Oboros
NYC, April 13th, 2000
You are the biggest piece of shit at the center of the universe, crashing, while the sun is rising over Chelsea. Which is where you are walking now, having just promised God that you will never do meth again. When you discover yourself walking straight to the bar you hoped would be open, so you could score. And realize you are no longer in control of your body or mind. It’s a rude awakening, like the harsh glare of sunlit chrome and glass towering above you. It bites like cold morning air burning your lungs.
You have been up all night freebasing in Hell’s kitchen. Having just graduated from snorting meth to smoking crack. And you know it’s the beginning of the end. Because you have seen all of this before, watching other peoples’ lives getting flushed down the toilet. It’s your turn now. You have never crashed like this before, and you are terrified. You wonder how hard you are going to land. The higher you fly, the further you fall. Grazing the sun with wax wings, gravity takes its toll.
Yes, you are going to splatter like an egg hitting the pavement from on high. You could chase the high to avoid the crash. But you know the longer you stay out, the more hell there is to pay. Here comes that sinking feeling you get when you’re crashing, like Freddy Crugar’s claws scraping your brain. You’re a cat stuck up a tree. You could jump and get it over with, stay frozen where you are, or keep climbing higher. One way or another, you’re going to hit the ground. And it’s going to hurt.
You jump. Splattering on the floor of a friend’s apartment in the East Village, you lie still, but your heart is racing. You can’t forget the hell you left behind. By the time you left the party, you and your hosts had scoured the floor for stash and smoked all the sketchy scraps of random shit you found there. Mostly flecks of chipped paint. Just as you found your clothes and put them on, the doorman called. Because the downstairs neighbors were complaining about water leaking through their roof. Precipitated by a bathroom flood engendered by a frenzied search for more crack.
Somebody stood on the toilet seat while searching the top of the medicine cabinet for hidden stash, managing to break the connection between the pipes and commode. While inadvertently cutting themselves on broken glass that shattered on the floor on the dismount. Blood, water and shards of glass painted a pretty picture on the bathroom floor just before you left. Not to mention the sound of the neighbors from above, below and either side of you pounding on the walls, ceiling, and floor protesting the deluge and overall “party” mayhem. Meanwhile, the phone continued to ring off the hook. Presumably, it was the doorman trying to get somebody to do something about the water pouring through the ceiling in the apartment below. Exit stage left.
Life is a cruel joke, and you are the punchline. You lie in bed now, watching your pathetic life pass before your eyes. Every time you look in the bathroom mirror, you see the devil staring back at you with empty eyes.
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