Welcome to the wasteland.

Bleached beyond blinding, the city was entirely covered over and whited out from yesterday’s unforeseen blizzard. Streetlights, rooftops, trees, like the sprawling littleleaf linden next door; all half-buried in fresh white snow. Being out for a walk in the blistering cold with my hood up, I found the pale sunlight shone too brightly. Sunny, yet cold as hell with an all too friendly chill.

My nose instantly swelled to an over-ripened tomato. Nostrils stuffy. Filling my lungs with crisp air which agitated my throat worse than the cheapest rye from the bottom shelf. I’d have returned home if not for the black dog pulling me onward with sharp tugs.

Yesterday was like a dream I hardly remembered. Not only did I race the best skier of a local club, I won. But despite the winning result I knew it as the pipe dream fantasy it was. A fluke. Some cruel act of nature that set the bar at a height I’ll likely never reach. It was hard to imagine racing on the competitive circuit and it was surreal having been offered a spot. Strangely, what kept me from joining was the reason why I balked at every opportunity presented to me. I was scared of facing the disappointment from having zero potential compared with the world’s best. Mostly I felt ashamed pursuing a passion no one knew I identified with. I also felt tired. Tired of a world only interested in what I could never do for it. Now it was a new day. Most of which had already been spent. Cast into oblivion. Holed up like a hermit whose content with having no schedule at all.

Then came the nudge.

Gentle, yet strong enough to shake me from slipping back into the yawning abyss. Its urging swiftly grew impossible to resist as I broke free from my vacant state to find it nestled into the crook of my elbow. I scratched behind the matted ears until the black dog gave a yawn and a stretch by crouching down onto its front legs. The muscular sinews of its rear haunches pitched up as it began leaping around the room in a large figure-eight before landing with a loud thud in front of the door. Drooling excessively.

Such a show compelled me to grab the leash and spread my frustrations around the block.

Allied with discontent. Slow, and deliberate. I glided by like a passing shadow on a sidewalk shoveled one-person abreast. Or a rack of clouds darkening that which was momentarily clear.

Despite the immensity of winter’s white bounty, the busy streets which ran perpendicular to the avenue were cleared enough for cars to pass at reduced speeds. Snow banks replaced sidewalks in a seasonal demarcation where snow and road meshed together in a single white sheet up to the glittering rooftops. Only the pentagonal bolt of a faded red fire hydrant stuck out while unseen birds chirped upon snow-laden trees whose leafless limbs reached out like gray skeletons to the sky.

A few of my neighbors were also out of their homes. Enjoying the break in snowfall by shoveling their driveways. Most of them were homeowners that had been around for decades. None of them knew quite what to make of me. The constant traffic which visited my house didn’t help. If not for the tattoo parlor on Main Street I’m sure the cops would’ve visited me long ago.

If my presence was acknowledged, it went unnoticed the entire way to the stately blue spruce at the corner house on West Temple in which I had to bow my head to avoid contact with its silvery-blue needles. I looked to the left, and I looked to the right; each direction showed the same view of a rundown street lost to overuse and decay. The property value having plummeted to where the more condemned bungalows were flipped and repackaged into multifamily units. The new construction beside the drainage ditch was an eyesore by comparison and no worse than tree stumps begging for removal. But this was expected in the name of development. Like the senior apartment complex being erected from out of the rubble.

One never knew exactly what they’d encounter in a walk around the neighborhood. Where an empty pint of Jack Daniel’s, bottle of Corona, and unfinished cigar left behind in a snowbed told a story. There were also the regulars who pop into the scene as if reoccurring characters in some unfolding drama. Like the woman dressed in rags who pushing her shopping cart brimming with junk to rummage through garbage cans left on the street. Clearly on a mission for scraps of aluminum and tin. The unoiled wheel of the shopping cart squeaking endlessly.

At 1700 South a homeless drifter crossed the train tracks heading west. Starting off his day right: a mugful of wine, a tannic varietal perhaps, while puffing long, wispy smoke trails into the wind from a hand-rolled cigarette.

Down the block. Past a park with an abandoned playground stood the baseball stadium which sported a recent change in ownership. Its ticket office shuttered for the season. Beneath which, sat a heroin junky no older than myself propped up against the brick wall. His belongings laid scattered all around. A canker sore of society. Like a localized abscess with a scabbed face and dead, glassy eyes. Incoherent and nodding off on a bed of used hypodermic needles. Eager proboscises awaiting to taste warm blood every time he hit a home run into his vein.

A couple right turns and I circled back onto Main Street where the fire station always had its garage door open. Not much further down lay a small contingent of cold, stiff bodies strung out across the sidewalk on the curb. Their nervous eyes swollen red. A few of them had exposed cuts or half-healed ones. They varied drastically in age and strangely the younger ones looked the most worn out. Slack-jawed and docile. One of them sat upright with the assistance of a shopping cart to support him and picked apart his bloody red knuckles. Across the busy intersection stood a school with reflective windows and a high fence around its perimeter. Trash lay scattered in front of the snowed-over green where fresh footprints told stories of children at play. Days of my youth came flooding back. Back to when I still believed in Santa Claus and a functional system that held the social fabric together. I used to long for such ignorant bliss. Now I firmly rejected it.

If a strict doctrine was the lifeblood of a community, social institutions like school programs were its beating organs. Where children were conditioned to be confined in their classrooms while the principal acted as warden and the faculty like guards. An accurate depiction of my twelve-year stint in the public school system. Strict regimented schedules merely accounted for kids while their parents were too busy at work. One doesn’t fully grasp this authoritarian agenda until furthest removed from it.

I passed the rundown motel which provided vacancy for rooms infested with pests like cockroaches, street rats, vermin, and other undesirables. Their hungry eyes red or venomous yellow, peering from the dark. Watching. Waiting. Next came a strip of homes often conjoined with unviable commercial space amongst a closed restaurant or two with neglected storefronts which still bore the name of their defunct businesses like headstones to break up the few that thrived. Such as the used car lot or sleazy all-night massage parlors which blemished the surrounding streets like clogged pores. One of which, always had a sign out front advertising ‘New Girl’. Another building seemed to be a different shop each passing season. Sometimes changing overnight. Currently between owners, it was an empty husk like the many others around it. Dead and devoid of life. It came as some surprise when a rogue pigeon broke out the rafters above. Despite the show of life, many of these developments were open-mouth graves with stories of their own that they’ll never get to say. Forsaken, and left to crumble. Into dust. Forever lost in the hustle.

Shifting moods every block, I stayed in my solitary lane. With icy gutters lining both sides of the street. I came upon a cluster of dive bars in which fish-eyed drunks could be seen half-falling off their stools through doors propped open. Drawing in the neighborhood drunks and floozies like flies to a bright fluorescent light.

Everyone was an addict. The drug of choice may vary, but that subcutaneous itch had carried more than one poor soul through the long hard years. If not to an early burial. There have always been burnouts, downers, and abusers in society, and whether getting your fix sucking from a glass pipe, downing drinks at your neighborhood waterhole, running marathons, shooting lines, writing a book, playing the lottery or stock market than you were addicted too. Plain and simple. Same as religious fanatics with their faith and fitness freaks their daily exercise routine or obnoxious marathon bumper stickers. All ritualized behavior no different than sticking a shared needle into an open, festering wound. The difference being social norms which, when flouted, were the fulfillment of all those who were wasting away and discarded the hand they were dealt in favor of playing for high risk and no reward. We all walked this cracked strip in search of elusive glimmers. You don’t have to travel far from home to see the human condition was far more fascinating than a suburban family crowded around their plasma flat screen.

It was the freaks, lowlifes, and degenerates who spoke truest to the nature of our human condition. Where the American dream had been warped more into a living nightmare which only got rivaled by the suburbs and the rise of cookie-cutter townhome apartments and condos while streets which were unmaintained were constantly in flux with the recently evicted, squatters, weathered drifters, and every other tragic sort of human calamity who were anomalies in their own right. All in various stages of rejection from the system that bred them. Belligerent burn outs with bloody track marks and uncontrollable nods. Or the occasional crack addicted street waif. Holding up a blackened crack pipe to her bosom like a penitent votary to her faith. Satin blue clouds swirling in her soulless raven eyes. Her spindly, slender frame suggested that she’d eat the flowers off rose bushes and weep its prickly thorns. They were the societal refuse the city failed to address or hide. Downtown, the public parks were becoming overrun and Rio Grande Ave was reduced to a piss and shit-soaked strip of pitched tent encampments. Its denizens full of blood-shot, festering eye sores. Ulcerous, living carbuncles. Unable or unwilling to hold stable jobs but had made a career in hustling one day at a time. Unrestrained, yet prisoners of society. Drug addiction and homelessness ran rampant while the police worked overtime in exceeding their monthly quota in issuing speeding tickets.

Living in the bowels of the city revealed the ugly face behind the mask of our highly-evolved species in a way the tailored suburbs never could. Where people eschewed the proper diction and decorum of what’s deemed acceptable in favor of something more primitive yet, honest in culture. And it was offered to the public twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

Every wide, tree-lined avenue which ran perpendicular to Main Street looked about the same as mine. Except for Boulevard Gardens. By design, these quaint Tudor-style homes had their driveways and yards swapped where the shared strip in front got divided by two paved walks running parallel from end to end. Their distinguished quality held a certain esteem despite some minor wear which only added to their charm. Regarding its origins, I’ve heard plenty of accounts. But the hearsay always reached the same conclusion. During summertime it was a lush emerald spring colored in radiant pops of purple, orange, and yellow with marigolds and tulips bordering the rainbow strip. It was meant to be the ideal community. A plot for families to thrive together if any still remained I had no idea. Wooden or chain-link fences separated every other backyard. One of which, contained half-a-dozen chihuahuas with foaming mouths. Flowers no longer decorated the cracked, snowy strip and hardly anyone bothered maintaining their yards.

After a ninety-degree turn I hit the Terrace Apartments. An old rundown building notorious for having a firetruck and ambulance in front of it several times a week. It was currently undergoing a cosmetic facelift with scaffolding that was as empty as the swimming pool featured in its center. Several homes throughout this stretch were equally dilapidated. Broken up by rows of unpruned rose bushes. Their foundations cracked and roofs sunken as if swallowed by earth and on the verge of collapse. Some were converted into small businesses like an auto insurance office and the tattoo shop.

