Getting Higher Read online

  Getting Higher

  By

  Robert T. Jeschonek

  Part One: The Way It Is

  Chapter One

  He woke slowly, grudgingly, dragging himself up from a deep, deep sleep. That was how he always woke up; he had to pry himself awake, crawling one inch at a time from a black, dreamless pit. His eyes fluttered feebly, trying to open. His whole body fluttered, shivered, resisting the urge to move or shift in any way. His head throbbed, banging and rushing whenever he moved it.

  "Oh God," he moaned. "Oh God, oh God, oh God..." He began to toss back and forth, thrashing his numbed body around in an attempt to get it moving again. "Ohhhhh..." Again, he moaned, the sound gurgling up from his parched throat. He threw his head to one side, and felt something cold and wet touch his cheek. For a moment, he continued to squirm aimlessly about, rolling and writhing in a semi-conscious stupor.

  Then, he smelled something. It was rancid, rotten... near his face...no, on his face... All at once, he shot awake, realization and horror exploding in his groggy mind. He leaped up from the floor where he had been sleeping, then fell back against the wall, rubbing his face furiously.

  "Oh shit!" he yelled, his features twisted in disgust. He looked at one of his hands; it was covered with vomit. "Ohhhhh, I fell asleep in it!" He groaned, only this time it was from revulsion, not sleepiness.

  "Shiiiiit!" he hissed, stumbling toward the bathroom, holding his slimy hands out before him like a surgeon. He glanced in the mirror: flaming bloodshot eyes, mangled, shoulder—length hair, a beard and mustache smeared with vomit. Grimacing, he turned away from the awful image, then turned the water on and bent down to wash his face. As he splashed it over his nose and cheeks and eyes, the cold stuff helped him to come around.

  After a minute or two, most of the goop had come off his face and hands and out of his beard, so Joe turned off the faucet and dried himself with a towel that was lying on the floor. He felt a little better, a little more aware of what he was doing and where he was. It comforted him to realize that he was in his own room, not somebody else's; for once, he didn't have to walk the whole way across town with a hangover to get home.

  For a minute, he stood in the bathroom and yawned. Then, he felt queasy again, and turned to the toilet and retched. His whole body shook as he expelled himself into the john; every time a new wave of nausea rushed through him, he jerked and contracted and felt as if his stomach was coming out next.

  When he felt he was through, he put the toilet seat down and sat on it, folding his arms and shaking. He felt worse than he'd ever felt before, sicker and lower and more puke filthy miserable. It seemed to always get worse, every time he got hung over it seemed to hurt even more than the time before. This morning, it hurt so bad that he started to cry.

  He was huddled on the toilet seat, sobbing and shivering, when somebody knocked on the door to his room. For a while, he just ignored it, hoping that whomever it was would give up and go away; after five minutes of steady pounding, however, he decided to see who was there.

  Somehow, he pulled himself to his feet and staggered out of the bathroom. As he crossed his tiny apartment, he held his skull with both hands, trying to stop it from spinning. The pounding on the door was making his headache even worse.

  "Yeah, I'm comin'," he mumbled, reaching for the doorknob. "Keep your pants on..."

  He opened the door and saw it was the landlady, Mrs. Rufus. It took all the strength he had left not to slam the door in her face.

  "Well, it's about time! Do you think I've got all day? For God's sake, it's one o'clock in the afternoon! Don't tell me you're still asleep?!?"

  Joe hated the way Rufus spoke, always raising her voice at the end of every sentence, as if everything she said was crucially, fanatically important. He wished she would die. "Yeah, I'm still asleep. That's why I'm standin' here talkin' to you. Wadda' you want?"

  Mrs. Rufus was miffed. "Well, for your information, your rent is due today! I've given you puh—lenty of time to get the money, and you damn well better have it! I've gone out on a limb for you this time!"

  "I—I thought you weren't collecting till next Friday. I'll have it next Friday."

  Mrs. Rufus fumed. Her eyes slitted and her brows crawled together in a single dark line. Even the curlers in her stringy gray hair seemed to vibrate.

