6 Seconds of Life

by Tonya F Fitzharris

  Now my curiosity is piqued. I sit up and uncross my arms in an attempt to do this thing called ‘cooperation.’

  “You said you wanted to change, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t personally remember saying such a thing.”

  “Well you did. Last week. On Tuesday, if I’m not mistaken,” she says as she flips through her notepad.

  “I think I inadvertently popped two of your happy pills that morning. I was feeling abnormally perky and teenager-like.”

  “Maura…don’t get frustrated with me when I point out things you don’t like to hear. Defensiveness isn’t becoming.”

  She closes her notepad and sets it on the ground next to her feet, making sure none of her stray papers are popping out. Her arms come up to her side and I know I’m in for a lecture now. All of her lectures involve overly animated hand gestures that require her to be free of any possible restraints.

  “You need to stop playing the victim. Everyone is not out to get you, Maura,” she says, scanning her eyes and quite obviously studying my body language. I sit up straight and stuff my hands under my thighs. “Not everyone you meet is going to disappoint you.”

  “You can’t guarantee such a thing.”

  “No, I can’t. But I can guarantee you will never genuinely live a happy life until you start truly letting people in.”

  She pops up from her seat and grabs a small notepad off of her desk.

  “Here’s a new prescription.”

  I hold my breath as she scratches a few words. She hands the heart-shaped pink note over to me and I can’t even bring myself to look up at her. I swear to God, if she puts me on another mind-numbing medication, I’m truly going to lose it. I might just grab a gun, put it in my mouth, and blow my head off like everyone is continuously expecting me to do.

  “Just read it, Maura,” she says, using her over-priced therapy degree to analyze my deliberate outward emotions.

  I take two deep breaths and focus my eyes on her words.

  ‘Let loose. Have fun. Stop thinking so damn much.’

  Is this some kind of joke? I raise one my eyebrows in a questioning slant.

  “You have the key to happiness in your hands. Now get to it!”

  ****

  “Hey Maura Yermakova.”

  The voice ricochets off the empty lockers and makes me jump. Everyone is already in class and I was expecting to get a few glorious moments to myself before subjecting myself to the torture that is the 10th grade World History course I am being forced to take for the second time; I guess failing it when I was an actual 10th grader simply to agitate my father probably wasn’t the best decision on my part. As a personal rule, I like linger in the halls for a few minutes so I can slip in the back and not have to associate with the teacher—she likes to loiter in the classroom doorway, shaking hands with each student and asking them what they’re going to do to be a productive citizen of the world today. I can never think of anything worthwhile to say to her, so instead I lurk in the hallways, where no one else bothers me and I can grab a few moments of glorious peace.

  Well, no one…except Owen.

  “Hey yourself. You on your way to 7th period?” I ask, trying to make my voice sound friendly, but keeping my eyes in the safe space of my locker; I narrow them and pretend to be interested in reading the titles off of the spines of my books.

  “I don’t have a 7th period. I was just on my way out, actually,” he says, snaking his way to the left side of my body in order to get a full view of my face. Every muscle in my body tenses up and turns to solid petrified rock.

  I nod my head in agreement. Yes. So, so interesting.

  “Why don’t you come with me?”

  “What?”

  He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and jingles them in front of my face. A miniature guitar keychain sparkles as the hallway light catches its highly lacquered surface, begging me to follow.

  “Skip your 7th period and come hang out with me. I’ll take you home afterwards,” he says, eyes wide like an excited four-year-old who has just stepped into a toy store.

  I push my book-free hand deep into my pocket and my fingertips graze Carolyn’s ‘prescription.’

  Let loose, have fun, stop thinking so damn much.

  Let loose.

  Have fun.

  “So…what do you say? Do I need to take you to some mind-numbing romantic comedy to get you to hang out with me?”

  Stop thinking so damn much.

