The Good Stuff

Randall narrowed his eyes to the bump of his nose as he stumbled down the narrow alley. The putrid stench of old eggs and dirty diapers wafted through the haze of mist coming from the window units of the apartments. Dizzy from the hit, he slumped down between the brick wall and an overflowing dumpster as he choked back the taste of acidic bile and pepperoni pizza. The moisture created by the air conditioning units made the air heavy on his leathery skin. He crawled through the ripped bags of garbage and broken bottles that littered the alley, crouching under the windows until the last of the television lights dimmed. Few boxes and newspapers were dry enough to compose a makeshift shelter until the morning. Randall curled his body into a ball as he swatted the flies and maggots off the cuff of his grimy jeans. His eyes watered with the regret of picking the first heat wave of the Georgia summer to start up old habits. Eventually, he nodded off long enough to wait out his last night on earth.

As the moisture in the air dispersed, Randall awakened gently to the sun's warmth. Time was of the essence as he had a great deal to contend with on the sticky summer morning and the gurgle in his stomach started the time clock. Randall swiftly walked the six blocks to the apartment he shared with his mother. Block one introduced the sweet aroma of sourdough wafting in the air from the neighborhood bakery. By block three, the vertigo hit, and every muscle in his stomach writhed with agony. Block 5 brought on the stabbing sensation in his ribcage. The discomfort in his lower abdomen switched from sharp pains to unbalanced sloshing. He urgently turned down his street and rushed toward his building. His clammy hands were shaking as he tried to fit the key in the old brass lock; the doorknob was slimy in his sweaty palm. Randall raced to the kitchen, stammering around for a bucket for some ice doubling over in pain as the cramping flared up. He braced himself against the walls of the hallway. Randall reached the bathroom and flung the ice into the empty tub, the cubes clanking and sliding across the porcelain. They bobbed to the surface as he filled the bathtub with cold water. In his mind, nothing compared to the agony of withdrawal, so Randall submerged his fully clothed body into the ice bath, flipped the temperature to hot, and let the tiny needles of scalding water beat down his body. He bit down on his inner cheek to endure the shock to his muscles. As the torment subsided and felt his frame relaxing. He eased open his mouth and swirled a small pool of blood in his mouth before spitting it into the empty bucket. He peeled his grimey clothing off and flung it on the tile, finally a moment at ease.

His muscles released the grip on his organs and bones. He once again felt equilibrium. After placing the soggy clothes in the hamper, Randall pulled a tan jumpsuit over his pale legs while awkwardly maneuvering his arms into the sleeves. He used two fingers to scoop a glob of grease from the yellow tin on his vanity and slicked back the loose strands of hair from his face. He paused to admire the jagged scar on his throat that crossed from ear to ear. His fingers traced the raised bump and he paused at the memory of its origin. The scar served as a permanent reminder of who not to piss off in the drug world. Tears pooled as he examined his sunken blue eyes, which once shimmered brilliantly, were now dull and cloudy.

“I need to eat.” He whispered somberly to his reflection.

The coffee pot gurgled and churned the beans into hot sticky syrup. The yolk of the egg bled over the whites as it sizzled on the pan. The butter squealed as it shriveled up in the bath of butter. The sun’s beams splayed through the mini blinds on the window above the sink.

“I have to get lightbulbs today.” He remembered, reaching for a moderately clean coffee mug.

Even in the early morning, the hallways of Edisto University hummed with chatter. Professors gathered in the dining hall over coffee and muffins. The only students Randall saw were the freshmen who ambitiously signed up for 8 am classes. They dragged their bodies into the dining hall, forcing smiles and hellos to their ornery professors. Randall enjoyed observing the freshmen fumble through their first year like awkward baby giraffes stumbling around trying to navigate the treacherous waters of academia. Randall started working at Edisto 6 years prior. Even though the freshmen follies entertained him, he secretly admired the ones who survived their first year. It was more than he had accomplished.

Randall wheeled his cart into the dining hall as everyone started to leave when a flash of gold and red caught the corner of his eye. He paused for a moment to read the information. The question “Is this your best self?” in a bright yellow font surrounded by red flowers piqued his interest and he continued to read the information.

“A wellness convention?” He shook the ridiculous idea from his thoughts. He reached the first table to clear the trash. Folded into a square and tucked under a napkin holder was another flier. Randall placed the square in his pocket and decided to do more research on this program. Upon further investigation, Randall found the organization conducting this conference posed no real threat relieving him of his worry it was a cult. The last thing he wanted was to be a slave to another obsession.

