No, I’m not homeless. Well, technically I am, but not in the spirit of the term.
She points mace at me. The guy that must be Ron runs in the room. Ron is a big guy, early fifties, but looks like he’s seen some bad days. Like a guy that got huge in prison but has been out for a long time. His hair is white and gray, like Spider-Man’s boss. He puts his open palms to me.
I pull the gun out and make it as menacing as the small pistol can be.
Take it easy, guy. Don’t do anything dumb.
I want to rent a party bus.
Sure you do. Let’s just go outside and talk about it.
Seriously, just give me the bus, and I’m out. I just need it for an hour or so. Give me the keys to a bus, and no one gets hurt.
The woman yells. Ron freaks out. Woman’s on phone again. She’s crying and screaming.
Put the fucking phone down and get me some bus keys!
Easy, fella.
The woman puts the phone down and explodes into tears.
I’M GOD DAMNED SERIOUS. I NEED A BUS. I WILL BRING IT THE FUCK BACK. I JUST NEED IT FOR LIKE, A HALF HOUR. FOR FUCK’S SAKE.
Two cops run in. They keep a distance from me, but their Tasers are out. A Taser fires. Two prongs fly at me in slow motion. I hear the other cop talking in sixteen RPM.
We have another one. Covered in fecal matter.
The prongs hit me, bites like a snake. Flash of light. Toes-to-hair pain. Zero G. The floor is the sky, and I’m flying.
Psych ward again.
Wearing the kinder, gentler version of a straitjacket: Velcro straps.
There’s a light that stays on above my head. I can close my eyes, but it’s never quite dark. I swear I can feel the heat coming off it. The walls pulsate. It’s the drugs. They’re good, whatever they are.
A sweet-looking old Filipino lady comes in and talks to me. I try to say something back, but I can’t. Just drool at her. I can’t understand what she’s saying. I can’t tell if it’s English or Tagalog. She’s nice, and she cares, and she’s bringing me more drugs. That’s true love right there.
Next to my bed is an IV drip. She shoots something into that little valve, and I’m immediately floating on a slab of Jell-O. This is some good shit.
I want a TV. I want to listen to something. I’m fucking bored in here. Something. Anything but my own head. This is a god damned waste of good drugs. Put on talk radio, for fuck’s sake. Anything that connects me to the outside world, anything to wrap my drug-soaked brain around. Instead I’m listening to the sound of traffic on Potrero, the occasional motorcycle and the bullhorn squawks of the highway patrol.
And the smell . . . the psych ward always smells like someone threw up and someone else tried to clean it but couldn’t get it all out. So it smells like microwaved marinara sauce and bleach. Not the smell I want when I’m high.
Our Lady of Drugs leaves the room, and the door shuts.
I wait. Killing time, trying to keep sanity by writing a screenplay in my head. I’ll write this whole thing out when I get out of here—now that will be a story. But I’m too fucking high to remember much of what I thought of only a few minutes before.
The light blinks out. I wait for someone to come in, but no one does. It must be the middle of the night. Finally, darkness. Maybe the power went out or the bulb burned out. I don’t care. I can fully relax for the first time since I got here.
I’m sinking in the blackness, slowly deeper. I see little bubbles coming out of my nose, but I have no trouble breathing. This midnight sky water is cool and refreshing.
A white whale swims toward me. As he approaches, I realize he’s not far away, he’s small. A MiniWhale. One of mine. I recognize him. The asshole whale. Yes, he’s here with me. Someone dumped him in the bay, and he’s swum over to me.
He’s about a foot from my face. I don’t know what his plans are. I want to swim away, but I’m paralyzed. I imagine him biting my face. Clamping on to my temples and cracking my skull like a pecan.
You fucked up this time, Chuck, he says.
Oh yes, I’m high as fuck. I’m not really in the water, and the whale’s not really here. So of course he can talk.
You fucked up big time. You fucked up all your last chances. There’s no coming back from this one. You’re stuck in this space-time bumper car, and you’re not getting off.
