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  FIGHTING BACK
    by Michael J. Ryan
  =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  
  
    "You listenin' to me Albie? Yo! Anyone there?," Pete balled 
  his fleshy fist and made a knocking gesture against Albie's 
  forehead. Albie painfully forced his cloudy blue eyes to focus on 
  Pete's face.
  
    "I'm sorry... I was just thinking of something else. Go ahead 
  with what you were saying," Albie said distractedly.
   
    Pete's eyes narrowed and furrows creased the brow of his red, 
  chubby forehead. "You know, you ought to get some rest, Albie. You 
  got too much going on, and it's really beginning to show. People are 
  talking, you know."
   
    "Yeah, I know. People are always talking. Now what were you 
  saying . . . ."
   
    Pete, a mason working on one of the homes Albie was building, 
  finished his business and left Albie's cluttered office. Then, 
  Joe, a carpenter, knocked on Albie's door to discuss the Angelini 
  job, and while Albie was talking to Joe, Dave, an electrician, came 
  and waited outside. Albie's conversations with these sub-contractors 
  were constantly interrupted by the ringing telephone. Suddenly, the 
  commotion died down and Albie was left alone in his office. He 
  collapsed heavily into his chair and glared warily at the phone, as 
  if pleading with it to be silent. Persuaded that a moment of peace 
  was about to ensue, Albie put his head in his hands and stared down 
  at his feet.
     
     A familiar white static buzzed frantically in his head, blocking 
  out all thought . . .
  
    The phone rang. Albie's head jerked up. He glanced at his watch.
  _Twenty minutes gone by! Shit!_ Albie grabbed for the phone on the 
  third ring.
   
    "Albie, I'm almost embarrassed to be making this phone call. 
  I mean, you been such a good customer and all. But I have your 
  account listed as a few days past due and . . . I know this has 
  never happened with you before . . . but my manager's on my ass 
  to call everybody who's late . . . ."
   
    Think . . . think . . . Albie rubbed the side of his head to 
  prod his sluggish mind into action. "Yeah, look Butch, there's no 
  problem," Albie began, "I just had a customer who was late paying 
  me. I can get the money to you by the end of the week. I'm just a
  little tight right now."
  
    "Yeah, like I said, Albie, don't worry about it. I know your 
  good for it. So does the boss, he's just being a jerk . . ."
   
    "I know, Butch, no offense."
    
    "You know, Albie, nobody would even be worried about this 'cept 
  your father was in here the other day sayin' all kinds of crazy 
  things about you."
  
    Albie thought, "Not again . . . Jesus, when's he gonna give 
  it a rest."  
  
    "Yeah, well Butch, I've got a beef with my old man," Albie 
  countered, "I mean, you know, he's got a few dishes short of a full
  service . . . you know what I mean. You guys always been good to me, 
  I'll take care of you. Don't worry." Albie quietly put down the 
  phone. Static twitched nervously around the edges of his mind, like 
  a cat readying itself to pounce on an unsuspecting chipmunk.
  
    Albie stared down at the light brown carpet. The static swarmed
  over him, an angry white fog where indiscreet forms lurked just 
  beyond his ability to see. "I've got to break out of this . . . God, 
  I'm losing my mind."
  
                              *  *  *
   
    "How's things going, Hon?," Cindy asked Albie when he got 
  home, "You look tired." Albie vacantly stared at her for an awkward 
  moment. Then he realized she had asked him a question. "Huh? . . . 
  Oh, fine. I'm just beat," he lied to his wife. "I'm losing my grip," 
  Albie thought, "I'm losing . . . . Dear God."
  
                              *  *  *
   
    The next morning Albie dragged himself up the metal stairs to 
  his office. He moved as if he were walking through a sea of molasses. 
  Once he sat at his desk the static buzzed furiously and he stared 
  unthinkingly into space. After a few minutes the static cleared.   
  Footsteps coming down the hall. Albie straightened himself and 
  quickly grabbed a pen so it would look like he had been busy working. 
  Jimmy, Albie's foreman, came into the office. 
  
    "Albie, your father's on the warpath again. He's down at the 
  Reilly job telling everyone you owe him all sorts of money and how 
  he's going to force you out of business."
  
    
   "Well, just try to ignore him." Albie's gut wrenched, "_Oh, Jesus!_"
   
    "Albie, this is serious. The subs are all wondering if they 
  are going to get paid. Some of the them are ready to walk off the 
  job until things get cleared up."
  
    "Just tell them they'll all get paid. Jesus Christ, I've always 
  paid them before. Those friggin' guys . . . first sign of trouble and
  they turn tail and run."
  
    Jimmy left the office to reassure the workers. Albie picked up 
  the phone and dialed his lawyer. "Peter, Albie Lindsay. Yeah, look, 
  my 'dear old dad's' at it again. He's scaring the subs, the 
  suppliers, the customers, everybody. 
  
                              *  *  *
                              
    Albie thought, "I just can't work like this, its all going 
  to come crashing down." 
  
    "I just need to get away . . . need a chance to think," Albie 
  explained to Cindy before they went to sleep that night. So, even 
  though it was October, Albie and his wife rented a home on Cape Cod 
  for a week. It was the first vacation they had taken in years. Once 
  Albie drove across the bridge over the Cape Cod canal, he felt the 
  immediacy of the pressures subside. For the first time in years, he 
  felt safe, as if a buffer had been built between himself and an 
  invisible but always present danger. 
  
