Post by David Sanchez on Aug 23, 2017 8:18:15 GMT -5
The Pensieve Series
C - Bye Bye Badman, Part 3 of 3
C - Bye Bye Badman, Part 3 of 3
Soak me to my skin.
Will you drown me in your sweet submission?
It ends and I begin.
Choke me, smoke the air.
In this citrus-sucking sunshine, I don't care.
You're not all there.
John Squire/Ian Brown
Will you drown me in your sweet submission?
It ends and I begin.
Choke me, smoke the air.
In this citrus-sucking sunshine, I don't care.
You're not all there.
John Squire/Ian Brown
Penthouse Suite
35 East 76th St.
The Carlyle Hotel
New York City, New York, USA
05/14/2009 - 19:45
35 East 76th St.
The Carlyle Hotel
New York City, New York, USA
05/14/2009 - 19:45
Heroin can only keep you going for so long, as sustenance goes; it’s really more of a psychological crutch than any kind of physical comfort. This much is true about almost all opiates. Sooner or later, you’re going to need something more substantial in your diet to keep those muscles burning. I don’t care if you happen to be twice the height and weight of the junkie passed-out next to you, tolerance is null and avoid at this level. It’s always a good idea to grab a bag of Cheetos or at least a fuckin’ Snickers before you start pumping that tar into your veins, because once is in there-- you won’t be able to spell ‘appetite.’ Much less summon one up. Another helpful tip would be to avoid alcohol until the plateau sets in, so about 4 to 6 hours after you push the plunger down and forget how to speak in anything but vowels and convulsions. This is all shit that a skaghead learns in pretty short order. So why, after eight years under the needle I’m sitting here in quite this condition was causing me a great deal of confusion-- or at least what felt akin to confusion; if it had perhaps been marinated overnight in cotton wool and nothingness.
The gaudy decorum had been eating at me since I’d arrived back here at around six in the evening-- just in time to catch a rerun of the Simpsons; whose vibrant colours still weren’t enough to overpower the dull black clouds that had gathered above my head, making everything around me appear less fabulous than it actually was. In truth, I’d found no reason to complain; a motel would’ve served me just as well, but fuck... I’m practically a billionaire now. No more getting my own ice in the middle of the night for me; now there’s a guy for that. There’s a guy for everything, actually. Or so it was starting to appear at least. Victor’s funeral, and more importantly the official reading of his will wasn’t until tomorrow, meaning I’d have to ‘suffer’ another night without my sweet Samantha, who at this point was probably face down, bleeding from the nose onto a handbag-sized folding mirror back in Orange County. I can’t say this bothered me much, not on it’s own at least. But when combined with my hatred for the Big Apple and it’s abundance of ravenous reporters-- being back at Cirque de Sanches was starting to sound mighty appealing.
“Sixty, wait! No, no. Sixty-five!”
QVC doesn’t hear me. The presenter; some black guy in his fifties who was more pep and sales pitch than flesh and bone just carries on silently trying to sell me a blender from behind the television screen as I shout out random prices that I’m apparently prepared to pay. At this point it was safe to assume that not only had the Simpsons finished during my post-charge snooze, but also that I’d muted the TV, and lost the remote. Another life lesson: never do smack alone. Piecing whatever happens back together the next day is a lot easier with two fuzzy heads instead of one. I try to get up from the bed; failing miserably and instead just taking care of the immediate threat to my wellbeing, the thirst. Gulping straight from the neck of a bottle of Jim Beam, I slip the leather belt off my wrist and slap some life back into my left arm, rolling down my sleeve to cover my track-marks before finally managing to push myself up to a sitting position. Just as the bedside service phone rings in a tone that violates my metaphorical bubble, bursting it and leaving me exposed to the nastiness of the outside world.
“Hello Mr. Sanchez. We’re sorry to disturb you against your wishes but there’s a Dalton Marx on the line for you. He claims to be your lawyer, should I transfer him through?”
They didn’t make drugs strong enough for me to deal with this day-- it was endless. Office hours had been and gone. Feeling fragile, but still enjoying a hearty, heroin and bourbon-induced glow I suck back another mouthful of the vile stuff, sitting up straight against the headboard and clearing my throat; before ultimately contradicting this action by placing a Marlboro between my lips and lighting the end. The fresh hole in my arm still throbs a little under my shirt; tender to the touch but virtually impossible to acknowledge in quite this condition.
“Sure, thanks.”
I had absolutely no desire to talk to my lawyer at this point in time. To be honest, even entertaining the voice of the receptionist had been more human interaction than I’d been looking for this evening but in these trying times it couldn’t hurt to have competent representation on retainer.
