhelmed, filled with something dry and sooty. All at once, it flooded into him, rushing in like gritty hot water down a chute.

  It got worse quickly, dumping harshly into Joe's fried lungs. He kept coughing and gagging, each rasp bringing him closer to consciousness. It was smothering him, as if a warm blanket had been thrown over his body, then stuffed forcefully down his throat. His stomach churned and he clutched his neck. With every second, he had more trouble breathing, but he still couldn't escape the dark hangover hole he was sunk in. After so many mornings of throbbing sickness following binges, this breathless pain didn't bother him much more than usual.

  Then, his eyes flew open like window blinds and his mind shot to sudden awareness. Joe sat up, still hacking and sputtering, but the pain and the breathing only worsened. His head spun wildly, but at least he could see what was going on around him.

  He was on the floor of Crank's apartment. Somehow, after the party, he'd made it back there with Crank. So had the brunette with the baggie of drugs; she and Crank were on the sleeping bag, naked and intertwined. Joe heard them cough as a thin, dark shroud of smoke settled down around their inert bodies.

  There was smoke, lots of it, hanging in the air--the stuff that had choked Joe and interrupted his sleep. Above him, the smoke was so dense that he couldn't see the ceiling. Across the room, near the door, it was even thicker.

  Joe looked around-- spotted beer cans, refrigerator, rocking chair, bathroom. In the bathroom, the smoke was thickest, belching outward in huge, greedy clouds to engulf the rest of the apartment. Through the smoke, Joe glimpsed flames, high red flames that lashed and licked at the doorway.

  "Holy fuck," he coughed, leaping to his feet.

  Crank's apartment was on fire.

  When Joe stood, the smoke plugged his throat worse than ever. Wheezing, he tried desperately to suck air from the hot, pasty fumes. Wracked with a sudden hacking fit, he spasmed and doubled over, arms folded and clutching his stomach.

  Joe's heart beat as wildly as an engine or a jackhammer. What could he do? Should he try to put out the fire? The only water was in the bathroom, out of reach. Should he run out and yell for help? He couldn't leave Crank and the girl. Should he wake his friend up and get out?

  Yes. Now.

  Joe stumbled forward a step, then spasmed again. He thudded to the floor, heaving; after a moment, the coughing subsided, and he found he could breathe a little. Gasping at the traces of oxygen, he fumbled to his hands and knees.

  Slowly, he crawled toward Crank and the girl. By now, they were also coughing and sputtering, starting to convulse from lack of air. Soon, like Joe, they would probably come around...but by then it might be too late. Glancing over his shoulder, Joe saw there were now flames outside the bathroom, eating their way up Crank's rocking chair, which was near the bathroom door.

  In a minute, Joe reached his friend. Grabbing Crank's shoulders, he shook him like a martini, hoping the sleeping fat man would rouse.

  Crank just kept hacking, frowning in his sleep like he was mad at having his dreamland disturbed. As Joe rattled him, he began to move around more, flailing his arms and tossing his head randomly. Between coughs, he moaned and made low noises in his throat. Joe slapped him across the face-- once, twice--trying to pull him from his drunken, drugged stupor.

  "Damnit!" screamed Joe, his throat burning like bonfires. "WAKE UP!!" Again, he walloped Crank...this time harder than before.

  Glancing over his shoulder again, Joe saw the flames spreading, swallowing the chair and the crate-table, dancing at the fringes of the rug.

  Crank's eyes shot open. Suddenly, he jerked awake, grabbing one of Joe's arms at his shoulder.

  "Crank, get the fuck up! We gotta' get outta' here!!" Joe's voice was a hoarse scream, a whisper over the roaring flames. He was frantic, desperate, on the verge of panic, and his eyes watered from the smoke and fear.

  "What th' fuck, Joey?" mumbled Crank between coughs. "What th' fuck?"

  "Damnit, the place is on fire, man!"

  Crank craned his neck to see around Joe, who was kneeling at his side. When he saw the flames, his buggy, bloodshot eyes blinked in crazy disbelief. Pight there, the urgency of the situation hit him, penetrated the hung-over muck of his mind. His heart began to pound like bongos.

  "Holy fuck," he whispered.

  By now, the flames were halfway across the small room, shooting over the carpet and up the walls.

  For a second, Joe stared into the snapping flames with Crank--then turned and noticed the girl. She was still lying beside Crank on the sleeping bag, coughing harder with each passing moment. Her nude body rolled back and forth on the bag.

  Joe decided to take action. Quickly, he crawled over Crank toward the woman, then started shaking and slapping her. As the flames drew nearer, he desperately struggled to bring her to consciousness.

  "Come on, damnit! Wake up!" he cried, hitting her again and again. "Come on!" He kept choking and wheezing himself, and soon could barely breathe. His face and beard were plastered with sweat, slick and shiny and dripping like a melting wax statue, a candle Joe. As the flames got higher and closer, the heat became unbearable.

