Chapter 1 from Losing Grip:
Intoxication

Jason clenches his fists—stewing.

Veins bulge from his neck.

Sweat forms on his brow.

His breath is short—labored.

There's something crawling on his temple—it's sweat.

Swiping a bead of sweat from his temple, his hands tremble.

He looks like a junkie.

His eyes hunt, looking for anything in focus; it’s like he's looking through Jello.

He has a dreadful thought: Am I blind?

Drawing his hand to his eyes, he rubs, clamping down, digging his fingers into his skull; he fights the urge to scream.

Removing his hand, he tries to catch anything in focus—it’s still like looking through Jello.

His jaw tightens.

God, what is happening to me?

Another bead of sweat trickles down to the tip of his nose, hanging there, waiting to collect enough weight to drip to the ground.

He wipes it with his forearm.

He’s a mess.

There’s a metallic taste in his mouth. He swallows—it’s still there.

God, I need some water.

Something moves.

He catches a shape, or is it a shadow? It moves with precision. Tracking it reinforces the idea—is he blind? He's just a blind man tracking a blob.

Isn’t that the way life goes? First, you’re happy, and then you’re blind.

He erupts, “AAAHHHHHHHHH.” The scream is so visceral—loud—it scares him. He expends all the air in his lungs—he pants. Now he's an out-of-breath blind man, but the tantrum felt good.

What does he do now? Screaming didn't help. He does the only sensible thing; he zips his eyes shut like a defiant child, counting—he's got a plan—at ten, he'll open his eyes. Ten passes. His eyes stay zipped, terrified—terrified he’s blind. Another part of him has to know. He builds the courage, opening his eyes. It’s a miracle; like a photographer rotating the focus ring on a camera, everything is crystal clear. His muscles relax. His shoulders droop. The tension releases like air escaping a balloon.

He wants to cry; he should cry—tears of joy. Instead, he closes his eyes, giving a silent thanks.

Jason dodged a bullet. He’s always been terrified of becoming disabled. Losing his sight, well, that would be the worst thing he could think of. How awful to never see another sunset or gaze upon a beautiful woman.

He blinks, fearing the blurriness will return—he’s good to go. There’s slow recognition, a confusion, as he stares at a shop. Eyeballing the shop’s large display window, he wonders. He should know—why doesn’t he? Where is he?

Pivoting his head left, the shops look like the one he’s standing in front of. Pivoting right, it’s the same. He rakes his fingers across his chin, sizing up the place. There’s a plastic ‘CLOSED’ sign in the bottom left corner. He ponders the name: Bobby’s Hobbies. Caressing his lips, he mulls over his situation. Why am I at a hobby shop? Why indeed? Is he shopping?

Behind the glass, a miniature train travels through its elaborate world. A train? He scratches the back of his head. I was tracking a toy? Staring off, not focused on anything in particular.

So, who am I shopping for?

His wife? That’s not likely. His kids? He stops. There's a tick of wonder.

Do I have kids?

Not good—he doesn't know. He scans his memory, coming up empty. The tick of wonder prompts a transition back to his childhood, reminiscing about the last time he stood before a hobby shop window. He was like eight?

His eyes drop to the world behind the glass; the train catches his fancy. Talk about being blind. How is it that something can be so close and yet remain invisible? Well, he sees it now, captivated by the details. A vast hillside cradles a village with streets, tiny vehicles, and plastic figures frozen mid-life; every house and business is an object of accurate depiction. There’s even a dog. Huh—a dog. Impressive as the village is, the train is the star, commanding attention as it glides through its world. The flashing lights on the railroad crossing fascinate him. Scratching his head, he wonders, why would someone put in so much effort to create this? I wonder how long it took to make? He snickers. Someone needs a job. I guess this is their job.

His mind strays to his job. He thinks about pecking out lines of code, wrestling with logic to make a machine perform a task. That’s creative, isn’t it? The lights stop on the crossing arm as it pivots up. The train glides out of the village into the countryside, set on a collision course for a tunnel. The tunnel swallows the train like a snake eating a rat. As the tunnel gobbles the caboose, the locomotive oozes out the other end like toothpaste squeezed from a tube. High above the village, the train traverses a bridge spanning a frozen waterfall. I wonder how they made the water? Plastic, maybe? It sure looks real. The waterfall cascades, creating the illusion of motion. The train snakes behind a larger hill, vanishing. Fifteen seconds later, it reappears, completing the circuit. Narrowing his eyes, he sighs. Isn’t that the same train I got for Christmas? God, how old was I? Two? He reminisces about sitting before a Christmas tree, mesmerized by a miniature train traveling through and around the presents. His grandmother rocks in her chair, reading, while Nat King Cole sings about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. The crisp smell of pine hangs in the air. To this day, the smell of pine transports him back to this memory.

