“If you had your own bathroom, maybe you could!” After one final pound, her mother moved off down the shag-carpeted hallway.
“Jeeee-zus,” Krystle said again, relishing the sound of it, and the feeling of the sibilants on her tongue. She put the eyeliner down and moved on to the blush, painting a reasonable approximation of a healthy glow into the hollows of her cheeks. Then three coats of mascara, some dark lip liner surrounding peach gloss lipstick, a spritz of White Diamonds, and she was good to go.
She scooped all the makeup into the top drawer and turned to leave, then spotted her hand mirror still resting on the closed seat of the toilet. “Right: clean up after yourself, Krystle,” she said, bending down. The sight of the scraps of dust at the corner of the mirror called to her. One more little snort, and then she’d be off. Trent wouldn’t be here for another ten minutes at least.
Pulling the paper bindle from the coin pocket at the front of her Levi’s, Krystle carefully unfolded it, measured out less than a quarter of what she had left, and nudged it onto the mirror with the razor blade. Then she squatted next to the toilet, tap-tap-tapping the powder ever finer before arranging it in two short lines. Next came the dollar bill, rolled tight to make a straw. She’d done it through a fifty one time. Her dream was to use a hundred-dollar bill, but nobody had ever managed to pull together that much cash at once.
Some day.
Leaning over the mirror, Krystle snorted the speed: right nostril first, then left. After scooting the dollar around to make sure no residue was wasted, she unrolled and folded it and shoved it back in her pocket, then went to the sink. She wet her fingertips, lifted them to her nose, and inhaled the drops of water with a sharp sniff. Then she stood there a moment, waiting for the drip.
Ahhh.
The tangy cash-scented stinging burn of the drug as it touched the back of her throat made her smile. This is what it’s all about.
Sniffling, she stuck the mirror in the drawer with her makeup and unlocked the bathroom door.
~o0o~
Trent drove them out beyond the valley, over the hill to the Eel River, not far from Clayton’s. He parked just below the bridge, next to Russ’s battered red F150 pickup; another truck pulled in behind him, blocking them in.
Krystle did not care. It was the first weekend of summer: the biggest-ass party in a season of big-ass parties, and she and Trent would be here till dawn.
She could already hear the laughter and smell the cigarette smoke down by the river as she started to open her door and sidle out into the night. “Hang on,” Trent said, pulling out a bindle of his own. He favored glossy dark magazine paper, usually Sports Illustrated. Krystle preferred snowy-white printer paper: pure and simple. Clayton would package it any way you liked; that was what was great about him. He understood his customers.
Anyway, Krystle would not turn down Trent’s speed, no matter how it was packaged. She let go of the door handle and turned to face her boyfriend.
He measured a couple of generous lumps out onto the scrap of steel he used for a traveling mirror, then coaxed them into four lines with the side of his driver’s license. Krystle almost offered him her razor blade, tucked behind her bindle in her jeans, but he was doing fine. He liked to be the big man, the man with the truck, the man with the drugs.
Her man.
It was all right with her. When he offered up the mirror and his own rolled-up bill (a five—big man indeed), she leaned in and snorted them up expertly. “Thanks, dude.”
“My pleasure.” He took his own lines, then stuck the mirror in the glove box without even wiping it down.
Everyone was different.
“Yow,” Krystle said as the harsh powder sat on her nasal passages. She’d go dip her fingers in the river to get the drip she craved. Plus, you were supposed to rinse out your nose every time. If you didn’t, you’d get a deviated septum, like all those coke users in the eighties.
Her heart racing, she got down from the truck and headed for the water, greeting friends and strangers as she went. Well, no one was a stranger really, not in this small town; she could name every kid on the rocky shore if she took the time. But they weren’t important. Only her friends were important. And rinsing her nose, that was too. Krystle felt nine feet tall and powerful and thin and strong and rocking solid hot as she strode to the river’s edge, but her nose twitched and damn she needed to get some water in there right now damn it!
