by Brian Kirk
“What else can we do to help ourselves when we begin to hear voices?” Angela said, smiling as she scanned the faces before her. She knows, Crosby thought, but kept silent. He looked at the floor behind her, but she didn’t cast a shadow. No one did in the dimness of this gloomy room.
The flabby retard with the wobbly teeth raised his hands. Randall, Crosby thought his name was, but wasn’t sure. He hadn’t paid attention during introductions. He wasn’t interested in a support group comprised of loons.
Angela nodded her head in Randall’s direction.
“I’ve come to just think of it as a kind of radio station that only plays in your head. That way I can just listen without getting all wrapped up in what it’s telling me. And it makes it easier to tune out. Kind of like changing channels, you know?”
“Yes, that’s an excellent technique,” Angela said. Her smile was the second brightest object in the room, only outshone by the window and the radiance of its divine word. “Has anyone else tried to think of the voices as if they’re coming through the radio?”
“What if the voices you hear are coming from the radio?” The patient’s nicotine-stained fingers were frayed with hangnails that he compulsively picked and nibbled with his teeth. “What do you do then?”
“Well…” Angela rubbed her knees as she considered the question, “…first, you would need to be able to distinguish between a real radio announcement and one that you’re imagining.”
Crosby thought the old man sitting next to Angela was sleeping, until he exploded in a fit of laughter. “That’s right, that’s right,” he jibbered. “You be all thinking the radio’s not the radio, then the radio’s the radio and you’re thinking it’s not the radio, and then it’s the radio that’s the radio. Whoo-eee!” His chin dug back into his chest and he appeared to return to sleep.
Hangnail brought a finger to his lips and peeled away a strip of skin. “Sometimes the radio tells me I got a worm in my stomach, and the only way to get it out is by electrocuting my intestines.”
“Hmmm…” Angela pondered, “…that would probably be an example of a time when you’re imagining what you’re hearing.”
“I got a worm in my stomach too,” said a burly man whose bushy beard nearly joined his eyebrows. “Its name is José and it makes me drink tequila.”
The old man awoke to fresh laughter. “That’s right, that’s right, that’s right, that’s right,” he said for a full minute, until the others joined in and took up the chant.
Crosby watched as Angela attempted to restore order, pressing down with her hands as though closing an imaginary box. She was so small and fragile looking, with her highlighted hair and china-doll face. He knew, though, that demons often disguised themselves in angelic forms. He wouldn’t be tricked again.
His mother came to mind.
She, too, had been beautiful. Tall, with long, thin legs and a tiny waist. A slender, swanlike neck supporting an oval face with a shallow cleft in her chin. She had thin lips, brittle, blonde hair and a severe smile, but her pale-blue eyes could make men shiver, as from ice. And she always had one by her side.
But what Crosby remembered most about his mother was her hands. Bony, clawlike talons that crushed his little fingers and skinny arms as she dragged him along behind her, or yanked him out of a chair or from the bed or off the floor. She had sharp, knotted knuckles, like bone spurs, that would flame white when she made a fist, and burn like cold fire when she crashed them into his spine. And short, sturdy nails that would gouge red lines of raw flesh whenever she raked them across his skin.
Her hands appeared prim and delicate until she got mad, and then they would curl into vicious claws with thick, wriggly veins that snaked up her spindly arms.
“You need to learn to pull your own weight,” she’d say as she dragged him through the back alleys leading to their many motel rooms across countless towns. “I need you to act like a man.”
He supposed that’s what she was trying to teach him whenever she brought another man to his room. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to learn from those lessons, but they always ate better for a day or two after, so he thought he must be doing something right. Finally pulling his weight.
And the training had come in handy after he had finally been set free. After he’d left her dead on the floor, the life choked out of her. He always knew how to bring in a few extra bucks to keep from being evicted from his ramshackle motel room, or whenever he’d missed too many meals.
