Monsters in My Head

By Robin Lizbeth

All of the human beings in this story are real. This is a story of the human condition in all its extremities. Every one of them deserves to be remembered for better or worse. I have learned to know what Ive always believed: that most people are good, most of the time, and those that are bad are not bad all of the time.
Acts of love are sometimes forgotten long before acts of violence, so we should perform lots of the former to overcome the latte

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 8, 2008
• ISBN: 9781463422271

Book preview

Contents

Author’s Note

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

Monsters in my head.

Author’s Note

All of the human beings in this story are real. This is a story of the human condition in all its extremities. Every one of them deserves to be remembered for better or worse. I have learned to know what I’ve always believed: that most people are good, most of the time, and those that are bad are not bad all of the time.

Acts of love are sometimes forgotten long before acts of violence, so we should perform lots of the former to overcome the latter.

Chapter one

There was a knock at the door, more like a pounding, that I should have been more cautious of when it woke me up at 6 AM. I’d been crashed out on the floor next to my running buddies, Rob and Larry. They didn’t move, so as the knocking persisted, I got up frustrated and more than half asleep and looked out the peephole only to see a short young girl with long blond hair. She looked harmless enough so I opened the door.

No sooner than the chain was unhitched, two men with sawed-off shotguns forced their way inside while I jumped back so as not to get hit by the door. The chick? She stayed outside. One of the men shut the door and told me to sit down! while the other went over to Larry and shoved a sawed-off double-barrel against his cheekbone. Larry tried to swat it off in his sleep as if it were a mosquito or something. I tried not to crack a smile but it was funny. Especially when Larry opened his eyes and realized what was poking him. I would’ve giggled out loud if I’d have known the gun-wielders better. I only sorta recognized the strawberry blond headed one.

I’d been in his presence a few times when Larry and I had gone to his house to talk to him about some plans we had for making methamphetamine.

As I tried to give my full attention my mind was scanning through all the info I had on him just in case I’d needed it. I couldn’t remember if I ever knew his name, but I remembered his house had looked like something out of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It was back off of a dirt road, surrounded by mesquite trees, and built out of ship-lapped wood that was weathered to the point I could only make out slithers of white paint that reflected from some light coming out of his torn screen door. We never went inside his house, we would just sit in the car - or, actually, I would sit in the car while he and Larry discussed business outside of the car leaning on the hood. We only went at night, and I couldn’t have found his place again if my life depended on it.

While all that was quickly splashing up from my memory banks, there he was, right in front of me, with his giant bruiser, their two guns, and some chick outside playing lookout (or holding jiggers as we called it). And I didn’t even know either one’s name to write in blood on the wall just in case. All I could do was sit there.

I’ll call Texas chain-saw guy RED ‘cuz he was. That is, he was a red- faced, beer-bellied, long stringy-haired, speed freak that spoke the South Texas white trash slang that was so common here on the side of town my mother always warned me about. He had the usual ulcerated acne that I never noticed until now that I saw him in the morning light - you know, that acne that came along with the bulging wide eyes of a paranoid that has been using speed too many years and awake too many nights?

He spit and jerked as he talked through his clinched teeth and said, "Larry, what’d ya do with the Pyrex gearrrr?» and his face got even redder.

Larry’s hands went up as he got to his feet so fast that it looked like one motion when he came to his awareness early that morning, and shaking he said, Whoa, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

The hell you don’t! You were the only one who knew we were leaving this morning. You knew the shit was packed and ready to go. Now Red’s face was almost purple and he was spraying little shards of spit as he strained his neck to get his bulging eyes and gun barrels closer to Larry’s face. Meanwhile, I’m just sitting there very straight and awake now with my hands together between my knees trying to look respectful, like I’m waiting my turn outside the principles office; you know, scared shitless!

Without moving, I looked up at the big, silent, dark headed one who had his shotgun pointed to my temple as he stood over me in my chair. It got quiet in the room for a few seconds while Red was just glaring, probably thinking. It was long enough for me in my hyper-vigilance to notice the usual workday sounds outside. The sounds you hear in the morning in a cheap apartment complex: doors slamming, people hustling down the breezeways to their cars, cars leaving while others pulled up and honked to their carpool partners. I didn’t move but I thought to myself, ‘these assholes couldn’t be dumb enough to shoot us… But then again, they just might be crazy enough ‘.

