Lithium, Chptr. 4 – Xperience Fiction

Lithium, Chptr. 4 – Xperience Fiction – by Liam Sweeny.

Larry was at the door at eight-thirty a.m. with the eviction order in his hand and an Albany County sheriff in tow. This told Mel that the fight to keep his home would be Ali-Frazier. It also told him he wouldn’t have an ounce of leeway.

They hadn’t woken Mel or Andy up. Mel met the crack of dawn wide-eyed, and he dressed to the sound of the early birds. He set about moving as many of his possessions into the bedrooms as possible.

He’d considered moving it all into the living room, thereby making it harder for Larry to turn him down, but Larry would’ve seen the aggression in that move. Mel didn’t have enough money in his hands to overcome a standoff. So he figured putting everything in the bedrooms might convince Larry he was trying to prepare. He had to hope it was enough to soften his heart and open his ears.

He got everything moved in his bedroom except for the big pieces of furniture; the couch, bookcase, entertainment center and his family hope chest, which he’d have to find a place for should none of it work out.

Andy woke up at seven-thirty looking rough and ragged. It broke Mel’s heart that the kid couldn’t sleep. His heartache wrapped itself around the guilt of the knowledge that he got them there. He had one job that any other job supported, and that was being a parent. He took a luxury of letting his illness pull him off the employment rolls, and now they were a hair’s distance away from the street. He remembered his doctor saying once that the illness wasn’t his fault, but it was his problem.

It was a problem that needed to be solved by a mind without a problem. That was the bitch of it.

They ate breakfast in bursts of conversation. Andy would ask a question that Mel could barely answer; Mel would make a best guess, and Andy would say ‘Oh,’ returning his eyes to his cereal bowl.

After breakfast, they sat opposite each other on the carpet in the mostly empty living room, feet out, rolling a basketball between them.”

“Can we have pizza tonight?”

“Depends, kiddo,” Mel said. “If Larry takes my money and lets us stay and make it up, we’re gonna have to stick to what we have in the kitchen, and we might have to stretch that until I can find a job.”

“How long will that be?”

“Not long. If I have to work at Master Burger again, I’ll get them to take me back. I might have to work a lot until we pay Larry back. Will you be okay if I give you a key, letting yourself in, cooking your own dinner?”

“I can handle it. I was doing that when you were so sick you didn’t come out of your room. Remember?”

“Sadly, yes,” Mel said. “Let’s hope I don’t ever get that sick again. I haven’t since my new medicine, so…”

“Will I ever get sick like that when I grow up?”

“I hope not, kiddo,” Mel said. “I hope to God not.”

 

Andy was packing up his room, just in case Larry knocked on the door. Mel felt magnetism in his stomach pulling it to and fro along the lower edge of his ribcage. He opened the door to see Larry, the eviction order, and the sheriff.

“You know what today is, Mel,” Larry said.

“Yeah. You want me out.” Mel reached for his wallet. “What if I can make a deal with you?”

“Do you have everything you owe me?”

“Not that much, but-,”

“Do you have anything you owe me?”

“Well, I have some, but not enough.”

“How much do you have?”

Mell pulled the six hundred out of his pocket. “I have six hundred,” he said. “I had a job that would’ve paid a thousand, but it fell through at the last minute. I can get something else…”

“Well, give me what you got, and I’ll take it off of what you owe.”

“Thank you, Larry.” Mel gave him the six hundred-dollar bills. “I can get the rest, and we’ll be square. And I won’t fall behind again, I-,”

“Fall behind?” He held up the paper. “What do you think this is?”

“An eviction notice?” Mel said.

“An eviction order,” Larry said. “You’re out of here. It’s legal. We had months to make arrangements. You, legally,” he glanced back at the sheriff’s deputy. “Legally have seventy-two hours to get your stuff out. But I’m turning off the power and water before I leave this morning. Then in three days, I get a dumpster out here, and it all goes.”

“But you took my six-hundred dollars.”

“Yeah, you owe me twenty-six hundred dollars.”

“I need that money to get a motel if I can’t still live here.”

“Should’ve thought of that,” Larry said.

