This City, Your Name
Daniel Yetman April 1, 2011
The sound of the wine swirling in its bottle brings about feelings of guilt in the pit of my stomach; I feel like somebody has punched me as hard as they could just below the ribs. My lightheadedness makes me question my so called state of sobriety. As far as I can tell I am thinking clearly but I am not myself. I take the room key from my wallet and open the door, letting it slam behind me. I rest the shopping bag with the bottle of wine and malt liquor next to the television. I grasp my bag and throw it at the blinds hoping something—anything will break. Nothing does. Pausing, I look around the room for something else to break. I pick up a wooden chair and begin to bring it over my head. The animalistic portion of me takes aim at the picture window that looms over the back parking lot of the hotel.
I have a vision of tossing the chair straight out the window, my muscles twitch but my sanity is not breached. Instead I carelessly drop the chair and let it fall on its side. I punch the wall with my palm and surprisingly it does not break. The television has a sign above it, a picture of a mallet and “$100.00”. I muse at the idea, would it be worth it?
All fantasies aside I turn my attention to the red wine. I attempt to pull the cork out with my fingernails but no matter how hard I pull I can’t get a grip. The wine eludes me—at this moment it is the only thing that keeps me from tearing the entire room apart with my bare hands. I pull hard again but still I am left without the wine.
The funny thing about being an athlete is the miniscule difference between a good day and a bad day but that miniscule difference holds such significance it can provoke feelings from rage to jealousy—euphoria to pride. It would be easy to guess which emotions are being evicted from me at this moment just by looking at the color of the knuckles on my right hand.
There are voices in the hall; they don’t know that I can hear them, which is made clear when I hear the sound of my name.
“Who’s in there?” A female voice that I recognize asks.
A second person responds by saying my name. The girl laughs, I’m not sure why. It’s as if to her I’m a joke—maybe I am, but I missed the punchline.
I need the wine, this world is filled with strangers pointing and laughing, telling me—showing me—how alone I am. Ah, but they aren’t all bad, but when even the most sincere person tries to help me—talk to me so I’m not standing alone—I respond in the only way I know how, with my voice so low that said person can barely hear me and at the end of the conversation we both feel awkward and unsure of what to say next. And when they leave I’m left alone again while they are on to the next one laughing with the closest extrovert in the room.
I pull a small key from my wallet, one that was meant to lock my suitcase. I try to dig into the cork with it but I can’t penetrate it. Even when I twist, to try and catch the hooks on the soft cork it just tears through as I try to pull it out.
Finally, after struggling for a hundred hours I push the cork into the bottle along with the key. It rattles and bobs up and down but for all intensive purposes I am satisfied. I take a plastic cup from the counter and pour from the bottle. It tastes bitterer than I was expecting. I struggle to finish the first glass but I suspect the flavor will become less noticeable as I get lower in the bottle. I pour a second, a third and a fourth cup before the taste overwhelms me.
I’m starting to feel lightheaded; my rage from earlier today dissipates but does not leave my mind. Instead of manifesting as absolute anger, my emotional state turns to pity. The door of the room, which is open a crack, serves as the only gateway between me and the outside world; in the hall I can hear my teammates laughing. A single tear rolls down my left cheek as I try to blink it back. I open the malt liquor under the impression that it will be easier to drink than the wine. Sadly I am mistaken—for me a novice, somebody who rarely drinks (never drinks may be a more accurate description) it make me want to gag. It’s not until I start mixing it with coke and sprite that I am able to drink it in any significant amount.
I pull my hat over my eyes and sit in an identical chair to the one that lies across the floor. I put my feet on the T.V. and lean back unsure of what happens next. I’m in a city that I have never truly ventured; surely if I get lost nobody will notice that I’m not coming back. If I disappear forever in the shadows would anybody even notice my absence? I can feel my eyes starting to water again and I shake off my depressive thoughts. I grab my jacket and the bottle of wine and try to chug as much of it as I can but spill a significant amount across the front of my shirt. I walk into the hallway, letting the door slam behind me. I can hear voices coming from the rooms but it’s not until I turn the corner and walk by the last room on the left that I see somebody. I pretend to be texting and keep on walking straight with my head down.
