Addicted
I watch her, always. Not so much as a stalker would (well, maybe a little like that), but more like a guardian angel or a knight. Yup, just like a knight. A knight paid by a king he despises to perform an act of nobility he’d all too happily perform for free. But, that’s me, Sir Aaron, blessed with the burden of watching over the eternally cursed Lady Maeve.
Today we’re waiting by the phone down on the corner of Blankley and Twelfth. She glances suspiciously behind her as she lifts the receiver and begins patting her pockets for change again. She won’t find any. She hasn’t the last four times she’s repeated this action, but she’s not really looking for any, so I guess it doesn’t matter. She slams the phone down quickly, takes a few steps back and scowling, flops down onto the faded, dirty bench—again. I find myself smiling at her antics when I glance into the side window of the 1995 Ford station wagon that has been playing the part of “cover.” My hair is far too flat today, and I shove my fingertips through it and try to rough it up a bit thinking that this could be the day she finally figures out that I exist.
By noon Blankley is filled with angry motorists. The sounds of unnecessary honking, hard slung profanities, and constant cycles of revving and braking overfill the narrow space between the tall buildings. Sometimes a car or three will come cruising through with the bass thumping so violently that the older panes of hand-blown glass rattle menacingly in the windows that line the backsides of the long grey brick structures. I stare at the cracks in the cold bricks across from me. The station wagon had left an hour ago, and I had been forced further down the alley to keep from being revealed before she needed me. It stinks of human filth, and as I slump against the great green dust bin that juts out about half-way down, I wonder what diseases the back of my sweatshirt may have just contracted. I brush the notion to the very outskirts of my weary mind and begin slowly pushing away, letting my stiff legs carry me back toward the front where I can check on the pretty beast waiting by the phone. My God, she is beautiful.
She had moved further away from it when one of the local bums showed up and laid claim to the nearby bench. I think his name is Bob or Al or something. I’d seen him around and as far as I could tell, he was a basically harmless antique of a drunk. She glares at him as she paces like a wild demon caged beneath the old “Try Coca-Cola” sign. The sign was as faded as everything else, covered in grease, dirt and bird crap. She flips her short brown hair with a long thin hand and I notice she is a bit paler today than usual. “Still my darling little sparrow,” I mutter as she suddenly slams her back against the wall. She starts pounding the craggy bricks with her tightly balled fists and snarls a steady string of curses into the stagnant air as the stiff edges tear her skin and make her bleed. I take a deep breath and slide out of the shadows of the alley into the shadows of the sidewalk. The traffic has thinned a bit, but I have to dodge a few bullish drivers in their shiny new cars to make it across the broken pavement of the back-alley boulevard that is Blankley Avenue. In the last few paces between the bench and phone I suddenly notice that my gait has become strange. Dear God, I think, I’m strutting like a damn peacock. I stare down at my feet and immediately trip over the devious nothing that has apparently latched onto the toes of my left boot. The sound of her tender flesh ramming the cruel face of the tall brick wall falters and when I glance up at her, my heart begins to thump hard and fast deep beneath my ribs. My initial embarrassment gives way to a flutter of excitement until I realize that she’s not actually looking at me, just through me. Again. I pat the pockets of my worn-out jeans and jam my fingers into the one that had rattled just enough. My fist emerges with a clump of pennies and two shiny nickels. I turn toward the most beautiful creature to have ever graced the land and hold out my handful of change. “Hey, you got a dime I can borrow?”
“What?” The sound of her voice floats to my eager ears and I feel for a moment as though I were being greeted by an angel. Then reality smacks me and I’m forced to recognize how hollow she actually sounds and notice the confused exhaustion that desperation has left to shroud her dark brown eyes.
I walk over and lean against the wall beside her, carefully keeping enough distance to not be considered a threat. “You’re injured,” I say. “Your hands, I mean. They’re bleeding.”
“Oh.” She glances down at the broken edges of her delicate hands. “Sorry.”
She slides down the wall and tucks her hands between her knees as though they were offensive to me. I instantly feel like an ass for even mentioning it, and as I follow her to the concrete, it occurs to me that she looks kind of like a little kid that’s just been yelled at by parents that can never be pleased. I wonder if that’s what happened to her—was she constantly beaten down by coldness until she was too numb to ever climb again? Who knows, he’ll never tell me, and I’m not really sure I want to know anyway. Her bottom lip trembles a bit and she presses the sharp edge of her incisors into the delicate curve of its plump pink center. My God, she is beautiful.
My thoughts are interrupted as a paper bag crinkles loudly somewhere near the phone. The bum, what-ever his name is, sits up on the bench and pulls the empty bottle out of it. He’s gazing down at the clear glass container almost like he’s expecting it to magically refill itself at any moment. Though I am not a drinker, I still understand. I grin and think, never a smoker either. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out half a pack of cigarettes in what claims to be a “convenient flip-top box.” I nudge her arm with the edge of the box. “Smoke?”
