Every Street,

Every Street, Chapter 8

--See previous chapters for notes--

For most of the morning he tried to sleep off the incredible hangover - the kind that you only get after having not been drunk for some time. At about 11am, he decided that he wasn't going to get anywhere lying in the cheap bed with springs digging into his back, so he would have to make a trip into town to get some Alka Seltzer. As he drove down the road, trying not to wince every time another car passed by, he remembered the job suggestion his new friends had come up with last night. Maybe it was worth checking out. Providing he could get something to calm the throbbing in his skull, of course. He wondered for a moment what had happened to Bill. Last thing he could remember was seeing him with a big, busty platinum blond woman who had teeth like a horse. After that, he couldn't remember anything, including just who it was that he had woken up with that morning. He reached the town, and cruised down the main street, scanning the dull shop fronts for a drugstore. He failed to find one on the highway and so took one of the left-hand turnings. Towards the end of a short parade was a small drugstore, with a flashing sign that had the Red Cross emblem on it, blinking intermittently. Pulling his car into the side of the road and turning the ignition off, he checked his wallet for cash. There wasn't a lot left, he'd have to start abusing his credit card soon. Enough for some headache pills though. He got out and locked the car before going into the store. He scanned the shelves on the walls and down the aisles, and seemed to find everything except what he was looking for. Giving up and asking at the counter, the female assistant handed him a box of Advil from a shelf behind her. He paid and left the store, having also bought a bottle of Coke to wash the pills down with. Balancing his drink on the bonnet of his car, he had a look around him while he wrestled with the packaging. He could see the high school further down the road, and there were some kids out training on the track. Beyond the school, he could see the trailer park and then trees. He tipped his head back and washed down the drugs, then unlocked his door and threw in the remaining pills and the rest of the Coke. His interest had been piqued by the high school, and he locked the car again and sauntered across the road and down the hill it was based on. The kids on the track had slowed to a walk and were being called off by their teacher, a balding guy with a whistle around his neck. Doug walked along the front perimeter of the school before finding the main entrance. He jogged up a series of steps that lead to the big doors and went in to a small foyer. Pictures and trophies hung on the walls, and some faded newspaper articles were also framed alongside them.
"Hello sir. Can I help you?"
Startled, Doug's head whipped round to see a receptionist looking at him from a separate reception area that was divided from the foyer by a series of glass panels.
"Yeah, uh, I heard you're looking for a sports coach?"
"Yes, sir. The job also includes teaching anatomy as well, the full details are on our recruitment board over there," she pointed to a small corkboard on the far wall. "You can send in your application or you can fill one out now, if you want?"
"Uhm." Doug scrutinised the job specification, which had little more detail than he'd already been told. "I'll fill on out now." 'No point in losing the opportunity,' he thought to himself.
"Here we go...you can take a seat by that desk there." She handed him the three-page application form and a pen. He sat down at the nominated desk and looked at the first page. Name, address, phone number...this wasn't going to be as easy as it seemed. For one, he didn't HAVE an address at the moment. And he doubted that they'd be particularly responsive to someone who lived in a trashy motel. Flicking the page over to see if the next questions were any better, he wondered whether he was allowed to put down the fact he had a medical degree. After all, he had done the training. He just wasn't allowed to practice any more. It was all a bit of a hazy area. Looking onward to the next sections - interests, health and criminal convictions - he decided to take the form away with him to fill in. It was obviously going to need some thought. He stood up to tell the receptionist what he was doing, but she was on the phone so he pointed at the form and motioned that he would take it home. She nodded and smiled, and he left before the bell sounded for lunch break.

Back at the motel that afternoon, after paying another night's rent to the sulking girl, Doug dropped the application form on his bed and turned the radio on to an oldies station. Opening a beer, he sat down to consider his options, and eventually chose to lie down instead, the form resting across his chest as he thought hard and deep. It was in that position that he woke up five hours later, his beer now flat and the radio playing The Eagles, and his mind full of the Carol. His dream, that she came to rescue him from falling down a vast abyss, albeit that she came on the back of a blue panther with a dragon tattooed on it's hind leg, had shaken him and he tried to forget about it. But he couldn't get rid of the image in his mind, that terrible feeling he had when he woke up and realised where he was. He reached for the small alarm clock which displayed the time as 6.30pm in bright red LCD format. 6.30 in the evening and his stomach told him that it was about time he ate. Wondering if there was any way he could get someone to deliver food to him, he hopefully lifted the phone receiver.
"Hello?"
"Hi, uh I was wondering if there's anywhere that delivers food..."
"No. Nowhere, we're too far out."
"Oh. Okay, thanks."
He put the phone down before she did this time. Celebrate small achievements, he thought to himself, and tried to flatten his hair out where it had got spiky in his sleep. Standing up, the application form for the high school job fell off him and fluttered to the floor. He bent over to pick it up and put it down on the small desk. He'd managed to fill most of it out now, having only stated neutrally that he went to college. There was only one section left over, and he knew it was the clincher. There was no way he would get a job anywhere with a conviction of reckless homicide on his record. Trying once again to desperately brush the vision of Carol's face from his mind, he leant over the table and with a pen quickly marked the criminal conviction box with a small 'N/A'.

