Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twelve, "Nobody's Fault But Mine"
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eb9agQrObSU
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You wake up in your apartment alone. Wal-Mart girl is gone but at least she didn't set any alarms this time. Fast learner that one. Someone is pounding on your door like they're trying to break it down. Climbing out of bed with a groan, you walk naked to the front door and peer out the peephole. It's your landlord. You open the door wide enough to poke your head out.
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"What the fuck do you want?" you ask, politely enough. "I want you out of here, that's what the fuck I want!" Your landlord, Ernie, is a balding middle aged man who has a habit of calling you kid and whose face has a tendency to get red when he's worked up about something. It's the color of a stop sign right now. "First some detective comes around asking all sorts of questions about your personal life, like I would know or give a shit, and then this morning a couple of bikers come charging into my office demanding to know which apartment was yours."
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Oh shit. "What did you tell them?" "I told em you moved out last month, I'm not a fucking scumbag. They were obviously looking to kick your ass, and while I'm not totally opposed to that, I can't have no trouble here. Which is why you gotta go. I can overlook the constant reek of pot smoke comin outta your place, and the loud music, and even that time you vandalized the coke machine and stole everything but the diet 7-up, but I draw the line at cops and pissed off bikers. What'd you do to them anyway?" "I shot my load into one of their faces." "Jesus Christ! That's the kind of shit I'm talking about, what the fuck is the matter with you kid?" "I don't know" you answer truthfully, "but you can't just kick me out, I actually paid my rent on time for once!" "Tough shit kid. You got thirty days to get the fuck out, and don't expect your deposit back either, fuckin place looks like a bomb went off in there! See ya around kid." He hands you an eviction notice and walks away. "Thirty days!" he calls over his shoulder.
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Well that's just great, just what the fuck you needed to hear. No way you can afford to move right now. Shit, you don't even have a car anymore. Stressed out, you get dressed and then search the apartment for contraband, and after half an hour of sifting through random piles of stuff, come up with enough weed to roll a small joint, three bottles of liquor containing about a swallow each, a Valium, and a small piece of rock cocaine, the origins of which are unknown. You drink the liquor first, using the last swallow to wash down the valium. Then you fashion a makeshift pipe out of a beer can and cigarette ashes, and smoke the one hit of mystery crack. By the time the joint has burned halfway down, you're feeling much better about things. Your situation hasn't improved one iota, but you feel better about it nonetheless. There's a knock at your door, not the merciless pounding of Ernie, a sharp and insistent rapping. You check the peephole. It's your father. Fuck.
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"Hey Pop!" you say in your phony I'M-FINE/YOU'RE-FINE voice. "How they hangin old man?" "Cut the shit." your dear old dad says, looking like he'd like to hit you for old times sake, but knowing you'd knock him on his old ass. "I didn't want to come here, your mother insisted on it. She wants to know why you left the hospital, and why you didn't come to the house to see her after you did. It's the drugs isn't it?" "No dad, it's not the drugs... I, I just felt better and wanted to get out of there, that's all." "Horseshit. We know you're on dope. You been on dope for most of your pathetic life and I refuse to take the blame for it." As if you ever blamed him for anything besides being as asshole. "You're a loser son, and it's nobody's fault but your own. Call your mother." He walks out without saying goodbye. "Nice to see you too Pop!" you yell as the door slams hard enough to rattle it's hinges. All of a sudden you feel like shit again.
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After being both evicted by your landlord and called a loser by your father on the same day, sadly not the first time this has happened, you don't feel like doing much. Your latest unemployment check is in the mailbox so you walk to the bank to cash it, then pick up a pizza, a bottle of whiskey, a case of beer, and some cigarettes, and go back home. You take the phone off the hook. You close the blinds. You watch bad TV and drink until until you pass out.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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