Drinking Stories: Broken Feet

We have a carnival every year out in Rosebud South Dakota. I haven’t gone in over a decade. It’s not really my scene. I don’t really have much to say to my extended family these days. If I can’t leave the reservation I’ll distance myself from as many people here as I possibly can. That goes for my cousins, uncles, aunts, and even my grandparents. There’s nothing left to say to anyone because there’s no life being lived. All forward momentum has stopped. And maybe in time I’ll shake off the dust from my bones and head back out into the real world. And maybe I’ll get some more stories to share with them. But until then I got nothing.

I haven’t gone to a funeral or wake in years. I didn’t think it was an option to ditch out until my buddy died. Don’t think I saw his sister at any of the services. Took her lead and haven’t shown up for anything since.

Well. I did follow the caravan back when my pop’s died. Buried him too. But that’s really about it as far as this whole death thing goes. Don’t think I’ll go to another one unless it’s someone very, very close to me, and we’re running out of those fast.

I’m a hermit. I paint. I draw. I drink. I sing. I mind my own fuckin’ bidness most times. Try to at least. Yeah. Well. I don’t drink anymore. Used to though. And I was good at it. Damn good at it. They say the red man can’t handle his booze, say our bodies can’t process alcohol well. That always made us sound like lightweights and I don’t know if that’s the case. At least I tried my best to handle myself when I boozed. I still think back on it with a bit of stupid pride. Being able to chug a half gallon of vodka over a day and a half was the high point. As was drinking a traveler of vodka after work, or drinking a case of beer every night.

I pushed myself as far as I could. Over and over. And over.

Started with Tilt and Blast. I’m not sure if they still make ’em. They’re essentially Four Lokos. These days it’s Joose. Same basic formula. Fuck ton of sugar, heavy alcohol content, ugly as shit. Pretty sure they kicked up the ABV a percent or two, and they sell ’em in bigger cans. Think they’re up to 25 ounces. Shit’s changed but not by much. Started with Tilt, then I moved on to Blast and schnapps. Later it was vodka, then whiskey, and then back to regular ol’ beer. And then the car wreck sobered me up for good.

I used to drive for my brother. D.U.I.’d everywhere in our bumfuck nowhere town. You can get away with that out here. You’d have to be a moron to get in trouble. No traffic and straight roads. That’s not to say I didn’t get in trouble. We’re going to talk about those instances coming up shortly. I’ve gotten in car wrecks, I’ve gotten stuck, or lost. Yeah we did it all at one point or another. Most times though? It was fine, better than fine. Or about as fine as you could hope for.

That ceiling’s pretty low. Yeah. Pretty goddamn low. Cause drinking don’t feel good. Don’t feel good at all. I was never able to articulate it all that well back then but maybe I can now. Didn’t have the words, couldn’t describe it well.

I remember hearing about a suicide epidemic out on some Eastern island. The indigenous population didn’t have a word for shame or grief. Without being able to express what was going on upstairs they crumbled. Like a literal devil. Ain’t the first I’ve heard of that. Heard a story about a homeless man that avenged his brother. Brother died, got ran over. So the homeless man shot the driver and got away with it. In time that guilt compounded and turned on him. Said he’s been dealing with it for forty some years now.

Lives in a tent somewhere out west.

It’s what happened to this island population. They couldn’t put any words to this experience and started offing themselves. I’ve heard the Sumerians or Babylonians believed that PTSD was something like the ghost of the slain victim haunting the sufferer. I’m sure I’ve picked up something similar in my time. Just like the murderer who can’t tell the doctors why his voices haunt him, I can’t say why mine speak the way they do. Something you gotta deal with and I’m sure it’s not a unique situation at all.

I’ve heard Marie Louise Von Franz say that sometimes you need a bit of guilt, something you can’t tell your analyst. And I have mine. I have my shame, I have my guilt, I have my hurt, and I can’t let it out for no one. And everything shy of this longing, I’ll share here. And maybe somewhere down the road we can pool all our stories together and figure out just how to get out of this mess, together.

All roads lead back to ruin. All thoughts, all fantasies, all memories, they end back in ruin. Back in a place of hurt. I dream of being hunted, of getting my ass kicked, of getting arrested, of dying. I haven’t been able to sleep or rest in a decade. Mistakes were made, willingly and unwillingly. And a ghost got loose. Many ghosts got loose. And they live in this house now. They live in this head now. And I have nothing left to do, but offer them a warm place to sleep, to offer them food and drink, it’s in Allah’s hands now. It’s in God’s hands now.

