Life Goes Off...

What stood in front of Johnny looked to him like a gigantic amorphous blob of black against the white walls of the Bayside Bar. He attempted to stagger away from it, but he felt something take hold of the collar of his red flannel overshirt. Before he could react, Johnny felt himself flying backward through the air and colliding head first into the wall. Now lying on the floor, an unmoving heap of human flesh in a flannel shirt and blue jeans, he attempted feebly to piece together what had just happened.
Johnny barely felt any pain, thanks largely to the 16 shots of Wild Turkey he’d consumed earlier in the evening. What he did feel was a strange and seemingly unexplainable warmth emanating from the back of his head, the section which had connected with the wall. Carelessly, he brought his hand through his short auburn hair to the warm spot, and then to the front of his face, where he closely examined it. Through his distorted vision, he watched as blood dripped off his open palm and onto the hardwood bar floor. Using the wall to brace himself, Johnny managed to get into a standing position. When he convinced himself that he could manage, he stumbled clumsily to the exit. Although Johnny was oblivious to it, blood now ran down his back, darkening the red of his shirt.
Once outside, Johnny bent over with his hands on his knees. He could feel his stomach turn uncomfortably. A thick, foamy substance slid smoothly up his throat and out onto the dark asphalt of the road. Twice he vomited before continuing on his way through the dense blackness of a night in Portland, Oregon. Being as observant as possible, Johnny made his way to a dark alley and collapsed on a heap of filled garbage bags. Unaware of the pungent stench in which he sat, Johnny stared up at the starless night sky. The last thing that crossed Johnny’s line of vision before the whisky sang its inevitable lullaby was the cream-colored face of the full moon inching toward its destination under the horizon line.
The sun shouted its rays through the delicate eyelids of the sleeping Johnny. Squinting while his eyes slowly adjusted to the resplendent light, he was assailed by the putrid smell of rotting food and urine. His head throbbed painfully as he observed his surroundings. Where was he? How did he get here? What happened after downing shots in the Bayside? How many shots did he have at the Bayside? These were among the countless questions that Johnny found he could not answer.
“I’m never drinking again,” he mumbled angrily as he stood up. He felt an uncomfortable emptiness in his stomach, yet he was repulsed by the thought of food. Another painful hypocrisy in the world, thought our hero. This thought revived in his mind the reason he had gone out drinking in the first place. For a hideous moment, Johnny disappeared into a deep red sea of confusion and frustration. No longer did he feel his aching stomach, his throbbing head, or his newly-attained odor. All was lost as his brain filled with horrible visions of James Gallaway.
James Gallaway had been Johnny’s idol since Johnny’s 11th birthday in the summer of 1967. Johnny’s eldest cousin Steve had given him a record by Purple Growth. Of course, Johnny had to hide the record from his parents until he was out of the house. God knows what his parents would have done if they knew that his fragile little mind was being warped by the heathens of Purple Growth. It may very well have given them insight into the problems that would manifest later during his middle-school years. But Steve had a way of going about things. When Johnny’s parents had left the two alone, Steve pulled the record out of his tattered blue duffel bag that he kept slung over his shoulder. Handing it to the 11-year-old Johnny, he whispered, “Keep this away from your parents, little man.” Johnny did not know it then, but Steve was completely and blithely stoned out of his mind. With a relaxed smile on his face, Steve brushed his long dark hair to the side and slyly winked a bloodshot eye at his young cousin. “It’s awesome shit,” he added as he pointed to the album in Johnny’s hands. A great feeling of excitement took over Johnny as he peered down at the album. He idolized his cousin, and jumped at any opportunity to see him. No matter what the circumstances, Steve always dropped by on Johnny’s birthday and presented him with something extraordinary and foreign. The previous year, Steve had given Johnny a wooden incense burner imported from India (his parents had confiscated it, stating that it was ‘stinking up the house’). Even though Steve was aware that Johnny looked up to him, he could never, nor would ever understand just how much he meant to his younger cousin.
“I gotta head out, man. Gotta head back to the children,” Steve said as he began walking towards the flight of stairs that led down to the door. “I’ll come visit in a little while.” Steve lived out of his van on the other side of town, in the Haight-Ashbury district. He lived with a mass of other people whom he referred to as “the children.” Often, Steve would relate to Johnny some of the many experiences that occurred frequently while living with the “children.” During one of these stories, Steve said something that would never have the opportunity to escape Johnny’s memory. “You gotta think for yourself, man,” Steve pointed to his temple. “You can’t live your life following rules and doing what other people tell you just because that’s what everyone expects. You gotta do what you do because you want to do it.”
By the time Steve’s van sputtered into motion, Johnny had already placed the record on the turntable and was listening to the first track. At first the wailing guitar and the eccentric vocal style was slightly disorienting for the 11 year old, but after a short while the music crept past his inhibitions and connected with him on a far greater level. As time progressed, the record aroused a new value for life in his growing mind. Without a doubt, the record heavily influenced the path of life he chose. But the music did not do this single-handedly. Combined in the complex equation that altered Johnny’s susceptible mind was every facet of Steve. His stories, his philosophy, his gifts, his resilient personality, his unpolished appearance: Everything Steve came together in a bullet of light and entered the youth’s skull, shifting his mentality permanently.
