BRUISE VIOLET

October 11, 1994.

Eric stood in front of the row of white porcelain sinks, fighting the overwhelming urge to double
over and be sick on the floor. The faint odor of ammonia hanging in the air didn’t help matters, and he
probably would have given in if he'd eaten more than his hermetically sealed 6oz container of water-
packed albacore tuna and 8oz can of carrot juice, each carefully measured and calculated down to the
exact calorie and protein count.

He shouldn't have skipped the pill. He knew better, damnit. He'd been through this enough
times to know the consequences. But he hated the fucking things. It was just…he struggled to find the
word.

Wrong.

There was a right way and a wrong way to do things. Of that he was certain. And he'd always
tried to do the right thing, always. Even when he was in college he'd felt the same pressure his
teammates had, the need for that little extra pop, the pressure to be just a little bit better than what
you felt you could be. But he'd never given in, never let anabolics do the job only commitment and hard
work were meant to.

He could never do it even if he’d wanted to. He’d seen a lot of shit in his life, but there was
nothing more disturbing than the sight of a needle sticking out of a guy’s flesh. Even when the coach
said he needed a shot of cortisone, he’d turned his head away so he wouldn’t see it happen. Cheating
was what that a lot of that shit was, pure and simple. And cheaters never win, not in their hearts, no
matter what the scoreboard said. Everybody knew that. And having to think of creative ways to smuggle
in clean piss, ugh, not his scene. Who could do that? It was hard enough for him to clean up after his
own blood and urine, let alone someone else’s.

He was lucky he'd been able to make it to this nearly forgotten first floor bathroom just past the
old computer lab today. He'd been in agony trying to make his body move down the winding stairs and
all the way to the one place he could be sure he wouldn't be walked in on. But he'd fought the battle
and won, conquered the fear he'd faint from the intensity of the pain before he made it this far.

Eric couldn't even imagine the shame of having to be rescued by some flyweight freshman on
the way to band practice as he lay helpless, passed out in a puddle of vomit. That would serve his dumb
ass right though.

He opened the magic bottle and held it to his lips. He worked out one and just one extra to
make up for the lost dose.

He’d probably never learn.

 He reached out both hands to the rusty old faucets, bracing himself for the shot of bone-chilling
water they'd spit out. He winced slightly, splashed his cheeks, winced again.

Eric looked up into the black-speckled mirror and watched the color flow back into his face.

He'd be okay.

He used the remaining moisture on his hands to smooth his thick golden hair back, even though
not a strand was out of place.

He had Lisa to thank for that, as always. His long-standing girlfriend---the only one he'd ever
had, actually---had managed to wheedle him into the highly skilled hands of her ‘stylist’ Miguel. Eric
liked that, actually. Stylist---it imbued the reedy young Hispanic with the much more deserved cachet
than ‘barber’ or ‘hairdresser’ could. And yeah, Miguel was gay.The man didn’t make any secret of it.

Eric could imagine the ribbing he'd get from his old Sig buddies for letting a gay man touch him,
even just his scalp. But despite what his father shouted down from the pulpit every Sunday growing up
Eric never had a problem with them. And for christsake he’d been slap-assed by his teammates enough
times that even the ironic spectacle of viciously homophobic guys engaging in ritualized homoeroticism
didn’t squick him. Hello, reaction formation! So screw that bigoted bullshit. Miguel was a good guy and
he knew his way around a head of hair, that was for sure.

Besides, there was no good excuse for failing to put on your best face for the world. He beamed
into the mirror---big bright grin, flawless. A million dollar smile he'd managed to purchase with the
$2500 he'd earned from the summer of back-breaking construction work he'd put in when he was only
thirteen.

So smile, Eric, smile, my handsome little boy—it was a lesson he’d learned so very, very well. He
ran his tongue over the front of his teeth again. Yeah, it'd been worth it.

