by L. L. Soares
Sam stared deep into the kid’s eyes. He felt his jaw tighten into a scowl of anger. He must have been quite a sight.
Sam hesitated. Then said, “Yeah, it’s okay,” and released his grip on the kid’s jacket. The kid hurried past to join up with his friends, who had been just as surprised, and who had been too caught up in the moment to offer assistance. As soon as the kid reached them, the moment passed and he turned to shout a loud and quick, “Fuck you, Mister,” before they moved in a group toward the escalator.
Sam stood on the platform, watching them go. Sorry that the incident had happened. But at the same time, wanting to run after them, and pound the whole group of them down into the concrete. Make them bleed and scream and beg for mercy.
Mercy that he found less and less within himself.
CHAPTER SIX
By the time he got home, Sam had stopped shaking.
Maggie was stretched out on the couch. She’d kicked her shoes off, removed her nylons, and was drinking a rum and Coke.
“Hard day?” Sam asked, plopping into the love seat beside her.
“Is there any other kind?” Maggie asked. “Shit, at least you stay put in the same office all day. I’ve got to run around the city like a chicken with its head chopped off.”
“Believe me, the office isn’t so much better. Sometimes it’s downright claustrophobic. I feel like a prisoner. And all I ever see are people with problems. I keep worrying it’s going to rub off on me.”
“Okay, okay,” Maggie said. “We both have it rough. Make yourself a drink and relax.”
“Sounds good.” He put his briefcase down beside the loveseat and went over to the kitchen. The rum was in the refrigerator. He put two fingers it in a coffee mug and then covered it with cola.
He sat back down. “At least you get to drive. I am getting real sick of the subway.”
“Driving’s worse. Traffic’s been horrendous. You’d start getting migraines again if you drove.”
“But the people on the subway. They’re assholes. And there’s so many of them. I go from a claustrophobic room to a claustrophobic train car. It’s like being shipped off to Auschwitz every morning and afternoon. At least at night I know I’m coming home, so I can deal with it better.”
“At least you’ve got your own practice. You’re your own boss.”
“You don’t have it much different. You can do whatever you want every day. No one checks up on you.”
“But I’m in sales. If I don’t bust my hump each day and get as much done as possible, then I won’t get a good commission. You have patients who need you, who come regularly. You don’t have to sell yourself every day.”
“You have regular clients, too. After all these years, people know you. You don’t have to hustle like you used to.”
“Hustle is right. Some times I feel like a whore or something.”
“Come on now,” Sam said. “It’s not as bad as all that.”
“Sometimes it really bothers me, gets to me,” Maggie said.
“Then why do you do it? I make enough for both of us. You could stay home if you wanted to.”
“And do what? Climb the walls. At least I’m good at selling. It comes natural. Even if I do hate it sometimes.”
He knew she’d stay home in a minute if she had a reason to. If she had someone to take care of. A child. There was a time when they’d tried and tried, until the doctor told them what the problem was. They could have gone the fertility treatment route, or the adoption route. But she avoided both ideas, for some reason. Said it didn’t matter. She wasn’t the mother type anyway, she’d say. She liked to stay on the go. But he knew that if she really wanted to, there were other ways to become a mother. But he didn’t push it. She’d come around to it in her own time.
Besides, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to take the step toward parenthood, either.
“Want to eat out tonight?” Maggie asked. “I sure as hell don’t feel like cooking anything.”
“Sure. Or we can just get something delivered. That would be even easier.”
“Sounds good,” Maggie said. “My feet are real sore.”
“Want to hear something? I was getting off the subway today, and this kid banged right into me. Didn’t even say a word. And I grabbed him, and I came so close to hitting him, it was so weird. To be that close to losing it. I almost knocked the kid’s head off.”
“Fucking kids,” Maggie said. “It probably would have done him some good. Shown him he couldn’t just slam into people and get away with it. He probably knocks old ladies over, too.”
“I know. But the funny thing is, I’m always so hung up on being in control, and I came real close to losing it. Pounding this kid’s face in. It was something I really wanted to do. Something tempting.”
“But you didn’t. You stayed in control.”
“But I wanted to lose it. I wanted to smash his face in. I really did.”
“We all feel that way sometimes. It’s totally normal. You were totally justified.”
“I guess so,” Sam said. “It was just funny. Here I am, making a living helping other people handle their anger, and I almost give in to my own and beat some stupid kid senseless.”
“You’re exposed to it every day,” Maggie said. “It’s bound to affect you on some level. And besides, you’re still human. You have emotions just like anybody else. You aren’t some kind of robot.”
“I still thought it was funny. Funny weird. You don’t know how close I was to giving in to it. It kind of scared me.”
He took a long gulp of his drink.
“Don’t worry about it,” Maggie said. “You’re entitled. I’ve felt the same way myself, a lot of times. You should see some of the asshole drivers I have to deal with on the road. If I had a gun, I would have probably killed someone by now.”