Mel’s head caught on fire, the blood combusting in the capillaries in his temple. He grabbed the sides of his head to keep the dizziness from setting in. He knew the rage and the anxiety would take him away from the scene, and he couldn’t afford to zone out in front of them.

“What am I gonna do?” Mel said. “We’re homeless.” He turned around to gain some more composure, and he saw Andy right behind him.

“Dad, do we have to live in a hotel?”

Mel was speechless until the truth filtered out.

“No, we’re not,” Mel said. “We can’t afford a motel. I gave Larry the money to stay here, but he just took it.”

Andy almost immediately teared up. He dropped the basketball and started sobbing.

“Why did you have to give Larry your money, dad? He doesn’t need it. We need it.”

Larry said, “Look, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Mel said. “Don’t you worry. I’ll just grab some good clothes and we’ll be out. By the way, you didn’t need a sheriff.”

Mel shut the door and hugged Andy. He took him to his room, where they picked out good, sturdy warm clothes, and any keepsakes he could fit in a small bookbag. Then they went to Mel’s room and did the same. They had three days to come back, so they didn’t take long to decide on things. Mostly they packed for the night.

They walked down the stairs and out the front door, where Larry was standing with his back to them. The sheriff’s deputy was at the curb, looking anywhere but at them. Mel and Andy started down the road, having to pass by Larry on their way.

“Wait, hold on a second,” he said.

Mel turned back to see Larry fumbling through his wallet. He pulled back a stack of bills, thinner than the one he was given.

“Take this, get a motel for a couple of days,” he said. “I’m keeping two hundred to cover the trash removal. I don’t see you getting all, or any of it out.”

Mel took the money and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Sorry it didn’t work out,” he said.

Larry glanced back at the sheriff’s deputy. “Yeah, me too.”

 

***

 

There’s the cold of thermometers and perky weather-people on the morning forecast, and there’s the temperature that hangs relative to a person’s situation. Sitting in the apartment, forty degrees was a welcome reprieve from months of cold. A breeze in the upper thirties was refreshing when the sun was out. But it was thirty-eight degrees on the dashboard as they were driving the highway, fleeing the security of what they yesterday called home, and every degree breached Mel’s clothes and ate at his warmth.

Andy was thumbing through his fantasy cards, a box of which was the bulk of what he brought along in his bookbag. Mel always got on him for wasting money on a fad, but he was relieved that Andy had something to keep his mind off their new reality.

He passed by First National’s advertising billboard, which told the time and the temperature and he realized that, in some instances, cash wasn’t king. If they were going to get a motel, they needed at least some of their money on a card. They’d been running around picking up essentials for a couple of hours; the bank was almost closed. He turned off at the next exit and played chicken with red lights to get there, losing every round.

When they got there, the lot was packed, and cars were clogging the drive-thru, He wouldn’t dare hit the drive-thru and get caught between two cars and be unable to get out. Waiting; moreover, being trapped waiting, could send his heart to lodge between his lungs and his throat, wrenching both.

“Why are we here?” Andy said. “Do you have other money?”

“Not much.”

“Are you gonna rob it?”

“Wiseacre, no,” he said. “I need to put money in our account, so I have some on the debit card. Motels don’t always take cash.”

“Can I go in?”

“If you want to, bud. You have to start seeing the adult life someday.” Mel regretted saying it. Andy had seen more of the adult life than any eleven-year-old kid should ever have to.

They hopped out of the minivan and walked in. Mel fished his debit card out of his wallet. He never remembered his account number, but the debit card, plus his password, and he could get in. Besides; he was depositing. He imagined the security would be tighter if he was trying to withdraw.

“So how much money do we have in the bank?” Andy asked.

“Oh, I don’t know, twenty bucks? I pay our bills with money orders, I did when we had money anyway. I haven’t used this account in months.”

They stood in line behind three people, two extra people were waiting in the waiting area, and the three cubicles for fancy bank business were full. That was everybody minus the tellers, who seemed all to be working. Mel took a breath.

“How many people, dad?” Andy asked.

