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Davis
My shoes slap against the wet pavement, last night’s deluge leaving numerous puddles for me to traverse.
It’s early, not quite six, and I’ve been running at this fast pace for the last five miles. Sweat runs down my face and I can smell last night’s binge on my skin. Running hungover is something I’ve gotten really, really good at.
When I first began to torture myself to this extent, I’d usually spend half of the run stopping to puke. I don’t know if I should be glad that no longer happens, or if it says more about my body’s ability to process all the alcohol I drink. Somehow in the span of a few years I’ve become a functioning alcoholic.
My need to drink no longer scares me like it once did. Like most things in my life, I’ve found a morbid way of accepting something I can’t change. Something I don’t believe I can change, anyway.
The tension builds in my stomach as I near home. The quiet neighborhood that I once was proud to reside in, now nothing more than a vessel for all my bad memories. If I time it right, she’ll have already left for work. Like me, she hides inside her chosen profession. Unlike me, she refuses to disappear into a bottle.
Her car is pulling out of the driveway just as I’m running in front of the neighbor’s yard. If she sees me, she does a really good job of pretending as if she doesn’t. The car speeds past me, the splash of mud against my legs causing me to startle, sending my ankle rolling. Pain shoots up my leg as I hobble the final few yards toward the house, stopping at the front door to kick off my muddy shoes.
A quick assessment of my ankle shows only minor swelling. Nothing that will slow me down for too long. Being on my feet is part of my job, but the idea that I might not be able to run for a few weeks is frightening as hell. Running is the only sane thing I do in an otherwise insane day to day life.
The refrigerator greets me with a whine and a moan as I move out into the garage and step slowly up the stairs. As fast as I’m able, I head toward the small, utilitarian bathroom that I completed last fall, stripping out of my clothes while the water warms.
Ten minutes later I’m showered and dressed. I no longer smell like a brewery and the twinge in my ankle has lessened for now with the help of the three aspirin I threw down. While the one-cup brews me a strong to-go cup of Joe, I pull sandwich makings from the mini-fridge and get going on my lunch. It’s the same thing every day…run, shower, make food, work. This predictable life of mine is sadly something I’ve come to rely on. The only thing, really.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I know who it is before I even look at the screen. “Hey Ma.”
“Good morning, son.”
Whether it’s good or not, I will leave that debate for another day. “Whatcha need?”
“Would you mind stopping by after work? My garbage disposal is making a funny noise.”
I love my mother dearly, but her weekly ploys to get me to come by her house are starting to grate on my nerves. “You know, if you just want to make me dinner, all you have to do is say so.”
There’s a heavy sigh, and something that sounds a lot like the tea kettle, impatiently making its presence known. “I want to make you dinner. And I want you to look at my disposal.”
“Okay Ma. I’ll see you later.”
Once I’ve stuffed my lunch into a well-used plastic bag, I grab my coffee and keys and head back into the house. The scent of her coffee and a slightly burned bagel lingers in the air as I take a moment to look around. She used to be fastidious about our house. Dust never lingered more than a day or two, and she religiously vacuumed the rug every morning before work. Now, the thick layer of dust can be written in, and I’m fairly certain the last time the vacuum made an appearance was when I used it, six or so months ago, if my memory serves.
Glasses are stacked in the sink, and I set my stuff aside to toss them in the dishwasher. Like the fridge, it makes a groaning sound when I get it going, making me wonder if all the appliances in the house might need to be replaced soon.
Our house is falling down around us. The overall filth and disrepair has had far too many years to fester. Clearly neither one of us seems to care. We do what little needs to be done and let the rest land where it does. Pretty disappointing, since I well remember that we paid top dollar for the home.
Stepping out onto the porch, I lock the front door and head to my truck. There’s considerably more movement on the street now that the sun is up and everyone is beginning their day. The old guy across the street sends me a salute as he takes his annoying dog to the curb. The neighbor next door—some new guy I’ve never met—pulls his brand new Honda Accord out of his driveway and onto the street. He waves to the old dude, who is too busy watching his dog take a shit to notice. Me, he glances at in his rearview, before he heads down the block and turns right.
We’ve owned our house for about seven years, and never once have we made any attempt to get to know our neighbors. Sure, I wave occasionally. Maybe mumble a few words in greeting when I put the cans at the curb for the weekly pick-up. But we might as well live on a twenty acre parcel, we’re just that outcast and alone.
