Johnny Wraith Stories

It was a painful Sunday morning. Maybe it was 11:00 am. I woke up in a strange king-sized bed. Hung-over with memory loss. My mouth tasted like a thousand cigarettes and my head throbbed. My stomach was sick. All I could remember was being at a party that started out slow, and everyone was wearing a tie or a dress. There was a champagne fountain flowing. Elevator music everywhere. But it got better when the boring people with routine lives left at 9:00 pm or so. About then, a couple of ladies in their 40s or 50s took a liking to me, laughed at everything I said. But I’m sure it was my being 23 with an athletic build that did the trick, not my words or gimmicks. We ended up snorting cocaine in a bathroom with brass knobs and one of those fancy toilets that shoots water up into your ass. We smoked grass in the backyard behind some bushes. The tequila poured in the kitchen. We clanked shot glasses. Smoked cigarettes. I can’t remember the rest. But now it was the next morning and the two ladies were there, in a king-sized bed, and so was I. One was on each side of me. They were both knocked out cold, one snoring loudly, both with matted hair and smeared makeup. I looked under the covers. None of us was dressed. I snuck out of the bed and went looking for my clothes.

I looked around the enormous house. No one else was there. Just empty glasses, dirty horse d’oeuvre plates. The champagne fountain was still flowing, still cold, bubbling. I found a coffee cup in the cupboard and filled it. I had a swill of the bubbly and some dripped over my chin into the thick and black curly hair on my chest. I went around, from room to room, up stairs, downstairs, everywhere, in search of my clothes. No luck. I couldn’t find a sock. Nothing. No shoes, pants, shirt, underwear, sports jacket, or tie. Not a damn sock. Not a fucking belt or shoelace. My dick and balls were just hanging free and my ass was showing; and I was in a strange house. I felt naked, exposed. I went back to the kitchen to think. A pack of lady’s menthols was sitting on the counter. I lit one up. Took a puff and had another chug of champagne from the coffee cup. Tried to think. The coffee mug said “World’s Best Mom” on the side. My stomach got really sick. I ran outside and puked in the grass. Some splattered on my feet, and shins, but not much. I cleared my throat, spat, and wiped my mouth with my forearm. I looked up. The sun was hot. It made my headache worse. Not a cloud was in the sky. All across the lawn I spotted my clothes. They were scattered randomly. Bacchus must have show up the previous night and joined us for some song, drink, and dance. I got dressed fast and left the place, didn’t look back.

On the way home, I stopped at a 4-lane intersection and waited to cross a highway. The light was red. At the light, facing the highway, I was on the left and an old man in a Cadillac was on my right. He had white hair and thick glasses. A caravan loaded with kids and dogs and a fat mom with big hair was behind me. The light was long. I started fiddling with my cassette player, switching tapes to get some Billy Idol playing. “Flesh for Fantasy” started.

The caravan behind me honked angrily. I looked up from the tapes and cassette deck. The Caddy to my right had gone at green, while I just sat there, oblivious, still half drunk, and sick, fiddling with the car cassette player and tapes. Before I could hit the gas, an 18 wheeler on the highway came barreling through its red light. Without braking, it struck the Caddy in the driver’s door at at least 65 mph. It was loud. I saw the driver of the Caddy whiplash violently, like his neck was snapping. The Caddy wrapped around the semi’s grill effortlessly, like tin foil. Flat as a pancake. It all took less than a second. I saw a lot of sparks, heard the pavement grinding, steel crumbling, locked brakes squalling too late. The truck and the Caddy slid together for at least 300 feet, and stopped.

My light turned from green to yellow. I gave it some gas and crossed the highway.