05 – Donnie’s Long-Distance Call
I’ve opted to spend the night in again as is my preference and the hope is tonight will be significantly better than the last. Aside from Sasha I can’t think of anyone else aware of my dwelling so achieving calm sans Xanax is a very realistic prospect. And being as I’ve greased each doorman of every shift a hundred dollars a pop (all of whom I score coke for as a post-script) to restrain Sasha on sight and remove her from the premises in the event she attempts another surprise visit, I can rest easy she won’t be popping her drugged-out head through my door anytime soon. The doormen were more than happy to oblige and although they laughed it off as a joke when I permitted them to use lethal force if necessary, I was nothing but serious.
It’s late and I’m on the balcony sipping a tumbler of Jameson deciding tonight I’ll take it a bit easy in terms of chemical consumption. Apart from the endeavors of last night, I started the morning off with a bang. It took three fucking hours at Bourgeois Pig and a four-pack of Redbull to get back to stable… and don’t get me started on the amount of pills I added to the mix in that time, I don’t even want to think about it.
The city shimmers below and the lights of the Santa Monica Boardwalk remind me of Christmas-time back east and I’m stricken with longing for the look and feel and grey atmosphere of a true winter. There’s nothing more depressing to me than sunshine and blue sky’s day-after-day. It’s no wonder every day feels the same.
I’m in unusually high-spirits and although I fear this maybe on account I saw Sonya earlier, I attribute most of this to a text received only moments ago from Cal informing me he’ll be needing twenty-five computers rather than his original order of ten – assuring without any doubt this rip to be my last.
And where just a week ago there seemed to be no hope at all for me and I had a strange feeling I was nearing the end of my life, Cal and his stupidity and his daddy’s money have managed to bring light – no matter how dull and distant – back into my life and hard as it may be, I actually feel as if all of this may have actually been worth it when all said and done.
Of course I’ll have to start following through once secured. I’ll actually have to give writing a stab as there’s no more excuses. And this is a prospect that scares the living fuck out of me. As much as I hate conning and hustling and all that; in some sick way it’s also provided me with a sense of security. An excuse. Being able to say today I’ll survive and tomorrow I’ll get started – keeping that dream alive for yet another day. And however weak or maybe even non-existent the dream may be for me now, it’s still resonating somewhere. And with that dream, a hope for a better life, I’m able to endure all the shit today. But what happens when tomorrow comes and I’m finally living within the realm of today and find the dream is unattainable? What will I be left with then? What else will keep me going?
And then I think of Sonya. I can’t get her out of my mind and it’s pissing me off to no end. I’ve worked so hard detaching myself from distractions life dumps on the laps of the ordinary and have maintained for some time. Longer than anyone else I’d imagine. And up until now, in one night, I’ve found myself not okay with being on my own, at a point where I not only crave but need an outside element to make me feel whole – and it scares the fuck out of me…
Whatever, I’m over it.
I return into the living room, keeping the sliding door open allowing the sea-breeze to whisper back and forth between the walls of my apartment, and prepare myself for a quiet night free of maniac ex-girlfriends and guilt and self-reflection and pills and jerking-off and fear and everything. I just want to zone out to my 15,000-plus song library and see nothing but black in my mind. Maybe an Oxycontin, I think to myself, 80mg up the nose and six-hours on the nod while sprawling out on my couch… that sounds ideal.
I dump the melting remains of ice from my tumbler into the sink and wash the tumbler carefully in lukewarm water (as it’s crystal and don’t want to fuck it up) and place it gently on a eighty-dollar hand-towel I stole from a Boutique on Rodeo three weeks ago while jacked on blow and bored out of my mind… shoplifting is an activity I secretly engage in when there’s nothing to do. For some reason it validates the day for me – where my booty serves as a reminder that I had actually done something, no matter how insignificant and useless that may have been.
In the living room I bring up my music library and fumble through the 100’s of full-albums I downloaded off iTunes by way of stolen credit cards (or in some cases for the more rare albums, downloaded by way of torrents). I’m not the type to listen to just one song at a time. I do the whole album; track one to the very end, every time, no exceptions. I suppose I picked up the habit from the days way back when where I actually did write. It sort of set a soundtrack to whatever themes or feelings I’d lace into every word, paragraph, act, plot-point, whatever…
It’s funny to recall that person I once was and more than anything, comforting. Plot-points, three-act structure, outline character arcs, all that shit I once did so naturally and staked my entire future on – just knowing that knowledge is still somewhere inside – tells me I’m not a total loss cause. On the other hand however, it further illustrates the tragedy of my life – I have all the talent and tools at my disposal, but after having gone so far in the wrong direction, I lack the most important element of all – drive and determination.