  "You'll have it when?!? Mr. Jones, I told you distinctly that I would be by today, no if's, and's or but's! I've already given you two extra weeks, out of the goodness of mine and Mr. Rufus's hearts!"

  "Call me Joe, all right? You said Friday, I know you did, next Friday..."

  "Don't give me that crap, mister! None of your excuses! You either give me my money now or get out of my building!" Mrs. Rufus crossed her arms and stood firmly in Joe's doorway. She was taking her stand, getting tough, like some old, fat chicken protecting her eggs. Her shapeless dress hung at a proud angle from her shoulders.

  Joe was starting to feel sick again. "Fuck you," he mumbled, and slammed the door in Mrs. Rufus's face. He locked the door and headed for the bathroom. "Leave me alone, you bitch."

  Somehow, he made it to the bathroom sink before puking again. He stood over the basin, retching and gagging and groaning, while Mrs. Rufus banged on the door.

  "Let me in, buster! Nobody calls me that and gets away with it!" She pounded and pounded on the door, shouting at Joe and making threats. Then, she abruptly stopped.

  "All right, you've got five seconds to let me in! Then I'm doin' it One...two...three…"

  Joe kept throwing up in his sink, his whole body wracked with pain. He could not have opened the door even if he'd wanted to, which he didn't.

  "...four...five!" Joe heard a key turning in the lock. He'd forgotten Mrs. Rufus had a pass key, and in his haste to puke, he hadn't put the chain lock across the door.

  "Oh...damn...," he hacked, trying to stop the convulsions that were shaking him.

  The doorknob turned and Mrs. Rufus stormed in, hurling the door furiously against the wall. "I'll show you who's a bitch!" she screamed, wagging her hideous face and baring her false teeth.

  Joe stopped retching long enough to catch a glimpse of his landlady as she stomped toward the bathroom. He noticed something he hadn't seen before--a baseball bat, rammed in the old woman's hammy hands like an axe. Then, he was blinded with pain as the bat came down hard on his arm.

  Joe yelped, dodging the woman's second swing and trying to keep from throwing up again. Somehow, he managed to dart around Mrs. Rufus and run out the bathroom door. She kept swinging, putting all her formidable weight into each blow, shattering a lamp, a small table, a flower pot.

  "Call me a bitch, will you?!? Get out of here, you faggot, before I kill you!" Mrs. Rufus swung the bat again, nailing Joe in the side; she was fast, and he was sick and slow, so it wasn't too hard for her to connect.

  "Owwwwwwww!!" Joe reeled backward, grabbing at the spot where the bat had hit. Pressing the attack, Rufus whalloped him again, this time across the knees. There was a loud crack, and Joe toppled to the floor. The pain in his side got worse, and he began to vomit again.

  Mrs. Rufus had the look of a crazed rabid animal. She stood above Joe and brandished the bat as if she was ready to kill him. She smiled in triumph as her victim puked feebly on the floor.

  "You pig," she snarled, "you ugly, hairy pig! I guess I showed you, didn't I? Get out of here, before I kill you!! I will, too! Crawl out of this building like a pig and never come back!"

  Joe stopped retching. He held his stomach and gritted his teeth and looked up at Mrs. Rufus. "You...you whore...you fuckin' whore..."

  "1 said 'get out' you pig. Take your booze and your drugs and your filth and get out!"

  Joe paused for a moment, hunched on his
hands and knees on the floor. Sweat was beading his beard and he was panting for breath. Slowly, he gathered his strength, never taking his eyes off Mrs. Rufus and the bat.

  Then, suddenly, he sprang up and pounced on the meaty old woman. He caught her off-balance and hurled her to the floor, then dashed out the open door into the hall. While Mrs. Rufus screamed and clucked and swore, Joe Jones ran away, out into the rain-slicked street.

  *****

  Chapter Two

  Under an awning, in front of an old, ruined storefront, Joe Jones stopped and caught his breath. He had run for nearly a block before he realized Mrs. Rufus wasn't chasing him; he would have caught on sooner, and would have saved himself a lot of pain, but he was still sick and half-asleep.

  He still wasn't all there.

