My Own Little Ruined Kingdom

Nic Cage was on the TV hocking his Rolex at a seedy pawn joint just off Las Vegas Boulevard. I was sitting on the ledge of a three story walk upon the west side of Chicago. I didn’t have a Rolex but Nic and I had roughly the same blood alcohol content and the same about of Johnnie Walker coursing though us - which is to say, a fucking lot.

It wasn’t my apartment. I’m a burbs boy, born and bred, though I still proudly proclaim Chicago as “My City”. It’s a fraud thing to do. The city and the room belonged to a girl I had just met, already forgotten the name of, and who was currently getting thoroughly laid by my buddy in the next room. Mr. Cage’s acting was doing a shit job of blocking the sound of the pounding headboard and the soon-to-be-disappointed woman. I fished around in my pocket for whatever pills I still had so I could manufacture some distraction. My gaze settled on the boarded up building across the street. I chased the pills (a mix of Sudafed and sundry selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors) with a finger of Red Label and plotted my escape.

The bunnies in the next room wouldn’t miss me. I doubted they would even know I left, if they recalled my original presence at all. The building across the way was calling to me. My first instinct was to egress down the fire escape but it was of the sort that should come with a complementary tetanus shot at the bottom so I left my perch and made no small sound leaving though the front door. I left Nic Cage alone with the low rent porn happening twenty feet away. 

But I took the rest of the Walker. And a Bud Light. Why the hell not?

Allowing my thoughts to momentarily float beyond myself I descended the stairs quietly, acquiescing to the fact that there were people behind every numbered door. Better they not know my plan lest they be fingered as an accomplice. Besides, that soon-to-be-disappointed woman was getting closer to being totally disappointed so they’d soon have to hear her be polite to yet another gentleman caller as she hands him his shoes and necktie after hastily shoving him into the grimy and damp hallway.

In one more moment of clarity before the pills kicked in I realized it will be tricky to break into a building while double fisting like a college frat boy with a solid 2.6 GPA. I crack open the warm beer, ignoring the exploding head of foam, and down the contents in one pull. The foam is to be expected. Midwestern summers have a similar effect on pop - and some women. I toss the spent can and watch it skid into the gutter. I belch. I nod. I eye a way into the building.

It won’t be easy to get in. It’s at least twelve, fifteen feet up. But if I can do it the building will be all mine until morning. Squatters Rights are in the Constitution. Maybe. I’ve never really checked.

Will it be mine? I check for homeless folks and/or drug addicts. Yes, I have a certain amount in common with them but if anyone else is present it would defeat the purpose of getting in so I do a cursory perimeter check. It’s clear. I see no other point of entry despite the age of the plywood on the windows and the rusty patina on the chains loosely snaked though the fence. I take a long pull of Johnnie and stash the bottle behind what used to be a shrub before making my way back to the front of the building. This is now my own little ruined kingdom.

I completely ignore every siren. I’m in a major metropolitan city in the summer – there are far worse felons about than my little misdemeanor self. What’s a little breaking and entering between a boy and his city? She’ll understand. I’d get off with trespassing and a small fine. Totally worth it. 

I give a passing thought to what Nic is doing. I know he’s quickly drinking himself to death and I have to smile and shrug. I’ve been there. I am there. He willingly gave everything away until finally the alcohol forced the final issue. Same, Nic. Same. I can’t remember how long it takes for the other shoe to drop; for him to give in, to lay down and let Mr. Walker go from personal confidante to able bodied pallbearer. I wasn’t there. Yet. Not yet.

I scale the broken fire escape tetanus be damned! Not as easy as I thought it was going to be. Loose bricks and sketchy welding work all the way up. I jump. I scramble. I hold my breath and hope the pills dull my senses enough to cushion my pain receptors when I inevitably fell. Past experience was in the affirmative but the current aching of my left wrist screamed the negative. But still I get to the top. Success!

