SLY GLORY

It was a hot Friday night in Hollywood. The streets were buzzing with various characters. Party girls, colorful transvestites, rockers, prostitutes and an assortment of likeable, but dangerous low lives looking for unknowing pray. I was knocking back a few shots of Jack Daniels, chasing them feverishly with cigarettes at some dive named the Afterhours. The Afterhours was the type of place people came to lose themselves and find themselves all at the same time, or to get lost in some strangers happenings or adventures. Everyone there had a past, everyone there had a story. If you ever wanted to forget your woes, this was the place to come. Not that it was a particularly cheerful place. In fact, it was quite the opposite (poorly lit and smoky with old pool tables in parallel rows). The fact was that you went there to hear a story sadder than your own. I was in a miserable state. Tired, fired, and unshaven, feeling like I had no reason to live. I had that intense nothing to lose feeling, then she walked in. Her name was Glory. I remember the first time I saw her. A gorgeous amalgam of Black and Latino with long black hair ran like streams of oil down her powdered coco colored skin, skin that framed her oval-esque face atop a flawless body. Her lips were a crimson brown and very full. She was tall for a woman, which I liked, but it wasn’t so much her look that drew me to her. It was her style. She moved like a cat. Her eyes were deep and dark, also looking of feline origin. The way she moved was like poetry in motion. In one word: stunning.

She strolled up, taking a seat next to mine. I was in no mood to talk, let alone smile or say something remotely charming. When she sat, I got a feeling... call it a sixth sense. I knew that she didn’t want to be charmed. She just had this vibe, I couldn’t put my finger on it that said that she’d seen a lot of charmers and could smell a faker from a mile away. A couple minutes passed.

“Scuse me. Are you ok?” She said in a lightly accented voice due to her Spanish speaking mother.

“I’m cool, just a little tired.” I replied, straining my voice over the volume of the juke box.

“Well, lie if you want... but you look like you got troubles on your mind.”

“It’s nothin” I said. “I just got fired.”

“Aww. I’m sorry to hear that, but you know how those dead end Nine-to-Fives are. They change like underwear.”

“Tell me about it.” I grinned.

“What’s your name?”

The questions that starts it all. Seemed like the casual exchanging of names constantly leads me to bad luck individuals destine to send me on some roller coaster ride. It was either paranoia or a deep distain for the cold world around me that made me feel this way, in truth I think it was a little of both. I was hesitant to answer such a simple question. Screw it, I thought, I’ll bite.

“Sly. My real names Sylvester, but most call me Sly.” I said coolly.

“Sly, huh. I definitely like Sly better than Sylvester. Well it’s a pleasure Sly, my names Glory.”

“Nice name.” My reply coded with sincerity.

“Yeah, sure. I was named after my father’s boat.”

I smiled.

“So do you come here a lot?” She asked.

I answered.

“Yeah, but I don’t know why.” I said scanning around the room. “Cause I hate this place.”

She laughed a sweet laugh. In my head I laughed at myself, a self-depreciating laugh. After the initial confab, we talked for hours on end, about any and everything from politics to relationships to acid trips, hopping bars and clubs drowned in Technicolor. The more we talked, the more I felt like I was talking into a mirror. We had much in common, both spawning from urban wastelands, but with two very different demeanors. She, more like a ball of fire hooked on methamphetamine based ecstasy, and I, tending on the side of a psychotic loner heroin slug. To go along with her natural exuberance, the girl had an uncanny combination of street wisdom and youth. She was dangerous, I sensed, no matter how gorgeous the package seemed, but despite these assumptions I liked her all in all.

Our collage of conversations were fueled by hard alcohol, and over the course of the night I could tell she wasn’t the type to open up to just anyone. So, in short time, I felt bold enough to ask her just why she was sharing intimate thoughts with a stranger such as myself. I expected some half-baked bullshit answer, but I watched her brown sugar lenses dance in her sockets as she thought. Her response cut deep.

“Most times it feels better to spill your guts to a complete stranger... ’cause it’s like you have nothing to lose.”

Nothing to lose, I repeated in thought.

Like a bell those words rang loud and clear.

