Chapter 1 - Why I Don’t Eat Rabbit Anymore
There’s something hideously disturbing and horribly loathsome about the band SuperTramp. Regardless, that’s what was playing in my truck that morning when I was on the way to the grocery. On the day I met her.
I remember that morning well. If for no other reason than that it was just another rum soaked morning that actually belonged to a string of blurred rum soaked days. I woke that morning feeling like something ominous and bad had happened. My 18-year-old niece and two of her guy friends from high school had crashed at my apartment that night. However, by the time I woke up at
I tried to piece the night back together.
It seemed as if it began with Miller Ponies. There’s something incredibly deceptive about an 8-pack of Miller Ponies. First off, it’s just Miller, so why even sweat it? Secondly, the bottles are so tiny. It’s fairly easy to slam an entire 8-pack and not even realize you have a buzz at all. That is until you try to walk or speak a coherent sentence.
That’s when you realize those little bastards have some kick to them after all. But I digress.
I remembered Jeff and I each slamming our own 8-pack of Ponies. I remembered meeting my niece at the convenience store right up the street. I sped into the parking lot at 50 not even noticing the congregation of police cars that were also there. They practically came at me with pistols drawn. I mean there was my niece and her friends in their car right next to where I was parked watching helplessly as the cops walked up to me. I immediately began with, I’m sorry sir, but my front tire has a slow leak. Probably why it squealed like that.
Needless to say he wasn’t impressed.
‘Your brain has a slow leak, he spat. Are you insane? Are you drunk? Are you intentionally trying to piss off a parking lot full of cops? Give me your license and registration?’
I did and another cop came up to me shaking his head incredulously asking, ‘What’s the rush?’
I knew that this was going to take an Academy award performance on my part. I pointed to my niece’s car and said, ‘Sir, I was just excited to see my niece. This is her first visit here to my apartment.’
My niece had this ‘Oh shit, don’t even try to implicate me in this’ look on her face as she got out of her car.
The cop nearest me asked her, ‘You know this maniac?’
Unfortunately, we’re related, she said good-naturedly. Yes, I know the brute. He’s my uncle.
The cop seemed satisfied. His partner came back with my license and registration with a feint look of disappointment in his face.
Guess he’d been expecting a fugitive in 5 states report. He and his partner discussed it and finally they let me off with a warning, Don’t drive like a fucking asshole.
I took back my paperwork and climbed back into my truck. We went to my apartment. We drank white Russians. I remembered leaving to go buy weed later that night.
I remembered returning to my niece saying You better control your friend Jeff. He’s out in the hallway beating on peoples doors. I vaguely remember hauling his ass back into my apartment, saving him from certain arrest and myself from certain eviction. From there though recollection became dim. Non-existent.
I looked around my apartment looking for some clue, anything that would maybe shed some light on this. Jeff was still passed out and snoring on the sofa, so he was no help. My kitchen counter-top was trashed. French whips and cheese graters were knocked from their hooks. My plastic dish-drainer looked squashed.
Jeff’s snores reverberated through the mornings still.
I knew the sense of certain and impending doom I felt was somehow directly linked to that ugly snoring bastard. It didn’t seem quite right for me to have to suffer his sins all by myself so I threw a shoe at him and yelled, Wake up princess.
The shoe didn’t phase him. From this point on it became a matter of just matching up physical evidence and trying to fill in the mental gaps.
Exhibit A) there was a large pile of chili that had been dropped onto the stovetop and on the burner of the electric stove.Exhibit B) Jeff’s shirt was stained heavily by the same substance, hell maybe it wasn’t chili that was spilled all over the stove.
As I stood there looking at the disaster area better known as my kitchen I had a sudden and vivid flash of memory. It came like one of those grainy montages from some artsy fartsy independent film. But sure enough, I remembered Jeff hurling himself backwards, away from me, onto the counter.