  Joe thought he would throw up again at any moment. His whole body heaved as he tried to catch his breath, and each gasp of air made his stomach churn. His head was pounding so hard he could barely see straight, and he felt horribly dizzy. His arm, his leg, and his side hurt where Mrs. had hit them. All in all, Joe was in lousy, shape; as he leaned against the store window, he thought he would collapse on the street.

  "That...that...bitch...," he gasped, sucking in air and holding his head. "That...lousy...bitch..." He wheezed and panted and coughed; his mouth tasted like vomit and phlegm, and he spat to get rid of the awful flavor.

  It was pouring down rain that day, and the streets and sidewalks were pooled with puddles and streams. The rain came in sheets, dropping down and drenching everything at once. Every once in a while, thunder would echo in the distance, but there was no lightning. All the buildings were soaked, their wood and brick darkened by the water, rainspouts and eaves offering little protection from wind-blown gusts of rain.

  Even under the awning, Joe could not escape the storm. As he stood and panted, fat wet droplets kept striking him in the face, blown beneath the awning from the rest of the downpour. Also, there was a large hole in the canvas which admitted a steady stream of water. From his brief run and the leaky awning, Joe was soaked through to his sweaty skin. The faded T-shirt and jeans that he wore were drenched, sopping and sticking to his body. His hair was plastered to his skull and his beard dripped; he looked like he had gone in the shower with his clothes on.

  After five minutes of rasping and wheezing, Joe finally started to breathe normally. He began to relax slightly, and felt his pulse stop jackhammering. His headache did not go away, and his body still ached, but he was no longer exhausted and convulsing.

  Bit by bit, Joe Jones began to regain his senses. He looked out on the street; there were a few people walking by, hunched in jackets and umbrellas, some of them looking at him. Everyone else was staying out of the rain that day, plugged into sleepy dry apartments and offices, socked away happy at home like Joe should have been.

  A car swooped by, knifing through a huge puddle and spraying Joe with mud. He tried to jump out of the way, but didn't see it coming soon enough. By the time the car squealed its tires around the corner, Joe's shirt and jeans were plastered brown.

  "Sonuva' bitch," he yelled, wiping futilely at the mud globs. "Watch where you're going, you asshole!"

  Joe coughed, spat a lump of phlegm on the sidewalk. He shook his head roughly, trying to stop it from spinning, then pulled his hair back out of his face. He looked down the street, at the building he had just been evicted from, and cursed under his breath. He had been in that place for almost three years, living in the same dingy room and paying rent to the same spastic landlady. She'd tried to evict him twice before, but he had always managed to squirm out of it. She had never used the baseball bat before, though, and she had never come to collect when Joe was sick with a hangover, either.

  Leaving Mrs. Rufus in the blocks behind him, Joe knew it didn't matter anymore. He didn't have a chance of moving back into his old place, not a chance; he was out for good, and he knew it. The way Mrs. Rufus had snarled and raged at him, chasing and cracking her bat, left no room for doubt. The crazed old landlady would be waiting for him now, rocking by her window with the baseball bat in her lap.

  Joe cursed Mrs. Rufus, cursed the bat and the room and the whole building. He was not going to go near the dump again, not even to try to pick up his belongings. He didn't have much to begin with, so it didn't bother him to leave it behind. There were some T-shirts, a pair of jeans, some underwear, a cheap old transistor radio, and some food; other than that, Joe really didn't own anything. The only things he would miss were the ten dollars on his table, the bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cupboard, and some joints he had lying around.

  Joe felt better after awhile, felt as if he could walk again. He was still woozy and his head thumped, but he didn't think he would vomit again. Gritting his teeth, he pushed away from the window where he was leaning and walked out from under the awning. As he got his balance and realized he would not topple to the sidewalk, Joe looked up at the gray, bleak sky, closing his eyes and letting the rain hit his face. Then, he took another step and turned again toward his old home.

  "It was great for awhile, man," he said, "but, like, all good things must come to an end." Then, he raised the middle finger of his right hand in an obscene salute. "Fuck you, Rufus. I hope you die, you crazy old bitch."

  Then, he turned and walked in the opposite direction. Thrown out of his room, hung-over and sick, broke, hungry, and soaking wet, Joe had only one thing left to do: go to see Crank.

