A/N: Originally, this was going to be the Beach House chapter. But, after two scenes and they weren't even there yet, and it was well into the thousands of words...so I started a new chapter.
A sprinkling of Arnold among our beloved side kids of PS 188.. We needed to address some things; and they will be addressed below. Enjoy.
Keeping Arnold - Chapter 19, A Great Wanting in Common
"I regret that it takes a life to learn how to live." - Jonathan Safran Foer
The smell of coconut has a particular rich freshness that always inevitably dragged Rhonda's thoughts to the sea like a trawling net; though she was not a mariner or particularly enamored of the ocean and its antiquated charms, she like all other Hillwoodians grew up on the coast and therefore had her memories made pregnant with the nostalgia of the tides. It brought her back to smaller, simpler times when she was almost too little to know the difference between the rich and the poor, and she merely had friends and could build a sandcastle in absolute freedom. She had powerful memories of her first two piece swimsuit and the agonizing choices of fashion she was presented with as a teen, and of a few summer flings with simple wharf rats and surfer boys that she couldn't remember from the shoulders down.
It was at the beach she awoke to her bisexuality, and it was at a beach that she first explored it with a summer fling, a year after Nadine had left for their misunderstandings.
Rhonda wasn't a great thinker as classical philosophers would understand, but within Rhonda Wellington-Lloyd there were depths nobody saw but herself. It was unfair to think of her as shallow, scandalous, or cruel merely because she was very good at being those things. She had a heart and feelings and all the messed up dramatic confusion that it entailed. It was her perennial privilege and curse that she she had such a conscious beauty to her that most underestimated her depth.
She longed for a meaningful relationship and connection with someone that understood her. She searched for who she was in other people, and the mirrored reflection that came back to her only focused all the sharper that shallow projection she affected. She recognized it was her own doing, for the most part, although it hadn't entirely been intentional. She liked fashion and cared deeply about it, and couldn't understand why anyone else didn't. How Helga allowed herself to be seen in the clothes she chose to pay her own money for was a puzzle Rhonda gave up trying to solve in high school. And she very much cared about who people were dating, and how their relationship was unfolding, not out of any malice (although, sometimes out of malice), but out of deeply sincere curiosity.
How do people love one another like Helga and Arnold love one another? It was a question she'd pondered many times in this week, and it was a question she still didn't have an answer to. She'd misjudged Arnold and Helga both for their behaviors regarding LIla. Her regrets had been plainly stated in a curt phone call to Helga, and laboriously, tearfully sobbed to Arnold in a chat in person. She truly cared for Arnold and had insisted her apology be made to his face. He accepted it graciously, and insisted she never think of her little indiscretion of faith in him again. She made that promise easily.
I always like when I am wrong about infidelity. Cheaters disgusted Rhonda on a level that was truly genetic. Her father had his share of affairs at her mother's expense, and though her mother stoically suffered through them in heroically Wellington fashion, the memory of those indignities had never left Rhonda. It had only rankled her further still when her mother patiently, adoringly explained to her that, Darling, every man cheats. It was the first time she considered girls as a viable option.
Of course, now, she understood more that she had been looking for a reason to consider girls a viable option and her own confirmation bias had falsely suggested to her that her bisexuality had formed because men cheat. It wasn't until much later, as a teenager suddenly bereft of her best friend, that she allowed herself to fully explore those feelings. What she found, to her disgust, is that women cheat too. Not just a few of them. Every girl she'd become involved with had dishonored her.
So she stuck to Sid. Sid was stupid, Sid was easy, and Sid was convenient. Sid was also probably in love with her - or thought he was - but it didn't stop him from chasing strange whenever the opportunity arose. A Pawn Shop owner is afforded many opportunities for illicit encounters, it turns out. But his infidelities to their erstwhile on-again, off-again relationship allowed her to comfortably ignore his deeper, red feelings for her.
Which is why the figure lying in front of her, smiling over her bare shoulder expectantly at Rhonda with a "Well? What are you waiting for?" look in her eyes troubled her so much. Nadine. Here was a woman that had proven herself faithful - so far. Time would most likely make her a liar, and that inevitability drove a powerful fear into Rhonda that made her feel very little, and uncharacteristically unsure.
Rhonda was straddling Nadine's hips, rubbing coconut oil lotion into her bronzed back. Nadine wasn't wearing a top, so Rhonda could see the pretty, dramatic line of her tan stop where a bikini strap would be, and then pick up again about an quarter of an inch below. The coconut oil made her golden skin shine like fresh caramel. The smell was overwhelmingly sweet, and fresh, and it made her think of the sea, which made her nostalgic, and think about romance. And how hers had all failed.
Nadine seemed to notice the particular pause on her masseuse's face, and leaned up on her elbows slightly.
"What's up?" Her braided dreaded hair was up in a high bun, exposing the pretty, extremely fine baby hairs as soft as spun silk at the base of her hairline. Rhonda had paused, mid-massage, fleeting memories and lost regrets overwhelming her with the scent of coconut.
"Just thinking," Rhonda admitted, and attempted to resume her admittedly unskilled backrub. Rhonda was usually the one receiving these things, and was fairly sure she was rotten at them. Insecurity is another thing Rhonda didn't like. Nadine seemed to make her more and more insecure all the time.
"About?" Nadine patiently smiled and laid back down, resting her face on her crossed arms in front of her.
"Beaches, actually." Rhonda paused her slow rub of Nadine's wonderfully muscled back and shoulders. "Am I shallow?"
"Mmmm, marvelously so." Nadine laughed at her own jab.
"I'm serious, actually, Nadine." Her tone communicated that her joke was not appreciated.
"My goodness," Nadine breathed through her nose hard. "What's got you so insecure suddenly?"
"The smell of coconut. Are you going to answer me seriously?"
Nadine propped herself up again and turned her torso halfway to face Rhonda more clearly. Her skin creased like peanut butter folding against itself. "Rhonda, we don't have a of time together left before I go back. Are you sure you want to explore this line of thought with me?"
"What's that supposed to mean? Of course I do. You're...my best friend. Who else but Nadine can I discuss this with?"
"Best friend? You were shouting otherwise when I had my mouth on you last night."
True, she got quite a bit out of me, Rhonda blushed to remember. She'd had girlfriends, but never really...gone all the way with them before. Nadine was full of firsts for her.
"Do not get vulgar with me when I ask you a serious question about the jewel of my personality." Rhonda firmly planted an oil-slick hand on Nadine's head and pushed it forcefully back onto her arms. "Now lay down, and answer me."
Nadine huffed a sigh while Rhonda's hands returned to clumsily rubbing her back. "How do you expect me to even answer that?"
"A yes or no would suffice."
"Then, I guess, yes. You are pretty shallow. But I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing."
Rhonda paused. She did not like that answer. "Explain."
"Aw geez don't get mad. You basically forced the issue."
Rhonda snorted. "I'm not mad. I want you to explain your answer to me. Please."
Nadine paused for a longer time than Rhonda was prepared to wait. She finally responded.
"I think, for better or for worse, you have Rhonda on the mind more than you have anyone else. I think you always have. I left for a few reasons but one of them was definitely how dense you are about other people's feelings."
"I know how other people feel, usually, I just don't see the need to take it into consideration most of the time."
"Exactly my point. I don't think you are intentionally cruel, but gosh you were certainly inconsiderate. I felt taken for granted for a long time. It took my own independent success as a photographer out on my own to feel like I had worth without you there to tell me so."
Rhonda had stopped rubbing again. "I did that to you?"
"Why do you think I was so bitterly angry at you?"
"Rejection."
