107. Mom Would’ve Kicked My Ass
MOM WOULD’VE KICKED MY ASS
LAYTON
I wake to an odd smell.
I can’t decide if it’s my breath—my mouth is pasty like I licked the bottom of a bird cage—or my body, which is starting to itch.
Well, that’s gross. I should handle both if I have to wonder. But… I’ll do it after a snooze. It’s not like anyone is here to notice.
No one will see. I scratch myself and fall back to sleep, wishing like hell I could roll over comfortably… or do anything comfortably.
When I wake again a couple of hours later, I stand under the showerhead bracketed between the shower walls and the walker. I didn’t shirk this little shower when I bought the place, but it isn’t my multiple-head, multiple-person one upstairs that I love so much.
It’s too short for my frame. I have to drop my neck to rinse the shampoo from my hair. I’m too tired after that to do much else, so I swipe pits and ass and hope that’s enough.
When I step out, I stand in front of the mirror with a towel around my waist. The scar against my hip is red and angry. It rises from my skin and still has bruising underneath. Tying the towel like I always have rubs against it in a reminder of how much I’ve lost.
My cheeks are hollow, though they’re mostly covered by the unruly russet-colored beard.
Never in my life have I let it go this long.
I didn’t even know it grew in this red or this wild.
I look like Florida-man, that mythical creature that sells alligators out the back of a camper and spends all his money on Taco Bell.
My hair mimics the beard. My every-three-week trim has been in effect since my sophomore year at OU.
It’s only been shaggy once before, but freshman year we were on a winning streak, and I was too superstitious to cut it off.
How fast I could evade a tackler had lots to do with what was under my helmet, but not when it came to my hair.
It's curling at the bottom and trying to become ringlets. It hasn’t been cut since before…
But the effort now is a no-go. Long or shaved are my two options. Same with my face. And the beard hides my frown. If it could hide the purple marks under my eyes, it would be even better.
Alas, women have it easy. Concealer or whatever to hide the weariness.
I turn and face my left side in the mirror. A railroad track of angry wounds winds down into the towel. I can feel every singed piece of flesh, every place a stitch or staple was placed. The screws inside hold bone together.
I hate a lot about my life these days. But my loss of mental toughness is right up there. I didn’t think I could slide into pathetic whining this far. Or nearly so fast.
It’s not unreasonable, I guess, but I always thought I’d have fight in me if I were hit with a personal tragedy. I thought I’d be the model patient. Physical therapy regimen on track, perfect diet, and the daily fight to get back everything I lost.
But I always assumed everything was get-backable.
I walk back into the bedroom and look at the amber medicine bottle, shaking it to make sure it’s not empty. I need to ration the Oxy. I need to make sure there are always enough in case they ask. They’ll cut me off at some point and say there are no more refills.
I need to find a way to make sure they never worry. This is the farthest cry from diet, PT, and fighting the good fight.
This is depression, laziness, and giving the fuck up. And with no manhood to speak of.
I pop one in my mouth and crush it in my molars. It tastes like ass, but thank fuck it kicks in faster this way. I discovered that while Pop was here. Faster. Undetectable. No help needed.
Speaking of, I wonder if he made it home okay. When did he leave? How many days have passed?
I shuffle into the kitchen and pull open the fridge. At least Mrs. Turner did the drop-off. She’s always had a key, but I don’t remember her being here. Did she come into my house while I was asleep and restock?
Nothing looks good enough to crutch to the microwave and heat. I grab a banana and eat half before the flavor mixed with the remnants of the tablet makes me want to gag. I toss the rest and beg the contents of my stomach to stay down.
I sit in the recliner, unwilling to go back into the bedroom and kick back just enough to rest my eyes.
Hours later, the setting sun tells me I’ve slept the day away.
My body is not happy with me sleeping in this chair.
Check that… My body is not happy. Period.
I reach for my phone. I’d like to personally thank the genius behind do not disturb. Sure, I’ve used it before, but it’s loaded with features. I can block every call except for ones from the team. And I have.
I can block any text, all of them, or let select ones through. I did that with George early on. And then he found my phone, unusable and melted, and I didn’t need further communication… In fact, that’s probably the last message I read.
The little red notification? Gone. I have pages of messages to scroll from God knows who, from texts to emails to voicemails. I haven’t read any. Every single red mocking dot tells me yet another place I’m failing.
I fire up Angry Birds and play until my battery dies. Sometime before the sun comes up, I climb into the filthy bed, having remembered to turn off the lights and close the door, and fall again into sweet oblivion.
My last thought before I fall asleep is that Mom would’ve kicked my ass to Timbuktu for not returning her calls. I wish she were here to do it.
The incessant banging is annoying. It would piss me off if I could care enough. It’s ruining my sleep, so that’s close. But you have to give a fuck to get angry, and I’m unable to feel… anything that deeply.
I just am. Floating and hopeless, but not pissed. But it won’t stop.
What the hell?
I drag myself out of bed and grab my walker. I hit the head first, mostly out of spite. There’s nothing aside from a fire in the building that warrants this. And if that is the case, I’d be okay to be a casualty. It would be a fitting end to my life.
Bon Jovi’s ‘Blaze of Glory’ pops into my head, and I chuckle at my morbid sense of humor. Either I’m not entirely dead, or my despair is so bleak that I don’t care if I am.
The pounding turns out to be multiple fists.
Thank goodness my give a damn is busted, because I’d be pissed at the noise and the lack of courtesy if I still had my manners.
Part of me considers walking away. I have noise-canceling headphones and want to go back to sleep.
But instead, I pull open the door, preparing my face to display that I don’t care if the annoyance stays all day.
Seriously, no one is worth this much effort.
Imagine my surprise to see Pop and Exton standing there, fists raised in joint battle, both red in the face.
Imagine my shock to see the pain on my brother’s face as he stares at me, no doubt reading me, anger and revelation morphing across his features.
Imagine my horror to hear Pop’s words as he blows past me into my place. “I’ll get his bags; you get him to the car. I’m done with this.”