If you’ll recall from the last installment of Indigo Wren, Indigo landed in Ibiza, made the drug transaction, got his money, checked into a five-star hotel and lived his best live for a couple of days. He ran into his arch-nemesis/love of his life, Lily Von Fustenburg at a club, and ended up on a yacht sailing for Mykonos. They had another falling out after Indigo saved her from an attempted sexual-assault, after which he took a handful of Xanax he found in the bathroom to pass out for the remainder of the trip…
Indigo woke up from his Xanax-induced slumber about 16 hours later… as usual, he was parched as fuck, didn’t remember where he was, or what had happened. He was still lying face-down, naked on the bedroom carpet, with a puddle of drool under his face. Once again, he did not know whether or not he had been sexually assaulted. He figured he was safe this time, since he had locked the bedroom door behind him.
Indigo dragged himself to a sitting position and tried to remember what had transposed between running into Lily at Amnesia two nights ago, and waking up on the floor of a moving yacht. His head was pounding from being dehydrated, and he was finding it hard to piece together the events of the last 36 hours. He wanted to cry, but he was too fucking dehydrated to even produce tears. He would have killed for a cold Gatorade and a couple of lines of the good stuff at this moment, but he had neither. FUCK. For the first time in a while, he was really lonely and he was really sad. He wished he was back home with his parents right now, or hanging out with a friend on a sofa somewhere in Williamsburg. Life was hard for a rolling stone.
What Indigo really need most right now, was a hug. Sadly for him, there was no one available to give him one. His parents were across an ocean, and they didn’t even know where he was. He had basically pushed away every real friend he had with his behavior and drug use, and all of the “fake friends” (aka party friends) were only around when there was fun to be had – they didn’t actually care to check up on him and see how he was doing. He felt so completely alone and wretched. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to live a life without drugs. Maybe, he wouldn’t find himself in these predicaments quite so often.
Indigo realized the room he was in came fully-equipped with speakers and an Echo Dot. He put some Incubus on to play, and he sat and listened to the lyrics of Brandon Boyd. As he meditated on his life, listening to Brandon Boyd croon out “Wish You Were Here”, he realized that he didn’t need drugs to be complete. He thought about Brandon Boyd, who seemed to have his shit together – he was fucking hot, thin and ripped, healthy, and didn’t seem to party or do hard drugs. Dude looks like he smokes mad weed, but that’s about it. Indigo considered all of these things. Maybe he too could live a clean and sober life style; go on a Paleo diet, get ripped, make music… write poetry…. he too could be an honest, artistic, and emotionally-deep man. “I don’t want to do drugs anymore. I want to be sober and feel real feelings. I want to experience emotions instead of suppressing them into nothingness – into blackness. I want to feel a natural high where there is no comedown… I’m so done chasing temporary highs and pleasure, and feeling like shit about myself the next day. I can’t live this way anymore.” He thought about all of it – about his life, sobriety, how fucked up his existence was…. how all of his friends were married and owned houses, and had kids… he thought about turning it all around and making an honest man out of himself.
But, honestly, what do you feel if you don’t feel high? Think about it for me. Think about it NOW. Do you feel happy? Do you feel fulfilled? Do you feel relaxed and in control of your life? Maybe you actually do. Indigo never felt these things when he was sober. When Indigo wasn’t high, he felt a plethora of feelings and emotions, none of which were good. He usually felt stressed and/or anxious, he always felt bored and restless, he usually felt sad and depressed and contemplated the meaning of his existence and of humanity. He didn’t like to feel these feelings, and that’s why he continually sought out drugs. Drugs were his only escape from reality and an escape from the prison that was his own mind. The only time he felt OK sober, was if and when he was in a relationship and had butterflies in his stomach because the relationship was new, or like, he was in the midst of an orgasm… those were the only natural highs he knew. I digress though….
Indigo turned off the music, he got himself dressed and went out on deck to see what was up. He would never be like Brandon Boyd. He was honestly more like Jim Morrison – a total, drug-addicted mess of a person. Except Indigo wasn’t 27 anymore, he wasn’t rich or hot, he wasn’t a rock star or a musical genius, and he didn’t have a following of millions of fans. Whatever – he was himself at least. He wasn’t pretending to be anything he wasn’t, and that is honorable enough.
