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 ^{(it's beta!)}

It’s dark by the time I show up at the house. The door and windows are opened wide, light and noise pouring out into the night. The muffled sounds of bass and a hundred voices mingling, unintelligible. There are people on the lawn, sprawled on the grass, in groups, couples, giggling quietly at jokes or stories. Sharing their own little epics, tales of drunken heroics. I remember this, and I miss it. I weave across the lawn, dodging tangles of laughing people. Inside, smoke fills the air, heavy pollution twisting with the movement of the ceiling fans. Old friends wander to me, faces red with alcohol and excitement, welcoming me back with a smile and a laugh. Through the smoke I see silhouettes; dancing ghosts, moving in time to the heavy thud of the bass. Couples dancing, as intimate as you can get when you’ve still got your clothes on. It feels good to be back.

Caligula appears and hugs me, laughing that deep belly laugh of his. He pulls me towards an unoccupied couch and sits me down. With exaggerated care, he slides a cigarette into my mouth and a beer into my hand, talking all the while. Telling me of the parties I’ve missed, the romances, the dramas. I respond; he must like my answers. He laughs again, that heavy laugh, warm and comforting. I feel better already. He lights my cigarette, pats me on the head and wanders off to other party-goers, ever the gracious host.

The beer is warm. I don’t mind.

I don’t know why we find this so exhilarating, this slow death we’re causing ourselves. The parties always end the same. All these kids in various stages of undress and unconsciousness. They wake the next day, caked in sweat, vomit, blood. They’ll count down the hours till the next party. Sure, we’re stupid. But we’re kids with our own little society for 8 or 9 hours. The one night without work, without worries. All week, we wait for that one night, the night when our problems, our stresses mean nothing. One night of unabashed hedonism. Whooping little savages, with our traditions, our manners, our histories, all so complex and incomprehensible. As strange and alien to others as those societies deep in African jungles must have been to European explorers. All for one night.

Maybe it’s always been like this. With nothing else to do, kids fresh out of highschool blow their pay on alcohol. Just trying to drink away the fact that they’re wasted their life, that they’re stuck in a job they hate and can’t afford to find anything better. Kids still in highschool, spending all their carefully collected lunch money on cheap alcohol, bought with a fake ID, or by their older siblings. Swaggering through the rooms smoking their cigarettes, playing tough guy for the night, trying to impress young girls who’re dressed far too old, faces inexpertly painted. It’s harmless fun, blowing off steam.

Sometimes it’s not so harmless. Someone makes the drive to Boston and comes back, sometimes it’s just a few ounces of quality weed, sometimes with coke, sometimes it’s heroin.

Some don’t make it. But that’s never enough to keep the others from tempting fate.

As I’m sitting on the beat-up couch, cradling my beer, I’m approached by a young girl, I remember her. She leans in close and speaks. “She’s been around since you left, didn’t even wait a month.” My heart sinks, and I almost get up and leave right then. She can see it in my eyes, because she gives me a quick hug and an “it’ll be fine, but she’ll want to talk to you.” This doesn’t change a thing. She’s mine, and I love her.

The cigarette is gone and the beer is closely following. Surrounded by the smoke and the smells and the throngs of teenagers, salmon struggling upstream in an un-ceasing quest for inebriation, for happiness. The overall effect is calming. Back in familiar territory.

As I’m watching the crowd, it parts, an old stage curtain revealing a girl. Long, black hair, body like Aphrodite, like Victoria’s Secret, like those old movies, the movies with Hedy Lamarr, with Mae West. Curves like an hourglass. But, her eyes. Eyes like lime-flavored lozenges. So green, a color you could stare at for hours. I used to. Soothing and sad, like a song from childhood, a song you can only half remember. A song so beautiful that hearing it’d make you forget to breathe. Her eyes seem filled with sadness. Every terrible thing that’s ever happened to her. Every heartbreak, every death. You can see it in her eyes. You want to hold her, to help her. To keep her close and make sure she’s never hurt again. Hallelujah.

Her parents named her Hallelujah, but the kids, they call her Holly. And she’s standing there in front of me, hand on her hip. Her face flushed and her eyes alight with an ethanol glow. Examining me, as though she isn’t sure if I’m real. She sits down and offers me a cigarette.

