It was sometime around noon when he made his noisy entrance through the front door; bringing the cold January air in with him.
“Hey, where the fucks Tom at?” he asked, very loudly.
I smiled, because I could not help thinking of what he would say next. Will cracked me up.
“He’s in the shower, man…He’ll be out in a minute.”
He stepped inside and before the door closed, appeared a short, under-aged looking girl behind him.
This was interesting.
He walked over to the bathroom door and announced himself, “HEY, TOM, GET YOUR DICK OUT OF YOUR HAND, BROTHA, We GOTTA GO!”
I made coffee, offered some to him and the unknown adolescent-looking girl while we waited. Eventually, she introduced herself to me. She had met Will at the Methadone clinic. Last week, they went to Red Lobster and he embarrassed her by hitting on the waitress. She told me about her soon-to-be-ex-husband, and how he wanted to take her kids from her. And that she got a script of xanax because of some post-traumatic stress, caused by her husband cheating and beating on her. Join the club, sweetheart., it happened to me too, twice. I’m writing a book about it, right now.
She took a phone call, leaving the room. Will came into the rec room with me, and sat down on the brown couch where the dog slept. We talked about drugs; the underage-looking girl he had with him and how he was trying to get some head from her, and about Tom taking longer than a woman to get ready. We talked of ghosts. I had been sensing some weirdness around me, that I attributed to some sort of unearthly entity.
“Do you believe in that shit? Do you think it’s real, you know, ghosts? I don’t know if I do or not but let me tell you a story…”
He told me about a friend of his fathers that had been working on an old farmhouse doing renovations. According to lore, there had been some unsavory things happen within that house; many people had been chased out by unseen; but strongly felt creatures. The person he was telling me about had the last straw when a ladder slid all the way across a 20’x20’ room, all by itself, and nearly pinned the man between a wall and a hole in the floor with a 15 foot drop.
He talked about a few of his minor ‘possible’ ghost experiences he had, and I told him of mine; of the shadow people that used to accompany me, of the weird shit that I mentally noted since my childhood.
“Spirits - I don’t always necessarily refer to them as ghosts - are always around us.” I said.
The girl reappeared. She looked like she had been through the wringer; possibly even a gang-bang and a beating. Rough. She looked aged, and she was four years younger than I. Damn, drugs do horrible things to people. It was all over her face. She pleaded with Will for another sliver of a suboxone strip, because apparently, she was going through some withdrawals from not having any methadone.
I have to say, that I was a bit unsettled. Tom had been clean for about a month or so now, and I feared that the upcoming mission he was about to go on with Will was going to lead to a bad place. But Will presented to Tom some sort of peace of mind, some sort of welcoming friendliness; something that had been missing from his childhood. Something contributed to not having a father around most of the time, to teach him things like hunting and fishing, which Will excelled in.
It is also important to mention though - that Will had been getting clean himself. He was doing very, very well. But I had a feeling that something was going to go awry. I couldn’t shake it, but I did for the sake of conversation.
Shortly after some talk about how huge Will’s dad’s cock was (as he had been told by some of his dad’s co-working coal-minin’ buddies), and he even went as far as showing how many squares on the countertop his dads cock was.
“Dude….I’m telling you man, 6 of these fuckers….Six of these fucking tiles, that’s how long it is. Mine’s only like, 2.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Tom was finished in the shower, dressed, and ready to go. They left and were gone for a few hours. In this time, I got word that someone I had known since I was small - had passed away. Fortunately, though, thanks to misinformation, it was not someone I had known; but someone that went by the same nickname. 32 years old; overdosed. Sad, all the same.
Will said that guy was an asshole.
I felt like I was dangling in limbo, experiencing some sort of déjà vu, all throughout the day. The strange, unsettling feeling I had been experiencing, had still not left me. Time had passed; the evening into nearly mid-night. Tom came out into the room where I was doing laundry, as clumsy with his demeanor as he ever was - and I knew he was leaving, though I had not been informed. I was planning on taking down all of the Christmas decorations, once and for all, and
needed beer.
“He wants me to go with him baby….I can tell he fucked up, slipped up and that he’s all fucked up right now. I don’t want him to end up crashing his car. I’m flying as a guardian angel/co-pilot…I‘d really rather stay home, honestly but I can‘t let him go without having a DD.” Tom said to me.
