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Davis
“Please stand.”
I’m slow to get to my feet. My knees ache from yesterday’s brutal ten mile run. There’s a twinge in my lower back as well, which speaks loudly to my need for a new pair of shoes. The way I’ve been running the past few months—hell, the past few years—it’s no surprise I’ve blown through three pairs of sneakers in such a short time. Running is my lifeline. My confidant. The only damn reason I manage to stand upright every day and put one foot in front of the other.
She shifts next to me, the knuckles of her left hand brushing across mine. The recoil is instantaneous. Predictable. By now it shouldn’t surprise me. On occasion it does. What’s even more surprising is my own body’s reaction to her on many occasions. Revulsion is probably too harsh a word to describe it. Too harsh…but more like too true, especially on days like today when I can barely tolerate her company.
Jerry, the pipe smoking, long-haired guy who owns the local pawn shop, glances over his shoulder at me and smirks, rolling his eyes for good measure. Like me, he tolerates the Sunday sermons. Like me, he shows his face in church every week because it’s easier than facing the wrath of his significant other. Sometimes, whether we like it or not, we must do what’s expected of us.
The pastor sends us on our way, the antique organ coming to life in a hail of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” It’s all I can do not to raise my middle finger in the air and blast the divine one with an expletive filled rant. My rage always tends to reach its peak within these walls, unlike the slow-burn it is on most other days.
I ease myself out of the pew, guiding her with a firm hand to the lower back, but inside I’m screaming; condemningHim—and her as well—for making me into this man I am now forced to be.
Her shoulders pull back in a defiant stance I recognize all too well. It’s her way, I suppose, of tolerating my touch; of tolerating me in general. She’s tough, I’ll give her that. Resilient. Determined. And cold as ice.
“Thank you for a lovely service, Pastor,” she says with a forced smile. I’m surprised her face doesn’t crack with the effort, but as I said…she’s tough.
I’m silent while they share a few more words, then I offer him a nod and we move out the double doors toward the stairs. This well-known and popular church has been a staple here in Monterey for years. It’s perfectly suited for those fools seeking the mega-church experience, seating five hundred or more and offering everything from weekly bible studies to self-growth classes. It’s exactly the type of church she prefers and gravitates toward, a place to elevate her status and to be seen.
Jerry stops me long enough to shake my hand, and then we’re headed at a fast pace toward her car, a swanky Mercedes AMG that her parents bought her a few years ago. She’s spoiled—always has been—a true daddy’s girl. She only has to express interest in something and low and behold it’s given to her. It’s fair to say I’ve always resented that.
I don’t drop my hand until we reach the sleek white car, but when I do I can’t hold in the loud sigh of relief that escapes my mouth. Just a few more minutes of this and then I’ll be alone once more.
Neither of us turn on the music to mask the wordless moments that ensue. There’s no point, not anymore, and we both know it. Nothing hides the tension anyway. We’ve just gotten really, really good at pretending like it’s not there; in public, that is. In private there’s no pretending. There’s just…nothing.
I park in the driveway and take my time getting out. There’s no need to hurry. The we’re-so-happy masks are off and we’re once more the same two strangers we’ve been for years now. She’s walking into the house before I even step onto the concrete, leaving much more than resentment in her wake. If hate is a tangible thing you can hold onto, something you can tightly grasp, then I’d venture to say she’s got it in spades on full lockdown in each hand. Hate is what she embraces. So is resentment.
Hate and resentment I understand just as well as she does.
I take a moment to consider the state of my yard as I stroll up the stone pathway toward the front door. The grass needs to be mowed, the weeds pulled, the flower beds raked. The rose bushes she planted so many years ago finally succumbed to neglect winter before last, though their decrepit carcasses have yet to be removed. The replacement ones I planted last spring in a barrel near the fence are struggling to stay alive. Something I’m far too familiar with. The entire yard and house are in a sad state of disrepair; just as the two of us are.
Slamming the front door closed behind me, I toss my keys down onto the small table next to the couch and remove my coat. The only sound in the house is the faint whirring and knocking coming from the fridge. I glance down the hall and am not surprised to see the door to her room closed. It’s most likely locked, which I find somewhat amusing. I have no idea why she bothers with a lock, it’s not like I have a desire to be on the receiving end of her wrath any longer than is required.
After helping myself to a cold beer from the garage fridge and the bottle of vodka I tuck away in the freezer, I head up the steep staircase toward the loft. Long ago I’d dreamt of this space being a man cave, a place where my buddies and I could throw back some beers, chomp on some nachos, and watch football all afternoon. Now the unfinished space is the place I lay my head at night. The only place in this godforsaken house that’s still mine. There are no buddies or nachos, no football games. There’s nothing more than alcohol…and silence.
The space is frigid, the lack of insulation—lack of real walls actually—leaving the space open to the cold temperatures of this winter morning. I turn on the two space heaters and ease down onto the couch; some piece of crap hand-me-down that I found on the side of the road with a big “free” sign sitting on the cushions. It’s ugly—a myriad of orange and yellow and brown—and it smells like a dog resided on it permanently, but beggars can’t be choosers. As crappy as it is, it’s mine.
The beer slides down easily, as do a few good healthy swallows of the vodka. In no time the gentle buzz that’s running through my veins eases some of the tension that remains from our weekly public visitation. It’s not even noon and I’m ready for this day to be over. Ready for another workweek and approximately fifty to sixty hours when I can be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Even a high stress, low-paying job such as mine is better than being relegated to an afternoon on a smelly couch.
I glance around at the open studs, the particle board flooring, and the handful of items that have turned this man-cave into an apartment, and shake my head. This is no home. It’s no damn apartment either. It’s simply a place for me to crash each night, not that I do a lot of sleeping. The miserable futon mattress that I attempt to sleep on is in one corner, blankets and sleeping bags piled high on top. There’s nothing comfortable about it, or this space, but at least I’m not stuck inside the house.
The next few swallows of vodka are too easy and I welcome the slow burn in my empty belly. Drinking and running don’t exactly mix, so I guess it’s a good thing I’ve given myself the day off. I know my knees certainly appreciate it.
Through the fuzzy blur in my head, I somehow manage to roll my eyes to the side, my gaze settling on the small picture frame that’s hanging on the opposite wall. That’s when the pain begins. I should be used to it by now, but it still manages to catch me off guard and leaving me gasping for breath every single time. All these years later and it is just as raw and festering as it was then. And even though I know alcohol won’t alleviate the pain, I still try. A few more swallows and the bottle is half gone, just as I am. Nothing more than a pathetic drunk sitting on a putrid couch in a room that’s half-finished.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to pick myself up and move on, move out, and start to look forward toward a happy future. Then again, maybe someday I’ll drink so much I might fall asleep and never wake up. Deciding which route is better should be easy, but it’s not. Too often the latter is far more appealing.
I don’t even feel the wetness on my face as the tears stream down. Not anymore. Hell, half the time I barely recognize that I’m crying like a baby, it’s become such an ingrained part of who I am.
My eyes drift closed and the first thing I see isher.
The pale, smooth skin of her cheek.
Her tiny fingers curled around my thumb.
She’s the only thing I see anymore.
She’s every waking moment, every dream, each thought that rambles through my alcohol-ridden brain. She’s my reason for putting one foot in front of the other, the only reason I crawl out of my shitty bed each morning and force myself to go on.
