In the Nick of Time

by Laveen, Tiana

  Taryn had memorized the staff schedules from front to back, for there was a time when she’d planned an escape. Her mind worked like a steel trap or infinite library. Almost anything she read and saw, she memorized. It was her job to know. The very first time she ended up in treatment, it was court mandated. She had no damn choice in the horrid matter and spent her weary mornings, dreadful afternoons, and long, tedious nights devising crafty plans that included scaling buildings with knotted sheets and getting bus tickets to faraway places. After growing wiser and stronger, she stopped fighting the addiction, embraced it, thanked it for its fucked up stint—and told it the time had come for it to go. They could not live in harmony, and it proved no friend; it was her foe.

  She could no longer protect her dependence, coddle it and allow it to harm her, for it was killing her, little pill by little pill. She tried so hard to do her own thing, be independent, all the way since childhood. Yet, she’d allowed the drugs to boss her around, tell her what to do. No one was the boss of her, and once that became truly crystal meth clear, she’d devised a new plan. The damn addiction wasn’t paying any rent, but taking up all of the space within her and offering nothing in return.

  It didn’t love her back the way she’d once loved it. Her addiction had stolen her dignity, made her fall from grace, physically sicker, weaker, and less reliable—all the things she detested. Life tried to snuff her out, and by some merciful grace of God, she was still standing, speaking clearly and coherently, running about like a giddy child, walking straight and talking the witty shit she liked to speak. There was no way in hell she could let it win—she’d come too far! This proved a daily battle, but she was accustomed to fighting, for that was what warriors do…

  She’d endured the brutality of the modeling industry—the hidden aspect of it, the one that saw her as a size, a race, and a pretty face. They’d molded her into an erotic and exotic heifer amongst a herd of glassy-eyed cattle, a paper doll with no heartbeat perched in front of the perfect backdrop with a diamond collar around her slender neck. But who held the chain? Dolls… dolls had no heartbeat; they simply sat pretty, their dresses pressed, their legs straight, and no blood to draw, no emotions to feel. That’s how she felt, even at times when she’d view herself in the magazines… mere figurines. No blinking… no expression… just a body being played and toyed with, then tossed aside for a newer version.

  All those shows where she’d move as if she had no knees, the make-up so thick, she could barely feel her damn face, a paddle brush combing harshly against her tresses, ripping some out along the way, and her trying to not sweat under the harsh lights, all to simply get the perfect shot, create an illusion for real life people to grasp at. And in the end, they’d end up broke and disappointed, no closer to the artifice than moments previous.

  Damn. Dolls.

  She was nothing more than a beautiful liar, a paid pretty face, a photo-shopped fantasy… but…she loved the damn clothes.

  …But I’m still a doll.

  Too many people wanted to be one, without understanding that dolls have no soul…

  …And she wanted her voice back.

  She couldn’t hate it all, though. There were good days too, and despite her jadedness and disheartening experiences, she recalled those golden, precious moments. For instance, there were virtuous designers—hailing from all corners of the world—who’d treated her like a human being, not a number or two-dimensional entity. She simply could not color the whole ordeal charcoal gray and deny the rainbow filter that shined through every now and again.

  And lest she forget, the dedicated photographers and other hard working models who had become close companions, forever friends, some even like sisters and brothers, helping each other along in the vicious dog eat dog business of Mother Fashion who was known to eat her own young. Her dear friend Vicki, one of the top models in the game, had the business acumen of a damn shark. Her beautiful face fooled many, and she’d taken the time to mold Taryn, give her a crash course on who to trust and who to avoid like the bloodthirsty piranhas that they were. Those occasional people who truly got it and remembered their humanity made the experience worthwhile, made her feel extraordinary and more than just a coveted surface and long, lean body with thick, dark hair.

