Whatever you do.....

 

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 5^th 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.