“Fifteen,” Mel said. “Thanks for asking.” Andy had no conception of panic and the need for tricks to calm down. He just knew his dad counted people, and if he was around, he would ask how many. The kid could count. His algebra homework was beyond anything Mel had any experience with.

The line moved slowly, as nobody had anything straightforward to do. When Mel finally got to the counter, he was taking deep breaths through his nose. Something about banks took it out of him.

“How can I help you?”

Mel shuffled his debit card and two bills forward.

“I’d like to put two-hundred in my account.”

“Sure, let me just look you up.” Clacking keys. Her mouth crinkled; she looked puzzled.

“Sir, I’m afraid the bank closed out this account.”

“How’s that? I had money in there.”

“You had… seven dollars and fifty-three cents as of June. A service fee of ten dollars and an annual fee of fifteen dollars brought you into overdraft. Then, an overdraft fee, then another. They closed your account with three-hundred-and-seventy-five dollars in overdraft fees to keep you from incurring more.”

“So I had seven fifty and six months later, spending no money, I owe you three-hundred seventy-five bucks?”

“You would’ve received a few notices in the mail.”

“I… thought those were statements. You guys are always sending me stuff.”

“Those kind of notices say ‘Account Information’ on them,” she said.

“So now, how can I get money on a card?”

She pursed her lips. “You wouldn’t be able to do it today,” she said. “Even if you can get another account, which you couldn’t do here, a card would take seven- to ten business days.”

“Unbelievable,” Mel said. He leaned over the counter, swore the teller leaned back. He rested his forearm on the edge of the counter.

“Look,” he said. “Me and my son got evicted today. We need a motel room, and most of them need a card. Can you help me?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “There’s no way we can get you a card here. Have you thought of a pre-paid card?”

“Do they work?”

“They might. Wouldn’t hurt. And worst case, you can withdraw the money out of an ATM.”

Mel thanked her, knowing he wouldn’t get any lifelines. He knew plenty about prepaid cards, except whether motels would take them, He figured there were some motels that would take an eighth of good pot for a room, but he wanted to keep Andy out of those motels if he could help it.

They stopped off at the Acorn on Fifth Street in Troy and bought an almost-debit card for five bucks. With a one-hundred-and ninety-five-dollar load, they took off for what they hoped would be the final leg of the day’s journey. If the bank was any indication, Mel knew they were in a world that would shut its doors on them with smiles-turned-crinkly faces and a bouquet of “sirs” and “Mr, Millers”.

They tried three motels that wouldn’t take a prepaid card and had to settle upon a twelve-room motor lodge whose phone-absorbed front desk clerk didn’t bother to glance the card before sticking it in the reader.

They pulled out in front of Room Seven. Mel held two keys on a fat plastic keychain, and they began their stay at the Dutch River Motel.

 

***

 

Mel took a shower as Andy learned how to use the motel remote. The water pressure was strong enough to sand-blast his chest, but he figured better strong than weak. The heat was good, and hopefully wouldn’t hit fire and ice in the middle of the time it took him to clean up. He didn’t think to grab toiletries when they left the apartment, so he settled for a quarter inch puck of courtesy soap that didn’t actually come from Dutch River Motel.

He had three days to go back and load the minivan with things they universally needed, which he seemed to discover only then that they didn’t have them. He hadn’t even grabbed Andy’s toothbrush, or for that matter, anything in either the kitchen or the bathroom. Having a home meant having space to put things that one would be destined to take for granted. But minus the sleeping area of the back two seats, should it come to it, the minivan’s vaunted storage space was worth its weight in gold. Or gas, admittedly, now a greater treasure.

He toweled off and walked out in the bedroom to find Andy sitting on the bed bouncing around, watching The Brain Gang, a show about a group of teenagers solving tough problems. Despite its name, it was a more adult show than more people realized. Mel had seen them conquer safe sex, meth addiction, and human trafficking. He thought more than once of putting it behind a parental blocker, but he would have had to ask Andy how to do it. He figured that wouldn’t be fair.

“What are they solving today?” He asked.

“They found a handicapped kid that’s getting treated like crap, so they took him to hang out,” Andy said. “Now they can’t go everywhere they want to.”

“Imagine how bad it is every day for the handicapped kid.”

