Immortalis Caris - Chapter 2 - Loner
Immortalis Caris -- Chapter 2
Entering the Canyon Bar on Central Park Square, he let the warm darkness encase his weary light-plagued brain. The day shift at the hospital was the most coveted, but he preferred swing shift or graveyard. His particular internal clock was set to wake him at the dimming of the light -- dusk, not dawn. He downed energy drinks to help him drag his body to work each day at the ungodly hour of 7am, but what he really needed was something else… he licked his dry lips…
much stronger. Just the reminder that crystal meth existed in the world made his teeth tingle with wanting. Ice -- God’s terrible gift to the somnambulists who walked the earth having to deal with the torturous drudgery and nonsense of everyday life.
Talk about forbidden fruit, man. Adam and Eve were lightweights!
But those days were over. Over! Crystal was the lover who’d driven him as low as he could go, to the very edge of his humanity. That’s why he’d left Chicago, to get away from the people, the temptation, the hunger that plagued him in every still space between actions, every interstice between thoughts.
Of course, you could get any drug anywhere and the “Land of Enchantment” certainly had its share of tweakers, but in the 3 years he’d been here, he’d managed to skirt every place, every person, almost every mention of meth. He sent up a silent prayer in thanks - and as an offering to keep at bay the constant fear of backsliding.
Still, he noticed things, overheard things normal people would ignore. It was like he had a sixth sense for the stuff. He knew how to get it if he wanted it.
I don’t want it. Fuck yes, I want it. I refuse to allow myself to want…
“Carl!” The bartender greeted him.
Rose!” he responded with a smirk, knowing he would be instantly reprimanded.
“It’s Rosa-leeee, you bastard, and you know it,” she scolded, as predicted, drawing out the syllables.
“It’s Carlisle, you --,” he paused, not pronouncing the explicative she certainly deserved for shortening his name to that one ridiculous syllable. Why do I spare her? She had the beer on the bar before he even sat down, --that’s why. Harp draft. He smiled, letting her think she was forgiven. There was no point annoying her. He was a regular, he was accepted here without question, why rock the boat? It was just a name, right?
She would never know or care how the name Carl sent shivers of fear and hatred through him. That’s what his father had called him, but never with love. After too many years of drunken abuse in the wake of his mother’s death, Carlisle had finished high school in upstate Wisconsin and just left. The old man had barely noticed, he was sure of that. It was probably a relief to be rid of the responsibility of a kid so he could drink himself to death in peace.
The first sip was the deepest. Cold. Crisp. A taste of Irish sunshine. God. He was a fucking commercial for the stuff. This place carried it on draft only because he and his buddies had requested it.
Buddies. What a strange word. And a stranger concept. They were OK guys, decent, clean, if not sober, but honestly, he wasn’t one of them. NOT A TEAM PLAYER should be branded on his chest. But fortunately it wasn’t, and somehow he had convinced a few someones he wasn’t a total freak. They included him, and he half-heartedly accepted that inclusion, his concession to playing the game, of participating in “normal” society.
The guys liked the “dive bar” quality of this place - three-dollar beers their staple. The influx of college girls interning at the national labs was a constant draw to twenty-something local guys. The girls mainly showed up on weekends. On those nights the place was packed, a steady stream of quarters to the jukebox and at least an hour wait for the pool table. However, the usual clientele was the typical depressed-looking set of alcoholics and loners and the occasional tourist.
“Whaddayaknow, handsome!” She flirted in the detached but comforting voice of a confident middle-aged woman accustomed to an audience of lonely men.
“Oh, different day, same shit,” he responded automatically.
“None of your boys been in here today - yet,” she smiled. “You’re getting a head start.”
“Nobody at all by the looks of it,” surveyed Carlisle, gesturing towards the dark expanse behind him.
“Just a few lunch drinkers, slow afternoon,” she said. “Except this one new guy…”
“Yeah?” he questioned with feigned interest. “New?” He sipped steadily at the beer, relishing the cold even on this cold day.
“Guy came in here, ordered a shot,” she continued, “asked me did I know anybody who sells.”
The hairs on his arms and neck stood up, but he kept his voice level. “Sells what?”
She smiled indulgently at what she perceived as his naiveté. “He was lookin’ for drugs, Carl-lisle - but of course you wouldn’t know about such things, now would ya?” Her implication suited him just fine -- he appeared too innocent to be familiar with the subject.
“Oh. Like heroin, you mean?” Carlisle postured, but was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“Naw. From the way he was twitching he was definitely riding the OTHER horse,” she intonated meaningfully.
The young man put his best clueless face on, and waited.
“Speed freak,” she nodded. “Seen it once in a while. Not a smack junkie - worse, if you ask me…”
Carlisle swallowed the mouthful of beer that had grown warm in his mouth. Why did he feel so guilty? He’d been clean for a year, and without NA, thank you. He’d done it on his own - without meetings, without a book of platitudes and testimonies, without well-meaning sponsors in his face. It had been an act of sheer will, a leap from the cliff into the waters of harsh reality, to sink or swim. He hadn’t drowned, to his surprise. He’d come out the other side of the addiction clean, but hollow, as if he was watching someone else’s life, not his own. But he knew he was still hooked. He knew from the rush he got just thinking about it. If confronted with a bump, who knows if he could resist? That’s far from clean.
