Limbo Blues: Part 1
Title: Limbo Blues
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Cookleta (mentions of past Cook/Kim, as well as some Kradam and Skibmann)
Word Count: 19,774
Summary: Who could think of a better punishment, really? Everything’s the same here; it’s just a little worse. Based on the movie Wristcutters: A Love Story
Art: You guys should all check out this lovely, lovely book cover by aohatsu. It's seriously amazing and non-spoilery and I'm pretty majorly in love with it!!!
A/N: Big thanks go out to tankshallkill for being my little personal cheerleader. Knowing that I had at least one person wanting to read this really helped me finish it!
A/N 2: The plot isn't mine and some dialogue is lifted straight from the movie. Be warned. Lyrics mentioned are from Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen.
A/N 3: While this fic takes suicide lightly, suicide is NOT a joking matter. If you're contemplating suicide even a little bit, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PM me or someone else you know, or talk to someone in real life that you trust!!!
Limbo Blues
Cook doesn’t know what he expects; he never really paid attention much when people argued is-there-or-isn’t-there, that whole Life after Death thing. So he’s completely unprepared because he always just figured he was destined for Heaven, Hell, or worm food, and that he’d figure it out when he got there. Only now he is there, and this place? Who could think of a better punishment, really? Everything’s the same here; it’s just a little worse.
Two days after Cook kills himself, he finds a job at Kamikaze Pizza. It’s some real shitty chain, looks pretty bland and the pizza tastes like cardboard, but it pays the rent and buys him food and so really, Cook figures he can’t complain.
His manager is real cool by him, too; did him a real solid and hooked him up with a roommate that’s alright, bearable. They don’t get along like a house on fire or anything, but Danny-that’s his name, Danny Gokey-is alright, so long as you live by his rules and, for the most part, Cook does. In a place like this-like wherever the hell he is, the afterlife or something-it isn’t really worth it to fight.
And maybe that’s the whole point of it, Cook thinks. Everything’s static and nothing ever changes, always boring and grey and a little bit dirty. And maybe it’s just his eyes, but the colors are all dulled out and Cook hasn’t seen a bright red or a vibrant green since he offed. So most of the time he just hangs out in his room and does crossword puzzles, and from nine to five on weekdays he puts on that lame-ass apron and serves up some pizza and just in general thinks about the sad excuse for a non-existence that he’s leading and feels sorry for himself.
Cook thinks Kim probably cried at his funeral. He’s not bragging, not really, but he can see it so clearly in his mind-her crying, bawling over his casket as they lower him into the ground. And he thinks about it sometimes, even now, and he can picture her talking to some guy she meets at a bar or through a friend or something, and she says things like, “I had no clue,” and “I should have said it more.” And the guy’ll take her home because she’s upset and needs to be close to someone, and then he’ll fuck her, fuck her nice and slow, a fuck that’s all about getting off and making her feel better and, perhaps most importantly, all about Cook.
Everyone knows that Kamikaze Pizza is a piece of shit, and so no one ever really goes there. Cook doesn’t really get it because everything in this place is a piece of shit, kind of run down and all, but it makes his job easier, that’s for sure. This way, if he’s slicing a pizza or something and the tray happens to tip, no big deal; he can just pick it up off of the floor and pile it back on, no one there to complain. It’s the little things, Cook figures, which keep him from killing himself again. That, and he’s kind of afraid of where he’ll end up if he does. He doesn’t want to end up in a bigger shithole than he’s already in.
After one particularly long and boring shift, Cook goes home and lies in his bed and reads some super gruesome book, real depressing, about this guy with Gangrene who has to have his leg amputated. He doesn’t even know why he’s reading it other than that the lady at the store told him it was real uplifting, and so he gets twenty-eight pages deep before he ditches it and turns on the tv.
Gokey comes running in sometime after that, yelling about Cook and how he found some of Cook’s hair in the sink.
“Just wash it down the drain,” he’s saying. “Is it that hard? I don’t ask for that much, David, I don’t, and it’s not exactly like turning on the faucet is all that difficult.”
“Alright, fine,” Cook says. “Sorry. Jeez.” And it’s just-normally he can handle Gokey’s freak outs because the rent’s fucking cheap and the apartment is only a four minute walk away from Kamikaze, but it all just becomes too much and Cook thinks, Fuck it, and goes looking for a bar. It’s been a long time coming-he’s been missing Kim, really missing Kim, and he kind of thinks that this whole suicide thing just makes him miss her and love her more.
If he was still alive, he would know every bar in a twenty block radius, maybe more, but he’s been in this place for a while now and still has never been to one, so he just starts walking. Everyone always says that the first few weeks are the worst, the most disorienting, but Cook can’t picture it ever getting any better, no matter how long he stays here.
So he finds this bar called Stiff Drinks, a real cheesy name, although perhaps that’s what makes Cook go inside. He likes that kind of bad humor, or at least, he used to, back when he used to like things, back before this place.
“Maybe you just need a stiff drink,” the bartender says when Cook spills his heart onto the countertop. He used to be a bartender, that’s what he did, and so Cook doesn’t even hesitate, just opens his mouth and tells the guy everything, knowing that the bartender is just going nod and smile and try to get him to buy more booze.
So Cook orders a beer because he likes that stuff and it’s the only drink in this place that tastes halfway decent. All the other ones, like Cherry Coke or a gin and tonic or whatever, all of them taste stale, and any sort of carbonation that he was used to having back when he was alive, well. That’s just a memory, and it’s the memory of how good it used to be that makes it all that much worse.
Thank god for beer, Cook thinks. It’s the little things.
So he’s drinking his beer, listening to some real shitty music play over the noise from the pool cues, when this girl comes up to him.
