Glazed City Eyes

By Preston M. Smith

Jackson McCormack is entering his thirties and his life is not what he hoped it would be. Despite his newly acquired girlfriend Terra, his fledgling writing career and his life are in a state of constant flux. He works a dead-end job and self-medicates profusely, while utilizing every spare moment to devote to his passion for writing. Enter Julius, an elderly, sage-like, street-wandering black man. These two men strike up a unique relationship, as Jackson quickly discovers that Julius also has a penchant for words. While Jackson’s relationship with Terra and career hang by a thin thread, Julius leads him on a series of adventures that will prove to save Jackson’s life. A novel as gritty and vibrant as the city of Los Angeles; it is a story of self-destructiveness, and longing for inner peace. Take the journey alongside Jackson on his quest toward redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Preston M. Smith
• Release date: Jun 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301173136

Preston M. Smith

Preston M. Smith is a novelist and Fine Artist residing in Los Angeles, California. He has a Bachelors degree in Fine Arts from Gonzaga University. Preston's paintings have been shown with the likes of David Lynch and at President Obama's Inauguration. "Glazed City Eyes" is his second novel and first collaboration with Jacob McKinley. Look for "The Blue Period" and "The City Will Rise" to hit ebookstores soon! You can also check out more of his writing and his artwork at: http://www.pmsartwork.com

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Glazed City Eyes

A Novel

By Preston M. Smith

&

Jacob McKinley

Copyright 2013

Preston M. Smith & Jacob McKinley

Smashwords Edition

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If you're going to try, go all the way.

-Charles Bukowski

1.

Jackson McCormack peered down the barrel of the straw, to observe the off-white graininess of the mysterious substance spread out before him, in parallel lines on the glass. Mysterious, not in the sense that it was new to him, but rather in the sense that it changed his behavior in intensely unpredictable ways. It beckoned him, tempting him in a manner not known to him since the blossoming, pre-sexed girls of junior high, as they strutted down the hall with their newly discovered ass, bouncing from right to left. He lifted the forest green straw to his other nostril, plugged the opposite, and inhaled it deep into his brain and it burned and the cells sped up and crashed head first into the septum and disintegrated into a fiery death.

After every line, inspiration came. Energy was in short supply, and the white powder seemed to give him boundless amounts. It seemed to, but was really limited to the time he spent snorting cocaine. Seeming to, was enough for him. Seeming to, was the best he could hope for.

Lines of poetry streamed through him as other lines evaporated into his nose. To him, no one has existed since Bukowski. And if his poetry resembled the drunkard’s, then that was better than bundled reminiscent lines of adolescent, existential angst. Line after line of anxious depression. Who am I, why am I here? The answers to these questions don’t always sell, and he wondered if he could support a female companion and progeny through expressing the ideas in his head; ideas that haunted him and screamed to be expressed.

These types of grandiose questions seemed to be countlessly overtaking him, as if he was blindly walking in a circle under a tempestuous waterfall. Jackson also questioned these questions, and their value to him. He sometimes wondered if he was wasting his time.

Shit... he uttered, as the keys lay silent. Why the fuck do you keep writing the same thing?

He shook his head, weighed down by the collection of centuries of philosophical questions. Repeating himself in only a slightly different manner each time his fingers punched the keys.

He grasped the straw in his hand again and cut up two more massive rails of the powder. The white lady... he uttered and then ground his teeth at his own stupid, masochistic, nihilistic submission to the one drug that simultaneously sparked and robbed him of his creativity.

WWWWWHHHHHHHHHWWWWWWW, and they both disappeared up each eager cavern. Goddamn! Okay, now I can write....

The keys came alive again and sang as if he was playing one of Brahm’s masterpieces. It was as if he was temporarily caught up in a maelstrom of uncertain, unflinching ideas.

I am here to show compassion to humanity, he thought, as he recalled the course he took in Buddhism.

I am here to love my fellow man, he considered, remembering an Inspirational book he had heard of through the grape vine and which he had read in one sitting.

I am a manifestation of god on earth, he proclaimed the Buddhist mantra in is head, trying to avoid feelings of worthlessness. I am a child of God. He was struck by the conceptual similarities between Buddhism and the religion of his upbringing, Christianity, which was intensely emphasized in his household.

He suddenly realized that the stories that brought ideas to life were pliable, more like clay than stone. This, he recognized, was not a profound realization, but a step forward nonetheless. Characters in stories changed just like we always change, and there would have to be a believable and understandable change in his story if people were to be able to identify and relate.

Yet, he shook some of this off as he awoke, as if from a fog, and realized that he did not believe completely anymore, or at least strongly questioned the ideals and teachings of organized religion. What had put these thoughts back in his head? Was it regression to his younger self? Was he clinging to any past idea of what made him feel whole? He remembered that he was more of an existentialist than anything else. Jackson struggled between past and present beliefs and wondered who exactly he was at his core.