  Crank was a friend who lived about three blocks away. After all he'd been through, Joe knew Crank would help him out, would give him a beer and some time to pull himself together. Plus, Joe figured he could stay with Crank, or Rocky, another friend, until he got some money and found another place. If not, there was always the YMCA; a nice alley or a car seat would be okay, too.

  While Joe was walking, a white Volkswagen pulled up to the curb. It matched speed with him, and a middle-aged woman inside rolled down the window to talk to him. She had brown hair in thick curls on her head, and smiled pleasantly as she spoke.

  "Excuse me," she said, still inching the car along the curb to keep up with Joe. "Can you tell me where the Reynolds Building is? I'm in an awful rush and I just can't get my bearings."

  Joe was not in a good mood, and nice women in shiny white Volkswagens didn't make him feel any better. His bruises were really starting to ache, and all he wanted to do was get to Crank's apartment. "You got some problem, lady, bothering law-abiding dudes out for a walk? Can't you see I'm minding my own business?"

  The woman looked confused. "Look, I just need directions, all right? I don't want any trouble or anything."

  Joe stopped walking. The Volkswagen stopped, too, but the woman had to put it in reverse and back the car up so she could stay beside him. The tires squealed as the little car jerked back and forth.

  "Baby, do I look like I know where the Reynolds Building is?" Joe spread his arms wide, presenting his soaked, grimy body, his beard, his black, shoulder-length hair.

  "Please, I just..."

  Joe cut her off. "Would you like to take me home, lady? I bet your kids would like a new playmate. You do drugs?"

  The woman said nothing. She didn't even roll up her window. She just scowled at Joe for an instant, then zipped away in her Volkswagen. Joe laughed and continued up the street.

  *****

  Chapter Three

  Crank Schaffer lived in a dumpy, one-room apartment in a crumbling brick building just a couple of blocks away from Joe's old place. The rent was cheap, the neighbors didn't bother him, and the room was just big enough for a party; in other words, it was everything Crank could ask for.

  After a short walk, Joe arrived at Crank's building and stepped inside through the open front door. Whistling in the dusty, smelly hallways, Joe travelled through the place, moving casually past other humble rooms and up dingy stairways until he found Crank's room on the third floor. As he creaked across the buckled board floor of the hall, approaching the dirty corner room in which his
friend waited, Joe noticed that the door was open.

  "Yo, Crank," he yelled, poking his head through the doorway and looking around. "You up?"

  A low, wavering moan rumbled from the bathroom. "Yeah, yeah...more or less. Mostly less. Izzat Joey?"

  Joe entered the apartment, tugging the door shut behind him. "No, man. It's the F.B.I., and we came by to blow your ass off for smokin' dope. Mind if we drop in?"

  "Nah," snickered Crank behind the bathroom door. "Just make yourselves at home. I'll be out in a minute, man. I'm takin' a shit."

  "All right, man. Take your time and enjoy yourself." Joe chuckled and started walking around the small room, idly inspecting its contents. The main piece of furniture was a big crate in the middle of the floor, an old, gray shipping crate which Crank used as a table. The crate was covered with bottles, cans, and cigarette butts, and crumpled up beside it was a raggedy sleeping bag that served as Crank's bed. There was no carpeting in the apartment, just a grimy wood floor full of cracks and splinters, and a moldy, shredded throw rug that Crank had found in an alley one day.

  A broken metal floor lamp stooped like an old man in one corner, and beside it was a gnarled rocking chair, with one of its rockers torn off. The lamp had no shade, just a bare light bulb that was always burned out anyway. In another corner was Crank's kitchen--a battered hot plate and an old refrigerator which was salvaged from the junkyard. Cans of food were scattered on the floor around the hot plate, and a heap of empty cans and bottles grew beside the refrigerator. There were mangled old newspapers and wads of clothing dribbled acrossthe floor of the whole room, and little puddles of ash and crushed cigarettes peppered everything.

  One poster was hanging on the wall, a psychedelic painting of Jimi Hendrix with "Purple Haze" scrawled in bold violet letters. Other than that, the walls were bare except for dirty, cracked plaster and smudge marks.