Dreams Part 1
*not mine. Author: Rachel Maxwell from the Town of Odyssey. However, author unknown in the long run*
Italics are dreams/day dreams/memories
The fire gets closer and closer and I can hardly breathe and the smoke is smothering me-if the smoke doesn’t get me in a couple of seconds the fire will. I call out for help but I know he’s not coming back-why should he, even if he can? I can hardly see through the smoke, the smoke I created, yet I hear someone calling my name. But they won’t make it in time and suddenly I’m not trapped under a video game machine, I’m trapped in a burning barn with horses rearing up all around me. They won’t go out the stall door-I open it but they won’t go out and the flames are coming closer and closer and they rear and they’re going to knock me in the head and I hear someone screaming and realize that it’s me. And suddenly I’m cowering in the hall in our house, with Kyle standing, drunk, in front of me with a broken bottle, telling me to get out. Rachel is standing at the top of the stairs-her face as white as the paint on the wall behind her-and I’m running-running out of the house. Back into the flames. And I hear another scream.
I sit up, breathing hard, sweat matting my hair to my skull; the back of my throat raw. I’ve probably been screaming in my sleep again. I collapse against the pillow under me and attempt to breathe normally. Ms. Clara will complain again-she always does when I scream in the night-like I do it on purpose to annoy her; like it’s my fault these walls are paper-thin. She’s not mean exactly, she just has to get up early for work. Like I don’t. I roll over onto my stomach and pull my cell phone out of my jeans pocket. I don’t remember falling asleep, just coming in and being dead tired and only bothering to pull off my boots. Two missed calls. Rachel and Mom. I wonder abstractly what they wanted this time, then delete the calls and stick my phone back into my pocket. I can still nearly feel the sparks on my back from where my shirt caught fire in the barn, and it makes me toss, as if trying to put out the phantom flames. I chew the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out again, but feel all the pain welling up inside of me. I curl up in the fetal position with my head between my knees, as if maybe if I curl around myself I can keep it all in-but it just can’t stay in so it comes out in my dreams. My dreams. Some people wish their dreams would come true. Mine are true. I can’t remember the last time I had an actual ‘dream’ where nothing happens in sequence and everything is ridiculous. When I don’t have nightmares I either don’t remember my dreams in the morning or I don’t dream. It’s a big blank. But the nightmares I remember all too well because they happened. I glance at the clock on my phone. Four in the morning. Too early to get up and too late to go back to bed. I roll over and debate whether to go back to bed and risk another nightmare (or night terror. I need to look up the difference,) or just get up and start my day early. I finally sit up and yank my laptop across the floor to the mattress. I broke the bed a few days ago by accident when one of the rails slid out and I didn’t know it, so when I had one of my nightmares and was thrashing around the bed gave way. I don’t have the cash to pay to get it fixed so I just put the mattress on the floor. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad except I had been dreaming about flying out of the car and when I woke up I was still falling. I haven’t felt terror like that since I left Odyssey. I open up the screen and blink hard, trying to clear my vision. I connect to the wireless that the building next door has, and hasn’t thought to protect, and stare at the images that come up. Bombs. Drugs. Hate crimes. Murder. Break-ins. Kidnappings. Terrorism. Viruses. I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. Will it ever get any better? I wonder, clicking the link to check my mail. Nothing but junk. I hate junk mail-how did I ever get on these mailing lists? According to them, I’ve won not only a new cell phone (I like the one I have thank you) but a Porsche. I empty the trash and stare blankly at the screen, not able to think of a single thing I want to do. I disconnect and shut the screen, still staring at where it was. I push the laptop over and stand up, cracking my back. I wander into what works as a kitchen and hope there’s something in the cabinet. There isn’t. Not even a lousy can of spaghettios. I hate spaghettios. My stomach begins growling, reminding me I haven’t eaten in about 50 hours. I don’t have the time or cash to eat. You’d think a guy as good with computers as I am would have people at Apple or something begging him to come to work for them to develop the next generation iPhone or whatever, but noo. As soon as you fill out the part of the form that says ‘ever been convicted of felony’ that handshake is cold and the smile doesn’t reach the eyes, which are already telling you to hurry up and get out. It would make me mad but generally I’m too tired at the end of the day to have enough strength left to be mad. I open the mini-fridge and pull out a can of mustard. Yummy. Nothing to put it on, so I just squirt it right into my mouth. I’ve never really liked mustard, but it’ll kill the appetite. I glance out the window, then walk over and open it all the way. Ms. Clara will probably complain I’m letting in a draft. How that woman knows every move I make I still do not know. I lean out the window and stare down. I’m on the third story, but