Shit! was all he could express, staring at his screen and the lines staring back at him, judging nearly every move. He wondered if anyone would ever read his writing and then he wondered if it even mattered. He was after all, writing for himself. The rest would follow in the manner that it would unfold organically.

Life is a narrative, your story unfolding, learning as you go. The thought of this comforted him as he let loose on the page, filling it without remorse, without hesitation. He was alive. And he felt that his aliveness had meaning. He felt. He felt for as long as he could. A couple of pages were filled with what exactly, he did not know. But he felt better. Like finishing the last gulp out of a beer can or the last swig of a glass of wine. He was finished for the night. Finished with the drugs, finished with the writing. Tomorrow would be the test.

Is it good? The answer to this question would determine if it had all been worth it. If the conversations, if the school learning, if what inspiration he had derived from cocaine was at all worth the come down. The unhappiness, the fading out of what points were made, the theories that enlightened his existence. He would find out after he recovered from the night, from the effort of it all.

He took a piss and splashed water onto his face as he stared at his twitching image in the mirror. He suddenly knew, without question, that not only would the morning be the true test of the substance of his writing, but what was worse, the substance of his own life.

*******************

2.

The phone rang.

No, that was inaccurate.

The cell phone buzzed, as it was on vibrate.

Buzz. Bbbbbuuzzzzz. BBBBBBUUUUUUUUZZZZZZ! It shook and shimmied its way across the top of the nightstand.

Suddenly, Jackson was awake. Torn from the depths of his dreams, that were startlingly real for a few seconds, and then completely lost the next, sunken into the abyss. The phone, plugged into its charger was now silent. Dormant. He picked it up and noticed a missed call. Flipping it open, he discovered that he has missed his Mother’s 55th Birthday by one day.

Shit. he muttered to himself as he shook off the cobwebs of the night so recently passed. He felt completely hideous, and yet somehow he sunk back into a heavy slumber, outlined by tosses, turns, and an aching back. He somehow managed to sleep until 1:00pm, all the while dreaming, fragmented, terrible, guilt-ridden dreams of the inevitable call to his mother that hung over his shotgun pulsing head, like a death sentence.

Dreams of his youth and innocence churned, capsized, and mixed into the inevitability of existence. He shifted once more and then heard the slow, distant buzzing again of his cellular phone. He picked it up, but did not answer it. He peered at the outside screen.

It was Byte, his newly acquired girlfriend of a month or two. Her name was Terra. He liked the idea, early on in a drunken state, of calling her Terra-byte, which eventually shortened into Byte, and the nickname simply stuck.

Hey Byte, what’s up? Jackson answered the phone with the most sober and together version of himself he could produce.

Hey Jackson! Terra said sweetly. What did you do yesterday?

Oh, had a late night. Drank some coffee and got some writing done. Jackson definitely did not want Terra to know about the cocaine, but alluded to his use of stimulants by mentioning the coffee.

What did you write about? She questioned him softly and concernedly about his obsession with writing poems and stories. She didn’t understand why such an intelligent man would spend all his energy writing poems because poems didn’t make money. She did admire his passion though, and was willing to give him a chance because she believed in his potential. Besides, she was not a woman that you would label as materialistic or out solely for monetary gain.

I don’t remember. It’s probably crap. Jackson always remembered that humility keeps one honest with oneself.

I’m sure it’s not that bad sweetheart. This was the first time Terra had used a term of endearment with Jackson. She knew him to be sad much of the time and she wanted to encourage him. He was sad, and he was sweet. She noticed this about him from their first conversation and she adored his affectionate side.

Jackson smiled a big smile and couldn’t hide it over the phone. Well thank you Byte.

Terra could sense the happiness through the receiver and was a little bit bashful herself about their moment of mutual affection.

A tear even welled up in his eyes for a girl, no a woman, who believed in his artistry as much as she did, even though she did not understand poetry, or at least was only working with a conventional understanding of the poetry of the past. She never truly read Buk, Ginsberg, Burroughs, or even Rimbaud for that matter. She had touched on a few of them briefly in some obscure college course, but did not have the time to really, fully, digest them. She was an intelligent girl who Jackson wanted to mold into experiencing what he believed to be the Masters. He was dually scared however, as if he would spoil her innocence, for there are so few pure individuals in this life anymore, especially in America. We all tend to mature past the point of our prime too quickly nowadays. Nostalgia, which is key to the artist, is lost in the absence of a complete childhood. Jackson considered himself lucky in this respect. He felt as if he was one of the few remaining American children to experience a full childhood, yet also to experience human betrayal, anxiety, self indulgence and loss.

"I think I really, like you Miss Byte. You are truly a good one." Jackson uttered.

