But the hardest things he tried to sort out in his mind included the shame, ‘why, why couldn’t I say something, why couldn’t I tell the manager that it wasn’t the Bird’s fault, he was teaching me. And then there was the most colossal, unfathomable thing of all. When the manager said, I’m getting complaints about you, they call you Demon, he had been talking to the Bird. And the Bird just took it. He didn’t say ‘you’ve got the wrong guy’ he just took the blame, and even said that they call him Demon at school.
Demon’s head swam with never before experienced emotions. He wanted to hide them somewhere. Somewhere so dark and deep and hidden that they never get out.
But he had a job to do, and a whole lot of relearning about how to do it.
Demon pulled a bus tub out of the stack with all of the delicacy of handling fine crystal. He retrieved a wipe cloth from the sanitizer bucket and wrung it out.
Still too wet. He wrung it some more. He checked the corners for drips and pinched one offending area into submission. Fully armed, he faced the dining room. The urge to race to the table was paramount. The freshly delivered lecture its twin. ‘You shall not run in this restaurant. You will walk.’
Demon walked.
He gingerly picked his way through the dining room toward table 24. He passed diners on their way to and from the salad bar. He noticed patrons leaving their tables and others in the anxious queue at the hostess station.
Never had he noticed the people, not in such vivid clarity. Before the only things in his mind were objects: tables, dishes and silverware.
24 was empty of eaters but laden with dishes. On busy nights like this the waitresses didn’t always have the chance to clear the dinner plates before the patrons departed. Demon set to work. ‘You will not fling dishes into the tub, you shall place them in the tub.’ With gentle deliberate strokes, Demon picked up each piece of dinnerware and independently parked them in the tub. As he deposited a water glass it clinked harmlessly against a plate. Demon hissed in breath, then carefully laid the glass on its side.
Cleared, he stared at the table unsure of what to do next. Before, everything had been so fast that it was automatic. Slowing down meant thinking, and that got in the way.
The patrons at this table had been prim eaters so the absence of crumbs and stains added to his momentary lapse. ‘The wipe!’ He whisked the cloth across the top like in days of old, then caught himself, and slowed his motion to a turtles pace.
All that was left was to return the tub to the dish room and re-set the table. The walk back was more challenging, with a full tub he didn’t dare shift for fear of chattering the contents. Finally, free of the old, he gathered the new.
Napkins. One, two, three, four.
Spoons. One, two, three, four.
Knives. One, two, three, four.
Forks. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
An odd tickling in the back of his brain caused him a moment of doubt. The count, was it right? In the past, if after setting the table he discovered that he was shy by one spoon, he had just ran back and retrieved another one.
But that wasn’t the issue, nor the answer. He became obsessed with the need for the count to be verified. Right here. Right now. In his mind’s eye came an image of The Count from Sesame Street. ‘Four spoons! I see four spoons!’ The Count would laugh maniacally, "Ah Ah Ah Ah Ahhhh!" accompanied by thunder and lightning flashes.
‘Four spoons’ he whispered. The obsession tugged at his brain like a fishhook, but finally he moved to the next step.
Table 24. ‘You will not scatter silverware on the table, you shall set the silverware on the table.’ And set he did, deliberately and precisely; each piece carefully aligned with its mates.
Finished, he looked back at the table, and was plowed by an inner compulsion that it just wasn’t right, that it needed to be touched, adjusted, re-set, and touched again. Had he been more astute, he might have recognized that the genetic trait of his mother’s OCD was working its first set of tendrils in his semi-psyche.
“Pick it up. We have more tables waiting.” The carefully practiced voice of the hostess preceded her but was undetected by the party following her lead to 24.
Demon was startled from his reverie. He had been examining the silverware and the hostess had told him to pick it up. He complied and started removing silverware from the table.
“What are you doing!? No!” This part did not go undetected by the party.
“Is there something wrong with the table?” From the man who was leading the foursome and who obviously would be footing the tab.
“My apologies” the hostess scrambled “There may have been a water-spot on this place setting and this young man was sharp enough to catch it. I’ll bring you a new set personally.”
She took the perfectly good set of silverware from Demon and walked with him up the aisle. “I don’t know what Mr. Merrill was talking to you about but shake it off. We’re swamped.” And with that she ducked into the busboy station, counted to ten and then returned to table 24 with the same set of silverware.
Demon’s mind revolved over two concepts: Slower, faster. Faster, slower. Why wasn’t there someplace in between? He picked up a bus tub and embarked on his next assignment in herky-jerky, staccato ebbs and swells; desperately willing himself not to blaze while shaking himself free from bouts of lethargy. The sight of uncleared tables (several of them) screamed for him to run. While the siren songs of counting, repetition and the quest for perfection mired him in indolence.
OCD
Bi-Polar
Manic/Depressive
The first symptoms may not be the scariest, but they are still very unsettling.
