Teddy Bears - Chapter One

Chapter One




     It was a Thursday; I woke up at ten. I didn't have a reason to get myself up earlier on account I had nothing to wake up for, I didn't work and wasn't supposed to see anybody until later on. In the entirety of us living in that apartment I hardly ever tried finding work because I didn't drive and I thought that dad had to use the car more (when he could) for his little jobs (when he could). I wanted to work, I wanted to do something, have my own money and being able to support myself if I ever needed to; it wasn't like I enjoyed not having major responsibilities: at first, yeah, but then it began making me feel worthless. There'd be days where I'd just pace around the living room, just thinking myself into a coma.
     But anyway, in light of wasting away, I didn't actually get to my feet until a half-hour after I opened my eyes; I laid paralyzed taking in the morning sun and how it shined over my neighbor's house through my curtains, tinting everything in a weird blue. A typical sight for my morning eyes.
     We had been in the apartment for months, but still my room was cluttered, full of trash bags full of clothing, mostly mine that sat by the window; I had my grandma's bedroom set, which included her bureau, side table and lamp, and her queen sized bed that still had her blue and white comforter and matching sheet set. I kept it in favor of my own bed; hers sunk you into the springs but felt like woolen hugs.
     We lived above the landlord's sister, Shelley, and her little daughter Jessica, whom I never really got to know except occasionally seeing her by the door as I checked the mailbox and saying hi. I didn't mind her, but I wasn't too crazy for Jake, the guy who owned the property, he turned out to be a slumlord, who never once fixed anything we had problems with like the stove that only lit two jets or the spare room that had no power. Our apartment was larger than Shelley's; we had an upstairs as well as a downstairs where she only had one floor, and thereby more expensive. The area, a busy green main street that one way led to corner stores, shops and everything else that comes along with a plaza, and the other way led toward a horse farm and then miles of sporadic fields; down the street near one of the variety stores on the left side leads to “the fort”, Redford's famous beach attraction complete with hilly rocks, long-stretching jetties, and a sandy playground. Grandma used to take me there when I was younger to swim and hike among the rocks to sit by the flagpole and watch the boats come in from fishing.
     I heard dad coughing upstairs, where his room was near the laundry room. The stairs that led up there happened to be in my room, a major side effect living there; I could never bring anyone over for a night fearing he'd barge down, either stupid or sober. (He knew about me long before all this, I came out my junior year of high school to both him and grandma, and surprisingly they both took it well, even though dad at first was bugged out about it, but still, in the space sex was impossible.)
     Somewhat reluctantly I tore my covers off and stood so my bare feet could meet the cool floor. I wanted a cigarette but I ran out the night before, I knew I needed to ask dad to bum one until I eventually walk to the store, so in a yawning stretch I wandered up the carpeted steps, in just a shirt and boxers, passed the washer and drier and knocked on his door after listening for a second for his TV, seeing if he was awake.
     “Yeah,” he called with a little cough.
     His door only held closed by an old shirt he sacrificed that had to be shut on by the floor; when I went in I immediately saw him sitting up rested on three pillows, legs sprawled out in his checkered pajama pants, shirtless, supporting his faded tanned skin, with only a gold cross hanging from a matching chain; he raised his hand and invited me into the smoke.
     The good thing about dad during this exact time was he slowed down a bit on the alcohol. From the moment we had moved in I never not saw him drunk; even before he had his TV situated he would just sit up in his quiet little room drowning on pints of vodka. It made me anxious, it got to the point I would check on him every few hours just to see that he was breathing, and I'd always have his door open just so I could rush up if I heard him calling for me, “Maaark...Maaark...”. Thankfully he started to ween himself off; two pints turned into just one pint in the afternoon, then it shifted to just half of a pint at night so he could knock himself out. He always would keep me alert. Everyday was some kind of dramatic scene, and I'd either see him crawling up the stairs to our apartment blown out of his mind wasted after a visit to the bar (just a few buildings away), or I'd have to unfortunately change him out of his piss-soaked sweatpants. March, however was kind to me regarding him.
     Walking passed the trail way of dirty work clothing I sat on the corner of his bed, taking a cigarette from his pack without even asking. Before he could complain I told him, “I'm going to the store later for myself if you want a pack too.”
     He didn't bat an eyelash at my thievery, instead saying, “No, I don't care, take one.” I used his lighter to start it up. He was watching the morning news; we sat for a few minutes watching a story about a high school kid who had been shot in his home a few days ago and that police were searching for his assassin, though they didn't give any hint as to who did it.
     In habit, after hearing what happened I voiced to dad, “God, this kind of thing makes me happy I graduated already.” In my opinion, I thought these random shootings, the ones that involved young teenage kids being shot, were growing more and more, and after every shooting, which there had been an increasing number of since I walked the stage in 2011, I always felt a sense of relief that I didn't have to worry about anything as stupid as school shootings, getting killed by a demented student while I could have been just hanging out in English class.
