Every Street, Chapter 8

--See previous chapters for notes--





For most of the morning he tried to sleep off the incredible hangover - the
kind that you only get after having not been drunk for some time. At about
11am, he decided that he wasn't going to get anywhere lying in the cheap bed
with springs digging into his back, so he would have to make a trip into
town to get some Alka Seltzer. As he drove down the road, trying not to
wince every time another car passed by, he remembered the job suggestion his
new friends had come up with last night. Maybe it was worth checking out.
Providing he could get something to calm the throbbing in his skull, of
course. He wondered for a moment what had happened to Bill. Last thing he
could remember was seeing him with a big, busty platinum blond woman who had
teeth like a horse. After that, he couldn't remember anything, including
just who it was that he had woken up with that morning. He reached the town,
and cruised down the main street, scanning the dull shop fronts for a
drugstore. He failed to find one on the highway and so took one of the
left-hand turnings. Towards the end of a short parade was a small drugstore,
with a flashing sign that had the Red Cross emblem on it, blinking
intermittently. Pulling his car into the side of the road and turning the
ignition off, he checked his wallet for cash. There wasn't a lot left, he'd
have to start abusing his credit card soon. Enough for some headache pills
though. He got out and locked the car before going into the store. He
scanned the shelves on the walls and down the aisles, and seemed to find
everything except what he was looking for. Giving up and asking at the
counter, the female assistant handed him a box of Advil from a shelf behind
her. He paid and left the store, having also bought a bottle of Coke to wash
the pills down with. Balancing his drink on the bonnet of his car, he had a
look around him while he wrestled with the packaging. He could see the high
school further down the road, and there were some kids out training on the
track. Beyond the school, he could see the trailer park and then trees. He
tipped his head back and washed down the drugs, then unlocked his door and
threw in the remaining pills and the rest of the Coke. His interest had been
piqued by the high school, and he locked the car again and sauntered across
the road and down the hill it was based on. The kids on the track had slowed
to a walk and were being called off by their teacher, a balding guy with a
whistle around his neck. Doug walked along the front perimeter of the school
before finding the main entrance. He jogged up a series of steps that lead
to the big doors and went in to a small foyer. Pictures and trophies hung on
the walls, and some faded newspaper articles were also framed alongside
them.

"Hello sir. Can I help you?"

Startled, Doug's head whipped round to see a receptionist looking at him
from a separate reception area that was divided from the foyer by a series
of glass panels.

"Yeah, uh, I heard you're looking for a sports coach?"

"Yes, sir. The job also includes teaching anatomy as well, the full details
are on our recruitment board over there," she pointed to a small corkboard
on the far wall. "You can send in your application or you can fill one out
now, if you want?"

"Uhm." Doug scrutinised the job specification, which had little more detail
than he'd already been told. "I'll fill on out now." 'No point in losing the
opportunity,' he thought to himself.

"Here we go...you can take a seat by that desk there." She handed him the
three-page application form and a pen. He sat down at the nominated desk and
looked at the first page. Name, address, phone number...this wasn't going to
be as easy as it seemed. For one, he didn't HAVE an address at the moment.
And he doubted that they'd be particularly responsive to someone who lived
in a trashy motel. Flicking the page over to see if the next questions were
any better, he wondered whether he was allowed to put down the fact he had a
medical degree. After all, he had done the training. He just wasn't allowed
to practice any more. It was all a bit of a hazy area. Looking onward to the
next sections - interests, health and criminal convictions - he decided to
take the form away with him to fill in. It was obviously going to need some
thought. He stood up to tell the receptionist what he was doing, but she was
on the phone so he pointed at the form and motioned that he would take it
home. She nodded and smiled, and he left before the bell sounded for lunch
break.





Back at the motel that afternoon, after paying another night's rent to the
sulking girl, Doug dropped the application form on his bed and turned the
radio on to an oldies station. Opening a beer, he sat down to consider his
options, and eventually chose to lie down instead, the form resting across
his chest as he thought hard and deep. It was in that position that he woke
up five hours later, his beer now flat and the radio playing The Eagles, and
his mind full of the Carol. His dream, that she came to rescue him from
falling down a vast abyss, albeit that she came on the back of a blue
panther with a dragon tattooed on it's hind leg, had shaken him and he tried
to forget about it. But he couldn't get rid of the image in his mind, that
terrible feeling he had when he woke up and realised where he was. He
reached for the small alarm clock which displayed the time as 6.30pm in
bright red LCD format. 6.30 in the evening and his stomach told him that it
was about time he ate. Wondering if there was any way he could get someone
to deliver food to him, he hopefully lifted the phone receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hi, uh I was wondering if there's anywhere that delivers food..."

