Dead But Dreaming

I’ve known him since the second grade. He reads long-winded poems about France to dimwits that call him deep. He's never been to France, but neither have they, and no one wants to sound stupid calling him out. There probably is a town called Duc D'lrouge. He tells them stories of growing up in Brazil as a product of rape. He grew up down the street from me. We played superheros when we were kids. He tells them he isn't writing because he hasn't been suffering enough. He's been smoking and drinking to compensate. I tell him he's smoking and drinking because he isn't suffering enough. I turned 26 last week. “I have no connection to what you are saying.”

I bag up my notebooks and leave the café. He’s probably still talking. It's warm out. I don't remember the last Christmas with snow. I'm wearing a Motorhead T-shirt and my suit jacket around my waist, and I’m still sweating. My jeans must look like I pissed myself. Maybe I have a fever. Maybe it’s breaking. I light a cigarette. I try to score on the South Side, but dude’s not home, so I rent a couple movies instead.

It’s Dickie’s 21st birthday, so we’re trying to kill him. We’ve been celebrating since he turned 18. I have a bottle of vodka at home, so I drink that straight while I wait. Dickie picks me up at seven and we go to Jacquelyn’s Christmas party, which is way out of town. Her place is huge and she is paying far less than my shoebox. There is plenty of beer, but this is a civilized party, with lots of adults and family. We're loud and obnoxious, and sequestered to a front room, away from all the people, food, and more beer. Runners keep us from intermingling.

There are a few cute girls here, but when I start talking, this chick I fucked shows up with her husband who wants to stomp me dead. Everyone suggests I should go walk around to avoid a scene, but nothing is open, and I refuse. This drama has been carefully scripted. I don’t have any more cigarettes, so I bum one from Gavin. Then I get a second. Then Jacquelyn asks me to smoke outside. The husband gives me the death glare when I pass on the way out the door. I exaggerate my drunkennes to avoid being punched. What kind of coward slugs a drunk? This is a civilized party.

A friend of Dickie’s meets us downtown and buys shots for anyone coming too close. He’s passing out tickets for the Sado-Mass show he took from the college radio station. I buy a pack of cigs from the machine in back, even though the price is ridiculous. Someone drives us to the arena and we sneak in the back door, claiming to be the opening band. They won't give us free beer. We probably smoke a lot of cigarettes, but no one complains.

 Continued tomorrow