Some Are Sicker Than Others

by Andrew Seaward

  He adjusted his blue gym bag higher up on his shoulder then stepped down from the patio and stumbled across the front lawn. His little blue Volkswagen was parked out in the driveway, the back and rear windshields frosted with a thick layer of ice. Oh great, just what he needed. It was gonna take at least ten minutes to scrape off all this ice. Maybe he could just do the front driver side windshield. There wasn’t enough time to do both sides and the back.

  He went to the trunk and pulled out the ice scraper then brought it back with him to the front of the car. As he came around the side, he noticed that the passenger side mirror was missing—in fact, it looked like it had been completely knocked off. What the hell? He crouched next to the tire for a closer inspection and noticed that the mirror wasn’t the only thing that was all messed up. The headlight was cracked, the front bumper was crumpled, and there were etchings of what looked like red paint all along the passenger side door.

  He froze for a moment, staring at the damage, trying to remember what in the hell happened. But he couldn’t think, he couldn’t remember, everything from last night was all fragmented—a disjointed series of snapshots and voices, a blur of lights, colors, and music. He remembered going to Cosmo’s to pick up the pizza, but that was early in the day, like around one-thirty. What about after that? And what about Larry? Did he even pick the kid up from his Morningstar program? He must have, because Cheryl couldn’t have done it. She was up at the courthouse all day preparing for cases. Then what the hell happened? Did he hit something? Did he run something over?

  He cursed to himself as he stood up from where he was crouching then looked up at the house then back at the car. He’d better get the hell out of here before Cheryl saw all this damage. He’d never hear the end of it, especially if she found out he didn’t even remember how it happened. But, what was he gonna do? How was he gonna fix it? How was he gonna find time to take it to a mechanic?

  He bent back down and picked up the scraper, then rapidly chipped away the ice from the rest of the windshield. When he was finished, he opened the door and tossed in the scraper then picked up his gym bag and threw it on the passenger seat. He hopped in the car and turned over the ignition then threw it in reverse and sailed down the driveway.

  Twenty minutes later, he was off the interstate heading west down Colfax towards Aurora, or as the natives liked to call it, Saudi-Aurora. It got its nickname on account of the fact it was all the way out in the boonies, about fifteen miles east of Denver, somewhere between the beltway and I-70. Because of its remote location, it was a city that seemed to have been forgotten, as if time and technology had gone on without it. In fact, every time Dave came here, he felt like he was going through some kind of time portal. The place looked like it was straight out of 1950. The buildings were all old, dirty, and dilapidated, and some even still had that retro 1950’s architecture; diners that looked like space ships had landed on top of them with bright, neon Welcome signs written in cursive…bowling alleys with pins the size of Volkswagens sitting on top of their wing-tipped entries. There was even an old drive-in somewhere around Havana. It wasn’t showing pictures, but it still had the original supporting structure that held up the movie screen. It was kind of neat, if you liked going backwards. Unfortunately, the farther west you got down Colfax, the more the city began to look like a slummy ghetto; hotels became motels that charged by the hour and bowling alleys became strip clubs that reeked of cum and stale whiskey sours. English turned to Spanish, burgers became tacos, and banks with glass windows became iron-barred pawnshops. Jesus, what a neighborhood. Every time he came down here, he thought he was gonna catch dysentery.

  He eased on the brake as he pulled up to a stoplight then gently pressed down the door locks and peered out the window. A woman with wild, wiry hair was pushing a shopping cart, staring at Dave as she staggered into the crosswalk. Her cart was filled to the brim with aluminum cans and boxes, ratty blankets and torn up newspaper. Dave tried not to make eye contact as she walked out in front of him. She was muttering something at the pavement in a language that was definitely not English. On the opposite side of the street stood a bunch of Mexicans, waiting for the bus that would take them into the city. Their hands looked more like claws, clutching their grocery bags, shivering and waiting in the merciless Colorado winter. Poor bastards. Look at their fingers. They were all split and frozen like hot dogs with freezer burn. What a horrible life. What a miserable existence. Thank god he would never have to end up like them.

