Chasing Gunner

by Stoneback, J. M.

  “Life got in the way.” Sadness seeps through her face. “Wolf . . .” This is the second time she’s called me that, and I don’t mind it either.

  “Yes, Rainbow?” My tone grows uneven, and my raging cock is reminding me I’m hornyier than a dog.

  “Get the lead out your a-s-s.” She spells out the word. I don’t know what cuss words ever did to her for her not to use them. “And hit play.”

  I grab the remote from my pocket, hit play, and her eyes are glued back to the screen.

  I want to drink Gia like my favorite whiskey so I feel her seeping through my pores.

  Gunner

  Q: What is pain?

  A: Usually localized physical suffering associated with bodily disorder (such as a disease or an injury.) -Webster Dictionary-

  My feet pound on the wet pavement as heavy rain beats angrily against my body. I can barely see the mansions that decorate my neighborhood in Bedford, NY.

  When I started therapy six months ago, Dr. Hannah asked me the same question. What is pain?

  I gave her the Webster’s dictionary version. She responded with, “Wrong answer.” Then I accused her of being a quack and shot her idle threats about firing her.

  Every session.

  Every. Fucking. Session.

  She asked me that same question, and I gave her the same answer. A few times, I asked her if she’d snorted coke, and if she did to pass some my way. (FYI, I was willing to try anything to make me feel.) Then she told me once I understand the meaning of the question I’ll have the right answer. For weeks, I thought I was dealing with the Riddler from Batman. Instead of her feeding me the answer, like any therapist would, I had to go on a goddamn scavenger hunt for the answer.

  That fucking question bothered me like a crackhead begging for coke.

  Then one day, the answer clicked in my brain. Real pain is not from hurting yourself like breaking an arm or leg. Sure, it hurts like a motherfucker, but that pain is temporary, the wound will heal, and you’ll move on like it never happened.

  Real pain lies in what’s in your head, the mental scars people imprint on you or the ones you inflict on yourself. My mental scarring is at war with my mind. Most days, my mind wins and other days it loses. When it loses, that’s when I down liquor like it’s water. Today, I’m losing the war.

  My chest tightens like a snake is squeezing it, and my heart beats faster than a drummer at a concert. My mind is fucking my brain sideways scissors style.

  Gunpowder invades my nostrils, and I rub my nose until it’s sore.

  Breathe, Gunner. You smell musky rain, not gunpowder.

  A revolver fires off in my ear like a bomb.

  Relax. You’re running.

  Gray brain matter splatters across the pale white walls. A hole the size of a grapefruit indents his forehead as blood gushes down his face, and his eyes roll into the back of his head.

  It’ll pass, you’re safe, you’re in the Bedford Hills neighborhood, not in his basement . . .

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  I’m trying to gather my thoughts.

  My mind won’t win; I won’t let it.

  Keep running, switch gears, and focus on something else.

  I love running like I love pussy and liquor.

  I fell in love with running when I was in high school. Not to toot my own horn, but I was the best on the track team, which is how I scored a full ride to NYU.

  I like the way my heart beats against my ribcage, and the way endorphins course through my veins, giving me that runner’s high.

  God, I fucking love running.

  I run to forget shit. Running isn’t helping me today.

  I’m not about to blab my mouth to Hannah about me suffering from dissociation again. Because she’s going to dope me up on antipsychotics or antidepressants like she did when I first started therapy, and that shit had me feeling like someone took a spoon and scoop my soul out of my body.

  I don’t want a repeat of that shit show.

  It’s bad enough I float around like an empty vessel, but to take those drugs makes me feel alive as a vegetable.

  No matter how much I fuck and drink, it doesn’t make me feel whole. It will take a shit-ton of glue to piece my soul together. So I run until my ugly-ass feet are bruised and blue, hoping to outrun my demons, hoping the rain washes away my sins.

  PTSD made me its bitch five months ago, and I started relying heavily on Jack Daniel’s and tequila. I’ve always been a heavy drinker since I had my second drink of liquor when I was sixteen years old and I threw a house party when my ma went out of town for her job.

