In the aftermath of Florida's recent hurricanes I have seen many good people living with a daily struggle. Sometimes I could see the shock and loss in their faces, other times it was in their behavior. I was shocked to see how fast people could go from the top to the bottom. Many of these good people rose above the ordeal and dealt with it by helping their neighbors. Sadly I saw many more deal with it by being greedy, materialistic, rude, aggressive and dishonest. Human nature is a fascinating thing. It takes very little to strip people down to their bare elements. No matter how smart people are, our instincts ring true when we are faced with danger. This story is about one man whose life was changed by these hurricanes, and the struggle a man can go through when his misfortune is taken to extremes.

 
				Working Man's Blues Ch. 01

Someone told me once that suicide was the only unforgivable sin. I don't know if that's true or not. If other people feel like I do now I find that very hard to believe. These past few days the thought of suicide has been on my mind every other second. I keep selling the idea to myself that taking my life is some kind of final solution. Boom. No pain, no loss. I won't feel a thing. No burning in hell. I damned sure won't be hanging out on a cloud playing a harp. I want to believe that death is just an eternity of pitch black nothingness. No self awareness, no thoughts to run through my head ceaselessly. If I didn't have such a manic mind I wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. 

I have been trying to think of the moment that started this grand decline I am stuck in. The despair seemed to start setting in right after hurricane Charley. I knew I was in trouble then. I was too preoccupied with Ginny to really pay things any attention. If I go through with this she will be hurt more than anyone. When my pain stops hers will start. I know how selfish that is, but look at me. She deserves better than me. I haven't been much of a boyfriend lately. A girl like her has everything going for her. The last thing she needs is my weight bearing down on her.

I bought a gun last week. I had to wait a few days for it. When I picked it up at the pawn shop the guy behind the counter gave me an uneasy look.   

"Don't let it go to your head." The pawnbroker told me.

I thought his words were ironic. That was exactly what I had intended for it to do. At least to propel the bullet that would go to my head. I had myself pumped up. I was going to go home, put the note I wrote the night before on my kitchen table, then put the barrel against my right temple and exit stage left. For good. When I got home the phone was ringing as I walked through the door. I looked at the caller id. It was Ginny. I suddenly needed very badly to hear her voice. I answered the phone like everything was cool. I felt like a chicken shit but her voice makes everything more bearable. I didn't see any reason why I didn't deserve to hear her voice one last time. She was working on a dance combination and wanted my input. She gave me a dumbed down description of the moves. I could see them in my head. She flies around the room like she has wings on her feet. The girl was born with a talent for dancing.

Now that I think about it, I am sure it started after Hurricane Charley. I missed a week of work because of that fucking hurricane. Our power was out for ten days. I hated going to the store or the gas station. Everyone was so fucking rude. No one wanted to wait there turn. Everyone was pushing to break in line or cut you off in traffic. People ran through intersections without stopping to wait their turn. Fights broke out over bags of ice. People were breaking down right in front of my eyes. I had to take over half of my savings out to make up for missing work. I planned on working some doubles the next week to make up for it. At the time it was no big deal. I let my cable bill slide. I was going to make it up next month. I didn't mind the late fee since the extra fifty bucks would be spent on more important things.

I had to go to the hospital the week after Hurricane Charley. I spent two days lying there in pain and sweating bullets. I pulled a muscle in my back moving my furniture back in place. I had it all crammed into one room to try and minimize damage if my apartment got hit bad by the hurricane. Always put your important shit in an interior room, the safety geeks say. I haven't been at my job long enough to be eligible for insurance yet so I had to make payment arrangements with the hospital. That was seventy five bucks a week out of my check all by itself. I figured work would be busy after the hurricane and I could pick up plenty of overtime to make up for it. I missed two days of work because of that damned pulled muscle and had to work hurting like hell for the next week. My phone bill was due so I took more out of savings to pay it.

I finally got my power back on and I felt like I Was King Shit. I put everything back in place in my apartment and cleaned it all up spotless. Ginny came down from Tennessee to help me. She's too sweet to me. I don't know what I do for her that makes her treat me so good. 

I started getting my ass back in gear and Hurricane Frances came along. I dropped the ball on that one. I expected to lose power but didn't expect it to plow my ass under. The wind blew my dining room window in and flooded my apartment. I tried to put something in front of the window but it was hopeless. I got scratched head to toe by flying sticks and dirt and stuff. My tv and surround sound were ruined. That really upset me. I saved for nine months to buy them. Whenever Ginny came over we would have a big movie night together. I got her drunk one time and we watched Blazing Saddles. That night is one of my best memories ever. She laughed until she almost peed on herself. I couldn't stop laughing at her. She exploded laughing when Gene Wilder pulled Cleavon Little from behind a rock exposing him a bunch of clansmen, and Cleavon Little shouted "Where da white women at?"  Her face turned bright red and she could barely breathe.

