Down: A Short Story
Rattling down uneven sidewalks on my bike, rolling past identical suburban houses under a clear blue sky, changing gears, standing up to mount the curbs, sweating uncontrollably with a bright, burning sun beating down on me — I’m looking forward to seeing Morgan tonight; she is the only good thing in my life. My body feels like its shaking when I think about her; I need another cigarette to calm my nerves.
Arriving at work earlier than expected, checking my phone, scanning my recent messages, I find nothing. Most of my friends from school have gone away for the summer, forgetting all about me — I’ll see Morgan tonight though; we’re sort of friends, but we’re not very close yet.
Parking my bike around back, locking it to a radiator pipe, taking a pack of Newport’s from my backpack, lighting one, taking a few long drags before casually dropping it on the cracked pavement, I stamp out the glowing embers with my shoe. The muggy, sweltering heat crawls up under my skin; sweat drips down my side as I swat at a roaming mosquito.
My body trembles and my heart beats unnaturally fast; I’m painfully aware of my stomach clenching up. I pull hard upon the half-stuck door of Joey’s Pizza Parlour and step inside to meet a blast of oppressive heat and pizza fumes mingling with the smell of burnt ends cooking off in ovens built like furnaces. I quickly head to the employee bathroom to change into my work uniform.
Striping off my khaki shorts and white shirt, kicking off my shoes, rolling on more deodorant, putting on a red polo shirt and pulling up black dress pants, retying my shoes with jittery fingers, pushing back my unruly mop of black, greasy hair, strapping a black visor onto my head, checking out my reflection in the mirror, seeing dull grey eyes, pale skin, another embarrassing break out on the left side of my face — humiliating me — noting the lines of stress already forming beneath my eyes — giving my face a tired, worn out look — I try to prepare myself mentally for another night with Morgan. She is only a girl. She is only a friend.
Exiting the bathroom, hearing the back door swing open, I watch Morgan enter the store and my heart leaps up spastically inside me. I manage to wave while slurring my words together: “Heyhowsitgoin’?” But she doesn’t notice me. She’s intently dealing with her belongings, arranging them neatly under the coat rack oblivious to me while I stand right in front of her. We’re still friends, but we’re not very close yet.
Tearing my eyes away from her, I clock in near the dish-sink and take my position over by the prep counter. Dark red tile lies beneath my feet, dull red walls surround me, and I’m sweating profusely from the withering heat, humid and oppressive, emanating from the two monstrous ovens directly behind me. Beads of perspiration form on the back of my neck as I begin my shift on the assembly line of pizza manufacturing.
Susan is tonight’s team leader. She stands beside me and tosses pizza dough into the air; catching it effortlessly with her right hand, she twirls it around while her left scatters flour over the counter. Resting the dough on the dry surface, she kneads it with her fingers and smooths red sauce across it before commanding me to follow ticket number two.
“Hey Blake,” she says, “what’s new with you?” Susan wears thick glasses and her curly, brown hair is tied back in a ponytail beneath a hairnet. Susan is not considered a beautiful girl. She’s as thin as a rail and her face is a little puffy and white. She looks far too young for her age, but there is an undeniable spark of life and energy in her that makes her company always enjoyable.
Smiling freely, I tell her, “I hate my life. I can’t believe how hot it is in here.”
“How’s your summer going?” she asks, ignoring my complaint.
“It sucks. No one’s around and there’s nothing to do in this town and I don’t have a car.”
“Hmm,” she says staring hard at the pizza dough in front of her, unwilling to indulge me in self-pity. “Still obsessed with Morgan?”
“No,” I lie.
“I see the way you look at her,” she says, slapping more dough roughly on the counter.
“She has a new boyfriend you know,” she says, turning to look me hard in the eyes.
I want to strangle myself. “Yeah…so?” I say, trying to remain calm even though I’m having trouble breathing.
“So, if you keep liking her, you’re going to get hurt,” she says, twirling another mound dough in the air before smacking it on the counter.
“Okay,” I say, wanting to end the conversation. I load up a stack of greasy sheet pans in my arms and move away from Susan towards the dish sink.