  Behind Joe, Crank had fumbled to his hands and knees. Gagging furiously, he shouted in his buddy's ear. "Joey, come on, man! We're gonna' die, man! We're gonna' die!!!"

  Joe didn't answer, just kept whacking the girl. She still wouldn't come around, she wouldn't wake up no matter how hard he shook her. "Sonnuva' bitch!" he screamed helplessly. "She won't wake up! FUCK!!" He slapped her again, so hard that he probably bruised her face.

  Crawling around the brunette's body, Crank knelt on the other side of her. He picked up one of her arms and put it around his shoulders, then pulled her to a sitting
position. "No time, Joey!" he yelled. "We gotta' carry her!"

  Joe nodded, then snatched the woman's other arm.

  "GO!!" choked Crank, puffing his cheeks and struggling to lift her.

  They hefted the brunette's body from the floor and started dragging her across the room. Luckily, there were no flames blocking the way out; as fast as they could carry the girl and their own leaden bodies, they made a beeline for the door.

  It seemed to take hours, but somehow, they made it to the exit. When they got there, Crank pounced on the knob with his free hand and flung it open. As the door smashed against the wall, the three choking figures tumbled out into the hallway.

  "Oh, God," gasped Joe. "Oh my God. We made it."

  Once they'd crossed the threshold, cool, sweet oxygen rushed into their lungs. Joe and Crank stood there for a moment, heaving and sucking at the smoke-free air. Between them, the brunette finally woke and started to gag uncontrollably.

  Still hacking away himself, Crank turned and tried thumping her on the back with his palm. It didn't help, and her gagging just continued.

  "Joey!" shouted Crank, voice cracked and panicky. "C'mon, let's get some neighbors! Brenda's losin' it, y'know? Too much smoke, I guess."

  "All right, let's do it." Joe took a final look in the apartment behind them. The whole place was now ablaze – the carpet, the sleeping bag, the spot where Joe had been sleeping. Now, it was nothing but smoke and flames, curling and rippling thickly toward the ceiling. It looked like a furnace, burning up everything and leaving only ashes. It was a boiler room apartment, two rooms and a blazing view, raging out of control, ready to crumble and burst at any second. One more chair, another curtain...and boom.

  "Holy shit," whispered Joe. Then, he and Crank half-ran, half-staggered down the hall, dragging Brenda between them.

  *****

  Chapter Twelve

  Outside, the air was cold and clean. It soothed Joe's tortured lungs as he swallowed it, helped to make him feel a little better. With each breath, a little more smoke was rinsed from his body, a little more pain was erased. He was no longer coughing and choking and his breathing was slowly returning to normal.

  His head still throbbed, his body ached horribly; the original agony of his hangover had been doubled by his ordeal in the fire. He was still alive, though, and he could breathe. That had to count for something.

  Though it was three o'clock in the morning, everyone in the neighborhood was out on the street. People shuffled everywhere, looking at the firetrucks and police cars, pointing at the building, looking at the hapless victims and whispering to one another. Old ladies in quilted robes and hair nets clucked and shook their pruney heads. Fat, sweaty men in yellowed T-shirts kept hands on their hips, spitting Skoal on the sidewalk. Black women and their children stood and stared, huddled on the outskirts in robes and pajamas. It had all become a circus, just a weird night carnival with clowns in slippers and bathrobes, ringmasters in police uniforms and fire helmets. It was the ultimate three-ringed feature, where the stars and the audience were one and the same.

  Right at center stage, at the focus of the crowd's attention, were Joe and Crank. The two stood together, leaning against the slick red side of a firetruck. The truck was parked only a few feet from the steps of Crank's apartment building; firemen hustled around it like office boys, rolling up hoses and shouting at each other. Their long gray coats were shiny and wet, sparking at Crank and Joe as they swept past.

  This was how it had been for the past two hours, only wilder right at the start. Just fifteen minutes ago, the fire had been extinguished, but before that, everything had been chaotic and dizzying.

  It had all happened so fast: once they'd escaped Crank's apartment, Joe and Crank had dashed to a neighbor's room and phoned the fire department. Then, Crank had dragged Brenda outside, hoping the fresh air would revive her and stop her choking; it didn't, and they had to wait for paramedics and an ambulance to finally get her breathing again with regularity. While Crank took care of the girl as best he could, Joe and some neighbors had run around the building, trying to get people out before the fire spread; then, the firetrucks and police cars and ambulances had streamed in, sirens whooping like wildlife and colored lights flashing in disco rhythms. After that, it was all a blur to the two men, a swirling confusion of firehoses and shouting and running. Hopelessly unable to deal with any of it, they backed off, tried to relax and recover and watch the ensuing melee like a movie.

  Brenda was gone; an ambulance had whisked her off to a hospital to be treated for smoke inhalation. Looking up at the building, Joe shook his head; it all seemed unreal, like an acid trip or a nightmare. Even now, with all the shouting and crowds and racket, the reality of the situation didn't sink in. Joe felt distant, as if he were watching it all on television, and it wasn't him standing there by the firetruck, but someone else.

