If she had been following Henry and he had caught her and set up an ambush like Montgomery, he wouldn’t be asking her if she was ‘All right.’ He would’ve ripped her a new asshole, tears or not.
The emotion was relenting and in its place an awkward silence was beginning to intervene. The two of them stared at one another for a few moments. Composure seemingly back, Montgomery took this as a sign and asked the big question, “Why are you following me? Do I know you?”
There was a strong urge to answer his questions with a host of her own questions. The restless quandaries danced wild on the tip of her tongue, but Ashley couldn’t seem to shake off nerves and get it together. This was all too weird. Montgomery stared on awaiting her response. Suddenly, she felt like she was ten years old, contemplating the proper spelling of the word seize during a qualifying round of her elementary school’s annual spelling bee.
Just like then, everything inside froze and just like then the overwhelming urge to run away washed over her. But unlike then, collapsing under pressure and spelling the stupid word with a ‘C,’ she was grown and free to run if she wished. So rather than answer Montgomery, she simply tuned him out, jumped in her car, swerved around him, and sped away.
There was the fear that he would turn the tables and follow her.
So, the entire way home, via long complicated routes, Ashley kept her eyes glued to the rearview mirror. Luckily the paranoia was for naught, nothing, no pursuit, no danger, nothing.
The first thing Ashley did when she got home, hands shaking compromising precision at every turn, was to prepare a large blast. The needle bobbed and weaved and threatened to do some damage, but at the very last second, millimeters from insertion, the sucker stabilized and found its way home.
Worry flooded away as warmth pumped through her blood stream, entered one of the chambers of her heart, filled it in with gold, and then abetted with wings, took dominion over the entire body.
Overdose was a dirty, dirty word. The junkies’ kryptonite. Fortunately, neither Ashley nor Henry, nor any of their user friends, had ever experienced it. They all had heard horror stories about dying or puking like there was no tomorrow, about scratching until blood flowed from shredded skin, about nodding off in a circulatory restrictive position and losing a limb. Ashley did plenty of research and read about sickness and death and as a result was always super cautious about fixing up the proper dosage. She liked to think she was a responsible drug user (if there ever was such a thing) (most of the time).
Almost immediately into this last blast, things started to feel really wrong. The sense that she may have taken a bit too much began to creep upon her cognition and sink its evil hooks in deep.
She was alive and cognizant – which was good and probably a pretty safe sign that she hadn’t in fact overdosed, but nausea rode her like a bitch and her thoughts kept disintegrating from affirming mantras into death rants.
People did drugs like heroin to escape, to attain an unattainable bliss. This bad trip, too much junk ravaging her system, was the antithesis of her desires. Oh, she forgot about Montgomery and Heather and the world-at-large, she forgot about getting older, going nowhere, burning out. But there was no relief. Usually when high she could just coast along and think frivolous thoughts. She could concentrate on her aimless art and fill page after page in her sketch book. She could relax.
Not this time.
This time she wanted to rip her fucking eyes out and throw up her intestines and come apart in a shower of red, white and grue.
This time she found herself looking for a razorblade.
For a meat cleaver.
For a plastic bag to put over her head and choke everything away.
Ashley managed to pull the junk drawer from its track and upend its guts into a mountain of sharp shiny things when the phone rang and shattered her suicidal rampage.
She didn’t answer; rather she honed in on the blaring ring and attempted to ground herself. It worked and it didn’t. Her constantly cycling mind let off its nihilism trip, suicidal impulse now a dying ember, and wondered who had the audacity to call and interrupt her freak out.
The answering machine fired up. Her own voice creaked out and Ashley officially felt like she was mentally insane, like she had passed through some freaky ass wormhole and came out in a parallel universe that was rejecting every fiber of her being. She listened to her body. It seemed as if it was being unmade.
Henry’s voice crackled through the tinny speaker: “Hey, Ash. Just wanted to say ‘Hey.’ We’re almost done here. Once Burrito stops fucking up this last bass line we’re out of here. So… Where are you? Call me, my cell is on.”
Powerless to do much other than ride it out, Ashley gritted her teeth and fell onto the sofa.
Uneasy sleep claimed her and put her out of her misery.
“Die you stupid fuck!”
Ashley awoke to Henry grunting and groaning and mashing buttons on his stupid gamepad or whatever it was called. There was the urge to yell at him and tell him to calm the hell down, but instead she smiled sleepily - she could already tell she felt worlds better. Sleep had drowned those out-of-control feelings. The intensity cooled. She felt fuzzy and empty, but good, kind of like being stoned.
As she sat up, dream fragments twisted in mock revelation before disappearing all together. It was almost as if she had time-traveled. One minute she was freaking out, the next she was waking up. There were no recollections of moving to the couch and falling asleep, or any sense whatsoever of how long she was out. There were only tiny inklings of a fast fading dream. Though nearly gone, she could recall that she had a job, a real job that she cared about, but again, it was like she wasn’t even there. Idiot metaphors began to well in the back of her mind. Deep stuff. Life affirming shit, or more likely life redirecting visions. But no. Nothing of note. In half dreams, in anti-dreams, in drug-addled reveries, just like in life, she felt like she was there but not really.
