Dylan Seeks the Madonna

It was the middle of October. I was one of three people sharing a 750 square foot two bedroom apartment in one of those neighborhoods where the buildings are all real close together and you hear gunshots most nights. My room was just big enough to hold my mattress and bedside drawer and I didn't own a car at the time, meaning all I had to do to make my meager portion of the rent was a couple odd jobs each week I'd find on Craigslist, like walking this old lady's dog or doing peoples' grocery shopping. My roommates were two guys I'd known from grade school named Ricky and Todd – Todd had his own room in the back and Ricky slept on a mattress in a corner of the living room, and after sharing the cramped, cluttered space together for a couple of months, all of us could barely stand being around each other.

Ricky had recently shacked up with some other guy's girlfriend, and the girl's mother had just had surgery on her foot or something, so they’d recently gotten a plastic pill container full of Oxycontins off her and left them out on the white, fold-out table in the living room. That day I’d woken up right before 1 PM and, with the goodies readily accessible, had spent the hours that followed rolling around in bed listening to a podcast on the opioid epidemic while I spaced out, occasionally taking the several limp steps to the table to swallow another of the little white tablets.  As the hours passed and I marinated in my own sweat, my mattress, usually springy and uncomfortable, had started to feel like a warm hug, like I was falling into the arms of some rich old lady with her own house, maybe even her own bed. My body had started feeling like I didn't have a body. Drifting into nothingness, the podcast host’s nasally, boyish voice began to recede from my perception alongside the sweat smell of my mattress, leaving me in an empty void of white-out bliss.

I think I'd had four pills by the time 5 PM rolled around and I heard Todd come in. Todd was a tall, fat bastard with a little mustache that looked like a black caterpillar had settled under his nose. He had a job in lawn care and when he came home he usually just went to his room and spent his afternoons watching off-grid homesteading videos off YouTube, probably fantasizing about a life nothing like the one we had here. He had lived in the apartment with two other sacks of shit before they'd left and he invited Ricky and I to move in, a decision I was sure he regretted by now. I heard him stomp through the kitchen from the backdoor, grumbling something about my dishes in the sink as he moved through the living room to his bedroom. I did not leave my room to meet him, deciding instead to simply let him pass.

Eventually, the podcast I was listening to ended. It could have ended hours ago, I wasn’t sure. I looked down at my exposed midsection to see my belly button almost popping out of itself from the lack of subcutaneous fat to shield it. I seemed to have gotten quite skinny from all of the drugs and not eating. Perfect - hot and tragic, just like I’d wanted. Laying in my own filth and pondering my navel, I felt my stomach growl as it attempted to eat itself, it suddenly occurring to me that I hadn't eaten that day.

When it was 7 I heard Ricky and the girlfriend come in. They were laughing about something. I start feeling the springs of my mattress dig into my back as the world became dimmer and less soft. Suddenly, I'm back on planet Earth, and with Ricky and the girlfriend back in the house, I feel less emboldened to just straight up take their drugs, meaning I have no escape plan available. As the disquiet permeating everything slowly returns to my purview, I can lay still no longer, and, leaping from my bed, I move to the living room.

“Hi, Dylan!” says the girlfriend as I step out of my room. I smile. I'm nicer to her than I am to the others.

“What are you up to?” Ricky asks me.

“I been in my room all day,” I answer, “I'm fuckin' hungry.” My eyes turn to the pill bottle, now unfortunately off-limits.

“I got half a sandwich from work earlier, you want it?” Ricky offers.

“Mmmmmm,” I respond, then skulk to the kitchen, where I begin tearing through cabinets, looking for something to eat. Todd approaches me from behind, a cold beer in his hand.

“Worked up quite the appetite laying in bed all day,” he says. He's being pejorative. Trying to assert himself over me in the pecking order.

“Mm mm you know it,” I mumble, turning to face him, but my eyes immediately focus on his beer. “Where the fuck'd you get that?”

“From the store, you dip,” he says.

I smile. “Not a bad idea.”

