The Young Man Chronicles Part 1: The High
December 28th 2008 03:46
Groaning and stretching, a young man sighed as he rolled out of bed. The sheets caught on his feet as they tend to do, and with a disgruntled mutter, he shook them free.
At least near the floor, the air smelled of dust, mold, and several-day-old pizza. Time to get stoned.
He shuffled his way over to an empty pizza box sitting atop his dresser, and flipped up the top with an oddly graceful tap of his fingers. Inside lay several grams of weed, a copper pipe, rolling papers, a half-empty bottle of resin oil, and a scattered pile of tobacco for mixing.
No time for anything fancy, today.
He snatched up one of the larger bags of weed, and took a healthy pinch from one of the nearly full dried buds. Somewhat irritated, he began to toss the dirty clothes lying on his floor in all directions, in search of some prize that surely lay beneath.
Eureka! The bong!
Fumbling for his lighter, he finally relaxed as his fingertips danced across the sexy feminine cameo design on his silvery steel zippo. With a flick and a huff, the chamber filled with a thick, white smoke, and in another instant it was gone.
The young man made his way into the "kitchen", an eight-feet by four-feet section of his bachelor pad which happened to have a refridgerator in it. He carelessly flung open the door, and stared inside, not really noticing anything within. He closed the door and stood for a few moments.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
He opened the fridge door, and leaned in once more, staring.
Nothing. More nothing.
He closed the door. Finally, he exhaled.
Once more, he opened the door, and leaned into the fridge, and this time he noticed what appeared to have once been a steak . . . or several carrots. At this point, it was difficult to tell which. At any rate, it had moved on to its next state of being, and was now leaking a very rancid brown liquid down to the lower levels of the fridge.
"I'll clean it later," he said aloud.
He flung the fridge door closed once more, and wandered toward the door to leave. Casting a glance at the red-lit black digital clock-- 8:44, he opened the door to find Ms. Millicent standing immediately across from him, her blue fuzzy robe closed tight against her decrepid 80-something-year-old body. Pink curlers adorned her head like a crown, and her milky-coated blue eyes stared right through him.
"Here bunny, bunny, bunny," the young man called, demeaningly. Ms. Millicent scowled and did her best to slam her door, but the effort was made all the more pathetic by the fact that the pneumatic door mechanism forced the door to a slow, gentle close. He could hear her cursing from the other side.
Giggling, he started to step out of the apartment when he realized he was only wearing a dirty, food-stained shirt, and his open-fly boxers. His open-fly boxers, with an opened fly. He glanced down, then back up to see if anyone else had noticed. A fellow near his age had just been coming up the hall from (apparently) outside, and looked at him, up and down.
The young man said nothing. The new man smiled at him and winked. The young man slowly stepped back, and closed the door, body stiff and rigid with homophobia.
Now safely inside his rat nest, the young man relaxed, and turned to face the rest of the room, almost afraid-- illogically expecting there to be some sort of party waiting for him inside, just teeming with excitement to yell "SURPRISE!" when he turned to look.
No such party waited.
Relieved, though visibly disappointed, he took a step forward to hear (and feel) a sickening "squi-i-i-i-i-ish". His mouth turned downward in dismay.
"Corky?" he was afraid to look.
Gathering his bravery, he picked up his foot and looked down. Ahh, not to worry, it was only an orange. Who knows how long that had been there. No matter, but it did remind him how hungry he was. He returned to the fridge. He opened it, stared inside, lingered for several minutes, then closed it again.
"I feel good! I knew that I would, now. I feel so good, I knew that I would now!" he sang, and twisted around in some manner which he felt fit to call dancing, and eventually wandered back to collapse to his bed. He glanced at the clock-- 9:02, and he remembered that he was hungry.
To save you, the reader, what will surely be at least another hour of boredom in watching him wander about pointlessly, we'll skip a bit.
The end of the work day was fast approaching, and the young man twisted in his chair anxiously. Call centres were the bane of his existence, and yet paradoxically remained his only source of sustenance. He had no brains, no skills, no education, and no experience-- he was the perfect candidate for the call-centre life.
He glanced at the clock-- 5:30, and all was FUCKING GREAT! He snatched up his backpack, jumped out of his seat with a turn so fast that the seat remained spinning for several seconds after he'd left it, and he bolted toward the door. His escape was intercepted, however, by a coworker.
"Jake, how's it goin', buddy?" the young man asked, not really caring.
