Fergal, as usual, arrived early. He was tapping the tops of his ugly boots on the thin, beige mat somebody had placed by the door when I heard him mumbling something. Then, “Jesus.” He slicked little drops of water from the shoulders of his coat. “Do you believe this fuckin’ weather?”
“What? Yeah.” I rubbed my eyes.
“It’s shit. It’s shit.”
“Yeah.”
“So anything exciting?”
I decided not to tell him about the date with Rita; I didn’t want to hear him go on and on with his usual horseshit stories about the girls he fucked when he was my age. Fucking in rest stops, in bars, under rides at county fairs. It was depressing that women had sex with guys like Fergal. That is, if the stories were true.
“I looked down, saw her hand was on the neck of the bottle, stroking up and down.”
“What do you think?” I made a move for my jacket.
“Hey, what you doin’ Cuz?”
“Going home.”
Fergal darted awkwardly around me. “Oh no no. Nope. Nada.” He put his hands on my shoulders and looked in my eyes. I made out a constellation with his zits. A scarecrow on his left cheek. “You’re staying until midnight tonight, remember? You and me tonight. ‘Til midnight.” He was apologetic, for whatever reason.
“Shit.” I had forgotten. I was to stay an extra three hours so that Fergal could do inventory.
“Sorry bud.” He moved to the deli section and started picking little shards of lettuce from the cracks between the thick cutting boards.
I didn’t want to stay and said so.
“Don’t really matter what you want.” He slid his hand along the edge of the cooler. “It matters what you got to do.” A maxim.
I nodded and rubbed the stubble along my cheeks. I took the coat from the cigarette display and put it on. After a few steps to the door, I decided it best to flip him off as I pushed the door open.
He yelled, “Fuck you, man. You’re, you’re fired.”
“Fuck you too, Pizzaface.”
It was sleeting. Or maybe it was just heavy snow. Whatever it was, when it hit the pavement, it cracked and popped. Different little booms. The sound of living wood when it burns.
I walked the concrete toward home and felt edgy. The prospect of finding a new job wasn’t fun and it wasn’t easy. I had applied to at least twenty places before I had gotten the phone call for an interview at the gas station. Morgantown’s unemployment rate, I read in the paper once at the station, was twice the national average. I was the poster child for that piece, I thought.
Still, I felt carnal, excited. I was on a new venture and I hadn’t let Fergal, them—whoever they were—get me. I wasn’t tamed. I wasn’t whipped. Most of all, I got a rush from quitting. It was a little high I felt in my dick that worked its way up my stomach into my heart. I felt like a hard ass; I knew it was a good feeling to have before seeing Rita.
I whistled some metal song. I strutted. I spread my arms, closed my eyes. I arched my head up, offering my uncovered face and neck to the sleet.
It felt cold, wayward. Free will, I thought, must feel a little bit like this.
I got back to my apartment and immediately began stripping. I’d find some time to burn the uniform, I thought, later in the week. I had plenty of time and a big, silver trashcan for stuff like that. The sides of it where charred and covered in the remnants of pictures of ex-girlfriends, shitty sci-fi books, old uniforms, stuff like that. I saw it sitting attentive beside my bed and was proud of it.
I finally undressed. I walked naked into the kitchen and grabbed a big white jug of bleach from the sink. I walked over to a bowl that I kept on my shitty, rusted metal dinner table and carefully poured the bleach into it. The fruit flies were winning and it was time to launch another assault. By the numbers of them hovering over throughout the room, I didn’t know if it worked, honestly, but my mother said it would.
I walked to the bathroom, pulled the shower’s handle all the way to hot and walked back out to turn on some music. “Youth Gone Wild” played on the radio. I’m not the type to tempt fate, I thought, smiled and entered the steam-filled bathroom. It was an ugly place. Public restrooms were better maintained. It had puke-colored floors with plaster and nail holes throughout the walls. The toilet didn’t have a lid and I had a tendency to forget flushing. I’d get pissed at myself when I saw it full of shit or cigarette ash. I’d ask myself what I had done. I forgot it when the water cleared out.