He knew I wasn’t pleased, but I wasn’t pissed either. Oh well. More beer for me, and I could enjoy it in quiet solitude. Score!
Moments later, Will made his encore appearance. It was obvious, as Tom had already said - that he was in bad shape. His voice had donned the overly loud, booming tone that it did when he was really high. In his hand, he held a huge to-go cup from Red Lobster. The girl, from earlier in the day - was in the car waiting on him. I assumed that she had been very obviously embarrassed by him and his usual antics on their evening journey. Something about him reminded me of going out in public with Larry the Cable guy. He’d ask fucked up questions, say embarrassing shit to people, but you really couldn’t help but love the guy.
While Will was still inside the house, a pot-smoking friend stopped. He mentioned that he just came back from a festival and had some acid at his house. Will was not a pot smoker, nor a drinker, and he certainly was not interested in dabbling with hallucinogens.
He said to me: “That shit’s fucking terrible, you don’t need that fucking bullshit.”
But he would talk about how he used to eat 10 methadones and 10 or more xanax bars in a night’s time.
He was funny like that.
“I quit smoking cigarettes, too.” he said.
Then, eyeing the cigarette in my hand, he continued:
“Mannnnn…….FUCK! Give me one of those…See, you’re a bad influence, getting me smoking cigarettes again…bullshit.”
Like I said - he was funny like that; inhaling the smoke as he spoke of how “these fucking cock-sucking, motherfucking garbage ass things will fucking kill you…” He paused for a moment.
“Hey….HEY….HEY, TOM, what the fuck, are you ready yet, brother?”
The girl waiting in the car had to get back home. Obviously she was tired of waiting, because the horn was blaring every 4 seconds right outside the door of the room where we sat. I knew- even she didn’t - that for her, it was going to be the long way home. Instantly, I felt slightly panicked. I cracked one of the few remaining beers and chugged it.
“Okay baby, we’ll be back soon. Will’s probably going to crash here tonight.”
“ Ok…be careful, please. Don’t let him drive. I Love you.” I said.
As everyone filtered out the door, the strange sense of calm washed over me. But this ‘calm” was more like enduring a Level 1 tornado as opposed to level three hurricane force winds.
I got to work and was so busy in my own world of de-christmasing the house that two hours had passed before I even bothered to look at the clock. I needed the beer now. Damn it. So, I sent a message: “Hey, where are you guys, hope you remembered the beer, they quit selling in 30 minutes.”
Another hour passed before I hear anything.
Guess I am not getting my beer, fuck.
When another hour passed, and the replies I got were shittier, I was getting infuriated. I thought and expected the absolute worst. I hoped I was wrong. I paced the floors and still remained busy cleaning ; pacing, grinding my teeth, smoking cigarettes, and pacing.
At 4 a.m., I get a message back.
“We’re in Bridgeport, be there in 15-20 minutes.”
5 a.m. I sent a text to Tom: “You know, I had a dream last night and all today’s events are playing out exactly as it did in my dream. Except it was you and Charles, not you and Will. Weird huh?”
5:30 a.m. - no reply.
Horrible thoughts entering my mind now. I envision a sheriffs car, flashing lights, search and seizure and arrests. Or car wrecks. In either case, there would most likely be flashing lights and sheriffs cars. I play music, and try to push the déjà vu that encapsulated my brain into a crevice of my mind. These lyrics stuck with me. I played the song several times in a row:
“Centuries past, and still the same…Better your life, justify your pain…The End, is knocking, the End is knocking…We’ve all been lost for most of this life; Everywhere we turn, the hatred surrounds us and I know - that most of us just ain’t right…”
Justify your pain…
Suddenly, and oddly enough, I recalled the name of the underage-looking-girl-from earlier in the day.
Tara.
Her name was Tara. Mentally noted. Even though I did not know that I would ever see her again, I noted it.
I glanced at the clock. Livid with unconfirmed hunches; haunted by the vivid dreams the night before - I sent some angry, nasty and spiteful messages.
And I did not feel bad about it either.
Hmph.
Even though I was not feeling hunger, my stomach spoke to me otherwise, so I made something to eat. Half of one of my previously mended teeth chipped as I was eating.
God damn it, what the fuck. I was even more pissed now.