Eric surveyed the rest of his appearance---perfect---and was ready to turn and leave when he
heard a squeak and a rumble and the sound of the old wood door being opened. He froze.

"Hey, what are you doing down here?"

His heart lurching in his chest, Eric watched as the reflection of a gaunt face appeared in the
mirror before him. The man stared back at him, one of his dark eyes locked in a perpetual squint.

Eric's tongue felt heavy and wholly incapable of keeping up with the thoughts hurtling through
his brain. He couldn't speak. Didn't know what to say, what might be a passable explanation for his
presence here.

"Admiring yourself, eh?" The man said, coming further into the doorway, dragging the janitor's
cart behind him. The defective eye seemed to wink at Eric.

"Uh, I…a…"

"You look good, Berto. Always have," the man said, turning to prop the door open behind him.

Eric finally got control of his tongue. He tried to coax some of the old charm into his voice, but it
came out false even to his own ears.
 "Billy? How've you been? It's been…what?---seven, eight years?"

The man shrugged. "I suppose…Is that silk?" He reached out with a gnarled hand to grasp the
navy-colored shirt Eric wore. Eric made a conscious effort to resist the immediate urge to jump away
from the contact.

"Maybe, I don't know. You'd have to ask Lisa. She dresses me," Eric replied with a short, forced
laugh.

"Still with the prom queen, are you?"

"Yeah, uh...I didn't know you were working here, Billy."

The man shrugged again. "Started last Friday. Family tradition." Billy forced out a laugh of his
own, gesturing to the pale blue work suit that bore a disturbing resemblance to prison garb.

Eric knew it had been a living hell for Billy Duggan to get through his Leighton Public School
years. Not only did he have to deal with his classmates’ thoughtless reaction to his physical
imperfections, but couple that with the fact that everyone knew the squirrelly little man that picked up
everyone's garbage and swabbed out the toilets was his father. He certainly didn’t want to do anything
to add to Billy's humiliation now.

He chose his words carefully. "It's sure good to see you, Billy."

Billy didn't answer, just fixed him with his squinty eye.

"So why’s the team suck donkey balls this year?"

"Uh, dunno. I don't really follow it anymore."

Billy looked skeptical, and then flashed a sly grin. "No need to, I guess. Not with who they got
coaching 'em." The smile deepened. "Rod Hansen doesn't know football from the hole in his ass."

Eric seized on this opportunity to redeem himself and returned the wily look.

"Got that damn right."

"Never thought I'd see you back in this pisshole again, Berto."

Eric stopped for a moment, reached to smooth back his flawless hair.

"Yeah, well…"

Billy finished it for him. "Things don't always go like we planned, eh?" He smiled ruefully and
turned back to pull his overburdened cart forward with his twisted hand.

Eric reached without thinking. "Here, let me…"

"I got it," grunted Billy, shoving past the offer of assistance to wrench the cart to his side.

Eric stood, jostling the change in his pocket.

"That was stupid of me. I apologize."

 "No problem," Billy replied as he reached for his cleanser and scrub brush.

Eric hesitated, consciously warring with his deepest instincts. He managed to place a tentative
hand to the gaunt shoulder.

"Billy, it really is good to see you."

After a long pause, Eric heard a faint reply.

"Yeah. Thanks," Billy said, his hands busy organizing his supplies.

Eric lowered his hand and pulled down at the front of his shirt. He tried to think of something
else to say that wouldn’t end up making him feel like a bigger asshole than he did already. But the words
seemed as wound up and knotted inside him as the memories were. He couldn't even count the times
Billy had come to his aid when Stewie Jr. and his goon squad had surrounded him. He marveled even
now at the malevolent insight of pubescent boys, knowing what words to throw that struck as hard as
fists and feet. Each caused the same amount of physical pain as the other did. But Billy Duggan had
come through for him every time, even though Eric was never able to return the favor, whether from a
misplaced sense of obedience, or loyalty, or just being a coward and general chickenshit.