“Careful of the Hippie Monster,” Trent called out as he joined a few guys gathered around the keg—John, and Russ, and a big hairy dude everyone called the Ogre. The guys all laughed, and Krystle rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, right.” They thought they were so funny. Get a little beer in them and they thought they were even funnier.
Besides, the Hippie Monster had been further down the river. And it was years ago. And everyone said it was just a wild animal, plus some kind of cult, with a bunch of idiots OD’ing on hallucinogens.
Which only went to prove what an urban legend it was. You couldn’t OD on hallucinogens. You could have a bad trip, sure; but you only overdosed on heroin or PCP or stuff like that.
The river water had a muddy, green-algae-like scent to it, but it cleaned her nostrils and gave her the drip she needed just fine. Suddenly thirsty, Krystle went in search of a beer.
She did not have to look far.
~o0o~
Clayton was supposed to come down the hill about midnight and hang out, someone said. With his long greasy blonde hair and filthy blue jeans, Krystle always thought he didn’t exactly fit in with the high school crowd. That, plus being super old, like forty or something. But she would be happy to see him. He was one of the few adults who treated the kids like equals.
And sold them speed, of course.
He cooked it up in a shed behind his cabin. It was totally reinforced and triple-insulated to keep the smell inside, and to not burn down the forest. His entire complex—shed, cabin, lean-to garage, and a whole collection of dead cars—was protected by a tall fence with razor-wire on top and a couple of big scary dogs.
Krystle remembered the first time she’d been included on a trip to Clayton’s. That was when she was with Jeff; before Trent. She’d been so excited that she got to go, to see where it came from. To meet the guy himself—an outlaw! It felt dangerous and cool and important.
The reality was a bit bleaker than that, but she’d still felt special sitting on the countertop in his kitchen, sipping from the drink they’d given her—amaretto and milk. It was too sweet and kind of gross, and alcohol had never really been her thing anyway. Plus, the lights were too bright inside. She’d stared down into the drink as Jeff and Clayton did their business (this was before she’d started buying her own stash), watching the ice cubes melt into the milk, making little rivers of clear liquid.
Krystle sniffed again, the memory making her queasy. She took a sip of her beer, then set the plastic cup down on a rock. Not thirsty any more.
What she was now was energized, totally, pure blasting focused WIRED energized oh my god. Her legs needed to move, her arms wanted to pump and bring air into her body, sweet fresh oxygen. She hadn’t really needed that last line… Oh well, it would wear off eventually. Faster, if she walked a bit.
She could go up to the road, but then she’d have to walk through the party again, all the laughing guys. And someone would want to talk to her, and she just fucking couldn’t handle that right now, okay? She could walk up to Clayton’s; but she didn’t like his dogs, and if he wasn’t expecting company, that could be bad. But she had to go somewhere, do something.
Her heart was racing, beating way too fast. She wasn’t scared—this had totally happened before, she knew what to do—but it was super annoying, and if she had to talk to someone it would be even more annoying, and did there always have to be someone around asking questions, did you always have to explain shit to everyone?
Krystle started walking down the flat, rocky beach, away from the party. She picked her
way slowly at first so that she would look like she was just strolling, so Trent wouldn’t think she was mad and follow her, or want to fuck in the bushes or something. But her wired-up muscles strained and yearned against her pace. She was walking like a robot, she knew it, but couldn’t stop. It was dark out, probably nobody noticed.
She got to the bend in the river, where the beach narrowed. Now she was out of sight of the party—of anyone who wasn’t right down by the water’s edge, anyway. She could walk faster here, and she did.
Damn, it felt good.
Krystle strode on, and the night air filled her lungs, and her legs burst with energy and speed—well, ha-ha, speed as in going-fast, but speed as in the drug too, of course! Which is why it was called that, she knew that, but it was funny, sometimes she forgot. It was speed because it made your heart go fast and your thoughts go fast and your muscles go fast. And your stomach too: speed was the best thing for dieting, like, ever. Speed had taken Krystle’s plump, curvy early-teen body and winnowed it down to the lean, strong, gorgeous thing she was today.
