mine is the house made out of straw

 

Huffing is the practice of breathing in toxic fumes, just for the fun of it. It’s usually teenagers, but it doesn’t have to be. While most people do it for the buzz, I was in it for the wholesale eradication of brain cells. When it comes to dumbing oneself down, the next best thing to suffocation is inhalation.

It all started one day when a couple of teenagers were filling up a gas can down at the local Chevron. Then, they rode off on their bicycles. Nothing suspicious going on here, right? Wrong. The fact that they had no car should have tipped me off that things were not what they seemed.

What I didn’t know at the time was that these kids were Huffers, and that gasoline is to a Huffer what beer is to a construction worker. For a Huffer, gasoline is both accessible and affordable. You can store large quantities of it and it doesn’t leave your face looking like a circus clown, like with spray paint.

What clued me in was a few nights later when I saw the movie Love Liza, starring Phillip Seymour Hoffman. That movie was really sad, and fell right in my lap like an instruction manual. Divine intervention. Divine gasoline intervention.

Sadness aside, that’s exactly where I got the grand idea to start huffing gasoline. Why gasoline? Because spray paint was simply out of the question. I had no intention of going around looking like Bozo the Clown.

So I got a five-gallon gas can and went down to the Chevron and filled it up with all my hopes and dreams. I was paranoid the whole time, thinking people were watching me, wondering why the hell I was filling a gas can when I didn’t even have a car. They had to know what I intended to do with it. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could.

While I felt the whole time like I must be breaking the law somehow, the crazy thing is that huffing isn’t even illegal. Not even huffing while driving. While most stores will limit the number of potentially harmful inhalants any one person can purchase at a given time, just like with cold and allergy medications, some products, like aerosol computer cleaner, are not even regulated. So, the next time you see someone walking out of an office supply store with an armful of Dust-off, that’s not a geek, or a neat freak—that’s a Huffer. If you see someone filling-up a gas can, maybe their car ran out of gas. Or maybe they’ve got a lawnmower at home. Ooh, I never thought of that one.

I took that gas can home and started huffing every chance I could. At first, it was kind of cool. I put on the Grateful Dead’s “Morning Dew ‘72” and it seemed like I was floating through space. I felt light, like the breeze; and everything had these well-defined lines all around them. All different colors. There was softness about it all, like I could just reach out and touch the air.

It was at that moment I understood everything. Everything made sense: the music on the thing; my arms, my legs—even my mother’s glasses. But it was just for an instant. A glimmer. A microsecond that was in the moment an eternity; but for all its wisdom, finite in the end.

Then it all came crashing down. All of a sudden my head began to throb and everything came undone. I began to panic. Keep it together, I told myself. I woke up half-ass on the floor. Wow. Hit me again, barkeep.

Hold on a sec’, I thought. I had to remind myself: my reasons for huffing were not for having fun, but to kill as many brain cells as possible, as quickly as possible. I didn’t have time for Spinning. I had somewhere to be. The clock was ticking; and if I didn’t do something to win Fanny back soon, it was going to be too late.

On the downside, huffing made me sick as hell. Puking-up my guts in the toilet, Fulmer asked me if I was okay. I told him it must be something I ate.

“Chinese food, I bet,” he said. Good ole, predictable Fulmer. Sometimes I wished I could hate. Hatred would at least give me something to do. Some people have all the luck.

After a while, I actually got used to the taste. Eventually, it even started tasting good: like Tang, the astronaut drink.

While the taste was by now tolerable, it was the smell I could never get used to. Even worse, the odor was overwhelming, everywhere throughout my apartment and even outside on down the hall. I was getting worried someone might call the police. Or the fire department. There had to be a better way.

But Goddamn if it wasn’t effective. I walked around in a daze all the time. My eyes couldn’t focus, and I found myself nodding off in the strangest places—in every position. Nice.

You see, the beauty of huffing is that it gives you a one-two punch. To begin with, it cuts off oxygen to the brain, just like suffocation or strangulation. Then it gives you the added kick of toxic chemicals. Wow. Talk about your ole one-two. I was hooked.

