Because it Isn’t Part 3
Brian’s throat stung. He tried again to swallow hardened phlegm. Still half obstructed from consciousness, his alarm clock sounded and felt like a wailing infant and Brian grabbed its shoulders, ready to shake it, shake it quiet, when his wife not gently shook his shoulder, saying
“Come on honey, wake up. It’s almost noon and Thomas has to be at class in an hour.” Brian grunted, scowling into his pillow. She paused, knowing he wasn’t going to move but raised with enough naivety to give him a chance,
“Please, can we not go through this every saturday. This is the only thing I ask you to do all week, so I can get some work done at the house.”
And when Brian finally did rise, silently, determined to say more, to project more with his eyes than any words could do, Chriss projected a soft smile, a real thank you, a sympathetic thank you, a love thank you because she felt as though it was her who almost instigated that fight. And the deafening hatred for her that blazoned from his coke-lacking face was enough to annihilate that smile.
Brian dressed quickly, buttoning a salmon shirt as he shoved his feet into his wingtips. He left the bedroom tucking the back of his shirt under his slacks and as his brain finally accepted its awakened state, giving him some chemicals to get his day started, Brian’s anger was given a temporary reprieve. Thomas was at the kitchen table eating a peanut butter sandwich when Brian arrived.
“Hey daddy!” he exclaimed, taking a moment to offer a wide smile lacking one upper tooth and a wave. Brian ruffled Thomas’ hair on his way to the stove where Chrissy was finishing a pile of french toast.
“Hey champ, you ready for your lesson?” Brian took the plate from Chrissy, giving her a kiss on the cheek. As his face neared he could see remnants of a recent tear but he ignored them.
“Yeah dad, I finished rock-a-billy yesterday. I can’t wait to show Mrs Shawns.” Thomas proudly held out his guitar book to Brian, pointing to a short melody designed for a beginner guitarist. For a moment, Brian’s headache belched “Whoopie-fuckin-doo” but he stifled it, saying
“That’s great buddy. Maybe you can play it for me after your lesson.”
But instead of playing audience to Thomas’s rough and could be considered pathetic even for a child of his age attempts at emulating Hendrix, Brian raced towards the office. His headache was no longer an impending avalanche, it was full blown halfway down the mountain carrying a city block of screaming bruised and bloodied children. He didn’t have time to waste fucking around with over the counters so he spent an hour getting Jefferey on the phone and was on his way to pick up five grams, enough coke, he figured to get him through the weekend. Within the short walk from the elevator to his office, Jefferey had learnt that the contract with Creditor’s Billing Corporation had been a complete failure, and he was deadlined to get a new one in the lawyers’ circle by five oclock monday. He didn’t even unlock his office, instead stopping abruptly so that his secretary almost stumbled into him, dropping his jacket and briefcase against the door, and walked back to the elevator. The phone was already dialing Jefferey when he hit the elevator call, turning to his bewildered secretary:
“I’ll be right back. Deal with any fucking phone calls.”
Every waking second was too precious to spend sleeping, eating, or functioning at the rate of a drugless human being.
