Paresthesia Pt. 12

"Buddy, it's not going to start until you get here."

---

I am looking at Abbot's stupid face. I think he put the billboard here on purpose, just to twist in some stupid knife that I don't know why he has. I watched it go up a few days ago. He is smiling, glasses shining, teeth impossibly white, incredibly white, the minor blemishes brushed away under makeup and software, looking up and looking forward. There are four words on the poster. Vote Billiken. Solidarity forever. Bit of a mouthful, but I'm not his PR guy. He's his PR guy and if that's what they want to go with, then by all means. Still has my vote.

I turn away and face the water, gently flowing down stream, almost golden in the setting sun. I'm back to full with the pull I have in my stomach, ready to go whenever. A day's nap after Hannah and I's little stroll about town and I am more or less ready to go. She's turned in for the night already. It's amazing how much she needed it. After her little come down and all the bullshit, the body just gave out. It finally realized there was nothing for it to do. So, it did nothing. And it would continue to do nothing until it wanted to do something again, whenever that was. For me, I wanted to watch the sunset, drink an evening cup of coffee from my mug and not do anything alone. It is my time and my time alone, given freely, but the moment, right here, right now, has been hoarded. We all deserve some moments like that, no matter who we can share them with.

I sip and I think about nothing, the shape of the clouds, the purple-orange haze creeping from the horizon, the emerging stars that glimmer and twinkle, the little sliver of the moon hanging sharp and fierce. One star in particular catches my eye. So bright and shiny and sharp. I take another sip. It's right on that bit where it's just outside that level of hot that hurts, down to a soothing warm. I take a deep breath through my nose and all I smell is clean water.

The star gets brighter and I feel the hairs on my arms stand on end. My heartbeat speeds up, and my fingers clench. Such an odd little bit of sensation, that I step out of my body and watch it happen. And then it fades. A moment, it had a moment to rise and now it's all settled once again. The body is back in line, all the nerves too deadened to be raised. Not a damn thing in the world can stop.

I still go blind as the light pierces my lids. Blinking doesn't really help the spots.

"Evening Tom," I say, "Can I get you something to drink?"

He comes into view as the light dims and the spots fade. First time I've ever seen him have stubble, I think. And even then, it's trimmed and shaped and cut down to an even plane. The poor bastard can't even do disheveled correctly. Everything still has to be perfect and in line and tucked in. Not even a stained t shirt or a frayed cuff on his jeans. The only real indication I have of him and his state is the bloodshot eyes and the slight teeter to his walk.

Nothing, I get nothing except for a burning push of sunlight, throwing me to the ground and knocking the wind from me. Pain, the fury of the sun, the rage of the lumen stars, concentrated through his hands, concentrated on me. I can't breathe. I can't breathe at all. I just have the rough gravel on the roof digging into my cheek, smothering the pained yell that I can't stop. He also spilled my coffee. And he broke my mug.

A pause, I have a pause to fill my lungs and it is not enough to stop before another hits me in the back and drives me further into the dirt. Something breaks the skin, and I am scraped raw. Elbow, knee, stomach, cheek, I am entirely run against the hard roof, slowly pushed towards the end and the fall.

"Get up," he slurs, "Get the fuck up. I'm not done with you. Get up."

Like a gentleman, he stops and allows me a moment to process everything that went on. I'll be digging rocks from my skin for the next three days, but that's rather low on my priorities right now. Instead, I opt for a humble flop to my back, staring up at the emerging stars. I find the hare in the moon, as well. Never could see the man in there.

"What the fuck are you doing here," I cough. I think a rock tumbles from my throat, but that might just be wishful thinking at my point.

"You ruined my life," he screams, "Sent me to Vegas. Gutted my team. Sent the feds after me."

"Disobeyed you?"

"Don't even get me started on that shit. Of all the people, you were the worst. Obstinate. Disobedient. Arrogant. Insubordinate. Could not get it through your thick fucking skull that it was my team. My show. My goddamn castle. And you had to waltz in there and say no to all of that."