the fire escape is just outside my window so I could get out if I wanted. I still do that in my head when I move, or when I get a job. Figure out a way to get out if I need to. I keep forgetting I can just walk through the door. I shiver, even though it’s hot outside, and step back in, tossing the mustard back into the fridge and kicking it shut. She’ll complain about the noise. I wander into the bathroom and take a shower. As the frigid water flattens my hair down onto my skull, I reach for the soap, slip, and slam into the wall, feeling like I’ve just shattered my shoulder. Gritting my teeth against the pain, (and the temptation to say cuss words-I promised Whittaker once that I wouldn’t anymore and I generally keep my promises) I run my fingers through my soaked hair, then rub my shoulder. That’s gonna bruise. After I shower I climb out and while I’m getting dressed, I stare down at my feet. I’ve always thought feet looked weird-especially the little toe. I read a book once when I was a kid about a guy that went into a forest, and the further in you went the more lost you’d get, and there were hundreds of people lost in that forest, but he made everybody laugh so they liked him, but for some reason he had to leave, and he was looking at his feet and thinking how silly his toes looked, and he started walking backwards and walked out of the forest. I wonder if I walked backwards if I could get myself out of the messes I’m in. What all would I fix? I shake my head, getting the water out of my ears. I guess I’d have to start back from scratch to fix it all. Back when I was six. When I got my first computer. Did that start it? Or was I always like that? Always…cold. I love people, sure. When they can help me. I don’t like to hurt people, but that’s because I don’t think it’s necessary. I think there’s something wrong with me. I kick around the pile of clothes on the floor. I need to go to the Laundromat. I wonder if I have enough change to take a load this morning. I get dressed slowly, still tired. I grab my wallet (empty, except for a driver’s license and a couple of pictures) and stuff it into my pocket. I dig around until I find enough quarters to justify going all the way down the street at four thirty in the morning to wash some clothes. I pull on my Wolverines and lean into the bathroom to brush my teeth. While attempting to prevent tooth decay, I glance at my reflection in the mirror, and try to see myself like everyone else does. I’m fairly tall, six foot two. My eyes are gray. Boring gray. I’ve had girls tell me my eyelashes are wasted on me since I’m a guy, and I wonder why they care. My nose has been broken once, but healed back kinda funny-instead of being all crooked, it just kinda bumps in the middle, maybe twisted cartilage or something. I wonder what caused that as I spit. Nearly out of toothpaste too. Great. I glance once more at the man in the mirror. The thing most people would notice about him is his hair. My hair is a dark red-almost brown really, but still obviously red. It’s a shade of red I’ve never seen on anybody else before. I have a habit of running my fingers through it often, especially when I’m nervous. It’s in that military-like cut now, about two inches longer on top than everywhere else. I keep it that way mainly because I can’t afford a decent haircut and generally cut it myself. Hey, George Clooney cuts his own hair too. The less hair I have the longer it takes to grow out, and the longer I can go without a haircut. Right now it looks funny from the shower and soap-sticking up like I spiked it that way on purpose. I run my fingers through it, attempting to tame it down a little, scoop up the pile of clothes (which hurts my shoulder), grab my keys, and twist the doorknob to the right and yank. The doorknob is as screwy as the wiring in this building. I shut it with my foot and kick it once (let her complain-I don’t care. Much) to make sure it latched. It catches, and I stumble (still sleepy) down the hall, down the stairs, and down the street. Always down. My life has always gone down. My life is the pits. Did it used to be like this? Was it always this bad? Am I just now noticing? Do I just now care? It’s really ridiculous. I’m a fairly smart guy that’s willing to work. What kind of jobs do I get? I was a bartender for awhile, but they fired me when I wouldn’t let guys that were already really drunk have any more, not to mention I broke up a fight between two guys, and one of them turned out to be the manager’s son. Apparently he’s a sore loser, and acted like a complete baby when I busted his lip. Like I can help it he fell against the bar when I shoved him. I finally got a job at a grocery store, sacking the food and stocking the shelves. I’m on my feet all day, and after I get off I have to run back to the apartments and work around there till I’m about to drop dead from being so tired. Why is a guy like me with all this computer knowledge doing working at places like that? ‘Convicted felon’. I’m not saying I don’t deserve it, I’m just saying it’s rough. I walk into the Laundromat and toss the pile into a washer, not bothering to sort. It’s just jeans, socks, underwear, T-shirts, and shirts, nothing that really won’t mix. I dump in the soap and start the washer, then sit down on one of those cold hard chairs. I feel myself getting sleepier and sleepier and I’m falling down, but since there’s nobody else here, I swing my feet up onto the seat next to me, drape my arms across my knees, and rest my head on my elbows. I’ll wake up when the washer goes off.
