POWERLESS

Tommy Boy woke with a groan and a foul taste in his mouth that was not unknown to him. As his head cleared, he focused on the red digits of the clock radio on the bedside table of the Main Street rooming house. His brain recognized the dim glow of digits: 6.45. Another groan and a quick shake of the head allowed the hour to register, but was it morning or night? There was really no way to tell here, in this hovel he called home. There was no news paper from which to take the date, there was not a television to tune in the morning or evening news, there was not much of anything. There was an abundance of nothing. He threw his legs over the bed, and prepared for the dizziness he fully expected as his feet landed on the filthy carpet. His head swam and his stomach heaved, as he struggled up and over to the tiny bathroom.

 In what had become a daily ritual, he crossed the tiny room from door to toilet, with a fluidity of motion which seemed somehow out of place to the events which were about to occur. He inserted a finger down his throat, lifted the seat and vomited into the bowl. For a moment, he simply stayed in place; his head slumped over the toilet, his eyes clamped tight, as though this would close out the reality of his world. Slowly he spit, then coughed, then waited; waited for the second heave which would come surely as the first had. For a moment, he marveled at the beauty of the floaters and sparks of light which lived behind his eye lids. It was as though there was a world of constant celebration behind his eyes; fire works and laughter just a blink away but always out of reach, forever fleeting, forever floating.

Then it came. Violently, convulsively, he emptied the liquid remains of his gut in a final stream of bile and mucus. He spit, he coughed, he gagged and then he looked. It was part of the ritual, as though he were a soothsayer or an ancient Egyptian High Priest prodding the intestines of a sacrificed chicken. Each day for the past many months he would, upon waking, lie with his head hung over the bowl and study the spilled remnants of his gut. He really did not know what he was looking for, perhaps some meaning, some answer to the riddle which had been his life, some prediction of better days ahead. But there was none; not yesterday, not today, not ever.

 He tried to read what looked like wet coffee grounds floating atop the greasy film in the bowl and it was then he realized he had vomited up some blood. This was new, an added attraction in the ritual of the waking and in it he read the future. He was dying, slowly and from the inside out. He closed his eyes, sighed deeply and flushed.

That is how easy it was for him to deny the reality of what he had become and where he was going to end up. It had always been that easy, just another drink away from happiness. Just another drug away from peace of mind and just another shattered relationship away from blessed isolation. Just another flush and it was all gone.

In a single movement that was more desperate than graceful, he pushed himself to his feet while reaching for the dirty mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. Pulling open the door with his left hand, he instinctively reached for the three fingers of vodka left remaining in the final fifth of the last binge. In a single motion he spun the top off the plastic bottle and gulped the vodka. Gagging it out of his rolling stomach into his waiting mouth and swallowed hard again. It would stay down this time. It always did. He breathed blessed relief as he watched the tremor subside in his hand more than he felt it, and then finished the bottle; ritual complete.

He leaned over the basin now as the throbbing in his head slowly dissipated and splashed cold water on his face and tried to control his breathing. Cautiously he stood erect; more steady now but never certain of his equilibrium, he leaned heavily on the basin. He closed the door of the cabinet and stood staring at the reflection in the soiled mirror. He examined every feature of the face he owned, comparing it to the face he had once owned, the one he remember that was the face of his childhood, the face of his adolescence, the face of the young man starting out in life full of hope and ambition with dreams still intact. That face was gone; gone forever.

The face in the mirror, the one he did not recognize, was one of defeat. The man who owned this face had been used up. The eyes were vacant. The nose broken too many times; there was a scar on the lip, another on the forehead, both of unknown origin. There were teeth which appeared loose and too large for the jaws in which they resided; teeth which would no longer be able to chew even the most tender of steaks. His skin was turning the colour of the nicotine stains on his fingers. The skin on his face seemed to hang like a mask, hiding the visage which once had been. This face filled his heart with fear, for this face he did not know. This was the face of a man who would steal and cheat and lie with no regret. This was the face of a man who had loved and lost, and had nothing left to give. This was the face of a man who carried such shame that life now seemed intolerable. This was the face of the dammed and the doomed, the dying and the dead.

