Circa 1992

Circa 1992

Cassidy found herself sitting on a couch at a house party somewhere on Staten Island. The room was filled with cheap cannabis, even cheaper furniture and cigarette smoke. Sandwiched between two half-baked stoners, her mood began to spiral as the clock ticked. She didn’t want to be there. This wasn’t how she wanted to spend her night. But when you’re the best friend of a chick who’s fucking a drug dealer, compromises are inevitable.

Michaela and Cassidy met Tommy at a club. They were looking for their regular drug dealer, but he was nowhere to be found. Tommy was a friend of a friend of a guy they hung out with at a bar once. She and Michaela were becoming known in the club circuit and had seen him around. He was hard to miss. Chiseled features, full, strong lips and steely eyes. A face with the kind of gravitational and intense beauty you can’t stop looking at. Unfortunately, his height was pulled from the shallow end of the gene pool. On a good day and in boots, he stood 5’6. Instead of being an international model, he ended up a drug dealer based out of lower Manhattan. Sinister good looks and cunning street smarts probably made him more money, anyway.

Michaela and Tommy were drawn to each other. Cassidy was just the hanger-on who benefitted from her relationship with him.

Michaela and Cassidy were headed to Bay Street on the island to see a band. The band was already big and at the threshold of signing with a label. There was talk of a video for MTV. The singer was a dead ringer for Sebastian Bach and Cassidy was lusting hard. The singer had made repeated, intense lingering eye contact with her during his last show. After their set, he sent one of his friends to “fetch” her. She decided it wasn’t going to be that easy for him. She told the friend she had another appearance to make and couldn’t stay, that she’d try to make it to his next show. His friend was shocked which told her she played the right angle.

Cassidy wasn’t so much looking to hook up with the singer specifically, but the band. An aspiring photographer/model, she was determined to be the next Charles Peterson or Annie Leibovitz. However, if she ended up the next Bobbie Jean Brown or Tawney Kitaen, she wouldn’t exactly complain. That night, Cassidy planned to either walk away with a gig or a boyfriend. If she played it just right, maybe both. But instead, she was at a house party against her will.

Tommy was already on the island, which was why Cassidy agreed to give him a ride when Michaela asked. Tommy was hunting a guy who owed him a lot of money who was supposed to be at the party. The guy didn’t know Cassidy’s car, which gave Tommy the advantage. Considering Tommy gave her blow for next to nothing, it wouldn’t have been wise to say no.

Cassidy doubled parked in front of a multi-family brick house, indistinguishable from any of the others on the block. Tommy ran in. Michaela lit a cigarette and scanned the stations, always in search of a Ramones song. They were friends for so long there was no need for idle chatter to fill the silence. Not that there would have been much of a conversation, Tommy was back within minutes. The guy wasn’t there. The chick throwing the party didn’t want anyone hanging out front, so either they all went in, or they all left.

In a very non-negotiable tone, Tommy said, “we’re going in.”

Clusters of flannel and denim and chain-smoking stringy-haired girls threw glances at Cassidy. She was an outsider with her black leather and clean hair. The volume was almost at a whisper as if she wasn’t allowed to hear their voices. God, this party sucks, Cassidy thought. She felt her body wither and pondered if a life-sucking black hole lay beneath the ugly upholstery. The only light in the room was projected from the TV with the sound off. It was too bright and hurt her eyes.

Cassidy forced herself off the couch. She wanted to check on het car parked on the next block. It wasn’t a great part of the island and her two Nikkon cameras were in the trunk. She also brought photographs she took at the band’s last show and her portfolio. It always annoyed her when people were shocked by her talent and drive. She was a pretty face. No one thought she was capable of more.

Cassidy peeled herself off the couch. She hadn’t smoked or drank anything yet felt unusually weighty. She lumbered across the room to the hallway looking for the bathroom. She felt unsteady like she’d fall over if someone stared at her too hard.

Cassidy hated the sluggish high that coated her senses. She always had a strong reaction to sedatives and would rather be propelled than sedated. Thanks to Tommy, she could go for days on end and not go broke. She got in the habit of doing a rail or two when she first got up in the morning. Then knock back a few Sudafed with a shot of Jack to go to sleep. Cassidy thought she remembered reading somewhere that’s how Elvis died. But she assured herself she’d be okay. Michaela’s relationships didn’t last long. And with Tommy’s expiration date approaching, Cassidy saw an inevitable detox in her future.

Cassidy knocked on the door and waited for an answer. Silence. She pushed it open and walked in. She closed the door behind her and felt for the light switch. The moonlight through the window over the shower illuminated the room with a flinty blue tinge. It was a soothing transition from the garish light of the TV and decided to keep the light off. But the serenity quickly waned. Cassidy wasn’t alone. She found herself staring at a guy sitting on the floor, his back against the wall between the tub and the toilet. He looked like a resting puppet; legs stretched out in front of him, arms limp, hands in his lap. His head was tilted in a peculiar way, and his tranquil expression suppressed any alarm that might have arisen under different circumstances.

Cassidy pulled in a slow breath — she’s seen this before, the words swirled through her head. But this was different. The smallest sounds magnified in her ears and her body tingled. The air was warm and thick, resisting my movements as she drifted across the room. She kneeled in front of him mesmerized by his face. She could hear his thin breathing swim in and out through slightly parted lips. His eyes were open, unblinking and Cassidy gazed into them. Then, somewhere inside him, a door closed, squeezing out the last bit of light. His pupils expanded until his irises appeared black.

The temperature in the room shifted like the way bathwater cools; so gradually you don’t realize the turn until you’re suddenly cold. And with that, the spell was broken. The air thinned, Cassidy’s senses resurged and she suddenly felt like she was intruding. She stood up and calmly went to the door. She entered the hallway and approached the hostess, glassy eyes, smudged lipstick, and a beer in her hand. She quickly turned as Cassidy came up to her.

The woman’s smirk vanished when her eyes met Cassidy’s.

“Someone in the bathroom needs help,” Cassidy said, not knowing why she used those words. She already knew nothing could be done.

Cassidy could hear the panic in the woman’s voice echo out of the bathroom as she yelled out random names. Cassidy returned to the couch. The lights exploded on, flooding the room. The near-comatose crowd jolted alive with a flurry of blurs and sounds. She watched the confusion and shock unfold and a dozen people file out the door. The remaining spun in a bustle of chaos. It occurred to her she might have felt him dying all along. Death isn’t always becoming and Cassidy suddenly felt privileged to be summoned to such an exquisite event.

Tommy and Michaela materialized in front of Cassidy.

“We’re leaving, now,” Tommy said and Cassidy stood up. “This is not our problem.”

And like the remaining scrambling few, they filtered out the door and didn’t look back.