Still, he knew now what his mother was. Knew what lay hidden behind her pretty façade. That’s why he’d had to escape.
The room was still a cacophony of laughter and shouting voices, but the sound faded to the background as Crosby leaned forward. He squinted, forcing his eyes to focus, trailing them down Angela’s long, athletic arms to where they ended. Her hands. Prim and delicate with short, sturdy nails and sharp, knotted knuckles. A few wriggly veins were beginning to emerge as she clapped them together in an attempt to establish control.
He sat back in his seat and crossed his arms. Finally, the group settled down, gasping and wheezing like an old engine on Empty.
“That was good, that was good,” Angela said once the room grew quiet. She directed her brilliant smile towards Crosby. “How about you, Crosby?” she said. “We haven’t heard from you yet. Do you have anything to add?”
He tilted his head to one side and sucked in air. He held it, then released it in a whoosh. “Do you ever hear voices inside your head?” he asked.
“No, I can’t say that I do.”
Crosby grunted. “You don’t ever hear a voice when you’re in the shower, maybe singing a little melody, or when you’re driving, shouting at the car in front of you, or when you’re at the grocery store, reminding you that you’re low on milk?”
“Okay, yes. Sure, we all have an internal monologue expressing our thoughts. There’s a difference, though, between the voice our mind uses to articulate our thoughts and auditory hallucinations. Those are the ones that we’re discussing now.”
“So it’s fine for you to hear voices in your head but not us?”
“I’m not saying that there is a right or a wrong, just that there is a difference. Oftentimes, hallucinatory voices create unwanted stress and lead to destructive behavior. We would want to minimize that, wouldn’t we?”
“You mean control it. Yeah, I know how certain thoughts can be scary for people in positions of power. It’s a form of censorship. Everyone hears voices in their head, but some are considered crazy, others sane. Depends on what the voices are saying, it seems.”
“That’s an interesting point,” Angela said. She checked her watch and then slapped her palms against the top of her thighs. “Unfortunately, we’re about out of time. We’ll pick back up tomorrow where we left off.”
Angela showed her smile, but it had lost its light; the darkness in the room deepened. Crosby looked back at the window, which had become a window again. But he had received its message loud and clear.
I know why you keep your lights so low, he thought as he scanned the floor again for shadows. You may appear sweet on the outside, but I know what you are underneath.
Angela stood and started to direct the patients towards the orderlies who had come to escort them to the next item on their itinerary. When she walked past Crosby, she placed a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
Chapter Sixteen
She cupped her hand over the shot glass, slammed it against the bar—carbonated tequila sprayed out on all sides—and drank it down. The bartender’s whistle shrieked. Stacy reached out and shook Angela’s head.
“Fucking opa!” Angela yelled.
“Opa?” Stacy’s laughter turned the word into seven syllables. She held Angela’s head steady so she could look into her eyes. “What are you talking about, opa?”
“Isn’t that what you say when you take
a shot?”
“Yeah, if you’re in ouzo drinking Greece.” They both paused, the music blaring in the background, then brayed laughter into each other’s faces. “I mean… You know what I fucking mean.” Stacy pushed Angela’s head playfully away.
“Sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve had a tequila slammer,” Angela said. “I’ve forgotten the etiquette.”
“Yeah, right. Like, two weeks?” Stacy smirked.
“Oh shut up,” Angela said, feigning indignation.
“Then I’ll remind you. You’re now supposed to stumble up to some cute guy on the dance floor and let him finger fuck you in a booth near the back.”
Angela snorted. “Right. I’d forgotten that part. I’ll be right back.” She spun the barstool around and pretended to hop off.
The bar was beginning to thin out, but a throng of people still pressed against the small corner stage where a cover band blasted Southern rock songs from the ’70s. And a ragtag group of gamblers still huddled over tables in the pool hall. Red embers flared like demonic fireflies, while threads of smoke shapeshifted in bands of blue light. Bleary-eyed loners sat at the bar, staring at nothing while downing their drinks in synchronized sips. A string of faded shamrocks encircled the banister overhead, leftover relics from a St. Patrick’s party many months, or years, ago.
