Future Musings - Part 2

Urchin

            I look at the clock. It’s 3:16 P.M. Robbie is late. The little bell on the door rattles. I look and see the security guard, Jeremy, nod to a shaggy hipster with a big headphones wearing girl behind him. He walks slowly and his eyes are dark from what I can only imagine as a lack of sleep. The girl stares off into the distance. She’s squinting like everything’s just a little bit too sharp and bright, probably spends too much time inside.  She has the volume turned up, like she wants everyone to hear her theme song while she walks around.  I turn to the guy. I put on that 87% customer satisfaction smile and ask him, “How can I help you today, Lukas?”

            “Yo Urchin,” his lips look dry. “I am here for my,” he sniffs. “Weekly pick up. Where’s Robbie at?”

            “Not sure, but I’ve been waiting here for like half an hour. Let me get you sorted, man. Be right back.”

            My name is Irvin, but almost everyone’s called me Urchin since I was a kid. It’s because I used to eat off the floor, my mom says. I open the door to the back and grab two empty bottles and a paper bag. I open the barrel of Levi’s Homeopathic Sleeping pills next to the Tylenol-6. I put 14 little black capsules in the orange, see-through, childproof (except not really) bottle. Then I do the same with Levi’s Daily Vitamins. The capsules are the kind of off white that t-shirts get after you wash them a few times. A black pill, a white pill, and a glass of water, this is what dreams are made of, or at least the hallucinogenic and highly illegal kind of dreams. They call it Dream Dust; we call it our golden goose. Highly addictive, prone to abuse, and not something the pharmaceutical companies can sell, so they would rather no one sell it. This was dad’s clever way of hiding the drugs; split it in half. Mom says he picked black and white cause it was supposed to show the symbolic balance of yin and yang or some shit like that. I put the little plastic bottles in the discreet paper bag. I say to Lukas, “Here you go, man.”

            “Dude. Thanks.”

            He hands me the $120 cash, which I then put in little drop box safe under the register. He starts to walk out. I tell him, “You have a good day now, and be careful.”

            “Always. Man.”

            The little doorbell rings twice, a guy that looks like a cross between Mick Jagger and Jared from those old Subway commercials walks in. Mother’s boyfriend’s son from his dead wife, my three years older than me not-brother, Robert. 

            “Robbie, what the fuck?”

            “Yeah sorry, Urch. We got a little held up.”

            “It’s been more than half an hour. Wait, we?”

            “Yeah. Peter and my dad are in the back, we need the loading doors open.”

            “Take the front, I’ll get the back door.”

            I go to the back and take off my I-work-here coat. I go through the second door into the loading room, also full of barrels. I pull my chain full of keys out my pocket, stick it into the slot and push the green button. The two garage doors slowly click-clack open. Handsome half – brother, first born son of Levi, Peter doesn’t even say hi. He looks worn and lacking in sleep. Standing like a moron is Morbid, mother’s beardy and obese boyfriend, dad’s old colleague, supplier of the raw goods that Mom turns into Dream Dust. I help unload the smaller of the cases and barrels.  I never see them much, Robbie, Morbid, and Peter. Haven’t gotten to see Mom and Jake much either, they are always at the lab brewing. The business keeps us from ever being at home at the same time. It means not having to put up with Morbid and Robbie, but it’d be nice to see Mom more. I only ever see the nine other residents of my home, whose names I am okay with forgetting from time to time.

            Peter asks, “You want a ride back?”

            “Yeah, that’d be great thanks,” I say. “Let me just grab my stuff.”

            No one returns Morbid’s wave good-bye.

            I go to the backroom and grab my backpack. I take a deep breath. Dad’s been dead for four years; he died in the middle of my third year of six years at put-pills-in-bottles school. I wanted to be just like him, a medicine man. I was supposed to take over the family business. I just never imagined I would be part of it without him at this point. So here I am. Doing what I know how to do, with people in the same boat. Just living. It’s easier to remember him here, working in this room. I used to think all the pills and syrups and powders and vapors were there to keep people alive. Before he died my dad said, “Staying alive isn’t too hard, not suffering while you do it is the hard part.”  I am not suffering, but just living doesn’t make me feel alive.

            Maybe that’s why he became the Sandman, aka the King of Dreams, aka the real Morpheus. He could have done any number of things to make it big, but he decided to make drugs that he shouldn’t have been selling. I walk out to the front to say good-bye. Robbie is talking to Tod Lindman. Tod reminds me of the gum you stick under a desk and forget about, only to touch it later by accident. Robbie pushes me aside, off to get a little baggie just like the one I made for Lukas. I nod at Tod. Then wave to the guard.

            I say, “See you Monday Jeremy.”     

            He says, “See ya kid.”

