The night started early, as per plan.
Treech touched downed in Newark just after noon Eastern Standard Time. Eager and anxious he bounced out of the line for a train to the city and hailed a
cab to Manhattan. A freshly
purchase bottle of Bulleit Rye greeted him upon arrival and we went to work on
it. We ordered some pizza and
after a few slices we both agreed eating was behind us for the next 14-24
hours, maybe more. We were all in.
Treech had a motto at this point, one to keep him grounded;
as it’s easy to lose ones cool when the level of excitement is at peak levels,
as it was. He simply was taking it
one step at a time, or as he put it “baby steps”. The next baby step was a heater. Fair enough.
Let us not forget the man had 24 hours total in the city to get it done,
22 were left on the clock. We knew
where this could be accomplished.
In fact, it had all been arranged.
The Bull, and that beloved Continental he crowns his
backbrain with, were mere blocks from where I live at their good friend Bilow’s
crib. We wasted little time
getting there, stopping only for beer, and soon enough the conversations were
fast and furious, the level of enthusiasm heightened with each thin rail and
stiff drink. The next "baby step"
– and who are we kidding at this point, these are grown man moves – was
arranging the rest of the evenings supplements. Altoids were laid out in a line on the coffee table and they
were blessed with a generous amount of liquid fun. Treech and I wrapped those suckers in cellophane and headed
to the bar, a quick pit stop on route to the venue. After multiple cocktails
amidst a sea of friends it was time to head to head to the Garden. Buckle the fuck up kids.
The line to get onto the floor at the Garden was tedious,
long and windy. When we finally
got through it Treech and I, simultaneously, enhanced our breath with curiously
strong mints, grabbed a drink, and hit the floor…..pleased beyond belief with
the amount of room and the proximity to the stage that West GA had to offer.
Jim opener.
Dope GBOTT. My Friend>Lope
closer. Satisfying first set. The appetite was sufficiently sopping
wet.
We could still talk at set break some, meaning we weren’t
spun to the point which demands forced antisocial behavior. A meeting of the minds occurred between
four embattled veterans in the game, Treech and I amongst this group, where we
decided to take it up a notch.
This time the vehicle was far less minty and more soggy and akin to
cardboard…..but a man must do what a man must do. It’s 12/30.
It’s Treech’s one night in the city, our one night of the run. Caution was thrown fiercely to the
wind. And we were rewarded with
one of the better sets of music I have seen any band play in some time. Disease>Twenty>Carini. Bliss.
It was around the first notes of Slave when I realized how
far gone I personally was. I swam
through the crowd for some air (a tribute to both the quality of music and the
high that I needed a break), escaping to the Delta Sky Lounge that serviced all
those lucky enough to be on the floor.
I walked aimlessly, floated really, and became overexcited when I saw a
television with the Skins game on.
I ran towards it, awkwardly. When I got there I spent a good deal of time
figuring out what was happening in the game. The score was 21-18, I had that on lock, but the rest of the
puzzle pieces didn’t fit. I kind
of came to, if you will, rubbing my hands continuously through my hair while
breathing huge ‘pull it together Mike!’ breaths, and it was then that I
realized I was “watching” the game with 6-10 security guards. Enough of that, back inside to soak in
the waning moments of a powerful Slave.
It was after that Slave that I caught back up with Treech, Shope, Bish,
and Laura for the encore. Smiles
all around. But it was during this
encore where it became clear I wasn’t the only one that was high to a crippling
degree. Treech was directly in
front of me for the Hood>Show of Life and although he was there, his usually
danceable self was absent from the venue.
He had quite a hunch stance working, leaning over forward but drifting
back, side to side, and forward often.
It was obvious he wasn’t only trying to move to the music but to also
remain balanced. He reeked of
high. I’ve seen it before. Oh boy.
Lights up. The bubble of musical fantasy and euphoria popped
instantly. A rude awakening. Time
to act right, to pull it together some.
I remember this feeling all too well. Been a minute, but I got this.
Retrieving my jacket in the condition I found myself in post
show wasn’t just difficult, it was traumatic. We both stashed our belongings behind the barrier that
divided the two floor sections, but the idea to do this was not our alone. I sifted through stranger’s jackets for what felt like
days. I finally located both my
sweatshirt and jacket – PAYDIRT!
Now to help Treech. I began
to search for his belongings (he had a bag with him too, which housed
his extra tee-shirt). I had no
idea what his gear looked like.
