Serial Experiment

It wasn't a great night. Besides the fact that I was bone tired, it was past midnight, and raining outside. I
wanted nothing more than to curl up in my trashy little bed and go to sleep, but a visit from the shady
mother fucker sitting across from me made that difficult.

I hadn't seen him for years...not since we all split to go our separate ways and find our destinies on our
own. I don't know how he found me, didn't expect him to show up...but that night he knocked on my door
and I let him in.

He looked like shit. Apparently the years that had passed hadn't treated him well: looked like it had been
twenty years passed instead of five. Looked like he hadn't had a haircut in months, he had more than a little
beard growing in, and he smelled like the bathroom floor of a bar. I could tell from his eyes that he had
been drinking...not just that night, but for a good stretch of time. From the smell of his breath, that may
have been all he did since we last talked.

It had been about three hours since he showed, and he hadn't really talked about anything yet. Just sat there
in my kitchen drinking a coke and occasionally asking how I've been over and over. There was something
desperate about the way he asked...I almost wanted to tell him that I had been doing really well, because it
seemed like that was what he was looking for. But I never lied to him when I knew him, and I sure as hell
wasn't going to start now. Five years hadn't treated me so good either, not nearly as bad as they treated him,
but they hadn't been gentle with me none either.

It was nearly one in the morning when he started looking like he was going to do something. For a couple
minutes looked like he was thinking of bolting, but then he seemed to set his hat, I had a feeling there was a
conversation coming on. The damn light bulb in the stove went out, and it got alot darker in the room. Me,
I didn't have money for a stash of light bulbs.. so I just let it be dark. Seemed like it might be appropriate.

"I ain't been doing so hot, man", he started off with. I told him no offense, but that was pretty clear to me
already. He laughed a little at that, but it was in that not joking kindof way. "Had a hard time finding my
feet, if you know what I mean".

"Right after the split, I found some chicks, found some drugs...had a place, but I couldn't pay. Got laid off
after about five months at the shop, s'hard finding somewhere to go when you don't have any real life skills"

I certainly knew what he meant there. The work we were in didn't really show up on a resume so good. I
nodded, and he continued.

"I don't know, man, I been thinking about the past, I guess. Couldn't find no one else, but I knew you were
still hanging around here somewhere. Guess I was hoping I'd find you livin' high off some great hook up or
something, but you ain't got it much better than me. Sure as hell not like what we used to have. Sure as hell
not."

He had me there...there were times when I felt like a shell. I heard what he was saying.

"You ever wonder why we stopped? We were cowboys, man. We were gods among fucking men. Parties
every fucking night, women, drink...we lived fucking high."

He paused to take a sip of his coke. I had seen him pour from his flask into it, I knew it was diluted
something awful, but the booze was there. He sipped, then he looked down and went on.

"Years past, I can't hardly remember why we said forget it. You remember? Seemed like the good thing
then, but now I can't think of why we stopped. We got all noble or something? We got Jesus? Don't have
any of that now, don't have nothing but headache and damp clothes. Don't have nothing at all."

Yeah, I remembered why we stopped. Yeah, I remembered all right. Figured now was a good time to turn
his monologue into a conversation, so I answered him:

"Well, I guess we just figured it was the end."

He looked at me then. I knew I had to say more:

"Listen, man, you remember anything about us back then? Sure, we had a great life, but at pretty fucking
high expense. We did some pretty bad things, man, we hurt some okay people just because they weren't
high enough to run with us. We "gods" left a trail of fucking people in our wake, instead of helping or
enlightening them. You remember that? You remember our stance on the little people? If they can't hang
fucking leave 'em behind?"

He didn't say anything, so I said one last thing. The one thing that I had clung to in the past five years. It
was almost my mantra, I'd thought it so much.

"I guess we decided that we needed some compassion."

Yeah, that got him going. He slammed down the rest of his drink, and stood up to face me.

"Compassion?", he said. "Well, where's the fucking compassion now? I can't eat compassion, man, I can't
smoke compassion. I can't build myself a house out of compassion, I can't fucking ride it to heaven. Who's
gonna have compassion for me, huh? Who's showing me some FUCKING compassion?"

