The Question

The note landed in front of him, wrapped in a crisp $20 bill. That always grabbed his attention; Pete's left hand wandered up to unfold the paper. As his eyes scanned the pencil-scribbled question, he felt his stomach lurch.

“Not again”, he thought, snatching his hand away. “I can't fucking do it anymore.” The heavy scent of overly-cologned boys on the make wafted in from the patio and the giggling of drunk girls secretly wanting to be ogled overwhelmed his own voice. He recalled how many times he had relived that particular nightmare. Job after job, city after city, that same question chased him, haunted him. It ate away at his insides and made him sick to his stomach, leaving behind only the bitter taste of bile and the ache that comes with it. The sights and the sounds and the smells ended up being all the same no matter where he went. As the question was always there, waiting.

***

Pete ran, at first, from his New York home to Miami. Then to New Orleans, and to Kansas City, and on to Cleveland. Some of the cities were warm and wet, others hot and humid, some just stank of sweat and sweet tea. But the distance never salved the wound, and the question never went away, never changed. It just reappeared night after night after night. Even setting sail on the Caribbean didn't help, the salt water air didn't diminish the reek of boys and booze So Pete turned to drink. But the more he drank, the less soothing each shot became. His drinking become legendary, often leaving him in a stupor from his afternoon emergence from bed until he returned there again, too sloshed to worry about his shoes, his clothes, his wellbeing. And still the question haunted him. He couldn't avoid answering it, couldn't ignore it. The neon lights of the shops and bars cast his pallor in garish glows that made him look as ill as he felt every time he heard the questions. As ill as he felt every night.

Thinking companionship might help, Pete hungrily pursued women. The relationships always started great, as Pete was smart and handsome and incredibly talented. But the question would only stay quiet for a night or two then start echoing again in his head. The forced unconnected socialization he endured day and night left him empty, hungering for something real. As still the question came at him, time and again. His frustration grew and, fueled by drink and insomnia and despair, sabotaged his partnerships. They ended poorly, often with bursts of yelling and flowing tears. Every city housed landmarks of his journey – a broken window here, a fist-sized hole in the drywall there. And still the question remained. It hung in the air, unspoken and dreaded every night until, without fail, it came. Most times the messenger unknowingly hastened Pete's downward spiral. And yet, like the need to breath or the rising of the sun, the question persisted.

***

The folded slip of paper still lay in front of him. And despite his horror, his revulsion, Pete knew he would have to answer the question tonight. Just as he had done every night since it was first asked. He sighed deeply, tears welling in his eyes. And he succumbed again. His soul silently nodded in assent and his eyes, downcast, failed to see the triumph faces and shouts of joy that arose with his failure. Just as they had last night. And last week, and last month. His hands moved of their own volition, knowing every nuance of the ritual. His mind screamed “NO” but was ignored. And his mouth started reciting the words that slowly killed his soul every time he uttered them.

“Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world...”