These thoughts filled her with a peculiar sensation, one of disembodiment and emptiness. Ashley didn’t like it and she put her hands to her face to affirm that she was indeed here, in the flesh, on their crappy couch alongside her man-boy boyfriend and his videogames.
“You were really out of it,” Henry noticed she was awake and addressed her as he continued to battle a horde of gross alien things.
“Mm.” She was still feeling pretty ‘out of it.’ Words were warming up though. “What time is it?”
“I… don’t know, maybe… tw… tw… two AM?” When locked in videogame mode, Henry tended to punctuate his speech at odd intervals.
Ashley sighed big, “Shit.”
“Wha?”
“I open tomorrow – um, today.” She wasn’t looking forward to work in the least.
“At ele… eleven?” The button mashing ramped up, “You fuck!” An alien vaporized him.
“Yeah.” Ashley sat up straighter, consciousness fully reestablishing itself.
Henry put the controller down on an end table, juggled a few remotes until he got the TV on to some sitcom, and then turned his full attentions toward her. He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the lips and then leaned back on his side of the couch, “Good. We can hang out for a little bit then?”
Ashley did the math. She had about eight hours before she had to be up to start getting ready for work, but then again she must have slept for a good chunk of time already. “A little bit. Morning will be here way too soon.”
He smiled big, excited to finally have her ear, and then launched into a rundown of his band’s session, “Oh man, Ash, this album is coming out awesome! We got three songs done and put down a bunch of tracks for the rest. It’s not even punk anymore. It’s… evolved. New shit. I think this one is going to put us over the top.”
“Your demos sounded good.” Ashley had already heard most of the songs he was working on in rough, guitar and vocal only versions. They were good. And they were a bit more complicated, a bit more melodic than Henry’s older stu
ff.
“The songs are coming along so much better.”
“And the name?” The Jerkoffs was cute and punk rock offensive in an adolescent kind of way. Ashley and Henry had discussed this at great length. If he intended on really doing this for a living, for keeps, he had to consider the commercial factor. It killed him inside, Ashley could see a little wince even now when she brought it up, but it was a crucial component to his success, to their success, after all they were in this together. With a name like The Jerkoffs they would never advance beyond the piss-poor underground scene.
“We didn’t get a chance to talk about it yet.”
Ashley narrowed her eyes.
“We will. Soon. It’s just hard. Meg is going to flip.”
Meg, short for Megan, was their lead guitar player. He made up the band name and was quite attached to it (yes, He not She, as in his foolish parents named him Megan – which was clearly a girl’s name).
“You can’t wait too much longer, Henry. This name thing has to be resolved.” Ashley understood that running a band was a pain in the ass. Interpersonal relationships made shit difficult. Also, they had played under the same moniker for a few years. Shedding the name ran the risk of losing some of their fan base. Regardless, when it came to visualizing the big picture there were some little things that had to be corrected. She hated to stick her nose in, but Henry’s band mates were essentially idiots with zero vision.
Henry continued on about his day and the impending video shoot (more headaches. Ashley had to get her two cents in before the video went off the rails with meathead clichés – girls, cars, drugs, etc… They had to do something original and memorable). She watched his face as it jumped from excitable emotion to excitable emotion. Beneath all of the rock crap – Mohawk, piercings, tattoos – he was quite beautiful. His cheekbones were sharp, but not too sharp and he had a wonderful, strong chin. Ashley particularly loved the way his dark eyes widened and squinted with passion when he rambled on and on, too fast, but endearing and steeped in sweet affectation.
As he talked and talked, Ashley’s mind flittered about. She wondered if there was a better life for the two of them, a place outside of their crappy apartment and ever-stocked stash box, a place minus the constant promotion and worry about asinine things like record reviews or magazine mentions or webpage hits or (so far so meager) downloads and song sales and tour details.
A bit of her forgotten dream peeked out from the caverns of her cerebration and Ashley could picture herself in a business style suit delivering a presentation or drinking coffee or doing whatever it was those nine-to-fivers with retirement plans and pensions and futures did day in and day out.
Henry’s daily adventures lulled and Ashley stepped in, “When you were a kid, what did you want to be?”
The shift in topics was jarring, but Henry seemed a little talked out and didn’t mind. The question however, coming out of left field as it did, confused him. “Huh?”
She rephrased it, “What was like your dream job? You know, when you were a kid fantasizing about careers and stuff?”
“Motherfucking rock star!” Quick. No thought. Easy. His voice reverberated with absolute conviction.
“No, seriously, when you were a kid?”
He repeated with just as much sincerity, “Mother. Fucking. Rock. Star. Seriously.”
“Really?” Ashley found this quite amazing. Who had the same career dream their whole life? Was she an anomaly? Did people do this sort of thing?
