The man shook his head moments after a long delay. He paused to fix his crusty hat and pushed the bill into the mouldy depths of his ripped jacket pockets before pulling himself back up to his feet to look dimly at us again. With casual disdain, Jason flicked through his wallet, spat out another twenty, and then hit the man in the chest again. The wino doubled over and shook the stars from his sight. As before, he pulled himself to his feet, fixed his crusty hat, pushed the note into his pockets, and then looked blankly at us again.
“On me, Pete,” Jason grinned as he coughed up another twenty.
“I don’t know . . .”
“Come on, look at him. He wants it, you want it. What’s the problem? It’ll help you feel better.”
“You sure?”
“Trust me, Pete.”
If this were a game to him, I was eager to play.
Who needs to go to the arcades when you could have this kind of fun, this sort of real live connection to people? Why play games where you virtually beat up each other when you could just go ahead and do it in real life?
The wino didn't seem to care as I took a running punch that connected with him square in his flat, red nose. He staggered back a couple of steps, wobbling, but miraculously maintained his balance. I looked down in wonder at my throbbing knuckles. His dark and sticky blood had splattered onto the end of my sleeve. It had been long since I had hit anyone, and it felt good.
Really fucking good.
A thin trickle of blood ran from the wino's nose. Once again, he fixed his crusty hat and ran around like a dog chasing his tail until he found the crumpled-up note. His rheumy, red eyes looked blankly at us once more. His fight or flight instinct sold for little more than eighty bucks.
“I need another,” I insisted, a sudden sensation racing through me. “Give me a twenty.”
“Sorry, Petey. All out.” Jason finally broke the ritual. The wino seemed to fall from the trance with a deep sigh of relief.
“You got anything?”
I shook my head. Jason scoffed before turning his attention back to the man. He flashed his bankcard. A sick smile spread across his face like a spreading poison.
“What, you think that he takes American Express?” I jeered.
“No, fuckwit,” Jason frowned. He turned his attention back to the anxiously waiting wino.
“Wait right here. We'll be back in a minute.”
I slapped Jason on the back and walked two blocks with him to the nearest cash point. By the time we returned, the wino had vanished.
* * *
It was sometime after noon when Jason finally did arrive to pick up the keys from me; eyes bloodshot and wild, still wearing the same clothes from last night’s Playdate.
“You okay?” I asked. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days. “You seem pretty tense.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped, sweeping back a strand of his auburn hair that was pasted down onto his forehead.
“Took me a good half an hour to clean the place,” I said while plucking the key off my key chain. “Had to leave the poor guy in a ditch halfway across town before calling an ambulance.”
Jason let out an outward snort as he watched me unbuckle the key from the chain.
“Look, just . . . promise to be more careful next time, okay?”
“Okay.”
I placed the key into the palm of his hand. He caressed the key between his index and thumb before placing it into the breast pocket of his blood-red real estate blazer.
“I mean it. You could’ve killed the poor bastard.”
An awkward silence swept across the room like an unwelcome visitor.
“Are we done here or what, Pete? What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing,” I responded, my eyes matching his cold gaze. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll see you on Tues for the group session. I‘ve gotta head back to work.”
“Yeah, see you then.”
I watched him leave without even looking back. I felt like I should say something, but the words wouldn’t form. I watched, knowing the poor bastard was an addict, and it was all my fault. Instead of guilt, a new feeling swept over me; one I simply did not know how to express.
Concern.
CHAPTER 7
Alice and Jonathan asked me out for dinner that afternoon, which I found quite strange. It was rare to see them together outside the Playdates, but they had begun to spend a fair amount of time together after their husband/wife scenarios, so I felt it would be rude not to show my face and see what the story was for myself. We met up in a fancy little Italian restaurant along Central Street, one of those restaurants that are all about presence and the moment rather than creating any real, lasting memories. A few moments of importance before it is all snatched away from you once again. One of those places that it’s all about ego and outward appearance rather than any actual meaning.
I felt so underdressed in my flannel shirt and torn jeans against Jonathan in his blue silk shirt and pinstriped tie, accented by a pair of pressed, black slacks and polished black loafers. His people/social suit, he would call it. Truthfully, all his other clothes were too crusted in paint and acrylic oils to be worn out in public.
Alice wore another stunning dress, this one even more elegant than what she wore on the last Playdate. The dress was a faint sky blue that faded out in thin swirls into an angelic white to match Jonathan’s shirt. She was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever laid my eyes upon. Except for one thing: she always looked tired, and it showed. Her layers of makeup done well to hide it, but it showed with every rehearsed catwalk-like step.
It showed in how slow her body moved; how slow she spoke, everything down to her core. Old habits from an old life. Her head wearily rose before turning in my direction.
“Peter, it is good to see you again. You look well,” she said, her voice soft and welcoming.
