Something about the way that last third of the Hamm’s goes down makes it all come back up. The gas expanding in your fucking esophogaus as you try to power through the chug. But something about it man. Something about it at 11:42pm on a Friday night. While stress smoking Bugler’s on the front lawn makes it all come back up man. And your throat screams for mercy from the acids. It’s not even the acids. Or the taste of the beer that makes it all come up.
“I think that’s just part of being in your fucking twenties man.” Ziggy’s words muffle under the fuzz bleeding from the speakers inside the house. And from the roar of projectiles firing outta my body into the potted plants that never had a chance to grow in the first place. Could’ve told Alice they weren’t gonna last when she planted them. Before she moved out. “I think hating yourself is just a symptom of your twenties.”
Spit the phlegm from my lip. “You want a bump or is it just me?”
“Well you know if I do just one it’s gonna turn into doing all of it. So yeah. Why not?”
The beads of sweat from my blistered fingertips can’t even peel the baggie open. Nice part about my house being built in the backyard. Set off from the street. Besides the open lawn and porch space for throwing these fucking bangers. Being able to do blow in front of the whole fucking world. I don’t give a shit what they see. Or what they think about it. I know what I’m fucking doing.
“Ziggy man. I just don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore. It’s like we have these parties. And we play these fuckin’ gigs. It doesn’t fuckin’ matter if we’re making anything off of it. We’re just doing it cause we got this fuckin’ drive. But how long can you drive without being able to see through your windshield? And you can’t even remember the road well enough to know the images that pop up in the rear view.”
“Nobody can really see in front of them man.” The metal ring from his nostril knockin’ a few flakes into the grass. Fallen soldiers. Hear the screams from the upstairs. The projectors flashing out the window. Bodies being pulverized into my drywall. Bone grindin’ down into powder. Railin’ lines of straight fuckin’ marrow as somebody’s drunk ass falls and chips their tooth on your shoulder. “Life is just a series of life threatening last minute reactions to things we didn’t know were coming for us all along.
“You got a morning routine yet? That’s the first sign of adulthood. Having an actual morning routine. None of this ‘well… I forgot my deodorant when I got in the shower. Guess I’m not doing that today.’”
“Yeah. I got a morning routine.”
“That’s good. That’s real good. What is it?”
“Having a warm, flat shower beer when I wake up hungover.”
Find a stray can with my shade of lipstick smudged across it. Must’ve set down that Hamm’s while I was trying to manage band changeovers and the grill at the same time. Drink whatever it contains. Even though there shouldn’t be so many solids in here. Can’t put my tongue on that texture. But I know it’s something I shouldn’t put into my body. Not that the metal in my face and ink on my leather should be there either. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder though. I just hope their eyes are kinder than mine.
The band from Florida waves me over to the porch. Nervously. Don’t know why. We’re all here. We may as well all consider each other family. “So we have to head out. I know you offered for us to crash here if we needed it. But I think to keep the tour on schedule we should really hit the road. Thank you for everything.”
Chief the last bit of my cig. Dig into the chest pocket of my shirt. Pocket now slung below my ribcage. I only wore two buttons anyways. What difference does it make now that they’ve been ripped from me? Grab the wet and crumbled wad of bills. Seventy two at the door. Sift through it pull a twenty for them. Wish I could give more. But it’s a charity gig. We got ‘em two baskets of canned food though too. At least get this act some gas money. Ziggy and I already guzzled our own gasoline up our nose. Whatever drives you through the night ya know? “No, no. You cooked for us. You put this amazing bill together. Just playing for this many people bursting with the same energy as us is more than we could’ve asked for. Thank you for organizing it.”
“No. You guys need some gas money. Let me give you-”
Alice bolts through the front door. Splits us as she makes her way to projectile over the railing. Joint stays lit.
“I think that’s our cue. Thanks for a great fucking party. Appreciate everything you’ve done for us. Give the gas money to the charity you guys did this BBQ for. Food Not Bombs. That’s tight. Keep doing what you do man.” All five of them slap my shoulder as they walk off the porch. Shuffling basses and breakables.
Alice turns and looks at me. Watch the heart Sharpied under her eye wink at mine. “I throwed up.” She shrugs her shoulders and walks back inside. Sit on the porch. Stick my feet in the kiddie pool. New patio furniture. A milk crate. And a keyboard bench somebody forgot after a gig here and never picked up. If they ever ask for it though, of course the patio furniture will lose an addition.
Ziggy sits down in it for now. “Man. Can’t you two get back together? This is making me really fucking sad.”
“The only reason I’ve been able to turn the house into a venue though is because she moved out. She made all the music and shit feel worth it. Now that I’ve lost her, there’s nothin’ left to lose. Rock bottom can be a really freeing place if you don’t let it get you down.”
“Oh come on man. Give yourself some credit. It’s June and your house is already booked through October. You can’t fuck up somethin’ you put your soul into.”
“Is that a fucking challenge bro?”
“Chill out man. Swallow another Narco or something.” Dry swallow it. The only pills I choke on are vitamins. Like another 7.5 would do anything at this point. None of them know how much dog food I eat in my own fucking bathroom. Everybody has shit they try to keep outta the mirrors people see when they walk in their home.
“You know man. I was thinking about it when I was in Traverse City. And it was the same feeling I had the other week when I was skating in the rain. It was the healthiest acid trip I’ve ever had. It wasn’t nearly as fun as eatin’ three hits and going fuckin’ mental. Now that I’ve kinda gotten my life on a certain track though it was refreshing. And it felt just so good. Which is how I felt in Traverse City when I was writing in a hammock sober. Everything just felt right.