Jake was a portly fellow, a bit shorter than the young man. His eyes were a startling green, his hair short and black. Freckles littered his face, and large, low, dark bushes adorned his brow. His teeth were yellowish, and a little twisted, but no worse than the young man's own. Jake was in his early 20's, also like the young man.
"It's going great man, I'm off!" replied Jake.
"Yeah man, me too, so I'll catch ya' later," the young man made an attempt for the door.
"Hey man," Jake started in a hushed tone, "you uh . . . you 'cool'?"
The young man thought about this for a moment, then noticed the blood-shot, suspicious eyes of his cohort. "Yeah, man, I'm cool. Why?"
" 'Cause I got a while before I can head home anyway, and I was hopin' someone would smoke this fatty with me before I head off. I hate tokin' alone,"
All the young man could think was, What a great day!
The two headed to a small park just outside their workplace, and walked down the black paved path, talking of nonsense and pointlessness. The air was cold and sharp, it smelled of wood chips and pine trees. A light breeze fluttered against their faces, turning their noses an irritating shade of pink, and disabling their ability to sense the inevitable runny nose. The path twisted and turned through the park, crossed over some little-used railroad tracks, and continued onward.
Finally they found a little alcove made of cobblestone, and they huddled inside it. Flick, flick, *FLASH*, the lighter sparked, the blunt glowed, the smoke danced. Red faces and bloodshot eyes grew redder and more bloodshot still, inhaling was quick, and exhaling was ever so slow. Giggling ensued.
After several minutes of giggling at nothing, and taking a great deal of interest and importance in the most trivial of matters, the two stood, shook hands, and parted ways.
"Thanks for that, Jake, I really needed it," called the young man.
Jake turned, walking backwards toward his destination, and smiled at the young man. He raised a friendly hand in goodbye, then turned away and continued along his path.
The young man took a deep breath and sighed. Finally, he could really relax. He grabbed up his backpack and thought to himself, Man, this was a great day. Got to work late, and nobody said anything . . . He began walking home. . . . No angry customers for once . . . His footsteps clopped along the ground, sloppy and lazy. . . . I nearly met my quota in sales . . . Not so very far away, an alternating-pitch dinging sounded. The young man continued in stoned oblivion. . . . And to top it all off, I got to--
Get hit by a train.
At least near the floor, the air smelled of dust, mold, and several-day-old pizza. Time to get stoned.
He shuffled his way over to an empty pizza box sitting atop his dresser, and flipped up the top with an oddly graceful tap of his fingers. Inside lay several grams of weed, a copper pipe, rolling papers, a half-empty bottle of resin oil, and a scattered pile of tobacco for mixing.
No time for anything fancy, today.
He snatched up one of the larger bags of weed, and took a healthy pinch from one of the nearly full dried buds. Somewhat irritated, he began to toss the dirty clothes lying on his floor in all directions, in search of some prize that surely lay beneath.
Eureka! The bong!
Fumbling for his lighter, he finally relaxed as his fingertips danced across the sexy feminine cameo design on his silvery steel zippo. With a flick and a huff, the chamber filled with a thick, white smoke, and in another instant it was gone.
The young man made his way into the "kitchen", an eight-feet by four-feet section of his bachelor pad which happened to have a refridgerator in it. He carelessly flung open the door, and stared inside, not really noticing anything within. He closed the door and stood for a few moments.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
He opened the fridge door, and leaned in once more, staring.
Nothing. More nothing.
He closed the door. Finally, he exhaled.
Once more, he opened the door, and leaned into the fridge, and this time he noticed what appeared to have once been a steak . . . or several carrots. At this point, it was difficult to tell which. At any rate, it had moved on to its next state of being, and was now leaking a very rancid brown liquid down to the lower levels of the fridge.
"I'll clean it later," he said aloud.
He flung the fridge door closed once more, and wandered toward the door to leave. Casting a glance at the red-lit black digital clock-- 8:44, he opened the door to find Ms. Millicent standing immediately across from him, her blue fuzzy robe closed tight against her decrepid 80-something-year-old body. Pink curlers adorned her head like a crown, and her milky-coated blue eyes stared right through him.
"Here bunny, bunny, bunny," the young man called, demeaningly. Ms. Millicent scowled and did her best to slam her door, but the effort was made all the more pathetic by the fact that the pneumatic door mechanism forced the door to a slow, gentle close. He could hear her cursing from the other side.