Tommy Boy pushed away from the mirror and the truth he could no longer bear. Walking back into the other room of this self imposed hell, he scanned the contents, the remains of a lost life. There was little left. The majority of his stuff, such as it was, now resided at Louis’s East End Pawn. His grandfathers watch and ring a television from his brother, his prized record and CD collection. All had been pawned and repurchased more times than he could recall.  There was the collection of books his Mother had given him. The classics she so loved and they had shared together when he was a child, they were gone as well. He could no longer recall the stories themselves, though he was certain he had read them. There was so much of him gone, so many memories which were gray and faded. His thoughts seemed wet and slippery. So much had been lost forever. Indeed, there was little left.

As he pulled on his cleanest dirty shirt he smiled wryly thinking of his Johnny Cash Classic ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down’ sitting on a shelf down at Louis’s East End Pawn. Who could have known he would live the song? Who would have guessed he would be standing in a hovel not sure which day of the week was “Coming Down”, not knowing if it was morning or night, not caring. He scooped up the busted clock radio, pulled on his tattered jacket and left the room. On the landing at the top of the stairs he stopped and turned back to the door. There, under the number 12, written in magic marker, some one had scrawled his name, Tommy Boy. For a moment far too brief, he stared at the black scrawl and it was in that moment he knew what must be done.

He moved down the filthy stairway with caution. The bulbs were out and the possibility of sleeping vagrants was always present. In the pecking order of the declining world in which he lived, Tommy Boy had not yet descended to vagrant status but it was without a doubt to be the next swirl in  his downward spiral.

 He smelled the man before he saw him on the step and instinctively raised a hand to cover his mouth and nose. The man’s face carried a growth of several years. It was gray and stained with spit and food and vomit and tobacco. It was a tapestry, a testimony to the tragedy of this man’s life. His clothing was tattered, and a dark stain seeped out beneath the filthy fold of his trench coat.

 Tommy Boy stepped over the man lying in his own shit and felt a deep sense of disgust. It passed through him like a shiver and left him with a feeling of cold arrogance. He felt it deep in his gut like a stone and as he maneuvered past this waist of human skin he could feel his jaw set tight and his loose teeth begin to grind together. There was no pity within him for this unknown vagrant. There was no compassion. What he felt was relief. Relief that even in the declining state of his body and soul there was someone who was worse than he, someone to whom he could feel superior. A sense of relief and hope, hope for his future, hope that maybe he was not all that bad, hope that  maybe he could turn it all around and maybe it was just a run of bad luck ran through his mind. Slipping back into that lying zone, Tommy wrapping himself in that familiar quilt of denial as he spit on the vagrant, “Fucking Bum”, he muttered to no one, and pushed his way out the door and into the waiting street.

The sounds and smells he walked into assaulted his senses and filled him with an irresistible excitement, just as it had done so many times before. He closed his eyes and tilted back his head and let it fill him, let it wash away his pain. He smelled hotdogs and urine and humidity and a million other things which he could not categorize. He heard sirens and garbage trucks, brakes squeal and horns honk. The street quaked as the overhead A train raced by. He heard the whore on the corner calling out to the johns in their cars at the stop light, “Wanna party honey”?  “Let me show you a good time”, “I can take you round the world sweet thing”. He heard the light change to green and wondered if that was even possible. A dog barked, a baby cried, a pan handler sang Amazing Grace and he just stood. His head back, a smile emerging on his tired face. He felt the compulsion begin to grow in his body he felt the obsession in his mind. He drank up the sounds and smells of his addiction and he knew it was evening. He knew he had to get ‘right’. He left the stoop, turned west and headed toward Louis’ East End Pawn.

