Chapter Two
“John? I’m home.” There was no response. I was used to it, though. If the damn hippie wasn’t working in his garden, cooking a vegan meal, or complaining about society, he was sleeping. Only one of these scenarios involved him keeping his mouth shut.
I placed my keys on the plate in the entryway and slipped off my shoes. Getting any outside dirt on the carpet would have him ripping it out at the seams and bleaching every inch of this place.
He called himself a hermit, I called him agoraphobic.
I walked the plush carpet in my blue and green Christmas socks that, before now, had been successfully hidden inside my sneakers, and head towards my room. It was the smallest room in the house, but I couldn’t complain. In all honesty, I owed John a lot more than society believed I owed it. He let me stay in his apartment, things that were exceptionally hard to find. Almost all of my graduating class still stayed with their parents, only because the apartment complexes had been filled. His only request was that I don’t become a major sellout, pay only one third of the rent, and keep the grime of the world outside his abode. We lived in a nice form of symbiosis and coexistence. There was the occasional intercourse, but that was purely a primal instinct between the two of us. If one of us found a partner, the other wouldn’t feel a single shred of sadness. That wasn’t how our relationship worked. Hell, as far as I knew, John hated putting up with me, and I hated putting up with him.
Inside my room, it was impossible to tell a twenty-three year old lived there. Old wrinkled posters from the 2010s lingered around the walls in no particular fashion or order, and the bed didn’t seem nearly long enough for anyone past the age of twelve. The truth was, it wasn’t. I had to curl myself into a ball in order to fit on it, but any bed that fit my size wouldn’t fit inside this shoe box of a room. I groaned and threw myself onto the bed, the old springs creaking under my lightweight. If I’d had it my way, I’d have holo-frames with pristine posters flickering their static imaged beautifully across my room. I’d have pillows with chemical scents that induce a sleep state and a bed filled with geese feathers, a bird long extinct. But it was not my way, it was John’s way, and it would be until I got an actual job, or he died. And seeing has almost every available job in this damn city (or country for that matter) was taken, I guess I had to sit around and wait for the health-freak to die. Dammit, he wouldn’t die of health issues, and he didn’t go outside enough to get hit by a car. He was practically invincible
With a groan, I rolled myself face down on the bed, shoving my face into an old Power Rangers pillowcase. Had John actually watched Power Rangers when he was younger? Where the hell did they play reruns? I felt a twitch in my brain reminding that reruns of anything hadn’t been played since 2045. If he’d managed to watch it as a kid somewhere, he was a lucky bastard.
“Avey, are you in?” his voice radiated through the apartment, and he seemed a bit tired. Had I woken him up? How long had he been sleeping? I didn’t answer his call for a while, just laid and stared at my unpainted walls.
“Avey?!” His voice was louder, a bit more aggravated.
“Yeah, yeah I’m here!” I sighed and rolled myself off the bed as half assed as I could manage. My legs guided themselves outside the door and towards the master bedroom that John resided in. On my way, though, he appeared from the kitchen, holding a knife and some…was that kale. God, not more kale.
“Take a bite, yeah?” He asked, smiling proudly.
Who the hell grew their own kale? I couldn’t decline though, not really. John had a kind demeanor and was the largest believer in pacifism I had ever met, but he was easily angered about the smallest things. If I didn’t appreciate “the Earth’s ingredients” he’d start to preach (more like yell), and it almost always ended with an empty threat to kick me out. Except nothing is ever completely empty. So I took a small bit of the green leaf between my thumb and forefinger and nibbled on it.
It was stale. Kale was always stale. It was cold and I felt like I’d eaten dirt. I looked up at John and smiled, forcing myself to take another bit of it between my fingers.
“Best you’ve made yet.”
“You think so? I used some worm feces for the fertilizer.”
I raised my eyebrows. I was in an old enough generation to know using shit in fertilizer wasn’t disgusting, but…
“Dude, do worms even shit?”
“Miniscule yet powerful, yes.” This was the happiness I had ever seen someone about worm poop.
