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.
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.
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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