Dirty Nights

by A. M. Hargrove

  My phone rings, making me jump. I check the screen and groan. And so it begins.

  “Yep?”

  “Ryder, honey.” She says it and her voice drips it. Sticky, gooey syrupy shit. I get this image of her with it running out of her mouth and I give my head a rough shake.

  “Mom.”

  “Five o’clock. At the Fish Grille. Sound okay?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “We can’t wait to see you, honey.”

  “Five then.”

  That tiny brown vial is in my hand faster than I can hang up the phone. I do another hit of coke and head to the shower. When was the last time I bathed anyway? I can’t remember.

  As I scrub away the stink off me, I remind myself to go to the clinic and get tested again. My brain is so numb I can’t remember if I used a condom last night. If only for this alone, I need to pull my shit together. Bringing sleazy women home is normally off the menu for me. I swore to myself I wouldn’t do that. Why the fuck was she here this morning? The fact that I had my dick jammed down her throat is bad enough, but I wonder if I had it crammed in her cunt last night. Maybe this dinner will do me some good because I need to straighten my ass up.

  When I’m done, I go get dressed. All my clothes are dirty. Filthy actually. When’s the last time I did laundry? No idea. I put my feet into my cleanest and nicest pair of pants, which aren’t very nice after all. They hang on me. As I look in the mirror, I notice how thin I’ve become. When did this happen? I used to be so muscular. My thighs were so bulky I had trouble getting pants to fit. That was before. Even my upper body was thick from all the weights I lifted. I had to be strong to lift the ballerinas. So I was diligent in my workouts. No more. I look like some damn sixteen year old who can’t keep up with his growth spurts. Scrawny and skinny. My hair is long now and I never had long hair. Most of the time it’s greasy and nasty. Now it doesn’t look so bad because it’s clean. But I barely resemble the guy I used to be. No damn wonder I make my mom cry.

  I have to stop thinking about this. When I get to the den, if you want to call it that, I flop on the sofa and pick up my pipe. My weed is somewhere around here and after I find it, I put a pinch in the bowl and light it. Inhaling deeply, I let the effects of it take over. Not long after, that edginess dissipates and I’m much calmer. Weed is so much better than alcohol. Numbs my physical pain too. After another hit, I’m in a much better frame of mind. Leaning my head back, I take a short nap.

  I wake up and it’s after four. Knowing I have to go uptown, I make my way out the door to the subway. Being late is never a good thing with my parents.

  After I arrive at the restaurant, I give the host my name and follow him to the table where my parents are already seated.

  My dad stands to greet me and his eyes narrow as he inspects my attire.

  “Dad.”

  “Ryder,” he extends his hand and we shake.

  “Hi Mom.” I lean down and kiss her cheek.

  “Oh, honey. How are you?”

  “I’m good, Mom. You?”

  “Ryder, we’re fine. But we don’t want to talk about us. We want to know about you. What are you up to? You look so thin, honey. Are you eating?”

  “Mom.” This is the last thing I want to discuss … my unhealthy eating habits.

  “Honey, look at your pants. They’re hanging on you.”

  About now is when I feel the urge to run, but oh wait! I can’t run anymore.

  “Mom, can we refrain from discussing my size?”

  “Honey!” She drags the ‘ey’ out and makes it last forever.

  “Mom, I came to this dinner because you agreed you wouldn’t do this. Now I can leave.”

  “Please don’t, son.” My dad says. “Your mother and I want to talk to you about something. We think you, ah, well we think it’s time you pull yourself together.”

  Really Dad? “Oh?”

  “Yes. Your mother and I have decided that unless you begin to show some initiative toward your future, we will pull all financial support from you.”

  Why am I not surprised? I’ve seen this coming for a while now.

  “So, Dad, what do you have in mind?” The snarkiness is all over my question.

  “School. Some kind of formal education.”

  “Ryder, darling, you could become a professional choreographer. Or a set designer. Or even an instructor.”

