The Mimosa Effect 2

By Mark Harrison (used with permission)

M. would normally put something like this up on his own site, here, but the Bjournal doesn’t have any way for people to leave comments.  So for now I’ll be posting his SS and PT contributions here, so he can get some feedback.  People have written about the everpresent monster of fear, that influences so much of our lives whether we want it to or not.  This is about another everday monster, one that is as brutal, dangerous and hard to fight as any dragon or bad guy with guns: addiction.

Morning screamed in Gerry’s face. He put his hand up to stop it, but it didn’t quite work. His hand shook too much. Besides, without curtains or even a sheet to cover the window, he’d have to hold it there ’till night came again.

He rolled into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. His stomach lagged about a second behind. As he reached out to grab a pack of smokes from on top of the T.V., he realized that his hands weren’t the only things shaking. The tremor seemed to originate in his out-stretched hand. It travelled down his mottled arm and down the side of his rib-cage. Restless snakes writhed under his damp grey skin. When his leg started to shake and then bounce crazily on the ball of his foot, Gerry grabbed it with both hands. He threw himself onto it, holding on like a man wrestling an alligator.

The vibration continued to flow downwards, finally diluting itself in the cigarette-marked floor. He looked down at the yellowed linoleum surface. It had long since lost its shine and its original colour. Much like Gerry. The thousand roach-like cigarette burns resembled his habitual wounds. A thousand self-inflicted bruisings. He made a lunge for the cigarettes. His hand closed around the crumpled pack as the ill-planned movement’s momentum carried him onto the floor. It was like someone was fucking with the law of gravity or something. Landing knocked the breath out of him and he thought he felt something crack. On top of it all, the red-and-white package he held in his fist was empty. He needed cigarettes. Gerry stood up, tucked his undershirt into his jeans and ran his fingers through his hair. He felt just like James Dean.

The streets seemed uneven and unwanting of Gerry’s touch. This was confusing; they had so often been his friends. But now, the strange concrete conspired to throw him down. He leaned against the crumbling brick of an apartment building and collected his scattered thoughts. He needed to get cigarettes and he needed to get well. Gerry set off towards Speedee-Mart. Mid-way on his journey, he zipped up his jacket against the cold rays of the morning sun. The jacket had an oval patch over the right pocket. The patch read “Andrew”.

It was Julie’s third day at work and she didn’t know what to do. She had been watching a suspicious customer for a while now – the man with greasy hair and a crawling grey beard. And she watched as he slipped a carton of Lucky Dutch cigarettes into his jacket. She was scared; she called the police.

The police officer knew Gerry and spoke to him with good-humoured chiding. Gerry looked up forlornly from his position beneath the burly stock-boy. Sweat dripped from his face like melted tallow. The officer asked him how long he had been on the programme. Gerry answered, truthfully, that he had been clean for five days. And his arms yielded no evidence of a hit within the last week. Once cuffed, the cop gave Gerry a cigarette and lead him into the back of the patrol car. Back at the precinct house, Gerry filled out a lot of forms that he couldn’t understand. It was okay, though, the officer did all the typing.

An hour later, Gerry was back on the street and dying to get well. He walked the streets he knew by name, but they still treated him as a stranger. Just when he thought he might go back to his apartment, and the cheese and mustered in his little fridge, Gerry found salvation. Salvation wore a fringed, blood-red leather jacket. Salvation sold him a nickel-bag. The streets were level again. Things were good. Even the buildings felt happy. He felt just like James Dean.

By about two in the afternoon, the horse started to ride a little low, so Gerry slipped into a public restroom. There, in a stinking grey cubicle, he blew his mind out through his arm. Coming out into the world again, he felt better, much better. He set off once again down welcome streets. He began to have the distinct sensation that his eyes were floating about a foot above his head. He wondered why it was getting dark so early. And then Gerry went down, slowly, like the setting sun.