Driven To Tears (The Darby Trilogy Book 1)

by Jason Jauron

  His grades couldn’t get any worse.

  17.

  8:00pm

  As he shut the door to his room, he sighed.

  I’m finally outta the fucking room.

  Walking down the hall, Jed wondered why all the major hotels would want to buy the same carpeting for their hallways.

  When he reached the elevator, he pressed the button, glanced up at the mirror on the ceiling.

  I’ve so looked fucking worse.

  He flipped off his reflection.

  When the elevator doors opened, he walked in, pushed the button for the lobby. As the doors closed, he did some air-guitar.

  I still hate elevators.

  ***

  I hate the fucking elevators.

  Jed kicked the carpet as he waited impatiently.

  Everyone stares at me on the elevator.

  The elevator doors opened.

  He walked in, slumped into a corner.

  But I’m fucking tired of walking the stairs.

  He pressed the first floor button.

  The elevator stopped on the next floor.

  Why the fuck do I have to live on one of the top floors?

  Jed watched as four students entered the elevator. For as rare as it was for Jed to take the elevator, he does recall seeing these four before.

  Fucking Déjà vu.

  I wish seeing these four would illicit other random French words like avant-garde, adieu, a la carte, carte blanche, bon voyage, and coup de grace. Cause I don’t look forward to seeing this particular set of quadruplets.

  To his left is the cute fuck-doll blond who is again exposing way too much cleavage for the cold temperatures. But for the love of God those are huge knockers. And someone should really tell her that those black yoga pants are a bit too snug.

  A tall brunette stands in front of the blond. She is miffed she has to share the elevator with blondie. Cause that makes her the second most attractive girl in the elevator. And she too is wearing what must be her favorite pair of sweats. But for such a cold morning, she should probably cinch them tightly. But that would defeat the purpose of letting them droop enough to expose her pink thong that Jed would love to have sit on his face.

  Directly in front of Jed is a huge male student wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. A Nebraska Cornhusker hat completes the look. The jeans are way too tight for any dude. Even for Patrick fucking Swayze. Jed imagined that to save his life he could correctly count the change in the guy’s front pockets. Not the fuck that he would want to though.

  And in the middle of this elevator is the brown-nosing bitch from economics class who loves the brand name clothes.

  The fabulous four.

  Why can’t seeing them conjure up French words like faux pas, laissez-faire, risqué or potpourri? I’ll take any French word but Déjà vu for $100 Alex.

  And all eyes are on Jed as the elevator doors close.

  He raises his left hand to itch his ear. The blond leans as far as she can to her left.

  Jed sees the movement.

  Fucking scared bitch.

  As he continues to rub his ear, the blond becomes agitated.

  Why doesn’t he just wash his face more? She wonders. I don’t get it. If I looked like shit, I would start taking better care of myself. I would drink more water and wash my face more than just three times a day. Jeez. He could be kinda cute if you took away those million zits and red patches. Oh well, as long as zit-boy keeps his face several feet away from mine.

  The elevator stopped on the next floor.

  Shit.

  Jed quietly draws in a long breath.

  This is the floor where everyone piles on.

  He slides a little closer to the big guy.

  Only two people get on.

  Whew, sighs Jed, slowly exhaling. Unaware the big guy was staring at the cyst on his chin.

  That zit looks like a damn birthmark, snickered the big guy. I think I’ll nickname this sorry fuck ‘Gorbachev.’ If my complexion looked that bad I would grow a beard to hide it. Or start exercising more. Sweating helps to clear your pores. I would also rub those zit pads on my face all the time.

  Satisfied with his analysis, the redneck turned to stare at the blonde’s stellar jugs.

  The elevator stopped on the next floor.

  But nobody got on.

  Jed coughed into his sleeve.

  Control your coughing, hamburger-face, snapped the brunette without looking. I don’t want any of your pimple germs.

  The big guy inched farther away from Jed.

  What the hell is the hick’s problem?

  Jed was suddenly pissed.

  Is he afraid that if he gets close to me my face will explode like a pus grenade? Or is he an ignorant fuck that thinks I can give him zits by breathing on him?

  He started grinding his teeth.

  I hate the fucking elevators.

  The elevator stopped again.

  A large young woman pushed her way on, her backpack knocking the brown-noser into Jed.

  “Excuse me,” she mumbled.

  “No problem,” he blurted.

  The brown-noser looked him over.

  How did his face get so bumpy? I wonder if his zits pop all over his pillowcase when he tosses and turns at night?

  Jed glared back.

  Don’t feel sorry for me cunt.

  The elevator doors opened.

  They all scattered.

  Jed was the last to exit.

  Allez tous vous faire foutre!

  18.

  8:01pm

  I fucking hate elevators.

  When the doors opened, he walked out, and grabbed a piece of hard candy from a nearby bowl.

  He looked to his right.

  Bingo.

  As he strolled into the hotel lounge, he felt wired – on tilt. He didn’t care to hold back anymore. At that moment, he vowed to get drunk, flush the evening’s festivities down the toilet later that night.