  By the time I run home, the rain drowns me, and the sky’s weeping gray is depressing and sad. Whoever said that weather can affect your mood wasn’t lying.

  I rush up the stone stairway of my sanctuary, made out of gray stones. I had it custom-built to look like a castle from the Victoria era. Gargoyle statues sitting on the roof, staring down at me.

  Bile rises in my throat as I vomit in the expensive plants that I wasted thousands of dollars on, something Monique, my interior designer, made me buy. She thought it would make the bright colors of the plants pop on the gray landscape—whatever the fuck that shit means.

  I type in the passcode on the pad above the brass knob and swing the door open. I strip my gray T-shirt and basketball shorts off and toss the wet clothes on the wooden floor.

  My home is as depressing as a gravesite.

  Fuck me, my feet feel like I’m walking on a thousand knives as I limp to the kitchen.

  I grab the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the top of the fridge and unscrew the lid, downing the burning liquor wincing as it hits my throat.

  “He can’t hurt us anymore,” I mumble under my breath and drain the remainder of the bottle, then I toss it against the wall. It shatters into millions of pieces on the marble floor. “Fuck!” I yell.

  When will it stop? The pain, the guilt of that night playing in my mind like a rerun-on TV.

  I stare at the black wall as if the answer to my problem is written on it.

  The buzz from my phone snaps me out of my stupor. I grab it and see a message from Gia.

  Rainbow: Are you coming in today? You have a lunch meeting with Lilly Green at 12:45.

  Lilly is a supervisor in the marketing department who annoys the shit out of me. She wants to ride my dick like a surfboard. No, thank you. I’m not interested in fucking my employees.

  I fire off a text to Rainbow.

  Me: Clear my schedule for the week.

  And I toss my iPhone on the marble counter, limp to the living room, and lie on the black couch. I stare at the high ceiling fan as it moves in slow motion.

  I’m sick of the guilt eating at me.

  I’m sick of feeling empty.

  I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.

  Life is water and slowly it’s drowning me. I’m holding on to the liquor like it’s my life jacket.

  I place my right foot on my thigh as I sit on my ma’s couch in her living room as I wait for her to finish cleaning her house.

  I grew up in the dumps of Newark, NJ. No surprise there. Everyone knows it. If you Google my name, my life story will pop up. Money, Forbes, and Bloomberg Businessweek reporters came beating on my door, demanding an interview on how I became a billionaire in short five years.

  One word. Networking.

  I joined country clubs just to mingle with a bunch of snobs who had no idea about the daily struggles of a typical American. These fuckers didn’t even know the cost of something as simple as bread or milk.

  It made me sick the way they looked down and talked shit about the middle class—like we were fucking peasants.

  Just to be vindictive, I fucked their daughters, and when I felt adventurous, I fucked their wives. (Never said I was a saint.)

  Back then, I was a ruthless man who didn’t give a fuck about whose toes I stepped on to get to the top. All I cared about was getting my dick wet and build
ing an empire.

  Without networking, I wouldn’t have met my best friend, Darien. He saw potential in me and became my first investor even though he wasn’t Bill Gates rich, but he was getting there.

  Now, all I care about is keeping my company afloat and my friends and family. God, I love them so much I’d die and kill for them.

  Also, I’m starting to care about the brunette I moved in and who parades around my apartment in rainbow colors and has my condo smelling like Duff Goldman’s kitchen. (She’s a different subject for a different day.)

  Growing up, Ma busted her ass to keep food on the table and still sometimes that wasn’t enough. There were times the lights were cut off, the heater stopped working, and eviction notices were slapped on the door. She worked so much I helped Alana with her homework and made sure she had a home-cooked meal with the little food that we had.

  So sitting on the maroon couch in the spacious living room makes me feel proud.

  Proud that I was able to buy this home for her with my first million.

  Proud I did something my sperm donor couldn’t do—provide a roof over her head and get us out of the vicious cycle of poverty.

