Baggage

Chapter One CHANDLER HEARD the rhythmic thumping in the distance, but couldn’t quite put it into context. Drums? Hammering? A knock on the door? He struggled for a moment to focus, to wrap his mind around every bit of sensory input, yet he felt paralyzed. Disembodied, perhaps. He reached out, trying to touch something, to grasp for anything real. He could neither see nor feel but was consumed by the bleak void surrounding him, engulfing his soul. The pounding intensified just enough to jolt him from his half-asleep state, at last jarring him from the night-terror paralysis, and his eyes shot wide open. He gasped, sucking in a spate of much-needed oxygen, and rapidly pushed himself up from the mattress. His feet hit the floor before he even had time to exhale, and he shot out of bed to rush down the hallway. “Raymond! Raymond!” He flung open his brother’s bedroom door and reached inside, groping for the wall switch. As the overhead light burst its painful illumination across the tiny room, he saw Raymond roll over onto his back. His large frame twisted pretzel-like on the small twin mattress as he held his forearm over his face, shielding his eyes from the merciless glare of the bright light. “Huh?” “Ray! Are you all right?” Chandler stepped into the room. “You were pounding on the wall... again.” “Oh. I was?” Chandler couldn’t tell if the slurred speech was merely grogginess or something more serious. “Sit up,” Chandler said. “Sit up for a second and talk to me.” Ray moaned and shook his head in protest. “I’m okay. I must’ve just been dreaming or something.” “Are you sure?” “Dammit! I said I’m all right.” The last time Chandler had awakened in the night to the sound of pounding, he’d dismissed it, assuming Raymond was having a dream, and had gone back to sleep. When he got up the following morning, he found Raymond on the floor, having suffered a stroke. Chandler’s greatest fear. A stroke, or cerebrovascular accident, had crippled their mother—his and Raymond’s. Chandler had been there when she, at fifty-seven, had been rendered hemiplegic. The stroke had stripped her not only of both sensation and movement in the left half of her body but also of her independence and arguably her dignity. Chandler had been there. He’d been there for every second of suffering the duration of her three-year struggle. At first unable to so much as twitch her pinky finger, after a grueling schedule of dogged, unyielding therapy, she walked. Chandler had been there as her cheerleader, her therapeutic coach. Her drill sergeant at times. Her ass-wiper and personal servant. He’d been there, too, when his father collapsed in his driveway, unable to take another step. The horror of the incident replayed in Chandler’s mind in a never-ending loop. An implacable movie reel. Chandler watched his father go down at least a thousand times in his mind’s eye. Ten thousand. A million. Dad’s stroke had graciously been far less severe than Mom’s. But the myriad health issues complicated his care. First, the delirium tremors haunted him. Alcohol withdrawal so severe the doctors feared permanent dementia. For six weeks Chandler sat by his father’s bedside, until one day the fog miraculously lifted and the dad Chandler had always known returned. Sort of. With Mom, every moment caring for her had been a blessing, the experience a reward unto itself. She’d praised and thanked him daily, truly appreciative of every little sacrifice. And truth be told, he’d never regarded any of it as sacrificial. Caring for the person who’d given him life, for the woman who’d raised him and provided for him for so many years, had been a privilege. Not so in Dad’s case. The reality of his situation hardened his heart. Bitter and angry, he lashed out at Chandler, resentful of all he’d lost. And Chandler became the warden, a representative of his father’s limitations. Physically Dad recovered, regaining most of his mobility and sensation. A residual limp evidenced the stroke had happened, causing him to drag his right foot slightly as he walked, and a tremor in his right hand made it difficult for him to write legibly or to hold his coffee cup. Overall, the disabilities were minor, at least compared to Mom. But when his kidneys failed, resulting in dialysis three times a week, he knew he’d never again enjoy a normal life. Then the heart surgery. The gall stones. The cataracts. Life never got better. That should have been enough. When Chandler didn’t move from the doorway or dim the overhead light, Raymond apparently realized he had to at least humor Chandler, and he dragged his legs off the side of the mattress and pushed himself upright to a seated position. He immediately reached to the nightstand for a cigarette. Chandler winced. “Hold both arms out for me.” “Why?” Raymond’s thick voice rasped, grumpy in much the same way their father had been. “I said I’m fine.” “Please. Just do it, and stick out your tongue.” As Raymond lit the cigarette, Chandler watched his movements, confident he had full use of both limbs. He then took a drag and exhaled a long stream of smoke that lingered in a