Glen Forest

A Story by Leonard Birch

a short story in the works about my time spent living at an apartment complex. its not entirely true.

The sonorous foot falls of a melancholy junky, resonate my eardrums like a metronome. I am no more than a vague, quivering remembrance swept into the nights sky with the flick of a cigarette butt. Strong drink blur my eyes as the lithe figure ascends the stairs to reenter the hell that must be an apartment. Paranoia has given an ever present hole in the shades to peer through, always expectant of an unknown imminent doom.

Through the hole he sees a familiar face without a name. The only word associated with the face is "no."

"You got an extra smoke man" says he.

"No," says Mr. No.

Never a spare to quench that craving that is multiplied by the meth. And he has some, that son of a b***h. He knows. He's watching, waiting. What was that noise? He peers through the slit in the blinds. The stepping stone pathway, the gated pool that's only open in summer from eight to seven, an overweight orange tinted cat that bumps into potted plants for no reason other than that it cannot judge its own girth, a wisp of smoke from behind a tree. There he is with his cigarettes, watching and waiting. His hand reaches for the door nob. He recoils in fear as the touch of the metal reverberates "wah-wah-wah" increasing in decibels until there is darkness and sleep.

I manage, with one eye shut for focus, to get the key in the lock. The lamp post by the door glares at me furiously as i stumble in and hastily lock the dead bolt. Closed for shop. I reach for the bottle of merlot, wine is a new alcohol adventure to me, and fill half a mug. Wine in a mug. There's a table littered with stories of the past few months. Beer bottles, clear or brown or green, that tell of the card nights in which every one was the loser. Rum or vodka bottles that are remnants of nights when money was to be had and brain cells that could be wasted. And wine bottles that peak over my little glass city like towers, stoic and unforgiving. A cloud of natts hover over them all.

Its long after the cable channels have stopped their regular programming and have switched over to infomercials. They all claim to have science involved in their products some how. I wonder as to the marketing executive who had spent countless hours trying to think of ways to make the bullshit they were selling seem some what legitimate.

"Peters, what can we say about this f*****g pan that will make it sell? Whats hot right now?" Asks the marketing executive through bloodshot eyes in his Armani suit, one hand holding a tumbler of scotch, while the other holds a cigar that vomits blue rings into the atmosphere of the room. Marketing executives always have scotch and cigars, of course.

"Science," replies Peters in an absolute stupor. He sits with his arms laying over a leather chair and his head upturned towards the ceiling. He struggles to breathe through the haze of smoke and realizes how much he loathes the executive. How long will it be until he's holding the scotch and cigars? How many more late nights and s**t-kicking can he put up with?

"The average schmuck doesn't know jack about anything science related," He continues. "Ask 'em about the table of elements or the structure of a nucleus and I'll bet money that eighty percent of them will stick their thumbs up their asses in sheer ignorance. This 'f*****g pan' is made from the cheapest alloy we could get to legally be considered cookware. Its only beneficial function is the removable bottom to drain grease out of into our handy grease collector. Which comes with the pan, for free, as long as you order within the next five minutes. There's gonna be a defect that allows liquid to drain out regardless of it being locked in place and just about everyone who uses it will either burn their hand or melt the grease tray or both because they can't figure out how to look at the illustrated users manual. Science, people buy into science. It's bigger than them." Concluded Peters vibrating with passion, fists clenched and standing on the chair. He grabs the executive and plunges out the window. Such are my thoughts as i watch late night infomercials while alcohol and THC course through my veins and darkness consumes my mind and then sleep.

"Click, click, click, click" the sound of a metronome through loud speakers followed by the bellowing of tubas, trumpets, flutes, and whatever other instrument that make up a marching band shake the whole of his apartment. How long was he asleep? More importantly, how much crystal was left? He crawls on his stomach to the end table where the stash and glass are kept and only finds the glass tube. He could cry. A call to "Phil" restores his faith in the world. Carefully and slowly he gets himself together for the walk down the block to meet his connect.

There's a high school immediately behind the apartment complex and from the middle of every August to the end of every December the marching band practices drills from six-fifty to eight-twenty in the morning every day with the exception of Sundays. The Franklin High Cadets are the top marching band in the southern region of the state and it showed that morning when the door to apartment H8 was flung open and Jim, the junky, stepped forward into the light. The veranda shielded his eyes for a split second and for a moment it appeared as if the world was between shifts and not certain if it should get going with the day or just roll over and hit the snooze button. Jim knew how the world felt. A fantastic symphony of some kind that Jim imagined to be by Chopin, as this was the only composer he could recall, was playing as he stepped down the stairs and through the gate and into the world and he felt illuminated. Every step came with the crashing of cymbals, every sweep of the arm was an embellishment. Before he knew it, he was at the mecca, the Circle A Liquor Store.

The Circle A is a haven for the afflicted. There are a team of hustlers, pimps, prostitutes, bums, and thieves that frequent the shopping center in which the Circle A rests. No one knows where they all come from or where they're going, but the locals know better than to go around that area after ten at night. Jim was on fire as he waited for Phil to bring his fix. Harvey, the bum with a braided viking beard, was conscious and incoherent. His cracked and bleeding lips were mumbling inaudibly and it looked to Jim like he was a fish in a tank peering aimlessly out into an existence it never could understand or survive in.

"Harvey, you look like s**t, man," said Jim as he posted up on the wall next to Harvey.

"I sit here everyday, this here is my spot," proclaimed Harvey with indignation.

"Yeah, you do old man. That there is your spot alright," agreed Jim with a smirk.

"Ya got any change?" asked Harvey curiously.

"Hell nah, I only got enough for my fix, Harv," gasped Jim through light chuckles.

As if summoned by the gods, Phil, the connect, rounded the corner on his majestic blue mountain bike. His long, greasy wisps of graying hair flowed behind him leisurely. His suntanned skin was blotched with pock marks from years of strenous drug use. A cigarette rested between his lips.

"Yo, Phil! Man you don't even know..." Jim started, but was cut short by Phil's perpetual business attitude.

"You got that fifty buck, Jimmy?" Asked Phil with his coarse and unshaken monotone.

"Yeah, yeah man. I got the money," Jim said a bit wounded.

The exchange was quick, so quick that you had to have the right kind of eyes to fully understand what was going on. The junky and the connect didn't say a word after the deed was done. One man sped off to make more deliveries and the other limped off to make himself feel normal just so he could get through the day leaving Harvey alone to his begging as if two ghosts had just vaporized into thin air.

Red-eyed and head pounding, I awake on the futon to curse the damn marching band as they practice for their first competition. My hand automatically reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table and that's when I realize where I am. Didn't make it to the bed, f**k it. Its not like there's any one else here anyway. I decide to smoke inside because the thought of the sun makes my stomach wretch. I prepare a meal of toast with peanut butter and a cup of coffee, my favorite breakfast. Sometimes when i got extra cash I spoil myself and get bacon to make a peanut butter and bacon sandwich, but I haven't had money like that for awhile. Just enough for booze, smokes, and as little food as I can survive off of.

There's a day ahead of me, but my mind hasn't quite grasped this yet. All I can think about is satiating the storm brewing within me, which threatens to burst out as a tsunami from my any where it can in my being. It eventually wins, leaving the sting of bile deep within my throat. Hang overs have the possibility of being easy to overcome, as long as you just completely surrender yourself to them, but this goes against our human instincts. Well, mine at least. Never surrender, I was told as a child, you're an Irishman. I never understood what being Irish had to do with it, but damn my blood would boil with pride as I thought of my heritage and I loved it.