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Last Day

8:30 a.m. Wednesday

 

“Hey, wake the fuck up.  I need the car keys.”  The girl knocks on the door frame to a bedroom. “Fucking shit, I’m gonna be late.!”  She looks around, a jingling sound fills the dead, soundless air of the apartment. 

            “Thanks for the help, asshole.”

            A door slams and scatters dust.

 

Two Hours Later. 10:30 a.m.

 

Knock Knock Knock

            Someone’s at the front door of the apartment.  Could be the Mormons.  See they have this policy about people who repeatedly order their book – the group tries to get their extraterrestrial mits on your soul.  So they come by on bikes.  Even after you let them know you’re from Norway and just moved here.  Even after you explain in broken English how your mom is a Queen in Gorjurenstine.  They still come back.  Is it possible they finally tracked you down? 

            The knocks stop.  It probably wasn’t the Mormon’s. 

 

Five Hours Later. 4:30 p.m.

 

Phone is ringing.  Cell phone.  The one that mom bought you.  Said it would be nice to have the same phone company because you could talk all the time for free.  Cell phone is still ringing. 

            It stops.  A sound of bells chiming, the signal for voicemail received.  Voicemail being one of the most obnoxious technologies.  It was developed to take place of study hall note passing.

            Voicemail: “Hey man, just calling to let you know the show changed date and venue.  It’s next weekend now.  So, you haven’t been taking any of my calls lately.  Hope you’re not pissed or anything.  Well, anyway, give me a call or something….sometime.  Later”

            Why aren’t I listening to the voicemails?  I’ll tell you next period, Angela will give you a note before lunch.

            Cynical thinking we are in no shortage.

 

 

Two Hours Later. 6:30 p.m.

            Phone is ringing once again.  That thing has gone off five times already.  Don’t get all upset just because the fucking phone wasn’t picked up and the poor bastard on the  other end didn’t feel like listening to how shitty your life is.  He’s positive your life does suck worse than any have sucked in the history of human occupation on Earth. Of course, and this merits multiple sessions of whining on the talky-talk. 

            Get a hammer and destroy this cursed idol.

 

7:00 p.m.

 

Missed calls at fifteen minute intervals for the next hour.

 

An hour after the calls stop… 8:00 p.m.

 

Alarm clock goes off in the other room.  It is set on pop music. You find it hard to believe that people would put the station on to hear music manufactured for franchise gyms, for hair dye commercials, back to school time, the kids running through a dreamy playground toward the counter where they eat their sugar injected fruit cups and boxes.  This use to be really obnoxious.  But for some reason you really don’t care.  Even the commercials are okay.  They seem fine to you.  Just laying there, not moving.  You don’t care.  You feel good about this and take care to ensure that the positivity is not halted by any means of interruption from the ego complexes in your mind. 

 

Simultaneously as Above.  8:00 p.m.

           

They must have gotten the point.  A solitary call received after an hour of obnoxious attempts is should customarily be greeted with a response, correct?  Sort of like an orgasm after some weird bitch ties you to her bed and drips hot wax on your penis.  At least she sucks you off then let’s you cum on her face.

 

                        Don’t let it creep in.  Just lay here and enjoy the ride.

 

An Hour and a Half Later.  9:30 p.m.

 

            Phones goes off again.  Now it’s getting annoying.  Ettiquette states that the phone shall not be answered between the hours of 7pm and 10pm.  Fuck that.  What the fuck do you need to say to me that’s so important? Call back at 11.

            Then again, who knows what time it really is right now.  Who cares. 

           

It’s Dark Now.  11:30 p.m.?

 

            Sounds from outside- car doors slamming, keys jangling, people talking, laughing, dogs barking, dogs sniffing, dogs trying to shit on a leash, the owners pretending they don’t want to watch, catching glimpses through swift head turns in the dog’s general direction.  We all do it, it’s strange, it’s okay.

            The moon hangs in the sky, full and perfect, shining blue tips of clouds dancing with the breeze.  The cool wind of fall approaching chills the Earth, cleanses it of the heat of the day.  The ground recoils in sweet slumber anticipating the long winter nap. A cycle begins and ends, slowly, and continually.  Cycles never end, they only change.  Shape, weight, brevity, and character. It is just a cycle changing shape that turns one object into something completely new.

            The phone rings.  Now you’re sure it’s someone you want to talk to. 

But you don’t answer the phone.

 

During the Night.  12:00 a.m. – 5:00 a.m.

           

What would you wish for if anything was offered?  No Genie-Monkey-Paw-Stipulations-Karmic-Twists involved. Just an honest question begging an honest answer. 

            The night humbly offers this color of thought.  You take them gladly.  They blow you around from memories to dreams.  Talks at the night usually do this to people anyway.  You are just grounded in it now.  Laying there ‘in da light of da moon’.

You hope this will go on.  Just laying there.  But the loneliness kicks in finally.  Instead of wanting to fuck, the choice of a massage or a hug is first on the request line. 

            The warmth of a body, grabbing you, touching you.  Holding you in her hands.  You can almost dream her into reality.  You can feel her, very soft, like a warm breath of air down your neck.  Suddenly the ache stops.  It’s only a memory, but a good one.  Her shadow will be here all night long, with you, listening to the dogs, the phone, and the wind. 

 

The Next Morning.  Whenever. 8:45 a.m.

 

            The front door opens and you become conscious of a presence making it’s way closer, louder, moving, jingling keys.  The presence comes in and finds you there, lying on the bed, the same way she had found you twenty-four hours ago.  Her pants are removed, jewelry taken off, basic sleep prep ritual.  Then quietly making her way into bed.  She lays off to the side, a bit closer to the wall than is comfortable, but acceptable. 

            Her hand moves behind her, to you, to yours, to your fingers.  She rubs your knuckles and remarks about you being cold. 

Then she rolls over and looks into your dead eyes.