Angels and Demons PT. 1

"Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing." 

- A deaf, blind chick

Sleeping in intervals. Well, passing out for a few hours at a pop. I considered it sleep sprints to maintain 24-hour drunkenness. Thank baby Jesus for alcohol delivery. And never knowing where the fuck my keys are.

The worst part of any day would be running out of cocktail mixers. Over time, you come to love straight vodka and consider cranberry juice a treasure when you forget you'd ordered some. “How the fuck did that get in the fridge?” You feel watched by an angel.

A perk to living in the middle of the desert Southwest was being able to walk out my door to absolute nothingness and no people. Growing up engulfed in cityscapes, where your escape routes in the mountains were overpopulated with other escapees, makes a sewer tunnel more appealing for some respite.

The best months in the desert are the hottest months. Not a creature is stirring, not even a javelina.

I poured some juice and coffee. Well, a cocktail and an Irish. I was low on filtered water, so that needed to be saved for the hike coming up. No way I'm drinking what comes from the well. As the coffee ran low, the Irish became more Irish. That was OK. My vodka came in plastic gallon jugs. The same jugs my water and milk came in. No reason to get all sophisticated with that. But my bourbon was Buffalo Trace. Simple, but not shit. A bottle has no chance in my hands. I filled five water bottles: 1 Cheerios, 2 vodka, 2 water. I mixed electrolytes in the water bottles. I'm not stupid.

Everything packed into my gun case. My backpack was for ammo. Today was target practice day, about 3 miles deep in the void. It's a short hike and worth every moment of no one. My compass was a mountain range to the west. It was a familiar route. Mt. Lemmon was my beacon back home. It was miles away from where I lived, but I knew walking towards it was approximately the right direction. Forget about GPS on your phone where I'm going.

A short walk out the door and there's the barbed-wire fence. It runs for miles south to north with no signs indicating what the property is. Maps didn't indicate BLM, private, county... nothing. I figured it was simply a wildlife barrier for Hwy. 77. Never stopped the coyotes from coming around my home, though.

I toss my bags over the fence and crawl my bloated body under the wire. I always get snagged. Someone did a great job tensioning all those miles of wire.

You don't go far before you start seeing abandoned backpacks, empty water jugs, random shoes and clothes. Sometimes you come across full backpacks, stuffed with fresh, clean clothes. The folks who were brought across the border walk the fence line from Tucson near the highway for another pickup somewhere around Casa Grande. Next stop: Phoenix. Or so I've heard.

What's badass is Davis-Monthan AFB is nearby, and the circling fighters and helicopters are a neat airshow. They practice low-level flights out where they can't crash and blow up an elementary school. It's not Iran, after all. No doubt some are scouting for said immigrant groups.

I could swear I was seeing people, or some fucking thing out of the corner of my eye.

The desert washes are wide and suck. Loose sand, more abandoned clothes and trash. You start to wonder, the further you get out, whose kid or mom didn't survive the trek and has their carcass dragged out there. If nothing else, I'm a morbid thinker.

Once you're clear of the dense, brittle brush, it's open desert. My heart sinks every time. This is where I'll sit, drink, survey the land and shoot shit.

I'm semi-responsible when target shooting. Not much reason to practice range safety, but at least I shoot steel balls and not lead. And always pack my trash. I carried a 12-gauge bullpup. A compact cannon with the kick to match. The slugs are heavy, solid steel and not practical for hikes, but I was numb to physical stress before I got out the door. I'd collected a few cans and Mtn. Dew bottles along the way. I set them up about 20 yards away. Their doom was sealed. But first, I drink. I had already emptied one bottle of water, so it was vodka time.

Again, I could swear I was seeing people, or some fucking thing out of the corner of my eye.

Between sips, I'm making my spread. Unbag the shotgun, get all the mags laid out. I go for broke and fuck it. I destroyed a 20-oz. bottle of vodka before even checking if my handgun was loaded. I was pretty drunk when I holstered it at home. I hand-scan the entire interior of my backpack looking for another clip and pull out a joint I'd forgotten about. Angels.

I was bored shooting after just a few bottle kills. I wished I'd left all that gear behind and just brought more water to hike deeper. Sigh. I sat. It was so quiet. I wanted a cityscape. Walk into a bar and talk to someone, if not just listen to others' conversations. To be annoyed. To feel some fucking energy, whatever the emotion. I was dead inside. I leaned back on a rock and closed my eyes. Dreaming of a bike ride with buddies, telling dumb jokes at a BBQ, watching puppies on YouTube.

