Bellringers. A highly desirable effect occurring inside one's head after narcotic injection; a catapulting euphoria commencing its tremolo arc towards a buffeting nirvana, accompanied by strident angels dropkicking the astral body's ascension into one's (hopefully) roundtrip exploration of Heaven and Hell. Decidedly undesirable, however, if occurring in the outer periphery of the senses - an indication of extremely bad timing - unfortunately, the latter was ringing true.
Early Eighties. St. Laurent Street, Montreal, Quebec. An alarm was sounding in the building. The four of us were nearly through the hole we had made with sledgehammers and a tire iron into the concrete wall of the pharmacy. Having previously assessed the risks from tunneling or excavating into an establishment as minimal (walls are not generally wired for break-ins), our "case-the-joint” man F assured us no one was living close-by (a slight oversight on his part).
The upright nun in the top floor apartment knew giant rats from bungling burglars, and five-fingered the fire alarm (as the cops later kindly informed us). At least we are spared the embarrassment of a citizen's arrest by a nun. "What's she doing living on her own anyway?" We retrospectively rued the circumstances surrounding our nemesis nun.
Meanwhile, there's no glory to flaunt in the face of a well-earned fiasco. Busted. Les Flics arrived within minutes, guns drawn at our motley gang cowering under the stairwell, four ninja punks in visible black. I recall admiring F's cool utility belt and baclava, as we shuffled out of our "hide-out"; M's sinister, six-foot-six frame unfolding like a preying mantis in a matchbox, La Dolce Vita Carmelita saucily swaying a Seven Veil Dance, with scarves and fishnet gloves, F white-eyeball trancing into his Neal Cassady hammer-juggling-act with aforementioned utility belt arsenal, et enfin, moi, my skinny-ass-self popping a fat wad of bubblegum, whilst engrossed in tricks with my sidekick butterfly yo-yo. Quelle Cirque de la Lune! Fucking nun!
Drugstore Cowboy (1989)
We automatically exuded a druggie's nonchalant, distracted, "removed-from-the-situation" kind of Zen. After affirming the inescapable, however, we simulated breaking down in an award performance of the instantly penitent and duly contrite. With our super powers, we could have turned into bats, sucked some cop neck, and flown out the door.....later, suckers!.....instead, we opted to give up the ghost, and face the music (more like static from the control car). The coppers rounded up our tools, and a sequence of strangely pleasurable, Dragnet-reminiscent, wrenching-cold-metal-on-writhing-wrists followed.
Quelle Blague! One moment we're salivating at the treasures within arm's reach; a veritable medicine-cabinet / pharmacopeia of opiates, stimulants, state-of-the-art cancer cocktails / space hors d-oeuvres; sexy, silky, shiny powders (pharmaceutical cocaine!) and novel, crazy-colored pills, to savor as arm-candy in our bat-cave parties; the next, we're head-bowed, cuffed-and-cowering chumps taking a ride to the nearest precinct.
Wicked luck....a no-less talented acquaintance had recently pulled off a "wall-job" without becoming a statistic. We sat sullenly in the back of the squad car, wondering where our collective karma had gone wrong. Played it up too rough, perhaps, on Doc "that ol' lizard geezer" for morphine prescriptions? (doing Uncle Bill proud!) Or had Carmelita's grand larceny shoplifting career finally hit negative entropy?
Meanwhile, there's no glory to flaunt in the face of a well-earned fiasco. Busted. Les Flics arrived within minutes, guns drawn at our motley gang cowering under the stairwell, four ninja punks in visible black. I recall admiring F's cool utility belt and baclava, as we shuffled out of our "hide-out"; M's sinister, six-foot-six frame unfolding like a preying mantis in a matchbox, La Dolce Vita Carmelita saucily swaying a Seven Veil Dance, with scarves and fishnet gloves, F white-eyeball trancing into his Neal Cassady hammer-juggling-act with aforementioned utility belt arsenal, et enfin, moi, my skinny-ass-self popping a fat wad of bubblegum, whilst engrossed in tricks with my sidekick butterfly yo-yo. Quelle Cirque de la Lune! Fucking nun!
We automatically exuded a druggie's nonchalant, distracted, "removed-from-the-situation" kind of Zen. After affirming the inescapable, however, we simulated breaking down in an award performance of the instantly penitent and duly contrite. With our super powers, we could have turned into bats, sucked some cop neck, and flown out the door.....later, suckers!.....instead, we opted to give up the ghost, and face the music (more like static from the control car). The coppers rounded up our tools, and a sequence of strangely pleasurable, Dragnet-reminiscent, wrenching-cold-metal-on-writhing-wrists followed.
