Seeking Havok Read online

  I was about 98.973% sure I wouldn’t get accepted into college because of my name alone. Seriously, what college administrator in their right mind would admit a person named Havok, a name that not only portrayed a troublemaker, but one that was also clearly spelled wrong; I’m sure the bong my mom smoked before she went into the hospital, while in labor, didn’t help the name she came up with either. I could just imagine an enormous cherry wood collegiate boardroom table surrounded by gray browed administrators sipping Bourbon and discussing how ludicrous my name was. Every time I wrote my name on a college application, an essay, Calculus homework or even my own shoes, I wanted to clock my mom in the face with a dictionary opened to the page with the correct spelling: HAVOC. And let’s say, just for argument’s sake that she liked the name Havok, and that it was spelled right, a nice middle name would’ve sufficed. I would be giddy as a freckled kid with a lollipop to have a middle name like Susan or Michelle, hell I would take something a little quirky like Paige. But what did I get named? Havok Jocelyn Daniels.

  Doesn’t really roll off the tongue, huh?

  Maybe it would roll off a cliff.

  Maybe I’d push it—just a little.

  And I’m sure if my mom knew who my dad was, surely he would’ve put a swift stop to naming me Havok. I can’t imagine that she didn’t know who he was; she just didn’t want to tell me. And honestly, I didn’t blame him one damned bit for not sticking around—it wasn’t exactly cloud puffs of heaven around our tiny, apartment.

  I sat in my closet and finished my homework by the light of one of those ‘put it anywhere’ light bulbs sold only on TV, complete with its own sticky tape, even though I bought it at the drugstore. I kept having to swat the hem of a flowered dress from my face.

  It was the same dress she wore to funerals and mandatory parent meetings.

  Floral wasn’t exactly funeral material but then again, my mom never did exactly fit in anywhere.

  She’s not that bad of a mother. She doesn’t make me stay in the closet. It’s my choice. Because what’s outside of this closet? The things that happen between the sliding mirrored doors of this closet and the apartment door were vomit inducing. Plus, I kinda liked the closet; it was my own personal safe haven.

  And she always sounded like a better mother when I constantly excused her.

  Hell, sometimes I made her seem like she was a confirmed saint.

  But I wasn’t perfect either—but I sure as hell wasn’t shaking my ass for drug money.

  If I was gonna dance on a metal pole, I’d at least live in a better apartment—with food.

  I pressed the button on my watch to make it glow for me, five thirty. I had to wake her up in an hour and a half, no earlier, no later. I had plans to meet Ali at her house for dinner. Ali was my best friend. She had twelve brothers and sisters and usually, if they didn’t outright count the heads at the table, I was overlooked. It worked to my advantage because if it weren’t for the Blakely family, I probably wouldn’t eat dinner at all.

  Wait, do crackers count as dinner?

  No, I didn’t think so.

  I snuck in the kitchen an hour later to turn on the coffee pot, and then ducked back in to finish my homework. She always made sure there was plenty of coffee in the house. I listened to the radio on an old Walkman all while watching the time like I was on the watch’s salary. I stared at six fifty nine until the minute finally ticked by. For some reason, that damned minute between six fifty nine and seven crept like an iceberg. I slid the door open and looked both ways before crossing the room. There’s no telling what waited for me outside of those doors. And the traffic through this place was fast and furious—and icky.

  But icky was a hazard of her profession—well, her side profession.

  I crept over to her bed, really just a box spring and a mattress on the floor and patted her foot to make her wake up. She always, always had white sheets so I could bleach them, because gross. I really didn’t want to be on the propeller end of my mom waking up. She flailed her arms when her motor started and I was liable to lose an arm or the tip of my nose.

  Just because I was spelled wrong didn’t mean I was stupid.

  “Ugh—coffee.” She moaned, dragging her body up to a sitting position while keeping her face firmly planted on the pillow for as long as possible. Her platinum box blonde hair was fanned out across one side of her face like she’d been clobbered upside the head with a flat frying pan. As usual, she had to hug the sheet to her body, still naked from her last ‘payroll in the hay’. I’d seen her run around this house naked so many times, I’d pretty much become immune. Black gunk still clung to her eyelashes making her look like some Egyptian princess gone very, very wrong.

