Helga
I'm lying on my bed, not sleeping. My crazy hobo roommate is looking at me, her eyes poised on something I can't figure out. I try to ignore her but can't.
"Do you believe in god?" she asks me, "For he can save you from your torment!"
"Oh, shut up and go bed. It's five in the freaking morning!" I roll over so I don't have to see her, still feeling her presence from across the room. I wish I were home with my Arnold and son. But I have three more weeks in this hellhole. Maybe more if they decide to be evil about it. I would not put it passed them. They seem to like making you cry.
The first day I got here was the worst. After being sent to the nurse who did nothing to help my queasiness, I was told to go to some room for group therapy. I shuddered at the thought. What could a group of whinny little bitches do to help me? None of them had the to live through my hell. None of them had to grow up feeling like a complete nothing next to her a sister. None of them had to be told and time and time and again that she could do no wrong while your existence was labeled nothing but wrong. I could never be seen as a golden child to them and no one, not even my hair-boy husband can understand how that makes me feel. He says he does. But I doubt he'd throw me in this loony bin if he really knew. If he really loved me.
"Hello everyone. Lets all get seated," a chubby woman says as I enter. I have never seen her before, but I can tell by her gigantic size she must own a lot of cats. Or that vibrator you always hear those sluts in the city talk about. I suddenly get a flash of images of the fat woman trying to get off around a bunch of kitties. I nearly puke at the thought before I realize our group leader is the second fat person I've seen today.
But what is really making me nauseated are all those slogans plastered around the room. You know the ones, "Let it begin with me," "Think," and of course, "Keep it simple!" I want to tare them all down. I want to rip them up into a million tiny ribbons so KNOW ONE has to see those insipid sayings ever again.
I dash past the circled chairs and go to one, staring at its block like letters in blue: THINK. About what, I wonder. What do I have to think about? What does that slogan have to do with me? Feeling my insides burn with a harsh mixture of anger and sickness I take my hand and grab hold of the corner, aching to tare the life right out of it!
"Hello? Over by the sign? Could you please take a seat? We've started." I groan, shooting mean looks at miss Fatty Cat.
"Come on now, we don't bite. Just take a seat and relax." Her smile reminds me of Mr. Simons and I find myself fighting the impulse to puke again. I lower my hands from the poster and walk slowly over to the group; feeling like sitting may be the best thing for me. Though, I don't see how.
My stomach settles a little as I glance at the others around me. They all look pathetic and needy, each staring at each other. I sigh, wishing I could grab a smoke or at least some coffee that's not decaf.
"So good of you to join us!" Pat beams. She claps her hands and I think about lunging to kill her. My heart races as I envision it, concocting the many ways I can snuff out her constant smiles and pleasing attitude. I dart my eyes around the room for my weapon, trying to find something that's quick to use, but hard to trace. I panic as I realize the only things I find usable are those stupid posters stapled to the walls.
"Miss, are you ok? You look flushed!"
"SHUT UP! I'm trying to think!"
"About what? You can tells us…"
"Fat chance!" I stand up, panning the room. I want to end this! I want run out and never come back! My hands quaver again, making me feel as though I'm about to die of a seizer. "FUCKING HANDS!" I scream, shaking them outward.
"Come on, you need to relax," she says as she comes towards me. She gently puts her hands on mine, clasping her fat hotdog fingers around my trembling limbs. Once she has them down, she slowly but surly messages them and soon I find myself calming. Before I can even ask how, I know that I am crying.
"I don't want to be here right now," I sob, looking at her, "What can I do to get out? I just…I want to get out of here…" Pat sighs some, letting go of my hands for my shoulders.
"We work it because you're worth it!" is all she says. And that's how it's been the whole week. No matter what I say or do, I end up blubbering like some baby, like my son who I'm aching to hold.
I turn back to my crazy roommate who is finally quite.
"Got any smokes?" I ask desperately.
"God does not allow his angles to partake in the smoke!" I groan and turn back to my wall. Three god-dammed weeks left. Joy.
Arnold and the pig
I am rushing to get to my office, driving as fast as the Hillwood streets would allow. The coffee is doing nothing to wake me up and my headache that started the moment I left my son is now raping my temples. It flashes and throbs, stabbing around my eyes and for second and I wonder if this is how a certain someone felt when she…
"Crap! What now!" I say as a cop car siren reverberates behind me. Seeing the flashing lights I slow the old Packard to a stop. As I turn off the aging engine I look at my watch and silently curse the pig that's holding me up. A few bacon jokes come to mind and I almost turn my head out to yell them. Instead I sit in the cold car and wait.
"License and registration please," he says to me. I jarringly flip open the glove the compartment with my left hand while I stare at the ticking seconds on my watch. The papers fall on the floor and I curse as I grab them.
"What was that son?" the pig asks me.
"Nothing! Here!" He takes my papers and glances at them, nodding at something.
"If I were you I'd adjust my tone Mr. Shortman."
"Sorry!" The cop hands me my papers and I can smell the distinct scent of donuts and coffee wafting off his gloved hands. I try not to laugh, finding it almost funny that the one oinker who stops me happens to conform to the cop stereotype. I wouldn't be surprised if he were Irish.
"Son, do you realize that you were going 45 in a 25 mile zone?"
"I'm late for work!"
"Unless your work is fighting fires," he says as he starts writing my ticket, "I suggest you cool off. Looks to me like you could use it." I groan, stamping my head on the steering wheel. The pig hands me my ticket and peers into the car.
"You all right?" he asks me. I take the thin paper from his hands and crumple the middle of it on my palm. Then, sensing he might ticket me for that, I take the bible thin bill and flatten it out on my knee before placing it in the glove compartment.
Suddenly, Edith's song from my dream plays and I find myself near tears. The moment flushes into my sight and I can almost feel her soft skin on me, her decadent kisses that envelope me, and the sweet smell of peach that rises off her as we move mid coital. The song gets louder and I almost speed off into the morning, wishing I were a million miles away from anything that reminds me of her. Sniffling, I wipe away my tears and hope the oversized bacon bit doesn't see me cry.
"Gotta take this, give me sec." The song stops and I realize it was the ring tone of the pigs cell. I sigh, happy the tune is gone from my ears.
"Sorry about that," he says as he turns to me again, "Phones are amazing aren't they? I saw Inception last week on DVD. Crazy movie, I didn't get it all. But I loved the music. Got my son to show me how to download the ringer." He chuckles a little. "Back in my day phones just rang. Ya know, a simple ring-ring would do. But now we have to have all these new tones and tunes," he smiles at me, "Look kid, just relax all right?" The cop gives me a polite wave and strolls off, leavening me with the one haunting memory that won't go away.