He’s back, taking a closer look. Is it the same train? Then again, I was two. How in the hell do I even remember that? Haven’t miniature trains evolved since then? Is his memory playing tricks on him? It’s fascinating how elastic one's memory is, with little details changing, distorting, or even disappearing. Did I dream it? Wouldn’t that be crazy if it were all a dream? Bored with the world of the train, he pulls back, examining the adjoining shops.

Pivoting toward the street, his eyes sweep the town. The place has a Midwest feel, like something out of a Hallmark Christmas movie. How is it I can remember a train I got when I was two, but I can’t remember how I got here? How indeed? It’s striking how quiet it is—it’s eerie. Although something is humming—it's faint—it's a buzz; he hunts for the source. It’s a traffic light. Riveted by the light cycling from green to yellow to red, he scratches his head. A traffic light, really? His eyes sweep the street. The only thing with any life around here is a traffic light. His eyes sweep the street again. There's no traffic—not one car. He chuckles. What a strange place.

There's nothing stranger than the lightning. Tilting his head, he hunts the sky. Where's the light coming from? It’s a mystery. There’s another mystery—there’s no wind. What if I’m in the Twilight Zone? That would explain a lot. He ponders on a show where a man finds himself alone in a deserted town. He pursed his lips. The Twilight Zone, yeah, right? He snickers—a nervous snicker. Am I going to end up as a giant boy’s toy? He scoffs, “Yeah, right.”

Shifting his weight, he considers which way to go. There’s got to be at least a maintenance guy around here—right? His eyes anchor on the gutter. That gutter is too clean. Looks like it’s been sanitized for my protection. He laughs.

A bullwhip cracks.

He jumps.

What the hell was that?

His head whips, looking, scanning the rooflines across the street.

Everything is quiet.

Maybe it was a firecracker?

A second shot whizzes past his ear—he swats at his ear, thinking it’s a bug. The bullet smacks into the wall, sending brick fragments onto the sidewalk. Jesus. Dropping to the sidewalk, he curls into a fetal position. Like that will protect him. It’s open season with bullets pounding the brick wall; brick fragments decorate the sidewalk. A bullet drills into the concrete inches from his head, spitting cement fragments into his hair.

Hell with this.

In one fluid motion, Jason leaps off the sidewalk, breaking into a sprint. The bullets track him, missing. He sprints like his life depends on it, because his life does depend on it. There’s a snap, like he's broken the sound barrier—he’s running faster than he’s ever run. Damn, I’m fast. He is fast, but not fast enough to outrun a bullet. He’s got one thing going for him: the shooter is a bad shot. Reaching the corner, he takes a hard left; the corner of the building shields him as stucco explodes behind him, littering the sidewalk.

Damn, that was close. Too close. It's been a while since he's run, especially sprinting. He's winded, in agony as his lungs burn and his legs cramp. He's not thinking clearly; he's lightheaded—stumbling.

God, I need to rest.

Stopping, he slaps his hands to his knees, panting. Shit, I think I'm dying. He’s spent his adrenaline—he's now powered by willpower. Scouring the area, he spots an alley.

There we go.

It’s good to have a plan. It's enough to keep him pushing on.

Entering the alley, he’s tottering, fighting to keep his balance. The alley creates a sense of safety.

God, I need to rest.

Two sparkling new dumpsters look inviting; slipping between them would be a good place to hide. Right now, fear is his friend—he dismisses the idea, fearing he'd get trapped. He stumbles on.

Why is everything so clean, new?

Am I in a reality show?

Is this Run for Your Life?

The Hunted?

That's it, I'm being hunted.

Out of the alley, he breaks hard, working hard to keep in balance. A red sports car bears down on him, about to make him roadkill. Closing his eyes, he winces, giving in to his fate. The car skids sideways; the tires screech, smoke, spewing a cloud of burnt rubber into the air. The car rocks to a stop, missing him by inches. Jason trembles like the time he was five, a time when he thought monsters were real. The fog of burnt rubber hangs in the air—he fans the air—coughing.

