House Call

He peered through the door crack, checking the apartment for signs of life. Unsatisfied, Sid nudged the wood door open, careful not to let its hinges betray his presence; he slipped in quietly. The apartment was baked in afternoon sun, and the little fuzzies floating around in the stagnant place were lit up by the light pouring in through barred windows. The heat and light made the apartment hazy and foggy, like a dream.

He felt the floor creak and complain under the weight of his boots as he carefully stepped forward. As he fanned dust particles out of his face, Sid couldn’t help but feel anxious, and even fearful. The unfamiliarity of the apartment, its smells and its sights, made him hesitant. Papa would say, “know your home,” and Sid took that advice to heart. He had always truly believed everything his father said, and now the thought that he wasn’t following his father’s orders made him supremely doubtful of himself.

Sid idolized his papa. The two of them used to live together in the City, safely removed from the others at the Rez. His father’s friends, even the Indian ones, would keep telling Sid how fortunate he was to have such a father who could allow for Sid to grow up in the City, rather than the Rez. Sid’s father never took him back to the Rez, either, so Sid could never truly know what was so bad about it. All he had to go on were the rumors of the reservation people who lived in tipis and scalped heads, and such stories made Sid doubly thankful for the roof over his head, the water in the pipes, and the cable in the wall. Sid had his father, and his father alone to thank for all of these things, and that thought only reinforced his reverence.

For that reason, as a young boy Sid followed his father around everywhere - even the places that his father might not have wanted his boy to see. His attachment to his papa was strengthened because his father was his only parent, as far back as he could remember. He rarely asked about his mother, even though he wanted to, because he didn’t want to hurt his father’s feelings by asking about other parents. His papa had a tendency to get defensive when asked, anyway, so young Sid figured it hurt his feelings to talk about it. That made talk of mother off limits.

Sid was still an inquisitive boy, however, so instead of asking about his mother, he would ask about the City. His father was a wealth of knowledge, having studied every single intersection and neighborhood, and Sid admired that street mastery. At an early age, Sid had promised himself to learn the lay of the land so that he could impress his papa, who would sometimes ask, ‘Do you know where we are, now?’ Back then, after Sid shook his head no, his father would kindly explain by connecting the new unexplored part of the City to some familiar part of the City. His papa never needed to connect anything to the Rez, though. It never came up in conversation, and through exclusion the Rez became distant, and scary. The City was their home, and everything outside of it, like the Rez, was foreign and dangerous.

Back then, Sid’s only protection from the danger of the outside world was his father. Once his papa died, however, Sid was struck with a sudden sense of vulnerability. Just days after his father’s passing, Sid got the gun from his father’s friend, and he kept it on his side ever since. More than the tangible protection it offered, Sid felt reassured to have something of his father’s nearby at all times. It was his memento, and whether loaded or not, Sid thought it had the power to protect him.

Now, Sid rested his right hand on that same gun, in his side pocket. A cheap Beretta, old enough to be his grandfather, but quite out of practice. Sid had never fired it in the years he had owned it, but his heart ached every time he put finger to trigger. The feeling was becoming more palatable with each and every passing day, but it still remained. Sid felt the sweat of his palm against the well-worn grip of his Beretta, just wet enough to make him loosen his grip and dry his hand on his pant leg. Still staring through the barred windows, his hand blindly groped back to the handle of the Beretta.

There was a cough, and Sid was motionless. He hadn’t been moving for some time, so although he was startled, he didn’t show it. His pulse was slower than it had been at the door, but the sound had spiked his heart rate again. Sid followed the cough sound through the kitchen, and into a little bedroom at the far end of the apartment. Sitting on a mattress on the floor was the man who had summoned Sid hours ago. Despite the smell of piss-stains and liquor, the man was calmly relaxed with his back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. He seemed almost serene for a brief second, and Sid wondered if his trip was really necessary.

The man coughed again, prompting Sid to speak.

“Red?”

There was another cough. A nasty hack - probably brought something up and out of his belly that time. The man on the stinky mattress stared at his open palm a moment, trying to figure what he had just spit up. Sid walked across the room and leaned on that wall, like the man, but he kept a safe distance from that foul mattress, and the foul man who sat on it. He couldn’t go about his daily routine while smelling like rank urine, and the odor was already making him queasy. Sid reached into his front sweatshirt pocket and produced a ready-made syringe. He had filled it at his own home, careful not to waste one drop of profit, nor to insult his buyer with a small hit.

He tossed the capped syringe between Red’s legs just as he was dropping his coughed-on hand to his side. He was dressed too poorly to own a cell phone, but nevertheless there was a sharp looking phone beside his person. He wore a tattered windbreaker, black jeans that looked rotten, and an old college football shirt that looked like a giveaway from the last time the University won a title. On his head he wore a red trucker hat, and on his face he wore a peppered beard, a few nicks and dimples, and a ratty looking moustache. His lip fur was too thick in places, and it hung down over his thin upper lip, giving him the unthreatening appearance of someone’s old grandpa.

Sid didn’t bother looking over at the man too often. He was just a pile of skin and bones on the floor, frail and emaciated. He coughed again, and paused, with his fist to his mouth, before preparing a wad between his lips and spitting it out on the floor. Sid averted his eyes, careful not to make himself even sicker off of the sight of old man spit and phlegm.

