Life Unbothered Read online

  “Okay, let’s go get my truck,” Richard said as he entered the car.

  “How much did you have to pay for dropping the car three hundred miles off-course?” I asked.

  “Not too much. Just a service charge.”

  “Let me at least pay the hijacking charge. You wouldn’t even let me pay for the rental car last night.”

  “No Wade, that’s okay. Consider it a non-wedding present. I’m glad you’re not going to marry her anyway.”

  I nodded and contemplated a smart-ass response, but decided to let the comment speak for itself.

  As I drove Richard to the concrete parking structure in the middle of LAX, the overwhelming desire to waste away in a woman’s arms for the day occupied my thoughts, but none were available. All the reliable standbys in California had forged new lives and outgrown the need to accommodate the shallow sexual relationship I offered. It was time to return to Arizona and wrap things up.

  When I stopped in the parking terminal by Richard’s truck, he unbuckled his seatbelt and patted my shoulder. “See you in a couple of weeks.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said, making a valiant effort to exude self-confidence. “And thanks again.”

  I drove back to my parents’ house via Pacific Coast Highway, taking in the calming ocean breeze before I put my body through another journey back to Arizona. My mom and dad weren’t home, so I stripped naked and ironed the clothing I was wearing while admiring the view of Los Angeles from the laundry room window. Then the iron went to work on every piece of clothing in my bag. I put back on the clothes I was originally wearing instead of changing into a new outfit altogether. The drab earth-tone garb seemed refreshed enough for me to feel comfortable even though the outfit had been flattened on old airplane aisle carpet from the night before. I wanted to look well put together and not too strange if I had an emergency on the road and needed help from a stranger. Nice and unthreatening, but not too dressed up to look entitled. I wouldn’t want to be stuck on the road looking too good for the fear no one would come to my assistance, like I had it all put together and didn’t need anything from some sympathetic outsider. Except for the BMW I was driving, the personal look suited the possible help-mode scenario.

  I left my parents a note telling them I was going back to Phoenix. Before heading to the freeway, I stopped at Osco Drugs to fill the Xanax prescription. My medication procrastination couldn’t wait any longer. I needed something besides freshly pressed clothing to help me cope during the drive back to Phoenix.

  “Wade Hampton,” I said to the attractive Hispanic pharmacist as Osco Drugs. I spied a good view of her as she turned around and bent over to fetch my prescription out of the “H” bin. Her clinical white outfit draped nicely over her sumptuous curves.

  “Here you are,” she said with a friendly grin.

  I tried to generate my most charming smile, but it always felt contrived whenever I attempted it. Like my mouth was an actor playing the role of its career.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I studied the prescription bottle as I made my way out to the parking lot. I stopped by a trashcan to tear up the irritating disclaimer sheets. I didn’t care what it had to say, the possible side effects, what the drug was commonly prescribed for—I already knew all of that. Though millions of people from all walks of life take the drug, I tore up the sheets because I didn’t want anyone to see my name on a prescription for Xanax.

  I sat in my car and dumped one pale orange half-milligram pill in my hand, studying it intently, wondering if I really needed the stuff. With the exception of Xanax being addictive, I was not opposed to the medication in general. It just irritated me that once again I was going back on an antidote—this time to get me to Phoenix. I lifted my palm and tossed the pill into the back of my mouth, then swallowed hard. I was still worried about the anticipated hell I was about to go through and popped another pill in my mouth as I merged on the Harbor Freeway.

  An hour into the trip, I was almost calm enough to enjoy the drive. A low-frequency buzz was keeping my anxieties at bay. With a completely empty stomach aiding the absorption of the drug, it allowed me to wheel down the freeway just like any other average medicated schmo. Some old Primus was blaring on the digital player as my car glided into the fringes of the desert.

  I decided to call some females in Phoenix to see if I could set up something for the night. Being out of extensive casual lovemaking circulation since Pamela moved in, except for my neighbor Colleen, I wanted to reconnect with those who went astray when Pamela arrived.

  First on my call list was Stella Waters. She was always up for anything when we were together. I pressed the call button, placed the phone to my ear, and then shifted my eyes back to the road.

  “Hey Stella, this is Wade.”

  “Wade? Wade Hampton?”

  “Yeah. How’s it going?”

  “I thought you were getting married? Like soon.”

  “No, it’s not happening. I was wondering what you were doing tonight.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Stella asked.

  “Maybe you can come over, you know?”

  “You want me to come over? Where’s your fiancée?”

  “No. You see, I’m not getting married. It’s over,” I said.

  “You’re not getting married? Why?”

  “I guess the timing wasn’t right.”

  “You’re really not getting married?”

  “Nope.”

  A lingering sigh from Stella indicated a coming change in her tone of voice. “Wade, I’m sorry. I’ll always love you, but you checked out on me months ago.”

  “Well that’s why I’m calling—to check back in.”

  “You know, I have a steady boyfriend right now and we’re getting pretty serious. I’d love to be with you, but I just can’t.”

