Queen Jade Approximately
For Jade. And Dee, for the love... And all those who try to keep you back, who want you to fail and want you to suck the bitter end of life. Where would the fun be with you?
It should be important to note that the following isn't an act of fiction. Its storyline and characters are based on very real people. I am merely putting it into my words, for effect. Some events may seem dramatized and maybe they are, but who's going to find out? Names may be changed for the sake of anonymous dealings. Keep it real. Selah.
Part I
The Black Market Typewriter. The Feeling of Kentuckian Air.
The sound of nails against the keys was overwhelming. Deafening at that. Clack, clack, clack... She wasn't writing all that much. This blasted machine had cost her $70.00 at a local flea market and she was aware that chowerhead had overcharged her, but what could she expect. Flea markets are nothing more than legal black markets, to tell the truth. Hell, some of the b******s at flea markets should be put behind bars for things much more heinous than those of the black market. Nonetheless, she wasn't very surprised when she found out the indent function didn't work. In order to make a compromise, she had begun using the space bar. 5 hits did the trick, and she had made it an unspoken agreement that she would do this for every indentation needing to be done. That same suggestion went with what she was writing. Or more, what she wasn't. She needed to be "finishing" up her book, or so she told her publisher, but she hadn't wrote much to her book in an incredibly long time. That was the reason she was here now, anyways. Back home in rural Kentucky. She was beginning to regret her choices. In actuality, she had regretted her choices before they were made. She hated Kentucky and she hated "home". She hated her family and this is what she was writing about. Pure sadistic hatred of others. But, let's take a step back, and explain this whole situation and what lead to it...
The Rise and Fall. The Demise. The Family Life
Yelling. Lots of it. By the sounds and melted images, she figured that there was about 8 to 20 people. She hardly recognized any of them. The only figures she could make out were Lester and Bailey, because of their colours. Lester was wearing lime green cargo shorts, a purple scarf and no shirt. He was also draped in some sort of pale-ish pink... thing. It was only later that she registered it as the curtain. Bailey was different. Bailey was the source of illumination of the room. The whole get-together was based around her. Maybe not intentionally, but it got to that point within a 20 minute period once they had all taken the acid. She couldn't remember whos idea it was. Probably Rob, if he was even still here. That perverted b*****d seemed highly plausible of considering such a thing. Why was he here in the first place? Jade knew not. Anyways, back to Bailey. To understand this picture, you must first know Bailey. I have little back-story or precious time to get Bailey fully acquainted, but it's going to have to do. Damn well it will, who's going to know the difference besides Bailey and few others, around the 20 or so that were there and the representatives of the law who dispersed them later? Bailey is a younger girl, late into her teen years or perhaps early on into her 20's. A partier, rather obviously. She worked some erratic desk job, Jade says. Some secretery for some even more erratic writer. That was how she knew her, through the whole underground mentality of struggling writers.
The most important part of this dragging description is her physical apperance. She was (and I do not mean this in any sexist motion) very pretty, according to Jade. Yet, very promiscuous. The kind of girl who allowed anyone a shot. I get the feeling from the description of her presence that she'd make a fine penny w***e. Anyways, back on track... After her hit, Bailey was gone. Safe to say. She laughing starkly at everything and anything. It wasn't long after that she decided to shed her clothing, beginning with her top and working her way down. It took her around 20 minutes to get fully naked. The drug had begun doing terrible things. The walls and people were becoming one in the same. Jade told me this part becomes a haze. She remembers Bailey getting naked. She doesn't remember whos idea it was to get the colours, but she's pretty sure it was Rob. She doesn't remember the actual painting. The full body desecration. The thing that was so foul, so unnecessary. So cruel. Especially in the state that they were all soon to be in. Mystical swirls of green and red, mashing together with purple and yellow. Orange had it's place too, as well as everything in between. Later, after this whole affair was over, Jade was informed that everyone had contributed to the masterpiece. Even her. She had no recollection of what she had added, and she'd rather not find out. Something as disturbed as that should be removed via lobotomy as soon as humanely possible.
