The windows closed shut, sealed. A towel stuffed under the door. The smoke had nowhere to go, so it hung around, under the ceiling. Odor rich and thick, hazy.
A single lamp, hanging from a ropeish wire, was the only source of light in the room. Barely penetrating the smoke, leaving the room shrouded in a kind of light mostly reserved for opium dens. Which of course was not far off from the truth.
A small oblong object, having been lit, was now being passed from lip to lip.
Its effects were quite obvious. A slight incoherency was starting to prevail as all conversation turned to, well, mush.
“Right, well... uhm. Dude. Uhhh, like, ugh”
Purposeless. Each occupant stuck in his or her own little universe. One seeing more. One less.
A trickle of music came from one wall, nondestinct. Fluff.
In one corner a man sat rocking back and forth, only so slightly. Rocking. His eyes fixated on a spot on the wall. Whatever he was seeing did not please him.
His mouth moved, no words came out though, it didn’t really matter. He wouldn’t have had an audience anyway. It was quite clear that he had other things in his blood than what was on offer at the moment. He was, even by his own standards, thoroughly baked. Cooked. Boiled.
Wasted.
The name his mother had given him, no father in sight, was Brian. Brian Mendelsohn.
He is twenty-three now. He was twenty-three then. Sitting in that room, looking at that wall, coming down from his buzz, sobering up, he finally got enough. Enough of the cracked paint, the closed doors and sealed off rooms, enough of the forced crime. He thought of all the problems he had buying the drugs of his choice, soft or hard. And he had most definitely had enough. Cars killed by the hundreds, alcohol and tobacco by the thousands in the Heart of all Things alone, and they were not only allowed but seemingly state endorsed.
His thinking was flawed, of course, but all he could think of at that point in time was the fact that tobacco prices were going down. That alcohol was being sold to little children, marketed even.
It made him furious. His mouth stopped moving. His eyes blinked. And he looked around.
The scum of the earth, the lost children, the fallout of the nuclear families.
On the edge of the Sprawl, in a little pocket of fear and violence and sex. No one came here with good intentions, no one came here expecting not to be threatened and or accosted.
It was a hole in the ground, the ‘good’ - whatever that was - being sucked out of it.
And yet people kept fighting for it. Shooting each other and anyone in the way.
The only positive thing about the Clash, as the area was known, was the fact that one could hide here, anyone seeking privacy could easily find it here. At the cost of living standards.
Brian got to his feet. Everyone else was so far away that none of them noticed.
Went to the window, drew the ragged curtain aside. The streetlamp right outside flickered. Darkness, light. Briefly. A more steady source of light was easily found though. Either in the shape of the burning barrel two bums were using for heat or bended in neon on the sign of the massage parlor across the street. At first glance the street seemed deserted, but upon closer inspection figures could be seen moving about in the shadows. Just like the way you only saw the subway rats if you looked for them.
So many people. So much hopelessness. Frustration.
And that was what it boiled down to, frustration.
All that pent up rage, all that anger deep down. Maybe it could be channeled, maybe if it was just focused, if someone could focus it, all those individuals could work together.
Even if everyone was working for their own best interests they would still be a force to be reckoned with.
Brian didn’t quite know where he was going with his new idea, but he knew that the idea was not going to accomplish anything on its own.
His first concern would be to get the word around, to gather people.
Shouldn’t be a problem.
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