I had a cheap watch. It read one-forty in the a.m. and it was last call. Glory and I were a few drinks past oblivion as we stumbled outside into the slightly cooler air, swerving most of the way. But she handled her frame a lot better than my 6′1 187 pound frame. As we exited the immemorial looking establishment I spotted some hangers-on huddled against the brick building, smoking cigarettes, looking like a pack of leeches trying to suck the last drops of excitement out of an already dead scene.

Arm in arm we headed around back to my older (1967) model Camaro. Traffic was a near void, neon lights danced in my peripherals as the car moved steadily along the boulevard. My vision was like a camera stuck out of focus, all while the street signals guiding the way ahead blurred together in a single beams made of red and green.

Stay in between the lines was the slogan echoing in my head.

I had to occasionally glance at my passed out passenger. I didn’t think it possible, but Glory looked even more beautiful in her sleep. I guess everyone does. Sleep is a beautiful thing. My tired eyes was craving that beauty. Earlier in the night I offered to take her home, but the girl gave me a shock when she mentioned something about being a little homeless at the moment.

Even though I couldn’t possibly know at the time, I felt it was something more to the “homeless” answer that met the eyes. I didn’t bother prying.

To make a short story shorter, we were off to my cramped apartment in North Hollywood.

In my parking garage I sat a moment, pausing a sec to gather my barring. I suddenly realized the situation I was in. Yeah, most guys would love to bring home an unconscious female, a gorgeous one home any day of the week. On any other night maybe I would too, but not that night. No particular reason, just not that night. The wheels in my mind spun erratically and I began to panic.

“What if she’s a narc or some man-hating psychopath?”

Naaaaw, no way, I decided on rethought. Paranoid. I began to get itchy. Maybe it’s because a fresh supply of heroin had not run through my bloodstream in a few good hours.

I needed to get inside.

I tried to wake up my passenger to no success. She only curled up more talking some gibberish in her sleep. I turned the ignition and the engine rumbled to a stop. I gathered up her purse and stuffed my keys tightly in my fifth pocket. I began the seemingly endless trek of stairs carrying a limp body up three flights in the manner a newlywed husband carries his bride across a threshold. To get upstairs and down the long hallway and not crack her skull wide open took a bit of skill, especially considering as intoxicated I was. I managed to do all this and get my keys out, unlocking my dingy brown door #337.

My single one room looked much like the inside of a cheap motel. In fact the complex was once a motel at one point and time. The four walls that enclosed us were an off white, like too many cancer sticks had been smoked. You would have found a twin bed with reddish brown sheets and spread. A single low watt bulb was fixed dead center of the ceiling. An often perched upon a poorly made wood dresser. Besides the tele lay a coffee maker and portable hot plate, a few of my favorite mixed tapes that consisted of hardcore essentials by the South Bay outfit Black Flag and D.C.’s Minor Threat. The Sex Pistols and other punk treasures were peppered around the room on a few other scattered cassettes ( I also had a mixed tape of Hendrix, Bob Dylan, and Bob Marley which I regularly misplaced). I would say the place was a dump, but it was all I had.

In reality it was a dump, but there’s no place like home.

I laid Glory on the bed carefully, hearing the springs below squeal as I did so. She lay in a fetal position, sinking into the mattress like a stone resting on a sandy beach. I watched her for a few moments before stumbling to the bathroom. Once in the lavatory I started picking at my face and pulling at my raw and red eye lids. I stopped scrutinizing my features in the reflection and went for a small black pouch I had duct taped to the winding plumbing underneath the sink.

Contents of pouch:

razor blades

small rag.

cotton/rubbing alcohol

spoon

needle

China white.

Have you ever had a craving for chocolate?

(It doesn’t matter the craving, but let’s say chocolate)

...A craving so bad that you can taste it in your mouth at the mere mentioning of the word. Just say it.

“Chocolate.”

A craving so intense, so specific that no matter what you consume, be it lobster, apple pie, cigarettes, cheese burger, that longing doesn’t stop nagging until you have a small sliver of a taste. Chocolate cake, chocolate ice cream, chocolate milk, doesn’t matter how you take it. If possible, try multiplying that craving...that want, about a thousand times. If you can imagine and empathize such a feeling, you can almost understand how it feels to be a junkie. Stuck on H. Married to smack.

