We were driving to this party after the show, a party of old people we knew back from when. It was billed as an old people scene reunion. Some of the old people are still friends and were calling themselves "The Original Jabberjaw heroin crew" in laughtones, en route. They are all sober now and none of us like going to parties and most of us stilt ourselves above nostalgia.
Once we arrived, I could not find the motivation to "catch up" with anyone other than those whom I arrived with. Mostly I talked to Johnny Jack Bumblebee (not his real name) about what his job as the wardrobe guy on one of the CSI shows involves, as so many plotlines involve attractive-ish science cops analyzing clothing fibers for clues. Blood, sweaters, dressing autopsies in three stages. Poly-blends, jeans and these Miami murders.
Johnny Jack-- Oh, It's nice to see him well. The last extended conversation we had had prior to this was 1995; he was kicking dope in the bed that I shared with my then boyfriend, here in Los Angeles. He had stopped by looking for the boyfriend, looking for a safe place to kick. Everyone in the house had disappeared on an extended bender or narco-jag. I was alone beyond alone and told him "sure, come on in," like he was just asking for a glass of water.
I attempted to be a gracious hostess as he soaked our mattress with putrid dope sweat, and so I gave him asprins and told him they a secret stash I had of codiened Tylenol 4's, and he gobbled them 'tween heaves. JJB was one my boyfriend's bestest friends, and one of the only people in town I even half liked. He was an artist, for real, and seemed like he was from Ohio and not LA. Kicking the bed, shuddering; he wept and stank up the room with a singular toxic waft. I was so desperately lonely and idle, that even in his ill fits, he was welcome company. He'd been a skinhead, and I was romancing a rude girl aesthete (shaved head, boots, braces, alternateing between drunk and straight edge every other week). I Nightengaled, he puked, and we rode a rail of punk bond and bottomless desperation. It was two pitiful days of his nausea and my incessent chatter --about art and Oi. About what the future would be like when we could get past this current pathos, and be people with plans.
Be people held in place by promise fulfilled.
Rather than a fake skin girl of 18, hiding in hedge rows crying alone and bargaining with a god you do not know.
Rather than being a sick painter kid of 23, attempting to kick drugs for the 560th time, being fed Rite Aid generics for yr ills.Posted by Jessica at November 7, 2005 01:26 AM | TrackBack