Tim Jones sat alone in his 1989 Ford pickup and stared blankly at the pink neon sign across the parking lot. He had been there for a while and his ass was numb and tingly. His senses were at Defcon-1 on this hot August night, like an idle on an engine set too high. Every muscle, sinew or bone in his body burned like he was rubbed raw, his soul literally chewing its way out from his insides. Those gears in his mind, ever turning, always grinding, needed oiling, but none was available. Wild Turkey, as always, would have to suffice. God damn it but did he need recalibration!
He winced. The distinct buzz from the fluorescent marquis drilled into his ear like a swarm of agitated gnats. Could anyone else hear that? How can they stand it? God damn it, it's so loud! He squeezed his eyes shut, as if temporarily depriving his sight would make things better. It didn't. When he opened them again it was worse; much much worse. It was always worse! Now his sight too went into forth gear with no way to downshift.
The high pitched buzzing from the neon tormented him only slightly less than the garish text now shouting out at him in their electric blaze. That sign was a big titted, loud and inviting shriek into that sweltering muggy night. The invitation was clear. It was right there, glowing in the Pepto-Bismol colored script above the low building with the blacked out windows. It was mocking him, daring him, seducing him. It screamed, 'Girls, Girls, Girls'.
His eyes were bloodshot as he stared at those pink glowing letters, sweat pouring down his face like he was walking in a rainstorm. He could feel the moisture suck from his eyes as he could not avert his gaze. It was horrific! This can't go on like this.
It had been a hard few days, hard. Sleep, merciful sweet restorative slumber, continued to elude him. How long had it been? Two days? Three? He had lost count, but he knew something would have to give..., and soon. He read somewhere once that after four days the mind starts to hallucinate; dreams battling their way forward into your waking state, deciding that adult supervision obviously is required. When that happens, your subconscious grabs the wheel of your ego and starts to drive that big old bus that is you. After five days, the need to sleep passes, replaced by a more terrifying sensation. The fear of never being able to sleep again. Thank God he wasn't at that point..., yet. I have got to get my shit together!
Taking a long swig from the bottle of Wild Turkey between his legs, he closed his eyes again and exhaled. A soft sigh slithered out of his lips as he felt his gears lubricated by that familiar burn drizzling down his throat. That fucking click click click needed to stop, and usually bourbon helped, at least temporarily. When the liquor hit his empty stomach, his gut boiled, churning and gurgling like baking soda dropped into vinegar; but, he was hopeful now. The clicks were muffled, like they were covered in velvet; sweet, soft, supple velvet.
His stomach growled and he wasn't surprised. He hadn't eaten in days. He couldn't. Everything tasted too sharp, too intense, like chewing glass and nails covered in tabasco. Only his friend Wild Turkey could pass his lips now. Wild Wild Turkey, his old reliable buddy. It sure as shit wasn't a cure, but it was a respite, even if it was like using a squirt gun to battle a forest fire. Day and night, day and night that clicking was fucking relentless and he needed peace. A grin crawled over his face as the torment abated, but..., thirty seconds later, he sighed. Click click click. He winced as he mouthed "Fuck it!"
An hour went by, maybe two, who could tell anymore. It was darker now, the sun lingering long in the Kentucky sky in August. The parking lot was full. For a weeknight, The Dollhouse was doing a fine business. Maybe I can just look this time. Maybe..., maybe if I just take a peek, it can work. The clicking was deafening. Tim knew he was going inside, there was no sense fighting it anymore. He was making progress, though. It had been six months before he had to come here, but now..., he had to move.
He pulled down the sun visor and flipped up the cover to the mirror. The tiny lights filled the cab of his truck with a soft, yellow light. Looking at his reflection, Tim grimaced. He looked like a sack of shit. Dark circles hung under his yellow eyes making him look like he had been stabbed in the face with a red hot poker and scorch marks had been left on his skin. His flesh hung loose on his face; like a piece of wet Kleenex stretched across a bleached skull. His hair; long and greasy was pulled back sharply and did not help soften his features. He was all hard edges and sharp angles; like you could cut yourself on his face like a knife. "No use putting this off any longer," he thought to himself as he flipped the visor back up and started walking across the lot.
The crunch of his boots on the gravel shot into his ears like ice picks. Damnit, why is everything so fucking loud! Just a few more minutes. This will help, it has too. Just a quick peek, and then, home and sleep. I know this will work this time! I know it!
Tim pushed open the door to The Dollhouse and Fred, the owner was tending bar and smiled as he saw him walk inside.
"Timmy boy," Fred cried. "Been a while. I was wondering where you had been."
"Oh, you know me, Fred," Tim said, his voice crackling and hoarse. He had not spoken a word in over a month and his tongue stretched and strained as it suddenly was exercised. "You can't keep me away."
"The usual?" Fred said.
"You know it," Tim nodded.
"Shit man," Fred said, "I am so glad you showed up tonight. Most of these fuckers here are beer drinkers and I thought all of those fifths of Wild Turkey I bought would never be sold."
Tim grinned, his thin lips curling back over his tiny, yellowed teeth. "I am glad you kept my stock ready. I will make sure to help reduce your excess inventory."
"Well, we like to keep our regulars happy. For you, Tim, only the best," Fred said as he poured him a glass and passed it across the bar. When Fred saw the face of Ben Franklin staring up at him from the bill his customer passed to him, his face erupted into a huge big toothed grin.
Tim downed the drink in one gulp, the hot burn sliding down his throat easy, muting the clicks on its descent. He opened his eyes, and glanced over at the bartender and forced a smile on his face. I have to keep it together. I have to look normal.
Studying the bartender, he was pleased he had not changed. Good old Fred, same as always. Dressed in that same red flannel shirt he wore since Moses was in high school, his grey bearded ZZ top face looked blue under the pulsing disco lights.
"Aren't you hot in that shirt?" Tim asked, his mind boiling in his futile efforts to try and participate in normal human casual conversation. "It is scorching outside."
"That it is," Fred said, "but I don't have a lot of variety in my wardrobe. Makes shit easier when I get up in the morning."
Lucky fucker. At least he can sleep.
"You look well, Tim," Fred said. "Things good out at your place?"
Tim nodded, and croaked out, "Yeah. Couldn't be better." He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror over the bar and smirked. Fred was such a liar, but he did try. Triers are always the best liars. He didn't look well. This was no opinion, but an indisputable fact. His complexion was green, and it was not just the garish lights flashing in the dark, dank club that created the effect. That didn't help of course, but it was not the cause. His whole being oozed illness, as if sickness itself rose from the depths of hell and took on a human form and decided to name itself Tim.
"Who's headlining tonight?" Tim said. "Darla again?"
"As always, but, we do have some new girls in the lineup," Fred said. "And Man, they are just your type. Fresh..., if you know what I mean."
