Nessus Read online

  He washes his face in the bathroom. The sink is yellow and the mirror has a thin scratch across the front. The water washes over him like pebbles and sand. He looks up at the mirror and sees the dripping wet face staring back at him. A thin line of buzzed hair. Pale with thin dark hair. Bulging blue eyes that girls may find dreamy, but he finds poisonous and gruesome. He sees the face he’s come to loath.

  He collapses on his bed. The mattress is soft, and he likes it that way. He's had some back issues. Nothing major, just slight pain on the tailbone. Probably from sitting on the couch so much, watching the Sox and the Pats. Sports leave little time to exercise. Got to make sure the game doesn't got into the ninth, or that the Pats don't give up a final field goal. Have another bag of nachos. You will lose it in the summer, right, Shawn? Nothing wrong with a beer belly before you’re twenty-nine.

  That's her voice. He can hear her now. The nagging, incessant need to improve. The wretched call for him to work on his own issues alone, to fix his self esteem problems without guidance. The voice of wealth and opportunity screaming at the poor boy from the back alleys to get his stuff together, to calm his aggression and focus his attention on more important matters.

  He hates that voice. It makes him want to slap her, just to shut her up.

  Sometimes you hit too hard, though. Sometimes the only hit is one hit too many.

  Sleeping would be nice, now that he's no longer on the run. He can’t be sure that he's really on the run anyway, since he hadn't heard a siren sound since Denver. If he truly lost them there, and there was reason to believe that they had never found him at all, then it was time to settle down. At least for a little bit.

  He checks his phone and rereads his texts. Brandon sent him a flurry of chunky gray blocks earlier explaining that he was still on tour but he'd be back by the end of the month. The blocks tell Shawn where to find his spare key so he could spend the night in a real bed. Shawn declined for the first night. The lavish luxuries would come later. Tonight he deserves to sleep roughly. Tonight he deserves the worst rest of his life. Because he made it. He swam through the murky waters of trouble and made it onto the calm beaches, here in California.

  Tomorrow the sun will rise, and tomorrow he’ll finally free.

  If she let him be alone. He still carries her with him. No matter where he is, she hangs on him like a rope.

  He hears her whisper.

  Go to sleep, my love.

  Sleep forever until you can’t anymore.

  Wake up in a world without me.

  Do it for me.

  You owe me that much.

  The Diner

  Shawn barely sleeps. It isn't like sleep comes naturally anymore. Usually requires a pill or two, something to quiet his buzzing brain and calm his itching nerves. Slowly he descends into the clouds, his body crawling into darkness because it’s the only place he will find safety.

  Tonight is not one of those nights, though. Tonight he doesn't sleep.

  Cop cars call out to him from outside, but he knows they're not the ones chasing him. He's long since left those pigs behind, including his father. His blood boils at the thought of his father.

  Shawn never really considered himself a rebellious young man or a hard-nosed criminal. He had been present for drugs deals, but proved to be more of a Pacino than Chapo. He stood on the sidelines and watched his friends paint the art of the deal, sometimes splashed with red but most times glittered in green. The rush had inspired him to keep going with it. There really isn't a sensation like it, breaking the law.

  She calms him, though. She eases his addictive mind by offering her own sort of intoxicating buzz. She is enough. But now that she’s gone…

  He leans over to his right and stares at his insolent smartphone. Blank and soulless. So blank it eats him up inside. Is he not social enough to even receive one text message from someone back home? Is there such little care for him that his friends and family shed not a tear for his sudden disappearance? He lazily lets the phone fall onto the bed, bouncing against the mattress. His mind drifts to thoughts of her and the last night he ever saw her before it fades into complete darkness.

  It's the phone that wakes him up hours later, honking some banjo tune that he recognizes as the custom ringtone for the only person who could stomach that sort of music. Brandon. He answers the call, yawning when he does, the stench of morning breath hanging around him like sulfur.

  “What's up my dude?”

  “Nothing man, nothing. Just waking up. How have you been?”

