by Tom Lally
The words ‘I gotta try something’, brewed in my head and told my brain to stop dissecting every possible path.
“Okay, deal,” I said.
Chapter 13
That night, I sat at my desk in my room while the others watched The Iron Giant.
I stared at the notebook beneath me, reading through old journal entries and story ideas I’d never finished. Doodles of a sketched face and a rose with thorns that could be misconstrued as child’s artwork made me chuckle.
A few cigarette holes were burned through the written pages. I remembered them. Nice, quiet evening smokes that turned into angry tirades of self-pity.
I finally opened to the next page devoid of ink. I grabbed the dull pencil and wrote my name. It felt strange in my hand as if I was re-teaching myself how to write longhand. I stood up and paced around the room with ideas sputtering around my head. I always started feeling like Hemingway until I realized that my writing was complete and utter shit. I thought about memories, things that had happened to me or things I’d heard. I tried to avoid the recent memories. Every therapy session and the permanent reminders on my wrists were enough to never let me forget. I just wanted to think about something else.
***
Constant Reminders
Ned Crowley sits at a barstool, throwing chips from the party mix at his mouth, missing most of the time. The bartender walks over to the light switches behind the bar and flips them upward. The overhead lights shine brightly, illuminating the wood bar top covered in spilled liquor. Ned continues eating the complimentary chips without noticing everybody around him dispersing through the doors outside.
“Hey, bud, it’s 4:00. We’re locking up now,” the bartender says.
Ned acknowledges him by nodding his head, though his neck is barely able to support it anymore. His friends have long since disappeared, either with a girl for the night or to the bar across the street after the DJ stopped playing music.
Ned finally looks around and sees a beer sitting on the bar. He reaches over and feels its weight. It feels heavy enough and he tries to suck it down in one gulp. The beer spills onto his cleanly shaved chin, but he doesn’t care. He’s too drunk to care at this point. Jameson shots followed by car bombs followed by LITs left him in a state of confusion with a great sense of humor. He’d been dancing in the middle of the bar with his button-down shirt flung wide open, revealing his chest hair to everyone nearby, but since the DJ stopped, he’d been sitting at the bar. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns just as he picks up the bottle again.
A large, bald man wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and black pants is standing behind him. He is nearly ten inches taller than the Ned.
“Time to leave, chief,” he says.
“I’m good, bruh. One, one, more beer,” Ned says and tries to take a swig.
“No more drinks for you, brother,” the bouncer says.
“Ah, fuck you,” Ned says.
The bouncer grabs him by his shirt and drags him to the front door. Ned knocks the beer over on the bar before the bouncer pushes him into the street. Ned staggers before he falls to the ground. He winces for a moment when his hands don’t catch the sidewalk quickly enough so his face hits first.
He feels a cut on his head while he tries to regain his balance but dizziness causes him to fall again. The next time, the spins cease and he stands successfully. He feels the cut and sees some blood, though there isn’t much and he laughs out loud while a couple passing by try to hide their faces.
Ned starts to walk, crossing his feet over one another as he sways back and forth, more so when the wind picks up. He walks down the dimly lit street full of college bars that reek of cigarette smoke and dried vomit. Neon signs flicker in the night, temporarily misspelling every masthead name.
After a ten-minute walk during which he lit two cigarettes on the wrong ends, he finally reaches the pale cement leading to the front door of his apartment complex. Bushes line the path and Ned has made a re-occurring pattern of puking into them.
Today, he favors the right-hand side and coughs until a stream of liquid pours from his mouth like a sprinkler head.
Afterwards, he reaches the door and tries to pull his wallet from his khaki pants’ pocket. He reaches it and tries to open it quickly, only to send it flying in the air. His license, debit card, college ID card, gift cards, and taxi service coupons fall to the cement.
Ned picks up the ID card and pushes it into the black entry box which buzzes as he picks up his loose contents. With his hands awkwardly juggling the cards, he can’t find the balance he needs to put them back into their respective holsters. He shuffles to the elevator with the array of cards stuck in between his fingers. The doors open immediately after he presses the up arrow and he staggers inside. He looks for the third-floor button and accidentally presses the second before getting it right. The door closes and Ned leans against the wall and sees his reflection appear on the steel doors. He sees his blonde hair and realizes he was wearing a Patagonia hat to start the night.
The doors finally open and Ned exits the elevator before realizing it’s the wrong floor. The door shuts in his face and he decides to utilize the stairs. Twenty steps never looked so demanding, but Ned carries on. Four steps in, he realizes his left boat shoe is missing.
“Ah fuck you,” he says aloud and continues climbing the steps.
He sees the door to his floor and uses his shoulder to open it. His apartment door is only a few steps from him, but again, he drops every card he’d been juggling. He leans down and nearly face plants into the carpet, but manages to scoop up his ID card. He holds it against the black detector next to his door. A green light flickers and Ned pushes open the door. With his naked foot, he kicks the cards on the floor into his foyer.
