The Leavers

1 (3)

8:45pm

Jon. One hand with a cigarette, other in his pocket. He's found himself a bench to sit in a quieter, barely lit area.
Jimmy had just ditched, on the lookout for a cab to take him to friend Peter's.
The faint sound of music harmonises with the rustling of the tree that hung tiredly over the bench.

Jon takes a few puffs of his cigarette, mind wandering through a stream of incoherent thoughts before his eyes lock on a pole, ambushed by an array of posters and flyers. They flap helplessly in the soft breeze; the clusterfuck of colours and fonts on these flyers proving intriguing.
Jon smudges his cigarette butt on the bench table and ambles towards this pole, hands in pockets.
Restaurant, hair salon, bar, community church, strip club and festival.
His eyes hone in on the strip club advertisement. It's vague. Only a telephone number and location with a suggestive picture of a woman plastered behind the text.

Jon couldn't see his evening brightening up with himself as entertainment. He feels a sinking pull in his stomach. The club didn't seem far. He had no clue of where he exactly was, so the situation seemed lose-lose, right?

He found himself ambling down barren streets in the shadows of NYC, where the silence was uncanny but calming. He didn't want this trip to go to waste. A good time was always the goal, and how else to achieve that, he thought, than artificial bliss.

He'd been walking 30 minutes by this point. The moon was out, shyly painting these suburban streets in a ghostly glow. The alcohol had started wearing off, and he was getting irritable. Where is this spot?

Jon sighs, sinking down to the floor against a cold, brick wall. He'd found himself in some sheltered backstreet, where a few, what looked like, starved drug addicts, were hanging around. "I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night" by The Electric Prunes plays in the distance. He lights a cigarette and has a puff. How on earth am I gonna find my way back to the apartment? He takes some time to relax.

"Someone's looking a little fresh faced around here."
A shadow looms over Jon. It's a man. Long haired and tattered.
"I'm in need of some spare change, kid." He sighs.
"You can have a hit if you could give me $10 or so. You look like you need uplifting." He says in his thick, New York accent.
Jon watches as the man pulls out a brown paper bag with an ambiguous mass of white powder inside.

"What is that?" Jon asks, furrowing his brows in intrigue.
The man snorts under his breath.
"You want a hit or no?"
Jon reaches into his pocket, still sat down.
"Yeah alright."
As he hands over a $10 note, he takes the bag from the man and takes a big whiff, the burn immediately settling in his nose.

"Thanks man."
The man slowly backs away, holding eye contact blankly before walking over to his friends stood outside the Kebab place.

A buzz hits Jon almost immediately, like he'd been recharged. The powder was completely ambiguous.