Failing Upward

Chapter 4: Hidden Hills

I leaned over. I thought of kissing him. I did.

But Sid turned his mouth away.

"For years you've avoided this moment," Sid said. "Now, it's here, and I don't want it. You know why? Not just because I promised I wouldn't get into your pants, or because you drank too many rum and cokes, or because you've just been through a traumatic week."

I leaned back into the couch, closing my eyes.

"Alright, Mr. Psychoanalyst, tell me why," I said. "Oh, wait, let me guess. It's because I'm needy. Or maybe I'm sexually confused."

"No," he said, his body falling back into the couch next to mine. "You're doing what you've always done. Avoiding. And what ever you're avoiding, it's big. You'd rather fuck me than have to admit it to yourself."

God, I felt like crying.

"Damn." I began to bang my head into the back of his couch. A tap at first. Each time after, harder than the last. Feel something. Feel something. Finally, the wooden frame gave a satisfying crunch against the back of my head.

"Enough," Sid said, pressing his hand firmly against my forehead and stopping me from damaging his furniture, or myself, further.

"You're avoiding," he said. "Now, you're beating the Hell out of yourself doing it."

I opened my eyes, looking over at Sid. His fingers slid down off my forehead to my jaw, loitering a bit before sliding them away. I chewed the inside of my cheek.

"Tell me about the delivery that day," he said, his fingers left their impressions like a stamp, a haunting reminder.

I don't see how the delivery would be related at first, but I felt better after telling Sid all I remembered about the roses, Glenda, and the accident. I even fessed up about trying to read the card. Sid asked me if maybe I had read it and just didn't remember. I told him it was possible.

Lying to yourself was easy.

He was wrong about me avoiding.

I faced my parents' death.

I faced my sister's death.

So what I skipped out on grief counseling. So what I ignored Father Thomas knocking at the door. So what if I stayed home and let my voice on the answering machine do the talking?

Tonight I needed Sid. So what?

I knew what.

Avoiding was like lying. I'd practiced avoiding so well my whole life, I don't know the difference. The ultimate avoidance: denying who I am.

I hated the voices inside my head. My father saying I'm weak. Father Thomas telling me to say fifty 'Hail Marys' and twenty 'Our Fathers' and maybe I won't go to Hell.

Tired and hurt, my body and head ached, but the pain wasn't unbearable. I just needed rest. Being the good guy, Sid took the sofa, and I took his bed. Sid insisted I get a decent night's sleep.

I heard Sid's feet moving around outside the bedroom door about five minutes after I went into his room. Part of me wanted to ask him in. His finger's impression remained; the intimate contact settled me. I wished he'd touch me again. Shit, I wanted him to touch me again. I didn't care if I ended up in purgatory. But Sid wouldn't come in. For that to happen, I'd have to ask. I wondered if he'd changed his mind about getting into my pants. After all, I changed mine. But I wouldn't ask. He might have said no, and I knew I couldn't handle rejection again tonight.

So, I said nothing. His loss. Not mine.

I couldn't sleep. My mind wouldn't switch off. I thought about my family. My father, who I guess, was right about me all along. My sister, who I loved more than myself. My mom, who could grow love from rocks and topsoil. I thought of Me, who missed them all.

Shit, I started to cry.

It was always a mistake to stare at a digital clock when you're trying to sleep.

-----------------

I jerked awake to the sound of banging on the front door. The realization that this was not my bed or my home came to me an instant later.

I smelled coffee wafting into the room and felt the twinges behind my eyes of one of those caffeine withdrawal headaches. I looked at the clock, 3:47 pm.

I pulled myself out of bed and strained to hear the voices in the other room. I heard a woman.

A woman in the other room, and I was in the bedroom? In my underwear. Just my luck, the old cliché with a twist-- the other man hiding in the bedroom with the angry girlfriend banging on the door demanding, "Let me in."

Suddenly... pulling out a steak knife from the cutlery drawer, she stabs the two-timing bastard boyfriend in the chest. 'You deserve a more painful death than this,' the jilted lover wails and wacks off his wanger--

Wait.

Sid doesn't have a girl friend-- obviously.

And wasn't that Lynn's voice?

Mmm-- The Temptations, 'It was just my imag-in-a-tion, running away with me...'

I got out of bed, pulled on Sid's old bathrobe, and headed out to see what all the noise was about. I rounded the corner to the kitchen.

