***
Simon didn't know what to think. If his apology hadn't been enough, then what had Morris wanted him to say or do? Was he mad simply because Simon had called him…that horrible name, and he didn't like it? Or was Morris mad because he really was…
No. It couldn't be possible, could it? Morris had always been popular, always dated lots of girls. He was one of the school's top athletes, and was probably not a virgin either. He couldn't be…could he? No.
So what reason did he have for getting so mad? It just didn't make sense.
The worst thing was, try as he might, Simon could not remember calling him that. He must have been really drunk, because he never would have used that word otherwise. How could he, when it would have hurt him just as badly to speak it as to be called it?
In a murky haze of confusion, guilt, loneliness, anger, and self-loathing, Simon walked home alone. By the time he arrived there, he had convinced himself that things could not possibly get any worse. He was wrong.
***
When he reached his bedroom, he saw Lucy blocking his entrance. She looked as if she had been waiting there for a while. Her arms were folded across her chest, and her face looked as if it had been a mixture of anger and sorrow for some time now.
She spoke softly, but Simon could still hear the pain in her trembling voice. "Well, Barb told me an interesting little story in philosophy class today."
"Oh my God," Simon muttered, dropping his eyes to the floor.
"Simon, how could you? Not only did you invade my privacy to get her phone number, but you lied to me about it, and then you did something even worse."
Simon kept his gaze on the floor. He could not believe this was happening now, after all the awful things that had already happened today.
"I swear, Simon, it's like I don't even know you any more," Lucy said with fresh tears in her eyes. "And I'm not sure I want to." That was the twist of the dagger. She quietly sobbed as she slipped past him on her way up to her room.
Across the hall, Ruthie walked out of the bathroom and said, "What a shame." For just a moment, Simon almost thought he saw sympathy in her eyes. Then she ruined the moment by continuing, "Life just isn't fair sometimes. I mean, I wanted to be the one to tell her. But what are you gonna do?" she asked with a shrug.
Numb again, Simon sank into his room and quietly closed the door. He leaned back against the door, slowly dropped to the floor, hung his head, and covered his eyes with his hands.
***
Nothing is right.
All the time. Lumps in my throat. Knots in my chest. Acid in my stomach. Cactus in my eyes.
My eyes, dry like the desert. Why can't I cry anymore? I wish I could take all this pain and eject it from my body through my tear ducts and force myself to feel better.
But I can't.
Nothing is right.
I remember the pocketknife, the one the Colonel gave me for my twelfth birthday. I never used it; it should still be sharp. It's in the back of my desk drawer. I could use it now; it would be fast and easy. I could cut my heart open and let all the pain bleed out of me.
God, what am I thinking? Things aren't that bad. Are they? I have a roof over my head. I have three meals a day.
So why do I feel so bad? Why is it impossible for me to be thankful anymore?
Because I have nothing to be thankful for. I don't care about the roof, or the food.
Do I? Would I rather be starving and homeless than to be living the way I am now? Would I rather be dead?
Yes.
Simon, you're crazy. What are you thinking this for? You need help. You need to talk to someone.
But whom? The people who used to care about me think I'm a disgrace, a disappointment, a liar, selfish and stupid. And they're right. I let everyone down over, and over, and over again. So if I talked to them and admitted how wrong everything is with me, would they hear me, and would they care?
I doubt it.
I never felt this way when I was a kid. I felt loved. I felt wanted.
Now nobody loves me. Nobody wants me.
Not even me.
I want to die.
No, no, no Simon stop! Stop thinking these things.
You know what to do. You know what to do.
It's the only thing you can do if you want to live here. Do it now and ask their forgiveness later. It's the only way you can live.
You know what to do.
Take out the card and give him a call.
***
"Jack?"
"Yes?"
"This is Simon Camden."
"Simon! Good to hear from you!" Those words were an enormous comfort. "Wow, it's been almost three whole days. You've been on the wagon for a long time, man."
"You're joking, right?"
"Yeah, I'm just messing with you. So what's going on?"
"I don't know. Nothing good," Simon said morosely.
"Oh, I see, nothing good's going on so you want to make something good happen?"
"Yeah, something like that, I guess."
