Unadulterated

    I didn't understand it at all. But, then again, who ever did? Why was I there, again, sitting on the toilet and resting my head against the sink in front of me? All I wanted was a couple of drinks. Why did it always have to turn into a headache the next morning? I mean, seriously, what the f**k happened? I remember we were laughing, full of life. Reckless abandon was thick in the air. I remember Nicki's a*s looking incredible in those jeans, but she was with Mike, that lucky b*****d. I remember the next round was on me. I remember the walls starting to move. I remember only wanting a little taste of freedom. I remember the sidewalk losing its balance. I forget a lot of what happened after. But, I remember the last time the room was spinning and I was wasted.
    It happened all too often and I could never understand it. Why would they make beer be so painful when it was so beautiful? One night, you're drunk off of its love, feeling true freedom from the shackles of society. The next day, you're regretting every minute of it as your head pounds you into submission, until you promise never to drink that much ever again. What kind of sick world do we live in where you're punished for happiness? I don't understand it at all. God forbid I do something to escape from everything this world s***s all over me with; the bills that flood all the money out of my pockets, getting bossed around at a job I don't really want to be at, an apartment that falls apart more every week, because every other thrill is out of reach, and for the simple fact that, god damn it, I just wanted to have some cold beer. But, there I was, again, suffering for wanting just a little bit of an escape. Damn the buy-one-get-one nights.
    I swear to god, the closest thing to tasting heaven a person will ever experience is that first cigarette after a hangover. I mean, lets be honest, I'm probably not making it to heaven, but I'm enjoying the scenes on the way down. But, that cigarette makes life seem bearable for those few minutes. And that's all I really wanted the next morning. I sat on the back porch -of the boarding house I lived in- smoking and watching the sun peek out from the sides of the tall, green trees that bordered the property. There was a quiet breeze that hummed lullabies of a silent death flowing through the air. It seemed like everything hurt my head. My sunglasses did a fair job of blocking the cruel brightness that the sunlight strained my eyes with. It wasn't so much the light of day that hurt the most, it was facing the fact that I had blown all my money the night before and had nothing to show for it. I was alright with where I sat that morning, though.
    I looked up at the back of the big, yellow house. Its chipped paint didn't wear the years too well, but I loved it nonetheless. I wasn't sure exactly how many people lived in the house altogether, but most of us got along pretty well. We learned to share a lot of things with each other; bathrooms, refrigerators, sinks, parking spaces, lighters for cigarettes, washer and dryer, garbage cans, bills, occasional poverty, misery, alcohol, always lots and lots of alcohol. Most of all we shared the feeling of making the best we could with what we had. And what we had was each other.
    Johanna and I had a little more of each other than everyone else. I still remember the first time I met her. It was one of my first times wandering down to the laundry room. Footsteps danced down the steps leading to it, and there she was. She barely stood above five feet tall, but she stood out like no one else. Her black hair was in a ponytail, she wore dark, blue shorts, that were barely longer than a pair of underwear, and a white tank-top that hugged her upper-body tightly. I was trying so hard not to get caught staring at her curves, that her sparkling, green eyes had no issue getting my attention to surrender to their beauty. She was really something else, and so was our complex relationship. There were no formal commitments, no boundaries, at times, no respect (no fault of mine I can assure), no deeper understanding for another person, no regard for feelings, nothing more confusing, nothing more comfortable and above all else, there was no one else like her. God, what a mess we had a tendency to make.
    I heard the screen door, of the apartment down below, creek open and then swing shut. I looked over the side of the porch and saw Johanna walking, with her arms folded against her chest, across the grass. She wore black sweatpants, with a blue hooded sweatshirt covering her head and a pair of sandals on her feet.
    "Jesus Christ. You know it's my recovery day. What the hell are you slamming that door for?" I yelled over the porch.
    "Oh shut up, Ryan," Johanna snapped back. "You know my door always swings back like that. The timer on the dryer is about to go off too. So, you might want to brace yourself for that, your highness. Besides, it's three in the afternoon, it's not like it's early in the morning or anything."
    "But, it's my recovery day," I said while slinking back into my chair and watching my cigarette smoke drift towards the sky.
    "You just woke up, didn't you?"
    "Something like that. Why don't you join me once you grab your laundry."
    "As long as you're done being an a*****e."
    "I'm afraid I'll never be done with that, but I'll be on my best behavior for you."
    "Alright. Let me get these clothes out and I'll be right up."
