Authors: Chris Bowsman
He went to the fridge and came up empty. “Fuck me,” he said, standing up and hitting his head on the bottom of the freezer door. It made him wish he’d let Tracy spend the extra money and get the fridge with the freezer on the bottom. He laughed, remembering the two of them standing in Home Depot, arguing over which fridge to buy. They had been so happy.
She
had been so happy. Even in the midst of an argument, they were still more likely to laugh than yell. He’d give anything to have that back.
Being drunk made the incidental memories easier to take, but dwelling on them could get downright dangerous. On nights like this when Gerald was low on will power, he wondered why he kept going. Day after day of bullshit . . . His job consisted of dealing with idiots who believed they’d invented the wheel. Outside of work, he didn’t have many friends and spent nearly all his time reading and drinking. Times like tonight, it wasn’t easy to see if it was even worth it.
Gerald dug through his cabinet, found a half-empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s and drank greedily.
Like six beers wasn’t enough
, he thought, the whiskey burning down his throat. He put the bottle down, knocking it over and spilling what remained across the counter.
“Well . . . I’ll just have to go get some more, now won’t I,” he said to the empty house, a little too loudly. His voice echoed, reminding him of how empty it really was. He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Tracy lies in the bathtub, staring blankly at the wall. She doesn’t know how long she’s been here, but it’s been long enough that the water has grown tepid, her hair beginning to dry. A draft raises goosebumps on her pale skin, and hardens her nipples. She lies in the tub, unmoving, barely breathing, semi-catatonic.
She blinks, looks at the edge of the tub, at the pink razor. She picks it up, leans over and, from her foot, draws it up the length of her bare leg. Though both legs are entirely hairless, she continues shaving. Pointless. Just like everything else.
A memory:
The first time she tried cooking dinner for the two of them. She had grown up without a mother and, as such, missed out on many of life’s more domestic lessons. She’d invited Gerald to her apartment and chose something simple to prepare. Spaghetti. Boil the noodles, warm up the sauce, brown some garlic bread . . . impossible to fuck up, right? Maybe for someone else. Anyone else.
Gerald had arrived a few minutes early. He sat on the couch, asking if he could help. She told him no, sit, relax, everything will be ready in a minute. Everything had gone fine, until the smoke alarm went off. She had no idea what was wrong and everything faded like anytime something went wrong. One second, she was stirring sauce and heard the alarm’s shriek, the next Gerald was pulling burnt bread from the oven and opening a window. She had collapsed to the floor, sobbing. She couldn’t do anything right. Gerald sank to the floor with her, embracing her and doing what he could to soothe her. She bordered on hysterical and simultaneously wished he’d run out the door and never return, but also that he’d squeeze her tighter and never let go.
She loves Gerald, and she knows he loves her. In the beginning, that had been enough. But anymore, she’s not so sure. In the beginning, she had been happy sometimes. She tries now, for Gerald’s sake, but it hasn’t been real for . . . she doesn’t know. Can’t remember. It doesn’t matter anyway. She knows she won’t be able to fake it much longer.
Chapter 5
Gerald knew he shouldn’t be driving. He judged and criticized coworkers, celebrities, and anyone else for drinking and driving, yet here he was, three sheets to the wind, speeding down a county road. Three run stop signs and a near-miss on a sharp turn later, Gerald was close enough to town to be paranoid about running into a cop. Nothing would improve the night like a DUI. He’d probably spend the night in jail, lose his driver’s license, get fired . . . some really good shit that would definitely improve his wonderful life. He rolled the windows down, and hung his head out the side. The blast of air sobered him up, but the sobriety wore off whenever he put his head back in the car. He wasn’t sure which looked worse: swerving all over or driving with his head out the window, but he knew which was more likely to get him to the store and back home alive.
When he got into town, he decided to chance driving with his head inside. He stopped at the nearest gas station and went in. Hoping he wasn’t stumbling too much, he walked past the cashier, back toward the beer cooler. The man at the counter regarded him with a raised eyebrow, but didn’t seem overly concerned. The night shift in a gas station certainly revealed much stranger things than a drunk guy buying beer.