"Shit!" I yelled, slamming my big toe against the door jam. I hopped around in circles, inching my way into the kitchen.

Lynn looked surprised to see me.

Hmm, Sid hadn't told her I was his guest.

"Wes! You scored!" She said, slugging Sid in the arm. "Oooh, baby. Did you show him a good time?"

"Shut up, Lynn," I said. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," she squealed. "I was worried. But this is great. I'm so happy for you. At least for this..."

"Coffee. I need caffeine," I said, noticing blood on the vinyl floor. "And a band-aid. Ouchless, please."

"I think you better sit down," Lynn said.

"I already know. I don't have to sit down. Why do you think I spent the night?" I inspected my throbbing toe then her face. I didn't like the look on her face or Sid's. "Well, maybe I better."

"I think you had," Sid said.

I sat down on the barstool, wincing as I picked off what was left of my toe nail.

"Your house wasn't all that burned last night. The Road House burned right to the ground. They think it was arson. But here's the good news; I have your Gibson right here, see? It's safe." She handed me the case.

But this couldn't be my guitar. That was my guitar case alright, but not my Gibson's. The case was my Fender's-- must be someone got outta my car. I opened the case, I saw it-- the guitar I loved-- my candy apple red Gibson ES-335 just like the one B.B. King plays. But I was sure it was at my house-- the one I used to have. How did Lynn get my guitar? I pulled out of the case. It didn't feel right.

At this point though, I didn't care. They'd have to pry it out of my dead and withered hands. Oh, wait. I looked closer. Nope, this wasn't my guitar. No scratch on the neck where I gouged it on the garden rake in Smith's garage.

"What are you trying to pull? Where'd this guitar come from? And how'd you get this case?" I asked.

"What did you do to him last night any way?" Lynn smiled, changing the subject. "Sweet of you to protect his virtue, saying you hadn't seen him since last night... Then, out he pops from the bedroom. Real cozy."

Sid got cozy next to me, sliding his arm around my waist. Sid was kinda having fun with this whole idea of us having done the light fandango. Maybe if I let her think we did she'll get off my back, or at least quit trying to fix me up with guys who wanted to get me on my back-- or all fours.

I put my arm around his waist in return, and he brushed a quick kiss to my temple-- the prickle of his chin. Was that a tingle I felt where his lips were?

"Aren't you two going to ask about my night?" She asked.

Just because I didn't have a love life, I didn't know why Lynn thought I'd be interested in hers. Did she think I nursed voyeuristic tendencies? Her and Alan. I guessed bad things do happen in more than three.

"Spare me the gory details," I said. I know Alan was Sid's best friend, but as to why I could never quite calculate. Sid couldn't understand why we couldn't get along.

Sid: Alan and I are a lot alike.

Me: Oh, let's see, Sid. How alike are you? Alan watches The Man Show, and you watch Oprah. Alan is a man slut, and you practice safe sex. Alan has two-timed every woman he professed undying love for, and you, Sid, are the quintessential good guy.

I never came out and said, 'Hey, you're gay, and Alan's not.'

I was never sure of that one. Alan rides me about it so much. Maybe he doesn't ride Sid because Sid's cool with it. That and Alan has been Sid's best friend since elementary school.

Sid tried explaining to me once why he was Alan's friend. He told he thought I don't get along with Alan because I'm a lot like him. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

I gulped down the coffee, and it burned my throat. After everything else that had happened, I really didn't give a shit. They both looked at me funny when I frantically grabbed my throat and choked. I had to laugh. They both looked so funny. In fact, everything became funny. I couldn't stop laughing. I thought this is what it's like to be hysterical-- tears streaming down my checks. That was funnier yet. Now I was half crying and laughing.

"I think you better lie down on the couch," Sid suggested.

"Maybe he needs to do this. He's been through a lot. May be he should come home with me. No? You don't want to? Still, you're going to need some clothes, Wes. I don't think you can fit Sid's pants." She bit back a grin. "My brother is your size. I can bring some of them."

I was breathing normally now.

"Have you called your insurance agent yet?" she asked.

"Of course not. It's Saturday," I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. The last place I wanted to stay was with Lynn. Too many strange men coming and going. Literally. Not only that. Right now, even after someone tossed the apartment, Sid's place was still cleaner. I didn't have a lot of options.

"You can stay here with me," he offered. Now that wasn't an option-- at least, it wasn't a wise one.

