EXCERPT FROM BOOK:

MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT - One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life

Drugs A Way Of Life

I am shivering. My lips feel hot, dry and cracked. My throat is dry and sticky. Each time I swallow it feels as if it won’t unstick. My lips may be hot and dry, but my body is cold and wet. I hurt all over.

I got to piss. This means I have to get off my couch.

I lift up my head and I am surprised to see that my face has been lying flat on a bar counter. I turn left and right and I see peanuts and pretzels all around my line of sight.

I slowly sit up and I see that I am indeed in a bar.

“How the fuck did I get here? When did I get here?

I look over the mantel behind the bar. It says Pistachios.

“I am in Pistachios.”

Pistachios is a place always buzzing with business of one sort or another. It is a place that is all edge. A mixture of steel workers, old guys on meager pensions, middle-age women lonely for drinks and someone to buy them, blue-collar junkies, and beer-gluttons. At any time you can find people playing pool, shuffleboard, or various forms of illegal gambling here at Pistachios.

“Yo Vinny, Vinny!”

I turn around to see who is calling me.

I try to focus to see who the three people that are waving me over are.

Finally I can see them clearly and at first I can’t recall who they are.

They look familiar.

I struggle to pull fragments of memories from my mind with which I can peg their faces on.

Ah… I think they are my friends.

Yes, yes… it is my roommate Don and two more of my high school buddies, Big John Baloney and Little John Baloney.

The memory of their similar names strikes me as funny. What the funny memory is, I am not certain.

Ah, now I remember!

Both are mostly Irish. Both have the same first and last name. They are not related. Big Baloney is an only child and mothered to death. Little Baloney has eleven brothers and sisters.

They both have dissimilar reps. Big Baloney is known to be full of baloney and Little Baloney is know for his ample baloney; an attribute that has pleased my friend Debbie to no end on a few occasions we all partied together and got shit-faced.

It was on those occasions that Little John gave her his ‘Big Baloney Pony’

They are motioning me to their table.

I am glad to see them.

I thought I had just left Don and I am surprised to see him here, since he never has money for anything but drugs. It occurs to me that I did not have money either.

“So what am I doing here?

“Who has been buying my beer?

I pull out my wallet to see how sparse it is. I am surprised to see that there is enough cash for at least two nights of debauchery.

“What the fuck. Where did all of this come from? I didn’t have a red cent to buy Lorraine and Nina food earlier.”

I am confused, but pleased that I had money to eat and party with.

We are sitting together enjoying beers and ogling some of the women wandering about.

Within a few beers, both Baloneys’ and Don are extolling the benefits and virtues of drugs.

They are each trying to convince me that their drugs would enhance my performance on many levels.

They are of course dedicated drug users. Not addicts or junkies like Buster and his friends that use to hang out with me at the unlicensed flesh dens of Juarez. I fear however, that they are fast in danger of becoming junkies.

Suddenly, Miles and a junky friend of his come into the bar looking angry and looking like hell.

Miles is Big John Baloney’s stepbrother.

They both live in the same house. Normally there is an uneasy alliance between them.

Tonight the alliance is dead.

Miles is screaming at John, “Hey man, where’s my stash mother fucker?”

      Baloney is fighting hard to control his anger and fear of Miles. Baloney is much larger than Miles and stronger, but Miles has a rep. There is an undercurrent of mutual fear and resentment between them.

      Baloney snarls defensively, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about man!”

      Miles leans in menacingly, “My stash is gone man, and all my works are gone with it too! It was either you, or one of your fuck face friends!”

      Baloney stands up abruptly and Miles leans in to grab him. Without thinking, I put good sense to the side and I jump in between them, hoping to smooth things over.

      “Hey Miles, let me buy you and your friend a beer.”

      Miles hesitates. He is fighting his crank fueled rage, fighting his urge to attack Baloney. Finally he complies and sits with us.

Seeing Miles makes my head real with confusion. I thought I remembered Miles as being much bigger, more muscular. I could have sworn that he had looked like a two hundred pound greyhound on steroids.

Miles does not look like I think I remember him.

