Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

Of course. Thinking about Lester makes me want to climb on a plane, fly to his home, and wrap my hands around his throat. No reason why I should feel that way; other than the fact that he’s the one who let the world know I had come back to the States in the first place, the one who stalked me from San Diego to my hometown, the one who forced me to run from my parents, the one who plowed his truck into my childhood friend. No reason at all I should want to kill the asshole who has made it his mission in life to find me and “bring me to justice.”

In any case, I’d never be stupid enough to actually join a chat.

But I think about it.

I’ve typed a couple messages before and placed my cursor over the private message button, but I’ve never clicked it. I’ve typed stuff only I could know.

billybob44: sandy, it’s me. remember “Place to Be” on the radio at the El Cortez?

billybob44: sandy, where is T?

Where is the last friend I had in the world?

She would know. She would at least know where she left him before she found a lawyer and turned herself in. If she told me that, maybe I could find him. I could find him and maybe he would help me again and I would have a friend and someone I could trust.

I’m staring at the blank computer screen. Something is on my face. I touch it and my finger comes away wet. I’m crying. Fuck, when was the last time I cried? No, I’m not crying, I’m sobbing. I’m choking and gasping and moaning. I roll off the chair and start crawling down the hall, snot pouring out of my nose and drizzling on the carpet. I make it to the bathroom, get to my knees and reach over the sink and open the medicine cabinet. I clutch at the two Ziplocs and pull them out and one of them isn’t sealed and plastic bottles and loose pills scatter across the scummy floor. I fumble around, still jerking and wailing, sobs like an epileptic fit, trying to collect the pills. I curl up on the floor, still wearing my new jeans and clean white shirt, and I dump pills into my hand. What are these? I don’t even know. I shove a handful in my mouth, but they get caught at the back of my throat and the next sob chokes them back out and they spray the room and rattle off the shower stall door.

Fuck this.

I can’t do this anymore.

I grab the towel bar and use it to pull myself to my feet. I stumble to the other side of the bathroom and clutch the edge of the sink with one hand while I rip black tape from the mirror with the other. Tiny flecks of glass rain down into the sink, but the larger pieces, the ones I need, remain lodged in the frame. My fractured reflection stutters across the face of the mirror. I pick at a scythe-curved shard, slicing the tips of my fingers. The blade of glass comes free and the entire mirror rains down into the basin. I let go of the sink and the sobs drop me to my knees. I fall back on my butt, one leg folded beneath me, the other splayed across a dingy bath mat. I bite the buttons from the left cuff of my shirt and tug the sleeve up with my teeth. On my forearm is a tattoo: six black slashes. Once an accurate accounting of the lives I had taken, but now hopelessly out of date. Blood from my fingers is already dripping from the tip of my mirror knife. I dig the point into my skin, blood wells around it. It’s as if the little scrap of glass were made for this: A single hard yank and it will open my forearm from wrist to elbow. Then I can do the other one.

I yank.

But nothing happens.

I yank again. And still my hand doesn’t move.

The sobs subside. I sit on the bathroom floor, staring at the blood reflected in the shard of mirror, just as I always pictured it, and I don’t kill myself.

Who knew there was anything left I couldn’t do.

I WAKE UP on the bathroom floor. The sun has gone down. Blood is clotted around the hole in my wrist. I stand up. I run water in the sink and splash my face. The pieces of broken mirror rest at the bottom of the sink, reflecting pieces of me. I walk out of the bathroom, pause in the hall to brush away pills that have stuck to the bottoms of my feet, and go into the kitchen. I find a package of Eggos and throw them in the microwave. A minute later the microwave dings. I take out the Eggos, the steam burning my cut fingertips when I open the plastic pouch, and dump them on the one plate I own. I get an old packet of McDonald’s syrup from the fridge, pour it on the Eggos and eat them with my one fork. They’d be better toasted, but I don’t have a toaster. When I’m done I wash my plate and fork. I go into the living room and turn on the stereo. “Boots of Spanish Leather” plays and I listen to it.

I look at the hole I poked in my wrist.

That was close. I was stupid and I got very close. It was the baseball. It was being around Miguel and Jay and their friendship. It was checking on Sandy and thinking about T. It was cramming too many different pills into my system at the same time.

I have to start doing my job again. No more choking in the clutch. David wants me to drop the big fuck you, I need to drop it. No more getting sent out on gigs like last night. Jobs like that make me think. I have to do my job and I have to do it clean. I have to remember. I have to remember I quit drinking because I couldn’t control it. I can’t use the pills to get by, I don’t have the discipline. I have to start from scratch.

I have my own people to worry about. I have my mom and dad. I keep fucking around and I may as well go find them and put the bullets in them myself.

The bullets myself.

I SPEND THE rest of the evening cleaning. I clean myself and I clean the shitty apartment. I clean the broken mirror out of the sink and I bandage my wrist. I go through the pills. I flush the Demerol and the OxyContin and the Quaaludes and the Lithium and the Xanax and the Percocet and the Darvocet and the Morphine and the Klonopin and the Librium and the Adderall and the Dexedrine and the Desoxyn. It’s not the first time I’ve flushed an addiction down the toilet, but it needs to be the last.

By eleven the place looks half decent and I’m thinking about going to the twenty-four-hour supermarket to buy some real food for a change.

Then David calls and tells me that he wants me in New York.

– Branko is on his way to pick you up. It will be good for you. Almost a homecoming, yes?

After I hang up I go in the bathroom and stare at the toilet. I get as far as taking a wrench from my tool kit and turning off the water pressure, but I stop myself before I can unbolt the toilet from the floor and check the bends in the pipe for any pills that might have gotten stuck.

– Henry.

That’s me, that’s my name. Henry Thompson.

– Henry.

But no one uses it anymore.

– Henry. You must tell me.

No one uses it because Henry Thompson is a man most everyone would like to see dead.

– Henry. How does it feel to be here?

But David is using it.

– Henry? To be home?

I don’t answer. Because this is not my home. Not even close.

BRANKO PICKED ME up at the crappy apartment.

He comes in and sees the bandage on my wrist, but says nothing. He uses my bathroom and sees the broken mirror, but says nothing. He takes me out to his car and drives me to the airport. And finally he says something.

– You cleaned your apartment?

– Yeah.

– It was dirty?

– Branko, it was filthy.

– Yes, but it is always filthy.

– I got tired of it.

He points at the bandage on my wrist.

– You hurt yourself cleaning?

– Yeah.

He nods. William DeVaughn croons “Be Thankful for What You Got” on the Camry’s CD player.

– You packed no contraband?

– You watched me pack.