What was more, Billy never seemed weigh one reason more valid than the other. He never
judged.

It's cool, Berto. I can take care of myself.

Billy Duggan didn't need anyone's help…and sure as hell not Eric’s. Not ever.

Eric knew there would be no further opportunity to redeem himself with his former friend now.
He paused a moment longer, then quietly exited. At least one bit of wisdom Billy had imparted still
stayed with him: being sorry never helped a goddamn thing.

He climbed his way up the steps and down the hall to his classroom. It didn’t matter if he was
skilled at masking it or not, the encounter with his old pal Billy and the subsequent invasion of his once-
safe haven had him shook.

Oh, the exquisite vagaries of life.

He grunted. Nothing in his life had ever gone the way he'd expected it to. Like the teaching gig---
he’d really wanted it at first. He remembered wandering through these lone hallways, a tattered
paperback grasped in his fist, second, sometimes third-hand clothes on his back, and it was only the
occasional teacher that made him feel he shouldn’t stop wasting the rest of humanity’s air, that maybe
he had something, anything, to keep filling up his lungs for. He could have stuck it out and finished that
bastard thesis. He could have cleaned up his act on his own, if he’d wanted it bad enough. He knew it
because he’d done exactly the same with the teaching credential when he wasn’t even sure he’d ever
use it. And it really hadn’t felt like he was taking the easy way out when he ended up deciding to. He’d
actually felt charged to the engagement of his students' young and fertile minds. Was excited about it, in
fact.
 Ha. The truth had hit him hard: most of them had no minds to engage, and the majority of the
rest weren't worth the effort. It’d ended up being a bigger folly than that trichomoniasis-ridden whore
of a thesis of his.

On the Sublime, my ass.

Where had his life gone? He laughed out loud at that one--it hadn’t even left the station to begin with
since he was right back where he started from in the first place. He could put himself right back into
these classrooms, into the conversations, as if he were stuck in hologram world. Shit, he needed a drink,
he needed a shot, he needed to get the fuck out of here.

Maybe if he’d decided to concentrate on his degree from the beginning instead of getting
sidelined—oh, irony!---by collegiate ball before it finally decided to sideline him. He could remember the
exact moment he'd made the decision to sacrifice his academic future for a much more precarious
athletic one. No one had tried to dissuade him; in fact, they had all cheered him on. Everyone except his
father. But Eric had given up trying to please the old man by then.

And look where it got him. But it’d be a cold fucking morning in Sheol before he’d give that
pompous bastard the time of day, let alone the opportunity to say with that permanent forced gravitas,
“I told you so.”

Eric made a series of left and right turns, winding his way through each long white anonymous
hallway. The harsh fluorescent lighting cast a sterile look on the surroundings and with the unnatural
quiet around him it was as if he were the only person in the world. The feeling didn't bother him. He was
used to it; he even preferred it.

Growing up he'd had little but his own thoughts to keep him company. His natural shyness
hadn’t helped, of course, but his father's extensive rules of conduct only made things worse. It had only
been on the rarest of occasions he'd given permission for his son to enter anyone's home, so fearful he
was of exposing his only child to the filth the TV pornographers were passing off as entertainment. You
see, John Calvin Gilbert believed in the superiority of a good book over television---that book being the
Bible, of course.

So Eric had read it. Over and over again. Then he'd moved on to whatever else he could find
flung into the donation bins he and Iris sorted through every Saturday morning. When he thought she
wasn't looking, he'd slip into his pocket whatever was there. Leon Uris, Frank Yerby, Isaac Asimov,
Harold Robbins, William Styron, Mack Bolan, Shell Scott---even the mysterious “J”, although he couldn’t
quite fathom the judgment of someone putting The Sensuous Woman in a church donation bin. He had
to admit that was the one that had proved the most enlightening though, and along with dog-earned Ian
Fleming books and Saturday afternoon Soul Train Lines had been the sexual touchstones of his
childhood. He hadn’t been selective about what he read back then. Not at first anyway. But he'd
eventually developed a personal taste in the matter and found the ones that could get him through a
few hours locked in a dark room or closet.