Realizing yet again I’m pulling another bipolar episode of self-reflection (soon to be rid by way of high-grade pharmaceutical synthetic-heroin) I pose to myself for only a short moment, why not put these thoughts down on paper? What am I afraid of? If every horrible thing I’ve done in the past was for the sake of my writing, why don’t I write?
Whatever, I’m over it. Why dwell? Done is done. Ending is better than mending…
Instead of playing the Roxy Music ’72 album on loop which I really have to fight not to, I decide on a mellow playlist from an online radio station presented by SomaFM called Lush comprised mostly of female vocals with a modern influence. This is more appropriate if I plan on insufflating 80mg of Oxycontin in one rail. Silence by Delerium featuring Sarah McLachlan starts off the playlist and I’m ready to go.
From my pocket I dig out a bottle of ninety 80mg Oxy’s Mel agreed to trade if I would get some black-chick he’s fucking a year’s supply of Proactiv with one of my credit profiles. Obviously for me a no brainer.
With the lights dim and the computer on auto-pilot music-wise, I scan the rest of the pad for anything else that may require my attention before slipping into an opiate coma and find nothing too pressing. And with everything in order I begin the routine first by sucking off the green coating surrounding the pill – careful as all hell not to accidently swallow the thing. Then I dry the pill off with my shirt and place it on a surface. After this I chop the pill into four quarters, like a pizza, to help ease the crushing of the pill. Then I remove a bill from my wallet and lay it atop the four quarters of the pill. After this I take my black Djeep lighter and run it back and forth over the bill until the crushed, once rock of a pill, is reduced to powder. Finally I peel the bill back slowly and scrape off any powder that may have caked to the bill during the previous stage. And I’m now left with what looks like paint-chips on a plate – being as Oxy (much like really good blow) bonds together into what can best be described as moist flakes once crushed under a bill rather than tiny rocks if I were to just use a blade… and all that’s left now is to chop the flakes into fine powder, line the powder up, and two sniffs later the Magical Mystery Tour is underway.
The Notwist’s Consequence (a personal favorite of mine) is the next song to play and although I’m still a few minutes away from putting the pill up my nose, I can already tell it’s going to be a good night.
I decide to have a Lucky before laying out my lines and don’t feel like smoking out on the balcony so I light up in the living room. Although I have a crystal ashtray on my coffee table and I myself smoke like a 51 year-old ex-showgirl turned waitress in a roadside café, I try to keep indoor smoking to a minimum. But fuck it. Tonight’s a night for celebration. Cal managed to pull an extra 15 grand out of God knows who – maybe those Persian’s Slim told me about – whatever the case may be it’s a him problem, not a me problem.
I lay out on the very couch Sasha-the-cunt sweat all over last night and as much as I don’t want to, I wish Sonya was here beside me. I take slow drags from the lucky and zone out to the tunes surrounding me – David Sylvian’s World Citizen – a very welcome surprise. I note how completely at peace I feel with the world when it’s only me around. It isn’t until I’m forced to face the outside that I become bitter and almost, well, insane.
I haven’t eaten much all day outside of a single bite of a turkey sandwich some greenhorn chick I talked to for all of five minutes at Bourgeois Pig insisted I tried. It was garbage. I think her name was Lana or Lisa or some bullshit like that. Whatever, point is on an empty stomach save for all the pills, I begin to feel nauseous off the Lucky and put it out.
Now I’m ready to get off.
I return to the surface on the coffee table and carefully chop the flakes into dust which in short time I craft into two perfect rails of love-dust. I begin to roll my bill into a straw and just around the time I have everything just right –
The fucking phone rings!
Typical.
There’s always something.
Why I hadn’t turned it on silent I’ll never know. Where under most circumstances I would just let the thing ring I decide to field this call – partially because it may be Cal with news on what’s soon to become my money – but more so in the hopes it isn’t Cal so I can vent out all my frustration on this unwelcomed caller for subsequently ruining what was to be the start of a very groovy evening.
I reach for the phone and scope out the screen… and what I find on the caller ID is so shocking and unrealistic I question for a moment if I had already done the Oxy and this is just some sort of demented Opiate-nightmare.
The name on the ID is not Cal, nor Sonya (which would be nice), nor anyone else from this state for that matter. The name on the ID is one of the few ghosts from the past strong enough to withstand the ice in my heart and haunt me from time to time. In fact, the most significant ghost I have in the stable…
Our mystery caller…
My mother.
The second to last person I’d ever expect a call from. Especially at this hour. It’s around two in the morning in Chicago. What’s she doing?
Apart from the hour, my mother and I quite simply don’t talk too often – or at all if you want the specifics. Occasionally there’s an email here and there to make sure I’m not dead, but to everyone back in that god-awful city I may as well be.
