Some Are Sicker Than Others (8 page)

“Alright, that’s ten,” he said, as he funneled the rocks back in the bottle then handed it to Dave through the car window. “Ten fat ones.”

At the sight of the rocks, Dave’s heart began to flutter. He felt like a kid on Prom night who was about to get lucky. He snatched up the bottle and took a swift inspection of the product, then pulled open the center console and placed it under the cover of a couple McDonald’s hamburgers wrappers. Alright. Now, he was set. Now, he was ready. He was ready to cook this shit and get on with his Monday.

He shifted from park and buckled his seat belt then looked back up at Juarez through the passenger side window. “We good?” he said, as he tapped the dashboard, his fingers twitching like he was playing an imaginary piano.

“Yeah, we good,” Juarez said. “We good.”

“Alright. I’ll see you later then.”

“I know you will.” The kid smiled then turned away from the window and trotted back through the gate of his trashy, little prison yard.

A few minutes later, Dave was back on Colfax heading east towards the Capitol Hill neighborhood. He decided to stop off at the park for a couple quick ones. He was gonna need something in his system to keep him moving. That coffee and bagel he had for breakfast wasn’t nearly enough energy for him.

He took a left onto York towards Cheesman, driving past a four-story brick house that someone had once told him was an AA meeting hall. As he came to the light, he glanced out the window and saw a bunch of people standing around on a porch smoking cigarettes. Jesus, look at them all…the sick bastards…standing around in the cold looking miserable. Thank god he wasn’t an addict. It had to suck being sober.

He shook his head and put on his turn signal then took a right off of York onto Thirteenth Street. When he got to the park, he drove around a few times to make sure there were no cops lurking in the shadows. The pigs were notorious for hiding out in this neighborhood. Once he was satisfied that the place was empty, he drove to a small, secluded parking lot next to some big, blue Porta-Potties. The things were nasty looking, but they were well hidden, underneath the shade of some monstrous, snow-glazed evergreens.

He pulled to a stop then opened the center console and removed the red plastic bottle from underneath the McDonald’s hamburger wrappers. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cheap, plastic, Bic lighter along with his trusty glass pipe that he unwrapped from some toilet paper. He twisted his body and looked out the back window then took a deep breath and reached into the pill bottle. He dumped out a rock and held it up between his fingers, studying it in the light as if he was appraising a diamond. The rock wasn’t as fat as the kid made it out to be. It was small, about the size of a kid’s molar, Larry’s molar. He brought it to his nose and took a deep whiff inward then touched it with the tip of his tongue—it tasted bitter and metallic, almost inky.

He grabbed his pipe and held it eye line then carefully placed the rock on the end near the filter. His hands shook, his lips quivered, and tiny beads of sweat were dripping onto his crotch from his forehead. He took a deep breath then sparked up the lighter. The flame was like a torch glowing inside the little Volkswagen. He lowered the flame underneath the pipe’s glass bottom. The glass turned black and the tooth sublimed to vapor. He wrapped his lips around the pipe’s mouthpiece then took a deep breath in and held it for a few seconds.

Almost immediately, it came to him—the feeling of strength and power crashing into his blood stream. He felt like he did when he was winning races; the ecstasy, the euphoria, the in-fucking-vincibility. He could do anything. He could be anybody. All he needed was a couple hits and he could finally feel normal. No more insecurity…no more inadequacy…he was ten feet tall and fucking bulletproof.

He took another hit, but this time held it longer then let the smoke slowly curl away from his lips. His throat became numb and his heart rate became rapid, and a surge of adrenaline began to pump through his ventricles. Yeah, bring it on, he thought, as he looked up in the rearview mirror, his pupils dilating to the size of black marbles. Bring on the pain, bring on the suffering, bring on anything you can throw at this motherfucker…because he’s armed, he’s ready, he’s un-fucking-touchable…you can’t hurt him, you can’t even see him…he’s a ghost, a phantom, a mother-fucking ninja…he’ll fuck your daughters and eat your children.

“Ha, ha, ha…yeah.”

