Guttersnipe

by Matthew Trigg

  “Morning, Roger.”

  “Morning, Frank.”

  “Well good morning to you, Roger.” It’s Darrell. Over-nice Darrell.

  Damn. Roger knows he doesn’t have a five for him.

  “Darrell, hey. Sorry I forgot to get some smaller bills. I think I just have a few twenties.” And a few hundreds.

  “Hey that’s not a problem. I don’t need it anytime soon. It’s not like the world’s going to end or anything. And if it did, I pry wouldn’t hold it over ya for not paying me back.” Darrell points his finger at Roger like it’s a gun and winks as he pulls the pretend trigger.

  Roger forces a laugh. “I can get it for you tomorrow. First thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Sure, yea. Well, here, lemme just check what I got in the old mobile bank.” Darrell digs his wallet out. “Hmm, let’s see here. A twenty, you said?”

  “Yea.”

  Ugh.

  “There’s a ten and…” Darrell pages through. “Ah ha! Her you are, sir, a five and a ten.”

  Roger pulls out his leather wallet, takes out a twenty and exchanges with Darrell.

  “Pleasure doing business with ya.”

  “You too.”

  Darrell laughs. “Well actually, we work together so really we’re always doing business, ya know?” He laughs some more. Terrible jokes.

  “Got it.” He forces a smile.

  “Life’s little ironies, eh?”

  “Yea. Thanks again.” And Roger goes to his cubicle office and sits down.

  How is Darrell so happy like that? He isn’t married, he doesn’t have kids, he probably doesn’t even have a house. He’s not even good-looking.

  He’s faking it, for sure. Deep down, he is severely depressed. He’s probably going to snap one of these days and end up committing suicide or come to work with a gun and off everyone.

  But he’s always in a happy mood. He’s always glad to see someone. He’s always there to help if someone needs it. What does he have that Roger doesn’t? Rec. Basketball on Wednesday nights? A favorite television show? Drugs? What? What the hell makes this guy so happy?

  Roger slams down on his computer keyboard, not hard enough to do any damage or make enough noise to cause a commotion.

  His face turns flush red.

  This is all so fuckin-

  “Roger, hey.”

  It’s Mr. Petersen.

  Roger looks up with angry-startled all over his face.

  “Oh, did I catch you at a bad time?”

  Roger’s face is still hot. “No, no, uh, not at all. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I, uh, just wanted to say thanks for getting that Freeman File straightened out. Those things are real doozies for me.” Mr. Petersen acts out a dive.

  Roger turns to face his computer screen. “No problem.”

  A pause.

  “I don’t mean to pry, Roger, but are you okay? Did something happen?”

  “No, nothing.” He doesn’t look at Mr. Petersen.

  “Well it’s just that you seemed pretty upset when I came just now. Part of my job, I think, is making sure everyone is okay, emotionally. It helps productivity as you may well know.”

  “I’m fine. Just some personal problems with a relative. Rehab.” What a cop-out.

  “Oh, uh, okay. Well that’s really too bad. I hope everything works out. Happy Monday.”

  Happy Monday. What kind of dumb idea is that? Who even thought of that? Monday’s suck, they always will. Why start a policy that encourages everyone in the company to say it to at least one person every Monday? It’s not going to change the fact that everyone’s just had two days off and doesn’t want to be here now. It’s just so…

  Roger slows down. Think for a second. Calm down. Take a few deep breathes.

  Focus.

  Breathe.

  Focus.

  This isn’t a good start to the week.

  It’s not a big deal. Get over it and get to work.

  Focus.

  And there it is again, that something growing inside of Roger’s mind, that something that isn’t a part of him, something that’s growing more and more.

  -

  Monday ends.

  Tuesday ends.

  Wednesday ends.

  Something’s going terribly wrong.

  Thursday ends.

  Friday ends.

  The weekend doesn’t help.

  Saturday ends.

  Alcohol makes it worse.

  Sunday ends.