  Did anyone lose a vial of black ink?

  I found it.

  “Ok, I’m getting it.” That poor coffee maker was on its last leg. The little swivel job that held the filters, yeah, I broke the hinge on it last week on accident and had to duct tape it together. But thank God it still worked and somehow she hadn’t noticed. Even if she did, I would blame it on her. It’s not like she remembered anything after she snorted, smoked, or shot up—whatever the night gave her.

  At least that was my hope—that she wouldn’t notice until I could replace it.

  I poured the thick black stream into one of those huge coffee cups meant for coffee connoisseurs and dumped obscene amounts of sugar and creamer into it. I carried it, along with a stray granola bar into the bedroom where she had already started her wake up line of coke.

  “Get my clothes, will ya?” She slurred at me while wiping the bottom of her nostrils and taking the steaming cup from my hands. She’d now wrapped the sheet completely around her, toga style, more convenient for sniffing and downing caffeine. She had her legs crossed like she was interviewing for a secretarial position instead of holding the sheet together in some resemblance of modesty.

  But really, what was the point?

  “Yeah, Mom.” I went to the dresser and pulled out jeans and a halter top for her. It was raining outside, and a halter top and jeans was the equivalent of a nun’s garb in my mom’s book.

  I might as well have handed her a monk’s robe by the repulsion written on her face.

  “Ugh—I hate jeans.” She said, disgusted with my choice.

  “It’s raining outside. It’s just until you get to the club, you know. Then you can change. You don’t want to get sick. Snot’s not sexy.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you should come to the club, let the girls make you over. You dress like a tomboy.” I looked down at myself. I didn’t really try to stick my style in such a stereotypical cliché like she did. But truth be told, I tried to dress boyish. I wore semi-baggy jeans and hoodies outside of the house. I never wanted to draw the attention of men. She did plenty of that for the both of us.

  “Um, I don’t think they’d let me wear that stuff to school, Mom.”

  She over-rolled her eyes, “Well, I guess not. But six more weeks and you can start working, putting in around here. I mean, you’re eighteen already, but I guess we have to let you finish high school. I don’t really consider your little paper route putting in. I suppose we’re gonna have to get a two bedroomer now.”

  A revolted shudder broke through me and floated across my skin.

  She can’t be serious.

  Then again, I said that to myself every time she mentioned my future career path.

  What was she, the college and career advisor?

  Most mothers wanted their girls to be wives, nurses, teachers, doctors or lawyers. My mother expected me to follow in her footsteps and as I looked across the room at her neat shelves stacked with mile high stilettos, I renewed my vow to myself.

  Don’t be like your mother.

  And it wasn’t the dancin
g that made her a less than lucrative role model.

  It was the drugs and the prostitution on the side.

  “Um, yeah, Mom. It’s seven thirty, better get in the shower.”

  “Ugh—you’re such a goody goody. I’m going, I’m going.”

  I heard the water as the pipes squeaked alive and I put on some sterile gloves, a mainstay at this abode, and changed the sheets on her bed. I threw them in the hamper. Around here we needed one of those bins like they had at hospitals marked ‘hazardous materials’ or ‘soiled linens.’ Because when your Mom’s a stripper/prostitute/druggie, there’s just no telling what will make an appearance.

  When the alarm went off at eight p.m., I was already staring at the black loud box with the digital looking, red numbers, waiting for it to sound. I slapped it as soon as the music blared—and then turned it back on to listen to my predecessor’s show while I showered and got dressed.

  I felt the chill as soon as I threw the covers off. Getting up to go to work in the middle of the night was bad enough, but leaving a warm bed while it was rainy outside, that was the pits. My socks slid across the wood floors, my feet unwilling to make actual steps yet. I scrubbed my face and looked at myself in the mirror. The circles under my eyes were beginning to resemble the dark night I worked in.