Not a bad idea at all. I return to my room to pick an outfit – ripped jeans, a “The Clash” shirt I'd had from high school with holes in it that I'd cut the bottom off of to turn into a tank top, my leather jacket, wool socks, and my military surplus boots - then stomp out the back door. We're on the second floor and the back deck has a big ass hole in it just in front of the stairs that you have to step over or you'd fall in and die or something. I step over the stupid thing and make my way down to the backyard of our apartment complex, walking past the wooden fence to the alley behind us.

Walking through the alleyway, I go two blocks down to the corner store and rummage through the beer cooler to pull out two 24 oz containers of Mike's Hard. The store serves chicken salad and shit out of a big open-glass cooler and an old Puerto-Rican woman stands behind it with her hair in a net, and she smiles at me as I get in line. I smile back. What a nice lady. I'm standing behind some sturdy-looking black dude with a bald head and he's on the phone talking loudly to his mom it sounds like?  I don't know. He gets two things of Icehouse and the cashier doesn't bother saying anything to him while ringing him up cuz he just keeps yapping on the phone until his card takes, then he says “Thank you,” and leaves. I'm up next.

They got a big see-through plastic thing with a bunch of lotto tickets hanging from over the counter.  To my right there's a plastic fish bowl with a bundle of incense packages sticking out of it that are all of the same brand called “Weed-Eat”, basically advertising that you burn the incense to cover up your weed smell so your mom doesn't know you're smoking weed because you still live at your mom's house because you're a fuckin scrub. The guy at the counter is this old Indian dude, forties, mustache, with that slow, already-fed-up way of moving that gives you the sense that life has taken it out of him. He rings up my alcohol and I stick my card in the reader. I wonder for a moment if maybe he lives with the Puerto-Rican woman, like if they're married or something. “Receipt?” he asks. I shake my head, grab the thin, plastic bag with my drinks and flash a big smile with a “Thank you!” before I begin my trek back to the squat house.

I come in through the back, tripping over a gas can that's been left in front of the door. Since there's so many of us living in so small a space, everyone just leaves their things laying all over the fuckin apartment. Kicking it to the side, I step into the living room, where Ricky and the girlfriend are fondling each other on the mattress or something, then pull up a rolly chair next to the plastic table and sit my merry ass down before cracking open my first drink.

“What are you degenerates getting into tonight?” I ask them after taking my first sip.

“Uhh,” Ricky says, looking towards me over the girlfriend's shoulder. She doesn't move her head, doesn’t look at me, “I don't know. What are you doing?”

I lean back in the chair, setting my drink down on the table and folding my arms behind my head. “I don't know,” I say, “Ignorant shit.” At that moment, Todd stomps through the living room, going to the kitchen from his bedroom, keeping his eyes forward and not looking at any of us.

“Dylan,” he calls exasperatedly, standing in front of the sink, “Can you please wash your dishes so I can make dinner for myself?”

I get up from my comfortable seat and let the degenerates get back to mumbling sweet-whatevers to each other. In the kitchen I start scrub-a-dub-dubbing each of my dishes clean, fork, spatula, frying pan, taking sips from my beverage between each completed dish, Todd hovering expectantly behind me all the while.

“Thank you,” he says curtly, like he has to force it out, and I flash a half-smile in turn. I re-enter the living room, drink in hand as Todd starts frying up sausages, and return to the degenerates, who are waiting quietly for me to get on with my evening. With no less hostile of a space to occupy, I disappear back into my room, where I sit on my bed and sip my drink, trying to think of what to do next.

Being as things were the way they were, I decided to go to Calamity, the local “alternative lifestyle” club. They host an event once a year called “Depravity”, with booths where you can see people get tied up and whipped and watch women get their tits sewn together and shit. It’s a place where people in their thirties show up dressed like they're still trying to scare their parents. From that, I'm hoping you can understand my meaning when I say “alternative lifestyle” club.

Pulling up the little round vanity mirror on my bedside dresser, I shuffle through the contents of the top drawer to pull out some mascara, eye liner, and black lipstick, along with a purple, plastic choker made of little oval hoops that I got for a dollar at a thrift store. I take a little electric nose hair trimmer and trim off the ends of my eyebrows with it, then using an eyebrow pencil to draw the ends back on a little higher. Once I'm done applying my face for the night, I raise one corner of my mouth to flash myself a wild smile and viola! - I'm now a different person.

