by Ike Hamill
A few houses down, I see Mrs. Dando come out of her little ranch house. She doesn’t even glance up at the gutter that needs fixing. It’s the right behavior—don’t waste time thinking about a silly gutter when life has so much to offer you—but I know she’s coming at it from the wrong attitude. She has given up. She believes that everything is going to turn out rotten, every time, no matter how she tries to fight. What she needs is a swift kick to the head to wake her up. She needs to seize control of her pathetic life and make something of herself. She needs to chase her dreams, and if she should fall flat on her face, then at least she will have gone down trying. She needs someone to educate these facts into her soft, doughy countenance at the end of a clenched fist. She needs the sharp blade of reason to pierce her…
“Honey?” Judith asks.
“Yeah? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“You were grinding your teeth,” she says. “I could hear it all the way from the bedroom. You were grinding your teeth and almost … growling.”
“Huh,” I say. “I don’t know. I was lost in thought.”
“When you’re done with this prison story, do you think you could work on something happy for once? Maybe you could write about the new zoo they’re building in Lewham?”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” I say. I didn’t even know there was a new zoo coming. I’m just agreeing to agree. “Go back to bed, honey. You have an hour before you need to get up.”
“Okay,” she says.
She leaves me again. Mrs. Dando is gone. She’s off in her little yellow car.
It occurs to me that I want to write the story of Mrs. Dando and her pathetic life. I want to write about someone who teaches her a lesson. Maybe that will be the fiction I write tonight. I’ve already given myself permission to do it. It might as well be about her. It occurs to me that I told Judith that, “I’ve got to get the poison out.”
That wasn’t entirely accurate. I’ve got to get the venom out. A poison is something you ingest, and you might regurgitate before it kills you. What I’ve got inside me is something my body manufactured. It’s a product of me, and I want to expel it from my body so that I might hurt someone else. Or, maybe it would be more accurate to think that I want to express the venom so that if I were to bite accidentally, I wouldn’t have the accidental capacity to kill.
What a strange analogy.
Don’t they milk cobras and rattlesnakes so they can make antivenin with the extract? Perhaps that’s the image I’ve been hunting for.
CHAPTER 11: BALCONY
THE NEXT DAY WASN’T as bad as James had feared. He woke, ate, and sat down to write. Everything seemed fairly normal and comfortable. The day after that was miserable. He woke a little early after rolling in his sleep. He was unable to get comfortable with the throbbing in his legs.
With the subject top of mind, he used his extra time to begin unpacking his exercise equipment. He was pretty sure the apartment below was vacant, but he would ask Bo the next time he saw him. James preferred to avoid conflict whenever possible. He didn’t want to be introduced to his downstairs neighbors when they complained about his noise.
It wasn’t until he sat down that he realized how much pain he was in. There wasn’t enough aspirin in his apartment—maybe not in the world—to relieve the dull ache in the backs of his legs. The worst spot was right where his calves met the backs of his knees. When he spent any amount of time with his legs bent, straightening them was agony.
James resolved himself to a grueling night of pain.
The story he picked was about a young woman. He didn’t realize until he was already committed to transcribing it. Danielle was the face of the victim as he wrote. No matter how hard he tried—even when he attempted to substitute Chloe’s face in his mind’s eye—he always pictured Danielle. She was the one pleading for her life on the other side of the gun’s barrel. She was the one forced to her knees, and forced to take the gun into her mouth. It was her brains that he arranged lovingly into a haiku on the wood floor.
“Spirit and beauty. Formed with sorrow into blood. She lives in her flesh.”
James finished the story with tears streaming down his face and insane laughter trying to escape his mouth.
When the sun came up he ran to the porch, forgetting, for once, to lock the door behind him. He hung his body over the railing and sobbed his grief. He looked at his hands, expecting to see Danielle’s blood there. He expected to find chunks of her skull and brains stuck under his fingernails. Of course, he saw none of that. The blood was in the story. Somewhere, in the real world, Danielle was probably still asleep.
He took a deep breath and pressed his hands to his face. Despite what his eyes and logic told him, he could smell the gore.
“You okay?” a voice called from below.
James moved his hands and saw Bo down there, on the sidewalk.
“How come every time I step out onto this balcony, you’re down there?” James asked. His tone was a little too cold to be joking. It was a little abrupt to be polite. He didn’t care. “Are you stalking me or something?”
“Ease on back there, bud,” Bo said, putting his hands up defensively. “I pulled twilight shift, so I’m going to go stock shelves and hate customers.” He began to walk away. He turned to keep talking at James. “Maybe you should take some time today and brush up on your interpersonal skills.”
James turned from the railing and walked back inside.
He made it to the kitchen before he remembered the door. He shut and locked it, and then put the little stick in the track of the slider, so it couldn’t be forced open. James pressed his back against the curtain and slumped to the floor.
“At least my legs feel better,” he said. He laughed. It was a pathetic sound, and he stopped it quickly.
