2

Desperate/Antares…

             “Hey! How much did this carpet cost, again?” My foggy head, for some reason, thinks the cost of the carpet is important. I sit with my back against a gray, furry beanbag. Like laying on a big fat sleeping cat. The room has a certain Persian aesthetic.  

     “Seventy-grand,” my buddy Esteban replies. He gets up, walks over to a closet, opens the hand-carved closet door and pulls out a huge, fancy hookah and turns back to me. For the few seconds he holds the door open, I see some pretty conspicuous items in there, among them a saber and a loud-colored turban.  

     Gaudy Louis XV furniture is everywhere. Smoky, ornate glass chandeliers are hung all over the place. Their dim, Christmassy, tinsel-like shaded glow lends a gothic feel to the room. You know what I mean, right? The carpet swirls up at me with reds as dark as blood drowned in the stitching. Shadowy browns and darker beiges intertwine with the reds, almost drowning in them. It’s really quite a scene. If there were ever a room that yells “WE TAKE DRUGS IN HERE,” it’s this one.  

     “Flavor?”

     “Lime-apple.” Esteban pinches tiny holes in the foil after packing the top of the hookah with what looks like an off-colored tobacco. “So, how’d you like it? The sunshine, I mean?”  

     “I was floating over the city. How long was I out?”  

     “Out?! Dude, you were in it. You were all over the place.”  

     He waves the long hookah hose at me, offering me a toke. “I’m going to have to pass, Esteban.” I feel lightheaded as it is and my heart pounds against my chest. Trembling. My legs can’t stop jittering. In fact, I kind of want to get out of here. Fresh air would help. The room isn’t spinning right now. I’m no longer a fucking cloud, so I’m not tripping anymore. I wonder what side effects can dropping acid have?  

       “You want some food, dude? I can get Bets to fix somethin’ up for you.”

       “I’m good. I’m actually gonna’ head out. Have to get my shit together anyway. I think I’ve got work to do.”  

      “Work. Since when are you prioritizing labor over vapor, my friend? Come on, man! Lime-apple! It’s loaded. Your favorite.”

       “Next time. Just curious, are you feeling anything, Esteban? You feeling dizzy or like you’re going to lose sensation in your legs?”

      “Nah. I didn’t drop the acid, remember?”  

     Asshole. Makes a big deal about this intense LSD he’s got and doesn’t even partake. Sometimes I just wonder. Well anyway, I need to find a payphone soon. The restaurant area of Palacio’s is typically empty. Rows and rows of carefully arranged tables and chairs sit vacant, gathering dust, barely reflecting the cheerless, crimson lights that only just illuminate the ceiling.  

     Palacio’s is a front for a local crime syndicate run by an Asian gangster who goes by the name of Shrimp Boy. Esteban sells drugs for Shrimp Boy. Esteban’s an OK guy, though, and a pretty good friend of mine. Not good enough to drop acid with me but good enough to let me drop some for free.  

     I manage to stand up and head to the doors. Revolving doors revolve. The sporadic light obscures my eyesight momentarily. I stop for a second to catch my breath and wipe away what feels like sudden blindness. Something’s up. It’s still early and not even that light out.

     Rain. Just before they pummel the ground like a hail of bullets scattering the day’s dust and dreams, the raindrops are illuminated by obscure streetlights. I look up in the sky and can’t spot my acid-trip cloud. That sounds stupid in my head so I forget the thought. The gray-black thunderheads above me seem to have a life of their own. They look as if they are going to engulf me and everything around me. Their menacing nature feels appropriate for the occasion. It’s like an acid hangover. I need something to get rid of this leftover nausea.  

     Payphone, right. I pull a crumpled-up paper out of my pocket and stick a quarter in the coin slot. It clinks a few times and I have dial tone. The numbers on the phone pad are a bit fuzzy and the ink figures on the paper are already beginning to wash out from the rain. The call goes through.    

     “Hello, Hello?” Her voice rings true to my senses. Goosebumps because of the cold, wet air or because she’s answered? I’m calling from a payphone so of course she picked up.  

     “Seph?” I ask to see if she’ll listen.

     Clunk. She’s gone. Dead silence as the call ends. I just stare ahead through the streetlight-lit raindrops. I can’t believe she hung up on me. Standing here is erasing my post-sunshine sickness. Maybe wait until it ends. Something heavier than rain taps me on the shoulder. I turn and see Seph through drops hanging from my eyelashes. I wipe them off. It’s not her. “Out of the way, guy. I need to make a call.” this young lady says. She’s carrying an umbrella and clearly doesn’t want to share it. I cede my ground.

     I can’t remember Seph’s phone number anymore. The washed-out paper in my hand is mostly a big blob of blue ink, virtually useless now. My legs are suddenly weak and I begin to collapse. Shivering, I try to lean on the payphone, but miss and fall to the soaked ground. The young lady turns away from me and goes on with her phone call. What’s happening to me? I reach my hand up out of the puddle and flag the incoming cab. It stops, only not for me, but for the young lady who hops off the payphone. I might as well let the current take me home. It’s running fast enough.

