There is only today (for Jeanie)



Then:

Fuck, he was barely able to get off his knees after the second heave. Puke oozed slowly down the steps as he fell back onto the grass.

“What a fucking waste of a good dinner,” says phantom voice.

“Mmmmmmmmm, yeah.” Spittle, thick like an umbilical cord, hung from his slack mouth. Nostrils burned.

Slowly leaning back over, arms shaking in protest, not really seeing; he puckered up his lips and sucked up a baked bean, then another and another.

Laughter, cries of disgust.

“Jesus you're a fucking gross cunt.” Another phantom.

His mates were all around, somewhere, ahhh yeah. Had been all afternoon. That was good cos he couldn’t really move and didn’t want to be left alone up here. Not in this state. Not like last time. That was crap; scary. A cop had cruised up and punched him in the face, threatened to arrest him if he said anything. The cop was a woman. He'd pissed his pants in fear.


Later:

No pigs turned up as far as I can remember, but it was a Monday night so it would have been a slow one for them. Big one for us though. Monday night; no particular reason really, it could have been any night of the week. There were periods when it's six, ten, even fourteen days/nights in a row, getting as fucked up as possible to have a bit of fun.

Everyone does it.

Paper rock scissors. We live on the streets, shoplift food, defraud Social Welfare, burgle, sell drugs and stolen property, take countless risks with drugs we know nothing about in order to leave a reality so totally alien, so sick and twisted in its relentless violence and brutality that we willingly become everything they hate: we flirt with (social) death. As if we care what you think.

I haven't changed my pants in six months. Work-shy anarcho-pacifist faggots who loiter all day drinking cheap beer: we park John's Vauxhall outside the council building and play Discharge on the stereo as loud as possible. 'Scum' is printed on the back of my t-shirt but don't let it put you off eh; we're nice boys.


Then:

So far so good this time though. The afternoons fun had been his shout, his turn to sacrifice a record for the super-duper 'one decent punk record for an ounce of cabbage’ deal from Jeanie up at the top flat – so it was a quick flick to the back of the beer crate to find something that rarely graced his turntable: Bad Brains it was then.

Jeanie was so damned pleased he almost changed his mind, but nah, their Rasta bullshit was getting a bit too much. Now, on with the show.

Nathan’s cesspit of a kitchen had produced only oil, flour, marmite and loads of fat flies so the cake came out looking like a sloppy cow shit but it didn’t matter really; down it went.
   
And up they all went.


Later:

It never fails to amaze me how wasted you can get by eating such shit weed. Could smoke cabbage all night but a slice of cake and kapow! you were flying. Might even sort out another for the weekend; or talk someone else into it at least. No rush. Y'know for a long time my concept of the 'future' only extended to holidays, birthdays and Christmas - like it probably was for most kids eh? All you had to do was sit and wait and before you knew it you were wallowing in joy.

Other wise it was just today and bedtime was ages away eh?

Homework was a curler. And it became more and more serious as you got older with the consequences of forgetting more dire. Then came the school cross-country run, the English speech, exams, and finally the school ball.

The future was increasingly becoming dominated by scary shit.

The fact that school was a finite chunk of life didn't really hit home until well into the seventh form year, but even then it was treated like a half-truth. I didn't even realise that some of my friends actually had plans, actually knew what they were going to be doing the following year.

BA of course; in Dunedin of course.

I assume there was some sort of mental process to reach this decision, but we never talked about it so it remained a mystery to me. But I also wonder whether some of my fellow students simply followed the herd, or treated Uni as no more than an extension of high school – just a different location and more parties. That was the last I saw of many friends, some of whom I'd shared a classroom with since way back in the primary days. The final bell rang: the future had suddenly arrived and it was all bad.

But now I've got it sorted, well mostly.  Y'see once again I've no plans, appointments, important dates, homework or a fancy dress ball. Nothing. There is only today and bedtime is ages away.


