Disgust and Desire (ch. 10-11)

Chapter 10/11

Photo by Fabien Bazanegue on Unsplash

*Another short chapter (10) = free

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10.

Sam had taken two busses and walked in order to get to James Langton’s apartment. His messenger bag was slung across his torso. He turned, seeing Columbia across 114^th. The South Lawn. Rare Book and Manuscript Library. Alfred Lerner Hall. A pang for formal education pushed through him. He remembered The University of Washington. His literature classes. He could still smell the classrooms and huge lecture halls. The desks. The professors’ tweed coats. The smell of learning.

What if he went back someday?

He knocked, and the white-haired man opened the door as if he’d been standing there with his hand on the knob waiting.

“You’re early,” James said.

Sam smiled. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

James grinned. “C’mon in, son. Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

James opened the door wide and Sam entered. The door shut behind him. A ground-floor apartment. He liked that. The apartment was spacious. A big open kitchen with an island. A large table in the living room. Reclining chairs and two couches facing a huge flat-screen TV. He saw a large gray cat run out from somewhere. The cat was old and had very long fur.

“Ah…that’s Satan,” James said.

“Your cat’s name is Satan?”

James chuckled, indicating for Sam to sit at the table. He pulled his messenger bag off and set it on the floor. He sat. James came over and sat himself and slid the big orange mug full of coffee to Sam. They clinked their mugs together and drank.

“Well,” James said. “You haven’t seen that bastard when he gets mean.”

Flummoxed, Sam said, “Oh. You mean the cat?”

James nodded.

A beat of silence.

“So, tell me a little more about yourself,” James said. He slurped some coffee. James wore denim coveralls. A red baseball cap over his white curly hair. Wrinkles lined his tanned face, the flesh like beat-up uncooked beef. He had the type of face which had seen serious life. Struggle. Fear. Love. Hate. All of it. There was something admirable about that face

Sam drank some coffee. It was hot and good. It nearly burned his tongue, but he didn’t mind. “What do you want to know?”

“Start at the beginning.”

Sam glanced at the wall clock, an old grandfather. He heard the subtle, distinct tick as the second hand moved. “Shouldn’t we get working?”

“In time, son. In time. We can have some coffee and chat for five minutes, can’t we?”

Sam felt uncertain, insecure. “Well. I was born and raised in Seattle. Dad owns a heating and plumbing company. Mom was a nurse.” He paused, nervous. He sipped coffee. “We didn’t have a ton of money but we weren’t poor. Small house. Two cars. Folks worked hard. I was weird, always needy and sort of…disconnected. I did well in school. I got a partial scholarship to The University of Washington. I worked summers and paid the rest. My folks pitched in a bit, too. I didn’t know what I’d do with a degree in literature. I thought maybe I’d become a critic. Or I’d teach.”

There was a pause. Silence descended. “And then what?” James said.

“Well. I did OK in college for a year or so. And then I started getting in trouble. Always late for class. Failing tests. Talking back. I started drinking. I came into several classes drunk. I screamed at a few teachers. Passed out in class once. It got worse. I was reprimanded several times. I started drinking more. I was booted. Thus began the years of rehabs. I went to four different places. My parents paid every time. I don’t know how they afforded it. I always relapsed. Escaped, as I referred to it. Failed.”

Sam didn’t speak. Neither did James. Sam felt stupid, ashamed. Part of him wanted to leave. Right now. Just grab his shit and go. Fuck this guy. Fuck the money.

James got up, entered the kitchen, poured them each a full mug again, and sat back down at the table.

“You know,” James said. He removed his red hat. His hair was as white as Santa Claus’s beard. As white as the snow in Montana in winter. “I was born in 1952. I’m sixty-eight now. I had four brothers. You have any siblings?”

“Just a younger sister. Amanda. Married. Kids. Lives in Portland, Oregon.”

“Well, I had four older brothers. I was the baby. God: They used to mess with me something awful. And my father. Mean drunk. He would beat the shit out all of them. But not me. I was the kid. The child. I was James Junior. My dad never touched a hair on my head. I saw him beat two of my brothers black-n-blue a few times. My mom, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

James shrugged. “It is what it is, son. In 1969, when I was seventeen, I joined the Army. My folks had to sign the release papers because I was underage. They shipped me off to Southeast Asia. I fought in Vietnam. I was in for two years. Most terrifying two years of my whole life. I saw things you can’t even imagine. Villages burned to the ground. Babies impaled on spikes. Teen girls with Agent Orange or Napalm burning their bodies.”

James glanced away, his eyes loose. He was reliving his time in war.

Sam coughed.

James faced him. “I guess my point, son, is, you survive shit. I did. You will. We have to. You come from a foundation. Parents. Abuse?”

“Some.”

“Verbal?”

Sam nodded.

Twirling his mug, lowering his voice, James said, “Physical?”

Sam nodded. “Some.”

“Bad?”

Sam nodded.

James shook his head. “I’m sorry, kid.”

They killed their coffee. They got to work.

Sam worked all day, until close to 5. It consisted of moving a big desk upstairs (which was heavy as Hell), a medium-sized table (same), a heavy metal filing cabinet, and then dozens of heavy small-to-large sealed boxes. Much of the boxes, James told him, were composed of books. Sam envied him for that. He wondered what books there were. A Vietnam vet contractor with boxes upon boxes of books. Intriguing.

He got hot and sweaty and tired. James gave him a bottle of water to drink. He was starving but he didn’t want to ask for food. That would be presumptuous. Besides, he’d leave here with big bucks.

As he worked he thought of James and his story about his brothers and about his time in Vietnam. He thought about his own time, when he was thirteen and his dad came into Sam’s room one night and started yelling at him. Sam tried to speak but couldn’t get a word in. He tried to hide but couldn’t get away. He even tried to pry his window screen off so he could leap out. His father caught him by the collar and punched his son right in the face.

That was the first time Sam ran away.