He was flailing his arms screaming, “no don’t hurt me.. C’mon lets just go out and get some cocaine, let’s go buy some crack, we need crack. Getto Boys, Getto Boys…Ouch don’t hurt me.”
Okay, so Jeff got a little out of hand last night. Shit happens. The thing that bothered me is that I still couldn’t account for my own missing time. I opened my pantry and the gallon of vodka was still there, with only a small amount missing. Something didn’t seem right. My niece, her two friends, Jeff and myself had been drinking on that gallon. Certainly we would have put a bigger dent in it than that. Or maybe not.
I’d only had one or two white Russians before I’d gone to go pick up some weed. Maybe I drank over at their house. But no, I hadn’t been gone that long. I basically just walked in, grabbed my shit, smoked the obligatory joint, and left.
Then, once I got home, I was confronted with the horrid news that Jeff was running amok around the apartment complex. Then the grainy image of him flopping all over my kitchen counter like a wounded animal. And then nothing.
If the memory and the dialogue were correct, actually I didn’t even want to ponder that.
Me caving into his warped logic, cruising the housing projects of
I looked at the gallon of vodka and then down in my trash can. Sitting there right on top of the cereal boxes, tin cans, and beer bottles was the culprit, an empty gallon of vodka. It sort of relieved me and definitely accounted for my lack of memory.
However, I still wasn’t sure how the rest of the night played out but I’m sure it was something to the effect of me hollering for more vodka, my niece bringing me to the grocery and then us or more likely me, using the vodka from the near full gallon to make a few drinks before I finally passed out.
I took a shower and felt somewhat better. I still couldn’t quite escape that nagging feeling of doom though. I had to get out. I took a quick inventory of things I needed from the grocery and headed for the door.
On my way out the beast awoke. “Where the fuck are you going?” he asked.
“Out of here before the Feds descend upon us, and if you were wise you’d be doing the same thing,” I said to put a little scare into him. He wasn’t phased. He fell back down on the pile of pillows and said, Well, if you go to the store get some grapefruit.
“Do we need anything else?” I asked.
I was losing him fast.
Yeah, get some rabbit too, was the last thing he mumbled before passing back out.
This is about the time in the story where SuperTramp rears its ugly head, while en route to the grocery. It was a splendid Indian summer, whatever the hell that means, complete with heat, humidity, savage mosquitoes.
The shower I had just taken didn’t take. I was sweating like a pig, still certain that impending doom was right around the corner and then SuperTramp.
At this point I’m not even sure what song it was. It could’ve been Take the Long Way
Home.
All I know is that for some ungodly reason it had a paralyzing effect on me. At any other time, on any other day my first instinct would be to just turn the dial and be done with it. But for some reason all I could do was just grip the steering wheel in a white-knuckle clinch, grit my teeth and just cope with it.
It must’ve been the extended version of the song too because when I pulled into the parking lot of the grocery it was still going strong. I got out my truck and wandered into the grocery store.
I don’t know if it’s the white flourescent lighting, the check-out girls, or the Muzak, or the combination of them all but there’s always something soothing about the grocery store. The air conditioning is always cranked. There is order and logic to the layout. I think that guy from The Clash must’ve had a tumor when he wrote the lyrics to Lost in the Supermarket.
For me, there’s no place I’d rather be lost. But there are laws against this sort of thing, so I grabbed a buggy and did my thing. It didn’t take long to get the things I actually needed; rum, coke, limes, mangos, grapefruit, frozen orange juice concentrate, macaroni and cheese and C batteries.
I was just about to head for the checkout line when Jeff’s cryptic request came to mind, Oh yeah get some rabbit.
It didn’t make sense. We still had a shitload of mushrooms, summer squash, bell peppers, tomatoes, and a variety of meats leftover from a few days ago. I hadn’t really put much thought into it the first time he said it, when I was walking out the door. And it disturbed me then that I actually put so much thought into it. Why the hell would we need rabbit? He was probably just still drunk and dreaming about Playboy.