  Let’s just start drinking, see what happens.

  19.

  8:03pm

  Beer one.

  20.

  8:07pm

  Beer two.

  21.

  8:11pm

  Beer three.

  As he enthusiastically ordered another ale, the bartender politely chimed, “Remember, we don’t close until midnight.”

  Shut your ass you minimum wage fuck.

  He chuckled, pivoted.

  Now who the fuck do we have here?

  A well-dressed, well-groomed, middle-aged man sits down at a table several feet from Jed. A hot young blond covers the old man like a condiment.

  Every girl crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.

  He eyed the pair as he tipped his Heineken.

  That motherfucker is in the money.

  He set the bottle down, paused.

  He snorted and ever so slightly started shaking his head.

  I ain’t in the money, but I used to go visit him.

  ***

  The chair was positioned exactly in the center of Doctor Rick Money’s office.

  The chair was where people sat and had their pimples popped by a professional. Money was a big-time dermatologist in the big-time city of Des Moines, Iowa. Money made lots of coin draining people’s faces.

  The many afflicted came to Money in droves seeking a cure – an ancient remedy, a long-forgotten incantation, or an application of the Golden touch.

  Jed was there because his family wanted resolution. His transfer paperwork to another state school was finished; Jed and his parents wanted him to begin a new life at a new school.

  A new life.

  Without acne.

  The chair reminded Jed of the kind his dentist made him sit in. But there was a difference. This chair had six huge fluorescent lights that hung from the ceiling like serpents.

  Where the hell are the magazines?

  The room was bare of amenities.

  They have to know how shitty it is to be st
uck in here waiting. And we are not talking about a 5-minute wait either. And they know that. But to leave us with nothing to occupy our time is fucking criminal. Especially when you consider what a dermatologist does. This ain’t no pleasure cruise or walk in the park. And I sure as hell don’t want to sit here and spend my time imagining the worst. I want to be distracted. Where are the fucking magazines to occupy my time?

  But since he had no choice, Jed began to critique and catalog every inch of the room.

  The chair.

  Looks comfortable enough. Black leather is a nice touch.

  The lights.

  Just how damn bright do they need it? Sure glad I’m not paying the bill.

  Two sinks.

  What the hell do you need two sinks for? One wash. One rinse.

  One dresser.

  Something tells me I don’t want to know what the fuck is in that.

  Flooring.

  Vinyl sheet. I anticipated linoleum.

  But after ten minutes, he was getting antsy.

  Where’s the shitty oldies music? And does the room have to smell so fucking sterile? Smells like an old folks home.

  Another ten minutes later, the doorknob turned.

  Jed sighed.

  About time. I was actually thinking of beating off, I was so bored.

  Jed sat up in his chair.

  Positive energy flowed from him.

  Finally I get to meet the good zit magician himself. He will perform a trick that will make the constellations on my face disappear.

  “Abracadabra” was what he was hoping to hear from the doctor.

  But Jed was going to have to get used to disappointment.

  “Nurse prepare the patient,” muttered Money without turning to look at Jed.

  Prepare the patient?

  A very petite brunette approached, led Jed to the chair in the middle of the room.

  He sat down, looked at her.

  “Please squeeze this when needed,” she said bluntly, handing him a rubber stress ball that was in her lab pocket. Her eyes widened as she got her first good look at his face.

  Jed felt a lump in his throat.

  The brunette turned on one of the lights above them. She reached up, lowered it into position. The light stopped a few inches from Jed’s left cheek.

  Damn that light is bright.

  Jed suddenly felt queasy, warm. He did not like being exposed in this way.

  When are they gonna fucking explain what they are doing?

  The brunette swiveled in her chair, applied some sort of ointment on her hands. She then pivoted back around to Jed, reached down, and touched a cyst on his left cheek.

  Who the hell said you could touch my face lady?

  Jed’s heart pounded. He felt very uncomfortable. Almost scared.

  If you touch my skin you are only going to cause more zits to appear. I don’t want your germs on my face lady. Jesus. I don’t want your bacteria to ferment under my skin into a nice vat of pus-white wine.

  She continued simply poking, pushing the cysts on his face with her fingers. She never looked into Jed’s eyes. She never saw the pleas to stop. She just gave in to her morbid curiosity.

  “My, you have some rather large cysts,” cooed the assistant.

  The more to spray you with my dear!

  “You’re right doctor,” she said abruptly. “This will be a difficult challenge.”

  No response from Money.

  He was busy lining up syringes, tiny bottles near one of the sinks. He was also putting batteries into a tiny camera.

  The brunette squirmed in her seat for several moments before bending over to continue, “playing doctor.”

  “Don’t worry, we are going to help you,” she whispered.

  Jesus Christ lady. Have you heard of a breath mint? I mean, what the fuck? I’m not a particular fan of chicken salad, so move the fuck away from me.

  She bent farther over him to rub a cyst on his other cheek.

  That’s when he saw them.

