To Each His Own in Love, Life, and Death

This is my creative idea for one of my English classes last semester and probably the only reason I passed the class. We had to incorporate aspects from three books we read that semester. The books were Dance Dance Revolution, Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo, and Call it Sleep. It’s a very weird piece of work but i tried my best with what i had and it was pretty tough to mix these entirely different books together. Hope you enjoy. Thanks. :)

Chapter One:  Call It Sleep

I need my fix. It’s 1934 and a guy can’t get any of it around here. Fucking Texas had to outlaw it a year ago, now I’m stuck in this dump of a city with all these foreigners wasting the supply. Great New York City and its high security streets uptown, and dangerous criminal run downtown. It’s like living in a warzone but less fair. The cops are more corrupt than the dealers, but no one is willing to stand up to them. I don’t blame them. Who would? You either lay low enough to survive, or join in on the corruption. For a guy with as many addictions and problems as me, it gets kind of difficult to stay below the radar.

Marijuana. Everyone wants it. Scratch that…Everyone Needs it. Trust me, I should know. But how do you get something in this city without attracting any attention? You don’t because you can’t. You see alcohol used to be the main problem, but now that The Prohibition is over, there’s nothing else out there to take the heat off little old Mary Jane. Supply is limited and she’s got the city on edge. I need her like a doctor needs catastrophe.  She’s my wicked mistress. The catastrophe that guides me through every day. She makes me feel better about myself. About life. About Everything.

My body has always been a problem. When I was young the drugs would give me life, but now my fat ass could barely make it to the toilet without giving out. I stand naked before the mirror each day and stare at my brown belly from every angle. It disgusts me. It used to be a figure comparable to a Greek god, but here I am looking like a fucking buffalo. I guess those are the cons of being an aging drug abuser.

I’m on my way to the cabaret. Le Chat Noir. The Black Cat, if my French is correct. It’s the one place in New York that still sells to me even after my countless misdeeds with the ladies. And also, it’s the only place that still offers coke at a decent price. The entrance looks like any usual bar in the city, making it harder for the fuzz to track (Even though most of the rats in this joint are pigs). I walk in and the ladies are glaring at me with some lack of shock. I guess they’re now accustomed to my nicely chiseled belly after all these countless visits. To my left comes the big guy. The large shithead that runs this fucking dump. Henry Roth. He looks just like one of those guys you’d find in a cheesy commercial about banking or some garbage.

“This is the third time this week I find you walking in here Mr. Park. Don’t you have a job to go to instead?” the rat bastard goes on to say.

“For the last time its David, and nah, I’d much rather spend my time at some cheap titty bar so I could hopefully score some coke.” That comment should get his adrenaline pumping.

He starts to walk up to me like he would actually attempt striking me, but backs off like always. “I’ve told you hundreds of times this is a place of entertainment for theatre folk like me. This ain’t a strip club you can walk into for a free hard on.” Roth rages on.

“So you agree it’s a cheap titty bar?” I say in hopes of hitting him back. “But anyway, let’s get to business. I’m here for as much coke and marijuana that this stack of Jackson’s could get me. Are you gonna stop being a bitch and help me out here?”

Seeming to have calmed down the idiot speaks, “Alright come to my office and we’ll get you set up. Are you sure I can’t get one of these ladies to show you a good time? Every time you come here it’s straight to business. All work and no play make Davey a horny boy. Let me buy you a lap dance or something.”

This is how Roth works. It’s his true way of owning you. He gets his little harpies to rub their syphilis and gonorrhea all over you, and then after the fun part is done he tries to persuade you into working for him. If you don’t, let’s just say a venereal disease is the last of your worries. He’s bribed half of the NYPD into being his guard dogs with sex, so his threats are pretty harmful. There’s no way in hell I’ll be joining him.

“I’m fine, maybe next time I’ll come for more than drugs.” I tell him with the usual charm to save my ass.

Roth hands me the stuff and I give him the cash. I rushed out of there after the deal so I could avoid more of his traps. The streets are filled with addicts like me. All looking for something more. We all share this experience of disconnection from the world. Everyone here has different beliefs, languages, and morals. We come from all over the world with the common goal of finding ourselves. Most of the immigrants here fail and resort to drugs like I did. Others end up being a part of the corrupt system. This world is full of bullshit. The American Dream doesn’t exist and I’m stuck in this city trying to bring it to life.

I finally get back to my shitty home just an hour after my encounter with Roth. The Lower East Side of New York is a nasty place. It’s surrounded by Jewish immigrants who live like ants. They stay together but there’s only so much they can do to survive. Being the only non-Jew in this neighborhood helps keep the trouble away, but the living quality is the same. My living area is all messy. I never could find the time to clean it up with all my clients bothering me at work. The life of a lawyer is a difficult one, especially when you’ve got problems like mine. But enough of the talk, it’s time to get to work.

Personally I love to start with some Mary Jane. She takes the edge off. I start to get all pensive and zoned in on my thoughts, then as I start to sink into a relaxing state I snort some coke. Most people use rolled up dollar bills. I use a straw. It lets the anticipation build up. The longer it takes for the coke to rise up the length of the straw, the more I want it. The coke excites me. It gives me the kick I need while keeping me in tune with my mind. It’s almost like watching a few stallions race. You become very tense watching the horses run, but the whole time you’re thinking of results and outcomes. Isn’t that what drugs are all about? Results and Outcomes. You want to see and feel what happens. The change is the best part about them, not the actual action. The philosophy of drugs is an interesting one. It’s exactly why I’m a recurring member to its use.

