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A Noisy, Brightly Lit 7-Eleven Filled with Make-Believe People and Too Many Choices

I woke up because I had to shit. My liver or kidneys or something was really making a point of letting me know I had put way too many away last night. Key-rist, was I thirsty. On the way to the shitter, I grabbed the glass of melted ice, cheap vodka, and generic lemonade, a relic from a few hours before when I had finally passed out. I drank it down cuz the refrigerator with the ice cold water was too far to navigate and I had to move fast or there would be a nasty fuckin' mess to deal with.

I woke up on the crapper some time later and reached for the T.P.; the roll was not white but brown and it dawned on me that it wasn't a roll anymore. Fuck! I leaned as far as I could without lifting my ass off the seat and reached for the newspaper. The headline read: ARMORED CAR HOLD-UP IN CHARLESTOWN FOILED BY HOMELESS HERO, SUSPECTS STILL AT LARGE - that looked familiar. I read the story again until the page break and then put the Boston Globe to better use. I ripped a page off and crumpled it up and rubbed it between my hands for a while like my Uncle Rusty had taught me when I was a kid. If you crumple it up and rub it a while it gets softer but it still slides all over the place, and this was a sloppy, disgusting, black shit. I did the best I could and got the hell out of there cuz I wasn't in the mood to puke yet.

I've come a long way since the hardcore days when I would wake up in boiler rooms in highrises in Chicago or laundry rooms of apartment buildings with inefficient security, but not that far, I guess. I made it to the fridge and filled up a bowl (there were no clean glasses) with the ice cold water. I drank it down and stumbled back into the bedroom and fell onto the bed. I hadn't put the air conditioner on last night and it was a hot, humid, grey, ugly fucking day, so I laid there a while, suffering the suicide weather and the horrible, scary thoughts until I couldn't take it anymore. I got up and tried to unbutton my shirt, but I was shakin' like a leaf, so I ripped the thirty dollar dress shirt open, buttons flying everywhere, and almost choked to death getting the tie off. The only reason I had on a fucking noose to begin with was cuz I had had a shit job interview the day before, or was it the day before that?

Anyhow, I got the rest of the monkey suit off and just by virtue of standing there naked for a while looking for something relatively clean to put on, suddenly I was horny. I got out the same old Hustler I'd been jerking off to for six months and tried to work it up. It wasn't really working but it still felt good. What I really needed was a blow job but my old lady was on call at the hospital were she is a radiology resident. How a no-talent drunken writer/bum like me ever landed her in the first place I'll never know, sometimes you just get a break now and then. Anyhow, I managed to bust a nut even though I wasn't hard and that took some of the edge off. I used the buttonless thirty dollar shirt to wipe up the spooge and I put the Hustler back in my sockless sock drawer.

I continued my search for something to throw on and settled on a pair of scrubs she had stolen for me from her work. I came out into the living room and drew all the shades on all of the windows in the apartment. I was in serious fucking pain and didn't know what to do when the overwhelming urge to smoke a cigarette hit me like an anvil in a Road Runner cartoon. I checked my suit jacket, no good; I checked the pants pockets on the suit, still no good. I was beginning to panic when the phone rang, and now I was in a full-fledged panic. I picked up the receiver and screamed out Paul Newman's line from the movie Cool Hand Luke, "Stop feedin' off of meeeeee!!!" I slammed the receiver down hard on the other part of the phone and unplugged the ringing motherfucker. What the fuck did I do with my smokes?

Then my worst fear was confirmed by the dim memory coming back that I had smoked the last god damned smoke last night before I'd passed out. I searched the entire place in a frenzy, sweat pouring down my face, sides, armpits, balls. I was in trouble and I couldn't deny it any longer. I tried the ashtrays, no luck, they were all smoked down past the filter. Oh my fucking god, I didn't have any cigarettes! I plugged the phone back in and dialed the number on Dana's card. "Lisa, Radiology," came the irritated voice on the other end of the phone. "Ah, yeah," I cleared my throat. "Please page Dr. Winnebago, please... ahem." "I'm transferring your call, sir," Lisa said, as if she knew I was a piece of shit. "Radiology." This one didn't give a name, good. "Ahem... Please, Dr. Winnebago, please. You know, page her." "Whom may I say is calling?" she chirped back at me. I wasn't expecting this. "Um, Dr. Sues - I mean Dr. Hummingbird, please, please," I lied and begged at the same time.

