Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (19 page)

Roy pulls onto his block, into the driveway. Relieved to be home. Exhausted, but elated. The pills are inside, just in the kitchen. He fumbles with the lock, then slaps himself awake. One strong hand across the cheek. He’s up.

He steps inside, closes the door. Locks it. Tries to walk away, but suddenly thinks that he may not have locked it far enough. Unlocks the door, then locks it back up again. Watches the bolt sliding into the frame. That should be good. That should be
enough. Roy takes a deep breath and turns his back on the front door. Steps away.

Five paces, six paces. One by one, into the kitchen. He turns the corner, ready to end all of this nonsense, ready to get back to normalcy. Expecting to find salvation next to the coffee machine.

It’s not there. The pill bottle isn’t there. And Roy knows what’s about to come: the bile, the stinging. The vomit.

It all passes. Next to the refrigerator, the bottle. His bottle. His pills. Not where he remembers leaving them, but it doesn’t matter. Roy rushes for the drugs, catching the bottle up in one hand as he fills a water glass with the other. He needs a double shot, a triple shot. Anything. He pops the container.

One pill left. Roy blinks. Sticks his finger into the bottle, twisting it around. One pill. Shakes the container up and down, as if one might be stuck inside the plastic and needs to be jarred loose. One pill. Has he run out that quickly? Is he that low? This won’t do. If he takes that last pill, then he’ll have none. No pills for tonight. No pills for tomorrow. This won’t do at all.

He’s on the phone seconds later, dialing Klein’s number. The phone rings, rings again. A pickup.

“Doc,” he blurts out, “I need more of that Effexor.”

“You’ve reached the medical group’s answering service,” comes the polite female voice on the other end of the line. “The doctors aren’t in right now.”

Roy looks at his watch; it’s past seven. “You gotta patch me through,” he says. “I’m calling for Dr. Klein. Harris Klein. I’m a patient.”

“This is Dr. Klein’s answering service,” she repeats. “I can send him a message, if you would like.”

“A message—no, that’s not gonna help. Look, I gotta talk to him now.”

“Sir, I can send him a message, but I don’t have a direct line for the doctor.”

Roy grabs the phone handset tighter, pressing it into his ear. “I need … look, look, let’s be reasonable. I can be reasonable, can you?”

“Sir—”

“Good. I need a new bottle of pills. That’s all. It’s the same pills I’ve been taking for months, and the doctor gives ’em to—”

She cuts in. “If you’ve got a prescription, any pharmacy—”

“I don’t have one, I just have—look, he gave me the pills, okay? Dr. Klein, he gave me the pills, and I need to …” Roy stops. Thinks. “Are you at the office?”

“No, sir. I’m at a central answering station.”

“Uh-huh. But you can get into the office. If you have to.”

“Sir, I—”

“If you have to.”

A sigh from the other end. “In emergencies, yes, sir, but—”

“This
is
an emergency!” Roy shouts into the phone. He never raises his voice, prides himself on it. Doesn’t care now. “I need these pills—”

“I understand, but—”

“—to function. I need them to
function
. I’ll buy you dinner, okay? I’ll buy you a fucking car. Just get me a bottle of what I need.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Is she considering it? Roy holds his breath. “Sir, I can leave the doctor a message—”

He slams the phone onto the countertop, wielding the handset like a club. Plastic splintering, breaking off. Shards flying
about the kitchen. Roy doesn’t notice, doesn’t care. Bashing that voice into submission, shutting up that goddamned woman. Shutting up the whole goddamned world.

The lights inside the drugstore are bright. Roy fumbles inside his coat for the sunglasses. Throws them on, shading his eyes. It’s better. Still bright, but better. This is the closest drugstore he could find. The closest he could think of. It was hard to get out of the house. It was hard to get that goddamned front door locked up right.

He’s got the bottle in his pocket. One pill left. Doesn’t want to take it. Doesn’t want to take it until he knows there’s more on the way. Can’t be empty. Empty would be a travesty. Empty would be a hazard.

It’s a big place. Discount drugstore. Aisles and aisles, not just medicine. Household cleaning supplies. Food. Drinks. Clothing. Books. Appliances. Ice cream, for chrissakes. Ice cream in a drugstore. He doesn’t understand why they would do that.

“Where’s the pharmacy?” he asks the first employee he sees.

The boy doesn’t hear Roy’s mumble. “Wha?”

“The fucking pharmacy,” snaps Roy. “Where is it?”

It’s in the back. Way in the corner. Roy makes his way through the aisles, brushing past the other customers. Shouldering them aside. They don’t get out of his way quickly enough. They don’t know how to move. They’re sheep, all of them. A herd of sheep.

There’s a line, snaking around. A rope, set up to maintain that line. One fellow at the desk. White coat. White hair. Must be the pharmacist. That’s the guy he needs to see. The man with the key.

Five people in front of him. Woman with a baby over her shoulder. It’s gurgling. Trying to talk. Looking at Roy’s glasses, at its own reflection. Two men in front of her. They look healthy, Roy thinks. What the hell do they need the pharmacy for?

Up front, an older woman is talking with the pharmacist. Roy can’t hear their conversation, but it looks casual. Worse than that, it looks nonmedical. Like she’s already been given her drugs, and they’re just talking about the day’s events.

“Move along, lady,” Roy calls out. The other customers look at him. He looks right back. They wisely look away.

The longer Roy waits, the more he thinks about his pills. That they’re right there, twenty feet away, somewhere up on those shelves. That it will just take that little man right there to go back and get them. Grab a bottle, pass it over. If it weren’t for all these people in the way. Healthy people. People who don’t need to be here.