“You too, Alice,” I replied with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. Jonathan shot me a courteous nod and I replied with a smile. I extended my hand for a handshake, but after a lengthy pause decided to place it back into my pocket. Jonathan was one of those arty types who seemed to believe his hands were a ‘gift’ and would avoid actual physical contact like a plague. Every so often he would disappear for days into his studio whenever he felt ‘inspired.' In reality, he had only sold about four or five paintings—most of them to family members or sympathetic friends. He’d pushed his paintings on me several times in the past—these contemporary, weird little art pieces with wild slashes of paint and stabs of colour that looked more like something had crawled onto the canvas and been slaughtered. I had no interest in them, of course, as most sane people would. It was the rage and anger behind each of his paintings I was more interested in.
His fingernails and palms were still speckled with dried red paint from his latest ‘masterpiece.' Sure, he had droned on and on about it at the last few meetings, but I had other things on my mind rather than to listen. Even now as we waited for a table I could hear him droning on and on about it to Alice. She looked mildly interested, but her attention was mostly on the rich and handsome people of the city as they dined and walked hand-in-hand along the sidewalk. Jonathan finally stopped talking and asked her what she thought. She smiled and said that it sounded great. She was just too polite to utter the words: ‘I couldn’t give a shit’.
Her arm wrapped around Jonathan's as we were led over to our seats next to a large window at the far end of the room. The restaurant was a charming little place that looked out over a large, beautiful fountain by the moonlight. Jonathan and Alice talked amongst themselves as I watched the moonlight playfully caress across the water’s edge. Ripples in the foundation eagerly twinkled upon the moon’s soothing touch.
“Last night was fun, Peter. Thank you for arranging it,” Alice chimed in, drawing my attention back from the world outside.
“Oh, it was nothing really,” I explained modestly. “It was mostly Jason who organised it this time actually.”
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“Jason’s such a dick,” Jonathan said and the two laughed in unison.
“We wanted to thank you personally, so tonight is on us.” Jonathan winked at me before he started clicking his fingers at a nearby waiter. “So go crazy, but you know, within reason.”
An Italian waiter with a thick accent came over to our table. I caressed the menu in my fingers and flicked through several pages while Alice and Jonathan discussed what to order amongst themselves.
I ordered a lasagne and a moderately priced beer to wash it down while Alice and Jonathan both ordered and requested a bottle of vintage merlot to share. Our drinks arrived within moments.
“So, have you been putting any thought into the next night?” Jonathan leaned in to ask me, his voice a barely audible whisper as the waiter cast his eyes disapprovingly over my attire before he left the table.
“Well, it’s Jason’s Playdate and he wants to plan something, well . . . special this time.”
“Christ, what’s it going to be this time?” Alice asked with a note of concern. “Break into an old folks’ home and beat them up?”
“Beat them up if we're lucky,” Jonathan quipped. Alice shook her head in disgust.
“Relax, he’ll have to run it all by me first anyway. I’ll keep him on a leash this time.”
“If you tighten that leash any further, he’ll be chewing on your heels, Pete.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Alice and Jonathan both looked at me with a shared look of concern. Jonathan reached over for the bottle and began pouring himself and Alice a glass each.
“Are you still wearing that thing?” Alice grabbed his paint-crusted hand in hers. The fake wedding ring twinkled in the light with not a single speck of paint on it.
“I guess I forgot to take it off.”
“Well, take it off now.”
“Why?” Jonathan asked as his eyes narrowed. Her hand snapped away from his.
“Why? Because it freaks me out. Just take the damn thing off now, please.”
“Is the idea of being married to me that horrible?”
Alice swirled the wine in her glass before draining it in one gulp. Unspoken words seemed to be screaming at the back of her petite throat. Calmly, she reached across the table for the rest of the bottle.
“Just do it, okay?”
Jonathan mumbled something under his breath as he slid the fake wedding ring off his finger and placed it into his breast pocket. I sipped on my beer and silently feasted on the rich aromas of rage filling the air.
“Why have you gone weird with me? I told you not to wear it,” Alice demanded.
Jonathan gritted his teeth in response.
“Well? You just going to sit there in silence or answer me?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Whatever, Johnny.”
“You see what I have to put up with, Pete?” Alice snarled. Her thin, red lips curled upward as much as her botoxed face would allow.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Jonathan mumbled. “Not like you'd care.”
The silence was finally broken after several minutes when our food arrived.
I couldn’t have cared less about their little argument. I playfully stabbed at my lasagne and sipped on my beer, watching the night sky turn from its heavenly stillness to a sickly grey. Thick clouds rolled by and a heavy blanket of rain began to fall.
My breath fogged against the window. I smiled, watching the people outside in their expensive clothing, now drenched, scurrying away into the nearest shelters, turning the street into a bare, urban ghost town.
The faint rumble of thunder boomed from somewhere far in the distance.
A storm was coming.
FROM THE DIARY OF PETER CLAYTON
The people who we encountered would later call me a bad or evil person, and that hurt more than anything in the world.
