Authors: Chris Bowsman
He set to work digging through his desk to find Wilson’s number. He knew his drinking had been getting out of hand, and he needed to dial it back more than a few notches, but he needed to get back together with his friend before he did so. Hell, he
needed
to get completely obliterated with a friend, maybe get some of this shit off his chest. If they were drunk, he could tell Wilson everything, and even if Wilson remembered it the next day, he’d surely pass it off as Gerald’s drunken ramblings.
“There it is,” Gerald said, smiling. He immediately frowned, and wondered why he had said that aloud. With all the shit he’d gone through over the last few days, talking to himself was probably the least crazy bit.
He dialed the numbers into his phone, but paused with his thumb on the send button. What was he supposed to say? How do you initiate a conversation with a friend he hadn’t spoken to in years? Before he could chicken out, he decided to wing it and hit send.
The phone rang three times before a man with slightly slurred speech answered it.
“Wilson?” Gerald said.
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Gerald.” The line was silent for a moment, and Gerald assumed he’d hung up.
At least he didn’t tell me to fuck off,
he thought.
“Gerald, what the fuck man? How you doing?” Wilson’s voice raised in slightly drunken excitement.
“Been better,” Gerald said, smiling. “It’s been awhile.”
“No fuckin’ shit, it’s been awhile. What are you doing?”
“Hoping you’re in the mood to throw back a few.”
“Fuck yeah, man. You still local?”
“Yeah, but it sounds like maybe I should head your way. Like maybe you already threw back a few.” He immediately regretted offering this. Now he’d have to ride the damn bike.
“Got laid off from work a few weeks ago, so why the hell not, right? You remember how to get here?”
“Yeah,” Gerald said, smiling again. “I remember.”
Chapter 14
Gerald knocked on the door, a case of Budweiser in his left hand. Even though Wilson hadn’t sounded angry at him, he thought he’d be better off not showing up empty handed. The door opened and Gerald saw Wilson, hair shorter and slightly heavier than the last time he’d seen him, step around it. Wilson stared at him a minute before grinning and grabbing him in one of those drunken straight guy hugs.
“Good to fuckin’ see you, man.” Wilson pulled him in the door, pushing it shut behind him. “Damn good to see you.”
“I know. You, too.”
“What’s this?” Wilson said, pointing and taking the case of beer. “Peace offering?”
And there it was.
“Well, uh . . .” Gerald began, no idea how to address their ignored friendship. Wilson grinned again and laughed.
“I’m just fucking with you. Here,” he said, tearing open the case and pulling out a can for each of them, “Mi casa es blah blah blah. Grab a seat and let’s get drinking.”
Gerald smiled and did just that, knowing it was exactly what he needed.
Two hours and a few beers later, Wilson sat back and ran his hands through his hair. “Holy shit, man. You’re not making this shit up, are you?”
Gerald shook his head. “Wish I was. I’ve been flipping out. I wouldn’t trade seeing her again for anything, but . . . I don’t even know if that really happened. Don’t even know if any of it really happened.”
“What about the guy getting hit by the truck? That would’ve been on the news or something. Shit like that doesn’t happen without everybody hearing about it.”
“I don’t know if that happened here, or if somehow he followed me to the other reality.” Gerald still felt stupid referring to another reality.
“What about the truck? Didn’t you say you’d seen it here?” Wilson seemed to be taking everything in stride much more easily than Gerald had expected.
“At first I thought it was either-or, but now I’m not so sure, like maybe there isn’t a definite division between the two,” Gerald said, lighting a cigarette. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”
Wilson lit a cigarette of his own and stood up. “Gotta hit the head, man. Be right back.” Gerald laughed and nodded. He’d be making a trip to the bathroom soon, himself. Gerald stood, wanting to finish his cigarette outside. He realized the irony of wanting fresh air while smoking, but didn’t care. Apathy was getting to be a common feeling for him.
Three steps from the couch, Gerald’s head began to spin. He stopped, trying to remember how much he’d had to drink. He knew the cool outside air would help the wooziness, but he wasn’t sure if he could make it to the door. He turned to go back to the couch, stumbled, and collapsed. Crawling, he made it back to the couch, climbed onto it, and passed out.