"Far be it for me to step between a budding romance. Still, I'll bring over some clothes. I've got to get home; I've got to get ready. Alan's is going to pick me up at 5:00."

Well, I sure didn't want to stay with her if he was there.

"Bye, Lynn," I said. I heard her shut the door and the hollow sound of her shoes clacking down Sid's cement steps before I realized she never told me where this Gibson came from, or how the heck she got the case.

"I guess you have a house guest for a little while," I said, practicing a new riff. "I hope you don't mind."

"Great. It will be great. Make yourself at home. I picked up earlier. It's still trashed though. Besides, I'm worried about all that's happened... I've been thinking and maybe there is a common thread that ties them all together. I've looked around the apartment and nothing is missing. But the way all the cabinets were emptied and drawers turned over, I'm sure they were looking for something."

"You think this is all connected," I said, and I knew who we both suspected. The man who came out of my hospital room. The man with the flowers. He's probably some old psycho-groupie. "My finger is still sore," I mumbled. "I can't play bar chords." The thorn.

I started to rummage through the case, searching for a pick.

"Have you ever been hypnotized?" Sid asked.

"No. Why?" I laughed.

"I have this friend who's a hypnotist--"

"Are you suggesting I might remember what the card said?"

"Actually, I was thinking along the lines of the conversation that transpired between you and Mr. Lancaster at the hospital. I have this friend who runs this weight loss clinic using hypnotherapy."

"I'm in safe hands-- a weight loss guru-hypnotist," I said, placing the guitar back in the case. "I hope he won't make me cluck like a chicken."

"Great, I already set up an appointment. We gotta go; he's fitting you in."

"He won't turn my brain to mush will he? You know, I haven't been having the greatest string of luck lately." I thought for a moment. "Maybe he could get me to quit biting my nails." And maybe he could make me not want Sid, but I kept that one to myself.

"Your nails are fine." That sounded like a boyfriend speaking. Shit.

"Well, hey, and while he's at it," I said, "see if I was Marc Antony in a past life."

"Let's go."

We cruised down 29 Mile Rd just south of town when it struck me, "Ah, Sid? This weight loss clinic-- it doesn't happen to be at Hidden Hills?" I saw him shrug out of the corner of my eye.

It was.

"Jeez, a nudist camp," I said. "What fucking next?"

"It's been my experience that most people are really curious about what does go on in nudist colonies, which is nothing. But people have ideas about orgies and wife swapping. It's nothing like that. Don't tell me you haven't wondered?"

I just gave him a dirty look, but he was dead on. I always wondered. I knew Sid's parents were nudists-- left-over sixties' flower children. His parents both professors at Albright College-- dad a professor of sociology, mom of World Lit. I always thought it would be confusing, watching your parents walk around in birthday suits. I wouldn't want a naked image of my parental units buzzing in my brain. Sid's were scary enough.

"I hope you don't mind, but I wrote down some questions for him to ask you. Look them over." I scanned over the questions Sid handed me. I get car sick anyway and reading didn't improve matters-- and just thinking of Sid's parents walking around naked with martinis made me queasy enough.

"This friend of yours, he does have his clothes on when he hypnotizes you?" I didn't think I could be hypnotized with someone else's dick hanging out. Too distracting. But what I was really worried about was having my dick hanging out. "Can I keep my clothes on?"

"Yes," Sid smiled. "And don't worry. I'll keep mine on, too." Then he smiled wider. "Or would you like me to take mine off?"

I fidgeted. Oh, he was joking. Okay, I got it.

As we pulled into Hidden Hills, the muzak from the building played, "The Sound of Music."

Just perfect. Now I was thinking of Sid naked.

I looked around. I don't know what I expected. Maybe nude people jogging up and down the trails. All the way down the drive, and zero skin. I started to feel disillusioned when I spotted a bouncing white belly exiting the building. I said belly, because that was really all I could see. We were parked next to Mr. Large Intestine's car, and I crouched way low in the seat, trying hard not to wonder where he puts his keys. He was on my side of the car, and I wasn't into making eye contact to any panoramic view of his nether-regions. Hearing Sid's laughter, I slid back up in my seat, looking at Sid.

"I think this is too much nature for my taste," I said, making sure not to turn my head.

"You know, that car door does open." Sid pointed out.

"Very funny. Can we wait until this guy gets what he wants out of his car? I have a creepy feeling his ass is pressed flat to my window."

"He's gone, Wes. Come on. It's time. The doc's waiting for us." I took a deep breath. Might as well start a little self-induced hypnosis now.

