106. VIP List
VIP LIST
LAYTON
Pop stands on the threshold of my door with an old duffel bag at his booted feet. “I’m going to ask one more time. Are you sure you won’t come home?”
“Love you, Pop, but I’m good. You know I can’t right now.”
He looks behind me into my apartment. I can tell he wants to say more, but he holds his tongue.
“I love you, Layton. I’m proud of the man you are. When you need me, I’ll be here.”
I hug him, his head below my chin with our height difference in stark relief. He holds me for a beat longer than I expect.
“When you’re ready, home is too.”
“I know.”
A buzz in my pocket alerts me of a notification. “Your car is here. I’m sorry I can’t—” I cut off that thought. I can’t drive him. Not physically and my truck is who-knows-where.
“Love you, son.” Pop’s face is earnest as he looks to the bank of elevators.
“Love you, too. Thank you for being here. I… It means a lot.”
“No place else I would’ve been.”
The elevator dings, and he steps into it, lifting a hand when he turns to face the doors. I do the same.
When the doors slide closed, the invisible string holding me up snaps, and I lean partly on the doorjamb and partly onto the walker, releasing what’s left of my farce.
The metallic click of the walker as it jostles below me sets the rhythm as I walk back to my room.
By the time I lie back in bed, I’m exhausted from exertion.
That’s laughable. I’m a… well, I was a professional athlete.
My body felt exhaustion after hours in the gym or hours on the field.
Exertion was faster bursts in sprints or multiple back-to-back one-hundred-yard runs.
Holding myself up and walking from the door to my guest room do not qualify.
I hold the still new-to-me phone, hating that it’s not set up right, but not caring enough to take the time to do it. Red dots notify me I have unanswered calls, unread emails, and more texts than I care to read.
Other apps are lit up with the red circle, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I open my texts, scroll to George, and see a handful of messages from the past couple of weeks.
George: I’ve been working on getting to your truck. Police need more documentation from me. I’ll keep you posted.
George: The good news is a stalker couldn’t get near your truck. Bad news is the police impound lot is Fort Knox. I should have everything they need by tomorrow.
George: I’m not going to lie. I threw up when I saw your truck. Vomited right there on the tire. I knew, but no way could I have imagined. Glad you’re alive, my friend.
George: We combed the car. I think we found what may have been your phone. I’m sorry, man. It melted to something near the engine.
Fuck!
George: Seriously, I’m glad you’re alive. I’m relieved I didn’t see the wreckage before I knew you were okay.
George: The police let me take what was in your glove box and center console. I have it when you’re ready. The front storage area got messed up when they got you out. I can go back if you remember anything else we need to search for.
George: I’m talking to myself at this point, but I’ll be by to see you soon. Wanted you to have time to get settled and into a routine.
George: Low priority, but your endorsements are still in place. I don’t know what that looks like moving forward, but for now, no one’s pulled their contracts. I know about IR. We can handle it all when you’re ready. Hit me up when things get settled.
Something in me should care that I didn’t lose everything in one fell swoop. I may have lost my ability to play, to run, to stand without pain. I may have lost everything I’ve worked for.
But all I care about is the phone.
I rear back to throw this one, but just before I release it, I stop. It’s not from lack of anger. It’s not because I care about the money. It’s because I’d have to bend over to pick it up. At some point anyway, and the idea of that is too much of a risk. Pop is gone. No one is coming to save me.
If I hit the floor, with no phone, I’ll have to wait for a wellness check before anyone finds me. So I set the phone down on the makeshift nightstand and open the top drawer.
I know these are for pain. But the mental anguish is too much. I need the relief. I need to numb my body and my mind. My heart is another story, but my mind—fuck. Anything to slow down the constant torment in my head…
One tablet and only a few minutes to wait for sweet oblivion.
I must be feeling the effects because I reach for my phone when it lights up.
Pop: You didn’t have to spring for first class, but a man could get used to this. See you soon.
A retired rancher with usually muddy boots in first class. The man could always afford first class, but never did. He’d choose an old work truck before a new SUV every time.
I know I must feel fine because I open the family group text thread and don’t read a single message before typing out a new one
Me: Pop is heading home. Thanks for letting me impose.
I flip the phone upside down and remember I forgot to turn off the lights again. I’d care, but waking dreams wash over me.
No pain.
No worry.
No mental gymnastics.
Absolute bliss of nothingness.
I can’t tell how many days go by like this. Two days a week, deliveries show at the door. Sometimes I wonder where they come from. Mostly, I don’t care.
The food is tasteless which is very unlike Mrs. Turner. I probably should get with her or have my nutritionist do that so the food is edible again. She’s always had a way of adding flavor and keeping it interesting. I mean, at least, as interesting as chicken breasts can be.
To be honest, I don’t know that I care. I know I should, but Cheez-Its taste good. I’ve eaten enough chicken breasts to be okay never seeing another one again.
Besides, I don’t need to train. I can pretend it’s the off-season.
Every day is off-season for me now.
The blackness around that thought has morphed since I got home from the hospital. It’s still depressing as fuck, but the edges are more muted. I hate my fucked-up has-been life, but I don’t have the energy to keep up that level of fire.
It’s too much work, and I just can’t be bothered.
Depression has replaced anger. It’s like looking at life through water or something. I know it’s there—all of the pain and agony, all the loss. I want to fight it or fight for it, but it’s way easier to check out.
Every challenge in life, I’ve met with a physical fight.
Struggle? Work out.
Stress? Heavy weights, extra reps.
Problem to work out? Go for a run.
Shit day at the office? Leave it all on the field.
Losing Mom? All of the above. Plus liquor.
I can’t do anything I’ve ever done to cope or to handle the mess in my life. But I can get away.
A good nap. Zoning out on ridiculous games on my phone. A long night of dreamless sleep.
I must be on some VIP list. Thank you, George or team leadership or whomever, since updated prescriptions arrive every other week. Not going out for all of this has made it so much easier as I recover.
No clue how much this concierge service is costing me. I don’t see transactions with my bank that I shouldn’t. Not that I care. I’d give almost anything to not use that damn walker in public. I’d sell my left nut not to have to get into and out of a car with cameras flashing.
At this point, I don’t know why I have nuts at all.
My dick might as well have turned inside out. No morning wood. None. Not in weeks. Not even waking up with my hand wrapped around my cock and an erotic visual behind my eyes.
Selling my left testicle would make no difference because my dick mocks me with his refusal to participate in life.
Where anger has become resignation with the rest of my life, that is not the case here.
I need to know whether I’ll ever get hard again.
I need to know if I’ll ever have sex again.
Because I’ve lost everything.
Everything.
And if sex is part of that everything, I don’t know what pleasure there is left in life.
No joy in career.
No pain relief in my body.
No peace in my mind.
No pleasure for my manhood.
No life.
With that thought, I chew yet another pill and wait for the frayed nerve endings in my hip to stop shrieking in pain and my mind to cave in on itself.
What do I do if there’s nothing left to live for?