Tommy Boy moved with new conviction as he headed down Lexington toward Baker Side Road. He passed by the whore without a second look, paying no heed to her salutation. There had been a time not so long ago when she was another aspect of his addictions, but his desire for her and the special gifts she offered had faded with his increasing need for booze and drugs. He told himself that this was a simple matter of practicality, that there was not enough ready cash for her and his true love, Vodka and crack, but the reality was that his ability to perform even the most basic sexual acts had  long since left him. In fact the thought of being physically in contact with another person had become revolting to him. Intimacy had become collateral damage in the war he had been waging against his body and soul.

 He told himself it was his choice and that he was better than the rest of the johns she blew for forty bucks. He told himself she was just a crack whore and he could do better, maybe meet a nice girl and try a new relationship. He felt he was on the cusp of change, big change. It was all going to turn around. All he needed was a break. All this he told himself, and all this he believed.

Her name was Rhonda and she was a crack whore but that never used to matter to Tommy Boy. They did their crack together most of the time, she paid all of the time, they fucked some of the time but that had not happened for a long time. As he walked by tonight she called out to him and he looked the other way, like she didn’t exist, like she was not even there. She wanted nothing from him. In fact, she had come to understand there was nothing left within him to give. She only needed for him to acknowledge her, to see her, to let her know that she was still there, and that once they had been friends. “Go fuck yourself”, she screamed at his back as he melted into the crowd. “At least I got a fucking job.” A car pulled up to the curb, a window went down and her next bag of crack sat behind the wheel. She looked west as she got into the car and watched Tommy Boy turn onto Baker Side Road. “Good Bye Tommy” she said quietly to herself and for just a moment she thought she would be able to cry.

Tommy Boy weaved his way through the supper crowd on Baker Side Road keeping an eye open for Trip. Trip was his boozing friend, and Trip owed him money. That made Trip harder to find. He would be around in one of the shitty bars on this shitty street or hustling a buck in the pool room, or snatching a purse, or doing whatever he needed to do to get the cash for a night of drinking.

 Trip was a true blue Alkie and made no apologies for it. That was what Tommy Boy liked about him. Like himself, Trip could philosophize his way through a 40- ouncer of cheap Vodka in a few short hours, making more sense with each passing drink.” There’s nothing wrong with being a drunk if you accept it as the truth”, he would say. “The only alkies that are truly unhappy are those who try not to be alkies, the ones who go to AA and shit like that. They are not being true to their nature.” He waxed on, “I know a hell of a lot more old drunks than I do Old Doctors”, Trip would slur and Tommy Boy would laugh.

Tommy Boy would laugh hard like he did long ago. He would laugh long like he did when he was a kid. He would laugh like there was still something in this world worth laughing about. He would laugh until he broke into a bout of coughing and choking and nearly passed out. Trip made Tommy Boy laugh, and that’s why he loaned Trip money.

It was the single most intimate act he had partaken of with another human in a long time. The act of lending out his drug and booze money to another Alkie was akin to a Brother giving a dying Sister the kidney she so desperately needed. There was every reason to believe the Brother would get on fine with the remaining kidney he possessed but there was also the possibility that the Brother would find himself in a hopeless situation years down the road with no back- up kidney to see him through his dark time.

It required a great deal of trust and trust is the first lost quality of the practicing addict. Trust is a luxury ill- afforded in the world in which Tommy Boy lived and many died. Many died because they trusted the wrong person for the wrong reasons. Tommy Boy had felt his world growing ever smaller and on the night when Trip asked for the twenty bucks, it seemed as though that simple act of trust could save some portion of his life, could somehow make it normal.

With great trepidation he reached into his dirty jeans and pulled out the twenty. He held it tightly and looked long and hard at Trip. Tommy Boy stared at the shit eating grin of rotting teeth, green on the top, yellow on the bottom. “Great,” thought Tommy Boy “The Grinch who stole my fucking twenty.” “Come on, hand it over, crack head” says Trip. “You know I’m good for it, a week Wednesday is my welfare check.” A week Wednesday had come and gone. Tommy Boy had found himself in his own hopeless situation, entered his dark time and had no back up. He was no longer laughing.