  More alcohol.

  -

  Not another fucking ‘Happy Monday’. Roger calls in sick. There’s no way he could deal with Darrell or Mr. Petersen or anyone there.

  There’s a bar that opens at noon.

  Whiskey shots straight.

  What the hell is going on? Everything around him seems so far away, so unfamiliar. Roger can’t look at anything without getting pissed off or almost start crying.

  He hasn’t told anyone what’s going on. He’s kept it quiet. He has to. It’ll pass, whatever this is, it will pass. But why now? What has Roger done differently in the past two weeks to make this come about? And so fast?

  Joe wouldn’t understand.

  It’s gnawing on Roger, grinding, gripping.

  How could he talk to someone about this? Especially if there’s been no sign of a problem?

  Christ.

  “Heyyy! I said four more shots, alright?” Roger slurs his yell at the bartender.

  “Look, pal, I just emptied this bottle. I’m going to get another one, alright?”

  Roger knocks back the two that he’d had in front of him.

  “I’m cutting you off, pal. Jesus.”

  “Hey, don’t say that shit.”

  “I’m calling you a cab.”

  “God damn it. Fine. Just give me the last two and I’ll leave.”

  Monday ends.

  -

  Tuesday ends. Roger had gone to work. He’d tried to act normal.

  Wednesday, think about the wife and the kids and Rex, ends.

  Thursday, Joe asks about going to Jake’s Pub tomorrow night, ends.

  -

  Friday. Roger was drunk every night this week.

  “Hey, so are we still on for tonight? It’s supposed to be a good game tonight.”

  “Yea, I’ll meet you there.”

  “Cool, man. I’ll catch up with you then.”

  Joe doesn’t have a clue. He’s got no idea what’s going on.

  Jesus Christ, Roger needs to let this out or something before it swallows him entirely. He needs to tell Joe.

  Roger’s losing it. He’s uncomfortable, dissatisfied. He hates everything; his job, his car, his apartment, his suits, his television. He hates them because they’re not making him happy now. He’d tried buying a new watch, but that didn’t help at all.

  He even hates his future wife and kids and dog and house.

  He hates this desk, the computer, checking his fucking email.

  He’s losing it.

  And shit, he’s scared.

  -

  Roger’s drunk when Joe walks into Jake’s.

  “Hey, man.” Joe says.

  “Heeeyyy! Ow’s eat goeeng, budday?”

  Joe laughs. “Damn, you got started without me.”

  Roger laughs not at what Joe just said, but at how he doesn’t even feel like he’s there, or like he’s talking or like he’s alive.

  He feels like someone in the audience who’s watching a really really really shitty sitcom.

  Cheesy-bad comedy.

  Really cheesy.

  “Yeeaa, I’uv had a coupell.” Roger knows exactly what the actor who’s playing Joe is going to say.

  “I’ll have whatever he’s having.” Joe tells the bartender.

  Cue laugh.

  Roger laughs.

  The bartender brings a bottle of whiskey and pours Joe a few shots.

  “Thanks.”

  “Yur wellcom!” Roger says and laughs hysterica
lly.

  Joe half-laughs. “How many have you had?”

  Cue bad joke.

  “Moohr than aye can count on my fingurs.”

  Cue laugh.

  “Bah! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” Roger’s laugh is borderline heinous.

  Joe’s face gets a little serious. “Rog, maybe you should take it easy for a little while. Let me catch up, huh?”

  Cue heartfelt friendship moment.

  What a nice fucking guy Joe is.

  “Oookhey…” Awwwwww.

  “So what’s the score?”

  Roger looks up at the screen. “Wie arh down bye a lhot.” Then he shakes his head.

  Joe looks up at the screen. “No, no, I think we are up by a lot, bud.”

  Cue stupid feeling of vain inferiority.

  And just like that Roger goes from hysterically happy to madly depressed.

  Joe cheers at the screen,

  Roger stares into an empty shot glass on the counter.

