Disclaimer: Property of ASP and the WB
Author's Note: It's been a while but here I am again. This chapter is a little different than those which have come before. I hope you'll like it anyway.
Chapter Four: Past Choices
Isn't it funny how life moves in cycles? Life is like the seasons: ever-changing, always fundamentally the same. Spring, summer, autumn, winter; Rainy season - dry season; six months of darkness, six months of light. Life goes on repeating itself and there isn't anything anyone can do to change it.
* * *
By the time I find Daly on the fifth floor, and tell him the boss has passed out downstairs, it's already eight and I'm late for work. I have two jobs, you see, bartending by night, working in a garage by day. Ever since my sister got sick and had to stop teaching, it's been a balancing act between sleep and work. Her kids are real good about it though, and the guys at the garage understand if I'm late. Besides, the boss always makes it up to me when this happens.
* * *
He wonders if they'll be waiting for him when he gets there. He can't be sure of anything. Corey had said they'd let up on him now. Corey had said that if he just did this one last thing, they'd leave him alone. Corey is a prick and a liar. He knows this already; but Corey is the only one who'll talk to him. He rubs his eyes. He hates dorm duty, walking around, inspecting every room. If anyone breaks curfew it's his fault. The joys of being a senior. He hopes Corey isn't lying. He hopes that reporting everyone accounted for, while room 6C sneaks out, will finally buy him acceptance.
* * *
I take the stairs two at a time, Daly jogging after me. We pick the boss up between us and Rosele shows up out of nowhere and says she'll clean up the bottles and broken glass. We manage to get him outside fairly easily, and into Daly's car in the underground parking lot. Sometimes he'll get wild on you, thrashing and yelling, but this morning he seems pretty out of it. Daly shifts his car into gear and then we're off, gunning down the sun soaked streets of L.A., which is, if you know the city, a rare occurrence. The boss says he likes it grey, but he's a rain and fog kind of guy really. Not that he's gloomy or anything, but just hanging around him makes a guy feel down. Life's funny, huh? I'm the guy with two nieces to feed and a sister who's knows she's dying, despite what I tell her, and somehow I'm calling this easy-living boozer the poor bastard. It'd be laugh-out-loud funny if it weren't so damn sad.
* * *
The one good thing about dorm duty is getting the showers to yourself. After reporting in, he's allowed to prepare for bed in peace. There's always the chance of being attacked in the showers when the others are there, so easy for them to say: "He simply slipped sir, the tiles get wet in there. We all saw it sir, nobody was to blame." They've done it so many times already, leaving him bruised and helplessly angry. Before, they left him alone when he had dorm-duty, but will tonight be different? Will they be waiting and will Corey laugh and say "Sucker" while he punches in his guts? No way of knowing. He passes by his locker, gets his soap, shampoo and towel. The showers are on the same floor as the Senior lockers. A perk, he supposes.
* * *
The boss lives in a nice enough area. He could probably do better with what he makes, but who knows? The apartment's pretty fancy. One of those places that comes fully furnished. That's another thing about the boss, he doesn't keep a lot of stuff. In my opinion, it could be anyone living in his apartment, and that's never a good sign. Before I got the job at the Bombay, I worked in a lot of smaller places. I've taken a fair number of drunks home in my time, and lots of them were sad jerks, but it was always the ones living in empty sort of places that you heard about later, smashing themselves up in their cars, or jumping off high places. I figure some of those guy were probably happier dead, but as far as the boss is concerned, I'd like him to stick around. The Bombay pays well and tips are good. It's the best spot I've had since I started tending bar, and the boss got me working on the VIP floor, where the tips are always bigger, when he heard about my sister. He can be strange like that sometimes.
If he shifted off who knows what would happen? A lot of clubs go down when management changes. Some owners become legends in their own clubs, and that starts drawing people. The boss was like that when he started, it was around three years ago. Suddenly there was a new face on the scene, young, suave, supremely cool. That's what the atmosphere is all about really, and the boss just fit. If you've ever gone clubbing you'll probably know what I mean. Some people just seem to belong; they can dance, they can drink, they can talk above the music without shouting. The people who live for dim light and smoky air and a million neon signs shining in the darkness. Too beautiful to be real, too cool to exist under anything but moonlight. People like that grow out of the shadows, fade when the sun comes up. That's the boss, and people like it. He's always in control, gliding through what he makes a sort of night-time kingdom. No door is closed, nothing denied him. He's rich and strange and he makes you wonder.
But somehow, in the light of day, he always looks less real. Who is he really? Just another face, no one who matters in the reality of daily life. A man who favours one-night stands, since somehow, in the mornings, he's never what he'd seemed. King of dreams.
I used to envy people like the boss, until I met him, and drove him home for the first time. He might look better, live better, but what good is that when he's drowning himself in alcohol anyway? My cousin was the same way, living the high life, making us envy her. The one day she ends up in hospital, having her stomach pumped, and we all have to ask ourselves, what really makes you happy?
