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Addiction

Chapter Four

Scar Tissue

By:

Rufus Quentin

September 16, 1998

Dustin burst into the kitchen on a warm afternoon in mid-September heaving a heavy cardboard box which he promptly and gracelessly let crash onto the breakfast nook table. I nearly choked on a popcorn kernel as the sound startled me out of my favorite spot on our well-worn couch in the living room. Unable to enjoy my afternoon cartoon break due to all the racket, I chased down my snacks with a half-can of Tab and walked through the living room to the conjoined kitchen area to see what the commotion was about. Even Dustin, who since his early teens sported enviable upper body strength, seemed to have difficulty carrying whatever it was he brought into our home. Dustin panted in the kitchen, leaning over what looked like a worn 24" x 18" packing box that had apparently seen some water damage at some point in its life. My brother sipped from a freshly poured glass of water, recouping from what must have been a long haul.

"What's in the box? " I asked, pretending to meander to the fridge as if by chance on the hunt for a fresh soda.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He said, slyly smirking at me from where he stood.

"I would," I said, planting myself by the kitchen island with a cold drink in my paw and waiting there as if implying I could stand there and annoy him until he spilled the beans.

"It's the answer to our prayers," he said, "you better thank me."

"Which would be?" I questioned.

"You wouldn't know if I told you."

"You're right; I'm just a stupid girl. Now stop bullshitting me, bro."

Dustin snorted a weak attempt at a laugh and pried open the cardboard flaps. "See for yourself," he said, reaching in and grabbing out a fistful of newspaper which had acted as packing material.

I strode over and looked in. There appeared to be a couple of large metallic objects in there, only the top of which I could see. "What is it?" I asked, looking at my brother.

"Alternator and a fuel pump." Dustin said, which as he predicted was information I couldn't do much with.

"What's it for?" I asked.

"If my assumptions are correct, this should fix the Datsun."

"You can install it yourself?"

"A-plus in advanced auto shop. The only thing that kept my GPA high enough to let me pass to senior this year," Dustin boasted.

I shrugged. "So long as it gets us on the road again. How did you get this thing?"

"That's why you better start getting to your knees and worshipping me, sis. I'm awesome."

"What you do?"

"I talked old man Henderson down at the yard at the 63 junction to front me these. They are used, so let's just hope they still work."

"That was generous," I said.

"Just so you know, I owe him some serious blow jobs to give me the parts on credit. A thank you from you would suffice."

"Huh," I said, "knowing you, you just brokered a win-win scenario if that's all he's asking."

"Har har," my brother said. "Now help me get this shit into the garage."

The thing was indeed as heavy as Dustin made it seem to be. I quietly commended for my brother for having schlepped that monstrosity as far as he did. It took cajoling, but we eventually got it into the garage. We practically dropped it onto the floor.

"I might need your help later on," Dustin said as he popped the hood and went after his tools.

"You actually think you can fix this?" I asked.

"No promises. This is just a theory."

"Don't forget your homework," I said.

"I won't. Only gonna work on this until dinner, then again after homework."

"Call me when you need me," I said and wandered back into the house. I finished my cartoons and then got to work on my own assignments, spending the better part of the afternoon at the breakfast nook going through one book and then the next. I heard Dustin curse every now and then through the wall.

Just as I started to get engaged in my calculus homework my brother came crashing through the door, cursing, "Goddamn motherfucking shit, what the fuck?" on his way to the kitchen sink.

"What the hell?" I asked, looking down to notice the trail of red droplets on the kitchen floor and the bloodstained fur on my brother's paws. I stood up, pushed my books aside, and walked over to him with some concern. Only as I approached did I realize the severity of the injury he'd sustained. "Good god, what happened to you?" I continued as I realized that Dustin's white furred hands were completely red.

"Screwdriver slipped. Heavy part came loose," he said,"and fucked up my paw."

He held his paws under the water in the kitchen sink. He hissed through his teeth as the cold water ran over them and washed pink down the drain. I stood beside him for a moment, trying to assess the kind of damage he'd actually done. Dustin turned away and seemed to want to keep his injuries to himself. I ran up to the second floor bathroom where we kept our first aid kit and returned to the kitchen where it seemed my brother had finished cleansing his wound.

"What do you need?" I asked. Standing as close beside him as he'd let me.

"I'll be alright. Gimme me a paper towel."

I did and watched it grow bright red in a matter of moments.

