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I lean my bike against the house and walk in through the sliding glass door. I pant for breath and my stomach churns. A dull ache goes through my teeth each time I inhale. My face is cold and wind stung, my back is sticky with sweat. I walk through the kitchen into the living room and see the back of Andrea’s head over the top of the couch. She’s petting the dog. Iggy stares into the orange glow of the directional space heater, obsessed. I toss my backpack on the scuffed hardwood floor. Thud. Andrea turns around.
“Hey baby!”
“Hey.”
I take the full ashtray from the black coffee table at Andrea’s knees and walk to the kitchen to empty it. The trash can is already overflowing with coffee grounds and pizza boxes and vegetable scraps.
“Fucking bullshit.” I growl.
“What’s wrong baby?” Andrea calls from the other room.
“Nothing.” I reply, “I swear to God, I’m the only person who ever does a God damned thing in this house.”
“Come here baby, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I plop into the couch. ”I’m sorry, I’m just tired. Long day. That’s all.”
“Oh baby…” she massages my left shoulder with her right hand.
“I’m so sick of my job. I’m ready to leave. It’s the same thing, every day, I hate it. I hate all the idiots that eat there.”
She switches to my left thigh. “I know baby, but it’s almost done, one more month.”
“I know, I know. It’s so frustrating though. I just don’t care about any of these people I see all day.”
”Babe… You don’t have to be their friend or anything.”
“I know. I can’t even be polite anymore though. It’s getting bad. I feel like an asshole.”
“What did you do?”
”Nothing. Stupid shit, this guy was taking forever to choose a flavor, so I gave him like half scoops in his waffle cone. Not saying “goodnight” to people. Just snarky bullshit. But I hate people right now. I hate it.”
She smiles reproachingly. ”You gave him little tiny scoops?”
I smile guiltily.
”Baby…”
“I just feel so… Un-empathetic. I feel disconnected.”
“Baby, come here, come here.” She puts her right arm around me and gently pulls my head to her decolletage. With my left ear pressed warmly and comfortably into her sternum, she runs her fingers through my hair. ”I’m sorry you had a hard day baby. Just relax, let me pet you. We’ll get you some food, and something to drink… maybe a beer? Huh? And we’ll snuggle up in front of the heater with the pug and watch a funny movie, and I’ll rub your sexy little head. Ok?”
I exhale the day. ”Ok.”
“Ok. Now let mama get up so I can get you some food.” She lifts my head from her chest and kisses it: “Mwah!”
I lean back and close my eyes as she walks away. ”Baby…”
“Yes sweetheart?”
“Thank you.”
She laughs, “For what sweetie?”
“I dunno. For making me feel better. For taking care of me.”
“Oh baby.” She dismisses me with a wave of her hand, “I love you.”
January 12, 2009
It begins as a low rumble in the distance, as darkness beds down for night. The clouds infiltrate the purple sky in shredded silver columns, preceding the massing bulkhead. The clapboard house across the street lights up in the flash of God’s Instamatic. ”One one thousand, two one…” My count is interrupted by thunder like fireworks exploding in the upstairs room. Then sirens, first a fire engine, then an ambulance. Cop cars and taxi cabs are all that I can see drive past.
Another flash. ”One one thousand, two…” Another round of fireworks, just a little louder than the last, and I feel the first droplet, on my right ankle, exposed as it’s crossed over my left thigh. I look down at the suicidal raindrop on my ankle and a second droplet shatters on my nape. I drag on my cigarette. I exhale a cloud just thinner than the approaching thunderhead and toss the butt into the street. I stand up. I pick up my aluminum and nylon lawn chair and fold it up. I put the folded chair under my arm, and walk up the steps. I knock on the heavy steel screen door and look up into the mirror above the door. I hear a loud buzz and the door comes open with a thud, like dropping an aluminum baseball bat on a linoleum floor. I open the unlocked wooden door behind the screen. I bring myself and my chair inside, and close the wooden door behind me. I lean my chair just to the right of the door jamb and sit on the sofa under the stairs. I hear the heavy steel screen door thud shut and lock again.
I lay across the couch, my head on the armrest farthest from the door, my knees hooked over the other armrest, feet hanging over the side. I interlock the fingers of my hands and put them behind my head. I swing my feet in gentle alternating rhythm against the couch’s vinyl upholstery. I drum the pads of my interlocked fingers against the knuckles opposite. The couch is too short for my whole torso, so I’m bent at the waist and the hammer of my pistol is poking into my gut. I take the gun out of my waistband and set it on my belly, on top of my shirt. Another roar of thunder, the sound of God hitting a broken bat home run. It sounds so much farther away through the heavy wooden door. The cold seems so much farther away. The storm is here but I am warm and dry. My eyelids weigh a kilo each. I close my eyes.
I dream I’m in the home dugout of my high school baseball field. There’s a game going on, but I’m in the dugout. Coach has me by the lapels of my blue and silver varsity jacket. He’s yelling at me. He’s throwing me onto the field. I’m taking off my jacket and grabbing my glove and I’m running out to right field. The grass is dried yellow green and the sky is cloudless white gray. The batter seems a mile away. The pitcher winds up and delivers. The tiny batter swings, and connects, and the ball is flying towards me, its creamy white leather invisible as it rises against the milky sky. The crack of the bat reaches my ears.
I’m awake and the heavy wood door is splinters flying at me. I cover my face with my forearms and roll into the back of the couch. The gun slips from my belly and is pinned against the sofa. I turn my head and see black helmets and black machine guns and black gloves and black boots and black flack jackets. I’m torn from the sofa, my pistol falls to the floor. I see shag carpeting and feel those heavy boots on my back, on my arms: pinned behind my back. I feel cold metal around my wrists and the hot friction of the marbled brown shag against my face. Upstairs, another crack of the bat, and another and another, closer and smaller than the thunder, sharper, like m80s, like gunshots. I close my eyes.
January 11, 2009
