Entry VII--Hash Wednesday

(For the first 6 entries to the online novel Darwin Blinks, please scroll down, and begin with Entry 1--The Good News which is in the May Archives. Read the entries in numerical order. )

My door swings open as I find myself in a familiar position--on my knees.

Seems to be a theme for the evening.

Wouldn't have even made it up here if the elevator hadn't been running. Old at that thing is, it's always a roll o' the dice.

Taking on two flights of stairs, plowed as I am, would have been difficult if not downright impossible.

Am really impressed I managed to fit the key in the damn lock, but in the midst of turning it, I fell down again.

Just too fucking dizzy to even attempt getting back on my feet. Lot easier to just pull out the key and crawl into my pad.

The depressive effects of the booze must be kicking in, 'cause I feel pretty disgusted with myself right about now.

Despite being so anesthetized, can't even bring myself to laugh about how low I've gotten--it's not funny any more.

After a ridiculously tremendous effort, close the door behind me and decide I don't want to be drunk any more.

But how to end it?

Can't just magically snap my fingers and become sober.

I sure as hell can't sleep it off. I may be barely coherent but am still aware enough to know lying in this state would have the bed spinning faster than the blades of an Apache chopper.

Wish there was a pill I could take...

And then, must be in one of the dry regions of my brain, I think I do have something that could help.

Only problem being, don't remember where the fuck I put it?

As hard as it is, gotta focus...and visualize.

Wrapped in tin foil, it is.

The kitchen? No, that's the obvious choice, but it's not in the fridge...

The shoebox!

In the closet, last time I look. It better fucking be there. I'm too fucked up to be looking for it.

But if I have to, I'll tear this fucking place apart to find it, if need be.

And if I'm remembering this correctly, it's up on a shelf somewhere. Meaning I'll have to get up.

Sucks.

Using the wall as a brace and motivated by a goal, I manage to stand upright.

Most impressive thing I've done in this apartment in a long time.

But what would impress me more would be to find that damn shoebox--or more to the point, what's inside it.

And it better be there, cause I have no fucking clue where else it could be.

Step into the closet, looking up at the shelf, that's where it should be.

Argh--why the fuck do I have so many book up there? It's not like I ever fucking read them.

Man, can I get a single sentence out tonight without dropping an F-bomb?

Probably not, tend to swear quite a bit when I'm this drunk, and I don't think I've ever been this...(go on, say it) fucking drunk.

Ah-ha...think I spot the object of my desire, so I get on tippy toes and stretch my arm forward to the back of the shelf, practically against the closet wall...

And can feel it with my hand, but being off-balance and of course, still quite drunk, I pull the shoebox forward too hard and fast and it sends a bundle of books cascading down upon me.

That really would have hurt if I wasn't half in the bag.

Brush off whatever pain was wrought by the falling novels because I just realize that the shoebox also went flying outta my fucking hand, dispersing the contents all over the floor.

Man, I am the definition of "sloppy drunk."

Oh well, at least I got an excuse to drop back down to my knees. Standing wasn't really working out for me--function a whole lot better on the floor.

Scour the carpet for my prize...

There it is! For once, something goes my way.

That little tin foil ball o'magic rolled conveniently into the light.

This should do the trick.

Not the foil, silly, what's inside...

A round gram of purified cannabis resin, bristling with psychoactive THC.

Blonde Lebanese hashish, to be precise.

Peel it open, and finally liberated from its cover of alloy, the inviting aroma wafts up into my receptive, intrigued nostrils.

Lick my lips involuntarily in response.

Haven't gotten stoned in ages, but I've had this clump of hash ever since that one guy--what was his name?--laid it on me a couple years back.

Seamus--that was it. Seamus Navarro. Half-Irish, half-Mexican as I recall. Seamus was this neo-hippie type I met on some movie set, during a vulnerable period in my life where I decided it was important I had a friend for a week.

Went with once to some jamband concert in Oakland, where there what is known as a "scene," typically found in the parking lot of the venue. There you will find various ne’er-do-wells either looking to have a good time or looking to sell you a good time.

