Some Are Sicker Than Others

by Andrew Seaward

  Monty gripped the handle and pushed slowly towards him, trying not to look directly in his eyes. His heart was pounding, his hands were shaking, and his feet felt like rubber melting to the tile. When he got to the register, he moved around to the front of the shopping cart then reached inside and began stacking the bottles on the rubber conveyor.

  “All set?” the clerk said.

  Monty didn’t say anything and just nodded, trying as best he could to not drop any of the bottles. His muscles were so weak that he could barely grip the handles and he was disoriented that one abrupt move and he felt like he might fall over.

  The cashier flipped a switch on the side of the counter and the bottles began to move forward, the glass clinking together.

  Monty grabbed the last bottle and placed it on the rubber then took a step back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He crouched to the floor and grabbed the two boxes of diet soda, lifted them up and placed them on the conveyor. As he straightened his back, he went for his wallet, but his hands were shaking so much that he could barely pull it from his back pocket.

  “You need a box?” the cashier said, looking at him blankly, his eyelids blinking like flashing stoplights.

  “Uh, what?”

  “A box?” The cashier lifted up a cardboard box. “Do you need a box?”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, sure, thanks.”

  The cashier nodded and began grabbing the bottles and loading them into the little cardboard dividers.

  Monty waited, his hands shaking, his mouth twitching, tiny beads of sweat dripping from his nose and splashing onto the counter. Jesus Christ, he had to stop shaking. It wasn’t just his hands anymore, his entire body was trembling—his legs, his arms, his head, his eyelids, even his god damn cheeks were beginning to spasm.

  He folded his arms tightly around him and squeezed as if he was giving himself an imaginary hug.

  “You okay?” the cashier said, looking at him quizzically.

  “Huh?” Monty relaxed and stopped squeezing then looked up at the cashier, who was pointing to the wound on his chin.

  “Your face…it’s bleeding.”

  “Oh yeah.” Monty touched his finger to the laceration. “I had an accident. Sliced it while I was jogging.”

  “Jogging? How the hell you do that jogging?”

  What was this, an interrogation? Who did he think he was, the CIA?

  “I uh…I ran into a tree branch.”

  “A tree branch?”

  “Yep.”

  The cashier shook his head and made a sound like he was sniffing, then picked up the last bottle of Cutty and stuffed it into the final divider. “You should get that checked out. It looks pretty bad.”

  What was he, a doctor now?

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ve been meaning to go to the hospital.”

  The cashier nodded then turned towards the register, pushed a button on the keyboard and squinted at the computer screen. “Okay, it looks like it’s gonna be two forty-one sixty-seven.”

  Monty nodded and pulled out his credit card, swiped it through the machine and took a step back.

  The cashier looked at the computer screen, then back at Monty, then back at the computer screen and shook his head. “Nope, sorry. Didn’t go through.”

  “What?”

  “It didn’t go through. You got another?”

  Shit, the bastards must’ve frozen his credit. Wait—what about his health savings card? Would that work?

  “Yeah, hold on, let me look.”

  He dug through his wallet and pulled out all his credit cards and laid them out on the counter like he was playing a game of poker. His health savings debit card was at the very bottom, underneath his license and his old student ID. He held it up and looked at the numbers. This ought to work, right? Yeah, there should be at least a couple thousand left on it. “Here,” he said as he handed it over. “Try this one.”

  The cashier took it and slid it through the reader.

  Please work, please work.

  The screen flashed and a receipt started to print from the computer.

  “Did it go through?”

  “Yep.”

  Thank God.

  The cashier handed the card back to Monty, tore off the receipt and set it flat on the counter. “Sign please.”

  Monty grabbed a pen from the paper cup on the counter. He didn’t even bother trying to sign his name. His hands were shaking so much all he could muster was a small, crooked squiggly. “Thanks,” he said, as he stuffed the receipt into his pocket then pushed the empty cart to the end of the counter. “You mind if I borrow this cart real quick?”

  “Nah, just bring it back when you’re through.”

  “Okay.”

  But before Monty could pick up the boxes, the cashier put his hand on Monty’s shoulder. “Seriously man,” he said. “You should really go to the hospital. You don’t look good at all.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that. Thanks again.” Monty pulled away from him and lifted the boxes and set them in the cart, one on top of the other. He grabbed the handle and pushed away from the register, the glass bottles clinking together like wind chimes in the summer.

  When he got outside, he went straight for the rental car, unlocked the back door and unloaded the boxes onto the back seat cushions. Once he was finished, he wheeled the cart back towards the entrance, but when he got inside, he noticed that the cashier was missing. Oh no. Where did he go? What happened to him? What if he was calling the cops? What if he was going to have him arrested? “Shit.” Monty’s skin turned cold and his heart began pounding. He had to get out of here and get back to his apartment.

  In a surge of adrenaline, he propelled the cart forward, which sailed across the store and slammed right into the register. “Double-shit.”