God, she loved speed.
The beach narrowed more as the sounds of the party faded behind her. Soon she’d have to turn back; the trees grew all the way down to the river’s edge, dipping their branches into the water. But she didn’t want to go back, she wasn’t ready. The party seemed like a stupid thing. Why had she wanted to come, after all? She hated these people, everyone. Same old same old. Why did she have to live in this stupid town anyway? Why couldn’t she ever get out?
She could walk back and forth on this part of the beach. But that seemed even stupider than the party. And someone would see.
Krystle got to the low branches on the water and peered around them. The beach picked up just past them in another long, open stretch. She pushed at the branches, but the trees were too thick and wouldn’t move, wouldn’t let her through. She’d have to go into the water.
She stood back, hands on her hips, and thought about it. Then she bent down and took off her high-heeled sandals.
The water was shallow here, and much colder than she’d expected. When she swam in the Eel River, it was usually later in the summer; this felt like snow-melt. She gasped as it touched her ankles, and slipped a little on the slimy algae that grew on the rocks. Reaching out with the hand that wasn’t holding her sandals, she steadied herself on a thick branch, but it swayed at her touch.
“Fuck!” she yelled, only barely managing to keep her balance. If she fell in, she’d get her stash wet, and ruin it. It would dissolve in the river. It was only about fifteen bucks worth, but still. Not like she was a millionaire or anything.
With a colossal effort, Krystle kept from immersing herself. When she was certain she had her footing, she stepped forward, moving around the protruding branches.
The icy water lapped at her calves as it wicked up her jeans, approaching her knees. It felt like it was only about a foot deep at the deepest part, but damn, it was cold.
Then she’d gotten to the edge of the branches; now she was past, and there was the rest of the beach. Krystle picked up her pace and scrambled up towards the bank. Her foot slipped again on a big flat slick rock; she nearly tumbled up onto the shore, shivering and dripping.
“Fuck,” she said again, softer this time.
Her heart was still pounding, but this time with anxiety. She had come this close to falling in and losing her stash. And getting all wet, and looking like a dork.
Not only that, but she would have to go back through the water to get back! Stupid, stupid!
“I’ll go up to the road,” she told herself. She realized she was on the crazy hippie beach now; they would have a path to the road, even if nobody had lived here for years. Then she could walk back to the party.
Right. Cool.
Satisfied, Krystle started walking down the beach, looking for the path. It was sandier on this side of the trees, and a bit steeper. And damn, it was dark. She wished she had a flashlight, but who took a flashlight to a party? Only dorks, she was sure.
But how hard could it be to find a path?
Once she got to the road, it would be fine. Of course there weren’t any streetlights out here, twenty miles down a country dirt road, but her eyes would adjust to the starlight and the way would be open enough for her to find her way back. The noise of the party would guide her. There was only one road, anyway.
But damn, it was dark.
Suddenly, Krystle was very, very ready to get back. A crawling panic seized her and she half-ran up to the top of the beach, where the forest encroached hard and thick. Where was their stupid path? There had to be one. It would be overgrown, but it would have to be there, sort of, anyway. But she found nothing. She pushed and clawed at the branches and they clawed her back, scratching her face. “Fuck!”
Then one part of the forest seemed less thick than the rest, and she could see a bit of sandy ground under it, she thought. Or at least a lighter patch. Krystle pushed into it, shoving the branches aside and sliding her skinny body into the opening. But three steps in, it had closed up again. She turned all the way around: nowhere to go.
Whimpering, she slipped back out and stood on the beach once more. Her whole body was shaking, and her heart was slamming away, must be a hundred beats a minute.
Krystle turned around and looked at the water. She would have to go back through it.
After she rested. As much as her body was racing, she was also exhausted, she realized. She sat down on the cold sand and tried to catch her breath, to still her heart. Just slow down, she thought, soothing herself. Slow down.