noxious cloud within the confines of the tiny bedroom. Chandler waved a hand in front of his face. “Stick out your tongue,” he repeated. “Jesus Christ!” Raymond opened his mouth and stretched his gray tongue down past his bottom lip. Noting it curved neither to the left nor right, Chandler at last was satisfied. “All right. Make sure you put that out before you go back to sleep.” He nodded to the cigarette in Raymond’s hand. Chandler closed the bedroom door and padded his way to the kitchen. The digital clock on the coffee maker informed him the time: 4:47 a.m. There’d be no point trying to fall back asleep, so he stepped over to the sink and filled the coffee carafe with water. Next to the coffee maker sat a less-than-three-pound can of Folgers and a Tupperware container filled with filters. He’d never been pretentious enough to buy a grinder and the trendy flavored coffee beans. Chandler stuck to the basics. In all things. He poured a generous measure of coffee creamer—at least a quarter mug-full—into his favorite twenty-ounce coffee cup, then waited for the carafe to fill with coffee. In his youth, he never used creamer, but he had somehow gotten accustomed to it and now couldn’t bear the bitter taste of black coffee. He loved the rich creaminess yet still couldn’t stand the mediciny flavor of sweetener. He had to have his coffee with cream only. No sugar. No flavorings. And the creamer had to be liquid, non-dairy. The half-and-half dairy cream tasted curdled to him. The powder didn’t dissolve properly. And it had to be the perfect temperature. Not scalding. Not lukewarm. As fastidiously as he ritualized his coffee, he likewise maintained a steadfast morning routine, which included two cigarettes he smoked on the front porch. Though Chandler told himself he was a non-smoker for all intents and purposes, he’d opted not to completely kick the habit. He had to jumpstart his day with a double shot of nicotine and caffeine, one of the only indulgences he allowed himself. When he gave up his two-pack-per-day consumption eight years prior, he’d been successful in part by limiting his smoking to restricted places and times. The morning coffee and cigs on the porch were the last to eliminate, and he never did. The fact that Raymond smoked like a chimney completely obliterated any benefit his abstinence provided, at least to his home. Chandler had been very specific and insistent that he didn’t want Raymond smoking in the house, but after repeatedly catching him smoking in his bedroom, Chandler had finally conceded that Raymond could smoke there with the door closed. Still, Raymond pushed the boundaries every chance he got, carrying his lit cigarettes out into the kitchen and living room, smoking in the bathroom. Chandler didn’t like the house smelling like an ashtray. Then again, he didn’t like the way Raymond seldom bathed, or the fact he cooked everything in oil at high temperatures, splattering grease all over the kitchen. He didn’t like that Raymond’s bedroom and bathroom reeked not only of stale tobacco but also of dirty laundry, urine, and general filth. If Raymond lived alone, Chandler knew he’d one day see him on an episode of Hoarders. Fortunately, Chandler had his own bathroom off his bedroom. He didn’t share the main bathroom with Raymond and thus Chandler tried to avoid it. The initial arrangement when Raymond moved in was to keep his own bathroom and bedroom clean and to do his own laundry. Yet he never cleaned, and when it got to a point Chandler couldn’t stand it, he’d cave. He’d take a gallon of bleach, elbow-length rubber gloves, and an array of brushes, sponges, and cleaning products into the bathroom and scrub it spotless. A few days later, it would already be well on its way back to its default condition: filthy. Since Raymond seldom left his bedroom for any length of time, Chandler found it impossible to get in there to clean. His occasional reminders to Raymond that he needed to tidy up his space were usually met with grunts and dirty looks, but if Raymond happened to be in one of his sour moods... things quickly turned ugly. Those ugly times proved scariest. Chandler slid his socked feet into comfy slippers. He slept in oversized lounge pants and a T-shirt, which is exactly what he continued to wear as he stepped onto the front porch. He placed his coffee mug on the small, round, foldable table that sat next to his cushioned lawn chair. He’d never envisioned a life like this and had certainly never aspired to own a mobile home in a trailer park, but overall he couldn’t complain. He didn’t live in a palace, but it was a decent, three-bedroom home. And it was paid for. In fact, he often referred to his trailer as a “manufactured home” because the double wide really didn’t even resemble the tiny, narrow structures people often associated with trailer parks. Sure, he’d heard the put-downs. Trailer trash. Redneck city. Hooterville. In truth, he’d picked out a beautiful corner lot with a spacious lawn full of trees. On each side of his yard stood a pear tree, and combined they yielded a rather bountiful harvest each fall. Enough