Jonathan Byers' Bogus Journey: Day 4
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Day 4: 08/17/1987
Syracuse, Kansas
We finally got back to Syracuse last night after the stupid stunt Steve pulled. We hid in the nearby woods until creepy guy gave up and moved on, and made our way to the rest stop once the coast was clear. We weren’t too far from town from what we could tell. We could have walked it in an hour or two maybe. But we got talking to a nice guy in the dingy diner we ate at and he offered to take us even though it was out of his way. We were really lucky to get here safely at all, no thanks to Steve. I can hardly talk to him without my barely constrained contained anger bubbling to the surface.
We had to spend the night in a crappy motel and wait until the tow company opened this morning. We were there first thing and got a truck out to the van in no time. I’m hoping we can get this fixed quickly and move on. Argyle’s birthday is the day after tomorrow so we only have a day left really to pull this off. I think we can do it if we drive non-stop like maniacs. I’m not a religious man, but if there is any god out there that can get me to Cali on time, I’m willing to convert.
“$800?! You’ve got to be kidding me?! There’s no way!”
“Look, I don’t know what to tell you, guy. It’s an aluminium radiator. That shit ain’t cheap. Plus, there’s the installation fee. If you boys have the money, I can have it all done by tomorrow morning. Let me know what you wanna do.”
“Come on. You gotta have an old one lying around?”
“’fraid not.”
$800!!! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUUUUUUCK! There is no God!!!
“Hey Jonathan, you hearing this?”
“Yeah, I heard. How much have we got?”
“I got $84.”
“Eddie?”
“Um…let’s see. I have $15 and a bag of chump change in the van.”
“How much chump change?”
“I dunno, man. Like, a normal bag full.”
“What the fuck is a nor- you know what never mind. I have $100. Steve, please tell me you have money?”
“Yeah, come on, rich boy! Cough it up. I know your daddy must have given you a fat wad before you left.”
“Shut the fuck up, Hargrove! You don’t know shit!”
“Get outta my face, Harrington! Unless you want me to rearrange yours.”
“Whoa, whoa, easy, easy! I know we’re stressed but now is not the time. What have you got, Steve?”
“$250.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“We’re screwed. We are so fucking screwed. Now I’ll never get to Argyle!! This is exactly why I wanted to take Steve’s car in the first place! I hope you’re happy, assholes!”
“Geez, Byers, fucking relax. We’ll figure something out.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“I’ve got an idea! But Billy’s not going to like it.”
“What? I don’t like that look, fucker! Whatever it is, I’m not doing it.”
“But you look so good all oiled up in short shorts.”
“Munson, no.”
“Munson, yes.”
“Why can’t you fucking do it?!”
“Pfft, no one wants to see my scrawny ass on a pole, trust me.”
“Oh my god! Are we pimping Billy?!”
“No, Steeeve. We are not pimping Billy. He’s simply going to offer his services to this fine establishment.”
“A flyer for an all-male strip club? Were the fuck did you even find that?!”
“Irrelevant. Steve, you go supervise Billy.”
“Wait, I never agr-”
“Wait, this place is back in Garden city! That’s, like, an hour away!!”
“Then, we better get to hitchhiking, Harrington. I heard you’re real good at it.”
“Aww, fuck. Seriously?! And why are you suddenly onboard with all this?”
“Don’t worry, Stevie. Billy is much better equipped to protect you from any truckers with less than noble intentions than Byers here.”
“Tch, Jon, you told them! Unbelievable.”
“What about you and Byers? Doesn’t seem fair that me and Harrington have to do all the grunt work.”
“Myself and Jonnie here will go peddle some of my wares to the wayward folk of Syracuse.”
“Whatever. Maybe Garden city has some hot metalheads that don’t make their boyfriends sell their bodies for money that I could hook up with.”
“Baby, stop being so dramatic. We all know you do that shit for free anytime we’re in Boystown.”
“Fuck you. I’m outta here. Come on, Harrington.”
“Love you, too, sweetheart!”
“Uh, why do I have to go with you? You’ve never needed help dealing before.”
“We’re in unknown territory, Byers. You look shady and I look scary. Shit works better this way. It’s safer.”
“Gee, thanks. Well, you look shady and scary enough for the both of us? Why can’t you just do it and leave me out of it?”
“Oh Jonnie. Jonnie, Jonnie, Jonnie. Look, I’m doing you a favor here, man. Do you really want to go and watch Billy grinding on people? Yeah, didn’t think so. But if you really don’t want to come with me, I won’t make you, but I really could do with a lookout. You never know, right? Strength in numbers and all that.”
“Fine. But the minute shit starts to go sideways, you’ll get one warning shout and then I’m gone. You’ve fucked this trip up on me enough already, you’re not getting me arrested, too.”
“Eh, fair enough. I’ll take it.”
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it turns out, going with Eddie to deal drugs to get money for the new radiator probably was for the best after all. The deals went off, surprisingly, without a hitch. Syracuse is a sleepy town, even in the shadier areas. There wasn’t much need for a lookout which was fine by me. I was a little concerned about the quantity of drugs Eddie was carrying. I thought he might have had a couple of ounces of weed or whatever, but he had heavier stuff on him, too. Thank whatever God is out there that we never got pulled over and searched on this trip. I’m not really familiar with the law but I’m sure he had enough on him to land us all behind bars for a long time. Still, we are rid of it and Eddie now has more than enough to cover the rest needed for the radiator.