  The door to the front office closes with a weighty thud—the telltale sign that our school resource officer is on the prowl. Catching truant kids and throwing them in after-school detention is his only aspiration. His life went miserably off track at some point. I often wonder to myself if I’m destined to be a despondent school resource officer someday in the near future. A life like his might not be so bad—at least I could hide out in my office for the majority of the day, balancing my time with coffee drinking, soap opera watching, and yelling.

  “Do you want to hang out with me because my dad is a former super bowl champion?” I murmur in Owen’s ear. My voice sounds heavy and foreign to me. I pull back when he leans in closer.

  “No, of course not,” he whispers back, tugging on the tips of my fingers. The footsteps are coming closer.

  “But tell me…will he be at your house when I drop you off?”

  I pull my fingers away from him to sop up the puddles of moisture that have suddenly formed in the crevices. He yanks my backpack out of my hands before I get a chance to throw a witty quip right back at him.

  “You ready?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  My toes curl up into my shoe and a pain radiates up my calf.

  The footsteps are way too close now.

  “Yes—as long as you swear not to take me to some horrendous chick flick. There is nothing I detest more in this world.”

  His hand grazes the small of my back and gives me a gentle push.

  “Right this way.”

  ****

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

  “What?” I ask, hovering in the doorway and fiddling with the strap of my backpack. My eyes burn with cigarette smoke as I try to look into this abyss-like bar I somehow let Owen talk me into coming to. I use the faint neon light from two glowing beer signs as my beacons to guide me in. He’s already greeting a group of guys at the edge of the bar, exchanging high-fives and man hugs—those awkward, one-armed back slaps guys do when they greet each other. They have always looked so forced to me.

  “The guy who bartends here used to play in a band with me. He’s cool,” Owen says as he grabs my wrist. He’s already dancing a little, letting his legs twist and bounce in beat with the 80’s rock song playing in the background. “Plus, it’s only what…3:30 in the afternoon? I don’t think you need to worry about cops raiding the place and checking for IDs at this hour.”

  “Right,” I say, nodding my head with a faux confidence.

  He guides me to the bar and extends his arms out, presenting it to me like he’s some exuberant game show host and this is my grand prize.

  “Welcome to the greatest bar on earth. I dare you to guess WHY it is known as such.”

  “No clue,” I say as I try to pull my sneakers off of the peculiar stickiness that seems to be layering the floor. I scan my eyes around and realize I’ve been in here before. Years ago, this same space was used for a truly dreadful seafood restaurant my dad used to adore coming to—especially for those limitless Friday night buffets. Regrettably (to only him—I detested the damn place, and so did Mom even though she would never say so) they got a surprise health inspection one day and it was discovered that the owners had a habit of bleaching their old fish to give them the appearance of being ‘freshly caught.’ Needless to say their doors were shut immediately and this place was sold. Such is the story for so many places of business here in good old Melbrook, Florida. People come from all over the country to try and start a new life here since it’s cheap and close eno
ugh to the big tourist attractions in Orlando. People who possess no logical sense to run a business and most end up failing epically. The real estate market has quite a high turnover rate here.

  “They have karaoke available 24/7. And every afternoon the stage is overtaken by clusters of drunken factory workers who are just getting off of their twelve hour shifts,” Owen says as he bobs up and down and scans the alcohol menu. It’s exceptionally small—no one should need to spend more than two seconds contemplating his or her beverage choice. But Owen’s been reading it for at least a minute now. “It is by far the most entertaining thing happening in this city right now.”

  I nod my head. I believe him, without question.

  I hear a bellowing voice on the stage and I do my best to focus and catch a glimpse of this ‘amazing’ karaoke, but thick clouds of smoke—moist with old beer and sweat—cloud my vision. I can almost taste the rancid hops covering my tongue. I choke and the creepy guy with a lazy eye sitting down in the stool next to me hits my back a little too vigorously. “You okay, honey?” he asks, leering at me with his floating eyeball. It works though. I stop coughing. He raises his one good eye, fishing for a ‘thank you.’ I dart away.

  “Owen! You made it. You have yet to miss a Wednesday singing session here since I’ve been bartending, have you?”

