Hands on the Wheel Ch. 03

He wasn't falling-down drunk all day long, at least not on workdays, but he did start each day with a 50/50 screwdriver. He carried a 375 of vodka to work in his messenger bag and hit it a few times during the day just to take the edge off. Serious drinking didn't happen until he got back to his apartment.

He strategically located half a dozen plastic 375ml vodka bottles around the place, refilling them as needed from a case of California's Cheapest vodka (after one drink you can't tell diluted grain alcohol from Stoli or Grey Goose). He was never more than three steps from a drink.

Weekends were different. He was hardly ever fully sober when he woke up on Saturday. After kickstarting with a couple of 50/50 screwdrivers, he'd hit a 375 whenever there was danger of sobering up. He didn't eat or sleep much on weekends, but blacked out some and fell down a lot, occasionally bruising or breaking something (wrist once, a few ribs, couple of teeth). The nearby doc-in-the-box got used to patching him up.

One Sunday night almost a year after he left Jean, as he lay on the kitchen floor trying to figure out why he had decided to sleep there, he heard the doorbell. After figuring out what the noise was, he raised his head to look at his watch and saw a smear of blood on the floor where his face had been. While he tried to figure out what that was all about, the doorbell rang again.

He finally managed to focus on his watch, and with some effort figured out it was either 9:30 or 5:45. Since it looked dark outside the kitchen window he figured it was 9:30, entirely too late for someone to be visiting. Besides, he didn't want any company anyway, so he tried to shout. "Go away!"

It sounded pretty pathetic, but apparently was loud enough because someone began pounding on the door. That was really irritating, so he tried again, and this time managed a fairly respectable shout. "Go the hell away and leave me alone!"

"Open the goddam door, Wolfe, or I'll kick the sonofabitch in!" It was a woman, and her tone of voice and choice of language indicated that she probably wasn't a social worker or Sister of Divine Mercy.

"Okay, okay, give me a minute." He knocked over two chairs and the kitchen table trying to pull himself up—he puzzled for a moment over blood and what looked like some skin on the corner of one of the chairs—but finally got to his feet by crawling over to the sink and using the countertop as a handhold. When the floor finally stopped tilting back and forth, he negotiated the daunting trek of 20 steps to the front door by breaking it down into several short legs: from the end of the kitchen counter to the recliner, to the back of the couch, along the couch, then a two-step lurch to the wall beside the door, and finally sidling along the wall to the door.

By this time his vision had cleared enough so that he could see the deadbolt knob, but it took four tries before he could muster enough manual dexterity to grasp and turn it. The doorknob only took two tries, but when he pulled the door open he had to grab the edge of the door to stay on his feet.

Sure enough, it was a woman, an angry woman holding the handle of a wheeled carry-on suitcase. It was Woodley. She looked pissed off to the extreme, but her jaw dropped when she saw his face.

"God, Wolfe, you look like shit!" She dragged her carry-on past him, then dumped the bag off to the side and half led-half carried him over to the couch. "Sit there while I get something to clean your face."

By the time she got back with a damp washcloth and hand towel he had finally thought up a really clever response: "Gee thanks, Woodley, you're looking pretty good yourself." But his timing really.

She told him to shut up and started dabbing around his right eye and cheek with the not-too-clean washcloth. "Do you ever do a laundry? No, forget that, you obviously don't. Now hold still while I try to clean this up." She dabbed harder then started rubbing, which stung like hell.

"Ouch, dammit. That hurts!"

"Shut up, you big baby, and hold still! Be grateful I couldn't find any rubbing alcohol. I really need to disinfect this. Do you have any anti-bacterial salve? What about a first aid kit?"

While he tried to figure out what anti-bacterial salve was and whether he had a first aid kit, she started asking more questions he couldn't answer. "What the hell happened to you, Wolfe? No, forget that too, you probably passed out and hit your face on something. Why are you trying to kill yourself? Isn't it time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself?"

She was getting louder and rubbing harder, which hurt even more. He blinked a few times, trying to focus on her face. It looked like she was crying, but that couldn't be right, she sounded mad, not sad. Not Woodley.

"Jesus H. Christ, Wolfe, you're acting like a little kid whose dog got run over. Why didn't you talk to somebody? Why didn't you ask for help? Oh, right, I forgot, you're a goddamn guy. So grow a fucking pair and act like one!" The longer she talked the harder she scrubbed.

