Category : Books-Non-Fiction

Sub Category : Biography

 November 2008

          After Matt and Flash’s apartment was   cleaned up, we allowed Matt to stay with us until he figured out what he was going to do, and to grieve, of course. And grieve he did, which to him meant drinking excessive amounts of whiskey all day and night. Disregarding the fact that he was only seventeen, this boy drank like a forty-year old man. 
           He would always drink past that crucial point where at first he was fine, then out of left-field, he was loud, obnoxious, and out of control. Nobody had the heart to say anything to him, just yet. 
           It was after about three weeks of him not doing anything but drinking, playing bass, and supposedly trying to figure out where he was going to go, when we couldn’t take anymore of it. He wasn’t paying rent, nor was he helping around the house. We were sorry to say he had overstayed his welcome. 
           Jane’s Dad had owned the quaint cabin next door. Naturally, it had been taken up by friends of ours. So, one night I wasn’t present, I was told Matt was piss-drunk—no surprise there. He had gotten into in a friendly wrestle match with Tanya when he had “accidentally” body-slammed her to the ground. That’s when Tanya’s boyfriend kicked him out. But on the fortunate side, the guys next door told him he could stay there. 
           Everybody in the house had felt a significant sense of relief. It was nice not having the loud, drunk kid keeping us up at night, though I did still feel sorry for him. He had lost his best friend, which was something I could not imagine. 
           There had been rumors articulating that Flash’s death had been a suicide; however, I couldn’t have seen it like that. It must have been an accident. If not, I would think I could have done something to prevent it. That had driven me insane. 
            I couldn’t pay the least bit of attention in class, but my teachers had given me a thoughtful break. 
           That break quickly ended. Classes came and went. Day after day; week after week. After a month, I had bottled all of my emotions up. It had just seemed a natural thing to do, which I found out I had inherited from my dad, along with his manic depression. 
           By now, the beginning of November, sorrow wasn’t the first in line of my thoughts, but rather sprung up if ever I looked at her framed picture on my wall. It was the original picture I had seen when I had first talked to her. She, with a leopard top, black leather pants, huge lips, and bright, crimson hair standing with her guitar against a white-brick backdrop portraying a rundown building along the streets. 
           It was the weekend after the annual Halloween party that our house had thrown. I had invited everyone I knew from school, which turned out to be many. I had finally lost the shyness and self-consciousness that had haunted me like a dark forest throughout my school years. Even though alcohol did a solid number of damage to my body and mind, it had aided me in realizing that others genuinely enjoyed my company. 
           I was still rather quiet and kept to myself, but when drugs or alcohol entered the picture, my confidence shot up like a rocket into the mysterious night ahead. A little too much, at times. Sometimes, to an embarrassing state. However, in spite of all that, alcohol was no longer a necessity when it came to making friends. And I had made quite a number of them as I had gazed around the room of the party and saw many of them having a blast. 
            I had also become better friends with someone I already known who had the infamous initials M.D.M.A.—also known as being the key ingredient in ecstasy. She and I had spent the night with each other at the Halloween party and had melted into each other’s arms. I had given my school friends a glimpse of the other side of myself—the belligerent, wild-card, face known as “J-Money.”
           This name had been given to me from the guitarist in my jam band in high school. I remember him calling me that, one day at random. I had known it was aimed at me so I answered and from then on, it had become my new name. 
           By senior year of high school, everyone had called me this, including two teachers. I had grown to like it and lived with it—not that I had a choice in the matter. However, throughout the years, it had grown from being a name to me to becoming a mere persona of what I morphed into when I had just the right amount of alcohol, weed, etc. 
           I would meet new people and introduce myself with my real name and would receive the same answer, “Who?”
           To where I’d say, “J-Money?”
           “Oh yeah, so you’re J-Money!” they would always answer. 
           That had started to irritate. Thus, I stopped referring myself to it and referred it to a state of mind I would enter. A sort of possession of spirits. Though not the spirits as in ghosts. 
           When alcoholic spirits would enter my bloodstream in large amounts, I would be forced to take on the persona of J-Money. Though, after a while, Tanya and Jane, after seeing the mess in my room, had terminated the name and granted me a new one—J-Monkey. It was funny and appropriate, but above all, new. 
           Once again, it had stuck. 
           Yet, the unwanted, former persona would unwittingly take over once drugs entered the system. Especially, ecstasy or MDMA, which I was preoccupied with at the moment. 
           I handed the sixty dollars in twenty dollar bills to Clay, a buddy of mine, as he handed me three capsules. These clear capsules contained a bright brown powder mixed with a darker brown substance. The lighter brown was cinnamon; however, the other was not. It was what would keep me and the two lovely girls beside me in the car occupied for the next drug-induced, semi-erotic hours. Those two lady-loves being Brianna and Maisie.