Nadine scoffed again, and sighed a long, slightly bittersweet sigh. "Oh I definitely felt rejected by you. We were best friends and I confessed feeling far more than that, and you didn't reciprocate. Or couldn't, or whatever it is you believe now. But more than anything I felt, I dunno, betrayed by how little you seemed to regard my desolation by your rejection. It seemed to matter to you so little."
"Nadine, I couldn't control how you felt about me. And at the time, I couldn't return your feelings. Logically, what could I have even done for you? Continue to lead you on with comfort? Would that have been better?"
Nadine seemed to be getting frustrated now, and leaned herself up on her arms. "Tell me why you brought this up during my sexy back rub again? We already apologized to each other for the past, and it feels like you want me to feel bad that you had to apologize at all."
Rhonda slipped off Nadine's back and stood beside the bed, her arms crossed.
"I just asked if you thought I was shallow and you launched into your rehash of the past like some kind of intrepid psychonaut. You brought it up, not me."
Nadine swiveled to sit up, her bare chest covered with an arm. It's funny how our chaste instincts kick in when we are uncomfortable, even when we are with someone that we have been deeply intimate with.
"You're right, I did, but as an example of how your shallowness has hurt people around you before. But I still have feelings for you, shallowness and all. Don't make this another fight."
Rhonda wanted to fight for some reason. She wanted to escalate this past forgiveness and tear away from the promise of intimacy and exposure. The instinct was very strong to cut that closeness off and flee.
"Very well," she finally responded. She wouldn't run this time. Nadine was finally back in her life, and it felt too good to chase away. "But if we are going to be anything, friends or lovers or something in between, I think we need to work this out."
"Okay fine. I can agree to that."
Rhonda felt terribly awkward standing with oiled hands in front of her topless former best friend for a brief moment, a wholly unwelcome sensation she immediately disregarded as best she could.
"I think perhaps we rushed into our reconciliation a bit prematurely," Rhonda sighed, looking at the glisten of the oil on her slender hands. "There's still so much to discuss."
"Oh babe, I just wanted you. From when I saw you at the door I just had to have you. I had all kinds of speeches planned for this, but they all kind of fell out of my head when I saw you again. If we rushed anything it's because we both needed each other."
"You think I need you?" Rhonda slipped upwards one of the sliver-thin eyebrows on her pretty sloping oval-shaped forehead.
Nadine laughed and reached for her bra, standing up and turning away while she snapped it into place. Apparently the back rub was over. "I think you needed someone that wasn't Sid. Poor boy. Maybe I fit the bill. I'd like to."
"I think if we...consider this to be more than a passing fling of long-built passions, we ought to get some things out of the way. Primarily, Rhonda Wellington-Lloyd doesn't need anyone."
Nadine just looked at her, her expression unimpressed. "Really, princess? Because from where I stood, you were just fine getting my help and emotional support when the chips were down."
"You're a beloved friend, returned to me at last. Of course I enjoyed the support you volunteered. But I didn't ask for it."
"Unbelievable," Nadine snorted, throwing her hands up. "I knew coming back to Hillwood was a mistake. You're not serious about trying to reconcile with me, much less try to date. How am I supposed to accept that your apology was sincere when you act like this?"
"I do everything with sincerity, especially lie. But I didn't deceive you; I truly really am quite sorry for the barbaric way I treated your bravery in coming out to me, and I handled your confession to me with even more barbarism. I was unforgivably violent to your friendship, and it remains my largest regret aside from what happened to Eugene. If you think my perspective on these events is questionable, that's fine, but don't you dare question the honesty of my very real protestation at your mercies, Nadine."
Rhonda completed her rather barbed response with a quick turn in her bare heel. She stomped with physical anger to the front door of the hotel room, slipping her long narrow feet into the flats she'd worn that day (black, with gold bows on the toes).
"Rhonda, wait," Nadine pleaded. Rhonda snorted a laugh of derision, shrugging her slender shoulders.
"Talk fast, because I give second chances only rarely. Third chances are unheard of."
"It's your phone," she held up Rhonda's iPhone, which was lit with a screen notification of some kind. "Uh. And mine?" She held up her own phone, showing a similar state. "We just got a group notification."
Rhonda immediately closed the distance in three neat strides. Her iPhone was snatched from Nadine's grasp, the toxicity of their conversation immediately forgotten. For notable, singular reasons, group texts had become something that Rhonda needs must devote her entire focus of attention towards.
She deflated into relief when she saw it was just from Phoebe. Specifically, it was a rather long-winded invitation to spend five days at the Pataki beach house, all on the Pataki tab. It even came with a well-framed little picture of the three story building in question. "Nadine, remind me to very firmly and very politely tell Phoebe never to send mass texts to everyone again."
Nadine scoffed audibly. "No kidding. Looks like it's an event invite. Girl, hasn't she heard of Facebook?"
Rhonda couldn't help be smile a tiny bit, even if she was still determined to be quite put out and insulted by Nadine. "I think Phoebe still uses her Livejournal," Rhonda snickered. "But regardless, the girl has her heart in the right place. While I spend plenty of time in the sun, a few days unwinding at the beach does sound divine. Let's see who the roster includes."
Rhonda scrolled through the list of contacts that Phoebe had sent her little invitation.
She discarded her phone on the bed. "Oh, just everyone from PS118 and a few others. Marvelous. Another reunion is just what this town needs."
"Sarcasm has always sounded good on you," Nadine teased. "But I actually think it's a good idea."
"You do?"
"Yeah. I mean, we all just went through some pretty heavy stuff. I think we could use a break. Maybe settle bad blood while we're at it. Nothing helps put grievances aside like getting day drunk on margaritas together."
Rhonda's thin lips pursed. "You have a compelling argument, Nadine. But don't forget, we're quarrelling right now. A reunion hardly did anything to help our problems."
"That's because you're stubborn, selfish, insensitive, and kind of clueless when it comes to other people's feelings. But I'm a rough, tactless busybody with no sense of subtlety. We can, I dunno. Try to work on that?"
A warm affection bled itself through Rhonda. Nadine still had that old magic charm that disarmed her. Allowing her emotions to bubble over, she extended her arms to grasp Nadine around the shoulders, hugging her loosely. Nadine wasn't having any of this loose, distant hugging crap, so she hauled Rhonda's slip of a body against her own and squeezed her tight, chest to chest. Their sternums touched, and Rhonda could feel the excited way Nadine's heart skipped and trilled against her.
At last, they separated.
"What if...we don't work?"
"I won't lie, my experience dating girls has been one hundred percent unsuccessful." Nadine grinned. "But I don't know any other way. And if you can handle being with a bug photographer, I'll take good care of you, baby."
"That didn't answer my question."
"Look," Nadine sighed, squeezing her waist. "If there's something about being my girlfriend that doesn't work for you, this beach trip will tell us that. But I've been in love with you for a long, long time. But first you were my best friend. That won't change."
"I think you underestimate breaking up with Rhonda Wellington-Lloyd, at your peril."
"Are you kidding me? I watched you fold teenage boys in half like a saltine cracker more times than I can count. I know how you do breakups. If we don't work, we can just...make a clean break by me leaving town."
"Dear, you're being naive. Friendship after being lovers, it doesn't work. It's not something I can do."
Nadine chewed her lip pensively. "Okay...okay, well. I have to try?" Something desperate was in Nadine's voice. It touched Rhonda deeply.
"Well," Rhonda sighed, separating and plucking up her phone. "We've gone much too far to stop now. I'll RSVP the both of us. One room. We'll pack my shallowness and insensitivity and your brusque carelessness and try to make the most of the beach together."
Nadine smiled wide.
"But," Rhonda completed replying to the group text with her responded intention to attend, "if this doesn't work, you fly back home, and that's that. I don't think we should talk afterwards."
