'My Name is John' Ch3 'Abnormally Normal

Chapter 3
'Abnormally Normal'




Beeeeep-bip,bip,bip……Beeeeep. I slammed down on my nightstand with blind instinct. That fuckin’ alarm clock, I thought. I opened my eyes, closing them just as quick. Turning on my side, a small wet patch, fresh, stained the side of my face. I turned the pillow over. Much better. I sat up, rubbed my hands over my face. I was still alive, don’t know if that was a good thing really. No quicker than I could adjust to the light did my head fall back onto bed. I could feel the mattress springs poke me in the neck then beg for an early retirement through a chorus of coiled screams. Poor excuse for a pillow, I thought. That pillow was probably older than me- everything we owned was old- it was like we were living in the middle of an estate sale, three weeks after some old lady croaked form a sudden case of whooping cough. I got to get out of here, I said, looking around.

I looked up. ‘Pity I don’t live in one of those renovated Victorians down the street’. I must have said that nearly every morning. I could almost see the wooden slats peek through; the ceiling’s underlay heckling me behind a jigsaw grin. I wish I could have blamed the 1989 earthquake for that, but it was there years before God sneezed and did the hoky-poky. Every morning I would wake, wondering when the roof would fall into my dreams and pry my unconscious.

I closed my eyes, tried to work out why that alarm clock had a mind of its own. My head reminded me that a combination of beer and dehydrated beef had its’ side effects. Maybe there’s a reason it’s called jerkey. That’s how I felt. I swallowed. Again. I rolled my tongue around the roof of my mouth and around the sides. Nothing. My throat felt like a dried up well, dusty; like I had been eating a sand sandwich with cotton bud spread. I need some water. I sat up, for the second time. That smell of morning breath and dry saliva turned my room into an inner city abattoir, minus the bucket of sheep marrow of course. Water, open window, get new pillow case out of cupboard. I made a mental note of things to do.

I looked around. Hundred year old paisley wall paper smiled back at me around the skirting board and the ceiling’s edge. I could see how the gaudy design had appeal back then. The fancy swirled pattern in a contagious green colour. Must have been a status symbol, I thought, looking around. Layers of paint peeled away from the walls in no particular pattern, showcasing the interior design of the late 1800’s. Off white walls with a splash of decay. Or, decay with a splash of white. It was in the eye of the beholder, really. I would sit there, my eyes pressed on that old wallpaper, wondering about a world so far from mine; a simple existence of books and friendship, values, everything else that had been tainted by new inventions and the appealing mirage of so called progression.

That ad came to mind again. It was catchy, had appeal. Something intrigued me about it and I usually thought about it at my worst. Mornings were my worst. ‘Semper Fidelis’ it said. ‘Once a Marine Always a Marine.’ …Always. That was a strong word, powerful; something that would define me forever. And respect, loads of respect. Even when old, with ashy knees- overstocked with pill calendars, aged scotch and plastic mattress covers that have the elastic on the corners. I wondered what mom would say, if she would encourage me. Maybe she would tell me I’m not the ‘soldier’ type or dismiss my idea as just another one of my ‘fleeting’ moments. It seemed like an easy way out, but a weak one no doubt. I wasn’t patriotic, couldn’t give a stuff about my country. She’s never done me any favours. And I would never be playing with a full deck, everything seemed to be off suit and low ‘kicker’. I was simply white trash… West Alameda white trash.




I stood up, looking over at the most unspoiled collection of footwear south of Grand Street. The new Penny Hardaway’s sat flanked by high tops, low tops, the latest nubuck boots and Chuck Taylor’s of course….a staple addition for any sneaker enthusiast. All lined up, laces in, stuffed with old socks or newspaper to hold their shape. Heaven forbid the creases turned to cracks, then you’re talking about small shards of leather peeling away, discoloration. There’s no turning back at that point. An old shoebox hid under my bed- toothbrush, small bottle of Ajax, two rags and stain repellent, various pointed objects for the hard to reach areas. Where I grew up- new sneakers outlived denim. Urban America’s shoe fetish damn near turned us kids into qualified cobblers.






