Broken People (14 page)

David, upon returning with his cup of yogurt, began shoving it into his mouth as fast as he could. He was always careful, and never really made a mess, but he ate it as fast as he could possibly shove it into his mouth. Inevitably, h
e would develop a headache and act as if this was the very first time it had happened. Since we had met at Cups the first time, we had probably met here no less than fifteen times. Each time, the same things happened.

Staring at my eyes and smiling, he continued. In between bites of yogurt, he finally spoke, “So, what’s going on, doctor college stuff? Do you have Villa
nova
news?” he asked.

“No David, something else. You r
emember my friend, Kid, right?”

“Oh, ye
s. The big guy that’s kind of clairvoyant?” he responded, raising both eyebrows. He shoveled another spoon of yogurt into his mouth, waiting for my response.

“Yes, him. Okay, I have to tell you some things he told me today, but it’s a lot to take in. It’s….,” I didn’t even finish and he interrupted.

“Is it clairvoyant stuff?” h
e asked, placing his palms on his cheeks.

“Yes, it…,” As soon
as I started, he interrupted once again.

“This is so exciting.
” He removed his hands from his cheeks, and clapped them together as he spoke.

“David, stop! Let me tell you what he said. You can nod, or shake your head, and that’s all. No speaking. Okay?’ He nodded
as soon as I finished talking.

“I gave him a picture of you and asked him to
read you.
He about…,” once again, he interrupted.

“
Oh my God, what did he say!!?” he screamed, literally slapping his palms back to his cheeks.

“David, stop. Please. This wi
ll take forever. Shake or nod, okay?”

He nodded.

“I gave him a picture of you and asked him to read it. Read you. He read you, and said a lot, primarily, he said that you were somewhat OCD, and that your father was a very strict man, and that probably, ever since you were young, he would tell you that you were never going to amount to anything,” I paused. David nodded repeatedly.

I continued, “Additionally, he said this caused
fear of failure
, which could, and obviously has, caused all kinds of other issues. He gave me the clinical name for
fear of failure
, but I do not recall what it was, and for the sake of this conversation it is not important.”

“Then,” I was going to drop the bomb, so I took a breath and continued, quickly, “He said that he was certain that you were not homosexual, and in fact when I asked him a second time he laughed and said he was a hundred percent sure, and that you are definitely not homosexual and that fear of failure has caused you to tell yourself that you are, because you are concerned greatly, probably subconsciously, that you would fail in a relationship, and that your father would be critical of that,” I took a deep breath, and waited. David didn’t nod or shake his head. He just followed my eyes with
his, like he was in a trance.

“David….David!!! DAVID!! Are you still here?” He was just staring into my eyes, his mouth partially open, with his elbows on the table, and his face resting in hi
s palms.

“Oh. Yes, I am sorry, can I spea
k?” he asked.
 

“Yes, please do,” I responded.

“Well, I have been wondering about this lately. The homosexual part of me
, that is. Because, to be brutally honest, Michelle, since we met, I have become more and more attracted to you, and the attraction has not been a friendly attraction. I have actually, well,” he paused for a moment, and made a strange distorted face, and continued, “I have actually fantasized about you, not sexually, but as a girlfriend, boyfriend type thing.”

I sat and stared at him, in disbelief. Was this really going
to be this easy? Was he aware or second guessing his homosexuality for the last month or two, and saying nothing to me? Obviously so. I was somewhat disappointed that there was less excitement to this revelation, and felt as if someone let the air out of my sails, so to speak. I looked down at the table, rubbed my forehead with my fingertips, and looked up. “David, you’ve been second guessing your homosexuality for the last month or two, since we met, and you haven’t said anything?”

He nodded.

I started to say something, and stopped. I considered that he more than likely did exactly what Kid said. He probably began to feel somewhat attracted to me, and made no outward sign of it, for fear of me rejecting him, and ultimately, him failing. He would rather have me a friend at some level, than lose me altogether. I sat, satisfied, that Kid was right, and that I talked to David about it. As I sat, I began to look at David differently. Not in an,
I’m attracted to you
manner, but as if he were actually a boy that may be interested in me. This began to make me fractionally uncomfortable. I began to fidget in my seat. The phone ringing broke my concentration. I grabbed it, and began to silence it, and saw that it was Kid.

“David, it’s Kid, I have to take thi
s, okay? I will make it quick,”

“Okay, Michelle, that’s fine,” h
e said, his face still resting in his palms.

“Hey, Kid, I have a ton of questions for you, but I am with David right now, can I cal
l you back in thirty?” I asked.

“Yes, Michelle, that’s fine. Did you confront him about his homose
xuality?” Kid asked, laughing.

I looked at David, and smiled. David,
with his face in his hands, and his eyes fixed on mine, immediately smiled back. This was beginning to creep me out. “Yes, I did, and it went really well,” I responded.

