Broken People Read online

  The crowd stared at me. This time, their eyes didn’t shift to Pavel. They stared at me as if they wanted more. A different answer. Something. I didn’t know what to say. I took another drink of my coffee, and dug into my left pocket for a piece of chocolate. They stared. I peeled back the wrapper. I took a bite. They stared. Pavel began to speak. Their gaze shifted. Thank God.

  “Kid, vee talk. Vhee vonder. Vee talk. Vee vonder. Vaaht dah fuck. Vaaht dah fuck Keed do for the money? You drive Beemer. You never working. You come. You use laptops. You stay all day. Vaaht dah fuck you do for the money, Keed?” Pavel asked, his hands buried deeply in his track suit pockets. The entire mafia, upon Pavel’s completion of the question, shifted their eyes towards me. Intently, they stared, waiting.

  And, at that moment, it dawned on me. I was one of those people. The people that I detested. The jobless people that you see all of the time. The people that make you wonder. I pondered my answer, finished my chocolate, and decided that I would go fishing. In some respects, I lied. “I import weapons. I am a weapons smuggler,” I said, very matter of fact, as I took the last swig of my coffee.

  Immediately, all heads spun in Pavel’s direction.

  “Vell, Vell, Vell. Vee must talk. Not for now. Keed, have nice day.”

  I stood. I picked up my laptop, shouldered it, and nodding to each of the men as I spoke, I offered my departures. “Pavel, Svetli, Svetlani, Ivan, Yuri, Demo,” I walked away, stuffing my chocolate wrapper back into my left pocket. As I did, I could hear them speaking in Bulgarian. Turning to walk away, I wondered about the availability of a Rosetta Stone in Bulgarian.

  Walking to the door, my hands in my pockets, I decided to try my luck at tossing my trash in the trash can. It was a huge steel can that sat at the entrance of the coffee shop. It was modern, and black, and looked exactly like a huge 250 pound black dildo. Shaped like a futuristic cock-like space ship, about twenty inches in diameter, and four feet tall. The opening at the top of the cone was about the size of a grapefruit. Everyone made fun of it. Standing fifteen feet away, I crushed my candy bar wrapper into a tight wad, and tossed. Without contacting any portion of the trash can, it fell inside. I turned and looked for witnesses. Not a soul saw this magnificent feat. Well, it satisfied me nonetheless. Today would, in fact, be Vabulous.

  Once inside, I found a seat. I retrieved my laptop from the case, opened it, and logged onto the Internet. I knew better than to attempt to buy another coffee from Doll Face, so I went to the counter, and asked for an ice water. Doll Face Gretchen graciously filled my request, and I walked back to the table. Once logged into my email account, two emails immediately grasped my attention. One from Michelle, and one from Shellie. Shocked at my not knowing that I had received these emails, I unsuccessfully attempted to find my phone. Hoping that I had left it in my car, I opened the email from Shellie.

  Kid,

  My parents are livid. They have prohibited me from use of the phone, social media networks, and from going out in public. I am afraid that I cannot make it any longer. Neither of my parents will allow me to even try to discuss things with them or try to explain. I no longer have friends. My life is over. Contact me as soon as you can, please.

  Shellie

  The date and time on the email confirmed that it was about two hours old. I considered my potential response, knowing that email was the only means of communicating. I opened Michelle’s email as I processed Shellie’s email in my thoughts.

  Kid,

  Why I'm deciding to tell you this right now, I don't know, but whatever. You can read it when you get a chance. Now, about Shellie. If I met her somewhere and she told me her story, a spark would go off in my heart and I'd just want to give her love. I've done it a million times. But sometimes I wonder if I do this because I have a selfless love for everyone, or if it's just because broken people attract broken people. That's a personal theory/belief. That broken people attract broken people. And not in a sexual sense, but just that they are drawn to each other. But if that's the case, then there's a problem. Because broken people shouldn't be helping broken people in that way. If you're whole, you're safe. There's no room for anything foreign to creep in. And I like to think of myself as strong, but am I really? I don't lie to myself. There are times where I have thoughts I thought I had gotten past. I guess that means although I am strong, I am not quite whole.

