by Grace Risata
With any luck, there would be no talking today. That’s what usually got me in trouble and pissed him off. My mouth tended to cause problems, so I planned on keeping quiet. How was I going to pull off this new strategy?
The notebook.
No, not the sappy movie. An actual, real paper notebook. After Dixon’s outburst and admission about the judge diagnosing him with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I went home and did some googling. There’s actually a wealth of knowledge on the internet.
I skipped over all the psychiatrist mumbo jumbo and focused on websites and blogs from former military veterans coping with the symptoms. I found myself getting sucked in and reading story after story from the brave men and women who suffered so much on a daily basis. I had no doubt their struggle was real. Looking back on my childhood after being raised by my grandfather, I came to understand that he probably had some form of the illness.
Am I allowed to call it an ‘illness?’ I think I am. Whether you’re sick in body or mind, whether the hurt is seen or unseen, no one wants to endure pain like that. Of course I’d never speak with my grandpa about it. He’s not much of a talker and likes to keep things bottled up inside.
Kind of like Dixon.
That’s why I have to take small steps, subtle actions if you will, in an effort to bring him out of his shell a little bit. One of the suggestions I found online involved starting a journal to record your thoughts. If pain can’t be expressed out loud, maybe it can be written down and cleansed that way instead.
So I strolled into the Veteran’s center armed with a pen, a notebook, and a sense of purpose. I just had to be careful to phrase everything properly so I didn’t look like some know-it-all with a magical cure.
Kassie must have gotten her act together, because she was the one behind the front desk and Debbie was nowhere to be seen.
“Hey, Alyce. Have you had enough of Dixon’s abuse? Can I pair you with a different veteran today? There’s a lovely older gentleman---”
“No, thanks,” I replied instantly, cutting her off. “We’re doing fine.”
Without waiting for any more protests from her, I began to make my way to Dixon’s usual hiding place next to the wall. Instead of his typical empty stare out the window, I found him looking in my direction. Once our eyes met, he immediately turned away.
What the hell? Had he actually been waiting for me? It reminded me of being in a club when you’re checking out the bar patrons in search of any member of the opposite sex that might deserve your attention. You find a hottie, wait for him to make eye contact, coyly look away, and then stare at him when you think he’s not looking.
Not that I ogle men at bars very often or anything creepy like that. I just know how the mating dance usually works. I’ve picked up a few tricks here and there.
With a shrug of my shoulders, I continued walking until I reached his desk.
“Hey,” I greeted him while smiling warmly. “I brought you something.”
The man turned to face me as though surprised at my presence in the room. He wasn’t fooling anybody.
“More brownies?” he asked in amusement.
“No, Dixon. I’m being serious today. I went home and did some research on your condition. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a horrible thing to suffer with. It’s very real. I don’t know if it can ever be truly cured, but there are steps you can take to alleviate the symptoms.”
All the humor left his face and he narrowed his eyes in anger.
“Are you my new doctor now, Alyce? Unless you’re going to drop to your knees, unzip my pants, take a cock in your mouth, and start sucking…I really don’t think you’re going to alleviate one fucking thing.”
I rolled my eyes. Why did everything always come down to dick sucking with this guy? I know it’s a very popular act that rated highly on the spectrum of ‘stuff guys like,’ but damn.
“Can you be serious for one minute?” I asked.
“The way I see it, I owe you for yesterday when you got that douchebag case-worker off my ass. Without your intervention, there’s a good chance I would have punched Mr. Brown in the face. So you get one free pass, Alyce. Only one. Use it wisely. I don’t like to owe people for shit. If I sit here nicely and let you ‘take a step to alleviate my symptoms’ as you like to call it,” he mocked, using air quotes around my words, “then it means we’re even and I don’t owe you a damn thing.”
I nodded my head in agreement. Fair enough. Now if only I could choose my words carefully so as not to fuck this up.
“The internet listed a lot of ideas on how to manage stress and prevent situations that trigger anxiety and flashbacks. Some of them seemed like…um…like you would not be very willing to try them.” That was putting it mildly. A few treatments ranged from laughable to horrendously traumatizing. I weeded those out right away, lest Dixon shut down completely or immediately resort to violence.
“Such as?” he asked curiously.
I hesitated, not wanting to continue at all. In response, he raised an eyebrow and began to tap his fingers on the desk impatiently.
“This counts as my free pass, okay? If I tell you this shit, you can’t freak out. Just listen and don’t go nuts.”
“Do you really think I’m that much of a powder keg…seconds away from detonation?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “If I tell you that one of the ideas is called ‘Cognitive Processing Therapy’ and involves filling out worksheets about negative thoughts that are upsetting you in order to recognize them as a trigger and not think those thoughts anymore, you’re going to tell me to shove the worksheets right up my ass.”
His mouth moved ever so slightly for a second and I could swear he was holding back laughter.
