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I didn’t know I was bleeding ‘til I saw the blood. That’s the way it’s always been. Some die from their sins. I live from mine. On a bad day I consider myself poor and unfortunate. On a good day I consider myself rich and fulfilled. I was lucky to peak at the right time

It was New Orleans in their summer. It was long past midnight. I was staying in a cheap backpacker’s near the ghetto. I’d been out all day and spent the night drinking three for one beer’s in the French Quarter. I was wasted. I sweated profusely staggering back through the swamp night. I got back to the backpacker’s saturated and saw everyone there was dry and sober. Nobody was sweating like me. They all looked like cardboard people. They were all busy telling tales of their travels. Nobody wanted to listen. All they wanted to do was talk. They were cardboard people talking about cardboard. I was drunk and bored so I headed back out and started walking the streets. I kept walking looking for a sign of life.

I found it. I found a sign of life. I found a sign of life three blocks from the backpacker’s. He stood in front of me to block my way. He opened his left hand and told me it was twenty dollars. I laughed. He asked what I was laughing at? I said, you. He told me he was going to kill me if I didn’t buy it from him. I told him to fuck off and brushed past him. It took him a second to catch up and stand in front of me again. I was so drunk all I could do was laugh as he pulled his gun out. You’re going to buy this, he said. I laughed again. He started yelling at me to stop laughing. He held his gun on it’s side like a gangster and said, you gonna get shot boy’! I ended up giving him twenty dollars so he didn’t shoot me. I could see the blood.

I took it and went back to the hostel. I opened the piece of cellophane. It looked like a piece of soap. I’d never heard of a crack pipe so I smashed it repeatedly with the back of my cigarette lighter and spread the pieces into a hand-rolled cigarette. Smoking a piece the size of a split pea had me pacing out of the hotel into the dead heat of the swamp night. I walked back to the French Quarter. I had no intention of slowing or stopping. I had little to no regard for the looks and stares of startled passers by. I was sweating uncontrollably. I’m a friendly man but couldn’t stop glaring as I paced up the street. My blistering intensity made a middle-aged Texan man stop talking and sway on the spot as I passed him. I heard him say, what the…. as I swept past him. It looked as though he was pushed by the wind. I was scared of nothing. I walked until I was tired and then walked back to the hostel and lay down. I tried to sleep.

I woke from my daze to find the inside of my mouth raw. I must have been chewing on my cheeks. The sun wasn’t at its peak but it was still hot as I stirred. It felt like an oven. I was still high. I was still high but hungry so I walked down towards Canal St looking for a café for breakfast. I couldn’t find one. All I could see were bars. I walked into an empty one and ordered a beer. I felt dumb and suicidal as I stood there. The bartender looked at me strangely. I wondered if he knew how high I’d been? Every time I raised the beer to my mouth I would see him staring at me. I waved him over for another beer. He asked me if I was okay? I told him I was alive which was as good as. He looked bored and walked to the other end of the bar and sat down on his stool. He was reading a newspaper. He lifted it up in front of his face. I finished the second beer in three raises to my mouth and got out of there. I kept walking the streets looking for life but all I could see were more cardboard people. I went back to my room and tried to sleep.

I still couldn’t sleep. I had a cold shower and got dressed. I had a splitting headache. I started walking again. I still walked quickly and still didn’t know where I was going. I walked and walked still looking for it. The exhilarating high of the night before was in no way a match for the pains that cut me down at regular intervals throughout my hangover. I’d have to stop walking and put my hand on my stomach. I had abdominal cramps as if I’d done one thousand sit-ups. I felt miserable and sick. There were couples everywhere holding hands. Every woman I saw looked like cardboard. Every man I saw looked like cardboard. I felt low and hollow as I turned my head and crossed to the other side of the street. I stopped at the next intersection. My head rang as I looked at my feet. I saw the hole in the top of my right shoes and I sneezed. I wish I hadn’t sneezed. I had to start running as I felt my bowels about to open. I could see a shopping mall across and down the street so I ran down the road and was about to cross but was stopped by a cargo train. It took five minutes to pass. As the train swept past me I farted. It felt wet. I cursed the fact that I was wearing two hundred dollar jeans. I got to the mall and headed straight for the toilets. There were two stalls in the men’s, both occupied. I slammed my fist on the closest one and it flew open. There was no one in there. I farted again. I got inside and pulled my pants down and there it was. Diarrhoea. A waterfall of shit left my body. I sat and farted and shit and smiled. I sat on that toilet for a good twenty minutes. I still didn’t get it out of me. I still haven’t gotten it out of me. Some people die from their sins. I live from mine.

Andrew Stuart Buchanan