as if someone had glued pennies to them; long enough for the shame of memory to burrow deep within his soul and simmer on the coals of guilt.
Finally, he saw a blood-drenched gopher stagger out the broken window as if it were the entrance to a burrow and disappear into the streets beyond. The lobby was silent and he finally allowed himself to stretch.
Now, to find that room and get so much needed R&R….
The hotel room was much nicer than any of the ones Washington had ever stayed in.
Rather than having carpet so threadbare that it felt like walking on sandpaper, the plush shag seemed to billow around his bare feet. He sat on the edge of the bed and flexed his toes as he looked around. The far wall was dominated by a large window and he’d quickly pulled the thick, taupe drapes over the flimsier curtains behind them when first entering the room. In front of the window were a pair of overstuffed chairs with a round table sitting between them. There was a television, a writing desk nestled into an alcove, a wardrobe and dresser, and a few lamps scattered about. But there was also a small, black refrigerator with a glass door; through this door, he could see these little bottles of alcohol staring back and soon after stripping off his unirform he’d carried a fistful to the bed and downed them in rapid succession.
The empty bottles now clustered about his feet, collateral damage in the war against memories that refused to be put down. He’d spent his entire adult life pushing these thoughts into the furthest recesses of his mind and, for the most part, had been successful. If you didn’t think about it, his reasoning went, then it was almost like it had never happened. But those damn freaks in the animal costumes had ruined all that, hadn’t they? They had to bring everything back, to make his past come charging toward the front like an insurgent hellbent on emotional jihad.
The voice of his mother still echoed through his head like a moment looped in time. The contempt in her clipped tone jabbed fiery bayonets into his gut and the part of his anatomy the old bitch had always called his
“Fuck you, woman. Fuck… you.”
He twisted the cap off the final bottle of Absolut, tilted his head back, and allowed the liquid to gurgle into his throat. The vodka left a trail of napalm down his esophagus and spread like the fires of a Molotov when it hit his stomach.
Normally, Washington could hold his liquor with the best of them. But he’d had so little to eat over the past few days, that the alcohol had quickly dulled his tired mind even further. By the time the bottle had joined its comrades on the hotel’s floor, it felt as though he’d somehow stumbled into an out of focus photograph that was just beginning to show the effects of age.
Everything seemed fuzzy and indistinct: the sharp edges of the writing desk and wardrobe blurred into hazy patches of reality and the bed looked like it were a mere prop. The down comforter, the crisp white sheets, and carefully fluffed pillows… none of these things looked like they were ever meant to be actually used. They were too ethereal for that, too perfect for a world that seemed as if it were about to careen off into the furthest reaches of space. And, on top of all of this, everything had a grainy quality as well. Like one of the old black and white films he’d watched as a kid when….
Washington squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers.
It was better not to think about childhood, to continue dredging up all those memories. Maybe if he could somehow just manage to focus on the here and now, the room would stop this crazy carousel spin; maybe he could simply let go and be free.
But with his eyes closed, it all come rushing back. So clear that it could have been yesterday.
He was twelve again and had only recently begun to realize that girls weren’t exactly the nuisance he’d always assumed. In fact, they’d begun to awake something within him.
Something that was like a tingling just above his dirty worm; but, at the same time, it also gave him the same sensation that riding The Big Dipper did when the cars finally plummeted down the other side of the largest hill; for a brief second, he could see the entire park stretched out around him. There was that sense of exhilaration, of being at the summit of the world, only to it feel as though his stomach had been left near the top of the coaster once he began the plunge.
Except for his little sister, Brittany. She was annoying as ever with her whining and the way she was always taking his action figures and making them do ridiculous things. Like shopping. G.I. Joe wouldn’t be caught dead in the Dream Car. He’d be out, saving the world from COBRA and keeping democracy safe. Not chatting away with Barbie about how pretty her dress was. Luckily, he was four years older than she; Brittany had already been put to bed for the night and he didn’t have to worry about the little brat bursting through his bedroom door with all of her stupid little questions.
He could hear the television through his bedroom door and occasionally his mother’s muffled laugh. Which was good. As long as he could hear her, he knew where she was. Still, he couldn’t help but to steal glances at the door every few seconds. As if half-expecting to see the knob turning slowly.
Part of him felt this guilty excitement. It was like that time Ronny had dared him to steal the Hot Wheels from old man Pendleton’s store. He’d known it was wrong, that he would be in
He licked his dry lips and looked at the raccoon sitting on his lap. It was wearing this yellow t-shirt that said
For nearly six months, Brittany had taken this stuffed animal everywhere with her. At all hours of the day, she would squeeze its stomach and, from somewhere within all that cloth and stuffing, this little voice would giggle. A second squeeze and it would exclaim
Brittany’s obsession, however, had ended shortly after she’d tried to take Molly into the bath with her. From that point on, it was almost as if the raccoon had suffered minor brain damage after a near drowning experience. Almost it’s entire vocabulary had been wiped out and forgotten; only three words remained in Molly’s repertoire and she would repeat them over and over as long as pressure was continually applied.
Those three words were the reason JT had snuck into the hallway closet the night before and secreted the animal away. They were the reason he now felt as if everything inside him had turned to warm mush. And the reason he’d taken his pocket knife and sliced a small gash between the toy’s legs and then pushed some of the stuffing aside with the tip of his finger.
He lay naked on his bed with Molly The Raccoon on his lap. His right hand squeezed the hard lump of the voice activator like the nurse at school working a blood pressure bulb. And Molly responded, time and time again, with the exact same phrase.
Flash forward: crying in the bathroom, Mama looming over him, her face red and angry, while Brittany banged on the bathroom door, demanding to know what was going on. Still naked, he’d tried to cover himself but Mama kept smacking his hands away with hard raps from the backside of a hairbrush.
“You ashamed? You should be, you dirty little boy. You filthy little pervert!”
He felt smaller than he ever had in his life and wished he could just hop into the bathtub and disappear down the drain. His entire body trembled, this time with fear, and he kept his gaze pointed toward the floor, far from the angry glare of Mama’s eyes.
“God hates perverts, Julius! God hates you right now, too… you hear me? God
Even over his sobbing and the way his heart seemed to pound within his eardrums, he heard the rattle of the clothespin bag as Mama took it down from the hook on the back of the door. Her footsteps thundered across the linoleum and he heard a sharp snapping sound as she the clothespin opened and closed within her hand.