We had alot of memories together like that. I never really lived until I met her. And now I am thinking about dying. I was in a fucked up frame of mind when I bought this gun. I did some researching online at the university hospital's medical database. Turns out most fatal head wounds are caused by a 380 caliber pistol. I was expecting a nine millimeter or a 45 caliber. So I guess you know what kind of gun I bought. Right.

I was a week late on my car payment because of hurricane Charley. After Frances I missed nine more days of work. I went to the day labor office but I was wasting my time. I went through the registration process and wasted three hours just to be told they didn't have anything available. Florida is fucking crawling with cheap out of state labor right now. I had to pawn my watch. That really hurt. I got that for winning an award at the city. The next week the restaurant opened back up and I got to work six days in a row. I ended up with eleven hours of overtime out of it. I was just beginning to think I was heading into the clear. 

Two days later this jackass in a new Vette sideswiped me on my way home from work. He was a total asshole about it. Two people saw the accident and stopped. He tried to convince them they didn't need to hang around. I guess something in my eyes told them they did. They waited around for the cops and gave a statement. The guy who owned the Vette was furious. Some people don't need to drive sports cars. They develop an attitude that's bigger than the damned car is. I love Corvettes but I can't stand arrogant assholes like that. I have insurance, but in the wake of all this bad weather they are strung out all to hell. I paid the tow truck driver fifty bucks I couldn't afford to part with. I figured I could give the insurance folks the receipt and be reimbursed for it. I caught a taxi home then called the one eight hundred number to the insurance company.  I got the standard message, 'Due to high call volume there may be a delay in answering your call'. I sat there on hold for about a half hour. Finally I got an automated prompt to leave a message. I left a message and haven't heard back from them since. That was almost two weeks ago. 

I try not to dwell on things. It seems like when you've got too much to handle it's real damned easy to let problems eat at you. Right now this gun is looking mighty appealing to me.   

Fade out  

				Working Man's Blues Ch. 02	

I was taking a cab to work for a few days but it was just too expensive. I don't know anyone around here, and it embarrasses the hell out of me to ask anyone for a favor. I would have asked one of the guys at work for a ride but they all live on the other side of town. The asshole in the Vette who hit me has full coverage insurance, but I haven't heard anything from him or his insurance agent yet. I tried calling mine. That was a waste of time, so I had to start walking to work. I had myself convinced it wouldn't be so bad. That's when mother nature reminded me I live in Florida. It rained on me three days in a row. I was so embarrassed walking home in the pouring rain. I looked like one of those street walkers you see hanging around at dark intersections or camped out in the medians on the boulevard. 

I came down with a hard case of the flu. My lungs were full of fluid and I felt queasy and punch drunk for almost a week. I bought some of that powdered flu relief medicine and toughed it out. I had a fever that made me feel like I had fiberglass under my skin. It was a miserable week. I know I should've gone to the emergency room and got some antibiotics, but I didn't want to rack up another bill I can't pay. At that time I had plans on working my way out of this situation. Now I'm making plans to do just the opposite. 

A few days back I was walking home and I saw something that jogged my memory. My walk home from work takes me past a big fenced in truck yard. At one end of the yard was a row of big green dumpsters. There were a bunch of crows sitting on and around the dumpsters. They would pick at the garbage, cawing and fighting amongst themselves. Beside one of the dumpsters was a stack of big cardboard boxes. 

That made me think of my mama's backyard. It was huge. She had eighteen big trees lined up in two neat rows. At the back of our yard was a steep grassy slope that flattened out into a wide spot of level ground. In the summer it would fill in nicely. I remember taking pride in cutting our lawn. When I was finished it always drew complements. On Sundays and holidays my mama would always put on a big meal for everyone. I don't know how she could cook for so many people so easily. By lunch time there would be as many as thirty or more people gathered around. At Easter my sisters made yellow sun dresses with yellow bonnets for all my nieces. They would toddle around mama's big backyard playing in the leaves and chase our dog Duffie. The boys would be playing hide and go seek or freeze tag between the tall rows of trees. They would pile up a huge mound of leaves and take turns running and diving into them. Mama had a pomegranate tree close to the house. The boys would pick a green pomegranate and dare each other to bite into it without making a face. 

