Getting Higher (6 page)

*****

Chapter Ten

 

By nine o'clock, Rocky's small apartment was jammed with people, and the place was rumbling with noise. The apartment only had two rooms--a living room and bedroom, neither very big; by nine, every inch of space was stuffed, a solid, sweaty loaf of bodies baked into the steamy cubbyhole. Even the miniscule bathroom was crowded, mainly because that was where all the booze was kept.

Most of the guests were friends of Rocky, Crank, and Joe, called and invited at the last minute. Everybody who was nobody was there--the steelworkers who didn't work steel anymore; guys from the garages and gas pumps in town; girls from the bars and lunch counters; and the whole gang from Tap's except Ralphy. Even Buzz, the old guy who was always shooting pool at Tap's, was there, crouched in a far corner, sullenly sucking on a bottle of whiskey. They were all together there, about thirty of them, jammed and jumpy and yapping in the smelly two-room box, like gerbils in T-shirts and halters. They were cramped and hot, grimy and real, drinking and flying way out beyond the heavy cold corpse of Brownstown.

Out in the living room, in the middle of the jam, Rocky was dancing like a madman on a chair. In one hand, he held a brown bottle of beer, and he was snapping his fingers with the other; somewhere in the mass of humanity, music eloped from a stereo speaker, and Rocky's body moved with the beat. As he danced, his hips wheeled wildly, his head whipped back and forth like a catapult. His eyes were blissfully closed and he lip-synched, big mouth forming the words of the song playing. As he drunkenly teetered and twisted and hammered, he spilled jets of beer over the crowd, wringing irritated cries and curses from the guests. A fat, burly guy wearing a leather vest got mad, angrily turned around and punched Rocky's leg; normally, this would have sent Rocky into a rage, and would probably have started a fight. This time, however, Rocky didn't even notice. He ignored the fat rowdy completely in his pleasure, just went on spinning on the chair and singing soundlessly.

Posted near Rocky at the center of the gerbil franticness was another party magnet, Wanda. Surrounded by a ringlet of men, she swayed to the stereo rhythm with grace and lapped beer from a styrofoam cup. While Rocky clowned, Wanda laughed and talked, flicking her eyelashes and smiling at the attentive, boozy gang. Of all the women at Rocky's great party, she snagged the biggest crowd of all--and from the kitten glimmer in her eyes, it was clear she loved every minute of it.

Strangely, Wanda wasn't even very pretty. She had short, black hair that was parted in the middle and combed straight down on either side; her face was wide and oval, with small, dark eyes like blackberries. She wore tight jeans, which revealed a little too much fat, and a halter top which showed off impressive cleavage. Certainly, she was no more attractive than any of the other women at the party.

Her appearance, however, had little to do with her popularity. In fact, Wanda was a hooker, and was known to be generous in dispensing her favors. She was especially fond of unemployed steel workers, and felt, when she made one, like she was doing her part to help society. She even had special rates for the unemployed, to help out those men who were a little hard-up.

While everybody was in the living room and bedroom, drinking and blabbering and living it up, Joe and Crank were in the bathroom, tending the booze and getting thoroughly stoned. People constantly slid in and out of the little crevice, coming in with empty styrofoam cups and leaving with them full of beer and biting liquor. Joe and Crank were very generous with the booze, and made sure that everyone had more than enough to keep the party interesting. Crank stood by the bathtub and operated the keg resting there, tapping it every few minutes to fill someone's cup (or his own). Joe sat on the toilet seat, dumping cheap whiskey from some bottles on the floor and smoking a dwindling joint. Though they weren't out with the crowd, they still had a great time; they enjoyed playing bartender, acting like party bigshots...plus, they didn't have to walk far to get their own drinks.

Thanks to some last-minute shopping at the liquor store, Rocky's bathroom had been transformed into a well-stocked bar. The bathtub was packed with ice and a full keg of beer was stuck at one end; at the other end was a big bucket of strong red punch. The punch was Crank's recipe, sloshed together out of bottles and jars of every cheap juice and booze he could find. In the sink, there were bottles of gin and vodka, and on the floor by the toilet huddled ten bright bottles of whiskey. Rocky had really gone wild for this party, sunk every cent he had in a gleeful, crazy spree. Even for the herd in his apartment, there was plenty of everything to go around twice.