He finally grabbed her wrist to stop her. "What?" It felt like she had scrubbed all the skin off that side of his face. "Oh, I guess I got most of the blood. Sorry about that." The apology didn't sound sincere, though. She stood up and tossed the towel and bloody washcloth on the coffee table.

"Think you can make it to the bathroom? You smell as bad as you look. When was your last shower? Then we've got to try to find something to put on that cut."

He started to stand up and tried to speak, forgetting how difficult it is to do both at the same time when you've been getting most of your calories from alcohol for a year or so. He collapsed back on the couch. "Shit..."

She moved in front of him and leaned over. "Hang on to my shoulders." She helped him up by leaning back and lifting him by his armpits, then tugged his left arm around her shoulders and slowly led him to the bathroom. She put down the toilet lid and sat him down.

Muttering about his odious odor, limited intelligence, and dubious parentage, she got him out of his clothes, sucking in her breath when she saw the bruises on his ribs and chest where he had fallen. She awkwardly moved him over to the tub and managed to get him over the edge so he was sitting in it. All the movement finally overwhelmed the autonomic restraints on his gastrointestinal system, whereupon his bowels released and he threw up all over himself. And the wall. And the floor. She managed to scramble out of the way, then turned the shower on, gagged, and dashed from the bathroom.

"Hey, what the hell! That's cold!" He didn't sober up, but he was damn sure a wide-awake drunk. When she got her gag reflex under control and figured the worst of it had washed down the drain, she came back in and turned the handle to hot.

"Don't worry about it, you won't shrink. Well, your willy might, but it'll grow back. I'll make sure of that, if you ever smell right again." Using the spray head, she washed down the wall, then mopped up the vomit from the floor with a bath towel. "I'm won't wash these, they're going in the dumpster. I'll buy new ones. New sheets, too."

She got her carry-on from the living room and took out a loofah and bottles of shampoo and body wash. Kneeling beside the tub she washed his hair, then him. Everywhere. Every single where he had. Ears, eyes, nose, armpits, chest, belly, navel, crotch, pecker ("Let's skin willy back...eww!"). She rolled him over and thoroughly scrubbed his neck, back, ass, taint, and legs. It was about as sexy as a digital prostate exam (no, that doesn't involve computers).

She managed to get him out of the tub with no further mishap. Bitching again about how dirty the towels were, she dried him then led him to the bedroom. The bed was a mess, of course; who makes a bed? Besides, more often than not he passed out somewhere else in the apartment and didn't sleep in it.

"Christ, Wolfe, you've been living like a pig in shit! Now that you're clean I hate to put you on this, but it'll have to do for tonight." She not-so-gently pushed him onto the bed, tossed his legs up to join the rest of his limp body, and covered him with the dirty, wrinkled sheet. She indulged in more bitching about how long it must have been since the sheets were washed.

He was actually beginning to sober up a bit, and decided his tongue was working well enough to ask a question. "What's the hell goin' on, Wooly? Hows come you're in my aparm...aptarm...aprat...place?" He thought he might have slurred a little, but she seemed to understand.

"Don't worry about it, Wolfe, it's simple. You're gonna start eating healthy and stop drinking booze. As soon as you can get it up I'm gonna start fucking you sober and smarter. Don't worry about work, we're both on paid leave until I say you're ready to go back. Now go to sleep."

He was pretty sure he wanted to ask some more questions, but fell asleep before he could remember what they were.

______________

He woke a bit later sitting up with someone's arm around him. His mouth had absolutely no moisture; it felt like it had been worked over with a hair dryer. A glass banged against his teeth. "Drink this, Wolfe. You're majorly dehydrated."

It was cool and wet and sort of sweet and salty and felt wonderful. He drained the glass and she replaced it with another, which he drank just as fast. She laid him back down and told him to go back to sleep. He faded out almost immediately and thought he felt warm lips on his forehead, but dismissed the notion. Come on! Woodley?