I had to come up for air once in a while, however, and it was during one of those rare moments of clarity that I made a new friend.

I was on my weekly Wednesday mission to track down Fanny at the local grocery, when walking through the frozen-food section I saw this girl passed out in the ice-cream bin. There was a can of whipped cream in her hand and sweet sugary stuff all over her mouth. I had no idea at the time, but she was a Huffer too. I thought maybe she was just a sugar junkie gone awry.

It was like the meeting of Smith & Wesson. I didn’t know it at the time, but it would be the catalyst for a whole new way of life for me.

Her name was Cynthia, but I just called her Reddi Wip. I helped her out of the freezer and highly recommended we get out of there as fast as possible. The police may very well be on the way.

When she said she had nowhere to go, I invited her back to my apartment. Now, don’t get the wrong idea. For one thing, this girl was just a kid. Secondly, she looked more like a boy than a girl. I was just being nice, that’s all. I had my own gal. I was just offering the kid a place to sleep it off.

I did however, I admit, have one ulterior motive for wanting to get to know her better: She was a teenager, and thus had extensive huffing knowledge. How did I know? I had just pulled her out of an ice-cream bin in the depths of a nitrous-oxide binge, that’s how.

You see, the geniuses over at ConAgra decided at some point to use nitrous oxide as a propellant for whipped cream in a can. (Added bonus: the nitrous also serves at a preservative.) The only thing is, while teenagers are not really big fans of the sweet sugary stuff, the gas inside is perfect for getting them high. You might have heard of it by its other name: laughing gas.

By the time we got back to my apartment, she was plum tuckered out. After a long, long nap on the couch, she woke up saying, “Whoa, man; it stinks like gasoline in here. Bad.”

I know, I told her. That’s why I needed her help.

She was hungry as hell, so I gave her some potted meat and a can of cold chili.

“Damn,” she said. “How do you eat this crap?”

I didn’t have time to go into my whole life story now. Instead, it was she who had information for me. I got right to it. As I suspected, her knowledge of hazardous vapor inhalants was extensive.

She told me all about the different paint and primer products, but there was so much more than I could ever imagine.

There was industrial glue, patio sealant, and lighter fluid; shoe polish, paint thinner, magic markers; even air-conditioning refrigerant. There were even time-tested, party favorites like poppers, whippets, and liquid rush. You name it, this kid knew about it.

“Just promise me one thing,” she said. “Get off the gas. That shit will kill you.”

I told her I would.

By the time we were finished with my education, I had a PhD in Hazardous Vapor Inhalants. My newfound knowledge went all the way back to the stone age: Huffers sniffing glue.

In fact, kids have been sniffing glue for as long as there have been model airplanes. The chemicals in the glue saturate the blood/brain barrier and react with neurotransmitters, producing sensations of euphoria.

And then there was Dust-off: the computer keyboard cleaner. While the warning label makes all kinds of vague assertions, like it could cause permanent health effects, could be abused, that you could instantly die, blah blah blah, the thing that really caught my eye was where it said Suffer Brain Damage. Even better, Reddi Wip told me that the rush you get from huffing is actually the sensation of your brain cells dying off. Perfect.

Did you know: Huffing isn’t just for humans anymore? In Russia, it appears bears have picked up the habit as well. No joke. In Russia’s Kronotsky Nature Reserve, the bears there have become hooked on jet-fuel fumes. These Russian Brown bears, known affectionately as Huffer bears, have taken to inhaling discarded jet fuel out of old barrels until they pass out cold in the snow, a sure sign of addiction. Not only that, these cute and cuddly hopheads are so fond of the good stuff, they’ve taken to stalking helicopters as well.

Tipping the scales at around one thousand pounds, these fuzzy little dope fiends are the heaviest known Huffers in the world. But this isn’t the first time bears in the former Soviet Union have gotten themselves into trouble. Ukrainian Brown bears have been boozing it up in bars and restaurants for years. There’s a long tradition in the Ukraine of plying bears with liquor just for a few laughs, trading vodka for tricks: like playing the trumpet, doing the hula hoop, and dancing for beers like Homer J. Simpson himself.