     Dad grunted while pulling out his own cigarette. “I know. You kids are all stupid nowadays.” He side-looked me with a grin as I quizzically fought back with my own gaze. Across from me he had a hamper full of clean clothes that, sometimes, I would lean on and talk to him late at night when neither of us could sleep. Some midnights, when I could see he was able to formulate words and sentences and not be too wasted, I would try to pry out of him in simple talk if he wanted to continue being the way he was, and mention the idea of maybe going to detox, and a few times he cried when I'd ask, but when he could he would promise me things would get better, and go into a discussion about something else, usually about me getting work, then we'd both shut up and watch whatever he had on and forget about anything real that needed to be asked about. It was a cycle.
     Near his side of the bed sitting in front of a little nightstand/dresser, I saw a plastic cup half-full of something black; I didn't say anything, even though I knew right what it was, his drink from the night before, old and probably dusted from the exposure. Unfinished cheap vodka mixed in vanilla coke, it turned my stomach to just see it; I could never stand his drinks, or hard alcohol, as I was more a beer guy, but when I would have a sip of whatever he was drinking I'd gag with the feeling as though it melted my insides.
     Instead of acknowledging his poison I fixed my focus back on the TV and watched some more of the news until he changed it to avoid the following soap opera, putting on now one of his favorite, and nauseating, “pawn” shows. In the televised silence, half-watching the parade of trashy loud people trying to get money, I smoked my cigarette down to the filter and poked it out before standing. I took another cigarette then asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee; when he declined my offer I then headed back down to my room, dressed into the jeans and sweater I wore the day before, and began percolating a fresh pot.  
     Most days the only thing I looked forward to was my morning cups of coffee; “cups” because I had at least two or three a day, like a regular caffeine addict. Luckily the kitchen was just a couple steps away, so even on my most groggy mornings I didn't have to go far; it was just passed the entrance, bathroom, and counter where the toaster and toaster oven lived.
     After brewing a whole pot and turning the burner off so it could chill for iced coffee later on, throwing in three teaspoons of sugar and a gulp of milk, I brought my mug into the living room. I took a seat on the middle cushion of the couch and slowly began sipping my steamy morning sustenance. As the sips burned down my throat I sat quietly, hearing nothing but the ever-speeding cars on the street below us, leaning my head backward trying to take in the day. I hoped it would be a good day, I asked for it with my eyes closed, pleading internally with the morning light that it would be an easy one.
     Thankful later on I had plans to hang out with my friends Drew and Cody, a couple I had known online for a while that lived just about 10 minutes from me. I hadn't chilled with them in some time; Drew actually hit me up a few days before and asked if I wanted to come over for a get together with them and a couple of their friends. He told me there would be weed and maybe even jello shots, so of course I had no problem getting picked up and hanging out even if it was just for a few hours. Part of the reason why I hardly saw them, though, was because they were really into me. I actually met Cody on a dating website and at the time they were looking for a third guy to play around with once in a while but I never went through with it. They were two cute enough bigger older boys, but I never actually saw myself being in the middle of them. They respected that, and I guess kept me as a friend just for my flourishing personality. Anyway, I was just relieved I got to escape dad and the apartment.
     After sipping the last drop of coffee I started feeling much more with it. My mind began to wander and before it could go anywhere dark, I decided to go to the store and get that over with just so I wouldn't have to rush later on. I through my cup into the sink, put my shoes on and grabbed my wallet and cellphone, then walked back upstairs to get money from dad.
     I didn't bother knocking; he was lying across the bed still watching TV, his drink a little less full than before. He already had a twenty set out on the dresser for me.
     “You're going to the store now?” he asked.
     “Yeah, I'd like to go while I have the energy.”
     He pressed his lips together in thought, then told me, “Get me a two dollar scratch ticket.” Those were his newest obsession ever since a kid a few months before won $500,000 at the packy we always went to. “Maybe I'll be lucky.”
     I chuckled. “Yeah, alright.”
     I shut the door behind me and fled downstairs, out the door and down the other set of steps, then out into the broad daylight. I kicked myself for not grabbing a smoke for the road, but didn't bother running back up.
     The yard, although small, housed a little boxed garden Shelley tried to maintain. If it weren't for the snow or her dog pissing in and all around it she would have been successful. Near it was a picnic table, and further on near the back gate her daughter had her little playhouse that only spiders liked to play in. The grass itself could have been greener but, her dog.
     I never minded going to the store even if it was just for smokes, it always gave me a chance to think, a chance to hear something else besides muffled TV or dad's coughing and complaining. When he was worse and would whine about his stomach hurting (he drank so much his pancreas swelled up and moaned sometimes almost to death) I would run out and leave him even if he was calling for me, I didn't care. I'd much rather listen to the cars buzzing by than that shit over and over, or the seagulls that constantly squawked. I'd walk all the way down the street to where they were constructing a new elementary school just to sit at the curb and listen to the trucks backing up, any different sound was like music to me.