Suddenly, the landscape filled with skin. "Oh, gosh," I said, "here comes another at 3 o'clock. Hell-o! Gravity is not your friend."

A tall red headed man-- er, woman waved at me. "Oh, my God, that's my neighbor," I said. "There's no fucking way I'm getting outta this car now."

"You have to, or we'll miss the appointment."

"Sid?" I asked. "Is this guy any good?" I closed my eyes-- either weight loss via hypnosis didn't work, or these people weren't taking advantage of the clinic. "Does he have some kind of license?" I asked.

"He's a psychiatrist. He has a license. He belongs to the ASCH-- a health care specialist organization for hypnotists. You'll be fine. Now get out of the car." I held my breath and kept my eyes down.

We got out of the car and walked straight through the front doors. I was relieved to see the waiting room was empty and both receptionists fully clothed.

"Hey, Sid," waved receptionist number one with the really big 80s hair.

"Doctor Deal is waiting in room one," said receptionist number two, winking at Sid.

Both receptionists were checking me over.

"Alice is a good friend of my mom's," Sid explained. "I bet she's calling her right now. Or else she already had Mom on hold..."

Sid led me to the back room.

"And what's behind door number one?" Sid said, crooning in a faux game show announcer's voice. "It's a prepaid ticket to a dreamlike state! And here to tell us about the travel package is Dr. Peter Deal... Dr. Deal?"

A man, who I took for Dr. Deal bowed, pointing flamboyantly inside the room.

"Why yes, Wes has won a round trip ticket. But let me start off my telling this fine winner about the trip-- the myths and truths of hypnosis, as it were. First, a person will not do anything they wouldn't ordinarily do. We call it the power of suggestion for a reason. It is merely a suggestion. I can't make you do anything you wouldn't morally do-- Like sleep with Sid here-- unless, of course, you were already inclined to do so."

Sid cleared his throat. Just how much information did Sid share about his personal life?

"Second, this is not magic or some sort of cheap parlor trick," the doctor continued. "This is science. Almost anyone can be hypnotized, but creative types are more suggestible. From what Sid tells me, you fall into this category. As for past lives, forget it. Spontaneously reverting to a past life just doesn't happen much. I've been doing this for eight years, and I've only seen it once--a famous actor who comes here." The doctor rolled his eyes. "Actors have vivid imaginations-- this one did." He paused. "Finally, on the subject of repressed memories-- I understand you want to remember something you have forgotten-- so, I want to be clear here. Recovered memories most often are not memories at all, but creative stories invented by the subject. I'm not saying that people can't remember where they put the keys to their Lexus under hypnosis. They can and do. They also remember with out hypnosis. More often than not, it's their best hunch."

"A Eureka moment under hypnosis?" I asked.

"Exactly," he said. "And I also want to say, I won't let Sid here suggest anything off the wall while you're under."

"How comforting," I said.

"Now, where're the questions that you prepared?"

"Here," Sid said, handing him the steno pad.

"Ready?" he asked, and I nodded.

"Lie back on the chair. Now, close your eyes. Tense your whole body. Now slowly relax every part of you. Start at the top of your head and move down...slowly... relax. Now you feel very light. Pretend you are weightless. Floating. Slowly lifting to the ceiling..."

At this point, I really did feel light headed. He lifted my arm.

"... you are walking through a garden. It is the most beautiful garden you've ever seen...you hear water gently flowing in a stream... you feel at peace... ahead you see a beautiful sunset... you walk toward it... one...two... three steps you take... with each step you take, you are more and more relaxed... four...five...six, the sunset is getting closer...seven... eight..."

"Wes? Wes?" I heard in a fog. I wasn't clear at first where I was. Then I remembered and looked at my watch-- 6:34. I think it was Sid and Dr. Peter Deal calling me, but my vision was blurred.

"What did I say? Did I tell you what the card said?" I asked.

"No, you didn't," said Sid.

"What about Mr. Lancaster. What did he say to me?"

"You couldn't remember anything about that either," Sid said.

"Then what the hell did I talk about for over two hours?" I asked, tapping my watch.

They looked at each other.

"Hmm, where to start? Do you want to take this one Sid?" I stared at them.

"You have a really excellent imagination," Sid said. "I told you we should have recorded him," he turned to the doctor. "I took notes though." He leafed through the yellow memo pad that had the questions on it. Now it was filled with his notes.