I looked into the mirror. Mould sprinkled the bottom of the glass, the edges fudged with thick build up. It was a small bathroom, enough to fit maybe ….one elephant and a small trough. I turned the tap. Water trickled down the side of the faucet like a disappointing waterfall, nothing like the picture in the brochure. Shit, downstairs must be havin’ a shower. The pipes quivered, rattling the sink. Small flakes of rust fell from the bottom of the medicine cabinet, settling on the perimeter of the basin. I wiped them off, leaving a streak of a red brick colour on the ivory white porcelain. The pipes stopped shaking and water sprayed out like a Brooklyn fire hydrant in mid July. I turned the tap down, splashing my face with a handful of cold water. I started to wake up. Nothing like a bit of Drum and Bass in the morning, unconventional as it was.

I stared into the mirror. I would always silently communicate with myself- my favourite cliché sayings and slogans or catchy advertisement plugs, even a Bob Marley hook from time to time. Be all you can be or everything’s gonna’ be alright or some positive affirmation the latest ad firm came up with- like ‘just do it.’ I think it all started when Bobby Mcferrin hit the charts with 'Don’t Worry Be Happy'. The year was 1988- the year my father left. Because that's what drug addicts do. They leave. Drug addicts never stay. And if they did, you'd wish they would go. Far away. Until you wanted them back; then it was too late so you start blaming yourself, wishing you had better table manners or didn't cry so much. Or could go just one night without spilling something.

Bobby Mcferrin. That song seemed to make it better. Must have been the whistling. I was 8 years old and reggae became my favourite genre of music… that is until Hammer Time introduced Persian genie pants into our mundane wardrobes.

Warm water rolled off my back and down my legs, building in the bottom of the tub. An Al Green tape played loud over the sound of the shower. Lets stay together…lovin’ you forever…that’s all I nee-ee-eed- I joined in with an out of tone, drawn out ‘need’. I loved the old soul beats, the love stories stapled behind perfect pitch and studio add lib- like yeah , uh huh, and c’mon now. I dove into the late 60’s as my voice bounced between the high ceilings and the linoleum floor. I’m sooo in love with you…Silence. My ears filled with water. It was a strange feeling not being able to hear anything- that deep and incoherent, but surprisingly loud sound. I stuck my finger in my ear, pulled down on my lobe, wiggling my head. It came back. ….that’s all I nee-ee-eed. I seriously needed voice lessons. Fuck…damn communal plumbing. Water dribbled on my back, leaking down the sides of the pipes. Damn. I jumped out, reaching for the closest towel. Star Wars.

Patches of soap scattered my body, giving it the once over. I looked in the mirror and stuck part of Luke Sky Walker in my frothy ears. I stared at myself, dry. I couldn’t escape my reflection. He just stared back with a despondent gaze, tongue extended, and told me I was a piece of shit. I didn’t respond. I tried imagining myself in one of those fancy hats that the soldiers wore in the commercial, all white and stretched over a patent leather brim. I clenched my face, imitating the guy on the TV, then smiled just like he did. He was probably just an actor, I thought, sitting down. Dionne Warwick, 'Do You Know the Way to San Jose'…..I gotta change this mix tape.





My elbows fell onto my knees; my posture slumped, staring at the old turtle feet that made up the base of our antique bathtub. My mom told me this could be the original tub, old, worth a lot of money to some posh couple out in Pleasanton or Rockridge. I pictured my dad trying to squeeze it out of the narrow doorway, frustrated and sweating profanity under his fermented breath:

'He would tie it on two skateboards with a trucker’s rig, guiding it carefully with an increasing haphazardness as he got closer to the pawn shop. He would stop only once, just to light a Viceroy 100 cigarette and wipe his brow. It would continue to roll as he inhales the nicotine and reaches for his handkerchief- running to catch up, cigarette dangling from his lips, crooked. Almost there, he would think, taking another drag.'

He wouldn’t have cared about the bewildered looks or the logistical nightmare of an upside down bath tub on wheels; his consequential thinking leaking counter clockwise down the nearest drainpipe. My dad would have sold his soul for a fair price. Come to think about it, he did. Couldn’t have been worth that much, it’s still here, I mumbled effortlessly, looking at the odd design.





•
The living room couch found me daydreaming in the same position- not the same physical slouch, but mental disposition- far from stimulated by some exciting daily agenda or promising forecast for the next week….month, year…ever. I lay down; my feet dangling off the side of the couch, weightless. I stared at the ceiling with the same eyes as earlier, minus the contempt and embarrassment that my ramshackle bedroom instigated. The ceilings were high, so high in fact that it gave the false perception of space and room and big. I suppose, in hindsight, even inanimate objects could con their way in, fool me into believing something that wasn’t reality or truth.

