Page 30 of Love Set Free

Settling myself on the bed, curling myself around the duvet-swaddled form of my Jackson, wrapping my arms, my legs, my whole heart and soul around him, I murmur, “Alright. That’s alright then. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going to lose me. Not for a minute, not for an hour. Not ever. No matter what.”

Chapter Twenty

Jackson

December, 3 months ago…

Moments of desperation can lead a man to do really stupid things.

I’d already been having a rough day. Shit, a rough day? A rough week. A rough month. A rough life. Waking up with one hell of a hangover isn’t the worst thing, not in the overall scheme of things, but it still isn’t the best way to start the day.

I’m not even sure how I had enough to drink last night to end up with this doozy of a hangover. I’d gone into the bar—one I’d never been in before. One that was, frankly, sort of scary looking from the outside, what with the lack of one single, cohesive covering of paint on the splintering siding, with the dirty and cracked and blacked-out windows, with the seemingly unendingrow of well-maintained and aggressive-looking motorcycles lined up out front—with the sole intention of having one single shot of whiskey. I’d needed it, needed a drink, so badly.

Not badly enough that I could bring myself to ignore my need for keeping enough money in my pocket for my next meal or two, but… I’d rationalized with myself that I could afford to lay out enough for one shot. One measly shot of whatever the cheapest brand of whiskey this dingy bar had available.

You see…

For some reason, landlords are never very happy to only get part of a month’s rent. Especially when that happens more months than not. I can’t really blame them. They have a product, an apartment, and people are supposed to pay them for the use of that product. It’s how the world works. It’s how our economy works. And it’s not really their fault that most employers—the sort of employers that’ll employ somebody like me, at any rate—like to follow a system of last hired, first fired. I’m always able to get hired but…I also always get fired. A lot.

And that spotty work history, with its resultant lack of steady money coming into my pocket, is why I was booted out of my last apartment and have been living out of the backseat of my car for the past few weeks.

Now, I do have a bit of luck, in that I’ve lived all my life in the comforting, temperate bosom of the South, in the good old U.S. of A. I’ve lived all over parts of the South throughout my not-so-grand twenty-four years, although my current choice of habitat is the city of Chattanooga, Tennessee. And Chattanooga in November isn’t too bad. Chattanooga in the month of December isn’t even too bad. Even if it does dip down at night to almost freezing. Almost freezing still isn’t freezing. It’s not like I’m trying to deal with only the shelter of my old car somewhere horrible, somewhere up in the North or New England.

But…I hadn’t counted on a sudden, freak cold snap. A cold snap that sent temperatures plummeting. Plummeting to barely above freezing during the day. And at night…

My well-past-retirement-age-for-a-car car is mostly rust and duct tape and wishes at this point. It’s certainly not meant to hold out sharp, frigid winds or the swirling gusts of unwanted, unwelcome, unusual for Chattanooga, unexpected snow.

So, before I sucked it up and spent another uncomfortable, shivering night in the dubious shelter of my vehicle...I opted to treat myself with one single belt of liquid warmth. Jack Daniels or Jim Beam if I could manage it, but anything brown, strong, and alcoholic would do really.

But going into the bar, I already knew I only had enough cash I wanted to spare for that one solitary shot. Now I’m not sure how it was that I wound up having enough to drink of something to end up with a hangover. Granted, I’m not a heavy drinker. Food is hard enough for me to afford, I sure as hell can’t splurge on booze. Not normally. So, it probably wouldn’t have taken much. But one shot? No matter how strong the rotgut I could actually afford was...I shouldn’t have ended up with a hangover.

The sound of sharp, rapid-fire knocking on the glass of my window sounded like staccato bullets aimed at my poor, aching head.

The last time I tried to roll my window down, it creaked and squealed and got stuck only a couple inches down. And that was before there was a chance of ice or snow getting in there and making it much, much worse. So, I don’t even try to roll it down now to find out what the person knocking on my window wanted. I leave my keys in the ignition—the car’s off and I’m pretty sure I’ll notice if whoever it is tries to get past me so they can steal it. And really, only a moron—one in sadder shape than me, even—would think my car is worth stealing.

