Oppel

She’s standing at the edge of the balcony, threatening to jump and I nonchalantly take a drag of my cigarette trying not to care. I’m way too high to even bother with this girl who is screaming at the top of her lungs; “Fuck you almighty!” To which I reply, “Fuck you too…”
I’m not even sure where I am to be completely honest. I do know that I’m in Vegas, the neon signs beyond this crazy woman is more than enough proof of that. I take another drag of the cigarette and drop it to the linoleum floor stomping it out. I start to leave the room and the girl standing on the balcony calls out “I will not be silenced!”
“No shit,” I mutter, and walk out of the room.
In the hallway the wall sconces are made of what seems to be aluminum siding. They’re freaking me out in a way I never though possible of lights. I bump into a guy who looks very similar to this guy, Cameron Wells, I used to hang out with at NYU, before we both got expelled for getting a girl drunk, shaving her head, and convincing her to spray swastikas all over the campus. All over the campus.
“Cameron?” I say, inquisitively.
“Nah, man, wrong guy,” he says under his breath, quickly walking past me.
In the hallway is a small table with a nice little hydrangea plant, I pick up the plant on a whim and throw it at the wall. I’m not sure why I do this, but it gives me a chill and a burst of energy leaving me running through the halls shouting “Doobie Doobie Doo!” Which really carries no relevance to my current situation. Still stoned, and completely out of smack, I head for the lobby, because I’m meeting my guy, my dealer, Welson down there. When I shimmy out of the elevator I realize I’m on the second floor. I must’ve pressed the wrong button, however, an older, scary looking gentlemen boards the elevator and presses the Lobby button.
“Hey,” I say to him.
“How do you do?” he asks.
“I do fine, and you?” I hammer back.
“I’m tired.”
“I’m…inspired…Ha!” I yelled, jumping up in down shaking the elevator.
The old man nearly trips over himself getting out of the tin-box, he runs to the concierge desk, and he’s saying something that I can’t hear and pointing at me. Frantically I hide behind a pillar and light another cigarette. My high is wearing thin, my back is sweating and my hair, my God damn hair looks silly.
All so abruptly my cell phone, clipped to my belt, starts blaring “Switch” by Will Smith, which was Welson’s choice for his ring-tone. Flipping the phone open I catch a glimpse of myself in the shiny fixture of the wall; I look old.
“Welson?” I ask.
“Yeah, buddy, it’s me. Where are you?”
“I’m hiding behind a pillar in the lobby. Where are you?” I ask, half-expecting him to apologize for being rude.
“Okay, I’ll be right in,” he says then hangs up.
I stand behind the pillar, until a hand touches my shoulder and I jump and immediately get into defense mode throwing my hands up in a karate-like stances that I learned from Ernest The Cat Miller. I scream, “I did nothing!” and Welson just stares me down, thinking, “You’re one crazy-ass white mother fucker.”
Back in my hotel room, Welson cuts me a line of white perfection and I take a straw to it. I sniff back hard, and throw my head back, leaving the room a giant-spinning-blur. The girl is still on the edge of the balcony screaming to the Heavens, something about radical movements on Abortion and Demonology. Welson drops a rock on the table.
“See you later, Jack-a-gator,” he says, and runs off down the hallway.

I can’t open my eyes, for it is too damn bright for words. The Sun has begun to peek through the sliding glass doors open blinds. The girl, who had been screaming isn’t on the balcony, or in the hotel room, so I fear that she may have taken the plunge. I stand up rubbing the sleep from my eyes and open the door to the balcony and step out. I look over the ledge and get queasy. I’m so hung-over that my body convulses and aches simultaneously. I swallow hard and look over the balcony, but there’s only miscellaneous people doing miscellaneous jobs, on a rather bleak day in Las Vegas; or was it California.
I turn back inside and there’s the girl standing there holding a mega-phone wearing a shirt that says FREE MARTIN!, and a pair of faded blue jeans. Her brown hair is greasy and un-washed and the black circles around her eyes say that she hasn’t slept in a few days.
“Move aside,” she says.
“Who’s Martin, baby?” I ask, curiously.
“Move aside, rodent,” she barks at me.
“Whoa, ease up lady,” I move away from the door and the girl walks out onto the balcony.
“What exactly are you doing here?” she asks.
“This is my room,” I explain. “Usually guests stay in their rooms.”
“Okay.”
“Why are you standing on my balcony?”
“Because, it’s high and my balcony is on the second floor, the effect is slight, but important.”
“Oh,” I say, understandingly.
The chick is back to her screaming of obscenities, that I’m sure no one can hear from the 23rd floor. I go into the bathroom and find that there’s a copy of Penthouse, a copy in which Anna Kournikova was photographed topless unknowingly. I stand over the pictures, and sudden get a rise out of myself. It’s been a while, I think to myself. I begin to rub one out, and I’m going to town when there’s a knock at the door. Frantic knocking, loud knocking even.
“What?!” I yell, still stroking to the pictures.
“Jack Denison? Are you okay? Are you okay?” the male-voice behind the door asks.
“Yeah! Are you okay?” I yell back.
Suddenly, I’m alone. Quiet time engulfs me and I shoot onto the magazine, which suffice to say is easy clean up. I close the magazine and throw it in the garbage, but as soon as the do this the door busts open and I’m bum-rushed into the shower. Landing hard against the porcelain, and hitting my head against the faucet of the Jacuzzi.
I sit up rubbing the back of my head, which I believe is bleeding. I look at the cops standing in the bathroom apparently looking for some kind of weapon. Unfortunately, I hadn’t had the chance to zip-up so my half-mast dick is laying against the muslin-colored Dockers I currently wear. The cops stare at me and one even points a gun in my direction.
“What can I do for you guys?” I ask, quivering.
“There was a girl on your balcony. Were you aware of that?”
“There was a girl? She jump or something?” I ask.
“She committed suicide a moment ago while you were in the bathroom. Did you know Ms. Oppel?” one of the men asked.
“No, she just came and went as she pleased. I just asked her why she was doing what she was doing, but all she would say is ‘Move Aside.’ I obeyed,” I shrug in the bathtub.
I have a huge migraine now, my head actually throbs with the damnedest pain I’ve ever felt. I lay back down in the bathtub and zip up my fly.