Dance Yrself Clean on the 4th July II

You awake to all kinds of pain and immediately you are aware that something occurred the night before, and although your memory only registers "scene missing" after 9 pm or so, you are quite certain that whatever happened was very bad. You are still in your clothes from the night before, and after a quick inventory you are relieved to find your keys. Out of state Driver's License. Credit Card. Wadded up cash. A crushed Pall Mall cigarette. Contacts stuck to your dry, bloodshot eyes.

Your head is a drum machine, and unfortunately it is covering Your Treachery Will Die With You by Dying Fetus. You stagger to your feet and almost collapse, feeling pain in your sides and legs. Your bed is stained with a dried blood and you quickly see why--your legs are horribly scraped, and you have a nice looking gash on your left forearm. A quick glance in the mirror shows a cut under one of your eyes as well, and you can feel bruises forming.

Did you get in a fight last night? You smile to yourself. You think you did. You probably did. You're pretty sure you did. Did you win? You might have won too. The details are hazy, but you're not in the hospital. Or jail. So it must've come up roses for you. Your apartment is empty--no sign of your room mate, who also happens to be your brother. The coffee table is destroyed though, laying in a pile of broken wood and glass. There is a note attached:

You did this. Love, Max.

It seems strange that you would break your own coffee table, but it also seems very plausible. You vaguely remember trying to throw it at someone the night before. But your phone is ringing and there is no time for memories. You answer it and it's your friend Alec. He wants to know where the fuck you are.

"I'm at home." You say.

"Well let me the fuck in."

Confused, you open the front door and you see him crawling out the window of your neighbor's apartment. The hippy one who breaks hearts all day. You laugh and he comes over to great you, looking disheveled and possibly still drunk.

"Damn, you look like shit man." He says to you.

"Likewise, buddy. What happened last night?"

"Man, just another crazy adventure. Polonius would be proud. Did you get in a fight or something?" He walks pass you and into your kitchen, looking for champagne.

"I think so. I think I won. I remember getting a bike thrown at me. And kicking someone in the face. Lots of bad noise."

Alec laughs and drinks an old Conductor he finds on the counter, grimacing. "That's awesome man. Fuck those jabronies."

"Dude, I need a mimosa ASAP."

"How about a Bellini?" Alec jokes, but you miss it.

"Italian trash. Fuck that, we need orange juice."

"Haha, alright man, calm down. Let's go back to my place. We'll grab supplies on the way. Where's your bro?"

"No idea. But he'll be fine. Apparently I broke the coffee table last night."

"Yeah man, you were angry for some reason. Real angry. Tried to throw it at your bro."

"Damn." You say. "So it goes, huh? What say you, let's ride."

On the way you buy 3 bottles of expensive champagne that you're pretty sure the cashier over charges you for and tricked you into buying in the first place. You argue with the girl, a young Indian with an unpronounceable name and a thin mustache over her upper lip. Alec pushes you out the door after he buys cigarettes and before you get the police called on you, and you grimace and wince climbing back into the car. Your whole body is a symphony of sharp and flat pains, so you pop the top on a bottle of bubbly and swig from it on the short ride to Alecs.

Once inside, you stash the other 2 bottles in the freezer and pull out some frozen vegetables for your face which kind of aches. Alec laughs at you, and his room mate Adman seems concerned. You brush it off and toss down another mimosa, beginning to feel a little better. You text some woman who is in love with your brother but tolerates you enough to be concerned about whether or not you died the night before.

"Alive. Fight, maybe? Im ok tho, how's midwest?"

Apparently she's visiting home during the holiday, and home happens to be some dead corn state under a midwestern sky. You put your phone down and sigh loudly, wishing for something more from your life. Adman hands you a real ice pack he had somewhere, which seems fitting because he strikes you as the kind of guy who took health class really seriously a decade ago. You drink more champagne and loud music pours through speakers somewhere and your phone is ringing.

It is Conductor and he is happy that you're alive. He relates the coffee table murder to you, and other embarrassing details which reflect your inner personality which only appear when you are dangerously drunk. Violence against strangers and living room furniture. Conductor is picking up more champagne and is on his way.

Adman is leaving for the airport. He is always traveling.

"Where you headed?" You ask him.

"The airport." He replies.

"No, where are you flying to?"

He cocks his head for a moment then laughs. "I just told you, I'm picking up a couple of friends flying in from LA. College buddies, they're cool shit. We gotta show them a cool time."

