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Collide - Part One - Chapter Two 
part one: nails for breakfast. “I’m not here to tell you my life story.” He says, and taps the folder. “You’re here to tell me yours.” The minutes turn into hours, and then Adeline is knocking on the conference room door, and cracking it open. “Brian.” She hisses, offering a quick glance to the kid -- the kid who looks like the greatest mess to grace this side of Germany since the big bang; the kid who is chewing his thumbnail carefully and deliberating on the next word of the report that Brian’s asked him to write (everything he remembers, everything that could mean absolutely anything). Brian looks up at the sound of Adeline’s voice, and pushes up one of the white sleeves of his shirt. She raises her eyebrows and requests, “Lunch?” Shaking his head he waves her off, pausing to push the other sleeve of his shirt up, until he can feel the air conditioned waves around him chewing on the skin of his wrist. He looks up and meets the eyes of the kid, the kid who has decided not to write the report Brian needs as soon as possible, but stare at him instead. “I didn’t know lawyers got tattoos.” He says, voice still dubious, like this whole experience is this gigantic stage show and Brian is the ring leader in the middle, completely set on causing the kid risks that are worth more than his life. Brian already knows that this blond may end up being more trouble than either one of them are worth. One eyebrow raised, Brian points to the report still clutched in the kid’s hand -- the report that is already filled with spelling errors, and awkwardly curved handwriting. Words in mind, he doesn’t bother to pull down the cuffs of his shirt until they cover his wrists -- a simple action to appease a client. Instead he leans over his desk and hits the intercom button on his phone, barks an order to Adeline that he knows she’ll purposely wait fifteen minutes on before doing. “Tell Janice that she can come and retrieve Mr. Taylor.” He tells her, his voice even, albeit a tone too tired. “Well resume tomorrow.” He feels his nostrils flare as he brings his fists closer to his chest, narrowing his eyes at the heavy vinyl bag hanging in front of him. His teeth tighten at the back, the adrenaline making his knees shake and his head light as he throws one tight fist forward and then the other, his gloves impacting hard against the boxing bag with two muted yet angry thumps. One final set of rapid fire and he’s close to out of breath, the sweat dripping from his forehead as he eyes his target and throws one last punch. As soon as he makes impact he feels his knuckle split inside the glove and swears, shaking his hand, trying to knock the pain away. It only spurs the feeling on even more, the irritated pinch of broken skin pounding in time to the pulse in the muscle of his neck. He’s been thinking about this fucking case all night, and even as he starts to undo the glove and rip it open with his teeth, it doesn’t even begin to start to fade from his thoughts. He feels as though whenever he tries to stop thinking about it, the thoughts just increase. Tenfold. Breathing heavy, he tucks the hand with the loosened glove under one arm pit and wiggles his hand, twisting his wrist until the glove comes off. When he manages to pull his hand completely free, he isn’t surprised by the red stain that’s starting to soak through the tape wrapped around his knuckles. He hisses when what must be sweat begins to seep into the wound. As he reaches down to pick up his water bottle, all he can see in his mind is a set of images, moving as fast as his fists were, each photo flashing through his head without much time to focus. The same set of photographs that were in the Taylor case file this morning -- and he’s already got each one memorized, right down to the almost out of focus background details. He squirts a mouthful of water into his mouth and starts toward the locker room, his breathing still heavy as he watches a guy and his trainer in a small boxing ring set up in the far corner. The trainer is shouting at him and trying to spur him on through unfounded anger, and the guy is buying it. Brian looks up at the huge clock above the warehouse style doors, tearing his eyes away from the orchestrated fight, and realizes with weary eyes that it’s already past midnight. What he thought was today was merely yesterday, and now he has to get up in five and a half hours. He doesn’t bother to take a shower. Simply wipes his face with the same towel he wiped it with the night before and the one previous to that, then throws it back into his bag. He’s more concerned with his knuckle than with the way he smells, because he knows a split one means that