Chapter 3
1
“Fuckin-A D-man, what a wild one tonight.” The Bird had cruised his Falcon through the employee parking lot and sat idling next to his fellow yellow-shirt. Demon looked up from unchaining his bike. “Let’s go for a ride man, you and me. We need to take some of the edge off.”
The first time that he had been offered a ride from the Bird, six weeks ago back on Valley Street, Demon had declined. Since that first chance encounter he had begun to view the Bird with utter respect and something just short of awe. And then there was tonight; when the esteem meter shot up past idolization and almost attained reverence.
“Okay.” Demon began to re-shackle his bike but the Bird stopped him. “No, just throw it in the back, I don’t wanna have to come back to this shit-hole again tonight if you know what I mean.”
Demon thought that he did know. The Prospector had changed and he had changed with it. He wrestled his bike into the back of the Falcon and then took his seat on the passenger side.
“Fuckin-A gimme five man. What a fucked up night.” The Bird had his right palm extended face up. Demon knew of the practice from television, but never had performed the act. He slapped down on the Bird’s hand and nearly choked in the power of sharing some skin with his idol. The Bird tromped on the gas, leaving his signature on the concrete. With that, two birds and one demon got the hell out fat cat city and set out for destinations unknown.
“God, I’ve been dying for a smoke ever since old man ‘bone marrow’ gave us the business.” He deftly shook a couple of sticks above the pack, took one directly into his mouth and then offered the pack to Demon.
“Smoke?”
The simple offer of a cigarette. In itself, a most benign gesture. But it’s the kind of gesture that symbolizes all major life events. First drink, first kiss, first speeding ticket, first blow job. One person offers, the other accepts.
Demon accepted.
He was walking through a door. A door that, until now, had excluded him from the things he craved. Acceptance, insight, understanding. Yes, he knew that cigarettes were bad for you, but there were advantages. Each day at school he saw small groups of kids together who held nothing in common except for the fact that they smoked.
“Here” the Bird had fired up his own grit and was holding
the flaming bic out to Demon. While his inexperience showed; chasing the flame with the tip, neglecting to inhale to get the cherry glowing properly, he did not fall victim to the “oops, you lit the wrong end” bane of so many novices.
They drove and they smoked. The Bird steering easily while drawing hard and deep, the demon riding stiff, pulling token puffs that barely passed his lips.
But what he did get, he liked. A minty taste made his tongue and lips tingle. The experience was making him feel…feel what? Dangerous? Involved? Whatever it was it was a good feeling and he chased it with a little more meaningful puff and inhale.
“You likin’ that D-man? Kools! Menthol kings. The menthol will crystallize your lungs but we’re all gonna die someday.” The Bird turned North onto highway 34. It was after midnight and they had the road to themselves.
They drove in silence for a few miles before Demon worked up the words he wanted to share. “Jon, I want to thank you…for tonight.” He got a reaction but it wasn’t the one he was expecting.
“Wait just one mother fucking minute. What is this ‘Jon’ shit?” In mock falsetto he repeated: “Jon, I want to thank you…for tonight. Fuck that noise! Call me the Bird! I’m the Bird and you are Deeeeeee-MAN! Now gimme five and try it again and don’t be fuckin’ it up this time.”
At first, he winced; then in recognition of the satire he displayed a rare treat. He grinned. The fives were exchanged, this time with a little more expertise. His confidence soared. The Bird understood him, and if it took him a little longer to say the words, to get it right, that was okay.
“Bird, I wanna say thank you.”
“Now you’re talkin’”
“Boone Merrill shouldn’t have—“
“Bone marrow, old man bone marrow shouldn’t have—” the Bird corrected.
Demon had to pause and then smiled as the gist of the joke finally registered. He considered an addendum and continued at bold risk: “Oh, right… Old man mother-fucking-A bone marrow…”
The Bird turned awestruck, and then erupted. Laughter exploded out of every opening of his body. He banged his hands on the steering wheel sending the car slaloming along highway 34; centerline to shoulder.
Demon couldn’t have been more delighted.
For the next 20 minutes, Demon shared, and the Bird prompted when needed, the things he was trying to say. He thanked the Bird for showing him what he had been doing wrong. He shared how unjust it was for old man bone marrow to come down hard on the Bird when he had just been trying to help. He apologized to the Bird for not having the words to explain to the boss that he had the two of them mixed up. But mostly when the Bird had, what do you call it… “taken the blame, stuck up for you, covered your ass?” …yeah, that. Mostly how the Bird had…well, how he had helped him.
“No sweat De-man. The way I see it, what’s the point in getting both of us in trouble? Plus, how do you think old bone marrow is gonna feel when he finds out that he was the one who fucked up!”
Demon had not considered the prospect at all. His admiration for the Bird leapt exponentially. It wasn’t just how easily he had covered for the both of them, it was how he could see the ‘oh shit’ moment awaiting Boone – uh, old man, bone marrow.
“And you wanna know something funny?” The Bird was openly laughing. “The only time that I was worried tonight, was when the bone man made that crack about the road runner having a roman candle shoved up his ass! I nearly shit my fucking pants! That would have really pissed him off!”
