The Vanity of God (Chapter 1)

Note: This is not an essay, it's the first chapter(rough draft) of a project entitled The Vanity of God. Therefore, many items in the story will be left open-ending or unexplained. Also, the first person narrative does not indicate that the narrator is me. This is purely fiction. Thank you for reading.





The television is on mute, leaving those who are unintrigued by the conversation and those too stoned to contribute merely guessing what is going on in Tom & Jerry. Replacing the classical music that would most likely be the cartoon's score is Roberta Flack's Chapter Two, which while honorable in it's own right, is an album with few party anthems. In order to fulfill the host's desire to be "ironic", Roberta's soulful voice is updating us on the misdoings of Reverend Lee via phonograph, a medium that has aged sufficiently enough to be re-recognized as cool by a new generation. Considering this, I wonder what lead said generation to misinterpret the meaning of "irony", a concept that has been redefined as a combination of pseudo-sophistication and coincidence. Damn you, I'm thinking, horseshoe mustache and Alanis Morissette.
Catching myself before sinking into hopelessly deep anti-thought, I shake my head, irrational ponderings flinging aside, and notice a small vial on the coffee table my feet rest upon. Taking two large bumps of the mediocre coke, I rapidly change gears, and jumping to my feet exclaim: "A'ight y'all, we've proved how grown up we are, let's get some upbeat tempos goin'!" Even though my rendition of a 90's house d.j. is most likely as inaccurate as a white 90-year-old imitating a gangsta rapper, I carry on. Downgrading my parody from d.j. to any given dance floor attendee, I bob my head and pump my fist sarcastically, generating only a slight rise from my disheveled peers. I move to the turntable while rolling my eyes, determined to resuscitate the evening's ambiance. Just as I lift the stylus from the groove, I realize that the bass line from a certain commercial rap song was sampled from Gone Away, but ultimately decide to recede my admission of guilt. I settle on RjD2's Since We Last Spoke, CD format, and with this more appropriate theme music, proceed with my campaign.
My first move consists of picking up where I left off with my sarcastic jig, modifying it slightly to include a shuffle that taxis me into the kitchen, offering a shot to anyone interested. This offer I announce eagerly, my head slightly turned to the side as I exit the living room, trying to emphasize a rapidly approaching expiration date in order to recruit candidates victimized by impulse. My pride of pioneership quickly fades as I re-direct my gaze into the kitchen. Fortunately, the relief of acquiring a shot-taking buddy overrides my temporary grief. While Todd retrieves a second shot glass, we cordially exchange thanks'; mine for the invitation and his for my spirit contribution.
"No problem", I say, "never leave the house without a bottle of Cutty, I presume you'd like a shot?"
"I would absolutely love one," he says, with a cocked head and squinted eyes.
"Make it two doubles then, you smug son-of-a-bitch." He pours the two shots, both amounts teasing the rims of the already tall shot glasses.
"I see that you're employing the strategy necessary to get fucked up tonight," I say. Completely serious, Todd replies, "yeah, that and I took too much Adderall, trying to counteract it." We take the shots.
"Sounds reasonable," I say with wide, questioning eyes. "Why not just go lift it off?," an equally healthy solution, I admit.
"'Cause I worked out for four hours off and on today." Todd says this so casually that I am truly convinced that he thinks this is healthy. Yes, the gym in his basement has rendered his upper body very strong and defined, but what must be going on inside of him can only be medical mayhem. I too am a drug user, just much more moderate in frequency and cautious in variety. Also, unlike Todd, I remain sober when we lift weights together.
I look away from his bulging bicep, withdrawing my glance just seconds before it becomes an official stare. Two more double shots materialize, and I gladly accept one. The scotch is harsh by nature, but shot count and smoothness are heavily correlated. But with a relatively low count of four, I still need a chaser, liquid or otherwise.
"Let's go have a ciggy," I command.
"Got an extra?"
"No." The corners of my mouth slowly make their ways to each ear until I'm donning an expression more suitable for The Joker. Todd stands by, grimacing in disarray.
"Let's go dumb ass."
Unable to comprehend my dry sarcasm due to his current state of mental deficiency he shakes his confusion off. Of the many common side effects of Adderall, increased cognitive performance is not one that applies to to Todd's usage. By the time he steps into his well worn boat shoes that are parked by the rear door he has forgotten about my lackluster attempt at humor and we both step outside.
The cityscape from Todd's back deck is gorgeous, especially at night. The city's glowing lights pierce the pure black sky, their glares reaching up towards untouchable stars. I assist in their efforts by squinting my eyes, and they get much closer. Not close enough though, and upon failure they return to their sources. The eastward view from the hills of Portland is remarkable, the many bridges and highways intertwining to form a radiant, unknown calligraphy. I'm convinced that Todd could make money charging artists an hourly rate to utilize this choice real estate, tripod or easel not included. I myself almost ask for a pen and paper to scribble down the few lines of poetry my inspired mind has constructed, but two facts dictate otherwise: I prefer not to write keyed up(so as not to adopt a Jim Morrison-type habit), and Todd's obtrusive vocalization.