  A tall man with a blonde bowl cut steps out from behind a wood-paneled wall. It looks like something straight out of my grandmother’s house—buckling and spotted with dark green mold. He raises his hand up in the air and Owen meets him halfway. Carrying on the tradition of the high-five.

  “Of course not. And I apologize to your ears in advance. I think it’s going to be a three-to-four song kind of day. All moody, old school rock and roll. Be prepared to be amazed,” Owen says, bopping his head in excitement.

  The bartender throws his head back in laughter and retrieves two glasses off of the shelf. Owen pulls a stool out for me but stays on his feet, hopping around like a toddler in the midst of potty training who has to pee. I don’t think he’s stopped and stood still at all today. Even when he was driving us here, his music was always blasting, throwing the car into park at every red light to play air guitar. Some part of his body seems to always need to be moving—and think I’ve already convinced myself he’s inflicted with some mild form of Tourette’s.

  “Does your friend want a drink as well?” the bartender asks.

  I sense my face getting warm. Both guys raise their eyebrows, waiting for a response.

  “I don’t know. Do you, Maura?”

  “Su—sure….” I say, my voice low and void of any confidence. As long as I don’t pop any mystery pills like I did last time I decided to try my hand and drinking, I shouldn’t experience any episodes of blacking out and puking all over myself.

  Hopefully.

  “There ya go! She’s a champ, I’m telling you!” Owen says, tickling my back. My entire body flushes into a shade of blood red. I pull my hair over my shoulders to try and cover up any bare skin that could be displaying my uneasiness for all to see. I pray that my anxiety medication is working today.

  “Let’s start with a shot, Robert. Two red-headed sluts?”

  “No problem.”

  A shot? Jesus Christ. Not quite the easy segue I had in mind. Robert the bartender slides a miniature glass in front of me, spattering some thick brown liquid onto my hands. It smells like pure poison. Owen smiles and throws his down like it is nothing more than fruit juice, shifting his eyes to me as he grins at his accomplishment. I pick up the glass and bring it to my mouth, making sure to hold my breath to avoid its putrid smell.

  “Here, I’ll help. I’ll count down for you. On the count of three, just throw it down. One…”

  His eyes are glittering with anticipation. Of course he expects me to take a shot with utter confidence. Most normal, seventeen-year-old girls spend their weekends taking multiple shots while screaming ‘wooo’ at the top of their lungs, dancing around in circles to the latest annoying radio hit with their ‘girls.’

  “Two…”

  He thinks I’m one of those ‘girls.’

  “Three!”

  I need to be one of those ‘girls.’

  I close my eyes and throw the burning liquid into my mouth before I give myself any more chances to contemplate. My throat instantly retracts and I sense I’m going to vomit all over the bar and Owen’s lap.

  “Rob, can you grab her a water? I think your infamously strong shots took her by surprise.”

  I’m gagging into my balled up fists as I listen to ice being poured into a glass.

  “Here, drink this.”

  I let Owen push a cold glass into my hands. I take small sips until I feel my stomach relax.

  “You alright?”

  I’m afraid to even look up. Most likely, this guy is never going to talk to me again. I’m sure he’ll say he needs to use the restroom and excuse himself for a moment, but in reality his buddy Robert the bartender will let him sneak out the back through the employee door and we’ll never speak again. He’ll then proceed to tell everyone at school how I truly am a bizarre freak.

  “Maura?”

  His arm wraps around my shoulder and I let him pull my body against his.

  “I’m so sorry…” I whisper into the crook of his elbow. “I had no idea I would gag like that.”

  “It’s okay sweetie!” he says with a playful giggle in his voice. “It’s a rough shot. You did excellent.”

  His hand brushes against my cheek and pulls my face up.

  “You good?” he asks, beaming.

  I look into his face and I feel my heart double in size. It’s beating through my chest, I just know it.

  “Yeah. I’m good.”

  There’s no way he can’t hear it.

