 |
 |
|
| E-mail this page to a friend | Tell me when this page is updated |
| RUNNING ON EMPTY BY TORRI |
CHAPTER 20 |
In the dead of the night, when it should have been peaceful, quiet, everything at rest, inside Todd's head, there was no peace, quiet, or rest. Whether he was asleep, waking or in a waking drug induced haze, halfway between coherence and complete body numbness, his mind worked feverishly. Good and bad thoughts did battle in his head, vying for control. When good triumphed, he never wanted to return to the land of "clarity," but when evil got the better of good, it was a torture unlike anything Peter could have bestowed upon him.
He had the vaguest sense of what he was doing to his body, the harm he was causing, but it could take away so much of the pain. Escaping, however briefly, was the goal. He tried to "regulate" his intake, limit his poison ingestion, but some nights he just couldn't help himself. Drinking, he thought, was the lesser of the two evils. It caused a slow death, and since he knew from early childhood that he was doomed to live a short life, it didn't matter so much. With the drugs, he had to be more careful, "pace" himself. It was easy to get hooked, which was something he wanted to avoid just in case. In case she would take him back, he had to be able to quit. In case she could love him again, she had to be his only love, not her and whatever "something" he was on.
His friends told him that marijuana wasn't a "real drug." Said it was a "pussy puff." That's what he grew up believing, that marijuana wasn't all that bad. "Not addictive like cigarettes," they said. So he went on smoking, believing he could stop "any time he wanted."
He didn't remember was that there was something a "little extra" mixed inside his latest batch. He couldn't remember much from that night, just bits and pieces from the next day. He remembered Tea, talking to her, enjoying her, but that was it. There was a difference in what he was smoking, but it wasn't visible when pulled it from his bag, placed a thin strip in the crease of his "paper," rolled it tightly and licked it pressing for a few seconds ensuring it was sealed. His highs took him to greater heights, and the lows were worse, but he had no idea why. It looked the same, just felt different.
When he was high, he was invincible. Like Superman. He could fly, eyes wide open, without fear of kryptonite; the invincible had no weaknesses. He was loose in this state, content in his deadness. When he took that first puff, it was like magic, he could feel his feet leave the ground, see himself floating above the masses. I'm an angel, I can fuckin' fly! He could have the most vivid illusions, so real he could touch them, so clear he could reach out and fondle them. They responded to his warmth, spoke to him, loved him.
But the lows were what he hated. They visited him more frequently, teasing him with their haunting voices. He could hear them, repeating with his father had always told him. If he plugged his ears, their voices wiggled through his protective layer of skin. There was nowhere to hide. He would run to a corner of his apartment, fall down to his knees, shaking his head, "no, no, no." They laughed at him, so he would smoke some more. But some nights, he would just have to walk. His feet would take him someplace, and after a few hours of "just walking," they would drop him and his mind off, leaving them in darkness. He would wake up in an alley, or some other place foreign to him, unable to recall how he got there, or much of the past few hours.
It was worth it. Eventually there would be a "high" and he could live out his fantasies, one by one. They made everything worth the suffering. His whole life was about suffering, with few moments of happiness. Without his smokes, he would drown in his sadness.
His apartment was filthy, dirty clothes littered the floor, while empty containers and beer bottles were lying haphazardly on the table. The place even began to reek of old, spoiled food. In a rare moment of sobriety and lucidity, he began to clean.
There was too much extra energy flowing through his veins, energy which needed to be worked off. When he walked into his apartment from a run, another habit he had taken up, the smell was sickening. Shit, I can't live like this. It wouldn't be long before he had little "visitors" sharing his place without paying rent.
It dawned on him that he never really had to clean up after himself. The women in his life had taken care of hiring a maid, or did the cleaning themselves. He could make as big of mess he wanted, and miraculously, everything found its place without his having to lift a finger. He had no idea what to do, what products to use, nothing. His whole life he considered himself alone, he really had never been without at least one person there the clean up his messes.
"I shoulda hired a maid," he mumbled, mopping the floor with some concoction he came up with. He found a can of Pledge, sprayed as much as he could in a bucket, added some water, and made a thin wax. He made more of a mess, giving up after making everything worse. Damn, can I touch anything without ruining it?
