Tommy Bedlam Part IV: Fiends and Family

I assumed a stance of bland innocence and just stared Gina in the eye as she railed and ranted in my general direction. The chances of me getting a word in at that point were about as statistically improbable as my chances were for spontaneously expelling cocktail shrimp from my nose. She ran herself down after a few minutes more, so I wasn't forced to learn nasal crustacean ballistics. I contemplated telling her that she was starting to repeat herself, but realized that it would only cause the whole thing to cascade again. I held up my hands in a gesture of mock surrender. It halted her tirade, but I could still see both the rage and the guilt blazing behind her eyes.

"A thief," I said, my voice like ice, "believes everyone is out to steal from him. Likewise a liar suspects deceit behind every word another speaks." Suspicion dawned bright in her eyes, burning away the fog of rage. She was right where I wanted her: Vulnerable. I continued.

"But the whore, " I said, gesturing as I did to emphasize my words, "The whore just projects her guilt over her infidelity onto those who once loved her."

"Gina," I continued, sadly, softly,"I stopped by Jim's place earlier, while you were...Ahem...Entertaining Spider with your oral presentation."

"But," She started, "I saw you with..." She trailed off, gesticulating wildly in the direction of Karen's seat, now vacant. "Where'd she go?"

"Beats me," I said, genuinely puzzled. Where had she gone? "Besides, that was Officer Karen Daniels, my current probation officer."

"Officer?" She blurted, "That was a cop? Oh, you bastard. You've been planning on narcing us out, haven't you?" Her eyes darted around wildly. Looking for a trap to spring at any moment.

"Gina, calm down. If I'd planned to NRC anyone out, don't you think I would have done it by now. Why would I wait six fucking months when they had my by the short and curlies in the hospital?"

"Now if you'll excuse me," I continued, standing as I spoke,"I don't really want to speak to you right now, for obvious reasons."

With that, I left the table, letting my walking stick make up its own music for a change. This time a jaunty, mocking rhythm against the concrete floor. Good stick. The band had a table set up with the usual assortment of disks and logo emblazoned shirts. I picked up one of the disks and while I was paying, struck up a conversation with the vocalist. She was a slender and freckled redhead with only the slightest of Irish accents. She introduced herself as Sherryl. I could hear the lie of a stage name on her lips, but I let it pass. We chatted amiably, talking shop for a bit in that language musicians use amongst ourselves. It bears only a passing resemblance to normal speech, peppered as it is with equal parts slang and technical terminology. I did it mostly to keep my mind off of things, but I'd be less than honest if I denied doing it to twist the knife in Gina's guts a little more. Petty,I know. Sometimes I'm like that.

Gina, for her part, sat there at the table I'd vacated, returning my emotional dagger thrust with a look that could cut glass. I basically ignored her, bought the album and left the Shop behind me. A quick, and for a change, almost lighthearted walk carried me to my doorstep and beyond. It was late, well past midnight. I almost hit the bed immediately, but decided to take a shower first. After everything that happened today, a shower was mandatory. Somewhat refreshed from my steaming hot baptism, I wandered the apartment for a bit, making sure windows were closed and the front door was bolted behind me. You can't be too careful these days. I hit the sheets and punched all the way through to dreamland without even coming to a stop first. I'd just settled into a comfortable dream involving avocados and supermodels when I heard the phone ring. I figured it was Gina, so I let the answering machine do it's appointed duty. I drifted back to dreamland without waiting for the phone to stop ringing. There were supermodels and produce out there somewhere. I intended to find them before the night was out. I don't remember if I succeeded or not.

The morning dawned bright and sunny. Birds sang their songs of love and all was right with the world. Cheerful crap like that. I threw a pillow at the window, hoping it would get them to stop.. I heard the dull thump of fabric against glass, a familiar morning sound. That annoyingly joyous chirping continued unabated. With a failed attempt at assassinating the songbird population of the neighborhood behind me, I wandered into the bathroom to do strange things with bits of twine, a brush and oddly minty tasting chemicals. A little later I realized I had brushed and flossed. Names escape me sometimes. My morning devotions to de gods of hygiene proceeded apace and slowly, ever so slowly, I returned to full consciousness.

