Blake Twenty-Three by Slade Grayson

Author:Slade Grayson [Grayson, Slade]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780615490588
Published: 2010-08-01T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 14

“Everybody Wants You” by Billy Squire

“Are you okay?”

Gabriella’s voice comes from what sounds like a mile away. Her face flickers in and out of focus.

“Yeah,” I say, “fine. I’m fine.”

I’m not fine. I’m propped against the brick wall of a midtown tavern, trying desperately to keep my knees from buckling. This particular episode isn’t as bad as some of my others. I’m not sweating and, to a certain extent, I’m aware of my surroundings. But it’s still far from “fine.”

“Are you sick?” she asks. “Should we go to a hospital?”

Her voice, previously thick with a whiskey-soaked huskiness, now has the timbre of a little girl. My first instinct is to reassure her and ease her concerns, but right now I’m preoccupied with keeping myself from collapsing into an emotional mess. No easy feat there.

I manage to pull it off. Don’t ask me how, ‘because I’m not really sure, but sometimes it goes like that. Sometimes my “episodes” aren’t as severe as other times, and sometimes it’s only a stall tactic because they usually catch up to me. With a vengeance.

“I’m okay,” I say, breathing normally now. “Once in a while, I get an anxiety attack. It’s nothing serious.” Sure.

Her look of concern suddenly shifts to one decidedly less sympathetic. Like I just told her I’m mentally ill or something, which, maybe I am but that shouldn’t erase her concern. (Should it?)

Over the years, I’ve discovered a vast majority of people don’t look upon mental illness as a legitimate sickness, but rather, see it as a character weakness. I was once such a person until struck with periodic anxiety attacks. Now I’m more tolerant of people with similar maladies. Not that I’m mentally ill. I just have…problems.

Gabriella says, “You’re not serious, are you? How can you…do what you do for the government if you get anxiety attacks?”

The unsympathetic tone is more prevalent.

“Forget it,” I say. “Come on, let’s go.”

I take her hand and begin walking, my gait as brusque as my manner. I immediately slow down, though, because she’s practically tumbling out of her heels. I ease my grip on her hand, too. I can be a real asshole sometimes, you know?

We come up on the mailbox place. The storefront is generic—one of those places you could mistake for a stationary store or a place to have your taxes done. There’s a metal awning over the brick storefront and a half dozen signs in the window advertising shipping rates and mailbox rentals.

I hold the door open for Gabriella. I feel chivalrous all of a sudden. In case you haven’t deduced it yet, I’m a moody bastard.

The interior consists of a wall of mailboxes you can individually rent, a long counter behind which is stacked every conceivable shipping material a person would need, and a large chart on the wall that details shipping rates to every state in the union. If you want to mail an elephant to someone in Kentucky, this chart will tell you how much it costs. The place smells of cardboard and copier toner.

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