Bobby L takes a tab

Bob to his friends, Bobby to his enemies, Bobby L. to his fans. And Booby to his nephew.

It was a lot of different lives to lead. Bobby knew. And for someone with a raving self-hatred and a million drug-fuelled secrets to keep, it was a definite source of stress in his life. Therapy had helped, it had helped more than he’d even expected. But therapy had made him less funny, so he’d quit. And even now, he still hadn't got the funny back.

Twenty years ago he was the funniest guy in New York. He’d won an Emmy for his supporting role in a comedy TV show set in the 80s. Lots of people told him he looked like an ‘eighties guy’, whatever that meant. Bob was a pasty dude with shaggy hair. Or at least he used to be. Shaggy was too much effort for his hair these days. Now he wore his hair close-cropped at the sides, loose but thick on top. People told him he looked handsome. He still wore a wig when he did big shows.

Big shows were rare.

Small shows were rare.

Tiny shows were where it was at these days. Big shows meant big money, meant big guests, meant big advertises. And big advertises didn’t want him making jokes about the time he’d tripped so bad he thought his dick was a snake and tried to feed a mouse to it.

Drugs had always made him funnier. Was part of his act, nobody denied it. LSD. ACID. ECSTASY (MDMA). ECSTASY. ECSTASY.

Ecstasy was the one for Bobby. It was the love of his life. He’d taken it on a dare before his first show, and killed. He’d never had people laughing so loud. Second show, he’d tried his stand-up sober. He’d been booed off before five minutes had passed.

Ecstasy was the one for Bobby. It made him funny. Not just “Ha – Ha. That’s funny Bob. You should do stand-up.” Actual fucking funny. Sweating, naked, thrusting kind of funny. Intense funny. Funny like you can’t stop laughing till you can’t breathe and you die.

Ecstasy was the one for Bobby.

There was a comedy club in Manhattan he liked to frequent. A small place called the Yardhouse. He’d come up there, telling jokes about doing psychedelics when he was a teenager. About that maths exam where he’d imagined all the numbers fighting each other, then running up onto the surface of his hands and spelling out the phrase: “get your cock out bobby”.

Yardhouse was a place where any joke could be told, however crude. Bobby loved it. He could tell the most defiling, unpleasant shit, and people would snort, chuckle and chortle. He was a taint on society. And proud as a cock-wart.

Bobby was at Yardhouse on the morning of June 11th. He wasn’t supposed to stay the night. He woke up in an empty bathtub in the backroom. He groaned, rubbing the back of his cold knuckle against his forehead to try and knuckle some sense into his thick-skull. The night before was a blur. He remembered doing his set, people laughing. He probably showed them his dick. That was a classic that the advertising companies hated. Fuck them.

Bobby tried to sit up, found his wrist shackled to a pipe behind the tub. “Fuck off,” he groaned. You only got chucked in the tub if you were a wasted comic – a respected one. And you only got shackled to the pipe if you were being an asshole. Bobby showed too much of his dick, was probably the story. There was some kind of animal drive in him screaming on repeat: “show your dick Bobby. You need to show your dick. Why haven’t you shown everyone your dick yet?”

Bobby vomited over the side of the tub, finding that it splattered neatly into the patina of chunder pooled on the floor. “Fuck off,” he repeated dizzily. “Mac!” He screamed at the top of his lungs. Where's my phone? Bobby reached around in the pockets of his jacket. Oh wait, no. Not his jacket. Someone else’s jacket? How the fuck has this happened twice?

Bobby L. found a phone in the left pocket. Not his. Classic dipshit move from the superstar. He slammed in Mac’s phone number. “The fuck am I still locked in the tub for?”

“You’re an asshole, Bob.”

Bob paused. “What happened? I show my dick too much?”

“You always show your dick too much.”

“The fuck am I in the tub for then?” Bobby snapped.

Mac was silent for a moment. Sounded like he was toying with his phone. “You’re on speaker. I moved the pictures from last night onto my laptop. Hey, why are you calling me from a different number?”

“Fuck if I know. I woke up with this phone.”

Mac snorted. “Fuck what The Apollo says. You’re still a wild ride Bob. You’re a funny guy.”