I asked, begged even, Treech to help me find his jacket, or
even just describe it to me. The
look he gave me each and every time was telling to his condition. He flat out didn’t know (Trust me,
although he didn’t know, and was beside himself with confusion – the grin was
ear to ear. He was exactly where
he wanted to be and got the show he came for, more even. Things were going perfectly according
to plan. The rest of the evening
not so much.). And after some back
and forth we decided we didn’t care.
He wouldn’t look for his jacket (or wasn’t sure what I was talking
about), I didn’t know what his jacket looked like, so it was time to move on we
figured.
This is where Treech was lost, in the wave of people leaving
the floor of the garden. We all
(well we thought all….) stopped in the lounge for a moment to gather ourselves
and BOOM – no Treech. We waited
for awhile, checked back inside, and then waited some more. Then it was time to go. We would see him outside we
thought. We didn’t.
We were appropriately worried. Calls were made to Treech’s phone at least every ten minutes,
probably less. We used the time to
get Tim and his pregnant wife a cab and then Bish and I met Paul at a local
bar. We then contacted everyone we
knew that he could possibly be with Treech. After some time, and some drinks to knock of the edge (yeah
right, good luck - the edge was STRONG) it was reasoned that we should go to the bar that we all were to meet at
later in the evening. He knew
about this prospect. Had even been
there. It was literally the best
bet we had, our only lead. A lead
that went nowhere. We got to
Parkside and Treech was nowhere to be found. We drank, made calls, and tried to piece it together.
A call finally came in. He was alive.
But, he was confused, a bit scared even. I charged outside to fully commit to the phone call, to
bringing our soldier who has been missing in action back home.
“Treech, are you okay?
Where are you?”
“I don’t know Mike.
I don’t know.”
This tipped me off to the severity of the situation. I, with as much authoritative command I
could muster at the time, stated the following in no uncertain terms: “Treech, no matter what happens do NOT
get off the phone with me for any reason until you are standing right next to
me. We can do this. YOU can do this.”
My role as dispatcher began right there but the real work we
be done on the other end of the line where Treech was lost, high as fuck, and in
a city crawling with well over 8 million people. The first order of business was to get him in a cab.
“Treech, you have to get a cab. They will take you to me. Are you on the street?
Look on the street for yellow cars. They are cabs (let’s not forget we are not far removed from
a time where the idea of a ‘jacket’ didn’t make sense). Wave your hand in the air and one will
come and get you.”
He agreed. And it didn’t take long. In a couple minutes he was in a cab. I
instructed him to tell the cab driver to take him to the corner of Houston and
Attorney. They were off. We were
home free.
Not so fast.
“Where are you taking me????!!! What are you doing? Mike, I got to get out of this
cab. I gotta get outta of this
cab!!!”
“Treech, no.
Hang in. He is taking you
to me. Just stay the course. He is…..”
“Let me OUT!
Get me out of this fucking cab!! Let me out of this fucking cab!”
He was screaming at the driver and the driver I am sure was more than
happy to obliged. I hear the door
slam (was money exchanged? – It did not sound like it) and he was back on the
streets.
“Okay (sigh of
relief), I’m outside.”
I think it is crucial that you, the reader, understand the
tone that our dear friend Treech said this. There was relief, of course, but it was also said in the
manner that he had accomplished part of the mission. Like I had specifically asked him to freak the fuck out and get out
of that cab immediately. Like –
Okay I am out. So what’s
next?
Back to the drawing board. I let him know that all was going to be alright and that he
just had to find another yellow cab and get in it and tell him the same thing
as last time (Attorney and Houston) and just stay in the car until they get
here. It couldn’t be far, I
figured. It was at this point that
many of us that were convened (Bish, T, etc.) were more than willing to go get
him. But ‘stay there- we are
coming to get you’ only works when the person knows where they are. When I asked Treech if he saw any
street signs around or knew where he was the answer quickly doubled my concern. He had no idea.
He got another cab, fairly quickly once again. But also once again he found something
about the ride objectionable and freaked the fuck out demanding to be let free
from the vehicle immediately. The driver relinquished his hold on Treech and
let him back into the world (once again, was money exchanged? Didn’t sound like it).
“Alright. I am out of the cab.”
And again, as if according to plan. As if a multiple cabs was part of the
process in getting him to the bar we were at.
It was at this point Treech grew enormously concerned. He
saw something he didn’t like.
“Mike, I think the cab is calling me in. I think he is reporting me!”
Whether this was actually the case or not we may never know. Regardless, I told him to get out of
that area. Go a couple streets
down and we will get him in another cab.
