IT COMES BACK
by M. Blake

The afternoon sun rests on a memory from years ago. You can still smell the pot and feel the high coming out of you in lazy laughter. You still remember the knapsack with the beer in it.

It was the first time you had been to this place in the woods and you were surprised at how close it was to where you grew up. So close and yet you had never known about it.

�It�s like something out west,� your friend said.

Indeed, the view from the high rocks didn�t seem like anything natural to this area. You were so high up, and suddenly there was a gap in the trees and you looked out into startling openness, a beautiful scene with a rock wall across the way and a mirror like pond at the bottom of it. All the small talk went out of you.

The two of you sat there on a huge boulder and passed the joint back and forth and watched the birds sail on the wind currents. And sure enough, today, years later, you spot two hawks gliding above the same place.

You don�t have any pot on this day and you haven�t seen that friend in years. You wonder when was the last time he was up here and what kind of life he leads now.

At that time you were both single and interested in altering reality. Neither one of you had decided on an extended course to take in life. It was a day-to-day thing, and hence, you had time for things like day hikes and long drives in the car, smoking pot and drinking beer. You fed your heads with as much as possible: drugs, music, books, movies, and discussed these and touched on philosophy (for it wasn�t cool to sound all too serious about things). You took the �fuck it all�, easygoing stoner�s approach to life.

Today, you smile at the thought of some of those times. You see young hikers of that age pass you on the trail and hear them gab away with enthusiasm. Yes, the woods always seemed like a natural place for good long talks. You recall some of the best talks you ever had taking place while hiking in the woods, you and someone else opening up like you never would have in a bar or coffee shop. Nature seemed to encourage it.

Those talking days are over, you think. There seems no point in those discussions now and it�s easier to be alone.

For a few minutes, you think of looking up that old friend again; you have an idea of where he lives. You think of the two of you taking another hike up here. But it is only a brief consideration. Too much time has gone by, and you�ve heard he has a family. It�s the same with so many friends from the past you never see anymore.

Yet you can still smell the pot smoke on that warm sunny day right around this early fall time of year. You remember the red eyes and the lazy laughter, high and looking out at it all from this fabulous perch.

� M. Blake
Reproduced with permission

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A SONG FOR THE ALKY
by M. Blake

He remembers the song playing in his head, the awful, mocking song. Over and over, the harsh, unsympathetic voice as he shivered and sweated and felt his pulse race. From his �resting place� he heard engines running in the store parking lot, voices shouting, laughter, the hum of a generator, and every so often he jumped when someone started the garbage crusher over his head. He�d shift on his cardboard bed, trying for a more comfortable position, wishing more than anything for relaxation and some sleep, an easing up of his nerves, and knowing he most likely wouldn�t get it that night. It would be a few long hours of clutching himself to stop the shivering, feeling cold (Was that death hovering over his shoulder? When would his overworked ticker explode?), hearing things from his head, and, if he did doze, waking abruptly from horribly vivid dreams. There would be hallucinations if he didn�t sleep: something always lurking out of the corner of his eye, an evil presence; something demented enjoying his torment. He would hear the dark laughter, and then he would hear the singing, the mocking voices. Or perhaps there would be a loud, startling noise from the parking lot, life carrying on and indifferent to his illness. It would be a hell night. It already was, and it was early; the nearby stores hadn�t even closed yet.

He had been in bad shape all day from lack of drink and it had gotten worse by the hour. Now he was just resigned to lying down (he was a little too shaky to be on his feet) and pulling his cap down over his eyes, curled in a ball and pulling into himself as much as possible in an attempt to distance himself from his physical malady. Or, in a sense, to leave his body, an �out of body experience�, as he had heard it put. To spiritually drift off somewhere and leave his body until the morning, when something could be done about his condition. That would be the trick: a mind journey through the city at night, loose temporarily from the corporeal bond, but able to travel far in that short time - in fact, doing away with�time� for a while.

Often, he wished he could get his hands on some drug that would transport him in that way, send him on a trip � a new, wonder psychedelic to change his days. He hadn�t taken hallucinogenic drugs in years, but perhaps he should look into them again. He needed a new perspective on things, and not these nightmare hallucinations from the drink (or lack of it).

At one time, when younger, it seemed so easy to lose himself, or part of himself, in intoxication. It wasn�t even something he thought about at any length. He simply got fucked up when he wanted, and then went on from there. Life was a gas, right?

Wasn�t it though, with him curled up in his dark spot, sweating and shaking. Yes, he was about to split his sides laughing. Laugh right in the face of life, if that will make things any easier.

He heard someone laughing out there, enjoying themselves tonight. A shopping trip and maybe some fast food. Nothing out of the ordinary. Home early for some TV. Curled up on the sofa with a loved one. He didn�t want to pursue that thought.