Larry tried again and said, I didn’t rip you off man; we were in this together.

Then it happened.

Like always in the presence of authority, my usual self-righteous, impulsive, adolescent mouth dropped into gear and - with unbridled torque - deserted my brain, and my ears heard me say:

He was with me last night!

Red’s head zapped like it was spring-loaded to a forty-five degree angle of his gun barrel and now he was looking straight at me while still pointing his gun at Larry.

I could feel my eyes explode wide open as I thought, OH my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Which, translated, meant: He’s gonna kill me! gonna kill me! gonna kill me!

That’s when Red immediately stomped over and shoved his gun to my head and said to me (still spitting), Shut-up bitch! I should blow your fucking head off!

I knew I was fucked. But to my surprise, it wasn’t fear I felt anymore. Ohhh nooo. Now I was pissed. No, actually it was rage I felt. The same rage I’d felt when my dad used to slap me across the face for talking back to him. Only this time, the rage was mixed with pride and disgust and silently I judged, How dare this low life, junkie hillbilly, uneducated motherfucker think he has a right to take my life? Who does he think he is? He’s got some nerve…

That’s when it hit me. In my silent indignation, I learned the lesson that socio-economic status doesn’t mean shit when you’re the one down the shotgun barrel from one of those losers with his finger on the trigger.

I guess I was just lucky or maybe he also heard the noises outside and knew I wasn’t worth shooting and getting caught; but that was the longest five seconds of silence that eternity ever was.

He just looked at Larry and growled, Gimme the keys to yer carrr.

Without any words Larry took his keys out of his pocket and tossed them to him. I must say I was quite relieved that he did. Red motioned to the dark headed one and they left. Just like that.

Again it was quiet, except now the birds were chirping outside. So surreal! And I remember thinking, did that just happen?

Larry walked over and locked and chained the door. Then he looked at our other friend who was still crashed on the floor. Larry grinned, regaining his normal, erect, six-foot-three, hands-on-his-hips, feet- spread-at-ease, cocky stance. He stood over Rob and said, I can’t believe Rob slept through the whole thing. Check him for a pulse, maybe he O.D.’ed. And he gave a sarcastic laugh.

I stood up to him still fuming and said, Well did you?

Did I what? he said, looking irritated.

"Did you steal his Pyrex ware?»

This time he didn’t answer me fast enough so I punched him in his chest saying, Well did you? Did you? DID YOU STEAL HIS PYREX WARE?!

SMACK!

Larry had hauled off and slapped the hell outta my face! I just glared at him for a second, not showing a sign of the pain that had my face feeling on fire. I opened the door, grabbed my purse and shoes, while telling him dramatically, That’s the last time you ever see my face, motherfucker! And I walked out, of course slamming the door for extra drama.

That morning was becoming a warm sunny day with big blue skies at the end of that December 1981. I was glad it was because I decided to leave town hitchhiking. I had lost my car weeks earlier when I was thrown in jail for warranted traffic tickets. When I had gotten out of jail, I checked the police pound and they said they couldn’t help me unless I came up there with my title and money I didn’t have. I didn’t really have the title either. That was still at my parents house, and I was not gonna ask them for it. I didn’t want to ask them for anything else they could throw in my face. So I was without a car. It wasn’t the first time.

Chapter Two

Hitchhiking was a great feeling of freedom, and being on the highway walking between rides was, at times, an almost meditative state - no attachments to anything, nothing was certain, thoughts seem clearer, and the sky seems the limit. Janis Joplin was right when she said, Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose. I took that as meaning: It could only get better.

I remember rambling to myself, it’s just as well I’m not in my car, considering the D.E.A. were looking for me in connection to some one- armed dude that I used to sell drugs for. He always drove a rent-a-car, carried his crystal-meth inside his prosthetic hook arm and shot up in his stump. Eww! And the dope-peddlers from the Eastside would knock off my car anyway, because Rob had used it to burn one of them in. Thanks a lot Rob, take their dope and run - in MY CAR!!

Yep, better not to have it, I thought, comforting myself.

