The Price of a Drink

Electro house music crackled through the speakers as blue lights sent shadows drifting across nameless faces around me. More than once I thought I recognized someone from home, but I knew that was nearly impossible. I ran away from my abusive dad in the Connecticut suburbs, hours away from this shack of a bar in Brooklyn.

After my fourth week of working long hours in the city, my new friend, or whatever he is, James, and I were dancing and drinking away our fourth weekend in a bar. We left bills unpaid on the kitchen counter in our mouse-infested flat, so we could afford the New York nightlife.

“I need a cigarette,” I said, nodding towards the stairs.

‘What Kaitlyn?” James yelled over the music. He took another sip of his fifteen-dollar drink.

I raised two fingers to my lips and yelled, “smoke!”

James hid our drinks behind a speaker at the DJ booth and guided me with his hand at the small of my back up the stairs. The affection sent warmth through my hips as we ascended onto the cold street. Outside, he took off his vest and wrapped it around my bare shoulders. I wasn’t used to someone being so kind.

“I really like you,” James said.

I blew smoke circles into the Brooklyn air and scooted close to him. I found James on Craigslist. He was looking for a roommate, not a girlfriend. I liked him too, but wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

I flicked the butt of my cigarette and let out one last puff of smoke. “Ready?” I asked. James nodded.

Inside, he retrieved our drinks and we danced our way through the crowd until we found an opening on the dance floor. We synchronized our breaths with the beat, with each other.

After the set change, James downed the last drop of vodka from his cup and asked, “Do you feel okay?”

I nodded. I was safe beneath the disco lights. It was one place that remained constant. The place I could go when things went south at home.

“Something’s not right,” he said. I stopped dancing. James’ eyes were unfocused and his body swayed uncontrollably.

“James?” I asked. “Are you okay?” In the back of my mind, I already knew he wasn’t. Someone had slipped something in his drink and it was likely meant for me.

“I think so,” he yawned. “I need to go to bed.”

I wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and my knees threatened to buckle under his limp body. It didn’t matter. “Let’s get you home,” I said. I could feel his breath slowing against my neck. “Stay with me, James,” I said. I dug my heels in to get him up the stairs. Not one person looked. Maybe too many drunks pass by night after night to notice.

Outside, city lights glimmered beyond Brooklyn, now quiet except the whooshing cars in the distance and the clacking of my heels against the concrete.

“Kaitlyn,” he whispered into my ear, “I think somebody roofied me.”

“Shh. It’s okay, James,” I said. “We’re almost home now.”

When we reached the subway stairs, James collapsed. “James!” I shouted. I knelt beside him and grabbed his collar, shaking him. “Wake up, James!” He didn’t respond. I grabbed my phone from my back pocket and dialed 911. The gravity of not having him seemed too heavy to hold. Would I make it here alone?

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

“Oh God. I think this guy…my friend…er boyfriend..was drugged.”

“Okay, Miss. Can you tell me where you are?”

“Umm….Yeah…I’m at the Bedford L train station stairs. Please hurry. He won’t wake up.”

***

Ten minutes later, James was being strapped to a gurney.

“Will he be okay?” I asked the paramedic, who responded by shaking her head uncertainly.

“We won’t know for sure until we run tests at the hospital.”

Please let him be okay. He’s all I have.”

Photo courtesy of Pexels

Penny for Your Thoughts

A dirty mattress with rusted coils poking through sits propped up like a couch in one corner of the small shack, and a stack of old paperbacks sits in the other. A candle and some matches from a local bar are on top. There is no door, only a blue tarp to block out the wind. And some of the wooden planks of the walls are loose, letting in light between the cracks.

Patty used to squat here, but last week they found her behind Walmart with a needle sticking straight outta her arm. Dead so long she had rigamortis. I’m sorry she’s gone. Patty was a good person with a shit habit. Me too, I guess.

It has been a long road, but now I get methadone at the clinic once a day. I stand in line and get a dose just big enough to keep me from getting sick.

Today I was at my regular spot, asking for change, and each car that drove by just looked right through me. It was like I didn’t exist. I get it, though. We’ve all been approached by someone asking for change. People become numb. I used to be numb, too.

But people out here do exist. We have flesh and blood and souls. Some of us have just run out of luck, and some, like me, have made a couple mistakes along the way.

I sigh and watch a cloud of crystals form in front of my eyes. The chill in my chest is hard to erase in the winter, but I’ll get through.

Other than the mattress and my books, there isn’t room for much else, but at least I’ve got a roof during the colder months this year.

I hear a rustle at my tarp just as the sun begins to dip.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Jan. Mind if I come in?”

“Not much room, but come in,” I say. “I can share the mattress, but leave your drugs outside.” It doesn’t pay to be stingy on the streets. Or anywhere, I guess.

Jan pulls back the tarp, letting in a breeze that bites. The extra weight on her bones makes it hard for her to breathe, and every time she exhales I get a whiff of cigarette smoke and teeth that need a good brushing.

“I found this book on the street today,” she says, tossing a tattered paperback into my lap. “You read, don’t cha?”

“I do. Thank you, Jan,” I say, carefully moving the candle and matches. I add it to the stack with my others, then light the candle for extra light.