It was rather obvious that the cops would show up at one time or another. A very fine group of individuals higher than the goddamn sun packed into a 2-room apartment, blaring all sorts of psychedelic sounds by the dim light of Christmas bulbs at 5 in the morning. It was bound to happen. The question was of when. It was out of the question to herd everyone out of her apartment. She was in no shape to do such a thing. Her mind wasn't with her. No, her mind was elsewhere, in the deepest fissure of the universe. Exploring the colours and sounds with extreme attentiveness that opened her up to a strange barrage of lively waves that showed her what life really was. And that is why she had returned home to Kentucky. Amongst other reasons, all very similar. She needed to finish her book, for her own sanity as well as a legal binding between her and her publisher, whom she had began to despise. Awful jackass jipped her on her contract. This book was supposed to be her magnum opus. It would be her second book (her third if you counted that godforsaken compilation of two-bit magazine articles) but it was meant to be her best. The story itself was good, hell, it was great, but the writing was lacking. She had become a character of her own creation, staying up for days on end, eating any narcotic pushed under her nose. It was these demons that gripped her and kept her from finishing her book. It was also these pretenses that lead her home, to this rural shithole know as Brooksville.
In a way it was her own insistance that she was out here. She needed to finish this book, not only for the money, but also because she felt it was something that she must do. This book was her life. It was her cure to her addictions and ghosts that haunted her. She felt as if it were her escape. If she could finish, it would bring the end of a saga that plauged her and was slowly destroying her, no matter how much she enjoyed it. She was back in her hometown, with her overly annoying, anarchistic family, because of her problems. She demanded to her literary agent that she be sent home as some sort of sick rehabilation. It wasn't working. She had been able to keep up a few of her habits. A rather great sum of them, as a fact. But that will all have to wait, I'm ready for sleep now...
Part II
As of writing, it is Jade's birthday (July 18). Actually, it's still the 17th, but I figure by the time I've mustered enough courage and gibberish to finish this piece, it will probably be in the early hours of the 18th. So, to conclude this introduction... thing, happy birthday, you scoundrel, I hope you choke. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, the situational fuckup that forced her to retreat to "home". Yeah, that sounds about right.
Happy Birthday, you Pillock. Other Strange Mumblings from a Kentuckian. Someone To Love?
Dawn fell strangly upon the landscape, leading shadows and shading throughout the scenery and, for a split second, she felt taken back by the beauty and was almost glad to be home. She could do this. But that feeling past as soon as it came, and she was soon reimbursed with the overwhelming feelings of doubt and failure. She would crash and burn, if not now, then sooner or later. Why had the sunrise seemed so beautiful? She had seen many before this one and was sure that she would see more after, but what made this one unique? Perhaps it was because it differed from most other sunrises, in the sense that she wasn't sitting by the bleak darkness (sometimes illuminated by the Christmas lights that she cherished so dearly), zanged out of her mind on various pills and and roots and things of that nature, hunched over an old IBM or an Underwood, churning out bullshit at a rate that an auctioneer would consider fast, in order to meet some already-late deadline? The sunrise on those days seemed the least of her concern. In fact, she hardly noticed its presence, maybe taking a few moments to give herself a break from her work to stare to the window, almost always positioned to her left, to see the beauty that is the early morning.
But today was different. Although she had spent a lot of her night (and a fair chunk of her morning as well) bent at some disfigured angle over a goddamned typewriter, rather fried (although by this point, she wasn't getting high, only burning out but she needed it, relied on it for God's sake!), she still didn't cultivate the feelings from the past. That rushed adrenaline. That mood that is only brought on by 6 or 7 shots of hard, straight liquor, Jack Daniel's perhaps, and various psychotics, maybe some speed as a compromise, jangling dangerously off the hook, spewing out bullshit to meet some deadline that required to be held back on numerous occasions throughout the night. That feeling was gone. The nostalgic aspect left a long time ago and no seance or gravedigging eunuch could bring it back, not even for the right price. She had out done herself and she had no material in her setlist that would serve as a useful encore. No, today was different because she felt relief for the first time in about 3 years. She saw the elegance of the rising sun through (relatively) clean eyes. She felt as though God had given her a second choice. F**k, re-reading that makes me sound like some sort of Catholic Sunday school teacher who rapes the little rascals in the back room while the choir performs gospel music in the main church front, with all the bastardly sinners singing along in the pews. Our God is an awesome God. He reigns from the heaven above with wisdom, power and love. Our God is an awesome God.