“So, you’re back.” She moves against the arm of the couch, wrapping her arms around her legs. Staring at me. “You gonna tell me why you left?”

“You know why I went.” I lean forward and she lights my cigarette. Her hands smell like that hand lotion she’s always favored, a painful memory. I shake my head, to clear it, and begin speaking. “After it happened, I just- just sort of snapped. The same things, over and over. The same things that killed them. I had to take a break, you know? I had to think.” I take a drag, and look at her, into those eyes. “But I missed you baby, I did miss you. That’s why I’m back.” She looks away. “And... I... I’ve got to ask you something. Holly, I’m leaving again, tonight, for good, this time. I’ve got a car, I’ve got some money, and I’m getting out of here, forever. So come with me.” My heart is beating hard against my ribs. It’s hot in here, I’m sweating.

Holly looks at me, her gaze narrowing, etching lines in her forehead. She takes a drag on her cigarette and holds it for the longest time.

Then, with a puff of smoke and a withering glare, she responds. “You can’t ask me something like that. How could you just walk back in after all this time, and then - I can’t just leave this. My friends are here, my parents, everyone.” She stands up, stubbing her cigarette out on the armrest of the old couch. “I can’t leave, I can’t just leave this behind.”

"You can’t stay here, Holly. This town, it’s a pit, a trap! You’ve got to get out now, or you never will! How long till you end up with a kid fathered by one of these burnt-out assholes, or one of these highschool kids? Yeah, I know. I’ve been away too long for you, Holly, I know all about it.” Her eyes flash dangerously, her hands ball into fists at her sides. I hold up a hand to stop her retort and continue, I’ve started this and now I’ve got to see it through. “How long until you’re married or a mother and your parents expect you to stay here and raise your kid here? Your kid’ll grow up here and end up in houses like this with kids like us, and the cycle will just repeat. Your parents, they’re trapped here, they didn’t get out, and they want you trapped here too! Come with me, please, Holly. We can find something better. We deserve better... You deserve better than this.” My hands are shaking, my heart is hammering against my ribs and I’m breathing heavy, like I’ve just run a mile. The ember of my cigarette swaying back and forth, the smoke trailing from it forming intricate patterns in the air between me and Hallelujah. “Holly, when I left, when I was out there, I saw a whole world. There’s so much beyond this town, this town is nothing. We can be happy out there, just me and you.”

She leans in close, her eyes are huge now. They’re shining with tears, I think of emeralds. She shakes her head. “You never should have left me. You- you never should have come back. Goodbye.” She whispers. With a peck on the cheek, she’s gone. Back into the sea of bodies. My face is wet where her tears have touched it. I’m a jerk. I’m an idiot. I don’t want this cigarette anymore.

It’s hot in here. It’s too loud. I need some air. As I reach the door, Caligula hurries over. “First Holly leaves early, now you? Haven’t even had time to enjoy yourself. Anyway, make sure you come back this time.” He laughs that laugh of his. It has a different tone now, almost sinister. I push myself past him. It’s too hot in here. Too stifling.

The night air is fresh and cool after that smoke-filled house. It’s dark. I’m calm. Caligula is following me, yelling. I don’t hear him. Holly said no. I stand in the road, staring into space. I can see the stars. It’s getting brighter. I begin to walk. She said no, and she just walked away. Twin orbs approaching. It’s cool outside, and I am calm. She said no. What do I do now, I can’t go by myself. I can’t go, not without her. It’s not the end of the world. But she said no. Maybe, maybe if I find her tomorrow, maybe she’ll say yes, after she’s thought about it. I hope she says yes. Standing there in that street, in the middle of the night, I pray, the first time since I was a child. I pray that she’ll say yes, that she’ll change her mind and she’ll leave this dead-end town with me. We can be happy together. I’m feeling better, optimistic.