It was for that reason Eric was truly grateful to the people that dumped their castoffs into his
front yard. Their generosity had kept him clothed and sane and he would thank every one of them
personally if he could.
 Not that he’d hold his breath waiting for it, but he’d yet to see one flicker of appreciation from
the students that passed through this classes over the last two years. They were patently ungrateful.

And you couldn’t trust the little fuckers either, he thought, unlocking the door to his classroom.

But Eric Gilbert had an attitude of gratitude, alright. He'd managed to ward off disaster today by
stopping in for a little chat and ass-kissing with Pamela Langley. Pam was gracious indeed to offer to let
his 340 creating writing class drop into the library to do research---more likely some other teacher’s
homework, but it was what it was---, thereby sparing them the hour with Garth. Not that it’d taken him
much to talk her into it, or into much of anything else likely as not. Pam---Pammy, she preferred, from
him anyway, had the hots for him and hadn’t been especially discrete about it. Ah, Pammy Langley, she
of the long sandy brown and honey-streaked hair, husky “fuck me” voice when talking, engaging side-tilt
of her head when listening, too short skirts for either her age or high school in general, of the elegantly
manicured fingernails that seem to have just a suggestion of a point to them that she no doubt gave hell
to her bed partners with, and the soft and sensuously clinking charm bracelets. He’d noticed since her
divorce had come through more and more charms were being added to those bracelets, such that he
wondered if they’d come to represent each new sexual conquest. And she was very sexy, no doubt
about it. Who the hell even noticed the cheerleading squad when Pammy was around? She was the
Leighton High sex siren, and not only was she the subject of all the male teachers conversation in the
lounge, but they all also salivated over the sight of her in or out of the lounge like horny prepubescents
with Daddy’s Playboy. Was Eric interested? Fuck, yes. Was he going to do anything about it? Fuck, no.
He’ll have to get a restraining order to keep Lisa away if she even found out someone like Pamela
Langley shared air with him.

Eric dropped into the chair behind his desk and let out a low and long sigh. When he’d first
gotten together with Lisa, at least when they’d reached the non-furtive making out stage, “their song”
on the radio had been Every Breath You Take. Funny how what had seemed romantic at 14 ended up
being psychotic at 26.

He glanced at the stack of essays from his 210 class. They sat dead center, demanding his
attention. He flicked through the first few pages of Scott Skolnick's treatise on "The Lessons I Learned
from Aesop". Dear God. He faintly realized if he didn’t stop rubbing the back of his neck it was going to
end up raw.

His mind flit back to sophomore year Medieval Lit class, trying to remember exactly which ring
of hell Dante would have reserved for high school English teachers. Of course they didn’t need to wait
for the afterlife for their eternal torment to begin, did they? Why, why, why did he continue to torture
himself this way? He had better things to do than hand-hold a room full of semi-literate punks. Or did
he? Three years ago maybe he had, but now his plate was wide fucking open. Ah Jesus, what a fucking
Superfund site he’d made for himself.

Work life = shit.

Romantic life = shit.

God, he needed a fucking drink so bad right now he could almost feel the sting of Johnny Black
scorching the back of his throat. Sweet mercy.
 By way of distraction he tilted his wrist to view the face of the sleek Swiss watch Lisa had gotten
him for his birthday a couple months ago. The opulent glow of it would have been more appropriate on
a trust fund Yalie in the Hamptons than a high school English teacher in Illinois. She’d left the tiny gold
price tag in front of the box inadvertently on purpose and it’d horrified him, quite frankly. He sincerely
hoped it was a knock-off but that wouldn’t have been her style. No way she’d put her pooch on a cheap
lead. He sighed and slumped his shoulders, ruminating on the fact that he now only had 30 minutes
before the little blonde bitch was due to arrive. He wasn't looking forward to it. There was still a faint
throbbing at his temples and a bit of nausea burrowing in his gut. He didn't feel up to dishing out the
misery he'd fully intended to, nor was he ready to deal with the irritation she was sure to bring. He
should have just let her get sent to the stir along with the rest of the day’s miscreants, whether Hansen
was the warden or not.