Dead-center in this residential zone a church was erected. The prick of its pyramidal spire pointed towards the sky. Its parking lot demarcated by an enclosure of untouched white with a paved drive providing access from either street. Institutionalized dogma which was spelled out in gold lettering on red brick faded to brown. Faith was a superficial construct regardless of how well you dressed it up. Having been uprooted from a community I once believed in, I matured to find how little individuality got accepted by the whole. Likeminded communities agreed to disagree while arguing the equality of their unwillingness to compromise. And even after experiencing that early loss I continued to entertain the group-think banter I’d been accustomed to.

The poor man’s freedom and rich man’s burden were both lies which sold the truth short. Forget the twenty-first century ideals of progress chased to no avail. The glitz of a thriving economy was merely a coverall for its many hideous byproducts from low-income housing to rampant homelessness and illegal activity. So long as the privileged can worship in their Sunday’s best, week after week, there were no qualms what happened on this side of State Street. A sad reality from which my existence was far removed. A constant that translated into my fear of always being alone, and deserving it. Was I undeveloped? Or yet to tap into a greater potential I couldn’t comprehend? I gave up finding a path of natural progression long ago and become jaded in just about every expectation.

A marked dearth of life carried across this dismal stretch. Except for the market and deli on Grove Ave which sold the largest sub sandwiches I’d ever seen. Despite the occasional traffic the street rang with an uncanny stillness that carried to the intersection of 2100 South. There the stoplight made you wait forever to cross the street. While stopped, my attention got drawn to a shrill, erratic knocking which stuck out over the car traffic. Like strumming the wrong notes to a chord. I looked all around for its source when a fuzzy movement on the telephone pole drew my eye. I craned my neck for a better view at the determined woodpecker trying to catch its lunch. A symbol of life’s failed efforts lay right before me. Up until the dumb bird took flight to the next telephone pole.

The green light signaled it was safe to go. But the woodpecker’s pecking still drilled into my mind. I pondered the irreversible repercussions of humanity’s industrious nature. How the machinery ate up every resource in the name of prosperity for an imagined economy. A system working by design for those atop the pyramid who kept the machine’s insatiable appetite fed. Gnashing, snapping, constantly in search for more blood, sweat, and tears to fuel it. What could be farther from the truth? A bi-monthly check that barely covers the hours invested in it? There must be some compromise between capital gain and a purposeful life. Peck. Peck. Peck. The woodpecker pecked, again and again. Nothing felt natural about the constant roar of semi-trucks and vehicles. All regulated by traffic-control systems that locked everyone into the same stop-and-go network as they went mindlessly about their daily circuit. My distaste for people followed along like a shadow forever lurking on the periphery. Its wolfish snout always to the ground.

Peck. Peck. Peck.

It was an industrial zone for several blocks. Warehouses and business offices. With a few residential homes interspersed throughout that were too stubborn to leave. The intersecting side streets led to one dead-end after another towards the west. Each vista appearing bleak in light of names like Commonwealth and Utopia which ended abruptly at the train tracks.

The scarcity of other souls made for a little slice of heaven during the weekend. Save the incessant pounding and ringing of construction which made total escape impossible as industrial pollution blotted out the sun, casting the city further in its shadow.

Any further thought got drowned out by the shrill teapot hiss of a passing train. Across the trash-strewn tracks of the Central Pointe station platform which served all three lines could be seen a busy strip mall. Packed with gray buildings. Each of them dismal lifeless shells despite the constant flow of customers.

I continued on until I hit the freeway overpass which ran past the water tower. Underneath it was dark and uneasy with the rumbling of passing semitrucks above. The black dog came to a halt, tucking its wiry tail between its back legs. No matter how much I tugged from the other end it wouldn’t budge. Its head hung low and eyes steady. I turned back and crossed the street instead. Through the blackened snow. Down a narrow passage that led behind backyards lined with rusted metal fencing. A broken ribbon of yellow tape quivered in the harsh breeze.

The narrow channel eventually opened up to a wide expanse that was barren except for the half-buried heaps of forgotten railroad equipment where two tracks met at an impasse. Built on a historic railway, the new light rail was intended to connect with the existing one, running east-west. But as with many city plans, funds either dried up or the project was halted at a broken crossroads of unused railroad ties and spikes.

Having reached a terminus, I sat upon a rocky mound which stuck out of the snow embankment. The black dog tensed up as I unhooked the leash from its collar. It then bounded off to sniff around and stuff its slick wet snout in every nook and cranny. Filling them with hot breath. Scavenging. Always digging without knowing what for and appearing far more youthful than ever as I dragged on a fresh cigarette. Eastward; an ocean of black shingles rippled wave-like all the way to the white-capped mountains separating our city from the rest of the world. The opposite direction offered a vast panorama of more mountains, stretching out for miles until the open-pit mine that slowly devoured chunks of the Oquirrhs as the nation’s second largest copper producer. The drill wounds of this man-made atrocity were even visible from space. These mineral rich mountains were the primary reason early settlers stuck around before their wagons reached the coast. Embedded within was a rich resource for a variety of ores. The value of which far exceeded the California, Nevada, and Klondike gold and silver rushes. Along with the refineries in the north, this provided favorable work opportunities for many first-generation immigrants. Instead of the boom or bust cycle which affected other mining towns in the 19th century, the fledgling state capital soon began to flourish and prosper. Starting from Capitol Hill, profits helped design the city’s grid system, schools, parks, and hospitals for workers and their families. A line which once pushed all the way east to the Wasatch Mountains, pointed the only direction left with land to develop. Which was why the upper to middle class moved further south, the new frontier for a development boom. Gradually extending the bounds of the imaginary line which separated them from those stuck on the west side and the further from the mountains one looked, the denser it became.

For being so small and geographically removed from the surrounding country, Salt Lake City behaved as if it were encased in a gigantic bubble. Despite political tensions and global atrocities committed on the daily none of that existed here. No wars were being fought and moral sentiments were equivalent to a healthy economy in which casual disregard for others was sustained by buying the latest and greatest commodity to be sold on. No mind the high monthly lease payments. Nothing said prosperity like a new model with faux-leather seats and a retractable sunroof or private swimming pools which sat lonely beside weather-beaten basketball and tennis courts. Our compulsion to collect and to hoard was a practice dating back to the caveman, and modern consumerism created a paid service for nearly all things imaginable. All for the price of a small monetary fee.

The valley crawled with unceasing activity. Like a sprawling caterpillar commanding its shuffling feet to go both directions at once. Above it, a ghastly black ring hovered over the city, and steadily growing. Blunt peaks which spewed pillars of ash to blot the horizon.

My mind rattled worse than a railroad junction with derailing lines running in every direction.

I soon grew weary of the dismal sight and flicked my cigarette butt. It comet-tailed into the fresh snow and nonexistence.

I returned with my head cloudier than when I left. Being a homegrown product to all I despised even my strongest convictions were set upon beds of quicksand.

Leaving the house was a stark reminder why I never left it. But knowing what the forecast held, this pelting sunshine wouldn’t last long.

I didn’t consider how much ground we covered until my return. The black dog sauntered right behind, panting. Its stamina shot and, weary with exhaustion, it collapsed into a snore beside the couch where it remained until reawakening for another play.

More pensive than before, I clutched the bong for a little pick me up as milky smoke clouds shot up the chamber straight to my head and rocketed me out of the stratosphere.

Having no work or classes to attend to left me with the same schedule: wake up late, somewhere in the mid-afternoon, recovering from another day’s hangover by smoking countless bowls only to repeat the process of drug-induced convalescence. If the mind was too stoned to know how it feels, the rest followed. Or at the least you forget to dwell on it. Negative side effects included lethargy, apathy, loss of ambition, general malaise—all broken up by bouts of fogginess.

It wasn’t until darkness set in that the tongue could negotiate with the eyes to stomach the sight of alcohol again.

For the time being I was nice and toasty—spacing out on the couch like clockwork. This could be the day to sell the rest of my supply. The day to quit my thriftless extravagance for good. To commit worthwhile deeds in an otherwise uneventful life.

But why not extend misery a few more days? And come Monday I’ll put my stagnant hopes into motion.

An empty cupboard prompted a quick run to the liquor store.

The house frowned back as I reversed out the drive. Recent snowfall gave the sunken roof the unsightly appearance of long white brows and a grizzly beard with juniper and rose bushes sticking out of it. Old, but not without its charm.

No more than a block away I received a text from someone asking to pick up. But they’d have to wait.

Nostalgia hijacked the wheel so that I drove north to the Avenues. A stretch of neighborhoods beside the university campus where I used to live for a couple months. Only one block from the liquor store on E Street. The car engine spit and sputtered while the car clicked and clacked like a wooden rollercoaster ascending its rickety track. I patted the steering wheel to help coax it up the hill. I could always roll it back down if need be. Bottle in hand.

Liquor runs with a fake ID always felt like an epic quest. I only got one in the first place so that I could buy tobacco products in high school. Yet, I could’ve enlisted in the army at the tender age of eighteen. I’ll never forget my first visits to this tiny overcrowded building and how paranoia got compounded by trying to remember the phony address and dates in case they were called to question. Making for one hellish experience in which it was imperative to know which section to locate your poison before nervously waiting in the dreaded checkout line.

Now, that magic of sweating bullets until you could escape unscathed had all but disappeared. Becoming replaced by mundanity to the extent such a transaction was no different than buying a quart of milk from the grocery store. A reality I lamented come next spring.

There was a constant flux of customers entering and exiting through the automatic doorway. The ones who left either carried out cardboard boxes full of wine bottles or single brown bag purchases.

Once inside it felt too lonely griping alone. Weekends helped to forget how miserable our weekly routines were so I sought the best company for mitigating the strongest tempest tides.

“Ela, malaka. What’s gravy?” The gruff voice answered on the other end of the line.

“Still asleep, Niko?”

“Fuck off,” Niko said. “My dad gave me the day off for once.”

“That’s nice of him. Did you clean your bedroom, or something?”

“More like sheet rock and tiling all week.”

“What are kids for other than free labor? It’s the traditional model.”

“I don’t mind. Except when you accidentally slice your hands laying down the pieces.”

“Wanna chill for a bit?”