Just to fuck with his delusional ass I high-tailed it to the meat section and grabbed some fryer quarters of rabbit.
This will teach his stupid ass, I mused to myself, as the check-out girl scanned it.
I returned to my apartment half expecting to see a SWAT team or something. I knew I had to get this stinking paranoia out of my system. I pulled into my spot and walked back into my apartment. Jeff was awake, showered and semi-functional, with a glass of ice and vodka in his hand.
“Hope you got orange juice,” he said. Quickly followed by, “Man, what the fuck did we do last night?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out all morning you swine,” I replied. “I think we just got really drunk and you started having coke cravings.”
“Not again huh? Every fucking time. I don’t know where the line is but every time I drink there’s this cut-off point. One second I’m fine, the next I become this bent madman.”
“Yeah, I noticed. Right along with the rest of the apartment complex. You’re lucky I was there to haul your ass inside.”
He suddenly had this ‘oh fuck what did I do’ look on his face.
He then bluntly said, “I think I was in someone else’s apartment last night. I remember this chick.”
“My niece?”
“Oh shit, they were here too huh?” he asked.
“Yep,” I said.
It was odd. A mere hour ago I wanted the bastard awake and talking. But as the story unfurled I suddenly wanted him dead; or, at least, deported. No, this was someone different. You had left to go get the weed. By the way roll a joint. I’ve got a major case of the fear here.
“You and me both,” I said. I could slightly recall him teetering through the hallways of my apartment complex, bumping into walls and muttering gibberish. The possibilities scared the living shit out of me. Had he gone door to door asking for a ride to go buy cocaine from the projects? Had he run amok in the laundry room again stealing stuff out of the dryers? Had he had a run-in with the landlord? Oh Christ. No, if he had I’m sure we would’ve heard something by now. Just whose fucking apartment had he ingratiated himself into.
Considering our wretched condition last night it had to have been a few loose cannons like ourselves. But who? And what chick? And, above all else, why did he request rabbit?
I quickly rolled a joint and he babbled on, “Yeah. There was this chick. Oh I know, you had left. I walked outside. I met these guys. Little skate-board fuckers. I was talking to one of them. I think he said he was your landlords nephew.”
This I knew, was a fact. Brain Dead Ed, our apartment handyman, had informed me that Darren’s, my landlord, nephew was going to be moving in to help with repairs and general maintenance. This wasn’t sounding good.
Jeff continued, “Well, we were talking and some of his punk-ass friends showed up. They pissed me off. I ended up jumping on one of their skateboards and breaking it in half. And then I was in this chick’s apartment. Who was that chick? God, she was the closest thing to living, breathing, walking, talking evil the earth has ever known. I hated her. She called me fat, ugly, stupid and drunk.”
“Are you sure you just weren’t talking to your mother on the phone?” I asked, handing him the joint and getting up to put away the groceries.
“No she was just a bitch. But god, she was hot. Her animosity for me sort of turned me on. I think we did coke. No they were going to get some. I think. Her boyfriend showed up. This little squirelly guy. She straight up punched his ass. Knocked him down. He bled and cried. I think the cops came. Maybe not though. Shit I just can’t remember,” he finally said, taking a long hit off the joint.
I had all the groceries put away. Even the rabbit was tucked away, hidden in the vegetable drawer under some cilantro and green onions. I began scraping the mystery chili-like substance from the stove top, wishing he’d just shut up.
It seemed the more active I became, or noisier, the faster and louder he talked. I filled the orange juice pitcher with water and concentrate, grateful for the noise the running faucet made. I considered pouring myself a rum and coke but it was still fairly early for that sort of nonsense. I turned the faucet and his voice had dropped a few decibels. He was still talking though. Almost in a whisper and not necessarily to anyone but himself.
