Alexithymia.
Mood.
I was prolly shaking bcuz I was withdrawing from the pills. I needed to throw that shit away, yo. Get my headspace clear.
I turned around, tried to find the department store again.
Couldn’t find that, either.
I got angry. Angry like I used to get angry, all hate and rage and out-of-control shit, and I punched the top of the dashboard, over and over and over until the top of it cracked.
Stupid cheap POS foreign cars.
I finally saw a billboard I recognized from earlier, and then remembered how to get back onto the expressway, and that’s when I noticed my knuckles were bleeding.
Giggle to myself.
I got to the apartment and brought in all the groceries. Building didn’t burn down, bcuz the stove was off.
Weird. Swore I left it on.
I ran my hand under cold water, looked for a towel.
Day-am. Forgot towels.
I wrapped an old tee shirt around it, picked up the tomato soup can, and used my new can opener to open it up. There was only half left. The other half was hardening on my kitchen floor and walls, and I didn’t have any towels. Or cleaning supplies.
I also forgot to get a bowl.
Hold up… I didn’t forget. I could order food that came with stuff to eat with.
So I put the can in the fridge (I should also get some plastic wrap or tin foil) and then found a local pizza place online and typed in my order. Under special instructions I wrote extra napkins and plates and forks.
I wanted to shower, but had no towels (or shampoo, or soap), so instead I went to YouTube to learn how to fill my Zippo.
Easy. y/y.
Plus the Zippo is OG. Started making them back in 1932. First lighter that could be operated with one hand. Wind proof. Lifetime guarantee.
Sick.
I opened up the pack of Marlboros, using my knife bcuz the cellophane on the box was extra AF, and took a big sniff.
Didn’t smell familiar.
I dug a square out and hung it on my lip. Then I went into the bathroom and stared @ myself.
I looked bad ass. High key.
I fired up the smoke, then took a big pull.
#Smoking.
My lungs felt like they’d been set on fire then stomped on, and I started to cough so bad that I had to turn around and puke in the john.
#Smokingsux.
I threw the cig in the toilet, spat, and right b4 I flushed I thought I heard someone giggling.
Voices?
Was I hearing voices?
Weak.
Moms and all the docs I saw used to ask me that a lot, and I never heard any fakeass voices.
Except for Mr. Bloodlust, who tells me to kill people.
j/k.
Lulz.
I never heard voices. A few years ago, b4 I was on meds, I took a whole bunch of tests to see if I was schizo, and I passed them all.
Only voice in my head is my own.
But, 4realz, that giggling sounded legit.
I began to look around my bathroom, wondering if someone was watching me, looking for cameras and bugs and shit, and then there was a loud buzzing sound that sounded like the oven buzzer.
I went into the kitchen. Stove was still off.
WTF?
Another buzz, and it was coming from the speaker next to the door.
Doorbell. It’s my doorbell.
I looked through the peephole, saw the pizza guy, and he gave me the za and a bag of stuff and I gave him money and a two dollar tip and I sat on my sleeping bag and ate pizza until the taste of smoke was gone.
Then I counted up my stash.
Eight forks. Eight plates. Twenty-two napkins. And bonus, six wet wipes, a dozen parmesan cheese packets and small plastic cup of red pepper.
Score.
I put everything away and turned out the lights.
Freaky.
Too dark. Too quiet. Too strange.
Wack.
I put the lights back on and crawled into my sleeping bag.
It was my first day ever on my own.
Pretty good day.
Tomorrow I had to get my new driver’s license.
Then, the gun show.
That will be lit.
Literally.
“A woman who demands further gun control legislation is like a chicken who roots for Colonel Sanders.”
LARRY ELDER
“Two million felons have tried to buy a gun and, because of the background check, have been denied.”
JOE BIDEN
JACK
I woke up in an Ambien haze, still groggy.
Phin wasn’t in bed. I checked the time.
9:41 A.M.
I smelled sweat, dragged my naked butt out of bed, struggled into a robe, and flopped into my wheelchair.
When did I take off my clothes?
My last memory was taking my sleeping pill and climbing into bed and turning my back on Phin to read my Kindle.
Had I wet my pants again, and Phin took off my clothes?
I patted down the mattress. Didn’t feel any damp spots.
Was he trying to protect me?
Maybe I needed to accept my mother’s offer of diapers.
I looked around for a note—Phin sometimes left a note when he went somewhere—and then vaguely recalled he was picking up Sam at 9:30.
I rolled into the hallway, called for Duffy.
The dog didn’t answer.
Paranoia kicked in, and I called again, louder.
Duffy woofed at me, and came bounding over, half-climbing into my lap.
“Where were you?”
He didn’t answer, but he had coffee grounds on his snout.
“You were eating garbage,” I deduced.
My body might be shit, but my cop instincts weren’t completely gone.
Duffy woo-wooed, rubbing coffee on my robe.
I gently pushed him off and rolled into the kitchen. My calico cat—about fifteen years old and too mean to die—was picking through the mess Duffy left on the floor.
“Good morning, Mr. Friskers.”