Giggling, he started to step out of the apartment when he realized he was only wearing a dirty, food-stained shirt, and his open-fly boxers. His open-fly boxers, with an opened fly. He glanced down, then back up to see if anyone else had noticed. A fellow near his age had just been coming up the hall from (apparently) outside, and looked at him, up and down.
The young man said nothing. The new man smiled at him and winked. The young man slowly stepped back, and closed the door, body stiff and rigid with homophobia.
Now safely inside his rat nest, the young man relaxed, and turned to face the rest of the room, almost afraid-- illogically expecting there to be some sort of party waiting for him inside, just teeming with excitement to yell "SURPRISE!" when he turned to look.
No such party waited.
Relieved, though visibly disappointed, he took a step forward to hear (and feel) a sickening "squi-i-i-i-i-ish". His mouth turned downward in dismay.
"Corky?" he was afraid to look.
Gathering his bravery, he picked up his foot and looked down. Ahh, not to worry, it was only an orange. Who knows how long that had been there. No matter, but it did remind him how hungry he was. He returned to the fridge. He opened it, stared inside, lingered for several minutes, then closed it again.
"I feel good! I knew that I would, now. I feel so good, I knew that I would now!" he sang, and twisted around in some manner which he felt fit to call dancing, and eventually wandered back to collapse to his bed. He glanced at the clock-- 9:02, and he remembered that he was hungry.
To save you, the reader, what will surely be at least another hour of boredom in watching him wander about pointlessly, we'll skip a bit.
The end of the work day was fast approaching, and the young man twisted in his chair anxiously. Call centres were the bane of his existence, and yet paradoxically remained his only source of sustenance. He had no brains, no skills, no education, and no experience-- he was the perfect candidate for the call-centre life.
He glanced at the clock-- 5:30, and all was FUCKING GREAT! He snatched up his backpack, jumped out of his seat with a turn so fast that the seat remained spinning for several seconds after he'd left it, and he bolted toward the door. His escape was intercepted, however, by a coworker.
"Jake, how's it goin', buddy?" the young man asked, not really caring.
Jake was a portly fellow, a bit shorter than the young man. His eyes were a startling green, his hair short and black. Freckles littered his face, and large, low, dark bushes adorned his brow. His teeth were yellowish, and a little twisted, but no worse than the young man's own. Jake was in his early 20's, also like the young man.
"It's going great man, I'm off!" replied Jake.
"Yeah man, me too, so I'll catch ya' later," the young man made an attempt for the door.
"Hey man," Jake started in a hushed tone, "you uh . . . you 'cool'?"
The young man thought about this for a moment, then noticed the blood-shot, suspicious eyes of his cohort. "Yeah, man, I'm cool. Why?"
" 'Cause I got a while before I can head home anyway, and I was hopin' someone would smoke this fatty with me before I head off. I hate tokin' alone,"
All the young man could think was, What a great day!
The two headed to a small park just outside their workplace, and walked down the black paved path, talking of nonsense and pointlessness. The air was cold and sharp, it smelled of wood chips and pine trees. A light breeze fluttered against their faces, turning their noses an irritating shade of pink, and disabling their ability to sense the inevitable runny nose. The path twisted and turned through the park, crossed over some little-used railroad tracks, and continued onward.
Finally they found a little alcove made of cobblestone, and they huddled inside it. Flick, flick, *FLASH*, the lighter sparked, the blunt glowed, the smoke danced. Red faces and bloodshot eyes grew redder and more bloodshot still, inhaling was quick, and exhaling was ever so slow. Giggling ensued.
After several minutes of giggling at nothing, and taking a great deal of interest and importance in the most trivial of matters, the two stood, shook hands, and parted ways.
"Thanks for that, Jake, I really needed it," called the young man.
Jake turned, walking backwards toward his destination, and smiled at the young man. He raised a friendly hand in goodbye, then turned away and continued along his path.
The young man took a deep breath and sighed. Finally, he could really relax. He grabbed up his backpack and thought to himself, Man, this was a great day. Got to work late, and nobody said anything . . . He began walking home. . . . No angry customers for once . . . His footsteps clopped along the ground, sloppy and lazy. . . . I nearly met my quota in sales . . . Not so very far away, an alternating-pitch dinging sounded. The young man continued in stoned oblivion. . . . And to top it all off, I got to--
Get hit by a train.
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