The Freak

8. by the lake

I jolt awake to the sound of Eddie's voice chattering into the void. I had forgotten that we fell asleep in this house after my shower last night. I remember he had asked me if I was feeling better moments before I fell asleep. I don't think I answered him.

"Dustin? Earth to Dustin?" Eddie speaks impatiently into the walkie as he paces around the living room of Reefer Rick's house. Apparently he was a drug dealer who got sent to jail, so after my shower I stole some of his clothes to put over my midriff.

The smell of something seeps into my nostrils. Like a hint of soup and pasta all at once, but I can't tell which one it is. My stomach growls at the thought of eating something other than Cheerios or a Pop-Tart.

"Hey, it's Nancy," a feminine voice sparks through the walkie and I perk up, watching from the couch as Eddie spoons something into his mouth.

"Wheeler, hey! Um, we're gonna need a food delivery, like, really soon. Unless you want us going out into the world..."

"No, no, no, don't do that," She immediately responds and my stomach growls as I watch him eat. "Just stay where you are and we'll be there as soon as we can."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Listen, um... Can you pick me up a six pack?" Eddie asks her and I furrow my eyebrows. As much as I would love to drown my sorrows with alcohol, I'm afraid of what would happen if I lost all my senses. "I know it's stupid as shit, drinking right now, but a cold beer would really calm my jangled nerves. Especially after what happened yesterday."

So much went down yesterday and the more he speaks about it, the more I lean toward the idea of drinking a nice cold beer. Just a little bit to take the edge off.

"Uh, hey, i'm gonna have to call you back," Nancy mutters with a sense of urgency in her voice and she disconnects from the frequency.

"No, don't you da-Wheeler? Wheeler?" Eddie talks into the static of the walkie with no luck. He swivels around in frustration and angrily spoons more food into his mouth. I sit up from the couch and his eyes meet mine, a flicker of hesitance washes over his face. "You're awake," he says as if he wasn't expecting me to be up any time soon, "I can get you a bowl of spaghetti-os if you want some." I pause for a moment, not wanting to take food from him, but also not being able to deny the growling of my starving stomach.

"I can get it myself," I say, lifting myself from the couch and he blinks in agitation. I go into each cabinet to find the one that holds the bowls and grab one, spooning a bunch of spaghetti-os into it from the pot. I take the bowl back to my spot on the couch and I dig in quicker than I've ever eaten anything in my life. It's like I can hear my mother shouting at me to slow down and be more lady-like.

We sit in silence as I eat and he twiddles with the rings around his fingers. The quiet is awkward and I can't help but wonder if he's thinking the same as me. About my freak out last night and about how he's had to bring me out of it twice. I don't like how he had to see me so vulnerable at my lowest point. I can't help but feel embarrassed about it. Maybe having a beer is a good idea.