My heart rate was slightly elevated. My hands felt strange. I experienced a bit of a tremble. There was a twinge of paranoia, and a feeling that I was forgetting something. I hadn’t yet taken the drug, but I was about to.
 
There were sixty glass vials in a white cardboard box in the trunk of my car—stolen from a clinical drug trial. They were paying junkies seventy-five dollars each to participate. Somehow they were surprised when something went missing.
 
Ingesting the drug was purported to create the sensation of watching a movie of one's life—memories arranged sequentially and viewed without intermission. Events and scenes were projected upon the inside of the skull—an unflinching picture show.
 
My car, with the drug in the boot, was tucked behind the rural filling station. Still hot and smoking, the machine had suffered catastrophic failure. The oil pan was ripped open and every moving part was exploded or seized. There was a trail of liquid.
 
Crushing a spent cigarette under my shoe I was acutely aware of the dirty sound, rubbing and tearing and scraping. The stillness was unnerving. Every sense was heightened and present. I missed my pocket and the small box of wooden matches that I had been holding hit the pavement with a cardboard sound as I have never heard. There was a loud scrape as I scooped them up.
 
I smoked another cigarette by the pumps.
 
The station was closed. I had followed signs off of the highway for gas. I don't think I even needed gas. Mile after mile of field and forest, lefts and rights following hand painted signs. I didn't see a house or building or town.
 
The filling station office was unlocked said a light shoulder to the door. Inside, the cash register was open but the till was empty. There was ice-cold beer in a slide-top case. There were packs of cigarettes in a plywood rack on the wall.
 
I helped myself to a longneck beer and a pack of Camels. I slipped a few dollars under a cup of ballpoint pens next to the register. I don't regularly smoke Camel, but I once had a girlfriend who smoked them. The tobacco has a unique scent and I always associate her with that delicious burning leaf. I was in a reflective mood.
 
There was a gone fishing sign hanging in the window of the station, covered in dust. Hand-lettered and real, the sign was not the type sold in tourist shops. Gone fishing meant a fishing trip—out of town and staying over—sleeping in a cabin near a bend in the river. No one was coming back here anytime soon, if ever.
 
I set out to see if there were any signs of a town further on down the road past the station. I didn't want to find out later that I wasn’t stuck here at all—that civilization was right around the corner.
 
I left the only structure that I had seen for hours. Walking the sharp turns and steep grade deep into the forest, I found that the road only narrowed. The pavement was barely an impediment to the desires of roots and vines. The rate of growth was disturbing. Serpentine movements of vines dominated the road—the edges now obscured. Following sinuous path, the vines embraced and twinned in the middle of the road—twisting and coming together.
 
Once, in my youth, I stood in a sun-fueled cornfield and experienced a creaking, silk stretching, insect mandible cacophony that shook my very soul. Hands covering my ears, I was lost in a corn maze and left behind—forged permission slip, not included in headcount, crying at crossroad. The school bus had gone, the field was screaming and closing in. I did not want to experience that again.
 
I turned away from the advancing tendrils and tried to put the sound out of my mind. Everything was green and growing, I could hear it. There was nothing for me in this direction but a root-filled skull.
 
Heading back toward the filling station, I saw a set of terrible skid-marks on the road. The tire marks were not the type made when brakes are applied, but rather those made by a vehicle spinning out of control—accelerating all the while, possibly airborne at some point.
 
I smoked a couple of cigarettes where the car had left the road. The vegetation was thick and some of it was broken. Much of it had been pushed aside and sprung back. There was a torn up post and cable guardrail. The land fell away in a hurry. If there was an automobile down there, it certainly wasn't visible from the road. I'm no forensic expert, but fluids from a shattered crankcase were still puddled up, there was the smell of burnt rubber. This was a fresh one. I had no desire to be the first one on the scene. The forest was advancing. Some broken sassafras was fragrant and sweet.
 
I headed back to the filling station, leaving the wreck behind. I didn't realize how far I had walked, and it took some time to return. There were no passing cars, nor were there going to be any. It was late summer and the sun was still high.
 
I broke the seal on the vial. It was a slim glass cylinder with a type of tamper-proof adhesive strip marked with a barcode designed to be read by a machine. The dose was a pale pink liquid the color of a blush wine. There were three grains suspended in the liquid. The grains appeared as little balls or Sputnik or an electron microscope image of pollen—each smaller than a dried pea.
 
I gave the container a gentle shake and swallowed it down. The taste was vaguely metallic. I went inside the shop and pulled a beer from the case. I slipped a couple dollars under the pencil cup.
 
I went into the restroom to splash some water on my face. The bathroom sink belonged in a filling station—rust streaming from overflow hole. There was a filthy loop of cloth towel hanging from a dispenser on the wall. There was no fresh towel to pay out. I lifted my t-shirt, and wiped my face and hands.
 
I steadied myself on the edge of the sink. My body felt stiff, my stomach unsettled. I threw up into the sink and rinsed it down. The movie was about to start.
 