he won’t be able to properly use it for the next week and a half at least. A grimace and a short hiss of pain as he unwraps the bandage from around his fingers, the fabric pulling on the tender piece of flesh on his knuckle. He waves his hand in the air and the oxygen makes it sting, but he continues despite it, tossing the stained bandage into the garbage beside him. One half assed, single handed look through his bag, and he realizes that he hasn’t bought anything with him to treat a split knuckle with. He sighs, and listens to each tooth of his zipper sound as he zips the bag back up. And despite it all, he finds himself back at square one. Back at those fucking pictures. And he knows this case is going to be bigger than the firm itself, bigger than he ever expected anything to be. Big enough to put him and his client into International newspaper, the same papers that he used to read back in New York. He takes one last swig of water, and starts toward the exit. He pulls the asbestos feeling blanket up to his chin and shifts around on the plastic mattress crinkling beneath his body, studying the wood framed photographs of clowns hung on the wall opposite him. They’re for children, he knows, targeted at them to bring happiness, as though they aren’t in a hospital room with machines beeping around their half alive bodies. In reality, Justin is pretty sure that they’re watching him. The clowns. There are three of them -- one has green hair, one red, and the other a multi-colored rainbow -- and they’re all smiling with expressions that are too wide for anyone. They make Justin feel sick, like there’s someone standing outside his bedroom window, waiting in the dark, watching him. And even though he knows that they’re there, there isn’t a thing that he can do about it. The doctor comes in, walking past the three photos like he does every other hour, and taps his clipboard against the metal foot of Justin’s bed. Justin isn’t sure if it’s meant to wake him up, or terrify him -- it jerks him out of his thoughts. Rolling over onto his back, he stares up at the doctor -- so obviously a children’s doctor, much like the children’s pictures. He has stickers all over his nametag, and despite the late hour, there’s a barely forced half-smile on his face. Justin thinks that this doctor looks a lot like those clowns do. “How are you feeling, Justin?” The doctor asks, pausing to flip through the pages in the chart. Justin sees little flashes of red pen and blue graphs going by. Shrugging, the blond pulls the blankets a little higher, a little tighter to his chin. “Like I got my kidney removed, I guess.” He finally whispers, keeping his eyes level at the doctor’s throat. He’s kind of old, and his skin is wrinkly. Justin watches his adam’s apple move up and down whenever he swallows. The doctor doesn’t say anything, after that. He just pulls his stethoscope out and starts to press it all over Justin’s chest and back, and once on the side of his neck. The metal feels like it’s been chilling on ice. Justin closes his eyes, and thinks of the clowns. He pushes the front door open with the base of his shoulder, the simple, white printed Kinnetik that’s etched into clear glass matching the line of his bone. It’s only approaching seven in the morning, but he can already see people milling about, stacks of paper in their hands and coffee cups glued to their lips. Brian starts down the hall, past the conference room and toward his own office. He passes by Adeline’s door on the way, and stops long enough to poke his head in. She isn’t there. Fucking typical, he thinks. Instead of finding the woman to proceed in bitching her out, he slips into his own office and closes the door behind him, before anyone manages to catch sight that he’s here. Throwing his jacket over the back of the chair, he slicks his tongue over his front teeth and drops his suitcase beside his desk. His hand is already starting to sting, despite the tight bandage wrapped around it from the night before. He shakes his hand and reaches down for the pile of early morning messages that Adeline’s already left him despite her absence. Someone called Mr. Vatu phoned this morning and wanted to arrange a meeting. I told him I’d talk to you and call him back. Since this Taylor case is going to suck most of your resources, I wasn’t sure if you wanted to take another on -- it’s only some civil divorce case anyway. His number is 030-129-2948. Taylor and his social worker will be in his morning around ten. The case file is already in your desk drawer, top left hand corner. Some new faxes came in, they’re on top of the emails with a yellow post-it attached. I went out for a smoke break. Be back before seven-thirty. Shaking his head, he drops the notes back