*****
An Upscale Bar Later that Night
Almost every night since he saw Tea, he hung out at the bar where the found each other again. He paid to bartender rent, in order to reserve the table where he sat that night. It brought him luck once; maybe it would work again.
They got used to seeing him there, sitting, silent, with that charisma he didn't know he possessed. Knew his favorite beer, knew his routine what time he came in, what time he left, how many drinks he ordered on any given night. But he rarely spoke to anyone, rarely did anything other than watch the door.
When he strolled toward his table, people tended to notice him. He didn't notice them, he scanned the room once, to see if she was there, nothing else mattered. He didn't see her, never did, so he would look for her the rest of the night, losing hope for her arrival with each passing hour.
It was busy, as usual when he arrived. His heart sank when he didn't see her, as it always did. Every night, he halfway expected to see her, sitting at the end of the bar, waiting for him. He could see that smile of hers, lighting up the room that smile, only for him. She was never there, so he had to satisfy himself with a few beers, lousy music, and an unrealistic hope that she would walk through the doors.
His table was empty, despite the large crowd that was scrunched together, wrestling for a little free space. It cost him a pretty penny, but it was isolated, blended right into the wall.
"Hi there. You want your usual?" Asked Bonnie, the waitress that took care of him. She flirted with him mercilessly, and was not the least bit deterred by his disinterest. She was a buxom, bottle blonde, brimming with confidence. Todd thought she was built like Jessica Rabbit, even talked a bit like her. She was always laughing and smiling and kind he liked that.
"Yeah," he answered.
He watched the people on the dance floor, dancing salsa, moving as if the music were a part of them. Each couple was in perfect sync, arms and legs flailing about. He wished he could dance like that, so loosely, but he was too tense, too stiff, too uptight. He loved watching Tea dance though. She never knew it, but sometimes he would catch her dancing in her room, with herself, to salsa music. It took everything he had not to burst out laughing at her it looked funny. She was a high-powered attorney, a wife and mother, dancing around like she hadn't a care in the world. She would just kick off her heels, throw off her jacket revealing one of those sexy camisoles that she was so fond of and dance around. Sometimes he would even catch her singing along, which was a form of torture. She couldn't carry a tune, but hearing her sing in Spanish turned him on. He could only watch her for a few minutes before his body would start responding to her. Then, he would leave her to her dancing.
"Here you go. Anything else?" Bonnie placed his beer on the table, smiling at him.
"Naw."
"Okay. Same as always?"
"Yeah." Never let the bottle get empty before bringing another. "Hey, has she been in here?"
He always asked her the same question if Tea had been there. It was sad, how he went there, night after night, searching for a woman who never seemed to show up. Just once she wanted to tell him that she was there, looking for him too. Just one time, she would like to see him smile, the way he did when he saw her the first night. They just fit, she remembered telling another waitress that night. Meant to be together, she had thought. Each time she had to utter the word, "no," it killed a little part of him; it was in his eyes. All she could do was shake her head, and offer a few words of encouragement, "Just give her more time." She had hoped that through her flirting, she could distract him, maybe even be a substitute for the woman he wanted. A warm body in bed was better than no body at all, at least that's the way it was with most men. She stood over him for a few moments, not expecting him to speak, and surprised when he did.
"Can I ask you something?" He wasn't looking at her, just staring into space, concentrating on something that no one else could see. He just didn't want her to see the tears in his eyes, or the disappointment that he would spend another night without seeing her face.
"Yeah go ahead."
"She's not comin' back is she? If she hasn't been back here in all these nights, she's not gonna come back is she?"
"Call her," she encouraged, fully realizing that her already miniscule chances of dating him, would become nil if he took her advice.
"Yeah, maybe."
*****
Later that Night
He sat alone for most of the night, chasing off anyone who dared invade his territory. People, especially women, could not grasp the fact that all he wanted was to be left alone. He tried to be civil, but civil didn't work with most of them. They kept coming back, throwing themselves at him, talking about what they would do to him.
One girl, no matter how many times he said "no," she was not hearing him. The old Todd would have promptly grabbed her by her hair, pulling until she was on the same page as him. He didn't have the strength to fight anymore. She kept coming at him, coming onto him, rubbing her breast against his shoulder. When he moved away, she felt his hair. When he yanked away, she touched his goatee.