He woke up again much later when someone rolled him over and yanked the bottom sheet out from under him, then spread what he later discovered was a brand-new sheet over half the bed and rolled him back onto it. A few tugs and tucks here and there, then another clean sheet floated down over him. He started to ask what was going on, but Woodley shushed him. She gave him another glass of the sweet-salty stuff. "Shhhh, go back to sleep Wolfe." He could see faint light out the bedroom window; as he drifted back to sleep, he had to chuckle as once again he imagined that he felt lips lightly touch his forehead.

He finally woke up knowing that if he didn't piss very soon, his bladder was going to explode. He sat up and immediately regretted it: rabid squirrels had invaded his head and started digging up the acorns they'd buried, then started cracking them against the inside of his skull. When he realized they weren't going to stop, he swung his feet around and planted them on the floor. He stood up and the squirrels were chased off by baboons with ADD who all sounded like Louie Prima. They started trying to crack coconuts against his skull while singing I wanna be like you. He told them to shut the hell up (which they ignored) and shuffled toward the bathroom.

She yelled at him from the kitchen. "Shower, gargle with mouthwash, brush your teeth, gargle with mouthwash again, and come get something to eat!" It irritated him that she was ordering him around. God he needed a drink! But he did as he was told.

Half a dozen brand-new towels were stacked on the floor beside the vanity and a pile of new boxers and T-shirts were on a chair in the bedroom. He headed for the kitchen in boxers and T-shirt; she was wearing white bikini panties and crop top. Turned out that undress whites would be uniform of the day for the next few weeks.

"What time is it?"

"Almost eight."

"Morning or night?"

She saw that he was serious. "It's Monday night. You were down for the count almost 24 hours."

As he tried to digest that information, she gave him a glass of what looked like a blue smoothie. He started to ask what it was but she interrupted him. "Just drink. Electrolytes, vitamins, minerals, and some probiotics; a dash of Spanish fly makes it blue." He choked and snorted some out his nose.

"Just kidding about the last," she said without smiling. "It's Gatorade with a bunch of extras. You drank a few glasses last night, but you're still pretty dehydrated." Swell. What he needed was 80 proof and wasn't blue.

She took a plate out of the oven and put two pancakes and two rashers of bacon in front of him, then poured a glass of milk. "You just got up, so it's breakfast time." He realized that he was really hungry, and gobbled the food in short order, then hesitated with his hand on the glass of milk. "Drink it! That, water, tea, and blue smoothies is all you'll be drinking for a while."

Piss on that, he thought. But he was thirsty, so he drank; it was the first time he'd drunk milk in what, 20 years? It actually tasted pretty good. She took away the dishes and poured a cup of tea. "Milk? Sugar?" He shook his head and inhaled the vapors from the tea, wishing it was coffee instead. She watched him, leaning back against the counter in front of the sink.

"After a few days we might add coffee to the menu, and a few days after that maybe Coke Zero or whatever they're calling it now. That's if you eat all your veggies and do your exercises." She pointed at an elliptical trainer and weight bench on the far side of the living room. Somebody must have brought them while he was asleep.

"What the hell's going on here, Woodley?" He was getting pissed at her telling him what he was going to be doing. He slugged down the cup of tea, burning his mouth a bit. "Who died and made you boss?" Now that he was feeling a bit more human, he was getting angry. And thirsty, but not for milk, water, tea, or a Woodley Smoothie.

He really needed a drink. Or two, or maybe three. He stood up and walked over to the cabinet where he kept the jugs of vodka. It was empty. He slammed the door and spun around, but before he could say anything Woodley, walked over and stood in his space.

"There's no booze anywhere in the apartment, Wolfe. I searched and tossed every bottle, every can, every box I found. You're going to dry out whether you like it or not and I'm here to see that it happens."

That did it. "Listen, woman! I don't want a drink, I need a drink. If you're bullshitting me about tossing it all, tell me where it is. Otherwise I'm getting dressed and going out to get some more."

She didn't say a thing, she just slapped him so hard all the squirrels and baboons woke up and started screaming and bashing his skull again. Before he could respond, she dropped to her knees, yanked his half-hard cock out of his boxers, inhaled it, and started bobbing and sucking. She had obviously done this more than once or twice. As her fleshy lollipop started rising to the occasion, she slipped her right hand inside her panties and began enthusiastically massaging her clitoris.