He could see land in the near distance…. he estimated that they would be docking within the next 40 minutes. Indigo needed to think of a game plan and he needed to think of one quickly! Despite the pleasant thoughts of sobriety he’d had only minutes prior, he decided his best course of action was to use his last few hundred drug dollars to grab a drink once he landed, and then check out Lindsay Lohan’s club and secure some blow. He surmised he could just stay up and out all night, and then sleep on the beach to save money. Who needs a hotel when you’re on an island where it’s warm and never rains?!
He ran back to his cabin and packed the few articles of clothing he had, then brought his satchel with him to the bar for a couple of stiff drinks before embarking onto land. Naturally, he slammed back a couple of shots of Wild Turkey. He was ready to roll!
He stealthily bolted down the ramp and onto dry land as soon as the yacht docked in Mykonos. Indigo decided since he didn’t have a phone, he should really catch up on current news since he’d been checked out of reality for several weeks now; he was starting to worry about his parents worrying about him. Indigo walked around until he spotted a couple of American frat-boy type tourists whom he then approached and asked if they knew of any local sports bars. They pointed him in the direction of Blu Blu, and so he trekked across the island in the ballz-hot 101 degree sun. He stopped at a bank along the way to exchange his currency. When he finally reached Blu Blu, he was soaked in sweat and in need of water. He sauntered into the dark bar and took a seat in one of the lounge chairs facing a large-screen TV. He ordered a water and a bellini and tipped the waiter generously. He requested that they kindly switch the TV from the soccer match that was playing to BBC or any international news station… he also asked them if they had a contact to find blow, ever so nonchalantly, of course. The waiter consented because he’d been tipped well and there were only a couple of other customers who didn’t seem to be watching the game. He switched to CNN, and then looked through his phone and gave Indigo his coke contact. “Tell him you’re a friend of Stamos, and ask for the “special feta salad” *WINK*.
Indigo needed to sort out his priorities, so naturally he texted this Stamos fellow first. Next, he slipped his bellini and watched CNN. Ahhhh, how comforting it was to hear some American accents! It was at at that moment, as Indigo read the current news banner on the bottom of the screen that he saw his own name: “NEXT UP: THE SEARCH FOR INDIGO WREN CONTINUES….” At first, he didn’t think this could possibly be him… after all, his given birth name was actually ‘Jonathan Arthur Willard II,’ then again, he had been going by Indigo Wren for the past 20 or so odd years….
Indigo snapped his fingers for the waiter, “Sir, please turn up the volume!” he yelled, as he stood up and inched closer to the TV. A very HOMELY photo of him (pre-anorexia and really bad hair cut) took up the screen. At that moment, the screen panned-in to a very somber-looking Anderson Cooper (whom Indigo had secretly lusted after for several years), who then introduced the parents of a missing American citizen, known by the name of ‘INDIGO WREN.’
“HOLY FUCKING SHIT BALLZ… FUCK ME IN THE GOAT ASS!!!,” Indio shouted for all to hear. Indigo was in shock… his jaw dropped open, as he realized he was THE missing American Citizen, and his elderly parents were live on CNN begging for information of his whereabouts and safe return.
Anderson Cooper then proceeded to interview his elderly, mid-western parents, Ingva and Jonathan Arthur Willard Sr.. His father was crying, and holding on tightly to Indigo’s white, Persian, one-eyed cat, Mr. Pickles (more on Mr. Pickles in just a moment…)
Anderson: “Mrs. Willard, when was the last time you heard from your son?”
Ingva: (strong Norwegian accent, sobbing) “The last I spoke to my boy, he had started a new job with the MTA, and he was so excited to finally be employed full time and have health insurance… I don’t know why he would leave a job he was so excited to start. Our precious Jonathan Arthur has been such special, caring soul since the day I gave birth to him. He wouldn’t just leave without telling us where he was going; someone must have taken advantage of him.”
Anderson: “Mr. Willard, do you suppose there are any plausible places he could have gone?”