The two women stared long and hard at each other, examining one another for some sense of truth, some hidden invisible means to decode the other. Rhonda knew that Nadine made her the best she could be, but she also knew the worst came out of her when they were together. And yet, something else tugged her in Nadine's direction, a morbid sense of finality that called to her blood.
"Deal." Nadine stuck out her hand for a handshake. Rhonda was struck by the disarming gesture.
"I've never begun a romantic entanglement by means of handshake, but I suppose in the circumstances it will suffice." She placed her dainty hand in Nadine's, and squeezed the fingers while shaking. "Don't make me regret this," she warned.
"Don't worry," Nadine smiled. "I intend to take you home with me and never look back."
Rhonda had to admit, if the beach trip went well, that sounded just fine with her.
Eugene hummed along to a Hamilton song while he stocked trick cards and sleeve-mounted flowers, completely absent from both his singing and the business of the magic shop and totally lost in the preoccupation of fantasy.
It sure is nice that Helga and Arnold worked things out, Eugene mused, recognizing the goodness and relief in that statement but having no emotional connection to it. In fact, Eugene was completely hollow, tip to toe, and had been for the better part of two years.
He smiled and made small talk and chit chat with a customer, a young magician aspirant with a penchant for lighter fluid, and completed sales, and in general was a model employee of The Amazing Dan's Magic Shop and Illusion Emporium. Once the customer was gone, he was alone again in the shop, cleaning and making the stock presentable, and only knocking things off shelves about thirty percent of the time. Not a bad record for Eugene.
A familiar shuffle of aged feet told him that Dan - real name Lewis Feinstein - was out of the back office where he spent most of his day napping, and was on his way to the front.
"Eugene my boy, I found the perfect part for you," the old man wheezed. A bad lung made his voice sound wet and raspy when he talked. A lifetime of chomping cigars and drinking cheap brown liquor gave him a rich and low timbre of voice that crooked his Jersey accent into pleasant territory.
Dan made the turn around a corner, and all five feet of him - standing shorter than Eugene, even - appeared. His face looked like an old pale pumpkin left to rot, caved in and sagging in deep lines along his chin, eyes, and forehead. His chin had a downy white fuzz like an orange gon to molding, and an almost toothless smile creased his old face more often than not. Three prominent conical groupings of wispy white hair stuck out from his liver-spotted bald head in odd angles. He slicked them up to appear more "fantastical," his words. Even in his retirement and dotage, he still wore the tailed tux jacket, flapping dickie, trick suspenders, and over-sized hoop-waisted black trousers of his magical career. If he ever donned face paint, he would make a convincing clown.
Lewis Feinstein was a relic of a bygone era of stage performance and magic that had its heydey in the manic economic boom of the post-war American obsession with gaiety. Where illusions had the gravitas and theatrical seriousness of a Wagnerian opera around the turn of the century, by the time that Lewis Feinstein had adopted the name The Amazing Lewis in 1959 at the age of 15, magicians were firmly vaudevillian and camp. His act consisted largely of appearing to be unable to complete any of his illusions without bumbling, and he would exaggeratedly reach into his oversized, wobbling trousers, pull out of a massive, weighty-looking tome ominously scrawled with the title The Trick to Magic, and feign bemused frustration while he thumbed through the volume looking for the secret of whatever particular magic trick he'd faked his failure. It was pretty funny.
Eugene met Lewis, or Dan, when he had just had his life ruined by the overwhelming attacks of a theater community outraged that some scheming underaged twink like Eugene had attempted to sully the good name of one of their community darlings by outing a supposed affair. Of course, the reality was, Eugene never outed anything, it was all Rhonda and Fuzzy Slippers. And what's more, the affair was all too real, and Eugene's biggest regret. Nevermind that a man ten years his senior had involved himself with student that was only just barely old enough to consenting age, behind his wife's back, on school property. For a month. The sad truth was, the story was easier to blame the victim, and Eugene's luck had finally, finally run out.
His promising future as a local theater actor ended overnight. His dreams died with the last vestiges of his reputation among the many powerful people his former teacher, then lover, was connected to. It was just one sad story without a happy ending, just one like any other, and Eugene was fine with his life coming to an abrupt, anticlimactic end. It fit. His whole life, he'd been a bumbling, clumsy mess, prone to self-injury and getting in his own way, and too optimistic for his own good.
Those days were over. Now, he worked in the magic shop, kept Lewis company, and occasionally made it to a party that Rhonda invited him to out of an overwhelming burden of guilt. He'd watch plays and yearn, and he'd sing musicals to himself when he was alone, but he'd never look out onto the faces in the darkness of a theater audience again.
Which is why when Dan shuffled his way to the counter and slapped a casting call leaflet in front of Eugene - probably for the hundredth time since he got this job - he was more than just a little weary.
"My boy, this will be the one that gets you out there," Dan insisted with one gnarled finger held pointed at Eugene for emphasis. "No more moping about and making my store a gloomy cave. This part's perfect - it's got rap!"
"Rap?" Eugene wrinkled his freckled nose, unfolding his arms to lift up the casting call. Hamilton. He was just humming that earlier. "Oh, no, Lewis-"
"Call me Dan," he commanded. It was a shop rule. Stage names only in the shop.
"Dan, this is Hamilton. I can't audition for this even if I wanted to, local theater or anythng."
"Why not? You got the pipes! And rap's what all the young kids like you are about these days, right?"
Dan's only distant understanding of what the young kids were about these days was one of his more wearying charms.
"Well, Dan, I can't audition for any part but King George. And that always goes to someone with a long stage career."
"Why not? Audition for Hamilton, hell, for Burr! You got the chops, kid!"
"Dan, it's an all persons of color play."
"A play for coloreds?" Dan blinked with absolute bewilderment. "No, no that can't be right, we ended Jim Crow in the sixties!"
Eugene sighed, desperately certain he didn't want to explain the nuances of intersectional race politics and representation in theater to Dan today. Lewis was by no means a prejudiced man. He embraced Eugene into his employ like a father figure, and barely blinked when Eugene told him he was gay. "What, like Liberache? Now there was a stage performer," he'd immediately answered, and that was all there was to say on the matter. But for a man who'd lived long enough to have living memory of when he couldn't share a drinking fountain with his neighbors, Lewis had to have things explained a little more patiently than most. Eugene just didn't have the energy to do it today.
"Thank you for the flier. I'll think about it," he lied.
"Good! You should. You know, my Mary, she loved historical plays like Julius Caesar, I bet she'd love this Hamilton."
"I bet she would," Eugene assented, knowing he was strapping in for one of Dan's daily allotment of three to five diatribes about his wife. A widower of some ten years, Dan was more than prone to waxing nostalgic about his wife.
"You don't see girls like Mary these days," he said, proudly unfolding an ancient, wrinkled brown wallet from his trousers and pulling a yellowed black and white full body photograph of his wife in her 20's. She was in her magician's assistant attire, skimpy bloomers and everything. "The legs on that woman still haven't stopped to this day," he chuckled, staring with dewy eyes at her picture, and touching the frayed and dog-eared edges with a tender finger. Mary and Dan had been touring magicians together for years. Then Mary fell pregnant. Dan immediately ended the touring life, got a small loan to open a brick-and-mortar magic shop to make a living off his travels and experience in the business, and they settled down. Mary miscarried. They remained childless, but deliriously in love, until Mary passed away of heart failure in the late 90's.
