The Sick Intruder

I’m at the office, pulling an all-nighter. It’s around midnight. Outside, east of Thunderbird and Scottsdale road, there are no cars. No people, no sound.

I have the door open, lights on, headphones blasting.

I’m aligning some text when I see movement in the corner of my eye. The hallway light dimmed and then brightened abruptly, as if someone just walked by.

I remove my headphones and listen closely. I hear shuffling feet, like someone’s dragging them in a painful stupor.

This business area of Redfield road is ghostly quiet at night, there are no residential complexes of any kind. Why is there someone here at this hour? I didn’t see or hear a car pull in, this man is on foot.

I grab a ballpoint pen in my fist, and will stab this man’s neck if I have to.

I move slowly from my seat, silent, listening for his position.
I hear fumbling in the kitchen. He’s turned on the faucet full blast. He’s groaning, sniffling a very runny nose.

I’m behind him now, just a few feet away.

He’s young. Can’t be more than 22 or 23 years old. His weakened frame slumps under a dirty hooded sweatshirt. His jeans are tired, with dark hair and an unkempt beard.

I watch him vomit in the sink, then grab his mouth as if struggling to be quiet.

I can’t kill this boy, he’s already dying.

 I put my pen in my back pocket.

“Can I get you something?”

He jumps, spinning to face me with a watery-eyed glare.

“It’s okay. You’re safe here. Let me get you some water.”

I take a bottled water from the small refrigerator, approach him slowly and hold the bottle out to him.

He hesitates, wiping slime from his mouth.

After looking me up and down a few times, he grabs the water quickly and starts chugging it, never taking his eyes off me.

His eyes. They’re sunken deep, panicky black holes, with a thin layer of clammy sweat from every pore. He’s sick. And I think I know from what.

“You don’t look so good buddy. Why don’t you have a seat,” I nod towards the large leather couch by the front door.

He looks at the floor, then back at me, then the floor again.

“You can talk, can’t you? I already told you, I’m not calling the cops.”

“Yeah… yeah okay,” his voice is embarrassed. He’s in the spotlight now and has some explaining to do.

He tries to appear normal, but he’s too far into withdrawal. His body is shivering, his sweat stinks unnaturally. He makes it to the couch and collapses onto it, grimacing.

“You got a few bucks you can spare… you know for the bus.”

The bus, cute.

“How many hours in are you?” I ask, sitting down beside him.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

He grabs his stomach, leaning forward, containing a monster in his gut.

“I… I don’t know. It’s been like twenty six hours or so I… I think.”

“Twenty six hours? Jesus. You’re dying by now.”

He swallows, his face is white, “That’s what… that’s what it feels like man.”

“I’d offer you some food, but you can’t eat right n-“

“-Oh God no. No food. No food…” he’s rocking back and forth now, his muscles are tearing themselves. His feet kick around, grasping for relief that doesn’t exist.

“I’d let you sleep here, there’s a bed in the back. But I don’t want you stealing shit the moment I let my guard down,” I tell the coffee table.

“Aw man, I won’t steal nothin-”

“-Yeah you will. Because I would if I were you.”

He doesn’t argue with me. Just keeps rocking back and forth, gripping his stomach tightly. His eyes water, he’s gasping for air and spitting poisonous mucus into the trash can I gave him.

“You… you don’t know what this is like man,” he utters, barely audible.

“Are you sure about that?” I roll up my sleeves, “Look.”

He leans over, and stops rocking when he sees my arms. “You… you have no veins…how long were you…”

“Few years,” I tell him, rolling my sleeves back down.

He goes back to rocking, his legs won’t stay still for a second. He feels really stupid now.

I ask him how he got here. Now that he knows I’m on his side, with genuine understanding, he doesn’t hold back. He confesses his entire night to me. Starting off with how he called his dealer way after operating hours, got in the guy’s car, asked for a front, and got kicked to the curb. The curb right down the street from my office. He says he was walking around, desperate for somewhere to hide, and that my office was the only place with lights on. So he took the risk and came inside.