Over the shower’s hum, I could barely hear the guitar, but it was enough to pump me up for the date.
I washed myself over twice, trying to get the stench of gasoline and tuna salad off of my hands and dick. I didn’t necessarily think my dick smelled, but it was smart to be safe. The suds ran off of me and down the drain. I lathered up again, then again. It was good to be careful with a woman like Rita.
I got out, put on my best white button-up and khakis. In the mirror, I realized I needed to iron the shirt. I said, “Fuck it” and put on my leather jacket. I held a red and blue striped tie up to my neck, thought better of formality and tossed it into the pile of clothes coating my floor.
I grabbed a pack of cigarettes from my work pants’ pocket, a big bottle of wine from a cabinet that I had saved for such an occasion, and my keys. I don’t know why I took the latter, really. I didn’t lock the door when I left; I didn’t have anything worth stealing.
Rita came to the door dressed in white lingerie. Whatever pretenses I had thought were going to be required that night—a friendly chat, some tall glasses of vino, a piss-boring movie I’d have to sit through—evaporated from me.
“Well?” She had turned and sat down on the couch. Her legs were long and firm. White stockings stretched down to her feet. A pair of white high heels pierced the shallow carpet with their brilliant spikes.
I was still standing in the doorway with a bottle of relatively cheap merlot. It dangled from two fingers, covering my hard dick.
She laughed, “Come in.”
“Yes. Yes.” Sweat condensed on my neck. Until that moment, I had thought I understood all women. In some way, she took a bit of extravagance from my ego. It was a nice way for it to go.
I walked in, took off my jacket and sat down on a soft, bright orange corduroy couch. It sat low to the carpet and my knees arched up uncomfortably. I spun the bottle of merlot between my legs.
“I’m glad you work where you do,” she said. “I never get to see many men our age.”
“That so?” I tried to be clever, sexy.
It worked. She flipped to her hands and knees and crawled close to my face.
“Well that’s a shame then.” I felt her breath on my lips, “Because–”
Thankfully, Rita ignored me. She straddled my lap, kissed my neck. I looked down, saw her hand was on the neck of the bottle, stroking up and down.
With a hand, I angled her mouth up to mine and kissed her there. She was the first woman I had kissed since I returned to Morgantown. She tasted like vanilla ice cream and lemonade. She smelled like Zen must smell: metallic, sanctified, sugary.
She disconnected her hand from the bottle, laid it cork-up on the carpet, then ripped my zipper down. I felt her hand searching through the thick material of my boxers when the phone rang. Loud. She startled, looked at me to confirm it was indeed the telephone. It kept ringing.
I swore in my mind, bit my lip to keep my mouth from spouting the words pulsing in my head: Fuck. Piss. Shit. Fuck.
She kissed my neck politely. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.” She rolled off of my lap and grabbed the cordless black phone from its dock. I watched her ass wobble until it was shielded by a loveseat, across the room.
I only heard her say “Hello” before she had run off and closed some black door. Only a soft, unintelligible mumble kept me company while I sat on the couch with my hard-on. After a minute, I decided it best to tuck it back and down to my thigh. I felt a little humiliated. I sighed and looked for the wine.
It was still sitting on the floor, unopened. I fished through my pockets and got out the bottle opener.
It popped. “Cheers to preparedness.” I took a swig from the bottle and looked around the room.
The walls were made up of dark wood slats, about six inches wide. On a few tables, pictures of Rita, a black man, and sometimes, the mixed-race baby. They were at the beach, with others at a pool. There were some old black people, some older white people. A picture of a Maltese puppy in a frame that was lined with the words “Our Little Mutt.” There were plastic flowers in vases and an old television with a set of antennas. A few beige candles burned away in glass orbs on a bookshelf. Three, thick navy albums, a little brass globe and more pictures were dispersed throughout the shelves. On the loveseat, a few decorative pillows read, “Love makes the World Go Round!” and “Home is where the Heart is!”
