chapter ix

I had forgotten what the wintery crispness of the Atlanta night sky smelled like.  It seemed like decades since I last step foot into the city of eternal slithering spirals where people are lost in the hyper abyss simply by trying to avoid their avoidances.  The few stars that are visible look pale with fatigue in their short-strawed job to represent the night sky to the millions of drunken wanderers wading through their own egos, too self-absorbed to even notice the empty vacuum that hovered above their water-logged inebriation, much less the hard working few that seemed to penetrate through the city's light polution.  I could hear them... the fools.  The night air is so sharp the the skin, it makes me smile at the cool texture even though my skin was warm from the anger which had been heating up my core from the moment my cocaine chariot returned to Hartsfield-Jackson.

I let out another puff from the Kamel Red Lights which I have faithfully smoked for eleven years, mostly as a sense of relevance or maybe honor to the man a few floors up who introduced me to them on drunken evening in the back bar of the Forum.  It ceased being an addiction and has grown into it's own memory, created from the blood of my soul carried off to be cradled in the smokey depths of my lungs and exhaled as a prayer to the night sky in a desperate attempt to make amends with the clock's hands.  As the stillness takes over my muscles and freezes time, the stringy white drift floats away, being pulled to shreds until nothing remains - each molecule separated from it's neighbor until the community of prayer becomes but one atheistic blank.

I could have stayed there for hours listening to the familiar sounds of the evening beginning to take form throughout Atlanta, as the faint sounds of Sherman still cursing the city from beyond the ashes. The automatic doors open behind me and the stale medicinal pungent cleanliness graces each of my shoulders before finally encroaching on my nose and eyes.

"He's awake," I am told.

"Finally.  It's been three days."

Ideally the concept of Jeb making any trip would involve his traveling... then sitting.  Anything less would bore him to the point of agitation and annoyance.  Anything more would exhaust him to the the point of collapse, and a demonstration of such had been playing out over the past days.  This information is common knowledge for me, Jeb, the heath care professionals, etc.  This information was not known to Jeb's family.  Thus the trip in itself was going to be an extensive lesson in recovery, but adding the additional "oh, what we should do is _____," mixed equally with, "You need to visit with _____" or "Let's call _____ and see if they can stop by."

Jeb didn't want a reunion.  He didn't want to take aunts and uncles, cousins with the half-cocked question on their face beaconing with confusion and wondering (sometimes aloud), "What the hell's the matter wit yuu?"  The people were nice, the energy was positive and upbeat, and the laughter and sharing was wholeheartedly comforting in its simplicity. There were smiles, but they were not Jeb's smiles.  My own assumption as I put out my cigarette is that this was another case where the outward display and attention of the mother far outweighed the necessity and limitations of the son.  And in this case, it almost killed him... prematurely.  I laugh a little to myself.  Such a harsh assessment only comes with having a mother with such a strong overcoat of attention whoredom.  I beg to be wrong.

The yellowed tile of Emory reminded me of something... I couldn't put my finger on it.  It was a good memory, I knew that much, but the details are sliding around the freshly waxed floors.  Just then the frame of the picture began to solidify in my mind, I was opening the door and entering into Jeb's room.

His third straight day of 104 degree fever and night sweats which looked more like a faulty sprinkler system than it did a body trying to expunge itself of toxins.  Jeb won't look at me in the eye.  I only look at Jeb in the eye.  He gives one look to me directly before occupying his eyes with the mundane once again.

I keep my mouth shut.  Now is not the time. However, that's not to say that my passive-aggressive statements given with odd inflections did not have a perfect home in the stale air of the hospital room.

"Did you have a nice visit with your family?"

"Yes. I got a chance to see a lot more of my family, actually.  Everyone seemed to show up.  It was good to see everyone."

"Good to hear. I'm sure that exactly what you needed at this time."

"It just wore me out a little, that's all."

"I know. We certainly can't expect everyone to stop their party to pay attention to when you, their guest, needs a break or some quiet time. That would be... ludicrous."

The third trip around the hospital bed to fluff pillows is met with Jeb's hand. He grabs the pillow and fluffs it himself.  "I'm glad I went.  I just wished I would have been more specific."

I know when to stop.  This is the time to stop.  I look at his fuzzy heavy head drifting down like a balloon slowly losing its helium and just pause.  I give Jeb a smile and crinkle my nose.  It has been more recently where 'it's just a fucking shame' type of scenarios seem to come from the ground, and Jeb wants to be comforted, but not by me.  I provided him with a very specific, boundless comfort, but it's not all inclusive.  A decade ago I would strive to be everything for everyone.  Now, over 10 years since this amazingly arrogant freaktard walked into my life, I have learned how to maneuver around his emotional unsteadiness properly.  In this case, let him sulk, and he will be back in two minutes flat.  Whatever happens, DON'T SAY A FUCKING WORD.

And so I don't.

It's still 24 hours and a tanker truck full of liquids later before we are allowed to walk from beneath the stone keystones and ride in the same cocaine chariot back to the airport.  I sit staring at the window at the cityscape, so different from when I was last here... so many new buildings.  This is my own emotional unsteadiness.  I get this way with boyfriends as well - where I get so angry, upset, and rigid, that after a while I am exhausted of all energy and become distant, tired, and almost in tears.  Jeb doesn't say a word.  In three minutes (it takes me a little longer), I am back on track.

I take the heavy case from my backpack and I set it on Jeb's lap.  The driver keeps his eye on what I am doing.  Jeb holds it for a moment.  He puts his head down on it and uses it like a pillow in his lap.  The stiffness of the 'new car air' is broken by our honesty, our legitimacy, and our smiles.  I close my eyes for a bit just to breathe in the freshness.  I open them to Jeb's arms extending the case to me.  I kiss his forehead and return the case to the backpack.

I point outside.  I make a face.  Jeb makes a face.  I perform a pantomime involving human childbirth and gangsta rap.  We snicker.

The blanch skin that once sat there looking like it was barely able to do it's job started to get blood flowing back into the layers.  His glassy eyes brightened and his facial muscles began to move and stretch as if given new life.  The energy began to build and the star sitting in the back seat no longer felt as if it was on a pointless journey for which it was being drug behind.  It now felt like it was on a mission, and it was pulling straight ahead in all its glimmering fusion.

It sometimes feels good to go blind for a bit.