Black Hole (20 page)

Easy, bro, you'll be okay.

Andy's blowing smoke into my face. Good god, these are just withdrawals. The pain subsides. My fists unclench. Yes. It's good. Drugs are good.

I snatch the pipe from him and hit it like I stole it.

I hold my breath and wait for it to hit my brain.

The world is a good place. It's full of love, and I am a vessel for its energy. Energy and matter. That's all we are, and we think we're special and unique, but from the point of view of the universe, we're all just slow energy that fucks and eats and kills. Hell yeah.

I open my eyes. Andy is gone.

Someone's banging on the door. They're yelling something.

Fuck it.

Smoke more.

Where the fuck am I?

Blackness. Cold metal. I stand and hit my head. Dumpster.

I lift the lid and stand up. German and Japanese tourists take pictures like it's their last day ever to take pictures.

Scream. They scream and run.

I get out. Sore as fuck. Wander around the side of the building.

I check my teeth. They're all there. I could swear I lost them all.

I'm at the party-bus rental place. If I can find this bus and get high on it, maybe I can get back in the timestream before everything goes to shit and everyone dies. Maybe I can save Liza.

I did this before. I remember this.

I pat my pockets. Gun. Twenty-five. Yes. I storm in.

The receptionist hangs up when she sees me. Then she yells into the intercom.

Ron, we have a crazy homeless guy in here.

She's talking about me.

No, I'm not homeless. Well, technically I am, but not in the spirit of the term.

She points mace at me. The guy that must be Ron runs in the room. Ron is a big guy, early fifties, but looks like he's seen some bad days. Like a guy that got huge in prison but has been out for a long time. His hair is white and gray, like Spider-Man's boss. He puts his open palms to me.

I pull the gun out and make it as menacing as the small pistol can be.

Take it easy, guy. Don't do anything dumb.

I want to rent a party bus.

Sure you do. Let's just go outside and talk about it.

Seriously, just give me the bus, and I'm out. I just need it for an hour or so. Give me the keys to a bus, and no one gets hurt.

The woman yells. Ron freaks out. Woman's on phone again. She's crying and screaming.

Put the fucking phone down and get me some bus keys!

Easy, fella.

The woman puts the phone down and explodes into tears.

I'M GOD DAMNED SERIOUS. I NEED A BUS. I WILL BRING IT THE FUCK BACK. I JUST NEED IT FOR LIKE, A HALF HOUR. FOR FUCK'S SAKE.

Two cops run in. They keep a distance from me, but their Tasers are out. A Taser fires. Two prongs fly at me in slow motion. I hear the other cop talking in sixteen RPM.

We have another one. Covered in fecal matter.

The prongs hit me, bites like a snake. Flash of light. Toes-to-hair pain. Zero G. The floor is the sky, and I'm flying.

Psych ward again.

Wearing the kinder, gentler version of a straitjacket: Velcro straps.

There's a light that stays on above my head. I can close my eyes, but it's never quite dark. I swear I can feel the heat coming off it. The walls pulsate. It's the drugs. They're good, whatever they are.

A sweet-looking old Filipino lady comes in and talks to me. I try to say something back, but I can't. Just drool at her. I can't understand what she's saying. I can't tell if it's English or Tagalog. She's nice, and she cares, and she's bringing me more drugs. That's true love right there.

Next to my bed is an IV drip. She shoots something into that little valve, and I'm immediately floating on a slab of Jell-O. This is some good shit.

I want a TV. I want to listen to something. I'm fucking bored in here. Something. Anything but my own head. This is a god damned waste of good drugs. Put on talk radio, for fuck's sake. Anything that connects me to the outside world, anything to wrap my drug-soaked brain around. Instead I'm listening to the sound of traffic on Potrero, the occasional motorcycle and the bullhorn squawks of the highway patrol.

And the smell . . . the psych ward always smells like someone threw up and someone else tried to clean it but couldn't get it all out. So it smells like microwaved marinara sauce and bleach. Not the smell I want when I'm high.

Our Lady of Drugs leaves the room, and the door shuts.

I wait. Killing time, trying to keep sanity by writing a screenplay in my head. I'll write this whole thing out when I get out of here—now that will be a story. But I'm too fucking high to remember much of what I thought of only a few minutes before.

The light blinks out. I wait for someone to come in, but no one does. It must be the middle of the night. Finally, darkness. Maybe the power went out or the bulb burned out. I don't care. I can fully relax for the first time since I got here.

I'm sinking in the blackness, slowly deeper. I see little bubbles coming out of my nose, but I have no trouble breathing. This midnight sky water is cool and refreshing.

A white whale swims toward me. As he approaches, I realize he's not far away, he's small. A MiniWhale. One of mine. I recognize him. The asshole whale. Yes, he's here with me. Someone dumped him in the bay, and he's swum over to me.

He's about a foot from my face. I don't know what his plans are. I want to swim away, but I'm paralyzed. I imagine him biting my face. Clamping on to my temples and cracking my skull like a pecan.

You fucked up this time, Chuck,
he says.

Oh yes, I'm high as fuck. I'm not really in the water, and the whale's not really here. So of course he can talk.