 He had made his way to the bottom end of Baker Side Road with no sign of the last person on this earth he would ever trust. Trip would have to wait. There was business to be done. He looked up at the flashing neon that read “Louis’ East End Pawn”, and the excitement he had felt growing in his gut as he had left his front step was quickly turning to anxiety. The certainty he had felt in his mind was turning to obsession and the tremors he had quieted with Vodka were beginning to stir.

He pushed open the door to Louis’ East End Pawn with all the bravado he could muster. The bell above the door rang as he pushed his way through. All eyes turned towards Tommy Boy as he made his entrance into the little shop, not because his appearance commanded attention but because his mustered bravado had leaned too heavily into the door, pushing it into the stopper and flinging it noisily back into his face. Muffled laughter ran through the patrons of Louis’ East End Pawn, but rage ran through Tommy. “Fucking door”, he muttered to no one as he weaved through the shelves of busted power tools and old computers. He passed by the smirking onlookers without a glance and found his way to the counter.

“Hey Louis…how’s it going?” The big man behind the counter looked at Tommy Boy and did not reply. “Louis…what’s up man, come to do some business.”

“I ain’t Louis.” He said and began to turn away. “Whatever man, how bout you give me some attention here?  I come in to hawk this fine Digital Alarm Clock.” The big man turned back to Tommy Boy with a puzzled look and extended his hand to take the clock.  He rolled the clock over in his hand once, then once again, examining the faux wood finish on the Admiral Time and Tunes Digital Classic Clock. “Where’d you get this?” he asked.

“It’s mine man, it was a gift from my mother.”

“Bullshit, you steal this”

“No, no… I’m telling you man it’s not hot. I paid sixty-five bucks for that just a few weeks ago”

“You paid sixty-five bucks; it was a gift from your Mother. Lying fucking junkie. I need to see a receipt. Without a receipt, I can give you ten bucks.”

“Ten bucks! What you call me? You call me a fucking junkie? What the hell kinda way is that to do business man? You don’t even know me, man, and you calling me a fucking junkie! What kinda shit hole are you running here? I tell ya Louis, I got a good mind to haul all my shit outta here and take my business across town.”

“You got no shit here, and I told you, my name ain’t Louis.”

“Whatever man whatever. What you mean I got no shit here? I got all kinds of shit here, ring watch, albums, appliances.  What you mean I got no shit here? I’m your best fucking customer.”

“Look at your stubs asshole. The time on your shit has run out. It is on the shelves in the back, sold or about to be. Your shit is now my shit because you been too busy getting high and drinking your alcoholic ass into oblivion to come pick it up…I’ll give you ten bucks. Take it or leave it.”

“No way man! Come on there is obviously a mistake. It has only been a month since the last time I pawned, when I got my last disability check.”

“Don’t know about your check, don’t care, your shit has been here 121 days and that makes it my shit, now you want the ten bucks or not?”

Tommy Boy stood motionless and stared past the pawnbroker and to the shelves in the back. He was confused. He was suddenly disoriented and uncertain of what was transpiring.

 The other patrons in Louis’ East End Pawn had stopped smirking and were now trying to get further away from what was happening at the counter. It was as though they sensed the danger that could erupt from this situation. They knew that Tommy Boy might snap. They knew that his things were gone and more than that they knew he would not be getting what he needed to get right, since there would be no cash. Some made their way to the door and quickly exited to the street. Others stood watching at a distance, unable to look away.

Tommy Boy was playing out the scenarios in his head as quickly as his damaged brain could. Had it been four months! Is that possible? He knew he occasionally lost track of time, usually when he was with Trip and they were grooving , but four months,  no way, not possible. This fucking Louis was pulling a fast one, trying to steal his shit. He had to do something but the best course of action was not clear. A fog of uncertainty was enveloping him and holding him. His senses were dull and his fear was at fever pitch. He was filled with conflicting emotions and the panic was growing out of his gut and spreading to his limbs about to spill over into this room.

