Loose Ends

by Amos Gunner

CHAPTER 11: BOBBY

  I watched TV. I fell asleep on the couch. The TV was on when I woke so I watched some more. All day. Then the next day. If the previous owner hadn’t kept up on the cable bill, I don’t know what sort of insanity I would have fallen into.

  It was the rhythm of the shows that hooked me. The world is fine. Then a problem comes. The old simple world is now complicated. The problem tightens. It gets in your muscles. Then it gets tighter until the tension snaps, maybe from a gunshot. Maybe from a shocking secret’s revelation. Maybe from the characters talking out a simple misunderstanding. Whatever. The problem’s solved. The world goes back to normal or else it’s new and better, and the sensation’s exhaling after holding your breath a long time. You can feel the release even when there’s a cheat, like when the show is revealed to be just a character’s dream or something. Cue credits. It ends. That’s the high.

  The shows created a jones, then gave a fix. It was beautiful. The shows told me to sit back and enjoy. The only drawback was my lower back began to ache. I can’t feel my back anymore.

  Weird. Time was cut into strict half hour segments. A drama has two segments. A movie, three or four. But time dissolved. Like, when I fell asleep, I couldn’t account for my day.

  So much lost time. It’s like Tuesday and Wednesday never happened. Exciting lives played out in that box, but my life stopped to watch. I can’t remember much of real life except Sampson’s visit, and I can’t say for sure what day that was.

  When he knocked, I pretended I wasn’t there. But the TV was on. Keys jangled and I heard one enter the lock. I looked around for a weapon to fight off the cops or the beefy landlord, but it was Sampson.

  He sat at that table and told me to turn off the TV. I pressed mute. I went to the kitchen. “Juice? Water?”

  “I don’t want nothing. Sit.”

  I sat.

  “Okay, maybe some coffee.”

  My first pot of coffee. Now I know why people pay three bucks for a cup. Sampson waited without a word as I combined the water, coffee grounds, filter and machine to hopefully add up to a cup. It wasn’t easy and I made a mess.

  “Cream or sugar?”

  “Sit.”

  I’d come across a deck of cards the night before. I didn’t even ask if Sampson was interested in a game. The percolator gurgled.

  “Just had a sit-down with Marcus. He’s serious as a heart attack. What are you gonna do? Complain? Might as well complain about being born. How close are you?”

  I wasn’t sure what he was referring to at first. I hadn’t watched a show with a debt in the plot, so I hadn’t thought about it. I hadn’t thought about how I could pay it back or the consequences if I didn’t. As long as I didn’t think about it at all, it didn’t exist.

  “I have three fifty under my bed, I think. It’s a start.”

  “It ain’t thinking about a start.”

  Jerk. It took us forever to save any money on our crappy wages, and the guy who throws us scraps says we haven’t saved enough. Anyway, it’s at home. It might as well be on Pluto. Mom will find the box someday. Mine and Darryl’s. Hope it brings her some relief and she gets herself something nice.

  “What are you gonna do?”

  I described a movie where these thieves robbed a truck full of fur coats and TV sets. The coffee was ready. I lingered over the mug that says, “A Hard Man is Good to Find,” but I wimped out and served him in a plain black mug.

  “Well, let’s say you run into some problems robbing a fucking truck. Any other ideas?” He sipped the coffee, then slid the mug away. “You know, say the word and I’ll front you some product.”

  “I can’t be selling on the street.”

  “Well, shit. Marcus is dead serious.”

  I didn’t need Sampson to make me take Marcus seriously. Marcus made me take Marcus seriously. At that point, I vaguely envisioned the transaction. I had no idea how I would get the money, but I assumed a lifeline would drop from somewhere, somehow, and I could envision handing Marcus a fat envelope and him telling me I did a good job. And the lifeline wasn’t Sampson tightening the vice grip.

  I went to the kitchen. “I have a plan.”

  “What plan?”

  I took out the orange juice. “A good plan. Don’t worry.”

  “Hey, I’m talking to you. What plan?”

  I filled a glass. “It’s complicated.”

  “Fill me in.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What plan? Tell me.”

  I gulped the orange juice. “Marcus wants his money, I’ll get it.”

  “Don’t do the plan.”

  “Why not? I won’t step on Marcus’ shoes.”

  “You have no idea how big those shoes are.”

  “Trust me.”

  “No.”

  “You trusted me for the deal. And when it ended bad, I did everything right. I came straight to you. You know I’m trustworthy.”

  He kept pushing, but I pushed back and he finally gave up. He warned me against doing anything reckless and promised me he’d find a good solution.

  I came close to questioning him on the red streak in the bedroom. I wanted him to lie and soothe my savage visions. But I didn’t want to risk him telling the truth, so I let it go.

  Almost out the door, he told me to empty out the mailbox everyday. Then he said, “Don’t make me kill you.” But he didn’t say it like he was threatening me. It was like he was asking me.

  I sat in front of the TV, but all the stuff in my head prevented me from falling under its spell. The best thoughts were on Wendy. A girl in an ad for hemorrhoids resembled her. I caressed the thoughts until I forgot we had parted on bad terms.

  I called and she reminded me, scolding me worse than before. Then she told me the funeral was the next day and I had to go.

  “I can’t. The cops’ll be there.”

  “Good. Bury your brother, comfort your mom and go to the police.”

  I told her again I was facing thirty years, as if talking to a brick wall long enough will make it understand. I could cut a deal and spill everything I knew about Marcus’ operation, then Marcus would kill me and I wouldn’t have to serve any time.

  “Whatever. I talked to your mom.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Tell her I’m okay.”

  “Are you?”

  No. “Yeah. Are you coming over?”

  “No.”

  “But there’s no parents or nothing.”

  “Or ‘anything,’ Bobby. You know that. And that place, I don’t know anything about it except that it’s probably evil.”

  “I’ll come there.”

  “No. I can’t talk to you right now.”

  “I want to see you.”

  She hung up.

  I should’ve dumped her. Most guys would have. But she was the most normal thing in my life and I wasn't strong enough to let her go, no matter how much I hated her. I should have made her aware of the debt. Then she’d feel bad. Then she’d get on my side.

  I ate some soup and popcorn and that calmed me down. I breathed deep through my nose and exhaled slowly through my mouth. After doing this a few times, I fell into General Hospital. Later, my eyelids fluttered then closed.

  I remember I dreamed I was swimming in the ocean on a bright day. The water was calm. Blue jays followed my path. I got to the middle of the ocean and my legs got weak. A grabbed a passing swordfish and he gave me a lift back to shore. I dried myself with a towel made of clouds. The clouds broke apart and Darryl stood in front of me. He held a potato in one hand and a burning red candle in the other. He wore muddied khakis and his Reds cap. I stared at him. He stared back.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” He smiled. His teeth were oily black. He opened his mouth wide. Crazy laughter came out.

  Then he closed his mouth and pointed over my shoulder.

  I was turning around when I got ripped from my dream.


  My heart was going haywire. Darryl’s grotesque ghost flashed on the ceiling. The TV was on. Credits rolled. In the box, a problem had just been solved.

  I found a bottle of sleeping pills in the bathroom. I didn’t care if I had another bad dream. Having a nightmare is better than waking up haunted.

  I took three pills. I don’t remember if I dreamed again.