At that, Demon did something remarkable. He laughed. Not the fabricated laugh that he reserved for TV viewing, but an honest to goodness laugh shared with another human being. He and his coworker looked at each other and laughed some more.
The Bird bounced in his seat, waggled his tongue and spit: “bllp-bllp-bllp meep! meep!”
Demon howled. He howled long and hard, and when he thought he was all laughed out he’d imagine flaming balls shooting out of the road runners ass and then howl some more. He would regain control; and then lose it again as the image of the Bird shitting his pants in front of the bone man confiscated his mind.
Demon laughed and howled for the moment at hand and as a gesture to the 15 years of his life that he had endured without the gift of true, honest-to-goodness, laughter.
And, most important, the Bird laughed with him.
2
Along the way the Bird shook out another smoke. Demon, feeling more enabled than ever before, boldly dragged and inhaled. His body buzzed as his manic receptors eagerly soaked up the nicotine.
“Wow!” he exclaimed in honest appreciation. He looked at the cigarette and then at the Bird.
“De-man has got a buzz on!” the Bird trumpeted. He tapped out a random rapid fire beat on the steering wheel with both hands, then stopped and stared intently.
“This is where we’re headed.”
A T–intersection marked the end of highway 34 and the options of highway 6 west or highway 6 east.
“Which way?” Demon cared not about the late hour, the many miles they had covered or the miles that lay ahead. He was having the night of his life.
“Which way?” the Bird teased as if it were the most remarkably stupid question he had ever heard. “We go right!” His eyes lit up like diamonds. “But first, we gotta pull off here.” The Bird slowed the Falcon as they approached a flat open area preceding of the intersection.
3
Some thirty years ago, an enterprising businessman determined that the junction of highways 6 and 34 would be the perfect cash cow for a gas station/café operation. And perfect it was. Perfect for travelers to use the bathroom without the courtesy of buying something. Perfect for people to throw their trash out the window while paused at the intersection. Perfect for hunters, traveling salesman and aspiring politicians to stop and get directions and be back on their way without so much as a thank you, let alone a purchase.
Yes, it was perfect. Perfect for everything, except business.
Although the building had long since been razed, the concrete parking lot was still largely intact. In well practiced fashion the Bird cruised into the vacant lot and killed the lights. “If we turned left we’d end up in mother fucking Nebraska.” His geography may have been off, but the barren wasteland of westbound highway 6 was an apt analogy. “No man, we’re going right. You ever been on ’14 hills road’?” The Bird was absolutely beaming.
Demon shook his head. He had never been on ’14 hills road;’ had never been beyond the city limits of Elmwood for that matter. “Oooohhh, fuckin’ A D-man! You’re in for a treat!” The Bird rummaged around under the drivers seat while he described the drive ahead. “There are 14 of the most awesome hills, the road is wide, and it’s smooooth.” He dragged out the word slowly, putting great reverence in the characteristic. “It’s like an effin’ roller coaster; in slow motion.”
He extracted a Dutch Masters cigar box from the hiding place, checked his mirrors and both side windows, then popped open the lid, displaying a miniature pipe and bag of weed. “Time to get loaded!” he hooted, showing the contraband to Demon.
Although he was seeing pot and the funny little fairy pipe for the first time, Demon was not alarmed. Curious, yes, skeptical, maybe a little. But in this one night alone, the Bird had opened up so many new and wonderful doors, that Demon was agreeable to any new adventure. If the Bird had produced a bottle of Drano from the cigar box and suggested they drink it, Demon would have chugged his share.
“What does it do to you?” The question: clinical.
“It makes you feel like you’re floating!” The answer: mysterious, enticing; accurate.
“But don’t expect too much. Most people don’t get high their first time.”
Demon felt reassured if not a little discouraged.
He watched as the Bird carefully filled the fairy pipe with buds and shake from the baggie. He held the cigar box firmly between his legs to prevent the loss of any precious droppings. “If this was plain old Mexica
n you probably wouldn’t get a buzz. But this is Columbian Gold! “bllp-bllp-bllp-bllp meep! meep!”
Demon produced a smile, but just a small one, as the Bird finished his preparations and then pulled out his bic. With instructional sincerity: “Now this is gonna be harsher than the Kools. Go easy on your first few puffs. After you inhale, try to hold it for 20 seconds.”
The Bird flamed the bic and lit a small corner of the bowl. Immediately the car filled with a pungent tang of smoldering alfalfa. He got a mouthful of smoke and then sucked in air noisily to demonstrate the proper technique for driving the gold deep inside the lungs.
“Here,” he held out the pipe. The word sounded more like ‘ear’ as the Bird labored not to lose even a wisp of the precious smoke.
Demon took the pipe.
It was small but much heavier than he expected. The bowl and stem were steel at the core. Raised ribs of insulation helped to protect fingers from the hot metal and provide an easy grip for clumsy stoners. He could see the small cherry ember in the bowl and the tendril of smoke it created.
Alter Boys Page 20