My life, as of recent, had been far to normal.
It was time for the Editors of the Weird Sections to strike at me with a great vengance that would leave me and those around me scorched for days after the storm. I could not get by this long with jsut a normal life, fuck no.
But by the time I had realized that my ticket had been punched I was already reeling back from the vicious blow. The entire room was spinning and I was knocked out cold on the flood. My head felt like a ton of bricks and my face was slowly going numb in odd places.
I had not had that much to drink, but I could not even get myself up off hte floor. Escape was not an option. I was going to have to ride out whatever was corsing through my veins. I notced two figures coming close to me, but they seemed less interested in me and more interested in shuffling out the door.
"I need to lie down," I blurted out finally. But I was already splayed out across the living room floor.
Was it an overdose? Was I dying? How could I have let my guard down - did I do this to myself?
Maybe we need a little background. Maybe context will help settle this story and explain my position.
The paragraph facotry is an odd place. Departments and sections rarely interact and talk with other sections. Something as simple as a cubicle divider in an office has the sheer force and abilty to keep desk-mates complete strangers.
I had tried for quite some time to inject myself into a few of the conversations around here when sports or music would come up. More adept at the latter, I found I could easily slip in and out of these conversations around the office. Even if nobody really seemed to be listening.
I was laying the groundwork.
Finally I had given up and said fuck you to all the line-men and women on the factory floor. My cold shoulder snub one day caught the attention of the residetn hipster/music writer. He had two tickets to a CD release party and wanted to know if I Would be interested.
"Eh." I feined, disintersted. Apathy. Don't show emotion or he'll know you are a fraud. He laid the tickets on my desk and said if i didn't want them, I could jsut throew them away.
Screw you, jackass, I'm going. This was my first mistake.
As the night wore on I saw what was, to my surprise, an intense show. Rock on an intimate yet racous level that I had not really expereince since Freshman Year when I would sneak into the Music Cafe to drink and see random acts.
The music cafe was the only joint in town that would serve to minors on a regualr basis - so to go and drink was the main corse, catching an interesting act was like a free desert.
As the bar closed and the mohawked bartender shuffled us out we walked acorss the street to a friend's house where he invited me and female from the factory up for a martini. I had only had a few beers all night - it was a 6 hour concert - and I thought one martini could only grease the wheels of the social occasion.
He mixed the two martinis out of sight as this femal and I talked in the living room about the show and rung out our ears as the silence in the room started to ring in out heads.
I was half way through the martini - dirty gin - when I felt the affects of something else in me. What was sobrity, quickly became pure confusion.
"Finish your drink, get out of the house, fresh air will do you good."
But when I moved to stand, I could not feel my legs. My toes were rock solid and my hips were slowly going. Within 10 minutes I was slumping in my chair - dead in the water. I'd felt this way only once before in New Orleans - but that was after the talking bottle of liquor shoveled several shots down my throat.
Cup barley held in my hand, my stare had gone blank and my eyes could not even focuse on the nearest wall. Our host was playing guitar - a smooth accoustin melody.
Oh god, he was trying to impress the girl. While I was being raped by this vicious drink. An intense white light began to surround me and engluff my vision.
I had to throw up.
I'm a pro at this, in - out, clean up and no ones knows what happened. Quiet and easy.
As I returned to the living room, our host was attempting to try his luck with the girl and she was bolting for the door. At least that is what appeared to be happening with the shapes of color in front of me.
As soon as she left, the party was over. I fell on to the couch, or was pushed by our host - im not sure.
That's when it hit me - both the wodden arm rest and this realization: I grabbed the wrong drink.
Whatever was coarsing through my body and had been expunged by my vomiting was not intended for me.
Is this what its like to take a bullet? I did not even get my coat or shoes off before I was down for the count.
I would have been terrified if i could have felt anything at that moment.
I left as soon as I was conscience the next morning - I was still drunk from the drug but the shoes on my feet and my coat still wraped to my body screamed of exit strategy.
Easy get away - that's what we strive for.