“I fucking love this place,” Angela said, spinning back around to face Stacy.
“This place is a shithole,” Stacy said as she lit a cigarette.
“I know. That’s why I love it.” She reached into Stacy’s pack and pulled out a cigarette for herself, leaning over for Stacy to light it. The band started playing “Statesboro Blues” and a drunken cheer erupted from the crowd. Angela shot an arm up in the air and bellowed, “Wooo-hooo!”
Stacy leaned back and clapped her hands, laughing. “You crack me up,” she said.
Angela returned the laughter, then blew smoke up towards the ceiling, adding to the grey haze overhead. “Why’s that?”
“’Cause you’re like this Dr. Do Good by day and Little Miss Devil by night.”
“More like Dr. Feel Good,” Angela said, turning and ordering another round of shots. She placed her cigarette in an ashtray and tousled her hair, resetting the spikes. “I’ve got to blow off steam after work. Otherwise, I’d go—”
“Crazy?”
Angela rolled her eyes and smiled. “You know what I mean.”
“I can imagine. So how are things at the old nuthouse?”
Angela backhanded Stacy on the arm. Then swiveled the stool to face her longtime friend still sporting the same frizzy, highlighted hair from high school. Still applying thick coats of concealer like spackling over blemished skin. The dim recesses of back-alley bars were Stacy’s natural habitat. Angela couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her old friend in the unforgiving glare of daylight.
“I don’t know. It’s good, I guess. In a completely fucked-up kind of way.” She grabbed the cigarette from the tray. Twin creases dimpled her cheeks as she sucked in smoke. Her voice became husky as she exhaled. “I swear, the longer you work in a place like that, you start to lose perspective over who’s really sane. I’m starting to think that we’re all a little bit crazy. It’s all just shades of grey.”
The shots came. Warm kamikazes filled to the brim. They clinked glasses before choking them down, chasing away the taste with beer that they’d ordered to back the shots.
Stacy propped her elbow atop the bar so that she could feed the cigarette into her mouth simply by rotating her wrist. “My ex-boyfriend used to have me step on his balls with stiletto heels. Trust me. I know what you mean.”
“No way! That banker? What was his name—Hank?”
“Henry. Yeah, it turned him on. He wanted to drink my piss too.”
Angela almost sprayed beer across the bar. “No way! Did you do it?”
“Fuck no. What, I’m supposed to piss into a chalice and serve it on a silver platter? Gross. That was too much. Even for me.”
“I never would have imagined,” Angela said, shaking her head in wonder.
“Well, that goes back to what you’re saying. We’re all fucking nuts.” She motioned to the bartender. “Another round, muchacho.”
Angela’s eyes brightened. She gave a mock cheer. “There’s something liberating about the idea of losing it. About just letting go and giving in to our natural inhibitions. It’s too stressful trying to be perfect all the time. I mean, do you think what’s his name, Henry, would want his balls stomped on if he wasn’t so repressed in his everyday life? I feel like we only get to be ourselves, I mean our true, authentic selves, a small fraction of the time that we’re alive. The rest of the time we’re putting on an act for others.
“And it’s such a lame act, with all these stiff social graces, this pretentious etiquette. The perfect posture. The smug, insincere smiles. Safe topics of conversation. Fucking manners. I mean, who came up with this stuff? Whoever it was, was a fucking dork.”
Stacy did spray beer. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and sighed. “It’s true. We’re all expected to act like the most uptight asshole.”
“Seriously. That’s why I love places like this. Here, no one gives a fuck. Everyone’s just out to have a good time. But, I mean, look at the setup. It’s dark, so we can’t see each other very well. It’s like we’re hiding in the shadows or something. The music’s loud, so it disrupts our normal speech patterns. There are all sorts of games and distractions.”
The bartender slid the shots in front of them.