  She’d survived breast cancer, twice to be exact; the bitch had double dipped, turned around for seconds. And now that same fucker was in remission, put on ice, hopefully to never rear her ugly head again. Taryn would be damned if she was going to sucker punch her health in the face by succumbing to the temptation of the very thing that would wreck her immune system and make her unfit to ever model, dance, lift a pencil, sew a thread, or even listen to music again. So, she tucked her collected Firststone intelligence away and tossed all plans for a grand escape to the side, under and over the moon…till death do her part.

  Well, that’s over now…

  She slumped onto her thin bed with the stingy mattress as John Coltrane’s, ‘Blue Train’ played like an eargasm line dance. She smirked and bobbed her head to the beat, tapping her foot just so as she fell into the seductive groove. Swaying from side to side, she was soon snapping her fingers, falling into the pure pleasure of it all.

  “That’s right. I’ve not lost everything. No, ma’am!” she shouted high to the rafters, her smile as big as the setting sun. “I still have my good ear, my great sight, and I know a worthy tune when it comes my way!!! Go, Coltrane, go!!! BLOW THAT HORN!!!” She hooted, her old, tired soul living it up to the fullest. The man with the clarinet made her feel sexy…made her feel clever, vibrant, gold and silver and tingly all over.

  …And Mr. Coltrane did as he was told, rubbing her just the right way all through the night…

  Chapter Three

  Jazz was standing there holding a dented in can of Goya beans. In the other hand, he held a cold, dark bottle of Coca Cola, beaded up with condensation, sweating under the blazing sun. The skinny teen was blacker than the inside of a hippopotamus’ mouth, and his forehead was particularly short, causing his eyebrows and hairline to look as if they were only a mere inch apart. This gave him the oddest of appearances, like an emaciated Frankenstein. His long legs had no larger or smaller portions, being all of the same width, like dark rubber bands stretched taut across a wooden board. All Nick knew was, he wanted that fucking soda…

  Desperation tapped him on his shoulders and dared him to make a move. It was hot as the gold chain necklace he’d lifted last week. Mom was broke, and he’d searched the place for hours trying to find spare change. It had been a dismal day for luck. And his had just completely run out.

  “Yo Jazz! You gonna hold that and shake it around like your little dick or give me a taste?” He threw on a snaggletooth grin, and raised his dirty dark blue and white striped shirt from the bottom hem, moving it swiftly across his face to collect the latest sweat offering for the Sun God.

  “Nuh uh, Nick. You was…you was…you was just talkin’ a bunch of shit about me this mornin’. I ain’t sharin’ wit’ you.”

  Jazz was taller than a damn tree. He had a slight speech impediment that caused him to speak as if he were an album playing on the lowest setting on repeat, and he was also someone Nick enjoyed tormenting every now and again for the sheer hell of it. The boy was at least five years older than he—had to be seventeen, but because he was slow in the head, it was like taking advantage of a baby. Regardless, he never meant the bastard any harm, but that may have to soon be changed as his thirst grew even stronger and his stomach grumbled a bit louder, reminding him that being a nice guy and being hungry and thirsty could seldom co-exist.

  “Come on, Jazz! I only want a taste! Now look,” Nick’s tone softened as he took a gentle step towards the withered giant, “we can do this real easy like, or we can do it all rough.” He laughed lightly and threw up his hands as if the jerk had left him no choice. “I didn’t even ask for your fuckin’ beans. I coulda took those, too! I did you a favor!” An angry burst of heat ignited within him as he lu
nged for the boy’s hands, and though Jazz may have been slow, he was faster with his maneuvers than Nick had anticipated.

  “Leeee meee alone!” Jazz spouted, then turned on a dime, his loose, ratty white socks slinking down around his toothpick-like ankles, as they had nothing of substance to hold on to. The boy started to walk away and break free from the confrontation.

  I’m thirsty. He’s got the goods. This should be easy…

  “Get your retarded fuckin’ ass back here, Jazz!”

  Nick lunged for him again, this time grasping the slick neck of the icy bottle with a death grip. They struggled a bit as Jazz’s eyes bucked and danced with untamed wildness. The guy let out a shrill scream, like the sound some exotic Australian beetle would make in one of those boring nature programs he was forced to watch in school. He just about lost his grip of the thing as the walking tree branch and he fought, practically losing their footing in the mayhem. But then, he’d finally won, and snatched his prize away with a satisfied grin, leaving the ebony praying mantis breathing hard and barely standing.

