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  THE

  SPEED

  CHRONICLES

  EDITED BY JOSEPH MATTSON

  This book is dedicated to the liver—

  the vital organ and the daring spirit

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction

  PART I: MADNESS

  How to Go to Dinner with a Brother on Drugs NATALIE DIAZ

  War Cry SHERMAN ALEXIE

  Bad JERRY STAHL

  PART II: MACHINATION

  Labiodental Fricative SCOTT PHILLIPS

  Osito KENJI JASPER

  Amp Is the First Word in Amphetamine JOSEPH MATTSON

  Addiction JAMES FRANCO

  PART III: METHODOLOGY

  Wheelbarrow Kings JESS WALTER

  Tips ’n’ Things by Elayne BETH LISICK

  Pissing in Perpetuity ROSE BUNCH

  51 Hours TAO LIN

  PART IV: MEDICINE

  Everything I Want MEGAN ABBOTT

  The Speed of Things JAMES GREER

  No Matter How Beautifully It Stings WILLIAM T. VOLLMANN

  It shines in Paradise. It burns in Hell.

  —Gaston Bachelard, The Psychoanalysis of Fire

  I started hearing whispers from the people in the bedspread and in

  the window glass, and though I was a little embarrassed at first, I

  answered them, thinking, why deny anything?

  —William S. Burroughs, Jr., Speed

  The Bible never said anything about amphetamines.

  —“Fast” Eddie Felson in The Color of Money

  introduction

  some gods, some panthers

  by joseph mattson

  Because some gods made work, ennui, depression, deadlines, and pain, and some gods (perhaps the selfsame mothers) made adventure, rapture, elation, creativity, and orgasm—and especially because some gods made dopamine—some gods made speed. The answer to some deserts is some jungles. While some panthers skulk breathily to rest after the hunt, some panthers hide out in the bush mad to live, licking their chops along with their wounds, transforming lovely day into lustful night, and they do speed.

  Speed: the most demonized—and misunderstood—drug in the land. Deprived of the ingrained romantic mysticism of the opiate or the cosmopolitan chic of cocaine or the commonplace tolerance of marijuana, there is no sympathy for this devil. Yet speed—amphetamines (Dexedrine, Benzedrine, Adderall) and especially methamphetamine*; crystal, crank, ice, chickenscratch, Nazi dope, OBLIVION marching powder, the go fast—is the most American of drugs: twice the productivity at half the cost, and equal opportunity for all. It feels so good and hurts so bad. From its dueling roots of pharmacological miracle cure and Californian biker gang scourge to contemporary Ivy League campuses and high school chem labs, punk rock clubs to the military industrial complex, suburban households to tincan ghettos, it crosses all ethnicities, genders, and geographies—from immigrants and heartlanders punching double factory shifts to clandestine border warlords undermining the DEA, doctors to bomber pilots, prostitutes to housewives, T-girls to teenagers, Academy Award–nominated actors to the poorest Indian on the rez—making it not only the most essentially American narcotic, but the most deceivingly sundry literary matter.

  Some shoot for angst-curing kicks, some snort for sad endurance, some for explosive joyrides into the unknown, because no matter how delicious dying young might seem, they want to live forever.

  The subject of speed is so innately intimidating yet so undeniably present that it begs to be written about. It is no secret that the drug has historically tuned up the lives of writers, including Jack Kerouac, Susan Sontag, Philip K. Dick, and scores more. Too rarely, though, has it been written of, and as California and the West, the Pacific Northwest, and now the Midwest, the South, and the East Coast toss for the crown of Speed Capital, U.S.A., its jolt to the bones of the American landscape continues to peak as it creeps onward into the farthest nooks of our physiography and consciousness. Wherever there is either something or nothing to do—wherever there is need for more gasoline on the fire—there is speed.

