I knew that something was out of place the second I came to. There was something terribly wrong, and it had nothing to do with the bass thumping directly below me, or the treble circling in the ceiling fan directly above my head. No, these were the kinds of things we were all accustomed to, an ever-present stimulus in the world of overblown sexuality; a soundtrack for the never-ending mating dance.

I found myself facing strangers, all of them engaged in their own conversations. Their faces were clear, but I found myself not caring who they were. I heard the sound of a shotgun going off and jumped a little, only to find my finger gripping the pull-tab on a can of cheap beer, foam pouring out of the mouth. I took a sip while I composed myself, and it was warm.

Good lord, what am I doing here? That was the real question, and it didn’t necessarily confine itself to just this room. Phish was playing in the hazy room: “she gave me ideas, planted the seed…but she never stopped to reflect…” I eventually shuffled to my feet and grabbed the doorknob, stepping outside. What the fuck am I doing here?

Familiar faces became more and more common as I descended the stairs, looking for more doors to try. I slipped into a bathroom to empty my bladder, and saw “Thom Hunter Lives” etched into the cheap plaster wall. Once I left the bathroom, it didn’t take me long to catch up with my housemate, a red glow sitting in his eyes.

“There you are. What the hell is the matter with you? We have to get back on the road.” I spoke quickly and pushed my hat backward, suddenly nervous.

He stared back at me, a blank expression on his face. His mind was working slowly now, trying to interact with his body. The cigarette he was holding was switched deftly from hand to hand, then taken to his mouth for a drag. “What the hell is the matter with you?” he finally shouted. “You’re the one who wanted to go to this sleazy party.”

Fair enough. I seem to remember that I had insisted on stopping by this particular house tonight, seemed to remember some reluctance on his part. The only thing left to do now was to leave, to struggle through this haze, to maintain.

We made our way towards where we thought the exit might be located, through throngs of beer-guzzling frat boys and giggling girls, all looking for the next buzz. Incubus was blaring out of the speakers. Repetitions of “Fuck me in my own way…” carried us down the hall. Two girls were attached at the mouth on my left to the delight of all partygoers, and the flashbulbs of so many cameras burned the scene into the backs of my retinas. But I couldn’t find my way through all this nonsense. I couldn’t make sense of what was happening right in front of me; my brain wasn’t processing what my senses were giving it. And why should it make sense of this? The poor thing could never understand what was going on here. This scene was far too complex, too illogical.

But for now we were trapped, surrounded by people. I was starting to panic, fearing we would be stuck inside this horrible place for all eternity. There’s nothing more dangerous than the feeling of despair when your mind is wrapped in a cloud of chemicals. “I don’t know if we can get out of here!” I yelled to my companion. “I might have to blast my way out. Quick! Hand me your Zippo and the quart of rum, I’m going to make a hole. With a little luck these fucking frat boys will run out to the lawn to put out the flames.” I made myself ready for a quick escape.

“We’re on the porch now, man.”

Sure enough, the cool night air had surrounded us, and the bass had faded away to a dull thump. Fantastic. Now my head could start clearing up. I could start to maintain.

“That party sucked,” my housemate remarked, lighting a cigarette.

“What are you talking about? Did you see those girls kissing? That was worth it, for some reason.”

He ashed his cancer stick. “Too bad I missed that.”

Escaping the house hadn’t put me at ease. I still felt like something was wrong, even though a quick personal inventory showed that I was in order. I had all my possessions, and hadn’t forgotten to zip myself up the last time I left the bathroom.

I caught a familiar scent, and turned to look at my housemate. The cherry of the cigarette glowed brightly on the dim porch, and I noticed a small mark of pencil near the filter that denoted it as one of his “special” blends. We started walking.

Of course, on a night like this, the wind cool but subtle and with a nearly full pack of cigarettes, we couldn’t head right home. We made a stop at the diner on the corner, looking to score some caffeine. As the door swung open I caught the end of a Guster song, and the lyrics “come and bury me…” followed us to the booth. Coffee came quickly.

I felt infused, and it wasn’t just the bad coffee. I knew that this night was something out of the ordinary, something special. I knew it from the moment I woke up, the ceiling fan turning above my head like a hamster wheel. A glance at my housemate told me he knew it as well: we were now on a quest. A quest for something greater than the sum of our parts, two run down college students trying to accomplish more than we previously thought was possible.

“This all seems kind of pointless,” I said.

My housemate nodded. “Nothing better to do on a Friday night, I suppose.”

“When the fuck did that happen? Don’t you remember when people talked about doing something with themselves, when they had a dream?”

“Sure, saw that shit in history class. Kent State and whatnot. Put a daisy in the barrel of a gun and we’ll all be better off. Got ‘em real far.” He gulped down the rest of his cup of joe.

“That’s not it, though. You were in that house with me, watching those swarms of college students turn themselves off. This is the prime of our life, man. This is when we need to seek out meaning, purpose in life, that is. The American Dream.”

He nodded, grasping the gravity of the situation. “If we’re going to do this, we’ll need to smoke some of my cigarettes. For extra clarity.” I nodded, and we stepped outside.