I gave up on eating.
I thought very hard about how much I hate when I dream of something, and it unfolds in front of me to be more than 97 percent true. A prophecy of sorts, I suppose; intuition, even.
It was now 5:50 a.m.
I heard car doors slamming and a very unquiet; unsheathe entrance thunder through the front door. So, I pretended to be asleep. It momentarily quelled the impending explosion from within me…I heard their voices, loud, booming off of the close-quartered walls of this small house on the hill. I lit a cigarette, and inhaled it like I was trying to suck the life from it.
The door to the bedroom swung open, and Tom came stumbling in. I don’t quite remember exactly what he had said to me, but I DO recall my response as being something like, “Fuck off, leave me alone, fuck you.”
“Whatever, bitch.” he said.
I closed my lids; fuming, and continued to suck the remainder of life from my cigarette. The door slammed behind him, and I soon heard muffled voices in the kitchen.
Tom reappeared, trying to give me a kiss and an apology.
I, of course, rejected this.
“C’mon, Will wants you to come out in the RecRoom and talk to us…uhhhmmm….I’m kind of fucked up. I drank a lot of vodka. He was stressing me out, man, and…”
He was spontaneously interrupted by Will’s entrance into the bedroom. He went to the end of the bed, where my feet were poked out from under the covers, and grabbed them as he gently shook me and said:
“Hey…hey, are you sleeping…Is she sleeping? You ain’t fuckin sleeping…I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not Tom’s fault, please be pissed at me. It’s my fault, I made him go with me, he was in my car, it’s my fault. I’m sorry, fuck…”
I groaned.
He continued, “Hey, please, will you please just come out here and talk to us?”
“I have to be up with my daughter in a fucking hour to get her ready for school you fuckers…” I grumbled.
“I’m sorry. Just please don’t be mad at Tom. We’re all fucked up…I’m all fucked up. I’m an asshole. It’s my fault. My mom’s gonna be so pissed if I come home like this right now…Please come out here and talk to us.” he pleaded.
I am not really sure why, but he had somehow swayed me into agreeing. But not without the condition that they leave me the hell alone for five fucking minutes while I re-pants’d myself and smoked my cigarette.
“Okay, okay…that’s cool, I can do that. Do you want a xanax?” he said.
“MMMMmmmmmarghhhhhhhhh…..FIVE MINUTES!!! Damn it!!”
He and Tom left the room. I waited for silence. When it came, I got up, redressed myself and went to the kitchen to make coffee before I filtered into the recr oom where they were at. Will had picked up some dumb-looking movie called “The Slammin’ Salmon” from Blockbuster, and let me tell you, he was adamant about watching it. There was xanax smashing and snorting; nodding off; phone calls at ridiculous hours and loudness. The benzo’s helped me calm down a little bit, but I still had an entire day ahead of me, three-year-old in tow, on zero hours of sleep. Oh, and a fiesty as fire 6 year-old to get ready for school within the proceeding hour. Fantastic, this was going to be a fantastic day.
Coffee drinking commenced, as I was told of the vodka consumption by Tom and of the xanax/methadone abuse by Will.
“I ate fuckin 10 dones, dude, and like…10 fuckin bars, man. I am FuCkED up. I gotta crash here, I can’t go home like this or my mom’s gonna kick me out honey.”
Then, oddly enough, he decided to phone his mother at 6:20 a.m. Amazing. Sure she didn’t hink anything of that, huh?
JESUS! I hated seeing him like that. Ole Wild Willy (as he sometimes called himself) had been clean for a while now - well, for an addict, it was long time. He was most worried about his actions hurting his most beloved and cherished people - his family - but, those were the people that were hurt; time and time again, for years, like addicts so often do. Besides himself, they hurt the most.
He had said, “I know, I fucked up man. But it’s the last time, I just wanted one more time; one last time.”
He was falling asleep on top of his coffee and sandwich from Sheetz. I brought him a blanket and some pillows, said goodnight and took my drunken boyfriend (damn, damn, damn, FuCK, damn it - not fair- I never got my beer but he got WASTED!!) to bed. He was asleep within 3 to 4 minutes after lying down. Praise sweet baby Jesus. It was quiet, once again.