Sickening. Purely disgusting thoughts. She lay there, in silence, with her mind twisting and turning to the gears that were finely tuned for this sort of indepth thinking, when she was jolted upbright by the most berserk, high-pitched twanging noise. Startled, she fell, very suddenly, to the cold, hardwood flooring. It was the radio. It had burst on during the songs climax, which had ending shortly thereafter, dragging onward into the commercial, leaving her with no time to catch the song or figure out the artist. She decided to listen for a bit, both out of curiousity as to the Brooksville local culture and to see if they would annouce the artist or song, so she could hunt down and mutilate each and every member of the band. There was no mention of the song, but the weather forecast predicted showers and thunderstorms. Bah, as if it would rain. Part of her didn't believe it judging by the sheer intensity of the nature of the weather: it was sunny, with hardly any clouds in sight. Yeah, to be fair, those clouds looked rather dark. Unnaturally dark at that, but still, they looked to be drifting away from her area. Looked to be. Another reason she doubted the rainy day warning was that she needed to go out tonight. Some of her "childhood" friends had invited her to some club, bar or other seasoned resort of that nature. She hoped that they hadn't heard of her excessive ways but she figured they had and, now, they were bring the old horse out to see what it could do. To see what she was capable of.
"F**k you! You worthless w***e!" She spoke, or scream more or less, these words with stern meaning. They were directed towards the creature she would have called "Mom" or "Mommy" at an earlier age, but as far as she was concerned, this beat couldn't have birthed her. She knew her by Karen and had known her as this since as long as she could remember. Although she despised her mother, there was still some sort of mutual feeling of love between them. She had came home and her mother had allowed her, hadn't she? She didn't necessarily want to come home, but she needed to finish her book. That and the law wasn't exactly kind in New York. She was greatful, deep down inside at least, for her mothers hospitality but she still found her demeaning and atagonistic. The words that were said were meant to hurt. They were meant to shatter souls and bend hearts. Christ, I hope my children aren't as fucked up as I am. Scary thoughts at a time too early. Or is it...? Nevermind that, back to more pressing matters. These words in question were spoken because of a rather drab arguement. One most would find arbitrary, she prounced on the opportunity to strech this f*****g thing beyond all rules and rot. They were arguing over the business of a wedding invitation. It was addressed to Jade, sent from her publisher, to attend the wedding of Mr. Zimmerman and Ms. Robbinson. She remember Bobby. She met him one evening in a some sort of strange acid party, raving about lumberjacks and one-eyed midgets and camels, whilst trying to have a drink or four. A rather bizarre scene for such a suit. They struck up a conversation during the come down period, mostly speaking of literature (he was also a writer, a "poet" he said), primarily Fitzgerald and Hemmingway. He gave her his card, saying something along the lines of "call me if you need anything, honey."
And she was saying no. Her mother, her own flesh and blood (and a lot of blood was spilt, yes, that was for certain), wasn't allowing her to purchase a plane ticket and fly to Colorado for this occasion, which promised to be a grand spectacle. Sure, she did want to go on the pretenses of shooting up in some church bathroom then wandering around the high mountain towns of the Colorado Rockies at some ungodly morning hour, but she also wanted to go for the wedding. Bobby was an interesting character and seeing him tie the knot was something that seemed like she must see. Some sort of rare, end-of-decade, end-of-era event that all the figureheads of the lifestyle would attend. In a way, her mother was doing her a favour. She had gone back home to Brooksville for this very reason. She assumed that going would sort of defeat the purpose of this (almost) forced exile but then, on the same note, she felt that something such as this needed to have her ebb present. Still, she hated that restless c**t for barring her from such an ominious thing, something that screamed her name and clawed at her very foundations to have her in attendance. But, alas, it seemed as though she was chained down in this wretched side of the country, in the clutches of some tyrant, some witch. Jesus creeping s**t, I still have a whole 8 minutes until I can finish this thing up. Damn. Time is a cruel temptress. So is Love for that matter. But this story is about Jade, not I, and Jade's love life was a very basic thing that will be openly disected at on point or another. Or that is the intention, unless this ravaged mind goes empty, which it so seemingly does on these writings. Many great details and valuable pieces of information are lost forever within the labyrinth that serves as my brain. Maybe one day they'll all come back. F**k, that's a nasty thought. Just imagine, one day, 20 years down the road, you're just sitting around, watching the tube, reading the paper, eating supper, hell, anything. Then WHAM! all this lost knowledge floods back as if the levee has really broke. The whole thing is fucked beyond all recognition and no one cares. Mindless dribble by the witching hour. Goodnight, you sick mongrels.
