We All Fall Down

by Nic Sheff

  Anyway, she puts on a Tom Waits record and packs her glass pipe with some of the shittiest weed I’ve ever seen in my life—brown, with tons of stems and whatever. I’ve always been curious what shwag like this would be like, considering that in San Francisco it was, as far as I knew, literally impossible to find pot that wasn’t of the highest dense, white crystallized quality. So, cool, another reason why smoking herb here shouldn’t be a problem: The stuff they’ve got sucks.

  But it does get me high.

  I take a hit and hold the dirty-tasting smoke in my lungs and exhale, and immediately my brain is coated with a gentle, caressing haze.

  “Wow,” I say, my voice sounding very out of body or something. “Thank you so much. I really needed that. Do, uh, do you have enough to sell me an eighth?”

  She smiles. “Of course, my dear.”

  Something moves on the bed, a dark shape displacing the light.

  Carmine reaches over to grab it, placing it wriggling on her bony, protruding shoulder.

  It’s a rat.

  “This is Franky,” she tells me, getting out her scale and doing the whole eighth-weighing thing.

  I pet the rat’s ragged, coarse hair. It moves suddenly and I flinch. Carmine totally laughs at me.

  “So, hey,” I say. “Um, I’m gonna try ’n’ go write a little now, but, uh, let’s hang out later this week, huh? Maybe we can watch a movie or something. I just bought Barbarella yesterday for two bucks at Home Run Video.”

  She doesn’t really look like she knows what I’m talking about, but she nods just the same and passes over the ugly sack.

  I give her forty bucks. That’s half my first paycheck and half of all the money I have in this world.

  But fuck it, right?

  Walking home, I see the city is transformed, vibrant—everything heightened and rhythmic and alive. Even the heat doesn’t seem so bad.

  And when I get back to our apartment, I blast music as loud as it’ll go and smoke cigarettes and set down to writing again. It’s weird, man, but for the first time in almost a year, I actually feel excited about working on my book. The pages come easily, and I’m focused and motivated, and I’m actually not tired for once. It seems like a miracle. I mean, I’m so grateful.

  This is what I’ve been missing, you know?

  It’s like medicine to me and, well, what the hell is wrong with that, anyway?

  A lot of people take medicine.

  Mine just happens to be illegal.

  And it probably won’t be for long.

  So I sit writing.

  For hours.

  Content.

  Finally.

  Ch.21

  I can’t remember where I heard it. Some joke about a man jumping off a tall building, repeating to himself as he falls, “So far, so good. So far, so good. So far, so good.”

  Well, here I am.

  Falling.

  And so far, so good.

  I guess.

  It’s been about a week now that I’ve been using—or, well, smoking pot and drinking a little. At first, I mean, yeah, Sue Ellen was definitely freaking out. When I told her I’d bought that eighth, she pretty well lost it. Screaming at me, saying all these fucked-up things about what a weak, nothing person I am. Screaming at me till I’m balled up in a corner somewhere, catatonic, my mind playin’ over and over about how the world would be better off without me. ’Cause that’s the truth, you know? I mean, everything she says to me, every name she calls me, is completely right on. I’m selfish and lazy and emotional and scared and genuinely unfit for survival. If natural selection could’ve had its way, I would’ve been dead a long time ago. Hell, I’m completely dependent on Sue Ellen. She’s the only person left who’ll still have anything to do with me. So, uh, yeah, I don’t blame her for resenting the hell out of me.

  Of course, me curling up there on the ground, that just makes it all even worse. She calls me pathetic and a coward and does everything she can to provoke me into fighting her. And, man, I’ll tell you, a lot of times I want to, but it’s almost like I’m physically incapable of standing my ground. Once she starts yelling, I can’t help but totally shut down. I’m like a little kid again, hiding in a cramped corner with the palms of my hands pressed against my ears while my parents, or my mom and stepdad, scream back and forth, throwing things, pushing each other out of the way—my stepfather’s glasses flying off—my mom backing up the car as he tries to throw himself behind it to stop her. And now, having just turned twenty-four years old, I’m that same little kid, crawling into the narrow crack between the bed and the wall, my breath shallow and panicked. But, fuck, man, does that enrage Sue Ellen. She ends up beating her fists against me, screaming at me to get the hell up.