     Even though we were by a beach the breeze wasn't as heavy as it usually was; the March coolness barely broke over me. I kept my hood down so the sun could still warm me by my hair. The snow wasn't melting fast, there were still decent hills caked by every streetlight that I had to maneuver around and the sidewalk was still icy but covered with blown salt.
     All I thought about on the way to the packy was just how the night would turn out. I knew I'd have fun with my friends but every time I would go out without failure I'd have anxiety about what dad was doing, if he'd be normal when I returned, if he'd just be passed out and fine, or a mess that I'd have to unwillingly argue with all night. These little good times never would last long. Yes, I said March was good to me with him, but there'd be been other months where he was good, and they always ended badly just as I'd ease into the comfort. I wished my head could just shut up about it so I could focus more on me and my life, like my friends would tell me whenever I'd talk to someone about it, that it was his problem and not mine. They were right in a sense, but when it's both your parent and someone who lives with you daily it does become your problem because you're the only one who has to deal with it second hand.
     Whatever.
     I tried focusing on the incoming slew of stores and shops. I could see on my side of the street the packy, Jackson Liquors and Lottery, coming into view. Another reason why I wanted to go so early was that there weren't many people on the road. I walked from the end of my block across the crosswalk without looking, and the strolled my way up to the little wooden warn-out brick red house-shaped building and up the creaky side steps. As soon as I chimed the door open a large gust of warm air engulfed me, I guess it was a little colder out than I thought.
     For a package store it didn't have much of a variety of booze to choose from. As soon as you walked in you can already see all four of the shelves, both sides of each full of different whiskeys, vodkas, spirits, champagnes, all that poison, followed by the coolers in the back that held what I liked to drink, the beer.
     Regardless of its size, dad and I liked Jackson's better than the convenient store across the street; over there their cigarettes were more expensive. Plus Jackson, the obvious owner of Jackson's, was a nice older guy; dad told me a few times Jackson let him get booze on credit, saying he forgot his wallet and always promised to pay him back. That was bullshit to begin with, dad had the money he just didn't feel like wasting it, but I guess that can still be an example of how nice of a guy Jackson was.
     The front counter was on the right of the door, and like everyday Jackson was leaning on it from the other side, watching the flat screen he had dangling from the ceiling. He was in his late seventies, somewhat on the heavier side and had a good number of brown and black moles dotted over his face. He always wore the same dark blue shirt when he was working with his name written on a tag pinned to his chest. I guess he had served in Vietnam, or so dad told me, which explained the few indented scars across his forehead.
     I took my wallet out and placed it on the stack of newspapers near his arm. He didn't notice me until I greeted him, “Good morning.”
     He flashed his squinting eyes at me. In his deep stern voice he said back, “Oh, hey guy. What do you want today?”
     “Um, two packs of Maverick menthol 100's, and a two dollar scratch ticket.”
     As he turned to pick out my purchases I took dad's twenty out of my wallet and held my ID face up. He rung them up and asked me if I needed a bag, I said no. “That'll be sixteen-forty.” He looked down and slid himself the bill.
     “Wait, do you need this?” I held my ID up near my face.
     Jackson looked at me, never at the ID, and smiled while pushing the packs to me. “Nah, I know you. You're old enough.”
     “Oh,” I shoved the change and everything else back in my pockets, “Thanks then.”
     He took my receipt and tossed it in his garbage after I said I didn't need it. He then asked me just as I was motioning toward the door, “When's your dad coming in?”
     Oh god, I thought to myself. Tell me he doesn't know what dad does, that's just great!
     I replied, “Oh, I'm not sure if he is.” Why was he asking out of nowhere?
     “You don't do any of that stuff, right?” There wasn't anymore doubt, he knew. He raised an eyebrow at me, not in a grilling way, more in general concern.
     I told him the truth. “Sometimes. I really just like beer every so often and maybe smoke when I can.”
     “Yeah, I'm just saying I know that shit and if it's with him it's with you. I'm not trying to tell you how to live, I'm not your grandpa,” he laughed, “I just don't wanna see you coming in here getting pints like you need it.”
     “Don't worry about that,” I tried to say with my own awkward chuckle. “I'm not like him, I know what-” Before I finished what I was saying a man and woman walked through the door and stepped behind me. I patted my pockets to make sure I had everything. “Alright well you have a good day, Jackson.”
     “Yeah, you too, guy.” His tone through the whole thing never shifted; he started dealing with the other customers just as the door shut behind me, sounding to them as he sounded with me.
     As I crossed the street heading back home I thought about it; I was nice of him to say something to me, but I still didn't like that he knew dad was in a bad way. I didn't say anything to dad when I got back, didn't want him to get riled up over something like that. And besides, I was sure Jackson saw people worse than dad come in everyday.
     I tried not to think about it, instead focusing more on how that was the first time I wasn't carded.