He flipped through the rest of the essays with disdain and disinterest before finally giving up. He
brushed them aside and fixed his eyes on some unknown destination just beyond the reach of his
classroom walls. He took several long slow breaths, doing his best to empty his mind of all thought and
feeling. His effort met with a measure of success, for when the final school bell rang he didn't hear it,
only continued to stare into space.

He sensed the girl's presence before he saw her. He'd felt his phantom body rising up into the
nothingness but something kept pulling him back down. He looked to see what it could be and caught a
pair of eyes staring up at him. It was her. Eric jerked awake and turned to face the doorway. She was
there. She was looking at him, too. Their eyes locked briefly, and then the girl looked away.

Well now, that was more like it.

Eric stood up, ignoring the lingering discomfort in his body and striding forward. He opened the
door and the girl stepped inside. He saw she carried only a slim red notebook. Apparently the instructors
of whatever remedial classes she took didn't assign much homework. Probably gave multiple-choice
exams instead of essays, too, a la Hansen. The girl began to slink to the back of the classroom.

Think again, missy.

Eric seized the top of the nearest desk and dragged it within just a few feet of his own.

“Here."

The girl dawdled her way over and dropped into the chair with an audible thud. Eric curled his
lip. She was already annoying him. He meant to rectify that immediately. He stood directly in front of
the girl, looming over her. In response, she slouched down further and lowered her eyes to the desktop.

"I'm going to go over the rules only once so you'd better pay attention. You'll be here on time,
every time. If you arrive any later than 3:35 PM---and I mean by seconds---you're out.

I'm a busy man and you're intruding on my personal time. Do not disturb me. If you do, you're
out.

And while you're here you're going to sit quietly. You are not going to nap, listen to headphones,
or do any other thing you think you might be able to get away with, because you won't. And if I catch
you trying to, you're out.
 Let me be explicit. You’re here because I choose to suffer you, but don't consider that any
indication of my concern for your welfare. It isn't for I have none. In fact, I wouldn't think twice about
condemning you to life of burger-flipping at the Dairy Joy."

The girl's eyes remained stubbornly downcast. It annoyed him. He'd get her attention.

"So don't push me." Eric put one foot against the leg of the desk and thrust. The girl and the
desk slid back at least three inches.

That brought her head up. He looked again into those weird gray eyes. He saw a spark in them,
but it quickly faded and she averted her face.

Damn right.

He walked back to his desk. He skimmed through the essays again but soon lost interest. He
began to watch the girl in front of him.

She had the red notebook open and was starting to write. She seemed oblivious to his scrutiny
so he continued to watch her. As the minutes ticked by he noticed the look on her face change. She
seemed to relax, soften. She seemed to have gone somewhere else entirely.

"What are you doing?"

The girl jumped in her seat and looked over at him. She didn't seem pleased to be snatched
away from her reverie but she hid it well and dropped her gaze back to the notebook.

"Writing. Are you surprised? Did you think I'd use a crayon or something?"

"What are you writing?"

This time she didn't bother to look up. "What do you care?"

Eric stood up and approached the girl. He reached out for the journal but her reflexes were
quicker than he anticipated. She gripped the book tight against her chest.

"It's my journal, alright? That's it. It’s about my life."

His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Do you think you lead a noteworthy life?"

The girl matched him, drip for drip.

"Well, I know it can't match the significance of a study hall monitor's, but I try."