In no time flat, I knew everything. The only problem was, my expertise was limited to theory only. Worse even, all this knowledge was only making my big fat brain even smarter. Time to get busy; time to put it all to good use. Reddi Wip told me she knew just the people who could help.

They were like the Lord of the Flies on Henderson Island. While not a one of them was a day over sixteen years of age, none of them seemed to have a home either. They had all the time in the world to help Dear Uncle Arlen. That’s what they called me. That, and Daddy Warbucks.

I was the head lunatic in charge, the HLIC, tasked with acquiring all the necessary hazardous vapor inhalants necessary for a cerebral annihilation on the scale of a Bikini Atoll. When I read my mission statement to them, they gave me a standing ovation. I suppose I could have said just about anything, as long as I was paying. Even so, they said they were honored to be along for the ride.

There was JB and Elmer, Ronson and Zippo, Angelus and Kiwi. There was Mona Lisa and the Tamiya twins. There was Sharpie, Arctic Freeze, EZ Chill, and Avalanche too. And then there were the Locker Room sisters. It was quite a crew, and I was their leader. I had never been in a group before, much less be its leader. It felt just like family: a hopped-up father figure and his motley crew of indigent kids all dizzy from hazardous vapor inhalants. Yes, it was exactly like a family.

Besides being old enough to be their grandfather, I found that I really did have something in common with these kids. Do you know what‘s wrong with kids these days? I mean, among about a thousand other things? The main thing wrong with kids these days is the same thing that’s wrong with me: they just know too much. While the common belief is that today’s kids are just too dumb, the truth is exactly the opposite. There’s way too much information pouring into their brains and they’re just trying to stem the flow.

These were good kids. Their hearts were in the right place. And they simply adored me. They would do anything to help me accomplish my mission. God bless them.

Every morning we would get together and plot our plan of attack. They showed up early, right a daybreak. I couldn’t believe their devotion. Truth is, I didn’t really have to do anything at all. These kids really knew their stuff. All I had to do was finance the whole operation, act like I was the one in charge, and they did all the rest. They spread out all over town like little missiles on their skateboards. They knew exactly where they were going.

They turned me onto all kinds of HVIs I never even thought of: aerosols like air freshener, fabric protector, and hair spray. Even everyday deodorant. Really? Deodorant? What will they think of next?

While these kids did have their preferences, they were not devoted to any one product or label. They’d huff just about anything they could get their little hands on.

That is, except for Cynthia. Cynthia was dedicated to her nitrous oxide. Laughing gas. Reddi Wip. It was nice to see a kid these days with such product devotion. The big wigs over at ConAgra would be so proud.

Did you know that nitrous oxide is emitted from wastewater that contains nitrogen-based organic materials, such as those found in human or animal waste. Really? Human waste? Gross. I was just glad these kids weren’t into drugs.

After a few days of sucking down just about every imaginable HVI known to man, one morning I decided to look in the mirror. Not sure why I did it. I hate looking into mirrors.

Even so, there I was looking like a sick and sorry-looking skeleton: like Wile E. Coyote just after a bomb blows up in his face. Wile E. Coyote: Super Genius. Having to play the fool to the Road Runner’s straight man is no easy task.

Did you know that the E in Wile E stands for Ethelbert, and that he was modeled after a character in the Mark Twain book “Roughing IT?” Damned Big Brain. I’m supposed to stop doing that.

The good thing was: it was working. All the toxic gases were doing the trick. Whipped cream aside, what I needed right now was a cherry on top. Taking my cue, I lowered my head and launched straight into the wall. Awesome. When I pulled my head back out, there was huge hole in the drywall and sheetrock all over me.

“Cool,” said JB.

Right on.

And then inspiration hit me. Suddenly, I came up with a name for our little band of gassy men. All this time and our crew still had no name to go by. Right then and there I dubbed us: the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang. And if we were the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang, I guess that made me Mr. Cassidy. From that moment on, they all started calling me Butch. I was their hero.

That’s how it went for the next few weeks. Eventually, they all moved in. It was just easier that way.

