April 17, 2012

There is this new drug fad that I’m quite opposed to.  You go to your local head shop and ask if they carry “Bath Salts”.  For $20 you get a gram of unknown amounts of random research chemicals.  The affects vary, in low dosage it’s just a bump of blow, if you do half a gram you might leave your body.  I made that mistake one night at the last job I had.  I’m pulling a loaf of ham off the wall, all to happy to slice it fresh for some nice middle aged women, when suddenly I’m only half there, at once I’m in this static black universe of ribbony dull light and fuzz tones, and also watching my body work a routine so familiar I don’t have to actually be conscious.  I realize I’m losing control and I have to use a very sharp electric slicer.  I excuse myself hastily: “I’m sorry ladies, someone will be with you very shortly, I think I’ve got a stomach flu.”   The come down from this shit is particularly exciting.  You get to feel like razor maggots are trying to crawl out of your skin.   It’s awesome and when you’ve done the whole stash you get to keep a commemorative mini jar that’s labeled with neon rave dancer, a warning imploring against the sale to minors, as well as a familiar declaration from near-legal drugs: “Not for human consumption!”  Is insufflation really consumption anyway?

When dealing with police, it’s best to to firmly believe that you have done no wrong, and if you have, it was just an honest mistake and no big deal.  Lately Nash and I picked up a friend from work.  There’s no back seat in the van and she’s crouched between us.   When the cop sees her, he startles.  

"Is there a little boy back there?"

"Ah no.  She’s an adult.  We’re giving her a ride home from work."

We call her Zombie.  She works the local bikini bar.  She’s maybe 4’10”, Korean, with a tongue that’s naturally too big for her mouth, so she has the cutest lisp.  Her way of greeting me is to slap my face repeatedly.  And she’s taken to sneaking in nut shots.  She hasn’t got me yet, but I know the pain is coming.   We all love her very much.

So Nash is positively wigging out:  “no sir, I haven’t had anything to drink, I don’t drink, my plates aren’t updated because of this problem with my last name” and he goes on this whole discourse that I couldn’t even follow the first time he told me.  I’m just jovial, smiling, making eye contact with Barney Fife.  We had all just dosed on liquid THC and Nash had been drinking, which he is not not not supposed to do.  He thinks we’re going down.  The cop explains to him that he needs to get his registration updated.   He’d plugged us because Nash didn’t have his headlights on.  When the cop comes back from running our ID’s, he leans in and remarks that he smells alcohol, and would Nash please step out of the car.  Nash of course starts stammering and I can see the cops hackles shiver from the near belligerent delivery, so I holler,

"Just tell him your a fire-breather!  Officer, he’s a fire-breather.  Some kerosene has spilled in the back seat, that’s all.  See the wands?  He’s been teaching us."

When we got home, we smoked some herb and Nash breaks out this head shop ether substitute.  Another dissociative that I don’t like.  I must be a lush for dissociatives because Zombie and Nash do a string of huffs and somehow stay lucid.  If I’d done more than the one or two inhalations, I would have had to go lay down and talk to the shadow people on the outskirts of my corporeal existence while trying to maintain enough of a grasp on reality so that if the all pervading sonorous boom boom of my heart stops, I can hit the 911 button on my phone.   Nash goes to the kitchen and brings back a glass of water.

"Here," he says to Zombie. "Drink THIS!"

"What is it?"  She nervously giggles.

"Just drink it!  It’s cool!"

"Oh I know what it is,"  I say.

"Don’t tell her!"

It’s fun to put people on.  I’m not really good at it or so inclined to mess with people’s realities outside of simple metaphysical theorizing, or just making up strange flora and fauna of my imaginary native land and regaling them with stories of fishing for chickenfish with chickenflys, which is the only bait they’ll take because they’re called chickenfish because they only eat chickenflys.  We don’t know why chickenflys are called chickenflys; chickens don’t even fly.   

One time I snorted vodka.  I tell the kids, “hey, if you wanna get REALLY fucked up, snort vodka!”

Go ahead, try it!