The Cooper Chronicles - Episode 3

Dear readers,

how to put it? Once again, I address you to deliver you bits and pieces of my story. Bits and pieces only, because there is much that I’ve gotta omit for it’s of zero importance in the story that I wanna tell you. It’s not gonna be like those crappy Russian movies where you have to be born with the protagonist, and live their whole life with them, and go to the bathroom with them everytime they have to pee, and sleep their sleep, and dream their dreams, and at the end of movie die with them as well, so you get that damn authentic experience of that NOTHINGness. So that after decades of misery (‘cause the story usually involves people who are just oh-so-fucked-up) you can finally say, It’s over! And I’m like, JUST GET THE HELL OVER THIS!* Books, movies, nor art were designed to be like this. Stories ain’t like full-time jobs (unless you write them), but they’re like hobbies. Things you wanna enjoy. Stories might touch you, they might confuse you, they might make you want to shoot yourself or make you wanna kill all your family with a machine-gun. And they couldn’t achieve that if they weren’t kinda filtered, so that all the boring stuff (say, Mr Bean injecting heroin* every morning or… cutting his wrist* every night ‘cause his life is obviously a huge fucking mess and he should be treated) - all the boring stuff is left out, so it’s, like, harmonized, you know. Conclusion? Skip Tolstoy. He’s the redundant guy. He’s at the super-boring end of the boredom spectrum I’ve just made up. Who’s on the other end? Good question! Either Christopher Nolan or Quentin Tarantino. Or porn movies. ‘Cause that’s the highest form of entertainment. Your reaction to it is profound, what you see is what you get and there’s nothing you ain’t wanna see.

Speaking of my story. I promise you that every word shall be absolutely true*. Ain’t that cool? That might make you shiver and get goose-bumps, as if the story was something you really had a reason to care about.

Another point that might excite you, I’m planning to end my life after finishing the story*, so keep up with me if you wanna say good-bye at the end. Nothing keeps me from suicide but finishing this story.

So. I hope you’ve read the previous two posts, my dear readers. I don’t wanna start all over, so please do read them. There might be something important. And it’s like, inappropriate to, say, start a book at the third chapter, you know. So don’t do it. The two first chapters were rubbish, you say? Your problem, then. I’m quite sure I’m getting better. Enough of this stupid foreplay - let’s get to the real fucking business.

September 7th 2008 was a dreadful day. Is that where I left off? Yes. I woke up at six, as usual. I was in my Yonkers apartment back in New York and I was already having mental problems but not so severe people would notice. Well, most of them anyway. Talking to yourself on the street isn’t that weird in New York, anyway, so my environment allowed me to be a bit off and stay cool at the same time. True, I sucked in relationships, but that’s not freak. I loved parties as nothing else. Coke & smoke. You know what I mean by coke, do you*?

Anyway, in that morning, my head felt like exploding (or at least about to explode at any moment). The day before, I was very confused, as I tried to remember what had happened the epic night before the day before. When I got up this day, this day that I told you was a dreadful day, I finally remembered what that night before the day before was really all about… I know it sounds complicated. So, in a nutshell. One day I woke up and a horrible memory hit me. From that time I choose to refer to that night I remembered as the Fatal Party.

I’ll tell you what I remembered, so I’ll move backwards in the timeline. First let’s tell you about the Fatal Party. Then, later, I’m going to get back to the day after the day after. Don’t worry, I’ll make it as easy to understand as I can.

The party should have been fairly harmless. We celebrated Patrick.

My friend to whom I’ll refer to as George, because I don’t want to hurt him any more, was surprised at the news of his wife giving an early birth to a beautiful and healthy little boy. It happened in the same hospital where he was born, and his dad was born, and his grandfather was born. The fact that Clara’s birth was somewhat premature worried just about everyone involved. All the doctors were curious whether the baby was going to live. The family prayed for little Patrick and hoped he would make it to the second day. Luckily, little Patrick proved to be fit as an athlete. When George phoned me up, I could somehow feel the warmth of his voice and his relief and the tears of joy going down his face, only by talking with him on the phone. I felt saddened for myself, for having already adopted a ‘whatever!?’ stance towards George. I tried to be moderately nice. We weren’t best friends, and I regret it. We were so different from each other. I prefer to say I was more open-minded, but looking back I feel I was the thick-skulled one. When he invited me to the party over at his apartment, I agreed hastily, as if to prevent him from thinking it over and changing his mind. I felt awkward and cursed myself. He was glad for me to come, or he had told me so - and I trust he genuinely was. I wished him well and said ‘best wishes to little Patrick’. And I meant it. And after a moment of silence we then hung up.

