The Other Side(4)
“Nothing I can do. I’ll start looking for a new one.”
He throws his hands in the air incredulously, foam sloshing out of the can, and soaking into his pristine attire. “How long will that take?” He has the attitude down today. Kudos for that. Though when he registers his shirtsleeve sponging up the beer spill, he grumbles softly and surprisingly out of character, “Shit.”
I shrug, pick up my toolbox from the floor, and head for the door. Truth be told, I hate confrontation. It’s another thing that makes me sweaty. But bravado masks it, in the combination of standing tall and silent. I feel like an imposter when I do this, a fraud, but it always works. The other person perceives my posturing as me asserting power, instead of me hiding behind armor. That works for me.
The De Niro voice is ranting at me again as I exit. I tune it out because I know it’s for effect and make my way up the stairs to 2B and Mrs. Bennett. The screaming from my quads is persistent and gains momentum with each step; my legs are tired.
I knock loudly on Mrs. Bennett’s door. Her hearing is dismal.
She opens the door in a flourish. Physically, she’s spry and able, I think that’s what makes me so sad that her mind is a sieve; the pairing seems cruelly unfair.
“Toby!” she shouts with glee.
There’s the rare spark of recollection in her eyes. The glimmer of awareness flickers brightly like a flame behind her irises, illuminating them with a fierce vitality. When she’s in full control of her mind, it shines like a beacon in her eyes.
“Mrs. Bennett,” I greet. I’ve known her and her granddaughter, Chantal, who lives with her, for the seven years I’ve lived in this building. I like her. I’m not sure it shows, but I do. “Everything okay today?” I ask.
She nods enthusiastically. “Oh yes, it’s a fine day. Chantal’s feeding the baby in her room, but she’ll be out in a minute so you can see them.” I inwardly, reflexively wince—it hurts and always will—while she continues, “We’re going to sit down to dinner while we watch the end of Oprah. Would you like to join us?” She offers me dinner at least once a week.
I decline every time. “No, thanks. I need to get back upstairs and do my homework.”
I’m lying, I don’t have any homework. Family, its essence, is strong in this apartment and I can only take it in short bursts. The comfort that lives inside is as overwhelming as the aroma of the fried chicken wafting out of the kitchen like a dizzying fog sent to lull me in to a false sense of security and make me believe in fairy tales. Short bursts, I remind myself as my stomach rumbles with hunger, and I pry away from her kindness and merciful lack of judgment.
She daintily flutters her bony hand at me, her wrist flexing up and down rapidly like dragonfly wings. “Good night, Toby.”
I raise my hand in response, but my wrist and hand remain fixed stiffly in place like the mask on my face. “Night.”
I know I should say something about Chantal and the baby, but I don’t. Guilt takes another stab. Mrs. Bennett should think I’m a monster, but she doesn’t. Another stab. And another. I’m riddled with it—a series of open, infected, invisible wounds.
She sighs quietly before the door closes completely and I hear her faint, pensive words. “That poor boy needs to sleep, he always looks tuckered out.”
And here I always thought the constant purple circles under my eyes made me look tough instead of strung out and holding onto sanity by a frazzled thread. I guess I was wrong.
I return the toolbox to its rightful place of prestige on top of the fridge. For a lone, turbulent moment I regard my bedroom door with longing and consider skipping my weekly Friday night routine in favor of trying to sleep. The allure of routine and avoiding a head-on collision with insomnia wins out quickly and absolutely. I need to quiet my thoughts, not exacerbate them with stillness and silence.
Zipping up my sweatshirt and pulling the hood up because it’s like blinders, I walk out the door on a mission for Dan’s Tavern down the street. Let the numbing commence.
Johnny is easy to spot when I walk in the door; the place is relatively empty. The nine-to-fivers are just getting off work and won’t stream in for another hour or so, even those with shaky hands and desperate need. I stride toward him like a man on a mission and take a seat on the empty stool next to him at the bar. As soon as I’m seated, the sensation of being stationary does little to ease my persistent ball of nerves, it only aggravates. My mind tends to accelerate when I’m sedentary, instead of the other way around. Doubt, guilt, hopelessness, and helplessness rushes in and crushes with brutal force. It’s the reason I try to keep busy all the time: distraction dulls and enables me to function.
He tilts and tips his chin in my direction. “Asshole.” When I moved in with him, he asked me what I like to be called.
I told him, “Asshole,” because that’s how I felt. It stuck, though he never says it with much conviction.
“Mr. Street’s fridge finally gave up the ghost,” I greet in return.
He nods solemnly. He knew this day was coming.
“My money,” I add, sounding every bit the asshole he’s labeled me. It’s usually a request, asking my employer for my weekly paycheck. Today my fuse is burned out and spent, so it’s a demand instead.
He fingers some bills in the chest pocket of his dirty flannel. There’s sanctity in his touch; it’s a ritual. He does it every time he parts with money, a silent prayer on his tongue already mourning the separation. His lips move minutely as he slips two tens and a five from his pocket, and with a final longing glance, tosses them in my direction.