This is a short story I wrote last year. I’ve thought of having it published, but the ending needs a little work. It happens too fast. I wanted to write something interesting. Not necessarily original, but it was fun to write.
Butts
Calm and covered in sweat, I almost brake my back coming down the porch steps. That fucking plank always manages to come loose. I don’t know how many times I’ve nailed it down.
One Marlboro left, but one is all I need. I yank the pack from the front breast pocket of my blue check shirt. Being segregated as a smoker sucks, but the fresh air is good for me.
The thought never crossed my mind to call the police, but then again it just did didn’t it? No worries, that’s why I came over here – to break up with her – she’s not my problem anymore.
Nothing mattered anymore, not with a cigarette in my hand. Oh, what a nice, smooth drag it has. Take it slow, guy. Enjoy this moment. I exhale with a sigh of smoke. The tar doesn’t really get to me, you know? Not like it used to. My lungs hurt sometimes, but pain is relative. Darleen, my now ex-girlfriend, didn’t like it when I smoked. She didn’t like much of anything I did. Least of all, this. The light from her apartment is on. I left it on. It should be on. Calm the hell down, kid.
The urban street is full of parked cars, but it’s deserted by the living. The moon glistens on the inanimate cars, almost giving them an undead-like life. It’s as if they are watching me.
The sweat soaking my shaggy brown hair was starting to irritate me. My feet moved on their own. A neighbor left her small yard with a yapper on a leash. She’s cute: long blonde hair, short shorts, low cut tee, the works. I must look like something out of a horror flick. The expression on this girl’s face confirms that theory. Too bad she hadn’t seen Darleen’s face. That was the real horror show. I can only imagine what it feels like to die like that. Smooth and clean, just a little pain.
Once, I had a dream about dying.
I was playing with some kid in his back yard. I didn’t know him; he was maybe three. There was something I needed to throw away, and I had to sneak into the house to do it. The kid’s father caught me and chased me out the back door. I came around the front of the house, and on the porch was the kid’s mother. She was smoking a cigarette. I noted she was pregnant and stood on a soap-box, telling her about the “evils” of smoking…how it could cause stunted growth in the baby – the whole spiel. She was cool about it though. Moments later, cops show up, but she and I made up some lame excuse and ditched them.
We walked down the street, leaving the cops and the kid’s father in confusion.
“I love The Beatles,” I said.
“What would you know about The Beatles?” she asked, suddenly looking a bit older. “You’re so young! That was my generation.”
My twenty-four to her forty-two, it’s true, in her eyes maybe.
I laughed.
She laughed.
It was great.
I had my hand on the gate to another house, presumably my own, and I opened it for her. She was asking me another question, but I stopped listening. All I heard was the rumbling in the distance.
All of a sudden, the sun went dark. It was a sunny day, did I say that? I guess not. Well, it went dark, and when I looked at the sun, there were all kinds of crazy lights around it. It was psychedelic. Then, I noticed the meteor — a huge-ass meteor — coming straight at the Earth.
I wasn’t afraid. I turned to it, and cleared my mind, you know? I closed my eyes, and accepted my fate. The next thing I remember is being filled with bliss. I became everything in the universe all at once. It felt like I was in the waves of an ocean under water, only I could breathe. No. More than that. It was as if I was the ocean. I think I would have remained there forever if it wasn’t for this voice coming from everywhere – from inside my head – telling me to wake up. It was a quiet voice, familiar. When my eyes snapped open, no one was there, and I still felt like I was floating.
It was an odd dream to wake up from. I always thought, if you died in your dreams, you died in real life. I guess not. Maybe I didn’t die though.
I wonder if Darleen is in a sea of bliss?
Damnit. I’m out of cigarette. The other pack is at home.
The walk home isn’t that bad. I just wish I had another cigarette to tied me over. Damn that woman for never letting me smoke. No worries, however. I don’t have to deal with her anymore. Say it again and I won’t believe you old boy.
Ah, here we are. See, that didn’t take very long.
Effing stairs. I hate them.
Living on the third floor isn’t bad. I can smoke weed every once in a while and no one complains. All the other buildings in the area are converted apartment houses. They can’t smell a thing!
“Hey Chase,” that’s Doug. He’s my room mate. He’s sitting at our kitchen table. He’s also going to want to talk.
“Yo, let me get my cigs first. Nicotine fit.”
“No worries, dude.”
It took me no time at all to get them from my room.