She looks at the offering and doesn’t hesitate to claim one, then gently slides an injured hand into her pocket and produces a bright orange lighter. She passes it from one hand to the other, and I notice it’s one of those religious ones with a picture of Jesus on the front and some bible passage or other quoted on the back. As she runs her little thumb over the flint wheel an exceptionally high flame springs from its metal mouth. The fire dances in her eyes, but is instantly snuffed when she passes Jesus to me. It’s still warm from her touch, and so I slip it into my pocket along with the rest of the pack.
Wisps of smoke curl around her thin frame, and, for a moment, I can imagine she’s a genie newly released from her gilded prison. I am glad to see that the blood is beginning to dry on the hand holding the cigarette. She takes a few more slow drags and relaxes a bit while a breath of wind carries the sweet scent of her soft skin over to me. Like a well trained bloodhound I breathe deeply, carefully memorizing every subtle detail even as I am staggered and consumed by it. Suddenly emboldened, I take a chance and carefully wiggle just a little closer. My God, she is beautiful.
“So, your name is Maeve, right?” I already know it is, but it always seems right to ask. Normally if we had made it this far, she would just say yes or stare at me for a while like she’s trying to remember if I seem familiar. Sometimes it even seems like there is at least some thread of a memory that’s been promised for me, but it fades quickly and I’m new again. Today, however, is different. I ask and she shrugs.
“Maybe,” she says. “Sometimes it is.”
“What about the other times?”
“It gets in the way.”
“In the way?”
“Yeah, cause if it’s always yours then you’ve always gotta answer to it, even when it’s the devil calling you.”
“So what’s your name when it’s not Maeve?”
“I don’t have one.”
“So, you get to be free then?”
She tilts her face toward me and allows her eyes to find mine. There is a sudden flash of life that shimmers for just a breath in the deep pools of her eyes. I do not blink. I dare not even breathe for fear of frightening that flicker of life away, but all too soon the spell has broken and her eyes trail back to the ground. My God, she is beautiful.
When I look up from our spot on the dirty city sidewalk, I see the bum, whatever his name is, watching us. For a while we sit in silence together. It’s not turning out to be an easy day for her, and every so often she makes sudden movements like an overly sensitive predator catching a faint scent of something entirely too delicious to ignore. When the phone begins ringing she lunges toward it, scrambles to her feet and runs the last few steps. Clutching the receiver in trembling hands, she purrs into it like a cat in heat.
“Hello, J.T.?” She’s breathing heavily and at the sound of the voice on the other end she begins slithering like a rattlesnake against the side of the large blue-metal box that houses the black and silver payphone. “Are you on your way? Okay baby, you got it, right. Nah, it’s just me, don’t worry. Yeah. I’ll do it if you hurry. Just c’mon, I need you.”
The line goes dead, but she hangs on to the receiver and stares into the lanes of traffic. My eyes begin to fill with bitter tears. I stuff a hand into my pocket and run the tip of my index finger along the cold, smooth surface of her lighter. I pull it out. There are black burn marks on the bottom edges, and when I turn it over I notice that the bible passage has been mutilated by a combination of hot embers and smoke. I walk over and hold it up in front of her knowing she’ll need it where she’s going. She reaches for it. Her fingertips brush across my thumb, and I flutter my tingling eyelids in an effort to stem the flow of my sorrow as I imagine in that flash of physical contact what it would be like if I could just save her. I catch her eye just long enough to whisper “take care.” I already know she won’t.
The shiny black car screeches to a halt just past the payphone, where she stands on the edge of the sidewalk. As I watch her open the door and slide into the passenger seat, I tell myself she’ll be okay. Again. The driver slings open his door and gets out. I gaze past his approaching mass and watch her fumble with the latch of the glove-box. It finally pops open and she reaches into it with one eager hand as she gropes for the arm rest of the door with the other. The door slams shut. I turn away from the man coming toward me and just hold out my hand until the thin stack of crisp bills are placed between my fingers. He knows what this does to me, and I have to stuff my hands deep into my pockets to keep them from curling around his chuckling throat before he can walk away. I turn back just in time to see the car pull away and quickly become lost in the tangle of traffic between the tall buildings.
Forcing a smile, I turn toward the alley that will lead me back home and as I pass by the faded, dirty bench by the phone, the bum, whatever his name is, stretches his hand out expectantly. I yank the now crumpled wad of cash out of my pocket and drop it into his greasy palm. “You know you’d be rich if you didn’t drink it all in one place,” I joked.
“I don’t, I smoke some too.”
I shake my head and continue on my way. Before I step off the sidewalk into the busy street, I turn back toward the bum. “Rehab gramps. It can’t be that hard to quit?”
“I don’t know about that,” he chuckles. “See you soon.”
“Sure,” I yell back.
