XIII. Betrayal - September 12, 2006

I nestled into the green vinyl of Willie's couch, my head gently tilting into the back-rest. My awareness was caught in a wave of morphine and it slowly ebbed away from my surroundings, withdrawing to some unknown part of my mind, leaving my subconscious to deal with the messy world. A fog of intertwined pot and tobacco smoke dissolved into billowing clouds aflame in the orange light of sunset. The drab white walls melted into a sky blanketed in yellow gradually blending into orange then red then purple and finally a sliver of blue midnight peeking over the horizon.

It was a fragment of a memory long since broken like cheap glass by time, drugs, stepfathers and cops. It was my twelfth summer, nothing special. A brief moment of reprieve with my grandparents after watching my mom take a beating from her second husband. I lounged in the quiet of my grandparents' yard that day, reading "A Wrinkle in Time" and drinking grape juice until the sun set behind the brick buildings rising above the trees on the other side of the river. The moment awoke an unfamiliar feeling somewhere in my chest. Those clouds, those colors - they called me like a voice from some unknowable place. There was something wonderful and magical out there in the world, if I could only find it. As the sun slowly sank behind the distant trees, I was left feeling at once joyful and melancholic. That feeling yanked me back into the ratty den of Willie's home.

Bunt was sitting on the floor, his legs crossed. Willie was still at the end of the couch, keeping company with the Mossberg and trash bag filled with pot. Travis sat in a chair next to me and from the adjacent kitchen, Samantha, Josie and Willie's wife filled the air with incomprehensible babble.

Travis' head contorted into something that looked horribly painful, "Man why do you do that shit? You just sit around like a zombie all the time, fucker." Travis often used the word "fucker" the way others might use "man" or "dude."

I could only muster the willpower to spit out a weak, "Chill out man."

"Yeah, dude. Quit trying to kill his buzz." Willie lit up another expertly-rolled joint and passed it to Bunt.

"So hey man," Bunt said, rubbing his war-wounded arm. I was never clear what the cause of the injury was, but it looked pretty gruesome, as though a large chunk of flesh had been scooped out of his forearm. Above the wound was some sort of faded Marine tattoo. Bunt's arm always reminded me of the ape in "Donkey Kong" when it climbed the ladder at the beginning of the game - kind of furry and misshapen. He exhaled a blue cloud of pot smoke and passed the joint to me, "What's up with your trial now?"

A loud snort blurted from Travis' sinuses. He had been having some sort of allergy problem the entire evening.

I rubbed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to revive enough to hold a conversation, "Uhhh," I tried to think, "it's in a couple of months. I don't know what my lawyer's doing. Other than stealing my money."

"Don't worry about it man..."

I couldn't imagine what gave Bunt the impression I was worried about anything.

"I called and talked to the prosecutor."

A rush of adrenaline coursed through my body. My heart rate doubled to eighty beats per minute and I coughed out my hit of pot smoke, "You what?"

"I talked to the prosecutor. I told that sucker you're a good kid and they should leave you alone."

I could only imagine that conversation. I suspected the prosecutor and judge were warming up the electric chair for me by now. I shook my head futilely, "What did he say?"

"He said not to worry, man. You'll be okay."

I relaxed back into the couch, having learned many times over that Fate would have her way no matter what feeble attempts anyone made to change her course. Better to just ride the waves and keep afloat. Fuck wasting energy on trying to swim against the current. "Cool." It was my way of saying "whatever" without being rude.

Travis twitched and snorted again. I wondered if this was another new manifestation of his Tourette's. His tics changed frequently. I eyed him glassily, "Man, are you alright?"

A loud rain of mucous clattered in the murky cavities hidden beneath his face. His jaw stretched out in an uncontrolled jerk, "Sure. Fucker."

Bunt pulled himself to his feet, "Ah, man, he's okay. All he needs is a job. Listen, I gotta split. The old lady's waitin' for some lovin'."

Not even the morphine could have weakened my stomach as much as the mental image Bunt had just implanted in my mind so carelessly. Dee was enormously overweight. I imagined her glistening body lying like a beached whale on Bunt's waterbed, rippling in synchronization with the mattress - it would be impossible to tell where it ended and Dee began.

Bunt held his hand out for me to shake - grasping each other's thumbs in old hippie fashion. I was always wary of that hand, having seen the places it had been, but shook it anyway, "Catch ya later dude."

"You kids take care now!"

Bunt shuffled out the living room and through the kitchen, stopping to kiss Samantha's hand before making his way outside.

"That old man's crazy."

Travis snorted deeply in response. Suddenly, I felt a thick tension congealing in the room.

Willie examined Travis for a couple of moments, his eyes half-open and glassy, "Dude, why don't you blow your nose?"