Remember Seamus buying two clumps of hashish from a "wookie" (that's a hippie with dreadlocks and bad teeth), and he told me to hold one of them, which I promptly pocketed. We got stoned in the concert on the hash and some pot of his and I plum forgot about the has I was holding for him and either he forgot about it too or he just meant for me to have it all the time because he never asked about it.

Never even got a chance to return it to him because that was the last night we hung out, we never spoke again on the phone and we never worked on the same movie set ever again, or maybe he moved away, I really don't know.

Do know I've still got the little present he accidentally(?) bestowed on me that night two years past and it should do more for me now then he ever could have hoped to in friendship.

Haven't gotten stoned since that night two years ago, but tonight just seems right to break out the hash.

Hopefully it hasn't lost too much potency over time. Wonder what the shelf life of hash is?

Not that it should have to be too strong to get me high, non-smoker wuss that I am.

Hold the blonde ball of great promise in my unsteady palm, watching it roll back and forth, waiting for it to inspire me.

Then, it does.

Occurs to me I should smoke this in the appropriate manner worthy of hash--under glass.

(Look at me, conforming to tradition like any desperate christian).

And I know just the implement--that goblet I swiped from a medieval movie set last year. I was an extra for this low-budget straight to vid period piece shot at a local Reniassance faire. I was one of the background spectators and my goblet of (non-alcoholic) mead was just begging to be taken home as a souvenir.

Actually, fuck that it was a souvenir, I probably didn't have anything to drink out of back then. Not like I have a whole helluva lot of glasses now, but in those days I was probably cupping my hands under the sink to quench a thirst.

Carefully place the hash ball on the overturned lid of the shoebox, so I don't lose track of it again. Then, even more carefully, use the wall to brace myself up back on my feet again.

Could have crawled to the kitchen, but that really is so undignified.

Motivated by purpose and the promise that I'll soon shed this alcoholic skin that clings to me and weighs me down like a diseased shell, I make it to the cupboard without incident.

As if the thought of leaving this drunk behind is already sobering me up, altering my consciousness.

Make it to the cupboard wobble-free and locate the goblet behind the fallen, emptied vodka bottles in the cabinet. It's covered in dust and cobwebs, it's been that long since I've used it.

But nothing a little tapwater can't clean...

Envision in my mind how this will go down, and clear out a space on the table by sweeping off a pile of random papers and unopened mail onto the floor. Too drunk to be neat and concentrate on smoking this hash.

Ah, shit! To do this right, I need a paperclip, and I just knocked all the paperclips on the floor.

Using the table to brace myself, I manage to bend over without dropping to my knees (cause I'm not all that confident about making it back up this time) and snatch up one of 'clips.

Twist then straighten one end of it so that it points out and up, supported by the untwisted end of it, serving as a base.

With the meticulous precision of a brain surgeon, I gently place the hash ball on the straightened end of the paper clip.

Turn the goblet over and center it above the hash ball on the paper clip, just to see how it looks.

Not bad, but then it occurs to me what just might throw a monkey wrench in all my plans.

How do I light the damn thing?

No lighter...

Eye a candle on top of the fridge. Hmm...I could light the wick on the stove and then light the hash ball with the burning wick.

But that'll end up with wax dripping all over the hash.

Just when I'm resigned to going back outside to the all night store to buy a fucking lighter, I remember I took a book of matches from that bar I was at last week.

Don't ask me how I remembered that, maybe cause I was drunk at that time too. Something to do with being in a similiar (tilted) frame of mind, perhaps. It's like I couldn't have remembered that if I was sober.

Finally, something positive came out of being sauced.

Stumble back to the laundry pile (the corner of the room where I toss my dirty clothes, I don't have a hamper) and find the jeans I wore at the Poison Pearl bar last week.

Dig around the back pocket and there they are. Salvation.

Back to the table, my step steadying, I lift the goblet off of the hash and place it close by. Strike a match and put it to the hash.

But it isn't burning properly and what's worse--ouch!

Fucking burned my fucking finger. The accident, along with the return of my potty mouth means I might not be as sober as I'd like to think I am.

