December 23, 1991

After eight weeks, the clinic released Amanda, and she felt it didn’t come soon enough. A week later came the holiday of winter, which she spent in the arms of Shawn at his parents’ house. As she walked back and forth on the back deck, she carried a cigarette in hand, one arm across her chest, and marched with one intention on her mind: stay sober. He observed her empty hand as it jittered more than a jackhammer and proceeded to pop her fingers. She took a long drag on her cigarette and held the toxins in her lungs. Exhaling.

From a distance, Shawn watched from inside as he knew she needed space, but his spectating felt torturous. He felt helpless in the season of giving. She needs my support. Each attempt he made to be closer pushed her away. It’s like she wants someone else’s help?

I need to leave because Shawn can’t help me. I can’t smoke all night. Maybe she can keep me calm? By her third cigarette, she walked inside. He hugged her, but she pushed him away and asked for a phone. He gave her a wireless telephone. Hands still shaking, she pulled up the antenna and stepped outside. Amanda dialed the only number she could dial in her sleep. As the phone connected, she took another drag and closed her eyes, hoping to open to her old self. Come on; you gotta relax and turn into that girl you know and love. She opened her eyes and realized her tremors turned worse, shaking the phone in one hand. Her attempt to relax failed and a female voice answered the other end of the line.

“It’s me,” Amanda responded. She leaned against the house and sat, knees pressed close to her chest. “I can’t do this, I just can’t.” The girl on the line attempted to calm her down. “Listen, I can’t do this,” her voice started to break. “You need to get me out.” Don’t leave me in the dark again.

“I can help Christmas night,” she said. “Just control your urges, ok?”

“I’m trying,” Amanda cried.

Shawn stepped outside to see the broken Amanda. She finally looked up at him, so she hung up the phone and stared at her warm boyfriend. Mascara ran down her cheeks. “I—” Amanda said but, he dropped to his knees and cuddled with her. She embraced him, “I’m sorry for all this,” she said. “I’m really trying.”

“I know,” he said and carried her to his room.

She undressed, and his eyes locked onto her birthmark around her waist. It was the shape of a shark’s tooth. He too undressed, and the two spooned on the bed. With one arm around her, Shawn felt her heartbeat thumping faster than a locomotive. He interlinked his fingers in hers, she moved their soft hands between her thighs.

“I want to know what it is like being in your mind,” he whispered. “Your brain sees patterns differently than anyone.” The rhythm in her chest eased. “I just don’t want you to turn into your mother.” She tightened her grip and turned around.

“Do you ever want to see me like that?” she asked.

“Never.”

“Then I need you to promise to dig me out of whatever hole I’m in.”

“I promise.”

“No matter how low I get, no matter how much I plead for you to leave, I need you to promise to ignore what I say and save me from my hell.”

“A promise is a promise. I won’t let you drown.” The two made out following a bit of coupling.

With New Year’s and Shawn’s birthday around the corner, Amanda prepared at the theater makeup lab. The basement is where the cast gets dragged up for a performance or Rocky Horror, and of course, basements hold secrets. She carefully applied makeup when a girl on a cot behind her drunkenly asked what she was doing. Amanda focused on the girl’s wild eyeliner, which resembled a road map, and responded, “Birthday party.” The girl fell back down, and Amanda mentioned she would see her later in the night. Amanda mentally prepared herself to not party as hard as before by having two drinks per sitting and limiting her time around drugs. On several occasions, she walked out on Shawn smoking marijuana. She felt confident about celebrating Shawn’s birthday, but New Years was a different matter. The holiday always brought out the worst in people, and one of those people is Shawn. She wanted a simple get-together of close friends, nothing more, but her dreams were never a reality.

The celebration occurred at Ray’s Tavern, where most days it mimicked the smoky bar set of Cheers. When the guys would walk in, they expected Norm at the end of the bar, cracking jokes to whoever listened. Without the cast of Cheers, the crowd was generally a mixture of 20-somethings in college to adults under 30 working full time.

By 2 AM, the crowd seemingly died down from full to half-full, giving the crew comfort to discuss their illegal activities as long as they spoke in code. Unfortunately, whenever Shawn gets drunk, he drops his filter and speaks off the cuff. Their friends had walked off to the bar leaving Shawn and Amanda alone at a table.

“How does it feel finally being twenty-one?” Amanda asked.

Shawn reached for his glass, “Should I give you a basic response or something more thoughtful?”

“Both.”

“Liberating, I can finally do something adult,” he said. “The year 1992 won’t know what’s coming.”

“You say that as if you didn’t drink before.”

“Legally this time,” he pulled his Bud closer and sipped. “God, I hate beer. It tastes like-”

“Pee water,” the two said together.