  But I can’t get the hell up.

  My body is weighted down heavy, so I can’t lift it.

  I close my eyes tight and let my breathing calm slowly until I finally just fall asleep hidden in my little corner there.

  But when the morning comes, well, somehow everything is okay again. Sue Ellen doesn’t apologize, exactly, but she carries on softly with me—kissing my forehead and pressing her body against mine.

  That particular morning we actually smoked a joint and made love. After that it was like none of it had ever happened.

  “Honestly, Nic, I guess I thought you were gonna maybe turn into a werewolf or something if you smoked pot or drank again,” she told me, laughing sweetly. “I mean, can you blame me? That’s what all the counselors made it seem like. But you’re not a werewolf, are you?”

  I assure her I’m not, even if I don’t believe it completely.

  She tells me she loves me.

  And so, just like that, it’s all resolved. She gives me some money to go to the grocery store, and when she gets home from class that night, I’ve made a nice dinner for us both and we split a bottle of red wine. I make sure not to have more than a glass and a half. I remember someone telling me once that you can always recognize an alcoholic ’cause the person can’t ever leave any liquor in the glass. So I definitely leave my last glass about a quarter full. And, yeah, it is somewhat of a conscious effort, but not too bad. I mean, I’d say I feel almost like a normal person. At least, that’s what I’m trying for.

  The only time it’s been a real problem so far is at work. I’m just so goddamn miserable there, you know? It’s like I can’t get through even a couple of hours without going outside to take a quick hit or drink down a shot of cheap vodka I’ve got stashed in my bag. I mean, that’s the only way it’s even remotely tolerable. ’Cause, I don’t know, way more than the work itself, it’s having to be around the other employees that fills me with so much anxiety. Every day before work I feel, like, physically sick—my stomach all cramped up and nauseous, like it used to get in the mornings before school. There’s just this pressure I feel to be, well, “on,” you know? Like it’s just so much effort. And then when I am there and “on,” I have this sick compulsion to play this stupid game humans always play when they’re hanging out together—this game where one person tells a story about how great he is, and then the next person somehow finds a connected story that tells how equally great, or greater, she is. The game goes on and on like that the full eight-hour workday. And as much as I try to just be like everyone else, I always end up leaving feeling hollowed out, fucking gutted—like I need a drink—like I must be some entirely different species from the rest of humanity. I swear, sometimes I really do wonder if I’d be better suited as a hermit living off in a cabin somewhere—away from all people and pressures and judgments and responsibilities. Hell, it sounds pretty nice. But then again, I’d be stuck with myself—the last person I wanna have to spend a lot of time with.

  Anyway, the truth is, I am fucking trying. I mean, I haven’t quit work yet, and I’ve been making some kinda effort to make friends and whatever. Tonight I’m actually going with Sue Ellen to a work party at her boss’s house. And, man, I couldn’t even begin to tell you the last time I went to any ki
nda party anywhere—especially a party where I could just drink like a normal person. That definitely makes everything a whole lot easier. Plus, I feel energized like I never do when I’m sober. I guess it’s kinda abnormal that both drinking and smoking pot speed me up like a mild amphetamine. Most people say that shit makes them lethargic, but for me it’s the total opposite. And it’s such a relief ’cause, I swear, being sober—it’s like I’m just constantly tired. If I let myself, I could sleep all day and night, always. I’m never not tired. It’s such a pain in the ass—and I feel like a pussy admitting it. But, yeah, alcohol and pot are my total saviors in that respect. They’re my cure—my medicine. I’ve said it a hundred times before, but for some reason I have to keep repeating it to myself. I don’t know—maybe it just reminds me that it’s all okay. I wouldn’t deny a schizophrenic psychiatric meds, so why should I deny myself mine? That’s logic, pure and simple.

  I repeat it over and over.

  I tell myself:

  So far, so good.

  So far, so good.

  So far, so good.

