Vomit

He's on the 20th or 30th or whatever floor of some kind of posh condo. It's a party. He's a bit smashed. He steps out onto the balcony for a smoke and some fresh air. The wind is blowing hard towards the harbor. He suddenly feels like throwing up. He does. Over the ledge of the balcony. A strange, seemingly gravity-defying thing happens. His vomit seems to coagulate and, carried by the wind, begin to float in the air. It slowly rises and then hovers, mere inches from his face, for several seconds. The wind changes and his vomit moves towards the harbor. As the wind picks up, his vomit begins to waft across the water to the other side of the harbor. He watches, fascinated, until it disappears. As he turns to go back inside he wonders what the odds are of his vomit hitting someone on the other side of the harbor, and he wonders what the experience would be like.

Ceiling (2)

When I was a kid I used to have this recurring dream in which I was standing in an empty, black room; just four bare walls, a ceiling and a floor. I had a long pole in my hands. In the dream I would stick the pole up through the ceiling. Every time I did this (and I did it often), another pole would come up through the floor. I couldn't explain it, but it was interesting.

The Whiskey Bottle (1)

One Friday night Jimmy was up in Victoria Park drinking with his buddy Brad, and Brad's girlfriend Connie. They were in the woods on a hill overlooking the main part of the park. The park was closed, so they weren't supposed to be there. There was also the matter of the three of them being underage.

They had just finished off a case of beer and were about to start in on a 40 of rye. Just as they were about to twist off the top of the 40 though, they noticed somebody approaching in the lighted area below them. It was Old Chas, the park's caretaker. Old Chas was the enemy of the world's young. He was about 65 or 70, and he had (so it seemed) a deep, specific hatred for "hippy-types" and, more generally, for any young people who might be enjoying themselves. Chas wasn't dangerous or anything, but he could be a real pain in the ass.

As Old Chas walks by below them, Jimmy's holding the 40 of whiskey. He whispers to Brad and Connie, "What the fuck. Let's open this sucker and drink quietly until Chas is gone." OK's are whispered back. Jimmy hefts the bottle, and is about to twist the cap when, somehow, the bottle slips from his hands.

Now, if they'd been on a street somewhere, the bottle would have smashed on the sidewalk, and that would have been the end of it--aside from some running. But they were in the woods. The bottle didn't break. It just hit the ground with a mild thud. Chas didn't even hear it. Unfortunately for Jimmy, Brad, and Connie, however, they were sitting on a pretty steep slope that was covered in pine needles. The bottle didn't stop when it hit the ground. It seemed, rather, to hit the ground and then take off down the hill, as if launched--directly towards Chas.

As the bottle is rolling down the hill it starts to make a bit of noise. It's bumping into trees, going through bushes, and bouncing around. Chas hears it and looks up the hill. Just as Chas says "Who's up--" Jimmy leaps up and begins chasing the bottle down the hill, bumping into trees, going through bushes, and bouncing around. "Fuck you, you old bastard" Jimmy yells, "we're coming for you!" As if on cue Brad and Connie jump up and begin charging down the hill.

Poor Old Chas doesn't know what's happening and runs away with a feeble "I'm callin' the cops on you kids!"

At the bottom of the hill they retrieve the whiskey. Jimmy's relieved to see Chas moving briskly toward the park entrance...

Winnipeg (1)

I used to live in an apartment on the top floor of the building pictured below.

I can scarcely believe it, but I lived there for three years beginning sometime in 1964, over 45 years ago. I remember the landlord and his wife were an elderly German couple. I think they hated kids. They didn't seem to like me and my sisters much, at any rate. They had a very large, very mean German shepherd. He didn't like kids much either. I remember my father having a harsh exchange of words one day with the landlord after the dog had bitten me quite hard, just missing my privates. The old woman was always yelling at us to keep quiet whenever we came into or went out of the building. We'd just moved back to Canada from Germany. I remember my kindergarten teacher there seemed to have a negative view of kids, too. Thinking about it now, it's possible that it was just me these Germans didn't like. My own parents used to get pretty mad at me sometimes. Or maybe they were tired of being German, who knows. From my bedroom I could climb out a small window onto the flat roof at the rear of the building. I'd sometimes sit out there at night when it was hot. There were a couple of easy-going, fun-loving bachelors living in one of the apartments below us. To this day I'm not certain, because it's the kind of thing you only piece together in your mind after many years have gone by--a muffled scream in the night, urgent conversations that you, a little kid, can't quite make out, the bachelors suddenly disappearing, that sort of thing--but I think the bachelors may have raped the Germans' daughter.