You agree, and hand him the melted water in the ice pack. He throws it in a sink and leaves. Alec puts on a different song and lights a cigarette.

"Man," He says, kicking a stack of GQ, Spin, National Geographic, off a table. "What a bitch."

The Conductor arrives in his fancy black car, and you see someone sitting shotgun through his tinted windows and realize it's your brother. By now you and Alec have killed two of the bottles of champagne and are working on the third. The gents enter and you see that your brother is carrying a 6 pack of champagne.

"15% off if you buy six at a time." He mentions to you, or rather to your general direction on the couch, as he walks by.

The Conductor is his usual self, talking a mile a minute and making plans, wheeling and dealing. He is asking where Adman is and at the same time talking on the phone to some one.

"Conductor, shut the fuck up." Alec says. He turns to you and mentions what a bitch he is. Your brother is asking you what happened the night before and you are forced to go through the terrible hazy events once again, and he adds even more horrible details which you've forgotten. The running, the throwing, the yelling. You polish off the last of your orange juice and champagne and decide it's time to move on to beer. It's almost noon.

You are sitting in Alec's room playing loud music. You want something thick and full, something that moves and will make the walls shake and inspire you, something that will bring relevance to these seconds here on earth, something that will give meaning to this moment with its scraped knees and dried blood. The bass sounds like someone is squirting mustard through an old bottle as Les Claypool runs through his set at Bonnaroo 2007, and you walk out into the living room drunkenly jiving and dancing and see a room full of people you don't know. You are introduced and immediately forget most of them as you push your way to the freezer.

Ice is the only thing that matters right now. But you break the ice tray and ice falls everywhere and now people are outside, two blonde girls you know, well one of them, the other you've never seen before, but you are quickly introduced and you remember her name, and you seem to get along. You drink outside in the hot sun, sweating immediately, people asking what happened to your arm, what happened to your left knee which is now becoming swollen and you hope it is okay by the next softball game next week.

Drinking games are being played. Bags of sand thrown at holes cut into wooden platforms that a drunk slob had accidentally stomped on during Memorial Day. Ping pong balls fly through the air and into red plastic cups. Death from above--you think that the Luftwaffe knew what was up--the war is to be won through the air. You grab yourself a seat, explaining something about the dynamics of a rotating ball slicing through the air to your blonde friend, and she politely pretends to understand what you are saying.

Someone decides that it's time to swim, so you join everyone on a short walk to the neighborhood pool, beer in hand. You're not sure what time it is, but it doesn't matter, the light in the sky is burning hot and bright, and in the summer in Texas, it seems like it'll burn forever, even when it's night. Everything is infinite in these little moments, but a slight push in the opposite direction never hurts, so you call Seth, the drug dealer, and ask him to bring you 20$ worth and to meet you by the pool which you give vague directions to. You're not worried that he'll find it. Everything seems very likely to work out right now.

You get to the pool and they tell you you can't drink inside, but you tell them not to worry--you're almost finished with it anyway. They look at you, at your eyes, and they nod and let you in, not wanting to argue. There are kids around. There are old people around. There are teenagers who seem dangerously young smoking cigarettes and talking on cellphones. You bum a cigarette from one and throw your empty beer can over a fence. Except it lands twenty yards short of the fence. Litter seems like a minor issue in comparison to stopping terrorism, the double dip recession, hidden CIA prisons, and the decline of traditional moral values, so you shrug and inhale the Camel Filter.

Your friends are giving the lifeguard a hard time--young, blonde, and attractive, maybe 18 or 20 years old--they call her Wendy and she eats it up. Now Seth has arrived with help and you tell him there's 20$ back at the house, and he nods, seemingly horrified at how intoxicated everyone already is and gazing at the bruises on your chest as you suddenly realize you are unsure of where your shirt is. You explain to him the violent events of the night before, and Seth does not seems surprised, nodding grimly. To him, street fights are inevitable result of the modern world, and he mentions that you should have seen it coming. You despise the term 'street fight.'

You are talking to your friend Megan--a red head girl who swoons over all manner of scum to fill a void in her life left by her father--and she is talking about something--the ride over maybe, maybe how you're drinking all of her vodka and ice tea--but you feel amicable and benevolent so you listen to her story before trying to pull off her top. She shrieks, loving the attention, and once again the people around you are horrified.