Randall stopped, hesitant to open the doors to the community center, and reexamined the flier to confirm this was the correct address. Exhausted by the defeat of his thoughts, he mustered the courage to walk in the door, rationalizing how his life could not deteriorate any more than it already had. Much to his surprise, there was a decent-sized crowd. He recognized some people from campus and hoped they wouldn't recognize him and break the comfort of the invisible barrier between him and the world. He survived the refreshment table without a glance of recognition and shuffled to a row of folded chairs a few feet away from the podium, coffee and muffin in hand.

The lights in the convention room dimmed. The heavy boom of a timpani startled Randall and caused him to spill his first sip of coffee down his nice button-down shirt. “Is this a Tony Robbins thing?” He questioned himself.

“In Japanese culture, there is a belief that people all wear three masks,” A disembodied voice boomed from the surround sound. “One we show to others,” The voice continued as a stilt walker crept down the aisle of the divided audience. The person stood about ten feet in the air, swooshed their arms around in circles while red scarves billowed around them, only allowing a glimpse of the crudely carved theater mask with a giant crooked smile.

“One is who we believe ourselves to be.” the voice echoed as the second performer lurked down the aisle. This performer also wore a wooden mask with a crudely drawn expression. Their walk was less boastful, and they crept suspiciously down the walkway swinging their arms back and forth in a more concealing fashion.

“The third is the mask of our true selves.” The phantom voice sounded more ominous as they introduced the final performer. The audience looked up expecting another stilt giant, but the final performer briskly walked to the front of the stage using their natural legs. This person's mask was uncarved, the teak wood illuminated by the stage lights.

“So I ask you, how can we be our best selves when our true self is a mystery to us.” This time the speaker appeared at the podium. The booming voice of a man was now the voice of a woman. The speaker gleaned the audience, her brown shoulder-length hair bobbing as she met their gaze. Her eyes leveled with Randall's lifeless blue ones. Although she recognized him, she never broke her stride. Randall, however, developed an immediate sense of dread and shame when he recognized the speaker as his former lover Annabelle.

Unsure of how to behave, Randall debated with himself on whether or not to leave. If he stayed, he risked an unwanted confrontation with the woman he blamed for his current condition. If he left, he would draw an immense amount of unwanted attention from the crowd, many of whom he knew from the university. While battling with his inner turmoil, Annabelle proceeded to preach from her podium, her words washed out by the noise of Randall’s anxious thoughts.

Annabelle and Randall met at Emory where they both studied political science. When Randall’s father passed away, Annabelle felt ill-equipped to help her grieving partner, both of them burying themselves in distractions to avoid facing the difficult conversations. What started as a playful and loving romance, dwindled into a spiteful toxic dynamic between two addicts. Randall dropped out of school, took up petty theft to fund his habits and his once-promising future grew bleak. His rock bottom came when the police showed up at his mother’s apartment with a warrant for his arrest. Randall sat in jail for 90 days, using the time to convince himself Annabelle turned him in for his criminal acts. Although this later proved to be true, Annabelle defended the decision as one to save his life, a decision Randall could never forgive.

The daunting path of sobriety forced Randall to move back home with his mother. He once hoped for a career as an attorney, and now he found himself the custodian at a community college. He carried the guilt and shame of his past and isolated himself from his former associates even if they proved to be good influences. He managed almost 5 years clean until last night when he came home from work to find his mother on the couch, she passed in her sleep.

Randall snapped back to the present as Annabelle voiced her gratitude to the crowd and instructed them to the refreshments table for more literature. His eyes darted around the room hoping for an easy escape. Many people were restless and bolted for the exit at the conclusion. Some people lingered around, eager to speak to Annabelle who worked the room as a meet and greet. Randall started toward the exit when one of the freshmen from Edisto charged in his direction.

“Don’t you go to Edisto, you look familiar? She inquired.

“I, uh, I work there.” Randall’s shaky voice managed to reply.

“Oh yeah, the janitor at Oxnard hall.” only catching herself after the words left her mouth. “I didn’t mean uh-”

Randall jumped as he felt the palm of Annabelle's hand on the small of his back. “Sorry to interrupt” She gracefully intruded.

“No, I was leaving” the student excused as she backed away from the tense situation Annabelle stepped in front of Randall, “I didn’t think this was your kind of thing. How are you?”

With a smile on his face, Randall drew his shoulders back and cleared his throat. “I’m great .” Randall lied, “how about yourself?”