As I climb the city’s not entirely in view but the light that hits my eyes does its magic and counteracted the pills, if only for a moment. Blood dripped from my hand. Not a shock, but if it could stop bleeding, that would be great. I pull myself back to the task at hand and see a likely entrance point not quite to the top. I put my shoulder into a loose board. Pain. Not quite as loose as I thought. Fish for one more pill. Dry swallow it. And now here comes that expanse of cerebral fluidity only SSRIs can conjure. I throw my shoulder again against the wood.

It’s bright. My eyes need to readjust – they beg to. But my pupils go their own way. There isn’t much to see. The wood paneling and floor have been ruined by the skylight Mother Nature had installed. More of the city shone in. Chicago. My city.

Meanwhile, Mr. Cage drinks more, gets tossed out of establishments he had no business in in the first place. Been there, Nic. Done that. Dodged any charges being pressed so I guess it wasn’t all bad. So you go back to your room and later you can head on up to the roof. We’ll both place a bet on your getting there safe. You should know that the odds are in my favor. I’ve already seen your ending. Unlike me you’ve got nothing to lose.

Wait. I have something to lose? I have a girlfriend. She’s…somewhere. Obviously not here. Also probably not alone. I have a best friend. But he’s currently making a woman question her choice in men and alcohol consumption rates. Hopefully he’ll remember I tagged along before he retires to the prairies of suburban Chicago. Okay. Maybe Nic and I have more in common than I wish to realize.

Finally I find the roof. My hand is still bleeding but at least my arm is numb. Can my mind numb too, please? Well, that view can certainly help. I look out and beg my eyes to adjust faster so I can take it all in. The skyline and the streetlights and the police lights. The moon glints off shards of glass and small metal fragments (shell casings?) and for some reason my eyes get cloudy and a tear finds its way to my cheek. I let it be. I can barely make out the can I tossed. It seems hours ago now. I wish I could have brought that Johnnie.

I walk to the edge and try to recall the song from the Nic Cage movie. I sit too close for safety to the ledge and swing my legs over. I inch closer to the edge of nothing. My feet dangle and my shoes threaten to fall and fall and fall and – slam! – to the concrete below. 

“Life springs eternal / on a gaudy neon street / not that I care at all”

Nope. Let life spring eternal for all the lovers and artists. I mean the Real Artists. Not me. I’m just a writer. I mean the innocents. You can really only be one of them for a fleeting moment before you start to feel like a fraud. A liar. A cheat.

Now we’re talking about me. And Nic, just so I don’t feel so alone.

“I pour a drink / and I pull the blinds…

But the days it seems / nowhere is far enough away”

Keep on singing the truth, Miss Crow. I realize I’m the one singing, not her. Line by out of tune line, I let lose, the unsuspecting and unwilling inhabitants of Chicago as my collective muse and recipient of every ounce of adulation I can give. 

I stand up on the ledge. It’s barely wider than my foot is long. I turn my attention to the window through which my friend and his one night stand are doing a literal private performance of the song Roxanne. The city shines in the distance. It’s not Vegas but just as full of sin and potential misery. And maybe love. I shrug. I turn back to the street several floors below. Even the ledge seems far away. The pills are finally directing every Freudian particle of my brain and memory and reason for being. My pupils relax. It’s okay. They deserve it. They’ve had a hard night.

“Leaving Las Vegas / leaving for good / for good / I’m leaving…”

I picture Nic laying down, short of breath. He won’t be getting back up.

I picture me laying down. Or falling down. It’s quick. Faster than I expect. Then my body is in the street, my legs contorted at extreme and unnatural angles. Arms snapped and pinned under me. My eyes open. Wide open. But they see nothing, focus on nothing. No one. A halo of brain matter and gently pooling blood surround my skull. I look almost angelic. The blood streams to the gutter and splashes on the discarded beer can.

“I’m leaving for good…”

I blink hard. I shake my hollow, cavernous head.

I blink again.

The light in the apartment goes on. I step down from the ledge. I walk to the stairs, go down to where I came in. I finally jump, but only from the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder. My hand still bleeds and my shoulder begins to throb.

Nic might be gone but me…Hell, I just got here.