8:51 am August 4th: I overslept despite several alarms, something that is fast becoming a habit. I sleep like the dead, and while I could do without the daze which plagues me for a few hours, I’d take that any day over the sleepless nights. That being said, though, I have been having some very odd dreams. I won’t say they are nightmares, like I’d experienced before, but in truth, I do not know what to term them. Whether a result of the medication or my fragmented brain, I can only recall bits and pieces in the mornings.
Like I had thought, my attempt at journaling fell by the wayside to an extent; though, this is primarily due to being busy rather than it is to deliberately avoid. One of the things they had stressed to me at Brookfield was that staying preoccupied is very important for someone like me. I cannot go back to living as I had been, that was not living at all. I really like how Kim put it: “Nothing will change if we don’t work to change it.” As such, I have tried to engage myself with a project.
I could no longer stand to look at the cracks in the wall. When I see them, I am instantly jolted back to before I was hospitalized and a deep terror overcomes me. I wish I could pretend it didn't happen, but Kim is right; I have to learn to live with the way I am. But, I don’t have to live with my shithole of an apartment being a complete shithole. The few hundred dollars in my savings and the SSDI Brookfield set me up with will barely be enough to pay rent, let alone to get me out of here, but I have enough to try to improve what I’ve got. Unfortunately, I don’t know shit about fixing up a wall, or even if I was allowed to, so I was forced to talk to Bobby.
I knew I should thank Bobby for taking care of Charlie for the month I was gone, so I would have had to speak to him anyway. When I had knocked on his door, he opened it and gave me a look. I could see his expression conveyed that a thousand things were racing through his mind, and I briefly regretted talking to him. Bobby, though, was as uncomfortable as I was and swept it under the rug, all the while his blotchy sun-spotted hands trembled.
He lit up, though, when I brought up my walls. He said, “ Ah, I’d been meaning to talk to you about that, but I’d forgot.” We went back into my apartment, and he commented on how good a job I’d done in cleaning the place up since I came back. The place had been a mess. My trash had been full and, after a month, had begun to rot, emanating a foul, high smell. When I picked it up, a wave of flies swarmed out at me. It took all I had to take it out back to the dumpster. A wave of anger hit me that Bobby hadn’t taken the trash out himself, before I reminded myself he was an old man. Poor Charlie, too, had been forced to live in his own filth. Bobby might have fed him and changed his water, but he couldn’t be bothered to clean his cage.
I must have been looking at Charlie because Bobby made the same tired joke about it being odd that I kept a rat in a cage when we had plenty running around. I bit my tongue and directed Bobby to my bathroom. Unfortunately, Bobby told me the crack in the bathroom was too big and he’d need to pay someone to put sheet rock in, so I’ve had to learn to try to avoid looking at it since. The cracks where the paint was chipping by the door, though, could be filled, Bobby had told me, with spackle. I had no clue what that was, but Bobby told me he’d get some at the hardware store a few blocks down. He told me he’d be happy to buy some for me, so long as I filled it in myself, his hands being too shaky on account of the Parkinson's. I’d thanked him graciously, happy to have saved some cash, before realizing this meant he expected me to come with him.
I’d been outside a few times since I got back, mainly to walk at night. I just still feel so anxious about seeing other people. I know it’s crazy; it’s not like anyone can just see me and instantly know “that’s the guy who had a breakdown.” The hardware store presented a lot of stimulation, and it took a lot of effort for me to compose myself through some of the breathing exercises Kim had taught me. It probably wasn’t helped by the fact that I had to endure a bumpy ride in Bobby’s beat-up old Lincoln, which reeked of stale cigarettes.
In the store, I’d made a conscious effort to avoid eye contact, and to relax, I found myself counting the small cracks on the floor between the tiles. It was easy, especially as Bobby’s hobble kept us at a snail's pace. I came to find out that spackle is an actual thing and not a Bobbyism. It’s a paste used to fill small holes and cracks. Bobby told me that after allowing these to set, we’d then paint over them. As it had clearly been years since anyone had last painted, Bobby told me that if I painted my apartment, he’d give me a break on the rent for the month. I might not be the brightest, but I’m smart enough to know when to say yes.
Bobby had me carry the spackle and the ‘Boothbay Gray’ paint to the register. Ahead of us, a Hispanic man wearing stained jeans and muddy work boots spoke into his phone in Spanish. When his conversation kept him from realizing it was his turn to check out, Bobby had rudely told the man to pay attention and muttered something I tried not to hear under his breath. Bobby is seemingly a walking contradiction; he can shift back and forth between hate and kindness. This is because he asked if I needed anything else before we left. I told Bobby I could stop at the market for a few things, and he drove me without complaint.