Throughout the week following his birthday, Johnny could not wait to speak with Steve about the album. He never got the chance. At twilight on a warm August night, close to the impending death of every child’s summer and their forced return to the bland emptiness of the school year, the phone rang. Johnny had been sitting on a bench in the back yard watching the sun set over the horizon, casting a gold light over the carpeted green of the California hills. The sun had almost fully descended, allowing the soothing fingers of night to grasp the earth, when Johnny’s mother called out to him. Her voice was choked with sorrow. Immediately, Johnny knew something was awry. As quickly as he could manage, he sprinted up the wooden fire escape to the back door of the third and final apartment, his. With all the strength in his frail arms, he flung the door open and ran inside, not bothering to close the door behind him. Upon entering the back room, he heard suppressed sobs from the adjoining room, the kitchen. He ran into the kitchen, an anxious look on his face. At the kitchen table sat his parents. His mother had her face buried in a kitchen cloth while his father held her free hand in both of his. Johnny’s mother lowered the cloth, and looked at him. Her mascara ran in dark rivulets down her cheeks, her watery bloodshot eyes showed the sorrow she felt for her son and the news she could not keep from him.
“What happened?” Johnny demanded, but deep down he already knew what had happened.
“Have a seat, John,” his father said gravely. Johnny’s parents had never called him John before. Johnny sat, and his father continued. “Yesterday night, your cousin Steve was in an accident. He was badly hurt, and was taken to the hospital. Earlier today, he...” Johnny’s father hesitated. Finally, eyes diverted from Johnny as if the sight of his son was too painful for him, he continued. “...he’s dead, son.” These last three words hit Johnny like a blow to the head. In a stupor, he stood up, knocking his chair over, and began walking clumsily towards his room. Behind him, he heard his mother break into a new round of hysterical sobs.
After stumbling through the hallway and finally into his room, Johnny switched on his record player, which had the Purple Growth record in it already, and collapsed on his bed. As the heavenly melody caressed his ears, he instantly felt better. The record had become a part of him as it had been a part of Steve. As Johnny lay there, listening to the music, he could hear Steve’s voice comforting and reassuring him. “Don’t worry about it, man,” Steve’s voice said. “Everything is all right.” A wave of placidity enveloped Johnny long enough to fall into a peaceful slumber.
Johnny did not know it then, and would not know until much later in his life, but by saying “accident” his father actually meant that Steve had been brutally beaten to death by the police. Steve had been at a party surrounded by friends, in addition to an abundance of marijuana and LSD. Shortly after the group had assembled, the ambience of love and understanding was violently shattered as police broke down the door of the flamboyantly painted Box Victorian in which they were gathered. A fairly large group of cops rushed in, nightsticks out, with the intention of wreaking havoc. They ran throughout the Victorian, freely using their nightsticks, spilling blood, bashing skulls, handcuffing. While many of the attendees were being escorted to the waiting police truck, Steve noticed two of the cops dragging a screaming girl (who happened to be a close friend of Steve’s) into a bedroom, their fat faces grinning largely. Steve knew the intention of the cops well. Savage fury built up in the mind of the pacifist. Handcuffed as he was, Steve broke away from his police escorts and ran toward the two cops holding the girl.
“Fuckin’ pigs!” he shouted at the cops as he charged at them. Fury in his eyes, and hatred in his mind, Steve reached the two policemen and jumped headfirst at one of them. An audible crack reverberated off the bare walls of the Victorian as Steve’s head collided with the cop’s nose. Before the other cops had time to react, Steve shoved his friend away from the two cops. Obviously in awe of Steve’s heroic display of courage, she slowly crawled into a corner of the room. By this time, the cops had noticed what had happened. One by one, they all ran at the handcuffed and vulnerable young man like hyenas to a weak gazelle. Nightsticks drawn, the police surrounded Steve. Silence pervaded the room for several long seconds before the first nightstick came down. Despite the heavy blow, Steve managed to stay on his feet, but after several more, he fell to the ground. Nightsticks raised and fell, until they came up coated in blood. From the corner of the room, the girl for whom Steve had given his life wept openly as a thick red pool grew around the black boots of the police. Eventually, the cops dispersed, leaving only Steve’s battered and mutilated body on the hardwood floor. The cop that Steve headbutted, nose undoubtedly broken and gushing blood, spat at Steve’s carcass. “Goddamn hippie. Serves you right, you worthless piece of shit.” The cop walked towards the exit, as blood trickled through his thick mustache and down his chin.