  He turned away and walked swiftly through the exit then unlocked the driver side door and jumped behind the steering wheel. He reached into his pocket and dug out his keychain, but he lost his grip and the keys dropped between his knees. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” He reached between his legs and snatched them off the floor mat then jammed them into the ignition and cranked on the engine. His mouth was twitching, his teeth were chattering, and his hands were shaking so much that he could barely grip the steering wheel. But he managed to calm down just enough to get out of the parking lot and down the narrow driveway and back out onto Colfax.

  As he made his way down the busy four-lane stretch of highway, his eyes bounced back and forth between the speedometer and the rearview mirror. Any moment, he expected a dozen police cars to come flying up beside him, flashing their lights and screaming their sirens. But they never came and Monty made it safe and sound back to his apartment.

  Chapter 11

  The Call

  MONTY was armed. He was ready. He had his liquor. Now, all he had to do was finish what he started. He drew all the shades and secured the deadbolt then went over to the kitchen and pulled open the cabinet. There wasn’t much to choose from—some plates, some bowls, a tall, glass tumbler, a couple of coffee mugs, and a stack of those red plastic Dixie cups. He reached inside and went for the tumbler then took it over to the freezer and filled it with a couple ice cubes. After he set it down on top of the kitchen counter, he reached into the box and pulled out a handle of Cutty. Ah Cutty. He twisted off the cap, lifted the bottle, and filled the tumbler with about three fourths of Cutty. He took the tumbler over to the kitchen faucet and filled it with a little splash of tap water.

  He took a deep breath, lifted the tumbler, closed his eyes, and took a long, deep swallow. The alcohol burned as it spread through his stomach, diffused into his veins, and bubbled through his blood stream. Yes, it was working. He could feel it already. It was like a warm, safe cocoon being spun around him.

  He took the drink back with him into the living room, then kicked off his shoes, and collapsed on the sofa. He could feel his body dissolving into the fabric, like he was a wax candle being melted with a blow torch. He took another sip then dug the remote out
from in between the cushions, hit the power button, and cranked up the volume. Alright, let’s see what we got here. He went to the movie channels and scrolled through the selection, hopping back and forth between HBO and Showtime. But he couldn’t find anything good, so he went to his own personal selection and popped in his favorite movie, The Deer Hunter.

  He lifted his glass and took another deep swallow, draining the tumbler all the way down to its ice cubes. Then he got up and went into the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of Cutty and took it back with him into the living room. He pulled off the cap and lifted the bottle, listening to the glug-glug sound as the scotch splashed into the tumbler. When he got it up to the brim, he set the bottle down next to his feet beside the sofa. There. Now, he didn’t have to worry about going back and forth to the kitchen. He could just reach down and freshen his drink whenever he needed. He snatched the DVD remote from off of the cushion, hit the play button, and fast-forwarded through the previews. The credits rolled, the music started, and Monty sank back with his scotch sitting on top of his kneecap.

  About halfway through the movie and halfway through the bottle of Cutty, Monty saw something green flashing in his peripheral vision. He lowered his head and looked down at the sofa. His cell phone was going off in the crevice of the cushions. He dug it out and read the name off of the display: Robby R.

  He sat there frozen, staring at the phone’s green LCD screen as something sharp and hot shifted inside his stomach. Great. He could actually feel the anxiety moving around his stomach, like a giant tapeworm coiling around his intestine. After a few seconds, the phone stopped buzzing and Monty put it down and threw back the last gulp of Cutty. When he glanced down in his glass, he saw that he was out of ice cubes. He needed to get some more, so he put the movie on pause and made his way into the kitchen. But just as he got to the freezer, the phone started to make that awful buzzing sound again. God damnit. What the fuck did he want from him?

  In a fit of rage, he grabbed the freezer door and flung it open, so hard that a piece of the handle broke off and ricocheted against the counter. He shoved his hand into the ice tray—a few cubes made it into the glass, but most rattled out like dice onto the linoleum. “Jesus Christ.” He went to the box and pulled out a bottle of Seagram’s, twisted off the cap and filled up the tumbler. In just three gulps, he drained the entire tumbler then slammed it down against the kitchen counter. He refilled it again, took another swallow, then again and again until he felt like he might vomit. He stormed back into the living room. The phone was still buzzing, so he flipped it open and jammed it against his ear. “Hello?” he said, abruptly, the gin in his glass sloshing out over the rim.

  “Monty? Is that you?”

  “Yes. This is Monty. And just who the hell are you?”

  “It’s me, Monty. It’s Robby.”

  “Robby? Who the fuck is Robby? I don’t know no Robby.”

  “Come on, man, quit playing games. You know who I am.”

  Monty laughed as he walked back into the kitchen and poured himself another tall glass of gin. He took a deep breath then threw it back, but half of it came back up out of his nose and spilled out onto the floor. “Whoops!” He cupped his hand over his mouth, the gin like bee stingers piercing the inside of his nostrils.

  “Monty? Are you still there? Talk to me man. Are you okay? What are you doing?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here. What do you want? Speak motherfucker. Speak now or forever hold your peace!”

  “Jesus Monty, where have you been? Why haven’t you returned any of my phone calls? Why weren’t you at the funeral?”

  “Hey Robby, what do you call a million alcoholics stuck in a blender?”

  “What?”

  “A good start! Ha ha ha!”

  “What is wrong with you? Are you drinking again?”

