Triple Six (Ch. 1)

I caught the bus every morning– at 6am. I walked to the 6th row, hunched over, half lidded. It dropped me off every evening– at 6pm. I didn’t look for symbolism, it just was. A statnic coincidence.

I grew up in Catholic school. Kneeling at church, listening to words from old latin textbooks, praising someone I didn't see. Listening to priests talk about feeling a presence I never felt. Trying to convince myself that I saw shadows around the corners of my elementary school, visiting spirits from Jesus. I would cup my hands around colorful reflections, give them names, pray for extra ice cream after dinner or twenty dollars for a new Gameboy cartridge. Every coincidence leading me further towards the belief that a mystical being was listening to me, swindling my parents into bigger portion sizes.

As it turns out, shadows are just shadows. My parents were just people. Jesus was a real man, who lived in a far away place, who did kind things for the people around him. God is a made up being that condescending white folk use as a scapegoat for their bigotry, eliminating any kind feeling I ever had for that made up man.

In eighth grade, I graduated in the church basement, where I'd eaten over-cooked mac n' cheese from metal troughs Monday through Friday, and made my sixth appearance on Sunday for the after-church bagel and orange juice. Suffocated in my tiny suit, mouth still bitter from the wine at Communion, tongue still dry from the plastic wafer that came before. My eyes would wander to the children around me, they'd play tag around the tables, kick off their shoes, untuck their dress shirts. I would wander into their heads and imagine a place where church was an outing. Something to look forward to,

“Oh, Daddy, please can we stop for donuts afterwards, I promise I'll listen to the sermon.”

My sister and I sat silent, eyes closed, hands bound to our laps, willing the car ride to spare us another five minutes.

“Oh, Annie dear, you look adorable,” my mother would beam from the front seat, hands clutched around my step-father.

“And Seth, very handsome, wouldn't you say David?” She'd ask, nodding her head in my direction. David would grunt, keep his eyes on the road, and squeeze my mother's hand.

When I was in ninth grade, I went to public school and had my first taste of free thought. I spent almost all year in silence, observing every way of life, took notes on how to speak without 14 years worth of lies stuck in the back of my throat. I glued myself to the gym walls, pressed myself against the lockers, begged the student body for answers about who I should be.

I don't think I found a voice that belonged in my own mouth until I was 18, and even still, people tried to cram their fists inside of it, strangle my tongue from speaking it's truth.

My step-dad kicked me out the day after I graduated high school. David didn’t appreciate the way my jaw clenched at the dinner table, as he prayed over Annie and me. He didn’t like the way my fists balled up and collapsed into dust as he said “Amen”. He didn’t like the free will I’d somehow found even after my mother got sick.

I’d spent years in hospitals, watching David exhaust himself day in, day out as he presented Bible verses and Rosary prayers, begging for the cancer to free my mother. But it sunk it's nails deep into her spine, and drug her away inch by inch until she was nothing but a wilted version of herself.

The day she died, a piece of David did as well. He fell silent, betrayed by the man he'd dedicated his whole life to, yet somehow convincing himself it was all part of the plan.

If I had a dollar for every time someone told me, “Seth, honey, everything happens for a reason. Your Mom is in a better place, she's with Him,” I'd have enough to buy twelve cans of lighter fluid, douse the Church and all the people inside, light it, and bail myself out of prison the next day.

People don't give a fuck about you when they talk about grief, it's all about their own selfish self-worth. To lift the guilt off their conscience, free their own soul from silence. To go home that evening, proud to tell God that yes, they confirmed his master plan, they did their time for him and will be rewarded by the blinding gates of Heaven.

This man, this unimaginative being locked behind the clouds, he takes away every personal interaction you could have with someone. He waters it down, and what you’re left with is a pastel colored person, too afraid to think on their own. Too afraid to make decisions without burying their head in the Bible; teachings of ordinary people put on extraordinary pedestals.