"Don't touch me," he repeated time and time again. It was his father all over again, his uttering the same words, pleading not to be touched.
She accused him of being a "fucking fag," but promised she could change that with one good fuck. Her words ran together, as each syllable was a struggle to pronounce.
"I'm not a fucking fag, I just don't want to fuck you got it? Get away from me," he half-begged, half-yelled.
She moved in to touch him again, but he slapped her hand away. "You've got a real fucking problem!" She yelled, catching the attention of more than one patron.
"Yeah, I do, now go away."
*****
He sat in the back corner, as the rest of the patrons took their drunken selves, their good moods, their laughter and anything else they may have acquired, home, wherever their homes were. He didn't have a home, so he sat in the back, with himself, drinking until he could no longer see straight. Had it not been for the absence of music and the sounds of socializing, he wouldn't have known he was alone. He had kept his head down, looking at the floor, or the table, or on his beer bottle just avoiding eye contact.
"Come on, time for you to go home." Bonnie had let him stay for as long as she could, but everyone had to go home eventually. "You need a ride or something?"
"No."
"Okay, I'll call you a cab."
"No, I'll walk." He staggered to his feet, and onto the street. The bitter cold slapped him in the face, taking his breath away. "Shit."
He only made it a few steps before he heard some taunting behind him.
"Is that the mother fucker?" Asked the deep male voice.
"Yeah, that's him," a female responded.
"Turn around bitch."
Todd kept walking.
"Hey, you hear me talkin' to you? Hey, you pussy ass mother fucker, I said turn the fuck around."
Todd quickened his pace.
"You fuckin' queer, I know you hear me."
Todd abruptly stopped, turned, grabbing the man by his collar.
You're a fucking queer Toddie. You like it when I stick it to you like this. Your mother did. She used to tell me that all the time. Like mother like son.
Todd tried to shake him, but he was too big. Please, leave me alone. I'll be good I promise. He looked like an ape, his chiseled muscles bulging through several layers of clothing. The man peeled Todd's hands off his collar, laughing at him in the process.
"Gay boy remember me? Remember putting your fucking hands on me? Well, this is my brother, and he saw the whole thing. See, I couldn't defend myself, me being a lady and all, so that's what he's for." She moved very close to Todd, spit in his face and walked away, shouting, "go ahead," over her shoulder.
Todd never saw the first punch coming, nor the second, nor the third, or any one after that. All he could do was feel as the pain traveled from his face, to his abdomen and every place in between. He had no way of defending himself; the hits were too powerful, his reflexes too slow. His body curled into a ball, flinching involuntarily with every kick or punch that landed on his body.
There were people around, pointing and cheering, but no one helped. They just watched as a puddle of blood formed beneath his body. He didn't plead or beg for mercy, he took it. His body had shutdown after awhile, the same way it did when he was a child; he could no longer feel the powerful blows that descended upon his body. And then blackness.
Bonnie was the one that found him, lying in the red-stained snow, unconscious. She didn't recognize his face, only his torn clothing that was spread in torn pieces around him.
"Oh my god," she said, at the sight of him, his beautiful face swollen to almost twice it's normal size. "Oh shit." She tried to shake him awake. When that didn't work, she yelled in his ear, "wake up, wake up." Gradually, he began to come too, groaning, whenever twitched or moved. His eyes were nothing more than slits; he could barely see through them.
"We have to get you to the hospital."
"No, no hospital," he mumbled.
"Look, you have to be checked out."
"No, I just need to get home. Just put me in a cab." He tried to stand up on his own, but slipped back onto the ground.
Bonnie knew she could not argue with him. "I'll take you home and fix you up as best I can."
"Just take me home and I'll fix me up."
"Fine."
With her help and the help of the bartender, he struggled to his feet. As gently as possible, they helped him into a waiting cab. She found Todd's license, giving the address to the cab driver.
"Hey, don't get no blood in my car. I just had it cleaned." The cabdriver looked through his rearview mirror at a bloody Todd, shaking his head. "Somebody really fucked him up."
"Yeah, somebody did."