“David? Is that you?”
Enthusiasm bleeds from his voice and poisons my subdued state of mind. He was keen. Too keen perhaps for me to quite contend with at this impasse. I slug back some more Jim Beam; praying to the God of Bourbon for the strength to endure this conversation.
“It sure is Dalton. Now, would you be so kind as to tell me why you’ve taken it upon yourself to go against my instructions? I specifically asked for no calls after six o’clock. But yet, here you are, calling me at what passes for home right now with no regard for Father Time at all.”
Not really leaving me a lot of time to bask in my shorthand-- he replies almost immediately, sounding worried. Which to a junkie on his cloud, is like nails on a chalkboard
“There’s been a development. Can we meet? I’m heading over there now. Are you still staying at The Carlyle? I’ll be in the lobby bar. We REALLY need to talk… sooner, rather than later.”
Thinking on this for less than a moment, attempting to stretch my tired legs out in front of me, I return his urgency with interest.
“Yeah… I’m in the Penthouse Suite. Victor has it booked up for the rest of the year. No sense letting that reservation go to waste. Just grab a bottle of anything but Jim Beam, some ice and meet me up here. I’m eh… a little too ‘under the weather’ for the bar scene.”
Sighing, he offers an abrupt response and hangs up the phone; causing an endless beep to ring eternal in my ears.
“He’s not even been dead for a week, David. I’ll be there in ten minutes… and I don’t drink.”
I really don’t remember asking him if he did? Ah well, swings and roundabouts I guess. The next ten minutes pass in a haze of slow-motion tidying. The most fruitful result of this being the remote control I find wedged between the pillows when making the bed; using this to change the channel, finally causing the QVC presenter to cease his sign-language sales pitch. Now, Channel 4’s news anchor takes the baton, and mimes the days’ events on screen as I light another cigarette and open the window; allowing the phantom smell of heroin to creep through the void and into the evening sky where it merges with the rest of the city’s soaring pollution levels. Three knocks soon follow in no known rythym, accompanied by my lawyer’s politically correct, indoor voice.
“David, it’s Dalton. Let me in.”
He doesn’t even wait for me to get across the room, but instead just opens the door and waltzes into my bubble without a care in the world.
“You could’ve got me something from the bar anyway, you know. I’m stuck drinking this fuckin’ swill until the reporters downstairs scatter off to the next big, newsworthy deal.”
Closing and locking the door behind himself, he doesn’t even speak. He just hands me a very official looking document that I study at a glance, then focus more thoroughly on after realizing exactly what this piece of paper was telling me.
“This doesn’t make sense, is--”
Cutting me off, my lawyer is swift to cut through the block butter in front of me; turning it into a much more spreadable margarine of information.
“It’s a paternity test, one requested and then buried by Victor Saint in July of last year. We found it while sorting through the contents of his safety deposit box.”
I could see this much. I was smacked out of my mind; not visually impaired.
“Obviously... I can read you know, quite well actually for a simple savage. The kid in question though, it’s Kayden. Why the fuck would you have their grandsonpaternity tested? I just figured she'd spread her legs for some meth dealer when she was strapped for cash.”
He shakes his head, seeming just as unable to comprehend the facts as I. This isn’t the real worry here though; that came in the form of the official verdict.
“You’re missing the point-- it’s a match. Kayden Saint, Sam’s kid… he’s Victor’s son, not his grandson.”
A million thoughts cloud my mind at once-- this child, he was Samantha’s spitting image and I’d been there, however infrequently for the birth. There could be no denying he was indeed her child. But now… there could be no mistake as to who his real father was either.
“Does this mea--”
Again, he cuts me off. This time, though, it seems more like he’s sparing me the pain of saying it aloud; rather than simply rushing towards some major revelation.
“Kayden Saint is the son of Victor and Samantha… The beast got his own daughter pregnant.”
Sickness and rage floods through my body, boiling over into panic as I hurl the bottle of Jim Beam through the window with a shatter of glass and a distant scream from some pedestrians below. Marx backs off to the wall-- watching my meltdown from a safe distance as the thoughts in my head fight for prominence.
“He adopted Samantha in 1998. she’s not his biological daughter as you know, so that rules out incest but there’s more-- a wealth of hidden reports of sexual abuse that’ve been buried by cops on Vic’s payroll, dating back to 2001. When she was only fou--
The scene collapses on itself with the parting image of a garden swallow landing on the outer ledge of the now smashed window and the emotionless sound of me coming to terms with the latest skeleton to fall from this closet I’d inherited.
“14… just a fuckin’ child.”