  “I'm alright, I'm alright. Just out still on tour. You know how these things go. They say it is going to be one show and that turns into twenty more. And then you got the groupie chicks hanging around. Magnets man, magnets.”

  “Doesn't seem so bad. Magnets are better than maggots,” he says, and he's pretty sure the dig goes way over Brandon's head. There's no way he'd catch it.

  “Yeah well, anyway, I wanted to call and let you know that I'm gonna be out of town for a few more days. Nothing crazy but just have to finish up this tour. You alright just chilling out and waiting around until I get back?”

  Shawn doesn't have a reply, because there isn't one. He can’t just deny his longtime friend the pleasure of going on tour without feeling guilty. Shawn plans to stay here for the long haul anyway. He's not going anywhere. No need to run anymore, especially now that she's gone.

  “Yeah that's fine,” he says. His stomach growls. “Any idea about where I can get some breakfast?”

  Brandon tells him a spot and Shawn jots it down on a sheet of paper by his hotel bed. The scratchy writing gives him pause. He hasn't seen such ugly handwriting since the bounced check he signed earlier this week at the grocery store. Anyone who ever saw his signature condemns him for having scratchy penmanship of a doctor. Too bad he sits a handful of degrees and hundreds of cash-filled bags away from that ever being the case.

  He gets dressed in a heartbeat. Nothing too extravagant. It is, after all, only the beginning of his stay here in California. He slips on a plain white shirt and a pair of smoky gray sweatpants. A pair of adidas sandals hang off his feet. He checks himself in the mirror one last time before he heads out the door. His blonde hair reduced down to a buzz cut and his bulging blue eyes. Part of the reason why women often find him irresistible. Part of the reason why he can't ever really be alone. He has tried in the past to make the single life work. But every once in awhile another girl, another new romance, seeps into his life, floating toward his perfect blue eyes like a snake toward its prey, like a magnet to metal.

  The air is stiff and wet when he steps into the hall. His tennis shoes squish against the ash-flooded carpet. Howls and shouts from nearby travelers echo through the halls. He hears a couple argue about what to watch on TV. A teen drama or the Big Game. The conversation is familiar to Shawn. He has lived through those fights once or twice before.

  The soft golden light sprays the hotels first floor, seeping in from the windows that look out from the continental breakfast. Shawn quickly steps inside and slips a muffin into his pocket. Good for later. He thinks about hanging back at the hotel for breakfast but that's a waste of time. He can't embrace his new life in somewhere so dingy and dark. Plus, is he really going to make friends with some 90-year-old geezer who has nothing to live for except Wednesday, when the hotel offers Jello in the morning? No way. Shawn may be away from his reality, but he's not lost. He knows what he wants his life to be. And for him that's fine.

  That's the trouble with Shawn and always has been. That damn stubborn attitude. It annoys anyone who comes into his life. All the young girls he dated throughout his young life tried to change it, tried to offer him a level of help that would take away the stubbornness. But like most stubborn people, Shawn succumbed to their wishes because he never felt the true wrath of someone else. He acted stubborn because no one contested him on it. He acted as the man he was because no told him any different.

  Shawn leaves the hotel before he can convince him
self to stay their for breakfast. He strides right by his car. Low on gas and stuck in between a pair of Mazdas. He's going to walk to the restaurant.

  He moves through the morning light, the pale sunlight flooding his clothes and body. And for the first time in quite a long time, calm rushes over him, like a ship wading before the coming storm.

  He sees her when he enters the restaurant, showered in the sun’s glow. Her face basks with a cinnamon tinge, her eyes a sea green that draws him in like the current. Back and forth again. She sits at the diner bar, a modest cup of coffee breathing out a lingering snake of smoke. A pair of Daisy Duke shorts cover her upper thigh and a canary tank top shields the rest of her body. One leg drapes over another and a smile stretches across her cheeks. Dimples announce themselves. She sips her sweet morning nectar.