"No. Nowhere, we're too far out."

"Oh. Okay, thanks."

He put the phone down before she did this time. Celebrate small
achievements, he thought to himself, and tried to flatten his hair out where
it had got spiky in his sleep. Standing up, the application form for the
high school job fell off him and fluttered to the floor. He bent over to
pick it up and put it down on the small desk. He'd managed to fill most of
it out now, having only stated neutrally that he went to college. There was
only one section left over, and he knew it was the clincher. There was no
way he would get a job anywhere with a conviction of reckless homicide on
his record. Trying once again to desperately brush the vision of Carol's
face from his mind, he leant over the table and with a pen quickly marked
the criminal conviction box with a small 'N/A'.




That night found Doug at the bar again, and the next, and the next. He
staggered back to his motel room by himself most nights, but was accompanied
once by a tall red-haired woman who had seemed keen to hook up earlier in
the night. His new found friends were jealous of his Romeo status but joked
about it and even enjoyed setting him up night after night. Sometimes he
would play along and sometimes he wouldn't. Either way, copious amounts of
beer, scotch and whisky were involved and, as one large guy named Carlos
pointed out, you could avoid a hangover very well by just continuing to
drink. It was Carlos also who told Doug about a trailer up for rent, if he
wanted it. Dulled and softened by the alcohol, Doug found himself accepting
and holding the keys to a one bed, fully functional former motor home in the
Grant O'Malley Trailer Park, for only $95 a month. It didn't hurt, until a
week later when he woke up in his new home and considered the fact that he
used to have to get up in the mornings to put bread in the toaster - now he
could just lean over and not even have to get out of bed. 'From city
center apartment block to trailer park in one easy number,' he thought,
rolling onto his side to check the time. As he reached for his bedside clock
in the murkiness of the morning, he knocked over a half-full bottle of
Budweiser onto the floor and he could hear the pale liquid rush out over the
linoleum. Groaning under his breath, he got out of bed, stepping over the
ever-increasing puddle and grabbed a dishcloth from the sink to mop up with.
He was on his hands and knees, reaching for the bottle that had rolled
underneath the cot when someone knocked at the door. Wondering who it would
be calling at this time of the morning, he unfolded from his place on the
floor and answered the door. He blinked out into the bright sunlight and saw
that there was a young boy looking up at him, his hand outstretched with an
envelope in it. Doug took it, rubbing the sleep out of one eye and squinting
at what he'd been presented with. Looked like his mail - it had a stamp on,
and the address.

"Uh, thanks." He wasn't sure what the kid was doing with it - did they
employ children as mailmen here? Wasn't that illegal? The boy stood there
still, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Oh, I...hang on a moment." Doug realised what he was waiting for and
reached behind him for his jeans. Fishing out a quarter, he handed it over.

"Have a nice day!" The kid waved, running off down the grit and sand that
made up everyone's front yard, closing the ramshackle mailbox as he went.

'That must be it,' thought Doug, 'there's one mailbox for the site and the
kids deliver the mail to the trailers for spending money.' Didn't seem like
a bad thing, although he hoped he didn't get a lot of mail - his funds may
not be able to support that. Ripping into the envelope, he closed the door
behind him, making sure to catch it with the lock on the back to stop it
swinging open when it felt like it. He pulled out a single sheet of paper,
and took a look at the first few sentences. He didn't have to read much
further down the page to get the message and he dropped it into the
wastepaper bin before picking up the empty beer bottle. What had made him
think he could get that job anyway? He'd never taught before in his life, he
had no valid qualifications and he didn't play football. He rubbed his chin
and went in hunt of a razor so he could shave.

It was a Saturday morning, and there seemed like no way Doug could avoid a
trip to the bank any longer. He was living off his savings, which were still
keeping him afloat, but he knew they wouldn't necessarily hold out too much
longer. Now he'd failed to secure the only job the town had for offer, it
seemed like he would have to apply for a loan in the not too distant future.
He left his home, slamming the door hard shut and turning the key in the
lock. If anyone wanted to get it, they could easily pick their way through
the thin, tinny metal that supposedly kept the trailer safe, but he doubted
anyone would try. He kicked a brick out of the way as he walked down the
main dividing track.

"Hey, mister!"

It was the mailboy. "Hey."

"Where dya get that car?"

"My car?" Doug looked at his Jeep, parked on the road outside the trailer
ground.

"Yeah, s'awful new and shiny for someone living in a dump like this."