That night found Doug at the bar again, and the next, and the next. He staggered back to his motel room by himself most nights, but was accompanied once by a tall red-haired woman who had seemed keen to hook up earlier in the night. His new found friends were jealous of his Romeo status but joked about it and even enjoyed setting him up night after night. Sometimes he would play along and sometimes he wouldn't. Either way, copious amounts of beer, scotch and whisky were involved and, as one large guy named Carlos pointed out, you could avoid a hangover very well by just continuing to drink. It was Carlos also who told Doug about a trailer up for rent, if he wanted it. Dulled and softened by the alcohol, Doug found himself accepting and holding the keys to a one bed, fully functional former motor home in the Grant O'Malley Trailer Park, for only $95 a month. It didn't hurt, until a week later when he woke up in his new home and considered the fact that he used to have to get up in the mornings to put bread in the toaster - now he could just lean over and not even have to get out of bed. 'From city
center apartment block to trailer park in one easy number,' he thought, rolling onto his side to check the time. As he reached for his bedside clock in the murkiness of the morning, he knocked over a half-full bottle of Budweiser onto the floor and he could hear the pale liquid rush out over the linoleum. Groaning under his breath, he got out of bed, stepping over the ever-increasing puddle and grabbed a dishcloth from the sink to mop up with. He was on his hands and knees, reaching for the bottle that had rolled underneath the cot when someone knocked at the door. Wondering who it would be calling at this time of the morning, he unfolded from his place on the floor and answered the door. He blinked out into the bright sunlight and saw that there was a young boy looking up at him, his hand outstretched with an envelope in it. Doug took it, rubbing the sleep out of one eye and squinting at what he'd been presented with. Looked like his mail - it had a stamp on, and the address.
"Uh, thanks." He wasn't sure what the kid was doing with it - did they employ children as mailmen here? Wasn't that illegal? The boy stood there still, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
"Oh, I...hang on a moment." Doug realised what he was waiting for and reached behind him for his jeans. Fishing out a quarter, he handed it over.
"Have a nice day!" The kid waved, running off down the grit and sand that made up everyone's front yard, closing the ramshackle mailbox as he went. 'That must be it,' thought Doug, 'there's one mailbox for the site and the kids deliver the mail to the trailers for spending money.' Didn't seem like a bad thing, although he hoped he didn't get a lot of mail - his funds may not be able to support that. Ripping into the envelope, he closed the door behind him, making sure to catch it with the lock on the back to stop it swinging open when it felt like it. He pulled out a single sheet of paper, and took a look at the first few sentences. He didn't have to read much further down the page to get the message and he dropped it into the wastepaper bin before picking up the empty beer bottle. What had made him think he could get that job anyway? He'd never taught before in his life, he had no valid qualifications and he didn't play football. He rubbed his chin and went in hunt of a razor so he could shave.

