Somethings Got a Hold on Me
“I get the feeling I’m in motion, a certain sense of liberty…”
Bernard Sumner of New Order crooned on the radio. Apparently, it was an 80’s throwback week, from what John managed to catch from his limited attention on the PA system. His eyes did not scan the room with idle curiosity, nor did his fingers entertain the usual fiddling with whatever trinket he could find in his hand, a nervous habit of his cut short by his nasty, nefarious habit of heroin needles.
No, John’s focus was locked on the door in front of him, one that led to the doctors offices, where his papers lay in wait for his discharge from The Thistle to be approved.
Only one thing could break his high on the door: the door itself, when it swung open and Dr. Connors followed through in that signature, obscenely long coat of his - which managed to reach the floor, and then some - along with his small and tattered clipboard. To the few onlookers, it was like watching a child with their iPad clutched tightly, dragging their heels across the floor.
Unlike John, Dr. Connors eyes did scan the room, and once his eyes landed upon - the now former addict - John W. Marshall, he gave the usual smile, and continued his childish march before halting in front of him, holding out a pen, and almost reluctantly, his clipboard.
“You’re a free man now, Mr John W. Marshall. No parole, I hope. Just need your signature here.”
Taking the pen in his hand, without sparing a glance to the sheet (which if he had, he would have noticed the dark coffee stain on the upper right side of the sheet, certainly caused by a toddler-like doctor) he scribbled out something that resembled his name, before handing the pen and the beloved clipboard back to its rightful owner.
Dr Connors happily returned it to his grasp, and he too spared the sheet no second glance, for he had known John long enough to know that even something as significant as his own signature brandished upon his papers which called him “fully recovered” wasn’t anywhere near enough to entertain his attention span, if even his favourite song from his favourite band playing on the radio didn’t warrant so much as a chuckle.
“Great, that’s all then. You’re free to leave now, and in the best possible way, I hope I never see you again. At least in this place.”
Turning around, Dr. Connors waddled back into his office. And with that, John finally put some sort of effort into his movement and stood up from the cheap, sterile chairs (something that he failed to notice on his entry). With the intention of never entering again - in the best possible way - he trekked his way outside.
Whatever semblance of clarity John may have had came to an end almost as soon as it came to fruition. The Glasgow weather was as bipolar as usual. It couldn’t decide between rain or snow, and as a result, sloppy, slushy sleet pelted over the wide three story flats and the narrow roadside pavements. John, much like the weather, couldn’t decide what he would have preferred: the rain, the sleet, the snow, wishing he hadn’t left the warmth of that inhospitable building and wishing he had never touched a needle at all.
But that, of course, was something buried deep in the past. He pulled the collar of his coat up to stop the endless barrage of sleet landing on his neck, but not without it grazing uncomfortably against the light stubble on his heavy face that he hadn’t thought to be rid of these past few days, he began his journey forward, the only destination in mind, wherever his next foot would end up.
John hadn’t remembered to bring his wallet with him on his excursion, or even his phone. Another thing that his addiction impacted: his memory. And since he wasn’t about to live up to the stereotype of Glaswegian junkies begging for “50p fur the bus”, he had no choice but to put up with the biting weather, the only sense of warmth coming from the old orange streetlights that had escaped the wrath of the local council, either from laziness or neglect. A sense of contempt for the present and longing for the days of his youth filled his still-beating heart at the sight of those glowing, living memories.
However, living around an hour away from the Thistle meant that he would encounter many characters on his travels, and surely, tonight would be no different.
At around quarter past nine, John would encounter his first anomaly of the night. Just shy of the light from the orange elderly bulbs lay a figure against the brick and mortar, what he could only assume to be a homeless person, given their attire.
John knew better than to strike up conversations this time of night with somebody he couldn’t even see the face of. So he shoved his hands in his coat pockets and was just about to pass him by, but he eventually decided to answer the question before it was even asked.
“Sorry mate, I haven’t got any change on me-”
His answer was stabbed short, as the person was either asleep, or not listening to him. Fearing the worst, (or even sympathetic, somehow) he knelt down to his level and placed his hand tentatively on his shoulder.
“I know an addict when I see one…” he thought.
His hand seemingly went through his shoulder and to the wall behind them, causing John to recoil in shock and hit the tarmac. Only then did he realise that the figure was not a figure at all, but what appeared to be a mirror with old tattered clothes draped over it, reflecting himself.
“That’s right… of course, it’s Halloween, isn’t it…” John thought to himself, something he had forgotten, given his mental state. That would explain all the pumpkins and decorations, as well as what seems to be this “homeless person” getup. Either that, or somebody had no idea how to recycle.
Still, he lay on the tarmac, simply staring at himself in the mirror. Not in admiration, but in pure astonishment.
The stubble on his face, the deep, dark eye-bags that curled around his sockets, and more than anything, the lack of light in his eyes, something that was a note of compliment to a younger John, one who was free from the clutches of heroin. Now it was a note of his addiction, if it was noted at all, for John had a habit of not looking where he was going, opting instead to have his eyes glued to the ground. Standing up, and dusting himself off, he began his journey once more, just as the weather was clearing up ever so slightly.