Before he left, I gave him a proper coat. He didn't say much to me after he left. I could pretty much see that
he would have gone right back to his old self if he had a chance, but we all knew that we wouldn't have
nothing without the whole group.

I have to admit, the thought crossed my mind that night after he left. It hadn't been an easy road, it hadn't
been lined with gold. Good intentions were just about all used up, and it was hard. Would've been pretty
nice to get the old group back together and ride the wave like we used to. Woulda been pretty tight.

But, in the end, I realized it wouldn't be the same. Nostalgia fucking with me wasn't going to change the
fact that our time had passed. These gods didn't have any faith to be gods from...and it was probably a good
thing. We had our chance to make good, and we failed. This was our penance, this was our cross.

Yeah, its hard. Probably not going to get any easier, neither. But in the end I had to believe that it was right.
There are some things that aren't supposed to be easy, and we had alot of sin to wash off us. Lots of dirt.
Fun had passed, we had to work now. I went to sleep thinking it was going to be work for a long, long time.

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Had a dream while I was sleeping that night, I guess it was seein’ him again that did it to me. Found myself
in a casino in Vegas, it was summer – I remembered this spot. We had our own table there, our own
waitress. The dream wasn’t linear – kept coming to me in flashes, time wasn’t behaving. I saw their faces –
we used to call ourselves the dream team. We all looked young, clean, happy – or at least proud of
ourselves – laughing and passing bottles and dates…snorting lines off the table, or our sleeves. Flash out,
flash back in and I’m lookin’ at Russell (yeah, that was his name – Russell). He’s got some chick on his
lap, he’s talking to someone, looks like they’re having an argument. He’s playing it cool, telling the person
to calm down and talk to him in the morning. I hear a voice – saying something about someone’s brother. I
hear a click. I remember this – god save me, I remember this. Then, just as I’m about to holler to Russell
to ‘move that chick!’ – I wake up.

God help me if my memories come loose again.

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Even though the times are far past me now, I still have an aversion to the morning. I guess where the mind
forces itself to forget, the body holds on, and my body reminds me every morning of how much I hated
seeing that damn sun rise. There’s times that, before fully waking, I’ll yell out for someone to close the
shades, and can almost smell the booze and drugs – feel the body of whatever person was next to me….but
then I open my eyes and realize where I am. That beat in the back of my head isn’t the heartbeat of my
bedfellow – it’s the leaky sink in the water closet. And no one’s going to close the shades – there ain’t no
shades, and even if there were, there’s no one to close them.

So I wake up. I hadn’t gotten a call the night before, so I knew I wasn’t working today. So, I had the whole
day to sit around and hope they called tonight. I was working as a temp – was the best I could do. Didn’t
make much money at it, enough to keep my rent paid and my belly fed. Mostly I just filled in doin’ heavy
lifting and moving. Lately, though, they weren’t calling as much as they used to.

Looking around my apartment, I could still see signs of him. Empty glass on the table. Muddy footprints
here and there. I walked into the kitchen to wash out the glass and put it back in the cupboard, and that’s
when I found the book. Well, not much of a book afterall – just some paper stapled together. I figured he
must have left it, last night. Didn’t know how to get ahold of him, and figurin’ that he was probably far
away by now, I threw it in the trash.

I threw it in the trash, and I poked around the apartment some more. Picked up my clothes, rearranged
some trash in the cupboards. That book was on my mind.

No, I shouldn’t look at it – I shouldn’t see it. Those times were passed, and that was the way they should
stay. It could have contained something from after, but I didn’t have any interest in the crap that he had
been doing since we split any more than I’d want to read my own diary. Nothing to report but shit for
years. If, on the off chance that it was from before, I definitely didn’t want to read it. It might have been
years ago, but that shit hurt me still. I didn’t much like to remember. I figured since I was cleaning, I may
as well take the trash out – and that would solve my little book problem too. So, I collected all of the trash
into one big bag – I admit, it did sting my curiosity a bit when the book fell in – and took it outside to the
dumpster.