“So, do you have anything thoughtful to say?” she teased.

Shawn didn’t smile. “I don’t like how in today’s society, we put an age on things. You’re a free man when you turn 18. You can drink at 21, insurance goes down at 25. There’s one thing bothering me. When do people call you an adult? Is it when you could drink in a bar?”

She crossed her arms, “I don’t know.”

“You hear people saying ‘he’s mature for 16,’ but never he’s an adult.”

“I think it’s more of a position thing. Like after graduation, we’re not adults, but when we get a career, we are considered adults,” she said.

“I really don’t want to put my big boy pants on,” he pretended to gripe.

“Suck it up,” she smiled.

Shawn laughed aloud, “God, I love this beautiful brunette.”

“How much have you had to drink?”

“You can never drink enough on your birthday!”

Shawn discussed topics like offshore drilling and the Regan Era. Amanda slowly shuts down her attention span towards him. She knew he was too drunk to notice.

The two had a long history together, but their three years; the on-again-off-again, the will-they-or-won't-they relationship had worn her down. Despite the fact, the two always had a way of coming back together. From being a child of a broken home to her ‘friends’ and this relationship. She thought to herself: What’s the point? Change is needed, and I need it now.

With the two lovebirds continuing their tradition of hopping on both sides of the couple/friend line, the rest of the crew sat at the bar. Julie on a barstool between Mark and Curt.

“Have any you heard the rumor of Morgan having a friend being a mercenary from Soldier of Fortune Magazine?” Julie asked. The two shrugged their shoulders.

“How did you like Morgan’s class?” Curt asked Julie.

“Like you said in August, a completely different view of the man,” she said.

“Sometimes, I ask myself which version of him is genuine,” he said. “Of course, there are only slight differences between the two.”

“He’s covered in layers,” she said. “Like a politician.”

“Why doesn’t he run for office?” Curt asked. “He’d be better than Bush.”

The three laughed as Mark was first to recognize an unexpected guest walk through the door, causing his smile to fade into one a politician would give to his/her opponent. Julie and Curt identified that look and turned to Lance, who gave the crew a nod and half a cocky smile. He was built similar to Mark, wiry frame only a few inches shorter. Lance resembled a grunge band-reject with his long greasy hair and attire to match. As he passed, he gave Mark a ‘how you doing’ slap on the back and walked straight to the bathroom.

“Who the hell does he think he is waltzing in here like that?” Curt gripped the neck of his bottle as if he were planning on breaking it over Lance’s head.

“Is it true he’s a snitch?” Julie asked, but Mark dismissed it as a rumor.

“All rumors have some truth,” Curt said, “And I’m gonna beat it out of him.” Mark’s brow raised dreaming of seeing Curt tear someone to shreds.

“Easy, big fellow,” Julie stepped in front of the brute. They considered Lance responsible for Amanda’s addiction. However, Julie explained how nobody put a gun to Amanda’s head.

He eased down enough where Mark said, “Too bad, I wanted to see Curt rip him to shreds.”

In the middle of the bar, Shawn continued his discussion about random topics as Amanda zoned in and out of the conversation.

“But his ‘Tear down that Wall’ speech still gives me chills,” Shawn added. “The work Regan did could have ended the Cold War.”

The idea of quarreling with Shawn about the ethics of the Cold War pondered her mind, but chatting about business is her priority. “What have you guys done since I’ve been gone?” she asked.

“Are you talking about the crew and jobs?”

“Yeah, what have you guys been up to?” she asked. Amanda focused complete attention on his next words.

“We did about 2 heists last month. Morgan wanted to give everyone a Christmas bonus,” he said.

“What’s your next gig?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just a little curious,” she said. “Besides, there’s no one here.”

“Didn’t Morgan put you on suspension?” he asked.

“It concludes at the end of the month,” she said as her left leg jittered under the table. Maybe I’ll be back on the field soon. “But I’ve got the feeling he’s not bringing me back.”

“I’d bet your odds are 6 to 1 on coming back,” Shawn said. “What’s your angle?”

“I want the big gig,” she admitted.

“Here we go again,” Shawn said.

“I’m telling you its real, and it’s possible,” she said.

“The Fisher Account is not real,” Shawn pounded the table.

The two realize the bar full of patrons, drinking and conversing with one another. They had an uncanny ability to be in the moment. The crew was at the bar celebrating a new year without them. Earlier, Amanda asked the group to stay back so she could fix a few wrinkles in her relationship. Her attempt to fix things lasted for almost an hour, and nothing is settled.

“Shawn, trust me, I’ve seen it when I was in rehab. Morgan paid one of my bills, and he left a notepad on a chair. I looked through it, and it said: Discuss Fisher Account with Dean,” she said.