“You realize chances are you’d get arrested, beaten up, or thrown out just showing up in a random office. This is the LAST place I’d expect to see someone like you. This town has no patience for drug addicts, man. What were you thinking? It’s almost guaranteed you’d end up in jail, where it’s pure Hell. Especially when you’re sick,” I tell him.

He tries to respond, but vomits in the trash can instead.

“All right, come on. Let’s clean you up. Get up,” I stand, grabbing his wet hand and pull him off the couch.

He stumbles to the bathroom. I watch him in the doorway as he splashes water over his face. I notice him avoiding his own reflection in the mirror.

“Look at yourself,” I tell him.

He’s leaning over the sink, his shoulders shake beyond his control.

“Look at yourself. In the mirror.”

He slowly brings his gaze up and faces himself. His eyes beg for escape. Freezing sweat, a mixture of snot and vomit down his chin. His skin isn’t white anymore, but ashen gray.

He growls, closing his eyes tightly, his lips shiver. Here it comes.

“I hate this. I… I hate this,” he whimpers.

“That’s not you, that guy in the mirror.”

“I’m such a fucking loser. I hate this. I want to die. I hate this… so much.”

“You’re not a loser, man. You’ve just been acting like one for too long.”

He grips the sides of the sink hard, straining to gain composure.

But he can’t stop it. The heroin dam in his brain has just burst wide open, letting all the depression, sadness, guilt and regret flood his mind.

Tears are pouring down his face. I don’t say a word, I just watch him burn as I lean inside the doorway.

Every tear down his cheeks angers him more. He’s sobbing, deep and hard gasps of air, choking on his own pain.

“I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” he screams at the mirror. He’s gripping his matted hair tightly, rocking back and forth.

I’m not sure who he’s apologizing to. It’s not just me, but to himself as well. To the loved ones that have banished him. Maybe everyone and everything.

I’m watching a complete stranger break into pieces. It’s important not to interrupt this moment. Let it hurt him. Let it leave a scar.

He’s bundled himself up tightly in the corner of the bathroom. He can’t bear to look at himself anymore.

That’s long enough.

“Hey man, you want a cigarette? I’m gonna have one, if you want.”

He wipes his eyes, “Yeah. Yeah that… that sounds good.”

We’re out front in the parking lot. He’s sitting, legs shaking and kicking around.

I lean down, lighting his smoke for him, then light my own. I take a long drag, letting the bathroom moment leave us in the breeze.

“You… you got anything that could make this go away?” he asks.

“Nope. Nothing. Not even a Vicodin.”

He groans, grabbing his face and doubling over.

“But I can do you one better. It’s late, really late. But I’ll drive you to a detox center if you want.”

He doesn’t respond, staring at his vibrating feet.

“Not Lark, that place sucks. I’ll drive you to Community Bridges in Mesa. They’re good people there, man. They’ll help you.”

He’s thinking about it. His mind is screaming at him, back and forth. Even the most rational brain is torn to shreds in his current situation.

He stands up, too quickly. “N… no. No.”

“What, you got some place to be?”

He doesn’t. And he knows it.

“Come on, man. Fuck this crappy life you’ve been living. Get it all back. Get it all back now.”

His lips curl up, he’s about to cry again. He covers his face with a shaky hand, and starts walking away into the night.

I should grab him. Punch him, throw him in the truck and take him to get the help he wants but can’t accept. But I don’t. For some reason, I don’t.

A passing wind hits him hard, chilling him to the bone. He keeps walking, getting smaller in my sight until he vanishes around the corner.

Andrew Wrestles a Lesbian.

After a long day at work, I stop by a nearby dive bar for a few lonely drinks.

I didn’t plan on making any friends, or even talking to anyone. Just a couple Long Islands, then I’d drive home and go to bed quietly.

So I’m sitting on the dark end of the bar, getting fuzzy, grungy Nirvana playing overhead. And I can’t help but overhear a ruckus on the opposite end of the tavern.

It’s a group of 20-somethings, all riled up over who knows what. There’s a hot chick, three guys with beards drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, and an obvious lesbian. The lesbian’s standing up now, beer in hand, hollering about how she could ‘kick anyone’s ass.’

The guys make no effort at arguing with her. One just hollers back “Oh you totally could! You’re buff as hell!”

