Long days and long nights kept him weary and restless. Long days without cocaine kept him mad. One of his mason's received a serious injury after catching the full weight of a load of carelessly stacked bricks on his arm, and Lane had to take him to the hospital, spending a full 6 hours waiting in the reception room. Everyone else was wrapped up in labor, constructing a new office space for a CEO who went by the name "Lenny."
He got home and poured himself a stiff glass of McCutcheon's scotch, no ice. He preferred his drinks neat. His apartment was so quiet and uncomfortably still. The stillness of the room nearly matched the stillness of the air outside, however, not quite as intense. Chelsea emerged from the bedroom with a puffy face and a tear, still making its way down her ruby red cheeks.
"Lane, you told me you quit. You told me you quit! You fucking liar, Goddamnit! I just wanted you to be happy, to stay clean, but I guess that was too much to ask," She said.
Knocking down the rest of his drink, Lane attempted a reply but was far too late. He got cut off mid sentence.
"Im leaving you. To think I loved you, God, your such a fucking loser... I can't put up with your habits Lane! Maybe someone else can, but certainly not me. I tried to be supportive, I really did. But I had no idea that you hadn't quit at all the whole time I have been here. I have to leave, that its. Thats it," She cried. "Your blow is in your jacket, your little vial you like to keep things in. Check your pockets next time before you leave a suit here."
She walked out without another word, leaving Lane alone to himself, and apparently, a vial of cocaine in an Armani suit jacket.
He wished he hadn't seen it at all. The scariest thing was, he didn't even care. Yes, Chelsea was a dream, but he never felt good enough. In another life, he would have made a great husband, maybe even a great father. But Lane preferred to wallow in his own sorrow. Nothing actually made him happy at all. In reality, he hadn't used in weeks, however, a little vile must have remained in his suit pocket without notice. Broken, tired, lonesome, and empty, he began to cry as opened the vile and spread a line out on the kitchen counter, snorting every particle there was to be snorted.
With a synthetic smile on his face, his eyes rolled back a little bit, letting out somewhat of a roar of relief as he sat in his favorite chair. With falsely improved spirits, he made his way to the local bar, O'Harley's. The only way to suffer this night would be to get drunk.
He approached the counter, seating himself next to an old man with little hair.
"Six shots of Cuervo Silver buddy," He said to the bartender commanding his nearly vacant bar.
Six shots were downed immediately, followed by a drooping head. "God, twenty minutes goes by so quick I need some more coke!" He thought. In pity and disgust, the old man looked at him and said, "What's your name, son?"
"Lane Masterson," He said, choking away tears. "I thought so. I've seen you with your wife a few times back at the apartment."
"She's not my wife, or girlfriend anymore for that matter." He began to weep.
They sat in silence for half an hour, the old man having only two shots of a dark and smoky whiskey.
"They say life is bitter sweet," The old man spoke. "But I can't say I have often tasted sweet life. I can tell you are in great pain, and I can tell you that you shouldn't be here as well. Not like this at least. When I come here, there's always someone like you. You wan't some advice son?"
Lane stared at the man. "What the fuck do you know about pain?" He said with ignorance and immaturity. "What do you know about a drug taking your soul, calling you night and day, ruining everything you ever thought would make you happy?" He cried even more, looking like an absolute wreck. The old man hardly spoke, barely able to refrain from leaving the bar in anger. People these days were so rude, so careless. Young people always thought they knew the whole goddamn world. "Wipe your nose off. Don't speak to me again like that. I can tell you a lot about pain. I don't normally talk to people like you, or people at all. But you remind of myself in a different time and place," The old man said, staring at a random spot on the wall, thinking. "Your not lost, not quite yet. You are close. Listen closely. You can not run away from reality. You have tethered yourself to a false happiness by separating yourself from your problems. As long as you surround yourself with an illusion, you can never be happy. You must break free. You must run break leave your crutches behind and begin to walk for yourself. You want to get a better life? Quit fighting your emptiness and sorrow with an artificial high. Find what truly sparks your heart. Find meaning. You can chase empty promises and false dreams all day long. They will never fill your emptiness. The old man laid a ten dollar bill on the counter and walked out, leaving Lane alone to ponder what was just spoken. His heart sank inside of him.
After last call and 4 more shots, Lane walked to the street. Looking at himself in disgust in a window across the road, he saw an attractive, nicely dressed man with a black heart. It couldn't be him could it? Not the old Lane Masterson. Immediately, he stripped off his Armani jacket and freshly pressed shirt, tossing them into the gutter. Reduced to a Hanes white t-shirt, he felt embarrassed and relieved simultaneously. Sitting down on the curb, he thought to himself, "I should be in Carhartt clothes. Fuck," He cried for the final time. Money, power, and lust had ruined him.