A Pact For Life (38 page)

After trying to pin all his current problems on his art, the martinis finally caught up to Cale and he let slip what was really bothering him. “Seriously, Brian, why did I ever come up with that pregnancy pact?”

“I thought you said God came up with it?”

“Well it looks like God has some terrible goddamn plans.”

Nick looked up from his phone and was about to congratulate Cale on a quote well said, but instead returned to reading.

Cale continued, “You know guys, I've always tried to live without any regrets. My dad used to say that everyone should aim for a life where, on your death bed, you can proudly exclaim, 'I apologize for nothing!'” Cale downed the rest of his drink. “Going through with that pact definitely qualifies as regret. I'd do anything to go back and stop myself.”

A smirk came across Brian's face. “Allow me to enlighten you, Cale. I actually thought about this the other night when I was stoned. Don't ask why I thought of your pact, but just listen. I think I came up with something good.”

Nick set his phone down and decided to listen in on whatever words of wisdom were bound to follow.

Clasping his hands together and pointing at Cale, Brian said, “I hate to break this to you, but there was nothing you could do when it came to the pact. An act of that magnitude will always carry with it unavoidable regret. It's one of those damned if you do, blah blah blah type of things.”

Nick asked, “Unavoidable regret?”

“Yep, unavoidable regret. Sooner or later, everyone will come across a decision that will change their life forever. Where to live? What girl to date? Which college to go to? Things like that. No matter what you choose, there will always be a part of you that wishes you chose the other option. I guarantee if you never came up with that pact, you and Diana would be doing your stupid back and forth thing you've always done. We'd be at some bar, and you'd be complaining about the lack of change. You needed that pact, Cale. It was a risk for sure, but you needed to do it. Now stop being a pussy, and go talk to that redhead.”

Brian was right, but in his pickled, cloudy mind, Cale was only able to follow that last sentence. In a storm of swear words to show he was serious, Cale yelled, “I already fucking told you, that red head is shit.” His voice rose as he singled people out at the bar. “That chick in the corner is nothing, and so is that one, and that one, and that one. Fuck them all. You think any girl who is at a place like this at eleven on a Tuesday has any worth as a person? Screw everyone here.”

An overweight, greasy girl flanked on both sides by equally large and greasy friends took offense at Cale's rude dismissal. “Fuck you, asshole! Why don't you fucking leave then?”

Roaring drunk, Cale yelled back, “My pleasure!”

The girl at the bar wouldn't let that be that. “Oh, by the way, I overheard what you said earlier. I'm glad this Diana found someone better, but then again, that's not hard to do.”

Inside his jean pockets, Cale clenched his fists. It was psychology impossible for him to hit a girl thanks to his father's rules, and at that moment, Cale deeply regretted this inability. It was unavoidable regret. Still though, he had words. “Do you know you're the type of girl that guys don't warn they are gonna come while getting blown?”

She lunged at Cale, but Brian, fully alert thanks to a rare drug-free night, was able to step in and hold the massive girl back. He wrapped his arms around her while the bartender jumped over the bar and tackled Cale.

“What the fuck!?” Cale shouted as he felt hands around his torso and neck dragging him out.

“Don't come back!” The bartender shouted, and gave a strong heave as Cale flew away from the hoes and into the street.

Taking off for nowhere, Cale didn't wait for Brian or Nick. He wanted to be alone. Before he started his adventure though, he stopped and asked the redhead for a cigarette. She turned him down.

Back inside the bar, Nick saw Cale walk off and hoped he would be okay for at least another week. According to the notes on his napkin, that's how long it would take to enact his plan to save Cale.

Somewhere around the thousandth failed flick of a lighter, Cale gave up on his newly bought cigarette. Spring nights in Denver were just too misty to create a spark. It was a shame too. A cigarette felt like the logical follow-up to being thrown out of a bar.

From the bar, Cale went straight to one of those late night liquor stores. The kind with steel bars on the windows, the clerk surrounded by bulletproof glass, and the ominous feeling that there were no fewer than two shotguns pointing at you at all times. It was there Cale made one of those small life changes in hope it would lead to a reversal of fortune. He denounced gin.

Gin had been a constant presence in Cale's life ever since his father made him a drink at an age much younger than what the law would prefer. It was there when he lost his virginity, when he finished his first sculpture, and most recently, when the pregnancy pact was formed. Yessir, Gin was there for all times – good, bad, and wasted.

He bought a bottle of red wine instead. There's no point in making it known whether it was a cab, merlot, pinot, port, etc. because they all led to the same result - Cale staggering through the hazy streets with a hazy mind.

Along the empty sidewalks, he swayed from one yard into the next without any regard for the widely proved notion that a straight line is the quickest way between two points. His eyes felt heavy. The heaviness that comes not from being tired, but from being completely trashed.

He turned the corner onto Brian and Nick's street, finished what remained of his wine, and said out loud, “What's wrong with me, God?”

Up in the sky, there was no response. He asked the question again to no avail. His friend in the sky had no answer to the question.

