Traces of the Indefinite

Chapter 3

The pain isn’t welcome, but it isn’t unfamiliar, either.

Miles groans as he shifts around his bed, trying to find a position that would make his head spin less. The pain in his stomach is just as hard to ignore, as it seems to be emptying itself over and over, even if it already is. 

He finds himself calling out to God, over and over in his head, whispering a slew of empty promises of never drinking again, if it means the pain in his head and his stomach and all the spinning would go away. In a split second, he feels embarrassed, praying to God for the most inappropriate reason, only for his mind to slip back into prayer once the throbbing pain in his head makes itself known again. 

The harsh, warm morning light sears his face again, as if to forcibly open his eyes and finally take responsibility for the suffering he has brought on himself. As much as he would like to regret it, Greg’s whiskey was really good. He knew he’d do it again, no questions asked. 

Miles opens his eyes, scrunching up his nose as too much of the morning light strains his eyes. The room is still spinning, albeit a lot lesser now.

Finding his throat dry, Miles fancies himself a drink, or maybe two, and sets out to the kitchen so get some. He stumbles on his way to the door, clutching onto the walls for a little support. The spinning is still there, after all.

The smell of coffee greets him as he finds his mother frying up an unknown yet deliciously smelling dish on the stove. He stumbles onto the fridge, a characteristic hungover sway in his walk.

Heather looks up and sees her beloved son clutching onto the refrigerator for dear life, grabbing a bottle of water, chugging it down quickly. This scene isn’t entirely new to Heather; Miles often came home drunk, usually dragged into his room by Louise, no less, and would wake up the next day with the same terrible headache and the same stumble in his already somewhat unpleasant way of walking. But it’s only now that she actually took the time to notice him, struggling for a little sanity and comfort, after possibly pouring out all his frustrations with life – with them – on a few drinks. 

“There’s some Gatorade down in the chiller, honey,.” Heather calls out, trying to busy herself with the pan of hash browns she had been making for breakfast. 

Miles seems to have been woken by this and immediately fumbles around inside the refrigerator compartments for the liquid gold that he desperately needs. Water does the job, sure, but electrolytes do it better.  

He immediately grabs a bottle and immediately gulps down as much as he could. While his body takes its time to absorb the energy drink, Miles sits by the dinner table, trying his best to handle all his discomforts quietly. He knows his mother was there, and while he was grateful for the energy drink, he still doesn’t want her in his business, especially at a time like this when he should be taking care of himself.

Miles feels a grumble in his stomach, and the scent of his mother’s cooking is making it way worse than he’d care for. He is about to turn around and ask his mother for whatever delicious food she was making when something in his mind hits him. 

He feels around for his pockets, hoping that it’s just there, inside the crumpled-up dollars or within the folds of the cloth of his pocket. 

It isn’t.

Miles, suddenly sobers up due to his missing thumb drive. His precious thumb drive that held all his masterpieces that were born out of his misery, s****l frustrations and loneliness. He dashes out of the apartment before Heather could offer him some breakfast. 

He sets out to Malcolm’s, hoping with all his heart that his thumb drive had been stashed in Greg’s office for safekeeping. Miles tries to comfort himself with his confidence in Greg. He’s a musician and a bar manager, for God’s sake. He would know how to be responsible. Darn it, did he even have backup of those songs anywhere? What if someone finds them and rips him off? What would he do? 

His thoughts seem to be fueling his strength as he suddenly realizes that the headache and the spinning is gone. Was it the energy drink? Possibly. Was it the dread of losing important things out of his own stupidity? Surely. 

Lost in his thoughts, Miles fails to recognize a voice that has been calling out to him as he walks. He turns around and sees Sheriff Reeves a few paces behind him, waving with a smile. 

Miles feels his anxiety grow three times worse as the sheriff silently makes his way to him. He doesn’t look angry, but then again, when did Sheriff Reeves look angry? He’d seen him arrest someone and still look peacefully unbothered, like it was something as normal as picking up litter off the sidewalk. His heart could practically leap out of his chest. Was he in trouble? What happened last night? Whatever it was, was it that bad? 

“Hey, Sheriff Reeves,” says Miles, putting on his best, most wholesome smile for the old sheriff. 