  Three years ago, it was like my body was a shell, dragging my soul behind itself on a 100 foot rope. Now it's maybe 3 feet behind me. I am so close, I'm trying. I wake up every day smiling and happy to be alive, but there's still that little drag. The parts of me that still haven't learned how to be alive. I'm not saying that's exactly the case with you. But ask yourself...are you whole? You may very well be, but only you can answer that...so just be careful and know your limits I guess. I don't want to undermine your capabilities but you're still human like the rest of us. Make sure you're taking care of yourself first. I don't doubt that you can do her some good. But every once in a while just detach yourself and take a look at it all from the outside. If all is well, proceed.

  I'm losing logical flow so I will shut up here… and umm, I don't really have a conclusion, because I don't even know what I'm trying to say. But I think I mentioned everything I wanted to. It's just, when you said you weren't planning to tell me, I thought maybe it was because you didn't want to hear what I had to say. Which is why I'm telling you anyways, since you probably won't ask. Haha. I'm annoying. And this doesn't need to be a conversation if you don't want it to be. But those are just my thoughts.

  Michelle

  Broken people attract broken people. I thought about that. I never looked at it in that fashion, but it made perfect sense. And therein laid my problem; Michelle was right. Seventeen years old, and teaching me about life. Broken people shouldn't be helping broken people in that way…If you're whole, you're safe. There's no room for anything foreign to creep in.

  I sat. I thought. I looked around the coffee shop. I devoured two chocolate bars. I’ve been broken for longer than Michelle has been alive. She didn’t know the extent of my broken nature, and that wasn’t important. But, what she said rang true. It hit home. If you’re whole, you’re safe, there’s no room for anything foreign to creep in. Here I sat, broken. Feeling a compulsion to help those that can’t help themselves. My entire adult life, after the incident, I hadn’t done anything except try to help those people that I deemed incapable. Now, I wondered. Was I worthy? Was I capable. And my not being whole, allowed these people, their thoughts, their feelings, and their problems, things foreign, to creep in.

  I felt as if I were drowning, and Michelle was my floatation device. I got up, grabbed my keys, and began walking to my car to look for my phone. Half way there, I stopped at the Bulgarian mafia summit meeting. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my money clip, and spoke, “Pavel, do you have change for a hundred dollar bill? I need a coffee, and they can’t break a hundred.”

  Pavel nodded at Ivan, and Ivan reached into his track suit pocket, retrieving a rubber banded wad of cash. It was the diameter of a can of Dr. Pepper. He unrolled it, and dug through ten thousand dollars of hundreds to reach the twenty dollar bills buried inside. I looked at Pavel. Pavel nodded at Ivan. I looked at Ivan. Ivan nodded, and handed me five twenties. I handed Ivan a one hundred dollar bill. Ivan nodded at me. I nodded at Ivan. I nodded at Pavel. What in the fuck do these guys do for money? As they spoke in Bulgarian, I walked to the passenger door of the car, and unlocked it. A quick glance into the car, and I saw the phone on the driver’s seat.

  As I walked back inside, my phone and five twenties in tow, I sent Michelle a text, requesting that she call me as soon as she was able. I was struggling with being broken. Not being whole. I stood inside the door, confused. Broken people attract broken people. Maybe formerly broken people attract broken people. Maybe people that were broken, at some point in time, feel a compulsion to help other broken people. Like Alcoholics Anonymous. The principles of AA worked beca
use of the common bond. The similarities were that all of the people that suffered, or who were currently suffering, possessed the same feelings. The people in AA are certainly all broken, yet they are a support group. Supporting each other. Broken people helping broken people.

  “Hey, Kid, we can break your hundred dollar bill now,” Doll Face exclaimed, smiling from one of her oversized ears to the other. I considered handing her a twenty, and decided, fuck it. Just fuck it. I walked to the register, reached past the five loose twenties in my pocket, got my money clip in my hand, and pulled a hundred dollar bill from it. I handed it to her. She rang up my typical Americano.