My vision starts to fail me and I’m not walking as straightly as I was. By the time I reach the back door I’m staggering out, nonetheless I am undeterred. The city streets all look the same, with snow banks piled up over twice my height. I try to cross the road but I absentmindedly wander straight in front of a speeding car. Narrowly missing it I curse the driver; Remembering that I am in Quebec I speak broken fragments of French. Even if he could have heard me my words are illiterate. I stagger straight up the street with no destination in mind; I just want to get away and never come back. I must be out of my mind because I want to die here. What a faith, to die in Sherbrook. This city has never been kind to me. Every time in my life I have been here I have been met with disappointment. Let that be because of my own athletic performance, or the time I couldn’t work up the nerves to ask a certain girl to dance. I’m pretty sure I danced with everyone that night but her. I just didn’t have the nerves. It’s funny, that memory sticks with me now, I haven’t thought about that moment in years—the feeling in my throat, swallowing hard and trying to find the right words. The more I think about it the more I remember—I did ask her to dance that night, but she didn’t hear me. When I spoke, my words well rehearsed, the song changed and the crowd roared, she looked at me for a second unaware of what I said and then she was gone again. I haven’t thought of that girl in years but I still wish she heard me that night, a couple months after that night my heart took a turn for the worst and I fell for a different girl. And now, three years later, my heart still beats for her even though I’m lucky to say three words to her a week. I’m sure she will be the death of me. For now let’s call her Rose.
All the streets look identical; I might as well be walking deep into the woods the surrounds this street. I take a left, a right, and then another left. I am almost positive that I will never make it home. Finally, when I take one too many wrong turns I come to a dead end. A guardrail protrudes out of a twenty foot tall snow bank. I sink down into the snow, completely empty. I bang the back of my head against the rail in frustration. Water seeps through my clothing until my shirt starts to cling to my body. I wish I had another bottle; I want to leave all my problems behind me. I look towards the sky but there are too many clouds.
I grab a pencil I had been carrying in my jacket pocket and a small notebook with a blue cover. I begin to write, synthesizing the most depressive thoughts onto the page. Thoughts of never returning home, ending here. I swallow hard as my bottom lip begins to quiver. A solemn tear forms in the corner of my right eye hanging, choosing not to fall. The sound of the wind blowing above me reminds me how utterly alone I am. I close my eyes, hold them shut and wonder what would happen if I just fell asleep here. Would at any time during the night somebody search for me? Or would I wake up here in the morning cold, wet and lost in a city that I’ve grown to hate.
My body tenses as I hear a gentle crashing sound; a woman pushes open her front screen door. I watch as the figure emerges from the closest house, about 30 meters away. They walk towards the end of their driveway and appear to stare right at me. I don’t know how much they can see, I sit in the dark. I don’t dare breath, although I can see them better than they can see me. The apparition is clearly female, older, maybe around forty years of age.
“Hello?” She calls out into the darkness; I’m starting to doubt my intuition that I’m completely hidden. She stares at me for what feels like an hour before returning back into the house. I remain still for several minutes after she leaves. As I try to stand up I find that I have reached a pinnacle of haziness; clearly the alcohol has made its way into my bloodstream. Each step is an ordeal and I try to picture myself as somebody else might. My thoughts are so distorted I can’t tell if I’m walking normally or look like I’m completely out of my mind. I picture somebody looking out of their window seeing me staggering at the base of their driveway—I hope they don’t call the cops.
I hold my phone in my hand, grasping it tightly for it’s the only contact I have with the world now. Through this phone I can speak, type my thoughts and feelings to whoever would be willing to listen. I’m not sure what direction the hotel is in, I think it’s to my right—I’m going to take a left.
I walk down a dark hill scarcely illuminated with streetlights; luckily there is no traffic, the snow banks are piled so high on either side of the road there’s not even a trace of a side walk. The snow that had been melting though the day is starting to turn to ice, and I slide more than walk down the hill. My phone vibrates and when I go to check who the message is from it slips between my fingers and hits the cold dark pavement. In my own attempt to catch it my left ankle gives way and I crumple into a ball on the side of the road. My right elbow smashes against the ground and for a quarter of an instant it feels like it is broken. The phone slides into the snow bank. Before I reach down to find it my vision starts to fail. My memory plays a devious trick and seems to fail me as well. The world seems to fade away and I’m okay with that.
