Subtraction by Addition

Upon waking this morning, I made an important decision. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I forced my tired, wood-stiff legs into motion. My seemingly lead-filled veins make sitting up difficult, but I manage on this hazy morning.

Running my rough hands over my chest, each protruding rib like symmetrical deposits of abuse, and a reminder of what she'd done. I'm trying to wake up: my bloodshot eyes pan the room in a desperate squint, struggling against what little light there is. Stumbling to and fro like a beast in a Shelly novel, the faded green plastic catches my eye.

Slowly sitting on the old bed, drooping in the center with rigid, stiff edges, I gently press my tired feet into the stained shag carpet. With the shallow breaths that reveal a man deep in thought, I scratch at the coarse, uneven hair on my face, tracing defined cheekbones, weighing my options in my mind.

My stomach rumbles a faint moan of vacancy, snapping me back from deep thought.

"I should be done with her," I grunt. I know better. Since our introduction I've longed incessantly for her. Like a pebble in a shoe, she rattles through my head all day long, stealing the lyrics of my favourite songs and ruining the endings of my favourite movies.

Staring down the once-white walls, marked by scuffs and scratches, holes and hurts, I begrudgingly acknowledge the decision I made long ago. I'd dropped out of college and quit my job for her, I'd moved away from family and forgotten friends for her. She knew I'd crawl back, knees raw of repetition.

How could I stay away? Her beauty fills me with joy: I float, I laugh. She satisfies me with a certain happiness that can't be bought, and when I'm not with her, I'm thinking of her. Maybe I'll run into her on the street corner, a crowded bar downtown, the nearly empty bus depot or, if I'm lucky, on my way to Nemo's.

Seizing the cheap plastic green phone, I desperately want to crush it, I want to smash it, I want it gone, I want it out of reach, I want dead silence, I want freedom, but it finds its way to my ear. Electric vultures shriek a dial tone through the earpiece, cutting through my headache, and for a moment, I wish for death.

Inches from my head, the phone screams each shrill ring, and I lean away. After hours of ringing, Nemo answers, his voice distorted and distant.

"Yeah?"
"Hey, have you seen Lady?" I'm trying to sound calm and together, but he hears my desperation leaking through, like the subtle tremors of a low level earthquake.
"No man, she don't wanna see you no more."

I'm all too familiar with this game. He'll hold out for a while, but eventually, I'll find her. Dropping the phone onto its battered cradle, the loud crack hums in my ears, and I stand. Ambushed by crimson curtains, my eyes flash and my legs soften while my head spins. Supporting myself with the wall, I let the head rush pass.

After groping the wall searching for the switch, I enter the moldy washroom, flooded with moldy light. Eagerly emptying my bladder, the stained, hair-filled sink catches a casual glance, as well as the full role of toilet paper gathering dust beside the dried, pale-green soap.

Donning the once-soft baggy gray sweater marked with dirt and a peeling Soundgarden emblem, I deem my torn, barely blue jeans worthy of the storm, worthy of Lady. My tattered shoes, really more of a formality, slide on with years of experience, and carry me to the window.

Brushing aside the coarse woolen blanket serving as makeshift drapes, hiding my streaked windows, I peek through the small space at the rusted beige van across the street. It's been there for days, I know it. An old and ragged '92 Ford Econoline: sheltering the final spot of arid sand. Disregarding it like brushing mental dandruff from my shoulder, I head for the door - the dilapidated, splintered door - barely keeping out the cold.

Stepping out, the sharp sun stings my eyes, the cold slaps at my tired face and hands, and the cool mist offers a neglected shower. I pause, my eyes closed, letting the foggy refreshment pass over me, cool and soothing.

The heavy clouds spare my eyes a moment, and I head out between the cedars, two to the left and one to the right. Overgrown shrubs and weed-filled grass line the path, and I emerge from my private wilderness, taking care not to look directly at the beaten van.

The old buildings ahead with their stained white siding shoot into the ground, and the sky, filled with the occasional lopsided cloud, falls to the Earth, and confusion fills my mind. I marvel at the sudden upside-down world, and wait for the Earth's rotation to pull me back to reality.

Twilight overtakes the sky as I slam my head onto the ice, my tangled, unwashed hair offering no relief. My vision clears, and I spot a cloud reminiscent of Lady. The old sweater has done nothing for my back.

Sitting up, I curse the ice, angry with my passing neighbours for purposely placing the ice on my path, smoothing it thin, carefully concealing it. Their stupid dog mocks my imbalance, his well-groomed, golden coat billows in tune with his laughter, and his tongue bobs at my expense.

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

They scamper off, their carefully knit scarves trailing behind like World War 1 fighter pilots. Their condescending faces belie the contempt they hold me within. Frisky's tail wags eagerly, his world consumed by the playful crows ahead; they're gone.

Carefully rising, I set my feet and brush off the sticky gray slush, my clothes darkened with inundation. My head is ringing, having grown to twice its normal size. I can almost see the little yellow birds flying around my head as I delicately examine the protruding bump.

I reach the concrete sidewalk: a Persian carpet in comparison to my cracked, broken and overgrown pathway, and I look back at the old blue building I call home. Duct taped windows with their blanket curtains and the patched door all smile back. I turn for Nemo's.

Cars drift past with suspicious regularity - fiery reds, creamy blues, blotchy greens -and the massive iron carriages hammer by exhaling bluish poison, puddles shooting skyward from fat Goodyears and well-travelled pavement. I barely dodge the messy spray, and the drivers watch me jump and move. Safe within their vehicles, their eyes track warily.

Having taken this road so many times before, I wait expectantly for what I know is coming: the soundtrack of cacophonous barking dogs in the background, Granger's Market on the corner, his barred windows and dead-bolted doors having little effect on this month's three robberies. So many unkempt lawns and half-standing fences, overfilled dumpsters and overstuffed mailboxes, boarded windows and barricaded doorways; the distant pounding of gunfire wakes me from my slum hypnosis.

The deep red bricks for Nemo's crumbling abode lay before me and, watching the ground carefully, I make my way to the large metal door. The beaten, dented door is uninviting, losing visitors and dull bronze paint all the same.

Barely keeping to the deteriorated hinges, the door slowly reveals Nemo, the half-opened door and drawn hood do little to hide the frustration and annoyance in his bloodshot eyes. He wants to send me home, he wants to hit me, he wants to yell, and he wants to slam the door, risking its unsure hinges, but he knows it's no use. He nods tentatively, and I enter.

Ancient gray Berber lines the floor, with its large red-brown stain oddly shaped like Italy sitting in the corner, and with scattered tufts rising like flares on the sun. The faded purple wallpaper, a pallor not unlike watered down blood, shares the walls with posters of naked women and beer logos, monster trucks and pro wrestlers, undoubtedly covering the gaping maw of numerous holes.

"What you got?"

Nemo's voice, slow and abrasive breathes animosity, but I ignore it, quickly unclasping the age-old watch my grandfather gave me long ago. With honest care, he closed hand around it with a wrinkled smile and a youthful wink. The late summer sun burning red, Grandpa handed down much more than just a timepiece.

"Where is she?" I demand irked and impatient, passing the tarnished silver.

Parting with the heirloom hurts, its delicate engravings not restricted to the watch, but I've given much worse to Lady: money, jewels, antiques, electronics - anything for her insatiable thirst, be they stolen or not.

He half grunts - half nods upstairs in response, but I already know, and I'm already heading toward the bare, wooden twenty. Dusty and worn, I expect the usual moans of defiance from three and fifteen, and sometimes I expect to fall through. Eyeing the loose, cracked handrail, I march upward.