The Mighty Quinn

Amanda Quinn's life was a simple equation. Unfulfilled potential multiplied by an empty wallet, divided by a bunch of unpaid bills; bills that were strewn across her mini-studio; the one that offered a fabulous view of fifty-seventh street; the walls painted a pristine shade of white; the floors sanded to perfection, stinking of Murphy's Oil Soap.

"Bills," Amanda groaned, turning over. There was a telephone bill, past due, sitting on the nightstand; a vodka bottle on top of it; half empty. "Hi Amanda, this is your old pal Glory," the answering machine told her. Glory Jacobson, former heroin junkie. To think, her nose had been operated on four times, twice for a deviated septum. She was still attractive though, a pair of blue eyes that made her face seem like an afterthought. She was a writer once; her claim to fame being an obscure short story; one that was featured in an anthology of lesbian fiction. No one knew how to kiss ass or soothe an ego like Glory did. She was as piss poor as Amanda was, but that never stopped Glory from making connections, mooching free meals. Amanda couldn't help watching Glory, the way her mind moved. It was quite a sight, the wheels turning rather rapidly when she had her eye on something or someone. Glory Jacobson was the purveyor of all chemicals, great and small; her mood always positioned between chic detachment and quiet cool; as though she were above everything and everyone. In the inner circle of Manhattan's beautiful people, Glory was known as a "starfucker."

In Manhattan, you had to have a line of bullshit. Glory didn't have money, but she bullshitted with the best of them. When she walked into a room or a party, it automatically belonged to her. Amanda was in awe, perhaps a bit jealous; Glory having been published and all.

"Hello," sighed Amanda, feeling unglued. She was in need of a downer or an upper. Amanda needed something; something to make the sunlight less tyrannical. Amanda Quinn hated the morning; waking up was not her specialty; especially after she went out with Glory. They usually stayed up till dawn; one drink leading to two; two drinks leading to coke; coke leading to china; brown or white.

"Good morning," smiled Glory, sipping a scotch, the sound on her television muted; Sophie B. Hawkins' "Strange Thing," playing on the CD player in a repeated loop.

"Don't you ever sleep?" asked Amanda, wondering how anyone could party all night and then wake up at six am.

"I'm immune to all chemicals." Amanda rubbed her eyes, hopping from foot to foot, feet doing a slight hop. Her body felt like Jell-O, mind wandering towards the medicine cabinet; stocked with pills, toothpaste, and liquid liner; beige bottle. "So, what do I owe the pleasure Glory?" "I wanted to see how the short story was going? Have you written anything yet?"

Amanda hesitated, heart pulsing, stomach doing back flips. She was to sick to hear Glory's lecture on creativity. In all fairness, Glory Jacobson wasn't Shakespeare. "I haven't written anything," she confessed, closing her eyes; teeth gritting, jaw tightening. "Amanda, it's been four months. I got you the opportunity. I thought that you wanted to write." "I've got writers block," Amanda hypothesized, wondering what Glory actually did for a living. Oh yes, she wrote travel manuals, proofread copy at some independent publication that paid practically nothing. Truth be known, Amanda had never asked Glory for a favor. She had never asked Glory to get her published; to show her work to anyone; to wine, dine, sixty nine someone; especially an editor. Then again, promiscuity never bothered Glory. Truth be known, Amanda didn't mind if someone did her a favor. Glory was a different story though; her good deads came with a catch; they were supposed to be repaid; repaid in full.

He probably didn't even read Amanda's piece; the one that Glory showed him; the one about Hansel and Gretel and their sexual escapades in the forest. To Amanda's way of thinking, sex and literature were at opposite ends of the spectrum.

"Bullshit," Glory scoffed, chopping a small mound of coke with a straight razor.

"What do you know Glory, you write travel manuals, you edit copy."

"Yes, but my rent isn't two months behind, is it Amanda?"

"Look Glory, you're the one who told me that I had to live in Manhattan." Glory chopped the mound into three jagged lines; scattering the magazines on her coffee table, her coke straw buried somewhere; perhaps it was under the paperwork she hadn't attended to; the copy she hadn't proofread yet; the corrections that were do at seven am; tomorrow morning.

"You misquoted me. I said that all the young writers live in Manhattan. I never told you to leave Chicago." Amanda looked out towards the window. She thought of this fast paced city she had settled upon; a place where everyone just talked; where drugs made everyone inarticulate. That was Manhattan; the place where she had earned her nickname. They called her "The Mighty Quinn," a stupid nickname that meant absolutely nothing; its origin, its purpose, and its substance unknown. In Manhattan, thought was a time consuming element; an entity that was neglected during the hours of midnight through sunrise. "Glory, I'm tired. Just tell me where the party is." "It's not a party, it's a mixer." "Where's it at Glory?"

