Paul E. Perry of San Antonio, Texas, has won a literary award for this piece. He has a BA from St. Mary's U. and an MA from the U. of Texas at San Antonio. He currently teaches English for the Alamo Community College District.
Paul E. Perry
NEED
by
Paul Perry (copyright 1997 All Rights Reserved)
Jake was awakened by a cockroach crawling into his
ear. He sat up on his pasteboard pallet, turned his head to the
side and shook the cockroach free, then stared into the alley's
darkness, trying to hang onto the dream he'd been having.
He had been in his backyard on Red Oak Drive, lying in
the hammock that he'd stretched between two birch trees. Donna
had come out of the back door of their house and climbed into
the hammock beside him, as she often did when they had first
moved into the house, when they were happy, and she kissed him
on the cheek then kissed him on the ear then-and this is when
the dream began to merge with reality-stuck her tongue in his
ear. At first it felt good but then it tickled, tickled
unpleasantly. And that's when he woke up.
Jake stood up, waited for the usual slight dizziness
to pass, then walked over to the dumpster that sat a few feet
away. This was Jake's place: this spot, in this alley, near this
dumpster. The dumpster was behind a print shop and a carpet
warehouse, so it contained no smelly garbage, mostly paper and
boxes, and it sat on a low wooden platform, and beneath that
platform was Jake's storage space. He reached underneath, pulled
out a back pack then removed from the pack a quart bottle of
bourbon. He shook the bottle, held it up and squinted at it in
the near darkness, then mumbled something to himself. He opened
the bottle and drank deeply then sat down with his back propped
against the dumpster, feeling that old familiar warmth spread
through his stomach, up into his chest, then move on up into his
head, easing the pain of the headache, easing all pain.
He closed his eyes and thought again about the dream,
tried to bring some of it back. It had been a good dream. Jake
rarely had good dreams, frequently had bad ones. Lately there
had been the bad one about his boss and the broken bottle. In
the dream, he was always in the warehouse restroom, in one of
the stalls, drinking from his half pint bottle, when Mr. Arlen
opened the door to the stall, and Jake, startled, dropped the
bottle and it fell to the cement floor, splattering Mr. Arlen's
pants, sending shards of glass flying. In the dream Mr. Arlen
would open his mouth and move his lips but no words would come
out but Jake knew the words, remembered them clearly, too
clearly. He also remembered repeating these words to Donna and
remembered her words. There hadn't been many of them,
"Get out, Jake. Get out of my life. I don't need you."
And Jake had packed a single suitcase and left.
So far as the other bad dreams were concerned, Jake
figured he was pretty used to them by now, although he always
woke up feeling strange, uneasy, even though the dreams weren't
about the really bad things, the real things, the noise or the
flames or the heat or even the blood, and there had been plenty
of blood. No, in these dreams he was always alone but always
looking for someone or something, usually his squad, his
buddies, always searching desperately. Sometimes he would be
slogging through water so thick with mud that he could barely
move his feet. Sometimes he would be running, running furiously
but getting nowhere, sometimes without shoes on, sometimes even
without clothes on. Jake had had such dreams hundreds of times,
always searching but never finding. Not once.
Sitting there in the alley, with the night's quiet
darkness around him, the bourbon warm in his belly, thinking
about that good dream he'd just had, making sure not to think
about the bad dreams, Jake wasn't really unhappy, and when the
rain began, a cool misty rain that brought out the smell of the
alley's asphalt, Jake wasn't bothered, just dug into his pack
and pulled out a plastic garbage bag, ripped it down the side
and pulled it around his shoulders.
Jake took another drink from the bottle, then put the
bottle back in the pack and shoved the pack far under the
dumpster. Then he stood. It was time to get moving, time to go
see Noreen.
He walked down a street that was lined with buildings
with windows that were either boarded up or protected by metal
shutters. There were no lights in any of these buildings and the
only street lights were on the corners, so that the sidewalks
between the street lights were dark, thick with shadows.
Occasionally Jake would pass someone sitting or standing or
lying in those shadows but he ignored them, knowing that there
was no threat there for him. He was one of them, after all.
When he reached the Savoy Hotel, a three story
building with a dark facade and empty, unshaded windows, he
looked up to the third floor, saw a faint red glow there, and
entered the hotel's lobby. There was a reception desk, fronted
by a metal screen shield, but there was no one sitting at the
desk. The lobby was dark, deserted, smelling of old, mildewed
carpeting. Jake climbed the creaking wooden stairs, stopping
twice, listening, then moving on, until he reached the third
floor.
He smelled the incense from all the way down the hall,
smelled the incense and heard the soft sound of music: a singer,
Billie Holiday it sounded like. There was no other sound, even
when Jake reached Room 322, stood there listening. He still had
the plastic bag wrapped around his shoulders and now he removed
it, balled it up, shoved it in his jeans pocket. Then he knocked.