  “$3.17, Kid. Let’s see,” She reached into the register. Carefully extracted a fist full of bills, and began counting. “Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, and one makes fifty,” She placed the fifty dollars down, and began counting again, “fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five…”

  I couldn’t take it. Not another second. “Hand me the money, Gretchen, just fucking hand it to me,” I ordered, scooping my fifty dollar pile from the counter. I extended my hand for the remaining cash.

  “I’m sorry Kid, I have to count it, and it’s corporate policy. We have to count it to keep our register….”

  Before she could say another word, I reached over the counter, grabbed the wad of cash out of her hand, and turned to the barista, who was placing my drink on the counter. As Gretchen attempted to see over the register, mouth agape, I shoved the wad of bills into my left pocket. As I walked to the counter to get my coffee, I heard my phone beep. Michelle, I hoped.

  I grabbed the coffee, tipped it up, and drank about half of it in one gulp. I had developed a drink that I became content with. Four shots of espresso, hot water, and two inches of cold cream poured over the top. It came to me fresh and luke-warm. This allowed me to immediately enjoy it, and not wait for it to cool down. The staff just called it the “Kid”. Taking another sip, I walked to the table, and looked at my phone. Opening the text screen, I saw that I had a text from Michelle. MICHELLE: Busy. I will call in you in twenty.

  I placed the phone on the table, re-opened the email screen, and noticed I had received an email from the 15 year old pregnant girl. Remembering her lure, I laughed out loud as I opened the email. Just the tip.

  My parents my boyfriend and me have discussed what you said and we have decided what to do we got with the doctor and we signed the papers and the family signed them too and now we have a family to adopt the baby I am happy my parents are happy and me and my boyfriend are going to get married as soon as we graduate the family is really happy about the baby my baby well it is their baby and about the adoption thank you for good advice

  I stared at the email. It aggravated me to no end when kids texted, and used portions of words; or made up words. I texted frequently, but did so as if I were typing a thesis. I had always wondered how the people that texted with acronyms and text speak, as I called it, would type a letter. Case in point. I thought about it, knowing that this one was in the bag, and responded:

  Iamsohappythatallwentwellsorryiaminahurryandihavenotimeforspacesidothinkadoption,consideringallthings,wastheonlyviableoption.remember,birthcontrolisagreatthingforteens.bewell

  I clicked the “send” button, and laughed. I used no spaces, but was sure to use periods and commas. I suspected she would need to get Mr. ‘Just The Tip’ to interpret it for her. Recalling her previous statement of abortion being the only option, and now, considering a needy family was going to be able to have a child that they may not be able to otherwise have, made me feel as if I had done one thing right in this last year. Full of pride I took another drink of coffee. Fearing that I may fall below 319 pounds before I went home, and being low on chocolate, I got up, pulled my scale from the bag, tossed it on the floor, and tapped with my toe. After zeroing itself, I got on. 317. I got off. After it zeroed itself again, I got back on. 317. FUCK, fuck, fucking fuck. I tossed the scale back in the bag, and went to the register.

  “Give me three donuts, Gretchen,” I reached into my pocket and grabbed my wad of cash.

  “The glazed donuts?” she asked.

  I stared at her ears. Her head was so small, yet her ears were monstrous. “What?” I asked. I heard her, but for some reason said what.

  “The glazed donuts?” she asked, again.

  I looked in the pastry case. I looked at her. I started to scream, but refrained. “You only offer one type of Donut, Dumbo. The glazed one, I want the glazed one. Times three,” As soon as I spoke, I realized what I had said. I felt terrible, and hoped she didn’t notice.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “Glazed, Gretchen, I want the glazed,” I responded, smiling.

  She reached in the case, and pulled the three donuts out. “I do not want a plate or a bag, Gretchen. Just put them in my hand,” I requested.

  I held my hand out, palm up. I hated wasting things, and always made the staff give me my pastries without plates or paper bags. Additionally, I did not use a sleeve on my coffee. She turned and looked at the barista, as if she wanted confirmation that it was okay to hand them to me. The barista, just like the Bulgarian mafia, nodded. Gretchen, reluctantly, handed me my donuts.

  “That will be $6.47.”