I was done with the process. Usually I just end up laying on my couch slowly drifting into sleep, but today was special. Today I happened to wander into my bathtub. Paranoia had hit and I was cautiously hiding in the tub from whatever was knocking at my door. I tend to imagine cops or tax collectors with guns whenever this occurs and I’m tripping. But it happens to be Wednesday, the same day that my one and only friend Cathy would stop by and check if I was still alive and kicking. It was only a few minutes later when I realized this and heard her yelling at me from outside the bathroom door. As much as I wanted to get out, I couldn’t because the room was full of bats. They were flying around the tub, taunting me. The scariest part was the door itself. It was wavy and transparent. I could see a magical world beyond it full of mysterious creatures trying to reel me in. Every now and then I would look away and the door would slowly change a back to normal.

“Open the door Dave!” she screamed, trying to hopefully rope me out of my bad trip.

The problem was this locked door between us. She wasn’t strong enough to break it down, and I wasn’t conscious enough to get to it. This trip had to end. I would go mad if I sat and waiting for it to finish. I anxiously tried to get up and out of the tub, but suddenly I was slipping. Next thing I know I’m slowly falling to the ground. I started thinking, “Here comes the end I’ve constantly begged for.” But it wasn’t the end. The last thing I heard was Cathy’s screams after my head hit the bathroom tiles. As I shut my eyes, one might as well have called it sleep. Isn’t that exactly what a coma is anyway? Sleep.

Chapter 2: Revolution, Dance Dance

I awoke in some dream world. It was futuristic but familiar. I was surrounded by people who all knew me…and I knew them. Not just by look but also name. I could tell you that the guy in the baseball cap and sneakers was named Albert, and I could also tell you exactly what sneakers were. They didn’t exist in 1934, nor did the large compass looking game in front of me. It was 2011 and I was still in Lower East New York. The city felt different. Its structures were smoother and cleaner. The people were more globalized and together than ever before. The English language had evolved. If you didn’t know Spanish here, you were very much so at a loss. I could speak it very fluently, without ever studying it before. Podría decir algo en español y probablemente lo entendería si viviera en este momento. I woke up in this revolutionized world like this. Knowing all that I would possibly know if I was born in this time. Computers existed. Cellphones. More drugs. Elaborate diseases. Even books describing the 1930s that I lived in before the accident. The world’s ideas had merged and America was a mixing pot for all races, religions, and lifestyles. It’s like my mind has travel time while my body lays in some hospital bed unable to function.

I was slimmer. My body had thinned, perhaps to stick with the times. I was in a hoody and jeans (not that I even know what those are). My purpose was hidden. I don’t know why I’m here in this arcade preparing for victory. In front of me is a crowd of people cheering. Their grins were full of anticipation and excitement for the event to come.

The loud screech of a speaker sounds. “ARE YOU READY!?!?!?!?!?” yelled the announcer, through his shimmering megaphone of doom. The massive horde of viewers begins to scream terms of agreement to his obnoxious question. The large stage in front of them is covered with a lightshow that would make The Rolling Stones embarrassed. As I stand on this stage awaiting my opponent, I hear Cathy’s voice. She’s weeping. I don’t know exactly what she saying, but it’s along the lines of “I’m sorry for not being there sooner.” Her voice fades into the darkness of my mind, and finally to my right enters my rival. Oscar Z. Hong. Korean world champion of the main object of this tournament.

“Tink y tank y tunky-tunk-tunk.” Hong stated. I couldn’t even retort a word, because honestly I’m as confused as you are by the words he was spewing. “Ye eyes like blowing dim glowing bugles” he said.

“Say something I’ll fucking understand Hong, or am I really intimidating you to the point of speech impediments.” I yelled at him, in hopes to distract him from the game we were about to embark on.

 Right now you’re probably wondering what the fucking tournament is for. Well, you could’ve just asked me 5 minutes ago when I was shit talking a storm about the Spanish language and jeans. The answer you’re looking for is Dance Dance Revolution. The revolutionary game that’s been bringing people together and apart since 1998 (from what I’ve learned since my time travel of course). Yes, somehow I’ve been turned from a grotesque asshole lawyer to video game-dancing aficionado. Welcome to the subconscious of an avid drug abuser yet again.

First of all, I don’t fucking even know why or how my mind developed the concept of this plot. Nothing relatively close to this even existed back in the 30s and I’ve never even been able to read a newspaper well, but here I am. Entered in some idiotic tournament against a Korean virgin who speaks every word in poetry form. This is what my life has resulted in. All this hope for a positive outcome leads drug use to failing me yet again. Now I stand here on this dance pad waiting for the timer to go off.

“DANCERS READY!!!!!” roars the megaphone wielding announcer. The pads light up moments after this message and Hong steps up in preparation. I think to myself, “How can I possibly beat the world champion of something I didn’t even know existed until moments after my awakening?”

“You try your best.” said an inner voice. “That’s how. Do nations of people hide and cower in fear forever when being ruled unfairly? Do you stop playing The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess when Ganondorf beats you time and time again? Do you stop drinking the soup if it’s too hot?

“No I guess. But wait…what the fuck is a Ganondorf, and I thought you eat soup not drink it?” I say, considering that I don’t know a thing about what this voice in my head just said.

“Well, no matter what you can’t give up. It’s the only way you can get out of this world, and back to Cathy and reality.” The voice told me.

It was at this moment that I knew what I had to do. The only person I cared about was back in my conscious state waiting for me. I don’t care how I do it, I don’t care how far into the future or past this coma takes me…I will find a way to get back to her. I’ll evolve and grow to each situation. Language. Experience. Nature. Nothing will stop me from revolting. I will get out alive. I will get back to my life, even if it does mean getting back to my constant drug using ways. I will live. The real, fat, and crude David Park will go on.

…To Be Continued.