All you had to do was not get high. Not get loaded. You got sucked in this black hole of your own doing. You were fucking clean. For the first time in your life, you were clean. All you had to do was not do something. You’re great at not doing stuff. You’re not doing anything RIGHT NOW.
But no. You can’t build something up without just knocking it down as soon as possible.
Can you get me out of here, little Moby Dick whale? Can you lead me to the exit? Can I escape with you? Can I swim to the surface and wake up in someone else’s body?
The whale swims away, a white jewel shrinking on black velvet.
Someone’s in the room with me. I can’t move. I can’t speak.
Chuck? Are you awake? We have to get out of here. The power went out. There’s a crazy man with a giant knife tearing the shit out of this place.
The voice. It belongs to Dallas, the transgender nightclub singer. Hands on me. Sounds of loosening straps and disassembling the IV.
Hold on, honey, we’ll get you out of here.
Screams. Sirens. Metal crashing on the floor. Glass breaking.
Someone’s moving me. Lifting me up. Setting me down on gurney.
Rolling out of here. Backup emergency lights.
I’m in the back of a car across laps. Dallas yelling at the driver. Cab? Cab. Cab. Where are we going?
Drive, Dallas yells. Drive, god damn it. FUCKING DRIVE.
We go. Cop cars all around, racing to SF General.
THE APARTMENT
I WAKE UP. Every muscle is stiff. Everything hurts. Headache like none other.
There are mirrored tiles all over the walls. Lime green ceiling. I move, and the bed moves with me. Fucking waterbed.
I roll myself out. Where the fuck am I?
Naked.
There’s a robe on the back of the door. I put it on.
I leave the room and walk to a crowd noise. The living room is full of people from the psych ward. They’re drinking mimosas and smoking weed. There are giant framed posters of musicals covering every inch of wall space.
Dallas is holding court, telling some story we’ve probably all heard.
Zac, the guy who falls in love with strippers. Steffan, who never sleeps. Kristee, the compulsive shoplifter. Miles, sad, sad Miles. They’re unshaven with horrible haircuts, their skin a grayish pale. But they’re wearing costumes and outlandish clothing.
Chuck! You’re awake! Come have a seat. And a drink. And a smoke.
Where are we?
Harris Winchell’s place.
The songwriter?
The one. Isn’t this place fabulous? He’s lived here for forty years. He pays, like, two hundred dollars a month for this place.
Miles hands me a mimosa. I drink it, and it doesn’t feel right.
Have anything stronger?
It’s a bit early for gin, darling.
Never. Give me a hit off that joint.
I take a big inhale and hold it. It’s shit.
Something’s not right in my gut.
I need some air.
I step through the giant window and out onto the fire escape. There’s a small weather-damaged chair and an ashtray filled with Benson & Hedges butts. I pick up a pack and look inside: a lighter and five smokes.
This is the kind of fucked-up situation in which I need a smoke. I light up. Menthol burns my throat. I can’t feel any nicotine, just this burning pine taste in my throat. Like freebasing floor cleaner.
I’m facing other buildings that look familiar. It hits me. This is the building Oso lives in. I’m on top of all the drugs I could want. There’s more black hole down there. That is, if I have
my timing right. If this is when he’s still alive.
I could fix this. I’m not risking anything. What’s the worst that happens? I lose all my shit and end up in the psych ward? It’s not that bad.
I stub out the cigarette and head back inside.
I need some clothes, I announce to no one in particular.
Go back in the room you slept in, Dallas says. The closets in this place are full of old costumes and whatnot.
The closet is jam-packed with all kinds of crazy shit. Feather boas, fake furs, real furs, gold lamé, some kind of disco-ball fabric I don’t know the name of. Polyester, sharkskin, satin. I have no idea how to sort this shit out. I just throw it on the floor behind me as I dig.
I find a two-pieced denim thing. It looks like a leisure suit, but I think it will fit. It’s long enough, but it’s tight. Like a motherfucker. How thin were people in the ’70s? I can’t zip the pants up.
There’s a kung fu outfit with drawstring pants. That’ll do. Basically pajamas.