"Jake?"
The voice was just the other side of the door, a soft
voice, almost a whisper.
"Yep."
There came the sound of locks turning, bolts sliding,
then the door opened.
Jake stepped inside. The sweet smell of the incense
grew stronger, the red light grew brighter. There was a sofa in
the middle of the room, an old one, sagging a bit in the middle.
Jake flopped down on the sofa, looked up at Noreen. She was
standing over him, smiling, wearing her long crimson robe. She
was beautiful, with a smooth sculpted face the color of amber,
topped by thick coppery curls. The lips were full, the eyes
large and brown and sad. She was totally feminine except for the
wide, blunt-fingered hands, the faintly prominent adam's apple.
Other than the sofa there was no furniture, but a
large mattress took up most of the rest of the room's space, a
mattress covered with a tangle of white sheets and a scarlet
comforter. The red light came from a shadeless lamp that sat
beside the mattress; the music came from a black plastic
cassette player that sat beside the lamp. The walls and the
ceiling of the room were free of decoration but also free of
disfigurement, so that they picked up the warmth of the red
glow, made the room seem cozy, comfortable. Jake leaned back,
feeling suddenly drowsy. He looked up at Noreen's soft smile,
"Busy night?"
Noreen's smile disappeared. She shrugged.
"The usual," she said, "some of my regulars."
She walked over and turned down the music; Billie's
voice became a soft, plaintive murmur. Noreen came back over and
sat down on the other end of the sofa. She smelled faintly of
lilac.
"Russell came by again, pushed me to get back out on
the street," she rubbed her eyes, sighed, "I told him I still
wasn't up to it."
Jake yawned, "You shouldn't let Russell push you
around."
He looked over at her, "Is that medicine making you
feel better?"
"Some. I'm feeling some better."
She crossed her arms over her breast, lowered her
head.
"I'm just never going to be right until I'm whole,
Jake."
Then she looked over at him, "How you doing, hon? You
making it okay?"
Jake nodded, "Sure."
"Well, you look tired, Jake. You need to take better
care of yourself, hon," she looked at him for a moment then
asked in a low voice, "can I come over?"
Jake nodded, held out his left arm. Noreen scooted
across, moved close against Jake, lay her cheek against his
shoulder. She sighed, closed her eyes.
The first time this had happened, just before Jake
moved out of his room down the hall, he had had some difficulty
with this, but now it was easy, came natural to him.
After a moment Noreen moved so her face was pressed
against his shoulder then she began to weep softly. Jake
squeezed her arm, didn't say anything, just let her cry. After a
while Norleen's weeping stopped although she remained with her
face pressed against his shoulder. Then she began to snore
softly. Jake looked down at her, at the smooth brown cheek and
the coppery hair and he sighed, shook his head. Then he too
dozed off.
When Jake awoke, Noreen was still asleep although
she'd moved closer, had her hands around Jake's arm. When Jake
sat up and looked toward the window, she straightened up, moved
away from him. She yawned, reached up to pat her hair.
"Thanks, Jake. I needed that."
Then she stood up, smiling. "Well, are you ready?"
"Yep," Jake said.
He walked across the room to the closetlike bathroom,
went inside and stripped. He stepped into the shower and turned
on the water, stood beneath it and scrubbed himself then let the
lukewarm water flow over him until he felt clean. He hadn't
heard Noreen come into the bathroom but when he stepped past the
plastic shower curtain, he found a fluffy towel on the closed
commode lid and beneath the towel was a clean T-shirt, a fresh
pair of boxer shorts.
When Jake came out of the bathroom, Noreen was
sitting on the sofa, a wide smile on her face, "Feel better?"
she asked.
Jake ran a hand through his damp hair, nodded, "A
hundred percent," he said, "Thanks, Noreen."
Then he walked to the door, "I got to be going, kid."
Noreen went over to her mattress, reached underneath,
came back to slip a bill in Jake's shirt pocket.
"Now don't turn me down, Jake. And promise me you'll
get something to eat. Okay?"
Jake hesitated, frowning, then he said, "Well, I'm
going to pay you back, Noreen."
"You don't need to do that, Jake."
"Yes, I do," he said.
Then he turned and headed for the door.
Noreen walked with him to the door, stood there for a
moment, then reached out hesitantly to squeeze his shoulder,
"Thanks for coming by, Jake."
Jake shrugged, opened the door.
"You know, Jake," Noreen said, "you're the only man
that don't take advantage of me. You know that?"
Jake met her gaze for a moment, started to say
something, then turned and went out the door.
As he walked down the hall he heard Billie Holiday
singing again.
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