Charlie Huston - Six Bad Things

There are burn scars up and down T’s forearms. The smaller ones are dots the size of M&Ms, the largest are lines almost exactly the length of a cigarette from tip, to the top of the filter. T’s favorite game in high school was Cigarette Chicken. Two players press their forearms together and drop a lit cigarette lengthwise into the crease where their arms meet. First one to pull his arm away loses. I never participated. From the fresh pink of some of the scars, it looks like T is still an avid player.

– I didn’t kill Wade.

He stubs his cigarette out in an ashtray made from an old cylinder head.

– No shit, numbnuts, no one said you did. Seems pretty fucking clear to anyone who can watch TV that that punk Danny Lester was to blame for that shit. One look at that guy on the tube and you just know he’s the biggest dick ever. A lying sack of shit, he is. But fuck, who cares, right? Wade is dead all the same, which believe me when I say I think is pretty fucked up, seeing as he was just one of the only people I gave a shit about in the whole world. And now here I come home from a late night of work and find you nodded out on my porch in a pile of money with the Christmas card I sent him in your hand. Which has to beg the question: What the fuck is your fugitive ass doing here, trying to fuck up my already legally fragile situation?

I open my mouth, close it. Open it again.

– I.

I take in his bouncing knee and the way he’s furiously scratching Hitler between the eyes, and I realize for the first time that he’s thoroughly speeded up. He opens his red, jiggly eyes wide as they will go.

– Come on, man, enlighten me.

– OK, I. See. How much? Do you know much about New York? Or?

Oh, Jesus, there is no way I can do this now.

– T, I don’t think I can really.

I open my hands, my jaw slacks helplessly.

– I don’t even know where to.

– Right. Right. It’s late and you’ve clearly had a rough night and would like to get some rest. We can take care of that.

He opens his cigarette box, digs his index finger inside, and pulls out a little white tablet.

– Take this.

– Oh, T, no, that’s such a bad idea right now.

He balances the pill on the tip of his index finger and holds it in front of my mouth.

– Don’t be a pussy, superstar, this is a fucking diet pill. I deal harder stuff to the kids at UNLV so they can cram for their finals. Eat it.

He presses it onto my lips.

– C’mon. Here’s the train, open the damn tunnel.

I haven’t popped a pill since my freshman year of college. But I don’t have the will or the energy to argue with a speed freak right now; especially not one with a monster dog at his beck. I open my mouth. He drops the pill inside, and it sits bitterly on the tip of my tongue. I dry swallow it down. T smiles.

– OK, spill.

And I do. I start talking, and soon enough, I couldn’t shut up if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. My thoughts crystallize into a lattice of narrative logic and I want nothing but to share it with T. I tell him the whole story, with illustrations and examples drawn from film, literature, popular music, and Greek philosophy, with sidebars on the topics of media politics, Superman vs. Batman, and Schrodinger’s Cat, with references to our shared history and revelations about a secret and mutual admiration, I tell him the whole story in every detail. I have never told the whole story before, not even Tim knows all the things I’m spilling to T.

And now I sit exhausted and sleepless, sucking on my twentieth or thirtieth cigarette of the day, and looking out the window at the sky getting ready to go a brilliant desert blue. And I feel better. I feel better having told the story and having someone else know everything. No matter what else, I feel better.

T goes into the kitchen and comes back with a small brown pill bottle. He shakes three pills into his hand, pops two in his mouth, and offers me one.

– No, no way. I’m never gonna sleep again as it is.

He shakes his head.

– It’s a ’lude.

I look at it. I don’t want to take it. I remember what it’s like to go on a speed jag, pills to get up, pills to get down. I don’t want to take it. But I know in my heart I’ll never sleep without it, and I need sleep now, more than anything in this world I need sleep. I drop it in my mouth.

T nods.

– C’mon.

He starts down the hall. I get up and follow him, and Hitler follows me. T stands in an open doorway at the end of the hall.

– Spare room.

I look inside. There’s a worktable, a computer, masses of paper, and jumbled piles of disks. The walls are covered in thumbtacked rock and anime posters. In one corner is a foam pad covered by a dingy sheet and a rumpled blanket. T jerks his thumb toward the other end of the trailer.

– I’ll be in the master suite. Holler if you need anything.

I stumble to the pad. It’s the most comfortable bed I’ve ever been in, so soft and mushy, just like my skeleton is soft and mushy. Whoa. Here comes the ’lude. T flicks off the light.

– Night.

– Night, T.

He turns to go.

– Hey, T?

– Yeah?

– What now?

He is an angular silhouette in the doorway.

– My dad died.

– Sorry, I didn’t know.

– Cancer got him last year. Just like my mom.

– Sorry.

– Being an orphan sucks. That’s what I’ll miss about Wade, knowing there’s a guy who knows how I feel.

– Yeah.

His silhouette shifts, he looks down the hall.

– So we’re gonna find your buddy and your money and save your mom and dad from the bad guys. OK?

– Yeah. Thanks.

He disappears down the hall, followed by his huge dog. I close my eyes.

– Superstar?

I keep my eyes closed.

– Yeah?

– It’s kind of cool you came to me for help.

– Didn’t have no one else.

I hear him laugh.

– Yeah, well, it’d have to be something like that, wouldn’t it?

I WAKE up to the sound of Hank Williams singing “Mind Your Own Business.” My body is impossibly stiff and sore. The good news is that the needle-sharp pains, nausea, and confusion of the concussion seem to have receded. The bad news is that they have been replaced by a post-speed hangover made up of blunt trauma, general anxiety, and global-sized guilt pangs.

I make it to the bathroom and look inside. T is standing in front of the mirror, combing globs of Murray’s Superior Hair Dressing Pomade into his hair, crafting it into a high pomp. He turns to face me and spreads his arms wide, smiling.

– Morning, superstar! Ready to take a bite out of life?

He slaps me on the arm and I flinch.

– Hell, you need a pick-me-up.

– I need a shower.

He turns back to the mirror and flicks the comb through his hair a couple more times.

– Well, it’s all yours, but I’m telling you what you need, and what you need is a pick-me-up.

– Uh-uh.

– Suit yerself.

I step out of the way as he heads for the kitchen.

– There’s something wrong with my water heater, so turn the cold on all the way and don’t touch the hot. Otherwise, you’ll burn your hide off.

I close the door, turn on the shower, and peel Sid’s filthy clothes from my body. My right ankle is puffy and bruised, but I can move it. Steam is already pouring from the shower. I stick my hand in to test the water and just about sear the flesh from my fingers. I wait another minute and climb over the side of the tub. It’s way too hot, but I can take it. I let the water run over me, sluicing off the grime and sweat of the last couple days. The water soaks the crusty bandage on my left thigh and I strip it away. The wound has mostly scabbed over, but a slight ooze of blood is leaking out from a crack at the edge. I scrub my body hard with the bar of Lava from the scummy shower caddy. Slowly, tension eases from my muscles and the pain in my head recedes, but the anxiety and the guilt stay right where they are.