I guess this is never where I’d imagine I’d spend a Thanksgiving, though I’m sure I could do worse. How, I’m not sure, but shit can always get worse. Scoring in such a shit hole of a house is depressing enough on the best of occasions, but with their faux, half assed Thanksgiving meal- as if they are something more than a tweaker couple- would be hilarious if I wasn’t jonesing so bad.
I met this dealer four months ago in a bar. I’d been knocking back some beers with a buddy when he informed us he had some blow. I got his number and asked if he had some smack. I think I said something about ‘taking the edge off.’ As the weeks passed my habit grew in inverse proportion to the amount of control I had over my life. My life spiraled in the aftermath of the accident that left my family in tatters and me in a distant city alone with my pain.
I guessed this town would get the better of me eventually. Too many of my vices hanging around, too few positive outlets. I’ve wondered in the vanshingly few sober moments I’ve had in the last month if the accident was just an excuse, if on some demented level I relished it as the perfect excuse to let the vices take hold and pull me down. I used the crunch of twisted metal on the side of the road that took my parents as the impetus to finally drop the pretense of giving a fuck. Looking back when I cooked up that first hit I might just have been excited- oh fate how you delivered a blessing when that driver crossed the line, now I can give in.
This, though, might be too much. Seeing these people trying to have a semblance of reality in a wrecked house, trashed from basement to rafters was just a bridge too far. Not that I could do anything from my spot on the soiled carpet, leaned against the wall, drool falling down my chin.
I smiled at the thought of these fools. Meth heads I think. Thinking of this sad display of faux domesticity as actual life, actually romantic. They claimed to be acting on the traditions of families I sure long ago forsook them, and creating memories that won’t survive the next high.
To think, though, that as much as I wrap myself in my self pity and misery, I’m one of these fuckers. My apartment is bare, my job has long forgotten me, no friend comes calling. And now I sit here observing them as I observe all life, high, distant, full of whimsical detachment mixed with spite.
Happy Thanksgiving they say as they decide to smoke meth for dessert. I nod and they laugh. He’s so high they laugh, he’s feeling no pain. Dude you wanna smoke with us later? It’ll wake you up.
Na man, if this ain’t rock bottom, I’m not sure what is. When I sober up I’m taking the train to the beach. I’m gonna swim out to where the waves break and turn back. Then, in the cold November waves as the sun turns the sky pink, I’ll decide if I want to swim back.
And if I do, I sure as shit ain’t coming back here.