  ****

  We talk and drink beers for what seems like hours. He tells me about how he just moved here last year from Connecticut, and I tell him I just moved here over the summer. This assures when he mentions other people, I can pretend I don’t know them and it will come off as socially acceptable, because hey, I’m still pretty new around here. I ask him why in the world his parents decided to move him from a superb state located only minutes from New York City (his father’s job), and he asks me the same. Surprisingly, I tell him the truth—my mother is inflicted with some ungodly fear of large cities and Melbrook was the only place she could stand to be in the entire state of Florida. If Dad hadn’t been transferred to Orlando’s team, I’m sure she would have brought us to some Thoreau-like cabin deep in the woods where fire ants would be our only neighbors.

  “So do you have a boyfriend?” he blurts after our fourth shot.

  “Umm…no,” I snap. “No way.”

  “Why not?

  I spin my empty shot glass around on the bar, letting it slide over the dampness covering the wood. Everything in the place seems to be damp. “Excuse me?”

  “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” he parrots back.

  I spin it too had and it topples over. The bartender happens to be walking by and snaps the glass up, assuming my drunken ass is starting to show signs of belligerence.

  “Because I don’t want one,” I say a little too convincingly.

  A squat, round man with fanatical curls jutting out of his head every which way jumps up on the stage. A song about loving America fills the room, and he misses the entire first verse. He paws at the microphone in an attempt to lower it, unaware of the fact that people are laughing right in his face.

  “Come dance with me.”

  Owen jolts up out of his chair and tugs my wrist, forcing me to follow.

  “To this mess of a song?” I ask. Three other men are with their co-worker on stage now, assisting him in the daunting task of figuring out the lyrics. Their arms are wrapped around each other’s shoulders as they sway back and forth and try their best to stay upright.

  “Why not?” Owen asks as he places one hand on my lower back and grabs my other one firmly in his grip. He
motions his eyes down to my free hand. “Come on, you gotta participate in this dance, Maura.”

  I dry my hand off on my jeans and rest my fingers on his shoulder. His heart is beating right through his skin. My knees quake.

  “Most marriages end in divorce anyways,” I say, filling our silence as we glide into a makeshift waltz. I let him do all the leading. He’s rather good.

  “What?”

  “Relationships. Most don’t work out. So why bother?”

  “I didn’t say anything about marriage,” he says tilting my body back into a dramatic dip. “Nothing could be further than my mind than marriage.”

  “So it’s safe to assume that you are without a girlfriend?” I ask, hating the words as they tumble from my shriveled, dry lips. Could I sound any more like a pathetic female?

  “Nah, I’m not looking for the serious stuff now. I just want to have fun.”

  He pulls me in tighter. My boobs are pushing into his chest and a million goose bumps blossom over the entire span of my body. I’m fairly positive I’ve never been this close to a male before.

  “But if the opportunity came along, I wouldn’t be against becoming serious.” His voice is hushed and fast, like he’s telling me a secret—a glorious secret that makes the insides of my stomach churn like an angry hurricane buckling down on the ocean. Being completely nauseated has never felt quite this amazing.

  “That…that’s good,” I say, forcing my wandering mind back into the moment.

  I must turn away. I’m breathing so hard that I sound like I’m having a mild asthma attack, and I’m pretty sure he’s staring at me—but I can’t look right now. He’s going to assume I’m some crazed lunatic who needs an air tank. Our dance steps start to slow down a little bit. The drunken construction workers are off of the stage now, and all I can make out are mumbled conversations and bottles clanking. Everything seems so far away. I’m in a bubble.

  “I guess I’ll just know it when that time finally comes along,” he whispers. His lips graze my cheek and we stop waltzing. His hand comes up and brushes my flyaway bangs behind my ear, the tips of his fingers running along the back of my earlobe. An overpowering wave of desire and anticipation wells up from my stomach, causing my internal hurricane to erupt into a monsoon. I let his eyes lock with mine, restraining me like a pair of handcuffs. They inspect me, almost like they’re looking right through my skin and into everything that’s underneath, begging to learn anything and everything about me. I don’t move. Maybe if I can manage to stay totally still, this moment might last forever.