I stopped for a second. I broke down in tears.

I actually stood against the wall on the balcony of my flat and held a packet of cigarettes*, having looked at it persistently for about an hour now. That’s what I did when I had nothing to do, having already been quite cocaine-free, trying to forget about cigarettes. It came to me again, that I was just about the loneliest person in New York. I was in relationship, but I was ultimately alone. I was a solo player and I played a wrong game badly. I sat and watched the tears go by. I took out a cigarette, lit it, inhaled and coughed out the smoke*. I did this over and over, because I couldn’t smoke anymore. I didn’t know how to do it anymore. Weird.

Trust me, I feel awful for telling you so much about my smoking habits and my drug abuse. I know I seem proud of it, ‘cause it’s a little bit special, but deep inside I’m ashamed. I just want to let you know that’s what made me a wretch, okay? I’m not like the kind of a person who would write a warning like ‘DISCLAIMER: CHILDREN DON’T READ, EXPLICIT LANGUAGE, EXPLICIT IMAGERY, DRUG ABUSE, FREQUENT USE OF ALCOHOL, REPETITIVE THEME OF SUICIDE.’ I would rather put it like ‘DISCLAIMER: INAPPROPRIATE IF YOU’RE SENSITIVE OR PLAIN STUPID’ and this disclaimer would be for children AND adults. See, I was stupid, and this is what I got. I’m not a veteran who would teach school children not to do bad things. I got it all wrong and I’m gonna keep doing things wrong, so I’m not gonna do moral lectures here. I hope that’s cleared that one up. Sorry for being harsh.

Anyway, I sat there and watched the balconies across the street. There was no one there. The apartments were empty. Everyone was somewhere ‘out there’.

‘I will be, too. Soon.’ I said to myself those exact words to trick myself into believing things would be better. I had two more cigarettes. I threw the cigarette ends off the balcony. Nobody would notice anyway. The sun went down and gradually disappeared under the city’s skyline. It felt divine. I almost fell asleep at one point.

‘Holy …! That party’s tonight!’ I exclaimed, as I remembered George’s phone-call. This time someone heard me, I think, because there were people coming home.

I thought of it as a distant event, but - it was half past seven and it was just about time to start my journey to the… wherever he lived, somewhere in the Lower East Side. I forget things quickly now. Anyway, I thought it kinda weird he wanted me and others to come all the way to this cramped apartment in the Lower East Side. On the other hand, given the opportunity to be with people, I was insanely happy.

There was no need for make-up. Already done. I actually wore make-up even when I was asleep, ‘cause it felt good. I needed some eyeliner, though. And some lipstick. What about… bloody red, I thought. I always picked that inappropriate color.

I put on my Yankees pullover and headed to the bus-stop.

I could see the reflection of my face in the bus window. I got out my iPod earphones and played a random song as a soundtrack to this lovely vision of myself. It started ‘We Are The Champions’ by Queen and I felt like the iPod had a built-in mood detection feature. Felt great.

I arrived an hour and a half later two blocks away from George’s house. I was getting off the bus, when someone tapped my shoulder. I looked back and pushed the button on the headphones to stop whatever song by The Cure I was listening to by then.

I saw a face first, okay. But let’s go the other way. Let’s say I saw the shoes first, and then scanned the person looking upwards. It is not true, but the effect’ll be better for you, readers.

The shoes that person wore were dark brown, fake skin (you could tell), two-inch heels, scrupulously clean. Then, magenta jeans, somewhat intentionally crumpled and teared in several places. A Bugatti-sort of black belt. You could see the pieces of white tape around the fingers on his right hand - Jackson-style. A Boston University red shirt, short sleeves, massive collar. Suspenders attached to the jeans, going all the way around his shoulders. Then, finally, the face. Way too much skin corrector that didn’t fit the skin tone (or was in too thick a layer), a wide mouth, a thin crooked nose, big brown eyes and a wig (you could tell, too). Dark hair. Exactly the same short-long haircut he actually had, just a darker tone. I knew he used to alter between wig and no wig. That was Jason. The one and only Jason. And that name is fake, too. I’m sorry.

