Driven To Tears (The Darby Trilogy Book 1)

by Jason Jauron

  This time correctly.

  Left a message.

  Went back to the lounge.

  24.

  9:00 pm

  Dave Taylor and his wife Kim were returning from a long walk along the bike path near their West Des Moines home.

  “That was a nice,” said Dave, giving Kim a peck on the cheek.

  Kim blushed as her husband held open the front door for her.

  He makes me feel so wonderful, so alive.

  She looked him over.

  I can’t believe he held my hand the entire way. I am just so happy right now. My life is complete. Except for a child, but we have time.

  “Honey, the answering machine is blinking,” she called, as she opened the fridge.

  Dave sighed.

  He was a computer software programmer for a large insurance company in Des Moines. And he was always getting calls or pages at odd hours.

  He did not mind the calls.

  His wife of one year did.

  But he felt passionate about his work; he craved the non-traditional hours.

  “Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” he blurted. “You never know.”

  Kim poured two glasses of red wine. She left one on the kitchen counter. She took her glass to the bathroom.

  A long bubble bath.

  That was her immediate desire. The lengthy walk had also gotten her blood flowing; she was feeling quite frisky.

  She decided it was time to shave her legs.

  And time to shave a little down there.

  Wait until he sees me in my new teddy.

  She got the hot water flowing.

  Dave pushed play.

  “You have one message,” stated the electronic voice. “Message one, 8:47 pm.”

  He crossed his fingers.

  Please don’t let this be work. Please don’t let this be work.

  “Dave, it’s Jed.”

  Pause.

  “Long story short, Patty is dead. Suicide. Her funeral is tomorrow. I have to speak. How weird is that? Still don’t know what I’m going to say. Hoping to stop by tomorrow night on my way home and visit for a while. Hope that’s okay. If you have plans, I understand. I’ll call before I leave.”

  Pause.

  “I still think about her way too much.”

  Pause.

  “Bye.”

  Dave walked into the kitchen, grabbed his glass. He returned to the answering machine and played the message again.

  25.

  9:05 pm

  Jed was back in the lounge. He was at a far corner table.

  Beer 5 was nearly empty.

  He was smiling.

  There was a new bartender.

  It was a she.

  Instant improvement.

  She was younger than Jed.

  Instant improvement.

  She also appeared to be in a playful mood.

  Instant improvement.

  His mood had also changed. He wanted to focus, concentrate on his good times with Patty.

  That was how he wanted this evening to end.

  The first time I saw her.

  He closed his eyes.

  At the popular campus sports bar.

  He grinned.

  She was wearing a Bon Jovi concert shirt and the smallest pair of Daisy Duke cutoff jean shorts.

  He took a long drink.

  Have no idea what made me talk to her that night.

  He started to peel the label off his beer.

  Now I know where I got my courage.

  He squirmed in his seat.

  His eyes again found the label.

  He thought of their early years together.

  Our first kiss.

  Our first more than a kiss.

  The night she stayed.

  Promises that were made.

  The first “I love you.”

  A lingering ‘Can I trust you?’

  The all-nighters.

  The all-dayers.

  The classes skipped.

  The road trips.

  The more serious talks.

  The longer walks.

  Talks of her past.

  More doubts were cast.

  “Should I start you a tab?” interrupted the bartender politely.

  She was a recent college graduate who was now pursuing her Master’s Degree. This was her weekend job. She actually kind of enjoyed it. The lounge, like tonight, was usually quiet, nearly empty. She liked the extra income and the fact she did not have to fight off horny drunks trying to grab a piece of ass along with their beer.

  Jed was oblivious to the bartender. He remained lost in thought.

  So many people to see.

  Decorating the Christmas tree.

  Driving your old beater car.

  Wishing on the first star.

  Cuddling late at night.

  Vowing to make everything right.

  She saved me, vanquished all my pain.

  I will do the same for her, the plea sounded sane.

  “Snap out of it stranger,” she said firmly, reaching out and poking his shoulder. “I need cash or a credit card to start a tab.”

  It took another second for Jed to look up, focus. He offered the bartender a sheepish grin, and muttered, “Start a tab.”

  As she walked away with his MasterCard, she announced, “My name is Rebecca by the way.”

  Jed never acknowledged.

  He was fixated on finishing his recount of their relationship.

  Friends saw things, started to quarrel, worry.

  Their verdict on Patty, ended in a hung jury.

  But he remained stubborn, stood by her side.

  Patty was at war with herself, yet would not confide.

  A forever promise, a diamond ring.

  This was real, a permanent thing.

  He drove home alone that weekend, went with the family to mass.

  Little did he know that back on campus, his future lay in pieces, like fallen glass.

  At Jed’s home there were hugs, toasts, and spirits to share.

  He was so happy now; life seemed finally fair.

  Jed finished his beer, signaled for another.

  “It fucking had to end the way it did,” he mumbled, pounded the table.

  You knew you couldn’t trust her.

