Nik's Revenge Road Trip Mixtape

By Jack Swift

Nik is a recovering junkie with some heavy baggage. When sober life fails to inspire, he trades in his 9 to 5 for the open road. Armed with a gun and the perfect mixtape, he's out to settle some scores.

But revenge is more complicated than he expected. For one thing, his car is haunted. Plus his 12 Step sponsor keeps calling him, and it's getting hard to keep his lies straight. Then a monster bag of heroin practically falls into his lap, which Nik finds... distracting. Worst of all, his targets don't even have the grace to be straight-up monsters.

It's a lot to deal with-- especially when, between the flashbacks and the nightmares, Nik can hardly tell the past from the present...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Swift
• Release date: May 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370074785

Book preview

NIK’S REVENGE ROAD TRIP MIXTAPE

by

JACK SWIFT

Published by Jack Swift at Smashwords

Copyright 2017 Jack Swift

TABLE OF CONTENTS

SIDE A.

TRACK 1. ‘REVENGE’ BY BLACK FLAG

TRACK 2. ‘THE GUN’ BY LOU RED

TRACK 3. ‘WE MUST BLEED’ BY THE GERMS

TRACK 4. ‘FOLSOM PRISON BLUES’ BY JOHNNY CASH

TRACK 5. ‘ADDIT UP’ BY THE VIOLENT FEMMES

TRACK 6. ‘GIMME DANGER’ BY THE STOOGES

TRACK 7. ‘RICHARD HUNG HIMSELF’ BY D.I.

TRACK 8. ‘PERSONAL JESUS’ BY JOHNNY CASH

SIDE B.

TRACK 9. ‘I’M WAITING FOR THE MAN’ BY THE VELVET UNDERGROUND

TRACK 10. ‘FEEL GOOD HIT OF THE SUMMER’ BY QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE

TRACK 11. ‘SUICIDE CHILD’ BY THE NUNS

TRACK 12. ‘WHEN OUR LOVE PASSED OUT ON THE COUCH’ BY X

TRACK 13. ‘CREDIT IN THE STRAIGHT WORLD’ BY HOLE

TRACK 14. ‘THE LIFE AND DEATH OF MR. BADMOUTH’ BY PJ HARVEY

TRACK 15. ‘THE BLACK ANGEL’S DEATH SONG’ BY THE VELVET UNDERGROUND

TRACK 16. ‘LAST CHANCE FOR A SLOW DANCE’ BY FUGAZI

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

NOVEMBER 2011

SIDE A

TRACK 1: ‘REVENGE’ BY BLACK FLAG

I was in the bathroom, hiding from Harley. The space was dim, cramped, and a little damp. The faucet dripped, and the ragged mat on the floor smelled strongly of mildew. The air was hot and thick with steam from a recent shower, but I shivered even as I sweated. Crouched in the dark, my knees shaking, I did my best not to move or even breathe, hoping that, if I was quiet enough, I might stop existing by sheer force of will.

I could hear him moving around outside, knocking things over. Harley always became careless when he was angry. He moved through the world like a juggernaut even on his best days, bowling people over with his charm when he wasn’t flooring them with his fists. He was a force of nature. He never turned it off.

Nik! His voice was hoarse with fury. This is really fucking stupid. With bad grace, he tried on a coaxing tone: Come on, baby. Come out so we can talk.

I swallowed hard against the panicked apologies rising in my throat. I reminded myself that if he didn’t find me, I wouldn’t need to play games of placation. He was beyond placating, anyway. He always had been, probably since long before I met him. I wrapped a hand over my mouth to stifle my anxious breathing. I would be quiet, and small, and he would never find me, and everything would be OK.

From outside came a bang and a loud clatter. Harley cursed. Shit, Nik! Wait til you see what you just made me do. He vented a hefty sigh. Is this really how you deal with your problems? Hiding? You think the issue will disappear if you run away? That’s great, Nik. Real adult…

My knees were about to give out. With agonizing care, I eased myself from squatting into a sitting position on the floor. My clothes rustled slightly, but other than that I didn’t make a sound. Surely the rapid beat of my heart could not be audible to Harley through the door, no matter how loud it sounded in my ears.

His pacing footsteps halted outside. I could imagine his intent blue eyes, focused coldly on the middle distance, as he strained to pick up any tell-tale sound from within. I clenched my teeth, and pretended that I was made of tile and terrycloth.

Ever so gently, he gave the door a push. It swung open with a despairing groan. A sliver of light slipped through the gap, like a wedge to split the darkness. The sudden illumination silhouetted his magnificent body. I only saw the knife in his hand for an instant.

****

Then I woke up in the warm morning. Sunlight poured through the venetian blinds. The shadows made zebra-stripe patterns on the naked bodies of Harley and me. We lay side by side and barely entwined; his arm thrown over my shoulder, my arm dangling off the side of the bed with my knuckles brushing the floor. He had pulled all the blankets away from me again, and then presumably kicked them off in his sleep. The sheets and comforters had accumulated in the six-inch gap between the foot of the bed and the wall. Although I was warm now that the sun was up, I could tell by the stiffness and soreness of my muscles that I had been cold through the night. The cold never seemed to leave me these days. It sank into my bones. It settled behind my eyeballs and turned everything that I looked at gray.