Two men entered the bathroom, and Crank refilled their cups with beer. Joe gave one of them a puff on his joint, and they went back to the clamorous living room. Joe laughed and took a drink of whiskey.

"Hey Crank," he said, raising his voice over the racket from the living room. "This is great, y'know?"

Crank nodded. "Oh yeah, Joey boy. This is what ya' might call 'great'." Laughing, he dipped another cupful of punch from the bucket. He swigged half of it down in one gulp, then belched. "Y'know somethin', dude? We put this whole damn thing together, too. Without us, Rocky'd be sittin' home alone tonight, jackin' himself off!" He chuckled again and belched long and loud.

"Hey Crank, don't I know it! Face it, man, we are just too good, y'know?"

"Yeah, man, when you're right, you're right."

At that moment, one of the women, a good-looking brunette, waltzed in, holding an empty cup ready for more. "Hi, guys," she said, giggling. "How about a little more of that punch?"

Smiling, Crank reached for the cup. "Why sure, babe. No problem. There's plenty a' this ta' go around. And around, and around, and around..."

The brunette giggled wildly. "Oh...ha haa! Just like me...right?"

"Yeah babe," said Crank. "A-round like you." He moved his hands through the air in the shape of an hourglass. "Get it, babe? A-
round
like your beautiful bod!"

The woman's giggling got high and crazy, a playful tipsy twitter like a bird on speed. "No, no...silly! I...didn't mean...hee hee!...that! I meant around and around...ha ha haa!...like this!" She twirled her index finger in circles near the side of her head. "I'm sooo dizzy..." Her voice lowered and her eyes got very big. "...I can't hardly...ha haa...walk straight!"

Crank chuckled as he dipped her cup in the punch. "Here, beautiful," he said, handing her the filled cup. "This'll make you feel better."

She took the punch, holding it carefully with both hands so she wouldn't spill any. "Thank you, doctor. I'm sure it will!"

"Great, babe. Take two more and call me in the morning. Better yet, call me tonight."

"Oooo...Do you make house calls?" The brunette winked woozily and took a sip of punch.

"Sorry, babe, I only do business from my office." Crank winked back.

The brunette started twittering uncontrollably once more. "Ha ha ha! Oh, you're too much! You really crack me up, you know that?" She took another sip of punch, then started backing out the door. "Sorry fellas, but...ha ha haa!...I gotta' go! It was fun!"

"Yeah, sure, honey," offered Crank. "Let's do it again real soon."

As she left, the brunette pointed at her cup of potent brew. "I know I'll be back soon! This sure won't last long!" Waving avidly at Crank and Joe, she turned to thread through the throng outside the door.

Crank couldn't take his eyes off her--followed the leggy tender stride until all he could see was the peak of her hairdo. "Not bad, Joey, not bad. Whata' you think?"

Joe was down to the end of his joint; all that was left was a tiny burnt roach at the end of a wire. "I think I could deal with a piece a' that. Probably be a good lay."

"Yeah, Joey...my thoughts exactly." The fat red-head guzzled some punch, staring thoughtfully out the door.

One final drag and Joe was finished with the joint. "Fuck, man, this shit's already gone. I was just startin' ta' get into it, too." He took the tiny stub and dropped it between his legs, down into the dismal toilet bowl. There was a faint, quick fizz as it doused in the scummy water. "You got any more, man?"

Crank shook his head. "Nope. Sorry, pal. That's the last a' my stash. I'm on a fuckin' budget, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," droned Joe disappointedly. "I understand, man. How 'bout Rocky?"

"Him?" snorted Crank. "Fuck, no. That shithed don't do the good stuff. Only thing he gets high on's pussy!"

"Huh. That's too bad, man. He sure as hell don't know what he's missin'." Joe bent down to pluck a whiskey bottle from the floor. Unscrewing the cap, he lifted the bottle in the air like a telescope and let a long blistering gush meet his throat.

"Yeah, Joey, I know. I guess some people just can't enjoy the simple things in life. Not like us."

Wiping his mouth on his arm, Joe chuckled. "Oh, you got it, pal." He swallowed more whiskey and looked out into the living room.

In the middle of the burgeoning crowd, he spotted Rocky. Perched on the good old reliable dance chair, he was still head and shoulders above everyone else. He was still singing and dancing to the blaring jetplane stereo, louder and wilder than before. His eyes were no longer closed, though, and had a glazed, feral look that read half-smashed and half-crazy. In each hand, he clutched a bottle of beer, and alternately drank from them both.