“Yeah. No doubts. From day one, girl. What about you?”
If ever there was a time to start crying (which reminded her she had to tell Henry about her day – he wasn’t going to be happy). The question, when turned on her felt like a knife, no, a bomb that blew her insides to nothing pieces. The answer evaded her. “I don’t know. I can’t really remember.”
“Come on. Not even a princess or a ballerina or a veterinarian? Not even a record store clerk?”
She flipped him off and made a sour face. It bugged Ashley that she didn’t have an automatic answer like he did. There was something. There had to be something. She had dreams as a kid just like everybody else; unfortunately adulthood had managed to bury them deep, deep down. She thought hard, harder than she wanted to, until she alighted on it. Duh.
“An Architect.” Her voice came out strange, unsure.
“An Architect? Like on Seinfeld?”
“No, not like on Seinfeld, like in real life you asshole.” She slugged him.
“I thought you wanted to be an artist?”
Ashley’s only real hobby, the only thing she would consider herself any good at was drawing. Fashion stuff, but not really because every time she started a clothing design it morphed into something… bigger… weirder… more structure than garment. She filled sketch book after sketch book with scribblings and doodles and highly detailed illustrations.
“Artist isn’t a real job. It’s one of those luck things. Architects have real jobs.”
Why she never pursued an art career, or something a little more solid like work in the field of architecture, was beyond her. Life just kept doling out distractions. There was always something more interesting to do than go to school or study or dress like a fucking drone and smile your way through job interviews.
“I’m an artist,” Henry attempted in defense.
“Yeah, and I wouldn’t call what you do a job.”
“It’s hard fucking work.”
Ashley rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. Henry’s job looked less like ‘hard fucking work’ and more like a continual party. Not that it was all fun and games. Even continually partying could get tiresome.
Silence rose between them – Henry staring at her, his wheels turning, obviously trying to figure out what to say next to make her feel better about herself – Ashley staring at him and wondering those bothersome wonderments about life and career and future.
“CHAOS is a good place to work, Ashley.”
This didn’t help. But then again, she couldn’t argue. CHAOS was a good place to work. Her co-workers were awesome, responsibilities minimal and she was immersed knee deep in music for eight hours at a time. The only problem was it was one of those jobs you had in high school or while going to college. You got paid barely enough to survive and there was no purpose, no chance for advancement, no future.
Henry waited for a response, but got a blank stare instead. “It is a great place to work and you are doing the world some serious good.”
“What?” She could barely contain her bemusement.
“Everyday you are helping your fellow man make informed choices about good music. You are steering them clear of the pop drivel that pollutes radio and television and you’re turning them on to quality shit.”
“Right.” She simply smiled at him and shook her head.
Henry, bored with the subject and quickly coming to the realization that his soapbox was not fit for standing upon, changed topics. “So then, you wanna get high before bed?”
“Does Howdy Doody have wooden balls?”
They both started laughing uproariously. Ashley was quite proud of herself. Her comedic timing was perfect.
Thank you, Mr. Cheech and Mr. Chong.
The giggles died and Henry went to get their stash box. When he returned and began preparing a fix she asked him to hang on a minute, “I have to tell you what happened to me today.”
As expected Henry was livid. And though she had to argue and defend herself and managed to acquire a huge headache (which the heroin obliterated shortly thereafter), she loved him to pieces for it. He was mad, yes, pissed at her for confronting a potential danger on her own, and then doubly angry at her for nearly overdosing on a carelessly prepared fix, but it only showed how much he cared.
“Fucking stupid, Ash!” Henry tended to be super dramatic during tiffs and this was no exception. He bounded around the living room kicking furniture and muttering expletives aloud and to himself.
She tried to put up a mea
ger fight, but justification was fruitless. She fucked up, plain and simple.
“I’ve been feeling out of it lately.”
“Out of it? So you stalk some fucker and then try to kill yourself?”
“I wasn’t stalking anyone! And I didn’t try to kill myself!”
They went back and forth for awhile until Henry yelled all he could.
Then they got high – Henry silently preparing their doses and then wordlessly handing Ashley’s over – and sat at opposite ends of the couch, pouting like children, one in agreement with the other, but still ruffled over their arguing.
The heroin glided through their veins and their anger began to chortle and sputter. Soon, the distance between them closed. Before Ashley even knew how or what happened, they were passionately making out, tearing at each other’s clothes, moaning in tandem with the hot vibrations that buzzed their sensation receptors and drove them on in shared ecstasy.
After they were done making wild, spontaneous love they adjourned to the bedroom, got under the covers, and held each other tight until they drifted off to sleep.
On their way down, Ashley was struck yet again with that urge to quit using. Her brain set ablaze with worry. The future. The future. The future. And somewhere, tiny, she could hear one of her idols, Johnny Rotten snarling ‘No future, no future, no future for you…’
Shaken, she fought off sleep for a few more moments and murmured to Henry, “Next week, Hen. After the video and the album. Next week we quit, okay?”
As Fate Would Have It Page 11