My hands are literally shaking and I curse myself for declining on having another belt of Jameson with a Xanax chaser an hour ago. This is simply a scenario I can’t handle.
Toying with the possibility that this may all be some sort of freak accident – like maybe her phone dialed mine by chance while rolling around in her purse or something – I let the ring go on until finally trapped in the web of my voicemail.
From what I can remember, Mom’s not the type to leave messages, so if this in fact wasn’t a mistake, the phone is a lock to start ringing again.
What I plan to do in that event? Don’t ask.
And then of course it happens again. The ID reads “Mom House – Don’t Answer” and as much as I want to take the advice I had given when originally entering her number into my phone – for reasons unknown – I don’t.
“Hello” I say, feigning the voice of one who has been woken out of deep sleep.
“You’re sleeping?” that oh so familiar voice says on the other line, genuinely surprised.
I say nothing.
“Or are you stoned?” she says, likely certain that the latter is more likely.
“I don’t know,” I manage to say, hands shaking, mind spinning, another fucking night visited by a ghost, this time the ghost of Donnie’s past, “I mean I just didn’t… I was in the middle of doing… I mean… it’s just a surprise to have you call.”
“A mother can’t call her son?”
“Well we don’t exactly fall into your a-typical mold of Mother/Son in Modern America.” I say while eye-balling the two rails on the plate.
“Whatever that means,” she says, “you know it probably wouldn’t be such a shocker to get calls from your mother if we did this more often… It goes both ways you know? Besides, I’m always sending you emails that you never seem to respond to.”
“Mom, you send me forwarded messages you get from work – pictures of cats, chain-letters, bad jokes… shit like that” I say, “I’m sorry but that hardly qualifies as correspondence.”
“Always the smart ass” she says playfully.
“You are my mother aren’t you? Where do you suppose I get it from?”
“Please, you’re adopted. I raised you, I didn’t birth you.”
“Don’t play that card, didn’t Socrates say we’re a product of our environment, whoever’s twat I may have come from means not a thing.” I say, making way for the Jameson I promised myself I wouldn’t touch – doing the best I can in ignoring just how uncomfortable this situation is.
“I’m sure this Socrates didn’t throw words around like twat.”
“Whatever,” I say, scanning for what to say next and coming up empty of course wondering if this is as uncomfortable for Mom as it is for me.
“You’re too queer, Dorkus.” She says.
And with that statement, her response, a tidal-wave of bright-colored images engulfs the now polluted beaches of my soul. I’m reminded of days past when she was my best friend and I hers. We were a unit since day one – I only needed her and she only needed me – and since the first moment she held me in her arms as her own child, we were more than just a mother-son-combo, we were best friends. Unlike my father, I never felt a need to hold back with her. In fact, it was around my mother I felt most comfortable, most like myself. With her by my side I could have done anything… the sky was the limit…
Until I fucked it up X amount of years ago and threw it all away. The love’s still there, but the wounds I inflicted left scars impossible for her (or anyone for that matter) to forget. And because of this, I’ll never have that love, shtick, bond, and comfort again.
Two years ago when we kept in touch more often I needed help and asked if I could stay with her in Chicago a few weeks. She declined – actually flat out refused. I asked her why? I had thought we were making things better with all of our calls and whatnot. I asked her close to tears why she’s been talking to me every day but can’t let me stay with her… to this she responded, after everything you’ve done and put me through, I just can’t have you anywhere with me. To this I asked furiously, then why do you even take my calls if I’m such a monster?
Her response: Because you’re my son. I love you. I just don’t love the things you’ve done…
And how could I possibly blame her? After all, she was my first victim…
On the other end of the line my mother is silent. I wager like myself, running through the memories of our past.
“It’s…” I start to say but choke up mute.
“It’s what?” she responds.
“It’s a shame we can’t just bullshit like we used to. How long did it take you to remember all the shit?”
“I never forget it” she says in the tune of a broken heart.
We share a moment of silence.
What else is there to say?
After what feels like four weeks I address the reality of our current situation and inquire, “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, why are you calling?”
She takes in a deep breath, I suspect racking her brain for the right words.
“I mean it’s like two your time,” I start to fish, “and we haven’t done this in such a—“
“I know,” she cuts me off and in a somber tone close to a whisper says, “Honestly I was hoping you wouldn’t answer.”
“What? You were hoping to just leave a message?” I ask with a fake chuckle hoping to pull her from what is clear to be a saddened state.
“I would have preferred to. It’s always easier.”
“Well if it makes you feel better I always delete my voicemails before even listening. So we’re better off this way.”
“Better off doesn’t make it any easier” she says, now even softer and shakier, giving off the impression she’s more scared than saddened at this point.
As curious as I should be, I’m not. I just want this over. I just want her to get to the point. And as hard as it is for me to do I coldly say, “Well you called me. You should have thought through what you were going to say before—“
“You need to come home” she barks at me.