I need to clean. The bed is unmade; there’s a mixture of clean and dirty clothes on the floor. I hate a mess, but I always seem to make one. That’s what you get for being lazy Chase-y.
Doug’s lighting a cigarette of his own when I sit down at the table with him.
“How did Darleen take it?”
“How do you think she took it? She freaked, but it’s over now.”
“Good,” Doug took a big drag from his cigarette. He smoked Pall Mall. I hate those things. They smell too. “I’m glad that bitch won’t be coming around anymore.”
“That she won’t, dude.”
Now I was feeling sympathetic.
“Be nice though, she wasn’t that bad.”
“Wasn’t that bad? Chase, the chick pulled a knife on you!”
“I know, but she’s pregnant.”
“Hormones are an excuse. She was always brutal.”
“I guess.”
There was silence for a beat.
Then I said, “You know, I wasn’t even going to do it…”
“I’m surprised you did. That girl has had you whipped for too long. I’m not even sure that baby is yours.”
“It has gotta be mine.”
“I don’t think so, dude. She got pregnant way too fast after you two got together.”
“All it takes is once…”
“Cut the bullshit, Chase. You said you wrapped up, and the chick still got pregnant. I find that highly unlikely.”
“Yes, but still possible.” I took a big drag. I wanted weed. “In any case, it’s over.”
“Until she comes around for child support.”
“I don’t think that will be happening.”
“We’ll see.”
It felt good to have another cigarette. Talking to Doug was cool too. Smoking and banter always relax me. This was good.
“Have you finished your painting yet? You know it’s due tomorrow.”
That’s right. I had an art class in the morning. School was okay, but the painting wasn’t. Maybe I should smoke some weed after all. It’ll release a lot of my stress.
I get up from the table and go back to my room. My cigarette is hanging from my lip, like it always does when I am thinking too much about a piece of art. Doug follows me.
“It still needs something dude,” he says.
“I know.”
I’d painted a leafless willow tree and it’s roots. Then it hit me. Of course, the sun. I could paint the sun from my dream.
Mixing the paint was quick work. I knew what I was doing. I smeared the black over the yellow sun of the landscape, making it more abstract. I used my fingers to create the multicolored spots in the sky. It almost had a digital look to it.
“Dude, that rocks!”
“You think?”
“You know Mr. Torrence. He loves that Salvador Dali crap.”
I took up my fine brush and stroked the title and my signature on the canvas. “Unique.” That’s what I called it. It wasn’t very unique, but I had to name the painting to make Mr. Torrence happy. I hate naming my work.
Darleen used to come up with some good names. Her names always fit my paintings. I suppose it works though. She inspired the memory of the dream, and Darleen was as unique as you could get. Unique to the point of insanity. I’m so glad that’s over.
I have to wash the paint off my hands, so I wander to the bathroom while Doug packs a celebratory bowl. The paint runs off in little streams of red, orange and purple under the faucet of the bathroom sink. A thought occurred to me, and I laughed to myself. I am like Pontius Pilate washing my hands of the whole situation. Pilate’s washing of the hands was a mistake. What better way to never get rid of someone than to immortalize them. I haven’t been able to stop thinking of Darleen all night. Is she ever going to go away? I can’t believe she would do that to herself.
The running water gives me the urge to pee. Why does that always happen? Unbuttoning my fly, I whip it out and let it rip. It always feels good to empty my bladder. I always shudder at the end too. It’s like a mini orgasm. It feels so good!
Pounding noises came from the front door, but Jane flung it open before we could answer it.
I buttoned up, and came out of the bathroom. Doug was already in the kitchen, and we both noticed Jane’s bloody hands right away.
“Omigod, guys, hurry!”
“What’s wrong?” This was Doug. “Are you alright?”
“It’s Darleen,” Jane was crying. Her short cut brown hair was mussed, probably from running over here. “I think she’s dead. They’re rushing her to the hospital…they think they can save the baby.”
I moved slowly back to my room and stood in front of the painting. Darleen didn’t matter anymore.
“Dude, let’s go,” Doug said, punching me in the shoulder.
“I’m coming,” I said, but I didn’t move. I was lost in my painting. The sun was perfect — just as I dreamed it. Doug yanked my arm. I grabbed my jacket. And I didn’t forget my cigarettes on the way out. Life was so much better with butts.
Joeysan's Head | Joey | 
21 September 2009 11:04 AM | 
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