“Listen,” she says. “I’m Syesha. My friend and I, we play this game where we try to guess how people offed themselves, and we were wondering about you. How’d you do it?”
The girl’s kind of nosy, and kind of no-nonsense about it, too, but Cook takes a swig of his beer before stretching his arms out in front of him, palms up, jerking them fast so that the sleeves of his jacket move out of the way and she can see the scars.
“Three points for me,” Syesha sing-songs, and behind her, her friend rolls her eyes. Her friend is cute, kind of-for this place, anyways-and she’s got an amazing body. Cook can’t help but notice the way her skin droops a little, and he thinks that she must have drowned herself or something.
“You know, that’s an extremely rude question to ask,” Cook says, and it is. It’s one thing to think it, like he does, but it’s an entirely different thing to go about asking it.
“That’s why we do it,” she says. “That’s what the game’s all about.”
“Oh,” Cook says. “I see.” And the thing is, he kind of does. “So what about you?”
“Me?” she asks.
Syesha killed herself by sticking her head inside of a gas oven. She left on the countertop a note that read, Are you sorry now? and Cook doesn’t know who the ‘you’ was referring to, but if it was him, he figures that he probably would be.
He ends up drinking with the two girls at their table, playing their game and sort of using them to feel a little less lonely.
“What about him?” Syesha asks, and points out a big, burly guy. “I say he sliced and diced, just like you.”
“What? No,” Cook says, and he’s getting drunk enough that he doesn’t find this morally reprehensible or anything. “He definitely drank something-look at how he can’t stop burping.”
“Go ask him,” Syesha’s friend says, but Cook has drawn a line and that’s exactly where it is.
“Nah,” he says. “I’m not-nah.”
“How about me?” someone from the next table leans over and says. He’s got two lip piercings and is wearing a beat up denim jacket, and he looks just like someone Cook would have served at his bar, or maybe even become friends with when he was still alive.
The guy drags his chair around and moves over to their table, lighting up a cigarette as he sits down and looks at them expectantly.
“Do you know this guy?” Syesha asks. Cook shakes his head no.
“I bet you girls a beer you won’t guess it,” the guy says.
And Cook doesn’t know what they’re going to say, can’t imagine it because this guy looks totally normal-no bluish face from gas, no visible scars, nothing.
Only then Syesha grabs her friend’s wrist and says, “Oh my God, look who’s here!” and “We’ll be right back,” and they both get up excitedly and walk over to someone by the pool table, and Cook is left sitting across from the guy by himself.
“Let me tell you something,” the guy says, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Whenever you’re trying to pick someone up and they say, I’ll be right back, write them off. They always end up leaving with some half-brained dumb fuck with a nicer car than yours.”
“I don’t have a car,” Cook says, and the guy laughs.
“I’m Neal,” he says, sticking out a hand.
“David,” Cook says, and Neal’s grasp on his hand is harder than he had expected.
There’s a silence where Cook keeps drinking his beer, lifting the bottle to his mouth more frequently so he doesn’t feel the need to say anything, and Neal just smokes and smokes, looking at Cook.
“So,” Cook finally asks, “what was it? How’d you do it?” And Neal looks pretty happy, pretty triumphant, to hear those words out of Cooks mouth.
Turns out, Neal’s last night was spent at a gig his band had booked. He was on stage, really shredding, when someone in the crowd yelled, “You guys fucking suck!” So he grabbed the mic and said, “We suck?” and the guy yelled back, “Go home, man!” So Neal took a pull on his beer and looked at his band, shrugging. “Fuck it,” he said, and dumped his entire bottle out on his amp and on his guitar. He was sweating and the stage lights were hot as hell, but it was the shock that actually killed him.
“You offed with the guitar? Holy shit.”
“Onstage, too. It was fucking insane.” Neal said.
“That’s a lot more badass than just filling a sink with blood,” Cook told him, “so I can respect that.”
“You know, David, you’re not half as bad as I expected.”
They sit and talk for a while, about bands and where they’re from, about who and what they left behind. At some point during the night, Syesha and her friend leave with some beefed up German muscle builder and David can’t bring himself to care; he feels okay around Neal, kind of at home, which is more than he can say about anyone else.
Cook and Kim used to go to the beach a lot. It wasn’t his favorite pastime or anything, but Kim seemed real big on it and so he’d go with her. One day, when they were sitting real close and Kim was stringing beads, she said, “Hey, babe, I was thinking-if you ever cheat on me, make sure you do it with someone really pretty.” He spluttered out something about how he’d never cheat on her, and he wouldn’t. Not then, and even though it’s now, it still feels like it’d be cheating to Cook.
Work is monotonous, and Cook fucking hates it. Although, really, Cook figures that’s to be expected, given where he is.
There’s all these signs in Kamikaze Pizza, and all over town, too, that say things like, “Employees must wash hands after using the restroom,” and “Bus your own tray,” and stuff that, when he was alive, Cook would’ve barely noticed. But here, they’re everywhere, just staring at him from above the bathroom mirror or outside a store, from the door to his apartment building or any lamppost on any corner. They’re all just a part of this place, all run down and ancient-looking, just like the shitty apartment in the shitty town he’s living in, and he fucking hates each and every last one of them.
So when Neal calls him up and asks him if he wants to shoot some pool, he doesn’t even have to think on it-he says yes right away because he’s bored and also a little bit miserable, but mostly because he likes Neal.
“No fucking way.”
“Yeah fucking way,” Neal says. It’s his turn to break.
“Your whole band?” Cook asks in disbelief.
