Blues and Clues

Sun pierced his eyes. Groggily opening them, Lane glanced up. Still laying in the gutter, he was covered in filth from the previous night.

"What the fuck? Jesus Christ." Lane shouted in disgust. His little self pitying outburst had cost him a thousand dollar suit and nearly the remaining pieces of his dignity. He sat up from the gutter, feeling cold street water run through his pants continuously. He was soaked to the bone from a night being passed out in the gutter outside of O'Harley's. It seemed as though he had never made it home, reaching a new low, even for himself. Some might even consider it rock bottom. Add a relapse, a break up, and a night of inebriation to his tally of fuck ups and mistakes.
Glancing down at himself, he notices something strange. Not only was the water somewhat blue, but blue paint covered his suit as well. On his right sleeve, a message was inscribed, "Jesus Christ, do something nice. Quit playing fool with your scotch - no ice." A nice, creepy rhyme, left from a stranger. Just what he needed to complete his morning. Well, morning is an exaggeration. 3:32 PM was the current time.
Lane got up and began to walk back to his apartment to clean up and put on something comfortable for once. Angel's words had really stuck to him, almost in a way that caused him to not desire to think at all. However, he did ponder the thought of running from Cocaine. He was sick of it, and sick of himself. Sick of wallowing around, and sick of digging himself a deeper and deeper trench filled with troubles and tribulations.
"Sell my company. Sell my company." He muttered. Maybe the only way to run was to throw away the rich lifestyle he had been living. Maybe being to poor to afford Cocaine could potentially aid in his cause. He walked past the orphanage, hosting some large event that he was uninterested in seeing. Well, not uninterested... He merely wanted to avoid humiliation when people took a glance at him.
"Tomorrow I can help there. Teach some kid not to make the same mistakes I have. Steer a kid in a better life direction than my own." He thought to himself.
During his walk, he passed the insane asylum, vaguely hearing someone singing.
"You can't always get what you want. You can't always get what you want. You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, well you just might find, you get what you need."
Lane instantly recognized the Rolling Stones classic, however, he couldn't locate the source of the sound.  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a flash of a body, right before it met his own. A blue man lay dead on the sidewalk in front of him, blood spilling everywhere.
"He killed himself! Oh my God! Oh my...." Lane screamed.
His vision turned slightly black, and immediately, he began to vomit everywhere. Blood covered his pants and shoes, and in shame, some of his own throw up went on the dead mans body.
"He literally just jumped. Jesus, right as I walk by. He literally just killed himself!"
Lane, in a flight or fight response, sprinted as fast as he could. Away from downtown, into the forrest on the outskirts of town. He ran as the thorns and brush cut his suit while multiple streams of vomit escaped his mouth. Tripping, he fell into a cool stream, sinking in its calming effect. If only he could have drowned. He lay there for a while, either in a state of numb emotionlessness or in state of mania followed by intense heart beats and breathing. Nothing could soothe his agony. A man had killed himself to fall 2 feet from where Lane had walked.
"It would be so easy. So easy. I could do it too. But I can't. I can't do it mommy, I can't." He wept in hysteria. He cried in the stream, but quickly got up as the water turned blue, covering himself yet again in a wave of paint.
Lane walked into the bar as people stared at him, complaining about not only his smell but abnormal and unnerving appearance. He sat down, Looked Rick the bartender in the face, and ordered the tallest scotch possible. As Rick reached up for the bottle, Lane noticed he was wearing a purple sock on one foot and a red sock on the other, as well as the tiniest dot of blue ink on his pressed black shirt.
"I swear I see you here four times a week pal." Rick said, judging Lane.
"Fuck off buddy. I just need my drink. Just need one. Please. Worst day of my life, today."
A woman sat down next to him, a very attractive one. She stared at him, possibly some of it was in pity. He could have impressed her with his looks normally, but not like this. She quickly scooted away as some of his blue paint touched her.
"Bad first impression, I know. I'm very sorry for my appearance... and smell."
She gave no response, indicating that she wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.
Lane drank four more glasses of scotch, and headed his way home. The whole town was covered in blue, and he noticed one woman staring at an inscription on a wall. She had the same crazed look on her face that he had when he watched a man hit the sidewalk, sprayed blood and chunks of blue all around him. He made it into his own apartment, showering and pouring himself one last drink before he was to sleep.
"I hope I don't awaken for days."
He secretly envied the suicidal man. How nice an eternal rest would be. Who cares if he went to hell. Isn't he already there? That would be an interesting theory.
"You have awoken, Lane." A voice whispered, cutting through the darkness.