So here I am now. Nineteen years old, still living in the same Honda Civic that held the boxes filled with high school yearbooks I loaded in the day I was kicked out. Still taped up and covered by sheets that fit a bed I no longer had. The taillight was kicked out, the windshield had a spiderweb of scratches, the paint had been keyed at least a dozen times. Too broke to afford the car insurance that would replace my rent, I lived in the metal scrap-heap of this car for nearly a year.

Without it, I would be like every other bum on the side of the road, shaking metal cans for coins, holding bent cardboard begging for a second chance I never felt I needed. My home could be anywhere and nowhere all at the same time. I traveled from state to state, filing through odd-jobs found on Craigslist, just enough for gas and coffee.

Today I ended up in Hudson, Wisconsin. I’d driven 36 hours in a row, keeping my eyes still, steady on the road ahead. Speeding past miles of Midwestern farm fields, clouds rolling in the background. Consuming coffee out of my beat-up travel mug, every hot sip jolting me awake. Neither radio static nor radio silence outwinning the other.

I pulled into the gas station parking lot and surveyed the passenger seat, riddled with bright yellow and red food wrappings, soiled napkins and spat-out spearmint gum. I left it. Bringing my hand to the ignition, I tore out the keys and moved myself out of the car. Keeping my hand down, the keys jingled with every step. I made my way into the Shell Station, no greeting. I watched my shoes and walked to the back, eyes fixed on the sticky, spilled-upon tiles. I pushed the plasticy bathroom door open and glanced in the mirror. Thick, bruise-like dark circles under my eyes. Greasy black hair, tied up in a three-day-old knot. Silver hoop, stuck through my right nostril, nostalgia for the day I paid the piercer to piss off David. Dirty. Vagabond. Fine.

I spat into the sink, thick yellow coating the ceramic. I turned the knob to wash it away, and splashed some on my face.

“Shit,” I mumbled to myself, pulling the skin under my eye. I turned my back and began undoing my belt. I took my piss in the hard-watered urinal, tilting my head back at the ceiling.

There was a harsh knock at the door.

“Occupied,” I shouted, husky.

I turned to wash my hands, shaking the water off once I was finished. I opened the door to reveal a young boy, must've been 12, dirty blonde hair, bright orange sneakers, cheerful smile plastered to his face. He squeezed past me, quickly shutting and locking the door behind him. I picked up my eyes and set them on the exit, every step throwing weights into my boots.

I approached my car, eyelids pushing a thousand pounds, suddenly aware of how 36 hours sans-sleep affects the body. I unlocked the back seat, sliding the empty plastic water bottles to the floor as I climbed in. Locked the door behind me. Stretched out my legs across both seats. Collapsed.

I dreamt of that boy from the gas station. Happy, bright, certain. Floating in a plastic tube along the river. Beaming sun, birds chirping, neon orange focus. When I woke up, it was dark. Neon glowed against the sky, jarring my vision. I stretched out my legs, tapping the inside of the car door with my feet. I shifted my weight to one side and pulled out my phone, mindlessly scrolling in an attempt to wake up.

Knock Knock Knock.

My head snapped around at the sound of someone tapping on the window. I cracked the window and squinted out at the man.

“Closing soon. You gotta go,” he stated, firmly. I sighed and rolled the window back up, watching him as he turned back towards the station.

“Shit,” My head fell into my hands. I straightened my back and swung open the door. I grabbed my boots from the floorboards and began lacing them up, feet dangling over the edge of the car.

I got up, stretched my back, and pushed the door shut with my hips. I took a deep breath and tilted my head back. The smell of salt coming from the river nearby swirled itself into the air, dancing around the shadows of the dark parking lot. I pulled up my sleeve and looked at the watch on my wrist. 11:47pm. I was abruptly aware of how hungry I was. Only bars would be open this late for a town of twelve-thousand.

I glanced around, greeted with black silhouettes of houses, juxtaposed by one singular neon sign reading, “OPEN” placed a few blocks down the road. I got into the driver's seat and spun the keys into ignition, driving out onto the street.