  Finally, the light turned green and Dave stomped on the gas pedal, then put on his blinker and turned left at the next corner. He went about a quarter of a mile down the street then made a quick U-turn and pulled to a stop in front of a horribly plain brick building. The building was five stories high with microscopic slits for windows that made it look more like a prison tower than an actual apartment. In front of the building was a patch of dirt no bigger than the size of a pitcher’s mound that Dave figured was supposed to serve as the building’s front garden. Around the dirt stood a six-foot tall, chain-link rectangle that looked strangely familiar to the kind of fence you’d put around a prison yard. The only thing that was missing was some razor wire, a couple of free weights, and maybe some basketball hoops. Even the name of the place made Dave chuckle. It was called, Casa Grande—The Big House. How ominous.

  He laughed to himself as he scanned the grounds of the building, but his temperament quickly sobered when he locked eyes with a short, angry-looking Hispanic. He was just a kid, nineteen maybe twenty, with a black baseball cap on his head that said Colorado Rockies. It was hard to make him out from underneath the building’s shadow, but Dave knew it had to be Juarez, because who else would be up this early on a Monday morning?

  Dave tapped the horn once as a sign of identification then reached across the center console and rolled down the passenger side window. The kid nodded and put down his still-burning cigarette then trotted down the steps of the front porch patio. Before he got to the street, the kid stopped and looked down both ends of the corner. Once he was satisfied that there were no cops around, he opened the gate and walked towards Dave’s passenger side window. “What’s up?” he said, leaning in the window, one hand on the hood, the other dug deep into his jacket pocket.

  “Hey, what’s up Juarez?” Dave said, unable to stop grinning, half because he was nervous and half because the glands in his mouth were burning with salivation. “How’s business?”

  “Business is business. What you want man?”

  Dave nodded and quickly reached into his back pocket and produced five crisp twenties from his brown, chewed up wallet. “I guess the usual,” he said, as he held out the money, his hands trembling from utter anticipation.

  “The usual huh?”

  “Yep.”

  The kid smiled a smile of arrogance, probably because he thought he had Dave wrapped around his little finger. But Dave didn’t care, because he knew something this little punk didn’t; if he really wanted, he could quit tomorrow; no detox, no rehab, no counseling, no therapists; he could drop this shit right now on sheer willpower. Then, who’d be laughing? Who’d be smiling? Who’d be paying this kid’s rent and buying his groceries? Not Dave. That was for damn sure.

  Dave smiled right back as he handed the kid the money, who inspected it and stuffed it inside his pocket. The kid disappeared from the view of the window, but returned a few seconds later holding a small, red plastic pill bottle. He unscrewed the cap and turned it over, counting off the rocks as they slid into his palm.

  “Alright, that’s ten,” he said, as he funneled the rocks back in the bottle then handed it to Dave through the car window. “Ten fat ones.”

  At the sight of the rocks, Dave’s heart began to flutter. He felt like a kid on Prom night who was about to get lucky. He snatched up the bottle and took a swift inspection of the product, then pulled open the center console and placed it under the cover of a couple McDonald’s hamburgers wrappers. Alright. Now, he was set. Now, he was re
ady. He was ready to cook this shit and get on with his Monday.

  He shifted from park and buckled his seat belt then looked back up at Juarez through the passenger side window. “We good?” he said, as he tapped the dashboard, his fingers twitching like he was playing an imaginary piano.

  “Yeah, we good,” Juarez said. “We good.”

  “Alright. I’ll see you later then.”

  “I know you will.” The kid smiled then turned away from the window and trotted back through the gate of his trashy, little prison yard.

  A few minutes later, Dave was back on Colfax heading east towards the Capitol Hill neighborhood. He decided to stop off at the park for a couple quick ones. He was gonna need something in his system to keep him moving. That coffee and bagel he had for breakfast wasn’t nearly enough energy for him.

