Numb.

 Numb.

Ulises Vargas

December 7, 2023

Chapter 1. 

Darkness. Peering into the void reveals only a timeless infinity. Fate feels a certainty. Is this death? Did I make it into the afterlife?  There is peace–momentarily. 

Light, suddenly, and blinding. Away from the piercing rays, he cranes his head yet the whole overlit theater taunts him. As in a snow storm, his vision is nearsighted and crowdedly white. Noise spills through the front of the blear; Hectic, professional voices fretting here and there. Things flurry procedurally between a network of workers. 

Timeless, light and audio crescendo into a singularity. Past the point of excruciating, the pitch drops down to nothing. Light-headed and falling into the feeling of fainting, a crushing weight settles in; reality fades back into his body. Again and again his head explodes with the thunder of Zeus. Damn this. His black eyes seize wildly, wanting to block out this reality. There was something horrendous he couldn’t possibly return to. In flashes, he sees and interprets angels disguised in white and blue scrubs.

Fear and the ensuing adrenaline overcome his senses at once as he lunges. What the fuck! His head and shoulders jerk forward. A mask over his face and translucent tubes in his forearms resist him as the angels force him back down. Confused and rabid, he utters some guttural murmurs from his flaccid jaws. No angel lends him even one ear. Why can’t they understand me? What’s going on? Unaware to him, he sounded not half-asleep but further, already asleep and mumbling. Practically incapacitated, he fights to surrender back to unconsciousness. 

Sometime thereafter, he blinks again and he can see. His eyes remain pried open. The room is a royal blue with white outlines and a white ceiling. It seems him and his gurney are alone. Machines feed his every life supply. I’m a cyborg! A breathing apparatus attached over his mouth forces his chest to rise and fall. Glucose and diazepam steadily flow into his veins for his nutritional deficiencies and to prevent yet another seizure. 

This is one hell of a hangover cure. 

Only one blue-scrubbed angel glares down at him now, seemingly empathetic with only the look of a mother in her eyes. Motor control and speech regain upon him as he gurgles back to life. It feels like learning how to walk all over again. Through the breathing mask, he dazedly clammers, “Wha- whattt?” The blue angel pats the man’s rhythmic right breast to hurriedly exit. A white angel, a man, enters, looks over the man’s body, reads screens alongside his bed, and leaves a paper on his chest. The white angel scoffs to say under their breath, “Classic. Just classic.” Before leaving themself. Alone, is the man. 

On the paper are hieroglyphics. With strain, each minute he deciphers another line. In- Intox- Intoxicated. A passerby had called 911, apparently disgusted and disappointed over the phone to the operator. Paramedics arrived to find a man, face down and unresponsive, on the sidewalk a block down from the bar. Rehabilitation is recommended. Alone with death, was the man. 

The man did not feel victorious. A failure had failed yet again. 

Another person enters the room with a gasp and the room seems to shift. She gets his mind racing, as much as the diazepam will permit. Not for the first time tonight, he forgets where he is. His legs twitch and his toes curl. She sits by his feet and on the edge of his cot, careful not to pain him, with tears welling in her green eyes. “What happened?” She murmurs. “Why did they find you there?” She reaches over and sags his breathing mask aside from around his head(who needs that mask anyway?) and looks at him expectantly. 

Blink. Hmm… Stoic but wavering, he replies, “I don’t know.” Half-truthfully, he fails to grasp why that night; why then. It was impulsive. In truth, he knows. Though the events preceding his hospitalization we4e hazy, his motivations were long understood. Failure. 

Looking out the window, moonlight frosts over the cool autumn ground. Little trees and briskly reeds encircle a gleaming pond. Waves disturb the water, perhaps a fish jumping into the air. Ducks trail the surface, ignorant of the man. Ducky! A leaf drifts down ahead of the mother duck. He admires their existence. 

The woman sighs and scoots closer, saying, “I almost lost you.” Her frail brown arms shake under her weight. Warm-colored beaded bracelets handcuff either of her wrists. A golden necklace with a heart pendant beats her chest and swings off it. His gaze flicks at her then back outside. Duckies! Puffy clouds float lazily overhead. Overwhelm.

Emboldened, she leans yet closer and caresses his cheek. “I would’ve missed you.” He shuts his eyelids and turns forward. Confliction. 

Go big or go home. She leans in fully and hushes into his ear, “I love you.” And she kisses his forehead. He opens his eyes as she pulls back. Her mouth slightly agape, he wonders how apparent his new wet and sticky ruby red lipstick stain looks. His shoulders sag lower than before. Confusion. 