He ate more aspirin with his breakfast and then collapsed on top of the covers. When he woke up, he had a pounding headache. He treated himself to a shave and shower before he stepped out into the afternoon heat of the balcony. It felt like a sauna. Even though he had just showered, he enjoyed the sweat that popped to his skin immediately.
# # # # #
Bo was swinging the paper bag when the appeared around the corner. He didn’t address James, or even wave to him, before he began climbing. Once he took his chair next to James, he handed over the paper bag and sighed.
“Sorry about this morning, man. You looked like you were in tough shape.”
“No, I’m sorry,” James said. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You were just trying to be nice.”
Bo nodded.
“You up for another hike this weekend?”
“I don’t think so,” James said. “I have some work to do before I’m ready for another hike. I have to get my legs back in order. I’m ashamed to tell you how broken I was for days after that last trip.”
Bo smiled with a corner of his mouth and nodded. “It will only hurt a few times, I promise.”
“You say that as the proud owner of young legs,” James said. “I used to have those. I lost them years ago.”
“That’s too bad,” Bo said. “I think Danny has a crush on you. She would probably love an excuse to spend a little more time with you.”
“You’re insane. She’s half my age,” James said.
“I didn’t say she wanted to marry you, or even date you. I just said that she has a crush on you. You never had a crush on an older man?”
“No,” James said with a laugh. “I can honestly say I haven’t.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing. You get to work with that strange power dynamic, and play with some daddy issues. It’s really the best kind of crush to have.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Did I ever tell you about my thing with the gym teacher?”
“No. Do I want to hear it?”
“Probably not. I was just a teenager, and it involves some pretty inappropriate contact. I’m sure he’ll get over it some day though. In my defense, he deser
ved what he got.”
“That’s not funny,” James said, but he had a smile on his face.
“Nope,” Bo said. “Not funny at all. Just meted out a little Bo justice. People have to dish out their own justice sometimes. There’s this guy, Marvin, who comes into the Foodway. He used to trade his food stamps for cigarettes. He was taking food out of his kid’s mouth, just so he could have his cigarettes. Bart was the only one who would let him trade for butts, and he got fired a long time ago, but Marvin still tries to buy his cigarettes. Even though he looks to be about fifty, we card him every time. His license is suspended, so when he tries to use it for ID, we tell him it’s no good. He’s dumb enough to believe it.”
“Why doesn’t he just buy his cigarettes elsewhere?”
“I’m sure he does, but the Foodway is the only place his wife takes him regularly. Every week he comes in. Every week someone turns him down. Even most of the managers are in on it. That’s Bo justice.”
“Wouldn’t it be Foodway justice?”
“Bo Justice!”
“But if you’re all doing…”
“Bo Justice!”
James gave Bo a sidelong glance. “You’re insane.”
“That’s right. The justice of Bo is insane.”
They sat in silence for a minute. James wiped sweat from his forehead. A breeze brought in some cooler air, and both men sighed at the relief.
“She has a crush?”
“Yup,” Bo said. “You can trust me on this one. Girls tell their gay friends everything.”
“She told you this?”
“No, not in so many words, but nonetheless, I know. It’s Bo justice.”
James smiled.
“It’s been a long time since anyone had a crush on me,” James said. “Or vice versa.”
“How long have you been a hermit?”
James squirmed in his chair. “I wouldn’t say I’m a hermit.”
“Oh, pardon me! How long have you been a recluse? A shut-in?”
“Hey! Didn’t I just go hiking with you?”
“Once, and never again, from what I understand. Just answer the question—how long has it been since you’ve been a real, functioning member of society?”
James let out a whistling breath between his lips. “Honestly? High school?”
“What?” Bo asked. He pushed himself upright. “Are you kidding?”
“I told you—I’m agoraphobic,” James said.
Bo shook his head and waved James off. “You’re something, but I don’t believe it’s agoraphobic. Hell, I just figured you had a bad breakup, moved to town, and decided you would keep to yourself for a while. Where did you move here from?”
“Most recently? Tennessee,” James said. “Wait, why can’t I be agoraphobic?”
“You can, if you want, I just don’t believe it. You seem like a smart guy. You would be on medication or something. I’ve known plenty of crazy people, and you don’t seem crazy. What happened after high school that made you lock yourself away for twenty years?”
“Almost twenty-five,” James said, shaking his head. “Forgive me, but I really don’t think I can talk about it.”
Bo rolled his eyes and flopped back down in his chair. “How are you ever supposed to heal if you won’t let yourself think about your injuries?”
“It’s not an injury,” James said. “It’s just my job. Speaking of which, I should get inside. I’ve got to make sure everything is ready.”
“You should talk about this,” Bo said. He stood up when James did. “Whatever is eating you up, you shouldn’t let it fester forever. Trust me, I have some experience with the pain caused by keeping a secret all to yourself.”