Eugene couldn't fathom the kind of love Lewis felt for his wife. If was her idea he change his stage name to "The Amazing Dan," banking that the popularity of Dapper Dan products would carry more weight than his too-Jewish sounding name of Lewis Feinstein. Though she was a gentile, Mary was not unsympathetic to the long, long history of Jewish names being erased or changed to be more appealing to the gentile masses, but, Lewis loved his wife to blind obedience, and made the change without much fuss. It turned out to be a good career move, ironically.
It was that kind of trust that he imagined Helga and Arnold must have felt for each other during the Fuzzy Slippers ordeal earlier that week. What a mess that was, he thought. At least they caught Lila.
He felt no level of celebration. It was not a victory for him, because he'd already suffered ultimate defeat. He felt no sense of justice had been done, because his life was still ruined, and he still had no hope to pin a dream on. That was precisely the reason he'd been ignoring Phoebe's texts about this beach house vacation. He had to admit, it would probably be fun to goof off with his friends one last time, but, there would be no cathartic release or reunion for the hapless young man, and he'd rather not have to face the very people that had contributed, some more directly than others, to his current state of affairs. He'd only gone to the party because Gerald had been so convincing, and he wanted to do a good thing by Arnold. But that was already done. The good guy got the girl. The bad girl was punished. Story over.
He wasn't going to be in the epilogue. He was a side character, relegated to background movements with enough life to avoid seeming like a mannequin, but not too distracting to the eye.
The jingle of the front door brought Eugene's attention away from Dan's still-continuing poetic remembrance of his wife, up to the entrance. Like a leonine sun god, Arnold tall and tan, pushed through the displays towards the counter, a wide calm smile on his face.
"Hey, Arnold," Eugene smiled. "What brings you to the shop?"
"Hey, Eugene. You, actually," he started cautiously. Arnold finally settled to lean on the counter, smiling politely at Dan. "Hello, you must be the Amazing Dan. I've heard a lot of amazing things about you, sir."
Dan puffed up his hunched posture and an adoring twinkle of pride lit his expression up. "Oh, I'm sure this kid talks big on my account, but don't be fooled. I'm just an old hack," he chuckled, full of false modesty. It wasn't often that young men came to flatter his legend.
Eugene watched in wonder as Arnold chatted up Dan as if they'd been friends their whole lives or more. Arnold never ceased amazing him, both in the ways he'd grown to become such a profound man, but also, in the ways he was so lovable as a kid had never changed.
Arnold finally turned to Eugene after entertaining Dan's curiosity enough to send the old illusionist off to his back office, satisfied. "So, Phoebe tells me you haven't answered her invitation."
"Ah, no, I haven't yet. Did she send you to get me to come for something?"
"No, nobody sent me. I came on my own, because I really wanted you to come."
Eugene frowned, feeling a small pain in his tiny birdcage chest. "Why on earth would you want me to come ruin everyone's good time?"
Arnold seemed to be legitimately taken aback by the strength of that sour query. "I don't think you'd ruin anyone's good time, buddy. What's, I mean-"
"Rhonda, for one," Eugene lifted his hand to begin listing names, counting his fingers off. "Phoebe and Gerald, two more, for feeling guilty for not being able to help me fast enough, Sheena, for bailing on me, there's four. Should I keep going?"
Arnold just looked at Eugene in that painfully pitying way that he'd become so bitter of seeing on formerly friendly faces.
"Really, I appreciate the invitation, and it's nice of you guys to want to include me. But, let's be realistic, here, Arnold," Eugene heard his voice becoming more and more bitter, his patience wearing thinner and thinner. "Nobody wants a sadsack around to rain on the parade, and I just don't have it in me to pretend that everything's fine anymore."
Arnold seemed like he had no answer to that for a time. Eugene was about to send him away, when Arnold finally responded.
"You know, I've spent most of my teenage and young adult life being unable to make a difference in a large, meaningful way, in the places that need the most help."
Eugene didn't answer, only fell into a patient silence to listen.
"The Green Eye Tribe, they've been mostly left alone since we all worked so hard to save their lands, but, there's countless indigenous tribes that it's too late for. Or even outside of indigenous people, the tribal and racial minorities that modern life has swallowed whole, and set aside to be forgotten. Even here, in this country, in Hillwood, even, I just see nothing but the wealthy and powerful doing everything they can to squeeze the life out of the little guys.
"I've decided, since I left South America, my parents made the choice to leave their homes behind and try to save the world, just the two of them. And they're very noble for it, and I respect their sense of purpose and drive. And I'm planning on going back to finish a few things there, but, my life isn't being a globetrotting justice fighter and revolutionary. It should be devoted to helping the people I love that I left behind.
"Eugene, I know that what happened to you was...terrible. Probably the worst thing LIla ever did. I'll never forgive her for all her crimes but yours, might be the one that I hate her for the most. And I'm so, so sorry I wasn't there to help when you needed it. But I'm here, right now, in your magic shop, basically begging you to come to the beach house.
"Maybe I can't fix your life, but I know for sure I can't sit aside and watch as one of my closest childhood friends just withers away like this. Please come."
Eugene had watched Arnold during his monologue, unconsciously shedding tears slowly while his friend reached out to him. How he'd missed Arnold's lovely, pure-hearted speeches. And how sorely he'd needed them when his life got turned upside down. He hurriedly pushed the streaky tears off his freckles cherubic cheeks and smiled awkwardly, sniffing his big nose.
"Aw, shucks, Arnold, you got me all weepy."
"Yeah," Arnold sighed. "I seem to be really good at making the people I care about cry. I'm sorry."
"Ah, don't be. It's been awhile since I had a good cry. A good cry, anyway. I guess...I guess it won't kill me to come along. I don't possibly know how things could get fixed, but, I can't say no to you. Especially not when you're being so heroically earnest as always."
"I don't know what I can really do to help you, but, I'm here for you, always. I know I was gone for a long time...unforgivably long, for some. But I'm here now."
"Will you be staying then? Now that you and Helga are together?"
"Probably. We haven't really discussed it, actually. I'm waiting until the beach trip to really discuss our future...everything is just so new, I can't imagine trying to tackle that problem yet."
"I'm happy for you, Arnold, I am. If there were any two people that were made for each other, it's you two. But forgive me if I am a little salty from time to time."
"I totally understand. We can be a bit...much. I'm planning on keeping it dialed back at the trip, so don't worry."
"No big dramatic speeches planned?"
"Who do you think you're talking to? I'm Arnold Shortman, there's going to be a big speech."
The two friends shared a laugh, and Eugene felt like it was maybe the second time he'd felt genuinely good in a long time. The other time was at the party where his friends reconnected. Maybe I'm not as hopelessly bitter as I thought, if I can feel good about them. It was a hungry, comforting thought.
"Okay, I'll come." Eugene finally agreed, and listened to Arnold rave about the good time he was sure to have with a jovial smile on an otherwise empty expression.
I'll just have to see if my luck will turn around this time, he thought, absolutely certain that it never would.
Thad hung up with his investment broker, confident that his assets would be put to good use while he was gone. It wouldn't do to have an untrained hand mucking his hard work up with clumsy ideas and inconsistent purpose; he had a specific design for the fortune he'd made and it would require a specific touch.
Of course, the last final piece of his plan required perhaps the most difficult part.
His time as a day trader and market personality had made him what most Hillwoodians would call "monstrously rich," but Thad knew that his youth and inexperience had him parked squarely in the bush leagues of getting wealthy. Still, he'd made his first cool million before his 18th birthday, and what kid doesn't love that kind of scratch?
And yet nothing he accomplished seemed to be good enough for her. Or for any of them for that matter. His embarrassing outburst at the party had been a side effect of his social anxiety, his therapist had told him. He paid his therapist good money to tell him things like that, so he tended to err on the side of the experts. His aggressive braggadocious behavior was a natural cause of his insecurities stemming from a lifetime of being, well, looked over.