Next, I grab a pair of jeans I've had since high school that fit real tight on my ass and walk through the living room, passing the degenerates in my underwear. I enter the bathroom where I stand in the bathtub and shave the happy trail from my mid section with my electric razor so there won't be any hair visible on my belly while I'm wearing my crop top. I then shimmy into my fuck-me jeans before returning to my room, where I put my boots and jacket back on before stepping back out.

“Where are you going?” Ricky asks playfully. Todd is no longer around at this point, having returned to his room to eat sausages and watch more homesteading videos.

“I'm going to go find some rich old lady to take care of me,” I return flatly, and, standing in the doorway, continue “Hopefully someone with a nice, high-rise apartment,” before heading out the door.

I start making my way out of the neighborhood and towards the bottom end. It’s dark out and the city lights obscure the stars, making the night sky a solid black that almost looks fake, like a ceiling hovering over the city. The neighborhood looks like that game “Maniac Mansion” for NES, everything monochrome and dim, and the buildings start to grow taller as I get towards the district with the city's night clubs. A homeless man sleeping under the cement awning of an apartment complex calls to me as I pass, asking for some money. “I'd give it if I had it!” I return, and continue on my way.

Entering Calamity, I show my ID to the girl behind the counter, a small, black woman with purple lipstick and her hair braided with beads of all different colors. She returns my ID with a smile, clearing me to enter. Once inside, I see that the club is packed, filled with women in tight, dark outfits, dudes with sleeveless jackets and tattoos all over their arms, and couples in their forties in bondage attire - all composing the usual clientele of sex-crazed, drugged-out weirdos.

I walk past the cages with half-naked women dancing in them and see my friend Rose across the floor. She's a short little white woman with big eyes wearing a black corset that's pushing her tits up who I met while we were going to art school. Our eyes widen as they meet and we flash big smiles to each other before I approach.

“Dylan!” she calls. We wiggle our fingertips together in greeting. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm trying to get dug.”

She raises her hand to cover her mouth, doing a performative gasp in response. “Of course. Things still the same at your apartment?”

“Yeah, I fucking hate it. Ricky just shacked up with someone else's girlfriend and Todd's always bitching at me about something.”

“Why did you move in there again?”

“Money.”

“Could you remind me what you're doing for work now?”

“A little bit of this and a little bit of that.”

My eyes wander across the floor and fix on a thin woman, mid-twenties, with a shaved head, looking aloof standing by herself. She’s wearing a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off and has a single, small piercing on her left ear. I could make out a tattoo of a guillotine across her wrist and one of a raccoon eating trash on the opposite shoulder. Surveying her appearance, I assessed her as the type of woman who would probably peg me.

I tapped my fingers gingerly on Rose's shoulder. “One moment, I'll be back.”

I begin to make my way towards her, shifting my posture as I slipped between strangers' shoulders. She turns to face me, raising an eyebrow expectantly as I approach. I flash a smile.

“Hey,” I begin, introducing myself coyly, “I saw you from over there.” I point a finger and look towards Rose, who was now talking to someone else, then turn back to face the woman and point to her wrist, “I like your tattoo. You want to murder the ruling class?”

She gave me what was, in fact, the world's most insincere smile, and, without a word, slowly shirked away into the crowd, leaving me standing by myself. Met with the uncomfortable sensation that my failure may have been visible to others and needing to seem like I was doing something, I motioned toward the bathroom.

Once inside and safe from view, I immediately stumbled and fell forwards, catching myself on the edge of the sink where, after just one quick glance into my own eyes in the mirror, I vomited the smallest little puddle of bile into the basin. Coming to my senses shortly thereafter, I quickly turned the knob and began washing the human waste I'd produced down the drain as a man with a thick mustache he definitely believed would compensate for his baby face entered from behind and shot one hostile glance judging the shit out of me before moving towards the urinal. Hearing the loud hiss of his stream as he relieved himself off to the side, I looked up into the mirror and fixed my eyes back on my reflection.

I don't know if it was the alcohol or what, but my face at first appeared fuzzy to me, like it had to emerge from the murky depths of my confusion before it could come into focus, but when it did, the pit of my stomach sank. My mascara was running. My lipstick, which I'd applied while drinking, here and there went past the line of my lips and was smudged onto my face. There were bags under my eyes and the lines of my cheeks sagged heavy and deep. I looked like I was dying. I no longer felt hot and tragic, just tragic, and in a decidedly un-hot way. Digesting the reality before me, I blinked at myself twice as the baby-faced man walked behind once more, shooting another look of disgust my way before exiting the bathroom behind me. I focused back on my face. I was hideous.