“2 hour parking, all hours,” I read, pulling in against the curb of the bar. More than enough time for a meal. I opened the glove box and pulled out my wallet, hoping to have enough for at least a drink. I pulled out the contents and began mumbling the amounts aloud,

“Twenty, forty, fifty,” I paused, “one, two,” I gathered all the bills together, facing them to one side, “Fifty-two,” I said, my eyebrows arching. More than I thought. I slid the money back into my wallet and stuffed it into my pocket. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and got out of the car.

Smoke swirled in front of me, emulsifying into the air from a man dressed in uniform on his cigarette break. I began to walk forward, indistinct chatter growing louder with each step. As I pulled the door open, it came to a crescendo of voices, both physical and digital. The bar was only partially lit as the main light flickered above me, hanging by a metal thread. I was greeted by four loud television sets, each playing a different show, and a group of middle-aged men, t-shirt, khaki shorts, crocs. My face soured.

Half wasted, fully obnoxious, I tried to drone them out as I made my way to the opposite side of the bar. I fished my fake ID, Arizona, out of my wallet and slapped it on the counter. A girl, barely 18, flashed a smile and approached me from behind it.

“What can I get you?” She tilted her head before checking over my ID.

“Rum and coke,” I leaned in towards her.

“Got it,” she winked and turned her back. My eyes drifted down her coke-bottle figure as I caught glimpses of skin through her dark, frayed jeans. Black hair hung over her shoulders in waves, knotted and crisp at the ends. She was petite in size, barely reaching 5 foot and couldn't be over 100 lbs soaking wet.

“Here you go,” her voice radiated as she set down the glass.

“Thank you, Lydia, is it?” I read the name tag pinned to her chest and she nodded, “Could I get a menu?” my finger traced the lip of the glass.

“Of course,” she reached under the counter and placed a laminated sheet in front of me.

“Appreciate it,” I took a sip and began surveying my options, “I’ll just take a burger.”

She smiled and dropped a hip, hair swinging down close enough to graze the bar, “Sure thing.”

I watched the group of men across from me. Clearly drunk, I could sense they’d been here far longer than me. One of them caught my eye and slapped his hand on the bar,

“Hey kid,” he slurred, as his body began collapsing onto the counter, “You’re a little young to be in here, aren’t you buddy?” his friends laughed along as they started to approach me. I straightened my chest and stood up from my seat.

“Need my ID?” I instinctively lowered my tone as I cemented my feet into the carpet.

“Lydia!” Another man called out before clapping a hand onto my back, “He can’t be in here now can he?” his body crashed into mine and I recoiled.

Lydia strolled over, holding a clear-filled glass. “You guys need a little water, I think,” she smiled and leaned into the bar, her shirt lowering, “No need to bother him.”

They clearly shifted their attention to her chest, “Come on, beautiful, you know you only want me,” The tallest man towered over her. His flabby skin bubbled over his jeans and his hair seemed to be pulled out in patches, exposing a sunburnt skull.

“Baby, you know I do,” she played along, though her body tensed, “But I’ll be here tomorrow, guys.”

“But I think I want you right now,” he grinned before attempting to climb over the counter. Each move sent ripples of impact along the bar. Lydia took a step back, eyes widened.

“Hey, come on, don’t bother her,” I pressed a hand against his chest, enough for his balance to collapse. He stumbled into the barstool beside him. It crashed to the floor, noise cracking against the walls.

“Bad move, kid” Another man stepped in front of me, stone-eyed and red-faced.

“Guys, come on, not tonight,” Lydia begged from behind the bar as she took several steps back.

“I didn’t come here for any trouble, alright?” I raised both hands, open-faced.

“Funny, kid, ‘cause I think I did,” his fist blasted against my eye.

My body hit the ground, and I could hear a muffled scream coming from above me. It sounded underwater, a thousand miles away. My eyes struggled to stay open as my vision began to collapse. Circles of black pulsed in front of me and a static radiated around my body. I tried to speak but couldn’t pry my lips open. My eyes folded and the bar fell silent.

