John

The sun was coming down in a stream on his face, heating it, bringing him to consciousness, making the hangover worse. He rolled over and felt the pounding in his head, now become crystalline, as though his head was made of glass and was liable to completely shatter. He dragged a skinny arm across the covers and felt the stinging in his bladder, knew that he couldn’t take it much longer, that eventually he was going to have get up and piss; that was, if he wasn’t going to piss in the bed. He hurled himself over, falling out of it, felt the world spinning, crawled his way to the toilet, managed to get to his feet, and just in time, released a bright yellow stream, then stumbled back into the darkened room and fell back to sleep.

When next he woke, it was dark. He rolled over and looked at his alarm clock. Red digits said 6pm. He threw the cover off and managed to stand, went back to the toilet, used it and flushed it, and felt, for one second in time, at least partially human, then stood and looked at himself in the mirror, got a shock to see how old he looked. ‘Like death warmed up’, he mumbled to himself, and turned the light off and made his way to the tiny kitchen.

He turned on a fluorescent light, opened the fridge and pulled out bread, put toast on. These hard nights were starting to take their toll, but try as he might he didn’t seem to be able to stop, didn’t want to, anyway. People would say ‘hey, man, you need to start getting to meetings,’ but what the hell did they know? The toast snapped up and he buttered it and took a bite, felt his stomach processing it, then remembered the doctor’s stern face. If he wasn’t lying then nobody was. The pristine irises and neatly brushed hair, the pasty skin behind thick glasses, staring at him, the mouth moving as if in slow motion: ‘You’re going to have to have a look at it, John.’ And he would look back at him, like a scolded child, vowing to do something from within the surgery, every time, but always, once out into the day, would change his mind. And the strange thing was, he, himself, didn’t, for the life of him, even know why. Why, after all, did he drink? It was a question that he himself didn’t even have an answer for. One thing he did know, though, was that, he wasn’t about to start attending meetings. They, after all, based all of their convictions on the fact of a God. And that was one thing he couldn’t abide by, not now, not ever. He put on more toast, snapped the light off and walked back into the lounge, sat and watched the dark outside, then fell back to sleep on the couch.

When next he woke, the phone was ringing full ball and wouldn’t seem to stop. He sat up and picked it up off the hook.

‘Yeah?’

‘Hey, you wanna meet?’

‘Alright, where?’

‘Don’t be daft.’

The phone went dead and with effort, he stood, got his jeans and a shirt on, made it out the front door and out into the night. He made it out onto the road, passing strangers in the street, walked passed the same prostitute that would hang around at the same time every night, wished that he was still young enough to have a piece of her, her long hair blowing in the wind like a dressmakers wig, good legs. But she would ignore him every night, and he would wonder about her, how her life had come to this. He passed other strangers, couples in the night and came to the sex shop, went inside. The woman smiled at him, long hair cut into a bob around her shoulders, porcelain skin, lipstick the right colour.

‘Hey, Mary.’

‘Johnny! We been waiting to see you, how you been?’

She leaned forward on the glass, showing her tits off, drawing his eye for the millionth time, knowing full well, it was all part of her little game.

‘I’ve been ok, Mary, hangin in there. You?’

‘Oh, you know, not too bad. Had to pay for someone to look after my little boy, so, I could come in. You know how it is, being a working woman and all.’

‘Right.’

‘Oh, you looking for Dave, aren’t you; I’ll get him. He’s just out the back. Stay there, beautiful, I’ll be right back.’

She turned around and walked back to behind a black curtain, giving him a good view of the shape of her a*s in her dress, like two watermelons placed side by side. And then, she was gone, always making him wonder what was back there, and then, Dave, his so-called mate came out. Dave, wearing his oversized glasses and in his curly hair, looking more like a geeky college professor than anything else. How did these people get into drug dealing? But then, who really knew what went on in anyone’s lives?

‘Alright, Johnny, I got some good stuff here, it’s the latest batch, they call it shot-gun, pure hydro. Be careful with this stiff, it’ll blow you’re head off, I’m telling ya. Some guys told they been smoking weed for years, but this stuff actually made them paranoid.’

‘Yeah, yeah, how much?’

‘For half an ounce, I can do it for 50.’

‘Alright, give me three.’

‘Whoah, Johnny, wait up! I told you, this stuff, it’s lethal, man!’

‘Stop calling me a p***y.’

‘Alright, man, but don’t come crying to me, when you get into paranoia.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

He looked back at him and couldn’t decide whether he hated the guy or loved him. Kids these days, they could be really reliable, even if they did have all their morals screwed up with their progressive politics; still, what the hell was he gonna do about? Answer: nothing.