Oblivious

Trigger warning: some offensive language.

The door was barely unlocked before Captain sauntered into the apartment, over to his bowl, downed a few gulps of water, dripped all over the floor and wandered off into the living room. Phil barely had time to unhook him before he started his thirst-quenching quest. He, too, walked into the apartment with a slight hunger. After gently removing his shoes, he locked the door, sat the leash down on the counter in the kitchen and made his way towards the fridge. 

Phil meticulously spread a dollop of mayonnaise across the plane of sliced whole wheat ensuring the condiment was dispersed evenly throughout all four edges. Coverage had to be equal. Every bite must be consistent. Once satisfied with the distribution, he placed the piece of bread on top of the mound of charcuterie piled on another impeccably prepped slice. The package wrapped up neatly on a porcelain dish and rested proudly on the spotless quartz countertop. Finally, he affixed the corners with his fingertips to ensure the sandwich lined up perfectly and carefully de-crusted his midday snack with the knife. Phil stepped back a pace or two to examine the newly built stack of edible delights. “Perfection,” he uttered gleefully to himself.

The brass handle on the blue-grey cabinet was cold on his fingers as he exposed the drinkware from behind the wall of oak-ish particleboard. Six, 12-ounce glasses perfectly lined the bottom shelf. Phil reached for one of them, gently set it down to the counter and poured some milk into the cup, instantly coating it in condensation.

His socked feet glided across the freshly mopped floor as he sashayed towards the black leather couch in the living area. Before he sat down, he grabbed a coaster from the pile neatly stacked on the center of the wooden coffee table and placed the sweaty glass on top of it. Kicking his legs up on to the chaise, he fell back into the rawhide which gently wrapped around his backside, the plate resting at his chest. 

Captain, the poodle that had barely noticed him shuffle into the kitchen in the first place, was now sitting ardently at the foot of the sofa staring at Phil’s meal.

Although being hypoallergenic, Captain knew not to jump on the couch. Phil didn’t want the possibility of hair all over the furniture nor his perfectly constructed treat.

 He reached for the remote, resting on the armrest as usual, to find some televised entertainment. Currently, Phil was episodes deep into the first season of what was quickly becoming his favorite crime drama. The accustomed chimes of the streaming service echoed out of the speakers as he selected the show, almost out of reflex. He sighed, relaxingly, as he heard the familiar intro music begin to play. The flashy credits hypnotized him momentarily.

The first bite of his sandwiches always commenced on the top right corner. Of course, only he knew which corner that meant, but to him it made sense. A few crumbs rolled onto the plate he held precariously inches from the underside of his chin. The torrent of flavors filled his mouth, banked off his tongue, his cheeks, his teeth creating a delicious melody on his tastebuds until the emulsified biproduct was able to be swallowed. He was content. 

Captain had moved to the large bay window and was watching a bird mock him incessantly from a nearby tree. He growled at the chirping terror.

“Hush.” His dry mouth cracked as he frustratingly turned up the volume on the streaming service, without even breaking his gaze, not even caring about the bird.

Captain huffed. Apparently, he had no allies in this war.

Phil positioned the plate down on the coffee table and grabbed the drink, placed it to his lips and allowed the liquid to quench his thirst. He exhaled. Something about a sandwich and milk brought him back to his childhood. He delighted in the memories. Bliss, he thought. 

He leaned forward to place the glass back onto the coaster when he noticed it.

He quietly gasped, mouth agape and his eyebrows raised in synchronized shock.

Head cocked to the side, the irregular spot perplexed Phil and peaked his anxiety. Its odd shape stared into his soul charring his spirit. Didn’t I just wipe this table down earlier today, he thought to himself, and what would make a mark that color? Or shape? He couldn’t stop focusing on it, paralyzed by it. 

Intrigued by it. 

Mildly stressed by it.

Angered at it.