No matter how hard he tried, Cale wouldn't have been able to develop an answer while he was roaring across the city. It was one of those questions that can only be solved by deep meditation, psychedelics, or both.

Since he wasn't likely to meditate and psychedelics were nowhere to be found, the answer to Cale's question was this. It was a matter of ownership. A feeling that there was something in the world to call your own. At that particular moment in Cale's life, his possessions were as follows:

•A laptop

•A cell phone

•A large sander, many chisels and hammers of various sizes, a power drill, and a precision detailing instrument

•Twenty-five gray shirts, one suit, four jeans, seven shorts, thirteen boxers, twelve socks, and a pair of black Nikes

•An iPod

His studio warehouse apartment was owned by the John's Star Foundation. The same foundation that owned most of his sculptures. The sculptures the foundation didn't own had been bought by wealthy individuals for the sole purpose of putting them in museums
⁴⁸
. After all those years of work, Cale had nothing to show for it.

And you know, this included a family. Okay, to say he owned a family sounds like something from the sexually repressed, male dominated 1950's, but for lack of a better term, that's what it was.

The lights were out in the Victorian town-home that belonged to Nick and Brian, but that didn't stop Cale from trying to bang the door down.

“Brian! Nick! Let me in!”

There was no answer which was odd because Brian and Nick should've been home from the bar. There was no reason for two people who shunned social situations as much as Nick and Brian to still be out, so Cale repeated the knock and shouts two more times to no avail.

Their absence was just another defeat which had been a theme for Cale's night. Giving up, he left their house, and continued the stumble to nowhere. The wine had finally overtaken the gin that was in his system, and it brought with it the crazed wine drunk.

Music was flowing, blood was pumping, and anger was boiling. He was angry at Brian and Nick, Diana and whatever his name was, but most of all, he was angry at the architect of it all, God.

“Seriously, why are you doing this to me!? What have I done!?”

Silence.

“If you are gonna give Diana everything she wants, why can't you plant one or two pieces in my mind?”

Silence.

“Give me back my sculptures you son of a bitch!”

Finally, Cale was able to take out all of his anger on someone, even if that someone may not exist. Sure, it could've been considered blasphemy, but that's only if God was listening and actually cared.

“Fuck you!!!!”

The Cale Dawkins' Death Watch 

Death Clock: 11:59 

Injuries Sustained: The miscellaneous cuts and bruises that come with heavy drinking

Current Substances: Several martinis and a bottle of wine.

Number Of Women In Past Seventy-Two Hours: One

CALE DAWKINS VS. THE DIVINE

Depression is an odd thing...

Actually, it's a sad thing...

Well, let's just say it's both.

It's odd if you've never experienced it. Like there's this great mystery as to how one person can be so stricken that they can't leave their house, bed, or even their own mind.

Now, as far as the sad part goes, depression is...

And that's it. In a world of periods, questions, and exclamations, depression is nothing more than an ellipsis. It's a half-thought where if a person just steps back and takes a deep breath, they might be able to finish the sentence.

In his bed for the fifth day straight, Cale was holding his breath with all his might.

No inspiration.

No Diana.

Nothing at all but the constant reminder of his failure, inability, and loneliness.

Cale needed anti-depressants
⁴⁹
.

If he had anti-depressants, he would've picked up his phone during one of the eight calls from Nick and Brian. Or he would've answered his door the first time they knocked. Or the second. But he didn't, which was why he freaked out as his window slid open and Brian came in.

“What the fuck!?” They both said. Brian, surprised that Cale was actually home. Cale, surprised at his friend's breaking and entering.

“Why didn't you answer the door?” Brian harshly asked. “We've been knocking on it all day.”

“I didn't feel like it.” Cale answered with the #1 reply for people going through depression. In case you're wondering, the #2 response is, 'Meh'.

“That's a shitty answer.” Brian said as he went over to the door and let Nick in.

Upon entering the studio warehouse apartment, Nick had the exact same words Cale and Brian had at the initial breaking and entering. “What the fuck!?”

“He didn't feel like answering,” Brian sarcastically said. “Nick, go ahead and cheer up his day. Give him the stuff.”

Nick dug into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag containing several white stalked, brown capped flowers of manure. In other words, mushrooms.

Brian announced, “Ta-da!”

Cale rose a little higher in bed and asked, “I thought you said no one sells them anymore?”

Brian answered, “They don't. We picked these yesterday from some pastures down south near the Springs. Nick deserves all the credit though, it was his idea. I just went along for the picking.”

Nick added, “I've been doing a lot of reading on them, and I'm pretty sure these are psyclobe cubensis. The stalk, cap, gills, and spores all seem legit. I hope I'm right at least. From what I read, death from mushroom poisoning is not a good way to go.”

The bag was thrown to Cale and he examined them through the wrapping. There were only four of them in there. How could such a small quantity change his life? It all seemed pointless, but he was desperate to get better, and you know what they say about desperate times.