I got a bad feeling and knocked back the bottle. It was dry and sharp. Decent for the price.
Ten minutes had gone by until Rita returned from the room. She was wearing a short, pink sweatshirt and tight jeans that stretched over her hips. An unfortunate consequence of motherhood, I thought.
“Hey,” she said, “I’m going to step out for like, eight minutes.”
“Oh okay, I should go too, then.”
“No!” She threw her hands up and walked over to me. “Don’t leave. I want you here when I get back.” She bent down and kissed me on the nose.
I felt like a child but agreed to stay. I leaned to the back of the couch and took another drink of wine. The drama in Rita’s life was more palpable now. She was probably a single mother.
I relaxed, figured her exit had something to do with the baby. I couldn’t exactly fault her for that, I thought.
“Okay. Great.” She smiled. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be back.”
I smiled back, “Oh, I’m sure I can busy myself for eight minutes.”
I sat around for awhile, until the wine was finished. It’d been thirty minutes or so before I emptied the thing and after that, boredom stuck its heavy hand into my head and chest. I kept looking at the pictures. The man’s smile was bright and genuine. He was probably her ex-husband. Or at least, her ex-boyfriend.
What the hell am I doing here? I’m going to get my ass beat, I thought. What woman keeps pictures like this around if they’re not dating the guy?
I talked myself out of leaving four or five times, then got up to open a window. I hadn’t realized how powerful the wine was and when I made it a few steps, I could feel the warm buzz I enjoyed on the couch turn into a hot one. After a few more steps, I was seeing another unfortunate counterpart of too much wine: a slight, nauseating vertigo.
None of the windows opened when I pushed the glass up. So, I took a stroll around the couch. The black door to Rita’s bedroom was still ajar from when she had changed. I walked over and peeked in. Her bedroom was lined with plush, burgundy pillows and more beige candles, flickering.
I saw the white panties tossed on the floor by her bed. Without much thought, without any remorse, I shoved the door open. It was a light door. It swung fast, without friction, until it smacked against something stiff. Then I heard two things, heavy things, hit the carpet with respective clunks.
I walked in. On the floor, the shoes were spread on the bra and some white, see-through veil that hung down from each cup. I picked up one shoe; the silk stuck. It wouldn’t pull apart, I figured, without ripping.
I studied it for a while. Then, after its aesthetics were exhausted, I dangled it from the shoe, over my head. I ran the veil over my face. A bride’s sanctuary. I became horny again thinking of Rita.
I tossed the shoe and the attached bra back on the floor. The panties were still by the bed. I picked them up and ran the material through my fingers. It felt cool like Rita’s comforter looked: soft and effortless.
I sat on the bed and pulled down my pants. I’d surprise Rita when she returned. The comforter felt good on the unclothed parts. It felt like hot, sultry sex. Future sex, past sex, present sex. Sex. All sex.
I swayed her panties over my dick until I got hard again. I balled the silk up in my hand and slid it over myself, thinking of Rita, what I could expect when she returned. Whenever that’d be.
I finally heard the front door open. I pulled my pants around my waist, got up from the bed and peeked through the cavity to her living room. I didn’t see her, much of anything, but I stuffed the panties—stained a pale yellow in two spots because of the fun I had—in my pocket.
“Fuck you!” I heard Rita say. “Get the fuck off my door!”
I jumped back, whispered, “Fuck.”
“No! Goddamnit!” A male voice. “I’m not leaving until you fucking listen, Courtney. Goddamnit!” An angry male voice. Coarse, but still resonant because of its rage.
Courtney? I whispered fuck a few more times.
“Just leave, please.” She was practically begging the guy.
“No.” Then I heard a hand smack the door. “Let me in dammit!”
“Get–” she was shoving against him, the door. I couldn’t see it, but I knew what that sounded like. She was grunting, panting a little. Her nails were scraping against the thin wood of the door. “Please–”
“Goddamnit!” he screamed and shoved forward. The door smacked against the wall. From the crack, I saw the ends of her hair rush up. A thud. She began crying outright.
