He lifted his mug and took a long slurp of coffee, feeling as the caffeine diffused into his blood. Ahh…that felt good. Just what he needed. A couple more sips and maybe he’d be ready to go.
As he set down the mug, he heard a loud crash echo from the upstairs hallway. It was the girls, Megan and Mary, probably getting ready for another day of middle school. What were they doing up there? Why were they stomping? Did they really have to be so god damn loud? It was bad enough he had a migraine the size of Connecticut. Now, he had to put up with a bunch of stomping teenagers and slamming doors? And to make matters worse, Cheryl was still banging away with the dishes. It was like she knew he had a headache and was trying to annoy him, seeing how far she could push him before going over the edge. At least Larry, the little angel, was sitting somewhat quietly beside him and not running around screaming like he usually did in the mornings. It probably had something to do with that coloring book he bought him. The kid seemed to be completely engrossed.
Dave lifted his mug and blew across the surface of the coffee, while studying the kid as he scribbled with his blue crayon. It was funny. The kid looked just like Dave, only chubbier—same curly red hair, same droopy eyelids, same freckled complexion, and same flat, two-by-four forehead. He probably even weighed about the same as Dave, even though he was only eleven. Of course, he still had the reading level of a first grader. Poor kid. The doctor said it was some kind of abnormality in his chromosomal makeup, something called Klinefelter’s syndrome or forty-seven XXY. Whatever the hell that meant. Back when he was growing up, they just called it retarded. Of course, you weren’t supposed to say that anymore. It was insensitive. Nowadays everything had to have its own politically correct terminology. Black people weren’t black, Mexicans weren’t Mexican, and retards weren’t retarded—they were mentally challenged or developmentally disabled or someone with special needs. Ha. Yeah right. Special needs. That was one way of putting it. If that meant screaming at the top of your lungs and marching around banging a wooden spoon against a metal pot on your head, then fine, he could go with that one—that was certainly a special need. He loved the little shit and would do anything for him and all of that, but sometimes it just got to be too much—too much work, too much hassle, too much struggle, too much stress. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to Dave, it wasn’t fair to Cheryl, and it sure as hell wasn’t fair to that poor kid. Larry would probably never get to experience any of the things that normal kids experience—things like driving, dating, college, sex. Jesus—sex! The poor little bastard would probably never get to experience anything even remotely close to sex. The closest he’d come is watching monkeys at the zoo jerking off on one another. He’d always be a second rate individual, a prisoner to his own mental handicap. He’d have to go through the rest of his life wondering why God made him special and why he couldn’t do things that other people could…like why he couldn’t just hop on a plane without a legal guardian…why he couldn’t belly up to a bar and order a cold beer…why instead of having his own car and driving to work in the morning, he had to sit on a bus with all the degenerates and scum of the earth. It just wasn’t fair. Why him? Why Larry? Why not some other person’s kid?
Dave sighed as he grabbed the newspaper and flipped it to the Local Boulder page. It seemed there was a big accident last night up around Nederland—two kids drove their car out onto the ice of the Barker reservoir. Idiots. What were they thinking? Didn’t they know that ice was too thin?
He tossed the Local page aside and fished out the Sports section, checking to see if the Broncos had won. As he read through the scores, the banging of dishes seemed to be getting louder and louder, each sharp clang causing him to flinch and gnash his teeth. He set down the paper and looked up at Cheryl, examining her swollen, sweat-streaked face; from her double chin to her droopy eyelids and the wild tangle of dirty blond hair that made her look like a refugee of some viral outbreak. What happened to her? Was this the same girl he knew in college? That tall, sexy pre-law student who would ditch all her classes and drive five hours just so she could be on the sidelines, cheering for him as he finished his runs. The one with those cherry-red, sand dollar shaped nipples and an ass so tight that it made him quiver. The one he would take to the motel after the races, and squeeze and kiss and fuck all night long. No, it couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be his Cheryl. This couldn’t be the same girl he knew back then. This woman was fifteen years older and a hundred pounds heavier with a series of moles on the fat of her neck. Her butt was a beanbag and her thighs were sofa cushions and she looked like one of those mythical trolls he’d read about in Larry’s storybooks—the ones with the big elf like ears and frumpy bodies who lived under bridges and terrorized kids. How was he supposed to make love to that? How was he supposed to get an erection? And Viagra? Please. What the hell was she talking about? He didn’t need any god damn Viagra. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t get hard. She needed to lose a couple hundred pounds first then maybe she could talk about Viagra. And what the hell was she thinking anyway? Another baby? Was she fucking crazy? Larry was more than they could handle. Hell, it took a superhuman effort just to get the little shit to school on time.