Mama had a goat named Nannie. I can't remember why in hell we had a goat. We didn't live on a farm or anything. Nannie had little curly horns that always made me think of Princess Leia's hair. When we had a get together it was an ongoing joke to walk over to the little goat and bend over in front of her. For some reason that pissed her off. Every time she would hike up on her back legs and heat butt you square in the behind. I remember my sisters would bring their hot shot boyfriends and trick them somehow into bending over close to Nannie. Sure enough she would give them a good pop and they would just about come out of their shoes. Everybody got a good laugh out of that. 

Every time we got together someone would find a big cardboard box and flatten it out. One of us would sit on it at the top of the slope and someone else would push them down the hill. Sometimes my sisters would slide down with their babies wrapped in their arms. The bottom of that slope turned out to be a favorite spot for taking pictures of my nieces and nephews with big toothless grins on their faces. They would reach the bottom with their mouths and eyes wide open. They would like they didn't know if they wanted to laugh or cry. Mostly they would cry the first time, then a couple of minutes later they were begging to slide back down again. At christmas and thanksgiving we would have damn near fifty people out there playing and sliding down the slope. It's amazing how mama always managed to make sure we had fun. I don't know how she came up with half of it. I miss those times. I would throw this gun away right now if I could go back to the early eighties.

I stepped on a piece of glass on my way home from work. It seems like bad luck is nickle and dime-ing my ass to death these days. I sat on the curb and took my shoe off. I had a sliver of glass about an inch long embedded in the side of my right foot. It slid in from the bottom and sank in so far I could see the tip peeking through the skin on top of my foot. It was bleeding bad. 

I limped over to a fast food joint across the street and asked the lady at the drive through for some napkins. I showed her my foot. She looked at it, then me, and she disappeared. A few moments later an older man came to the window and handed me a brown paper bag. I thanked him and apologized for bothering them. I walked back to the curb and opened the bag. I was going to pack napkins around the cut to keep it from bleeding so bad until I got home. There were three cheeseburgers wrapped in wax paper and a five dollar bill in the bag, along with a big stack of napkins. They thought I was some kind of homeless person. I sat there fighting tears off while I packed my shoe full of paper napkins. Two months ago I didn't have a care in the world, and now people take one look at me and think I'm a fucking charity case. I wanted to take the food and the money back to them, but I didn't want to face them again. I just wanted to go home. 

By the time I got home my shoe was full of blood. I held my foot unter the faucet in the tub and washed the cut clean. I pulled the sliver out and it started bleeding like crazy. I cleaned it with some alcohol and peroxide and bandaged it as best I could. I had to throw my shoes away. They were falling apart and I knew they wouldn't hold together through another washing. They were two years old anyway. I had a ratty old pair I used to wear when I would do yard work. They were shot to hell but they would do till I could afford another pair. 

I sat on my couch and propped my foot up on my coffee table. It was throbbing like a bass drum. I knew that that night would be the night. It's weird what goes through your mind when you've resigned yourself to die. I decided I wanted a cup of coffee before I put the gun to my head. I got the note and put it on the kitchen table. 

I keep those coffee liquor flavored candies around. I like to put one of the candies in my coffee cup then add the sugar, cream and coffee. I let it sit and melt the candy for a minute before I drink it. It's one of my favorite small pleasures. I poured my coffee and sat it on the table next to the suicide note. I got the gun out of my dresser then sat down and put it in my lap. When the candy was nice and liquid I took a sip of my coffee. It tasted like heaven. Not the best last memory I can imagine, but definitely a good one. I took my time drinking the coffee then shotgunned the last sip and sat the cup down. 

 I cracked my knuckles and picked up the gun. It was about an inch from my temple when the phone rang. 

Fade out

				Working Man's Blues Ch. 03	

The phone scared me so bad I almost pulled the trigger. I sat there with the trigger half cocked, hoping the ringing would stop. With every ring the gun felt heavier in my hand. My concentration was completely broken. I sat the gun down on the table with a dejected frown.

"Fuck me." I said into the empty room. 

I stood and walked over to the phone, looking at the caller id. It was Ginny. I picked the phone up and tried to picture her on the other end of the line. It's Tuesday night, so she will be sitting there in her leotard and dance shoes. She's probably sitting cross legged in her big green chair with her cat Pixie in her lap, the phone cradled against her shoulder while she pets her. I hit the talk button and answered the phone. 

She sounded cheery as usual. Her voice and her body do not seem to match even though I think they both are beautiful. Her voice is feminine and masculine at the same time. It is strong and authoritative, yet very soft and sweet. I have never told her this but every time I hear her voice over the telephone I get this mental picture of her as Joan Of Arc. 