“You OK?” Rosalie’s gravelly voice, uncharacteristically close and soft, interrupted his diversion of thought.
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He smiled. “So. You told him to get lost, or what?”
“I can’t be turning away potential customers just because they ask stupid questions, now can I? Not everybody is as together as you, baby.”
She turned her attention to a couple who entered from the street, leaving Carlisle to nurse his lager.
He looked at himself in the bar mirror. Far from perfection, he thought. Brown hair, blue eyes, nothing wrong with the face, the body. Essentially though - invisible. He could OD tomorrow and nobody would even notice. This is the face of someone who’s never been in love, he thought as he wrinkled his brow, trying on different expressions: angry, innocent, arrogant, sultry. He relaxed his face - default expression, just lonely. He looked away from his reflection. Pitiful. Not even I would fall in love with me. He laughed humorlessly to himself, pushing his almost empty glass towards the inner edge of the bar for a second round.
He peered up at the Barbie-doll talking head on the TV screen closest to him.
Local news. Nothing happens around here since World War II... they’re probably engineering the end of the fucking world at the fucking labs... and the locals would be the last ones to know...
“... gruesome discovery.... the body of a man found off Guaje Canyon Road ... difficult to identify after a week of exposure to the elements and scavengers... a second body was found in a similar condition near US Highway 445 West of Santa Clara Canyon Road... death is estimated to have occurred more than two weeks previous to the Guaje Canyon death... both had a history of drug abuse...”
Great. Probably scored, fixed and O.D.’d... fucking tweakers have no sense and no self-restraint... There but for the angels go I...
He reached into his back pocket for the folded puzzle magazine he always carried. He thumbed through the pages with one hand as he patted his scrubs pockets for his mechanical pencil.
Need to get a new one, this one has only crosswords left.
Crosswords were OK, but he preferred brain teasers, especially puzzles with numbers. They put him in a contented brain space, allowed him to stop the irrational world that required constant interpretation, and retreat to the uncomplicated, concrete logic where a solution was always guaranteed.
The bartender was still engaged in conversation with the couple, so had not yet set him up with another beer. He laid a five on the bar, re-pocketed his book, put on his jacket. With a wave to Rose, he headed out the door to hit the games store before it closed.
…..ll x ll x ll x ll…..
Chapter 3
Entering the Canyon Bar on Central Park Square, he let the warm darkness encase his weary light-plagued brain. The day shift at the hospital was the most coveted, but he preferred swing shift or graveyard. His particular internal clock was set to wake him at the dimming of the light -- dusk, not dawn. He downed energy drinks to help him drag his body to work each day at the ungodly hour of 7am, but what he really needed was something else… he licked his dry lips…
much stronger. Just the reminder that crystal meth existed in the world made his teeth tingle with wanting. Ice -- God’s terrible gift to the somnambulists who walked the earth having to deal with the torturous drudgery and nonsense of everyday life.
Talk about forbidden fruit, man. Adam and Eve were lightweights!
But those days were over. Over! Crystal was the lover who’d driven him as low as he could go, to the very edge of his humanity. That’s why he’d left Chicago, to get away from the people, the temptation, the hunger that plagued him in every still space between actions, every interstice between thoughts.
Of course, you could get any drug anywhere and the “Land of Enchantment” certainly had its share of tweakers, but in the 3 years he’d been here, he’d managed to skirt every place, every person, almost every mention of meth. He sent up a silent prayer in thanks - and as an offering to keep at bay the constant fear of backsliding.
Still, he noticed things, overheard things normal people would ignore. It was like he had a sixth sense for the stuff. He knew how to get it if he wanted it.
I don’t want it. Fuck yes, I want it. I refuse to allow myself to want…
“Carl!” The bartender greeted him.
Rose!” he responded with a smirk, knowing he would be instantly reprimanded.
“It’s Rosa-leeee, you bastard, and you know it,” she scolded, as predicted, drawing out the syllables.
“It’s Carlisle, you --,” he paused, not pronouncing the explicative she certainly deserved for shortening his name to that one ridiculous syllable. Why do I spare her? She had the beer on the bar before he even sat down, --that’s why. Harp draft. He smiled, letting her think she was forgiven. There was no point annoying her. He was a regular, he was accepted here without question, why rock the boat? It was just a name, right?
She would never know or care how the name Carl sent shivers of fear and hatred through him. That’s what his father had called him, but never with love. After too many years of drunken abuse in the wake of his mother’s death, Carlisle had finished high school in upstate Wisconsin and just left. The old man had barely noticed, he was sure of that. It was probably a relief to be rid of the responsibility of a kid so he could drink himself to death in peace.
The first sip was the deepest. Cold. Crisp. A taste of Irish sunshine. God. He was a fucking commercial for the stuff. This place carried it on draft only because he and his buddies had requested it.
