Role Playing - 1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Ahead, pavement stretches as far as I can see, most of it a blur. The shops that line the road like bored soldiers blink and rumble, people coming and going. Someone pushes me into a man wearing a sandwich board. The advertisement on it is unclear, just a mesh of color and words exaggerated. Curses fly at me from the disgruntled man. I try to apologize, but he throws his fist up and continues to raise his voice. Can’t stop for this, when I have an appointment in less than twenty minutes.

Between the heat and whatever’s wrong with me, it’s hard to breathe. The stale, humid air compresses my lungs. All I smell is gas and oil, the exhaust of cars, sometimes cologne or perfume when someone passes me.

I need a moment, just to catch my breath.

There are benches along the sidewalk, shaded by evenly spaced trees with their bases protected by green metal grates the same size as the cement squares surrounding it. The bench creaks under my weight. If it would cool off, comfort wouldn’t be far off, but the sun presses down on me and what strength I have feels like it’s leaking down my leg and onto the sidewalk. I take slow breaths; my vision evens and allows me to focus on more than the invisible lines that look like I’m walking through water.

In the window across from me, in large flamboyant lettering, a sign reads: Get your drag on! Photos around the poster show men and women barely dressed, smiling and dancing. If I didn’t feel like shit, I’d be tempted to go, just to see what it’s like. Of all the things I’ve done, dressing in drag isn’t among them, or going to what seems to be a primarily gay club. Maybe after I’m well again I’ll go. A change of scenery will be good for me.

Change isn’t always good, not bad, either—just different.

With a sigh, I continue on my way.

At the corner of each block, the walkway dips, making it easier to cross the street en masse. Executives in expensive suits storm through the chaotic rhythm that only the city can offer. Many of them hold their cell phones to their ears and with only a few words, cut whoever they’re talking to down with their sharp tongues. It reminds me of the director I usually work for at the community theatre. Cecil—the director—is an intelligent man; he’s just not the friendliest. Antisocial behavior seems to be a hallmark of great men. There is no doubt that Cecil Hunter is a great man. I can’t say that to his face. Too much emotion directed at him is a waste. He only wants the manufactured feelings a role brings out, and that better be directed at the audience.

I wish what I was going through now was research for a role. Most of the time my research involves—involved—a wild role-playing adventure. That’s before Cass left eight months ago. Sometimes I wish I understood what happened between us. For all I like getting into peoples’ minds and playing different parts, being with her is a role I was happy to end. A lack of motivation and ambition features vividly in my memory of her complaints about me. But I work hard in my professional and personal life. I know what I want. I climbed my way up to manager at the telecom company in the international division. I have a team of ten employees. In my spare time, I like acting. If I could make money in the community theatre, I would do it full time. The money I make for Harper’s is good, and I work hard for it.

No, I don’t want to go any higher, not right now. I’m in a good place. My apartment is the most extravagant thing I have, and that’s because I want to be surrounded by luxury. I tried to give that to Cass, too.

At least I have a decent job and a hobby I like.

Only half a mile more; then I can check myself in with the After Hours Emergency Division; to these people, sickness can wait until Monday morning at 8:00 a.m. But it’s Friday, after six o’clock and I need a doctor, now.

The city is like one large trashcan sometimes. It stinks, and remnants of lives stopped short or not worth living decorate the sidewalks. Broken glass and the points of needles—deadlier than swords—add to the pebbles and cracked concrete. It’s a palace if this is what you want. I’ve seen former classmates along this boulevard, starved and aching for a fix.

The first time you look at the huddled forms, it’s like they steal your soul. They spring into action if you make eye contact, begging with fetid breath and soiled clothes. The reality is that a handful of them actually have families willing to take care of them, and even have houses and the sort of bank balance that would make materialistic men envious. Most of them just don’t care. To them, living like a discarded member of society is a statement. Some of them have stories, some of them are insane… some are so strung out they can’t stop moving. The few days I researched a role of a homeless character were among the most interesting in my life. It is both family—strength in numbers—and a loneliness a hot shower and soap can’t wash away. The true nature of some people becomes so clear it’s frightening. Even children express their disgust, whether inherited or inherent. And I didn’t even look as bad as some. Unmemorable brown eyes and brown hair... average in every way.