As we talked I was looking around my apartment, thinking what the first person to find my dead body would see. Someone would hear the shot and call the police. They would come and knock on the door. No one would answer. They would knock again and speak loudly to see if anyone responded. A little while later the maintenance guy would be unlocking the door for them. The officer would push the door open a bit and peek in. To his right he would see my splayed out across my kitchen table in a big splatter of blood. Maybe I would slide out of my chair onto the floor and ruin the carpet. I doubt this little pistol would knock me around any. I might just slump forward and smack my forehead on the table. A gunshot wound that tiny might not even bleed much. A couple of drops down my face and neck maybe.

I realized I had zoned out for a minute there. I snapped to when Ginny said 'Have you seen the weather?'. I hadn't, so I told her no and asked why. She just said 'You're not going to believe me if  I tell you baby so you better look for yourself '.

I turned on the tv. The last time it was on I was watching the disaster footage from Hurricane Charley. What I saw made me want to run and grab the gun then put the barrel right between my eyes and shoot.
At the top of the screen was a big caption in all capital letters reading 'Ivan The Terrible'. Below it was a satellite image of a huge swirling mass of white. I honestly couldn't believe it. I was within a short hair of recovering from the second hurricane, and goddamnit if there's not another one coming my way.  

"I'm sorry baby." Ginny said. "Do you want to come stay with me when it gets close?"

I was lost for words for a moment. 

"No baby, but thank you. I can't risk any more damage to my place. I'm going to stick it out." I replied.

In my mind I could hear my voice saying 'I have an appointment with a bullet Ginny. I'm too chicken to tell you, and I don't want to miss my appointment. Sorry honey, hope you have a happy life' .

"I understand. I love you baby." Ginny said to me. 

I don't know why, but when she said those three words I felt like the life was just ripped out of me. All I could think of was why? I wanted to yell into the phone. Tell me why? Take one fucking look at me Ginny and tell me why? I'm flat broke, I'm beat up and tired as shit. I get depressed and cry like a fucking girl and I just want to end it all. What is there left for you to love? 

I wanted so badly to charge over to the kitchen table and pick the gun up with my free hand, hold it hard against my head and pull the trigger. Only instead of that perfect peaceful blackness I keep thinking about, all I could see was Ginny's beautiful face on the other end when she heard the shot. At first she wouldn't know what it was. Then it would register and she would be completely shocked. She would be holding the phone so tightly that her knuckles turn white. She would be calling my name into the phone even though the dread and finality of that shot would have already set in as a fact. He's dead. 

She would be thrown into a maelstrom of emotion more painful and confusing than everything she's ever known before. She's a happy girl and goddamnit she deserves to stay that way. If I did that to her it would be like raping her. 

All I could actually say in response was the same. It's true, too. I do love the girl. 

"I love you too baby." I struggled with the last few words. "Talk to you later."

She said goodbye and hung up. I stood there for a few seconds with the phone still to my ear, listening to the dead monotone of a dial tone. I was holding the phone to my head like it was the gun, squeezing it tight. I heard the plastic creaking and realized I was about to break the damn thing. I tossed the phone onto my couch and went back to the kitchen table. I sat there and had a staring contest with the gun for about a half hour. It won.

My apartment is pretty shitty. In ways it's ok, but for the most part I don't like it. I like peace and quiet. Most nights there is music and loud noise all around me til two or so in the morning. I have always wondered why people who like shitty music insist on sharing it with the world. It's like some pathetic and weak form of rebellion. I can't really do or say anything that matters to you, so I'm going to irritate you with Slim Shady all night long. 

There are rare moments when this place is graveyard quiet, like tonight. I went out on my balcony for a while and just sat there. Ginny bought me a little wind chime for my birthday. It has a small glass pane with Chinese ideogram for love on it. It's a small simple thing but I couldn't have been prouder of it even if it were a new car. It has five slender gongs on it. When the wind blows across my balcony the gongs sound off in a series of high, sweet ringing tones. Like tiny bells. When you live in a place like this you learn to appreciate anything that makes life seem more peaceful. 

I was thinking about work the next day. Working in a busy kitchen is always one of two degrees. Either it's great or it sucks. No in between. The floor in our kitchen is really hard to work on. The owner got the cheapest people he could find to build the place, and the floor is just as poorly built as the rest of the restaurant. The tiles on the floor weren't made for food service use. They look like they were meant for a sidewalk or maybe some kind of decoration. No doubt the construction guys had them stashed back somewhere for no telling how long, and saw this place as an opportunity to get them out of the way and make a buck at the same time. The end result is a kitchen floor that kicks your ass on a regular basis. The tiles are hard to clean. They have a coarse texture so dirt and oil set in and don't want to move. You can sweep and mop til your arms fall off and the tiles are still dirty. 