“Yeah, yeah…fascinating…” my voice started to trail off at the same time my mind did. It happened often, and I think John was used to it because it was one of the few things he didn’t complain to me about. I just got so detached from things outside of myself. All I knew was that I had a body and a mind, and thoughts, but if you asked what was around me or what exactly the people around me were doing, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I just stood there and my brain turned off for a bit. I guess you can call it a zone out, but even when people zone out, they recognize the movement around them. All I recognize is my existence and no one else’s. Like there is no world.
I blinked. John was over the sink, washing the dirt from his hands. My eyes flicked around frantically to remind myself where I was. These weird fade outs had been less and less common sense I started Slur, but that just made them all the more sudden when I did have them.
“So what’s for dinner?” I asked, moving myself to sit in a wooden kitchen chair.
John tried to hide the fact that he was startled, but I saw and began wondering exactly how long I had been…away. Still, he turned and I saw the large clear bowl of mixed salad he was holding.
I groaned. “John, oh my God. How many days are we going to have salad? I love Mother Nature and all, but if we keep eating like this, we’re going to strip the poor woman dry.”
His expressionless face told me he didn’t find my joke funny. There was no use arguing with him. I placed a small portion of the mixed leaves and vegetables onto my plate and began prodding it with my fork. I wasn’t a herbivore, I was not supposed to live this way. Where was the meat I could viciously rip my highly advanced teeth through? What about fruit? Why did it have to be vegetables and vegetables as the two options for non-meat items?
“So how was your day?” He asked. He always asked. It was his only way to get information from outside that he could promptly complain about.
“Nothin’ much.” I muttered, shoving a cherub tomato into my mouth. “Though I’d check out the beach for a bit, but I couldn’t even see it.” This was my trick. Every time. John would have found out about my slur heroine use if I didn’t throw bones to him every day. He would go on for ages about the smallest things.
“Hey John, today I went to Central Park and they had advertisements playing across the water.”
“The only eventful thing today was a little kid crying that they stepped near some mud.”
I realized I could base all of this off lies, it wasn’t like he had a way to fact check me, but I always told him true stories. I actually enjoyed listening to him rant on and on about the failures of society. It was fascinating to me, and gave me a perspective I knew I'd never find out on the streets or in a focus meeting. So I told him little stories and kept him from interrogating me and instead interrogating society as a whole. Which, granted, I was a part of, but I never rally minded. Deep down, despite my grievances of his holier-than-thou attitude, I knew he was right.
"...You have GOT to be kidding me." he groaned, dropping his fork onto his plate in exasperation. Leaning back in his chair, John let out a sigh. He was probably thinking about just the right commentary on society that he could make. He leaned so far back in his chair that the front legs hovered a few inches off the ground.
After what felt like way too long for Avey, John leaned suddenly forward and began to speak. "The natural beauty of this planet is being wasted on people going to sandy beaches and magnificent tide-pools just so they can take a selfie and say they were there. They don't even look around, they don't even acknowledge the gracefulness of existence, and how privileged they are to have it. How can you live in this world and not even properly live?"
I was always getting annoyed by John's sermons, about his constant spewing of philosophical view points, but every time he opened mouth, the purest truth spilled out of it. He didn't have any ulterior motive, or a reason to lie to me. He believed this. And, because he believed it so fully, I believed him.
I always was a sheep in wolf's clothing.
I ate a bit more, chewing in silence while John brooded. All I really knew about John, besides all this hippie bullshit, was that he was a Corinth. A stupid word people gave to the children of parents who took part in the Corinth Society Massacre. A cult following lead by Kingston Corinth. No one really knows exactly what they practiced, but it made the news (which was rare in itself if you weren't a celebrity) when about 200 pairs of parents committed mass suicide. All of their children, instead of being sent to orphanages or foster families, managed to transcend the system and be forced to live for themselves. Living through a childhood like that, I guess I can't blame him for hating this place. He was forced to live through this crappy, degrading society, all on his own. It didn't help that people were finding more and more things to be bias towards. Everyone was racing to have an opinion, so much so that they discriminated against certain EVENTS. Oh, yeah, no more sexism, homophobia, or racism. Now we just hate the kids for the events their parents partook in.
