Cooper Nichol sat up in bed with a groan, rubbing his eyes at the glare of the sun through his one window. The glow of the television was harsh to Cooper's hung-over vision, but thankfully he left the volume down, so the voice selling the fourteen-in-one pasta cooker was only a low murmur. Empty cans of Busch Ice and plastic bottles of cheap whiskey littered the tiny apartment. Since stopping in Sacramento he had done nothing but drink, sleep, and watch local access channels, and his daily routine was no longer in sync with the earth's, which explained the sunlight illuminating the apartment's. It wasn't morning, it was evening.
Everything had been fucked for close to a week now. Cooper had skipped town, hoping that the distance would take the heat off of him for some bullshit murder two charge. If he really wanted to make a break for it, though, he knew California probably wasn't far enough away to escape being fucked by the long dick of the law. Cooper had been directed to this apartment to lay low for a couple of days, and had been told that someone would be in touch when it was time to move again. It oughta be about damn time by now.
Cooper moved to the bathroom--room number two of this two-room apartment--and splashed cold water on his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a moment before lurching to the toilet, retching violently into the bowl. He could never remember if it was liquor before beer or beer before liquor, but obviously Cooper had picked the wrong one. He finished and sat on the floor of the bathroom, leaning back against the dirty tub.
Cooper ran his fingers through his hair, unwashed for days and starting to get stiff. "I gotta get the fuck outta here," he muttered.
Even the drive down here sucked. His El Camino had served him well for a long time, and it actually drove pretty well, but the damn radio was stuck on one station. This sucked enough back home, where the frequency it was stuck on was in between stations and only picked up this shitty Christian sermon channel, one that was as much static as it was speech. But down here, the channel was some indie station that played some weird-ass music. Not to mention the scenery on the trip was monotonous as hell. Trees, hills, fields. Trees, hills, fields. Fucking trees, hills, fields. It was enough to drive a guy insane.
Cooper was still wearing the same clothes he had the day before, and the day before that, so he just slipped on his shoes and headed out the door. He locked it behind him, but only out of habit. There wasn't anything worth stealing in there, and anybody who lived in the building likely knew to stay away from the place anyway.
He hit the street just after the sun set, picked a direction, and started walking. He considered going and getting his nine from the car as he walked past it, but decided against it. He was nobody down here, so he doubted anybody would bother him. Besides, if he got stopped with a weapon he might as well practice his toe-touches, because then he'd be fucked for sure.
That charge really was bullshit. Cooper and his crew had been throwing down on a Saturday night like they always do, and some chick overdosed at the house. Most everybody knew not to say shit to the cops about it, but somebody was stupid enough to talk, and that somebody apparently only knew one name. Cooper's.
He was innocent, of course. He wasn't even in on the same floor as the girl when she Hoovered herself to death. Shit, that wasn't even his product. She had brought that shit in herself, which, considering whose place she was partying at, was downright rude. Truth was, Cooper didn't have a tie to the death at all, at least, not really. But it was his place, and he did have a rap sheet. Plus the cops had his name. So he could have either stayed and stood trial, either beating or eating the charge, or he could skip town. So he left.
Conscience-wise, Cooper felt in the clear. He felt bad that she ate it, sure, but it wasn't like it was his fault. Which was part of what was bothering him lately. He was always aware of his thoughts and feelings, and he liked to think of himself as introspective, so he knew he wasn't feeling guilty about what happened. Mostly just annoyed. But he also had this aching feeling that something else was wrong. Cooper didn't know if it was something wrong with him, like he was getting sick or something, or if it was something wrong with his crew, or what. Honestly, it felt more like an itch than anything else. He felt like a storm was about to hit or something, and he couldn't shake the feeling.
That was what all the drinking was for, to get his mind off things. It didn't work too well, unfortunately. I don't need to just get drunk, though, Cooper though, I need to get drunk around other people. Drinking alone was damn unhealthy, after all. Maybe he'd hit up a bar or something. There had to be a party going on somewhere, and Cooper could get past just about any bouncer with a winning smile and a couple of bills. He chuckled at himself softly. Hopefully they don't have a dress code.
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