Janet and Jimmi

Hits never last as long as you want them to, no matter your personal poison dishing them out without the decency to hop back or put up defenses. For months, Jimmi and Janet have been looking for the longest high they could, telling themselves that it’s only until the pain goes away. Only until their world’s splattered with events poisoning futures to blackened ooze seems a little less bleak. Only until the past was something they could laugh about on a beach, where drinks are brought directly to you, and the ocean caresses your feet as it comes to steal away the land. For now, their beach will have to just be a hotel room paid up for the next three months, unlimited cable television, and opioids with MDMA glittered amongst each of the 23 smugglable packages. Didn’t matter what form it came in, just as long as the shit cooked their minds.

The meaning of life could be live it to the fullest without compromise, or be kind to thy fellow man, or the number 42, but whatever it was, they were determined to find it in the confines of the massive suite. They had been touring for months before this, all blind to their cosmic foils lurking on the tour bus and manipulating backstage, with the roadies barely the wiser. While their album was on hold due to their unplanned falling out over the devastating disputes between them and their other bandmates, there was plenty of money between them to become absolute shut-ins with a passion. Emotions ran high after the night in the church. Everyone went their ways; that is, two of them took their leave, maybe not hand in hand but intertwined within the disenfranchising coping strategies on the brain. They had both hurt each other in the grand scheme of three and a half albums, but in the nuclear shipwreck that was Whiskey Hotel, each had washed up on the shores on opposite sides of the same deserted island. They would be adventurers on an island of misery as the misfits they sang about and thought they had escaped inside the embrace of fame, and unlimited dopamine crashes known as recording sessions.

They had wealth but ski masked up for a caper at a local 7/11. They had popularity, but in their retreat, spit and pissed on every humble fan, reminding them to update their calendars. They had a home and did their most active nodding into oblivion on park benches, slumped over the edge of the Vancouver harbor. They spoke and spoke and spoke, but who could understand them when they couldn’t understand themselves. Three months—sorry, meant thirteen months of nearly overdosing bliss, and finally, one of them spoke of their true intentions. “How could she do that to you? And for years,” She said.

He sat up suddenly, fighting the waterbed feeling of gravity’s weight on his shoulder, startled that he might not answer her before fading for another day or so. “I’m sorry about what Roger said. He… was just angry.”

“Because of what I did to him? I deserved it. It’s what he did. But I’m worried about how you’re holding up. Jimmi, you have been rambling for a while. I’m right here, but you seem to want to talk to the TV or your bottle or the couch you’re chewing on. I’m right here, you dick.”

“Why are you with me? I’m serious. I left the church because I knew I was going to get really violent if I continued to face them, but you, you followed me, knowing that I was sick of every last fucker in the room, including you. But you followed me to my car anyway; why?” Jimmi asked in a moment of explicit curiosity.

Janet got out of bed and began looking for any shred of clothes that she could find in the mess that was their bedroom, victim to both of their outburst at one time or another. All she could find before opening the blinds were a pair of Jimmi’s underwear and a bra that might have been hers. She stood at the window and looked over the city of Vancouver, watching what late night traffic was, surprisingly proving once and for all that they had lost the scope of the passage of time. They were just waking up together after what they had perceived was a long night of partying at the local taverns, which explained the hostile environment they were greeted with at every establishment. The world was moving faster than they could keep up with at any given time when they were over taking pills, giving themselves daily shots, or blatantly ignoring worrying phone calls, the news, or anything that could connect them to the bustling city they blunder through for cheap food and diarrehtics.

“I followed you,” Janet started realizing she hadn’t used her lungs in some time, “cause I thought you shouldn’t be alone. We shouldn’t be alone. We’re reckless, we’re idiots, and we are very impulsive. Of course, we shouldn’t be alone. I’ve seen you at your worst, but you never saw mine, so why not support each other through it? I mean, I hated hearing you breathe. I wish I had never met you, but we’re in it like really deep in it, at least right now.”