Damablanca - Kryptonite

Long days and long nights kept him weary and restless. Long days without cocaine kept him mad. One of his mason's received a serious injury after catching the full weight of a load of carelessly stacked bricks on his arm, and Lane had to take him to the hospital, spending a full 6 hours waiting in the reception room. Everyone else was wrapped up in labor, constructing a new office space for a CEO who went by the name "Lenny."
He got home and poured himself a stiff glass of McCutcheon's scotch, no ice. He preferred his drinks neat. His apartment was so quiet and uncomfortably still. The stillness of the room nearly matched the stillness of the air outside, however, not quite as intense. Chelsea emerged from the bedroom with a puffy face and a tear, still making its way down her ruby red cheeks.
"Lane, you told me you quit. You told me you quit! You fucking liar, Goddamnit! I just wanted you to be happy, to stay clean, but I guess that was too much to ask," She said.
Knocking down the rest of his drink, Lane attempted a reply but was far too late. He got cut off mid sentence.
"Im leaving you. To think I loved you, God, your such a fucking loser... I can't put up with your habits Lane! Maybe someone else can, but certainly not me. I tried to be supportive, I really did. But I had no idea that you hadn't quit at all the whole time I have been here. I have to leave, that its. Thats it," She cried. "Your blow is in your jacket, your little vial you like to keep things in. Check your pockets next time before you leave a suit here."
She walked out without another word, leaving Lane alone to himself, and apparently, a vial of cocaine in an Armani suit jacket.
He wished he hadn't seen it at all. The scariest thing was, he didn't even care. Yes, Chelsea was a dream, but he never felt good enough. In another life, he would have made a great husband, maybe even a great father. But Lane preferred to wallow in his own sorrow. Nothing actually made him happy at all. In reality, he hadn't used in weeks, however, a little vile must have remained in his suit pocket without notice. Broken, tired, lonesome, and empty, he began to cry as opened the vile and spread a line out on the kitchen counter, snorting every particle there was to be snorted.
With a synthetic smile on his face, his eyes rolled back a little bit, letting out somewhat of a roar of relief as he sat in his favorite chair. With falsely improved spirits, he made his way to the local bar, O'Harley's. The only way to suffer this night would be to get drunk.
He approached the counter, seating himself next to an old man with little hair.
"Six shots of Cuervo Silver buddy," He said to the bartender commanding his nearly vacant bar.
Six shots were downed immediately, followed by a drooping head. "God, twenty minutes goes by so quick I need some more coke!" He thought. In pity and disgust, the old man looked at him and said, "What's your name, son?"
"Lane Masterson," He said, choking away tears. "I thought so. I've seen you with your wife a few times back at the apartment."
"She's not my wife, or girlfriend anymore for that matter." He began to weep.
They sat in silence for half an hour, the old man having only two shots of a dark and smoky whiskey.
"They say life is bitter sweet," The old man spoke. "But I can't say I have often tasted sweet life. I can tell you are in great pain, and I can tell you that you shouldn't be here as well. Not like this at least. When I come here, there's always someone like you. You wan't some advice son?"
Lane stared at the man. "What the fuck do you know about pain?" He said with ignorance and immaturity. "What do you know about a drug taking your soul, calling you night and day, ruining everything you ever thought would make you happy?" He cried even more, looking like an absolute wreck. The old man hardly spoke, barely able to refrain from leaving the bar in anger. People these days were so rude, so careless. Young people always thought they knew the whole goddamn world. "Wipe your nose off. Don't speak to me again like that. I can tell you a lot about pain. I don't normally talk to people like you, or people at all. But you remind of myself in a different time and place," The old man said, staring at a random spot on the wall, thinking. "Your not lost, not quite yet. You are close. Listen closely. You can not run away from reality.  You have tethered yourself to a false happiness by separating yourself from your problems.  As long as you surround yourself with an illusion, you can never be happy.  You must break free.  You must run break leave your crutches behind and begin to walk for yourself.  You want to get a better life?  Quit fighting your emptiness and sorrow with an artificial high.  Find what truly sparks your heart.  Find meaning.  You can chase empty promises and false dreams all day long.  They will never fill your emptiness.  The old man laid a ten dollar bill on the counter and walked out, leaving Lane alone to ponder what was just spoken. His heart sank inside of him.
After last call and 4 more shots, Lane walked to the street. Looking at himself in disgust in a window across the road, he saw an attractive, nicely dressed man with a black heart. It couldn't be him could it? Not the old Lane Masterson. Immediately, he stripped off his Armani jacket and freshly pressed shirt, tossing them into the gutter. Reduced to a Hanes white t-shirt, he felt embarrassed and relieved simultaneously. Sitting down on the curb, he thought to himself, "I should be in Carhartt clothes. Fuck," He cried for the final time. Money, power, and lust had ruined him.