He had company, but it wasn�t the friendly sort. And it wasn�t the kind to set his mind at ease either. In a situation like this, it sometimes amused him to think that he was dealing, personally, with the devil, or vice versa. Yes, he was up against Old Nick himself. It seemed easier to give personification to his troubles, in the form of a nemesis that could perhaps be vanquished. An old rogue who was nasty without a doubt, yet wasn�t averse to a talk to while away the night. He could gloat because he had the upper hand.

But then these thoughts only went so far; sooner or later he couldn�t look at his situation as anything other than pathetic, him gabbing and laughing to himself, talking in whispers, trembling, and feeling like a test monkey that had just been given a dose of some trial drug (a feeling of being under observation). Easily spooked was he.

He had visions of people finding him here in the near future, another cold city statistic; store employees shaking their heads and waiting for the death mobile. What a waste, they would say. Not that old either. What did he die of? It wouldn�t be clear right off, with no bottles or syringes around. The last sleep, no doubt about that. Ticker failure.

Don�t look like a bum. But what the hell was he doing sleeping by a dumpster? Unless someone dumped him here. Foul play. He could see the investigation starting, as it did in all those detective movies when a stiff was found. He had ID so he wouldn�t be a John Doe. It had his parents address on it, so there would be phone calls. He could picture a grave sounding officer speaking with his parents, and then he shut that picture off. Better to confront Old Nick and his minions. Or there was always masturbation. Sometimes he couldn�t get enough of that when his nerves were jumpy like this; it seemed he couldn�t calm himself in any way.

Oh, but what a poison we have here. Two days before, he was rolling; he had the world by the neck and was laughingly giving it a nuggie. Today, Fate had wiped him off its shoes like dogshit. He�d have difficulty crawling out from beneath this dumpster the next morning. There you had it, the Demon, for kings and paupers alike. And bottled oh so attractively, and at the right price, just down the street. He is just one of many casualties this night on the eighty-proof highway. He started out fast, and then went into the inevitable skid.

How many times had he heard at the AA meetings: I just wanted one drink, that�s all. Well, maybe two, to be honest.

And now he couldn�t get any lower. He couldn�t burrow into the pavement, although he felt like burrowing somewhere, away from all light and noise. But even then, he wouldn�t escape from that song playing in his head, those mocking lyrics telling him how crazy he was, with a rocking rhythm and beat behind them, over and over.

He watched the dawn come and forgot about sleep. Confront hell straight on, he thought. Get an early start downtown before it got hot. Downtown, he could collect some cans and get some medicine into him. His bus ticket had expired so he would have to hoof it. At least five or six miles, maybe more, he thought.

In the parking lot, he saw a wine cooler bottle with a swallow in it, but he kept going. He thought it was best not to even think about that at this point in the day. Look at the sky, look at the glass buildings, he told himself. Keep your eye out for pretty women jogging. Keep reminding yourself that the worst is over, you have gotten through the hell night.

He was more tired than he thought, and he felt weak. Days without sleep and little food. He counted on having something in his reserve tank, but it seemed like that was nonexistent this morning. If only he could run on his own sweat, he�d have it made. Or his own stink he could call it, for he was quite ripe today. When was the last time he had touched water? And then he remembered. He had taken a bath in a public fountain earlier that week, three or four days before. He laughed at the thought now: a 3 a.m. dunking in a shopping mall pool (the fountain had been turned off).

It was just about time for a change of clothes too. This outfit (if that�s what you called the t-shirt and shorts combo) had hung on his bones for almost a week now, and he had lost count with the sweat-hardened socks. He laughed and thought of himself as starring in his own movie, a rags to riches story with a �don�t lose faith� message. Yes, the doors to these big glass buildings were closed to him now, but by movie�s end, a chauffeur would be letting his well-manicured and dressed self out of a big black car in front of one of these expensive showpieces, deferentially addressing him as �Mr. So and So�. He laughed loud enough to attract the notice of a couple groundskeepers standing on some rich green grass. They were both Hispanic and dressed in some kind of green uniform. Both were startled by his outburst at first, but then after looking at him, they smiled too and said something in Spanish.

After three long blocks, he saw a small park with a couple of benches and went and sat down. It felt as if he�d been working on a job for a couple hours, and he had felt a little dizzy. That�s all right, he told himself. Pace yourself. You�re not on anybody�s clock. It was early in the day. He wouldn�t be in any hurry to go anywhere if he wasn�t so tense and shaky. He was a little annoyed with himself for coming out this far from downtown and ending up with no money. Not even the one dollar for bus fare. He sighed, and sighed again, and wiped the sweat from his face. It seemed he felt lighter by the day. He was starting to look as skinny as some of the hardcore crackheads around the downtown missions.