The car hits me doing 60 miles an hour. Time slows and I can feel every wire in the grille, I can count how many bugs there are, dead against that headlight. The stars in the sky seem impossibly bright, so bright you can’t see a thing, but it doesn’t hurt your eyes. My gaze turns to the windshield and I see flashes of green, that green. There’s a brief, fiery pain, a sensation of flight, and my face is against the cool asphalt. I can’t feel my legs. Caligula is over me, tears in his eyes. He is yelling. Calling for an ambulance, the police, someone. The car door swings open. I recognize her. Hallelujah. She’s crying, yelling. I can’t understand her. I want to tell her it’s okay.

I remember my birthdays, my graduation I remember... parties, me and Holly dancing like those couples in that smoke-filled room, me and Holly. That time we smoked weed in my car and couldn’t stop giggling, the first time I kissed her, me and her in a darkened room, when I knew that I loved her, and I’d never stop. All our arguments, the last time I saw her.

“I... got hit by a car. I’m bleeding- bleeding all over the place.” That’s not what I was supposed to say. That’s not comforting. Her head is on my chest, her shoulders heaving, breath coming in short, erratic gasps. I want to put my hand on her shoulder, to tell her it’s alright, but I can’t seem to get my arm or my mouth to listen to my brain.

She pulls my head onto her lap now, brushing the hair away from my face with bloodied hands, my blood, I realize with a start. She’s whispering now, “I should have came with you, why didn’t I leave with you, why didn’t I come with- oh god, can you ever forgive me?” The skies open up as I turn to look into Holly’s eyes, and I smile. I’ve already forgiven her. It’s getting colder and it’s getting darker. Everything goes numb, everything goes black. This must be what dying is like.

I don’t mind.

When I was young, really young, my grandmother on my mother's side moved into our house. This was after, you know, she had started to deteriorate mentally, so every day was a fresh schizophrenic hell. She'd share with me bits of psychotic wisdom like "you know the police have little hammers and they will break your teeth if they catch you breaking laws, one tooth for each law, and they just leave the sharp pieces in your gums and you will always feel it. The hammers are right there in their belt". "Sometimes, people will sneak into our house some nights and they put things in our food and so you never know whether or not it's poisoned", she'd tell me that one just before she'd tuck into a big meal and leave me staring at my plate, frightened out of my head. I'd go to bed hungry that day for sure. Of course, there was my personal favorite, "God knows exactly what you do when or where-ever you do it. He has no tolerance for any fooling around with girls, he hates it. If you ever so much as kiss a girl, you can get very sick and you will maybe even die, God can do that. Even hugs could leave you maimed." This woman is the reason for all of my irrational terrible phobias, she's the reason I've got a crippling fear of creeks.

It's just after she shared with me that last bit of sage advice that she spun on her heel to leave my bedroom and just kept on spinning, screaming bloody murder. She had a heart attack and died yelling, cursing my family and me, cursing God, on my bedroom floor. I slept in there for ten more years. It's a wonder I'm not fucked up.

Well, I won't be sleeping there anymore. My parents and I had a disagreement about my choice in careers. I didn't want to have one, they disagreed. Some words were said. Now I've got a lighter, half a pack of cigarettes and fifteen bucks to my name. All of my friends have either skipped this dead town or headed off to college. I just need to find a place to crash. I can handle this.

For me, there's something uplifting in walking on the side of a busy road and not diving in front of the speeding cars. The screech of brakes, the searing pain and welcome Oblivion. It's some sort of delay of gratification thing, I suppose. It's a cool day, the sky is dark and threatening a downpour, but for now the sky is full of that rushing water smell of rain.

-----

I never asked him what they were, and I suppose that was my first mistake. It just didn't seem important at the time. Him dropping a handful of colorful pills into the palm of my hand, me looking down, frowning, apprehensive. "Well? What the fuck is your problem?" I took them right there, dry. He hit me in the reckless pride.

So now I'm sitting in this greasy diner, hands shaking so bad I can barely light my cigarettes. Trying to decide whether I'm going crazy or not. The waitress is cute, in a tired, wan sort of way, and she smiles as she places a cup of coffee on the table. I drop my cigarette into the ashtray and wrap my fingers around the cup, eager for it's comfortable warmth.