Some geezer in the pool yells at Adman, telling him to stop bothering the life guard and go back to his country club. You think how that doesn't make any sense, and you feel beads of sweat running down your chest so you take off your pants, not caring that you're only in your boxers now, and you jump into the pool. You itch for the geezer to confront you, but there is no fight left in his eyes, and you are not quite sure if it is even the same geezer. There seems to be an alarmingly large presence of the elderly. You swim to your friends and drink more vodka, yelling jokes to the lifeguard as Alec is now trying to rip off the tops of one of the girls. Seth is no longer shocked, but seems to be enjoying himself, asking if you'll come to his party tomorrow.

You tell him you wouldn't miss it for all the candles in Beaumont, and smile at how poetic that sounded, though it made little to no sense.

Swim time is over now, and you head back to Alecs. You and Seth are the first ones there, and with nothing to smoke out of, you crush up a beer can and begin to smoke weed out of it. Adman walks in and gives you a disappointed look, but by now you hardly notice or care. Other people walk in to join you, and there is nothing anyone can do. Seth leaves after a while, and the Conductor is so intoxicated that you sit in a room full of other people listening to him call people on his phone and engage in hour long, rambling, nonsensical conversations with them.

He frequently mentions "skiing in Colorado", and you wonder if it is actually winter somewhere in the world.

The Conductor stutters about the general tenants of a racist ideology. Something misogynistic falls out of his mouth. Another second it is something eloquent and pragmatic, which could possibly even make you money if you could remember it for longer than a minute, but your mind is like a tire on ice--no traction. After a while, the weed is gone and you're still drinking but it's only late afternoon. All the girls have left. You haven't eaten all day. You're smoking a cigarette inside the house and are wondering where Adman is and why he isn't stopping you.

"Fuck this noise." You say to no one in particular, and stagger into the hall, not sure where you are headed. You have several pairs of sunglasses on for some reason, and the red sun reflects off the tiled floors so you lower two of the glasses over your eyes.

You stagger into one room and see people doing cocaine. You recognize those people. They laugh at your site, and cheer your name. You collapse on a futon in the room until they motion for you to come to the desk. There are lines cut up on an Ipad. You stick a hundred dollar bill that must belong to the Conductor to your good nostril and inhale. The dry taste is immediate and some what satisfying, but you are incredibly drunk.

Your friends are taking about some blonde broad you don't particularly know too well. You lean back on the futon, half awake now, but not much. Loud music is pumping through the speakers again. Music you don't recognize but sounds incredibly crisp and beautiful. Someone hands you a glass of straight gin. You refuse at first, but then take a small sip. You need water very badly.

You stand to try to find some, and are glad to see that your feet are cooperating. You stride into the hallway defiantly, and duck into the bathroom where you chug water from the dirty sink faucet. Feeling better, you walk out wiping your mouth with your sleeve and duck into Alec's bedroom. It is dark, and the evening sun can't find you so you take off your sunglasses and unconsciously place them on some type of nightstand or something. A week from now you won't be able to remember where you put them.

You grab a pillow from Alec's unmade bed and toss it into the corner farthest from the door. "LA Woman" by the Doors is playing at such a high volume that even from your corner you can hear every single note. You find this strangely comforting, this uninspired song about some Californian broad who wouldn't give Morrison the time of day if she saw him walking down Wilshire. You smile in the dark, laying in the corner, sniffling slightly, and go out like a candle in Beaumont.

You awake with a swimming head and dry eyes stuck to the inside of your eye lids. Max is nudging your body with his toe and saying something about pizza. It is dark and a lot of loud noise is coming form the living room. You are laying on the floor of Alec's room, and although not entirely uncomfortable, you are not refreshed and are in fact rather angry. Luckily, you are so disoriented no particular emotion sticks. You groggily stand up and look for your sun glasses to no avail, even though it is pitch black in the room.

You walk out, following your brother, as Alec awakes and screams something about being a bitch. It's only 3 hours later, and people are talking about going down town. Going dancing. Drinking. The things you've been doing for the last twelve hours. What time is it? Why don't you have your sun glasses? Your body is a giant pulsating bruise, your brain unsure if it's just terribly tired or still obscenely drunk. You stagger to the sink and get some water.

Adman has a bottle of energy drink and asks if you want some. At first you refuse.

"That's the last thing I need right now." You say.

You think it over and quickly reconsider as the synapses finally begin to fire somewhat correctly.

"No wait, I do want some. That's actually the first thing I need right now."