My first night there I was walking through the kitchen with a bucket of hot bleach water. I slipped on one of those fucking tiles and fell backward. I was saturated in hot water diluted with bleach.. My clothes were ruined and a few stray drops got in my eyes. It burned like hell and I had to buy new contact lenses. I was sore for three days after that. Busting your ass on a hard surface is a unique kind of pain. It makes you feel like your bones are all stuffed together in a tight knot.

Every morning when I get to work I have to pull the floor mats into the kitchen. They help some, but it is still easy to slip and fall. The mats are fucking disgusting. A kitchen floor can go from clean to landfill nasty in a heartbeat when the place is busy. I spray the mats down with hot water every morning to get the worst of the scum off, but some of that shit just won't come off no matter what. I know it sounds downright whiney, but dammit I hate to get dirty first thing in the morning then have to work all day feeling nasty. I'm picky about cooking food. If my hands feel dirty then I don't like to cook. When I go to a restaurant to eat, I like to go to places that have an open kitchen. That way I can see the cook's hands. If a cook has dirty hands, I'm not eating there. I guess that's one of the things you would have to be in the business to understand. 

I had to stop thinking about work. I think I was beyond the point of looking for something positive to think about. I just wanted something to think about in general to distract me. My mind kept creeping back to the gun and the wake I would leave behind me when I died. I tried convincing myself there would be no wake, but I knew damned well there would be. Losing a loved one suddenly is like dropping a stone in a big puddle. The ripples are big at the center then gradually fan out and slowly disappear. Finally the stone is sitting at the bottom of the puddle forgotten and the surface of the water is smooth. 

At first the shock and hurt is bigger than you are. The tears take over and the emotions come boiling to the surface. You say things you never wanted to hear yourself say. You say things you never before had the nerve to say. Then gradually the shock wears off and the tears don't come so often. The harsh words and the why's and when's don't bother you so much. Finally years later the sting is gone and all you have left is the memory of someone lying under the cold ground like a stone. 

I could hear the wind picking up a bit. The sky was full of big gray clouds. Ivan was crawling closer to me. This indecision is tearing at me. I've tried as hard as I can, and dammit I keep going from one extreme to another. One moment my mind is made and the next something happens and I think I can't do it. In the end all I have is doubt and I hate myself for it. That's worse than wanting to die itself. I want to be one or the other. I can't take too much more of this indecision. I've never had troubles making decisions before. So while I was sitting on my balcony listening to the wind chimes Ginny bought me, I decided I would tough things out til hurricane Ivan was behind me. The hurricane is two days away from me. 

The feeling of dread in my heart was almost overwhelming. I didn't want to try, didn't want to fight. I just wanted everything in the world to stop. So for the next two days I had to rationalize and make the hardest decision of my life. The decision would be my life. 

Fade out 

				Working Man's Blues Ch. 04	

         This isn't the ending you were expecting, it's the ending some of us actually experience

I had another cup of coffee then went to bed. I didn't even get undressed. I flopped down into bed and pulled the covers up over my head. I looked like a little kid who was afraid of the boogeyman in the closet or the monster under the bed. I like to keep the place clean, but lately the sink full of dirty dishes and the laundry piled up in one corner of my bedroom hasn't even registered on my mental radar. For some reason certain things don't matter as much as they used to. Things that usually catch my attention have been ignored lately. 

I mustered what little ambition I had left and decided to get up for work early the next morning. I set my alarm clock for an hour earlier than usual. I couldn't sleep worth a damn. I would almost doze off then something new to worry about would pop up. My mind races at night when I try to sleep. It's like I'm thinking of a hundred different things at the same time, all in broken strings of thought and scattered images. I will try to concentrate on one thing but something else will push its way through before I can resolve anything about the first thought. I'm sure it's just the caffeine. Or maybe it's not.

I played the staring game with the alarm clock on and off all night. I never really went to sleep. You know that falling feeling you get as you fall asleep? I don't get that feeling anymore. Sometimes I'll wake up in a snap, not even realizing I was asleep. And the worst part of it is, when you toss and turn in bed all night long then finally do fall asleep, you wake up feeling like you haven't had any rest at all. Maybe that doesn't make any sense to anyone but me. When I was a kid I used to sleep like a rock. I remember I never had dreams. When I turned thirteen I started having trouble sleeping. At first it was just when I was excited or restless. I was a much different person back then. Often when I can't sleep I have these memories of how I used to be. 