That’s when she noticed the bottom of the river glowing.
It was a low, steady green iridescence, pulsating slightly. The light made a sort of broken shimmering on the surface of the water, but it was also changing in its depths, she could see that.
“What the fuck?” Krystle leaned forward, too frightened to get up and have a closer look; too fascinated to leave it be.
Besides, she couldn’t run away. Where would she go?
Her heart rate doubled, it seemed, and ached in her chest.
What was it? “Algae,” she whispered aloud. It had to be; some sort of weird glowy green algae thing, reflecting the moon back or something. The rocks were slippery enough.
But there was no moon tonight, and the damn thing was getting brighter.
When the shape broke the surface of the water, Krystle fell backwards on the sand, her eyes rolling and her mouth gaping open.
~o0o~
Long have we waited, and far we have reached.
It was a dream. It had to be a dream. She was not seeing a total space alien thing coming out of the water. She was not.
Trust the words of your heart, and carry our message.
The only words of her heart were that it was going to fucking burst from beating so fast. She was lying on the freezing cold sand on a moonless night, staring up at the stars, but also seeing an alien. A monster. Coming out of the water. Impossible.
There is another way. Your path is faulty. The path of everyone on this planet is faulty. We have come to share our wisdom.
The Hippie Monster! That had to be it. Krystle struggled to move her limbs, to turn her head, to get up, but it was as though she was bound with a thousand tiny ropes. She could not budge. Also, she was still seeing the stars at the same time as she was seeing the long, narrow, big-headed, big-eyed alien, like right from a movie. In the water.
We choose the shape that makes sense to you. To make it clear, to make our origins clear. Do not fear. It is merely an image. Listen to the message.
Then it all became blurry, and still she could not move. Krystle felt cold, but her body would not shiver. Her mind roamed the stars, seeing visions that were not possible—extra dimensions, twisted shapes, creatures that bent and soared around others, a long line of bubbles that popped and soothed. And a strong sense of peace and joy grew in her—slowly at first, and then more rapidly, as her mind and body opened up to th
e concept.
It was better than any drug ever. Better than mushrooms, more visual than acid, more euphoric than coke. It was true. It was real. The Hippie Monster wasn’t a monster at all. It was an alien, a creature from another planet, and it was using her to take a message to the rest of humanity.
A message of peace, and harmony. A new way of being. Hope and love, and an end to faulty pleasure-seeking behaviors that only harmed. Instead, a pure, true joy: a promise of hope to humanity, from the stars.
All she had to do was carry this simple message.
Krystle started to laugh, there on the beach; joy sprung from her frozen lips, echoed through the trees, across the river. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes! I will.”
~o0o~
When she came to herself again, she was lying on her side. Sand stuck to the corner of her mouth where she had drooled; she sat up and wiped it off.
“Holy fuck,” she said, staring down at the water, heart still pounding. Now there was no more green glow, no more alien.
But it had happened. And now she understood everything. The thing—whatever it was—it had been here for decades. Trapped, moored to the land, to the river. It had tried to use the hippies to get the word out, to save humanity and its own self; but they had failed, for some reason.
Now the thing told her it was all up to her.
“No,” she whispered. There was no way.
The very thought of it sent a sharp, acidic stab of fear through her chest. “No…” She scrambled to her feet, backing away from the water until she bumped into the trees, almost tripping over a tangled root. Turning, her breath escaped her as she saw the trail leading upwards, suddenly as clear as if it had landing lights. She ran up it with a gasp of relief as her wet sandals touched the groomed surface of the dirt road, still a bit washboarded from last winter’s rains, but much easier than the beach.
Nearly running back to the party, Krystle noticed lights up the hill at Clayton’s place. If what the alien said was true, he would have to go; drugs were forbidden. In fact, the whole party was no good, according to the monster. Teenagers shouldn’t be drinking beer late at night down by the river. They should be spreading the word.
Eastlick and Other Stories Page 15