“Yeah, my whole band,” Neal repeats. “They’re practically my family. I mean, we don’t play anymore or anything-can’t even find a fucking guitar around here or anything-but yeah. We all live together.” He sinks the 4 ball. “Really just wish my dog was here. Kind of feel bad for leaving him. He’s this huge ass Great Dane named Mr. Sixx. Really fucking rad for a dog.”
“Are you fucking with me?” Cook asks. He scratches.
“I’m not fucking with you, dude,” Neal insists, and it’s evident that he’s way better at pool than Cook is. “My drummer, Kyle? Killed himself with pills because his girlfriend died. He’s a pussy like that; you’ll probably like him.”
“Hey, man,” Cook says. “Shut the hell up. That shit’s important to some people.”
“Well, not to me,” Neal tells him, and Cook gets the feeling like there’s something there, something he doesn’t know about, but he doesn’t mention it.
He finally does meet Kyle, and Cook does like him. Real likeable guy, really; nothing there not to like. He meets Joey the Bassist, too, and Cook quickly takes to calling him that-Joey the Bassist-just because it’s annoying and he finds it to be a little bit funny. Their house is nice, too, kind of a destroyed type of homey that Cook likes because where he lives is just plain destroyed, not homey, not at all. They all eat some terrible dinner of whatever Neal manages to whip up-something that Cook thinks is mac and cheese, maybe-and then Neal says that it’s their turn to do the dishes because he’s a generous host like that.
“I still think you should fucking do them, Neal,” Kyle says. Then to Cook, “You know, Neal used to wash dishes back in the day. He’s a machine at it.”
“Really?” Cook says. “I thought you were into that whole band thing.”
“I was,” Neal says, “but I had to earn money somehow.” He punches Kyle hard on the arm. “And shut the fuck up, asshole. I don’t go around telling people that you have a weird thing for women’s underwear.”
“That’s so not on par with what I had said, it’s not even funny,” Kyle says. “But I forgive you.” Neal rolls his eyes.
So Cook ends up drying while Kyle washes, and it’s not such a bad set up, really.
Kyle says, “You know, I’d be here a long time ago if it wasn’t for Neal.”
Cook doesn’t get it so he says, “Really?”
“Yeah, man,” he kind of laughs. “I, uh, okay. When I was like ten or something, I had just gotten my first drum set and fucking, I don’t know how, broke the kick drum. And my parents wouldn’t buy me a new one.”
Turns out, Kyle was going to hang himself with a jump rope. He had called Neal over and when Neal got there, Kyle said, “What’s the point of living if I can’t play the drums?” Neal said, “Kyle, get down from there!” but Kyle wouldn’t budge, not until he knew. “No,” he said. “You’re the smartest person I know, and if you can’t tell me what’s worth living for, and what’s the meaning of life, then I’m just going to do it!” Neal finally talked him down, said that he’d tell him only if he got down from the table, and when Kyle did, Neal smacked him hard in the mouth and walked out.
“He just smacked you?”
“Yeah. I still don’t know what he was thinking,” Kyle laughs. “Little bastard. Jaded and dejected right from the get go.”
Later, when Neal’s passed out on the couch because he had too much to drink and everyone else is talking about who they were before, Joey asks him where he’s from and about his parents. Cook says, “Missouri,” and then somehow manages to get out, “Well, it’s a-it’s a long story. Basically, at the end, I hadn’t talked to them in a while, and they hadn’t talked to each other, and-”
Joey cuts him off. “Sucks, dude.”
And yeah, maybe, but the truth is, seeing them all live together like this, it kind of makes him miss his family, even though most of the time they just freak him out.
“You know?” Kim asked. “Why didn’t we move in together earlier?” They’re in their apartment together, boxes still everywhere, and Kim’s wearing his shirt and Cook absolutely loves that.
“Because we didn’t know it would be this fun,” he said.
Cook quickly makes a habit of going out with Neal almost every weekend, almost every night. They get drunk, they go to strip clubs, and they get drunk again. Neal picks up girls, usually Juliets-that’s what he calls girls who take pills or whatever to get here and arrive without a single scar to show for it-and Cook just wallows in his misery, really wallows in it, and more often than not, Neal has to carry him out of the bar and stand beside him while he’s sick.
“You’ve gotta stop this, dude,” Neal says. “Ex-girlfriend, ex-wife, whatever, man. You need to fucking get over it already.” He studies Cook for a while. “Listen, we’ll go out tonight-”
“Nah, man,” he says. “I’m not going out tonight, or tomorrow night, or any other night. I’m done with that. Going out just makes me depressed.”
“So what are you going to do instead?” Neal asks. “Kill yourself?”
Cook rolls his eyes but answers, “I don’t know. Maybe.” And the thing is, he’s really kind of considering it.
“It’s not like whatever’s on the other side is going to make you happy,” Neal says, waving his hands around at their surroundings, but Cook ignores it. He’s just really fucking bummed out.
He’s lying in bed when Gokey walks him.
“Did you finish my cottage cheese?” he asks. “David, did you finish my cottage cheese?”
And Cook says, “Yeah, look, I’ll buy you another one, calm down.”
“That’s not the point,” Gokey says. “I was planning on eating it now!”
Cook pauses. “Don’t you have a Plan B, or something?”
Gokey looks real mad and crushes the empty cottage cheese container like he’s the Hulk or something. “David, that’s not the point,” he says again, and Cook doesn’t know what the fuck the point is, because he’s been eating stale Chinese take-out for the past two days and he’s not complaining.
Still, Cook says, “Fine, I’ll go buy you some more cottage cheese,” and he throws on his shoes and brushes right past Gokey, who’s saying to his back, “But that’s not the point.”
