Seasons Change - Another Day

Seasons Change – Another Day

The DJ’s voice stretched from the radio down my throat and twisted my esophagus reminding me it was time to get up and face another day with Jesus at my side.

My eyelids ripped apart as my eyes opened and it was followed by instant regret. Flickering light from the Zima sign above my bar stabbed into my brain so I slammed my eyes shut. The radio voice now pitched about laundry detergent but was drowned out by the blood pulsing through my ears. One arm crept to the other side of the bed only to find it empty…still. It had been just another dream.

I cracked one eye and ventured a second look around my one-room home and remembered why I wanted to keep them closed. I stuffed my sleep away for another 18 hours and my neck popped as I yawned. I stretched and a shiver of nausea crept across my belly halting my stretch. I curled back up with a wince.

Nothing new greeted me as I looked around. My dresser, with one remaining drawer, was strewn with half-folded clothes, chucked in, on and around. The radio/alarm clock sat at an angle on a remnant of jeans. I could see a slimy green hue of the digits through the stagnant water that used to house a plant.

The nasal voice permeated the room again with a station break which I would have changed long ago but the tuner lost its life during a hangover attack on the snooze button, which had died a valiant death in that struggle as well. While I’d never hear that incessant buzzing again, some mornings I’d give my left nut to replace the whiney voice on the radio that greeted my mornings.

Opposite my bed was the bathroom door. There was one other door that broke the mottled green walls, and it led outside, but I didn’t like to think about that one.

I put my feet on the cold concrete floor which was my real alarm clock. My eyes popped open as I yanked my feet up and fell back on the bed clamping my jaw shut on another wave of queasiness.

I once had the bright idea to avoid the cold concrete floor and tried to jump to the bathroom but landed far short with a twisted ankle and bruised butt-bone Now I simply tortured myself with bare feet on the gritty concrete and trudged to the bathroom.

The mahogany bar with three duct-taped bar stools stood next to my bathroom and served as my mail table, kitchen table and vanity. A rust pocked neon Zima light tacked to the wall over my bar served as my mirror and provided a shadowy ambiance to the room. It also served as a cover for a hole in the wall that went straight through the outside brick with an eerie perfect roundness.

I grabbed the box of baking soda and a toothbrush from the vanity and turned on the shower; turned it all the way to hot and let it run until the brown became yellow, then clear. I prayed for some hot water.

I picked up a liter of water next to the toilet and poured a splash on my toothbrush and then stuck the brush in the box of baking soda to get a healthy scoop and proceeded to brush my teeth, willing my stomach to stay solid. The bubbly acrid taste was like chewing on undercooked pancakes. I allowed myself 2 swallows of rinse water. I stripped off my underwear; they weren’t good enough for another day, so I tossed them behind the toilet. After relieving myself I stuck my hand under the shower, but my neighbors had beaten me to the hot again. I gritted my sourdough teeth and jumped under the water.

The stall had no curtain, so I had to point the shower head to the inside wall. It became a dance to keep under the icy water and out of it at the same time as well as keep the water from escaping from inside of the stall. I was done in 3 minutes. Gotta love a buzz cut, but my time was slipping…I had to improve. Even though I was finished I willed myself to stand there another minute under the full blast of freezing water. It helped quell my sizzling tummy and was the best cure I had at my disposal for drinking myself to sleep.

I stepped to the cold concrete floor of my bathroom and yanked an extra-large T-shirt off a hook and dried myself. I poured a healthy helping of bleach around the bottom of the stall and returned the bleach behind the toilet.

I dressed in clean underwear, my jeans and a camouflage T-shirt. I searched the bar for breakfast and was rewarded with a left-over english muffin. After scraping the green spots into a neat little pile, I ate. I had to remember to dispose of the pile before I left.

I gnawed on my raw muffin and wondered about her. It was about 6:30 so she would be out of the shower and downstairs talking with our oldest. They’d be packing their lunches.

I wonder if she thinks about me…in a good way anymore? I shook my head at the absurdity of it. It doesn’t matter any longer.

I looked for something to wash away the doughy patch under my tongue and considered the bottle of bleach peeking from behind the toilet. I crawled on my knees around the bed and stuck my cheek next to the concrete, peering under the bed. A flash in the dark caught my eye and I reached for it. My hand clasped the neck of a bottle, and something scurried across my knuckles. The top was off, and the bottle upended between my lips in a flash, and I swallowed deep. It was a dark liquid…the name no longer mattered, only the price.

I belched and reached in my pocket for my cigarettes. I had two crumpled ones left and lit one with a lighter I found in the park the night before. I stared at the door that led outside as I walked around the bed and sat down. I watched a chip of grey paint on the door let go and fall to the ground. A sick green that matched my walls peeked from beneath the grey.

Smoke, the color of my floor, wafted about my head and blurred my vision. I took another slug and stared at my feet. I wanted to crawl back into bed and bury myself under the covers. I held the bottle in a loose balance on my knee, and the cigarette built a tail of ash. I jumped at a knock on my door, the ash flying to the floor and the brown liquid sloshing in the bottle. I inhaled a deep drag from my cigarette and wondered if I’d imagined it when another knock sounded, more persistent this time. I dropped the butt to the floor and crushed it under my bare heel. I took a step to the door when they knocked again. A second step and I was there. I held the bottle to my chest and reached for the door.

Her hand was raised, ready to pound on the door with the bottom of her fist when I opened the door. It startled her. She dropped her hand, and her eyes dropped to the bottle. She turned her eyes back to mine, and I realized I could no longer read them.

Her cheeks were bright, and I almost smiled. I wanted to. She raised her hand and touched the side of my face, running her thumb down my bristly cheek. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of her. It overpowered the heavy vapors wafting from the bottle, and I felt the sunlight blast from behind her and cover my face. And then I smiled.

She pulled the bottle from my reluctant grip. I opened my eyes in time to see her upend the bottle to her own mouth. A small sip followed by a grimace as it burned. She shook her head and smiled at me.

“I miss you, Jack.”

I felt a tear prick the corner of my eye, and I fought the urge to pull her into my arms. I opened my mouth, “I’m sorry, this was all my fau—” She shushed me with a finger and put the bottle back in my hand, but it slipped from my slack grip. I reached for it with my dulled reflexes. The sound of the bottle exploding on the concrete was a gunshot and I jerked myself backward shielding my eyes with my forearm. I fell back on the bed and smelled a wisp of smoke. Something’s burning. I looked to my right and saw the cigarette smoldering on my blanket, a curl of smoke rising, lazy in the still air. I looked around to find her, but she was gone. The door was closed, and my feet were wet. I sat up and looked around. I called her name with a hoarse croak, “Shannon”.

But I was still alone.