Author's note: References events in the "Smallville" TV show episode "Promise".
Step Five: Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
"Well, that went well," Perry said sarcastically. He pounded the car seat next to him with frustration and thought about blowing the horn five or six times just to let off steam. Unsaid retorts quivered at the tip of his tongue, and his stomach churned with retained bile.
He wanted a drink. Right now, he wanted a drink. Badly. Anger – always a difficult emotion to deal with. But Perry recognized the "caution" signs now. He ruthlessly shoved down the longing, turned his thoughts away from the craving in a practiced minuet.
OK, White, go visit your source. Get some work done on that article. Throwing himself into his work helped stop the craving, got his mind off the desire for a drink and onto another path. Perry mashed the accelerator to the floor. Tires squealing, he set off for Suicide Slum
By the time he reached the abandoned building that was to be his rendezvous, Perry had cooled a bit. Common sense lifted its head, asked to be recognized and have the floor. What the hell am I doing here an hour early? You know it's not a good idea to hang around Suicide Slum! You're just fresh meat for the predators here.
He stayed where he was. He'd gotten a hot tip on a major drug story, and he wasn't going to mess it up by failing to connect with his source. Perry turned the ignition key to "off"; his car's lights faded away, and his ten-year-old beater fit right in on the streets of the slum. Perry slid down in the seat to be less visible, staying just erect enough to peer over the dashboard.
The cooling car made a few popping and crackling noises in the brisk autumn air. Perry kept the windows rolled up, not just for temperature control but for safety. He hoped to lie low here, avoid notice until he could meet with the source.
He kept a close eye on his surroundings. A few lonely derelicts passed by, but in this neighborhood you could fire a cannon down the street after dark and not hit a single soul. Behind Perry's car, several burned-out buildings had collapsed. In the lots next to them, the city had at least cleared the debris of urban wastage, leaving what amounted to an open meadow. One time, Perry had come here during the day, and had actually seen quail wandering through the meadow, hiding in the tall grass of the lot between two condemned and crumbling buildings.
Perry looked up at the sunset. The red sky silhouetted a tree – more than just a sapling, a fairly good-sized tree – growing on the roof of the building next door. A former apartment building, the three-story brick structure had long ago lost its doors, windows, gutters, piping, and anything remotely valuable. Scrap metal scavengers, bums looking for a place to stay, drug addicts seeking shelter to shoot up – all had done their bit to bring the building to the status it enjoyed now. That is, waiting for demolition. A large "Condemned – Unsafe" sign decorated the front of the building, next to the gaping black hole that had once been its entrance doors.
A tiny blur of motion caught Perry's eye. He widened his eyes in surprise. He recognized that red jacket. This person definitely wasn't his source. And he definitely didn't belong here. In fact, Clark Kent would be fresh meat for the predators of Suicide Slum. Perry had an uneasy feeling as to why the Smallville kid would be here, now.
Without even realizing it, Perry opened the door and followed Kent to the apartment building. That kid must be fast, he thought. In the time Perry took to get out of the car, Kent had gotten half a block to get to the apartment "door".
Perry walked quickly to the opening in the brick façade of the building. He looked up nervously. A faint smudge of dust still hung in the air, and he could see Kent's footsteps amidst the debris scattering the floor of the former lobby. The twilight didn't give enough illumination to see more. Perry pricked up his ears. Was that a scream? Or a shout? Or both?
He heard a sound. What was it? It sounded sort of like a jackhammer. But it wasn't. And mixed with the rapid pounding was a low, fierce moan or growl. Then Perry looked up in alarm as the building gave an ominous creak. For just a moment, he thought he saw a red-and-blue figure, punching the walls, in the stair landing. Or was it just a blur? The rapidly darkening twilight concealed more than it revealed.
"Clark!" Perry called. To the devil with trying to remain concealed now. He owed it to Clark to get him out of a bad situation. That kid didn't realize what he was getting into. "Clark!" Perry called again.
With a slow, majestic creaking, the building shivered. Perry felt his stomach clench as he realized where he'd seen that before. Oh yes. It was on September 11, 2001, where he'd watched in horrified fascination as the Twin Towers of the Global Commerce Center had shiveredthat way, right before they collapsed.
"Oh, sh!t," Perry said quietly. The building was making more ominous noises. He called once more – "Kent!" – as he turned on his heel to run out the door. But he knew, with a cold sickness deep in his gut, that he was too late. The building was going to collapse on him. He would die here.
Perry ran for the door opening. He seemed to be running in slow motion; the door tauntingly receded from him, nightmare-like. He inhaled dry plaster dust sifting down from the upper floors. The door was only a few feet away. Just a few more steps…
The building collapsed on him. Everything went black.
Perry awoke with a pounding headache. Detachedly, he compared it to a hangover headache. Similar intensity, but different feeling. What had happened? Oh yes. A building fell on him. He thought about opening his eyes, and decided not to. No doubt he was crushed or paralyzed or something. There certainly was a feeling of pressure over his body.
He could hear strange crashing noises in the background. It was probably the building settling. The pressure on his body lightened.