When the object of her ministrations was good and hard, she stood up, hanging on to it with her left hand. She got up on her tiptoes, lifted her right leg, guided his cock into her now-slick vagina, and slammed down hard on both heels. That drove him all the way to her cervix, taking his breath away and stopping his heart. Just briefly, but still...

He grabbed her butt cheeks and pulled her against him as hard as he could, then relaxed his grip. She took the cue and pulled back a bit, then he slammed her forward again. It only took three or four slams until he closed his eyes and held his breath and pumped burst after burst into her until he was so weak he had to lean against her to keep from falling on his ass.

Neither one had said a word, just grunted a few times. After he shrank a bit, she stripped off her crop top, let his limp dick flop out, and stuffed the top in her panties and his slimy cock back in his boxers. He didn't think she had an orgasm, but didn't much care. He stared at her bare breasts for a few seconds.

"Thanks, but I'd've rather had the vodka."

She tried not to wince but failed. Hoping he hadn't noticed, she pointed to the kitchen table. "Sit." He sat.

The squirrels and baboons came out from their hiding places and started arguing about the New World Order. He put his head in his hands and heard her open the fridge and pour a glass of something. She sat down across from him and planted a blue smoothie on the table. "Drink this. You dehydrated yourself again."

He looked up and made a face, but drank it, then pointed to the counter where they'd been standing. "I didn't dehydrate me, you did. What was that all about? And quit telling me what to do."

"I'll quit telling you what to do when I decide you don't need to be told what to do any more. And what that was all about was step one of me fucking you sober and smarter. Remember? I told you last night, that's why we're here. That's going to happen every time you talk about—shit, every time you even look like maybe you might be starting to think about drinking anything you're not supposed to."

"What the hell gives you the right to tell me what to do, to barge into my apartment and start acting like you're my mother..." She raised an eyebrow. "Well, okay, not exactly like my mother... like somebody who thinks she has the right to run my life. I'm not some kid for you to boss around."

"You're sure as hell acting like a kid, Wolfe. I'm here because you've been trying to kill yourself and it's time you got over what that cheating bitch did. Yeah, you were a dumb shit not to figure out what was going on—hell, you were a dumb shit to marry her in the first place—but it isn't the end of the goddam world." She was hitting her stride.

"A lot of people care about you, but you can't see that because you've got your head so far up your ass you need a plexiglass navel. You're also really important to Golkonda—that's the company we work for, in case you've forgotten. We need your best, not that feeble shit you've been putting out for the last year. Jeremy decided you were a lost cause and was going to put you on unpaid leave until you got your shit together, which he figured would probably be never.

"I asked him to wait and give me a chance to fix you, to give us each a two-week special assignment that required out-of-office work and charge it to his discretionary budget. I wouldn't tell him what I intended to do or what the budget was for, I just asked him to trust me.

"He didn't like it, but finally decided to trust me. But he said no way I could fix you in two weeks, he gave me a month, so here we are. Let's get you back to bed, you've got a lot of catching up to do."

She meant let's get them back to bed. They showered together with no grab ass, brushed teeth, peed, and crawled between the clean sheets. He turned on his side, she spooned with him, and they were off to the arms of Morpheus. Her warmth somehow helped him tolerate the pain in his head and the cramps in his gut, and he slept.

______________

He woke up sometime during the night shivering and drenched in sweat; the squirrels and baboons weren't smashing anything against his skull, but they were jumping up and down and chattering way too loud. When he groaned and tried to sit up, Woodley pulled him back down and started crooning. "It's okay, Ivan, I'm here. Everything's going to be okay. Shhhh." She turned him to face her, cradled his head on her breast, and kept crooning until the shivers stopped. He went back to sleep.

When he woke up again it was light and he was alone. He went into the bathroom and she yelled the same instructions about showering and brushing his teeth. His hands shook as he put on clean boxers and T-shirt, then he went into the kitchen. The inevitable glass of Woodley's Wonderful Elixir was on the table, along with a carton of milk, a bowl of brown sugar, and a bowl of raspberries and blueberries; two places were set with napkins, silverware, and teacups. His place also had an empty glass.

Woodley was filling two bowls from a pot of oatmeal. Even though her back was to him, her bikini panties and crop top revealed that she was put together a lot better than was apparent in her usual goth getup. She put two bowls of oatmeal and a couple of slices of toast on the table.