Inspired by Orpheus 3.3
February 1988
I stood in front of Tom's apartment door, with the number 222 staring back at me. After I knocked, I heard a slight commotion coming from his apartment before sickening silence and heavy footsteps headed to the door.
Judy had visited him the day before, but she said that she wasn't able to get Tom to leave or even have a night-in with her. I hoped that I would be able to get him out and have some fresh air, hopefully assist him in anyway that I can. I didn't really know what to do to help him.
The door opened and Tom was standing in front of me. He wore a blue and white flannel with the short sleeves rolled up, and only buttoned in the middle. He had no pants on, but was wearing tall white socks and light blue boxers. His shirt was covered in wrinkles and grease stains, and his usual nice hair was messy. And not teenager messy. It was messy messy. I smiled pleasantly and asked, "bad time?"
"No— uh, what do you... what's up?" He asked.
"I didn't mean to show up unannounced, but you said I could call and you didn't pick up."
"I said you could call, I didn't say I would answer. I've been keeping to myself a bit, it's the only way I know how to deal with everything. Sorry, my phone has been off the hook lately so I unplugged it."
"Oh."
He scratched the back of his head and he asked, "do you want some water? Or something to eat?"
"No, I'm fine," I said.
"What can I do for you?"
"May I come in?" I asked.
He closed the door a little more but he said, "yeah— no, it's fine."
Tom's girlfriend Amy died about a week ago, and they had been dating for a couple of months. There was a robbery at a store they were at one night, and she got shot right in front of him. He returned to work a couple days ago, with a personality of a Care-Bear. He was very friendly with a smile for everyone. He is never that expressive with his happy emotions so we all immediately knew that something was seriously wrong.
"I've missed you. It's lonely at the chapel, I'm just watching the hours slowly go by."
A small smile perked up his dry lips and he said, "I've missed you too."
"I just wanted to invite you out for dinner," I said with a chipper attitude, "get you out of your apartment for a little bit. My treat."
"I'm fine," he said with a fake smile. His eyes looked lazy, like he wasn't even looking at me.
"We can take a walk together around the lake, or we can go for a little drive just listening to music. We can go to that Italian place that just opened up downtown that you've been talking about. Or we can go to the movies. The drive-in is playing House of Horror's for its 46th anniversary."
"Might be a little cold for an outdoor movie," he joked with a small smile. He was sounding a little more like himself again.
I smiled back. "Just me and you. Whatever you want to do, I'm down."
"That's really sweet of you, but that's okay."
"We can walk over to that really good bagel place on the corner, walk around for a little bit then we can come back and just hangout here until you get tired of me," I suggested. If I can just get him outside for a few minutes, it'll be a win in my book.
"I could never get tired of you, but I just want to stay home today."
"Are you sure?" I asked sweetly.
"I think I'd know," he snapped. His smile faded.
"I'm not saying you don't," I defended, hoping to diffuse the situation before it escalated. "You just... you aren't yourself."
"I've been normal."
"Everyone is worried about you. People are asking where you have been."
Where he has been physically... mentally... and emotionally.
"I'd just rather be home right now," he said.
"Okay, then we can watch a movie here or we can play a board game."
"No, that's all right," he said. He was making this difficult.
"Tom, I am right here for you. Just let me in, please." I tried to plead with him with my eyes.
Tom finally stepped aside and I walked into his living room. I heard him close the door and approach from behind me. I saw the mess of an apartment he had: empty beer cans, dirty paper plates, newspapers, pizza boxes and old Chinese take-out tossed around, and empty whiskey bottles everywhere. His couch pillows were askew and on the floor, and his coffee table was stacked high with newspapers, books, and police records he must have swiped from the station. His apartment smelled stale and musty. I had been to his apartment a few times before, and it's not insanely tidy but it was never nearly this messy.
"Tom..." I sighed.
"I didn't have a chance to straighten up," he claimed.
I looked back at him and saw him lean back against the wall. His skin was a sickly pale, like cheese, and he had dark circles under his eyes, and he was definitely intoxicated. I don't think he has been eating much either. His face was glistening, like he hasn't washed his face for a few days or like he was sweating. It hurt my heart to see him like this.
"You use that excuse when you accidentally leave a water glass on your coffee table," I said, "this is... you are a wreck."
"I'm not a wreck," he snapped.
"I don't know what's more trashed, you or your apartment," I barked. I looked over at the television screen and saw it was paused at a black and white indoor shot of a supermarket. I squinted at it before Tom scurried over to turn it off.