The fearful and repentant Jeff, any moment now he’d be declaring permanent sobriety and a true change in his lifestyle. Anyone whose done an even miniscule amount of heavy partying knows the type. Brazenly bold and usually a bit arrogant and obnoxious. And this is when they’re sober. You add alcohol and drugs to the mix and they become; well they become a variety of things but to sum it all up in a nutshell we’ll say animals. No respect for the laws of the land, total and complete loss of self-control and most motor skills, purely hedonistic fools. They could go on night after night, month after month like that until finally, usually after a night of heavy debauchery, something snaps and they suddenly see the error of their ways.
They are truly astounded and horrified by the fact that they’ve made it this far and aren’t in jail or an insane asylum. For a brief instant in their lives of irresponsibility, mirth and tomfoolery they are truly humbled, fearful.
Jeff was no exception to the rule. He was on the sofa, up on his knees, cautiously peering out of my mini-blinds when I snuck up behind him with the pitcher of orange juice and hollered, WHAT THE HELL YOU LOOKING FOR BOY!!
He was so startled he almost lost his balance and fell head-first through my living room window.
Asshole, he hissed. I was trying to see what was going on out there. I think we might should just lay low today. Not go outside. Just act like we’re not even home.
I poured orange juice into his glass of ice and vodka and he pushed it away.
I don’t want that. I shouldn’t have even smoked that joint. It has me really wigging now. Shit, what the hell did I do last night? More pieces are coming back except they’re all out of order. I can’t separate my reality from drunken hallucination, or from the dreams I had last night. That’s it, I’m not getting loaded ever again.
If I had had any acid I certainly would have slipped it to him. You know, to assist in the conversion process. The dumb bastard was already losing his nugget. It would be fun just to sit and watch as the acid took hold. I could slip out the back door, walk around and grab my truck, drive to that uniform shop down on
Admittedly, I was still paranoid myself and didn’t exactly like the idea of being out in public, mixing with the ranks of the good folks of
With no further ado I changed into my bathing suit and began packing up my Igloo ice chest with rum, coke, ice and cups. I grabbed my shades, a few books and my portable CD player. It wasn’t me that had been running amok in the halls last night. Or at least I was pretty sure I wasn’t. It was Jeff they had seen. I felt relatively safe.
“What are you doing?” asked Jeff.
“Going to get married, where the hell does it look like I’m going, the pool,” I said.
“You can’t go out there,” he said, his eyes widening.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what the fuck I did last night. It might not be cool to be out and about today.”
“Might not be cool for you to be out an about. Actually I strongly advise you to stay inside until at least after dark. But this is just you we’re talking about. I can account for my whereabouts last night. I wasn’t being the social butterfly last night. I’m probably the last person they’re looking for.”
“You think they’re looking for me?”
“Well, they’re probably all still in class or at work now. But once they start coming home I’m sure we’ll be getting knocks at our door. And I want as much room between myself and that situation as I can get before then.”
“So you’re going to the pool?” he asked.
“It’s the last place they’ll think to look for us. Oh yeah, I wouldn’t answer the phone either,” I said, just to fuck with him, before I finally shut the door and wandered out to the pool.
My apartment complex is a monument to the ravages of time if ever there was one. From what I hear it was the country-club of apartment complex living back when it was built in the 70’s. The complex now is the epitome of low-rent, time-worn housing for broke-ass college students. It’s a relatively quiet place though for housing so many college students. And during summer, when most of them move out, the place becomes like a ghost town.
I got out to the pool and began setting up shop. The sun was bright and I suddenly felt very exposed in the openness. The fact of the matter is, I haven’t spent much time out by the pool since I moved here in September of 97. I lived in this complex a few years ago with a girlfriend. Except my apartment then was upstairs, facing the pool at the rear of the building. In short, looking down on the pool. I poured my first rum and coke and looked up at my old place, wondering vaguely who lived there now.
All thought began to dissipate though as I settled onto the chaise lounge. I focused on only the heat of the sun and the coolness of my drink. Eventually I fell asleep.
One Comment
This is fantastic. I’m so glad you posted this,I plan on following through with reading the rest. Thank you for sharing.