The grocery store is pretty shitty, not that it’s a surprise or anything. It’s more like a convenience store because it’s real small and doesn’t have much by way of a refrigerated section or anything, but for some reason they have a whole fridge full of Gokey’s fucking cottage cheese, so Cook grabs one and heads to the check out.
Only-and what are the odds?-he knows the guy ahead of him on line from before he offed. Cook doesn’t know if he just arrived or what, but Chikezie is pretty hard to miss, so Cook guesses that he hasn’t been here that long.
“Chikezie?” he says. They used to be roommates a long time ago-back when Cook finished school and had no money, no job, and no future.
Chikezie looks at him like finally, and says, “Dave! I was wondering when I’d see you.” He’s got this massive scar across his face-kind of badass, but also really kind of ouch-that looks like it maybe happened with a chainsaw or something like that. Cook doesn’t want to know, not really.
“Man, what’re you-what’re you doing here?” Cook asks, because all he can think of was how together Chikezie was, how good he had it back when he knew him.
“Same as everyone else, I guess,” Chikezie said. “It’s funny, yo-they always said suicides happened in threes.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Chikezie shrugged. “I just assumed you knew I was here, that’s all.”
Cook doesn’t know why the hell Chikezie would think that, doesn’t have even the slightest idea, but maybe whatever fucked up his face kind of fucked up his brain in the process. Cook wouldn’t be surprised; he sees that all the time here.
“Chikezie,” Cook says. “How could I possibly know that?”
“I just thought Kim would’ve told you or something, that’s all, man.”
“No, Kim didn’t-wait. Kim’s here?” And all of a sudden Cook feels something growing in the pit of his stomach, something that’s a lot like hope and dread and something else he doesn’t know the name of, all rolled up into one.
“You didn’t-? Shit, um,” Chikezie says. “Okay, wow. I’m sorry, dude. Don’t be upset?”
“Upset?” Cook asks incredulously. “Who’s upset? Chikezie, I’m so happy I could kiss you.”
“Thanks?”
“You’re a fucking man among men, Chikezie,” Cook says, tossing down the cottage cheese. “Fuck this, I gotta find her.”
“I thought you knew she was here already,” Chikezie says. He picks up the cottage cheese and reads the back. “And besides, the sodium in this shit is insane.”
Cook figures Gokey’ll be pissed, but whatever. He’s on the fucking moon.
“Listen,” Cook says as he’s packing. Neal’s in his room with him, drinking a beer and very purposefully not helping out, not even a little. “It’s just-we’ve been in this city how long? We never once saw Kim, so… She must be somewhere else. And call it intuition or logic or whatever, but I really don’t think she’s here.”
Neal doesn’t do anything. He just watches Cook disinterestedly and sips his beer.
“So really,” Cook’s saying as he grabs a jacket and shoves it in his bag, “worst case scenario, we just end up taking a drive.”
“Who’s we?” Neal asks.
Cook makes a hand gesture like, Are you serious? and says, “You shitting me, Tiemann?”
“Look, man,” Neal says. “Let me put it this way-why the fuck would I want to drive to the middle of who the fuck knows where to maybe but probably not find Kara, who’s probably shacking up with someone else by now?”
“Kim. And because I’m your friend, and that’s the kind of thing you do for a friend,” Cook says.
“Not enough,” Neal says. “I’ve got a good fucking thing going here. Just give me my dog and I’ll never want to leave.”
“You don’t want to help me get my happy ending?” Cook asks. He scratches the stubble on his cheek.
“Dave-no one gets a happy ending in this dump.” Cook is silent, just keeps packing, and Neal watches him. “Look,” Neal continues. “I know what your problem is.”
“Oh, really? What’s that?”
“Since you’ve been here, how many times have you gotten laid?” Neal asks.
“Actually laid?”
“Actually laid,” Neal confirms.
“None, I think,” Cook tells him.
“You think? Shit, then you’re fucking doing something wrong.”
“Alright, none,” Cook says. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Dude,” Neal says. “Your sperm count is so fucking high right now; it’s messing with your brain. Making you do rash things, like travel cross-fucking-country for some ex-girl of yours.”
“I don’t think it works like that,” Cook tells him.
“It does. And unless you can give me a good reason-and I mean a really fucking good reason-to go, I’m just gonna kick it here.”
He sits back all triumphant, really looking smug, and Cook hates that. He fucking hates losing, so he looks at Neal long and hard and just says, “Got anything better to do?
It turns out that this entire place is flat and rundown and without a lot of trees or buildings or anything, really. Cook had kind of expected that to change, but in hindsight, he’s not surprised it didn’t.
Neal’s car is a piece of shit. It’s basically just a metal box on wheels. Neal says that he thinks it’s maybe just some weirdass station wagon, but Cook’s not so sure. No matter what you call it, the bumper is still held to the hood of the car by masking tape and the inside is still full of cigarette burns and mystery stains. No matter what you call it, it’s still a piece of shit.
“And the headlights don’t work,” Neal says.
“The fucking headlights don’t work?” Cook repeats.
“Nope.” Neal’s smoking, and he blows the smoke in Cooks face just to piss him off.
“Well… Why don’t you just get them fixed?”
“Tried that, man,” Neal says. “Doesn’t work. No one can fix them. It’s almost like they don’t want to be fixed or some shit.”
“You know what that means?” Cook asks. “We can’t drive at night. We just cut our possible driving time in half.”
“Great detective work, Holmes. You’re a real fucking pro at that.” Neal blows smoke at Cook again. Cook thinks Neal just likes to see him riled up. Either way, he still sticks his head and shoulders out of the window for the next five minutes.
The roads are deserted save for them, but Kim is somewhere and so they keep driving.
