PIIIII
Artist: Veprikov
I let many people drift away. Never in vain. There is always meaning, especially when it feels like a loss. Failure is the best thing for my brain.
Back when all I saw was black, I drank and smoke till my insides matched. After all, alcohol is the drink this country was founded on. But I liked being drunk more than drinking anything; more than being with people that weren't. My closest friends were heavily gone. I thought excess in anything, especially the use of a drug, is necessary for success. It amplified my arrogance and clouded any aspirations. I became a legend of my own degradation, staring at the edge of reality.
I lived with Shaunt for three years. Shaunt was Irish, so he could drink. He had great hair. I noticed because I didn't. It was long, dark and straight; like a black wing that flopped on his head. Midway into the first year of our friendship we met Cassidy. Cass had a history of domestic abuse and violence, he had just turned eighteen, back from a juvie. He fit in perfectly. It all started off innocently enough: just some kids trying to connect.
The suburbs create an atmosphere of conformity and complacency. All the basic amenities are covered. I mean, my family had a computer in 94. I had America Online in 95. That's more than basic. I grew up with computers in my school. I was privileged and I wasn't aware that I was. As I grew up I felt angry at my privilege because I always heard about this pain other humans had in different conditions and that I should be grateful.
Shaunt and Cassidy were important because they were my first new real life friends for a long time.
Maybe that put a pressure on me to want to fit in a little more. To drink a little more.
Our nights would start at 1pm in the afternoon. Me and Shaunt would walk over with squinty, tired eyes to pick up Cassidy and start drinking.
When Shaunt blacked out, you wouldn't know. I doubt he really understood his own train of thought; it must of rested close to his unconcious; a truly enlightened being. He had access to this intensity, even sober, his energy was convincingly authentic. That made me want to fit in more. I wanted to be like him but I was too reckless. I wanted to know life in the fast, obscured, blissful and giving way. You know... "go through hell cuz I care..."
I wasn't psychically that violent a drunk...
The first time I met Shaunt he was recovering from a machete blow to the back of his head. I remember waiting in this small, vacant apartment for this guy I didn't know, with people I didn't know. I was there because of my sister. My little sister took me there and let me meet the people she knew. Her best friend's boyfriend was Shaunt.
When Shaunt came out he had his head all bandaged. Apparently he was defending his actual brother, Chris. I've heard that story maybe a hundred times and I still don't remember it. I told Shaunt I wished I could've been with him that night as if that could mean anything to someone just jumped by a machete.
~~___~~
Shaunt, Cassidy and I spent a lot of time outside just talking and drinking. Like that show, King of the Hill. Accept we drank straight vodka. Shaunt would try to convince us to be Scientologists, Cassidy would rap over my beat boxing or a beat from his cell phone and I would wait for a moment to play devil's advocate. We use to go to this drug hut called The Basement. The Basement, oddly enough, was a two story garage in North Hollywood with couches and tables. The garage was owned by Vic and it was along a seedy ally next to a cemetery. I loved it.
We played beer pong a lot. I suck at it. One night Cassidy got into a fight with one of his bro friends. A lot of bros ran through that garage with shaved heads and raised pickup trucks.
Cassidy started saying things he didn't mean about things he didn't know to people he didn't know. You know how we drunk. He wanted to fight. He came to get me while I wailed nonsense on my guitar to a small group of blank faces. It was obvious he needed to leave, and I like being wanted, so I took him home.
On the way he kept his anger boiling. He talked about the people he hated. Cassidy lived in the back house of his mother's, and he did not have a good relationship with her.
The drive was fast and once we arrived Cass stormed out of the car, through his back gate and started slamming on his mom's screen door. I followed close behind him and made him stop. His eyes starred straight through me and he started screaming for his mother to come out. I don't remember my words to him. His mother came to the backdoor and they started exchanging fuck you's. She seemed bored of his antics; perhaps she was just tired, it was 2 in the morning. It wasn't the conversation of a mother to a son. It was a conversation between two angry teenagers.
Eventually I stepped between the two forcing Cass toward the gate as he yelled wildly at his mom. Cass pushed me against the fence. Then his mom said, "I've had enough of this bullshit." and slammed the screen door, locking the door behind her. "Go to sleep." She annoyingly yelled as she slumped back to her bedroom. Cass turned to me with disappointment then stormed out the back to his car. I ran after.
I pulled Cass's shoulder back and made him face me. I told him if he wanted to fight anyone he should fight me. His face was stricken, twisted with a lost, tormented anger. I stepped back and he hooked my cheek. It happened very fast. I didn't feel it but I knew it hurt. I didn't want to fight him. I huddled and cried while he punched the back of my head a few times.
After he withdrew I just glared at him, drunken and wounded. Why do we lie to ourselves. It's like we're conditioned to believe aggression, like it's suppose to be part of the story; it's what situations need in order to function but they just perpetuate the emotionality and dependency. Fuck.
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