Chapter 3 #2
She doesn’t know where I went, she has no way of getting in touch with me if she didn’t kick the bucket, and if she did, she can watch me start over from her herpes-filled seat in Hell.
“Mr. Jones?”
I blink a few times, pulling my eyes from the biggest stain on the mattress to look at Father Guy. “Pardon?”
He gives me a small smile, the first I’ve seen since he started his welcome speech. “I was just reminding you that dinner is in a half hour. Come to the dining room after you get settled. You look like you could use a hot meal and a good night’s sleep.”
Considering the former was a rarity, and I don’t think I’ve ever had the latter, he’s not wrong.
“Thanks.” I nod as I move toward the bed. “I think I’m going to sign up for a shower, then maybe I’ll come to dinner.”
Father Guy pats my shoulder, a frown quickly passing over his features as I pull away on reflex. “I hope your stay with us gives you peace, and helps you get a little closer to finding what you’re looking for, Mr. Jones.”
I don’t say anything, I just nod again and watch the priest move through the room, greeting the two other guests on his way out.
Being at peace seems like such a foreign concept.
After years of running in fight or flight mode, of surviving instead of actually living, I don’t think I’m going to be able to close my eyes for more than a few seconds without my anxiety kicking in let alone be at peace.
And the other thing? Finding whatever it is I’m looking for?
I don’t have a fucking clue what that is, or how to go about figuring it out, either.
With a sigh, I towel off my hair and stare down at the freshly made bed.
A hot meal followed by an even hotter shower definitely helped. And it made me tired as hell.
I’m exhausted.
Clean, probably safe, and full, but absolutely exhausted.
I’m so tired I’m not even worried about the stains underneath the two fitted sheets, one flat sheet, heating blanket, and quilt.
Frankly, I’d sleep in a puddle of shit right now and not stress out about the germs until I woke up tomorrow, but thankfully I don’t have to do that.
I’ve never been a religious person, I think I’ve questioned the existence of a higher power more than anything, but I’m grateful other people believe strongly enough to open up their doors to anyone who’s down on their luck the way I am.
This homeless shelter in the basement of a church run by a priest and his nuns is like a five star hotel with air tight security to me, and my dinner of baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas and carrots could have passed as gourmet after the majority of what I’m used to.
I’m starting to think it might not be so bad staying here until I can find something more permanent.
“Hey!”
Ignoring the voice behind me, I hang my towel on the little hook in my locker then reach for a pair of socks before kicking off my flip flops.
Exhausted or not, I’m not walking around any part of this basement bare foot.
That’s inviting any number of bacteria onto my skin, and I don’t think I can handle an infection right now. Physically or financially.
“I said fucking hey, priest!”
With a frown, I slowly turn to see what I can only describe as a viking towering over two nuns as he tries to push his way into the room.
He’s big, probably six-four or six-five.
At least two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe more.
The guy has a beer belly but it has to be hiding one hell of a six pack based on how huge his biceps and thighs are.
Something I only know because this guy also happens to be wearing some kind of toga made from fake animal pelts, a kilt-like thing made from soda cans, knee high boots fashioned from sandals and trash bags, and a blanket turned cape.
His outfit leaves nothing to the imagination, and it’s topped off with a motorcycle helmet spray painted silver, and a pair of bull horns fastened to either side of the headpiece.
His hair is long and matted, his face is smudged with dirt and covered by a scraggly, chest length beard.
His feet are caked in what I can only hope is mud.
I can tell from here that he smells awful, and this guy has to be at least fifty feet away from me.
He’s loud and angry, most likely drunk, but overall he could be harmless.
At least he doesn’t have any obvious weapons, and while he’s shouting over the nuns’ heads, he hasn’t laid a hand on them.
If that’s all that happens while he’s here, I’ll be fine.
I’m too tired to really give a shit, anyway.
Doesn’t mean I won’t watch whatever the hell is going on until my eyelids are too heavy to stay open. I don’t even think his shouting will keep me up. Might as well get a little entertainment out of his arrival.
Sliding my glasses on, I sit on the edge of my bed and angle myself to face the viking’s antics, pull on my socks and put my flip flops in the bottom of my locker.