"Shit is nice, huh Pil?"
"You sure do have a way with words," I respond, intrigued by his eloquent description of the view. My thoughts transmogrify into his words and poetry happens. Ha.
"Uh, yeah... so you got that extra?" Todd rubs his hands together as if working in some stubborn lotion and sucks in both lips, eyes bulging. Considering all the Adderall, alcohol, and coke in his system he's holding himself together well. Still, the gap between mother and cub is closing rapidly, with me in the center, so I evade a possible mauling by producing a cancer stick. Todd lights the Camel Light and takes a deep drag, and I shortly thereafter follow suit. I find it impossible not to shut my eyes while exhaling that first hit. Both of us reassume the positions of our composed selves.
"So do you mind if we go up to your office after this?," I ask.
"Dude, thanks, but I'm not really in the mood for a blow job." Todd erupts with laughter and suffers the pain of doing so with smoke-filled lungs.
"You wish, fucker, I just need a prescription refilled."
"I knew it, you never show up unless you need a doctor's note."
"You want me to find someone else?!," I threaten, both of us knowing I would never follow through, that we would both take a loss.
"Oh, come on, I'm just sayin' you should kick it more, neither of us have real jobs and shit...," he trails off, unable to produce any further arguments.
"Alright, alright, but I do need to get goin' soon tonight, got some shit to do."
"Dude, Pil, at what, like one a.m.?! You're nuts... whatever." Todd shakes his head to exhibit his disappointment and flicks his cigarette butt.
"Okay, listen, A: why would an insensitive bastard like you give a fuck? And B: when have you ever not been in the mood for a blowjob?" My attempt at changing the subject via humor proves successful, and Todd does just that, excitedly.
"Because I've been getting them on the regular!" He reports this news in such an animated fashion that I am forced to counter: "Oh, I see, who's the lucky guy?"
"That's right, I knew you'd be jealous." Todd repeatedly nods his head 'yes' with a mischievous grin.
"Dammit, you can tell?" I deliver this completely deadpan.
"At least pretend to be happy for me. I'm finally getting my dick wet, and this chick's actually pretty cool..., smart, and... yeah."
"No man, I am, congrats." I slap him on the back. "Proud of ya mate, maybe I'll meet her sometime."
"Yeah, for sure."
I am pleased to have effectively feigned interest. Afraid that my improvisation skills have just about been used up on one scene, I ask, "well, should we cruise up to your office?"
"Alright man, let's do it."
I proceed through the kitchen and through the living room, turning at the base of the stairs to monitor Todd's progress. He shuffles listlessly(odd I'm thinking, for someone with increased levels of norepinephrine and dopamine) through the party, nodding and exchanging small talk with those still coherent. He scolds two drunk guys who are trying to scratch on the phonograph. I continue up the stairs and step into the office about a minute before him. I sit in an office chair, facing a large, solid wood desk(it's not just a figure of speech, the guy really does have an office). Todd takes his place in the much more luxurious chair behind the desk. "So my friend, what can I do ya for?"
"Some cola and some dro." He looks at me with an expression that says "and?."
"Eight ball and half ounce, respectively." Without replying, he rummages through several drawers until he comes up with multiple bags of coke and weed, along with a triple beam scale.
"Puhlease," I say, referencing the scale, and he shrugs and puts it back. I have been a loyal client of Todd's for a while now, and thoroughly trust his services. My loyalty has not gone unnoticed, and Todd assembles my eight ball from four individually bagged grams, providing me with much more and better quality cocaine than the ready-made eight balls. The same courtesy applies to my weed. I count out 400 dollars and hand it to Todd and retrieve the product.
"Alright then, thanks chief," I say.
"Hey, you wanna roast before you bail?"
"No, I better get home, thanks though."
"I figured as much... why is that?"
"Why is what?"
"I've been selling you weed for like, I don't know, a long time, and we've never puffed together... that's weird." I hurriedly try to pull together a believable excuse. "Oh, I don't know, it's not you, I guess I'm just not a social smoker." Feeble, but he seems to accept it, or doesn't care enough to delve further into the mystery.
"So you just giggle all by your lonesome?," he asks.
"Yep, just lay around and laugh at my own-"
"Alright, Pil," cutting me off, finished with my sub par justifications, "thanks, always a pleasure."
He salutes me as I exit the office. "Oh yeah, bro," Todd shouts out just before I descend the stairs. "I told Claire about your uh, what is it you write, homoeroticism?"
"It's called poetry, dumb fuck, and who the hell is Claire?"
"That's my girlfriend, we were just talking about her?"
"Oh... okay, right on."
"Yeah, 'cause she's into that, she's always reading."
"Cool man." I find it hard to believe that any girl that would bed with this guy is interested in literature, so I just fire off an aimless "thanks" and make my way down the stairs.
In the living room I locate my backpack underneath the coffee table and semi-discreetly load up the drugs. I say goodbye to Jesse and Scott, two guys I know from these infamous get-togethers, grab the bottle of scotch from the kitchen, walk out the front door, hop on my ten-speed and embark on my journey home.