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Episode 044 |
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“Addiction, obesity, starvation (anorexia nervosa) are political problems, not psychiatric: each condenses and expresses a contest between the individual and some other person or persons in his environment over the control of the individual’s body.” Thomas Szasz There’s something strangely empowering about taking a shower after days without one. I don’t think I’ve ever gone for more than two days without a shower before. And as the water sprays over me, in the tiny tiled space barely large enough for me to turn around in, it seems like it’s been an eternity. Inside the spray of water, I examine my body. The bruises of the last several days are obvious. They bulge against my skin like purple flashes. I inspect every inch of my body, trying to find any possible dangers, from ticks to tiny alien microbes. I wash my hair more times than I think ever have in my life and wear the complimentary soap away to nothingness. When I finally step out of the shower, Slate is still sprawled across the bed, taking up the whole space. I don’t mind. I’m not going to be sleeping again. But as I slide into my pants, I feel the dirt and grime on them. I consider my shirt, wondering if maybe I should just go without. I look in the mirror at the thin, light beard that’s grown on my chin. I scratch at it, sending up a wave of particles in the dusty light of the hotel room’s bathroom. “It looks manly,” says a voice from the bed. I turn around and Slate’s sitting up, looking disorientated and exhausted. She rubs her face with her hand, grimacing as she tries to move. “Jesus, I think I feel more tired.” “At least you got to rest,” I say, sliding my shirt on. It feels stiff in places from where the sweat has mixed with dirt. I try not to think about how gross it is. “Your body was finally able to deal with some of the hysteria chemicals that were running in your system. And because of that, you’re now aware of how tired you were all along.” She looks up at me. “That’s a pretty ambitious diagnosis, doc,” she chides with a smile. “It comes with the territory,” I say, walking around her to the side of the bed where my shoes are. “When you deal with a high-performance lifestyle like mine, you have to take care of your body as much as your bike.” I sit down on the bed, turning around to see her back. “There’s a reason stunt riders sleep so much. It’s not that we’re lazy – well, not JUST because we’re lazy – it’s a performance thing. The stress of stunt riding is unbelievable. And you have to allow plenty of time to rest so your body can recover.” I go back to my stolen boots and slide them on. “Stress is more damaging to the human body than just about any other stimulus.” I can feel Slate staring at me. She almost laughs. “Alright,” she says, standing up, the mattress squeaking as she does. “I’m going to get a shower, then we need to deal with breakfast.” “More likely a late lunch. Or almost dinner,” I say, checking the clock. “It’s almost 3:30.” “Well, I know a place we can steal some equipment from,” she says as she stares at herself in the mirror. I turn around to her as she checks under one of her lips. The image of my dream punches me in the face. I start back against the bed, startling her. She turns to me, but I just shake my head. “It’s nothing.” I say with a horse voice. “Just, just the dream I had.” “Are you always this jumpy after you get some sleep?” she asks with a touch of annoyance. “Only after having a dream like that one,” I say as I turn away. The hallway is as dirt-colored as before. Feeling refreshed and at the same time exhausted, we move down the hall to the stairs and start our descent. Down the creaking steps, we catch glimpses of hookers leaving johns behind, the movement of the day continuing. We come to the hotel lobby and the man behind the desk immediately glares at us. “You were up there for an hour and a half extra.” “What can I say?” I say as we keep walking for the door. “It takes me a while to get the job done.” “That’s thirty bucks you owe me!” the man yells as we head, slightly faster, through the door. As soon as we’re outside, Slate and I burst into a run, sprinting down the street. We hear his calls disappear into the distance, but we still make the turn and keep running for another couple of blocks. We finally throw ourselves into a small alleyway by a Chinese restaurant and start laughing. “Reminds me of the time I ran out on a check,” Slate says across from me, bent over from her laughter as she tries to breathe. “God, that was fun.” “Yep,” I say with a grin. “Nothing like robbing a poor, innocent victim to make you feel better about life.” “Oh, come on,” she says with a laugh. “That guy was far from innocent. And at fifteen bucks an hour, I doubt he was far from poor.” “Yeah, but he thought you were a hooker,” I chide as we step back out onto the street. “And?” she says, looking at me. “I’m just saying,” I say as I continue to walk, leaving her staring at me. “How much for six apples?” I ask as I lean over the fruit stand. The Mexican guy across the table from me holds up six fingers and I nod. He holds up four fingers. “Four dollars?” I ask. He nods. I look over at Slate. “How much have you got on you?” “Only a couple of bucks,” she lies calmly. She stands up from the edge of the stand where she was leaning and smiles tightly at the guy. “We’ll come back.” He smiles warmly at us and we walk off. It’s not until we’re out of sight that Slate opens the cargo pockets on her pants and pulls out the four oranges. She hands two to me and starts to peel the first one. “I’m impressed,” she says, biting into a slice before she’s even fully peeled it. “You really know how to pick-pocket.” “It’s one of those things you learn,” I say, also chowing into the citrus. The texture alone makes me smile, but the fruit feels empty in my gargling stomach. “We’re going to need to get some real food,” I say, already looking around. “Yeah, but robbing a steak shop is going to be a bit harder,” she points out, following my lead as we walk through the small mid-town bazaar. Filled with flea market shacks and corner groceries built on cardboard boxes, we weave through the open-air market, looking for anything edible, finding the selection pretty weak. “If we had twenty or thirty bucks, we could steal some groceries,” I say, starting on my second orange. “We could steal some money,” Slate offers, seeming content to follow behind me. “I don’t know,” I waver, stopping at an intersection, looking around. “Stealing food’s one thing. Stealing money, even if it’s supposed to go to food…” My eyes scan the city around us. I smile. “I’ve got it,” I say. I turn to Slate. “How picky are you about where you eat? Or more importantly, what you eat?” “I feel kind of bad,” I say as I look around at the golden fast food restaurant. “This place has saved my life once.” Inside the large, two-story MacDonald’s, we search the patrons carefully. Keeping to the back wall, I pretend to be hitting on Slate while I look. “What are we looking for?” she asks. “This guy on my riding team, Dave, showed me how to do this kind of stuff.” I say. “First, we need to make sure there aren’t any cameras. Which there aren’t,” I say, double-checking yet again. “Cameras are always in the corner of the building and stuff. There were a couple by the registers, but none back here.” “What are we going to do?” Slate asks as a pair of kids rush by us towards the bathrooms. “Steal the food right off their trays?” “Actually, yes,” I nod as I look while trying to look like I’m not looking. “You see, at any restaurant, there are people who don’t guard their food. They get up and walk off to the bathroom and stuff, leaving their meals unattended.” “And we’re just going to pick-up the trays and walk out with them?” Slate asks, incredulous. “Yeah,” I say. “You don’t steal kids’ food because they have parents watching. And besides, that’s just mean. Usually, you can’t steal old people’s food because they remember the depression or something and guard their grub like hawks. But you look for a couple that buys a lot of food, usually dressed nice and they…” I freeze. I feel Slate’s head turn as well. We both watch as three men walk in. I’m not sure if it’s the way they move or the way they smell, but the world suddenly transforms once they’re inside with us. Dressed in black leather jackets and business ties, they walk calmly in, clearly scoping out the place. They’re looking. And when their eyes lock on us, it dawns on me why they stood out. They’re vampires. And
they’re looking straight at us. |
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