He gave me an oh great, you’re still alive look, then stuck up his nose and sauntered off, like he was the king and I was a filthy peasant who offended him.
I considered leaving the mess for Phin, recalled his comment that I needed to start acting like a goddamn partner, and then got a fresh garbage bag from the cabinet under the sink and began to pick up Duffy’s buffet spread.
Halfway into it, I found a box of condoms.
An empty box of condoms.
All twelve were gone.
I remembered buying that box, more than six months ago. We’d only used one, and then my peeing incident made me too insecure and ashamed to try again until I was fully healed.
So where had the other eleven gone?
I knew the answer. Even though I’d been hoping I was wrong.
He was cheating.
I couldn’t blame him. A marriage was a contract. I hadn’t been keeping up my end.
But hell, Phin, couldn’t you hide the evidence a little better?
I finished gathering up all the garbage, once again ashamed to be crying, and then wheeled into the bathroom and wrangled my worthless body onto the shower seat.
On top of being partially paralyzed, I’d gained a few pounds, making me feel even less attractive.
Or maybe the lack of self-esteem had less to do with my belly and more to do with my philandering husband.
My fault.
For marrying a younger guy.
For not taking care of his needs.
For getting shot.
I did actually blame myself for getting shot. My cop past always caught up with me and hurt the ones I loved, because no good deed goes unpunished. Even worse, I’d turned my back on a loaded gun.
Nice lack of situational awareness, Jack.
I turned on the water, shrieking because it came out cold, enduring it until th
e heat came, then dumping baby shampoo on my body and scrubbing myself as best I could.
I shaved my legs, wondering why I bothered.
I cleaned my body okay.
My conscience remained filthy with shame, regret, jealousy, and self-loathing.
I shuffled out of the shower like a crab, folding my robe around myself, rolling into the bedroom and beginning the arduous, lengthy, depressing task of dressing.
My closet; crammed full of designer shoes and suits and dresses by Kate Spade, Manolo Blahnik, Vera Wang, Calvin Klein, Jimmy Choo, Oscar de la Renta, Dior, Michael Kors, Armani, et al.
Today’s ensemble; a white Dave & Buster’s tee, black Wilson sweatpants, mismatched cotton socks, and light blue Converse All Stars with hook and loop straps.
Once upon a time, I prided myself on dressing smart. Purse matched shoes. Creases were sharp. Heels were high. I looked good from every angle. Dressing well, like competitive shooting and my judo blackbelts, was a hobby that helped me define myself.
These days, I dressed like a crippled panhandler. The only accessory I lacked was a cardboard sign. Current hobbies included whining a lot, trying not to wet my pants, and wistfully recalling the days I could walk unassisted.
Loser.
Loser loser loser.
Phin bought devises to help me dress; sock aids and shoe funnels and a claw hand extension to grab things off the floor. But I figured out if I just laid on my back on the bed I could reach all my parts without gadgets.
It took me about eight minutes of huffing and panting to put on everything, including my oversized granny panties, and just as I finished, Duffy barked. A second later the burglar alarm beeped as it disarmed, then the garage door opened.
I ran a quick brush through my damp hair and then put a smile in place.
Be upbeat, Jack. Don’t let your little girl see you down.
I didn’t have to fake it. When Samantha came running into the bedroom yelling, “Mommy! Mommy!” my spirits automatically lifted.
My little angel’s face looked like she’d been beaten bloody, and even though she tried to hug me I held her at arm’s length while trying to understand what I was seeing.
“Me and Taylor drew on each other with marker,” she explained.
“Did Taylor’s mom and dad try to wash it off?”
Sam sighed. “They tried. But I think this is on forever. Do I look like Optimus Prime?”
Some little girls liked princesses. Sam liked Transformers.
“No. You look like a five-year-old drew on you in marker.”
“Taylor can’t draw. I drawed, I drew, on her better.”
“What did you draw on Taylor?”
“Wolverine. I did the beard perfect. Taylor is jelly of my mad skills.”
“Stop teaching Grandma to talk like that. It’s freaking me out.”
“LOL, Mommy.”
“She actually did a pretty good job with the beard.” Phin, from the doorway, smiling like he wasn’t a cheating, lying son of a bitch.
We produced a damn good kid, though.
“Looks like bath time, with extra soap,” I said.
“Can’t I just go swim? The chlorine will get it off.”
I looked at Phin. We had an above-ground pool, and I couldn’t supervise when Sam went swimming. Too high up for me to see.
“It’s too windy, and Mommy has to go to work in an hour,” Phin said. “Why don’t you two play some GameMaster?”
Right after my injury, Phin had picked up a used video game system so Sam and I had something to play together while I was in a recumbent position. Aside from a brief period during my teenage years when I frequented arcades, I’d never cared much for videogames. But the GameMaster grew on me, and we had several favorites.
“Block Attack?” Sam asked me. “Or want me to kick your butt at City Fighter?”
“City Fighter. I’m feeling lucky.”
My lucky feeling was unfounded, and Sam kicked my butt at City Fighter. She’d memorized many of the complicated button combinations needed to pull off devastating knockout moves, whereas my style was to just mash the controller and hope something special magically happened.