  Sue Ellen will be home soon. We’ll go to the party. There’s nothing to worry about.

  I take a shower, washing off the thick coating of sweat and coffee grinds and chemical cleaning products and food smells from my day at work. I scrub my body till the skin is red and swollen. I’m using one of those loofah-mitt things—a habit I picked up from Zelda. Whenever we took showers together, she would meticulously scour every inch of my body with a coarse, bristled glove—scrubbing till my dead skin cells had all been washed away completely. Then she would start in on herself. For me, having her take possession of my body like that was the most I could possibly ask for.

  But I am alone here in the shower, scrubbing my own body, having to exist for myself and no one else. ’Cause as much as I might try to re-create things with Sue Ellen, I don’t know, it’s just never gonna be the same. I’m on my own now. I’ve gotta find some reason to serve myself. But, the difference is, Zelda deserved my love and devotion. Me? Well, I’m grateful I’m drinking again to get me through all this. So you’re damn right I make myself a martini to drink while I’m getting dressed—even if it’s kinda funky mixed with the toothpaste taste that’s left over in my mouth. I mean, I drink it.

  When Sue Ellen gets home, she immediately comes to give me a kiss, inhaling loudly through her nose as she swoops in, no doubt trying to smell hints of alcohol on my breath. Obviously she does.

  “Have you started drinking already?” she asks, sounding not pleased at all. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  I laugh kinda defensively. I mean, those are basically the first words she’s said to me all day.

  “Hey, chill, girl, it’s okay. I made a drink just now when I got outta the shower. It’s not a big deal. I was anxious is all… about having to be around a bunch of people I don’t know. Anyway, I missed you so bad all day. Don’t be mad at me. I’m happy to see you.”

  She glares at me defiantly for a good minute.

  “Come on,” I try again. “I love you. We’re gonna have fun tonight, right?”

  I start messing around, poking her and stuff, saying, “Right? Right? Right?”

  She finally laughs, and then I know we’re okay.

  “I love you,” I tell her. “Okay?”

  Her mouth gives in to a smile, and she says she loves me, too.

  “All right, then, don’t worry. Why don’t you go get dressed? Come on, I’ll roll a joint for us.”

  That was the wrong thing to say.

  Her face goes all flushed and angry-looking.

  “No, Nic, no. I don’t wanna smoke, and I don’t want you smoking, either.”

  I hold both hands up like I’m being threatened with a gun, or something. “Okay, okay. I thought you wanted to, that’s all. I don’t care one way or the other.”

  I’m not sure whether she believes that, but it’s obviously not the truth.

  “Seriously, Nic,” she says. “You’re kinda freaking me out. I mean, you sound all, I don’t know, obsessed.”

  I laugh that off. “Shit, Sue Ellen, stop worrying so much. You’re really making something outta nothing, you know?”

  She turns abruptly and walks off to the bedroom. “Yeah, well, I hope so,” she says, more to herself than to me.

  I tell her I’m going outside for a cigarette.

  Obviously I bring the bowl with me in my pocket and steal a few hits off it so she won’t know. Then I really do go on and smoke a cigarette to help cover up the smell.

  When I get back inside, she seems chilled out some and lets me kiss her.

  I put my arm around her waist and hold her to me while we walk the few blocks to the party—the sun mostly set over the trees and houses—the night air cooler than it’s been in a long-ass time.

  At first, you know, I mostly just kept to myself at the party/cookout thing. Sue Ellen introduced me to her boss, a girl around my age named Kelly, and a bunch of the other kids she works with. They were mostly all fucking hipsters, like everyone else from the goddamn art school. But still, I mean, they seemed nice enough. I just didn’t know what to talk to anybody about, so I sat outside in a folding chair, sort of half listening to people’s conversations. Actually, I woulda probably gone ahead and walked back home if Kelly’s boyfriend, Russell, hadn’t come over right then and sat down next to me, reaching one hand out to shake mine while balancing a heaping plate of food in the other.

  “Hey, man,” he says, his voice real baritone and, uh, Southern. “You’re Nic, right? It’s nice to meet you.”

  I shake his hand. “Yeah, you too. Thanks for having us over and cooking and everything.”