  Taking several steps back, he quickly undid the cap, almost slicing his thumb open in the process. He brought it to his lips and took the first cold gulp, and then the second. The fizz tasted like a reunion with his homeboys; the sweet, intoxicating flavor was their party and the way it burned going down, the next Outlaw heist they’d score that evening. Jazz stood before him, helpless. His droopy eyes told the whole goddamn story. Nick wasn’t sure what he was feeling right then. Must’ve been that thing Mom called guilt. He took another gulp of the thing and fell into his mother’s words…

  ‘Nicky! You don’t have a guilty bone in your body. It must be broke or you weren’t even born with it. I need to have you X-rayed!’

  She was right; he NEVER felt guilty but right then and there, as he looked into Jazz’s sagging, sad eyes, he kinda did…yeah…and he didn’t like it, not one damn bit. It made him feel all jellyfish like inside, soft, gushy…remorseful. Who needs it?!

  And where’d it come from?

  He took another sip, but it didn’t taste as good as the first three generous gulps. He turned away from the kid, focused on the Johnny Pump, thought about breaking the thing open, but he couldn’t shake the shame. Then, he looked back at Jazz and this sinking, quicksand feeling overcame him. The teenager with the mindset of an eight year old just stood there watching him, his smooth, soot colored cheeks glossy with tears…

  Awwww fuck… He’s cryin’!

  “Here, man…” He handed the damn thing back to the boy. Jazz looked at him suspiciously, his thin eyebrow raised on his short forehead just so.

  “Come on, take it! I told you I only wanted a taste. What cha tryna say? I’m a liar? I ain’t no liar… Now here!”

  The boy hesitated a second or two longer, then reached out, gingerly taking the bottle from Nick. He clasped it close to his chest, lest he change his mind. He stood there and watched Jazz turn away, then walked swiftly down the sidewalk, checking over his shoulder every now and again. He couldn’t stand it anymore, so he turned away too, and headed in the other direction.

  Maybe I am a bad little son of a gun just like Mom says…

  Nick moved away from his childhood deliberations, sliding his naked body against the thick, luxurious sheets given to him as a Christmas gift from a coworker during Secret Santa several years earlier. It was the grand prize, and he’d pulled the lucky number. He tossed and turned like a giant snake caught in a cotton bag. He didn’t know why he’d thought about Jazz that morning…or was it afternoon? He’d called in sick since Eric decided to do the shit he’d done, and that had been two days prior, of that he was certain. After hours of dancing in a drunken stupor, his bubble burst when all the cocaine was gone and only a half a six-pack of beer remained.

  He knew what he had at all times; inventory was important. He’d gone through his stash like a thief, pillaging his own supply, robbing himself blind. Anything to make the bite of yesteryear not feel so bad. The past had big ass teeth, and it would come to him and ask to suck his damn blood in the most polite of ways. If he refused, it would torment him anyway, and the only way to make that motherfucker understand that no meant no was to turn his mind off. So, that’s what he did.

  He rolled his thick tongue around in his mouth, trying desperately to widen his eyes and focus. Several minutes later, he suddenly heard murmuring beside him, and startled at the sight. A languid, beautiful woman with skin the color of slightly overcooked toast lay beside him. Her long, wild, lustrous curly black hair spiraled over one eye as she showed a garish grin framed in smudged pink gloss. Stretching her long limbs, she lifted upward and gave him an ‘all-knowing’ nod of approval.

  Who tha fuck is this in my bed?!

