Page 10 of Blue Umbrella Sky
He started toward the door, taking very slow and deliberate steps. He paused to ask, over his shoulder, “You got a smoke?”
“Go on. On your way.” The bartender made a little dismissive walking gesture with his fingers.
Billy paused at the door. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was trying to figure who had hired him over the weekend—it sure as hell wasn’t this guy. Some big gal in a black-and-white checkered dress and sensible black flats had proclaimed him “wonderful” and told him he was “too good for the likes of this joint, but we won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Billy sighed and pushed the door open. Everything he touched turned to shit.
The bartender called, “Get some help, Billy. Really. You have talent.”
Billy looked over his shoulder, but Kenton had turned his back as he slid into a denim jacket. Maybe the words Billy had just heard were nothing more than wishful thinking. After all, only moments ago, the guy had said he hadnotalent.Pick a lane, asshole.
Outside, the sparse traffic on Western seemed dizzying to Billy, and he leaned against a lamppost while figuring that, if he just walked to the bus stop up the street, he could grab a bus home to his roach-infested studio on Howard Avenue and save the money he’d otherwise use on cab fare. That damn bus stop, though, lookedsofar away. And he felt like he was going to be sick….
He never got to the bus stop. Nor did he get home.
Now, in this cell, while Jorge snored his confinement away, Billy realized the last thing he remembered was leaning against the lamppost. The next thing he knew, he was in jail.
He’d had a couple of blackouts before, but he’d always managed somehow—by the grace of God—to get himself home, to his own bed.
He began to shiver. He didn’t know if he was cold or on the brink of quitting drinking, one way or another. Because he knew he’d been playing this game too long—the drinking, the drugging, the promiscuity.You only have so many chances before the game’s over. You can win or you can lose. And with the path you’re on, buddy boy, you might not even get to make that choice. The drink might get you. The coke or the crystal might get you. Or even one of those hot tricks, who never seem so hot once the deed is done and you’re watching them walk away with your wallet in their pocket, might decide to end the game—just for kicks. Sobering thoughts….At this last, Billy couldn’t help but chuckle bitterly at the pun.
With fear, self-loathing, and shame for company, Billy Blue joined his cellmate in slumber.
He awoke with no idea how much time had passed, but with knowledge of two things—the side of his face was caked in dried vomit that had an acidic stink, and a new guard, this one an African American guy with round wire-rim glasses and a build like a defensive tackle, was standing outside his cell.
His stare told Billy all he needed to know. It was like the guy had just sucked on a lemon.
“Get up. You got bail. Your neighbor’s here.”
Billy sat up. A sharp stab of pain, like a blade behind his eyes, made him wince and suck in a breath. He angrily wiped at the crusty upchuck on his cheek until all he could feel was skin and stubble. The room spun, his stomach churned, and he was afraid he might puke again.
“What?” Billy barely knew his neighbors. The best he could say was that he had a nodding acquaintance with a few of them.
“Dude. You’re out. I don’t have time to tell you a story.” The guard opened the door and stood there, waiting. “Coming? I need to lock up behind you.”
Billy stood on the legs of a newborn fawn and looked around. There was a sink in the corner, and with a “Hang on a sec” to the guard, he rinsed his face. He doubted he looked much better, but at least he smelled a tiny bit fresher.
In the booking area, he spied his neighbor sitting on a bench by the front door. He didn’t know the guy’s name but recognized him from the courtyard of the white brick apartment building where they both lived. He was an older man, tall and thin, with an overall effect of washed-out gray. His skin was sallow, his head almost bald save for a few gray whiskers around the pate. His ears stuck out almost comically. He wore a pair of chino work pants, dark blue, and a button-down white shirt, dingy and frayed around the collar and cuffs but clean. His feet were the only thing that had any color, and that’s why Billy’s gaze was immediately drawn to them. Red Cons.
Billy smiled when their eyes met, and the corners of the guy’s lips lifted in a world-weary grin. Billy immediately thought the smile looked like something a father might dish out to a kid to whom he’d already given one too many second chances. Kind, yet guarded, self-protective.
The guard had him sign some paperwork and patted him on the arm to let him know he was free to go.
Billy approached the guy cautiously. As he did, the man stood. Billy noticed he held a baseball cap in his hands, and he twirled the cap restlessly. The hands were wizened, callused, the tools of a working man.
Billy wished he knew his name, wished he’d taken a moment to ask for this simple identifier from a neighbor who he now recalled had always been friendly. But Billy was forever wrapped up in his own little journey of self-destruction and had no time for others unless they had drugs, booze, or sex to offer up.
“Billy?”
Billy closed his eyes for a second.Oh shit, he knows my name. Whoisthis guy? My guardian angel?
Billy grinned. Once upon a time, a smile was all he needed to dazzle a stranger—to open doors. Charm the pants off gullible boys. Cause folks to pull the lever to cast a vote of confidence.
Billy didn’t put much stock in his smile these days. He’d looked in a mirror. What stared back—a haggard guy looking much older than his midtwenties—frightened him. The whites of his eyes were tarnished by broken red veins.
“Yeah,” Billy answered. He scratched as his neck, the skin feeling oily and gritty. “Did you, um, did you bail me out?” He cocked his head.
The guy nodded. “Yup.”