“I don’t know, I’m pretty tired. I’ve been working seven days a week the last seven months. I’d like a day just to catch up on sleep.”

“Aren’t you sick of your parents’ house?”

“You just want to do something. I’m comfortable on the couch.”

“That’s the problem. Luckily, I got a bargaining chip for you and it says 35% alcohol by volume.” A brief pause followed before Niko’s reply: “A Saturday night special. What you thinking?”

“More for less.”

“Nothing bottom shelf. Please.”

“Fine. But you’ll never know what you’re missing,” I pressed.

“There’s a reason it’s so conveniently reached,” Niko returned. “Don’t stoop that low.”

I selected a semi-cheap handle of honey whiskey from the middle rack.

“There’s a ten-dollar breakfast, right here.” I turned the bottle over to read the fine text with a squinted eye. “Or is it lunchtime already?”

“We just need it to be strong. Nothing extraordinary.”

“That won’t ever wrong you.”

“Be right over.”

Except for the poor women receiving unwanted advances from the security guard, the line passed fairly quick and painless.

A middle-aged woman with heavy-set eyes called for next in line.

A disheveled man staggered forward. His hair turning gray and his skin as weather beaten as his patched parka. The billowing folds nearly swallowed him whole with each step to the counter. “How ‘bout a pint of Rosie with a skirt,” he asked. His voice a mixture of gravel and broken glass.

“Hi darling,” the cashier reached beneath the counter. “Isn’t it too cold for that?”

“As it ever will be.”

He grabbed the bottle with a hand more crinkled than the brown paper bag it was in.

“Next!”—She addressed the line.

The cashier picked up my fake ID off the counter before scanning the barcode on the bottle. “You look so young,” she said. Her mouth a straight line which hardly opened when she spoke.

“So I’m told.”

Taking care to avoid the opposing flow of paying customers I made a speedy escape. Feeling refueled despite the empty tank.

Alcohol provided an oasis for any environment.

I got to spend a brief stretch bottled up before my drinking buddy arrived. No longer than thirty seconds through the door Lefty arrived. Then Billy. Both of them staggering together and followed by everybody else who wanted to pick up their daily dose of reality. Within the hour the living space was crammed past capacity with every cushion, stool, crate, and possible seat in use. Some sat perched upon the armchairs of couches. Others had to yell to be heard from the outskirts while the bong made its rounds.

The house was officially open for business. With those leaving only to be replaced by a revolving cast who wanted nothing more than to sit and smoke while the cannabinoids sank in. How many hours had been wasted staying available for everybody’s interpretation of what constituted a good time to drop by and pick up could never be known. Yet, as much as I hated to admit it, I enjoyed having the company regardless. Even if the sticky green leaves were what mostly held us all together for days which blazed away in a curling wisp. Add the comforts of home and good company to shoot the shit with, I was more than inclined to visit the freezer where I stashed the honey whiskey. Its frosty bottle steamed at the hotness of my touch as I poured a stiff drink.

But the boys never settled so easily.

“What’s that?” Lefty accosted me as soon as I returned from the kitchen with a glass of whiskey mixed with a splash of flat leftover cola from the fridge.

“Honey bourbon.”

“You fixed one just for yourself? What are we? Second class citizens?”

“Help yourself. As usual.”

“I think I will. Nothing like a libation to top off a hard day’s work, not that you would know about that.” He sneered back, already on his feet.

“Don’t forget mine!” Billy barked from across the room. Bong in hand. His open mouth blowing out smoke when a loud shriek pierced the air. “I’ve always been partial to American whiskey.”

“Why’s it in the freezer?” Lefty cried. “You never put brown in the freezer. For shame!”

I shared a chuckle with Billy and Niko.

“Would you be so kind to fill the ice cube trays while you’re at it?” I yelled back at him.

Lefty could be heard opening the cupboards and slamming them shut.

“Aren’t there any drinking glasses in this house?” He continued ranting on.

“Not clean ones.”

This reminded me of the heaping mound of dishes taking over the kitchen counter and sink. Yet I hardly even cooked. Let alone ate.

“Fuck it.” Lefty called back. “This one’s clean enough for me, although, I’d recommend setting time aside to clean up this pigsty. Not only is it unbecoming but there may or may not be rotten food in the fridge and it smells. Just saying.”

He reentered the living room. Tinkling glasses in each hand. The handle of liquor held underarm. He bowed before Billy: “Your drink, my liege, the finest Glasgow can offer.”

“Even the mad know scotch is from Scotland.”

“You must be unaware of which Glasgow I speak of.”

“Which could it be?”

“Glasgow, Kentucky, of course. That’s the key.”

They continued to banter. Like a king with his knave. In a classic match of humor versus wit.

“How are you so prone to err?”

“How you make air. Nary a sound.”

“With everlasting spirit, you cloy. Is it habit?”

“Like the monk’s hood.”

“Blunt it already—I tire of the idle riddling.”

“Hand me a cubano and it’s a wrap!”

Billy swirled his glass before taking a hearty sip.

“I thought I asked for a drink? There’s hardly a dram in here.”

“Fill it up yourself.” Lefty lorded the bottle over him.

“You good for nothing lout,” Billy snatched at the bottle. Making several attempts before his anger roused him to his feet. Lefty dropped the bottle and cowered on the couch. “That’s what I thought. Stay down and keep sipping it like a master sommelier.”

“As long as you’re whining, pour up another.”

The comedy ensued as the bong made the rounds—I took a hit, passed it to Niko, then to Billy, and back to me again. Repeat.

It was to be a night like any other. Except the burning call of boredom couldn’t be ignored. In which one looked for any jolt of pleasure to pass the weekend.

While staring forlorn out the window as if to place blame on the sun for its timely movements, Billy, the most hardboiled of the batch, began to crack.

“So what’s our plan?”

“There’s nothing to do,” yawned Niko.

“We’re doing something now,” I added. Already playing devil’s advocate. But Lefty was impervious to reason: “No. We aren’t. And, it is Halloween weekend.”

“So what? Must there be an agenda because it’s Saturday night?”

The three of them nodded in agreeance. I’ve long come to expect no public favor in my opinion.

“A great way to blow your paycheck.” I tried swaying them again, working from a different angle.

“You’ve got to have a job to make that argument, bud.” Billy said, the only other one there who wasn’t working. No need mentioning my side hustle which paid the bills and made nights like these possible.

“Weekends are for recuperation. Which I can never seem to do.”

They all set off at once.

“It’s a goddamn holiday for crissakes!” Lefty cried amid the rabble. “And we’re not talking about trick or treating for children here.”

“We can’t do nothing all the time like you,” Niko said, far off in the corner. Lost upon a nebulous zephyr.

“Forget the money. These are life experiences on the line.”

“Good point, Lefty. Weren’t you telling me you can’t find fulfillment by staying in? Let alone be entertained staying at the house.”

“Watching the three of you is a sitcom in itself.”

“Except you don’t even pay for cable. It’s a wonder we even bother with you.” Lefty spat. He swiveled to face Billy and Niko on the other side. “What say ye?”

“Don’t care as long as we get fucked up.”

“Billy?”

“I was meeting a lady friend tonight but I could blow her off.”

“Fantastic!” Lefty remarked, awe-struck. “You can send her my way after, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, no. That’s not going to happen.” Billy said, going so far as to offer an explanation. “It would be an insult to her. No offense.”

“Can we make a decision already?” Niko’s patience wore thin.

“I’ve got some ideas…” I further antagonized the situation.

“You lost that privilege. But you’re coming out with us regardless. We just need to decide what and where that is,” Lefty trailed off. I reached for the bong.

Humming slightly with eyes closed, Lefty gyrated his hips before both eyes flicked open. Bright glowing orbs which appeared lit from the inside. “How could I forget!”

“What?” We asked with growing curiosity. But he strung us along by taking a hit from the bong first.

“Get Creepy is tonight,” he exhaled, shrugging his shoulders. The suggestion roused sufficient interest in the others. I found it revolting. Something about preteens masquerading around a 16+ event didn’t appeal to me.

“I haven’t disappointed my father in a while.” Niko reached for his cigs.

“Tickets are only twenty-five bucks,” said Lefty. As if this aided his cause.

“Actually, it says that day of show pricing is thirty-five.” Billy said.

“And don’t forget the five-dollar service fee,” I added. “I’d go to a strip club if I wanted to waste money or time.”

“Have you been to this rave before? Sounds like a new life experience to me.” Lefty spewed the ancient idiom responsible for all adolescent stupidity. I was clearly comfortable with discontent. So why change the formula?

Instantly I began to protest.

“Let’s think about this—

“Hold up—how big of a favor should I do for us?” The rest of the room took one look at each other before bursting into laughter. Lefty stood there fully resolved. His face contorted into a deranged smile.

Billy spoke for the room.

“Shut the fuck up and get on with it already.”

“What if I could offer ecstasy?”

“I’d have to see it to believe it,” I said. But Niko had a more practical response.

“Who can hook that right now? And don’t tell me Sober Mike.”

“Let’s just say someone I knew from DeMolay owes me big time. The one I was telling you who gets his weed shipped in coconut oil.”

First it was my bottle. Now my night was becoming hijacked. I had enough. “I don’t recall. Who is he again?”

“It’s his good friend who will be helping us. Goes by El Niño.”

“This keeps getting better,” I shook my head. “I don’t even want to know what you’re owed for.”

“You know I’ve never dropped E before,” Niko added, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lip as he made for the door. He should consider himself lucky he hadn’t been exposed to the rave scene in high school like the girls he was intimidated by. Once an underground phenomenon, the beautiful people now fueled a burgeoning industry in which they could act like children. Replete with a pacifier. Get Creepy was simply the seasonal costume-themed rave inspired by all the usual haunts of Halloween night.

“I can’t drink here night after night like you. I need to get out. Spread my wings.”

“Here, here.” The other two cried, pounding the bottom of their glasses.

I had no choice but to resign to the enjoyment of my company. “OK, I’ll go. But only if Lefty pulls through on his end.” I planted this tiny seed of doubt in our plan before it fully took root.

Lefty was already glued to his cellphone. Furiously set to the task.

Restless, we waited. Trading swigs from the bottle as the minutes passed. The lines on Lefty’s face deepened.

