In the Nick of Time (5 page)

N
ick turned the
empty shot glass around and around between nimble fingertips while he slumped against the smudged and sticky bar table. The incandescent smoke of his recently extinguished cigarette eddied around a bit, wafting towards the ceiling beams, independent and free.

He envied it.

The large bar lights were done up like Christmas, bloody red, laundered money green, and stolen treasure gold. He wished he had the strength to get to his sluggish feet and body slam the lackluster DJ who gave into some drunkard’s optimistic melodic requests. The bastard kept playing, ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ by Journey.

“I don’t want to hear this shit again!” Nick slurred, then chewed the side of his lower lip as he entered a meaningless daydream. The Levee Bar on Berry Street was craning out some peculiar sorts this particular late Thursday evening. One ruddy-faced man in a wheelchair with a soiled bandaged wrapped around his right hand rotated amongst the patrons’ stools, doing odd wheelie tricks in his broken down piece of antiquated equipment. The damn thing squeaked at each turn like copper and tin rubbing against one another at high speed. Nick shot him a lazy glance, and turned back around as he snaked another cigarette out of his left green jacket pocket. He jammed his hand in his other pocket and retrieved his black Bic lighter, cocked his head to the far left, and lit the damn thing.

Tonight is my last fucking night… I need to just go. I need to just do it. Been saying for weeks I’m going to go. I’m for real this time, though. I mean it. This is my last hurrah.

He walked out the place, barely upright as he peered with one eye up into the deep purple sky coated with the odor of ancient smog. The heavy haze refused to leave the place and dared anyone to try and make it. Standing there for a moment or two longer, he nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot, blew out idle smolder, warm ringlets, and observed two young women cackling and cursing, arm in arm, as they made their way up the street drunk off their asses.

…But I can’t.

He stared at his car a long while, knowing what the hell he should do… but he no longer cared. Optimism was fleeting, and he was never a long-term sort of date. He preferred one-night stands, no commitments, and tonight was no exception. On a sigh, he slid inside his Pontiac GTO, got situated as the pressure from within his skull throbbed like excited pussy. He ran his dry palm against his stubble-covered face, yawned, and started up the engine. As he circumnavigated the streets, he couldn’t help but notice the increased activity. The mouth of the city had opened up and vomited out an underground, corruption laden good time. It was as if a party had just ended, for the people moved away from the core of the road, but lingered, ever so slowly, loath to return home just yet, call it a night. He knew the feeling. The distinct scent of criminality moved about in the air, anointing it with freshly drawn blood, gun smoke, and heated crack pipes. Yeah, bad behavior and habits had an aroma, too.

He was off the clock; there wasn’t a damn thing he planned to do about it. He recognized a few of his usual suspects, the petty thieves grinning nervously as he slowly cruised past them. He took notice of the bitches selling their pussies and asses too, and setting up naïve fuckers for a faux fun night, only to be robbed in some filthy motel room and left with not one shred of damn dignity. He lived where he worked, and though he was at the point where he could afford better, he didn’t move a muscle, didn’t break free from the rusty chains of his environment. Brownsville, Brooklyn was home. He was conceived and born there. He’d grown up there, became a man there, and became a trifling lawless son of a bitch there, too.

He pulled up to his townhouse on Grafton Street, taking note of the freshly stapled posters to the telephone pole in front of the place. Much to his surprise, a parking space was available not too far away. He almost felt as if he’d won the damn lottery after seeing such a thing.

Today must be my lucky damn day…

He beamed as he parked and got out of his car, careful to not slam his door. Huffing as he pounded the uneven steps into the place, he found himself smack dab in the middle of his living room a few moments later and the scent of his aftershave still floating about in the place. He made his way into his master bedroom, taking note of the disheveled sheets and the pair of size 6 red lacey panties balled up on top of the nightstand. He’d forgotten all about her…

Taking hold of the underwear, he ran his thumb slowly over the fabric, smiling a bit as he recalled the beautiful, filthy shit Laura had done to him… and in turn, let him do to her. Laura? Maybe her name was Lauren. He wasn’t quite sure anymore. He tossed the damn things in the wastebasket, and made haste to pick up the place. Empty wine glasses with remnants of liquor, torn, gold condom wrappers, and discarded socks were confiscated and put in their proper places. A few moments later, the soiled sheets were changed. The woman had leaked all over the damn place. Ahhhh yes, more memories of his romp filtered inside his fractured brain. He’d never seen so much pussy juice gush out of a twat in his entire life. It had intrigued and delighted him all at once.

