That Crazy Fucker, (I knew him). Part One
By Cot Dickers
He was on the diving board and the fence and the edge again. He was literally killing time, his own and those in the dark rooms he ended up in, filled with cocaine nightmares. He wanted out of it all but like a bad movie that will only get worse again inevitably, stuck on the lowest moment; he refused any pharmacological or stone cold sober breakthrough. He wanted to get the story down, first, like Dennis Hopper, (ranting now) Apocalypse Now style like that time in an actual house where strippers from “fucking Montreal Man” – lived.
–tacking down a few scribbled secret lines while sitting on her toilet, dyke bull pen whore forced him to watch her shower instead of where he wanted to be, with the less bilingual and his own aged and completely earth shattering bombshell. The Earner. The Young One. A stock caricature for a new chapter was all he could think.
He wanted to explode when it got too easy, too simple, too clear how fucked they all were. He wanted to be told that his shit would be great in another time, because he was too high to accept he was full of fear, shit and blow. He was peering into the whirlpool and taking a piss and lobbing a beer bottle or three. He was fucking with the cops on Barrington to get the crowd going. He was arrested with a lovely little fruitarian erotic dancer one summer they had bought liquid acid off sugar cubes and he was so sure they were fake. “I’ve never seen him before he’s full of shit”. Some crazy liar hippie from somewhere just like here.
Everything was far away to us back then. The Route 18 didn’t go past duh-Preston. It was another world. His best friend moved there which gave him a sort of peak at it. Little stripshow for the flesh hungry word lover.
He was off to the races when he hit Vancouver. It was in no way questionable; he would be great.
He watched a man fall apart on a cement balcony overlooking English Bay, he still had the broken piano but that was all that remained. He required so that they could hook from him, a whole chicken. A roaster from the bbq’d deli section of the cheap variety grocer.
He and the Frenchman LeFletch were two peas in a pod, addiction finds its dance partner in magnetic tandem, and yet in the moment you still think its all random.
He wasn’t even started yet, but it was already good early in. Movies of all types. A “Satellite of Love” kind of summer. The death of enough heroes to inspire.