    I heard the timer on the dryer go off and shuttered at the sound. Hangovers are funny like that. They make you realize how annoying the little things really are in life. Johanna carried her laundry basket out of the laundry room -which was underneath my porch- and joined me.
    She lit a cigarette of her own and looked out across the lawn, soaking under the rays of the sun. She was a brave woman staring into the light like that. Her eyes really shined the way she squinted against the sunlight, sitting there with her feet on the chair, her knees buried into her chest.
    "When you say it's your recovery day you make it sound like you worked hard or something," Johanna said.
    "It is hard work. I don't see other people being able to drink as much as I did. It takes dedication to accomplish all that."
    "Maybe that's the problem."
    "Yeah, yeah. I haven't seen you in a few days. What have you been up to?"
    "You haven't seen me because I was pissed at you, you idiot. Do you remember that poetry reading I was telling you about, though?" Johanna asked, I nodded my head in understanding. She's the only person in the world who could call me an idiot, and the conversation wouldn't turn into a fight. I knew I, probably, deserved it is why. "Well, that's tomorrow night. I've been writing and getting the poems I want to read in order."
    "That's great, J.  Are you excited for it?"
    "I am. But, I'm nervous, too. Baring my soul for everyone to hear isn't exactly a calming idea."
    "You'll do fine. You learned from the best," I assured her.
    "Giving yourself a little pat on the back there I see."
    It was true. I was giving myself a pretty well-deserved accolade, I thought. Writing was something that I had been doing for awhile. I had a deal with a small publisher, and planned on taking it further than that. It's what filled my free time between the jail sentence that was work and my nights out on the town. It was passion, it was freedom, it was pure, it was what I loved. Johanna had gravitated towards it more once she saw how much joy I got out of it all. I had given her a few pointers, but she had a small passion-filled fire of her own that was burning inside
    "Damn straight. I'm happy for you, though. You'll look back on it and be glad you did it. It'll be your first step towards getting your work out into the world."
    "That's what I'm hoping," Johanna put out her cigarette and looked straight ahead at me. "You're coming with me by the way."
    "No, I'm f*****g not." Who did she think she was? Telling me what to do like that. I have love for the girl, but that was asking a lot of me. "You know I can't stand listening to people wax poetic about the dull s**t in their lives. I fully support you, but that's torture making me sit through everyone else."
    "Ryan, pleaseee?" Johanna whined while she clasped her hands together and leaned forward, pleading with me. "You have to go. You've been here with me since the beginning."
    "You're killing me."
    "I'll even take care of everything if that's what it takes to get you there."
    "Like what?"
    "I'll buy all your drinks, get you food afterwords. I'll even give you a ride down so you wont have to take your bike."
    She had me there. Car rides were a luxury in my life. Any chance to go somewhere without having to pedal the thoughts of better days -which cycled around my head every time I got on my bike- I jumped at.
    "Fine," I let out a tired sigh. "You convinced me. What time do I have to be ready?"
    "Oh my god. Thank you!" Johanna leaped from her chair, wrapped her arms around me and kissed my cheek. "You just relieved so much anxiety I had from thinking I was going to do it alone. And it starts around eight. I'll knock on your door sometime before then."
    "Alright. I'll try to be ready."
    "You know, for someone who's so destructive at times, you can be pretty solid when someone needs you."
    "I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm always a god damn angel."
    "Whatever you say," Johanna rolled her eyes and picked her laundry basket up. "I have some cleaning to do. I hope your so-called recovery day goes alright. I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks, again."
    "I hope it does too. I'll see you later."
    Johanna walked across the lawn, back to her door. I watched her hips sway back and forth. She had no idea how much I liked the way she walked by. I questioned what I had just gotten myself into, but it was too late. All the terrible poetry in the world couldn't let me break my promise to Johanna. It meant too much to her. The hangover was ruining me. It was making me soft on the inside.
    The next night, I was looking in the mirror as I got dressed for Johanna's poetry reading. I was fighting it the whole time. Every button, going up my black dress-shirt, was a reason not to go. By the time I finished it was too late. I looked too good not to go out into the world. A black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark, faded blue jeans and black dress shoes. I placed my sunglasses over my eyes so I could hide from the hell I was about experience as much as I could. I was ready.