I remember one day in school, when I had my first real fistfight. I was a seventh grader. This senior named Nick decided that picking on me was his favorite past time. It started with shoves and pokes in the hallway then quickly degenerated to daily humiliations during break and getting shoved forward onto the urinals when I was trying to take a piss. After fall break his interest in me seemed to fade a bit. I went almost two weeks without his big redneck shadow looming over me. The day before we got out of school for the summer he made a sudden reappearance. 

I was walking down the hallway with all the junk from my locker in a big stack. Books, annuals, etc. I also had my lunch box. That was back when it was nothing uncommon for a kid to bring his lunch to school. My lunch box was one of those thin metal ones with hinges that always squeaked. It was white and green. I can't remember what was on the front of it. When I was emptying my locker I put my old biology textbook in the lunch box. I had another at home. It was a little secret between my biology teacher and I. 

Mr. McQueen was my biology teacher. He was an interesting guy. He made science interesting and fun. He could talk about sex all day long, and we all thought it made him the coolest guy alive. He had this subtle way of sneaking facts in that made you think, without realizing it. He was the biology teacher by title, but he gave all his students a very sensible lesson in sex education by showing us facts in a way that fascinated us. He was one of those people who truly planted seeds in life. I guess teaching us about sex was his big thing. Maybe his mom got pregnant when he was a teenager and they hard a hard life because of it, or maybe he had a teenage daughter who got pregnant. You could tell just by talking to him that the cared. In my mind he will always be one of the good guys. 

Best of all he paid attention to his students. I would finish my biology work early then sit and read that old biology textbook. I was always four chapters ahead of the rest of the class. While they were chewing gum and idly arguing idly about whether Slaughter's Up All Night would sell more copies than Guns N Roses Mr. Brownstone, I was nose deep in that big biology textbook. After class one day Mr. McQueen asked to stay. I didn't know what to expect. He told me we were getting new biology textbooks for the next school year, and he handed me a huge hardback textbook. It was heavy and the cover was shiny and new. He told me to keep the book, but just keep it between us. I have never been good at accepting gifts. It makes me feel so damned awkward to know someone is thinking about me. I thanked him and tucked the new book away in my backpack. I took the book home and started devouring it page by page. 

Two days before summer vacation we were all sitting in Mr. McQueen's class having our last biology discussion for the year. He announced that our textbooks were being replaced and the old ones were going to be junked. If anyone would like, you can keep your old textbooks to read, he told us. He wasn't looking at me, but I knew he was talking to me. I kept my biology book. It was a small thick book. I had got into the habit of carrying it home in my lunch box so none of the other guys would rib me for being a nerd. After class let out Mr. McQueen clapped me on the shoulder and told me he was looking forward to seeing me next year. I sure would like to see him again. Just to know how he's doing. 

So as I made my way down the hall with my big stack of books and stuff Nick materialized in the middle of the hallway ahead of me. He palmed both my shoulders and shoved me back hard. I fell backwards, books and papers went flying everywhere. My feet slipped out from under me on the slick wood floor and I fell on my ass hard. A painful jolt went through my whole body. My ears were ringing for a second, it hurt so bad. I looked up to see Nick standing over me. Everyone around me was looking down on me and laughing. My lunch box was lying next to me on the floor. I grabbed it and swung it hard at Nick's legs. It hit his left knee with a loud thock noise. His leg buckled and he leaned down, grabbing his knee and cursing. I stood up and grabbed the collar of his shirt with my left hand, then balled up my right fist and popped him a good one right on his big redneck nose. 

"Stop" I yelled, hitting him again. "Picking" Another smack, his nose bleeding. "On" Another shot, and this time blood flew from his nose like a water balloon full of red dye in his nose had popped. "ME!" I shouted, then nailed him square on the nose as hard as I could. He fell backward in the floor, students stepping back away from him like he was some kind of toxic chemical spilling across the hallway floor. 

Memories like that always relax me. They don't always come to me so clearly. From the time I was a teenager until now, my sleeping has gradually deteriorated from rest to a grand annoyance. Sometimes I will go three of four days with only a couple of hours of sleep. Every once in a blue moon I will lie down and fall asleep right away, then sleep like a rock for several hours. I don't know what triggers it. Most of the time I lie in bed trying to make sense of my racing thoughts. These days when I do manage to get some sleep, I start dreaming the second I fall asleep. The other night I dreamed there was a big mongrel dog chasing Ginny. She was running like hell and looking back over her shoulder with a frightened look on her face. I was trying to catch up with the dog but I couldn't get close enough to grab its tail. When I finally caught up to the dog I dove and grabbed its long shaggy tail with both hands. The dog turned and barked at me, saliva and foam caked around its mouth. It had big saber like teeth and hungry burning eyes. Only it wasn't a dog's face looking back at me through the growls and sharp teeth. It was mine. 