Gerald walked back up to the counter, a case of Budweiser in each hand. He set them down on the counter, and grabbed a handful of beef sticks. “Late night dinner, eh?” the clerk said.
“Yeah, something like that,” Gerald said. “Gimme three packs of Camels, too.” The clerk put the cigarettes on the counter, and took Gerald’s credit card. He felt stupid paying for beer and smokes with a credit card, but he was too drunk to count cash. He took the card back from the man, returned it to his wallet, and spotted a picture of him and Tracy as he did. He took his things and left, feeling that much worse as he did so.
Gerald woke up the next day on his front lawn. His car was parked sideways in the grass, beer cans spilling out of the open door. He looked at his watch, saw that it was seven forty-five. Technically, it was still possible for him to make it to work on time, but with this headache and cat-took-a-shit-in-his-mouth feeling, the likelihood of that happening was pretty slim.
Crawling to the car, he found his cell phone sitting on the seat. He called Matlida, but got her voice mail. After leaving a semi-coherent message telling her he wouldn’t be in, he hung up the phone and passed back out.
Gerald woke again, this time around noon. He stood up, picked some blades of grass from his face, and looked around. He sneezed, figuring spending the night on a freshly mowed lawn wasn’t helping his allergies. He massaged his temples, trying to force away the remainder of his hangover. His stomach lurched and he turned from his car just in time to throw up. Once he was finished, he debated going in the house, thought about Tracy’s urn, and decided to get something to eat instead. Fucked up thing about hangovers, no matter how disgusting it was to think of eating, it would always improve the situation one-hundred and fifty percent.
Knocking the rest of the Budweiser cans out, he sat down in his car which, not surprisingly, stunk of beer and cigarette smoke. He backed onto the driveway and went to pull out. He paused briefly at the end of the drive and lit a cigarette. As he did, a huge green pickup truck sped by, coming within inches of Gerald’s bumper. The driver hollered “Yee-hooo!” not slowing a bit.
“Holy shit,” he said, dropping both the lighter and cigarette. He scooped up the Camel first, frowning at the small circular hole burnt into the seat. “Dammit,” he said. The lighter had fallen between the seats, irretrievable for the moment. He looked both ways, looked again, then pulled out after looking a final time.
Gerald walked out of Subway, carrying his lunch in a clear plastic bag. He loved Subway, but had always found it odd that the napkins smelled like crayons. He took a sip of the iced tea he’d purchased along with the sandwich and sat back down in his car. As he ate, he thought about the mess he’d made of the day (and previous night) and what he could do to fix it. He picked his cell phone up again.
“Matilda? Hey, it’s me. I have a few things to take care of, but I’ll be in for a few hours later today,” he said, pausing to take a bite. “What? Holman was back? Jesus Christ . . . what did he bring this time? A fucking
alarm clock
? You’re serious? Tell him to come back next week. Okay. Yeah. I’ll see you in a few hours.” He hung up the phone, sat silent for a moment, then finished his lunch.
How many times could someone be expected to deal with idiots like Mr. Holman, “inventing” common household items? Maybe Gerald would take a few weeks off, go camping or something.
Or look for a new fucking job
, he thought.
Gerald went home, showered, then headed back toward the office. On the way, he heard tires screech and swore that he saw the green pickup truck again. This time, he noticed a Confederate flag in the back window.
“Well, that’s shocking,” he said, rolling his eyes. He had always had a difficult time not immediately thinking someone was scum when he saw them flying a Confederate flag. Gerald had never given it much thought, but the problem likely came from high school.
There had been something of a rivalry between Gerald’s friends and a group of guys who considered themselves Southern. They all talked with exaggerated accents, wore boots and novelty-sized belt buckles, and drove enormous monster trucks, despite most of them not even living on farms, let alone coming from the South. The last time Gerald had checked, Ohio was awfully north of the Mason-Dixon.
