Slammer

In honor of Hubert Shelby Jr., one of the most talented writers I've ever come across, and also, my mother, the inspiration for this piece of crap.

Maybe it was the years of drugs that separated her thoughts into flickering fragments, unknown even to her because she couldn’t be bothered to sort them out, there then gone like the seizure-inducing flashes of a strobe light. Or maybe it was because she was so goddamned blazed right this moment, and everything else had just led up to this one fraction of a second, two three four five, that she was looking up and looking down at the same time, red fish blue fish, this has nothing to do with fish. Either way, she was in pieces, and not only her, but the rest of the world, like that coffee mug and that armchair and it’s possible that it was the hash that made it feel like her spine was dissolving through her back, leaving her a crippled woman who by the powers of Him was still able to walk, without a spine as it would seem.

 

This was supposed to be the happiest night of the year, along with being the last night of the year, and everyone was out partying and living it up, welcoming the big Oh Eight, and she’d seen them too, in the streets with their beers and their joints and their girls. And yet there she was, alone, except for that guy passed out on the couch, but he didn’t count, he was a nobody, although he had provided her with her fix and a place to stay for that night, he was a nobody, and he wouldn’t be able to give her a night to remember, what with him being passed out and all.

She refused to let this be another night like all the rest.

 

The New Year meant the end of three-hundred-and-sixty-five days of smoking up and knocking back bottles and f*****g for pleasure (and, maybe hopefully, a place to stay that night, or a couple nights, somewhere warm, a bed or a mattress – it didn’t matter) and walking the streets to find the next dirty hippie with a pickup truck and a 1 room place, and the beginning of a fresh three-hundred-and-sixty-five days, plus one, because this was a leap year.

So f**k this guy.

She stood and kicked him once, twice, the first time an accident because she was so intoxicated and the second time for fun, for hate. She took his keys and dumped the rest of her beer on him, spat on him, and made sure to slam the door hard behind her. (Don’t let the door hit you where God split you, she’d always tell her children. But where were they? It’d been so long; did they remember her? Or those things she’d say?) The parties in the streets didn’t show her recognition in any way, shape or form, save for one very drunk teen, slobbering, who rubbed himself against her in the driveway, the f*****g driveway, not even on the street, right in front of the house, and she shoved him hard and he tripped backwards and his head made a loud cracking sound as it hit the bumper of the goddamned pickup truck, but she nudged him out of the way with her foot and pulled open the door to the truck and the smell of the cigarettes in the ashtray and the beer that’d been spilled earlier and the sex still clung to the moth-eaten seats andandand.

 

It didn’t matter where she was going as long as she went somewhere, and she knew it wasn’t so smart to be driving, not like this, but f**k that, why stay here watching two happy young and inebriated teens swapping spit on this cold and supposed to be the happiest night of the year night, while that guy, whatshisname, passed out after trying to get in her pants for the third time and realizing she just wasn’t having it, what was keeping her here? She’d ditch the truck later, when it ran out of gas, and he didn’t know her name because he’d been calling her Cher all night, who she was not, (although personally she loved Cher very much, and had given her daughter two budgies on her twelfth birthday named Sunny and Cher) so he wouldn’t be able to report her to the police, and on top of it, the drugs lying around and the marks in his arms only made it dumber to call the cops at all.

In fact… no one really knew who she was. She came, and went, and sometimes she’d come again, but she always left before overstaying her welcome or even staying very long at all. It was better that way – no attachments, in any way from any one, no long goodbyes or sad looks if she needed to be taken away by the police or what have you, because that did happen, the police did catch up now and then, and they’d take her to wherever and question her and lock her up but she always got out, it wasn’t that hard, because they were all pigs and wanted all the same thing – a low cut shirt and jeans with rips in the knees, a red thong accidentally pulled above the waist. Yea, they’d find her, try to do something with her, but because she was such a nobody, not that she’ ever admit it, they couldn’t do much. No house no car no ID no name no one. She always played the mute girl when they seemed like a serious bunch, acting like she couldn’t remember her name or anything else about herself, and it made it much more difficult for them to do anything.

In reality it’d only happened a couple times, but she’d been bailed out by whatever ‘friend’ she’d happened to last mooched from. Never the less it made her feel better to think that they were always right up her a*s and she was just one step ahead the whole time.

