Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting

The hard part had been finding the key. He thought he might have misplaced it at first, but finally, there it was. It slid into the mechanism and with a twist, the lock disengaged. He was home. Or was he. Maybe not yet. Maybe he hadn’t really found the right key yet.

He’d been able to hold on during the drive. Suspended. It only took some focus. Eyes straight ahead, pick a target and focus. One can only hold that for so long, and then it must run its course. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he slipped off his shoes, tugged his socks off by the toes. The sickness began to flow back into his extremities, tingle. He sat still. It didn’t help. He was smelling that place and seeing the night before. A diamond in a cesspool still smells like shit.

Standing up, he pulled off his shirt, unzipped his pants and stepped out of them. The sickness was moving deeper, moving into his belly. He knew that he had stood on the platform ten feet above, looking out into the vast shithole. The diamond was in there somewhere. He bounced once, bounced twice. It might not have been elegant, it might not have been a swandive, but he jumped and now he was in and he was covered.

The blanket covered his body now, the pillow cushioned his head. What was this? Acclimated. If you go swimming in a cesspool long enough does the smell ever go away? Do you forget there are beautiful places? If you look for something for so long, but never find it, do you forget that you’re looking for something? If you aren’t yourself for long enough, do you forget who you are?

Gandy fought the sickness while thinking, and after awhile he fell asleep.
He slept and slept. He needed the sleep.

When he awoke, it was getting dark again. Evening. He still didn’t feel right, but he was remembering. He got up and poured himself a drink. Better get moving. Instead of opting out tonight, he needed to find out. In the bathroom he stopped at the mirror and looked at himself. He looked at his face. “Hey man. How are you?” “I’ve been better.”

Steaming hot water poured over his head, Niagara Falls before his eyes. Palms flat against the shower wall, elbows bent. The elongated pre-rinse had become a habit over the years, meditative moments of massage. This time, though, he was trying to wash away the smell. His senses were heightened, and now they were detecting that slight tingle below his chest. One always hopes the feeling will pass. He picked up the bar of Irish Spring and soaped himself up, paying special attention to the penis. Nice. Shampoo bubbles drifted along until the drain swallowed them up. Tingle, tingle.

There wasn’t any stopping it. He ripped open the curtain and nearly fell on his face as he tried to make it to the toilet. His muscles tightened and his throat opened, and out came the poisons. Good thing he hadn’t turned off the water in the shower.

He sat naked on the edge of his bed, wondering why his engine had locked up. Where the hell did that come from? Break time. Standing up, he admired the shape his wet butt had made on the sheets. Nice.

The silk boxers, once his stock in trade, tickled his ass and thighs as they slid up and into place. Tickles and tingles. His silk trademark.

And then the phone rang. "Yeah?"

“We’re still on for tonight, right? You didn’t seem like yourself last night.”

“I'm feeling pretty sick, but I’ll make it.”

The mind behind the voice on the phone was thinking something other than what was being said. It was thinking this: “You are gonna get yours, you prick.”

“Good. Where are we all gonna meet?”

“How about the Matchbox? We haven’t been there for months.”

This time, the mind behind the voice on the phone was thinking exactly the same thing that was being said. The voice said this: “See ya there.”

Slow motion combs and Crest and Scope, Speed Stick and Q-tips.
Had he said the Matchbox? Of course he had. It was perfect for what he had in mind tonight.

9:15. Time to get gone. Gone. The distance. From here to the door, ten feet. Hall of mirrors and dizziness, a mile, miles, and if he ran six days he might not reach it. Those strange shapes and colors a person sees when he really tries to look at the inside of his eyelids. There is Pepto-Bismol in the medicine cabinet, drink it now, drink it all.

“Hey man, I'm gonna be a little late.”

Gracious pillow. Tingle. I will not do it again, just back off. He wiped the sweat from his nose. Lay here for a few minutes until this passes. That stuff will kick in any time now. Just get up and get going, it’ll work itself out. Up. Here are the keys, there is the door. Not so hard, is it? Almost. Hand on the knob, right turn, now pull. Okay, steps. Hold onto the rail, one at a time, take it slow.

The smell and feel of leather woke Gandy up a little. The power of pride. His hand found the shifter, he rocked it back and forth in neutral for a moment before moving it over and back into reverse. Slight pressure, the tires spit out gravel, and the car moved out onto the street. Tingle.

"Give it up, I'm going."

After some stops, Gandy made it to the Matchbox. He parked his car in the back of the parking lot so no one could see, if anyone was looking. He lit a cigarette and thought, “Let’s go see.”

He walked up the rows of cars. Closer and closer until he had to wait to cross the lane to make it up onto the sidewalk. He scanned the parking lot, he looked inside the window of the Matchbox. They were not here. He knew they wouldn’t be. And he was glad. He began to play memory movies in his mind, and he had his answer. This is what you get. This is what you get when you mess with us.

Gandy walked back to his car, got in it, and drove to the only place on earth that made sense at this moment. Down to the very bottom of Baker’s Hollow. He was not on the payroll anymore. It had begun.