Then:

English is such a shocker of a language. Where is beauty, love, and the wondrous insight of hallucinations?

 “Wow, look at that.” Had to be there eh?
   
Right, team meeting, gather round gather round. All agree that hours of intense tripping in Nath’s revolting little flat probably won’t be much fun. No shit eh; close call guys, another half-hour and they probably wouldn’t have found the fucking door out.

So they walked; walked and walked and walked until they came across an apple tree who told them he used to be a policeman so they stood around and pissed on it. Ah, the church steps, scene of so many drunken grovels they almost considered it their own. Kinda predictable but so what – that's drugs for ya.


Later:

Getting wasted is very predictable, but at the same time it takes very little to plunge into chaos. Puking your ring out is pretty much the same each time and the way I feel right now is pretty fucking familiar as well. But getting up at seven-thirty each morning and going to work is also very predicable eh? Ditto Shortland Street each night, after work drinks on Friday, mowing the lawns and Sunday brunch at a trendy cafe. All very very fucking predictable. That's why it's good to occasionally drop a few psych pills with your beer. Unpredictable.

Even better is a tasty concoction invented by the late Howdy Blackmore called 'The Bucket'. From the bottlie score Old Mouttre, apple wine and a cheap cask of vodka and orange. Then duck into the two-dollar shop to pick up a plastic bucket and head for the church steps where you mix them lovingly together. Best when drunk. I don't seem to remember ever actually finishing one of these and in fact I think that each time at least one of the participants has ended up in the cells for the night.

The Bucket is Howdy's legacy to getting wasted.


Then:

The moonlight streaming through the trees had him fucked for a while there, trying to hop over the rays one at a time so he could get to the toilets. Crashing into shit; the grass shimmering beneath him like it was 3-D, electric. Fucking toasted. Toast.

His mouth ached from laughing so much.

And then the fucking Christians turn up with their paper cups of chicken soup yet again; never fucking listen that lot: “Is it vegetarian?” The following week: “Is it vegetarian?” and so on. Duh; target audience research. Like flies to goddamn shit they are. But none of them are young and spunky and while the banter can be entertaining it’s still kinda like hanging out with your parents so the party slowly shifts a few steps further up.

Shit, it's reality. Always strikes at the worst time eh. His arse feels like a couple of frozen chops and probably has for a long while now; fingers are clamped numb around a can of flat beer. Visions of piles distract him for another good chunk of time but it never takes long before the Nelson frost pulls you back down from whatever glorious heights you’ve conquered and eats you. It just depends on how wasted you are to when it becomes too much of a drag to hang in there. Bit like the Christians really. The city though is deliciously quiet; so still. The tourists have stopped loitering, stopped click clicking and fucked off to where ever they go, so the view down the main drag takes you right to the night sky.

Two am is so the best time to be here. Wasted.

Wasted.

Wasted.

The streetlights no longer pulsed. He cautiously staggered to his feet, arms wide for balance and squinted about; there was only Shane clinging to some schoolgirl.
   
Shit, close call.

Shivering with cold he scouted about him to see if he'd dropped anything. Nothing, not even a few brain cells. “Right I’m off home. Been a choice night eh.” No reply.

Crashing down through ruined flowerbeds he finds the path that curls around the hill, out towards Vanguard Street and the couch that is currently home. The road is flat, wide, and empty of danger. The cold is brutal, clinging damp; he walks fast to loose the shakes. Hopefully Jeanie would run out of cabbage soon. It was getting harder each turn, painful even, with his more cherished vinyl getting dangerously close to the back of the beer crate. But it was just too good a deal and in the quest for obliteration sacrifices must be made.

Could always buy another copy someday, but a night out like tonight...
   
Priceless. Damn straight. Right then, home.


Later:

What shall we do tonight guys?


Now:

No regrets.
Except for the records.
I was never a cunt, never hassled anyone, assaulted anyone, never took advantage of anyone...

No regrets.
Except for the records.
And Jeanie. RIP.