“Okay,” Kid said, “Be sure to send me the pic of your crazy friend, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, I will as soon as we’re done here, okay? I pro
mise,” I said, apologetically.

“Okay
, talk to you soon,”

“Ok, thirty minutes.
” I hung up, and put my phone back into my purse.

“Sorry David,” I said. He was still staring at me, his face resting in his palms, and his elbows on the table. His face had fallen to a point that he was almost resting his chin on the table. His eyes were glued to mine. I moved my head, side to side. His eyes followed. This was
really
beginning to creep me out. I decided to make an excuse, and see how he responded.

“I really need to get home, and get a picture for Kid. I have a friend that is having some serious issues, and he needs a picture of her. I am going to have him read her, and I only have a picture
on my computer at home. He’s been asking me to send it to him for days, so I really need to go do that. Can we take this up tomorrow? I am so, so sorry,”

“Sure Michelle, I understand. This was really unexpected, entirely, but such a del
ight,” David said, as he stood. He immediately tugged at his pants, and made that ridiculous face. He reached for his yogurt cup, and I followed his hands as he did. The cup was empty. He had shoveled that entire cup into his mouth as we were here talking for ten minutes. What a nut.

“Give me a hug, David,” I said, knowing th
is would make him feel better.

He placed his cup back on the table, and reached around me. We hugged for a moment, and he spoke. “Do you
think Coltrane hugged people?”

“I’m sure he did, David. I am sure he did,
” I responded, pushing myself away from David, so he could see my face. I smiled. Staring in my eyes, he smiled in return, and it was creepy. “Okay, I am so sorry, but I have to go do this,” I said as I grabbed my purse.

“That’s okay, Michelle, go do what you have to do. I am going to throw this away, go to the bathroom, an
d say hi to Cloe before I go,” he said as he picked up his yogurt cup.

“Okay. I will see y
ou tomorrow or whatever, okay?”

“Okay, Bye Michelle.”

With my purse over my shoulder, and my phone in hand, I walked to my car, thinking of David and his lack of homosexuality.

Maybe that little bitch does need to go find a job at Barnes and Nobles, be
fore her boob falls out again.

Chapter 13

Heart attack

FAT
KID.
I stood in line at the grocery store with twelve things in my hand. Twelve chocolate bars, enough to get me by for the day, maybe a day and a half, depending on my activity. I would have willingly bought fifty, but the line to the
twelve items or less
aisle was short, and the lines in the other available aisles were ten people deep, all of whom had a cart full of food. In the twelve or less aisle, there were three people in front of me, and this was taking forever.
Is it just my lack of patience, or do they always place the mentally challenged checkers in the aisles that take twelve items or less?
I stood in line, and as I did, the three people ahead of me didn’t budge. The checker was working in slow motion, sliding items across the infrared scanner, and it wasn’t scanning them. She was attempting, for the fourth or fifth time, to get a round bottle of dairy creamer to scan, unsuccessfully. This was becoming ridiculous. Ten minutes into this ordeal, and zero measured progress.

The man directly ahead of me was thin and in his early thirties. He wore a baseball cap, black Dickie’s style work pants, slip on sneakers, and a khaki shirt. His hair hung well below his cap, and almost to his shoulder. His eyes told me that he was either drunk or completely lost, mentally. I’ve always said the eyes don’t lie, and his were no exception. All of a sudden, as we stoo
d in line, he decided to spin in circles. He was literally pirouetting in place, on one foot. The two elderly women in front of him, one of which was trying to unsuccessfully buy a bottle of creamer, were turning around and watching him each time he rotated. The woman closest to him, turned and smiled. This, more or less, egged him on. He began to spin more frequently and faster, a sack of baby carrots in one hand, and a jar of peanut butter in the other. This guy was working on the one nerve I had left.

“Dude, stop. You’re fuck
ing freaking me out. Seriously, stop,” I said quietly, in an almost whisper, and as politely as I could muster.

“Fuck off, fat ass
,” he said, spinning in place.

“Seriously,
fat ass
? You’re going to come at me with
fat ass
?” I slipped the chocolate bars into my left pocket and took two steps back, and spread my stance a little. I didn’t want this guy falling into the elderly ladies when I busted him in the eye.

“Come here for a minute, I want to talk to you,” I asked, quietly as I motioned with my right hand, the way you would call kids in from the
outfield in baseball practice.

“No!
” he said loudly, as he planted one foot, stopped, and then started spinning the other direction.

Deciding that this lobotomy patient was not worth my potential trip to jail, I tried another means of stopping him from working my nerves. “Look, the lady with the creamer is done. You’re next,” I said, as
I pointed toward the checker.

