The sound of keys jingled against a wooden door. A man cursed. It scraped around the handle before finding the bolt. The pins aligned and with a low click, the door swung open.
Dog shuffled into the run-down motel room, sparely littered with ill-matching furniture as the radiator hummed to life, slowly heating the cool, stale air. He shut the door and leaned against it for a moment, eyes shut. Shit, he muttered, letting it out in a long breath, eyes closed.
He wondered if February was doing okay, as he was doing so, moved off towards the bed, dropping a briefcase he had been holding and shouldering his coat to the floor as he walked. After what seemed like a long trek, he sat down, the bed creaking ominously as it took his weight. Dog felt his paunch settle against his thighs, his belt digging in, pushing it forwards. He grunted, losening the buckle. Much better, he thought.
Dog was of a dying sub-breed of American salesmen - well he liked to think of himself as the last of the old generation -, trading lies and cheap baubles in exchange for petty cash. He'd travel from small cities to smaller towns, around the heartlands of America, the middle of nowheres, forgotten regions that progress had left behind. He had many betters, and they all traded in high-end luxury goods, shares, stocks, properties, fortunes and even lifes. Here he was, stuck trying to scrap together an existence by preying on the old and gullible. Housewives, retired war veterans...folk who didn't travel around, nobody's who didnt know better than to listen to a grubby looking guy in an old grey suit, greasy combed-back hair, overwhelming coffee breath and too-shiny shoes.
'I need to get pissed-drunk,' he said out loud, noting that the room was empty. The radiator chose that moment to sputter, coughing as in agreement. He cast a wry glance towards the corner where it sat, head cocked as if to say, tell me about it.
And then it hit him, just as it had unfailingly, once, twice a day for the last ten months. Always when he was alone, always during quiet introspections.
Depression.
Like a freight train, barreling into his chest, he felt as if right in the center of his being, a great pull tugged inwards. Dog clutched at his shirt, grabbing a handful of the coarse material. Nothing he did could alleviate the crushing ache he felt. It was like his ribcage was contracting against his own will. 'Fucking betrayer, he sputtered. You're supposed to protect me, not kill me.' He could feel it then, a great rage, bubbling just out of sight, out of reach, right under his skin. With a hoarse yell, Dog clenched his fist, grit his teeth and punched himself just above his heart.
He fell back onto the hard bed. A spring broke, just as a desperate sob escaped his lips. The ceiling was blurry. It was then that he realized he was crying. For a long while Dog just lay there, dry heaving, desperately hoping that the next breathe would be his last.
In a moment of clarity, he sat up, picking up the room phone at his bedside, rough thick hands grabbed at the receiver. Unhurriedly, he dialed in a number he never thought he'd remember, realizing only then that he had known it all along.
A series of clicks sounded, as his call routed itself along the highway of interconnected space. Eventually, the dialtone came on. The receiver held loosely against his head, he stared unfocused at the yellowed, peeling, moth-eaten walls.
Static. A click. More static. '...hello?' a voice breathed, it sounded faint, like it came from a thousand miles away.
Dog's voice caught in his throat. 'hello?' the voice asked again. 'H..Hey, it's me...' he said, of course it's 'me' idiot. Who else could it be? His inner monologe dripped with sarcasm. 'uh...Dog.'
A pause. 'Dog. ...hey.' he could imagine it now, he could imagine her preparing to shut off, to hang up, her other hand poised over the switch hook.
'How've you been...?' February continues, her voice hesitant, as if she'd suddenly found herself walking in a minefield.
He wanted to say things were great, sales were up. His boss was pleased with his profit margin this quarter. If things continued to go as planned, he might have enough saved up to buy a second-hand car. He wanted to tell her where he was, that he missed her. That he wanted to see her face again, wanted to hold her hands and look in her eyes. He missed her scent, that slight tilt of her head whenever she smiled. A smile that made his breath catch in his throat and his heart to skip a beat.
'Depressed, I've been mostly depressed. Things are shit over here. I'm feeling like shit myself.' His voice grates over the receiver, he imagined it warping over the thousands of miles of landlines to end up sounding like a barely audible croak.
'I've missed you, February.'
'I've missed you, too. Dog.'
'It's funny,' he starts. Depressed people attract each other. If we were ever to get back together, I'd imagine a dark cloud, perpetually following us around.'
She laughs, a sad laugh.
Now Dog always believed that sadness was a constant in life. Negativity was a part of the human condition.
'You know it can never be the way it once was, Dog.' her voice was pleading, begging even, for him to see reason. She knew the tune to this song, it was the same song he always played when he called.
He knew that one way or another, everyone had to vent the sadness. People had to use it in creative ways, or it'd just pool into a reservoir. He always told that to February. Depression was just a word that symbolized the reservoir.
'I know.' He didn’t. He couldn’t understand why. No matter how hard he tried.
As ironic as it seemed, sadness was a source of power as well, it could inspire, God knew how many times he had used it as inspiration in his line of work, those powerful, passion-driven sales pitches. Proudly fueled by depression.
He realized he had been quiet for a while. His slow, heavy breathing permeating the room.
'...Dog, you still there?'
Dog was feeling inspired, in fact, he felt as if God had chosen him in that moment to be his brush, the world his canvas.
He sat up from staring at the ceiling and waited a moment for the rush of blood to pass. Slowly, he undid his tie, it was getting hot in the room. He dragged the dresser chair across the floor boards, squealing a trail of protest as he did.
One foot went up. 'Dog?' He paused but only for a fraction of a second. The other foot now.
Slowly does it, he thought to himself.
His tie was still in his left hand. He went through the motions of tying it, only this time around it wasn’t around his neck.
Not yet, at least.
'DOG. Talk to me.'
February was sounding desperate. It wasn't like her to sound flustered, a corner of Dog's mind processed this information, storing it away for later use. He leaned forward.
The crushing weight that was on his chest dulled, a new weight was overriding his sense, this time it was centered around his throat. Sharp and intense, he felt alive.
Ironic, he mused.
In the background, above the roar of blood pumping in his ears, he could hear the faint, long and repeating beeps coming from the handset. She must have hung up, or I ran out of credit. His mind wandered. He thought about the cheap trinkets in his briefcase and he wondered briefly where he placed his sales receipt from earlier. He then thought about the phone call, he wondered just how long his voice would have taken to reach February, a thousand miles away.
He never completed that thought.
The radiator coughed a long series of grumbles in agreement, sputtered then died.