She understood his inability to completely express himself when nervous and understood his bizarre, semi-comedic compliment.

Terra responded by changing the subject and replied, When do I get to see you Jack?

He hesitated, holding his head, but offered, "How about tonight lady? Let’s finally watch Annie Hall. I still can’t believe that you have not seen it!" He chuckled to himself.

Okay, I’ll come over tonight, Terra said excitedly.

Come over at nine. We’ll drink some wine and talk and watch the movie.

You know me pretty well.

Yeah. Jackson was feeling cocky. He knew he had this girl in his grasp. He knew that once they spent time together, time getting to know each other’s minds, she would want to keep coming around. Terra loved to have intimate conversations and that was Jackson’s specialty. They seemed to be a good match so far, a point that they both silently recognized.

See you tonight. Bye-bye.

Bye.

The years had taught Jackson a thing or two about relationships. A thing or two, but not much more. He was content with the hard fact that relationships run their course. He believed that whether or not he and Terra would stay together was already set in motion and playing itself out in their lives. He was content to let things fall as they may, not trying too hard or too little and not expecting too much or too little, but just letting the experience sink in to his bones and his soul. He felt it was the only fair way to treat another human being, to let her into himself and to offer himself to her, without any pretense or reservation.

So they were set for the night. He felt excited, and yet not fully as his past experience with women had left him a bit cold. He did not expect too much and at the same time wanted to, and that fact frightened him a bit. He was in that very instant resigned to the fact that he had become slightly jaded and did not feel the exuberance that his younger self would have felt in that moment. He spent a few minutes working on the nostalgia factor and was triumphantly able to work up a sort of adolescent excitement. He flopped back down on his bed then, and drifted off into a dream of his younger self.

**************

..............Slow dance......Incomplete, drastically new and innocent feelings pervaded the atmosphere. He arrived at the dance with his childhood best friend and his parents waved goodbye, bidding them farewell and a safe, adolescent time, obscure and fresh. So new and terrifying, but the excitement brought them inside.... Friends, teachers, pretty girls growing (the beginning of what was to be) exciting figures. We joke and cope, pretend to be cool. Then she approaches, abandoning her group of friends, completely brave. I realize that I could never muster the courage to do so. We dance to the wonderful one hit wonders of the 80's, cascading, back-to-back, and I am very much in love. I fight back the erection, embarrassed as I look into the deep, intoxicatingly youthful eyes of a girl approaching womanhood. I suddenly and shockingly have a realistic and clairvoyant vision of the future. It is both disturbing and beautiful. And then I am transported back to the present, and my eyes open to my dreary isolated room and I sit up, breathing heavily and sweating profusely.

****************

3.

I told you it was amazing! Do you like it Byte?

Actually, I do! I had this conception of Woody Allen that made me dislike him before I even watched any of his movies. She proclaimed as she snuggled closer to Jackson.

You’re not the only one. So many younger people have no concept of his movies. They just know what the media has said about him. It’s sad I think.

They stared at screen.

I have to use the bathroom babe.

Okay, babe, he said using that label and starting to like it for the first time.

The screen was paused on Woody’s character sitting in the bedroom with a very young, creepy Christopher Walken. Minutes went by. Jackson began to get impatient.

Then it became intensely long.

Suddenly, Terra emerged from the bathroom with a serious look on her face.

What the hell is this? She asked holding up a razor blade.

Shit, Jackson said to himself as he struggled to come up with an excuse. He had alluded to the recreational use of the drug early on in the relationship and she accepted it, but she had quickly become worried that it would take over his life and become a deciding factor in his artistic and personal demise.

Terra put the razor blade down on the bathroom sink and walked forcefully back to the couch. Jackson knew he was in trouble. He did care that he had upset Terra, but didn’t care to defend himself. He didn’t see the cocaine as such a negative thing. He used it to get a little extra energy at night, which is when he felt most alive and he used it to feel better, if only for a short time.

Are you mad? Jackson asked reluctantly.

No, I’m not mad, but I worry about you. What good does that stuff do you?

It makes me feel better.

What’s wrong that you need to feel better? I thought you said your depression was over with.

It comes back sometimes.

The rest of the night was tense and slightly awkward. As the remainder of the movie played, Jackson wondered if he had ruined his connection with Terra. He walked Terra to her car and gave her a long, heartfelt kiss on the cheek before she sat down into the driver’s seat. He could tell she was still upset, but he hoped the kiss would remind her of their connection and the affection they had already built up for each other.