Probably a life lesson there.
After my fifth loss in a row, Sam started to ease up to let me win.
“Play your best, Sam.”
“But you’re getting pwned, Mommy. I’m trying to make it fair.”
“Life isn’t fair. Making things easier on people just makes it harder for them later on.”
“So stop sucking.”
I didn’t stop sucking. So we switched to Block Attack, where I was a bit more competitive. The goal was to line up blocks of the same color, fitting them into a growing wall. A more calculating and cerebral game than City Fighter. A game where old age and thinking ahead could beat youth and fast reflexes.
Even so, we were pretty evenly matched.
As I focused on the game, and lived in the moment, my mood improved. My daughter and I giggled a lot. Made fun of each other. Yelled in anguish when appropriate.
Just like it used to be, when I was whole.
The hour went by fast, then Phin interrupted. “Time for Mommy to work.”
“Can I come with you, Mom? Visit Grandma in the pool?”
I thumbed her bangs off her red-colored forehead. “Not today. Pool is closed because a storm is coming.”
“Hurricane Harry?”
I nodded.
“Is that named after Uncle Harry?”
“No.” Though it wouldn’t surprise me if McGlade somehow had something to do with it.
“Harry Junior chews his toenails. It’s gross.”
“Uncle Harry does that, too.”
Sam giggled. “Can I have some string cheese?”
“Sure.”
Sam bounded out of the room, Duffy on her heels because she dropped food all the time.
Phin stared at me. He had a lovey-dovey look in his eyes that made my stomach turn.
“The GameMaster 2 comes out in a few days,” he said. “Sam really wants one.”
This was the third time Phin had brought this up. Money was really tight, and we couldn’t afford a non-holiday splurge. Especially for a new gaming system that cost five hundred bucks.
“I thought we discussed this. We can get it for her birthday.”
“It can be an early birthday gift.”
Why did he have to make me the bad guy? “I heard they’re sold out everywhere.”
“What if I told you I was on a waiting list? All the VideoTowns in the country are opening early on release day. The one in town is opening extra early.”
“And where do we come up with the money for this?”
Phin didn’t answer. One more thing he wouldn’t admit to.
I decided to go full provocateur. “Duffy got into the garbage again.”
“My fault. I didn’t put the lid on tight enough.”
I watched him closely. “It was spilled all over the kitchen floor.”
“Sorry. Thanks for cleaning it up.”
Phin didn’t react, and didn’t say anything else.
Do I tell him? That I saw the condom box?
“Can I have some bacon?” Sam ran into the living room and stood between us, holding a package of bacon.
Phin scooped her up. “We can make it after we drop Mom off at Grandma’s.”
I rolled over to the TV, putting our GameMaster controllers in their charging stations.
When I killed the power, the windows shook. I looked outside, saw the palm tree in our front yard sway like an invisible giant shook it.
We’d been in Florida long enough to live through three tropical storms, but Harry would be our first hurricane. When we bought the house, it had storm shutters already installed, an impact-resistant garage door, and a back-up generator that ran on propane and provided power to half the circuit breaker. Only thing missing was roof straps, but the private owner we bought it from assured us that he’d never had a problem
with the roof, even during the worst storms.
But I did have some concerns. We had ten trees on our property. And that above ground pool. And you couldn’t talk to a single Florida resident without them telling stories of Irma or Andrew or Charley or Ivan or Jeanne.
None of those stories were happy.
Phin came in, holding the van keys. “You ready?”
“Did you clean out the gutters? If they’re full, the house could flood.”
“We’re the highest house on the block. If we flood, it won’t be because of the gutters.”
“Can you do it anyway?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
I went for it. “Also,” I said, “we’re out of condoms.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
That’s all he had to say? Really?
I lifted my brake up and rolled past him, heading to the garage, not letting him see me cry.
“The only misuse of guns comes in environments where there are drugs, alcohol, bad parents, and undisciplined children. Period.”
TED NUGENT
“I’m active in PAX, which is a gun awareness organization. We treat gun safety as a public health issue.”
MANDY PATINKIN
GAFF
So the cheap pillow I bought was rekd. Got up with my neck and back effed.
Done.
I fiended a bed. Or one of those foam memory mattress thingys.
Plus waking up in pain, I had that garbage dream again, the one where I sorted my sock drawer.
Matching socks.
Folding socks.
Putting the balls of socks in rows according to color.
#SocksSocksSocks.
In the dream, Moms screams @ me, saying I’m doing it wrong, but I keep on going and don’t care what she says and then when I finish I look in the mirror and I’m a robot.
Bonked.
I pissed, hit the kitchen for snax, grabbed all my gear, then headed for my car to visit the superstore.
Marko, my sus super, was walking in the parking lot with one of those plastic Costco tubs of candy, like five gallons of sour worms. I tried to flake, but he cut me off.
Traphouse.
“Hey, Guthrie. Want some candy?”
For breakfast I had dry cereal bcuz I’d left the milk I bought back at the store, forgetting to grab the bag when I left.. And I loved gummy worms.
Shot Girl Page 5