I exited the bathroom, heading steadfast towards the bar, where an overweight woman with bright, multi-color eye shadow took my order for a gin and tonic. As I handed my card to her, I felt Rose approach from behind.

“Dylan, what did you say to that woman with the raccoon on her arm?” she asked, taking a seat at the bar stool next to mine.

“I said I liked her guillotine tattoo,” I returned, staring solemnly at the counter top.

“She asked me to not let you anywhere near her.”

The bar lady came back and passed me my drink. I thanked her before picking it up and taking my first sip.

“Rose,” I said, shaking my head softly.

“Dylan.”

“You see what they've done to me?”

She raised a single eyebrow.

“My roommates, at the fucking squat house.”

“What did they do?”

“They've worn me down. I'm young and cute, Rose.” I shot a look her way, awaiting a consoling word from an old friend. Rose, in turn, changed the subject.

“Dylan, what did you do today?”

“I took a bunch of Oxy's while listening to a podcast on the opioid epidemic.”

“Dylan.”

“It sounds like the Sacklers are some real pieces of shit.” I took another swallow from my glass. “That woman,” I pointed towards the crowd, assuming the woman with the shaved head might still be in there somewhere, “She had the right idea. Eat the rich.”

“Dylan, have you eaten today?”

I slumped down onto the bar counter, spreading my arms out across it. “No.”

“Dylan,” she leaned towards me, bringing her face closer to mine as she tapped my arm, “Do you need me to get you something to eat?”

My eyes softened. I looked up to her as they welled with tears. “Rose,” I said, “You care about me.” My head fell forwards onto the bar counter once more and I began sobbing.

“Yes, baby.” She tapped the small of my back twice, then raised a hand to call the bartender. “Ma'am!”

Absorbed in my own emotions, I did not notice the brief manner of time pass before a quesadilla lay in front of me. It arrived already sliced into four quarters. I grabbed the first and shoved it into my mouth, only noticing how ravenous I had become after taking the first bite. As I stuffed my face, a large, burly man with a full, red beard approached from my left. It was the same man Rose had been speaking to as I had attempted wooing the shaved-headed-woman earlier.

“Everything okay?” he asked, looking to Rose.

“I think we're fine,” Rose responded.

I scarfed down the next quarter of the quesadilla, then went to take another sip from my drink before noticing it was already empty.

“Ma'am,” I said, calling to the bar lady as I held up my glass, “Could I get another?”

“Dylan, baby,” Rose said, tapping the small of my back twice again, “I don't know if -”

The bar lady came over, grabbing my glass.

“Rose,” I began.

“Yes, Dylan?”

My face fell to the counter and I started sobbing again. “I'm hideous.”

“We all feel that way sometimes, babes.”

The bar lady returned and passed me my next drink. I grabbed it immediately and took a swig.

“Is there anything you need me to do?” asked the bearded man to my left. He was looking to Rose, not me.

“I might need you to help me take my friend home in a minute,” she responded.

“Who?” I asked, turning my head to the left as my right cheek slid against the smooth, cold surface of the vinyl-finished countertop.

“Dylan, this is my friend Brandon. He's gonna help me take you home in a little bit, okay?”

“Brandon,” I said, extending my arm out and briskly skirting my fingertips across the heavy, cotton flannel that covered his chest, barely making contact as a bemused smirk crawled across his face, “You seem nice.” I returned my arm to the counter top, slouching back into a limp posture before my sobbing resumed. The flesh of my forearm shielding my eyes from the light, the conversation of Brandon and Rose and all the other patrons of Calamity became muffled by my sobs, turning into a blur of indistinct chatter that grew quieter and quieter each time my body heaved. . .

The next morning, I awoke on my ratty mattress in the tiny bedroom of my shit hole apartment to the sun shining through the window (I didn't have any curtains) and directly into my brain. I rolled to my right side, shunning the light as the springs of my mattress jabbed into my back. I moaned, trying to squeeze my eyelids as tightly together as possible, almost as if I were rebelling against the sun. I grabbed my stomach as my guts wrestled one another, trying to wring one another out. It was 11 AM.