Maybe one day, some Ph 'triple' D Psychologist will relate those 12 foot ceilings with my delusional confusion and thoughts of grandeur. He would sit me on one of those long couches that have been over upholstered, the kind that you would slide off if your clothes held any trace of nylon or polyester. It would be the sort of couch that came with a smoker’s jacket and retro ash tray. He would be a Freudian for sure, opting for theory rather than practical and cognitive.

Things like inner child and deflection and nurture would splatter from his upper East accent, probably Maine or Rhode Island. I would learn that every fine detail of my life would have purpose, meaning, outcomes. He would seem to know everything….I mean everything. I would look at the perfect patch of hair that formed a little ‘V’ in the crevice under his lip. "It’s evident, the imbalance of your psychosocial development…blah blah blah." I would tune out, my eyes exhausted by the human thesaurus and his passive facial hair.

Why is this guy talking about psychosexual personality development? What the hell is that… psychosexual? The complexities of the phallic stage? What? Why does he persist on a list of toys I played with, I’m 27 years old now? I would walk out to a pleasant smile and huge bill I had no intention on paying, spitting on his Jaguar in the parking lot, scouring for the closest liquor store.





I tried to work out if the chandelier was moving. I squinted. I could hear the traffic zoom down the avenue, sporadic, rattling the thin glass windows every few seconds. I came to the conclusion that it moved, slowly, unnoticeably like a clocks minute hand or facial hair.

Our apartment was far from flawless, but loved. Small, but neat- only the bare essentials lined the rooms, so it felt naked, more spacious than it should. The living room was undoubtedly the centrepiece; fresh paint covered layers of second hand smoke and sun damage while new carpet welcomed our bare feet in the mornings. It even had the thickest foam underneath…. the thickest in the shop. I made sure to tell everyone who would listen about the significance of rubber density and spinal configuration. I would ask them to jump. "Can you feel anything, can ya’? Now that’s quality!"

The rent was cheap, well below market value. When my dad left, Ms. Rosenheim promised never to raise our monthly payments. Maybe she too had been pissed on, her heart gouged with an apple picker and left to decompose on a thin branch. Empathy was powerful- combined with feminine emotion, enough to tackle socialist reform or restore anarchy- or share ancestral baking secrets for the folk less driven by political upheaval.

I walked over to the window. A small wicker foot stool sat patiently on the edge of the carpet. I sat down. It was quiet. Everyone was either at work or following some saucy script about housewives, single doctors, and the naive husband who can cry on cue. I pulled down on the blinds. Again. Again. It finally gave, flew right to the top. They were those old vinyl blinds that went up and down, stubbornly, at best. Butter yellow and warped to the shit house, there was nothing Venetian about them.

The phone rang. I flinched. It was the loudest phone you would ever hear. It wasn’t like those polite, all-in-one phones; it was a fire alarm, from inside the walls, demanding you pick up the receiver or start taking sign language at the local community centre.

“Hello.” My enthusiasm didn’t translate.

“Eh.” Neither did Danny’s. “What you doin?’” He asked.

“Ohhh, Donny Boooy.” I sang. The best thing about boredom is you could justify stupid Irish accents.

Danny laughed, half assed. “Ha.” A laugh of recognition, not amusement. “Hey man, you got ten bucks, Chris will give you fifteen next week.”

“What’s he up to?” I’m sure I could have narrowed it down to two… maybe three things if I wanted to.

“Same old shit, John, same ol’ shizit.”

My response was quick, stern. “Fifteen, next week.”

“Yep, he said no problem.” Danny thought it was a question.

“Alright.” I hung up. We were well past ice-breakers or invitations or brainstorming some fanciful excursion that made us feel like we were in a 'Stand By Me 2' casting call. I reached over and turned the television on. Waves of blues and oranges and reds slowly formed a recognisable picture. The old TV set was like a dog whistle, a faint noticeable dolphin mating sound that made you reach for the closest box of Tylenol. I grabbed the set of needle nose pliers, stuck them into where the knob should be and flicked through the channels. Nothing. I turned it off just as quick, threw the pliers across the room.