“So?” h
e responded, flatly.  He planted his feet again, stopped, and made an effort to change directions, all at once. He, in this mentally deranged state, at this juncture, was incapable of performing this change in direction without losing his balance. Halfway through this change in direction, his upper body and his lower body were going in different directions. It proved to be too much for him, and he proceeded to plummet toward the tile floor. As he began to fall, he dropped his cute little sack of carrots, and his jar of peanut butter. The carrots fell flat on the floor. The peanut butter fell, and rolled across the floor, stopping in front of me. Jiffy. Creamy. Plastic. Perfect.

He broke his fall as soon as his hands hit the floor, and bounced back up into
a standing position, as if it were a break dance move he had just invented. I looked at him, looked down at the peanut butter, and looked back up at him. With my eyes focused on him, I kicked the peanut butter as hard as I could. The jar stayed about two inches above the freshly waxed tile floor for a hundred feet or so, and then slid for the remaining fifty feet, all the way to the produce section, where it hit a display of oranges.

He looked at me, looked across the store toward the produce aisle, and looked at the carrots. In one fluid motion, he snatched the carrots from the floor, and took off across the store in a dead sprint toward the peanut butter jar. I shook my head, and looked toward the cashier
. Splendid, she was caught up.

I stepped to the aisle, walked in front of her, pulled the candy bars from my pocket, and to
ssed them on the conveyor. She began to slide them, effortlessly, one at a time, across the scanner. As she did, she asked me about the peanut butter punt.

“What happened?”
she asked without looking up.

She was unsuccessfully attempting to get one of the bent bars to go through the scanner. I suspect it got smashed in my pocket when I was bo
oting the mentally challenged ballerina’s peanut butter.

“My capacity to put up with any more bullshit was exceeded by his ability to dish
it out,” I answered, smiling.

“Huh?
” she said, looking at me like I had answered her in Latin.

“Try one of the others,” I said, as her hand continued to wave back and forth over the scanner with a mutilated candy bar in her hand. “
Try one of the other ones
, one of the ones that you already got to go through,” I said again, pointing at a perfectly flat, unmolested candy bar.

“What happened?” s
he asked again, in a monotone voice.

“I kicked that asshat’s fuck
ing peanut butter. Look, try one of
these,
” I said, as I grabbed one of the already scanned bars, and waved it in front of her face.

She accepted the bar, and successfully scanned it the proper amount of
times, and gave me the total.

“$16.10, please,” s
he requested, again in a monotone voice.

I shook my head and handed her a hundred dollar bill. She held it up to the light, looking for the watermark. After placing it in the register, she began to count my change. “And ninety cents makes seventeen, three makes twenty, and twenty, forty, sixty, eighty make a hundred,” Smiling, she counted my change. I held my hand out, palm up,
lips pursed, and stared into her eyes the entire time she counted.

I took my change, and as she was attempting to place the candy bars in a plastic bag, grabbed the bag and the bars out of her hand, and tossed the bag back on the conveyor. Frustrated with mankind in general, I turned and walked out, wondering if these types of people did this to
everyone
, or just to a select few of us. I walked away, shaking my head, hoping that the remainder of the day would be without incident.

Walking to the
car, my phone beeped, indicating an email message. Certain that it was Shellie, I reached into my back pocket, and retrieved my phone. It was from Michelle, and the subject was
Many Things
. Michelle, if nothing else, kept me on my toes. I decided to read it after I got to the coffee shop. I slid my phone back into my back pocket.

Sitting at the stoplight, waiting for the left turn arrow, I began feeling uncomfortable.  I took my phone from my back pocket and tossed it into the passenger seat. I still felt uncomfortable. Hot. Cold. I turned the temperature control down to 55 degrees. It was 60 degrees outsi
de, and early spring, but I was feeling as if I was having a heart attack. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, and wiped my hand on my pants. I’m going to fuck around and actually die two hundred yards before I get my coffee. Perfect. The car honking behind me brought me to my senses, and I proceeded to inch my way to the coffee shop. Entering the approach slowly, to prevent bottoming out the car, time stood still. An odd tingling over my entire body began to wash over me
. I was having a heart attack
. Fuck. Once in the parking stall, I just sat and took slow deep breaths. The parking lot was empty. As I sat in the car with the air conditioning blowing on my face, I began to feel better. If I am going to die, I want to die driving, or somewhere where I will fall out of my chair and onto the floor. I want people to have to step over my dead body. I do not want to die in my car, where no one will notice. I want people to scream.
Oh my God, is he dead?!!!!
I want to lie there, dead as absolute fuck, and have everyone walk around me or step over me until the ambulance arrives. The line in the coffee shop would be so much better. To die in line at the register would be satisfying, if there’s satisfaction in dying, that is. The ambulance attendants would check my money clip, and find nothing to identify me. My driver’s license is hidden in my car, always. I
never
carry identification.

