Getting Higher

Chapter 3

Chapter 3Crank Schaffer lived in a dumpy, one-room apartment in a crumbling brick building just a couple of blocks away from Joe's old place. The rent was cheap, the neighbors didn't bother him, and the room was just big enough for a party; in other words, it was everything Crank could ask for.

After a short walk, Joe arrived at Crank's building and stepped inside through the open front door. Whistling in the dusty, smelly hallways, Joe travelled through the place, moving casually past other humble rooms and up dingy stairways until he found Crank's room on the third floor. As he creaked across the buckled board floor of the hall, approaching the dirty corner room in which his friend waited, Joe noticed that the door was open.

"Yo, Crank," he yelled, poking his head through the doorway and looking around. "You up?"

A low, wavering moan rumbled from the bathroom. "Yeah, yeah...more or less. Mostly less. Izzat Joey?"

Joe entered the apartment, tugging the door shut behind him. "No, man. It's the F.B.I., and we came by to blow your ass off for smokin' dope. Mind if we drop in?"

"Nah," snickered Crank behind the bathroom door. "Just make yourselves at home. I'll be out in a minute, man. I'm takin' a shit."

"All right, man. Take your time and enjoy yourself." Joe chuckled and started walking around the small room, idly inspecting its contents. The main piece of furniture was a big crate in the middle of the floor, an old, gray shipping crate which Crank used as a table. The crate was covered with bottles, cans, and cigarette butts, and crumpled up beside it was a raggedy sleeping bag that served as Crank's bed. There was no carpeting in the apartment, just a grimy wood floor full of cracks and splinters, and a moldy, shredded throw rug that Crank had found in an alley one day.

A broken metal floor lamp stooped like an old man in one corner, and beside it was a gnarled rocking chair, with one of its rockers torn off. The lamp had no shade, just a bare light bulb that was always burned out anyway. In another corner was Crank's kitchen--a battered hot plate and an old refrigerator which was salvaged from the junkyard. Cans of food were scattered on the floor around the hot plate, and a heap of empty cans and bottles grew beside the refrigerator. There were mangled old newspapers and wads of clothing dribbled acrossthe floor of the whole room, and little puddles of ash and crushed cigarettes peppered everything.

One poster was hanging on the wall, a psychedelic painting of Jimi Hendrix with "Purple Haze" scrawled in bold violet letters. Other than that, the walls were bare except for dirty, cracked plaster and smudge marks.

Joe liked Crank's place, because it reminded him of his old room in Mrs. Rufus's building. Now that he needed a place to stay, Joe thought he would like to live there, with Crank, at least for a little while. Besides, they were both good friends, they got along well with one another, and they both liked to party as much as possible. As long as Crank agreed to let him stay, things would be just fine, and Joe would have some time to look for another cheap room somewhere in town.

Joe sat down on the rocking chair, which tilted on one side because of the missing rocker. Absent-mindedly, he started scratching the mud spots from his jeans.

"Hey, Joey," Crank yelled from the bathroom. "How'd you like the little fling last night?"

"It was okay, man," answered Joe. "I mean, I don't really remember a whole lot, but what I remember was okay."

"Yeah, we had a good time, all right," continued Crank, his loud voice muffled by the door. "You really got blown away, man! Jirnbo had to pick you up and carry you home, just to get you outta' here."

Joe heard the toilet flush and Crank zip his pants up. "Oh yeah? So he's the one. I was wondering how the hell I got there."

The water ran for a minute, then Crank opened the bathroom door and stepped out. For a minute, he stood in the doorway, stretched his chubby body, and yawned. He was short, only about five feet, eight inches tall, and had a pillowy beer belly extending all around his lumpy middle. He had tomato-red hair which he never combed, and which he cut himself in a short, sloppy thatch, along with a red mustache and goatee. Today, he wore his usual outfit, plaid polyester trousers from the Salvation Army and a ripped, stained, white T-shirt that displayed his fat rolls prominently.

"So, Joey, what brings you this way, huh? You in trouble or something?"

Joe laughed. "Who, me? You know me better than that."

Crank walked to the refrigerator, swung the door open, and yanked out a cold can of beer. "Breakfast," he explained as he pulled the tab and took a swig. "So, what is it then? You look pretty messed-up."

"Ah, it's nothin', just my landlady. My ex-landlady, actually."

"Oh-ho! ," chuckled Crank, instantly seizing on the truth. "You got your ass evicted, huh?" Crank broke into low, snorting laughter, holding his side and waving his beer in the air. "I knew it, I knew it! Ha ha ha! You dumb s**t!"

Crank was soon doubled over with laughter, shaking his beer wildly at Joe. When he was close enough, Joe reached out and snatched the beer away, then sat back in the rocking chair and sipped it, watching Crank's antics as if he were watching a football game on TV.

"I--I always w--wondered," snuffled Crank, trying to force words through his heaving laughter, "h--how long that b--b***h'd put up with you!"

"Yeah, she got me this time, man. Came bangin' on the door this morning when I was all wasted. I told her to go to Hell." Joe took another drink of beer. "Then she chased me out with a baseball bat."

"A...a baseball bat? She chased you with a baseball bat?!?" Crank roared, howling and sputtering so hard that he was close to tears. Joe just sat there, patiently waiting for him to finish, enjoying the can of beer as he watched.

"You dipshit!" After a few minutes, Crank's hooting finally began to die down, eventually trickling off into a few feeble chuckles. As he started to calm down, he suddenly realized that Joe was drinking his beer; frowning, he grabbed for the can, but Joe pulled it away.

"Hey, gimme' that! That was my breakfast! ," rattled Crank, flailing for the can again.

Joe smacked his lips, took another swig, and handed the can to his friend. "Don't worry, there's plenty to go around."

Crank took a long drink, draining the rest of the beer. "So," he sighed when he was done, wiping his mouth on his hairy arm, "you want to stay here a while, right?"

"Yeah," said Joe, "how'd you know?"

Crank smiled. "Because, Joey, I know you. I know how you operate, bud. Am I right?"

"I guess, man. I just need a place to stay for a little while, just a couple of days. Until I get a little cash and find some new hole to rent. I figure it would be all right. I mean, I'd be cool and everything."

"Yeah, I bet you would." Crank paused for a minute, staring seriously at Joe, apparently deep in thought. "Okay," he said finally, "you're in. But only for a week or two, got it? And you gotta' pay your share of food and booze. I ain't takin' in no freeloader."

"Man, have I ever been known to freeload? You got no problems with me, believe it. I figure we can party pretty good together."

"Yeah, I guess we could have a little get-together now and then. We got us a two-man party committee, now. Look out!"