Tommy Boy was sick. He was sick and he was in need and the man behind the counter was neither. Louis was a big man, bigger than he had noticed before and he was getting angry. Physical altercation was not going to work. Even if he got his shit back, he would be picked up in a couple hours by the Police and he knew he could not spend a night in the bucket, not in the shape he was in, not without getting right.

 But he was smarter than Louis. He knew he was. He had been in jams before and he always got out. He could figure things out and people liked him. He got off on the wrong foot here, that’s all. He had to start over. No need for brawn when you had a brain. Hit and run, smash and grab shit, that was for the street punks not for him, not for Tommy Boyle,

“Look, Louis” he began contritely “I’m not sure what I did to piss you off man, but I know we can sort out this mix up about the shit in the back. We’re adults right, but how about a show of good faith to an old customer? Man, you know the clock is good for at least thirty, what do ya say, Louis?”

He had been standing behind the counter with his arms crossed, his chin resting on his chest just above his forearms. His arms uncrossed  in a blur and his hands slapped so hard down on the counter top that Tommy Boy swore he saw the glass bend and spring back and he wondered if that was even possible. Some of the patrons jumped in surprise, a woman let loose a short scream and two more men left the shop. When he spoke his voice was low and hissing and there was spit accentuating every syllable.” I have told you” he said “my name is not Louis.”

“Well where the fuck is Louis, man…I want to talk to Louis…maybe he can sort this shit out, why am I even dealing with you?”

“Louis is DEAD!” he screamed so violently it pushed Tommy Boy a step back. “He has been DEAD for a MONTH. I bought this place off his widow. She told me he went home one night, locked himself in his garage, slipped a 38 into his mouth and decorated her lawn furniture with his fucking brains. She said it was something about depression and anxiety and that his medication was off but you want to know what I THINK. I THINK he just couldn’t stand the thought of coming back down to this shit hole end of town and dealing EVERY FUCKING DAY with drunken, low life, wet brain, fucking losers like you.”

There was drool running down his chin and hate brewing in his eyes and Tommy Boy had enough street smarts left to know he was very close to a situation which would not go his way at all. How did this terrible misunderstanding get so far out of hand! It was not his fault, but the situation was not lost, he could pull it off and walk out of here to get ‘right’.

“Shit man, relax, what did you say your name was? Doesn’t matter. Look the clocks gotta be worth at least twenty right, so let’s just call it twenty. Now I know! You are the big boss; I can tell there’s no way to dicker you down man, so lets just make it twenty and really…sorry to hear about Louis but I‘ve been out of town working for a while man, there was no way I could have known, just no way man, I mean you haven’t even changed the sign right?  What a horrible thing, I’ll have to send some flowers to his wife.  What was her name? Doesn’t matter, I have it written down back at my place any way, so what about it man, we good on the twenty for the clock?”

The big man just stood and looked at Tommy Boy and said nothing. His head slowly sagged and his stubble covered chin came to rest once again on the barrel that was his chest. His jagged breathing slowed and became rhythmic and he began to regain his composure. The few seconds the big man took to let go of his anger seem an eternity to Tommy Boy who looked on with uncertainty. The big man raised his head and leveled his gaze on Tommy Boy and Tommy could see that something in the man had changed. There was no anger left in the eyes of the pawn broker, no animosity, no contempt. What Tommy Boy saw was pity, nothing more, just pity, cold and empty.

   It was a look he had seen once before, a look which left him cold. A look that took him home, back to his Mother’s kitchen and the last time he had seen her. Tommy Boy had to look away, to divert his eyes from that look of cold pity, from that look of finality he had seen in his mother’s eyes and from the knowledge that she had come to a place of emptiness in her feelings for him. He had crossed a line, and could never go back. He had seen that look before and like it had then, it now left him cold..

