The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [67]
All but naked, on a stepladder, cleaning dead man's blood from my kitchen ceiling, I stopped and addressed the young man I saw there.
—Is it possible, my friend, that your coping mechanisms have been over-compensating for the shit that happened on that bus?
The young man in the window responded.
—What shit are you speaking of?
I continued the dialogue.
—That shit where a little girl from your class was hit by a stray bullet and died in your arms and you were covered in her blood.
He shrugged.
—Oh. That.
I put my hands on my hips.
—See, that's what I'm talking about, that nonchalance about the whole thing, and also just kind of being a dick to everyone, that's not the way people react to traumatic situations.
He was unimpressed.
—It's not? You know of another reaction? You've experienced another reaction? Man, as far as you know, this is totally normal. This may be the most normal thing you've ever done in your life.
I jabbed my finger at him.
—Fuck you! That's fucked up. I'm trying to really talk about this for a change and you're being all.
—What? I'm being all what?
I froze, looked at my reflection for a long and deeply disturbing minute.
I shook my head.
—Man, I am not even having this conversation with you right now.
And I climbed off the ladder and laid myself spread eagle on the floor and stared at the flawlessly clean ceiling, and I think I may have cried for the first time in a year, but I'm not entirely sure because a huge mass of sleep loomed and got its arms round my middle and dragged down and I was gone.
Mumbling as my eye slammed shut.
—Fucking almonds.
—I appreciate you cleaning up, you know.
I opened my eyes and found the daylight the pillowcases were meant to keep at bay was shooting me in the face.
—But it's not really going to change anything.
I looked at Chev, sitting on the edge of his lounger, rubbing his eyes.
I pushed myself up on my elbows.
—I'm sorry about the money, man.
He flopped back in the chair and let out all the air in his lungs.
—See, that's the point right there.
I shaded my eyes from the sun.
—I didn't even know he gave it to me, Chev.
He shook his head.
—Fuck the money. That is not the point. You missing the point is the point. I get the money thing, I get you going to see him. He's your dad. I understand that more than you do. Jesus, man, I saw him like six months ago.
I sat up.
—What?
—When you didn't stop acting all fucked up after a few months, I went and saw L.L.
—Chev.
—I didn't know what to do, you know? Thea was like, He'll heal in time. People I talked to, the grief counselor at the hospital, they all said you needed to confront what had happened, talk about it in a supportive environment. Well, I knew sure as fuck that wasn't gonna happen. I read these books on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, they described you pretty smack-on. I mean.
He laughed.
—Dude, you could be the poster boy for PTSD.
He untwisted the sleeve of his black T, where he'd tucked his pack of smokes.
—But knowing what the situation was, that didn't help me to figure out how to help.
I was still wearing the cleaning gloves. I pulled them off.
—I didn't know you were doing all that.
—I know you didn't. You didn't have a clue.
He lit his cigarette and blew smoke.
—Web, it wasn't just me, it was everyone you know. At first, anyway. We were all running around trying to figure out how to get your shit together. The guys from the tattoo shop, teachers from the school, Po Sin, some other parents from over there. But you were so, man, acting like such a dick. People just got tired. They didn't know how to deal and got