Part 2
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Cookleta (mentions of past Cook/Kim, as well as some Kradam and Skibmann)
Word Count: 19,774
Summary: Who could think of a better punishment, really? Everything’s the same here; it’s just a little worse. Based on the movie Wristcutters: A Love Story
Art: You guys should all check out this lovely, lovely book cover by aohatsu. It's seriously amazing and non-spoilery and I'm pretty majorly in love with it!!!
A/N: Big thanks go out to tankshallkill for being my little personal cheerleader. Knowing that I had at least one person wanting to read this really helped me finish it!
A/N 2: The plot isn't mine and some dialogue is lifted straight from the movie. Be warned. Lyrics mentioned are from Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen.
A/N 3: While this fic takes suicide lightly, suicide is NOT a joking matter. If you're contemplating suicide even a little bit, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PM me or someone else you know, or talk to someone in real life that you trust!!!
Limbo Blues
Cook doesn’t know what he expects; he never really paid attention much when people argued is-there-or-isn’t-there, that whole Life after Death thing. So he’s completely unprepared because he always just figured he was destined for Heaven, Hell, or worm food, and that he’d figure it out when he got there. Only now he is there, and this place? Who could think of a better punishment, really? Everything’s the same here; it’s just a little worse.
Two days after Cook kills himself, he finds a job at Kamikaze Pizza. It’s some real shitty chain, looks pretty bland and the pizza tastes like cardboard, but it pays the rent and buys him food and so really, Cook figures he can’t complain.
His manager is real cool by him, too; did him a real solid and hooked him up with a roommate that’s alright, bearable. They don’t get along like a house on fire or anything, but Danny-that’s his name, Danny Gokey-is alright, so long as you live by his rules and, for the most part, Cook does. In a place like this-like wherever the hell he is, the afterlife or something-it isn’t really worth it to fight.
And maybe that’s the whole point of it, Cook thinks. Everything’s static and nothing ever changes, always boring and grey and a little bit dirty. And maybe it’s just his eyes, but the colors are all dulled out and Cook hasn’t seen a bright red or a vibrant green since he offed. So most of the time he just hangs out in his room and does crossword puzzles, and from nine to five on weekdays he puts on that lame-ass apron and serves up some pizza and just in general thinks about the sad excuse for a non-existence that he’s leading and feels sorry for himself.
Cook thinks Kim probably cried at his funeral. He’s not bragging, not really, but he can see it so clearly in his mind-her crying, bawling over his casket as they lower him into the ground. And he thinks about it sometimes, even now, and he can picture her talking to some guy she meets at a bar or through a friend or something, and she says things like, “I had no clue,” and “I should have said it more.” And the guy’ll take her home because she’s upset and needs to be close to someone, and then he’ll fuck her, fuck her nice and slow, a fuck that’s all about getting off and making her feel better and, perhaps most importantly, all about Cook.
Everyone knows that Kamikaze Pizza is a piece of shit, and so no one ever really goes there. Cook doesn’t really get it because everything in this place is a piece of shit, kind of run down and all, but it makes his job easier, that’s for sure. This way, if he’s slicing a pizza or something and the tray happens to tip, no big deal; he can just pick it up off of the floor and pile it back on, no one there to complain. It’s the little things, Cook figures, which keep him from killing himself again. That, and he’s kind of afraid of where he’ll end up if he does. He doesn’t want to end up in a bigger shithole than he’s already in.
After one particularly long and boring shift, Cook goes home and lies in his bed and reads some super gruesome book, real depressing, about this guy with Gangrene who has to have his leg amputated. He doesn’t even know why he’s reading it other than that the lady at the store told him it was real uplifting, and so he gets twenty-eight pages deep before he ditches it and turns on the tv.
Gokey comes running in sometime after that, yelling about Cook and how he found some of Cook’s hair in the sink.
“Just wash it down the drain,” he’s saying. “Is it that hard? I don’t ask for that much, David, I don’t, and it’s not exactly like turning on the faucet is all that difficult.”
“Alright, fine,” Cook says. “Sorry. Jeez.” And it’s just-normally he can handle Gokey’s freak outs because the rent’s fucking cheap and the apartment is only a four minute walk away from Kamikaze, but it all just becomes too much and Cook thinks, Fuck it, and goes looking for a bar. It’s been a long time coming-he’s been missing Kim, really missing Kim, and he kind of thinks that this whole suicide thing just makes him miss her and love her more.
If he was still alive, he would know every bar in a twenty block radius, maybe more, but he’s been in this place for a while now and still has never been to one, so he just starts walking. Everyone always says that the first few weeks are the worst, the most disorienting, but Cook can’t picture it ever getting any better, no matter how long he stays here.
So he finds this bar called Stiff Drinks, a real cheesy name, although perhaps that’s what makes Cook go inside. He likes that kind of bad humor, or at least, he used to, back when he used to like things, back before this place.
“Maybe you just need a stiff drink,” the bartender says when Cook spills his heart onto the countertop. He used to be a bartender, that’s what he did, and so Cook doesn’t even hesitate, just opens his mouth and tells the guy everything, knowing that the bartender is just going nod and smile and try to get him to buy more booze.
So Cook orders a beer because he likes that stuff and it’s the only drink in this place that tastes halfway decent. All the other ones, like Cherry Coke or a gin and tonic or whatever, all of them taste stale, and any sort of carbonation that he was used to having back when he was alive, well. That’s just a memory, and it’s the memory of how good it used to be that makes it all that much worse.
Thank god for beer, Cook thinks. It’s the little things.
So he’s drinking his beer, listening to some real shitty music play over the noise from the pool cues, when this girl comes up to him.
