Overdose, Part Two: May 1995

"Are you sure you still want to go?" JP asks me.

"Yeah," I tell him.

We are supposed to be at Isaiah's house already, not that anyone will miss us or comment on our lateness; Isaiah's place isn't like that. Crowds of people come and go as they please at Isaiah's; there's always someone sleeping on the sofa or staying on the floor in the back bedroom, and always something in a pot on the stove. We love Isaiah's house for a different reason, though; since the first night we were there, JP and I have used the place as a morale booster; a reminder, when we need one, of how out-of-the-ordinary we are.

I am still nauseated and wobbly from my overdose, but I haven't faded out completely for an hour or so now, and so I am fairly sure I will be okay. Still, it's a harsh, uncomfortable high, not at all what I would have expected.

We walk up Ashland to Division, then over to Blackhawk to where Isaiah lives. He comes to the gate when we ring the buzzer..."You look like shit," he informs me.

"Yeah," I say. Another wave of nausea has gripped me, and I duck out into the alley and puke into a garbage can.

Inside the party is in full swing, all the people we've met before; Roger and Reid, Sam and Wendy, Brianna and Monica. These, JP had told me the first night he had brough me here, these people are our competition. These are our peers. This is our generation, right here, smoking weed and drinking Milwaukee's Best and talking about nothing at all. And they think we're just like them, he said, but we're different. And someday, babygirl, everyone will know just how different we are.

On some level I had known even then that he was right. It wasn't so much that no one there had any personality or brilliance of their own; they just seemed unfocussed, not a goal among them. Where JP and I already had a plan, they had the next beer, the next joint, the next fuck. It wasn't a bad way to live, but none of them, we knew, would ever upstage us.

Tonight, though, there is someone we had never met. He is tall and blonde and tattooed and muscular, sexy in a way I would have responded to a few years earlier. Even though the night is young, he is clearly drunk already, and he carries a guitar everywhere he goes.

"That motherfucker," Isaiah says. JP and I are standing in the brick-walled corridor leading from the apartment to the backyard; I am leaning on the wall and trying to settle my stomach when Isaiah walks up behind us.

"Who is he?" JP asks.

"That's Lou. He's an asshole."

"Is he a musician?" JP is unconcerned about the newcomer's possible personality quirks. Anyone who carries a guitar can be all the asshole he wants to be, as far as JP is concerned, as long as he knows some power-chords.

Isaiah, on the other hand, has a different axe to grind. "Yeah, sorta. He does shows with Billy sometimes. Thinks he's hot shit. Don't let him fool you. And keep an eye on your girl, too."

"What do you mean?" JP asks.

"Let's just say that loyalty and friendship don't mean shit to him," Isaiah replies. "He knew Julie and I were together, but did that stop him?"

"Ah," JP says. There doesn't seem to be any more-appropriate response, and the silence becomes awkward after a moment. Fortunately I rescue him; obligingly, I dash down the corridor, through the yard, and out behind the garbage-bin to throw up again, and he follows me.

"That was good timing," he says. "You okay?"

I spit, then wipe my mouth. "Yeah," I say. "Think you could find me a glass of water, though? I've got major puke-breath."

When he doesn't come back, I go to look for him in the apartment. I find him sitting on the beat-up sofa in an animated conversation with the newcomer. "Hey baby," he says. "Oh...shit. I'm sorry." He hands me the cup of water in his hand. "I got...distracted. This is Lou. Lou, this is Gladys."

"Hey," he says, and smiles broadly. "You want a beer?"

"God, no," I say. "Thanks, though."

The door to the back bedroom opens, and Julie emerges, with Isaiah hot on her heels. Wordlessly, looking at none of us, she walks out the front door.

Isaiah stands, stricken, looking at the closed door for a moment. I watch him gather his anger around him, and after a moment he straightens. He looks right at the three of us sitting on the sofa, JP and Lou and I, and with pure malice in his eyes he turns the stereo up loud enough that conversation is no longer an option.

Lou rolls his eyes, and though I cannot hear him over the music, his lips form the word "asshole". JP motions me out into the courtyard again. As we leave, Lou leans his guitar up against the wall, and follows us, a moment later, out into the cool night air.