“Jack” the big man said. “My name is Jack”

 “Ya right, Jack.” Tommy hesitated, “so what about it Jack?  Twenty, Right?” Jack looked on in silence for a moment then leaned himself over the counter top and motioned Tommy Boy to come in closer. The other patrons of the late Louis’ East End Pawn shop had had their little show. They had seen Jack lose his cool with this pathetic little man, they had their cheap thrill and now it was over. Jack would not allow it to go on. Tommy leaned in with extreme caution as Jack began slowly,

“What’s wrong with you man? You need to get a grip; you need to get some help. You’ve crossed a line or something.  I don’t know, but you need to call somebody or something”

Tommy looked at Jack in confusion. “What the fuck you on about Jack?  I told you I was sorry man, about the confusion over Louis. I was out of town you know, working.”

“You were in here two days ago Tommy! We had this whole conversation then. Don’t you remember any of that?  I mean shit; you don’t remember my name, that Louis is dead, none of that are you putting me on or what?  Here is twelve bucks Tommy, it is really the best I can do, take it and get some food for a change, you look like death and please….you need to get some help!  Now go on, get out of here, we are done!”

Tommy Boy found himself in the street in front of Louis’ East End Pawn and knew he must have walked out but had no memory of doing so. Was he in shock, or were the black-outs becoming constant? Were the snatches of memory now the anomaly and the black outs the norm?  He didn’t know and he didn’t care. All he knew was that Louis was right, something was wrong. Something was changing and he didn’t like it. He was scared and he was confused.

 He stood there feeling empty and full at the same time. He was full of despair and full of fear and shame and still, in that hopeless state, the voice in his mind, the voice of his addiction, cried out.  “This is not your fault. If Trip would have paid you the money you never would have been here in this place today. You never would have been in the situation you were in. That guy, Louis never would have been able to steel your shit. If only that fucking Trip would have held up his end, if only he would have paid you back you’re twenty.

In that moment Tommy Boy came back to himself. He became aware of his surroundings, of the fact he was standing on Baker Side road, looking lost, holding twelve bucks in one hand a pawn ticket in the other. He felt the stares of the people as they passed, and knew he had to move on. He had been here in this spot too long and people were noticing.  It would only be a matter of time before there were police and questions. Questions he had been asked before. The usual questions that came from the cops, the ones riddled with sarcasm and contempt. The ones they used on people like him.

 In the past he had been able to field these questions and deal back the appropriate amount of sarcasm and contempt, just enough to feel superior but not so much as to get run in. After all, how hard was it to get one over on a bunch of dumb ass cops walking a beat and acting like they were something special? They all knew Tommy Boy was smarter than they were and that was why he was harassed. But today he had no time for such encounters. There was business to deal with, time was short and Trip was slippery. He had to be found, he had to be dealt with, and he had to know he fucked around with the wrong guy when he ripped off Tommy Boy.

It was getting harder to focus as time moved further away from his last drink of Vodka. The tremor in Tommy Boy’s hand was taking on new rhythm and slowly spreading through out his body.  He was soaked from head to toe, hot and cold simultaneously, and it felt as though a low level vibration was in every organ. He had to get a drink and he had to get it soon. His addiction was in pain and when his addiction suffered it made Tommy Boy suffer right along. He had twelve bucks in his ass pocket that would get him a fifth. That would dull the pain and slow down the assault the disease was launching against his body. That would get him what he needed to stop the tremor and the vibration, to help him think in a straight line.

But if he could just hold on, hold on until he could find Trip; get the rest of his cash. Then he would have thirty two. With thirty two bucks he had more options. If he could just hold on, he knew his luck would change. If he could just find Trip. He turned and headed back East on Baker Side Road, away from Louis’ East End Pawn Shop, away from the man called Jack who seemed to know him, who had stolen his Grandfather’s ring and watch and everything else he had left in this shitty world. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew he would never be back this way again.