I have no choice but to live out Rumis poem “The Guest House”.

Let me get out of this life in one piece, God. I’ve done my best. I’ve changed my ways. Is this enough for you? Is this enough to put the hounds down a different path? Is Mother Mary still out there? Does she still guide the sinner to repentance? I heard King David lived in terror, I heard he was allowed to get with Bathsheba, was allowed to kill her husband, allowed to be a sinner so that he could show other sinners a way out.

Can I offer my life up to them in the same way?

Probably not.

So it was Rosebud Fair and the town was deserted. August is a celebration for us cause there’s nothing else going on. Because the lucky ones come back for a few days, because it’s harvest season and booze flows freely from the roots. Because we got nothing better to do than to drink and fuck and fight.

And the Indians gather up in tents out in Rosebud. As pow wow music plays. As paper bowls and plates collect along the fence lines and under the wooden bleachers. As carnival rides run all day and night, as music blares and drunks face a weekend long hangover in the drunk tank.

Not my scene, man. Not my scene.

My brother used to have a car but it didn’t last long. I was dumb enough to follow his lead in life. He was into music, so I got into music. He started drinking at eighteen, and I followed too. He worked the kitchen, so I worked the kitchen. He was the only template available for me. Because I couldn’t talk to anyone else. Because I didn’t know how to talk to anyone. Something got fried early on, some wires crossed wrong. And I’ll give those instances their due weight later on. But for now lets keep it like this — my brother was never able to keep a vehicle. His shit broke down early on.

Pops couldn’t raise him. Pops couldn’t raise him and he didn’t want his baby mama to raise him. So he did the next best thing, a common thing around here, my old man dropped my brother off with my grandparents. And that’s had it’s own issues. I’ve heard my brother pissed as hell a handful of times. Angry that I had parents and he didn’t. Angry that I had a father and he didn’t. I can’t heal you, brother, I can’t help you get out of this. That’s all on you. It’s always been on you, and you pick the worst path to walk every time.

I used to sit in with my brother and his friends. Used to sit in that car and hot box. Never got stoned though. I think second hand smoke with smoke is bullshit, and as far as I know, I haven’t been proven wrong. Yeah. Used to watch him get stoned. But his path ramped up a lot, and early too. Not as early as others. Some locals started drinking before high school and have been lost on that trip ever since. I know a lot of people who ended up bums because that’s what this life does to you. My brother’s no different. He moved in to my uncle’s house, can’t imagine that relationship being anything other than low key abuse.

Emotional abuse, man. That’s what it is. Emotional abuse. Codependency. That’s what I learned from my brother. Codependency. Used to sit around in his room at grandma’s house. Sit around as she slipped further and further into dementia. As the house slipped into ruin, as roaches started getting braver and braver, until they coated the house walls like nicotine stains. We used to sit around a small VHS/TV combo and watch old music DVDs and movies.

My brother was ahead of the curve as far as technology goes, for a brief moment. Yeah my old man used to give him cash every month. Grandpa did the same. Grandpa was a cool guy and luckily pops forced me to hang out with the old man the last summer he was alive. We used to sit outside in their yard. Listened to a lot of their stories. Maybe I’ll steal them and lie to you, maybe I’ll mix them all together and pass them off as mine.

Yeah right.

Couldn’t if I tried.

Dad couldn’t be a proper father to my brother. That fucked with his head on some level. When we got older my dad would fall off the wagon for weeks. He’d disappear in the mornings. Started off slow. Disappear until noon or so and you could tell he was fucked up. His eyebrows would go up. And in time he’d get more sloppy. And it’d always start with morning drives with my brother. They couldn’t hang out with each other organically. They had to drink to spend time with each other.

I picked that up from them too. Don’t know if that’s just “our” thing though. I’m pretty damn sure that’s how it is for everyone out in rural America. It’s probably the same for people in the cities as well. Intoxication is the sure route to friendship, seems to be a hollow friendship, but friendship nonetheless.

My dad bought my brother a car with his income tax cash. My brother had that car for maybe… two years? Maybe more. Maybe less. And he fucked his life up because of it. Also fucked his car up.

We used to lift weights out in my yard. We lived, I don’t know, two houses away from each other. Used to bench, curl, and deadlift. But after awhile he started leaving early and coming home late. The guy graduated high school in 2005. When that happened he started drinking. Started drinking and then started fucking around with meth. And that was all it took. He has been falling perpetually ever since. And now no one can pull him out.