My anonymity has never bothered me until recently. I have no friends to speak of, and the few acquaintances I have are all guys I work with. Besides Ma and my two siblings, I have relationships with practically no one, even though I was born and raised right here in this city on California’s coast. There are days when having someone to talk to feels like sweet relief. Other days, I’m thankful I can be miserable with no one noticing.
The drive to the dealership isn’t long. I pull in the back lot and into one of the spots designated “Service Department Employee”, before cutting the engine. I may work in an elite auto dealership, but my old trusty ’69 Chevy truck—which I’ve owned since I graduated high school—denotes the blue collar guy that I will always be. Lunch in hand, I let myself in through the glass doors and click on the overhead lights. As with every other day of the week, I’m the first one here.
While the computer warms, I get a pot of coffee going. My crew consists of mostly guys like me and one gal who has worked here for twenty plus years. Patsy is nice enough, but she likes to talk, which I don’t have time for most days. Not to mention…I’m not a big talker. I do what needs to be done, and on occasion that’s gotten me into hot water with the big-wigs. You’d think my lack of social skills would have been enough of a red flag to deny me the position of Service Manager. Apparently the bosses saw something in me worth keeping, and promoting. Can’t say those same attributes still remain though.
The Service Department is one big room that’s divided in half by a wall that separates the workers from the customers. There are two windows where customers can get their needs met, and a small counter for the Parts department. My work area is tucked back into the far corner, partially shielded by a bank of filing cabinets. I long for the office that I’ve been promised. It would be nice to shut off all the noises and interruptions I constantly get.
I’m on my second cup of coffee, fully focused on a thick stack of invoices, when the other employees begin to trickle in. There’s the typical early-morning greetings—a bunch of mumbled, nonsensical words—as everyone settles in and begins the day. Patsy arrives with a box of donuts, sharing with all of us the long tale about her shopping trip to Costco over the weekend. I attempt to tune her out, though I do help myself to a maple bar and a few donut holes. I figure it’s what I’m owed, given that she yammers on for a solid ten minutes about nothing.
She finally takes a seat behind her desk when our first customer arrives, one of our frequent flyers who lives his life by the services we recommend in our maintenance booklet. He greets all of us by name, helps himself to a cup of coffee, then strolls to the second window to chat with the always-eager Patsy.
I should be happy that she’s around, willing to take this part of the job off my hands. I’m good with paperwork and I’m great with an engine, but I’m terrible with the mundane chit-chat that’s required of my position. Give me a complicated repair job and I’ll sing a happy tune. Sadly, my promotion almost eight years ago has kept my hands out of the engines and hogtied to the computer; at least until they fire me for being unwilling to shoot the shit with customers.
Ten long hours later, I’m locking the Service doors and sliding behind the wheel once more. I’m worn out from too many hours trying to hold my shit together, from the forced smiles and general niceties that I don’t feel inclined to give. I’ve weathered more than a few pissed off customers, an angry email from the boss about my job performance, and a day-long headache that’s slowly gotten worse with each word out of Patsy’s mouth. I simply can’t stomach going home or dealing with my well-intentioned mother. Not now. Not until the headache has receded and some of the stress has faded away.
To fuel my avoidance, I head downtown to a bar I’ve frequented more times than I can count. The bartender greets me by name and promptly sets a draft and a chaser of whiskey in front of me. How pathetic is my life that the bartender knows me better than the people I work with every day?
Something needs to change. I’ve gone along, year after year, living in painful silence with a woman who despises me. I’ve tolerated a job that I hate, simply because I feel obligated to earn a decent wage, and I have a hefty mortgage that isn’t going to pay itself. I spend my days walking around like a zombie, my nights drinking myself stupid in a vain attempt to keep the memories at bay. It doesn’t work. Nothing does. I’m miserable. Heartbroken. Empty. And I have no fucking idea what to do with my life.
Extracting my phone from my pocket, I send a quick text letting Ma know I won’t be able to make it tonight. And even though I know tomorrow won’t be any better, I justify to myself that I need a reprieve. I’ve earned a reprieve, for putting up with annoying employees, hostile customers, and bitchy bosses.
Tapping my fingers on the bar, I grumble, “Refill”.
