by Rick R. Reed
She meets my eyes for a second, and I notice, for the first time, her eyes are a kind of interesting shade of gold. Pretty.
“It’s generous, Rufus, under the circumstances.”
“Which you still haven’t mentioned. I assume I’m being let go because I’ve missed too many days.”
Sheila nods. “That and one other minor detail.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a little pink baggy that has a bit of white powder in the bottom. She throws it on the table. “Pretty careless of you, leaving this in your desk. You’re very lucky you’re getting off as lightly as you are. We could have prosecuted.”
Sheila stands. I don’t know what to say. I giggle and immediately regret it. I say, “Whoa… I usually don’t leave this much lying around.”
But Sheila, if she heard, gives no indication. She’s on her way back to her cube.
I sip coffee gone cold and think how Sheila’s doing more than going back to her cube. She’s going back to the “normal” world, a place from which I’m suddenly excluded.
Ah… being at home on a weekday has a special feel. It’s as if all the world’s at work and you get to be at leisure. Hey, lucky me.
My neighborhood is pretty quiet. Ravenswood, they call it, God knows why. It’s on the northwest side of Chicago, once the home of German immigrants, now just in the midst of gentrification. A Starbucks has gone up just around the corner, down the street a new Crate and Barrel. Not that this was ever a poor neighborhood. It’s mostly family dwellings, working class once upon a time, two-flats and single-family houses.
Mine is a one-way street, and there aren’t many cars going by. I’m trying to concentrate on feeling bad, feeling panicked. The severance, my pay, and a couple days of vacation added up to only about $2,000. That seemed like a lot of money when I was just out of college. Now I know how fast it can go.
I’m trying not to think about the little bit of cocaine I have in my pocket. The little bit of cocaine that probably lost me my job. What were they doing searching my desk, anyway? Is that legal? Not that I’ll be contacting a lawyer over it, but what right does Sheila have putting her fat black hands in my drawers? And God, does that conjure up a nauseating picture.
So there’s some coke… enough for probably five or six decent lines. And anyway, I could use a little oblivion. Just for this one day… this shit day. It’s not that much. It’s not like I’m going to be up all night.
But the thing that scares me is that I’ll call Sam. Now, Sam isn’t always around during the day, but about 60 percent of the time he is. And the good thing about when he’s around during the day is that he’s usually not too busy and I can get my delivery in about fifteen minutes.
Ah shit… I’m not going to be able to think of anything else.
I’ll just do what I have. God knows I don’t need to be spending money I don’t, or soon won’t, have.
I pull off my sweater, T-shirt, and jeans, sit down naked on the couch. My heart is already racing. The expectation, the want, is almost as much of a physical rush as the drug itself. My breathing is coming more quickly, and my tongue plays a little vibrating tune against the roof of my mouth. “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” don’t ask me why.
I empty what’s in the bag onto a dollar bill and realize there’s more here than I at first thought. A couple of decent sized pebbles, which will yield a fair amount of powder. I fold the dollar bill over once, then seal the edges by folding a thin seam all the way around. Flip it over. There’s a pen in the desk next to the couch. I get it, uncap it, and use it as the world’s tiniest rolling pin, going over the folded dollar first horizontally, then vertically. When I open the bill, I’m breathless. The fine powder falls from the dollar to the table’s glass-topped surface.
Beautiful.
Did I lose my job today? Do I wonder how I’ll pay the rent, make my car payment, buy food, have electricity, gas, and telephone?
No.
Just as I stand to get myself a straw and a razor blade, the phone rings.
I’m tempted not to answer it, but it’s Gabe from downstairs. Gabe works at home. Gabe is a good friend. We used to go out to the bars together. That was before Miss Cocaine came on the scene, when suddenly I was busy or didn’t feel well when Gabe wanted to go out. I guess he’s found other people to hang out with. Who knows?
But I can’t ignore the call because he knows I’m up here. Hundred-year-old hardwood floors aren’t all that quiet.