And he wants you to pull him out. That’s how drunks think and talk. Man. Codependent. Every last one of ’em. They want you to know how miserable they are. They want you to know how horrible life’s been to them. They want your attention, all of your attention. They mimic addiction itself. They become a burning star and you become a floating piece of space debris, you get caught in their orbit and they want you at all times.

Spent a lot of time at my brother’s place. Sitting around, watching band DVDs and movies. He used to get drunk and we’d talk. We’d talk until he fell asleep then I’d go back home. Late. Always late. 3, 4, 5am. I don’t think it ever crossed his mind, don’t think he ever considered getting his own place, getting a new car, starting the next phase of his life.

And I followed his lead. I’m still following his lead to some degree. The only difference is I’m using my artistic gifts for something beneficial. I’m using it for therapy. I’m using to put cash in my pocket.

My brother was a great guitarist. He had a great ear on him. My grandpa was an old gospel singer and guitarist. Gave my brother his first guitar at age 5 and the guy excelled at it. He was a beast at one point. His picking hand would turn into a blur while he soloed. It meant something back then, pre-internet. Back then you couldn’t look up countless other guitarists in an instant. He really had something going for him but he used it wrong.

Can you use art wrong?

I sure as shit think so.

My brother couldn’t take any criticism. He couldn’t take any criticism and he pouted a lot. We all knew it. Never cross that dude. Never put him down or he’ll pout. He’ll just up and leave and stop talking to you. You can look at it this way — you can say he was weak because of it, but I think that’d be missing the underlying motif, the underlying message, and that’s one of rage. You pissed me off and if I don’t remove myself from this situation, then it’s going to get ugly.

He couldn’t take criticism. He still can’t. And now he’s irrelevant. Now he’s a no one. Now his music will never be heard by anyone. He got caught. He got trapped. He was a great musician who couldn’t progress in life. He couldn’t listen to things that were outside his genre. For all his ability, he could not create. He could not put himself out there and be at the mercy of an honest opinion. He couldn’t move his life forward.

Blues rock, pentatonic scales, Slash disciple. What good is that now? Where can that get him in this day and age? He had lightning in a bottle. He had powerful magic at one point. He was a great musician and he couldn’t capitalize on it. And now he’ll be known as a prisoner, and as an anonymous character in some artist’s stories.

It’s hard to show just how bleak this life is. Hard to show how many of us turned into raging pieces of shit. Easier to talk about the people who made it out. Because there’s not many.

I know of… maybe five people in an extended family of… 20 who ever got a job. People don’t pay bills. People don’t go to college. People don’t get into trade school. People don’t leave.

Gifted mechanics all up and down my family tree and no one’s ever aspired to do more than the bare minimum. No one’s ever opened up a shop or gone to school for it. No one’s ever thought about getting a career.

I remember hearing about some southwestern tribe. From some author. He talked about these natives back in the day. They weren’t expected to do anything but live. Live and do your thing. The tribe took care of them. And this author spoke about this with an air of admiration. He said he couldn’t think of anyone more free.

We still have that freedom out here.

And it rots us from the inside out.

My soul was a nocturnal bird in flight — gliding through the prairies of rural South Dakota. A joyful creature, no longer bound to the toxic host called Bad Thigh. It waited many years to escape — to be free again, only in those blackened hours did it feel at home. High above the earth, falling with the wind in it’s face, feeling alive again.

My body, on the other hand, was weighed down by a gallon of booze. I plopped my fat ass on the ground in the middle of nowhere. Along a gravel road. The bird came home. Consciousness came home. I looked at myself with disgust, looked at myself as a critic.

“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I was breathing through my nose. Loud. Hands breaking twigs.

“I’m cold. I’m going to start a fire.”

“Jesus Christ, dude. You can barely start a fire with a book of matches — there’s no way in hell you’re going to get this thing going.”

“No. I’ll get it going. Look. I even have stones around it to contain the blaze. You gotta be careful. We might burn down this whole area you know.”

“You’re a dumbass. Where the fuck are we?”

“Where are we… Where… Are…”

Shit.

I stand up. I’m barefoot. There’s drying vomit on my shorts. There’s drying vomit on my shirt. It’s cold. I’m walking north. There’s a house that way. A fence with old boots on each post. A farm, a silo, a phone. A ride back home.

Water.

I can feel the booze’s poison lingering in my body. Lightheaded. Dizzy. The euphoria has long since died. My baseline feeling is sickness. My mouth is dry. My feet are in pain. We have to keep walking north. There’s no other way. No other way at all. Move those feet.