I was dreaming. I'd passed out.

I woke up cold to the sound of coyotes howling. Lots of coyotes howling and barking. Fuck. Sun's down and it's dark. No moon out tonight. Using my phone's light, I search for my little flashlight. The horror of the epiphany: I can see it clearly on my desk back home. Motherfuck! I gotta get out of here. Now. First, let's finish this vodka.

I carried my gear to the brittlebushes and stowed it there. Carrying only my shotgun, handgun, a bottle each of water and Cheerios... I can do this. My phone's light gave me enough perception to not lose my balance. I felt like I was walking on air until the times I'd get my leg twisted in a rut. There were lots of ruts. I had to be careful and not break an ankle. Small steps. I'd worn running shoes, not hiking boots. If there was a path, fuck if I could see it. I had to push through thick brush and hope there was an other side. It didn't always feel that way. I couldn't see Mt. Lemmon. I was lost. I was hearing things that weren't coyotes. Goosebumps. It was only 10 p.m., so waiting for sunrise was out of the question. I had to move. A faint noise like a truck jake-braking had my senses believing I was at least headed towards the highway. If I could get to the fence, I could follow that home.

This was a time when I was already hallucinating regularly. Liver disease will do that to you. Ammonia in the blood. And being lost in the desert darkness didn't fucking help me stabilize.

*I wasn't aware I was suffering liver failure at the time.*

Out of the corner of my eye! Something was following me. It almost felt like it was right on me. I started seeing eyes in the brush. This isn't unusual on a night ride when mountain biking. Your lights are always illuminating the eyes of critters off the trail. But my phone wasn't pointed that way. Goosebumps. And then my phone wasn't pointing anywhere. It died. No light. No way to make an emergency call if I got into range of a cell tower. I was extra-special fucked now. I had a lighter, but that wasn't going to help. And I'm not going to try and MacGyver a torch in a valley of dry brush balls. Please, eyes, compensate.

It was endless. Sempiternity? I had to look that word up. I'll go with it. The level of absolute frustration! Walls of that fucking desert brush, unseen tiny branches scratching my eyes, no light, no lights, poor footing, head spinning from dehydration and deliberate drunkenness... I had to fight the urge to stick a gun in my mouth.

Life wasn't so swell then. Thus, trying to pour fun down my throat. I'd ruined relationships, a great career, lost my best friends for the love of getting fucked up and putting on full display an “I don't give a fuck” attitude. Too old to be punk rock like I used to be.

That was a winning lifestyle when I was young. It actually attracted people. Smart outcasts upset with the absurdity of wealth and greed, and fucking politicians selling broken policies like a used car salesman will sell you a piece of shit and tell you it's a reliable vehicle. The  cliché exists for a reason.  Rage evoked care. Not nearly approaching altruistic, but there was a high level of thinking the system needs to be broken down and rebuilt into some set of rules that applied to everyone. The rich can afford to fuck up. But fuck communism. I'm not against anyone earning a buck, but the monopolies, the Microsoft and Amazon business models that contribute to destroying the American Dream I wanted burned down. I didn't yearn for the good old days, though. White racist America needed to fall into a pit.

I hated school. I hated the very in-your-face social hierarchies that were contained in a single building, knowing that they would move on into general society. I'd met the parents. It's inevitable. It's simply human nature, unfortunately. It going unrecognized and perpetuating into these cunts' adult years is what drove me mad. All my girlfriends in high school came from wealthy families. Then here I come into the parents' lives, fucking their daughter and wearing a Butthole Surfers tee. Oh, they hated me. The feeling was mutual.

Fence line. I fucking made it. Still no light. Highway 77 doesn't have lights, and there was very little traffic at night in the desert. The wildlife routinely crosses the road, and no one wants to risk hitting an animal at highway speeds. The frequency of those incidents keeps the OTR folks waiting out the night in any given parking lot. One problem. I had no clue where I was; I just knew I had to walk 'that way'. The coyotes are still barking, but my perceived predator seems to have given up. One less worry.

Another problem. There's still heavy brush along the fence line. Crawling under the fence and walking the highway at night with firearms probably wouldn't get me a ride from anyone but a Highway Patrolman. Arizona is a Constitutional Carry state. Though not illegal to walk about armed, I don't need any more fucking bullshit right now. I'll ditch ammo and bags to reduce the weight I have to haul, but no way I'm ditching my firearms along an immigrant trail. Gotta move.

