I CAN DO this. I can handle this. A snack, that’s all I want. There is a taped poster on the glass window. One that advertises Good Humor ice cream bars. I’ve been thinking of ice cream all night. An ice cream Snickers Bar. That’s what I really want. One just soft enough that the caramel runs into the ice cream, and one bite creates a delicious combination of chocolate, caramel, nuts, and cold cream on my tongue. Wash it down with an ice-cold can of Dr P, and I just might orgasm all over myself. I push on the stairwell handle and pound down the stairs.
Baby steps. Ice cream Snickers Bar. Dr Pepper. Return home. I can handle this. I can prove that I can handle this. Fuck you, Dr. Derek. Fuck you, killer instincts. Ice cream. Dr Pepper. Home.
I round the final flight of stairs, pushing through my concerns with one firm hand against the exit bar, the outside sky darker than I expected, night rapidly falling. I might miss the sunset. I might return to my apartment and it will be gone.
Night: a stupid mistake. I should have done this during the day. On my lunch break. Night is reckless. Night is dangerous. Not just for others—for myself. This is the neighborhood where criminals hog the air, where the howl of a siren is as common as the chirp of a bird. I should have a weapon, something to defend myself with.
Defense. Sure. Another lie to myself? I’m too deep in my own shit to know.
I trip over a broken curb and right myself. At least my urges are being quiet. I should have four to five hours of sanity left. At least forty-five minutes before Simon swings by to lock me in. I will be fine. I can handle this. I move down the sidewalk, gripping the inside fabric of my jacket pockets. Keep my hands in.
In my back pocket is a twenty. I felt so mature slipping it back there—like I was a kid with Mommy’s credit card.
Look, I am an adult.
I must be an adult because I have money.
I am an adult because I left the house on my own.
I am an adult because I can handle myself. Buy a snack and not try to kill anybody.
I step into the street, a blared horn scaring the shit out of me, and I jump, jogging forward, out of the way of an oncoming car. I manage to survive the street crossing and face the store, my eyes following the skittish steps of JitterBoy, who approaches me as I move.
“Got any cash?”
I shoot him a look that I hope accurately communicates my level of incredulity at his question. “Not that I’m giving you.”
“Please.” He holds out his hand as if I’m going to give him something. Give it to him! I stare at his palm for a beat, shake my head, and shoulder past him, my arm brushing against him, and I suddenly want to chop off that limb and throw it away forever.
Is this what life is outside my door? Druggies like Simon, JitterBoy? People who think they can approach strangers and ask for money? Like a simple “please” will grant them free access to whatever is in my pocket? I yank my jacket sleeve down, far enough to protect my hand from germs, and grab the door handle, the word Pull helpfully provided next to a faded image of Joe Camel and a sign announcing that they have only fifty dollars in cash.
I step inside.