“I know it. Now how did I end up in the tub.”

Mac laughed.

“I’m losing patience, and I need to piss. Come get me out of here, asshole.”

“Fine. I’ll be down in five. I’m still in bed. Gloria’s gonna kill you next time she sees you by the way.”

Bobby groaned. “Then stop bringing that prostitute to the club. Mac, she’s insane. She’s literally killed people.”

“It’s kinda hot.”

“Just come down here you fucked up asshole.”

“Love ya, Bob. See you in five.”

Mac hung up.

Bobby reclined in the tub, staring at the tiled ceiling above him. Surprising that he had no hangover. He looked around the tiny bathroom. No empty bottles, apart from the shattered beer mug at the other end of the tub.

Bobby fished around in his left pocket. A tab. Ecstasy. ECSTASY.

He sniffed, wondered if it was too early. If Mac was only just getting up, and Gloria had stayed the night and she was still sleeping too, then probs around 3pm.

Late enough for just a tab, Bobby supposed. He slipped it onto his tongue, letting it fizzle, dissolve, slide like caramel to the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, and imagined how he fucked up this time.

The set had gone fine. He remembered getting off stage, accepting the applause graciously (and by graciously he probably meant that they clapped and he showed them his dick and told them about how his parents abused him.) They laughed, he cried. All the same. So long as he was making ‘em happy.

He got back to the bar, got a beer on the house when a young couple paid for his drink. He tried to chat up the girl. The guy wasn’t pleased. They left. That wasn’t what started trouble. Bobby vaguely remembered going to the bathroom with his beer, dropping a tab of MDMA ECSTASY ECSTASY in there, watching it dissolve like a chimp watches a banana get peeled.

He took a big gulp as he left the bathroom, feeling buzzed. He stood (can’t sit he sweats too much if he sits high), and watched the next act after him – final act of the night. It was some kid from Dublin. Hardly twenty, coked up to high-hell. How did he get final act. That was the best spot of the night. Bobby was supposed to be the king of comedy. Bobby L. was the king. The jester. The queen. He could be the whole damn court what did this kid think he was doing.

That was the issue, Bobby realised.

As he reclined, the ECSTASY drifting him into a new world, he remembered headbutting the kid from Dublin so hard in the nose that he shattered the bone entirely. Lucky the kid didn’t die. Bobby L. was short, might have accidentally sent bone shards up into his brain.

Comedy club rules kept the kid from reporting Bobby to the police. But Mac smacked him round a bit, locked him in the tub when Bobby started fighting back. Fortunately he’d locked him in there with a couple tabs.

Bobby took them all and drifted to sleep.

The door opened, spilling white light into the room. Mac stood over Bobby L. “You son of a bitch if you took another tab while I was on my way here.”

“Sorry Mac. Say, who the fuck does this coat belong to?”

Apparently, the coat belonged to a small Japanese man who frequented the Yardhouse but had never seen Bobby L. perform live before. He’d apparently been so starstruck that when Bobby had said “Like your coat, little guy,” that the stranger had insisted Bobby L. keep it.

Bobby wasn’t one to shy away from free stuff. Even if the coat was a bit smaller than it should be.

Still riding his bathtub trip, Bobby sauntered into the main room of the Yardhouse and sat himself heavily at the bar. Mac made him a G&T. Bobby thought it would taste better with a tab mixed in. Mac disagreed. Said Bobby shouldn’t be drinking booze this early anyway.

Bobby had wanted to flash Mac his dick as a reply, but standing up would have made him sweat.

“That kid was good you know. He won’t come back after that.” Mac muttered, nursing a beer at the other end of the bar.

Bobby shrugged. “You’ve got me.”

“You’re a deadbeat Bobby. Bobby L. may as well be dead.”

“I’ll call him and let him know he’s passed. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

Mac glared over the bottom of his amber beer. “If he comes back, I wouldn’t put him in the tub for smacking you up one.”

“He knows better than to beat on a little guy.”

“Then I’ll beat the shit out of you if he’s too chicken.”

Bobby sniffed. His ribs still hurt from the kicking Mac gave him last night. “I had plans today.”

