See, when I say weed had a medicinal effect on me, I just mean that it calms my system, dig? A little spot of indigestion or queasiness and it’s entirely gone by the time the munchies set in. That’s why they prescribe the stuff to chemo patients, man. And I’d much rather put a little THC into my system than any of these mad scientist concoctions they call medicine, ya know? Damn, half the time you end up with something twice as bad as what you took the fuckin’ meds for.
Only, it didn’t work this time. Instead of gettin’ all mellow and into my subconscious flow, I start squirmin’ around in my chair. Before ya know it, I’m thumbin’ through magazines like I was lookin’ for money tucked between the pages, just rifling through these old back issues of Discover and Scientific American. But I’m not reading them, not even lookin’ at the pictures. Like my hands needed somethin’ to do and that was the best they could come up with, see?
I start to get frustrated because it also feels like I really am lookin’ for something, man. Like I know its in these old magazines somewhere, so close that I can practically smell it. Only I won’t know exactly what it is I’m searchin’ for until I actually see it. Then I get this idea that maybe it ain’t even in those periodicals at all. Maybe I’m just sittin’ there in my little shithole apartment and pissin’ away my buzz when I should be expanding my parameters, ya know?
So I just kind throw all the mags into this big pile on the floor and, since my hands don’t have anything to keep ‘em busy, apparently my feet decide it’s their turn to join in on the fun. They start tapping away at the floor like I was playin’ the kick drum in a thrash metal band. The cheap glass in my window starts rattling around in the panes like it’s makin’ them nervous or something.
Then—just like that—I gotta be doin’ something. Anything. So I hop up outta that chair and start pacing back and forth, so much that I’m surprised I didn’t make the carpet even more threadbare than what it already was. Not to be outdone, my hands apparently jump back into the fray ‘cause I’m lighting one smoke after another and suckin’ ‘em down like I was tryin’ to earn my merit badge for emphysema or some shit. Which, of course, doesn’t help my damn nausea in the least bit, so then I’m queasy and light-headed, and feeling as wired as if I’d downed half a bottle of No-Doz.
Part of me knows what it is. Hell, I’ve never been good at waiting for anything. I fuckin’ detest standing in lines, man, and stoplights make me wanna pull the hairs right outta my beard in big, bushy handfuls. Don’t even get my ass started on the DMV. That place is like a circle of Hell so heinous that even Dante couldn’t see it comin’.
So within an hour and a half or so, I was prowlin’ through my pad like a caged tiger, like the place had somehow gotten smaller than it already was, ya know? Like the cracked plaster walls were inching a little closer every time I turned my back, pushing all my junk toward me. Kinda like that trash compactor scene in Star Wars, man. I had all this garbage and second-hand furniture feeling like it was tryin’ to squeeze the air right outta my lungs, suffocating me with stale smoke, beer, and that musty odor you sometimes get in old thrift stores.
And, all the while, I got this beast stretching its tentacles through the murky waters of my mind, just waitin’ for the right moment to coil around my leg and pull me under.
‘Cause I can’t seem to get Clarice Hudson outta my head, see? I look at the poster with Einstein stickin’ his tongue out, try to breathe with intention and empty the ‘ole noggin’ of everything that’s clutterin’ it up. But what am I really thinkin’ about? Those plastic tumblers they sell at Dollar Bonanza and how this bitch has probably touched each and every one with her sweaty little fingers.
Some people drink outta those things without rinsin’ them out, man. Healthy people. Innocent people. Might as well just inject them with ultra-concentrated contagion right then and there, for what it’s worth. Then I notice this empty cup from Meat World peeking at me out of the garbage and I get this image of her shoveling all that food down her throat: starve a fever, feed a cold, and founder infection.
And I know Steel’s right. I gotta hang loose, chill the fuck out, and hope he can get the damn roscoe a helluva lot faster than he said he could.
But this chick is doggin’ me, man. I can’t so much as turn a corner without her infected ass pouncing into my thoughts. Yeah, I realize that probably does sound a bit obessive, but if you woulda been in my shoes, you woulda done the same damn thing, mother-fucker. Guaranteed.
So I think maybe I’ll watch a little TV, right? Something to distract me. I plop my ass down on the couch, dig the remote out from between the cushions, and press up on the duct tape covering the back so that the batteries will actually connect with the posts. Apparently the last time I watched the tube, I’d left it on one of those music channels. Nah, man, not like MTV or anything. They don’t even play music anymore, anyway. These are the ones that are on channels like 836, 837, and so on. Kinda like radio through your television… I can tell by that stupid look on your face that you still don’t have a clue what I’m talkin’ about. Get yourself some digital cable, then, you get the full package and you’ll see exactly what I mean.
Anyhow, the point is that it’s on this music channel, right? And what the hell do you think is playing when that screen lights up, man? The Cowboy Junkies. Acoustic cover of Blue Moon. Can you believe that shit? Blue fuckin’ Moon. Of all the damn songs… Shit, man, it was like I couldn’t win.
By this time, I’m so worked up that I hurl that remote at the wall with everything I got, and it shatters into half a dozen shards of plastic. I spring up off that couch like it had a built in ejector seat, and if you thought I was pacing before, then ya shoulda seen me this time. I mean, I coulda walked down to the East End and back four times over. I musta been stompin’ around pretty hard or something, ‘cause that old prick who lives downstairs is just bangin’ away at his ceiling with a broomstick or some shit, ya know? For some reason, my eyes kept darting to that digital clock I’d made from a potato and a glass of water as if I were trying to catch it in a lie.
Now when I’ve taken too much speed, I can sometimes ease myself back down with the right tunes. I just gotta crank the volume so loud that it almost seems like each note is forming itself from the air itself. Like all those molecules zipping around can ring out tones and timbre when they bounce off each other.
It can’t be any of the heavy stuff, ya know? Dead Can Dance usually works, most of Enigma’s stuff. But as I thumbed through the stacks of CDs on either side of the entertainment center, I realize that none of them felt right. I’d picked up Toward the Within, which is probably the greatest live album ever recorded, and only get as far as the second verse in Rakim before I’m already searchin’ for something different.
After trying four or five different discs, I finally realize that I’m not just tryin’ to stumble across the perfect music to soothe the savage beast… I’ve got somethin’ specific in mind. QNTAL. They kinda do this medieval-goth thing. Haunting female vocals with lotsa lyrics in Latin, all these archaic instruments that I ain’t heard since stoning witches was all the rage. Really groovy stuff, man.