"Looks bad," I said.

"It's not," he lied.

"Lemme see."

"It's just a scratch."

"Bullshit."

"Fine, if you're going to rag me about it."

"Dick, show me your paw." I moved to the other side of the kitchen table opposite my brother and set out the first aid kit. "Now!"

He extended his paw to me. I could see he was trembling. I peeled off the red paper towel to his obvious displeasure. There was a large, deep three inch gash across his left palm. "Damn," I said. "You're gonna need stitches for this."

"I ain't going. No way in hell I'm going all the way to Three Rivers for this scratch. We don't even have a car."

"I'll call Mr. Anderson. He'll give us a ride. It's an emergency."

"Fuck no!" Dustin said.

"Why not?"

"He doesn't need this shit, it's nothing anyway. Just cover it up."

"Fine," I said. "You're kind of on the borderline. Lemme clean this and see how deep it is."

I applied my limited first aid skills, putting pressure on his paw until the bleeding died down, which took a while. I emptied half a bottle of peroxide on him before the wound was clean. His paw-pad had a diagonal gash from the base of his index finger clear across his palm. None of my actions cleaning and inspecting pleased my brother, but he kept a stiff upper lip about it. Guys seem to be pre-programed to put up a tougher façade in front of women and my brother was no exception.

"Wait here," I said.

"The hell you going?" Dustin said, looking up as I ran from the room.

I returned a moment later with bottle pulled from our dad's liquor cabinet in hand. "Open your paw again."

"What the..." Dustin trailed off, watching me as I stripped the top off an old clear bottle.

"Shut up," I said, pulling Dustin's paw open with an obvious wince from him. I poured the cheap vodka over his open wound.

"The fuck, Alex?" Dustin yelled, pulling his hand away with me immediately grabbing him and pulling his paw back open.

"This'll clean it. Now stop fucking around. Or do you want to go to the hospital?"

Dustin gave a snarl and let me finish my work. "You're wasting the good stuff," he said as blood tinted vodka poured down the drain.

"Alcohol is alcohol," I said and shook the last drops onto his cut. Then I opened our rummage drawer and dug around a bit until I fished a little green tube out of the debris. "Ah-ha," I said, "Hope this isn't all dried out." I finished treating my brother by patting his paw dry and running a line of Krazy glue over the laceration.

"That is ghetto," my brother said, watching as I worked.

"Prefer duct tape? It's cheaper than an ambulance and stitches. Just don't move it much for a few days." I said, wrapping some gauze around his paw. "I really think you should see a doctor about this, even if they tell you its fine. You could get an infection," I said.

"I'll be fine," he said and withdrew his paw at the first possible moment I let him.

"You okay?" I asked.

"I'm cool, but fuck."

"What."

"Don't know if I can get the car done."

"So what?"

"How long do you want to keep riding the bus? Walk an hour and a half?"

"As long as it takes, if it means you get to keep your paw. It's really not so bad."

My brother left me in the kitchen and walked across the living room. I followed him out of concern. He stopped by the liquor cabinet. I watched my brother as he opened the door and eyed over the various bottles of bourbon and what not our dad kept.

"He'll catch you," I said, standing behind him.

"You already raided it," Dustin said and held up his bandaged paw. He reached in for a random bottle and took it out. He uncorked it and took a big swig directly from the bottle, grimacing as he swallowed the harsh liquid.

"It's a blood thinner. You'll just bleed more."

"As long as it hurts less," he said, replacing the one bottle and exchanging it for another.

I sighed. "Enough." Snatching the bottle from his paw. "Sit down. Are you really ok?"

Dustin nodded and held one paw in the other. "Truck is still fucked though."

"Well, let's go fix it. Just tell me what to do," I demanded.

"What?" Dustin asked as he looked up at me.

"Walk me through it," I responded.

"What do you know about fixing a truck?" he chided.

"Just fixed your paw, now let's go, you're right, I'm tired of walking and busing back and forth," I said, turning and walking towards the garage.

"Wait, you..." Dustin trailed off as I moved through the kitchen and into the garage.

"Come on," I yelled back.

My brother appeared at the garage door as I peered into the uplifted hood of the Datsun. I looked over the spots of blood and noticed the slightly less dirty equipment he had produced earlier from the mail. "How far did you get?"

Dustin moved up beside me, still paw in paw as he looked under the hood. "Just about got the alternator mounted, just need to tighten and wire it back up."