Here's a picture of the school I attended in those days:

It was just down the street from the above-pictured apartment building. I went there for three years, grades one though three. I have two very vivid memories of this place. The first is of Miss Zernickel, my third grade teacher. She wore her hair short. She wore skirts and turtlenecks and suede boots and looked like a movie star to me. I was the best speller in Miss Zernickel's class. My spelling is still pretty good today. Thank you, Miss Zernickel. The other thing I remember is the school's janitor. He was a friendly, somewhat overweight, middle-aged guy with gray hair and a mustache. As far as I can recall there was nothing wrong with this guy, but once a week, for about a year, I dreamed about him. I had nightmares about him. In my dreams he was The Devil. It's never made any sense to me. But what about your childhood does?

Liars

I meant to comment on this last week, but I've been huddled in the cold the whole time, standing in a line of five thousand people in the middle of a forest on the side of a mountain, eating worms and whatever else I can find for sustenance as the crowd jostles and jockeys for position in line for the last three tablets of aspirin in Japan.

My headache is killing me, but in Japan this is the reality of the health care system. Every once in a while somebody in the line flips out because they can't take it any more. Like clockwork a soldier emerges from the trees and shoots the complainer on the spot. This is good news for the patient ones nearby. For a couple of days they stop grubbing for worms.

I don't complain, and not just because I don't want to be shot. I come from Canada. There's a hellhole if there ever was one. I fucking escaped Canada, dig? In Canada there is no aspirin. I'd never even heard of that shit until I came to Japan. A pill for a headache? Get the fuck outta here! Hell, Canada doesn't even have running water, never mind high-tech shit like toilets.

Shit, I've gotta go. The chubby American who said he'd loan me his iPhone for ten minutes if he could talk to my little girl is coming back. I don't see my daughter, though...

PSA: Emoticon-Live

[The following scene could be playing itself out anywhere in the world. Right now. As you're reading this. Anytime, really. Yesterday, even.]

A: Fuck, I hate literal-minded people.

B: What do you mean? Like, who?

A: That asshole roommate of mine. He's a fucking English major for Christ's sake, but he takes everything I say, I mean every-fucking-thing, literally.

B: Like what?

A: Oh, fuck... A couple of weeks ago I walked into the kitchen and he was pouring himself a glass of milk. I was actually in a good mood, and when I saw him having milk I just blurted out, "Hey! Real men don't drink milk, ya know?" I mean, I was just kidding around.

B: Yeah?

A: He was all, like, "Oh." That was it. He said, "Oh."

B: Hmmm... Maybe he didn't get that you were kidding around.

A: No fucking shit. Today I was pouring myself a glass of milk, and he came into the kitchen and when he saw me he got all serious and shit and said, "I thought you said real men didn't drink milk."

B: Really?

A: No shit. He looked at me as if I were the biggest, lying-est, sack of shit on the planet.

B: Fuck off.

A: I'm fucking serious, man.

B: What did you do?

A: What did I do? I looked at him as if he were the biggest, stupidest sack of shit on the planet. I mean, what the fuck? The guy studies Shakespeare and shit and he can't tell when someone's kidding around?

B: Maybe he was kidding around.

A: What? No... You think...?

[Insert plug for "Emoticon-Live" product here.]

Dum Dum Boys

The first time I saw
The dum dum boys
I was fascinated
They just stood in front
Of the old drug store
I was most impressed
No one else was impressed
Not at all
--Iggy Pop, "Dum Dum Boys"

It was not long after Jimmy had quit school that he started hanging around outside The Maritimer restaurant with some other guys, all more or less the same age, all more or less out of school. When they had money they'd go inside and drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. If nobody had any money, they'd hang around until someone came along that did. Mike, the owner of the restaurant, was originally from Syria. Jimmy and his friends thought that maybe he was a Christian, but they were never able to find out for sure. Mike was always coming out and telling them to get the fuck off his steps or he'd call the cops. Mike never did call the cops, not even the time Jimmy got totally wasted and puked all over the steps leading into the restaurant-- just before lunch. Sometimes Mike would give them something to eat for helping him move stuff and other odd jobs.