“That’s exactly what I’d tell you to do. Yet, I see you brought a notebook anyway…”
“You’re absolutely right. This is a notebook and not a worksheet. One of the less invasive suggestions talked about writing stuff down in a journal. There’s no rule about how much you should write or what kind of things need to be jotted down. It’s kind of like a diary of sorts. If you wrote down your feelings, maybe you would notice a pattern of good days and bad days. If you could figure out what causes a bad day, then you might be able to take steps to prevent it. Or if something was bothering you, maybe it would help to write it down and get it off your chest.”
Did that sound absolutely lame? Probably, yet he was staring at me with a very bright look in his eyes as though an idea was starting to form in his head. This could end up being a great form of therapy for him, or it could go horribly, horribly awry.
“I would love to accept your generous offer of the journal, Alyce,” he responded pleasantly, holding out his hands.
Shit. He was uncharacteristically agreeable. Something was up.
“You’re not going to spit on it, are you?” I asked suspiciously.
“Nope. I promise.”
I gave him the notebook and pen, eager to see if he would actually use it. To my surprise, he enthusiastically cracked it open and started scribbling away. I tried to peek at what he was writing, but he caught me and scooted his desk backwards.
“Please, Alyce. If you expect me to record my most private of thoughts, I’m going to need you to give me some space.”
Really? His ‘most private of thoughts’ are going into that notebook? I highly doubted that. At least he didn’t throw it at me, so I guess that was a better reaction than I could have hoped for.
“Alyce, psst, come here,” a voice hissed from several feet behind me, scaring me to death. It was Kassie. What the hell did she want?
“What’s up?” I asked, following her to a nearby spot not occupied by other volunteers or veterans.
“What are you doing? Why is Dixon sitting there so nicely and not yelling at you? Did you offer him money or drugs or something?”
“No!” I insisted in outrage. “I don’t have any money and I’m not a drug dealer. What the fuck, Kassie? Have you lost your mind?”
Me of all people? What the fuck did that mean? I know I should just let her stupid comment go and not give her the satisfaction of a response, but…
“What’s so bizarre about me finding someone attractive?”
Good job, Alyce. Way to be all nonchalant. Dumbass.
“I don’t mean anything rude by it,” she explained, brushing me off with a wave of her hand. “It’s just that you’re not known for dating the bad boy. Heck, you’re not really known for dating anybody. Kennedy and I always figured that you’d end up as some crazy cat lady in your old age. Although, now that the whole allergy situation sprang up, I guess that’s not an option anymore.”
Really? Whatever will I do since I can’t have a house full of felines to keep me company?
Bitch.
“Maybe I would have been the type to date a hockey player in high school,” I snapped at her, raising my voice, “but I guess that wasn’t an option since my supposed friend got drunk and hooked up with him.”
Before she could stutter a lame excuse, I turned around and walked away. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. I have no idea how much of that conversation Dixon might have heard, but there’s a good possibility he got an earful. How do I know this? I’m judging by the look of glee plastered all across his face.
“Whatever you think you heard, just forget it,” I demanded, arms flailing in all directions as I spoke animatedly.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he replied innocently. “Because I don’t have all the proper details. Did princess over there actually have sexual relations with a boy that you liked? Were you under the impression that this hockey player might have liked you back? Did you give him a love note and pour out your deepest feelings to him? After he rejected you and fucked your friend instead, did you start a journal so you could write it all down and get it off your chest? Maybe if you can record all your negative thoughts, they won’t eat away at you anymore, Alyce. Would you like to borrow my journal?”
Forget embarrassment. Forget annoyance. I was seething with pent up fury. Picture the scenario when the Incredible Hulk has put up with too much aggravation and he’s about to transform. That was me.
Before I could open my mouth to unleash hellfire upon the man, he smiled sweetly and handed me the notebook.
“I took some notes about my feelings, and I’ve got to admit that it does lift a weight off my shoulders. You might be on to something, Alyce. Thank you.”
Wait, what? Was he serious or just fucking with me?
I naively opened the book and was treated to a lovely sketch of my name. In bold, block letters ‘a-l-Y-c-e’ was written on an entire page. The ‘Y’ was capitalized and much larger than the other letters. This served several purposes, the primary one being so he could also use the ‘Y’ for the ‘YOU’ in the ‘FUCK YOU’ that he wrote above my name.
But that wasn’t all. Nope. Not by a long shot. There was a whole collection of stick figures posed in various sex acts. At least ten scribbles depicted such classic scenes as ‘man on top,’ ‘woman on top,’ ‘anal,’ ‘doggystyle,’ and several orgies that would have made the Romans blush. It might have been entertaining had he actually possessed any artistic talent. Sadly, that was not the case. I only knew the stick figures were male or female depending on the length of the hair or the shape of their genitals. Evidently the stick men in Dixon’s world were very well endowed.
“Wow,” I mumbled, because there was really nothing more to say. I tried to offer a constructive channel for his anger, and he shit on my idea and practically gave me a giant ‘fuck you.’
Okay, he literally gave me a giant ‘fuck you.’ It was staring right at me in pen. Lovely. I slammed the notebook back on his desk in disgust. Could things get any worse?