"It was a present." Doug said back, turning around and walking out of the
park. He got to his car and went to unlock the door, but noticed something
awry. The front left tyre had been slashed, and lay in a droopy pile around
the bottom of the wheel.

"Argh! That little bastard..." Doug gritted his teeth, fighting back a surge
of anger. He turned around and marched back into the trailer park. The
mailboy and four other kids, all mixes of ages and sizes were playing a
shambolic game of stickball in the middle of the track, the oldest looking
one aged about 11 standing with the stick smoking a cigarette.

"Hey!" Doug yelled down to them. They all turned around and stared at him
for a couple of moments and then carried on shouting and arguing with each
other. "Hey!" he shouted again. "You guys got something you wanna tell me?"

"Nah." Three of them, including the kid who had delivered his mail, looked
genuinely confused.

The one with the slim cigarette didn't look quite so innocent.
"Maybe you shouldn't come here with your big car and make people feel bad,"
he said, taking the cigarette from his mouth and spitting into the dirt.

"Well maybe it's the only thing I got right now." Doug's voice raised at the
end of his sentence.

"Lot more than anyone else here got."

"What makes you think that gives you the right to go and slash my tires,
huh?"

"Hey man, cool it. I didn't say I did it. I just saying why someone may have
felt like it."

Doug, unable to think of a reply, boiled on the spot.

"Maybe that I can tell you who did it." The cigarette butt was crushed under
the sole of an old sneaker. He looked at Doug cunningly. Doug stared him
back. These kids really knew how to go about business.

"You know what? Don't worry about it." He turned on his heel, muttering
"don't worry about it," again as he left them standing. He left the park and
walked up the road towards the high street.





As he walked, head to the ground, he passed the high school. A group of
adults were leaving it, no doubt after some Saturday morning adult learning
class. Maybe he should sign up for one of those. He was considering going
back to check out the timetable of classes and their costs by the doorway
when he heard a voice behind him.

"Hey, mister, mister!" It looked like a kid from the trailer park, but a new
one that he hadn't seen before. He was running up the road behind him, with
a baseball mitt on that looked about two sizes too big for the small arm it
hung off. Doug stopped to wait for him. He could do without more questions
about his car, and more charging for information, but he waited anyway.

"Hi," the boy panted, out of breath from his run up the hill. "Why didn't
you want to know who cut your car tire?"

It was a genuine question. Doug back down to the park, but he couldn't see
any other kids lurking around who might have set this boy up.

"There's not a lot I can do about it now. If it's cut, it's cut. I can't
drive anywhere."

"But didn't you want to beat up Big Davey?"

"He the guy who did it? I don't want to get into a fight with anyone who has
the word 'big' in front of their name." Doug smiled - the kid was harmless
enough. He was skinny and pale, and looked about eight, although it was
entirely possible he was older.

"But why not?" the child fell into step next to Doug, looking up at him as
he tried to match his pace.

"Because fighting doesn't help anything..."

"Oh," the boy was quiet, fingering his glove and trotting along. "But
everyone fights sometimes."

"Yeah," Doug agreed, slowing his speed a little.

"But you don't fight?" The boy couldn't seem to understand that Doug had
walked away from a fight - he was looking up at him as if he'd just landed
from outer space.

"No, I guess I don't," he said, ignoring memories that chose to pop up at
that moment.

"Oh. My name's Jack. What's yours?"

"I'm Doug, nice to meet you, Jack."

"I have to go to baseball now, I'm playing second base today."

"Yeah? Good luck then."

"It's over there, where we play." He pointed to the field beyond the high
school, where small figures could be seen running and swinging bats.

"Uh huh. You got a team?"

"No. We wanted one but you need a coach and a uniform and stuff, so we just
play for fun."

"You need a coach?" How convenient...

"Yessir. The town people said we're not allowed to call ourselves the tigers
either which is what we wanted because tigers are scary, but we're not
allowed because of the football team, that's called that already."

"Well, you don't want a team name that you have to share. You need one that
only you have, like...the panthers, or the falcons or something."

"What's a falcon?"

"It's uh, this big bird that kills...things and then eats them."

Jack screwed up his face.
"Birds aren't very scary."

"I suppose not. How about...the roaches?" Doug had spent two long evenings
trying to get rid of the notorious bugs from his trailer kitchen.

"Eew!" They both laughed.

"Looks like you should get over there, Jack. Or else they might start
without a second baseman."

"Okay...bye, Doug!" Jack started to run off across the field, but kept
turning back to wave. Doug returned the waves, still walking up the road.
Maybe he would change his first port of call that morning to the town hall.

to be continued

©Triggersaurus 2001