I picked myself up slowly from my bed and stumbled into the living room, noticing that the Oxycontin left out by Ricky and the girlfriend was gone.  They must have caught on. My eyes fixed on the empty spot on the table as I stepped forward and accidentally pressed my foot onto Ricky's skateboard, which then slid out from under me.  I fell ass-first to the floor, landing directly on my tailbone as I cried out like some weird lizard, a mini-boss in a videogame letting out its death cry after being delivered the finishing blow. The fall about winded me. Why the fuck did Ricky leave his skateboard just out in the open like this? I hope his new girlfriend gives him chlamydia.

Crawling back to my feet, I stumble to the bathroom, where, returning to a previous theme, I vomit into the sink. I then wash the vomit down the drain as I splash water up onto my face and start rubbing off my make-up, leaving only a faded trace of eyeliner on the inner-surfaces of my eyelids which, looking at myself in the mirror, makes me feel like I'm in high school.

Somewhat refreshed, I scurry back into the living room where, approaching the bedside table next to Ricky's mattress, I begin scavenging through the drawer to see if they'd hid the drugs in there. No dice. Hearing keys rattle in the back door, I quickly shut the drawer and start walking towards the center of the room, making an attempt at looking inconspicuous. Todd enters, already sighing as if disappointed he’s home. He's wearing a highlighter-yellow safety vest, so I assume he's gotten off work early.

“Dylan, you left hair in the bathtub last night,” he says before he even sees me, entering through the kitchen.

“Oh,” I said, “Did you wash it out?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good.”

He stops in the living room, pausing a moment as he scans my face.

“You still trying to piss your dad off or something?”

I don't intend to, but I visibly scowl. He walks past me and back to his room, shutting his door behind him. I follow suit, retreating to my room where I fall to my mattress, already exhausted by my excursion to the bathroom.

I lay and stare at the ceiling for a few moments, trying to recall the events of last night, which is at this point largely a blur, aside from them playing New Order. Fucking love New Order. Through the fog that fills my brain, I see Rose's face coming close to mine, her hand reaching to my back, seeming almost concerned for my well-being. Rose! That's right, I saw Rose last night. And she had a friend with her, I believe his name was Brennan. He seemed alright. I roll to my side and grab my phone from the bedside dresser.

“Hey Rose!” I begin to type, “It was good seeing you and Brennan last night. Hope ur doing good. U have plans later?” and then press send. Shortly thereafter, I begin to feel the emptiness in my stomach, which had started clawing at itself in search of something to digest. I need food. I put my phone down and reach for my wallet, opening it. My debit card isn't there. I must have left it at Calamity.

Within moments, I've donned my helmet and am on my bike, pedaling my way to the bottom end, this time in broad daylight, the sun occasionally piercing through my eyes and causing a spike in the throbbing that's going through my skull. The ride is mostly downhill and doesn't even take all of ten minutes. Once outside Calamity, I tie my bike to a nearby rack and, entering the club, walk directly to the bar, where I find a tall, bald-headed, and overweight man, who looks to me expectantly as I lean over the counter and address him.

“Excuse me, sir,” I say, “My name is Dylan Waters. I believe I left my card here last night. Would you happen to know anything about it?”

“One moment, I'll check,” he tells me, then walks through a doorway to the back room, staying there a few moments before reappearing with, “Your card declined.”

“What?”

“It declined. You ordered a quesadilla and two drinks last night, and it declined on the second drink. We're holding it until we can receive full payment for your tab. You owe us $6.03.”

I stood there and blinked at him for a few seconds.

“Do you have it?”

I shook my head.

“Please return when you do,” he said, then left me to tend to another customer.

Feeling a growl in my stomach, I got back on my bike and pedaled fifteen minutes to the shared co-op building which housed our city's chapter of Food Not Bombs. Outside the compound (I'm the only person who calls it the compound), I saw Kris, a long-haired man who rented an apartment and workspace out of the building, smoking weed from a red-and-green glass pipe on a mono-blue-painted bench that sat just outside the concrete, exterior wall. I had met Kris doing volunteer work at the space before, and we had developed an amicable relationship in spite of conflicts he had with the organization regarding the allocation of space inside.