  My hand flies out, my palm extended. “Stop right there! I will not have anything to do with dance. Clear?”

  They stare at me like a deer in the headlights. Why are they shocked? It’s not the first time I’ve said this.

  “Look, let me give this a little thought. I know you mean well, but I don’t know …”

  “Ryder, we’re not leaving you any options. No school, no money. Remember, we control your trust fund and we can do with it what we please. Now I know this may sound cruel to you, but you’re wasting your life away right now. You’re lying around doing ... well quite frankly we don’t know, nor do we want to know. We’re sure it involves things that we can’t even comprehend. Your appearance is evident of that.”

  “Okay, so …”

  “So nothing. Did you not hear what I said? We’re giving you an ultimatum. Take it or leave it. School or nothing. We’re happy to support you if you go, but if you refuse, we cut you off. It’s May now. You have until August to get enrolled in fall classes somewhere. If you opt not to, then you’re on your own financially. You’re twenty-five years old as it is. You should be on your own anyway. Functioning in some capacity. Yes, you were dealt a blow …”

  “A blow? Is getting beaten nearly to death and having my dancing career destroyed only a blow? I can barely fucking walk now!”

  “That’s enough, Ryder. We’re in a public place. Act like an adult, not a petulant child. We’re terribly sorry this happened to you. We’re every bit as upset as you are.”

  “Really? I doubt that. How can you be? You prance around in your high society lives like nothing is real to you.”

  “Stop it, Ryder. Now. I’m tired of seeing you behave this way. You need help. Counseling. Therapy. Look at you. You’re a mess. And you won’t do it unless we force your hand. So we’re forcing your hand,” Dad says.

  This dinner is much worse than I had anticipated. They’re not going to give up on this. This is the end of the line for them and I’m going to have to comply.

  My legs bounce beneath the table, one more so than the other for obvious reasons. My anger over this ambush of theirs is palpable. My mother withers as I glare at her. This was the absolute set up. They knew I would blow a fuse if they did this anywhere besides a public place. Right now I need a hit of some weed to calm me down.

  “Excuse me.” I stand and head to the restroom. Once there, I take a quick hit off the small pipe I carry with me constantly. Then I wait for the calm to hit before I go back to the table.

  When I rejoin them, my father asks with disdain, “Feel better?”

  Not bothering to answer, I drink my water instead. The trembling in my hands has eased somewhat, but it’s there and they can see it. The thing is, they’re right. I know they’re right. But I can’t seem to find it within myself to move forward. I’m stuck in this place that I’ve landed in, and as much as I would like to be what they want, I know I’m not capable of it. That night I was attacked, not only was my career stolen, but so was everything I had. My strength, my pride, my drive, my courage and sometimes my will to keep going. All those times when I was growing up and my mom told me I would never make it, I pushed myself because I knew I could. There was something inside of me that told me so. That something is dead and gone now. There’s a deep, dark void. An empty abyss where it used to be and I don’t think I can ever get it back. I don’t know how to get it back.

  The silence is so loud now it’s become ridiculous. But right now I really have nothing to say to them. My throat is thick with things I want to say, but the words never seem to make it past my lips.

  Swallo
wing, I croak out, “Look, I’m sorry for putting you two through all of this. You don’t deserve it. But I need to think about everything you just said.”

  As I stand, my mom grabs my hand and says, “Ryder, please don’t leave. Please.”

  The pleading in her voice annoys me, though for once I know she’s sincere.

  I shake my head and say, “Nah, your dinner will be better without me. I’ll call you later.” Turning away from them, I limp my way to the door, cane in hand as I go.

  My cane stares back at me, mocking me. Sometimes it even speaks to me, telling me I’m the biggest pussy-piece-of-shit known to man. I don’t argue because I know it’s right. After that disastrous dinner with my parents, my drug use escalated. I’m now using to wake up, to sleep, to function. My parents need my decision regarding school. If I start classes, I can’t go like this because I’ll fail. I need help. It’s as plain as the nose on my face.

