I was hiding out with Joe Dooley at his godforsaken apartment because a man, a big, big man, this Blanchard man whom I feared immensely, had a bounty out for my head. I was eighteen, nineteen, somewhere around there. I’d just dropped out of community college and fled my folks’ home. So here I was, seeking asylum at Dooely’s grand, roach-infested palace, ingesting or injecting whatever drugs we could get our vile, degenerate hands on, while my father drove around town seeking my whereabouts. In the meantime, though, this night, we drove around looking for enough stuff to put us under forever. I’d decided for no reason at all that this life wasn’t worth it. You couldn’t take things, your legacy, with you into the earth anyways—that was my thinking then. As for Dooley, it was his marital problems. He was a decade or better older than me, and I wanted to be just like him.

But we were broke. That was problem number one.

That fucking child support, Dooley said. He was sitting on the sofa smoking the duckend of a cigarette. His fingertips were all the time yellowed with nicotine. Would you believe it? She fucks around on me and expects me to pay for some other prick’s nutling.

I don’t know man, I said. We had done some blotter acid earlier at this lovely lady’s New Year’s Eve party and the effects were beginning to set in—the drop ceiling tiles were making some interesting displays, some Rorschach patterns. The music on the radio, I remember actually riding Clapton’s guitar licks like a surfer catching a big wave. Anyway, we were wondering how we could come up with some money, some free drugs. Like I said, we didn’t just want to get high. We wanted to fucking die on top. What about Bono? I said, watching my hand split into three as I waved it about slowly.

What about Bono? What the fuck about him? Who the fuck is Bono? The U2 guy?

You know, I said. I actually could not recall Bono’s real name. We’d just known the guy as Bono. Some guys in the gutter system we lived in—that many of our kind lived in, had these nicknames, these affectual names that perhaps kept them only from recognition from cops.

Something like that. Anyway, Bono. That was the guy. He’d always been good to us. On a pinch he’d been known to lend us some of his mother’s luminal barbiturates, and for us, at least for that night, would be a start. The short guy, lives by Tulie Creek, I continued. You know who I’m talking about. Don’t look at me like that, you know who I’m talking about.

Dooley looked at me with skillet-sized eyeballs. Man, he said. Hey. What are those little monkeys called?

That’s right, I said, suddenly being assailed with an epiphany. Yeah man, yeah. He’s got a monkey; I had forgotten all about that. yeah. The weird fucker has a monkey, man. Capuchin. A goddamned Capuchin monkey. That’s what he’s got. I know who you’re talking about now. Bono. Bono the monkey man. Has that little creature on his shoulder everywhere he goes.

 

We drove with the windows down. The diode numerals on the radio read 8:35. The fireworks were going in the sky; nebulas detonating in magnificent ribbons of fiery spectra— whole galaxies coming to their cataclysmic end. We made our way through the edge of our town, down along by these dilapidated shacks, these warrens of the damned. Bono’s world. Our world.

I held my arm out the window, slicing through the bitter wind with the blade of my hand.

Roll that damn window up, Dooley hissed. It’s hellaciously cold.

But man, listen. You see this?

Oh. I’ve got the button here. Dooley rolled the window up.

 

It felt like We’d been driving for an eternity, but I was suddenly sobered up by a familiar, an all too familiar person, idling in their grumbling Camaro next to us at the light. I slid down in the seat, white-knuckling the undercarriage of it. I’d never been so frightened in my life. Shit.

Fuck, I said.

What’s your problem? You’re supposed to be in a good mood on this stuff. A happy mood.

That guy right there, beside us, is Blanchard.

Who the fuck is Blanchard?

The guy who wants to take my head off. Cut down this way.

Then Dooley, being the maniac that he had the proclivity to be, reached under his seat and produced a huge gun.

Go man, go, I screamed. Put that thing down.

I’m gonna ventilate this asshole, Dooley said, snapping the slide back, pushing the little button to descend the window down the channel. But by the grace of whatever, fate—although I’m not too fond of that word—the light flicked on green, and Blanchard went on his merry way, rattling the whole car as he went.

What’s your deal with Blanchard? He catch you screwing his girl?

I owe him a lot of money. A lot.

How much is a lot?

Four-hundred bucks.

Oh shit.

We wound our way down this dirt road flanked by monstrous mesquite and creosote bushes; we were pretty well into the country by now, and by now the blotter had taken full effect.

Right here, I said to Dooley. The one with the blue porch light. The really fucking bright one. Jesus Christ why’s it so bright.

Dooley pumped the brakes, and we swung up the weed-grown drive. The house itself reared out of the darkness like a huge slug. Dooley put the car in park. Go up and knock on the door, Dooley said.

You’re not coming with me?

I am. Yeah. Give me a minute.

So I got out. I walked up to the door and knocked three times. Almost immediately, it opened up very slightly and, in the gap, I saw the face of a beautiful woman. Perhaps the most beautiful woman ever.

Hello?

Yeah, Is Bono around?

Who’s Bono?

Is this not his house? This should be his house. He’s got a monkey. You know, little capuchin monkey.

I don’t know who Bono is.

Well, did he move or something?