For the several months following Steve’s death, Johnny spent all of his free time in his room, listening to the Purple Growth album. It was not until late October, when Johnny found an abandoned copy of Rolling Stone, that things finally changed for him. The magazine lay staring up at the dismal gray clouds from the cold cement of the city gutter. Johnny noticed the discarded copy on his way home from school. Beneath the big white “Rolling Stone” title, large violet letters boasted, “The Colorful Journey into the Mind of Purple Growth Singer James Gallaway.” Upon noticing this, Johnny stooped, picked it up, and tucked it under his arm before continuing on his way.
When he had entered his flat, climbed the innumerable number of stairs to the hallway, and finally walked into his room, Johnny slung the backpack off his shoulder and unzipped the bag. Staring at him from the dark reaches of the pack was the face of James Gallaway in an unchanging sly smile on the cover of the Rolling Stone. He had made sure to hide the magazine from his parents. If they knew he had in his possession any text involving Purple Growth, they would do everything in their power to keep him from reading it. Johnny grabbed the magazine and flung himself on his bed. From the dying light of the California sun seeping in through his window, he read James Gallaway’s interview.
Unbeknownst to the preteen Johnny, from the moment he finished the article a strange and unexplainable link formed. Now, Johnny knew and understood who James really was. He embodied every aspect of truth and purity in the depths of Johnny’s confused and developing mind. Whether it was the mischievous and unkempt appearance on the cover of the magazine, or the mystifying wit and intelligence behind each of his clever responses in the interview, he lost his mortality in Johnny’s eyes. He became a sort of god, a divine essence, some profound concept that Johnny could not quite grasp. From that day forward, James Gallaway became an incarnation of Johnny’s dead cousin.
And yesterday, all this ceased to be. At 5:30 PM the previous night, Johnny had watched a televised interview with the aging rock star. Johnny’s landlady, Ms. Sweeney, had informed him of the interview. Ms. Sweeney was a compulsive TV addict. She sat in her apartment all day, absorbing the hackneyed plotlines of daytime soap-operas and the exaggerated claims of advertisements on which she had become dependent. She knew of Johnny’s admiration for James Gallaway, and she thought it fitting to inform him of the interview for which she had seen countless commercials. She neglected to tell him, however, the nature of the interview.
“I have found Jesus,” declared James openly. “He calls me to fight the war against drugs!”
Johnny was stunned. He sat in front of his television, watching from an overstuffed chair, as his idol disintegrated before his eyes.
“Drugs took over my life for a long time,” James stated as he glanced over at the Reverend Jerry Fallwell with whom he was speaking. “Now, Jesus has shown me the light! He has shown me what I have to do! I am called by the Lord to SAVE those who condemn themselves to such impurity!” Furious, Johnny clenched his fists and glared at James Galloway’s weathered face on the television screen.
Reverend Fallwell, sitting with a smug expression on his face, furthered the anti-heathen rant.
“Excellent, I’m glad you’ve found your purpose in life,” he responded. “James, we all make mistakes. I know you have made quite a few,” At this point, his holiness held up a vinyl copy of Death to the Heathens, the same Purple Growth album that Steve had given to Johnny, which showed on the cover a black and white picture displaying a mound of dead bodies at the feet of a giant statue of Jesus Christ. James responded with an uneasy laugh.
“That’s a mistake I’ll never make again,” James smiled tentatively at the Reverend. “See, at this point in my life, my mind was so clouded by drugs and other sinful devices of the Devil that I could not hear the word of God. Never again will I be the creator of such sinful garbage. I am born anew!”
“Let’s hope so,” retorted Reverend Fallwell. “But what I was getting at was, we all make mistakes, we are all sinners by default, but it takes great courage to admit to yourself that you have done wrong. God will forgive you if you ask for His forgiveness and forsake your sins.”
“SINS!” Johnny spat at the television. “THAT ALBUM is not SIN! Sin is embracing something as nonexistent as a god and allowing it to completely distort your perception of reality, you bible-humping FUCK!” At this point, he was so engulfed in fury that he picked up a lamp that was sitting on an adjacent coffee table and hurled it at the television. The ceramic base of the lamp collided with the screen, shattering it with a resounding crash. In the silence that followed, Johnny sat in the dark, staring at the broken television. He stayed like this for a long period of time, sitting in silence, horrible thoughts spiraling out of proportion in his mind. James Galloway had become a horrible mockery of what he once had been. He had transformed into a sick shell of his former self, like all the others. Johnny had been betrayed by the one person with whom he felt a connection. Now, he was alone. He reached into the pocket of his faded denim jeans and pulled out a pack of Camel cigarettes. With a sigh, he carefully opened the pack and pulled out a cigarette and his lighter. He lit the cigarette, and took a long drag. He let it out slowly, almost meditatively. A pervading sense of emptiness took hold of him, and intensified with every inhalation of smoke. Steve had finally died.
Johnny stood in the alleyway across the street from the Bayside Bar, his recollections from the past day echoing emptily in his head. Confused, angry, and deeply depressed (not to mention hung over), he began his walk towards his apartment.