"Club Liquid; on Fifty-Seventh. Eight sharp, don't be late."

This was rather ironic, considering that Glory was always the late one. Amanda was positive that Glory was going to be late for her own funeral. Glory Jacobson had no sense of time. She never wore watches and if she bought a clock, it was always digital. Glory hated having to decipher the hands; it made her feel stupid.

Fabtabulous: A descriptive word that describes the inner workings of a cocaine addict. "I'm feeling fabtabulous" the addict says; an obvious lie.

Chemistry: Amanda stood before the mirror; face pale, heavy blue bags under her eyes. She felt like someone had cracked her in the head with a baseball bat. That was the bad part about getting smashed; Amanda had to wake up eventually.

"What do we have here?" Amanda mumbled to herself, circling the contents of the medicine cabinet with her index finger; one bottle of Antivan, one bottle of Pacil, one large bottle of speed; courtesy of a doctor she met through Glory.

She cracked open the bottle, poured a tablet into her palm and threw it down, head tilted back. Amanda gagged, ignoring the cries of her throat for water; the pill sliding down and then coming back up; coated with dry heave; stomach protesting this abuse, having not been fed yet. Temptation: Amanda Quinn stood outside the lavender doors of Club Liquid; smoke rising in front of her and then disappearing. They called this "PR"; standing amongst strangers; unfamiliar faces all dolled up in designer duds; moving as though the world didn't exist beyond this moment, this place, their satisfaction; chemical or otherwise. All the amateur chemists were out tonight; Amanda feeling slightly out of place as she flipped her wallet open. A cowhide wallet? Amanda had committed a fashion fopa. Gucci wallets were the thing in Manhattan; leather Gucci wallets. "Amanda!" a voice shouted, startling her as she counted her cash; two tens and a twenty; the last of her advance; all the money she had in the world.

"She looked around, circling the crowd; the faces all indistinguishable, cut from exactly the same cloth. "Amanda!" the voice shouted again, barely audible beneath the booming pipes of the bouncer; holding court near the front entrance; taunting the crowd with a strip of tickets; drink tickets.

"Who's thirsty?" laughed the bouncer, enjoying the power of his position. The sheep flocked forward, pushing, shoving, hollering; jockeying for position with wiggling fingers and stealthy placed elbows.

Amanda looked around, standing on her tiptoes; body feeling compressed as the mass of humanity pushed her forward. It was like being swept up in an undertow; being swallowed by a wave. She fought her way out, walking opposite the humanity, towards the sidewalk, towards fresh air; creating space, air, oxygen, with her hands, her elbows. Amanda could see daylight; glistening cement sidewalks; the aerial spotlight rotating from side to side; purple and then blue; the silver letters of "Club Liquid" turning gold when the light hit them. She finally spotted Glory; dressed for the evening in a black pants suit and matching pumps; her lipstick perfectly and painstakingly applied, as was the eye liner; just a smidge to accentuate the eyes. Amanda had to hand it to Glory, she didn't look like a party girl. Glory did party though; she partied hard; quite often in fact. That was the thing about Manhattan, you always had to look rich, even if you weren't. The drug scene was all about control; or the illusion of control.

"Look at this ensemble," Glory mocked, glancing dismissively at Amanda's outfit; an oversized black shirt and a pair of black sweats, roomy in the legs.

"What's wrong with my outfit?" Amanda asked, feeling defensive now. Glory was impossible when she was acting like a snob. Amanda took everything in stride; thinking about Glory's stint in the nuthouse. Glory Jacobson, case number 75-756-76; delusions of grandeur; diagnosed as a manic depressive. Once upon a time, Glory was a human being; unaffected by money, prestige. Back then, she was a scared little girl; afraid of the world, afraid of everything. But, that was years ago. It was as though; it had never been. As far as Glory was concerned, she never had a breakdown. Funny, Amanda remembered it; remembered the lithium that made her hands shake; made her vomit "I like the luggage under your eyes," laughed Glory, inhaling a drag of her cigarette. Sometimes she wondered why she stayed friends with Amanda. She was like a child; a careless little girl who needed constant attention; that wasn't Glory's idea of a friendship. Then again, Amanda was there when Glory wasn't so chic; when she had had her "breakdown." Amanda held that secret over her head; a secret that Amanda was going to use; but only in case of an emergency. That was it, that's why Glory stayed friends with Amanda. Secrets had kept them together. Besides, nobody in Manhattan went to therapy. Mental illness was so uncool; a dark stigma that conjured up a series of ugly myths; myths about the mentally ill that needed to be abandoned, clarified. "I never talked to the walls," Glory cried, the plane touching down at O'Hare. Amanda nodded, looking out the window; a reporter with uneven cheekbones scribbling notes, setting up for a shot. The Sun Times was the only newspaper that showed up for Glory's book tour; a seven o-clock reading at Barnes and Noble; Webster Avenue; second floor; a cubical with fluffy, violet, chairs; sandwiched between the kids section and the literary journal section.