“All the road rage out there,” Sam said. “You’re probably lucky no one’s killed you, either. Some of the people driving today are animals. I should know. I treat a lot of them.”
“Road rage,” Maggie said, and laughed. “It’s funny that there’s a word for it now, isn’t it? It’s almost like we’re giving people an excuse to act like crazies. Oh, don’t worry if you overreact to someone cutting you off and try to kill them, you just have road rage. Everyone’s got it.”
“I know. I feel weird using the phrase myself. It sounds like bullshit. And maybe it is. But it’s just so damned prevalent.”
“I think it’s just plain old rage. These people are angry all the time, not just when they’re driving. And when we name it, make it a separate thing, we’re giving them a way out. An excuse.”
“Yeah,” Sam said and drained his mug. “Hey, you want a refill?”
“Sure,” she said, giving him her glass. “Why don’t we order a pizza? I’m in the mood for one tonight.”
“Sure,” he said. “That sounds good. We can have it delivered.”
***
Colleen opened the door to her apartment and turned on the light.
“Looks like we’ve got company,” the man said. He was probably smiling, finding it funny, but she didn’t look at him, she was looking at them.
Over in the corner, on the floor, Turney and the blonde were fucking. They were so caught up in themselves that they didn’t notice the intrusion.
Colleen turned, “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“No,” the man said. “We don’t have to do that. They left us the bed free, after all.”
She hesitated. He grabbed her arm and led her over to the bed.
At first it was awkward, but then, as they listened to the sounds Turney and the woman made on the floor, it actually got exciting, and they soon got lost in their own passions.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was late, and Sam sat in his car, staring at the red light. Maggie had fallen asleep early, and he’d been finding it harder and harder to get to sleep himself. For some reason, driving around at night relaxed him.
Maybe I should start driving to wo
rk more often, he thought. Although it was always a hassle finding somewhere to park. And the traffic was murder during rush hour, not like now when there was hardly anyone one else on the road. He was just getting so sick of the subway. There was a feeling of freedom that came with driving, and he wouldn’t have to go underground. Into the subterranean caverns below.
He also wouldn’t have to deal with the assholes down there. Despite the convenience time-wise, sometimes he felt so trapped in subway cars. There were so many assholes in the world.
When the light changed to green, he didn’t hesitate to step on the gas, and it became readily apparent that all the assholes weren’t below ground. A car pulled out in front of him, from a side street, and cut him off. It was something he’d heard his patients bitching about a million times before. Most recently, Richard Croix had complained of a similar scenario. He said he’d almost cracked his dashboard, pounding on it in rage.
Sam found himself speeding up a little, to keep up with the offender. He didn’t really feel angry. He just didn’t want to lose the guy so quickly. He wanted to toy with him. Make him nervous.
The car took a right. Sam took a right as well.
When they stopped at another set of lights, Sam got out of his car and walked slowly over to the stopped car in front of him. He leaned over and looked in the window.
The driver was a middle-aged woman. She looked very tense, staring up at the lights. In her mind, she was probably praying for the light to change. Or trying to decide whether to drive right through it.
Sam stared in at her. And smiled. He was not going to lose his temper.
He motioned for her to roll her window down. She pretended not to notice.
He threw his fist forward, into the glass, shattering the window.
The light turned green, and the woman sped away as fast as she could.
Sam looked at his hand. There was some blood. Not much. He wrapped a handkerchief around it.
He non-chalantly got back in his car. There hadn’t been any witnesses.
This didn’t happen, he told himself.
He stepped on the gas and made a U-turn. Then he got back on the road that would take him home.
***
I don’t know you, Maggie thought, as she stared at Sam’s sleeping back. You would think after all these years that I’d feel some kind of comfort, in knowing who you are. But there isn’t anything close to comfort here.
Sam was oblivious, asleep. He didn’t know that Maggie was awake, watching him, thinking about what they had, and didn’t have.
She thought about getting out of bed, then decided against it. She had nowhere to go. Not this time of night. She wasn’t hungry and she didn’t have to go to the bathroom. Why not just stay here, waiting for sleep to take her?
Waiting, until it just wore her out and left her exhausted.
It wasn’t until recently that she had realized that she was afraid of him again. Not that there was any real reason for the fear. He never hit her anymore, rarely even raised his voice, and even then, he was so apologetic afterwards. So regretful that he had lost control.
Maybe that was it. His almost obsessive sense of control. He always seemed so tightly coiled. Like he was afraid that if he let his guard down, even for a moment, he might explode.
What did I see in you? she wondered. How did we end up together like this?
What was it about you that attracted me in the first place?
There was something about his intensity that was attractive. She had found his strong, silent personality very sexy at first. A man of few words and oh, so passionate in bed. And he was very good looking. It probably sounded shallow, but she couldn’t deny that his looks were what really caught her attention, the first time they’d met.
There was always a sense of mystery about him. Sometimes, he could go days without uttering more than a handful of words. Other times, he’d go through phases when he got very talkative and he could barely bring himself to stop. Like earlier that evening, talking about the kids on the subway. But it didn’t put her at ease. She could still sense something was wrong.