His stride took on new purpose as he made his way up Baker Side Rd. He was now a man on a mission, full of focus and determination; he scanned the faces in the crowd as he moved further along the Street.  There were no residual thoughts or feelings from his encounter at Louis. There were no more feelings of fear and shame over his pathetic appearance and performance in front of the man named Jack or the strangers in the Pawn Shop. Fuck them, they were history, he would never see any of them again. Who were they to judge him any way, they would be far worse than he had they ever gone through the shit he had! There were no more concerns over the apparent loss of time, the black-outs, they were all but forgotten, like they never happened. No, those thoughts and feeling were for lesser persons, losers and whiners, not guys like him, not Tommy Boy.  He held his head high and his eyes darted from face to face, shoulder to shoulder, back to back looking for a familiar gesture or garment, looking for a tilt of the head or a tuft of dirty grey hair, looking for Trip with an intensity he could not have mustered on his own. An intensity provided by his need, his pain, his addiction, his silent lover.

He had walked and searched for 35 minutes when he saw Trip coming out of the alley across form Baker Side Road and the corner of 12th Avenue. Tommy Boy knew by the grand gestures and ear to ear grin that Trip was drunk, drunk on Tommy’s money and instantly he became infuriated. He watched from behind a post as Trip, with an entourage in tow, made his way across 12th Ave. and headed directly towards Tommy Boy. It took all the remaining control Tommy possessed to stand in wait for Trip. Every fiber in his body, all the strength of his addiction was willing him to bolt out and attack; to cross this ground and take back what was rightfully his. He had been pushed around for too long and now the time for him to fight was at hand. Trip had crossed a line. Trip had taken him for a fool like so many others had for so many years and judgment day was nigh. There would be no charm, there would be no con, there would only be aggression and if the cash was not forthcoming there would be violence, swift and brutal.

Tommy Boy watched as they drew closer and in his mind’s eye he could see the altercation. He would confront Trip. Trip would see he was deadly serious. The young punk on his left would begin to move forward and Tommy Boy would drop him with one punch to the throat. Trip would plead for calm and claim friendship while holding out Tommy Boy’s twenty. Tommy would take the money, turn to go then wheel around and lay one square into Trip’s gut. Trip would gasp and puke up his rum and as he hit the ground he would know without question that he would never again screw with Tommy Boy. Then the nice looking blonde flitting along side would look down at Trip, slowly turn and take up with Tommy Boy as he headed for his connection. Ya…that’s how he saw it happening, that’s the way it would be. His luck was turning. It was all going to come together.

But that’s not the way it went down.

Trip approached just as Tommy had seen it happen in the hallucination. Trip was laughing and happy and seemed to not have a care in the world. The punk beside him looked eerily like Trip and seemed to hang on every word that slid from the drunk’s lips. The blonde looked up to him with an expression in her eyes that Tommy’s mind could not identify. It was a far away look which was vacant and focused at the same time and Tommy remembered wondering if that was even possible. Later, much later he would know. It would come to him. She was looking up to him with love in her eyes. Tommy would remember that look but the memory would come too late.

 Just as it had been in his mind’s eye Tommy Boy jumped from behind the post impeding their forward progress. Trip and company stopped up short but did not looked frightened or alarmed. On the contrary Trip’s smile widened even further and Tommy remembered wondering how that was possible.

“Where’s my money you Mother Fucker?” Tommy spit the words out with such violence that it caused him physical pain and he realized that while in hiding he had been grinding his loose teeth so vigorously that one had come dislodged from his jaw and had been spit out with his words. All four of them looked down at the tooth for what seemed like minutes but was really seconds. Trip slowly looked up from the tooth to Tommy who was standing with spit and blood streaming down his chin in a redish froth.

“What the fuck Tommy Boy!” “What has happened to you, you look like shit man.” Trip had genuine concern in his voice and for a moment Tommy was confused. But the addiction spoke to him and told Tommy to be wary. Trip was slippery, Tommy boy knew that. Trip was only as genuine as any lying fuck alkie could be. Trip was not his friend.

“Never mind me, Trip, and don’t think you can bullshit your way out of this, I want my money and I want it now!”

The young man took a step forward just as he had in the hallucination but he was not stopped by Tommy Boy’s quick punch to the throat as Tommy had imagined it to happen. Instead, Trip slowly raised an arm in front of the young man’s chest and stopped his approach.