“
Does anyone know this guy?”
The paramedics would ask as they zipped up the body bag. The entire coffee shop would respond, in unison,
“Yeeesss,”
The paramedics would then ask
, “What’s his name, he doesn’t have ID in his pocket,”
Everyone would look at the person beside them, and mouth the words,
“Fat Kid”.
The paramedics would ask again,
“Anyone? Does anyone know his actual name?”. “Fat Kid, that’s all we know,”
would be the universal response. A police search of my phone would turn up no name.

I absorbed the air conditioning for an immeasurable amount of time, and the feeling didn’t pass. Tingling all over, sweating. I would prefer this
to happen in the coffee shop. In line. I really want my death to be a mess, a memorable mess. In a perfect world, I had always dreamt of someone pushing me from the roof of my condominium onto the sidewalk below, during rush hour. That would be a satisfying way to die. A huge pile of dead flesh right there on the sidewalk. Cars stopping, people screaming, looking at me, and pointing up at the roof. In the absence of the swan dive off of the high rise, I would settle for the line at the coffee shop. I looked up, and toward the store. The coffee shop was as empty as the lot. Damn the luck.

I reached behind me, grabbed my laptop, and got out of the car. Shouldering my bag, I began to walk across the lot. I locked my car. Hearing the beep of the alarm sounding made me smile. Tingling and sweating, I continued walking slowly down the sidewalk to the entrance. I focused on my sneakers, making sure my feet were still carrying me at a reasonable pace. Entering the front door, I saw the trash receptacle and smiled. As I passed through the door, I reached back and dropped my keys inside the trash. This would be an ending worth noting. I entere
d, and walked to the register.

Doll face greeted me at the r
egister, “Hey Kid, the usual?”

She must have pinned her ears back, she actually looked cute. “Yes, Gretchen,” I said, and handed her a twenty. “Keep the change,” I said as I turned and walked to my seat. She held the money in her hand, stunned, and stared.
I smiled. She smiled in return.

I got my laptop out, opened it, and turned it on. I got out my scale, and placed it on the floor. I tapped it with my toe, and waited. Stepping on, I was relieved at the display. 320, exactly. I picked up the scale, smiling, an
d placed it inside. I felt as if I was out of my body, my soul acting as a hovering halo to my body. I felt peaceful.

“KID, AMERICANO AT
THE BAR,” the barista barked.

I took a few steps to the bar, grabbed my coffee, tipped it up, and downed half of it. Walking back to the table, I felt at peace with this being my last cup of coffee. I decided
to savor the second half.

I sat, placed my coffee on the table, and logged onto my email account. Several meaningless emails were present, but the two most rec
ent emails stood out; One from Shellie and one from Michelle. Anxious, I opened Shellie’s first.

Kid,

You were sweet. Thank you.

Shellie

I stared at it. I
was
sweet. Past tense. Not,
Kid, you are sweet.
She, in her mind, had reached the turning point. I had to get in touch with her. Fuck. No phone number, nothing but an email. I looked at the date and time. It was a few minutes old. I had probably received it while I was in line. I needed to respond, but I needed to keep it short. She would lose interest if she opened a rambling email. My entire body tingling and chest aching, I tried to clear my mind.

Shellie,

The pain will end. I know th
is, first hand. It takes time.

Cont
act me as soon as you get this.

I love you,

Kid

I read it, reread it, and pushed send. There was nothing else I could do. I felt helpless and empty. I began to recall my girlfriend that died when I was younger, who oddly enough, was named Shellie. The poem she left me changed my life. I carried it in a wallet with me for a decade. When I put the poem away, I put the wallet away with it. I haven’t carried a wallet since. We make adjustments in our lives to get by, to survive. Sometimes we don’t actually heal. We make adjustments. We deny. We mask. We cover up. We hide things. I can’t change the fact that Shellie committed suicide while I was away. No more than I can change the fact that she left me the poem. I put the poem away to separate Shellie and the thoughts of Shellie from my day-to-day life. I quit carrying a wallet because the wallet reminded me of the poem, and the poem reminded me that I was helpless. Incapable of providing whatever may have been necessary to save Shellie from the pain. Pain that ultimately exceeded her capacity to cope with it. I hurt, and I still hurt today. The pain never ends. I run from it, and I deny it exists, but it does exist. It has never left me. I run from person to person attempting to save
someone,
thinking all along that
this person will be the one that makes the pain go away.
And the pain never stops
.
It burns from within me and consumes me. Living with that pain has not become
part
of who I was
, it had become me.
It has, since that day, controlled my life. Try as I might, not a week has passed, since that day, that I haven’t at some point in time wallowed in the guilt of Shellie’s suicide.