The De Niro voice is ranting at me again as I exit. I tune it out because I know it’s for effect and make my way up the stairs to 2B and Mrs. Bennett. The screaming from my quads is persistent and gains momentum with each step; my legs are tired.
I knock loudly on Mrs. Bennett’s door. Her hearing is dismal.
She opens the door in a flourish. Physically, she’s spry and able, I think that’s what makes me so sad that her mind is a sieve; the pairing seems cruelly unfair.
“Toby!” she shouts with glee.
There’s the rare spark of recollection in her eyes. The glimmer of awareness flickers brightly like a flame behind her irises, illuminating them with a fierce vitality. When she’s in full control of her mind, it shines like a beacon in her eyes.
“Mrs. Bennett,” I greet. I’ve known her and her granddaughter, Chantal, who lives with her, for the seven years I’ve lived in this building. I like her. I’m not sure it shows, but I do. “Everything okay today?” I ask.
She nods enthusiastically. “Oh yes, it’s a fine day. Chantal’s feeding the baby in her room, but she’ll be out in a minute so you can see them.” I inwardly, reflexively wince—it hurts and always will—while she continues, “We’re going to sit down to dinner while we watch the end ofOprah. Would you like to join us?” She offers me dinner at least once a week.
I decline every time. “No, thanks. I need to get back upstairs and do my homework.”
I’m lying, I don’t have any homework. Family, its essence, is strong in this apartment and I can only take it in short bursts. The comfort that lives inside is as overwhelming as the aroma of the fried chicken wafting out of the kitchen like a dizzying fog sent to lull me in to a false sense of security and make me believe in fairy tales.Short bursts, I remind myself as my stomach rumbles with hunger, and I pry away from her kindness and merciful lack of judgment.
She daintily flutters her bony hand at me, her wrist flexing up and down rapidly like dragonfly wings. “Good night, Toby.”
I raise my hand in response, but my wrist and hand remain fixed stiffly in place like the mask on my face. “Night.”
I know I should say something about Chantal and the baby, but I don’t. Guilt takes another stab. Mrs. Bennett should think I’m a monster, but she doesn’t. Another stab. And another. I’m riddled with it—a series of open, infected, invisible wounds.
She sighs quietly before the door closes completely and I hear her faint, pensive words. “That poor boy needs to sleep, he always looks tuckered out.”
And here I always thought the constant purple circles under my eyes made me look tough instead of strung out and holding onto sanity by a frazzled thread. I guess I was wrong.
I return the toolbox to its rightful place of prestige on top of the fridge. For a lone, turbulent moment I regard my bedroom door with longing and consider skipping my weekly Friday night routine in favor of trying to sleep. The allure of routine and avoiding a head-on collision with insomnia wins out quickly and absolutely. I need to quiet my thoughts, not exacerbate them with stillness and silence.
Zipping up my sweatshirt and pulling the hood up because it’s like blinders, I walk out the door on a mission for Dan’s Tavern down the street. Let the numbing commence.
Johnny is easy to spot when I walk in the door; the place is relatively empty. The nine-to-fivers are just getting off work and won’t stream in for another hour or so, even those with shaky hands and desperate need. I stride toward him like a man on a mission and take a seat on the empty stool next to him at the bar. As soon as I’m seated, the sensation of being stationary does little to ease my persistent ball of nerves, it only aggravates. My mind tends to accelerate when I’m sedentary, instead of the other way around. Doubt, guilt, hopelessness, and helplessness rushes in and crushes with brutal force. It’s the reason I try to keep busy all the time: distraction dulls and enables me to function.
He tilts and tips his chin in my direction. “Asshole.” When I moved in with him, he asked me what I like to be called.
I told him, “Asshole,” because that’s how I felt. It stuck, though he never says it with much conviction.
“Mr. Street’s fridge finally gave up the ghost,” I greet in return.
He nods solemnly. He knew this day was coming.
