Crumble

By Victor Penro

Kent Robbs lives in his own dark, sad world, and he isnt sure what it would take to turn him into someone who could fit with the rest of society. An amazing guitarist, hes nevertheless cursed with stage fright that keeps him from truly using his gift. After a run of bad luck that is literally fiery, someone finally lends him a hand.

Musician and music producer Gino Favori hires Kent to play in his band. In a relatively short amount of time, Kent makes friends for life and even falls for the bands sultry lead singer, Erin. Although his demons continue to haunt him, he is determined not to squander this opportunity and what may be his last chance at success.

When the band goes on tour and finds the situation overwhelming, Kent becomes the one to pull them together. He dismisses his own issues and puts his bandmates on his shoulders, carrying them so they can see over the clouds. But Kents luck is never that good for long. Once he finds himself over the hell he created for most of his life, it looks like the band, his love life, his sanity, and the world may crumble in spite of him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475959352

Victor Penro

Victor Penro was born in Cleveland, Ohio. Writing from an early age, he is the author of short stories and screenplays. Penro currently lives in Florida.

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Copyright © 2012 by Victor Penro.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-5934-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5936-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5935-2 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 11/13/2012

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

For the lovely ladies in my life

Chapter One

This is hell, flashed in Kent’s head. At this moment he was raving silently and he was exhausted. Chicago had been scorching the first two weeks of July.

There seemed to be thousands of people around him, walking the sidewalks and making the best of the weather. Yet they all had a restrained and malicious distaste for Kent.

He stole glances into their faces, and they all were staring at him with hateful eyes. Could it be it was impolite to look strangers in the eyes? Or was he marked by the devil?

Kent didn’t know where to go. He felt that any other place would be just as bad or worse than State Street. If he took a right and got on Michigan Avenue, where it was busier, there was a chance the buildings would fall away to the ground and the sky would turn orange. Flames would then tower over everybody, and he would realize that he definitely was in hell. Something corrosive pumped through his heart at the thought of it.

Kent had been sent to see psychologists and psychiatrists, but all their tests had come back negative. Kent didn’t have a mental illness. This didn’t help Kent now, and it didn’t help him back then. It made the possibility of living in hell seem more real. If nothing was wrong with him, then there was something wrong with the whole world.

What did I do? Kent whispered with his lip quivering, trying to force out some tears as some proof of life. Taboo or not, he needed to release. If he could cry, it would mean there was something alive inside of him instead of the void he lived with day to day.

The buildings shimmered in the sunlight, and the light reflected into Kent’s eyes. Could that be why everyone looked hateful? They all had sunlight in their eyes? He threw the thought away, along with any consolation.

They probably all hate me because I haven’t experienced the real torture in hell yet. That’s why they’re looking at me like that, Kent went on in his head.

He imagined what it would be like if the heat was a hundred degrees hotter. Would we be able to take it because it would be our souls burning rather than our bodies? Kent wondered.

Right now, as he battled with his thoughts, Kent was trying to make it back to his apartment on the north side of downtown Chicago. The visit to the payday loan office probably made his walk home darker than usual.

Once he made it to the loan office, he was swimming in sweat and entirely uncomfortable. His large Afro concentrated the heat on his head, and since he was so dark and skinny the heat just cooked him. He kept tugging at his T-shirt, subconsciously wanting to take it off.

The service in the loan office wasn’t a great help either. Shaniqua, his loan specialist, wouldn’t even look at him unless it was to scowl at him if he took too long to answer one of her tirades of questions for personal information. What made it worst was that Kent was attracted to her. She had blonde hair (of course dyed), green eyes (contacts), smooth caramel-colored skin (that was real), and nice, thick lips. The whole ensemble transformed her. She looked like the queen of all payday loan offices.

He just wondered why she hated him. Then he figured that she was simply like everyone else. Everybody hated him, in his eyes. He figured the only reason he noticed her hate so clearly was because she was one of the few lucky people to interact up close with such a weirdo.