            Jeremy works for the Sanella Family. We make the drugs, we sell the drugs, and they make sure the right people aren’t paying attention to us. They take a small cut, and no one is going to stop us, or care about stopping us at least. I head back to Peter’s truck. As we drive away I look at the big sign on the top of the corner shop of the mini mall, “Levi’s Pharmacy.” Dad started the business with his first wife (Ollie); they had four children (my half-siblings). My mother (Julia) is the second wife. They only had two kids, my sister Isha (who is up in NYU right now studying fine art) and me.  After Dad died, Mom started going out with Morbid. Together they had three kids (my half-siblings part two).  Morbid had four children from his dead wife (my four not-siblings).  That makes 15 of us. To many damn people in one house. A house my father built. A house built on dreams.

            Peter drops me off a block away from the house, pulling a truck out of a cul-de-sac is a pain. I wave good-bye.

            “Thanks.”

            “No problem kid.”

            The supposed waste disposal truck of XS-U191, commercially known as Sorelium, goes off into the distance. My Synapse says I got a message. It’s from my sister Isha, “Are you free? Can I call?”

            I call her up.

            “Hey, what’s up?”

            “Hey Urchin. Whatcha doin?”

            “Walking home. I just finished my shift and helped unload some stuff. Work’s been pretty boring. What are you up to?”

            “My exhibit went up tonight.”

            “Oh yeah? That’s great, you’ve been working hard on that for a while. Did they put up the picture of the dragon being decapitated? I like that one.”

            “Yeah. I asked the curator to make sure that one got in. I have a whole little section in the museum to myself. I hope I find some buyers. But I am just glad to be done. How’s everything else?”

            “Same old. House is still full of bums. Business is always busy. Still haven’t seen mom. You should call her, she’d like that.”

            “You should call her too.”

            “Yeah probably.”

            “I am excited for you guys to come see me in 3 months.”

            “Yeah it’ll be nice to see New York, or even just get out of here for three days. And we get to see you walk up on stage and get your diploma and everything. Then you can go do something you like doing. Don’t ever stop painting okay? Unless you really don’t want to.”

            She laughs. “I can’t imagine I’d stop any time soon. You know you don’t have to stay in the business.”

            “I don’t know how to do anything else, just working at another pharmacy would be even more boring. And it’s easy money.”

            “That money paid for school, and money is nice, but once you have it you should do something with it.”

            “You can’t do anything with it, if making it takes up all your time.”

            “Then take a break. A real break. Not just a three day visit three months from now.”

            “Maybe, we wouldn’t have anyone else to take my shifts though. ”

            “Well, find a replacement. I don’t know. You always tell me to go do what I want, but you sit there at home like you have some chip on your shoulder.”

            “It’s dads legacy. I don’t want to just leave it.”

            “You can’t just hid under his shadow forever. Go learn to do something else you love. Then make your own legacy.”

            I say nothing.

            “Well, I gotta go. I’ll call again soon.”

            “Bye.”

            Click.

            I could do something different. That requires effort. I just want it to come to me. I want it to be easy. I am using my old man’s death like a crutch, but I don’t care.

            I open the door to the house. The kiddies are in the living room watching what I think might be Spongebob. I can see a fat lump on the couch covered in blankets, that I can only assume is Robbie’s bum-ass twin, Lisa. I nudge her with my foot.

            “Hey dingus, you’re supposed to be watching the kids.”

            A silent “fuck you” slips from under the blankets where the kids can’t see it before returning from where it came.

            “Jeanie, you guys eat yet?”

            “Yeah, Irene made some Easy-Mac.”

            The three little demons, I mean children, make noises that seem to be in agreement. It seems as though the television seems to create a sort of energy field that prevents them from forming coherent sentences.

            “Where’s Irene now?”

            Jeanie rolls her eyes. “Out with friends, I think.”

            Irene is that social 17 year old out on Friday, I was never that kid. Jeanie’s the only one of Morbid’s lot that I have any hope for. She thinks she wants to be a singer. She’s just twelve though, still lots of change to come. She’s just like her sister Irene was when I first met her, excited about life and blissfully ignorant. I would hope she turns out more like Isha and works hard at what she wants. Unlike the rest of us, doing things cause it’s easy.

            “Okay, I am going to sleep. Since, you know, I’ve been working all day.”

            I got to the kitchen. I make a sandwich out of turkey cold cuts  (we are out of cheese) and pour myself a glass of water.

            I head up to my room. Pull out my chain of keys and open the door. Lock it from the inside. The click of the bolt sanctifies the space. I sit down on my bed. I pull the crust off the bread. Take a bite. Drink a little, and swallow. I put it down on my nightstand. I am not really that hungry. I open the little drawer. There sits a half empty bottle of Sorelium. Medical miracle to the middle class, motivator and life extender. It’s not just focus in a bottle; it’s the will to move forward. It’s what kept me going after Dad died. Better than Nicotine, better than Adderall, better than cocaine. Keeps you working for hours, no boredom, just auto-pilot. The only negative side effect is missing out on the moments, but that’s the point. It’s how Mom and Morbid and Peter and Jake and Robbie and I do what we do. Dad was always dubious of the stuff. He never let Isha and me touch the stuff while he was alive. I couldn’t help it though. It works; it does all that it promises and more. Dad could never bring himself to hate Sorelium though. His Dream Dust, his legacy, was made of the process waste in the making of Sorelium. Dream Dust is made by the unwanted byproduct of middle-class desire to forget how to struggle.