Chapter 3

(Apartment 969)
Fingers shaking, Lane frantically opened the box of Marlboro Reds. A crisp box, he liked the sturdiness of the packaging as well as the way cigarettes smelled. Smoking was not a particular behavior he took part in, but his desire for a cigarette was stronger than it had ever been. Grabbing one of the little cylinders from inside the package, he put it to his nose, expecting the smell of raisins. However, this time, he got no smell at all. With curiosity, he examined the cigarette, quickly realizing it was not filled with tobacco yet instead, something better. He squished it around in his fingers, kneading out a substance and tearing apart the cigarette's paper. Now there was a little pile of white powder on his coffee table. The pile grew large once all 20 cigarettes had been emptied onto the table, forming a white sea of cocaine. His hands trembled; his nose twitched. At the bottom of the package there was a razor blade along with a small folded note that said, "you are what you eat." His racing mind slowed to halt... "What does this even mean?" In confusion, he immediately began chopping up lines and reached into his wallet to find a dollar. No time for the dollar, he wanted it now. Closing one nostril with a large finger, he bent down to the table, ready to snort the shit that was ruining his life. But he stopped right then and there. Someone was calling his name. He felt disgusted, and now his urge was gone. "Lane!" Someone called him again. Feeling his bed warmed by Chelsea, the addict realized it was a dream.
"Lane, I think someone is at the door. I'm not kidding. Wow, that took you a while to wake up. Having a good dream?" Chelsea said.
"Sex dreams are always hard to wake up from," He lied.
"Open the door! We are not knocking again!"
It had to have been the police. During the night they had heard other noises and knocks from below, but didn't think of it. Sliding the lock chain and punching in the security code on his key pad, Lane opened the door. Staring in his face was a drug hound (Rottweiler to be exact).
"Officer, I would ask if there's a problem, but I already know that answer if you are kicking in my door at 4 am. Can I help you with anything? I assure you nothing is wrong," Lane frantically spoke. He sounded like an idiot. Like a drug addict. Well, he was a drug addict.
"The Police Department has decided to a random search of apartments in Dreamwood Terrace following reports of expansive drug abuse. I would advise you to tell us if you have drugs and where you store them immediately. Non-cooperation with a police officer can get you in jail. So can meth, if you have any, so be quick," Said the officer. He was fat and bald, wearing his officers uniform as well as knee high boots. He was the kind of guy who was addicted to power. Everyone is addicted to something. Before Lane could speak, he noticed the nasty, orange mustache on his face. There couldn't be a more disgusting facial hair color. In a panic, Lane tried to remember where he used to stash all his cocaine.... his mind raced. "Do I even have any?" Then he realized he threw the last bit away a few days ago along with the condom box he hid it in that was now empty. Chelsea was very pressing these days in an attempt to keep his mind off of cocaine. He didn't mind.
Chelsea attempted to join the conversation with the police, wondering what the commotion was
about, but Lane sent her back to bed. Couldn't have the creepy orange stache guy eyeballing his girlfriend in her pajamas.
The police began searching his apartment without asking. No warrant was even presented, however, he wasn't mad. Not until they broke his bottle of single barrel scotch. The dog franticly licked up some of the mess. Something was wrong with this police unit. Lane made sure to examine them more closely, noticing their bloodshot eyes, mild sweating, and strange aroma. These policemen were all drug addicts as well. Maybe not addicts, that was a stretch, but something was certainly not right about them. Most reeked of marijuana smoke, and one of them had a "powdery nose." Looking at the broken bottle of scotch, he remembered another broken bottle, one from his past. In high school, his father had been an alcoholic and a carouser, treating Lane's mother like absolute shit, abusing her, and sleeping with other women. One night, he came home drunk, and Lane tried to defend his mother from him. A whiskey bottle was thrown against the wall that night, and Lane received his first punch from his father. High school was not a good time for him. His family was too poor to afford nearly anything, and his father drank all of their money away. Lane never did well in school, and right after he graduated he moved to Colorado to become a construction worker to escape his family. Construction gave him purpose in life and allowed him to focus on something else other than his broken family and his own battle's with depression. Its funny though. He thought he had escaped troubles after starting his own company but in the end everything returns in one way or another. Coke screwed him over. But he would never treat Chelsea the way his father treated his mother.
Drifting back to the scene of his apartment, he realized the police couldn't find anything. One cop yelled, "****" and they proceeded to leave. He went back to sleep with Chelsea.
Lane went to his current construction project, admiring the work going on. He supervised, led, analyzed, and directed his team of workers as well as the progress they were making. With relief, the workday ended around 4. It was too hard to work in snow. Taking a stroll to meet up with Chelsea back at his apartment, he walked by an old laundromat. As he walked, his Cole Han loafers crushed the snow underneath him, leaving footprints and impressions. Weather was no excuse not to dress with class, however, he was poorly dressed for the snow and somewhat regretted it. His clothes looked good, but he looked like crap. It was 14 degrees outside and he was sweating at the brow, and out of nowhere, stumbled through the snow. His heart raced, his brained screamed for cocaine. The snow made him crave it the most. It was like he was walking through a world filled with cocaine. Still stumbling in front of the laundromat, Lane looked in front of him, attempting to get home in one piece without falling. He felt weak at the knees. God he wished these withdrawals would lift. No wonder people can't quit. "Your a damn fool, son. A damn fool. No better than I am. One man's poison is another man's powder." In confusion, he turned around and for a moment, his father stood laughing behind him, smoking a cigarette, laughing, smiling. His father was dead. "Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. What is wrong with me?"He muttered. He clenched his face with his hands and kept walking and looking over his shoulder. In place of his dad now was a little asian man, walking briskly behind him. The man looked crazed, like a lunatic. His eyes had a glaze on them like he hadn't slept in days, and the bags under his eyes could have been used for groceries. Something was on the little man's mind. Something as powerful as cocaine, but not actually cocaine itself. Something else. It must have been interesting to see a crazy man and an addict walking in front of the laundromat with one another. Lane put a pep in his step and so did the little man. He had to get home.