Dave closed his eyes and sank back against the headrest, feeling as every muscle in his body oozed into the seat cushion. His arms went limp and his head became weightless, and if only for a moment, he felt absolutely nothing—no more pain, no more tightening, no more aching, no more throbbing. As he opened his eyes again, he glanced at the clock on the dashboard—it was almost nine-thirty, but he didn’t care—he didn’t care about anything. Nothing mattered right now. There was nothing—no Cheryl, no Larry, no fucking responsibilities…it was just him in this park in this moment…just him and his crack, the way it should be.

Chapter 6

The Office

IT was a brisk walk across the snow-slick parking lot to Dave’s office in the bowels of the Boulder high school gymnasium. He used the back gate in between the football field and the weight room, reeling like an escaped mental patient along the side of the chain link fence. He could see the blurry outline of the gym’s entrance before him, like the gates of heaven calling his name. His ears were ice and his snot was crystal, freezing just above the cleft of his upper lip.

One final push and he was through the doorway into the safety of the high school gymnasium. It was nice inside, warm and quiet, only the soft humming of the pale overhead lights filling the muggy, sweat-saturated air. He shut the door and made his way down the sidelines of the basketball court, his tennis shoes squeaking across the freshly waxed floor. When he got behind the stage, he opened the door to the basement then descended the dark and winding stairwell. As always, it was muggy down there—the boiler was in full throttle, causing the walls to drip like an old woman with hot flashes. But, Dave didn’t mind it. He liked the peace and quiet. It was completely cut off from the rest of the universe. If only he could stay down here, he could finally have a chance to think for a minute and figure out what he was gonna do with the rest of his life. At the rate he was going, he wouldn’t make it; he wouldn’t last one more month doing this shit, coaching girls’ volleyball at a second rate high school, listening to Cheryl bitch every morning about every minuscule detail. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t his destiny. It wasn’t how things were supposed to be. He was supposed to be rich and famous with his own book deals, corporate sponsors, and a mansion in Malibu. He was supposed to do to running what Lance Armstrong did to cycling, and make it accessible to the rest of the country. But how could he do that now with this fucking kneecap? He could barely even walk down these steps let alone win a marathon. He just had to accept the fact that he would never amount to anything and for the rest of his life he’d be a complete nobody.

When he got to the bottom, he turned the corner and stopped in front of his flimsy, wooden office door. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, feeling for the light switch that was mounted somewhere along the wall. When he found it, he flipped it upward, then limped over to his desk and collapsed backward into his swivel style office chair. He closed his eyes and tried relaxing, but it was pretty much impossible to do with all this anxiety. It felt like a gorilla had its hands wrapped around his larynx, the big, fat, hairy fingers digging into the muscles of his neck. His head was pounding, his face was sweating, and it felt like his heart was about to rip wide open. In retrospect, he probably should’ve gone a little easier at Cheesman and not have finished off that first rock. Oh well, he knew how to solve that; it didn’t take a degree in pharmacy to know how to get balanced out.

He bent forward and flung the bottom drawer open looking for the only thing he knew that would take off the edge. There it was—hiding beneath a stack of his students’ ungraded earth science midterms—a big, brown, beautiful bottle of Jim Beam’s Kentucky Bourbon. He reached in and pulled out the bottle, unscrewed the cap and brought it to his lips. The alcohol burned as it slid down his throat, making him lurch forward and cough and cringe, but it felt so damn good inside his stomach that he lifted the bottle and went again, then again and again until his heart rate became steady and again and again until his entire body turned to jelly.

Once he was satisfied, he returned the bottle, tucking it safely back inside his bottom desk drawer. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the little red pill bottle and held it up between his forefinger and thumb. One down, nine to go. Hopefully, that would be enough to last him a couple days, maybe a week if he could keep it all under control. He’d better. He had that match tonight all the way up in Estes. If those girls knew anything was up, they’d probably tell their parents and he’d be out of a job faster than he could count to four. Then what would he do? How would he pay for his medicine? He’d have to steal money from Cheryl and hope she didn’t catch him, because if she did, she’d probably want to divorce him or worse, send him to some silly rehab. No, no, no, no, he couldn’t let that happen. He had to be careful. Maybe tomorrow, after the game, he could afford to be a little more reckless.