  So what do I do? I hit the crack pipe. I need a buzz so I can get out of here. And that’s not possible without some assistance. Once I’m riding high, I head out to the clubs. Well, I use the word clubs loosely. The places I frequent these days are more like dives. Hell holes. Places I wouldn’t have thought of going a year and a half ago. But these are the places where I score my drugs and where I score a piece of ass when I need it. Like now.

  The place I head for is, ironically, called the Black Hole. It must’ve been named for me. It’s in a seedy part of town and I don’t want to think about what it looks like under the light of day. Although, it probably looks no worse than my own apartment. Foul is the word that comes to mind. But when I walk inside, a calm seeps into my bones. This is a place that offers me comfort. Where no one judges me and I can relax. As I look around the room, I see several people I know and realize that these are my people now. It takes a few minutes, but I finally find the person I’m hunting. It’s my drug connection, Zinc. That’s the only name I know him by and that’s how I want to keep it. He nods when he sees me, and moments later, takes a seat next to me in a booth.

  “My boy, Ryder. How are you, dude?”

  “Good, now that you’re here.”

  “Whassup?”

  “I need you to hit me around the block.”

  “Snow, rock and weed?” Zinc asks.

  “Yeah, man.”

  “Here? Tonight?”

  “If you got it.”

  “Yeah, but not on me. You gotta give me a few. You got cash?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “Sweet. Sit tight, dude, and have some beverages. I’ll be back.”

  And he is. About an hour later. With exactly what I ordered. By this time I’m feeling mighty good, reinforced with several bourbons on the rocks. We make our exchange and I hit the john. I need a rush so I do a hit of coke and know that in a while I’ll be riding high.

  A girl that’s been checking me out, intercepts me as I make my way back to my seat.

  “You alone?”

  “Not anymore.”

  She giggles. Why do girls have to giggle? “I’m Tiffie.”

  “Hi Tiffie. I’m Ryder.”

  Tiffie sits across from me and I learn all about her, from the time she was three years old and how she ran away from home when she was fifteen. I know I should empathize, but I don’t. I stare at her pink and blue fluffy hair and wonder how she is able to make it look like that. It’s not fluffy in a good way. It’s a shame too, because Tiffie isn’t bad looking. She just needs to wear her lipstick inside of her lips, not smeared outside of them. And her eye shadow is neon blue, giving her eyes a scary look.

  She leans across the table and asks, “You like whatcha see, Ryler?”

  Tiffie is wasted. She can’t even say my name.

  “No, not really, but you’ll do. Come with me, Tiffie.”

  She follows me to the men’s room.

  “Get down on your knees and deep throat my cock. Now.”

  Tiffie giggles and does as I tell her. Her mouth works me over but I keep getting glimpses of her cotton candy hair tower and it disturbs my enjoyment. So I say, “Get up, Tiffie. Pull up your skirt and turn around.”

  “Oooh, you like it from the back.”

  “Now put your hands on the wall.”

  Tiffie is very compliant. I slam my condom-wrapped cock into her pussy and she groans.

  “Do you like this Tiffie?”

  “Y-y-yessss.”

  I grab her waist and pump into her. Her fluffy pink and blue spire of hair tilts precariously and I have this image that I’m fucking Marge Simpson. I close my eyes so I don’t lose my erection.

  “Tell me how much you love my cock, Tiffie. Tell me how much your cunt loves my cock.”

  “My cunt loves your crock.”

  Fuck. She can’t even say cock. “Is that all?”

  “Huh?”

  Tiffie is so damn drunk, she can’t even think dirty, much less talk it. I stretch her out along the wall and slam my hips into her ass. It’s hard and rough because with each hit, I grind myself against her. When I feel close to blowing my wad, my tempo increases even more. Her breathing is sounding like a damn dog in the August heat now. Maybe mine is too. All I want to do is come so I can get this sport fuck over. And finally I do. When my dick finishes it’s final spurt, I pull out, and rip off the condom. I drop it in the toilet next to me and flush, and then wipe my balls off, just to make sure I clean off her juices from me. I hate to leave that mess behind. When I’m confident everything is tidied up, I zip junior back in my pants and tell Tiffie she can pull her skirt down.