“My money,” I add, sounding every bit the asshole he’s labeled me. It’s usually a request, asking my employer for my weekly paycheck. Today my fuse is burned out and spent, so it’s a demand instead.
He fingers some bills in the chest pocket of his dirty flannel. There’s sanctity in his touch; it’s a ritual. He does it every time he parts with money, a silent prayer on his tongue already mourning the separation. His lips move minutely as he slips two tens and a five from his pocket, and with a final longing glance, tosses them in my direction.
I snatch them up and nod at the bartender, Dan, to get his attention. The balls of my feet are resting on the railing under the bar and my heels bounce involuntarily in anticipation.
I want to yell, “I can’t do this anymore! I can’t make it until June! I want out now!” But Johnny isn’t a mind reader, thank God, and doesn’t know my plan, so a hissy fit would only serve to feed theThis Kid Is Mentaltitle I try to avoid. I mean,Iknow I’m a head case, but I don’t want to give others a peek in to the crazy going on inside my skull. So, I sit in silence, like I always do, and accept the watery beer that Dan sets in front of me. The pint glass is hazy, the telltale signs of a half-ass dishwashing job. Tugging the cuff of my sweatshirt down to cover my palm, I make a few swipes at the rim in an attempt to clean it before bringing it to my lips. It’s lukewarm and tastes like misery. Next to me, Johnny points the open end of the pack of cigarettes in his hand in my direction and shakes one loose, as he ironically coughs a raspy, lung-rattling cautionary tale. I take it without a second thought and reach for the lighter on the bar in front of him. Lighting it, I inhale deeply, earnestly, wishing that the smoke filling my lungs could cloud my mind instead. But I guess that’s what the beer is for. I only smoke when I drink. And I only drink on Friday nights. And only at Dan’s because happy hour is from five to eight, which means a pint costs a quarter. The added bonus being that Dan never cards me. I’m tall and even though I have a baby face, my surly attitude ages me, and the purple bruises under my eyes, let’s not forget those. It’s only when I smile that I look my age, at least that’s what I’ve been told. It’s been years since I hinted at a smile so I wouldn’t know.
Johnny leaves the pack of cigarettes on the bar between us. It’s unspoken I can help myself. Not sure why he’s so generous with them because he sure as hell isn’t generous with anything else, maybe he’s trying to kill me.
By beer number three and cigarette number four, the bar is starting to fill up as tortured souls file in like lambs being led to slaughter. Some bars are Friday night destinations for fun and celebration, Dan’s is a destination for sedation and eradication. It’s a place to hide out and forget for a while.
Johnny sits on the same barstool day in and day out. I know why he chose it—the barstool—it backs to a wall, and he has a full view of the bar and the door leading outside. No one can sneak up behind him here. Even drunk he’s on guard. It took me a long time to figure him out because he doesn’t talk about it, but I’ve seen the camouflage jacket with his last name on it that hangs on the bedpost in his room. I know he served in Vietnam and I’m assuming by the way he acts that he never made it out. The shell sitting next to me that smells like beer, cigarettes, and ruination boarded a plane home, but the real Johnny Stockton vanished a lifetime ago.
Just as the bliss of a warm buzz begins to descend on me, the hinges on the front door creak and a brunette walks in with everything I’m looking for. Even from across the bar and through the haze of cigarette smoke, her sagging shoulders, shuffling pace, and tight frown tell me she’s carrying something heavy, the weight of it bearing down like her pockets are filled with bowling balls. Her eyes flit around the room; it’s obvious she’s never been in here, she’s looking for a place to land before she draws any attention to herself. Too late.
I watch her for no more than two minutes before I know she’s the one. Every Friday night I survey the crowd, like I am right now. Most guys look for shallow attraction on the outside; I look for deep devastation on the inside, so brutal it seeps out. I look for the woman whose vulnerability is flying high above her, whipping in the wind like a white flag on a battlefield. I seek out the broken.
