Armpit of the World

Armpit of the World

I finished loading our bags into the trunk of my car. Brandon sat there in the driveway and talked on the phone as I meticulously went down the list, making sure we had everything we were going to need for our trip to see Blue October in Atlanta.

“I need to talk to you,” Brandon said.

I wasn’t sure if he was still talking on the phone like he had been all morning so I didn’t answer. I double checked our reservations at a historic hotel we would be staying at in Metro Atlanta and our tickets for the Masquerade.

“We should be checking into our hotel late tonight. I already called to make sure that would be okay and we will have the entire day tomorrow to explore the city.” I skipped over to Brandon sitting in the driveway. “Are you ready to leave?”

His face showed no emotion as he stared at a crack running through the cement. “I can’t go.”

“What are you talking about? We need to make it to Atlanta by tonight, we’re leaving,” I said.

He took my wrist and pulled me toward him. “Please, just sit with me for a minute.” Brandon finally looked up at me, his face still blank. “I love you.”

“I love you too, silly. Let’s go, we have plenty of time to talk in the car.”

Brandon grimaced and shook his head looking back down at the crack in the cement. “No, just wait. I need to tell you something.” He paused and shook his head again. “I’m so sorry.”

“What is it, babe?”

Brandon squished an ant.

“Babe, you can tell me anything.”

“I’m addicted.” He finally looked at me. “I’m addicted to blues.”

I pulled my hand out of his and stared at him.

“You’re addicted to pain pills? Why haven’t you told me?”

“I thought I could hide it from you. I’m sorry I never told you before, but I was so ashamed and you are such a good girl. I didn’t want to ruin a good thing.”

How did I not notice after all this time?

“I’m so sorry.”

Not wanting to listen, I stood up and turned back to the car. “We have to get on the road before it gets too late.”

“I can’t go to Atlanta. I don’t have any money. I don’t have any pills. If I go with you, I will get sick. I can’t go to Atlanta.”

“I bought these tickets months ago. I took the time off work. They are expecting us at the Stratford Inn tonight. You are getting in this car right now.”

“I’ll get sick,” he said. I could see horror buried in his blue eyes surrounded by a sickly yellow I hated so much.

“Well I can’t go alone and I’m going to that concert so you are going to suck it up and get in that car right now.”

“You don’t have to go. It’s just Blue October and Atlanta is 600 miles away.”

“I’m going. You’re going. Now get in the car.” I got in the driver’s seat and slammed the door. While he was slowly making his way around the car, I set the route on the GPS from Fort Myers, Florida to 585 Parkway Drive NE, Atlanta, Georgia, turned on the playlist I had put together the night before, and dug to the bottom of my purse for my sunglasses.

Brandon slowly got in the car. “Can I have twenty bucks?”

“What the hell for?”

“I need a blue before we leave.”

“I paid for your ticket and the hotel room and I’m going to have to buy all your meals while we are gone and you want twenty bucks for a fucking blue?” I looked over at him. He looked back at me with his jaundiced eyes. I wondered if he saw the reasoning behind my anger.

“I don’t even want to go.”

I should just kick him out of the car right now.

With a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, I drove to the armpit of San Carlos Park. When he got back in the car, he took the straw out of my Pepsi, folded it in half and dropped the little blue pill in. I watched him crush that damn pill with his teeth through the straw and snort it.

“That’s the last one I’ll ever take. I promise.” He turned the music up and laid his head back.

Once we were on I-75, it only took him a few minutes to fall asleep. He was so peaceful when he slept. It reminded me of why I loved him. His light snores filled the car through Venice, Sarasota and Bradenton.

We hit Tampa traffic at rush hour. I scooted in behind a red car that was cutting through traffic, making an easy path for me to follow. Their bumper sticker read, “Work harder, millions on welfare depend on you.” I sped around them as soon as we broke free from the cluster fuck of cars.

Exit 399

Alachua

Martin Luther King Bvld.



We stopped at Kangaroo Express. I let Brandon drive now that we were past all the major cities. I threw away the chewed up straw that he had stuffed in the door and grabbed the blanket from the back seat. I knew he was high, but I reasoned with myself that he was always high and I just didn’t know about it until now. He seemed alert enough so I let myself relax to Blue October.