“Kris!” I called jovially.

“Hey, Dylan,” he said with an exhale, “You look like you've been having fun,” probably referring to the worn eyeliner I still had on.

“Something like it,” I returned, then added, “I need some food,” before entering the building. I walked through the foyer. Bikes were stacked against one another on the far wall, and scrap wood and metal from various art and construction projects were strewn around the center of the room. To the right of the entrance sat a black, plastic rack filled with riotprop, bearing titles like “Dismantling Cis Normativity” and, my personal favorite, “In Solidarity With This Brick”. I walked through the backroom housing the big, industrial sinks and opened the heavy, metal door leading to the walk-in cooler to check out what food was available. Inside were all manner of fruits and vegetables stored on racks in plastic, fold-out bins – oranges, apples, rutabagas, onions, celery, chunks of pineapple stored in round, plastic containers, individually wrapped cheeses, various meats stored in a deep freezer to the side. . .

I return to the front door, sticking my head outside to call, “Hey, Kris!”

“Yeah?”

“I'm thinking of making soup. If I make some for us both, will you share some of your weed with me?”

“Sure.”

Quid pro quo. I mozy back to the walk-in where I procure some carrots, celery, tomato, and kale for good measure, then pull two chicken breasts from the deep freeze and carry them into the kitchen where I, after resting the produce I'd had cradled in my arms onto the long table that took up most of the middle of the room, scour for a pan, pot, onions, rice. . . I begin to boil the rice, thaw the chicken breasts under hot water in the sink, chop up the vegetables, et cetera, et cetera. . . After about forty minutes, I have chicken soup. I grab a ladle, then two plastic bowls and two spoons, which I fill accordingly and bring outside for Kris and I. We sit in the chilly autumn weather beneath a large oak tree that the leaves have deserted from, where a hammock hangs that always finds itself filled by whoever in one of the organization's meetings feels like taking the meeting the least seriously. He thanks me for the food, then passes me a bowl.

It takes two inhales for the tight, constricted feeling in my head to disappear and for it to start feeling fuzzy and full instead. We finish our first servings, and I go to refill our bowls as Kris refills his. We do another exchange, making brief small talk, but my focus turns towards the pain radiating up from my tailbone from my fall that morning. This meal is probably the most nutritious thing I've eaten in weeks, and the warmth the soup gives to my stomach and the numbness I get from the weed is almost enough to cover up the gnawing anxiety that comes from having no money, which, after a few brief moments of peace, pushes me to instinctively reach for my phone and begin texting some of my regular customers. I thank Kris for the weed, returning our bowls to the industrial sink in the back room of the compound before once again donning my helmet, getting on my bike, and leaving through the big metal fence and back onto the street from whence I'd arrived.

I deliver groceries to two separate apartments in one of the better-off districts of the city from the same Whole Foods, netting me $16.82, at which point I return to Calamity and get my card back. By the time that's done, the weed has completely worn off and the dull headache I'd been nursing earlier returns. It's now after 6 and the sun is beginning to set. According to my math, I should now have $10.79. I return to the same corner store I had been to last night, this time settling to get two forty ounces of miller and a small can of Mike's (I like to start with something fruity cuz it makes everything after easier) for nearly every cent I own. I ask the cashier to double bag it, afraid that the bottles might break through the thin, plastic bottom of the bag on my way home, then return to the apartment, the goods clung tightly close with one hand as the other guides my bike alongside me.

Once I've returned, I come in through the back door, fondling the blackberry Mike's from the bag as I look at the sink filled with dirty dishes and counter covered in clutter, knives and cutting boards stacked around left over stains no one would recall the origin of. I crack open my drink as I step into the living room, seeing Ricky and the girlfriend playing fucking Pokemon cards at the plastic table that once exhibited their drugs.

“The fuck it is, sluts?” I call, announcing my presence.

Ricky turns his gaze towards me briefly before darting his eyes back to the cards in his hands. “You already know,” he chimes back, almost like it was read from a script, and then puts down a Blastoise or something. I take two steps towards the center of the room, not thinking about anything, and he addresses me once more.