I used to wonder how everybody knew who was a Corinth kid. How in the world it was possible to tell. It wasn't like you could tell gays apart from straights. Then it occurred to me that they didn't. But if they asked you when you got a job, or you told someone about it...you'd be shunned. Based on a goddamn event. It was all so confusing. If I wasn't living with John I am almost positive I would have been blissfully unaware.
I'm still not sure which one I prefer.
"Why do you think everyone out there wants to find something to hate?" I asked, spreading his kale around on my plate, suddenly losing my appetite. Not that I would have eaten it anyway.
He looked up at me, pity flooding his eyes. As if telling me what he was about to change would never let m go back to being the naive girl I was. "Because," he said carefully, "they can't find something to love."
Chapter Three
I woke up the next morning with a crick in my neck and a hankering for pancakes. I hadn't had pancakes since I was sixteen. I lived on greasy burgers and insanely healthy kale salad. Two opposite sides of a spectrum I wish didn't exist in the first place. That morning, though, while I rubbed the notches between my spine, I decided that I would treat myself. Maybe even call up someone I hadn't spoken to in a while. Which was basically anybody who wasn't John.
A part of me wondered if John was awake right now. If he was, he could rub my neck. I could lay in his nice fluff bed and beg him to rub out the pain. I wouldn't question how he was such a recluse and purist but had such a nice bedroom, or apartment in general. All of that was the unspoken agreement we had. He helped me with my brittle little body, and I didn't interfere with a single thing of his. I saw nothing bad about this.
I slipped my arms out of the holes of my tank top and slid it down to my waist so that nothing constricted my aching back. It helped a bit, but not nearly enough. Slowly, as to not make myself dizzy, I tossed my legs to the side. I wondered to myself whether or not the floor would be there when I set my feet down, or if I just expected it to be. If one day I tossed my feet over and found nothing, could I really blame the ground for leaving this wretched place?
Eventually, though, I got my stupid ass out of bed and trotted my way to the main room. No sign of John. I carried myself towards his bedroom and knocked lightly on the wood of the closed door.
"Yeah?"
"Can I come in?"
"I don't see why not."
"Can you rub my back?"
"I don't see why not."
I opened the door, which didn't creak nearly as much as mine did, and let my feet sink into the plush carpeting. I was still wearing my Christmas socks. It was May. My tank top was still resting at my hips, along with my sleep shorts. John was laying in bed, reading. Some book called "Seafaring Badger". It was old as hell. Not the specific book that John owned (though that was ripped and water damaged beyond your imagination) but the book itself was published in 2015. My mother had read that book. And back then it was amazing for it's time, but now it made no sense to me. Who wants to read books with outdated concepts?
I dropped my body onto the bed, stomach first. Without glancing up from what he was reading, John moved his free hand to rub my shoulder blades. It was a major relief. I laid there and let him move his nimble fingers across my skin, closing my eyes and seeping into his mattress. I rarely got to nap in his bed. If I wasn't with him, I wasn't allowed in, and if I was with him in there, we were usually...busy. It was a nice break from all of the Everything. Just because John didn't leave his house, didn't mean he never got overwhelmed.
"Hey, John?" I muttered into the sheets.
"Hmm?"
"Have you ever thought about, like...what our point here is?"
"Of course I have."
"Yeah? Did you ever come to a conclusion."
"I suppose you could call it that..."
"Can y'tell me?"
"No."
I frowned against the fabric. "Why not?"
"Because I did not find out OUR purpose, Avey. I found out mine. My own personal reasoning as to why I am here. You have to figure it out on your own. You have to stop claiming my ideas as your own."
