Five Minutes Alone by JJ Ritonya

JJ Ritonya is a self published author with one title to his name and another novel soon to be released. Sunset, an apocalyptic zombie tale was published in November of 2008 by Createspace. Hubbert's Peak, a novel taking place in the post Oil-War era in the desolate wastelands formerly known as the United States has a tentative release date of April 2009.

JJ Ritonya is a native of Omaha, NE where he currently resides with his wife and two daughters. Visit the official website of JJ Ritonya at www.jjritonya.com.

Peter entered the room through a glass door which faced a busy street. The door closed behind him shutting out the sounds of the city. The silence made him uncomfortable. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing to look at the newcomer. The bright fluorescent lights made them a little uglier and slightly less real.

Peter quickly spotted an open seat between an overweight woman in her forties and a scrawny teenage boy. He hurried over and sat down on the cold metal folding chair. The woman looked like she had ripped her dress off a shower rod, punched two armholes in it and popped her head through the top. The boy wore faded and torn blue jeans, a black concert t-shirt of a band Peter had never heard of and dark eyeliner around his eyes. Peter glanced at the rest of the group. Most looked nervous and very few talked. They all looked like Peter felt; like they'd rather be pushing needles into their eyes than sitting in this small, drab room with the rest of these losers. Not that he had any choice. His wife had made that perfectly clear. And what did he have to lose? The ad read: Five Minutes Alone. Fee Negotiable. What the hell did that mean anyway? If fee negotiable meant thirty five cents, some lint and a handshake, Peter was in business.

The room was long and skinny like a hallway. On one end was the doorway that Peter had entered through. The daylight struggled to penetrate the glass and illuminate the gray carpet as if it were trying to escape the room just as Peter wished he could. The walls were white drywall and at the far end of the room stood a wooden door with a brass door handle. A cheap looking plastic sign with a gold background and black lettering read: Private. Looking at the door made Peter nervous. He was about to get up and leave when he remembered his wife's warning. She would take the kid's and move to her mother's in Portland. He couldn't let that happen. That was the one thing that Peter feared; losing his kids. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing them only once or twice a year. That's what would happen if he didn't stay and do this.

Just then the wooden door at the end of the room opened and a pretty woman holding a clipboard stepped out. She wore a gray, knee length skirt and white blouse. On her feet were black, sensible, mid height heels and black, sensible eye glasses on her slim face. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly in a banana clip or something. Behind her, also emerging from the room was an elderly couple. The man appeared to be sleepwalking and the woman had a look of relief on her face. The woman holding the clipboard ushered them to the door while speaking quietly to the old woman. Once they were gone she turned to face the room while scanning her clipboard. Peter noticed she wore a white name tag with black lettering which read: Ms. Schiff.

"Carpenter?" Ms. Schiff called.

The obese woman wearing the shower curtain to Peter's right stood up nervously and raised a flabby arm. Ms. Schiff looked in her direction and spoke.

"The Shaman will see you now." She guided the obese woman through the wooden door and shut it behind her. The sound of the closing door had an eerie sense of finality that Peter couldn't put his finger on. It made him shiver.

Things would be different after today he had to keep telling himself. His crappy job, his failing marriage and his unsatisfying home life were all a result of his weakness. He had no motivation to do anything anymore. Well, just about anything. All he wanted to do these days was use…or play. And now he had to give up one or lose his family. That was okay. As long as he could still play the piano, he would be okay. When he couldn't get high the one thing that helped distract Peter's screwed up mind was playing. He had started at age nine. His father had taught him. Those were some of the best memories of Peter's childhood. Sure, it got bad when he would come home at night drunk off his ass but it was worth it.

Without warning the skinny teenager to Peter's left stood up. His mother reached out to try and keep him in his seat but it was no use. He turned on her with a red face that was both scared and angry.

"No. I'm not doing it." he said.

"Kevin, please. Sit down." his mother pleaded.

"NO!" he said this time much louder.

"Kevin, we have to do this."

Kevin was on the verge of tears now. "Can't we just go home? I promise I'll stop."

"We don't have a choice anymore, Kevin." his mother said sadly.

"NO!" the boy shouted through tears and sobs.

The wooden door opened and Ms. Schiff emerged looking furious. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line and her dark eyes darted around the room in search of the disturbance. The other people in the room cast their eyes to the floor or pretended to read the magazine they held. They all did their best to avoid making eye contact with her. When she spotted Kevin standing in front of his mother she swooped in a like a hawk after a field mouse. Kevin saw her emerge from the doorway and a look of fear crossed his face. He quickly sat down but it was too late. Ms. Schiff walked briskly toward him and his mother.