I, on the other hand, still had a very long day ahead of me. I got up and got my 6 year old ready for school. She could hear Will’s phone ringing steadily from about 7:30 a.m. until the time she was ready to board her bus at 8:15. She went out to ‘check’ on him before she left. My girls liked him. He was loud and goofy, but he gave them attention…and bubblegum.
His phone rang nonstop, still, until I left the house around 9 a.m. He had said that he had to take his buddy to the doctor in the morning, at 11 a.m. His ‘buddy’ was getting his script of methadone from his doctor…That bad feeling hit the bottom of stomach once again.
I had a car to detail, and speaking of details - there were many that I could not be bothered with at the time. So, inevitably; once again - that damned haunting dream from the night when I had actually slept had crept back into my thoughts.
*the dream sequence*
In this dream, Charles had stopped by to pick up Tom to run errands with him; hang out. Tom had been clean, but Charles was a known IV drug user of the painkiller variety. I was fearful of Tom slipping up and eating some pills; and it ended up that he did. Then he came home for a bit; Charles picked him back up and didn’t bring him home til around 5 a.m. A few hours later, I got a phoen call from the hospital E.R. Charles had overdone it. He overdosed. They stated that he had indeed endured the initial round of paddles; of shock-to-life therapy. He was recovering in the ICU, but was not looking well. Then I woke up.
Good GOD, how I needed something more than coffee to stay motivated and awake. Nearing the end of my job, around 4:30 p.m., I called Will. He was a mess.
Just absolutely a wreck; so so so fucked up. Those visions of sheriff’s cars and flashing lights came back. He barely even knew that he was on the phone with me. He carried on conversations with whomever was in the car with him. I think he had put his methadone-fetching ‘buddy’ on the phone for a moment. I overheard talk of money owed, drugs done, of “Oh fuck did I just run into that curb?” and then, of the silence that followed.
I called back. There was no answer. I knew that the girl, Tara, was with him; he mentioned that he was taking her back home. But she had wanted methadone's, too. Something about this girl, her intentions…I didn’t trust her. She was sketchy. When I called him back an hour or so later, he was even worse in terms of coherence. The last calls I made to Will were around 7 and 9 p.m.; he didn’t answer either time. I sent messages, left voicemails. I don’t know if he even remembered talking to me at any point in the day.
It stays a mystery to this day…
- - - - - - -
At Will’s funeral, his sister had told me that he was at Tara’s house when 911 was called and the medical examiners arrived. He had been dead for several hours, while Tara cleaned house, he lie on the couch unresponsive, non-breathing. She used his cell phone to make long distance calls, used his car to go pick up his ‘buddy’ (that had most likely supplied the lethal dose). Also, his pockets had been emptied and his shirt torn halfway from his body too; all before the 911 call and prior to the coroner arriving.
All I could think of was how he had asked, during those last blurry conversations on the phone, if he would be able to stay at our place that night. He never made it there, we never heard back from him and we were really worried. It was the morning after those conversations when I got phone calls and read (FUCKING FACEBOOK status Updates..grr) about his passing. Tom, was at work when I let him know what happened. Will was gone.
He didn't believe me.
He cursed me out. Told me to shut the fuck up, called me an idiot, asked me what the fuck my problem was.
The tension at the funeral home, as Will’s father’s eyes pierced into Tom and into my very soul - was shaking. That’s an understatement. I felt guilty, though I had done nothing to contribute. After all, I would have known that not being able to wake someone up and seeing that they are not breathing - is a major major problem. I would’ve called 911, not called people and joyrode in his car. I wasn’t all fucked up like this bitch Tara though. What the fuck. I told him he can't mix that shit together. He knew it. He had a few friends of his die from the same fucking thing; mixing benzo's and methadone's. I worried about him a lot. If he would’ve made it to our house, maybe…he wouldn’t be gone.
His parents were good people. The pain in his mothers eyes; the anger in his fathers' eyes made me nauseous. I felt terrible for them.
Every seventh day of each month, I now think of getting my feet shaken at 6 a.m., while in bed; of goofy embarrassing and frustrating things he did….Of our conversations that we had of ghosts, in the room where he almost could have, but did not-die.
I wonder if he found out if ghosts are real…
R.I.P. William Michael Feher -
May 6, 1979 - January7, 2011-
Copyright March 2011 K. Anne Smith