  He took a left onto York towards Cheesman, driving past a four-story brick house that someone had once told him was an AA meeting hall. As he came to the light, he glanced out the window and saw a bunch of people standing around on a porch smoking cigarettes. Jesus, look at them all…the sick bastards…standing around in the cold looking miserable. Thank god he wasn’t an addict. It had to suck being sober.

  He shook his head and put on his turn signal then took a right off of York onto Thirteenth Street. When he got to the park, he drove around a few times to make sure there were no cops lurking in the shadows. The pigs were notorious for hiding out in this neighborhood. Once he was satisfied that the place was empty, he drove to a small, secluded parking lot next to some big, blue Porta-Potties. The things were nasty looking, but they were well hidden, underneath the shade of some monstrous, snow-glazed evergreens.

  He pulled to a stop then opened the center console and removed the red plastic bottle from underneath the McDonald’s hamburger wrappers. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cheap, plastic, Bic lighter along with his trusty glass pipe that he unwrapped from some toilet paper. He twisted his body and looked out the back window then took a deep breath and reached into the pill bottle. He dumped out a rock and held it up between his fingers, studying it in the light as if he was appraising a diamond. The rock wasn’t as fat as the kid made it out to be. It was small, about the size of a kid’s molar, Larry’s molar. He brought it to his nose and took a deep whiff inward then touched it with the tip of his tongue—it tasted bitter and metallic, almost inky.

  He grabbed his pipe and held it eye line then carefully placed the rock on the end near the filter. His hands shook, his lips quivered, and tiny beads of sweat were dripping onto his crotch from his forehead. He took a deep breath then sparked up the lighter. The flame was like a torch glowing inside the little Volkswagen. He lowered the flame underneath the pipe’s glass bottom. The glass turned black and the tooth sublimed to vapor. He wrapped his lips around the pipe’s mouthpiece then took a deep breath in and held it for a few seconds.

  Almost immediately, it came to him—the feeling of strength and power crashing into his blood stream. He felt like he did when he was winning races; the ecstasy, the euphoria, the in-fucking-vincibility. He could do anything. He could be anybody. All he needed was a couple hits and he could finally feel normal. No more insecurity…no more inadequacy…he was ten feet tall and fucking bulletproof.

  He took another hit, but this time held it longer then let the smoke slowly curl away from his lips. His throat became numb and his heart rate became rapid, and a surge of adrenaline began to pump through his ventricles. Yeah, bring it on, he thought, as he looked up in the rearview mirror, his pupils dilating to the size of black marbles. Bring on the pain, bring on the suffering, bring on anything you can throw at this motherfucker…because he’s armed, he’s ready, he’s un-fucking-touchable…you can’t hurt him, you can’t even see him…he’s a ghost, a phantom, a mother-fucking ninja…he’ll fuck your daughters and eat your children.

  “Ha, ha, ha…yeah.”

  Dave closed his eyes and sank back against the headrest, feeling as every muscle in his body oozed into the seat cushion. His arms went limp and his head became weightless, and if only for a moment, he felt absolutely nothing—no more pain, no more tightening, no more aching, no more throbbing. As he opened his eyes again, he glanced at the clock on the dashboard—it was almost nine-thirty, but he didn’t care—he didn’t care about anything. Nothing mattered right now. There was nothing—no Cheryl, no Larry, no fucking responsibilities…it was just him in this park in this moment…just him and his crack, the way it should be.

  Chapter 6

  The Office

  IT was a brisk walk across the snow-slick parking lot to Dave’s office in the bowels of the Boulder high school gymnasium. He used the back gate in between the football field and the weight room, reeling like an escaped mental patient along the side of the chain link fence. He could see the blurry outline of the gym’s entrance before him, like the gates of heaven calling his name. His ears were ice and his snot was crystal, freezing just above the cleft of his upper lip.