  Whoever stood there, his eyes slowly scanned the face of the building. The first two floors were unscathed; the rows of windows were wet from the firehoses, but that was all the damage to be seen. The third row of windows was a different story. Most of them were smashed, broken into jagged glass portals, and all around them, the window frames and brick were burned black. That was Crank's floor, the third one up; his apartment, where the whole mess began, was the last window on the right, at the corner of the building. That window was the worst of them all, completely shattered and black all around. There was still a little smoke rising from it, but it was thin, wet smoke-- the last, dying gasp of the defeated blaze.

  Apparently, the firefighters had managed to contain the flames to the third and fourth floors and had been able to douse them up there. The third was damaged the most, and the fourth, the top floor, was not quite as bad. The place hadn't collapsed, and the two lower floors were untouched, but this was little comfort to the volatile landlord, who raced around the premises and ranted at the rescue teams.

  Joe glanced away from the building and spied on his friend. Crank was certainly a mess now--or at least, more of a mess than usual. His hair was soaked with sweat, matted flat against his skull; his mustache and goatee were also drenched, hanging in limp, wet strands; his face was filthy and smudged, covered with slate gray stains from the smoke. And overriding all these details, combining their pitiful aspects, was the defeated, resigned expression he broadcast.

  All that Crank wore was a long overcoat that some woman had given him. When they'd escaped from the building, both he and Brenda had been naked; in their haste to get away and stay alive, they didn't have a lot of time to pack.

  Joe wasn't dressed very warmly, either. All he had on was what he had been sleeping in--a faded blue T-shirt and a pair of grungy briefs. Standing with Crank in the chilly Brownstown morning, he shivered ceaselessly, folding his arms across his chest to keep warm. Hunched against the frigid air, he wished that someone would give him a pair of pants, the same way the woman had given Crank his protective coat.

  For a while, the two guys were silent, standing by the firetruck while the bystanders whispered and pointed. Firemen paraded past, wrapped up in their work, not even bothering to glance at the outcasts. A cameraman from the local T.V. station hovered around, taping the scene for tomorrow's news. An ambulance rolled away, devoid of casualties and done with its work; aside from Brenda, no one had been hurt in the fire (physically, anyway).

  Out of the crowd, a police officer marched briskly then toward Crank and Joe. In one hand, he carried a pair of slacks, and in the other, he held a notepad and pencil. When he reached them, the cop offered the pants to Joe.

  Gladly accepting them, Joe leaned down to pull them on. "Thanks," he muttered. "It's cold out here."

  The officer nodded curtly, peering stonily at Joe. "Yeah, put 'em on," was all he said.

  While Joe zipped the slacks, the policeman turned stiffly toward Crank. "We have some clothes on the way for you. Maybe five minutes, maybe ten."

  "Whenever," said Crank apathetically. "I'm okay."

  Looki
ng at the officer, Joe knew right away that they were in trouble; the guy didn't bother to hide his distaste for the two fire survivors. His short, stocky body was tense and pulled pillar-straight. The face was pitted and square, cut with plenty of brickish irregular corners--rough-hewn features chunked and chocked and worn by the clock, and set in a glare. And those eyes just held disgust, pure, dispassionate, soldierly venom; he hated Crank and Joe, detested them, used every ounce of coppy fortitude just to be civil at all. To him, they were scum, punks that did drugs and were up to no good.

  The officer focused on his notepad, peeled back several pages, and started writing with his pencil. "Name," he muttered, nodding at Crank.

  "Mickey Mouse, man," blistered Crank.

  Glaring at Crank, the cop let his eyes grow even darker. "Real name, son," he said, his voice frigid and controlled.

  "Schaffer. Crank Schaffer."

  Again, the cop flared--stuck his gaze in the redhead like a knitting needle. "I want your real name, boy. You give it to me, or I'll beat the living shit outta' you. Simple as that."

  "Hey, bud," laughed Crank, enjoying the game. "That was my name. Simple as that."

  "Yeah," Joe agreed, nodding at the officer. "He's tellin' you the truth. No jive, dude."

  The man stared for a moment at Joe, then Crank, apparently gauging the validity of their answers. Finally, he turned back to his pad. "Name," he said, without looking up.

  "My name is Crank Schaffer," snorted Crank.

  The officer didn't look up. "Spell last name," he mumbled, scribbling away.

  "Schaffer. S-c-h-a-f-f-e-r. Got that?"

  "Yeah. Your name?" He glanced for a second at Joe, then back to the pad and pencil.

  "Joe Jones. J-o-e J-o-n-e-s." Both burned-out buddies had to smirk.

  The cop just scratched away at the pad for a minute, his pencil moving in short, jerky strokes. "Schaffer," he said, looking up at last then. "Your apartment, right?"