Chapter 4

Kerry awoke to bright crystalline sunlight flooding his apartment. He lay there for several minutes, eyes heavy from exhaustive dreams and queer sensations that quelled just outside his conscious grasp.  The storm had played out before dawn, leaving an azure sky and a false promise of a nearing spring. He raised his arm to block the glare and regretted it; an intense ache in his elbow drove all other thoughts into oblivion.  Kerry attempted to rub his arm with his other hand, only to find both equally in pain, and he groaned.  With effort he crossed his arms and massaged both elbows until the muscles relaxed and the pain eased.

Suddenly remembering all of what happened during the night, Kerry rolled out of bed and staggered for a moment as his ankles shot painful sensations to his brain.  The pain slowed his walk to the bathroom where he stripped off his jacket and shirt, and in the light of a single bulb above the mirror, inspected his arms.  Nothing.

There were no marks, no redness--nothing that could explain the painful sensations that thrummed and demanded attention.  Was the pain proof his she-devil, his succubus, was real and not an hallucination?  As impossible as that thought seemed, was it believable that his brain could generate intense pain on its own from nothing?  A phantom pain?  Hmm.  Kerry had read about amputees experiencing that very thing.  Many continued for long periods feeling limbs that no longer existed.  The mind was an inscrutable thing and not to be underestimated.

He ran a hand over his stomach and chest, not expecting the oily stickiness that clung to his skin, the sheen vaguely discernable in the limited light of the bathroom. Was this the result of the hallucination, a kind of proof he could glom onto?  It had been five years since the last bout, before Zyprexa, the blessing--and bane--of his existence, and remembered something of night sweats and soiled bedding.

After the horrific episode last night, his resolve waned as he considered half-measures.  Would cutting the caplets in quarters or halves give him relief without being lost within the thick slurry of eternal inconsequence?  It had to work. He would never give up the euphoria of writing, of creation, of excelling at what he loved ever again.  He would die first.  

The stark reality of that thought jarred Kerry back into the moment and the need for a long, steaming shower.  He felt filthy.  A twist of the handle and the pleasant sound of streaming water eased Kerry’s dark mood.  As he started to undress, there came a distinct knock on the door.

He shut off the shower and listened, afraid that it was Ruben. He snatched his shirt from the countertop and stole quietly toward the door.  He would never answer if it were him, and only the most overpowering curiosity drove him to the peephole to see for certain.  The distorted fish-eye view revealed it wasn’t Ruben, but a dark-haired female, dressed in what appeared to be a uniform.  As he studied her, she knocked another demure tap-tap-tap.

“Just a minute.”  Kerry heard a muffled “Okay” as he fumbled with the shirt.  In a moment that felt more like an awkward quarter hour, he had the shirt buttoned, his hair hastily combed with the fingers of both hands, and inhaled a calming deep breath. He opened the door.

“Hey--hi there!  I know we haven’t really met yet, but I’m your neighbor--well, not exactly neighbors per se, I’m in four-eighteen, you know, down the hall a couple of doors, but you probably know that, I mean, we’ve passed each other in the hall a few times, and you’ve said ‘hi’ and stuff, and so I thought you might not think me too crazy-forward to ask you a huge favor? Oh, I’m Chappie!”  She stuck out a hand, her other hand held a small paper bag with a folded top.  She was a petite, pretty little thing, barely five feet tall.  

Kerry stood there stoic, without his gloves, half hidden behind his door, a bastion of unmanliness, and confused on what to do.  “Uh…good morning.  I‘m Kerry.”  He left her hand hanging in the air.

Chappie was unfazed and dropped her hand. “That’s cool, no problem.  Coming here all spur-of-the-moment, knocking on your door and you expecting someone familiar, and ha!--you got me instead.” She giggled in a way that fit her youthfulness.  “I bet you thought I was a Witness.”

“No--no, I mean yes, I wasn’t expecting anyone like you--I mean…I don’t what I was expecting.”  Kerry was mortified with himself.

“Do you have a coffee-maker that works?”

“What?”

“You know, one of those thingies that you pour water in and add some ground-up French roasted caffeinated cocaine-for-the-masses that makes you want to live for another hour or two?  Like that--,” she pointed past Kerry to the Mr. Coffee visible sitting on his counter.  “Does it work?  And more importantly, can I use it?  I wouldn’t ask except it’s an emergency.  Mine’s broken.”
 