“Forgive you? I don’t know Richard-I don’t know if I can.” She’s crying. I step towards her to try to do something, anything, because it’s my fault, but she gets mad and runs off. I stand with my feet planted in the sidewalk feeling stupid and self-righteous and like I deserve that and more. Then I’m in a car. Hot-sun coming through the windows-hear people talking. Jellyfish sitting next to me, not bothering to tie me up or anything and I’m almost insulted. The doors are unlocked. How sloppy of them. I pray that they don’t have child-proof locks and sit up. He’s saying something to me-some smart remark and he’s gonna kill me. I’m hurting more than I can ever remember hurting in my life. He’s grinning, and I jump out, and for a second it feels wonderful to be flying out away from him and touching nothing but the sky-but I head down and feel a sickening crunch and it goes black but something’s buzzing, something’s buzzing and maybe I’m hurt inside or something.
I sit up, awake. Not one of the worst ones. But the buzzing continues. I blink and pat my pockets. Cell phone. I glance at the screen. Unknown.
“H’lo?”
“Is Jeremy there?”
“No.”
“OK. Thanks.”
And they hang up. Why do people not go through their phone book on the phone instead of dialing a wrong number and waking me up? I toy with the idea of texting Rachel, but I can’t remember what time it is on the coast and she’ll kill me if I wake her up too early. She’s not a morning person. I blink, shaking off the dream. The washer buzzes and I shoot up, as if startled. I calm down, then get the clothes out. I glance at the clock. Still time to dry them. I toss them into the dryer, even though it seems like I heard sometime or other you shouldn’t dry jeans or shirts, and crank the little dial. Then I walk over to the seats and think about sitting back down. But I don’t want to have another dream. I never want to have another dream as long as I live. They hurt too much. A girl walks into the Laundromat, maybe eighteen. She sees me there and looks like she might leave, but I sit down and smile and I guess I look like I’m too tired to hurt anybody so she stuffs her things into a washer and leaves. Leaves. People always leave me. Dad left me , if not before I was born when I was a baby-Whittaker left me to go to the Middle East-Mom left me before I even got out of the hospital-Rachel stuck around but left a few weeks later to go to a special school outside of Connellsville. Riley left me because his wife had a bad spell and he had to go be with her for awhile. Allen left me to go take care of Whit’s End. Connie left me because she had to go back to school. Eugene left me cause he never liked me to begin with and had classes. . Lucy left me because I hurt her. God left me because He doesn’t care. Everybody leaves me. I feel like I’m about to cry, but figure it’s just sleep deprivation, so I dig around ‘till I can find enough change for the stupid machine and get a Mountain Dew. I don’t like Mountain Dew cause it tastes funny, but it has a lot of caffeine. I kill it and toss the can into the trash, hoping it’ll keep me awake for my first shift. I sit on the floor with my back to the dryer and stare out the glass windows. It’s getting light outside. I remember used to in Odyssey, if I got up this early, the birds and the frogs and the crickets would all sing together and the world would be mine-not like at night, when I was the only person left on the world. But here the only thing I can hear is cars and buses and people. And not only isn’t the world mine, it won’t claim me. But I settle down and put my hands behind my head and stare up at the ceiling. They should dust it. The caffeine is kicking in and I’m not as sleepy. I stare down at my boots. They’re beat up and scuffed-I’ve had them for years, but they’re still in one piece, and even if I had the cash I wouldn’t get new ones because they’re broke in just the way I like them. My jeans are faded from use, but clean. My shirt isn’t too beat-up really, just got ripped once and I sewed it up myself. I glance down at the floor, and wonder what I’m doing, and why I’m bothering to try to ‘be good’. I know I could get a good job-an illegal job, but a good job, today if I’d look for it. It’s not like I don’t know who to call. But I can’t. I just can’t. Maybe I’m just a coward. Still. The dryer buzzes and I wonder how long I’ve been sitting here thinking, but I stand up, take the pile, and leave. They’re still a little damp, but they’ll be alright. I walk back