I sat, looking out toward the avenue. No rush, there never was. On summer nights I could sit there for hours, wedged in the window pane, watching colour fade to the sun’s command. Sometimes I would think about Reggie- where he was, what he was doing, how many people he had scared without saying a single word. It was as if I expected him to come walking by one day, drawn into 9th Street Liquor, curious:

'He walks in. Everything is new. The plethora of micro brews sends him into an anxious dry drunk. He pets his fu-man-chu moustache, downwards, and reaches for his favourite comb; each strand of hair finding a home through the reflection of the hinged glass. He walks out, baffled, with post traumatic eyes. He looks around for his marble bench. He finds comfort on my stoop. I crouch down, unnoticed while he chugs his wheatgrass amber stout. ‘He can’t see me’ I would think as he pulls the new taste away from his face in surprise.' I could sit by that window, drawn into my own fantasy, or listening to music, sucked into someone else’s.

I stared out the window. A pair of sneakers dangled from the telephone wires, twisted, worn. I don’t know how many times those tattered shoes had a different journey, how and why they arrived to become an obscure, yet familiar inner-city ornament. There was a story behind those second hand shoes- an owner, an assailant, an observer. I loved that window. I could dream up anything, find mystery in the most simple of things. My imagination was my best friend, but one day I would believe it to be my reality and never trust him again.


•
I turned right onto Stanford Street. It was surprisingly warm, spring warm, and it was only May. I wiped my forehead with back of my palm, then onto my pants. Danny’s street looked the same, quiet. It was a cul-de-sac, so the only traffic came from residents and wrong turns. If you were looking for a visual definition of West Alameda, Stafford Street was ideal.

A few well to do, San Francisco commuter types lived proudly in their restored, pre 20th Century Victorians. You could spot these types like a pink dolphin in West Oakland- instantly. They would have a fresh slap of paint, detailed in the latest colour. They would tell you it was 'sandy cream with a mauve trim', or 'pearl white with faded teal borders.' They were usually full of shit, these types. To everyone else, it was white and blue. They might get light aqua on a good day, but that’s pushing it.

They were usually youngish, early 30’s and at the peak of their copy right or law career- definitely not from the Bay Area and kept to themselves, not even a fuckin’ smile. They would trim their small patch of front grass every Saturday-on cue, sure to stop right at the neighbour’s property line.I swore they had a laminated copy of the blueprints on the back of their John Deere or Honda dual blade edition lawnmowers.

Incestuous Midwest names like Calvin or Penelope would make us Sams and Als and Joeys cringe, then laugh, cringe more.

The rental market brought these folks in; the average battler on the out. But the Sams and Als, Joeys, Lupes and Ahmeds still held on strong, able to manage the rent in their five-apartment-converted to pay the mortgage-duplexes or bound tight through solid relationships with their landlords over the years.

A deserted naval base occupied the far west, as did those packed in families I talked about. It didn’t take a fortune teller or extrasensory perception to know generic townhouses would one day replace the BV’s or the Expos or any of the other subsidised apartment complexes west of Webster Street.


I turned down the small laneway that led to Danny’s house. An old 1970’s apartment building sat on dusty black asphalt, dry with dubious looking bricks. Thick, slushy mortar seeped out the cracks, sticking to the bricks with stiff conclusion. It was a masonry miscalculation.

A small, one level apartment block sat to the left, separated by a 3foot chain link fence. The clambering of pots and pans, frying oil and Vietnamese squeal pierced my left ear drum. My right, nothing- sloth’s silence and the subtle sounds mid day television.

“Hey Jooohn.” Sheila’s ‘pack-a-day’ voice was deep, scratchy. She sat down on her one step stoop, to the tune of a slapping screen door. The colour of her hair matched the red bricks, almost.

I stopped. ‘What’s up Sheila?’ Really, I couldn’t care less.

“Oh, nothin’, just dyed my hair. What do you think? I’m not sure?” She pulled a handful of hair around her face, tilted her head to the side and ran her fingers through the dampness.

“Yeah, looks alright.” I said.

“You think? Are you sure?” Her straw hair fell effortlessly as she flung her head back like only a woman can do. “It’s Apple Martini Red, got it from a high end salon in Piedmont.” She looked unsure, but enthused.