  One final push and he was through the doorway into the safety of the high school gymnasium. It was nice inside, warm and quiet, only the soft humming of the pale overhead lights filling the muggy, sweat-saturated air. He shut the door and made his way down the sidelines of the basketball court, his tennis shoes squeaking across the freshly waxed floor. When he got behind the stage, he opened the door to the basement then descended the dark and winding stairwell. As always, it was muggy down there—the boiler was in full throttle, causing the walls to drip like an old woman with hot flashes. But, Dave didn’t mind it. He liked the peace and quiet. It was completely cut off from the rest of the universe. If only he could stay down here, he could finally have a chance to think for a minute and figure out what he was gonna do with the rest of his life. At the rate he was going, he wouldn’t make it; he wouldn’t last one more month doing this shit, coaching girls’ volleyball at a second rate high school, listening to Cheryl bitch every morning about every minuscule detail. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t his destiny. It wasn’t how things were supposed to be. He was supposed to be rich and famous with his own book deals, corporate sponsors, and a mansion in Malibu. He was supposed to do to running what Lance Armstrong did to cycling, and make it accessible to the rest of the country. But how could he do that now with this fucking kneecap? He could barely even walk down these steps let alone win a marathon. He just had to accept the fact that he would never amount to anything and for the rest of his life he’d be a complete nobody.

  When he got to the bottom, he turned the corner and stopped in front of his flimsy, wooden office door. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, feeling for the light switch that was mounted somewhere along the wall. When he found it, he flipped it upward, then limped over to his desk and collapsed backward into his swivel style office chair. He closed his eyes and tried relaxing, but it was pretty much impossible to do with all this anxiety. It felt like a gorilla had its hands wrapped around his larynx, the big, fat, hairy fingers digging into the muscles of his neck. His head was pounding, his face was sweating, and it felt like his heart was about to rip wide open. In retrospect, he probably should’ve gone a little easier at Cheesman and not have finished off that first rock. Oh well, he knew how to solve that; it didn’t take a degree in pharmacy to know how to get balanced out.

  He bent forward and flung the bottom drawer open looking for the only thing he knew that would take off the edge. There it was—hiding beneath a stack of his students’ ungraded earth science midterms—a big, brown, beautiful bottle of Jim Beam’s Kentucky Bourbon. He reached in and pulled out the bottle, unscrewed the cap and brought it to his lips. The alcohol burned as it slid down his throat, making him lurch forward and cough and cringe, but it felt so damn good inside his stomach that he lifted the bottle and went again, then again and again until his heart rate became steady and again and again until his entire body turned to jelly.

  Once he was satisfied, he returned the bottle, tucking it safely back inside his bottom d
esk drawer. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the little red pill bottle and held it up between his forefinger and thumb. One down, nine to go. Hopefully, that would be enough to last him a couple days, maybe a week if he could keep it all under control. He’d better. He had that match tonight all the way up in Estes. If those girls knew anything was up, they’d probably tell their parents and he’d be out of a job faster than he could count to four. Then what would he do? How would he pay for his medicine? He’d have to steal money from Cheryl and hope she didn’t catch him, because if she did, she’d probably want to divorce him or worse, send him to some silly rehab. No, no, no, no, he couldn’t let that happen. He had to be careful. Maybe tomorrow, after the game, he could afford to be a little more reckless.

  He took the bottle and shoved it back into his pocket then got up from the desk and walked towards the door. But, just as he was about to leave, something stopped him, like the tentacles of an octopus wrapping around his throat. All of a sudden, he couldn’t breathe and he began to feel dizzy, as the razor sharp suction cups dug into his spinal cord. He looked down at his hands. Jesus, they were trembling, and the pain in his knee was now shooting up through his pelvis. He locked the door. This was ridiculous. How could he drive a school bus if he was hurting this bad? He had to have something to quell the throbbing. He had to have something for his knee. If he didn’t, he could get into an accident. He could drive that bus right off a mountain. Christ, look at him…he looked like a Parkinson’s patient… god damn Michael J. Fox on crack cocaine. How could he be expected to hold down the gear shifter? How could he be expected to push down the brakes?

  He turned away from the door and marched back across the office then plopped himself back down into his chair. Just a couple more hits…that was all he needed…just enough to calm him down and ease the throbbing.