Awake, aware, and minty fresh, I was ready to face the dangers of small town life. While I was about, I finally checked the answering machine. I was slightly surprised to discover that it wasn't the wild call of the Yeti I'd been dreading. It was Rich, my brother.

"What's up Baby Bro'? Just callin' ta tell ya I'll be slidin' inta town for the weekend. Keep the couch open for me. Later."

Sometimes I suspect he affects the "Surfer Dude" speech just to get on my nerves. I'm pretty damned sure he's never even seen the ocean, much less ridden a wave. Family is family, though. My couch would be there for him, just like he asked.

Saturday's choice of finery is always the same: Sweat pants, running shoes, and a spectacularly faded concert tee. Since my return from beyond the grave, Saturday mornings have been dedicated to whipping yours truly, the Drooling Zombie, back into shape. They call it physical therapy. I'm more inclined to think of it as Hell's Corporate calisthenics Program. Choose your own name for it, if you like. It feels the same to me no matter what it's called. I just think its
highly ironic that I have to walk half a mile to get to the bus stop first.

Public transportation in a small town can be decidedly...Odd. Take, for an example off the top of my head, Pineview. Sometime in the late eighties the Mayor and the town council decided that a public transit system would bring people to what was then a burgeoning center for textiles and furniture production. A fleet of four decomissioned schoolbuses and three minivans later, the Pineview Public Transit System was up and running, except on Sundays. What can I say? Welcome to the Bible Belt.

Those of us who actually risk our lives on the PPTS buses call them the Blue Terrors. One of them came barreling around the bend at a screaming thirty miles an hour, pouring out a trail of greasy black smoke that smelled vaguely like a burning mixture of lighter fluid and used condoms. It took thirty minutes of sweaty vinyl seats and carcinogenic fumes to get me to my stop. I disembarked, coughed out a lung full of something gooey, and hobbled my way into the county hospital.

The hospital's resident physical therapist, Greta Shwartz, came over to the States with the fall of the Berlin Wall. Proving as she did, that , yes, freedom does come with a price. Greta was a six foot-something wall of muscle sporting a face full of eyebrows and surmounted by a roman nose that cut her profile like the hood ornament of a Rolls-Royce. The first time I was introduced, I thought something along the lines of: Men, even Europeans, shouldn't wear capris. It was only much later that I realized Greta, much as the name should suggest, was a woman. Let me continue gracefully to the point though. Greta The Hun made me do things for about two hours involving ropes, rubber balls, and swimming pools. I'm pretty sure the Vatican had forbidden at least half of her regimen following the dissolution of the Inquisition. I guess no one had the nerve to tell Greta that, though. I left the hospital limping and sore, but not significantly worse for wear. Apparently my body was beginning to relearn some of the skills it had lost. I guess the therapy sessions are worth something after all.

The return trip on the Blue Terror kept me occupied and out of trouble until well past noon. I made myself lunch once I got back. It was filling but uninspired: Condensed chicken noodle soup and nearly half of a sleeve of saltines. I didn't have a whole lot of time to spare, so back into the shower I went to hose off the grime of public transportation and intense exercise. It steamed and splashed like a good shower should. It was hot enough to burn my sins away, tough I might be lucky if it singed the edges of one or two of the big ones. I stepped out looking like a thoroughly cooked lobster. I felt like a new man after exiting the sauna-like confines of the bathroom. Beet red, but new...Freshly minted, if you will. I laid out my work clothes and quickly changed into them. It was a pair of khakis and a blue polo, just in case you're wondering. I don't really care though, I just pump the gas. I debated waiting for the Terror again, but opted against it. I only take the bus to the hospital and back for my therapy sessions. Greta thinks it screws with my recovery to walk that far before I submit myself to her kind ministrations. I make it a habit not to argue with the Great Beast of the Fatherland. One only makes that mistake once.