To truly understand the trapping of addiction one can’t help but explain the struggle to quit and get out of its clutches.

The big W. Withdrawal. THE FEAR all addicts run from. We’ve all had withdrawals from something or another in our lifetime. Withdrawal can be physical or psychological. It could be a six year old burning out from a sugar high or a sixteen year old making the bold attempt to quit smoking. The cigarette. The perfect example of quick addiction and quick withdrawal. It’s a much more universal withdrawal because most men will never know the agony of kicking junk. Take a sixteen year old average youth for instance, let’s call him Billy Suburbia. Nothing to do, he finds his dads cigarettes. Score! So he tries one, coughing his virgin lungs out, but he likes it. So let’s say he’s smoking once a week, but once a week isn’t good enough to equal that first good head rush. Before he knows it he’s up to twice a week. Shortly after, before Billy realizes it he’s graduated so four times a day, four days a week. Then... a pack a day. Full blown smoker, until Boom! His mother takes his cigarettes from him. Nicotine Interuptus. The W will get to Billy, but a minor withdrawal for a minor addiction, a little W. That is why I hate and despise the heroin cigarette comparison. I swear, if I ever hear one more person say...

“I hear cigarettes are harder to quit than heroin” I’m gonna knock them out cold, ’cause it’s all bullshit! The only people I hear peddle that garbage is people who are too weak to quit smoking. They need an excuse. I never heard a smack fiend say such fucking nonsense. I’ll take a nicotine addiction any day versus heroin. Let truth be told I was addicted to both. I quit smoking numerous times, but junk had remained a constant. Smoking is much easier to quit. Like I said, a minor addiction, minor withdrawal. If we were talking about the real deal. A subject completely strung out, walking the streets just to sell his/her body for a blast of H; always on a mission, running from the comedown. If you’re talking of this kind of addict, his agony is much more than the mere irritability a quitter of cigarettes would endure. He wouldn’t feel the hot, cold, hot, cold, hot nausea. The shakes. The sweats. It’s a painful process. I know. I’ve gone through it a couple of times, but H relapsed back into my life. The most notable side effect from a bad heroin withdrawal is death. And still I continued to mainline the stuff at a high rate, chasing a high once attainable but quickly became an unstable specter. It was one of them damned if you do damned if you don’t situations. A vicious cycle of wanting to quit and not knowing exactly how to break the drug habit. It’s like a constant civil war within. No one truly wants to be like I was forever, not deep down inside, but sometimes things can take hold of you and dominate your soul.

A Chemical.

An opiate.

But all things are chemical.

A thought is just chemical mixed in the brain.

Feelings are chemical.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking.....

Seek help.

Go to a clinic.

Go to rehab.

I tried it and it didn’t work. All they do is give you a bunch of pamphlets and methadone, maybe, and a few wise words if you’re lucky. Methadone to a real addict is like prescribing Flintstone vitamins for terminal cancer. If, but if you want to go to rehab, clean up, and go straight, more power to you.

But rehabilitation doesn’t work unless you’re ready to quit. Period. I wasn’t ready, not by a long shot. Like the old saying goes, know thy self.

I wake up, always a hazy state, waking up. My limbs twisted, a ray of sunshine beating through my eyelids. The alarm clock triggered. Not the annoying buzz it usually made. It was set to radio. Loud. The room as well as my eardrums was suddenly filled with the sound of classic rock, something Aerosmith-ish. I felt achy, too achy to move. I dared not open my eyes for the fear the sunlight would fry my pupils and/or retina. My arms unfold, my fingers out stretch to search for the magic button. No luck. The clock radio was lost amid the floors darkness and movement was a must for the mission. With my eyes still shut and my body never fully leaving the bed I searched, blindly feeling, in the manner an octopus would if it was searching in a foreign spot. Bingo! Silence. The audio of mild traffic and sparrows bled slowly into the room in. The humidity was running wild in the air like an invisible bandit. When I reached behind me again, blindly grabbing for the bed this time, I felt nothing. My eyelids popped open and I turned to dodge the sun-rays only to find that I’m alone. Glory was gone. I hopped up to check the bathroom. Empty.