“Apple Martini Red….are u serious?” I fought the laugh of my life, telling it to wait. Not appropriate…hang on…just hang on. “Yeah, looks good…the colour…it’s different, one of a kind.” I said. I wasn’t lying. It was more like... an inconsistent cranberry red, streaky.

“Oh, thanks hun’ you’re a sweet heart.” A proud jack-o-lantern smile strutted across her blotchy skin.

'Let me ya’ say uhhh, na na na naa…' Master P’s latest chart topper robbed any bit of still we had leased.

“Oh God…here we go again. Danny’s up.” Sheila’s eyes flared upwards, annoyed, not surprised.

“That house is gonna’ fall one day, for real.” I said, looking at the eyesore at the end of the narrow driveway. Rattled glass and loose timber panels chatted in unison.

“Uhhhhh, na na na naa”….Danny’s finest impersonation of New Orleans twang seeped through his bed sheet curtains.

I sat down. I could feel Sheila’s bony frame prod me with a hungry bite. It was a small stoop. I adjusted. “Hey Sheila?”

“Yeah hun?” She pulled a cigarette from a soft pack of Marlboro Lights.

“Do you think Danny ever looks and the mirror and realises he is white?” There was nothing condescending or satirical or flippant in my tone.

Sheila coughed, laughed. It was one of those coughing laughs, where one instigates the other, usually the laugh first. A small puff of smoke leaked out the side of her mouth and from her nostrils. “Oh, hun you crack me up…don’t let Danny hear you talk like that.” She took another drag; her cheeks sunk in even more, almost caricature like-scary.

“Yeah, well I’ve seen albinos with darker skin, Sheila.”

“But you love that bee bop rap-ster music babe, and your white.” She slapped the brim of my cap, her smile interrupted by another deep, cancerous cough.

“Hip hop Shelia, hip hop….there’s a difference.” I stated.

“Rap, hip hop….same thing”

“Not really, hip hop gots more of a message…like in the lyrics you know”

“It’s all about killing each other and bitch this and bitch that.” Shelia’s mind was made up, concrete.

“Hip hop is more like things about society and emotions and stuff…like they talk about social change and taking action, you know.”

Sheila turned, cocked her head back in surprise, snickered. “Listen to you babe…social change.” She looked around. “You think we could get some of that around here, a bit of social action?”

Silence. I leaned back. A cloud of smoke drifted past, hitting my face. Sheila crossed her legs. They meshed together. If it wasn’t for her tight jeans, you would think it was one leg. She crossed her eyes and admired the patient ash waiting to fall to the ground. You could see something floating in her eyes- reflection or some nagging reminder of a burning pot roast. Maybe it was that social comment, I thought. Shit.

She jumped up, abruptly - like she was triggered by a sudden thought or an unexpected moment of contempt or realization. Her toothpick arms flailed around, eyes closed and off beat….well off beat. She opened her eyes and stared into the bare sky. Fifty odd years of hardship and apathy stayed on that stoop, dormant, while she danced to her own rhythm - a type of 60’s meets 90’s custom dance move. It was a Chubby Checker- meets Elvis- meets the latest MTV rap video boogie. A Chicken, beef, and pork noodle combination.

I looked out at Stanford Street and back at Danny’s house. There was more contrast than a black and white photo, overdeveloped. There was something special about our city, something unique. West Alameda was a melting pot, a diverse mix where affluence shat in poverties backyard. Some would tell you the contrary, certainly Calvin and Penelope.

“Go Shelia, whip dat shit, girl!” Danny’s head popped out from behind the flannel superman curtains. “Yeah, girl!” He shouted. His head clucked like a chicken to the thumping bass, mechanical.

Sheila sat back down, flushed, embarrassed. “Hey, Danny,” her short lived moment of deflection conquered by sarcasm’s grasp.

The music went low. I couldn’t make out the lyrics anymore, just a slight beat. Danny walked out of his front door. I could see his oversized khakis through the holes in the dark mesh screen. Creeek, whiff, bang….The screen door sent his tiny, three room house into a mild aftershock.

He walked over. Danny could almost pass for a teenage Reggie, years before his soul dissolved into a colourless vapour. He had a slight bounce in his step, consistent and his arms were wild- like in those Latino gangster movies. He only wore Dickies, 3 times too big and black Chuck Taylors usually hid underneath the fashionable work pants.