for him to can if he wanted. He also enjoyed shade from an enormous maple, and the outdoor deck would be the perfect place to host a summer barbeque with his tri-level propane grill. All he needed was a handful of close friends to invite. Caffeine feeds nicotine. Or does nicotine feed caffeine? They fit together like ice cream and chocolate syrup. Like fish and chips. Like a hot dog with chili sauce. Chandler inhaled deeply, then slowly released the stream of smoke before taking a sip of his java. At one time, he’d had a lot of friends. Back when he worked at the department store with nearly eighty employees under his supervision, they all seemed like family. He’d loved so many of them. And God, how he’d loved Daniel. Dan to everyone else. Chandler had always preferred his full name. Odd as it might seem, they met at a company picnic. One of Chandler’s employees, Sheryl, had brought her cousin as a guest. The awkward encounter embarrassed Chandler as he realized the meeting was a rather obvious setup. Sheryl had marched up to him, dragging her cousin by the arm, and thrust Daniel toward him. “This is Dan, my cousin. He’s a Gulf War veteran.” Lowering her voice only slightly as she leaned toward Chandler, she said in a stage whisper, “And he bats for the same team as you!” They’d all known Chandler was gay at the store. It never really became an issue for him. Well, other than the time he’d fired a male employee for attendance problems and was subsequently accused of s****l harassment. The accusations were summarily dismissed, however, when the HR director interviewed several employees who all vouched for Chandler’s integrity and called the ex-employee a loser and a f****d-up douchebag. Chandler had hated the way Sheryl put him on the spot like that, and he felt his cheeks flare with intense heat. He shook Daniel’s hand and more or less brushed him off. Although he couldn’t deny the guy was attractive, there would have been no way for him to pursue any interest without making a spectacle of himself in front of his entire staff. Two days later, Daniel showed up at the store and cornered Chandler at the service desk. Chandler, of course, handled the situation professionally, and when Daniel slid him a card with his phone number, Chandler discretely slipped it in his pocket. The rest was history. History. Like everyone Chandler had ever loved. He crushed out his first cigarette and immediately lit the second. Now nearly half past five, the darkness had begun to fade, gradually morphing to gray. Sunrise came early during summer months and by six o’clock it would be daylight. Maybe he’d work on the lawn before it got too hot. Or maybe he’d just curl up with a good book and enjoy the air conditioned comfort of his home. No, he had too much to do. He’d always dreamed of self-employment and now that it had become reality, he wasn’t sure how liberating it actually was. He’d imagined independence, setting his own schedule, taking a day off whenever he wanted. Instead he found himself working around the clock. Four editing jobs waited for him, and if he worked non-stop, he’d be lucky to knock off one of them by late evening. He’d also promised to take Raymond shopping, and his nearly overflowing laundry hamper demanded his attention. If he didn’t take time out to fix lunch and dinner, Raymond would undoubtedly try mastering the kitchen on his own again. He needed to remember batteries when they went to the store. Had to check the smoke alarms. Suddenly Chandler realized his thoughts had carried him out of the present, and he was staring across the street, looking directly at the single-wide trailer adjacent to his corner lot. A young man, perhaps just a teen, hurried down the steps toward a car parked in the drive next to the trailer. Chandler had lived in the park for eight years and still didn’t know any of his neighbors, but for the most part he recognized them as familiars. Not this kid, though. Had Chandler seen him before, he definitely would’ve remembered. The dim light of the early morning didn’t exactly help him focus, but the guy’s white, ribbed tank top—what some called a “wifebeater”—fit his trim physique like a glove. The style of his short, black hair made Chandler wonder if the young man was African American. Latino, perhaps. Hard to tell in the dim light. The kid turned as he opened the car door and looked in Chandler’s direction. Chandler quickly averted his gaze, hoping he hadn’t been caught staring. Seconds later, he heard the engine trying to turn over. Didn’t sound promising, the slow churning. He must have a dead battery or alternator, or maybe it was the starter. Chandler didn’t know a whole lot about auto mechanics. That had been Daniel’s forte. After multiple tries, the churning sound stopped altogether, only to start up again a few seconds later. Chandler didn’t want to just sit there staring, so he crushed out his cigarette and carried his coffee mug back inside for a refill. He listened intently, hoping the neighbor would achieve success and get his engine to turn over, but it certainly didn’t sound like the car