He leaned forward out of the leathery embrace and outstretched his hand, extending his index finger towards the blotch. The tip curled as his manicured fingernail connected with the cherrywood surface and ran hurriedly back and forth. He felt no raised texture and the area was left unchanged. The stain hummed a dreadful mockery.

He lightly licked the napkin he had tucked under the plate and wrapped it around his fingers. Applying pressure to the spot, he scrubbed, in a circular fashion to try and erase the memory of this hideous blemish. Again, no reprieve.

Confused, the man settled back into the dark couch and assessed his situation. Phil knew it was just a small spot, these things happen, but the circumstances left him dumbfounded. He wasn’t a spot guy. And he liked it that way. He tried to brush it off and go back to his meal and show, but the table rattled a noxious chant throughout his skull, rhythmically thumping until Phil couldn’t help but stand up and stumble back into the kitchen. He caught himself from falling as his socks slid under his soles on the freshly cleaned hardwood.

He bent down and reached for the cabinet door under the sink which creaked as he opened it. The dank air violated his senses as he fumbled to find some cleaning supplies. Jackpot. The arsenal contained a few items to his liking, just as he’d hoped. He snagged a sponge, a lemony cleaner, some wipes and paper towels. It was an armory at his fingertips and he was ready for war.

The apartment smelled like the other side of a hangover by the time Phil was done exercising the demonic spot. He was winded from the endless scrubbing and spraying, the wiping and cursing. Sweat pooled on his flushed forehead as he placed his hands on his hips to refocus and examine the fallout.

The tiered delicacy remained rigid atop the plate despite all the chaos, as did Captain, eying it from the end of the table. 

Phill collapsed to his knees. He had no idea what to do. The spot taunted him incessantly. He couldn’t eat, nor focus on his show until the darkened quandary was eradicated from existence. The bass melody from the episode filled the room as the plot thickened.

“What are you? Where did you come from? Why? WHY?!” Befuddled, he paced about the room and mumbled to himself as if the universe would reveal some answers. If he could just figure out the root cause he could find its weakness, strike at the core, cleanse its soul. Rage continued to course through his body. An anger he knew was unnecessary yet uncontrollable.

Phil crawled into the corner of the room and pulled his legs to his chest, feeling defeated. He buried his head in his lap and sobbed. Trying to clear his mind and catch his breath and recoup to devise a new plan of attack. “Sandpaper? Paint?” His head bumped into his knees as he shook it. “No, I’ll burn the fucker to the ground. Yeah, that’ll show the bastard.” To Phil, the spot had become evil personified.

Captain had inched closer and was licking the plate as the sound of keys rattled in the lock of the front door.

Michael walked into his apartment and nearly toppled backward, blindsided by the smell of bleach and frustration. He paused to observe his living space and the anarchy therein.

Having already finished the sandwich, Captain was lapping up the spilled glass of milk from the table, Phil was tucked in the corner in a fetal position quietly talking to himself.

“What…the…FUCK happened in here, man?” Michael assumed Phil had answers. He’d better have answers.

Phil slowly raised his head, his face contorted in agony. “The spot. The. Goddamn. Spot.”

Michael took off his blazer and placed it on the arm of the couch sitting just inside the doorway. Confused, he asked, “What fucking spot?” 

“Th…The table.” Phil shakenly pointed to the coffee table.

Michael took a deeper examination of the war zone. He noticed the cleaning supplies spread about the carpet. The stains from the scrubbing. The smell of citrus. The endless piles of paper towels lying next to imprints in the carpet where the table once stood firm before it took a beating. 

Captain shuffled over to Michael and rested next to him, licking his hand briefly before going back to cleaning his own chops. 

The one thing Michael didn’t notice, however, was a spot.