Jimmy and his buddies occasionally got into this or that or some other kind of shit, but it was all pretty low-key and definitely small-time. They would never have called themselves a "gang". No, they were generally quite content to hang out in front of the restaurant, smoke cigarettes, do some small deals, and get drunk on the weekends.

Sometimes things got weird. One Friday night Jimmy was hanging outside the restaurant with a couple of his buddies--his best friend Fulo, and an older guy, a glue-head named Jerry, who actually lived upstairs. It was a bit late and pretty quiet on the street when they noticed a guy coming towards them. He was walking like he was drunk or stoned, and at first they didn't pay much attention to him. As he got closer, Jimmy realized that he knew the guy. He was one of the Christers from Jimmy's old neighborhood. These were people from the countryside who, for some reason, had built a small fire and brimstone church smack in the middle of a small town neighborhood. Jimmy had always figured that the kids were alright, but their parents were a bit wacky. This guy's name was Freddy.

When Freddy got close enough to get a good look at him, he didn't look so hot. He was white as a sheet and clutching his arm. Jimmy hailed him, but he didn't respond. Instead, he took his hand off the arm he was holding onto, letting loose a stream of blood that must have shot out at least three or four feet. Jimmy, Fulo, and Jerry let out a round of shits, damns, and fucks before coming to their senses. Freddy had been cut pretty bad in some kind of scrape somewhere. Jimmy and Fulo looked at Jerry, who would sometimes rent a car and, in fact, happened to have one parked across the street on that very night. Jerry, like anyone else in a similar situation, spent a couple of seconds fretting about the blood. Jimmy and Fulo reminded him that the car was only a rental. Soon Freddy was in Jerry's rental car and on his way to the hospital.

Jimmy's buddies were generally OK guys. With one exception. Robby. If you'd asked Jimmy back then if Robby was a friend, Jimmy would surely have said yes. Jimmy feared Robby. In fact, any sane person would have feared Robby, because he was a borderline psychopath. One night at a party, Robby thought it would be fun to throw darts at Jimmy. Another time Robby decided to use Jimmy as a punching bag. He smacked Jimmy about 5 or 6 good ones right in the face. What Robby didn't know was that a punch in the face was at the bottom of the list of things Jimmy was afraid of. And really, unless you get it right in the nose, it doesn't even hurt. One time Robby, for no apparent reason, ripped all the buttons off Jimmy's shirt. When Jimmy complained about losing the buttons on his shirt, Robby got a weird look on his face and said, "You want buttons? Have buttons," and swept his arm through the air. This really creeped Jimmy out. That night he learned the word "megalomania" from the dictionary.

For all the times he hung out and got drunk and high with Robby, Jimmy didn't really know much about him (aside from his being a crazy ass motherfucker). Robby didn't talk much about himself except to brag about how big his dick was, how many chicks he'd laid, how many guys he'd beat up, that kind of stuff. Like anyone afraid of having the shit beat out of them for saying the wrong thing, Jimmy would nod and smile at his friend's tales of his exploits. Jimmy actually hated Robby, and would sometimes fantasize about ridding the earth of a worthless scumbag piece of shit...

One night Jimmy and Robby were inside The Maritimer having a coffee. Robby could be generous with people he considered friends, and tonight he was buying the coffee. They were discussing music--a common interest; Robby knew his tunes, and so did Jimmy. Somewhere in the middle of a discussion about the latest Dylan album Jimmy looked outside, saw who was there, and muttered a small "shit."

-----

The first day that Jimmy had started high school he'd managed to get himself suspended for a week--on the first day! Jimmy would tell you that it was completely undeserved. Jimmy, in fact, had done nothing to warrant anyone even noticing him on the first day of high school. Someone, however, had claimed that he saw Jimmy letting off stink bombs in a stairwell at school. That someone was Calvin Smith. Jimmy swore revenge...

Several months later, Jimmy's hanging out with the boys in front of The Maritimer, and Calvin approaches them, asking if they know where he can score something. Jimmy gets his revenge. He arranges a small deal where he takes Calvin's money, and then laughs in his face as he walks away. Calvin is outnumbered, and helpless. He's lost his 25 bucks...

-----

Calvin, somewhat brazenly, comes into the restaurant and delivers an ultimatum: give back the 25 bucks or get the shit kicked out of you. He's got his big brother and some other guy outside. Robby raises an eyebrow. Jimmy's not afraid. Yet.

