No Sleep till Wonderland (6 page)

I wake up on the couch. Again.

I had a crazy dream about two FBI agents busting in and knocking my ass around the apartment, asking me about aliens, little green men. I had one living under my couch apparently. It said we tasted like chicken.

My heart beats hard enough to alter my chest’s concavity. The sun is out, spewing its radiation through the windows. I sit up, blink, mash my hands around the mess of my face, and I might need to shave my tongue.

Where the hell did that nightmare come from? My dreams and hypnagogic hallucinations are always so vivid and real, like snippets and disjointed scenes belonging to my incredibly detailed secret life, a life usually more inhabitable than my real one. But my recent dreams seem pumped up, maybe amphetamine enhanced.

I’m wearing the same clothes I wore last night. I’m embarrassed for myself, so I take off the jacket, which feels lighter than it should. I check the pockets. My little bag of greenies isn’t in there. I could’ve hidden them in an odd place while asleep and in the throes of automatic behavior, but I’m not getting that vibe. I’m a vibe guy, after all.

This summer, ever since Ellen left, my apartment has been a dog-eared paperback that’s missing its cover, nearly unreadable. Magazines, newspapers, DVD boxes, and assorted entertainment accoutrement crowd the coffee table and leak onto the floor, adding to the musical chairs of clutter that I don’t bother to rearrange after the music stops. That said, the apartment looks different. Stuff’s been moved, and not necessarily by me. There’s a kitchen chair on the other side of the coffee table. I know the asleep me a little bit, and he wouldn’t do that. The placement of the chair is too neat, too purposeful. My apartment door isn’t locked or latched. Someone was here.

Maybe it was Gus, and he showed up this morning, following up on his nocturnal surveillance investment. Maybe the asleep me accepted his bon mots on a job well done, returned the amphetamines, and sent him on his merry way. If so, the asleep me is so thoughtful.

I do a cursory search of the apartment, including the leaning tower of dishes in the sink and the butter and egg drawers of my refrigerator. No sign of the greenies. No butter or eggs either. I’ll worry about it later.

My kitchen clock tells me it’s 12:39 p.m. The clock is a filthy liar. After a quick dry cereal and past-the-expiration milk repast and a gallon or two of coffee, I paint on a fresh change of clothes, shuffle down to my office, and crank up the computer. I want details on that fire. I’m not disappointed.

Lead stories in all the local papers and blogs. Bold, large-font headlines at both the
Boston Globe
and
Boston Herald
Web pages; both original stories already have links to updates: Two-family town house on the corner of H and Fifth burned almost to the ground. There was one fatality—the first-floor resident whom authorities would not identify yet—and one critically injured eight-year-old boy who lived on the second floor with his single mother, Jody O’Malley, age twenty-four. The apartment lease lists her boyfriend, Eddie Ryan, as a cosigner. Yeah, that Eddie Ryan. Fire Department officials suspect arson, and while no suspects have been announced, the press is clearly presenting Eddie as one.

Despite the late hour of the fire, Jody wasn’t home. She was drinking at a friend’s house down the street and had left her son alone. Jody O’Malley has been previously arrested a handful of times, and DSS has a file of abuse and neglect on Jody. Her son has now been removed from her custody. The updated links are about O’Malley, her documented violent relationship with Eddie, and years of oversights by the DSS concerning the well-being of her son, who had been removed from the home before, in 2006, but returned only six months later because the child’s grandmother was moving in to help out. The grandmother was never listed on the lease, and neighbors claimed she hadn’t lived in the apartment for over a year.

There are also stories about Fred Carroll, as well. He’s the former air force lieutenant turned baker, the Good Samaritan neighbor who went into the burning building, found the O’Malley boy at the bottom of the stairs, and pulled him to safety. The cops didn’t believe I could’ve found the boy first. My continued snubbing is not Fred’s fault, but I hate him anyway.

When I look up from my computer, four hours have disappeared. I’m not doing well today. I don’t know what to do or whom to blame. I get up and pace the room. I should never have taken the greenies. They hath forsaken me. But if I’m being honest with myself, which isn’t often enough, I know the greenies are another crutch, one too small even for Tiny Tim, and just another place to assign the blame because this day has really been no different from all the shitty ones that came before it. My time is always unstable and breaking down.

I have a message on my cell. It’s Ellen, reminding me that the group therapy session will meet earlier than usual tonight. She has the schedule printed up and magnet-stuck to her refrigerator. She says that Dr. Who reports perfect attendance. She says,
Keep it up,
but leaves out the
or else
. Love you, too, Mom.

I don’t call Ellen back. I call Gus’s cell twice. All I get are rings and a recorded Gus saying, “Speak and be free,” then a beep. The beep freezes me. I don’t know what to say. I want to talk about Ekat’s night, and the fire, ask why Eddie’s name is popping up everywhere, ask if he came by the apartment this morning and relieved me of the bag o’ green. If he was here, do I admit I was asleep again?

I call a third time and leave the following message: “It’s Mark. Call me. We need to talk.” I can’t decide if I sound serious and threatening, or like a moon-eyed teenager pining over someone who might have dared sharing a look with me in the hallway between classes.

Even if Gus did visit this morning, I don’t like that he isn’t answering his phone. I don’t like any of this, and I’m not sure what to do next, besides go to mandatory group therapy and draw Ellen something pretty for her fridge.

This is the earliest our group has met, and it’s too bright in here. I shouldn’t have to squint indoors. Some shadows are okay, even necessary.

Dr. Who passes a photocopy of the collective self-portraits we drew last session. There’s the doodle I drew of my head, center square. Below mine is Gus’s everything-falls-apart picture. Above me is the cat guy’s portrait, an anal-retentive stick figure surrounded by other, small, anal-retentive cat stick figures, with whiskers. He has whiskers too. Isn’t he so clever!