A choir of coyotes in the fields all around us. You’re dressed like a target. You’re limping. They’ll maul you if they think you’re weak. They know you’re weak. You got a long way to go. Keep walking. Keep walking Bad Thigh. You’re lost and there’s nowhere to go but north. Walk.

Stones as big as my fist strewn across the road. Feels like I’m getting my feet beaten. I can only make it about eight steps at the most before having to stop. I’m scared of the coyotes. Occasionally I respond to their calls with a yell, a scream, a growl. Make yourself known Bad Thigh — make yourself known.

No phone in my pocket. No keys. No water. Nothing.

Flashes-of-earlier come and go. Think back. Think back…

Started with a phone call. Too young to buy booze on my own. Only been drinking for a few years.

Drinking pulled me downwards — it strengthened the worst aspects of my personality — it dangled a carrot in front of my nose — it gave me a superficial goal to work towards, a never ending hunger that pulled in all of my money in small chunks.

The gas station was selling malt liquor for two bucks a can. Big ol sons of bitches. Colt 45. Eight percent. I wanted to get shitfaced. I always wanted to get shitfaced.

The family had left to Rosebud Fair. A five day long carnival/pow wow where folk would set up tents, bullshit with family, watch softball games, rodeos, and the dancers.

The town was empty because of it. The community was empty because of it. And so I drank.

I picked up Anton. I’ve known him for the better part of eight years. Half brothers. I’ve watched his decline into hell and it still didn’t shake my thirst. Nothing would. I was going to die young like a real poet, like a real artist, like a legend.

Anton Bad Thigh had a run in with cops not too long ago. The story he tells is cut and dry. He passed out at someone’s house — got woken up by the cops, resisted and got his ass beat with a baton. The other side of the story from relatives says the EMT’s covered for the officer, that it was an abuse of authority, that the blood covered clothing was hidden before pictures could be taken.

I don’t claim to know the truth. I don’t claim to know what happens when a young man drinks. All I know is that my half brother was old enough to buy me booze and that’s all I needed to know.

We pulled into the gas station. He left for a moment. In my rear view mirror there was a native fella carrying a brown paper bag, booze of some sort. That was going to be me in a few minutes. A trail of folk followed the injun. He was a hunter. He was playing the role of the ancients. That paper bag was his kill and the co-dependent folk behind him was his tribe. We were playing out old archetypes in the day to day world. We were living a mytho-poetic tragedy known across history but we stayed blind to it. Big mistake on our part. But at the time it felt like everything in the world was right.

I brushed off the memory of Anton pulling up every rug in my car, digging deep into the cusions, looking under the seats, bumming for enough change to get one beer because the shakes were imminent, because the sickness after the sickness was close — because life lived sober wasn’t worth living at all. I brushed off the evil it made us do — brushed off my entire childhood because the booze was in control, because thirst was in control, because I was being pulled into the sun, into a black hole — into an early death.

We were all marching straight towards hell and no one could stop us. We couldn’t stop us. The world couldn’t stop us. And if it tried we’d get angry, we’d turn into monsters, into tyrants. We’d lose our humanity to make the world feel sacred again.

Anton gets in the car. Closes the door. I put it in reverse. Drive to the liquor store. Old beat up building with a step-like design on top — shredded and faded paint written on the front. Anton was buying booze for him and the old lady. Bottle of vodka and some 12 percent abv malt liquor.

Get back in. Take a drive through the city. Well — not really a city, and that’s a good thing because I ain’t made to drive anywhere close to a city. Keep me in the small towns, keep me on the highways — on the interstate, once we get into the city my hands grip the steering wheel tight and my sense of direction goes out the door.

Black Creek was the type of town you passed on your way out of South Dakota, to you — this place is an afterthought, a combined two minutes of roadside scenery out in god’s forgotten land. A small town supported by the government, the tribe, and the ranchers. A dead end place not known for jack shit. You’ve passed many places like this before and as quickly as you left, the memory died. And that’s how it should stay.

Woe be it to those who find themselves stuck here — woe be it to those who have any sense of self, who have any sort of potential, for those who have no outlet for their own creativity. If you tasted a better life, if you met good people, if you met good women when you were young, you will never catch it again. This is a place where hope dies, thoroughly. The white folk grow up and disappear, the Indians with any sort of potential disappear.

Black Creek is home. It will always be home. But I don’t want to be home. I want a yurt out of US soil with a wifi connection. I want to go outside and find no other human life for fifty miles around. I want isolation and safety.