  The majority of you, dear readers, have likely seen before-and-after anti-meth photo campaigns and have been at least brushed if not inundated with depictions of the horrors of the Crystal Death, but speed, like all sources of addiction, whether any of the brethren narcotics or food, sex, consumerism, and otherwise, is initially a wellspring for bliss. There are reasons people are willing to put the residue of acetone, lithium batteries, the red phosphorus of match heads, and other inorganic and toxic compounds the liver is not sure what to do with into their bodies: It feels good. You get results. The ancient longing to inhabit supernatural powers and kiss the orbits of gods is realized. The panther becomes superpanther with the rifle of a medicine cabinet. Anything is possible (giving credence to the old slogan, Speed Kills—rarely is ingesting speed a mortal wound; respectively, more people die or equally damage themselves from the feral, madcap things they do on speed than from the toxicity of the drug itself—except, of course, the lifers). Yes, it gets ugly, so ugly. But before your sex organs revert to embryonic acorns and your teeth fall out and feasting on your malnutrition are insects for your eyes only, it’s a rush of pure euphoria and a seeming godsend to surmount all of life’s daily tribulations.

  Some panthers’ antiphon to some gods’ will.

  Because speed is first and foremost an amplifier, the sparking ebullience and potential wretchedness it projects are possibilities already seeded in the human order, just waiting for the right drop of dew and hit of sunshine to come along and juice it up.

  The fourteen stories in this book reflect not only both ends of the dichotomy above, but, more crucially, the abstractions within and between. Merely demonizing the drug would be the same crime as simply celebrating it. Condemning it outright and defending all recreational use are equal failures against illuminating the drug’s complexity. The panther worships the god in a kaleidoscopic mayhem of alchemical felicity, and in real sorrow too. Though you’ll find exultation and condemnation interwoven, these are no stereotypical tales of tweakers—the element of crime and the bleary-eyed zombies that have gone too far are here right alongside heart-wrenching narratives of everyday people, good intentions gone terribly awry, the skewed American Dream going up in flames, and even some accounts of unexpected joy. Juxtaposed with circumstances inherent to the drug (trying to score, the sheer velocity of uptake, the agony of withdrawal, death, etc.) are nuances often elusive but central to speed’s mores: camaraderie, compassion, and charm.

  Together with Scott Phillips’s tale of Frank Sinatra’s mummified penis as leverage in a surreptitious bulk cold medicine deal and Kenji Jasper’s meth murder-run by way of Capitol Hill, you’ll find Megan Abbott’s benevolent doctor injecting fast relief into disenchanted townsfolk and Jess Walter’s bumbling brothers-in-arms too innocuous for high crime. With Jerry Stahl’s no-punches-pulled, I mean the de facto nightmare scenarios through amphetamine hell, and my own rendering of Hollywood psychosis (the district in Los Angeles and, in part, its Tinseltown abstract) gone to fanatics and sacrificial death-dogs, you’ll find William T. Vollmann’s empathetic transsexual portrait of meth as vitamin supplement and Beth Lisick’s suburban housewife’s giddy eagerness for validity and subsequent triumph. There’s James Franco’s metafictional take on the cautionary tale and Rose Bunch’s story of Ozark yard wars together with Tao Lin’s disaffected New York City hipsters quietly pandering for significance and Natalie Diaz’s hauntin
g embrace of a sibling addict; Sherman Alexie’s meth-induced war dancer razing everything in his path, and James Greer’s investigation of the existential magical realism inherent in eliminating sleep from one’s diet.

  I thank the authors—gods some, panthers some, and titans all—for their incredible contributions. The dream roster has come to fruition, and I remain ever humbled and appreciative of their interest, generosity, trust, and guts to tango with the beast.

  Because some gods have ridden the rails, some panthers rail the ride, ’scripts and spoons and straws raised like torches to Rome. Let us now go unto stories of them and those whose lives they touch—let’s go fast.

  Joseph Mattson

  Los Angeles

  September 2011

  *Though MDMA/Ecstasy is chemically part of the amphetamine family, it has a singular place in the world and deserves a collection of its own (the forthcoming The Ecstasy Chronicles) and is not covered in the following stories. Conversely, Provigil (modafinil), while not structurally a part of the amphetamine family, is included for its eerily similar functionality to pharmaceutical amphetamines—new speed that works in part like old speed, and neoteric enough to find a home here.

  how to go to dinner

  with a brother on drugs

  by natalie diaz

  If he is wearing knives for eyes, if he has dressed for a Day of the Dead parade—three-piece skeleton suit, cummerbund of ribs—his pelvic girdle will look like a Halloween mask.