Jimmy and Robby go outside and Calvin's big brother approaches. He opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't get the chance. Robby whips out a knife from his jacket and, leaping at the guy, takes a big swipe at him. Jimmy almost faints on the spot. This is not what he expected. He spends the next two minutes trying to prevent Robby from killing Calvin's big brother. The panic, the irony, the absurdity, none of this is lost on Jimmy...

Adventures of Jimmy Jones (Excerpts)

He went down to Halifax early, hoping to score something to smoke before going across the bridge to The Crazy Horse in Dartmouth where his friends were playing later that evening. Jimmy didn't really know Halifax at all, and figured he'd go to Scotia Square and see if there was anyone hanging out.

He'd only wandered around the mall for 30 minutes or so when some guy came right up to him and asked him if he wanted 5 joints for 10 bucks. It was a bit steep, but Jimmy figured it was better than wandering around all day, so he agreed. They walked to the parking area, made the deal, and parted ways. Jimmy hadn't really checked the dope, so he headed for the nearest toilet to could check out what he had bought.

"Fuck me," he said to himself, as he ripped open one of the "joints" only to find tobacco.

---------------------

The Indian guy from the CBC said, "OK, man, why don't we swap half and half? I know where my mushrooms are from--man, they're blended with tree fungus and shit, they'll really fuck you up." Jimmy handed over about half of the mushrooms he'd scored earlier, and the Indian guy passed over a roughly equal amount. They did them up.

--------------------

"You seem to be handling this well," the Indian guy said. Jimmy was not handling it well. He was pleased, though, that he didin't look like he was about to puke and go insane. He saw the Indian guy from the CBC clearly, like some kind of psychic anchor, a cardboard cutout around which all manner of hallucinations were taking place. His conversation with the Indian guy was happening in "real time." Outside the cutout, time sped up, slowed, sped up again. At some point Jimmy realized that, although he could speak to and understand the Indian guy, he was completely incapable of ordering a beer, distinguishing a two dollar bill from a five, shit like that.

---------------------

Jimmy climbed the steps up to The Crazy Horse. He was fucked up, but the true horror of it hadn't quite dawned on him yet. At the top of the stairs he could see assorted bouncer-types gathered around an area where it looked like someone was taking tickets or money. His friends were playing, and they'd left his name at the door, so he wasn't worried about having to pay to get in...

--------------------

Jimmy couldn't speak. He was mute. He took a step back and, too late, realized he was falling down the stairs...

Are We Not Men?

[NOTE: This story originally appeared here.]

"Get that thumb out of your mouth right now, Joey," his mother is scolding him. "You're almost five, it's time you grew up." He liked sucking his thumb. It felt good. Eventually, though, he stopped.

-----

He's in the principal's office. He's in trouble. "Joey, Nancy says you stuck gum in her hair and that several times you've punched her on the shoulder. Is this true?" "Yes, sir." "Well, son," the principal says, "that kind of childish behavior is unacceptable. You'll be going to junior high next year, so I think it's about time you grew up and started acting like a man." "Yes, sir, I'll try."

-----

He has a black eye. His father is looking at him with a strange mixture of pity and disgust on his face. "For Christ's sake, Joe, you mean you didn't fight back?" "No, I didn't, Dad," he replies. His father thunders, "listen up, boy. No son of mine is going to be the high school punching bag. If you're going to be a man, you have to grow up and learn to fight like a man. You got that?" "Sure, Dad."

-----

He's in court. He's in trouble. A few weeks ago he got drunk and took a baseball bat to a bunch of cars in a parking lot. He's done stuff like this before. The prosecutor is speaking. "...and so, your honor, we can see a clear pattern of alcohol abuse coupled with violent, anti-social behavior..." Later, after sentencing him to probation and community service, the judge looks right at him and says, "Joseph Ryan Johnson, this is your last chance in this court. It's time to grow up, young man, or the next time I see you you'll be going to prison. Do you understand me?" "Yes, sir. Thank you."

-----

He's standing in the delivery room. His wife has just given birth to a baby boy. He's a father. He's overcome with joy, but later, as he's standing outside smoking a cigarette, his joy is replaced by terror. He's terrified of the responsibility that's just been delivered to him. He's talking out loud to himself. "Jesus H. Christ, Joey-boy, what are you gonna do now, eh? You can't fuck this one up, asshole. No siree. It's time to grow up, boy, and start acting like a man... whatever the fuck that means..."

-----

He walks into the living room and sees his four-year-old boy on the sofa watching TV. The boy is sucking his thumb. A reprimand springs to his lips, but he stifles it. He pauses for a moment, and then joins his son on the sofa.