Chapter 2

"I tell you what. The thirst never quenches itself. It never goes away. You just have to find some other part of your life to replace it with. I tried to quit drinking for 7 years. Tried three rehab programs. They never worked..... Always seemed to find myself bored in the end, and I'd go back. The only thing that saved me was my wife, but I didn't know she was my wife yet. I met her at another AA meeting, and she had been clean for three years. The only reason she kept going was to remind herself why she quit in the first place. She was tired of being a slave."

Lane listened.
Lane sweated.
Lane scratched.
Lane held Chelsea's hand.

He was on a five day streak of no cocaine; withdrawal was a bitch as usual. When they went out for a lunch the other day, he ended up telling her, and he told her everything; how it started, and how he wanted to be finished with it. Then, Lane told her that he loved her, and that he needed her more than anything in the world, more than he needed the drug itself. She agreed to go to an AA meeting (even though he really should have joined a NA group instead).

Seeing him struggle, Chelsea said, "Lane, listen to these people. You just started.. you still have a chance. I will be with you the whole journey. I will do whatever it takes. You always have me. Anytime you ever want to use, I need you to call me. I can take care of you and I will especially be good at controlling your urges."

"That means more than you know. Thank you. Thank you for helping me," Said Lane. He knew that he stood a chance at quitting.

The AA meeting ended at 6:00 pm and Lane set out into the streets of downtown with Chelsea. His withdrawal symptoms were killing him. Absolutely killing him. But they seemed to be more like symptoms of the flu. "Maybe it is the flu... Maybe its the drugs. Maybe both," Lane thought. "Chelsea," Said Lane.
"Yeah?"
"I need to go home. I need a bed. I think I'm going to be really sick."
"Do you want me to call a cab or do you think you can manage the walk?"
"I can walk. Our apartment isn't too far away."
It felt weird to him to call it their apartment. Lane's apartment for years had been his only place to be alone. He lived a bachelor lifestyle out of that apartment, filled with work, booze, broads, and as of late, cocaine. And it surprised him. He couldn't have been happier that Chelsea was moving in.

"Woah, that's so cool!" Chelsea said.
"Huh?"
"You see all that glitter?"
"Yeah. I do.... its everywhere. I kind of like it. Funny thing is that its never going to go away!"
As Chelsea walked beside him, Lane stopped her. He saw something in this distance. He proceeded to run over to a large silver pile of glitter. Kids had already been playing in it, and it must have been much bigger earlier in the day. Lane grabbed a handful, and as Chelsea approached, he threw it over her head. Then he watched it fall, and he watched it glitter. And he watched her smile.
"You couldn't be more beautiful," Said Lane.
Chelsea laughed, and blushed slightly.
"Lets get you home buddy," She said.