You fucked up big time. You fucked up all your last chances. There's no coming back from this one. You're stuck in this space-time bumper car, and you're not getting off.

All you had to do was not get high. Not get loaded. You got sucked in this black hole of your own doing. You were fucking clean. For the first time in your life, you were clean. All you had to do was not do something. You're great at not doing stuff. You're not doing anything RIGHT NOW.

But no. You can't build something up without just knocking it down as soon as possible.

Can you get me out of here, little Moby Dick whale? Can you lead me to the exit? Can I escape with you? Can I swim to the surface and wake up in someone else's body?

The whale swims away, a white jewel shrinking on black velvet.

Someone's in the room with me. I can't move. I can't speak.

Chuck? Are you awake? We have to get out of here. The power went out. There's a crazy man with a giant knife tearing the shit out of this place.

The voice. It belongs to Dallas, the transgender nightclub singer. Hands on me. Sounds of loosening straps and disassembling the IV.

Hold on, honey, we'll get you out of here.

Screams. Sirens. Metal crashing on the floor. Glass breaking.

Someone's moving me. Lifting me up. Setting me down on gurney.

Rolling out of here. Backup emergency lights.

I'm in the back of a car across laps. Dallas yelling at the driver. Cab? Cab. Cab. Where are we going?

Drive,
Dallas yells.
Drive, god damn it. FUCKING DRIVE.

We go. Cop cars all around, racing to SF General.

THE APARTMENT

I WAKE UP
.
Every muscle is stiff. Everything hurts. Headache like none other.

There are mirrored tiles all over the walls. Lime green ceiling. I move, and the bed moves with me. Fucking waterbed.

I roll myself out. Where the fuck am I?

Naked.

There's a robe on the back of the door. I put it on.

I leave the room and walk to a crowd noise. The living room is full of people from the psych ward. They're drinking mimosas and smoking weed. There are giant framed posters of musicals covering every inch of wall space.

Dallas is holding court, telling some story we've probably all heard.

Zac, the guy who falls in love with strippers. Steffan, who never sleeps. Kristee, the compulsive shoplifter. Miles, sad, sad Miles. They're unshaven with horrible haircuts, their skin a grayish pale. But they're wearing costumes and outlandish clothing.

Chuck! You're awake! Come have a seat. And a drink. And a smoke.

Where are we?

Harris Winchell's place.

The songwriter?

The one. Isn't this place fabulous? He's lived here for forty years. He pays, like, two hundred dollars a month for this place.

Miles hands me a mimosa. I drink it, and it doesn't feel right.

Have anything stronger?

It's a bit early for gin, darling.

Never. Give me a hit off that joint.

I take a big inhale and hold it. It's shit.

Something's not right in my gut.

I need some air.

I step through the giant window and out onto the fire escape. There's a small weather-damaged chair and an ashtray filled with Benson & Hedges butts. I pick up a pack and look inside: a lighter and five smokes.

This is the kind of fucked-up situation in which I need a smoke. I light up. Menthol burns my throat. I can't feel any nicotine, just this burning pine taste in my throat. Like freebasing floor cleaner.

I'm facing other buildings that look familiar. It hits me. This is the building Oso lives in. I'm on top of all the drugs I could want. There's more black hole down there. That is, if I have my timing right. If this is when he's still alive.

I could fix this. I'm not risking anything. What's the worst that happens? I lose all my shit and end up in the psych ward? It's not that bad.

I stub out the cigarette and head back inside.

I need some clothes,
I announce to no one in particular.

Go back in the room you slept in,
Dallas says.
The closets in this place are full of old costumes and whatnot.

The closet is jam-packed with all kinds of crazy shit. Feather boas, fake furs, real furs, gold lamé, some kind of disco-ball fabric I don't know the name of. Polyester, sharkskin, satin. I have no idea how to sort this shit out. I just throw it on the floor behind me as I dig.

I find a two-pieced denim thing. It looks like a leisure suit, but I think it will fit. It's long enough, but it's tight. Like a motherfucker. How thin were people in the '70s? I can't zip the pants up.

There's a kung fu outfit with drawstring pants. That'll do. Basically pajamas.

I'm fucked for shoes, though. There's nothing in here in my size. Not my style either, but that's beside the point. Holy hell, there are some ugly platforms and alligator disco boot things. I don't even know what these are called.

Dressed, I walk out into the hall, making sure I don't lock myself out. Winchell has turned every apartment on this floor into one big apartment. He's knocked out the walls between them. He's probably across the hall by himself at the moment. I'd check it out, but the pull of the drugs from downstairs is too strong.

I walk gingerly. You don't know what you're going to step on in this neighborhood. The carpet is dark and worn out. I think it used to be a burgundy color with some kind of pattern on it. I can see traces of what looks to be a flower shape along the edges of the hallway.

I skip the elevator and take the stairs. I go down one flight, then another. On the next flight, there's a slight familiar stink. Oso's floor.

I enter the hallway and follow my nose. It's the spot, all right. No doubt about it.

I knock, a shave-and-a-haircut knock.