My vision’s too fuzzy to notice her wide shoulders. Otherwise I would’ve kept quiet.

“I’ll arm wrestle ANYONE in this bar and OWN them hahaha!” lesbian shouts.

The sad lineup at the bar doesn’t say a word, but my drunk mouth does.

“Pfftchh… FINE. Bring it. I’ll arm wreshhtle you.”

The bar turns its gaze at me. Some snicker, others shake their head.

“Oh? We got a pudgy one that wants to get beat,” one of the 20-somethings say, thumbing in my direction.

Lesbian sets her beer down, then leans her neck hard to one side. I could have sworn I heard a crack sound from it. Her face is serious, staring right at me. Whatever’s been bothering this girl her whole life shall be avenged through defeating me.

My body takes me over to a small table with two stools. I sit on one end, and she sits on the other.

I’m still thinking this is a joke, then she rolls up her right sleeve. Her arm wasn’t a normal arm. It was cut from stone. It had bicep veins and forearm veins that glistened in the light. Chiseled, like cold steel.

Great Andrew.

I remove the straw from my Long Island and pound the rest of the drink in one gulp. Then put my own arm up and we lock hands.

The bar crowd is watching, seemingly eager to see this lesbian crush me. This’ll be a good story to tell their friends.

I closed my eyes, and thought about Karate. It’s easy to tear off a tree’s branch. But tearing the trunk in half is impossible for any man to do. Make yourself like the trunk of a tree.

One of the bearded fellows tells us to GO, and the amount of thunderous energy from this girl’s arm was unbelievable. I wasn’t pushing back yet, just holding her there. I kept my eyes closed, imagining my upper body as one large, locked object. 

She’s straining and grunting, veins pulsating otherworldly rage.

Just holding our hands in place was draining me fast. I could feel the lactic acid building up in my arm, shoulder and back. I was running out of time.

Then a strange thought popped into my buzzing head.

This isn’t a woman. This isn’t a man either. This is like Jillian Michaels. Part machine, part nightmare. 

Send Jillian Michaels back to the kitchen.

Her friends are cheering her on “He’s got NOTHIN on you babe! KILL HIM!”
Her face is getting red now, her forearm exploding like a thousand suns.

I thought of everything I hated. Everything I regretted. Every sad moment I wish I could take back but couldn’t. I balled it all up in my chest, and sent it to my arm in one burst. Even my mouth growled.

To my surprise, the back of Lesbian’s hand smacked hard against the wooden table.

I beat her. I won.

The bar was dead silent. Even Billy Idol seemed reduced to a whisper.

I was about to get up and cheer, then I looked at her. She was rubbing her arm, looking horribly sullen in a way I can’t put into words. Her bottom lip quivered. Her friends were watching, and she let them all down.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I reached towards her, but she recoiled back in her stool.

“Don’t be sad. I’m pretty sure I just got a hernia from that. You could still kick my ass, you totally could,” I do my best to console her, with booze on my breath.

“You’re stronger than you look. You work out at all, man?” she says to the floor.

“I do lift… Jimmy John’s subs sometimes.”

“Dude I LOVE Jimmy John’s!” her entire demeanor changes. She smiles a big smile, showing evidence that she was once a pretty girl before turning herself into She-Hulk.

“Hey! Nother round for the crazy guy!” one of her bearded friends shouts.

They all came over and shared a few laughs with me. I joked with them about lesbians beating me up, they bought me three PBRs (which is hipster poison, but I didn’t want to be rude) then I waved them all goodbye.

Even now as I write this two days later, the entire right half of my body still hurts. J

Andrew Fails with Four Men.

It’s a regular Sunday night at Lotus. The football games have concluded. The sports crowd has mostly gone. I only have one other table in the room, and they’re keeping themselves busy with their plates.

I go back into the kitchen to check on some things then return to the seating room.

There are four very well dressed men sitting in the far booth. I’m the only server on, so they’re mine.

As I get closer to them, I notice they look like business owners. Their hair is perfectly groomed, gleaming smiles and bright moods. These guys have an air of importance, but humility, on the surface.

“Evening gentlemen, my name’s Andrew, I’ll be your temporary friend that gets you things.”