  Proceeding down my phone list, I began to feel like a cold caller peddling rotten steaks to unsuspecting senior citizens. I called Brenda, Kimberly, Paige, Cameron, Erin, Catherine, and Samantha to no avail. Two numbers were disconnected, one a man answered, and the rest didn’t answer. I also phoned Ashley, but got some sickening voicemail greeting: “Hi… this is Ashley… and this is Brad… and we’re not home!” I hung up. The only message I left was to my neighbor Colleen—then I gave up.

  As I approached the halfway point of the drive just west of Blythe, the Xanax felt like it was starting to wear off and my thoughts drifted to the agoraphobic side.

  Out in the middle of nowhere.

  Before I slipped into full panic attack mode, I decided to make one more call in an attempt to divert the inevitable. I scrolled through my phone list to find Pamela’s cell phone number. As a guise, I wanted to show a sliver of courtesy by telling her that I was moving to California, but the primary reason for the call was to keep my mind occupied as I spanned the open highway.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Pamela, it’s me… Wade.”

  A pause ensued. I didn’t know if it was the cellular connection or if she was getting her anger revved up.

  “Oh, hi,” she said stiffly. “Where are you?”

  “I’m kind of by the Arizona border. I’ve been in L.A. for a few days.”

  “Why? To complain to your parents about me?”

  I had to adjust my breathing and slow down the inhalations so my voice wouldn’t shake. “Come on, Pamela. No, I didn’t complain about you. I barely saw them.”

  “Then why did you go out there?”

  “Just to get away, I guess. What are you doing?”

  “I was supposed to meet with that private shopper your mom got me to find a honeymoon outfit, but someone didn’t want to get fucking married. So now I’m sitting in my apartment exfoliating my feet to heal the blisters I still have from when you abandoned me in the desert.”

  “Oh, okay. I was just calling to see how you
were.”

  “Screw you, Wade. It’s a little late for that.”

  I swallowed to adjust my vocal chords to a pleasant tone. “Hey, uh, I’ve got some news. I’m moving to California.” I closed my eyes as I told her, anticipating a blaring devil to erupt out of the phone.

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m—”

  “You are moving to fucking California?” The phone rattled a bit, but at least the devil was a couple of hundred miles away. “Just like that, you’re moving. I don’t fucking believe you.”

  “What are you so mad about? We’re not together anymore. You’ve moved out, you think I’m nuts. Why are you mad?”

  I asked, though I knew the answer. It didn’t matter that she hated me, she wanted to be married. It didn’t happen.

  “I can’t believe you, Wade. So just like that, you’re moving to California. That’s just great.”

  “I took a job over there, that’s why I’m moving.”

  Pamela had never really fathomed, even in the last weeks we were together, to what degree the panic disorder had taken over my life. My panic, depression, agoraphobia and cousin ailments were the reason I got engaged to her in the first place, and the reason I called off our wedding—and ultimately the reason behind moving. She never realized mental illness guided most of my important decisions. I didn’t expect her to comprehend my problem. No normal person seemed able to either.

  “There are jobs here, you know.”

  “But this one is better than any I’ve been able to track down here,” I lied, knowing I hadn’t exerted any effort in a job search.

  “So you’re going to move, just like that,” she said, more resigned. “When?”

  “Next week.”

  “Next week?” Pamela brought her voice up to a tone I was readily familiar with. “You’re moving next week and just now decided to tell me?”

  As Pamela pecked away at me, I thought about us being married. I pictured her thirty years in the future with dyed frazzled hair and weighing about three hundred pounds, waving a dough roller daily at my head as a right bestowed to her as my wife.

  “I just learned about this job yesterday.”

  “Well I’m glad you’re having such a great fucking time. Who is it? Some little skank you’re moving out there to screw?”

  “No, Pamela, I’m not moving out there for a girl. I got a damn job.”

  “Oh screw off, Wade. Go ahead and move to L.A. That’s wonderful, I’m very happy for you. Just for that, I’m keeping the ring.”

  “Pamela,” I said in a more soothing tone, “it’ll be all right—”

  Click.

  Pamela hung up the phone. I would have to gut the rest of the drive in agoraphobic fright.

  Exit 17, Exit 31, Exit 45, Exit 53, Exit 69. For the remainder of the trip, I tried to focus exclusively on the conversation with Pamela. I went so far as to imagine her tending to her foot blisters, the skin shavings drifting into her new apartment carpet. From there, the dead skin became sustaining food for dust mites, eating a former part of Pamela. I traveled into the underworld of the carpet and imagined a family of dust mites having a danderous time chomping on bits of dry skin before going off for some entertainment later. Perhaps taking their dust mite kids, bellies full of Pamela’s toe skin, to an errant polyester carpet fiber that serves as a big slide to delight the youngsters.

  I tried to keep my visions within the carpet, creating alternate worlds. It worked for only so long as I ran out of scenarios for the dust mite family. Once again, I waded in and out of a state of derealization as my natural body chemistry, predisposed to panic disorder, won over the fabricated contemplation of Pamela’s pampered feet. My next ploy was to think about sex with Pamela. It was out of the question. She was motionless, didn’t make a sound, her head turned to the side watching the bright illumination from the bedside digital clock as I moved in and out of her.

