Snow's Tight and the Two Whores – Abandoned and Unfinished
by Max Barrie
It’s very difficult for me to take credit for anything unless I royally fuck it up. I’m not special... but based on the feedback I’ve gotten over the years, I do believe I was BORN with a particular skill. And that is the ability to paint pictures with words. So when anyone speaks well of my writing I try to talk them out of it— explaining I have very little to do with my process, usually blaming genetics.
That said, my therapist is teaching me how to accept compliments and say... “thanks.” She wants me to understand that all of us are born with different abilities... and certainly how we nurture and use these skills is something to take credit for. My ego absolutely agrees... but I’m still digesting the idea. In the meantime I have no problem feeling directly responsible for anything awful.
The following whorey is true... however, names of people and places have been changed, and TWO crab magnets were combined into ONE to keep things moving.
IMPORTANT: Unless I’m attacked— I do not write to reopen wounds, hurt others or bring about trouble... I don’t have the right to reveal anyone’s story but my own. If you want gossip, I suggest ragmags in any CVS check-out line. If you press me for actual names or details, you’ll find I won’t be helpful.
I had been drinking and fooling around with an older woman who resembled a melting snowman. She smelled like an antique rug and would keep licking her palms before she stroked my cock. But even with a big buzz going her bushy beaver quickly tipped the scale and I became nauseated... so I made some excuse of why I couldn’t toss it in, then abruptly left her house.
When I arrived back at my apartment it was nearly two in the morning. I felt contaminated by the affair, but was too tired to shower. I would probably take more showers if they didn’t involve water... but with my OCD it often becomes Super Hole Sunday. I grabbed an old plate from the kitchen that once belonged to my grandmother. I took the plate into my bathroom and locked the door.
I began picking apart a rock of cocaine and then chopping it up with my driver’s license— making skinny lines on the plate. I loved lines. It changes with time— the monster inside... he has many faces and many forms. His hope is that one day I won’t recognize him and he’ll be set free. But in this moment we were thick as thieves and it was lines that got his furry penis hard.
SNORT! The tiny burn, the bitter taste, the drip, licking my fingers, rubbing my gums... the numbness sets in... the blood starts flowing... quickly. In a few minutes the world becomes a nice place to visit and I think I could one day outshine Jake Gyllenhaal if I really set my mind to it. Unfortunately I was too busy doing blow in my bathroom to achieve anything except that.
If you’ve snorted shit and also inhaled the real deal, then you know what a difference a grade makes. I’m no expert, but this had to be some Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah product. In a few hours I started texting my buddy Red who also happened to sell me this cocaine. I still had plenty left, but wanted more... just in case this cut went out of season.
Red had been awake for nearly three days smoking meth, and happily agreed to sell me more narcotics if I could pick him up in Bel-Air and drive him to a friend’s apartment by the beach. When I asked him why, he said— to hang out and get more high... he told me I could do the same. It sounded like a brilliant idea. It was 6:00am, although it seemed frightfully bright as I headed east down Sunset Boulevard in my hybrid. There was lots of texting and circling the rich twisted streets beyond the East Gate. The coke was well hidden, but I looked like a Jewish Looney Tune, and now feared being stopped by Bel-Air Patrol. Red’s brilliant plan was suddenly anything but.
At last I find him hiding out in the open? He hops in my car and we make our way back down to Sunset. I take a right and head west. Being awake for 72 hours and with his high fading, I occasionally had to wake Red from a coma-like-state for simple directions. My cocaine rush was still going strong and suddenly I realized I’d been licking my lips and chin for the past twenty minutes... it’s bizarre... and damp.
Janessa and I knew that any Magic 8-Ball would have predicted jail time. The medics worked on Red in the front seat of my car while she and I stood ten feet back on the sidewalk. Janessa looked away, cried druggie tears and squeezed me tightly... then asked — “Did we do the right thing?”
We eventually arrived at this generic apartment complex on the water... it was vast however, and Red couldn’t remember which unit belonged to his friend. We called, but there was no answer... so we walked up and down hallways looking like two lost druggies in search of a Panda Express. I had my drugs in a back pocket, but Red had a whole backpack full of tricks. I was beyond paranoid at this point and tried walking faster than him so it would appear we weren’t together. I’m guessing this wasn’t effective.
Eventually his friend answered her phone and we made our way to her apartment. We knocked, but no answer... we tried the door... it was open. It was clean and cozy inside, but I could sense trouble and was afraid to sit anywhere but in the living room. I settled on a sofa, relieved to no longer be pacing the hallways. A little black poodle came over to visit me and looked like it had questions. Soon Red walked out of a bedroom accompanied by Janessa...
If you’re reading this I’ll try not to bore you. When I was a kid I was diagnosed with many different disorders by a whole circus tent full of professional bozos. Looking back I believe most of these quacks were taking my parents and I for a long ride through The Bird Streets. The one diagnosis that may have been correct however was: attention deficit disorder... even now after even writing a few pages, I get restless and assume everybody else is just as bored as I am. Unfortunately, I can’t take ADD medication due to their addictive nature. The non-stimulant stimulants are horse shit.