  “The bones,” he’ll complain, make him itch. “Each ulna a tickle.” His mandible might tingle.

  He cannot stop scratching, so suggest that he change, but not because he itches—do it for the scratching. Do it for the bones.

  “Okay, okay,” he’ll give in, “I’ll change.” He will return to his room, and as he climbs each stair, his back will be something else—one shoulder blade a failed wing, the other a silver shovel. He has not eaten in months. He will never change.

  Still, you are happy he didn’t come down with a headdress of green quetzal feathers, iridescent plumes dancing like an emerald blaze from his forehead, and a jaguar-pelt loincloth littered with mouth-shaped rosettes—because this beautiful drug usually dresses him up like a greed god, and tonight you are not in the mood to have your heart ripped out. Like the bloody-finger trick your father constructed for you and your brothers and sisters every Halloween—cut a hole in a small cardboard jewelry gift box, hold it in the palm of your hand, stick your middle finger up through the hole, pack gauze inside the box around your middle finger, cover the gauze and your finger in ketchup, shake a handful of dirt onto your finger, and then hold it up, your bloody-ketchup finger, to every person you see, explaining that you found it out in the road—it has gotten old, having your heart ripped out, being opened up that way.

  He comes back down, this time dressed as a Judas effigy. “I know, I know,” he’ll joke, “It’s not Easter. So what?”

  Be straight with him. Tell him the truth. Tell him, “Judas had a rope around his neck.”

  When he asks if an old lamp cord will do, just shrug. He will go back upstairs, and you will be there, close enough to the door to leave, but you will not. You will wait, unsure of what you are waiting for. While you wait, go to the living room of your parents’ home-turned-misery-museum. Explore the perpetual exhibits—“Someone Is Tapping My Phone,” “Como Deshacer a Tus Padres,” “Mon Frère”—ten, twenty, forty dismantled phones displayed on the dining table, red and blue wires snaking in and out, glinting snarls of copper, yellow computer chips, soft sheets of numbered rubber buttons, small magnets, jagged, ruptured shafts of lithium batteries, shells of Ataris, radios, and television sets cracked open like dark nuts, innards heaped across the floor. And by far the most beautiful, “Why Dad Can’t Find the Lightbulbs”—a hundred glowing white bells of gutted light-bulbs, each rocking in a semicircle on the counter beneath your mom’s hanging philodendron.

  Your parents’ home will look like an Al Qaeda yard sale. It will look like a bomb factory, which might give you hope, but you ought to know better than to hope. You are not so lucky—there is no fuse for you to find. For you and your family, there will be no quick ticket to Getaway Kingdom.

  Think, all of this glorious mess could have been yours—not long ago, your brother lived with you. What was it you called it? “One last shot,” a three-quarter-court heave, a buzzer-beater to win something of him back. But who were you kidding? You took him into your home with no naïve hopes of saving him, but instead to ease the guilt of never having tried.

  He spent every evening in your bathroom with a turquoise BernzOmatic handheld propane torch, a meth-made Merlin mixing magic, chanting, “I will show you fear in a handful of dust,” then shape-shifting into lions and tigers and bears and pacing your balcony, licking the air at your neighbors’ wives and teenage daughters, fighting with the Hare in the Moon, conquering the night with his blue flame, and plotting to steal your truck keys, which you kept under your pillow.

  Finally, you worked up the nerve to ask him to leave. He took his propane torch and left you with a Glad trash bag of filthy clothes and a meth pipe clanking in the dryer. Two weeks after that, God told him to do several things that got him arrested.