  I took a cold shower despite my body’s raging cry for a hot one. A hot shower while I was this sleepy and cold would just make me sleepier. In no time I’d be back in my bed if I took that route. I toweled off and got dressed. I put on a thermal long sleeve shirt and a Miner band shirt on top. Jeans got put on next and picked a pair of Vans from the hundreds that I owned. I sat for a while and watched the news I’d recorded earlier and another sit-com I’d missed while I was asleep.

  Finally about nine thirty, I grabbed a jacket, a beanie, my backpack and headed out the door. I would pick up coffee on my way in to work.

  Downtown Lafayette wasn’t the safest this time of night but I could think of more dangerous places. But every city had their seedy parts. Plus, the rent around the shady areas was half as much as in the good neighborhoods. I walked down the wet sidewalk, rain puddles still prevalent after the storm earlier in the day. I stopped in the bakery to get food and some semblance of coffee. It closed at eleven so I usually got the all-day simmering sludge from the bottom of the pot. But the bitter taste alone would wake the dead, so it helped.

  I got my coffee at a self-serve machine in a to-go cup and went to the counter to get a double dose of sugar. I ordered a banana muffin and a cream cheese Danish and the older lady behind the counter bagged them up for me. I turned to go and as I walked out of the bakery I saw a girl get out of a white kidnapper van and unlock the newspaper vending machine. She took the old papers out and waited for an older man who brought what I assumed were today’s newspapers in. He unclipped the plastic tethers that held the stacks before placing them in the stand and while she put the old papers back in the back of the van. The older man said something to her in passing and she laughed loudly and bent over a little. It wasn’t the most feminine of laughs but it sounded like she had waited for him to say something funny, just so she could let out some happiness. Like it was already bubbling to the top, waiting for his comedy to release it.

  Either that or she didn’t have much to share.

  She hefted a bigger stack out of the van and made her way to the stand to help him fill it up. He nodded his approval to her and she locked the stand back up. The man handed her some money and she went inside the bakery that I’d just left and emerged later with a sack and a plastic bottled orange juice.

  She looked like a girl who didn’t need anything from anyone.

  She didn’t spare me a glance.

  I couldn’t help but stare. She wore big, baggy jeans, cinched together at her waist with a black, chunky belt that showed a bit as she moved to put her change in her pocket. Her hoodie was gray and looked to be three sizes too big for her. She had the hood up but when she passed through the glow of the yellow street light, I could see that she had dark brown straight hair. And when she looked up to the sky for a fraction of a second, I saw eyes the color of the night. She moved towards the van, brushing my shoulder as she did she murmured, ‘stare much?’ It was aimed directly at me.

  When the van drove away, my trance was finally broken and now, glancing at my watch, I was almost late for work. I ran the rest of the way and made it in the door with only two minutes to spare. I would have to eat while a song was playing, which only happened once in a while during my show and after two a.m. From eleven p.m. until two a.m. I listened to people, mostly girls, call in and tell me all of their boy problems and troubles in general. I tried to help them from a male perspective as best I could. Sometimes I heard back from them, most times I didn’t. I had been doing this for four years now. I started when I was twenty after secretly writing an advice column in the local newspaper for a while. I tried to go to school and run the show, but it became too much for me to handle.

  But lately it seems like all the shows run together, every caller, though they have a different voice and name, all seem to have the same issues. Or maybe I’m just tired of being tired.

  I cleared my throat, put on the headphones, adjusted the mic and started the long night using my middle name, it was way more interesting. “Fade is in for the night Lafayette, call me and let’s see if we can make your troubles Fade into Black.”

  I finished the paper route at midnight and Mr. Randy dropped me off a couple of blocks away from home. I took my time walking back to that dreary apartment. I wasn’t really sleepy yet and really didn’t want to see what kind of mess she left for me to clean up. But then again she expected me to have everything clean before her ‘clients’ were brought back to the apartment. And then there was everyone else’s clean and there was my mom’s version of clean, which was similar to that guy from Sleeping With The Enemy. You know the one, wicked moustache and a backhand that was a little trigger happy—except my mom never hit me. She had enough stacked against her in the mom department without adding physical abuse.