They all laugh, perhaps too hard.

“I love him already!” one shouts, festively.

“Have any of you been here before?” I ask.

“Nope,” says one man on the left.

“Ohhh well in that case, scooch over!”

The man on the right gladly moves over, giving me just enough room to sit beside him in the booth.

They seem very amused by this. It’s my usual routine, unique among the servers there. Though a bit unconventional, it always works in developing trust quickly.

I take one of their menus, “We do things family style here. So that means you have to share!”

“Oh, well we never mind sharing!”

I glance around and notice they’re all looking at me, not at the menu. Hm.

“All right well we should get a variety of dishes then,” I point out some of my favorites- a chicken dish, a beef one, a shrimp one, and a combination appetizer, “this should keep it interesting. And I know you’ll all love -”

“-Are you Italian?” one jumps in.

“I bet he is! Oh my GOSH I LOVE his hair! Can I feel it?” a second one exclaims.

“Uh sure why not,” I say.

The man across from me reaches out, revealing a nice Rolex under his suit sleeve, and get this… doesn’t just touch my hair, he runs his fingers through it.

“Oh wow, it’s so thick! I wish I had hair like this!”

“I know me too! It’s so… cute,” the fourth one says.

“Wow thanks guys. Oh by the way, what are we having to drink?”

“Ooo are we drinkin’ tonight boys?” one asks.

They all exchange glances at me, then each other.

“Oh yeah. Oh yeah we’re drinkin’ tonight,” answers one.

“Ok, what’ll it be?”

Rolex guy points across the table at the two beside me, “They’ll each have a Longbeach. I’ll have a Strawberry Mojito, and Bryce,” he thumbs to the smiling guy beside him, “He’ll have a dirty martini.”

“Make it real dirty Andrew,” Bryce says, with a huge grin. They all share a giggle at that.

“Sounds good fellas, should I put the appetizer order in as well?”

“Put it all in babe!” Bryce says. They all laugh at that, too.

With that I was certain- I was playing with fire. But my tip depends on them liking me. Remain friendly, Andrew. But a bit ambiguous. Mysterious, distant, but engaging. Like dealing with girls in college.

So I put their order in, drop off their drinks and keep moving elsewhere.

I conclude my other table, they tell me they loved the food and appreciated the good service. I give them some coupons and send them away happy.

So now it’s just me and the four men across the room.

Oh and the hot bartender. She’s hot enough to melt asphalt. Where most businessmen skip right by me to sit at her bar, these four gentlemen paid her no mind.

Some time passes, and the food is ready. I bring it all out on a large tray and set it along the center of their table.

“So Andrew, are you going to join us?”

I have no other tables, and they know it. I have no excuse to leave.

“Sure,” I say, noticing the man on the right eagerly scooting over again.

I opt to pull a chair up and sit on the end, as if I didn't see the invitation.

“So you guys look like big shots. What do you do?”

“Well he owns a club in Tempe, and we’re partners,” Rolex points to Bryce.

“And you two?” I look to the couple on the right.

“Oh we’re… promoters. Hey! You should come visit the club!”

“What kind of club is it?” I ask, but I think I know the answer.

“A fun one,” Bryce smiles, “You should visit the club soon!”

“Or just visit us,” says one of the promoters. He whips out a card as if he had it ready.

“There’s my number. I’m Todd.” For some reason the rest of them giggled.

I take his card, “Cool thanks Todd. Listen I gotta clean up around here. Enjoy the food eh?”

“We will! It looks so good!” Rolex exclaims.

I finish up my side work. Periodically checking in but leaving quickly. Eventually Rolex takes the bill and pays with his card, I drop it back off and let a few moments pass.

I notice he’s stood the bill booklet up at the end of the table, signaling me my tip is ready.

I approach them one last time, “Great, any last requests within reason?”

They all laugh again, too hard.

“Come see me soon, hon,” Todd says, handing me the booklet.

I take a quick glance in the booklet, noticing a $40 tip on an $82 bill. Then snap it closed. It makes an audible clap concluding my performance. The money is mine now.

“So you guys must know a lot of hot chicks, running a club and all. Any sweethearts you could recommend for me?”

