What it's Like

“Sorry for wanting to alter my state of consciousness,” Mark said sarcastically with a 16 ounce of Hamms in his hand and an Altoid tin full of ganja in his pocket. He was addressing anyone who had a problem with how much he smokes and drinks. He and I were going to get along just fine.

Then the fucker broke my necklace. It was partially my fault I guess. I was walking down his hallway, exploring. “What are you doing,” he shouted at me, “don’t go back there.” Now, anybody that knows me, knows the best way to get me to one thing is to tell me to do the other. So I started running down the hallway. When I got to the end I stopped and spun around on my heels. Woooah. Behind the cracked door was a sea of green. I had discovered Mark’s growing operation. He flipped. “What were you doing?” he kept asking with intense, crazy eyes. I apologized and pushed my way out to the porch, out of his house. “Why did you go down there when I told you not to?” he repeated over and over. I felt like a teenage kid being chewed out by his dad and no answer was good enough for him. “Are you a cop? Are you a narc?” Now he was getting paranoid.
“Come on, you really believe that?” I responded.
“You could be. I really don’t know you that well.”
“You’ve looked into my eyes. You know me well enough.”
He still wouldn’t let it drop and with each accusation, he got more and more angry. He grabbed my shirt, and now I started getting pissed. “Get your fucking hand off me,” I shouted and ripped it away. I felt a strand of beads unravel from my neck, roll off my shoulders, slide down my stomach, and I watched as it plopped onto the boards below – beads everywhere. The whole world stopped.

I knelt down beside my necklace like someone kneeling down beside a gunned down lover. He was still questioning me, yelling at me, but all I could think about was the beads. I picked-up the broken remains and cupped them in my hands. “You broke my necklace,” I said as I rose to meet him face to face, “you broke my fucking necklace.” I was ready to kill him. “That necklace meant something to me,” I said. “That was the only piece of jewelry anybody ever gave me that I actually liked. I’ve been through all kinds of things with that necklace – different countries, fights, everything. And now you broke it.”
“I’m sorry man, I’m sorry,” he protested, “It’s just that I have to be careful. You understand. I guess I’m kind of paranoid.”
“Yeah, no shit,” I said. I tried to forgive him, but I was still pissed. Then he starts-up again, “Do I have anything to worry about?” he’d ask staring into my eyes, “Are you a narc?”
“I’m done with this,” I said and stomped away. His calls followed me down the street, but I ignored him.

Thump, thump, thump – the sound of his heavy hooves coming up my stairs. Great. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he kept saying, “I’m an idiot. Come on. Come back to my place and drink a beer with me.” Finally I gave in. “OK. But if you start-up again, I’m leaving.”
“OK.”

The next day I woke-up with another hangover - cobwebs on the brain, dead cells floating in a sea of alcohol and marijuana. I thought about the necklace and the events of the night. I’m still pissed, but I can't stay mad for too long. I know what it’s like to be drunk, stoned, and volatile.