Life Unbothered Read online

  While the loading bar shot the percentage of downloaded information, I thought about the blind jump I had made by taking the new job and wondered if it would help launch my life into a more enjoyable journey. Experience told me that geography wouldn’t make my affliction go away. It would be inside until I booted it out. There was no magic to rid me of panic disorder, depression, or agoraphobia. Doctors so far had failed with medication and feel-good therapy. As the downloading of the safety manual shareware continued, I stared at the screen thinking about how nice it would be if the medical profession had a mental therapy that cured in the same way physical therapists helped heal accident victims.

  Today we are going to do cranial water aerobics. The object here is to submerge your head underwater and spin around as fast as you can, while moving your neck up and down, banging it like you’re at a death metal concert. This will work your panic muscle. Hold your breath as long as you can. The closer you get to drowning, the more therapeutic the workout. But before you dunk your head, put these shackles around your wrists. The shackles are attached to a half-ton brick to keep you under water. To unlock them, you must use the key attached to the right wrist cuff. Make sure to get the key loose and unlock yourself before you lose consciousness. Use your time wisely. But don’t worry, our alert staff will pull you to safety if there are any problems. Now let’s start our first session. The advanced seriousness of your condition warranted the doctor to prescribe this treatment once a day, every day, for six months. By then you should see tremendous improvement and maybe even be cured. It’s all up to your dedication.

  After a minute of daydreaming, I looked away from the download meter on my screen to see a large face with a beaming smile in the doorway.

  “Mundo. What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Hey, Wade. I heard you were over here. Looks like you’re working hard, just staring at the computer. Does Richard know that?”

  “That’s my job, just sit here and stare. What are you doing?”

  “I just wanted to stop and say goodbye. I’m moving to North Carolina tomorrow. Government duty calls, you know.”

  “Tomorrow? I didn’t know it was that soon.”

  “Yeah, that soon. Come here and give me a hug before I go.” Mundo opened his bulky forearms to receive me.

  I stood up and led myself into his arms like a submissive child. “Short hug jughead, not a long one,” I said.

  With that, he squeezed me tight and lifted my body about three inches off the ground. “Yeah, I’ll miss your cute face,” Mundo said as he undid his tight embrace.

  I stepped back a couple of feet from him and bowed my head. “Look, Mundo, thanks for taking me to Las Vegas and I’m sorry—”

  “Say no more,” Mundo interrupted. “I liked jumping on that guy. Probably the most exciting flight I’ve ever had.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’ll email you sometime.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it. I’ve got to go. I saw Richard earlier, but I just wanted to get in one last hug before I left.”

  “Thanks for thinking about me,” I said.

  15. The Encounter

  The slip of paper with the Nardil prescription written on it sat on my kitchen counter for a week before I finally got it filled.

  “Wade Hampton,” I said to the pretty Hispanic pharmacist at Osco Drugs. She had filled my first installment of Xanax the day I drove back to Phoenix. I watched as she bent over to fetch the bottle, and it made me very aware that I didn’t have any girlfriends to call up and curl next to. As she returned to the counter, I looked at her left hand to see no ring on the appropriate finger.

  “Would you like to go out to dinner tonight?” I asked casually.

  She glanced at the prescription for Nardil and smiled, but her look was more out of sympathy than friendliness. She probably knew Nardil was prescribed for people with real mental problems.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  I failed to produce my fake charming smile as I grabbed the bag and walked away with a couple more layers of esteem shaved off my skin. On the way out of the store, I ripped up the three-page disclaimer sheet included with the tinted plastic pill bottle, discarding the bits into a nearby trashcan.

  I returned to my apartment at Capital Bluff and was conspicuously aware of the disorientation of my new surroundings. I went into the small bathroom to open the pill bottle and reveal its contents. This inspection process had become a habit years back when I started taking medications for panic and depression. I would study the pills, putting them close to my eyes like an entomologist examining an insect specimen.

  The fifteen-milligram Nardil pills were bright orange and had a marking on one side stamped in black writing, “PD 270.” I assumed the “PD” stood for Parke-Davis, the manufacturer of the drug, but had no idea what the numbers meant. The pills resembled the shape of an Advil pain reliever pill, but about twenty-five percent smaller.

  The drug basically worked by inhibiting the process of neurotransmitters such as serotonin, dopamine and norepinephrine being killed by a protein in the brain called monoamine oxidase, or MAO. If the MAO “cleaning” function was too active in the brain, it could cause a lower level of these neurotransmitters and create a chemical imbalance known to cause depression.

  I contemplated throwing a pill in my mouth but stopped my arm in mid-flight. If the drug made me tired, maybe I would let Richard down by not being able to perform my work duties. My anxiety was manageable as long as nothing out of the ordinary arose, but I noticed with the start of my new job and surroundings, it was beginning to rise again. After a flicker of debate, I convinced myself to hold off adding another drug on top of the Xanax. The orange blockers would have to wait.

