Plaid Ties and Neon Lace

"Do you have a blue ribbon tattoo-?"

"Yes."

"Um ... why?"

"I was very drunk. Want some breakfast?" I glanced at the digital timer on my stereo. "Even if it is more like early dinnertime." I absently buttoned back up my pants and looked for my shirt, or any shirt.

"Ah, yeah ... sure, I guess. I mean I'm hungry. But wait, why am I here? Here in your apartment, Jimbo?" Her eyes went wide at the look I gave her. "What?"

"I really hate the name, Jimbo."

"But everyone calls you that at the office ... oh." A flash of consternation crossed her face.

"Yeah."

"So, Jim?"

"That works." Éponine brushed past my leg on her way to rub on Abigail. Seeing my red brocade vest draped over a chair, I grabbed it up before it was claimed as a cat bed. "Or, Nos. A definitive yes or no on breakfast?"

"Yes." She got a puzzled look. "Nos?"

I headed towards my kitchen. "Yeah ... a lot of my friends used to call me that." Passing the closet I hung the vest up without really thinking about it. "Omelet, bacon and toast sound okay?"

"Ah ... sure, I guess. I'm normally a bagel and latte kind of girl, but sure."

"Latte I can do; I have coffee and milk. But bagels are a no." The Keurig got its pod and I grabbed my omelet pan and some eggs. "I can't deal with chewy bread in the morning." I gestured to the tall chairs by the equally tall kitchen table.

"Jim ... ah, Nos? Don't take this wrong, but you're weird."

"HAHA! If I had a dollar-down, Éponine." I shooed my cat off the counter as she wanted to touch the bacon with her nose. "... For every time I've heard that." I started cracking eggs one-handed; my mad Waffle house cook skills still sharp after all these years. "You're in very good company thinking that."

"I mean most guys that pick up a girl at a rave don't sleep on the couch."

"You sound disappointed," I said.

"No. Just confused."

Flipping half the omelet over the cheese I shrugged. "I would have no great issue with molesting you, Abigail. You're certainly a very beautiful young woman, but ... I don't take advantage of a woman who is not in control of herself. You were too out of it last night to make decisions. And I've got too many things in my life I look back on with regret already to add one more, simply to sate my need."

"Regret nothing. Just do it!"

"Ha!" Looking over my shoulder at her, I grinned. "The only one who can say that is someone that has never done things worth regretting. I promise I have. "

"A plaid-tie-wearing office clone has regrets?" She eyed my paints. "Do those regrets have anything to do with your wardrobe choice this morning?"

Bare chested, barefoot and wearing black leather pants while cooking breakfast for a girl with blue hair, I had to pause and ponder the irony of her question. "No ... I have to say I don't regret my pants. I wore these for so many years that I honestly feel just about naked right now. They are more like my skin."

"You are a computer code analyst, Jim. You look for patterns in random chunks of data in dusty files. You are a picture straightener, for god's sake." Her eyebrow quirked. "With a blue ribbon tattooed in your pubic hair?"

"Again, I was drunk that night." Twirling the omelet around in the skillet, I slid it out onto the plate and started on mine. "And it's hidden enough that it doesn't show to most people."

"Like the one on your back?"

"That one I was sober for. Order up." I placed her plate before her. "Soda, water, or juice? I have apple and orange."

"Apple juice and my latte." I felt her eyes on me as I walked to the fridge. "So you planned on getting a crumbling 'crying angel' tombstone tattooed on your back?"

Pausing in placing a cup in my Keurig, I moved my hand to the wall and turned up the dimmer, bring the kitchen lights to full brilliance. With a sigh, I turned my back to let her see the tattoo in all its meaning. The scrap of the chair leg gave me a moment's warning before her fingers touched me and began to trace the lines. Tracing the bones, half-hidden by the grass at the base of the tombstone.

"Names and dates?"

"Friends." Her fingernail was a cool scratchy pressure across a name that still hurt years after the ink had been placed under my skin. Hurt bad. "And the day when they breathed their last."

There was a silence in the kitchen broken only by the sound of eggs frying in cooking spray. Cheese sizzling. I pushed the glowing blue button and got the coffee making.

"Wow, you knew a lot of people that died."

"Yeah." Seeing my bacon sizzling, I moved away from her hand. "Drugs. A few car accidents. A couple of suicides. One murder."

"Murder?"

"Yeah. She was drunk and got helped into the wrong car. By the wrong guy." I flipped the bacon over onto a plate covered with a paper towel. "They found her body a week later."