I’ve already told you. I don’t know who you’re talking about. Do you need help? Are you okay?

You are totally gorgeous. Drop dead gorgeous.

But the door banged shut. Back in the car, I could see that Dooley had developed a condition. A very bad one. He’d apparently vomited all over his lap and was holding his hands palm up as someone would do when hauling a load of firewood. Sicky, he cried. Sicky sick sick.

We need to get you to a hospital, I said.

No. Fuck that. They’ll arrest me.

How much did you take?

I think I’m dying, man.

I don’t remember what I said next, but I ran back to the house and beat the door. Call an ambulance, I yelled. This man is dying. Then the door opened up, and I was peering into the

big black bore of what looked like a cannon.

You need to leave.

But my friend.

Yessir. This man is trying to break into my house. There was another lady, I couldn’t see her, behind the lady I’d just spoken to, on the phone with the cops.

You all are a bunch of bitches, I hissed before making to the car again. I pulled Dooley out of the driver’s seat, and just as I’d gotten hold of his collar, he sprayed a jet of puke all over my chest. I’m dying man, I’m dying here.

Come on, I said, dragging him by the armpits to the passenger side. You’re not going to die. I managed the door open and stuffed him into the cab and ran and got under the wheel and cranked the engine and flicked on the headlights. As I cranked the wheel, the cones of lights swept across the two women like storefront mannequins standing shouldered on the porch and then we were gone.

He was falling unconscious now. I punched his shoulder, and he jerked alive. Hello,

God? Am I dead?

You’re not dead. You’re just really high. What else did you take?

He did not answer. In fact, he fell out of consciousness again and slapped his skull against the window. All the while my ass and chest were soaked in his abdominal discharges. It was still very warm, and it took everything within my power not to contribute. I just wanted to get this over with, just get home and shower forever. Never mind Dodo, never mind Blanchard. I was swearing off this life for good. But it didn’t happen for a very long time.

We were on the highway now, barreling down the night. The nearest hospital was in the next town, some fifteen minutes away. We were just coming into the town’s limits when Dooley was resurrected, sat up straight, and said, with total clarity, Are you hungry? I’m hungry. We should get a burger.

What? We’re going to the hospital, man. You’re puking everywhere.

I feel fine. I feel great. Wonderful, in fact.

 

Maybe he was right. Maybe all he’d needed was something to eat after all. I pulled into one of the stalls at Sonic and ordered burgers and fries.

I get like this on acid, he said. Staring numbly out of his face at the little building.

Well maybe you should quit. You’ve thrown up all over your car and on me.

Sorry about that.

Then the sound. That grumbling. Blanchard’s Camaro pulled in two slots away from us. I

eyeballed whatever I could see of his car and felt under the seat for Dooley’s pistol.

When’s the food going to get here? Dooley asked, still not looking anywhere but the

building.

Soon, I said. I fished the gun out. I’d never actually held a gun before, I didn’t even know how to use one. It was heavier than I’d imagined. The movies make them seem light. But I was a scrawny and again eighteen or nineteen then with something to prove. Anyway, I’d thought that maybe with it buried in his face, the gun, that it might have been enough to scare dog shit out of him. I could hear him now, God that stupid little voice.

Hang tight, I told Dooley. Unbothered, he nodded like some lobotomy recipient. Then I gripped the gun hard and put my hand on the door handle and opened the door. Two garlic butter bacon cheeseburger meals with two large Cokes? The carhop lady said. Where had she come from? I certainly hadn’t heard the wheels of her skates. She simply just appeared like an apparition. I looked up at her and closed the door and stuck the gun very carefully between the seats. Yes ma’am, I said.

She handed over the two bags of food and the drinks through the window.

Look at you, goodness almighty what’s all over you?

Embarrassed, I peeled a five out of my wallet and proffered it to her. She held the bill aloft like it were a dirty sock. Why’s it all wet?

I said nothing, just rolled the window up and stared at her until she skated away. Back to

Blanchard. He was still sitting there, the Camaro chugging along.

Sorry I threw up all over you, man, Dooley said, cheeks full of burger.

It’s all right. I wasn’t even hungry. After all I had this man’s vomit soaking into my flesh. I turned over and emptied the bag of food onto the center console. Fries fell everywhere.

Hey, what the hell, Dooley said. What are you doing?

I punched two eye holes into the bag with my thumb. “Blanchard. He’s right over there.

I’m going to teach him not to fuck with me.

You’re what? What are you going to do?

Then I draped the bag over my head—it splitting down the sides and back like an upturned banana peel, but somehow holding enough integrity to stick to my little skull—and got the gun and climbed out of the car. Walking, I could feel my heart shunting blood inside my ears, it was magnificent. Joe’s vomit had crystallized on my shirt in winter’s spiteful grip and oddly, very oddly, I was burning up.

I came up from the rear of his car and slid between the ordering panel and his window. The hulking figure was smoking a cigarette. He looked first at the gun and then up at me. He smiled. What the fuck are you? Blanchard said with a smooth in deferential voice. Then I stuck the gun, trembling, not because I was terrified, not because I was cold, but because the gun was simply very heavy, through the window and leveled it at his fat, repugnant face. I said, You don’t know me, but you’re after a guy I know, a guy who happens to be a very good associate of mine, and you’ve so happened to fuck with the wrong set of people.