Attached to the street lamp across from me, a yellow box with LED lights flashes, indicating it’s okay to cross the road. Stumbling onto the black pavement adorned with yellow and white lines, I wish like hell that I’d driven the five blocks through the messy weekend traffic.

Ahead is the After-hours clinic. It’s a long, flat building that houses three medical disciplines for the indigent: General Practice, Dental, and Psychological. They can take care of anything from delivering a baby to making sure your psychosis is properly monitored.

I enter through the General Practice doors and walk down the long hallway that leads to the reception area. The carpet is drab and speckled with little black loops to make it appear less dirty from the large amount of traffic that sees this place. Institutional gray wallpaper surrounds me. It feels like being in a tomb with light.

A large pane of glass separates me from the receptionist. She slides it aside and looks at me.

“Name?”

“Ryan Archer.” I give her the remainder of the details she requires, sign my life over, and I’m done.

“Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

They always say that. Her dismissal sends me to the gray and burgundy chairs arranged in a crescent. To my right, there’s a squared off playpen full of bright toys and books. The wire block toy with wooden beads clacks. Tiny fingers push them up and over the arc of painted red and in disjointed rhythm, they crash into each other. The kid squeals in delight. It’s voice sounds contorted like my own image in funhouse mirrors. It doesn’t smell nearly as exciting as a fair in here, though. No cotton candy or bright colors, just the medicinal smell that clings to clinics like the walls have been soaked in it and the dreary color of carpet long-overdue for removal. All I can do is wait; it’s what the reception said to do, and I can’t rush ahead in my appointment, unfortunately. Skipping the hacking baby and sneezing girl who keeps giving me eyes from across the room would make up for it.

Maybe an hour passes, I’m not sure. I’m on the verge of falling asleep when I hear my name. Somehow I get up and follow the nurse. Nothing seems to stay still longer than a breath and the sweatshirt and jeans I have on hardly feel like enough clothing. I’m glad that she has me sit down after being weighed and seeing that I’ve gained a few pounds. Enough to put me at one hundred and sixty-five pounds… and still not quite making six feet, according to her measurement.

My vitals seem to be fine. Then she takes my temperature.

“One hundred and two, Mr. Archer.”

She sounds reproachful, like I should’ve done something sooner. What, I have no idea. The fever only started today and I’m here now.

A lot of questions I find difficult to answer come and then she ushers me to an examination room, pulls out one of those awful gowns and tells me to strip. The door closes and I hear my chart hit the box outside room. Alone with the faint buzz of the lamps overhead. The sound becomes hypnotic.

When I hear a knock and the door handle click, I blink and look ahead. A young doctor enters, hands full of papers and a file on me. He says his name, but I miss it.

“What seems to be the problem today, Mr. Archer?” His voice is even and deep, like a bass drum.

It’s too cold in here. “Um, yesterday I was fine. I mean, I’d been feeling—off, you know? Got worse this morning. Sore throat, aches, chills, fever. It’s uncomfortable when I—” Gesturing, I indicate my groin, then shrug, unable to think of any other helpful symptoms. Not that I can think anyway.

“Okay, well let’s take a look,” he says and begins his examination.

A humiliating half-hour later, the doctor leaves with blood, a swab that went into my urethra, urine sample and my dignity. They—the doctor and his nurse—reassure me that it won’t be long and leave me to get dressed.

Time is relative in our respective worlds. When the doctor returns, I don’t know how long it’s been. The door clicks open and closes with a sigh. Nothing in the doctor’s expression tells me anything.

“Mr. Archer, your preliminary tests indicate that you have contracted a sexually transmitted disease.”

Like I’m a log that’s been in the woods forever, petrified, I try to think of everything that they can test for and get results for in less than a day. “What? What is it?” Nothing deadly comes to mind, but it doesn’t stop me from being unable to move or my heart from feeling like a basketball across The Garden court.