There’s a certain charm to living here. But I don’t know if my feelings are genuine or if I’ve come down with a bit of Stockholm Syndrome.

We used to walk these streets everyday when we were younger. In those old days before booze controlled all of our social interactions. We’d walk around this town for hours and hours fantasizing about what we wanted to do — almost all of it was about music, almost all of it was about touring as a band. We were young and dumb, our futures meant nothing.

Good folk have the luxury of being led by elders. Of being part of a community that can lend a helping hand, good folk have people in their lives that show clear paths out. They can rely on the institutions of the world. Conservation Corp, Merchant Marines, The Army, tech schools, — smart folk know that careers are needed to progress in life. We weren’t aware of that in the slightest. We were lost souls, we were the wounded fisher king, we woke up in the wasteland of T.S. Eliot.

We dried up every opportunity available to us — there is no further way out of this life but inner transformation. The path of the shaman is all that’s left for us. A wise man said that wisdom was found through privation and suffering he was right. The only thing that can come from these dead end towns is a new awareness — a path out of addiction can only be found by walking that path and learning for yourself.

Only the wounded healer heals.

Out here you can stand at any point in town and see fields at the end of every street in all four directions. Makes driving drunk easy. Drive passed the eight different churches. Drive along the unpaved roads. Let the music play loud. Crack open a can of beer and pass it around before we even make it home. We weren’t worried about anything, weren’t worried about the future, never scared, never.

The vehicle rolls into my yard. Parked on the north side. Blankets hung out to dry to the left, house on the right — no way of parking in front of us. Safe. Home safe.

We drink. Can after can. Anton has a nervous look on his face. He’s lookin’ over at his phone a lot. Try my best to make the conversation flow smoothly but it ain’t working. We kill three cans together before he has to go. We say our goodbyes. Lock the vehicle Take my last two cans inside and kill them. My stomach is full. My stomach is full and the euphoria’s back.

Drinking’s not fun. The only part of all this that’s fun is the first half hour or so after guzzling as much booze as possible. That’s the only thing that feels good. The come up. The smile stretches across the face. The head gets a bit dizzy — but not enough to negatively affect you. The body reacts, tensions relieved. Sitting on the couch on booze is a million times better than getting stoned. No other drug can make you feel this good so quick, then immediately make you regret your decision. Being drunk isn’t fun. Getting drunk is fun. Getting drunk as often as possible, getting drunk — that first come up — that’s what it’s all about.

Every other feeling is an afterthought. The hangover, the dehydration, the regret, the shame, the self-hatred, the eternal remembrance of bad days — just a symptom, a symptom that can be pushed away with another can. With another beer. With another shot. Do it now, do it later, do it everyday. Everyday and don’t ever stop. Drink — Bad Thigh. Drink and make the world sacred again. Drink and merge with the objects around you. Merge with the world again. Feel alive. Feel alive again.

Again…

My eyes got heavy.

I fell to sleep.

I dreamt that I was a child again. Climbing a tree. I got too high and couldn’t get back down. The flood waters came from the south and swept me away.

BANG BANG BANG!

Shit.

Lights are out. Must be the cops. Shit. Doors locked. Keep your head down. BANG BANG BANG! Back door. Sneak over. Push a chair against it. Wedge it. Put a dumbbell or five on top of it.

They’re knocking on the front door now. Shut the fuck up. It’s the way. Think about the old days — think about when the family would party. When the house would reek of cigarettes. In the old days when the parents used to drink every weekend. The old days when my cousins would wait until everyone passed out so they could collect the spit shots. The old days when the house would get too loud and the cops would get called.

Think of the old days — think of hiding in the bedrooms, hiding in the bathroom, in the dark as flashlights passed by the windows. Think of the old days — of fleeing, of hiding. Think of the cops banging on the door so hard the screen doors broke. Think about the old days.

They’re knocking on the windows too.

Sneak into the bathroom. Lock the door. Lay in the tub. Play music through earphones to drown out the sound. It’s the end of days and judgment has come for you Bad Thigh. They know you’re drunk. They know everything so you must flee. Hide. Run. Forever.

Fifteen minutes turns to a half hour. Stare at the ceiling. Eyes have gotten used to the blue. Stare at the ceiling. Think of the old days. Always think of the old days. You carry them around. Haunted by the past — haunted by a torrid youth — haunted by ghosts more real than anything the Christians and paranormal crowd could ever imagine.