“But I need this constant fuckin’ chaos. Keeping me as a pilgrim for my own peace of mind. Cause this doesn’t last. And we’re all out here. Tryin’ to feel something. And we all love each other for facing that desire for somethin’ more outta this. And we all understand that none of us know what it is we’re looking for. But at least we’re all in the same wreckage with holes in our life preservers.
“It’s all a great fuckin’ time. Us getting blitzed and playing music. But it doesn’t carry over to anything that lasts.”
“Flats! Who gives a fuck?! You just watched that Dylan documentary. That’s all he was doing. Rolling Thunder didn’t mean dick. And everybody has turned into this search for America bullshit. No. It was a fucking dude that was just like ‘I wanna play music with my friends. And do what we all fuckin’ love to do.’ Nothing is gonna last. The Earth only has ten years. Tops. And then nobody will be here to remember anything. So who cares if we’re too wasted to remember? Who cares if people in the future look back on our dumbasses? Fuck that shit. If you’re diggin’ what you’re doin’, then keep on doin’ what you’re diggin’.”
Ziggy goes to puke as I take another bump. The cake in the key probably why the lock has been jammin’ on me when I get home trashed at sunrise. Alright. There’s probably more than just that goin’ on. Crack a Hamm’s. It’s something about the way the first sip goes down at 12:22am on Saturday morning while you’re stress smoking cigs with your good friends. Doin’ what you love. Somethin’ about it makes it all puke outta ya. Funny how we can only talk about these things when we’re too wasted to understand our own moans for salvation.
“All I’m tryin’ to say Flats. Do you realize how slim the chances were we’d all end up here? In space and time and the whole damn continuum. We all ended up here. On top of that.” He gags after the drip of his last bump finally slithers down his throat. “There were infinite variables that we’ve all gone through that made us who we are. At this very moment. With this exact group of people. Now I’m not tryin’ to say this means anything. Cause nothin’ means dick. But the smallest decision could’ve completely altered the path of our lives. So we can’t take any of what we’re doing for granted. It’s more likely none of this would’ve happened than it actually happening.”
Ziggy slams the last third of his Hamm’s. And somethin’ about that last third makes him puke it all back up. “I just turned fuckin’ twenty seven man. And I didn’t even think I’d stick around long enough to have a shot at the twenty seven club.”
He hurls. Inches from my bare feet. First show I’ve been at where Ziggy wasn’t anxious about the color my new shoes would turn by the end of the night. “I guess that’s what you were gettin’ at with self-hatred bein’ a symptom of your twenties after growin’ up suicidal. It constantly feels like you don’t know what the fuck you’re doin’ with your life cause you didn’t envision you’d be around this long to have to figure it out.”
Jay walks over from across the street. Passes me his blunt as I offer him a beer. He turns it down. Ziggy waves as he wipes chunks from his lip. And dried blood from his nose. Takes the blunt from me. “Good turn out man. And you say it’s for charity?”
“Yeah man. I’m not trying to make money off this shit. But if I can help somebody else through what I love, what more could you ask outta life?”
“That’s the American dream right there. Getting wasted with your boys. All supporting what y’all love to do. And hoping to give back. That’s what your twenties are all about. Cause next thing you know you’ll be forty like me. With kids. A house. Broke. No car insurance. Chipped fucking teeth with no dental. Smoking dope in your garage. You know how it goes.”
“Well shit. At this speed. I hope I drive right past it. Or crash before I get there. I always thought ‘on the way there’ was a good destination.”
“Hey man. You don’t wanna be like me. Having to come across the street in the middle of the night with my fucking peace pipe here.” He scratches his gray stubble. “But you know man. These are somebody’s homes. And we’re all cool with you guys playing your music. You’re all straight with us. Making way for us to park and shit during your little parties. But you got four thirty racks emptied across your lawn. And just cause I’m smoking with this clown with a mullet doesn’t mean I’m not pissed I had to watch him puke from my baby’s window. All you’re doing is selfishly satisfying yourself instead of considering your impact on the world. We’re all trying to survive man. None of us are gonna make it outta this shit except in a body bag. But none of us our broadcasting it for the whole fucking block to see. You can’t even smoke a goddamn cig in this shitty house you rent.”
“Oh really?” Spark one up right quick. Ziggy lookin’ at me with anticipation and fear. “Watch me mother fucker!”
Throw the door open. “You’re a fucking idiot man.” I can hear Jay say as the fifty people crammed in my living room cheer. Curtains made from clothes people left here. Road closed signs ripped from their fucking brackets. Mementos of things you aren’t sure actually happened. Everybody unsure of their feelings. But know while they’re On the Way There they at least feel something. Even if it isn’t good. We’re all fuckin’ idiots. But admitting you know nothing is the smartest thing you can do.
We’re all just tryin’ to survive this absurdist splice of life biopic. Maybe we black out half way through the movie. Maybe we have to turn it off because we’re not ready for the ending. But at least my haunted house set can feel like a home to some of these people. A place without spoilers and no pretentious snob is actin’ like they got it all figured out. The feedback rings through the vents while the clogged toilet continues to run. Takin’ away all the water pressure from the sink so you can’t wash your hands. It doesn’t matter if we’re clean when we end up On the Way There. Nihilism doesn’t have to be as dark as usin’ your wrists to paint a Jackson Pollock on the bathroom floor. All it means is knowin’ there’s nothin’ to lose when you’re free to be yourself. Even if you’re too afraid to look in the mirror to know who that is.