  * * * *

  I was settling into a routine after a couple of weeks under my belt as director of administration for Haverco. As I was proofreading the final draft of the newly written safety manual, my mind wandered to the women in my past. My desperation for companionship was not consuming me as it had in Arizona, but once I became more settled in my new surroundings, my need would probably return. One night in weakness I attempted to phone Pamela, but her line was disconnected. Maybe she was telling the truth about moving to Michigan.

  The harbor area wasn’t exactly the prime spot for finding females. Potbellied longshoremen dominated the human landscape. There were no ladies to casually stand by the copy machine and chat with. The harbor was generally a man’s domain – there were few female laborers, welders, or longshoremen. The only female employee at Haverco was Richard’s part-time secretary, a married woman with three kids.

  I took a break from reading the safety manual, bored with the long drawn-out chapter explaining exactly how to secure equipment on trucks. I strolled outside to the parking area and wafted through the black dust floating in the air from scrap metal being loaded on a nearby ship. A couple of cars down from mine, three women were leaning on an old white Pontiac Firebird. The first woman, Rosa Lopez, I’d met on my second day of employment. She was an already aging twenty-six-year-old longshoring groupie who, for nearly a decade, had broken up many a dockworker’s marriage.

  My eyes ran over to the second, a full-bodied girl I had seen once before, but never met. The third, farthest away from me, caught my eye as I did another quick survey of the trio. I performed a split-second double take because the other two girls didn’t evoke any feral emotions. The third woman, upon a speedy second analysis, fomented an acute case of instant chemical attraction.

  She had long black hair, straight with a touch of thick wave running down to her thin waist, and a slender, yet femininely muscular five-foot eight-inch frame. Her flawless olive skin and dark features gave her the mystique of an ethnic goddess.

  As I moved closer, it was obvious she did not have the same primordial reaction to me. Her look was somewhat tough, though definitely not snobbish. It was clear s
he was not from the right side of the tracks, but that didn’t bother me. I settled a few steps from the white Firebird adorned by one beauty and the two other women. Without waiting for a formal introduction, which was hard to come by from ladies who hung around the docks to meet longshoremen, I guided the question to Rosa and belted out cockily, “Who’s this?”

  “Her name’s Sophia,” Rosa said, as my eyes scanned the raven-haired splendor.

  “Sophia?”

  “Yes idiot, can’t you hear?” the larger girl said. “Sophia. My older sister.”

  “She doesn’t look like you.”

  “We had different fathers. But she still looks kinda’ like me,” she bellowed back.

  “No she doesn’t.”

  “She does too, Waaaade!”

  “And you are?” I asked, trying to suppress the surprise that she knew my name.

  “Alexa Syros,” she snarled.

  I decided not to encourage the “does not, does too” routine with Alexa, so I turned to Sophia and asked politely, “Is she your sister?”

  “Sometimes,” she said without enthusiasm.

  “You want to go out with us tonight, Waaaade?” Alexa asked.

  “Sounds like a plan. Where are you going?”

  “We’re going to Fathom’s at about eight o’clock.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll go,” Sophia said.

  “Yes you will, bitch,” Alexa responded, then hit her sister on the shoulder. “We’ll meet you there, Wade.”

  “With Sophia?” I asked, directing my question to Alexa.

  “Yeah, she’ll go. She’s just being a scrod.”

  The comment propelled Sophia to walk away from us and out to the bare pavement on the berth.

  “Isn’t a scrod a fish or something?” I asked.

  “Uhh, yeah,” Alexa said as if I should have known.

  I turned away from Alexa and caught up with Sophia as she continued a slow walk toward the docked ship.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” Sophia responded in a deep reserved tone.

  Her acknowledging my presence gave me optimism, at least for the moment. As I stared at her intensely for an unacceptable amount of time, her eyeballs began shifting from side to side.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she asked with a slight laugh.

  “Nothing, I just think you’re beautiful.”

  Sophia cast a stern look, obviously not much for flattery. She studied me a moment, taking a long look at my ironed shirt and jeans before saying, “Fathom’s is not the type of place you look like you’d go to typically.”

  “I’ll go to see you,” I said. “I don’t care where we are.”

  “I’ll go, just not for you. But at least now I know your intentions.”

  I laughed. “I didn’t know people used the word ‘intentions’ anymore. Reminds me of some antebellum ritual of having to impress the matriarch before getting to hold hands with the daughter. But if you think I don’t fit in, why don’t we go to a place where the fit is better?”

  “Let’s not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not tonight.”

  Apparently, my sparse charm didn’t take to Sophia. She turned away from me and headed to her Firebird.

  I walked back to Alexa and Rosa and leaned to Alexa’s ear. “Okay, I’ll see you tonight. Make sure Sophia is there,” I said.

  “The bitch will be there,” Alexa confirmed. “She likes you,” she added.

  “Likes me? I don’t know about that.”

  Alexa gave her best coy smile, which came off as someone about to blow a lip fart. “She talked to you, she hasn’t talked to any man for a long time.”

  Sophia was looking out to the waterfront, apparently uninterested in the exchange. Nonetheless, it was a date, new friends and all.