Eric's eyes narrowed. "The last time I checked, I had a degree from a very reputable university.
I'm a teacher, Chrystal. Can I call you Chrystal? You can call me Mister Gilbert."

“Whatever...you say, Mister Gilbert,” she returned with barely disguised irreverence.

Eric’s palms felt itchy and he realized he'd better walk away before he was too tempted to swap
words for action and box her ears, or worse. He sat back down at his desk. He was getting far too
emotionally involved in this exchange, he knew, but he'd be damned if he were going to just let it go.

"Do you do a lot of writing…Chrystal?"

 "Sometimes…Mister Gilbert."

"Maybe you should let me look at some of it…I teach English," Eric said, carefully enunciating
each syllable.

The girl mumbled something he couldn't make out.

“What was that?"

She blinked her eyes slowly, and then spoke, carefully forming her words.

"Jock Itch 210."

"What?"

"You teach Jock Itch 210, Mr. Gilbert. It's a blow-off class, an easy credit. All the ball players take
it because you're the teacher. They figure you'll go easy on them. Be understanding of their situation
and all."

Eric gritted his teeth, ground them together heedless of what damage the action might cause.

"I teach Introduction to…"

"Literature, yes, I know. Pretty apt, considering the last book most of your students read was
Horton Hears a Who."

Eric gripped the sides of his desk, trying to hold himself in place. He was sure the blood vessel in
his neck was going to pop in a massive arterial spray any moment. But he managed to modulate the fury
he was feeling to a merely mordant tone.

"And what was the last book you read, Chrystal?"

The girl paused. "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich."

"Oh, really?"

"Really."

"Do you think you understood it?”

The faint trill of a pair of sparrows drew the girl's gaze to the windowsill.

She lowered her voice to a whisper and answered, "It was based on the author's experience in a
labor camp. Solzhenitsyn. Aleksandr Isayevich Solzhenitsyn. I hope I have the pronunciation right."

Eric paused, watching as the birds scuttled briefly then flitted away.

"You do.”

“Yay me,” she replied, turning her gaze back to her little red book.

“What drew you to that particular work, if I may ask?"

The girl kept her focus on the notebook, picked up her pen and scribbled along the border of its
page. "Danielle Steele was all checked out."
 Eric studied her for several moments.

"My, you're one tough case, Chrystal. No one will ever see through your act."

She met his inspection with venom.

"The first thing is don't flatter yourself; you'll never see through me because there's nothing I'd
show someone like you. The second thing is I'm not stupid; I just don't give a shit. Big difference."

"Profanity, Chrystal."

"So sorry. It won't happen again." She dropped her head back to her notebook.

After some further consideration of the girl, Eric spoke. "You may have a point, you know, about
the folly of going on first impressions. People aren't always what they seem. As such, maybe you
shouldn't assume I'm stupid either."

"How could I ever think you were stupid, Mister Gilbert? You're the one with the degree, after
all."

Eric’s jaw tightened. Well, he'd given the little bitch a chance; no one could say he hadn't. She
obviously didn't know when to keep her mouth shut. He answered, his voice dropping an octave and
thick with menace.

"You're walking a razor-thin line right now, pet."

"It was a simple statement of fact. I can't be responsible for the way you took it."

He heard the slight quaver in her voice, saw the nervous movement of her fingers.

Eric knew fear. He could smell it. Fear pushed him. Excited him, in fact.

He glided towards her, put on his most charming tone.

"Do you think you can match wits with me?" He shot his hand out and closed the girl's journal,
holding it shut.

Yes, he had scared her. She was trembling like a rabbit. He bent down close to her ear.

“Best keep reading your books and stay away from the lion's cage."

As frightened as the girl was, she still had the guts to incline her head to meet his gaze. Her
voice was very soft.

"Fuck you."

Eric felt no anger at this. Instead he favored her with a slow wide smile, showing off his fine
white teeth.

"I think we're going to spend a very interesting week together, Chrystal.”