She discharges him from the hospital, against the angels’ will, and he follows. He assumes death again. 

Chapter 2. 

Back home. To the cell with me. On the thin, oak front door, a plaque plasters “GISELLE & PI@$%”, the last letters scratched and beaten, and “120” under it. Giselle walks in, and Pi limps in. Soft gray tints paint the studio apartment. LED lights, currently purple, circle the ceiling and glorify the apartment. The air hangs with a stir of scents, the air conditioner set neither high nor low. 

Queen-sized and red leopard-printed, a bed and three pillows with a mirror for a backboard fill much of the living space. Giselle walks to the bedside nightstand and places a stick of XXXX incense in the wooden incense holder. She flicks her lighter up to the stick. Small flame teases the tip and she blows it out. A glowing red circle tiptoes down the incense stick and whispers smoke. Pi stumbles to the corner directly ahead of the doorway and crashes into the faux-leather recliner. 

Pi’s every fiber aches. Drained and clinging onto life, he silently wishes death had claimed him instead. From side to side, his head rolls and he, meaninglessly, slowly flaps his arms over his body. He wants and needs to move. Nothing makes sense. Reality feels a blur. Giselle looks a mess as she paces the floor back and forth. 

In the fridge, in the kitchen left of the doorway, their cure lurks. A fifth-sized bottle of Smirnoff vodka, half empty, now in Giselle’s right hand. That bottle’s twin, a full liter bottle of Coca Cola, is in her left hand. On the island counter dividing the kitchen and the living space, into two tall cylindrical glasses pre-placed, she at once pours equal parts vodka and Coke. To be fancy, she slices a lime and squeezes either half into each glass and finally mixes it all together. This is her ritual. 

In the recliner, Pi accepts his drink as Giselle sits on the recliner’s left arm, one leg over the other and her body facing forward. He sizes up his hefty drink, thinks to himself “Toodaloo, what will I do? One, two, my drinks shoot through!” Takes a deep breath, and downs his medicine. Finally, he breathes out and raises his head. This is his ritual.

Sensationless, his mouth; loose, his tongue. He fumbles his empty glass on the floor and it clinks and rolls to a stop at the foot of the bed. Giselle sips slowly and thoughtfully. They both ignore it. 

“Why didn’t you talk to me before blacking out?” She asks him, “You’re always so reckless. You know I’m here to talk.” She wraps a python arm around him, careful not to spill her drink in the other. Stronger now, her smoky sweet scent entices him like pheromones. Their dynamic is animalistic. 

Carefully, he chews over his words. One slip up could set her off. “I know you love me.” He gauges her response by her face with every step, “I wasn’t thinking straight. You’ve gotten me through so much and I’m so glad to have you in my life.” Every word lands; her smile grows and her eyes soften. 

Then, it is gone and she looks accusatory again as the thin ice breaks beneath his feet. “You can’t just talk this away and make me feel better as if nothing happened. This isn’t another one of your meaningless fights you pick with me.” She swallows a deep breath. “You fucking scared me and you’ve had nothing to say for it. You didn’t say shit at the hospital or on the way here. I was practically sobbing at the hospital and you just let me. What’s wrong with you?”

“Your crying isn’t my fault. You can’t blame me for your overreaction. I just got out of a fucking blackout. I overdosed on the sidewalk and you think I’ll be good as new?” He manages to spit out, “I feel like shit. My head is killing itself with this headache here when I should still be at the hospital.” 

“You came with me willingly, you idiot. I can’t make you do anything, can’t you see that? I care about you and this is how you treat me? This is what you think of me? That I’m some big bitch who doesn’t care? Because I think you’re the problem here.” Giselle moves her python arm to rub her forehead. 

“I never called you a bitch! That’s not the point, do you even have a brain?” Pi’s frustration was visibly noticeable now as he rushed to change the topic, “I blacked out. That’s bad and I’m not good right now.”

“Wow, you really went there. I’m smarter than you, you know.” She stated matter-of-factly, “If you can still be the usual dick you are, then you seem alright to me, no complaints. What an asshole!”

“Will you just shut up already?” Pi begs.

“No, I won’t, pig. Why didn’t you tell me where you were last night?” She raises her voice, “Why’d I find out from the hospital, huh? How do you explain that?”

Pi is stumped and groans, clawing to keep whatever peace is left.

“Don’t you even think about lying to me.” Giselle threatens, turning a cold stare at him. 

“I wouldn’t lie to you!” Pi lies automatically, feeling caught in a corner, “I was at Ven’s playing video games, chilling, and then we ate some pizza.” He rushes to finish. “And then he said his homie’s band was playing at Lucky’s Hole and then we drove over. I had a few shots, none more than usual. I don’t know what happened. Really, babe, that’s it; I swear.” His whiny voice pitches and drops wildly.

