(WARNING! Mentions of child abuse and drug usage)
I can honestly say I’ve landed myself in worse situations…
Nah. What am I saying? This is probably the best outcome for a guy like me.
I’m still low-ranking at the place I’m working at now. But I’m cool with it. Maybe if I can work a little harder, I’ll get promoted.
There are…reasons I can’t seem to put forth more effort, though. Yeah, there’s the customers who can’t seem to be satisfied no matter what I do, but…
Earlier today, something set me off. Can’t say exactly what. Some kid wouldn’t quit whining, a customer demanded to see the manager, who knows, it’s blurry.
All I remember is what I was doing. I was taking out a chair that needed to be gotten rid of. Whatever it was that happened, I know it pissed me off immensely.
I was pissed enough to slam that damn chair to the floor. It was a bit satisfying to see that thing turn into firewood and toothpicks.
What wasn’t so satisfying? Having everyone looking at me like I just cussed out the mayor. Embarrassment is still a weird emotion to me, but I know when I’m feeling it.
So what the fuck else was I supposed to do? Stand there like an idiot?
I ran to the first place I could think of: the freezer.
All these people don’t know how well they got it. They don’t know what it’s like to have lived with someone who doesn’t give a shit about whether you lived or died.
Sure, I’m better off now. I got Shark and his dad. But back then…
‘I wasn’t going to mean anything to anyone.’
‘I should have never existed.’
‘I was a mistake.’
‘I ruin everything no matter what I do.’
There were two people who made me feel that way. The first one’s obvious: That’s Goodwin.
I’m so sick of him thinking he’d be above blame. He thought everything I did was a crime. And now Mister Perfect has knocked up two different women, and isn’t taking responsibility for his fuck-ups.
What, he thinks everything’s magically going to be better if I pretend I’m the father? If he needs to fuck someone, why can’t he go fuck himself?
And the other?
When people try to insult me by saying I’m a stupid son of a whore, it doesn’t really work if it’s true. I get it. She was a prostitute. Stop bringing it up. So many of her clients spoke about how great she was, as a ‘sex worker’, and as a person.
Could’ve fooled me. She seemed to be nice to everyone except the one she was supposed to take care of.
What was her damage? One day, I was playing ‘dodge the wine bottle’, and the next she was making up some bullshit about what a good person she was to keep CPS away.
Using a kid’s lunch money to buy alcohol with? Yeah, that’s nice. Hell, my current boss is being nicer right now than she ever was.
“We all have our bad days, Sinbad.” My co-workers seem to agree with her. “Would it help if you went home early, to calm down?”
At least I’m not getting fired for my outburst, like I thought I was. “Yeah, that might help.” So now I just end up getting sent home early, and told to just come back tomorrow. I might have to explain it to Shark, but I think I can manage that.
He’s better at accepting news than some people I knew.
She never liked it when I got sent home from school. It was always the same reasons: I mouthed off at a teacher, or I got in a fight with one of the other students.
It only mattered if it affected her somehow. And she always got mad if it interrupted her with a client.
Whatever. It always seemed to end badly for me. At least it isn’t so bad now. Now I actually look forward to coming home. Home to that guy I’m happy to call my boyfriend.
Usually, anyway. Tonight he’s laying on the couch, watching The Almighty Johnsons and looking sad. He seems surprised that I’m home early.
“Stuff happened at work. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He looks like he understands. I guess he just wants me to feel better. A hug? Yeah, I’ll take that.
He’s welcoming, understanding, alive…
The last glimpse I saw of her was when she was lying face-down in her own vomit. I may have been a dumbass little kid then, but I wasn’t that much of an idiot. I knew things an eight-year old wasn’t supposed to know.
I knew what killed her. No one could miss that needle jammed in her arm.
What I don’t know is if she actually got a proper burial. The next chance I got to go back to that place, her body was gone. I never knew what happened to her.
And was I supposed to care? She only ever treated me like I was a burden that meant nothing to her, so why should I have cared that she was gone?
If she were so well-known, then maybe one of her johns decided to bury her. Or maybe she got dumped in a ditch somewhere to rot. I don’t know. I never fucking found her. At some point, I was too busy dealing with my own problems.
“Dad and Lolly went out clothes shopping. I didn’t want to go, so…”
“It’s fine, man.”
Love is still confusing to me, given I haven’t really received much of it in my life. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do exactly when it comes to love.
But so far I think I’m doing all right with it. I still don’t understand what there is about me that’s so fucking great.
There are things about my life I don’t ever want him to know about. I hate to admit it, but I’m scared.
He loves me now? What’s he going to think if he discovers what kind of life I’ve lived?
(This is a WordPress-only post)
(The song that the title of the post came from. For some reason, it seemed fitting somehow: )