When he woke up, the first thing his first thought was of the dull pain in his hands. There was a stinging in the fingers that made the rest of him shake. In hindsight, he would realize that the shaking was in his head and the rest of his morning would be spent on the couch, recovering from a night spent with a coffee cup full of vodka.
He was afraid to look at his hands. He couldn’t be sure of it but
a hunch told him he had done something terrible. Eyelids fluttered, and
he took in the dim light. Sharp inhalations became labored breaths. The
room was quiet. Its amazing how quiet the hours of dawn always are. Nobody
is crying. Nobody screams above the din. Dogs aren’t barking in
confusion. His head was still pounding but it paled in comparison to the
nausea that settles in with guilt. He knew how much of the morning would
be spent in apology.
Just as he was about to bury his head in his pillow and scream, the phone
vibrated. He could count anyone that would ever call him on one hand.
At six in the morning, the hand became a fist. He wasn’t the least
bit curious. Instead, a tired arm reached for the coffee cup on the nightstand,
only to find the last of the booze had been drunk. The coffee cup was
always empty. At the end of the stretched hands he noticed the congealed
blood. It was black, and the hands were stiff because of it. The phone
growled with a delayed vibration that sent it falling off the edge of
the nightstand. Voicemail. Obligation.
He sprung out of bed with sunken eyes and bloody hands. Without any consideration,
he opened the window, picked up the phone and threw it into the snow.
Then, he began by stuffing clothes into a duffel bag.
* * *
I should have packed a tooth brush. At least then, Jim wouldn’t
be repulsed by my breath. Jim was nice enough to pick me up from a gas
station at eleven in the morning but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t
have anything better to do than chain smoke and tell me how ornery the
black women are that come into the Euro trash clothing store he works
at.
I’m freezing but he refuses to turn the heat on in his car. The
ice has frozen the windows shut, so we cant even roll them down for a
smoke. I stuff my hands into my pockets and stare at the skeletal trees
whipping past. Jim tries to make small talk but I cant even force the
platitudes. We ride in silence. The trees turn into condominiums, which
turn into homes, which turn cars in a parking lot. The car stops and I
grab my bag, while throwing my hand up in farewell to a friend who was
always there but never able to pull from me a sentiment. Like so many
of the relationships in my life, this one was one-ended.
Passing the crows on benches, I bought my ticket from a half-comatose
geriatric behind the glass. The station was crowded because nobody wanted
to wait in the cold. I opened the door, stepped out onto the platform
and lit myself a cigarette.
“I like your shoes.”
The voice came from a middle-aged woman behind me, sitting on a bench.
She was dressed in a heavy nylon parka, the kind you wrap an eight year
old in. She wasn’t carrying any bags but she had a grocery bag-wrapped
box with a thread tied around it dangling from her finger.
“Thank you.”
“I’d be careful, salt isn’t kind to suede.”
“I know, I should have worn my winter boots.”
Why was this crazy bitch talking to me? I don’t need her fucking
advice!
“You have another one of those?” She pointed at my cigarette
and without even considering, I reached into my jacket pocket to give
her one. Normally, I lie and say I only have one left but there was something
strange about the way she asked. She sort of hesitated before asking and
again after pointing, as if she wasn’t sure she ever even wanted
one. So I’ll give her one and make sure she smokes the whole damn
thing. She might have been ridden had and put away wet, but she had a
face I couldn’t say no to.
“Oh, thank you so much.”
“Its no problem.”
“Where are you headed to anyway?”
“To be honest, I’m not quite sure...I thought I’d just
head into Chicago and walk around for awhile.”
“Ahhh, I’ve been there.”
“You’ve been where? Chicago?”
“No. I’ve caught trains to nowhere too. You’ve got a
bandaged hand and a shake to your step. I can smell the booze on you too.
I’d recommend the Y, they’ll take you in for cheap. Most suburban
kids run without thinking about the comforts of home. It might have been
hell, but at least you had hot water at home.”
“Yea well, home isn’t home. Daddy doesn’t like queermos.
And I’m not running. I’m just heading to my buddy’s
place for the week.”
“Take it from me kid, go home or one day you’ll be giving
advice to strangers at a train station.”
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