"Was that— was... have you been watching the tape?" I asked while pointing at the screen. It was the tape of the shooting, where you can see his girlfriend die. I was forced to watch it to fill out a report, and just once was enough for me and I barely knew Amy. Tom should not be watching that at all.
"No," he lied.
I raised my eyebrows at him.
He cracked, "it is not like I'm obsessing over it."
"Why are you watching it?" I asked. How did he even get it?
"3.3 seconds," he muttered under his breath.
"What?" I asked.
"3.3 seconds," he repeated louder, "do you know what you can do in 3.3 seconds?"
"I don't know," I answered. I knew why he was obsessing with this number, because he believes that he had 3.3 seconds to save his girlfriend and he stood there like a deer frozen in the headlights. He solely blamed himself for her untimely death. But everyone knew that this was not his fault. There was nothing that could have been done.
"You can sing the alphabet twice in 3.3 seconds. You can kick your shoes off in 3.3 seconds. You can take your pants off in 3.3 seconds. You can pop a beer in 3.3 seconds. You can hold your finger down on the remote control and pass 17 stations in 3.3 seconds." His voice was raising with everything that he listed off and he was walking closer to me. I was taking steps back as I became fearful of the fire that burned in his eyes.
"Hanson, stop," I asked, taking a step back and feeling the wall press into my back. I hated seeing him like this. It was incredibly sad, and scary. It was hard to know what he was thinking.
He took another step toward me, his eyes were wild as he became hypnotized by his own trance. "You can ring a doorbell 22 times, lock and unlock a deadbolt four times, or sing the entire alphabet in 3.3 seconds..."
"Hanson, please," I begged for him to stop. I didn't want to hear it anymore.
His voice continued to raise as he yelled at me, "you can open a can of tuna fish, shuffle and bridge a deck of cards, or twist the tops off six bottles of ginger ale in 3.3 seconds!"
"Tom, you're scaring me!" I yelled to get him to finally snap out of the trance he put himself in.
Tom froze, his lips moved slightly but no words came out. He blinked at me stupidly. He backed away from me so I could take a step away from the wall. He was so stiff and breathing hard. His flared nostrils relaxed and his shoulders dropped.
"It hurts me to see you like this," I said sincerely. I took a deep breath, and swallowed the lump that formed in my throat. I could see that he was hurting, I wish he would just admit that he needed help.
Tom didn't say anything, he just looked down and ran his fingers through his greasy hair. I wasn't sure if he was embarrassed, or just so upset with me that he didn't even want to look at me. I just wanted to help him.
"I don't think you realize that I care about you so deeply, it pains me to see you in this state," I told him.
"How do you think I feel?" His red eyes locked to mine in a way that made me feel small. I felt helpless. "You do not know how I feel. I hope you never have to know this feeling, because at this rate I might never feel again."
"What can I do?! What can I do to help you through this loss?" I put my hand on my chest in compassion. I just wanted him to let me in. To let me in the way that I let him in.
"I don't know!" He shouted back. He anxiously ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and he shook his head. His hazy eyes fixated on the ground as he repeated in a low voice, "I don't know."
I sighed softly and tried to let it go. Everyone grieves differently, and I cannot tell him what to do. The silence between us was loud, but I couldn't stop looking at him. I finally asked in a low and calm voice, "how many times have you seen that tape?"
"287 times," he answered.
I started walking up to the television and I pressed the eject button. Tom rushed up to me and I saw his strong jaw clench. He grabbed my arm and said through his teeth, "don't."
"Let me go," I demanded firmly. I pulled my arm away from his soft grasp and then I told him, "this is not good for you."
I slid the tape out of the VCR and Tom immediately tried to swipe it from my hand. I put my arm back so it was out of his reach and gently pushed back against his chest so he couldn't grab it. I could smell the sharp alcohol on him, and it stung my nose.
"Give me back the tape."
"No."
"I need it."
"No, you don't."
"I need to know if I could have saved her."
I relaxed a bit when Tom finally stopped trying to grab the tape. "Tom, there was nothing that you could have done. That man had a gun."
"I'm an officer. I'm the guy people call because of the man with the gun. I had 3.3 seconds to stop him, and I didn't. I froze. She trusted me, and I didn't protect her."
"You could have died too, Tom. I'd much rather you be here with me than be a dead hero."