Part III
I'm Sick and Dying, just like You.
She felt used. Like some sick s**t on the corner. Demented shadows of people's past beings haunted her. She was out of shape before she went out with those f*****g tyrants. They had promised her a dinner of "good food, strong drink and, most importantly, good people." Bullshit. She knew that clearly. In fact, she wasn't exactly sure why or how her mother let her out. She wouldn't let her go to a dignified wedding but she would let her go out with "old" friends to some sickly, rundown bar, then back to their place, which required a midnights drive down a series of twisting roads on some backtrail that she didn't even know existed. This was where the actual partying would start, they said. She was weary of the whole scene before the damned thing began and wasn't impressed much when she arrived at the stated destination. Their "mountainous cabin" wasn't much less than some s**t shack, miles from civilization and cut off from everyone except her guides, who were cleary severe drug addled victims of their own filth. To be frank, she was scared. She didn't want to be here. These were the kinds of scum who pushed people to their peaks and then pushed more. They were vultures. Putrid scum. They ushered her inside, so quickly that it might attract suspicion, had there been anyone around to see. Once inside, she could see this wasn't some little get together with drinking. No, this was a far bigger scene than she could have imagined. She was dragged into the kitchen where some middle-aged, balding peasant handed her what appeared to be a flyer or perhaps a leaflet of some kind, ravelled together and held in place with masking tape. Next thing she knew, she was using her newly discovered invention to suck up the smoke from what she later decided was hashish. At the time it could have been anything. She have expected it to be some opiate, but later dismissed these judgments after she spent the majority of the night talking to her captors.
After a very decent amount of time with her hot blades, which is what she was using to smoke the drug (2 knives and a hot plate on a typical, every-day stove), she wandered into the other room and found the majority of the party zoinked out of their mind on blow. It wasn't very long until she was one of them. Another brick in the wall. She felt like herself, almost as if she had returned to her apartment after a very long business trip only to find it dirty. She felt dirty and, she assumed, this was around the time the used feeling draped itself over her. Or started to at least. It must have been around 3 in the morning when she decided she'd have another go at the soft. This was probably her final straw on the camels back, but she couldn't be certain. She woke up the next morning, sleeping inside some dead hollowed log, 3 miles from the closest anything, and why? She didn't know. And probably never will. One of the few things she'd like to do is keep a safe distance away from sketchy scenes like that, and particularily the people. She hitchhiked back to Brooksville, garnering a ride from speed-crazed trucker named Lou, who gave her some little capsule of tiny, purple pills, which neither she, nor him apparently, were conscious of. Not at least what they were anyways. He said that he picked him up from some travelling circus freak, some sort of bohemian type. Lou said that he picked the gypsy up outside of Lexington and the poor b*****d wouldn't shut up to save the life of him.
"He gave me these pills while he was ramblin' about giant squid and flying spiders, then he started talkin' 'bout his ole lady back up in Illinois, goddamn f****r was a mess."
According to Jade, these were his words. Real character she said. Hypocritical most definitely. Who is he to talk about a travelling man being "a mess" when the poor sucker was talking 4 different kinds of amphetamines, daily, to complete his job. In retrospect, that doesn't sound like a bad career. Gobbling down handfuls of harmful chemicals and driving a massive containment unit across state lines, f*****g the economy over with shipments of random product. Slowly feeding Capitalism until one day when you lean the big f****r over, get out and sign off on the shipment then watch with glee as the whole blasted thing go up in a fiery Ka-Boom that vaguely resemebles Hiroshima. Holy cripe! That savage b*****d trailed off again. There needs to be something to fix such this damned "disease", as I call it. Symptoms include stay awake for extreme periods of time, drinking an excess of caffeinated beverages, experiencing the sounds of trance music, constant need to have sunglasses plastered on your face. Gah! Be gone, demons! Where were we? Right-o, getting back to town.
She left Lou at the downtown dinner, then panhandled to make up a quarter to call home for a ride. Oh, of all the possible persons to answer the phone, why did it need to be her younger sister?
"Hey Stac, can I speak to Mom?" she asked, trying to sound as calm and polite as possible.
"No way! Mom said that yous in big trouble, she's all mad at you for breakin' curfew!" screeched her sister, in the most prepubescent, high-pitched voice imaginable.