"Is there a problem?" Ms. Schiff asked.

Kevin's mother quickly attempted to appease her. "No, there's no problem. Kevin's just a little nervous about his visit today. That's all."

Ms. Schiff's eyes went from Kevin's mother to Kevin and stayed on him while she spoke through clenched teeth.

"I suggest your son keep the disturbances to a minimum. Interruptions will not be tolerated."

Kevin kept his eyes lowered and did not respond. His mother did for him.

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again." she said.

Ms. Schiff did not reply but turned and disappeared back through the wooden door. Kevin's mother whispered quietly to him as they waited. He was terrified of Ms. Schiff and apparently knew something Peter did not. He made no more disturbances.

Two hours passed and the room slowly emptied. Kevin and his mother had their turn and most of the other people were also gone. It was now just Peter and another man in the room. The wooden door opened and Ms. Schiff appeared once again.

"Mr. Stevens?" she said.

A jolt of panic shot through Peter and he felt as if he were going to faint. The spell passed as he slowly stood up. Ms. Schiff gave him a slight smile, fake of course, and led him into the back room closing the door behind them.

The room was similar to the one they had just left but much smaller. The only furniture was a small desk and three chairs; one on the far side of the desk and two on the near side. Ms. Schiff sat down on the far side with her back to another wooden door that led presumably to the Shaman. She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a folder filled with paperwork.

"I am going to need you to sign a few release forms before you go in." she said.

Peter sat down across from her and began to endorse the paperwork as Ms. Schiff explained what each one was for. Not that Peter cared. He would sign anything she put in front of him as long as he could see the man. And the man could help him kick his drug habit. As she spoke he became aware that he was basically releasing them from all liability for any physical or mental injury that happened to him while he was on his visit. This included, according to the paperwork which he barely looked at, damages incurred by previously mentioned parties or by the signee.

When they were done Ms. Schiff stood and guided him to the door behind her. She shook his hand and wished him luck before closing the door behind him. Peter was in a dimly lit room similar to the previous one. A large, colorful carpet busy with designs covered much of the floor. At the four edges sat candles which illuminated the room just enough to chase the shadows into corners. At the far end of the carpet facing Peter sat the Shaman. His eyes were closed and he sat cross legged with his hands lying limply on his lap. He had long black hair pulled back in a braid and an overgrown beard and mustache. He breathed slowly but did not speak. He wore a shiny gold robe that appeared to be made of silk. On the pant and sleeve cuffs a red band circled the cloth and his feet were bare. Around his neck was a large gold chain which held a coin sized medallion near his chest.

The Shaman opened his eyes and looked at him. A bolt of fear shot through Peter who almost turned tail and ran out the door. He motioned for Peter to sit across from him on the rug. Peter composed himself and took his place on the carpet. He sat, trying to think of what to do next when the Shaman spoke.

"You have chosen the path you desire?" he asked as he looked Peter directly in the eye. His voice sounded low and gruff. He had an accent Peter could not identify. It was possibly Turkish or Serbian but he didn't know which. Peter nodded. He was afraid his voice would crack from fear if he tried to speak.

"The price is of no consequence?" he asked.

Price? Peter had nothing of value. What price could he possibly pay? He almost laughed out loud in the Shaman's face despite his nerves. He shook his head to acknowledging he understood his decision.

"So be it." the Shaman said. He raised both hands from his lap and placed the palms together in front of his face. He then began to chant in a language Peter did not understand. It was hypnotizing in way Peter could not describe. In fact, he couldn't remember any more of their meeting.

The next thing he recalled was walking across the parking lot to his car. The piece of crap he had driven for the last six years sat rusting and looking like the old junker that it was. Peter pulled the keys from his pocket and was about to unlock the car door when it hit him. The urge to get high was gone. It was amazing. The only time he remembered not wanting to get high was when he was already high. He spent the rest of his time looking forward to getting high or trying to buy drugs to get high. Now, he could care less. The Shaman had cured him!

Peter opened the car door and sat down behind the wheel. He felt better than he had in years. The crack in the windshield that was set perfectly at eye level no longer bothered him. Neither did the smell of exhaust he had become accustomed to. All he wanted to do was get home. He wanted to eat dinner with his family and spend some time with his kids. He would help bathe them and tuck them into bed. After they were asleep he would play for an hour or so then maybe make love to his wife. Things were going to be okay.

Peter turned the key in the ignition and smiled when the car roared to life on the first try. Things were definitely changing for the better. He put the car in gear and placed both hands on the steering wheel. That's when he noticed it. The pinkie fingers and thumbs of both his hands were missing.

Peter leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and began to cry.

© 2009 by JJ Ritonya