“Hello.”
“Darling, is that you up there? I hear the pitter-patter of tiny footsteps.”
I laugh, but it’s short, mirthless. I’m eyeing the little mound of snow on my coffee table, hating this distraction. “Yes, those are mine.”
“Good. I didn’t want to think it was some burglar or something.” Gabe laughs. “Unless he was hot.”
“Nope. No burglar, hot or otherwise.”
There’s a moment of silence that I use to wander over to the TV stand and pop Stop! In the Name of Sex into the DVD player. I won’t switch it on until I’m off the phone.
Finally, Gabe asks, “So what brings us home today? Sick? Again?”
Gabe has been a good friend, and it’s probably because, rather than in spite of, his bluntness. There’s little I could get away with without Gabe calling me on it, but I’ve managed to hide my involvement with cocaine from him, because I know he wouldn’t approve. Gabe is older than I am, a transplanted Southerner (from Alabama) in his late forties, and according to his stories had gone through his drug phase in his youth when he did just about everything, up to and including heroin.
I debate whether I should tell him I’ve lost my job. After all, aside from being a friend, he’s also my landlord. Gabe comes from money and, because of a healthy trust fund bequeathed to him by a dear departed daddy, doesn’t need to work. He dabbles at being an actor, but if he makes any money at all, it’s little more than the pocket change variety. Another reason I wonder if I should tell him is I’m afraid he’ll want to come up here and comfort me. Blunt or not, Gabe is there 100 percent for you if you have a problem. In the end, though, I decide he’ll find out sooner or later.
“I lost my fuckin’ job today.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah….” I pause. “Cutbacks. I hadn’t been there that long.”
“You must feel awful. Put on the coffee, sugar. I’ll be right up.”
“No! No… I mean I think I just want some time to myself right now.”
“Are you sure? I mean I—”
“I’m positive.” Funny how I can’t say that word anymore without it having taken on the status of double entendre.
“Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be here.”
“Thanks, Gabe. Maybe we can do something later in the week. Dinner?”
“Right. I’ve got to go now. Bye.”
I hang up the phone, pick up the remote to start the porno, and begin separating the mound into thin, elegant lines. This is part of the ritual, and it too is something I wonder if I could do without if I ever found the strength to stop.
But I had to stop.
Yeah, we’ll worry about that later. Should I start off with two lines or three? Three, definitely.
It’s now ten o’clock, and the last vestiges of the coke buzz are fading. This is the sad time. I feel depleted. Like my limbs are weighed down. I smell from perspiration, and my hair is damp with it. I want to call Sam to get some more, but I know that at this stage of the game it won’t do much for me. Make my heart race and give me a new coating of sweat is about it.
But that doesn’t stop me from eyeing the phone longingly.
At least I haven’t had any anonymous playmates over today. I managed a weak, limp-dicked orgasm about a half hour ago, supremely unsatisfying but necessary after pulling on it for more than six hours.
I get up and look at the usual mess, run my finger through the cocaine dust on the table’s glass surface, and rub it on my gums.
I slip into the bedroom and put o
n my robe. I haven’t checked the mail yet. Perhaps there will be word of an inheritance or a winning sweepstakes number. Perhaps that publisher I sent my science fiction opus to (the futuristic version of Titus Andronicus) a year ago will finally write and offer me a six-figure advance.
I brace myself against the chill of the staircase and head to the vestibule. Gabe has thoughtfully stacked my mail on the little maple table in the corner. I pick it up and leaf through it as I walk back upstairs. Electric bill, gas, car insurance (I had forgotten that one), one of the Visa card bills, a book I didn’t order from Book of the Month Club, and hey! A letter.
Or at least it looks like a letter. Cream linen envelope, pretty good quality, like what people used to buy when they used stationery, before e-mail and cell phones. My name is printed in block letters, black ink on the front. There’s no return address.
Of course I open it first when I get back upstairs. No use mentioning that I’m not one to delay gratification.