Angela pulled hers close. “Not to mention everyone’s completely wasted,” she said, her words beginning to slur. “Everyone’s got some vice to help compensate for the fact that they have to pretend to be someone else. It’s like our own minirebellion.”
Stacy narrowed her eyes, squinting through the helix of rising smoke. “Right. Some people get hammered.” She nodded sagely. “Other people just hammer their nuts.”
Angela looked sidelong at Stacy. They both held serious expressions for a moment, then burst out laughing. “I can’t believe you actually walked on Henry’s balls,” she said, her shoulders shaking.
“The things we do for love.”
Angela’s barstool was bumped from behind. She turned to face a tall man wearing a Stetson hat pulled low over deep, wide-set eyes. Long, wavy hair cascaded down his neck, and a thick mustache was perched above his mouth. His smile bloomed in the blue light.
“Hey, cowboy,” Angela said, smirking.
“You ladies look to be having a good time,” he said in a deep Southern drawl. “Mind if I join in?”
Angela inspected him through narrow slits. “I don’t know. You’ll have to answer a few questions first.”
“Shoot,” he said.
“Okay. Well, are you a real cowboy, or are you just playing pretend?”
The man smiled. “Depends on how you define cowboy. I guess I herd things from place to place and spend most my days on the open road. I can sing songs by the fire and am handy with a rope. I can tie a heck of a knot.”
Angela looked at Stacy and arched her eyebrows. “You’re good at tying things up, are you?”
He took a step closer. Light chased the shadows from his eyes. They were cobalt blue. “If something gets too wild on me. Sure, I just tie it down.” He rested his arms across the back of her barstool, forcing Angela to lean away.
She smiled and sucked deeply on her cigarette. “Okay. Well answer me this, have you ever had your balls walked on?”
Stacy bent forward and snickered into her hand.
“What, you mean by a woman?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
His smile became slanted. He reached out and placed a heavy hand on Angela’s thigh, giving it a firm squeeze. Angela pressed her legs together, clamping his hand between them. Heat ru
shed to her face as she held his gaze.
“I can’t say that I have,” he said. “Personally, I prefer pleasure over pain.”
Angela relaxed her legs, allowing him to slide his hand up another inch. She reached a hand around his neck and leaned forward, sliding her smooth face against his rough stubble. “Hi, cowboy. I’m Angela.”
He turned his head so that the corners of their lips were touching. “Dale,” he said. “What’re you drinking?”
“I’m done drinking,” she said, chugging the last of her beer and hopping off the barstool. Her legs buckled as she hit the ground, the alcohol rushing to her head, and she latched on to his arm for balance. “I want to dance.” She grabbed Dale’s hand and led him towards the dance floor. She looked over her shoulder at Stacy and shrugged.
Stacy rolled her eyes and smiled, then turned back towards the bar.
Angela threaded her way through the throng of people, spilling drinks as she careened off shoulders, pulling Dale behind. Sweat trickled down her side as the warmth of the crowd washed over her. She turned to face him and the room kept spinning.
Dale was a head and a half taller than her. When he pressed his hand into Angela’s lower back, pulling her close, the soft flesh of her lower belly pushed against his groin. She felt him harden, and began to move against his stiffening member.
He stepped forward, his lead leg slipping between her thighs, and began to grind his hips. The crowd pressed against them from all sides as they started gyrating to the pulsating music.
Angela wrapped both arms around his neck and gazed into the dark shadows obscuring his eyes, biting her lower lip.
The band began a slow, swampy version of Creedence Clearwater’s “Run Through the Jungle”. Angela turned, reaching overhead and caressing Dale’s neck, pushing back against him. He wrapped his arm around her waist, placing his hand on her stomach. She grabbed it with her other hand and moved it lower. His fingers slipped inside her waistband, pressing below the elastic of her underwear. Angela leaned against him and moaned. He thrust his hips forward, driving the full length of his erection against her soft backside.