“So it’s Ven’s fault?” She blurts and Pi nods. “Why couldn’t you say no?”

In his mind, he feigns remorse. This proves the lie to himself. “It was Ven’s birthday. I owed it to him at least.” There’s a single tell in his lie. 

Giselle stands up and paces the apartment, looking Pi in the eye to speak, “Why the fuck does that matter?” She screams, “It’s someone’s birthday everyday! Ven isn’t shit! He’s a good-for-nothing jackass who piqued in high school! You act more and more like him every time you get together and you suck each other off! What sort of a man is that? You don’t do shit all day and, given free will, I end up having to pick you up from your blackout!”

Pi wants to punch a hole in the wall. He wants to grab a fistful of Giselle’s hair and ram her face through the bathroom mirror. He screams gibberish, himself unaware of what he is saying, grabs his wallet and a second full bottle of Smirnoff, and leaves. Giselle hurls obscenities at him all the way out the door. 

Down the street, he cures his treacherous thoughts two swigs at a time. His throat and stomach burn beyond their chronic scars from their age-long abuse suffered under the influence. Darkness lays thick now in the very early morning, further than any tree’s fractal and slim shade. To Pi, every tree, even those that do not drop their leaves, is as dead as it ever was. 

Ven’s house is planted in the middle of the block. The front yard is littered with never-read newspapers, metal scraps begging to fetch a cold dime at the recycler’s, and topless beer bottles. Whatever grass once covered this lawn was long unwatered and dead. Dirt had taken on and sunk the eldest beer bottles during every rain. The house’s front is formidable and dreary. Faded green paint covers the ugly wood, roof tiles are loose and missing, and the window panes are an opaque yellow. Pi walks up the steps onto the decaying front porch and twists the door handle, already unlocked, and opens the front door outwards. Inside, he levies himself against the walls so as to keep from falling down. There are no framed and hung-up pictures in this hallway for him to knock down. Into the first room on the left, he staggeringly lodges himself in the doorway and announces, “Come make looow- love to me, I’m lonelyyy.” And his voice trails off. 

Ven is still awake and finishes up railing his line of mystery powder off of his pocket mirror, lying half-on and -off the lone inflatable mattress on the floor. A bag of used condoms and greasy chip bags flourishes at the foot of the mattress. A line up of a 1 liter bottle of Jack Daniels, a green and dirty 18 centimeter bong, and a small bag of weed lays under Ven’s hovering head. 

“Why do I always have to do all of the work?” Ven says perfunctorily yet suddenly vigorous. His skinny white body, adorned in a black hoodie and black joggers, with a scantily shaven face, starved cheeks, and messy brown hair all twitch. Ven leaps up like a pent frog and dashes uncomfortably close to Pi. Eyes wide, his neck and chest heaving with every rapid breath, he plugs one nostril and snorts again to keep the powder in there. 

“What’s up.” Ven glances at the bottle of Smirnoff, “Oh, no. Really, what’s up man?”

“I’m gonna have to crash tonight. This bitch got me,” Pi turns his head up dramatically,”fucked up.” And he is back at eye-level, though Ven is slightly taller than himself. 

Down at the ground, Ven blows a puff of hot air, thinking, and says, “What happened this time?”

Pi sighs, pockets his left hand, and says, “So, I was hospitalized last night-”

“What?!? Dude, how did you not start with that? Why the fuck? Are you ok?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just blacked-out down from Lucky’s.” And Ven puts his hands on his knees and lets out a deep breath,“Shit was wild, bro, get this: $1 shots all night.” Pi reels him in, and then he drops the bomb, “I told my girl that I was with you last night and that you made me do all of that stuff.”

Ven replies instantly, “Phew, thank XXXX you’re all right. And good coverup, she already thinks I’m not worth shit. Listen, anytime you need, blame it on me.” He points his thumb into his chest and winks at Pi. “You can crash on the couch tonight. Do whatever you want.”

But there is one more pressing issue, “Can I rip a bowl real quick?” 

So the bong’s bowl is packed with weed, the lighter summoned out of Ven’s pocket, and the short chamber is filled with smoke. Pi passes out on his back on the springy couch. 

Chapter 3. 

Soaked, his boxers and pants. Pi’s left hand is draped down into a bowl of water. No piss scent stands out–the whole place kinda stinks like biowaste. Oddly, his head feels clear and static for recouping from the previous night’s drunken stupor. Childish. I wish I sleep walked to piss on him instead. 

