Pusher Blue Chapter 3 (retitled)

My calendar said it was friday. It was a repulsively adorable calendar with an inspiration message for each day. I think it was a christmas present. From who, I'm not sure, but I was sure I hated them, because I found myself following the opposite of whatever message I had. Friday meant "Keep a clear head to solve your problems." My head was not clear, my head had never been clear. And my problems were best solved with a night of alcoholic.....anything.1

Like everyone else in middle-class America, I was in a rut. I was suffocating in this white, receptionist, pill-box desk. Surrounded by magazines, two of which were printed the day I was born. All about the molding walls were charts of visable spines, and common problems with them. I never read them. I should have. I just stayed in my little circle with '87 solitaire, old National Geographic's, and that damned polite copper-plated sign with the dented letters "Thank you". Thank you for what, I wasn't sure. Only three people ever came to that failing chiropractory office. I knew each of their names, and each name they happened to call me. Whether I was Jarod, or Darren. Neither suited me. I'm sure Rick would have gotten a kick out of it, or purposely called them the wrong name. Actually, he's almost the reason I was choking down my life.2

It was about eight years before I began my work as Dr. Glen Binhale's spinal-smiler. I was doing about the same work. Computer files, answering phones, being extra nice to the injured. Only it was in a real hospital, instead of a chiropractory office. I'd occasionally talk to the bed stricken sicky's, those who were in for a week or so. Actually, I wouldn't do much talking. I'd listen. Study people. Their moods, how they react to situations. I'd listen to all the depressed folks. Hopeless folks. Folks who had gotten passed the stress point, and finally just broke. They were my favorite. You can tell a person's true character by how they act when they are sleeping in an unfamiliar place, forced into humiliating situations (bedpans), disabled, shattered, bloody, achey, bruised, several thousand dollars in debt, and no idea how to get the money..(always wear your seatbelt). Any family they had visit would always tell them.. "It's not so bad. It will be over soon enough." Not me. I'd just nod my head and agree. "That's right, this IS horrible. I know what you mean. I wish you were dead, too." Self-pity is underrated. Indulge in the sorrow. Don't you think you've earned that right?3

This is how I met Rick. One of those druggies who had been stabber, or overdosed, or something. Put Corey Feldmen in a blender, and you've got Rick. Teeth all yellow and splitting, acid skin, his hair looked like dust, sort of beady eyes, and wirey arms. He didn't act like the others. Despair wasn't a weekend seminar. It was his life. Typical story; bad parents, bad women, bad booze, bad drugs, bad life. But people always find a way to survive. He managed to laugh every now and again. Sort of a sarcasm and cruelty to his humour, but he could laugh. And it was amazing.4

Rick actually talked to me, not at me. He'd tell me about his life, point-blank. He didn't throw it in a box, and adourn it with shiny bows and tapers. Never afraid to admit his ignorance on so many issues, nor point out mine. I think he saw people the way I see them. Then again, I could never say how I see people. I could never say how we saw eachother. Not that it matters, because he's gone now.5

It was friday. And friday meant "Drown yourself untill your brains burn from the inside". 6

My life tied around a 10 block radius. Home, work, bars, home. I had the freedom to get as drunk as I wanted, and just walk on home to my square apartment. And so..I did.7

"The Red Moon" was my chosen cafe on friday evenings. It sat at the base of a 16 story, white building. Ontop of which was a large red globe, composed of neon lights, and supported by a circular metal structure. It was meant to look like a "Red Moon", but it made me think of some pseudo dooms-day device, aimed at the unsuspecting city.8

It was too early for the cafe to be crowded with the usual country-fried suburban-ites, only a few occupied tables dotted about the tangerine colored pub. Friday's waitress' were Cindy, Marcia, and Jan. They wore black clothes, black aprons, and no name tags. And you are not to mention any similiarites between their name, blonde hair, and the name Brady.9

I'd slouch in my corner, unseen, watching whoever happened to be in the bar. This time it was the elderly couple in an open table, finishing a meal. The husband stood from the table, before his wife had even rested her fork on the plate. Loveless and empty, they were. She took a breathmint from the table, not offering her husband one. Empty, but not alone.10

Staring down my shot of vodka, with very little enthusiasm. I had come to the point where "partying" was redundant. Sure, if I drank enough, I'd eventually forget that live's should have a purpose. I'd eventually forget about my beige, vacant apartment. I'd eventually stop over-analyzing everyone around me. But would that even help?11

I suddenly became aware of the piano in the corner, and the fact that it was occupied. In the many months I've come here, I've never seen that piano being played. On the bench sat a woman with shoulder-length, black razor hair. Bangs dyed blue. Pale skin. Ontop of the piano was a clear vase for tips, and a bowl of those blue decorative bathbeads you see in Home Magazines. The playing wasn't anything special, but people must have liked the song, because they were tipping her. And with hundred dollar bills.12