Long Past Stopping

by Oran Canfield

  “Nirvana…” I said, coming up with the most unhip band I could think of in the obscure noise world. “Pearl Jam, shit like that.”

  “Fuckin’ cool, dude. Wow, you’re really cool, man. Hey, Jeremy!” he yelled back again. “I thought you said this guy was perfect. Where the hell’d you find him again?”

  Jeremy wasn’t waking up for anything, but Thomas, the guitar/banjo player–leader in absentia, yelled back. “Leave him alone, Grux. He’s fucking with you. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Ergh,” he grunted, giving me a weird look, then focusing back on the road.

  At the first gas stop, I switched seats with Thomas to try to get some sleep.

  Before we got back in the Suburban, Thomas told me, “Hey, don’t worry about Grux. He’s just not used to talking to people who don’t worship him. You’re throwing him off.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m having fun up there. I just need to get some sleep. I was up all night trying to get my shit together to leave.”

  We had an eleven-hour drive to Salt Lake City. I mostly slept. When we got there, I was definitely feeling dope sick. I wanted to ride it out as long as possible before I started tapering off. I just needed to drink as much as I could before the show, then do just enough dope to feel well before playing. I went up to the bar and ordered a drink. When the bartender came back with it, I asked him if the band got any drink tickets.

  “Oh, you’re in the band? No, sorry, I can’t give this to you.”

  “Fine. How much is it?” I always got pissed when they wouldn’t even give you a drink.

  “No. I can’t sell it to you either. I can’t serve you at all,” he said, taking the drink off the bar.

  “What are you talking about, you can’t serve me?” I stared in horror as he poured the beer in the sink.

  “Utah state law. Bar and restaurant employees can’t drink on the job. According to the state, you’re officially an employee of the bar tonight, so I can’t serve you, period.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” he said without the slightest tone of sympathy.

  “Well, is there somewhere else I could go?” I asked, but I knew from the drive that there was nothing remotely in walking distance.

  “You could, but then I wouldn’t be allowed to let you back in because you would be intoxicated while on the job. Believe me, there’s no way around it.” He had clearly been through this conversation a million times before.

  “Holy shit. I have never heard of anything so insane in my life.”

  “Welcome to Utah.”

  “Well, Utah fucking sucks.”

  “Yup.” There was no argument there.

  “How about after I play? After I’ve done my job.” Some fucking job. Drive twelve hours for this, and so far it didn’t seem like anyone was even going to show up. I was looking for any loophole at all.

  “I could serve you after you get paid, but that usually happens after we shut down the bar.”

  I walked to the bathroom pissed off, dejected, and nervous about playing my first show with these guys after only two rehearsals. By accident, I snorted more of the dope than I should have and ended up getting pretty high. I had to be careful. The whole point was to make it last as long as possible.

  When I came out, the other guys had started bringing the equipment in, so I went to help out. They had told me the shows were something of a production, but I had no idea to what extent. After we brought our instruments inside, Grux climbed up to the roof of the Suburban where he had built a wooden box that was about six feet wide, by three feet high, and fifteen feet long. Once he got it open, he started handing down all manner of…I didn’t even know what. There were laminated posters, backdrops, strips of cloth, Day-Glo-painted stage props, crumpled-up balls of what could be costumes, masks, long strings of black lights, boxes of duct tape, clothespins, thumbtacks, and all kinds of other shit I couldn’t describe except as piles of Day-Glo-painted crap. One thing looked suspiciously like a three-foot-tall by three-foot-wide Day-Glo boot. Maybe that other thing was a hat? It took about forty-five minutes just to bring it all inside.

  Since I had no idea what to do with all this stuff, I watched as the other guys transformed the stage into a neon Day-Glo alternate universe that looked like some sort of bad fever dream. The only recurring themes seemed to be cows and pioneer wagons, but the colors didn’t seem to fit unless the pioneers had gotten smallpox or eaten some moldy bread or taken some peyote from the Indians. I guess a lot of shit could have, and probably did, happen to the pioneers that we would never know about. There was also apparently a lot of shit happening in San Francisco for the last sixteen years that I and—judging by the size of the crowd—no one else knew about.