“You wish you never met me? Well fuck. I really hurt you, didn’t I?”

“Fu… yes! Stupid. But I’ve done shit too, so I see it as putting us at square one if we can swallow each other's baggage.”

Jimmi thought for a second, having not considered what to say if he got a coherent answer. “I think I’ve swallowed enough baggage. I want to do something. I need to do something. I haven’t had a clear thought in so long. I think about clouds when I want to rub one out. We can’t keep doing this to each other.”

“What do you mean?”

“Face it, Janet. We have robbed, failed, dove so far lower than we ever were that what’s above us isn’t a star; it’s the fire from the hell that rejected us. I’m shit from a meaningless animal, like a bird or cat. What the fuck are we doing here? Healing? When’s the last time you felt anything but nausea, aches, hunger, sober or not. How long have you been constipated and sleepless while sober?”

Janet could see where he was going, and the answer was no. She walked into the living area where the TV was and turned it on. The volume of the TV, with complimentary surround sound, was enough to wake the neighbors, and his throat was hoarse. She was listening to some show with five angry people shouting in a bar ignoring their own responsibilities for self-righteous crusades involving matching Boyz to Men attire. Worsening the primetime distraction got her point across. After finding a pair of jeans of his own to wear in a moment of sheer anger, he picked up a general decorative plant vase, launching it at the TV, hitting the flatscreen’s lower corner, rendering it only partially watchable. “Guess, since there is nothing on….”

“Fine, you want to have this fucking fight, then let’s get right into it, you pitiful prick. I can’t fucking stand listening to you do things like talk, blink, or breathe. You’re just a pathetic follower cowering behind the microphone. It’s probably the real reason you’re always puking. How you cry and whine and moan that things didn’t go your way is childish at best and….

“Janet, stop. I know that already. You do this every time, but I’m not folding until you let me finish.”

“Right, I’m a cunt, right? I’m a piece of shit who deserves the torture of you and the rest of this waste of a life with you midwest freaks. Go on and repeat what you always say. But everything I did protected us in ways your flimsy fucking church couldn’t live up to.”

“I … I love you dumb ass. I hate that I dragged you down into my sorrow, and while, yes, you joined me of your own free will, so I’m, not the only guilty party here; but I want to bring us out of it. You are the only friend that stuck by me after that session of confessions, and I respect you for that. I want to help you--us out of this.”

“Don’t your dare put me down, you God damn bastard. You owe me a lot,” Janet yelled, fighting back the tears that struggled to break through the crust of her eyes.

“No shit, that’s why I’m trying to talk to you. And not Angie or the lying bitch Sonya, AKA, the rapists’ advocate in charge.”

He went to the kitchen, then the bedroom, followed by the bathroom, and finished his tour by sliding the couch out of its normal position. In his silence, she continued to make her point calling him ego-damaging names he couldn’t dare brush off. “Dirtbag fruit humper. Bastard-faced dying dog. A republican,” just anything that would piss him off. “You want to follow me to the bathroom? You don’t want to miss this.”

Into the bathroom, she followed, where she watched him put all of their pills, heroin, and small paraphernalia in the toilet. She screamed uncontrollably. She leaped towards the bowl, arms out, smacking her chin against the rim as she clambered to get her arm down the toilet. The flush was quick. All of it went down, leaving her reaching for nothing. When she finally gave up, she caught a glimpse of Jimmi waving goodbye to their stash, sitting on the bathroom floor, leaning against the large bathtub.

After picking herself up and planting herself next to Jimmi, she sighed, “Okay, I get what you mean now. Shit. Shit.”

“Please, let’s get out of this rut or be angry another way. Can we try it?”

“Now that we’re on the same page, no, I don’t think I’m ready. I don’t believe I need to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you think we ended up here? Being angry and emotional gets us nowhere, and we’re the worse type. The blood red floods of passion type, the fucking irrational type, the caring type. We can’t return that and fully believe that we’re better people for knowing what we know now. We were fucked from the get-go, babe, you especially so; how about we stay here and rot like we’re supposed to.”