Inside, the single sheet says only five words. And I feel a chill.
“I’ve been inside your house.”
I lock the front door. Hurry through the kitchen and lock the back door.
Wren clicked out of the document, unsure if he could bear to read any more. If this really was Rufus’s life, it was sad. Sad especially because the young man he had met only yesterday did not seem like the bright young man in these pages, someone who had the wherewithal to write a book based on a play by Shakespeare.
Wren powered down the laptop, closed it, and did his best to return it as it had been in the duffel bag, burying it under Rufus’s clothes. As he was doing so, he wondered what had happened to all Rufus’s belongings—the furniture, the car. Did he still have them? Were they at the other home he had mentioned?
Or did he lose them all?
Part of Wren wanted to keep reading to see if he could find the answers, but there was something about continuing that simply made him feel soiled, as though that by taking in each word, he was harming Rufus in some way, violating him.
When—and he had to believe the operative word was when—Rufus did return, Wren decided he would do the honorable thing and admit what he had done. It was the only way he could open a door to conversation, and it was right. He needed to talk to Rufus, needed to know him better.
Was falling in love with a person defined by the more you knew about them—even the very worst of them—the more you loved them?
If that was the case, Wren was certain he was headed for trouble, or happiness, or something.
Outside, the sky had lightened completely. From its dull whitish glare, Wren knew the day promised more unrelenting heat and humidity.
He hoped Rufus was someplace safe—and cool.
Chapter Twelve
WREN FELL into a fitful sleep on the floor at the foot of Rufus’s bed. Something simply did not feel right about getting into his own bed when he knew Rufus was out there somewhere, doing God only knew what, exposing himself to dangers Wren didn’t want to entertain.
So he lay next to Rufus’s duffel, curling his arms around it as though it were the man himself, and let himself slide off into an uncomfortable, nightmare-plagued sleep.
In his dreams he watched Rufus moving through dark city streets and alleys. Dumpsters, trash, and rats dogged his feet, which appeared to be weighted down, the soles sticking to the pavement. Wren didn’t feel his own presence as part of the scene he was witnessing and could hear nothing, save for the tortured, sped-up beating of Rufus’s heart. In the dream Wren knew he wanted to protect Rufus, that a dark, shadowy danger lay in wait for him somewhere or was pursuing him, but Wren had no way to tell Rufus what was going on, to reel him back to safety.
Helpless, he watched.
Suddenly a figure made completely from black, a living shadow, a wraith, appeared behind Rufus. It neared Rufus’s unaware figure, which seemed to have its own glow in contrast to the darkness of the hulking black shape. As the shape came close enough to touch Rufus, Wren noticed, with sadness and increasing alarm, how the light emanating from Rufus diminished the closer the figure got to him.
The figure reached out two impossibly long arms, and Rufus turned, his eyes wide with terror.
Wren screamed—
—and awakened himself, the cry still fresh on his lips, a garbled shriek that perhaps under different circumstances might have made him laugh.
The studio was flooded with full daylight, and Wren squinted against the blaze of the sun’s rays on his face, despite the chill of air-conditioning. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, looking around, wondering once more how he had gotten here, how his life had changed so quickly.
As his heart rate returned to normal, he noticed Rufus’s duffel on the floor. He pictured Rufus’s laptop inside.
And he was tempted once again.
Was there something more his story would tell him? Wren swallowed, trying hard to summon up some spit, and glanced over his shoulder at the door. It had to be close to noon now; what if Rufus walked in on him?
What if he didn’t?
Wren bit his lip, opened the duffel, and brought out the laptop again.
March 12
The first thing I think of when I wake up is not the letter and its creepy message but my penis. It hurts. I throw off the comforter and sheet and look down. Where the little blisters had been are now angry deep red bumps, almost like scabs but not crusty.
Shit. This will entail a trip to the doctor, and lucky me! No insurance.
I’m sure it’s herpes. What a wonderful life. I’ve lost my job. I don’t know how I’ll pay the rent next month, and now I have herpes.