towards my building, let myself in, and go up to my apartment. I dump the clothes on the mattress and glance at the clock. Time for work. My life has evolved into an endless cycle of work, sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep, except there’s more work than sleep, and the sleep I get is so miserable I might as well be awake. Some nights I do stay awake, fighting sleep, just staring at the ceiling and praying to Whoever is up there to keep me from dreaming. Then I fall asleep and sometimes I dream and sometimes I don’t. I run my fingers through my hair and walk out the door. Getting there a few minutes early won’t hurt me any. I walk down the street again, in the opposite direction as before, in the dull monotony of my life. But in a way it isn’t dull, it isn’t monotonous, because I’m always afraid some past demon will stick his head out of an alley and yell ‘BOO’ at me. I’m always afraid I’ll see someone I’ll recognize-someone that will recognize me. I haven’t yet, but I figure that just means the chances are getting higher and higher that I will. After about a three minute walk, I get to the grocery and walk in. A couple of guys are already there-one of the meat men, the manager, one cashier, and another sacker. I nod and smile, the caffeine kicking up a little more. Tomorrow’s payday, tomorrow’s payday. I whisper over and over to myself. The cashier girl smiles at me. She’s always flirting with somebody-apparently it’s my week. She’s a pretty girl, but not only do I not have time to date, I don’t have the strength or the money. I’m flat broke and what time I’m not working I’m sleeping. That doesn’t keep her from batting her glued-on eyelashes that are still not quite as long as mine at me. I just smile and stock shelves until everybody else starts showing up and I go up to the counter and wait to sack something. My leg is cramping up and I reach down to crack my knee. George, the other sacker, is busy trying to flirt with the cashier girl. Emma, I think her name is. My grandmother’s name was Emma. At seven on the dot somebody flips the sign and we do exactly what we did before, until the customers start coming in. Emma keeps glancing at me and flipping her hair over her left shoulder, then looking down at her immaculately manicured nails. I remember Connie had beautiful nails. Grace comes over and talks to Courtney. From what I can figure they’re good friends. Emma bends her head down and her hair shifts, and for a split second I smell her perfume, all the way over here. I remember Rachel always wore some Celine Dion perfume. It was fairly cheap, but it smelt great. I glance down at my watch-probably about the only personal item I haven’t been tempted to hock (besides my laptop). It used to be Dad’s. It’s probably the only thing of his I’ll ever have. I sometimes wonder why he left. Did he find out I was coming and not want to deal with it, or was I born and he didn’t like me? Was there another woman? Was he bored? Was Kyle on the scene yet? Sometimes it seems like my life is just a series of question marks. Would I have turned out different if Dad had been around? Better or worse? Will I ever get a decent job? Will I ever go back to Odyssey? While waiting for customers, my mind wanders. I remember Odyssey.
I walked up to Connie, who was stuffing dishes into the dishwasher and mumbling something or other. I just stood there for a moment, trying to decide what to say. I guess she sensed me being behind her, because she turned after a second and stared at me.
“Ri-Richard?”
I grinned and ran my fingers through my hair.
“Hiya Connie. Nice to see you again.”
“Uh, yeah. I guess.”
She wasn’t as cold as I knew some of the others would be-after all we’d been in Chicago together.
“Connie, um, I caused you a lot of trouble. And I know I hurt you, and, and really messed things up-and I just-Connie, I wanted to say I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”
She was holding a plate in one hand, but when I said that she clutched it with both hands for a second then put it down. Her eyes started getting wet, and she stood on her tiptoes (being around eight inches shorter than me) and wrapped her arms around my neck. She got my collar all wet. Sweet girl though. She kept talking about how I needed to apologize to God, but it was kind of hard to hear her with her face smashed in my neck. Never been hugged like that before. After a minute, she let me go, said she forgave me, and said some more about God. I thought about it. Really.