My dreams are always crazy and random like that. Sometimes I will have a brief dream full of crystalline clear images and memories that seem so real I would swear I could smell the honeysuckle and taste the sweet iced tea. I always wake up and lie in bed wrestling with memories and images of feelings and experiences I know I will never have again. 

I got out of bed fifteen minutes before the alarm clock was set to go off. I flicked the alarm switch off and stumbled to the bathroom. Not resting well makes me incoherent in the morning. I took a hot shower then sat down on the toilet and bandaged my foot. The cut was in a bad place. Every time I put weight on the foot it wanted to open back up and bleed. I wrapped the bandage tight and carefully stepped down on my injured foot. I picked my foot back up and looked at it. Good, not a drop of blood shown through the white gauze. I got cleaned up and made a pot of coffee. It was misting rain outside. The wind was whipping up. I didn't have a raincoat, but I did have a nice windbreaker. I finished my coffee then got dressed. It wasn't raining bad so I figured I could trot to work and I shouldn't get too wet. I would be a little damp, but not soaking wet. 

I set out to work. About halfway there I saw a big puddle of water in the road next to the curb, close to the big truck yard. The chain link fence around the truck yard looked the same color as the stormy sky. I knew that with my luck if I got within a mile of that puddle someone would damned sure drive right through it and splash me. I gave the puddle a wide berth, walking ten feet or so to the right of it. I was almost past the puddle when I hear a sudden noise from behind me. There was a sudden rush of wet splashy footsteps then angry growling and barks. I turned to see a big Rottweiler charging against the fence, growling and snapping at me. An image flashed across my mind, the dog in my dream. I took a few steps back, then tripped over my own feet and fell flat on my ass in the big puddle. 

The water was fucking freezing. It was like being hit with a low voltage stun gun. Just what the fucking doctor ordered. The bad part is, it didn't surprise me at all.

"You fucking idiot." I said to myself, slapping at the water indignantly. 

The dog was still barking at me. I gave him the finger and walked back home. By the time I got home I was freezing from head to toe. I put a fresh bandage on my foot then changed into dry clothes. My windbreaker was soaking wet so I went without it. When I finally made it to work I walked in the door at one minute past the hour. The kitchen manager was standing by the time clock holding my card. he was staring me down like I was the cat that ate the canary.

"You know today is our busiest day." He said. "If you like your job you might want to make it a priority to get here on time, otherwise you might be without a job."

I gave him the dirtiest look I could manage.

"I'm having a bad day. If you want to fire me, then fire me. You pull those nasty ass floor mars in yourself. You know I don't have a car right now and I'm doing the best I can." I responded in a stinging tone.

He handed me the time card then turned to walk away.

"Do better." He said, his back to me. 

Yeah, I really got a jump on the day, didn't I? I started pulling the mats in, two at a time. They were wet and slippery. As I was pulling the last two mats in I twisted my ankle and fell. One of the kitchen guys came over and held his hand out, helping me up. 

"Thanks." I told him. "Alot."

I guess he could tell by looking at me that I was just about beat.

"Don't sweat it kid." He told me before walking back into the kitchen. "Everybody gets a case of the working man's blues." 

The mats smacked against my legs when I fell, and the bottom half of my jeans were soaking wet. It seemed like I couldn't keep dry to save my life. I worked the rest of the day with my ankle throbbing and the pain from my hurt foot pounding away. The damp clammy fabric of my jeans felt like cold dead hands raking across my legs. The day seemed to draw out forever. At the end of my shift I was clocking out when the kitchen manager walked by on his way out the door. 

"Hey." I called to him. 

He turned and stopped. He looked tired. I know being a kitchen manager is like holding down ten full time jobs. He has to deal with the cooks, the servers being a pain in the ass, the owners expecting him to stretch a penny a fucking mile, and fifteen other things at once. I just couldn't let him leave without saying something to him. 

"Listen." I said. "I know my work hasn't been its best lately. I've been putting up with all kinds of unexpected shit lately and things have gotten the better of me. It's not like me to be late for work. I've just got alot to deal with right now."

He looked at me pensively for a moment then nodded his head. The expression on his face seemed to soften a bit. 

"I understand. Just don't let it cost you your job man. You know the owners watch every move I make. If I don't do what I'm supposed to then they can put my ass in the street, too. You let me know what going on and I'll work with you. Deal?" 

"Deal." I said, then shook his hand. "And thanks."

"Anytime." He said. "Anytime."