Half an hour later I was practically laughing over the incessant nagging from Billy and Niko each time he had nothing to report when pressed.

“We can always get drunk in the parking lot and dance to the music.”

“Don’t be dense, Lefty,” Billy denied him outright, followed by his reasoning: “You better not be wasting our time.”

Well played, I chuckled to myself. He can’t get enough pills for six people with the event only hours away. I almost felt bad as he laid back onto the couch in a show of bitter defeat. But I shouldn’t have. His cellphone buzzed and he stood up straight. His flushed face screwing up the more it got pressed into the tiny screen.

His beady little eyes scanned over the text as he typed out his response.

“Just need to cross my t’s and dot my i’s and… sent!” Smitten with his sway over the outcome he overlooked my glare. I loaded up the grinder with dense popcorn nugs that hardly ground up to very much. Set upon my discipline like an ascetic whose lofty aspirations had reached a plateau.

Lefty’s phone buzzed again.

He jumped in the air and began whooping and hollering around the room.

“Who do you love?” He asked through steepled fingers. A counterbalance to the seeming benevolence of his deed. This was his chance to shine. And he beamed with the intensity of the sun.

“Got it?”

“Of course, Niko, my boy. Was there ever any doubt?”

“Uh, yes.”

“It’s only a phone call away for me, like I’ve always said.”

I rubbed my greasy palms on my pants. Making note of the pulse in my wrists.

“It’s getting late. Can we trust this kid?”

“He can hook pressed pills—but only while they last! It’s on, fellas!” He burst with excitement. Niko and Billy were also pleased with the last-minute turn of events.

“Do we even know where he lives?”

“A couple miles northwest is all.” Lefty held his phone to my face to ensure the futility of any excuses. “See. Not too far.”

“Who’s driving?”

“I rode with Lefty.” Billy said.

“And my backseat’s full right now as Billy well knows.”

“Niko?”

“I’ve only got enough gas to get home.”

“I guess I am,” I reached for the bong to load a parting bowl.

“Great! Let me drain the main vein before we go.”

Our impromptu exit forced the last of the remaining stragglers out with us.

We began to reverse out into the sidewalk when a raggedy blur caused me to slam on the brakes.

“Look—there he goes!” Lefty slapped Billy’s shoulder. “Old Crump.”

Billy craned his neck from the backseat to get a better view of the old man who appeared at the pointing end of Lefty’s finger.

“Don’t you mean Father Time?”

Through the rear windshield could be seen a decrepit old man with flowing white hair so bent over his face was downcast. He wore nothing more than rags as he blindly pushed through the slushy street gutters with his walker. He lived around the corner and from what I gathered, all alone, holed up in a crumbly brick home with a settled foundation which slowly got consumed by a lifetime of collected junk trashing the property. He rarely surfaced and seeing him now in freezing temperatures with snot running out his nose to freeze in whiskery bristles held my prior frustrations at bay. Even as a car hummed by near inches from his padded elbow, he remained unperturbed. Blazing forth into a cold world that moved far too fast. Time was kind to no man. And he was a testament to that fleeting light at the end of the tunnel. For that reason alone, I couldn’t sit idly by.

“Don’t talk shit or I’ll turn this goddamn car around!”

“What are you defending that dotard for?”

Someone had to, I thought. But I bit my tongue. No need mincing words with those yet to plumb the depths of bitter loneliness and despair.

“Pull the plug or the trigger if I ever get that bad.” Niko said with a long drag on his cigarette.

Next came Billy’s two cents: “If you get there. I’ll be living comfortably somewhere in the Caribbean with all-inclusive amenities. Living out a life well spent.”

“We’ll be long buried by then.” Lefty sounded off.

“Speak for yourself. They have retirement homes and hospice once you can’t wipe your ass.”

I kept checking the side mirror as I drove.

“No one’s wiping his ass, that’s for sure.”

Their ensuing laughter caused me to brake check an unbuckled Lefty who rocketed face-first into the dashboard.

We sped off in a sputtering blur of chain-smoke. Set upon our mission with the inside of the cab far too loud to hear music or any of the conversations. Yet both happened simultaneously.

Our directions took us onto the spaghetti bowl which connected the three major highways, and looped a faded green water storage tank which read City of South Salt Lake with Center of Industry in smaller block letters below. I-15 took us north to one of the sketchier neighborhoods laying adjacent to downtown. The low-income housing broken up by patches of undeveloped land with abandoned warehouses scattered throughout.

Lefty directed me using the coordinates given to him until the scattered network of streets seemingly had no relation to the city’s grid system.

We crept along a road made icy from melted snow. Gliding smooth as butter on a heated pan in the afternoon sun. Hitting repeated circles and dead-ends before arriving to our destination. A street marked by a lone signpost with no sign.

“In the words of this city’s founder, this is the place,” Lefty said. His right arm hanging out the passenger window. A thin wisp of cigarette smoke trailing behind him.

From out of the cloudless firmament the low sun winked upon parked cars in flaring metallic glints. The neighborhood was bustling already with those getting ready for the evening and the only available spot to park happened to be right in front of the house with the cop car parked in its driveway.

I put the car in neutral and yanked the handbrake.

If we tried not to attract attention by our arrival, every head soon turned our direction. As if anticipating trouble before it even hit the block.

Niko fidgeted in the backseat. Even Billy picked up on the tense atmosphere. Everyone appeared on edge. Except for Lefty.

I hopped out with him while Niko and Billy stayed behind with the car. We walked down the cracked sidewalk. The neighbors observing our every movement as Lefty trotted in front, almost skipping along with the giddiness of a schoolboy.

I kept checking for any warning signs upon the peripheries while envisioning every worst-case scenario. Anything with Lefty had its hiccups and carried the danger of encounters with law enforcement to getting robbed blind by sketchy second-rate dealers.

A small group crossed the street behind us. Causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. I straightened up, which didn’t do much to bolster my wiry frame. Lefty was either too oblivious to see or couldn’t be bothered as he unlatched the chain-link gate to a shabby, rundown residence.

Our hook waited for us in the front yard. A hooded figure with dark wells under his eyes and baggy clothing hanging on a formerly bulky frame which now had zero percent body fat. If he was older, it wasn’t by much, but El Niño’s facial acne contrasted sharply with his aged looks by creating scarred pockmarks and craters. His sad, sunken eyes and dilated pupils made him appear less specter-like when viewed from up close.

“Ahoy-hoy!” Lefty broke the ice, his right arm extended. “You must be El Niño.”

El Niño nodded. He produced a bundled-up plastic sack from inside of his sweatpants. Lefty handed him the cash right in broad daylight—chief witness to the crime was his elderly neighbor to the right rocking upon her porch. But nothing about her demeaner suggested an open drug deal happened before her thick black Solar Shields.

With the deed done, the neighborhood lost all intrigue in our intrusion. The group caught up with us on our way out of the chain link gate. The tallest spoke with El Niño while the others hung back. One of the youths wasn’t even old enough to drive.

Seeing them do the same thing as us made me feel childish and ashamed. Although I never sold to kids, some dealers treated them like an ATM machine for their parents’ money.

It wasn’t until safely back in the car that Lefty poured out the baggy of electric blue pills, handling them in his cupped palm like a gloved jeweler. I could barely get the car out of neutral before he exploded. Red-faced, his voice raised as I accelerated, nearly popping the clutch while shifting between gears. “That kid fucking shorted us! Unless… but there’s no way…”

“What do you mean shorted?”

“We don’t have what we paid for, Billy.”

“Surely you checked in all that time it took.”

“Did I count the bag? No. I thought I was brokering an honest deal­.”

“You ding-dong. I really want to strangle you sometimes.”

“Second that.” Niko yawned from the backseat.

“And here I was supposed to be getting a favor,” Lefty tsked through clenched teeth.

“That’s OK. We’ll take it out your share,” Billy continued. “Hope you learned your lesson.”

“Can we please turn around?”

“Nope.” I stared forward.

“It’ll just be a second­-

“No.” The car rang out in unison.

“Easy for all of you to say. You each get three pills.”

“I’ll take the loss,” I said in the hopes of moving forward.

Whirlwinds spun in my ears to the chorus of an erratic thumping in my chest. Symptoms which would last until we were back on the interstate. Tuning out the others, I drove in a fog. Ominous, dark, it hovered. Snaking the median as oncoming cars vanished along with traffic lines and the road altogether. I changed lanes as talk turned to the night’s potential unfolding. I briefly contemplated pulling the handbrake at top speed. I couldn’t invest in romanticizing scenarios that will never happen. My imagination conjured up undercover cops in unsuspecting vehicles following us instead. Paranoia reached its peak upon hitting a pothole which caused me to drop my cigarette in the crack of my seat. Veering left, veering right. I panicked—swerving into other lanes with each overcorrected pull of the steering wheel whenever I tried to reach for the flaming butt stuck between the car seat and door. Even Lefty tried steering so I could shove a hand in from the opposing side but to no avail. Eventually the chemical smell of burning upholstery subsided along with any efforts of bracing for the larger impact.

We returned with two 12-racks of amber bottles and climbed the snow-laden stairs to be greeted by the familiar reek of stale smoke.

Four beers cracked open in near unison.

“Perfect. What’s next, gentlemen?”

“Glad you asked, Billy,” Lefty perked up with newfound vigor. “There’s the matter of our Halloween costumes. Once again, leave this to me. I brought a box from my parents’ house for this occasion.”

“Yeah right, I’m not playing dress up,” Billy seethed.

“For your information, it’s from a professional theater’s wardrobe. All you have to do is wear it. This can’t be your first rodeo with this age-old tradition.”

“You mean pagan customs masquerading under a Judeo-Christian guise? Six years of Catholic school absolves me from participating in such plebian affairs.”

“Great! That’ll better my chances with the females. Who’s going to fuck with someone who lacks the common decency to dress up?”

He snorted back in defiance. “I’ve done fine thus far as myself.”

“C’mon and humor the unexpected of this holiday—let’s engage in the mischief together. It’s about stepping out of your comfort zone. Otherwise, you won’t have any fun.”

“In that case,” I said moodily. “I’m in costume already.”

“Now that’s the spirit!”

Lefty retrieved a dusty cardboard box from the trunk of his car which was brimming with matted wigs, costumes, cobwebs, and other Halloween decorations like two giant rolls of orange and black streamers.