The conversation tonight had been a fluke. Even though they’d mainly just bitched about work, and the commute, it had given her a moment of hope. That maybe this thing was salvageable. But she knew it wouldn’t last.
She resisted the impulse to wake him now, to barrage him with questions. Who was he really? What did he think about? How did listening to other people’s troubles day in and day out affect him?
Why did he often go for long drives alone? Why did he work so late sometimes? Did people really go to see him at the office so late? She’d thought that maybe there was another woman, but she had a hard time believing that.
She wondered if things would have changed if she had been able to get pregnant; if that would have somehow brought them closer together. If it would have inspired him to open up more and share his feelings with her. Probably not. In fact, he might have grown even more distant. And she really wouldn’t want to subject a child to an absentee father. She’d gone through that when she was a kid, and knew how painful it was.
She thought about getting up and getting a drink. But instead she turned over on her side, her back to him, and closed her eyes. It would be just a few more hours until morning, and she really needed to get some sleep.
***
Colleen woke up hot, naked and entangled in sheets. Her “date” for the evening was long gone. She sat up and saw Turney lying in one corner of the floor, wrapped up in the girl he’d been fucking. They were both sound asleep.
Colleen disentangled herself and got to her feet. As quietly as possible, she gathered some fresh clothes together and softly walked to the bathroom, but she started coughing once she reached the door. She covered her mouth as she went inside and closed the door, and turned on the shower.
She had a pack of cigarettes stashed in the bathroom, on the floor behind the toilet. She opened the pack and lit one up. I guess I’ll never be able to quit, she thought as she puffed. Every time I stop, the cough gets worse.
When she got her coughing under control, she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. There were creases around her eyes, and they were blood shot.
I’m looking old, Colleen thought, contemplating her reflection. It’s like I’m aging before my very eyes.
Her gaze inevitably fell to her breasts. They were small. A-cups. And yet she had never had trouble attracting men. Her mother used to always tell her that a pretty face was the best thing a girl could have, and she had that. She had toyed with the idea of getting breast implants a few times, but there was never any need to touch her face. Looking at herself now, she was glad she had never gone the implant route. Not that she could afford it, anyway. She’d had moments where she felt insecure about her breasts, especially when she was growing up, but she’d learned to accept her body.
Got to do something about the eyes, though, she thought. They’re bringing me down. Maybe I just need more sleep.
She stared at the water spraying from the shower and slipped under the spray. The
water washed her sweat away. The sweat that was starting to stink more and more of alcohol. She lathered herself up, and rinsed it all away. Then she lathered up again. It took a lot more scrubbing to get clean these days.
She found herself wondering if she’d had an orgasm the night before. There were faint memories, images of what they’d done, but the memories weren’t tinged with any sense of pleasure. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt anything really memorable.
She was turning into a fucking machine. Just going through the motions night after night, knowing how to move, how to sound, how to please, but reducing herself to some kind of robot in the process. A mechanical receptacle for come.
It felt nice, the touch of her fingers as she washed herself. So much different from the clumsy, rough touch of the men she brought to her bed. Her fingers were gentle, soft. Her sex was like a soft flower opening to her touc
h, she thought. Then she almost laughed. That sounds like something out of a fucking romance novel. But there was something oddly romantic about the moment. It reminded her of the first times she’d been aware of her sexuality, of pleasure. The first times she’d ever touched herself.
God, she thought. To turn back time and start all over again.
She closed her eyes and let herself get lost in the sensations. As she felt an orgasm approaching, she pressed her back against the shower stall and rode it out, breathing loudly.
You’d think I’d be sick of the lower half of my body by now, she thought afterwards. That I’d used it as much as I could. But instead, it’s like I can never get enough.
But that wasn’t really true. Quantity didn’t equal quality. Random sex with faceless men didn’t replace the level of intimacy she yearned for.
She bit her lip as the hot water softly stung her like a thousand gentle bees.
***
When she was done, she got dressed and slipped out of the apartment. Turney and his friend were still asleep on the floor. Lost in dreams.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After Sam had left for work, Maggie dropped her briefcase and went over to the redwood cabinet in the living room. She pulled open the door and looked at the liquor bottles within. Sam rarely drank anything but the occasional beer. Sometimes a shot of Scotch. The bottles were mainly gifts from the holidays. Most of them had remained full for years. Until recently.
She could not really explain the urge to drink. It had come upon her suddenly. It wasn’t as if she had been an advocate for temperance before. She had always had that glass of wine to unwind with after a day of work. And her college days were almost a blur, because of so much alcohol consumed and pot smoked. Hell, it had started in high school. But, once the college days ended and the working world began, she had cut down a lot. Limited the amount of alcohol that entered her system. She was a married woman, after all. A responsible adult. She’d loosen the restraints a couple of times a year, at Christmas parties, on vacations. But the drunken incidents were few and far between. And she always regretted them afterwards. Especially if she’d gotten sick.
