stuff,
really
?”
He looked at me with the earnestness of a rock and said, “You don’t want to open any doors you can’t close.”
I felt all my fears congeal around this statement. That was it. I had my special power. I would be the opener and closer of doors. I mean, I was the head doorman. A doorman of the head.
“Thanks,” I said to the troll, holding eye contact long enough to get a magical jolt from his intensity. “Don’t open any doors I can’t close.”
I felt empowered as I walked out into the half-hardened gelatin air of the Hollywood day.
That night I performed the magic powder ritual myself and went down to The Comedy Store. The cabal was there and they were ostracizing me. I was panicky. I felt as if I had no friends anymore. I walked out into the parking lot where Jumpstart Jimmy tried to comfort me. He said, “You just fucked up, man. It’ll be alright in a couple of days.”
I was coming unglued.
“No, you fucked up,” I screamed. “You’re one of them. I was
never
one of them. I came here to understand and learn. To see! You’re just a pawn of the illusion. You believe that Sam’s the Beast. He’s not. He’s just another fucking fat bully spreading hate around. You’re all just sheep on a dead-end path. Fuck you.”
I slammed the glass I was drinking from down onto the asphalt, and it shattered all over the parking lot.
Jimmy went back into the club as Hassan drove up in a red convertible. I walked over to him as he was getting out of the car. I was a bit tweaked out, wired, and scared.
“Hey, Hassan,” I said. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
“What can I do for you, Marc?” he said.
“What should I do? Things are all fucked up.”
In
his
eyes lay the
real
Beast. He looked at me with that cool thousand-yard stare, smiled, and said, “You should go do your own thing. You should
get out
.”
23 Skidoo.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “Thanks.”
Hassan started to walk toward the back door of The Comedy Store. He turned around and shouted, “It’s only rock ’n’ roll!” as he disappeared through the door into the black and red darkness, his home in Hollywood for the last seventy years.
When the drug dealer tells you to leave, it’s
really
time to leave.
At about 3:00 A . M . I was alone in my closet, where I spent a lot of time during the last days of my stay in L.A. The hangers kept the voices at bay and my bed had been branded.
As some of you know, the first few hours of magic powder are great, but the following eight to twenty can be a little trying. My heart was pounding itself out of my chest. My lungs were struggling to keep themselves fueled with oxygen. I was sweating and scared.
“I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Please slow down. Don’t die,” I said to the darkness. Words were falling and ricocheting around my mind. Images were falling and flashing behind my eyelids like white noise.
The pristine surface of a gray steel slab appeared and faded into a perspective point far off in my mental landscape. I was on a conveyor, moving like a car on the incline of a roller-coaster. Then came the drop-off. It was like the bad part of the boat ride in
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
, overaccelerated, faces, fragments of scenes, Belushi walking toward me, light for eyes.
“Hey, John. What the fuck happened to your eyes?”
Lenny Bruce flying.
I don’t want to die
.
Fatty Arbuckle as a dirigible floating in the air.
I don’t want to die.
The cast of
Freaks
dancing down the slab toward me at silent-film speed, singing, “One of us, one of us, one of us.”
I don’t want to die.
Hassan laughing, pentagrams spinning into the stars on Hollywood Boulevard, Sam turning into a dog and pissing all over space.
No, no, fuck, no. I don’t want to be at this party. Fuck. How far out can I go?
Then, in my right ear, a voice that was as clear as a bell loudly said, “You’ve gone far enough.”
Then the ride stopped. My
really
?”
He looked at me with the earnestness of a rock and said, “You don’t want to open any doors you can’t close.”
I felt all my fears congeal around this statement. That was it. I had my special power. I would be the opener and closer of doors. I mean, I was the head doorman. A doorman of the head.
“Thanks,” I said to the troll, holding eye contact long enough to get a magical jolt from his intensity. “Don’t open any doors I can’t close.”
I felt empowered as I walked out into the half-hardened gelatin air of the Hollywood day.
That night I performed the magic powder ritual myself and went down to The Comedy Store. The cabal was there and they were ostracizing me. I was panicky. I felt as if I had no friends anymore. I walked out into the parking lot where Jumpstart Jimmy tried to comfort me. He said, “You just fucked up, man. It’ll be alright in a couple of days.”
I was coming unglued.
“No, you fucked up,” I screamed. “You’re one of them. I was
never
one of them. I came here to understand and learn. To see! You’re just a pawn of the illusion. You believe that Sam’s the Beast. He’s not. He’s just another fucking fat bully spreading hate around. You’re all just sheep on a dead-end path. Fuck you.”
I slammed the glass I was drinking from down onto the asphalt, and it shattered all over the parking lot.
Jimmy went back into the club as Hassan drove up in a red convertible. I walked over to him as he was getting out of the car. I was a bit tweaked out, wired, and scared.
“Hey, Hassan,” I said. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
“What can I do for you, Marc?” he said.
“What should I do? Things are all fucked up.”
In
his
eyes lay the
real
Beast. He looked at me with that cool thousand-yard stare, smiled, and said, “You should go do your own thing. You should
get out
.”
23 Skidoo.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “Thanks.”
Hassan started to walk toward the back door of The Comedy Store. He turned around and shouted, “It’s only rock ’n’ roll!” as he disappeared through the door into the black and red darkness, his home in Hollywood for the last seventy years.
When the drug dealer tells you to leave, it’s
really
time to leave.
At about 3:00 A . M . I was alone in my closet, where I spent a lot of time during the last days of my stay in L.A. The hangers kept the voices at bay and my bed had been branded.
As some of you know, the first few hours of magic powder are great, but the following eight to twenty can be a little trying. My heart was pounding itself out of my chest. My lungs were struggling to keep themselves fueled with oxygen. I was sweating and scared.
“I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Please slow down. Don’t die,” I said to the darkness. Words were falling and ricocheting around my mind. Images were falling and flashing behind my eyelids like white noise.
The pristine surface of a gray steel slab appeared and faded into a perspective point far off in my mental landscape. I was on a conveyor, moving like a car on the incline of a roller-coaster. Then came the drop-off. It was like the bad part of the boat ride in
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
, overaccelerated, faces, fragments of scenes, Belushi walking toward me, light for eyes.
“Hey, John. What the fuck happened to your eyes?”
Lenny Bruce flying.
I don’t want to die
.
Fatty Arbuckle as a dirigible floating in the air.
I don’t want to die.
The cast of
Freaks
dancing down the slab toward me at silent-film speed, singing, “One of us, one of us, one of us.”
I don’t want to die.
Hassan laughing, pentagrams spinning into the stars on Hollywood Boulevard, Sam turning into a dog and pissing all over space.
No, no, fuck, no. I don’t want to be at this party. Fuck. How far out can I go?
Then, in my right ear, a voice that was as clear as a bell loudly said, “You’ve gone far enough.”
Then the ride stopped. My
Similar Books