Origen once said that hell was a concrete thing that folk experienced in the real world. That hellfire was something to be felt in the here-and-now. That the fires of jealousy, envy, lust, hatred, anger, fear — they were what the ancients were talking about. I feel that fear everyday. I carry you around with me at all times. Like a stalking hunter — a memory, a cloud of locusts, a cancer, an impending sense of doom — I carry you around. Close to my heart. Close to me. I carry you around.

The sounds have all died down. The banging from the doors can no longer be felt. I’m terrified but mostly sober. I stand up and walk through the house. Put my ear up to the door and listen closely.

Nothing. Open it. Nothing. Crickets and bull frogs. Mosquitos buzzing. June bugs bouncing off of yard lights. Distant screeches of bats hunting.

A semi truck’s booming engine on the highway. A memory comes up like a fish’s tail breaking the surface of a lake. A memory — parent’s are drinking at their friend’s house. We sat out back with their kids. One of ’em tells us not to look at the semi trucks at night. Not to look at the lights. Says it’s an omen. Says that people die after seeing them.

Sit on the couch. Feel the sickness of being drunk — feel the boredom wash over me. Feel it all too much. Drink a big glass of water. And another. And another. Get a craving for a cigarette. For a cigar. Give me anything to add to this dullness. Give me anything to feel different. Give me anything so I can escape for a singular moment.

Get enough balls to leave the house. Grab my keys. Go outside — barefoot. Empty parking spot. Concrete slab. Stars are falling. Up ahead — connect the dots — I see a massive cosmic tree. Points spread across a millenia. I see an abyss. I see a cavernous void. I see doom ahead. I see gravity inverting — I see the entire population falling into the sky. I see the rapture. I see dogs hung up from their chains like nooses. I see frightened folk hanging on for dear life to playground swings. I see a vacancy sign on our universe and a bored trickster god intent on spreading chaos.

I also see a plastic bag on the floor of my vehicle. Unlock the door. Pick it up. It’s Anton’s. They must have been the folk at the door. This is what they were after. Examine the contents. Yup — this is their’s. A big ol’ bag of booze. A jug of hundred proof vodka. Four cans of malt liquor — twenty four ounces. Twelve percent. The sugary kind that hurt the teeth. The nasty kind that burns the throat. The evil kind that dyes your shits and makes you think you’re bleeding out from your stomach.

Decisions are hard to make sometimes. Sometimes you need to think about the karmic weight of your actions. Sometimes your thoughts reach forward a thousand years and you see what you want to be, who you want to be, you see where your offspring will end up, where their offspring will end up — sometimes you need to make big decisions that will change your entire life for the better or worse, and sometimes the God’s smile down on you. Nature admires courage says the dead hippy.

Other times decisions come and go in an instant. Sometimes impulsivity is the order of the day. For a long while it was my God. Money burned holes in my pockets. In those years I acted out of cruel self interest. In those years I cast away my better self because I had no faith in myself, because I believed that I’d be damned for all eternity — because getting drunker was all that seemed to matter to me.

The decision made that night came with a little bit of guilt. The kind of guilt you pray away with a few words. To some, those words are never genuine. But they were real to me.

I still bowed to an outside order.

Jung said, long ago — that God is the name he assigns to those storms that sweep across his path violently — altering his subjective views for better or worse.

I prayed to a God that moment.

I asked my brother for forgiveness.

Brother, you know I have money, you know that I can pay you back, you know that I have a job. It is with a heavy heart that I take your alcohol from you — it is with heavy heart that I drink your booze. It is with heavy heart that I drink all of your alcohol. I don’t want to do this, brother, but I’m sure you owe me in some way and I’m sure I owe you in some other way. It’s the nature of life to take from others. Know that I will get you back when I can. Know that I am sorry for taking your guys’ booze and I’m certain that your old lady has enough money with her to score you some more.

I apologize.

Make a phone call.

“Yo… What’s up.”

“Where’s all your matchables at?”

“Matchables? Man, I got a can of beer but that’s it.”

“Stop over. I got something.”

“Yeah. Yeah I can do that. I’ll be down.

“Later.”

“Yo.”

There’s a light uptown. At the airport. It circles around. Hasn’t stopped my entire life. Though — maybe sometimes when the electricity is out. But I can’t really recall noticing one way or another if it ever turns off. I think about breaking it. Think about shooting it. I think it’s keeping the simulation alive. It’s keeping the hologram alive and if I get rid of it it’ll all come to an end. Burn away the light and let me rest.