Quelle Blague! One moment we're salivating at the treasures within arm's reach; a veritable medicine-cabinet / pharmacopeia of opiates, stimulants, state-of-the-art cancer cocktails / space hors d-oeuvres; sexy, silky, shiny powders (pharmaceutical cocaine!) and novel, crazy-colored pills, to savor as arm-candy in our bat-cave parties; the next, we're head-bowed, cuffed-and-cowering chumps taking a ride to the nearest precinct.
Wicked luck....a no-less talented acquaintance had recently pulled off a "wall-job" without becoming a statistic. We sat sullenly in the back of the squad car, wondering where our collective karma had gone wrong. Played it up too rough, perhaps, on Doc "that ol' lizard geezer" for morphine prescriptions? (doing Uncle Bill proud!) Or had Carmelita's grand larceny shoplifting career finally hit negative entropy?
Not being mind-readers, the dicks were amused at our "brute naiveté", our chic punk couples' Saturday night out. Hard-core Montreal detectives had seen alot worse than our comic-book, crime-of-passion....the age-old, tradition-rich, drug-inspired, Quest.....for more drugs...with which to embark upon.....Sacred Quests...for Further.....(would you believe?)....stalking of the mythical Ouroboros???!!!
We were certifiable....Questers! Upholders of the twisted Caduceus of the Pharmacological Creed. Defenders of the Nike adage...."if you want something done, Do It! (Yourself)". Sustainable living. Honorable, really. Foraging out there and all. There wouldn't have even been a victim, if it weren't for that insomniac nun.
Being incarcerated is, at best, primal therapy. My previous experience with human bondage was limited to being trapped in the closet by my sister, and/or being held down while drooled upon. The realization my freedom was encased, behind impenetrable bars of garish, gray, prison concrete, seemingly, a) non-negotiable, b) unredeemable, and c) relying on the whim and capricious kindness of strangers (who just happened to be cops) sent me apeshit, on my knees mewling "Master".
Arriving at the station, they locked us up in separate cells, wherein the nether regions of my reptilian brain fried and sizzled. Visions of being bound and gagged, squirming in a burlap bag, and dumped into the near-by St. Laurent (river) replayed on auto-pilot.
Between sniveling takes, I realized the damage was done, no sweet-talking confession with liberally-applied, seductive, tear-wiping maneuvers would, or could, alter the incontrovertible facts (of having been caught red-handed with a gaping hole). Oh. Ta Gueule. Shut-up already.
Being incarcerated is, at best, primal therapy. My previous experience with human bondage was limited to being trapped in the closet by my sister, and/or being held down while drooled upon. The realization my freedom was encased, behind impenetrable bars of garish, gray, prison concrete, seemingly, a) non-negotiable, b) unredeemable, and c) relying on the whim and capricious kindness of strangers (who just happened to be cops) sent me apeshit, on my knees mewling "Master".
The Surete du Quebec nightshift found said caterwauling annoying. I had no idea my carefully prescribed, blissfully-numb, Zen-like perspective would wear off (like the cheap-perfumed high it was), abandoning me in a full-frontal-lobe-freakout, worthy of caged animals everywhere, but, hey, try it sometime in the intimacy of friends.
We were booked, court date pending, and released from captivity upon our own cognizance (Dope Fiend : Know Thyself!). We bummed cigs, gratefully free (to smoke!), and realized we were back....back! jonesing and nic-fitting - to the humid, skanky streets, once and the same, our life-blood, curse, and comfort. Snaking the sensual stride of un-sung nightmare stalkers......swish!....Here With the Grace of God Go We!......preternatural, death-fixating, Zombie Joy Junkies; roaming, vamping, purging, and vomiting the Empire.
We were booked, court date pending, and released from captivity upon our own cognizance (Dope Fiend : Know Thyself!). We bummed cigs, gratefully free (to smoke!), and realized we were back....back! jonesing and nic-fitting - to the humid, skanky streets, once and the same, our life-blood, curse, and comfort. Snaking the sensual stride of un-sung nightmare stalkers......swish!....Here With the Grace of God Go We!......preternatural, death-fixating, Zombie Joy Junkies; roaming, vamping, purging, and vomiting the Empire.
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