Getting Higher

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Under an awning, in front of an old, ruined storefront, Joe Jones stopped and caught his breath. He had run for nearly a block before he realized Mrs. Rufus wasn't chasing him; he would have caught on sooner, and would have saved himself a lot of pain, but he was still sick and half-asleep.

He still wasn't all there.

Joe thought he would throw up again at any moment. His whole body heaved as he tried to catch his breath, and each gasp of air made his stomach churn. His head was pounding so hard he could barely see straight, and he felt horribly dizzy. His arm, his leg, and his side hurt where Mrs. had hit them. All in all, Joe was in lousy, shape; as he leaned against the store window, he thought he would collapse on the street.

"That...that...bitch...," he gasped, sucking in air and holding his head. "That...lousy...bitch..." He wheezed and panted and coughed; his mouth tasted like vomit and phlegm, and he spat to get rid of the awful flavor.

It was pouring down rain that day, and the streets and sidewalks were pooled with puddles and streams. The rain came in sheets, dropping down and drenching everything at once. Every once in a while, thunder would echo in the distance, but there was no lightning. All the buildings were soaked, their wood and brick darkened by the water, rainspouts and eaves offering little protection from wind-blown gusts of rain.

Even under the awning, Joe could not escape the storm. As he stood and panted, fat wet droplets kept striking him in the face, blown beneath the awning from the rest of the downpour. Also, there was a large hole in the canvas which admitted a steady stream of water. From his brief run and the leaky awning, Joe was soaked through to his sweaty skin. The faded T-shirt and jeans that he wore were drenched, sopping and sticking to his body. His hair was plastered to his skull and his beard dripped; he looked like he had gone in the shower with his clothes on.

After five minutes of rasping and wheezing, Joe finally started to breathe normally. He began to relax slightly, and felt his pulse stop jackhammering. His headache did not go away, and his body still ached, but he was no longer exhausted and convulsing.

Bit by bit, Joe Jones began to regain his senses. He looked out on the street; there were a few people walking by, hunched in jackets and umbrellas, some of them looking at him. Everyone else was staying out of the rain that day, plugged into sleepy dry apartments and offices, socked away happy at home like Joe should have been.

A car swooped by, knifing through a huge puddle and spraying Joe with mud. He tried to jump out of the way, but didn't see it coming soon enough. By the time the car squealed its tires around the corner, Joe's shirt and jeans were plastered brown.

"Sonuva' b***h," he yelled, wiping futilely at the mud globs. "Watch where you're going, you asshole!"

Joe coughed, spat a lump of phlegm on the sidewalk. He shook his head roughly, trying to stop it from spinning, then pulled his hair back out of his face. He looked down the street, at the building he had just been evicted from, and cursed under his breath. He had been in that place for almost three years, living in the same dingy room and paying rent to the same spastic landlady. She'd tried to evict him twice before, but he had always managed to squirm out of it. She had never used the baseball bat before, though, and she had never come to collect when Joe was sick with a hangover, either.

Leaving Mrs. Rufus in the blocks behind him, Joe knew it didn't matter anymore. He didn't have a chance of moving back into his old place, not a chance; he was out for good, and he knew it. The way Mrs. Rufus had snarled and raged at him, chasing and cracking her bat, left no room for doubt. The crazed old landlady would be waiting for him now, rocking by her window with the baseball bat in her lap.

Joe cursed Mrs. Rufus, cursed the bat and the room and the whole building. He was not going to go near the dump again, not even to try to pick up his belongings. He didn't have much to begin with, so it didn't bother him to leave it behind. There were some T-shirts, a pair of jeans, some underwear, a cheap old transistor radio, and some food; other than that, Joe really didn't own anything. The only things he would miss were the ten dollars on his table, the bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cupboard, and some joints he had lying around.

Joe felt better after awhile, felt as if he could walk again. He was still woozy and his head thumped, but he didn't think he would vomit again. Gritting his teeth, he pushed away from the window where he was leaning and walked out from under the awning. As he got his balance and realized he would not topple to the sidewalk, Joe looked up at the gray, bleak sky, closing his eyes and letting the rain hit his face. Then, he took another step and turned again toward his old home.

"It was great for awhile, man," he said, "but, like, all good things must come to an end." Then, he raised the middle finger of his right hand in an obscene salute. "f**k you, Rufus. I hope you die, you crazy old bitch."

Then, he turned and walked in the opposite direction. Thrown out of his room, hung-over and sick, broke, hungry, and soaking wet, Joe had only one thing left to do: go to see Crank.

Crank was a friend who lived about three blocks away. After all he'd been through, Joe knew Crank would help him out, would give him a beer and some time to pull himself together. Plus, Joe figured he could stay with Crank, or Rocky, another friend, until he got some money and found another place. If not, there was always the YMCA; a nice alley or a car seat would be okay, too.

While Joe was walking, a white Volkswagen pulled up to the curb. It matched speed with him, and a middle-aged woman inside rolled down the window to talk to him. She had brown hair in thick curls on her head, and smiled pleasantly as she spoke.

"Excuse me," she said, still inching the car along the curb to keep up with Joe. "Can you tell me where the Reynolds Building is? I'm in an awful rush and I just can't get my bearings."

Joe was not in a good mood, and nice women in shiny white Volkswagens didn't make him feel any better. His bruises were really starting to ache, and all he wanted to do was get to Crank's apartment. "You got some problem, lady, bothering law-abiding dudes out for a walk? Can't you see I'm minding my own business?"

The woman looked confused. "Look, I just need directions, all right? I don't want any trouble or anything."

Joe stopped walking. The Volkswagen stopped, too, but the woman had to put it in reverse and back the car up so she could stay beside him. The tires squealed as the little car jerked back and forth.

"Baby, do I look like I know where the Reynolds Building is?" Joe spread his arms wide, presenting his soaked, grimy body, his beard, his black, shoulder-length hair.

"Please, I just..."

Joe cut her off. "Would you like to take me home, lady? I bet your kids would like a new playmate. You do drugs?"

The woman said nothing. She didn't even roll up her window. She just scowled at Joe for an instant, then zipped away in her Volkswagen. Joe laughed and continued up the street.