“You’re welcome, dear,” she coughs, and nearly brings up a lung. “Thanks for lettin’ me sit with ya” she says. “Most folks don’t want me ‘round cause ‘a my size and all.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” I say, giving her room on the mattress.

“A kind lady bought me a sandwich today,” she holds up the sub wrapped in white paper with green and yellow letters. “Care to share? For your troubles.”

I feel my stomach grumble painfully in response to the mention of food.

“That would be nice,” I say, taking half her sandwich.

Photo courtesy of Gratisography

Bad Apple

Amanda traded her pencil skirts and Manolo Blahniks for jeans and faded leather boots, and her high-paying career as an attorney in New York, for solitude on the farm.

Walking away from her New York life was easier than expected, but then again…

***

She stared at the sun setting behind the rows of apple trees. Most apples were likely to never get harvested. Instead, they would rot and fall to the ground or be ravaged by beetles. She vowed to breathe life back into daddy’s orchard, no matter the cost.

The last happy memory she had of that place was picking apples with him. She longed to hear his voice again, reminding her the proper way to choose fruit for harvesting, to watch him smile as she tried to grab the branches just out of her reach.

But her daddy never was the same after her mama died. It was so sudden. Suicide, they said. After her death, he let everything go, no longer paying the employees, or caring for the trees.

Her fingers touched the chipped paint on the porch railing. A bit of white peeled off and fell to the ground, starkly standing out against the green grass.

The glimmer from her wedding band caught her eye and Amanda hastily pulled it off, ripping the skin on her knuckle. She swallowed the bile rising from her belly, and walked down the splintered stairs, stopping just before the trees. With a look of disgust, she tossed the two-and-a-half carat ring into the hole. It bounced off the gun, making a tink sound.

Using her daddy’s favorite shovel, rusted from years on the field, she filled the hollowed ground with soil. One pile at a time was scooped and dropped until she finished burying her secrets beneath the pale moonlight.

Amanda wiped the sweat from her brow and tossed the shovel aside.

***

…She preferred boots, anyway.

Photo courtesy of Rico Bico/Unsplash

Finding Warmth

Bitter air nibbles the back of my neck. I pull the worn cloth on my coat closer to my ears and sit down on the splintered bench, next to the quiet, dark-skinned girl. Her name is unknown to me, though we travel this same path daily.

We come from the same dilapidated street and, judging by the rags she wears, we are haunted by similar stories.

The doors of the bus open and warm air thieves the rawness from my cheeks. I nod and she boards first.

She smiles, takes my walking stick, and guides me to the last seat.

***

This is my take on the this week’s Yeah Write Prompt taken from The Write Melony’s essay titled The Case.

Photo courtesy of Alex Wong/Stocksnap.io

Shelter

“We will be safe here,” I said to the twins as I opened our cabin door, nestled deep in the woods.  The cabin was my grandfather’s fishing cabin, a place I visited often as a child.  I hadn’t spent much time here with the kids, but had been going frequently without them to prepare us.  And I knew we could ride out the fallout for at least a couple months with the supplies we had on hand, but was hopeful we wouldn’t need to.

I looked at the dark sky one last time before shutting and dead-bolting the door.

My shaky hand carefully lit an old oil lamp, illuminating the small space around us.  I placed it in the center of an old trunk, used as a make-shift coffee table, and watched my twins look around the room with furrowed brows and thin lips.

There was a small kitchen on one side with an old poker table and four vinyl chairs, for dining.  A mustard-colored velvet couch and matching chair occupied the other side with a small television and the pine walls were decorated with several large trophy fish, caked in layers of dust.  The doors to the two small bedrooms and single bathroom were closed.  Jimmy found the remote control, and sat down in front of the television on the floor.

“But no TV or lights,” I warned the boys, taking the remote from Jimmy’s hand.  Todd booed and Jimmy folded his arms in response.

“That’s not fair, Mom!” Jimmy shouted.  Only seven, they were the spitting image of my grandfather with large green eyes and dark hair.  They were my everything.

“At least for now, until I know more.”  I raised my arms in defense, then went to rummage through a drawer.  Eventually, my hand retrieved the beat up deck of cards I was searching for.  “Here,” I said, tossing the cards to Jimmy and Todd, “you can play with these.”

“Why are we really here, Mom?” Jimmy asked, picking up the deck to examine it.  “And where is Dad?”

“Yeah,” Todd added, “when will he get here?” Todd was second out, and always on Jimmy’s tail.  He plopped onto the couch, tossing his Star Wars backpack onto the floor beside him, which kicked up more dust.  There was plenty of cleaning to keep me busy, to keep my mind off…everything.

“We are here because we have to be.  It’s not safe at home, anymore.”  I opened cabinets to take a quick count of food.  Everything was still there, untouched.  I grabbed some bottles of water and handed them to the boys.

“And Dad?” Jimmy repeated, as he took the water from my hand.  Jimmy has always been the stronger one, my type A.  He will be more difficult during this.

“I’m not sure,” I lied.  I avoided eye contact as I went about locking the windows and closing the drapes.

They weren’t ready for the truth.

Photo courtesy of Vidar Kristiansen