The old woman finally moves out of the way, but Roy can’t take it anymore. He scoots out of the line and hustles up to the front counter, shoving aside the middle-aged fellow at the front.

“Hey, buddy,” the guy says, “there’s a line here.”

“Emergency,” Roy mutters.

“Yeah, we all got emergencies, friend,” says the man. He’s standing tall, standing tough. Comes an inch or two higher than Roy. Looking down on him.

Roy tries to smile. To grin at the man. To handle this properly. “I’m in a bit of a pickle … 
friend
. Maybe you could help me out.”

“And maybe you could go back to the end of the line.” He places a hand on Roy’s shoulder, exerting pressure. Trying to send him back.

Roy clamps his own hand down atop the man’s, lifts his other arm into the elbow pit. He bends, twists, and the man is soon down on his knees, his arm caught up in Roy’s, his face set in a mask of blazing pain. Whimpering. Mewling.

The pharmacist is aghast. “What are you—let him go—”

“I’ll be outta everyone’s way in ten seconds,” Roy announces.

“Sir, there’s a line—”

“I
know
there’s a line. I
see
the line. My eyesight’s not the problem. I see the line.” Roy drops the man’s arm; he scoots backward, away from Roy’s reach. “Look, I’m not … 
myself
today. I need help.” He reaches into his pocket. Pulls out the bottle of pills, plops it down on the counter. “I need a refill.”

The pharmacist wants to get this over with quickly. Looks to the other customers. They also want this over with quickly. Fine. Good. He picks up the bottle, looks at the label. “This isn’t from our store.”

“I know that,” says Roy. “I know that.”

“Do you have a prescription?”

“My doc—Dr. Klein—he gave me the pills. He—after the session, he gives me the pills, you know? I thought I had more, but—”

“I’m sorry,” says the pharmacist. “I can’t help you without a prescription. It’s the law.”

Roy snatches the bottle from the man’s hand, points to the label. “Look here,” he says. “Effexor. It says it, right there. Effexor, one hundred milligrams. And that’s my name, right next to it. I’m Roy. That’s me.”

The pharmacist shakes his head. “I see that, but … I can’t help you, sir.”

Roy stops. Takes a breath. Doesn’t want this to get out of control. He’s composed himself well so far. Klein would be proud. Roy wrestles with the pop top, twisting the bottle open. Inside is a familiar green pill. Roy shakes it into his hand, holds it out for the pharmacist to see.

“See this? Effexor. See, I’ve got a pill already. So clearly I’m allowed to have them.”

The pharmacist looks across the drugstore, toward one of his assistants. She nods and picks up the phone. “Without a prescription,” he repeats, “I can’t be of help.”

“Please,” says Roy, his ire rising. “I don’t beg. I’ve never begged. But I’m begging you. Nine, ten of these. To cover the weekend. Until my shrink gets back.”

From the front of the drugstore, two hired security guards begin to make their way toward the pharmacy. Toward the commotion. They hustle down the aisles.

“Without a prescription—”

“Goddamn it!” Roy shouts. “Goddamn you people! I’ve got Effexor here. Right here, and all I’m asking for is a little more!”

The pharmacist is about to repeat his stock phrase again when the pill catches his eye. Green. It’s green, but the shouting man thinks it’s Effexor. “Let me see that,” says the pharmacist, picking the pill up between his thumb and forefinger. Holding it toward the light.

“Thank you,” Roy says. Nearly breaking down. Out of relief. Of gratitude. “Thank you.”

The pharmacist shakes his head. “This isn’t Effexor,” he says.

Roy doesn’t hear him properly. “Excuse me?”

“This isn’t Effexor. It’s not an antidepressant at all.”

Roy shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. That’s what Klein had been giving him. Antidepressants for the compulsions. For the … for his problems. What the hell is this guy talking about? “What—what is it?”

“I don’t know,” says the pharmacist. “But it’s not Effexor. Effexor comes in tablets and capsules, but they’re bluish, not green like this.” The security guards move quickly down the aisle, heading for Roy, for the large flailing man up front. The one with the delusions. The fits.

Roy grabs the pill back, staring at it. Trying to see inside. He twists the top half of the capsule, popping it off the bottom. Spills out the white powder within, spreading it across the pharmacist’s desk. “So what is it?” he asks. “What is it, if it’s not Effexor?”

The pharmacist takes a good look. Notices the granules. The familiar white sheen to the powder. He dips a finger inside and licks the tip. “It’s sugar,” he says plainly. “Your doctor’s been giving you sugar pills.”

Roy doesn’t wait for the security guards to grab his arms. Doesn’t wait to be led away. There’s no warning this time, no tickling at the back of the throat. No sudden sensation of pressure. Roy vomits right there. Right on the pharmacist’s desk. On the pharmacist. On the other customers. He vomits, and he vomits, and he vomits, and he collapses in a heap on the floor of the discount drugstore.

T
he secretary tries to stop Roy as he barges into the office, but she’s too slow. Can’t get out from behind her desk. He throws open the lobby door and storms down the paneled hallway. Klein’s office door is closed. Roy doesn’t care. Roy doesn’t care if it’s locked. He’ll break it down. He’ll break it off the hinges if he has to.

He hasn’t washed this morning. He hasn’t shaved since the day before he headed out to Grand Cayman. Last night, Roy didn’t sleep. He staggered out of the drugstore and into his car. Spent most of the evening going from bar to bar, trying to order drinks. Noticing all the crud on the floors. On the walls. On the glasses they tried to serve him. Throwing them down, throwing them away. Waiting for nine in the morning to roll around. Waiting to confront Klein. He fell asleep around six-thirty in the bathroom stall of an all-night club, waking up at ten. Washing his face in the sink. Washing his hands. Washing them again.