Code Junkie

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mitch drives me home. He is much more solemn than usual. Of all the words I could have ever used to describe the man, I would never have chosen "solemn" as the first pick. Cheerful, loyal, helpful, never a downer. Then again, I do tend to have that effect on people. I do not know whether to smirk or frown upon this realization, the understanding that I diminished this man's personality. I, instead, roll down the window. He offers to take "the scenic route" and I nod, not having any other plans.

We take the coastal highway. We will end up going about twenty minutes out of the way, making the ten minute trip a half-hour adventure. At one point, at the crest of a long, sloping arc in the curve of the road, we pull over and stop. The winding highway sits atop a wide array of mountainous elevation over varying severities of oceanic drops and rough surfs. Where we pull over, there is about twenty yards of dirt and pebbles, a metal guardrail, and a fifty foot drop onto rocks below. We sit on the guardrail for a moment and breathe in the salty air.

Across the void from us, the cliffs and road begins again, continuing the wide U-shape parting from our right. There is a solid two hundred yards of open air between us and the other side, but you can see it, clear as day, even under the ever-present clouds. Beyond the other side of the road are miles of forest. Even further, the hills reclaim the land and we can see an assisted living home on the top of one of these minor mountains, overlooking both the woods and coastal roads. Countless blends of green and browns smear this landscape, disturbed only by the persistent shadings of grey and white, permanently cast by the stone and the sky that keep us chained to this stretch of earth.

I wonder to myself exactly how many old souls live cooped up in that building, contained behind walls of concrete, their only companions the salaried caregivers and the other ones, discarded by society, even worse-off than themselves. If I ever reach that point, euthanize me. As if reading my mind (or perhaps just following my gaze) Mitch speaks up.

"I used to work there," he nods and points at the building a few miles away on the hill.

"Yeah?"

"Yes, just out of high school. I would clean the patient's beds and feed them. Play cards with them. Just that kind of low-end healthcare job."

"Did you like it?"

He breathes in and weighs the question.

"Honestly... no. I enjoyed helping them. I liked being there for them. It was just far too toxic of an environment though for a young person. If you had even one, normal friend or relative on the outside, you could not imagine living like these poor people. Their families, or the state, whoever was responsible for them, would deem them too unstable to take care of at home and would just lock them up in the castle until they died. So, no. I did not like it. Seeing them smile made it worthwhile, but there were just too many blank stares to make up for it." He discards the cigarette that I did not notice he was holding.

"Jeez," I deadpan. He laughs.

"Yeah, I know. But hey, you asked." We both change our sceneries and look down into the water. "I used to drive all the way down here on my lunch breaks, though. Well, actually, over there." He points to the other side of the curve. "Yup, would throw rocks off the cliff and eat out of my brown bag. Kids who were still in high school would drive by in their trucks and call me 'faggot' out the window. But hey, that's Deptford's finest for you," Another chuckle. Hearing my own phrase regarding the people of this town repeated made my throat feel dry. Did I ever say that in front of him? Are my quips that unoriginal? 

"Sorry, dude," I offer.

"Oh, please," he waved me away. "They were high school fucks. They're probably doing the same thing we are now... well, same thing I am. You, you're kind of a Deptford success story. Well, at least before the whole—"

"Yeah." 

I was a hero until I got drunk and drove off of a bridge.

"Why'd you come back?"

"Mitch, I never left. I just never socialized with all those circles of people who were only ever looking to backstab one another with the next piece of personal news and bullshit. I was always here. Instead of renting a house with a few buddies, I lived in my grandma's house. Instead of moving to where the big money and technology was, I fucking commuted. I never returned from the hero lifestyle, I rejected it."

This little outburst created a smug little look on my mouth and a smug little explosion of ego and dopamine in my body. I felt proud with my little rant. Mitch stepped on his cigarette on the ground and twisted his foot, silencing the ember.

"You know, Kevin," Mitch said, rising and turning to get back into the car. "For being the smartest guy I know, you sure are fucking stupid."