Low Road was a piddly novel that I wrote years ago. My first and only one. I’m just now getting around to editing it.
If you don’t feel like reading the previous chapters, it’s about a 24-year-old addict and piece of shit named Rod Townshend. He gets caught up in the sexual adventures of an older woman, Jeanne, a successful business woman. This leads Rod to meeting Jack Schilling, a has-been writer and drunk, where the two were compelled into gangbanging Jeanne.
This is the lead up to chapter 5.
“This sounds like you’re just sharing your amateur porn fantasy, Wes.” you’re wondering.
Fuck off. Just read it.
A clear morning peered through the windows. I was too hungover to make any sudden movement. I got up and tried to find any missing clothes. I was hungry. I looked in the fridge. There was plenty to eat and I pulled out a beer.
Before I could sneak out, I heard someone open the bedroom door. The jig was up. I had to face the awkwardness. It was Jack. He was wearing a robe.
“What’s up man?” He asked.
Jack was as hungover as me. He too looked in the fridge and grabbed a beer. I watched him make his breakfast. I didn’t know what to make of this guy. We crossed swords the night before. Although I just met him, it felt like I knew him better than any man I’ve ever known.
Minutes later, Jeanne appeared wearing a very thin, almost see-through, pink robe. She greeted Jack with a kiss. She walked up to me to grab my crotch and was off to the shower.
I remained in the kitchen with Jack. I searched for something to say.
Jack just sat there. I proceeded to gather myself and then he spoke up.
“Can you pass me that bottle?”, he asked.
He pointed to a bottle of vodka. I handed it to him. He poured it into his orange juice.
“So you’re a writer? “Jack asked.
“Jeanne told me that you’re a gun for hire.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Are you good?”
“I haven’t written anything in two years.”
“Haven’t really given a shit. I just don’t have anything. Not one damn thing.”
I felt sorry for this poor shit. After Jeanne left, we remained high for a good portion of the morning. Then he busted out the blow. I rolled up a five dollar bill. It felt like a waterfall fell over me. We started to talk out of our minds.
“Why do you live out here?” I asked
“I’m from here.”
“This is the asshole of Kansas, Jack!”
Jack finished off the bag of blow. The rush caused him to strip off his robe and do martial arts moves. I took another bump and went outside.
The barren land looked far different in the light of day. The fields were dead. Openness as far as the eye could see. It occurred to me that I haven’t seen clear day in a long while. I was on a cocaine rush. I ran. I ran so far that I couldn’t see Jack’s house. There was nothing. It was just me and the open sky.
I stopped. A sense of dread overcame me. My heart began to rush. I was breathing heavily. Was this an anxiety attack? The space around me started to spin. I fell to the ground. Was this death? I closed my eyes. I knew I was going to die on the prairie.
Then it stopped.
My eyes opened. I was okay. But I laid there. I stared up into the sky. I was terrified, confused, and wanted to cry. But I got onto my feet, dusted myself off and walked back towards the house. I felt completely sober. What just happened? Was I dead? Is this heaven? It couldn’t have been.
It was Kansas.
I returned to the house. Jack seemed calm. He was watching another bullshit kung-fu movie. I saw a typewriter. An old fucking typewriter.
Perhaps I was still high.
I considered going to the hospital. But I didn’t have any insurance. Plus…I was still high. Not knowing what I wrote, I pounded away at the typewriter.