"Hey Tommy, whatcha watchin'?"

"Spiderman. But it's finished."

"Uh huh. Let's have a talk, OK Tommy?"

"OK, Daddy."

"You know how me and Mommy are always buggin' you about sucking your thumb?"

"Yeah...?"

"I want to tell you a secret. When I was a little boy I sucked my thumb, too."

"... really...?"

"Yeah, really...."

"Why, Daddy?"

"Well, let's see..."

Papers, Please! (Fiction)

"Yes, W___-sensei, your application for employment at M___ University is almost complete. We just need one more piece of documentation."

Damn. He'd already been teaching here for two weeks and they still weren't finished with their little game of paper-chase. In the past month he's had to get letters of confirmation from every place he's worked since graduating university. He's had to give them copies of his degrees and his high-school diploma, copies of his passport, visa, and "gaijin" card, letters from the city office confirming his place of residence, copies of his wife's family registry and his daughter's birth certificate, a note from his embassy confirming that he wasn't a wanted fugitive, three letters of recommendation, copies of his published work and his Master's thesis, a detailed report of his general physical health, a short essay outlining his "teaching philosophy", a copy of his driver's license, and various and sundry other bits of useless paper. What could the bastards possibly want now?

He took a deep breath.

"Yes, S___-san, what is it that you require?"

"Well, W___-sensei, you say in your application that you were a part-time teacher at M___ University for two years, but we have yet to receive any official documentation for this."

"I... what?"

"You say in your application that--"

"Yes, yes, I heard you. But this is M___ University. I worked here for two years as a part-time teacher."

"... yes?"

"Well, does this university really need official documentation from me to confirm that I worked here?"

"Yes, W___-sensei, we do."

"I see. Doesn't that strike you as being a bit absurd?"

"How so, W___-sensei?"

"How so? Well, is there any doubt that I worked here?"

"None whatsoever, W___-sensei."

"Do you believe that I worked here?"

"Of course, W___-sensei."

"Well, what exactly is the problem?"

"It's the regulations, W___-sensei."

"The regulations? What about the regulations?"

"The regulations, W___-sensei, state that we must have official documentation of all prior employment."

"Well, fine, then. Who do I see about getting the required documentation?"

"Me, W___-sensei."

"You?"

"Yes, W___-sensei."

"Well, for goodness sake, S___-san, can you please give me a copy of the required document?"

"I can't, W___-sensei."

"What? Well, why not?"

"It's against regulations, W___-sensei."

"Against regulations? But I thought you said the regulations require that I have documentation showing that I worked here."

"They do, W___-sensei."

"And you said that you were the person to see about obtaining such documentation."

"I am, W___-sensei."

"Well, for Christ's sake, man, what is the problem here?"

"It's the regulations, W___-sensei."

"Will you please stop talking in circles!? Let me get this straight. The regulations state that I need documentation."

Yes, W___-sensei."

"You're the person to see for this documentation."

"Yes, W___-sensei."

"But it's against regulations to give me the documentation."

"That's right, W___-sensei."

"Strange as it seems, S___-san, I think we're getting somewhere."

"I'm happy you feel that way, W___-sensei."

"S___-san?"

"Yes, W___-sensei?"

"Why is it against regulations for you to give me documentation which shows that I worked at this university in order to complete the application for a job at this university?"

"Because you've already started working here, W___-sensei."

"I... what? Because I've already started working here?"

"Yes, W___-sensei."

"I don't understand, S___-san."

"The regulations state, W___-sensei, that the documentation you require cannot be given to anyone currently employed by the university."

"I see."

"Indeed, W___-sensei."

"Well, S___-san, what are we going to do about this?"

"I don't know, W___-sensei."

"No ideas?"

"None at all, W___-sensei."

"I see... S___-san?"

"Yes, W___-sensei?"

"Come... closer."

"What?"

"Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you... or kiss you."

"Oh?"

"No. I have an idea. I don't want to be overheard."

"Well... OK."

"Now, S___-san, do you agree that we have a shared problem here, in that the regulations state both that I need the documentation in order to work here and that you can't give it to me because I already work here?"

"I'd say that's a fair assessment of the situation, W___-sensei."

"Well then, S___-san, I propose that we do nothing."

"Nothing, W___-sensei?"

"You heard me. Nothing. If you don't tell anyone that you didn't receive the documentation from me, I won't tell anyone that I didn't receive it from you. You see where I'm going with this?"