  This is it. This is when Roger loses. This is when Roger feels no way out. He’s trapped by everything. This is when Roger realizes the mad insanity of his life, the sad ways of humanity, the selfish, power-addicted attitudes of the most dominant race on earth, the choking everything that’s beautiful and holy. And finally, the cruelty of nature’s design.

  Self-absorbsion.

  Ignorance.

  Slavery.

  Disregard.

  War.

  The pinnacle of this planet’s intelligence is humanity. And all that they’re doing is pissing in the bathtub.

  It’s the stagnation of creative life.

  The growing darkness inside of Roger has now taken over. He is alone. He’s scared. He wants nothing to do with any of this madness anymore. None of this god damn superficial bullshit, the fertilizing of the personage.

  What does it matter how much money you make or who has the nicest car or watch or prettiest wife or any of it?

  Why does any of it matter if death takes it in an instant?

  Why keep living? Why go on? Why not end it? End the suffering of oneself in this hell-shaped world?

  Roger can see no other way out, not as far as he’s gone into his life.

  Death is the only door. It’s the only solution. It’s the axe that beheads the evil creation.

  This is it. This is when Roger orders eight more shots.

  No, ten.

  He orders and drinks them all as fast as he can when Joe goes to the bathroom.

  This is the road to the end.

  Suicide by poison. A fitting way to leave a poisoned world.

  Joe comes back.

  “Joe,” Roger sounds oddly sober, “it’s all wrong, Joe.”

  “What is, Rog?”

  “My watch, my-”

  “You’re watch is off? It’s eight fifty-two, if that helps.”

  “Never mind.”

  “Okay, bud.”

  Roger stands up from the stool. He sways. The shots are beginning to hit him.

  “Do we even have the capacity for good? Or is it our nature to do only evil?”

  “What?”

  Roger sways more. It’s coming. Just keep the alcohol down.

  “Never mind.” His vision fades a little. The room gets darker. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Okay, man, be careful.”

  And Roger stumbles away. He goes out of the bar. The relief from living is coming.

  Roger stumbles on.

  A feeling of weightlessness comes, and for a moment, everything feels okay, like if Roger could feel this all of the time, life wouldn’t be so bad.

  This is when Roger second guesses killing himself. Is death the only way out?

  Roger stumbles on.

  It’s too late now.

  To his left there is a dark, shitty-looking alley. Roger stops and stares into the void space. This should work, it’s like the asshole of this place. This is where it all decomposes. This is where Roger will quietly pass into nothingness.

  This is it.

  Roger almost faints before he sways in.

  He’s really not going to live after this.

  He’ll be dead.

  He can feel his basic survival instincts pulling at him, playing tug-o-war with is made up mind.

  Don’t do it. Don’t’ do it. Don’t do it.

  It’s too late. Hush.

  Roger runs into one of the brick walls, hitting his head. He regains himself and can feel the pounding in his head, but not the headache.

  There’s an old man lying on the ground not five feet from Roger.

  Is he here for the same thing as Roger? Just wanted out, drank too much and found this shithole fitting for his meaningless death?

  Is he dead already? Is this the gatekeeper of the afterlife?

  The old man rolls over and looks right at Roger.

  He’s a bum. A dirty, old bum.

  He smiles up at Roger, smiles nothing but a toothless cavern.

  Suddenly there’s a reason to live. Another option out of the madness of the job and the apartment and the car and the expectations.

  The life of a bum.

  That’s it.

  Roger could lead a life of a bum. The life of no responsibility.

  He can feel it now. It’s the weightlessness, the no cares, the limitlessness. He can feel it.

  He can feel the alcohol.

  Oh Jesus, no, not now.

  Not now.

  Not anymore.

  No.

  Please.

  Not now.

  Roger shambles away fro the old bum and further into the alley. He needs to puke right now. Get whatever he can out of his system.

  Oh Jesus Christ, no.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  Not death.