down onto his desk, and slides one of the drawers open. He doesn’t bother looking down, just feels past his own pack of cigarettes (his only pack of cigarettes), until his fingers trace over a thick folder. The Taylor case. He pulls the folder out and drops down into his desk chair, closing the drawer before he inevitably takes his hip or side of his thigh out on it. Already he can feel that the folder is fatter than it was yesterday, that Adeline has added more than just faxes to it. He flips the cover open, and sure enough, there’s a wedge of brand new paper clipped stack of assorted papers with a note stapled on top. Officer Roberts’ report detailing the initial anonymous information they got on the drug bust that lead to discovering Taylor in the warehouse -- as well as a few other officers’ written statements concerning 10/16/05. Also attached: a transcript of the anonymous phone call, woman’s voice, not sure of anything else. --Ad. Leaning back in his chair, Brian pulls out Officer Roberts’ report, quite obviously typed on an ancient typewriter. He can tell, because the ink smears up and down what should be clean margins -- he can tell by the way some letters almost resemble others. -- We’d been trying to bust this drug ring for almost a year. As far as we had known it was run by a group of men that, to this time, have yet to be identified. On the morning of 10/16/05 we received a call via our anonymous tip line that the gang involved were at a small hostel just out of Kreuzberg. We acted on it, but did not find the drug ring that we were looking for -- instead we found a boy, aged sixteen, who we’re discovering has turned out to be a victim to a much larger underground crime syndicate-- Justin can hear them talking. They’re trying to be inconspicuous about it, but that’s hard to do when you’re standing outside of the door to the person you’re currently gossiping about. He doesn’t like Janice that much. And he doesn’t like this doctor -- Haskins. “We’re about to go over to the law firm…” Janice is saying, and though Justin can hear most of the conversation, he still has to strain to listen when her voice trails off and disappears into the thick hospital air. She’s speaking in perfected English, while he stumbles along in broken. Justin’s never been to Germany before. Not before this, at least. When he was a kid -- or, well, when he was six or seven -- his mom had promised him that they’d go to Disneyland once she made enough money at the local diner she had been working at back then. They never did, though, long story short. And even at that age, Justin hadn’t even been that surprised. He just wishes that he could remember the one day where he’d managed to step outside the Seattle border, and whether it was by choice or not… well, he knows that it wasn’t. Two nurses pass the door to his room, speaking quickly, tongues rolling over German syllables, and Justin wishes that he knew what they were saying, but as it is he can barely pretend to speak Spanish -- barely learned a single letter back in elementary school. He scuffs the heel of his left shoe against the recently waxed floor, and studies the black streak it leaves behind. “Fuck, hold on. Hold this.” He hands (thrusts) her his coffee and the case file, starts to tighten the black tie around his neck, fix the cuffs of his jacket. He throws his arms out and shakes them, trying to get the elbow creases out of the perfected material. Beside him, Adeline hurries along. “Why’s it such a big deal to cover them up?” She asks, gesturing at his arms and huffing a little as they both hurry along. Brian rolls his eyes, forgoing an answer, and tugs the white fabric down over the inked designs on his wrists. She hands back the coffee and the folder, and then they’re at his office door. “Anything in my teeth?” He asks, baring his teeth in a half grin, half snarl at her. She laughs and peers into his mouth for a minute, then shakes her head. He rests his hand on the door knob and turns it with his split knuckled hand just as she’s saying, affirming, “No. Good luck.” “I don’t need it.” He mumbles over his shoulder, an arrogant grin on his face. She laughs and closes the door behind him as he slips inside the room. Almost just like the day before, Taylor and his social worker are positioned in the two chairs that are set in front of his desk, angled together. He puts a client appeasing smile on his face, and catches the kid’s eye as he passes by. “I received the officer’s report of the sixteenth.” Brian greets, throwing the case folder down onto his desk, and then setting the coffee cup down into an otherwise clean space. Janice nods along accordingly, and Justin doesn’t say a word. Also accordingly. “Mr. Taylor, today I’m going to have to