"So you went clean, got a respectable job and now want to save a wayward girl like me?" Her eyes rolled up. "Now it makes sense why I woke up alone. Let me guess, do I remind you of her?"

Placing bacon on the plates, while I silently chewed over a bit of resentment souring my stomach, I tossed the tongs into the sink. They landed with a clatter that was deafening in the suddenly dead quiet kitchen. Sliding my chair out from under the table, I sat down without speaking, not trusting myself to speak. Not yet. Behind me the Keurig buzzed, I got back up, grabbed the steaming cup and added half and half to it. I set it before her and moved the container with sweetener closer in case she wanted it.

"No. You are nothing like her." Looking up my eyes took in the blue hair, the expensive clothes made to look trashy. For a half-second, I remembered a beautiful woman, saw ghostly image next to Abigail, a smiling face, dark hair and sexy quick-to-wink eyes surrounded by dark kohl. "You are nothing like my, Rose."

Abigail shrugged and took a bite of her food. When she swallowed down some juice she shook her head. "She must have been similar since it sounds like Rose was a party girl at heart. Just like me."

"Rose was born addicted to crack cocaine. Thanks to a crack-whore mother. She spent her childhood going from the hospital, to foster homes, to youth detention facilities. At fourteen she ran away and sold herself on the streets to child perverts who like their girls young to keep herself fed." Sitting back I looked at this blue flower of over privileged upper-middle class live. "She was bought and sold by various pimps till she was twenty, too old for even the sickest perv. When I met her Rose was a junky, giving blowjobs to buy meth. Her pimps hooked Rose on that shit to it to keep her under control." Thinking back, I harrumphed. "I wasn't much better. I was badly hooked on crystal ecstasy and mescaline. Following metal bands from city to city, party to party. Working under the table, with the stage crews as grunt labor, for straight cash."

My food getting cold I rubbed at an empty left ring finger. "We got clean together. Sober. We were married for about two years but separated." I shrugged accepting my part in that debacle. "I fell off the wagon. Started hitting the local party scene, out of boredom really. She found me smashed and left. I heard a month later that she couldn't keep it together either. Not alone. The next thing I heard about Rose was on the news when they found her body."

My eyes were on Abigail. My gaze locked on hers. She looked ... well, there was no one single emotion dominate. Embarrassment. Sympathy. A bit of anger. All were present.

"No, Abigail. You are not like my Rose."

"Sorry, I didn't-"

"Dea, dea, dea. Don't worry on it." I waved her apology off. "Life is life; it happens how it happens.

"Yeah."

She went silent, looked down at her plate and after a moment began to eat again. Delicate bites, carefully selected. "So why did you come to the rave last night?"

"Curiosity to see who at the office made those flier copies, mostly. More than mostly." Taking a sip I cleared my mouth. "It was driving me insane trying to guess which of the people I work with could have done it.'

"Yeah, not a lot of closet freaks there at Daddy's company. Too much-starched underwear I think. But ... I would have never taken you for the leather pants type either."

"I haven't been for years," I said.

"Are you thinking of becoming it again?" There was a teasing humor to Abigail's question.

"I'm not sure I haven't made the worst mistake I've made in a decade plus by going there last night." Looking at what was left of my food it was suddenly tasteless. Pointless. I pushed the food around with my fork looking for anything that looked edible.

"Why?"

"I've been sober for all that time and I drank last night without even thinking about it. I was around drugs, or dealing with the results of drugs. I can feel the old cravings in me even now! Like rats gnawing on the marrow in my bones." Holding out my hand, I watched it shake. Looking up I waved off the apology I saw forming. "My own curiosity did it, not you."

"Well did you have a good time?" she asked.

"That's beside the point," I said.

"No, that's the whole point." She shook her head and tapped the table with her empty juice glass. "People can live to be a hundred and not live. They live gray lives, pointless lives in stiff suits and plaid ties. It's all boardrooms and PowerPoint documents. Faceless men with expensive business cards to identify themselves by. That's the life you've been living ... Jimbo."

For a moment I sat silent. "Sounds like a sore spot for you."

"I've lived it my whole life and been told it's Eden recreated. My dad is the worse of the worse. He believes to his soul that the more he works the more he will enjoy life. That the job and life are one." Her disgust was thick. "Hell yes, it's a sore point with me!"

I smiled at her youthful angst. "You've lived the privileges of that gray life."