"Where do you need me?" I asked, looking down into the engine, trying to figure out where my paws would fit.

"Just get underneath and hold it in place, I can tighten it from up here." Dustin said grabbing a slightly bloody socket wrench.

"Are you sure? I can do that if you need to..."

"I can do this one handed, you need to hold it in place," he said ducking under the hood.

"Alright," I said, laying down on the creeper and pulling myself under the engine block. "Give me some light, I can't see shit under here."

Dustin pulled a work light over the engine and hooked it on the hood. "Better? You see it here?" He said tucking his hurt paw into his armpit and pointing the socket wrench with his other.

"Got it," I said, slipping my paws up to grab the housing and pulling it flush, exposing the bolts for my brother.

Dustin made fast work of tightening the bolts in such a restricted space. "Alright, come back up, we'll just hook it up now."

I made my way out from under the truck and plunged my muzzle under the hood again. "I see two."

"Starter and regulator, just plug 'em in. Color coded," he said unhooking the light and holding it closer for me to see.

I slinked my paws into the tight space as best I could, twisting a bit and laying more on the engine than I preferred to. I managed the two connections and belt in a matter of moments. "Got it," I grunted.

"Wow, nice," Dustin said, watching me twist my way off the engine. He stared and smiled at me a bit longer than I would have expected and remained speechless as I straightened my clothes and accidentally ran a grease covered paw through my short mane.

"What?" I asked. "Wanna to try it out?"

"I a..." Dustin said looking over at the workbench as he dropped the socket wrench.

"Start it up, let's see if 'she' runs now," I said, pushing past him opening the driver door.

"Alright," he said, "keys are in her."

"Alright," I said, not expecting the privilege. I jumped into the driver's seat and cranked the engine. After four failed starts, with only a matter of grinding and huffs, I gave up. "You sure it was the alternator?"

My brother ran his good paw through his head-fur. "I'm sure, it's been failing for a while now. Let's do the fuel pump now. If that doesn't fix her, we are fucked."

"Ok, where to now?" I asked.

Dustin pointed down. "Back on the creeper," he said, retrieving the work light from under the hood and handing it to me. "You're going to need this too."

"Great, good thing I'm not claustrophobic." I said with a half grin as I lay on the creeper and slid underneath the filthy truck.

"Comfy under there? This is what you are looking for," he said, dropping the newer pump loudly beside me.

"Geez, little warning next time?" I said, trying to not show he'd startled me.

"Sorry, you try holding it with one paw," Dustin said, laying a few more tools down with much less noise.

I got my work light in a decent position and found the fuel pump, reaching a little blindly for the tools before finding what I needed. I started to loosen a few rather corroded bolts. "I'm not going to drown in gas under here am I?"

"No, we probably cleared the line trying to start it up earlier," Dustin said, pulling a milk crate over and sitting down.

"It's a mess under here you know," I said, grunting a bit as I struggled to loosen another bolt.

"Get her running and I'll wash her for you, may even wax her," Dustin said, nudging a rubber mallet closer to me.

"How sweet of you," I said knowing full well that it would never happen and that the dirt was probably holding this truck together anyway.

A few minutes passed with me struggling to loosen what I hoped were the right bolts and screws. I could hear Dustin fidgeting beside me, obviously used to being more hands on with this kind of work. "So how'd your date go?"

"You were right," I said, spitting as some rust hit me in the face.

"Did he show you the Nazi ring he "borrowed" from his dad."

"He sure did, quite proud of that little item," I dropped two bolts at his foot-paws and grunted.

My brother sighed, "Gotta get the other side."

"Oh," I said, scooting further beneath the truck.

Dustin kicked at the bolts I'd just delivered. "He didn't put any moves on you, did he?"

"No. As awkward as it was, he acted as gentlemanly as one could expect a high schooler."

"Good," he said. "Otherwise I'd bust his fangs in come Monday."

"Don't have to do that. Karma will get him anyway," I said, dropping a couple more bolts into the pile.

"There's other fish in the sea," Dustin said, scooping up the bolts and dropping them into an old coffee can.

"Not in Wayne, West Virginia."

"True that."

"I've kinda made peace with the fact that I'm gonna be a social outcast this year," I said, twisting under the truck with some obvious huffs.

"Why do you think you're a social outcast?" Dustin said, nudging me and handing the rubber mallet in my direction.