***
When I come to I’m immediately met with another snow bank. Terror becomes plastered across my face when I jump back into the bank, narrowly escaping being hit by a semi-trailer truck. It blows its horn at me as I’m rendered helpless watching it drive through the locus where I was walking not half a second ago. Sweat rolls down my neck even though it is certainly below freezing. Brushing myself off, I walk out of the bank damp and cold. I check my pockets and am relieved to find that my phone has found its way back to me. If I was lost before now I’m definitely lost now. I look around for familiar landmarks but I don’t recognize anything—not surprisingly. I seem to be in a more industrial area then I was in before I blacked out, instead of housing I am surrounded by warehouses. There’s a forest behind me, which doesn’t look familiar. I can’t help but wonder how thick it is.
I walk through the slush and snow, down the road to attempt to find where I am. I seem to be at the bottom of the city, having to walk uphill forevermore. If I was thinking clearer I would be able to recognize the movie theater to my left or the grocery store to my right but I’m not thinking clearly and I keep walking straight until I see—perched on top the city, a glint of the hotel. My eyes are drawn down the hill to its base where an eight lane highway resides. I stare at it in awe as I recognize it; serving as the backbone of the city I most have already crossed it once. I don’t know how, I don’t remember crossing it but clearly I must have. With snow piled up on both side and no crosswalk that is discernable it might as well be a river that I need to cross over. Traffic rushes by so quickly I feel like the wind is going to blow off my feet. I take a step forward and nearly lose that foot. I step back into the snow bank and watch the traffic and the world fade again.
***
I awake in wide-eyed terror, as I watch a silver Toyota Corolla zoom behind me and a red truck pass in front of me. I can feel the hair on my neck start to stand on as a wave of terror passes through my body starting in my chest and moving down to my toes. Nimbly, I stagger across the highway and flounder onto the sidewalk on the other side. A man sticks his head out the passenger window of another car going by and he yells something in French at me. I can’t understand him.
I feel like I’m starting to reach a state of sobriety, I understand that I may get myself killed at any moment but I’m still enough out of my mind to let that effect my judgment.
I can see the hotel from where I am, it’s at the top of the street that I’m standing on the base of. It seems dark, almost if none of the lights are turned on. As I get closer to it I can see that I was originally mistaken, the lights are on but dimmed by the concurring blinds. I creep to the backdoor and try to open it but it’s locked. I pull hard on the door handle to no clear avail. I try again, not knowing why I would expect a different result. I check my pockets and find that my hotel room key has been left in my pocket from earlier today. I swipe the key next to the door and to my excitement find that the door opens.
I walk each stair carefully, knowing that one wrong step could ruin my career. I almost trip several times but miraculously I manage to survive and drag myself to my room. I slip in unnoticed by anyone and am met with half a bottle of wine on the counter and the rest of the malt. I immediately get to work.
I tip the chair that I knocked over earlier back on its legs and slump into it while grabbing an already opened can of coke off the counter as well as the malt. Mixing the two I finish off the bottle, adding to my delirium. Three of my teammates walk through the door and they look almost surprised to see me.
“Where did you go?” One of them asks.
“I don’t know.” I laugh hysterically even though nothing is funny.
“I went looking for a restaurant but I didn’t have my wallet.” I say, trying to justify my absence. Everybody laughs including me; I guess everyone else is as out of it as I am.
“Wait, wait, wait.” I pause for dramatic effect. “I didn’t find a restaurant either.” Another round of laugher echoes through the hotel room.
I grab the malt and try to drink from it but it is clearly empty. Instead I grip the wine with my left hand and drink from it as I try to stand. Crimson droplets spur from the neck of the bottle and drip down onto my shirt as well as the carpet.
“Getting a little sloppy eh?” At this point I can’t even recognize who the voice belongs to.
“Ohhh well yous know.” My speech comes out barely interpretable.
I leave the room, staggering down the hallway, high-fiving people I’m sure I’ve never meet. Somebody hands me a beer and I thank them over-enthusiastically. I twist the top off and start in on it. The hallway becomes insurmountable, becoming infinitely long. For every two steps I take the hall becomes that much longer. Eventually I reach what feels like the end and there is a man there pointing and laughing at me, I must have met him before. He clanks his bottle against mine, pats me on the shoulder and keeps on walking down the hall which I just came from. My head begins to spin.
