Phoenix Fire

by Chitwood, Billy

  Another kind of buzzing started, softer but more annoying because of its close proximity to his ear. It was a fly. He raised his hand to swat it away and the movement caused his body to churn in nauseous waves.

  He forced himself to sit up in the bed. His temples were throbbing and his head felt top heavy and cumbersome. He noticed that he was dressed, in wrinkled shirt, slacks, and one sock. In the corner of the dingy room he saw his blazer and the other sock.

  His nostrils registered a foul odor in the stuffy room, like a combination of long settled body musk and urine. The smell caused him to retch, and he stumbled shakily to his feet and found the bathroom.

  The bathroom was odious in its own peculiar stench, the visible pipes showing rust marks and seepage stains. He gagged and ultimately heaved into the loathsome toilet bowl. He knelt there on the scarred linoleum floor, hovering over the stinking bowl, for several minutes until the nausea eased. There came a nebulous relief, and he rose and went to the filthy wash basin and splashed his pale stubble face with fetid tap water. He went back and sat on the edge of the bed, his face dripping water onto the ugly green and matted carpet.

  Where was he?

  God! He had no idea where he was.

  Yes, he did! He was in a dirty two-bit hotel room. He was in some kind of hell, perhaps the end of his world as he had known it. A pang of anxiety struck him, followed by an uncontrollable shivering.

  He could remember nothing beyond this wretched hotel room. A dark shroud had fallen over his memory and the ensuing panic brought a fresh terror to his awareness. His shaking prompted him to lie back on the squeaky bed. He forced himself to take long, slow breaths of the unhealthy air. A sun ray came through the ragged window shade and showed a gray blur of a million tiny specks of dust and dirt.

  He needed to relax, to think. Where was he? Okay, he was in a shabby hotel room, but where was the hotel room? How had he gotten to this awful room? He again took slow, deep breaths of the bad air. He tried to reach back, to remember.

  “For God's sake, remember!” he admonished himself in a voice he could hardly recognize.

  The bar! The cocktail lounge on Camelback Road? “Yes,” he said to himself, “I just need to relax and think.”

  What happened at the cocktail lounge? Where did he go after he left the bar? He could not remember leaving the bar. “Think, think!”

  There were two men, Roy and Hal. Yes, Roy and Hal. They kept ordering drinks, and he paid for them. Yes, he remembered. He had not liked the men. Why had he been friendly with them? What had happened?

  A sharp knocking came at the door. The door was so cheap and hollow that it made the sounds seem like a hammer splintering wood.

  Jason was startled by the loud rapping. He did not move, waiting. Waiting? For what? The loud rapping came again. He thought that the door might leave its hinges.

  On shaky legs he stood and moved toward the door. It was probably a maid, if a place like this would even have a maid.

  “Yes, yes! Just a minute. I'm coming.”

  When he opened the door he saw a small man in a white shirt and wrinkled brown pants, his face pinched and mousy, his teeth stained with nicotine. A cigarette was squeezed between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

  “Why didn't you answer your phone, pal? You coulda saved me a trip up from the desk.” The little man didn't wait for a reply. “You staying over or what?” The man stared brazenly into Jason's wet face, his breath a mixture of cigarette smoke and alcohol.

  Jason hesitated, confused, fighting a new wave of nausea. He opened his mouth and his words came out in stumbling cadence. “Uh, I don't know. What time is it?”

  “It's time you make up your mind, pal. Otherwise, you're gonna be charged for another day. Checkout time is 1:00 PM, and we're about ten minutes away. Do the math, pal, it's 12:50 PM.”

  Jason stared vaguely at the little man, shaking, trying to formulate words.

  The man spoke again with some impatience. “So, what's it gonna be, pal? Don't got all day.” The eyes, for just a moment, seemed to soften. “You all right, buddy? You look like hell.”

  Even in his current state of imbalance, Jason was a bit piqued with the little man's patronizing 'pal' and 'buddy.' He finally managed to speak.

  “Yeah, I'm fine, I guess. Look I need … yeah, I'll stay over.” Jason just wanted the man gone.