  Roger’s eyes begin to water.

  This is it.

  He tries to puke, but he can’t.

  He falls to the cold ground.

  This is the end.

  Not now…

  And Roger slips out of consciousness.

  Chapter 107

  Roger opens his eyes.

  The water trickles over the rocks on the small stream under Hermit Bridge. It always has.

  The sun shines brightly all around. A calm breeze blows across his face, his hands, his whole body.

  Roger stands up and walks from the shadow of the bridge.

  Into the light.

  He can feel it. He breathes deeply.

  The trees are dancing to the rhythm of the wind. A squirrel jumps from one limb to the next.

  The water trickles.

  It always has.

  Roger smiles wide.

  He laughs.

  Chapter 108

  Roger follows the river back to the city. But the river flows in the opposite direction.

  He laughs.

  Chapter 109

  His stomach growls. He’s hungry.

  To the pizza buffet restaurant.

  No rush, only natural reason.

  Clouds slowly roll in. The sun plays hide.

  Roger laughs.

  The dumpster at the pizza buffet has more than enough food to satisfy his appetite.

  He gets thirsty.

  To the river.

  Chapter 110

  The park is full of life.

  Men jogging, playing catch, walking dogs. Dogs walking, playing catch, jogging. Women running, walking strollers.

  Families having picnics.

  Roger laughs.

  Trees standing.

  Grass growing.

  The whole of everything doing as it has always done.

  Roger cups his hands and drinks from the river. He throws some water on his face.

  He smiles.

  A cat brushes his side. “Meow.”

  It’s Rogercat.

  “Hello.” Roger says and begins to pet the cat.

  “Meow.”

  “You are a beautiful thing, little kitty.” Roger continues to pet and
whisper sweet nothings into the cat’s ear.

  Rogercat purrs and purrs and purrs.

  “Hi.”

  Roger looks up. It’s Maynard.

  “Maynard! Hello!”

  “I wasn’t going to come over here but Shitfur saw you and ran over. I didn’t want to annoy you, but.”

  “Maynard,” Roger stands up, “I apologize for everything I’ve ever done or said to you. You’ve deserved absolutely none of it. If you can be a far better man than I and accept a fool’s apology, I would like very much to be your friend.”

  Maynard looks questioningly at Roger. He sees something he’s never seen in Roger before; sympathy.

  Maynard smiles. “Did you wanna see what I found today?”

  Roger smiles. “I would like that. What did you get?”

  Maynard digs in his shopping cart. “Oh first I have to feed Shitfur.”

  “We don’t have to call him that if you don’t like it.”

  “Really??”

  “I think you should give him a good proper name. What do you think?”

  “Really?”

  “I sure do.”

  “Okay, well,” Maynard pulls out a can of easy-open cat food, pulls off the lid and sets it down to where the cat can smell. “What should we call you, huh, kitty? Hmmm, how about Sam?”

  “I like it.”

  “Me too. How’s the food, Sam?”

  Sam purrs as he eats.

  Maynard stands back up.

  “So what is it that you found? What’s the surprise?”

  “Oh that’s right! You’re going to love this.” Maynard goes back to digging in the cart. “Well here’s something that I found for Sam, it’s a little toy mouse. He loves to play.”

  Roger smiles.

  “But that isn’t the big find. Oh man you’re gonna love this. Yep, here it is.” Maynard pulls out a hat, a brown-front-button-Irish-style cap.

  “Wow, where did you find that?”

  “One of the homeless shelters.” Maynard says proudly. He tries to put it on. “But it doesn’t fit me very well.”

  “Really?”

  “Yea, but that’s okay. It’s for you, anyways.” Maynard offers the cap to Roger.

  “You mean it?”

  “Yep.” Maynard grins with pride.

  “I don’t what to say.” Roger takes the hat from Maynard. “This is a wonderful gift. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Roger puts the cap on. “How do I look?”

  “Oh man! It fits you so well! And guess what?”