Cheer Up, Jimmy: 3 Melancholy Short Stories

by Dania Sonin

  ***

  The man was met with an oppressive wall of heat when he opened the door to the dimly lit basement. He ducked the beams that hung low and slinked down the steps, already sweating from the rising waves of warmth. It smelled down here, pungent and tangy, like unwashed flesh and fresh meat but he liked it. It made him think of family, closeness, people huddled together for warmth, shivering in unison and grateful for company during some calamity. He stepped onto the uneven cement floor, and breathed in deeply, taking in the dense air, letting it fill him and wash away the cold smell of dirt. This was his sanctuary, his haven, a place of joy and belonging.

  In the corner another man sat, looking more like a skeleton than anything alive, and wheezing softly. His dry throat whistled with every breath. It was a nagging sound, the sound of lingering, of life hanging by a thread. His tongue clicked as it struggled to dislodge itself from the sticky, dehydrated palate so he could swallow what little saliva was left. His eyes lolled idly, looking right through his tormenter, seeing little else but vague shapes in foggy darkness. Creaky bones shivered in the stretched leather that had once been his skin. He was decomposing, rotting alive: the result of nearly a month without food.

  The man grinned, and walked to his prisoner, the collapsed heap of bones that lay there helpless, almost motionless, handcuffed to the furnace.

  “They’s puttin’ up posters’a you downtown,” he said, squatting down and coming face to face with his captive. The other man rolled his eyes, a gesture of weakness more than one of annoyance, and tugged listlessly at the hot metal cuff around his frail wrist. Pink, shiny scars ringed the flesh near the cuff like bangles aa reminder of how hot that furnace could get. His bones creaked as he shivered. No matter how hot it did get, there wasn’t enough of him left to retain it. The other man smiled at him, and touched his face then leaned forward, smiling. “They ain’t gonna find you, though, boy.”

  A soft muttering sound came between the wheezy breaths of the half-dead man cuffed to the furnace.

  “Pleaseletmego," he said all in one breath, fast as he could. Every bit of energy was precious. The other man patted his head and ruffled the fine wisps that had become his hair.

  “Please,” the weak man started again but slumped forward momentarily, out of air and energy, wheezing spastically. He pulled at the cuffs, desperate for air, cool air, but the tangy smell of sizzling flesh filled him instead. He would not scream. He’d done enough of that during the first two agonizing weeks after he’d trustingly climbed into the other man’s red pick-up. Instead he bit down on his dry, cracked lips, and did not stop until he tasted blood.

  “Silly fool. One day those cuffs’ll slice it clean off,” the healthy man mused.

  “Please, I have a family,” the weak one said slowly, ignoring the warning and still catching his breath. A neat bracelet of blisters was forming around his wrist and his lip was bleeding down his chin, dripping onto the floor. He could almost feel his life draining away. So much of him had fallen to the floor this way.

  “I know. I seen it on the posters. They’s offerin’ a re-ward ’n everythin’. Pretty sweet deal, ya got there, I’d say.” The man fell back onto his rear in front of his prisoner and looked him straight in the eye. None of the others had gotten their faces on posters. None of the others had been so loved and that lack of love had always made him feel special. He liked knowing that he was probably the only person who cared and he liked it even better when they knew it too. This man, however, was different from the other hitchers he’d picked up. This man was worth something. “You ever had a brother,” he asked casually. The other man shook his head and spat a mouthful of blood onto the cool cement floor. “I ain’t never had one neither. Always wanted one, a bigger one fer helpin’ me with bullies ‘n’ things. But alls I ever got was a dog named Rutt ‘n he run away when I ‘as ten. Found ‘im later out on the road by that ol’ pine tree I showed you when we was on our way up. Flat as a pancake.” He was quiet for a moment, staring at nothing, lost in his memories. The sickly man reached over with his free hand and patted him on the knee.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a hoarse, gravelly voice – and he meant it. The other man looked up, suddenly seeing him, aware that he’d exposed himself in a way he hadn’t intended. He didn’t like being pitied and certainly not by lesser creature such as this dwindling thing.

  “I’ll bet you are.” With that bit of insolence, he remembered why he’d come down. “I brung you a present but you gotta work fer it.” He unlocked the cuffs, oblivious to the heat, and protected by thick, rubbery calluses, then dragged the haggard man to the foot of the stairs where he produced an orange.

  “Go get it, boy,” he said, throwing the thing across the basement and into a dark corner. The other man just laid there, his whistling wheeze growing ever quieter and sparser.

  “I said get it,” the man repeated. He kicked the wheezing man lightly, annoyed at his complacent disobedience. “Get it!”

  There was a dry, pained moan, and the whistling stopped as the second closest thing he’d ever had to a brother died.