I see someone walk in front of the vehicle. Turn on my park lights. Calvin walks over. Yellow Eagle. Old friend. Unlock the doors. He sits down and takes a slam of his drink. Passes it to me. “Sorry man, this is all I could score tonight.” I take a shot. Bitter. Ugly. Strong. Kinda like me. Hand it back.

“No problem.”

He takes a big gulp and hands it back. I finish the thing. Tart. Burns. Hurts the teeth. Cold.

“Check this shit out.” I reach behind the passenger seat and pull out the drink.

Hand it over to him.

He laughs. A bit astonished. “Wow. Geez, guy. We’re going to drink this?”

“Well, that’s the plan.”

“Where the hell did you get this?”

“Anton left it. Figured he wouldn’t mind if I paid him back tomorrow.”

“Well.

“Shit I’m down.”

Ccgsssss. Crack the first can.

The malt liquor’s warm. Poor man’s surströmming. The stench fills the room. You can taste it in the back of your throat. We start drinking. Throw one back and pass it off. He takes a big shot and passes it back.

I think of all the times we drank together. All the times we drank. I remember buying us a six pack of the stink shit. I remember us taking it slow for the first can before that ol’ competitive spirit showed up in full force — I remember us slamming four of the cans back to back with little to no stop.

Booze was the long sought path that the spiritually dead were searching for and I found the way.

Cal starts speaking louder. Boisterous fella when drunk. Good hearted fella. A bit younger than me but not by much. I egged him on to drink in the old days but he wasn’t about to fuck with booze. Abstained for the longest time. One day he joined us, he joined me, his brothers, and another mutual friend. Started smoking and drinking. And that was that. We found the booze together and nothing in the world could stop us anymore.

Thinking back on our conversations warms the heart. The fella died too young. Conjuring up a simulated back and forth is a bit tough for me. We were dead beats. We were living this dead end life together. We didn’t have anything figured out — we had vague intimations of what and who we were but that was it. He was a bright fella who could figure out electronics with a fair bit of consistency. There’s no doubt in my mind that he could have had a good career with computers — hardware and software.

He had potential.

I had potential.

This was just an in-between phase. We were going to grow up someday.

We were at an in-between period in our lives. Nothing was set in stone. All that mattered to us back then was getting high, getting drunk, and wasting hours under the stars around a campfire. The flames of youth burn bright but they ain’t strong and someday a stray wind will knock ’em out forever if you aren’t careful.

We drank our way through the malt liquor. Two cans a piece. That’s when the bad news started. I was being controlled by a parasite. Hijacks the nervous system and leads the body to water so it can escape. That was me in those younger days. My hands and stomach controlled by a deathwish. A traveler of hundred proof could put me down, even at my worst I’d stop at eighty proof. Hundred was something else entirely. It was what you drank if you had multiple people around and little to no cash. Hundred proof was for the alcoholics. Hundred proof. So many bad decisions made on that shit. So many black outs.

Crack the lid. Warm. All of it was so damn warm. No chaser. We had bravado, we had machismo — never use a chaser. It’s manlier to drink it straight. Even if you almost throw up. Even if you have to take thirty seconds after each shot to regain composure. Take that first shot and hold it. Don’t let any air into your mouth until the storm passes — that’s a rookie mistake. Take a big shot and hold it. I’ve gotten alcohol poisoning, officially, only once.

But unofficially? God knows — I don’t. But the hangovers give you an idea — when you wake up drunk and stay drunk without buying anything else…

I don’t remember much after that. Just music and bullshitting. Music, bullshitting, a burning throat and those ugly words.

“Lets go for a drive.”

“Man I ain’t got the gas. And I’m drunk… But… If you want to drive… Yeah. Sure. Fine. Let’s do it.”

We switched seats. I put on my seat belt and held the vodka to my chest as if it were my newborn. Let’s go for a drive then. I put the booze to my lips and squeezed the jug, hard. Poof! Time traveled.

Sitting near a cemetery. Dark as all hell. Poof! Time travel — my window’s rolled down a bit and my face is shoved into it Throwing up. Most of the vomit is rejected by the glass and falls on me. Poof! Time travel again. The lights are out. Time travel again — I’m stumbling down a gravel road. Alone.

My soul was a nocturnal bird in flight — gliding through the prairies of rural South Dakota. A joyful creature, no longer bound to the toxic host called Bad Thigh. It waited many years to escape — to be free again, only in those blackened hours did it feel at home. High above the earth, falling with the wind in it’s face, feeling alive again.

“Travelers. Huh, I wonder if that’s why they call them that.”