Raising Ven the satisfaction of seeing Pi mad at his little prank would be rewarding bad behavior, not that Pi’s bothered anyway. Sneaking, or more like casually walking, into Ven’s room, Pi rummages and equips a pair of clean underwear and the least dirty-smelling pair of tight- but long-fitting blue jeans. He finds a pre-approved credit card letter and a blue Bic pen low on ink. In blue, he jots on the back of the letter “Gone for milk. XOXO.” And leaves the disheveled house, back to his own apartment in the new morning light of day. 

In apartment 120, all lies woefully still. Fighters’ ghosts–last night’s nightmare–still haunt the space. Giselle left for work already, as per the ruined bed, strewn makeup, and open, looted closet. He slips off his sneakers to stack them just beyond the doorway and hangs his coat above it.  Robotically, he refits the sheets, fluffs and resets the pillows, and tosses the makeup in a drawer. 

Maybe if they had not shared a living space, he would appreciate the lasting scent of Giselle in the air still.  Pi only glances at the recliner. It was the sight of last night’s nightmare. He leaves it alone and hurries off into the bathroom to obsessively prepare. 

Shaving cream slathers on every surface of his neck and face. With a plain and fine razor, the shiny sort whispering precision and pending harm, Pi obsesses over every square inch. Should he miss a spot or feel the blade’s edge not rasp away harshly enough, he retraces the spot until, with his other hand, he feels his skin baby smooth. Into his face towel of a matching set shared with Giselle, he wipes down his face, noting the cool touch of a fresh shave. In the stainless mirror, he is pristine. A clean-cut Latino man, with wavy black hair flowing down to his shoulders and begging to be petted, stares back in the mirror with critical eyes. His flat bronze chest still rises and falls slower than usual, though less slow now than in the hospital. A subtle line stretches down and divides from his pecs to his faintly outlined abs. 

Back in the bedroom, under the bed Pi pulls out two drawers from the left side. One has his folded up shirts and pants, the other his undergarments and socks. His work uniform is front and foremost on the shirts and pants piles. Amongst his socks and undergarments, he finds and ties his tie. He puts on the uniform, slips on his professional shoes, and leaves to catch the bus. 

Downtown now, the bus drives away as Pi begins his walk. He crosses various decorative storefronts, each with their own unique vibrancy. It seems as though the cars never stop, the people flow in streams, and there’s opportunity for adventure around every corner. As he makes distance from the bus stop, something peculiar happens. The cars look more expensive, the people are fancier and paler, and the architecture more thoughtful. After 10 minutes, he reaches the backdoor in the alley behind Le Chez de Colette. 

He opens the heavy metal emergency exit door, into the efficiently thin locker corridor, and drops off his phone and wallet in locker #13 with the combination XX-XX-XX.  As he shuts the firm but thin locker door, his coworker, Vanessa, appears on the other side, smiling already. Her smile was almost similar to Ven’s post-bump, though his coworker’s was not drug-induced. She was a sober woman, of good origins and good intentions. 

Her expression is animated beyond any modern interpretation. She’s odd. But in her full waiter suit, and ready to work, she seems more civilized, like a dog wearing shoes, only she’s cuter. 

“What’s the grinning grimace for?” Pi utters, a banal and sarcastic look of disgust crossing over his eyes and mouth. 

“Oh, you chose to rhyme!” Vanessa sings and flutters her arms gayly and snaps her head up at the ceiling, almost like a chicken dancing, “I’ve those by the dime! But is it a poetic duel which you seek, or a paycheck every week?” Vanessa looks behind Pi, “And I ask, Who controls time? Why, he does!”

Behind Pi is his boss, Chef Gouttaire, a tall and heavy set white male of unknown nationalities. His colorful and explorative youth with vacations all over the world, coming from a wealthy family, had inspired his culinary passion. He told everyone as much upon hiring. He related more like a bossy angry customer than a passionate working cook, however. 

“Where were you?” Chef Gouttaire interrogates with a booming voice that doesnt seem to rise or fall, only boom. Is this guy my girl or what?
“Public transit, sir, the train(BUS?) was late.” It’s an easy lie to tell someone who's never needed to ride public in their life and never will. 

“Get a job and a car, why don’t you?” He says, “Go serve the customers and do what I pay you for!” 

Like a bitch, Pi submits and dashes through the kitchen and out to the main dining area. Sparkling warm chandeliers the size of the tables themselves with hundreds of shimmering crystals from some foreign nation set in golden handles dimly illuminate the entire floor. Candles instead, with grandeur akin to mini chandeliers even in the same style, cast a special tinted red onto the dense white wool table cloth. Complimentary champagne at every table and abundant utensils, as high quality as those used in the kitchen, make every table seem like an offering of food sacrifice to the gods. But these gods are men and women, in suits and dresses worth more than Pi’s salary. 