He stripped down to the bare flesh rotating his shoulders just so as he mentally prepared to settle in for the night, but not without a nightcap. Making a mad dash to his kitchen, he opened the cabinet and removed the bottle of silver tequila Patron, his favorite. Not caring to grab a glass, he returned to his bedroom, got settled amongst the fresh, crisp pale yellow sheets, and removed a sliding panel from his headboard. Upon a sigh, his right nostril twitched in anticipation. He leaned over to the side and grabbed the small silver tray on the side of his bed, setting it across his lap just so. Opening up a small plastic bag, the thing crinkled and sighed before he’d created his perfect lines of cocaine with a gleaming, sharp razor blade. He was ready to give himself a lullaby to last him the rest of the night. A beautiful white cloud would tuck him in just right…

Lord Finesse’s, ‘Hip 2 Da Game’ played loudly from the radio.

“Mmmm…” He snorted the first line, and then the second in record timing. He rested his head against the headboard as he slowly closed his eyes, a satisfied smile on his face until his flesh began to tingle, and soon felt slightly numb. Mustering the strength, he moved the tray off his lap and set it neatly onto the floor before sliding beneath the sheets and falling into a midnight blue miasma of sleep.

Sleep little boy… sleep all that shit away that you say you don’t remember…

Oh, but you DO remember, don’t you, Nicky boy?

… He remembered EVERY damn thing… His dream, filled with real life commemorations, took him over, took him down…

‘Yo, Nick! Your mother is callin’ you! She said you better bring your ass back home!’ This was followed by the fucker’s raspy laughter.

‘I don’t care! I ain’t never going back home! She said she was gonna call the pigs on me.’

‘Awww, Nick! Don’t be that way! She was just playing. Hey, I bet she got somethin’ to eat. Let’s find out.’

‘I ain’t hungry for nothing except some money. You got some money, Jonathan?’

‘No, but I got this perfect set up to get some coats and sell ’em!’

‘It’s cold as fuck out here. I’m not gonna stand out here selling any goddamn coats!’

‘That’s the whole fucking point, idiot! We can get ’em from A&S. I totally mapped it out. It’s easy. You game?’

‘I’m game.’

…And then he floated away into blackness…

Less than three hours later, he was on his feet, bright eyed and chin held high. He stood in front of his bedroom mirror like a perfect, straight-laced legionnaire, buttoning up his shirt, looking the goddamn part. His lips kinked in a tilted grin as he ran his hand across his broad shoulder, feeling himself, making sure he was still alive…just in case. Carefully placing his black coffee mug to his lips, he took in the final, warm gulp, swallowing it down. He glided a hand across his vanity, past his mother’s carefully placed ruddy red rosary, then grabbed his police badge. He slid the thing on and placed his hat atop his head too, sloping it at the perfect angle.

Before he exited his bedroom to leave his home and report for duty, he glanced back at his bed. He’d made it up, tight and perfect, military style. The ceiling light caught the glimmer of the silver tray lying on the ground, sitting there in front of the nightstand, sprinkled with powdery residue. His grin slowly faded as he turned his back on the sight and slapped his hand onto the light switch, shrouding himself in pitch black before he disappeared out onto the streets to protect and serve…

“And how long
did that continue?” She simply stared at her, and then faced the stark, sterile room once more. She ran her hand over her silky scrunched scarf, feeling the slick, tangerine colored fabric bunch in her grasp.

“Maybe three of four months.”

“What do you believe contributed to your last relapse, Taryn?”

“You want me to blame others, or myself?” she asked quietly as she pointed to her chest.

Frieda crossed her legs and offered a gentle grin.

