“I can’t move my neck,” Vassie said, sensing the party going on behind his shoulder. He knew he was in Rachel’s apartment because he could see the Clash poster over the wicker chair and the ferret’s cage in the corner, but he couldn’t turn to see who else was in the apartment. When Vassie got there the girls from the club had offered him a joint while Rachel was in the shower. He zoned out for a little bit after that and now his neck was stuck.
“Vassie, you’re scaring me,” Rachel said. “Get up. It’s the same stuff we had. You didn’t even smoke that much.”
A dull ache crept from Vassie’s neck to his shoulder. Rachel drifted from his eyesight and Vassie suspected some guys were now in the apartment.
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Light from the hallway swept into the room just as Vassie began demanding that if he had to be moved, he should be carried. He heard men, for certain now, drinking in the kitchen. Probably the same assholes who came to the Marigold for the “lingerie shows,” throwing money around like big shots. He hated that Rachel worked there–now she and the other girls were partying with the customers and he was supposed to just sit and be nice. How did Rachel meet such morons? These guys probably screamed at the TV during football games, as if the steroid freaks could hear them and would care.
Vassie told himself to remain composed this time. Getting mad just brought the cops faster.
“Don’t say that,” Rachel said. “He’s having a bad reaction. He’s gonna hurt himself.”
“I’m OK,” Vassie called to the crowd. “Will you listen?” The cops and orderlies were focused on Rachel, who talked as if he weren’t there: “Corvoisier, that’s his name. Watts. Like a lightbulb.” She told the cops he had been getting worse lately and no, he wasn’t on medication. Vassie noticed she had not mentioned the happy stick they had smoked. He didn’t want Rachel to get in trouble, but he didn’t want to get thrown to the wolves, either.