We ended up at a bar to wait it out until Billy and Steve got back and Eddie somehow managed to sweet-talk the owner into letting him play for the patrons. I’ve heard Eddie play with his band a few times back at the Hideout and he exclusively played heavy metal – really heavy metal. The type where you can hardly discern the lyrics from all the low growl/singing and wailing guitar drowning it out. I don’t mind it so much. It’s no Clash, but I kind of like it. Well, it’s growing on me. But it’s definitely not the type of music that would appeal to the people here at this bar. So, I was pleasantly surprised when Eddie pulled an old, beat-up acoustic out of the back of his van. I didn’t know Eddie knew anything much outside of metal. The Woody Guthrie, Johnny Cash, and Bob Dylan I get. But he even had Fleetwood Mac in there! Which, like, what the fuck. Eddie Munson likes Fleetwood Mac?! I did not see that coming! He’s got a good voice too now that I can hear it. He should do things like this more often back home. The bar flies here are really eating it up and I’m sure they would back in Hawkins, too. He knows his audience and what they want.
“Woo-hoo! Hey Byers! Take a look at this! Another 110 bucks!”
“Whoa, man. That’s great! That guy gave you 110 bucks for singing for an hour?!”
“Not exactly. I actually paid him in a few joints to let me perform. I made all this through tips. Drunk people sure are extra generous with their money.”
“Holy shit! We’ve more than enough for the repairs and then some. I guess it’s lucky you brought your guitar and drugs. Thanks, man. And I’m sorry I keep snapping at you. You really came through.”
“Not a problem, Byers. I figured we might’ve needed some extra cash in case of an emergency and came prepared. See, I am the responsible one of the group!”
“Huh, I guess so…Wait! Hold up! You prepared – meaning you knew you could get the money together for the radiator yourself.”
“Sure did.”
“Then, why on earth did you send Billy and Steve to that strip club?!”
“Easy. Stevie has to see what he’s missing out on.”
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you have to go to work so you can pay for your doctor, who is not taking your insurance right now, and if you say i can't afford the doctor's you are told - get a better job. it is very sad that you are unwell, yes, but maybe you should have thought about that before not having a better job.
(where is the better job? who is giving out these better jobs? you are sick, you are hurting - how the hell are you supposed to be well enough for this better job?)
but you go to the doctor because you had the nerve to be hurt or sick or whatever else. and they tell you that it is because you have anxiety. you try your best. you are a self-advocate. you've done the reading (which sometimes pisses them off worse, honestly). you say it is actually adding to my anxiety, it is effecting my quality of life. so they say that you are fat. they say that all young people have this happen to them, isn't it a medical marvel! they say that you should eat more vegetables. they say that you probably just need to lose a little more weight, and that you are faking it for attention.
(what attention could this doctor possibly give? what validation? that's their fucking job, isn't it?)
there is always a hypochondriac, right. someone always tells you about a hypochondriac. or someone who is unnecessarily aggressive during the worst days of their life. or someone looking "for a quick fix". or some idiot who wasn't educated about how to properly care for themselves who just abandons their treatment. and again, the hypochondriac, the overly-cautious hysteric. these people don't deserve to be treated like humans (right), and since you might be one of these people, you also don't get treated like a human. because those people can really fuck with the system, you now have to pay for it. and besides. you're actually probably faking it.
(more often than not, you find a 2:1 ratio of these stories. for every "hypochondriac", there are 2 people who knew something was wrong, and yet nobody could fucking find it. the story often ends with pointless suffering. the story often ends with and now it's too late, and it's going to kill me.)
you are actually just making excuses. someone else got that procedure or that diagnosis and he's fine, you should be fine too. someone else said they watched a documentary about other inspirational people with your exact same condition, maybe you should be inspirational, too. you're just too morbid. your pain and your experience is probably just not statistically concerning. it is all self-reported anyway, and you're just being a baby.
(once, while sitting down in the middle of making coffee, you had the sudden, horrible thought - i could kill myself to make the pain stop. you had to call your best friend after that. had to pet your dog. had to cry about it in the shower. you won't, but that moment - god, fuck. the pain just goes on and on.)
you know someone who went in for routine surgery and said i still feel everything. they told her to just relax. it took her kicking and screaming before they figured out she wasn't lying - the anesthetic drip hadn't been working. you know someone who went in for severe migraines who was told drink water and lose weight. you know someone who was actively bleeding out and throwing up in the ER and was told you're just having a bad period.
in the ER there are always these little posters saying things like "don't wait! get checked today!" and you think about how often you do wait. how often the days spool out. you once waited a full week before seeing the doctor for what you thought was a sprained wrist. it had actually been broken - they had to rebreak it to set it.
but you go into the doctor. the problem you're having is immediate. the person behind the counter frowns and says we're not taking your insurance. you will be paying for this out-of-pocket.
they send you home with tylenol and a little health packet about weight loss or anxiety or attention deficit. on the front it has your birthday and diagnosis. you think about crying, and the words swim. it might as well say go fuck yourself. it might as well say you're a fucking idiot. it might as well say light your money on fire and lie down in it. and the entire fucking time - the problem persists.
it's okay. it's okay, it's just another thing, you think. it's just another thing i have to learn to live with.
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