Frieda smiled at her and nodded.
“I was raised to help people, the downtrodden, never seeing myself ever being there, in that dreadful situation. Anyone who was down on their luck and had an addiction or stumbled through life seemed like an alien to me. I was a citizen, but they were from another galaxy. They were the ‘others’,” she said, putting her hands in quotes. “My family would volunteer and give generous donations. Every spring and winter, my mother would have my brother and me gather our clothing and stuff we weren’t using anymore, and donate it. I managed to subconsciously put some sort of barrier between myself and them. I was never told that I was better; my parents never told me anything like that… So I’m not sure where I got it from and at this point, I suppose it doesn’t really matter.
“I would wonder, ‘How did people get in a position where they could never seem to get on their feet?’ I was about eight or nine having these thoughts of superiority…” She took a breath, then continued. “As I got older, I began to understand things better, but it took a long time for me to lose that line of separation. It always remained on some level, though I didn’t acknowledge it until one day… one day I was in the hospital.” She paused, took a deep breath. Once again she took notice of Nick watching her, only now, he seemed poised to say something… She kept on. “My stomach had been pumped and I couldn’t remember the events of the prior two days. I hung my head and thought, ‘Now…the line has been blurred. I’m one of them.’”
Everyone was quiet as she told her tale. Her words flowed, leaving behind a deep hole of shame. A twinge of embarrassment rolled within her; coming in torturous waves, it caught in her throat and burned going down.
“What’s interesting is that… one of them was the same as one of me. There’s no difference. Addiction doesn’t give a shit about who you are.” She grimaced. “It doesn’t care if you were born in a disgusting old restaurant dumpster or grew up in a golden palace with fifty maids, butlers, gardeners, and nannies. It doesn’t care if you’re beautiful from head to toe, or gruesome from the soul out. It isn’t concerned about what school you attended, the car you drive, or the family you have and come from. It couldn’t care less about your profession, your faith, your race, or sense of self. It doesn’t care if you graduated at the top of your class or can’t read or write to save your life. All it wants is a body to ruin, a life to destroy, and for you to see no way out.”
“Preach!” someone shouted.
“I was so full of myself, but didn’t know it, but I know it now, and some would say now is too late. But it’s not. The drugs, those little, innocent looking pills do not have the last word. Frieda,” she said, shooting her sights towards the woman, “it helped me to get out of my mindset for I felt, in some ways, that I deserved my misery. I’d been pampered, catered to, and during my career, I got a big ass eye opening about how the real world worked. I wouldn’t have called myself a brat per se as a kid; matter of fact, I think I was a damn good person, but none of that mattered and it still doesn’t. My struggle is human; I am human…just like everyone else in here!” She scanned the room. “Freedom?” She shrugged. “What is that, huh? I’ll tell you what it is—it is freedom in my mind.
“Freedom in knowing that my life is more important than I could imagine… I feel like… I feel like I’m here to help people, not just parade around or wallow in my misfortunes. Somehow this road to Hell I’ve travelled is leading me somewhere else. I just know it is. Where? I have no damn idea! It’s a painful lesson, the worst, but I know I’m destined for something and I no longer need to collect all my leftovers and throw them at others like I’ve done something big, something to make me feel mighty proud of myself. I need to accept what I am and understand that leftovers are stuff, not people. No matter what we’ve been through, we are not leftovers… we are start overs.”
The room erupted in applause. Satisfied, she retook her seat.
“Thank you so much for that, Taryn. Thank you for sharing. That really meant a lot to me and I’m certain to everyone in here.” The woman winked at her and then began her morning spiel.
Taryn felt a bit lighter, more at ease. How great it was to get those musings off her chest, spill her guts a little. She looked towards the floor and took notice of Nick’s chair sitting a hair closer to hers now. Not only that, their legs almost touched as he continued to steal glances here and there.
“I like the things you said,” he uttered as people got to their feet for a five-minute refreshment break a few moments later.