  Monty looked at the phone then down at the gin bottle, then back at the phone and back at the gin. “Uh…I don’t know. Why? Are you? Ha ha ha!”

  “God damnit. I am not interested in playing games with you right now. I wanna help you.”

  “You wanna help me? You wanna fucking help me? Fuck you, Robby. You can’t help me. No one can help me. I’m fucking dead, Robby.”

  “Don’t say that, Monty. You are not dead.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m a fucking ghost, Robby. A fucking dead man walking.”

  “No, you’re not. Quit saying that. You have people who love you, man.”

  “Oh really? Who? Who loves me? Come on, Robby, tell me who loves me.”

  “Your dad loves you, your mom loves you, Susan loves you, I love you! You think that by drinking yourself to death you’re gonna end all your problems? Do you realize how fucking selfish that is? What about all those people who love you? You’re just gonna turn your back on them? Is that it?”

  Monty grimaced as he lifted the tumbler, then closed his eyes and took another long sip. “Go to hell, Robby.”

  “I don’t have to. I’ve been there, remember? I lived through that shit. And so have you. Do you really want to go through it all over again? I mean, how much more misery do you have to put yourself through?”

  “As much as it takes.”

  “As much as it takes for what?”

  “You know damn well what.”

  “Don’t do this, Monty. You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because it’s my fault! I’m responsible! I killed her!”

  “Monty.”

  “She knew it wasn’t safe, but I made her do it. I didn’t stop. I didn’t pull over.”

  “What about the other car? What about the other driver? He came into your lane. He forced you into that reservoir.”

  “They never found him. No one ever came forward.”

  “So?”

  “So, maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe it was just my imagination.”

  “You’re drunk, Monty. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Yes, I do. I know exactly what I’m fucking saying. She should’ve never been with me. If we hadn’t met, none of this would’ve ever happened. She’d still be alive. That kid would still have his mother.”

  “It was an accident, Monty. Plain and simple. Shit happens. Life on life’s terms. Remember?”

  “Don’t you quote that AA bullshit to me, Robby. You should know better than that. Save that shit for your little lackeys. Not me, man. I’m done with all that shit. I’m gone. Four more weeks and I’ll be as good as dead.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Oh no? You think I’m just fucking around? Is that it? You think I’m just playing games?”

  “You’re not going to kill yourself, Monty. You and I both know that. That’s just the alcohol talking. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, that’s so.”

  “Okay, okay, alright. You wanna see some games, Robby? You wanna see who’s playing? Alright, okay, I’ll show you some fucking games. I’ll show you who’s fucking playing.”

  In one swift turn, Monty hurled the phone across the kitchen. It bounced off the wall and shattered into two pieces. He grabbed the gin bottle and turned it up towards the ceiling—the gin streamed down his cheeks and spilled out across the linoleum. Wiping his mouth, he charged across the dining room, his hand around the bottle, his eyes aimed on the bathroom. When he got inside, he flipped on the light switch then laid his hands flat on the counter and stared into the mirror. “Look at you. You’re pathetic, you’re disgusting, you’re a fucking coward. You took the one thing good in your life and you fucking destroyed it.”

  He lifted the bottle and took another swallow then cocked his elbow and drove his fist into the mirror. Shards of glass rained down on the counters. He brought his hand out in front of him. His fingers were bleeding, the flesh torn wide open. He clenched his teeth, shook off the throbbing, then lifted the bottle, and too
k another swallow. He opened the medicine cabinet, reached for the pill bottles, and grabbed one of six that were lined up against the paisley patterned wallpaper. This ought to do the trick, he thought, as he popped open the bottle, dumped the pills into his mouth, some of which spilled out onto the counter. Keeping his jaw relaxed, he reached for the gin bottle, and holding it with both hands, he turned it upward. The first gulp nearly made him vomit, but he was able to choke it back just enough to get about half of the pills in one swallow. As he took another sip, he shut his eyes, breathing slowly in and out through his nostrils. He could feel the pills rubbing against his larynx, sharp and obtrusive scraping against the soft and fleshy tissue. But he worked them all down, inch by inch, swallow by swallow, pill by pill until they were all settled inside his stomach. He opened his eyes, went back to the medicine cabinet, and grabbed the next bottle in line…the Zoloft. He wasn’t sure if it would even do anything. It was just an antidepressant. Wouldn’t it just be like swallowing Tylenol? He didn’t know, but it didn’t matter, because he was too far gone to really care about anything. So, he tore off the cap and lifted the bottle, dumped the pills and started to swallow. Some of the pills fell out and danced around the sink basin then disappeared down the drain, never to be seen again. But it must’ve done the trick, because his shoulders went limp and his knees buckled. He slumped back against the wall and down towards the toilet. Everything became dark and he could feel his breath shortening, as if someone was stepping on his throat and slowly squeezing the air out of him. He tried to move his head but couldn’t—it was like something was holding him down, like an elephant was sitting on top of his abdomen. He moved his eyes around, but he couldn’t see anything; the walls of the bathroom had completely closed in on him. All he could see was Vicky screaming, her legs trapped under the dashboard as the icy water rushed in on top of her.