I looked over at Travis, his eye gleaming with a look I'd seen before. Most recently, around the last fourth of July. He had taken an old flute of Bunt's and shoved some sky rockets in his back pocket, with one mounted inside the flute. He then, for no discernable reason, chased down a neighborhood kid, yelling in a crazed voice, "I'm gonna get you fucker! I'm Rambo!" The kid ran down the street screaming in a terror I couldn't imagine with Travis lumbering behind him. Finally, Travis lit the rocket and it whizzed past the boy's leg before slamming into the concrete road and exploding in a ditch.

Travis didn't have enough sense not to provoke someone sitting next to a shotgun. He held his finger against his right nostril and blew forcefully out of his left nostril. A large glop of mucous plopped onto the carpet. My jaw dangled in shock while I watched the disaster unfolding before me in slow motion.

Willie sat forward, grasping the arm of the couch with his massive hand, "What the fuck is your problem? You come around here calling everyone 'fucker' and then you drip snot on my fucking carpet?"

Travis stood up. I wanted to run. I was either too stoned or too shocked to do anything. I just sat there uselessly watching a volcano exploding five feet in front of me. Willie's wife was now standing in the doorway to the living room and the kitchen was completely silent. Travis pointed at Willie, "Hey fuck you! Junkie! Fucker!"

Willie rose, "Get the fuck out of here before I blow your fuckin' head off, retard!"

Travis stood trembling, Willie stood bristling and I sat frozen. Willie's wife broke the stalemate, "Why don't you both calm down. Travis, you better go home."

Travis twitched his shoulder. It was always amusing the way he used his Tourette's so expressively, "Fine. Come on Darren."

My heart slowly decelerated to its normal forty beats per minute. I looked at Willie, at the empty vials of morphine and bottles of painkillers strewn across his table like rubble after a nuclear detonation. I looked at Travis, trembling and in need of the only real friend he thought he had in the world. I made my choice faster than my brain could even realize it, "Nah. I'm gonna hang out a bit."

The last look I would ever get from Travis was one of complete betrayal. He thudded out of the house and my life forever.

I sat on the couch in silence with Willie for a half hour or so before awkwardly announcing my departure. As I made my way through the kitchen, Samantha pinched my butt.

"Thanks."

She smiled at me with sparkling blue eyes filled with mischief, "You crack me up. You always look like you're about to say something but then you don't."

I wasn't sure if that comment would have made sense even had I been sober, "Hmmm. And what would it be that I want to say?"

She grinned at me, her eyes dropping to my feet and slowly moving back to hold my gaze, "I'd bet you can think of something interesting."

I smiled at her, politely. She was so cute. But I hadn't seen her in that richly colored cloudscape, "Later, Samantha."

Posted by DevilMonkey at 10:54 AM

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Comments

Bunt is your middle man? Oh shit you better flee the country now! hehe ;)

Posted by: Damion at September 12, 2006 11:14 AM

Like someone said before me, this site is more like the periodicals that contained stories broken into parts. You tell a perturbed and well developed story, and whether you mean to (I assume you do) or not, your autobiography (I believe) tells more than just the surface story, there is real social commentary and analysis of the human condition. Part of me hopes your story is true and part of me hopes it is fiction, but either way my opinion of your story will not change. In the case that this is all fantasy, Hemingway's words take new meaning for me, "All good books have one thing in common - they are truer than if thay had really happened".

Posted by: Nick at September 12, 2006 12:46 PM

Good story, not my favourite but still an enjoyable read...

Posted by: Jord@n at September 12, 2006 03:31 PM

You're my favourite writer in the festering ass webring, which has now been re-named to something else. Your stories are like crack to me, and I begin to feel withdrawal symptoms when there isn't a new one posted for a couple of days.

I aspire to be like you, just perhaps with less hard drugs and sticking to the less dangerous ones. I need to write like you.

Posted by: Chris at September 12, 2006 04:47 PM

This was a great addition. I enjoyed it more than most of the recent ones. It seemed to contain a sense of clarity as well as deepness that isn't contrived.

And to Chris, keep off the drugs. All drugs will do is impair your cognitive abilities.

Posted by: Colin at September 12, 2006 10:15 PM

Well Colin, you are reading a blog about and written by someone who has probably taken more drugs than both Cheech and Chong combined, yet still seems to be able to write his fucking ass off. Maybe if Chris takes more drugs, his cognitive abilities will improve? Point being - this probably isn't the forum for an anti-drug campaign.

DevilMonkey - awesome as always. I already need the next one!

Posted by: Henry at September 12, 2006 11:56 PM

I actually think these stories are written with a deep anti-drug undertone. May the writer himself correct me if I'm wrong.

My thought: There are 2 different types of drug users.

1. The recreational type

2. The type that takes drugs to forget problems temporarily.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a Dutch stoner myself, but I swore to myself to never take any other drug than what's legal in my country. This goes well for me since I am one of the first group of drug users. I have to this day never felt the need to take other drugs than pot. Of course the amount of pot you need to get as stoned as the first times increases, and I watch that carefully. I don't dare say anything about the second group of users because I don't have the experience. Same for harddrugs. These stories give me an insight in the human psyche that I find interesting.

