I take a long drag as people bustle by me, hurrying to someplace they probably don’t have to be. I have a strict belief that hurrying happens too often when it doesn’t need to. People need to just chill out and take a slower pace in life. I make it to the end of the tracks and stand in the cold finishing my cigarette. I extinguish the stub and throw it in an ashtray on one of the many white posts that lined the tracks.
My shoes squeak on the linoleum floor inside the station. A large wooden bench calls to me invitingly, however, I glide past it in search of the Jackson Street exit. The vast maze of elevated trains is my destination; more specifically, the Quincy station. The city streets always amaze me; they are full of life and not one person but myself ever has a smile on his or her worn faces. The faint scent of urine wafts past my nostrils as I amble about a standard bum passed out against a building. That scent mixed with exhaust-saturated air always makes me feel as though I have gotten the true nitty-gritty of the city stuck underneath my fingernails. The residue left by it won’t be dislodged for days after leaving I know. I dodge the comatose crowd of businessmen on their way home as I crossed the street. God, I hope I never turn out like that, stuck in some dead end job with a box as my creative breeding ground. I would rather die. Reaching Quincy Street, I become confused as to where to enter the damn station. Every stairway is lined with infuriating signs saying “STOP: DO NOT ENTER.” I grasp my cell and dial Nat’s workplace in hopes of some sort of revelation as to where to go. I am greeted with, “Hello, Mercury Theatre,” as Nat picks up the phone.
“Nat, it’s Ducky- what the hell is with this fucking El station? I can’t find the damn entrance anywhere!” I declare to the wall I am facing.
“Dude, calm down. Just walk down Quincy- is Jackson to the right or left of you? Right? Ok, head towards Jackson and the entrance is about a block and a half down. We still on for the after show thing at Steve’s?” she queries.
“Well yeah, I would assume so- I dunno, I dun have too many minutes left on my cell, let’s figure it out once we meet up at 3-ish. I’ll call you then, thanks again hun,” I rush in my dash down Quincy. I find the entrance, pop my CTA card into the turnstile, pass through, and rush up the stairs to catch the next train. Luck is with me today, a line of cars pulls in right as I reach the top of the dirty stairwell. I hop onto the train and quickly grab a seat in the near empty car. I am nudged in my seat by the movement of the train leaving the station. I settle in and watch the scenery of streaked greasy skies melting into dirty worn down building fronts. I think it would be interesting to stop the El sometime and just step off in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a sketch book. The sparseness of it all lures me in without explanation. There is a stark beauty to it all, a sadness if you will that reminds me of something I can’t put my finger upon. Perhaps it is my life that it is so similar to, I don’t know. I would rather not think on it, headaches come frequently enough as it is.
*****
The Red Line delivers me to Belmont as I consider departing the train here rather than Addison. I stay put to give myself time to get all my shit together. I am forever carrying bags of useless stuff around with me in case I get an extra moment to work on a craft or keep my hands busy. The Reunion Show’s “Star Training” resonates between my ears as I step off the train onto the busy platform at Addison. I walk down a few blocks to meet up with Nat at her workplace. As I stride down the street I check out the men and women passing me by, wondering if they notice me too. I always wonder if anyone notices me. With my rainbow hair and boisterous personality I catch Nat’s eye immediately.
“Holy shit, Ducky!!!” she cries as she runs down the sidewalk towards me. Suctioning me in a vacuum-like hug, she shares me elation at seeing her.
“Hey girly, what’s happening? Haven’t seen you in like, a week and a day woman! What’s the word, you got your owl?” I inquire in a succession of run-ons. Her owl is infamous within our circle of friends. The thing is, it isn’t a real bird; it’s a small leather pouch in which her little sacks of reefer and her socket hitter are contained. She shifts her emo glasses as she reaches for her tote bag to confirm my hopes.
I admire her in the slightly smoky light that is reflecting of the tall buildings on our sides. Her thin figure is layered in thin runner’s jackets and sweaters while her high waist shows a little line of creamy white skin before reaching her tight-hipped jeans. I must admit, I still appreciate her beauty with the knowledge of no fruition to my desires. She has an aura about her that just makes everyone feel happy and cherished at the same time. It is a love that cannot be explained through words.
I shake my head from my reverie as Nat pulls out her little brown owl. We sneak into an alley and pack the resin-lined hitter. After a short visit with our friend Mary Jane, we emerge with smiles of numb stupidity etched upon our faces. I pick off little pieces of the sticky green that stuck to my tongue as we stroll down the busy sidewalk. God, to think that everyday can be like this once Nat and I move in together excites my muddled psyche.
We stop at a small convenience store on the corner and take our sweet time making our selections of munchies. A Nutrageous for me and an Arizona tea to share are bagged for me while Nat makes her purchase. We consume our treats in shared silence as we travel to Steve’s apartment. As a member of the band ST, he lives with two other band mates and parties often ensue. We are hoping to catch the beginning of one now at 3-ish and another later on.
The walk becomes a journey in my reversed contemplation on life. Am I invisible? I wonder if anyone even notes my presence in the world. Not even Nat walking beside me turns to acknowledge my presence at my slight clearing of my throat. The people slinking by through the neighborhood don’t meet my eyes in passing. The splitting wind shakes me deeper than my physical self. The acidic realization that I am alone as always, and I will continue forever to be alone bores through my wits and kills my high. My head screams with a burnt out thumping that matches my footsteps.
