Changing Seasons

Forty-One

****

Krist was discharged late Monday morning. There weren't any crazy limitations, just antibiotics, Tylenol, or Ibuprofen as needed, no heavy lifting until cleared, and a follow-up after the holidays. Atira planned on staying until after Rocco's party on Sunday. Afterward, Krist and Rocco would spend the week with her in Seattle, returning home for the holiday weekend. She drove Krist to the club so he could retrieve his car. He also had to speak with the owner to let him know that he unfortunately would not be returning to work.

The strip club had already opened for the day although only a few girls were working. Krist wasn't familiar with any of them and had been stopped by one when he'd headed toward the office to speak with the owner.

"Ohhhh, you're the door guy who got stabbed." The middle-aged brunette told him after he'd explained who he was. "I don't think I've ever met you."

"Yeah, I just work the late shift. Friday and Saturday nights."

"Ohhh, got it. I'm Charlotte by the way." She gave him a cigarette-yellowed smile before meandering to where an older man sat eating a steak.

The office sat at the very back of the building, past the restrooms, kitchen, the dressing rooms. It looked exactly how one would expect the office of a strip club to look.

It was a small cluttered room with wood paneling that smelt of old cigarettes. The walls were decorated with signed photos of Feature Dancers who had stopped in the club when on tour, pictures of the owner with various celebrities, and various business licenses.

Gerald, the owner, a balding man with a paunch in his mid-fifties sat at his messy desk, reviewing invoices when Krist entered the room.

"Hey, Gerald, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Krist, my boy! How you feeling?"

"Not bad, really."

"They send you home with the good shit?" Gerald joked, his belly jovially shaking as he laughed. Krist laughed, "No, just antibiotics and Tylenol."

"You're kidding me. You get your spleen taken out and they don't even give you anything good."

It hadn't been that the "good stuff" hadn't been offered, it had been. Several times. Krist, as a recovering addict, had felt uncomfortable taking them, even if his drug of choice had been meth and not pills.

"I hate doing this," Krist began, "But I ain't gonna be back after what happened."

Gerald studied him, "You sure? You could always take a few weeks off to recover."

"Yeah. My girl ain't comfortable with me being here and if something happened again, Rocco don't have anyone but me."

"Well, if you ever decide to come back, you're always welcome.""Appreciate that, Gerald."

****

An emptiness swept over Krist on the drive home. Leaving the club had been hard and he hated that he'd made that choice. From a logical standpoint, and a parent standpoint, it was a good call. It was still a big change as he'd been working there for four years. He'd made a few great friends, he liked going in for his shifts and he was going to miss that.

The free time was what would be hardest. Of course, he could spend it with Rocco and Atira. Perhaps he could find a hobby or start allowing himself to enjoy the idle time. The biggest reason he kept himself busy with work was not because of financial reasons, it was to keep his mind off dope and everything he avoided thinking about. Downtime meant dwelling, remembering, and feeling. Krist avoided all of that as much as possible because it consumed him and would take over-leaving him in a self-loathing, miserable slump.