I raise my head and look out the smudged window of the diner. Flickering golden lights, bright streaks of colored lightning flash across the stormy sky, accompanied by bombastic rumbling thunder. I hurriedly return my gaze to the coffee in my hands, shaking harder than ever. I have to be going nuts, why didn't I fucking ask him what they were. I read once that if you have an imbalance of certain chemicals in your brain, taking certain 'medications' can tip the levels permanently, leaving you gibbering and terrified, trapped inside the whirling lovecraftian madness of your own mind, you'll never ever be the same. What the fuck was in those things.

The coffee cup is empty, the little plastic and paper cream containers discarded. I'm nursing a cigarette, eyes crossing as I watch the cherry shiver in time with my unsteady hands. I'm past the fear that I've done something wrong, that I've undeniably fucked myself up. I've graduated on to sullen acceptance. In six hours I'll either be hung-over, burnt out and tired, or I'll be shivering and vomiting on the floor of a hospital emergency room, surrounded by doctors and nurses, shaking their heads. Just another deadhead party kid.

The cute skinny waitress takes the empty cup and replaces it with a fresh one. She asks if there's anything I would like, some fries, a meal.

"Are you waiting for someone?" She asks. One hand is on her hip and the other is hanging at her side, a half-burnt cigarette dangling loosely from her fingertips. She raises a single eyebrow and looks down at me, vague concern on her tired face.

I laugh. "We all are. Yes. No. I don't know."

I peer shortsightedly at the crooked name tag on her chest, trying to force it into focus through strength of will. Lana, it says in big sharpie marker letters. "Just some more coffee, thanks. Lana." She shrugs, smiling again and walks to a different table. The bell on the door sounds as four teenagers, not much younger than myself, enter. Laughing and talking brightly, punctuating their words with waving cigarettes. I wonder what's got them in such a good mood, what they're talking about, where they came from. I wonder how they'll die. I wonder who they're in love with, who they wish they were in love with. I can't keep my mind from talking to itself.

As I examine them, the room begins to sway dangerously and my gorge rises. I stumble from my seat, across the vast linoleum expanse of the diner, into the dirty men's room. I lean gasping over the sink and look into the mirror. I look like shit.

My face has gone gray and green, pale and sickly. Deep, dark bags under my bloodshot eyes, pupils wide. I leave the diner quickly, shoving a handful of crumpled bills into the hands of tired Lana, waving off her protests. "Tip," I say, pushing myself through the swinging glass door. Despite the threatening rain, the street is full of people.

-----

Young people mostly, teenagers in whatever outlandish dress that fashion favors this week. Neon lights and the strobing flashes of cars speeding by on the freeway overhead. I slip into a darkened club, ignoring the bouncer. They don't care enough to proof me, not in this shitty neighborhood. Sitting in a corner of the club watching sweating bodies on the floor, under the throbbing colored lights. They're playing, if you can believe it, a club remix of Ride of the Valkyries. The music snob in me winces.

My last cigarette goes to some heroin-chic kandi raver with big eyes and purple hair. I can see all the stains in her white tights. She takes my hand and slips a bright bead bracelet from her wrist to mine, kisses me on the cheek and smiles, then slips away into the smoke and flashing lights. Her teeth are glowing in the black-lights and they're the last bit of her I see, like the Cheshire Cat rolling heavy on some wonderful upper. Ecstacy probably. I wander onto the dance-floor and lose myself in the wash of people. My body goes numb and my mind starts racing, none of the things that run through it are all-together comforting. I start to feel sick, my eyes are spinning in their sockets, I feel like I can hear every terrible thought in each of their heads. In the center of the 'floor, I stumble into a tall guy with dark hair and he catches me, he pulls me up and looks me in the eye.

"Fuck boy, what've they done to you? You look like shit." His friends move into a circle around me, looking concerned. He slips his arm around my shoulder and leads me towards the door, followed by his friends. "Come on, man, you need to get out of here."

We get outside and it's cool and dark, it's starting to rain and everyone on the street's gone. I start to breathe evenly and I look up at my savior, smiling vaguely. I can feel my eyes sliding out of focus. The dark-haired guy stands me up on the sidewalk, straightening my shirt. I pull out my pack of cigarettes and I can't quite figure out why there's nothing in it. "I'm sorry- I- You having to leave the club and-"

He grins and pats me on the shoulder. "Not a problem, man, we were leaving anyway." He pulls out a tin cigarette case and screws one into my mouth, lighting it with a tarnished Zippo.