  16. The Kiss

  As I combed my hair in the bathroom preparing for my perceived date with Sophia and her friends, I noticed a lighter feeling in my mind. Anxiety still greeted me every morning, manifested in a ball of turmoil knotting my stomach. But I would manage to arrive at work, get busy, and forget about it for a while. It was always present, just not quite at the debilitating stage.

  I went into my neatly arranged walk-in closet to find something to wear, moving slowly to buy some time to allow the mandatory ritual of letting some anticipatory anxiety set in, a standard operating procedure. The simple task of going out with new people in different surroundings conjured up all sorts of morbid scenarios. I became a creature of safety—always driving myself to an event or place, even if it meant I went alone. Having my own car gave me control and allowed a quick exit if I started panicking.

  During my heightened periods of suffering from panic attacks, I would miss events because I wouldn’t attend without my safety net—the getaway car. I also did not want to take others in case I had problems coping with the situation and begged to go home, only to spoil the fun they were having. And any form of public transportation was out of the question. This evolved into a withdrawal from situations and literally giving up friendships. It became such a burden to be with people, I shut many out. That led to loneliness, which was no more fun than anticipating having a substantial panic attack with friends.

  Wherever I lived, I perceived home as kind of a no panic zone. My new apartment at Capital Bluff had quickly become that zone, as my house in Scottsdale had been before. I was by no means immune to anxiety and panic when at home; I just felt it was a safe zone and the best place to go if I needed to retreat.

  Home was an escape route in my mind, not to be free of myself, but free from making a fool out of myself in front of other people. That was my ultimate fear, going crazy and pleading for help in front of strangers who, I felt, wouldn’t care if I collapsed into insanity. Similar to the experience I had on the flight with Richard and Mundo. I preferred to be alone rather than involve witnesses. So I started enclosing myself.

  Tonight though, I wanted to interact with Sophia. I recollected past companions and my mind wandered back to Pamela. Though it was quickly becoming lonely in Los Angeles, I affirmed that not getting married was the best decision I had ever made. I felt no guilt in the matter and questioned in hindsight why I hadn’t mustered the courage to confront my lack of feelings for Pamela earlier in our relationship.

  No guilt, no avoidance. My clothing was all nice and ironed. I walked to my car with confidence. It was time to head out and learn more about Sophia Syros.

  When I arrived at Fathom’s, one of many similar bars on Sixth Street in San Pedro, the place was glutted with the mainstay of the local retail community: longshoremen with their paychecks and a spattering of hipsters with money derived from unknown sources. The bar had an ample crowd for the eight o’clock hour.

  Rosa and Alexa walked in five minutes after I arrived. Sophia trailed behind them by a couple of seconds. When she made her entrance, her jeans hugged her perfectly. A sheer black t-shirt enveloped her breasts and stretched across her firm stomach before disappearing into her pants.

  “Waaaade!” Alexa belted out in her melodic baritone.

  I kissed Alexa on the lips but decided not to venture putting a smack on Sophia while I had the momentum. Sophia’s long dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail secured by a faded red bandana. I had only seen her with her hair straight down, but pulled away from her face revealed a beautiful jaw line, and soft ears perfectly sized for her head. Next to her, Rosa and Alexa were already gabbing with people at the bar.

  “How about a drink?” I hailed an older female bartender. “Miss, get these lovely ladies whatever they want.”

  After Sophia got her Jack Daniels on the rocks, she eased away from the bar and worked her way through the expanding crowd. Sloughing off the ogles as she passed by a few men, she sat at an empty table. I swooped in to fill the seat across from her and set my Crow
n and water on the table.

  “You have the most beautiful hair. And I love it pulled back with that bandana.”

  She twisted her head and touched the red cloth. “It’s my lucky bandana.”

  “Sitting with you, I think I’m the lucky one tonight.”

  She looked away and sighed. Her face tensed as she ignored the comment.

  “What’s the matter, you have a boyfriend or something?” I asked.

  “No,” she replied immediately.

  “Well, it’d be nice if you’d talk to me.”

  “I’ll talk to you,” she said. “Just give me something to talk about.” The corners of her lips curled upward ever so slightly. To me, it was a welcome indication of some friendliness.

  “Okay… where do you work?”

  Sophia cocked her head. It looked like she was thinking, is that the best you can do? “I’m a teacher’s assistant at Crestwood Elementary in San Pedro.”

  “Is that what you want to be—you know, a teacher’s assistant?”

  “I want to be a first-grade teacher because I love kids. But I don’t have the money to get my teaching credential.”

  Sophia polished off the rest of the Jack in one large swig and sucked a small jagged ice cube into her mouth. She swirled her empty glass around and delivered a reserved wet-lipped smile. “If that answer suffices, how about getting me another one?”

  I jumped out of my seat in a display of motivation I hadn’t felt in ages and pushed through the crowd, receiving a couple of elbows to the ribs as I rushed to the bar for another Jack Daniels. At that rate, I decided to get two drinks, doubles in fact. When I came back to the table with drinks in both hands, Sophia was still sitting alone, her black hair shining from the track lights lining the walls above.

  “So you love kids. Do you have any?” I asked as I sat back down.

  “No,” she answered with an exhale of mild shock. “Why would I have kids? I’m not married.”