“Father Guy, I know you’re here!”
My stare shifts slightly as the priest comes bustling into the room, clad in his pajamas and slippers while he pulls his robe closed around him.
“Rodney,” he says calmly as he hurries toward his nuns. “What have I told you about coming in here when you’re intoxicated?”
The viking—Rodney, apparently—stands a little taller as Father Guy comes between him and the nuns. “Not to.”
The priest nods. “Yes. I told you that you can’t come in here if you’re intoxicated, but what else did I tell you?”
“I can come in when I’m sober.”
“Which right now, you are not. Correct?”
“Yeah.” Rodney reaches up and scratches under his helmet, a chunk of something falling to his shoulder as he lowers his hand. “But I’m looking for something.”
Oh boy.
I can only imagine what this alpha could be looking for, especially in a place like this.
And since he’s clearly a regular, there’s a good chance it might not even exist. He’s obviously familiar to the volunteers, and he knows the rules.
Whatever the viking is scouring Pine City, Minnesota for, I’m sure he knows it isn’t here.
Slowly, I close my locker and spin the combination lock, still watching events unfold across the room.
“What are you looking for, Rodney?” Father Guy discreetly dismisses the ladies behind him. “Is it something you misplaced, or is it something Odin is telling you to find?”
Odin? As in, Odin from Norse mythology? Ruler of the Aesir and Asgard?
I almost wish I had a bowl of popcorn.
Not to make light of someone who possibly has a serious mental health condition.
I’d never do that, mental health is extremely serious and should never be made fun of.
Ever. I didn’t think so as a kid, and I definitely don’t now, especially as someone who suffers from a few serious conditions myself, but there's also a very real possibility this guy is just so fucked up he thinks he has a direct line to Valhalla.
There was about a year where Mandy thought she was the reincarnation of the Virgin Mary, I was either Jesus or Judas depending on the day, and we had to live in a bell tower of the abandoned church a few blocks away with the pigeons waiting for God to come get us.
All thanks to an intense and very laced batch of crack cocaine.
Every time she smoked it, she swore she saw angels and the devil.
She almost had me convinced I was a product of immaculate conception.
I know first hand what getting too fucked up can do to a person, and that is what has me wishing for popcorn, because for the first time in my life, I’m on the outside looking in on that kind of insanity.
And as long as it doesn’t get out of hand, it could make for a really interesting first night of my fresh start.
“Odin said it’s here.” Rodney’s demeanor relaxes a bit, the tiny bit of validation he received enough to calm him. “He told me it’s here.”
Father Guy nods as he visibly relaxes, too. “Can you tell me what it is you’re looking for? Maybe I can help you find it so Odin will let you get some rest.”
“I don’t know,” the viking says slowly. “He told me I was the only one who could see it.”
I cringe internally at that.
That has me leaning a little more toward Rodney having a mental health condition, and that makes me feel a little guilty for hoping to be entertained.
That is, right up until I watch him pull some sort of vial from the folds of his toga, lift it to his nose, and snort like his life depends on it.
Maybe he is that fucked up, afterall.
Figuring this guy out is definitely tricky.
“Well, if you’re the only one who can see what you’re looking for, and you know it’s here, do you see it now?”
Rodney breaks eye contact with the priest and lifts his head, scanning the room slowly from wall to wall. He carefully examines each empty bed before moving to the occupied ones, his eyes narrowed and almost shrewd as he carefully analyzes the four with people in them. Including mine.
He squints at me for a few moments and I swear it’s something I can feel happen. Not in a good way, but it’s not necessarily bad, either. It’s intense, and uncomfortable, but I don’t feel threatened by the way Rodney is looking at me.
I almost feel bad for him.
It’s like he can’t quite make sense of everything around him.
Like he’s trying to sort through whatever is going on in his head but it’s moving too fast and he can’t quite catch up.
He only stares at me for a few seconds but it feels so much longer than that.
Long enough to see that this alpha is probably using whatever drugs and alcohol he can get his hands on in order to cope with the mental illness he’s most likely never been treated for.
That’s why I’m not afraid of him, and it’s also why I feel bad for him.