  “Okay, you're staying over. Come down to the desk in the thirty minutes and pay up. We're pay as you go here at the Warren and we're very strict about that.” The little man turned to go, then stopped and waited for an acknowledgment from Jason. “You with me, pal?”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay, I'm with you. I'll be down shortly … Pal.”

  A small smile appeared on the face of the mousy clerk as he turned and strode away. He raised his arm to his sides and fluttered his hands, a gesture of unknown significance to Jason.

  Jason closed the door, walked to the corner and retrieved his blazer, sock, shoes, and returned to sit on the bed.

  He tried again to remember yesterday in its entirety. He had started drinking in the afternoon. What happened later in the evening?

  His body had returned to a tentative place, the nausea not prominent but still a threat. There was still an unsettling fear within him, and he was in a quiet and uncomfortable desperation. The room was hot and stuffy, full of bad air, and his face felt parched and flushed.

  He went back to the bathroom and splashed more water on his face. He let the cold side faucet run for a long time before lowering his head under it and hungrily gulping as much water as his eager mouth could take in.

  Back on the bed he fumbled through his pants pockets and his blazer. He found several wadded credit card receipts, car keys, and a lone Visa Gold charge card. He could neither find a wallet or any cash. Another spasm of anxiety hit him and he thought of 'Roy' and 'Hal.' Had they taken his money and wallet? He shook his head in self-disgust. Then, he noticed on the floor in the corner of the room a brown leather wallet. It must have dropped from the blazer when he retrieved it.

  He jumped from the bed too fast, causing him to experience dizziness. He sat again until it passed, rose more slowly and went to get the wallet. He leafed quickly through the plastic card holders and the small inner compartments. His cards were all there, as was his money, still wadded in its clip. The money and clip was inside one of the larger pockets. It struck him as a bit odd to find his money in that spot because he usually carried the clip in a trouser pocket. He could not remember having put the money there, but it really did not matter. He was relieved to have found these important items. It was a small victory in this otherwise sordid predicament.

  A slight feeling of hope came to him. He had money. He had his credit cards. Apparently, he had maintained some good sense last night, or … Maybe 'Hal' and 'Roy' had taken care of him.

  He again tried to remember all that had happened yesterday. Then he felt the rush of time, or, more specifically, the rush of checkout time. He did not want another visit from the 'mouse man,' his 'pal' and his 'buddy.'

  Maybe a shower would help him to remember all the details of yesterday. At the very least he would get the unpleasant musk off of his body, perhaps give him some energy and purpose. He peeled off his clothes and went to stand in the cracked and dented tub while broken streams of water came down on him from the clogged shower head. He felt like holding his breath with tightly closed lips so as not to accidentally swallow some of the squalid water.

  When he had toweled off and dressed again he felt better. His face was dark with second day stubble, but a shave would have to wait. A faint perspiration odor came from the shirt he was forced to wear again but, overall, he felt relatively clean.

  His mind became active again with thought. While he still could not put all of the previous night together, he began to get patches of remembrance. The hard facts of his brother's death and Grandma Myrena's terminal cancer pounded relentlessly upon his brain, and he felt another rush of anxiety.
<
br />   Carlton was gone from him in this life. He could only hope and pray that he would have known at his death that Jason loved him. The thoughts that plagued him the most were of Grandma Myrena and Jenny. How would they look upon him if they could see him here in this dingy room, used up and without direction? He felt lost and profoundly ashamed. How could he have sunk to this? What was happening to him?

  He walked around the small smelly room, checking for any items he might have overlooked. He found nothing except for some crawling things which might have been cockroaches. Involuntarily a thought came to him of a long ago Ray Milland movie called, The Lost Weekend.

  With a lingering apprehension he walked out of the room and down a narrow hallway to a red exit sign above a gray metal door. He opened the door, walked down two flights of stairs, and opened another metal door. He cautiously peeked through and saw that he had reached the lobby of the hotel. The large malodorous lobby had a darkly sinister cast to it, depressing in its anachronistic aura. He could see the short registration desk diagonally across from where he stood. He saw only the top of a man's head at a small PBX switchboard and he could hear the little mousy man cursing.