Of course they could.
Kassie chose that exact moment to creep up and try to make amends.
“Can I speak with you in private, Alyce?”
“Now is not a good time,” I replied. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there and salvage what was left of this miserable evening. Alone. Just me and a nice hot dinner and some quiet time in my apartment. Away from the world. That would be pleasant.
As I felt myself relax and go to a happy place in my mind, Dixon’s voice dragged me back to reality. But he wasn’t talking to me. Instead, his words were directed at Kassie.
“You heard her. Get lost. Alyce is busy right now. Aren’t there any men you’re supposed to be stealing? You’ve crossed Debbie’s boyfriend off the list and evidently one of Alyce’s too. How many more homes are you going to wreck?”
Holy shit! Did I hear that correctly? Did Kassie just have her ass handed to her by Dixon? The plot thickens.
“Excuse me? My personal life is none of your business, you pathetic loser,” Kassie retorted, hands on her hips, gearing up for a battle I doubted she would win. “Why don’t you go back into the hole you crawled out from? No one wants you here, anyway. You’re just a giant piece of shit that we all tolerate because it’s court ordered. If the judge didn’t send paperwork demanding that we let you in, your ass would have been out on the street weeks ago. Only one person in this entire place is ignored because he’s a waste of time. You, Dixon. Do us all a favor and don’t come back.”
Who the hell did she think she was, talking to anyone like that?
“Kassie, you need to shut your mouth right now,” I demanded, sticking my finger in her face. “He is a human being and you will not speak to him so disrespectfully.”
I could sense some lame response on the tip of her tongue, but she never got the chance to reply because Dixon decided to make his opinion known. He stood up, pushed back the chair, and loomed over the two of us.
“Fuck both of you. I’m out of here,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately.
I was honestly expecting more of a reaction than that. I guess I thought he might try to defend himself or start yelling and cause a scene. The fact that he had such a quiet composure about himself…well that was more frightening than his anger. It was out of character. What if…what if he believed her words and didn’t fight back because he thought they were true?
I debated going after him, eyes moving from the door he just exited to the desk where he sat moments ago.
Then I noticed something. Dixon left in such a hurry that he forgot a very important item. No, not the notebook or pen I’d given him, although those were definitely left behind. I’m referring to a shiny silver cell phone that rested on his chair. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he made his escape.
Shit.
I ignored Kassie’s gibbering apology while I walked over and picked up the phone. I know the importance of cell phones. Mine was loaded with pictures, music, stupid text messages, and things I couldn’t live without. Dixon was going to freak when he noticed this was gone.
“What time do you close tonight?” I asked Kassie, causing her to freeze mid-apology and stare at me blankly.
“We shut things down at six o’clock. Since it’s the start to the weekend, this is our day to go home earlier than usual. Why? Do you want to grab dinner? Give me a chance to make things right, okay?”
“It’s ten to six right now. Once Dixon realizes he left his phone here, the place will be locked up tight. What do you think will happen?”
“He’ll wait until tomorrow?” she guessed.
“No. He’ll break a door or a window because he doesn’t think rationally. I’ll just fin
d out his address and take him the phone.”
Without waiting for her reply, I walked over to Debbie at the reception desk. Naturally, Kassie was hot on my heels.
“Alyce wants Dixon’s address to drop off his forgotten phone, Debbie. Don’t give it to her! She’s asking for trouble!”
Once I calmly explained to Debbie that she had two options, either give me the information or deal with a very angry Dixon, she made a wise decision and handed over the address.
“Please be careful, Alyce. Just ring the doorbell, leave the phone on the step, and run. Just run away!” Debbie begged.
No, there was no way in hell I was doing a ding-dong-ditch with Dixon’s phone. I was a mature woman and not a nine year old kid playing pranks. Besides, I owed the man an apology for Kassie’s unacceptable behavior.
Time for a field trip.
I guess my nice hot dinner and quiet evening alone would just have to wait a little bit longer.
Chapter Seven
I double-checked the address on the scrap of paper to make sure I was at the right location. Surprisingly, it looked pretty normal. I guess some small part of me expected to find a run-down tenement building with sketchy types milling about the front door threatening me with evil glares and switchblades. But this appeared to be your typical apartment building with average gray siding, plain black roof, and neatly manicured front lawn. Nothing out of the ordinary here. It did take me longer than it should have to find the place because I took a wrong turn and got lost on a side street.
That’s okay. Sometimes detours can be a good thing. Maybe it gave the unpredictable man time to simmer down and relax a little bit.
Oddly enough, the outer door to the apartment building wasn’t locked so I was able to walk right in. That was not very good security. What if I was a burglar or something? Okay, I would love to see the look on a would-be robber’s face if he accidently knocked down Dixon’s door. That would be priceless.
I checked the mailbox names in the entryway to confirm that D. Wade did indeed live in apartment 12A. Sure enough, his name was right there in black and white. Party time.