"I think we can arrange that. Why don't you come on down to McSweeney's tonight? We're open right now, but the drinks get cheaper during happy hour. It starts at five o'clock."
"Um, sounds good." Simon paused, weighing whether or not he should ask the stupid question on his mind. Somehow the question blurted itself out: "Listen, Jack, you're not, like, some undercover cop who's trying to bust me for underage drinking are you? Because the way my day is going, it wouldn't surprise me a bit."
Jack laughed heartily. "No, Simon. If I were a cop, I wouldn't have been able to serve you Friday night, now would I? Listen, the Crawford campus police are the ones who patrol our district, and believe me, we pay them handsomely to look the other way about certain things. It works out profitably for both of us. In any case, you won't get caught. You have nothing to worry about."
Simon got a queasy feeling in his stomach. Buying alcohol from a guy who openly admitted paying police to look the other way regarding underage drinking? As sketchy as his beliefs about wrong and right had become, this still felt wrong.
Then again, what wasn't wrong anymore?
"OK, then. I'll see you around five."
***
Simon desperately pulled together as much money as he could find. Even though it had been closed for several years, the Bank of Simon still knew how to pool its resources. Friday night had dealt a major blow to his finances, but not a crushing one. In spite of everything, he had more than enough money left for round trip bus fare, and also for enough shots to get him smashed.
Running out of the house unnoticed by anyone, Simon headed for the bus stop. When he got there, though, he decided it was too risky to loiter. Someone could see him there and report him to his family.
He kept running a couple blocks north and then a couple west, into a neighborhood he wasn't so familiar with. Finding a bus stop, he waited until a city bus finally arrived. He boarded, dropped his fare into the slot, and looked around for a seat. The bus was empty.
***
As he sat alone, Simon couldn't help but think back to that ride to Crawford in Morris's jeep Friday night, with the blasting stereo speakers setting the mood, the cool wind in their faces, and Morris's golden locks fluttering alluringly in the breeze. That exhilarating ride had seemed to last mere minutes.
This one was taking an eternity. Simon pulled a route map brochure from a bracket on the wall and, upon examining it, he learned that he needed to transfer in a few stops. Great. That meant more waiting for the next bus, but at least that one would only have to make five stops before dropping him off at Crawford.
After transferring and riding the second bus to his destination, Simon got out and observed his surroundings. Crawford seemed like such a cool place. There were young adults everywhere, and they looked so trendy and smart and interesting.
-Why wouldn't Lucy and Mary want to live here? Hell, if I were going to Crawford I would get a damn job just so I could pay for my own place here. I'm so sick of home.-
***
Simon did his best not to look self-conscious about his age as he entered McSweeney's. He headed straight for the bar and sat down at an empty stool. Jack saw him and walked right over to him. He immediately leaned in and began speaking in a low voice so that no one else could hear him.
"Simon, listen, my buddy at the police station called and said a plainclothes officer is going to be patrolling the neighborhood around eight o'clock. Just to be on the safe side, we need to get you out of here before then."
"What? But I thought you said I wouldn't get in trouble…"
"Don't worry, you won't. Old Jack will take care of you. Now what'll you have?"
"Um, I don't know. What could get me really drunk, really fast?"
Jack sized him up and said, "You? Well, you're thin, you're young, and you showed us Friday that you have an exceptionally low tolerance. Frankly, just about anything could get you drunk fast. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'm gonna help you out here. I'll teach you how to drink at your own pace and enjoy it. No getting sick, no hangovers, none of that stuff. We'll still get you wasted. We're just going to do it more carefully."
"Cool. Let's do it."
***
Crack a smile and
cut your mouth
And drown in alcohol…
So kill your
health and kill yourself
And kill everything you love+
They were lyrics to a song Simon had never heard before, a song that played in the bar as he drank. Simon thought they were some of the most beautiful lyrics he had ever heard. They contained none of that uplifting, glory to God, love thy neighbor crap that he just couldn't feel any connection to anymore. Rather, the lyrics let him know that at least one person somewhere in the world had once felt the same pain as him; and they told him how to make the pain stop…
Kill your health and kill yourself…
And drown in alcohol
***
+Lyrics borrowed from "Burden in My Hand" by Soundgarden