Chapter 10--Rider on the Storm

Readers are cautioned that this chapter contains drug use and attempted suicide.  If those subjects trouble you, don't read!!!




Riders on the Storm


Dante woke to the rumble of thunder and the patter of rain on his bedroom window.  He twisted his naked body upright and stretched cramped muscles.  A toad squirmed in his brain. He rubbed his eyes, but the ache remained. Gray sunlight leaked through the grime-smeared windows. The ghosts of long-ago tenants still lingered in the stale odors that fouled the air.  Unpacked boxes still littered the floor.

         On the soiled sheets next to him, Boris uncurled from a ball of fur, yawned, and stretched. His gaze, unblinking and merciless, peered into Dante's soul and set afire the guilt that smouldered there.  Dante looked away, his attention straying to the detritus of the prior night, to where a half-empty baggie of brownish-yellow powder lay next to Boris on the bed. His works--a syringe, a thin rubber tube, a spoon, and a Zippo lighter--promised, along with the contents of the baggies, to quench the flames burning deep inside him.

         Not now. Maybe later, but the flames weren't yet unbearable.

         Distant thunder grumbled, raindrops spit at the windows, and the house shuddered in the wind.

         Dante ran fingers through snarled hair and stood on watery legs.  He stumbled to the bathroom.  Boris followed and watched with fascination as he relieved himself.  A stranger's face stared at him from the mirror.  Sunken cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, blisters on dried lips.  Jesus.  He looked like he'd been to Hell and back. 

         Coffee.  That's what he needed.

         He stumbled to the kitchen, with Boris weaving between his steps.  He fed Boris, then pulled yesterday's cup from the sink.  Brown muck stuck to the bottom.  He half-rinsed it out, dumped a couple of heaping spoonfuls of sugar into it, and brewed a fresh cup. 

         A scrawled note rested on the table.  He frowned and picked it up.  Last night was freakin' awesome.  Woke up hungry.  Went for donuts.  R. Purple stars, happy faces, and exclamation points adorned the message.

         R had to be Rickie.  He vaguely recalled they'd talked about getting together yesterday, but he had no memory of following through.  Based on the works on his bed, he'd clearly gotten wasted last night. Based on the note, Rickie must have been here, too.  Just as well he was gone now.  The last thing Dante wanted was to interact with someone, anyone, let alone with Rickie.

         The box of comics still sat on the kitchen table.  The door he'd removed from its hinges yesterday still leaned against the wall.  The doorway to the basement was still a featureless black hole that sucked light from the room without giving any illumination back.

         Was it just yesterday?  It seemed longer.  Like a dog with a bone, he gnawed at his memory, but nothing came.  The last twenty-four hours were just surreal snippets here and there.  Shadowy, fragmented scenes in black-and-white, like disjointed clips from an old noir movie.

         He slumped into a chair, sipped steaming coffee, and let his mind wander.  Jesse had loved movies.  They used to imagine themselves living in those celluloid worlds.  One night, they'd be Bogart and Bacall in To Have and Have Not.  Jesse would be Bogart, Dante Bacall.  On another, they'd be Sal Mineo and James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause, with Dante as Plato.  Or they'd be in the surreal world of Mullholland Drive, where the multiple fantasies of Naomi Watts's character, Diane, afforded endless opportunities for being someone other than themselves. 

         They were riders on the storm. Into those dreams they were born.  In those dreams, they found deliverance.  In dreams, they were actors on a stage.  In dreams, but only in dreams.

         Enough.  Jesse was gone. He was never coming back.

         Dante gulped down the last of his coffee and returned to the bedroom.  A crusty, yellow stain marred the sheets next to the syringe.  He must have had an erotic dream.  He shuddered as an alternative dawned on him. Maybe he and Rickie had done it. He chewed his lower lip.  Nah.  Even Rickie would be too repulsed by him.  All Rickie wanted was crank.  All he cared about was tweaking. Dante was just his gateway. 

         Still, the baggie and its relentless promise drew his gaze. 

         No, not yet.  Later, sure.  But not now.

         He looked again at the box with the rolled-up canvases. Evidence of his failures as a painter.  He pulled one out and spread it on the sheets, covering the stain and the drug paraphernalia.

         It was a portrait of Jesse, on the beach.  That precise curl fell over his forehead, a coy smile quirked his lips, and his blue eyes glowed with inner joy.  His lithe torso evoked the masculine power of a lion and the svelte allure of an incubus.  Dante touched his own lips, then Jesse's in the portrait. His fingertips met the familiar kiss of supple, warm flesh.