I grabbed the first thing I saw: a big, blue, empty vase from her dresser. I tossed it from hand to hand, feeling it an appropriate weight for what I was about to do.
Her bedroom window was big, but close. I tossed the burgundy curtains, the blinds aside and cracked a hole in it. I broke the glass in two strikes. It wasn’t what I had seen in movies; I hadn’t expected the glass to be so resilient. Three or four swings left me no luck. I knew I needed an opening that I could fit and I had only a small hole that a midget or medium-sized dog might pass through.
“What the fuck was that? What the fuck– You got somebody here, you fucking bitch?” I heard something, a smack, a blow. Something that caused Rita, or Courtney, to whimper.
I jumped up, thinking I might use the curtain rod to swing and maybe kick out more glass. The thin metal bowed, snapped from my weight. I landed on my back.
Before I could get up, the bedroom door snapped open. A few candles fell to the floor. Some fat, gray-haired man stood with the light of the candles casting him in profile. His hands and face were wide, he heaved his chest. I saw the empty bottle of wine glow in his hand. He was holding it like a club. He smashed it against the wall. It splintered little pieces on the bed, the carpet. I felt a piece or two hit my face.
I jumped up and ran at him. I kicked him in the stomach. It felt more dense than it looked, for sure. I turned, hit my feet maybe twice and dove head first through the little glass crack. The shards I hadn’t cleared out with the vase sliced my shoulders, my back and calves. It felt hot, but not painful. I was still drunk enough, I guess.
I fell only ten feet or so, but it felt like much longer. I hit my shoulder and took a pretty decent scrape from a shrub and the inevitable mulch it was planted in.
I got up, looked into the window for a few seconds. The old man wasn’t following me. I walked slowly through the clear night. It was a little warmer than I had expected.
I took off my shirt and only stopped to rub snow in the deepest cuts.
“Fuck,” I said when I finally noticed the cold, “I forgot my fucking jacket.”
Picasso was drinking with two girls when I got to McCaughey’s. I didn’t bother him, just pulled up a stool and tried to get the attention of the girl bartending.
Within a minute, though, he came up and touched my shoulder. “You look like fucking hell.” He tilted his head so he could see my back. “And you’re bleeding?”
“Yes,” I said. “Don’t touch that shit. And don’t talk about it. I’m trying to get fucked tonight.”
“Fucked?” he asked, stunned.
“I need it.”
“I doubt you’re getting ass tonight. I can see the blood through your shirt. And I don‘t even have X-ray vision, like Superman.” From the reference, I could tell he was probably slightly high.
“Maybe it’ll make me look tough.” Despite a numb backside, my night, the fact that my buzz was dead, I smiled. Picasso was good for that, at least.
“I’d say…creepy and/or insane.”
“That’ll do.” I anchored my elbow on the countertop and stuck a finger up for a drink. The girl ignored me.
Picasso kept staring. “You sure you’re okay?”
“It’ll clot up here soon.” I slammed my elbow down. “Can I get some fucking service?”
“I’m talking to these random vaginas. You want to join us?” He seemed shaken because of the blood. I liked it a little.
“When I GET A FUCKING BEER.” The girl walked to the end of the bar and got on the bar’s red phone. I realized that I wasn’t doing anything right, thought I should’ve said whiskey. I needed a stiff drink.
Picasso’s eyes widened a little. “Yeah. She dialed three numbers.”
“So?”
“She’s calling the cops.”
“Can’t a man fucking bleed around here?”
Picasso laughed, “Guess not.”
“I need fucking alcohol.” I pounded the countertop with both fists.
“C’mon. We’ll get you some.” He motioned to me, the random girls to follow him out of the bar.
I got up, began walking out the door. I stuck my hands in my pockets to get a cigarette. I could feel the cold, smooth lining of Courtney’s silk panties smash against my open hand.