was going to start. When the sound finally stopped and Chandler heard the slamming of a car door, he stepped over to his front door and peered through the screen. The kid rushed around his car and scurried up the porch steps inside. Chandler had already smoked his two cigarettes. He should just close the door and go take a shower. He needed to get started on his manuscript so he could get as much as possible done before Raymond woke up again. There really wasn’t anything he could do to help the kid next door anyway. In all likelihood, a young guy like that wouldn’t want someone like Chandler interfering with his business. He reached down for the doorknob at the exact moment he heard shouting. Chandler froze. The sound came from across the street, carried in the clear morning to his doorstep, but he couldn’t make out what was being said. Two voices yelling at each other. The sounds had to be from across the street, from the young neighbor’s trailer. Chandler took a step back and placed his coffee cup on a nearby bureau. He leaned toward the door, listening for more shouting. He didn’t want to look through the door in case the neighbors glanced over and saw him watching. Another slamming door. Silence. Whatever had happened must be over. The fighting had stopped. Sounded like someone had exited the trailer, slamming the door behind them. Maybe it was the kid. Maybe he’d decided to try once more with the car, or maybe he’d gotten someone inside to come help him. Cautiously Chandler moved closer to the door. BAM! BAM! BAM! Startled, Chandler jumped, his arms and shoulders twitching reflexively. He raised his head and gaped out the window. The neighbor boy... or wait, not boy... young man, stood before him. “Uh, uh... ” Chandler stuttered, hands still trembling slightly as he tried to push open the screen. “Can I, um, help you?” “Sir, I’m real sorry to bother you, but, well, I saw you sitting here a couple minutes ago, and, um... well, I hate to ask but I don’t know what else to do. I’m, like, kind of in a real bind, man. I’m....” Chandler pushed open the door a few inches and took a step out onto the porch. The young man—definitely biracial—took a step back to afford Chandler space but kept talking. “I’m starting a new job today, down at the steel mill. You know where that is? It’s like seven miles from here, and I gotta be there in like twenty minutes. My car... you heard my car, right?” Chandler nodded. “I can’t get it to start.” “I, um....” Chandler took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I’m sorry.” He felt his shoulders sag, embarrassed. “I don’t even have jumper cables, and I’m not really much of a mechanic.” “No, no. That’s cool. That’s totally cool. It’s my brother’s car anyway. He’ll have to fix it when he drags his lazy butt out of bed. I just need a ride. Sir, I’ll pay you. I swear. I mean, not today. I don’t have it today, but I’ll give you whatever. Like twenty bucks or whatever you want, soon as I get paid. I promise.” “Oh.” Chandler looked into Sexy Tank Top’s big brown eyes, and it felt as if a piece of his own heart was melting. “Um... yeah, sure. I... uh... I, um, I’m not even dressed. Let me put on some pants.” “You don’t gotta get out of the car.” Chandler looked down at himself. He couldn’t possibly go out somewhere like this, not in his pajamas. Not in public. “It will just take a second—” “Please!” Chandler opened his mouth once more to speak, but then stopped. He nodded. “Okay. Sure. It’s no problem. I can do it... don’t got to get out of the car. Keys. I need my keys.” He spun around to grab hold of the door handle and quickly pulled it open. A little too quickly. It banged into his head. “Dude! You okay?” Sexy Tank Top’s hand gripped Chandler’s shoulder. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” Embarrassed, he took a half step back and opened the door, then reached inside to the wall beside the door where his key rack was located. He snagged his car keys. “My car’s out back, in the lot.” Behind Chandler’s trailer, on the far side of his yard, sat a small parking lot. The lot, though shared by several residents, added to Chandler’s privacy. His unique location on the corner, with parking behind him, provided him envious seclusion on three sides. He didn’t have a private driveway, but he didn’t need one. The canopies in the parking lot provided his car shelter, and the cement walkway through his yard led straight to the canopy entrance and his car. Chandler tensed as he led the way down the sidewalk to the car. He knew Sexy Tank Top followed close behind and so Chandler straightened his posture. Why? Why would it even matter? He should be ashamed of himself. The kid was probably young enough to be his son. Chandler would be thirty-nine next February, more than twice the kid’s age. And here he was thinking of him as Sexy Tank Top! He depressed the keyless entry fob as they approached his Ford Fusion. “This is yours?” Sexy said behind him. Chandler turned and nodded. “Uh, yeah.” “Nice ride.” Chandler had never really thought of it in those terms. He’d chosen his car for practical