Some Are Sicker Than Others (33 page)

Dave stepped forward and got behind the last person in line. He clapped his hands together and turned to Monty with a big smile. “Smells good, doesn’t it? I’m starving.”

The fried grease and hot gravy was overwhelming, like a wall of nausea slamming right into Monty’s nose. As he got closer to the kitchen, his stomach started turning like an eggbeater churning a bowl of rancid butter. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t eat here with all these people. He stepped out of the line and turned back towards the porch.

“Hey, man where you going?” Dave said.

“I gotta get out of here.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t feel well.”

“Well, here, let me help you.” Dave got out of line and grabbed Monty’s bicep then helped him forward towards the door.

“No, it’s alright,” Monty said. “I think I got it. I’m probably just going to go back to the trailer and lie down.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t mind going over there with you. Don’t want you passing out and freezing in the snow.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll be alright. I think there’s just too much commotion in here right now.”

“Alright man, well I hope you feel better.”

“I will. I just need to lie down.”

“You think you’re gonna be at the next meeting?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, I’ll save a seat for you just in case.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, it was nice meeting you, Monty.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Monty took a couple deep breaths then turned and staggered out onto the backyard patio with his hand over his stomach and his eyes on the ground. The yard was wet and the air was quiet, only the sound of snowmelt dripping from trees. As he walked back towards the trailer, he turned his chin up towards the sunlight and let the warmth caress his tired face. Christ—how in God’s name was he going to do this? How was he going to last another four days? He couldn’t even stand the smell of fried chicken. Just the thought of eating something made him feel like worms were burrowing into his intestines.

Well, at least he made a friend, at least he met Dave. He usually didn’t make friends in these kinds of places. In fact, he usually didn’t make any friends at all. He just sort of kept his head down and his mouth quiet and buried his nose in some book that he never even read. But this time was different. He felt a little more comfortable. It was nice to get out of his own head and listen to someone else for a change, especially someone so new in their addiction, someone so fresh, so naïve like Dave. The guy was pretty amusing, although a bit misguided. He had some serious issues with denial and pride. It was almost like he was impervious to self-reflection, like he lacked that basic human function that allowed him to see his own faults. But maybe that was the way to go, with no culpability, never accepting responsibility, never taking any blame. If ignorance was bliss then that guy must be ecstatic. He could just float through life without ever having to feel any real pain. Because
real
pain wasn’t external…it was internal. It was having to look at yourself in the mirror every fucking day. If Monty had a choice, he’d take what Dave had, bottle it, and drink it, because anything was better than living in this hell.

He sighed and pulled the trailer door open then walked down the hallway and collapsed onto his bed. He didn’t even bother kicking off his shoes or pulling off his jacket—he just closed his eyes and pulled the covers over his head.

Chapter 23

A Moment of Clarity

DAVE is driving his Volkswagen along the top of a frozen reservoir, one hand on the steering wheel, the other around his crack pipe. Larry is in the passenger seat laughing and dancing, singing along to a song that plays out over the car’s speakers. The song sounds familiar, but Dave can’t quite place it. Everything is all muddled—the song, the car, the reservoir, even Larry. Where the hell are they? What are they doing? And why in God’s name are they driving across a frozen-over reservoir? What if the ice breaks? What if they fall into the water? How will they get out? Larry can’t swim, can he?

Dave tries to get off the ice and back onto the highway, but every time he turns the steering wheel, Larry yanks them right back onto the ice.

“Stop it, Larry. What the hell are you doing?”

“We have to stay on the ice, daddy.”

“Why?”

“Because the song’s not over.”

“Fuck the song.” Dave hits the eject button, but the song keeps playing. God damnit. What the hell’s wrong with this thing? Why isn’t it ejecting?

Just then, he hears something like trees toppling over. When he looks in his rearview mirror, he sees that it’s not trees—it’s the ice, it’s breaking. Shit. Now what is he supposed to do?

