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CHAPTER 19, EXCERPT 2
Nikki drove him home and turned into his driveway but didn’t shut off the engine. Looked like she had bees in her bonnet and she wasn’t even wearing a bonnet. Frank asked her if she was coming in and she shook her head to the negative. Her face was stern and seemed to judge him and he couldn’t blame her at all. Her eyes were like mirrors; every time he looked in he saw the asshole Frank Ford. “Thanks for everything, Nikki,” he said. “I wouldn’t have made it without you.”
Nor would I have a huge hospital bill coming in the mail to bankrupt me.
“That’s okay, Frank,” she said. “You obviously needed help. Now be sure and follow the doctor’s instructions.”
She wasn’t coming in.
Frank fought off a wave of nausea and dizziness and stepped out of the Honda. Standing in his driveway unsteady on his feet, sadness descended on him like a rain cloud, self-loathing following close behind like a Canadian cold front.
The next day dawned as dark and lonely as Frank could ever recall. Goddamn Ray-Ray was doing the same thing from the grave as he’d done on earth, causing a carload of hurt, frustration and anger. Frank couldn’t get involved with the emotional turmoil—doctor’s orders—but the good doctor never told him how to stop his mind from going where it went or why it always went where it wasn’t supposed to. They always leave out those important bits.
So he just sat in his living room smoking in the dark with his little TV on. He’d found a nearly full old pack of Winston’s in his dresser drawer—dry as dirt but still full of nicotine—and was dutifully using them up so he wouldn’t be wasteful. But after half a day of that it dawned on him that he was just like his mother, Joan likely at home doing the same thing he was. Sitting the same way, watching the same shitty television shows and sucking on cancer sticks. Upon seeing it, he went to the kitchen, tore up what was left of the cig pack and threw the remains in the garbage can.
His moods were on a roller coaster, climbing up to where he thought he was back to normal and then without warning rocketing back down to the pits. The headaches were fading and his memory was getting better but he still couldn’t remember any details of the attack. But it had to be Artie Autry; the asshole seemed to be lurking around Judy’s apartment building all the goddamn time. Had to be the drugs. Judy Bruton and Artie Autry—truly a match made somewhere other than heaven.
By the following Thursday afternoon, Frank was certifiably stir-crazy. But he caught a little break when Keith Waverly came knocking at his door. Frank was so surprised by how good the guy looked, he couldn’t help but ask if Keith if had found a magic pill for health and wellbeing. Waverly responded that it was spring and he was finally getting his shit together, running, sweating, drinking a ton of water, push-ups, sit-ups…. Softball season was almost here, man, and too much booze and coke make Keith a dull boy.
Following that revelation, the two of them sat around shooting the shit about nothing until early evening when Keith wandered off to the House of Doughnuts. Later, alone in the house, Frank realized that he hadn’t had a drink or gotten high since the wee hours of Saturday morning. It wasn’t bothering him, but his good friend Waverly had given him an extremely fragrant bud of marijuana. The size of a small egg, Keith said it was something new from California, what they called sinsemilla, which, Keith explained, meant “without seeds.”
Frank was examining the fragrant bud, had it in his hands admiring the beauty of it and wondering if he should try some, what effects it might have on his concussed cranium, when the phone started ringing. He had a strong premonition that it was Nikki and he didn’t want to answer, believing that hearing her voice would send him deeper into regret over what he was currently referring to as Ford’s Folly, Frank doing his best to paint his disgraceful fall with a dab of wry humor and faint-but-wizened regret.
Good luck with that, man.
Time heals all wounds, they say, but to Frank it still felt like cheating if he got to feeling better at all. He deserved to suffer, didn’t he? But life wasn’t meant for pain and woe, was it? The hippie songs said it wasn’t. And, Christ, man, you can’t torture yourself forever.
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