Costume themed raves were always a popular excuse to be scantily clad for others to gawk at. All the preparatory thought required beforehand was far more exhausting than just being yourself. I had no desire dressing up for careless acts of exhibition. Yet I tailored myself to the crowd by consulting masks of every shape and variety; a green alien, what looked like either a hideous ogre or bald troll with a drooling lip, a howling wolf man, fake reading glasses with an oversized plastic nose, a black hood, face paints of every color; plastic vampire fangs, chopped silicon fingers, a bloodied hospital gown, a gorilla suit, a sombrero and cowboy hats, bits of old costumes to piece together a new one in endless combinations to suit your fancy. Dressing up was a common practice in every social scene whether you were willing to admit it or not. Daydreaming all through the week about being somebody you weren’t while the residue of what occurred in that feel-good state leaked into personal lives despite it being completely blacked out.

The sun began to set. Its brilliant golden light casting long, dark shadows through the western window. Monstrous shapes that danced on the living room walls and which plagued me the most.

I didn’t know what to expect. And every outcome was a nightmarish one. But if one must do regrettable deeds, better that they make it on the peak of euphoric highs. Funny how I opposed the rave before, but now with a tiny bag of blue pills I found myself favoring its course. The intoxicating allure of promise wasn’t found bottled on any shelf. But once swept up by lofty aims I found myself in rare form: trading the usual for the extraordinary by entertaining the most impossible fantasies to be conceived. Even Billy got into the spirit after finding a plastic hook, curly black wig, eye patch, and clip-on golden nose ring, all completed with the crooked gait of a rum drunken pirate.

Lefty, donning a pilot hat with aviator sunglasses to compliment the four yellow stripes on the shoulders and sleeve of his uniform, had difficulty getting the attention of the room until Billy tapped a ruby-ringed forefinger against his beer bottle. Announcing the witching hour had come at last.

“Can’t wait!” Niko trembled with excitement in nothing more than flimsy gray thermals, a fluorescent orange hunting hat, and an unlaced pair of hiking boots. Unable to contain himself no longer he hooked a noodle-like arm around Lefty and I.

“Sure you still want to go?” I asked.

“There’s a first for everything.”

“Unless never done.”

“Hold up, I’ve gotta smoke this bowl first.”

“Goddamnit, Billy,” Lefty was exasperated already. “You waited all this time bullshitting around? But please, go on. We’ll wait.”

The music venue was located on the outskirts of town. Past the oil refinery to the north and placed upon the desolate strip of salt flats. It was the third incarnation of a destination resort once considered the Coney Island of the west. Built right on the shores of the Great Salt Lake and constructed out of a salvaged aircraft hangar. Even out here the EDM shows were large enough for additional outdoor stages during the summer.

We officially entered the unknown. Rounding the northern end of the Oquirrhs where the city’s FM and TV station transmitters poked up on Farnsworth Peak along with the smokestack on the south side of the Great Salt Lake which pointed a black finger into the night sky.

Soon we left the twinkle of city lights behind altogether.

The surrounding blackness was like a hollow atmosphere impregnated with the vibrations of electronic music blasting from the car’s stereo speakers. We dragged across vast, forsaken stretches devoid of life. Held in sustained anticipation, like opposing magnets, pushing further towards the receding horizon.

Once my sensitive eyes adjusted to the gradient of darkened hues, I could survey a lunar world bedazzled by a bluish blaze of landscape. Nothing artificial like the lights of the city. But a real, natural source.

“Know what?” Lefty belted over the loud music. “We should be hippy flipping tonight. You know, shrooms and E.”

“Sign me up for that.” Niko hummed in his seat.

“Or even candy flipping.”

“What’s that?”

“Acid and E.”

“Even better.”

“What’s wrong with popping pills by themselves?” I asked.

“The problem as I see it is that they’re always cut with something else. So why not mix and match?”

“Do you have these drugs or are you saying it for fun?”

“Of course, he doesn’t have them,” said Billy. “It’s a miracle we got what we have.”

“My friend owed me a favor—” Lefty came to his own defense.

“Yes, we know about Sober Matt.”

“Mike. His name is Sober Mike! Why do I even bother with the tasteless? You haven’t done the kinds of drugs I have.”

“Having a taste doesn’t mean you know the flavor.”

Lefty changed the subject by distributing the round, blue pills around the cab.

“OK, it’s time for everyone to take their first two.”

“Why now?” I asked. Inclined to hear the reasoning. Everyone became an authority on taking substances they knew nothing about which left you with disparaging methodologies in achieving the “perfect roll”. Some recommended double dropping. Others insisted on a specially timed sequence to stagger the pills so your roll lasts longer. Like one-hour intervals versus the moment the first wave broke­—and the absurdity goes on. After a lifetime of hearsay with zero credibility, I’ve concluded no one knew what they’re sold on and offering any feigned expertise was a surefire tip off. If I’m doing it than it would have to be on my terms. Always.

“Because you have to double drop on the way to the rave and take your third pill once you’re through the door. If you got it, of course. I’m sure somebody’s holding inside.” He quickly glanced over at me. “Ready?”

“Why not?” Billy failed to stifle a wayward yawn.

“When are we supposed to take them again?”

“When I say so.”

Niko stuck a balled-up fist to his mouth. “Too late.”

“Not like that! We’re supposed to drop them together so we’re synced to the same cycle, you artless cretin.”

“Hey, I resent that.”

“Now we all have to take them. Thanks.”

Niko shrugged his shoulders and sparked a cigarette.

Lefty gave a celebratory cry. “Then it’s decided. Down the hatch!” With a knowing wink he swallowed his two pills whole.

The chalky blue pills appeared harmless resting in my hand. Each no larger than hard candy. It was hard to imagine its contents could transform one so drastically but already being past the point of no return, I downed one pill and stuck the other in my sock.

Lefty licked his lips and laid back in his seat, cellphone in hand. “Let’s read about the drug I just took. Light blue with darker blue specs. Edges, smooth. Hmmm blue apples.. blue buddhas.. blue bunnies.. no.. Aha! here we go, blue M&M Pokeballs,” he began, trying to build some excitement, but strangely, I wasn’t interested knowing what each stamp meant or why it had a round shape. Whenever playing methamphetamine roulette I left it all to chance. “…with a 5:1 MDMA/caffeine ratio these pills combine for a speedy roll with smooth, chalky edges lasting upwards of eight rollicking hours—goddamn, these pokies sound amazing!”

“What’s that?” Niko asked in trancelike fervor, pointing to where the horizon thickened. Chatter ceased as we beheld a growing shiny light. Being the only structure around for miles it was like an illuminated gem studded in the pitch of night. Guiding us like a blinking neon arrow pointing downwards. So blinding and bright it blacked out the neighboring starlight.

The cab became abuzz with excitement. The static replaced by a sustained audible hum.

My mismatched sensations were impossible to abate. Along with the creeping uneasiness which signaled the first transition. That placebo effect stage which anticipated a shift of epic proportions during the come-up. Inside my hollow skull was a lightness, careless and carefree. Yet, insatiable. A sensation that climbed upwards along my spine and rattled between the shoulder blades.

I was stricken by an onset of heightened perceptions and stimulating sensory effects. The world, our night, and the water of the Great Salt Lake glided by us cloud-like. The pre-buzz to something deeper which lie dormant and currently unknown. The teeter-totter between losing it and staying in control as numbers slipped off the clock.

“We ready for this?” Niko dealt successive rounds of blows to the headrest of the passenger’s seat in uncontrollable bursts of excitement.

“Knock it! I’m pulling off my flask here.” Billy lifted his arm, spilling more on his white cotton shirt than into his mouth.

“May I?”

“That’s your shot on my shirt.”

“Want me to suck it out?”

Billy handed the hip flask to Niko in the back. I stayed silent. Gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. More wide-eyed than ever.

Drawn in like moths towards an electric flame, we took the off ramp and followed the arc of red brake lights to a parking area lit up by streetlamps which shook like barren trees on a windless night.

The parking attendant directed us all the way to the far end of the lot. We drove against a neon line of ravers, who in one long procession appeared in all manners of dress from spooky skeletons and hideous monsters to famous politicians, along with a myriad of other mythical beasts including a motley train of goblins, ghouls, and fairies with sparkly glitter wings amongst other malevolent spirits and mischievous sprites who made use of the night. Holding neon glowsticks with bobbing heads and faces painted to abstraction. Insectoid eyes bulging out of their cloth masks. Their white, pink, and dark flesh shivered freely from their latex or lacy constrictions. Glittery with dewy dribble in their sweat-soaked fervor.

Mouths agape, everyone’s prospects were foretold at once. Overtaken by an ambrosial sense that gripped you by the nostrils.

We found a parking spot in the far corner nuzzled between a horribly parked sedan and a white minivan full of passengers passing around a handle of vodka. Their teeth grit into unnatural grins.

Enraptured by the rush of hot blood in our veins we got flushed with the others. Flowing directly into an alluring cesspool of sin. Where viscid textures stroked our thoughts until turgid once we joined the back of the line, bloated with anticipation and the arousal of intermingling sights and scents which possessed us with mixed desire.

The congested building radiated sweltering heat. Its cavernous entryway swollen from receiving everyone like exclusive members through its wide double-doors in a soft hiss of escaped steam. The Moorish Revival style of the concert hall resembled a bizarre prison-like structure topped with golden onion domes in each corner and looked too alien even for this desert landscape.

Our teeth crunched in eagerness as we bought our tickets for admission only to sweat it out through the security check. We chain-smoked cigarettes to bide our time while Lefty talked loud enough to aggravate anyone within earshot. Without a gun or weapon all I had to worry about was one tiny piece of contraband hidden in my sock. I advanced with my pockets emptied out and arms held high. The security guard turned me around for a pat-down, then released me back into the flow. No curves. No bends.

Abandoning all hope, we entered the gold painted dome.