“You have genital herpes.”

White noise fills my head. The doctor’s lips are moving, but nothing he says penetrates the smoke rising in me. A poisonous coil wraps around my lungs and throat, forcing all air from my lungs.

“Mr. Archer.”

Cass…

“Mr. Archer, I’m sorry. I know this must be a great shock to you. I’m afraid we’re going to need a list of your partners for notification.”

“You what?”

Every word the doctor said made sense, just not the sentence.

“When someone comes in with an STI, we need to know who their other partners have been so they can receive treatment, too. If you’ll just give me…”

Only one in the last three years. Cassie—Cass—Thorneberg. Not an average woman. It’s been three weeks since the last time we fucked. Drinking and dialing numbers at random is never a good idea, especially when the person on the other end of the line has decided to do the same. Each person’s web traps the other, and that’s what she did to me that night.

Two options are all I have: tell them the truth, or pretend she was a one-nighter and that I don’t know her name or how to contact her. I want to tell them the truth—however subjective it is. My truth is that she left me for someone else and wanted a comfort fuck after he left her. From one to the other, the disease goes, the domino effect leaving behind a mess.

I give them Cassie’s information. Let them deal with her. I have no words. If I were less of a man, I’d beat the shit out of her. I’m not that guy, though. This won’t make me into that, either.

After the doctor hands me various pamphlets of information on support groups, frequently asked questions and reminds that now would not be a good time to have sex, I vaguely remember stumbling to the pharmacy on the Medical Center’s campus. I hand them all my paperwork with the doctor’s signature, and then the indigent claim forms, and am soon on my way with a new shiny bottle of purple pills that they promised would take the aches, pain and insanity away. There are actually three bottles, but I don't know what the others are. My ass hurts from the shot they gave me, an antibiotic of some kind. Cass is going to explain this, one way or another.

I step outside and a taxi is waiting. The staff must have called for me. Good, at least I won't have to wait to hail one. I settle into the backseat and close my eyes.

Ahem.

What an irritating sound. Turning around to look at me while speaking a few words would bring about the same outcome.

I look up at the driver, a man wearing a white turban. He must need to know where I am going. So much for the clinic informing the cabbie; now I have to speak. I don’t want to, just too damned tired.

“Twelve, Parkwood Court.”

“Very good, sir.”

His smile is large-lipped and friendly, which is a change from most of the cabbies I’ve met in this city. Most of them are rude and smell of sex and musky oils that I don’t recognize. This cab smells like curry and tandoori chicken. I lean my head back and try to rest in the slowly moving traffic that leads to my apartment. It used to be the place Cass and I shared. Now it’s a ransacked mess of pizza boxes, beer bottles, costumes, playbooks and various other items I haven’t cleaned up in weeks.

I want to talk to Cass now, but I wait until the driver finally stops in front of my building. Behind the tall windows and sand-colored stone is an intricate web of deceit and illicit affairs. Cassie and I seemed to be the only couple that actually knew what fidelity meant.

I pay the cabbie his fifteen-dollar fare for taking me two blocks and don’t give a tip. I can’t afford to tip him, and in my mind, I should have been able to get at least three rides for that price, but this is Scottsland, and as far as big cities are concerned, this is the cornerstone. The man smiles, and I see his straight, white teeth for the first time. I wonder if my teeth look that good.

I close the door, trying to smile, but I feel like shit. There’s no reason to be friendly if I don’t feel well. I’m not putting on the mask today.

The doorman holds the entrance open for me. He’s friendly enough. We talk a lot when I come home late. He’s tall and stocky, but always wears a friendly smile. Short, well-kept brown hair sits on his head and chocolate-brown eyes shyly evaluate everyone that enters and exits. I once asked him why he was working here if he came from such a wealthy family, and he just smiled, eyed one of the trophy wives of the many businessmen that crowded the building, and shrugged. I knew he was either fucking them all or none of them, or was working on some personal project. I mean, I’ve met quite a few graduate students of Sociology who spend half their lives living in polyamorous relationships just so they could study every aspect and how society viewed them. It reminds me of Kinsey and I can’t help but smile. I feel like I know a secret that I shouldn’t.

