Just the intro to my short story. Constructive feedback is always welcome. I haven’t been on HE for quite a while now, but I think I’m going to frequent here more again. I’ve got some blogs already in the works, but wanted to dump this here first. Thanks for reading :)
The alarm goes off. Beep. Beep. Beep. The snooze button is getting worn down, the letters so faint that it spells the word ‘No’ instead of snooze. Daylight breaks in to the apartment through the small spaces where the blind is broken; probably from some night of drinking I cannot remember, reaching my feeble eyes in a last attempt to wake me up for the day. Most nights are lost to drinking these days. My memory and I are no longer on speaking terms over the whole ordeal. Beep. Beep. Beep. The alarm turns off, and I shoot up looking around desperately, dazed from the night previously, and confused about the day ahead of me. I realize there never was an alarm. As I regain consciousness I realize I haven’t set an alarm for over two months. Over the years my body and mind must have come to expect the eerie wrath of the beep, beep, beep, each and every morning. Except Sundays. My body always knows when it’s Sunday, mostly because it never gets up on Sundays. I’ve always been fond of Sundays for this reason. I rub the crust from my eyes and spring forward, grabbing for my cigarettes and, in a weak attempt, reach for the play button on my stereo. It takes me five pathetic attempts to hit the button properly. The letters on this button are also fading away, just like my snooze button that I apparently haven’t used in months. I wonder what button I pressed. Now the button displays the word ‘Lay,’ in an all too tempting manner. I wish I could lay down again, I think to myself. A sudden spark of guilt reaches my now fully conscious mind, like that blinding moment when you turn the lights on after being in the dark for a long while. I realize everyone else had gone to work. I haven’t worked in over a month, unless we count waking up as work, which I do. Waking up doesn’t pay the bills though, or we’d all be living like those holy men that take everyone’s money every Sunday. Holy men like Sundays too. That’s one thing we share in common.
I pull myself away from the couch in an attempt to feel productive and walk to the yet-to-be-cleaned kitchen, cautiously avoiding the various beer bottles from the night before. The yet-to-be-cleanedness of the room was staring me down like the look your cat gives you when you don’t share your meal with them. Entropy is a bitch, I murmur to myself as I empty the coffee pot of yesterday’s morning beverage, and fill it fresh with tap water that makes even Hitler appear to have been friendly. Six cups should do. It’s always six cups, six days a week, my body isn’t aware of what a coffee pot is on Sundays or it may be seven, for the last six years. I contemplate the numbers and give myself a unconvincing, yet reassuring chuckle that me and the devil have little in common, except for maybe the amount of coffee we drink. I finish making my coffee, gather up my things; which consists of cigarettes, a lighter, an ipod, and a ‘To-Do’ list with nothing scratched off it, and headed outside. Outside; now there’s a scary place. Scary like bank statements are scary. I never went anywhere without these things, and they were all logical except for the folded, and refolded, and folded again piece of paper containing everything I should probably do. It was logical to have a ‘To-Do’ list, sure, but completely illogical for me to carry one everywhere since I never did anything on the list. I wrote them off in the same manner that I avoided my bank statements, which there were probably five of unopened by now.
As the door closes behind me, the light outside sends an electrical current to the top of my mind where a little light bulb goes off, and I am taken aback for a moment about my capacity to still think. I had figured that light bulb burned out about two months ago, maybe three…or was it four? Times like these I wish me and my memory would bury the hatchet and get along again. I forgot my key inside; I can’t get back in. I forgot my key inside, I repeated to myself, this time out loud. I’m stuck outside. I pulled out my ‘To-Do’ list with an eerie suspicion this was predictable, which was confirmed when I realized that number three on the list stated, ‘Don’t forget house key.’ I refold the list and place it back in my pocket, contemplating what would have happened if I had wrote, ‘Forget the house key,’ instead. No more coffee, stereos and non-existent snooze buttons for me today. At least the bank statements are locked inside.
The light bulb returns to darkness once again, and I descend the steps to my porch, taking a swift right down the empty sidewalk. To the left of me was the street, which was nothing like the sidewalk. On the street there were cars zipping back and forth at uncomforting speeds, carrying people to and from uncomforting places, and these people tended to carry uncomforting things with them like the time of day, or thoughts about what’s for supper later. I digress, I thought. I digressed a lot. Many times I would even catch myself digressing about digressing, but I digress.
I continued down the sidewalk, avoiding eye contact with the road, until I came across the giant oak tree on the corner of, well, Oak Street, which was my reminder to take a left. It baffled me how giant oak trees were better reminders than a, ‘To-Do’ list turned out to be. I stopped there for a moment marveling over the ancient tree. It took shit from no one, I thought. This tree has been here for decades and there has never been a day where someone pushed it out of the way, like they seem to do to me. This tree never felt guilty about being unemployed, and it certainly never worried about forgetting its house key. It was normal for me to be jealous of trees whenever I walked to my friend’s apartment for a bag of weed. That couldn’t be normal for everyone, I contemplated. I’m certain that if I told my doctor I was jealous of trees then she would prescribe me some new designer antidepressant that promised me Utopia at the cost of 90% of my cognitive abilities, the remains of my bank account, and a liver. I pulled my vision and thoughts, and then my body, away from the tree and made it to Nick’s house a few minutes later.
Nick was a short and bulky guy. If my life were a mob movie, he would be the guy that fetched the cannolies, but in showed up in virtually every scene for some reason only explained back stage. He would be the Boss’ right hand many times, but many times the Boss would want to give him the left hand. He’d sling the largest rifle he could find, but would never fire a shot. His short blonde hair and bright blue eyes would fit nicely with a suit, cigar and fedora. You could always count on him for a getaway ride though. Nick was certainly a loyal friend, if anything.
“Come in,” Nick yelled, as I knocked casually on the door. I took one last glance at the busy street before I went inside.
(Work In Progress)
Coming soon: The Homeless man on House Arrest
Also, didn’t mean to be self-promoting, if this was considered that.