 

She had no idea where she was going, but the tank was full and the engine was working and she was going, going, gone, doesn’t matter where, any where really, looking for faces, new and old, looking for a fix, of anything, looking for a bed to crash in and if not, then this truck might come in handy, for a night or two, except she’d already decided to ditch it, so maybe not, but it didn’t matter as long as the somewhere she was heading to wasn’t a nowhere. She had a stash for her, her, her, that she’d jacked off the passed out guy, and he’d wake up in the morning with no truck and no drugs but f**k him, he didn’t need it anyway.

 

The cold bitter night got worse by the second, by the kilometer, and the truck in all it’s no-snow-tires glory was catching so black ice and the wheels were spinning and then they’d hold again but soon enough they’d be back to spinning on nothing, and then hold again, so she decided to pull over, just for a little bit, just to relax, take a hit, do whatever, but she was sick of the screech of rubber on ice going nowhere. Off the deserted highway and onto deserted street, in a deserted town, she stopped the wheezing by so far loyal weed green pickup and turned off the engine.

Silence fell on her like a thick blanket, and all there was left was the sound of her breathing and she could swear she could even hear her eyeballs turning left to right inside her skull, heard the sound of her bones rubbing against each other in her neck as she turned her head. Silence. The death of sound. See? There is beauty in death.

 

She reached under the seat and pulled out a little box, enough for all she needed, all she could want, for a while anyway, and she was happy, because there was all those teens back there toking their tiny little joints and maybe popping a couple pills, but she was above that minor drug bullshit. She was a slammer and goddamn she loved it. Nothing mattered once you were there, once you where there, where ever that heavenly place was, and she was usually even to f*****g gone to pull out the needle, because shooting is different. Once you plunge, you ARE high. End of story. No messing around with roaches and waiting for the effect, 25-30 minutes minimum, no powder to try and sweep away. No. once you go, you’re there.

 

Tonight was special. Tonight, she was alone, free, at least for tonight, and there was nothing to hold her back, nothing to hope for, nothing to look forward to, no one to care, and no one to...

be there.

 

Her kids? F**k them. They didn’t know if she was even alive anymore, it had been so long since she’d seen them. They’d never know about this. This? This. This thing, this addiction, this little accidentally completely on purpose thing. If anything, good on them for not being around her, not watching her fall against the pressure of life, her life, the one she’d never lived, the one she’d ignored, the one she’d left up to the wind to guide, and as she placed the cold tip of the needle to her skin, she wished them more luck then she’d ever had.

 

Her flashing running thoughts slammed the breaks as she slammed the needle in and she slammed her head back against the seat and slammed her body back and her breathing became so loud and she bite her lip to keep from laughing, or maybe to keep from smiling because it was such a sick thing to smile at, and then it all stopped and there it was again. The silence. And she felt every muscle in her body unstitch and all the ends fluttered in some imaginary breeze and then burned away to nothing, and then she was there, she was there, and nothing else mattered.

 

Her hands slid over the wheel and she realized she’d never driven in this perfect state before, and she was in a hell of a good mood and driving must feel like flying, and she turned the key and the silence was gone, and she pressed her foot down and felt the truck, the ugly green truck, move, and then her hands dropped away, let go, and the truck was driving itself on this deserted road in this deserted town, and then the silence was nothing but a distant memory, and it didn’t matter that there was two bright lights right in front of her suddenly, and she would have laughed but… maybe it was because she was so goddamned blazed right this moment, and everything else had just led up to this one fraction of a second, two three four five, that she was looking up and looking down at the same time… she just watch the lights grow brighter and bigger and she never took her foot from the gas and never reached for the wheel and then she was laughing even though there was nothing to laugh at, and the coming silence was such a f*****g good thing because it was so loud now, with the screeching of tires and blasting of the horns cutting through this once soundless night, and the pickup was about to kiss the front of the eighteen wheeler making its way down the once deserted streets of this once deserted town, and she was still laughing in the seconds before the collision andandand.

Author's Note

it's written the way it is on purpose. I'm aware of run ons and everything else, so please don't point them out.

Reviews

[StrawberryDream]

I wish I could spam you more effectively, but my mind is slowly slowly losing it grip on my vocabulary at this hour... You know I love this piece- so if I was going to spam something besides the book, it absolutely had to be this. Chellsea, this is literally what made me want to write again. I read this and remembered why I love to write, and everything I love about words.
There is nothing wrong with this piece and I wish everyone could read it, just as a pure example of true, artistic ability. If I were to do my usual habit of throwing your words back at you, I would have to throw the whole story at you. FLAWLESS.