"Get the fuck out of my bar before I call the cops on your skinny ass!" screamed the unnamed Hispanic bouncer, spittle pouncing from his mouth as he gave me a good shove.
"Alright, alright man I'm gone."
With no choice but to strand my drunk, confused and very gay friend in the club I drunkenly stumbled to my car.
"You lost buddy?" A (probably) homeless guy asked me as I was wondering around; lost and strung out in one of the many not so savory parts of town.
"I uh (pausing to belch and... false alarm) can't find my fuckin car man."
"What are ya drivin?"
"It's a red (BELCH) a red Chevy Blazer."
"Well you ain't to far off my friend. That it over there?
I rubbed my eyes and looked in the direction that my new friend homeless Jesus was pointing towards.
"Uh, yeah... yeah it is thanks man. You want a cig?"
"Sure thing brotha man."
"No problem I really appreciate..."
And just like that, he was gone.
I got to my car and crushed up 2 fat lines of the best coke in Illinois. One right after the other and I felt like fucking GOD HIMSELF! I'd downed enough drinks to land me several DUI's but the coke cut through the double vision like a heavy duty sushi knife . I was ready to go home (where I kept a stash of needles... This will quite unfortunately come into play later) but let's back up a bit.
I sat with Josh, my outspoken, mystical gay friend, my spirit animal at a trendy bar in the college-ish part of town. We were debating the meaning of karma and talking about the religious overtones in Ginsberg's writing when all of a sudden... my phone buzzed.
"Oh shit, it's Sara, She's got a gig at that bar and grill place... can't remember what the fuck it's called for the life of me. Wana check it out?"
"Sure," I said
Sara, she was interesting to say the least. I'd met her among a crowd of angel faced hipsters (shameless Ginsberg reference time) but she stood out somehow. Her eyes were kind, her lips pillowy and there was a kind of innocence that rang through her... though she was far from it.
"I really wana try shrooms," She'd said after blowing out a cloud of smoke from the joint we shared behind the burnt out warehouse where "The Collective" (a pretentious mob of 20-somethings) met to get drunk and share our writing. Basking in the admiration of self-indulgence.
"It's a ride," I said coughing.
"You know how acid makes everything look pixilated and there's this... this really rigid geometry. Shrooms are different. Everything looks like a Pixar Movie but that's not really my bag anymore. I haven't tripped since college."
"Sounds fun... so what's in your bag these days?" A smile crept across her lips.
"It's uh... complicated. I got stuck up in some harder tuff a while back... pills, coke the works."
"Hmm, never ventured that far... but I might be willing to if you're around."
Her hand brushed mine and in what seemed like second my vision faded into a kaleidoscopic mess. I found myself in some unnamed by with Antwan (my gay friend from earlier) listening to Sara playing piano.
"That was dope. "
"Awe, thanks. It's good to hear some encouragement..."
The other bar that we bar hopped to was crowded and roaring with the aftermath of coke and alcohol. I knew what I wanted and at the time, it wasn't her (it was fuckin coke). Adorned in self-destruction, I purchased my bag, slammed my works together and took the plunge. Now, I sit in my own aftermath with nothing but a bruised arm for company... Things definitely aren't what they used to be.