I arrived at the gas station, my erstwhile place of employment, with nearly an hour to spare. I took a seat in the stock room and settled down with one of the battle scarred and dogeared paperbacks I've managed to smuggle in. As long as I do my job, the boss lady really doesn't care that I have the contents of a small library branch shelved neatly in a corner beside the stacked cases of soda. It's not like we don't have the space in the stock room. The place is built to nationwide corporate specifications, which include room for alcohol. I guess they never bothered to check the local laws first, either that, or they just didn't want to waste money redesigning the blueprints for a smaller location. The problem is that Pineview and the surrounding county of Hersh are dry. I'm not talking about anything dealing with annual rainfall. I'm talking about the Blue Laws in this county that forbid the sale of alcohol by either the bottle or the glass. Blue Laws, you've got to love them. Outdated codes of personal morals regulated by a bunch of gossiping old church ladies that should have been in the ground decades ago. I think sticking their noses in other people's lives is the only thing that keeps them breathing. With liquor only sold through state run establishments, and local governments given the right to ban their sale outright, law enforcement agencies still wonder why there is such a booming narcotics trade here in Pineview and in a dozen other towns just like it across the state. Simply put, there's nothing better to do. And to think this all started with a comment about bookshelves. You really shouldn't let me wander off like that. I hope you can do better next time, else I'll never get this story told.

I regretfully put down my book when it was time to punch in. I always had a thing for Huxley and his vision of a brave new world. Work went by smoothly, an oddity for second shift. Early evening on the weekends generally brings a mixed batch of assholes and mutant soccer moms out from under whatever rock they'd been hiding, dragging screaming children in their wake and generally being unpleasant to anyone they can get away with being rude to: Namely, me.

Things took a turn for the weird after I locked up for a few minutes to take care of some personal time on the throne. The reason for my little break swirled down the plumbing with a rush of water, and I got up to fix those things that always need fixing afterward. As I turned to leave the restroom, out of the corner of my eye I saw streaks of red smeared across the mirror, looking distinctly like blood. I whirled around for a better look, but the vision was gone as if it had never been. I wanted to tell myself it was a trick of the light on an otherwise unstable mind. It didn't work the first time I said it, months before, just hours after leaving the ICU. It didn't work this time either. Too many strange coincidences happen when I start seeing crazy shit like this, too many to chalk up to delusions, hallucinations and the like.

I washed up again, splashing water on my face to clear my head. I risked a quick glance at the mirror, but no visions or portents appeared in its depths. I sighed in relief and went back to work. I still had about two hours left of my shift and there was paperwork to get done. It really isn't a lot, but my hands still shake so much that writing anything by hand is a time consuming chore. I was deep in though, my pen scratching happily away at one of half a dozen tracking forms I have to fill out, when the electric chime sounded. Someone had come in. I wedged the pen under the clasp of the clipboard and looked up. Something hard cracked sharply against my temple and I went down in a heap. Robbery sounded like an alarm in my cranium, but that could have easily been my head ringing.

"Get the fuck up and pop the register!" Someone growled from above me.

I did as he said, hoping he wouldn't notice my shaky hand edging toward the alarm button as I gripped the counter to leverage myself up. The butt of a revolver came smashing down on the back of my hand. No such luck, I suppose.

"Try something like that again and I'll put you down. Now, open the fucking register."

I rose to my feet without the aid of the counter, as hard as it was to even see straight. I did as he said and opened the drawer of the register. There were two of them. One short and stocky the other tall and lanky. Both wore baggy clothes and black ski masks. I felt like I should know them from somewhere. As calmly as I could pretend to be, I removed the bills from the register and put them into a plastic bag. As I handed it over, Shorty grabbed my arm and pulled me over the counter, pistol whipping me across the jaw for good measure as he did. I heard the distinct click of the pistols hammer being pulled back. There was a moment of silence while I made a prayer to whomever would listen. Apparently someone in the great beyond was looking out for me.

"No, man. Not here! He ain't worth the trouble." Lanky said in a familiar voice, rusty with abuse. Jim. It had to be Jim. Shorty must be Spider. At least he was smart enough to try to disguise his voice.

"Narc like him has it comin'! He'll fuckin' talk if I don't." Spider almost yelled, and it was Spider. I was sure of it by then.

"Let's just get the hell outta here." Jim pleaded, "We don't have time to fool around here."

"Looks like you lucked out, Narc. We'll be seeing you."

I heard something whistle through the air behind me. Black stars erupted from an even blacker place somewhere in the back of my head. Blessed blackness, cool and welcoming...I went to join it. A part of me did so eagerly.