He let out this god-awful laugh and gripped my wrist, jerked me toward him. I hit my head against the door so hard that my entire field of vision had been bleached a perfect white for a few seconds. I hadn’t seen him do it, but I felt his own gun dig into my cheek, crackling the paper bag over my head. I ought to blow your goddamned brains all over this goddamned place.

I don’t know who the fuck you think you are putting a gun in my face, but you’re badly mistaken, bud. Here I am, treating my little son to ice cream and you want to go about putting a gun in my face.

Then, out of nowhere, I heard this earth rending whap. We, Blanchard and I, spun our heads. It was Dooley. He’d brought a baseball bat and had set about beating the hell out of Blanchard’s car with it. Blanchard’s son in the backseat was screaming now. Motherfucker, Dooley yelled, swinging like a batter going for the outfield. He busted out the back passenger window, showering the poor child in a million bits of glass. Just then, with my attention drawn on Dooley, Blanchard pinned me between the ordering panel with his door, sucking the breath right up out of me and succeeded this by fetching a hellacious crack up top of my head with the hilt of his gun. Blood ran hotly all down my face, completely soaking the sack over my head. The boy screaming, Blanchard going full tilt after Dooley. Everybody’s breath exploding like battle smoke. But I was the one with the gun. I’d never understood that; why he was more concerned about Dooley and his ball bat rather than me with a gun. Perhaps he knew I wouldn’t really do anything with it. And looking back, perhaps he was dead right. I couldn’t see by this point for the blood, God how the head does bleed, but I felt somebody’s hand grip my shoulder and tear me free like a dog saved from drowning in a river. Just do it, I was thinking, just put that gun to my head and squeeze that trigger with everything you’ve got and don’t let up until that magazine is empty.

We need to skedaddle, I heard Dooley’s faltering voice say. I think I killed him.

I peeled the blood-sogged sack off of my head. The boy was still squalling, and somebody was hushing him. A few yards away, attended by some people, I could see Blanchard’s gigantic corpus laying on the pavement convulsing.

What? I said. What?

I got him over the head, man. I hit him in the goddamn head with a baseball bat.

Dooley proceeded just then to unpin me, and we hightailed it to his car. Some years later as it would turn out, Blanchard had in fact not perished at the hands of Joe Dooley, but rather went on to become a respected and very knowledgeable drugs and alcohol counselor, albeit with a slight limp.

We’d just swung out of the lot and were back on the highway when the lights flared on behind us. I can’t go back to jail, Dooley cried. I’ve got a whole future ahead of me. Then he mashed the accelerator to the floorplate. What do you do in that situation? What can you do other than grip the grab handle and pray for the best? That’s what I did. Dooley was goosing it down the highway, the little nimbuses of streetlamps all blurred together without definition. It was quite magical actually. Once you learn to accept your fate, life becomes rather tolerable. At least it did until Dooley stamped the brakes, and we screeched to a halt in the shoulder of some little road. What are you doing? I cried. We’re already committed. We’re outlaws.

Defeated, Dooley placed his hands gently upon the wheel. I can’t live like this, he said to it, the wheel. And besides, the tank is at less than an eighth.

Our faces washed red to blue in the cab, like the systole and diastole of fate. I could see in the wing mirror an armed patrolman coming up to Dooley’s side of the car. He was crying inconsolably now, Dooley was. He rolled down the window laboriously.

Step out of the car, the officer said, his service weapon viciously looking us down with its awful black eye. You too. Both of you. Dooley lifted his hands from the wheel and graciously opened his door and got out. As for me, I just sat there, paralyzed with fear’s formidable grip. I watched the road ahead of me. The dual yellow eyes of headlamps chugging in the opposite lane. This is it. I’ve already a bench warrant out for my arrest—contempt of court for failing to appear for jury duty.

Then there was a commotion, a scuffle, and the police cruiser went whizzing by like a particolored smear, leaving me in total darkness. I looked back and glimpsed the officer climbing to his feet in the road. Oh shit, Dooley, I said aloud, and perhaps just loud enough to remind the officer that I was still inside the cab. He began to trot over to the car. But I leaned and pressed my fist on the brake and with the other hand, shifted into park and punched the accelerator and off I went. I maneuvered over into the driver seat and gunned it through the streets feeling much invigorated and wishing I could do this all over again for the rest of my life—that’s how magnificent this particular experienced had been for me.

I laid low for a little while before ditching Dooley’s car in someone’s driveway. I quit the neighborhood and crossed this barren desert field and, wondrously enough, came out into the parking lot of Roller City—the little roller skate establishment of this town, one in which I’d spent many a night as a small child. I stood studying the edifice with my teeth chattering, reminiscing on old, fond times of my youth, only to discover, when I’d turned to go, my father and my little brother exiting the building with plastic smiles. But those smiles vacated, and their mouths assumed an astonished gape, when they saw me approach them, bloodied and with frozen vomit all down my shirt. Hey Dad, I said.