| Wasted and I Can't Find My Way Home By Wwolfe |
| Spoilers: Through "Not Fade Away" Rated: R, for drug use and violence - the staples, that is. Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, people with money and lawyers do. As one in-bred yokel said to Jan-Michael Vincent in that classic, "Buster and Billie": "Don't hurt me, Buster!!" Archive- Please email request. Feedback- Absolutely. ******************* In the deep, smothering jungles of Cambodia, near Siem Reap, there lies a string of temples dating back more than a millennium, monuments to a faith once fervent, but now lost. Among the plant life that flourishes there is a type of banyan tree that produces a truly prodigious root system: growing above ground, it seems to possess the capacity to envelop anything in its path, including the very temples the trees grow in and around. So great is the growth of this root, and so fierce its grip on any object it grasps, like fingers clenched around the soft skin of an exposed neck, the first European explorers who stumbled into the courtyards of the abandoned temples were unaware of the buildings that stood only a few feet to one side or the other, the walls and pillars and arches having been encased by the roots of the banyans, inch by inch, year by year, over the slow centuries since the gods of these temples wandered away. The first time he came upon one of these living oddities, Lorne immediately thought of the monster in some cut-rate Fifties sci-fi flick, one in which innocent Earth people were unsuspectingly devoured by the sinister creeping roots of strange alien trees. Later, having stared in uneasy fascination at other similar examples of the same breed, he decided that it was as if the subterranean bones of the Earth had broken, and from those bones had flowed a gray-white marrow that seeped inexorably through razor-thin cuts in the skin of the ground, oozing ever onward until any poor soul caught in its path was trapped and bound. Lolling at the bar of the Hotel Royale in Siem Reap, forgotten way station of a distant French colonial past, Lorne from time to time wondered in dull amazement at how he had come to his present position, like a stray piece of litter tossed by the breeze before coming to rest in a back alley gutter. After completing his tenure at Wolfram & Hart, he headed to Vegas, expecting the lights and glitz to offer a balm in the desert. To his surprise and disappointment, the old razzmatazz didn't give him the same familiar jolt. He felt deflated, like an alcoholic trying to get drunk off near beer. Not so long ago, when he was master of his own entertainment establishment, he enjoyed imparting a bit of wisdom to the occasional eager young performer seeking advice about The Business of Show: "There's no substitute like the real substitute." He'd believed it and lived it, but the greasepaint no longer gave the same happy illusion: in both senses of the phrase, the glamour was gone. From Vegas, he trekked to the high mountains lying mid-way between Sin City and the City of Angels, where he lived in seclusion in an abandoned cabin, built in desperation by some snowbound 19th century pilgrim who'd left too late in the year for his journey to California's Promised Land. Lorne's intent was to meditate, to clear his head, or cleanse his aura, or whatever other psychobabble term might apply. And he did indeed reach an epiphany, late one sunny afternoon as he sat cross-legged on a rocky perch, looking out across the mountains and valleys stretching to the farthest horizon: He had never been so bored in his entire life. Sighing, he dragged himself stiffly to a standing position, while on a dead branch nearby the crows perched in silence, too disinterested to even bother commenting with a mocking caw or two. From there, he went through a series of jobs, each more dire than the last. He worked on a low rung of the Mexican professional wrestling circuit, thanks to tenuous connections established while working on one of the firm's more exotic cases during the final year in Los Angeles. He posed as Lucifer, the Genuine Prince of Darkness Himself, in a particularly seedy traveling religious revival show, in which role he scared the children out of their sleep and their parents out of their money, as the big red-and-white-striped tent with its billboard asking "Heaven or Hell Fire??" went marauding through the wilds of west Texas under the tender ministrations of a defrocked shepherd from the Primitive Baptist sect. Worst of all, he worked one weekend in Tijuana as MC at a misbegotten new concept in entertainment, one combining the fun of miniature golf with the allure of exotic dancing, called Putts �N' Butts. After that, he headed East. Far East. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The first thing that struck him about the enterprise was its eighteen-story-tall "come hither" look: a face, pliant and yearning and full of the promise of everything you ever wanted, courtesy of some local girl, most likely underage, painted in remarkably expressive detail down one entire side of the building, top-to-bottom. It served as a subtle indication of the fact that prostitution was legal in Bangkok. The first ten stories were for tourists, the next five were for serious money, and the top three were for demons. Lorne's residence was on the seventeenth floor, an aerie affording him a vertiginous view of the corrugated tin roofs of the one-story dwellings that housed the locals, stretching into the distance. Two walls were glass from ceiling to floor, forming a transparent "L" around one-half of his luxury box, with the other two sides being covered by paintings from his home dimension. Thoughtfully provided by the management, the portraits of supposedly adorable young Pylean children were meant to soothe; Lorne found, though, that the big, round, vacant eyes staring out at him from the canvases disturbed his sleep, until he took a black Magic Marker and drew sunglasses on the verminous little tots. His job was simple enough: each night and all night, from the four corners of the world, and several other worlds as well, high rollers would arrive, all of them flush with new money and newer anxieties, seeking assurance their lucky streaks would blaze on forever. His talents being a well-known curiosity in certain circles, the supplicants would sing for Lorne, after which he told their fortunes. When the word was good, they paid handsomely for his work, happy at the news of futures bright and secure. And happy they were, one and all, for the news Lorne brought them - somehow, by some great cosmic coincidence - was always good. "My only condition," Lorne told the proprietor during his job interview, with a self-mocking tone of lofty propriety, "Is that none of my johns can kiss me on the lips." Skeptical of his vaunted reputation as an entertainer, some of the girls would mutter sneering comments in various exotic tongues as Lorne passed by, but his reply, cool and detached, was always the same: "I killed in L.A." Most days he spent lying on the black silk sheets of his round bed, curtains drawn to block the sun, the only light coming from the TV screen. His brain dulled, his body inert, the hours would drip by as he stared at music videos of American hit tunes from the past three or four decades, re-made in a light pop style suitable to a deodorant commercial, lyrics translated to Chinese or Vietnamese and sung by anonymous, weightless, girlish voices, while pastoral images of the Southeast Asian countryside passed in random order. On one such day, the familiar phrase "Que sera sera" floated up from the haze of the TV's gibberish, the bizarre musical non sequitur serving to rouse him from his stupor sufficiently to send him staggering down the hall to the lounge, where he stumbled upon an impromptu party thrown by the girls for themselves. Caught up in the moment, Lorne led the girls through several choruses of Doris Day's signature song. Instantly, he regretted it, for the futures of all those present shone forth like a floodlight, blinding him with the intensity of the collective vision. Unlike the patrons who paid him nightly, Lorne was unable to keep the truth about these girls from himself: without exception, they would lead short, brutal lives ending in blood and fear, despair and disease, and stupid, painful death. After that, Lorne tried to drift, to sink beneath the water's surface and descend to the quiet of the murky bottom, where he could dwell in a peaceful half-light. To aid him in this endeavor, he began to partake of one of the many tools afforded by his surroundings. In his case, given his different body chemistry, the normal choices - cocaine, heroin, and the like - had no effect on him. However, he discovered a new use for a commonly available product one day as he helped a girl prepare her late afternoon meal: while pouring out the contents of the foil pack found in a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, Lorne took the tip of his little finger on his right hand, daubed it in the orange powder, and brought it up to his tongue. Tasting it, he suddenly experienced a sense of euphoria he'd never felt before. This, he decided, was something he would need to explore. Soon, Lorne could be found most evenings in a corner of the bar, small mirror lying on the table in front of him, snorting one by one the several orange lines laid like furrows on the glass. Finished, he would sit and stare with glazed, unfocused eyes at some private vision in the middle distance. To anyone passing by, he was a large green creature in a matching green suit, orange residue encrusted around his nostrils and smeared carelessly on his lapels. But Lorne, lost in happy dreams, was far away: starring on Broadway in "The Boy From Oz" and giving his Tony acceptance speech for his work in the role, or cozily immersed in the deep, warm embrace of the legendary Studio One in the Capitol Records Building in Hollywood, singing duets with Frank and Dean and studying the musical charts handed to him by Nelson Riddle. There came a time, as he lifted his head from the mirror and the soothing glow once again began to fill his vision, when he was ripped violently and ruthlessly from his numb isolation. Across the table, cool and nonchalant, sat Lindsey. "Hello, flunky." Lorne sat bolt upright, terrified. "What? You're too good to talk to people you murder?" Bloodstains ran down the front of Lindsey's shirt, the holes left by the bullets clearly visible. Suddenly, the scene shifted. On the table in front of Lorne, there was a small but spectacular stage, fit for the top casinos in Vegas. Flashing lights read "LORNE!!" Lindsey, only inches high, dressed in top hat and tails, was in front of a microphone, while behind him stood four bullets, equal in size to him, all smeared with blood, and dressed in low-cut gowns of red, sparkling sequins. Lindsey stepped to the microphone and, looking up at his mesmerized audience of one, announced, "Here's an extra-special number we hope you like - this one's for you, Big Fella." Then he began to sing, backed softly by his steel-tipped chorus line. Bang Bang, you shot me down Bang Bang, I hit the ground Bang Bang, that awful sound Bang Bang, my baby shot me down The patrons of the bar never could explain why the tall demon with the fluorescent green skin and flame-red eyes suddenly shrieked in terror, kicked over the table where he was sitting as he leaped to his feet, and went running out of the room. After that night, though, the proprietor of the brothel was forced to hire someone else to lie to his customers about their futures. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A faded "Esso" logo on its passenger door barely legible through the creeping rust that was slowly winning its war against the vehicle's original white paint, the ancient pick-up truck was equipped with high wood slats around three sides of its bed, penning in the chickens being carried to market, as well as its tall green-skinned passenger who'd hitched a ride south on Highway One somewhere outside of Hanoi. Splayed across the bags of rice packed in alongside the chicken coops, Lorne's gaze rarely wavered from the monochrome sky - blue, tranquil and unchanging, floating high above, hour after hour, with only the occasional flash of green from a palm frond serving as accent. Ruts in the road rattled him against the metal sideboard, while the sound of waves washing on the sandy shore of the South China Sea could be heard only scant feet away. Waking once from a dreamless sleep, Lorne's attention wandered momentarily to a shadowed space above the well of the truck's right rear tire where he saw a spider's web and the fly that had stumbled into it, apparently some months ago. The web's architect having long since abandoned its handiwork for some other field of endeavor, the fly had remained, trapped, until time and the elements had left it a blanched husk. Lorne stared at it, repelled and attracted, finally reaching out to touch it ever so gently with the tip of a finger, whereupon the shell of the fly's corpse, hollow and fragile, disintegrated into powder. After a smorgasbord of transportation - a semi truck, a helicopter, a Vespa, a sampan - Lorne ended his travels on foot, walking on a dirt road leading into Siem Reap in northwest Cambodia. Passing several small huts and booths devoted to selling trinkets to the tourists who came to see Angkor Wat and its many neighboring kin, he arrived finally at the Hotel Royale, where he booked a room. The white-and-blue-striped awnings that shaded white wrought iron tables on the back patio charmed him. The view from that patio of broad expanses of grass - all deep, rich green, stretching in wide swaths across spaces cleared from the jungle - spoke of a former wealth that once allowed the select few who lived there to dictate to nature for nothing more than aesthetic pleasure. The hotel itself, with its mocha-colored stone fa�ade buttressed by four large corner turrets, each capped by a peaked roof topped in maroon tiles, spoke in quiet, rueful tones of its former importance as the pleasure palace of choice for traveling diplomats and grandees of a bygone age. Entering the lobby, he was met by the site of a spectacular mosaic on the floor of the foyer - a large black "R" in ornate script, wreathed by a circle of flowers done in a burst of red and white. After checking in at the front desk, he made his way to the bar, where he ordered a Sea Breeze. The two young boys working as bartenders, each around fifteen, spent the next quarter-hour studying in fierce concentration a "How To" manual for mixing drinks, followed by much delicate pouring of ingredients, executed with scrupulous care. Placing the final result on the bar in front of Lorne, the boys stood back to observe with great pride their guest's enjoyment of their craft. As he took his first sip, Lorne thanked his two young hosts earnestly, shaking hands with each as unfathomed words of welcome were exchanged in Cambodian and English. The fact that the libation in question looked and tasted precisely like Robitussen was immaterial: in Lorne's judgement, such sincere and faithful effort on the part of two so young and fervent ought not be slighted. The bar boasted a baby grand piano, where Lorne took to performing each night to the few guests who gathered there. With his seat facing the imposing mirror that ran from end to end of the wall behind the bar, Lorne's own reflection was never out of his sight as he sang. He fell into a set list naturally, offering show tunes and standards from the Great American Songbook, as well as a few instrumental numbers sprinkled throughout the evening. A trio of songs that seemed to speak to his recent past fell into place after only a few nights. Starting as a joke, and a somewhat cheap one at that, Lorne continued performing the songs, compelled somehow to find a deeper truth than he was at first able to hear or acknowledge, arriving finally at an emotional pitch that was part apology to his former leader, part verdict about himself. The first song offered the simple chord progression of the archetypal 1950s song, with Lorne's high tenor floating out into the warm