“You want to borrow my coffee-maker?”  Kerry was taken aback.  ‘Sure, I guess.  There’s probably a bag I could put it in…”

“You think I want to take your coffee-maker back to my apartment?  Ha! No, that would be weird.  No, I just want to use it.  Do you mind?  I brought my own poison.”  At this, Chappie shook the bag she held and stepped across the threshold to Kerry’s dismay.

She stopped just inside the apartment.  “Oh! I didn’t know you had kids.  I thought you lived alone.”  She pointed at the floor. “Look at all the toys.”  Arranged in a semicircle facing the door were Hulk and the entire collection of bobbleheads.  

Kerry left the door in a scramble to collect the figures, scooping them up two at a time and clutching them against his stomach,  dropping several in his haste to return them to the window sill.  “No kids. I’ve had these for a long time--a collection that just kind of took control.”  He had to arrange them in proper order, which occupied his concentration.  He didn’t dare put one in the wrong sequence and be forced to remove them and start all over again, especially with someone watching.  Kerry’s face flushed.

“So you play soldier with them?  That’s cool.”  Chappie was in the kitchen filling the pot with water.  
 
“I don’t play with them.  It’s sort of a thing between me and…”  Kerry trailed off, anything he said would come off strange. “It’s kind of a private joke.”
 
“My brother kept a tote filled with vintage G.I. Joes he got from our Dad and Uncle Ray, you know, the full size ones that you could buy uniforms and boots and guns and backpacks for, and when he went to U.C. Berkley, he took them along to his dorm.”  She poured the water into the unit and started going through the drawers.  “Where do you keep the filters?”

“In the upper cabinet by the sink.”

“Got it!”  She placed a filter in the basket, poured coffee straight from the bag into the filter without measuring, and flipped the toggle.

Kerry finished at the window and watched her as she opened another cabinet and pulled two mugs down to the counter. She had shoulder length dark-brown hair, just a shade short of black, with bangs cut even with her jet-black eyebrows.  She wore more make-up than Kerry thought necessary, but it didn’t mask her natural beauty.  She was even shorter than he first thought, with platform professional shoes making up the difference.  The uniform was restaurant garb.  Kerry recognized it as belonging to a diner a couple of blocks away.

“So, your brother took his collection to Berkley?  That’s gutsy, they’re worth big bucks.  It’s a wonder he didn’t lose any.”

“Are you kidding?  If they were Barbies he’d have been offered a top spot at the Women’s Studies lunch table.  Instead, the frat boys destroyed the whole shebang and beat the shit out of him, told him military toys promoted violence.Hypocrite bastards!  Oops! Excuse my French--I love my brother.”

At this, Kerry laughed, and it felt good.  He hadn’t laughed in a long time.  “So, how did your Dad and Uncle Ray take it?  I’m sure they were pretty pissed.”

“You have no idea!  Actually, Uncle Ray still doesn’t know.  He was a Green Beret in Nam.  He’d nuke the place if he found out.”

Chappie cleared Kerry’s computer and papers from the table, placing the lot on the only stuffed chair in the place, and slid one of the folding chairs out from under the table, then motioned Kerry to sit.  He did, fascinated at her hubris.  

The conversation stalled for a minute, the only sound the gurgling of Mr. Coffee.  Chappie took the interval to walk around the small apartment; what she found interesting enough to inspect was beyond comprehension.

“You keep this place spotless.  I mean, there is like, not a speck of dust anywhere.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you gay?”

“No!  What--I have to be gay to like things a certain way?”  In truth, Kerry had little say in the matter. Nothing could ever be clean enough.  

“Geeze, it was just a question.  Keep a firm grip on your feather duster!”

Mr. Coffee sputtered one last, long time and began beeping.  Chappie poured both mugs full from the pot, the coffee the color of asphalt, and joined Kerry at the table.  The aroma, far different than the Folgers he always brewed, made him salivate.  

“I’ve never heard the name Chappie before.  It’s got to be a nickname, right?  What’s your real name?”

“Really?  You had to go there?”  She acted engrossed in inhaling the steam from her cup, gripped tightly in both hands, her eyes closed.  “Aaah…come to mamma!”  She took a sip and showed no interest in answering the question.