"Mr. White? Mr. White?" an anxious voice queried him. A hand touched his head.
"Mr. White? Are you OK?" the voice asked.
Slowly Perry opened his eyes. Dust sifted from his eyelashes, and automatically he reached up to wipe it away. Joy raced through him as Perry realized he could move. He wasn't paralyzed. He coughed.
"Mr. White?" the voice asked again.
Perry turned his head just a bit, and winced at the stab of pain. Who was that? "Clark. Clark Kent," he mumbled. Why did Clark look so blurry? Perry rubbed his eyes again and Clark came into a little better focus. With the strange focus of reportorial instinct, he noticed that Clark's red jacket was torn and dusty, like a building had fallen on it. Clark looked concerned.
"Clark?" Perry mumbled again.
"Perry," Kent replied, sounding relieved. "The building fell down. You got hit in the head. I think you have a concussion."
"Oh," Perry said distantly. "That explains it."
"What?" Clark replied.
"The way I feel," said Perry, and promptly slipped back into unconsciousness.
Sirens and flashing lights roused him. "You're going to Metropolis General," Clark told him. It was full night now. Most of the dust had sifted out of the cool night air by now.
"OK," Perry replied dully. He realized that he couldn't move his head – it was restrained in a cervical collar. And he was strapped to a stretcher. In fact, the ambulance attendants were lifting him inside right now. He moved his eyes to one side and saw his car.
Even through the pain and daze caused by his concussion, Perry could feel chagrin and incredulity. Damn. A big piece of building debris had crushed the car roof. If he'd been sitting in the front seat, he'd have been a pancake.
A bright light caught his attention. The EMT was checking his pupil sizes with a penlight, and apparently wasn't satisfied by the results, based on his frown. Perry decided to do something about that. "Don't do that," he said, reaching up to the EMT….
And the next moment, the bright light was the morning sun, streaming in through the blinds of a hospital room. Perry awoke and checked the headache – much less now.
He made an inarticulate noise, and suddenly a figure stood beside him.
"Mr. White?"
"Clark, I thought I told you it was Perry now," Perry said.
"Perry. How are you feeling?"
Before he answered, Perry checked out his toes and fingers. They all moved. Despite feeling like a building had dropped on him, bruised and battered, Perry was happy.
"Well, I've felt better," he said. "But I think I'm going to be OK."
He turned his head and caught Clark's subtle sigh of relief. Perry got that hinky feeling about Clark Kent again, and decided to ask. "What happened anyway?"
Clark sighed and looked away. "Well, um, Perry, the building collapsed. You made it out the door, but a block must have hit you on the head."
Perry let that one sit there for a minute while he examined it. It sounded plausible. But, even though he'd been hit on the head, Perry remembered one thing. He hadn't made it to the door. The door had been his salvation, and he had missed it. Perry remembered not making it out, being ready to die.
Time to find out more, then. "I'm glad you found me, Clark," Perry said mildly.
"Um, yeah, you're welcome."
"By the way, Clark, just what were you doing there anyway?" Perry shot the harpoon with precise aim.
"Uh…" Perry had Clark at a loss now.
"I know what you were doing there," Perry said flatly. "I've been reading the papers." He spared a moment to smile inwardly at the ironic line, but kept his outer demeanor serious. "Your girlfriend got married to someone else, didn't she?"
Clark gaped at him in surprise.
Perry continued. "And you couldn't take it." He kept his gimlet gaze on Clark. "I saw how much you cared for her that time I was in Smallville." He caught a flicker in Clark's expression. "And Lana Lang married Lex Luthor. And you couldn't take it." The next statement would be tough on the kid, but Perry had learned by now that honesty was the only way. "So you came down to Suicide Slum to do a drug deal. You were going to go back on drugs, weren't you?"
Perry caught Clark's ashamed expression. "Um…." Clark mumbled.
"Clark, the only reason a nice Smallville kid like you would be down in Suicide Slum is because of drugs. Why else? Admit it. You were setting up a drug buy."
Clark stayed silent for a moment, this time not looking away from Perry's intent gaze. After a moment, he sighed again.
"I did think about…doing drugs again," Clark admitted. "I can't deny that." He looked like he wanted to say something more, but didn't know how to say it. "But I didn't."
"Go on," Perry said neutrally. He was pretty good at detecting a liar, and he didn't think Clark was lying now.
"When I saw that "Condemned" sign on the building, I just wanted to go in and punch something, even if it was a brick wall." Clark gave a rueful smile. "I figured that was better than going back to the drugs."
Perry stared at him for a long moment. Clark's confession had the ring of truth.
"Well, you must have hit the building in just the right way," Perry said sarcastically, "because it collapsed. And hit my head. And gave me a concussion. And destroyed my car."
A grimace flashed across Clark's face. "Um, I'm sorry…" he trailed off.
"Oh, what the hell, kid, it's not your fault," Perry allowed. "I'm sure the collapse was just a coincidence. I've got a hell of a headache here and I'm taking it out on you."