  After one local act, which was some kid screaming over a drum machine and rolling around on the floor for fifteen minutes, Jeremy handed me a costume sewn out of painting canvas with intricately designed patterns drawn all over it and a mask that might have resembled a deformed bull-person if you were on acid—or had snorted too much heroin in the bathroom, as I had.

  The show was a disaster as far as I could tell. I had written notes all over my drumheads in order to remember the songs, but the holes in the mask didn’t even come close to lining up with my eyes, so for the most part I couldn’t tell what was going on. Eventually I found a way to hold the mask in position with my teeth, so I could look out through the mouth hole, but the colors onstage were now so vivid and disorienting from the black lights that it was still nearly impossible to read my notes and watch for the visual cues at the same time.

  Grux didn’t seem to be faring much better than me. On the occasion that he entered my field of vision, he seemed completely tangled up in wires, tripping over the three-foot boot he was wearing on one foot, knocking over amplifiers, and falling off the stage. He may have been singing, but I couldn’t tell. Mostly he seemed to be trying to get off the ground, only to trip over something else and end up back on his ass. There were only five people in the audience, and they stayed as far away as possible, where it was safe. It was more like a dress rehearsal than anything.

  By the end, the only two people left were the guy we were staying with and the kid who did the opening set, so we decided we might as well use it as a rehearsal for real, and we went over a few more new songs. What a fucking mess, I thought, although I had been thoroughly entertained by the chaos of it. Wearing the mask had the amazing effect of making me not give a shit what happened. After the show everyone agreed that, aside from me fucking up a few of the changes—which was understandable given the circumstances—it had been a total success.

  “Hey, Jeremy, where’d you say you found this guy again?” Grux yelled. But this time it seemed to carry a whole different meaning. He confirmed it by asking me, “Where the hell have you been?” He was clearly incapable of making direct compliments, but I could tell he was trying in his own way to show approval. I got out of my costume as quickly as I could, hoping to get to the bar for a drink, but it was too late. The bartender had shut it down.

  “Did we even make any money?” I asked him.

  “Nope. I guess technically you were a volunteer. I don’t know what the law is for volunteers.”

  “Jesus Christ. Utah fucking sucks!” I said with more gusto than the first time.

  “Yup.”

  WE HAD A BLOWOUT the next day in the middle of Wyoming. Grux was nearly decapitated when he went out to inspect the damage. The iron lock ring that held the tire to the rim had popped off and chased us down the highway, missing Grux’s head by less than a foot before smashing through the back window a few minutes after we pulled over. It was extremely unnerving to think that this inanimate object had been following us for that long without us knowing it.

  I’m not normally superstitious, but Grux had been talking about the founder of the Church of Satan, Anton LaVey. The story was about how when he was cleaning out LaVey’s basement after he died, a huge swarm of
flies had appeared out of nowhere in order to thwart Grux’s attempts at moving LaVey’s stuff out.

  “So what do you think they were doing there? You think it was Anton reincarnated as a swarm of flies?” I asked, humoring him.

  “I don’t know what they were there for, but they seemed pissed that I was fucking with his shit.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I was scared. The air was black with buzzing flies, man. I ran upstairs to tell his daughter, Karla, and she told me not to worry. They’re just trying to scare you, but they don’t have any power anymore. If you ignore them, they’ll leave you alone. That’s what she told me. Freaky. When I went back down, they were gone.”

  After all this talk about the supernatural goings-on around the recently deceased founder of the Church of Satan, it was hard to shake the idea that this iron ring was trying to kill Grux. For what, I had no idea. I didn’t know him that well yet. We were apparently going to meet another high priest from the Church of Satan when we got to Denver.