Yours sincerely,

An Idiot

Posted by: Florisa at September 13, 2006 09:49 AM

A lot of people make what I believe is the enormous mistake of blanketing the term "hard drugs" over what is an incredibly diverse and complex group of mind-altering chemicals. As is clear from DevilMonkey's stories, there is a huge difference between psychedelic and narcotic drugs; while acid is non-addictive and arguably stimulates creativity greatly, morphine isn't merely addictive... it's a lifestyle, whether you want it or not. I don't think these stories are trying to place a moral label on "drugs" (so far, at least) so much as to provide insight into the thoughts and motives of a user.

Posted by: Gabe at September 13, 2006 08:20 PM

I enjoy your stories more than any others that are put out on Rufus (or whateverthehellitis he renamed the website-too lazy to go back and look). Don't believe it's a literal autobiography (smoking pot at home while stepdad who hates your guts is in the house but scared to smoke it at work b/c afraid coworker will smell it-ooops; someone missed that in editing); but don't really care. Stories seem to simply capture the mindset of a stoner looking to get out of a bad situation at home-no real message, but then who says fiction has to have a message to be enjoyable. I like the fact that the tales have believeble backstories (unlike some) and don't try to pompously trumpet some fact of everyday life known to most people by the time they're twelve years old (like the fact that people lie) as if some significant moral truth has just been uncovered. IMO certainly some potential for a book. Look forward to future installments.

Posted by: Tinsdale at September 13, 2006 08:24 PM

The story could very well be real Tinsdale. You haven't seen enough of the world if you don't think it can be. And smoking pot at home where the worst you could get was a decent yelling-at, and smoking at work where you could lose your job and source of income is a copmletely different situation. ooops...

Posted by: Bijan at September 15, 2006 05:22 PM

Well, Bijan, I've seen enough of the world to know that if you smoke pot in a house people in there smell it. And no, the worst thing that could happen from the character's perspective wouldn't be being yelled at-the worst thing would be his stepfather scooping up all his drugs which he a) paid for and b) was counting on to generate income to move out. Not to mention having no good place after that to keep his stash (a car is a pretty bad place to keep your stash if word gets out that's where you're keeping it). So, actually real world experience leads you to believe it's fiction, although I don't doubt it could be based on real experiences.

Plus, you *really* think this stuff is actually cranked out by someone who was a high school dropout, no interest in writing or really much of anything but computers (which BTW I find believable), who spent his teen years messed up on alchohol, weed, morphine, angel dust and acid? Think that somewhere along a light bulb went off inside this person's head and he just up and decided he'd reeeeeally like to write interesting stories? You really do? Bridge in Brooklyn, my friend.

Posted by: Tinsdale at September 16, 2006 06:38 PM

Tinsdale,
I disagree completely. In his situation, doing drugs and dropping out of school are caused by apathy, not stupidity. I do agree about the fact that a drug user (heavy i'll admit) could never be a good author. I mean, William Burrows' writing is contrite and dumb. Jack Keruac is overatted. Frued (who had a fondness for cocaine) obviously didn't know what he was talking about.

Also, don't get me wrong, if you do all of these drugs when you're a little kid, it will fuck you up permanantly. Your brain still isn't fully developed by your late teens, but by then you've already learned how to write. Also, you don't know if he still does drugs or not. I don't remember reading anything about angel dust (I might be wrong), but as far ad drugs go, the only one of those that affects the memory is weed, and that's only the short term memory.

To make a long story short (too late):

Yes, I do in fact think this stuff is actually cranked out by someone who was a high school dropout, with no interest in writing or really much of anything but computers, who spent his teen years messed up on alchohol, weed, morphine, angel dust and acid. I think he spent those years on drugs and out of school trying to figure himself out, and when he did, he decided that he wanted to be a writer. And now he is. Congrats on the writing, Darren, even if you don't exist.

Posted by: jean-paul at September 17, 2006 05:50 PM

I actually believe this stuff he is written (wow, comment chain) could almost be true. Rudius Media does actually offer any of the contributors some editing help. So even if Darren isn't the greatest writer, he could put everything down and someone could help tweak it a bit.

I also think these stories are just a slow history. The further we go into this, the more we find out about what happened over time, maybe to stopping drugs and picking up a job (programming).

Posted by: Adam at September 17, 2006 09:03 PM

Regardless if it's true or not, this shit rocks.

Posted by: Michael Curtiss at September 19, 2006 12:00 AM

I think they do edit the stuff, for the better. I find my posts on here sound better when I read them The second time around!!!

Posted by: The Goose at September 21, 2006 12:40 AM

these storys are the storys of my people.

Posted by: carl at September 25, 2006 07:04 PM