"Welcome to fame and fortune," smiled Amanda, wondering if anyone would've brought Glory's book if they knew about her; about her illness. The idea of sabotage was delicious. Somehow, Amanda had pictured something else. The way Glory talked, getting published meant fame and fortune, ticker tape parades.

On the contrary, Glory Jacobson was just another face in the crowd; just another author.

"$25 each," grinned the doorman, arms crossed, biceps bulging beneath a black T-shirt; the pocket puffed out by his pecks; perfectly chiseled.

"Oh shit," Amanda whined, biting her lip. She had enough money for the cover charge, but not enough for a score.

"Let me guess, you don't have enough money," sighed Glory; a sigh that was angry, pissed off; but not angry enough to start a conflict. She opened her wallet, calculating her expenses, totaling her cash flow. Three twenties and a wrinkled hundred; a grand total of one hundred and sixty dollars; not counting the two fifty she had in the bank. Four hundred and ten dollars; that's all the money Glory Jacobson had until payday. Paying for Amanda had to stop; it was tacky and rather taxing; financially speaking.

"I only have twenty five on me. If I pay the cover charge, I won't be able to score anything."

"Life is full of hardships," Glory added, sarcastically. She unfolded two twenties and a ten; the corner of each twenty smeared with lipstick; the ten pieced together with scotch tape. The bouncer licked the edge of his thumb, counting off the miniscule roll. He was proving a point; proving his superiority; showing up the pretenders like Glory; the women who acted like they owned the world, even though they didn't have shit.

"Enjoy," he smiled, waving them inside with a nod of his head, a smile that looked down on them, condescended to them.

"Who's holding?" Amanda asked, projecting her voice over the music; a slowed up, techno version of a Blondie tune; a tune called "Maria."

"Mar-i-aaaaa," purred Deborah Harry, behind a scratch, scratch, synth-pop bass line that flowed in one continuous beat. "See that guy over there?" asked Glory, pointing to a fellow standing near the bar; hair slicked back on the sides, boxed on top. He was quiet cool, chicness; a leather coat that stopped at his calves; black sweater with a circle shaped collar; purposely cut not to be a v. Only in Manhattan could you find a stylish drug dealer. "Who is he and what does he charge?" wondered Amanda, head bouncing slightly to the music as she surveyed the scene; white boys with shaven, nicked up heads; a by-product of buying ecstasy, the most expensive product on both the club and the rave scene. Obviously they couldn't afford to buy a decent razor. Their necks were raw, pink; marked by tiny pimples; pimples at the base of the neck. These were marks of excess and or cheapness; even a backwards baseball cap couldn't conceal them. All the white boys were into shaved heads these days.

"His name is Satellite," smiled Glory, wondering how he rated on her finger scale of decent and or good fucks; his thick fingers lighting a cigarette, wallet leaving a bulge in his left front pocket.

"Let me guess, his shit is the best," added Amanda, cynical as always, questioning Glory's desire; her hunger to sleep with an illegal entrepreneur; a drug dealer, if you will. "It takes you to the stratosphere," Glory cooed, thinking of her next hit, that rush she felt when she was high. If drugs were so horrible, Glory never understood why. She got high, she slept it off, then time passed, night becoming morning. As far as Glory knew, her health was grand. Besides, there weren't any addicts in Manhattan. Addiction was rather tacky; passé, if you will.

"What's your poison?" asked Satellite, watching Amanda as she stammered, body fidgeting as though she were coming down.

"Coke?" she asked, unsure of the drug dealer etiquette in Manhattan. "A gram will cost you fifty," he breathed, foot tapping as he inhaled a drag of his cigarette. Satellite was always paranoid, cops and all; Club Liquid having been closed recently for backdoor dealing; Satellite ending up on probation; a charge of possession on his record.

"What can I get for twenty-five?"