It took her goddamn near 15 minutes until she got a hold of her Mom. Even then, the words weren't very kind. A lot of feminine insults were tossed around. Things like "b***h" and "c**t" were popular with every other sentence. Finally she was granted a ride back to home base. Thankfully, she had began regaining her bearings, and for the first time all day, she noticed a numbing pain in her temple. Her innards hurt too. She was a mess. Her hair was grimey, her face had taken on a yellow-toned complexion, her knuckles were white from stress and tension. She had learned her lesson, oh Lord, yes she had. She needed some sort of relief. A warm body to hold on to would have helped. Someone to ensure her security. To tell her she was beautiful. To play with her hair as their legs intertwined. But sadly, this wasn't something you could buy from a corner drugstore in midland Kentucky. No, she needed a pick-me-up. Hair of the dog. Then she remember the pills Lou had given her. With a Coke she bought from the vending machine in the back of the store, she swallowed all but 3 of the buggers in a single gulp. There must have been around 30 - 50 of the damn b******s. She figured the next logical thing would be to sit back and wait for the consequences of her actions to take place, either before or after her mother arrived. Either way, she knew she would be in for a hellish nightmare of a ride... And we will stop on that suspensful note, because I'm am dying from sleep deprivation. Ciao.
Part IV
The Second Last Turn Onto A Dead End.
Jade was in emotional distress. The pills she had taken from that b*****d Lou had thrown her perspective into the wind. She was out cold for 2 days, rambling and raving about martians taking her ovaries and the melting facade of the sunshine. When she awoke after the second day, she was greeted with a smile. A smile so sick and perverse that it could only belong to one, and only one, entity. The smile of hopelessness. It was 3 days until the wedding and she had made it her god given duty to be there, whether her mother liked it or not. She had chartered a plane to take her away from Kentucky, via Louisville International. She had made arrangements with some sort of surfer-hippie type to give her a lift to Louisville. It was a Tuesday morning when she got the call. It had awoken her from her deep slumber and the voice on the other end brought various aspects of joy and hatred but mostly, emptiness.
"Yeah?" she croaked into the phone.
"Hey, is this Jade? It's Drew, if you remember," the handsome voice replied.
Of course she rememberd Drew. How could she forget him? Drew had played such a big part in her life, and at that moment, she felt fear, the fear of hoping he hadn't followed her up on her works too much, if at all, for it was Drew that her stories were written on. It was Drew that publicized her, made her what she is, and to say that all of her stories mentioning the pillock were nice with happy endings would be a very traverse thing to say. No, the history between Jade and Drew was a very complicated matter, which I have tried my best to decipher through the information that Jade has allowed me to know. I tried my best to poke, prod and pry bits and pieces of the unfolding puizzle, but sadly, to not very much luck. Jade is a persuasive women and if she doesn't want or need something, then she doesn't want or need it.
Drew was something else, in the words of Jade. "A true Southern gentlemen." They (being Jade and the subject at hand) first met whilst in pre-school. Jade says she had always had something of a fling for him, but it wasn't until 7th or 8th grade until they afflicted each other with their love, which they had held onto since they were little toodlers. Jade explained exactly what it was about Drew that she had loved him for. She said it wasn't his wavy, sandy-blonde, or his crushing blue eyes. Hell, it wasn't even his cute, dimpled smile, or his Southern charm. She said it was the feelings he gave her, which I find to be very true with people in love. To be in love, I believe you need to get along well enough with the partner, but also have room to grow and nurture the Love. But I believe the deciding factor lies within. That sort of jumpy feeling, the kind of feeling you get when you know you are about to get caught and you're worried almost. That little schoolboy feeling, when you called another kid a rotten name (dirty wanker, perhaps?) and he has gone and told the teacher and you know that you're doomed. The butterflies, is what most call it. It resides in the stomach and lower chest area. Other physical features apply but to me, this is the deciding motion. The casting stone. The closer.
So, Jade and Drew were in love. A fine scene. All's well that ends well, some might say. It was the year during graduation. No, before. After? Jade doesn't remember. All she remembers is the weather. Fall. The leaves were of magnificent colours, all red and orange and yellow, flickering from the trees as the magpies migrated South for the approaching winter months. She doesn't know what happened but they just... sort of fell apart. Distance grew. They tried to keep in contact but eventually all things fell apart and she was alone. She didn't really realize it until a week later. Pain often yields its path until later. She told me one night she just started crying and didn't stop until the sun was rising. She didn't know what had gone wrong but that she was alone, and slowly but surely, that feeling of abandonment overtook her, and that alone makes her cry sometimes. That feeling of being deserted and left, forevermore.
