Misadventures of a Disillusioned Thief #005

-Sam HaiNe (@S_HaiNe82)

Misadventures of a Disillusioned Thief is a series of narrative nonfiction by writer Sam HaiNe for the Cult Classic Good News blog. Read the previous segment #004 here 

Daylight -

I haven’t been sleeping well. And it's not getting any better. Beer doesn’t make it float. Mindless vegetating doesn’t sedate it. It just weighs down like an anchor on shit creek. The slow pace of waiting doesn’t help.  And the mushrooms definitely don’t help, either.  

Drank some housebroken pints at a college bar. The young kids were trashed, tossed, chopped, loose and shitfaced. They all smelled like mouthwash. They all danced like drunken ballerinas. They knew their songs and they requested more from the bearded bar wench. The girls did The Dougie and the boys jumped into their Kid N’ Play routines. No one did the Cupid Shuffle. The Freeze would’ve been cool. The white girl being bothered by a Half-in-the-bag Dominican Xerxes dropped it low and slow. Too bad the other white girl with the Billy Idol haircut, hoop earrings and the round ass kept asking the bartender to play some “black people music”.

The beer tasted like it looked… piss.

Payaso - 

Every night it’s the same and then the same. You get in, if you got out at all, you sit down and you vegetate. You look at the phone but it’s lousy at socializing. The windows have no views. The trees are muted. The backyard is filled with the island sounds of steel drums and Red Stripe bottles toasting. The television is just – well it’s just there.

Most people would be out & about or, inside doing something like strolling, streaming, loving, stroking, trolling or just being boring. Most people get a kick out of the same song twice. Not me.

I turn on the computer and there I am touching the faded brail and searching for a thrill. Thrill me. Thrill me just a little bit before the mushrooms settle inside. There is music playing but I can’t make it out anymore - too many chapped lips.


Pay no attention to the goosebumps on the walls or the breathing from the windows or the muscles in your body squeezing up your chair.                                    It’s not that time yet.
 
The contents of the room read like a moving list; “Soon to be vacant but in hiatus”. More like hibernation. A fresh start in a clean pond for a fish too sold out of foolish ideas of hope. A latchkey kid. The resurrected thing that was once the vanity project of two irresponsible and ignorant, optimistic, individuals. Cold to the veins, long in the tooth. Not blessed but framed from the moment he breathed air.


My jaw is sliding from side to side like something. The tongue is an obese sponge caked in drool. Eye lids are meaningless. The room is turning. ……. I can feel the information in my toes travel upwards into my brain. I’m lit up like a Christmas. Is this what religion is like? Is this a hint of something greater or just a natural reaction the body has to ingesting a mild dose of poison fungi? The Santa Muerte statue above my desk is twirling. She is dancing with her scythe. She’s beautiful. It’s like Vegas. The beat goes on. It goes on. The heat goes on where the hand has been. It goes on, folding itself into nothingness, a pocket of thought away from the fabric.

The lights are eclipsed. No, I turned off the desk lamp. The darkness is an illusion filled with shapes and forms, intertwining and crossing at their appropriate geometric destinations. It gets so overpowering you just want to hug yourself.

N- No- Now the pulse is fading. It’s spreading thin. My neck is jelly and my legs are Ragu. “Just a little more” you tell yourself, “Just a little more for this last hump”. Just a little bit to take the edge off.  So you grip the scissor with your shaking hands and you trim a little bit more from the stem; shaving off some more knowledge.

Hours go by -

The smells of Chinatown are toxic to someone with a case of the jones. Because, you don’t know whether you want to eat or get a fresh fix.
The fifth bus leaving New York City is boarding. There are people loading the cargo bay with frozen stuff and suitcases. The bus is humid and dank. It’s half filled with dregs and nobodies. You find the second to last seat with reclining capability and you entrench yourself. The heat of the window is unpleasant but, it will cool down with your sweat. Ignore the smell from the toilet; the bathroom is for decoration only. It’s the schizophrenic talking to herself that’s your concern. Will she shut up for the long haul?

In the Valley of Green -

We’ve been traveling the Jersey interstate for an hour now, faster and farther away from New York City; away from the noise and the smells; away from the clutter and that jingo-jango jive. Only thing here is the color of green on grey on either side.

The cabin is quiet and so is the schizoid. No problems from her other than her momentary argument with herself - 

“Get off my guts, you!”
“What are you talking about my granddaughter? What the fuck do you mean? She isn’t even bleeding yet!”
“Piece of Shit”
            
It was quick. It was painless. It was without incident - A momentary episode of Mental Illness Theater as we passed through the Garden State.

Last night’s trip is still churning in my bloodstream. My throat is coarse and my appetite foreign. The feeling of weightlessness is not just in my balls, it’s the space surrounding me. The fever is gone but it’s not forgotten. I’ve saved some left in my jean pocket for the reading I have planned. It’s going to be a weird one. I’m trying to forget myself for a moment and sleep. I just need to sleep. A good rest before I have to stand in front of people and spill something for them; something creative in prose and from the page. It’s going to be something familiar, at times ugly & grotesque. It’s the bee’s knees. Next stop is Philadelphia.