After three more blocks, he stopped in the parking lot of a restaurant open for breakfast and looked around on the ground for change. He had been doing that at some of the bars he passed, for he had been lucky at that before. But it was just a few pennies this morning.

Then he had an idea. He went inside the restaurant before he could talk himself out of it. He asked to see the manager. The owner himself talked to him, a well-tanned man in his forties, with a friendly smile. He shook his head to the request for work, saying he had all the help he needed. Yet the man produced five bucks when he heard that bus fare was needed.

Now he was in business! Not only did he have bus fare, but he had enough for a morning libation. Well, the man had suggested that he get some breakfast, so that�s what he�d do.

Now the only thing to do was find a beer store in the vicinity. He realized he had entered an area of industrial parks and little plazas full of expensive shops. Nearby were some of the more affluent neighborhoods in the city. They didn�t have small corner markets with cheap beer or wine around here. Even the supermarkets were expensive. He�d have to take a bus further on towards downtown.

He waited less than half an hour for the next bus, but it seemed like an hour at least. Yet as he was about to step onto the vehicle, it occurred to him that he didn�t have the exact fare, which was a dollar. The driver wouldn�t make change for his fiver. He had to let that bus go on and went to find a place to change the bill. This wasn�t easy at that early time of day, as most of the businesses hadn�t opened yet. Angry, he kept walking, figuring he�d come to a beer store within the next two or three blocks. The thought that a drink wouldn�t be long in coming gave him new energy.

After a few more blocks, he remembered a place that he had once stopped at, fairly cheap, with a place behind the store where he could sit and drink. That was the perfect place, he thought. He wouldn�t have to guzzle the beer. He could take his time and appreciate how the medicine worked on his nerves. Yes, he would get feeling good again and then take the bus downtown and collect some cans. It seemed that this latest nightmare was just about over. It was amazing how his outlook had changed.

And he was almost delivered from that nightmare; he came within thirty yards or so of his goal; he had the store and its beer sign in his sights. But the Demon wasn�t through with him yet. He felt suddenly lightheaded and dizzy, and he staggered. He reached out for something to hold onto, but there was nothing there. He closed his eyes to let it pass, took a couple more steps, then saw whiteness, and the strength went out of his legs. As he went down, the last thing he thought was that he wasn�t going to make it.

He came to with a couple of medics over him, one a ruddy-faced, good looking guy who placed a big hand on his chest to keep him from moving. Still, he tried to raise himself, on instinct, not knowing what to make of things. He didn�t know where he was or what had happened. He didn�t know his name or what day it was. The medics asked him these questions, as the one continued to restrain him from moving. He noticed other strange faces behind the medics and he saw the ambulance. Then he saw a cop talking to someone. Everyone looked serious except the medics, who smiled at his difficulty in remembering things.

�It�ll come back to you,� one said. �Give it a few minutes. You�ve had a seizure.�

He thought he�d seen blood on his shirt and his mouth felt funny, as if something was between his lip and gum. The Demon had really gotten him this time. He had never had a seizure before, but he recalled what one looked like. For some reason, it was hard to believe that it had happened to him. The men he had seen in the grips of a seizure had really looked in bad shape, the worst drunks of them all. They looked like men you expected to have seizures. But hell, he was a drunk, sure, but�

The medics asked him the questions again, and now he could answer them without too much of a delay. He kept swallowing some liquid that he assumed was his blood, yet he wasn�t in any pain. He was told that he had banged up his face a little and that he had bitten through his lip. He would have to go to the hospital for stitches. They were going to put him on the stretcher.

In the ambulance (Had he ever ridden in an ambulance?) the medic hooked him up intravenously to a hanging yellow bag of fluids. They took his vital signs, but he was relieved to see that they didn�t look worried. He admitted to them that he�d been on a binge, which didn�t surprise them.

At the hospital he was treated with another bag of fluids, some vitamins, a couple of nerve relaxing pills, given something to eat, had his lip stitched up, and was told that he had impacted some of his front teeth into his gum and that they would bother him for a while. As it was, it felt as if he had a ball of some kind in one part of his mouth, and one side of his face had swelled up. The nurse had washed off most of the blood and cleaned the sand out of the wounds on his face and one arm. His shirt looked like a bizarre red and yellow tie-dye.

Then the hospital drug and alcohol counsellor paid him a visit at his bed. Apparently it was procedure when they had a case like his.

The man was middle-aged with thinning gray hair, pock marked cheeks and jumpy eyes. He seemed a little nervous and looked like somebody who had been through some trying times himself, yet he was quick to smile reassuringly. Sure enough, he had been a bad drunk for years, which is why he got into counselling, to help others with the disease. And there was help. The fact that he was standing there then was evidence of that.