"Hey, bud," laughed Joe. "I guess Rocky's doin' all right tonight."

"Yeah, Joey. Stop worryin' about him already. Worry about havin' a good time
yourself.
"

"Man, I don't need to worry about that shit," Joe assured him boastfully. "Good times are
all
the time for me!"

"It's, like, we ran around all day gettin' ready for this thing, and now you should just loosen up and get into it."

"Man, I've been fuckin'
loose
since th' day I was born!" Joe slugged back more whiskey and belched blissfully.

Suddenly, out in the living room, the music stopped. Surprised at the abrupt silence, Joe and Crank both jumped, gaping out the open door to see what was going on.

In the living room, everything had gotten relatively quiet; all the noise and commotion had petered out along with the music. Everyone was standing around anticipating, nursing their drinks and watching Rocky at his post in the center of the room. The big man was no longer dancing, but held his precious bottles of beer in the air and spoke.

"I wanna' propose a toast!" he shouted, revealing formica-white teeth in a hippo grin. "A toast! I propose a toast!"

"To what, Rocky?" shouted someone from the peanut gallery.

"Yeah, man, to what?" chimed somebody else.

For a moment, Rocky was silent; his face was intent and contemplative, or at least as intent and contemplative as all the beer inside him would allow.

"I propose a toast," he finally announced, "to me! I propose a toast to Rocky...the toughest, meanest, mightiest son of a bitch here tonight!" Everybody laughed and jammed their cups together. There were lots of groans and wisecracks, but Rocky ignored them in his moment of glory. He just clinked his bottles of beer like chisels, jammed both their necks between his lips and drained them simultaneously.

After a minute, Rocky thrust his beers in the air again and held them there, smiling. "I would like to propose another toast!" he spouted, his blunt face shining with trickles of sweat and beer. "I propose a toast...to Wanda!"

A chorus of hoots and whistles rang out, mixed with raunchy jibes and applause. Two beefy guys lifted Wanda onto their shoulders and toted her to the middle of the arena.

"I second that toast!" cried Wanda, drinking something sinister from a styrofoam cup. "Here, here!!!" Stretching nimbly out to Rocky, she bopped her cup against one of his beers, and drank some more.

Everyone repeated the toast, including Crank and Joe. In the bathroom, the two men collided their beverages, spilling half of the stuff on the floor tiles.

"All right!" cheered Joe, dribbling punch down his stringy dark beard.

"Wan-da!" Crank chanted gregariously. "Wan-da!"

All was quiet then as the crowd drank more; but Rocky was a rocket man tonight, hurtling in orbit and not about to come down. Insistently, he shoved the beers in the air once more.

"I propose a toast!" he bellowed commandingly. "One final toast!"

"Aw, enough already," somebody griped.

"Yeah, we want music!" blurted somebody else.

"Hey, folks, this...is it!" Rocky waved his beer bottles to invoke silence. "All right! I propose a toast...one last toast...to the good life! This is the way to party!"

Again, everybody yelled, toasted, and inhaled their drinks. At last, somebody turned the stereo on and the party resumed its full pulse.

In the bathroom, Crank and Joe were suddenly very busy. After all the toasting, a lot of drinks had been emptied, and everyone wanted a refill at once. The cramped cupboard latrine was buckling, people sniffing around and waving their cups like trophies. Quickly, the bartenders were overwhelmed, finding it impossible to keep up with demand. The fact that they were both hopelessly stoned didn't make the job any easier.

"Okay, okay, gimme' a minute, man!" Grabbing someone's cup, Crank dipped it full of punch, then practically threw it back to the guy. "All right, who's next?"

"Hey, fucker!" grated the man whom Crank had tossed the drink to. "You just spilled this shit all over my damn shirt!"

Crank looked hastily down at the shirt. Sure enough, there was a huge red stain right near the man's stomach...a big vermillion splotch spread through the cloth as if he was bleeding underneath.

"Aw shit," Crank snagged, reaching for someone else's cup. "I'm sorry, man. I'll get ya' another drink right away. I'm too busy, y'know?"

"What'd you say, ass-wipe?" hollered the man, stepping closer to his latest victim.

"I said, I'm busy right now, okay?"