The frustration wasn't alleviated. I was still lost, just with a direction to walk. I had no idea what time it was or how long I'd been bushwhacking. A few thousand more steps and stumbles, and I spotted a highway sign. I knew where I was. About 3.5 miles north from home, and not a damn thing in between. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Then I discovered I had dropped my water along the way.

*Reaches for gun. Hysterical laughter—and not funny ha-ha hysterical—plows ahead.*

It's all the same shit. Same brush, same scratches, same loose footholds. Then came the clearing. After a million-mile walk...home.

I accepted the blood, pain and exhaustion as a sort of self-flagellation. I deserved the punishment. I was hardly made holy, but I deserved a good ass-beating, by whatever means.

I had left my keys in my gun bag back in the desert.

Fuck you, God, fuck you, baby Jesus, can you give me just one motherfucking shred of a break in goddamn fucking life!?!?

Now I have to break into my own house. Middle of the night in a small retirement RV park with nosy old bag neighbors, not unlike Mrs. Kravitz from *Bewitched*. I looked like a heavily armed burglar. My house, the only house in the little neighborhood, didn't have small windows. This was going to be expensive. Another instance where I couldn't wait for morning because the javelinas and coyotes were already in the park, swarming the trash cans. They were strong containers with heavy lids, much like you see in the California mountains—bear-proofed. But the scent persists, attracting all manner of desert creatures. They scare off easily enough, but they're tenacious assholes when it comes to food possibilities. They come right back.

The park is dead silent. My ears are ringing from the shooting, the peace and being generally fucked from too many years of loud music. I chose the bathroom window, the smallest. The problem was, how do I replace it? It's 40 years old, in a sliding metal frame. I'd have to replace the whole damn thing. Here we go. I pressed my hand on the window to test—I don't know why—and it moved. It fucking moved. Angels.

I wasn't the spry young fella I used to be, and being already exhausted and semi-confused, it was a clumsy effort. I didn't care, just get me inside.

I did what any frustrated drunk would do. I drank. I sat in the dark of my living room, quietly trying to pour sleep into me. I took a personal inventory of my preparation and execution of the day and gave myself a solid F. Fail. I was a little giddy thinking about it, though. I survived, the monsters didn't get me, and I could now plan a better experience.

Then the goosebumps. For no reason, goosebumps. This has happened on long bike rides when it was blazing hot and I was dehydrated. OK, I'll have some water now.

Gulping down a glass of water made me instantly nauseous. My entire world began spinning. I got up to turn the lights on, hoping to regain my equilibrium, and I just projectile-vomited until I was seeing stars. I fell to the floor and coughed and vomited, unable to get up. Grabbing at my mattress and pulling with all my strength, it felt like I was tied down and restrained. I capitulated. I turned to my side to not Jim Morrison myself and just gurgled and spit for a few hours. 

I passed out.

When I woke up, I could only barely crawl. I had to use a broomstick to flick on the lights. I was covered in blood. Lots of blood. The floor was covered in blood. I had pissed myself, and that was bloody, too.

I pulled myself onto a storage container, sat and tried to look straight ahead to fight the spinnies. The walls crawled, but not like the LSD days. They crawled with spots, like thousands of tiny, black bugs. They were trying to form a mound. What the fuck? Aside from the occasional scorpion, I'd never seen 'bugs' in the house. Did I leave the bathroom window open? The mound formed into a face, structured in tiny dots like a Monet nightmare. It was in motion like an ant pile. Shadowy figures were all around me—they had those eyes I saw in the desert. They stayed distant, but in a small house, distance is measured in not much square footage. It was menacing. I'm not into spiritual anything, but my disorientation had me thinking, 'Did I disturb a grave out in the desert?' The face, that fucking face, transitioned to a giant, alien-like spider. A dozen long legs reaching towards me as it leapt from the wall. Suddenly, I could move, and move fast. I grabbed my shotgun, and it ducked to the ground. I stomped its body, and it squealed like a squished mouse. It curled up and ran under my bed. The shadows were in a frenzy, and I was freaking the fuck out. Can I shoot a ghost?

I grabbed my spare car keys and ran for the car. Fuck. My wallet is in the desert, too. I head for the highway. Before I get on 77, I turn on my interior lights to do a quick check on my appearance. There is blood all over my face, in my mouth, and on my teeth, like a tiger having emerged from the belly of an antelope kill. I was vomiting blood. I use the remnants of what's left in a Gatorade bottle and wash off my face. The highway is empty. I'm an easy mark if Highway Patrol is out. That was more terrifying than whatever the fuck had just happened. I drive into the darkness. Then the real nightmares began.

To be continued...