The counsellor recommended AA meetings of course, and suggested a church group if he were so inclined, spiritually. He also suggested that a halfway house would be a good idea, and provided the address of one in particular, downtown.

�They�re good people down there,� the counsellor said. �Their business is getting men off the street and straightened out. They�ve been doing it for thirty years.�

The counsellor also provided a bus token good for one free ride downtown.

He waited outside the hospital at the bus stop. He would use his token and still have his five bucks from earlier.

He had looked at his face in the bathroom before coming out and he was surprised at how ugly the damage looked. From what he felt, he didn�t think it was that bad. It looked like he had gotten much the worst of a fight and taken a bad beating. And now the scrapes on his face had started to burn and one eye had swelling around it. He remembered the counsellor had said that the halfway house would give a person three free nights before they started charging rent, and he seriously considered that option on the bus ride. What else did he have going for him that night?

He got off the bus at the halfway house and went into the front hallway that served as a lobby. It was a large old townhouse converted into offices, a detoxification section, a kitchen and dining room. Other old houses next to it provided the living quarters.

�We won�t have another intake until tomorrow morning,� the deskman told him, an old man with a drinker�s red face. �Be here at nine in the morning.� Perhaps he had some sympathy for the beat up looking man in front of him. �They have meetings next door until midnight. You can get coffee over there, watch some TV. I�ll give you the fifty cents for the coffee.�

He thanked the man, but shook his head. He started out.

�You know where the mission is downtown, don�t you?� the old guy asked.

He nodded his head and thanked him again. Perhaps he should go next door and get a coffee and listen to people talk. People who had gone through similar difficulties to his. He wouldn�t be alone.

But then he thought about the effects of caffeine, and that decided him against that. He still had a couple of Librium to help get him through the night, but he was saving them for later.

One thing he didn�t feel like doing was leaving the downtown area. There were plenty of places he could sleep in for a few hours, and in the morning he could come back here and check himself in. With the help of the Librium he would probably sleep well this night, and he needed the rest.

He walked in the direction of a small park, where he could sit and think for a while. That�s all he really wanted to do at the moment, just sit by himself and not move anywhere. He didn�t want to think about going anywhere. Instead of thinking, he would watch people and wait for the dark.

He passed two men standing next to a building, drinking beer and laughing about something, and just seeing what they were drinking decided him on something else. He changed his course, in the direction of a supermarket three blocks away. To hell with it, he thought. Why pretend that isn�t what I want? The only company I really desire comes in a bottle.

Isn�t that what he had started out for that morning? And he had come so very close (he could still see the doorway to that little store, and the beer sign in the window), before that sudden whiteness and collapse.

He could see the lights of the supermarket now and knew that he was going to make it this time. And then he heard that song again in his head, mocking him and yet goading him on at the same time, a disturbing song with its hard rocking sound and nonsense lyrics, taunting him. You know what you want, baby, the voices were saying to him. Who are you kidding? He could picture the singers winking at him and grinning, maliciously.

The song frightened him for a moment and he remembered how sick he had been the night before; sick and without help, and that song running over and over. He felt a little unsteady on his feet as he entered the bright store, with the continuous noise of people and market business. He was glad of that noise, for it stopped the song in his head. He concentrated on what he was here to do and went right to that section of the store. As he decided what to buy for what little money he had, he became aware of another song, this one playing over the store�s system. It was a song he hadn�t heard in years and it brought back a time when he was younger, happier and healthier. It lifted his spirits (just the thing to combat the audio demon in his head) as he went to the register with two quarts of malt liquor.

The cashier, who knew him from previous visits, just stared, openmouthed, at the condition of his face, which he had temporarily forgotten. He gave her a little smile.

�The other guy�s still in the hospital,� he said.

She shook her head.

�It looks like that�s where you need to be,� she said.

�I was, but they didn�t have a bar in the place.�

She laughed.

�That�s your pain killer, huh?�

�I hope it won�t take more than this.�

In the park, he rinsed out a Styrofoam cup in a drinking fountain, and then poured what he had been looking forward to for hours. He sat on a bench and just sipped that first drink, and he started humming that song he had heard at the store, the one that put him somewhere else for a few moments.

Tomorrow would be all right, he thought. Maybe he would look into that halfway house. Or maybe he would collect some cans for a few dollars. Something would happen, but he didn�t have to worry about that now. He actually felt pretty good sitting here under the trees, with the night ahead of him and a bagful of medicine. He smiled at the sight of a couple with their young child, and at the young lovers across the park. When a young woman came by with a dog on a leash, he smiled at her too, but the sight of his face kept her from doing the same. He saw this and it checked his good feeling for the moment. But then he had another long drink, and he felt pretty good about himself and how he had come through the day. You�re still going, kid, he said. That�s all that counts.

� M. Blake
Reproduced with permission

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