Jup, he’d been mister independent for a while now
He was skipping a few classes. They weren’t important or any helpful anyway. Plus, PE wasn’t really his thing. Really wasn’t his thing. Sure he wasn’t an asthmatic geek that would cry his sissy heart out during a rough a game of dodgeball. To be honest he was pretty good at dodging and running the fuck away. If fleeing from mall cops had been an actual sport he should have gotten a golden medal by now.
No, the problems of PE weren’t during time on the field, but afterwards. He didn’t want twenty-eight guys checking out his damage. He had a lot of shameful memories of trying to explain what his mom had meant by purifying evil. Being ten, being twelve, being fourteen, how older he got how more he resented the dressing room. Same old smell of sweat, same looks and pretty boys simply pick the crippled one to tease.
And it was a sunny day, way too good to spend in any type of classroom. He had a good few hours to enjoy the sun and make a difference, make a few bucks. The mother Karen had told him she would take him to the mall after school. We can buy you some new clothes Frank, she’d said. We can make you look all pretty Frank and wrap you up like a Christmas present. Sure, fancy up the outside, that was going to fix him.
But she probably meant it well, or maybe not. He remembered one of his first foster mom’s. She’d been an actress but never played in one damn movie. She was mother fucking Theresa while their social workers were around, took them to the mall, fairs and made sure to put a happy smile on their face. The other side of Miss Hide? Once you got your new clothes you’d be sorry if you’d ripped them or got them dirty. Because Mother Theresa would take them back the day after his social worker came for a monthly evaluation. Fifty bucks, he used to get fifty bucks back then so he could wear some decent clothes. Fifty bucks extra for that nasty bitch to spend on her behalf while he had to walk around in jeans smelling to someone else’s piss.
So given horse, sure but wait and see what happens after your social worker closes the door until the next month.
He no longer wanted to rely on a given horse, he didn’t want to beg for cigarettes, clothes and other things he needed. Luckily he had a plan B, it was just a little dirty.
It was all about the look, your bearing and of course the right place. But been there done that, after a while you know the drill. You know where to look for, how to act, how to please and how to sell yourself.
He didn’t knew his new city yet but it couldn’t be very different then all the others. Sick bastards are everywhere.
He was near a train station, that mostly was the place to be if you worked during the day. His stomach tightened and he realized that being this sober was going to be much harder. But booze, pot and cigarettes would only be available if he got some cash first. And since he couldn’t fuck up, stealing money from a store was out of the question.
Leaning back, hips forward, tracing cars and the faces inside them. Reading men’s face, you needed sick fucks but not the type that would beat your fucking soul out afterwards.
He sighed unable to suppress some unwanted memories. Nikkie used to be a complete pro at this, reading face, lips don’t lie, pouted lips and saying please. But Nikkie wasn’t around anymore.
He zoomed out the moment a black Porsche stopped a few feet away. He didn’t feel the sun no more, couldn’t care less about the weather or how heavy his feet were. He made himself play a role and closed his eyes in a way. Disappeared inside himself and simply focused on his breath as he sat down on the warm leather fabric of the seat and the car slowly drove away.
‘This would be so much easier with alcohol,’ he thought as he lied and said his name was Tony. He lied a little more when he said he was nineteen, but the driver with probably the same pack of lies didn’t object.
He’d always been Tony during his months on the street, his age had change from time to time, depending on the scale of what kind of sick fuck he was dealing with. It was his secret fuck you note to his father that never had been in on any of his baby pictures. Antony, or Tony was all he’d got on the man and sometimes a few raving words from his mom. He didn’t know if he father was dead or alive and his biggest fear was that during the years he might have passed him on the street without realizing it. All he knew was that he had the same smoldering beady eyes as his father, according to his mom. But how repayable are the words of a woman who’d tried to set her own flesh and blood on fire?
Was it weird he wore the name of his father when he was whoring his way to money and cigarettes? If so, someone should have given him a heads-up a while ago. Or instead of a heads-up a blow through the brain because he might as well be so fucked up that he was bygone fixing. Too bad nobody ever bothered to see if he was a sick puppy just like his mom.
“I’m just ganna jerk you off, if you want a blowjob or a quick fuck tough luck.” He said absentminded, staring through the window to the brightly sunny day. “I’m looking better than an average heroine junkie so I don’t do nasty shit like that.” Yet, he filled in. “That’s okay with you? Fifty for a jerk off that’s it.”
About an hour later he was able to buy himself a CD player, a few of his favorite CD’s he’d lost in the re-education centre and an ice-cream. Turned out the ice-cream wasn’t his best idea because he ended up hurling up all the frozen goodness. But at least he was self-supporting again, he had learned that being depended on other people made you vulnerable, the poor little underdog. Money meant a little power and choices, freedom and cigarettes. Talking about cigarettes, he still needed to find a guy dumb enough to buy him some, because with his pretty little face the cashier wouldn’t sell him any. His pretty little face, owh the irony. Still too young to shave, but old enough to jerk a guy off somewhere behind a sleazy parking lot. He’d dealt with things, sick things, before he ever hit puberty and still his pretty young face got him in and out of trouble. He might have been born stupid and maybe crazy, but at least he wasn’t ugly. At least, pretty enough to use as a little fuck toy. He didn’t call himself a ‘foster fuck’ for nothing.
Didn’t matter right now, he had his music blasting thoughts out of his mind and soon he would have found an idiot that would buy him cigarettes. At least he didn’t need to depend on the new foster mom and pretty please beg her to buy him what he needed.