The room got dimmer. Each of their demeanors dropped a thousand miles.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Todd says to his fork, sinking back in his booth.

“Well we’ll work on it. Thank you gentlemen, it’s been a real pleasure. Take care of yourselves,” I smile and leave.

From a distance, I watch them slowly gather their things. One of them pats Todd on the back like his mother just died, and they all walk out.

Andrew Fails with Six Women.

I’ve always been the believer that the purpose in a man’s life is to find the right woman. Marry her, make a family, and then you can enjoy living. Unfortunately, this is a lot harder than it sounds. With women, chances are you'll fail often. But the rejection is worth it, when you finally find a good one. So despite the odds, I've gone on dates whenever I can.

They all started off pretty good, but then something happens and I can’t help but sabotage myself. In the past, I would have feigned interest to improve chances of sex. But lately, I haven’t. I’m thinking more with my brain than with my wiener, and the results aren't good.

To keep this from getting too long, I’ll just fast forward to the good parts. And by ‘good parts’ I mean the thing my mouth said that ended any chance of copulation.

So now I present to you, the Six Most Recent Dates:

1.  1. The Health Nut

She’s sitting across from me, we’re outside on the restaurant's patio. The sun glistens off her dark hair, the occasional breeze placing her in a slow motion fantasy.

She’s looking down at the menu that I’m all too excited to try. I pick out my dish, then look at her in anticipation. She doesn’t seem happy.

The waiter comes by, proper, poised.

She extends a finger cautiously, like the menu could bite her.

“Is there gluten in this?”

“I can’t have any carbs. Are there carbs in the grilled salmon dish?”

“Is the salmon farm raised?”

“What kind of awful things are they injecting the fish with? Ugh. I can’t eat this garbage.”

She flips her hair. Clearly me, the waiter and this place aren’t worthy of her.

Waiter does his best to appear calm and understanding. Leaving to ask the cooks periodically about how much MSG is in the whatever-possible-dish she spat out of her pretty mouth.

She’s gorgeous, be nice Andrew.

No. Wait. This is just the first date. It will always be like this. She’ll always pick apart everything in every place I try and take her to. Combined with how I’m Italian, and love all food, this won’t work. I’ll give her one more chance. One more question and it’s over.

The waiter returns for the 3^rd time, hopeful this will be his last.

“Is your soup made with chicken stock? Is the tomato sauce canned?”

That’s it.

“Yeah and are your ice cubes fat free? Shut. Up. And order something.”

She never talked again.

--

2. The Cute Moron.

She’s sitting beside me at a bar. The lighting is red, fervent, passionate over her skin. It illuminates her softly, accentuating every tempting bit of her.

We’ve befriended a guy next to us at the bar. He can’t stand it anymore, and asks

“So how did you two meet?”

I put a hand on her thigh under the counter to stop her, and speak instead.

“Well I was in this giant castle. It was filled with turtles and ghosts, but I got passed them all. At the end was this giant spiky turtle that I jumped on, slaying him. She was waiting afterward.”

The guy went to smile, appreciating the joke, but she cut in- “Huh that’s not how it happened. We met at a Starbucks.”

“Wow I was saying you were my princess. Are you kidding me?”

She scoffs “What? I don’t like, get you at all.”

“You know what. We’re through,” my mouth said.

Her glossy lips curled, “YOU are dumping ME?”

“Yes and if anyone asks, it’s because you didn’t get an obviously cute Mario reference.”

“Oh my God Andrew. You’re so freaking weird.”

“Yeah I am weird. But you’re dumb.”

--

3. The Fisherman. (Obviously hot girl in perfect shape that keeps fishing for compliments.)

This one was stunning. Even I got nervous the moment I saw her. She’s sitting across from me at Oregano’s.

“Want to split a pizza?” I say to her.

“Uh, I look so bloated today, sorry I’m like soooo fat.”

She takes her manicured fingers and pinches her flat stomach.

“Are you just fishing, or do you seriously have a body image problem?”

“Fishing what? No I’m like so breaking out right now too. See?”

She points to her perfect, blemish-free face.

“Yeah I see it. You look like shit. Maybe you should’ve worn more makeup.”