  Jason pushed the metal door fully open and stepped into the lobby. He took a right turn and went out a side exit onto a downtown Phoenix street. He had no idea where he was until he saw some familiar reference points, two corner thoroughfare signs that announced the intersection of Van Buren and Central Avenue.

  He felt like an idiot. He had no clue where his car was parked, if in fact, it was even in the immediate area.

  He thought again of Jenny, Grandma Myrena, and Carlton. Why were the people he loved deserting him? Why was he so unable to cope with the reality of death? Was his problem deeper than the reality of death? Had Carlton's death awakened long sleeping atavistic demons? Was it a karmic anomaly that was pushing him away from Grandma Myrena and Jenny, his only hope of salvation?

  He had an urge to walk. It did not matter where his car was. It was most likely still at the Camelback Road cocktail lounge. It would turn up. Maybe he could walk the cobwebs out of his mind. Maybe some sanity would return. Maybe some memory of yesterday would come.

  He walked north on Central Avenue until he came upon a public telephone booth. He wanted to call Jenny. He wanted to call Grandma Myrena. He wanted to apologize and to tell them that he loved them so very much.

  The neon on the bar in the middle of the block blinked at him like a winking, hypnotic harlot. He felt his resolve to make telephone calls waver. He felt disgusted with himself, but his body had some urgent and immediate need. 'Hair of the dog' held out a promise of relief for his imbalanced and tortured system. He would have a drink or two, strictly for medicinal purposes. Then, he would call the people he loved.

  There was an empty seat at the bar.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Jenny went back to Jason's house the next day and night. The note was still where she had placed it on the bed. She left his house with a heavy heart. She could only assume that Jason had gone out of town.

  She had returned to work but she found it difficult to concentrate. She worked on her projects with forced focus but with little excitement.

  She called Grandma Myrena in the early afternoon and Wardley told her that Mrs. Wimsley was lying down and in a great deal of pain.

  “It appears that the new medication is not sufficient to relieve the pain. The doctor is stopping by later today.” Wardley sounded as though he, too, was in great pain.

  “Has there been any news from Jason?” Jenny asked.

  “No, I'm sorry to say. I could be wrong but I think her pain is more intense because she is so worried about her grandson.”

  “Do you think it would help if I came over after work to spend some time with her?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Mason, indeed I do. She would not wish to put you out. That's her way. But I know she would be so pleased to see you. She talks of you so often.”

  “Then I'll be there between 4:30 and 5:00. Bless her heart. We cannot let her suffer alone.”

  After disconnecting Jenny tried very hard to focus her attention on a project that was scheduled soon for completion. Her boss was more than fair in his demands on her time, but she was aware he could not remain so charitable for too long.

  Jenny did manage to complete her work on the project by 4:15 PM. She had left for approval all of the relevant material with her manager's secretary.

  She was out of the building by 4:30.

  *****

  Grandma Myrena looked so shrunken, so weak and pale. It shocked Jenny to see that Myrena seemed to have aged considerably since she had first met her, even since their last visit. Jenny would have thought that impossible because Myrena had looked so bad the last time they were together. The skin on Myrena's face and arms had lost color and it sagged loosely over sharply defined forearm bones, more so than Jenny remembered. She moved slower, too, as though she distrusted her mobility. With each small step she took, a corresponding wince and twitch came to her eyes. It took all of Jenny's concentration not to show her sadness.

  When they were seated in the sun room, Myrena was eager to talk. When she did speak her words came in a slow measured monotone with a barely audible slurring.

  “The new medication that Nelson gave me helps to relieve the pain but it makes me feel so sluggish, so out of sync with my body functions. If my words sound funny to you, my dear, please be patient with me.” Her sad smile and eyes appeared so vague, vacant, and remote.

  “Oh, Grandma Myrena, don't worry. You're just fine. I'm happy the new medication is helping to ease the pain.”