I am staring at the stars, letting him rant and rave and do all the things he wants. He is not hitting me and I am just waiting for the moment he tuckers himself out. He can have this tantrum, or tirade or whatever it is and then I can just lull him back to sleep. Think being in this city violates his parole or something. Or maybe he posted bail. I'm honestly not sure. The particularities of the trial have not really been of interest to me.

"Refresh my mind," I say as I drag myself to sitting, "Did you do anything to get all that? Like, I know you put in your time to get to the leader bit, played some back-office politics, but like, what else? Do you have a super-secret plan to save the world? Are you the most righteous motherfucker ever? Does your shit not stink? Seriously. Cause if any that was true sure, then I'd apologize and ask how you do that. But what is the thing I'm missing here?"

He's so fucking pissed, I have to stifle a laugh. I am here in a t-shirt that I actually think is Hannah's, in jammy pants and stubble, looking fucking terrible, and he is so mad at all this. I am a pathetic squidgy hedgehog and he is simply furious, every synapse in his brain turned to thoughts of grounding such a small insignificant thing out of reality with light and heat and rage. I feel the coffee hit and that gets the heart pumping a bit. My knee is bleeding. So's my elbow. But now Hannah gets to play doctor with me and that's a fun turn of events.

"I am a hero, you little shit. I save people. I am the light in the dark. I am the shining star of justice. I am the scour of villainy and the hopeful ray to the people below. What are you? Who are you?"

The laugh comes out and I get another short beam to my chest for my trouble. The laugh does not stop. It just gets mixed in with a cough and hack.

"I'm Evan. I like punk rock. I like coffee. I like baseball. I have quite possibly the best girlfriend ever, who I am going to ask to marry me at some point. I live in a warehouse by the river. That's about it. If you want the flowery version, then let me get changed and say it. Cause saying all that when I'm dressed like this is kind of stupid."

Silence makes him mad. Words make him mad. I think at this point, it's just me and whatever I do. No real way to win. No real way to get out of this and I am in my jammies so I should be getting ready for bed now. But I'm not. I have a stupid argument with a coked out, drunk, high, lost to the rage in his mind jackass who is trying to beat me for showing the world he is all those things and more.

"I'll ask again," I say, "What the fuck are you doing here? I left. You and I have nothing anymore. A working relationship, if that. But nothing else. If you're here to apologize, go to Hannah. Hell, go to Kieran, or Ken, or Hugh, or Will. I don't know what you did to that poor bastard, but he talks like some knight errant douchebag. If you're here to punish me for those fun numbers you cooked, talk to Hannah. She's the one who actually pushed me into doing it. And it was Ben's idea in the first place. So, what are you doing here?"

"It started with you. It all started with you."

"No, it didn't. I don't know how much you had to drink to come to that conclusion, but it started when you started taking money from the budget. I didn't make you do that. I didn't make you do a damn thing. So go have your fucking tantrum somewhere else. I'm not interested."

"Get up. Get the fuck up. Get up and fight me."

"What would that even do? Make you feel better? Why would I want to do that?"

"This is how it's supposed to be. Get up and put 'em up. I'll give you a free one. Come on."

I sigh. My palms still hurt. My knee's doing a bit better, although it feels raw. Takes the weight all fine and dandy. I would feel a bit better with a bandage and a kiss and the coffee slowly seeping down into the stones.

"I don't really care all this much, Tom," I sigh, "You're the one getting worked up over this."

"Of course, I am. You ruined my life. My image. My team. It was all mine and we didn't even meet to fight. That's not how this goes."

"I don't know what shit you've been watching. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Deadly. Your move, punk. And try. Fucking try. I dare you to try."

"One more time, since you want me to try. Are you sure?"

Not a damn word. Just a scowl and two raised fists, knuckles bone white. I just wanted a nice night to myself for once, a dark sky and a warm bed. And now I'm doing this.

I do my little trick and wait for him to realize what all I've done.

My feet are back up, my chair up right, and a nice glass of water, once for each of us. Been drinking a lot lately, and I need to tone it down. That is a bullet train way to gain pounds and I don't think the red thing would look good on a chubby Evan. But now we play the waiting game to see if he can put it all together.