Cold, stiff, we penetrated through the worn smooth doorway in a loud sucking *pop*­ and made passage through an ultraviolet tunnel. The fierce beat pounding in our rattled chests. Leading us straight into a large open room in which the domed ceiling perspired from every exploited route of transmission. Perforated walls quaked with the added pressure of compacted bodies. Throbbing like an exposed organ. I labored through each humid breath. Gulping the musky air which grew thick with unceasing entry. Ravers thrived in the frenzied shift from freezing cold to unbearably hot and stuffy. Vivid strobe lights sparkled with snare drums set to the backdrop of a mechanized drone. Multi-colored lights and lasers showered the stage in a misty curtain that caressed the contours of our feathered vision. The walls breathing. Blooming with resplendent whirls of damask patterns emitting weblike from unseen fog machines. Sucked by the sway of an amorphous clusterfuck which throbbed to the pounding bass, I traded limb for claw for wing in effort to break through to the other side where a red velvet staircase led up to the 21-and-older section. Affording the best view of the stage and its monolithic twin-tower speaker system.

“We slipped right in, just like I said so,” said Lefty, putting on his aviators which became a permanent fixture for the night. “Better lace up or prepare to be blown out your socks.” He dropped his last pill. Followed by Niko and Billy.

Too distracted by the synthesizers buzzing the base of my skull I took extra time. But the building enjoyment was enough of an argument to let the drugs take full effect. Lefty beamed as I picked out the hidden pill from my sweaty sock and trying not to focus on the added grit, I tilted my head back to allow its direct passage down the hatch. Before I could look up again the others had taken off. Their entry into the rave’s bloodstream cast in pale roseate light.

We permeated the moving body of ears, eyes, and limbs by prying open new holes until losing myself completely in an entanglement of broken parts; a black wig with a gray-white streak, removable vampire fangs, skeleton gloves, fake ak-47’s with plastic ammo belts, yellow police badges and handcuffs, red bandanas, colorful silk kimonos, Cleopatra eyeliner, an Indian headdress covered in feathers, bloody claws, glued-on moustaches, neck bolts, an arrow through the head, Medieval cowls, peace sign medallions, afro wigs, polka dotted ruffs with red round noses, horned Viking helmets, monocles, mummy wrappings, cat ears, chainmail, green tights, gold crowns, plastic scythes, crucifixes, mermaid tails, peg legs, leather biker jackets, and witch hats. No more than ghostly apparitions. All chimeras of iniquity. Fully immersed by the senses I reached out for Niko but found someone else’s arm. Lefty and Billy were nowhere to be seen. Somehow, I had become separated. Stuck in the middle of this mass. It was too dim to make out any of the faces and the deafening din of feel-good electronic music rendered hearing obsolete. Ebullient oscillations flashed in sunset streaks of yellow-reds and tropical green-blues—mixing mashing mincing the prisms of light until losing their definition altogether. The sultry air perfumed with the body odor of sticky flesh. A noisome stench which invaded the nostrils. Groping blindly, I wormed through loose pockets. It was impossible to tell exactly what each hand fell upon, sometimes it felt like an arm, or a full set of hair but occasionally one landed on a shoulder, offering a supportive hold to propel myself along. Being alone was typically a desirable position but it now haunted me in the throes of my shifting experience. I was unable to release my grip from this vicious cycle as every subsequent bass line got answered by an unrelenting jackhammer beat, threatening to split me open on a molecular level. I was forced to shuffle lifelessly along from one spot to another, only to repeat the process all over as tessellations of smokey light spun around me in high pitched circles. Coming from a single organ.

Neuron firing increased. The dial had been turned to its maximum, increasing the levels of each neurotransmitter within the synaptic cleft where its messengers communicated.

Breathing in soupy air, I already felt heavy with exhaustion, my chest cavity sunken as I underwent mercurial shifts. Fluctuating in temperature between boiling hot and frigid cold. Hot, cold. Hot, cold. In endless agony which lasted no longer than a minute. This infernal furnace further stoked more than my rising body heat as a molten lava rush of hot puke rose up and splashed against the back of my cracked throat. Having no desire of letting it out right there on the dance floor, I forced it back down with a grimace.

The crowd lifted me upwards only to swallow me whole again. Chewing me up, without ever spitting me out. Teeming, the room swelled. A strange, uncanny world which bewitched both senses and sight.

Mesmerized. Enthralled by the rhythm of mindless repetition. Propelling forever onward. Acting purely on impulse. Like a floating pair of eyeballs caught in a trance. Covered in a film more scuzzy than cheap pornography. Stuck on sticky surfaces while never accessing the center. Steered by an appetite of decadent stimuli which confounded the senses. Clamorous poppy tones that disoriented every pleasure in unison. No longer could I locate the 21+ section from the emergency exit. The green arrow signs dissipating in mentholated puffs from screw cap vials that affronted the nostrils as my dry tongue worked like mortar and pestle in my mouth. Grinding teeth into a purling paste. Movements stuck in syrup-like consistency as the gilded dome above exploded. Millions of microscopic cracks came crashing down in perfect synchronization to the stage backdrop where the DJ pushed buttons to the wonderment of a hypnotized mob. The stage drop suspended in an entrancing glow. Lights flashed in sour green apple and cotton candy saturation. Sparking heartfelt memories in hot electric arcs by running velvety static fingertips over chafed, dry skin. The material plane reshaping itself in concentric kaleidoscopic fractals that melted upon unresponsive faces. My shutter frame vision captured the scattered ambience of luscious strobe lights and bright aromas. The ears struck by one saw-toothed wave after another. Always rising in a swelling upsurge until the perfectly timed moment the ever-building beat drop­ped—causing the swaying body to quiver in violent climax. The terrible release of an orgiastic overload swept over, my senses pounding. Their peaking crests tasted like freshly shoveled dirt on the back of my tongue. Crumbly, as newly laid sod. I was otherwise invisible. The mere shadow of a substance. Caught in the darkest corner while noting what transpired like an unseen observer. A nameless, blank mind attached to nothing. Bouncing in accordance to whims that left me stomach sick by the endless emissions. I carried on. Stuck in transition. With the motor left running inside. Auto-pilot autonomy. Unable to stop or rest the arches of my aching feet. Any previous doubt as to whether I was rolling was no longer a question. I was in the throes of one of the heaviest sensations I’ve ever felt, drug-induced or not. But contrary to the drug’s name and reputation this was no euphoric release. Being helplessly trapped in the circulatory system of a grotesque, manmade atrocity and looping aimlessly around in fried circuits. I had no means of escaping this lush petri dish. This open, bubbling hotpot of shared infection was more than a curse. It was manufactured, quasi-hippydom with no revolution in mind or vestige of political agenda. Only the soul sucking alternative of surrendering to arabesque patterns of shiny lights and soul-sucking positivity. Youth culture evolved in accordance to its voracious appetite, desiring nothing more than to devour all—including itself. As cravings increased, I yearned to feel numb and cease thought altogether. My body hung limp. Raw, and coarse, feeling like an overused sex organ tapered to nonexistence. Skin was a scuzzy layer covering bare bones. Filthy, dirty, and covered with everyone else’s fluids but my own. Disillusionment slipped to disinterest and disinterest to utter disgust at the gross display of self-indulgence.

Turning away from the hissing synth pad I slid magnetlike through the sticky membrane, languishing until my focus, feeble as it was, anchored itself onto an irradiated merchandise tent which sold neon glow sticks from traditional handhelds to tennis ball orbs and blinking rings fit for every pierced hole imaginable. Looking past the sheer carnivalesque veneer—I retreated to the only place available. Desperate to regain some composure.

I found myself holed up in a bathroom with loud lights. Locked in with the stench of a clogged toilet. My insides churned before a glowing urinal brimming over with somebody else’s stomach contents. Iridescent brown fractals revolving in a porcelain disco ball.

It wasn’t until I stepped away from the urinal that I caught myself in the mirror. The near unrecognizable image reflected my likeness in a vibrant array of striking detail. Hair slicked back with gel and a comb. A plastic set of vampire fangs and fake blood trickled from the corners of my mouth onto a light gray V-neck.

Even with my pulse set to the trigger of an electronic beat the trappings of the living dead never looked so real. With a striking bone-white pallor. And my, how convincingly lifeless the eyes looked. Their wide pupils showing all that had been lost in dark black pools. An expression similar to encounters with ghosts. Exactly when I transformed into this instinct driven, hollow form was unknown, but this frame was like looking through the transparent pane of a shared affliction. Everybody else looked the same. Shallow eyes. Faces of alabaster. Each reflecting an equally horrifying look. Illumined under the tremulous flicker of fluorescent lighting that exposed every conspicuous chip and crack in the stained yellow tile.

What had it come to? Such a visceral reaction was like biting clear to the marrow. I felt out of place in this monstrous carnival of excess. Ridiculous even being bathed in someone else’s sweat.

Such salty sentiments pervaded throughout. But failed to match the priapism of euphoria I first prescribed to when donning this costumed disguise.

I exited the bathroom feeling nowhere close to what I bought into and beyond jaded already. Even with so much at my disposal to potentiate what I wanted from this experience it had turned into an over-embellished headache. I came too late to this banquet of the senses. Where the tanned coconut skin of girls got defiled by the grubby fingers of stout, toad-faced men nearly twice their age. Hundreds of gaping mouths without enough oral fixations to suck on.

Their heaven. My hell. And with all the pulp squeezed out long ago only a hard pit remained.

Old soul. Inexperienced flesh. Time was a scrambled concept. The serotonin antagonists flooded my poor, drug-addled brain as I got caught by the tide of sweaty limbs with even sweatier faces. I made one excuse after another to keep from having fun. No sensibilities left. The only mitigation to my misery was diving headfirst back into debauchery.

The remedy: pop another pill. Like snake-oil palliatives taken with a grain of salt—no mind the bitter aftertaste. Again, I began my desolate search for what I didn’t know how to find. I stuck to the walls. Exploring the side channels thoroughly to find the seedy inner folds where he stood in a corner half-naked and with both hands fastened to hips. No more than a living wax sculpture despite the statuesque stance. His emerald green felt top hat paired with a sequin cane ending at a rhinestone point. Three sphinxes, beautiful to watch, dangerous to touch, clawed up his black satin pants with glossy acrylic fingernails as if he were some raver guru. Most shocking of all was that he used to be my suitemate at the dorm’s last year. For what he lacked in girth he made up by his staggering height. His chest bare and showcasing a ram skull tattoo which spanned shoulder to shoulder. Powders and chemicals were his preference and I used to exchange sacks for whatever he had at the time. Like a large batch of ketamine found in the dumpster of the university hospital. We called him Jonesy because he was a drug addicted bio-chem student with a slight stutter. His emphasis was on chemical feel-goods and most of his higher-education was devoted to the compounds he coveted. Our brief acquaintance was civil considering the frequent visits from campus security about the strange smells drifting in the hallways but I approached in a way that might disarm him. The sound of my voice grating against my ears.