“Where the fuck are we…”

Bits and pieces come back to me.

I see myself sitting in the passenger seat — all a lit by green lights. I see Yellow Eagle in the driver’s seat. I see the headlights on a fence up ahead. I see myself trying to puke out of a crack in the window. That’s all. Barefoot. Traveling down a gravel road. Stones as big as my fist. I can only walk eight steps or so before I have to stop. I’m thirsty and still wildly drunk.

I hear a choir of elves out in the distance. To the left and to the right. Fairies. Little chirps and clicks. I’m cold. Coyotes far, far away. Try to think of where we’re headed. I’m walking north towards a rancher’s house.

Used to hunt this way. I remember a field where the pheasants and grouse used to roost. I remember killing mule deer out here. I know there’s a ranch further ahead — just keep walking north. A fence with old boots lined along each post. A hanger with a beaten up airplane inside of it. Keep walking north. I know you’re cold, Bad Thigh, but there is no other option. You must keep walking north. I know your feet are sore. I know you’re sick. But there is nothing we can do.

Up ahead I see headlights through a haze of dust. Must be Yellow Eagle with my vehicle. Or a rancher. Or a cop. Maybe it’s some drunks who can loan a ride or some booze. I’d settle for some water. For some flip flops. Some shoes. Hell — even a phone call.

They’re a dull purple color — ain’t never seen nothing like that before. They stopped moving. Walking up towards them. Long, long hill. All’s silent now. The elven chatter’s gone. I see sparks coming from the headlights. A swirl of yellows, greens, and magenta. A colorful fog. I wonder if I should hide from them. But my feet hurt too much. Feet hurt too much — don’t want to cut them up anymore, don’t want cacti in ’em, don’t want to step on glass.

Out of sheer laziness we’ll meet the car head on.

A can hear it closer. We’re going to meet soon. Chatter. Blips. Boops. High pitched laughter. Coming closer. Just over the next ridge — an army of fire flies shoots forth. Ball lightning. Led by a green light. Burning bright. Some fifty yards ahead.

It looks as though it passes a barrier. It takes shape. Takes form. No longer amorphous. It’s wearing a jester’s outfit. Bright regalia made of light. It’s eyes are closed. It’s playing a flute. Tones not meant for my ears. It passes through another barrier — the thing grows even more concrete. It jingles and dances. Dust flies up. Behind him the lights form into beings. They are caught up — they dance too. Dead eyes. Animals walking on two legs — Santa’s reindeer following Rudolph. Big smile on the fella’s face. He stops in his tracks and blows hard on the flute.

I see geometric patterns burst forth from the parade. The music bends reality. I can see the notes from his song. The being stops in front of me and looks back at his flock. He motions my way. Pairs of animals jump through my chest. Get stuck within me. Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve beasts make their home in my body. I see the world differently now. As if all of creation was two toned. Made of blue light in a pitch black abyss.

Fall to my knees.

The parade passes through and continues their long march. I look back and see a pair of children that weren’t there before. I wonder if the fella took something from me. They all turn into lights again and poof! Disappear into the night sky. Disintegrating as they move along.

I can hear a dog barking somewhere out there.

Trees surround me. I walk passed a farm house. Must be where the ranchhand stays. There’s a structure coming up to the left of me. It’s a barn. The dog’s loud. It’s my new friend. Whistle a bit. The dog’s a bit apprehensive. Comes close to me. I lean over and offer my hand to it. Stocky mutt. The kind that nips at animals’ ankles. Herding dog. Pet it’s head and back. Makes my hands stink. Pat it a few times.

It stops barking.

Look around the area for a hose. I need water. I stink. I have puke on me. I’m cold. I’m tired.

Find one.

Drink the longest drink of my life. Feels better than all the booze in the world combined. Make me feel alive. Make myself waterlogged. Still pitch black out. The sun turns the sky blue by five a.m. It’s still early as all hell.

Sit down with my new friend. Decide to call it Terry. Sit on my ass. Indian style. Rub my feet. Pull out shards of glass, slivers, and thorns. The dog lays close to me. Warming me up a bit. I lay on my back and stare at the sky. At the abyss. No moon. No light. No stars.

Eyes closed. I see a gutter. Water falls from it. Making a puddle in the lawn. It moves. The mud falls over and under. Something’s making a hole. I walk close to it. I see otters. The hole gets bigger and bigger. Look again. The otters have transformed. I see a massive snake. It’s body poking out in all directions. It’s smooth skin reflecting sunlight.

Open my eyes.

The sky’s turning blue.