Sunday, January 9, 2011

One Day As A Lion - Chapter Three

So there I was, a glorious specimen indeed. My eyes were gummy, I was colder than holy hell, and most importantly I had to have looked like a jackass in front of Steph. There are a lot of ways you could use to describe the scene that went down that morning in the Shoppe, but 'dignified' certainly isn't one of them.
Seeing, through the front window, that Jim had somehow produced an fireplace poker and was making for the door let me know that I was in no way employed at that particular establishment any longer. I was fine with that.

I started to run down the street, putting my coat on as I went. Even though his attire was completely offensive to normal humans, you had to give a cokehead who only wears tracksuits his due: the guy could run.

I could hear him behind me screaming as I dodged innocent pedestrians. Jim wasn't really forming normal words, it was more a series of guttural spasms that were trying their hardest to be words. I looked back every few leaps and bounds to make sure that there was still a comfortable distance between us. Also, some sick part of me wanted to see what would happen if he bumped into a bystander. He didn't, but that was probably for the best.

We were a block away from the shop when I saw the bus pulling in to my left. It wasn't that I was in bad shape or anything, it was just that I really needed a more efficient method of egress. I fumbled for the bus pass in my wallet and manage to free it from its bonds as the doors opened in front of me. I bounded through and swiped the card in one swift motion.

The driver was understandably alarmed. "What the hell, man?" he asked.

I pointed behind me, and no doubt looked like a sweaty, red-faced crazy person. "See him? Don't let that guy on the bus."

The driver looked around me and spotted Jim, a barefoot, fluorescent blur brandishing a poker and making a beeline for the bus.

"Shit! Sit the fuck down!" the driver screamed at me.

I took the nearest seat, and with it the opportunity to finally catch my breath.

On the upside, my eyes weren't feeling as gummy anymore. They probably just needed some air.

------

I got off the bus in front of my apartment building. I had my breath and my wits about me, but I guess I was still jumpy. I expected Jim to pop out anywhere and bludgeon me to death with an Italian wingtip. That sort of panic doesn't die easily.

I lived about a block and a half from campus, and luckily didn't have class that day so there was that stress off my mind. Plenty of other stress took its place soon enough, but there was at least that small thing to be grateful for.

The building was called "Westerly Terrace" and didn't deserve the distinction of being called a shitpile. Every hallway, on every single one of its ten floors, was yellowed with cigarette smoke and, likely, the stain of bad decisions. The green color of the doors provided a nice contrast, and that's about the most positive thing you could say about the building in general. Yep, the doors were nice.

517, that was my little bundle of joy. It was all I could afford on a book clerk's salary. I didn't get a hell of a lot of money from my parents but they gave me what they could when they could. I was appreciative of that, but the job was all that kept me afloat. I started thinking about how the hell I was gonna make rent next month as I arrived at my door.

I didn't hear any music from our apartment, so it was probably safe to enter. I'd lived with Ezekial since freshmen year. I first pegged him as  a dormrat, one of those kids who only leaves the room to study in the library or something like that. It was the name, honestly. But holy shit was I ever wrong.

I entered the apartment and was greeted with a rarity: complete calm. It was never completely calm in our apartment.

"Ezek! Yo, dude, it's Brian. What's up?" I shouted. I threw my coat by the door and went to the fridge. No booze, but plenty of Hawaiian Punch. I took the entire goddamn gallon.

We lived in a matchbox. The couch was pressed up against one wall and the end table next to it almost touched the other wall. The TV was only a 30-inch that was sitting on the floor, but looked like a theater screen that had a mass of rubber tentacles flowing beneath it.  The previous tenants had actually burned the perfect impression of an iron into the living room carpet and didn't try to hide it. But, it was better than a cardboard box.

The bedroom door was closed. Oh well.

I took a generous swig of the Punch. "Ezekial! Are you here?"

No answer.

I surveyed the apartment and contemplated what the hell I would do with the rest of the day. Ezek was nowhere to be found and I didn't think that I was in any mood to look for a new job. Besides, being outside greatly increased my chances of running into Jim, who was no doubt headhunting at this point. The one luxury I had in this case was that I had only ever gotten my paychecks at the shop; he didn't know where I lived.

Or did he?

Oh well, just something I'd have to chance right now. I jumped into what we called the living room and plopped down onto the couch. The little window above the TV was letting in meager light, probably because it hadn't been properly cleaned since Reagan was in office. I wanted to put my feet up on something but we couldn't fit a coffee table in the room without sacrificing the two blow-up chairs that Ezek brought from home. Boy, the argument those things brought on; Ezek wouldn't budge.

I took another generous swig from the jug when a sharp buzz passed just over the top of my head. I spit the Hawaiian Punch all over my shirt but managed to save the jug. A chunk of hair fell onto my shoulder. My nerves were firing at top speed.

I whipped my head around to find the source. A noise made me snap my head to the right, and framed in the hallway entrance was Ezek, in nothing but his Green Lantern boxers, holding a cordless nailgun.

Goddammit, he's hairy.

I could not help myself. "Dude! What in the living fuck is wrong with you!?"

He calmly noted the nailgun in his right hand. "I told you, it's for protection. I...owe some people money. I didn't wanna tell you."

"Not fucking that! Why did you try to fucking shoot me?" I asked, setting aside any possibility of calm discourse.

"I didn't even hit you! So you lost some of those gorgeous locks, no big!" he replied.

I stammered at the pure and unfiltered stupidity of it all. "But why!?"

"I told you: don't ever call me Ezekial."

With that, he turned toward the bathroom with nailgun in hand.

I looked at my watch. It wasn't even 10:30 in the morning.

Beautiful.

No comments:

Post a Comment