  “It's difficult for an old lady to lose control of mind and body, particularly when her life has been spent in such an orderly and active structure. Well, maybe not just for old ladies, but, surely, for anyone with this kind of ugly affliction.” Myrena gave a faint chuckle and weakly waved a hand as if to disdain her words. She seemed to be carefully assembling her thoughts.

  After a few seconds she went on. “There is something I need to tell you, Jenny, something you should know. It's something which you may have to deal with.

  “Some years ago, for a brief but agonizing period during his late teens, Jason had a near mental breakdown. He had severe depression and tearful moments of anxiety. We were quite concerned about him, obviously, and we were afraid of what he might do to himself.” Myrena paused, took in a deep breath of air, noticing the pinched lines of dread on Jenny's face. “Jason had a delayed reaction to his parents’ deaths, that and the subtle demands of adolescence. He could not see his future beyond his own inner pain. He felt that his life was somehow meaningless and without purpose. There was a paralysis of will, an inner suffocation. Carlton had handled his grief and pain in more overt and hateful ways. Jason had allowed the grief, the pain, to slowly accumulate and fester until he had himself backed into a corner of his mind. It was so sad to see his moods of despair and hopelessness.”

  Myrena stopped talking, took a tissue from a box on the side table and wiped her eyes.

  “Can I do anything, Grandma Myrena?” Jenny squeezed together her hands.

  “No, it's okay, child. It's just those memories flooding back.” She smiled weakly.

  “How did Jason come out of it?”

  “Strangely enough, it was Carlton who came to the rescue, unwittingly. He supplied the antidote for Jason's recovery. I say 'unwittingly' but that could be a misnomer. Perhaps Carlton knew exactly what he was doing. Perhaps he knew more about what he was doing to help his brother than anyone ever gave him credit. In retrospect, it really does seem that way. As I look back, Carlton began to stay around Jason more, to guide him out of the dark pits of depression. In fact, it was a rather devious and splendid plan that Carlton must have put together. Well, actually, I don't believe it was calculated or even inspired by some youthful 'do good' intentions. Now, after all the years, it's like I'm seeing all of that in a different light. It occurs to me that Carlton's actions at the ti
me were motivated by some sense of sibling love.

  “Oh, Carlton was still rough and petty mean in his ways, but he did spend more time with Jason. Carlton kept putting oblique obstacles in Jason's way, obstacles that forced Jason away from his obsessive depression and anxiety. It was like an eternity then, but, actually, it was no more than seven or eight months.

  “The boys were never before, or since, as close as they were toward the end of Jason's awful anguish. When Jason was clearly back to some normal place, when he again showed signs of his old energetic self, Carlton became less and less available. Carlton resumed his own isolated and mean tempered ways.

  “It was a strange time. I'm sure the doctors helped Jason in some ways, but now, in this old befuddled mind, I do believe that it was Carlton who really helped Jason the most.”

  Myrena stopped again, her thoughts lost in time, her gaze wistful and plaintive out the sun room windows.

  Jenny looked lovingly at the pale sunken face of Myrena, not wanting to interrupt her thoughts. She did, though, want to know if there was more to the story of Jason's long ago period of depression.

  “Many adolescents go through bad periods, Grandma Myrena. Guess I had my days as well. The newspapers are reporting almost daily about teenage depression and suicide. Perhaps it was just a rite of passage for Jason.” For a moment, Jenny was not sure Myrena had heard her comments.

  Myrena's gaze was unaltered but she heard Jenny's words. She allowed several seconds to pass before turning back and responding.

  “Yes, I know that must be the case. Watching Jason in his business world, his organized and aggressive penchant for perfection, like with 'Apple Brown Betty,' it is hard to think of him during those dark days of youth. Yet, with all of his good and noble achievements, I've noticed in Jason an inclination toward emotional blackout. Over the years, when an emotional event interrupted his orderly life, like John's death, a romantic breakup, something that brought intense emotion, I noticed that he just slips away, escaping the realities of the moment. It's like he is returning to those awful days. I worry that in these moments he could become irrevocably lost to us.