But he was confident that this time, this time, nobody could ignore him. After all, he was putting so much at stake, so much on the line, only a fool would blame him of selfishness. And if he happened to get Rhonda's attention finally, well, he was just fine with that.
Of course he'd RSVP'd to the beach party house with the utmost seriousness and haste.
He had so much work to do, and Arnold was the key to it all. It would be at this party he announced his intentions, and gambled every accomplishment he'd ever made on this wild new destiny.
It had to pay off, because there was no plan B. His various hired financial advisors had helped him see to that, grumbling the entire way that it was an especially foolish way to protect his investments. No matter, he'd discarded their flimsy recommendations the same way he'd discarded every last artifact of the life he no longer believed in, and no longer wanted.
She'd notice him this time. She'd see him for who he really, really was. And Arnold would help him.
That's what Arnold does, he helps people. Thad closed this third bank account with the stroke of a finger on his smartphone, transferring the funds to a dummy account he'd set up for this specific purpose. And soon, that's what I'll be doing, too.
"Hey fuck you, pal!" Harold clenched a meaty fist and shook it angrily at the snob that had kicked his change can down the sidewalk in a fit of spite.
"Grab the fucking quarters, Harry," Patty urged, on her hands and knees in an instant to grab the scattered change. "I got his face, we'll pound his ass later."
Harold stood with his body squared off with the stranger who had taken off into a full sprint away from them, an empty rage and hurt in his big heart. Why's everybody gotta always pick on us? He didn't understand it. He'd never known such baseless, empty cruelty against him as when he lived in the streets.
People find it easiest to kick a dog when it's down, and there's no dog downer than a person living on the street.
"Babe, hurry the fuck up!" Patty's voice betrayed the panic she felt. This wasn't a joke, this was their meal and shelter she was fighting for. Harold turned and started to help her gather up the some twenty dollars in loose change and crumpled dirty bills they'd spanged that day. Spanging, or "spare change-ing" was exactly what it sounded like; begging for money on the sidewalk or street corners from anyone that passed. It was brutal, soul-crushing work, and left them both an exhausted, furious mess at the end of the day when they had to try to find a cheap room somewhere.
Hillwood's homeless shelter was always too crowded, and people stole, and Harold heard the women could get attacked in the dark. He glanced up at the generous, plump lips on Patty's scowling face, and then down to the huge swell of her cleavage in her ratty, beat up shirt. I can't take her there, he worried.
Two shiny black shoes stepped into Harold's view, smallish, and neat like the back of a beetle. A long shadow blocked the sun directly in front of Harold, so he looked up into the direction the stranger was standing in, ready to fight. He had to squint and cover his eyes from the halo of sunlight that wreathed the suited man. This better not be a goddamn Jehova's witness, Harold scowled, and stood up.
"Listen, buddy, we just had some asshole kick our can down the street and I'm ready to fuck someone up, so unless you want to see what my fist tastes like beat it," an indescribably exhausted Herald leveled his very serious threat.
"Ach, Harold, this street living has done terrors to the way you talk," a familiar voice replied. Harold's vision adjusted, and he recognized the man. His old Rabbi.
"Oh, it's just you Rabbi Steve," he sighed. No danger, no violence. He stooped to pick up their kicked can, and Patty was silently, angrily filling it with their recovered funds when Rabbi Steve offered to help her up.
"Ma'am, you'll get your knees all scuffed up by the sidewalk if you kneel like that, come, stand up," he offered, and pulled her to her full, intimidating five feet and ten inch height.
"Ouf, big one, aren't you? Harold this must be your Patty," the bearded, skinny man said.
"Yeah, I'm Patty. What kind of name is Steve for a Rabbi, anyway?" Patty was dusting her knees and calves off of road dirt, looking skeptically at the man. Harold watched her, a sick sort of worry still clinging in his guts.
"Would you prefer Shimon or Levi, perhaps? My mother was a fan of Steve McQueen, young lady. She said she wanted me to have a chance at being handsome, and with my face, I needed more than just a good name!"
Harold crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you want, Rabbi Steve?"
"Harold," the patient man began. "Don't you think it's time you went home, to your mother and father? Or come to temple?"
Patty drew close to Harold, encircling one of his arms protectively, like a guardian statue. She was taller than Harold, and easily the stronger of the two. She had been a wrestler in high school before all the Fuzzy Slippers mess wrecked their lives.
"No, Rabbi Steve, I don't think it's time for any of that. I think it's time for you to go!" Harold looked at Patty at his side for support, and found her totally behind his decision. The two of them were a unit; they came together or not at all. They'd survived hell, and worse, and had a fierce loyalty to the hard times they'd been through together; Harold loved Patty, with all his body and soul, and there wasn't anyone anywhere that would separate them. Not even his family. Not even his faith.
"Alright, mister tough guy, talk so tough to your Rabbi and to cruel strangers that kick your begging can. Stay in the cold for a few more nights, but you have to consider Patty's condition."
"Condition?" Harold asked with genuine confusion.
"Yeah, Rabbi Steve, what condition?" He felt Patty's strong grip tighten around his arm, and felt her begin to shake with anger next to him. "Go ahead, why don't you enlighten us?"
The bespectacled man looked between the two young lovers, knowingly. A sort of strange look passed between him and Patty that Harold did not understand.
"He doesn't know?"
"You shut your mouth right now or I'll make you sorry," Patty threatened. Harold definitely didn't understand what was going on.
"He'll come to know sooner than later, young lady. When he does, you two come have a warm bed and a hot meal in my home."
Harold yearned for a warm bed, and a hot meal. He and Patty hadn't had that kind of luxury in months. Their last living situation with the rest of their crust punk friends had violently come to an end - as these things quite often do - when someone made a pass at Patty, and then someone else made a pass at Harold, and then words no longer could decide the situation peacefully.
But Harold had made his decision; he wouldn't abide any destiny that meant he and Patty had to separate. It just wasn't an option, no matter how tempting or attractive.
"Thanks but no thanks Rabbi Steve. You get along now, don't bother us no more."
"Harold," the holy man sighed. "You think you're the first Jew to quarrel with his mother over a gentile woman? Please, listen to reason, it's not too late to fix things. It's never too late."
"For us it is," Patty snarled. "You don't know what our families did, and you don't know us. Get the fuck along now."
The Rabbi looked at them both from over his spectacles, and then finally threw his arms up in defeat. Turning to walk away, he called back to them.
"Soon, you won't be making this choice for the two of you anymore. Don't forget."
Harold stared at his Rabbi's back with a kind of lost, forlorn confusion that brought his mind to a standstill. It made him want to get blind drunk, and get into fights, and kiss Patty. Patty released her white-knuckled grip off Harold's arm and slowly retured to her spot in the shaded area of sidewalk, putting her face in her hands. Harold looked down at her, wondering what the hell his Rabbi meant, and what he was going to do about their future.
"What did Rabbi Steve mean?"
"I don't know, nothing. He's a Rabbi, they talk like idiots," Patty grumbled. "Can we just go get a room and get some sleep now? I think we have enough if we skip a meal.
"Augh, but I'm so hungry," Harold whined. Even months of emaciation from hunger hadn't dulled his appetite.
"I know you are, baby, but, I'm just tired. Please." Patty looked up at him with those eyes that said, You're doing this, and he fell into line. He loved Patty. He'd do anything she asked.
The two of them hoisted their backpacks, helping each other with the heavy straps and finding their balance. They carried all their worldly possessions in two camping backpacks, stuffed to almost bursting. They wore whatever they could clean, and waited until their clothes were nearly rotten before trying to wash them in a washateria. They made do with whatever they could, and they loved each other fiercely, and they kept together, no matter what.