Before long the night became a blurry composition of images as the drugs began to take hold, and sitting here now it’s hard to distinguish what really happened and what is simply the brain’s attempt to make up for lost time. My housemate and I made our way from place to place, crashing into parties of every kind. At each one we found alcohol, reefer, psychedelic drugs of every sort. We chain-smoked as we walked the streets, plastic red cups from a frat kegger in hand. The streetlights were looming ominously over us, and our minds were slowly slipping.

“I must warn you, the cops will be on to us soon,” I said as we staggered down a dead-end avenue. “Lord knows that girl you molested back there will find a phone before long, and then the hammer will come down on the both of us. We’d do well to find a fast car, drive to Mexico. The Federales will never be able to catch up with us.”

“What the hell are you babbling about? You were the one who got us kicked out of that party when you tried to light that girl’s hair on fire. You’re lucky we got out alive.”

Lucky, indeed. It was only a matter of time until that bitch from three parties ago tried to take my kidneys and leave me in a bathtub full of ice. My associate was blind if he couldn’t see that. It’s a good thing we had my street smarts to get us through this night.

So far our search was going remarkably poorly. The only thing we had noticed so far was the extreme popularity of downers among the college populace, and their willingness to abuse them far past the limits of common sense. I’d have to take off my mittens to count the number of frat boys and dolled up freshmen girls we had seen passed out at just one party, all too eager to drown their lives and troubles away. But what the hell were they drowning? Most of these kids were on rides from their parents, the next several years of their lives paid for. They were comped, Vegas style, with a $30,000 hotel room with a full mini bar just for dragging their feet through high school. My housemate stepped into the gutter for a moment to empty his stomach.

Maybe that’s the rub. Somehow, along this truncated evolutionary chain that is the twentieth century, we just stopped caring about the rest of the world. The late seventies and eighties were an era of cocaine-addled self-promotion and wanton greed, chiseled out of the charred, smoking remains of flower power and free love. But today, most of us will do just enough to get by, to maintain. This generation never found a cause to follow, except to take the next step towards mediocrity. We’re tired. We’re tired and we don’t give a fuck.

This blinding realization hit me as just as my friend was finishing up, staggering over to me and laying a hand on my shoulder for balance. I jumped away. Crazy bastard.

“We’re never going to finish this search, you know,” I said, peering at the cherry of my cigarette. “It can’t be found. The American Dream is a throwback to another time. We’ll never understand that.” He nodded, but I could see in his eyes he couldn’t understand.

“Jesus Christ, man. Can you believe we grew up in a world where the simple act of having sex could fucking kill us? What kind of people do you think that breeds? What kind of beast rears its ugly head?” I was shouting, letting the whole world know all about its ills.

He lit another smoke. “That doesn’t stop people from having sex, man,” he remarked. “You saw the same shit I saw tonight. People don’t care about those consequences.”

My God, he’s right. Somewhere in the mists enshrouding his mind, he figured it out. We’re on a fucking course to destruction. The ultimate way to tune in and turn off. And this didn’t seem to bother my housemate.

It was obvious I wasn’t safe with this raving lunatic. The whole world has gone mad on cheap vodka and plentiful drugs. Yet at the same time I felt strangely at ease with the whole situation. To hell with it. Nobody’s safe anywhere, not these days. Rationale had been checked at the door to the new millenium. “This is all over,” I mumbled. “We can’t find what we’re looking for, because we lost it. There’s nothing left to do but go native.” My housemate nodded his assent.

Hours later, we were sitting on a couch, surrounded by empty beer cans, and propped up on either side by weekend junkies too twisted to keep moving. Biggie Smalls belted out of the stereo speakers, keeping the room swimming as he rapped “things done change…” I had no choice but to agree. My housemate had passed out long ago, but despite my drunkenness, I continued to hang on the edge of consciousness. The ceiling fan was still spinning in my head, keeping me awake with uncertainty. I finally struggled up off the couch, tripping over a multi-color pile of silken shirts tossed haphazardly on the floor. I made for the porch to have a smoke in peace.

I tried to find a lighter, but came up empty. I fumbled with a pack of kitchen matches tossed on a coffee table, finally getting one to fire up, so I could light up. It dropped from my fingers as I got the first lungful of smoke, and came to rest on a nearby sofa, not quite extinguished. The tobacco refreshed me, made me feel like I could keep going on, looking for whatever needed finding.

The sofa on the porch was smoking heavier than I was as I descended the steps to the sidewalk. By the time I made it slowly down the street, I could almost feel the heat on my back. The street was soon illuminated in a soothing orange glow, lighting my way through the dark.

As I walked down the street, I felt more alone than ever. But at the same time I knew this was how it had to be. We’re not looking out for number one anymore, but we don’t give a shit about anyone else either. World peace is a façade, a lie that will never come to fruition. Money is fleeting. We have nothing for ourselves except an ever-rising bar tab we can never hope to pay. The only solution is to put your head down, head for the exit, and hope to God the hostess doesn’t see you before you can get to your car.

So I kept walking down the street, smoking my cigarette. Trying to maintain.