purposes. Excellent fuel economy. Good sticker price and interest rate. They climbed inside. “Dude! A stick shift even! You the man.” Chandler turned and looked at him, uncertain exactly what he meant. Was the kid teasing him? Insulting him by insinuating a man at his age shouldn’t drive a stick. “I love stick shifts,” Sexy said, then winked. As he pulled his door shut and attached his seatbelt, the kid spread his long legs and leaned back in his seat. Chandler’s heartbeat skipped, then stopped... then restarted in time for him to step into the clutch and turn the ignition. “You okay?” Chandler nodded slowly and then swallowed. Hard. He gaped at his passenger, trying to think of a response. Sexy held out his hand to shake. “I’m Marcus, by the way.” “Marcus?” Chandler slid his hand into that of his neighbor and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Marcus. I’m Chandler.” Marcus gripped his hand and pumped, smiling broadly. “You know where we’re going, right? You been to the mill before?” “I think so, yeah. I’ve been by there.” He let go of Marcus’ hand and shifted into reverse, then turned to look behind him. Chandler followed all the rules he’d learned in driver’s training, including how to back up properly. You didn’t just go by the mirrors. You had to turn and look out the back window to avoid missing objects in the blind spots. “Man, I really owe you one,” Marcus said as Chandler accelerated, albeit slowly. Fifteen-mile speed limit inside the park. Complete stop at the speed bumps. “I’ve been trying to get in at the mill for like seven years, ever since I graduated.” “Really?” Maybe the kid was a tad older than Chandler had assumed. “Yeah. And I just finished college.” Chandler raised his eyebrows. “Congratulations.” “Well, not college college. Vocational college. Ya know, like trade school. It’s a two year program, but it took me almost four. But hey, who cares. I’m done! Got my diploma.” Chandler glanced over long enough to catch the row of gleaming pearly white teeth. Damn, he wondered if Marcus was even aware of his own beauty. “But ya know, you gotta do what you gotta do. Sometimes life gets in the way. I had to work. Couldn’t live off my ma. She’d been sick, and she needed a lot o’... ya know, special care.” “You took care of your mother?” “More or less.” Marcus nodded. “I mean, I did up until last year. I got my diploma now, though. I’m technically a licensed CNC machinist. Course I’m starting out at the mill as a grinder. Entry level and all that.” “Really? Marcus, that’s... well, impressive.” His chest puffed up a bit with pride, and then he turned to Chandler. “Does it surprise you?” “Oh... no! No, of course not. That’s not what I meant. I mean, it’s an accomplishment. Something to be proud of.” “For a guy like me.” “For anyone. Cripes, I don’t even know what a machinist is. Not really. You should be proud.” Marcus squinted and looked out the window. “Sorry. I know what ya mean. It’s just... well, people are like that sometimes. They assume s**t. Because I’m not... ya know, the stereotype.” “How’s your mom doing now?” Chandler decided to change the subject after inserting his foot squarely into his own mouth. “She passed three years ago. Cancer.” “Oh. My. God. Oh. Marcus, I’m so sorry.” “No, it’s cool.” He turned to Chandler and smiled. “Really, I truly am sorry. I’ve lost both my parents. I know it sucks.” “Like I said, she’d be proud of me now. Man, I can’t tell you how much this means to me, you helping me. You really came through, man. I owe you a solid.” “A solid?” Marcus laughed. “A favor, man. You really did me right. Hey, the turn’s right up here. See?” He pointed toward the steel mill entrance. Chandler pulled into the circular drive and slowed to a stop near the main entrance. “Is this okay here?” “Perfect, man.” Marcus already had his hand on the seatbelt. “And with ten minutes to spare.” “Hope you have a good first day.” “You know I will. Thanks to you.” Marcus winked and held out his hand. This time he offered a non-traditional vertical kind of handshake, and Chandler at first didn’t quite understand. Chandler mimicked the gesture, and Marcus tightened his grip around Chandler’s hand, pulling him in a bit toward himself. “You the man.” “Uh... um, thanks. Do you... um, need a ride home or anything?” “Nah, man. I’ll manage. I’ll see ya ’round. ’Kay?” “See ya.” Chandler forced a weak smile. As Marcus climbed out and closed the door behind him, he leaned down to peer through the passenger window and offered a final thumbs up. Then he spun around and walked confidently across the walkway to the building’s entrance. Chandler gaped at him, taking in his swagger. Holy s**t. Did that just happen? He reached up and pulled down his visor to stare at his reflection in the mirror. “What’s wrong with you?” he whispered to himself. “That kid’s a baby! A f*****g baby!” Suddenly a dawning of realization swept over him. He’d left the house without his wallet. He’d driven with no license! Oh, God. He checked his mirrors as he white-knuckled the steering wheel. He’d have to drive extra cautiously the entire seven miles home!