Waning, the last light of the day, still sharp, is a knife-wielding cretin intruding on his sleep. His throat is slit repeatedly, and the catnapping grin becomes a retelling grimace as the tail chasing karma escapes, leaks, and fades. Wake up Jim, wake up Jim, obey. It's time to churn. It's time to shake. Wake, wake, wake. Elixir. Stir.
Jim has been near comatose since lunch, his mid-day banquet a six-pack of Bud and an oxy and codeine chaser. Back-to-back reruns of Matlock also help dull the pain. Andy Griffith was a raging boozer in real life. Or was that Dick Van Dyke or maybe Ralph Waite? Hell, all those TV Dads were half in the bag, some deeper, and Jim’s wakening tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth tighter than a lug nut forever turned on a rusty wheel. He’s up, still breathing. There are no photos on the wall of his generic one-bedroom apartment. There is a pad of paper and a pen. And little else.
Jim doesn’t lock the apartment door on his way out. The Peephole across the hall notices and jots a note: 6:49 pm. The suspect exits apartment 3a. Jim appreciates the thoughtfulness and attentive nature of his neighbor, whom he has never met, and never will.
How’s your pussy? Jim laughs out loud as he ponders the question lurching into the gravel parking lot of Maguire’s. The oil light glows, the brakes catch and squeak, and the muffler coughs. He backs into a spot in the nearly empty parking lot. Jim is keen on planning an easy escape. He is no Houdini, but he is slick and weirdly supple, and his stomach screams. He doesn’t lock the car door. Jim borrowed the car from his buddy, Nate, and promised nothing more than a full tank upon return. That may happen, or it may not.
Usual Jim?
Sure, Letta, thanks. Hey, how’s your pussy? The question hangs in the air for a second, then scampers. Jim watches it run and doesn’t give anything away.
Still crapping blood. Thanks for asking. Letta is wearing a sleeveless I Love New York t-shirt washed so many times the heart is nearly rubbed clean. It is now more stain than a statement. Letta’s been married twice, and her third Romeo is cheating on her while she shoots the bull with Jim. Her fiancé always pays cash at the Rite-Way Motel out on Route 9-A. He’s banging the neighbor, Karyn. Yes, Karyn with a Y. Go figure. Here you go, Jameson double, light rocks.
Thanks, hon. Sounds awful. I hope your cat gets better. Throw me a bag of chips, please. Plain. The barbeque don’t sit right.
Dinner? Letta knows the answer before he answers.
I guess. Jim knows the question before she asks.
The vet’s got her on a bunch of antibiotics. Cephalexin, a couple of others, and some pain meds. Tylenol with codeine. Jim considers getting a pet, preferably one that is sick. But he’d have to feed it. His medicine cabinet would be more prosperous, though. His left foot shakes a bit. The mental conflict is exquisite. Letta is still talking, and Jim forcibly slips back into the stream to listen. They think she may have an ulcer. It could be cancer. I don't have enough money to run the tests.
Who does? Jim, that’s who. He has blooming cancer and a gut full of ulcers. If you flush without looking, it’s not there, and the plumbing gives nothing away. The Peephole will call the cops in about two weeks when Jim doesn’t exist in the hall for days. The cops will find him waning and waxing, pulsating in a puddle of piss and sweat. He sleeps on a bare mattress. On the floor. But for the current moment, Letta’s confession hangs in the recycled air, then meanders off, sulking. Letta watches it amble and doesn’t give anything away. This damn heat is driving me nuts, Jim concludes.
Jim. Tommy sits next to Jim. The bar is empty, and yet that is where Tommy chooses to sit. The smell of cigar smoke clings to Tommy. Jim knows he is trying to quit, but no one ever quits anything they love—and distaste, so he doesn’t give anything away.
Tommy. Jim shifts his stool left about three inches. He moves his Jameson an equal distance. The cocktail napkin embraces a perfect damp circle, and Jim gingerly traces it with his index finger before placing the rocks glass precisely in its original place. His rocks glass has a square bottom. Round peg. Square hole. Nothing fits anymore.
How’s it hanging, Tommy? Jim makes a weak wave to grab Letta’s attention. She's fidgeting with her engagement ring. It's a fake, and Letta knows it. She shows it off incessantly.
Low and to the right, Jim. Tommy is predictable, his timing perfect. He is Jim's, straight man. They've done this routine for years. Laurel is Hardy and Hardy is Laurel. Who’s on first? That’s the other duo. It can get confusing. Hey, Abbott!
Letta’s pussy is still bleeding. Jim goes back to the well a second time.
Yeah, I heard. Tommy’s face is barely visible between the Smirnoff and Tanqueray. His eyes light up a little.
Man, this fucking heat.
You know it.
Letta, get Tommy here a drink. I gotta go. He has no place to go. See ya’, Tomaso.
See ya’, Jimbo.
Not before I see you. Don't forget to tip the waitresses. Good night, get home safe.
Jim thinks as he drives through the blur and haze. He is inside it. He is outside it. He is a chauffeur, and he is a passenger. The brakes are now gone, and he accelerates, steers into the turn, teases the shoulder, and exits and exists in two loops. Jim makes it to his apartment and elbows through the door. Slam. The Peephole jots a note: 9:19 pm. The suspect returns. The Peephole goes dark.
I have the same dream over and over. I am dreaming of dreaming. The aerodrome launches graceful violins, the brabbling sky accepts them, and the strings become rippling rainclouds, and only then do I wake to a flexing half-moon, a dull sun. Thirsty but sated. Slumbering but wide-awake.
Jim vows to write that down as soon as he stirs from his reverie.
He has a dream journal by his mattress. Or does he?
Even he is not sure.
He is determined to give nothing away.