An Insane World – Chapter Twenty-Five
"Hey, can you get the door for me? I'm done here."
Tim pulls on his jacket while he asks, twisting and pointing to the words in large across the back, speaking with authority. He's waited for this chance and it comes to him early. Jesse told him that a new nurse was starting tonight. The new guy doesn't even blink, unlocks the door and holds it open for Tim, and Tim waltzes out with a curt, "Thanks."
He's free.
The elevator is risky so he takes the stairs to the main floor and strides out the front door. No one notices his shoes without laces, they only see the false confidence and POLICE US MARSHAL on the jacket, jeans, and a clean shirt, thanks to Rachel, a uniform of sorts for plainclothes LEOs. The air is brisk, hits him hard wearing only a t-shirt and he pulls his ragged hoodie out from underneath the shell and puts it on too. It's not enough but he figures a fast walk will warm him up. He turns in the direction of downtown and the nearest bar.
It's not a craving, not exactly; he's not sure what it is. It's more a desire to take something back and behaving badly is freedom of a sort. And he wants the bliss of a blurry mind, just for one night. He can't close his eyes without seeing an orphaned and small foot, white bone, red flesh. How else do you deal with that? No idea presents itself but drinking himself stupid.
He's warm, sweating, slips out of his jacket and turns it inside out as he steps into the dark room, loud with bad music from a mediocre house band. He walks up to the bar, a free seat by the blaring speakers, and yells for a Bud and a bourbon, separate. The bartender is quick with his order and Tim digs into the beer, cold and cutting and delicious after the walk. The bourbon goes down easily halfway through his Bud and he signals for another of each. He'll worry about how he's going to pay for it later. Maybe he'll say he's forgotten his wallet and call Raylan. Rachel might bring him water but he figures Raylan would cover his bar tab. He could say it's all Raylan's fault anyway for bringing in that tease of whiskey yesterday, reopening that taste. He smiles at the thought, grim, satisfied at the solution. It's good to have different sorts of people in your life to cover different needs.
By the third round the effects are hitting him, too much weight lost and not enough drinking the past few weeks. It feels good, the numbness creeping around the edges of his consciousness, loosening his shoulders. Therapy might be easier if he could do this every night. Better than sedatives, and tastier too. He feels better than he has in what seems like a long time.
Lexington is a small city and downtown isn't huge. Still, it's a bad bit of luck that this bar happens to be Alex's regular afterwork hangout and Tim uses a string of swear words to describe his feelings about the coincidence. Alex doesn't spot him right away. He walks in, in a coma of habit, seeing what he expects to see, sits in his usual booth. Service is slow so he finally gets up to go to the bar to order, stops dead after a few steps and stares disbelieving at the figure in the hoodie leaning on an elbow, drinking something hard and amber out of a rocks glass, neat.
Tim's been watching Alex out of the corner of his eye, knows he's been made. "Fuck." He hisses it, letting out a breath of frustration along with the word.
Alex strides over, the anger obvious to anyone looking. "What the fuck?" he yells over the music. "How did you…? Why…? What the fuck are you doing out?"
Tim goes for careless. "Do you want the obvious answer or are you looking for something deeper?"
"I'm taking you back…now! Let's go."
"Aw, come on, Alex, relax. You might as well sit down and have a drink and let me finish mine."
"You're not supposed to be drinking."
"So, light up a cigarette."
Alex pulls out a phone.
"What are you doing?" Tim demands.
"Calling Jesse."
"No, fuck, man, come on. Just…"
"You come with me then, right now!"
"Fine." Tim snatches up his glass and downs the whiskey quickly when Alex reaches for it, slams it back on the bar and says, "You're gonna have to pay though. I don't have a wallet."
"Jesus, you…" Alex doesn't finish the sentence, pays, clearly shocked at the total and what it adds up to in ounces, then gets a handful of Tim's sweater and drags him across the bar to the door. "What are you thinking?" he yells when they're clear of the bar and on the sidewalk.
"I'm trying not to think. That's the point."
"This is…going backward!"
"I don't give a fuck. It's what I need right now."
"What you need right now is to stick with the program we're working at the hospital."
Tim hates the words 'program,' 'hospital,' and especially 'we.' He turns and starts walking, turns back but keeps moving away. "Just what the fuck do you know about it?" Turns back again, keeps walking.
Alex runs to catch up, grabs Tim's sweater again, stops him, holds on. "Where do you think you're going?"
Tim throws his hands out, defeated. "I don't know!"
"You have to go back."
"Fuck you! It's a free country. No, I don't. I fought for the freedom to make my own choices here. At least that's the line I got when I joined up."