“If that’s the case, why wait? We can go up to the roof, say our final goodbyes, and give the world the finger as we hit what we were aiming for, ruining their day with our corpses. Come on, stand up; let’s give them a show, huh.”

To her surprise, he went back to his room and grabbed some better ill-fitting clothes for not just himself. He threw the clothes at her and put on his own as foul-smelling and as dirty as they were. The sweats from their nights of shivering had soaked them at one point, but now they were crusty and discolored. At first, she was hesitant, staring at the fabric in disgust, watching the crazed Jimmi struggle to put on his shirt and slid on his low-cut Vans simultaneously.

“You know what? You’re right. Patience is for quitters in denial. Let’s go.”

With energy neither of them thought they had, they raced to the off-limits stairwell and ran up at full sprint. Jimmi won but stopped once he reached the roof access holding the door opening for her. He removed his shoes at the door and followed Janet to the ledge. Fighting the sharp, bitter wind that, in some gust, nearly knocked them off their feet, she stood on the ledge, looking for her spot. Slowly he followed behind, creeping on the two-foot wide platform of the hotel’s decorative corner, closer and closer to the edge. He wasn’t sure what he had planned to actually do up here, but there he was, making his way to the sloped tip of the plain where she surveyed the land. Too high for anyone calling out not to be a drunk tourist making gymnastic request and she pounced up there instinctively spitting as one does on an overlook like this.

“Do you really think that there is no hope for us? Or are we giving up prematurely out of fear?” Jimmi started approaching the ledge.

“No, we’re horrible people. Some of it may not have been our fault, but we’ll be okay after this.”

“Alright. I’m with you. Whatever it is. But consider logic for a second.”

“You meant the velocity we would need to hit if we wanted to be sure we get the job done cause I’m thinking we swain dive.” Jimmi couldn’t but laugh at her complete lack of fear but fought back the laughter the best he could.

“Consider the lives we have the potential to ruin. Consider what we’re doing just because we’re a little addicted to opium and coke and alcohol and maybe a little meth. No, I can’t promise things will become kittens, glitter, and good oral if we take the stairs down, but we’ll keep fighting the next battle. Wedo the fighting part well. We became Rock Gods in an era of punk kids with daddy issues and pompous-assed gibberish screamers. We’re not done taking over the planet, Janet. But if this is it and you’re defeated, then so am I. I can’t have my bassist going out alone.”

“You want to fight battle to battle? But I’m tired. I fought my parents when they gave up on me. I fought to maintain my originality when I was with The Damned Lizards. It’s just one fight after another as I watch the world stroll past my battlefields, wondering what went wrong with that native speaking reject from garbage island. Maybe I’m just done with this war. Aren’t you?”

“I want to be. It’s all I want. So much so this is not my first time on a ledge. Now my ledge was a bit more of overwhelming ocean waves in the dark recesses of a liquor coma, but I jumped all the same. When I was fished out of the sea like the catch of the day, I couldn’t help but fantasize that it was actually over, but after realizing I was less of a brave soul taking it upon myself to do the right thing and more of an idiot asshole who tried to go night swimming in high tide alone I gained a little perspective.”

“Well?” She yelled, over the high winds. Impatient that he paused for so long. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

“I’d never, Manic Janet. I saw for the first time that I am just a human. A human being violent by nature, weak at heart, born from a woman, and dies alone. All the bits in between are just rather lame attempts to understand what we don’t know. That’s is all anyone wants to know. We’re all lost at all times because no matter what we do or where we go, there is no map to eternal sunshine, just lots of signs and mile markers. They may tell you where you’re at, but they don’t tell you where you’re going.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do with that information? You’re getting cold feet, I get it,” Janet said, trying to fight the reflex, digging her fingernails into his wrist. Maybe she secretly wanted him to back out first just so she could hold it over him later.