“Hey, Jonesy. Who are you supposed to be, the MadPimper?”

Jonesy stared straight up. Stuck eye-level with the sky as he stared dead ahead with a dozen pill smile plastered upon his face.

Anticipating some contempt for using his nickname, I tried making contact again by grabbing hold of his shoulder.

“’Scuse me, don’t you bother him,” the kitty-cat in front spoke fiercely. Her cheeks painted like red berries.

“Yeah, and his name’s Adonis.” Added a second one who chomped on her bubblegum lollipop with banded braces on her teeth.

Given that I could hardly recognize who stood before me, I started to question whether I even knew him at all.

“Rowan. That will do,” he spoke at last. Rolling harder than a landslide of tumbling boulders as he spoke in a soft, hushed voice. “And the name’s Odin.”

The sphinx retracted her claws. “Isn’t he dreamy, Holly?”

My mouth dropped as if she had asked a riddle.

“L-last p-pa-place I thought to s-see you.” He slipped into his familiar stuttered speech.

“Me and you both, Jonesy—I mean, Odin. Strange trickery crosses our paths this eve. Can you help out?”

He glanced side-to-side to ensure we weren’t being watched while the whiskery felines playfully clutched at his bulging sack.

And here I expected to peter out until the inevitable come down.

“Perhaps,” he scanned me over with lidless orbs, a crooked smile on his face.

Such casual retorts were inflammatory in my present condition, causing me to grab hold of him again.

“For God’s sake, man, tell me how much already?”

He mulled it over as if not already set on a price.

“I’ll sell you entry to Valhalla for t-t-twenty a pop,” he said. His breath like coffin nails.

That was double what we paid earlier! He must’ve read my expression which compelled him to break down the foundation of western capitalism.

“High demand drives higher prices. Tell you w-what, since we have history, I can go down to eighteen—but no lower. H-Hazel,” he addressed the third sphinx laying comfortably in the back. Dressed in tiny strips of angora. “Hand over my pouch.”

She only did so reluctantly. Her wooden eyes divining my intention.

But I was unwilling to barter with him further and rejected the offer altogether. In my experience, happiness never came at the price of a pill.

My interaction with Jonesy only served to dampen the trip further, and with no intention of falling back into that web-like trap of sticky limbs I stayed on the periphery. Wandering the outskirts. Watching the mindless flurry of those who enjoyed themselves to the point of heaving exhaustion. And carry on.

Drifting. Minute after excruciating minute drew by as if being poured from an easily clogged bottle. Damming the flow.

I couldn’t breathe and sought fresh air on the smoking patio out back. There, lungs pumped nicotine back to the brain. I burned that moment of fleeting elation with the rapidity of each cigarette until spotting Billy and Niko huddled closely along the balcony railing besides a shivering, shirtless Lefty.

Spirits newly lifted, along with the gray veil blocking my vision, a smile appeared on my face as if always there to begin with.

Lefty’s face was split like a wood block chopped repeatedly in the same spot. His snaky arm coiled around me to pull me closer.

“Happy to see you,” I said. And I meant it. What a relief it was to reconvene with the boys. Even more so sharing their eye bulging complexion. “What happened to your shirt, Lefty?”

“I puked all over it.” He rubbed his hands together to generate warmth, positively beaming. “Afterwards, I took one look around, said why the hell not and threw it in the trashcan. Where you been?”

“Got a little lost back there. How you feeling, Niko?”

“I’ve been chain-smoking menthols like candy,” he said in a thick pearly plume which blossomed from his throat

“Lemme get one?” Billy dropped mid-conversation with some stranger to shoulder his way over.

“Your turn.” Niko pointed to me before blending in with the wall.

I couldn’t get pissed if I tried. “Guess who I ran into?” I handed the pack to Billy who traded one lit cigarette for another. His face avocado smooth.

“Otis, or whatever?”

Lefty and Niko laughed.

“Yeah, we saw him.”

“That little scoundrel tried ripping me off.” I still couldn’t shake my disbelief.

“He’s a loser. But those girls with him were mighty fine…” Billy’s words trailed off with his eyes.

I sucked in hot smoke. Attempting to fill my hollow chest with its carcinogenic fumes. Held it in. Exhaled. My breathing pattern as the cigarette burned down to the cotton filter. A quavering column of ash. Slowly burning out until I lit another cigarette.

It was never enough. My life being lit like a short fuse without any explosion at the end. A spectacular dud.

And to think I even entertained the notion of meeting someone special tonight. Nothing magical was going to happen like I had secretly anticipated. Which only became more apparent as the roll wore on. As usual, the only one to have any luck talking to a pair of sexy nuns and a cute zombie field nurse was always the least interested. Billy. A disparity which never reciprocated for the rest of us who blended in amidst the chaos.

What should have been a feeling of liberation, dropping every inhibition and living only for the moment was merely another ruse. The crux of why I never accomplished what I aspired to do in the first place was that I paid so much attention to past experience with hardly a thought given to my unforgiving future.

We tossed our butts over the balcony railing and reentered the cataclysm of pink flesh, rubbed raw, and starting to blister and break.

Together again. An icy electric chill caused the taste buds to scream. My saliva being saccharine sweet enough to taste sour. An insoluble compound of opposites.

I held onto glow sticks I couldn’t remember acquiring with a death grip. Their phosphorescent swells flaring like air traffic beacons.

Hours fell off the clock. Dripping like coarse grains of sand. Along with any of the highlights concocted by my chemically altered brain until the migraine-inducing music stopped.

The once masterful rhythm abruptly lost influence over the mob of marching feet. Turning every face pale, white. Wiped blanker than their over-privileged existence as if the mirage all but vanished. The show being over.

Overhead lights switched on, repelling everyone away from the drab-colored walls into the unforgiving cold like scattering insects; crawling, fluttering, scuffling with broken feelers through the sweat-dripping orifice of the only exit. The former entryway.

We left in a desultory fashion. Feeling flaccid, limp, and wrung out like dirty, used washcloths. Every limb left in a weakened state while we sought another monotonous beat to pump our chests.

A couple dehydrated casualties lie outside the still pulsating gateway. Either propped up against the wall or passed out on the slushy concrete looking more chewed up than their pacifiers with more cops than you’d want to see on standby to ensure the crowd moved along.

The bristling silence only broken by intermittent car horns and the starting of engines.

From there it was a wormlike blur of salt flats and techno back to the house where lights were neglected in favor of a strobe light plugged into the corner of the living room which scattered shimmying flickers about the house. Plugging us back into wide-eyed mania.

Lefty locked eyes with mine from across the room before he beckoned me over to him. A wild smile spread over his face like that of a diabolical jester.

“I’ve got a confession to make,” he said, now wearing one of my sweaters and handing me another pill on the sly. “I ran into Jonesy on the way out and I knew you’d want another pill. This was his last one. Who knows you best?”

“Almost better than I know myself,” I said, my eyes half-watered their regards.

“Ain’t that the truth! I just want us to have a good time.”

“I know. It was a little rocky at first, but it all worked out in the end. As it does. Wanna split it?”

He gobbled his half with glee after retrieving a butter knife from the kitchen. “Love you, man.”

“Love you too. That will never change between us. Thanks for making this happen.”

“My pleasure.” He wrapped up with a bow.

“This is where the love’s at,” Niko edged over towards us. Leaning with all of his weight as Lefty pulled him in.

“Are you joining, Billy?”

“I’ma smoke this bowl instead.”

Our drug-laced enjoyment may have failed to generate a heartfelt buzz, but we stayed up late trading our experiences of innocence lost while chewing sticks of gum to shreds. Becoming a melted puddle of voices over the mechanical looping grind. With no intention of ever falling asleep.

In the end, as vexing as it could be repeating the same thing, it was no small sacrifice to know that nothing was worse than faked authenticity.

Thumping bass lines rattled the house. But its foundation remained solid through the night. Even with all the madness locked up inside I was smitten by a warm sensation, trickling from my brainstem down to my toes. My skin tingled as if an army of fire ants trooped over it. The only way to enjoy this sensation was by distorting reality to abstraction. Casting off the regular to become shrouded with foreign garbs and surroundings. Accompanied by smoking countless spliff bowls to even out the roll.

When Billy suggested we watch the sunrise we each grabbed our cigarette packs, all the remaining beer, and the bong, to greet the new day out on the porch. Scattered about the front yard we chain-smoked cigarettes while talking loud enough for the neighborhood to hear.

The sun proved slower than anticipated, prompting Lefty to grab us blankets from inside. Pink spikey mountains against an ice-blue backdrop contrasted sharply with the drab gray which smothered the still sleeping city. Skinny, leafless tree limbs reached upwards. Locked in a permanent stretch.

Bright starlight faded into an unseen symphony of chirps conducted by daybreak. We fell silent at once. A distant train horn was all that could be heard along with the fall of Niko’s feet on the pavement as he started Greek dancing. He hadn’t stopped moving since our return. Held over by the sway of a shared rhythm.

I stared up along the mountain ridge. Anticipating the coming spark which would ignite its broken spine. But this process was not as simple as the flipping of a switch.

Again, the train horn rang through still air. Again, again, and again. Sounding off like a signal of sorts for how my thoughts had turned. Turned to my Elan SCXs collecting dust in the closet. Turned to living like a piece of furniture while I grew old with decay. I was finally coming to terms with my discontent. Right when insufferable night got broken up by a fiery blaze which made the rooftops diamond-encrusted under the new sun.

Daylight crept over the blackened crest, burning brighter as it illumined the darkest corners in a radiant flame, cradling us with torchlike fingers until the firmament was alight. Along with it came a blinding roll­. Like a gushing fountain spilling forth to reveal every hidden crack and crevice.

“Those beautiful colors are made by pollution, you know?” Lefty’s offhand remark was too off-putting for my liking.