He checks the floor once more with his wandering eyes. The light from the hallway illuminates the foyer where his cards lay on a carpet mat. Ned is satisfied when he sees his license and debit card. He flicks a switch on the wall nearest the door, making the living room visible. The silence is a nice surprise. He remembers his roommates left the bar with their girlfriends and assumes they went to their places.
Ned takes his lone shoe off and curses himself out loud again. He takes off his button down and drops it onto the floor so only his pants are remaining. He unstraps his belt and throws it onto the couch that is surrounded by two lazy boys and a television set. He reaches the kitchen and sees the reminder board hanging from the wall. The marker is attached by a string to the side. Ned bites the cap off and spits it out over his shoulder. He writes a drunk reminder on the board which says: ‘Stop doing this’.
***
Ned wakes up in his bed with his head throbbing. The light from the window next to his bed shines brightly and Ned squints at the sun. He looks around and sees his clothes on the floor. Books are also sprawled across the floor while empty pizza boxes lie on his desk though he doesn’t remember ordering food. He reads the clock on his phone, which is vibrating on the nightstand next to the bed. It reads ‘3:24 P.M.’.
He ignores the incoming group messages as his attention turns to the glass of water with a post-it attached to it sitting on the nightstand. He reaches over and grabs it. The note says ‘For when you wake up’.
Ned feels the particles of the party mix chips and pizza slices coating his teeth. Without hesitating, he chugs from the glass before violently spitting it out. He gags over the trashcan between the bed and the nightstand. His movement causes some of the vodka in the glass to spill onto his sheets.
When he finally stops gagging, he turns back to the drink in his hand. He sees a glimmer of ink lightly showing from the other side of the post-it. He peels it off and flips it over. The backside of the note reads ‘Fuck you. Drunk Ned’.
***
The next morning, the alarm sounded and I woke up in a better mood. I slept through the entire night without a single dream that culminated in me covered in sweat. The door was closed and the lack of a person sitting in
the frame made me smile. I liked the solitude of the empty room and what sounded even better was taking a shower behind a closed curtain. I got out of bed and heard a knock on my door. The door opened quickly and Lucky appeared.
“Morning, Drew, just checking to make sure you’re awake,” he said.
“Is that what usually happens?” I asked.
“Yeah, get used to it,” Lucky said with a smile before closing the door.
I grabbed a fresh set of clothes, my toothbrush, toothpaste, soap dish, and shampoo bottle.
It was strange walking around without eyes constantly following me. I didn’t even know where to get a towel from being that one of the nurses who’d accompany me to the bathroom always brought it. I left my toiletries on my desk and walked barefoot to the nurse’s stand in the common room. Helen stood behind the sliding glass door writing something on a piece of paper. She saw me approaching in my T-shirt and gym shorts. Her red lipstick matched her red hair. The wrinkles on her face made her seem elderly, but she looked healthily skinny for an old woman.
She smiled and slid open the glass window.
“Morning, Drew,” she said. “What can I do you for?”
“Morning, Helen. I was wondering where I could get a towel and those plastic sleeves?” I said.
Helen laughed.
“Don’t know where to go yet?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m used to being brought everything. Now I’m lost without you guys,” I said.
“I got you covered,” she said.
She turned around and walked into the back room. Her wrists flicked as she passed through the open door while her silver earrings glistened from the light bulbs above. She came out a few seconds later holding a blue towel slung over her forearm and two plastic sleeves.
“Here you go, sweetie,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said.
I sniffled once and felt my nose start to run.
“No trouble at all, darling. Oh here, take some Kleenex, honey,” she said and held a small packet of them out to me.
“Thank you again,” I said as I grabbed it.
I walked back to my room and grabbed my toiletries. Carrying on to the bathroom, I found a few of the others. Sammy and Otis stood at the bathroom sinks brushing their teeth. Moisture had accumulated on the mirror disrupting the images it was reflecting. Jared walked out of the shower wearing just a towel around his waist.
“Someone give me a fuckin’ towel. My head’s still wet,” he said.
“O-o-o-okay,” Sammy said and ran his towel over to him.
“Ain’t mean a used one, Jack,” he said.
“My-my-my-my na-na-name is Sam-Sam-Sammy,” Sammy said.
“It’s an expression, jack off,” Jared said.
“O-o-ok-okay, y-y-y-yes. I her-her-heard-d-d tha-tha-that be-fo-fo-re,” Sammy said.
“Newbie,” Jared turned to me, “gimme that towel.”
I looked down at my hands.
“I need to shower,” I said.
“I need it more than you,” he said.
“Get another one,” I said.
I was surprised by my response. It was unusually strong. It felt more assertive and grounded. I’d learned his behavior wouldn’t lead to a fight. He lived too easily in here. His occasional fits of rage would only spur in the days he felt he had not been worshiped as a saint, and those usually only involved yelling.
Three days ago, he’d launched into a tirade about how the pills he was taking were causing him to break out, ruining his perfect skin.
“I need one now. My skin’ll get all dry,” he said pointing to his bald head.
“Just get one from the nurses’ station,” I said.
“I ain’t going all the way there, just gimme your towel,” he said.