“Dylan, did you take some of the oxy's that we had out here yesterday?”

I pause. “Yeah, why?”

“Well,” he scoots his chair back, turning to face me, “We didn't really mean to leave those out for everyone. Claire kinda meant to hold onto those for the future.”

That was her name. Claire. I turned to face him. “Oh,” I said, “I'm sorry,” I gave it another moment, trying to think of something else to say, “Did you want money?”

“No, just, why did you do it?”

I didn't respond. It was not a question I had considered.

At that moment, Todd emerged from his room behind me. We all turned to face him. He already seemed irritated addressing us.

“Alright, since we're all responsible adults,” he began pedantically, “I assume I don't have to remind anyone, but I'm going to need everyone's rent for next month tomorrow.”

“What day is it?” Ricky asked, pulling out his phone to check. It was the fourth.

“It's Saturday,” Todd returned, “Everyone has their rent, right?”

My portion of the rent was $300. I nodded silently.

“Good,” he turned back around, motioning towards his room. “And Ricky,” he called as he stepped away, “If your girlfriend is gonna keep staying here, she's gonna need to pay rent, too.” He slammed his door behind him. Claire blinked twice and looked away uncomfortably. I probably looked uncomfortable, too. I did not have $300, and there was no way I could make it by tomorrow. Cortisol flooded my brain. I took a drink.

“How pleasant,” Ricky said, flaring his eyes down towards the table surface, before turning back to me, “Well, Dylan, what are you getting into tonight?”

“I don't know,” I responded, “I was trying to see what Rose was doing,” I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Rose had still yet to get back to me.

“Oh, you know Rose?” Claire asked.

“Yeah, I fucking love Rose,” I said, returning my phone to my jeans before sitting down in one of the fold-out chairs surrounding the table. As my tailbone rested on the cold, metal surface, I felt the ache from my fall that morning again. I looked to Ricky. “I tripped on your skateboard this morning.”

“Oh,” he said, “You couldn't have moved it?”

I imagined grabbing one of the forties from my bag and bashing it against his skull, but decided to change the subject instead. I looked to their cards on the table. “Y'all got room for one more?”

“It's only two player,” Ricky answered.

Claire turned her eyes towards me, placing a card from her hand onto the table. “We have Sorry,” she suggested, trying to be nice.

Fucking Sorry. Who the Hell plays Sorry? “Yeah, we can play Sorry.”

They finished their game while I drank the last of my blackberry Mike's, then Claire went to the space where Ricky's bed was on the other side of the living room and grabbed a ratty, worn-down copy of Sorry with the cardboard fraying and exposed at the corners. I pulled out one of my forties and twisted the bottle cap open with a crack as they took out the board and laid out the pieces.

We proceed with the game, rolling the dice, moving pieces around the board – Ricky and Claire largely talk to each other as I sit back in my chair and sip my forty, zoning out. Here and there, the rent pierces its way back through the numbness in my brain. There's no way I'm going to be able to get that in one day. I think.  Maybe I'll just stay gone, running deliveries all day each day until I have enough, maybe crash on friends' couches. I try to think of who would let me crash on their couch. I wish that Rose would text me back.

Eventually we end up not playing Sorry. I don't think we even finish our game. I'm on the floor singing “What shall we do with a drunken sailor?” and rolling back and forth while Claire is laughing. Next, I'm standing in the shower. Ricky and Claire are taking turns with an electric razor shaving my back. How kind.

Somehow we all end-up sitting on Ricky's mattress. I think I'm on the second forty by now. I'm waving my hands back and forth in front of me saying something and everyone is laughing. I must be hilarious. I fall back, leaning against the wall. I'm still shirtless from my back shaving. Claire wants me to get up for some reason. I won't get up. Everyone thinks it is very funny.

There's a big, empty cardboard box sitting on the floor. I guess someone ordered something. But soon, it's no longer empty - Claire got in it. Ricky and I get on opposite sides of the box and pick it up. “Oh no! Oh fuck!” Claire cries, tears in her eyes from laughing. Ricky and I walk the box from the living room through the kitchen and start to take it out the back door. The bottom of the box gives out and Claire falls on her ass in the doorway. It's hilarious. None of us can contain ourselves.