      Miles looks like a death wraith. I seem to remember when Miles first started using. He was a bundle of energy and his weight loss was minimal. I remember when the first tooth rotted out of his head. It was his first imperfection of his once flawless looks.

      The loss of his left canine actually gave him a certain tough-guy looking appeal. You know, like a fighter with a few strategic scars and the loss of a side tooth to advertise that he is not only handsome but a badass mother-fucker as well.

Sitting in the smoky neon twilight of Pistachios, I can see that Miles and his friend are dying from a burnout Bridgeport diet of crank and outright neglect.

His once chiseled features are now a death mask, his eyes shining a hyper-vigilant glare, now his once flawless smile is randomly absent of teeth and the remaining teeth looked like rotting Chiclets.

      Finally Miles and his familiar leave.

       “There goes two fine examples of the advantages of drug use.”

“Don’t be so sarcastic Vinny, Miles has lost control, besides our drugs of choice are different.”

Now Don leans forward waving his beer, making his pitch on the virtues drug use.

“Yeah dude, the drugs we use expanded your consciousness, they will increase your physical performance, and your sexual enjoyment and skill. You will enjoy sex more and become a better lover.”

I laugh.

“Why is everyone always so concerned with my sex life and my sexual enjoyment?”

“Shit, Don is a virgin and John has one woman under his belt.”

I laugh again.

“They both could be a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company.”

“Look at Miles. He has told me the same thing about the drugs he uses.”

Don snorts, “Hell, Miles isn’t having much sex these days, his sex drive is all fucked from using horse - (Heroin). 

I think of Buster and his heroin junky friends.

I am getting uneasy.

Everything in the room has been slowly fading in color.

I notice a familiar face. I think he is a local patron that comes in Pistachios occasionally.

He is sitting at the bar and he has been watching us. He has the look of a man that is watching us and has been listening in on our conversation. I think he is a cop.

“No, he’s not a cop… That’s Dr. Vinny Goomba.

Dr. Goomba was a doctor that had given kids at Upper Merion who wanted to join a sports team their physicals.

He is Italian and he seems like a good-hearted boozer. I think I remember when he prodded our testicles the other kids claimed that they could always smell hard liquor on his breath.

      He has dark hair, a big nose, full lips, and a face that speaks of sensuality pushed to the brink of debauchery. He’s in his forties or fifties. I see they have been hard years, years filled with booze and bitter remorse. Since my days at Upper Merion, I had heard all the rumors concerning him.

 I see first hand that he is a dedicated drinker, and not the sissy beer stuff that I drink. Dr. Vinny Goomba likes his hard liquor and in large quantities.

A lot of junkies claimed that Dr. Goomba would give you a ‘scrip’, to help them get them through the rough spots; an a analog or something that help to keep the monkey off a junky’s back.

There were rumors that he prescribed steroids for a couple of brothers I went to Upper Merion with.

I try to ignore the fact that the Dr. is listening. I become cautious, careful of what I am going to say.

I am listening to Don and John.

“Hey guys! Forget it! I am never going to use drugs. Besides I am completely happy enjoying my dependency on sex and beer.”

I am mostly kidding. The fact is I am a little arrogant and feel superior to people that need drugs. I try to hide these feeling from people. I even try to hide them from myself. But I think I really don’t hide it well enough for my three friends.
I think they resent how I feel.
I think down deep, somehow that because I don’t use that makes me stronger.

I think they resent me.

I try to hide all of this, especially to myself. They are my friends after all.

“Fuck it Vinny! You just will not even entertain the fact that you may be wrong.”

Don is pissed.

“Come on Big John, let’s go back to your place, I got some weed we can smoke.

I had my eye on a bar-hag.

“I’m staying here. I see something that interests me.

The three of them leave.

I’m staring at the woman who has been giving me the eye. I’m confident that I am going to get laid tonight.

“It is nighttime, isn’t it?

Colors are fading slowly.

I hear a rain-barrel voice.

“Don’t listen to your friends.”

I look over to see who belonged to the voice. It is Dr. Vinny. I looked at him through a boozy haze He doesn’t seem to recognize me from high school. He doesn’t remember prodding my testicles.