The walls are inconsistent and beautifully blended. In arcs, the light radiates to warm the place and give unity while highlighting the contrast. A theater-like wall of perfectly settled and sanded concrete that juts out diagonally in corners every 3 inches amplifies the seductively deep and bassy acoustics of the restaurant. The layout is in the shape of that of a grand piano, with the smaller semi circle enclosing upon the night’s top-rated performer. 

An old red brick wall behind the performer’s stage has special blue lights setting a calming aura around their music and presence. There are no screens to display media on. Chef Gouttaire says people nowadays are too overstimulated. The dining experience should be one of intimate, calming, and relational ambience. Dining is an experience, and a blessed one. At least, here it is; in the Chef’s domain. 

Soft laughter and romantical blues tunes with a beautiful female voice blanket the room ever so subtly and the clinks of cutlery are barely heard between the distances of the tables.  The trick is to catch them maybe 5 minutes into their sitting down. Preferably, someone’s already walked them to their table from the entrance. But sometimes, servers lag behind and a guest goes unattended. It can be hard to tell sometimes when their patience is wearing because they’ve sat for too long. So Pi approaches someone his brain has learned to pick and assumes his working mask. 

“Bonjour, welcome this evening to Le Chez de Colette. I’ll be your server today, can I get us any drinks while we wait for our orders?” His smile is quaint and reserved; polite. 

Chapter 4. 

Dusk filters through the Chicago skyline, then filters through the windows of apartment 104. But Pi does not have the time to admire the view. Steam might as well fog the windows over with the breath of passion. Giselle is on top. Her eyes are wild, entranced, lost. It’s seductive in its own way. Pi can’t help but moan with Giselle, though she still had him beat. The bed crunches and expands with every violent humping of their groins. Damn their argument; Pi’s blackout. This was now. So they share the moment vigorously. They’ve already done five rounds and 8 positions. Giselle is a wild one in general. And sometimes Pi loves her for it. How better to show it and return the favor than making her happy? 

He finishes inside for the 6th time and she drops down beside him on the bed, both spent and panting. “I feel like passing out.” Pi half-jokes. His head rushes with euphoria as he falls deeper and deeper into this woman. 

“Then we’d have to do it all over again;” Gisellle reminds him, “the fight.” 

“I don’t mind.” It’s audible in his voice like he’s intoxicated. Though both of them are sober now. Why add more drugs to the mix when they’re all they need? It’s the best natural high humans can experience. 

“Me neither.” She cuddles closer, pulls an arm and a leg over his body, and rubs his chest with her hand and her hair. Her head is placed just below his, her forehead planted on his jaw and her breathing his same air. By now, the air was neither of theirs but belonged to both of them. They idly made out, already tired and put out, but equally passionate as they chased that rush of sex again. 

At some point, Giselle’s voice cuts into the thick silence of skin on skin and says “My friend will be here soon.” She rolls to sit on the edge of the bed and dresses herself with clothing strewn across the bed. 

“What friend?” Pi asks passively.

“Aren’t you so nosy. We’re just going out to eat, I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

So Giselle was dressed and out the door. 

Well, their argument and their makeup are concluded now. Just like that. He had a taste of invigorating life to resurrect him from the grips of death a day or so prior. Time was difficult to place at all times for him, but especially now. It was amazing his machine-like ability to mask and power through. No one at work could tell, or at least Pi couldn’t tell if they did. 

Whew. Glad that’s over. She’s bad as hell. Pi got up, his groin on fire with the passion of so much activity, and lumbered to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of tequila and Coke to take back to the bed with him. Of course, he took the obligatory swig from the bottle before topping it closed. He was alone with himself now. 

So he lay in bed and drank. That was it. No TV, no phone, no further masturbation. There was nothing in this world which gave him pleasure besides sex and drugs. As a child, he would spend many hours similarly null and void. Nothing to do, nothing he wanted to do, this was his natural state and had been for decades. He could be mistaken for an invalid. 

If the liquor numbed him before he could fall asleep, Pi would be happy either way. Sleep and intoxication equally passed the time. He wanted nothing more than to escape the present. Time at least carried him to a new present as it passed, whether asleep or in a stupor. It was the closest to suicide he could get without dying or going into a coma. But maybe a coma wouldn’t be a bad idea. Certainly be more efficient for his causes. 