Looking back, I add with a note of desperation, “I don’t like her anymore…Besides, she’s just a friend.”
“Okay,” says Susan.
“I can still talk to her.”
“Suit yourself,” she says and lets me walk away from her, past the salad counter where my other coworkers mill around chatting, past the empty register, and past the phone desk where Morgan answers incoming calls.
Catching Morgan’s eye, I smile childishly at her. She continues to talk on the phone and doesn’t seem to notice me. After dumping my dishes into the sink, I hurry back to my station and walk past Morgan’s distinct high-pitched voice as it breaks through the bang and clatter of sheet pans and coworkers laughing and pizza dough smacking on the counter. The clock ticks by slowly and two more hours pass before I notice Morgan heading out for a smoke break. I tell Susan that I’m going out for a smoke as well. She eyes me steadily: “Okay,” she says.
Rushing over to my backpack, pulling out my lighter and a cigarette, I join Morgan outside on the hot cement. Sitting down quietly beside her, I stay close to her and chase after a dead dream. Our legs dangle over the curb and my heart beats faster and faster. We watch the sun fade away and the grey dusk take its place.
“Hey,” I say and with trembling hands try to light my cigarette.
“Hey,” she says in her familiar high voice. She looks right through me, vaguely staring out into the growing darkness, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke.
After a few tries, I finally succeed in lighting mine, “I heard you got a new car,” I say.
“Oh…no that was Amanda.”
“Oh…that was Amanda?” I say a little too loudly.
“Yup.”
“I didn’t know Amanda got a new car?”
“Yeah…it’s nice.”
“Cool,” I say, the words hanging dully in the heavy air. My mind goes blank and I shift my weight back and forth on the hard cement, rocking my right leg compulsively, taking off my hat, running my hands through my flattened, sweaty hair, forgetting all about the cigarette in my hand, turning to look at Morgan every few seconds.
“What?” she says, looking over at me.
I stare into her radiant blue eyes and take in her long blond hair drawn back, her red lips hiding the hint of a smile, her long, slender legs stretched out casually across the cement. She is extraordinarily attractive.
“So…” I manage to say, “what have you been up to lately?”
“Oh, nothing much.”
“Cool,” I repeat.
“I think it’s starting to rain,” she says looking up at the ominous black clouds overhead.
Our conversation continues on in this faltering, halting manner as small droplets of rain begin to sprinkle down around us: the romantic mood is complete. Morgan quickly flicks her cigarette out and goes back inside. I immediately stamp mine out and follow closely behind her.
Returning to my station, I listen to Susan complain about how much her back hurts; we laugh easily, breathe out freely, and I look over my shoulder at Morgan and try to catch her eye again if only for a brief moment. I hear the perfect pitch of her voice rising and falling. I feel my face turning red.
Closing time arrives; the rain has picked up and beats down violently on our roof. We watch it from the front window hammering down on the parking lot. We listen to the wind howling and I think sadly too late of my uncovered bike seat.
Bursting through the doors at the last minute with a large, red umbrella in hand, immune to the turbulent weather, a tall, muscular, clean-shaven man walks in, confidently greeting the cashier and greeted rapturously by Morgan as she rushes over to him. He walks around the counter and she throws herself into his arms. I’m wondering if they’re brother and sister, but they hug each other tightly and her red lips press passionately against his, locking in this embrace for what feels like an eternity until they finally withdraw, smiling deeply and warmly and meeting eyes as though in wonder at each other’s breathtaking presence. I’m slowly putting it together that they can’t be brother and sister and my stomach suddenly feels upset and I walk, dizzy and disoriented across the rotating floor over to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I try to throw up, but nothing comes of it. Returning to my station, I mumble awkwardly to Susan that I don’t feel well, and I need to go home.
“It’s pouring rain outside. Do you need a ride?” Susan asks.
“No, no, it’s okay.” I tell her, “I have my bike.”
She stares at me skeptically, “Suit yourself.”
Grabbing my backpack, I leave Morgan and her boyfriend behind. Pushing the door open, stepping outside into the pouring rain while thunder cracks over my head, I head out into the pitch-black darkness where the stars are blotted out.