A lot of people would also ask where it all went wrong and about my first Playdate. They would try to pin down facts like: ’I was bullied in school’ or ’my parents hit or abused me.' The true story is that I had a pretty normal childhood. I lived in a nice quiet place, and I was home-schooled, so I never had to deal with bullies.
The first Playdate was a spontaneous event, a random old homeless man Jason and I paid to beat around a little bit. Nothing like the grand plans or schemes everyone seems to think it was.
I know I was never necessarily a good person in the traditional sense of the word. I never went to church, never donated to charity, never held down a relationship or job for more than six months, never volunteered in an old folks’ home. But what I did do is reach out and touch some people’s lives in ways they’ll never know or fully appreciate.
For some people, I was simply an evolution of the average drug dealer, dealing out pheromones and getting his clients hooked on the product and then keeping them on a steady fix, keeping them sedated along with myself—doped up on dopamine, serotonin, endorphins—whatever. To others, I was a monster. Friend or foe—it didn’t matter. Everyone believes that a monster has no morals anyway.
To the few, I was Peter Clayton: an honest, unemployed, depressed deadbeat trying to survive in a world that does not care. We all have to pay the bills somehow. The world is just a cruel and unforgiving place. In parts of Asia they let you torture and blow up animals with bazookas or hand grenades—all for a few bucks to get paid and make it through another day. To them, torture and cruelty are just part of daily life.
Take the office worker as another case study—cooked up in an office with people they hate, working for a job they couldn’t give a shit about—torturing themselves just to earn their living and survive another day—all the while fantasising about shooting up the place or inventing new ways to kill their boss and get away with it. Admit it— we all have that dark little corner in our brains reserved for this kind of behaviour, whether you want to confess to it or not.
I was out there just like everyone else. Trying to contribute in any little way I can to make this a better world in my own way. Trying to relieve some of that pent-up frustration everybody seems to bear on their shoulders yet are too afraid to admit. That rage we all feel which we are told is unnatural, immoral, and so we must hide it behind a heavy social mask that sags and cracks the longer you have to wear it. Think of me as a modern-day healer—allowing people to temporarily escape their moral restrictions, their moral boundaries, and laws so they can pass as normal, functioning members of a 24/7 workforce for just a little bit longer without gunning down anyone who slurps their coffee a little too loud or asks them to work overtime for the fifth day in a row. That’s what I was to some—a dealer of temporary peace. I gave them a slice of control over lives for once; over others. Pure and total dominance.
The latter is how I prefer to be remembered when I am gone. The only difference between me and anyone else out there, is that I found an outlet for my addiction and the addiction of others that worked, and although potentially dangerous and fatal, it was a drug alike no other. Any addict will tell you that you have to hit rock bottom before you can rise again, but at that time I was sailing high above the clouds, oblivious to the fact that the ground was quickly catching up with me.
CHAPTER 8
When I finally got home and out of the soaking rain, I noticed a message light blinking on the answering machine that had been left only about an hour ago. Curiously, I played the message.
Peter, it’s Tony. I just wanted to say thanks for the invite yesterday. I haven’t felt that good in years. Keep in touch, Pete. Later.
I picked up my phone and was about to dial the number back when I paused. Best keep him waiting. I sighed and sank into my awkward leather couch in my rain-drenched clothes. Somewhere in the distance, an ambulance raced past. For a split second, my apartment was lit up in a crimson flash of light as it screamed by. A few seconds later, it was followed by another ambulance or police car racing through the neighbourhood. It seemed that where I lived there was a di
sproportionate amount of ambulances and police cars that would race past in the late hours of the night—off chasing ghosts and ghosts to be.
Somewhere in my kitchen, a steady drip of water sounded. Another leak from the ceiling no doubt. Too tired to care, I fumbled in my jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette. I had only just lit it when another siren came racing past. Somewhere in the apartment building, a couple was arguing.
A bottle smashed. A woman shrieked. I jumped out of my seat and pressed my ear up against the damp wall.
Another siren came racing past. The arguing abruptly ended. I waited several long minutes as a rare silence descended. From my kitchen, a steady drip, drip, drip.
A door swung open followed by hurried steps down the old, creaky wooden stairs. A woman slammed the front door of the building as she left. I raced over to my window. It was then that I saw her. She had no suitcase, nothing with her, save for the green, torn dress she wore. Like a ghost, she stood—still and unmoving in the middle of the street. The rain pelted down all around her. Her tiny frame grew smaller and smaller, almost swallowed whole by the pouring skies. She stood there, looking up at me. Along came another flash of red light. An ambulance raced past and when I looked back, she had disappeared into the night.
Frustrated, I took a deep drag, trying my best to numb the senses, anything to block it all out. The constant chatter of rain done little to help. Another deep inhale. Another red siren came screeching past.
Nothing.
I could sense the next siren coming before it made any noise. The red and blue lights cut through the gathering smoke of my apartment. Off chasing another ghost into the night.
A pool of water had gathered at my feet. My hair was pasted down onto my forehead and dripped into my eyes.
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