Italics are dreams/day dreams/memories
The fire gets closer and closer and I can hardly breathe and the smoke is smothering me-if the smoke doesn’t get me in a couple of seconds the fire will. I call out for help but I know he’s not coming back-why should he, even if he can? I can hardly see through the smoke, the smoke I created, yet I hear someone calling my name. But they won’t make it in time and suddenly I’m not trapped under a video game machine, I’m trapped in a burning barn with horses rearing up all around me. They won’t go out the stall door-I open it but they won’t go out and the flames are coming closer and closer and they rear and they’re going to knock me in the head and I hear someone screaming and realize that it’s me. And suddenly I’m cowering in the hall in our house, with Kyle standing, drunk, in front of me with a broken bottle, telling me to get out. Rachel is standing at the top of the stairs-her face as white as the paint on the wall behind her-and I’m running-running out of the house. Back into the flames. And I hear another scream.
I sit up, breathing hard, sweat matting my hair to my skull; the back of my throat raw. I’ve probably been screaming in my sleep again. I collapse against the pillow under me and attempt to breathe normally. Ms. Clara will complain again-she always does when I scream in the night-like I do it on purpose to annoy her; like it’s my fault these walls are paper-thin. She’s not mean exactly, she just has to get up early for work. Like I don’t. I roll over onto my stomach and pull my cell phone out of my jeans pocket. I don’t remember falling asleep, just coming in and being dead tired and only bothering to pull off my boots. Two missed calls. Rachel and Mom. I wonder abstractly what they wanted this time, then delete the calls and stick my phone back into my pocket. I can still nearly feel the sparks on my back from where my shirt caught fire in the barn, and it makes me toss, as if trying to put out the phantom flames. I chew the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out again, but feel all the pain welling up inside of me. I curl up in the fetal position with my head between my knees, as if maybe if I curl around myself I can keep it all in-but it just can’t stay in so it comes out in my dreams. My dreams. Some people wish their dreams would come true. Mine are true. I can’t remember the last time I had an actual ‘dream’ where nothing happens in sequence and everything is ridiculous. When I don’t have nightmares I either don’t remember my dreams in the morning or I don’t dream. It’s a big blank. But the nightmares I remember all too well because they happened. I glance at the clock on my phone. Four in the morning. Too early to get up and too late to go back to bed. I roll over and debate whether to go back to bed and risk another nightmare (or night terror. I need to look up the difference,) or just get up and start my day early. I finally sit up and yank my laptop across the floor to the mattress. I broke the bed a few days ago by accident when one of the rails slid out and I didn’t know it, so when I had one of my nightmares and was thrashing around the bed gave way. I don’t have the cash to pay to get it fixed so I just put the mattress on the floor. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad except I had been dreaming about flying out of the car and when I woke up I was still falling. I haven’t felt terror like that since I left Odyssey. I open up the screen and blink hard, trying to clear my vision. I connect to the wireless that the building next door has, and hasn’t thought to protect, and stare at the images that come up. Bombs. Drugs. Hate crimes. Murder. Break-ins. Kidnappings. Terrorism. Viruses. I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. Will it ever get any better? I wonder, clicking the link to check my mail. Nothing but junk. I hate junk mail-how did I ever get on these mailing lists? According to them, I’ve won not only a new cell phone (I like the one I have thank you) but a Porsche. I empty the trash and stare blankly at the screen, not able to think of a single thing I want to do. I disconnect and shut the screen, still staring at where it was. I push the laptop over and stand up, cracking my back. I wander into what works as a kitchen and hope there’s something in the cabinet. There isn’t. Not even a lousy can of spaghettios. I hate spaghettios. My stomach begins growling, reminding me I haven’t eaten in about 50 hours. I don’t have the time or cash to eat. You’d think a guy as good with computers as I am would have people at Apple or something begging him to come to work for them to develop the next generation iPhone or whatever, but noo. As soon as you fill out the part of the form that says ‘ever been convicted of felony’ that handshake is cold and the smile doesn’t reach the eyes, which are already telling you to hurry up and get out. It would make me mad but generally I’m too tired at the end of the day to have enough strength left to be mad. I open the mini-fridge and pull out a can of mustard. Yummy. Nothing to put it on, so I just squirt it right into my mouth. I’ve never really liked mustard, but it’ll kill the appetite. I glance out the window, then walk over and open it all the way. Ms. Clara will probably complain I’m letting in a draft. How that woman knows every move I make I still do not know. I lean out the window and stare down. I’m on the third story, but the fire escape is just outside my window so I could get