"At least I would have done something. At-at least Amy would have known that I tried."
"You did everything right, you have to know that."
"Then why is she dead?"
"Because life isn't fucking fair. It's cruel and always seems to strike down on those who are young and innocent, who have done nothing to deserve what they've got. The universe just throws the dice and doesn't care who it hurts. Whether it be a quiet, sweet woman or a lonely child just trying to survive. Humans aren't built for this kind of pain," I snapped at him.
Tom tilted his head to the side, trying to decipher what I said in his foggy, boozed up brain. I didn't have the energy to translate or explain, not that he would remember or care about it anyways. I rolled my eyes and started to walk away from him.
"I need that tape back," he said while following me to the entrance of his apartment.
"I'm bringing it back to the station," I told him as I reached for the front door handle.
"Please, don't," he begged.
Tom stumbled into me and he reached over to grab my arm. He grabbed too tightly to keep me from yanking my hand away from him. His strong fingers dug into my muscle, and I cried out while he managed to pry the tape out of my strong hand. I tried to take a step back but I fell back into the front door. My head hit the solid wood so hard it made me gasp. In the moment that he let go of me, his brown eyes grew wide and he gazed at me with extreme regret and remorse.
I hissed and my hand went up to the back of my throbbing head. I squeezed my eyes shut and muttered, "fuck, man."
"Mick, oh my god, I'm so sorry. I—I didn't mean to."
"It's fine," I mumbled as I shook out my arm. I wasn't in any real lasting pain, I was mostly just pissed off. He just didn't know his own strength, but that was absolutely unacceptable. "But I'll be damned if I let you grab me like that again."
"Are you okay?" He asked. His voice was shaking. He stepped forward and tried to grab my arm to examine it, but I instinctively rolled my elbow back so he wouldn't touch me.
"Don't... don't touch me. I'm fine. Really, I'm fine." I tried to blow it off.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
"It's okay."
"I hurt you."
I was so mad, I just wanted to leave but I couldn't leave without that videotape. I tried to strike a deal by saying, "just give me back the tape and I'll come back tomorrow, deal?"
"I'm not done with it."
"I'm saying you're done."
"No."
"You can't keep wallowing in this pity party for forever. It was an unfortunate accident, and there was nothing anyone could have done to prevent it. Maybe instead of drinking yourself into oblivion, you go out there and find the guy that did this. Catch him, and give Amy the justice she deserves." I was hoping that some tough love would have been able to break through Tom's state of mind and help him click back into reality, but all it did was piss him off.
Tom's voice was low, but he said, "we had a fight right before we went into the gas station. I was actually gonna break up with her that night. Then she was killed in front of me. My last thoughts about my girlfriend were about how I wanted her out of my life, then she died. I caused her death, Mick. And it's eating at me."
I didn't realize just how much guilt Tom really had over Amy's death. He truly felt responsible, like he put some sort of bad omen out into the universe that resulted in an unfortunate series of events where a robber shot her, perhaps as some sort of punishment for him for even thinking about something like that. This spiral of obsession and depression made a lot more sense now, but my stance on it was the same.
Tom exhaled shakily and said thickly, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"Tom, please..."
"Leave," he said firmly.
"I don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone right now," I told him honestly.
"I'm fine," he snapped.
I locked eyes with him and sighed sadly. I shoved my hands in my pockets and I said, "all right, fine. I'll leave. But Tom, I've lost people too. People very close to me. I say this because I have gone through a very similar thing you are. I need you to know that you don't have to go through it alone. I tried to go through it alone, and I've always regretted not seeking help when I needed it."
He didn't look at me. He wouldn't look at me. I took this as a sign that he genuinely chewed on what I said, but was too proud to admit that he needed help. It's was pretty obvious.
I walked to the door, with Tom behind me. I opened the door for myself and I said over my shoulder, "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Mm-hmm," he mumbled. He shut the door as soon as I stepped out.
I leaned back against his door and sighed. I wish there was something more I could do. I still had my hands in my pockets, but I stood up straight to leave but I heard something from his apartment. I pressed my ear to his door and heard "Amy!" "Tom!" Followed by a gunshot and Tom's voice screaming, "no!".
I covered my mouth with my hand as I listened to Amy's death over and over. Tears welled in my eyes and spilled out onto my fingers. Listening to him watch the tape was like a punch in the gut. In the minute I stood there, he replayed it nine times.
I sighed again, and walked down the hallway. I'll be there for him when he's ready.