I soon learned that Janessa liked to shoot drugs and whore out young women— one of whom was currently sleeping in her bedroom. Red needed rest and bunked up with the young strumpet I hadn’t yet seen. So I’m now left in the living room with this weathered woman and her curious poodle.
Janessa handed me a bottle of hard liquor, and a paper towel because I still couldn’t stop licking my lips. She also offered me a Zany bar which I pocketed— helps with the comedown from any speedy scenario. As she tried my cocaine, I looked her over. Blonde, busty, overweight... thirty-five going on fifty. Boffing’s on my brain, but my amplified fears quickly quieted my gossipy cock.
We watched Weekend At Bernie’s on TV... ironically a farce about a rich dead guy, presumably from drugs. Half-way through Janessa received a phone call from a john who was ready to party at 10:00am on a Tuesday— so she went to wake her sleeping beauty in the other room. In a daze, Red stumbled out— toying with his smartphone. The young brunette colored strumpet who follows is called Tobi, and barely acknowledges me.
Tobi starts off by talking about nothing and then continues on about absolutely nothing... all the while heating up her pookie. She takes a few heavy hits of crystal meth to start her day wrong, douses herself with pumpkin body spray, and leaves to go fuck a dick for a dollar.
Red then comes up with his second brilliant idea of the day— breakfast. We all agree that it’s some Einstein shit, but I’m currently the only one with a vehicle. Tobi has taken Janessa’s car. Why we didn’t think to call a cab or hoof it, I don’t remember. None of us were in any condition to get behind the wheel, but Janessa offered to pay for pancakes... and I started thinking that if I played nice and stuffed her with food, she could be stuffed with anything. I agreed to drive. Still a bit jittery, I popped that Xanax— Red grabbed his backpack and the three of us left.
All buckled up and ready to head out... Red and Janessa now make a “quick fix” their number one priority. They plead with me to give them a few minutes in the back seat. And although I objected to this, ultimately I didn’t know how to refuse them their good time. They got in back where the windows were tinted and I put the car in PARK. Janessa borrowed my phone charger to tie off and Red cooked the heroin in a spoon with a bit of bottled water... then prepared a shot. I had seen people inject drugs before, but this was too close for comfort, so I kept looking out the window. I prayed they wouldn’t miss their veins and bleed on the upholstery. He shot her up first, then took care of himself. As they finished, you could hear their voices soften. I was relieved it was over... but it wasn’t over.
Red sat shotgun and Janessa stayed in back— resting her head against the door and grinning like The Cheshire Cat in Blunderland. I started to drive. In a few blocks Red passed out and leaned on me. I assumed he was nodding out and pushed him away. He fell forward and his head smacked the glove compartment— at which time he started making a bizarre breathing sound. I was clueless, but Janessa knew... she started yelling his name and then SCREAMING his name and then panicking... he was overdosing.
My mind went blank for 3 seconds!
In the past because I had reacted to situations instead of acting in situations, I stirred up a lot of trouble. I wanted to think this through and respond appropriately... but analysis was not a luxury Red could afford. I quickly pulled off onto a side street, jumped out of the car and called 911. Not that it would help— I threw his backpack and any other goodies I found into my trunk. There was a sports bar across the way and people were starting to stare. The operator instructed me to check Red’s breathing and keep yelling his name! He was breathing, but I could tell his body was beginning to shut down.
Emergency vehicles and police soon showed... Janessa and I knew that any Magic 8-Ball would have predicted jail time. The medics worked on Red in the front seat of my car while she and I stood ten feet back on the sidewalk. Janessa looked away, cried druggie tears and squeezed me tightly... then asked— “Did we do the right thing?” After a minute or two, Red shot up like a rocket, eyes wide, almost as if he had emerged from the ocean. He was then taken to a local hospital in an ambulance.
There were no searches or arrests made, the car wasn’t even impounded. Did I have friends in high places besides Red and Janessa? I gave the authorities all my information, Janessa grabbed Red’s stuff and I dropped her outside the hospital.
In the middle of the night my phone woke me up. It was Red. He called to inform me that he had given the police false information at the hospital, and that Janessa had disappeared with his backpack.
I’m a bad apple with some edible parts.
Max Barrie is a writer and artist currently based in Los Angeles. The son of screenwriters, Michael Barrie and Sally Robinson, Max was born and raised in Beverly Hills, California. With acerbic wit and self deprecating humor, Max documents his life growing up in the shallow, superficial depths of Beverly Hills and the Hollywood machine. In his multiple part autobiographical series, entitled A Trendy Tragedy, Max will explore his bouts with addiction, prostitution and his search for identity in a landscape that is rife with temptation and false ideals.