“Yeah. For the first time ever, yeah. And I once jumped out of a moving car just to avoid hearing I told you so from a child, so that should speak volumes.”

“I remember. Sandra cried while she pulled the car over. All you had to do was admit that you mispronounced the song's title, and you wouldn’t have needed so many stitches.”

“Worth it.” Jimmi said proudly, “But either way, I’m not forgiving my sister for what she did nor Shane the puffy fuck bag. I’m also not hell-bent on quitting without some serious thoughts shared first.”

“Are you seriously willing to jump if I jump first?” she asked.

“No. I’m willing to jump right beside you.”

A part of her wanted to call him on his bluff, but she was a tad too swept up by the gesture itself. He may not have been flinching as he faced the twenty-story drop but how slowly he got off the ledge showed more than enough, along with kicking his final shoe over the edge. The fact that he had kicked off his shoe at the roof access, which shockingly fell between the door jamming it open. She did more to help him down than she thought necessary; however, the rush couldn’t be ignored.

They were without a plan. Just a list of dislikes Janet held dear to her heart. At the top of this list rehab, and just below it, therapy. They argued back and forth, trying their damnness to devise a solution they would both enjoy or at least tolerate until they could handle it on their own. The shakes had already plagued Jimmi, but the increased adrenaline-laced tension between them caused Janet to have even more trouble controlling her emotions. She began throwing things when he made a sub-par suggestion and, at one point, sent Jimmi spiraling into a panic fit involving hyperventilating to a techno beat; it became hard for him to maintain the same determination as before. He wasn’t used to having them, but his whole body felt like a pinched nerve set on fire in a sauna. Meanwhile, she is pacing back and forth, trying to calm herself down. The closest they came to an agreement was to join a gym to physically exercise their issues.

The Gym idea gained some traction, and they could finally calmly discuss their workout regimen, but this only lasted until Janet, hours into their fourth sleepless night, got a new spin on the only sound idea they both came up with.

“What if we found a martial artist that would give us private lessons? And we just find a quiet place to practice in peace,” she asked.

“Janet, I once watched you fight an entire room of angry fans after a gig cause you thought one of them called you a hoser and not a whore. I don’t even know what that means.”

“Neither do I, but hear me out on this. Let’s face it, we need a physical distraction that will take us away, mentally, from our base desires cause they're always going to bring us back to this room. What if we literally fight our way out? There will be discipline and order and new things to learn.”

“I guess we could try it sometime.”

“You were ready to jump off a building with me ninety hours ago, but karate lessons are your breaking point?” It was as if she couldn’t control how angry she got or the volume of her voice whenever she tried to speak.

“No one told you you needed to bring up that old shit. That’s on you,” he said whilst shivering in the corner.

“We’re doing this?”

“Yeah, I mean, it could be therapeutic to punch some shit for a while. Why not?”

That was the last night they spent in Vancouver before hopping on a plane and heading back to their respective homes to get cleaned up and do a little research. They regrouped so they could travel to Jimmi’s idea of private, which happened to be in the country of Tibet. Sickly and starving, they piece themselves together just well enough to take a plane. They finally switched out their shitty foul clothes and headed, changing into what they considered to be their very minimalist winter entire. With nothing but some cash, their IDs, and the clothes on their back, they left, throwing caution to the wayside like a dollar store toy.

“Of course, this isn’t what I had in mind, Janet. I was just trying to think outside of the box here. Do you want to be trained by some shmuck that is an avid golf player and teaches yoga to desperate housewives on the side for spare cash, or do you want to learn how to break a person’s soul with a look of pure devastation?”

“It’s a monastery. They are wearing robes. There are no women.”

“No fancy leather jackets either…Okay, fair point; it’s a sausage fest in drag, big deal. This place comes highly recommended by an old associate, all who can make it are welcome.”

“This wouldn’t be the associate that tried to stab five separate times and succeeded twice, would it?”

“So what if it is? I bested three out of five. The high road is mine. Are you ready for this?”

“Waiting on you, cupcake.”