USK | Prose | Hyatt | A Bad Time

A Bad Time

Mickey had been clean for almost a year when he saw D.S. on the el train. He tried to act as if he hadn't seen anyone, but he knew D.S. was there. Mickey kept sneaking glances in the other man's direction, all the while praying that there wouldn't be any eye contact. Mickey would look over, then quickly turn his head to look out the window.

*	... yeah, the window ... Mickey thought to himself ...maybe he won't see me if I look out the window ... But that was bullshit, and Mickey knew it. Two stops later, the two men made eye contact. D.S. smiled and nodded. "Hey!" he called out to Mickey.

A smile froze on Mickey's face. He looked at the other people on the train, going to work, dressed in their well-pressed best. Mickey looked just like them, clean shaven and wearing one of the three ties he owned.

But he used to look like D.S. -- dirty hair and hands, clothes on their third day or fourth day of wear, and that look of need in the eyes. Need for love, need for money, need for --

"Fine brown shit." Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but Mickey thought he could see D.S.'s lips moving, forming the words like a cheap come-on.

The next stop was a transfer stop --- you could change lines at this stop. People cleared off the train. The woman sitting next to Mickey got up, leaving the seat next to him open.

It was funny -- one of the things Mickey liked about his job was the fact that it required only one train line to get there, and it was within two blocks on either end. Right then, Mickey found himself wishing he had to change trains.

D.S. got up and sat down next to Mickey.

"How you been, man, I ain't seen you around."" D.S. slapped Mickey on the leg with the back of his hand.

Mickey smiled halfheartedly. "I moved. I got a job."

D.S. laughed at that -- "No shit! Look at you all cleaned up, man, you're stylin' like a motherfucker." D.S. fidgeted a little in the seat. "Me, nothin's changed, except I moved too. I live on the West Side now with my old lady."

*	"That's cool," Mickey responded, and turned to look out the window. "So that's what you're doin' now?" D.S. asked. "Goin' to work?" "Yeah."

The two men sat silently next to each other as the train made another stop. Mickey looked out the window, watching the people as they got off. A lot of men in suits. A lot of women in long skirts. They all looked the same.

The train started moving again. D.S. tapped Mickey's bicep.

"You wanna go in halves?"

"No." Mickey shook his head.

"Why not? You can't be broke, man, you got a job and shit."

Mickey turned and looked D.S. straight in the eyes. "I don't do it anymore. I'm clean."

D.S. smiled. "No shit? Well, that's great, just great. You look real good."

Mickey smiled back when D.S. said that. It felt good to hear. He'd become accustomed to hearing the opposite.

"Well, hey, look man," D.S. said, moving in close, what say you help out a friend? You're cool, you got a job, whaddaya say you loan me ten bucks so I can go get myself a bag?"

Mickey laughed. "You want ten bucks."

"Unless you wanna go halves. Then you only need to loan me five."

Going halves ... there was something about the idea of IT being this close, even after all the time away from it, that made Mickey so excited it scared him.

He had thirty bucks in his wallet.

"Whaddaya say? Ten bucks?" D.S. gave him a look -- they'd been friends once, they were tight, sharing the bond of brown drugs and (hopefully) clean needles. But now Mickey was just another guy for D.S. to hustle for money toward the next score.

Mickey knew it, but he reached into his pocket anyway.

He pulled out the ten. But what he was thinking about was the twenty. Twenty dollars ... he could call in sick from a pay phone, head to the West Side with D.S., maybe catch up on old times with Patty, D.S.'s old lady. Twenty bucks would get him a real good time.

D.S. took the ten from Mickey's hand and shoved it in his coat pocket. "Thanks, man, you were cool, always were. It's a good move, you cleanin' your act up." D.S. looked up into the next train car through the window. "I know I oughta do the same myself, but you know how it is."

"Yeah," Mickey said.

D.S. walked through the door between the cars, and Mickey felt a pang of relief. It was close -- he'd almost fucked up.

Two stops later, it was time for Mickey to get off. He stepped off the train, along with the other men in their ties and white shirts, off to sit behind their desks, off to talk on their phones, off to chain drink cups of coffee and try to do as little as they could to get through the day.

... They have no idea ... Mickey thought to himself ... they have no idea ...

Mickey arrived at the office, a few minutes late as usual, and dug into his pocket for change. He needed a coke. Scratch that -- he wanted a coke. Mickey knew all too well what real need was, and his desire for a coke just didn't cut it.

"Morning, Mickey," Charlotte, one of the clerks he worked with, said to Mickey as he put the coins in the slot. Mickey turned and smiled. He looked at her, at her clear blue eyes, at her pale white arms, at her straight white teeth.

The can clunked into the bottom tray.

"How's it going?" Charlotte asked Mickey.

"Okay," Mickey said, picking up his can and starting to walk back toward his desk. "How's it going with you?"

"Okay," Charlotte responded as she put her coins in the slot. "Gotta get that caffeine in the morning."

"I know the feeling," Mickey said, and he walked over to his desk.

His in-basket was piled high with paperwork.

Usually, Mickey liked days like this, days when he'd be busy doing work and not thinking about anything else, but this morning it was different. He had other things on his mind.

He moved the stack of papers out of the basket and onto the counter of his desk. He sorted through them slowly. He was having a hard time getting into his work. Usually it was different, usually he did his work with vigor, usually people remarked about how fast and efficiently he worked, but not today.

By lunchtime, he'd sorted very little of the papers on his desk. And his basket was piling up with more work. He moved the papers out of his basket, making a bigger pile on the desk in front of him. He went to lunch.

When he returned, he worked even less for the remainder of the day. He left with a stack of paperwork a foot high on the counter of his desk that evening.

The television just pissed him off. Mickey hated the writing on the shows -- the sitcoms were never funny, the dramas were never interesting. But the people looked good. They looked happy, fulfilled. They looked as if they'd never had to think. Mickey managed to pass three angry hours in front of the tv before he went to bed.

The ride to work the next morning was easier. There was no chance encounter with D.S. or anyone else from his past that might have made him fidgety. There were only the same people he saw every morning, the men in their ties and white shirts, the women in their long skirts and big purses, and Mickey, in another of the three ties he owned, one of the five white shirts he owned, and one of the three pairs of black slacks that he owned.

... I am just like these people ... Mickey thought to himself ... I am just like these people, and that's all right.

Mickey stared out the window, as the buildings blurred past him, and thought about the stack of work on his desk that he'd left the day before. Today he'd be busy. And tomorrow he'd be busy. And then it would be the weekend, and then maybe he'd go to the movies.

But tonight, what Mickey was thinking about most was what he was going to do tonight.

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