The rest of the trip was uneventful and Gerald finally made it to work at three o’clock. He ignored the odd looks as he walked through the lobby to his office, said hi to Matilda, and grabbed the stack of incoming mail from her desk. He shut his door and sat down, sighing.
He laughed at the sigh, like he’d been busy and productive enough today to warrant such a reaction. He stared at the papers on his desk, unable to focus. He’d thought coming into the office would get his head back in order, but he was too frazzled to work. He buzzed Matilda on the intercom.
“I’m not getting anything done. I’m gonna work from home the rest of the day.”
“Five minute work day. Must be a new record.”
Gerald smirked, then got up to leave. He tossed the mail on his desk and walked out. Matilda smiled at him as he left, giving him a funny look. “You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Little hungover. Maybe a little depressed.” This was hardly a new thing. Gerald was waiting for her to leave an Alcoholics Anonymous card on his desk with the frequency of his hangover complaints. Instead, she usually gave him a disapproving look. “Think I’m gonna relax a bit this evening”—there was the look—“alcohol free,” he added. Her look’s severity lessened slightly.
“Should I tell anyone who calls that you’ll be in tomorrow?”
Gerald raised an eyebrow and tried to give her his own look. Failing, he said, “Yes, Mother. I’ll be in tomorrow.”
Chapter 6
Gerald sat on his couch, flipping through the channels. Not finding anything good on TV, he walked over to his bookshelf and scanned the contents. Somehow, he’d managed to go through his entire to-read stack. He looked around the room, desperate for something to do. He walked over to the PlayStation, picked up the controller and set it back down. He got bored with video games way too quickly to really justify owning a system and he couldn’t really remember why he’d bought it in the first place. He looked at the urn, looked away, and tried not to think about it. That would be impossible with it out in plain view. He grabbed the urn, took it into the kitchen, and put it in the only cabinet with enough space.
He walked outside, remembering the mess of beer cans and bottles on the front lawn. He went to the garage for a trash bag, then got to work cleaning up. He nearly filled the bag and set it down on the lawn. He sat down next to it and lit a cigarette. Initially, he’d meant to quit again, but didn’t feel like fighting that battle today. Halfway through the cigarette, he looked at the bag of cans and got an idea.
Take a breath, hold it, squeeze slowly . . .
BAM!
The Budweiser can flew off the post, a hole punched in its center. Gerald lowered his pistol, smiled, and aimed at the next can. He fired again, then again, not stopping until all fifteen cans were knocked down. The slide on his pistol locked open, smoke rising from the empty chamber. He walked over, picked up the cans and put them back on the posts, replacing the ones that wouldn’t stand back up with new ones. He reloaded the nine-millimeter and went through the process again.
After going through a box of bullets, he went in the house to get another box. He hadn’t expected to have quite so much fun shooting cans. On his way back outside, he stopped in the kitchen to get something to eat. Opening the refrigerator, he saw all the beer left from the previous night. There was an entire unopened case, plus eight more singles. He thought back to telling Matilda he wasn’t going to drink and got a little angry.
Fuck that
, he thought,
it’s not like she’s my wife
. His expression shifted from slight anger to dark and serious and he took out the case.
Gerald pulled the trigger on the pistol five times in rapid succession, missing the cans entirely. His last shot glanced off something hard, ricocheting and whistling into the distance.
Not my wife
, he thought again.
He emptied the rest of the bullets randomly in the direction of the cans. He tried to reload the pistol, but dropped it, the magazine, and the box of bullets, which landed on and around all the fresh empty beer cans.
“Oops,” he said, slurring and laughing. He bent down to the ground and found seven bullets. He drunkenly loaded them into the magazine and replaced it in the pistol. He stuck the gun in the back of his pants and looked for another beer. As he walked over to where the case was spilled on the lawn, he heard someone scream. His head whipped around and he thought he saw a flash in the field. As he was telling himself it was nothing, the nothing screamed again. Gerald’s face screwed up, and he mumbled, “Sounded like—”