"Well... this is highly irregular. I'm not sure--"

"For Pete's sake, S___-san, think about it. Do we really want to bring this... this contradiction to the university's attention? Christ, things are tough enough for me around here as it is, being a gaijin and all... and you, you seem to have a good thing going here... you want the university to notice you?"

"Well, W___-sensei, when you put it like that..."

"That's the spirit! Now, are we agreed? Is my application complete?"

"Yes, W___-sensei, everything seems to be in order here!

"Great! See you around, S___-san!"

"Oh, W___-sensei, one more thing..."

"Yes?"

"Wecome to M___ University!"

Untitled, Pt. 2 (Fiction)

Gerry's apartment was upstairs from a downtown restaurant we all used to hang out at. One night, around midnight, me and Gerry were sitting outside on the steps that led up to his place. We were both stoned and drinking beer in paper bags. We were talking about the latest Sabbath album, comparing it to earlier albums and debating whether or not it was a good or bad thing that they'd started using more keyboards. We noticed a guy stumbling up the street toward us. As he got closer I realized that I recognized him. When I was a kid there had been a small church in my neighborhood. It was always empty through the week, but on Sundays these yokels from the countryside would drive into town, file into their church, and proceed to sing songs and scream things like "praise the lord!" and "Satan, get thee behind me" and a bunch of other stuff. The guy stumbling up the street had been one of their kids about the same age as me. We'd assumed he was drunk when we first spotted him, but as he got close we could see that he was white as a sheet. He was holding his right forearm. We asked if he was OK, but his eyes were all glassy and he just gaped at us. He stumbled and had to let go of his arm to grab a parking meter to keep from falling down. Blood started gushing from his other arm as he did that, and he fell to his knees. Somebody'd cut him pretty badly. We took him to the hospital in Gerry's beat up old VW, but Gerry bitched for weeks about the bloodstains on the seats.

-----

He's 15 and it's only a few days before he starts high school. It's a Friday night, and he's sitting in an alley between a couple of dumpsters. He's drunk. He'd poured a little bit of booze from each of the bottles in his old man's liquor stash into a plastic Coke container and smuggled it out of the house. He's been here for a couple of hours now, drinking the booze, smoking cigarettes, and thinking about things. A couple of guys walk into the alley to take a piss and they notice him. They see his bottle and tell him to hand it over. He tells them to fuck off. They beat the shit out of him. He wakes up in jail.

-----

Gerry was a terrible driver, and driving anywhere with him behind the wheel was generally a white-knuckle ride into terror. I say "generally" because when Gerry was on the glue he drove like a little old lady out for a Sunday drive. One night me and a couple of buddies arrived at Gerry's place for an evening of drinking and getting high (and, of course, listening to Black Sabbath, although Gerry had been a bit "out of sorts" since Ozzy had quit the band). When we arrived Gerry seemed a bit tense. He said he was going out for smokes, but that we should go in and hang out until he got back. We understood that he must have run out of glue, and that he was going out to pick some up. Apparently, on his way to the hardware store Gerry hit a woman with his car while she was crossing the street. The woman was killed instantly. None of us ever saw Gerry again.

-----

He's 16 and it's been a few months since he quit school. It's the middle of the day, it's hot, and he's completely fucked up. He's sitting on the steps that lead up to some apartments above a downtown restaurant that he and his friends hang out at. He's just thrown up all over the steps and the sidewalk. People walking by are looking at him with disgust. He's studying the needle mark on his arm and the puke all over his sneakers and jeans, and wondering if he's ever felt this bad. He sees a shadow approach and stop in front of him. He looks up into the face of some old guy with a concerned look on his face. The geezer stares at him for a moment and then tells him that he lives upstairs and asks him if he wants to go up and get cleaned up. He lets the old guy lead him up the stairs.
"What's your name, kid?" he asks. He tells him his name.
"OK, cool. I'm Gerry... You like Sabbath?"

Untitled, Pt. 1 (Fiction)

When I was in my late teens and early twenties, about 30-35 years ago, I knew this guy named Gerry. Gerry was about 40 or 45, and he used to let me and my buddies come up to his apartment and drink beer, smoke dope, drop acid, whatever. Gerry was a serious glue-sniffer. He was always shoving a bag of glue into his face and then offering the bag to anyone who happened to be around. Me and my buddies used to joke about Gerry's "generosity" with his $1.98 tube of glue. Aside from his somewhat unhealthy habit of sniffing glue though, Gerry was a pretty good guy. Sure, he was kinda an old fart, but he let us hang out and he never tried to fruit us up or anything. Another important thing to know about Gerry is that he was the ultimate Black Sabbath fan. It was a bit weird watching this geezer sniff his glue and then totally space to Sabbath but, like I said, he was an ok guy.