out if I wanted. I still do that in my head when I move, or when I get a job. Figure out a way to get out if I need to. I keep forgetting I can just walk through the door. I shiver, even though it’s hot outside, and step back in, tossing the mustard back into the fridge and kicking it shut. She’ll complain about the noise. I wander into the bathroom and take a shower. As the frigid water flattens my hair down onto my skull, I reach for the soap, slip, and slam into the wall, feeling like I’ve just shattered my shoulder. Gritting my teeth against the pain, (and the temptation to say cuss words-I promised Whittaker once that I wouldn’t anymore and I generally keep my promises) I run my fingers through my soaked hair, then rub my shoulder. That’s gonna bruise. After I shower I climb out and while I’m getting dressed, I stare down at my feet. I’ve always thought feet looked weird-especially the little toe. I read a book once when I was a kid about a guy that went into a forest, and the further in you went the more lost you’d get, and there were hundreds of people lost in that forest, but he made everybody laugh so they liked him, but for some reason he had to leave, and he was looking at his feet and thinking how silly his toes looked, and he started walking backwards and walked out of the forest. I wonder if I walked backwards if I could get myself out of the messes I’m in. What all would I fix? I shake my head, getting the water out of my ears. I guess I’d have to start back from scratch to fix it all. Back when I was six. When I got my first computer. Did that start it? Or was I always like that? Always…cold. I love people, sure. When they can help me. I don’t like to hurt people, but that’s because I don’t think it’s necessary. I think there’s something wrong with me. I kick around the pile of clothes on the floor. I need to go to the Laundromat. I wonder if I have enough change to take a load this morning. I get dressed slowly, still tired. I grab my wallet (empty, except for a driver’s license and a couple of pictures) and stuff it into my pocket. I dig around until I find enough quarters to justify going all the way down the street at four thirty in the morning to wash some clothes. I pull on my Wolverines and lean into the bathroom to brush my teeth. While attempting to prevent tooth decay, I glance at my reflection in the mirror, and try to see myself like everyone else does. I’m fairly tall, six foot two. My eyes are gray. Boring gray. I’ve had girls tell me my eyelashes are wasted on me since I’m a guy, and I wonder why they care. My nose has been broken once, but healed back kinda funny-instead of being all crooked, it just kinda bumps in the middle, maybe twisted cartilage or something. I wonder what caused that as I spit. Nearly out of toothpaste too. Great. I glance once more at the man in the mirror. The thing most people would notice about him is his hair. My hair is a dark red-almost brown really, but still obviously red. It’s a shade of red I’ve never seen on anybody else before. I have a habit of running my fingers through it often, especially when I’m nervous. It’s in that military-like cut now, about two inches longer on top than everywhere else. I keep it that way mainly because I can’t afford a decent haircut and generally cut it myself. Hey, George Clooney cuts his own hair too. The less hair I have the longer it takes to grow out, and the longer I can go without a haircut. Right now it looks funny from the shower and soap-sticking up like I spiked it that way on purpose. I run my fingers through it, attempting to tame it down a little, scoop up the pile of clothes (which hurts my shoulder), grab my keys, and twist the doorknob to the right and yank. The doorknob is as screwy as the wiring in this building. I shut it with my foot and kick it once (let her complain-I don’t care. Much) to make sure it latched. It catches, and I stumble (still sleepy) down the hall, down the stairs, and down the street. Always down. My life has always gone down. My life is the pits. Did it used to be like this? Was it always this bad? Am I just now noticing? Do I just now care? It’s really ridiculous. I’m a fairly smart guy that’s willing to work. What kind of jobs do I get? I was a bartender for awhile, but they fired me when I wouldn’t let guys that were already really drunk have any more, not to mention I broke up a fight between two guys, and one of them turned out to be the manager’s son. Apparently he’s a sore loser, and acted like a complete baby when I busted his lip. Like I can help it he fell against the bar when I shoved him. I finally got a job at a grocery store, sacking the food and stocking the shelves. I’m on my feet all day, and after I get off I have to run back to the apartments and work around there till I’m about to drop dead from being so tired. Why is a guy like me with all this computer knowledge doing working at places like that? ‘Convicted felon’. I’m not saying I don’t deserve it, I’m just saying it’s rough. I walk into the Laundromat and toss the pile into a washer, not bothering to sort. It’s just jeans, socks, underwear, T-shirts, and shirts, nothing that really won’t mix. I dump in the soap and start the washer, then sit down on one of those cold hard chairs. I feel myself getting sleepier and sleepier and I’m falling down, but since there’s nobody else here, I swing my feet up onto the seat next to me, drape my arms across my knees, and rest my head on my elbows. I’ll wake up when the washer goes off.