Life feels meaningless when he’s alone. Like if no one else is here to see it, then it might as well have never happened. So when Pi’s alone, he chooses for nothing to happen instead. He’s comfortable like that. Maybe not everyone else is. Maybe some people have to keep themselves busy or else they drive themselves insane. Or maybe those people are already going insane. Pi takes his time to mentally cache out as both a gift and a curse. He’d rather not be alone. But that’s not up to him. 

Giselle’s gone, and so is his will to live. So he submits back to these suicidal behaviors and loses himself. It’s difficult at this point to tell how much Giselle knows about Pi’s suicidality. He hates having to hide bits and pieces from her. But he often can’t remember even yesterday. So how could he keep track of his lies, coverups, and truths told? He continues to hide his suicide from Giselle for some reason. What reason, even he does not know. It’s not like she could meaningfully intervene and stop him. He didn’t want her or anyone else to butt in. Though he wouldn’t mind the attention, to feel like someone gave a shit. 

None of this was in Pi’s consciousness. He was thinking of nothing and doing nothing. They surely did similar inside coffins. He was as “happy” as he could be, emotionally and physically numb. 

Music. 

Pi busted out his phone to play music on the apartment’s stereo speaker system that could fill the room twice over. So he presses play and the symphony begins with a cacophony of ethereal waves, augmented synths, and tuned voices. This music let Pi further lose himself, twice over. The music was as loud and thunderous as Pi’s worst thoughts. Speakers now voiced the emotions straight from his head and back out at the world. Listening to speakers, he felt no deeper thought come to him. It was a lossless and thus meaningless emotion. If there was any emotion, the steady liquor flowing into his cup as the hours passed by surely eradicated it.  

But there was emotion. It just wasn’t his. He lives vicariously through the songs to phase through the numbness. As the singer cries, Pi may imagine that he can feel their pain too. For every broken-hearted song, Pi too may feel the rise and fall of a love. But none of these emotions are his. They are constructions of the imagination, nothing but figments. If they were real, Pi would ache with real sobs and wails. But he doesn’t. He pretends to have cares, woes, a love, a life. He may be the best actor of all time. He may lie anything to himself and feel it real and in the moment. But he may never lie to himself about his real life. That his dreary reality is not so dreary. That things do get better. That he doesn’t have to be so afraid. Those, he could only believe coming from a song. 

So as he lay there, subconsciously suicidal and downing his glasses, it became easier to see why he blacked out only two nights ago. What sort of self-control was this, to be heavily drinking again so soon after an overdose? Back at it again, either Pi was the dumbest man in the world or he had a death wish. 

Each day started with a silent prayer that he had not woken up; every night ending in prayer for an endless slumber. He could not wish for anything else more. Besides when he was craving and out of drugs. Then he wanted more drugs. And besides when Giselle was teasing him. Then he wanted her. 

His suicide is never planned. If it happens, it will be more a coincidence than an intentional suicide. Why be so urgent and immediate with your own death? Pi’d rather dance with death as he lives and let death choose when they should swoop him down. 

What sort of control freak pompous asshole plans their suicide? To Pi, it is about letting go. Should he ever plan his suicide, he does not know what he’d do. Not to question his means of death—that’s not important. He does not know what the days beforehand would look like in anticipation of his suicide. Might he go on an all-designer luxury spending spree? Murder his boss in a murder-suicide? Find and fuck hookers on the strip? That all sounds his style, or at least it sounds like who he wishes he was. Someone who took risks and lived life on the edge. Someone who lived for themselves and who owed no debt to the world. 

Music. It made him feel alive. More human. More spirited. Otherwise, he felt alien in this reality. Like there was no place for him there. Music idealizes the experience of emotion so Pi can readily digest its contents and feel that jolt of something human. In an alternate universe, Pi is a great poet and musician who harnesses his deep-feeling heart to craft art of the highest expression. But not in this world. In this plane, his symphonies are stuck to the limits of his own mind and body. In this universe, Pi kills himself daily. 

The decision to kill himself is not a conscious one every time. It just happens. Death is funny that way. Pi tricks himself that he is in control of when he leaves this world. What a fantasy. Every man seems to have fooled himself that there is such a thing as immortality and that he has it for himself. Or that death is not greater than them. And it takes a lifetime for them to realize death is not so. 

Death is adulterated in so many ways throughout life. To control one’s own death is like spoiling the end of a movie for oneself. Death is only a chapter and an epilogue in the greater story of one’s life. Why be such a prune at the very end of it and ruin what’s left of your good name? 

