Chapter 6--Mad World

Mad World


Music whispered from nowhere into Dante's ears.  Fog clouded his mind, where sorrowful dreams still lingered.  Dreams of worn-out faces and worn-out places.  Dreams where no one knew him.  Dreams where trains ran in circles, going nowhere.

         He moaned and forced gummy eyes open.  A glass pipe lay next him on his bed, spent, stained yellow-brown from smoke.  At his feet, Boris curled sleeping, a ball of fur, his head tucked on top of his paws.  The windows turned the late afternoon sunshine into something gray and dreary. 

         The clock radio read 3:15. He vaguely remembered setting the alarm earlier today, after Phillipe's call.  The song it was playing must have triggered his dreams.  He rolled over and pawed at it to stop its lonely lament.  It took three tries to silence the damned thing. 

         He sat up and reflexively reached for his phone.  Anything was better than getting ready for his shift at the Summit. 

         The phone showed a half dozen missed calls and as many voicemails. Right.  He seemed to recall ignoring at least one call earlier today. Or did he dream it?  No, the last time stamp was 12:45.  Imperfect memories tugged at his mind, like events from a distant past.  Weird, surreal memories, like a Dali painting.  The illusion of memory.

         As always, memory and pain hung together, his steadfast companions.  A familiar, dull ache pulsed behind his eyes, but he'd learned to tolerate that.  It was the ache of the memories themselves, even the vague ones, that was unbearable.  Like the time Momma forgot his tenth birthday.  The relentless taunts from the cool kids in high school.  The desperate loneliness of sleepless nights. 

         His last time with Jesse.

         Maybe the voicemail would distract him, help him forget.  He pressed "play" without checking the number.

         The phone responded with Rickie's Oklahoma twang.  "Hey, Dante. It's Rickie.  That asshole Phillipe canned me last night. I thought maybe we could get high later today.  Celebrate my liberation.  Call me."

          Getting high promised to make the memories and the pain go away.  At least for a time.  He pressed the button to call Rickie. 

         The phone rang four times before Rickie's mumbled voice answered, "Hullo."

         "Rickie, it's Dante.  Sorry about the job.  Phillipe's a first class asshole."

         "Donnie.  Thanks for callin' back man."

         Dante winced at the nickname, but let it pass. "Wish I could do something to help."

         RIckie's voice perked up.  "Got any black buttons? Nothin' like a mescapade to make troubles go bye-bye."

         Dante shook his head, not that Rickie could see him. "Nope. No peyote.  I do have some whizz, though. Enough for both of us."  At least, he was pretty sure he hadn't smoked his entire stash of meth.  He was still breathing, so there must be plenty left.

         "Cool, man.  You wanna come over and hang with me?"

         It sounded tempting, but Dante answered, "I gotta work the dinner shift.  Say, maybe, ten or so tonight? I've got a new place.  You could come here."

         "A new place? It's about time you did that."  He paused, then added, "Not that I got anything against your old lady or anything.  But I'd love to see your new digs."

         "I'll give you a call after my shift tonight."

         "Blow off that crap job.  Serve that asshole Phillipe right. We could start now.  A little partyin'll do us both good."

         RIght.  Rickie was always kinda-sorta hitting on him, like he was kidding around but not really.  Maybe now that Jesse was out of the picture, he should consider it.  Rickie was probably just looking for drugs, though.  It wasn't like Dante had anything else worthwhile to offer.  "Can't do it now.  I need the money."

         "If you're busted, sell some of them damned comics of yours.  The way you obsess over them things ain't healthy, livin' in your head all the time.  It's a great start that you've finally got your own place.  Get out in the real world like me, instead of hidin' in your room all the time, dreamin' about a livin in a fantasy world."

         RIght.  Be high all the time like Rickie, as if that was living the real world.  Irritation tightened his throat, and he snapped, "I don't need no advice from you on how to live my life."  Dante didn't add that at least he still had a job.

         "I'm just sayin'.  I mean, if you ever got out, you never know what might happen.  You might even get laid. How long's it been since you had your bell rung?"

         Of course, Rickie didn't know about Jesse.  No one knew about Jesse.  So much the better. "Are you hitting on me?"

         "Wha'?  Me?  Nah.  Not that I'd kick ya out of bed or nothin'.  I just want us to get high toghether, s'all."

         Dante clenched his jaws and narrowed his eyes.  "Tell you what.  I should get off around nine.  What about I give you a call a few minutes after? I'll give you my new address and we can get together then."

         "Sure thing, buddy. Save some whizz for me, okay?"

         "Don't worry. I got plenty.  Later."  He hung up before Rickie could answer.  He should have known better than to call that loser.  He'd have to hide his horse before Rickie came over.  Assuming he even called him after his shift. 

         His phone vibrated before he could lay it down, and he pressed answer. He snapped, "I told you, I'll call you at nine."

         But it wasn't Rickie who'd called.  It was Momma.  Her voice, high and wheedling as usual, whined, "Sonny, is that any way to talk to your Momma?"

         His gut clenched.  She was the last person on the planet he wanted to talk to.  "Sorry, Momma.  I thought it was someone else."

         "I've been calling and calling, but you never picked up."

         Yeah.  There was a reason for that, not that she ever had a clue.  "I'm sorry, Momma.  What do you want?"

         "Can't a mother talk to her baby boy?"

         "I'm not a baby, Momma. I'm a grown man."

         "A grown man who still reads comic books."

         Dante counted to five, then ground out, "I'm getting ready for work, Momma.  Just tell me why you called."

         Her voice turned even more pathetic, with a tiny whimper.  "I looked for you last night, but you weren't here.  Your momma misses her Sonny."

         "I've got a new place, Momma.  My own place.  I rented it yesterday."

         "Your own place? Your running away from home again?  Like that time you only had bus fare to get as far as Broken Arrow? I had to drive all the way down there to pick you up.  I'm not going to rescue you again."

         Exasperation leaked into his voice. "I was ten, then, Momma.  I'm an adult now." He waited a couple of beats, then added, "Is there anything else?"

         "Your old Momma's out of hootch, Sonny."

         "There's a convenience store a block from the house.  You can pick up some beer there."

         "My Social Security check won't come for another week.  Momma don't have no money, Sonny boy." 

         Of course.  She wanted money from him.  It was always about her.  "I'm flat busted right now, Momma."  On the other hand, maybe he'd get some good tips tonight from the fat cats at the Summit Club. "I might be able to help you tomorrow."  Anything to get her off his back.

         She sighed disappointment.  "If that's the best a son can do for his momma, I guess I'll have to live with it."

         "No promises, Momma.  I'll call you in the morning."

         "Don't forget, now, Sonny. Your momma's depending on you."  The phone went dead.

         He grimaced at the now-silent phone.  "I love you too, Momma."

         The night and work stretched before him, an endless expanse of nothingness.  Still, even Phillipe was better than Momma.  Even Rickie, for that matter.  When his shift was done, he'd come back here, call Rickie, and they'd get high together.  That at least gave him something to live for.


                                                 
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"Dreamin' Life Away"