He left with shame and two hundred dollars in twenties. Back on State Street, hell was about to rip through the fabric of space and time, and he was going to burn for being a helpless sinner.

He thought, If people hate me, shouldn’t at least God be different and love me? But we’re made in God’s image, so the people hate me because God does. So this hate that everyone has just by the sight of me is what I deserve. Does that mean the devil loves me? Of course he doesn’t. He hates all humans. So God, people, and the devil all hate me. Do I hate myself?

He accidentally walked into the street with a Do Not Walk signal on the lamppost and an oncoming car honked at him for an obnoxiously long time. Kent stood there waiting for the young female driver to say something awful out of the window, but she just sat back in her seat and let Kent cross.

Kent found that if he just paid attention to where he was going, maybe hell wouldn’t reveal itself just then. He observed the flow of foot traffic, sidewalk signals, and traffic lights all the way to his apartment building. He still caught glimpses of disgust in people’s faces. Or maybe it was just the sun.

Chapter Two

His apartment was no haven though. It was a one-room un-studio. No bathroom. No kitchen. The bed bugs in the building were fighting back against the monthly exterminations. Kent had seen a few in the creases of his bed lately.

He closed the door and looked around the room to make sure he was alone. He could still hear the voices of random people he brought with him, in his mind, from the street. The twin-size bed with the cheap blue and red sheets was in its corner to the left. The light brown closet doors were shut. Nobody could fit in the narrow closet by the sink. The papers, books, and magazines inside were stacked almost to the ceiling. He sighed. Everything was in its place.

It was time to busy himself with his current interest: DMT. DMT, Kent had learned, was a psychedelic drug that brought on deep and even spiritual hallucinations. What made it stand out for Kent was the fact that DMT is also produced in everyone’s brains, inside the pineal gland. The plant that produced DMT was usually found in South America, where shamans would use it for spiritual ceremonies. From what he read, it was more powerful than peyote. It utterly takes your whole body and consciousness for a trip into mental realms impossible to reach without this drug.

He had watched videos of people using the drug. They would talk in slurred nonsense and move like they were in pudding while their friends laughed off camera. Those hadn’t been as fun as he thought they would be. The videos he was hooked on were the ones that stated how the trip changed the person. They’d say, You have to be ready for this experience, man. Or, You won’t grow if you’re just looking to get high. They spoke like they had been to another planet. When they described the colors they were seeing or the extradimensional beings they met, they spoke with an air of sacredness. Kent would snicker at times because the experiences these psychonauts described made absolutely no sense. But Kent wanted to experience something new, something more peaceful.

Kent was only ten pages away from finishing the four-hundred-page book, DMT: The Spirit Molecule. The most important thing he learned from the book was that everyone had DMT in them already. It naturally dosed you while you sleep. Taking the drug from the plant wouldn’t necessarily give you a good experience. Everybody reacted differently, and for some people, tripping on DMT could be a nightmare. Kent understood that the author was only performing a study on the drug to educate the public and the government. He wasn’t suggesting that everyone should trip.

Wisely, Kent knew he couldn’t handle such a powerful drug. He had even declared that he would never try a hardcore psychedelic. He envisioned himself accidently committing suicide. Maybe he would jump off the Y’s fire escape from the fourteenth floor thinking there was a flower with magical pollen there to cushion his fall.

However, he remembered the days when he would go weeks getting high everyday on marijuana. Those years had a mystic haze around them. Most of his highs were euphoric. And the only reason he quit was because he had developed a twitching eyelid. The twitching went away a month after he quit. But to this day he didn’t think quitting had been worth it.

