Cowboy Ending - Overdrive: Book One (43 page)

Dad stood
there, his cigarette puffing away above my head.

“What?”

“Why can’t you
do anything?”

“You just said
it! I can’t leave Mom. She needs me.”

“What about
those missing women? The ones at the club trapped in this
prostitution ring?”

I scoffed,
trying to sound as convincing as possible.

“They have
help. The police and every media outlet in town is looking for
those women.”

“How’s that
search going so far?”

“How should I
know? I’m just a lousy nightclub bouncer who’s in over his
head.”

“You’re more
than that, son.”

“Whatever. What
has this got to do with …”

“And the girls
at the bar? Who’s helping them?”

“Dammit Dad,
those girls could be having the time of their lives for all I know.
The ones I recognized from the club were always smiling, getting
drunk. Living the party lifestyle!”

“Were
they safe?”

“They were when
I was working.”

“So
you
do
care what happens to
them.”

“Of course .. I
.. No, not like that.” I closed my eyes in frustration. “It’s not
that simple, Dad.”

“Yes it is,
Joe.” He reached out, his massive hand engulfing my shoulder. It
felt warm. Tingly. Real. “It is simple.”

I threw my
hands to the sides in complete exasperation.

“How? How is it
simple? How is anything simple? How is anything in my whole fucking
messed up life simple, Dad?”

His hand
squeezed my shoulder again. More warmth. Another tingle.

He gave me a
small smile. The same one I use all the damned time.

“Life is only
as complicated as you make it, Joe.” I always remembered his voice.
That strong, certain voice. Always had the answers. Always
reassuring.

“Dad?”

“You know
what’s right. We taught you well enough to know that. You know that
something’s not right here.”

I stared
at him in frustration. “What I know and what I can do about it
aren’t the same thing. I’m not a cop, and even if I was there’s
cops involved in this. They can make this go away. Make
me
go away.”

“Are you going
to go away?”

My head
drooped.

“I have
to.”

“Why?”

“You know why.
People’ll get hurt. Mom. Cathy. Mark and Tamara maybe. Hell, I’ll
get hurt. I am tired of getting hurt, Dad. I am tired of having to
fight my way clear of every shitty thing in life and still end up
right where I started.”

“No one says
you have to be stuck in this life, Joe. If you don’t like where you
are, change it.”

“It’s not that
simple!”

“Yes, it
is.”

My fists
clenched and a howling scream wanted to burst out from my lips. Dad
saw the frustration on my face and actually laughed.

“What?” I
growled not so charitably.

His small smile
returned.

“One day -
hopefully soon – you’re going to learn that you have the power to
change anything you want to in your life.”

My mouth turned
into a grimace. “You working for a greeting card company in Heaven,
Dad? That’s some pretty weak sauce.”

His
fingers squeezed my shoulder one last time before releasing,
leaving behind a sense of loss and a numbing tingle that rolled up
my shoulder and into my neck.

“This is a time
you can help, son.”

I shook my head
sadly. “It’s not like I don’t want to.”

Dad stared at
me a moment longer. Then he pulled another cigarette out of the
ether and lit it with a sulphur heavy match strike. Deep inhale and
more smoke billowed.

“I trust you,
son. You’ve always done the right thing, even when it hurt you.” He
stared at me then, his heavy brown eyed stare.

I blinked my
eyes a few times. Must’ve been the smoke irritating them as they
clouded over. I brought my hands up to rub at them achingly, trying
to get them clear.

When I opened
them again I was in my room, staring up as the ceiling as faint
sunlight trickled through the window well over my head. Pain
flooded into my awareness, bruises and aches demanding my attention
like a screaming infant.

The tingling
sensation was back at the base of my neck. My shoulder was still
warm from where Dad had gripped it.

And I was
starving.

“Fucking
dreams,” I groaned before rolling off the mattress to face the
music.

Chapter
41

The next couple
days were fairly busy. Or at least, I made certain I was busy.
Being busy was good. Kept me from thinking. I hate thinking.
Thinking just makes things complicated.

Which is
probably why I don’t have a girlfriend. Because I hate
complications. And in no way because I live in the basement of my
sick mother’s house.

Moving on.

It took some
fast talking to convince Mom that the beating I took came from a
tripping and falling incident. After about an hour she gave up
arguing and allowed me to resume my normal duties as far as caring
for her went. Including of course Doctor’s visits, medicine runs to
the pharmacy and the daily trip to the church to move chairs around
in the multi-purpose room for a wedding or whatever.

In truth I know
that she knew I was full of shit. But after a time Mom’s learned to
give me my space, trusting that eventually I will open up and let
her know what’s gone on.

She was going
to be waiting a while for this one.

Tamara called
twice a day to check up on me. I ignored her calls. Same as the
ones from Cathy, who called a few more times leaving messages on
the answering machine. Coming back from a grocery run and throwing
out the notes Mom had taken earned me more disapproving looks, but
I was fairly good at ignoring those look by now. She hadn’t yet
unleashed the Mom Stare on me, so that was something.

By the time
Friday morning rolled around I was feeling much better physically.
Looking at my reflection in the mirror showed the black eyes had
almost healed and become that faint yellowish hue. All my cuts had
closed up to faint red marks along my flesh. Even the deep bruises
along my body and ribcage had healed up nicely. Amazing what rest
and healthy eating can do, right?

Mealtime was a
silent affair for me. Mom would turn on the news every night and I
would take my dinner downstairs to watch something mindless and
useless. So FOX News and MTV Canada primarily.