Then again, some very strange people live here. The avant-garde stockbroker, and internet salesmen are all rich enough that no one cares. Paintings cover most of the wall along the corridor with a large line of mail boxes. There is a desk for visitors to check in, but mainly a private security firm keeps the riffraff out and the secrets in.

If you have a visitor that isn’t seen often, they call you and announce the person along with any other pertinent details. Denny and Frank are friendly enough, but everyone that enters this building knows not to fuck with them. They were rumored to be personal bodyguards of some Mafia boss, but no one cares or questions as long as disputes that occur on these floors stay in this building. It is a stipulation in the housing contract that these two are in essence police, and that signing it means that with proper cause, they can investigate your home. I didn’t like that, but Cassie seemed to think it would be useful once we had children.

The elevator was old, gated and I never feel safe in it, but the building manager, Stoger, swears by it. Much like the rest of the building, the décor is burgundy with hints of white around the edges. A large print of ‘Starry Night’ adorns the back wall. It reminds me of a place I should be, not where I am.

I get in, close the gate, press the small button with a ‘ten’ in the center, and wait as the gears whirr to life, taking me up.

I feel my cell vibrating in my pocket, but I ignore it. I’m not in the mood to speak to anyone. One doesn’t just feel happy about learning they have genital herpes, especially when they were faithful to the same person for nearly six years.

The building theme ends abruptly when I step out onto my floor. Officially, it is apartment four at 1201, Parkwood Court. I have three other neighbors, all single, two men and one woman. They are artists of some sort, but professionally they are a stockbroker, a professional athlete, and a novelist: She writes cheesy romance novels for a living.

“Honey, I’m home!”

It’s stupid to be sentimental now, but I can’t help it. The emptiness just begs to be taunted, and I need a small laugh. The door closes behind me softly. My shoes click on the soft pine floor. I walk towards the living room. At this point, I am so tired I have to think to make my body react. I’m exhausted, and feeling the fever breaking makes me want to sleep. On my right, my living room sits, cluttered with boxes, cans, bottles and clothes.

Vibrations attack my leg through my jeans again and I ignore it. I don’t need to answer to anyone right now. I just need to sleep. I wonder if I should just crash on the couch, but my body answers for me, forcing me to the floor before I can take another step. At least there are blankets on the back of the couch; I should be okay for a while. I crawl to the nearest couch, overlooking the city, and settle down. I swear the moment my eyes drop closed I am asleep.

***

I don’t know what time it is when I wake up, but it’s dark and I feel like death. I’m cold and clammy or maybe it’s just normal again. It doesn’t feel like fire rushes through my veins anymore; the fever is gone. I’m still feeling its aftereffects, though, as I stretch the lactic acid from my muscles and make the long trek upstairs to shower, shave and go back to sleep.

Inside my bedroom, I turn left on instinct and move towards the bathroom, but irritating vibrations cause me to stop and yank my phone from my pocket. The little screen on my phone shows the little envelope indicating text messages, and then the voicemail icon, and finally, the list of missed calls. Five missed calls.

My blood boils when I see the last call. She knew it was coming soon or else she wouldn’t have wasted the effort to call. Now that I have a clear head, hers is going to roll. I can’t believe she actually gave me an STI! How could she? She was pregnant, a little over a month, when she left, turning down my proposal, and now, now, she has the nerve to call? She hasn’t returned my calls in weeks, asking about the baby, asking about how she is.

I debate listening to the voicemail first or waiting, when the screen flashes. It’s one of the directors I work with. It continues to flash.

Smith commands half of the city and he pays well. I need this. I flip the top open and place the phone to my ear, wondering if he’s going to yell or scream. I wait.

“Hello?”

“Archer! I have a job for you. Meet me tomorrow, noon. The usual place.”