“You alright?” Sid asked hesitantly, still averting.

“Yeah,” Red wheezed.

Red readjusted in his makeshift seat, and he lowered his head. The bill of his old cap was covering his eyes, and all Sid could make of his facial expression was an unfamiliar shadow, unusually dark. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced folded paper money, and he handed it over to Sid without looking. Then he spoke.

“Your daddy came through here before, a long time ago.” Red shifted so that the window sunlight brightened his eyes, and under that weathered bill Sid saw an equally weathered face, brown with rosy cheeks, and licks of uncombed jet black hair. His mouth was open a crack, not so much out of laziness, however. His lip twisted and dropped to one side, as if he had been wounded in the jaw. The entire display was humbling for Sid, who had often prided himself on his clear skin and warm looks.

“He had a sorry look on his face, like he was afraid to tell me somethin’,” Red continued. Sid looked down at Red, now, and he was surprised to see Red looking back up at him. His eyes were large and glassy, and they stood out from his age-beaten face and darkened brow. “Your daddy was trying to tell me he hated it. Hated selling to his own people.” Red looked back down, drew up a knee to his chest, and rested his elbow on that one propped up knee.

“The white kids weren’t even buying as much as the Rez kids, and they’re the ones with the money. Your pop had moved out here just to avoid them. Fucking doped-out Indian kids.” Sid was uneasy now, and he rolled his shoulders. Red anticipated his reaction. “Offended?” It might’ve been the heat, but Sid was sweating now. He knew where their conversation was going. He suddenly remembered why his skin was paler and fairer than the other Indians, and why he couldn’t speak the Indian language. The thought made his chest muscles tighten, and the thick stagnant air was suddenly difficult to inhale. Red looked away with a smirk.

“What happened to him, next?”

Red took off his cap, and underneath that sweaty old trucker hat, he had a red ring around his head, and a mat of fur. His skin looked reddish-burnt tan in the sunlight, like a desert sunset. He raised his head and stared out, towards the bedroom door. The carpet ended abruptly at the door to the bedroom, and the bedroom itself was nothing but rough wooden planks, in desperate need of polishing. They were dusty and warped, cracked and occasionally splintered. They creaked more than the other rooms' floors when stepped on.

“He said he didn’t want you to be like him,” Red choked. He quickly composed himself, and regained his raspy voice. “He used that gun.”

Sid felt his knees buckle, and he slowly slid down the wall, until he was crouched against it on the floor, like Red. He couldn’t find the strength to stand anymore, and the beretta on his hip was burning. He felt the gun in his pocket as his jeans stretched and it was poking him in the side. His head was awash with images of his father’s dealings and doings, and that old corner junkie, Red, who figured so prominently. The way he would saunter over to the car, while Sid sat in the passenger seat, fascinated. He hated Red’s smell, and the hack of his voice, and the scar on his face.

Sid remembered how badly he had taken the news of his papa’s death. He recalled how quickly he latched onto Red, the only man who seemed to know him, and care enough for him to give him anything of a start in the world. Red brought him into the business, at that time to replace his dead salesman. Both of them were desperate for the cash, and at the time, Red’s desire to maintain his living outweighed his sense of obligation to his friend’s son. He set Sid up with everything he’d need, including that Beretta. When Red finally got too doped up to be reliable, Sid took over the reigns for him, and directed the business himself. It was a modest operation, but it was his father’s operation, and Sid couldn’t help but think his father was proud of him for being a good businessman, until today.

Now, Red was finding his vein and shooting up some relief. It wasn’t so much the actual drug-induced high, but the sense of relief at knowing that the high is coming. The needle entering the bloodstream left a bloody spot on Red’s wrist, and an elated grin on his face for just a moment.

Red tossed the needle away, and fell over onto his side, knee still tucked nearly to his chest. The needle rolled along a plank of hardwood until it hit the wall opposite of the mattress, where it stopped. Red was wasting away in quiet pleasure, while Sid was struggling to understand why his father would kill himself. Suicide left Sid fatherless and homeless, and the thought that his father would do such a thing to him made his stomach hollow. His heart swelled in his chest, and his throat went horribly dry. He put his head back to the wall, looking up at the ceiling, as he felt a sniffle, and then a tear, and then a breakdown.

It was far too long before Sid could pull himself to his feet, and by that time, he was smothered in the stench of the mattress. He wearily retraced his steps out of the apartment, bracing himself with a hand against the wall. The stairs down to the street were almost too much to handle, but Sid somehow managed to get to the first floor in one piece. Once he reached his car, he had to steady himself with both hands on the car door before climbing in. He was so suddenly wracked by lethargy and confusion that he could barely stand.

Sid fell into the driver’s seat. He was slightly less sick, now, but he was still weak in the knees. He put his forehead to the wheel, where sweat and worriment stuck his skin to the leather. For a long while, Sid kept his eyes open, staring directly into the dashboard. And then over to the glove compartment. He leaned over a bit, and tugged on the glove compartment handle until the contents spilled out onto the car floor. He paused, looking over the junk mail, movie tickets, napkins with notes on them - things he had been too scared to throw away. Through it all, he saw what he had been looking for. He reached down and pinched it between two fingers at the shaft, careful not to prick himself, prematurely.