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Monday, March 5, 2012

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 10 Back in Albany New York

Now on the floor, I try to see through the dim lighting. There is a mass of people on the bed as well as people all over the room.

No one is moving or really talking. There is a low murmur and I can’t make out too many words.  There is also a thick haze of marijuana in the air.

“Man, would you like a hit?” Myla says as she reaches into the pile of people on the bed and pulls back a bong. I don’t have to think twice but I do remember what happened earlier when I woke up on the field. Myla holds the lighter to the bowl as I inhale.

The record player drops a new record onto the turntable and “Message of Love” by The Pretenders blasts from the speakers. It is a new song to me. I have never really discovered The Pretenders and I make her play the song over and over. Myla finds this hysterical and starts the song again the minute it ends. By the tenth playing, Myla joins me in my reckless dancing. I am jumping up and down and Myla joins me with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and a bottle of Southern Comfort nestled in a paper bag. I assume that this is the way Janis drank it.

Myla swings her head so that her hair flies around. The cigarette never leaves her mouth and the ashes fall to the floor. She is clearly being taken somewhere else by the music. Her head gets thrown back and forth caught in ecstasy. Someone slowly gets off the floor and walks over to the record player pulling the needle off the record.  Myla and I fall down on the floor laughing. It was as if the music had been holding us up. Crosby, Stills and Nash is now on the turntable. I can hear a distant and rhythmic rapping that sounds like its coming from the other room

“Shit Man,” Myla says opening her bedroom door and walking into the room on the other side of the door. I can now here the pounding much louder. The light goes on in the next room. I can hear someone yelling through the door at the top of the stairs. “Turn down that goddamned music,” screams the voice. I assume this is Myla’s Mother. “Shut the fuck up old lady,” Myla yells back at the door.

No one in the room seems concerned. They actually snicker as the yelling continues between the two of them. “Get those hippies out of my house,” Myla’s Mother screams. “There is no one here you crazy old fuck!” Myla screams back. “I’ll call the police, I can smell drugs,” 

Myla’s Mother begins to kick the locked door. People stand up and head to the dresser. One by one they climb to the top and slide out the basement window. As the fight continues a hand reaches out and pulls me towards the dresser. “Time to go,” whispers the skinny girl with big glasses and a baggy army jacket. The guy with her reminds me of the comedian Gallagher. He has big black curly hair, a Grateful Dead tie dyed shirt and a mustache that he swirls between his one first finger and thumb.

I climb out the window with them. From the yard we can hear Myls’a Mother screaming even louder. “Happens every time,” says Gallagher’s look alike. He puts his hand out and introduces himself as Brad and Amy with a head nod to the girl with glasses. She flashes me a peace sign.

“Want to join us?” Brad asks. “We are going back to my house to play Dungeons and Dragons and watch the sun rise.” I look at Amy who is about 17 years old and in the street light coming from the front of the house lets me see Brad’s face clearer. He is in his mid to late 30’s. “”What is Dungeons and Dragons?” I ask.

Hours later I am bored out of my mind lying in Brads loft as the dumbest game I have ever witnessed is being played by eight people.  

“You rolled a three so my dwarf can throw a power spell,” says Brad.

The game goes until the sun comes up. I feel like I am at Nerdapalooza. Thank god it’s over and I can bid my new friends goodbye and head back to my house. Brad lives in a loft on Lark Street so it takes me about 45 minutes to get home to New Scotland Avenue. I am exhausted and wonder how I am going to go to school and make it through the day.

Clomping up the stairs my head clears the landing. The house looks as if we were ransacked. Things have been tipped over and thrown around the room.

To be continued…..

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writing "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

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