Partners.
They walked in silence to the typical motel they could grab for twelve bucks, hoping there were vacancies. Harold wondered if he could convince Patty to spring for the cable upgrade - one dollar - or if they should just save it up for the next day, and try to get ahead.
Silent travel kept his brain moving.
Memories of the previous week's insane party slowly boiled into his awareness. Man, that was so much fun. I can't believe Patty decked that piece of shit Thad. The memory warmed his heart more than any hot meal could have in that moment. Well, except maybe a meat lover's deep pan pizza. Or fried chicken. Or…
"That party sure was somethin'," Patty mused.
"Yeah," he agreed, keeping his eyes on his boots while he walked.
"I'm glad those two kids finally got their shit together. Helga's a real sweet girl once you get her to stop bullying you," Patty snickered. She was clearly trying to cheer Harold up. A day of abuses and bad encounters had worn on his morale, and he wore his disappointment and anger and hunger on his face like a mime wore paint.
"Yeah, good for Arnold," Harold agreed.
"You know," she slowly started. "I heard they're doing something at the beach this week. Like, a get-together."
"Oh, cool," Harold looked up. "You think we could come?"
"Yeah I bet we could. I wonder if they've been trying to get ahold of us."
Neither of their cell phones were paid for.
"Well, the beach is a public place, and it's a free country," Harold scowled. "Let 'em try and stop us."
"You think we should crash their party, huh, babe?" Patty smiled at him, nudging him with a strong elbow.
"Yeah! Fuck 'em. We'll show them how punks party for real this time."
Patty smiled wider at that, looking down and away. Silence settled between them again. Being together for so long, sometimes their silences spoke more than their words did. Harold watched his lover, his soulmate, his partner, crossing the street in a hurry while a car intentionally swerved to try to clip her. It missed her by an inch. His mad dash across the same intersection was no better.
He tried to imagine what their silence was saying now.
I think I know what Rabbi Steve was talking about.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner.
It's okay, this is scary to me, too. But I'm also happy.
I think we should try to fix things with our families.
It would mean we have to stay apart, I can't let that happen.
It's not about us anymore.
It's always about us.
I love you.
I love you, too.
Harold waited at the vending machine, staring at the blue glow of various sugary drinks, and each of their prices. Patty was negotiating with the motel owner, counting out their change, and getting the room key. They were lucky; there was a room tonight.
Their bags were stowed in the far corner of the room, tossed down and unpacked for their baggied toiletries and Patty's feminine hygiene products. They were doing okay on supplies, but would have to get a job soon. The relief when they were able to finally strip down and get in the shower together was palpable.
Harold and Patty touched each other the way two trauma victims spoke of their shared experiences. The way they made love in the bed they'd managed to secure for the night was as desperate as if it was guaranteed to be their last. That's how it always was with them. That's how Harold loved Patty, and how she loved him.
They retired to curl up under the shitty, probably dirty blanket that the motel had furnished the room with a palpable grudge. Patty preferred to be the big spoon, so Harold felt her start to snore against the back of his head before he was sure she was asleep. It took all his limited finesse to pluck her hand off his belly, and slip it behind him quietly and without waking her. He rolled onto his hips, and then fell onto his feet off the edge of the rickey bed.
He crept into the bathroom, and found one of her baggies with all her girl hygiene stuff in it, feeling like his pulse was in his throat. He looked over his shoulder as he peeled open the targeted plastic bag, and fished around until he found the much sought-after item.
A pregnancy test.
It was positive.
Sid was just about to close up shop for the night and get his real business started when his last customer of the night pushed the barred door open. The door chime Sid had installed more for his own safety than his peace of mind jingled above the patron's head. Sid barely glanced up, too busy counting his cash and making note of what inventory he'd moved that day, and what he was about to be able to collect the pawn on.
Whoever it was - some tall motherfucker - went right to the peg boarded wall of musical instruments and rang the service bell with a pronounced swat.
Sid put his money down slowly, sliding it into the zipper bag he'd use for the bank deposit. Another percussive swat of the bell, and Sid's temper was rising.
Boy howdy, I sure hope this piece of shit has health insurance. He made a very pointed effort of closing the register, and finally looked up to see Brainy staring him hard in the face from across the store.
Brainy slammed his palm down on the bell, hard. It didn't make much of a noise then.
"Brainy?" Sid didn't even try to hide the incredulous disbelief in his voice. "What the hell man?"
Brainy raised his hand and slapped it onto the bell again, staring Sid right in the eyes.
"Dude, lay off the bell, I'm looking right at you. What the fuck do you want? What's the big idea with the bell?"
"Service." Slam. Ring.
"Dude if you hit that bell one more time I'm kicking you out. What do you want, you here to pawn something?"
"No."
"Well quit wasting my time and tell me what you want dude, you're giving me the creeps."
Brainy jerked his head back towards the pegboard wall behind the counter. Several guitars were hanging, most of them long since abandoned by their former owners, pawned off for a bit of quick cash.
"You want a guitar?" Sid hated dealing with Brainy, the dude was just a blank wall and he had the most unpredictable behavior. And, Sid was grimly aware, he had the most unpredictable behavior whenever Helga was involved. And Sid had just been pretty involved with Helga.
"Yep." Brainy pointed at one in particular. Sid immediately got angrier.
His '69 Telecaster Thinline, shell pink. Easily worth three grand to the right sucker, and two to a savvy dealer. It was also his nicest, least junky department store knockoff. Not a replica. And it sounded great, too.
"Unless you got five large to drop on her right now, you better just get the fuck out, Brainy." He probably knows his guitars and knows that's a bullshit price, but that should chase him off.
Brainy looked like he was about to rebutt the demand, and maybe make a counteroffer of some type, when the door chimed again, and Sid whipped his head impatiently to see Stinky plodding in, his face a messy smear of someone who had definitely fallen off the wagon.
"Jesus, Stink, not now, I've got a customer."
"Well howdy Brainy, I reckon I ain't laid eyes on your tall hide since those unfortunate incidents with Lila, on account of havin' litle to nothing to say on the matter."
Brainy just stared holes into the side of Sid's head while Sid appraised his stupid best friend. Stinky awkwardly draped his lanky torso over a counter, the damn thing only just barely coming up to his hip he was so tall. He held his arms crossed under him to support his lean, and even though he was trying to stay casual, it made him look like such an awkward mess of elbows and shoulders and wrists.
"Just, just stay there Stinky, I'll deal with you in a second. Brainy, unless you got the cash, get out."
Brainy stared him dead in the eye, uncharacteristically present.
"Get the Telescaster down," he simply commanded, and Sid lost his patience.
"This ain't Guitar Center, Brainy, and I'm not paying a dime of extra electricity so you can try her out. If I take her down, you're leaving with her."
"Gosh, some nice guitar music would sure be something right about now, Sid," Stinky drawled, looking too damn pleased with himself for his dumbass suggestion.
"Stinky, I swear dude, you are wearing me thin. Make me an offer, Brainy, and it better be high or you're out."
"Nothing."
Sid actually heard himself choke out a laugh, and then shook his head. "Awright, that's it, you're both outta here. I'm closing, I don't have time for a junky and a mute idiot."
"Hey," Stinky interjected, sounding offended.
"It's free," Brainy insisted, not moving whatsoever.
"Dude, I told you not to waste my time and that's exactly what's happening here. Don't make me make you leave."
"It's for Helga." Brainy crossed his arms, and set his jaw.
Oh so that's what this is. Sid had to do some basic mental mathematics to put the sense to the scenery before him, but, he wasn't stupid, and this was fairly obvious. Brainy was here to demand payback for the whole Helga thing.