Kim had told me about what foods to eat and what foods to avoid with my condition. Lean meats, whole grains, and foods high in antioxidants were good, whereas processed foods were among the worst things I could put in my body. Of course, that had been nearly all I had been eating. It was all I could have afforded, given my shitty job. And now I don’t even have that. But again, thanks to Brookfield, I had been set up with food stamps. The market was even busier than the hardware store, and this time I did not have Bobby with me as he’d gone off to get his own groceries. I was able to grab myself some pre-packaged chicken, spinach, rice, and a bag of apples before the voices and fluorescent lights threatened to overwhelm me. The kid who was working glanced at my EBT card, and I swear he smirked, judging me for it.
Leaving, I saw Bobby already at the car with his ‘groceries’; he had already begun drinking his first Bud Light by the time we started driving the few blocks home. In the car, Bobby told me he had painting supplies and a scraper I could use for the walls, things which I hadn’t even considered. He’d also asked me to have a beer with him before I started. This was the same man who had looked at me like I had two heads, the same one I was sure was judging me as a lunatic. I figured he must be lonely. Aside from his tenants, I had never seen him have visitors, even though I knew he had kids. I felt bad for Bobby, and I said I would, before remembering Kim had told me to avoid drugs and alcohol at all costs. This sent me into panic mode, but before those racing thoughts could fully paralyze me, we pulled up at nearly the same time she did.
Rachel drives a red 2009 Honda Fit; I know that sounds creepy, but it’s a very distinctive car. Bobby noticed her too and said, “ooo there’s my girl,” and a wave of nausea hit my stomach. She’s the same girl Bobby had called mousey. Today she looked anything but, wearing a cropped white tank top, high-waisted denim shorts, and white Converse shoes. My heart was in my throat, not least because she looked gorgeous, but because I knew Bobby was seeing her too. I knew it was weird; I was feeling protective of a girl I had only ever seen and not spoken to, but I did know Bobby. As I struggled with my bags, Bobby called out to her. Rachel turned, and I saw she forced a smile. “Hi Bobby, how are you?” Bobby had responded with a lame joke, and Rachel forced out a soft chuckle. She looked to me, and I saw her face soften, “Hello.”
She had actually spoken to me, and I felt a thousand butterflies take flight in the pit of my stomach. I managed a half-smile and a nod before Bobby said, “Rachel, can you do us a favor and grab the door?” Raising his case of beer with his lightly shaking hands to emphasize he couldn’t, though I know that was a lie. Rachel smiled and said, “Of course!” As she turned away, Bobby elbowed me and chuckled, “Boy, she’s got a great ass.” I glared at him, though his eyes were fixed, so I doubt he noticed. He wasn’t wrong; she did. But she is much more than that, and I hate when my thoughts go there.
We followed Rachel inside, and Bobby made a show of holding the door open for Rachel, a blatant attempt to let her go up the stairs first. Rachel, though, turned to get the mail, and begrudgingly Bobby turned to go up the stairs. As we got to his apartment first, he turned to let me inside, but I made a flimsy excuse about not feeling well. Not because I was scared to drink, but because I couldn’t stand to be around Bobby. I could tell he was hurt, but I didn’t care. I hope he drank his fill to numb the loneliness.
After returning to the apartment, I put my food away and fed Charlie. A crazy desire overcame me, and I wanted to write a note to Rachel and slide it under her door. I’m not sure what I wanted to convey, and I rewrote it several times, but here is what I came up with:
Hey Rachel,
I just wanted to say I’m really sorry about Bobby being a creep — that wasn’t okay, and you didn’t deserve to deal with that. Also, I realize I haven’t properly introduced myself yet — I tend to be a bit shy, but I didn’t mean to come off distant. Hoping to change that soon :)
I had felt really good about it, and I had just about worked up the nerve to head across the hall to slip it under her door when a knock came at my door. It was Bobby, of course, asking me to grab his painting supplies. I had put the note aside and allowed Bobby to show me how spackle works and how he expected the apartment to be painted. He showed none of his earlier kindness, and it was a relief when he left. But by then, I had lost the heart to deliver the note.
In truth, though, I really enjoyed the few days I spent spackling and painting. The monotonous work allows me to think, but not so much as to overthink, and at the end of the day, I feel I’ve done something productive. When Bobby stopped by, he smiled at me and told me I was doing an excellent job. He even told me he might use me to do some of the work on the other apartments he couldn’t do. I don’t know if that means he’ll pay me or not, but it gives me something to do and something to feel good about.
All in all, it was a good weekend, and all the dread I had felt before leaving Brookfield about returning home seems to have dissipated for now.
This gives Dostoevsky vibe. I love it.
Enjoyed this even more then the first! Excellent work