“There’s no sp…” He paused for a moment to further assess the situation. He transitioned his vision from the chemical spill to what was left of Phil’s snack and continued to the television just as some lady in a pantsuit was making a quip about a contorted corpse in a waterslide. “Did you make some of my food and watch TV?” He turned back to face Phil, angered and somewhat appalled. “You’re the fucking dog walker, you’re supposed to be in and out. I pay you to clean up my dog’s shit,” the words violently left his mouth as he rolled up the sleeves of his oxford shirt, “not turn my apartment into shit.” 

He lunged at Phil and grabbed the collar of his shirt. Michael threw him towards the door, which was still open, and followed up with his white Nikes. “Get the fuck outta here, man.” Broken, Phil had no fight left in him. 

Unphased by the tussle, Captain laid down in his bed, stomach filled with exotic pleasures.

Phil stumbled out of the entryway and into the baron hallway. The resident in 32b, made curious by the noise, peered out of their cracked doorway at Phil as he readjusted his shirt and slipped his shoes on. The neighbor scoffed at Phil just as he began to descend the concrete staircase. Each step felt like a massive weight that pulled at his legs making it extra strenuous for him to climb down the three flights. 

Once he reached the bottom, he sullenly sauntered towards his car. What the hell just happened? He thought to himself, rubbing his head. He was a man possessed. The spot still burned an image in his brain. He couldn’t shake it as he moved unconsciously through the parked cars. Arriving at his pristine car, he pressed the FOB and unlocked the door. He could still faintly hear the spot taunting him. He had just caught a glimpse of the object reflected in his fresh wax job, causing him to flinch.

As Phil stumbled out into the breezeway, Michael slammed the door behind him and locked it. He stared through the peep hole to ensure Phil found his way off the property. He noticed Mr. Oshay had popped his head out of his door to witness the commotion. Michael sighed at the thought of having to explain this to the third-floor gossip. He backed away from the door as Phil started shuffling down the stairs.

Once again examining the room, he poorly consoled himself, “fuck. It’s all fucked.” The credits on the TV played a sullen tune. He noticed the leash that Phil left on the counter. An echo of bad decisions. Michael made his way to the balcony which overlooked the parking lot and watched as Phil meandered through the asphalt maze. 

Captain followed to assess the bird situation. He stuck his head through the railing to get a better view.

Phil’s head was sunken past his shoulders and he looked defeated. For a second, he felt bad for the guy, but then he remembered the situation and how a stranger just ate his food and hastily fucked with his belongings. As Phil reached his car, Michael yelled at him from his perch, “Hey, asshole, you forgot something!”

The flying leash nearly whipped into Phil’s head. Luckily, he ducked just in time. He looked up to see Michael standing on his terrace flipping him the bird. He bent over to grab the leash, thinking to himself, reluctantly, well, at least he gave this back. If anything, Phil could be somewhat positive at the end of a shitty day.

He opened the door and slid his body into the vehicle. It smelled of new car, an air freshener he really enjoyed. The recently vacuumed interior nestled on his backside as he adjusted himself into the pilot’s seat. He closed the door, tucking him into his cruiser and prepared to send himself on his next journey. He placed the leash on the passenger seat. Letting out a stressed sigh, he bent over and rested his head on the steering wheel, unsure of his future. Phil tried desperately to recount the whole instance and reexamine his entire approach to this “dog walking” business. As he composed himself, he took a deep breath and started the car, just as the leash slid to the floor. Phil glanced over to pick it up and froze. 

The stain on the floor had not been there before. It couldn’t have been.

Michael continued to observe Phil to make certain he left. He stared at him as he got into his car, paused for a minute and started the vehicle. Suddenly, he watched as the entire car shook and heard a muffled scream coming from the interior. Indecipherable. But Michael knew exactly what he was yelling, nonetheless.

“Jesus.” He mumbled to himself and Captain in a worried sigh of relief as he sat down to have a much-needed menthol cigarette. He looked at Captain who had curled up next to Michael’s feet, “you’re okay, though, right?” He asked through a cloud of mint.

Captain rolled over and licked his crotch, oblivious.