            I have two bottles next to the Expodrol. One full of black pills, and one full of white ones. I’ve never tried what I’ve been selling. I always looked down on the trashy dreamers. My father’s greatest work, the power to change reality and perception. The antithesis of the mind numbing autopilot I take everyday to keep making money. Taking Dream Dust is supposed to be the opposite of easy, the opposite of shutting down. I am tired of blunting it all. I want to feel. Today, I want to start giving a fuck. I don’t know if taking Dream Dust will fix that, but at least this borders on trying. I tack pill out of each bottle and hold them in my hand. A little black pill, a little white pill, and a swig of water.

           

            Gracie Choi kisses me on the cheek. She smells like cotton candy. Her hair is blue like cotton candy too. I want to know her sweetness. She’s 17, and not dead, because she didn’t fuck the whole basketball team and make a video of it, so her father didn’t kill her, probably because he didn’t lose his job too.             I hold her hand and walk her over to the table. I prepared grilled lobster in papaya reduction sauce and garlic infused fillet mignon topped with mushrooms cooked medium rare. And white wine, because Gracie said she likes white wines. I caress her face. Run my thumb over her shining pink lips. I say, “I never want this to end.”

            She smiles. “It doesn’t have to.”

            We eat. We talk about the world and the sum of our 17 years of living thus far. We talk about going to the same college. We talk about books. We talk about movie.

            We go to the same college. We get rich doing nothing. We watch movies. We make movies. We don’t need anyone else.

            I spend forever with her, getting to understand her in everyway possible. Making up for all the fucks I never got out of three days of holding hands. Three days in a dream that never happened. Forever here is real. 

            Isha and I are looking out into the Grand Canyon, I am 14 and she’s 11. Mom and Dad are taking stupid family photos. I smile for the camera.

            Dad says, “Alright lets go! Still have to see the rest of the states.”

            Isha says, “That’s so many.”

            I say, “Yeah that’s going to take forever.”

            He says, “We have all the time in the world.”

            We go and we travel and we eat everything. Mom never gets fat, and Dad doesn’t get a heart attack. Isha doesn’t have to spend two years seeing a psychiatrist. We travel the world. I am 14 for every birthday. Dad makes a pill that makes everyone live forever.

            Isha paints a mural. It’s huge. She mixes colors. It looks so real. I walk in and stroll through a forest. I swim through a coral reef. I ride on a dragon’s back. I float into space and drift. I connect the stars with my fingers. Constellations come to life. Isha and I play with the stars. The universe is our playground. I can do everything. 

           

            Billy Morita tells me I look like a fucking retard. I manage to snap back that I am not the one that rides short bus in the morning. I tell him I am pretty sure his crippled sister wouldn’t appreciate him using that word. I don’t miss catching the punch he throws at me. I smack him on the face with my tiny knuckles. He’s the one with a bloody lip.

            I am in a garden. I am planting flowers. I am not on Sorelium any more. I actually really want to work. It feels good. I am not on Dream Dust, either. I live my dream. I grow my own food. I cook my vegetables. I am self sustaining. I am like a tree. I am a tree. I am happy.

            My mouth is really dry. I am really tired. I can feel the cracks and sting on my lips when I lick them. I reach for the glass of water on the nightstand. I knock it over. The carpet is wet. I manage to save some of it from spilling all the way. The Sun is up. The smell of slightly turkey meat hits my nose. I shouldn’t have made that sandwich, it looks bad now, in a few hours it’ll start to smell. I am hungry.

            There’s a knock on the door.

            “It’s me.”

            It’s Irene.  I unbolt and unlock the door. Her hair is a mess. She’s got some glitter on her face. She smells like 151. I step back and sit on my bed. She closes the door behind her and bolts it.

            She says, “I got a huge paper to write for Monday.”

            She walks over to me. She sits on my lap. She plays with my hair. Our lips meet. Her tongue probes my mouth. She starts to pull off her shirt. I break our kiss. I stop her. This is another thing that is too easy. I’ve been shitting where I eat. No more.

            “I am not in the mood right now.”

            She looks surprised. I take the opportunity to reach into the nightstand drawer and pull out the bottle of Expodrol. I hand it to her. She takes it. She looks me in the eye.

            “You know I don’t just come to see you cause I need your drugs.”

            “I know.” I kiss her on the forehead. “I just need to rest right now.”

            She bits her lip. Gets up and walk out. I lock and bolt the door. The living nightmare is full of suffering. She’ll get addicted. She’s allowed to want it to be easy. I don’t want that anymore. I need to go find a replacement. I need to find something fulfilling. I need to do a little more soul searching. So I’ll do a little dreaming. A little white pill, a little black pill, and a half full glass of water, so I can wake up.