Page 2 of A Hidden Past

Jake’s happy to buy beer for me. He's been buying beer for me since high school. Of course, by the time I was in high school, beer didn't do much for me. I'd already found drugs. What was beer when there were pills available? Why bother with finding harder alcohol when a couple of pills gave me a better high and no hangover?

Actually, there were a number of reasons for me to avoid drugs but, of course, I didn't know that at fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen. It wasn't until I finally got caught that I started to learn. The judge made sure I heard the wake-up call before sealing my record.

I allow myself a moment of gratitude that all they caught me doing was boosting cars. There were a host of other crimes that could have gotten me more time if they had been able to pin them on me.

I wasn't a bad kid. I didn't do any of the thefts to get money for drugs. I did it just to get away from this place.

Of course, there's an old recliner in my room now. I would be sleeping on the floor if I hadn't driven by a mini-mall advertising twin mattresses for sixty-nine dollars. The sad thing is that mattress on the floor is probably the best bed I've ever had.

"Bullshit," I whisper. Things used to be better. There was definitely a point when my family went downhill. There was definitely a point when our house stopped being nothing special but still safe and clean.

Then, it had become, just as it was now, poor and hopeless. I scan the floorboards. The cockroaches are gone, at least. Evidently, the bug bomb and roach motels did the trick. It’ll probably go to Hell again when I move back into the dorms when the semester starts, but that doesn’t matter. With any luck, I’ll be off the waitlist and housed in the dorms by the time next summer rolled around. I can still work the pool hustle that way. The summer classes are short, and I can save my easy classes for the summers so the homework isn’t too stifling.

I sigh and toss my empty beer can into the wastebasket that I bought earlier that day for seven dollars. I don't bother with liners, just use shopping bags to line the bin. After adjusting the paper trash to cover the can, I instinctively check if my mother will come in and inspect my room. She'll probably be too drunk to care anyway. Not that I want to deal with her right now. It's always a battle to communicate past her drunkenness. All she’ll try to do is get money from me.

I open my mini fridge, a parting gift from my roommate Trey who won't be returning next semester. There's also a small microwave from him on the four-foot table I use as a desk.

Trey was a talented football player but not quite good enough for the NFL. He got recruited by a semiprofessional team in Europe, thanks to his wealthy family. If it turns out to be a mistake, it won't really cost him anything.

Mistakes don’t cost people who have money.

In any case, Trey's mistake means I have a mini fridge and microwave now.

I crack open another beer and notice the Buffalo chicken mac and cheese meal in the little freezer compartment. It's my emergency stash, so to speak. The official deal is that my mother receives four hundred dollars a month for rent and food. I operate under no illusions, though. I'm likely to find the refrigerator empty as often as not. I could probably force the issue by spending a hundred and fifty dollars on food every month and giving her the difference, but I don't need the drama. When I agreed to the amount, I knew I couldn't count on the food.

I put the mac and cheese in the microwave and drink the rest of my beer. A warmth starts to spread through my limbs, and I frown. I have to slow down. The beer isn't a problem, but if I get too buzzed, there are a lot of things at the bottom of a beer can. I can't bring myself to give up my secret "emergency" stash, but I don't want to actually use it.

Alcohol is bad. Pills are worse.

But nothing compares to the needle.

I look toward the closet and allow myself the moment of longing I always feel when I think about the rig sill hidden behind the old plastic bins I use instead of a dresser. When that moment is over, I toss the beer can into the wastebasket and head to the shower.

I almost make it without running into Mom. Almost. I have my hand on the door handle when I hear the familiar and frustrating call of, “Nate? Natey?”

If there’s one name I hate more than buddy, it’s Natey.

I lower my eyes and have just enough time to sigh before the scent of vodka and cigarettes lets me know that my mother is approaching.

“Hi, Mom.”

“When did you get home? I didn’t hear you come in.”

Probably because you were passed out on the couch.

“About five minutes ago,” I lie. “You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh. Have you eaten yet?”

That’s not an offer for food. It’s a precursor to asking me to buy food for her. “Yeah, I ate already.”

“Oh. Did you bring anything home?”

“No. I figured you’d be asleep. You usually are this time of the afternoon.”

There’s a trace of bitterness in my voice when I say that, but Mom doesn’t pick up on it. It’s hard to tell what Mom still picks up on these days.

“Oh. I was gonna see if you wanted to stop by Leo’s for pizza.”

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