  Ma walks into the living room, plucking the family pictures from the metal entertainment center, resting them on the glass table in front of me. As she sprays the entertainment center with furniture polish, the scent of lemon and sunshine assaults my nostrils, and it smells like home. When I’m here, it feels as peaceful as sitting in an open field with trees and listening to the leaves sway back and forth. She hums Here Comes the Sun by the Beatles and her wavy blond hair falls over her creamy pale shoulders. Her white cotton shirt and jeans engulf her small frame.

  “Momma, why is Amy on my payroll if she isn’t cleaning?”

  “I kicked her to the curb. She was bringing bad spirits into my house.” She shakes her head. “She was side-eyeing Herold.”

  Ma is on a witch hunt that spirits are real.

  Why does she believe in that bogus shit? Beats me.

  Around Halloween, Ma and her best friend acted like Sam and Dean from Supernatural. She and loose-cannon Karen set boundaries for these so-called ghosts that roam the earth by sprinkling salt and rice around the doors of the house.

  The shit show didn’t stop there. Alana and I were forced to stay inside so a ghost wouldn’t possess us.

  But wait. There’s more. They lit candles around the house and ‘cleansed’ the house with a sage stick.

  I hate the fucking smell of that stick.

  Mom and loose-cannon Karen (that has a ring to it) think the devil rises from the dead to take souls with him.

  When I was sixteen and Alana was eleven, I snuck her out to go trick-or-treating. I never did that again. My fun-size ma beat my six-foot-two ass with a broom that left welts on my back and told me not to ever celebrate the holiday while living under her roof, so when I moved out and got my first apartment, I celebrated the holiday like Satan was my lord and savior.

  Ma sets the picture back on the center and grabs the broom from the beige wall to sweep the hardwood floors. The straw brushes against my feet. My feet don’t hurt as much as they did when I went running a few days ago, so I’m not limping as bad.

  “Spit on it,” she says, holding the broom in my face.

  “Ma!”

  “Don’t give me any lip, boy. Do what I say.”

  Rolling my eyes, I spit on the broom. If someone sweeps over your feet and you don’t spit on it it’s bad luck.

  “Why are you here in the middle of a workday?” She studies my face like she’s trying to figure out a Rubik’s Cube. “You got a woman pregnant?”

  “No.”

  “You got an STD?”

  “Hell no.” It’s pretty sad my mom thinks I’m slinging my dick without a condom. I have enough common sense to wrap it up. I run my hand through my hair. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  She doesn’t have any boundaries either. She’d be all over me like a rash if she knew I had PTSD. She’d call Dr. Hannah and harass the poor woman. No matter how old I get, I’m still her little boy. That’s why I keep my lips sealed. I leave my family in the dark about my life; they don’t know I moved Little Miss Sunshine into my condo, either.

  “Fine, I guess. I have to cleanse Alana and Darien’s house tomorrow in preparation for my grandbaby’s birth.” She studies me from head to toe. “You look like you got hit by a bus. You want me to do yours?”

  Ever wonder who I get my bluntness from? I’m looking at her.

  “Yeah. Fine.” I don’t believe in that hocus-pocus bullshit. But whatever floats her boat.

  After sweeping, she sets the broom back against the wall and rearranges the white lilies (her favorite) sitting on the table. I send her flowers every Wednesday to show her how much I appreciate her.

  “Where’s Herold?” I ask.

  “At the shop.”

  He owns a mechanic shop in Newark. To be honest, I didn’t like Herold because I didn’t think he was good enough for her, but he proved himself that he was an okay guy. And when she married him two years ago, without letting me and Alana know, I was livid. FYI, I get my impulsive tendencies from Mommy Dearest.

  “You’re not going to be moping around here, looking like someone stole your bike. Help me get rid of the wilting flowers in my garden, and I’ll fill you in on the latest gossip from the country club. Act like you care too. I really need to vent to someone about Karen’s adulterous husband.”

  Don’t forget to add bossy to the list of things my ma is.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Gia

  Oh, yeah.

  I so needed this. Izzy perches across from me and hot mud clings to my skin, melting away my worries.