Dave sighed and glanced under the table, looking at the sorry excuse for an appendage attached to his hip. He propped his foot on the chair beside him and rolled his pant leg up to his knee. Christ, look at this thing. It was all scrawny, twisted, and contorted. It looked more like a piece of rotted driftwood than an actual human leg. There was a long, red scar running from his thigh to his shin bone from where the doctors cut him open and gave him a new knee—some damn, metal contraption they said would help relieve the inflammation, the only problem being he’d never get to run again. The most he’d be able to do is walk and climb a staircase and maybe…maybe take in some light biking. Bastards. What the hell was Cheryl thinking letting Larry behind the wheel of that golf cart? What was she doing thinking a mentally challenged kid could drive a four-wheeled cart? She wasn’t thinking—that was the problem. She was so caught up with her stupid little Blackberry that she couldn’t even shut up for two seconds, let alone keep an eye on the damn kid. If she would’ve just shut the thing off and watched him like she was supposed to, the kid would’ve never put that thing in drive and smashed into his hip. He’d still be able to compete for the qualifiers in January. He’d still have a shot at making the final cut for the Boston marathon. But now look at him. He was nothing…he was nobody…he could barely even make it down the stairs, let alone run a four-minute mile. Everything he’d worked for; all those meets and competitions, all that training and preparation gone; gone, because of his wife’s stupidity; gone, because she didn’t care about anyone but herself.
He shook his head and looked over at Larry, at the look of concentration in the kid’s happy, little eyes. The page of his coloring book was nearly all finished—a mad swirl of greens, blues, and magenta, none of which stayed within the solid, black lines. Oh well, at least he was staying on the page of the coloring book and not on the table or the kitchen tile.
He grabbed his knife and smeared some more cream cheese on his bagel then shoved it in his mouth and took a giant-sized bite. As he chomped it down, Cheryl flipped on the garbage disposal, which felt like an oil derrick pumping into his brain. He couldn’t put up with this. He had to say something. Anymore of this shit and he was gonna have a nervous breakdown. He put down his knife and looked up at Cheryl, pushing his plate aside.
“Do you mind?” he asked, as nicely as possible, hoping this wouldn’t turn into an all out bitch-fest.
Cheryl pretended like she didn’t hear him and continued stacking her dishes into a neat little pile.
“What’s the point of having a dishwasher if you’re just going to wash them in the sink?”
Cheryl hesitated for just a split second then turned on the faucet and started rinsing the plates.
“Fine,” Dave said, “pretend like I’m not here. All I’m asking for is a little god damn peace and qu
iet.”
Cheryl grabbed a handful of silverware and slammed it down into the sink. She ripped off her gloves, rolled them into a tight ball of yellow latex, and hurled them through the air right at Dave’s face. Dave flinched as an afterthought, jerked his hand forward, and the cup of coffee went flying all over Larry’s freshly colored page. The kid paused for a moment to process what was happening, then looked down at the table and then back up Dave. His lips curled up into his nostrils and his face scrunched together like the face of a puppy St. Bernard. He started to wail and beat his chubby fists against the table as the coffee dripped from the table onto the floor.
“Oh that’s just great,” Dave said, as he shot up from the table and grabbed a wad of napkins from the silver napkin holder. “Now, look what you did.”
“What I did?” Cheryl said, stepping away from the counter. “You’re the one who started it.”
Dave knelt beside Larry, put his hand on the kid’s shoulder, and started sopping up the coffee from the page of his book. “It’s alright Larry,” he said, “everything’s gonna be okay. It’s just a little coffee. It’ll come out. See?” He held up the wad of napkins to show Larry, but the kid continued to bawl his eyes out. “God damnit!” Dave slammed his fist down against the table so hard that it shook the family portrait hanging on the wall. “Can you please do something?” he said, looking up at Cheryl, the coffee from the napkin dripping onto the floor. “It’s too early for this shit. I can’t take it.”
Cheryl sighed and came out from behind the counter then went over to Larry and helped the kid up from his chair. “It’s alright, baby,” she said, as she grabbed a fresh wad of napkins and started wiping coffee from the kid’s jean shorts. “It’s going to be okay. Mommy’s here now. Mommy’s here, baby.”
Dave snarled and pushed himself up from the table then took the wet ball of napkins over to the trashcan. “And you want another one of those?” he said, motioning to Larry, who had his face buried against his mother’s belly. “Are you out of your damn mind?”
“If you’d just give me a hand once in a while, we wouldn’t have to go through this every morning. I have to do everything around here.”
Dave laughed as he opened the trashcan and tossed the dripping ball of napkins into the bag. “Oh please, don’t give me that bullshit. I do plenty around here.”
“Oh really? Then why is it that whenever I come home, Larry’s not in bed, the kitchen is a disaster, and you’re passed out in your underwear on the god damn couch?”
“I was not passed out.”
“I couldn’t even get you up last night. You were out cold.”
“I told you, Cheryl, it’s the medication. It makes me drowsy.”
“Yeah right. You expect me to believe that? You think I don’t know what you’re up to? You have a history with this shit, Dave. You’re sick. You need help. Rehab, something, anything.”
Dave laughed and took a step backward, looking at Cheryl as if she was insane. “Rehab? Are you kidding me? I don’t need rehab. I’m not some bum living under a bridge. I can quit whenever the hell I want.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Why should I? It’s all I have now. I can’t run. I can’t compete.”
“There are more important things than your running career, Dave.”
“Like what?”
“Like your children! Jesus, are you so busy feeling sorry for yourself that you forgot about your own kids? Don’t you even love them anymore?”
“What the hell kind of question is that? Of course, I love them. I love them more than anything in this whole godforsaken world.”
