Some Are Sicker Than Others (47 page)
Read Some Are Sicker Than Others Online
Authors: Andrew Seaward
“I know,” Monty said then pulled his arm away from him, opened the door, and walked out.
Chapter 35
The End
IT was almost dark outside by the time they pulled into the Greyhound bus terminal, the last remnants of the day shooting like embers from behind the backdrop of the Rocky Mountains. It had taken him all day, but he finally made it. He was back in Denver. He was back home.
As the bus came to a stop, the driver pushed a button that popped the doors open. The passengers got up from their seats and scampered down the aisle. They brushed by Monty as he sat there waiting, his body turned towards the window, his forehead pressed up against the cold glass. Once the last guy had gotten up and walked by him, Monty grabbed the seat in front of him and slowly pulled himself up.
When he got to the front, he stepped down through the doorway then moved to the line of bags being stacked by the rear of the bus. He spotted his green gym bag by the right rear tire then carefully bent down and picked it up. He made his way through the sad, desolate terminal, past the succession of wooden benches and out the front door. When he got outside, he flagged down a taxi, threw his bag in the trunk and climbed in the backseat. The driver asked where he was going and Monty told him—back to his apartment in Capitol Hill.
The ride was short, about ten minutes, all the way down Colfax, a right onto Washington, and a left onto fourteenth. They stopped on the street in front of his building and Monty got out and paid the fare. Since he didn’t have any cash, the driver took down his information, including the numbers on his health savings debit card. Then, Monty grabbed his gym bag, slung it over his shoulder, walked down the sidewalk, and up the two flights of stairs. When he got to his door, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his keys and shoved them into the lock. As he pushed the door open, he was nearly knocked over by the stench of puke, urine, and stale alcohol. It was like death greeting him, like something decaying, like pieces of human excrement that had been baked in the oven for too long. It was inside the walls, imbedded in the carpet, soaked in the furniture, and saturated in the air. He could taste it in his mouth and feel it on his body, like a hot bowl of pea soup sticking to his skin. The smell was so bad that it made him quiver, the sickness in his stomach rising up in his throat.
He shut the door behind him then pressed farther inward, trying not to step on the liquor bottles that were strewn across the living room floor. But that was easier said than done. The bottles were everywhere. It was almost as if someone had taken a trash bag and dumped it right in the middle of the room. They bounced off his shoes and rolled around on the carpet as he felt for the light switch that was mounted somewhere on the wall. He found it and flipped it upward, but nothing came on—the electricity was off.
He staggered into the kitchen then opened the window to let in some air. Standing on his tiptoes, he looked in the cupboard and saw the matches sitting on the top of the microwave. He grabbed the box and walked over to the window and lit the candle that was sitting on the sill. Then, he took the candle and placed it on the counter next to an old box of pizza. As he looked down at the candle, he noticed a pair of shadows, moving through the light that was dancing around from the flame. He lowered his head to get a little closer and saw a group of cockroaches scurrying back behind the stove. They were fat and hairy, the size of golf balls, bloated on a slice of pizza that was completely covered with a thick, black mold. He jumped back, the chills running through him, the hot bitterness rising up into his throat. He shut his eyes and stood completely stationary, concentrating on his stomach, trying to breathe through his nose. But it was too late. There was too much of it. The more he swallowed, the more it came up. He couldn’t fight it. He had to get rid of it. It was coming up too fast. He couldn’t keep up.
He covered his mouth and ran to the bathroom, then dropped to his knees and lifted the lid of the bowl. His stomach emptied like a winning slot machine, hot chunks of bile spewing from his throat. As it dropped into the toilet, the water splashed upward, hitting him in the eyes and dripping down his nose. But he didn’t care, because it didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. Not anymore.
He finished puking then flushed the toilet and watched his entrails swirl around in the bowl. As he pulled himself up, he saw something sitting behind the toilet, wedged behind the drain pipe and the base of the bowl. It was a handle of Cutty Sark scotch, wading in a puddle of toilet water, cobwebs bridged between the base of the bottle and the wall. He quickly turned away and tried not to look at it, but it seemed to be watching him, as if it had eyes in its brown plastic cap.
He went over to the sink and opened up the medicine cabinet to see if his Trazadone bottles were all still there. They were—lined up together in straight, militant formation, like little red soldiers about to go to war. Four bottles times thirty, equaled one twenty, which was more than enough to send him to hell.
He nodded to himself as he shut the medicine cabinet, then reached behind the toilet and grabbed the handle of scotch. But before he opened it, he looked up into the mirror, at the pale, blue eyes that were sunk in his face. This was it, he thought. This was his moment. After tonight, he could never go back. Once he started, he had to finish. He couldn’t wimp out. He couldn’t quit. He had to pursue it to the gates of insanity, until his heart stopped beating, until he breathed his last breath. This was all he had left and so he had to embrace it. He had to turn his life and his will over to the care of his higher power—alcohol. It was his friend, his family, his life, his lover. Without it, he was nothing, he was nobody, he was lost. And so he drank, not out of gluttony or because he wanted to fulfill some kind of selfish indulgence—he drank because he had to. He drank because that’s who he was. Alcohol was as much a part of him as was his genetic makeup. It was inside his body. It was inside his bones. It was his purpose, his destiny, his penance, his atonement. His name was Monty and he was an alcoholic.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to extend a special thank you to Cortney Rehnberg and her beautiful daughter, Eva, who gave me the love and support I needed to learn how to live life again. I love you both very much. I’d also like to thank my writing teacher, Doug Kurtz, whose brilliant insight helped me to sharpen this story. Finally, I’d like to thank the following people who contributed in one way or another to the writing of this novel: Randall, Patricia, Phil, Christine, Rupert, Taz, and Gigi Seaward, William McMechen, Stacy Garcia, Lisa Voltz, Dan & Elisabeth Wells, Dan Vade Bon Coeur (aka Dan Adams), Kevin Clark, Gus Carruth, Eric Johnson, Patrick Murillo, Matt Miller, Lisa Soderlind, Megan Zuchowski, Christian George, Keith Moodispaugh, Rachel Gillis, Matt Black, Robby Farina, Benson & Christina Ledbetter, Cliffe Umstead, Richard & Lark Fleming, Dave Wylde, Benjy Dobrin, James Scherrer, Tauna Rignall, Chris Cunningham, Cougar Littlefield, Rob McNeil, Nick Petraglia, Nathan Faber, Zeeshan Gull, Larry Hebert, John Jechura, Craig (the homeless guy), Still Kallil, Skip Francouer, Paul Minor, Tommy & Joey Knothe, Dion Awakian, Dr. Ronald Neuman, Dr. Chris Roberts, Dr. Robert Chambers, Dr. Jacobs (Houston), Ben Wong, Brian Vincente, Doug Wildemuth, Prasad Garimella, Brian Murphy, Suhki Kaur, Todd Frank, Mandy Schmiedlin, Jay White, Alan Brown, John Bryant, Paxton (
Oasis
), Dylan Ritter, Richard Bourgeau, Dennis (
Foundations
), and Josh (
Foundations
). I’d also like to thank Jessica Carter for helping me proofread this thing. Thank you all for your support.
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