  Nick didn’t recall exiting his bedroom, let alone his apartment. He also didn’t remember letting anyone in, making a pussy call, or anything of the like. Worst of all, she wasn’t someone he’d had over before; he never forgot a face. She looked vaguely familiar, but he’d never looked the lady in the eye before. Something was amiss…

  This was his one true calling. His mind was a steel trap when it came to the visual. He could look at a person one time, high or not, and have their entire form mapped out, down to freckles, moles, and all the inconsequential details that most overlooked. He knew when a woman had dyed her hair—the roots always told the truth no matter how good of a job it was. He knew when a man was freshly shaved simply by observing the fella’s skin, their scalp, the way they smelled; and he knew when a bastard was a drug addict, a functional drunk, or all of the above. He knew his own kind, though he never claimed them as part of his family in the public eye…

  The woman, seemingly reading his mind, pulled the sheets over her beautiful naked body and said in a sly whisper, “We met online a while back. You called me last night, told me to come over, so I did.”

  “Jesus Christ!” His throat constricted, grew tight like a vise as his mouth became impossibly dryer. Flashes of himself fucking around on his phone came and went from her admission. He had no recollection of the actual conversation, but she must’ve been telling the truth, for at the foot of the damn bed sat two torn golden condom wrappers. He reached for his cellphone, scanned the thing, and noted his latest browsing history. Sure enough, he found her profile picture and their conversation. He began to read it, but her voice distracted him, stopped his internal investigation.

  “Do you think we can check out the—”

  “Shhhh!” he scolded as he raised his hand, continuing to read the nonsensical words he’d coaxed her with, to get the pretty little thing into his bed. He’d been a regular ol’ Don Juan last night, full of lies, craziness, and angelic words to get what he wanted, when he wanted it…

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she barked, flinging the sheets off her form. “You didn’t seem that drunk when I came over. You are the one who asked me over here, not the other way around.” She pointed at herself while her attitude grew wings and flew close to his face, wishing to smack him down to the ground no doubt. “I got in here last night, and you were like a totally different person than you were online. You were a good fuck, don’t get me wrong, but you said some really crazy shit. You’re a real ass, you know that?!” she hissed.

  “What did I say?”

  “What does it matter now?” She raised her perfectly arched brow along with her voice.

  “Because you mentioned it so I want to know.” He shrugged.

  “You kept talking about some guy named Jonathan and you called me a whore, too.”

  “Oh…” What else could he say? He sounded like a damn nut because he was. No sense for him to state the obvious.

  “I’m leaving and don’t worry about seeing me out,” she huffed as she got to her feet. He turned away from her and set his phone down. Closing his eyes, he simply tried to sweet talk a budding headache into going away and leaving him alone. It refused, and banged on his temple like a landlord about to serve an eviction notice
. He turned back towards her, mulling over what to say. She looked over her shoulder a time or two, then slid her ivory sweater over her large breasts. He cast his attention towards his mirror, catching her reflection. She had some of the largest nipples he’d ever seen…

  Nice.

  “You shouldn’t come over to strange guys’ houses.” He yawned and crossed his arms as he contemplated lighting up a cigarette.

  “What tha hell do you care?” She kept her back turned as she slicked her belt into her jean loops.

  “I’m supposed to care about everybody. I’m a cop… Seriously though, you could get hurt. I coulda been some weirdo. Well, you probably think I am one anyway, but you know what I mean.”

  She burst out laughing.

  “You told me you were a dentist…”

  He offered a half grin.

  “Sorry about callin’ you a whore. I honestly don’t remember. Anyway,” he ran his hand up and down his knee, warming it to his touch, “I’m sure I said a lot of stuff last night that wasn’t true.” He got to his feet and walked into his master suite bathroom. Glancing at her a time or two as she combed her hair with her fingers, he tossed cold water on his face. “How’d you get over here?” he called out as he ran his fingers along his hairline, inspecting himself just so.

  …Time for a haircut.

  “I took a cab.” She grabbed her large tangerine snakeskin purse and slung it over her shoulder.

  “What part of town do you live in?”

  “El Barrio…” He paused, lifted his chin a little higher, and turned back in her direction.

  “¿Cómo te llama?” (What’s your name?)

  “Me llamo Denise.” (My name is Denise.)