Her purse, her jacket, everything was missing.

What a rude bitch, I thought, she could have at least said goodbye.

I was unfazed, I had better things to think about. That Saturday morning I was set to pick up my last paycheck. Money. A guilty ray of optimism. Time to hit the shower, I thought to myself.

I passed up a perfect opportunity to shave, instead opting to use my last crumbs of China. It would get me through the morning, but as the last drops of liquid pleasure went into my veins I realized full well that by afternoon I’d be sick as a dog. I flew down three flight of stairs( wearing tattered black jeans and a black tank top) feeling a few moments of intense elation at the sight of my Camaro. I probably felt that way because I had a hangover and I didn’t have to walk. A turn of the key. The engine roars, and I peeled off like a bat out of hell from underneath the parking garage into the sweltering sun that seemed to cover everything around.

Hot air barreled through my windows whipping up some of my random poetry and the pages of Speed by William Burroughs Jr. a bohemian classic I got from a guy in passing.

The morning opiate high crept slowly, creating another world around me - a virtual daydream. My eyes moved lazily down the mobile congested boulevard.

Citizens became pulsing streaks and specks of reds, blues, and greens. The sound of oblivious children playing meshed with the joyous cheers that spilled from an unknown and unidentifiable restaurant. These voices echoed like they were screaming out at slow speed from a portable tape recorder. All this scrambled and tip-toed eerily inner ear.

I pulled up directly across the way from my old ball and chain of a job. I was well on my way to finishing a smoke while I scanned the place top to bottom. I remember kept dropping my cigarettes on the floor and the seat because I’d simply wandered away in the warmth of heroin ecstasy. I needed air, so I used what muscles that wasn’t mimicking mush to push myself out of my car. I leaned against my ride, feeling the good vibrations caused by the sudden swells of traffic. As the cars rushed by, my clothes felt as if they were being whipped and ripped away from my body like the boulevard was a black-hole tugging at me.

Leaning there a bit entranced , my eyes stumbled upon a few pigeons perched atop a large sign I used to spend a lot of wasted time under. It read: TAYLOR’S SHIPPING in giant army style letters. I worked for TAYLOR’S about two years - in the warehouse. The very same warehouse I was spying from across the way. I made the walk to the other side, my face fixed like a stalker casing the place.

Warehouse men loading and unloading, looking like drone bees, entering and exiting the dock as if it were a brick hive covered in moss. Loading dock A, a sign hanging above the yellow chain link door. “Block A” as us dock workers called it, had this nasty yellow paint that was peeling. The metal showing through like a perfect set of teeth or grill on a big rig. Surrounding the door was a brick wall, horribly painted over a dingy aqua that pained my eyes to look at.

Buzzzzz. The door clanked open and my feet shuffled past the office area. I followed a yellow line shinning bright against the gray slab that was the floor. I particularly hated the office area because it was where snooty brownnoser types worked. Secretaries, mid-level ranks. I guess, looking back at those times it was nothing serious, but they looked down on us lonely grunts in the warehouse which in turn earned my deepest loathing and distain. I trailed the line like it was the yellow brick road until I reached the end of the hallway. I heard voices in the distance. I continued trailing until I landed upon a disorganized work space occupied by one crystalline faced Sara Sandstorm. Sara, a conservative corporate blouse wearing secretary by day, guitarist for the speed metal outfit Allison Wonderland (an all-girl trio led by the smart and charismatic Allison Hall) by night.

I first met Sara at some obscure show at Manhattan Beach.

Five Band for Five Bucks was the billing.

Cheap cover, cheap drinks and good music was the attraction.

I visited this place during a blue period in my life. A period marked by a troublesome breakup. It was around this time when I would often head down to Manhattan to crash with some old acquaintances. They would help me shake my disillusioned angry hate the world funks. Sara, Sara, Sara. If I remember correctly I showed up alone and late to that particular show. I missed most of the acts. The crowd of kids and twenty-something’s who usually smoked cigarettes and made out all while cussing like there was no tomorrow were already inside, all except two giggling blondes sharing a beer. As I swooshed by them I tossed the cover charge to the well tattooed gentlemen while simultaneously pushing pass two large oak doors. Both branded with the letter A(anarchy).