How could I get herpes? That’s a good one. How could I not get herpes?
So here I sit, watching The Golden Girls on Lifetime (I should probably cancel the cable), remembering when it was funny to think that I identified with Blanche, the “human mattress,” as her elderly roommate Sophia referred to her.
Oh yeah, promiscuity was a real scream.
Which makes me think of the letter I got yesterday. How many guys have been “inside my house” lately?
Lots. Maybe one of them was just trying to be funny, in a sick sort of way, especially if he was one of the few I threw back after seeing how small he was.
Just as the show ends, the doorbell downstairs rings. A visitor? For me?
Why, I wasn’t expecting anyone.
I pull a T-shirt over my head and hurry downstairs. There’s no one there. Maybe it was someone for Gabe, someone who pushed the wrong doorbell. With only two to buzz and names under each, you’d think people wouldn’t get confused, but they do.
I open the door to look up and down the street. Perhaps the kids in the neighborhood still find this kind of joke funny.
The street’s pretty deserted. The young married guy across the street is finally taking his Christmas lights down. Other than that, no one’s around.
They all have jobs, Rufus. Everyone but you is at work.
Just as I’m about to close the door, I notice the small brown-paper-wrapped parcel at my feet.
Ah, a personal delivery. The package has only the word “Rufus” written on it in the same black block letters that my previous missive had.
I pick up the package and suddenly have a queasy feeling of dread. Something, over the pounding of my heart, is trying to tell me not to open it.
Suddenly an inspiration. I turn and knock on Gabe’s door. At least I won’t have to open it alone. I knock once, twice, three times, but there’s no answer. Even Gabe, who lives on a trust fund and doesn’t have to worry about going to work, is gone.
The package is small, lightweight. I take it upstairs with me, set it on the coffee table, and stare at it.
What are you afraid of, Rufus? You think someone’s sent you a bomb? Yeah, right.
Look, I’m a good-looking guy, and I have my share of admirers. This package is probably a little gift, a way some shy guy thinks he’s going to get in my good graces, or my pant
s… again.
What the hell. I rip the paper off to reveal a small white cardboard box, which opens from the top. I lift the lid slowly, leaning back in case something should leap out at me, but all I see is tissue paper. I pull it off, and there at the bottom of everything is a small plastic bag with a white powder in it that looks so familiar it makes my heart race.
Who would send me cocaine? The shit is expensive. Why would they leave and not stay to enjoy it with me? Who cares? Better not to have to share it. My spirits rise and dance in the air. What a wonderful surprise.
And then a chill.
What if it’s not cocaine? Or what if it’s cocaine mixed with something else? Anthrax? Something poisonous. (As if cocaine isn’t a poison itself, I think, remembering how sick it can make me feel after I do one, or two, or three… too many lines. Thinking of how depressed and tired I feel after a night’s bingeing.)
I open the little baggie, bring it up to my nose. It sure smells like cocaine, and if there’s one thing I know the smell of, it’s coke. But the thought that there could be something lethal mixed in with it continues to plague me.
I really should just flush this shit down the toilet. I don’t know where it came from, and to snort it up my nose could have serious, even fatal, consequences. Why someone would want to kill me, though, is a mystery. I may be weak and selfish (and when did that all start? I didn’t used to be that way. I wonder when it could have started… maybe when I started using? Gosh, what a revelation!), but I’m essentially a good person. I wouldn’t hurt anyone on purpose. Except myself.
Is self-destruction cruelty?
But getting back to the matter at hand…. Oh shit, I want the stuff so bad it’s making my mouth water. It’s like a cloud enveloping my brain and shutting out reason, making it disappear beneath the fog of my desire. Or should I say addiction?
No, I’m not that far gone yet.
It would be so stupid to do it.
But I could just do a couple of lines and wait for a little while, see if I have any ill effects. I mean, I know what coke would do to me (oh yeah), and if it felt any different, I could just flush the rest.