Adman laughs and gives you the rest of the energy drink. You mix it with some vodka you find on the counter. You congratulate Max about tricking you away by promising pizza. He shakes his head and points to the counter where boxes of pizza are stacked. The Conductor is talking about renting out illegal immigrants to rich white people as a business model. Alec walks out of his room angry and disheveled, demanding vodka or an equivalent. Shirtless, he collapses onto the couch.

Conductor is mocking him, and apparently cabs are on the way. People are standing to leave, to drink, to dance. You need to take a piss. The bathroom is occupied so you go outside and urinate on the front lawn. Neighbors may be watching horrified. You remind yourself to install Greek letters over the doorway sometime soon. The Conductor is calling Alec a "Nancy Couchsleep" as everyone leaves to the roof top bars in the center of the city.

Rhythmically swaying to the bass of black music with a beer in your hand, you feel like a painting on the wall of an Egyptian tomb. Everyone is rather drunk and hugging you while you try not to spill your drink. At one point you decide to stop delaying the inevitable and throw it against the wall, while someone you who think is named Amanda shakes her head at you. You stick out your tongue and the worst is over. Someone hands you a new drink and tells you to finish it fast, everyone wants to go to the bar across the street, even though they are pretty much the exact same bar.

At the next bar someone takes your photo and you hesitantly wipe the sweat from your forehead before looking for a cigarette. You duck away from all your friends and find one by the balcony in the hands of a stranger who you tell you will give a thousand dollars for an extra one. It is a full proof plan, and soon you are smoking away, vaguely aware that it is time to close your tab and rather unsure where everyone is going next and how they are getting there. You are being led down some stairs and into the sweaty street, where people older than you are throwing up on their own feet and girls wearing barely anything at all with pieces of sterling silver shoved through their faces lead giant buzzed cut slabs of hamburger past you long enough for you to notice their cheap cologne and barbed wire tattoos. All the markings of an innocent culture are out tonight.


Back at Alec's house people are starting to sleep in strange places. You are drinking tequila and orange juice with the Conductor and Alec and you really want to lay down. You think you may even fall down. Music is pumping through the speakers as usual, and drugs are probably being done somewhere but you could care less. You must be getting old. Heading into Alec's room you say fuck it and take his bed. Some blonde broad is already in there so you push her over to the side and take the one closest to the ceiling fan. Sun glasses on you exhale for a few seconds until Alec is poking you and telling you to get on your feet soldier. The troops are restless and morale is fading fast.

You reluctantly raise and wander out of the room. Alec walks in behind you and closes the door. You sigh and stagger into the living room where the Conductor is talking to someone on the phone again, rambling drunkenly about dead ambition and how the jewel of the lotus holds the morrow for none. This scene is not for you, and fortunately no one notices you or offers you any more tequila.

You retreat to Adman's room at the end of the hall knowing that all couches and beds will be taken, but hoping for a soft piece of carpet to rest your rapidly sinking skull on for a week or two. At the end of the hallway you feel as though you have just crossed mountains and oceans. The door is open and inside the room the lights are dim and bodies are laying in heaps. Someone on the couch, your friend T-Level you think. Megan is on the bed with one of Adman's friends. This seems reasonable enough to you, so you lay on the far side of the room using a sweatshirt as a pillow.

After a few moments you realize that Megan and the dude are awake and you hope that they are both fictional characters whom you have made up but haven't realized until now. Unfortunately, this is not the case, and you hear them doing things your Catholic buddy who went to BC would not approve of. Then they realize you are lying on the floor, and they whisper, asking each other how long you have been laying there.

"Fuck this noise." You say, and leave the horrible scene behind you. Les jeux sont faits.

You walk straight on through the living room, hardly noticing the Conductor and anyone else still awake, and out the front door. You know you parked around here somewhere, and you find your beaten blue car at the edge of the street, unlocked and dusty. You climb behind the wheel and squint hard, trying to make sense of the rapid road being gobbled up by your tires. You wish your headlights worked better. You wish you didn't decide to drive. Your mind is struggling to grasp at details such as where to turn and what street you currently live on.

Your frame of mind is pushing you to succeed. Now is not the time for another DUI--there is no shabby nobility in bail money. Total concentration. Every cell moving towards trying to grasp the goal. Complete determination. Finally, you cut through the fog and are in your parking lot. You open the door and realize that the fog wasn't an illusion, and wonder vaguely if it will actually rain. Once you close your door, you get down to your hands and knees, and in reverence, kiss the ground.