[eggplantface] dilation--part two
he exhaled slowly, allowing menthol curls to spill from his lips and dance in front of his eyes, watering them, squinting drips onto his face and then opening lids to encounter swirling bundles of colored lightning collapsing upon him like rage spewing from a celestial vein between stars in the sky. the walking dead men retracing their paths back up the concrete mountain with brown paper bags under their arms wore scavenged denim coats and unraveling half-gone tobaggons. the night didn’t seem cold to him, the temperature was ideal, the sweat which had poured across his body having dried and cooled into a thin sheen of vinyl impenetrability. his nervous system was beginning to adjust to the superior rate of input, and he was ready to return to his friends upstairs.
thankfully the rear entrance allowed him to remain hidden from the woman at the front desk who had eyed them all with disdain when they had ascended the front stairs. three young men and one girl, armed with one bag between them and supplies from a local grocery. he needn’t dwell on what twisted scenarios her imagination had concocted. when he neared the door to room 214, the sounds eminating from within had changed significantly. the lights were on again and the television was playing, the music had stopped and he couldn’t discern any speech. he tried the door but found it locked.
he knocked. instantaneously there was a flurry of activity from within. the television volume was muted. someone hurried into the bathroom and shut the door. someone else was pacing and the third could be heard closing drawers in the nightstand. at long last a shadow fell over the eyehole and the door was unlocked.
“jesus christ, man. you ‘bout scared the shit out of us.” eyes engorged in black and crimson, dilation reaching critical mass, a face as alien as any he had ever seen.
“sorry, man. just me.”
he shut the door behind him. for a moment he remained by the door, temporarily transfixed by the texture of her jacket hanging in the closet. he imagined it draping over the curves of her hips. he left this thought in the doorway and moved on.
cathy was leaning back in one of the stiff table chairs, her face wide with content. tate had removed the portable eight-inch acyrillic companion from its hiding place within the nightstand, and fought trembling hands to pack it up again.
his face was smooth and clear, and he moved with the sort of manic hysteria natural to someone who was still on an ascent, two and a half hours into an extended journey in a car with no brakes which would continue to build in intensity for several hours. he reveled in the oversaturation of motor function, as a child he had been accidentally locked in a shed in the backyard for 18 hours with a den of harmless garden snakes. cathy was more relaxed, comfortable in the admiration of the scene itself, a bloated collection of misdirected energy and misappropriated resources. there was beauty in dysfunction, an art in excess, and she was lying on the canvas. eugene was in the bathroom, most likely falling into the mirror, caught in the face of his father or some waking nightmare which no one but he could appreciate.
after a while eugene reappeared and joined them on the end of the bed for another round.
“where were you anyway?”
“out back. it’s a very odd view. i liked the air.”
“we thought you had wandered off into the streets or something, we were about to come looking for you.”
a petty dispute over the whereabouts of portable flames.
smiles. “you werent anywhere near leaving this room.”
crackle of resin. inhale. exhale.
wide smiles. “no, we werent.”
tate was looking out of the narrow window overlooking the parking lot out front.
“um, eugene.”
“yes?”
“did you tell anyone we were going to be here?”
“no, not a soul.”
“not a soul.”
“nope.” pause. “well, maybe alan. but he said he wasn’t up for participation.”
“wasn’t up for participation.”
“yep. what he said.”
“it appears he changed his mind.”
“what?”
“as well as the small band of kids accompanying him.”
“what?!”
“take a look.”
a shabbily dressed young man was smoking a cigarette in between two cars in the parking lot, both of which appeared to be full of plasma grabbers and candy flippers, the straight crash breed of blood suckers.
cathy was upset. “are you fucking kidding me?! we’re about to start trippin our balls off and a dozen kids are about to roll up in here? i dont think so. jeremy, go talk to them.”
he saw his name come out of her face in blue neon, but it meant nothing to him. she had angel’s eyes. “huh?”
“i said go talk to them. they won’t give you shit, everybody gets along with you. tell them they can’t come up here.”
hesitation. imaginary scenarios. the dynamics of a situation crossreferenced multiple times at verious playback speeds and suprise endings. “i’ll try. but it is alan, and gabe, and tyson, and josh, and justin, and sheryl and scorch and steve and mark and my eyes are flaring gasious dilated frequencies across a rainbow spectrum of inappropriate behavior and substantial pseudo-intellectual gibberish.”
massive blank expressions framed by the appearance of patterns in the air around the heads of his friends, shimmering in organic patterns of fossilized life forms each screaming to be heard in a night overrun with the absence of adequate articulation and in a room vibrating violently with viscious orange tension.
“i’ll try.”
gliding along the sheap stucco hallways of a two-story hotel. porn movie moans bouncing terrifying animal gratification into vivid furvor around him beside parallel moments in history in which he decides to abandon his mates and his mission and go out the back exit instead. a scuff-kneed, stubbed toe variation on a theme draining horizons through chemical filtration systems and a glorious search for the source of the mornings that know no tomorrows. eventually navigating the stairs and very smoothly gliding out into the front parking lot. they were waiting for him. with smiles. he moved with an unconscious collection of self which made him unrecognizable at first glance. a security and cohesion which he wore like a aura of menthol and fused synapses.
“what’s up jeremy.”
“how’s it goin.”
several reverant nods.
he moved like a statesman, each one floored by his charm, envious and eager to please him.
this would be simple.
they were in awe of him.
they could be made to understand the specifics of the situation.
confidence at an all time high.
sudden uncontrollable nightmares.
the unnerving appearance of tangents where the ground had appeared stable and secure. cracks in the lining, choked laughs from the underside of an overturned car.
a scuffle between three men under a bridge, paranoid polaroid celophane fantasies swallowing jellies and sandwiches while forcing firearms into his ribs and bruises onto his temples. sad and scary muffled cries in dark rooms with nightlights and water running over hands covered in sores. squeals from faceless anomalies in white coats peering in to poke and giggle. keep coming back for more. keep coming back for more. please dont leave. i’ll be better. i promise.


[chris]
[what?]