  It’s her fault.

  Quit blaming yourself.

  Fuck you Mister. It’s both our faults. She should have told me what was going on. And I just wanted to believe that everything would work out. I guess at some point I was so desperate for the relationship to work that I ignored the truth. I ignored that little voice inside my head. Cause I was happy. And my happiness was all that mattered.

  “Easy there cowboy, I saw your signal, no need to abuse the table,” Rebecca called out.

  Jed nodded a few times without looking up.

  You didn’t do anything wrong Jed.

  Patty was the one who betrayed us.

  Damnit Mister. You and I both know what Patty did was going to happen eventually. I didn’t save her. I couldn’t save her.

  “Okay, what’s going on back there?” shouted a feisty Rebecca from behind the bar.

  26.

  9:15pm

  “Dave, honey, why don’t you put on some music,” Kim hollered from the tub. “Tonight is going to be special.”

  And I need you to give me some good wood between the sheets.

  She massaged her breasts.

  Rubbed her nipples. They were as hard as drill bits. She pinched them.

  Felt the tingle down there.

  Not the five-minute wood either.

  She giggled.

  Her right hand slid down there.

  She bit her lower lip.

  Dave never heard his wife’s first orgasm.

  He was lying on his back. The leather couch was his favorite. His eyes were closed. His hands were massaging his forehead. He knew Jed had turned his life around when he had transferred. He was happy when Jed met Patty. But he also knew
his roommate had been plagued by bouts of depression.

  I wonder if Jed even remembers that night?

  He sure scared the shit out of me.

  ***

  When Dave opened the door to their dorm room one Tuesday night around midnight, he took Jed by surprise.

  Jed was near the window.

  The window screen was on the floor.

  The window was open – almost to 90 degrees.

  Fresh, cold air poured into the room.

  Jed was crying his eyes out.

  He had been that way for the better part of two hours.

  His face was swollen, discolored – like he had been in a fight.

  The vertical streaks of zit cream added a look of torment to his headshot.

  His eyes were bloodshot.

  His spirit was broken.

  Jed finally felt like he had nothing left to lose.

  He thought his roommate would be with Melissa in her room.

  Like usual.

  He thought this would be another typical night alone for him in the room.

  So he picked at his face.

  And this particular episode had been “messy.”

  He must have used Mister nearly 30 separate times. The episode lasted close to an hour. He had tried unsuccessfully to “manually” pop the cysts. Mister had prodded him to try. And try he fucking did. Over and over he poked each cyst with Mister. And over and over he squeezed those cysts as hard as he could.

  But nothing worked.

  The cysts refused to pop – despite the piercing and the pinching. But right now, the cysts just throbbed. The pain was intense.

  The blackheads on his face were not cooperating either. Despite the temporary euphoria Jed experienced as he went “MacGyver” on the blackheads – he took an ordinary ink pen, unscrewed the top, removed the ink – and used the circular tip as his blackhead remover. Not quite a miniature potato peeler, but Jed was nonetheless impressed with himself. He pressed down so hard on the blackheads he made his eyes water. But he wasn’t having much luck. And the myriad of circular indentations he saw in the mirror from his failed attempts formed familiar constellations – Draco, Taurus, and Virgo.

  About this time, Jed was really starting to lose it.

  And he had no positive outlet for his frustration. And his usual remedies – hitting the door, kicking the couch, and pounding the mattress – were no longer working.

  So he decided to keep attacking his face.

  And minutes later, there he stood, breathless and bleeding, staring down a “spitter” on his chin.

  He grabbed Mister. Went about mutilating his chin.

  He would stab it, squeeze it.

  He had to do that five separate times before fluid splattered on the mirror.

  Mister was giddy about all the action he was seeing.

  Jed was nearly out of breath.

  And tonight, like all nights, ended the same: his face was drained; his emotions were drained.

  He was tired.

  Tired of the same bullshit routine.

  Tired of the fucking anxiety.

  Tired of living.

  And here he was now – exposed.

  His face swelling underneath a mask of three full tubes of snake oil Clearasil.

  Dave stopped breathing. He could not believe what he was seeing.

  His face looks like he’s been tortured.

  Dave never said a word to Jed.

  Instead, he walked straight to the phone, dialed. He held the phone up to his right ear, made a wish.

  Jed just watched him.

  He was too tired to do anything other than rub his nose on his shirtsleeve.

  “Mrs. Darby, this is Dave Taylor, Jed’s roommate,” he said in a controlled tone.

  He nodded his head several times.

  “Yes I know it’s very late. I’m sorry.”

  Dave sat down on an arm of the couch.

  “Yes, everything is going okay for me here, but I think Jed needs your help Mrs. Darby.”

  “What do you mean?” asked a dazed Jill Darby.

  “You tell her,” he said, tossing Jed the phone.

  “Mom?” was all Jed could muster.

  Instantly, remarkably, more tears flowed from the flawed creation with the caked face.

