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At home, after I was discharged from the fourth floor, a half dozen of my best friends began shooting questions at me like machine gunners firing hot chunks of lead through my brain. Lucky for me, I had developed an invisible force field that could protect me against such an attack. “Why were you there in the first place? You’re as sane as any of us.” “What did they say was wrong with you?” “Lobotomy, shock treatments?” “Are you okay? You seem right as rain.” “Did they come get you or did you go on your own?” “Meet any good looking chicks in there?” I leaned back in my favorite armchair and accepted a perfectly rolled dubey between my thumb and forefinger. I sucked in vast quantities of smoke, choked a bit and passed the number to the man sitting next to me. Blood vessels inside my lungs absorbed the thc and transferred a peaceful, easy feeling to my head. I tried to hold the smoke inside but instead I coughed, loudly exhaled and smiled like I had just got laid. I smiled as I looked at the faces of each of my friends. Even though I had known them for decades (and deep down I knew they were sincere in wishing me well), I knew better. Not one of them was as they appeared; all smiled up, gushing with phony compassion, over-the-top friendly and super polite. It was as if a trace of honesty could trigger the massive explosive device under the floor. They were mocking me, patronizing me. They were snickering at me every time my eyes blinked. I felt a strong urge to relieve myself in the bathroom, but by doing so would give them the opportunity to bad mouth me while I was out of the room. I wouldn’t give them that satisfaction even if I had to wet my pants. It felt like a cannon ball crashed into my midsection when I nabbed Rick and Willie exchange a quick, secretive glance. They thought I missed it because I wasn’t as clever as they were. I not only saw the eyeball exchange, but I also knew exactly what they were thinking. I saw what they were thinking in their guilty eyes and the way they nervously crossed their arms over their chests. Crazy me? You sinister bastards, I thought. You condescending demons. I’ll show you crazy tonight in your dreams, you sons-a-bitches. Butch was sitting next to James. Catman was planted cross-legged opposite Thomas. Rick and Willie leaned toward one another. One of them spoke and the room erupted in wall-quaking laughter. I whipped my head furiously in all of their directions, then I asked what was so funny. All sets of eyes looked away from my panicked expression. An invisible capsule dropped from somewhere overhead and enveloped me. I was separated from them, while simultaneously I was still with them in the living room. Lucky for me I had that handy capsule to protect me from the poison darts disguised as laughter. I panicked as far down in my mind as possible so they couldn’t detect the overwhelming sense of horror that gripped me to the bone marrow. I was paralyzed with the same horrible fear I felt before I admitted myself for treatment. I wanted to run. I wanted to feel better. I wanted to kill them. I had withdrawn so far inside of myself that I almost vomited out of sheer fright when James gently tapped my arm to hand me a joint. I thanked him, took a long draw off of the number and retuned my brain back into the circle of friends. They were talking about fishing at Lake of the Woods for muskellunge. I knew little and cared less about fishing, but I pretended to be interested so my friends wouldn't turn loose those damned demons of my ass. They thought I was one of them. I wanted to keep it that way. I felt delighted hovering over them like a highly advanced alien that analyzed their primitive attempts at communication. Oops, wrong planet, I thought, while a slow, all-knowing smile crept across my face. That feeling of superiority lasted about three seconds, when ten tons of despair suddenly crushed all of the hope out of me. My chest felt as though it was being squeezed in a vice. Isolation ripped at my legs and dragged me down into a dark abyss dripping with excruciating boredom. The boys dribbled on endlessly about lamebrain card games. The pain of such nonsense almost sent me into shock.
The panic was pure and complete. I needed instant death right then and there. Please shoot me. Throw me out of the jet liner. Pull the eject lever and launch me into oblivion. Open the trap door under my feet. Catman touched my protective capsule and it popped like a giant soap bubble. James passed me a fat joint. Willie asked me how I was doing. Expressionless, I told him I was feeling much better.
Barons, 16 August 2005
Rest in peace my friend. You are missed by many.
Background picture credits: Heating
Coronal Loops (from
http://antwrp.gsfc.nasa.gov/apod/astropix.html)
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