The sound of racing guitars and energetically loud youths savagely pounding one another in the mosh pit overwhelmed my ears, jump starting all my senses. Adorable psychos and lively lowlifes filled the room. It was something like a misfit’s ball. I headed to the upper level to score a drink at the bar. It gave me a chance to get an eagles eyes view of the pit. From that vantage point I could catch a buzz while I watched a few skulls get spit wide open. Ha. If you ever been in a true mosh pit you’d know broken bones, noses, and teeth are a common place. No moshing was allowed (or so the sign read) on the upper level, not even mild moshing because about a year earlier some drunken young soul fell, shattering his leg in about a million places. It was total chaos at the bar that night. Hands flaring about every which way, people randomly yelling out orders at the top of their lungs. It was near impossible to wade through the many patrons crushing against the bar. It was a traffic jam. A rail thin bartender was the eye of the storm. A twenty-something that look older beyond her years. I suspected it was because of her obvious abuse of methamphetamine

or to say it more correctly, it looked as if meth abused her. Not that she wasn’t pretty, she was but her beauty was fading fast like a wilting rose. She was lightning quick, tossing beer bottles this way, pouring shots that way all the while occasionally slamming back shots of whiskey. I attempted to flag her down. I’ve never been to New York, and I never hailed a cab, but I suspect this is how it felt on the N.Y. streets being ignored by yellow cars swooshing by. When the bar maid finally came within arm’s reach I, in a sudden burst of frustration grabbed her by the wrist. I tugged her firmly almost like a yank, instantly grabbing her attention. A cold shock ran over her face, but her expression took a hundred eighty degree turn.

“What can I do for you handsome?”

“Let me get a double shot of Jack...and a Jack and coke.”

“With ice.” She said.

“Yeah!” I had to yell a bit.

I chugged the shot with such speed my eyes watered. I headed back down to the first level, stopping at the foot of the stairs. So many elbows bumped my arms my drink was a quarter gone before I took my first sip. I didn’t mind, normally I would but at around that time a young punk caught my eye. I spied her across the sea of people bombarding one other. Some looked interestingly battered but all I could do for the life of me is concentrate on the girl. She was on stage ripping her guitar to shreds.

Her fingers seemed to move at lightning speed, as she exuded and occasionally gyrated with supreme confidence in her skill like a rock goddess. I was spying the girl on stage from across the pit when suddenly in mid solo she leapt from the stage, with guitar in hand, surfing the crowd on her back. By about that time my drink was gone and I was a little buzzed, finding myself smack dab in the middle of the swirling raging crowd. It was chaos. It was in this moment of total disorder, a hefty head banger barreled my way. Before I knew it I was cold- cocked by his sweaty forearm. Blind-sided. I saw stars, everything started to turn black. My knees felt like they were made of Jell-O and I tried to shake the feeling off. The funny thing is, as I did I thought to myself, I just got knocked out.

Realizing this, my mind still couldn’t do anything about it. It was like a mind willing flesh is weak kind of thing. Fade to black.

When I came to, I was on my back. Beams from a black light that hung above me came screaming downward into my pupils. I had a pounding headache and my jaw felt a little swollen. I touched my lips. Blood ran down my index finger. I hopped up like electric shock ran through my body. Various things around the room were neon green, red, yellow... The room was small. It had a suffocating quality. Very claustrophobic. I heard voices vibrating from the next room. There was no door separating the rooms, just thick wooden beads trying to do their best door impression. I pushed through the beads and laid my eyes upon a brighter room occupied by seven or eight interesting faces ( four females and three males) occupying two large velvet couches. My eyes quickly fell upon a pretty blonde haired green eyed girl. My memory clicked. It was the girl I’d seen surfing the crowd earlier, before I was knocked unconscious. Her name was Sara Sandstorm.

“Look who decided to join the land of the living.” She said with a grin.

All the attention in the room directed toward me.

“Who said I’m alive” I replied. “How did I get here?”

“A few roadies put you back here.” Sara said so effortlessly, like it was a regular occurrence.

“Hey! Come sit by me.” Said the blonde gesturing my way.