“Do you love them more than you love your dope?”
“What?”
“It’s a simple question, Dave. Do you love them more than you love your dope? Because if you spent as much time with your kids as you do getting high then we wouldn’t—”
“I spend plenty of time with those kids.”
“Oh really? When was the last time you helped Megan with her homework? And what about Mary? I mean, where were you last week? You knew how important that meet was to her. She finally did a full back tuck in her floor routine and you weren’t even there to see it. You used to love being with your children, but now we don’t even see you. You spend all your time out driving around doing God knows what.”
“I don’t have time to listen to this shit. I have to get to school. I’m gonna be late.”
Dave turned away and walked back to the kitchen table, picked up the newspaper and wedged it underneath his arm. He hobbled towards the front foyer, his bad leg dragging behind him like a ball and chain. But Cheryl wasn’t finished and came marching in after him, her bare feet slapping against the marble floor.
“Yeah, keep running,” she said. “Keep running away to your dope and see what happens. See what happens, Dave. This might be the last time you ever get to see your son again. Have you thought about that? Has that thought ever crept into your sick head?”
Dave rolled his eyes as he zipped up his green and gold jacket then bent over and scooped his blue gym bag off of the floor. “Cheryl, I told you, I don’t have time for this. I got a million things to do before our match tonight. I can’t stand here with you all morning and argue.” He stood up and slung the bag over his shoulder then turned away from her and walked across the foyer. But, just as he reached for the front door, Cheryl grabbed him, her fingers digging into the flesh of his forearm.
“Don’t do this,” she said, basically begging him, trying a new tactic since shouting didn’t work. “You shouldn’t even be driving around in your condition. What if something happens? What if you flip that bus?”
“Nothing’s gonna happen, Cheryl. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
“You are not fine. Look at you. You can’t even walk straight.”
Dave whirled around, pulling his arm away from her, his fists clenched, shaking by his sides. “Of course I can’t walk straight! I’m a god damn cripple! I’ll never walk right again thanks to you.”
“It wasn’t my fault. It was an accident.”
“Yeah right. If you’d been watching Larry like you were supposed to, he never would’ve run into me with that god damn golf cart.” Dave glanced at the kid. His face was buried underneath his mother’s nightgown like a frightened ostrich hiding its head underneath the sand. “Do you realize what you took away from me, Cheryl? What I could have been? What I could have done? I could’ve gone to the Olympics. I could’ve competed in front of the world.”
“The Olympics? Please, Dave, don’t be delusional. You weren’t even fast enough to make it when you were in college. You rode the bench most of the year.”
“That’s because I was too young and inexperienced.”
“But you never even won a race.”
“What about all those records I set in the 10,000 meter?”
“You were in high school.”
“What about that half marathon I won a few years back in Denver?”
“That was for charity.”
“So?”
“So, you were the only one in your heat!”
Dave snorted and turned away from her, then grabbed the knob and pulled open the front door. He didn’t have time for this shit. He had to get down to Aurora. It was almost seven-thirty. It was time to call Juarez.
“You’re sick, Dave,” Cheryl said. “You’re delusional. You need help.”
Dave rolled his eyes and turned away from her, then stepped out onto the patio while pulling the front door closed.
Chapter 5
The Score
DAVE stood on the porch for a moment trying to regain his focus, staring out at the lawn that was covered with a fresh layer of snowfall. Jesus, what a morning. What a horrible way to start the week. All that bitching and moaning was completely unnecessary especially for a Monday morning. Rehab? Please. What the hell was Cheryl talking about? He didn’t need no god damn rehab. It wasn’t like he was some junkie living out of a shopping cart, sta
nding by the highway, holding up a sign. He was an Olympic runner for Christ’s sake. The best god damn middle and long distance runner on this side of the Mississippi. He’d set records in everything from the two to ten thousand meter. How did she think he set all those records? It wasn’t talent. It had nothing to do with talent. In fact, he didn’t even have the right genetics to be a great runner. His legs were too short, his upper body was too bulky, but he had one thing those fuckers in Ethiopia would never have—heart. He had more will and more drive in his little pinky finger than those bulimic fuckers had in their entire undernourished bodies. If he wanted something bad enough, he’d just go out there and take it. It didn’t matter what it was. The junior’s two thousand meter Colorado record? Please. He crushed that when he was only a teenager. And what about district 3A Cross Country Championship? How did three straight, back-to-back five thousand-meter titles sound? See, he didn’t need no god damn rehab. If he wanted to quit, he’d just do it. He’d do it on sheer willpower. But why should he? Why should he quit? It felt too good. It was the best feeling he’d had in a long time. It gave him that rush, that high he hadn’t had since high school when he was winning medals, running races, and leaving everyone in his heat a hundred yards behind. If he couldn’t have that, he had to have something—he had to have something to replace that feeling. Those pain pills the doctor gave him weren’t worth a damn. They were about as strong as Larry’s cough medicine. One measly bottle wouldn’t even get him through an entire day. But a few hits off that pipe—shit, that was all he needed. The only problem was getting it. It was quite a hike.
Some Are Sicker Than Others Page 5