get the rest of your statement.” Brian slides down into his chair and leans forward, propping his elbows on the edge of his desk, watching as Justin’s eyes eat the inch of his wrists that are inevitably beginning to poke through the cuffs of his shirt. He smirks, and hands over the half-finished report from the day before. His body jolts awake in the middle of the night -- the sound of his phone ringing, loud and sharp beside him. Still half asleep, he tries to roll off of the mattress, and, after a few jerky movements, he succeeds in doing so. He lands on the floor in a tangle of blankets, and his own soon to be sore limbs. “Christ.” He mutters, cheek pressed against the hardwood floor. Groaning, he manages to push himself up onto his hands and knees, and then use the edge of his mattress to get the rest of the way to his feet before he shuffles over to the phone. Rubbing at his eyes, he tries to imagine what hour of the (“fucking”) morning it could be, “Hello?” He barely succeeds in wiping the obviously groggy sleep from his words, but on the other end of the line, he can hear his caller moving quickly, before a voice says, its words rushed, “Veronica’s having a fucking breakdown -- Charlie’s got a temperature of a hundred and three, and my car isn’t working. Can you come pick her up?” Brian groans and looks over at the digital clock by his bed, sharp red in the black of the bedroom that he has just managed to stumble his way through. “Yeah. I’ll be there in a minute. Are you already at her place?” He asks, running a hand over his face. The last three words come out slurred. On the other end of the line, Jack nods but says, “I’m leaving now.” Other than teenagers stoned out of their mind or the perfected German sub-cultures, nobody really drives on the roads around here at night. Brian kind of likes it. Really likes it. Remembers when he was part of those sub-cultures, one of those teenagers. He speeds through an empty intersection, eyes still bleary and clothes hanging off of his shoulders at funny angles after hastily being thrown on. Veronica’s house is only ten minutes away, but if he speeds up a mile and a half, he can get there in six. Jack’s bike is already in her driveway as he pulls in, and he can see lights on inside of the front hall. Brian hasn’t even pressed his palm against the horn before the front door is jerking open and the two people are hurrying out, a nine month old baby clutched in Veronica’s too thin arms. Brian leans over, and unlocks the passenger side door. Veronica gets to the door before Jack, and even through the metal, Brian can hear the baby’s screaming and their arguing. Jack hurries up beside her and opens the unlocked door, throwing himself over the front seat and into the back one so she can climb into the passenger. “What the fuck happened to him?” Brian asks, pulling out of the driveway before Veronica’s foot is even inside of the still opened door. She’s shaking, but Brian doesn’t know if it’s from the uppers in her system or the usual fear as she says, chattering, “I don’t know. He just woke up screaming.” Charlie cries the entire way to St. Joseph Krankenhaus, and by the time they pull up in front of the emergency, Brian wants to cry too. The two of them hurry out of the car as Brian idles, the baby still clutched in Veronica’s arms, with Jack hurrying after them. The small group jogs toward the entrance as Brian pulls away to find a place to park -- which is exactly when he realizes that he doesn’t even have any change on him for the meters. That seems to be the least of the problem tonight, at least. So what if Veronica would never exactly get the award for best mother. Brian knows this, but she’s better to her child than his own ever was to him. And Jack, Jack’s not even the kid’s -- Charlie’s -- father, but Brian has always figured that that’s just Jack. It’s when he stops to think about it that Brian realizes that between all of them, no one knows for sure who the poor kid’s father really even is -- and, if Veronica does know, by some divine intervention, she’s done a fantastic job of keeping the identity of him a secret. Brian’s just glad he’s gay. He pulls into an empty space a mere halfway across the parking lot, and after a quick search of his dashboard and cup holder, discovers that he was in fact right. No change to be found whatsoever. So instead of taking the risk and chancing a fine or parking ticket, he crosses his arms over the steering wheel and presses his forehead against them, letting his eyes drift closed as he tries to relax his tense shoulders. Dawn is already beginning to break over the edge of the parking lot, and to Brian, it almost seems as though that’s where the world ends. Go on to Collide - Part 1 - Chapter 3 |