Harley stirred and stretched, his strong limbs infringing on the scant space that was left to me on the bed. He opened his eyes slowly, and fixed me with a blue stare. A raffish grin spread across his face, disarming and beautiful. I smiled weakly in return. In the back of my mind I was screaming, but I couldn’t understand why. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. It made no sense. I knew I was lucky to have him. He was gorgeous, fit, a musician, the epitome of my type from the tips of his golden eyelashes to the bulging veins in his arms. He was great in bed, and he had the best dope in town. I had every reason to be happy with him. But every time his eyes met mine, hope died within me.

Is there coffee ready? he asked. No yawns, no sleepy preamble, certainly no ‘Good Morning.’ Harley was all business in his own special way from the moment he returned to consciousness.

I just woke up, I snapped.

He frowned, as if he didn’t like my tone. I didn’t like my tone either. I could tell from the look in his eyes that I’d sounded whiny and petulant.

Well, would you start some? he asked, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

I guess it probably was—reasonable, that is. I didn’t want to make him coffee, though. I couldn’t think of any good reason for my reluctance. It came from nothing I could articulate, at least not with his gaze boring into me. While I tried to find words, I stared at the floor and pushed the dirty laundry around with my foot. I must have looked like I was sulking (was I?) because he reached for me with large, comforting hands. Unaccountably, I shrank from his touch.

Nik, his voice wavered between amusement and irritation, what the fuck is wrong?

I blinked tears from my eyes.

You’re not even here, I told him. This is just a dream.

And I woke up for real.

****

The phone was ringing. I swore foully and pulled a pillow over my head, scrunching down under the covers as if the sound was a physical assault from which I could protect myself with layers of cotton and down.

It was a gray November morning. Rain was beating on the roof and streaming silver down the windowpanes. In the corner, by my Velvet Underground poster, the ceiling was leaking again. Fat drops of water plopped onto an already-soaked patch of carpet. My twin bed was narrow, but I had it to myself. Aside from the incessant trilling of the phone, I was all alone.

I waited for the answering machine to pick up, sickened by the knowledge of whose voice I was about to hear.

Hi, Nik. It’s me again. Harley. Listen, I know that you don’t want to talk to me. I wouldn’t keep bothering you if it wasn’t very, very important. But even though it is important, just about the most important thing in the world to me, this is going to be the last time I call. After this, I promise I’ll leave you alone for good. I live in Los Angeles now. If you ever do want to track me down, I’m easy to find...

I listened to the mechanical voice, stripped of soul and still so eerily, essentially Harley, droning on about street addresses and phone numbers and even a goddamn website. I wasn’t paying attention to the words so much as to the noises, noises that hypnotized me because they came from somebody who I hated so much, somebody I had tried my level best to erase from my life, who nonetheless, through the wonders of technology, had managed to intrude upon my existence once again as a soundwave.

Yet when the message ended and I was given the option to erase or to save, I dragged myself out of bed and padded into the kitchen to hit repeat instead. I listened to the details this time, and took them down on the little pad of yellow sticky notes that sat beside the phone. When the message was over I played it one more time to make sure I had everything right. I stared at what I had written for a long minute before pulling the note off the pad and sticking it to the fridge. Then, as if to negate what I had just done, I quickly turned away to set about making coffee.

The kitchen was done in Zolatone, a retro-80’s finish that looked like granite. The floor was black and white chessboard linoleum. The end of the kitchen and beginning of the living room was marked by a shaggy red rug. My turntable, speakers, computer, and amp all sat on the floor, while my guitars leaned in a corner. I didn’t have much furniture— just the couch, two chairs, a kitchen table, and my bed— and even less by way of artwork. It was depressingly empty.

As the scent of cheap coffee pervaded the apartment, I sat down at the kitchen table and stared at the little yellow note on the fridge. I didn’t understand why I’d bothered to take down Harley’s info. I hated the fucker. I never wanted to see him again. I definitely didn’t want to talk to him about whatever he thought was so important. Knowing him, it would either be some kind of navel-gazing, pseudo-healing revelation about the past, or else a wildly inappropriate request for money. Even so, as always, once I had started thinking about Harley it was hard to stop.

The clock on the oven read seven thirty. I poured myself a cup of coffee and downed it in the same motion, ignoring the brown liquid that sloshed onto the counter. I had about ten minutes to shower and dress, otherwise I was going to be late. I had a commitment on Sunday mornings which I found it advantageous to keep.

****

Hi, I’m Nik, and I’m an addict, I said.

Hi, Nik, chorused the group, in creepy yet comforting unison.