“What?  It can’t be that bad.”

“I blame my dad.  He should have put his foot down and told Mom no.”

“Come on, how bad could it be?”  Chappie looked up and Kerry spread out his hands.

“Chaparral.”

“Wow.  Kind of a mouthful.  Chappie it is.”

“Ya think?  Mom was hooked on some stupid western T.V. show, ‘High Chaparral’.  I told her the only thing high in that equation was her.  She thought it sounded ‘pretty’.  Of course she didn’t take the time to find out it means, ‘tangled shrubs and thorny bushes’. Oh, no! As if a military brat didn’t have enough to deal with!”

Kerry found himself laughing again.  “It’s not that bad and I think you know it.”

Chappie stared at him, and then joined in a soft laugh.  “Whatever.”  She took a few more sips, staring at Kerry.  “You know, you look a lot like Daniel Craig--I mean, if he were a little anorexic.”

“The Bond guy?  That sounds almost like a compliment.”

“What can I say?  He blows shit up.”

There was another knock at the door, this time slow and deliberate.  All the good feelings Kerry felt sunk immediately into a pit.  Ruben.  It had to be him.  He sat glued to the chair until he realized Chappie was looking at him with a question on her face, the aren’t you going to answer the door? expression.  The calculation of staying put and looking as timid as he felt in front of her, or exerting extreme effort and tamping down his fear, was answered in the next moment as he rose and strode to the door.  Kerry opened it without looking through the peephole.

“Mrs. Rotterdam!  This is a welcome surprise; I didn’t expect to see you!”  He swung the door open wide to let her enter.  “Come in and sit at the table, you must be exhausted,  Why in the world did you walk all the way up here?”

“It’s Vera, Kerry.  Mrs. Rotterdam sounds too formal for old friends, don’t you think? We agreed, remember?  Besides, I’ve baked a new version of one of my special scones, and I couldn’t wait to see what you…what are you doing here?”  Vera continued to the table, a small plate covered with foil in her hands.  Her tone held a steely edge as she addressed Chappie.

“Welcome to the coffee klatch, Vera.”  Chappie held her cup up in the air.  “Can I get you a cup?”

“I’m not an invalid, girl.  I’ll get my own.  And it’s Mrs. Rotterdam to you.”  The old lady walked past and into the kitchen.

Kerry closed the door and stared in disbelief.  Vera was upset, that was clear.  He looked at Vera’s backside as she moved into the galley, and then shot a questioning look at Chappie.  She just rolled her eyes and took another sip of her coffee.  Not satisfied, Kerry mouthed the words, what’s up?  She only mouthed back, later.

Vera opened cabinet doors until she found what she wanted.  She brought back a cup, a single plate, and a fork.  Kerry, uncomfortable in the silence, grabbed the pot and poured Vera’s cup full and said, “So, you two know each other.”  

As he sat back down, Chappie wagged her head at him in disgust.  “You could say that, I suppose.” Gone were the feelings of just moments ago.  The apartment seemed to have shrunk by half and the air now too thin to breathe.

Vera busied herself with unwrapping the scones, numbering about a dozen, and then placed some on Kerry’s plate.  She slid the plate and a fork in front of him, and  acted like the girl didn’t exist.

Chappie stood.  “Well, look at the time.  Gotta go to work.”  She took her mug to the sink. “Thanks for the coffee, Kerry.”  

As she headed for the door, Vera spoke without looking up, “Want a scone to take along, Chappie dear?”

“Not on your life.”  And she was out the door.

Vera smiled.  “Some never learn their place in this world.”  

Kerry didn’t understand what just happened; the whole morning was surreal.  Vera immediately began to chatter on about people he didn’t know or care about, and soon her voice was just background noise as he ate her scones, consumed by wondering if he’d see Chappie again.

He was relieved when Vera excused herself to leave, and even more relieved when she turned down his offer of walking her back to her apartment.  Alone again with only his thoughts for company, a voice in the back of his mind told him he was forgetting something, something important.He remembered .

Yes.  He would experiment carefully with his meds.  He didn’t want a repeat of last night ever again.  He would take only a quarter of a pill and see what happened.  He could always go up from there if he had to.  Only a quarter.  Kerry walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet.

The Zyprexa was gone.

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