He was always obsessed with being different. He was like, When you’re different than anyone else, say, because of the way you dress… you’re one of a kind, right? Course you are. And what does that mean - being one of a kind? It means being virtually extinct, that’s what it means. A highly endangered species. You’re worth preservation, ‘cause you’re rare, and someone ought to adopt you and isolate you and stay with you and pay attention to you all the time. Get it?… I would confess, grudgingly, that his theory might work for some people. Let’s say, Andy Warhol being a mysterious asexual and partly asocial figure who talked pure wisdom (my opinion, okay), Hugh Laurie being a sex-bomb for playing an addicted and damaged doctor in House and Elton John for being a homosexual (magnificent Elton aside, I hope it’s gonna be normal in a few years to be gay. You’ll see). But I also suspected that what Jason said about being different was what his therapist told him to think. Anyway. Dunno. And here he was again, getting off the same bus as me, probably heading to the same place as I. I hadn’t seen him for years, I realized. Since we broke up. He didn’t wear suspenders back then, anyway.

‘Oh! Oh my! Jess! How you doin’?’ he exclaimed. An old five-foot lady pushed us both out of the bus door and uttered an ugly oath. We got out of the way and stood aside. I stared at him for some time. He was used to that, after all.

‘Fine. Hi. It’s been a long time. So nice to see you again.’ I was worried he’d make me feel guilty. I had some bad memories from back when we were together.

‘How lovely to see you! You still here? Didn’t get a ranch in Texas after all?’

‘No, I… I realized that was a bit stupid…’ He was referring to what I had said when we broke up. I wanted to pass out right there, right then. I didn’t want to talk about it. I might have looked nervous.

‘Don’t worry, Jess. Hmmm… may I quote something you said earlier?’ Oh, Jesus Christ. He wanted a fight or what? I didn’t want the memories to come back. I nodded and looked aside.

‘You said many stupid things that I won’t forgive you,’ he continued. ‘But one thing you said was so right, Jess. You know what you said? You said: “It’s over, man.” That’s what you said. And I agree with you.’ He smiled.

I felt relieved. I looked at him. I had to smile back. For some reason, contrary to being through two messed up relationships and about to mess up the third, and being flawed and unstable and addicted, I felt happy. ‘Cause I felt happy for us both. For Jason and me. Both troubled. Both desperate. Both somewhat genius. Both similar.

We strove towards the apartment, Jason telling me about his new idea to make his life into a film. Right from the beginning, I knew what answer he’d be expecting, so I didn’t pay much attention to his cheap talk.

‘What do you think about that, Jess? Pretty good, huh?’

As I sensed the question-mark in his speech, I turned at him, gave him a pleasant smile and said ‘Crazy, stupid, but sweet. Keep on dreaming, monster.’ He was good with that. And me too. I liked the conversation this way.

I stopped in the middle of the street, looking around. ‘Number seventy-six, is that right?’ I said.

‘No, it’s to your left, actually.’

I rang the bell with George’s surname on it. For our purposes, it shall be ‘Smith’. So I pressed the button with the ‘Smith’ tag and waited.

The speaker went, Hello? I opened my mouth but George started talking first. He went something like, Howdy, Mr Smith, I’ve got a parcel for you all the way from Teh-exas! He was referring to me, of course, but none of us got the joke, not even I (at first). So George went, What the hell? and Jason went, Ain’t nobody eh-xpecting a parcel from Teh-exas?… So I had to interfere. I went, Sorry, that’s Jason, I’m Jess, I’m here with him… and I hoped that would clear things up. And George was like, Who is Jason? and I went, You don’t know Jason? and I looked at Jason and he kinda grinned at me. Suddenly, I understood. I went, You weren’t invited, were you? looking at Jason. And he was like, Invited? To what? What’s up? doing innocent faces. And I was like, You followed me, you bastard! and he tried to look oh-so-sad but he didn’t, and I sighed and the electric speaker went, Is someone troubling you, Jess? Do you want me to come down? And I went, No, no that’s okay, George… Ummm, mind if I bring a friend of mine with me? And he was like, No, no, I don’t mind, no problem, do come in, it’s the third floor… and the door buzzed and I opened it and we came in. You won’t do any trouble, Jason, won’t you? I went, and he smiled and said he promised not to be troublesome. That was our heroic entry to the party.

Things were already going very wrong.

But things were about to fuck up much worse.

Things were about to change.

Please stay with me.

Love and apologies,

Jess Cooper

XXX
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*NOTE: This text is entirely a work of fiction. None of it is true. It doesn’t represent any of my personal opinions, it indeed often opposes them. No part of the story whatsoever is based on any real event. Neither the protagonist or any other character in the story are based on real people.