“Just the truth, Taryn. That’s all I want.”

Fuck you, Frieda… Hey, that has a nice ring to it.

“I hate the way you say my name.”

“Okay. But can you please stay on topic?”

“The way you say my name
is
on topic. It’s not
Tar-Rhine
. It’s
Tear-rin, like Karen, but with a ‘T’
.”

“I’m sorry. Can you answer the question now?”

“I can.”

Frieda sighed in obvious irritation, which gave Taryn the warm and fuzzies.

Not in the mood for this crap today…

“Answer the fuckin’ question so we can get the hell outta here!” Oliver shrilled, his pale, thin-skinned pink face turning beet red with strain as if he were trying to shit his constipated brains out. Taryn cocked her head to the side ever so slowly. Her flowing, pastel colored floral blouse slid down her shoulder as if revealing a sleight of hand, a magic trick of sorts. Instead, she’d inadvertently exposed her Indian dream catcher tattoo. She coveted the thing, but now was not the time to relive her tattooed experience. This was not dreamlike; it was the thing substance-sticky, bizarre nightmares were made of. Catching the material just so, she redressed herself and paired her deliberations with a smirk.

“Oliver, how many little boys’ dicks did you dream of sucking today, hmmm? You vile, grotesque child molester you…” She laughed lightly.

“Fuck you, Taryn! You bald headed bitch! Did I say your name right, egomaniac?! I didn’t molest any little boys!” He screamed so loudly that the ropey vein on the side of his short, thick neck bulged. He no longer sounded distinguished and refined, the act he’d put on in front of company. No, Oliver the Great had come undone.

My work here is done.

She patted herself on the back, at least in her mind.

“Fuck you…” he mumbled under his breath once again.

“Say it again, here?” She rose a bit forward in her seat. “Talk that shit again Oliver Twist
ed
and I’ll slap you Forty-Eight Shades of Grey. The other two are black and blue, you lyin’ ass fucker!”

“Taryn!” Frieda yelled. “That’s enough.”

“I’m not a child molester,” he repeated, a bit more calm this time, seemingly aware of his outlandish outburst well after the fact.

She grinned a little wider, leisurely crossed her legs and whispered ever so sexily, “Riiiiiiiight… and I’ve popped not one damn pill, haven’t smoked a joint or drunk a damn thing in my entire life. If I had tiny nuts and stood four feet tall, you’d be all over me right now. I’d like to beat the candy lures right out of your goddamn pockets! Where is your creepy van parked? Don’t let those tags expire.”

“Alright alright!” Frieda called out, placing her hands in an X formation like some referee. “Taryn, you are practicing avoidance and diversion, not to mention verbal cruelty. Whenever you do this, it means you are not in the mood for group. Would you mind telling us why?”

“Now if that is true, then of course I’d also care about telling you why.”

Frieda huffed and repeated her question. “Taryn, don’t try this today. Now, I’ll repeat the question. Do you mind telling us why?”

“Yeah.” She sucked her teeth as she looked coolly down at her knobby knees covered with the thin, gray lycra leggings. “I mind.”

“Well, you know what this means. You will need to see me after group then, Taryn. You know the rules.”

“Yeah, I know.” She rolled her eyes, uncaring, not at all moved. Typically, she was rather expressive in group discussions, used it as a time to purge and feel more optimistic about the day. Oftentimes it replaced her a.m. cup of coffee, but when the clock struck at dawn that particular morning, she simply wasn’t feeling it. A few minutes later, the crowd dispersed, and like a herd of sheep, they filtered out past the chalky white door. The damn thing was painted, and then painted a million more times over. The chipping undercoat always unnerved her, made her feel particularly stabby. Like a misbehaved child on her way to the principal’s office, she travelled behind Frieda, shoulders slumped as somnolent daydreams of a morning nap taunted her. The counselor’s shapely hips waved from side to side like a daydreaming cat’s tail perched upon a windowsill. She found it slightly entertaining, another avenue to travel through to escape her looming fate. They entered the small office, decked out in silver and forest green and smelling of freesia, something similar to burnt leaves and a hint of baby powder.