Chapter 7

There wasn't a lot of action at Carrie Nation's tonight. Not really wanting to communicate with anyone, Timmy bought a coke and sat down by the bartender's till end of the bar to meditate on the events of the evening. He didn't know if Paul was ok, but he didn't think he had left anything behind to link himself to the scene. Man, good thing he had gotten out of there. He knew he had been so high that it was only luck that got him on his feet and moving.

One thing he decided. Smack was dangerous stuff. Anything that took away all control like that was way too scary. He promised himself he'd never touch it again.

Feeling much more settled, he got up and went out back. A few guys were playing foozball, and one of them was a fellow he had slept around with a couple of times. Rick was happy to buy Timmy a couple of beers, knowing the youngster and trusting he'd keep it cool and not let the barkeeps know he was drinking. Timmy flirted a little with Rick, figuring that if nothing better came along, he could do a lot worse than spending another pleasant, if uninspired, night with Rick.

Suddenly there was a commotion out front. Guessing the bar was being raided, Timmy quickly handed his beer to Rick, who took a casual drink from the glass as if it were his. Timmy nonchalantly stepped back in front of the door so he could hear what was going on.

"He's Dead, he's Dead," sobbed Benji.

"Uh oh," Timmy thought. He went out to see what was going on.

Benji was quite upset, and two guys held down his arms to stop Benji from flailing about.

"What's going on?" Timmy quietly asked Mark, another of the regulars who was there watching.

Mark leaned over a bit toward Timmy. "You know that guy in here selling that crap he called sinsimillan earlier? This fool says he's dead, got a needle in his arm, must be an overdose."

"Cripes!" Timmy burst out.

Bill, standing on the other side of Mark, looked around at Timmy. "Say. Didn't you leave with Paul earlier?"

Terror filled Timmy. "Uh ... Uh ... Yeah, I did but," he gulped, "he was fine when I left."

Bill just looked at Timmy suspiciously through one narrowed eye, which wandered down to the mark just visible on the inside of Timmy's elbow under the sleeve of his t-shirt. Finally, slowly, he nodded and said, "Well, I think we just better say you've been here all evening." He glanced at Mark. "Right, Buddy?"

Mark's face took on a knowing expression. "Yup, that's ok with me."

Timmy felt a huge wave of relief ripple through him. "Th, th, thanks, guys," he blubbered.

"Shush!" chastised Bill. "Say nothing about it, ever. You better get out of here. It might heat up later tonight. Go on, git."

"Ok, ok," chattered Timmy nervously. He sidled around the men surrounding Benji, and slipped through the front door.

Where to go? Timmy remembered he still had some money left over from hustling pinball. The old Berwick Hotel, with only a faint shadow of its glorious past remaining, rented rooms out at $15.00 a night, twenty if you wanted a private bath. The rooms may be smelly and small, and the beds lumpy, but he could sleep there in safety. Best of all, it was right across the street from Carrie Nation's, and two blocks away from work.

He had to wake the desk clerk when he arrived, and he had to breathe the man's liquor fumes as he stood across from him to sign in, but the man took his money with only a semi-interested glance. He spent the extra five to get his own toilet and shower. He wished he had some clean clothes to change into.

Although he scrubbed vigorously with the tiny bar of hotel soap, a miasma of stinkiness floated about him because of his dirty clothes after dressing the next morning. The ladies at work all tittered at him when Denise pointedly told him he must have forgotten to shower that morning. Timmy blushed but said nothing, pretending to be caught up in forcefully subduing the fabric on his press table.

By the end of the work day, Timmy had reached the realization that he had to go to his parents' house to get fresh duds. He dreaded the thought, especially if alone, of facing his lunatic old man. Up north, he had a big brute of a friend he hadn't seen for a while. He wondered if Ben would be willing to go with him to get clothes. Aw, hell, why not? It'd be an adventure.