I drove that car in all my stupid, tweekin’ junkie activities: from driving fucked up to connections’ houses, to forging checks all over town. My car would have been too easily recognized because it was probably the only 10-year-old Buick LeSabre around The Hill that had the original mint-condition vinyl top, paint and leather interior. Plus, it was that silvery, metallic beige that rich little old ladies drove a lot in the 70’s. My dad had bought the car off the retired Colonel next door where it was always kept clean in the garage. And although to me it was an ugly big boat, its big block did do a hundred and twenty easy and my impatience utilized that speed often.

The locals that hung out on The Hill seemed to like my car. They’d recognize it every time I went over there to buy my dope. They’d always tell me, Nice wheels Baby, but you need some curb feelers. or, I got some hub caps I’ll sell you - make it real nice?

No thanks. I’d just buy my pills and split.

There was a little boy - maybe 12- who used to hang out the back door at one of the clubs with a bandanna full of pills. You’d show him the money, he’d pull his bandanna out of his pocket, open it up, and give you the pills - Dilaudids (pharmaceutical heroin) and preludes to be exact. The pills I’d resorted to shooting since I lost my meth connects.

Well, one day, a few weeks before the Pyrex ware dispute, Rob and I pulled up to the back of the club while all the folks in the busy parking lot were looking at us - probably because we were the only white people in sight and, worse, I was a 5-foot, freckle-faced blonde. Black women never liked me on that side of town. Rob said, I’ll be back. Wait here. He walks up to the back door, then, the next thing I know, he’s jumping in the car, screaming, GO! GO! GO! Lucky I had my motor running, so I popped it in drive and hauled ass. I could see two guys running in my rear view mirror as Rob held up a handful of red bandanna - obviously the whole stash -and laughing, Ha Ha! I got the whole wad!

I was pissed. You dumb ass! Why didn’t you tell me you were gonna do that?! You know who runs that joint!

I didn’t know I was gonna do it myself, was all he could say while laughing that duh-huh huh stupid laugh.

You’d never know it, but Rob actually had a degree in Physics before he’d become a heroin junkie. We’d get high and ponder the theory of relativity and time, so I couldn’t believe how dumb he was. Anyway, I knew that - because of how popular that place was, and how fast word traveled - my car and whoever was driving it would not be welcome back on the East Side of town. So it’s just as well I don’t have that car, I told myself. It seemed like everyone was after me, the cops, drug dealers, my parents. Yeah, fuck the car, and make a clean new start.

And that’s pretty much what I was thinking about, walking down Highway 37 on that sunny blue morning so long ago, headed anywhere out of San-Antonio. I had no idea where I was going or what I was gonna do. I just knew things had gotten too crazy, and I wanted out. The whole gun incident with Red and Larry from that morning was probably Divine Intervention because Larry, Red, Rob and I were supposed to go to Louisiana that day, taking all the Pyrex ware, and build a meth- amphetamine lab, incognito, in a hunting blind surrounded by swamp.

You see, the rumor was that meth production had gotten too hot in San Antonio since the DEA couldn’t be bought-off anymore. Ever since that Federal hangin’ judge had been killed and the FBI came in to investigate, the San Antonio drug business - which was a hub for the U.S. - was frozen up, and the DEA was supplying no more grease.

It used to be simple: if you were selling meth and/or coke, or large quantities of pot, you could pay the DEA a percentage of your profit, and they’d leave you and your next-of-kin in the business alone. But now that the FBI had stepped in to investigate a so-called assassination, the agents of Drug Enforcement were paranoid and running around busting everybody they’d overlooked before! So everybody was paranoid and not trusting anybody else. And when everybody (drug dealers, junkies, hookers, etc.) doesn’t trust anybody, bodies start turning up. Turning up dead in dumpsters, in rivers, or sometimes behind buildings with syringes laying around, so the police would write it off as just another stupid junkie overdose.

Well, I’d had enough. I was tired of being scared.

In the last 2 years, I’d been unsuccessfully offed by an aging hooker, because she told me too many secrets (long story). I’d escaped being run down on foot by two dudes in their car down a horribly dark farm road, jumping barbed wire and hiding in scrubby bushes while they crept up and down looking on both sides of the road. (they thought they were entitled to me just because they scored dope for me) Yuck, that was a traumatizing night. Can you imagine?