  “Jed, talk to your mother right now,” pleaded a suddenly wide-awake Jill Darby, nudging her husband as she sat up.

  Jed sniffled.

  “Mom, I just don’t know what’s happening to me,” he muttered, his voice weak, laced with resignation.

  Dave squirmed. He wanted to leave, but his instincts were urging him to stay.

  “Jed, what’s the matter?” cried his mother.

  She could feel the despair in her son’s voice. And she was frightened. Jed was her second child. Born early. Spent time in the incubator. But he had always been a happy child.

  What was wrong?

  Her imagination whirled.

  He hardly said a word during Christmas Break. And those awful things on his face. Could that be what this is about? How would I know? He never calls. And when we call him, he never opens up.

  A look of determination colored Jill Darby’s face.

  “You tell me right now what the hell is going on son!”

  Jed sniffled again, swallowed a ball of snot. He had a headache now, and he really just wanted to lie down, sleep for a few days. But he knew he had to come clean.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Mom, its my face,” he said simply, not caring if Dave heard him. “I don’t know what I’ve done mom, but I’m cursed. I’ll never be the same. Why me mom?”

  The reply was immediate.

  “Jed, is your face breaking out more? Is that it? Is your acne what’s bothering you?”

  Jed wiped his nose with the middle of his shirt.

  “Mom, I think you’d better come get me,” he choked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mom, I’m reaching out to you,” he sobbed, his voice breaking. “I don’t know if I want to live anymore.”

  Jill Darby stopped breathing.

  I don’t know if I want to live anymore?

  “Jed, your father will pick you up tomorrow morning around nine,” she said firmly. “Do you understand that your father will pick you up tomorrow at nine?”

  Jed yawned.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good Jed, now hand the phone to Dave, I want to talk with him.”

  27.

  “Excuse me, I asked you what was going on back here,” Rebecca barked again, grinning playfully as she walked toward Jed.

  “Oh, sorry,” muttered Jed, without looking up. “I got a lot on my mind.”

  “Well, what are you thinking about?”

  Rebecca was feeling adventurous after a shot of Jack. Since the place was basically empty, she figured a little flirting might make the time go faster.

  Jed finally looked up. In that brief moment, his eyes told the story.

  Can’t you feel the lonely crying?

  He cleared his throat.

  “A girl.”

  Rebecca sat down.

  “A girl huh,” she said matter-of-factly. “What’s her name?”

  “Patty.”

  Rebecca scooted her chair closer to the table, reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds.

  Jed shut his eyes, slowly took in a long breath.

  You gotta be fucking kidding me. She’s gonna fucking smoke. That’s a garbage move. I mean, damn, she doesn’t actually think cigarettes make her look older or more attractive. Or maybe my looks are the issue and she’s gonna keep smoking till I look good.

  He faked a cough to hide his smile.

  I wonder how many Reds before I look “do-able?”

  She noticed the cough, paused.

  “Do you mind?”

  Jed lied, shook his head.

  Now I’m going to have to take a shower before I go to bed. I hate that smell on my skin. Tar just does not work
for me. As for my clothes, I might as well burn them in the parking lot. Fucking smell will never come out.

  Rebecca pulled a lighter from her purse, set it on the table.

  “So is Patty your girlfriend?”

  Before he could reply, Rebecca started packing her cigarettes.

  Jed shifted in his seat.

  I fucking hate that sound. And when you do that bitch it makes you look like such a fucking white-trash crack whore. And why you crack whores can’t pack your cigarettes in just a few movements is beyond fucking me. I mean, really, if you’re going to pack your cigs 25 times, you might as well fucking eat the filter when your done smoking your cancer honey.

  He watched her put the Red between her lips.

  Doesn’t she get it? Cigarettes are one of the few legal products out there that if you use the product as directed – following the manufacturers suggestions – you will fucking die.

  He looked her over, rolled his eyes.

  Jesus, I don’t want to talk about Patty with you. Fuck. It’s not like there isn’t other shit we could talk about.

  They could have discussed the evolution of NORAD, the emergence of so-called “Bowie-kids” at high schools across America, or how in the hell Atari could have released such a shitty video game like ET.

  They might have talked like grownups about how Sting’s solo music lacks testosterone, how “Eagle Claw” must still haunt former president Jimmy Carter, and just how fucking stupid all these guys look wearing those fucking “Top Gun” flight jackets.

  They might have visited about President Reagan’s financially and morally irresponsible “Star Wars” program, the government’s chicken-shit resolution regarding Japanese-American internment during World War II, and finally, they could have chatted with a purpose about how most Americans were placing greater value on consumer status over family stability.

  Or maybe they could have tickled the tonsils over how in Australia 25 hours-a-week meant full-time employment while in America both mom and dad spent a minimum of 50 hours-a-week kissing ass and being indoctrinated at Corporate America so that the family could go on two stress-filled, every-fucking-hour-accounted-for summer vacations to fucked-up-everywhere-but-the-resorts Mexico.