Interjection III

III

“Where are you now?” My dad asks. We've been talking every day since [K] went to the hospital and its something I'm still getting used to.

“At the bar, debating if I should have another drink or go home.”

“Have three.”

It's been another one of those weeks, but I say that every day, looking for some sort of excuse for my behavior, or maybe just trying to convince myself that this is a fluke, and not my usual life. But tonight I don't want to act out and punch metaphorical walls, I don't feel like ghost hunting in the abandoned buildings, or getting rowdy by the freight train tracks. I don't even want to sing. I put my sister in the hospital and I feel sick. I'm eying the bartender. He's nice to me and smiles, passes me free drinks and listens to my stories, though I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm lying, most normal people do. His features make my spinster brain implode a little bit. I want to relax and enjoy this evening, but I can't stop thinking about [K]. I try to think about the good parts of today's visit, not when she got up and disappeared inside her room without a good bye and I had to leave. There's a bunch of characters on her floor and I'm starting to get to know all of them. There's Billy Idol, or at least that's what I call him. He's this big guy that doesn't really verbalize much beyond grunts but I asked him where he was from once and it kinda sounded like Monroeville. [K] said he farted on a nurse one morning too, I wish I coulda seen that. Then there's a boy we'll call [Anthony] for privacy's sake. He's teaching me sign language. So far all I can do is finger spell and mimic what the nurse translates for me, but I'm learning. He told me he met me and [K] about 5 years ago at a party and I believe it, though I barely recognize him, it wouldn't be the first time I ran into someone I've met before in the psych ward. Funny how the universe works like that, I'm not sure if its saying something about me or the people I meet, but it's definitely saying something. The only other talkative one so far is Big [Carl]. He's only 21 years old. First thing [Carl] ever told me is all he wants is to have a family and be normal some day, but that he'll be stuck in that hospital for the next two years. The next day he asked me out, and I was polite as I could be, but he's a sweet a kid overall. I drew his picture last time I was there. I reiterate the tales to my dad one by one and we try to laugh. I brag that I'm drinking a sangria that beats his and try to explain to him how to say “Trainwreck” in sign language, the nickname my friends have recently adopted for me. He doesn't understand but it's okay because I'll be visiting New York next Friday and can show him then. He asks if I've told [K] that yet and there's a long awkward silence on my end of the line. Suddenly I feel like crying again.

“It's okay Randa, your being such a trooper.”

“I know... I guess. I have to tell her though.”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “How do you think she's gonna react?

“Bad.” I laugh morbidly.

“I'm bringing you down, aren't I? So many people have been calling me asking if I'm okay and I know they're being nice but I don't want to talk to them because it brings me down making me think about it, and I hate it! Now I'm doing the same thing to you.”

“No.” I say softly, “I'm already at the bar anyway.” but he ignores me and continues on.

“God what am I talking about. Your the only one there. You've actually been dealing with everyone calling you and I'm just making it worse.”

“It's okay Dad,” I try to soothe, but emotion is getting the best of me. I don't want to believe him but he's right, it is making me think about it. “I don't care about the phone calls.” I say unconvincingly, “I'm just upset this fucking disease took Mom away and now it's taking [K] too. Its not fair and I'm the only on in fucking Pittsburgh, I never even wanted to move here.” Now it's his turn to be awkward and silent on the other side of the phone.

“I should let you go.”

“No, it's okay.” I stammer, embarrassed. “I'm just stressed out, I really do like Pittsburgh, and especially Braddock.”

“Relax Randa,” he says, “enjoy your evening and have another beer in my honor. We'll talk tomorrow”

“Okay.”

I glance around the bar nervously for a moment, wondering if anyone over heard my conversation, but everyone has there heads down in a glass or are absorbed in conversation. I breathe a sigh of relief and grab for my sangria but it's empty. For awhile I just stare down at my hands, wallowing in self pity and defeat.

“Another one?” asks a voice in front of me. It's the bartender. He looks straight in my eyes and I don't look away like I normally do. Something about him reminds me of [R], I think. But I know better than to pursue feelings anymore, it never ends well for me.

“I really shouldn't.” I mutter quietly, staring down at my hands again. “I have to watch my money.”

“Probably shouldn't, but that's no fun.”

I don't know what to say or do. I'm exhausted in more ways than one and just want to disappear, so I shake my head and keep staring at my hands. When I look up there's another sangria in front of me.

“Hey, in my house...” he smiles, then walks over to the next customer.