"I've lived a few weeks out of a lifetime." She pushed her plate away. "Stealing moments when I can have my hair the color I want. Listen to the music I like, as loud as I like, without getting a lecture on how that kind of music is worthless in the proper society, and told listening to it will rob me of appreciation of the true masters of music. Bach, Beethoven, Wagner, Chopin and Rachmaninoff. I'm sick of it!"

"Move out." I chuckled at her indignant rant. "Tell them to take all their money, kiss your ass and then toss their credit card on the table on the way out the door. Go live your own life; it can't be that hard right?"

"You're not funny ... Jimbo."

For a second my eye stayed on my plate. When I looked up there was indeed no humor in my eyes. "Nos, or Jim. Otherwise, your purse is by the door where I dropped it last night and don't let the door spank your ass going out."

Now it was her turn to chuckle at me.

"That really is a sore spot with you, huh?"

"Yeah." I didn't give her more than that. Getting to my feet, I moved out the kitchen leaving Abigail abandoned behind me. My little huntress hopped down off the counter behind me and followed along hoping for ear scratches.

Plopping down on my couch, I performed my function as a human and absently petted my cat. Éponine rubbed her face on my leather pants, brushing her whiskers.

"Nos? I'm sorry."

My hand on Éponine's head was shaking a little I noticed. When Abigail sat down and began to caress the soft fur along the cat's back the little huntress purred in my lap like a V8 engine. She arched under those fingers and stuck her quivering tail up like a flag.

"Nos?"

"Yeah?"

"Last night ... did you think about, you know ... well," A blue curl of hair twisted between her fingers she glanced down at her lap. "Doing me?"

Looking up at her, I grinned at her. "I'm male and you have tits."

Abigail pulled the neck of her top out and looked down inside. "Not much hidden in here. Barely a B-cup and it took me to twenty to even get these." She let the top snap back. "Spent my teens scared to death I might drip some Clearasil on them by accident and loose them all together."

Chuckling without sound, I leaned back into the couch. Éponine gave me an annoyed look that I had stopped petting her, fluffed her tail at me and moved into Abigail's lap.

"So ... a male, who could have had me any way he wanted, simply put me to bed? And then he slept in here." She tilted her head. "I'm sorry if it seems like I'm harping on that but that's like never happened to be before. I don't know if I should thank you or feel insulted."

Rolling my eyes, I gave her a look. "I can't help it if you hang with little-perverted boys and not a man with a few shreds of morals left. Admittedly, they are just shreds, tattered streamers really and yeah, when I was younger, say your age; I might have stripped you to the skin and taken what I wanted. Sure. I certainly did worse than that back then." Pulling my lip between my teeth, I sighed. I picked at a piece of fuss on the couch. "I have enough memories I'm not proud of, Abigail."

"Thank you."

Looking up, I cocked an eyebrow.

"For not letting me be a bad memory. For, well I guess having those few shreds of morals and not just taking what was there." She pulled her legs up and hugged her knees. "I love the party life. I love the music so loud my ears hurt, the lights blinding my eyes with spots. The glow sticks, the clothes blazing under black lights, and the power of the rave! Oh to be in the middle of the dance floor and to feel it rumble around me. I feel so ..."

"Alive."

"Yeah, alive." She nodded then wiped a tear from the side of her eye. "I never meant to get started with the drugs, but then I tried Ecstasy. It made everything just pop, and I had so much energy, I could dance all night long!"

"Abigail, you are singing to the choir. I swallowed it like it was tic-tac's." I pointed at my chest with both index fingers. "Strung out on it for weeks at a time, I would be the alpha lunatic in a mosh pit full of lunatics. I had so many bruises I looked like I was black. The band I followed did a two-year-long world tour. I was at every show. Every. Last. One. Of. Them. I was burned out, strung out, bankrupt, and I looked like a skeleton from spending all my money to either buy tickets, drugs, or a place to sleep."

"What band?"

"Type O Negative."

For a second I could see her thinking really hard, then she gave a mincing shrug. "Sorry. Don't know them."

Chuckling, I got to my feet. "Not your style, not your generation either. They were a gothic metal band. Their lead singer died or they would still be around." Walking over to my shelf, I let my hand linger over the leather-bound cd cases, the dust too thick. Picking up the remote, I switched on my stereo and dialed in the right storage file. Peter Steele's voice grumbled out the speakers like a rusted harp played by a demon in black leather. Standing for a moment, I let the familiar lyrics roll past me. I could have closed my eyes and been back in so many places. Germany. Austria. Finland. How many times did I hear this song played? How many cities did I get drunk and stoned off my ass in listening to it?