There’s an empty chair in our circle: Gus’s. I hoped he would be here, but didn’t expect it. I leave my cell phone on, violating the number one group rule of phones off.

A brief discussion ensues about the drawings, which quickly focuses on my doodle head. The agoraphobic woman in the baggy gray sweats thinks my picture is the most accurate, likes how I conveyed the height difference in my eyes, then asks me how my pulverized face happened. Cat guy cuts in and disagrees with her assessment and says there’s plenty of style but no substance to my doodle.

I tell him I hate his cats, then I thank everyone for making me more self-conscious than I already am. That effectively ends the group chat for the day.

Dr. Who hands out our journals. Today’s assignment is to write a sentence or two about yourself that you’ve never said aloud to anyone.

I write and then cross out:

All the other points of light at the Wellness Center are in deep thought, even the cat man, and scribbling down their sentences. Apparently, those secrets are easy to give up, which means they can’t be trusted. Dr. Who should know that. He hovers and gives winks and nods of encouragement.

I look at my crossed-out note and think about Ellen and the current state of our nonrelationship. Never been good at playing along, but I try again.

Not exactly a breakthrough, and too ham-fisted and teen angsty.

Dr. Who gives follow-up instructions. We can leave what we wrote hidden in our notebooks, or we can tear the page out, pass it up, and he’ll read the sentences aloud for discussion, without necessarily identifying the author.

My circle mates rip and tear their journals like they’re opening presents from Santa Claus, although nobody believes in him. I tear mine out, too, but just a rectangular ribbon of paper, enough to encompass what I wrote. Dr. Who walks around the circle, moving but not really going anywhere, and collects the sentences. When he gets to me, I put the piece of paper in my mouth, chew it up, and swallow. It tastes stale, but it’s mine.

Dr. Who tilts his head because I’m tilted. He says, “I don’t know if that was necessary, Mark.”

I say, “Sorry, I slept through lunch.”

Dr. Who reads what everyone else wrote, and I can’t pay attention. The anonymous secrets aren’t exactly helping my focus. I nod in and out of sleep, my head bobbing up and down in rhythm with my consciousness. I don’t participate in any discussion, and for once Dr. Who doesn’t prod me. Today I’m the kid in the back everyone ignores, and that’s fine.

After the session ends, Dr. Who shepherds me aside. He has the journals stacked in his left arm, and his right hand rests on my elbow, gently holding on like it’s a rare musical instrument. He says, “Mark, you can of course say no, but I’m wondering if you’d consider sharing with me, just me, what you wrote today.”

“Regurgitation isn’t a part of my skill set, doc. I bet the cat guy could cough you up a nice hair ball to interpret, though.”

“Not quite what I had in mind, Mark. I was hoping you might just tell me what you wrote.”

I can’t believe I’m the one he’s holding after class. And Christ, he’s leaning on me in his own wishy-washy way. I’m too aggravated to continue being a smart-ass or resist. I say, “How about I write it down again, doc? Don’t worry, I’m not hungry anymore.” I pull my journal out of the stack and rewrite the screed that sits in the bottom of my stomach. I close the book, put it back in the middle of his stack, and say, “Have at it,” then head out the door.

I take the long cut home and walk by Gus’s East Second Street apartment. He lives in a run-down three-family. Its forest green paint sheds in giant flakes, falling green leaves from a sick tree. The other houses around him aren’t faring much better. I ring the bell and then press my face against his first-floor front window. The curtains are open, but it’s too dark inside and I can’t see anything. I knock on the glass, and it’s thin, brittle.

I want to believe Gus came by my apartment this morning while I was indisposed, and don’t know what to believe if he didn’t. I sit on the warped and slanted porch stairs, cheek resting on fist, pouting. I think about leaving a where-are-you-where-have-you-been? note under his door but, feeling more angry than pathetic, I call the Abbey instead and ask if Gus is bartending tonight.

“No.” The answer is a quick jab or a rabbit punch.

“Can you check the schedule, tell me what night Gus will be there?”

Mr. Happy says, “We’re too busy, call back later,” then hangs up.

I light a cigarette and attack my lungs. The sun is setting, hiding behind the city somewhere. A cool breeze kicks up, but it’s a lie. It’ll be world-melting hot again tomorrow. I finish my smoke quick, the only thing I can do quick, and leave the stub on the porch. As my calling card, it’s perfect: bent, broken, and all used up.

On the walk up Dorchester, I sneak a peak at the Abbey as I pass East Third. There’s a cop car parked out front, real cozy with the sidewalk. No bouncer at the door. Everyone’s playing Go Fish inside. I wonder where Eddie is right now. I wonder where everyone is.

A few more tortured steps and I’m through the nexus of Dorchester and Broadway and to my building. As I unlock my door, a guy who isn’t Gus appears to my left and leans on the building like he won’t tip it over. A practiced posture, and he’s good at it. He might be too relaxed, though. It could get him into trouble.

I say, “Hey.”

He says, “Hello, Mr. Genevich.”

We’re communicating. He presses a button on his key ring, and the blue Crown Vic parked right in front of my place chirps and blinks. Nice spot. If I had a car, I’d be jealous.

My key and lock cooperate finally, and I say, “The door is opened, but I’m closed. Come back tomorrow morning, and bring donuts, preferably honey-dipped.”

The guy who isn’t Gus laughs loudly; it’s high-pitched and sounds like a call from one of those almost-extinct New England birds that spends too much time alone on a frigid lake. I guess I’m a funny guy.

He asks, “Given any thought to our conversation this morning?”

That, however, is decidedly not funny.