The car emits a few sad, feeble chimes as I open the driver’s side door, a reminder that I’m leaving the keys in the damn thing. Again, not that I can find it in myself to care overly much. The guy standing just a few feet away from my car doesn’t look like an asshole—he’s wearing jeans almost as grungy and worn as most of the pairs I own, a pair of dinged and nicked work boots, and a brown, padded and lined, work jacket, which has a neon yellow, hi-vis, reflective vest over the top of it. The letters on the vest declare that this guy works for the Public Works Department of the city.

“Hey, buddy,” he says. “Just needed to tell you that we’re going to be making our sweeps through here soon and plowing up all this snow.”

I look past him and, while the sunlight reflecting off all of it really feels like knives needling their way through my eyes, I can see that, overnight, several inches of snow have somehow accumulated. This is highly unusual for this part of the country, even during December, which usually doesn’t even see us getting one full inch of snow for the entire freaking month. To have more than an entire month’s worth of snow fall all in the span of 24 hours? And, naturally, while I’m stuck living out of my goddamn car? Somebody, somewhere, must be having a right old fucking good laugh over this.

When I don’t say anything, the DPW guy keeps going, prodding me to work out what he’s trying to tell me. “You’re currently parked in the plow-zone…we’re going to be coming through, really soon, and plowing…” I’m still not reacting, blame it on the hangover. Or my only average smarts not functioning well through a hangover. The guy from the Public Works drops his attempt at being polite and friendly, his voice becoming no-nonsense as he bluntly states, “Look, buddy. The sign’s right there. You can’t stay parked here. You’re gonna have to move, or else I’m gonna call the tow truck and your car’s goin’ bye-bye sowe can get on with our work and get this snow plowed. I’ll give you five minutes to get yourself moved, but then you’re getting’ towed. We’ve got a lot of city to cover and I don’t have time for you to fuck around.”

“Okay. Yeah, I’ll…I’ll get it moved.”

The man nods his head at my words, then he gives me one last lingering, slightly disbelieving look before he turns and plods through the drifted ankle-deep snow, surely off to assess how many other people were foolish enough to park their vehicle in a snowfall tow-away zone.

The sky is laden with dense, cold gray clouds as if the weather is seriously considering dumping even more snow on the city and its unlucky inhabitants, so it’s difficult to determine the time of day, although it feels early. Early or not, since I’ve got to move my car anyway, it may as well be time to make my way to the nearest gas station where I can do a quick and barely satisfying wash up in their bathroom sink. Maybe I’ll even scrounge up enough change in my cup holder or rolled under my seats that I can splurge on a microwaved breakfast burrito.

But my feeble hope that the rest of my morning can only improve from where it started dies a fast and spluttering death as nothing, absolutely nothing, happens when I turn the key in my ignition. Not a chug, not a whir or a whine or a squeal. Just a hollow click…and then nothing. My car’s better days are far, far behind it and now…looks like all of its days are over.

I turn the key in the ignition again. And again. Again. Back and forth, I twist my wrist, my grip on the keys hard and biting, as I hope that this time, this time, the click will be accompanied by a chugging vroom as my engine finally fires to life. But each time brings the same result. Nothing.

I can’t even summon up the wherewithal to cry. I just let my head thunk against the steering wheel as I mentally say goodbye to my car.

All the money I have left, since I lost my job, I’ve been carefully budgeting, hoping it will stretch while I go through the tedious and often fruitless process of filling out applications for a new job, then calling and hounding hiring managers when I don’t hear back from any of the places I’ve applied. I’ve been making due with only two paltry meals a day, wearing my few sets of clothes more than is probably sanitary before taking them to the laundromat, and only depositing ten bucks at a time into my fuel tank.

I don’t have the money to pay for parts to fix my car. And that’s without even considering that I know nothing about vehicles or how to go about figuring out what’s wrong with mine and how to fix it. Add in the additional cost of having it towed to a repair shop then paying for them to get it back to running and… The cost of that would’ve been tight even when I had been working almost forty hours a week. Now that I’m not working and I’m not sure when that’ll be changing…

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