-----

He remembers when he was 13. "Don't hold it too close to your face," Nancy said. "It" was a plastic bag with lighter fluid at the bottom. He held it to his face and inhaled... way too fucking deeply. Lighter fluid gushed into and through his entire breathing apparatus, his mouth, nose, throat, and lungs. It seemed to land like a flaming bomb in his stomach. He may have gotten "high", but he would never really be quite sure. He puked. A few weeks later large flakes of skin appeared on his scalp and, strangely, around his ass hole. He'd been poisoned, but he never realized it. It only lasted a few weeks, so he never told anyone about it. He would never hold a plastic bag to his face again.

-----

One night we were at Gerry's and we were all completely out of it--we'd all been drinking and smoking, and Gerry, of course, was on the bag. A knock came on the door. Gerry opened the door and there was a friend of ours, Mary, with 3 or 4 black guys. Gerry let them all in, so now there were about 10 people in his one-room apartment. We'd been listening (of course) to Sabbath before this arrival, but right away the black guys wanted to change the music. I was too wasted to give a shit, but my buddies put up a mild protest, which was slapped down by Gerry. "Play what you like," he said. The black dudes stuck in a James Brown tape. Yeah, this is ok, I thought. Later, Gerry wondered (to me) how Black Sabbath became "black power"...

-----


He's 14 and he's dropped his first hit of acid, the night before the first day of school. It's his "first time", so it's a completely subjective experience for him. There's nothing to measure it against, nothing to compare it to. He can't analyze it and he wouldn't care to even if he could. Colors. Colors rushing to him, colors rushing from him. There's a vague ache in his gut. He's walking down the street, and he sees some older girls. He thinks they're very pretty. One of them says, "nice ass"! He doesn't quite understand, but thinks this might be good. He's only 14.

continued...

Mirrors

[This story originally appeared here.]

For some reason, lately he'd become obsessed with mirrors. When he was alone in a room with a mirror he would find himself absently gazing into it. Simple, routine things like brushing his teeth or shaving, tasks which used to take up a perfunctory few minutes of his day, now seemed to last for hours, and he frequently found himself rushing to work or other appointments because he was spending too much time staring into the mirror. His wife began to notice his odd behavior, but didn't comment on it. She thought he was obsessing about the vicissitudes of middle age, worrying about his receding hair and encroaching wrinkles. She empathized, but was unsympathetic. Welcome to the club, she thought. His young daughter didn't notice anything at all odd about his behavior. She liked looking into mirrors too.

In fact, there was nothing particularly vain or narcissistic about his obsession with looking into the mirror. No, it was more like he was looking for something; however, he couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was that he was looking for.

He had a dream. He had just finished brushing his teeth before going to bed, and once again he found himself gazing into the mirror. He studied his face. He looked closely at what was in the background behind him on the mirror's surface. Somewhat irrationally he began to wonder about what might lie beyond the reflective surface of the mirror. When he found himself hefting his ceramic shaving mug there was no turning back. He threw it at the mirror. To his profound shock, the mug smashed through the mirror, taking large shards of glass with it. There was some kind of dark space on the other side. The next thing he knew, he had cleared away all the edges of the shattered mirror and was slowly poking his head through what had once been its surface. He could barely believe his eyes. The other side was like a large corridor, with no apparent floor or ceiling. As far as he could see—left, right, up, down, were what appeared to be windows. In each window was a face. He could see thousands of faces, and it dawned on him that what he was seeing was thousands of people gazing into their own mirrors, each one oblivious to all the others (including him). He found this sight unbearable, repulsive. He became angry. His anger turned to rage, and grew to such a proportion that, by a sheer act of will, he smashed all of the mirrors in the corridor. When he looked again, he saw thousands of copies of his own astonished face staring back at him...

As he emerged from sleep to this side of consciousness he felt a presence, a soft breath on his cheeks. He opened his eyes to find the dark, inquiring eyes of his daughter staring at him. Looking into those eyes, he saw a small reflection of his own face. He smiled...