I walked up to the back porch smelling like a hickory smokehouse. You
can't scrub that smell out with a brillo pad. A tip glowing on the porch
looked like a solitary buoy in the Corpus Bay at night. Charles was a
smoking dragon drawing smooth exhales from his mouth up through his
nostrils leaving a fog around his moustache.
"Where's Jorge?" I said as I dragged my tired ass up the stairs.
Slinking down the steps he mumbles, "He's in amongst the carnage. I'm headed to Helen's."
The only sign of life in the room was the glow and irritating static from the
TV stuck on channel 13 after signing off. Jenny was a fetal spiral on
the kitchen floor next to the dog food bowl. Her feet bare and muddy
with her blouse open. Both breast exposed for no one to see until now.
Her chalky tan still recognizable in the glowing light, she had a face that
traveled many a mile, beaten up by drug's eternal nights. She was a
spent light bulb that had been burnin' bright for 5 days straight.
I stumbled through the dining room playin' pachinko with the empty beer
cans on the floor. The cocker spaniel was asleep next to the old gold
velvet recliner. A victim of a couple of nose hits and a well-placed shot
gun under her floppy ears. She's such a stoner getting' more excited over
a lit joint than a knock at the door.
The coffee table looked like a battleground. Ashtrays heaping with butts.
Multiple beer glasses with dried head rings. A gravity bong, complete
with resin stained coke bottles and skunk water, smoldered from the bowl
like papal smoke from the chimney. The leafless rubber tree plant in the
corner carried butts in the dirt like Marlboro tombstones. A dusted bud
mirror, cracked on the floor, sits patiently next to a dull razor blade stuck
in the carpet.
I find Jorge sittin' up on the over stuffed paisley sofa. Pipe in one hand,
Bud can in the other. Sawin' logs with the lumberjacks he was. Enjoyin'
the snow storm on the TV screen. Droolin' like a rabid dog.
"Jorge!", I said, slappin' his cheek, tryin' to find some life in his excess.
"Jorge. . .go to bed and sleep it off!"
"huh. . .huh. . .Grande?" He mumbles in a questioning daze. Moving his
head to a dreamy tilt.
"aaahhhh. . .Grandeeeeee!. . .co. .como. . .como. . .es. . .esta?"
slurring as his eyes peer through the swollen slits in his skull.
Blood begins to flow from his nostrils down his upper lip.
"Hey Grande... Give me a beer aye!"