Best part was: it was working. I could feel myself getting dumber and dumber all the time. Like I said before, there was decades of useless information inside my head and it was going to take some time to empty it all out. Hold on Fanny. I’m getting there, honey. Be patient, my love.

While our way of doing business was effective, at the same time it wasn’t pretty. Watching one of these kids while in the midst of a huffing spell, with a snot string hanging from his nose and his eyes rolled back in his head, it made me think about those poor Ukrainian bears. Being played for drunken fools was no way for a mighty bear to go through life. What is it about the Ukraine that always makes life so hard, anyway?

One good sign that I was making progress: I’d forgotten these kids names by now and just started calling them all Junior.

Still, as ugly as huffing can get, I was positive I was on the road to salvation. If the warning labels on the cans were accurate, I figured I’d be reaching the promised land very soon.

But I did not reach the promised land. Making things even worse, soon I’d forgotten all about my kids. There were no more missions to the stores, no more group huffing sessions, no more hot cocoa by the fire. Little did I know, my people were getting restless. An all-out rebellion was inevitable.

With no more steady stream of toxic vapors coming their way, the Hole-in-the-Wall gang was left to fend for themselves. Like when Butch and Sundance headed down to Bolivia.

They spread out all over the building looking to get their fix. God knows Wang was at his wits end. Then, like the old Comstock Mine, they hit the motherlode. It was so obvious; I should have seen it coming.

One day they showed up, their arms filled with Clorox, Tilex, and Ajax; Krud Killer, Cillit Bang, and Kaboom; Mr. Muscle, Chore Boy, and Scrub Daddy. But when I saw Junior sucking-down a bottle of Señor Bomba Atómica, that’s when I knew exactly where they had been: They’d hit the Professor’s apartment. Hang on, Professor. Help is on the way.

I got up off the couch and grabbed hold of a vine, swinging my way over those savages, stopping momentarily to take a quick whiff of Kaboom, then out the door on my way to rescuing the Professor.

When I got to the Professor’s apartment, 9M, the door was locked. He must have barricaded himself inside. No bottle of Purell could help him now.

I banged and banged and banged on the door, but there was no answer. Of course not. Was he even there?

I knelt down and looked through the keyhole and sure enough there he was. I could see him clear as day, still with his head shaved and his eyebrows all bleached white. By now, he’d even added a gold earring to his ensemble.

He looked as crazy as ever, but not too distressed. Believe it or not, he actually had a smile on his face. Go figure.

When I got back home, all the Juniors were passed out on the floor. All except Reddi Wip, who was curled up next to the fridge in the kitchen with bottles of whipped cream all around her. Gotta love her dedication.

Dedication or not, they had to go. They had turned into some kind of epidemic. But how? How could I round them all up and get them out of my apartment? That’s when I thought of Wang and his ten-gallon hat.

So I called him up to the apartment. I was about to explain to him what happened when suddenly he started in on these kids. You don’t explain anything to Wang. When it came to freeloaders, he had zero tolerance.

Those kids were up and out of there faster than a Chinese Minute Chicken. They were ill-prepared for facing down an angry Chinaman along the lines of Hop Sing. Good for you, Wang. Show them who’s boss.

“And for you,” said Wang, now turning on me, “your rent is two month overdue!”

Two months? How long had I been under the gas?

“Rent by end of week, or else!” Every sentence Wang formed ended with an exclamation mark.

You got it. The last thing I wanted was to have an angry Chinaman in a ten-gallon hat hot on my trail. Rent by the end of the week. Guess I just forgot; you know, with all the craziness and all.

Thank you, Wang.

On my way to the promised land? Not hardly. I was no closer to entering the promised land than Moses was to Israel. And I didn’t need the Hole-in-the-Wall gang anymore, either. I was way past all that now. Happy trails, Butch Cassidy. Enter: the Lone Ranger.

So I ratcheted it up a notch. The gloves were off.

Now, I was into ether and chloroform, toluene and benzene. I inhaled enough enflurane and isoflurane I should have been snoring away like Rip Van Winkle himself. Even so, after weeks on end of killing off enough brain cells that I should have been walking around like Frankenstein’s monster, all I had was a splitting headache.

Believe it or not: it only got worse from there.