In the last two years since I was sixteen, I’d also unwittingly came close to becoming permanent property of a local Low-Riders chapter. And, while hanging with some friends in a rock band, I - well, it’s not important now. But the point is, the only way I could cope with all that fear was to get as high as I could and stay there any way I could by lying, stealing, and - to my shame - forging checks. I was tired of the junkie life.

Still walking, thinking and thumbing, it started to hit me just how burned out I was. I guess once the adrenaline wore off from the gun-in- my-face thing, I felt achy and tired. I’d only had about 4 hours sleep in two, maybe three, days. It didn’t matter much, though. I was outside in the middle of anywhere, where the probabilities for good or bad were equal, and that was better than I’d been having.

The sky was blue.

As I looked out into the endless low-curving land, it was covered in long grass, beige from the subtle Texas winter. Beige and shiny, the grass waved in the same direction, and I imagined it was the fur on a sleeping lion, blowing in a breeze, and I was just a flea walking across the lion. I felt small, and my problems became small compared to this great big world. This was my escape.

I wasn’t even out of city limits when a guy in a Toyota pulled over and I approached the passenger side window. He was friendly, said he was just going to the store, and asked me where I was headed. He seemed nice: mid-twenties, but already balding.

Maybe Corpus, I know a guy that keeps his boat there…

Which was the truth - the guy had said I could live on his boat if I ever needed a place to crash and he’d come see me on weekends. Then it dawned on me, ‘Oh shit, I’d be obligated every weekend to be with that guy. Duh……Sancha!

.But I’m not sure. What’s your name? I asked Toyota guy.

Scott. And he gave me eye contact when he said it, which was good. Never get a ride if you can’t read their eyes was my rule. I discerned: This guy’s a good guy. He’s innocent, Harmless. I got in. Hi, Scott, I’m Robin.

OH, like the bird. He one-lined me. I was so used to that comeback it was a given every time I said my name.

Yeah, I wish I was, and rolled my eyes at his predictable conclusion.

Do you like the Scorpions?

I love the Scorpions.

And he popped in a tape as he said, Yeah, their show kicked ass!

Oh, yeah! Last night was the 28th! They were here and I missed it - SHIT! I answered as I realized the world still lived on outside my little universe of junkies.

Scott said, Yeah, this was my third time.

I said, Man, you suck, and he laughed.

Hey, you’re not jail bait, are you? he asked as we parked at the Seven/Eleven.

No, I just turned 18 in October.

Well, you look 16.

That’s just because I’m not wearing any makeup, and I gave him a sarcastic smile. People always thought I looked younger. It even came in handy sometimes, except when I was trying to be cool, like this morning.

Are you going in or staying here?

I’ll stay here, I said, I feel like shit.

You want anything?

Yeah, some peanuts and a Miller Lite.

He looked at me funny and said, OK, pulled his keys out of the ignition as he gave me a look, and went in the store. I knew he took his keys ‘cuz he wasn’t dumb enough to leave them in his car with a hitchhiker. It didn’t bother me though. It was fair. When he came back he had an idea, and a six-pack.

Why don’t you come to my house? You could get some rest, and I’ll fix you something real to eat.

OK, what the hell, I said, I’m too tired to face the highway right now, anyway.

Yeah, and you can hear my Scorpions collection.

I was surprised. This was the most wholesome conversation I’d had in a while. His house turned out to be a little white detached garage behind a bigger Victorian-style home with - no shit - a white picket fence in the front, and pink tea roses all up the sidewalk to the big front porch. He apologized, saying that since his dad died, he moved back home behind his mom’s house, into the garage apartment to keep her from being too alone. I thought that sounded very noble. We parked in the driveway and walked around back to his apartment. He let me in and said, I’ll be right back.

I looked around.

It was a typical two-car-garage-sized square, but with a kitchen along one wall from the corner to midway, then a table and chairs. His bed was on the floor right in the center with stereo, turntable and amp separate on the floor and wires running up to each corner of the large square room’s ceiling and speakers mounted there. The bathroom and closet took up half of the back wall like two changing stalls from a department store.

I plopped down on his bed and started looking through his albums. I took off my Cherokee platform shoes and wiggled my toes, trying to free all the sweaty