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Shit. That bitch is so hammered she doesn’t even know the fuck fest is over.

  “Come on Tiffie. Didn’t you enjoy your orgasm?”

  “Oh yeah. That was great.”

  “Good. Let me buy you a drink.”

  And that’s when it hits me. Is this where I want to spend the rest of my days? Hanging with and banging girls like Tiffie? Girls that don’t even know they didn’t come?

  With my hand on Tiffie’s arm I guide her back to the booth. Then I get her another of whatever it is she’s drinking and I head home.

  Once there, I rummage through all my things until I find what I seek. It’s a crumpled up piece of paper and I tap the numbers on my screen.

  “Case here.”

  “Case. This is Ryder. I need to talk.”

  SIX

  Ryder

  Present Day

  The NA meeting was crowded tonight. When I leave, Case is still talking with a few newcomers. I need to get a move on because of some studying on my agenda tonight. Things are going okay. Not great but better than they were. School sucks. Classes are killing me, especially English, Psych and Criminal Justice. It’s not that I don’t like them, because I do. But the constant battle I’m waging against my body’s need for drugs makes it so fucking difficult to concentrate that I’m doing a piss poor job in them.

  At least my parents know the real me now. Case was good enough to help with that. God, he supported me through everything and has stuck with me over the last five months, even when I didn’t think I would make it. Withdrawal was a bitch. No, let me rephrase that. It was a fucking nasty piece of nightmare. Thought I was dying. Again. There are some days when I wonder if I’m still going through it. The lure of the drugs. To get my hands on some crack. The way it makes me feel. Even a draw off a bowl of weed. Man, what I would give. But then I stop that train of thought and remember where I was and how far I’ve come. One God-for-fucking-saken day at a time.

  My parents begged me to move back in with them, but I refused. I have to do this on my own. Yes, it’s more of a challenge, but I need to become my own person again. So I moved to a different place … a better neighborhood and a nicer apartment. And even now, I don’t use a cane anymore. Case has gotten on my ass and I hit the gym every day for at least two hours. Weights and then the bike to strengthen all the supporting muscles in my leg. And to chase away the drug demons. My parents, of co
urse, pay for everything. Well, my trust fund does. Someday I want to give back to them what they’ve done for me. NA has taught me that much.

  Yeah, they may not have been the most supportive in my youth, but they’ve come through like champs when I needed them during my crisis. My selfishness in my younger days has made me realize what a shit I was. Just because they didn’t fall all over every fucking thing I wanted or did, I was pissed at them. But they were doing what parents should do. Making their kid think about the decisions he chose. And my mom. I used to think she was self-centered. She is to a point, but who isn’t? She got pregnant with me in the height of her career as prima donna. Who wouldn’t be a little bitter and sad about losing something like that? But hell, she could’ve had an abortion. But she didn’t. She chose to have me. Maybe I was the shit all these years. Not her. NA has taught me more about myself in the last five months, than I knew in the last twenty-five years.

  Perhaps being an addict was part of my plan. Maybe getting assaulted and nearly dying as a result of it was also part of my plan. Part of my plan to become a better person. To become the real Ryder. The Ryder I was meant to be. I hope so because I’m busting my ass and it’s about killing me all over again.

  There’s a coffee shop right around the corner from my apartment … the same one where I first met Case. I decide to stop in for an extra large double shot latte on my way home. It’s going to be a long night. My phone bleeps as I walk to the counter. I’m looking at the text and not paying attention to where I’m walking when someone crashes into me.

  “Oh darn,” a soft voice says and then I hear a splat. I look down to see a cup hit the floor and the contents of such spill everywhere.