THAT NIGHT IN THE VALLEY
September 17th 2008 15:04
My phone line and electricity had been disconnected for the past week, so I haven’t been able to upload anything. A thousand apologies.
“Like, sometimes,” Vicki told me, “Sometimes, I force myself to yawn to moisten my eyes, so that there'd be tears.”
The evening was like this: beating music in the background, darkish sort of sky, pale orange buildings, someone yelling at us from a passing car, nightclubs and more nightclubs and pizza stands and cafes and some people wondering aimlessly, some people drunk or high or drunk and high, a redhead wearing neon baggy pants, a redhead wearing white makeup, a redhead wearing skinny jeans and thick-rimmed glasses and an oversized Ksubi shirt, the birth of spring, the smell of piss and alcohol and someone vomiting right in front of us; I imagined wolves howling, vampires fleeing in madness, witches killing for men to hold their hearts, bright eyes the hopeless specks of the alleyway: we were in the Valley and we did not realise that the clouds had gone.
Jude laughed and pointed at someone vomiting by a post. We stopped and all laughed with him.
He glanced at us, began to say something, but then decided to continue vomiting instead.
“I’m going to video it,” Jude said. He brought his mobile phone over to the vomiting someone.
“Don’t… YouTube…” the someone muttered.
“Jude, like… stop it,” Vail sort of said, mesmerised by the vomit.
There was something different about Jude that night. He’d stare off into space; he wasn’t as verbally abusive to Vail as he normally would be. He’d keep checking his mobile phone and putting it back into his pocket. Even after a pill, he’d order drink after drink after drink…
It was right after the remix of some obscure French hip-hop track that he cried. He fell to his knees and yelled out a bunch of things I couldn't hear. His cheeks were red. He was weeping.
“Get up!” I screamed. He ignored me so I picked him up and dragged him out of the club. It was as if every muscle of his refused to make him walk, so he draped over me like a sack of lazy rocks.
I laid him against the wall. "The hell’s wrong with you?”
He grabbed one of my arms and squeezed. His hair was limp, all the strands had given up. He looked ten years younger. He told me he missed his mother. He told me that he wanted to die. He wished she wasn’t dead, he wished that she was there in the morning, by the table, saying things, thinking things, asking things, smiling at things.
I put my hand on his cheek, said nothing. I picked him up. We found Vail and continued clubbing.
“Like, sometimes,” Vicki told me, “Sometimes, I force myself to yawn to moisten my eyes, so that there'd be tears.”
The evening was like this: beating music in the background, darkish sort of sky, pale orange buildings, someone yelling at us from a passing car, nightclubs and more nightclubs and pizza stands and cafes and some people wondering aimlessly, some people drunk or high or drunk and high, a redhead wearing neon baggy pants, a redhead wearing white makeup, a redhead wearing skinny jeans and thick-rimmed glasses and an oversized Ksubi shirt, the birth of spring, the smell of piss and alcohol and someone vomiting right in front of us; I imagined wolves howling, vampires fleeing in madness, witches killing for men to hold their hearts, bright eyes the hopeless specks of the alleyway: we were in the Valley and we did not realise that the clouds had gone.
Jude laughed and pointed at someone vomiting by a post. We stopped and all laughed with him.
He glanced at us, began to say something, but then decided to continue vomiting instead.
“I’m going to video it,” Jude said. He brought his mobile phone over to the vomiting someone.
“Don’t… YouTube…” the someone muttered.
“Jude, like… stop it,” Vail sort of said, mesmerised by the vomit.
There was something different about Jude that night. He’d stare off into space; he wasn’t as verbally abusive to Vail as he normally would be. He’d keep checking his mobile phone and putting it back into his pocket. Even after a pill, he’d order drink after drink after drink…
It was right after the remix of some obscure French hip-hop track that he cried. He fell to his knees and yelled out a bunch of things I couldn't hear. His cheeks were red. He was weeping.
“Get up!” I screamed. He ignored me so I picked him up and dragged him out of the club. It was as if every muscle of his refused to make him walk, so he draped over me like a sack of lazy rocks.
I laid him against the wall. "The hell’s wrong with you?”
He grabbed one of my arms and squeezed. His hair was limp, all the strands had given up. He looked ten years younger. He told me he missed his mother. He told me that he wanted to die. He wished she wasn’t dead, he wished that she was there in the morning, by the table, saying things, thinking things, asking things, smiling at things.
I put my hand on his cheek, said nothing. I picked him up. We found Vail and continued clubbing.
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Comment by Lara M
Love Speaks
Food Slate
Mmm...good match of song and post.
Comment by Always Eighteen
Always Eighteen