I had a few expectations about how this cinematic recounting of my life was going to go. These ideas would prove to be wrong. I was a participant and observer only. It was clear that I was not the director.
 
The first memory was upon me like a wild animal. I had thought that a few scenes from a happy childhood would play out, grainy and popping.
 
Instead, I was entering my building on the lower east side, keys in hand. There was a rotating, spinning point of view. I put the key into the door—wrought iron and glass. The sound of the key, a distant siren, a heavy thunk. I was right there, and I was watching myself at the same time. There was a sound like a Leslie speaker attached to a Hammond organ. I knew what was coming. I cursed at a New York lapse. An unseen assailant pushed through the door behind me. We were jammed up in the vestibule between two glass doors and some mailboxes.
 
I felt the adrenaline rush. I watched and twitched as I kicked this stranger in the groin. I grabbed his head as he doubled over. I slammed his face onto my knee as I brought it up sharply. His nose shattered with the sound of a snapping celery stalk. Blood flowed. My knee hurt like hell. I was crazed as I pushed him back out onto the sidewalk. He fell to the concrete and I kicked him repeatedly—blow after blow to the head. He was trying to rob me, this fucker.
 
I was there kicking again and watching myself kick. When he was unconscious, I went through his pockets. I found a fistful of small bills, a dime bag of dirt weed, and a gravity knife that I still carry today.
 
He was dead. I knew it then, and I know it now. I was pissed that blood had ruined my favorite pair of stovepipe trousers. I made no attempt at a cover up. The super mopped up the blood. I threw away the pants. No one ever asked me any questions.
 
My breath was rapid and shallow. I focused my eyes to find that I was gripping the rust-hole sink in the filling station. The water was still running and the volume was outpacing the drain. The sink was filled and the rusted overflow was in use. I tried to reach for the spigot but found that I couldn't move. After a wave of panic and a couple of forced deep breaths, everything was free. I shut off the water.
 
I needed some fresh air. I stepped out the back door and lit a cigarette. Close before striking said the tiny print. There was a pop and flare of phosphorus and chlorate, the smell of sulfur and burning pine. I have used wooden matches since I was a kid. I like the strike anywhere kitchen type. I remember my mother opening every drawer and cabinet looking for something with which to light the stove.
 
My car was out there, half up on the apron. A '49 Merc facing another rebuild—a ridiculous machine, powerful eight, great going straight. My mind drifted to the tire marks and broken vegetation. I felt compelled to return to the crash site.
 
I walked around the building and past the pumps, absentmindedly flicking a cigarette butt in their direction as I stumbled over the pneumatic hose that triggered a bell inside the building. I looked left out of habit as I stepped out into the road. I walked the wasted centerline—a single yellow worn and cracked from repeated crossings and winter. There was no traffic now and the pavement was hot. Plants were testing the blacktop as though sticking a toe into a swimming pool before plunging. I walked stiffly back toward the wreck. My mind did not feel as my own. The forest overhanging the ribbon—an ever darkening tunnel. Things were starting to spin again. I was walking, but I was somewhere else. My mind tested and tested again. There was a corridor of faces.
 
I was back in school. History class—that’s where I learned forensics, that's where I learned that Kennedy had been shot. I had a teacher who was obsessed with the Zapruder film. He showed it to us over and over. We analyzed every frame as though his little group of junior forensic experts was going to see something that the Warren commission had not.
 
I stiffened as I recalled the tests. Each test we took billed as more important than the previous one. Each exam a progress report of some type. We were tested constantly in our youth—reading, writing and math. Math. The idea that I am no good at math is ludicrous. I can look at a woman for example and execute millions of complex calculations per second—hip to waist ratio, ankle diameter, height and weight, inseam length, thigh gap, and estimated annual expenses.
 
I stumbled to the edge of the road—my pencil in my hand. I was there in the sixth grade classroom—detailed and olfactory. The rotating spinning point of view returned. This test, on this particular day, I recalled vividly. Beyond vivid. I was a participant and observer.
 
The desks were arranged in a semicircle. The paperwork was in front of me. I wasn't looking at the questions. I wasn't looking at the test. I was looking up Julie Tucker's skirt. It sounds terrible and perverted now, but we were the same age—just kids trying to figure it out. She was trying to figure out how to sit in a short skirt, and I was trying to figure out how to brush my cheek up against that smooth inner thigh. I could see the rose pattern on her underpants. I could make out the petals and a few tiny thorns.
 
This movie of my life was not unfolding as I had anticipated. So far I am a murderer and a pervert—certainly not news to me. But this test, on this particular day turned out to be important. There was no build up to the importance of this test, they just kind of slipped it in there—which, of course, was all I could think about. This test measured intellect, producing a simple score—a number assigned to intelligence. Very scientific, this number taken as gospel—a number for my permanent record.
 