“I’m not speaking to you.”
“Well, I’m speaking to you…”
She refused to look in his direction, though the damn man definitely held her attention.
“What you said, what you shared meant something to me, just like Frieda said. All of these weeks you’ve been talking, I get to know you a bit better. I take it you come from an affluent family? You had it a bit easier than many of us, right?”
She sighed, refused to acknowledge the man, including her growing attraction of the fucker.
“That’s what I said.”
“Right.” He nodded. “You did. You thought you were better than us, right? But, then a part of you was happy you weren’t because something inside of you has always been a bit more down to earth, despite what you’ve been told and how you’ve been raised. Maybe you only pretended to feel superior because that’s what your peers were doing, you know? It just took something bad to happen to remind you who you really were.”
“You don’t know how I’ve been raised so don’t go there…”
“You’re right, I don’t.” He offered a gentle smile. She wanted to argue, give it to him nice and good, but instead, he conceded, spoke slowly, calmly, that deep voice of his all mellow and relaxed, making her feel gooey inside like bubble gum in the hot sun. “Why don’t you tell me? Let’s talk. Are you from Brooklyn?” He leaned in a bit closer, forcing her to stare in his stormy blue eyes and inhale the musky scent of his cologne.
“Manhattan.”
He nodded, as if not the least bit surprised.
“You’re beautiful, but I’m sure you’re told that all the time.” A veil of vulnerability shadowed his face. “What I like about you is that you seem to look the same on the inside, too. You have a good heart. It attracts me even more to you. I like that.”
“…Didn’t ask you what you liked.” Pursing her lips, she crossed her arms over her chest, and looked away from the bastard. Locked up her heart and threw away the key…
“You didn’t have to. I don’t wait around for people to ask me my damn opinion. I just give it.” Another shadow, a glint in his eyes—indignation.
“And I’m sure that’s served you well…” she snapped, but he ignored her, kept right on.
“You’re smart, too. I like that. You’re like the whole package.”
“And I’m a drug addict.”
“See? Just my type.”
At that, she couldn’t help but grin and laugh a little, too.
“I want to get to know you better…” His breath smelled of fresh mint as his shoulder brushed hers. Although she kept her gaze averted, her pussy stared at him and would not let the hell go…
He is sexy as hell! Go away! You aren’t any good! Why do I always attract bad men?! They must be my weakness… another damn weakness… ugh…
“Nick, there is nothing else for you to know.” She almost turned back to him, but if she met his gaze now, she’d turn into a damn puddle. “Nothing is going to happen between us so you can save it.”
Just then, Frieda clapped her hands. “Alright everyone, let’s get back in our seats please.” The woman sat back down in her chair and went over the following weeks’ upcoming topics.
“Taryn,” he whispered as he leaned back, a silly smile on his face. He stretched out his long, muscular leg and relaxed, as if they were old buddies having a good ol’ time. “We’re going to be in here a while, so you may as well get used to me.”
“Get
ting used to you, tolerating you is much different than being friends. I have enough friends, and I am not giving out any more applications. The positions are filled. Now, focus on you, okay? Don’t worry about what the hell I’m doing.” She narrowed her eyes on him, daring him to say one more goddamn thing. “I wish you well in recovery.”
…A few days later…
This son of a bitch right here…
Taryn strained to keep her neck twisted in the opposite direction of the sexy motherfucker. She was on a mission to make sure her eyes didn’t meet his. She’d been doing well all week and refused to fail, lose her traction. Finding a focal point, she made it work. Little hand-drawn posters dotted the room. Yes, those would do just fine. They’d all drawn self-portraits, the way they believed others viewed them, that is. She drew an ostrich. That gave several people a big hoot. Nevertheless, it was his turn to speak, and there he stood with his letter that she didn’t give two shits about. He was just like all the others.
Snickers… Baby Ruth… King Sized…
She smirked.