The big guy snarled like a Doberman at Crank. Seething, he was partying with a lit fuse and just waiting for an excuse like this to blow. The guy was up for a head-cracking, and he was trouble: six feet tall, with heavy clots of muscle gripping upper arms and chest; his hair was a greasy black tangle, and his head was a stubby dull stump. No neck could be seen on the cumbersome grouch....just one gulf of muscle from his chin to his chest.

"No, not okay, fuckhead!" he blasted. "I just washed this shirt at the fuckin' laundrymat last week! I paid good money to clean it, an' now you fuckin' fucked it up!" Suddenly, he made his opening move, dumping his entire cup of punch of Crank's head. "There, cunt-face," crowed the goon with delight, "how do
you
like it?"

Enraged, Crank sprang to his feet, leaping like a jack-in-the-box to stand face-to-face with the ape. Fury built within him like a coil winding tighter, pulling back a chubby arm about to throw a punch. Then, he took a closer look at the beast that was urging him on. Slowly, through the booze blurring his brain, he took in the threatening details: the huge, slabby fists; steel-belted biceps; and perhaps most cowing of all discouraging features, the ultimate dumb, crazy face. He realized, if he took the animal on, that he would receive a bloody beating, that the opponent might even manage to kill him. Still staring into the monster's eyes, Crank took a single step backward.

"Uh, hey," he said, forcing a smile. "We're even, right? No hard feelings?"

The simple giant ate up Crank's begging. Nothing would now divert him from attacking, nothing would prevent a satisfying mauling this evening. "Fuck you, shit-face! It's too fuckin' late, now! I wanna' fuckin' take it outta' your fuckin' hide, man!"

Like a motorboat, the titan's fist plunged into Crank's flabby torso, sending him reeling backward in pain. The man whaled him again, in the face, and Crank toppled against the bathroom wall. Like cough syrup, blood glistened freshly under his nose.

Laughing, the barbarian thundered forward, pulling back his arm for another swing; then, from behind, someone grabbed him and yanked him away. Actually, there were three someones chipping in--Joe holding one of the guy's arms, Rocky restraining the other, and somebody Crank didn't know clamping him around his battleship chest. As the big man flailed wildly, growling and shouting and swearing like a jailbird, Crank's rescuers dragged him away into the living room. Automatically, a path cleared through the crowd to admit the struggling foursome.

As Crank stood painfully, wincing as he gripped his pummeled stomach and chin, Joe and the others hauled the trouble-maker across the floor, heading for the apartment exit. A girl opened the door, and the writhing feral gorilla was pitched roughly into the hall outside. He thudded to the floor of the hall, then bounded to his feet and started to charge back in.

Before he could advance, Rocky stepped forward and kicked him savagely in the groin. Doubled-over and howling like a fixless heroin addict, the massive creature heavily dropped again.

As he lay there helpless, Rocky moved to stand over him. "Hey, dumb shit," he summoned, smirking down at the beaten menace. "You feelin' okay?"

"Yeah," hissed the guy at Rocky's feet, stubbornly taunting. "Yeah, I feel fuckin'
great
!"

"Jeez, that's too bad," said Rocky, mockingly concerned. Then he drove the toe of his boot like a mallet into the guy's kidney. "How about now, man?"

The man sneered, baring his teeth. "Oh, you're...you're real funny...you mother fucker. Go ta' fuckin' hell, man!" Groaning, he clutched his battered cock.

"Oooo! Scare me some more, mister tough guy! I'm standin' here shakin' in my booties!"

"Wait," the loser grunted from the floor. "Wait till I fuckin' get up. We'll fuckin'
see
who's fuckin' tough!"

With that, Rocky's face became serious. "Look, pal. You don't cause trouble at my party, see? You don't start no fights, you don't beat on people, an' most of all, ya' don't
never
touch my friends." Rocky pointed down the hall. "Get outta' this damn building. I mean it, pal...now. Either you leave on your own, or we throw your ass out. Now move!"

For a minute, the caveman glared angrily up at Rocky, gritting his yellow teeth and trying to summon enough strength to charge him. Then, breathing heavily, he pulled himself to his feet. Resisting the overwhelming pain, he hobbled away down the hall, stooped and limping like an old man.

Rocky watched until he was through the door at the end of the passage; then, he turned and re-entered his apartment.

When he walked in, everyone was silent, either gathered at the door watching the creep slink away or standing by the bathroom where Crank was sequestered. Striding to the center of the room, Rocky scooped a bottle of beer from his chair and whistled loudly.