Mr. Willard: “Well given the time of year, I suppose he could have gone to Burning Man, and he did really liked this one bar in Chelsea called ‘Raw Hide’… he would talk about that place all the time.”
Anderson: “If your son, or anyone who knows where he is, is currently watching this, is there a message you have for them?”
Mr. Willard: “Son, just come home. We won’t be angry no matter where you are or what you’ve done. Mr. Pickles needs his daddy”.
CAMERA PANS IN TO A ONE-EYED MR. PICKLES, WHO LOOKS PATHETICALLY AT THE CAMERA LENS, AS THE MUSIC CUTS TO “ANGEL” BY SARAH MCLAUGHIN
It is then that Indigo went into such shock that he fainted at the bar.
Indigo woke up to Stamos slapping his face with an ice-cold, wet towel. Indigo opened his eyes, and his first words were, “Hey man, can I borrow your phone for a quick international call?” Stamos said, “sure, but it’s gonna cost ya’.” Stamos requested an additional 50 euros on top of the 80-euro gram of blow he’d secured from his dealer, Artemitis. Indigo forked over the cash and dialed up his parents using Stamos’s phone. The phone went straight to voicemail, since his parents were still at the CNN studio with Anderson Cooper. Indigo left a distraught voicemail which simply said: “Mommy, Daddy, I’m coming home to Mr. Pickles…. I love you all… kiss my baby for me.”
After that, Indigo made his way to the men’s room to do a couple of lines and set his head straight. He looked in the mirror at his beautiful, emaciated, tanned frame and hysterically started to cry…. “who have I become? My strangest friend? Everyone I know, goes away… in the ennndddd”
Indigo thought about poor, sweet, Mr. Pickles. He had stolen Mr. Pickles on the last morning of a three-day drug binge, from another socialite friend he used to have, named Annabelle de Barcelona. Mr. Pickles was already basically neglected, apart from the hired help that fed and groomed him. He had never had real love though. Indigo was high out of his fucking mind one morning, when he decided to change all of that. He wanted to be Mr. Pickles Daddy, and give him unconditional love for the rest of his cat life. Indigo didn’t even have to sneak Pickles out of his friend’s house, since she was knocked out, face-down on her own floor. He simply tucked Pickles under his arm, and made his way out the door that fateful morning, as the sun was rising over Manhattan, and made his way back to Williamsburg on the L train with Mr. Pickles in tow. Once he arrived home again, he proceeded to do copious amounts of molly, and then passed out on his couch, with several lines of MDMA laying on his coffee table.
Unfortunately, as he slept, Mr. Pickles licked several two lines of molly, apparently having a grand-mal seizure, and going blind in one eye. When Indigo woke from his slumber at 9pm that evening, he realized Mr. Pickles had a white, cloudy eye, and a hump in his back. Indigo was inconsolable having realized it was his own gross negligence that had caused this sad state of affairs. He couldn’t couldn’t forgive himself and punished himself by not eating and not drinking for a week straight. He vowed to better Mr. Pickles life in whatever ways he could, and that is why, 2 years ago, he surrendered Pickles to his parents so that Pickles could live out the remainder of his days on a farm in Iowa.
Indigo did a couple more lines to try to forget all of these bad memories, and then decided it was time to leave this bar. Indigo thought for a moment. “I’ve got to get home to Mr. Pickles and my parents… they need me and they miss me.” But then, he also thought, “holy shit, all of America has seen my face,” and so, in a moment of clarity, he thought “this is my only chance to get famous.” Indigo walked back out to the bar, ordered a spicy margarita, and started chatting with the bartender. The bartender mentioned that Lindsay Lohan had started filming a reality TV show with MTV involving her nightclub. Indigo had a brilliant idea – he could get famous by showing up at LiLo’s club while they were filming as the “missing American man” and totally steal the show! He decided to take a couple of shots of Jameson for gumption, and then called a cab to bring him to LiLo’s club.
I am really happy right now because I found a pair of my favorite Hollister boyfriend-style, super-low rise jeans, in mint condition for only $10. This is the only thing “giving me life” (as the kids nowadays like to say…) on a Monday evening. What a fucking steal!
The High Heeled C*ntessa 