“Don’t you have any real music we can listen to?” Brandon gabbed the iPod and searched through the playlist.

Exit 435

Lake City

Nw Lake Jeffery Rd.



“You haven’t even been driving for an hour. Why are you stopping?”

“I don’t want to drive anymore.”

I took over driving and turned my playlist back on. Brandon passed out within minutes of being back on I-75. I turned up “Hate Me” by Blue October to drown out his snoring.

We didn’t cross into Georgia until after dark. The roads were narrow and uneven. Construction barriers six feet tall stood on one side of the road and steep hills lined the other side. I turned down the music and squinted out at the dark road. I still had 200 miles to drive by myself.

Brandon’s snores broke the silence.

Stratford Inn

Metro Atlanta

12:13 am



Blue and red lights flashed in the parking lot of the hotel. Three Metro Atlanta Police cars surrounded a group of young black males. The officers, who looked like they could play NFL, had their guns drawn.

The lights woke Brandon up. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just get inside.” I parked my car as far away from the scene as possible and we hurried to grab our bags and get inside the building.

We could see a large black man sitting in the lobby. His button up shirt said security, but he was armed with a 9mm on his right hip. He unlocked the front door for us and immediately bolted it when we were inside. Brandon put an arm around my shoulders as we walked to the front desk.

When I woke up the next morning, Brandon was gone along with his skateboard and my cell phone. He left a pile of clothes on the floor along with his Buttman Magazine.

While I waited for him to come back, I turned on the TV for some company and sat by the window of our third floor, closet sized room to watch traffic. I watched police officers chase after people on foot, gang members spray paint the brick wall next to the hotel, and drug deals happening right in front of the hotel. I sat there for hours worrying about where Brandon had gone, but I was too afraid to leave by myself. When I saw three police cruisers speed into the parking lot chasing after a little green car with only plastic covering one of the back windows I decided to close the curtains. I heard gunshots from down stairs and turned the TV up, but it wasn’t much better. The news was covering a story on an eight year old girl found dead early that morning on the corner of Freedom Parkway and North East Avenue.

Frustrated at the filth and violence of the inner city, I straitened up the room. When I saw a cockroach, I decided to strip the bed and only use the blanket and pillows I brought for the car ride.

When Brandon finally showed up, he disappeared into the shoebox bathroom without saying a word. I turned the TV back on to drown out the sound of vomit hitting the toilet bowl. I could hear the retched heaving that strained his body. I was relieved by the sound of the shower, but that relief was gone when I saw him walk back into the main room. He had bags under his eyes and I could count every one of his ribs. How could I have not noticed how skinny he is? Brandon crawled into bed and turned his back to me. I did the same. We lay in the same bed yet were worlds apart.

“I love you,” I said, not turning to face him.

“I love you too.” His voice shook and when he finally passed out again I didn’t hear a single snore.

Brandon didn’t want to wake up, but I couldn’t go by myself. Even if I was brave enough, or stupid enough to go by myself, Brandon wouldn’t have let me.

The concert started at seven. We didn’t get there until eight. As soon as I reached the crowd, Brandon disappeared.

At the end of the concert, I found Brandon outside on the sidewalk. He was wasted and could barely stand up. We walked back to the hotel in silence and only had to stop twice for Brandon to puke in a parking lot and once for him to piss in a pathetic looking bush.

Brandon took his shower first and was asleep again before I was even done with mine. As I walked out of the claustrophobic bathroom, I saw him curled up in a ball of misery. I didn’t feel sorry for him. I felt a disdain towards him. I should just leave him here. I could leave him here. No one would miss him. I wouldn’t miss him. He is garbage. He is nothing. He is a vomiting pile of shit. I hate him.

As I sat bundled in the chair with a blanket and pillow, Brandon rolls over in his sleep. “I love you, Angie,” he said. He reaches a hand out to the side of the bed I should be sleeping on. “I’m sorry.”

I love him. I love that sorry bastard.

I crawled into bed with him and tuck my head under his arm, against his trembling body.