As we stand in the doorway laughing, Todd appears in the hall. “Hey,” he shouts, “If y'all want to act retarded, can y'all go do it at her house?” Then retreats back to his room.

I stop laughing. The three of us look at each other.

Briefly, I imagine myself grabbing one of the dirty frying pans from the kitchen sink. I imagine myself going to Todd's bedroom. I imagine the look of fear in his eyes as I would raise the frying pan above him, preparing to strike it against his skull.

Next, I imagine the same scene, playing itself out slightly differently. As I raise the pan over Todd's head, he extends his arms out to guard himself. Just then, Ricky appears from behind me, desperation in his eyes. “Dylan!” he cries, “Todd is one of us! Is this really worth it?” Softened by his appeal to our common humanity, I lower the arm holding the pan and turn to face him. “You're right, Ricky,” I say, “Such violence should be reserved for those who are truly responsible for our suffering.”

Like in a montage, the next scene shows us standing outside the two-story suburban home of the landlord who owns the lot of slum buildings we rent out of. A look of surprise fills his face as he opens the door to meet us. We rush in, tie him to a table, tear out his fingernails one by one as he screams. We take all his shit. Soon, we each have our own apartment from the building.  We fix the hole in the back deck. Do cookouts. The next shot shows us on a sunny day, chatting, laughing, Ricky sliding a juicy steak from the grill onto a plate in my hand.

The next morning I awake, head splitting as always, and immediately begin packing my phone charger, my wallet, and my make-up into a nylon rucksack that I throw onto my back as I put on my helmet. I'm out and on my bike before anyone notices. The sun is killing me.

I pedal around the city, taking deliveries all day. By the time my legs are giving out on me, I have eighty dollars. I don't know where I'm sleeping tonight. I try calling Rose. She doesn't answer.

I'm standing outside of a Seven Eleven. I watch traffic stop and start at the intersection. With the money I've collected that day, I am met with the familiar urge to walk into the convenience store behind me and get something to drink. I sit on a little cement divider that separates the sidewalk from the Seven Eleven parking lot. My head is splitting.

Within an hour, I'm outside of a church. It's 7 PM. Someone walks in front of me, nods, and goes down a flight of stairs to a door leading into the basement. I follow.

Inside there are about twenty people, sitting in metal fold-out chairs like the ones in our apartment that have been arranged in a circle. A single light hangs from overhead, illuminating the center of the room. I take a seat next to a bald-headed, overweight man. He nods his head at me. It's the same man who held my card at Calamity yesterday.

Across from me, I see a woman sitting anxiously, checking her watch. She has a black, long brimmed hat with tassels along the edges and is wearing black, leather pants. Her eyebrows are drawn on. She looks to be in her early forties. We make eye contact briefly. She flashes a half-smile, then looks away.

There's a woman sitting in the chair immediately next to her with a white binder. A few more people enter from behind and take seats around the circle. About ten minutes after I'd gotten there, she nudges her companion with the long brimmed hat and nods at her. The woman with the long brimmed hat begins to speak.

“Good evening,” she begins, covering her mouth briefly as she clears her throat, “Thank you all for letting me speak tonight. I haven't really prepared anything – normally when I share my story I like to just let it come out,” she waves her hands in front of her mouth, illustrating the direction her words take as they exit, “I think it comes off more authentic that way.

“Anyway, the first time I remember having a drink, I was nine, and it was a sip of wine. My parents loved wine, we had a little wine rack in the kitchen – Everyone adored it, and, when I was nine, my father called to me from the living room, he said 'Dear, would you go pour me a glass of wine?' and I was like, 'Okay, dad!', you know, like, little kid, have to do what your father says, whatever, so I go to the kitchen, and I pour him a glass of wine, and when I get back he's like, 'Oh sweetie, you are so good girl blah-de-blah', and then he says, 'Would you like a sip of this?', and everyone loved wine, when my parents drink they are so happy, so I'm like, 'Yeah', and I take a sip, and I'm like, 'That's so good', right? You know, it was a sip, I didn't get like, tipsy or anything. Anyway, flash forward a couple of years, I was fourteen, right? And. . .”

Mesmerized, I leaned forward in my chair, watching her throw her hands around as she spoke. She spoke for forty minutes straight. I didn't take my eyes from her the entire time.