I walked over without thinking. Before I sat down, on my way over to her. My eyes instantly grabbed hold of different odds and ends laying scattered on the table. A galaxy of paraphernalia. Burned spoons, beer bottles, mini plastic baggies, syringes, and cigarettes strolled about the ashtrays. Everyone in the room went back to doing what they were doing. Chatting. Kissing, etc.

“...names Sly.”

“Sara.” She responded.

Even in my groggy state of mind, I was totally aware of her awesome green eyes hovering over a warm smile. The type of smiles that would give you iron butterflies in your belly. This being said by a guy who wasn’t particularly partial to blondes.

“I’ll get something for that lip.” Sara announced.

I didn’t know how banged up I really was. Sara disappeared into the room where I regained consciousness. Her back was to me. It was hard not to notice the tight behind that filled out her Dickies. She returned as quickly as she had left with a bag of ice. She placed it against my mildly swollen jaw.

“Can I bum one of them cigarettes?”

“Sure, yeah, of course.”

Sara handed me one, but just about then something strange happened. In small time the other guys and gals simultaneously said their goodbyes. They thanked Sara, all complimenting her electric performance. I found myself alone with her. Without a word the rocker picked up one of the baggies on the table, wasting no time in grabbing hold one of the many burned spoons. She done all this almost in one motion. The rocker put some H into the silverware and with her lighter she cooked the opiate to her desire.

“Do you shoot?” She said a little too casually for my comfort.

Why would she assume I use heroin at all, I thought.

“I smoke it.”

“Really?” She said surprised at my method.

“I use to shoot the stuff, but I’m trying not to anymore.”

“If you’re gonna use at all, you might as well go all the way.” Sara philosophized.

She dipped the tip of the syringe, emptying the spoon like a drained quarry. Slowly, she pushed the metal in her thin arms and I watched as she pulled on the plunger.

Blood mixed with heroin inside the see through cylinder. Her thumb pressed down, forcing the fluid into her veins like a slow flushing toilet, drugs rushing down the pipes.

An intense look ran over her face. A look of contorted joy and ecstasy. She let out a sound. Half moan, half relieving sigh. The girl gestured the needle my way.

“You wanna?”

I paused, but not long.

“Yeah.”

Sara handed me the baggie and I proceeded to cook. The spoon turned a black-hole black. The fluid bubbled like a lava pit. I required a needle. Like I explained to Sara earlier I wasn’t trying to shoot up, so my needle was hiding somewhere in my apartment. It wasn’t like any of the generic plastic disposable ones doctors poke you with. It was chrome, crystal like glass for the cylinder. I use to carry my needle always, I mean always. I only liked to use my needle because I kept it clean. In fact if I was fanatical about anything, I was fanatical about that but on that particular occasion I was needless.

“Here use this one.” Sara said while handing the one she just finished using, just before she passed out, looking completely unconscious. I did something that night I’d never thought I’d do before. I shared a needle with someone. I knew that it was something dirty and wrong, like the habit itself was dirty. But sharing needles took the whole issue to a new low. My common sense-principal- will power was completely clouded and overshadowed by my heroin hunger. At that point my habit was hopelessly out of control. It was like a tiger in my soul. I was trying to rail in my intake. Sadly, smoking or snorting heroin was no substitute for the intensity shooting. But I hated what shooting does to people, and what it does to the way they looked. Unless you have exceptionally good genes most heroin addicts look like the walking dead. Sara was one of the lucky ones she showed no signs of wear and tear. I was fortunate as she was and only looked like those living dead souls strictly because I hadn’t slept and was coming down. My looks remained intact, but we were young so the effect of the smack didn’t show much as it did to those who’ve been in the game for years. With a surge of impulse and instinct I pulled the syringe from her hand, quickly fixed and shot the dope. Instantly I felt relaxed, like a baby tucked in his crib on a mild sunny day. This is what I remember before sinking back into the velvet sofa and falling into a semi-conscious stupor.

I had known Sara two years since that day. In the time in between we’ve casually slept together and had been inseparable in the local social scene for a while, but it all ended in friendship. I was happy with that. Saturday morning, picking up my last paycheck, I saw a crystalline faced Sara Sandstorm at the end of the yellow streak running along the floor. She was at her disorganized workstation. Sara had been avoiding me for the last two weeks, an odd and difficult thing to do considering we worked at the same spot. When I approached she stood up from her oak desk. The girl headed toward me with a hurriedness to her step. I watched her perky breasts bounce as she did so.