“Forgive you? I don’t know Richard-I don’t know if I can.” She’s crying. I step towards her to try to do something, anything, because it’s my fault, but she gets mad and runs off. I stand with my feet planted in the sidewalk feeling stupid and self-righteous and like I deserve that and more. Then I’m in a car. Hot-sun coming through the windows-hear people talking. Jellyfish sitting next to me, not bothering to tie me up or anything and I’m almost insulted. The doors are unlocked. How sloppy of them. I pray that they don’t have child-proof locks and sit up. He’s saying something to me-some smart remark and he’s gonna kill me. I’m hurting more than I can ever remember hurting in my life. He’s grinning, and I jump out, and for a second it feels wonderful to be flying out away from him and touching nothing but the sky-but I head down and feel a sickening crunch and it goes black but something’s buzzing, something’s buzzing and maybe I’m hurt inside or something.
I sit up, awake. Not one of the worst ones. But the buzzing continues. I blink and pat my pockets. Cell phone. I glance at the screen. Unknown.
“H’lo?”
“Is Jeremy there?”
“No.”
“OK. Thanks.”
And they hang up. Why do people not go through their phone book on the phone instead of dialing a wrong number and waking me up? I toy with the idea of texting Rachel, but I can’t remember what time it is on the coast and she’ll kill me if I wake her up too early. She’s not a morning person. I blink, shaking off the dream. The washer buzzes and I shoot up, as if startled. I calm down, then get the clothes out. I glance at the clock. Still time to dry them. I toss them into the dryer, even though it seems like I heard sometime or other you shouldn’t dry jeans or shirts, and crank the little dial. Then I walk over to the seats and think about sitting back down. But I don’t want to have another dream. I never want to have another dream as long as I live. They hurt too much. A girl walks into the Laundromat, maybe eighteen. She sees me there and looks like she might leave, but I sit down and smile and I guess I look like I’m too tired to hurt anybody so she stuffs her things into a washer and leaves. Leaves. People always leave me. Dad left me , if not before I was born when I was a baby-Whittaker left me to go to the Middle East-Mom left me before I even got out of the hospital-Rachel stuck around but left a few weeks later to go to a special school outside of Connellsville. Riley left me because his wife had a bad spell and he had to go be with her for awhile. Allen left me to go take care of Whit’s End. Connie left me because she had to go back to school. Eugene left me cause he never liked me to begin with and had classes. . Lucy left me because I hurt her. God left me because He doesn’t care. Everybody leaves me. I feel like I’m about to cry, but figure it’s just sleep deprivation, so I dig around ‘till I can find enough change for the stupid machine and get a Mountain Dew. I don’t like Mountain Dew cause it tastes funny, but it has a lot of caffeine. I kill it and toss the can into the trash, hoping it’ll keep me awake for my first shift. I sit on the floor with my back to the dryer and stare out the glass windows. It’s getting light outside. I remember used to in Odyssey, if I got up this early, the birds and the frogs and the crickets would all sing together and the world would be mine-not like at night, when I was the only person left on the world. But here the only thing I can hear is cars and buses and people. And not only isn’t the world mine, it won’t claim me. But I settle down and put my hands behind my head and stare up at the ceiling. They should dust it. The caffeine is kicking in and I’m not as sleepy. I stare down at my boots. They’re beat up and scuffed-I’ve had them for years, but they’re still in one piece, and even if I had the cash I wouldn’t get new ones because they’re broke in just the way I like them. My jeans are faded from use, but clean. My shirt isn’t too beat-up really, just got ripped once and I sewed it up myself. I glance down at the floor, and wonder what I’m doing, and why I’m bothering to try to ‘be good’. I know I could get a good job-an illegal job, but a good job, today if I’d look for it. It’s not like I don’t know who to call. But I can’t. I just can’t. Maybe I’m just a coward. Still. The dryer buzzes and I wonder how long I’ve been sitting here thinking, but I stand up, take the pile, and leave. They’re still a little damp, but they’ll be alright. I walk back