An Inhuman Condition

Adam is speeding down interstate 114 in his two-tone Dodge Dart, and his shoulder is killing him. The car’s powder-blue paintjob gives way a little more to the encroaching rust every year. The hood and roof look like a copper penny shoved through the center of a robin’s egg as it shakes it’s way down the road. The sun is setting, and he can barely make out the Lakeview exit for the glare. His normally slick and slightly curled hair is matte and dirty with the same dried blood covering his cheek and neck. His bed-head hairstyle is much more literal, resting on his face like James Dean wearing a mophead as a hat. His eyes are burning sapphire on the road as he snorts, taps the brake and forces the wheel to the right with his lip curling from the pain of the gunshot wound. As he squints to check for traffic, he sees Jenny’s ring on a chain around the mirror. He wishes he’d never gotten her involved in all this again, and he hopes he can get her out this time. His right foot hits the floor, and pain be damned, he spins out around the corner racing down the street.

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

The same time of day exactly one week earlier, Kevin is using his pocket knife to ever-so-gently open the apartment window. He’s trying not to clamor around too loudly on the fire-escape steps and alert any do-gooder neighbors to his actions. The dusk light creates a shadow between buildings, and he is almost invisible from any passers-by. The aging window has plenty of give, and he makes easy work of the shoddy lock. As he climbs through the window, a cat darts down the dark hallway of the apartment. He takes a moment to survey the room: family photos, a modest television, cheap bookshelf stereo and plenty of Pier1\Target type furnishings are the immediate centerpieces of the room. The kitchenette seems barely lived in with the electric teapot exposed and central as the most commonly used appliance.The solitary teacup and book laying on the coffee table confirm his suspicions. He pockets the bookmark and makes his way down the dark hall looking for the bedroom.

As he approaches the bed, the cat runs by the opposite way not looking for any trouble. Kevin quickly goes through the drawers, tossing the jewelry into his backpack. He takes a small, heavy mirror from the dresser that might be silver. He can see the red whiskers of his beard getting a little long. Coupled with the dark bags under his eyes and the ambivalent expression on his face, he feels like exactly the sort of person people would expect to do something like this. He figures he might as well spend the cash on booze and drugs to complete the stereotype. At the bottom of a drawer he finds an old photo of her ripped in half to leave a decapitated arm hanging over shoulder. Whoever it belonged to clearly isn’t here anymore. There isn’t much else he can find to take from her that time hasn’t managed on it’s own.

“Bitch,” Kevin says. “I’m going to shit in your bed.”

He unbuckles his belt, inches down his pants, and pulls up the comforter.

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

“Looks like Kevin isn’t showing up again,” Rob says, unsurprised. “We’ve got some new faces here tonight. Jenny, you want to start us off?”

“Sure, Rob. My name is Jennifer Hart, and I’m an addict. Every day I can say it a little easier, but it wasn’t always the case. When I was twenty-one, my boyfriend and I would take pills, drink until we couldn’t see straight and ride around looking for the next thrill. It got so bad, I couldn’t stand the thought of spending a day sober. We were living in a one-and-a-half storey bungalow in the Valley, a trashy place ten years ago. I was bartending part-time after dropping out of school, and he was taking the odd repair job on cars and doing general handiwork to make ends meet. Every spare cent, we spent on something that could make us feel anything but the truth. I started shoplifting from time to time, and he and his buddies were breaking into houses, lifting wallets off drunks at my bar. Toward the end, they started stealing cars. As it got worse, I needed more. Painkillers weren’t enough; liquor wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough.”

Jenny stops for a moment to compose herself.

“The lows were always causing tension, and the drugs and alcohol were turning me into a monster. One night, after the bar had closed, I finished a fifth of tequila I stole from work and went home to find Adam and his friend Mike celebrating. He told me how they stole a car from some street thugs and found a couple automatic weapons in the trunk. He said ‘Baby, now me and Mikey can steal anything!’ I couldn’t believe how far we’d been dragged down by our lifestyle, and we had the worst fight of my life. It was so bad that Mike left with his tail between his legs a few minutes in. I felt like Adam was on a fast track to prison, and he blamed me for always needing more. We destroyed the already crappy house throwing anything we could get our hands on. Windows shattered, life broken. I knew there was no way we could come back from a fight like this. After 90 minutes of hell, I grabbed my car keys and left.”

