Monday, January 22, 2007

Big C

We're sitting around watching the Bears murder the Saints (fuck!) and drinking beer from a two week old keg of Bud Light. One of my buddies busted the TV in the basement, so now we're crowded into two bedrooms watching the Saints shoot themselves in the foot with turnovers.

"So Big C went fucking crazy," Frank says.

A lot of us had heard about this, but not from Frank. Big C was his college roomate until he got thrown out a couple years in. He's a huge guy with blonde hair that was known for being as wild as Frank, but with a darker side that involved massed amounts of cocaine, acid, and other fun drugs made only for killing people. In the last couple months, Big C had moved in with Frank, and had been trying to get a job and straighten himself up after a massive coke binge that landed him in the hospital in a coma.

"I brought him over by my house for the holidays, and he was acting really strange. Then we came over here for the housewarming party, and he was so fuckin out of it that we thought he was fucking with us. I mean, I told him, "You gotta go on the deck to smoke, you can't smoke in here." So he sees everyone getting up and going outside and all that when they want a butt, and what's he do? He lights a fucking cigarette right in the kitchen. I said, "What the fuck are you doing? I told you ten times you gotta smoke outside!" He just looked at me and was like, "Ahhh, sorry bro, sorry."

"There was other times when me and Scottie (his roomate) would wake up, and Big C would just be standing over us, watching us while we slept. Again, I'd yell, "What the fuck are you doing?" And he'd just say, "I don't know man....where the fuck am I?" He would lose all conception of where he was. We'd come home some days, and he'd be cleaning everything obsessively, lining shit up all over the place...I mean, I came home, and I saw his shoes lined up next to each other, perfectly square with the laces tucked in them and all, right in the middle of my desk. He wouldn't remember putting them there."

"Later on, he got into lighting candles and shit, like, all over the damn house. Then, of course, he'd forget that he lit them, so they'd just be burning all over the place and he wouldn't be paying any attention. Last week he was wandering around Paterson, and that's when the cops picked him up. They threw him in the psyche ward, and he was trying to pound the fuckin door down to get out. Then they gave him sedatives, and he figured out that he could just sign himself out. So he leaves there, then calls me up from some random phone number...turns out he was talking to some black guy on the street and asked to borrow his phone so he could get me to come pick him up. All I heard him saying was, "Man, you gotta come pick me up. I'm at some barber shop, and everyone is different colors here."

Now, because he's so fucked up, he sees random colors all over the place, but that's probably not what these Dominicans at this barber shop thought he was talking about. That is, to say the least, potentially dangerous.

"So I go to pick him up, and he's on the corner in a button down shirt and it's like ten degrees outside....and all he kept saying was how bad that psyche ward was, and how he didn't want to go back there. He told me that they're all crazy in there."

So where is Big C now? In a mental institution trying to rip the door off, screaming about how he wants to see Frank and Scottie and that they'll take care of him. He may have permanent brain damage, and he might never be like how I remember him from a year ago. What caused it? Bad ecstasy and loads of yak.

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