  A waiter appears before him and asks for the tenth time if he's ready to sit. He agrees. The first few steps put him closer to her, this mysterious breakfast angel, but the waiter pivots to the left. He guides Shawn away from the bar to a booth in the back corner. A dark shadow casts itself from the chipping walls. A family dressed in stained clothes sneer at him, like he's invaded their space.

  Ease up, he thinks. This isn't your corner.

  The waiter returns with a pot of coffee and a saucer filled with cream and sugar. Shawn takes his Chest-Burn Black so it's really useless. Once he sips the motor oil, a decent cup for some run-of-the-mill diner, his eyes rejoin the conversation with the mysterious woman. The lingering scents of pancakes and bacon matter not. A checklist of questions builds in his mind. What’s her favorite fragrance? What does she use for conditioner and shampoo? Does she smell the tropics or an herb garden?

  There's no use waiting around for her to find him. She won't. That's not how the world works.

  He wipes his nose clean of any salt or dirt that camped there overnight. He takes a deep breath and stands. His cloud gray joggers and white t-shirt aren't his ideal outfit but sometimes you have to make due with what you have, even if what you have is grotesque and childish. A good chance exists that he'll never see her again. Once in a lifetime. Hopefully this will be enough.

  He's reminded of the tropics when he approaches. Coconut and cucumber melon. What a scent. Attracting him in like a magnetic beam, he leans against the diner counter.

  “Let me stop you right there,” she says.

  His eyebrows go high. Unexpected surprises only heighten the anxiety.

  “I don't want your number, I don't want you to ask me out and I really don't want some less-than-charming conversation from a complete stranger while I wait for my blueberry muffin.”

  So she already knows he's come for her. Or at least come for her heart and soul. What can he do? Give up and walk away? Yeah. That's what she wants you to think. But you can do more. You can make your move. Maybe she wants you to try harder. Maybe this is her test for weeding out the miscreants and hoodlums from the standout individuals. He offers a charming smile.

  “You won't even let me just sit here?”

  “Did the waiter tell you to sit there?”

  “No.”

  “Then no,” she says, smiling again.

  Okay. Time to try something else. What else you got Shawn? What other charming phrases and quips do you have laying in that idling brain of yours? You must have something.

  “Oh,” she begins again, finishing off another sip of coffee. “And I don't want you to try and win me over with some ratatat back and forth inside joke stuff, okay? Just want some morning coffee and a muffin. That's it.”

  “So you're not been going to let me try? Do you have a boyfriend or something?”

  “Why does every guy think you have to have a boyfriend to just be alone? Like, hello, I just want to spend the morning with myself. Me time! Nothing against you. I mean, you're cute and all, but just not in the mood.”

  “So what about another day? When you are in the mood?”

  He realizes he's ascending close to the clouds of bereavement, so he cools his jets. He lingers back a step or two and repositions himself with a more thoughtful and inquisitive pose. Any passersby may think they're having an insightful conversation about existential issues. Not that he's trying his best to take her out for a nice dinner or movie.

  Maybe both. Depends how it goes.

  “Sorry,” she says, “I'm not just in the mood to date at all right now. Like not today, not tomorrow, not a month from now. So like could you just back off?”

  The nail in the coffin. The final blow. She doesn't want to be bothered or disturb on this day and maybe not for a couple of days. She's right and he's wrong. Time to back out of this before problems arise and she draws attention to his inquisitive nature. He nods at her and knocks his knuckles against the bar.

  “Sorry to have bothered you,” he says and he's already gone from her when she says something back to him.

  Shawn rejoins the sneering family in the corner of the restaurant. He keeps his eyes on the menu and the coffee. Wouldn't want the yellow-shirted angel to catch him checking her out.

  When he finally does look back at her, after he's inhaled his own blueberry muffin, she's no longer at the table. She's gone. Gone forever.

  “I’ll find you again,” he says quietly to himself. “I’ll find you.”

  Fate

  Shawn goes to the diner again the following morning. Brandon didn't really offer too many options for food, so this will have to do. The scents are all the same — grease, eggs and maple syrup. The air is sticky on him, likely a result of the steam and smoke from the pots and pans inside the kitchen. Grease paints the place. The walls sweat yellow fat. His feet slide against the brick-colored tiles below.