He tries to turn the steering wheel, but the wheel just oozes between his fingers, all wet and gummy, as if it’s made of putty. What the fuck? He goes to slam down the brakes, but something isn’t connecting. It’s like there’s nothing there, like something is missing. When he looks down in his lap, he notices that his legs have been severed and all that’s left are two stumps, all bloody and mangled. Jesus Christ—what the hell’s happening? Where are his legs? Did somebody take them?

“Oh daddy,” Larry says, with an air of flirtation, “are you looking for these, you silly wittle wabbit?”

Dave looks at Larry. The kid is giggling. He has his legs and is banging them against the dashboard like a pair of drumsticks.

“Larry,” Dave says, “what the fuck are you doing? Those are my legs. Give ‘em back to me.” Dave reaches across the seat, but the kid pulls them back from him. “Nope, sorry daddy. They’re my legs, now. I found ‘em.”

“God damnit Larry, give ‘em back to me. I need them.”

“Nope, not until you admit you’re an addict.” 

“What? I’m not an addict.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m a runner.”

“Not anymore, you’re not.”

The kid giggles, then rolls down the window and dangles his legs out of the Volkswagen.

“No Larry, wait, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to save you, daddy.”

“No, please, don’t, I beg you.”

The kid takes the legs and tosses them out the window, but Dave leaps across the seat and goes out after them. “No daddy, don’t!”

As he dashes out the window, he’s able to grab a hold of the ankles, but the skin is so slick with blood that he can’t hold onto them. They slip from his hands and splash into the reservoir like a pair of Fun-noodles falling into a swimming pool. “No!”

Dave screams and jumps through the window, his legless body hurtling towards the dark, cold reservoir. Like being run over by an ice truck, his body hits the water, belly first, knocking the air right out of him. He flails around for a while like a flipper-less sea cow, trying to turn himself over so his head won’t be submerged in the water. When he finally gets right side up, he looks underneath him and spots his legs sinking towards the bottom. He takes a deep breath and tries to go in after them, but he can’t stay submerged and floats back up to the surface. “No! No!” He screams and hollers for someone to help him, but no one comes. He’s all alone, bobbing up and down in the water, the blood from his legs slowly draining out into the reservoir.

When Dave woke up, he was wet with perspiration—a slimy, film of sweat covered the back of his legs and the middle of his forehead. As he lifted his head, he looked down the line of his body then pulled off the sheets to make sure his legs were still connected. They were. Thank God. It was just a nightmare. What the hell was that all about? That was fucking awful.

As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he heard something stirring beside him. He looked across the room and saw that it was just his roommate, Frank, gurgling in his sleeping mask. Bubbles of drool were foaming out over the corners of the mask’s plastic, like a dishwasher that had been filled with liquid soap instead of dishwashing detergent. Jesus—how could he sleep in that thing? Didn’t it suffocate him? The thing didn’t even work right. He could still hear the fat bastard snoring.

After popping his neck a few times, he pushed himself up from the mattress then knelt beside the dresser and grabbed his shaving kit and a fresh pair of clothes from his Catholic High Crusaders duffle bag. With his shaving kit tucked under his arm, and a red flannel shirt, jeans and underwear thrown over his left shoulder, he walked out into the hallway and got into line for the bathroom. There were two people in front of him and one still in the shower. How could there be only one bathroom for an entire floor of eight male patients? It didn’t make any sense. It was idiotic. He couldn’t wait to get out of this shit hole. It was almost worst than prison—well, almost.

About half an hour later, Dave finally got to take his turn in the shower, only there was no hot water left. The bastards had used it all. Motherfuckers. It was so cold he could only stand it in three-second increments, and by the time he was done, his dick had shriveled up to the size of a nipple. God damnit, this was awful. He couldn’t go through this again. Tomorrow morning, he was gonna wake up early and be the first one out here.

As he stepped out of the shower, he grabbed a towel then dried his hair first followed by his legs, arms, and butt crack. After throwing on his shirt, he pulled on his underwear then slipped into his jeans and rolled on some deodorant. Just as he was about to leave, he saw that someone had left their toothbrush. It was sitting on the sink right next to a bar of soap and some uncapped toothpaste. Hmm. It probably belonged to one of the assholes who took up all the hot water, the same asshole who didn’t even bother to flush and left a bunch of piss in the toilet. Dave thought about it for a moment. Should he do it? Yeah. The bastards deserved it for making him freeze his ass off.