Well, like hell he'd be paying anything.
"Get out." Sid was acting like he was walking to his back office, but he was actually walking to the shotgun he kept behind his counter. He wanted to make a point, and remind Brainy - and everyone in Hillwood for that matter - that he was not some punk to be trifled with, and toyed with the way Rhonda had played with him, and underestimated the way they were doing now.
"I was Fuzzy Slippers first," Brainy casually remarked, and Sid stopped in his tracks. "Before LIla."
"You?" Sid turned slowly, literally not believing what he was hearing. "What is this, surprise the fuck outta Sid night? Boy howdy, you better start making sense."
"It's true. When we were kids. All those stories were mine. Then Lila forced me to help her. I know everything she knows."
Sid narrowed his eyes at Brainy, almost definitely sure he wanted to kick this guy's ass.
"Everything," Brainy continued, glancing to where Sid kept his shotgun.
Stinky had stood up fully, and was staring at Brainy almost as gobsmacked as Sid was, for the sheer lunacy of what they'd just heard. "You mean to say you helped Lila all them years and know all the dark dirty secrets she knows and whatnot?" Stinky nervously glanced at Sid; they had some dirty secrets.
"Yep. So, get the guitar down for me. I'm taking it."
"Fuck you," Sid spat from grit teeth. "You makin' a threat on me, Brainy? You sure as shit didn't earn that namesake if that's the case."
"You owe Helga, at the very least," Brainy continued. "We'll call all this even after. I'll forget what I know."
Sid considered something. It took serious dash to come into his pawn shop unannounced, act like a half-cocked fool, and then make insinuations of blackmail in order to outright steal something right off his wall. It was pretty much downright insane, and reckless to an almost laughable extent. Brainy truly, truly felt something hard for Helga.
For someone who'd never feel the same way for him, probably.
Rhonda's face when she can't help but laugh at one of my jokes. Rhonda's sigh when she's tired of dealing with me. The way Rhonda's neck smells in the morning. Rhonda's legs, resting on my back. Rhonda scowling in disgust at my pet names for her. Rhonda, never looking at me that way again.
Sid took a deep breath, and faked a cocky laugh. In truth, he'd felt nothing but bitter disgust in that moment, disgust for himself. Here Brainy was, doing the right damn thing for his woman, when that woman wasn't ever gonna be his to begin with. He was basically rushing a loaded gun with the intent to stick his finger in the barrel, all for some loony chick that was never gonna look his way. He felt disgust for himself, and a sudden, unexpected swelling of raw admiration for Brainy.
"All right," he finally growled, relaxing the tension being held in his shoulders. He rolled his shoulders and neck, trying to shake the fight-or-flight adrenalin in his system, roaring for release. "All right, dude, you're fucking nuts, you know that? It's yours. Let me get my keys. Shit. You crazy piece of shit."
"You're gonna hand him the guitar, Sid?"
"Yeah, I am. Don't ask me why, this is stupid as fuck. But I'll make twice what it's worth tonight moving product so who the fuck cares. I'll write it off as charity, save on my taxes."
The exchange was quick. Sid took the Telecaster down carefully, and had it over the counter into Brainy's hands without any trouble or shenanigans. Brainy nodded once, sliding it into the softbody case Sid also coughed up, for free. He was almost out the door before he stopped, and looked back over his shoulder.
"Thanks. I was bluffing. I don't know anything."
He stepped out into the darkness, and the bell chimed merrily above Sid's front door, leaving the two friends gaping back at the chilliest motherfucker they'd ever known. It took them each a full three minutes of gawking before they managed to produce sound.
"Awguhgh," Sid said first.
"Gwuuaghh?" Stinky replied, smartly.
"Did...did I just get played?"
"I reckon...both of us just got played like a fiddle, yessir."
"Holy shit. Holy shit. I can't believe that just happened. I can't even go after him, that was...that was insane."
"He robbed you," Stinky laughed manically, trembling with the strange giddy emotions awfully similar to someone who'd just had their arm amputated unexpectedly.
"He conned me but good, that shifty sonovabitch. I ain't even mad. That was brass."
"Shoot," Stinky sighed, wiping a laughter-squeezed tear from the corner of his eye. "I never did reckon Brainy for a con artist. At least Helga will look good with that nice shiny pink guitar. It'll be right proper since she smashed her other one."
"Yeah, what...what a thoughtful fucker. Shit. Anyway," Sid shrugged, suddenly remembering his formerly sober friend came into his pawn shop at a very late hour, definitely on some fucking drugs. "You off the wagon, you tall piece of shit?"
Stinky's cheeks pinked a little, which was quite noticeable since the tall young man was so pale and white all over, and had such a clean and clear complexion.
"Ah, yes, I'm sorry," the guilty Stinky admitted. "I've been ponderin' too much about these crazy years with Fuzzy Slippers gone but always threatnin' to uncover everything. I reckon I've been a sleepless mess tryin' to understand how Lila could have done all this."
"Ugh, yeah, it's fucked," Sid agreed. He looked pitifully at his friend. Even though a sober Stinky was a lost customer, and also, pretty insufferable, a stoned Stinky was always inches away from falling apart. And it never sat right with Sid that he was party to Stinky's addictions.
"I, uh, came on account of I'm out and nobody'll deal to a junky these days," Stinky pressed, obviously embarrassed to be here, begging for drugs from his friend because all his dealers wouldn't in good conscience sell to someone so perilously close to rock bottom all the time.
"Stink," Sid almost started, but the door's overhanging bell jingled again, cheerfully interrupting their almost-moment. "Ah, fuck, who is it now-HEY ARNOLD."
Arnold Shortman jumped in surprise at the sudden shout, stopping mid-stride in shock. "WhAUGH!" His surprised sound was ugly.
"Heck, Sid, you startled me," Arnold shook his head, smiling easy at his two old friends. Sid internally groaned. Perfect. What I needed after Brainy was this guy.
"Gosh, you ain't the only one," Stinky groaned, clutching at his chest. "My...my chest is awful tight."
"Arnold, my man, what can I do for you?" Sid eyeballed his pale friend, growing paler, and tried to hurry this little visitation along. He wouldn't be nearly as rude to Arnold as he had to Brainy, that largely had to do with the fact that Shortman here wasn't gruesomely slapping his service bell like it was a vulnerable bee.
"Oh, hey, Stinky! Good to see you man, glad you're here. Actually, I'm here for two things."
Stinky nodded at Arnold, and lowered himself to sitting against a counter, looking sweaty and shitty. Sid looked back at Arnold. "Okay, yeah, sure, what are they? I'm about to close up shop," he urged, trying to get this over with.
"The first is to let you guys know, Helga's cool if you guys come to the beach house thing. We both think it'll be a good way to settle any lingering bad blood. She sent me to come tell you in person, 'cause she figured if she came herself she'd try to pound you...her words." Arnold shrugged. Everyone knew Helga. No need to explain that one.
"Okay, yeah, fine. We'll be there, whatever. The second one?"
"Oh! Right. Well, I was hoping to surprise Helga, at the beach house, I mean. I wanted to buy her a new guitar. I came by earlier today when your assistant Ricky was working, he told me to come later and talk about a discount on your pink '69 Telecaster. He said to mention the 'friends and family' discount." Arnold snickered at the insinuation.
Sid wasn't laughing. Stinky was breathing hard, holding his abdomen.
"Gosh...I-I reckon..."
"Dude," Sid groaned. "I literally just let that thing walk out the door."
Arnold looked crestfallen, a huge frown on his big face. "What? No!"
"I'm not fucking kidding, Brainy just came here and left with it. He said it was for Helga."