When I came to, Lydia was kneeling above me, frantic. Her eyes wide and trembling as tiny beads of sweat dripped down her forehead.

“Oh my god, hello? Are you okay?” she stammered, hands racing over my chest. I opened my mouth to speak, blocked by the feeling of dry cotton spreading down my throat. I began to cough, hurling my body forward.

“Shit, god dammit,” she muttered, springing up onto her feet. She returned with a glass of water, “Drink this,” she handed me the glass as she kneeled back down before tucking her hair behind her ears. I propped myself up and took a sip.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, barely audible.

“He’s fine,” A familiar voice droned on, annoyed.

“Get the fuck out of here, and take your fucking friends,” Lydia shouted, voice shrill and shaky.

“Baby, he doesn’t have to ruin our fun,” he retorted, smile present in his voice, thick as molasses.

“Get out!” She threw her hands down against the carpet. Scuffled shoes and the faint ding of the door bounced in my head before silence fell around me, “I’m so fucking sorry,” she softened her tone.

I smirked, “It’s not your fault.” I began to stand up, world spinning around me. She placed her hand on my elbow, steadying my pace. I took a seat in front of my now-melted drink, and relaxed. Lydia walked behind the counter and into the kitchen. She returned with a burger and slid it towards me. I began scarfing it down, presently aware of how hungry I’d been.

“Jesus,” she chuckled, breaking the tension. I snickered and swallowed the bits of food swirled around my teeth. She walked into the kitchen, returning with a bag of frozen peas.

“Here, you might want this,” she set it on the counter in front of me.

“Thanks,” I took the bag and gently placed it over my eye, “Fuck,” I mumbled, the temperature electrifying its pain.

“Listen, I get off in half an hour, and I don’t think you can drive home,” she said, eyes fixed on the condensation formed around my drink.

“Don’t worry about that,” I shook my head.

“Please, it’s the least I can do,” she begged.

I took another bite of the burger, “I don’t live here.”

“Right,” her forehead scrunched.

“I live in my car.”

“Oh,” her face opened, eyes wide.

“It’s not a new thing,” I chuckled, “Don’t worry.”

“Why?” she tilted her head, “I mean, you have money,” she gestured to the meal in front of me.

I shrugged, “Moved in when my step dad kicked me out, got used to it.”

“When was the last time you slept in a real bed? Or showered?”

I laughed, “Gas stations have showers,” I took another bite of my burger.

“Okay, but the bed thing?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, that’s been awhile,” I nodded and took a long drink of water.

“Do you want to?” she paused, “sleep on a real bed tonight?” her glance caught my lips, then back up to my eyes.

“You really want your tip tonight,” I chuckled, dropping my eyes to my food.

“I’m serious!” she laughed and her octave shot up, “it isn’t like that, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“I could be an axe murderer,” I raised an eyebrow, “you don’t even know my name.”

“I don’t think an axe murderer would take a hit from a 40-year-old in crocs.”

“Harsh,” I winced, “but true. It’s Seth, for the record.”

Once her shift ended, we walked to her car. My temple throbbed alongside my heartbeat as we walked underneath the spotlights sprinkled within the parking lot. The gravel crunched beneath my boots with each step.

“This is me,” we approached a light blue Dodge Neon and she pulled open the driver’s side door. I opened my side and took a seat, feet resting on top of old napkins and used soda cans.

“Sorry for the mess,” she mumbled.

“It’s okay,” I chuckled.

We made a short drive down a dimly-lit road, weaving in and out of the trees that dotted our path. She pulled into the driveway of a small yellow house, porch light gleaming from below the second-story window. She cut the engine and exited the vehicle before turning to grab her purse from the backseat. I followed towards the front door as my shoes slid against the gravel below us. She pushed her key into the front door and opened it.

“I think my roommate’s asleep,” she whispered, gesturing me inside. I nodded and watched as she dumped her purse onto the kitchen table. It was an old house, ripped rosey wallpaper highlighted by the soft glow of the TV. A staircase, cut in half, bridging the living room upwards. The kitchen felt outdated with dingy-colored appliances and yellow-stained countertops. The hum of the fridge grew louder as we walked further inside.