“Listen,” she says. “I’m Syesha. My friend and I, we play this game where we try to guess how people offed themselves, and we were wondering about you. How’d you do it?”
The girl’s kind of nosy, and kind of no-nonsense about it, too, but Cook takes a swig of his beer before stretching his arms out in front of him, palms up, jerking them fast so that the sleeves of his jacket move out of the way and she can see the scars.
“Three points for me,” Syesha sing-songs, and behind her, her friend rolls her eyes. Her friend is cute, kind of-for this place, anyways-and she’s got an amazing body. Cook can’t help but notice the way her skin droops a little, and he thinks that she must have drowned herself or something.
“You know, that’s an extremely rude question to ask,” Cook says, and it is. It’s one thing to think it, like he does, but it’s an entirely different thing to go about asking it.
“That’s why we do it,” she says. “That’s what the game’s all about.”
“Oh,” Cook says. “I see.” And the thing is, he kind of does. “So what about you?”
“Me?” she asks.
Syesha killed herself by sticking her head inside of a gas oven. She left on the countertop a note that read, Are you sorry now? and Cook doesn’t know who the ‘you’ was referring to, but if it was him, he figures that he probably would be.
He ends up drinking with the two girls at their table, playing their game and sort of using them to feel a little less lonely.
“What about him?” Syesha asks, and points out a big, burly guy. “I say he sliced and diced, just like you.”
“What? No,” Cook says, and he’s getting drunk enough that he doesn’t find this morally reprehensible or anything. “He definitely drank something-look at how he can’t stop burping.”
“Go ask him,” Syesha’s friend says, but Cook has drawn a line and that’s exactly where it is.
“Nah,” he says. “I’m not-nah.”
“How about me?” someone from the next table leans over and says. He’s got two lip piercings and is wearing a beat up denim jacket, and he looks just like someone Cook would have served at his bar, or maybe even become friends with when he was still alive.
The guy drags his chair around and moves over to their table, lighting up a cigarette as he sits down and looks at them expectantly.
“Do you know this guy?” Syesha asks. Cook shakes his head no.
“I bet you girls a beer you won’t guess it,” the guy says.
And Cook doesn’t know what they’re going to say, can’t imagine it because this guy looks totally normal-no bluish face from gas, no visible scars, nothing.
Only then Syesha grabs her friend’s wrist and says, “Oh my God, look who’s here!” and “We’ll be right back,” and they both get up excitedly and walk over to someone by the pool table, and Cook is left sitting across from the guy by himself.
“Let me tell you something,” the guy says, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Whenever you’re trying to pick someone up and they say, I’ll be right back, write them off. They always end up leaving with some half-brained dumb fuck with a nicer car than yours.”
“I don’t have a car,” Cook says, and the guy laughs.
“I’m Neal,” he says, sticking out a hand.
“David,” Cook says, and Neal’s grasp on his hand is harder than he had expected.
There’s a silence where Cook keeps drinking his beer, lifting the bottle to his mouth more frequently so he doesn’t feel the need to say anything, and Neal just smokes and smokes, looking at Cook.
“So,” Cook finally asks, “what was it? How’d you do it?” And Neal looks pretty happy, pretty triumphant, to hear those words out of Cooks mouth.
Turns out, Neal’s last night was spent at a gig his band had booked. He was on stage, really shredding, when someone in the crowd yelled, “You guys fucking suck!” So he grabbed the mic and said, “We suck?” and the guy yelled back, “Go home, man!” So Neal took a pull on his beer and looked at his band, shrugging. “Fuck it,” he said, and dumped his entire bottle out on his amp and on his guitar. He was sweating and the stage lights were hot as hell, but it was the shock that actually killed him.
“You offed with the guitar? Holy shit.”
“Onstage, too. It was fucking insane.” Neal said.
“That’s a lot more badass than just filling a sink with blood,” Cook told him, “so I can respect that.”
“You know, David, you’re not half as bad as I expected.”
They sit and talk for a while, about bands and where they’re from, about who and what they left behind. At some point during the night, Syesha and her friend leave with some beefed up German muscle builder and David can’t bring himself to care; he feels okay around Neal, kind of at home, which is more than he can say about anyone else.
Cook and Kim used to go to the beach a lot. It wasn’t his favorite pastime or anything, but Kim seemed real big on it and so he’d go with her. One day, when they were sitting real close and Kim was stringing beads, she said, “Hey, babe, I was thinking-if you ever cheat on me, make sure you do it with someone really pretty.” He spluttered out something about how he’d never cheat on her, and he wouldn’t. Not then, and even though it’s now, it still feels like it’d be cheating to Cook.
Work is monotonous, and Cook fucking hates it. Although, really, Cook figures that’s to be expected, given where he is.
There’s all these signs in Kamikaze Pizza, and all over town, too, that say things like, “Employees must wash hands after using the restroom,” and “Bus your own tray,” and stuff that, when he was alive, Cook would’ve barely noticed. But here, they’re everywhere, just staring at him from above the bathroom mirror or outside a store, from the door to his apartment building or any lamppost on any corner. They’re all just a part of this place, all run down and ancient-looking, just like the shitty apartment in the shitty town he’s living in, and he fucking hates each and every last one of them.
So when Neal calls him up and asks him if he wants to shoot some pool, he doesn’t even have to think on it-he says yes right away because he’s bored and also a little bit miserable, but mostly because he likes Neal.
“No fucking way.”
“Yeah fucking way,” Neal says. It’s his turn to break.
“Your whole band?” Cook asks in disbelief.