I left work feeling a little better about things there. I got off to a real shaky start, but I think I managed to salvage something good out of it. By the time I got home my foot was bleeding like a stuck pig. I was standing at my apartment door picking though my keys when I realized something wasn't right. My doormat has been kicked aside at an angle for the past couple of weeks. Now it was sitting nice and center of the doorway. The spot where I was standing had been recently swept clean. Ginny is the cleanest person I have ever met, and stuff like that is her trademark. I slid the key in the door and the knob turned by itself. 

The door opened and Ginny was standing there. She was wearing rubber kitchen gloves with a bottle of Windex in one hand. I was embarrassed as hell for her to see my apartment so dirty. To make matters worse after stepping into my apartment, I saw her mother sitting on the couch smiling at me. Ginny gave me a big hug and held me for many long seconds. I could feel sudden tears welling up, and I closed my eyes tight to fight them back. When I opened my eyes I saw her mother looking up at me. I recognized the expression on her face. It was the same as Ginny's. 'I know' it said. I sat down on one end of the couch and stared down at the floor. Making eye contact with them hurt like being slapped. 

"I'm sorry the place was such a mess." I told them with a resigned sigh. "You didn't have to clean up for me. I usually keep the place clean, I just...."

Her mother sat beside me and wrapped her arm around my shoulder.

"It's ok. Ginny had been worried about you, and so have I." 

Ginny sat down on the floor beside. She took her cleaning gloves off and sat them aside. My apartment smelled clean and airy. They had cleaned it spotless. She was looking up at me through those big pretty hazel eyes of hers. I couldn't help but cry. It seemed to take total control of my body, like the only thing I was capable of doing was to cry. I covered my face with my hands. I couldn't take someone looking at me that way. Ginny pulled my hands away from my face. Her mother spoke to me.

"We know how hard you've been fighting. When Ginny told me you were staying here through Ivan I decided we should come see you just to make sure you are alright." She said, her words soft and consoling. "I put the gun away for you."

The sudden embarrassment was too much for me. I had forgotten all about that fucking gun. Ginny and her mom had come all the way down here just to see if I was doing ok. The first thing they see after walking into my filthy apartment is a fucking suicide note on my kitchen table next to a gun. The humiliation alone was enough to make me wish I was dead. 

But that's just it, you see. I was embarrassed worse than I ever thought possible, my feelings were hurt and I felt like my tears would never stop falling, but at that moment I didn't want to die. I just wanted to lie down there between them and sleep. I don't know why but that was what my body and mind were telling me. I had a sudden mental image of a big black bear crawling into a hole for winter. 'Everything is alright now. My life is a huge fucking mess but now I can hibernate and let the problems slowly go away. The world is cold and harsh now, but now I can rest and life will slowly grow warm again.' I knew it wasn't realistic, but for that moment the thought of it gave me something I haven't had in a while. Knowing they were here for me gave me something I desperately needed.

Hope.  

"I called your job to tell you we were on the way, but they said you were outside doing something. We found the note and the gun and it scared me to death, baby." Ginny said to me. Her voice was almost pleading. "We decided to try and talk to you before we got you some help."

Sitting there surrounded by them, I suddenly didn't feel so small and helpless. It was shameful, yes. It tore at me for them to see how far down I had gone. The pain and the shame were slowly bleeding away with each tear I lost. 

"You are helping." I told them. "I just didn't want to ask for help. I wanted to handle things on my own. I didn't want you to know how down I have been. It's not like me."

I looked at Ginny. Her face was beautiful, and always will be. 

"I didn't want you to be as ashamed of me as I was of myself." I told her. 

"I couldn't be if I tried." She said to me. "I couldn't be."

Fade To Black

To the reader: This story wasn't written for any person in particular. I wasn't hoping to achieve a certain score or generate any mainstream fanfare. I have dealt with depression to many degrees over the years. I sometimes see my friends and loved ones suffer with the same depression I am all too familiar with. Not being able to do something is the most helpless feeling in the world, so I wrote this story. Chances are it won't make sense to alot of people. To those who don't understand it at all, I admire you. You're lucky, trust me. I left the ending open so the reader could draw their own conclusions, because we all have our own situation in life. We all have our on closure. If depression is weighing down on you, you are faced with a number of choices. All of them are difficult. I hope that you push and fight hard, and find the courage to do the one thing that can tilt the scales to your favor. Talk to someone. Hope is often dim. Our sight may be clouded, our hands may feel weak, but hope is always there. It may seem impossibly far away, but it can always be reached. I'm living proof of that. Matter of fact, so are you.

Dedicated to Michael Avery Wiggins

LE
Darkeyeddemon