His plan for tonight was to get high and meditate. Meditation was tricky, and Kent was aware of that because he had sat and meditated at least a hundred times in his life. Kent’s mother would bring him along to spiritual seminars when he was young and even during his high school years. The seminar he gravitated toward most was meditating with real Tibetan monks. He remembered their faces. Kent remembered buying a meditation necklace from one of the monks. The monk wore a dark red robe with a yellow cloth across the chest. The monk took Kent’s hands in his and smiled. The monk’s smile suggested he knew Kent’s awkwardness and inertia and wanted Kent to know it didn’t mean a thing.

There was no expectation for spiritual growth tonight. But he had to start somewhere. The goal was to become more centered and then reach his goal of being perpetually peaceful. In that state, life wouldn’t be as lonely or tough. He figured that if he was lucky, he would just move on to the next plane of existence when his life had nothing else to teach him. There would be no process of death. It was a long shot, but Kent thought he was too fucked up to be peaceful without a little help from mother nature.

There was only one person who could get Kent some hydro. It was Chris. Chris had a hand in almost every transaction that involved cash in the building. He’d pay your rent for the current month, but you would have to pay yours and his for the next two months. Chris was known as a jokester around the Y, but Kent sensed he was brutal to deadbeats off the premises.

Kent knew all of this. Yet he was willing to take a risk for spiritual growth.

It was simple to find Chris; one just had to wait in front of the building. After Chris exited the building, he immediately started talking loudly to the two other guys standing out in front. Kent’s trust in Chris was bolstered by the way he properly pronounced the ends of his words. Chris always had a fresh haircut, and his skin was very light, which made him look close to biracial. Not to mention his jeans were at his waist and his shirt wasn’t huge.

Kent waited to walk up to Chris after a break in conversation with the other guys.

What’s up? Kent asked.

Chris looked Kent over. It was obvious to them both that they had nothing in common.

What’s up, homie? the hustler answered.

Nothing. I was looking—I was asking people where I could find some hydro, and they told me to ask you.

Hydro? Chris was tickled. You mean ‘dro?

Yeah.

I know this dude. He stay on the West Side. He got that ‘dro. I’m gonna hook you up ‘cause I see you around and you look like a cool cat. Chris looked at Kent silently for a moment. Your name Ken, right?

Kent.

Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. People told me you like to keep to yourself. You don’t cause no drama.

Yeah. I just stay here. I’m not trying to play no games.

Chris laughed.

Let me call my dude. He probably around here anyway.

He made a call on his iPhone, and within fifteen minutes Kent was in the car with Chris and what seemed like his good friend, Ray. Ray was driving a gold ’98 Impala. The car was in pretty good shape if you didn’t notice the rust-eaten tailpipe.

Ray was wearing a multicolored polo with a black collar. His dreads hung to just below his ears, and he was smoking a Newport as they drove down Chicago Avenue.

We got that ‘dro, Ray said and then cackled.

We got that ‘dro, Chris repeated.

Kent knew the less he spoke, the better. His nasally suburban tongue was what always got him in trouble with folks from the other side of town.

The two businessmen up front would carry on a normal conversation, and then there were times when they spoke too low for Kent to hear. Normally Kent would get worried about something like that, but he figured they were just planning to overcharge him. It was intimidating how Ray had a certain growl when he talked. It was only found in the voices of those in the projects. In the backseat, Kent assumed that Ray’s vocal habits were learned quickly and at a young age.

Suddenly Ray pulled to the side of the street, stopped, and sighed. He turned around and looked at Kent with a smile.

I don’t think you ready for this here ‘dro. You sure you want this shit? Ray asked.

As a reflex, Kent answered hastily, Yeah, I’m ready.

Ray turned around and nudged the car back into traffic.

He ready to get blowed, Chris said suspiciously.

Yeah. He said he ready, but I don’t think he is, Ray answered. This shit will put you on your back.

The two in the front let out some sort of arrogant grunts.

Kent quit worrying about the little stop when Ray started playing loud music with the rapper phrasing and rephrasing how he murdered niggas. Could Ray be speaking through the music?

They pulled up to one of the last project high-rises in the city, parked, and walked past a few black cars rattling their trunks with subwoofers. Ray nodded at the men in the cars.