He meets my drunken appraisal with his own.

His eyes have a far away boozy look.

“Be careful, a lot of people feel the most comfort when they bring down people that they feel bad around.”

 “Excuse me? “What do you mean?”

He looked at me with drunken compassion, “You want to watch what kind of friends you hang out with.

“What the fuck is that suppose to mean?

“Some friends will bring you down. They like it better when you’re down.

I felt cold and resentful. I felt as if somewhere I have been here before. I feel as if we have had this very conversation or something...

“Excuse me sir, I don’t think a raging alcoholic has the right to give me advice.”

With a look of pained compassion he said, “Yeah… well, you got a point. However, I’m not trying to sell you alcohol and I am not trying to get you to use alcohol.”

He sighed a mournful sigh, “I would not feel better about you becoming an alcoholic…in fact I have been watching you.”

      Startled, “You’ve been watching me?’

      “Yes, and I’m concerned that if you keep doing what you been doing, your going to develop quite the alcohol dependency. You may very well end up like me.”

      Dr. Vinny Goomba downs his last shot, gets off his stool, stumbles about just a bit, and then he wanders out of Pistachios without looking back.

More color has faded from the room. Everything looks as if it is turning sepia.

Something with color catches my eye. I turn left and peer at a little table next to mine. I look at the color that has drawn my attention. It is a tattoo on a thin flabby arm. It is a faded red and green tattoo of a flower that looks as if it should be familiar.

I can’t place the memory of it.

For some reason seeing the tattoo makes me feel edgy. I look up to see who owns the tattoo.

It is a woman sitting with a bottle of Coors. She is smiling at me as she looks over a pair of librarian glasses. She is giving me an inviting look with eyes that are doll-eyed hard, dull, and button brown, under eyebrows that are completely plucked out and painted ones are in place. Her teeth are bad, half of which look like poorly posted implants. She is wearing a tank-top very low cut front and back. Her breasts are unfettered and point to her stomach. She is wearing hot pants. Her legs are sparrow thin and lumpy.

She takes a swig of beer. Her fingernails are chewed viciously down to the quick.

Suddenly, I have a throbbing erection. I am horrified.

She is still looking at me intently as if she knows me.

“My, my, you are a cutie!”

She is trying to sound over the top and sexy.

My erection won’t go away.

I am feeling nauseous and my head is swimming.

“There is something familiar about her. Do I know her?”

“Excuse me, do I know you?”

“Maybe you do cutie. Maybe you’ve seen me dancing at the Blue Fox in Levitown.”

“You’re a dancer?’

“She laughs. I can tell she thinks her laugh is sexy, musical and a bit over the top.

It’s not. Her laugh is hard, brittle and jagged. It sends chills up my spine.

“Actually cutie, I’m an exotic dancer.”

“Why don’t you come and watch me? Maybe you and I can share a beer after I get off work.”

Her invitation sends a jolt through me. I am afraid and I don’t know why and I want to puke and I still have a painful hard-on.

“Goddamn it, my fucking erection will not go away.”

I am shivering and hot. I lick my lips they feel as if they are burning and cracked. I have trouble breathing.

She leans forward so I can get an eyeful of her sad breasts.

“You’ll never guess my name.”

I can’t talk.

“Come on, guess. I’ll give you a hint. I am named after a type of flower.”

I want to throw up.

My head hurts and everything looks grey. They remaining people in the bar look like disembodied spirits.

I need to look away from her. I need to get my bearings or I will pass out. I look around the room. I glance at the mirror across the room behind her. I see a see the reflection of her back.

I see that she has a faded tattoo of the moon the size of a small melon centered on her upper back.

My world is spinning. In the spinning reflection of the mirror I think I see my mother, except she has white hair.

“Heyheyheyheyheyheyheyheyheyhey…”

I am weeping uncontrollably and I am a child again.

“Mommy! Oh mommy, I’m sorry mommy!”

I am weeping harder as I fall forward to the table. The table is dissolving. I am dissolving. My chest hurts. The more the world dissolves the more I hurt. I am choking on my tears.

I hear a distance voice.

“Hey cutie, you’re the man for me….”

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