First, he took the toothpaste and squeezed as much as he could into the piss-filled toilet then grabbed the toothbrush and dunked it into the bowl, scrubbing the bristles against the shit-stained porcelain. Next up was the soap bar. He took a bite out of it and spit half of it into the toilet, then hit the flusher and put everything right back where he’d found it—the empty tooth paste tube, the feces-scrubbed toothbrush, and the half-eaten bar of soap that had his teeth marks in it. There. Enjoy that, you bastards. Last time you fuck with me, you inconsiderate assholes.

He smiled in victory as he gathered up his dirty laundry then swung open the door and limped back to his bedroom. After tossing his dirty clothes on the floor, he put on his green and gold Catholic High Crusaders jacket, then pulled on his black and yellow bumble-bee running shoes and headed down for breakfast.

When he got downstairs, the smell of bacon grease began to waft under his nostrils, causing his mouth to salivate and his stomach to grumble. Damn, he was hungry. It had been a long time since dinner. Why they served it at five o’clock, he still couldn’t understand it.

He got behind the last person in line at the entrance to the kitchen and inched forward slowly while eyeing the glorious spread of food set up on the table. There were scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and blueberry pancakes. Dave loaded up his plate with a little bit of everything then reached into the cooler and grabbed a can of orange juice. He found a seat by himself on the men’s side of the dining hall.

He didn’t waste any time and dove right into the sausage, cramming it into his mouth almost as fast as he could swallow. When he was finished with the sausage, he went for the bacon, then the eggs, and then the pancakes, which he smothered with hot butter and drenched in maple syrup. It was all so good. Every single bite was delicious. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate a breakfast like this. It was probably back when he was still running races.

Once he finished with his plate, he went back up and grabbed another, but this time instead of eggs and pancakes, he got twice the serving of bacon and sausage. It looked like a whole dead pig was on his plate, all cut up and processed, the steam from the grease rising up like the pig’s deceased spirit. As he sat back down, he bent over the plate and took a deep breath inward, letting the hot grease fill up his lungs and nostrils. Then, he arranged his can of orange juice directly in front of him, grabbed his plastic fork and knife and went to work again savoring every single morsel.

Once he was finished, he took his plate, cup, and napkins and threw them all in the trash. Then he got a fresh cup of coffee and took it with him outside to the back porch patio. There was a small group of patients out there huddled together. They were under the red glow of two umbrella-shaped space heaters playing a game of Monopoly that was set up on one of the green picnic tables.

Dave tried not to look at them as he grabbed a metal folding chair and propped it open beside the payphones. Unfortunately, one of the patients got up, walked over, and asked if he wanted to play Monopoly. He told them no, because he didn’t really like board games. Of course, what he really meant was that he didn’t like any of them. He still couldn’t understand why these people would elect to be here and why they seemed so damn happy about it. His roommate even said this was a vacation for him. A vacation? Really? Was he serious? This place was a shit hole. If he wasn’t court ordered, he’d be fucking out of here.

After two cigarettes and two cups of coffee, Dave decided to go for a walk around the backyard’s perimeter. He took his cigarettes and lighter and stuffed them into his jacket pockets and was about to get up when Dexter, the black counselor from yesterday, poked his head through the sliding glass doors and said, “Come on peeps. It’s time for morning group. Let’s get this thing started.”

The patients all groaned as they began packing up the Monopoly pieces then stuffed the game board into the box and shuffled by Dave back into the cafeteria. Oh great, Dave thought, guess he had to go in there with them. Another group? Christ—how many more of these things did he have to go through?

After tossing his two coffee Styrofoam cups into the trash can, Dave followed the procession of patients back inside the cafeteria. But the cafeteria tables were gone—stacked up by the windows—and all the chairs had been put away except for a dozen or so sitting in a circle in the middle of the meeting room.