Arnold's jaw fell slack. "Fuck?" He blinked, shaking his head and trying not to look furious. "That's, what the fuck, that's so weird."
"Sorry dude, I would have loved to sell it to you. Brainy actually took it. I didn't make a red cent."
Arnold was about to say something, but, he suddenly stopped mid-thought, and pointed at a very prone Stinky. "Is he overdosing?" The manner in which he so precisely pinpointed the probable cause for Stinky's current state sent a bolt of fear in Sid. Overriding that fear, however, was the fact that his best friend was probably overdosing or having a heart attack or both on his pawn shop floor, with veins full of smack he'd probably sold him.
"Fuck! Stinky?!" Sid was over the counter in a flash, neatly leaping over the glass display cases to land crouched next to an awfully cold, gently trembling Stinky. Arnold was at his side immediately, a hand thrust under Stinky's neck.
"He's got a pulse, I can't tell if this is cardiac arrest. Call an ambulance."
Clutching Stinky's big lanky hand, Sid momentarily weighed the pros and cons of taking Stinky to the hospital. Pros: he might not die, and he'd probably get admitted to rehab after, and maybe get cleaned up for good. Cons: both he and Sid might go to jail.
"A-Arnold, he's got my stuff in him," Sid stammered, unsure what to do.
"Jesus Christ on God Mountain, of course he does," Arnold snarled, and whipped his cell phone out. "We'll talk about that when we're at the hospital. Yes, hello, I need an ambulance please."
Sid's awareness receded from the present, only dumbly aware of the events transpiring around him. Stinky going limp. Arnold's frantic application of CPR to a quiescent body. The lightning-flash arrival of the paramedics, wreathed in white halos, and then suddenly being in the ambulance, holding Stinky's hand, just so goddamn terrified and yet not even there. Sid couldn't account for the time he lost between the sickly frantic ride from the pawn shop, where Arnold was locking up for him, to the waiting room at the ER, hands holding his head between his knees on a cold blue plastic chair. He had no recollection of any of that time, and could only dimly determine it must have taken place, because here he was, hoping his best friend wasn't dead on his smack.
"He'll be fine," he heard Arnold say, and had to look up at him to remember Arnold had taken a taxi to the ER after locking up his pawn shop. Oh yeah, he remembered. He has my keys.
He patted the side of his pocket, and felt his keys laying in there. Oh, no, I have them.
A mudra of the heart began to hum in Sid's innermost thoughts. It was a circling, snakelike thought, an ouroboros that twisted around his subconscious and repeated the same mantra over and over: "What am I gonna do?"
Along his heartbeat, this simple plea tumbled, falling into places where his thoughts had space, and cramming between words the people around him - so many of his PS 118 friends here, when did they get here? - assured him with.
"They say it's not so bad," an unexpected Rhonda hushed to him, a hand on his shoulder. He nodded.
"He'll pull through," came a sudden Gerald. He nodded.
"Stinky was blessed with a magnificent fortitude," a startling Phoebe reassured. He nodded.
"You guys can't die until we make up," a welcome Helga joked. He nodded.
"We're here for you both," the kindness of Arnold spoke. Sid folded in half and held his face in his hands.
I did this. He did this.
They paint the walls of emergency rooms a neutral seafoam green, because it's been studied with special obsession which colors paint the subconscious with different emotional responses, and how to control that effect with the purposeful interior design hospitals are so carefully built with. Too much red would obviously indicate danger, or worse, a grim reminder of blood, and thus, mortality. Too much blue, and you've got the opposite problem, an overabundance of sorrow and woe, and the recollection of tears, and thus, loss. Green is just right. A light, inoffensive green. Evocative of nothing.
Nothing except the walls of hospitals.
They finally let Sid see him at nearly four in the morning. Everyone had stuck around, though, Sid hadn't said more than a half dozen words to any of them. They talked a lot, mostly to each other, about the professionalism and bedside manner of the doctors they'd seen so far, and the general cleanliness of the waiting rooms. Suddenly rounding the corner, a too-tired nurse called Sid's name and led him through an unknowable number of wide-swinging double doors, electronically and remotely opened from the other side at each threshold. In the ICU wing, there was always something beeping. Alarms and general alerts had an indecipherable difference to a layperson like Sid, so everything just seemed cacophonously terrifying. In a small cul-de-sac of rooms around a centralized desk with four nurses stationed around monitoring screens and equipment, the nurse took Sid to Stinky's dimly lit room.
They had him damn intubated, masked up, and stuck with a maze of IV lines from the low-hanging machines that dutifully dripped their medicinal payloads at medically predetermined rates. He was unconscious, and looked like hell. His gelled up swoop of hair had fallen, something Stinky never tolerated, so Sid ran his hands through the greasy locks to prop them up against the rough cotton pillow. It had to be 200-count thread, tops.
A machine clicked and whirred next to him, and something beeped at the front door. The nurse that escorted him, and apparently Arnold, who Sid noticed was standing beside him, murmured something about not touching anything, and excused herself.
"This is my fault," Sid morbidly announced, and knew it was true.
"Yes," Arnold nodded. "It is."
"What am I gonna do, Arnold? They got my Stinky all tubed up," he felt the emotions he'd been drowning under numbly all night begin to swell up, brought on by the sudden visual confirmation of his best friend's brush with death, and the extreme exhaustion of being up so late without anything keeping him up.
"Well, Sid," Arnold slowly started. "What matters now is exactly that. What you do from here, that's the important bit. Because you are right, you had a hand in this."
"Dude...you're absolutely shit at comforting a dude, you know that?" Sid bitterly groaned, rubbing his wet cheeks with his hands. He was shedding tears.
"He'll live, that's the important part for Stinky. Recovery will happen anyway, now that it's gotten to this. And we'll be there for him. But you," Arnold turned and pushed a finger into Sid's chest, hard.
"It's about fucking time you stopped pushing on your friends, and, for that matter, stopped pushing at all."
"Arnold, dude, this is not the time," Sid croaked, so, so weary.
"Wrong, it's absolutely the right time. Stink'll be here for, who knows. Couple days. Maybe a week, a month. Long as it takes. He'll get clean, and we'll help him. But only you can make yourself quit dealing. So, you stop. Tonight. Right now."
"You don't have any idea how this shit works, dude, please, just, just go. Leave me with my best friend."
"I will. You have a lot to apologize to him for, so, you should stay until he wakes up. They'll probably take him off sedatives once he's stabilized and de-intubate him then. He'll be in a lot of pain, partially from the intubation, and also, from the withdrawals. You'll be here the whole time, as much as visitation allows. I'll visit, too, until the beach trip."
"Yeah...yeah, okay. That all sounds good. Hey, how do you know all this?"
A grim look passed Arnold's face. "I am familiar with the shit you deal, and the passage of its wake. And I do know how it works. I know you have an escape route planned, every dealer does. So use it. I want you at that beach house, where I know you won't be able to move anything."
"Arnold…" Sid started, just so, so tired. "I love you, dude, but…"
"You know I'm right."
He did.
"Yeah, okay, so you're right. Fine. You're right. I'll stop. But you gotta help me with the escape plan. I am a big fixer, dude. I can't just stop. Deal? Please say it's a deal." Side was basically begging.
Arnold stuck his hand out to be shaken. "Deal. We'll work it out at the beach house. Together. For stinky."
"Yeah," Sid agreed, shaking his hand. "For Stinky."
Stinky's vitals chirped at their predesignated time interval, and the machine keeping his lungs doing their jobs pushed and wheezed, and the room felt huge, hot, and dark, like the interior of an abandoned cathedral at night, full of old death and the void of loss.