Chris started walking to the dented side door of the apartment building. Ray grabbed him and said, We doing this shit outside, nigga. I don’t want this fool in my crib.

I got you, Chris replied.

One more time, nigga. You gonna buy this ‘dro or not? Chris asked.

Yeah. I told you. I’m ready for this shit. This wasn’t Kent’s usual mode of communication, but he figured he had to find some common ground.

Let me see the money, Ray demanded.

Kent showed Ray and Chris his fold of bills.

All right. Put that shit away till we get to the spot.

It registered as weird for Kent that they didn’t go inside the building. Inside there were no cameras or cops to see them dealing drugs. The only reason outside was better was because it would be more convenient if there was a mess left behind.

Chris and Ray led Kent to the alley that bordered the highway. They stopped when the only light that hit the alley was from a slit between the building and the high fence.

Kent was ready to run at the slightest sign from the other two.

This shit is gonna cost fifty, Ray said with his eyes half open.

I only have forty, Kent said, worrying that he would not be able to smoke when he got home.

All right. I’ll hook you up. Give me the forty.

Can I see the hy—I mean, ‘dro first?

Naw, bitch. Give me the money and you’ll get your weed.

Kent shut down. He couldn’t talk back to them, and he didn’t want to back down, so he just stared at his feet.

Ray demanded the money again.

With his head still down, Kent turned and began to walk to the end of the alley, where they entered a few moments ago.

Nigga! Where you think you going? Chris barked at Kent’s back.

Kent glanced back and shrank when he saw Ray had a big pistol aimed at his head. The only good thing about the terror that Kent was trying not to show was the epiphany that he still wanted to live. Even now as he was being robbed he wanted to keep seeking. Life was bigger than this, and somewhere out there happiness was waiting for him. These two guys were just assholes.

Come on, man. I didn’t do anything to you, Kent pleaded. Are you gonna shoot me?

It never amazed Kent that no matter what, he could not cry.

Shut up, bitch. Give me the money, Ray said keeping his aim at Kent’s forehead.

Kent took the money out and held it out toward Chris. At that moment Kent imagined Chris standing up for him and letting Kent leave with his money. At the same time Kent knew the idea was completely foolish.

Ray walked up to Kent, took the money and then pressed the barrel of the gun to Kent’s forehead.

You ready to die, bitch-ass nigga?

There were a few century-long moments that Kent lived and died in. The way Ray was breathing was unnerving. He was breathing in long and slow and then snorting out the air like an animal. But the barrel was firm at the center of Kent’s forehead. It didn’t move a millimeter. Ray violently pushed Kent’s head back using the gun.

Didn’t yo’ momma tell you not to trust ghetto niggas? Ray snarled.

Chris laughed.

You think you better than us, don’t you?

Ray used the tip of the gun and put it to Kent’s dry lips.

Open yo’ mouth, nigga, Ray said.

Kent hesitated.

I’m just messing wit you, nigga!

Ray put his gun back in his pants and shared a belly laugh with Chris. Living in squalor in the Y didn’t connect Chris and Kent. All Kent meant to Chris was another dollar.

What you looking at us for? You better start walking out of here before another nigga take them busted shoes off your feet, Ray said, catching his breath.

Chapter Three

Getting away from those two with his life had nearly made Kent feel new. To Kent it felt like he had taken a test and he passed it. The reward? His life. The forty bucks he lost would have gone to books or video games anyway. He walked with his head up high, and the pedestrians around the project ignored him, which gave him permission to remain secure.

His igloo, so named because it kept all the heat in, was waiting for him thirty blocks away. In it he’d still hear the threatening voices of the wild men, but he wouldn’t be bothered on the other side of the door.

Kent guessed peace was just a dream again. In order to rationalize the situation Kent concluded that getting high probably wasn’t the best idea, considering the type of people who had access to it. It was just another way the other crabs stopped him from escaping the