Chemical Circles

Pete found himself wasted on the floor.

This was the math of his past life. It was all part of an unending, terminal equation that always ended undefined, multiplying by nothing. He was nothing more than a lost soul trying to find a way home and trying to swim back to the meaning and purpose behind the pieces of his life and the undertow of the everyday reality. Tattered jeans, a beer-soaked leather jacket, messy and overgrown brown hair, battered shoes, and tattoos were the business professional uniform of this junkie.

And it started over with one hand on the tiled floor and another on the bar stool, pulling himself like zombie phoenix without the understanding how it all went wrong in the first place. It felt surreal, like a sleepwalk that made him wonder if the dream ended or was only just getting started. It was past the midnight mark and last call was long over. Maybe he'd wake up somewhere else after he finally remembered how to get home. Maybe after he was finished chasing his own shadow down Neverland and somehow find his way back to 34th Street.

The others that were around him lay there, comatose from the chemical circles and the smoky haze, leaving him feeling like he was in a faraway place on another planet. One moment, everything was floating and everyone was playing Twister without a mat. The next, the audience was cheering and he was heading toward the taxi. Like a dime-store celebrity walking the gray carpet just before the vomit encore. Alice was back in Wonderland, only she already started small.

Time lost its meaning, home was just a mattress, and his creed was a junkie's ritual. He'd lose himself until a late morning hour, and he woke up remembering nothing but feeling a headache. It told him why he didn't remember last night's story and how the whisky bottle cover was his weekend pass to hell. His only specialty was knowing how to speak by the guitar and how to make a studio apartment feel lived-in. The morning ritual started with guilt, pity, and carried over again with trying to flush the pain out. He was sick of the schedule. No one knew what caused him to change. Hope, boredom, realization, or maybe a goodie bag of all of them. For once, he decided quitting early was better than the booby prize. He was pissed about being passive.

He started with the coffee table. It was old, stained, and caked with the grime, the bottles, and Chinese takeout boxes of the weeks before. Starting over meant lifting one end up, and letting the filth of yesterday tumble to the ground in an avalanche. It was one small pick-me-up for a table, and one giant lift for mankind.

Fourteen trash bags, three bottles of Windex, six rolls of paper towels, and two deodorizers. His living space went from landfill to livable. His story went from piss-pit to plausible. The system was broken and for once, he was back on his feet. His apartment no longer looked like the careless story of a deadbeat and drug concoction experiment. The inanity of his life was a roach that got picked up by a Brawny and was given a dishonorable discharge down the Hefty crapsack. The junkie was dead and there was no care for a funeral.

The talent he lost was picked up off the floor like a wasted roommate. He dusted it off with practice, inspiration, and the need to go back to respecting himself. The slate was clean and after losing everything that occupied the empty spaces in his life, he was free to start over and have it all make sense again. In a world where it seemed okay to divide by the zeroes and chase the tail around, he left the mystery behind and boarded the carrousel of progress. It was a great, big, beautiful tomorrow.

It was back to the park where he was a one man show, human and electric as one. The rust of the after-years was scraped off the respectful parts of his mind. Suddenly that unison between the music and the man was there again. It started with dimes and nickels and quickly became Washingtons and Lincolns. It was all making sense again when he made money faster than the bartender at the Black Bishop or the janitor at Harper's. It was resurrection through music. It was serenity through sound.

The months had passed and Pete was approached by Josh, a singer with talent of his own. What turned from the park player was soon a two-man bar gig, and soon they both had money that kept their lives intact. That pair was soon was joined by Dave, a drummer who Josh met online. And then as fate had its say, Carl joined the trio and they dubbed themselves Werecreed, a metal band with aspirations.

It started without cohesion, however. Talent waged war with intention, and it took a zodiac to go around before it found its place and they settled on the style. What was once a lost dog became a hungry wolf that soon ate well every night. What started off with a local metal band soon evolved. Scrap soon turned to sensation. Passion invited progress. Pete was clean again, no longer losing track of time or wondering when things would make sense again in this life. For once, he felt like something. The nobody of yesterday was evicted from his soul like a tenant that hadn't paid his respects in years.

Album one was Psychosis, a sleeper record that was the snake that never hatched until time worked its incubation. And persistence slew the discontent. The Werecreed four continued on, and album number two was Necromancers. And they soon made the name for themselves. The bar show soon turned into a concert gig. And then another. And another. Broken Beautiful as album three. February Reversed as number four. And then it was a sixteen city tour. Soon the band had become a brand, and culture gave them a place at the table.

Pete had never seen so much real money in his life. His sound would reach the thousands as Josh's screams raged on, Dave's pounding rattled the stage, and Carl's bass rocked the town. Basic respect turned into admiration. For once, he could look in the mirror and not see a plastered face that looked like it had been scrambled by the static. The toilet was spared of his vomit. The tiled floor wouldn't need to be a bed tonight.

Years went on and it got more and more into his head. After the screaming died down and after the bass stopped killing the sync of his heart, the little things of appreciation were the dust of yesterday. Gone was the caffeine can. The responsibilities of the past were smoke. He no longer felt like it was all just a privilege in the end. It stopped being a story about him feeling like he deserved nothing but the remnants. Now, it was about the big business and clutching fate's loaded dice. The lucky seven was now his and the little man could go walk.

The nation knew Werecreed. They were in the charts and they now had their media ties. Passion gave way to the payment, and fantasy soon turned toward the fans. Power became the story of the pride, and the four were kingsfolk. It started with sound. It continued with merchandise, sponsorships, and media. But when Pete saw it all in his depersonification, it was about him. The others faded into the background. They were nothing but a yesterday and he feel he was the seed that gave birth to it all.

The years were golden, but it all just became part of the same march year after year. It got to his head, and the thrill of the scream was complacency. It became part of the act. The everyday facade. It didn't stop even when he wanted to break off. He rolled with it, feeling part of the inside and the outside at the same time.

Time was relentless, and it did not hold it together. Dave soon left the band, and it was never the same again. his replacement, Fred, was hopelessly mediocre at best, and album five titled Semigods was the sign of the descent in numbers. The sound wasn't as good as it used to be. The flavor was diluted and the fire had gone cold. Werecreed was yesterday's name. Pete was yesterday's rock star.

Despite trying to recycle the ashes, it continued. The trend became a crunch. The band broke up and the money stopped. It was a crusade gone cold and a rite not passed. Pete had gone from recognized to forgotten. It was a like a cycle in a washing machine that rolled and ran but never got anywhere, stuck in an urban chamber.

And the fantasy festered.

Fewer and fewer remembered his name and his face, but he refused to admit to the reality. There were some who still remembered. There were many more that didn't care. In his own eyes, he was still the king of himself and the monarch of his mind. Even when the talent faded on and his years caught up with him. 46 was still ok. Then 56 was still hanging in there. After that, age was just a number.

Soon drugs helped the fantasy return. The illusion of grandeur was just as good, like an old spirit giving good advice. The chemical time machine took him back, and soon he walked into the local places, still thinking he was the big shot. The Pride Prince. The Musical Mastermind. The Guitar Guru. It started with the shots and soon carried over to the rounds. A man of music soon turned to a Baron of Booze, a Sultan of Scotch, and a Lord of Liquor. It all started off small and then become a cyclone to see how hard he could drink the woes away.

Pete found himself wasted on the floor.