--

4. The Online Girl.

This girl started off lovely, but has since covered herself in a myriad of tattoos, each with conflicting ideals. She’s wearing a black Jimmy Eat World t-shirt, tightly. It reveals her very sporty, fun looking shape.

“So gauges eh?”

“Yeah, aren’t they hot?” She slides two fingers through her right earlobe with ease.

“What’s the goal in mind, when making your ears into rubber bands? Is it so you can hold your cell phone in them or something? That would be pretty convenient.”

“Uh. Ok grandpa. No it’s so I look hot, you know express myself.”

“Why go so big though?”

“It’s addictive. You just want to keep going.”

“Addictive as in ‘well my dad already hates me, might as well go bigger!’”

“Ugh God. You DO sound like my parents. You even look like my dad. Oh gross! You’re gross.”

--

5. The Feminist

I’m sitting alone at the table, eager to eat sushi. In strolls a magazine-cover blonde. The only blonde in this list. She’s got a designer women’s suit on, with a low cut shirt underneath, allowing just a peek at her legendary boobs. She’s chatting on her smart phone, as if I’m an appointment she’d rather avoid.

“Hi Andrew. Yeah I was busy.”

“It’s okay, with what?”

“Oh I had another model shoot. With Calvin Klein,” she says it in a way to show me she’s too good for me.

“That’s cool. I hope you like sushi.”

She takes up the menu, then sets it down. “I’m not really hungry.”

“That’s okay, I know how it is being a model. Well I don’t, but it sounded cool, me saying that.”

She doesn’t smile, just starts texting.

“Tell your boyfriend I said hi,” I gesture towards the phone.

“It’s not my boyfriend. I don’t have one for good reason.”

“And what reason is that?” I ask, leaning forward like a reporter.

“I don’t need one. Men are just, not to sound rude, but men are just things to be used.”

“I see. Yeah we’re just tools, every one of us. So I figure we split some spider rolls, maybe some sashimi and a round of sake?”

“Fine,” she says, finishing another text.

I eat most of the sushi. I try to keep the conversation going, but only get short responses throughout the date.

“So are you trying to get with me or something?” she eventually spits out.

“This is a date, right. How am I doing so far?” I ask, eating the last bit of salmon.

“You’re too short,” she says to her iPhone.

That’s it.

My body stands up, and my voice drops, “Okay. Sorry. I’d pay for the dinner, but I’m tired from being used. I’m brainless and poor, you know. Nothing more than a seed donor.” 

Our eyes meet for the first time, then.

I burn through her skull with my gaze.

The phone trembles in her hand. She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, uncomfortable in her chair. For that moment she’s much smaller than me, and she knows it. Her mouth stutters half a response as I napkin my hands and walk out.

6. The Materialist

We made it through dinner. She laughed at my jokes, smelled good. I liked her so far. Now I’m taking her home in my 1999 white Dodge Dakota. It’s an average pickup truck. Nothing I’m proud of, but I keep it clean.

From the passenger seat, she says

“Hey Andrew. You’re cute and all, but that shirt. What is that from, Express or something?”

“Yeah, I got it from Christmas last year.”

“I thought so. Express is so lame. We need to fix you,” she pats my hand, like she’s comforting a retarded kid.

“And this… this truck or whatever this is. My ex-boyfriends had BMWs. They’re nice, you should… you should get a BMW!”

“Oh. Yeah okay. Let’s stop by a dealership on the way home,” I say, as plainly as possible.

“I don’t think any are open this late. WAIT there’s one down on Camelback I think. We could pick out a nice white convertible!” she’s being serious. This isn’t a joke.

“Sounds good babe. You know I never thought of that before, just BUY a new BMW. Why not?”

“I know right? They’re so sexy. You’d be sexy in one,” she’s glowing now, like she just struck gold.

So I take us down from North Scottsdale to Camelback road, she’s all excited telling me where to turn to get to the dealership.

We pull into the parking lot. Perfect new BMWs gleam a rainbow of dreams I’ll never achieve.

“Why don’t you get out and start looking, while I find a place to park!”

“Okay!” she exclaims, giddy.

I watched her close the passenger door and skip off towards a sparkling M3.

Then I drove away.