“Want anything to drink?” She asked, shrugging off her denim jacket before placing it alongside her purse.

“Water’s fine,” I took a seat at the table wedged between both sets of counters. She grabbed a plastic cup from the overhead cabinet and filled it with tap water.

“I’ll be right back,” she set the cup down and walked out of the room and up the flight of stairs. I leaned back in my chair as my eyes drifted to the corner TV. It looked to be a Jeopardy rerun, it’s familiar tune whispered around the room. I fixed my eyes to the cup and began to tap against the plastic in time with the music.

Lydia bounced down the staircase wearing a tied-up, crimson colored shirt and black shorts. A tattoo of peonies and vines peaked out from beneath the fabric, light pink and green lines interweaving with her dark olive skin. She took a seat across from me.

“So, you’re not from here,” she stated.

“Correct,” I leaned forward, “Arizona,” She mimicked the action.

“Then what’re you doing here?” she raised an eyebrow.

“Not sure,” I chuckled, “I travel a lot. You’re from here?” I asked, arching my eyebrows.

“Unfortunately,” she laughed and lowered her eyes, “Those men tonight at the bar? That’s the best you can get.”

“Rough,” I laughed and took another sip of water, “Where would you go? You know, if you could go anywhere.”

She pursed her lips, “I guess I don’t know. Alaska, maybe?”

“What’s in Alaska?” I tilted my head.

“It seems quiet, or still. It seems, um, peaceful,” she answered, unsure, “What about you, where would you go? You know, if you had to live somewhere permanently.”

“I’d like New York, I think.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Shit-ton of people.”

I laughed, “Yeah, that’s what I like. Easy to get lost,” I paused, “How long have you lived here?” I gestured around the room.

“Couple months,” she sighed, “It’s not exactly five-star, but it gets me away from my parents,” her face soured.

I mimicked her expression, “You don’t get along with them?”

“Fuck no,” she laughed and relaxed her body. She pulled up her legs and pressed them against her chest.

“Why not?” I grinned.

“They’re, um, very traditional,” she pointed to her tattoo, “didn’t like this.”

“Ah,” I nodded and pointed to my nose ring, “Mine didn’t like this,” I paused, “It’s beautiful though,” I gestured towards her thigh, “the tattoo.”

“Thanks,” she smiled, “peonies were my grandma’s favorite. She passed a few years ago,” her eyes lowered.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, “My mom passed too.”

“Sorry,” she paused, “Shit sucks,” she laughed.

I exhaled, “Yeah.”

“But it’s a different generation, I guess,” she paused, “the tattoo thing.”

“Fuck that,” I rolled my eyes, “You don’t have to be a jackass just because you don't like nose piercings.”

“That’s why you got kicked out?” she rested her chin on her knees.

“No,” I shook my head, “he said I was disrespectful,” I paused, “I think he just didn’t want me after my mom died.”

“Oh,” her face soured.

“Yeah, he’s an ass,” Silence radiated against the table.

“What happened to your biological dad?” She paused, “If you don’t mind me asking?”

“He’s out there, somewhere. Left when my sister was born,” I pressed the cup to my lips.

“Damn, your childhood was depressing,” she said, breaking the tension.

The water caught my laughter and shot itself back into the cup, “Thanks.”

I spent that night wrapped up in her faint pink sheets. The sensation was strange, yet familiar. Anyone else, given my circumstance, would kill for an opportunity to sleep under a roof. To be on top of a mattress, proper access to a bathroom.

But it felt wrong. At least, it felt weird.

I closed my eyes and heard David’s voice, “You’re a fucking failure! What are you gonna do? Live in your fucking car?” I wasn’t here, with Lydia, in Hudson, Wisconsin. I was there, under his roof, behind his word.

I cracked the window open, thick summer humidity clinging to my skin. I don’t know how to get rid of him. No matter where I go or what I do, he’s there. He sees me and he hates me.