The rest of the day went painfully slow. I didn’t own much in the way of entertainment – just a few old
books that had been read too many times to be interesting, and a couple Playboy’s old enough that the
models wore outfits and hairstyles so outdated that they were almost laughable instead of alluring. I tried to
take a nap – but nothing doing.

The whole time my brain just kept slipping back to that book. Who knows what it could have been. Maybe
it was something of mine from before – that somehow he had held onto – and that’s why he left it. Maybe
he came by to return it to me. Could’ve had a hit or two smuggled in its pages – I didn’t normally indulge
anymore, but I couldn’t just let it sit out there in the dumpster – what if some kid found it? More so than
that, it could have incriminating information written on it. Who knows, the cops might still be monitoring
us – I’m sure they wouldn’t shy away from sifting through trash for evidence.

Eventually I had myself convinced that it was in my own best interest to retrieve it. It was just too
dangerous to leave outside and vulnerable to anyone that came across it. Sure, it was in the trash – but
plenty of people dumpster dive, and it could have bad results. I’d burn it, safely… up here… if I had to, I
told myself. I checked the clock – 8:30pm. If I moved quick I could catch it before the trash man hauled it
away.

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When I got back up to my apartment, I had the book, and I smelled to high heaven. Enough other tenants
had decided today was cleaning day that I had to break open a ton of bags before I found mine. I was
covered in filth. There’s few things more humiliating than being caught busting open bags in a dumpster.
People look at you with a combination of disgust, disdain and pity – not sure which one I dislike the most.
Makes you wonder if they remembered you from before – when you only wore expensive suits, and sped

through this neighborhood to keep safe from the streetpeople. Made you wonder if they were laughin’ at
you – having fell so far.

But, those thoughts aren’t healthy.

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I managed to avoid looking at the book for another hour or so. I took a bath – that always makes me laugh.
We don’t have the best water in these parts of the city – so its always a gamble if you’ll come out of the
bathtub cleaner or dirtier. Depends on the day, and how much it rained that week.

I did finally give in and look at the book. It was past ten – after realizing that I wasn’t getting a call a
second day in a row (that meant no money – again), I figured what the hell. When you’re all alone in an
apartment with nothing to do, its easy to get despondent. I figured it would at least stave off the boredom
for a while.

On first look, it looked like a diary. I flipped through – no smuggled hits. I wasn’t really disappointed,
though – of course not. I didn’t do that anymore. No, that feeling was probably disappointment at my going
through all the trouble to find the book when it didn’t actually pose a danger to any kids. I couldn’t actually
be disappointed that there weren’t drugs – I was clean now – of course I’d want to stay that way.

The first page. Looked like he had started jotting notes in it a year or so after the split. I figured it was okay
to read now, since it was recent – it would probably be a poor account of his troubles – nothing from the
old times to get me down.

He lost his job. Lost his apartment. His handwriting was increasingly harder to read the farther into the
pages I got. Looked like he started hitting the bottle hard. The next three pages were illegible. Then, on the
fifth page – I saw something I recognized. A name.

Mekayla Paulson.

That caught me.

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I remembered Mekayla. I hadn’t thought of her for years – lots of ‘em.

As quickly as I remembered who she was, I could see her in my head. She was tall – strong looking, with
big knowing eyes, and a mouth… mmm, a mouth that smiled almost all the time. She had a sarcastic look
to her – there was always a twinkle of some dry joke in the back of her eyes. Smooth black hair – she was
Mexican. Her voice was low and jabbing – if I concentrated hard enough, I could hear her voice, teasing. I
was madly in love with her once.

It was coming back to me. I had met her one summer before we really got going. I hadn’t even met all the
people from the pack yet – I was still a baby, really. We fell for each other almost instantly – I drove her
home on the first night we met, met her parents and grandma. Ended up that she lived out near where I was
– she was going to school there. I drove her back, we fooled around – I was pretty smitten. We had a lot of
good times – I was really happy then.

I sat back and enjoyed the memory for a bit. I thought of all the trips we went on, toolin’ around
everywhere startin’ trouble. She had a knack for disregarding the rules. And drama – she had a dramatic
flair that could sweep anyone off of their feet….probably why she got her way so much. Why had we ever
stopped?
…….