At around half past 9, John saw his second anomaly of the night. Standing just at the entrance to the Westercraigs, stood a tall young man, his eyes glued to his phone as he clicked away at the touchscreen, clearly in some sort of foul mood. As he moved closer, John realised he actually recognised the man: a certain Daniel McCloud, a young, up-and-coming, local model, who John used to be the personal photographer of, before…
“John? No way, is that you?”
Daniel had clearly finished his technological rant, because he was now looking John dead in the eyes, as if he had seen the ghost of a long lost relative.
He moved closer to him in order to confirm his presence was not just a figment of his imagination, even placing his hand tentatively on his shoulder. John knew that his presence right now must have made an impression on him, since anybody else who approaches Mr McCloud is immediately assumed to be a fan by the unassuming greenhorn. He was surprised that he even recognised him, given that he could barely recognise his own reflection in the mirror only moments earlier.
“Aye, it’s me.” John said quietly, “What gave it away?”
“Are you kidding me?” He replied, almost bewildered. “How could I not recognise you? Come on, let me buy you a drink. There’s a pub just down the road-”
John took a step back, surprised. Daniel never used to drink when he had worked with him, in fact he had always reprimanded it, at least, when John knew them. Now that he thought about it, he avoided them entirely, even opting to go down different streets just to not pass them by. John always assumed that there was some sort of history beneath the surface, given how he treated them like they harboured the black plague. Now he wanted to share a drink?
“You hated drinking. Always scolded me for it.”
“Used to… yeah.” He started, his demeanour shifting slightly. “The thing is… once I tried it, I realised… y’know, maybe it’s not so bad. Plus it was only one time: one drink! Where’s the harm in that?”
A sense of deja vu enveloped John as he heard the words so eerily close to ones he had said before. He remembers it all too well, when he had said the same thing. It started as a moment of weakness. But then… one became two, two became three, three became four… and before he knew it, come morning, noon or night, it was heroin for breakfast, lunch and dinner. No respectable photography company worth their salt would have a “junkie” taking pictures for them, and especially not for their upcoming star-boy, and so he got the sack. Slowly but surely, his apartment got more and more empty, until the only thing that decorated his sanctuary was an old tattered mattress and leftover needles.
Dr Connor had found him one such fateful night, soaking wet and shivering like a dog. Immediately he was taken to hospital and registered into the brand-spanking new drug room, thankfully very close by. Slowly but surely, he started needing needles less and less, each excruciating day, until this very evening.
Whether a rejection of the offer, or an attempt to regain his train of thought, John shook his head, refusing the proposal.
“Sorry, I just want to go home. I’m shattered.”
Daniel, seeing the state of his long lost friend, smiled at him in understanding. Perhaps he could somehow sense that he had just finished a month-long programme and wanted some well needed rest without fear of the next day. Or perhaps, he simply saw the look in his eye, and decided not to protest.
“All right. Maybe next time, then. See you around… take care of yourself, yeah?”
He returned his gaze to his cellphone, and began routinely tapping on the keyboard in frustration. What John had thought on approach was that he was perhaps sending a very sternly written email to his agent was in fact just him playing a game on his phone. With nothing else to say to this ghost of his past, he walked on, now almost within arms reach of his safety haven. It was at this point where the rain-snow combo had gone away, though remnants of the sleet lay in wait upon the pavement.
The time was now 10 to 9 when John had checked his watch and saw his flat rearing in just at the corner of a 10 minute walk down the street. With all that he had forgotten recently, he was glad he had at least remembered where he stayed. John walked onwards through the mush of concrete and the elements, completely zoned out to the world around him. Only one thing kept his mind at bay: what on Earth was he going to do once he got home? The only thing he could do was sleep but he wasn’t feeling necessarily tired per se (despite what he had said earlier), more so tired from what he had just gone through, physically and emotionally.
Soon enough, his home came into sight, so he reached into his pocket and took out his key, unlocking the door and stepping inside. Shaking off the elements from his coat, he climbed the stairs to the third floor, number 11. He went inside his home, and found it exactly the same as he had left it this morning. He took off his coat and walked into the bathroom, the white light slowly flickering on. Once more, he had a look into a reflection, and ran a hand over his stubborn stubble. No matter what, nothing could keep it at bay. Seriously tired of this routine, he took out his shaving cream and a razor, applied it generously and began to get rid of his stubbornness once more. He washed his face and hands clean, before drying himself off and looking back into the mirror.
He was crying. Or it looked like it, maybe he hadn’t felt it, but sure enough, it was there. A message from his inner self that it was over. Finally over, and he hadn’t even remembered it. Never again would he touch a needle, and the only time he’d tighten a belt would be around his jeans. His house was empty of all possessions, but John W. Marshall, for the first time in forever, was full of life, and even happiness despite his tears. As he looked outside to the darkness, his clean face not lit by the "morning sun", but by the break of dusk; a bus was passing by, playing that same song he had heard earlier.
“I used to think that the day would never come...” And so he let himself feel, in the best possible way.