And, most importantly, do not hang up the phone. Huffing and puffing our man shook the
problematic cabbie, the potential run in with the law, and in an impossibly
short amount of time, considering the situation he was in (or thought he was in), was back in another cab.
No more fucking around. “Treech, tell him Attorney and Houston and nothing
else. Please, do not talk to him –
just talk to me. We got this
man. Almost home!” I increased the level of my banter as I
assumed if he was listening to me, and focused on me, the less of a chance the
walls of the cab would close in on him once again and he would be forced to
escape. Any silence on the other end would be met with “Treech, you still with
me? Do not talk to the driver, just me. You are almost here. So soon man. You got this! ”
And he did.
I saw the cab pull up.
A beacon of light in a world of flight. He was still focused.
He sat staring straight ahead, silent, and with the phone glued to his
ear. He didn’t know his journey
was over.
Bishop and I swarmed the car without hesitation and with
fiery deliberateness. Seal Team
Mothefucking Two. It was as we
rehearsed this flanking with a vacant cab in an empty parking lot prior to the
evening – just in case. He handled
Treech’s excavation from the vehicle, I went for the driver with my wallet ajar
ready to lavish him with whatever ransom he demanded for the return of the
prodigal Treech. The fare was a measly $4.50, meaning that wherever Treech last
demanded freedom from a cab he was not far from us. Each cab, like a relay race, had gotten him closer to the
soft landing he had been waiting for, the one he deserved.
After the fare was settled I turned to Treech for a
well-deserved reunion bear hug.
The embrace felt of another era; a soldier returned home, one we thought
we had lost. But when I
relinquished my hold and pulled back I saw a smile on Bish’s face that didn’t
end. I have seen many a grin on my
friends face but this one was different.
He was onto something that he knew would rock my fucking world. Adjacent to this grin was his hand,
with his finger pointed down – towards Treech’s feet.
Now, laughing at your friend at this point in time is almost dangerous. A man’s fragile mental state must be considered and cared
for. But the fit of laughter that
I was launched into (I was on L, let us not forget) ranks in the elite echelon
of laughing fits I have fell victim to.
You see, unbeknownst to me, our good friend Treech was wearing only
socks on his feet. White socks
that looked like they had been in a fight. What’s more…..it appeared that our man Treech didn’t realize
this was the case.
“Yoooooo!!!!
Where are your shoes?”
This was met with a look that embodied…'I don't know man -you don’t know what
I have been through’.
This wasn’t the right time to get into it.
“Doesn’t matter man.
You made it. Let’s get
inside and get you a drink. We got
you.”
Treech’s night – our night – was back on track at this
point. All was once again right in
the world. We drank, shot some
stick, and decided wisely to take our antics out of the public eye and
retreated to Paul’s wife-less crib to ride out the rest of the evening. Our cabbie on route to Brooklyn
introduced us to the music stylings of the president of Haiti (Michel Martelly
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michel_Martelly), aka Sweet Micky – if you don’t
know…now you know!). We kept the
party going and most importantly we got Treech ready for his morning flight. He showered and Paul selflessly
provided him with clothes and, most importantly, shoes for his trip. He would be going home with far less
than he arrived with….but he would be going home alive….after having provided
hours of fun and a lifetime of memories to all.
________________________________________________________________________________
To circle back some…..we know very little about the time
Treech was missing in action. He
remembers little, or that is what he wants us to believe. The only clue, the only lead, we have
to what occurred during “the missing hour” comes in the form of an admission of
sorts from the man himself, received after some prodding on January the 5th
of 2013 in a text message. It
read:
“I think I tried to push up on a homeless guys rig and get
comfortable and mentally hit the eject button…”
There was more:
“I know for a fact I started trying to wish myself out of
the predicament I was in. Fact.”
So, there it is.
All we have on what went down.
It may be safe to assume the homeless man that Treech attempted to span
time with took advantage of his undermined state and helped himself to some new
kicks. But it appears we will
never know.
I can’t even imagine how the city would feel underfoot with
just socks on. That is a feeling
we are not supposed to be aware of. I can’t fully fathom what he looked like in
those socks waving down cab after cab.
And I truly wish we had a more comprehensive account of what occurred during
the lost time. But I do know this,
I do know that Treech forgot the one thing that his favorite band explicitly
asks him to always do.
Luckily, I have no doubt in the future he will head that advice and take care of
his shoes at all cost, during every baby step he takes.
Treech 12.31.13 About to head to the airport.