"You know what he needs, Dwight? A visit to the Lite Brite, he’s in a bad way. You can bring him with us!" The raver girl that I gave a cigarette to moves up next to the dark-haired man and takes my hand. They lead me to the street and hail a taxi. We pile in and the girl looks at me and smiles. "Hey, I'm Mary, but the kids, they call me Candy. Dwight’s that tall boy, he's nice. Just wait till we get to the ‘Brite, you'll love it." The driver glares at us through his rear-view mirror and pulls out onto the street. We're on our way. Candy keeps her hand intertwined with mine, and she's pushed against my shoulder in the crowded backseat.

We stop at a row of run-down apartment buildings and they pull me from the cab. Mary and the rest walk me behind the apartments and down a sloping hill covered in dead grass. We stop in front of a steel door on the side of an old rusted warehouse. Over the door is a brightly painted sign decorated with stars and hearts. It says "Lite Brite". Dwight knocks in a complicated pattern I'm in no condition to unravel and he waits.

Three deadbolts thud against the door and it swings open. We're hit with an almost tangible wave of sound. Thudding bass, speech, shouts, and the white noise of hundreds of bodies brushing together. We hurry in and a tall bald black man in a hoodie slams the door shut and slides each deadbolt home. He turns to our group, opening his mouth to speak, but sees me and strides forward.

He grabs me and pulls me away from Candy and the rest. I look up at seven foot of pissed off muscle, and he glares back at me. "There's a cover, you know?" His voice is terrifyingly deep, like you'd expect from some vengeful Old Testament God. Dwight puts his arm around my shoulder and smiles at the bouncer.

"No problem Jude, he's with me. Someone burned him good, he needs some rest."

Tall, Dark and Angry nods to Dwight and jerks his thumb towards the huge mass of people gyrating in the center of the building. "Busy night."

-----

Dwight room is a converted office suspended over the floor of the warehouse, the walls on all sides are plate-glass. The room is dominated by a huge brushed-steel table in the center of the room, and loops of fabric hang from the ceiling, braided with Christmas lights. They're the only illumination. Chairs, couches and beanbags line the perimeter. People file into the room and take seats around the room, leaning back, lighting cigarettes and relaxing. Candy leads me to a couch in the corner and slips a cigarette into my mouth. She leans in close and touches the cherry of her cigarette to mine. I breathe in and it flares to life. Peter walks to the steel table, pulls out a bag and a credit card and begins chopping and splitting a white powder- coke - into lines. His entourage grin and they're on their feet in a second, circling like sharks, salivating in anticipation. Candy sits down next to me, taking a drag of her cigarette and waving dismissively at the fine powder on the scratched table.

She grabs her bag and pulls out three glass medical vials full of liquid, and shakes one in front of my face. Ketaset, animal tranquilizer, pain reliever, psychedelic. "Who needs coke w-when you got the Special K, huh?" I say.

"Exactly! What's your name?" She slips the Ketamine back into her purse and turns in her seat, looking into my eyes.

I tell her and she nods, turning back to the table. Peter leans in over a skinny blonde girl as she does a line, guiding her hand. She giggles and stands, wiping at her nose and wrapping her arms around him. He smiles and pulls her close, talking quietly. Candy makes a quiet, angry noise in the back of her throat. She drops her purse on the couch and stomps over to Dwight, dragging him from the blonde girl. They stand in a corner. Candy is angry, waving towards the cloudy, scratched steel table and the people crowded around it. Dwight speaks briefly then walks back to the table. Candy slumps down into the couch. She doesn’t speak for the rest of the night.

-----

It’s bright when I wake up. I’ve got a splitting headache, my body feels like I spent the night shooting novocaine, and my mouth feels like a cotton ball took a shit in it. The room swims in my vision as I lift myself off the couch. I’m alone in the glass-walled office with Dwight. He’s sitting with his feet up behind a big stained wooden desk that I didn’t notice the night before. He takes a drag off of his cigarette, smiles, and tosses me a bottle of water, which I fail to catch. It bounces off of my forehead, sending a wave of pain through my body.