Blame the dopamine-fried synapses in my brain, but I envisioned myself upon the summit with nothing but the cool breeze. Although the lingering doubt remained. It hinted that one might be able to unlock the deeper aspects of life. If they only worked hard enough.

With more days to live through than potential pleasures I had no desire to waste away on cheap thrills while leaving a life’s calling untended. And ever since my run-in on the mountain I kept returning to the biggest fantasy. Pursing what I loved most. Something which could only be achieved by stripping myself free of every friend, distraction, and inhibition alike.

From out the ashen remains of this drug-fueled chaos, I was reborn. I hadn’t pulled an all-nighter in years and forgot some of its hidden splendor. Smitten with a warm, fuzzy elation that broke into cold sweats, trickling like icicles, while fiery sensations shot me further into a feverish, sleep-deprived delirium.

With an open heart, I embraced the sunshine pouring forth which broke up the gray eastern sky with a white moon visible in the northwest.

We’d been tuned to the same frequency at last. Along with it came a sense in which your very being was palpable. Where you were alive. Everything coalescing into one of those rare experiences where your existence was truly felt.

There may be no universal favor or conspiracy working against me. But choosing an origin point was simple. Like turning a page in the story.

The train horn ringing clear as day.

Only hours later—burned out—my brain felt like an elastic band about to snap. A cold, sharp shiver coursed through my body amidst hot flashes. The drawn shades left me in total darkness as I thrashed beneath the bed covers. Staring at the ceiling. Unable to sleep.

I sank even deeper. Blackness closed round the edges of my consciousness. Except it never fully snuffed the spark of my ever-burning passion. I always seemed to turn away in the face of adversity—like how I handled the coach’s invitation to join Carbonado’s ski club. Or the Academy, as it was called.

Lying awake already, no dream could distract me now from what needed to be done.

Bluish light emanated from the soft glowing TV screen. Flashes of technicolor animation on a muted screen. Illuminating a fallen army of beer cans and bottles spilt on the coffee table along with the granulated, peppery debris from two overflowing ashtrays. In the midst of the worst comedown of my short, puny existence, I waded through the aftermath of last night’s wreckage with hubcap-sized pupils to find the bong and slip away from the mess I’d have to later clean.

But there weren’t enough bong hits to account for my clouded decision making. Or conceal my idle reclusion which clung onto me like stale smoke. Living behind this smokescreen in vain attempt to be hidden away in obscurity.

Whenever the vapors had cleared, I was that leftover stain. A festering, fungating wound haply infecting whatever it touched.

Wildly indulgent. All I wanted was to marry that passion buried deep down inside with my own means. To become a wholly different beast. A new breed. The likes of which had never been seen.

And being more than ready to break the mold I was cast from I couldn’t pass this golden opportunity by.

I ached from head to toe. Unsure exactly what to do after picking up the phone. As if trembling in the driver’s seat, my foot on the gas pedal. I dialed the number on the card handed to me on the mountain what felt like ages ago.

I paced back and forth. Deliberate as a pendulum. The phone pressed into the tender cartilage of my ear. I started to plan for the dreaded possibility of having to leave a voice message. They never translated over the way you wanted them to and I possessed the unfortunate affliction of not knowing when to end them before trailing off in unnecessary digressions from the point.

The call rang out in reassurance this wasn’t meant to be when someone picked up on the other end.

“Hello?” The deep voice persisted—distant as the bottom of a well at first, but reverberating louder by the decibel.

My arid, strident throat collapsed. The driftwood tongue inside of it crumbled to dust and leaving me, the caller, with absolutely nothing to say.

If I hung up now, he’d only be calling back so I creaked open my unwilling mouth to allow the rest to spew out— “Uh yes, hello. Mr. Price?”

A long pause ensued.

“Speaking…”

“OK great, I got the right number. We uh, met at the resort the other day,” the word vomit continued to rise.

More silence.

“I hope I’m reaching you at a good time. Something’s been weighing heavily on my mind. It was an error on my part to turn down your offer. And I, uh, thought about it and wondered if you still had an open position? I was the one who raced Drake, by the way.”

“Oh, I remember. I wondered when you’d call. I just thought it’d be much sooner.”

“Erm yes, I promise to play nice with others. Please, give me this one shot to prove it not only to you but most importantly myself.”

“Listen, there was never a slot available. You can’t simply come and go as you please. I work only with the best this valley has to offer and require full discipline coupled with your unyielding dedication. If you’re up for the challenge of being pushed to your maximum potential, I’ll give you a chance.”

“No problem considering how tortured I’ve been over how we left off,” I began to find my words. “What’s the next step?”

“As I said, you are subject to no different than the rest of your teammates and I expect to see you on the mountain tomorrow morning at 0600. Get some rest tonight. It’s going to be a long day in the weight room. And don’t forget those skis. We try to squeeze in a couple runs to close practice.”

“Can’t wait! Thanks again, Mr.—

“That’s Coach Price to you.” He corrected me with a noted absence of warmth. “I didn’t dedicate the greater part of my life to this discipline without earning my honorific title.”

“Erm—my apologies, Coach Price.” I added for good measure.

“I should also mention team fees are due in full tomorrow. November 1st—consider them your dues—they officiate your status with the Alpine Ski organization once paid. I’ll grant you an extension until next week.” Before I could even ask, he answered all my burning questions: “Eleven hundred covers every cost from food to your official ski gear. Anyone representing AST is expected to look the part on the mountain. This does not include any future trip expenses for camp, tournaments, etc. We currently train three times a week: Monday, Wednesday, Friday. See you next week not so bright and early.”

“Got it. When was that again?”

“The team meets six o’clock sharp in the south dining hall by the stairs. You can’t miss it.”

My head rang well after the call ended. I somehow went from mulling over the potential of recreational racing to signing up with a competitive ski club.

All without a chance for rebuttal.

Even with this remedy for all ills I felt like the same raw nerve as before. I prepared in advance to doggy-paddle through tempests with no island in sight. Always uncertain of what came next. Skiing had always provided me a solitary experience no other could match. Which meant there was more pressure than ever to apply myself in a way that was rewarding. Or I’d only have myself to blame.

The black dog sensed my nervous energy and raised its head up to return a melancholy gaze before sinking back into its slumber. Zoning out, I patted the coarse matted fur on its hunched shoulders until its black eyes gradually shut.

Despite the glowing opportunity to train with the Academy nothing had changed. The house was in shambles. And I’m yet to return calls to the family with the manacles of past regret keeping me chained to the blatant refutation of every convention. Both of my parents were masters in their respective fields and our relationship remained amicable up until I totaled my car on Christmas break my first semester of college. I wasn’t even under the influence but had so many prior speeding tickets it resulted in a suspended license. And fearing I had been lost to the grips of my drinking and pot dependency they moved me to the dorms from which I was promptly kicked out a week shy of summer vacation. I got a kidney stone. Lost weight. Had your typical bad first experience trying to live with friends before settling into my one-bedroom rental.

Now there weren’t enough drugs to fumigate my skull. Becoming exhausted just waiting for a meaningful event to occur I soon relapsed into the usual comforts of charring lung tissue and pooling my liver right as a dejected Niko showed up with an unopened bottle of scotch.

Day burned to night. I buzzed well until bedtime where the gravity of my recent commitment hit me like a concrete pillow. Equal parts excited and nervous, I was determined to end my desperate searching via rote discipline. Boldly starting a fresh new page to a narrative in which I ascended to heights unknown. However unlikely that might be.

Tonight’s bud always blossomed into tomorrow’s doubt.

The following morning I woke up swathed in a blanket of sweat. My esophagus burning as I filled the toilet bowl with the contents of my stomach. After a couple dramatic dry heaves to ensure it was all out, I raised up from the bathroom sink and washed my face with lukewarm water.

Already trapped in a heady haze, which came accompanied by an overwhelming sense of some pressing matter, I was tightening the sash on my robe when I tripped over a slumbering body in the middle of the walkway.

I hopped over howling, yelling obscenities while holding my stinging foot in both hands.

Niko was still there from last night snoozing on the living room floor. I hobbled over to the couch where I tossed a few scrawny nugs in the grinder right as Lefty came waltzing in the front door.

If he wasn’t pounding on it at the crack of dawn, then I conveniently left it unlocked for him.

“Niko’s still here?”

Lefty gave the snoring log a kick.

“Don’t you have work soon?”

“Whah-hh?’ Niko bolted upright with a sustained yawn before checking the time. “Aww shit, I was supposed to be at the restaurant an hour ago, my dad’s gonna kill me.”

“Thank God someone was up. I’m battling the worst hangover and needed to medicate.” Lefty said.

“Hair of the dog?” Niko suggested, already unscrewing the cap of a mostly finished bottle of Scotch.

“I’ve gotta work today,” Lefty backed up to the wall.

“Pour me up,” I said. Niko poured into the same sticky shot glasses we used last night. Spilling onto the table in his hastiness.

“Bottoms up.” (clink) “Another?”

He poured the shots. Then was out the door. Smacking his lips with a fire in his belly. Again, I was struck by a pressing engagement I couldn’t seem to remember.

“Got anything going on today?” Lefty asked, almost haughtily. The implication stung. Still, nothing came to mind as I loaded up a bowl to smoke.

I checked my phone and nearly had a heart attack. Not only had I slept through my alarm but it had been switched to silent mode. Already there was a missed call from Coach Price. Along with a new voice message I never heard.

I jumped to my feet.

“Gotta go!”

“Something going on today?” Lefty didn’t bother hiding his incredulity.

“Right now!” I frantically scrambled to collect my ski gear scattered about the house. My head began to hurt worse than my thumping hangover.

“You don’t have anywhere to be. Not like you have to clock in somewhere.” Lefty’s chuckling followed me out of the living room into my bedroom.

I paid him no mind as I rifled through the contents of my dresser drawers with shaky hands—shoving ski goggles, a pair of thermals, and a mismatched pair of gloves into a black gym bag with a broken zipper.

It would be another rough start without breakfast. I didn’t have time to smoke another bowl. But I did so anyway.

“What could you have going on?” Lefty pressed. His curiosity piqued.

But I was already outside with the door shut before another word could be said. Speeding towards the purple-hued mountains.

I made it about halfway down the street before realizing my ski boots got left behind.

Coach Price would have some words for me. But how many four-letter ones remained to be seen.

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

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