Buddies. What a strange word. And a stranger concept. They were OK guys, decent, clean, if not sober, but honestly, he wasn’t one of them. NOT A TEAM PLAYER should be branded on his chest. But fortunately it wasn’t, and somehow he had convinced a few someones he wasn’t a total freak. They included him, and he half-heartedly accepted that inclusion, his concession to playing the game, of participating in “normal” society.
The guys liked the “dive bar” quality of this place - three-dollar beers their staple. The influx of college girls interning at the national labs was a constant draw to twenty-something local guys. The girls mainly showed up on weekends. On those nights the place was packed, a steady stream of quarters to the jukebox and at least an hour wait for the pool table. However, the usual clientele was the typical depressed-looking set of alcoholics and loners and the occasional tourist.
“Whaddayaknow, handsome!” She flirted in the detached but comforting voice of a confident middle-aged woman accustomed to an audience of lonely men.
“Oh, different day, same shit,” he responded automatically.
“None of your boys been in here today - yet,” she smiled. “You’re getting a head start.”
“Nobody at all by the looks of it,” surveyed Carlisle, gesturing towards the dark expanse behind him.
“Just a few lunch drinkers, slow afternoon,” she said. “Except this one new guy…”
“Yeah?” he questioned with feigned interest. “New?” He sipped steadily at the beer, relishing the cold even on this cold day.
“Guy came in here, ordered a shot,” she continued, “asked me did I know anybody who sells.”
The hairs on his arms and neck stood up, but he kept his voice level. “Sells what?”
She smiled indulgently at what she perceived as his naiveté. “He was lookin’ for drugs, Carl-lisle - but of course you wouldn’t know about such things, now would ya?” Her implication suited him just fine -- he appeared too innocent to be familiar with the subject.
“Oh. Like heroin, you mean?” Carlisle postured, but was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“Naw. From the way he was twitching he was definitely riding the OTHER horse,” she intonated meaningfully.
The young man put his best clueless face on, and waited.
“Speed freak,” she nodded. “Seen it once in a while. Not a smack junkie - worse, if you ask me…”
Carlisle swallowed the mouthful of beer that had grown warm in his mouth. Why did he feel so guilty? He’d been clean for a year, and without NA, thank you. He’d done it on his own - without meetings, without a book of platitudes and testimonies, without well-meaning sponsors in his face. It had been an act of sheer will, a leap from the cliff into the waters of harsh reality, to sink or swim. He hadn’t drowned, to his surprise. He’d come out the other side of the addiction clean, but hollow, as if he was watching someone else’s life, not his own. But he knew he was still hooked. He knew from the rush he got just thinking about it. If confronted with a bump, who knows if he could resist? That’s far from clean.
“You OK?” Rosalie’s gravelly voice, uncharacteristically close and soft, interrupted his diversion of thought.
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He smiled. “So. You told him to get lost, or what?”
“I can’t be turning away potential customers just because they ask stupid questions, now can I? Not everybody is as together as you, baby.”
She turned her attention to a couple who entered from the street, leaving Carlisle to nurse his lager.
He looked at himself in the bar mirror. Far from perfection, he thought. Brown hair, blue eyes, nothing wrong with the face, the body. Essentially though - invisible. He could OD tomorrow and nobody would even notice. This is the face of someone who’s never been in love, he thought as he wrinkled his brow, trying on different expressions: angry, innocent, arrogant, sultry. He relaxed his face - default expression, just lonely. He looked away from his reflection. Pitiful. Not even I would fall in love with me. He laughed humorlessly to himself, pushing his almost empty glass towards the inner edge of the bar for a second round.
He peered up at the Barbie-doll talking head on the TV screen closest to him.
Local news. Nothing happens around here since World War II... they’re probably engineering the end of the fucking world at the fucking labs... and the locals would be the last ones to know...
“... gruesome discovery.... the body of a man found off Guaje Canyon Road ... difficult to identify after a week of exposure to the elements and scavengers... a second body was found in a similar condition near US Highway 445 West of Santa Clara Canyon Road... death is estimated to have occurred more than two weeks previous to the Guaje Canyon death... both had a history of drug abuse...”
Great. Probably scored, fixed and O.D.’d... fucking tweakers have no sense and no self-restraint... There but for the angels go I...
He reached into his back pocket for the folded puzzle magazine he always carried. He thumbed through the pages with one hand as he patted his scrubs pockets for his mechanical pencil.
Need to get a new one, this one has only crosswords left.
Crosswords were OK, but he preferred brain teasers, especially puzzles with numbers. They put him in a contented brain space, allowed him to stop the irrational world that required constant interpretation, and retreat to the uncomplicated, concrete logic where a solution was always guaranteed.
The bartender was still engaged in conversation with the couple, so had not yet set him up with another beer. He laid a five on the bar, re-pocketed his book, put on his jacket. With a wave to Rose, he headed out the door to hit the games store before it closed.
…..ll x ll x ll x ll…..
Chapter 3