He's still standing, coughing—does that mean he's still alive? The car didn't hit him; at least, it didn't feel like he was hit.

He peeks with one eye, then opens the other, staring at a mass of metal that almost mowed him down. It's a sparkling candy apple red sports car.

Christ, is everything trying to kill me?

The passenger’s door flings open, exposing the driver, a beautiful woman with long brunette hair. Jason freezes.

Their eyes fuse.

A spark passes between them. She’s hypnotizing—he’s under her spell.

She screams, “GET IN.”

My God, she’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.

She is beautiful—she has mind-erasing beauty. Everything to this point, being shot at, running, the strangeness of the town, the train in the window—eviscerated. He stood there like a fool.

“LOOK, WE DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS SHIT. They’re coming,” she barks.

She’s frantic. He’s lost thinking about her seductive voice. His inner voice screams, DUDE, JUMP IN.

“LOOK, you got three seconds, and then I’m gone.”

A smidgen of logic smashes through, breaking the spell. He leaps into the car. His ass barely hits the seat as she smashes the gas pedal, snapping his head into the headrest—his head and the headrest are now one. The tires break loose, screeching, spawning a rooster tail of smoke as she whips a one-eighty. The G-force is intense, sucking Jason’s body against the door. He digs his fingers into the leather, hanging on. A thought shoehorns in:

Where’s this rocket ship taking me?

Things equalize. Jason squirms, adjusting to get comfortable. He wants to take another drink of her intoxicating beauty. Playing it cool, being polite, he didn’t want to gawk. His body shakes.

Is it the car flying?

Is it her?

Oh my God, I’m in a crazy fast car with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and she’s driving?

A HUNDRED AND EIGHTY.

What?

Horrified, looking like someone is drilling a hole in his head, his eyes snap to her.

“That was close,” she says.

The horrified look melts away; it’s like fairy dust is sprinkled about—her voice has that effect—it’s soothing.

God, she’s so beautiful—calm.

She glances at him, smiling.

That smile—and those eyes—I could get lost in those eyes—forever.

He forgets, or at least he’s not noticing that he's shaking. The questions stack up, so many questions. Being in her orbit, his brain short-circuits—gibberish follows.

“Wher . . . wheaaaaar diiiiiid yoooou?”

“Where . . . I mean, no, yeah, wherrrre aammm I?”

“Hoooow dddiiid yooooou knoooow?”

She smiles.

How can she smile when I’m a blubbering idiot?

She probably thinks I’m funny—like I’m the entertainment.

Wait—have I become her toy?

Oh, God, I’ve gone to heaven.

Wallowing in the thought, he smiles, hearing a cosmic snap. The shaking stops—he regains his composure. He can speak. In fact, he’s speed talking.

“Where did you come from?”

“How did you know about them?”

“What is this place?”

“Where are we going?”

“What’s your name?”

With a smile that says, You're so cute, she shoots a tractor beam of electricity into his eyes. He’s floating; well, he thinks he’s floating. He’s not. His ass is firmly in the seat. Her smile is so inviting, like warm bath water. He wants to bathe in it.

She smiles.

He glows.

Is this what they mean by love at first sight? It must be. God, I feel great.

Her lips move, but he can’t hear what she’s saying. “That is the question, isn’t it?” She winks. Light engulfs the car, swallowing him whole.

Poof.

The transition is brutal. Like flicking the light switch, his eyes open. Shit—what just happened? The greatest moment of his life, snatched from him. The woman, the car, the road—all gone. The velocity, the speed, replaced by the stillness of his bedroom? His nervous eyes float over the room, confirming it's his bedroom. Wow. Easing back into his pillow, he laces his fingers behind his head, stewing. He sees her; he feels her—her residue is present. Reality sets in. He peeks at his wife sleeping. Back to the dream. Wow, what a dream. Battling to hold on to her, he begins an exercise of searing every delicious thing about her into permanent memory. Again, he checks on Kat—she’s still sleeping.

As the fantastical gives way to the mundane, he thinks about his day. I really should get up. Slipping out of bed, he's made his way to the chair, the chair where he tossed his sweats the day before. Combing his fingers through his hair, he decides what to wear—he picks out a t-shirt. Dressing, he takes another glimpse of Kat sleeping before strolling to the kitchen with his dream girl. Damn, I feel like I’m cheating on Kat. He reassures himself. It was just a dream.

But what a dream.