night, beyond the bar, across the wide lawn, and disappearing into the surrounding jungle: It's just like Heaven, being here with you... He would then sing the second song, a quiet, wistful acceptance of one's own damnation, set to a sweet pop melody: If morning's echoes say we sinned Well, it was I who chose to start... He closed the trilogy with that most blasted of farewells, one that served as the singer's resignation from the world, ending with the simple declaration: �Scuse me while I disappear The crowd seemed to grasp his meaning, whether or not they understood the words, and responded with some measure of warmth. Less well-received were those performances which ended with Lorne announcing his tribute to the Godfather of Soul; for long minutes, he would scream the title of "I Can't Stand Myself When You Touch Me," over and over and over, as he stared, wild-eyed, at his image in the mirror. Hours later on such occasions, those who rose early or retired late might happen upon the exhausted singer curled into a ball on the floor of the black wrought-iron cage of the elevator that stood, out of service, at the foot of the sweeping granite staircase in the lobby. The gray twilight of the coming dawn cast the scene in a dim glow, draining it of color. Finally, the first rays of sun would rouse Lorne from his harried sleep; stumbling then to his room, he would close the large shutters and drape the mosquito netting over his canopy bed, into which he would crawl for a few more hours of restless oblivion. One night Lorne walked to the piano to begin his show, but instead of taking his seat at the keyboard, he picked up the microphone and stood next to the piano. Speaking almost to himself, he said quietly, "Short show tonight, folks;" then, singing a capella, he offered what amounted to his own eulogy: I'm a cork on the ocean Floating over the raging sea How deep is the ocean? How deep is the ocean? I lost my way I'm a rock in a landslide Rolling over the mountainside How deep is the valley? How deep is the valley? It kills my soul I'm a leaf on a windy day Pretty soon I'll be blown away How long will the wind blow? How long will the wind blow? Until I die These things I'll be until I die Then he gently placed the microphone down on the piano stool and walked to the bar, where he sat for a long time, looking deeply into the tumbler of whiskey he ordered. A young man dressed in a faded blue United Nations uniform, with darker areas on the shoulders and chest where ensigns and epaulets appeared to have been removed, sat down next to Lorne and ordered a beer. Unruly red-hair sticking up in all directions on his head matched the color of his bushy mustache, the vivid color of both standing in stark contrast to the profound weariness evident in the man's face. "So what's your story, mister?" the man asked Lorne, revealing a Dutch accent. Lorne eyed him for a moment before replying, "Same as you - I'm a deserter." The man had served with the UN troops sent to Cambodia in the early 1990s to protect the local population from the return of the Khmer Rouge, who - in an effort to return the nation to the "purity" of its 9th century glory - had murdered one million men, women, and children from among their fellow Cambodians during the 1970s and �80s. Visiting the burial ground of those dead for the first time, the man was overwhelmed, annihilated, made wild and giddy by the vast negation stretched out before him. Emptied out in this way, he was seized by an overpowering urge, deep and thrilling in the richness of its obscenity. He would build a palace of bones, polished to a gleaming white. Atop that palace, he would sit on a throne of skulls, ruling all he surveyed. He would be the Emperor of the Blank, the Grand Panjandrum of Nullity. He then wandered off into the forest. There he was set upon by a demon who threatened to steal his soul. When the man explained that this was precisely the item he wished to discard, a deal was struck; thereafter, the man and the demon were partners, seeking out those who wished to cancel themselves. "We are the firm of Null and Void," the man said, offering Lorne a cold, bleak smile. "Perhaps you might be interested in our services." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A traveler walks from the Hotel Royale to a dirt road leading into the jungle. The road, after many a mile, leads to Angkor Wat, most glorious of the region's ancient temples. Following that same dirt road, now only a path, the traveler passes deeper and deeper into the jungle, reaching temples a dozen centuries old, now almost devoured by vines and roots. At the end of this path, at the end of the world, is the oldest temple, now barely visible beneath the grasping, creeping banyan roots that swallow it whole. If the traveler pauses here to look carefully at the roots, the moment may come when it seems the light is playing tricks on the unwary. For it may appear that, through a small gap in the twisting, crawling roots, a flame-red eye can be seen, blinking now and then. And that through another small gap, just perhaps, there is the tip of a finger, fluorescent green, moving slightly. The traveler would leave then, quickly, filled by a sudden need to be away from this place, to be back among the living, to never allow oneself to be bound by a prison such as this, from which there can be no escape. Main Menu ~ Return to "Other Worlds" Menu |