Just discovered another advantage to being so shit-faced--there's no lingering pain in the tips of my fingers because the alcohol has properly anesthisized me.

Strike another match, but in trying to be cautious to avoid another burning, I move too slow and the match goes out before I can light the hash.

Quell the frustration by looking on the bright side, still got eighteen matches left. (Of course, the bright side would never get very bright if it was relying on me to strike a match).

Seriously beginning to doubt if I will even get stoned tonight--or even if I want to.

No, I do, I'm sick of this false hope really depressive feeling engendered by excessive drinking.

Third time's the proverbial charm, as the match stays lit long enough to ignite the hash ball and my fingers remain uncharred.

Pull the match away, watching the blue and orange flame envelope the cylindrical of hash. Not sure how long I'm supposed to wait, but five seconds seems good enough.

Turn the goblet over once more, covering the burning hashball, immediately cutting off the oxygen and filling the chalice with promising smoke, even in the hollowed out stem and base.

It's at this point I realize I didn't place the hash on the clip close enough to the edge of the table, as that's the only proper way to be able to inhale properly.

Have to slide the goblet over to the edge nearest me, but in doing so, one side of the goblet knocks the paperclip over, knocking the hash off, but it's okay, since the flame was already extinguished. Long as it doesn't fall on the fucking floor.

Okay, goblet's at the edge. It's finally time to partake. Squat down, not unlike a baseball catcher, mouth parallel to the table's surface, in order to receive this bounty.

Move my lips to the table's edge...then slowly lift one side of the goblet up about an inch, releasing smoke out into the air...

Sucked up by my mouth and nostrils, the remaining fumes escape before I can place the goblet back flat on the table.

Doesn't matter, there's still plenty of the hash to burn.

Wasn't really sure how much to take in, having been so long since I smoked anything, so I held back and didn't inhale a lot.

Mmmm...even with my modest intake, the taste of the smoke travels from my tongue via nerve cells making sensory connections, then striking the limibic region of my brain.

Then I perceive the unique flavor of the smoke, evoking a distinct Arabic ambiance.

Can't hold the hit in any longer and it's expelled with a slight cough most unimpressive.

Don't feel any effect yet, nothing approaching a "high" All I sense is the sweet Persian aftertaste.
(Not that I really expected it to hit me this fast, inebriated as I am.)

Can't be half-ass about this, however. If I'm going to alter my state, I've got to increase the dosage.

Am suddenly reminded of that late night axiom of my college daze: "If one does not cough, one does not get off."

Ready myself by ambitiously taking three deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling deeeeeeply each time, prepping my lungs, opening them up.

Strike another match and re-ignite the hashball, count off two seconds this time, then cover it with the goblet, filling with smoke for the second time.

This time, I just inhale, not caring if it's more than I can handle. That's the attitude I've got to take.

And though it begins to hurt something awful and the tension of holding it my lungs can be felt in a tightening of my temples, I don't stop. It's not unlike when you're eating out a female and even though your tongue is aching and you can't breathe, you keep pushing yourself because you don't want to do anything to throw off the woman's concentration, so hey, she comes too.

With that mindset, I suck in all the smoke, letting none escape.

Only problem with this strategy is--it's just too much smoke for my rusty lungs to contain and it's only a couple of seconds until I'm hacking, gagging and wheezing something furious as a cloud of expelled smoke cloaks me.

Feels like I chucked up a hunk of my lung in the process.

Did this do the trick...?

My head is spinning, and it's not from the booze.

Spontaneously stand up from my crotching position, a completely involuntary action on my part.

That I soon regret, as I'm hit with a wicked headrush...

Falling into the nearest chair. Should really be thankful it was so damn close, I'd have fallen on my ass otherwise.

All cottonmouth and parched throat, I take a sip of stale water next to the chair on the floor, who knows how many days it's been there, but I'm in no condition to be walking to the sink for fresh aqua.

Cough and get off indeed.

But there is some positive fallout along with the headspins; my sense are sharpened and my brain is racing, leaving the careless booze buzz behind.

Almost feeling...dare I say it?

Creative...