Or so she told me. I have a feeling that there were much more cultivating circumstances behind their sudden split. But that is not for me to say. Or judge for that matter, because I come here only to give you the truths about Jade (or what she tells me are truths). Anyhow, back to the phone call which jumbled our humble, yet slightly insane, Jade back to reality. Jade won't tell me what was said, and I considered reconstructing the phone call to humour myself, but I deciding against it. She says that they talked and conversed greatly about their childhood, and all things of that ilk. The subject of her writings came up and with a great deal of effort, she steered the conversation to something else. At one point or another she asked if he would "care to accompany" her to Mr. Zimmerman's wedding. News had spread at this point of her recent exile to Kentucky, on the purpose of rehabilitation, and he asked where she were allowed. What would be the use lying to him? She told him no and he realized that he was dealing with the same Jade from 6 years ago. He said he'd meet her at The Highlands, in downtown Louisville. With a shaking hand, she returned the reciever to its holster. What a come back to reality. Drew sounded... different, as if he had matured, and become someone rather decent. A Kentucky gentleman, if you will.
Part V
The Final Frontier
Praise Allah. This damned thing is finally drawing to close. I am far too fatigued (and much less interested) to keep plauging this b*****d beyond the expirory date. This story is a lot like the spider I just killed and, much apologies to Jade, it will sooner or later end up on the back of some unimportant object. A sickly tale of weird colours and all you have to show for it is some bug smear on the back of a 3 week old newspaper. Lovely. So, here we are, eh? The last little chunk to our tale. The final sprint to the finish. "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." God bless Neil Armstrong. I heard another good quote from him: "F**k you! I've been to the moon." People of famous calibres are usually dicks or worthless bigots trying again for another 15 minutes. Anyhow, onward into our black nothingness of the Kentucky air.
It wasn't hard to sneak away from her mothers "careful" supervision. She doesn't remember what she told her. No, her mind is too fried from the constant stream of intense remodelling at the hands of substance abuse. She can't remember but she knows the context, the feel of her words. "Hey, Mom, I'm going for groceries." Something as basic as that. Did she feel any regret of leaving her mother expendable at her disappearance? Any regret? No, none whatsoever. That tyrant of a person had let her down far too many times to be considered a mother or even a human being at that. Greg, the self-proclaimed "Nazi slayer", had been late to pick her up. She didn't mind. Greg had a rather interesting personality, the kind of person that drives you into a blind rage after a long enough period of time, but for short (shorter, at least) periods of time, he was a rather diverse subject. He babbled on and on, and at one point, Jade decided he sounded like a turkey. Gobble-gobble-gobble. Christ, will this b*****d shut up? It was sometime around the second hour when he began looking like a turkey, gizzard and all. She attributed this to the pills Lou had given her earlier in the week.
She thanked Gregor incredulously, although he didn't notice a thing. That was one of the reasons she had asked him for the ride, he didn't notice things such as ungrateful writers mooching free rides off him. The other reason she chose him was because he was the only one who would drive her. He had dropped her off on the other side of town in his dizzying haze and she was forced to call a taxi to take her across town. When she was within two blocks of her meeting place, she opened the cab door and sprinted for her life. Like hell she would be paying that goddamn shyster. What kind of sick mongrel keeps the meter going while he talks with a friend anyways? She practically ran into Drew. Their reunion wasn't exactly what you'd call heartfelt. All I've been able to get from Jade is that they "had the most wonderful sex."
Drew is important to our protagonist (or should that be antagonist?). He is important because Jade needed him. Both physically and mentally. She needed a place to stay until the wedding. She brought her manuscript and intend damn-well to finish the bugger while in Louisville. She would use the sounds and scenery, the people and words, all towards her novel. She also needed Drew as a figurehead. A catalyst. Someone to rely on when there was no one else. She also needed a dress. This was to be the most of formal affairs and she would rather burn in the eternal pits of Hell, drowning the river Styx (hell is listening to Styx), rather than show up at such a thing without a dress. So much to do in so little time, my mother used to say.