"My sympathies," he said, holding his ear; watching a wanna-be gangster on the dance floor; backwards hat, baggy FUBU jeans with a silver buckle. He was signaling for some blow with a rub of his nostrils; girlfriend unaware as he glanced back at her; the smile of denial, that's what they called it. Amanda had known it well. "How about an ounce?" "An ounce is thirty-five, no discounts." He smiled, wondering how much morality she had; how bad she wanted things. "Look, I need something," she pleaded, hand running through her hair, eyes rather desperate as she looked around.

"Thirty- Five," Satellite slowly mouthed, exposing his white teeth and pink gums.

Amanda walked away, disgusted, dejected. She made her way towards the bar; blue stage lights bearing down on the black marble surface; Amanda's reflection rather distorted; her eyes bugged out, egg shaped. "Whiskey sour," Amanda said, lightly tapping the bar as she pulled out a ten from her wallet; her financial windfall decreased by seven dollars and fifty sense.

She thought of all the times that she had tried to kick. There was that one blissful moment; a moment of sobriety. Her apartment was actually livable; magazines stacked up along the wall in alphabetical order, the face of her stereo bathed in Windex; sparkling, shimmering. There was a fresh smell in her apartment; the smell of summer and freshly cut grass; grass that glistened with dew. It had rained the night before; Manhattan was delightful cool; temperature in the low sixties.

The nightlife of Amanda Quinn was different back then; sobriety changed everything, including her nights. At night she tossed and turned; thoughts of getting high dancing in her mind. Amanda looked at the Alcoholics Anonymous book; commonly know as the "blue book." It was so thick; to many steps to ponder, to follow. So much to read, so much to process. Amanda still had the craving to get high. She felt in her body; the sweat, the nausea, the weakness in her knees. Movement was such an artform sometimes. (Six Months Earlier) Solidification: Amanda's affinity for chemistry landed her in her rehab. "The Catherine Institute" to be precise; a sprawling facility with acres of freshly trimmed grass and a blue welcome mat. It was seventeen miles south of Manhattan. She felt sick and alone during her first night; stomach turning in all directions, body drenched with sweat. A piped in bugle call was pounding on Amanda's head; the inner core of her brain. The bed felt soggy when she awoke; the linen smelling of sickness and bodily fluids.

Amanda wondered if she had gone through the DT'S yet. What other explanation was there; she felt flat, broken. Her steps were awkward, strange; like she was an infant; her body brand new. Sitting down at the long wooden table, she caught a glimpse of summer; the trees swaying gently; leaves ripe, green; soaked rather fully; sagging on the vine. An African American fellow in red sweats; his eyes like two poached eggs; his mouth unable to close properly; served her breakfast. It was an English Muffin, its sides blackened and curled; curled like a fetus. Why Amanda hadn't thrown up, she didn't know. She lifted the plate up, a stream of butter soaking through; forming a greasy, piss colored puddle. A giant glob of butter was staring back at her; sliding across the undercooked surface. A patch of ice, like skin, was imbedded deep within the nooks and crannies. To think, she had loved English Muffins once upon a time.

The present: "Have a line," Glory beamed, eyes sparkling as she sniffed her nose; arms around Amanda's shoulders.

"You're high," grinned Amanda; the whiskey sliding down her throat; ice cubes clanking against the glass; a liquid, honey colored, shadow forming on the half melted ice cubes.

"Don't be a square," Glory said, waving the vile in front of her nose; that choppy, rugged looking snow dusting the glass with tiny flakes of white dust.

"Why not?" Amanda said, pounding the bar. She inhaled a tiny mound of powder from the plunger; nostrils contracting, head jerking backward for a moment. Amanda's eyes widened, the room tilting, turning; spinning round and round. She could still hear the music; the sound of "Goldust Women" playing in her ears; just above a whisper. Her mind was like a series of snapshots; faded snapshots; a collection of incomplete thoughts. Ever After: It was strange; sitting in a restaurant with money in her pocket. In the Ever After of sobriety, Amanda Quinn was a working stiff; tele-marketing in Flushing, New York. Flushing, New York; home of the New York Mets baseball team. Her first paycheck was for two hundred and eighty dollars; payable every two weeks; the amount contingent on the number of hours that Amanda worked. It wasn't the money or the job itself; it was the idea of being sober; living a chemically free, slowed down life; a life that took her to a little suburb called Flushing; a mixture of yuppies and working class Hispanics. As part of her treatment, Amanda shared a one bedroom apartment with a buddy from re-hab. He got the couch and Amanda got the floor. Yet, here she was, hanging around Glory again. Amanda was barely out of rehab when Glory had come calling.