There were two questions that I got right—these were visual in nature. The questions involved moving two wooden sticks to create another pattern. They looked like matches in an ashtray to me. It was easy. Peeking up Julie Tucker's skirt, that's where I scored high—IQ probably coming up 60. This explains a lot. I never thought of this before. Of course! Mediocre work was praised, and good work was eyed with suspicion. This single number attached to my name without appeal or protest. This is about the time I went bad.
 
I fell off the boulder into the street. Locked in the fetal position, I rolled and cracked as though hatching. I was losing it. I didn't like the way this movie was playing out. I was still on a field trip. I hadn't even gotten to the wasted hours, needles, and prison part yet. Things were proceeding backward, and I didn't want to go back. I struggled to my feet. I staggered up toward the crash site.
 
At the top of the rise, the road dipped and fell sharply to the left. A car cresting the hill and favoring right would become airborne and probably swap ends. After bottoming out a couple of times, the car would punch through a wall of green that opened and closed as an iris. A single car theory. This is exactly what had happened—a high rate of speed, a couple of bounces, and the car had launched into the forest. There was a chunk out of a tree—eleven feet off of the ground.
 
The driver's side door was open. Thankfully there was nobody inside. There was a spider web on the windscreen—a pretty good knock, but the scene was bloodless. It had been an insane, high-speed ride to the bottom—miraculously skirting the largest of trees except for the high impact at the top. I didn't immediately recognize this car as my own (although I should have), all banged up, nose buried in a bush.
 
The drug was taking hold again. My brain wrung out like a sponge. My body felt unusually tight. I slid behind the wheel and pulled the door closed. A cramp in my right calf forced my foot to point and slam the accelerator pedal to the floor. Every muscle began to tighten and convulse. I grabbed the steering wheel, ten and two. I tried to breathe and relax. A new sensation ravaged every joint. A locking was taking place. Ankles and knees were injected with glue. I pressed into the seat. It was setting up fast. My pelvis felt like cement. The base of my spine audibly clicked. No longer muscle nor tendon nor flesh—I felt only bone. Each vertebrae clicked and froze—a zipper up my spine. L4, L5, click, click. My neck felt stiff.
 
I managed to fish out a cigarette and clamp it in my teeth. The beautiful pop of the match and whiff of sulfur relaxed my mind and slowed everything. The lighted match, a wooden red tipped beauty, slipped through my fingers, cartwheeled through the cabin, and landed on the floor of the passenger side. Smoldering, it flickered to life on the carpet—a little teepee of flame. On the floor a mis-folded map of New York State exposed edges for easy ignition. The zipper sped up my spine to the base of my skull. My head bent back and someone was screaming. My hands clutched the steering wheel and my elbows locked—my fingers bone without flesh.
 
My bones were bleached white. I was lying on my back, arms and legs in the air like a dead insect. My hands were shaped as though still holding the steering wheel, my left leg bent in a seated position, my right leg extended and punching the accelerator. I felt fragile as a china doll. I was on the floor of the filling station. Water lapped at my back. The sink was overflowing. I had failed to shut it off. A gentle one-inch wave knocked me down. My left leg broke loose and clattered across the floor—my femur wedging under the beer case. I pulled myself together—a skeleton scrambling around like Jackie Kennedy on the trunk of a Lincoln.
 
The trunk. I had some concerns and suspicions about this dose. I wanted a closer look at that box. I picked up the cash that I had stuck next to the register and stuffed it into my pocket. I'm pretty sure I shut off the water in the sink. My car was not sitting out back, tucked behind the rural filling station. I grabbed a beer for the road and started walking.
 
The interior was burned and the paint on the roof was blistered. The seats were just wire and springs. I pulled the charred keys from the ignition and unlocked the trunk. The white cardboard box was upside-down, but incredibly, it was intact and bore only a few bruises and some smoke damage. The fifty-nine remaining vials were unbroken, but it didn't matter. The box bore something else. The words “control-placebo” were printed all over the inside flap. I should have studied more. I dropped the keys into my pocket. I took a screwdriver from the tool kit and pulled off the plates. I used the screwdriver to monkey up the VIN number as best I could. I made a small fire in the trunk.
 
I tucked the number plates under my arm and stumbled down the hill in the direction that the car was heading. It appeared lighter down below. I stepped out of the woods into a cornfield—the stalks towering over my head, the row disappearing into a vanishing point ahead. I followed the path without deviating.
 
When I emerged at the end of the row, the school bus pulled up in front of me and the door opened. I climbed aboard. The bus was silent. All the chatter and excitement of the day was exhausted. Halfway home they had to return for me. I slid into a seat next to Julie Tucker. She placed her hand on my knee. I studied the license plates in my lap, tracing my fingers over the raised letters and numbers. 49 MERC. The chaperone, who had probably seen my scores, suggested that I study the plates carefully, as I would likely be making them in prison one day. I felt nostalgia for the present.
 
Placebo Overdose
 
julie tucker's skirt
destine murderer pervert
bleached bones overturn
 
 
© Jon Montgomery 2018