Jup, he’d been mister independent for a while now.
“Hi, I’m Gerard and I’ve been sober for one year, nine months and twenty-seven days-” A humble applause waves through the musty clubhouse. It was funny because during the daily hours this room was used for tutor classes and playgroups. But after eight it were the grownups taking a turn on stage. The difference, they weren’t acting or performing, they had no script only experience. And their audience weren’t just spectators, they too were part of the process. And eventually every member of the audience would be ready to take a turn on stage. For some it took a few times to stand up, for some it took weeks of thanks, I’ll pass. But eventually you’d stand up and speak up the truth.
It had taken Gerard a good few weeks to finally share his obvious secret to the rest of the group, Hi I’m Gerard, I’m an alcoholic. He remembered standing up that little stage, hands all clammy and sweating like a pig from stress and feeling completely and utterly depressed.
And hadn’t he be forced by his own mother to go to those meetings he’d never set foot inside the building. As nearly every alcoholic he’d been skeptical about those brain-wash meetings. Where could they be good for anyway, he knew he’d fucked up didn’t mean a bunch of other sober bastards needed to know.
During his first few meetings he’d still been in such unstable physical state of mind, completely rock bottom and wondering how on earth he was going to crawl back up. There had been so much shame towards his family and friends, neighbors, innocent bystanders and pretty much everyone around him. It had felt like someone tattooed LOSER with a bull’s-eye on his forehead. The AA meetings had felt like a mirror showing that particular word. One big fucking mirror rubbing it in his face, what horrible son, brother and friend he’d been. What selfish little prick, dwelling in his own misery for so long he’d been became blind for the suffering of others.
It hurts, it nags and it’s painful to walk through those doors for the very first time. That little trip to a free seat is a road of fear, shame and guilt. Halfway there you’ll be thinking about a detour or a quick turnaround.
He’d done a 90-90, thinking he was crazy. Insane to push himself into meeting up with other (ex) alcoholics to bitch and weep about their shitty lives every day for the next ninety days. Turned out those ninety days probably saved him from a big relapse. Those days also gave him direction, goals and a purpose in life to hang on to.
After a rough start of ‘I’ll pass, thank you very much’, he eventually got in touch with Brian who’d been a good second guardian angel. A rock hard, not taking any excuses or lies, second guardian angel.
Sometimes it can be weirdly convenient how things work out. Around his sixth day in a row, when he’d still been a moody pile of shitty self-loathing, his new guardian angel in the flesh sank down next to him. Smoking, because god almighty, it was still legal to smoke during their meetings. Being tired, anxious and pretty much hopeless he finally poured his heart out to, back then, a complete stranger wearing a badge saying: Brian Volunteer. For some reason there had been a happy smiley face on that button as he remembered soberly sharp. And he also remembered the first thing Brian had said to him, with a smirk on his face: Well Gerard, the bright side is, no mother of hangover ever again!
Through the ninety first days a lot of those ‘down to earth, in your face’ comments passed and he still remember the sharpest ones, such as: It’s hard being a big shot in an anonymous program so don’t try to be fucking Rocky ‘round here. Or when he had his moments of bitching and moaning: Just sit down, shut up and listen Gee-man.
During those first ninety days they talked about their daily life. He told about how shitty he felt still living with his folks and how life seemed to pass him by. Brian on his turn talked about the different projects he was doing besides the AA.
It can be funny how things work out. After his ninety days he received a little golden coin, what would have been more impressive if it had actually been golden instead of plastic. But that stupid little coin meant something, a little reward of the toughest thing he’d done and still was doing. Staying sober and able to function. And he remembered Brian’s words as he pushed the coin in his hand: Keep going to the meetings when you want to, drag your ass down here if you don’t want to. If you keep this up I might have a job for you, don’t fuck up now Gerard.
Against all odds he didn’t fuck up and he still went to the meetings every week. On Sunday morning and Monday evening, those had always been the toughest moments to stay sober. End and beginning of the week, in a way.
Some days he felt the need to share his thoughts and cravings, some days he only sat in the back to listen. He’d been thinking of becoming a volunteer, just like Brian had done, but that would be a big step. Maybe too big, or maybe a step forward. He wasn’t sure yet what would be a wise decision and he didn’t want to fuck up now.
“-I’m Gerard, still struggling but sober.” He received a few thumbs-up, rewarding mutters and a few guys in the back rows shifted uncomfortably. Sooner or later those guys would scoop up a few rows and stop complaining about the lousy coffee and inconvenient times. That was all a façade, an act to hid how miserable and terrifying you felt.
Gerard felt sorry for those guys, because making the trip down to the AA was a start, a way out of your own misery. But it took a lot of willpower to earn that stupid little golden coin. And that stupid little coin earned a special place in his wallet, a reminder that if he’d ever felt the need to buy some booze, he’d know what he was about to lose. His job, his goals, his life, he would lose everything all over again. And he simply couldn’t let that happen, so he kept dragging his ass to the meeting point every Monday and Sunday. Didn’t matter if he felt like it or not.
I’m terribly sorry for not updating in such a long time, my life is a little rollercoaster and I don’t have time to write things down. Owh, yeah and I’m still trying to make the puzzled of Storyline fit… So, it’ll take a while, be supportive! Love all wonderful people that review, kundo's!
Since ficwad sucks with sending me review alerts, if you like to chat, talk, ramble or whatever here is my email: Nukyster@gmail.com