  I handed her my wad of bills, clearly in excess of seven dollars. She, as if handed foreign currency, looked at the cash in bewilderment. She counted the seven dollars out, and placed them in the register. She attempted to hand me the remaining bills and change. “Put it in the tip jar, Gretchen,” I said. Smiling, as I stuffed half a donut in my mouth, I turned to walk back to my seat. I overheard her whisper to the barista, “Kid actually left a tip.”

  Sitting in my seat, I was relieved to have a donut. I shoved the remaining half of my last donut in my mouth, and took a drink of coffee. I ate donuts the way the 110 pound Asian eats hot dogs at the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Championship. Bite. Drink. Swallow. Bite. Drink. Swallow. As if I was in a donut gobbling contest. The thought of being thin and having people approach me, wanting me to allow them into my life, scared me. Thinking of my weight plummeting, and waking up thin one day, I ate faster. Bite. Drink. Swallow. Bite. Drink. Swallow. As I was preparing to swallow the last half donut in my mouth, the phone rang. I looked at the screen. As I suspected, it was Michelle. I answered.

  “Hey, Kid, what’s up?” she asked.

  “Well, I will go with the easy one first. The pregnant girl in Kansas signed adoption papers, and her child is going to be adopted and become part of a family somewhere. She didn’t give too many details. But that’s the gist of it. Oh, and, Broken people helping broken people. Your email regarding Shellie. You made some comments that hit close to home. I want to talk about that. Shellie emailed me, and she appears to be at rock bottom. Her parents have her confined to the house, and have taken her phone, and are prohibiting her from using Facebook. For her, and her personality, we both know that’s huge.” I started to take a breath, and Michelle started talking.

  “Well, that’s good about the pregnant girl. It sure beats abortion. Abortion may be someone’s right, but it doesn’t make it right. Not always, that’s for sure. That makes me happy. And I was just saying, I don’t know, that really I just wanted you to take a look at yourself. To step back away from your life for a minute, and look at it, look in from the outside. Look at yourself from a different vantage point, and be honest with what you see. Does that make sense?” she asked.

  It did. It made perfect sense. Michelle and I had talked for some time about my running, as she called it. Running from everything in life that I didn’t necessarily want to deal with. I had, at that point in time, traveled to nine states in seven weeks. Accomplishing nothing, I was just running from my day-to-day life of being me. I was done being me for a while. I wanted to be someone else. Michelle called me out, and, as always, she was right. After seven weeks on the road, I turned arou
nd, came home, and home I remained.

  “Yes, Michelle, it makes perfect sense. I was looking at it differently. I was taking it, as I always do, as a personal stab at me. At how I am living my life, how I am incapable in your eyes.” I picked up my coffee cup to take a drink. Empty. I held it in the air, and waved it at Gretchen until I had her attention, pointing at my phone. Finally, she acknowledged my hand signals, and nodded. She looked at the barista. The barista nodded, and grabbed a cup. What is with all the fucking nodding today?

  “Kid,” Michelle started to speak.

  “Let me finish,” I said. “Just let me finish.”

  “Bob Dylan wrote a song, Everything is Broken. I often think of that song, and not so much the lyrics, when I think about people. We all, in some respects, are broken. When we realize that, when we accept it, it allows us to, being conscious of it, possibly make adjustments in our lives to combat that fault. To attempt to correct it. It’s knowing what it is that is broken that’s almighty important. Knowing or admitting being broken doesn’t help if we aren’t conscious of just what the underlying problem is. I am conscious of my faults, my character defects, and my shortcomings. I do what I do, not to mask it or separate myself from the realization, but to make my life less painless. I’m selfish, Michelle,” I stopped talking and waited to see what she had to offer. I saw the barista delivering my coffee. He handed it to me, and waved his hands as I reached into my pocket to get money to pay. I held up the coffee, and nodded. He nodded, turned and walked away.

  “Kid, why doesn’t admitting being broken fix anything,” she asked.

  “Well,” I thought. I loved using analogies, so I started with one. “Look at it like a car. You have a broken car. Knowing that it is broken doesn’t allow it to be repaired accurately. Having it diagnosed, and knowing what is broken allows a timely and accurate repair. And one that will, in fact, fix it. Sir, your car is broken, versus, sir, your car is broken, and it needs a radiator to be repaired. Does that make sense?”