In my life, nothing good ever goes unpunished. I should have stopped thinking about it there. I should have
smoked a cig, and jerked off to a magazine instead. I should have taken another bath and tried to wash
more of the dumpster off. I should have taken that book and burned it in the sink – right then. I should have
smashed my head against a wall until I was too woozy to think about it – anything – but god damnit I
should have stopped thinking. I should have known better than to start thinking about the past. I should
have known god damn better.

I guess I hadn’t revisited the end of that relationship for a while. Maybe I never did. Things just got so fast
after that, and then there was the big crash, and then struggling to make ends meet – I guess it was never
that important to remember her. But now, now I would.

We had gotten engaged. I remember that – I gave her the promise of a ring for her birthday. Didn’t have
much money then, so I didn’t actually get the ring for her, but I was making payments.

Then she went to Florida on vacation for two weeks with her family. I guess it was right around that time
that I first went out to the city – where I met the pack. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I hung around
out there. Met some people who seemed cool – did some drinkin’. I fell in with the group over the next
month. She got back from vacation – but she didn’t really like my new friends. We argued about it.

I broke up with her on Valentine’s Day. A dozen roses, a kiss, and a “I don’t think we should be together
anymore”. I said that I wasn’t leaving her for someone else – god, I think I actually believed it. She cried –
and she almost never cried – she cried her eyes out, and screamed, and begged. God. God, I can almost
hear her now. I could hear me telling her that it wasn’t her – that I had religious objections, that I wasn’t
good for her – all sorts of excuses coming out of my mouth when the real reason was that there was another
chick waiting for me a few miles away.

You know what’s weird? I felt like this was the first time I had ever really remembered. I can remember
thinking of Mekayla periodically in the years afterward – but I never remember feeling bad. Is it possible
that I could have fooled myself into believing that I hadn’t mistreated her?

I shook my head of the loose thoughts and went back to try to translate what was written after her name in
the book. Funny – I had gotten so lost in memories that I almost forgot I was holding it. There were some
illegible sentences after her name. I tried to decipher them, but this asshole must have been super drunk
when he wrote it.

I should have thrown the book away. I should have closed it, counted it as plenty enough suffering for one
day, and burned it like I planned to. I should have thrown it out the window – and let someone else carry its
burden. I should have – but I didn’t. I kept it, and I followed the squiggly lines to the bottom of the page,
where one sentence stood out, readable, from the rest:

“Hung herself, the stupid bitch.”

It was dated four years ago.

I had a damn hard time sleeping that night, and when I finally did fall asleep, it was more like half sleep
restlessness. I couldn’t get her face out of my head. I couldn’t stop seeing her crying at me. Couldn’t stop
hearing her beg me not to leave.

I remembered a year or so after we had broken up, hearing that she had dropped out of school. I
remembered running into her older brother a couple years later, and having him try to beat the shit out of
me. I remembered thinking then that it wasn’t my fault she was mentally unstable – people break up all the
time. I remembered being completely without remorse – hearing about her trouble. I remember being pretty
fucking high too, though. Thinking about it, then, in my bed, I realized that I had completely fooled myself
– I had painted over the angry slashes in my mind with pretty calm blue paint. But the paint was peeling

now, and I could see what had really happened. I had stomped all over that girl. I had destroyed her. I had
fucking let her suffer, for another chick that didn’t last three weeks, and I hadn’t shown a bit of anguish
over it.

That was only the beginning of our time, too – I was mostly my own person then. I always said that I had
gone down the wrong path because of bad influences, but this had happened before I was in that group, or
just in the beginnings. That meant it was me. That meant that me being an ass had started before I knew all
the rest of them that well. That meant I had been a bad person before…

When I dreamt that night, all I saw was Mekayla hanging from a rope, crying and begging me to cut her
down.

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Redemption is a vastly misconstrued concept these days. The Christians, the Jews, pretty much every faith
makes redemption out to be something easy - ask and you will be forgiven. The truth of redemption is
harder - and I mean hard like a steel chassis. Even if God forgives you - the true test is forgiving yourself.