It was a Saturday morning, and there seemed like no way Doug could avoid a trip to the bank any longer. He was living off his savings, which were still keeping him afloat, but he knew they wouldn't necessarily hold out too much longer. Now he'd failed to secure the only job the town had for offer, it seemed like he would have to apply for a loan in the not too distant future. He left his home, slamming the door hard shut and turning the key in the lock. If anyone wanted to get it, they could easily pick their way through the thin, tinny metal that supposedly kept the trailer safe, but he doubted anyone would try. He kicked a brick out of the way as he walked down the main dividing track.
"Hey, mister!"
It was the mailboy. "Hey."
"Where dya get that car?"
"My car?" Doug looked at his Jeep, parked on the road outside the trailer ground.
"Yeah, s'awful new and shiny for someone living in a dump like this."
"It was a present." Doug said back, turning around and walking out of the park. He got to his car and went to unlock the door, but noticed something awry. The front left tyre had been slashed, and lay in a droopy pile around the bottom of the wheel.
"Argh! That little bastard..." Doug gritted his teeth, fighting back a surge of anger. He turned around and marched back into the trailer park. The mailboy and four other kids, all mixes of ages and sizes were playing a shambolic game of stickball in the middle of the track, the oldest looking one aged about 11 standing with the stick smoking a cigarette.
"Hey!" Doug yelled down to them. They all turned around and stared at him for a couple of moments and then carried on shouting and arguing with each other. "Hey!" he shouted again. "You guys got something you wanna tell me?"
"Nah." Three of them, including the kid who had delivered his mail, looked genuinely confused.
The one with the slim cigarette didn't look quite so innocent.
"Maybe you shouldn't come here with your big car and make people feel bad," he said, taking the cigarette from his mouth and spitting into the dirt.
"Well maybe it's the only thing I got right now." Doug's voice raised at the end of his sentence.
"Lot more than anyone else here got."
"What makes you think that gives you the right to go and slash my tires, huh?"
"Hey man, cool it. I didn't say I did it. I just saying why someone may have felt like it."
Doug, unable to think of a reply, boiled on the spot.
"Maybe that I can tell you who did it." The cigarette butt was crushed under the sole of an old sneaker. He looked at Doug cunningly. Doug stared him back. These kids really knew how to go about business.
"You know what? Don't worry about it." He turned on his heel, muttering "don't worry about it," again as he left them standing. He left the park and walked up the road towards the high street.

As he walked, head to the ground, he passed the high school. A group of adults were leaving it, no doubt after some Saturday morning adult learning class. Maybe he should sign up for one of those. He was considering going back to check out the timetable of classes and their costs by the doorway when he heard a voice behind him.
"Hey, mister, mister!" It looked like a kid from the trailer park, but a new one that he hadn't seen before. He was running up the road behind him, with a baseball mitt on that looked about two sizes too big for the small arm it hung off. Doug stopped to wait for him. He could do without more questions about his car, and more charging for information, but he waited anyway.
"Hi," the boy panted, out of breath from his run up the hill. "Why didn't you want to know who cut your car tire?"
It was a genuine question. Doug back down to the park, but he couldn't see any other kids lurking around who might have set this boy up.
"There's not a lot I can do about it now. If it's cut, it's cut. I can't drive anywhere."
"But didn't you want to beat up Big Davey?"
"He the guy who did it? I don't want to get into a fight with anyone who has the word 'big' in front of their name." Doug smiled - the kid was harmless enough. He was skinny and pale, and looked about eight, although it was entirely possible he was older.
"But why not?" the child fell into step next to Doug, looking up at him as he tried to match his pace.
"Because fighting doesn't help anything..."
"Oh," the boy was quiet, fingering his glove and trotting along. "But everyone fights sometimes."
"Yeah," Doug agreed, slowing his speed a little.
"But you don't fight?" The boy couldn't seem to understand that Doug had walked away from a fight - he was looking up at him as if he'd just landed from outer space.
"No, I guess I don't," he said, ignoring memories that chose to pop up at that moment.
"Oh. My name's Jack. What's yours?"
"I'm Doug, nice to meet you, Jack."
"I have to go to baseball now, I'm playing second base today."
"Yeah? Good luck then."
"It's over there, where we play." He pointed to the field beyond the high school, where small figures could be seen running and swinging bats.
"Uh huh. You got a team?"
"No. We wanted one but you need a coach and a uniform and stuff, so we just play for fun."
"You need a coach?" How convenient...
"Yessir. The town people said we're not allowed to call ourselves the tigers either which is what we wanted because tigers are scary, but we're not allowed because of the football team, that's called that already."
"Well, you don't want a team name that you have to share. You need one that only you have, like...the panthers, or the falcons or something."
"What's a falcon?"
"It's uh, this big bird that kills...things and then eats them."
Jack screwed up his face.
"Birds aren't very scary."
"I suppose not. How about...the roaches?" Doug had spent two long evenings trying to get rid of the notorious bugs from his trailer kitchen.
"Eew!" They both laughed.
"Looks like you should get over there, Jack. Or else they might start without a second baseman."
"Okay...bye, Doug!" Jack started to run off across the field, but kept turning back to wave. Doug returned the waves, still walking up the road. Maybe he would change his first port of call that morning to the town hall.