“Yeah, my whole band,” Neal repeats. “They’re practically my family. I mean, we don’t play anymore or anything-can’t even find a fucking guitar around here or anything-but yeah. We all live together.” He sinks the 4 ball. “Really just wish my dog was here. Kind of feel bad for leaving him. He’s this huge ass Great Dane named Mr. Sixx. Really fucking rad for a dog.”
“Are you fucking with me?” Cook asks. He scratches.
“I’m not fucking with you, dude,” Neal insists, and it’s evident that he’s way better at pool than Cook is. “My drummer, Kyle? Killed himself with pills because his girlfriend died. He’s a pussy like that; you’ll probably like him.”
“Hey, man,” Cook says. “Shut the hell up. That shit’s important to some people.”
“Well, not to me,” Neal tells him, and Cook gets the feeling like there’s something there, something he doesn’t know about, but he doesn’t mention it.
He finally does meet Kyle, and Cook does like him. Real likeable guy, really; nothing there not to like. He meets Joey the Bassist, too, and Cook quickly takes to calling him that-Joey the Bassist-just because it’s annoying and he finds it to be a little bit funny. Their house is nice, too, kind of a destroyed type of homey that Cook likes because where he lives is just plain destroyed, not homey, not at all. They all eat some terrible dinner of whatever Neal manages to whip up-something that Cook thinks is mac and cheese, maybe-and then Neal says that it’s their turn to do the dishes because he’s a generous host like that.
“I still think you should fucking do them, Neal,” Kyle says. Then to Cook, “You know, Neal used to wash dishes back in the day. He’s a machine at it.”
“Really?” Cook says. “I thought you were into that whole band thing.”
“I was,” Neal says, “but I had to earn money somehow.” He punches Kyle hard on the arm. “And shut the fuck up, asshole. I don’t go around telling people that you have a weird thing for women’s underwear.”
“That’s so not on par with what I had said, it’s not even funny,” Kyle says. “But I forgive you.” Neal rolls his eyes.
So Cook ends up drying while Kyle washes, and it’s not such a bad set up, really.
Kyle says, “You know, I’d be here a long time ago if it wasn’t for Neal.”
Cook doesn’t get it so he says, “Really?”
“Yeah, man,” he kind of laughs. “I, uh, okay. When I was like ten or something, I had just gotten my first drum set and fucking, I don’t know how, broke the kick drum. And my parents wouldn’t buy me a new one.”
Turns out, Kyle was going to hang himself with a jump rope. He had called Neal over and when Neal got there, Kyle said, “What’s the point of living if I can’t play the drums?” Neal said, “Kyle, get down from there!” but Kyle wouldn’t budge, not until he knew. “No,” he said. “You’re the smartest person I know, and if you can’t tell me what’s worth living for, and what’s the meaning of life, then I’m just going to do it!” Neal finally talked him down, said that he’d tell him only if he got down from the table, and when Kyle did, Neal smacked him hard in the mouth and walked out.
“He just smacked you?”
“Yeah. I still don’t know what he was thinking,” Kyle laughs. “Little bastard. Jaded and dejected right from the get go.”
Later, when Neal’s passed out on the couch because he had too much to drink and everyone else is talking about who they were before, Joey asks him where he’s from and about his parents. Cook says, “Missouri,” and then somehow manages to get out, “Well, it’s a-it’s a long story. Basically, at the end, I hadn’t talked to them in a while, and they hadn’t talked to each other, and-”
Joey cuts him off. “Sucks, dude.”
And yeah, maybe, but the truth is, seeing them all live together like this, it kind of makes him miss his family, even though most of the time they just freak him out.
“You know?” Kim asked. “Why didn’t we move in together earlier?” They’re in their apartment together, boxes still everywhere, and Kim’s wearing his shirt and Cook absolutely loves that.
“Because we didn’t know it would be this fun,” he said.
Cook quickly makes a habit of going out with Neal almost every weekend, almost every night. They get drunk, they go to strip clubs, and they get drunk again. Neal picks up girls, usually Juliets-that’s what he calls girls who take pills or whatever to get here and arrive without a single scar to show for it-and Cook just wallows in his misery, really wallows in it, and more often than not, Neal has to carry him out of the bar and stand beside him while he’s sick.
“You’ve gotta stop this, dude,” Neal says. “Ex-girlfriend, ex-wife, whatever, man. You need to fucking get over it already.” He studies Cook for a while. “Listen, we’ll go out tonight-”
“Nah, man,” he says. “I’m not going out tonight, or tomorrow night, or any other night. I’m done with that. Going out just makes me depressed.”
“So what are you going to do instead?” Neal asks. “Kill yourself?”
Cook rolls his eyes but answers, “I don’t know. Maybe.” And the thing is, he’s really kind of considering it.
“It’s not like whatever’s on the other side is going to make you happy,” Neal says, waving his hands around at their surroundings, but Cook ignores it. He’s just really fucking bummed out.
He’s lying in bed when Gokey walks him.
“Did you finish my cottage cheese?” he asks. “David, did you finish my cottage cheese?”
And Cook says, “Yeah, look, I’ll buy you another one, calm down.”
“That’s not the point,” Gokey says. “I was planning on eating it now!”
Cook pauses. “Don’t you have a Plan B, or something?”
Gokey looks real mad and crushes the empty cottage cheese container like he’s the Hulk or something. “David, that’s not the point,” he says again, and Cook doesn’t know what the fuck the point is, because he’s been eating stale Chinese take-out for the past two days and he’s not complaining.
Still, Cook says, “Fine, I’ll go buy you some more cottage cheese,” and he throws on his shoes and brushes right past Gokey, who’s saying to his back, “But that’s not the point.”