  I picked up my step, now paranoid that she’d left the place a wreck. I told Mr. Randy about the coffee pot a week ago and tonight he’d brought me one from his house which he said he didn’t use any more. I usually told Mr. Randy everything while we were driving. It was like therapy and the old man was my shrink.

  I unlocked the apartment and looked around before going in. The club closed at two a.m. so I still had a few hours to spare. The living room and kitchen looked fairly clean. I would have to clean it again anyway, but at least there weren’t any wrenches thrown in my machine. The bathroom was a mess, her clothes thrown on the floor, she’d apparently changed her mind about the jeans, and blobs of toothpaste dotted the sink. For someone who was so particular about being clean, she sure was dirty.

  So I began my cleaning after replacing the broken coffee pot while I listened to the radio from an old boom box in the kitchen. I listened to the same station every night. It was a show ran by a guy named Fade who listened to girls and guys as they told him their desperate problems. But I had a suspicion that most of them called just for his voice. His voice was the perfect mixture of heaven and hell. It was pure male, baritone and smooth and towards the end of the show, it got a little raspy. Then for the rest of the night, he played music until seven a.m. when he signed out. I’d looked him up online at school and the only pictures of him were silhouettes. I guess it helped him stay anonymous in real life.

  He did more than play music and answer questions in my book. I’m sure he didn’t know and my heart. And practically speaking, when you’re in the closet, and once in a while your mom brings home ‘clients’, yeah, my noise cancelling headphones were my prized possession and his voice was my solace. Once I got the gumption to sleep on the couch and she came in with a businessman, suit and all. He took one look at me and fled the scene, taking her pay with him. She cussed me up one side and down the other for hours. I had to give her my paycheck
for three weeks to make up for her lost tryst.

  She used to not bring them home at all. The club she worked at used to have a couple of trailers on the back of the property and those girls who chose to make a little money after hours would use them for their business. But they got busted by the cops and the trailers were gone. A few months later, the owner opened up shop down the street, under a different name. But then my mom had to find a place to bring men when they didn’t want to rent a motel room. And she certainly wouldn’t foot the bill, might cut into her coke money.

  So the closet became my bedroom. I got a blow up mattress from the thrift store. A twin air mattress fit perfectly in the closet. Ali saw it once and said it looked like I slept in a coffin. Trust me; a coffin is way better than hearing what goes on beyond the mirrored doors. I heard Fade say goodbye to his listeners and move to playing music. That was my cue to go to sleep. Tomorrow was Friday, which was great in terms of school. But Fridays and Saturdays were Mom’s busiest days of the week. Sometimes I slept over at Ali’s house. But more often than not her house was filled to the brim. I changed into my pajamas and replaced my headphones. I listened to some low melodic song that Fade seemed to play just for me to fall asleep by. I covered my head with a pillow, just in case, and fell asleep soon after.

  The next morning I got up quietly and slid the door open, only a splice to see out. The coast was clear so I took off my headphones and turned off the radio but not before listening to Fade wish me a good morning.

  I dressed in the same manner, baggy jeans and a black sweater that had a hood and whose sleeves had tiny cutouts for my thumbs. Technically it wasn’t a hoodie, right? I was starving by the time I finished brushing my teeth and putting on mascara and eyeliner. I rushed out after throwing on my kicks. If I was late I wouldn’t have time to stop at Mrs. Swan’s bakery. Mrs. Swan was Mr. Randy’s sister in law. She gave me breakfast every morning in exchange for taking out the trash on my way home from school.

  You do what you have to do, right?

  I knocked on the side window which at one time was a makeshift drive thru window. Mrs. Swan smiled and waved at me and handed me a bag and a bottle of orange juice. She surprised me every morning. I never knew what she made me to eat, which was fine because everything she made was fantastic. I opened the bag and the smoky smell of bacon made my stomach rumble. Inside was three round pieces of bread and as I took a bite found that each one was stuffed with eggs, bacon and cheese. There’s nothing like bacon to put a spring in your step early in the morning.