Unlocking my bike with difficulty in a puddle of rainwater rising like the tide, pooling around my feet, drenching my shoes and socks until they’re soaking wet, I fight to unhook the chain and twist in my combination of numbers. Eventually, I pull it free and throw my body onto the sopping wet seat and take off, peddling blindly for home.
Racing down dark streets, remembering Morgan’s dazzling blue eyes, seeing her every day, thinking about her every night, her long blonde hair undone, smiling over at me happily, sharing laughter with me, talking excitedly to me…ignoring me, treating me like I don’t exist. Her words, her body language, her signs, all of it meaningless, all of it pointless, all of it in vain, it was a dull, slow year of wasting my breath.
Tearing through the neighbourhood, cutting my way through the pouring rain, chest heaving, swearing profusely — she was the best part of my pathetic life. I try to mount the sidewalk from the street and hit the curb awkwardly. My bike skids out from under me, trapping my right leg painfully underneath. Shooting pain travels up my leg and I wonder if I’ve broken it. I start cursing loudly at the cold, indifferent universe.
Limping home, wheeling my bike with one hand, holding onto my sopping wet backpack, torrential rain burying me, practically drowning me, a half an hour later — drenched from head to foot — I see the dim lights of my home from across the street.
Ignoring my mother’s protests, I come inside dripping water all over the carpet. I head downstairs to the basement while shouting at my mother not to bother me. Rifling through my drawers, searching for my hidden stash of alcohol, I find it quickly enough. Drinking straight from a bottle of Jack until my throat begins to burn, I start coughing terribly. Stripping off my wet clothes, changing into whatever I can find, (more whiskey as fast as I can pour it down my throat) I’m light headed and stumbling around my room, off balance and close to collapsing, draining the bottle as fast as I can take it.
With my head spinning, my body falls hard to the floor. Heading straight down, the empty bottle of Jack tumbles out of my hand. Rain falls incessantly outside my window and beats against the gutters, pouring out like a flood into the mud and dead grass of our unkempt backyard. Laughing spitefully, smiling idiotically, raging at my stupid mistakes, my eyes red and blinking repetitively, I lie on the floor of my bedroom like a drunk. I’m pitifully alone, everlastingly, sickeningly alone, alone with memories of a night with Morgan as she slices open my chest — so sick of life, so sick of the wrenching, disgusting memories, crawling around inside me like maggots, feeding on my rotting, wasted heart. I couldn’t see it before. My friendship with Morgan was like having broken nails forcibly rammed down the back of my throat. I’m left to cough up the blood, puss and broken skin of another abortive relationship. With my eyes screwed shut, I drift into a disturbing, paralyzed sleep.
I arrive at work the next afternoon under a cloudy, grey sky. I’m limping awkwardly, still hungover and sick to my stomach after vomiting several times that morning. I pull angrily on the partially jammed door and greet Susan coldly, but she doesn’t notice me. She’s already hard at work. I thank the mercy of the universe that today is Morgan’s day off.
“You look terrible; your eyes are all red,” Susan informs me.
“Yeah, rough night.”
“Anything wrong?”
“No,” I say irritably.
“Are you sick?”
“I don’t feel well,” I tell her, but I notice, oddly enough, that my hands are strangely steady, and my body is unusually calm today. Gazing into the soft green eyes behind her glasses and a warm face that I’m familiar with seeing every day, I suddenly notice something like a profound beauty in her that I had never seen before. I stare into her eyes intently.
“Snap out of it,” she commands, snapping her fingers at me, “you’re scaring me.”
“Oh…sorry,” I tell her. She gives me a strange look and walks away to another part of the store. Indifferent to my loneliness, she starts washing tables in the sitting area, every once in a while, glancing over at me and shaking her head.
Watching her silently, seeing more and more of the unnatural lightness and glow in her face, I find myself breaking through to the surface after living underwater and drowning all my life: lost in the endless waves always repulsed, always denied, always driven back down with wave after wave, forever losing sight of the infinitely desirable horizon. This time I’ve finally caught sight of the distant shore, surpassing all my expectations, close enough to be real. Susan looks up at me and shakes her head, apparently amused.
“I have a boyfriend, you know.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I know.”