  We arrived late. At least that’s what they told us when we pulled in. It was Goth night at the club we were playing, so we had to be done by eight. I still didn’t know what was going on with the whole stage setup, but I pitched in as much as I could. We only had an hour and a half to set up and put on our 1800s Day-Glo pioneer show before we needed to clear out for the children of darkness. It was pretty dismal, but at least they let me drink.

  Jeremy spotted me at the bar and came over to tell me, “You know, Grux doesn’t like it when we drink.”

  “What are you talking about? Why would he care?” I asked. This was the first I had heard of this, and it didn’t seem like it was any of Grux’s business.

  “He hates drugs and alcohol. He’s never had anything, not even a cup of coffee.”

  “Maybe that’s why he’s so crazy.” I wondered if Caroliner wasn’t somehow the result of not having the luxury to drop a hit of acid every once in a while, like us normal folk.

  “Yeah, well…anyway…I would just try not to let him see you drinking. He can get kind of nuts about it.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Jeremy.”

  He was acting so nervous, but what the fuck? I come out with these guys on three days’ notice, and they’re going to give me shit about drinking? It doubled my resolve to drink as much as possible, which was proving to be problematic anyway since we were so busy setting up and then playing before Goth night got rolling. I slammed that one beer as fast as I could, but we were in such a rush, we had to go right onstage after that.

  There was no opening act and maybe ten people showed up, which was an improvement over the five we had in Salt Lake. We ran over schedule despite only playing a twenty-minute set. Afterward, we had to tear down immediately, while a line of angry Goth kids waited outside to come in and do whatever it is that Goth kids do. Unfortunately, we had to load out of the same door that they were lined up at, and each time we came out with a load, they let us know how displeased they were by shooting angry glares at us. Their consternation was exponentially more effective through all the eyeliner, mascara, and black lipstick they wore. How did they turn out like that? Maybe their parents loved them the way they were, but we wanted to get the hell out of there.

  Driving away from the club, I asked Grux if the Satanic priest had ever shown up.

  “Who? Boyd? Yeah, he was there. He was telling me some shit about owls and Indians.”

  “Damn. I wanted to meet that guy. What’d he look like?” I asked him.

  “He was the guy wearing all black.”

  “The guy? Almost everyone there was wearing all black. I must have thought he was there for Goth night.”

  That made Grux laugh, which was unusual. “Ha. I wish he could have heard you say that.”

  That one beer hadn’t done much as far as supplementing my dwindling supply of heroin, but I did my best not to overdo it. I was almost out.

  FOUR DAYS ON THE ROAD and the sickness hit me like a Mack truck as we pulled into Lawrence, Kansas. I had been letting myself get pretty sick for about a month now, so I thought I would be prepared, but I found out quickly that I had never even been close to experiencing full-blown withdrawal. It was beyond horrific. Everything hurt. Bones, stomach, skin—and it was no easy task holding in the diarrhea that was threatening to explode at any minute. We made it to the club just in time for me to avoid shitting my pants. I was in so much pain and so fucking scared, yet I had to pretend that everything was fine. When Thomas commented on my pale complexion, I told him my stomach was hurting.

  “Must have been something I ate,” I said with as cool a demeanor as possible, but I was sweating bullets, and it was pretty cold out.

  “Jesus. Tell me you didn’t eat that spaghetti last night. Did you?”

  Grux had cooked about fifteen pounds of spaghetti and tomato sauce. It was the first thing he made that appeared to be somewhat edible before he decided to mix a five-pound can of peanut butter in with it. None of us ate that night besides Grux, who couldn’t stop telling us how good it was. But as long as Thomas was asking, I might as well lie and blame it on Grux.

  “I had to. There was nothing else to eat.” It was a good excuse, and maybe we would get some better food out of the deal. I didn’t lift a finger for load-in or setup that night. I just sat at the bar and drank shots of whiskey. I finally had my chance to get wasted, but it didn’t seem to be doing a damn thing for the dope sickness. It only added fuel to my self-pity. All I wanted to do was curl up and die, but I had to play the drums instead.