For the rest of the night, he looked over what he had written the night before. Is it good? The question repeated over and over again in his mind. Jackson noticed that his poetry was rather dark. It was about hopelessness and being weighed down by the world. He detested the world, with its pressures to accumulate money and fame. Being famous had always sucked him in; it sucked him into the trap: Get the job, get the wife, and get the car, the money. It was his weakness. Although he didn’t care too much about the money (as he knew that he could be perfectly happy without it), he couldn’t help but wish that his writing would be noticed someday. He wanted to move people, and reach people. He wanted his art to be felt and heard. He just wanted to be special.

********************

4.

Jackson awoke at 10:00am to the shrieking of his decade old alarm clock. He rolled over and slapped the knob off as he secretly wondered when that ancient clock would finally crap out and betray him on the most important professional day of his life. He almost wished for that to happen, as it would force him to reconcile his current position and maybe make some drastic changes. Maybe he would be fired and then move to Hawaii. Maybe he would pack a bag and hike through Mexico, down to South America and write in the mountains, living completely off of the sustenance provided by the indigenous wildlife of the area.

But, he shook this off like a normal, programmed American citizen. Where were all of the benefactors, the sugar-mommas/daddies of the past that believed completely in the artist and his work?

He stood up, slipped on his Barter Jim’s grocery store shirt and nametag and peered at himself in the mirror as he had done nearly every morning for almost the past two years. He shook his head, made an obscene face at the reflection staring back and then turned towards the door, walked to his car, unlocked it and slipped the key into the ignition.

Jackson hated the monotony of his wage-earning job. Scan, Scan, Scan, and then a friendly announcement of the total amount owed. The question of paying by credit or debit, stuffing all of the items by group into a doubled paper bag, and the tearing away the receipt from the register, only to begin scanning again. He sometimes thought as he scanned the groceries through about all the people of the world who could barely imagine the abundance we enjoy in America. This always affected him with a great sense of guilt. He liked to fantasize about the lives of the people in the checkout lane based on the items they bought. Fat people are more likely to buy cookies, and people who were well dressed were more likely to buy wine. Cookie buyers were middle to low-income women who packed their children’s lunches every morning and worked in an office all day. Wine buyers were rich, with a BMW and a beautiful home on a hill. He knew in the back of his mind that you couldn’t really find out that much about people by what they purchased at the grocery store except what they liked to eat and his conscience told him that making these broad generalizations was too judgmental. Fuck it. It was a simple way to pass the time, so he indulged.

At the end of the night, he counted out his register, with a fifteen minute break in between that allowed him just enough time to eat a protein bar across the street, smoke a cigarette and get out of his regiment barely enough to think about his writing. Just as he got excited enough about a new story or poem, he was back into the fray. He strolled back through the sliding doors, which simultaneously broke his spirit and his posture eclipsed as he sunk back into the reality of a life without freedom. He spent the next 3 to 4 hours re-stocking shelves of cereal, vegetarian and organic meals, and generic BJ’s products at a 25% reduction off of the brand name price. Bad hip-hop blared on the radio and all of Los Angeles rejoiced in ignorant splendor.

Finally, his shift was up and he stood in line with the other employees and bought his pitiful goods at his 10% employee discount rate.

Jackson sauntered through the front sliding doors, said goodbye to a couple of semi-cool co-workers and then when they were out of sight, turned left and sprinted the 12 blocks back to his apartment to document the observations he had accumulated over the past shift.

He felt invigorated again!

He tore up his apartment steps and anxiously fidgeted for his keys....

Racing to his computer, he forgot to shut the door behind him. Jackson stopped himself. Okay, slow down, he thought. He walked slowly back to the door of his apartment and shut it, went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of water. I have to put my ideas into some kind of order. How can I make my words strike an emotional chord? And what point about the human experience do I want to make today? He spoke to himself that way before every writing session. It was an incantation of sorts. It made him feel like a writer and it switched his mindset back to his real self. The intimate and emotional self he was when alone, or with loved ones. Not the task oriented machine he had to be at work.

Before long, the ideas would be pouring out of his fingertips into the keyboard and then to the computer screen. First drafts were always the toughest for Jackson. He constantly fought the urge to go back over a line just after he wrote it. When he first started writing, he wrote line by line this way, which produced succinct and meaningful poems, but he couldn’t produce very many. He had to learn to freely express himself on the page, only going back to revise after the entire poem was finished.

Something wasn’t quite right yet. Jackson got up from his chair. He trudged to his refrigerator and opened the door, scanning all of the nearly empty shelves. His eyes fixated on a half empty bottle of $9.99 Pinot Grigio on the bottom shelf of the door. His face lit up and he snatched it quickly and emptied a soaking wine glass by the sink and poured the remnants into it.

He saluted his heroes and took a rather large hit from the glass. He opened the sliding patio door onto his miniature-sized sanctuary and slid outside where the nearly full moon smiled down upon him. He pondered seriously about all of his dead heroes as he flicked a cig from the package and lit it up. He stared out onto his limited view of the desolated landscape that was Los Angeles and gathered