They walked up the stairs to lane's apartment, and on the way up, they smelled something. Something very strong was coming from someones apartment.
"Damn! I didn't know Snoop Dogg was living her now!" Lane said. Chelsea laughed.
For a moment, he was feeling better.  Some of the symptoms had lifted momentarily, but still, he felt like shit. Like flu shit. But cocaine wasn't on his mind."
"Damnit!" Someone shouted from inside the room. A man emerged, reeking of marijuana. His eyes were as red as Chelsea's lips.
"Sorry for the smell dog," Said the man.
Lane laughed. "How are you doing Legs!"
"Why'd you call him legs?" Said Chelsea.
"Long story, and it would probably bore you. One time.... Never mind. Its a weed joke anyway. I've got to go get some fried chicken from K-Roger's," Legs interrupted.
"Well... I have some fried Chicken in my pad actually. This is my girlfriend Chelsea. We don't have any evening plans, and well, I am not feeling too hot. I'd love a pick me up," Said Lane.
"Do you two know each other?" Said Chelsea.
"Yeah, I met legs the first day I moved into this apartment building. I have never met a man that can out smoke my buddy legs here," Lane Said.

They enjoyed a wonderful Chicken dinner, and afterwards, Chelsea and Lane watched a movie called "The Shining."
Curled up on the couch with Chelsea, lane practically passed out. Withdrawals made him so tired. He felt like he couldn't do anything without cocaine.
Right before he fell asleep, Lane pulled Chelsea in to tell her something.
"That chicken was too good."

Chapter 1

Cheap Cocaine.

Lane couldn’t hate anything more than he hated cheap cocaine. Every morning started with 3 cups of black coffee, and on the occasional line of cocaine on the worst of mondays. Lane tried to stay away from the stuff on most occasions, but lately, he was finding himself growing closer and closer to the drug. The previous day he had bought some coke for what he thought was a great deal, and obviously, the deal had been too good to be true. The cut was not up to Lane’s taste, but that was besides the point. He made it a goal to try to get off the stuff for good, but he knew that might be too ambitious for him to tackle alone.

Lane lived on one of the top floors of Dreamwood Terrace, in a somewhat extravagant and well furnished apartment. Dreamwood Terrace was not the fanciest place to live in town, but some of the upper floors were well above standards for apartments. Lane had come into a little wealth over the last decade through his construction company, Masterson Construction, Inc. He started it, well, ten years ago after being exhausted from working countless for his boss without gaining the success and income he desired. With the connections and proper entrepreneurship skills, Lane started his own local construction company, quickly gaining contacts, clients, and attention. Over the past ten years, Lane slowly drifted from a calloused and crafty construction worker to a man living a life of extravagance and comfort. He was the head of operations, never showing up to a job site in his old Carhartt work gear but instead in one of his many suits he purchased from Brooks Brothers (with a hard hat for safety of course).

Through his life of extravagance and wealth, Lane found himself spending large amounts of time at bars, clubs, fancy restaurants, and any other old place that he could get a kick out of. See that was his thing these days….. He was never bored when he was still a functioning construction worker, but an easy life filled with sitting around (not to mention tons of money) made him feel bored, used up, and useless. It wasn’t until last year that he began his now re-occurring cocaine problem. One night, Lane went out of town with a client (Clark Thompson - wealthy business owner as well) to a really nice club for a fun night out. Lane’s company had just finished constructing a new office building for Mr. Thompson, so they decided to celebrate. Before hitting the club, Mr. Thompson removed a small but intriguing bag from a small pocket near the back of his suit. Lane, already influenced by the effects of alcohol, decided that one hit of Mr. Thompson’s cocaine wouldn’t do any harm. Cocaine had been the kick he spent days searching for, the spark missing from his life that he once had.

Lane, sipping his black coffee (and hating the taste but liking the effects), decided to call his new girlfriend Chelsea to see if she wanted to get lunch. As he reached for his phone, the thing started buzzing, surprising him. The caller was actually Chelsea, so excitedly, Lane picked up. Once the conversation was over (and a lunch date was put in place), he chugged his coffee and ran to his bedroom to get dressed. With disappointment, he couldn’t wear any of his button ups because none of them had been starched. Reaching for a T-shirt from one of his drawers, he saw it lying there, the little white bag that would put the kick back his day. He reached for the bag with his no longer calloused hands, but stopped himself. Not today Lane said. Not today. Chelsea was slowly changing him, and maybe, hopefully, becoming the spark in his life. Lane stepped out the door of the lobby of Dreamwood Terrace, taking in the air outside. There really wasn't much to take in however. The air was damp and cold, and fog (Lane loved fog) was heavily present throughout the town. Lane was walking around, waiting for Chelsea to call him when she finished getting ready. They hadn't decided where to eat lunch yet, but that was no matter for him. He had all the time in the world.