  This week has been as painful as ripping hair from my scalp.

  Since Gunner didn’t show up at work, things have been pretty hectic at the office. Conference meetings have been canceled. Shareholders have been asking me if and when Gunner is coming back to work. Then I had to send over finance notes to Mason. I don’t want to say this out loud, but I missed Gunner. It’s been quiet and lonely, especially at home. I didn’t finish the second season of The Office because Izzy is not into comedies, so it’s hard to discuss shows and movies with her. Cheesy romance and reality shows are more her jam.

  Her eyes are closed, and her head rests on a white pillow. She looks like an enchanted princess with her inky, straight hair and tan skin that looks like the sun kissed her a million times, and she’s tall as a tree. She arrived two days ago from Johannesburg, will be staying here for another three days, then she’s off to her next photoshoot.

  “I have something to tell you.” Excitement bleeds through her words.

  “Spring it on me.” I wiggle around like chains are wrapped around my body. The mud is choking the life out of me. When Izzy sits up, her chocolate eyes meet mine, her thin lips turn up, and she smiles as if she won the lottery.

  “I snagged a gig with Naked Magazine posing for the December issue.” Her words are laced with so much passion it can start fireworks.

  Naked Magazine is one of the top international lingerie magazines competing with Victoria’s Secret and Adore Me. She’s been wanting to snag a job with them for seven years now.

  “That’s awesome. Are you going to take it?”

  “Hell yeah!” Happiness slices through her baby doll face. “My parents are pissed off. Ever since they’ve come to terms that modeling is my career, they love to throw it in my face how much money they wasted on a computer engineering degree, and how they want every penny back.” She blows out a loud breath. “I’m sick of their crap. I thank them every day for the degree, but it isn’t enough. And since Alice graduated with her medical degree, they brag about how proud of her they are, like she didn’t get busted for shoplifting last year and Dad didn’t have to bail her out of jail.” Her face morphs from sorrow to anger. “I’m sorry to unload on you, but I needed to get that off my chest.” She rests her head b
ack on the pillow, gazing at the ceiling.

  Izzy is always seeking her parents’ approval. No matter what she does they always compare her to Alice, her twin sister. They always belittle her and make her feel like the scum of the earth. Pee on toilet seats gets better treatment than Izzy.

  Yes, she is an ounce of brat, a cup of self-centered, and a dash of obnoxious, but her heart is as good as gold and if you ever need anything, she’s there for you. She’ll give you the shirt off her back. Both of her parents are child psychologists.

  Sometimes, I used to want to know my dad, but if he’s a terrible person, then I’d rather not know him at all.

  “You want to get out of here? Play Monopoly?”

  Izzy loves board games. Me, I can live without them.

  “Okay, cool. Let’s grab some grub first.”

  “Ha, yo ass is going straight to jail. Do not collect your two hundred bucks.”

  I roll my eyes and move the little doggy piece to the jail space on the board. As I clutch my glass, I take slow sips of the bitter wine. I don’t drink often, and when I do I make sure I’m in a safe environment.

  Izzy sits cross-legged in front of the brown table as she fist-pumps like a cheerleader at a football game. She loves to talk a lot of crap, and we’re both a little tipsy from drinking Gunner’s wine. Izzy said the wine is expensive, and it’s the same stuff her dad buys for her mom on their anniversary. I told her we’re stealing, and she told me to live a little, and we’re borrowing it—she’ll replace it before he comes back on Monday.

  Another crime I committed besides stealing from my boss: I sleep in his bed because Izzy takes up so much space. And I got tired of waking up to a foot in my back or her face snuggled on my chest.

  Days like this remind me of college. She’d come over to my and my ex’s apartment, and we would play board games. My ex only allowed me to have one friend, and I never met any of his friends because he thought I would sleep with them. I made a big mistake telling him about my mom being a prostitute. Every time he got angry, he would throw it in my face. What life has taught me is not to tell people your weaknesses because they’ll use them against you. I’m so glad Izzy helped me get out of that situation.