I hated when he talked down to me. He was only one year older than me, and he thought that one year gave him all the wisdom in the world. Most of all, though, I hated whenever he was right. Which, as much as I despised it, was almost always. I laid silent, wishing he was wrong. Wishing that I was my own self, not constructed from all the thoughts of other people. It was the first time I realized how I was closer to a John Fisher than I was to an Avey Barnes.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
At around noon, my fingers were typing in the phone number of an old friend I hadn't spoken to in two years. After I moved in with John, I sort of fell off the grid, and it was so normal to John that I didn't really realize I had.
Her name was Charlotte Jones. She used to go by Charlie, but then started going by C.J. One time in elementary school, apparently, she went by "Canine Jabbers". She loved nicknames. One of the few things I remembered about her, if I'm being brutally honest (which I'm trying to do more of). She picked up around the fourth ring, her voice chipper.
"Hello, CiCi speaking!"
I didn't say anything for a while, my eyebrows knit together in confusion as I stood outside at the payphone. Nobody used these things anymore, but despite all of the technology in this world, it was the only way make sure a call wasn't traced. I don't know why I was so paranoid.
"uh...Hey? This is Avey. Avey Ba-"
"AVEY! Oh Avey darling! It's been so long! Thank God I never got my cell number changed, huh?" she was easily excitable...that character trait became prevalent relatively fast. Also that she had an astounding memory. Or at least I assumed; not many people remember me.
"Yeah, hey there..." I had no idea what to call her. There were so many names to choose from, and it seemed like she went by an entirely different one. "I was wondering, y'know if you still lived in New York, if you'd want to go get some breakfast?"
"Oh! Sure, darling!" She liked that word... "Where were you thinking? I have about two hours before I have to pick the kids up from school." Oh. Okay. So she was married and had kids. At least I assumed so. She could be a single mom, but I never doubted that she would score a loving husband eventually.
"How about Five Leaves?" I prompted. It was an old restaurant, but I remembered going as a little kid and loving the hell out of their pancakes and bacon. I was almost entirely confident they managed to stay around. They probably had a million different chains now. Everything did. Nothing was stand-alone. Not even people.
"Which one?"
"You choose." I would never know exactly which one I had gone to. It was impossible to recall out of the 40 chains in New York alone.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I sat in a booth and pretended to study the menu as if it was a fine piece of art. I had known what I had wanted to order for about an hour and counting. CiCi was still not here. I glanced up at the digital clocks that riddled the restaurant. I guess the world wanted to make sure we never forgot how much time we were running out of. She was really only half an hour late, but I had had nothing to do except come early. I ordered a coffee, pretended said coffee was an entire meal, and read the menu for an hour. I checked the door every time I heard foot steps or a new voice. Yes, Avey. CiCi has the voice of an old man and the step of a five year old.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Avey, darling, I am so sorry!" I heard her before I saw her. Her voice as shrill, but she really did have the step of a five year old. A five year old ballerina, even.
I looked up and gave her a bright smile, relieved to finally be able to order pancakes without feeling out of place. She slid into the opposite side of the booth and set her large purse loudly on the table. She never was the subtle kind. Good natured, though. I never disliked her, and we'd met at the AA meeting. Unlike me, she really was an addict. Well, not anymore. She had kids and a husband and she was still happy as ever. I never understood how she could be so goddamn happy. Did she ever just sit at home and cry for hours? My theory is: if you don't cry, you drown yourself. She must have cried, though. Or else she wouldn't have chosen to drown herself in alcohol instead.
I had been in the company of John for too long.
CiCi flagged down a waiter and we ordered. I got chocolate chip pancakes, some sausage, and a glass of orange juice. Probably the only restaurant meal I would be able to afford for a while. CiCi just ordered an omelet. I had a feeling she expected me to pay. I had a feeling I wouldn't protest.
"So, it's been a while, hasn't it?" She asked, her bright pink lips smiling at me. "How are you?"
"I'm good...I kind of just went off the grid for a while; started to miss some people." I shrugged, running a finger around the rim of the coffee mug I had previously ordered.