“Wake up!”
Gerald’s eyes snapped open to a face only inches from his own. His vision cleared, and he expected to see Wilson, but instead, it was Mr. Holman.
“What the f—” Gerald stopped abruptly as he noticed he wasn’t on Wilson’s couch, or even in the apartment. Instead he was lying in a field of dirt. The sun was up, but for some reason there was a campfire burning nearby. He knew he should be getting used to this by now, but growing accustomed to such reality shifts was a frightening prospect. Who knew how long he’d have to adjust.
Gerald rolled onto his back and yelled, unable to take the idea of this going on the rest of his life. He stood, sober, and turned to Mr. Holman.
“I can’t take this shit anymore. Tell me what the fuck is going on, or I’ll eat a fucking bullet.”
Mr. Holman raised an eyebrow, holding Gerald’s stare. “Threatening suicide? I wouldn’t have expected that from you, Gerald.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Gerald said. “Why didn’t you just stay dead?”
“Who says I’m not?”
“More of the cryptic shit. Wonderful.” Gerald grimaced. He turned from Mr. Holman, patting his pockets, looking for a cigarette. Mr. Holman tapped his shoulder, holding a pack to Gerald, who promptly snatched it from the outstretched hand. By the time Gerald had one in his mouth, Mr. Holman was offering him a lighter. Gerald took it, though more reluctantly than the cigarettes. He lit the cigarette, dragged deeply, and exhaled, sighing.
“Why is this happening?” he asked again.
“You know I can’t tell you. But I think you know.”
“No. I don’t. If I knew, I’d do something about it. Something to stop this shit.”
“Would you?”
“What, do you think I’m enjoying this?”
“What have you ever enjoyed?”
Gerald started to shout, but something about the question froze him. He closed his mouth and looked off, really considering what he had enjoyed. He shut his eyes, breathed deeply, and whispered a name, the name that had tormented him these last several years. Hr. Holman stepped closer and placed his hand on Gerald’s shoulder.
Still staring away, Gerald said, “So what am I supposed to do?” He raised his cigarette, taking a final drag before flipping it away.
“I’m not here to tell you what to do. That is your choice.” Gerald turned to Mr. Holman, but he was gone. He looked at the fire, watched the orange flame fade to green, then purple. As the flame then shifted to black, he faded right along with it.
“Hey, Gerald, wake up, man.”
Gerald snapped awake, entirely conscious and sober. “What the—” he started, but was cut off, almost choking on his tongue. It felt swollen, inflamed as if infected. He clutched his throat, unable to think of anything else to do.
“Oh, fuck, man, you’re choking,” Wilson said. Gerald shook his head, mouthed “water” and continued trying to pry his throat open. Wilson ran to the kitchen, filled a glass halfway, and ran back to Gerald, almost shoving it into his mouth. As soon as the water hit his tongue, the swelling subsided, and he could breathe again.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, coughing. Gerald tried to stand, almost fell, and settled for doubling over with his hands on his knees. “How long was I out? What happened?”
Wilson looked at him, confused despite the story Gerald had told him earlier. “Out? I don’t know, man. I went to take a piss, came back and saw you on the floor. Couldn’t have been more than a minute or two.”
Gerald stared at him in disbelief. A minute or two? “I think I was in the other reality again. Sometimes I can remember things. Like now, I remember Mr. Holman.”
“Oh shit, the guy who got hit by the truck?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s always him that I see.”
“Like in
Pet Sematary
. The doc can’t save that college kid that got hit, and he keeps coming back to help them.” Great. Of all the books in the world for his life to mirror, it was hard to think of a worse one than
Pet Sematary.
“If I start burying shit in the backyard, you should get really worried.” Gerald was surprised he had a sense of humor about this. Wilson stared at him for another second or two, then burst out laughing.
“Fuck man, this shit’s nuts. No way I could hold it together as well as you.”
