As I verge on the chapped and craggy lips of this volcanic precipice, or rather, as I am being verged above this sulfur spewing forge of the gods, I can’t help the overwhelming desire to reflect.
It is Friday again and there I am, gloriously nude on the couch, ass imprinted with the zigzags of the old war-blanket encased cushions, and I’m eating some soy nuts, barbecue style, and I’m suffering from hay fever. From within the bathroom, the only divider in that apartment not made from a centuries old four foot thick brick fireplace, comes wafting the unmistakable scent of my rent going up in smoke. Always the day after and always the same strain…Northern Lights, I think. It’s rather distinct.
And there begins the sneezing. Volley after chest-breaking, lung-popping volley of Kachwa!s and Hushnick!s and other ethnic sounding noises fly out and into the once quiet haze of the afternoon air. Then there is silence. The muted laughter from next door stops and I hear shouting begin beyond the toilet. I think he must be bogarting again, because his woman doesn’t usually get this angry so early in the day. She’s rather frightening when she starts in, seeming to like making scenes at fancy dress parties – or so I imagine. As per usual, I simply drown out the rabble with the dulcet strains of the Pumpkins.
And then my door is kicked in, flying off its hinges and crashing to the poorly laminated floor. I sit there in a daze, staring at the dark figure illuminated by the scant sunlight, as I am caught naked under a fuzzy blue blanket and choking on legumes.
“You’ve harshed our buzz for the last time, kid.”
And here I am again, flesh melting away, Mohawk turning to ash. As I stare at my fate with what remains of my rapidly drying eyes, I can’t help but to blame my father for these sinuses and those damned gateway drugs.