"You're a coward," he yells, "Gutless, spineless, pathetic little worm."

"Look at yourself in the mirror bud," I say, "There's one at your feet. One of Hannah's make up ones. Kind of fit the theme I was going with."

There are emotions playing across his face and I do not care to know them. I can imagine. Defiance, hatred, anger, all the little black beads that won't crack until a deathly explosion. But I hear the gravel shift, so there has to be a smidge of curiosity, just a drop, shifting through that sea of black beads. A soft snap of him undoing the little plastic latch and now maybe there is horror on there.

"Check your chest too," I say, "And sorry if I miss spelled some things. It's hard to write backwards."

Across his forehead are words, done in Hannah's black lipstick. Imagine a knife. I'll apologize, but it was the first thing that I saw on the counter. And the mirror was right there too, so it seemed to fit.

And then I just drew on him. Swirls and circles, stars and dots. I even drew a little stickman out for a jaunty walk. That covers his neck. His chest gets a heart, right where the real one is. Drew a face on his stomach, with the belly button as a nose. It even has a beard and a moustache, thick glasses and a unibrow. Every dumb schoolteacher caricature I could think of painted on that sun tanned skin.

"Your back has 'Evan was here. Adagio is a loser,'" I say after a little sip, "Shoulders have one of these tally mark 's' things. Y'know what I'm talking about? Draw three lines, then three more? That might have been something after your time."

I thought about doing a tic tac toe board, but I ran out of room and I think the message is across. And there are some secrets he'll find later. I just got to confirm that Kieran wasn't lying and that does more to bolster the odd sense of serenity I feel. Confident even.

"Not a scratch," he says, "Not a scratch. All that bluster, and not even a scratch."

"So, apparently, I really fucked up on your forehead. It's supposed to say 'Imagine a knife.' And I want you to actually do that. Make all those black lines red."

His thoughts churn and collect come to some solidified conclusion of what he has done. And he doesn't know how long he has until I can go again. We've been talking a bit. Could be now. Could be an hour. Could be a year, until that little switch in me says that all is fine and dandy for another scrap. I take another drink. I smell smoke and I think that's whatever's gumming up his works trying to scrape free and fall to dust.

"What?" he murmurs. He's back to slurring his speech.

"I was having a nice night, Tom. I don't want to fight you. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want anything to do with you. I don't care. I don't care that you're an ass. I don't care that tried to take millions of dollars. I don't care that you think I ruined your life. You're just an afterthought."

"All that work and it wasn't to thwart me?"

"No. What? No. Thwart's a weird word. Dude, it was fun and Hannah asked me to. That's why I did this. That's why I have a green mohawk. It's fun to go out with a baseball bat and be a bad guy. Take some money and bruise some people, give them some fun stories to tell their friends. So long as everyone can walk at the end of the day, then its fine, right?"

"This is a serious- "

"It's fucking not. You married woman going by Ms. Sliggle, dude. You have like four different breakfast cereals. If you think anything in this line of business is serious, you're deranged. Give the people a show, bring some tourists, sell merch, skim some money off the top. That's why the city tolerates us. We're a carnival sideshow."

I win. I don't know how, but I win. There is a win and I don't even need my bat in my hand. I take another drink. I don't know why. All I taste is clear water and clean air.

"And you know what? I'll ask. Why'd you take the money? You had your show. You had your team. You had your little action figures all posed just the way you wanted. What was that money for?"

He takes a moment and he walks toward me. I bristle. I don't want to but, there is still a bit of the old nerves in there and I don't think they'll ever go away. But I am still where I'm at, still on my roof, still on my side of the river, looking at the sky and waiting for the call of sleep to be something that I can no longer ignore.

"I did it because I could," he whispers.

He brushes a little divot in the gravel with his foot and decides to plant himself down. Before he can, though, he finds himself in a camping chair beside me, watching the stars. I don't do anything with the look he shoots me. It really is a nice night now. Moon's as bright as the sun.