“Hey son,” the sheriff greets. “You looked pretty bad last night. You got home safe?”

“Yes, sir,” Miles says. Wait, was he driving? Maybe Greg called him a cab. How did he know? 

“Good,” says the sheriff, with a small, gentle smile. “That girl of yours, she’s a catch. But y’all need to do your thing somewhere that’s not public property, I’ll tell you that.”

Miles laughs awkwardly. 

Wait. What girl?

Before Miles could open his mouth and ask about the girl, the sheriff tips his hat to him. 

“Have a good day, son,” says the sheriff. “Send your lady Louise my love.”

Miles feels all the blood and hope drain from him as he watches the sheriff walk away.

“…do your thing…”

“…somewhere not public property…”

“…your lady Louise…”

The sheriff’s words ring over and over in his head. 

And just when he thought this day couldn’t get any worse. 

Reaching Malcolm’s, Miles says another silent prayer outside the door, this time asking to find Greg, or his thumb drive, or both. He dashes into the bar, and, as if on cue, finds Greg standing by the bar, with a smug smile on his face, and a small, silver thumb drive attached to a pink rabbit keyring in his hand. 

“I figured you’d come back for this.” Greg chuckles. “Looked important so I kept it for you.”

“Aw, man,” Miles says, relieved, walking to Greg and surprised that the swaying was gone as well. “Thanks!”

Nothing sobers you up like responsibility, he thinks to himself. 

Greg hands him his precious thumb drive. “Hair of the dog?” he jokes, playfully handing him an empty glass he’ll be ready to fill with whatever liquor he liked. Knowing Greg and his humor, this one’s on the house. 

“Give me a day,” Miles says, shaking off thoughts of last night, afraid that the spinning, the headache and the stumbling might come back if he realizes they are gone. 

“That’s what I thought.” Greg laughs.

Miles sits himself on one of the bar stools, much to Greg’s surprise. He f****d up a lot more than he thought last night; He almost lost his discography; His hangover today was possibly the worst in his life as Greg told him he killed half the bottle on his own; He f****d Louise and now the sheriff knows about it because he probably caught them.

He can use that complimentary whiskey, after all. 

“Change your mind?” Greg asks.

“I’m f****d,” he says, hope lost in his voice.

Greg looks at him, amused. 

“I ran into the sheriff on my way here,” he says. “He thinks Lou is my girlfriend because he caught us f*****g somewhere.” 

Greg lets out a booming laugh. He knows, of all people, that it is only a matter of time because both Louise and Miles realize how good they are for each other, and how much of a couple they have always been. But he doesn’t think he’ll have a hand in it, which is the comedy of it all. 

Miles buries his face in his hands. He looks up at Greg, having the time of his life enjoying the humor of his predicament like it was a f*****g NBC sitcom, as he mindlessly wipes his draft beer spouts clean. 

He has never wanted to punch Greg in the face any more than he does now. 

“Look, buddy,” Greg says, in between chuckles. “That’s a f*****g rockstar thing right there. Caught f*****g by the cops. You’re a madman.”

Miles looks at him in disbelief.

Greg, realizing that Miles isn’t enjoying this anecdote just as much as he is, straightens himself up, gearing himself to offer some big brotherly advice. From the look of pain and embarrassment in his face, Miles really needs it. 

“You do need to talk about that buddy,” Greg says, leaning by the counter. “I’m sure she’s just as confused as you are.”

“Won’t that be awkward?” Miles asks, knowing that something like this could possibly cost him his best friend – the only constant in his life – forever. The thought alone scared him. 

“She’s known you your whole life, buddy,” Greg says, doing his best to comfort Miles “I’m sure if there was someone in the world who understood you the way you are, it’s her. I don’t think you ruin something like that easily.” 

“Not even with a mindless, felony fuck.” Greg continues, trying to lift the mood with a little banter. 

“Thanks, man.”

Miles steps out Malcolm’s for a smoke. God knows he needs one with the day he’s been having.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials the number he’s dialed everyday of his life, for almost every possible reason there is. 

“Miles?” says a husky, female voice on the other line.

“Hey, Lou,” Miles greets, softly, comforted by the normalcy that her voice always brings him.  

“Can I come over?”