"I like that. Powerful."

I nodded. "Imagine hearing it in concert. Surrounded by thousands. Night after night, town after town, for years. Never knowing what day it was, not caring either. Hitching rides to the next show. That was my life back then."

"Sounds awesome." She bit her bottom lip. "To be that free? Living like a gypsy, always moving. God, I would love to do that."

Letting the music play, I sat back down. "And then there were the bad nights. Blackouts, bloody knuckles the only way to know you've been in a fight. Waking up smelling of sex and some strangers BO."

Abigail looked down at her hands and tugged at her top. "Been there done that."

"Got the T-shirt to prove it?"

"What?"

"Old saying." I shrugged, feeling my years more and more. Gods, I'm talking to an infant. My eyes went to the bare midriff she was letting show. Okay, not that young.

"I probably need to be going."

It was like seeing a bubble pop. As if we had been isolated from the whole world here in my little condo. As if wood studs and drywall could keep out the world forever so long as neither of us tried to leave. As if ... as if the years had slipped backward and I wasn't "Jimbo" but "Nos" again. Nodding, accepting that this fantasy had to end, I got to my feet.

"There is another rave next Saturday. Would-you like to take me?" Abigail tilted her head, looking me over then smiled an appreciative grin. "Nos."

Éponine hopped down out of Abigail's lap, looked up at me and gave me a meow that said plainly to get off my leather glad, wanting to be a party child again, going through a middle age crises from hell, ass and go.

"Sure."

Or maybe the Huntress simply wanted to be fed. As I led our guest to the door, it was a toss up.

** ** ** ** ** **

Monday was ... Monday.

It was also one of the toughest days I had to endure in years. Simply the act of getting up and dressing in my simple office suitable suit was like lifting stones. Every step that morning was as another stone on my back. The tie, that perfectly matched the color of my suit, was the hardest thing to put around my neck. Looking in the mirror, I imagined it a hangman's noose and as I tightened it that's what it felt like.

The office was stifling. The water cooler chatter like broken glass in my soul. Every word cutting at my self-image, tearing away the shards that had poked their way back to the surface over the weekend.

"Hey, Jimbo!"

Every time that hated name was spoken it was a knife in my heart. Twisted violently, brutally, in my chest with repetition throughout the day. And the responses I had to give back were spoken through bile. And my work was, if anything, worse. As if every simple file of statistical date I opened was not worth the energy to flip the manila envelope open, to pull up the data on my computer. The tired mundanity of it was bland beyond belief. Oat porridge when everyone else was dining on steak. More and more often I found myself sitting and staring at the data rather than analyzing it. Then I licked my lips and knew, without even thinking about it, I was hoping for a hint of Jägermeister from Saturday.

"Jim?"

Looking up, I almost didn't recognize Abigail. Her hair was the normal mousy brown rather than bright blue. Her makeup was perfect, for an office. A hint here, a shade there. Nothing dramatic. Plain. Mundane. Oat porridge.

She saw in my face my thoughts. Abigail gave me a sad smile.

"Yeah," She shrugged. "I'm only alive when I'm not here."

The folded piece of paper she handed me was similar to the original flier that started me walking this new old path.

"Saturday."

The word was a whisper. It was also a ghost wind up from the past, blowing into my skull to shift decades of dust. I watched the half-hidden curves of Abigail's ass and hips as she walked away. Reaching up, I loosened my tie.

I shut down my computer.

I put the unread files in my outbox.

Then I left my desk ... and took the rest of the week off.

** ** ** ** ** ** **

The park I jog in has a mile marker. Saturday morning I passed it fifteen times before I realized I was trying to run away from myself. Muscles screaming from thrice their normal fatigue, dripping sweat and chasing a breath that had grown elusive I slowed to a walk. Standing by the water's edge, looking at the rising sun turning the high-rise building a golden hue, I felt the need for a drink finally leave me. All week I had fought to keep my sobriety intact.

The cravings had gotten so intensive.

And not just for alcohol. I clenched my fists at the idea of how wonderful it would be to be high. To ride the waves of a drug trip again. I punished that idea with every terrible memory I could dredge up of picking friends up off nasty, tiled, piss-covered floors. Every night in jail, the ER, or some random fuck motel's filthy bed.