    Johanna rolled her eyes at me wearing sunglasses at night. She thought I was being ridiculous. She laughed and smiled at me nonetheless, and that had to count for something, right? She had a way of doing that to me. The way she could make everything better with the smallest flash of a smile or faintest whisper of a laugh. It took me out of the miserable situation I was about to be in and took me somewhere else. It took me to a place I couldn't always get to on my own. It took me from average scenes in my life to joyful memories I would look back on and smile when I thought about in future times. I guess, you could say, I was happy when I was with her. I thought about that with the nighttime wind flowing through the car windows and rustling through my hair. I thought about how good I had it at times and how I might even be able to get Johanna to stay the night once we got back. Life was alright, sometimes.
    I should have known better than to trust her. I should have know by the deep red walls and dim, purple lighting. I should have known by coffee tables and small couches instead of bar stools. I should have known by the amount of berets and fedoras being worn. I should have known because it was a poetry reading. I should have known because it was in a cafe and not a bar. I should have f*****g known they weren't going to have any alcohol there. Touche, Johanna. Touche.
    That was all I could think for the first twenty minutes or so that we were there. How could I sneak out and run across the street for a shot or four? It wasn't so much that I wanted the drinks as much as I wanted to be anywhere else. These just weren't the type of people I would choose to be around on my own. They were fake in my eyes. These people didn't write for the love it. They just wanted something to be admired for. Everything they did was for show instead of how they felt in their guts. The thick-rimmed glasses, the ridiculous mustaches on the guys, all the scarfs. I mean for Christ's sake, what kind of a man wears a scarf when it's not winter? They all looked the same to me. They all tried to be something they weren't. They all tried to be original. They all wanted to seem deeper than their shallow depths really were. As if writing was such a struggle that no one else in the world would understand the artistic conflict they endured every time they wrote. Give me a f*****g a break. Most of their s**t sucked, and they didn't know what struggling truly was. They never suffered in life. They never saw their step-father beat their mother, they never had to worry about bills, their bikes never got a flat tire in the rain, they never faced a true day of hard work, their hands never bled and blistered, they never fell down in life without having a safety net to catch them. They weren't deep and they weren't good writers. They just weren't my type of people. Johanna seemed to enjoy meeting and interacting with everyone, though. To her it was exciting to to be among other so-called poets. She probably saw it as a way into their small community. She was smiling a lot. So, I kept my mouth shut. I politely nodded and often dreamed about running outside to smoke a cigarette whenever she started a conversation with someone. I couldn't wait for the night to be over.
    We sat down and watched the microphone stand as the reading began. The first couple of people to read weren't terrible, but they were boring as hell, and that's even worse. They just didn't understand how to be true to themselves. All their poems used large vocabulary instead of actually saying something. They were trying to set up for the grand emotion of the ending, but by the time they got to it, nobody gave a s**t, because the rest of what they read was too bad to pay attention to. Johanna had her arm wrapped around mine. That was something that could hold my attention.
    I could feel my heart thump hard against my chest when it was Johanna's turn to go up. I was nervous for her. As much as everyone else sucked, I wanted to see her do good. I wanted to give that angel's face a reason to smile. She did quite well. It was a thing of beauty to watch. To see her spreading her wings and taking flight for the first time, seeing how high she could really soar. As it turns out, she was pretty good at flying.
    The rest of the readers were not as graceful. They had as much poise as a flaming jet that just spiraled down and crashed into the earth. They made a train-wreck look composed. I was looking for a reason to leave, anything at all. Then he answered my prayers, like he was sent down from the heavens to grant mercy on my soul. A poet who wanted to change the world, but instead all he did was change the microphone stand's height. He was like the rest of the "poets"; boring, soft and god awful. He had nothing to say from any of his own experiences, so instead he rambled about the world. Then, he said the lines "I'm sorry, dear mother of the earth, I have caused you to weep. I have even felt your rain. Please, forgive me. My crying heart feels only pain." I couldn't control myself. I burst out laughing, hard. How could someone be that terrible? Why did he ever think that was a good idea? Apparently, I was the only one who felt that way. When I wiped away the humor-filled tears that were forming in my eyes I noticed several pairs of eyes glaring at me. Johanna even let go of my arm and distanced herself from me. I felt like I had offended the whole room, but I didn't really care. Those people meant nothing to me. We just weren't cut from the same cloth. I took a cigarette from my pocket, took my cue and walked out of the front doors.
    I lit my cigarette outside of the cafe, and stared across the street, mesmerized by the neon glow of the signs in the bar window. I looked behind me at the cafe and laughed. I was sure it wouldn't be a warm welcome if I went back in. And why the hell would I ever want to? They were a bunch of sheep who were prey to lions like myself. I thought the night was over, and probably so were my chances of getting Johanna back to my place. I flicked my cigarette into the oncoming traffic and crossed the street to the bar.