He took the bottle and shoved it back into his pocket then got up from the desk and walked towards the door. But, just as he was about to leave, something stopped him, like the tentacles of an octopus wrapping around his throat. All of a sudden, he couldn’t breathe and he began to feel dizzy, as the razor sharp suction cups dug into his spinal cord. He looked down at his hands. Jesus, they were trembling, and the pain in his knee was now shooting up through his pelvis. He locked the door. This was ridiculous. How could he drive a school bus if he was hurting this bad? He had to have something to quell the throbbing. He had to have something for his knee. If he didn’t, he could get into an accident. He could drive that bus right off a mountain. Christ, look at him…he looked like a Parkinson’s patient… god damn Michael J. Fox on crack cocaine. How could he be expected to hold down the gear shifter? How could he be expected to push down the brakes?

He turned away from the door and marched back across the office then plopped himself back down into his chair. Just a couple more hits…that was all he needed…just enough to calm him down and ease the throbbing.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle then set it on the desk right beneath his little, green banker’s lamp. Then, he pulled out his glass pipe and cheap, plastic lighter and took out one of the rocks and placed it on the end. As he mashed down the flint, the flame began to flicker and the rock started to sizzle like canola oil on a frying pan. He leaned forward and sucked in the vapors and almost immediately, the pain just melted away. His hands stopped shaking, his knee stopped throbbing, and the tentacles around his neck uncoiled their grip. Yes, that’s it…that was all he needed…just one good, solid hit.

He set down the pipe and folded his hands behind him then leaned back in his chair and stared out at the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit calendar hanging on the wall by the doorway. The model in the picture was tall and blonde with a pair of diamond hard nipples piercing through the fabric of her skinny string bikini. She held a slight resemblance to his middle blocker, Sarah, who was only eighteen, but looked like she was in her late twenties, with juicy breasts the size of watermelons and an ass so tight you could break your dick off in it.

He closed his eyes and thought about Sarah bouncing up to the net in that tight, black spandex. Damn, she was so strong, so tall and powerful…abs so tight you could actually see the muscles flexing. He began to feel movement down in his crotch area as the blood in his head drained down to his dick. He had a brilliant idea. He opened his eyes and pulled his chair forward then hit the power button on his computer. The monitor flashed blue and the processor began groaning as the little windows icon started running across the screen. A couple seconds later, his desktop appeared before him, a picture of Larry and his two daughters as the background on his screen. God damnit, he needed to change that. He couldn’t deal with them looking at him right now.

He quickly grabbed the mouse and double-clicked
My Documents
, which brought up a folder filled with all sorts of files. He scrolled to the bottom to a file titled
Game Videos
and double-clicked it. “Alright, let’s see what we got here.” He scrolled through the selection and eventually landed on the one that he was looking for—
Crusaders vs Spartans_2000
. Ah yes, this was a good one. He double-clicked the file, which brought up the media player, then hit the play button and turned up the volume. As the video came on, he stood up from the chair and pushed down his khakis. Alright, let’s go…let’s get this party started…come on you little cock tease…smile at the fucking camera.

He sat back down and hunched forward, pulled out his dick and stared at the monitor. The camera was zoomed in on Sarah’s nipples, which were poking through her sweat-soaked green and gold Catholic High Crusader’s uniform. She was almost six feet tall with a long, blond, braided ponytail that swung wildly like a whip as she dove for the volleyball. Her shirt was tied up just above her belly button so that every time she lifted her arms to block you could actually see the outline of her ribs. “Jesus,” Dave mumbled, as he hunched forward, pumping and pulling his now fully erect member. What he’d do for ten minutes alone with her. He’d give up his house, his car, all his savings, just to get in between those legs and wrap them around his torso.

He grabbed the desk and pulled himself closer, then got rid of the glare by tilting the monitor. He took the mouse and pushed up the little green volume button until it sounded like the girls were right there in the room, grunting in his eardrum. “Yeah…come on you bitch…give it to me…make me cum you filthy little animal.” He clenched his teeth and hunched as far as he could forward as he thought about jamming his dick in between those young, perky titties. Yeah, he was almost there. He could feel it coming, like a fucking torpedo being shot from his dick hole. He grunted and gasped, pulling harder and harder, sweat like a sprinkler splashing down on the keyboard. “Yeah, come on you dirty whore. Give it to me. Make me cum you fucking cock tease.”