     I arrive at my apartment building in Southton. Vinny, the doorman whose known me since I moved in two years ago, doesn’t recognize me. I haven’t shaved for days and my hair is bleached blonde from the last case I had. Quite a sight, I bet. A naturally dark black beard in stark opposition to the odd colored light hair. Plus, I’m basically a walking mop.

     “Name?” His Italian accent is only there because he doesn’t remember who I am. He fakes it because he thinks it makes him seem friendlier and more interesting. People with accents humble me. I admit his accent did have a hand in convincing me to live here. That, and the rent is reasonable. It’s a decent place, the neighbors keep to themselves and on weekends Vinny places doughnuts out in the lobby for early risers.  

       “Vinny, it’s Monte. Tavares Monte.”  

       “Tav?” He seems stricken by my appearance. Certainly, I don’t look that different, do I? But memory can play tricks on the best of us. One of my deepest fears is to wake up one day, just a normal day like any other, and find that I don’t recognize people. Not because I can’t remember their faces but because they don’t have any. Just hollow holes on top of a torso and limbs bursting out walking on things and touching things. They wouldn’t be human. Or maybe it’s that I’m afraid people won’t recognize me.

     It hurt a little bit that Vinny had to ask who I am. Maybe my face is a nothingness that people just humor to make me feel normal. Vinny smiles a little and buzzes me in, at last. He leads me to the slightly ramshackle elevator. When the door opens, I lumber in and find the button for Floor 6. My head feels like a sack of marbles shifting and bumping and scratching my brain. Floor 6. Ding.

       Room, room. I don’t remember this hall being so long. Where the hell is my room? Damn. I know that acid is still working its magic, running in and out of my brain.  There it is, finally. 624. Everything seems normal. Last time I was here was this morning. Why wouldn’t it be?  

       I pull the soggy paper out of my pocket again. In the middle of the big blue dot of smeared ink I can see outlines of Seph’s phone number. I make out 2  95 0   4. The rest are aimless blurs on a useless wad of water-logged paper.  Five numbers out of 10.  My life in a nutshell. Nowhere to go with this. Another bad turn of the screw. It was Ana who gave me Seph’s number. I wish I had a phone book now.

       The general sense I’m picking up in the air is that I have work to do tonight. I didn’t lie to Esteban. My studio apartment is a pigeon-hole but it works for me, at least for now.  It fits a single bed, a few kitchen essentials, a rumpled, old leather two-person couch and a desk and chair. A cracked window with a thin glass pane faces the skyline.  Outside you can just make out the sounds of a city wrestling with the idea of its own existence. Not the most secure place to live but certainly worth it if most of your work is done downtown. Yep. That’s me. Following, listening, peeping, stalking, investigating. I’m not proud of my work but it pays the rent and now and again I pick up an odd-job that pays cash which allows me an occasional out and a good steak.  

     Piles of loose papers, like the high rise city-scape outside, permeate my desktop in various configurations. I look through them, searching for anything which would remind me of what I was supposed to do before Esteban got a hold of me. No luck again. My head hurts and my eyes are bleary again. Most of these are just notes. Old case notes. Behavioral notes. Tips on flirtation. Lists of stuff to buy. How to expose a liar.  

    On that last one. The trick is to humor whomever you think is lying. Go along with whatever they say. Just make sure that as soon as you are alone, write down everything, the whole conversation. Liars, especially the ones who do it all the time, always forget the little details of the lies they tell in the first place. This is important in my line of work. The bigger the action they’re trying to cover up, the more important the little details are. A little trick I learned is to first distract them and keep their mind off whatever they told you. Then have them repeat their story. It never comes out the same and it’s in the discrepancies where I catch the truth. If the little pieces fit the puzzle perfectly and paint the picture they described to you, they’re telling the truth. 99.99999 times out of 100 though, if “about 5-10 minutes” suddenly turns into “10-15 minutes,” there’s something they’re hiding from you.

    One of my lists of stuff to buy includes the new record by a local soul-rock group that goes by Black James Franco. I turn on my Phillips turntable and add one Black James Franco EP. Sylvio’s hearty, Elvis-like baritone, mumbles incoherently to the initial guitar arpeggio and he stops once the drum kicks in. The bass line leads into a bluesy chorus line: “Baby, Baby please don’t go/Baby, Bay-bay-bay-by/I stand; a lonely soul/houl-houl-houl.”  

     What am I doing? My thoughts are scattered again. I hurl every paper off my desk. They flutter to the floor like giant snowflakes. I flop down amongst them and sit on a carpet that hasn’t been cleaned since I moved in here. I need a fucking vacuum cleaner.  

     I shuffle through the mess around me. Some of these papers even have lyrics on them. Song ideas from the days of Antares, my former band. Suddenly the phone rings. A jolt of joy lights my senses up like a lightning bolt through a solitary rain cloud. What do I need to pull me out of this wasteland? Maybe a letter from Esteban describing this new acid he wants me to try or a new restaurant opening on Vernon Street or maybe it just takes an ex, curious as to why I tried to call her earlier. Another ring smacks me out of my stupor. Bewildered, I pick up the phone. It’s Seph, and she’s all business.