I’m fucked for shoes, though. There’s nothing in here in my size. Not my style either, but that’s beside the point. Holy hell, there are some ugly platforms and alligator disco boot things. I don’t even know what these are called.
Dressed, I walk out into the hall, making sure I don’t lock myself out. Winchell has turned every apartment on this floor into one big apartment. He’s knocked out the walls between them. He’s probably across the hall by himself at the moment. I’d check it out, but the pull of the drugs from downstairs is too strong.
I walk gingerly. You don’t know what you’re going to step on in this neighborhood. The carpet is dark and worn out. I think it used to be a burgundy color with some kind of pattern on it. I can see traces of what looks to be a flower shape along the edges of the hallway.
I skip the elevator and take the stairs. I go down one flight, then another. On the next flight, there’s a slight familiar stink. Oso’s floor.
I enter the hallway and follow my nose. It’s the spot, all right. No doubt about it.
I knock, a shave-and-a-haircut knock.
Oso, homeboy, open up. It’s Chuck.
No response.
I try the knob. Unlocked. I turn it and pull the door open.
There’s a smell a man can make when shitting and pissing himself for days on end. It’s a smell that nature uses to keep us away from the other sick animals. Only the most disgusting of predators will come near: the flies and the junkies.
Oso’s lying on a futon mattress on the floor. The TV is on, blaring away true-crime shows that aren’t nearly as bad as what I’m seeing. His hand twitches, and the channel changes to a hoarding show.
He’s not dead. The resilience of drug addicts is phenomenal. They may want to die, but they won’t until the drugs are ready to not be done any longer. The drugs will keep them alive so they can be done.
Part of me wants to call someone to get help for this insufferable condition, but there are two realities working against me. One: nothing is going to help this guy. Two: the drugs I need are inside him, and I must get them out.
I sit on Oso’s chest and put my hands around his neck and squeeze. There’s recognition in his eyes but no panic or anger. He’d lift his arms to get me off, but they’re too heavy right now.
His neck is too big to get my hands around. It’s slick with saliva and sweat and fuck knows what else. His skin swells with the strain of the marbles filling his pores.
I give up. I pick up a belt and put it around his neck. Slide one end through the buckle and pull tight. His face turns red. He struggles but fails. He’s weighted down.
Unless I find a way out of this, this is what waits for me.
His torso ripples. His eyeball swells and pops like Bubble Wrap. Even with all this smell of shit and piss and death, the smell of the inside of an infected eyeball is still noticeable.
A giant black ball pops out and rolls across the floor. I was expecting more. But that one will do. It’s the largest one I’ve seen, and it made a loud thump when it landed.
Oso is still. I killed him. Behind me, the TV flashes promos for one of those rednecks-with-money reality shows. It’s the new version of The Beverly Hillbillies, and it’s about as accurate. The worst thing you can do to poor people is dump a bunch of money on them. They’ll kill themselves spending it like a fish that eats itself to death.
I pick up the marble. It’s maybe too heavy to carry in a pocket.
My hands are disgusting. They’re covered in Oso’s death-goo.
I find the bathroom but notice right away something’s different.
The bathtub is full of meth. Like one giant hunk of meth that’s he’s made. Holy fuck. It’s a lot of meth. A lot. I wash my hands.
Think. I’ve been here before. There was a cookie tin of cocaine and a bunch of cash. It should be there.
I go in the kitchen, find a grocery bag. Cookie tin of coke. Check. Money, well, not as much as last time, but there’s still a stack. Check. I find an ice pick and go back to the bathtub.
I’m hunking out what looks like a lifetime supply of meth and dropping it into the grocery bag when I hear the door. Fuck.
Someone is in the apartment. He screams when he sees Oso.
What the fuck? What happened to you? he yells.
There are some more noises, followed by a disturbingly loud thump and agonizing screams.
If there’s a chance, it’s now, before anyone else shows up. I slip out the bathroom door and see Vietnam John, who has slipped on some goo-wet marbles and fallen on his knife. He’s making a tourniquet out of the belt I left around Oso’s neck.
I should run, but I freeze for a moment, and he sees me.
