Sinkholes

Human activity creates sinkholes. The rock dissolves, spaces develop, and an entire world forms below the surface of these natural depressions. A massive one opened up near the capital of Guatemala a month ago. We blamed Tropical Storm Agatha, but I knew it was the collapse of society. We will slip through the cracks once it widens.

We jump the bus to New York three weeks after the hurricane that devastated Manhattan, Brooklyn, and the Jersey Shore. Sandy flooded streets, tunnels, and cut off power in most of the city. We were going to the best rave in a desolate city on a random Tuesday night. Don’t come if you can’t tolerate balls and testosterone and life. Do come if you like sex and drugs. The end was tomorrow, the Mayans predicted it.

Allison was released from the hospital only 24 hours ago. She was poked, prodded, and had pills pushed into her.

“The Prozac almost killed me,” she says as we wait in line for the Lucky Star.

“The hydroxyzine did nothing. They said ‘If you let them work, they’ll work.’ But it’s only a mind game that I can play. And I won because I’m used to hard drugs with effects that you can’t control. I would rather go out ‘under the influence’ than just sedated.”

I had hoped to achieve success before the world ends. It was my secret, but time had always slipped away from me. Time to think. Time to write. I could always find a couch to pass out on at a party or sit alone in my apartment with the curtains drawn.

The Pills were always there to help. My whole life is waiting for inspiration. I try to read and the lines blur together on the page. I read the paragraphs but never comprehend them. I drink a lot of coffee while I wait. I bash my head into the wall to force myself to understand.

When I was 16, Johns Hopkins University invited me to apply to an advanced writing program that prepares gifted students for early college success. When I was 17, I was given an IQ test and scored 103 as part of the reform school admission process for my senior year.

“You’re of very average intelligence,” my college counselor said and handed me local community college pamphlets. “On the low-end of average, in fact.”

The inability to process words came out of nowhere, so I smoked weed out of a Diet Coke can so I can forget.

An old man glares at us from across the aisle. I can’t sit still and Allison’s new lip piercing is so fresh that it is still bleeding. “Disabled girl,” he’d probably call me if it were polite to notice someone’s legs twitch uncontrollably. The old man mutters to himself as the bus hurtles down the highway.

He is behind us as we file off the bus in Chinatown with a menacing shuffle. I can hear the vendors whispering as we walk along Canal Street. New York was not evacuated during the hurricane. People waited behind in their high rises as cranes dangled over buildings.

I wanted to move to New York after college, but instead, I moved in with my parents and became a shut-in. I lie on the couch with a strict television schedule. On Tuesday, I watch reruns of Law & Order: SVU all day and every night at 10 p.m. I turn on Paranormal Witness. I leave the TV on so I don’t have to sleep. I lie awake with red, bloodshot eyes circled in shadow as I feel the sinkholes open. I draw the shades, turn the lights off, and stay inside, chortling about hating everyone who’s abandoned me.

I text my college boyfriend, but he doesn’t respond often so I keep my phone under my pillow. One afternoon, my mother said: “Get excited about your life” and took me to our local rural Wal-Mart for a hair-conditioning treatment. My ends were still splitting afterward.

I came out to find a story tonight.

We step off and a blast of frigid air hits us. But we’ve found the rave, a secret spot in Brooklyn where people know their music. There is no one here yet except the jazz cats in a circle. Carlos is in the center, with his wool coat pulled up around his ears. He is imposing despite his small stature - the kind of guy you want on your side. Aaron is beside him, a glint in his eye and a spliff clutched between his fingers.

He hands it to me and I put my lips to the end. The feelings begin to rise, it’s like an explosion in my brain. Love! Creativity! Joy! I texted my boyfriend earlier, but he didn’t answer again. He doesn’t care that loving him is one long fall into a sinkhole. He took the gig in Boston.

Aaron tells me he is sober from a ritual purification as we pass the spliff, his eyes glittering with pride. He signed up for the shamanic ceremony online, swallowed The Plant, and vomited once he caught a glimpse of what is to come. Images of family, emotions, memories of high and lows came to him as the Shamans cradled his head.

“A lot of people have cleaned up their acts lately,” Aaron says.

Aaron has never taken The Pills.

He stares into my eyes and dares me to laugh. You can fall forever in a sinkhole and never touch the bottom.

"I hope I'll be here by next year," I say as I clutch my 20-dollar entry fee for the bouncer.

"If there is a New York next year," Aaron says. "The world will end slowly, sinkhole by sinkhole."

The cavern can open up in an instant. We are all falling through the sinkholes tonight, the abyss of glowing strobe lights and booming music.

"It's better to choose to fall apart," Allison says as we enter the party.

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