He tries to pry Alex's hand off but the splint makes it impossible to get a grip on his arm. Alex yanks Tim in the opposite direction, frustrated and trying to wrestle control back. Desperate and reacting to it, Tim throws an off-balance left hook, catches Alex under the cheekbone and the follow-through catches his nose. The surprise and the force of the punch knocks Alex's grip loose, knocks his glasses to the sidewalk and he stumbles into a car parked by the curb, bounces off and sets the alarm blaring.
The action comes to an abrupt halt. The two of them stare dumbly at the car like it's scolding them for fighting. Alex feels something running down his chin, looks down and watches, distanced, as blood from his nose drops in circles on the pavement. He fishes into his pocket for a tissue but doesn't have one and brings a hand instead up to his face to wipe at it.
Tim looks over at the movement, swallows and grimaces. "Shit," he says finally. "I didn't… Shit, Alex, don't grab me like that. Don't…" His arms flop helplessly. "You can't do that. You just can't…" He covers his face with his hands. "Shit, shit, shit. How much trouble am I in now?"
The bartender bursts out the door and takes in the scene, Alex's hand up to his face, his nose dripping blood.
"Am I calling the police?" He yells the question up the street, a threat.
Tim looks desperately at Alex.
"No, no, it's fine. I tripped," says Alex. "And I wasn't even drinking." He adds the last bit and chuckles, acting, bends over and picks up his glasses.
The bartender doesn't laugh, doesn't leave, watches them cautiously. It's time to go. Alex steps up to Tim and puts an arm around his shoulder.
"Come on, asshole. We've got places to be."
Head down, Tim lets Alex lead him across the street, into a building, up an elevator, into an apartment that has a feel much like Alex's office at the hospital. Tim stands at the door after Alex lets him in, then starts a survey of the new space, peering in every room, moving instinctively to check the layout, glancing occasionally back at Alex to gauge the mood. His hand cupped under his nose to catch the blood drops, Alex just watches, curious, bemused. Tim is aware that his actions must seem odd but he doesn't care. He finishes the routine to satisfy himself, on into the kitchen where he pushes a chair against the wall facing the door and sits in it, silent, subdued. When he settles finally, Alex seems to let go, steps to the sink, bends over it, fishes for some paper towels to mop up his face.
"You get into fights much?" he asks, voice a little wretched.
It's a sheepish and mumbled reply from Tim. "Not really. Um, I used to get dragged into some back when I was a Ranger, and I get dragged into them sometimes on the job, but… I don't tend to go looking for them. Honestly."
"Yeah, me neither."
"Look, I didn't mean to... I just…" Tim drops forward after waving a hand helplessly, leans his elbows on his knees.
"I asked for it."
"I dunno about that."
Alex closes his eyes and pinches the top of his nose a little harder.
"I didn't break it, did I?"
The voice and the question sound young and Alex's response is to comfort a child. "No. It's practically stopped bleeding. See."
Pulling his hand away he looks over at Tim, works up a grin and Tim reacts to it. There's a tentative twitch of the lips in return. The room is ringing, audio backdraft from the loud bar, the yelling, the car alarm. The two men inhabit the ringing silence together, mute, each lost in thought.
Alex returns to the present first, opens a drawer in his kitchen, reaches in and pulls out a cigarette, reaches back in and produces a matchbook, lights a match, lights the cigarette, takes a long, soothing pull and closes his eyes again. The world is different with the taste of nicotine. It feels almost manageable. He exhales slowly.
"That bad, huh?" Tim shuffles his feet, lets out the breath he's been holding since he threw the punch.
"Tequila? I don't keep bourbon."
Tim is watching still, uncertain. "Yeah, okay."
Alex nods, gets two glasses and pours and joins Tim at the kitchen table. He drops his head in his hands then leans it to one side to free up his cigarette and takes another long drag in.
"How about I tell you why I need a cigarette," the smoke trails out with the words, "and you tell me why you need a drink."
Tim is still watching, still uncertain. "Gonna turn this into a session, are we?"
"I'll take any scrap I can get from you."
"Yeah, okay." Tim sits back and folds his arms protectively.
Alex pushes ahead. "So, uh…one of my patients committed suicide a few days ago…"
"Wasn't me."
For a split second, Alex wants to be angry about the glib interruption then he realizes that's just Tim and it's good to have the sarcastic prick back.
Back in his room, Tim doesn't sleep. He's remembering. It was a nice break sitting in a dark apartment with a glass of something forty proof rather than in Alex's office. He thinks back on the conversation, the apartment session is what he calls it. It made sense at the time, the dialogue, but now that he's working backward through it, it seems like a lot of rounds spent and nothing hitting the target. He has no idea what the target is.
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