Amazing how many men still tried to bed her at various rehabilitation facilities after finding out she’d been a supermodel. She figured he must’ve found out, too. That had to have been it in order for him to say something so ridiculous, and think she was that gullible. That was the going consensus, that models were dumb, idiots, not one working brain between the lot of them. So what if she’d thought about him in a carnal way, too. There was a little thing called respect, and she didn’t give a shit that she’d been stealing pills, throwing up in hospitals, and popping mollies like a rock star; she was still a damn woman, a human being! She wanted to be treated like a lady again, wanted to recall what the hell that felt like.
He could’ve at least pretended to be civilized. Now my fantasy is ruined…
He hadn’t been there earlier in the program when they’d done their own letters, so here he was, had the entire group hostage. She crossed her ankles and looked towards the floor, waiting for him to get the whole silly ordeal over with.
“Nick, please go right ahead,” Frieda stated.
He cleared his throat and she could hear papers moving around in his grip.
“Okay, I want to apologize in advance for this possibly coming across as not making much sense. I just…wrote stuff down and it doesn’t really sound much like a letter to me, just broken up thoughts, memories, things like that.”
“That’ s fine,” Frieda interjected. “There were no rules regarding structure.”
“Oh…okay.” He cleared his throat once again, and began to read his letter aloud…
Dear Nick,
I don’t know what to say to you. We rarely talk. I’d imagine that has been a part of the problem. I can’t believe you, or should I say, I can’t believe I’m in this place. Why did you mess your life up like this? You had a nice life, a good life. It didn’t start off so good, but even that was through some fault of yours. Your first mistake was staying out late in the streets.” He paused, coughed, and then continued.
“Mom asked you to come in the house, but you didn’t. Matter of fact, you didn’t do anything Ma asked you to do… and then you got mixed up with the wrong crowd. Marco died, and you barely remembered your older brother. He was two years older than you, and you were only four when he died, but you must’ve felt something after he was gone, because Mom said you got worse after that. You saw a lot of friends get hurt, and you lost a lot of people you cared about. Losing your best friend was one of the worst times of your life. You’ve never gotten over Jonathan, and you’re not sure you ever will. Maybe that’s where it started from? Maybe losing so many people kind of hardened you? I don’t know, but it sure didn’t help.
“Mom was on public assistance, and she worked jobs, too. She couldn’t tell anyone, but the food stamps weren’t enough so she did what she needed to do to take care of her family. She was raising a little boy by herself. Dad wasn’t there, either. Who was Dad? All you knew for the longest was that his name was Franco Salvatore Vitale. He was gone right after you were born. Mom said he signed the birth certificate, so you got his last name at least. But that was all you got… Some say he left the country. Some say he just left Brooklyn but stayed in New York. That last rumor messed you up a little. How could he still be there and not see his own kid? You vowed that if you ever saw him, you’d kill him. He never married Mom, just left her with kids and nothing more.
“Some said it was because he was already married. Maybe that’s true. Mom never talked about him much and after a while, you stopped asking. You began to realize that maybe she wasn’t being stingy with the information; she just didn’t know much about him, either. Maybe it was because he was a liar and a messed up person, involved in criminal activities. That was a big rumor too, but maybe it was no rumor at all. When you were fifteen, you went out on your own to find out who Franco Salvatore Vitale was. Some of the old people in the neighborhood said he used to hang around all the blacks and Dominicans and Puerto Ricans, and that he met your mother while she was walking down the street. He offered to help her with her groceries, then gave her some money, more money than she’d ever seen in her entire life. He told her a bunch of romantic lies and then, he disappeared.