The day of the wedding approached fast and carelessly. Jade had gotten her dress and finished her manuscript (or finished to the extent of her willingness, typing out each word with her nimble fingers until every sentence held true to what she wanted), and eaten her way thru about 12 pounds of mescaline that Drew had supplied her with. She didn't sleep the night of the wedding. Vivid images flashed through her mind like pictures at a cinema. Wonderful stories of dragons and beasts of the Night. When dawn broke the next day, she was shivering and had a cold sweat. Despite Drew's best wishes, she got ready, eating some Thorazine in hopes it would calm her. They were surprised by a knock at the door some time around 11:30. Upon answering, they were greeted by a very stout, middle-aged man, who introduced himself as Billiam. He said he was here to drive them to Mr. Zimmerman's wedding. Stunned in disbelief, Jade went to the apartment window and, sure enough, there was a long, slender black limousine, just like in the movies.
The wedding was a spectacular scene, just as Jade had dreamed of. There were celebutantes, extraordinaires, millionaires, people of all greatnesses. One of Jade's favourite features was the free bar at the south end of the party. There was a full orchestra, playing a variety of pieces, ranging from slower jazz to upbeat dance numbers, and there were dancing couples all over the floor. At around 2 in the afternoon, the party took flight and headed to some out-of-the-way beach, about 2 miles down. It was here that they began fighting. Jade had simply wanted to stay out longer, and Drew wasn't quite enjoying himself. Their arguement lasted for a rather tediously long time and by the time Jade had returned to the hotel (at about 1 in the morning, rather early in her case) she found Drew to be gone, with only a note saying, "Stay true to yourself, where ever you are. Love Drew." With whatever strength she had left, Jade managed to drag herself into bed and when the morning came around, she had the full effect hit her. She was alone, with a manuscript, in an unpaid hotel suite, with no where to call home. I can't say what happens next, because it hasn't happened. Jade escaped the clutches of the Hilton and met up with a few other people of her scene. She had been spending her afternoons in various Internet cafés and this is the ending of my knowledge and the story, but it doesn't seem quite proper? Something more is asked, but sometimes something more can't be given.
"A running crisis of insanity is what I need to keep myself sane."
Epilogue
I felt that the last piece [Queen Jade Pt. V] didn't have very sufficient ends. It left you guessing, so to speak. And it does. Rightly so, because Jade herself is still guessing. I am trying to make this brief as, at the moment, I am not supposed to be here. I am supposed to be at Robbie's, probably locked in a vast sleep. Instead, I am home, getting ready to head out for coffee with a friend, after a night of intense thinking. No one knows I'm here and I am trying to type with making the least amount of noise but this is a very hard feat. But time to get to what's really important here: Jade.
Firstly, Jade is still in Colorado. Denver to be exact. After ditching the hotel bill, she hung around Aspen for around a week, then hitchhiked her way to Denver. From there, she has been trying to find any kind hearted soul with access to a mojo wire (fax machine) to forward her dribble-esque manuscript-o to her dicknosed publisher in New York. She told me she had gotten some of her book thru to Michael (publisher) and all she got in return was a fax with "this is a joke right?!" scribbled across it in daft hand. She has proceeded to travel fiendishly thru the Denver night trying to find any jackfuck with enough money to front her for publishing rights for her book. She tends to send me e-mails and such by frequenting Internet cafes. Although she hasn't outright said how she gets her income, she has given me more than enough to think about with comments such as "a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."
I feel empathy towards Jade. If not for her current state then at least what she has become to make ends meet. But, I gotta say, she got herself into her own mess and as much as I'd like to help, I believe only she can get herself out. She dug her grave, now she's got to sing and plead to the angels to get out. Saddening as it is, things like this happen every day. At one point and time, Jade was just like you or me, someone who had aspirations and goals, not just another junkie w***e, standing down on the corner, putting a price tag on her body and anything else that you might think of.
"It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat s**t and die."
- Dr. Hunter S. Thompson
And how true indeed. I can only hope the best for Jade and her Coloradoan future. Perhaps one day her star will burn brightest, but for now she is trapped in the smokey, fogged out alley ways of our nations tarpits. Life is what you make of it and, for me, it's time for coffee.
Ciao.
P.S. If you feel the need to know more, post comments and I shall try to answer them as dutifully as possible. I am trying to finish a few other articles then I have ideas for something much bigger, but still, ask away. What's the harm?
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