The Fisher Account was where the leftover cash from the gang went. Money is first lifted from the Fisher Account to provide a mission/gig’s start-up cost: supplies and such. Next was the heist itself. Following the heist was the team’s payoff. Sometimes profit was a percent of their take; other times, it was an agreed total going directly to the account. The Fisher Account was rumored to be around a million dollars, enough for individual members to lick their chops.

“I’ve told you the account is a myth. Morgan just likes to feed the rumor mill. Do you remember a year ago there was a rumor that Morgan was related to Charles Manson?” he asked.

“Yeah, Morgan said: ‘You never can tell what’s true these days,’” she said in a patronizing tone.

“Everything is a fabrication or misdirection, so don’t accept anything until you see the truth,” he said as his loose self made a goofy face. “Fabrication is such a funny word.”

“How is he?” she enjoyed asking open-ended questions to drunk Shawn.

“Charles Manson is still in prison,” he smiled.

“No, Morgan— How is Morgan?” she asked.

“You know the boss, distant and creepy as always.”

“Our opinion of creepy is different,” she said.

“How do you see him, Amanda?” he leaned forward.

“Less creepy and more calculated,” she said.

“Clearly, we see things differently.”

“Growing up, my life was different from yours. You live with two parents, a brother, and a college fund, white picket fence. Definition of suburbia. On the other hand, I used to live with my drugged-out mother. Every now and then, a different man would come in and screw for money, as I sat in the hall of our single bedroom apartment and listened. That was my childhood, so everything said must have been calculated, or else I’d be living on the street doing what she did for a living.”

“Hey, my life isn’t perfect. My mom was in the hospital last Christmas,” Shawn scoffed off her story.

“She was passing a God damned kidney stone,” she growled as her face began turning plum red. “Mine died last summer of AIDS.”

He took another drink, “Sorry I brought it up,” he said. “You know you really talk as if I don’t know your history. I was there with you at the hospital. We’ve been at each other like this for three years, and things haven’t changed between us. We’re still together.”

“Are we? Are we really together?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“You and I are parallel. Our childhoods are different, and the only things we have in common is we’re both addicts,” she said.

“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” he said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a blunt and placed it between his lips. He then searched for his lighter on the table.

“Can you stop it?!” she grabbed the lighter. She knew Shawn was trying to tick her off.

“What?” he said. His hand covered over hers.

Amanda reared back and nailed him with an open palm. The slap contained enough force to knock the blunt from between his lips, and then his face boiled.

Shawn had a history of anger problems. About eight months prior, someone cut him off while driving on Interstate 110. He got upset and followed the driver to his exit. At the next red light, Shawn got out and pulled the driver out of his car. He pummeled him, nearly pulled out his sidearm. Luckily Dean and Amanda were there to take it from him. If the two weren’t there, Shawn would have an aggravated assault or murder charge instead of battery—a charge he still carried tonight for he was still on probation.

His hands made fists, and he gritted his teeth. Although Shawn had a history of physical violence, he’d never hit a woman. Amanda’s instinct was to go into defense mode, but she held her ground with a cold face.

“Shawn, your addiction is gambling, and I’ve conquered mine.”

“You sure?” his face relaxed. “Because I bet you can’t even say your addiction,” he smiled. Amanda bit her tongue to avoid speaking. “You can’t even say heroin.” She swallowed some rust tasting blood, but the bitterness made her angrier. As easy as it was for people to get under Shawn’s skin, he attempted it on everyone else, with moderate success. “I’m not even sure it’s passed you. I mean, how long have you been out of rehab? A week?” he asked.

“Two,” she whispered.

“Two weeks and I can see there’s a burning sensation under your skin that won’t be healed,” he said.

“You’re full of it.”

“Christmas night, you were chain-smoking a pack of cigarettes,” Shawn said. “You and I both know you will return to your addition. You always do. It might be your dream to conquer addiction, but we’re prisoners of fate.”

Amanda stood up, “You’re a real asshole.”

She stormed away, but Shawn stopped her beside the bar. Their crew placed down their drinks and observed the couple.

“Amanda, wait!” Shawn said.

“What?”

“I’m trying,” he said. “It’s my dream too.”

“Dreams, you want to talk about dreams?” she said. “Let’s hear about your pipe dreams, Shawn. Your dream is smoking weed all day and gambling. Eventually, something must change, so I’m leaving.”

“You’ll be back in two days,” he said. “I can bet on it.”

“Goodbye, Shawn.”

“See you next week,” he said

Amanda walked out as Julie chased her. Shawn turned to the gang at the bar, “So, who wants another drink?”