Clark said nothing, just looked guilty.
Perry adjusted his position in the hospital bed, and gave a quick hiss of pain. Maybe the meds they had him on weren't enough. From his drinking days, Perry's liver was well-versed in detoxification. He could handle much higher doses than the average person.
In fact, did they even give you pain meds when you had a concussion? Perry didn't know. Suddenly the anger left him, and he just felt tired.
"Clark," he began.
"Yes?" the kid looked at him warily.
"Just let me tell you one thing." Perry glanced steadily at his visitor. "I've got some problems now – the concussion, the lack of a car, not meeting my source last night –"
"Sorry about that," Clark interjected. Apparently the kid couldn't stop apologizing, Perry thought.
"But if there's one thing I've learned over the past two years, it's that these things…I can handle these things. I can handle them – if I have my sobriety." He hoped Clark was picking up on the serious tone of his voice. "That's why I don't want to see you go the same way I did – wasted opportunities, wasted years…" Perry looked away for a moment, then turned back to the young man.
Clark stared at the floor.
Perry continued. "And I know it's hard losing your girl." He took a deep breath. "Do you want to know why I was really down there?"
Clark said nothing, but met his eyes in a curious look.
"I went to do a Fifth Step with Alice," Perry admitted. "Alice is my ex-wife," he told Clark. "You know Fifth Step?"
"Yeah," Clark said softly.
"So I went to apologize to her, and she listened a little bit, and then she threw me out. She's still mad at me for all the drinking. And not being there. And messing up her credit, and all the money stuff. And our kids…" Perry trailed off. "I wanted to tell her how much I regretted all of that," he said, almost to himself. "She's still pretty mad. She turned me away."
A long moment of silence. Perry felt, rather than saw, Clark's half-curious, half-sympathizing gaze on him.
"So I came to Suicide Slum to work," Perry said. "It was either work or drink. And I know where drink got me."
"I'm sorry," Clark said quietly.
"Well, I did a lot of things when I was drinking that I'm sorry for now," Perry said. "And I'll come back to Alice and try to apologize again. I don't know if she'll listen to me. But I'll keep on trying."
Clark nodded.
"So, kid, I don't know what's going on with you and your girlfriend, other than what I read in the papers," Perry finished. "Don't get into the drugs. They only make things worse. Just keep on trying. Keep on trying to do the right thing."
Clark nodded again. He essayed a tiny smile. "I was supposed to buy the coffee this time," he said.
Perry went to shake his head ruefully, stopped as a stab of pain pierced him. "I'll take a rain check," he said.
A noise at the door alerted them both to the presence of the floor nurse. "It's time for your meds," she told Perry, giving Clark a significant look at the same time.
"Um, it's time for me to go, but I'll visit you tomorrow," Clark told Perry.
"I hope I'll be out of here by tomorrow," Perry said.
"I'm not sure about that, Mr. White," the nurse said. "You got quite a bang on the head. You might be here for a few days."
Perry almost missed the flash of guilt that crossed Clark's face.
"Good-bye, Perry," Clark said, shaking his hand. "I'll stop by tomorrow."
Perry was strangely pleased. The young man exited the room, and Perry lost himself to the ministrations of the nurse.
Later on, half-asleep, he began having weird dreams. Or were they due to the pain meds? Or the concussion? He remembered running for the door, trying to get out of the building before it collapsed, and the door retreating from him in the strange way of dreams. And he remembered being borne to the floor by a heavy force. Turning his head, he saw the force was Clark Kent, who had tackled him somehow and was lying on top of him. And he saw a chunk of plaster and ironwork hit Clark on the head. But in the weird way of dreams, the chunk of debris, enough to crush Perry, bounced off Clark's head, shattering as it did so.
And more and more debris fell on them, but Perry was safe with Clark Kent's body covering his. Perry dreamed of plaster dust falling into his eyes, and having to close them, until the noise of the falling building stopped. Then he opened them, just in time to see Clark, buried under building debris – huge boulders of plaster, chunks of rusted support beams – stand up slowly and scatter the detritus with almost a casual stretching of his arms. The debris shot away from Clark like…like…well, Perry couldn't think of the right words in this dreamy half-awake state. All he knew was that it looked like Clark was throwing one-ton chunks of building debris around like they were pebbles.
And then Perry saw Clark looking down at him in a weird way, squinting almost. Perry remembered, blurrily, the concern in Clark's eyes, before Perry lost consciousness.
Got some weird dreams here, Perry, he told himself. Clark was right – Perry had to have made it out the door. No one could have survived the collapse of the building. Perry was concerned about the kid – he'd had some connection with Clark ever since the Smallville visit – and no doubt in his eagerness to warn Clark off drugs, and with the head injury, Perry was fabricating events.
He had to be hallucinating. Perry wrote so many newspaper stories – probably one human interest story every week - about local heroes. Now he was putting himself in one of those stories, he told himself. It had to be a dream. No one could shrug falling bricks off like confetti. No one could pick up steel beams and throw them off. What Perry thought he remembered was impossible.