Death is meant to be the one thing which one cannot predict. The universe lets us die so that we may live during life. All good things must come to an end. All things have a beginning and an end. The ending is the real climax because that’s where all the action dies. Where life ceases and ending takes on. The beginning is the ultimate promise of open possibilities, where nothing has to be tied down or yet determined. 

Death was better when Pi did not consider it. Back before he was ever really conscious. Life was better as a mindless youth, before he could remember the stresses and anxieties. When did everything get so complicated? Why must things be so difficult? If life were easier, if he had been born into wealth, if he had run into fame early on, maybe Pi would appreciate everything more. But he had neither of those things. He had liquor… and music. 

Who made this playlist? It’s all BANGERS. 

Pi blacks out, or falls asleep, and is good as dead to the world. 

Chapter 5. 

Table 7 needs two waters and a glass of champagne for a table of three. These three seemed like the business casual type, still wearing their work suits and likely discussing the closings on some sort of deal or other. Pi heads to the back where all the workers huddled and fetches into three glasses their respective tap water and bottled shimmering champagne. None of the guests ever complained about their tap water. Pi personally would have ordered shots. Not many people get a round of shots at this place because its too eloquent. But when they do order, they seem like the kings of the world. Like they have grabbed life by the balls. 

So Pi does a 180, now with drinks on a dish in hand. His all black getup maintains a low profile as he shimmies around the dim restaurant and approaches like a predator out of the night towards the table. 

“Here we go,” Pi mutters as he individually sets down the glasses, “two waters and one champagne. Is there anything else I can get for you?” 

Awkwardly, like they did not know how to approach the subject, one of the patrons in a black and white business suit with a red tie like a politician says “If it’s not too much to ask, might she come over here?” He clears his throat and looks around, pointing, “Uh, her, the brunette one.”

“Let me see.” Pi is annoyed but goes on as politely as ever, “and either her or myself will come back in a moment. Au revoir.”

“Yeah, uh,” stumbled the businessman, “oh reboir.” 

Pi hates when the customers try their phony French to impress him, as if it were obligatory to the dining experience. It was definitely obligatory for the servers as the immediate face of the restaurant, according to Chef Gouttiaire, but not at all for the customers, according to Pi. It was just awkward. 

 And Pi further questioned the insinuations of why the men wanted Vanessa. No one had ever asked Pi for another server, and so directly. Pi walked over to Vanessa and said, “Hey, those business dude-bros at table 7 wanna talk to you for some reason. Your choice.” 

Another happy customer!--as far as Pi’s responsibility was concerned. 

He starts to leave, then Vanessa touches his shoulder and they both turn their faces to look at each other across the span of her arm. 

“Hey,” she said and, taking a shy gulp, continues,”I know we barely talk as coworkers, but I figured it would be nice to get out with someone from here.” She cocked her head, “My friend’s wedding is coming up soon and so…. I wanted to extend an invite! It’s totally up to you, you don’t have to feel obligated or anything, but it’s this Saturday. You have my number if you make up your mind. See ya!” 

And she was gone. Pi might have blushed if he gave a fuck. It was sweet of her to consider him at least. She was too jolly for him. She might infect him with that weird giddiness of hers. There's something wrong with her, Pi just can’t place it. She’s happy. She has to be on something. Coke? Meth? The most insane amount of MDMA ever seen in one’s lifetime? Her brain was wired to always be on and at it. 

To be fair, Pi might understand if she had thrown herself into the drugs like Ven. Life’s simply dreary. The purest pleasures come from pure substances. Every other emotion is mired by some other emotion or another. Love hints at distrust and jealousy; friendship creates envy and dependence. Relationships are emotional. Too emotional. Substances tiptoe between euphoria and deprivation. 

But something irked him about the invitation. Why him? Why not any other friend or random guy? The only possibility is that she has some affliction for him. A strange one at that, because they had rarely interacted. Had Pi simply a naturally charismatic appearance? He has an affliction Giselle would not appreciate, that much was for certain. 

Vanessa had fallen out of the sky and into Pi’s lap. This much, he was satisfied with. He would have another girl under his thumb. Another person to sap dry for whatever they could offer. Would it be sex? Money? Drugs? All of the above? 

Seeing his own paycheck, Pi knew Vanessa didn’t make much. He might be a vampire to her ripe self. 

Then there was Giselle. How might she feel about this? She’s bound to be pissed. Someone was stepping on her territory. And Giselle was the possessive type. Overstepping might not be appreciated at all lightly. 

Should he even tell her? Was another fight really worth it? 

I’m gonna ask Ven. He should know. 

