Time Of No Reply - Chapter Three

TIME OF NO REPLY

Copyright 2012 by Carroll Bryant

All rights reserved

This is a short story written by Carroll Absolom Bryant. Re-posting or copying this work on your blog or website without Carroll Bryant's permission is strictly prohibited and subjected to prosecution under law. All rights to this story belong to Carroll Bryant. Any or all pictures posted in accordance with this story has been done so with the permission of those who hold the copyrights to those pictures and or are considered public domain under the Creative Commons attribution laws.

CHAPTER THREE

Remy gets up earlier than normal. A horrible mandate for an insomniac. His prescriptions are running low. He must walk to the Doctors office. It will take him three hours one way. Sometimes he gets lucky and a kind soul will offer him a ride. It would be a shame if today, kindness were extinct.

Optimism reigns briefly when one comes up from behind. He turns to look. Sometimes, making eye contact will humanize the plight. It is Joey. She does not extend any generosity. The road to soul continues to elude her.

It isn’t entirely her fault. She isn’t driving. The strange man is. They do slow down, but only enough to allow her to look at him through the rolled up window. He is convinced that this is purposely of her doing. It’s just something she would do for spite to get under his skin. Another hapless tease. A moment defined in slow motion.

Pulling away, she climbs over her seat and into the back. She keeps her eyes on him during the entire episode. She smiles throughout, gloating, no doubt. Oh, how she loves that power. That control. Just like a dominatrix would. And as expected, the world would not acquiesce to his demands. Instead, it dances around his very existence. And while his walk continues, the whole experience leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. A taste that could be best described as an abandoned port-o-potty. For Remy, this could have been the final straw. Her vicious act of defiance was nothing short of a menacing malice of betrayal. He forgives her. He loves her still. She will always be his angel. The journey is hardly over.

Remy sits patiently in the waiting room. There are others more in need than he. That’s been the story of his life thus far. He dreamt of revenge every now and then. Why must his emergency always be vile? It’s as though his concerns are disconcerting. Illusory. If you’re not beautiful outside, then there is nothing inside for you to feel.

He exchanges a blank stare with a little boy. Remy guesses him to be nine years old. He is a Negro. Remy connects with him anyway. The little boy places his fingers in the sides of his mouth and stretches it as far as he can and sticks out his tongue. This action speaks volumes. Remy often yearns for a substance induced reaction. His blank stare would have to suffice for now.

By Cristy Quinn

The little boys mother appears to be in her mid thirties. She is a hefty woman. Her eyes reflect the dire straights of her future. He feels sorry for her. It must be difficult to be a Negro.

Moments such as these, when he is waiting for to be recognized, Remy takes advantage by reflecting. His wait will be long and he is prepared. He attempts to conjure up dead spirits from his past. If he wishes hard enough and clicks his heels, they might just free him from his bondage.

As a young boy, he made plenty of friends with imaginary things. He was the center of his own ineptness. He roamed the fields of perpetual bliss, holding hands with the goddess of sin. He was popular in the way of make-believe that he never achieved in reality. Sometimes, he feared that one day his mind wouldn’t know the difference. And if that was to be, would everything look prettier within that state of unconsciousness? Or would they resemble something much darker? More sinister? Less emotional? They might reflect the present, he feared.

The questions always seem to overwhelm the answers. For Remy, answers are like true love – nonexistent. The truest form of love was the bond he has with his mother, Cecilia. It has occurred to him that she too, has faculty issues. Perhaps that is where he inherited his own. His late father wasn’t exactly a genius either. Why do they allow the poor and down-trodden to procreate?

 And time continues to drag by like a lazy cloud in a lazy sky while the wind takes a much needed vacation. And the rain is the bastard child of the moment. Imagine if you got everything you ever wanted, then there would be nothing else left for you to receive in this world. You would be as lively as a vampire at high noon.

 Halfway back home, it begins to rain. Drizzles at first, then comes the storm. It was only fitting that this be his fate. He brought this on himself. Why couldn’t he be somebody cool? Like the man who drives the car that transports Joey?

Remy would never sing for his supper. He never helps his neighbor. He will never do what is proper. Or, his fair share of labor. He is a poor boy. While others count their coins, he will throw them over his shoulder. Nobody knows how cold it grows. And nobody sees how shaky his knees. Nobody cares how steep his stairs. And nobody smiles if he crosses their stiles. Oh, poor boy, so sorry for himself. Oh, poor boy, so worried for his health. You may say everyday - where will he stay tonight?

Remy stands on his front porch the following afternoon, inches from the edge of the stairs. The rain continues to pour, both outside and - inside. Nothing was coming out to play on this day, except for Mr. Disarray. He saw no hide or hair of Joey. Not that he was anticipating. But he was.

He just stands there, taking drag after drag off his cigarette, watching the sky cry the tears it needed to release in order to be happy again soon. Cecilia pops her head out for a chore. “Time for lunch.” While that sounded fine to him, he had a hidden agenda to execute. In his fleshy and hostile manner, he executed it perfectly.

Remy walks down the stairs and a few feet into the yard. He looks up to the sky, spreading his arms wide and opening his mouth. He pretends the rain-drops were Joey’s tears. For these few precious moments - he is happy and fulfilled. They never tasted any better. He has tasted them before. Damn that evil bitch! She deserves everything that Remy dishes out. And then some.

He looks back at the dreary house. It crosses his thoughts a time or two to just up and leave. Forget everything and go make a name for himself. He bets the big city would welcome him with open arms. He believes this whole heartedly. He could go to New York town and become somebody who is dapper and dandy, proper even. That would teach her a lesson, he concludes, walking back towards the porch to enjoy another lost moment in time, and another fried chicken meal.

The hours procreate.

Remy lifts a few pills to his mouth. He is tired and really needs to sleep tonight. He refuses to wash them down with a glass of water. They are bitter. He is accustomed to bitterness. The bitter, the better. Bitter is home to him. The rain continues its onslaught. God is extremely angry right now and has been all day long. Remy is placing a bet though that Joey is safe, and warm - and dry. And very much satisfied.

The devil is celebrating.

Once he swallows the pills, he ventures out to the kitchen and opens a cupboard door. He reaches up to the top shelf and latches onto an acquaintance. One he hasn’t seen for a short while. Bringing it down, he closes the door and heads back to his bedroom. He moves with intent. He walks to the phonograph in the corner and puts on a record before lying down on his bed. He twists the top of the bottle off and takes a drink. The whiskey goes down his throat more smooth than the pills did and yet, equally as sour.

He channels in on Joey. Where has she gone? Why stay away for such a long time? She has done this before, but it was so long ago – the last time. Just when he thought he was making progress. Hope is a damsel in distress within a pair of ravishing arms. He has tried so many times to talk himself out of feelings for her. Who does he think he is? Who could he possibly rescue?

An agitated demon haunts the attic of his heart. His dilly-dally days have left him spent and deprived. His soul is about as wide as the Pillars of Hercules where in between, instead of a calm blue ocean, there lie broken glass and shattered diamonds.

His eyes are soon dilated, a sure indication that she is almost gone from his mind, even if for just a few glossy hours. The pills will ensure he sleeps. The whiskey ensures he won’t dream. The storm outside ensures a better tomorrow, which is just another way of saying that everything will return to normal. For reasons unbeknownst to him, he is excited for that prospect - and depressed. He is contradictory.

God is angry. The devil is not.