Some said he was a hit man, and someone got retribution. No one knew for sure it seemed, and no one could prove anything, either. One thing was for certain though; he did leave Mom of his own free will. He packed the few things he had and left her with two kids, one of whom was sick. Marco was born with a small heart and breathing problems. Something was wrong with his lungs; they weren’t fully developed. He had to go to the hospital all the time. One morning, Marco Andrew Vitale stopped breathing altogether. When you woke up, his mattress that lay beside yours was empty… and Ma was crying. She made you stay in the apartment with the old woman across the hall. That old woman smelled bad, like rotten bananas, and all you did was cry that day, too. She never told you he died, but you knew. You knew as soon as you laid eyes on that empty mattress. You used to make funny faces at Marco and make him laugh. It was like you were the big brother, and he was the youngest, because he couldn’t do much. You kinda liked him looking up to you, and taking care of him, too.
He didn’t talk that well, but he sure could laugh. And to this day, you remember his laugh. And he used to play with you. You’d roll a ball between your legs, or play Go Fish, stuff like that. And Ma would cook…and it would smell good, the onions and tostones and on special occasion, those Jamaican beef patties that her friend taught her how to make. She’d dump Adobo on them. And that is all you remember. So now, Franco Salvatore Vitale is gone, because he was never there. Marco Andrew is gone too, died in his sleep, right next to you. Jonathan is gone—you watched it happen—and many more friends are gone and worst of all, Mama is gone, too.” And then, there was silence in the place. He began once more…
“Ma died of non-Hodgkin lymphoma…”
Oh my God… I wish he would just stop! This is horrible! I want to keep hating you… STOP. TALKING!
“She got to see you get accepted into the police academy, but not graduate. You were tired of losing people. So, to make sure you never lost anyone you loved anymore, you just didn’t let anyone else in. No one else was allowed to get close to Nick Vitale. You couldn’t afford to lose one more person. The way to not let other people in was to build a wall around your heart, and the way to forget the people you’d lost was to drink them away, cocaine them into the far distance.
“You never had to get close that way. The steel fence was up. You were finally safe, Nick. Everyone stays where you put them now. In a little cage…and if they don’t like it, they are free to leave. But you craved closeness, nevertheless, Nick, because I guess you’re just that type of person. And because your Ma loved you… Once you feel love, it’s hard to abandon that forever. And she’d kiss and hug all over you. She showed you while she was alive how to love, but you tried to deny it, act like you knew nothing of it all. You tried to f
igure out how you could love people from a distance; to still stay safe, but get what you need, too. So, you became a cop.
“That way, people would be good to you, if you were good to them, or so you thought. You could make the world a little bit safer even though you felt anxious on a daily basis. You could also put your life on the line, because you never felt your life was that important in the first damn place.
“You probably secretly wished you’d get shot in the line of duty, and you started testing the boundaries. You did the shit no one else wanted to do, because you wanted to die a hero and were always covertly disappointed that you’d survived. Why did you live and everyone else died? What made you so special? You keep toying with your life, but you are still breathing. Why? You even started messing with cocaine. That shit never appealed to you before. Why would you do that? You saw what it did to people on a daily basis. How it ruined peoples’ lives.
You went to your old childhood friend, now one of the biggest drug dealers in Brooklyn, and you asked him for some. You lied, said it was for something work related. But he knew better. He gave it to you, free of charge, said it was because you were his homeboy. Then, for whatever reason, you got lucky and weren’t dependent upon it but found out it gave you a nice high when you mixed it with booze. Therefore, you hand-made your drug of choice when it suited you. The prolonged use has a name. Cocaethylene is created, builds in the liver from prolonged users of alcohol and cocaine. You were an overheated walking science experiment ready to explode…”
What an intriguing man…
His story pulled her in, made a fool of her, made her smarter, wiser; her heart beat a bit faster. There was something about him. The way he spoke, the tortured truth of the words, and the simplicity of how he explained such horrific things…
“Your job is stressful though. You’ve seen some things you never want to see again. Like babies being thrown off buildings…your breaking point. It was a culmination of things. The pregnant woman shooting up heroin on her front porch steps, her dress pulled up over her thighs, exposing her unshaved vagina and hanging belly, filled with new life as she slowly killed it. You hated her more than anything in the whole world, cursed her, and resented having to help her.
In the Nick of Time Page 11