Abruptly I am facing the yellow brick edifice of Steve’s apartment.
“You talk,” Nat pipes up. She hates to ring their buzzer and declare her presence. Her timidity is appealing to me, more of a humbleness. I press the button next to the marker with “F1” scribbled upon it.
“Who is it?” a male voice drones back with a metallic echo.
“Quack quack,” I proclaim. The buzzer is sounded as the door unlocks to admit our entrance. I shove the heavy wooden door open, knowing it sticks quite often. Pat the cat makes his presence known immediately by attacking my ankles in a frenzy of tawny energy. Nat steps from behind me to enter the smoked out living area and rest upon one of the many couches. The scene is that of a true musician. Upon the glass-topped table a medium sized bong rests, caked with the resin of heavy use. Glass fish bowls with lids encase long nugs of crystallized ganja. Monkey, another roommate and band member, is hunched over, packing a smaller hitter.
No greeting is needed in this atmosphere. The pure calm of a stoner’s lair puts me at ease at once. I settle into a snug corner of the couches by Nat and wait to be offered a hit or two. Steve enters the room and gives hugs to the both of us.
“Ducky!” he exclaims to me as my headache accelerates. “Where the hell have you been? Haven’t seen you at shows in a long time.”
“I know, I’ve been living in a cave under a rock,” I quip feebly as I long for the roasting hitter being passed to Nat. We rest back into silence as we zone onto to television screen. The noise is off and the Porcupine Tree album is supplying the soundtrack to our lives. Steve begins to pack the bong as Nat hands over the glass pipe. I light the end as I inhale the fumes deeply. Small fragments of ash hit the back of my throat as I cash the piece. At least I got one good hit off of it, and the bong will soon be rotating my way.
“It’s beat,” I inform Monkey as I empty my hands onto the glass platform.
He reaches out and takes the small pipe from the table and starts to pack it again. The bubbling of cold water inside the bong echoes through my brain as I feel the drug taking hold. I slip inside the smoke as it trickles in my lips. I am lost as Nat takes the bong from my hands, and I melt back into the couch. I am one with everything at once yet I am so alone. Plugged in to the vast system of energy in the world, I am invisible. I give in to the blackness and fall asleep.
*****
Nat and I walk down the sidewalk for a few blocks to meet up with the guys for their show. Smoke curls from my lips as I exhale, trying to recall what had occurred in the past two hours. Nat woke me up only five minutes ago and my dreams are still fresh in my mind. Unsettled by the nagging at my memory, I feel as though I am not really here. Almost as if I am a transparent copy placed over a large picture of the world.
“You okay babe?” Nat inquires with concern. I smile slightly, shake my head and keep up the pace. We reach the door of the bar, and I pull out my crumpled wad of ones from my back pocket. Handing over five, I step inside the unlit club behind Nat.
Eyes are everywhere, I can feel them penetrating my façade and casting judgment. The little girl inside of me shrivels back in a cringe of fear. Outside however, I am all smiles. I wave nonchalantly to Steve as Nat and I saunter over to a tall bar table and perch upon the stools. Names immortalized before me in the carvings of the table draw my vision downward. I pull out my pocket knife and boy scout a small etching of “*ducky* 2/21/03.”
ST takes the stage and begins their tuning. The feedback of the microphones echoes off the gutted walls of the room. “Barb Wire” is the opening refrain and I hop up to dance the night away.
*****
Steve and Monkey climb up from the basement room after their set with smiles cracking their faces. I sidle up to them and hug them in congrats for a great set. Taking a breath before attempting a conversation, their attention is diverted by the poster girls for plastic surgery. Turning back to the floor, I spot Nat with a group of girls, laughing more than she has with me all day. I try to catch her eye, and she doesn’t even look my direction though I am a mere foot away from her. A foot, a mile, it makes no difference. The road I am traveling has no point, no purpose, and no end. Stumbling into the bathroom, my vision blurs in the surge of grief flowing from my eyes.
I fall down into a stall, groping my pockets in search of my pills. There is no point anymore, no one sees me anyways. Not a soul in this bathroom even pays note to my tears. The orange bottle that role-played as my best friend and enemy for the past year and a half makes its final appearance in my trembling hands. As the little pink capsules travel down my throat, I recall a poem I wrote about the night sky once last year.
“…Two, four, nine, I can’t keep count they just keep on falling. And I am left with my sadness and wonder at the beauty of it all. The stars that have burned for eons have paid their rent tonight….”
I again feel the blackness tugging at my arm, but this time I know I will not return. Closing my eyes, I fall back onto a bed of fallen stars and weep at all that is lost. My fingers trace over my etching in my mind and my last thought is of the ending line to my poem.
“…All but one that is- a star of hope. And that is all I cling to.”
I grasp for the star and fall down among the blackness and succumb.
*****
No one in the club noticed the young girl with tears staining her still face. Everyone assumed she was merely another partygoer praying to the porcelain gods that night. Nat had left the show and walked to Steve’s apartment, without a thought as to where her friend was. A star had fallen that night and not a soul took notice to make a wish as it fell from the sky.