  He laughs deep at that. “No problem, man. I got that big-mama grill from my folks last year, so any excuse to fire ’er up is good by me. Besides, this is a good group of kids. And I like most everyone Kelly works with. I’ll tell you the truth, though, I’ve always had a special soft spot for Sue Ellen, so I’m real glad she’s got a good guy in her life.”

  I grind the toe of my sneaker into the dirt, saying, “I think ‘good guy’ is arguable.”

  He laughs again. “Nah, I can tell. And I really do mean that. Sue Ellen seems real happy, Nic, and I know she’s proud of you. She told me about the book you’re writing, and I gotta say, I’m genuinely humbled to meet you. I mean, it takes a whole lotta balls to do what you’re doing, and I’m just damn impressed.”

  I feel his thick, fleshy hand squeeze my shoulder tight, and then I can’t help it—there’re tears flooding my eyes. “Russell, man, that’s like the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long-ass time.”

  I have to cover my face.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to pull my shit together. “It’s been a hard road, man, and, uh, that just means a lot to me.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it,” he tells me. “Anyway, we’re gonna be friends, right?”

  I wipe my face, looking up at him from my hunched-over position.

  Here I was ready to dismiss him as, like, a good ol’ boy, ex-marine, or something—a little overweight but strong and masculine in a way that’s always kinda intimidated me. But if anything, he’s really the total opposite of that. His face isn’t hard or threatening. His smile is open and sincere. His brownish-green eyes, obscured behind wire-rimmed glasses, are deep set with knowing and kindness. I’m actually pretty embarrassed, ’cause the more I truly study his features, the more I realize my initial assessment of him was totally off base. I mean, he’s like a big stuffed teddy bear. But, of course, me being from liberal San Francisco, my assumption is that all guys from the South who have crew cuts and wear college football T-shirts and like to grill outdoors and drink Budweiser are all gonna be these redneck, gun-toting, gay-bashing, closed-minded evangelical assholes.

  Shit, man, it’s pretty pathetic. I mean, here I am accusing other people of being closed-minded when, really, I’m the one who was being a total judgmental asshole. I feel ashamed suddenly, and I
want to apologize to Russell, even though that wouldn’t make any sense to him.

  I mean, what could I say?

  So, instead, I try to reach out to him in basically the only way I know how.

  “Hey,” I say, kinda quietly. “You wanna go smoke a bowl, maybe, when you’re done eatin’?”

  He leans back in the straining canvas chair. “You know it, brother. Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  We sort of “cheers” our bottles of Budweiser together, and then Russell starts in on a massive chicken leg. I’d say he’s able to get about three or four bites down before, really out of nowhere, this giant cat with scruffy, matted fur and a missing chunk out of its left ear pounces onto Russell’s ample belly.

  “Hi, there, Jezzy,” says Russell sweetly, rubbing its good ear with the palm of his hand. The cat’s not impressed. It fixes its scowl on Russell’s face and starts meowing and growling and hissing dramatically.

  “This here’s Jezebel,” Russell tells me, laughing a little to himself. “We might think we run things ’round here, but ol’ Jezzy, she knows better.”

  He rips off a pretty sizable piece of chicken from his plate and dangles it up over the cat, who chomps the big piece of meat down faster’n I can fucking blink. The cat then goes on to demand a piece of steak, then a piece of potato. It’s not till she’s sampled each and every food item on Russell’s plate that she finally seems contented, curling up right there on his lap and falling asleep hard—her tongue slightly lolling and some drool hanging down.

  “Women!” says Russell.

  We both laugh at that.

  After eating, Russell takes me inside to go smoke a bowl in the backroom. He’s got his own pipe and his own stash, too, so we just match each other back and forth, making small talk and whatever. The room must be used as some sort of study or something, ’cause besides a funky, torn couch and some straight-back wooden chairs, the rest of the space is completely stacked to the top with books—I mean, everything from spy novels to historical textbooks to, like, Bret Easton Ellis and Chuck Palahniuk. He even has a book of military writing by Mao Tse-tung. Fucking awesome.