My appetite was
a bit odd. While I was still crazy hungry at times, it wasn’t as
intense as the week prior where I would be ravenous going without
food for more than two hours. Since my days consisted of sedentary
actions and relaxing in my own misery, I figure I just wasn’t as
hungry as I would be if I had gone to the gym and pretended to be a
damned athlete.

So I picked
away at my meals while watching shitty TV and tried to ignore the
world around me.

Yeah, I was
feeling sorry for myself. And guilty. Very, very guilty for my own
cowardice.

But you don’t
get it. Sometimes in life you don’t get to decide things. They get
decided for you.

Over a decade
ago, life had decided to take away my plans on becoming a
television producer and sports reporter. Instead I became my
mother’s keeper and the resident drunken nightclub patron’s
security blanket.

You think I
wanted this? That I wanted to be in this position in life? This
deeply stuck in my own head and unable to get clear?

It was enough
to drive a man to drink.

Huh, not a bad
idea.

Mind made up I
heaved my sorry ass off the couch, grabbed my breakfast dishes and
stomped my way upstairs.

Mom met me in
the kitchen as I gave my cereal bowl a quick scrub.

“How are you
feeling today?” she asked, her face neutral.

I grunted in
response. Might’ve been a positive or a negative.

Mom tightened
her bathrobe some, folding her arms in as she did. I tried to
ignore the worried expression in her eyes face by scrubbing a bit
more furiously at the frying pan. It was beyond clean but I didn’t
trust myself to meet her eyes.

“Joe, are you
in some kind of trouble?”

The pan slipped
out of my fingers and made a loud banging noise against the
stainless steel sink.

My face flushed
and I didn’t answer.

Mom nodded
knowingly.

“Does it have
something to do with the club you work at?”

I closed my
eyes, still not answering.

It’s really not
fair. Mom’s been able to read me like a damned carnival psychic
since I was eight years old. Asking leading and probing questions
until my own fool reactions gave me away.

It’s a good
thing Mom doesn’t play cards. What happened to my poker face?

She nodded
slightly, her expression unreadable. Well, mostly unreadable. I
can’t count the look of worry on her face, she had that expression
no matter what was going on.

I made a show
of finishing up with the frying pan, dried it thoroughly and put it
away.

“Are you in
danger?’

Yes.

“No, Mom. I’m
all right.”

“Clearly.” She
stepped up next to me, leaning her hip against the kitchen counter.
I still refused to meet her eyes. “What is going on?”

For half a
second I almost told her. Not just the about the ass kicking, about
all of it. The craziness with the tingling sensation. The punks who
broke into my van. The brownouts at the hospital. The street gang
looking for their missing women. The club. Cathy. Tamara. My
anxieties about life. Seeing Dad in my dreams.

Mom sensed my
weakness, my insecurity and leaned in closer, resting a pale and
weak fingered hand on my upper arm. “It’s okay, Joseph. You can
tell me.”

My palms rested
down on the counter as my body sagged wearily, hanging my head low.
I chewed on my lower lip for half a moment as thoughts churned and
rolled in my brain, trying to keep my priorities in order. Remain
focused on my number one priority; keeping Mom safe and healthy for
as long as I could.

“Joseph?”

“I am so tired,
Mom.” My voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

Her fingers
tightened slightly on my arm.

“Tired?”

“Tired,” I
repeated a bit louder. “Tired of being unable to fix anything.”

“What do you
need to fix, Joe?”

A slight bitter
chuckle burst from between my lips. “What don’t I need to fix?”

“Is your van
broken?”

“What? No. It’s
… Well, okay. It’s kinda broken, but it drives. And that’s not what
I mean.”

“What do you
mean?”

My fingers
tightened on the countertop, clenching into fists. The back of my
neck tingled faintly in the distance but I immediately shoved the
sensation away, something I’d learned to do in the last two days of
self-loathing.

One deep
calming breath.

I stood up
straight and unclenched my fists while turning to Mom, plastering a
bright smile on my face. As cheerful as can be. I took her in my
arms and held her gently, protectively.

“Joe?” her
voice was muffled against my chest.

My eyes were
closed, fighting to keep the smile on my face. “I’m all right,
Mom.”

The phone began
ringing off in the other room.

Mom turned to
get it as I stepped away, slipping my battered boots on as quickly
as I could.

“Hello?” her
voice said off in the background. I stamped my feet into place and
reached for my Poison hoodie. “Oh, hello. Yes, he’s right here.
Hang on.”

I closed the
door behind me as quickly as I could and trotted over to my van.
I’d started my poor baby up and backed her out of the driveway. Mom
made it to the front window and tried to wave me down as I drove
away.

Like a
coward.

The false smile
dropped off my face.

Time for some
cold ones.

It was a
prestigious line up of fools waiting for the neighborhood beer
vendor to open. Two derelicts who’d wandered in from downtown with
a shopping cart full of collected empties. A professionally dressed
man in his mid-fifties talking loudly on his cell phone, trying to
figure out what types of wine his wife wanted for their dinner
party. And a big goomba dressed in dirty track pants, worn out work
boots and a black concert hoodie.

My life.
Whee.

I was quite
proud of myself for waiting until I’d parked my van back in its
usual spot in Mom’s driveway before cracking open the two-four of
Corona and popping the top off one of those bottles. Eyes closed
and head tilted back I drained my first beer and waited for the
pain to go away.