  Don't look around too much, Shawn. Stay focused on the task at hand.

  The breakfast bar is a ghost town. Sadness floods him. He wishes she was there, eating her muffin and sipping her watery motor oil. He ignores the growing anger inside of him and steps closer to the nearby waitress, who brings him to the bar for a seat. Maybe if she's late she will see him there.

  He orders the same as the previous day — blueberry muffin and a cup of coffee.

  Starbucks would be nice, but the closest one is too far from the diner to even consider it as a viable option if he wants to see the angel again.

  He's about halfway through his muffin when the diner’s door chimes and she walks in. Flimsy wife beater and a pair of board shorts. Her hair is tightly wrapped behind her head, but her face still openly glows. She ignores the bar completely and points to the back of the restaurant when a waiter shows up to seat her. She gazes toward the back as she's guided to her chair. Shawn is a ghost.

  What's the next move? Had this been yesterday, he might have tried his hand and journeyed to the back corner to ask her out again. But this isn't yesterday. New day, new life. He has learned from his mistakes and has a better strategy in mind. It's not about aggressively pursuing desired interests. It's about treating the woman right. She clearly didn't want to be bothered. Best not to bother her.

  Step away, Shawn. Let her be. Don't fall for her like you did the others. Don't treat her like all of the other girls. Don't treat her like the woman you ran away from. Treat her different.

  Don't treat her at all. Save her.

  He eats his muffin in a few quick bites and dusts it off by downing another two cups of muddy water. He checks his cell phone intermittently, like all young people do these days, seeing if there's any updates worth reading. He wishes he could check Facebook or Twitter or Instagram, but any data relayed from his phone to the app could give law officials a clue about where he is. Best to stay hidden. For now, at least.

  He's just about to leave when she approaches him, leaning against the breakfast bar.

  “You're back?”

  His eyes balloon and his eyebrows soar. He almost chokes on his muffin. He swallows hard to save his life. He shuts his mouth as he thinks of a clever response. Nothing comes of course. On-the-fly flirtation just isn't his game.

/>   “Gotta eat.”

  “Here? Of all places.”

  “It's close to my hotel. And my friend recommended it,” he says. She doesn't have ownership over this place, either. Chill girl, chill.

  She rolls her eye like an emoji.

  “I don't believe you. And I hope you realize we aren't going out on a date just because we keep meeting in person. This isn't fated.”

  He knows that. He gave up on the concept of fate when he was in high school. Samantha Scibelli proved to him that fate was but a bone swirling in the grim reaper’s soup — hopeless and worth nothing.

  He can still picture it all.

  Picture this. Eighth grade. A young boy starts to act like a man. Or at least a boy who wants to become a man. Shaggy brown hair with bangs down to his nose. A picture of Mars on his face. Peach fuzz shielding him from the cold. A classic teenager trying to find his way in the world.

  Middle school is hard enough. His older high school friend Scott tells him that middle school is the toughest year, with eighth grade acting as the hardest burden to bear. Shawn doesn’t believe him. And yet.

  And yet trouble comes. It's hard enough to meander the halls of which you rule with the pressures of sex, drugs and alcohol swimming around you. But his hometown is unique in that eighth grade decides everything. Eighth grade is where you make your name or kill your reputation. Just before high school, it is the time to prove yourself.

  Shawn mostly fades in the background. Popular adolescents wear their letterman track jackets and square-crotched skinny jeans. They harass each other in the halls, shoving each other into lockers for a laugh. They mess around with girls and brag about it hours later, even though they don’t know the consequences of those early day decisions.

  But Shawn is different. While the popular kids style their hair and spray themselves with the finest cologne an allowance can buy, Shawn dons a backwards cap — BoSox obviously. He wears a hoodie two times his size and pants that hang just below his butt. His sneakers always shine thanks to a helpful toothbrush. The shoes never see the light of day when he passes by the train tracks. Best not get killed for Jordan's.