Sunday mornings I was the set-up person at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting in the Mission. Barely six months clean, it behooved me to show up regularly, lest everybody think I had relapsed. My pride demanded it. It really wasn’t that much trouble. All I had to do was unfold twenty metal chairs and put them in a circle, and then pretend for an hour that I was listening to the people who sat in them. Usually I passed the time by thinking about sex. This, I chose to believe, was an improvement over my first few months in NA, when I had passed the time in meetings by thinking about heroin. ‘Progress, not perfection,’ as they say.

I did try to speak in every meeting. It seemed to make people think I was getting better. That was why I was speaking now, and as usual, I had no idea what I was going to say.

Uh, thanks everyone for being here, I began. Platitudes always get you high points in NA. When you start picking up the right things to say, people at least know that you’re paying some kind of attention. Drop enough clichés into a share and you might even fool some folks into thinking you’ve been reading your Basic Text.

I’m glad to be clean today, I went on, although I still have to tell myself that I’ll shoot up again someday. In fact, every morning I tell myself that I’ll do it tomorrow. Postponing tomorrow indefinitely is the real trick, I find.

A light smattering of chuckles— this was the kind of thing that these people liked. Encouraged, I continued talking out of my ass.

Thanks for the great topic, uh, Danielle. I could barely remember the speaker’s name, much less what the topic was. But right now, I need to get current. This morning I got a weird phone call from somebody from my using days. It was kind of upsetting, to be honest. I hate to think about how I would’ve handled hearing from him, you know, before…

I was babbling. As I babbled, I felt myself departing from the format, from the safe, well-worn words that would make people think I wasn’t as fucked-up as I used to be. As I strayed from the beaten path, I felt my mind kick into gear. Yes, how would I have dealt with this situation back then? With heroin, of course: the only way I’d ever known of dealing with anything. It had now been six months since my last fix. What options did that leave me? Should I just ignore Harley’s call? Pretend that everything was fine? I was shit at pretending everything was fine. That was why I’d needed dope in the first place.

I’ll be going out of town for a bit, I heard myself saying. I’d really appreciate it if somebody could pick up my commitment for the next couple of weeks. Hit me up after the meeting, will you? I drew a deep breath, suddenly flustered and embarrassed. That’s all I’ve got for now. Thanks.

****

Carrie accosted me after the meeting. Tall and rangy, she had a wise, lean face and hawkish eyes. Her hair was a deep auburn that clearly came out of a bottle. She liked to wear leather jackets; I think she had a motorcycle. NA is for the cool kids. A chain of black key tags, denoting years of clean time, dangled from her hip almost to the ground. On anyone else it might’ve seemed like an ostentatious display, but Carrie wore it like an extension of herself. I’d never exchanged more than a few words with her, but I felt that I knew her from her shares. She talked with wry bitterness about being a coke whore in punk rock Los Angeles during the late seventies. No matter how black her subject matter, she always managed to make everyone laugh. She was a hardass and a hardboiled old-timer who’d been clean for about a hundred years. I liked her.

So you’re skipping town, huh. She spoke without preamble. Her voice was a gruff alto, raspy with cigarettes.

Yeah, I said. Can you do set-up while I’m gone?

She laughed, and shook her head. Not me, kid, I’ve got enough commitments. Find another sucker. Like most NA members she talked like an old junkie, in the language of deals and cons, but there was no meanness in her voice. Where you going?

A road trip, kind of, I said.

Her brows lifted. They were drawn on with a dark red pencil that matched her hair. You’re gonna need some phone numbers for that.

I smiled uncertainly in the face of this frontal attack, and looked surreptitiously for the exit. Yeah, I guess so.

Kid, you’re still in your first year of recovery, she said impatiently. This is a bad time for you to be without your fellowship.

I didn’t say anything. I liked Carrie fine, but nobody likes getting lectured by an old-timer. Right then I didn’t care that she’d been clean for longer than I’d been alive, and I didn’t care how she’d done it, either. I just wanted to go home.

Do you know how to find meetings wherever you’re going? she persisted.

No, I admitted. But I bet I can track something down.

I bet you can, she agreed, but will you?

I shrugged and looked at the floor. I was getting a little pissed. I could tell that she had an agenda, like everybody in this goddamn program, but for the life of me I couldn’t tell what it was.

Do you have a sponsor, at least?

My silence stretched. It seemed to be all the answer that she needed. She whipped out a business card and handed it to me. It said Joyce Automotive above a picture of a red T-Bird. It had her name on it, and a phone number at the bottom.

Do me a favor: call me every day and just tell me that you’re clean, she said. We can say the S-word later on if need be.

I took the card with a mumbled thanks and some sort of vague assurance. I had no intention of taking Carrie up on her offer. But as I pocketed the business card, I knew, deep in my gut, that Carrie’s phone number belonged in the glove compartment of my Dodge Dart, tucked in beside Harley’s address and a road map to hell. Maybe I’d drop by Joyce Auto for a tune-up before I left town.

****

At home I put on a Fugazi record and more coffee, then did a search for Harley’s full name and the city of Los Angeles. Of course it came up with a band.

He looked odd in the promotional pictures— different, not just older. When I’d first met him he’d been twenty five, as old as I was now. I’d been