***
I wake up in the backseat of a cab with no idea where it is taking me. I look at my hands and wonder where the beer I was holding has gone. The girl sitting next to me puts her hand on my shoulder.
“I think you did very well today.”
“No, no I didn’t do so well. But maybe next year.” I say with optimism that I would not have if I was speaking with any type of sobriety.
“You’ll do so much better next year,” says my team-mate sitting in the front seat. He extends his hand out for a high-five.
The cab pulls up outside of what appears to be a club. It’s at this point that I realize that I don’t have my wallet on me. It doesn’t seem to matter at this point; the fare seems to be taken care of. The timeline of reality fades away and as I take my first foot step out of the cab I instantly find myself in the middle of the line. I can recognize my voice as being loud and obnoxious but there doesn’t seem to be any way to control it.
I look around blankly, just staring at the back of heads. Before I know it I’m rambling out loud, saying thing that never should be said. I turn to one of my teammates, “I wish Rose was here.” He shakes his head, “no, no don’t do it.” Don’t do what? I’m so confused but I continue my self-destructive speech, “I’ve had feelings for her for three years. I wish she was here. I’ve asked her out three times, she said no three times—”
“Don’t do it, you don’t need her.” I’m not sure what it is that I’m not supposed to be doing but I have a feeling that I’m doing it. I turn to two more of my teammates standing behind me and I begin to tell them the same thing. “I’ve had feelings for—”
“Don’t do it.”
My eyes grow heavy and my heart begins to race; I finally shut my mouth. The bouncers standing in the front of the club are wearing black V-necks; one of them has a tattoo of some sort of dragon on his left biceps. I wonder if he’s left handed.
When I reach the front of the line I can’t stop giggling like a schoolgirl; when I’m let in I nearly walk right into the coat closet before somebody spins me around. I become immersed into a sea of faces I don’t recognize. I’m bumped and knocked back and forth, barely staying on my feet. A pretty girl walks by me; I smile but she stares through me with a blank stare. I look around for somebody I recognize but everybody looks the same and my mind is starting to fail me.
“Hey there,” I turn around and look straight into Rose’s eyes before I blink and realize that she’s back home. Even so, her manifestation is so vivid I can’t help but search around the club for her. I’m stopped in my search by a girl in a white tank top. Somehow my hands land on her hips as she dances against me. I search through her, looking for the one face I want to find but know I won’t. When the song ends the girl leaves and becomes part of the crowd again. I wouldn’t be able to find her again even if I wanted to. I start to drown in the sea until I feel warmth underneath my hand, finally a familiar face as I’m dragged out of the crowd. I try to say thanks but I seem to have lost my voice, as I often do when I want to speak the most. Even so, I’m still met with a smile.
My head spins as the music pumps so loudly I can’t even hear the hundreds of screams and voices around me. I zone in and out of consciousness as the whole room goes silent and then the music blasts. I seem to leave my own body and see myself standing below, looking around—lost and appearing like a misfit.
Coming back to reality I realize that nobody is holding my hand anymore. I walk around the perimeter of the dance floor, trying not to be engulfed again. I catch a glimpse of another face that looks familiar—it’s Rose again. I call out her name but of course she can’t hear me, I can’t even hear me. I call again knowing that she neither can hear me nor exists. I follow her through the crowd until I’m convinced that she is leading me astray. She leads me to the club’s exit and she runs out into the street.
“Rose!” I call one more time. She stops in the middle of the road and turns around staring through me. I know that it can’t really be her but still I’m drawn to her. She turns back around and takes off again. I chase after her again knowing that I will never catch her. It’s funny in my greatest disillusions I feel the greatest sensation of sobriety.
I lose sight of her as soon as I step foot on the road, I pause; almost reaching tears, “Wait, Rose I think that I might—” I’m cut off by the absolute might of the front bumper of a public bus. The last thing I remember before hitting the ground is seeing her one last time, watching over me. As time slows and my world turns black I watch as in my utter dismay as I see she sits behind the wheel of the bus.
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