    The vacation home was a small cottage nestled on a quiet inlet 
  in Hyannis. From the second floor bedroom Albie stood and looked out 
  over the shimmering water. A family of ducks moved down the inlet, 
  coasting with the incoming tide. Beneath the window Cindy playfully 
  chased their children. The salty sea breeze carried their delighted
  squeals to their father. Albie tried to sort through his troubles, 
  but he couldn't concentrate. 
  
    "I'm so tired, so tired of all of this, . . . why can't I just 
  die," Albie thought. He laid down on the bed and closed his eyes. 
  In a few moments he was asleep. When Albie woke it was already dark 
  outside. Relentlessly, as if it had always been speaking but never 
  before heard, a voice inside Albie's head repeated itself: 
    
       "You may be surprised I'm going to do this to you. "You 
       may be surprised I'm going to do this to you. "You may be 
       surprised I'm going to do this to you . . . ." 
     
    Cape Cod faded away . . . the voice belonged to Albie's father. 
  So real, Albie's father could have been in the room with him. Hellish 
  memories soon joined his father's words. Pictures of molestation, 
  beatings. The cold slickness of ice cubes sliding against his leg on 
  their way into his already freezing bath water, ". . . can I please 
  come out now, Daddy?" The sharpness of the kitchen knife his father 
  held against his cheek when he threatened to cut him open if he told 
  anyone, ". . . and nobody can stop me, not your mother, not your 
  teachers, not the police, no one!"
    
    Albie's flashbacks continued off and on for weeks, and each 
  memory beat Albie down a little bit further. In the end, Albie just 
  quit trying. By January he put his company into bankruptcy.
  
                              *  *  *
    
    Albie's bills were piling up, and he felt powerless to do 
  anything about it. Although Cindy's parent's were helping to support 
  his family until Albie could get back on his feet, Albie knew he 
  couldn't count on them forever.
   
    "If you're not going to start another business maybe you should 
  clean out your office so we can give up the lease," Cindy worriedly 
  told Albie. It was the third day that week Cindy had made the same 
  suggestion. The other days Albie had answered "Yeah, right," and 
  had done nothing. But today he would at least go to the office. It 
  would be good to get out of the house; maybe it would lift his 
  spirits. And it would cheer Cindy up if Albie at least went though 
  the motions of going to work.
  
    "It's hopeless," Albie told himself, as he drove downtown, "I'll 
  never come back from this. I'm finished." Albie slowly walked up the 
  stairs to his old office. The static began to buzz, seducing him 
  with its siren's call of hollow numbness. It was as if his mind were 
  a ship searching for a safe harbor to wait out a coming storm. Albie 
  walked down a narrow hallway and stopped at his office. He fumbled 
  with the keys and unlocked the door. 
  
    By old habit, his hand brushed up the doorjamb and flipped on a 
  switch. Harsh fluorescent light filled the room. Albie's eyes roamed 
  slowly over the room. Papers and files were scattered everywhere. He 
  walked past a table and his hand absently traced a line in the dust. 
  He noticed some scribbled drawings from his daughter were still taped 
  to the wall near his desk. The sound of Albie's footsteps filled the 
  lifeless office. Yet Albie's mind was filled with the echoes of 
  ringing phones and workers rushing in and out. Powerful rumblings
  gurgled beneath his consciousness as if his mind were a pot of boiling 
  water about to bubble over. 
   
   "This is pointless," Albie told himself, "I'm finished." Albie 
  pulled the chair out from under his old desk and sat down. "Why 
  bother . . . ." Deep, crushing sadness flooded through Albie without 
  warning, a trap door had suddenly let loose and plunged Albie deep 
  into the center of an abyss. Exhausted, Albie put his head on his 
  desk and fell asleep.
  
                              *  *  *
   
    He was ten years old again, in the basement of his parent's home.
  Hands. Hands coming out of space. Hands grabbing at him. Grabbing 
  at his belt, his pants. "Father--"  
  
    But instead of giving in like he had before, the ten-year-old 
  fought . . . he fought with everything he had. He fought against 
  overwhelming strength, but he fought anyway. "NO-O-O! Stop it! Stop 
  it!," the ten-year-old kicked and screamed. Outrage exploded in 
  Albie's mind as the ten-year-old was overpowered. 
  
                              *  *  *
   
    Albie woke up.  It was over, _again_, and Albie returned to 
  the present, but the outrage remained. And with the outrage, the 
  faintest sense of pride in himself began to grow. He had fought 
  back. He did not win. He could not have won. But he fought back 
  anyway. For the first time in months, Albie felt as if it might be 
  in him to fight again. Putting his life and business back together 
  would be a long, painfully difficult task. Albie knew the odds were 
  against him and he might not succeed. But he would try. He would at 
  least take the first few steps.   
  
    Albie spent the rest of the day slowly picking up the mess in 
  his office. As he was about to leave he picked up the telephone 
  and held it to his ear. The dial tone told him it had not yet been 
  disconnected. Albie dialed Pete, the mason who used to work for 
  him. "Hey, Pete. This is Albie Lindsay, listen . . . I need you.  
  I'm starting up again . . ."
  
                             (DREAM)
  
  Copyright 1996 Michael Ryan, All Rights Reserved. 
  -------------------------------------------------------------------
  Michael, aside from trying to make a career for himself writing,
  owns a home design business, and live with his wife and children in
  Windham, NH. He's been published in Writer's Workshop Review and
  CrossConnect Magazine. Email:  ryanmj@ix.netcom.com
  ===================================================================
  
