Heavenly Snow

For further context, I'm sixty two years old. My partner and I were talking deep shit about death before I went into the kitchen for a bag of blow. I live in Tokyo now, not LA. People here come up to me, but they're polite. I don't take drugs as much as I did back in the states. I'm a casual smoker at best. I can't sing much anymore, but that didn't stop me from singing along to dancing in the moonlight. It was playing loud on the kitchen radio. I don't have those bluetooth things. I put in an old fashioned CD and put it on loop. There wasn't any powder under the sink where I'd left it. The bastard had beaten me to it. My ways of hiding things were getting sloppy, but I didn't mind.

I did mind the fact he was playing me however. This guy came to my doorstep an hour ago. I was amazed the poor soul was still alive. He looked rougher than my late guitarist who'd lost a battle with severe alcoholism. My visitor had gone the meth route. All his teeth were gone at the tender age of forty four, and he somehow looked better than my bandmate. Some people are like that. I'm like that. Their bodies crumble to shit, but their inner youth supersedes it. Jim was his name. He was pro soccer player before the drugs and age took ahold of him. He shot the same spiel as he always did when I opened that door.

"I'm back! You have a room?" he chirped.

I like to see myself as high energy in most situations, but his enthusiasm in these moments stumped even me. I was going to make a light quip about there being a room for one, but ushered him inside instead. Soon we were talking it up on the couch. It was an unbroken ritual of ours. Someone in our lives was in hot water, or fully cooked, and we'd talk about it. That's all people like us could talk about these days. It would start with our favorite seafood place and morph into a marijuana bust of a once esteemed tiger handler. I'd taken a well circulated photo with him in 86. Jim thought I had to know.

As it turned out, the guys cousin was a stagehand. He'd been part of my crew in that same year. Was one of those guys that likes to think they know you more than they do. He told the story to Jim to pass onto me. I don't know what his deal was, spilling the beans on his family drama like that. I don't know Jim's deal either. He felt I wanted to hear it and I guess I did. The thought of Florida cops finding five pound bags of weed concealed in tire swings made for big cats was comical. It made you laugh, but not in a dark humored way. I couldn't care less what happened to the guy. He seemed nice enough, but it wasn't my business. I was glad for once it wasn't.

As it happened, that cousin tried to visit old spider fingers in the hospital before he passed. His "real" name was Stevie V. His wife found him lying next to his Les Paul in their home studio. They said he played it with heavy drink for forty eight hours before seizing up like a dead bug. The darned cousin had somehow found the hospital address. I wish he didn't. Because of it, Jim and I were no longer talking about tigers. I much preferred to keep my thoughts on exotic animals and weed. By this trajectory, it was only a matter of time that we'd get on to the coke.

The second I saw the torn duck tape and no bag, I knew it was all a ruse. Jim was in wise guy mode that evening. I didn't like it. He was a man that relished in hyperactive doom filled ramblings. At the end of the day, we both wondered what would become of us in the next ten years. I should've never taken the bait, but I always did, I couldn't help myself. All he ever did was waste my time. I returned to living room in an annoyed daze. Who knew that night was the last time he'd sit on my couch.

It took me a moment to process the scene when I came through the doorway. Jim was sitting were he was on the leather sofa. The bag of coke sat on the glass coffee table, its twisty tie pulled off. A cardboard box lay at his feet. Its once taped over flaps were torn ajar. Despite the undisturbed bag, Jim was holding a rolled up twenty. It was midway between the table and his nose. My eyes averted to the box and back to the table. On the glass were several lines of grey dust. The dollar bill united with substance and nostril. My entire being reeled into shock.

"Snnnniffff!"

"Wha...what are you doing?!" I stuttered.

It was the only thing that could come out. The line disappeared. He went on to the next, taking no account of my cry. It flushed down his nose in the blink of an eye.

"Come on friend, let's enjoy the circle of life," he coughed.

I rushed to the table and covered the remaining lines with my hand. My free arm reached to the box and snatched it from his feet. His greasy fingers came down on mine. Both of us were gridlocked over the table.

"Hey, don't flatten those man! I was snorting Stevie V!" he bellowed.

"Stop it!"

"I think I'm getting superpowers!"

I dragged the box to the edge of the table and wrenched his hand away with my free arm. The ashes cascaded into the opening, some landing on its flaps and the carpet.

"Shit! Shit!" I hissed.

"Do you have a guitar anywhere? Let's see if its working," he said.

A fine grey smear dusted the table. I tried to wipe more off in vain. All it did was make the stuff more airborne. I backed away from the cloud, flopping backward. My tailbone hit the carpet with a hard thud. I covered my nose and mouth with my hands.

"Oh God, please!" I groaned.

Jim wiped his fingertip over the glass and licked it.

"Your no fun anymore," he mused.

I didn't respond, only sat there waiting for the dust to settle. Once it did, I pulled away the box, wrapping it hard around my arms.

"I mixed those lines with coke by the way," said Jim.

"Great, I'm sure he'll appreciate it," I replied, my eyes rolling.

"He'll appreciate it? I think he'd appreciate it if you went with the flow here."

"I think your not welcome on my couch anymore."

"Come on, we were getting into the deep stuff. I was just.... upping the edginess factor a bit. I wanted it to be like uh...like when those goth kids slice their wrists open for blood pacts... something like that."

"Why do you want to go goth?"

"That's not the point."

I got to my feet and placed the box on the TV stand. I rubbed my eyes and took three long breaths.

"You look worn," said Jim.

"I am," I said.

"It scares me."

My nervous feet brought me over to the coke bag. To my relief, there was no gray matter inside. I weighed its contents in my palm.

"I think there's worthier things to be scared about," I said.

"Who are you these days?" said Jim.

"I'm resigned."

"Resigned from what?"

"This...all of this," I said, fanning my hands over him and the table.

"You're down real bad. Didn't think it would happen to you."

"I think you should leave."

"I guess I will."

Jim got up from the couch and brushed past me. He gathered his things at the front door and left without a word. I stayed put. By minute one of his absence, I was already feeling lonely again. I returned the box to the bedroom closet. The coke was rehidden in a strong box. Part of me hoped he'd return. Another part wanted his nasal canal to bleed velvet soot. It didn't matter what happened to him. I was doomed either way.