         There were no photographs of Jesse, of course.  Deep down, Dante knew that was impossible.  All he had were portraits.  And dreams.  That was all he'd ever had or would ever have.

         He uncurled more canvases.  Jesse lounging in bed, reading Catcher in the Rye.  Jesse as Prometheus, as Ruebens might have imagined him.  Jesse as David, naked and proud with a slingshot over one shoulder.  Jesse in all his glory, his fingertips touching God's, as Michelangelo would have painted him. 

         Dante's phone rang.  He didn't remember setting the ringtone to the opening chords of The Shining.  His eyes crinkled as he recalled having to explain the significance of the Dies Irae to Jesse. That was endearing, then.  Now…now it was just another bad memory, this time of when they'd stayed at the Overlook Hotel. Or of those final, horrible moments together.

         He checked the caller ID and sighed.  "Hello, Momma."

         "Donnie, you promised to call your Momma. You said you'd get some hootch for her today."

         He hadn't promised anything.  "I said I'd try Momma."  He had no idea what his tips from last night were.  In fact, he had no memory of his shift at the Summit last night.  Or anything else from last night, for that matter.  "I'm still working on it."

         That resulted in another wheezy sigh.  "Your momma misses you. When are you coming home?"

         "I told you, Momma.  I've got my own place now."

         "What am I supposed to do with your room? I looked this morning, and it's still full of your shit."

         "I don't care, Momma.  Rent it out, for all I care.  Anything still in it can't possibly matter to me."

         "It's a pig sty. Paint splashed all over the place.  And those pictures!  Do you have to paint naked men? It's smut. Why can't you paint pretty girls? Or flowers?"

         "Flowers don't speak to me, Momma."

         "So a picture of a blood-splattered naked man with his throat slashed speaks to you?  That's sick, Donny boy.  You're sick."

         Ice congealed in his belly. Somehow, she knew. How could she possibly know how Jesse had looked afterwards? The phrase evidence of things unseen echoed from somewhare in his mind. Evidence of any kind was a bad thing. "I never painted anything like that, Momma.  You must be dreaming." Still, she'd managed to describe exactly how Jesse had looked after...after he'd done what he'd done.  Even that memory, the memory of the deed itself, seemed to have vanished. All that remained was the horrible aftermath. 

         Momma's voice turned insistent. "I'm sitting right here looking at the hideous thing.  You could have at least cleaned this rat's nest up before you moved out.  You think I'm going to do it?  I'm not your slave."

         It wouldn't do to have her poking around in his room.  It wouldn't do at all.  She might find evidence of his real sins. "Leave it, Momma.  I'll come over and straighten up, I promise.  Maybe this weekend."

         "Well, I'm going to wrap all this smut up up and put it in the garbage where no one will ever see it.  These paintings are  filthy.  Disgusting. The Devil's work. I don't want no one knowin' how filthy sick you are."

         Just so she didn't show them to anyone.  "Whatever.  Is there anything else, Momma, or did you just phone to call me names?"

         "I weren't callin' you no names. I was just statin' facts."  A wheezy sigh came over the phone, and her voice softened, at least as much as was possible for her. "Your Momma misses you, Donny, even if you do draw dirty pictures. I'm calling you home."

         "I'm a grown man, Momma.  My home is here."  Truth was, he had no home.  Not now, and not ever.  Still, even this shithole was better than living with Momma.  He broke the connection.

         Seconds later, the Dies Irae sounded again when she called back.  He set the phone to silent.

         His mouth firmed with resolve.  Come home, she'd said.  Softly and gently, she'd called.  She was right.  It was time to go home.

         After all, he was nothing and nobody.  A failure.  A failure at love, at painting, at music.  As a son.  At living.  His life was a nightmare, a rollercoaster to Hell. It would never be better.  He'd never be happy.  He was ready for the judgement day. On the other side, maybe there'd at least be peace.

         He retrieved the baggie and syringe from the bed and returned to the kitchen.  He splashed some water in a dented sauce pan and dumped the brownish-yellow powder into the liquid.  All of it. He brought it to a boil on the stove, used a paper towel to soak up the black crud that floated on the surface after the powder dissolved, and filled the syringe.

         He returned to the bedroom and tied the rubber tube around his upper arm.  He thumped the inside of his elbow to expose the veins and injected fire into his arm.

         Still naked, he lay back on the bed and let the drug work its magic.

         His room dimmed and blood rushed in his ears.  From somewhere far away, a panicky voice called his name.  A familiar voice.  Rickie's voice?

         It didn't matter. Nothing mattered any more.  Nothing would ever matter again.

         The toad in his brain squirmed in wicked delight.

                                                 
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