Once the shock clears the only response I’m capable is laughter – the rough kind – and although I know it’s more than likely killing my mother I can’t help it. First Sasha now this… if it hasn’t already, hell is less than a cunt-hair away from freezing over.
“Come home?” I manage to say, both confused and amused at the same time, “you mean like it’s time for me to go to my apartment? I’m in my apartment now. What is this home you’re speaking of?”
My mother no doubt picks up on the sarcasm and apathy in my rhetoric and in an instant forgets the boy I once was and painfully remembers the monster I’ve become. I detect a choke from her on the other end and although I’m certain there’s a slice in my heart still red and warm enough to feel bad for her… I simply can’t hold back. This is what I’ve become. This is how I forget the shames of my past.
As Sir Hux says, Ending is better than mending…
“Why do you have to make things so hard?” She asks under a whimper.
I want to tell her I love her. I want to tell her I’m sorry. I want to tell her how much I just want to go home and be the little boy she fell in love with. I want to start off fresh. I want to tell her how scared I am – how frightened and alone… But I don’t…
…and rather than comforting this wonderful woman who throughout her entire life always put others before herself – wanting nothing more from life than to love and be loved – rather than telling her how sorry I am and how she’s not at fault for what I’ve become, I fall back into all I know and say, “I’m not making this difficult. You are. You called me and obviously there’s a reason for this. And all you have is you need to come home? I hate to break it to you but I haven’t had a home in years. And if I ever had, it’s not back in the shitty Midwest. You yourself have made that clear to me. So why not just get to the point.”
Just after I hear her heart break she barely manages to say, “You just need to come home – or here, back in Chicago – whatever you want to call it.”
“Why?” I say.
“It’s complicated” she says.
“So I’ve gathered.”
“Can’t you just for one second cut me a break? What is it with you? Do you get pleasure out breaking people down, is that your thing?”
I hear my mother’s words but don’t listen. I’m lost in thought. I remember waking this morning on the balcony and question if any of this is real. Maybe I jumped last night, I think to myself, and this is my purgation… and on that thought I wonder if maybe I had died years ago, and all of this is some sort of purgation—
“What, you have nothing to say?” my mother says, snapping me back to this god-awful situation.
“In regards to what,” I say, “we’re going in circles here. You haven’t given me any information. What is the information?” My entire body is shaking and I feel the urge to throw up for whatever reason. I’m thinking hang-up. I’m thinking Xanax. I’m thinking Oxycontin. I’m thinking porno. I’m thinking Sonya. I’m thinking watching porno while fucking Sonya. I just want this to be over.
Maybe I’m going insane. Or maybe I have cancer.
“I’m trying to give you the information,” she says sharply, “I just don’t know how to put it out there. I’m not good with words like you, okay? And you just keep breaking me down. You think it was easy to make this call? Do you think I wanted to?”
“If you didn’t want to call you shouldn’t have,” I say coldly, protecting myself from allowing this to go any further, “if you have too much to say you should have written me an email. All you’ve said thus far is that you need me to come home. Well home is something you, and the old man especially, made quite clear isn’t with you. So what do you want me to say?”
For a moment a pause. Then a sigh. Then—
“It’s your father, Donnie” she says painfully, “I know you don’t want to hear it but there’s something you don’t—“
“This conversation is…” I stumble on my tongue and can’t manage to craft as much as a grunt, I’m in another world. My blood reaches boiling point in less than a second. I want to be away. I want to fall asleep. I want to start over again, all over again—
“I know it’s hard for you to talk about him” my mother says.
“Talk about him?” I somehow manage to blurt without thinking, “It’s hard enough just thinking about the fucker.”
“I’m sure,” my mother says, feigning a comforting tone just before out of desperation closing with, “but whatever you two need to work out has to be set aside. Something’s happened and I think it be best he has his son—“
“His son!” I rock the walls, “What son!? It goes both ways (I mock) right? I have nothing to say to him and whatever he has to say to me, I’m not hearing it.”
“Donnie!” my mother pleads, “You don’t understand.”
And without even thinking twice I do what I do best and frigidly say, “I’m not interested in understanding. Not my problem – and you can tell him that – not my fucking problem.”
“Donnie…” my mother says behind tears, to which I respond by saying—
“This conversation is over.”
And with that my thumb pounds the end key of my phone and I rush to the table where the Oxy beckons and I inhale the dust and throw my phone and pace about rapidly and think of my father and Sonya and my mother and check accounts and Cal and the three chicks from UCLA I cleaned out my first year here and my father in his robe and our fight in the basement and Sasha and the balcony and of Kafka and of Tivo and before I know it without warning—
Nothing.
Just the way I like it.
Ending is better than mending.