* * *
He's yawning as he walks into the shower room, feeling sleepy, already dreading morning bugle call and the run before breakfast. He closes his eyes for a second. He hears a faint moan. Instantly his eyes snap open, his body tenses. Cautiously, ears pricked, he approaches the wall separating sinks and shower stalls. He peers around it. There is silence. He looks round carefully, finds what he is looking for. The corner stall, with a funny trickle of pinkish water coming out from under it. He is suddenly terribly afraid. He rushes to the corner stall, caution forgotten. He flings open the stall door. He thinks he is going to be sick. The shower is running, water falling clearly from the showerhead. On the floor is a small boy, one of the seventh graders. His face is unrecognisable. His eyes are swollen shut and black, his lips puffy, his nose bent funnily. He is missing several teeth. A stream of blood flows from his mouth, mixes with the water. The kid cringes when he sees the figure looming over him, but groggily, like someone who has been shaken from a deep sleep. "Shh, shh," says the older boy, bending down. He recognizes the kid. Gently he lifts the boy, cradling him in his arms. One of the kid's arms hangs uselessly. "Shh," says the older boy, and blinks back the stinging behind his eyelids. This is the kid he's supposed to mentor. All the seniors are given freshmen to mentor, it's supposedly a way to provide the young and impressionable with strong role-models.
He looks helplessly down at the boy in his arms, and the cruelty of it threatens to overwhelm him. Was this what room 6C had accomplished while he'd reported them asleep in bed? What hatred, he wonders, what kind of hatred could drive them to punish an innocent kid who had the bad luck to get me in the mentor system? He thinks he knows. It is the kind of hatred which burns through him as he walks to the infirmary building, a flame which burns brighter than the hundreds of stars twinkling overhead.
* * *
We empty the boss's pockets, looking for his keys, and Daly says he thinks the boss is coming round. We open the door, stick the boss on the sofa, and Daly's just turning to ask me if we should wait till the boss wakes up, when suddenly the boss is on his feet and he's grabbed Daly by the throat, and it's the scariest thing I've seen in a long time. "You're not going to get away with it," says the boss, and he's furious, his pupils so huge that his eyes look almost black. "I won't forget, I never forget!" Daly's petrified and his face is turning purple, the boss is holding him so tight. "Boss," I say, "please, Boss, wake up, wake up!" and my voice is a squeak. He turns his head suddenly, and his eyes seem to go back to normal." Jack?" he asks, and his voice is warm again and slightly drunk. "Boss," I say again, "Please, I think you're strangling Daly." He looks back at Daly and lets go, and Daly stumbles back and he starts wheezing. "Hell," says the boss, "I thought for a second..." and then he mumbles something which sounds like Corey. "Hell," says the boss again, "I'm sorry. Have a drink guys, Daly, I'm sorry." Daly just nods, but I can tell he's still scared out of his mind.
We all have a drink, and the boss seems to be sobering up, but Daly and I are still feeling shaken. It's things like this which make me wonder about the boss. What does he dream about, that makes him so cold, sharper-than-ice angry, that makes him ready to strangle a man half to death? The boss is a fine guy when you get to know him, despite what some people say, he's always fair. Maybe he isn't ready to be your best buddy, which some people feel snubbed by, but he at least treats everyone the same. I like the boss really, he's not a friend, but he keeps his word. I like the boss and yet sometimes, always when he's half awake, he's someone I don't know and don't want to know. Once he's awake he's always in control, but that's kind of what scares me. What is he keeping down? What kind of thing creeps out when his mind is away? That's what really freaks me out. What if one day he just snaps? I'm a grown man, thirty-five years old, but sometimes, when I see his face, so contorted by rage, I think that maybe he's worse than the nightmares I screamed at as a kid.
* * *
He watches Daly and Jack. They're both silent as they drain their glasses. They're both afraid, he senses. He regrets this morning's actions, but sometimes he can't be sure of what is dream and what reality. Poor Daly. He'll get over it soon enough. Push it to the back of his mind, where unwanted memories go. Fair enough. Tristan almost feels like sighing, but he knows that will make Jack look at him. Jack wonders about him enough as it is. He wonders sometimes, what Jack thinks of him. How many violent outbursts has he witnessed? How many unrestrained attacks has he endured? Jack is a good guy. Tristan wishes he could do something more to help him. There are so many he has wanted to help. So many he has wanted to hurt.
He knows why he almost strangled Daly this morning. He remembers the dream. He remembers that night vividly, the walk to the Infirmary, the vigil by the kid's bedside. He remembers the kid's confusion, his inability to understand the random and vicious attack. He remembers watching the kid's parents arrive the next day to take him away, the way they'd thanked him for helping their son. Helping their son. It was like a slap in the face. He remembers mostly the kid's mother. The way her voice thanked him, while her eyes accused: Why didn't you save him, protect him? He'd wanted to explain that he couldn't even save himself, but he only lowered his eyes, stayed silent, watched them drive away.
Afterwards he found that he was different. Somehow he was changed over night. Before, he had been weak, frightened. After, the hatred made him strong. The hatred saved him. The next time he was ambushed in the showers, the hatred pushed him until somehow two of his attackers lay unconscious and he was sitting on top of Corey Lurt, hitting him over and over until the sergeant rushed in and pulled him off. Later, when he learned that he'd broken Corey's jaw, he'd thought of the kid's mother. 'I could look her in the eyes now,' he'd thought, and the hatred had whispered quietly in his ear, "Well done."
