Some Are Sicker Than Others

by Andrew Seaward

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  Dave took another drag and expelled it upward then looked over at Monty as if he wanted to say something. “So,” he said, contemplating the end of his cigarette, “you still wanna hear my story?”

  “Sure. But, only if you want to tell me.”

  “I do, but you gotta promise not to tell any of these other whack jobs in here. I don’t want any of ‘em knowing my business.”

  “Okay, I promise…but I have a feeling they’re going to find out sooner or later. I’ve been in these kind of places before and by the end of the first week everybody usually knows everybody else’s business.”

  “Well then fuck it. I guess it doesn’t really matter then, does it?” Dave sat up and readjusted his posture as if he was about to launch into a serious dissertation. “The reason I’m in here isn’t because I’m an addict.”

  “No?”

  “Nope. It’s because my bitch of a wife called the fucking cops on me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why’d she call the cops on you? What were you doing?”

  “Oh.” Dave snorted and leaned forward. Monty could see the annoyance bubbling on his face.

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  “No, no, I’ll tell you. You seem cool.” He took another drag and put out his cigarette then loosened his collar as if he was a criminal on the stand being cross-examined. “Alright, here it goes.”

  He took a deep breath then launched into a story about how he got pulled over while driving a school bus up to Estes Park. It seemed his wife called the cops on him and got him arrested for kidnapping his son, Larry, and taking him on the bus. The story was kind of convoluted and didn’t make a whole lot of sense to Monty. Why would his wife call the cops on him? And why would they arrest him? What was he doing? Was he being reckless? Was he driving too fast?

  “Wait a minute,” Monty said, interrupting him, “I’m a little confused. Why did the cops arrest you? Were you driving too fast?”

  “What? No, I told you. It’s because my wife called them.”

  “Yeah, I understand that, but what grounds did they have for arresting you? I mean, they can’t just throw you in prison for no reason.”

  “Oh, well they found my stash.”

  “Stash of what?”

  “Crack.”

  Ah-ha. There it was. That explained it. Finally, the story was starting to make some sense. “Okay, now I see,” Monty said. “So, you were smoking crack and driving a school bus?”

  “Well, not at the same time. I mean, I pulled over at a gas station. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Right, right.” Monty tried his best to conceal his laughter, but the mental image was horrifically hilarious—this guy high off of crack behind the wheel of a school bus barreling down the mountains with the cops chasing after him. It sounded less like reality and more like television, like something he’d seen in a Bill Murray movie.

  Monty sat up and put on his best poker face, squeezing the ends of the armrests. “So, your wife called the cops on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was she on the bus too?”

  “What? No man. She was at court all day.”

  “Well then how did she know where you were?”

  “She always knows where I am. She’s a fucking lawyer.”

  “Oh, okay, that explains it.” Monty rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe this guy was serious. What was he talking about? Was he crazy? “Okay,” Monty said. “So, your wife’s a lawyer.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And she called the cops on you.”

  “Right.”

  “Because you kidnapped your son, Larry?”

  “Yes—I mean, no. I didn’t kidnap him. He’s my son too for Christ’s sake. I didn’t have time to take him all the way to Broomfield so I just took him with me up to the volleyball match. What’s so bad about that?”

  “Nothing, except…”

  “Except what?”

  Monty paused and considered his next words carefully. He didn’t want to get this guy too riled up. In addition to being mentally ill, he could also quite possibly be homicidal. “Well, you were driving around under the influence, right?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, don’t you think that’s a little irresponsible?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never driven around a little fucked up.”

  “No I have, but—”

  “But what? What’s the difference?”

  “Well, I guess there is no difference, but I mean, if I got pulled over, I’d definitely know I deserved it.”

  “Well, there’s the difference right there—I didn’t deserve it. The cops pulled me over for no fucking reason. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I wasn’t speeding.”

  “But you were smoking crack.”

  “Yeah, but how would they know that?”

  “Well, your wife told them, right?”

  “Yes. Exactly. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. The bitch turned me in. She betrayed me.”

  “Well, maybe she was just worried about you. Maybe she thought you’d get into an accident.”

  “No, Cheryl doesn’t care about anyone but herself. Why do you think she put me in here?”

  “Uh…because you need help?”

  “Fuck no. The only reason she put me in here was so she could divorce me. I won’t give her another kid, so she’s trying to get rid of me. She’s fucking evil, man, I’m telling you. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s cheating on me right now with one of her little, fucking lawyer buddies.”

  Monty just shook his head. He didn’t know what else he could say to him. The guy was obviously too far in denial to listen to any reason. But, what did he care? It wasn’t his responsibility to try and play counselor. Why not just let the guy have his crazy delusion? He seemed harmless, albeit a bit deluded. At least he was in here and not out on the highway. It was only a matter of time before the crazy bastard killed someone.

  Just then, Monty heard someone shouting at them from the backyard patio. He got up from his chair and peered out over the railing. It was Dexter. He was in the yard, calling up to them, yelling something about coming down for lunch.

  Monty walked back across the veranda, turning to Dave before he started down the spiral staircase. “I think they’re starting to serve lunch. You want to go down there?”

  Dave nodded and finished his cigarette then stomped it out on the balcony. “Hell yeah, let’s go. I’m fucking starving.”

  The meeting hall had been transformed into a banquet style cafeteria. The horseshoe of chairs was gone, replaced by two columns of white, fiberglass top folding tables. The women were on one side and the men were on the other, and there was a constant carousel of patients going up and down the steps to the kitchen. They carried plastic plates that were loaded with fried chicken and what looked like mashed potatoes swimming in an ocean of gravy.

  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.”
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  “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 b
astards 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.