“I think that’s the point, dad.” Andy bounced off the bed and went to the window, pulling open the flimsy curtain and revealing much more sun than there was when they showed up. It was the last spark of the sun’s descent.

“There’s two kids outside playing street hockey. Can I go out until it turns dark?”

“I don’t know, we just got here. I was thinking of going to the Acorn down the street and picking up a couple of subs.”

“Their subs suck,” Andy said. “They’re soggy cause they put too many tomatoes on them.”

“I could get their pizza. They still have the carousel spinning this late.”

“I’ll get a sub if that deal is still good.”

“Tell you what,” Mel said. “We’ll go get two subs, come back and eat, and if there’s any daylight left, you can go out.”

Andy did a dance the likes of which didn’t exist or belong on any accredited dancefloor, and he grabbed his coat. Mel’s cue to do likewise. They left the television on in the empty room as they left for the Acorn. It felt good to not worry about the electric bill.

 

Mel gathered up the wrappers and stray shreds of lettuce to throw them in the tiny wastepaper basket on the side of the outer bed. Andy was outside with the two boys, playing goalie against both, and the streetlamps had just come on. Andy would argue that he could still wring some daylight out of the sky. Mel was tired; Andy would win himself ten more minutes, at least.

A man walked in front of the window, and the edge of his shadow hovered there, putting him in front of the door. Three swift knocks, almost soft. Mel walked over to the door and opened it a crack.

“That your boy over there?”

“Yeah.” The crack widened to full open. “Is there something wrong?”

“Oh, no. I’m Gregory. I’m the other kids’ father. I just figured I’d come over and introduce myself.” He had a shopping bag, which Mel would discover held a six-pack.

“Five o’clock,” Gregory said. “Want to toast the day?”

“I can’t drink, not really,” Mel said. “Thanks, though.” Gregory stood still, like Mel was still deciding. “I have a coffee; I’ll join you with that.”

“Ayup.” Gregory cracked open a can and leaned up against the grill of an old Cutlass parked out front. Mel poked his head out, looked left and right, and walked out to get within ‘buddy space’ of his new acquaintance.

“You rollin’ through?”

“You could say that,” Mel said. “You?”

“I got a golden ticket,” Gregory said. “Got no place, so they’re shuffling me and the boys ‘round.”

“You’re homeless?”

“For the moment, and a few moments before that. Been a little while, but we’re looking at a nice two bedroom, once the list catches us.”

Mel took a sip of his coffee, already dipping to room temperature, which was still slightly warmer than where they stood.

“We just got evicted,” he said.

“Oh yeah?”

“I fell behind on rent, so we’re gonna’ have to rough it until I can get up on my feet again.”

“Tough with a kid, man,” he said. “Tough with two. I’ll tell you right now something I wish I listened to when it was told to me… maybe you’ll do better.”

“What’s that?”

“Get every bit of help you can,” Gregory said. “Eat it up. If you catch good breaks, the system around here can get you set up – job, at least a room, medical, and just helping you get more help, cause the red tape is a mother, and they got people who pleasure sail in red tape. Take it. Grab it. Get it all.”

“You can’t get it now?” Mel said.

Gregory sighed. “You get in the, uh, land of the dispossessed, you make an impression, and you hope it’s good, but… some drama follows you around like a dog.”

“You seem cool to me.”

Gregory laughed. “It’s only my first beer,” he said. “But look, you ever hear of Helping Hands, in Troy?”

“Yeah, I donated blankets there once.”

“If you’re new to this shit, go there, go there quick. They can help you. They ain’t too bad.”

“So go there?”

“That’s who gave me my golden ticket,” Gregory said. He tipped his beer to the dusk and let gravity take over. “They are good to the hood.”

Andy and Gregory’s boys started back to the motel.

“One more thing,” Gregory said. “Cops are going to look for you if your boy’s out of school with no excuse. If a cop doesn’t do a welfare check on your boy by tomorrow morning, call him in sick. Gotta keep that up.”

“I didn’t even think of that,” Mel said. Gregory opened a fresh beer.

He chuckled. “Get used to that feeling.”

 

 

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