Smith is always succinct and I admire that. Raised in the ‘dirty’ south, as those that live south of South Carolina call it, he commands a lazy drawl. I let it fool me once and ended up working as a tech for a month. Just because he talks funny, it doesn’t mean he isn’t intelligent.

“I’m waitin’!”

“Yes. I’ll be there.” I close my phone and lay it on my night table. I can listen to Cassie rant after I’m clean.

The shower here is impressive. Its walls are long and wide. The door is a crystal clear pane of glass and I love splashing water against it, when it steams up. Every time I come in here, though, I am haunted by the memories of making love against the wall, in the bath and on the counter – Cassie is still here, even if she is gone. I hate it. I hate feeling out of control over a woman. I wonder if it’s really because I was in love or if she was just my first love. I wonder how she managed not to get pregnant long ago, but she is, and I want my child.

I turn on the taps and let the steam relax all of the stress away, hot rivulets pounding against my skin, leaving me red and tender. I need the abuse for the moment. I reach for my body wash and scrub the grime away. I have to be careful with my cock; I am raw and sore as if I had fucked the entire state. How could Cassie do this to me?

I finish washing quickly and dry off, dressing in a pair of loose pants and nothing more. Who needs shirts for sleeping?

The clock on my bedside table reads ten forty-five. I don’t care if it’s late, I will listen to her message and call her. She needs to know what she has done.

“Ryan, we need to talk. Call me soon.” Cassie’s voice is always comforting, but now it sounds as though she needs comfort.

I have to call her now. There is no choice. I still haven’t changed the picture of us on the main screen; I still miss her and for some reason, that one small bundle of pixels keeps her close by. I catch the time and date on the bottom of the screen. Sunday, September 18, 2005.

“Shit.”

That is all I can say; honestly, though, I didn’t care. At least I didn’t until my stomach protests from the lack of attention that I’ve been paying it. I remember I still have pills to take and dial Cassie’s cell number without even looking at the keypad. I knew it well enough by now.

Each ring makes me anxious. I rarely feel this out of sorts, but something in Cassie’s voice makes me want to demand answers. Exactly four rings later and the her soft voice answers the other end of the line.

“Mr. Archer,” she says. Her voice is still shaky. I still don’t know why we greet one another so formally on the phone. We always have.

“Miss Thorneberg.”

“How are you doing?” The lilt to her voice makes me want to scream. How can she be so damned calm?

“You don’t want to know. You?” I ask encouragingly. I want to know what is so damned important.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Ryan. I think we’re passed this game.” I hate it when she gets like this. I can almost picture her face screwed up and one hand on her hip, just like her mother.

“You’re the one that asked me to call you, so I suggest you start talking or I’m hanging up. I have enough shit in my life right now.” She deserves my venom.

“I’m sorry. Ryan…” Her voice is so soft I can barely hear it and then the sniffle. Tears. She is crying.

“What’s the matter, Cass?” I ask softly. Cassie rarely cries.

“I lost the baby.”

Sucker punch number two for the day.

“What?” I have to ask again. I need to be sure I heard her properly.

“I lost the baby,” she says, more angrily this time.

“When? How?” I feel tears sting my eyes, but I am not going to cry. I don’t know if this deserves my tears, or if she deserves my tears, but I cannot cry.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, Ryan. I know how much you wanted a family.”

“Right now, apologies honestly mean nothing to me. I’ve just been to the doctor, Cass; do you know what he told me?”

“I’m so sorry, Ryan.”

“So you knew?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you left when I asked you to marry me?”

“Yes.”

“I think I deserve some answers. Who did you sleep with?” I demand.

“Ryan, leave it alone. I can’t give you answers. I need to go.”

“Cassie, I deserve some answers. I expect you to do me the courtesy of talking to me like an adult about this.”

“Goodbye, Ryan,” she says, and hangs up.

I throw the phone across the room and it skids on the bed and drops to the floor. I don’t care. She just ignored me and refused to give me answers! Now my child is dead and I am still alone. I fucking hate this. Just as I was truly coming around and not thinking of her hair every day, she takes away all love I have left for her. I wonder if she did something to hurt the baby just so I would leave her.