Free The Jake Helman Files Personal Demons by Gregory Lamberson Page A
Authors: Gregory Lamberson
him. “Do you need a fix? Do you want me to get high with you?”
He shook his head.
“Because we can both ruin our lives and throw away everything that we’ve worked for.”
He snatched the bag from her and stomped into the bathroom. Standing over the toilet, he tore the bag apart with his hands and dumped the coke into the bowl. The water turned milky and his nostrils opened and closed like fish gills. With trembling fingers, he flushed the toilet, then returned to the living room.
Sheryl stood before him, red faced and teary eyed. “Very good, Jake. Very dramatic. But that doesn’t solve anything.”
“I swear I’ll never touch that stuff again.”
“I want to believe you, but I can’t. You’ve already lied to me. And I understand. Really. You couldn’t help yourself. Because drug addicts say and do whatever it takes to get what they need.”
“I’m no addict.”
“I feel sorry for you, Jake. For both of us. We had something special.”
“Sheryl—”
“I need time to think. And I can’t do that with you here. I want you to pack your bags and leave.”
“Don’t do this to me.”
“You’ve done it to yourself.”
“I
love
you.”
“We must have different definitions of love.”
“I need you, damn it!”
“You need to get your act together.”
“Please …”
She shook her head. “One of us has to be strong.”
He paused, debating what tact to use. “How long do you want me to stay away?”
Despite the tears in her eyes, Sheryl’s expression cooled. “‘Where’s Old Nick?’“
8
A fter he had returned to his apartment and had shed Knapsack Johnny’s attire and identity, Marc Gorman’s flesh continued to tingle where Professor Severn had worked his magic on it. Marc wanted to rip the bandage from his chest to admire the intricate artwork, but he reminded himself that the dyes would fade if exposed to light at this early stage. Changing into nylon gym shorts, he pulled his exercise mat from beneath the sofa and arranged his weights around it. He selected a CD from the rack and inserted it into his player. The soothing sounds of Verdi surrounded him.
He spent ninety minutes working out, supplementing his push-ups, sit-ups, and weight training with isometrics and yoga. He performed multiple reps with lighter weights because he desired strength, not bulk; too much mass would limit the number of roles he could play. He worked his muscles, stretching them, tearing them. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his heart raced. Pushing his body to its limits, he recalled how frail he had been as a youth. His own father had told him that he looked more like a girl than a boy.
“You look just like that crazy bitch,” Gary Gorman had said more than once. “You’ll never grow up to be a man. I don’t know why I even bother with you.”
Sara Gorman, Marc’s mother, had been a slender woman with delicate features and pale skin, and she had done her best to draw her only child out of his shell. In stark contrast to her generous demeanor, Marc’s father had been a source of tremendous fear in his life. The burly truck driver with a taste for cheap beer never addressed Marc by his name; instead he called his son “Little Bastard” with the same degree of contempt as when he called Sara “Crazy Bitch.” They lived in a trailer park in Redkill, a rural village in upstate New York, where the sole ambition of young men was to drive shiny pickup trucks. The old-timers who sat watching the traffic on Main Street from the safety of park benches joked that the town should have been called “Roadkill.”
The memory of his parents’ last fight burned within him again. Gary had returned to the double-wide one afternoon after a two-day absence, and Sara had smelled beer on his breath and perfume on his collar. While Marc cowered behind the living room sofa, his mother screamed at his father in their bedroom. Marc heard his mother grunting as she slapped his father, who only laughed at her
He shook his head.
“Because we can both ruin our lives and throw away everything that we’ve worked for.”
He snatched the bag from her and stomped into the bathroom. Standing over the toilet, he tore the bag apart with his hands and dumped the coke into the bowl. The water turned milky and his nostrils opened and closed like fish gills. With trembling fingers, he flushed the toilet, then returned to the living room.
Sheryl stood before him, red faced and teary eyed. “Very good, Jake. Very dramatic. But that doesn’t solve anything.”
“I swear I’ll never touch that stuff again.”
“I want to believe you, but I can’t. You’ve already lied to me. And I understand. Really. You couldn’t help yourself. Because drug addicts say and do whatever it takes to get what they need.”
“I’m no addict.”
“I feel sorry for you, Jake. For both of us. We had something special.”
“Sheryl—”
“I need time to think. And I can’t do that with you here. I want you to pack your bags and leave.”
“Don’t do this to me.”
“You’ve done it to yourself.”
“I
love
you.”
“We must have different definitions of love.”
“I need you, damn it!”
“You need to get your act together.”
“Please …”
She shook her head. “One of us has to be strong.”
He paused, debating what tact to use. “How long do you want me to stay away?”
Despite the tears in her eyes, Sheryl’s expression cooled. “‘Where’s Old Nick?’“
8
A fter he had returned to his apartment and had shed Knapsack Johnny’s attire and identity, Marc Gorman’s flesh continued to tingle where Professor Severn had worked his magic on it. Marc wanted to rip the bandage from his chest to admire the intricate artwork, but he reminded himself that the dyes would fade if exposed to light at this early stage. Changing into nylon gym shorts, he pulled his exercise mat from beneath the sofa and arranged his weights around it. He selected a CD from the rack and inserted it into his player. The soothing sounds of Verdi surrounded him.
He spent ninety minutes working out, supplementing his push-ups, sit-ups, and weight training with isometrics and yoga. He performed multiple reps with lighter weights because he desired strength, not bulk; too much mass would limit the number of roles he could play. He worked his muscles, stretching them, tearing them. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his heart raced. Pushing his body to its limits, he recalled how frail he had been as a youth. His own father had told him that he looked more like a girl than a boy.
“You look just like that crazy bitch,” Gary Gorman had said more than once. “You’ll never grow up to be a man. I don’t know why I even bother with you.”
Sara Gorman, Marc’s mother, had been a slender woman with delicate features and pale skin, and she had done her best to draw her only child out of his shell. In stark contrast to her generous demeanor, Marc’s father had been a source of tremendous fear in his life. The burly truck driver with a taste for cheap beer never addressed Marc by his name; instead he called his son “Little Bastard” with the same degree of contempt as when he called Sara “Crazy Bitch.” They lived in a trailer park in Redkill, a rural village in upstate New York, where the sole ambition of young men was to drive shiny pickup trucks. The old-timers who sat watching the traffic on Main Street from the safety of park benches joked that the town should have been called “Roadkill.”
The memory of his parents’ last fight burned within him again. Gary had returned to the double-wide one afternoon after a two-day absence, and Sara had smelled beer on his breath and perfume on his collar. While Marc cowered behind the living room sofa, his mother screamed at his father in their bedroom. Marc heard his mother grunting as she slapped his father, who only laughed at her