Remo Went Rogue by Mike McCrary Read Free Book Online Page B

to the floor of the now pitch-black apartment.
    Fumbling in the darkness, he manages to get a candle lit and sits at the dining room table. Smells like jasmine. Would be a romantic setting, if things weren’t so damn shitty.
    He takes out his cell and scrolls through the contacts. He stops on one, looking long and hard at the name. Anna. His thumb inches toward select.
    Stops himself.
    Not the time. Not sure if there is a good time.
    He scrolls on and goes with another number.
    New York City ADAs are somewhat used to receiving phone calls at all hours, but the rude awakening still pisses Leslie off. She manages a groggy, “Hello . . .”
    “You fucking suck,” Remo announces before hanging up.

    Downs the Johnnie and pours a fresh one by dancing candlelight. A self-satisfied smirk spreads across his lips. Can’t help but think, Even in the face of death…still got it.

11
     

    They say when you drink to the point of passing out you don’t ever truly achieve a deep sleep. Something to do with the fact that your body is fighting off the alcohol and is unable to relax enough for your mind to completely let itself go. That… or maybe your body has some sort of mechanism just underneath the surface that’s acutely aware your drunken ass could puke at any moment. Believe it or not, your body doesn’t really want you to die choking on your own vomit while passed out. Self-preservation doesn’t take nights or weekends off.
    Of course, you can override this mechanism by sucking down so much sauce it short circuits nature’s little self-preservation helper—see former AC/DC frontman Bon Scott for details. Death by misadventure does not look pretty.
    Your brain will allow you to dream while in this alcohol-induced limbo. Perhaps not as peaceful as normal sleep would be, not as fluid. More of a herky-jerky kind of sleep that starts and stops, hits pause, rewinds, then records over the good parts. Over and over and over again, until you wake up feeling like you crawled out of a goat’s anus.
    Remo prefers this to lucid dreaming.
    It’s not the sole reason he drinks the way he does, but it’s a side effect he welcomes. Real dreams can unlock the head or unconsciously unwind things that are better left in a twisted hairball in the corner.
    His dreams tend to be more superficial mental exercises.
    Comfort food dreams.
    Something for his brain to chew on while Remo falls under the spell of Ritalin and Johnnie Walker Blue.
    R&B, he calls it.
    He saw something somewhere, maybe 60 Minutes, where college dickheads were taking Ritalin to increase brainpower, allowing them to study/cheat in school. The drug was designed for hyperactive children, but apparently when adults take it the results are slightly different. Instead of mellowing out hyper Jenny or Jack, it allows adults to focus—like really fucking focus—and absorb information at a much greater rate. Of course there’s also talk about it elevating blood pressure, causing strokes and the like, but hell, McDonald’s can do that too. Not to mention, Mickey D’s does nothing for your grade point average and can make you fat as fuck, so what’s a boy to do?
    Remo likes the Johnnie Blue, but he’s a high-priced, high-profile attorney who needs to be able to focus, be sharp, and retain large amounts of information. The sauce can cause more than a few hiccups with those needs, so it makes perfect sense to welcome the pills to the party.
    Mr. Blue does what he does, little boy Ritalin does what he does, and Remo comes out smelling like a rose.
    Of course, it hasn’t been perfect. Working out a system takes time, and there were moments, especially in the beginning, when he struggled to get the timing, dosage and mix just right. Painful, socially uncomfortable moments. But after a relatively short amount of time Remo got it down and, depending on your personal moral code, he’s been pretty successful.  
    Alcoholics sometimes refer to their time being drunk as “being on the