“I was so angry I didn’t consider the state I was in. I drove down the 114 as fast as I could just trying to escape the fight still banging around in my head. Between the pills and the bottle of liquor, I wasn’t in control. I remember turning off the freeway and blowing through the exit stop. Then it’s just lights and the scraping, tearing sound of metal. The next thing I remember is the hospital room. The man I hit was Mayor Green. He was driving to the airport for an early flight, and all they could tell me is he was in critical condition. They had an officer waiting inside my room who let me know I was under arrest as soon as the hospital released me. He gave me a grim lecture about manslaughter and what would happen if the mayor didn’t make it.”

“Between the fight with Adam and the terrible act squarely on my shoulders, it was the worst I’ve felt in all my life. I wished I had died in that wreck over and over. I felt like I had nothing to live for, and when the cop left the room, I slit open my wrist on the metal tray table in the room. I woke up later that day stitched back together with a new officer and a hospital staff babysitter. From that point on, they never gave me a minute alone until the trial. I was forced to feel the full effect of my actions completely sober, and I couldn’t even kill myself properly.”

“I was lucky in the long run. The mayor made it through, and I only served six of the fifteen-year prison sentence. I used that time to join an NA group and finish a degree in nonprofit management. When I first went in, it tore my family apart, but by the time I got out, they could see how my life had changed. I’m grateful to have people in my life supportive of my recovery, and I know now that things could have been much, much worse.”

“My name is Jenny. I’m an addict, and that’s my story.”

The crowd mutters a chant of “Thank you, Jenny.”

Rob stands up with a few quiet claps, “And I’ve forgiven Jenny for what happened that night. I’m blessed to still be alive, and I feel privileged to have Jenny’s help here raising awareness about drunk driving and assisting others to turn their lives around. She is our shining star of what’s possible when you commit to recovery with all your heart.”

Kevin, the mayor’s son, walks in to the crowd clapping for his dad. He rolls his eyes, and heads straight to the coffee pot.

“Alright, folks, I say we take a quick ten-minute breather. Then we’ll get Kevin up here to start off the rest of the sharing. Isn’t that right, Kevin?”

Kevin spills the coffee he’s trying to pour over the side of his foam cup. “Fuck, ouch. Sure, dad. Whatever. Shit.”

Former mayor green shakes his head to the group, “That’s my boy.”

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

Adam has an 80s Oldsmobile jacked up on cement blocks in his garage. The garage door is wide open, and only the tools and odd boxes in the back of the garage are clearly lit. From the street, he looks like a silhouette man working under a shadow car. He scoots out on his trolley, sits up and pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket draped over the driver’s mirror. He fishes the lighter out of the small pocket of his jeans and lights the cigarette. Kevin and his moped pull into the driveway.

“Hey, sunshine, I’ve got some goods to move.” Kevin yells over the moped’s telltale vreem.

Adam stands up from the trolley and grabs his jacket. “More video games and cellphones?”

“Nah, jewelry this time. Nothing great, but I’m hoping it’ll fetch a few dimes.”

“Come in, have a drink, then?” Adam says while hitting the garage light off. They make their way through the front door and into the house.

The living room is a mess typically found when groups of men live together, but it seems Adam has been able to keep it up on his own. A small recliner with duct-taped armrests and cat-scratched loveseat surrounding the TV appear to be the only usable furniture, with relatively few items thrown over them. An overflowing ashtray sits on a paintcan next to the recliner surrounded by a ring of Labatt Blue bottles. A Sony Playstation controller is crawling out from under a pizza box near the old, wood-paneled TV to rest on the recliner. The full couch has been taken over by unpacked boxes and is also serving as a sort of clothes pile, although whether clean, dirty or both, is not immediately discernible. Adam tosses his jacked in a pile of other coats near the door and slides past the back of the recliner on the only path to the kitchen.

Kevin takes a small velvet bag out of his jacket pocket and tip-toes through the mess over to the loveseat. He picks the pizza box off the Playstation and dumps the bag’s contents on top of it like like a trash-dump jeweler. He’s organizing the selection and making sure all the stones are face-up when Adam returns with a couple long-necks. He tosses the game controller toward the TV and plops into the recliner, ashing his cigarette on top of the paintcan coffee table.

“So this is the selection, I see. Been nicking off old ladies at the nursing home again?” Adam quips.

“Nah, I stole these from this cautionary-tale bitch at the meetings my dad makes me go to. I followed her home last week and scoped the place out.”

“They don’t look like anything special,” Adam suggests.

“It’s more of a middle-finger than expecting to get rich, dude. Maybe I can get a little bit of cash, buy a 30-pack and wait for Brent to come through with a good score. I just wanted to get back at this chick for droning on and on about her problems every week. You don’t see me turning on the tear ducts for every group of strangers that wanders through. It’s pathetic.”

Adam twists off the top of his beer and takes a closer look at the rings and necklaces.