“What’s up John?” Everything about Danny was pretentious- his walk, his fad of the week, the way he talked. “Damn, I told you to shave dat’ shit blood!” He reached out toward my face.

I flinched. “Fuck you, it’s comin’ in alright.” The tips of my fingers graced my chin, searching for reassurance. “What you think Sheila?” I asked.

She was still in a trance, with those thinking eyes that didn’t blink. ‘Huh?’

“The beard, do you think it looks ok’? I turned, tilting my head up slightly.

“Yeah, hun..looks alright. I mean you can’t expect the ZZ Top look overnight.” Sheila said.

“It looks like a patchy leukaemia chin.” Danny grinned, waited.

“Leave him alone Danny, will ya’. Look who’s talkin’ anyhow. How much grease do you need in your hair? You look like a fuckin’ wet seal.” Sheia had bite, despite her age.
I laughed. Danny touched his hair with a cautious palm. His smile died into a blank mug shot.

Sheila apologized with a cheeky wink. “Hey Danny, can you put that new Gun’s and Rose’s CD on…..please.” Shelia stood up, wrapped her frail arms around Danny’s shoulders. She didn’t get very far. Danny was thick with that baby fat muscle that could go either way when he got older, depending on all the variables. He pulled away. ‘Hey…I’m just tryin’ to give you a snug, babe.” Sheila said.

“Go snug the bottle, Sheila.” Danny was still traumatized by the wet seal comment. “It’s scratched anyway, skips all the time.”

“Ohhhhhh….I love that Axel Rose, he is sooo gorgeous. What I wouldn’t do to…”

“Yo, Sheila, c’mon, I don’t need to hear that shit.” Danny cut her off, fearing a visual contamination.

I imagined Sheila front row at a Gun’s and Roses concert:
'She pulls her shirt up just at the right time, when Axel is crouched down, confident, dripping sweat onto a mid life crisis. He gets the fright of his life, and his eyes go big…real big - and they don’t move, they just stay there planted on the droopy set of prune tits. He forgets the words to ‘Sweet Child of Mine,’ pulls his purple paisley bandana even further down over his eyes and lets out of loud, sporadic ‘woo-yeah.’ Sheila mistakes his awe for admiration, blushes. She lights a cigarette, her eyes closed as she finds the tempo. Her silence turns berserk. Ahhhhhhhhhh! She pulls at her fine hair and rubs her chest down to her naval and onto the inside of her thigh.'

I laughed, breaking a five minute hush.

“What’s so funny?” Danny asked, eyes down.

“Nothing.” I said, pinning another black belt laugh to the mat. “Nothing at all.”

•

It smelled like piss, cat piss - that real sweet tangy kind that ate general purpose cleaner for breakfast. I tried not to think about it, and opted for the bait shop breathing method.

“What’s up Chris?” I sat down. The sports section between my ass and the couch wasn’t a coincidence.

Chris looked up. His eyes were empty yet somehow alert, wide, like they were stapled to his eyebrows. “Hey Johnno.”

I leaned over, slapped ten bucks onto the coffee table.

“Thanks.” He stared at me, straight through and saw nothing.

“Yeah, no problem Chris.” I said.

He reached over, grabbed it and slid the wrinkled note into his frayed jean shorts. “I’ll get you fifteen next week, Monday when I get my check.” There was a slight twitch in Chris’ eyes, like his iris wanted out, but the pupil wouldn’t budge.

“Ten will do.” I said. It was a genuine statement. I didn’t feel justified in playing loan shark. My name wasn’t Jimmy ‘One Eye’ or Big Tony. Chris nodded. He had to offer. His foot tapped like a drummer, consistent. A cigarette jumped up from the pack as he hit it against his palm.

“How ya’ been Chris? Haven’t seen you in awhile.” I always felt uneasy around Danny’s step dad. He gave that kind of energy. The kind that made you feel inclined to ask questions or get stabbed with a sharp, confronting silence.

He slid a smoke out of the pack with his lips and lit it. Inhale. “I’m alright.” He said. Exhale. Chris stared out of the flexi glass window with those stapled eyes. His foot stopped tapping, flicking a length of ash into an empty coke can.