The grocery store is pretty shitty, not that it’s a surprise or anything. It’s more like a convenience store because it’s real small and doesn’t have much by way of a refrigerated section or anything, but for some reason they have a whole fridge full of Gokey’s fucking cottage cheese, so Cook grabs one and heads to the check out.
Only-and what are the odds?-he knows the guy ahead of him on line from before he offed. Cook doesn’t know if he just arrived or what, but Chikezie is pretty hard to miss, so Cook guesses that he hasn’t been here that long.
“Chikezie?” he says. They used to be roommates a long time ago-back when Cook finished school and had no money, no job, and no future.
Chikezie looks at him like finally, and says, “Dave! I was wondering when I’d see you.” He’s got this massive scar across his face-kind of badass, but also really kind of ouch-that looks like it maybe happened with a chainsaw or something like that. Cook doesn’t want to know, not really.
“Man, what’re you-what’re you doing here?” Cook asks, because all he can think of was how together Chikezie was, how good he had it back when he knew him.
“Same as everyone else, I guess,” Chikezie said. “It’s funny, yo-they always said suicides happened in threes.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Chikezie shrugged. “I just assumed you knew I was here, that’s all.”
Cook doesn’t know why the hell Chikezie would think that, doesn’t have even the slightest idea, but maybe whatever fucked up his face kind of fucked up his brain in the process. Cook wouldn’t be surprised; he sees that all the time here.
“Chikezie,” Cook says. “How could I possibly know that?”
“I just thought Kim would’ve told you or something, that’s all, man.”
“No, Kim didn’t-wait. Kim’s here?” And all of a sudden Cook feels something growing in the pit of his stomach, something that’s a lot like hope and dread and something else he doesn’t know the name of, all rolled up into one.
“You didn’t-? Shit, um,” Chikezie says. “Okay, wow. I’m sorry, dude. Don’t be upset?”
“Upset?” Cook asks incredulously. “Who’s upset? Chikezie, I’m so happy I could kiss you.”
“Thanks?”
“You’re a fucking man among men, Chikezie,” Cook says, tossing down the cottage cheese. “Fuck this, I gotta find her.”
“I thought you knew she was here already,” Chikezie says. He picks up the cottage cheese and reads the back. “And besides, the sodium in this shit is insane.”
Cook figures Gokey’ll be pissed, but whatever. He’s on the fucking moon.
“Listen,” Cook says as he’s packing. Neal’s in his room with him, drinking a beer and very purposefully not helping out, not even a little. “It’s just-we’ve been in this city how long? We never once saw Kim, so… She must be somewhere else. And call it intuition or logic or whatever, but I really don’t think she’s here.”
Neal doesn’t do anything. He just watches Cook disinterestedly and sips his beer.
“So really,” Cook’s saying as he grabs a jacket and shoves it in his bag, “worst case scenario, we just end up taking a drive.”
“Who’s we?” Neal asks.
Cook makes a hand gesture like, Are you serious? and says, “You shitting me, Tiemann?”
“Look, man,” Neal says. “Let me put it this way-why the fuck would I want to drive to the middle of who the fuck knows where to maybe but probably not find Kara, who’s probably shacking up with someone else by now?”
“Kim. And because I’m your friend, and that’s the kind of thing you do for a friend,” Cook says.
“Not enough,” Neal says. “I’ve got a good fucking thing going here. Just give me my dog and I’ll never want to leave.”
“You don’t want to help me get my happy ending?” Cook asks. He scratches the stubble on his cheek.
“Dave-no one gets a happy ending in this dump.” Cook is silent, just keeps packing, and Neal watches him. “Look,” Neal continues. “I know what your problem is.”
“Oh, really? What’s that?”
“Since you’ve been here, how many times have you gotten laid?” Neal asks.
“Actually laid?”
“Actually laid,” Neal confirms.
“None, I think,” Cook tells him.
“You think? Shit, then you’re fucking doing something wrong.”
“Alright, none,” Cook says. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Dude,” Neal says. “Your sperm count is so fucking high right now; it’s messing with your brain. Making you do rash things, like travel cross-fucking-country for some ex-girl of yours.”
“I don’t think it works like that,” Cook tells him.
“It does. And unless you can give me a good reason-and I mean a really fucking good reason-to go, I’m just gonna kick it here.”
He sits back all triumphant, really looking smug, and Cook hates that. He fucking hates losing, so he looks at Neal long and hard and just says, “Got anything better to do?
It turns out that this entire place is flat and rundown and without a lot of trees or buildings or anything, really. Cook had kind of expected that to change, but in hindsight, he’s not surprised it didn’t.
Neal’s car is a piece of shit. It’s basically just a metal box on wheels. Neal says that he thinks it’s maybe just some weirdass station wagon, but Cook’s not so sure. No matter what you call it, the bumper is still held to the hood of the car by masking tape and the inside is still full of cigarette burns and mystery stains. No matter what you call it, it’s still a piece of shit.
“And the headlights don’t work,” Neal says.
“The fucking headlights don’t work?” Cook repeats.
“Nope.” Neal’s smoking, and he blows the smoke in Cooks face just to piss him off.
“Well… Why don’t you just get them fixed?”
“Tried that, man,” Neal says. “Doesn’t work. No one can fix them. It’s almost like they don’t want to be fixed or some shit.”
“You know what that means?” Cook asks. “We can’t drive at night. We just cut our possible driving time in half.”
“Great detective work, Holmes. You’re a real fucking pro at that.” Neal blows smoke at Cook again. Cook thinks Neal just likes to see him riled up. Either way, he still sticks his head and shoulders out of the window for the next five minutes.
The roads are deserted save for them, but Kim is somewhere and so they keep driving.
Part 2