  The Twins.

  D Cups.

  Money’s assistant didn’t feel the need to use the top three buttons on her blouse.

  Not even his frustration could prevent his erection.

  Holy shit. Now we know how you prevailed during the interview process little missy.

  Jed managed a grin.

  Damn. So how does Mr. Money like his assistant?

  Face down, butt in the air?

  Or perhaps reverse cowboy?

  The brunette was too captivated by the severity of the acne to notice that Jed was pitching a tent. She leaned over him again.

  I feel sorry for this kid. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put this broken face together again.

  She chuckled, but managed to cover it with a fake cough.

  Jed continued to steal glances at her breasts.

  Holy shit. Are those things real?

  The brunette continued her mental cataloging of his face.

  Every inch of this kid’s face is different. Whiteheads and blackheads and cysts, oh my!

  She bit her right index finger to stifle a giggle.

  Jed was also busy cataloging more positions he was sure Money and his assistant knew intimately.

  Stinky Hitler. You damn right on that one.

  Oh, and the Cleveland Steamer. Hell of a sight that would be.

  Oh, you know he has French Dipped this bitch.

  Probably right after Donkey Punching her.

  Jed tightened his stomach muscles. He was struggling to keep from laughing out loud.

  The assistant was wrapping up her mental diagnosis.

  Only time can help save this young man’s face. A couple of decades at least. But really, what can we save. The scars and pits are always going to be there. Oh, how horrible. To be so ugly, so young. How tragic. Wait. There is that new oral chemotherapy. It might work. But with all the side effects, like minimal bone changes, I doubt he will prescribe it. Only a fool would volunteer.

  “Turn on all the lights, and help me apply the gauze when needed,” Money stated firmly. “We’ve got some work ahead of us.”

  Work ahead of us?

  What is going to happen to me?

  Jed’s mind churned the possibilities.

  Several moments later, he decided he had to know.

  He tried using humor.

  “I know what you are thinking, just how many chocolate bars have you eaten in the last month Jed?”

  No reply from either.

  Well.

  When in Rome.

  “What exactly are you going to do to my face today?”

  Doctor Money was direct.

  “What I am going to do today is address the inflammations on your face,” he said rather nonchalantly, in a baritone monotone. “I am going to have to inject all your cysts. That will hurt. But with your condition, pain is something you are going to become familiar with. Used to. Today’s session is just part of a process that must be repeated many, many times throughout your life. In other words, what we do today will become a way of life for you Jed.”

  Jed lost his breath.

  Over my lifetime?

  A way of life?

  You can’t be serious?

  I’m fucking 19.

  “Now to start with Jed, I’m going to pop the whiteheads on your face,” continued Money in his now annoying monotone.

  Money went to work.

  He did not enjoy the work.

  But he did enjoy the paycheck.

  Popping zits allowed him to take his wife to Europe twice every year. Popping zits allowed him to import a new Italian sports car every summer. Popping zits meant two boats, an indoor pool, and an outdoor hot tub big enough for Money to toss salad with his assistant.

  I’ll be damned.

  Jed could not believe it.

  All those years of schooling, the latest technology, and how does he go about popping my whiteheads? With his god-damn fingers. No fancy gadgets. His god-damn fi
ngers. Some fucking elaborate process. Shit. You should be paying me doctor Money. Fuck. I can do this shit.

  Ten minutes later.

  The popping stopped.

  Money paused, rolled his neck several times.

  Wonderful acting doctor.

  Sell out.

  Make me believe how fucking tired you must be.

  Pain is temporary; pride is forever you rich fuck.

  The brunette, not to be outdone, was trying with all her heart to win the Best Supporting Actress Oscar.

  Nobody, but nobody, could lightly dab a freshly squeezed whitehead with gauze, while still managing to rub up against the good doctor with some part of her body, like this girl. She is a pro ho.

  “And now Jed, I will use this instrument, the one I’m holding up to the light, on your blackheads,” mumbled Money. “I will have to apply quite a bit of pressure Jed, so prepare yourself.”

  Up until now, Jed was just lightly caressing the stress ball. Hell, he almost dropped it once.

  He now gripped it tightly.

  He stared at the tiny instrument in the doctor’s hand. The tool looked vaguely familiar to him.

  What the hell does that remind me of?

  He closed his eyes.

  Bingo!

  He opened his eyes, stared at the tool again.

  No.Fucking.Way.

  The instrument Money was moments from using on his blackheads perfectly resembled a utensil that can be found in most kitchens. It was probably kept in the drawer with the forks, spoons, and knives.

  He’s going to use a tiny potato peeler on my blackheads.

  “Ouch,” cried a startled Jed.

  Money took one step back, paused.

  He lifted his hands above his head, stretched.

  He followed that up with more baritone monotone.

  “Jed, you are being a good patient. Now just hold still please,” he said with a hint of frustration. A quick glance at his assistant’s blouse provided some momentary inspiration.

  Money put the device into Jed’s ear, pressed down hard, using his entire body weight.