  The show went surprisingly well—it was maybe even the best one yet—and I actually felt some relief as soon as I put on my mask. Once in costume, I didn’t have to put on an act. I could be as sick, sweaty, and miserable as I wanted, which made a huge difference.

  Playing also gave me something to focus on other than wanting to die. When I took off my mask, though, the thoughts of death returned with a vengeance. The thing was, I didn’t really want to die forever. I just wanted to be dead for the next week or so. At least until the worst of it was over. I ordered another drink, but people were trying to talk to me, and I was in no shape to talk about anything other than myself, and that was not a good subject. I had to get out of there and talk to someone I knew.

  Grux had a device from RadioShack that when you pressed the button made the sound of a quarter dropping into a pay phone. I convinced him to lend it to me, and I went out to explore Lawrence.

  It took me a while to find a pay phone that worked, because the phone companies had been getting wise to the gadget I was using. The newer phones would connect you straight to the operator who would read off your location and tell you the cops were on their way, but eventually I found one that accepted the sound of fake quarters. I called Heather, and the moment I heard her voice I started sobbing.

  “It’s fucking bad. Way worse than I thought. How could I have been such an idiot? Fuck…fuck…fuck…and these people I’m with are fucking insane!”

  “Ha! And you’re not?”

  “Not what?” I asked, either not understanding or not paying attention.

  “Insane? I mean, this whole thing is insane,” she said, trying to make a point I was unable to grasp.

  “Well, I might be a little insane due to the circumstances I’m in, but these people are really crazy. They put peanut butter in their spaghetti and wear homemade sunglasses!” But even that didn’t sound crazier than what I was doing. I couldn’t articulate what I wanted to say, but I didn’t call her to get laughed at. She could hear me getting defensive and changed the subject.

  “Hey, O, you’re going to get through it. You’re not the first person to go through this. Just think about all the other people who’ve been through the same thing.”

  I thought about it, but it didn’t help. “Yeah, but I’m not those people. I don’t think I can do it. I thought I brought enough stuff to last two weeks, and it’s already gone. It’s so fucking bad. So fucking bad.” Repeating myself w
as the only thing I could think of to convey how horrible I felt.

  “I’m sorry, O. I wish I could help, but what can I do? It doesn’t even matter whether or not you think you can do it. At this point you don’t have a choice.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t have a fucking choice. Why did I do this? I’m such a fucking idiot,” I said.

  “Think about it this way: you still have seven days before you get to New York, so by the time you see me you’ll be all better.”

  “Okay, where am I meeting you again?” Talking to her wasn’t helping. I suddenly wanted very much to get off the phone.

  “It’s on the corner of Houston and Lafayette, a huge brick building. Just go in and find the Scott Nichols Gallery.”

  “Okay.” I wrote it down. “I’ll see you in a week.”

  “Good luck, O.”

  THAT NIGHT I TOSSED and turned on a hardwood floor, my skin alternating between freezing and scalding, and my head filled with thoughts of…I thought about all sorts of shit. My mind was racing all over the place. Mostly I just tried to repeat my mantra, “It’s bad…this is so fucking bad,” until some crappy childhood memory would come out of nowhere only to be replaced by, “I wonder what happened to so and so from high school?”…and on and on till I reined it in and got back to my mantra. Occasionally I would hear a truck speed by on the highway, and I thought about how nice it would be to take a casual stroll right into one of those big motherfuckers, and just like that…nothing.

  WE BROKE DOWN in Kansas City the next day, and I decided to try taking NyQuil. I was so tired, it seemed like I just needed a little something to knock me out. It made me more tired but it didn’t put me to sleep, so I figured another bottle would do it. That had the same effect, and it wasn’t till I drank the fourth bottle that I realized the shit wasn’t going to put me to sleep. It was just immobilizing me to a point where the slightest movement demanded an ungodly amount of effort.