One Late Night

          “I just can’t help but feel like I’m a failure,” he said, unable to look anywhere but on the dingy tile floor that stuck to the soles of his black tennis shoes as he backpedaled from the person to whom he was speaking. His back reached the wall of the building and he stopped moving. “What have I ever done that I should be proud of?”

          “Hey, hey, you’ve done well,” she said, trying to approach him. She stopped when she saw the veins in his arms and head start to bulge out of his skin. “Okay, all right,” she responded, putting her hands up and stepping back, though she knew he wasn’t looking at her.

          “You’ve done well,” she repeated, as she herself backpedaled to a wall, the one perpendicular to his position, off to his left. Out of nervousness, she ran her fingers up and down the bumps of dried white paint that covered it. She looked him up and down, seeing his faded red windbreaker, dirty white shirt and blue jeans and wondering if he’d bathed or worn different clothes in days. His golden hair covered his face, as he hid it by staring at the ground.

          “Bullshit, you have to say that!” he exclaimed angrily, turning to his right and away from her. “Why the hell did you even come here?”

          She cleared her throat and replied, “I came because you called me.”

          He muttered, “Yeah,” and buried his face even further.

          She sighed before continuing, “And I came because I care about you and I want to be sure you’re all right.”

          Instantly he stared her in the eye. “Bullshit! Fucking lies! You don’t give a shit about me!” Angrily, he strode toward her and raised his arms. She tensed, but did not outwardly show weakness. He placed his hands on his head and walked back to his previous position.

          His face was not the kind, cheerful visage she’d once been accustomed to seeing. His hair had grown over his eyes, but she could easily see that they were badly red and bloodshot. His cheeks had a gleam to them, as if they’d just been dried off. No less than a week’s worth of stubble covered his face.

          He faced away from her again. “Look, it was a mistake to call you and an even bigger one to talk to you. Would you just…just go, just leave me alone?”

          “No,” she said. “I won’t leave you here like this.”

          “Just leave!” he screamed, still facing away. His chest and back began heaving as the sobs started. He faced her, and the tears were streaming. “Please go away.”

          “No,” she said, more forcefully. “I will not leave you like this.”

          He slid down the wall and sat on the floor, putting his face in his hands, still sobbing. “Oh my God,” he said, before sighing a huge breath. “Can I do anything right?”

          She approached him again, squatting down beside him, and this time he did not visibly tense. She patted him and the back and rubbed gently. “Yeah, of course you can,” she said. “You’ve done a lot of great things. You graduated from high school, you’ve given so much of yourself to the community…”

          “Oh who hasn’t done that shit?” he said between sobs.

          “Don’t sell yourself short,” she said, patting him on the back again. She sat down with him. “You’ve made a difference in a lot of people’s lives.”

          He stopped sobbing, and rubbed his eyes for a moment. He wiped away as much of the tears as he could before looking her directly in the eye and saying, “Not enough.”

          He stood and started to walk away, but as he did, a spoon and a cigarette lighter fell out of one of the windbreaker’s pockets. He rolled his eyes, sighed, and looked away as she picked them up.

          “Oh no,” she said, “I thought…”

          “Oh yes!” he screamed, interrupting her. “Oh yes! Oh yes, oh God yes!” he shouted, as if in orgasm.

          She saw that he had turned away from her and was staring into the pitch darkness of the next room, scoffing and cursing under his breath. She pocketed the paraphernalia and slipped out her cell phone. She winced when she saw that it was turned off. Trying to shield it with her hands, she carefully pressed the little rubber square on the top of the phone to turn it on. It let out a tiny beep to inform her that it was on. She pressed the red phone button just as the welcome chimes would have sounded, suppressing them completely. Cradling the phone in her right hand, she used the fingers of her left to dial her office.

          The ringer on the end was too loud! Surely, he could hear it.

          It rang once, twice, and a third time with no answer. As it rang a fourth time, her arm, tensed with apprehension, had a spasm and the phone fell, clanking to the tile floor below.

          Instantly, he turned to face the noise.

          “Saint Stephen’s Clinic, how may I direct your call?” came the voice on the other end of the line.

          “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asked in a yell. “Huh! What the fuck are you doing!” he screamed. He grabbed her right wrist and squeezed it as hard as he could. He snatched the phone up off the ground and yelled, “Fuck off!” into it before severing the connection and throwing the phone back down on the ground.

          He pulled her to him by the wrist. “You bringing your little friends into this, huh? Put me in a straitjacket and haul me away? Funny, I thought I was doing well!” he shouted, with eyes wide in rage.

          She gasped for air, struggling to say, “Please let go, you’re hurting me.”

          He forcefully threw her down, but as he did, his face caved in and he started sobbing again. He rubbed his eyes and tried to compose himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, wheezing for breath. He took a deep breath and looked her in the eye. “I’m sorry, I’m, I’m okay, I’m okay now, I’m sorry.

          “I want to show you something.”

          He walked away and briefly disappeared into the blackness of the adjoining room. She thought about reaching for the cell phone, but decided against it, as he was back before she had the chance.

          He came back in and sat next to her on the floor, as she hadn’t reached her feet. He placed on the ground between them a photograph.

          “Ninth grade,” he said, trying to smile but noticeably choking up. “How pathetic am I for still having this?”

          She looked at the picture, remembering vividly the night it was taken.

          “I’ve even got pictures of you and Ted,” he said, laying some newspaper clippings on the ground. Among them was a wedding announcement. He started shaking his head. “You and him and every-fucking-body else in my life is such a success. Doctors, lawyers, and look at me in this shit hole!” The tears returned as he shouted this. “I didn’t make it. I never found the way.

          “I’ve always loved you. And who knows,” he chuckled derisively, “maybe you really do care about me. I’m sorry,” were his last words.

          He pulled a small silver handgun from his back jeans pocket and aimed it at her, squeezing the trigger twice. She screamed as he did it, but no one heard it. Then he put the gun in his mouth, and he kept firing until he could fire no longer.

          Blood was everywhere, and her senses were failing. She saw the cell phone still sitting where he had thrown it down, and strained with all remaining strength to reach it.