Tuesday, November 23:
Johnny's Place
Johnny made it to the refuge of his apartment this time without running into his landlady or anyone else. Once inside the door, he wrinkled his nose in dismay. The few days of neglect were already beginning to tell in his once tidy apartment. After being closed up for twenty-four hours, the faint odor of beer emanating from the spill on the carpet that he had never cleaned up made the place smell reminiscent of a dive. Dirty clothing was wadded up and strewn here and there on various pieces of furniture and on the floor. Newspapers and mail spilled from a table near the door. The kitchen was the only clean room in the place, mostly because it hadn't been used for anything recently except Roy's visit on Saturday.
He mustered enough energy to dump the clothing into one pile, but the idea of going to the Laundromat was too much. Heading back to the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator in search of something to drink. He was briefly tempted by the false siren song of the beer promising to lull him into oblivion, but memories of the recent, unpleasant experience led him to choose juice instead.
Bringing the carton back with him, he sat down on the sofa, his body sagging into the cushions. He could still detect the faint odor of smoke clinging to his skin and hair, despite the two showers at the station. Once smoke got into something, it took forever for the smell to dissipate. His mind wandered through the events of the last shift. He put his head back and closed his eyes. As he thought about the last fire, tears stung in his eyes for the dark-haired, almond-eyed child whose body he had carried over to the squad. The tears managed to squeeze past his eyelids, and soon he was weeping not for the little girl, but for himself.
The past was gone. He had no future. There was only the unremitting blackness of the present.
He lay curled up in a ball on the sofa, listening to the catch in his breath left over from the tears. Other sounds began to penetrate his awareness. The noise of car horns and squealing brakes from the traffic outside filtered into the room. He heard an apartment door slam down the hall, and people laughing. The odor of bus exhaust, mingling with that of bacon frying from someone's breakfast wafted through the air. From where he lay, he could see through the window the hazy, bluish-gray hue that more often than not colored the skies above LA. Sometimes the noise and the dirt and the people were too oppressive. He knew he had to get away for a while. Being in the mountains always renewed his spirit. He knew where he wanted to go. Wearily pushing himself off the sofa, he called headquarters and made arrangements to take a vacation day after the next shift. That would give him five days away from everything.