“I know exactly what you mean. After I met Cecilia, she was the only person I spoke to for ages. I guess we walked right back into each other’s life just at the right time.”
I raised my head, lifting from my fingers from the mug. I must have looked as confused as I felt because CiCi giggled.
“She’s my wife.”
"Oh! I'm sorry!" I said, a bit embarrassed. "You had brought your boyfriend to a meeting once so I just sort of..."
CiCi moved her wrist up and down, motioning that it was fine. Then the waiter showed up with our food and I practically pounced on it. Finally something that wasn't green.
Gingerly, CiCi began to cut up her omelet with the side of her fork.
"So, how have you been?" She asked, placing a piece of the gooey food into her mouth, chewing lightly as she stared straight at me.
"I've been alright." I realized how boring I sounded. The whole reason I had wanted to talk to CiCi was so that I could talk to someone without restrictions...except CiCi had restrictions, because we were nothing alike anymore. She had a wife and kids, and I was having senseless sex with a hippie who was practically a stranger.
"Part of a focus group for this thing called slur heroine. Have you heard of it?" I decided to say.
"Oh! I have, actually. No side effects, right?" she asked, taking another bite of her omelet.
I nodded and sipped my orange juice. "Yeah. And a great trip."
"How exactly does all that work? They're eye drops or something, right?"
"Yeah. Basically, anyway. You just put two drops in each eye and it seeps into your mind, not your blood stream. The best bit is it eventually rids itself from your system in your sleep."
I never realized how wrong and false all the information I had been given was.
"Oh yeah?" she seemed fascinated. I guess once you go into a lifestyle like that, a part of you never leaves.
"I'm part of a focus group for it, actually. Get a vial a week. Usually, they come in entire bottles, but I guess we need more intensive to come."
"Is that all they pay you in?"
"No, no, I get thirty bucks every time too. Not much, but it pays for the groceries, I guess." John hated me having outside food in the house, but as long as I kept in my room (and ate it in my room), he didn't mind.
The more I told her about it, the more I realized I how badly I was craving it. Wasn't until next Thursday. Exactly five days from now. I didn't have enough money to purchase my own Slur - especially not after THIS meal. I needed a job, but jobs were few and far between. Almost every job position imaginable was taken, there was barely a probable way to actually attain one. It wasn't even possible to sell out with some crap corporate job, or dumb down at a fast food restaurant. I'd realize a month int graduating college that it was all pointless.
I brushed my dark brown hair out of my eyes, and Cici seemed to know I wanted a subject change. Or she was just being CiCi.
"I absolutely adore what you did with your hair!"
I smiled sheepishly, instinctively running a hand against the half shaven side of my head. The other side was a long wisp of wavy hair, stopping just under my right ear. It was an old 2020's look, but I had fallen in love with it the moment I saw it in a vintage style mag. It was so different compared to CiCi's blond bob. For a split second, the focus leader's similar colored hair flashed across my vision, and it more than unsettled me.
"Thanks." I said plainly, giving a small smile before biting into a bit of sausage.
It was silent for a little while, and I realized that CiCi and I weren't really friends. We weren't even acquaintances, really. We were both addicts. And I was addicted to this feeling of being somebody's something. But I was not CiCi's wife or child or even friend. I was the painful reminder of her past. But at least I was something.
Not too many minutes later, the waiter came by with out check. I went to grab for it, but a pale, well manicured, hand beat me to it.
"No worries, I'll pay."
I didn't say anything because I didn't want to argue. It was wrong, I knew that. I invited her here, suggested the place, and bought the most food. It was common courtesy for me to protest till she let me.
Instead, though, I just gave the best facial expression that I thought showed a silent protest. A half hearted effort, still she argued against my muteness.
"This is my treat, dear. You just got done telling me you're a bit low on cash. Besides, I've just gotten a job for the Ether Brother's PR firm and it pays spectacularly! Not to mention Cecelia is principle at Landbridge Elementary."
Maybe she wasn't argue. Maybe she was just flaunting...