“So, no home, no money, no prospects. It’d be a bitch to be in your position, and I feel for you, really. But, I’ve got an idea.” Dwight swings his feet from the desk and strides over to me. “See, I own this club. But I’ve got big ideas and even bigger bills, so the money from this particular venture doesn’t really cut it.” He walks over to the huge steel table and unlocks a drawer on the side. “So I got into distribution. It’s good money, and easy work.” Dwight gestures me for him to join him by the table, so I do. The drawer is full of bags, orange plastic pill bottles and stacks of money. “Now, I lost one of my best runners a few days back, and I need a replacement. Now, I can get you a place to sleep, some money, new clothes, whatever. You just need to work for me. I can take care of you.” He takes a last drag on his cigarette and stubs it out under his heel. “What do you say?”

-----

We call it The Sprawl. It’s the three mile stretch of boardwalk and franchise ghetto on the shore end of the town. Dirty, seedy, and crime-ridden, this is where all the business comes from. A wall of stores, clubs, hotels and tenements bisected by a nightclub called the Nice-Nice. A towering sun-bright neon-lit monolith. A monument to drugs, the 80s nightlife, and American excess.

For my first runs, Dwight sent Jude with me both as a bodyguard and to make sure I don’t grab his drugs or his cash and book. There’s something in the guy that inspires loyalty, probably all those muscles. But it’s been months, and Jude has better things to do, so now it’s Candy who comes with me. There’s a particularly run-down building just next to the Nice-Nice, and that’s my destination for today.

Candy takes offense to being left out on the boardwalk, but I’m not about to be the one who has to tell Dwight that I let some scuzzy crackhead lay hands on his girl. So she’s safe under the streetlights.

A tall, Dachau-skinny black guy with straggly dreads meets me in the and brings me into a dusty bedroom. He pulls out a braid and counts it off in intervals of 20. 460...480...500. He hands it to me and I pull a crumpled paper shopping bag out of my messenger and toss it to him. I’m out before he manages to get the bag open, any longer in there and I’m liable to get lice.

When I leave the house, Candy wraps her arm around mine and leads me towards the massive cathedral doors of the Nice-Nice. “Come on, I’ve never been in there before, just for a minute.” My protests fall on deaf ears. “No, he won’t care if we’re a few minutes late, Dwight can wait!” A massive tattooed Samoan in a pinstripe suit stands at the door, a practiced menacing glare on his face.

Dwight pays well, and I slip some bills into the bouncer’s hand. The dance floor is huge. More people than I’ve ever seen in one place, packed onto the flashing floor. Candy squeals with delight and pulls me onto the dance floor. She pops two pills into her mouth and draws me in for a kiss. Her tongue forces my lips open and she spits a little treat between my teeth.

-----

They say that the Nice-Nice is run by a man with no name. He’s got stained teeth, a white suit, and an eyepatch. They call him, predictably enough, The Eyepatch Guy. I always figured the stories were bullshit, a modern urban legend.

I’m at the bar, trying to convince the bartender that I am, in fact, twenty-one, when a heavy hand lands on my shoulder and turns me around. The hand is scarred and covered in callouses and it belongs to an absolutely massive man. Tall, wide, with graying hair swept back into a widow’s peak, he makes Jude look like a gangly teenager. His face is lined and scarred, and his left eye covered by a coal-black eyepatch. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and I follow him into a back room. I didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

“So you’re Dwight’s new man?” His voice is low and gravelly, menacing like a charismatic dictator. I just nod. “I saw you with his woman.” He grins like a tiger and claps me on the back. “Don’t gimme that look, I’m not about to tell him about it. I just thought you should get a fair warning. Dwight’s a jealous man.” He holds me at arms length. “Dwight was awful nice when he took out that loan from us, wanted to start a Rave club. But Dwight doesn’t pick up the phone for us, doesn’t answer his door when we come calling, and we’ll be calling again soon. Dwight’s not a good man to know.”

-----

The sky is streaked with light as we get back to the ‘Brite, and Dwight’s alone in his office, and Dwight is pissed.