“Thanks,” James said. He moved to the door and waited. He didn’t feel completely comfortable unlocking the door while Bo stood there. After a few seconds, Bo seemed to get the hint. He slid over the balcony and James went back inside. He locked the door behind him and let the curtains fall back into place.
When he heard the knock on the sliding door, James almost screamed.
He caught his breath and poked his head around the side of the curtains. Bo was standing there.
“What?” James yelled through the glass.
Bo didn’t answer. He held up the gin bottle still wrapped in its paper bag and pointed to it. James had left it on the balcony, right next to his chair.
“Keep it,” James yelled.
Bo tilted his head and frowned, shaking his head. He set the bottle down and climbed over the railing again.
James looked at the gin. It seemed a shame to waste it, but it was dangerous to let it sit there. If he ignored it now, it would still be sitting there in the morning. Morning drinking was a very dangerous practice. James stood by the door for several minutes, waiting to make sure that Bo was actually gone this time. When he was convinced, he fumbled the lock open, shot the door to the side, and grabbed the booze. He had the door buttoned back up in moments. Soon after that he was dumping the gin into the sink.
As the liquid disappeared down the drain, the smell of the gin captured his wandering mind. He didn’t want to remember, but it seemed hopeless to try to fight it.
# # # # #
For a while, back in West Virginia, gin had seemed like a godsend. Pills were untrustworthy. When he took pills to sleep, he would wake up in a fog, unable to get his brain reactivated in time to make good decisions. James felt himself spiraling deeper into the control of the narcotics. His hallucinations started out as random lights and shadows. They grew, until he was unsure of what was real.
Alcohol, if only because it was so easy to procure, had seemed vastly more safe. James started out tentatively, with just a cocktail at the end of his writing. He used the drink to relax himself into sleep. It worked perfectly for several months.
After a few days in a row with bad nightmares, James had increased his dosage to one-and-a-half and then two drinks. Again, this worked for a month or two before his body adjusted and the dreams came back.
When he woke, he often suffered from a hangover. Unlike the aftereffects of the pills, his alcohol hangovers actually seemed to help. His headache was a welcome distraction from the words that entered through his eyes and spilled from his hand. He achieved a detachment that was impossible with pills.
Until he lost control, he was proud of his discovery.
James brought a discipline to drinking. His achievement was the result of a mental fortitude that most people lacked. His pride extended right through three drinks one morning, and didn’t stop until he was sipping on his fourth. Somewhere in the middle of that drink, he decided to top off his glass and head for bed. Refilling his tumbler back to the top was the last thing that he remembered of that day.
James had a terrible dream.
In his dream, sunset came, and he wasn’t at his desk. He was drunk—stinking drunk, his mother would have said. He was sitting on the floor of his kitchen, remembering jokes from junior high, and laughing. He hadn’t laughed like that since… He couldn’t remember when he’d laughed like that.
“How do you make a dead baby float?” he asked the dishwasher. “Easy—some ice cream, a blender, and two scoops of dead baby.” He cackled and slopped a little of his drink.
“Hey—why do they always boil water when a woman goes into labor?”
The dishwasher didn’t have a guess.
“So if it’s stillborn, they can make soup!”
He tilted his head back and laughed.
“Oh! I’ve got a good one. What’s the best part about having sex with twenty four-year-olds?” he asked.
He looked to the refrigerator.
“There’s twenty of them!”
James set his glass down on the floor as he fell to his side. He laughed, and laughed, until it felt like his lung might actually come up his throat.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
The sound shook his chest. A tiny, sane part of his brain thought, heart’s giving out. Finally catching a break.
&
nbsp; The idea only made him laugh harder.
THUMP-THUMP.
James pushed up to one elbow, realizing the source of the noise. Someone was banging on the underside of his floor.
“How rude!” he whispered
He made a fist and used it. BANG-BANG.
THUMP-THUMP.
James shook his head. Ever since the treadmill of Pennsylvania, he had been a model neighbor. He never made any noise at all. People weren’t allowed to laugh in their own kitchen? James reached to gather his bathrobe around himself and realized that he was wearing a t-shirt. He tilted his head. That should have been his first clue that time had gotten away from him. He was still dressed from the night before.
It took him three tries to get to his feet. He wound up staring straight down at the floor, where his hand was closed around his glass. With pure delight, he realized that all he had to do was straighten out, and he would be standing up. He attempted the maneuver. When he tipped backwards, he fell right into the face of the refrigerator, which kept him upright.
James swayed towards the door.
With reflexive habit, he made sure he had his keys. He ventured out into the hallway. This was still part of his territory—he came out here six days a week to check the mailbox. That wasn’t his destination today though. He locked the door behind him and found the stairs. He hadn’t used these stairs since the day he had moved in. He had forgotten how they looked. They had rubber mats fused to the treads and metal corners dotted with rusty screws. The whole thing reminded him of the swimming pool at his high school. He didn’t know why.
One hand gripped the drink and the other took the railing. He surprised himself halfway down the stairs when he realized that there was still fluid in his glass. He took a quick break for another sip and then continued the descent.