“Hold it together? Are you kidding? I haven’t been to work in I don’t know how long. I’ve spent almost every moment I can remember drunk or in some fucking alternate reality. I wake up in the field behind my house, then walk home to find beer cans shot up all over the place. A guy chased me down the street with scissors and got hit by a truck, and his body was disintegrated. Disintegrated, like it’s fucking
Star Trek
or something.”
“If it was
Star Trek
it would be disruptors. Or phasers.” Wilson held a straight face for a minute, then cracked up again. “Come on, man. You gotta lighten up about this. Just go with the flow, know what I mean?”
“Go with the flow?”
“Fuck yeah. Can’t do shit about it, so why get all shitty?”
Gerald started to argue, then realized he had nothing to say in rebuttal.
Can’t do shit about it, why get all shitty? Go with the flow.
Under the circumstances, he couldn’t think of anything better to do.
“You’re right,” he said, and sat back down on the couch. “Maybe that’s been the problem the whole time. I need to quit doing whatever it is I’m doing, and just go with the flow.”
“Fuck yeah,” Wilson said, holding out a beer. Gerald smiled and shook his head.
“No thanks. I think that’s about the last thing I need right now.”
Chapter 15
When Gerald awoke this time, he was on Wilson’s couch where he’d spent the remainder of the evening reasonably certain there had been no more trips to alternate realities. Wilson was still asleep, or at least not out in the living room, so Gerald took advantage of the time to let everything sink in.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had enough time alone to think, but Wilson’s advice gave him a new outlook. There was no reason to fight this anymore. No reason for all the mental anguish. The drunks in the twelve step programs were onto something. Acceptance really was a powerful thing.
After his head had cleared a bit, Gerald got up and looked around for his cigarettes. “Looking for one of these?”
Gerald looked over and saw Wilson staggering out of the hallway, a pack of Camels in his outstretched hand. “Yeah,” Gerald said, taking the pack and shaking one out. He lit it, started to hand the pack back to Wilson, but saw that he’d disappeared into the kitchen. Gerald couldn’t believe his ears when he heard the snap-fizz of a beer can opening. When Wilson walked back into the room, Budweiser in hand, Gerald’s jaw dropped slightly.
“Hair of the dog, bro,” Wilson said, grinning with one side of his mouth. Gerald didn’t smile back.
“Am I the only one who needs to be dialing it back with the drinking?”
Wilson smiled at him again, but this time there was no humor or friendliness in it. “I’m glad you’re here, and I’m sorry for all the shit that’s going on, but this telling me what to do with my life bit can fuck off.” Wilson tipped the beer back two times, then crushed the can.
“I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Don’t do that. You said it, don’t go pretending you didn’t.”
“No, I just—”
“Just nothing. You split, just disappeared and I don’t hear shit from you for forever. I’m not mad, but I’m not gonna listen to you tell me how to live.”
Gerald stood silent. Wilson’s defensiveness didn’t do anything to make him seem like he had less of a problem, but he was right. You don’t walk away from somebody then come back telling him what to do. He chose his words carefully. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He thought about saying more, but decided silence was best, and anything else might seem like justification for what he’d said earlier.
“Thanks,” Wilson said. He got up, walked over to Gerald, and gave him another hug. “Now let’s go get some breakfast. I’m fucking starving.”
Gerald and Wilson walked out of Denny’s, both of them feeling bloated after the pancakes and omelets. They got in Wilson’s car, each lit a cigarette, and pulled out of the parking lot.
“Nothing like pancakes and grease for a hangover,” Wilson said. He turned on the radio, keeping the volume low. “Thanks for picking up the tab, by the way. Things have been pretty tight since I got laid off.”
Gerald shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.” He took a deep drag from his cigarette and sunk into the seat, listening to the song on the radio. It was tuned to some oldies station. Gerald didn’t recognize the song, but welcomed anything laid back and cheerful. They stayed quiet the rest of the drive, until Wilson pulled into Gerald’s driveway.
“It was really good seeing you. Don’t wait so damn long next time.” Wilson smiled. Gerald looked back at him.
“You believe all that shit I told you,” Gerald said, not questioning it.
“Either you’re telling the truth, or you’re fucking crazy,” Wilson said, reaching for another cigarette, “and I’m pretty sure you’re not crazy.”