“Easy son,” Trip said. “There’s no need for any trouble like that here today. This is my friend. His name is Tommy and he looks like he is in a world of hurt. We got some kind of misunderstanding going on here but I know we can straighten it all out. Isn’t that right Tommy? These here are my kids, Tommy, remember I spoke of em? Haven’t seen ‘em in 10 years or so and never thought to ever see ‘em again, but here they are. Come and found the old man they did, we been catching up some here for a couple days. I guess that’s kinda why I haven’t seen you about for a few days.”

“Bull shit,” Tommy screamed and the young girl shrunk in fear.” I want my fucking money, Trip. I need it now. I need to get right, I need what’s mine and I intent to get it no matter what you say, I’m done with your lies and your bullshit man I want my fucking money!”

Trip raised his arms in the air, palms forward, in a, “I surrender” gesture and for a moment Tommy Boy had thought he had won. But as Trip began to speak his hopes faded rapidly.

“Just hold on Tommy, take a breath and take it easy. You got it all wrong partner you gotta trust me on this. You are making a big mistake, having some kinda psychotic episode or some shit like that man. Take it easy. I told you, how many times I told you to stay off the shit, the booze is hard enough on guys like us man but no you gotta go mix it with that crack shit now you’re all fucked up, you don’t know what’s happening.”

“I know what’s happening man and you are not going to get away with it” Tommy was trying to be loud but his voice was losing authority. It cracked and broke as he spoke. His lips were dry and he tasted blood in his mouth and did not understand why. “I trusted you man, I lent you my twenty and you said you would give it back, man, and now I need it and you are trying to fuck with me. People been fucking me over my whole life and it is stopping here today. I WANT MY MONEY!”

“Is that what this is about man?” said Trip with that familiar lilt in his voice that Tommy hated. “The twenty you lent me two weeks ago. What the frig man; are you shitting me, are you that screwed up?  I gave that back to you last Wednesday, when I got my cheque. I gave it to you at Hank’s over on Lexington and then we drank it up together at happy hour.”

Tommy Boy stood frozen in time. All the mayhem around him stopped and for moments he was surrounded by stillness. Suddenly he was watching this comedy of errors unfold before him and none of it was funny, He was confused and frightened and did not have the ability to know what was truth. His capacity to understand what was real and what was hallucination had evaporated. He was flying through turbulent airspace without navigation and his crash was imminent. He was seconds from collapse when he heard the voice, the voice of his lover, the voice of his addiction. It came to him soft and soothing and it whispered to him the words he needed to hear. The words that would dislodge him from the cement in which he stood trapped and propel him into action. “He’s lying she said”, so soft, so seductive, “he’s laughing at you, they are all laughing at you, you need to show them who you are, they need to understand.”

Tommy Boy heard the words and Tommy Boy understood. As quickly as he had gone under he climbed back into the reality of what was happening. There stood Trip, arms in the air, palms forward slowly shaking his head from side to side. To his left was the punk holding his ground but looking ready to step forward if needed. To his right and slightly back was the young girl, the look of fear intensely on her face. Tommy Boy’s glazed-over eyes fell upon Trip once again and tried to focus. Trip was speaking, but the words could not drown out the bidding of the lover. Trip’s face carried no fear, anger or hostility as Tommy Boy had expected but there, all over the face of this lying alkie, was pity. “Is that even possible?” Tommy Boy thought as he looked into Trip’s eyes. “Is it possible for this low life alkie to pity me? I am twice the man he ever was and I will never be as bad as he is, he’s just a damn dirty alcoholic.”

 At that moment Tommy Boy lunged forward. Palms up, elbows locked, arms straight out in front of his cleanest dirty shirt. Tommy Boy crossed the three feet between them with remarkable speed. The young man barely had time to move, the young woman barely a chance to scream. Tommy Boy made contact with incredible force delivering a staggering blow into the chest of Trip.

The pity left Trip’s eyes as he fell back into 12th Avenue and into the path of the Up Town Bus. In that moment, Tommy Boy’s life was changed for ever and Trip was set free.

Next Chapter: Last Call