Chapter CCXVI

Wherein is continued the tale of insurmountable troubles that forced our penniless hero, Low Big and Tall into a bedridden exile of three days in which many scenarios of failure and drug induced bouts of paranoia presented themselves. There he stayed until his purse was once again, momentarily filled, so that he could continue on with his adventures, to the dismay of others.

Having expended my last dollar, and being with light provisions, there was little else to do but take refuge in bed. This was on Friday. So except for a 4 hour stint with endless drinks supplied by Tony and Nymphalidae in a large open club with very high ceilings, I spent over 72 hours in bed. With little food, save for a 1.3 litre fountain pop, a 240gm bag of Old Dutch chips, a 2 litre bottle of 7-Up, and approximately 1 quarter ounce of green and fragrant marijuana, I was helpless against the neuroses of my masochistic history.

The hours began to shorten, time had little power in that place, where days could easily turn into weeks. Surrounded by dark velvet curtains in the corner of my studio apartment, I lay in bed with my shoes on, tracking more and more dirt into my bed with each trip to the toilet. My hair was a mess, potato chip crumbs coated my tight black shirt, books and newspapers were strewn about the bed in left and right flanks adjacent to my body. There I lay, smoking, comfortable, but resigned and powerless against gut wrenching self doubt, mixed with paranoid realizations that I was annoying everyone that I am in contact with, until I finally decided that I have zero creative influence to achieve anything except helping other people realize their greatness. Between bouts of fisting my forehead and yelling "Fuck! Fuck! .....FUCK!" over and over, I surfed the net, and read. I read about Flaubert climbing the great pyramid of Kheops, of Don Quixote attacking a group of sheep herders, who eventually beat him senseless. I thought of Veridian, I thought of Nymphalidae. I fantasized about Zena.

Eventually I had to leave the safety of my dirty little lair to grab a bus east to where I was going to run through a practice with the band I play in. I felt instantly better as I stepped into the reality of the night, with the wind whipping into my hooded jacket, and the rain misting my face. I walked into a dirty east side bar where a few scattered folks sat silently with glasses of cheap draught playing bingo. The monotonous tone of the caller on the mic, announcing the numbers in a drawl that reflected the general demeanor of the people in attendance was almost hypnotic, "B.......17...................B..........17." I bought 9 tins of Kokannee and got the hell out of there. All the energy I stored over my hiatus from the real world manifested itself into pure rock-out madness. It was infectious and the whole band wound up cutting lose as if we were playing to a crowd of a thousand, rather than just ourselves. After practice I grabbed a cab back downtown to see Jeff Tweedy play some acoustic songs. I walked into the venue pretty hopped up, a bit tight, but quite exhausted. I pushed through a wall of annoyed spectators until I arrived at the edge of the stage. Shortly thereafter, Tweedy's voice was crackling in a high register, with the words, "I am so... I am so... out of tune" at which point I had wished that everyone in the room would have dropped to their knees so that I could see my ex-wife who was one among the many in the crowd. It would have allowed us a moment to ourselves, where no one else belonged. I said goodnight to my party, got a gin and tonic, and watched the huge venue empty out while I waited by the stage right door to be let into the meet and greet room with a friend who writes the music column for a west side weekly. All the free booze was gone by the time we got in, and Jeff was just leaving, at which point there was little reason to stick around; except for the fact that I found my companion wildly attractive. When we finally arrived out on the street, I began to hand out cigarettes freely to anyone that would take them, and then I smoked all the way home, an assassin on the avenue.