While on hold, I puked into the plastic trash basket near my desk, cradled the receiver between my shoulder and chin, and fixed a vodka & lemonade. The hold music was a Muzak version of The Clash's, "All Lost in the Supermarket". What was the world coming to? Finally, about a thousand years later, I had my baby on the phone. "Dr. Winnebago?" came the sweet, reassuring, actually human voice. "Hi, whore, it's Daddy Big Dick and I'm sick." "Tommy," she said in that sing-song what-did-you-do-this-time voice. "Yeah, baby it's me. Look, I'm out of smokes and I'm sick. When are they letting you outta there?" I whined. "Well... I'm giving a conference in about five minutes and -" I cut her off; I couldn't stand one more second of this pain. "Bottom line, bitch! What's the bottom fucking line! When the fuck are you coming the fuck home? I NEED smokes!" "Oh, baby, I'll be there at 1:30. Do you need anythi-" I cut her off again. "1:30! 1:30! That's an hour and a half from now! How am I supposed to make it for an hour and a half?" I demanded insanely. "Why don't you go buy some cigarettes?" came her rational response.

I knew it was no good, even if she left immediately it would still take 30 minutes or more for her to get here with the smokes. I had to face the cold, hard truth - I would have to leave the apartment and walk the two blocks to the 7-Eleven. "OK, baby, go do your doctor stuff and I'll see you later if I make it." Then, before I could hang up, she asked, "Is there any pot left?" Dana asked the question in such a way that I instantly felt even worse for having yelled at her, but only for a second because now I had a new way out. Pot! Pot! Pot! Why didn't I think of that?

"Hold on one second." I brushed away some books from my desk and there it was, the empty bag. Fuck. I looked in the printer that doesn't print, and lo-and-fucking-behold, there it was: a nice, big, fat, better part of a joint. I was at the midway in a carnival of salvation! There were dwarves with cocktail trays on their heads serving free champagne, world peace was a reality now instead of an impossibility, I was doing cartwheels in my mind - and then she fucked it all up: "Cuz after this 36 hours on call I could sure use a nice, relaxing buzz when I get home." I was frozen in mid-cartwheel, the dwarves turned into scary green men from Mars, the carnival music went from a 45 to a thir...ty... thr...ee... I had two options: I could lie and say, no, baby, I'm sorry, it's all gone; or, I could confess and then it would be me and the half joint in a Mexican stand-off for the next hour and a half.

In the midst of my misery I summoned up something deep inside of myself almost resembling a decent human being and told the truth, but with a sadness that would make Dostoevski look like Mister fuckin' Rogers. "Yeah, baby," I sighed, "there's more than half a joint left, but I can't guarantee its life span." "Oh, Tommy, please save it for us, I'll be home before you know it." I was sunk, the jig was up, it was all over but the cryin'. "OK, sweetheart, I'll hold off, but I'm doing this out of love and you had best fucking appreciate it." "Thanks, baby, I love you. Bye." And she hung up.

I felt empty, totally empty. I thought about smoking it anyway and strangling her when she walked in the door before she could ask where it was, but I loved the bitch and she loved me and that, while as temporary as life itself, was worth more to me even at my worst. I thought about how nice guys finish last and brought the immense roach up to my lips and caressed my Zippo - but I couldn't do it. I couldn't muster the indifference. I tried to think of all the arguments we had had, but that didn't work either. I realized I was in the wrong in those disputes 99.9% of the time. So I had to come up with another plan. Nothing came. With great difficulty I put on my boots and a Levis jacket and my deep black shades and before I could chicken out I was out the door and on my way to the 7- fuckin'- Eleven for cigarettes and, oh yeah, toilet paper...

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