Irvine Welsh
IF YOU LIKED SCHOOL, YOU'LL LOVE WORK
For Max Davis
Rattlesnakes
THE AIR CONDITIONER on the silver Dodge Durango had fucked up earlier: the filter and cooler malfunctioning. Instead of sweet, chilled air, it had inexplicably started blowing hot desert dust into the vehicle. It streaked their sweaty faces and hands, merging with the previous layers they’d kicked up during their weekend of intoxicated dancing madness. Throats, dehydrated by drug and desert, dried out even more, as tearless eyeballs burned. They had been forced to switch it off.
It had been a long trek out from the Burning Man festival, and a treacherous drive across these back desert roads. Now they were lost in this dust storm. Eugene’s spine was starting to hurt; his large linebackers frame uncomfortable in the seat. The dirt on his wet and slimy hands was turning to mud on the wheel and it was getting hotter all the time. His big chest rose and fell as his lungs struggled to fill up with the warm, dead air.
This damn Dodge of Scott’s! 40,567 miles on the clock and the fucking air con doesn’t even work!
As the storm continued to kick up, the sky growing murkier by the second, Eugene was feeling the sense of his own stupidity snapping at him like a rabid dog. The short cut hadn’t materialized and as far as he could make out there were no fellow travelers around of any description. Eugene studied his pasty, wan reflection in the mirror, his filthy hair scraped back in a ponytail, the sweat from it now running down his big forehead in rivulets of mud. Picking up an old white towel by his side, he wiped it, glad he couldn’t see his eyes under his shades. Fatigued beyond tiredness, Eugene pressed on as demons danced slowly in his peripheral vision. A bolt of lightning crackled in the phosphorous sky in front of him. He was unfit to drive; he was unfit for anything, he considered ruefully. The drugs and the sleep deprivation had taken him into a mildly psychotic status quo, which was now even starting to bore him. He was praying for clarity soon, both in the wild environment outside and in his troubled mind.
One thought was burning him: Scott and Madeline should be awake to take their turns at the wheel. But he knew they were on a different trajectory to him, and so he’d been stuck with the driving. Rancorous bile rose in Eugene’s gut as he pushed on. Thunder quaked and rumbled in his ears on top of a tinnitus bass line that he feared would stay with him forever.
This goddamn mess.
And Madeline. Asleep on the passenger seat next to him, his eyes straying onto her long, bare legs; tan augmented by surprisingly arousing streaks of muck, making her look dirty, real dirty, suggesting a mud-wrestling slut dried out and he could see those legs right up to the cutoff denim shorts… running towards him on some plowed-up field… her long, curling blond-brown hair cascading onto her shoulders, heavy with desert dust… dirty… filthy… running towards him…
It was hot.
It was goddamned hot.
Eugene glanced down at his groin, and swelling was already very much in evidence through his camouflage shorts. The storm had made visibility poor and he could really do without the further distraction. However, the rational side of his brain was shutting down and his eyes kept turning to the easy swell of Madeline’s breasts through her brown cotton tank top.
This goddamn cock-teasing bitch has been stringing me, and for all I know, Scott, along for days. Those lingering, enticing gazes. Then, when you get too close, she just freezes over.
After the festival they had elected to drive out to the desert for a yagé experience, looking to try out the contraband a Peruvian shaman had sold them. It had been Madeline who had spotted the tent of the Temple of the Mystic Light and insisted they attended the shamanic healing ceremony presented by one Luis Caesar Dominquez, self-styled Peruvian mystic. Madeline and Scott were more impressed by the slide show and lecture than Eugene, who had some good hits of X burning a hole in his pocket, and resented missing this German techno act he’d wanted to catch.
When it was over, Madeline thrust a pamphlet into his hand. — It says that Mr Dominquez trained for years with the Kallahuayas shamans of the northeast Lake Titicaca region, the Amautas of the islands of the Andes, and the Q’ero Elders of the Cusco region, who they reckon are last remaining descendants of the Incas!
Eugene shook his head as they stood outside the tent, watching the people file by. — I’m clueless about that kinda shit, he confessed. — Kallahuayas? Q’ero Elders? Means jack to me, he shrugged.
Madeline was unmoved. Eugene once had a sense that she found his open, straight-down-the-line, proud-to-be-a-dumbass act somewhat endearing. He resolved in future to be more circumspect in his ignorance. He recalled that old adage: it is better to remain silent and let people think you are an idiot, than to open your mouth and confirm this impression.
Scott was happy to pitch in. Eugene had almost forgotten how he read and preached all this New Age bullshit. He’d known him long enough to just tune him out when he started with that stuff. — It means he’s the Bill Gates of fucked-up shit, Scott grew animated. — It means he’s one of the top teachers who share ancient and hidden knowledge to awaken the latent healing abilities in everyone who’s ready. His eyes widened, big and spooky. This time Eugene listened with intent because he saw how much this crap was impressing Madeline. — It’s all based on an ancient Andean prophecy that is part of the Inca legend of the Pachacuti — a time when the world is turned upside down and a new consciousness emerges.
— I’ll bet the dude can get a hold of some good shit, Eugene conceded.
And that was when they’d approached Luis Caesar Dominquez, and the shaman had taken them back into his tent and discreetly sold them the yagé. Madeline and Scott were instantly smitten. To Eugene, under the ethnic garments, Dominquez looked as mystical as a vote-seeking politician, or a real-estate salesman.
But they had the yagé.
The setting was perfect; it had been a clear, cool night and they’d constructed a fire in the red soil and pitched up the big, easily erectable, family-sized tent they’d shared at the festival. Scott and Madeline had gotten very excited, and as they looked expectantly at the cups, they seemed high already. Almost in spite of himself, Eugene couldn’t help pissing on their parade. — That Dominquez guy is just a glorified drug dealer. He’s got access to that shit and knows how to harvest and prepare it into the elixir. And he goes around with that lame slide show calling it enlightenment. Fuck, man! I should’ve done that the time I got busted for dealing coke in that shithouse on Haight; just given the judge a power-point presentation and talked about energy and go-getting, he laughed, exposing his big, capped teeth, replaced at cost after a college football training accident a few years ago. — That’s if this shit is yagé, he added, then forced another smile as he saw Madeline looking grimly at him.
Inside each capful was a reddish-brown concoction. Scott took some first, with the others following suit. It tasted bitter and salty. They all drank a second cupful, as recommended by the shaman Dominquez, who had told them that it should produce an experience lasting three or four hours. Then, if so desired, they could drink some more.
The nausea seemed to hit Scott first. He staggered to his feet and moved over to a line of big rocks where he started barfing up. Eugene was just about to shout ‘pussy’ at him, when he was overcome by a sickening, queasy sensation, which seemed to start in the balls of his feet. Soon he, and then Madeline, were staggering toward the pile of rocks as they threw up small quantities of intensely caustic liquid, in short, wrenching spasms.