towards my building, let myself in, and go up to my apartment. I dump the clothes on the mattress and glance at the clock. Time for work. My life has evolved into an endless cycle of work, sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep, except there’s more work than sleep, and the sleep I get is so miserable I might as well be awake. Some nights I do stay awake, fighting sleep, just staring at the ceiling and praying to Whoever is up there to keep me from dreaming. Then I fall asleep and sometimes I dream and sometimes I don’t. I run my fingers through my hair and walk out the door. Getting there a few minutes early won’t hurt me any. I walk down the street again, in the opposite direction as before, in the dull monotony of my life. But in a way it isn’t dull, it isn’t monotonous, because I’m always afraid some past demon will stick his head out of an alley and yell ‘BOO’ at me. I’m always afraid I’ll see someone I’ll recognize-someone that will recognize me. I haven’t yet, but I figure that just means the chances are getting higher and higher that I will. After about a three minute walk, I get to the grocery and walk in. A couple of guys are already there-one of the meat men, the manager, one cashier, and another sacker. I nod and smile, the caffeine kicking up a little more. Tomorrow’s payday, tomorrow’s payday. I whisper over and over to myself. The cashier girl smiles at me. She’s always flirting with somebody-apparently it’s my week. She’s a pretty girl, but not only do I not have time to date, I don’t have the strength or the money. I’m flat broke and what time I’m not working I’m sleeping. That doesn’t keep her from batting her glued-on eyelashes that are still not quite as long as mine at me. I just smile and stock shelves until everybody else starts showing up and I go up to the counter and wait to sack something. My leg is cramping up and I reach down to crack my knee. George, the other sacker, is busy trying to flirt with the cashier girl. Emma, I think her name is. My grandmother’s name was Emma. At seven on the dot somebody flips the sign and we do exactly what we did before, until the customers start coming in. Emma keeps glancing at me and flipping her hair over her left shoulder, then looking down at her immaculately manicured nails. I remember Connie had beautiful nails. Grace comes over and talks to Courtney. From what I can figure they’re good friends. Emma bends her head down and her hair shifts, and for a split second I smell her perfume, all the way over here. I remember Rachel always wore some Celine Dion perfume. It was fairly cheap, but it smelt great. I glance down at my watch-probably about the only personal item I haven’t been tempted to hock (besides my laptop). It used to be Dad’s. It’s probably the only thing of his I’ll ever have. I sometimes wonder why he left. Did he find out I was coming and not want to deal with it, or was I born and he didn’t like me? Was there another woman? Was he bored? Was Kyle on the scene yet? Sometimes it seems like my life is just a series of question marks. Would I have turned out different if Dad had been around? Better or worse? Will I ever get a decent job? Will I ever go back to Odyssey? While waiting for customers, my mind wanders. I remember Odyssey.
I walked up to Connie, who was stuffing dishes into the dishwasher and mumbling something or other. I just stood there for a moment, trying to decide what to say. I guess she sensed me being behind her, because she turned after a second and stared at me.
“Ri-Richard?”
I grinned and ran my fingers through my hair.
“Hiya Connie. Nice to see you again.”
“Uh, yeah. I guess.”
She wasn’t as cold as I knew some of the others would be-after all we’d been in Chicago together.
“Connie, um, I caused you a lot of trouble. And I know I hurt you, and, and really messed things up-and I just-Connie, I wanted to say I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”
She was holding a plate in one hand, but when I said that she clutched it with both hands for a second then put it down. Her eyes started getting wet, and she stood on her tiptoes (being around eight inches shorter than me) and wrapped her arms around my neck. She got my collar all wet. Sweet girl though. She kept talking about how I needed to apologize to God, but it was kind of hard to hear her with her face smashed in my neck. Never been hugged like that before. After a minute, she let me go, said she forgave me, and said some more about God. I thought about it. Really.