Pi was stupid at times. But he had already decided to ask his friend later. He couldn’t decide on his own what to do about all of this. Like a burden, Vanessa had fallen onto his shoulders. 

The shift turned over quickly. Yet another boring night at La Chez de Colette. Pale faces and black coats and stunning dresses milled in and out all night per usual. Pi clocked out and headed out the back door he entered through and out into the cold city night. 

There was construction along the route to the bus stop as Pi walked under a ladder to make it down his path. The loud noises still festered Pi, who barely now was remembering he had suffered a seizure when he blacked out. It was irresponsible of him. He knew better, logically. But then again, liquor’s poison was oh so alluring. 

Massive cranes leaned out over the sky and clawed at the vacant concrete building. Former apartments, Pi supposed, being torn down. Wherever their residents went to live, who cared. Certainly not the city. The streets beside the construction were dead now. Not a peep wanted anything to do with the loud noise. Dusk hit the sky now like a gray and sooty carpet. 

Over the loud drills and between the passive disassociation, Pi noticed a couple of men walking by. A pair of pals, or perhaps gay lovers. Who was he to judge? He ignored them, as well as he would any strangers in the wild. He was still wearing his recognizable waiter’s attire. He looked pompous, but tired; Rich, but alone. 

The two young men were talking among themselves, at first loudly, then hushedly. A conversation no eavesdroppers could be invited to. Not like PI could discern their words over the construction.

Then there was a subtle, imperceptible change in their walks. Something in their demeanors. They had changed. At that moment, the mea of Pi’s left side ahead of him lunged at Pi as his fist connected with Pi’s face. Down in a flash and already out of breath, Pi lay there as the second man ran up.
“This that motherfucker fucking with Giselle!” The first man screamed in a deep and thunderous voice. It sounded like Chef Gouttiaire, but more vicious. Pi laughed to himself. Funny his mind would go there. 

Kick. Kick. Kick after kick landed down, sideways, and over both of Pi’s arms as he tried to defend himself down on the ground. The sidewalk felt colder than the night. Pi’s mind was blank now. Instincts took the reins and fought their hardest for life and safety. Good thing something had kicked in in time to save him. Pi was already mentally disassociated and half asleep when the first man came rushing up. Now he was down and out for the count. His arm bristled and burned with pain. Every kick felt like a deep offense on his bones and nervous system. 

Some nagging voice kept Pi conscious. What was it the first man had said? This that motherfucker fucking with Giselle!, and I quote. Who are these motherfuckers? Pi was half conscious now especially, only fully conscious of the fact that he was getting his ass beat. 

The men ran off as fast as they had run up and were gone and into the night. Pi ached and labored to get to his feet. His arms were of no use. It felt like a stupid challenge top get up without the use of his arms. Nothing felt broken, at least not through the current shock his limbs felt. He decided in a moment that he would not go to the hospital. That would be repetitive. Instead, he is going to carry his happy ass on and get to Ven’s. He was originally headed home, but fuck that. Why? Because who was that guy talking about some “This that motherfucker fucking with Giselle!”?
Haggard and staggered, he made his way to the bus stop. People up and down the street stared at him as Pi disassociated further from the pain and from society. He left it all behind because something strange and wild just happened. 

On the bus, the driver gave him a mean side eye as he hopped on in clearly dirty and beaten clothes, holding himself up. Paying his fare, he hobbled to a seat in the back where he wouldn’t be seen and sat down. Out the window, Pi stared wistfully and woefully as the city lights and building fronts passed by. If only there were duckies now. If only the past few days were all a dream. If only he could wake up with cold sweats and say it was all a nightmare. 

If only he could sleep forever and not wake up. 

Chapter 6. 

Up the rickety steps, Pi faces and enters the decrepit house once more. Pi was a regular, uninvited visitor to Ven’s. Ven had no job, no significant other, no family; nothing but his inheritance to coast off of for a few years. He barely had furniture and clothes on his back, but he always had money for more drugs. 

As Pi stumbles in, reliving his stupor, he sees Ven sleeping on his lone mattress. His marijuana and mystery powder lay there on the floor like decorations to his bald room. 

Revenge time. 

Pi retrieves a bowl out the empty and unused kitchen and fills it with water. He heads back to Ven’s unconscious body and moves to place his dangling hand in the water. Just as his middle finger’s tip touches the water, Ven jumps awake and yanks his hand back, pulling Pi with him. Water splashes and falls on the ground as Ven instantaneously pulls his baggie of powder to him and out the water’s path. 

“What the fuck! Are you nuts? You just broke in my place to make me piss myself?” Ven was half startled and half amused. Pi had attempted his revenge, and satisfyingly failed.