I sat back. The cold back cushion sprung me forward, inching closer to the edge of the couch; nothing like a house full of loose cat bladders to keep you guessing. The smell of spray cleaner made the whole Danny house experience; bleach or ammonia or whatever budget chemicals that made up a $1.99 bottle of Spray n’ Go. They had that typical ‘lazy poor’ mentality. The kind of thinking that was ‘quick fix’ or ‘done and dusted’……that is until the Hungry Man frozen dinners made the rent unmanageable.

It never took more than an hour or so at Danny’s joint for me to choke on a mouthful of gratitude. Simple things, normal - like knowing blueprints were used in the building process at my place.

I sat, quiet. Chris chain smoked in his favourite spot; the not quite retro kitchen table that would make a great poker table. He just sat there, stared out that window for hours sometimes. I never knew what he was looking at. Maybe he was trying to work out how many cans were stuffed inside the garbage bags outside. He could be using some scientific method that incorporates probability of crushed to non crushed and the strain limitations of black plastic.

Chris lit another cigarette; the first one smouldered in the bottom of the can. “No school, Johno?” He inhaled, deep.

“Naw Chris, don’t think I’m going back.” I could see the burn marks on the tips of his fingers as he swished the can around, killing the smoke in a puddle of cola and backwash.

He shot me a quick glance, then back to can counting. “You still working at the diner?”

“Yeah, just saving a bunch.” I said. 'Damn'. The taste of my foot was salty.

Chris glanced again, this time longer and with a bit more interest.

'Don’t let Chris know that you got a disposable income', I thought. “Ah, well I got to help my mom out with rent, so it’s tough to save….but a little I got, not much.” I lied, but it was the closest retraction I could get away with, without implying my trust stopped at Shelia’s stoop.

The truth was, I had thousands, tax free and tips….a hundred and fifty a week in tips alone. I was the quickest Anglo busboy south of Seattle- could carry eight coffees at once, one with each finger.

Chris twitched, abrupt. Cigarette ash fell on his cut off denim jeans. “And, that’s what I mean, I know….ok, ok…..yep, yep. Hang on, ok.” He stood up, like a soldier, quick and wiped the ash away.

“What?” I looked at Chris. I knew he wasn’t talking to me. Who the fuck is he talking to? Danny popped his head from behind his bedroom door. We stared at Chris; his jaw shifted left then right, then up and down. He grinded his teeth like he had a grudge with the enamel layering. He started pacing, lighting another cigarette. 'Spark'.

I looked at Danny, cautious. He had a look of accustomed shock- kind of the way he looked at Reggie only with a bit more concern and not amused, fed up but helpless. Danny didn’t flinch. He leaned against the door way, his stare morphing into a contemptuous onslaught.

Chris stood at the front door. Two cigarettes dangled, one in each hand. Smoke carried up his body, got sucked outside and disappeared. He looked like he was in one of those cop documentaries. Chris was the rookie officer directing traffic with road flares at the hip. The only difference was that these weren’t road flares- they were cigarettes, and I’m sure the police force doesn’t allow Nascar tank tops on duty.

“Chris…” Danny shouted. “CHRIS!” It was one of those unimpressed, mechanical yells that he must have done a thousand times before- like when a mother screams at her unresponsive toddler in all three names. She knows full well her words carry no weight and it’s not likely to change, but she screams anyway….. 'Theodore Montgomery Preston!'

Danny’s words filtered through his ears with little affect. Chris turned and dropped a full smoke into his coke ashtray. Something incoherent muttered from under his breath like a salivating turkey gargle. I tried to listen, make it out. It was no use. Chris took another long, desperate drag from the cigarette, then rubbed his eye with the palm of his hand. Exhale. Even the smoke wanted to escape his company, floating away even quicker and with more of a direct route.

I looked at Danny. He had given up. You could tell in his eyes- they were more relaxed and contemplative rather than scornful. I leaned back. I didn’t care about the cat piss. I was starting to enjoy another mysterious day in the life of Chris-Til- Methamphetamine. It was almost as if someone had swooped down and plucked away Chris’ sanity; shook a few suppressed thoughts into a verbal vomit. For us, and I don’t know when exactly, but abnormal became normal. We knew some things weren’t God’s protocol, but neither was 'Leave it to Beaver' and a hot lamb roast. So we thought.

•

( Continued )