“Hey.” Sara said hugging me tightly, a bright smile on her face.

“Where you been?” I asked straight away.

She didn’t respond. She just looked me dead in the eye. Bull’s-eye.

“Can I talk to you a minute?” She said.

“You’ve been avoiding me, I don’t really feel like talking especially at this hell hole.” I shot back.

“Sorry. I’ve been M.I.A around here, but it’s important.”

“Yeah well…” I grumbled.

“This is serious shit Sylvester.”

Sara knew I hated being called Sylvester. She never called me by my full name, so I knew it was serious. We went into the employee’s bathroom. Light, on. Sara immediately went for the sink, splashing cold water on her face. After she finished up and walked over to me. I was confused.

What was so important I wondered? She was being a little bit melodramatic, hugging me and smiling once again. Sara had such a good smile, but something was odd about it. Her smile was wrong to me, carrying with it an underlying pain. Miss Sandstorm started to sob and I became silently hysterical. The wide variety of things that could come next made me nervous. She was acting like someone had died. The girl I had known to be tough as nails was uncharacteristically vulnerable. Sara looked up at me with those traffic light green eyes of hers just before the dam broke and tears began to stream down her face, running her mascara, the black streaks looked like small cluster of prison bars running down her skin.

“I haven’t been around... ’cause I haven’t been feeling well.” She said, becoming more emotional with every word that passed her lips.

“What’s wrong?”

I glanced over at our reflection in mirror that was fixed firmly on the wall. The vibe was eerie and the growing suspense only made me become more impatient.

“Well, I went to the doctor…my mom went with me for company. I really didn’t want to go alone.” Sara said wiping her eyes and toughing up a bit.

“Sara, just spit it out. It’s cool.” I said. “Don’t worry.”

She managed a brave face when I told her whatever was wrong it couldn’t be that bad.

“You don’t understand. I went to the doctor, they ran some tests basic stuff, ya know but... I went back and... ”

“...and..?” I said excitedly.

Sara looked me straight in my eyes. Without a blink.

“Sylvester, I have AIDS.” She said collapsing in my arms followed by more tears. A loud sobering gong sounded off in my head.

“You have what?”

“I found out last Wednesday. I have fuckin’ AIDS, Sly!” She cried out.

“Shhhh.”

At that moment I wanted to choke her. I did so in my mind, but standing there I froze. I just held her as she cried.

“It’s gonna be O.K.” I repeated softly stroking her strawberry blonde hair and shushing her until she began to calm herself. I really wanted to kill her, but it wasn’t her fault. It was mine. She was as much a victim as me. How could I be so reckless, I thought?

I slept with this woman. I’d shared needles with her. I was truly numb at that moment.

“Hey I…” She said, still slightly sobbing. “I have to go back to work.”

“Ok.” I responded, not knowing exactly what to say as she pulled away from me.

“Sly. I’m truly sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s not your fault Sara. We’ll talk tonight, alright.”

She again went to the sink and washed her tears and jail bar streaks made of mascara. I stood there as she washed, my arms folded, a lean in my stance. I could feel the coldness emanating from the blue tile that ran all around the bathroom and beneath my feet. The coolness from the surrounding inlay felt like it was absorbing through my shoes, into my feet, then spreading throughout my limbs. I felt blue. Blue and cold and lifeless like the tiny square tile. Sara finished up then turned to me.

“I know you hate me Sly. Your just holding it all inside.”

“I’m not, and I don’t hate you.”

“I love you Sly, I do. You’ve always been there for me. Call you tonight. And with those words she slipped out of the bathroom. Once again I was alone. The room was silent, except the echo of water dripping from the leaky faucet. As I stood there I couldn’t help but watch the white grout that ran between each tile. They crisscrossed like city streets all connecting, all leading to a dead end. Forcing me to realize that like the tile beneath me and the street winding through any metropolis no road lasts forever. They all end at some point. I could only stand there and wonder was this beginning of the end of mine?