"Eh," I said, "it's complicated. Now that I've officially written off the last eligible guy out there halfway interested in me, so much for fitting in."

"Why is that so important?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"With the girls there is a lot of importance on social standing. You have to go to all the dances. You have to have a boyfriend on your side and you have to have nice things. I guess it's not that I really want any of that. It's all shit anyway. The incentive is just being part of something; belonging to something and having something to belong to," I gave the old fuel pump a couple of hits with the mallet.

"I was gonna ask why going to shitty dances in the gym with shitty music is so important?"

"It's not. Not at all. I've never looked forward to those. It's more about the story you're creating. Who cares about the details? So long as the story is good, you'll remember this time as positive," I hit the fuel pump again.

"I'm lost here? What do you want again?"

"A good ending to my story. To belong to something. To feel less lonely. Call me a cheesy romantic, but it would have been nice to find love in high school too."

"Well, your story ain't written yet, so you can give it pretty much any ending you please. I didn't figure you for the fairy tale type though. Why don't you write your own or whatever you want?" Dustin fed a crescent wrench under the truck. "Loosen it more and move to the side so it doesn't smack you in the face."

I sighed, my brother was making perfect sense and I wasn't. "You're right," I said. "I was hoping to do that anyway. I just don't know."

"And do you really want to belong to those types? Is that like, really your end goal? To be like them?"

"No," I said, honestly, pushing myself over a little and turning my head as the old fuel pump crashed to the cement floor.

"You're not gonna find love in Wayne High School. The place is full of adolescents who call wanting to bone and having a fuck buddy love. I'd say 99% of all the kids over there haven't felt love, even those hanging on each other like leeches, fawning over each other. It fuckin' rots my teeth. The best you can do is find a fuck buddy you half tolerate to tide you over until college, where maybe, just maybe you'll meet someone who's not a total douche bag."

"Have you been in love?" I asked, pushing the old pump aside as Dustin nudged the other towards me.

"Fuck no," my brother said without so much as a moment of reflection, "The only people I've been with are those whose horniness just happened to coincide with mine."

"Sick," I said.

"Eh. Call it what you will. You might be out there looking for the one, but I can guarantee you most guys in High School are just looking for someone horny at the same time as them. Because guys get possessive and girls get clingy they call that a relationship. Eventually they knock each other up, and despite the fact that they have nothing in common with each other besides the times they want to fuck, they get married. In marriage the fucking stops and they realize they're both boring as fuck. That's why we have, what? 50-60% divorce rate in this state?"

"Bleak," I said. "Gimme the bolts."

"It's true," Dustin said, retrieving the bolts from the can and handing the lot to me. "Look at mom and dad. Fuck. Five of us. They must have been total horn-dogs back in the day. It took popping the two of us out before mom said, well now, this ain't the life I wanted to live."

"I try not to think about them that much."

"So let's get to the crux of the issue. You're lonely."

"Yea," I said. "Have been for years."

"The thing is you're smart. You're really smart. Smart people are always lonely. You'll be lonely for a very long time, maybe for the rest of your life. Regular people don't let themselves feel lonely. They think of it as a bad thing. If they feel it they think, eww this is wrong, and surround themselves with all sorts of bullshit, with all sorts of people to make them forget that and distract them from that feeling. That's what you're trying to do, but you're not regular. You're just pretending to be regular. You're wasting your time. You're just going to disappoint yourself if you try that crap."

"How do you know all this?"

"I've always sat in the back of class. That way I get to watch everyone else. The constant drama and angst is a fuck ton more interesting than say, polynomials."

"How do you cope?"

"Who says I need to cope?"

"I'm guessing you have experience with this, don't you?"

"Sorry Alex. I'm not gonna spill my heart out in this garage. But yea, the long and short of it is that I try to find something productive to do and not just waste my time burying the problem by spending time with false friends and assholes and by pretending you really want to fit into groups of people you can't even stand. I think that's what smart lonely people do. They find what they're good at and do it no matter what everyone else thinks. That's how shit gets done here on earth. And if you do happen to find someone who makes you feel less lonely, and you might only find two or three of those people in your entire life, hold onto them. They probably need you just as much as you need them."

"This is depressing," I said, noticing my progress had slackened.

"I'm not telling you anything new. I'm guessing you've come to these conclusions yourself."

"Yea," I said. "I just haven't put it to words."