  But since he is fresh-released from prison and living in your parents’ home, you will be there to take him to dinner—because he is your brother, because you heard he was cleaning up. Mostly because you think you can handle dinner, a thing with a clear beginning and end, a specified amount of time, a ritual that everyone knows, even your brother. Sit down. Eat. Get up. Go home. You are optimistic about this well-now-that’s-done-and-I’m-glad-it’s-over kind of night.

  If your brother doesn’t come back down right away, if he takes his time, remember how long it took for the Minotaur to escape the labyrinth, and go to the sliding-glass window looking out onto the backyard. This is the exhibit whose fee is always too high, the reason you do not come to this place: your parents.

  Your father will be out there, on the other side of the glass, wearing his luchador mask. He is El Santo. His face is pale. His face is bone white. His eyes are hollow teardrops. His mouth is a dark “Oh.” He has worn it for years, still surprised by his life.

  Do not even think of unmasking your father. That mask is the only fight he has left in him. He is all out of planchas and topes. He has no more huracanranas to give. Besides, si tuvieras una máscara, you would wear it.

  Your father, El Santo, will pile mesquite logs into a pyre. Your mother will be out there too—wearing her sad dress made of flames—practicing lying on top of the pyre.

  “It needs to be higher,” she’ll complain, “I’ve earned it.”

  See the single tower of hyacinth she clutches to her breast as she whispers to the violet petals, “Ai, ai, don’t cry. No hay mal que dure cien años.” But the hyacinth will already have gone to ash, and knowing she is talking to herself, your throat will sting.

  Your father will answer her as always, “Oh,” which means he is imagining himself jumping over a top rope, out of the ring, running off, his silver-masked head cutting the night like a butcher knife.

  Do not bother pounding against the glass. They will not look up. They know they cannot answer your questions.

  Your brother will eventually make his way down to the front door. The lamp cord knotted at his neck should do the trick, so head to the restaurant.

  In the truck, avoid looking at your brother dressed as a Judas effigy, but do not forget that a single match could devour him like a neon tooth, canopying him in a bright tent of pain—press the truck lighter into the socket.

  The route will take you by a destroyed field—only months before, that earth was an explosion of cotton hulls—your headlights will slice across what remains of the wasted land, illuminating bleached clods of dirt and leftover cotton snagged here and there on a few wrecked stalks. The only despair greater than this field will be sitting next to you in the truck—his eyes are dark but loud and electr
ic, like a cloud of locusts conducting a symphony of teeth. Meth—his singing siren, his jealous jinni conjuring up sandstorms within him, his harpy harem—has sucked the beauty from his face. He is a Cheshire Cat. His new face all jaw, all smile and bite.

  Look at your brother. He is Borges’s bestiary. He is a zoo of imaginary beings.

  When he turns on the radio, “Fire” or “Manic Depression” will boom out. He will be your personal Jimi Hendrix. No, he will be your personal Geronimo playing air drums for Jimi Hendrix—large brown hands swooping and fluttering in rhythm against the dashboard like bats trapped in the cab of your truck, black hair whipping in the open window, tangling at the ends and sticking to the corners of his wide-open mouth shiny as a freshly dug hole, wet teeth flashing in the rearview mirror as he bobs his head to the beat.

  Sigh. He is not Geronimo. Geronimo held out much longer. Your brother has clearly given up.

  The sun is bound to lose its grip on the horizon, and when it does, the sky will burn red. It will be something you understand.

  Search the road for something dead—to remind you that he is still alive, that you are ungrateful—a skunk whose head is matted to the faded asphalt, intestines ballooning from a quick strip of black and white like a strange carmine bloom.

  “This is what it’s like,” you’ll say aloud, “to be splayed open,” but you will mean, This is what it’s like to rest.

  He will not hear you over the war party circling his skull—horses, hooves, drums, and whooping. “Ai, ai, ai.” He will smell the skunk and say, “Smells like carne asada.”

  Your brother’s jaw will become a third passenger in your truck—it will flex in the wind, resetting and rehinging, opening and closing against his will. It will occur to you that your brother is a beat-down, dubbed Bruce Lee—his words do not match his mouth, which is moving faster and faster. He is the fastest brother alive.