I opened the stall door to my shower and broke eye contact with him. I put my toiletries on the small rack beneath the shower nozzle and hung my clothes and towel up before turning my attention back to Jared.
“Get another towel, I’m using this,” I said and closed the door, locking it quickly.
“Piece of shit, open up,” Jared yelled and ran to my stall.
He tried to pry the door open, but the lock held firm.
“Goddamn it,” he yelled and gave the door one final kick before walking away.
As he did I heard him yelling, “Get outta my way,” followed by the sound of toothbrushes and deodorant cans hitting the floor.
I poked my head out of the stall and saw Sammy help Otis pick up his belongings.
“Sorry, I got him angry,” I said.
“It-it-it’s o-o-o-okay. He-he-he’s all-all-always-always ang-angry,” Sammy said.
“Does he ever shut up?” I asked.
“No. Guy talks more than the voices in my fucking head,” Otis said.
I chuckled and turned back to the shower nozzle. I almost forgot to lock the door behind me. A peculiar feeling arose and I waited for Natalie, Olga, or Helen to caution me about their eternal surveillance, but nothing happened.
I stood for a moment, just waiting until I reminded myself that I was no longer being monitored. An excited spasm gushed through my body causing my muscles to tighten. I undressed quickly, slipped on my protective sleeves, and closed the sliding plastic door behind me. I stood comfortably under the hot water, without the fear of nurses seeing my penis or the hair on my ass. I pissed into the drain and listened to it gargle through the pipes. I sat on the shower floor and let the water fall on top of my head without worrying about any of the nurses who wanted to eat breakfast. My internal clock still waited for someone to barge in for my fifteen-minute checkup, but I knew no one would show.
I dried myself off afterward and got dressed. I walked out with my dirty clothes, my towel, and toiletries in tow. I saw Dougie standing near the sink, removing the wastebasket and dumping its contents into a large garbage can that sat on his trolley.
“Morning, Dougie,” I said as I put the wet sleeves into the trashcan.
“Morning, Drew,” he turned to me.
He wore blue scrubs over a white T-shirt.
“Hey, this is a silly question, but where do I put dirty clothes and towels?” I asked.
“Off the watch, huh?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Nice, good to see you’re getting better. I’ll take your towel. You can leave your clothes in your room. Once we do room checks while you’re at breakfast, I’ll put them in the hamper,” he said.
“Okay, thanks,” I said and handed over my towel. Dougie placed it in the hamper that rested next to the garbage can.
“No problem,” Dougie said and smiled.
I left the bathroom and returned to my room. I placed my toiletries back in their respective places in my armoire before going to my desk. My notebook was the only item sitting on the desktop.
I opened my notebook to where I’d left the pencil sitting in the spine between two pages. I peeled the pages out and tore off the perforated edges dangling like barbed wire atop a fence. I read the pages again, disappointed by the clumsiness of the prose. They sounded better the night before. I stopped thinking right then and there. If I didn’t, I knew I would never bring it to Dr. Phillips.
I lined the pages up vertically and with two pounces on my desk, the three holes of each piece of paper aligned perfectly. I slipped on my borrowed moccasins and went to Dr. Phillips’s office.
I knocked on Dr. Phillips’s door. She opened it while holding a bottle of orange juice in her free hand.
“Yes, is everything alright, Drew?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” I said, “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’m just here to give you this.”
I handed her the pages in my hand. She took them from me and glossed over the first page. A smile formed on her face.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just thought if they were in my room any longer, I might burn them or something,” I said with a nervous chuckle.
“Don’t be sorry, I’m glad you came. I
’m gonna read it now. Come back when you’re done with breakfast, say 8:15-ish,” she said.
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll be there.”
Chapter 14
That day, they served bacon, egg, and cheeses. It sounded great in theory, but thinking about my latest work sitting under the eyes of someone I didn’t know very well made the closest thing I’d seen to real food in two weeks nauseating. ‘Pipedreams’ was the only word that came to mind. I didn’t have anything other than myself and a useless hobby that needed doctored courage for me to actually do. I could only watch the clock’s skinny hand run itself around the inside of the number arrangement.
Harlan sat across from me at the table.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Yeah, just waiting for this next appointment,” I said.
“Anything you want me to hear?” he asked.
“Nah, I just gave her something of mine,” I said.
“What’d you give her?” Harlan asked.
“I, uh, I wrote something. She’s reading it now,” I said.
“Now as in?” Harlan pointed up at the ceiling where her office was.
“Yeah, right now,” I said.
“I didn’t know you write,” he said.
“More like scribble, but it’s nothing worth sharing,” I said.
Harlan took a sip from his milk carton.
“You said you couldn’t play guitar,” he said.
“Yeah, I can’t really,” I said.
“You can though, that’s all that matters,” he said.
“I guess, but I’m not much good at that either,” I said.
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” he said.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“People who talk about themselves being good at something usually aren’t as good as they say, but people who are truly good try to play it off as a hobby since they don’t want to make it seem like they really care enough to pursue it,” Harlan said.
“Where do you find this shit?” I asked.