"Your gonna have a tough life," he said, "but you're gonna do good things."

"What do you do? You know, to feel less lonely?"

"I don't have that problem. I'm dumb, or at least that's what my teachers and my grades say, except Mr. McCumber, he's pretty bad-ass," he said, "But if I do get lonely, this is what I do,or at least I was doing it before I fucked up my paw." He showed me his bloody bandage. "This will put a damper on things."

"Sorry," I said, grabbing another bolt and figuring out its place again.

"My own damn fault," he continued, "I also like to run, as you know. Taking apart and reassembling firearms has always calmed me down. Anything that helps me zen out and do shit."

"Do you mind if we do this more often?" I asked.

"Fuck, sis," he said. "Already spending half the afternoon with you on homework. Now you want in on my me-time?"

"It's helping," I said.

"Well shit. I guess. Gonna need an extra set of paws around until this heals anyway. I'm not gonna be your shrink though."

"It's still good to talk to you. Haven't gotten advice this helpful since Nate and Dan moved out."

"Don't quote me, I don't know shit."

"Your secret is out, Dustin," I said, handing the tools out to him.

"Damn," he said, "just when I figured I'd fooled everybody."

"I'd figure it out eventually."

"Just don't expect too much from me. Okay? Maybe I just got lucky today."

"Don't underestimate yourself."

"I could say the same to you."

"We're fucked up," I said, pulling myself out from under the truck. I looked up at Dustin then down at myself. I brushed rust off my breasts and noticed my paws were gray with dirt and speckled in oil. Strangely I liked the smell and the feeling of dirty paws, probably tenant of my tom-boy programing.

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious? We're both pretty much broken social outcasts."

"At least now we can be social outcasts together. Does that make you happy?"

"Not happy, but it makes me feel better."

"Well," Dustin said nodding his head towards the truck. "Start her up, that'll make me feel better."

It was dark out by the time I sat behind the wheel and slipped the keys back into the ignition. My brother hung through the open driver's side window. We both crossed our fingers and looked at each other, sharing a glance of hope and desperation. It was the first time I'd actually looked into his eyes in ages. I'd almost forgotten their color, the slightest of variation from my own. I turned the key and heard the sputter and the strain of an engine trying to turn over. Once and nothing. Twice and more of the same. I twisted the key one final time and held it, ears perked toward the empty revs, hoping desperately to hear the engine cough to life.

"Stop," Dustin said after it became clear the car wasn't fixed.

I gave up and banged my forehead into the steering wheel.

"I'm out of ideas. Was hoping this was a quick fix, but hell, this could be anything now." He shook his head and continued. "Either we fucked up on the installation or something else is wrong. Maybe the replacement is busted too. It's just salvaged after all. Let's call it a night and try again tomorrow. Might need to get Darrel involved after all."

I was hungry. Dustin was bleeding again and we both still had homework to do. I ended up sending him to his room and did his algebra for him. Took me all of five minutes what would have taken him an hour with coaching. It was unethical, but I felt sorry for the pup. Plus I felt like I owed him something for bringing clarity into my life. Who'd have thought he was capable of that? I thought about his words as I churned out numbers onto a sheet of loose leaf paper with Dustin's name on it. They made perfect sense.

Of course I felt lonely, but did I really know what it was? Did I need to be afraid of it or cancel it in petty trivialities as my brother suggested? His prediction resonated with me the most; that I would have to face a long and lonely life. It seemed like a curse if anything else; a little crack of doom. I'd have to master it, I guessed, but the task seemed daunting. I think after that I understood why so many people like my dad and older brother Brandon reached for the bottle, or why so many others including Dustin got a hold of weed. All over the county people were drinking themselves stupid and/or dipping into harder drugs.

Did that same fate await me? All the more reason to get out of West Virginia. But was there a flaw in my plan? What awaited me outside? What if I didn't find the perfect milieu? Was it true that I would only ever find two or three out there that really fit me? I felt small, smaller than usual as I sat there in my poorly lit kitchen, listening to the silence perforated only by the chirping of crickets outside the window, doing my brother's homework with dirty paws. Life is a series of closing doors. The more I wander the more I discover how many have been slammed shut behind my back. It wasn't my brother's fault, but his words made me feel like I'd just been sentenced to my greatest fear, a lonely life. I could except that I was a social outcast, a weirdo, but it frightened me to think that I'd stay that way even after I left Wayne County.