“Nah. You didn’t.”

“I did, Mac. I did. I had plans. Real plans. Not showing my dick off plans.”

Mac chuckled. “You don’t make plans like that, Bobby. You make one kind of plan.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. No fucking plan at all. Plans fuck you up. That’s why you can’t plan a set sober. You have to go on fucked up on something or else you’re wet as shit.”

Bobby finished his G&T in one disgustingly huge gulp. “I’ll be back tonight, I’ll be final act.”

“The kid will be the last act, if he comes back.”

Bobby L. bit his tongue. Superstardom was ahead of him. He knew that. “Fuck that noise. I’ll see you tonight, final act.”

“Repeating shit don’t make it true.”

“Fuck you.”

Bobby got on the subway. Drifted aimlessly for a bit. Missed his stop. Drifted some more. Sat in the park watching a dog eat its’ own shit. Sometimes it felt like he was weird for seeing shit like that. Like normal people didn’t spot that dogs ate their own shit. Maybe other people saw it and just didn’t care. Bobby loved it. Always had loved the gross shit.

The park got rainy, and Bobby held out his tongue to the sky. Got a free gulp of water.

He floated home. Colours blazed toward him in his apartment block. Lady in a pink dress looked like she was a floating acrylic stain. As if Bobby could reach out and touch her comet-trail of pink. A guy in a black shirt was a scratchy charcoal smudge on a beige background. Almost looked like art from Bobby’s point of view.

The elevator extended vertically. As it carried him skyward, his perception elongated. The buttons stretched. His fingers stretched. The world was comprised of a dozen vertical bands of colour, all shades of beige, ochre, and dark brown.

The doors pinged, opened, and the illusion pealed to reveal the door at the end of the hall. His door. Open already? His keys were in the lock but he was certain he hadn’t opened it. Somebody come to steal his ECSTASY ECSTASY ECSTASY?

A bleak thought crossed his mind. Would they steal his blood if there was still ecstasy in his system? Could they do that? How long does it stay in your blood? Does it evaporate? Does it matter?

Bobby bit hard on his tongue before he got trapped asking himself the same question on repeat. He closed the door behind himself, despite not opening it. Seemed polite.

He marched into his one-bedroom, one-bathroom, quarter-kitchen flat, and cocked his head. Something eight-feet tall, with large shelly feet and a shelly body, was laid flat on his bed.

Bobby felt something sharp in his mind, like a thumb tac pressed into his forehead. Like a knife wedged between his front teeth. A tube of paper up his nostril. Image of dad with a belt. Image of a panicked math exam. Image of the kid from the comedy club dead in a dumpster with his cock cut off.

Image of a world full of dust. Too much dust to breathe. Image of the thing on his bed choking. Working. Dying, day by day. Dead. It’s alive. Something else is dead.

The thing is stood up, two pairs of eyes glisten in his direction. There’s a red patch on the thing’s face shelly part. Looks like herpes. Bobby knows. Bobby L. knows better.

“I am David.” The thing said, without moving its’ mouth. “You are Bobby. I know you now. Have made a link between my mind and yours.”

Bobby raised a hand, brushing the back of his finger against the shelled chest of David. “You’re awful real for a bad trip.”

David clacked his mandibles twice. “You are under the impression you are hallucinating.”

“Lots of words, big guy. Not making much sense. Let’s slow down. How’d you get to be eight feet tall?”

David clacked his mandibles once. “I can amend the hallucination,” he paused, narrowing his double-eyes. “although, it seems as though you are under influence at your own wish. Desperation. Hunger for approval. Under the impression therapy stops you being funny. Intriguing. Are you a typical human?”

Bobby L. shook his head. “Nah. I’m a superstar David.”

David is silent. “I will let you recuperate. Then we will speak. Do not be afraid.”

David helped Bobby toward the bed, and laid him down with gentle crab-hands. Bobby considers that maybe David’s venereal disease is catching and shifts away from his crab-hands.

“I will return. Wait for me here,” David spoke without moving his mouth. He drifts toward the window, opens it to its full length, then slips out onto the metal escape exit.

“Fuckin’ A.” Bobby murmured.