More on the Holes

So what was I going on about? Oh yeah, the holes in San Francisco.

They are everywhere, in most neighborhoods, and anybody can fall into them, although its mostly the younger and poorer that usually do. When one gets older they can spot the holes easier, so avoiding them isn’t as much a task, and one has money, as most people know, they can buys their way out of most any hole. It’s this privilege that explains why rich kids so eagerly jump into the holes; it’s an adventure for them, a story to share at dinner parties later. It’s unfortunate I don’t more rich people, then maybe the holes wouldn’t be such an issue with me.

See, I’m not too worried about finding myself in one. As a matter of fact I dive into holes whenever I get the chance. I like the scars they leave; I’m kind of twisted like that. Plus, I don’t really have the stomach to handle being in the hole too long, so always climb back out after I reach a limit of the amount of darkness and space I can suffer in. plus, all my holes are the same, and everything gets boring after a while. Maybe its because I’m a coward and touching the bottom of a hole frightens me too much [you are always falling when you’re in a hole, and the bottom is down there and eventually you’ll hit it], maybe I recognize my youth, my meager means, and become afraid.

I have one friend right now that’s deep in a hole. Captain Careless isn’t even trying to climb out either. I’m not sure if he has always been this way, but when I met him, Captain Careless was more like Corporal Cool Cat. He knew everyone in the scene, had tried, and kicked, every drug, and would travel the world with his girlfriend in the tradition of most successful international businessmen. He avoided holes like herpes, and was pretty good at it too, staying thousands of feet in the sky, looking down and smiling, drinking nice wine, real easy like.

But he’s so far sunk down a hole these days, I can’t even see him beyond the darkness. It’s the spike this time, sucking him through the syringe like the hole’s just the tip of a long, thin needle. He was hiding in the city, in his hole. He wouldn’t answer the phone or check his messages, so I could never get a hold of him. When I did his voice was low and raspy, a weak mutter that lifted to a desperate growl when provoked for volume. Everything about him, every moment about him, was stuck in a murky tar. Probably surrounded by burned out spoons and empty vodka bottles, Captain Careless is, as his name may imply, a mess. His hole went so far down I couldn’t reach him.

Then there is Fertile Furley. That guy needs his tubes tied for real. He just had his third kid the day before I arrived [and even though he is in no position to take care of one, let alone three kids, I could tell he was sort of proud] but he’d been submerged in his hole since long before that. His hole is draped in youth, but gravity begs to differ what’s inside. Cocaine, pornography, the barrel of a gun, that’s what’s inside his hole. His nights go on forever, the curtains are always drawn. His television doesn’t stop changing channels. He barely ever washes his clothes. He is one of my closest friends, and I hold his hand no matter how deep he goes, but from across the country I can only assume that one day he’s going to realize he’s lost, surrounded by mirrors all reflecting black, and that he no longer lives in the city, but in one of the city’s many holes.

Ill go on and on about the hole I went into later, right now I have to work to do [I know! I’m working now! How exciting is that?]

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