Chuck, you bastard, he says, you did this. I’m going to cut you into one-inch cubes.
I don’t stick around to argue his point.
OLD NAVY
PAYLESS FOR SHOES. Done. Now for better clothes.
At the Old Navy on Market Street, I ask to get in the dressing room. The plan is get new clothes and wear them out of the store. Pay for them, of course, but I look like a real freak in these old costume clothes. And I can smell myself, and if you can smell yourself, everyone else smells you twice as much.
Chuck?
Fuck. Who is this? She’s speaking to me like she’s unsure. Like she’s checking to make sure it’s me.
It’s Nancy. Nancy McKenna.
Nothing.
Nancy Suicide?
Oh shit. Nancy Suicide. God, I was so hot for her back in the day. Another hotshit punk girl who wouldn’t give me the time of day. I talked to her at a few parties but never got any alone time with her. She always dated some foreign punk dude who showed up like some kind of fucking genie with an accent. As soon as one bailed out, another one took his place.
You look different. No dreadlocks.
Yeah, all corporate. Gotta pay the bills. What the fuck are you wearing?
Crazy night.
Smells like it. Hey, I don’t mean to offend after all these years, but I can’t have you funking up the clothes.
I’m going to buy them, I swear.
Are you sure? No offense, but you smell like you rolled in something dead.
Not too far from the truth.
Here. Go into booth three. Can I ask you something, and you promise you will take it in the spirit that it’s intended?
For sure.
Um, I’ve been clean and sober for five years now, and it’s been really great. I went back to school, got my teeth fixed . . .
I zone out. Not doing that bullshit. Don’t need to hear it. Right now I need to do more drugs, not less. That shit is not going to help me. I nod and agree to something. I’m not sure if it’s a Buddhist meditation or a Bible study or if she was trying to make amends; I really don’t know and I don’t care. I give her a number that used to be mine and head into the dressing room to change.
BACK TO WINCHELL’S
THERE’S ONLY SO many places you can go with cash and
no ID and no credit cards. I can’t get a hotel room. I can’t rent that fucking party bus. There’s nowhere to go but back to the Winchell apartment. I have to get one of them to get me that fucking party bus. It’s my only link to when things were right.
When I walk in to Winchell’s place, the old man is there. He looks two hundred years old but as mean as a snake. Some of those old theater queens are like old ladies at a retirement home, but some of them are the kind of fierce you earn from years of bitterness.
Who the fuck are you? he says with a sneer.
That’s Chuck, the boy I was telling you about, Dallas says to calm him down.
I say nothing, but I walk to the table with my shopping bag. I take out the tin of cocaine and open it up. Nothing makes you more welcome than a cookie tin full of cocaine.
The old man snorts it up like a Shop-Vac. He’s in good spirits.
Why, I haven’t had any cocaine this good since the Reagan administration. Day that bastard took office, the street price of cocaine dropped three hundred percent. And it was good stuff, too, the kind of quality product that regular folks like you and I can’t get a hold of.
He was a homophobic son of a bitch, that’s for sure; didn’t want to even say AIDS on TV. With a faggot son at that. That was one hot piece of ass, let me tell you. That boy whored it up in every queer neighborhood in America. Everyone wanted to fuck the president’s kid. Who wouldn’t? He had his pick of the litter. Liked those big-muscle fags, and I wasn’t anywhere near that. Not even back then.
We all had great coke for about eight years, and then he went out of office and the quality dropped and everyone started doing meth instead. I was never into that stuff. Cocaine made me think everyone wanted to fuck me; meth made me think that everyone was hiding outside my window.
And when the drugs changed, the music changed. Disco had long died for the rest of the country, but it was still the official music of gay America. But meth killed disco and gave way to that bullshit house music. Ugh. Remember when gay people liked gay music? Donna Summer, Gloria Gaynor, and ABBA?
Don’t get me started on the death of the musical. You know that’s my thing. The strange part is that hip-hop kept me alive. Those talentless angels started sampling my work. I have points on dozens of rap records I’ve never listened to. Made more money from Jay-Z and Beyoncé than I ever did back in my heyday.
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