Infinite West

Let me tell you a story. There was this guy. One day, his dad, tired of life's benign indifference, sticks himself in a microwave and guess what: baked the living hell out his brain cells. Living through the pain of having their most favored member die, he grows up to be a specter in the family, wandering cautiously in their own home. So what does he do? I don't know, I haven't made it past 3 chapters. Doug says he bought the book on a nearby garage sale, it's shit, and that the author is nothing but a pompous crack. He takes it from my hand and throws it across the room.

"Goddamn, I hate hipsters. They're a shitstain on the underpants of society." he exclaims, carefully fitting himself on the bunk.

"Doug, you're like the biggest hipster I know."

"The sky is green."

"You read The Catcher In The Rye like a fucking Bible and, you've been wearing the same shirt for the past 3 days."

"It's called having a sense of identity."

"You're preposterous."

"You're boring."

"At least I got a dick."

Doug is an idiot. A snoopy 6'3" South-American flowerchild, he resembles a biped Retriever more than anything else. Or maybe a 72" tripod. Or a loosely-screwed stand fan whose grills now dangle awkwardly from the top. Long hair, long arms, long everything, it won't take a slight puff of air to blow him out, I figured long ago. He lives his days in a used RV - weeds, DMT and all kinds of psychedelics tucked on the underside - and goes on tour with some bandmate every weekend, when there's not much to do at the uni. Doug is a good person, surely, but the way he's always exasperated just gets to your nerves. We have these conversations each day, and every time we talk, it just seems to me like he's falling more deeper into this abysmal pit of stupidity.

Getting sore from sitting uncomfortably on the bed, I came down and took the chair by the window. I move it around and finally aligned it to the mirror, just enough so I could see myself. Doug was now directly behind me, the window to the right, and an obnoxiously large cabinet filled with used underwear to the left. I prop my hair to the back and combed the sides with my hand, revealing a face that was completely devoid of interest.

"Goddamn!" he says as a white light flashes on his phone.

"What is that? NBA?"

I've seen him play. It's an understatement to say he's horrible.

"Fuck!" he exclaims again.

"I believe there's a button for that Doug. It's called uninstall."

Whereas Doug was skinny and tall, I was average and 15 kg shy of obesity. I did have a neck though - quite the gift from an oriental mother. With large shady eyes that give no hint of emotion, I more than resemble a putrid owl from a distance. I'm quite happy with how I look, however. Throughout my childhood, I've had girls compliment my looks - cute, as they kept saying. Not sure if its the right word, but it does give me the butterflies.

I adjust my focus and could see Doug shift position. He is now in his back.

"I'm doing it, Doug." I say while carefully examining a zit on my forehead.

"Good. Finally, this place will hear peace and quiet. When?"

"I don't know, I'm gonna need to do some things beforehand."

"Do you want me to write the suicide note?"

Something about the way he said it caught my attention.

"I'm not gonna kill myself you dumb troglodyte. I'm running away."

"Oh. And Abigail?"

"I'll see her tomorrow. God, it feels like a century. When was the last time I saw here, like, 2012?"

"She's blonde now."

"Yea, I heard."

"And pregnant."

"Fuck you, man."

My legs were getting sore from sitting haphazardly so I stood, grabbed a towel and made my way to the bathroom.

"Don't throw the green stuff." Doug calls from behind.

Occasionally when Rivers, their bassist, comes to visit, he brings along stuff. Sometimes to smoke, but more often than not, to hide it from anyone - most likely the police - who had just started to examine their vehicle.

I ignored Doug and flung the door open.

"Jesus Christ Doug! Why here?"

"The head, he came to check last morning. We had nowhere to hide because your Mac-fucking-book is on the cabinet. Just... cheer, it's a lifetime of supply."

"Where did you get all this, Jesus Christ, it's almost like Pineapple Express in here. I need to shower, take them out or they'll get wet."

The thing with Doug is, he either likes you or he doesn't; I'm somewhere in the middle of this spectrum. One time he woke me up in the middle of the night and asked for a hug. Clearly, he was high, but you get what I'm saying.

15-minutes of me standing awkwardly by the door, Doug gathers himself, removes the clump of weed from the inside, and tucks it in his portmanteau of clothes, vintage glasses, and random stuff from under his bunk.

"Bring some with you," he says, returning to his former position. "you might need somewhere to rest. Show it to an officer."

I turn on the shower and could hear faint music playing in the background. I cupped my ears to the wall to try and hear it better. Jay-Z? The walls in St. Paul dormitories are exceptionally thin and if you listen just close enough, you can hear what kind of shenanigans are happening from behind - Bible meetings, arguments, and sometimes even threesomes. I'm starting to make out the rhythm. The next room was quiet. Nothing but the water and glorious 808s. It's definitely Kanye. "You got a new friend, well I got homies, but in the end, it's still so lonely".

"Hey, Doug. I'm getting a haircut later, you coming?" I called from the bathroom.

No answer. He must've died.