  The unsuccessful fantasies gave way to heavy breathing and morbid thoughts that didn’t let up until I passed Buckeye, a town on the fringe of the western Phoenix metropolitan area.

  The last half of the drive had taken its toll and any remnants of the Xanax had lost its edge. My hands were visibly trembling as the obsession of going crazy subsided when I neared civilization. Visibly physical symptoms such as the shakes were common at the end of prolonged attacks. Like my body was exorcising all the bottled up negativity. It was an exhausting existence.

  By the time I arrived in the city of Scottsdale, my stomach rumbled with hunger. I contemplated a stop at Denny’s on Indian Bend Road just a few traffic lights from home. But as I drove by the restaurant, my car kept going. Just that fast I was scared of having a panic attack, even at my favorite casual restaurant. The drive, along with the flight the night before, quickly rejuvenated an expanding list of fears, some I hadn’t experienced in years.

  From past episodes, I knew how this mental process worked. Not just Denny’s, but I would soon fear all restaurants and avoid them completely. Then supermarkets, then movie theaters, then a certain street, then getting stuck in traffic, even a certain song on the radio could trigger memories of a panic attack. The cycle was unstoppable once it gained momentum.

  Pulling into my driveway with too much speed, my car skidded on the slick garage floor and almost hit an interior wall of the house. I poked my finger on the garage door remote with overkill just as my body lurched back into the seat after the hard stop. The door started its downward motion, closing me in, tucking me away from the outside world.

  “Shit!” I yelled while getting out of the car. The garage door was almost all the way down, creating enough noise to drown out my voice from the neighbors.

  “I can’t take this anymore!” I announced as if I were shouting to others in the garage. My rage could only exert itself in expletives shouted to no one within the confines of my empty living space. The car was still running as I bowed my head and leaned against the warm hood. My mental state felt like it was becoming too much for me to overcome, even with my impending move.

  The car engine purred at an idle seven hundred RPMs as the exhaust built up quickly in the enclosed two-car garage. My eyes started to burn ever so slightly. Maybe carbon monoxide was a convenient exit strategy, a better method than putting a gun to my head.

  As the garage started smelling like some ill-ventilated bus depot, I momentarily recollected on life, why I felt this way when I didn’t really have it that bad in a growing-up perspective. Still, numbness embodied me as the personal reflections flashed through, and though I wanted to embrace the noxious exhaust, the tinge of hesitation enacted a self-starting physical motion that substantiated I didn’t have the guts to keep the car running. Choosing for that instant to kill the car engine instead of my brain cells, I stuck my arm through the open driver’s side window and twisted the key. The car ceased spewing its waste. Weakened from the panic attacks and possibly the car exhaust, I walked into the house and fell to the floor. I rolled over on my side and balled up into a fetal position on the carpet. My eyes closed and I immediately began to dream about being on an airplane, soaring away to some exotic destination without the burdensome luggage of panic attacks.

  10. It’s About the Sex

  Just as the plane broke through the overcast in my dream and I soared above white puffy clouds, my cell phone rang. Uncurling from my sleeping fetal position, I removed the phone from my pocket.

  “Hello?” a feeble shriek came from my dry vocal chords.

  “Hi. It’s me,” the voice said.

  I cleared my throat. “Who?”

  “Me.”

  Silence.

  “PA-MEL-A,” she elongated her name, which assisted in jogging my memory.

  “Oh… hi, Pamela.”

  “Who’d ya think it was?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I just—”

  “Are you
with another girl right now?” Pamela snorted.

  “What? No.”

  “You still driving?”

  “No. I just got home a little while ago.” I expected her to speak, but a pause ensued.

  “You hung up on me a couple of hours ago, Pamela. Why are you calling me back?”

  “I hung up because you were being an asshole. But now I’m calling to see if you want to come down to my apartment. You haven’t seen it yet.”

  “No, uh… I don’t feel good right now.”

  “You don’t want to come over?” Pamela asked, her voice acquiring a touch of an angry tone, the one she commonly articulated before the impending crescendo.

  “Why don’t you come up here instead?” I offered.

  “No way, Wade. You’ll just try to get me in bed. I want you to come down here.”

  “Sorry, I can’t do it right now.”

  “Do you have another girlfriend already or something?”

  “No, of course not. I just got home from California and don’t feel like driving anymore. Also, I don’t feel that great.”

  “I don’t see why you won’t come to my apartment. Are you having those dizzy-headed problems again?”

  “No,” I answered quickly.

  “You’re such an asshole, Wade. I’m trying to be nice.”

  “Pamela, I just don’t feel well enough to drive to your apartment right this moment, that’s all. It doesn’t have to do with anything else.”

  “Well, I was just trying to see if we could try and work our relationship out. Of course, you’d have to decline that new job you got and get one here first before we could get back together.”

  “Get back together?”