And to forgive, first you have to acknowledge that you've done something severe enough to warrant it.

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Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier to just hang myself and get it over with. Couple weeks
after I read that damn entry, the thought nearly entirely preoccupied my mind. Every waking moment was
filled with a vacillation between overwhelming grief and desperate attempts to block it out. Every sleeping
moment was filled with imagined pleads from a hanging Mekayla. There were days when I could hear it
even when I wasn't sleeping. I stopped answering my phone. I didn't take any work, and so I didn't have
any food. Lack of complete sleep and sustenance led to my being in a permanent state of half-being. I
hallucinated. I wallowed. I found myself in the bathroom brandishing a razor about a million times.

But every time I went to do it, I stopped. It was as if something higher than me stopped my hand right
before I could do the deed. I found myself huddled on the bathroom floor clutching that razor in my hand
hard enough to cut my palm, pleading with God to let me end it.

But in the end, God said no.
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They say that desperation is the best way to find God. Apparently people who have come on hard times
have a better reason to put their faith in a higher power. I can believe it - doesn't matter if you're going to a
church to light a candle or the liquor store to buy a lotto ticket - a prayer is wanting to believe in magic.
Wanting to believe that someone bigger than you is gonna to help you out.

When you're a kid, you have your parents. You know that when you get in trouble, your folks will be there
to bail you out. Adults - adults have it hard. When the folks aren't there anymore, who do you turn to? Not
the government - some of the time the government's who you got the problem with. So you turn to the
church. The only thing bigger than your dad is God. You figure that out pretty damn quick when you're in a
slump.

If I had managed to hold onto one thing in the time since the fall, it was my sense of personal
responsibility. Now, I didn't always admit to what extent I was responsible - God knows I hadn't opened up
all the books of my past - but I at least thought that I was responsible for my own well being. I had avoided
the church in the years since the split. I had tried to avoid the trappings of the lotto playing bag lady that
every city has. I wasn't waiting for my miracle to come. I was paying back all the miracles I had already
taken for granted.

I didn't really want much to do with God. I know now that I was ashamed of myself - I think I knew it then.

How can you go to a higher being, totally covered in shit that you did - tarnished from years and years of
evil living, and ask them to fix it? How could I even feign to stand in the presence of something that
guiltless without crumpling into nothingness for all the bad I'd done? I didn't want to talk to God for the
same reason that I avoided my parents when I had done something wrong - not because I was afraid of
getting wooped. Because I was afraid of their disappointment. Imagine the disappointment of a parent
when their kid steals a candy bar - and multiply it by a million. No, thank you, that wasn't so much my bag.
I'd work on fixing my countenance before I faced Him again. Get a little dirt off the soul.

And that was the path I chose. Until the end of those couple of weeks.

I found myself crumpled in the corner of the bathroom, that razor cutting into my palm, not just talking to
God but pleading with Him. Begging Him to help me stop the pain I was in. I had gone from cool and calm
not needing God level one to level twenty screaming for His help. No stages in between - jumped straight
to the last. Promising things I couldn't deliver - bargaining actions I wouldn't have ever thought of offering.
Was it the lack of sleep, the lack of food for days on end? Did I move my spine some way and get a rush of
stored drugs to my brain? No. This was me. Broken.

And God came to me.
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At least I like to think it was God. At the time I was damn near convinced. Curled into a ball on the floor, I
heard through my screams a knock on the door. I ignored it - thought it was the neighbors telling me to
quiet down, and this time - damn it - I had earned my grief. But the knock kept coming, persisting into my
ears beyond the whimpered prayers coming out of my mouth. After a while the rhythm of the knock felt
like it was inside my brain - as if someone was asking to be let out instead of in. I started to focus on it, I
quieted... it cleared my brain enough for me to start to surface, and I realized that someone was at the door.

When I finally pulled myself together to go see who it was, the knocking had stopped. When I opened the
door, all that was there was a note that fell into my hands. It had been shoved in the crack where the door
had warped and didn't fit the way anymore. It had the logo of the city police on it.

Apparently someone at the precinct wanted to see me.
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